Margaret Pedler - The Splendid Folly

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Mrs. Adams, her companion-chaperon, always made Diana especially
welcome at the house in Somervell Street.

"You must come again soon, my dear," she would say cordially.
"Adrienne makes few friends--and your visits are such a relaxation to
her. The life she leads is rather a strain, you know."

At times Diana noticed a curious aloofness in her friend, as though her
professional success occupied a position of relatively small importance
in her estimation, and once she had commented on it half jokingly.

"You don't seem to value your laurels one bit," she had said, as
Adrienne contemptuously tossed aside a newspaper containing a eulogy of
her claims to distinction which most actresses would have carefully cut
out and pasted into their book of critiques.

"Fame?" Adrienne had answered. "What is it? Merely the bubble of a
day."

"Well," returned Diana, laughing, "it's the aim and object of a good
many people's lives. It's the bubble I'm in pursuit of, and if I
obtain one half the recognition you have had, I shall be very content."

Adrienne regarded her musingly.

"You will be famous when the name of Adrienne de Gervais is known no
longer," she said at last.

Diana stared at her in surprise.

"But why? Even if I should succeed, within the next few years, you
will still be Adrienne de Gervais, the famous actress."

Adrienne smiled across at her.

"Ah, I cannot tell you why," she said lightly. "But--I think it will
be like that."

Her eyes gazed dreamily into space, as though she perceived some vision
of the future, but whether that future were of rose and gold or only of
a dull grey, Diana could not tell.

Of Max Errington she saw very little. It seemed as though he were
determined to avoid her, for she frequently saw him leaving Adrienne's
house on a day when she was expected there--hurrying away just as she
herself was approaching from the opposite end of the street.

Only once or twice, when she had chanced to pay an unexpected visit,
had he come in and found her there. On these occasions his manner had
been studiously cold and indifferent, and any effort on her part
towards establishing a more friendly footing had been invariably
checked by some cruelly ironical remark, which had brought the blood to
her cheeks and, almost, the tears to her eyes. She reflected grimly
that Olga Lermontof's warning words had proved decidedly superfluous.

Meanwhile, she had struck up a friendship with Errington's private
secretary, a young man of the name of Jerry Leigh, who was a frequent
visitor at Adrienne's house. Jerry was, in truth, the sort of person
with whom it was impossible to be otherwise than friendly. He was of a
delightful ugliness, twenty-five years of age, penniless except for the
salary he received from Errington, and he possessed a talent for
friendship much as other folk possess a talent for music or art or
dancing.

Diana's first meeting with him had occurred quite by chance. Both
Adrienne and Mrs. Adams happened to be out one afternoon when she
called, and she was awaiting their return when the door of the
drawing-room suddenly opened to admit a remarkably plain young man,
who, on seeing her ensconced in one of the big arm-chairs, stood
hesitating as though undecided whether to remain or to take refuge in
instant flight.

Adrienne had talked so much about Jerry--of whom she was exceedingly
fond--and had so often described his charming ugliness to Diana that
the latter was in no doubt at all as to whom the newcomer might be.

She nodded to him reassuringly.

"Don't run away," she said calmly, "I don't bite."

The young man promptly closed the door and advanced into the room.

"Don't you?" he said in relieved tones. "Thank you for telling me.
One never knows."

"If you've come to see Miss de Gervais, I'm afraid you can't at
present, as she's out," pursued Diana. "I'm waiting for her."

"Then we can wait together," returned Mr. Leigh, with an engaging
smile. "It will be much more amusing than waiting in solitude, won't
it?"

"That I can't tell you--yet," replied Diana demurely.

"I'll ask you again in half an hour," he returned undaunted. "I'm
Leigh, you know. Jerry Leigh, Errington's secretary."

"I suppose, then, you're a very busy person?"

"Well, pretty much so in the mornings and sometimes up till late at
night, but Errington's a rattling good 'boss' and very often gives me
an 'afternoon out.' That's why I'm here now. I'm off duty and Miss de
Gervais told me I might come to tea whenever I'm free. You
see"--confidentially--"I've very few friends in London."

"Same here," responded Diana shortly.

"No, not really?"--with obvious satisfaction. "Then we ought to pal up
together, oughtn't we?"

"Don't you want my credentials?" asked Diana, smiling,

"Lord, no! One has only to look at you."

Diana laughed outright.

"That's quite the nicest compliment I've ever received, Mr. Leigh," she
said.

(It was odd that while Errington always made her feel rather small and
depressingly young, with Jerry Leigh she felt herself to be quite a
woman of the world.)

"It isn't a compliment," protested Jerry stoutly. "It's just the
plain, unvarnished truth."

"I'm afraid your 'boss' wouldn't agree with you."

"Oh, nonsense!"

"Indeed it isn't. He always treats me as though I were a hot potato,
and he were afraid of burning his fingers."

Jerry roared.

"Well, perhaps he's got good reason."

Diana shook; her head smilingly.

"Oh, no. It's not that. Mr. Errington doesn't like me."

Jerry stared at her reflectively.

"That couldn't be true," he said at last, with conviction.

"I don't know that I like him--very much--either," pursued Diana.

"You would if you really knew him," said the boy eagerly. "He's one of
the very best."

"He's rather a mysterious person, don't you think?"

Jerry regarded her very straightly.

"Oh, well," he returned bluntly, "every man's a right to have his own
private affairs."

Then there _was_ something!

Diana felt her heart beat a little faster. She had thrown out the
remark as the merest feeler, and now his own secretary, the man who
must be nearer to him than any other, had given what was tantamount to
an acknowledgment of the fact that Errington's life held some secret.

"Anyway"--Jerry was speaking again--"_I've_ got good reason to be
grateful to him. I was on my uppers when he happened along--and
without any prospect of re-soling. I'd played the fool at Monte Carlo,
and, like a brick, he offered me the job of private secretary, and I've
been with him ever since. I'd no references, either--he just took me
on trust."

"That was very kind of him," said Diana slowly.

"Kind! There isn't one man in a hundred who'll give a chance like that
to a young ass that's played the goat as I did."

"No," agreed Diana. "But," she added, rather low, "he isn't always
kind."

At this moment the door opened, and the subject of their conversation
entered the room. He paused on the threshold, and for an instant Diana
could have sworn that as his eyes met her own a sudden light of
pleasure flashed into their blue depths, only to be immediately
replaced by his usual look of cold indifference. He glanced round the
room, apparently somewhat surprised to find Diana and his secretary its
sole occupants.

"We're all here now except our hostess," observed the latter
cheerfully, following his thought.

"So it seems. I didn't know"--looking across from Jerry to Diana in a
puzzled way--"that you two were acquainted with each other."

"We aren't--at least, we weren't," replied Jerry. "We met by chance,
like two angels that have made a bid for the same cloud."

Errington smiled faintly.

"And did you persuade your--fellow angel--to sing to you?" he asked
drily.

"No. Does she sing?"

"_Does she sing_? . . . Jerry, my young and ignorant friend, let me
introduce you to Miss Diana Quentin, the--"

"Good Lord!" broke in Jerry, his face falling. "Are you Miss
Quentin--_the_ Miss Quentin? Of course I've heard all about
you.--you're going to be the biggest star in the musical firmament--and
here have I been gassing away about my little affairs just as though
you were an ordinary mortal like myself."

Diana was beginning to laugh at the boy's nonsense when Errington cut
in quietly.

"Then you've been making a great mistake, Jerry," he said. "Miss
Quentin doesn't in the least resemble ordinary mortals. She isn't
afflicted by like passions with ourselves, and she doesn't
understand--or forgive them."

The words, uttered as though in jest, held an undercurrent of meaning
for Diana that sent the colour flying up under her clear skin. There
was a bitter taunt in them that none knew better than she how to
interpret.

She winced under it, and a fierce resentment flared up within her that
he should dare to reproach, her--he, who had been the offender from
first to last. Always, now, he seemed to be laughing at her, mocking
her. He appeared an entirely different person from the man who had
been so careful of her welfare during the eventful journey they had
made together.

She lifted her head a little defiantly.

"No," she said, with significance. "I certainly don't understand--some
people."

"Perhaps it's just as well," retorted Errington, unmoved.

Jerry, sensing electricity in the atmosphere, looked troubled and
uncomfortable. He hadn't the faintest idea what they were talking
about, but it was perfectly clear to him that everything was not quite
as it should be between his beloved Max and this new friend, this jolly
little girl with the wonderful eyes--just like a pair of stars, by
Jove!--and, if rumour spoke truly, the even more wonderful voice.

Bashfully murmuring something about "going down to see if Miss de
Gervais had come in yet," he bolted out of the room, leaving Max and
Diana alone together.

Suddenly she turned and faced him.

"Why--why are you always so unkind to me?" she burst out, a little
breathlessly.

He lifted his brows.

"I? . . . My dear Miss Quentin, I have no right to be either kind--or
unkind--to you. That is surely the privilege of friends. And you
showed me quite clearly, down at Crailing, that you did not intend to
admit me to your friendship."

"I didn't," she exclaimed, and rushed on desperately. "Was it likely
that I should feel anything but gratitude--and liking for any one who
had done as much for me as you had?"

"You forget," he said quietly. "Afterwards--I transgressed. And you
let me see that the transgression had wiped out my meritorious
deeds--completely. It was quite the best thing that could happen," he
added hastily, as she would have spoken. "I had no right, less right
than any man on earth, to do--what I did. I abide by your decision."

The last words came slowly, meaningly. He was politely telling her
that any overtures of friendship would be rejected.

Diana's pride lay in the dust, but she was determined he should not
knew it. With her head held high, she said stiffly:--

"I don't think I'll wait any longer for Adrienne. Will you tell her,
please, that I've gone back to Brutton Square?"

"Brutton Square?" he repeated swiftly. "Do you live there?"

"Yes. Have you any objection?"

He disregarded her mocking query and continued:--

"A Miss Lermontof lives there. Is she, by any chance, a friend of
yours?" There seemed a hint of disapproval in his voice, and Diana
countered, with another question.

"Why? Do you think I ought not to be friends with her?"

"I? Oh, I don't think about it at all"--with a little half-foreign
shrug of his shoulders. "Miss Quentin's choice of friends is no
concern of mine."

Unbidden, tears leaped into Diana's eyes at the cold satirical tones.
Surely, surely he had hurt her enough, for one day! Without a word she
turned and made her way blindly out of the room and down the stairs.
In the hall she almost ran into Jerry's arms.

"Oh, are you going?" he asked, in tones of disappointment.

"Yea, I'm afraid I mustn't wait any longer for Adrienne. I have some
work to do when I get back."

Her voice shook a little, and Jerry, giving her a swift glance, could
see that her lashes were wet and her eyes misty with tears.

"The brute!" he ejaculated mentally. "What's he done to her?"

Aloud he merely said:--

"Will you have a taxi?"

She nodded, and hailing one that chanced to be passing, he put her
carefully into it.

"And--and I say," he said anxiously. "You didn't mind my talking to
you this afternoon, did you, Miss Quentin? I made 'rather free,' as
the servants say."

"No, of course I didn't mind," she replied warmly, her spirits rising a
little. He was such a nice boy--the sort of boy one could be pals
with. "You must come and see me at Brutton Square. Come to tea one
day, will you?"

"_Won't I_?" he said heartily. "Good-bye." And the taxi swept away
down the street.

Jerry returned to the drawing-room to find Errington staring moodily
out of the window.

"I say, Max," he said, affectionately linking his arm in that of the
older man. "What had you been saying to upset that dear little person?"

"I?"

"Yes. She was--crying."

Jerry felt the arm against his own twitch, and continued relentlessly:--

"I believe you've been snubbing her. You know, old man, you have a
sort of horribly lordly, touch-me-not air about you when you choose.
But I don't see why you should choose with Miss Quentin. She's such an
awfully good sort."

"Yes," agreed Errington. "Miss Quentin is quite charming."

"She thinks you don't like her," pursued Jerry, after a moment's pause.

"I--not like Miss Quentin? Absurd!"

"Well, that's what she thinks, anyway," persisted Jerry. "She told me
so, and she seemed really sorry about it. She believes you don't want
to be friends with her."

"Miss Quentin's friendship would be delightful. But--you don't
understand, Jerry--it's one of the delights I must forego."

When Errington spoke with such a definite air of finality, his young
secretary knew from experience that he might as well drop the subject.
He could get nothing further out of Max, once the latter had adopted
that tone over any matter. So Jerry, being wise in his generation,
held his peace.

Suddenly Errington faced round and laid his hands on the boy's shoulder.

"Jerry," he said, and his voice shook with some deep emotion. "Thank
God--thank Him every day of your life--that you're free and
untrammelled. All the world's yours if you choose to take it. Some of
us are shackled--our arms tied behind our backs. And oh, my God! How
they ache to be free!"

The blue eyes were full of a keen anguish, the stern mouth wry with
pain. Never before had Jerry seen him thus with the mask off, and he
felt as though he were watching a soul's agony unveiled.

"Max . . . dear old chap . . ." he stammered. "Can't I help?"

With an obvious effort Errington regained his composure, but his face
was grey as he answered:--

"Neither you nor any one else, Jerry, boy. I must dree my weird, as
the Scotch say. And that's the hard part of it--to be your own judge
and jury. A man ought not to be compelled to play the double role of
victim and executioner."

"And must you? . . . No way out?"

"None. Unless"--with a hard laugh--"the executioner throws up the game
and--runs away, allowing the victim to escape. And that's
impossible! . . . Impossible!" he reiterated vehemently, as though
arguing against some inner voice.

"Let him rip," suggested Jerry. "Give the accused a chance!"

Errington laughed more naturally. He was rapidly regaining his usual
self-possession.

"Jerry, you're a good pal, but a bad adviser. Get thee behind me."

Steps sounded on the stairs outside. Adrienne and Mrs. Adams had come
back, and Errington turned composedly to greet them, the veil of
reticence, momentarily swept aside by the surge of a sudden emotion,
falling once more into its place.

CHAPTER XI

THE YEAR'S FRUIT

Spring had slipped into summer, summer had given place again to winter,
and once more April was come, with her soft breath blowing upon the
sticky green buds and bidding them open, whilst daffodils and tulips,
like slim sentinels, swayed above the brown earth, in a riot of tender
colour.

There is something very fresh and charming about London in April. The
parks are aglow with young green, and the trees nod cheerfully to the
little breeze that dances round them, whispering of summer. Even the
houses perk up under their spruce new coats of paint, while every
window that can afford it puts forth its carefully tended box of
flowers. It is as though the old city suddenly awoke from her winter
slumber and preened herself like a bird making its toilet; there is an
atmosphere of renewal abroad--the very carters and cabmen seem
conscious of it, and acknowledge it with good-humoured smiles and a
flower worn jauntily in the buttonhole.

Diana leaned far out of the open window of her room at Brutton Square,
sniffing up the air with its veiled, faint fragrance of spring, and
gazing down in satisfaction at the delicate shimmer of green which
clothed the trees and shrubs in the square below.

The realisation that a year had slipped away since last the trees had
worn that tender green amazed her; it seemed almost incredible that
twelve whole months had gone by since the day when she had first come
to Brutton Square, and she and Bunty had joked together about the ten
commandments on the wall.

The year had brought both pleasure and pain--as most years do--pleasure
in the friends she had gathered round her, Adrienne and Jerry and
Bunty--even with Olga Lermontof an odd, rather one-sided friendship had
sprung up, born of the circumstances which had knit their paths
together--pain in the soreness which still lingered from the hurt that
Errington had dealt her. Albeit, her life had been so filled with work
and play, her mind so much occupied, that a surface skin, as it were,
had formed over the wound, and it was only now and again that a sudden
throb reminded her of its existence. Love had brushed her with his
wings in passing, but she was hardly yet a fully awakened woman.

Nevertheless, the brief episodes of her early acquaintance with
Errington had cut deep into a mind which had hitherto reflected nothing
beyond the simple happenings of a girlhood passed at a country rectory,
and the romantic flair of youth had given their memory a certain sacred
niche in her heart. Some day Fate would come along and take them down
from that shelf where they were stored, and dust them and present them
to her afresh with a new significance.

For a brief moment Errington's kiss had roused her dormant womanhood,
and then the events of daily life had crowded round and lulled it
asleep once more. In swift succession there had followed the vivid
interest of increasing musical study, the stirrings of ambition, and a
whole world of new people to meet and rub shoulders with.

So that the end of her second year in London found Diana still little
more than an impetuous, impulsive girl, possessed of a warm,
undisciplined nature, and of an unconscious desire to fulfil her being
along the most natural and easy lines, while in spirit she leaped
forward to the time when she should be plunged into professional life.

The whole of her training under Baroni, with the big future that it
held, tended to give her a somewhat egotistical outlook, an instinctive
feeling that everything must of necessity subordinate itself to her
demands--an excellent foundation, no doubt, on which to build up a
reputation as a famous singer in a world where people are apt to take
you very much at your own valuation, but a poor preparation for the
sacrifices and self-immolation that love not infrequently demands.

Above all else, this second year of study had brought in fullest
measure the development and enriching of her voice. Baroni had
schooled it with the utmost care, keeping always in view his purpose
that the coming June should witness her debut, and Diana, catching fire
from his enthusiasm, had answered to every demand he had made upon her.

Her voice was now something to marvel at. It had matured into a rich
contralto of amazing compass, and with a peculiar thrilling quality
about it which gripped and held you almost as though some one had laid
a hand upon your heart. Baroni hugged himself as he realised what a
_furore_ in the musical world this voice would create when at last he
allowed the silence to be broken. Already there were whispers flying
about of the wonderful contralto he was training, of whom it was
rumoured that she would have the whole world at her feet from the
moment that Baroni produced her.

The old _maestro_ had his plans all cut and dried. Early in June, just
when the season should be in full swing, there was to be a concert--a
recital with only Kirolski, the Polish violinist, and Madame Berthe
Louvigny, the famous French pianist, to assist. Those two names alone
would inevitably draw a big crowd of all the musical people who
mattered, and Diana's golden voice would do the rest.

This was to be the solitary concert for the season, but, to whet the
appetite of society, Diana was also to appear at a single big
reception--"Baroni won't look at anything less than a ducal house with
Royalty present," as Jerry banteringly asserted--and then, while the
world was still agape with interest and excitement, the singer was to
be whisked away to Crailing for three months' holiday, and to accept no
more engagements until the winter. By that time, Baroni anticipated,
people would be feverishly impatient for her reappearance, and the
winter campaign would resolve itself into one long trail of glory.

Diana had been better able latterly to devote herself to her work, as
Errington had been out of England for a time. So long as there was the
likelihood of meeting him at any moment, her nerves had been more or
less in a state of tension. There was that between them which made it
impossible for her to regard him with the cool, indifferent friendship
which he himself seemed so well able to assume. Despite herself, the
sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, caused a curious little
fluttering within her, like the flicker of a compass needle when it
quivers to the north. If he entered the same room as herself, she was
instantly aware of it, even though she might not chance to be looking
in his direction at the moment. Indeed, her consciousness of him was
so acute, so vital, that she sometimes wondered how it was possible
that one person could mean so much to another and yet himself feel no
reciprocal interest. And that he did feel none, his unvarying
indifference of manner had at last convinced her.

But, even so, she was unable to banish him from her thoughts. This was
the first day of her return to London after the Easter holidays, which
she had spent as usual at Crailing Rectory, and already she was
wondering rather wistfully whether Errington would be back in England
during the summer. She felt that if only she could know why he had
changed so completely towards her, why the interest she had so
obviously awakened in him upon first meeting had waned and died, she
might be able to thrust him completely out of her thoughts, and accept
him merely as the casual acquaintance which was all he apparently
claimed to be. But the restless, irritable longing to know, to have
his incomprehensible behaviour explained, kept him ever in her mind.

Only once or twice had his name been mentioned between Olga Lermontof
and herself, and on each occasion the former had repeated her caution,
admonishing Diana to have nothing to do with him. It almost seemed as
though she had some personal feeling of dislike towards him. Indeed
Diana had accused her of it, only to be met with a quiet negative.

"No," she had replied serenely. "I don't dislike him. But I
disapprove of much that he does."

"He is rather an attractive person," Diana ventured tentatively.

Olga Lermontof shot a keen glance at her.

"Well, I advise you not to give him your friendship," she said,
"or"--sneeringly--"anything of greater value."

A sharp rat-tat at the door of her sitting-room recalled Diana's
wandering thoughts to the present. She threw a glance of half-comic
dismay at the state of her sitting-room--every available chair and
table seemed to be strewn with the contents of the trunks she was
unpacking--and then, with a resigned shrug of her shoulders, she
crossed to the door and threw it open. Bunty was standing outside.

"What is it?" Diana was beginning, when she caught sight of a pleasant,
ugly face appearing over little Miss Bunting's shoulder. "Oh, Jerry,
is it you?" she exclaimed delightedly.

"He insisted on coming up, Miss Quentin," said Bunty, "although I told
him you had only just arrived and would be in the middle of unpacking."

"I've got an important message to deliver," asserted Jerry, grinning,
and shaking both Diana's hands exuberantly.

"Oh, never mind the unpacking," cried Diana, beginning to bundle the
things off the tables and chairs back into one of the open trunks.
"Bunty darling, help me to clear a space, and then go and order tea for
two up here--and expense be blowed! Oh, and I'll put a match to the
fire--it's quite cold enough. Come in, Jerry, and tell me all the
news."

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