CHAPTER XXII

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 unembarra.s.sed 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 a.s.sured 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 Sat.u.r.day," 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.