He was staring straight in front of him at the picture of Mary, Queen of Scots’, landing—­it had been painted at about 1850, when romantic subjects of that sort were in vogue, and “the fellow in the blue doublet” was said, by the artist, to represent the celebrated Arranstoun of that time.  The one who had killed a Moreton and stolen his wife.  No doubt that is why his grandfather had bought it.  He thought it looked very well over the secret door, and then he deliberately let himself picture how it had once fallen forward, and all the circumstances which had followed in consequence.  He reconstructed every word he could remember of his and Sabine’s conversation that afternoon.  He repictured her innocent baby face—­and from there on to the night of the wedding.  He reviewed all his emotions in the chapel, and the strange exaltation which was upon him then—­and the mad fire which awoke in his blood with his first kiss or of her fresh young lips when the vows were said.  Every minute incident was burned into his memory until the cutting of the cake—­after that it seemed to be a chaos of wild passion, and moments of extraordinary bliss.  He suddenly could almost see her little head there unresisting on his breast, all tears and terror at last hushed to rest by his fond caresses—­and then he started from his seat—­the memory was too terribly sweet.

He had, of course, been the most frightful brute.  Nothing could alter or redeem that fact; but when sleep came to them at length he had believed that he had made her forgive him, and that he could teach her to love him and have no regrets.  Then the agony to wake and find her gone!

What made her go after all?  How had she slipped from his arms without awakening him?  If he had only heard her when she was stealing from the room, he could have reasoned with her, and even have again caught her and kissed her into obedience—­but he had slept on.

He remembered all his emotions—­rage at her daring to cross his will to begin with, and then the deep wound to his self-love.  That is what had made him write the hard letter which forever put an end to their reunion.

“What a paltry, miserable, arrogant wretch I was then,” he thought—­“and how pitifully uncontrolled.”

But all was now too late.

The next morning’s post brought him a letter from Henry Fordyce, in which he told him he had been meaning to write to him ever since he had returned from France more than a month ago, but had been too occupied.  The whole epistle breathed ecstatic happiness.  He was utterly absorbed in his lady love, it was plain to be seen, and since his mind seemed so peaceful and joyous, it was evident she must reciprocate.  Well, Henry was worthy of her—­but this in no way healed the hurt.  Michael violently tore up the letter and bounded from his bed, passion boiling in him again.  He wanted to slay something; he almost wished his friend had been an enemy that he could have gone out and fought with him and reseized his bride.  What matter that she should be unwilling—­the Arranstoun brides had often been unwilling.  She had been unwilling before, and he had crushed her resistance, and even made her eventually show him some acquiescence and content.  He could certainly do it again, and with more chance of success, since she was a woman now and not a child, and would better understand emotions of love.