"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"And since," he continued cruelly, never taking his eye from her face, "since those rights are to be rescinded to-morrow for ever--why, then, to-night--"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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d, 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, pa.s.sion--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 pa.s.sion.

"Don't look like that," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "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.

CHAPTER XXIII

PAIN

Summer had come and gone, and Diana, after a brief visit to Crailing, had returned to town for the winter season.

The Crailing visit had not been altogether without its embarra.s.sments.

It was true that Red Gables was closed and shuttered, so that she had run no risk of meeting either her husband or Adrienne, but Jerry, in the character of an engaged young man, had been staying at the Rectory, and he had allowed Diana to see plainly that his sympathies lay pre-eminently with Max, and that he utterly condemned her lack of faith in her husband.

"Some day, Diana, you'll be sorry that you chucked one of the best chaps in the world," he told her, with a fierce young championship that was rather touching, warring, as it did, with his honest affection for Diana herself. "Oh! It makes me sick! You two ought to have had such a splendid life together."

Rather wistfully, Diana asked the Rector if he, too, blamed her entirely for what had occurred. But Alan Stair's wide charity held no room for censure.

"My dear," he told her, "I don't think I want to _blame_ either you or Max. The situation was difficult, and you weren't quite strong enough to cope with it. That's all. But"--with one of his rare smiles that flashed out like sunshine after rain--"you haven't reached the end of the chapter yet."

Diana shook her head.

"I think we have, Pobs. I, for one, shall never reopen the pages. My musical work is going to fill my life in future."

Stair's eyes twinkled with a quiet humour.

"Sponge cake is filling, my dear, very," he responded. "But it's not satisfying--like bread."

Since Diana had left her husband, fate had so willed it that they had never chanced to meet. She had appeared very little in society, excusing herself on the plea that her professional engagements demanded all her energies. And certainly, since the immediate and overwhelming success which she had achieved at Covent Garden, her operatic work had made immense demands both upon her time and physical strength.

But, with the advent of autumn, the probabilities of a meeting between husband and wife were increased a hundredfold, since Diana's engagements included a considerable number of private receptions in addition to her concert work, and she never sang at a big society crush without an inward apprehension that she might encounter Max amongst the guests.