Margaret Pedler - The Splendid Folly

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In a mad moment, half-crazed by the new fear which the newspaper
paragraph had inspired in her, she had closed the only road which might
have led her back to Max. Yesterday, still unwitting of how infinitely
she had wronged him, passionately, humbly ready to give him the trust he
had demanded, she might have gone to him. But to-day, her knowledge of
the truth had taken from her the power to make atonement, and had raised
a barrier between herself and Max which nothing in the world could ever
break down.

She had failed her man in the hour of his need, and henceforth she must
walk outcast in desert places.

There were still many gaps in the story to be filled in. But one thing
stood out clearly from amidst the chaos which enveloped her, and that
was, that she had misjudged her husband--terribly, unforgivably misjudged
him.

It was loyalty, not love, that he had given Adrienne, and he had been
right--a thousand times right--in refusing to reveal, even to his wife,
the secret which was not his alone, and upon which hung issues of life
and death and the ultimate destiny of a country--perhaps, even, of Europe
itself!

It was to save his country from the Prussian claw that Max had sacrificed
himself with the pure fervour of a patriot, at no matter what cost! And
she, Diana, by her lack of faith, her petty jealousy, had sent him from
her, had seen to it that that cost included even his happiness!

She had failed him every way--trailing the glory of love's golden raiment
in the dust of the highway.

If she had but fulfilled her womanhood, what might not her unshaken faith
have meant to a man fighting a battle against such bitter odds? No
matter how worn with the stress of incessant watchfulness, or wearied by
the strain of constant planning and the need to forestall each move of
the enemy, he would have found, always waiting for him, a refuge, a quiet
haven where love dwelt and where he might forget for a space and be at
rest. All this, which had been hers to give, she had withheld.

The silence deepened in the room. The brilliant sunshine, slanting in
through the slats of the Venetian blinds, seemed out of place in what had
suddenly become a temple of pain. Somewhere outside a robin chirruped,
the cheery little sound holding, for one of the two women sitting there,
a note of hitter mockery.

Suddenly Diana dropped her head on her hands with a shudder.

"Oh, God!" she whispered. "Oh, God!"

Olga leaned forward and laid a hand on her knee.

"You can go back to him now, and give him all the happiness that he has
missed," she said steadily.

"Go back to him?" Diana lifted her head and stared at her with dull
eyes. "Oh, no. I shan't do that."

"You won't go back?" Olga spoke slowly, as though she doubted her own
hearing.

A faint, derisive smile flickered across Diana's lips. "How could I? Do
you suppose that--that having failed him when he asked me to believe in
him, I could go back to him now--now that I know everything? . . . Oh,
no, I couldn't do that. I've nothing to offer him--now--nothing to
give--neither faith nor trust, because I know the whole truth." She
spoke with the quiet finality of one who can see no hope, no possibility
of better things, anywhere. The words "Too late!" beat in her brain like
the pendulum of a clock, maddeningly insistent.

"If only I had been content to go to him without knowing!" she went on
tonelessly. "But that paragraph in the paper--it frightened me. I felt
that I _must know_ if--if I had been wronging him all the time. And I
had!" she ended wearily. "I had." Then, after a moment: "So you see, I
can't go back to him."

"You--can't--go--back?" The words fell slowly, one by one, from Olga's
lips. "Do you mean that you won't go back now--now that you know he has
never failed you as you thought he had? . . . Oh!"--rapidly--"you can't
mean that. You won't--you can't refuse to go back now."

Diana lifted a grey, drawn face.

"Don't you see," she said monotonously, "it's just because of
that--because he hasn't failed me while I've failed him so utterly--that
I can't go back?"

Olga turned on her swiftly, her green eyes blazing dangerously.

"It's your pride!" she cried fiercely. "It's your damnable pride that's
standing in the way! Merciful heavens! Did you ever love him, I wonder,
that you're too proud to ask his forgiveness now--now when you know what
you've done?"

Diana's lips moved in a pitiful attempt at a smile.

"Oh, no," she said, shaking her head. "It's not that. I've . . . no
pride . . . left, I think. But I can't be mean--_mean_ enough to crawl
back now." She paused, then went on with an inflection of irony in her
low, broken voice. "'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.'
. . . Well, I'm reaping--that's all."

Like the keen thrust of a knife came Olga's answer.

"And must he, too, reap your sowing? For that's what it amounts to--that
Max must suffer for your sin. Oh! He's paid enough for others! . . .
Diana"--imploringly--"Max is leaving England to-night. Go back to him
now--don't wait until it's too late,"

"No." Diana spoke in dead, flat tones. "Can't you understand?"--moving
her head restlessly. "Do you suppose--even if he forgave me--that he
could ever believe in me again? He would never be certain that I really
trusted him. He would always feel unsure of me."

"If you can think that, then you haven't understood Max--or his love for
you," retorted Olga vehemently. "Oh! How can I make you see it? You
keep on balancing this against that--what you can give, what Max can
believe--weighing out love as though it were sold by the ounce! Max
loves you--_loves you_! And there _aren't_ any limitations to love!"
She broke off abruptly, her voice shaking. "Can't you believe it?" she
added helplessly, after a minute.

Diana shook her head.

"I think you mean to be kind," she said patiently. "But love is a
giving. And I--have nothing to give."

"And you're too proud to take."

"Yes . . . if you call that pride. I can't take--when I've nothing to
give."

"Then you don't love! You don't know what it means to love!
Diana"--Olga's voice rose in passionate entreaty--"for God's sake go to
him! He's suffered so much. Forget what people may think--what even he
may think! Throw your pride overboard and remember only that he loves
you and has need of you. _Go to him_!"

She ceased, and her eyes implored Diana's. No matter what may have been
her shortcomings--and they were many, for she was a hard, embittered
woman--at least, in her devotion to her brother, Olga Lermontof
approached very nearly to the heroic.

There was a long silence. At last Diana spoke in low, shaken tones, her
head bowed.

"I can't!" she whispered. "I shall never forgive myself. And I can't
ask Max to--forgive me. . . . He couldn't." The last words were hardly
audible.

For a moment Olga stood quite still, gazing with hard eyes at the slight
figure hunched into drooping lines of utter weariness. Once her lips
moved, but no sound came. Then she turned away, walking with lagging
footsteps, and a minute later the door opened and closed quietly again
behind her.

CHAPTER XXVII

CARLO BARONI EXPLAINS

Diana sat on, very still, very silent, staring straight in front of her
with wide, tearless eyes. Only now and again a long, shuddering sigh
escaped her, like the caught breath of a child that has cried till it
is utterly exhausted and can cry no more.

She felt that she had come to an end of things. Nothing could undo the
past, and ahead of her stretched the future, empty and void of promise.

Presently the creak of the door reopening roused her, and she turned,
instantly on the defensive, anticipating that Olga had come back to
renew the struggle. But it was only Baroni, who approached her with a
look of infinite concern on his kind old face.

"My child!" he began. "My child! . . . So, then! You know all that
there is to know."

Diana looked up wearily.

"Yes," she replied. "I know it all."

The old _maestro's_ eyes softened as they rested upon her, and when he
spoke again, his queer husky voice was toned to a note of extraordinary
sweetness.

"My dear pupil, if it had been possible, I would haf spared you this
knowledge. It was wrong of Olga to tell you--above all"--his face
creasing with anxiety as the ruling passion asserted itself
irrepressibly--"to tell you on a day when you haf to sing!"

"I made her," answered Diana listlessly. She passed her hand wearily
across her forehead. "Don't worry, _Maestro_, I shall be able to sing
to-night."

"_Tiens_! But you are all to pieces, my child! You will drink a glass
of champagne--now, at once," he insisted, adding persuasively as she
shook her head, "To please me, is it not so?"

Diana's lips curved in a tired smile.

"Is champagne the cure for a heartache, then, _Maestro_?"

Baroni's eyes grew suddenly sad.

"Ah, my dear, only death--or a great love--can heal the wound that lies
in the heart," he answered gently. He paused, then resumed crisply:
"But, meanwhile, we haf to live--and _prima donnas_ haf to sing.
So . . . the little glass of wine in my room, is it not?"

He tucked her arm within his, patting her hand paternally, and led her
into his own sanctum, where he settled her comfortably in a big
easy-chair beside the fire, and poured her out a glass of wine,
watching her sip it with a glow of satisfaction in his eyes.

"That goes better, _hein_? This Olga--she had not reflected
sufficiently. It was too late for the truth to do good; it could only
pain and grieve you."

"Yes," said Diana. "It is too late now. . . . I've paid for my
ignorance with my happiness--and Max's," she added in a lower tone.
She looked across at Baroni with sudden resentment. "And you--_you
knew_!" she continued. "Why didn't you tell me? . . . Oh, but I can
guess!"--scornfully. "It suited your purpose for me to quarrel with my
husband; it brought me back to the concert platform. My happiness
counted for nothing--against that!"

Baroni regarded her patiently.

"And do you regret it? Would you be willing, now, to give up your
career as a _prima donna_--and all that it means?"

A vision rose up before Diana of what life would be denuded of the
glamour and excitement, the perpetual triumphs, the thrilling sense of
power her singing gave her--the dull, flat monotony of it, and she
caught her breath sharply in instinctive recoil.

"No," she admitted slowly. "I couldn't give it up--now."

An odd look of satisfaction overspread Baroni's face.

"Then do not blame me, my child. For haf I not given you a consolation
for the troubles of life."

"I need never have had those troubles to bear if you had been frank
with me!" she flashed back. "_You--you_ were not bound by any oath of
secrecy. Oh! It was cruel of you, _Maestro_!"

Her eyes, bitterly accusing, searched his face.

"Tchut! Tchut! But you are too quick to think evil of your old
_maestro_." He hesitated, then went on slowly: "It is a long story, my
dear--and sometimes a very sad story. I did not think it would pass my
lips again in this world. But for you, who are so dear to me, I will
break the silence of years. . . . Listen, then. When you, my little
Pepperpot, had not yet come to earth to torment your parents, but were
still just a tiny thought in the corner of God's mind, I--your old
Baroni--I was in Ruvania."

"You--in Ruvania?"

He nodded.

"Yes. I went there first as a professor of singing at the Borovnitz
Conservatoire--_per Bacco_! But they haf the very soul of music, those
Ruvanians! And I was appointed to attend also at the palace to give
lessons to the Grand Duchess. Her voice was only a little less
beautiful than your own." He hesitated, as though he found it
difficult to continue. At last he said almost shyly: "Thou, my child,
thou hast known love. . . . To me, too, at the palace, came that best
gift of the good God."

He paused, and Diana whispered stammeringly:

"Not--not the Grand Duchess?"

"Yes--Sonia." The old _maestro's_ eyes kindled with a soft luminance
as his whispering voice caressed the little flame. "Hers, of course,
had been merely a marriage dictated by reasons of State, and from the
time of our first meeting, our hearts were in each other's keeping.
But she never failed in duty or in loyalty. Only once, when I was
leaving Ruvania, never to return, did she give me her lips at parting."
Again he fell silent, his thoughts straying back across the years
between to that day when he had taken farewell of the woman who had
held his very soul between her hands. Presently, with an effort, he
resumed his story. "I stayed at the Ruvanian Court many years--there
was a post of Court musician which I filled--and for both of us those
years held much of sadness. The Grand Duke Anton was a domineering
man, hated by every one, and his wife's happiness counted for nothing
with him. She had failed to give him a son, and for that he never
pardoned her. I think my presence comforted her a little. That--and
the child--the little Nadine. . . . As much as Anton was disliked, so
much was his brother Boris beloved of the people. His story you know.
Of this I am sure--that he lived and died without once regretting the
step he had taken in marrying an Englishwoman. They were lovers to the
end, those two."

Listening to the little history of those two tender love tales that had
run their course side by side, Diana almost forgot for a moment how the
ripples of their influence, flowing out in ever-widening circles, had
touched, at last, even her own life, and had engulfed her happiness.

But, as Baroni ceased, the recollection of her own bitter share in the
matter returned with overwhelming force, and once more she arraigned
him for his silence.

"I still see no reason why you should not have told me the truth about
Adrienne--about Nadine Mazaroff. Max couldn't--I see that; nor Olga.
But _you_ were bound by no oath."

"My child, I was bound by something stronger than an oath."

The old man crossed the room to where there stood on a shelf a little
ebony cabinet, clamped with dull silver of foreign workmanship. He
unlocked it, and withdrew from it a letter, the paper faintly yellowed
and brittle with the passage of time.

He held it out to Diana.

"No eyes but mine haf ever rested on it since it was given into my hand
after her death," he said very gently. "But you, my child, you shall
read it; you are hurt and unhappy, battering against fate, and
believing that those who love you haf served you ill. But we were all
bound in different ways. . . . Read the letter, little one, and thou
wilt see that I, too, was not free."

Hesitatingly Diana unfolded the thin sheet and read the few faded lines
it contained.

"CARLO MIO,

"I think the end is coming for Anton and for me. The revolt of the
people is beyond all quelling. My only fear is for Nadine; my only
hope for her ultimate safety lies in Max. If ever, in the time to
come, your silence or your speech can do aught for my child--in the
name of the love you gave me, I beg it of you. In serving her, you
will be serving me.

"SONIA."

Very slowly Diana handed the letter back to Baroni.

"So--that was why," she whispered.

Baroni bent his head.

"That was why. I could not speak. But I did all that lay in my power
to prevent this marriage of yours."

"You did." A wan little smile tilted the corners of her mouth at the
remembrance.

"Afterwards--your happiness was on the knees of the gods!"

"No," said Diana suddenly. "No. It was in my own hands. Had I
believed in Max we should have been happy still. . . . But I failed
him."

A long silence followed. At last she rose, holding out her hands.

"Thank you," she said simply. "Thank you for showing me the letter."

Baroni stooped his head and carried her hands to his lips.

"My dear, we make our mistakes and then we pay. It is always so in
life. Love"--and the odd, clouded voice shook a little--"Love
brings--great happiness--and great pain. Yet we would not be without
it."

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE AWAKENING

Somehow the interminable hours of the day had at last worn to evening,
and Diana found herself standing in front of a big mirror, listlessly
watching Milling as she bustled round her, putting the last touches to
her dress for the Duchess of Linfield's reception. The same thing had
to be gone through every concert night--the same patient waiting while
the exquisite toilette, appropriate to a _prima donna_, was consummated
by Milling's clever fingers.

Only, this evening, every nerve in Diana's body was quivering in
rebellion.

What was it Olga had said? "_Max is leaving England to-night._" So,
while she was being dressed like a doll for the pleasuring of the
people who had paid to hear her sing, Max was being borne away out of
her ken, out of her existence for ever.

What a farce it all seemed! In a little while she would be singing as
perfectly as usual, bowing and smiling as usual, and not one amongst
the crowded audience would know that in reality it was only the husk of
a woman who stood there before them--the mere outer shell. All that
mattered, the heart and soul of her, was dead. She knew that quite
well. Probably she would feel glad about it in time, she thought,
because when one was dead things didn't hurt any more. It was dying
that hurt. . . .

"Your train, madam."

She started at the sound of Milling's respectful voice. What a
lop-sided thing a civilised sense of values seemed to be! Even when
you had dragged the white robes of your spirit deep in the mire, you
must still be scrupulously careful not to soil the hem of the white
satin that clothed your body.

She almost laughed aloud, then bit the laugh back, picturing Milling's
astonished face. The girl would think she was mad. Perhaps she was.
It didn't matter much, anyway.

Mechanically she held out her arm for Milling to throw the train of her
gown across it, and, picking up her gloves, went slowly downstairs.

Baroni, his face wearing an expression of acute anxiety, was waiting
for her in the hall, restlessly pacing to and fro.

"Ah--h!" His face cleared as by magic when the slender, white-clad
figure appeared round the last bend of the stairway. He had half
feared that at the last moment the strain of the day's emotion might
exact its penalty, and Diana prove unequal to the evening's demands.

To hide his obvious relief, he turned sharply to the maid, who had
followed her mistress downstairs, carrying her opera coat and furs.

"Madame's cloak--make haste!" he commanded curtly.

And when Diana had entered the car, he waved aside the manservant and
himself tucked the big fur rug carefully round her. There was
something rather pathetic, almost maternal, in the old man's care of
her, and Diana's lips quivered.

"Thank you, dear _Maestro_," she said, gently pressing his arm with her
hand.

The Duchess's house was packed with a complacent crowd of people,
congratulating themselves upon being able, for once, to combine duty
and pleasure, since the purchase-money of their tickets for the
evening's entertainment contributed to a well-known charity, and at the
same time procured them the privilege of bearing once more their
favourite singer. Some there were who had grounds for additional
satisfaction in the fact that, under the wide cloak of charity, they
had managed to squeeze through the exclusive portals of Linfield House
for the first--and probably the last--time in their lives.

As the singer made her way through the thronged hall, those who knew
her personally bowed and smiled effusively, whilst those who didn't
looked on from afar and wished they did. It was not unlike a royal
progress, and Diana heaved a quick sigh of relief when at last she
found herself in the quiet of the little apartment set aside as an
artistes' room.

Olga Lermontof was already there, and Diana greeted her rather
nervously. She felt horribly uncertain what attitude Miss Lermontof
might be expected to adopt in the circumstances.

But she need have had no anxiety on that score. Olga seemed to be just
her usual self--grave and self-contained, her thin, dark-browed face
wearing its habitual half-mocking expression. Apparently she had wiped
out the day's happenings from her mind, and had become once more merely
the quiet, competent accompanist to a well-known singer.

There was no one else in the artistes' room. The other performers were
mingling with the guests, only withdrawing from the chattering crowd
when claimed by their part in the evening's entertainment.

"How far on are they?" asked Diana, picking up the programme and
running her eye down it.

"Your songs are the next item but one," replied Miss Lermontof.

A violin solo preceded the two songs which, bracketed together in the
middle of the programme as its culminating point, made the sum total of
Diana's part in it, and she waited quietly in the little anteroom while
the violinist played, was encored and played again, and throughout the
brief interval that followed. She felt that to-night she could not
face the cheap, everyday flow of talk and compliment. She would sing
because she had promised, that she would, but as soon as her part was
done she would slip away and go home--home, where she could sit alone
by the dead embers of her happiness.

A little flutter of excitement rippled through the big rooms when at
last she mounted the platform. People who had hitherto been content to
remain, in the hall, regarding the music as a pleasant accompaniment to
the interchange of the day's news and gossip, now came flocking in
through the doorways, hoping to find seats, and mostly having to
content themselves with standing-room.

Almost as in a dream, Diana waited for the applause to subside, her
eyes roaming halt-unconsciously over the big assembly.

It was all so stalely familiar--the little rustle of excitement, the
preliminary clapping, the settling down to listen, and then the sea of
upturned faces spread out beneath her.

The memory of the first time that she had sung in public, at Adrienne's
house in Somervell Street, came back to her. It had been just such an
occasion as this. . . .

(Olga was playing the introductory bars of accompaniment to her song,
and, still as in a dream, she began to sing, the exquisite voice
thrilling out into the vast room, golden and perfect.)

. . . Adrienne had smiled at her encouragingly from across the room,
and Jerry Leigh had been standing at the far end near some big double
doors. There were double doors to this room, too, flung wide open.
(It was odd how clearly she could recall it all; her mind seemed to be
working quite independently of what was going on around her.) And Max
had been there. She remembered how she had believed him to be still
abroad, and then, how she had looked up and suddenly met his gaze
across those rows and rows of unfamiliar faces. He had come back.

Instinctively she glanced towards the far end of the room, where, on
that other night and in that other room, he had been standing, and
then . . . then . . . was it still only the dream, the memory of long
ago? . . . Or had God worked a miracle? . . . Over the heads of the
people, Max's eyes, grave and tender, but unspeakably sad, looked into
hers!

A hand seemed to grip her heart, squeezing it so that she could not
draw her breath. Everything grew blurred and dim about her, but
through the blur she could still see Max, standing with his head thrown
back against the panelling of the door, his arms folded across his
chest, and his eyes--those grave, questioning eyes--fixed on her face.

Presently the darkness cleared away and she found that she was still
singing--mechanically her voice had answered to the long training of
years. But the audience had heard the great _prima donna_ catch her
breath and falter in her song. For an instant it had seemed almost as
though she might break down. Then the tension passed, and the lovely
voice, upborne by a limitless technique, had floated out again, golden
and perfect as before.

It was only the habit of surpassing art which had enabled Diana to
finish her song. Since last night, when she had seen Max for that
brief moment at the Embassy, she had passed through the whole gamut of
emotion, glimpsed the vision of coming happiness, only to believe that
with her own hands she had pushed it aside. And now she was conscious
of nothing but that Max--Max, the man she loved--was here, close to her
once again, and that her heart was crying out for him. He was hers,
her mate out of the whole world, and in a sudden blinding flash of
self-revelation, she recognised in her refusal to return to him a sheer
denial of the divine altruism of love.

The blank, bewildering chaos of the last twelve hours, with its turmoil
of conflicting passions, took on a new aspect, and all at once that
which had been dark was become light.

From the moment she had learned the truth about her husband, her
thoughts had centred solely round herself, dwelling--in, all humility,
it is true--but still dwelling none the less egotistically upon her
personal failure, her own irreparable mistake, her self-wrought
bankruptcy of all the faith and absolute belief a woman loves to give
her lover. She had thrust these things before his happiness, whereas
the stern and simple creed of love places the loved one first and
everything else immeasurably second.

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