DIANA'S DECISION
Max had been gone a week--a week of distress and miserable indecision
for Diana, racked as she was between her love and her conviction that
marriage under the only circumstances possible would inevitably bring
unhappiness. Over and above this fear there was the instinctive recoil
she felt from Errington's demand for such blind faith. Her pride
rebelled against it. If he loved her and had confidence in her, why
couldn't he trust her with his secret? It was treating her like a
child, and it would be wrong--all wrong--she argued, to begin their
married life with concealment and secrecy for its foundation.
One morning she even wrote to him, telling him definitely either that
he must trust her altogether, or that they must part irrevocably. But
the letter was torn up the same afternoon, and Diana went to bed that
night with her decision still untaken.
For several nights she had slept but little, and once again she passed
long hours tossing feverishly from side to side of the bed or pacing up
and down her room, love and pride fighting a stubborn battle within
her. Had Max remained at Crailing, love would have gained an easy
victory, but, true to his promise, he had gone away, leaving her to
make her decision free and untrammelled by his influence.
Diana's face was beginning to show signs of the mental struggle through
which she was passing. Dark shadows lay beneath her eyes, and her
cheeks, even in so short a time, had hollowed a little. She was
irritable, too, and unlike herself, and at last Stair, whose watchful
eyes had noted all these things, though he had refrained from comment,
taxed her with keeping him outside her confidence.
"Can't I help, Di?" he asked, laying his hand on her shoulder, and
twisting her round so that she faced him.
The quick colour flew into her cheeks. For a moment she hesitated,
while Stair, releasing his hold of her, dropped into a chair and busied
himself filling and lighting his pipe.
"Well?" he queried at last, smiling whimsically. "Won't you give me an
old friend's right to ask impertinent questions?"
Impulsively she yielded.
"You needn't, Pobs. I'll tell you all about it."
When she had finished, a long silence ensued. Not that Stair was in
any doubt as to what form his advice should take--idealist that he was,
there did not seem to him to be any question in the matter. He only
hesitated as to how he could best word his counsel.
At last he spoke, very gently, his eyes lit with that inner radiance
which gave such an arresting charm of expression to his face.
"My dear," he said, "it seems to me that if you love him you needs
_must_ trust him. 'Perfect love casteth out fear.'"
Diana shook her head.
"Mightn't you reverse that, Pobs, and say that he would trust _me_--if
he loves me?"
"No, not necessarily." Alan sucked at his pipe. "He knows what his
secret is, and whether it is right or wrong for you to share it. You
haven't that knowledge. And that's where your trust must come in. You
have to believe in him enough to leave it to him to decide whether you
ought to be told or not. Have you no confidence in his judgment?"
"I don't think husbands and wives should have secrets from one
another," protested Diana obstinately.
"Does he propose to have any other than this one?"
"No."
"Then I don't see that you need complain. The present and the future
are yours, but you've no right to demand the past as well. And this
secret, whatever it may be, belongs to the past."
"As far as I can see it will be cropping up in the future as well,"
said Diana ruefully. "It seems to be a 'continued in our next' kind of
mystery."
Stair laughed boyishly.
"It should add a zest to life if that's the case," he retorted.
Diana was silent a moment. Then she said suddenly:--
"Pobs, what am I to do?"
Instantly Stair became grave again.
"My dear, do you love him?"
Diana nodded, her eyes replying.
"Then nothing else matters a straw. If you love him enough to trust
him with the whole of the rest of your life, you can surely trust him
over a twopenny-halfpenny little secret which, after all, has nothing
in the world to do with you. If you can't, do you know what it looks
like?"
She regarded him questioningly.
"It looks as though you suspected the secret of being a disgraceful
one--something of which Max is ashamed to tell you. Do
you"--sharply--"think that?"
"Of course I don't!" she burst out indignantly.
"Then why trouble? Possibly the matter concerns some one else besides
himself, and he may not be at liberty to tell you anything--he might
have a dozen different reasons for keeping his own counsel. And the
woman who loves him and is ready to be his wife is the first to doubt
and, distrust him! Diana, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. If my
wife"--his voice shook a little---"had ever doubted me--no matter how
black things might have looked against me--I think it would have broken
my heart."
Diana's head drooped lower and lower as he spoke, and presently her
hand stole out, seeking his. In a moment it was taken and held in a
close and kindly clasp.
"I'll--I'll marry him, Pobs," she whispered.
So it came about that when, two days later, Max took his way to 24
Brutton Square, the gods had better gifts in store for him than he had
dared to hope.
He was pacing restlessly up and down her little sitting-room when she
entered it, and she could see that his face bore traces of the last few
days' anxiety. There were new lines about his mouth, and his eyes were
so darkly shadowed as to seem almost sunken in their sockets.
"You have come back!" he said, stepping eagerly towards her.
"Diana"--there was a note of strain in his voice--"which is it?
Yes--or no?"
She held out her hands.
"It's--it's 'yes,' Max."
A stifled exclamation broke from him, almost like a sob. He folded her
in his arms and laid his lips to hers.
"My beloved! . . . Oh, Diana, if you could guess the agony--the
torture of the last ten days!" And he leaned his cheek against her
hair, and stood silently for a little space.
Presently fear overcame him again--quick fear lest she should ever
regret having given herself to him.
"Heart's dearest, have you realised that it will be very hard
sometimes? You will ask me to explain things--and I shan't be able to.
Is your trust big enough--great enough for this?"
Diana raised her head from his shoulder.
"I love you," she answered steadily.
"Do you forget the shadow? It is there still, dogging my steps. Not
even your love can alter that."
For a moment Diana rose to the heights of her womanhood.
"If there must be a shadow," she said, "we will walk in it together."
"But--don't you see?--I shall know what it is. To you it will always
be something unknown, hidden, mysterious. Child! Child! I wonder if
I am right to let you join your life to mine!"
But Diana only repeated:--
"I love you."
And at last he flung all thoughts of warning and doubt aside, and
secure in that reiterated "I love you!" yielded to the unutterable joy
of the moment.