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M >> Margaret Pedler >> The Splendid Folly




Diana's head drooped lower and lower as he spoke, and presently her
hand stole out, seeking his. In a moment it was taken and held in a
close and kindly clasp.

"I'll--I'll marry him, Pobs," she whispered.

So it came about that when, two days later, Max took his way to 24
Brutton Square, the gods had better gifts in store for him than he had
dared to hope.

He was pacing restlessly up and down her little sitting-room when she
entered it, and she could see that his face bore traces of the last few
days' anxiety. There were new lines about his mouth, and his eyes were
so darkly shadowed as to seem almost sunken in their sockets.

"You have come back!" he said, stepping eagerly towards her.
"Diana"--there was a note of strain in his voice--"which is it?
Yes--or no?"

She held out her hands.

"It's--it's 'yes,' Max."

A stifled exclamation broke from him, almost like a sob. He folded her
in his arms and laid his lips to hers.

"My beloved! . . . Oh, Diana, if you could guess the agony--the
torture of the last ten days!" And he leaned his cheek against her
hair, and stood silently for a little space.

Presently fear overcame him again--quick fear lest she should ever
regret having given herself to him.

"Heart's dearest, have you realised that it will be very hard
sometimes? You will ask me to explain things--and I shan't be able to.
Is your trust big enough--great enough for this?"

Diana raised her head from his shoulder.

"I love you," she answered steadily.

"Do you forget the shadow? It is there still, dogging my steps. Not
even your love can alter that."

For a moment Diana rose to the heights of her womanhood.

"If there must be a shadow," she said, "we will walk in it together."

"But--don't you see?--I shall know what it is. To you it will always
be something unknown, hidden, mysterious. Child! Child! I wonder if
I am right to let you join your life to mine!"

But Diana only repeated:--

"I love you."

And at last he flung all thoughts of warning and doubt aside, and
secure in that reiterated "I love you!" yielded to the unutterable joy
of the moment.




CHAPTER XVI

BARONI'S OPINION OF MATRIMONY

"_Per Dio_! What is this you tell me? That you are to be
married? . . . My dear Mees Quentin, please put all such thoughts of
foolishness out of your mind. You are consecrated to art. The young
man must find another bride."

It was thus that Carlo Baroni received the news of Diana's
engagement--at first with unmitigated horror, then sweeping it aside as
though it were a matter of no consequence whatever.

Diana laughed, dimpling with amusement at the _maestro's_ indignation.
Now that she had given her faith, refusing to allow anything to stand
between her and Max, she was so supremely happy that she felt she could
afford to laugh at such relatively small obstacles as would be raised
by her old singing-master.

"I'm afraid the 'young man' wouldn't agree to that," she returned
gaily. "He would say you must find another pupil."

Baroni surveyed her with anxiety.

"You are not serious?" he queried at last.

"Indeed I am. I'm actually engaged--now, at this moment--and we
propose to get married before Christmas."

"But it is impossible! _Giusto Cielo_! But impossible!" reiterated
the old man. "Mees Quentin, you cannot haf understood. Perhaps, in my
anxiety that you should strain every nerve to improve, I haf not
praised you enough--and so you haf not understood. Leesten, then. You
haf a voice than which there is not one so good in the whole of Europe.
It is superb--marvellous--the voice of the century. With that voice
you will haf the whole world at your feet; before long you will command
almost fabulous fees, and more, far more than this, you can interpret
the music of the great masters as they themselves would wish to hear
it. Me, Baroni, I know it. And you would fling such possibilities,
such a career, aside for mere matrimony! It is nonsense, I tell you,
sheer nonsense!"

He paused for breath, and Diana laid her hand deprecatingly on his arm.

"Dear _Maestro_," she said, "it's good of you to tell me all this,
and--and you mustn't think for one moment that I ever forget all you've
done for me. It's you who've made my voice what it is. But there
isn't the least reason why I should give up singing because I'm going
to be married. I don't intend to, I assure you."

"I haf no doubt you mean well. But I haf heard other young singers say
the same thing, and then the husband--the so English husband!--he
objects to his wife's appearing in public, and _presto_! . . . Away
goes the career! No singer should marry until she is well established
in her profession. You are young. Marry in ten years' time and you
shall haf my blessing."

"I shall want your blessing sooner than that," laughed Diana. "But I'm
not marrying a 'so English husband'! He's only partly English, and
he's quite willing for me to go on singing."

Baroni regarded her seriously.

"Is that so? Good! Then I will talk to the young man, so that he may
realise that he is not marrying just Mees Diana Quentin, but a voice--a
heaven-bestowed voice. What is his name?"

"You know him," she answered smilingly. "It's Max Errington."

She was utterly unprepared for the effect of her words. Baroni's face
darkened like a stormy sky, and his eyes literally blazed at her from
beneath their penthouse of shaggy brow.

"Max Errington! _Donnerwetter_! But that is the worst of all!"

Diana stared, at him in mute amazement, and, despite herself, her heart
sank with a sudden desperate apprehension. What did it mean? Why
should the mere mention of Max's name have roused the old _maestro_ to
such a fever of indignation?

Presently Baroni turned to her again, speaking more composedly,
although little sparks of anger still flickered in his eyes ready to
leap into flame at the slightest provocation.

"I haf met Mr. Errington. He is a charming man. But if you marry him,
my dear Mees Quentin--good-bye to your career as a world-artiste,
good-bye to the most marvellous voice that the good God has ever let me
hear."

"I don't see why. Max thoroughly understands professional life."

"Nevertheless, believe me, there will--there _must_ come a time when
Max Errington's wife will not be able to appear before the world as a
public singer. I who speak, I know."

Diana flashed round upon him suddenly.

"_You_--you know his secret?"

"I know it."

So, then, the secret which must be hidden from his wife was yet known
to Carlo Baroni! Diana felt her former resentment surge up anew within
her. It was unfair--shamefully unfair for Max to treat her in this
way! It was making a mockery of their love.

Baroni's keen old eyes read the conflict of emotions in her face, and
he laid his finger unerringly upon the sore spot. His one idea was to
prevent Diana from marrying, to guard her--as he mentally phrased
it--for the art he loved so well, and he was prepared to stick at
nothing that might aid his cause.

"So he has not told you?" he said slowly. "Do you not think it strange
of him?"

Diana's breast rose and fell tumultuously. Baroni was turning the
knife in the wound with a vengeance.

"_Maestro_, tell me,"--her voice came unevenly--"tell me. Is it"--she
turned her head away--"is it a . . . shameful . . . secret?"

Inwardly she loathed herself for asking such a thing, but the words
seemed dragged from her without her own volition.

Baroni hesitated. All his hopes and ambitions centred round Diana and
her marvellous voice. He had given of his best to train it to its
present perfection, and now he saw the fruit of his labour about to be
snatched from him. It was more than human nature could endure.
Errington meant nothing to him, Diana and her voice everything; and he
was prepared to sacrifice no matter whom to secure her career as an
artiste. By implication he sacrificed Errington.

"It is not possible for me to say more. But be advised, my dear pupil.
Out of my great love for you I say it--_let Max Errington go his way_."

And with those words--sinister, warning--ringing in her ears, Diana
returned to Brutton Square.

But Baroni was not content to let matters remain as they stood,
trusting that his warning would do its work. He was determined to
leave no stone unturned, and he forthwith sought out Errington in his
own house and deliberately broached the subject of his engagement to
Diana.

Max greeted him affectionately.

"It's a long while since you honoured me with a visit," he said,
shaking hands. "I suppose"--laughingly--"you come to congratulate me?"

The old man shook his head.

"Far from it. I haf come to ask you to give her up."

"To give her up?" repeated Max, in undisguised amazement.

"Yes. Mees Quentin is not for marriage. She is dedicated to Art."

Max smiled indulgently.

"To Art? Yes. But she's for me, too, thank God! Dear old friend, you
need not look so anxious and concerned. I've no wish to interfere with
Diana's professional work. You shall have her voice"--smiling--"I'll
be content to hold her heart."

But there was no answering smile on Baroni's lips.

"_Does she know--everything_?" he asked sternly.

Max shook his head.

"No. How could she? . . . _You_ must realise the impossibility of
that," he answered slowly.

"And you think it right to let her marry you in ignorance?"

Max hesitated. Then--

"She trusts me," he said at last.

"Pish! For how long? . . . When she sees daily under her eyes things
that she cannot explain, unaccountable things, how long will she remain
satisfied, I ask you? And then will begin unhappiness."

Errington stiffened.

"And what has our--supposititious--unhappiness to do with you, Signor
Baroni?" he asked haughtily.

"_Your_ unhappiness? Nothing. It is the price you must pay--your
inheritance. But hers? Everything. Tears, fretting, vexation--and
that beautiful voice, that perfect organ, may be impaired. Think!
Think what you are doing! Just for your own personal happiness you are
risking the voice of the century, the voice that will give pleasure to
tens of thousands--to millions. You are committing a crime against
Art."

Max smiled in spite of himself.

"Truly, _Maestro_, I had not thought of it like that," he admitted.
"But I think her faith in me will carry us through," he added
confidently.

"Never! Never! Women are not made like that."

"And perhaps, later on, if things go well, I shall be able to tell her
all."

"And much good that will do! _Diavolo_! When the time comes that
things go well--if it ever does come--"

"It will. It shall," said Max firmly.

"Well, if it does--I ask you, can she then continue her life as an
artiste?"

Max reflected.

"Yes, if I remain in England--which I hope to do. I counted on that
when I asked her to marry me. I think I shall be able to arrange it."

"If! If! Are you going to hang your wife's happiness upon an 'if'?"
Baroni spoke with intense anger. "And 'if' you _cannot_ remain in
England, if you haf to go back--_there_? Can your wife still appear as
a public singer?"

"No," acknowledged Max slowly. "I suppose not."

"No! Her career will be ruined. And all this is the price she will
haf to pay for her--_trust_! Give it up, give it up--set her free."

Max flung himself into a chair, leaning his arms wearily on the table,
and stared straight in front of him, his eyes dark with pain.

"I can't," he said, in a low voice. "Not now. I meant to--I tried
to--but now she has promised and I can't let her go. Good God,
_Maestro_!"--a sudden ring of passion in his tones--"Must I give up
everything? Am I to have nothing in the world? Always to be a tool
and never live an individual man's life of my own?"

Baroni's face softened a little.

"One cannot escape one's destiny," he said sadly. "_Che sara
sara_. . . . But you can spare--her. Tell her the truth, and in
common fairness let her judge for herself--not rush blindfold into such
a web."

Max shook his head.

"You know I can't do that," he replied quietly.

Baroni threw out his arms in despair.

"I would tell her the whole truth myself--but for the memory of one who
is dead." Sudden tears dimmed the fierce old eyes. "For the sake of
that sainted martyr--martyr in life as well as in death--I will hold my
peace."

A half-sad, half-humorous smile flashed across Errington's face.

"We're all of us martyrs--more or less," he observed drily.

"And you wish to add Mees Quentin to the list?" retorted Baroni.
"Well, I warn you, I shall fight against it. I will do everything in
my power to stop this marriage."

Max shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm sure you will," he said, smiling faintly. "But--forgive me,
_Maestro_--I don't think you will succeed."

As soon as Baroni had taken his departure, Max called a taxi, and
hurried off to see Adrienne de Gervais. He had arranged to talk over
with her a certain scene in the play he was now writing for her, and
which was to be produced early in the New Year.

Adrienne welcomed him good-humouredly.

"A little late," she observed, glancing at the clock. "But I suppose
one must not expect punctuality when a man's in love."

"I know I'm late, but I can assure you"--with a grim smile--"love had
little enough to do with it."

Adrienne looked up sharply, struck by the bitter note in his voice.

"Then what had?" she asked. "What has gone wrong, Max? You look
fagged out."

"Baroni has been round to see me--to ask me to break off my
engagement." He laughed shortly.

"He doesn't approve, I suppose?"

"That's a mild way of expressing his attitude."

Adrienne was silent a moment. Then she spoke, slowly, consideringly.

"I don't--approve--either. It isn't right, Max."

He bit his lip.

"So you--you, too, are against me?"

She stretched out her hand impulsively.

"Not against you, Max! Never that! How could I be? . . . But I don't
think you're being quite fair to Diana. You ought to tell her the
truth."

He wheeled round.

"No one knows better than you how impossible that is."

"Don't you trust her then--the woman you're asking to be your wife?"

The tinge of irony in her voice brought a sudden light of anger to his
eyes.

"That's not very just of you, Adrienne," he said coldly. "_I_ would
trust her with my life. But I have no right to pledge the trust of
others--and that's what I should be doing if I told her. We have our
duty--you and I--and all this . . . is part of it."

Adrienne hesitated.

"Couldn't you--ask the others to release you?"

He shook his head.

"What right have I to ask them to trust an Englishwoman with their
secret--just for my pleasure?"

"For your happiness," corrected Adrienne softly.

"Or for my happiness? My happiness doesn't count with them one straw."

"It does with me. I don't see why she shouldn't be told. Baroni
knows, and Olga--you have to trust them."

"Baroni will be silent for the sake of the dead, and Olga out of her
love--or fear"--with a bitter smile--"of me."

"And wouldn't Diana, too, be silent for your sake?"

"My dear Adrienne"--a little irritably--"Englishwomen are so frank--so
indiscreetly trusting. That's where the difficulty lies, and I dare
not risk it. There's too much at stake. But can you imagine any agent
they may have put upon our track surprising her knowledge out of Olga?"
He laughed contemptuously. "I fancy not! If Olga hadn't been a woman
she'd have made her mark in the Diplomatic Service."

"Yet what is there to make her keep faith with us?" said Adrienne
doubtfully. "She is poor--"

"Her own doing, that!"

"True, but the fact remains. And those others would pay a fortune for
the information she could give. Besides, I believe she frankly hates
me."

"Possibly. But she would never, I think, allow her personal feelings
to override everything else. After all, she was one of us--is still,
really, though she would gladly disown the connection."

"Well, when you've looked at every side of the matter, we only come
back to the same point. I think you're acting wrongly. You're letting
Diana pledge herself blindly, when you're not free to give her the
confidence a man should give his wife--when you don't even
know--yet--how it may all end."

Almost Baroni's very words! Max winced.

"No. I don't know how it will end, as you say. But surely there
_will_ come a time when I shall be free to live my own life?"

Adrienne smiled a trifle wistfully.

"If your conscience ever lets you," she said.

There was a long silence. Presently she resumed:---

"I never thought, when you first told me about your engagement, that
the position of affairs need make any difference. I was so pleased to
think that you cared for each other! And now--where will it all end?
How many lives are going to be darkened by the same shadow? Oh, it's
terrible, Max, terrible!"

The tears filled her eyes.

"Don't!" said Max unsteadily. "Don't! I know it's bad enough.
Perhaps you're right--I oughtn't to have spoken to Diana, I hoped
things would right themselves eventually, but you and Baroni have put
another complexion upon matters. It's all an inextricable tangle,
whichever way one looks at it--come good luck or bad! . . . I suppose
I was wrong--I ought to have waited. But now . . . now . . . Before
God, Adrienne! I can't, give her up--not now!"




CHAPTER XVII

"WHOM GOD HATH JOINED TOGETHER"

Max and Diana were married shortly before the following Christmas. The
wedding took place very quietly at Crailing, only a few intimate friends
being asked to it. For, as Max pointed out, either their invitations
must be limited to a dozen or so, or else Diana must resign herself to a
fashionable wedding in town, with all the world and his wife as guests at
the subsequent reception. No middle course is possible when a well-known
dramatist elects to marry the latest sensation in the musical world!

So it was in the tiny grey church overlooking the sea that Max and Diana
were made one, with the distant murmur of the waves in their ears, and
with Alan Stair to speak the solemn words that joined their lives
together, and when the little intimate luncheon which followed the
ceremony was over, they drove away in Max's car to the wild, beautiful
coast of Cornwall, there to spend the first perfect days of their married
life.

And they were perfect days! Afterwards, when clouds had dimmed the
radiance of the sun, and doubts and ugly questionings were beating up on
every side, Diana had always that radiant fortnight by the Cornish
sea--she and Max alone together--to look back upon.

The woman whose married life holds sorrow, and who has no such golden
memory stored away, is bereft indeed!

On their return to London, the Erringtons established themselves at Lilac
Lodge, a charming old-fashioned house in Hampstead, where the
creeper-clad walls and great bushes of lilac reminded Diana pleasantly of
the old Rectory at Crailing. Jerry made one of the household--"resident
secretary" as he proudly termed himself, and his cheery, good-humoured
presence was invaluable whenever difficulties arose.

But at first there were few, indeed, of the latter to contend with.
Owing to the illness of an important member of the cast, without whose
services Adrienne declined to perform, the production of Max's new play,
"Mrs. Fleming's Husband," was delayed until the autumn. This
postponement left him free to devote much more of his time to his wife
than would otherwise have been possible, and for the first few months
after their marriage it seemed as though no shadow could ever fall
athwart their happiness.

In this respect Baroni's prognostications of evil had failed to
materialise, but his fears that marriage would interfere with Diana's
musical career were better founded. Quite easily and naturally she
slipped out of the professional life which had just been opening its
doors to her. She felt no inclination to continue singing in public.
Max filled her existence, and although she still persevered with her
musical training under Baroni, she told him with a frank enjoyment of the
situation that she was far too happy and enjoying herself far too much to
have any desire at present to take up the arduous work of a public singer!

Baroni was immeasurably disappointed, and not all Diana's assurances that
in a year, or two at most, she would go back into harness once more
sufficed to cheer him.

"A year--two years!" he exclaimed. "Two years lost at the critical
time--just at the commencement of your career! Ah, my dear Mrs.
Errington, you had better haf lost four years later on when you haf
established yourself."

To Max himself the old _maestro_ was short and to the point when chance
gave him the opportunity of a few moments alone with him.

"You haf stolen her from me, Max Errington--you haf broken your promise
that she should be free to sing."

Max responded good-humouredly:--

"She _is_ free, _Maestro_, free to do exactly as she chooses. And she
has chosen--to be my wife, to live for a time the pleasant, peaceful life
that ordinary, everyday folk may live, who are not rushed hither and
thither at the call of a career. Can you honestly say she hasn't chosen
the better part?"

Baroni was silent.

"Don't grudge her a year or two of freedom," pursued Max. "You know, you
old slave-driver, you,"--laughing--"that it is only because you want her
for your beloved Art--because you want her voice! Otherwise you would
rejoice in her happiness."

"And you--what is it you want?" retorted Baroni, unappeased. "You want
her soul! Whereas I would give her soul wings that she might send it
singing forth into an enraptured world."

But Baroni's words fell upon stony ground, and Max and Diana went their
way, absorbed in one another and in the wonderful happiness which love
had brought them.

Thus spring slipped away into summer, and the season was in full swing
when fate tossed the first pebble into their unruffled pool of joy.

It was only a brief paragraph, sandwiched in between the musical notes of
a morning paper, to which Olga Lermontof, who came daily to Lilac Lodge
to practise with Diana, drew the latter's attention. The paragraph
recalled the fact that it was just a year since Miss Quentin had made her
debut, and then went on to comment lightly upon the brief and meteoric
character of her professional appearances.


"Domesticity should not have claimed Miss Quentin"--so ran the actual
words. "Hers was a voice the like of which we may not hear again, and
the public grudges its withdrawal. _A propos_, we had always thought
(until circumstances proved us hopelessly wrong) that the fortunate man,
whose gain has been such a loss to the musical world, seemed born to
write plays for a certain charming actress--and she to play the part
which he assigned her."


Diana showed the paragraph to Max, who frowned as he read it, and finally
tore the newspaper in which it had appeared across and across, flinging
the pieces into the grate.

Then he turned and laid his hands on Diana's shoulders, gazing
searchingly into her face.

"Have you felt--anything of what that paragraph suggests?" he demanded.
"Am I taking too much from you, Diana? I love to keep you to myself--not
to have to share you with the world, but I won't stand in your light, or
hold you back if you wish to go--not even"--with a wry smile--"if it
should mean your absence on a tour."

"Silly boy!" Diana patted his head reprovingly. "I don't _want_ to sing
in public--at least, not now, not yet. Later on, I dare say, I shall
like to take it up again. And as for leaving you and going on
tour"--laughingly--"the latter half of the paragraph should serve as a
warning to me not to think of such a thing!"

To her surprise Max did not laugh with her. Instead, he answered
coldly:--

"I hope you have more sense than to pay attention to what any damned
newspaper may have to say about me--or about Miss de Gervais either."

"Why, Max,--Max--"

Diana stared at him in dismay, flushing a little. It was the first time
he had spoken harshly to her since their marriage.

In an instant he had caught her in his arms, passionately repentant.

"Dearest, forgive me! It was only--only that you are bound to read such
things, and it angered me for a moment. Miss de Gervais and I see too
much of each other to escape all comment."

Diana withdrew herself slowly from his arms.

"And--and must you see so much of her now? Now that we are married?" she
asked, rather wistfully.

"Why, of course. We have so many professional matters to discuss. You
must be prepared for that, Diana. When we begin rehearsing 'Mrs.
Fleming's Husband,' I shall be down at the theatre every day."

"Oh, yes, at the theatre. But--but you go to see Adrienne rather often
now, don't you? And the rehearsals haven't begun yet."

Max hesitated a moment. Then he said quietly:--

"Dear, you must learn not to be jealous of my work. There are
always--many things--that I have to discuss with Miss de Gervais."

And so, for the time being, the subject dropped. But the shadow had
flitted for a moment across the face of the sun. A little cloud, no
bigger than a man's hand, had shown itself upon the horizon.

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