"WHOM GOD HATH JOINED TOGETHER"
Max and Diana were married shortly before the following Christmas. The
wedding took place very quietly at Crailing, only a few intimate friends
being asked to it. For, as Max pointed out, either their invitations
must be limited to a dozen or so, or else Diana must resign herself to a
fashionable wedding in town, with all the world and his wife as guests at
the subsequent reception. No middle course is possible when a well-known
dramatist elects to marry the latest sensation in the musical world!
So it was in the tiny grey church overlooking the sea that Max and Diana
were made one, with the distant murmur of the waves in their ears, and
with Alan Stair to speak the solemn words that joined their lives
together, and when the little intimate luncheon which followed the
ceremony was over, they drove away in Max's car to the wild, beautiful
coast of Cornwall, there to spend the first perfect days of their married
life.
And they were perfect days! Afterwards, when clouds had dimmed the
radiance of the sun, and doubts and ugly questionings were beating up on
every side, Diana had always that radiant fortnight by the Cornish
sea--she and Max alone together--to look back upon.
The woman whose married life holds sorrow, and who has no such golden
memory stored away, is bereft indeed!
On their return to London, the Erringtons established themselves at Lilac
Lodge, a charming old-fashioned house in Hampstead, where the
creeper-clad walls and great bushes of lilac reminded Diana pleasantly of
the old Rectory at Crailing. Jerry made one of the household--"resident
secretary" as he proudly termed himself, and his cheery, good-humoured
presence was invaluable whenever difficulties arose.
But at first there were few, indeed, of the latter to contend with.
Owing to the illness of an important member of the cast, without whose
services Adrienne declined to perform, the production of Max's new play,
"Mrs. Fleming's Husband," was delayed until the autumn. This
postponement left him free to devote much more of his time to his wife
than would otherwise have been possible, and for the first few months
after their marriage it seemed as though no shadow could ever fall
athwart their happiness.
In this respect Baroni's prognostications of evil had failed to
materialise, but his fears that marriage would interfere with Diana's
musical career were better founded. Quite easily and naturally she
slipped out of the professional life which had just been opening its
doors to her. She felt no inclination to continue singing in public.
Max filled her existence, and although she still persevered with her
musical training under Baroni, she told him with a frank enjoyment of the
situation that she was far too happy and enjoying herself far too much to
have any desire at present to take up the arduous work of a public singer!
Baroni was immeasurably disappointed, and not all Diana's assurances that
in a year, or two at most, she would go back into harness once more
sufficed to cheer him.
"A year--two years!" he exclaimed. "Two years lost at the critical
time--just at the commencement of your career! Ah, my dear Mrs.
Errington, you had better haf lost four years later on when you haf
established yourself."
To Max himself the old _maestro_ was short and to the point when chance
gave him the opportunity of a few moments alone with him.
"You haf stolen her from me, Max Errington--you haf broken your promise
that she should be free to sing."
Max responded good-humouredly:--
"She _is_ free, _Maestro_, free to do exactly as she chooses. And she
has chosen--to be my wife, to live for a time the pleasant, peaceful life
that ordinary, everyday folk may live, who are not rushed hither and
thither at the call of a career. Can you honestly say she hasn't chosen
the better part?"
Baroni was silent.
"Don't grudge her a year or two of freedom," pursued Max. "You know, you
old slave-driver, you,"--laughing--"that it is only because you want her
for your beloved Art--because you want her voice! Otherwise you would
rejoice in her happiness."
"And you--what is it you want?" retorted Baroni, unappeased. "You want
her soul! Whereas I would give her soul wings that she might send it
singing forth into an enraptured world."
But Baroni's words fell upon stony ground, and Max and Diana went their
way, absorbed in one another and in the wonderful happiness which love
had brought them.
Thus spring slipped away into summer, and the season was in full swing
when fate tossed the first pebble into their unruffled pool of joy.
It was only a brief paragraph, sandwiched in between the musical notes of
a morning paper, to which Olga Lermontof, who came daily to Lilac Lodge
to practise with Diana, drew the latter's attention. The paragraph
recalled the fact that it was just a year since Miss Quentin had made her
debut, and then went on to comment lightly upon the brief and meteoric
character of her professional appearances.
"Domesticity should not have claimed Miss Quentin"--so ran the actual
words. "Hers was a voice the like of which we may not hear again, and
the public grudges its withdrawal. _A propos_, we had always thought
(until circumstances proved us hopelessly wrong) that the fortunate man,
whose gain has been such a loss to the musical world, seemed born to
write plays for a certain charming actress--and she to play the part
which he assigned her."
Diana showed the paragraph to Max, who frowned as he read it, and finally
tore the newspaper in which it had appeared across and across, flinging
the pieces into the grate.
Then he turned and laid his hands on Diana's shoulders, gazing
searchingly into her face.
"Have you felt--anything of what that paragraph suggests?" he demanded.
"Am I taking too much from you, Diana? I love to keep you to myself--not
to have to share you with the world, but I won't stand in your light, or
hold you back if you wish to go--not even"--with a wry smile--"if it
should mean your absence on a tour."
"Silly boy!" Diana patted his head reprovingly. "I don't _want_ to sing
in public--at least, not now, not yet. Later on, I dare say, I shall
like to take it up again. And as for leaving you and going on
tour"--laughingly--"the latter half of the paragraph should serve as a
warning to me not to think of such a thing!"
To her surprise Max did not laugh with her. Instead, he answered
coldly:--
"I hope you have more sense than to pay attention to what any damned
newspaper may have to say about me--or about Miss de Gervais either."
"Why, Max,--Max--"
Diana stared at him in dismay, flushing a little. It was the first time
he had spoken harshly to her since their marriage.
In an instant he had caught her in his arms, passionately repentant.
"Dearest, forgive me! It was only--only that you are bound to read such
things, and it angered me for a moment. Miss de Gervais and I see too
much of each other to escape all comment."
Diana withdrew herself slowly from his arms.
"And--and must you see so much of her now? Now that we are married?" she
asked, rather wistfully.
"Why, of course. We have so many professional matters to discuss. You
must be prepared for that, Diana. When we begin rehearsing 'Mrs.
Fleming's Husband,' I shall be down at the theatre every day."
"Oh, yes, at the theatre. But--but you go to see Adrienne rather often
now, don't you? And the rehearsals haven't begun yet."
Max hesitated a moment. Then he said quietly:--
"Dear, you must learn not to be jealous of my work. There are
always--many things--that I have to discuss with Miss de Gervais."
And so, for the time being, the subject dropped. But the shadow had
flitted for a moment across the face of the sun. A little cloud, no
bigger than a man's hand, had shown itself upon the horizon.
In July the Erringtons left town to spend a brief holiday at Crailing
Rectory, and on their return, the preparations for the production of
"Mrs. Fleming's Husband" went forward in good earnest.
They had not been back in town a week before Diana realised that, as the
wife of a dramatist on the eve of the production of a play, she must be
prepared to cede her prior right in her husband to the innumerable people
who claimed his time on matters relating to the forthcoming production,
and, above all, to the actress who was playing the leading part in it.
And it was in respect of this latter demand that Diana found the
matrimonial shoe begin to pinch. To her, it seemed as though Adrienne
were for ever 'phoning Max to come and see her, and invariably he set
everything else aside--even Diana herself, if needs be--and obeyed her
behest.
"I can't see why Adrienne wants to consult you so often," Diana protested
one day. "She is perpetually ringing you up to go round to Somervell
Street--or if it's not that, then she is writing to you."
Max laughed her protest aside.
"Well, there's a lot to consult about, you see," he said vaguely.
"So it seems. I shall be glad when it is all finished and I have you to
myself again. When will the play be on?"
"About the middle of October," he replied, fidgeting restlessly with the
papers that strewed his desk. They were talking in his own particular
den, and Diana's eyes ruefully followed the restless gesture.
"I suppose," she said slowly, "you want me to go?"
"Well"--apologetically--"I have a lot to attend to this morning. Will
you send Jerry to me--do you mind, dearest?"
"It wouldn't make much difference if I did," she responded grimly, as she
went towards the door.
Max looked after her thoughtfully in silence. When she had gone, he
leaned his head rather wearily upon his hand.
"It's better so," he muttered. "Better she should think it's only the
play that binds me to Adrienne."