Imogen and Pere Anselme. But when she
thought of this latter a sensation of discomfort came. How could she
read in peace with the dear old man, who was so keen and so subtle he
would certainly divine that all was not well? And ever his sentence
recurred to her: "Remember always, my daughter, that _le Bon Dieu_
settles things for us mortals if we leave it all to Him, but if we take
the helm in the direction of our own affairs, it may be that He will let
circumstance draw us into rough waters." And then, that as she had taken
the helm she must abide by her word. Bitterness and regret were her
portion--in a far greater degree than after that other crisis of her
life, when its realities had come to her, and she knew she must bear
them alone. She had been too young then to understand half the
possibilities of mental pain, and also there was no finality about
anything--all might develop into sunshine again. Now she had the most
cruel torture of all, the knowledge that she herself by her wilfulness
and pride had pulled down the blinds and brought herself into darkness,
and that there was not anything to be done.

Nothing could have been more unhappy than was the state of these two
young people in their separate homes. In the old days when she used to
try and banish the too lenient thoughts of Michael, she had always the
picture of his selfishness and violent passion to call up to her
aid--but that was blotted out now, and in its place there was the memory
that it was he, not she, who had behaved nobly and decided to sacrifice
all happiness to be true to his friend. Sometimes when she first got
back to Heronac she, too, allowed herself to dream of their good-bye,
and the cruel sweetness of that brief moment of bliss, and she would go
through strange thrills and quivers and stretch out her arms in the
firelight and whisper his name aloud--"Michael--my dear love!"

She could not even bear the watching, affectionate eyes of Madame Imogen
and sent her to Paris on a month's holiday. The Pere Anselme had been
away when she arrived, at the deathbed of an old sister at Versailles,
so she was utterly alone in her grim castle, with only the waves.

The once looked-for letters from Henry were a dreaded tie now. She would
have to answer them!--and as his grew more tender and loving, so hers
unconsciously became more cold, with a note of bitterness in them
sometimes of which she was unaware.

And Henry, in Paris with Moravia, wondered a