Margaret Pedler - The Splendid Folly
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Margaret Pedler >> The Splendid Folly
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"I'll light that fire first," said Jerry, practically. "We can talk
when Bunty darling brings our tea."
Miss Bunting shook her head at him and tried to frown but as no one
ever minded in the least what Jerry said, her effort at propriety was a
failure, and she retreated to set about the tea, observing
maliciously:--
"I'll send 'Mrs. Lawrence darling' up to talk to you, Mr. Leigh."
"Great Jehosaphat!"--Jerry flew after her to the door--"If you do, I'm
off. That woman upsets my digestion--she's so beastly effusive. I
thought she was going to kiss me last time."
Miss Bunting laughed as she disappeared downstairs.
"You're safe to-day," she threw back at him. "She's out."
Jerry returned to his smouldering fire and proceeded to encourage it
with the bellows till, by the time the tea came up, the flames were
leaping and crackling cheerfully in the little grate.
"And now," said Diana, as they settled themselves for a comfortable
yarn over the teacups, "tell me all the news. Oh by the way, what's
your important message? I don't believe"--regarding him
severely--"that you've got one at all. It was just an excuse."
"It wasn't, honour bright. It's from Miss de Gervais--she sent me
round to see you expressly. You know, while Errington's away I call at
her place for orders like the butcher's boy every morning. The boss
asked me to look after her and make myself useful during his absence."
"Well," said Diana impatiently. "What's the message?" It did not
interest her in the least to hear about the arrangements Max had made
for Adrienne's convenience.
"Miss de Gervais is having a reception--'Hans Breitmann gif a barty,'
you know--"
"Of course I know," broke in Diana irritably, "seeing that I'm asked to
it."
Jerry continued patiently.
"And she wants you as a special favour to sing for her. As a matter of
fact there are to be one or two bigwigs there whom she thinks it might
be useful for you to meet--influence, you know," he added, waving his
hand expansively, "push, shove, hacking, wire-pulling--"
"Oh, be quiet, Jerry," interrupted Diana, laughing in spite of herself.
"It's no good, you know. It's dear of Adrienne to think of it, but
Baroni won't let me do it. He hasn't allowed me to sing anywhere this
last year."
"Doesn't want to take the cream off the milk, I suppose," said Jerry,
with a grin. "But, as a matter of fact, he _has_ given permission this
time. Miss de Gervais went to see him about it herself, and he's
consented. I've got a letter for you from the old chap"--producing it
as he spoke.
"Adrienne is a marvel," said Diana, as she slit the flap of the
envelope. "I'm sure Baroni would have refused any one else, but she
seems to be able to twist him round her little finger."
"Dear Mis Quentin"--Baroni had written in his funny, cramped
handwriting--"You may sing for Miss de Gervais. I have seen the list
of guests and it can do no harm--possibly a little good. Yours very
sincerely, CARLO BARONI."
"Miss de Gervais must have a 'way' with her," said Jerry meditatively.
"I observe that even my boss always does her bidding like a lamb."
Diana poured herself out a second cup of tea before she asked
negligently:--
"When's your 'boss' returning? It seems to me he's allowing you to
live the life of the idle rich. Will he be back for Adrienne's
reception?"
"No. About a week afterwards, I expect."
"Where's he been?"
"Oh, all over the shop--I've had letters from him from half the
capitals in Europe. But he's been in Russia longest of all, I think."
"Russia?"--musingly. "I suppose he isn't a Russian by any chance?"
"I've never asked him," returned Jerry shortly.
"He is certainly not pure English. Look at his high cheek-bones. And
his temperament isn't English, either," she added, with a secret smile.
Jerry remained silent.
"Don't you think it's rather funny that we none of us know anything
about him?--I mean beyond the mere fact that his name is Errington and
that he's a well-known playwright."
"Why do you want to know more?" growled Jerry.
"Well, I think there is something behind, something odd about him.
Olga Lermontof is always hinting that there is."
"Look here, Diana," said Jerry, getting rather red. "Don't let's talk
about Errington. You know we always get shirty with each other when we
do. I'm not going to pry into his private concerns--and as for Miss
Lermontof, she's the type of woman who simply revels in making
mischief."
"But it _is_ funny Mr. Errington should be so--so reserved about
himself," persisted Diana. "Hasn't he ever told you anything?"
"No, he has not," replied Jerry curtly. "Nor should I ever ask him to.
I'm quite content to take him as I find him."
"All the same, I believe Miss Lermontof knows something about
him--something not quite to his credit."
"I swear she doesn't," burst out Jerry violently. "Just because he
doesn't choose to blab out all his private affairs to the world at
large, that black-browed female Tartar must needs imagine he has
something to conceal. It's damnable! I'd stake my life Errington's as
straight as a die--and always has been."
"You're a good friend, Jerry," said Diana, rather wistfully.
"Yes, I am," he returned stoutly. "And so are you, as a rule. I can't
think why you're so beastly unfair to Errington."
"You forget," she said swiftly, "he's not my friend. And perhaps--he
hasn't always been quite fair to me."
"Oh, well, let's drop the subject now"--Jerry wriggled his broad
shoulders uncomfortably. "Tell me, how are the Rector and--and Miss
Stair?"
The previous summer Jerry had spent a week at Red Gables, and had made
Joan's acquaintance. Apparently the two had found each other's society
somewhat absorbing, for Adrienne had laughingly declared that she
didn't quite know whether Jerry were really staying at Red Gables or at
the Rectory.
"Pobs and Joan sent all sorts of nice messages for you," said Diana,
smiling a little. "They're both coming up to town for my recital, you
know."
"Are they?"--eagerly. "Hurrah! . . . We must go on the bust when it's
over. The concert will be in the afternoon, won't it?" Diana nodded.
"Then we must have a commemoration dinner in the evening. Oh, why am I
not a millionaire? Then I'd stand you all dinner at the 'Carlton.'"
He was silent a moment, then went on quickly:
"I shall have to make money somehow. A man can't marry on my screw as
a secretary, you know."
Diana hastily concealed a smile.
"I didn't know you were contemplating matrimony," she observed.
"I'm not"--reddening a little. "But--well, one day I expect I shall.
It's quite the usual sort of thing--done by all the best people. But
it can't be managed on two hundred a year! And that's the net amount
of my princely income."
"But I thought that your people had plenty of money?"
"So they have--trucks of it. Coal-trucks!"--with a debonair reference
to the fact that Leigh _pere_ was a wealthy coal-owner. "But, you see,
when I was having my fling, which came to such an abrupt end at Monte,
the governor got downright ratty with me--kicked up no end of a shine.
Told me not to darken his doors again, and that I might take my own
road to the devil for all he cared, and generally played the part of
the outraged parent. I must say," he added ingenuously, "that the old
boy had paid my debts and set me straight a good many times before he
_did_ cut up rusty."
"You're the only child, aren't you?" Jerry nodded. "Oh, well then, of
course he'll come round in time--they always do. I shouldn't worry a
bit if I were you."
"Well," said Jerry hesitatingly, "I did think that perhaps if I went to
him some day with a certificate of good character and steady work from
Errington, it might smooth matters a bit. I'm fond of the governor,
you know, in spite of his damn bad temper--and it must be rather rotten
for the old chap living all by himself at Abbotsleigh."
"Yes, it must. One fine day you'll make it up with him, Jerry, and
he'll slay the fatted calf and you'll have no end of a good time."
Just then the clock of a neighbouring church chimed the half-hour, and
Jerry jumped to his feet in a hurry.
"My hat! Half-past six! I must be toddling. What a squanderer of
unconsidered hours you are, Diana! . . . Well, by-bye, old girl; it's
good to see you back in town. Then I may tell Miss de Gervais that
you'll sing for her?"
Diana nodded.
"Of course I will. It will be a sort of preliminary canter for my
recital."
"And when that event comes off, you'll sail past the post lengths in
front of any one else."
And with that Jerry took his departure. A minute later Diana heard the
front door bang, and from the window watched him striding along the
street. He looked back, just before he turned the corner, and waved
his hand cheerily.
"Nice boy!" she murmured, and then set about her unpacking in good
earnest.
CHAPTER XII
MAX ERRINGTON'S RETURN
It was the evening of Adrienne's reception, and Diana was adding a few
last touches to her toilette for the occasion. Bunty had been playing
the part of lady's maid, and now they both stood back to observe the
result of their labours.
"You do look nice!" remarked Miss Bunting, in a tone of satisfaction.
Diana glanced half-shyly into the long glass panel of the wardrobe
door. There was something vivid and arresting about her to-night, as
though she were tremulously aware that she was about to take the first
step along her road as a public singer. A touch of excitement had
added an unwonted brilliance to her eyes, while a faint flush came and
went swiftly in her cheeks.
Bunty, without knowing quite what it was that appealed, was suddenly
conscious of the sheer physical charm of her.
"You are rather wonderful," she said consideringly.
A sense of the sharp contrast between them smote Diana almost
painfully--she herself, young and radiant, holding in her slender
throat a key that would unlock the doors of the whole world, and beside
her the little boarding-house help, equally young, and with all youth's
big demands pent up within her, yet ahead of her only a drab vista of
other boarding-houses--some better, some worse, mayhap--but always
eating the bread of servitude, her only possible way of escape by means
of matrimony with some little underpaid clerk.
And what had Bunty done to deserve so poor a lot? Hers was
unquestionably by far the finer character of the two, as Diana frankly
admitted to herself. In truth, the apparent injustices of fate made a
riddle hard to read.
"And you,"--Diana spoke impulsively--"you are the dearest thing
imaginable. I wish you were coming with me."
"I should like to hear you sing in those big rooms," acknowledged
Bunty, a little wistfully.
"When I give my recital you shall have a seat in the front row," Diana
promised, as she picked up her gloves and music-case.
A tap sounded at the door.
"Are you ready?" inquired Olga Lermontof a voice from outside.
Bunty opened the door.
"Oh, come in, Miss Lermontof. Yes, Miss Quentin is quite ready, and I
must run away now."
Olga came in and stood for a moment looking at Diana. Then she
deliberately stepped close to her, so that their reflections showed
side by side in the big mirror.
"Black and white angels--quite symbolical," she observed, with a short
laugh.
She was dressed entirely in black, and her sable figure made a
startling foil to Diana's slender whiteness.
"Nervous?" she asked laconically, noticing the restless tapping of the
other's foot.
"I believe I am," replied Diana, smiling a little.
"You needn't be."
"I should be terrified if anyone else were accompanying me. But,
somehow, I think you always give me confidence when I'm singing."
"Probably because I'm always firmly convinced of your ultimate success."
"No, no. It isn't that. It's because you're the most perfect
accompanist any one could have."
Miss Lermontof swept her a mocking curtsey.
"_Mille remerciments_!" Then she laughed rather oddly. "I believe you
still have no conception of the glory of your voice, you queer child."
"Is it really so good?" asked Diana, with the genuine artist's craving
to be reassured.
Olga Lermontof looked at her speculatively.
"I suppose you can't understand it at present," she said, after a
pause. "You will, though, when you've given a few concerts and seen
its effect upon the audience. Now, come along; it's time we started."
They found Adrienne's rooms fairly full, but not in the least
overcrowded. The big double doors between the two drawing-rooms had
been thrown open, and the tide of people flowed back and forth from one
room to the other. A small platform had been erected at one end, and
as Diana and Miss Lermontof entered, a French _diseuse_ was just
ascending it preparatory to reciting in her native tongue.
The recitation--vivid, accompanied by the direct, expressive gesture
for which Mademoiselle de Bonvouloir was so famous--was followed at
appropriate intervals by one or two items of instrumental music, and
then Diana found herself mounting the little platform, and a hush
descended anew upon the throng of people, the last eager chatterers
twittering into silence as Olga Lermontof struck the first note of the
song's prelude.
Diana was conscious of a small sea of faces all turned towards her,
most of them unfamiliar. She could just see Adrienne smiling at her
from the back of the room, and near the double doors Jerry was standing
next a tall man whose back was towards the platform as he bent to move
aside a chair that was in the way. The next moment he had straightened
himself and turned round, and with a sudden, almost agonising leap of
the heart Diana saw that it was Max Errington.
He had come back! After that first wild throb her heart seemed, to
stand still, the room grew dark around her, and, she swayed a little
where she stood.
"Nervous!" murmured one man to another, beneath his breath.
Olga Lermontof had finished the prelude, and, finding that Diana had
failed to come in, composedly recommenced it. Diana was dimly
conscious of the repetition, and then the mist gradually cleared away
from before her eyes, and this time, when the accompanist played the
bar of her entry, the habit of long practice prevailed and she took up
the voice part with accurate precision.
The hush deepened in the room. Perhaps the very emotion under which
Diana was labouring added to the charm of her wonderful voice--gave it
an indescribable appeal which held the critical audience, familiar with
all the best that the musical world could offer, spell-bound.
When she ceased, and the last exquisite note had vibrated into silence,
the enthusiasm of the applause that broke out would have done justice
to a theatre pit audience rather than to a more or less blase society
crowd. And when the whisper went round that this was to be her only
song--that Baroni had laid his veto upon her singing twice--the
clapping and demands for an encore were redoubled.
Olga Lermontof's eyes, roaming over the room, rested at last upon the
face of Max Errington, and with the recollection of Diana's hesitancy
at the beginning of the song a brief smile flashed across her face.
"What shall I do?" Diana, who had bowed repeatedly without stemming
the applause, turned to the accompanist, a little flushed with the
thrill of this first public recognition of her gifts.
"Sing 'The Haven of Memory,'" whispered Olga.
It was a sad little love lyric which Baroni himself had set to music
specially for the voice of his favourite pupil, and as Diana's low rich
notes took up the plaintive melody, the audience settled itself down
with a sigh of satisfaction to listen once more.
Do you remember
Our great love's pure unfolding,
The troth you gave,
And prayed for God's upholding,
Long and long ago?
Out of the past
A dream--and then the waking--
Comes back to me,
Of love and love's forsaking
Ere the summer waned.
Ah! let me dream
That still a little kindness
Dwelt in the smile
That chid my foolish blindness,
When you said good-bye.
Let me remember,
When I am very lonely,
How once your love
But crowned and blessed me only,
Long and long ago! [1]
The haunting melody ceased, and an infinitesimal pause ensued before
the clapping broke out. It was rather subdued this time; more than one
pair of eyes were looking at the singer through the grey mist of memory.
An old lady with very white hair and a reputation for a witty tongue
that had been dipped in vinegar came up to Diana as she descended from
the platform.
"My dear," she said, and the keen old eyes were suddenly blurred and
dim. "I want to thank you. One is apt to forget--when one is very
lonely--that we've most of us worn love's crown just once--if only for
a few moments of our lives. . . . And it's good to be reminded of it,
even though it may hurt a little."
"That was the Dowager Duchess of Linfield," murmured Olga, when the old
lady had moved away again. "They say she was madly in love with an
Italian opera singer in the days of her youth. But, of course, at that
time he was quite unknown and altogether ineligible, so she married the
late Duke, who was old enough to be her father. By the time he died
the opera singer was dead, too."
That was Diana's first taste of the power of a beautiful voice to
unlock the closed chambers of the heart where lie our hidden
memories--the long pain of years, sometimes unveiled to those whose
gifts appeal directly to the emotions. It sobered her a little. This,
then, she thought, this leaf of rue that seemed to bring the sadness of
the world so close, was interwoven with the crown of laurel.
"Won't you say how do you do to me, Miss Quentin? I've been deputed by
Miss de Gervais to see that you have some supper after breaking all our
hearts with your singing."
Diana, roused from her thoughts, looked up to see Max Errington
regarding her with the old, faintly amused mockery in his eyes.
She shook hands.
"I don't believe you've got a heart to break," she retorted, smiling.
"Oh, mine was broken long before I heard you sing. Otherwise I would
not answer for the consequences of that sad little song of yours. What
is it called?"
"'The Haven of Memory,'" replied Diana, as Errington skilfully piloted
her to a small table standing by itself in an alcove of the supper-room.
"What a misleading name! Wouldn't 'The _Hell_ of Memory' be more
appropriate--more true to life?"
"I suppose," answered Diana soberly, "that it might appear differently
to different people."
"You mean that the garden of memory may have several aspects--like a
house? I'm afraid mine faces north. Yours, I expect, is full of
spring flowers"--smiling a little quizzically.
"With the addition of a few weeds," she answered.
"Weeds? Surely not? Who planted them there?" His keen, penetrating
eyes were fixed on her face.
Diana was silent, her fingers trifling nervously with the salt in one
of the little silver cruets, first piling it up into a tiny mound, and
then flattening it down again and patterning its surface with
criss-cross lines.
There was no one near. In the alcove Errington had chosen, the two
were completely screened from the rest of the room by a carved oak
pillar and velvet curtains.
He laid his hand over the restless fingers, holding them in a sure,
firm clasp that brought back vividly to her mind the remembrance of
that day when he had helped her up the steps of the quayside at
Crailing.
"Diana"--his voice deepened a little--"am I responsible for any of the
weeds in your garden?"
Her hand trembled a little under his. After a moment she threw back
her head defiantly and met his glance.
"Perhaps there's a stinging-nettle or two labelled with your name," she
answered lightly. "The Nettlewort Erringtonia," she added, smiling.
Diana was growing up rapidly.
"I suppose," he said slowly, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you
that I'm sorry--that I'd uproot them if I could?"
She looked away from him in silence. He could not see her expression,
only the pure outline of her cheek and a little pulse that was beating
rapidly in her throat.
With a sudden, impetuous movement he released her hand, almost flinging
it from him.
"My application for the post of gardener is refused, I see," he said.
"And quite rightly, too. It was great presumption on my part. After
all"--with bitter mockery--"what are a handful of nettles in the garden
of a _prima donna_? They'll soon be stifled beneath the wreaths of
laurel and bouquets that the world will throw you. You'll never even
feel their sting."
"You are wrong," said Diana, very low, "quite wrong. They _have_ stung
me. Mr. Errington"--and as she turned to him he saw that her eyes were
brimming with tears--"why can't we be friends? You--you have helped me
so many times that I don't understand why you treat me now . . . almost
as though I were an enemy?"
"An enemy? . . . You!"
"Yes," she said steadily.
He was silent.
"I don't wish to be," she went on, an odd wistfulness in her voice.
"Can't we--be friends?"
Errington pushed his plate aside abruptly.
"You don't know what you're offering me," he said, in hurrying tones.
"If I could only take it! . . . But I've no right to make friends--no
right. I think I've been singled out by fate to live alone."
"Yet you are friends with Miss de Gervais," she said quickly.
"I write plays for her," he replied evasively. "So that we are obliged
to see a good deal of each other."
"And apparently you don't want to be friends with me."
"There can be little in common between a mere quill-driver and--a
_prima donna_."
She turned on him swiftly.
"You seem to forget that at present you are a famous dramatist, while I
am merely a musical student."
"You divested yourself of that title for ever this evening," he
returned, "It was no 'student' who sang 'The Haven of Memory.'"
"All the same I shall have to study for a long time yet, Baroni tells
me,"--smiling a little.
"In that sense a great artiste is always a student. But what I meant
by saying that a mere writer has no place in a prima donna's life was
that, whereas my work is more or less a hobby, and my little bit of
'fame'--as you choose to call it--merely a side-issue, _your_ work will
be your whole existence. You will live for it entirely--your art and
the world's recognition of it will absorb every thought. There will be
no room in your life for the friendship of insignificant people like
myself."
"Try me," she said demurely.
He swung round on her with a sudden fierceness.
"By God!" he exclaimed. "If you knew the temptation . . . if you knew
how I long to take what you offer!"
She smiled at him--a slow, sweet smile that curved her mouth, and
climbing to her eyes lit them with a soft radiance.
"Well?" she said quietly. "Why not?"
He got up abruptly, and going to the window, stood with his back to
her, looking out into the night.
She watched him consideringly. Intuitively she knew that he was
fighting a battle with himself. She had always been conscious of the
element of friction in their intercourse. This evening it had suddenly
crystallised into a definite realisation that although this man desired
to be her friend--Truth, at the bottom of her mental well, whispered
perhaps even something more--he was caught back, restrained by the
knowledge of some obstacle, some hindrance to their friendship of which
she was entirely ignorant.
She waited in silence.
Presently he turned back to her, and she gathered from his expression
that he had come to a decision. In the moment that elapsed before he
spoke she had time to be aware of a sudden, almost breathless anxiety,
and instinctively she let her lids fall over her eyes lest he should
read and understand the apprehension in them.
"Diana."
His voice came gently and gravely to her ears. With an effort she
looked up and found him regarding her with eyes from which all the old
ironical mockery had fled. They were very steady and kind--kinder than
she had ever believed it possible for them to be. Her throat
contracted painfully, and she stretched out her hand quickly,
pleadingly, like a child.
He took it between both his, holding it with the delicate care one
accords a flower, as though fearful of hurting it.
"Diana, I'm going to accept--what you offer me. Heaven knows I've
little right to! There are . . . worlds between you, and me. . . .
But if a man dying of thirst in the desert finds a pool--a pool of
crystal water--is he to be blamed if he drinks--if he quenches his
thirst for a moment? He knows the pool is not his--never can he his.
And when the rightful owner comes along--why, he'll go away, back to
the loneliness of the desert again. But he'll always remember that his
lips have once drunk from the pool--and been refreshed."
Diana spoke very low and wistfully.
"He--he must go back to the desert?"
Errington bent his head.
"He must go back," he answered. "The gods have decreed him outcast
from life's pleasant places; he is ordained to wander alone--always."
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