THE SECOND MEETING
Diana threw hack the bedclothes and thrust an extremely pretty but
reluctant foot over the edge of the bed. She did not experience in the
least that sensation of exhilaration with which the idea of getting up
invariably seems to inspire the heroine of a novel, prompting her to
spring lightly from her couch and trip across to the window to see what
sort of weather the author has provided. On the contrary, she was
sorely tempted to snuggle down again amongst the pillows, but the
knowledge that it wanted only half an hour to breakfast-time exercised
a deterrent influence and she made her way with all haste to the
bath-room, somewhat shamefully pleased to reflect that, being Easter
Sunday, Pobs would be officiating at the early service, so that she
would escape the long trudge down to the sea with him for their usual
morning swim.
By the time she had bathed and dressed, however, she felt better able
to face the day with a cheerful spirit, and the sun, streaming in
through the diamond panes of her window, added a last vivifying touch
and finally sent her downstairs on the best of terms with herself and
the world at large.
There was no one about, as Joan had accompanied her father to church,
so Diana sauntered out on to the flagged path and paced idly up and
down, waiting for their return. The square, grey tower of the church,
hardly more than a stone's throw distant from the Rectory, was visible
through a gap in the trees where a short cut, known as the "church
path" wound its way through the copse that hedged the garden. It was
an ancient little church, boasting a very beautiful thirteenth century
window, which, in a Philistine past, had been built up and rough-cast
outside, and had only been discovered in the course of some repairs
that were being made to one of the walls. The inhabitants of Crailing
were very proud of that thirteenth century window when it was
disinterred; they had a proprietary feeling about it--since, after all,
it had really belonged to them for a little matter of seven centuries
or so, although they had been unaware of the fact.
Below the slope of the Rectory grounds the thatched roofs of the
village bobbed into view, some gleaming golden in all the pride of
recent thatching, others with their crown of straw mellowed by sun and
rain to a deeper colour and patched with clumps of moss, vividly green
as an emerald.
The village itself straggled down to the edge of the sea in untidy
fashion, its cob-walled cottages in some places huddling together as
though for company, in others standing far apart, with spaces of waste
land between them where you might often see the women sitting mending
the fishing nets and gossiping together as they worked.
Diana's eyes wandered affectionately over the picturesque little
houses; she loved every quaint, thatched roof among them, but more than
all she loved the glimpse of the sea that lay beyond them, pierced by
the bold headland of red sandstone, Culver Point, which thrust itself
into the blue of the water like an arm stretched out to shelter the
little village nestling in its curve from the storms of the Atlantic.
Presently she heard the distant click of a gate, and very soon the
Rector and Joan appeared, Stair with the dreaming, far-away expression
in his eyes of one who has been communing with the saints.
Diana went to meet them and slipped her arm confidingly through his.
"Come back to earth, Pobs, dear," she coaxed gaily. "You look like
Moses might have done when he descended from the Mount."
The glory faded slowly out of his eyes.
"Come back to heaven, Di," he retorted a little sadly, "That's where
you came from, you know."
Diana shook her head.
"You did, I verily believe," she declared affectionately. "But there's
only a very small slice of heaven in my composition, I'm afraid."
Stair looked down at her thoughtfully, at the clean line of the cheek
curving into the pointed, determined little chin, at the sensitive,
eager mouth, unconsciously sensuous in the lovely curve of its short
upper-lip, at the ardent, glowing eyes--the whole face vital with the
passionate demand of youth for the kingdoms of the earth.
"We've all got our share of heaven, my dear," he said at last, smiling
a little. "But I'm thinking yours may need some hard chiselling of
fate to bring it into prominence."
Diana wriggled her shoulders.
"It doesn't sound nice, Pobs. I don't in the least want to be
chiselled into shape, it reminds one too much of the dentist."
"The gentleman who chisels out decay? You're exactly carrying out my
metaphor to its bitter end," returned Stair composedly.
"Oh, Joan, do stop him," exclaimed Diana appealingly. "I'm going to
church this morning, and if he lectures me like this I shall have no
appetite left for spiritual things."
"I didn't know you ever had--much," replied Joan, laughing.
"Well, anyway, I've a thoroughly healthy appetite for my breakfast,"
said Diana, as they went into the dining-room. "I'm feeling
particularly cheerful just this moment. I have a presentiment that
something very delightful is going to happen to me to-day--though, to
be sure, Sunday isn't usually a day when exciting things occur."
"Dreams generally go by contraries," observed Joan sagely. "And I
rather think the same applies to presentiments. I know that whenever I
have felt a comfortable assurance that everything was going smoothly,
it has generally been followed by one of the servants giving notice, or
the bursting of the kitchen boiler, or something equally disagreeable."
Diana gurgled unfeelingly.
"Oh, those are merely the commonplaces of existence," she replied. "I
was meaning"--waving her hand expansively--"big things."
"And when you've got your own house, my dear," retorted Joan, "you'll
find those commonplaces of existence assume alarmingly big proportions."
Soon after Stair had finished his after-breakfast pipe, the chiming of
the bells announced that it was time to prepare for church. The
Rectory pew was situated close to the pulpit, at right angles to the
body of the church, and Diana and Joan took their places one at either
end of it. As the former was wont to remark: "It's such a comfort when
there's no competition for the corner seats."
The organ had ceased playing, and the words "_Dearly beloved_" had
already fallen from the Rector's lips, when the churchdoor opened once
again to admit some late arrivals. Instinctively Diana looked up from
her prayer-book, and, as her glance fell upon the newcomers, the pupils
of her eyes dilated until they looked almost black, while a wave of
colour rushed over her face, dyeing it scarlet from brow to throat.
Two ladies were coming up the aisle, the one bordering on middle age,
the other young and of uncommon beauty, but it was upon neither of
these that Diana's startled eyes were fixed. Behind them, and
evidently of their party, came a tall, fair man whose supple length of
limb and very blue eyes sent a little thrill of recognition through her
veins.
It was her fellow-traveller of that memorable journey down from town!
She closed her eyes a moment. Once again she could hear the horrifying
crash as the engine hurled itself against the track that blocked the
metals, feel the swift pall of darkness close about her, rife with a
thousand terrors, and then, out of that hideous night, the grip of
strong arms folded round her, and a voice, harsh with fear, beating
against her ears:
"Are you hurt? . . . My God, are you hurt?"
When she opened her eyes again, the little party of three had taken
their places and were composedly following the service. Apparently he
had not seen her, and Diana shrank a little closer into the friendly
shadow of the pulpit, feeling for the moment an odd, nervous fear of
encountering his eyes.
But she soon realised that she need not have been alarmed. He was
evidently quite unaware of her proximity, for his glance never once
strayed in her direction, and, gradually gaining courage as she
appreciated this, Diana ventured to let her eyes turn frequently during
the service towards the pew where the newcomers were sitting.
That they were strangers to the neighbourhood she was sure; she had
certainly never seen either of the two women before. The elder of the
two was a plump, round-faced little lady, with bright brown eyes, and
pretty, crinkly brown hair lightly powdered with grey. She was very
fashionably dressed, and the careful detail of her toilet pointed to no
lack of means. The younger woman, too, was exquisitely turned out, but
there was something so individual about her personality that it
dominated everything else, relegating her clothes to a very secondary
position. As in the case of an unusually beautiful gem, it was the
jewel itself which impressed one, rather than the setting which framed
it round.
She was very fair, with quantities of pale golden hair rather
elaborately dressed, and her eyes were blue--not the keen, brilliant
blue of those of the man beside her, but a soft blue-grey, like the sky
on a misty summer's morning.
Her small, exquisite features were clean-cut as a cameo, and she
carried herself with a little touch of hauteur--an air of aloofness, as
it were. There was nothing ungracious about it, but it was
unmistakably there--a slightly emphasised hint of personal dignity.
Diana regarded her with some perplexity; the girl's face was vaguely
familiar to her, yet at the same time she felt perfectly certain that
she had never seen her before. She wondered whether she were any
relation to the man with her, but there was no particular resemblance
between the two, except that both were fair and bore themselves with a
certain subtle air of distinction that rather singled them out from
amongst their fellows.
In repose, Diana noticed, the man's face was grave almost to sternness,
and there was a slightly worn look about it as of one who had passed
through some fiery discipline of experience and had forced himself to
meet its demands. The lines around the mouth, and the firm closing of
the lips, held a suggestion of suffering, but there was no rebellion in
the face, rather a look of inflexible endurance.
Diana wondered what lay behind that curiously controlled expression,
and the memory of certain words he had let fall during their journey
together suddenly recurred to her with a new significance attached to
them. . . . "Just as though we had any too many pleasures in life!" he
had said. And again: "Oh, for that! If we could have what we wanted
in this world! . . ."
Uttered in his light, half-bantering tones, the bitter flavour of the
words had passed her by, but now, as she studied the rather stern set
of his features, they returned to her with fresh meaning and she felt
that their mocking philosophy was to a certain extent indicative of the
man's attitude towards life.
So absorbed was she in her thoughts that the stir and rustle of the
congregation issuing from their seats at the conclusion of the service
came upon her in the light of a surprise; she had not realised that the
service--in which she had been taking a reprehensible perfunctory
part--had drawn to its close, and she almost jumped when Joan nudged
her unobtrusively and whispered:--
"Come along. I believe you're half asleep."
She shook her head, smiling, and gathering up her gloves and
prayer-book, she followed Joan down the aisle and out into the
churchyard where people were standing about in little groups,
exchanging the time of day with that air of a renewal of interest in
worldly topics which synchronises with the end of Lent.
The Rector had not yet appeared, and as Joan was chatting with Mrs.
Mowbray, the local doctor's wife, Diana, who had an intense dislike for
Mrs. Mowbray and all her works--there were six of the latter, ranging
from a lanky girl of twelve to a fat baby still in the perambulator
stage--made her way out of the churchyard and stood waiting by the
beautiful old lichgate, which, equally with the thirteenth century
window, was a source of pride and satisfaction to the good folk of
Crailing.
A big limousine had pulled up beside the footpath, and an immaculate
footman was standing by its open door, rug in hand. Diana wondered
idly whose car it could be, and it occurred to her that very probably
it belonged to the strangers who had attended the service that morning.
A minute later her assumption was confirmed, as the middle-aged lady,
followed by the young, pretty one, came quickly through the lichgate
and entered the car. The footman hesitated, still holding the door
open, and the elder lady leaned forward to say:--
"It's all right, Baker. Mr. Errington is walking back."
Errington! So that was his name--that was what the E. on the
handkerchief stood for! Diana thought she could hazard a reasonable
guess as to why he had elected to walk home. He must have caught sight
of her in church, after all, and it was but natural that, after the
experience they had passed through together, he should wish to renew
his acquaintance with her. When two people have been as near to death
in company as they had been, it can hardly be expected that they will
regard each other in the light of total strangers should they chance to
meet again.
Hidden from his sight by an intervening yew tree, she watched him
coming down the church path, conscious of a somewhat pleasurable sense
of anticipation, and when he had passed under the lichgate and, turning
to the left, came face to face with her, she bowed and smiled, holding
out her hand.
To her utter amazement he looked at her without the faintest sign of
recognition on his face, pausing only for the fraction of a second as a
man may when some stranger claims his acquaintance by mistake; then
with a murmured "Pardon!" he raised his hat slightly and passed on.
Diana's hand dropped slowly to her side. She felt stunned. The thing
seemed incredible. Less than a week ago she and this man had travelled
companionably together in the train, dined at the same table, and
together shared the same dreadful menace which had brought death very
close to both of them, and now he passed her by with the cool stare of
an utter stranger! If he had knocked her down she would hardly have
been more astonished.
Moreover, it was not as though her companionship had been forced upon
him in the train; he had deliberately sought it. Two people can travel
side by side without advancing a single hairsbreadth towards
acquaintance if they choose. But he had not so chosen--most assuredly
he had not. He had quietly, with a charmingly persuasive insistence,
broken through the conventions of custom, and had subsequently proved
himself as considerate and as thoughtful for her comfort as any actual
friend could have been. More than that, in those moments of tense
excitement, immediately after the collision had occurred, she could
have sworn that real feeling, genuine concern for her safety, had
vibrated in his voice.
And now, just as deliberately, just as composedly as he had begun the
acquaintance, so he had closed it.
Diana's cheeks burned with shame. She felt humiliated. Evidently he
had regarded her merely as some one with whom it might he agreeable to
idle away the tedium of a journey--but that was all. It was obviously
his intention that that should be the beginning and the end of it.
In a dream she crossed the road and, opening the gate that admitted to
the "church path," made her way home alone. She felt she must have a
few minutes to herself before she faced the Rector and Joan at the
Rectory mid-day dinner. Fortunately, they were both in ignorance of
this amazing, stupefying fact that her fellow-traveller--the "gallant
rescuer" about whom Pobs had so joyously chaffed her--had signified in
the most unmistakable fashion that he wanted nothing more to do with
her, and by the time the dinner-bell sounded, Diana had herself well in
hand--so well that she was even able to ask in tones of quite casual
interest if any one knew who were the strangers in church that morning?
"Yes, Mowbray told me," replied the Rector. "They are the new people
who have taken Red Gables--that pretty little place on the Woodway
Road. The girl is Adrienne de Gervais, the actress, and the elderly
lady is a Mrs. Adams, her chaperon."
"Oh, then that's why her face seemed so familiar!" exclaimed Diana, a
light breaking in upon her. "I mean Miss de Gervais'--not the
chaperon's. Of course I must have seen her picture in the illustrated
papers dozens of times."
"And the man who was with them is Max Errington, who writes nearly all
the plays in which she takes part," chimed in Joan. "He's supposed to
be in love with her. That piece of information I acquired from Mrs.
Mowbray."
"I detest Mrs. Mowbray," said Diana, with sudden viciousness. "She's
the sort of person who has nothing whatever to talk about and spends
hours doing it."
The others laughed.
"She's rather a gas-bag, I must admit," acknowledged Stair. "But, you
know, a country doctor's wife is usually the emporium for all the local
gossip. It's expected of her."
"Then I'm sure Mrs. Mowbray will never disappoint any one. She fully
comes up to expectations," observed Diana grimly.
"I suppose we shall have to call on these new people at Red Gables,
Dad?" asked Joan, after a brief interval.
Diana bent her head suddenly over her plate to hide the scarlet flush
which flew into her cheeks at the suggestion. She would _not_ call
upon them--a thousand times no! Max Errington had shown her very
distinctly in what estimation he held the honour of her friendship, and
he should never have the chance of believing she had tried to thrust it
on him.
"Well"--the Rector was replying leisurely to Joan's inquiry--"I
understand they are only going to be at Red Gables now and then--when
Miss de Gervais wants a rest from her professional work, I expect. But
still, as they have come to our church and are strangers in the
district, it would perhaps be neighbourly to call, wouldn't it?"
"Can't you call on them, Pobs?" suggested Diana, "A sort of 'rectorial'
visit, you know. That would surely be sufficient."
The Sector hesitated.
"I don't know about that, Di. Don't you think it would look rather
unfriendly on the part of you girls? Rather snubby, eh?"
That was precisely what Diana, had thought, and the reflection had
afforded her no small satisfaction. She wanted to hit back--and hit
hard--and now Pobs' kindly, hospitable nature was unconsciously putting
the brake on the wheel of retribution.
She shrugged her shoulders with an air of indifference.
"Oh, well, you and Joan can call. I don't think actresses, and authors
who love them and write plays for them, are much in my line," she
replied distantly.
It would seem as though Joan's dictum that presentiments, like dreams,
go by contraries, had been founded upon the rock of experience, for, in
truth, Diana's premonition that something delightful was about to
happen to her had been fulfilled in a sorry fashion.