Chapter I

IT was a hot night in May.

There had come across the Atlantic, proclaimed by heralds, long before it arrived, one of those surprising heat waves, generated somewhere in the centre of America, and helped along, no doubt, by the Gulf Stream and other natural advantages, arriving in London just in time for Lady Merival's big evening party. It was called in the papers next morning ** Lady Merival's," but if the truth were known, it was far more Lord Merival's, since it was entirely his idea that it might be useful for Lord and Lady Gerald Arbuthnot, who had just returned from their honeymoon, to meet all their friends and advertise the fact that they were now come back to London, and were finally settled in their flat in South Street.

It was really kind of the heat to arrive just in time, for, as all the world knows, one of the special features of Cheriton House is its garden — an oblong of perhaps half an acre in extent, full of innocent flowers and grass / and terraces, and worth not less than about a hundred thousand pounds; and what could be more convenient and delicious than to wander out of the hot rooms and sit there, listening to the roar of London, and, perhaps, Miss Tenterden's voice coming out of the windows.

The luck was just like that of all Lord Merival's speculations. He selected a day, much too early for ordinary prudence, and behold! there was the summer weather, exactly as if he had ordered it from Harrod's along with the ices and the really excellent champagne-cup: and there was the further luck that a Monday night had been selected, and, as all the world knew, Monday was one of the days on which Miss Tenterden did not sing at Covent Garden: there was a real hope, therefore, that she might consent to sing at Cheriton House. A little slip had actually been sent along with the At Home cards, precisely to that effect.

Miss Tenterden herself was at this moment, though Lady Merival did not know it, sitting in the garden of Cheriton House. It was quite disgraceful that such a thing should have been arranged, but it really had been adroitly done. She had arrived at a quarter to eleven in the midst of the crush, and instead of coming out again from the anteroom on the ground floor where the ladies were supposed to leave their cloaks, she had, aided and abetted by a ladies' maid, stepped simply out of the French window, with her wrap still about her head, gone down the terrace steps into the garden, turned sharply to the right where the lamps had not been lighted, and been met there by Max. Then the two had sat down together on a stone seat. About them again rose the scent of flowers.

It was not very often that these two could meet now in private, and Max had designed the entire affair.

" At eleven o'clock," he had written to her, " you shall be saying ' How do you do? ' to my mother on the top of the stairs; and who will be the wiser? "

It is not often that a new singer in London Opera makes the immediate and startling sensation that Miss

Tenterden had succeeded in producing. It has been done, perhaps, three times by women in the last twenty years, and twice by men; but never before by quite the same combination of qualities as that by which Miss Tenterden rose to sudden fame. It would be absurd to compare her, in sheer quality of voice, with Tetrazzini or Melba, but then it would be equally absurd to compare these great artistes with Miss Tenterden on the purely dramatic side. Again, even if that were conceivable, there was a further element in Miss Tenter-den's acting that was certainly unique, and that the extraordinary innocent charm of the personality she managed to bring to bear upon the audience. In this sense she truly re-read the character of Elsa, and somehow convinced her hearers that her reading was that which Wagner must have had in his mind: even as Isolde — a part she undertook at the beginning of May — she added an amazing pathos to tradition, for her Isolde was, in essentials, a passionate young girl, transfigured by irresistible love into a radiant maturity, rather than a mature woman who grows young again. No doubt many singers had previously attempted this presentation, but none ever succeeded as had Miss Tenterden. In a word, by her acting and her personality she realised, as even the few hostile critics allowed, exactly those proportions between the drama and the music which Wagner had persistently preached and never succeeded in gaining. However, all this is well known enough: and a full record of her success, or rather her blaze of triumph, is to be found in the files of all old newspapers of that date. Even a book was issued by Mr. Noble and ran through ten editions in a month, entitled simply " Miss Tenterden."

".Well?" said Max, in a low voice, under the cover of the band that blared from the lighted windows above them.

"Well?" said Marion.

" First; are you really not over-tired? You aren't finding twice a week too much? It's got to go on till the last week of July, you know."

" I'm glad it's not going to last longer," said Marion.

" It isn't the singing in itself: it's the changing every time. If only Harrison would let me do Elsa to the middle of June, and Isolde for the rest, I wouldn't mind."

"You're not ill?"

" Good gracious, no! I sleep and eat and ride like... like a prima donna"

" Now look here," said Max: " there are a hundred things I want to say. First, I really can't think it's possible for you to come to Brae House again. I know my mother will ask you: but I want you to say No."

" Exactly what I've always said. It wouldn't do a bit, my dear. As a matter of fact she has asked me; and I've said No."

" Well: you're right. I'm perfectly certain they don't suspect anything: but they mustn't. I'm going to talk to my father in August about a job; and he really must not be suspicious. Tell me; have you said anything to Miss Brent yet? "

" No. And I feel such a beast. But I simply can't."

Marion turned her troubled eyes on to him. His own had grown accustomed to the twilight of the London night as he had waited for her, and he could see that she looked a little strained. The wrap about her head framed her clever childish face and made her look more like a boy than ever now that her hair was hidden.

" But why can't you, if you want to so much? She won't mind as much as all that, will she? "

" Max," said the girl slowly, " I haven't told you everything yet. There's something else. I haven't told you because it's got nothing to do with you, and I'm not going to let it. And it doesn't really bother me — at least not now. But it will upset Maggie dreadfully."

" My darling " began Max.

" And I'm not going to tell you even now. It's something to do with religion."

Max sat up.

"Oh!" he said.

" Yes, I know. I know exactly what you feel, and I quite agree. Religion, whatever else it was for, was certainly never meant to trouble and upset people: and I'm determined that it shan't, in our case, anyhow. I'm going to see a priest, and ask if there's any way out — any way that would satisfy poor Maggie; and, if there isn't — well, things will have to take their course. I'm not going to upset you, or myself either. Of course I'm miserable when I think of poor Maggie; because I owe her everything, but I can't help it. I shall do my best to make it up to her in other ways, though I'm afraid that won't be much good. You aren't angry with me, Max, for not telling you? "

He put his hand on hers as it lay on her lap. The lighted garden over the low wall that shut them out was beginning to fill with people, and he dared not be demonstrative.

" My darling, I trust you entirely. You're sure it won't upset you yourself in any way? "

" I am determined it shall not," said Marion in a low voice.

Then suddenly the music of the band in the great house overhead clashed and stopped: and then the National Anthem blared out.

" Good gracious. There's the Princess," cried Marion. " I must fly."

m

It gave Max the most deliciously romantic feelings this evening to move about among the crowds presently, apparently detached and solitary, sometimes within a yard or two of Marion, and to have a positive duty to pretend that it was no more to him than to any other of her acquaintances, whether or no she was to sing or be silent, to go or to come. He refused even to catch her eye, and probably looked at her less than any other person in the rooms. Obviously she was a success: the great beast called London had stirred its heavy head and was looking at her just now; it had even licked her feet once or twice; presently perhaps it might turn away again indifferently, or it might snarl and strike her. But at least it was regarding her now with a kind of curious admiration in its great yellow sleepy eyes.

There was first the Princess, who had insisted that the girl should be brought up to her, and was now asking that series of thoroughly intelligent questions for which Royalty is so justly famous. There was a little deferential circle round about, listening.

" You like singing in Opera, Miss Tenterden? " asked the great benign lady, in a violent Germant accent.

Miss Tenterden said she liked it very much.

"You had a great many lessons, of course? In Germany, perhaps? "

Miss Tenterden said that Munich was the town.

" Ach! Munich. Yes. You think the Germans are more musical than we English? "

Miss Tenterden said that she believed that that was the common opinion.

" Ach! well: perhaps it may be so. Beethoven, Wagner, Bach, Schumann. Yes: they are great names. You like Wagner's music, Miss Tenterden? "

Miss Tenterden said she did, very much indeed.

" I have heard you, Miss Tenterden " — (Miss Tenterden bowed slightly) — " in both your parts. In fact I have been to hear you in Lohengrin three times." (The Princess herself nodded slightly this time, as if to confirm the honour. ) " Now tell me, which do you like best, Elsa or Isolde? "

Miss Tenterden said that she thought she preferred Elsa.

" You find her more sympathetic? "

Miss Tenterden said that she thought that was it; and her eyes roamed wildly for one instant, as if calling for help. Max hastily dropped his own. He was afraid of sudden laughter.

" But they are both such sad parts," proceeded the Princess. " I always think Tristan imd Isolde such a sad story. And I have often wondered why Wagner could not make it end happily. And Lohengrin too. Why could he not have made Lohengrin stop with her? "

" But that would rather spoil the story, would it not, ma'am? " asked Marion desperately.

The Princess smiled, closing her eyes a little. Then she patted the girl's arm.

" Ach! I see you are an artist. All artists feel like that. But / think that artists should do what they can to make this world brighter and happier. It is sad enough," sighed the poor lady, " without going to the theatre for it. And you like London, Miss Tenter-den? "

Max moved away. He knew that if he caught Marion's eye again, there would be a perfectly disgraceful scene.

The next he saw of her was as he was talking to Norah on the stairs.

Norah was very much as she had always been. Marriage did not seem to have changed her much. To be sure, it had not had much chance yet. She called to him as he went across the lobby.

" Come and breathe here," she said. " If we do live in a Moorish house, we might at least have larger windows. It's absolutely stifling."

Max detached himself from behind a pair of dowagers who were proceeding, in the manner of dowagers, very slowly, with short steps, stopping to talk in the doorways when people wanted to pass.

It was indeed stifling. Banked up on either side of the wide staircase from top to bottom were slopes of heavy-scented flowers. In the two angles of the great well of the stairway rose clusters of palms very nearly to the high painted roof. Through the three doors at the top came a roar of voices all talking together, and the impression of heat was increased by the crash of the band in the third drawing-room.

Norah happened to be alone at that moment, sitting down in a seat at an angle of the stairs. Gerald, with his hands in his pockets, was a yard or two away having conversation administered to him by a duchess — probably his aunt.

" Too typical," said Max as he sat down by his sister. (" That's right, keep the fan going.")

" How do you mean? "

" Too much like a banker's house, altogether. Too much of everything."

" Too much music? "

" Of that kind, yes."

" Is Marion going to sing, do you know? "

Max was, by now, far too well practised in deceit to make any sign.

" I haven't the slightest idea," he said. " I hope so. Then that beastly band'll have to stop."

" I wish you'd bring Marion to talk to me. I'm fixed here. Mother said that father thought this was the best place for us. And I want to talk to her again."

" My dear, won't you have the Princess while you're about it? I simply can't get near Miss Tenterden at all.... There, look at that."

Even as he spoke the girl drifted out of the middle doorway above them, and a little swirl of men sucked after her. One of them, a fine white-faced old man, wore a broad blue ribbon across his shirt front. He was talking to her vigorously. She looked exceedingly alive and vivid; and her eyes shone: they wandered presently down to where the brother and sister sat side by side; and she smiled between her sentences. She was wearing her Elsa jewels this evening.

" Yes: it looks perfectly hopeless," said Norah.

"But isn't it all very queer? She isn't a bit good looking, really; and I don't suppose three men out of that mob know one note of music from another. Yet look at them."

Max looked, with his head on one side.

" And she can't talk, you know, either. Marion's a dear, of course, but she isn't a bit brilliant or anything."

She lifted her fan to hide a large yawn.

" Oh! don't you think she's rather charming? " said Max cautiously.

" Of course she is. And so are you and so am I. But people don't surge through doorways after us, like sharks after a leg of mutton. Look: they're going again."

Once more Marion moved on, playing with her turquoises and moonstones. She wore no diamonds; anything less like the traditional prima donna could not be conceived. The wave sucked in after her again, and Max could see people in the first drawing-room, beyond the great carved teak door turn to look at her.

" There! she's gone into the room where the piano is. Perhaps she's going to sing! I bet the Princess gave her a hint. Let's sit here anyhow. We can hear perfectly from here, if she does."

" I heard the Princess asking her whether she liked London and Wagner and all the other things that Princesses do ask about. Ever heard of a Bromide, Norah? "

" No: what's a Bromide? "

" The kind of thing Princesses say. In fact they say nothing else in public. It wouldn't be tactful."

" Max! "

"Yes?"

" Do you know, that in the winter I thought you were going to be foolish? "

" Surely not."

" Yes, indeed. All that riding with her, you know."

" My dear girl, you liked her yourself, in those days," said Max brilliantly.

" Well: and I like her still. I think it must be splendid to be a success like that. But it wouldn't have done, you know. Besides, she's a Catholic. Father would have had a fit."

" It's extraordinary to me," said Max reflectively, " how very religious father is, considering everything. Fifty thousand a year and religion don't seem somehow "

" ' Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth,' " quoted Norah profanely.

"Oh! do you think father's meek?" said Max. " Dear me! That never occurred to me."

He was doing all he could to keep the talk off Marion; but Norah was interested in her at this moment. She was always interested in success.

" Well: it wouldn't have done. Besides she isn't our sort."

" You said that before," observed Max.

" Well: it's as true now as it was then. Look how ridiculous she was about bringing that old lady to my wedding — Miss Brent, wasn't it? — Don't you remember? And then the way she used to talk about her convent — Ah! there's Gerald coming back."

Max was saved an answer; and, even as Gerald came up, a sudden hush fell on the rooms overhead. Then the ripple of a piano was heard, and people ran out of the doors of drawing-rooms number two and three, and crowded into the lobby. Miss Tenterden was about to sing.

The Princess went away immediately after the song. She came out of the third drawing-room actually with Marion beside her, and folks bowed down like corn in a wind. At the top of the stairs her Royal Highness was heard to speak.

" That was most charming, Miss Tenterden. A very great pleasure. No wonder you like singing, if you can do it as well as that. What a pleasure it must be to you."

Then the Royal smile was bestowed; and the Princess surged down the stairs, saying the proper things to Norah on her way, and smiling again on Max whom she obviously took for Gerald. Her host and hostess accompanied her all the way down; and people ran and shuffled to the top of the stairs to watch her departure. But Marion's departure was even more impressive. As Lady Merival was coming upstairs again, with the lightly hunted look that she usually wore on these occasions, the girl suddenly stepped out to meet her.

" I am afraid I must be going, Lady Merival," she said. " Thank you so much. A charming evening." Then Max noticed how great the silence was. From all three doors looked faces; and they were all looking at Marion. He noticed the various expressions — disdain, admiration, wonderment, adoration — but in all of them interest. The silence was, perhaps, the greatest compliment of all.

As she began to come downstairs, again there was a movement to see her go. From where Max stood with Norah, half way down, waiting to see her to her motor — (he thought that at least was safe) — he could see a group in the hall below, just prepared to go. But one of the men caught a sight of who was coming down; and the group stood aside to watch her progress.

She had hardly come down a step when the whitefaced old man in the Garter ribbon came forward. Max could not hear what he said, as the murmur of talk and comment was beginning to break out: but he saw the girl smiling; and then he saw how the old man took her hand and kissed it.

Max himself said nothing as he met her. He waited while she said a word to Norah; and again he noticed how the parapet at the head of the stairs was now one frieze of faces. Then he went down with her silently, and waited while she went in to get her wraps.

By the time she came out again, the great blue and gold hall was full, leaving a lane for her to come out; and, with her, he walked down it, to where her little motor-brougham waited. (He had sent a man to call it up at once.)

It was an extraordinary experience. It was not easy to preserve precisely the light balance.

As they went 'through the crowd he spoke.

" So kind of you to sing, Miss Tenterden. You have given us all such pleasure."

Her whole face shone with mirth.

" Very kind of you to care for it, Mr. Merival."

There was no chance for a single intimate word; but as he leaned his head into the car, as if to ask for directions to the chauffeur, he was able for one instant to lay his hand on the white-gloved fingers that rested on the edge of the window.