"Diana, I regret to observe that your conversation lacks the flavour of respectability demanded by your present circumstances," he remarked. "I fear you'll never be an ornament to any clerical household."
"No. Pas mon métier. Respectability isn't in the least a sine qua non for a prima donna—far from it!"
Stair chuckled.
"To hear you talk, no one would imagine that in reality you were the most conventional of prudes," he flung at her.
"Oh, but I'm growing out of it," she returned hopefully. "Yesterday, for instance, I palled up with a perfectly strange young man. We conversed together as though we had known each other all our lives, shared the same table for dinner—"
"You didn't?" broke in Joan, a trifle shocked.
Diana nodded serenely.
"Indeed I did. And what was the reward of my misdeeds? Why, there he was at hand to save me when the smash came!"
"Who was he?" asked Joan curiously. "Any one from this part of the world?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," replied Diana. "I actually never inquired to whom I was indebted for my life and the various other trifles which he rescued for me from the wreck of our compartment. The only clue I have is the handkerchief he bound round my arm. It's very bluggy and it's marked M.E."
"M.E.," repeated the Rector. "Well, there must be plenty of M.E.'s in the world. Did he get out at Craiford?"
"He didn't," said Diana. "No; at present he is 'wropt in mist'ry,' but
I feel sure we shall run up against each other again. I told him so."
"Did you, indeed?" Stair laughed. "And was he pleased at the prospect?"
"Well, frankly, Pobs, I can't say he seemed enraptured. On the contrary, he appeared to regard it in the light of a highly improbable and quite undesirable contingency."
"He must be lacking in appreciation," murmured Stair mockingly, pinching her cheek as he passed her on his way to select a pipe from the array that adorned the chimney-piece.
"Are you going 'parishing' this morning?" inquired Diana, as she watched him fill and light his pipe.
"Yes, I promised to visit Susan Gurney—she's laid up with rheumatism, poor old soul."
"Then I'll drive you, shall I? I suppose you've still got Tommy and the ralli-cart?"
"Yes," replied Stair gravely. "Notwithstanding diminishing tithes and increasing taxes, Tommy is still left to us. Apparently he thrives on a penurious diet, for he is fatter than ever."
Accordingly, half an hour later, the two set out behind the fat pony on a round of parochial visits. Underneath the seat of the trap reposed the numerous little packages of tea and tobacco with which the Rector, whose hand was always in his pocket, rarely omitted to season his visits to the sick among his parishioners.
"And why not?" he would say, when charged with pampering them by some starchy member of his congregation who considered that parochial visitation should be embellished solely by the delivery of appropriate tracts. "And why not pamper them a bit, poor souls? A pipe of baccy goes a long way towards taking your thoughts off a bad leg—as I found out for myself when I was laid up with an attack of the gout my maternal grandfather bequeathed me."
Whilst the Rector paid his visits, Diana waited outside the various cottages, driving the pony-trap slowly up and down the road, and stopping every now and again to exchange a few words with one or another of the village folk as they passed.
She was frankly delighted to be home again, and was experiencing that peculiar charm of the Devonshire village which lies in the fact that you may go away from it for several years and return to find it almost unchanged. In the wilds of Devon affairs move leisurely, and such changes as do occur creep in so gradually as to be almost imperceptible. No brand-new houses start into existence with lightning-like rapidity, for the all-sufficient reason that in such sparsely populated districts the enterprising builder would stand an excellent chance of having his attractive villa residences left empty on his hands. No; new houses are built to order, if at all. In the same way, it is rare to find a fresh shop spring into being in a small village, and should it happen, in all probability a year or two will see the shutters up and the disgruntled proprietor departing in search of pastures new. For the villagers who have always dealt with the local butcher, baker, and grocer, and whose fathers have probably dealt with their fathers before them, are not easily to be cajoled into transferring their custom—and certainly not to the establishment of any one who has had the misfortune to be born outside the confines of the county, and is therefore to be briefly summed up in the one damning word "vurriner." [1]
So that Diana, returning to Crailing for a brief holiday after a year's absence, found the tiny fishing village quite unchanged, and this fact imparted an air almost of unreality to the twelve busy, eventful months which had intervened. She felt as if she had never been away, as though the Diana Quentin who had been living in London and studying singing under the greatest master of the day were some one quite apart from the girl who had passed so many quiet, happy years at Crailing Rectory.
The new and unaccustomed student's life, the two golden visits which she had paid to Italy, the introduction into a milieu of clever, gifted people all struggling to make the most of their talents, had been such an immense change from the placid, humdrum existence which had preceded it, that it still held for her an almost dreamlike charm of novelty, and this was intensified at the present moment by her return to Crailing to find everything going on just in the same old way, precisely as though there had been no break at all.
As though to convince herself that the student life in London was a substantial reality, and not a mere figment of the imagination, she hummed a few bars of a song, and as she listened to the deep, rich notes of her voice, poised with that sureness which only comes of first-class training, she smiled a little, reflecting that if nothing else had changed, here at least was a palpable outcome of that dreamlike year.
"Bravo!" The Rector's cheery tones broke in upon her thoughts as he came out from a neighbouring gateway and swung himself up into the trap beside her. "Di, I've got to hear that voice before long. What does Signor Baroni say about it?"
"Oh, I think he's quite pleased," she answered, whipping up the fat pony, who responded reluctantly. "But he's a fearful martinet. He nearly frightens me to death when he gets into one of his royal Italian rages—though he's always particularly sweet afterwards! Pobs, I wonder who my man in the train was?" she added inconsequently.
The Rector looked at her narrowly. He had wondered more than a little why the shock of the railway accident had apparently affected her so slightly, and although he had joked with Joan about some possible "gallant rescuer" who might have diverted her thoughts he had really attributed it partly to the youthful resiliency of Diana's nature, and partly to the fact that when one has narrowly escaped a serious injury, or death itself, the sense of relief is so intense as frequently to overpower for the moment every other feeling.
But now he was thrown back on the gallant rescuer theory; obviously the man, whoever he was, had impressed himself rather forcibly on Diana's mind, and the Rector acknowledged that this was almost inevitable from the circumstances in which they had been thrown together.
"You know," continued the girl, "I'm certain I've seen him before—the day I first went to Baroni to have my voice tested. It was in Grellingham Place, and all my songs blew away up the street, and I'm positive M.E. was the man who rescued them for me."
"Rescuing seems to be his hobby," commented the Rector dryly. "Did you remind him that you had met before?"
"Yes, and he wouldn't recollect it."
"Wouldn't?"
"No, wouldn't. I have a distinct feeling that he did remember all about it, and did recognise me again, but he wouldn't acknowledge it and politely assured me I must be mistaken."
The Rector smiled.
"Perhaps he has a prejudice against making the promiscuous acquaintance of beautiful young women in trains."
Diana sniffed.
"Oh, well, if he didn't think I was good enough to know—" She paused. "He had rather a superior way with him, a sort of independent, lordly manner, as though no one had a right to question anything he chose to do. And he was in a first-class reserved compartment too."
"Oh, was he? And did you force your way into his reserved compartment, may I ask?"
Diana giggled.
"I didn't force my way into it; I was pitchforked in by a porter. The train was packed, and I was late. Of course I offered to go and find another seat, but there wasn't one anywhere."
"So the young man yielded to force majeure and allowed you to travel with him?" said the Rector, adding seriously: "I'm very thankful he did. To think of you—alone—in that awful smash! . . . This morning's paper says there were forty people killed."
Diana gave a little nervous shiver, and then quite suddenly began to cry.
Stair quietly took the reins from her hand, and patted her shoulder, but he made no effort to check her tears. He had felt worried all morning by her curious detachment concerning the accident; it was unnatural, and he feared that later on the shock which she must have received might reveal itself in some abnormal nervousness regarding railway travelling. These tears would bring relief, and he welcomed them, allowing her to cry, comfortably leaning against his shoulder, as the pony meandered up the hilly lane which led to the Rectory.
At the gates they both descended from the trap, and Stair was preparing to lead the pony into the stable-yard when Diana suddenly flung her arms round him, kissing him impulsively.
"Oh, Pobs, dear," she said half-laughing, half-crying. "You're such a darling—you always understand everything. I feel heaps better now, thank you."
[1] Anglice: foreigner.
CHAPTER V
THE SECOND MEETING
Diana threw hack the bedclothes and thrust an extremely pretty but reluctant foot over the edge of the bed. She did not experience in the least that sensation of exhilaration with which the idea of getting up invariably seems to inspire the heroine of a novel, prompting her to spring lightly from her couch and trip across to the window to see what sort of weather the author has provided. On the contrary, she was sorely tempted to snuggle down again amongst the pillows, but the knowledge that it wanted only half an hour to breakfast-time exercised a deterrent influence and she made her way with all haste to the bath-room, somewhat shamefully pleased to reflect that, being Easter Sunday, Pobs would be officiating at the early service, so that she would escape the long trudge down to the sea with him for their usual morning swim.
By the time she had bathed and dressed, however, she felt better able to face the day with a cheerful spirit, and the sun, streaming in through the diamond panes of her window, added a last vivifying touch and finally sent her downstairs on the best of terms with herself and the world at large.
There was no one about, as Joan had accompanied her father to church, so Diana sauntered out on to the flagged path and paced idly up and down, waiting for their return. The square, grey tower of the church, hardly more than a stone's throw distant from the Rectory, was visible through a gap in the trees where a short cut, known as the "church path" wound its way through the copse that hedged the garden. It was an ancient little church, boasting a very beautiful thirteenth century window, which, in a Philistine past, had been built up and rough-cast outside, and had only been discovered in the course of some repairs that were being made to one of the walls. The inhabitants of Crailing were very proud of that thirteenth century window when it was disinterred; they had a proprietary feeling about it—since, after all, it had really belonged to them for a little matter of seven centuries or so, although they had been unaware of the fact.
Below the slope of the Rectory grounds the thatched roofs of the village bobbed into view, some gleaming golden in all the pride of recent thatching, others with their crown of straw mellowed by sun and rain to a deeper colour and patched with clumps of moss, vividly green as an emerald.
The village itself straggled down to the edge of the sea in untidy fashion, its cob-walled cottages in some places huddling together as though for company, in others standing far apart, with spaces of waste land between them where you might often see the women sitting mending the fishing nets and gossiping together as they worked.
Diana's eyes wandered affectionately over the picturesque little houses; she loved every quaint, thatched roof among them, but more than all she loved the glimpse of the sea that lay beyond them, pierced by the bold headland of red sandstone, Culver Point, which thrust itself into the blue of the water like an arm stretched out to shelter the little village nestling in its curve from the storms of the Atlantic.
Presently she heard the distant click of a gate, and very soon the Rector and Joan appeared, Stair with the dreaming, far-away expression in his eyes of one who has been communing with the saints.
Diana went to meet them and slipped her arm confidingly through his.
"Come back to earth, Pobs, dear," she coaxed gaily. "You look like
Moses might have done when he descended from the Mount."
The glory faded slowly out of his eyes.
"Come back to heaven, Di," he retorted a little sadly, "That's where you came from, you know."
Diana shook her head.
"You did, I verily believe," she declared affectionately. "But there's only a very small slice of heaven in my composition, I'm afraid."
Stair looked down at her thoughtfully, at the clean line of the cheek curving into the pointed, determined little chin, at the sensitive, eager mouth, unconsciously sensuous in the lovely curve of its short upper-lip, at the ardent, glowing eyes—the whole face vital with the passionate demand of youth for the kingdoms of the earth.
"We've all got our share of heaven, my dear," he said at last, smiling a little. "But I'm thinking yours may need some hard chiselling of fate to bring it into prominence."
Diana wriggled her shoulders.
"It doesn't sound nice, Pobs. I don't in the least want to be chiselled into shape, it reminds one too much of the dentist."
"The gentleman who chisels out decay? You're exactly carrying out my metaphor to its bitter end," returned Stair composedly.
"Oh, Joan, do stop him," exclaimed Diana appealingly. "I'm going to church this morning, and if he lectures me like this I shall have no appetite left for spiritual things."
"I didn't know you ever had—much," replied Joan, laughing.
"Well, anyway, I've a thoroughly healthy appetite for my breakfast," said Diana, as they went into the dining-room. "I'm feeling particularly cheerful just this moment. I have a presentiment that something very delightful is going to happen to me to-day—though, to be sure, Sunday isn't usually a day when exciting things occur."
"Dreams generally go by contraries," observed Joan sagely. "And I rather think the same applies to presentiments. I know that whenever I have felt a comfortable assurance that everything was going smoothly, it has generally been followed by one of the servants giving notice, or the bursting of the kitchen boiler, or something equally disagreeable."
Diana gurgled unfeelingly.
"Oh, those are merely the commonplaces of existence," she replied. "I was meaning"—waving her hand expansively—"big things."
"And when you've got your own house, my dear," retorted Joan, "you'll find those commonplaces of existence assume alarmingly big proportions."
Soon after Stair had finished his after-breakfast pipe, the chiming of the bells announced that it was time to prepare for church. The Rectory pew was situated close to the pulpit, at right angles to the body of the church, and Diana and Joan took their places one at either end of it. As the former was wont to remark: "It's such a comfort when there's no competition for the corner seats."
The organ had ceased playing, and the words "Dearly beloved" had already fallen from the Rector's lips, when the churchdoor opened once again to admit some late arrivals. Instinctively Diana looked up from her prayer-book, and, as her glance fell upon the newcomers, the pupils of her eyes dilated until they looked almost black, while a wave of colour rushed over her face, dyeing it scarlet from brow to throat.
Two ladies were coming up the aisle, the one bordering on middle age, the other young and of uncommon beauty, but it was upon neither of these that Diana's startled eyes were fixed. Behind them, and evidently of their party, came a tall, fair man whose supple length of limb and very blue eyes sent a little thrill of recognition through her veins.
It was her fellow-traveller of that memorable journey down from town!
She closed her eyes a moment. Once again she could hear the horrifying crash as the engine hurled itself against the track that blocked the metals, feel the swift pall of darkness close about her, rife with a thousand terrors, and then, out of that hideous night, the grip of strong arms folded round her, and a voice, harsh with fear, beating against her ears:
"Are you hurt? . . . My God, are you hurt?"
When she opened her eyes again, the little party of three had taken their places and were composedly following the service. Apparently he had not seen her, and Diana shrank a little closer into the friendly shadow of the pulpit, feeling for the moment an odd, nervous fear of encountering his eyes.
But she soon realised that she need not have been alarmed. He was evidently quite unaware of her proximity, for his glance never once strayed in her direction, and, gradually gaining courage as she appreciated this, Diana ventured to let her eyes turn frequently during the service towards the pew where the newcomers were sitting.
That they were strangers to the neighbourhood she was sure; she had certainly never seen either of the two women before. The elder of the two was a plump, round-faced little lady, with bright brown eyes, and pretty, crinkly brown hair lightly powdered with grey. She was very fashionably dressed, and the careful detail of her toilet pointed to no lack of means. The younger woman, too, was exquisitely turned out, but there was something so individual about her personality that it dominated everything else, relegating her clothes to a very secondary position. As in the case of an unusually beautiful gem, it was the jewel itself which impressed one, rather than the setting which framed it round.
She was very fair, with quantities of pale golden hair rather elaborately dressed, and her eyes were blue—not the keen, brilliant blue of those of the man beside her, but a soft blue-grey, like the sky on a misty summer's morning.
Her small, exquisite features were clean-cut as a cameo, and she carried herself with a little touch of hauteur—an air of aloofness, as it were. There was nothing ungracious about it, but it was unmistakably there—a slightly emphasised hint of personal dignity.
Diana regarded her with some perplexity; the girl's face was vaguely familiar to her, yet at the same time she felt perfectly certain that she had never seen her before. She wondered whether she were any relation to the man with her, but there was no particular resemblance between the two, except that both were fair and bore themselves with a certain subtle air of distinction that rather singled them out from amongst their fellows.
In repose, Diana noticed, the man's face was grave almost to sternness, and there was a slightly worn look about it as of one who had passed through some fiery discipline of experience and had forced himself to meet its demands. The lines around the mouth, and the firm closing of the lips, held a suggestion of suffering, but there was no rebellion in the face, rather a look of inflexible endurance.
Diana wondered what lay behind that curiously controlled expression, and the memory of certain words he had let fall during their journey together suddenly recurred to her with a new significance attached to them. . . . "Just as though we had any too many pleasures in life!" he had said. And again: "Oh, for that! If we could have what we wanted in this world! . . ."
Uttered in his light, half-bantering tones, the bitter flavour of the words had passed her by, but now, as she studied the rather stern set of his features, they returned to her with fresh meaning and she felt that their mocking philosophy was to a certain extent indicative of the man's attitude towards life.
So absorbed was she in her thoughts that the stir and rustle of the congregation issuing from their seats at the conclusion of the service came upon her in the light of a surprise; she had not realised that the service—in which she had been taking a reprehensible perfunctory part—had drawn to its close, and she almost jumped when Joan nudged her unobtrusively and whispered:—
"Come along. I believe you're half asleep."
She shook her head, smiling, and gathering up her gloves and prayer-book, she followed Joan down the aisle and out into the churchyard where people were standing about in little groups, exchanging the time of day with that air of a renewal of interest in worldly topics which synchronises with the end of Lent.
The Rector had not yet appeared, and as Joan was chatting with Mrs. Mowbray, the local doctor's wife, Diana, who had an intense dislike for Mrs. Mowbray and all her works—there were six of the latter, ranging from a lanky girl of twelve to a fat baby still in the perambulator stage—made her way out of the churchyard and stood waiting by the beautiful old lichgate, which, equally with the thirteenth century window, was a source of pride and satisfaction to the good folk of Crailing.
A big limousine had pulled up beside the footpath, and an immaculate footman was standing by its open door, rug in hand. Diana wondered idly whose car it could be, and it occurred to her that very probably it belonged to the strangers who had attended the service that morning.
A minute later her assumption was confirmed, as the middle-aged lady, followed by the young, pretty one, came quickly through the lichgate and entered the car. The footman hesitated, still holding the door open, and the elder lady leaned forward to say:—
"It's all right, Baker. Mr. Errington is walking back."
Errington! So that was his name—that was what the E. on the handkerchief stood for! Diana thought she could hazard a reasonable guess as to why he had elected to walk home. He must have caught sight of her in church, after all, and it was but natural that, after the experience they had passed through together, he should wish to renew his acquaintance with her. When two people have been as near to death in company as they had been, it can hardly be expected that they will regard each other in the light of total strangers should they chance to meet again.
Hidden from his sight by an intervening yew tree, she watched him coming down the church path, conscious of a somewhat pleasurable sense of anticipation, and when he had passed under the lichgate and, turning to the left, came face to face with her, she bowed and smiled, holding out her hand.
To her utter amazement he looked at her without the faintest sign of recognition on his face, pausing only for the fraction of a second as a man may when some stranger claims his acquaintance by mistake; then with a murmured "Pardon!" he raised his hat slightly and passed on.
Diana's hand dropped slowly to her side. She felt stunned. The thing seemed incredible. Less than a week ago she and this man had travelled companionably together in the train, dined at the same table, and together shared the same dreadful menace which had brought death very close to both of them, and now he passed her by with the cool stare of an utter stranger! If he had knocked her down she would hardly have been more astonished.
Moreover, it was not as though her companionship had been forced upon him in the train; he had deliberately sought it. Two people can travel side by side without advancing a single hairsbreadth towards acquaintance if they choose. But he had not so chosen—most assuredly he had not. He had quietly, with a charmingly persuasive insistence, broken through the conventions of custom, and had subsequently proved himself as considerate and as thoughtful for her comfort as any actual friend could have been. More than that, in those moments of tense excitement, immediately after the collision had occurred, she could have sworn that real feeling, genuine concern for her safety, had vibrated in his voice.
And now, just as deliberately, just as composedly as he had begun the acquaintance, so he had closed it.
Diana's cheeks burned with shame. She felt humiliated. Evidently he had regarded her merely as some one with whom it might he agreeable to idle away the tedium of a journey—but that was all. It was obviously his intention that that should be the beginning and the end of it.
In a dream she crossed the road and, opening the gate that admitted to the "church path," made her way home alone. She felt she must have a few minutes to herself before she faced the Rector and Joan at the Rectory mid-day dinner. Fortunately, they were both in ignorance of this amazing, stupefying fact that her fellow-traveller—the "gallant rescuer" about whom Pobs had so joyously chaffed her—had signified in the most unmistakable fashion that he wanted nothing more to do with her, and by the time the dinner-bell sounded, Diana had herself well in hand—so well that she was even able to ask in tones of quite casual interest if any one knew who were the strangers in church that morning?
"Yes, Mowbray told me," replied the Rector. "They are the new people who have taken Red Gables—that pretty little place on the Woodway Road. The girl is Adrienne de Gervais, the actress, and the elderly lady is a Mrs. Adams, her chaperon."
"Oh, then that's why her face seemed so familiar!" exclaimed Diana, a light breaking in upon her. "I mean Miss de Gervais'—not the chaperon's. Of course I must have seen her picture in the illustrated papers dozens of times."
"And the man who was with them is Max Errington, who writes nearly all the plays in which she takes part," chimed in Joan. "He's supposed to be in love with her. That piece of information I acquired from Mrs. Mowbray."
"I detest Mrs. Mowbray," said Diana, with sudden viciousness. "She's the sort of person who has nothing whatever to talk about and spends hours doing it."
The others laughed.
"She's rather a gas-bag, I must admit," acknowledged Stair. "But, you know, a country doctor's wife is usually the emporium for all the local gossip. It's expected of her."
"Then I'm sure Mrs. Mowbray will never disappoint any one. She fully comes up to expectations," observed Diana grimly.
"I suppose we shall have to call on these new people at Red Gables,
Dad?" asked Joan, after a brief interval.
Diana bent her head suddenly over her plate to hide the scarlet flush which flew into her cheeks at the suggestion. She would not call upon them—a thousand times no! Max Errington had shown her very distinctly in what estimation he held the honour of her friendship, and he should never have the chance of believing she had tried to thrust it on him.
"Well"—the Rector was replying leisurely to Joan's inquiry—"I understand they are only going to be at Red Gables now and then—when Miss de Gervais wants a rest from her professional work, I expect. But still, as they have come to our church and are strangers in the district, it would perhaps be neighbourly to call, wouldn't it?"
"Can't you call on them, Pobs?" suggested Diana, "A sort of 'rectorial' visit, you know. That would surely be sufficient."
The Sector hesitated.
"I don't know about that, Di. Don't you think it would look rather unfriendly on the part of you girls? Rather snubby, eh?"
That was precisely what Diana, had thought, and the reflection had afforded her no small satisfaction. She wanted to hit back—and hit hard—and now Pobs' kindly, hospitable nature was unconsciously putting the brake on the wheel of retribution.
She shrugged her shoulders with an air of indifference.
"Oh, well, you and Joan can call. I don't think actresses, and authors who love them and write plays for them, are much in my line," she replied distantly.
It would seem as though Joan's dictum that presentiments, like dreams, go by contraries, had been founded upon the rock of experience, for, in truth, Diana's premonition that something delightful was about to happen to her had been fulfilled in a sorry fashion.
CHAPTER VI
THE AFTERMATH OF AN ADVENTURE
Diana awoke with a start. Before sleep had overtaken her she had been lying on a shallow slope of sand, leaning against a rock, with her elbow resting on its flat surface and her book propped up in front of her. Gradually the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves on the shore had lulled her into slumber—the plop as they broke in eddies of creaming foam, and then the sibilant hush-sh-sh—like a long-drawn sigh—as the water receded only to gather itself afresh into a crested billow.
Scarcely more than half awake she sat up and stared about her, dreamily wondering how she came to be there. She felt very stiff, and the arm on which she had been leaning ached horribly. She rubbed it a little, dully conscious of the pain, and as the blood began to course through the veins again, the sharp, pricking sensation commonly known as "pins and needles" aroused her effectually, and she recollected that she had walked out to Culver Point and established herself in one of the numerous little bays that fringed the foot of the great red cliff, intending to spend a pleasant afternoon in company with a new novel. And then the Dustman (idling about until his duties proper should commence in the evening) had come by and touched her eyelids and she had fallen fast asleep.
But she was thoroughly wide awake now, and she looked round her with a rather startled expression, realising that she must have slept for some considerable time, for the sun, which had been high in the heavens, had already dipped towards the horizon and was shedding a rosy track of light across the surface of the water. The tide, too, had come up a long way since she had dozed off into slumber, and waves were now breaking only a few yards distant from her feet.
She cast a hasty glance to right and left, where the arms of the little cove stretched out to meet the sea, strewn with big boulders clothed in shell and seaweed. But there were no rocks to be seen. The grey water was lapping lazily against the surface of the cliff itself and she was cut off on either side.
For a minute or so her heart beat unpleasantly fast; then, with a quick sense of relief, she recollected that only at spring tides was the little bay where she stood entirely under water. There was no danger, she reflected, but nevertheless her position was decidedly unenviable. It was not yet high tide, so it would be some hours at least before she would be able to make her way home, and meanwhile the sun was sinking fast, it was growing unpleasantly cold, and she was decidedly hungry. In the course of another hour or two she would probably be hungrier still, but with no nearer prospect of dinner, while the Rector and Joan would be consumed with anxiety as to what had become of her.
Anxiously she scanned the sea, hoping she might sight some homing fishing-boat which she could hail, but no welcome red or brown sail broke the monotonous grey waste of water, and in hopes of warming herself a little she began to walk briskly up and down the little beach still keeping a sharp look-out at sea for any passing boat.
An interminable hour crawled by. The sun dipped a little lower, flinging long streamers of scarlet and gold across the sea. Far in the blue vault of the sky a single star twinkled into view, while a little sighing breeze arose and whispered of coming night.
Diana shivered in her thin blouse. She had brought no coat with her, and, now that the mist was rising, she felt chilled to the bone, and she heartily anathematised her carelessness for getting into such a scrape.
And then, all at once, across the water came the welcome sound of a human voice:—
"Ahoy! Ahoy there!"
A small brown boat and the figure of the man in it, resting on his oars, showed sharply etched against the background of the sunset sky.
Diana waved her handkerchief wildly and the man waved back, promptly setting the boat with her nose towards the chore and sculling with long, rhythmic strokes that speedily lessened the distance between him and the eager figure waiting at the water's edge.
As he drew nearer, Diana was struck by something oddly familiar in his appearance, and when he glanced back over his shoulder to gauge his distance from the shore, she recognised with a sudden shocked sense of dismay that the man in the boat was none other than Max Errington!
She retreated a few steps hastily, and stood, waiting, tense with misery and discomfort. Had it still been possible she would have signalled to him to go on and leave her; the bare thought of being indebted to him—to this man who had coolly cut her in the street—for escape from her present predicament filled her with helpless rage.
But it was too late. Errington gave a final pull, shipped his oars, and, as the boat rode in on the top of a wave, leaped out on the shore and beached her safely. Then he turned and strode towards Diana, his face wearing just that same concerned, half-angry look that it had done when he found her, shortly after the railway collision, trying to help the woman who had lost her child.
"What in the name of heaven and earth are you doing here?" he demanded brusquely.
Apparently he had entirely forgotten the more recent episode of Easter Sunday and was prepared to scold her roundly, exactly as he had done on that same former occasion. The humour of the situation suddenly caught hold of Diana, and for the moment she, too, forgot that she had reason to be bitterly offended with this man.
"Waiting for you to rescue me—as usual," she retorted frivolously. "You seem to be making quite a habit of it."
He smiled grimly.
"I'm making a virtue of necessity," he flung back at her. "What on earth do your people mean by letting you roam about by yourself like this? You're not fit to be alone! As though a railway accident weren't sufficient excitement for any average woman, you must needs try to drown yourself. Are you so particularly anxious to get quit of this world?"
"Drown myself?" she returned scornfully. "How could I—when the sea doesn't come up within a dozen yards of the cliff except at spring tide?"
"And I suppose it hadn't occurred to you that this is a spring tide?" he said drily. "In another hour or so there'll be six feet of water where we're standing now."
The abrupt realisation that once again she had escaped death by so narrow a margin shook her for a moment, and she swayed a little where she stood, while her face went suddenly very white.
In an instant his arm was round her, supporting her. "I oughtn't to have told you," he said hastily. "Forgive me. You're tired—and, merciful heavens! child, you're half-frozen. Your teeth are chattering with cold."
He stripped off his coat and made as though to help her on with it.
"No—no," she protested. "I shall be quite warm directly. Please put on your coat again."
He shook his head, smiling down at her, and taking first one of her arms, and then the other, he thrust them into the empty sleeves, putting the coat on her as one would dress a child.
"I'm used to having my own way," he observed coolly, as he proceeded to button it round her.
"But you?—" she faltered, looking at the thin silk of his shirt.
"I'm not a lady with a beautiful voice that must be taken care of. What would Signor Baroni say to this afternoon's exploit?"
"Oh, then you haven't forgotten?" Diana asked curiously.
The intensely blue eyes swept over her face.
"No," he replied shortly, "I haven't forgotten."
In silence he helped her into the boat, and she sat quietly in the stern as he bent to his oars and sent the little skiff speeding homewards towards the harbour.
She felt strangely content. The fact that he had deliberately refused to recognise her seemed a matter of very small moment now that he had spoken to her again—scolding her and enforcing her obedience to his wishes in that oddly masterful way of his, which yet had something of a possessive tenderness about it that appealed irresistibly to the woman in her.
Arrived at the quay of the little harbour, he helped her up the steps, slimy with weed and worn by the ceaseless lapping of the water, and the firm clasp of his hand on hers conveyed a curious sense of security, extending beyond just the mere safety of the moment. She had a feeling that there was something immutably strong and sure about this man—a calm, steadfast self-reliance to which one could unhesitatingly trust.
His voice broke in abruptly on her thoughts.
"My car's waiting at the quayside," he said. "I shall drive you back to the Rectory."
Diana assented—not, as she thought to herself with a somewhat wry smile, that it would have made the very slightest difference had she refused point-blank. Since he had decided that she was to travel in his car, travel in it she would, willy-nilly. But as a matter of fact, she was so tired that she was only too thankful to sink back on to the soft, luxurious cushions of the big limousine.
Errington tucked the rugs carefully round her, substituting one of them for the coat she was wearing, spoke a few words to the chauffeur, and then seated himself opposite her.
Diana thought the car seemed to be travelling rather slowly as it began the steep ascent from the harbour to the Rectory. Possibly the chauffeur who had taken his master's instructions might have thrown some light on the subject had he so chosen.
"Quite warm now?" queried Errington.
Diana snuggled luxuriously into her corner.
"Quite, thanks," she replied. "You're rapidly qualifying as a good Samaritan par excellence, thanks to the constant opportunities I afford you."
He laughed shortly and relapsed into silence, leaning his elbow on the cushioned ledge beside him and shading his face with his hand. Beneath its shelter, the keen blue eyes stared at the girl opposite with an odd, thwarted expression in their depths.
Presently Diana spoke again, a tinge of irony in her tones.
"And—after this—when next we meet . . . are you going to cut me again? . . . It must have been very tiresome for you, that an unkind fate insisted on your making my closer acquaintance."
He dropped his hand suddenly.
"Oh, forgive me!" he exclaimed, with a quick gesture of deprecation. "It—it was unpardonable of me . . ." His voice vibrated with some strong emotion, and Diana regarded him curiously.
"Then you meant it?" she said slowly. "It was deliberate?"
He bent his head affirmatively.
"Yes," he replied. "I suppose you think it unforgivable. And yet—and yet it would have been better so."
"Better? But why? I'm generally"—dimpling a little—"considered rather nice."
"'Rather nice'?" he repeated, in a peculiar tone. "Oh, yes—that does not surprise me."
"And some day," she continued gaily, "although I'm nobody just now, I may become a really famous person—and then you might be quite happy to know me!"
Her eyes danced with mirth as she rallied him.
He looked at her strangely.
"No—it can never bring me happiness. . . Ah, mais jamais!" he added, with sudden passion.
Diana was startled.
"It—it was horrid of you to cut me," she said in a troubled voice.
"My punishment lies in your hands," he returned. "When I leave you at the Rectory—after to-day—you can end our acquaintance if you choose. And I suppose—you, will choose. It would be contrary to human nature to throw away such an excellent opportunity for retaliation—feminine human nature, anyway."
He spoke with a kind of half-savage raillery, and Diana winced under it. His moods changed so rapidly that she was bewildered. At one moment there would be an exquisite gentleness in his manner when he spoke to her, at the next a contemptuous irony that cut like a whip.
"Would it be—a punishment?" she asked at last.
He checked a sudden movement towards her.
"What do you suppose?" he said quietly.
"I don't know what to think. If it would be a punishment, why were you so anxious to take it out of my hands? It was you who ended our acquaintance on Sunday, remember."
"Yes, I know. Twice I've closed the door between us, and twice fate has seen fit to open it again."
"Twice? . . . Then—then it was you—in Grellingham Place that day?"
"Yes," he acknowledged simply.
Diana bent her head to hide the small, secret smile that carved her lips.
At last, after a pause—
"But why—why do you not want to know me?" she asked wonderingly.
"Not want to?" he muttered below his breath. "God in heaven! Not want to!" His hand moved restlessly. After a minute he answered her, speaking very gently.
"Because I think you were born to stand in the sunshine. Some of us stand always in the shadow; it creeps about our feet, following us wherever we go. And I would not darken the sunlit places of your life with the shadow that clings to mine."
There was an undercurrent of deep sadness in his tones.
"Can't you—can't you banish the shadow?" faltered Diana. A sense of tragedy oppressed her. "Life is surely made for happiness," she added, a little wistfully.
"Your life, I hope." He smiled across at her. "So don't let us talk any more about the shadow. Only"—gently—"if I came nearer to you—the shadow might engulf you, too." He paused, then continued more lightly: "But if you'll forgive my barbarous incivility of Sunday, perhaps—perhaps I may be allowed to stand just on the outskirts of your life—watch you pass by on your road to fame, and toss a flower at your feet when all the world and his wife are crowding to hear the new prima donna." He had dropped back into the vein of light, ironical mockery which Diana was learning to recognise as characteristic of the man. It was like the rapier play of a skilled duellist, his weapon flashing hither and thither, parrying every thrust of his opponent, and with consummate ease keeping him ever at a distance.
"I wonder"—he regarded her with an expression of amused curiosity—"I wonder whether you would stoop to pick up my flower if I threw one? But, no"—he answered his own question hastily, giving her no time to reply—"you would push it contemptuously aside with the point of your little white slipper, and say to your crowd of admirers standing around you: 'That flower is the gift of a man—a rough boor of a man—who was atrociously rude to me once. I don't even value it enough to pick it up.' Whereupon every one—quite rightly, too!—would cry shame on the man who had dared to insult so charming a lady—probably adding that if bad luck befell him it would be no more than he deserved! . . . And I've no doubt he'll get his desserts," he added carelessly.
Diana felt the tears very near her eyes and her lip quivered.. This man had the power of hurting her—wounding her to the quick—with his bitter raillery.
When she spoke again her voice shook a little.
"You are wrong," she said, "quite wrong. I should pick up the flower and"—steadily—"I should keep it, because it was thrown to me by a man who had twice done me the greatest service in his power."
Once again he checked, as if by sheer force of will, a sudden eager movement towards her.
"Would you?" he said quickly. "Would you do that? But you would be mistaken; I should be gaining your kindness under false pretences. The greatest service in my power would be for me to go away and never see you again. . . . And, I can't do that—now," he added, his voice vibrating oddly.
His eyes held her, and at the sound of that sudden note of passion in his tone she felt some new, indefinable emotion stir within her that was half pain, half pleasure. Her eyelids closed, and she stretched out her hands a little gropingly, almost as if she were trying to ward away something that threatened her.
There was appeal in the gesture—a pathetic, half-childish appeal, as though the shy, virginal youth of her sensed the distant tumult of awakening passion and would fain delay its coming.
She was just a frank, whole-hearted girl, knowing nothing of love and its strange, inevitable claim, but deep within her spoke that instinct, premonition—call it what you will—which seems in some mysterious way to warn every woman when the great miracle of love is drawing near. It is as though Love's shadow fell across her heart and she were afraid to turn and face him—shrinking with the terror of a trapped wild thing from meeting his imperious demand.
Errington, watching her, saw the childish gesture, the quiver of her mouth, the soft fall of the shadowed lids, and with a swift, impetuous movement he leaned forward and caught her by the arms, pulling her towards him. Instinctively she resisted, struggling in his grip, her eyes, wide and startled, gazing into his.
"Diana!"
The word seemed wrung from him, and as though something within her answered to its note of urgency, she suddenly yielded, stumbling forward on to her knees. His arms closed round her, holding her as in a vice, and she lay there, helpless in his grasp, her head thrown back a little, her young, slight breast fluttering beneath the thin silk of her blouse.
For a moment he held her so, staring down, at her, his breath hard-drawn between his teeth; then swiftly, with a stifled exclamation he stooped his head, kissing her savagely, bruising, crushing her lips beneath his own.
She felt her strength going from her—it seemed as though he were drawing her soul out from her body—and then, just as sheer consciousness itself was wavering, he took his mouth from hers, and she could see his face, white and strained, bent above her.
She leaned away from him, panting a little, her shoulders against the side of the car.
"God!" she heard him mutter.
For a space the throb of the motor was the only sound that broke the stillness, but presently, after what seemed an eternity, he raised her from the floor, where she still knelt inertly, and set her on the seat again. She submitted passively.
When he had resumed his place, he spoke in dry, level tones.
"I suppose I'm damned beyond forgiveness after this?"
She made no answer. She was listening with a curious fascination to the throb of her heart and the measured beat of the engine; the two seemed to meet and mingle into one great pulse, thundering against her tired brain.
"Diana"—he spoke again, still in the same toneless voice—"am I to be forbidden even the outskirts of your life now?"
She moved her head restlessly.
"I don't know—oh, I don't know," she whispered.
She was utterly spent and exhausted. Unconsciously every nerve in her had responded to the fierce passion of that suffocating kiss, and now that the tense moment was over she felt drained of all vitality. Her head drooped listlessly against the cushions of the car and dark shadows stained her cheeks beneath the wide-opened eyes—eyes that held the startled, frightened expression of one who has heard for the first time the beat of Passion's wings.
Gradually, as Errington watched her, the strained look left his face and was replaced by one of infinite solicitude. She looked so young as she lay there, huddled against the cushions—hardly more than a child—and he knew what that mad moment had done for her. It had wakened the woman within her. He cursed himself softly.
"Diana," he said, leaning forward. "For God's sake, say you forgive me, child."
The deep pain in his voice pierced through her dulled, senses.
"Why—why did you do it?" she asked tremulously.
"I did it—oh, because for the moment I forgot that I'm a man barred out from all that makes life worth living! . . . I forgot about the shadow, Diana. . . . You—made me forget."
He spoke with concentrated bitterness, adding mockingly:—
"After all, there's a great deal to be said in favour of the Turkish yashmak. It at least removes temptation."
Diana's hand flew to her lips—they burned still at the memory of those kisses—and he smiled ironically at the instinctive gesture.
"I hate you!" she said suddenly.
"Quite the most suitable thing you could do," he answered composedly. All the softened feeling of a few moments ago had vanished: he seemed to have relapsed into his usual sardonic humour, putting a barrier between himself and her that set them miles apart.
Diana was conscious of a fury of resentment against his calm readjustment of the situation. He was the offender; it was for her to dictate the terms of peace, and he had suddenly cut the ground from under her feet. Her pride rose in arms. If he could so contemptuously sweep aside the memory of the last ten minutes, careless whether his plea for forgiveness were granted or no, she would show him that for her, too, the incident was closed. But she would not forgive him—ever.
She opened her campaign at once.
"Surely we must be almost at the Rectory by now?" she began in politely conventional tones.
A sudden gleam of wicked mirth flashed across his face.
"Has the time, then, seemed so long?" he demanded coolly.
Diana's lips trembled in the vain effort to repress a smile. The man was impossible! It was also very difficult, she found, to remain righteously angry with such an impossible person.
If he saw the smile, he gave no indication of it. Rubbing the window with his hand he peered out.
"I think we are just turning in at the Rectory gates," he remarked carelessly.
In another minute the motor had throbbed to a standstill and the chauffeur was standing at the open door.
"I'm sorry we've been so long coming, sir," he said, touching his hat.
"I took a wrong turning—lost me way a bit."
Then as Errington and Diana passed into the house, he added thoughtfully, addressing his engine:—
"She's a pretty little bit of skirt and no mistake. I wonder, now, if we was lost long enough, eh, Billy?"
CHAPTER VII
DIANA SINGS
"I feel that we are very much indebted to you, Mr. Errington," said Stair, when he and Joan had listened to an account of the afternoon's proceedings—the major portion of them, that is. Certain details were not included in the veracious history. "You seem to have a happy knack of turning up just at the moment you are most needed," he added pleasantly.
"I think I must plead indebtedness to Miss Quentin for allowing me such unique opportunities of playing knight errant," replied Max, smiling. "Such chances are rare in this twentieth century of ours, and Miss Quentin always kindly arranges so that I run no serious risks—to life and limb, at least," he added, his mocking eyes challenging Diana's.
She flushed indignantly. Evidently he wished her to understand that that breathless moment in the car counted for nothing—must not be taken seriously. He had only been amusing himself with her—just as he had amused himself by chatting in the train—and again a wave of resentment against him, against the cool, dominating insolence of the man, surged through her.
"I hope you'll stay and join us at dinner," the Rector was saying—"unless it's hopelessly spoilt by waiting so long. Is it, Joan?"
"Oh, no. I think there'll be some surviving remnants," she assured him.
"Then if you'll overlook any discrepancies," pursued Stair, smiling at
Errington, "do stay."
"Say, rather, if you'll overlook discrepancies," answered Errington, smiling back—there was something infectious about Stair's geniality. "I'm afraid a boiled shirt is out of the question—unless I go home to fetch it!"
Diana stared at him. Was he really going to stay—to accept the invitation—after all that had occurred? If he did, she thought scornfully, it was only in keeping with that calm arrogance of his by which he allocated to himself the right to do precisely as he chose, irrespective of convention—or of other people's feelings.
Meanwhile Stair was twinkling humorously across at his visitor.
"If you can bear to eat your dinner without being encased in the regulation starch," he said, "I don't think I should advise risking what remains of it by any further delay."
"Then I accept with pleasure," replied Errington.
As he spoke, his eyes sought Diana's once again. It almost seemed as though they pleaded with her for understanding. The half-sad, half-bitter mouth smiled faintly, the smile accentuating that upward curve at the corners of the lips which lent such an unexpected sweetness to its stern lines.
Diana looked away quickly, refusing to endorse the Rector's invitation, and, escaping to her own room, she made a hasty toilet, slipping into a simple little black gown open at the throat. Meanwhile, she tortured herself with questioning as to why—if all that had passed meant nothing to him—he had chosen to stay. Once she hid her burning face in her hands as the memory of those kisses rushed over her afresh, sending little, new, delicious thrills coursing through her veins. Then once more the maddening doubt assailed her—were they but a bitter humiliation which she would remember for the rest of her life?
When she came downstairs again, Max Errington and Stair were conversing happily together, evidently on the best of terms with themselves and each other. Errington was speaking as she entered the room, but he stopped abruptly, biting his words off short, while his keen eyes swept over the slim, black-gowned figure hesitating in the doorway.
"Mr. Stair has been pledging your word during your absence," he said.
"He has promised that you'll sing to us after dinner."
"I? Oh"—nervously—"I don't think I want to sing this evening."
"Why not? Have the"—he made an infinitesimal pause, regarding her the while with quizzical eyes—"events of the afternoon robbed you of your voice?"
Diana gave him back his look defiantly. How dared he—oh, how dared he?—she thought indignantly.
"My adventures weren't serious enough for that," she replied composedly.
The ghost of a smile flickered across his face.
"Then you will sing?" he persisted.
"Yes, if you like."
He nodded contentedly, and as they went in to dinner he whispered:—
"I found the adventure—rather serious."
Dinner passed pleasantly enough. Errington and Stair contributed most of the conversation, the former proving himself a charming guest, and it was evident that the two men had taken a great liking to each other. It would have been a difficult subject indeed who did not feel attracted by Alan Stair; he was so unconventionally frank and sincere, brimming over with humour, and he regarded every man as his friend until he had proved him otherwise—and even then he was disposed to think that the fault must lie somewhere in himself.
"I'm not surprised that your church was so full on Sunday," Errington told him, "now that I've met you. If the Church of England clergy, as a whole, were as human as you are, you would have fewer offshoots from your Established Church. I always think"—reminiscently—"that that is where the strength of the Roman Catholic padre lies—in his intense humanness."
The Sector looked up in surprise.
"Then you're not a member of our Church?" he asked.
For a moment Errington looked embarrassed, as though he had said more than he wished to.
"Oh, I was merely comparing the two," he replied evasively. "I have lived abroad a good bit, you know."
"Ah! That explains it, then," said Stair. "You've caught some little foreign turns of speech. Several times I've wondered if you were entirely English."
Errington's face, as he turned to reply, wore that politely blank expression which Diana had encountered more than once when conversing with him—always should she chance to touch on any subject the natural answer to which might have revealed something of the man's private life.
"Oh," he answered the Rector lightly, "I believe there's a dash of foreign blood in my veins, but I've a right to call myself an Englishman."
After dinner, while the two men had their smoke, Diana, heedless of Joan's common-sense remonstrance on the score of dew-drenched grass, flung on a cloak and wandered restlessly out into the moonlit garden. She felt that it would be an utter impossibility to sit still, waiting until the men came into the drawing-room, and she paced slowly backwards and forwards across the lawn, a slight, shadowy figure in the patch of silver light.
Presently she saw the French window of the dining-room open, and Max Errington step across the threshold and come swiftly over the lawn towards her.
"I see you are bent on courting rheumatic fever—to say nothing of a sore throat," he said quietly, "and I've come to take you indoors."
Diana was instantly filled with a perverse desire to remain where she was.
"I'm not in the least cold, thank you," she replied stiffly, "And—I like it out here."
"You may not be cold," he returned composedly. "But I'm quite sure your feet are damp. Come along."
He put his arm under hers, impelling her gently in the direction of the house, and, rather to her own surprise, she found herself accompanying him without further opposition.
Arrived at the house, he knelt down and, taking up her foot in his hand, deliberately removed the little pointed slipper.
"There," he said conclusively, exhibiting its sole, dank with dew. "Go up and put on a pair of dry shoes and then come down and sing to me."
And once again she found herself meekly obeying him.
By the time she had returned to the drawing-room, Pobs and Errington were choosing the songs they wanted her to sing, while Joan was laughingly protesting that they had selected all those with the most difficult accompaniments.
"However, I'll do my best, Di," she added, as she seated herself at the piano.
Joan's "best" as a pianist did not amount to very much at any time, and she altogether lacked that intuitive understanding and sympathy which is the sine qua non of a good accompanist. Diana, accustomed to the trained perfection of Olga Lermontof, found herself considerably handicapped, and her rendering of the song in question, Saint-Saens' Amour, viens aider, left a good deal to be desired in consequence—a fact of which no one was more conscious than she herself.
But the voice! As the full rich notes hung on the air, vibrant with that indescribably thrilling quality which seems the prerogative of the contralto, Errington recognised at once that here was a singer destined to make her mark. The slight surprise which he had evinced on first learning that she was a pupil of the great Baroni vanished instantly. No master could be better fitted to have the handling of such a voice—and certainly, he added mentally, Joan Stair was a ludicrously inadequate accompanist, only to be excused by her frank acknowledgment of the fact.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, Di," she said at the conclusion of the song. "But
I really can't manage the accompaniment."
Errington rose and crossed the room to the piano.
"Will you allow me to take your place?" he said pleasantly. "That is, if Miss Quentin permits? It is hard lines to be suddenly called upon to read accompaniments if you are not accustomed to it."
"Oh, do you play?" exclaimed Joan, vacating her seat gladly. "Then please do. I feel as if I were committing murder when I stumble through Diana's songs."
She joined the Rector at the far end of the room, adding with a smile:—
"I make a much better audience than performer."
"What shall it be?" said Errington, turning over the pile of songs.
"What you like," returned Diana indifferently. She was rather pale, and her hand shook a little as she fidgeted restlessly with a sheet of music. It almost seemed as though the projected change of accompanist were distasteful to her.
Max laid his own hand over hers an instant.
"Please let me play for you," he said simply.
There was a note of appeal in his voice—rather as if he were seeking to soften her resentment against him, and would regard the permission to accompany her as a token of forgiveness. She met his glance, wavered a moment, then bent her head in silence, and each of them was conscious that in some mysterious way, without the interchange of further words, an armistice had been declared between them.
With Errington at the piano the music took on a different aspect. He was an incomparable accompanist, and Diana, feeling herself supported, and upborne, sang with a beauty of interpretation, an intensity of feeling, that had been impossible before. And through it all she was acutely conscious of Max Errington's proximity—knew instinctively that the passion of the song was shaking him equally with herself. It was as though some intangible live wire were stretched between them so that each could sense the emotion of the other—as though the garment with which we so persistently conceal our souls from one another's eyes were suddenly stripped away.
There was a tense look in Max's face as the last note trembled into silence, and Diana, meeting his glance, flushed rosily.
"I can't sing any more," she said, her voice uneven.
"No."
He added nothing to the laconic negative, but his eyes held hers remorselessly.
Then Pobs' cheerful tones fell on their ears and the taut moment passed.
"Di, you amazing child!" he exclaimed delightfully. "Where did you find a voice like that? I realise now that we've been entertaining genius unawares all this time. Joan, my dear, henceforth two commonplace bodies like you and me must resign ourselves to taking a back seat."
"I don't mind," returned Joan philosophically. "I think I was born with a humdrum nature; a quiet life was always my idea of bliss."
"Sing something else, Di," begged Stair. But Diana shook her head.
"I'm too tired, Pobs," she said quietly. Turning abruptly to Errington she continued: "Will you play instead?"
Max hesitated a moment, then resumed his place at the piano, and, after a pause, the three grave notes with which Rachmaninoff's wonderful "Prelude" opens, broke the silence.
It was speedily evident that Errington was a musician of no mean order; indeed, many a professional reputation has been based on a less solid foundation. The Rachmaninoff was followed by Chopin, Tchaikowsky, Debussy, and others of the modern school, and when finally he dropped his hands from the piano, laughingly declaring that he must be thinking of taking his departure before he played them all to sleep, Joan burst out bluntly:—