Part 49 (1/2)

”Make haste, Milling,” she exclaimed, a thrill of eager excitement in her voice. ”It's a lovely morning, and there's so much going to happen to-day that I can't waste any time over breakfast.”

It was the old, impetuous Diana who spoke, impulsively carried away by the emotion of the moment.

”Is there, madam?” Milling, arranging the breakfast things on a little table beside the bed, regarded her mistress affectionately. It was long, very long, since she had seen her with that look of happy antic.i.p.ation in her face--never since the good days at Lilac Lodge, before she had quarrelled so irrevocably with her husband--and the maid wondered whether it foretokened a reconciliation. ”Is there, madam? Then I'm glad it's a fine day. It's a good omen.”

Diana smiled at her.

”Yes,” she repeated contentedly. ”It's a good omen.”

Milling paused on her way out of the room.

”If you please, madam, Signor Baroni would like to know at what time you will be ready to rehea.r.s.e your songs for to-night, so that he can telephone through to Miss Lermontof?”

To rehea.r.s.e! Diana's face clouded suddenly. She had entirely forgotten that she had promised to give her services that night at a reception, organised in aid of some charity by the d.u.c.h.ess of Linfield--the shrewish old woman who had paid Diana her first tribute of tears--and the recollection of it sounded the knell to her hopes of seeing Max that day.

The morning must perforce be devoted to practising, the afternoon to the necessary rest which Baroni insisted upon, and after that there would be only time to dress and partake of a light meal before she drove to the d.u.c.h.ess's house.

It would not be possible to see Max! Even had there been time she dared not risk the probable consequences to her voice which the strain and emotion of such an interview must necessarily carry in their train.

For a moment she felt tempted to break her engagement, to throw it over at the last instant and telephone to the d.u.c.h.ess to find a subst.i.tute.

And then her sense of duty to her public--to the big, warm-hearted public who had always welcomed and supported her--pushed itself to the fore, forbidding her to take this way out of the difficulty.

How could she, who had never yet broken a contract when her appearance involved a big fee, fail now, on an occasion when she had consented to give her services, and when it was her name alone on the programme which had charmed so much money from the pockets of the wealthy, that not a single seat of all that could be crowded into the d.u.c.h.ess's rooms remained unsold? Oh, it was impossible!

Had it meant the renouncing of the biggest fee ever offered her, Diana, would have impetuously sacrificed it and flung her patrons overboard.

But it meant something more than that. It was a debt of honour, her professional honour.

After all, the fulfilment of her promise to sing would only mean setting her own affairs aside for twenty-four hours, and somehow she felt that Max would understand and approve. He would never wish to s.n.a.t.c.h a few earlier hours of happiness if they must needs be purchased at the price of a broken promise. But her heart sank as she faced the only alternative.

She turned to Milling, the happy exultation that had lit her eyes suddenly quenched.

”Ask the _Maestro_ kindly to 'phone Miss Lermontof that I shall be ready at eleven,” she said quietly.

In some curious way this unlooked-for upset to her plans seemed to have cast a shadow across her path. The warm surety of coming happiness which had lapped her round receded, and a vague, indefinable apprehension invaded her consciousness. It was as though she sensed something sinister that lay in wait for her round the next corner, and all her efforts to recapture the radiant exultation of her mood of yestereve, to shake off the nervous dread that had laid hold of her, failed miserably.

Her breakfast was standing untouched on the table beside her bed. She regarded it distastefully. Then, recalling with a wry smile Baroni's dictum that ”good food, and plenty of good food, means voice,” she reluctantly began to eat, idly turning over the while the pages of one of the newspapers which Milling had placed beside the breakfast tray. It was an ill.u.s.trated weekly, and numbered amongst its staff an enterprising young journalist, possessed of an absolute genius for nosing out such matters as the princ.i.p.al people concerned in them particularly desired kept secret. Those the enterprising young journalist's paper served up piping-hot in their _Tattle of the Town_ column--a column denounced by the pilloried few and devoured with eager interest by the rest of the world.

Diana, sipping her coffee, turned to it half-heartedly, hoping to find some odd bit of news that might serve to distract her thoughts.

There were the usual sly hits at several well-known society women whose public charities covered a mult.i.tude of private sins, followed by a very inadequately veiled reference to the chief actors in a recent divorce case, and then--

Diana's eyes glued themselves to the printed page before her. Very deliberately she set down her cup on the tray beside her, and taking up the paper again, re-read the paragraph which had so suddenly riveted her attention. It ran as follows:--

”Is it true that the _nom de plume_ of a dramatist, well-known in London circles, masks the ident.i.ty of the son of a certain romantic royal duke who contracted a morganatic marriage with one of the most beautiful Englishwomen of the seventies?

”It would be curious if there proved to be a connecting link between this whisper and the recent disappearance from the stage of the popular actress who has been so closely a.s.sociated with the plays emanating from the gifted pen of that same dramatist.

”Interested readers should carefully watch forthcoming events in the little state of Ruvania.”

Diana stared at the newspaper incredulously, and a half-stifled exclamation broke from her.