CHAPTER XXII
FROM THE BEGINNING
A woman stood, in the midst of a salt wilderness, gazing seaward. Aroundher was a long stretch of wet sand and of seaweed-stained rocks, risingfrom little pools of water left by the tide; and beyond, the flat,marshy country was broken only by that line of low cliffs, from whichthe little tufts of grass sprouted feebly. The waves which rolled almostto her feet were barely ripples, breaking with scarcely a visible effortupon the moist sand. Above, the sky was grey and threatening; only a fewminutes before a cloud of white mist had drifted in from the sea andsettled softly upon the land in the form of rain. The whole outlook wastypical of intense desolation. The only sound breaking the silence,almost curiously devoid of all physical and animal noises, was the softwashing of the sand at her feet, and every now and then the jingling ofsilver harness, as the horses of her carriage, drawn up on the roadabove, tossed their heads and fidgeted. The carriage itself seemedgrotesquely out of place. The coachman, with powdered hair and the darkblue Deringham livery, sat perfectly motionless, his head bent a littleforward, and his eyes fixed upon his horses' ears. The footman, by theirside, stood with folded arms, and expression as wooden as though he werewaiting upon a Bond Street pavement. Both were weary, and both wouldhave liked to vary the monotony by a little conversation; but only a fewyards away the woman was standing whose curious taste had led her tovisit such a spot.
Her arms were hanging listlessly by her side, her whole expression,although her face was upturned towards the sky, was one of intensedejection. Something about her attitude bespoke a keen and intimatesympathy with the desolation of her surroundings. The woman was unhappy;the light in her dark eyes was inimitably sad. Her cheeks were pale anda little wan. Yet Lady Deringham was very handsome--as handsome as awoman approaching middle age could hope to be. Her figure was still slimand elegant, the streaks of grey in her raven black hair were few andfar between. She might have lived hand in hand with sorrow, but it haddone very little to age her. Only a few years ago, in the crowdedball-room of a palace, a prince had declared her to be the handsomestwoman of her age, and the prince had the reputation of knowing. It waseasy to believe it.
How long the woman might have lingered there it is hard to say, forevidently the spot possessed a peculiar fascination for her, and she hadgiven herself up to a rare fit of abstraction. But some sound--was itthe low wailing of that seagull, or the more distant cry of a hawk,motionless in mid-air and scarcely visible against the cloudy sky, whichcaused her to turn her head inland? And then she saw that the solitudewas no longer unbroken. A dark object had rounded the sandy littleheadland, and was coming steadily towards her. She looked at it with amomentary interest, her skirt raised in her hand, already a few stepsback on her return to the waiting carriage. Was it a man? It wassomething human, at any rate, although its progression was slow andungraceful, and marked with a peculiar but uniform action. She stoodperfectly still, a motionless figure against the background of wan,cloud-shadowed sea and gathering twilight, her eyes riveted upon thisstrange thing, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks as pale as death.Gradually it came nearer and nearer. Her skirt dropped from hernerveless fingers, her eyes, a moment before dull, with an infinite andpitiful emptiness, were lit now with a new light. She was not alone,nor was she unprotected, yet the woman was suffering from a spasm ofterror--one could scarcely imagine any sight revolting enough to callup that expression of acute and trembling fear, which had suddenlytransformed her appearance. It was as though the level sands had yieldedup their dead--the shipwrecked mariners of generations, and they all,with white, sad faces and wailing voices, were closing in around her.Yet it was hard to account for a terror so abject. There was certainlynothing in the figure, now close at hand, which seemed capable ofinspiring it.
It was a man with a club foot--nothing more nor less. In fact it wasMr. Sabin! There was nothing about his appearance, save that ungainlymovement caused by his deformity, in any way singular or threatening. Hecame steadily nearer, and the woman who awaited him trembled. Perhapshis expression was a trifle sardonic, owing chiefly to the extremepallor of his skin, and the black flannel clothes with invisible stripe,which he had been wearing for golf. Yet when he lifted his soft felt hatfrom his head and bowed with an ease and effect palpably acquired inother countries, his appearance was far from unpleasant. He stood therebare-headed in the twilight, a strangely winning smile upon his darkface, and his head courteously bent.
"The most delightful of unexpected meetings," he murmured. "I am afraidthat I have come upon you like an apparition, dear Lady Deringham! Imust have startled you! Yes, I can see by your face that I did; I am sosorry. Doubtless you did not know until yesterday that I was inEngland."
Lady Deringham was slowly recovering herself. She was white still, evento the lips, and there was a strange, sick pain at her heart. Yet sheanswered him with something of her usual deliberateness, consciousperhaps that her servants, although their heads were studiously averted,had yet witnessed with surprise this unexpected meeting.
"You certainly startled me," she said; "I had imagined that this was themost desolate part of all unfrequented spots! It is here I come when Iwant to feel absolutely alone. I did not dream of meeting another fellowcreature--least of all people in the world, perhaps, you!"
"I," he answered, smiling gently, "was perhaps the better prepared. Afew minutes ago, from the cliffs yonder, I saw your carriage drawn uphere, and I saw you alight. I wanted to speak with you, so I lost notime in scrambling down on to the sands. You have changed marvellouslylittle, Lady Deringham!"
"And you," she said, "only in name. You are the Mr. Sabin with whom myson was playing golf yesterday morning?"
"I am Mr. Sabin," he answered. "Your son did me a good service a week ortwo back. He is a very fine young fellow; I congratulate you."
"And your niece," Lady Deringham asked; "who is she? My son spoke to meof her last night."
Mr. Sabin smiled faintly.
"Ah! Madame," he said, "there have been so many people lately who havebeen asking me that question, yet to you as to them I must return thesame answer. She is my niece!"
"You call her?"
"She shares my name at present."
"Is she your daughter?"
He shook his head sadly.
"I have never been married," he said, with an indefinable mournfulnessin his flexible tones. "I have had neither wife, nor child, nor friend.It is well for me that I have not!"
She looked down at his deformity, and woman-like she shivered.
"It is no better, then?" she murmured, with eyes turned seaward.
"It is absolutely incurable," he declared.
She changed the subject abruptly.
"The last I heard of you," she said, "was that you were in China. Youwere planning great things there. In ten years, I was told, Europe wasto be at your mercy!"
"I left Pekin five years ago," he said. "China is a land of Cabals. Shemay yet be the greatest country in the world. I, for one, believe in herdestiny, but it will be in the generations to come. I have no patienceto labour for another to reap the harvest. Then, too, a craving for justone draught of civilisation brought me westward again. Mongolian habitsare interesting but a little trying."
"And what," she asked, looking at him steadily, "has brought you toDeringham, of all places upon this earth?"
He smiled, and with his stick traced a quaint pattern in the sand.
"I have never told you anything that was not the truth," he said; "Iwill not begin now. I might have told you that I was here by chance, forchange of air, or for the golf. Neither of these things would have beentrue. I am here because Deringham village is only a mile or two fromDeringham Hall."
She drew a little closer to him. The jingling of harness, as her horsestossed their heads impatiently, reminded her of the close proximity ofthe servants.
"What do you want of me?" she asked hoarsely.
He looked at her in mild reproach, a good-humoured smile at the corne
rof his lips; yet after all was it good humour or some curious outwardreflection of the working of his secret thoughts? When he spoke thereproach, at any rate, was manifest.
"Want of you! You talk as though I were a blackmailer, or somethingequally obnoxious. Is that quite fair, Constance?"
She evaded the reproach; perhaps she was not conscious of it. It was thetruth she wanted.
"You had some end in coming here," she persisted. "What is it? I cannotconceive anything in the world you have to gain by coming to see me. Wehave left the world and society; we live buried. Whatever fresh schemesyou may be planning, there is no way in which we could help you. You arericher, stronger, more powerful than we. I can think," she added, "ofonly one thing which may have brought you."
"And that?" he asked deliberately.
She looked at him with a certain tremulous wistfulness in her eyes, andwith softening face.
"It may be," she said, "that as you grow older you have grown kinder;you may have thought of my great desire, and you were always generous,Victor, you may have come to grant it!"
The slightest possible change passed over his face as his Christian nameslipped from her lips. The firm lines about his mouth certainly relaxed,his dark eyes gleamed for a moment with a kindlier light. Perhaps atthat minute for both of them came a sudden lifting of the curtain, alingering backward glance into the world of their youth, passionate,beautiful, seductive. There were memories there which still seemed setto music--memories which pierced even the armour of his equanimity. Hereyes filled with tears as she looked at him. With a quick gesture shelaid her hand upon his.
"Believe me, Victor," she said, "I have always thought of you kindly;you have suffered terribly for my sake, and your silence wasmagnificent. I have never forgotten it."
His face clouded over, her impulsive words had been after all illchosen, she had touched a sore point! There was something in thesememories distasteful to him. They recalled the one time in his lifewhen he had been worsted by another man. His cynicism returned.
"I am afraid," he said, "that the years, which have made so littlechange in your appearance, have made you a sentimentalist. I can assureyou that these old memories seldom trouble me."
Then with a lightning-like intuition, almost akin to inspiration, hesaw that he had made a mistake. His best hold upon the woman had beenthrough that mixture of sentiment and pity, which something in theirconversation had reawakened in her. He was destroying it ruthlessly andof his own accord. What folly!
"Bah! I am lying," he said softly; "why should I? Between you and me,Constance, there should be nothing but truth. We at least should besincere one to the other. You are right, I have brought you somethingwhich should have been yours long ago."
She looked at him with wondering eyes.
"You are going to give me the letters?"
"I am going to give them to you," he said. "With the destruction of thislittle packet falls away the last link which held us together."
He had taken a little bundle of letters, tied with a faded ribbon, fromhis pocket and held them out to her. Even in that salt-odorous air theperfume of strange scents seemed to creep out from those closely writtensheets as they fluttered in the breeze. Lady Deringham clasped thepacket with both hands, and her eyes were very bright and very soft.
"It is not so, Victor," she murmured. "There is a new and a strongerlink between us now, the link of my everlasting gratitude. Ah! you werealways generous, always quixotic! Someday I felt sure that you would dothis."
"When I left Europe," he said, "you would have had them, but there wasno trusted messenger whom I could spare. Yet if I had never returnedthey were so bestowed that they would have come into your hands withperfect safety. Even now, Constance, will you think me very weak when Isay that I part with them with regret? They have been with me throughmany dangers and many strange happenings."
"You are," she whispered, "the old Victor again! Thank God that I havehad this one glimpse of you! I am ashamed to think how terrified I havebeen."
She held out her hand impulsively. He took it in his and, with a glanceat her servants, let it fall almost immediately.
"Constance," he said, "I am going away now. I have accomplished what Icame for. But first, would you care to do me a small service? It isonly a trifle."
A thrill of the old mistrustful fear shook her heart. Half ashamed ofherself she stifled it at once, and strove to answer him calmly.
"If there is anything within my power which I can do for you, Victor,"she said, "it will make me very happy. You would not ask me, I know,unless--unless----"
"You need have no fear," he interrupted calmly; "it is a very littlething. Do you think that Lord Deringham would know me again after somany years?"
"My husband?"
"Yes!"
She looked at him in something like amazement. Before she could ask thequestion which was framing itself upon her lips, however, they wereboth aware of a distant sound, rapidly drawing nearer--the thunder ofa horse's hoofs upon the soft sand. Looking up they both recognised therider at the same instant.
"It is your son," Mr. Sabin said quickly; "you need not mind. Leave meto explain. Tell me when I can find you at home alone?"
"I am always alone," she answered. "But come to-morrow."