THE SHADOW FALLS
Breakfast, the following morning, was something of an ordeal. Neither
Max nor Diana spoke to each other if speech could be avoided, and, when
this was impossible, they addressed each other with a frigid politeness
that was more painful than the silence.
Jerry and Joan, sensing the antagonism in the atmosphere, endeavoured
to make conversation, but their efforts received scant encouragement,
and both were thankful when the meal came to an end, and they were free
to seek refuge in another room, leaving husband and wife alone together.
Diana glanced a trifle nervously at her husband as the door closed
behind them. There was a coldness, an aloofness about him, that
reminded her vividly of the early days of their acquaintanceship, when
his cool indifference of manner had set a barrier between them which
her impulsive girlhood had been powerless to break through.
"Will you spare me a few minutes in my study?" he said. His face was
perfectly impassive; only the peculiar brilliancy of his eyes spoke of
the white-hot anger he was holding in leash.
Diana nodded silently. For a moment, bereft of words, she quailed
before the knowledge of that concentrated anger, but by the time they
had reached his study she had pulled herself together, and was ready to
face him with a high temper almost equal to his own.
She had had the night for reflection, and the sense of bitter injustice
under which she was labouring had roused in her the same dogged,
unbending obstinacy which, in a much smaller way, had evinced itself
when Baroni had thrown the music at her and had subsequently bade her
pick it up.
But now that sense of wild rebellion against injustice, against
personal injury, was magnified a thousandfold. For months she had been
drifting steadily apart from her husband, acutely conscious of that
secret thing in his life, and fiercely resentful of its imperceptible,
yet binding influence on all his actions. Again and again she had been
perplexed and mystified by certain incomprehensible things which she
had observed--for instance, the fact that, as she knew, part of Max's
correspondence was conducted in cipher; that at times he seemed quite
unaccountably worried and depressed; and, above all, that he was for
ever at the beck and call of Adrienne de Gervais.
Gradually she had begun to connect the two things--Adrienne, and that
secret which dwelt like a shadowy menace at the back of everything. It
was clear, too, that they were also linked together in the minds both
of Baroni and Olga Lermontof--a dropped sentence here, a hint there,
had assured her of that.
Then had come Olga's definite suggestion, "Adrienne de Gervais is a bad
friend for the man one loves!" And from that point onward Diana had
seen new meanings in all that passed between her husband and the
actress, and a blind jealousy had taken possession of her. Something
out of the past bound her husband and Adrienne together, of that she
felt convinced. She believed that the knowledge which Max had chosen
to withhold from her--his wife--he shared with Adrienne--and all
Diana's fierce young sense of possession rose up in opposition.
Last night, the sight of her husband and the actress, standing together
on the stage, had seemed to her to epitomise their relative
positions--Max and Adrienne, working together, fully in each other's
confidence, whilst she herself was the outsider, only the onlooker in
the box!
"Well?" she said, defiantly turning to her husband. "Well? What is it
you wish to say to me?"
"I want an explanation of your conduct--last night."
"And I," she retorted impetuously, "I want an explanation of your
conduct--ever since we've been married!"
He swept her demand aside as though it were the irresponsible prattle
of a child, ignored it utterly. He was conscious of only one
thing--that she had barred herself away from him, humiliated him, dealt
their mutual love a blow beneath which it reeled.
The bolted door itself counted for nothing. What mattered was that it
was she who had closed it, deliberately choosing to shut him outside
her life, and cutting every cord of love and trust and belief that
bound them together.
An Englishman might have stormed or laughed, as the mood took him, and
comforted himself with the reflection that she would "get over it."
But not so Max. The sensitiveness which he hid from the world at
large, but which revealed itself in the lines of that fine-cut mouth of
his, winced under the humiliation she had put upon him. Love, in his
idea, was a thing so delicate, so rare, that Diana's crude handling of
the situation bore for him a far deeper meaning than the impulsive,
headlong action of the over-wrought girl had rightly held. To Max, it
signified the end--the denial of all the exquisite trust and
understanding which love should represent. If she could think for an
instant that he would have asked aught from her at a moment when they
were so far apart in spirit, then she had not understood the ideal
oneness of body and soul which love signified to him, and the knowledge
that she had actually sought to protect herself from him had hurt him
unbearably.
"Last night," he said slowly, "you showed me that you have no trust, no
faith in me any longer."
And Diana, misunderstanding, thinking of the secret which he would not
share with her, and impelled by the jealousy that obsessed her, replied
impetuously:--
"Yes, I meant to show you that. You refuse me your confidence, and
expect me to believe in you! You set me aside for Adrienne de Gervais,
and then you ask me to--_trust_ you? How can I? . . . I'm not a fool,
Max."
"So it's that? The one thing over which I asked your faith?" The
limitless scorn in his voice lashed her.
"You had no right to ask it!" she broke out bitterly. "Oh, you knew
what it would mean. I, I was too young to realise. I didn't think--I
didn't understand what a horrible thing a secret between husband and
wife might be. But I can't bear it--I can't bear it any longer! I
sometimes wonder," she added slowly, "if you ever loved me?"
"If I ever loved you?" he repeated. "There has never been any other
woman in the world for me. There never will be."
The utter, absolute conviction of his tones knocked at her heart, but
fear and jealousy were stronger than love.
"Then prove it!" she retorted. "Take me into your confidence; put
Adrienne out of your life."
"It isn't possible--not yet," he said wearily. "You're asking what I
cannot do."
She took a step nearer.
"Tell me this, then. What did Olga Lermontof mean when she bade me ask
your name? Oh!"--with a quick intake of her breath--"you _must_ answer
that, Max; you _must_ tell me that. I have a _right_ to know it!"
For a moment he was silent, while she waited, eager-eyed, tremulously
appealing, for his answer. At last it came.
"No," he said inflexibly. "You have no--right--to ask anything I
haven't chosen to tell you. When you gave me your love, you gave me
your faith, too. I warned you what it might mean--but you gave it.
And I"--his voice deepened--"I worshipped you for it! But I see now, I
asked too much of you. More"--cynically--"than any woman has to give."
"Then--then"--her voice trembled--"you mean you won't tell me anything
more?"
"I can't."
"And--and Adrienne? Everything must go on just the same?"
"Just the same"--implacably.
She looked at him, curiously.
"And you expect me still to feel the same towards you, I suppose? To
behave as though nothing had come between us?"
For a moment his control gave way.
"I expect nothing," he said hoarsely. "I shall never ask you for
anything again--neither love nor friendship. As you have decreed, so
it shall be!"
Slowly, with bent head, Diana turned and left the room.
So this was the end! She had made her appeal, risked everything on his
love for her--and lost. Adrienne de Gervais was stronger than she!
Hereafter, she supposed, they would live as so many other husbands and
wives lived--outwardly good friends, but actually with all the
beautiful links of love and understanding shattered and broken.
* * * * * *
"Since the first night of the play they've hardly said a word to each
other--only when it's absolutely necessary." Joan spoke dejectedly,
her chin cupped in her hand.
Jerry nodded.
"I know," he agreed. "It's pretty awful."
He and Joan were having tea alone together, cosily, by the library
fire. Diana had gone out to a singing-lesson, and Errington was shut
up in his study attending to certain letters, written in
cipher--letters which reached him frequently, bearing a foreign
postmark, and the answers to which he never by any chance dictated to
his secretary.
"Surely they can't have quarrelled, just because he didn't come to the
theatre with us that night," pursued Joan. "Do you think Diana could
have been offended because he came down afterwards to please Miss
Gervais?"
"Partly that. But it's a lot of things together, really. I've seen it
coming. Diana's been getting restive for some time. There are--Look
here! I don't wish to pry into what's not my business, but a fellow
can't live in a house without seeing things, and there's something in
Errington's life which Di knows nothing about. And it's that--just the
not knowing--which is coming between them."
"Well, then, why on earth doesn't he tell her about it, whatever it is?"
Jerry shrugged his shoulders.
"Can't say. _I_ don't know what it is; it's not my business to know.
But his wife's another proposition altogether."
"I suppose he expects her to trust him over it," said Joan thoughtfully.
"That's about the size of it. And Diana isn't taking any."
"I should trust him with anything in the world--a man with that face!"
observed Joan, after a pause.
"There you go!" cried Jerry discontentedly. "There you go, with your
unfailing faith in the visible object. A man's got to _look_ a hero
before you think twice about him! Mark my words, Jo--many a saint's
face has hidden the heart of a devil."
Joan surveyed him consideringly.
"I've never observed that you have a saint's face, Jerry," she remarked
calmly.
"Beast! Joan"--he made a dive for her hand, but she eluded him with
the skill of frequent practice--"how much longer are you going to keep
me on tenterhooks? You know I'm the prodigal son, and that I'm only
waiting for you to say 'yes,' to return to the family bosom--"
"And you propose to use me as a stepping stone! I know. You think
that if you return as an engaged young man--"
"With a good reference from my last situation," interpolated Jerry,
grinning.
"Yes--that too, then your father will forget all your peccadilloes and
say, 'Bless you, my children'--"
"Limelight on the blushing bur-ride! And they lived happily ever
after! Yes, that's it! Jolly good programme, isn't it?"
And somehow Jerry's big boyish arm slipped itself round Joan's
shoulders--and Joan raised no objections.
"But--about Max and Diana?" resumed Miss Stair after a judicious
interval.
"Well, what about them?"
"Can't we--can't we do anything? Talk to them?"
"I just see myself talking to Errington!" murmured Jerry. "I'd about
as soon discuss its private and internal arrangements with a volcano!
My dear kid, it all depends upon Diana and whether she's content to
trust her husband or not. _I'd_ trust Max through thick and thin, and
no questions asked. If he blew up the Houses of Parliament, I should
believe he'd some good reason for doing it. . . . But then, I'm not
his wife!"
"Well, I shall talk to Diana," said Joan seriously. "I'm sure Dad
would, if he were here. And I do think, Jerry, you might screw up
courage to speak to Max. He can't eat you! And--and I simply hate to
see those two at cross purposes! They were so happy at the beginning."
The mention of matrimonial happiness started a new train of thought,
and the conversation became of a more personal nature--the kind of
conversation wherein every second or third sentence starts with "when
we are married," and thence launches out into rose-red visions of the
great adventure.
Presently the house door clanged, and a minute later Diana came into
the room. She threw aside her furs and looked round hastily.
"Where's Max?" she asked sharply.
"Not concealed beneath the Chesterfield," volunteered Jerry flippantly.
Then, as he caught a hostile sparkle of irritation in her grey eyes, he
added hastily, "He's in his study."
Diana nodded, and, without further remark, went away in search of her
husband.
"Are you busy, Max?" she asked, pausing on the threshold of the room
where he was working.
He rose at once, placing a chair for her with the chilly courtesy which
he had accorded her since their last interview in this same room.
"Not too busy to attend to you," he replied. "Where will you sit? By
the fire?"
Diana shook her head. She was a little flushed, and her eyes were
bright with some suppressed excitement,
"No thanks," she replied. "I only came to tell you that I've been
having a talk with Baroni about my voice, and--and that I've decided to
begin singing again this winter--professionally, I mean. It seems a
pity to waste any more time."
She spoke rapidly, and with a certain nervousness.
For an instant a look of acute pain leaped into Errington's eyes, but
it was gone almost at once, and he turned to her composedly.
"Is that the only reason, Diana?" he said. "The waste of time?"
She was silent a moment, busying herself stripping off her gloves.
Presently she looked up, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
"No," she said steadily. "It isn't."
"May I know the--other reasons?"
Her lip curled.
"I should have thought they were obvious. Our marriage has been a
mistake. It's a failure. And I can't bear this life any longer. . . .
I must have something to do."