"You--in Ruvania?"

He nodded.

"Yes. I went there first as a professor of singing at the Borovnitz Conservatoire--_per Bacco_! But they haf the very soul of music, those Ruvanians! And I was appointed to attend also at the palace to give lessons to the Grand d.u.c.h.ess. Her voice was only a little less beautiful than your own." He hesitated, as though he found it difficult to continue. At last he said almost shyly: "Thou, my child, thou hast known love. . . . To me, too, at the palace, came that best gift of the good G.o.d."

He paused, and Diana whispered stammeringly:

"Not--not the Grand d.u.c.h.ess?"

"Yes--Sonia." The old _maestro's_ eyes kindled with a soft luminance as his whispering voice caressed the little flame. "Hers, of course, had been merely a marriage dictated by reasons of State, and from the time of our first meeting, our hearts were in each other's keeping.

But she never failed in duty or in loyalty. Only once, when I was leaving Ruvania, never to return, did she give me her lips at parting."

Again he fell silent, his thoughts straying back across the years between to that day when he had taken farewell of the woman who had held his very soul between her hands. Presently, with an effort, he resumed his story. "I stayed at the Ruvanian Court many years--there was a post of Court musician which I filled--and for both of us those years held much of sadness. The Grand Duke Anton was a domineering man, hated by every one, and his wife's happiness counted for nothing with him. She had failed to give him a son, and for that he never pardoned her. I think my presence comforted her a little. That--and the child--the little Nadine. . . . As much as Anton was disliked, so much was his brother Boris beloved of the people. His story you know.

Of this I am sure--that he lived and died without once regretting the step he had taken in marrying an Englishwoman. They were lovers to the end, those two."

Listening to the little history of those two tender love tales that had run their course side by side, Diana almost forgot for a moment how the ripples of their influence, flowing out in ever-widening circles, had touched, at last, even her own life, and had engulfed her happiness.

But, as Baroni ceased, the recollection of her own bitter share in the matter returned with overwhelming force, and once more she arraigned him for his silence.

"I still see no reason why you should not have told me the truth about Adrienne--about Nadine Mazaroff. Max couldn't--I see that; nor Olga.

But _you_ were bound by no oath."

"My child, I was bound by something stronger than an oath."

The old man crossed the room to where there stood on a shelf a little ebony cabinet, clamped with dull silver of foreign workmanship. He unlocked it, and withdrew from it a letter, the paper faintly yellowed and brittle with the pa.s.sage of time.

He held it out to Diana.

"No eyes but mine haf ever rested on it since it was given into my hand after her death," he said very gently. "But you, my child, you shall read it; you are hurt and unhappy, battering against fate, and believing that those who love you haf served you ill. But we were all bound in different ways. . . . Read the letter, little one, and thou wilt see that I, too, was not free."

Hesitatingly Diana unfolded the thin sheet and read the few faded lines it contained.

"CARLO MIO,

"I think the end is coming for Anton and for me. The revolt of the people is beyond all quelling. My only fear is for Nadine; my only hope for her ultimate safety lies in Max. If ever, in the time to come, your silence or your speech can do aught for my child--in the name of the love you gave me, I beg it of you. In serving her, you will be serving me.

"SONIA."

Very slowly Diana handed the letter back to Baroni.

"So--that was why," she whispered.

Baroni bent his head.

"That was why. I could not speak. But I did all that lay in my power to prevent this marriage of yours."

"You did." A wan little smile tilted the corners of her mouth at the remembrance.

"Afterwards--your happiness was on the knees of the G.o.ds!"

"No," said Diana suddenly. "No. It was in my own hands. Had I believed in Max we should have been happy still. . . . But I failed him."

A long silence followed. At last she rose, holding out her hands.

"Thank you," she said simply. "Thank you for showing me the letter."

Baroni stooped his head and carried her hands to his lips.

"My dear, we make our mistakes and then we pay. It is always so in life. Love"--and the odd, clouded voice shook a little--"Love brings--great happiness--and great pain. Yet we would not be without it."

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE AWAKENING

Somehow the interminable hours of the day had at last worn to evening, and Diana found herself standing in front of a big mirror, listlessly watching Milling as she bustled round her, putting the last touches to her dress for the d.u.c.h.ess of Linfield's reception. The same thing had to be gone through every concert night--the same patient waiting while the exquisite toilette, appropriate to a _prima donna_, was consummated by Milling's clever fingers.

Only, this evening, every nerve in Diana's body was quivering in rebellion.

What was it Olga had said? "_Max is leaving England to-night._" So, while she was being dressed like a doll for the pleasuring of the people who had paid to hear her sing, Max was being borne away out of her ken, out of her existence for ever.

What a farce it all seemed! In a little while she would be singing as perfectly as usual, bowing and smiling as usual, and not one amongst the crowded audience would know that in reality it was only the husk of a woman who stood there before them--the mere outer sh.e.l.l. All that mattered, the heart and soul of her, was dead. She knew that quite well. Probably she would feel glad about it in time, she thought, because when one was dead things didn't hurt any more. It was dying that hurt. . . .

"Your train, madam."

She started at the sound of Milling's respectful voice. What a lop-sided thing a civilised sense of values seemed to be! Even when you had dragged the white robes of your spirit deep in the mire, you must still be scrupulously careful not to soil the hem of the white satin that clothed your body.

She almost laughed aloud, then bit the laugh back, picturing Milling's astonished face. The girl would think she was mad. Perhaps she was.

It didn't matter much, anyway.

Mechanically she held out her arm for Milling to throw the train of her gown across it, and, picking up her gloves, went slowly downstairs.

Baroni, his face wearing an expression of acute anxiety, was waiting for her in the hall, restlessly pacing to and fro.

"Ah--h!" His face cleared as by magic when the slender, white-clad figure appeared round the last bend of the stairway. He had half feared that at the last moment the strain of the day's emotion might exact its penalty, and Diana prove unequal to the evening's demands.

To hide his obvious relief, he turned sharply to the maid, who had followed her mistress downstairs, carrying her opera coat and furs.

"Madame's cloak--make haste!" he commanded curtly.

And when Diana had entered the car, he waved aside the manservant and himself tucked the big fur rug carefully round her. There was something rather pathetic, almost maternal, in the old man's care of her, and Diana's lips quivered.

"Thank you, dear _Maestro_," she said, gently pressing his arm with her hand.