THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
"Jerry"--Diana came into her husband's study, where his secretary, who
had nothing further to do until his employer's return, was pottering
about putting the bookshelves to rights, "Jerry, I'm going to give you a
holiday. You can go down to Crailing to-day."
Jerry turned round in surprise.
"But, I say, Diana, I can't, you know--not while Max is away. I'm
supposed to make myself useful to you."
"Well, I think you did make yourself--very useful--last night, didn't
you?"
"Oh, that!" Jerry shrugged his shoulders. Then, surveying her
critically, he added: "You look awfully tired this morning, Di!"
She did. There were purple shadows beneath her eyes, and her face looked
white and drawn. The previous evening had been the occasion of her
reception, and she had carried it pluckily through single-handed. Quiet
and composed, she had moved about amongst her guests, covering Max's
absence with a light touch and pretty apology, her demeanour so natural
and unembarrassed that the tongues, which would otherwise have wagged
swiftly enough, were inevitably stilled.
But the strain had told upon her. This morning she looked haggard and
ill, more fit to be in bed than anything else.
"Oh, I shall be all right after a night's rest," she answered cheerfully.
"And as to making yourself useful there's really nothing I want you to do
for me. But I _do_ want you to go and make your peace with your father,
and take Joan to him. I'm sure he'll love her! So I'm writing to Max
telling him that I've given you leave of absence. He won't be returning
till Saturday at the earliest, and probably not then. If he wants you
back on Monday, we'll wire."
Jerry hesitated.
"Are you sure it will be quite all right? I don't really like leaving
you."
"Quite all right," she assured him. "I _did_ want you for the party last
night, and you were the greatest possible help to me. But now, I don't
want you a bit for anything. If you're quick, you can catch the two
o'clock down express and"--twinkling--"see Joan this evening."
"Diana, you're a brick!" And Jerry dashed upstairs to pack his suit-case.
Diana heaved a sigh of relief when, a few hours later, a triumphant and
joyous Jerry departed in search of a bride. She wanted him out of the
house, for that which she had decided to do would be more easily
accomplished without the boy's honest, affectionate eyes beseeching her.
All her arrangements were completed, and to-morrow--to-morrow she was
going to leave Lilac Lodge for ever. Never again would she share the
life of the man who had shown her clearly that, although she was his
wife, she counted with him so infinitely less than that other--than
Adrienne de Gervais. Her pride might break in the leaving, but it would
bend to living under the same roof with him no longer.
Only one thing still remained--to write a letter to her husband and leave
it in his study for him to find upon his return. It savoured a little of
the theatrical, she reflected, but there seemed no other way possible.
She didn't want Max to come in search of her, so she must make it clear
to him that she was leaving him deliberately and with no intention of
ever returning.
She had told the servants that she was going away on a few days' visit,
and after Jerry's departure she gave her maid instructions concerning her
packing. She intended to leave the house quite openly the following
morning. That was much the easiest method of running away.
"Shall you require me with you, madam?" asked her maid respectfully.
Diana regarded her thoughtfully. She was an excellent servant and
thoroughly understood maiding a professional singer; moreover, she was
much attached to her mistress. Probably she would be glad of her
services later on.
"Oh, if I should make a long stay, I'll send for you, Milling, and you
can bring on the rest of my things. I shall want some of my concert
gowns the week after next," she told her, in casual tones.
As soon as she had dismissed the girl to her work, Diana made her way
into her husband's study, and, seating herself at his desk, drew a sheet
of notepaper towards her.
She began to write impulsively, as she did everything else:--
"This is just to say good-bye,"--her pen flew over the paper--"I can't
bear our life together any longer, so I'm going away. Perhaps you will
blame me because my faith wasn't equal to the task you set it. But I
don't think any woman's would be--not if she cared at all. And I did
care, Max. It hurts to care as I did--and I'm so tired of being hurt
that I'm running away from it. It will be of no use your asking me to
return, because I have made up my mind never to come back to you again.
I told you that you must choose between Adrienne and me, and you've
chosen--Adrienne. I am going to live with Baroni and his sister, Signora
Evanci. It is all arranged. They are glad to have me, and it will be
much easier for me as regards my singing. So you needn't worry about
me.--But perhaps, you wouldn't have done!
"DIANA.
"P.S.--Please don't be vexed with Jerry for going away. I gave him leave
of absence myself, and I told him I would make it all right with you.--D."
She folded the letter with a curious kind of precision, slipped it into
an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and propped it up against the
inkpot on her husband's desk, so that he could not fail to find it.
Then, when it was time to dress for dinner, she went upstairs and let her
maid put her into an evening frock, exactly as though nothing out of the
ordinary were going on, just as though to-day--the last day she would
ever spend in her husband's home--were no different from any other day.
She made a pretence of eating dinner, and afterwards sat in her own
little sitting-room, with a book in front of her, of which she read not a
single line.
Presently, when she was quite sure that all the servants had gone to bed,
she made a pilgrimage through the house, moving reluctantly from room to
room, taking a silent farewell of the place where she had known such
happiness--and afterwards, such pain.
At last she went to bed, but she felt too restless and keyed up to sleep,
so she slipped into a soft, silken wrapper and established herself in a
big easy-chair by the fire.
The latter had died down into a dull, red glow, but she prodded the
embers into a flame, adding fresh coal, and as the pleasant warmth of it
lapped her round, a feeling of gentle languor gradually stole over her,
and at length she slept. . . .
She woke with a start. Some one was trying the handle of the door--very
quietly, but yet not at all as though making any attempt to conceal the
fact.
Something must be amiss, and one of the maids had come to warn her. The
possibility that the house was on fire, or that burglars had broken in,
flashed through her mind.
She sprang to her feet, and switching on the light, called out sharply:--
"Who is it?"
She had not fastened the lock overnight, and her heart beat in great
suffocating throbs as she watched the handle turn.
The next moment some one came quickly into the room and closed the door.
It was Max!
Diana fell back a step, staring incredulously.
"_You_!" she exclaimed, breathlessly. "_You_!"
He advanced a few paces into the room. He was very pale, and his face
wore a curiously excited expression. His eyes were brilliant--fiercely
exultant, yet with an odd gleam of the old, familiar mockery in their
depths, as though something in the situation amused him.
"Yes," he said. "Are you surprised to see me?"
"You--you said you were not returning till Saturday," she stammered.
"I found I could get away sooner than I expected, so I caught the last
up-train--and here I am."
There was a rakish, devil-may-care note in his voice that filled her with
a vague apprehension. Summoning up her courage, she faced him, striving
to keep her voice steady.
"And why--why have you come to me--now?"
"I found your note--the note you had left on my desk, so I thought I
would like to say good-bye," he answered carelessly.
"You could have waited till to-morrow morning," she returned coldly.
"You--you"--she stammered a little, and a faint flush tinged her
pallor--"you should not have come . . . here."
A sudden light gleamed in his eyes, mocking and triumphant.
"It is my wife's room. A husband"--slowly--"has certain rights."
"Ah-h!" She caught her breath, and her hand flew her throat.
"And since," he continued cruelly, never taking his eye from her face,
"since those rights are to be rescinded to-morrow for ever--why, then,
to-night--"
"No! . . . No!" She shrank from him, her hands stretched out as though
to ward him off.
"You've said 'no' to me for the last six months," he said grimly.
"But--that's ended now."
Her eyes searched his face wildly, reading only a set determination in
it. Slowly, desperately, she backed away from him; then, suddenly, she
made a little rush, and, reaching the door, pulled at the handle. But it
remained fast shut.
"_It's locked_!" she cried, frantically tugging at it. She flashed round
upon him. "The key! Where's the key?"
The words came sobbingly.
He put his fingers in his pocket.
"Here," he answered coolly.
Despairingly she retreated from the door. There was an expression in his
eyes that terrified her--a furnace heat of passion barely held in check.
The Englishman within him was in abeyance; the hot, foreign blood was
leaping in his veins.
"Max!" she faltered appealingly.
He crossed swiftly to her side, gripping her soft, bare arms in a hold so
fierce that his fingers scored them with red weals.
"By God, Diana! What do you think I'm made of?" he burst out violently.
"For months you've shut yourself away from me and I've borne it,
waiting--waiting always for you to come back to me. Do you think it's
been easy?" His limbs were shaking, and his eyes burned into hers. "And
now--now you tell me that you've done with me. . . You take everything
from me! My love is to count for nothing!"
"You never loved me!" she protested, with low, breathless vehemence.
"It--it could never have been love."
For a moment he was silent, staring at her.
Then he laughed.
"Very well. Call it desire, passion--what you will!" he exclaimed
brutally. "But--you married me, you know!"
She cowered away from him, looking to right and left like a trapped
animal seeking to escape, but he held her ruthlessly, forcing her to face
him.
All at once, her nerve gave way, and she began to cry--helpless,
despairing weeping that rocked the slight form in his grasp. As she
stood thus, the soft silk of her wrapper falling in straight folds about
her; her loosened hair shadowing her white face, she looked pathetically
small and young, and Errington suddenly relinquished his hold of her and
stepped back, his hands slowly clenching in the effort not to take her in
his arms.
Something tugged at his heart, pulling against the desire that ran riot
in his veins--something of the infinite tenderness of love which exists
side by side with its passion.
"Don't look like that," he said hoarsely. "I'll--I'll go."
He crossed the room, reeling a little in his stride, and, unlocking the
door, flung it open.
She stared at him, incredulous relief in her face, while the tears still
slid unchecked down her cheeks.
"Max--" she stammered.
"Yes," he returned. "You're free of me. I don't suppose you'll believe
it, but I love you too much to . . . take . . . what you won't give."
A minute later the door closed behind him and she heard his footsteps
descending the stairs.
With a low moan she sank down beside the bed, her face hidden in her
hands, sobbing convulsively.