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."

"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."

Diana drew her hand suddenly away from his, and the hasty movement knocked over the little silver salt-cellar on the table, scattering the salt on the cloth between them.

"Oh!" she cried, flushing with distress. "I've spilled the salt between us—we shall quarrel."

The electricity in the atmosphere was gone, and Errington laughed gaily.

"I'm not afraid. See,"—he filled their glasses with wine—"let's drink to our compact of friendship."

He raised his glass, clinking it gently against hers, and they drank. But as Diana replaced her glass on the table, she looked once more in a troubled way at the little heap of salt that lay on the white cloth.

"I wish I hadn't spilled it," she said uncertainly. "It's an ill omen. Some day we shall quarrel."

Her eyes were grave and brooding, as though some prescience of evil weighed upon her.

Errington lifted his glass, smiling.

"Far be the day," he said lightly.

But her eyes, meeting his, were still clouded with foreboding.

[1] This song, "The Haven of Memory," has been set to music by Isador Epstein: published by G. Ricordi & Co., 265 Regent Street, W.



CHAPTER XIII

THE FRIEND WHO STOOD BY

As the day fixed for her recital approached, Diana became a prey to intermittent attacks of nerves.

"Supposing I should fail?" she would sometimes exclaim, in a sudden spasm of despair.

Then Baroni would reply quite contentedly:—

"My dear Mees Quentin, you will not fail. God has given you the instrument, and I, Baroni, I haf taught you how to use it. Gran Dio! Fail!" This last accompanied by a snort of contempt.

Or it might be Olga Lermontof to whom Diana would confide her fears. She, equally with the old maestro, derided the possibility of failure, and there was something about her cool assurance of success that always sufficed to steady Diana's nerves, at least for the time being.

"As I have you to accompany me," Diana told her one day, when she was ridiculing the idea of failure, "I may perhaps get through all right. I simply lean on you when I'm singing. I feel like a boat floating on deep water—almost as though I couldn't sink."

"Well, you can't." Miss Lermontof spoke with conviction. "I shan't break down—I could play everything you sing blindfold!—and your voice is . . . Oh, well"—hastily—"I can't talk about your voice. But I believe I could forgive you anything in the world when you sing."

Diana stared at her in surprise. She had no idea that Olga was particularly affected by her singing.

"It's rather absurd, isn't it?" continued the Russian, a mocking light in her eyes that somehow reminded Diana of Max Errington. "But there it is. A little triangular box in your throat and a breath of air from your lungs—and immediately you hold one's heart in your hands!"

Alan Stair and Joan came up to London the day before that on which the recital was to take place, since Diana had insisted that they must fix their visit so that the major part of it should follow, instead of preceding the concert.

"For"—as she told them—"if I fail, it will be nice to have you two dear people to console me, and if I succeed, I shall be just in the right mood to take a holiday and play about with you both. Whereas until my fate is sealed, one way or the other, I shall be like a bear with a sore head."

But when the day actually arrived her nervousness completely vanished, and she drove down to the hall composedly as though she were about to appear at her fiftieth concert rather than at her first. Olga Lermontof regarded her with some anxiety. She would have preferred her to show a little natural nervous excitement beforehand; there would be less danger of a sudden attack of stage-fright at the last moment.

Baroni was in the artistes' room when they arrived, outwardly cool, but inwardly seething with mingled pride and excitement and vicarious apprehension. He hurried forward to greet them, shaking Diana by both hands and then leading her up to the great French pianist, Madame Berthe Louvigny.

The latter was a tall, grave-looking woman, with a pair of the most lustrous brown eyes Diana had ever seen. They seemed to glow with a kind of inward fire under the wide brow revealed beneath the sweep of her dark hair.

"So thees ees your wonder-pupil, Signor," she said, her smile radiating kindness and good-humour. "Mademoiselle, I weesh you all the success that I know Signor Baroni hopes for you."

She talked very rapidly, with a strong foreign accent, and her gesture was so expressive that one felt it was almost superfluous to add speech to the quick, controlled movement. Hands, face, shoulders—she seemed to speak with her whole body, yet without conveying any impression of restlessness. There was not a single meaningless movement; each added point to the rapid flow of speech, throwing it into vivid relief like the shading of a picture.

While she was still chatting to Diana, a slender man with bright hair tossed back over a finely shaped head came into the artistes' room, carrying in his hand a violin-case which he deposited on the table with as much care as though it were a baby. He shook hands with Olga Lermontof, and then Baroni swept him into his net.

"Kirolski, let me present you to Miss Quentin. She will one day stand amongst singers where you stand amongst the world's violinists."

Kirolski bowed, and glanced smilingly from Baroni to Diana.

"I've no doubt Miss Quentin will do more than that," he said. "A friend of mine heard her sing at Miss de Gervais' reception not long ago, and he has talked of nothing else ever since. I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Quentin." And he bowed again.

Diana was touched by the simple, unaffected kindness of the two great artistes who were to assist at her recital. It surprised her a little; she had anticipated the disparaging, almost inimical attitude towards a new star so frequently credited to professional musicians, and had steeled herself to meet it with indifference. She forgot that when you are at the top of the tree there is little cause for envy or heart-burning, and graciousness becomes an easy habit. It is in the struggle to reach the top that the ugly passions leap into life.

Presently there came sounds of clapping from the body of the hall; some of the audience were growing impatient, and the news that there was a packed house filtered into the artistes' room. Almost as in a dream Diana watched Kirolski lift his violin from its cushiony bed and run his fingers lightly over the strings in a swift arpeggio. Then he tightened his bow and rubbed the resin along its length of hair, while Olga Lermontof looked through a little pile of music for the duet for violin and piano with which the recital was to commence.

The outbreaks of clapping from in front grew more persistent, culminating in a veritable roar of welcome as Kirolski led the pianist on to the platform. Then came a breathless, expectant silence, broken at last by the stately melody of the first movement.

To Diana it seemed as though the duet were very quickly over, and although the applause and recalls were persistent, no encore was given. Then she saw Olga Lermontof mounting the platform steps preparatory to accompanying Kirolski's solo, and with a sudden violent reaction from her calm composure she realised that the following item on the programme must be the first group of her own songs.

For an instant the room swayed round her, then with a little gasp she clutched Baroni's arm.

"I can't do it! . . . I can't do it!" Her voice was shaking, and every drop of colour had drained away from her face.

Baroni turned instantly, his eyes full of concern.

"My dear, but that is nonsense. You cannot help doing it—you know those songs inside out and upside down. You need haf no fear. Do not think about it at all. Trust your voice—it will sing what it knows."

But Diana still clung helplessly to his arm, shivering from head to foot, and Madame de Louvigny hurried across the room and joined her assurances to those of the old maestro. She also added a liqueur-glass of brandy to her soothing, encouraging little speeches, but Diana refused the former with a gesture of repugnance, and seemed scarcely to hear the latter. She was dazed by sheer nervous terror, and stood there with her hands tightly clasped together, her body rigid and taut with misery.

Baroni was nearly demented. If she should fail to regain her nerve the whole concert would he a disastrous fiasco. Possible headlines from the morrow's newspapers danced before his eyes: "NERVOUS COLLAPSE OF MISS DIANA QUENTIN," "SIGNOR BARONI'S NEW PRIMA DONNA FAILS TO MATERIALISE."

"Diavolo!" he exclaimed distractedly. "But what shall we do? What shall we do?"

"What is the matter?"

At the sound of the cool, level tones the little agitated group of three in the artistes' room broke asunder, and Baroni hurried towards the newcomer.

"Mr. Errington, we are in despair—" And with a gesture towards Diana he briefly explained the predicament.

Max nodded, his keen eyes considering the shrinking figure leaning against the wall.

"Don't worry, Baroni," he said quietly. "I'll pull her round." Then, as a burst of applause crashed out from the hall, he whispered hastily: "Get Kirolski to give an encore. It will allow her a little more time."

Baroni nodded, and a minute or two later the audience was cheering the violinist's reappearance, whilst Errington strode across the room to Diana's side.

"How d'you do?" he said, holding out his hand exactly as though nothing in the world were the matter. "I thought you'd allow me to come round and wish you luck, so here I am."

He spoke in such perfectly normal, everyday tones that unconsciously Diana's rigid muscles relaxed, and she extended her hand in response.

"I'm feeling sick with fright," she replied, giving him a wavering smile.

Max laughed easily.

"Of course. Otherwise you wouldn't be the artiste that you are. But it will all go the moment you're on the platform."

She looked up at him with a faint hope in her eyes.

"Do you really think so?" she whispered.

"I'm sure. It always does," he lied cheerfully. "I'll tell you who is far more nervous than you are, and that's the Rector. Miss Stair and Jerry were almost forcibly holding him down in his seat when I left them. He's disposed to bolt out of the hall and await results at the hotel."

Diana laughed outright.

"How like him! Poor Pobs!"

"You'd better give him a special smile when you get on the platform to reassure him," continued Max, his blue eyes smiling down at her.

The violin solo had drawn to a close—Kirolski had already returned a third time to bow his acknowledgments—and Errington was relieved to see that the look of strain had gone out of her face, although she still appeared rather pale and shaken.

One or two friends of the violinist's were coming in at the door of the artistes' room as Olga Lermontof preceded him down the platform steps. There was a little confusion, the sound of a fall, and simultaneously some one inadvertently pushed the door to. The next minute the accompanist was the centre of a small crowd of anxious, questioning people. She had tripped and stumbled to her knees on the threshold of the room, and, as she instinctively stretched out her hand to save herself, the door had swung hack trapping two of her fingers in the hinge.

A hubbub of dismay arose. Olga was white with pain, and her hand was so badly squeezed and bruised that it was quite obvious she would be unable to play any more that day.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Quentin," she murmured faintly.

In her distress about the accident, Diana had for the moment overlooked the fact that it would affect her personally, but now, as Olga's words reminded her that the accompanist on whom she placed such utter reliance would be forced to cede her place to a substitute, her former nervousness returned with redoubled force. It began to look as though she would really be unable to appear, and Baroni wrung his hands in despair.

It was a moment for speedy action. The audience were breaking into impatient clapping, and from the back of the hall came an undertone of stamping, and the sound of umbrellas banging on the floor. Errington turned swiftly to Diana.

"Will you trust me with the accompaniments?" he said, his blue eyes fixed on hers.

"You?" she faltered.

"Yes. I swear I won't fail you." His voice dropped to a lower note, but his dominating eyes still held her. "See, you offered me your friendship. Trust me now. Let me 'stand by,' as a friend should."

There was an instant's pause, then suddenly Diana bent her head in acquiescence.

"Thank heaven! thank heaven!" exclaimed Baroni, wringing Max's hand. "You haf saved the situation, Mr. Errington."

A minute later Diana found herself mounting the platform steps, her hand in Max's. His close, firm clasp steadied and reassured her. Again she was aware of that curious sense of well-being, as of leaning on some sure, unfailing strength, which the touch of his hand had before inspired.

As he led her on to the platform she met his eyes, full of a kind good-comradeship and confidence.

"All right?" he whispered cheerfully.

A little comforting warmth crept about her heart. She was not alone, facing all those hundreds of curious, critical eyes in the hall below; there was a friend "standing by."

She nodded to him reassuringly, suddenly conscious of complete self-mastery. She no longer feared those ranks of upturned faces, row upon row, receding into shadow at the further end of the hall, and she bowed composedly in response to the applause that greeted her. Then she heard Max strike the opening chord of the song, and a minute later the big concert-hall was thrilling to the matchless beauty of her voice, as it floated out on to the waiting stillness.

The five songs of the group followed each other in quick succession, the clapping that broke out between each of them only checking so that the next one might be heard, but when the final number had been given, and the last note had drifted tenderly away into silence, the vast audience rose to its feet almost as one man, shouting and clapping and waving in a tumultuous outburst of enthusiasm.

Diana stood quite still, almost frightened by the uproar, until Max touched her arm and escorted her off the platform.

In the artistes' room every one crowded round her pouring out congratulations. Baroni seized both her hands and kissed them; then he kissed her cheek, the tears in his eyes. And all the time came the thunder of applause from the auditorium, beating up in steady, rhythmic waves of sound.

"Go!—Go back, my child, and bow." Baroni impelled her gently towards the door. "Gran Dio! What a success! . . . What a voice of heaven!"

Rather nervously, Diana mounted the platform once more, stepping forward a little shyly; her cheeks were flushed, and her wonderful eyes shone like grey stars. A fillet of pale green leaves bound her smoke-black hair, and the slender, girlish figure in its sea-green gown, touched here and there with gold embroidery, reminded one of spring, and the young green and gold of daffodils.

Instantly the applause redoubled. People were surging forward towards the platform, pressing round an unfortunate usher who was endeavouring to hand up a sheaf of roses to the singer. Diana bowed, and bowed again. Then she stooped and accepted the roses, and a fresh burst of clapping ensued. A wreath of laurel, and a huge bunch of white heather, for luck, followed the sheaf of roses, and finally, her arms full of flowers, smiling, bowing still, she escaped from the platform.

Back again in the artistes' room, she found that a number of her friends in front had come round to offer their congratulations. Alan Stair and Joan, Jerry, and Adrienne de Gervais were amongst them, and Diana at once became the centre of a little excited throng, all laughing and talking and shaking her by the hand. Every one seemed to be speaking at once, and behind it all still rose and fell the cannonade of shouts and clapping from the hall.

Four times Diana returned to the platform to acknowledge the tremendous ovation which her singing had called forth, and at length, since Baroni forbade an encore until after her second group of songs, Madame de Louvigny went on to give her solo.

"They weel not want to hear me—after you, Mees Quentin," she said laughingly.

But the British public is always very faithful to its favourites, and the audience, realising at last that the new singer was not going to bestow an encore, promptly exerted itself to welcome the French pianist in a befitting manner.

When Diana reappeared for her second group of song's the excitement was intense. Whilst she was singing a pin could have been heard to fall; it almost seemed as though the huge concourse of people held its breath so that not a single note of the wonderful voice should be missed, and when she ceased there fell a silence—that brief silence, like a sigh of ecstasy, which, is the greatest tribute that any artiste can receive.

Then, with a crash like thunder, the applause broke out once more, and presently, reappearing with the sheaf of roses in her hand, Diana sang "The Haven of Memory" as an encore.

Let me remember, When I am very lonely, How once your love But crowned and blessed roe only, Long and long ago.

The plaintive rhythm died away and the clapping which succeeded it was quieter, less boisterous, than hitherto. Some people were crying openly, and many surreptitiously wiped away a tear or so in the intervals of applauding. The audience was shaken by the tender, sorrowful emotion of the song, its big, sentimental British heart throbbing to the haunting quality of the most beautiful voice in Europe.

Diana herself had tears in her eyes. She was experiencing for the first time the passionate exultation born of the knowledge that she could sway the hearts of a multitude by the sheer beauty of her singing—an abiding recompense bestowed for all the sacrifices which art demands from those who learn her secrets.

Her fingers, gripping with unconscious intensity the flowers she held, detached a white rose from the sheaf, and it had barely time to reach the floor before a young man from the audience, eager-eyed, his face pale with excitement, sprang forward and snatched it up from beneath her feet.

In an instant there was an uproar. Men and women lost their heads and clambered up on to the platform, pressing round the singer, besieging her for a spray of leaves or a flower from the sheaf she carried. Some even tried to secure a bit of the gold embroidery from off her gown by way of memento.

"Oh, please . . . please . . ."

A crowd that is overwrought, either by anger or enthusiasm, is a difficult thing to handle, and Diana retreated desperately, frightened by the storm she had evoked. One man was kneeling beside her, rapturously kissing the hem of her gown, and the eager, excited faces, the outstretched hands, the vision of the surging throng below, and the tumult and clamour that filled the concert-hall terrified her.

Suddenly a strong arm intervened between her and the group of enthusiasts who were flocking round her, and she found that she was being quietly drawn aside into safety. Max Errington's tall form had interposed itself between her and her too eager worshippers. With a little gasp of relief she let him lead her down the steps of the platform and back into the comparative calm of the artistes' room, while two of the ushers hurried forward and dispersed the memento-seekers, shepherding them back into the hall below, so that the concert might continue.

The latter part of the programme was heard with attention, but not even the final duo for violin and piano, exquisite though it was, succeeded in rousing the audience to a normal pitch of fervour again. Emotion and enthusiasm were alike exhausted, and now that Diana's share in the recital was over, the big assemblage of people listened to the remaining numbers much as a child, tired with play, may listen to a lullaby—placidly appreciative, but without overwhelming excitement.

"Well, what did I tell you?" demanded Jerry, triumphantly, of the little party of friends who gathered together for tea in Diana's sitting-room, when at length the great event of the afternoon was over. "What did I tell you? . . . I said Diana would just romp past the post—all the others nowhere. And behold! It came to pass."

"It's a good thing Madame Louvigny and Kirolski can't hear you," observed Joan sagely. "They've probably got quite nice natures, but you'd strain the forbearance of an early Christian martyr, Jerry. Besides, you needn't be so fulsome to Diana; it isn't good for her."

Jerry retorted with spirit, and the two drifted into a pleasant little wrangle—the kind of sparring match by which youths and maidens frequently endeavour to convince themselves, and the world at large, of the purely Platonic nature of their sentiments.

Bunty, who had rejoiced in her promised seat in the front row at the concert, was hurrying to and fro, a maid-servant in attendance, bringing in tea, while Mrs. Lawrence, who had also been the recipient of a complimentary ticket, looked in for a few minutes to felicitate the heroine of the day.

She mentally patted herself on the back for the discernment she had evinced in making certain relaxations of her stringent rules in favour of this particular boarder. It was quite evident that before long Miss Quentin would be distinctly a "personage," shedding a delectable effulgence upon her immediate surroundings, and Mrs. Lawrence was firmly decided that, if any effort of hers could compass it, those surroundings should continue to be No. 34 Brutton Square.

Diana herself looked tired but irrepressibly happy. Now that it was all over, and success assured, she realised how intensely she had dreaded the ordeal of this first recital.

Olga Lermontof, her injured hand resting in a sling, chaffed her with some amusement.

"I suppose, at last, you're beginning to understand that your voice is really something out of the ordinary," she said. "Its effect on the audience this afternoon is a better criterion than all the notices in to-morrow's newspapers put together."

Diana laughed.

"Well, I hope it won't make a habit of producing that effect!" she said, pulling a little face of disgust at the recollection. "I don't know what would have happened if Mr. Errington hadn't come to my rescue."

Max smiled across at her.

"You'd have been torn to bits and the pieces distributed amongst the audience—like souvenir programmes—I imagine," he replied. Then, turning towards the accompanist, he continued: "How does your hand feel now, Miss Lermontof?"

There was a curious change in his voice as he addressed the Russian, and Diana, glancing quickly towards her, surprised a strangely wistful look in her eyes as they rested upon Errington's face.

"Oh, it is much better. I shall be able to play again in a few days. But it was fortunate you were at the concert to-day, and able to take my place."

"So you approve of me—for once?" he queried, with a rather twisted little smile.

Olga remained silent for a moment, her eyes searching his face. Then she said very deliberately:—

"I am glad you were able to play for Miss Quentin."

"But you won't commit yourself so far as to say that I have your approval—even once?"

Miss Lermontof leaned forward impetuously.

"How can I?" she said, in hurried tones, "It's all wrong—oh! you know that it's all wrong."

Errington shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm afraid we can never see eye to eye," he answered. "Let us, then, be philosophical over the matter and agree to differ."

Olga's green eyes flamed with sudden anger, but she abstained from making any reply, turning away from him abruptly.

Diana, whose attention had been claimed by the Rector, had not caught the quickly spoken sentences which had passed between the two, but she was puzzled over the oddly yearning look she had surprised in Olga's eyes. There had been a tenderness, a species of wistful longing in her gaze, as she had turned towards Max Errington, which tallied ill with the bitter incisiveness of the remarks she let fall at times concerning him.

"Well, my dear"—the Rector's voice recalled Diana's wandering thoughts—"Joan and I must be getting back to our hotel, if we are to be dressed in time for the dinner Miss de Gervais is giving in your honour to-night."

Diana glanced at the clock and nodded.

"Indeed you must, Pobs darling. And I will send away these other good people too. As we're all going to meet again at dinner we can bear to be separated for an hour or so—even Jerry and Joan, I suppose?" she added whimsically, in a lower tone.

"It's invidious to mention names," murmured Stair, "or I might—"

Diana laid her hand lightly across his mouth.

"No, you mightn't," she said firmly. "Put on your coat and that nice squashy hat of yours, and trot back to your hotel like a good Pobs."

Stair laughed, looking down at her with kind eyes.

"Very well, little autocrat." He put his hand under her chin and tilted her face up. "I've not congratulated you yet, my dear. It's a big thing you've done—captured London in a day. But it's a bigger thing you'll have to do."

"You mean Paris—Vienna?"

He shook his head, still with the kind smile in his eyes.

"No. I mean, keep me the little Diana I love—don't let me lose her in the public singer."

"Oh, Pobs!"—reproachfully. "As though I should ever change!"

"Not deliberately—not willingly, I'm sure. But—success is a difficult sea to swim."

He sighed, kissed her upturned face, and then, with twist of his shoulders, pulled on his overcoat and prepared to depart.

Success is exhilarating. It goes to the head like wine, and yet, as Diana lay in bed that night, staring with wide eyes into the darkness, the memory that stood out in vivid relief from amongst the crowded events of the day was not the triumph of the afternoon, nor the merry evening which succeeded it, when "the coming prima donna" had been toasted amid a fusillade of brilliant little speeches and light-hearted laughter, but the remembrance of a pair of passionate, demanding blue eyes and of a low, tense voice saying:—

"I swear I won't fail you. Let me 'stand by.'"



CHAPTER XIV

THE FLAME OF LOVE

Diana's gaze wandered idly over the blue stretch of water, as it lay beneath the blazing August sun, while the sea-gulls, like streaks of white light, wheeled through the shimmering haze of the atmosphere. Her hands were loosely clasped around her knees, and a little evanescent smile played about her lips. Behind her, the great red cliffs of Culver Point reared up against the sapphire of the sky, and she was thinking dreamily of that day, nearly eighteen months ago, when she had been sitting in the self-same place, leaning against the self-same rock, whilst a grey waste of water crept hungrily up to her very feet, threatening to claim her as its prey. And then Errington had come, and straightway all the danger was passed.

Looking back, it seemed as though that had always been the way of things. Some menace had arisen, either by land or sea—or even, as at her recital, out of the very intensity of feeling which her singing had inspired—and immediately Max had intervened and the danger had been averted.

She laid her hand caressingly on the sun-warmed surface of the rock. How many things had happened since she had last leaned against its uncomfortable excrescences! She felt quite affectionately towards it, as one who has journeyed far may feel towards some old landmark of his youth which he finds unaltered on his return, from wandering in strange lands. The immutability of things, as compared with the constant fluctuation of life and circumstance, struck her poignantly. Here was this rock—cast up from the bowels of the earth thousands of years ago and washed by the waves of a million tides—still unchanged and changeless, while, for her, the face of the whole world had altered in little more than a year!

From a young girl-student, one insignificant person among scores of others similarly insignificant, she had become a prominent personality, some one in whom even the great, busy, hurrying world paused to take an interest, and of whom the newspapers wrote eulogistic notices, heralding her as the coming English prima donna. She felt rather like a mole which has been working quietly in the dark, tunnelling a passage for itself, unseen and unsuspected, and which has suddenly emerged above the surface of the earth, much to its own—and every one else's—astonishment!

Then, too, how utterly changed were her relations with Max Errington! At the beginning of their acquaintance he had held himself deliberately aloof, but since that evening at Adrienne de Gervais' house, when they had formed a compact of friendship, he had, apparently, completely blotted out from his mind the remembrance of the obstacle, whatever it might be, which he had contended must render any friendship between them out of the question.

And during these last few months Diana had gradually come to know the lofty strain of idealism which ran through the man's whole nature. Passionate, obstinate, unyielding—he could be each and all in turn, but, side by side with these exterior characteristics, there ran a streak of almost feminine delicacy of perception and ideality of purpose. Diana had once told him, laughingly, that he was of the stuff of which martyrs were made in the old days of persecution, and in this she had haphazard lit upon the fundamental force that shaped his actions. The burden which fate, or his own deeds, might lay upon his shoulders, that he would bear, be it what it might.

"Everything's got to be paid for," he had said one day. "It's inevitable. So what's the use of jibing at the price?"

Diana wondered whether the price of that mysterious something which lay in his past, and which not even intimate friendship had revealed to her, would mean that this comradeship must always remain only that—and never anything more?

A warm flush mounted to her face as the unbidden thought crept into her mind. Errington had been down at Crailing most of the summer, staying at Red Gables, and during the long, lazy days they had spent together, motoring, or sailing, or tramping over Dartmoor with the keen moorland air, like sparkling wine, in their nostrils, it seemed as though a deeper note had sounded than merely that of friendship.

And yet he had said nothing, although his eyes had spoken—those vivid blue eyes which sometimes blazed with a white heat of smouldering passion that set her heart racing madly within her.

She flinched shyly away from her own thoughts, pulling restlessly at the dried weed which clung about the surface of the rock. A little brown crab ran out from a crevice, and, terrified by the big human hand which he espied meddling with the clump of weed and threatening to interfere with the liberty of the subject, skedaddled sideways into the safety of another cranny.

The hurried rush of the little live thing roused Diana from her day-dreams, and looking up, she saw Max coming to her across the sands.

She watched the proud, free gait of the tall figure with appreciation in her eyes. There was something very individual and characteristic about Max's walk—a suggestion as of immense vitality held in check, together with a certain air of haughty resolution and command.

"I thought I might find you here," he said, when they had shaken hands.

"Did you want me?"

He looked at her with a curious expression in his eyes.

"I always want you, I think," he said simply.

"Well, you seem to have a faculty for always turning up when I want you," she replied. "I was just thinking how often you had appeared in the very nick of time. Seriously"—her voice took on a graver note—"I feel I can't ever repay you.—you've come to my help so often."

"There is a way," he said, very low, and then fell silent.

"Tell me," she urged him, smilingly. "I like to pay my debts."

He made no answer, and Diana, suddenly nervous and puzzled, continued a little breathlessly:—

"Have I—have I offended you? I—I thought"—her lips quivered—"we had agreed to be friends."

Max was silent a moment. Then he said slowly:—

"I can't keep that compact."

Diana's heart contracted with a sudden fear.

"Can't keep it?" she repeated dully. She could not picture her life—no—robbed of this friendship!

"No." His hands hung clenched at his sides, and he stood staring at her from beneath bent brows, his mouth set in a straight line. It was as though he were holding himself under a rigid restraint, against which something within him battled, striving for release.

All at once his control snapped.

"I love you! . . . God in heaven! Haven't you guessed it?"

The words broke from him like a bitter cry—the cry of a heart torn in twain by love and thwarted longing. Diana felt the urgency of its demand thrill through her whole being.

"Max . . ."

It was the merest whisper, reaching his ears like the touch of a butterfly's wing—hesitantly shy, and honey-sweet with the promise of summer.

The next instant his arms were round her and he was holding her as though he would never let her go, passionately kissing the soft mouth, so close beneath his own. He lifted her off her feet, crushing her to him, and Diana, the woman in her definitely, vividly aroused at last, clung to him yielding, but half-terrified by the tempest of emotion she had waked.

"My beloved! . . . My soul!"

His voice was vehement with the love and passion at length unleashed from bondage; his kisses hurt her. There was something torrential, overwhelming, in his imperious wooing. He held her with the fierce, possessive grip of primitive man claiming the chosen woman as his mate.

She struggled faintly against him.

"Ah! Max—Max . . . . Let me go. You're frightening me."

She heard him draw his breath hard, and then slowly, reluctantly, as though by a sheer effort of will, he set her down. He was white to the lips, and his eyes glowed like blue flame in their pallid setting.

"Frighten you!" he repeated hoarsely. "You don't know what love means—you English."

Diana stared at him.

"'You English!' What—what are you saying? Max, aren't you English after all?"

He threw back his head with a laugh.

"Oh, yes, I'm English. But I'm something else as well. . . . There's warmer blood in my veins, and I can't love like an Englishman. Oh, Diana, heart's beloved, let me teach you what love is!"

Impetuously he caught her in his arms again, and once more she felt the storm of his passion sweep over her as he rained fierce kisses on eyes and throat and lips. For a space it seemed as if the whole world were blotted out and there were only they two alone together—shaken to the very foundations of their being by the tremendous force of the whirlwind of love which had engulfed them.

When at length he released her, all her reserves were down.

"Max . . . Max . . . I love you!"

The confession fell from her lips with a timid, exquisite abandon. He was her mate and she recognised it. He had conquered her.

Presently he put her from him, very gently, but decisively.

"Diana, heart's dearest, there is something more—something I have not told you yet."

She looked at him with sudden apprehension in her eyes.

"Max! . . . Nothing—nothing that need come between us?"

Memories of the past, of all the incomprehensible episodes of their acquaintance—his refusal to recognise her, his reluctance to accept her friendship—came crowding in upon her, threatening the destruction of her new-found happiness.

"Not if you can be strong—not if you'll trust me." He looked at her searchingly.

"Trust you? But I do trust you. Should I have . . . Oh, Max!" the warm colour dyed her face from chin to brow—"Could I love you if I didn't trust you?"

There was a tender, almost compassionate expression in his eyes as he answered, rather sadly:—

"Ah, my dear, we don't know what 'trust' really means until we are called upon to give it. . . . And I want so much from you!"

Diana slipped her hand confidently into his.

"Tell me," she said, smiling at him. "I don't think I shall fail you."

He was silent for a while, wondering if the next words he spoke would set them as far apart as though the previous hour had never been. At last he spoke.

"Do you believe that husbands and wives should have no secrets from one another?" he asked abruptly.

Diana had never really given the matter consideration—never formulated such a question in her mind. But now, in the light of love's awakening; she instinctively knew the answer to it. Her opinion leaped into life fully formed; she was aware, without the shadow of a doubt, of her own feelings on the subject.

"Certainly they shouldn't," she answered promptly. "Why, Max, that would be breaking the very link that binds them together—their oneness each with the other. You think that, too, don't you? Why—why did you ask me?" A premonition of evil assailed her, and her voice trembled a little.

"I asked you because—because if you marry me you will have to face the fact that there is a secret in my life which I cannot share with you—something I can't tell you about." Then, as he saw the blank look on her face, he went on rapidly: "It will be the only thing, beloved. There shall be nothing else in life that will not be 'ours,' between us, shared by us both. I swear it! . . . Diana, I must make you understand. It was because of this—this secret—that I kept away from you. You couldn't understand—oh! I saw it in your face sometimes. You were hurt by what I did and said, and it tortured me to hurt you—to see your lip quiver, your eyes suddenly grow misty, and to know it was I who had wounded you, I, who would give the last drop of blood in my body to save you pain."