The Splendid Folly Part 41

"You had no right to ask it!" she broke out bitterly. "Oh, you knew what it would mean. I, I was too young to realise. I didn't think--I didn't understand what a horrible thing a secret between husband and wife might be. But I can't bear it--I can't bear it any longer! I sometimes wonder," she added slowly, "if you ever loved me?"

"If I ever loved you?" he repeated. "There has never been any other woman in the world for me. There never will be."

The utter, absolute conviction of his tones knocked at her heart, but fear and jealousy were stronger than love.

"Then prove it!" she retorted. "Take me into your confidence; put Adrienne out of your life."

"It isn't possible--not yet," he said wearily. "You're asking what I cannot do."

She took a step nearer.

"Tell me this, then. What did Olga Lermontof mean when she bade me ask your name? Oh!"--with a quick intake of her breath--"you _must_ answer that, Max; you _must_ tell me that. I have a _right_ to know it!"

For a moment he was silent, while she waited, eager-eyed, tremulously appealing, for his answer. At last it came.

"No," he said inflexibly. "You have no--right--to ask anything I haven't chosen to tell you. When you gave me your love, you gave me your faith, too. I warned you what it might mean--but you gave it.

And I"--his voice deepened--"I wors.h.i.+pped you for it! But I see now, I asked too much of you. More"--cynically--"than any woman has to give."

"Then--then"--her voice trembled--"you mean you won't tell me anything more?"

"I can't."

"And--and Adrienne? Everything must go on just the same?"

"Just the same"--implacably.

She looked at him, curiously.

"And you expect me still to feel the same towards you, I suppose? To behave as though nothing had come between us?"

For a moment his control gave way.

"I expect nothing," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "I shall never ask you for anything again--neither love nor friends.h.i.+p. As you have decreed, so it shall be!"

Slowly, with bent head, Diana turned and left the room.

So this was the end! She had made her appeal, risked everything on his love for her--and lost. Adrienne de Gervais was stronger than she!

Hereafter, she supposed, they would live as so many other husbands and wives lived--outwardly good friends, but actually with all the beautiful links of love and understanding shattered and broken.

"Since the first night of the play they've hardly said a word to each other--only when it's absolutely necessary." Joan spoke dejectedly, her chin cupped in her hand.

Jerry nodded.

"I know," he agreed. "It's pretty awful."

He and Joan were having tea alone together, cosily, by the library fire. Diana had gone out to a singing-lesson, and Errington was shut up in his study attending to certain letters, written in cipher--letters which reached him frequently, bearing a foreign postmark, and the answers to which he never by any chance dictated to his secretary.

"Surely they can't have quarrelled, just because he didn't come to the theatre with us that night," pursued Joan. "Do you think Diana could have been offended because he came down afterwards to please Miss Gervais?"

"Partly that. But it's a lot of things together, really. I've seen it coming. Diana's been getting restive for some time. There are--Look here! I don't wish to pry into what's not my business, but a fellow can't live in a house without seeing things, and there's something in Errington's life which Di knows nothing about. And it's that--just the not knowing--which is coming between them."

"Well, then, why on earth doesn't he tell her about it, whatever it is?"

Jerry shrugged his shoulders.

"Can't say. _I_ don't know what it is; it's not my business to know.

But his wife's another proposition altogether."

"I suppose he expects her to trust him over it," said Joan thoughtfully.

"That's about the size of it. And Diana isn't taking any."

"I should trust him with anything in the world--a man with that face!"

observed Joan, after a pause.

"There you go!" cried Jerry discontentedly. "There you go, with your unfailing faith in the visible object. A man's got to _look_ a hero before you think twice about him! Mark my words, Jo--many a saint's face has hidden the heart of a devil."

Joan surveyed him consideringly.

"I've never observed that you have a saint's face, Jerry," she remarked calmly.

"Beast! Joan"--he made a dive for her hand, but she eluded him with the skill of frequent practice--"how much longer are you going to keep me on tenterhooks? You know I'm the prodigal son, and that I'm only waiting for you to say 'yes,' to return to the family bosom--"

"And you propose to use me as a stepping stone! I know. You think that if you return as an engaged young man--"

"With a good reference from my last situation," interpolated Jerry, grinning.

"Yes--that too, then your father will forget all your peccadilloes and say, 'Bless you, my children'--"

"Limelight on the blus.h.i.+ng bur-ride! And they lived happily ever after! Yes, that's it! Jolly good programme, isn't it?"

And somehow Jerry's big boyish arm slipped itself round Joan's shoulders--and Joan raised no objections.

"But--about Max and Diana?" resumed Miss Stair after a judicious interval.

"Well, what about them?"

"Can't we--can't we do anything? Talk to them?"

"I just see myself talking to Errington!" murmured Jerry. "I'd about as soon discuss its private and internal arrangements with a volcano!

My dear kid, it all depends upon Diana and whether she's content to trust her husband or not. _I'd_ trust Max through thick and thin, and no questions asked. If he blew up the Houses of Parliament, I should believe he'd some good reason for doing it. . . . But then, I'm not his wife!"

"Well, I shall talk to Diana," said Joan seriously. "I'm sure Dad would, if he were here. And I do think, Jerry, you might screw up courage to speak to Max. He can't eat you! And--and I simply hate to see those two at cross purposes! They were so happy at the beginning."

The mention of matrimonial happiness started a new train of thought, and the conversation became of a more personal nature--the kind of conversation wherein every second or third sentence starts with "when we are married," and thence launches out into rose-red visions of the great adventure.