CHAPTER VI
THE AFTERMATH OF AN ADVENTURE
Diana awoke with a start. Before sleep had overtaken her she had been lying on a shallow slope of sand, leaning against a rock, with her elbow resting on its flat surface and her book propped up in front of her. Gradually the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves on the shore had lulled her into slumber—the plop as they broke in eddies of creaming foam, and then the sibilant hush-sh-sh—like a long-drawn sigh—as the water receded only to gather itself afresh into a crested billow.
Scarcely more than half awake she sat up and stared about her, dreamily wondering how she came to be there. She felt very stiff, and the arm on which she had been leaning ached horribly. She rubbed it a little, dully conscious of the pain, and as the blood began to course through the veins again, the sharp, pricking sensation commonly known as "pins and needles" aroused her effectually, and she recollected that she had walked out to Culver Point and established herself in one of the numerous little bays that fringed the foot of the great red cliff, intending to spend a pleasant afternoon in company with a new novel. And then the Dustman (idling about until his duties proper should commence in the evening) had come by and touched her eyelids and she had fallen fast asleep.
But she was thoroughly wide awake now, and she looked round her with a rather startled expression, realising that she must have slept for some considerable time, for the sun, which had been high in the heavens, had already dipped towards the horizon and was shedding a rosy track of light across the surface of the water. The tide, too, had come up a long way since she had dozed off into slumber, and waves were now breaking only a few yards distant from her feet.
She cast a hasty glance to right and left, where the arms of the little cove stretched out to meet the sea, strewn with big boulders clothed in shell and seaweed. But there were no rocks to be seen. The grey water was lapping lazily against the surface of the cliff itself and she was cut off on either side.
For a minute or so her heart beat unpleasantly fast; then, with a quick sense of relief, she recollected that only at spring tides was the little bay where she stood entirely under water. There was no danger, she reflected, but nevertheless her position was decidedly unenviable. It was not yet high tide, so it would be some hours at least before she would be able to make her way home, and meanwhile the sun was sinking fast, it was growing unpleasantly cold, and she was decidedly hungry. In the course of another hour or two she would probably be hungrier still, but with no nearer prospect of dinner, while the Rector and Joan would be consumed with anxiety as to what had become of her.
Anxiously she scanned the sea, hoping she might sight some homing fishing-boat which she could hail, but no welcome red or brown sail broke the monotonous grey waste of water, and in hopes of warming herself a little she began to walk briskly up and down the little beach still keeping a sharp look-out at sea for any passing boat.
An interminable hour crawled by. The sun dipped a little lower, flinging long streamers of scarlet and gold across the sea. Far in the blue vault of the sky a single star twinkled into view, while a little sighing breeze arose and whispered of coming night.
Diana shivered in her thin blouse. She had brought no coat with her, and, now that the mist was rising, she felt chilled to the bone, and she heartily anathematised her carelessness for getting into such a scrape.
And then, all at once, across the water came the welcome sound of a human voice:—
"Ahoy! Ahoy there!"
A small brown boat and the figure of the man in it, resting on his oars, showed sharply etched against the background of the sunset sky.
Diana waved her handkerchief wildly and the man waved back, promptly setting the boat with her nose towards the chore and sculling with long, rhythmic strokes that speedily lessened the distance between him and the eager figure waiting at the water's edge.
As he drew nearer, Diana was struck by something oddly familiar in his appearance, and when he glanced back over his shoulder to gauge his distance from the shore, she recognised with a sudden shocked sense of dismay that the man in the boat was none other than Max Errington!
She retreated a few steps hastily, and stood, waiting, tense with misery and discomfort. Had it still been possible she would have signalled to him to go on and leave her; the bare thought of being indebted to him—to this man who had coolly cut her in the street—for escape from her present predicament filled her with helpless rage.
But it was too late. Errington gave a final pull, shipped his oars, and, as the boat rode in on the top of a wave, leaped out on the shore and beached her safely. Then he turned and strode towards Diana, his face wearing just that same concerned, half-angry look that it had done when he found her, shortly after the railway collision, trying to help the woman who had lost her child.
"What in the name of heaven and earth are you doing here?" he demanded brusquely.
Apparently he had entirely forgotten the more recent episode of Easter Sunday and was prepared to scold her roundly, exactly as he had done on that same former occasion. The humour of the situation suddenly caught hold of Diana, and for the moment she, too, forgot that she had reason to be bitterly offended with this man.
"Waiting for you to rescue me—as usual," she retorted frivolously. "You seem to be making quite a habit of it."
He smiled grimly.
"I'm making a virtue of necessity," he flung back at her. "What on earth do your people mean by letting you roam about by yourself like this? You're not fit to be alone! As though a railway accident weren't sufficient excitement for any average woman, you must needs try to drown yourself. Are you so particularly anxious to get quit of this world?"
"Drown myself?" she returned scornfully. "How could I—when the sea doesn't come up within a dozen yards of the cliff except at spring tide?"
"And I suppose it hadn't occurred to you that this is a spring tide?" he said drily. "In another hour or so there'll be six feet of water where we're standing now."
The abrupt realisation that once again she had escaped death by so narrow a margin shook her for a moment, and she swayed a little where she stood, while her face went suddenly very white.
In an instant his arm was round her, supporting her. "I oughtn't to have told you," he said hastily. "Forgive me. You're tired—and, merciful heavens! child, you're half-frozen. Your teeth are chattering with cold."
He stripped off his coat and made as though to help her on with it.
"No—no," she protested. "I shall be quite warm directly. Please put on your coat again."
He shook his head, smiling down at her, and taking first one of her arms, and then the other, he thrust them into the empty sleeves, putting the coat on her as one would dress a child.
"I'm used to having my own way," he observed coolly, as he proceeded to button it round her.
"But you?—" she faltered, looking at the thin silk of his shirt.
"I'm not a lady with a beautiful voice that must be taken care of. What would Signor Baroni say to this afternoon's exploit?"
"Oh, then you haven't forgotten?" Diana asked curiously.
The intensely blue eyes swept over her face.
"No," he replied shortly, "I haven't forgotten."
In silence he helped her into the boat, and she sat quietly in the stern as he bent to his oars and sent the little skiff speeding homewards towards the harbour.
She felt strangely content. The fact that he had deliberately refused to recognise her seemed a matter of very small moment now that he had spoken to her again—scolding her and enforcing her obedience to his wishes in that oddly masterful way of his, which yet had something of a possessive tenderness about it that appealed irresistibly to the woman in her.
Arrived at the quay of the little harbour, he helped her up the steps, slimy with weed and worn by the ceaseless lapping of the water, and the firm clasp of his hand on hers conveyed a curious sense of security, extending beyond just the mere safety of the moment. She had a feeling that there was something immutably strong and sure about this man—a calm, steadfast self-reliance to which one could unhesitatingly trust.
His voice broke in abruptly on her thoughts.
"My car's waiting at the quayside," he said. "I shall drive you back to the Rectory."
Diana assented—not, as she thought to herself with a somewhat wry smile, that it would have made the very slightest difference had she refused point-blank. Since he had decided that she was to travel in his car, travel in it she would, willy-nilly. But as a matter of fact, she was so tired that she was only too thankful to sink back on to the soft, luxurious cushions of the big limousine.
Errington tucked the rugs carefully round her, substituting one of them for the coat she was wearing, spoke a few words to the chauffeur, and then seated himself opposite her.
Diana thought the car seemed to be travelling rather slowly as it began the steep ascent from the harbour to the Rectory. Possibly the chauffeur who had taken his master's instructions might have thrown some light on the subject had he so chosen.
"Quite warm now?" queried Errington.
Diana snuggled luxuriously into her corner.
"Quite, thanks," she replied. "You're rapidly qualifying as a good Samaritan par excellence, thanks to the constant opportunities I afford you."
He laughed shortly and relapsed into silence, leaning his elbow on the cushioned ledge beside him and shading his face with his hand. Beneath its shelter, the keen blue eyes stared at the girl opposite with an odd, thwarted expression in their depths.
Presently Diana spoke again, a tinge of irony in her tones.
"And—after this—when next we meet . . . are you going to cut me again? . . . It must have been very tiresome for you, that an unkind fate insisted on your making my closer acquaintance."
He dropped his hand suddenly.
"Oh, forgive me!" he exclaimed, with a quick gesture of deprecation. "It—it was unpardonable of me . . ." His voice vibrated with some strong emotion, and Diana regarded him curiously.
"Then you meant it?" she said slowly. "It was deliberate?"
He bent his head affirmatively.
"Yes," he replied. "I suppose you think it unforgivable. And yet—and yet it would have been better so."
"Better? But why? I'm generally"—dimpling a little—"considered rather nice."
"'Rather nice'?" he repeated, in a peculiar tone. "Oh, yes—that does not surprise me."
"And some day," she continued gaily, "although I'm nobody just now, I may become a really famous person—and then you might be quite happy to know me!"
Her eyes danced with mirth as she rallied him.
He looked at her strangely.
"No—it can never bring me happiness. . . Ah, mais jamais!" he added, with sudden passion.
Diana was startled.
"It—it was horrid of you to cut me," she said in a troubled voice.
"My punishment lies in your hands," he returned. "When I leave you at the Rectory—after to-day—you can end our acquaintance if you choose. And I suppose—you, will choose. It would be contrary to human nature to throw away such an excellent opportunity for retaliation—feminine human nature, anyway."
He spoke with a kind of half-savage raillery, and Diana winced under it. His moods changed so rapidly that she was bewildered. At one moment there would be an exquisite gentleness in his manner when he spoke to her, at the next a contemptuous irony that cut like a whip.
"Would it be—a punishment?" she asked at last.
He checked a sudden movement towards her.
"What do you suppose?" he said quietly.
"I don't know what to think. If it would be a punishment, why were you so anxious to take it out of my hands? It was you who ended our acquaintance on Sunday, remember."
"Yes, I know. Twice I've closed the door between us, and twice fate has seen fit to open it again."
"Twice? . . . Then—then it was you—in Grellingham Place that day?"
"Yes," he acknowledged simply.
Diana bent her head to hide the small, secret smile that carved her lips.
At last, after a pause—
"But why—why do you not want to know me?" she asked wonderingly.
"Not want to?" he muttered below his breath. "God in heaven! Not want to!" His hand moved restlessly. After a minute he answered her, speaking very gently.
"Because I think you were born to stand in the sunshine. Some of us stand always in the shadow; it creeps about our feet, following us wherever we go. And I would not darken the sunlit places of your life with the shadow that clings to mine."
There was an undercurrent of deep sadness in his tones.
"Can't you—can't you banish the shadow?" faltered Diana. A sense of tragedy oppressed her. "Life is surely made for happiness," she added, a little wistfully.
"Your life, I hope." He smiled across at her. "So don't let us talk any more about the shadow. Only"—gently—"if I came nearer to you—the shadow might engulf you, too." He paused, then continued more lightly: "But if you'll forgive my barbarous incivility of Sunday, perhaps—perhaps I may be allowed to stand just on the outskirts of your life—watch you pass by on your road to fame, and toss a flower at your feet when all the world and his wife are crowding to hear the new prima donna." He had dropped back into the vein of light, ironical mockery which Diana was learning to recognise as characteristic of the man. It was like the rapier play of a skilled duellist, his weapon flashing hither and thither, parrying every thrust of his opponent, and with consummate ease keeping him ever at a distance.
"I wonder"—he regarded her with an expression of amused curiosity—"I wonder whether you would stoop to pick up my flower if I threw one? But, no"—he answered his own question hastily, giving her no time to reply—"you would push it contemptuously aside with the point of your little white slipper, and say to your crowd of admirers standing around you: 'That flower is the gift of a man—a rough boor of a man—who was atrociously rude to me once. I don't even value it enough to pick it up.' Whereupon every one—quite rightly, too!—would cry shame on the man who had dared to insult so charming a lady—probably adding that if bad luck befell him it would be no more than he deserved! . . . And I've no doubt he'll get his desserts," he added carelessly.
Diana felt the tears very near her eyes and her lip quivered.. This man had the power of hurting her—wounding her to the quick—with his bitter raillery.
When she spoke again her voice shook a little.
"You are wrong," she said, "quite wrong. I should pick up the flower and"—steadily—"I should keep it, because it was thrown to me by a man who had twice done me the greatest service in his power."
Once again he checked, as if by sheer force of will, a sudden eager movement towards her.
"Would you?" he said quickly. "Would you do that? But you would be mistaken; I should be gaining your kindness under false pretences. The greatest service in my power would be for me to go away and never see you again. . . . And, I can't do that—now," he added, his voice vibrating oddly.
His eyes held her, and at the sound of that sudden note of passion in his tone she felt some new, indefinable emotion stir within her that was half pain, half pleasure. Her eyelids closed, and she stretched out her hands a little gropingly, almost as if she were trying to ward away something that threatened her.
There was appeal in the gesture—a pathetic, half-childish appeal, as though the shy, virginal youth of her sensed the distant tumult of awakening passion and would fain delay its coming.
She was just a frank, whole-hearted girl, knowing nothing of love and its strange, inevitable claim, but deep within her spoke that instinct, premonition—call it what you will—which seems in some mysterious way to warn every woman when the great miracle of love is drawing near. It is as though Love's shadow fell across her heart and she were afraid to turn and face him—shrinking with the terror of a trapped wild thing from meeting his imperious demand.
Errington, watching her, saw the childish gesture, the quiver of her mouth, the soft fall of the shadowed lids, and with a swift, impetuous movement he leaned forward and caught her by the arms, pulling her towards him. Instinctively she resisted, struggling in his grip, her eyes, wide and startled, gazing into his.
"Diana!"
The word seemed wrung from him, and as though something within her answered to its note of urgency, she suddenly yielded, stumbling forward on to her knees. His arms closed round her, holding her as in a vice, and she lay there, helpless in his grasp, her head thrown back a little, her young, slight breast fluttering beneath the thin silk of her blouse.
For a moment he held her so, staring down, at her, his breath hard-drawn between his teeth; then swiftly, with a stifled exclamation he stooped his head, kissing her savagely, bruising, crushing her lips beneath his own.
She felt her strength going from her—it seemed as though he were drawing her soul out from her body—and then, just as sheer consciousness itself was wavering, he took his mouth from hers, and she could see his face, white and strained, bent above her.
She leaned away from him, panting a little, her shoulders against the side of the car.
"God!" she heard him mutter.
For a space the throb of the motor was the only sound that broke the stillness, but presently, after what seemed an eternity, he raised her from the floor, where she still knelt inertly, and set her on the seat again. She submitted passively.
When he had resumed his place, he spoke in dry, level tones.
"I suppose I'm damned beyond forgiveness after this?"
She made no answer. She was listening with a curious fascination to the throb of her heart and the measured beat of the engine; the two seemed to meet and mingle into one great pulse, thundering against her tired brain.
"Diana"—he spoke again, still in the same toneless voice—"am I to be forbidden even the outskirts of your life now?"
She moved her head restlessly.
"I don't know—oh, I don't know," she whispered.
She was utterly spent and exhausted. Unconsciously every nerve in her had responded to the fierce passion of that suffocating kiss, and now that the tense moment was over she felt drained of all vitality. Her head drooped listlessly against the cushions of the car and dark shadows stained her cheeks beneath the wide-opened eyes—eyes that held the startled, frightened expression of one who has heard for the first time the beat of Passion's wings.
Gradually, as Errington watched her, the strained look left his face and was replaced by one of infinite solicitude. She looked so young as she lay there, huddled against the cushions—hardly more than a child—and he knew what that mad moment had done for her. It had wakened the woman within her. He cursed himself softly.
"Diana," he said, leaning forward. "For God's sake, say you forgive me, child."
The deep pain in his voice pierced through her dulled, senses.
"Why—why did you do it?" she asked tremulously.
"I did it—oh, because for the moment I forgot that I'm a man barred out from all that makes life worth living! . . . I forgot about the shadow, Diana. . . . You—made me forget."
He spoke with concentrated bitterness, adding mockingly:—
"After all, there's a great deal to be said in favour of the Turkish yashmak. It at least removes temptation."
Diana's hand flew to her lips—they burned still at the memory of those kisses—and he smiled ironically at the instinctive gesture.
"I hate you!" she said suddenly.
"Quite the most suitable thing you could do," he answered composedly. All the softened feeling of a few moments ago had vanished: he seemed to have relapsed into his usual sardonic humour, putting a barrier between himself and her that set them miles apart.
Diana was conscious of a fury of resentment against his calm readjustment of the situation. He was the offender; it was for her to dictate the terms of peace, and he had suddenly cut the ground from under her feet. Her pride rose in arms. If he could so contemptuously sweep aside the memory of the last ten minutes, careless whether his plea for forgiveness were granted or no, she would show him that for her, too, the incident was closed. But she would not forgive him—ever.
She opened her campaign at once.
"Surely we must be almost at the Rectory by now?" she began in politely conventional tones.
A sudden gleam of wicked mirth flashed across his face.
"Has the time, then, seemed so long?" he demanded coolly.
Diana's lips trembled in the vain effort to repress a smile. The man was impossible! It was also very difficult, she found, to remain righteously angry with such an impossible person.
If he saw the smile, he gave no indication of it. Rubbing the window with his hand he peered out.
"I think we are just turning in at the Rectory gates," he remarked carelessly.
In another minute the motor had throbbed to a standstill and the chauffeur was standing at the open door.
"I'm sorry we've been so long coming, sir," he said, touching his hat.
"I took a wrong turning—lost me way a bit."
Then as Errington and Diana passed into the house, he added thoughtfully, addressing his engine:—
"She's a pretty little bit of skirt and no mistake. I wonder, now, if we was lost long enough, eh, Billy?"