He was even more of a gentleman than of a priest, and therefore forbore to question Sabine directly, but that afternoon, with the intention of directing her mind into facing eventualities, he had talked of Lord Fordyce, and what would be the duties of her future position as his wife.  Sabine replied without enthusiasm in her tones, while her words gave a picture of all that any woman’s heart could desire: 

“He is a very fine character, it would seem,” the Pere Anselme said.  “And he loves you with a deep devotion.”

Sabine clasped her hands suddenly, as though the thought gave her physical pain.

“He loves me too much, Father; no woman should be loved like that; it fills her with fear.”

“Fear of what?”

“Fear of failing to come up to the standard of his ideal of her—­fear of breaking his heart.”

“I told him in the beginning it were wiser to be certain all cinders were cold before embarking upon fresh ties,” Pere Anselme remarked meditatively, “and he assured me that he would ascertain facts, and whether or no you felt he could make you happy.”

“And he did,” Sabine’s voice was strained.  “And I told him that he could—­if he would help me to forget—­and I gave him my word and let him—­kiss me, Father—­so I am bound to him irrevocably, as you can see.”

“It would seem so.”

There was a pause, and then the priest got up and held his thin brown hands to the blaze, his eyes averted from her while he spoke.

“You must look to the end, my daughter, and ask yourself whether or no you will be strong enough to play your part in the years which are coming—­since, from what I can judge, the embers are not yet cold.  Temptation will arm for you with increasing strength.  What then?”

“I do—­not know,” Sabine whispered hardly aloud.

“It will be necessary to be quite sure, my daughter, before you again make vows.”

And then he turned the conversation abruptly, which was his way when he intended what he had said to sink deeply into the heart of his listener.

But just as he was leaving after tea he drew the heavy curtains back from one of the great windows.  All was inky darkness, and the roaring of the sea with its breakers foaming beneath them, came up like the menacing voices of an angry crowd.

“The good God can calm even this rough water,” he said.  “It would be well that you ask for guidance, my child, and when it has come to you, hesitate no more.”

Then, making his sign of blessing, he rapidly strode to the door, leaving the Dame d’Heronac crouched upon the velvet window-seat, peering out upon the waves.

And Michael, numb with misery and regret, was deciding to go to Paris for Christmas.  The memories at Arranstoun he could not endure.