CHAPTER FIVE

It was still daylight as carriage after carriage drew up before the colonnade of the opera house. Although the beauty of this evening in May had called every one forth to enjoy the fresh air, the house was sold out. Diana had not thought of such a possibility, and was aggrieved, wellnigh humiliated, when she found herself unable to get in, and saw other women mounting the red carpeted stairway which she felt she should be treading in their stead. They were foes, making no effort to conceal their triumph! The sound of the call-bell irritated her; it seemed to go on interminably, summoning the audience to hurry. She gazed with longing eyes at the press of people entering the vestibule; then, slowly, she walked down the wide steps.

Home? The word sent a chill through her. She could not face going back defeated, to the little room which for two weeks now had served her as sleeping place.

She had spent every evening of the fortnight in solitude. It was her wont during such periods of vital change deliberately to impose seclusion upon herself. She had written to none of her friends, for she was saturated with a fatalistic sentiment of adventure which made her await developments. At night she would go for a walk along the water's edge; Sunday would be devoted to revisiting old favourites in the museums, old yet ever fresh as endowed with eternal youth; or, silently she would pursue her way along the streets, looking at new buildings. Then, again, the big shops and cafes would attract her critical eye, and she would study the present-day fashions and tastes. Such were her recreations. Her work in Scherer's office absorbed all her intellectual energies; and ambition, which ever acted as a spur to this woman, goaded her on to give of her best. Tonight, however, _Carmen_ was to be played, and this was an opera which Diana could never bear to miss.

"Shut out! Here am I, not able to hear; and yet I belong to this tragedy far more vitally than do all those women who have only come to listen to the new singer. Shall I go for a drive? It would cost too much; besides it's too late, and my dress is all wrong!"

An open car drove up. A tall man in evening dress stepped out, flinging a black evening cloak over his arm. Diana was struck pleasantly by the gesture. She was likewise delighted with the look of the taxi, and moved forward to engage it. Suddenly she stopped, drew back a pace or two, and turned pale from mingled alarm and joy.

"Sidney!"

"Diana!"

The exclamations rang out almost simultaneously as brother and sister recognized one another. In three strides the young man was at her side, feeling rather embarrassed, and as if caught in the act of doing something he should not. He himself was at a loss to account for the feeling. He bent over her gloved hand, and asked with a smile:

"Are you startled?"

Yes, this was actually her brother. Those were his long, finely chiselled features, his slim, delicately moulded limbs, his fair, curly hair, which refused to submit to the discipline of a parting--much to the chagrin of this fashionably dressed young gentleman. How alike the two were! His skin, however, contrasted with hers in that it was of the tint of ivory, whereas hers was a golden brown. Her body too, as any one with an eye could guess in spite of her cloak and her gown, differed greatly from that of the frail, effeminate youth. If she displayed the physical vigour of a Tobias, he, on the contrary, was cut in the softer lines of the youthful Sebastian. For the moment, however, he was nothing but a slender young gentleman in evening dress.

Diana's face melted into an almost childlike laugh. She looked like a girl of seventeen. After years of being with persons of her own choice, she suddenly found herself in the company of one to whom she belonged through ties of kinship. Her proud nature was enchanted at the thought of being dependent for a moment upon this callow boy of nineteen whose senior she was by six years and upon whom she had always looked as a kind of son.

With the adaptability of lively natures, they soon recovered from their first surprise at the unexpected encounter, and, overcoming the innate reserve peculiar to them both, they asked one another a few pointed questions:

"Have you been here long?"

"A short while," was her answer.

"You wrote from Rome..."

"Did I?"

"Yes, a card with a pine tree on it and the words 'Via Appia' beneath."

"Where is Father?"

"In London, I fancy. I have not seen him since March."

"And you?"

"Oh, I," he paused for a moment, nonplussed. Then: "I'm going to the opera."

"There are no more tickets!"

"I've got a box."

"So well off?"

"I don't know. Did you think of going?"

"Are you alone?"

"Y--yes," he answered with some hesitancy.

"Andiamo," cried she, slipping her hand lightly through his arm. As they gaily ascended the steps she had recently come down in so disappointed a mood, she thought: "I've a brother. He's good-looking. He drove up in a taxi, through this town, on this evening, to the very opera I want to hear.... Life, O Life!"

The lights had been lowered. As Diana let fall her cloak, the orchestra struck up the first barbaric strains of the prelude. The sounds surged over her, submerging her. In two seconds she had completely forgotten her companion.

Sidney was deaf to the music. Withdrawn into a corner of the box, he sat obliquely behind Diana and contemplated her with an expression mature beyond his age. He had not seen her for three years. She had left London for Paris, in the middle of winter, and had disappeared. Had those been quiet days, he asked himself with the inner perturbation of a youth whose childhood had been an agitated one. She had been working in the British Museum Reading Room; every morning she had gone there, to a seat immediately on the left as you entered, beneath the huge glass dome. When he came to fetch her, she would take him to the galleries where the classical marbles were. Father would have tea with them at the little boarding-house, they'd chat together, the old man would pay the weekly bill and would give them some pocket money. Diana used to go out in the evening; he rarely knew who her companion was on these occasions.... She had no women friends, nor, indeed, had she ever had any. What could she be doing here? Was she having a good time? How lovely she looked in her green-and-white crêpe de chine dress! Mentally, he estimated its cost. Her arms are sunburned, she must have spent a long time in the country. He paused in his meditation, and blinked his eyes in the darkness. "All alone, without a ticket, at the opera.... And she is wearing a white camellia. Could this be a shield against love's attacks? In that case she must just have emerged from a passionate episode! Yes, that's what it is; and now she's in one of her ascetic periods. I could wager she was not on the look-out for any one. A romantic love affair ... somewhere away in the country.... Fairly long ... probably in the south ... the camellia for remembrance..."

The curtain went up on the chorus of young folk in the wide square of Seville. Diana, recovering from her absorption in the music and the darkness, turned her head towards her companion; her movement was deliberate, as if she hoped it would give her once again the pleasurable surprise of a few minutes ago. She liked him immensely, and touched his foot softly with the point of her slipper:

"Sidney! How tall you have grown! Ti amo!"

He whispered back:

"Diana, I'm ever so proud of you. Why shouldn't I... Why can't you be my sweetheart?"

"You're not old enough!"

Carmen's motif was being played; Carmen herself appeared. Diana's eyes dilated, she raised her brows so high that her forehead was wrinkled while with her right hand she seized the edge of the box as if to steady herself. Always when Carmen's voice fell on her ear, when the tragically bold glance shot across the footlights, Diana felt a premonitory flutter at her heart, a prophetic warning of something still far away, hidden in the night of the future. When, however, Carmen made her advances and withdrew again, when at one moment she was unrestrained and at another reserved, when she flung her sweet, mad song at the officer's head, and with an almost sexual bravado made as if to draw the young man into her arms, Diana relaxed her hold, sank back on her chair, and drew her wrap about her shoulders. She seemed to be the prey of a mood which her brother could not fathom.

The lights went up, and Diana hardly had time to pull herself together before the door of the box was thrown open and an officer came in. He brought his heels smartly together on the threshold, and then advanced to kiss Diana's hand. Diana sat quietly for a moment recovering from her surprise.

"You, Major!" she said at last.

"My presence here is far less surprising than yours, for I'm an habitué of the opera and have searched its seats in vain for a sight of you for three years now."

"My brother," said Diana who had been quick to observe her visitor's uneasy glance towards the corner where Sidney had ensconced himself.

"Oh, I beg your pardon.... Had I not the pleasure once...?" The words fell heavily like great drops of rain before a storm. Indeed, one could almost fancy that the growl of thunder was already in the air. "At that time I did not know," the officer continued cautiously, for he hardly believed in the kinship between the two, "that this lady was your sister...."

"I, too, had no idea that you had already met a member of my family," interposed the young man with subtle irony.

Diana thought:

"Our two terriers, Jack and Jill, used to snarl at one another in exactly the same way over their feeding bowl in the old days in London!"

She turned to the major: "Won't you stay?"

"With pleasure, if I may," he answered, looking a rather arrogant inquiry at Sidney.

"I shall be delighted, too. I am my sister's guest."

As the lights went out, the major took his place so close to Diana's side that he could whisper in her ear, very softly, hardly moving his lips as he spoke:

"You are simply wonderful!"

"Thanks."

"I've always been on the look-out for you. I knew that some day or other you'd return."

"And here I am."

"But you never wrote a line...."

"I could not. It had to be one thing or the other.-- Still suffering from jealousy?"

"Horribly!"

"It really is my brother."

"Swear?"

"On your sword," she breathed, placing her hand on the hilt of his weapon as it thrust forward among the folds of her dress.

"Diana," he urged, pressing closer.

"No!"

Ostentatiously she drew away from him, and turned towards Sidney. The latter had heard the whispered exchange of words and had been watching the couple, wondering where he had seen the man before. Slowly came the remembrance of a somewhat shady night club. Yes, it was there they had met; the officer was in mufti, the encounter lasted no more than a few seconds. Could the man really have been an intimate of Diana's. Sisters should be sexless!

The major continued to whisper in Diana's ear, until the great scene in the second act, where Carmen sings her most seductive song, compelled him to silence. Then all she heard at her side was the heavy breathing of a man who was exercising fierce control over himself. But even this sound faded from the circle of her perceptions when the toreador embarked upon his triumphant pæan. She closed her eyes in the sensuous enjoyment of the final F. It seemed to her at that moment as if rushing wings drew near, to fold her in an embrace. Present experiences became less real to her than the premonitory murmur of the unknown future.

During the interval, Diana had made for the balcony with her two companions in order to enjoy a breath of fresh air, for the late spring weather was mild and the opera house felt hot and stuffy. As the trio strolled along, the major saluted a friend whom Diana recognized as Scherer, her chief. She was aware that the latter turned to look after her, and she hurried out on to the balcony. She was not a little annoyed at the encounter. The next thing would be that the publisher would question the major as to her identity, and then it would be all up with her incognito. This might cost her her employer's confidence which, during the week she had been working directly under him, she had won as much by her behaviour as by the excellence of her work.

The warm evening air was wafted up to them as they leaned upon the balustrade. The breeze caressed Diana's bare shoulders and arms so that she shivered slightly. She drew her wrap closer about her. The women as they walked to and fro were obviously living in the atmosphere of Seville; they coquetted with fans, flaunted their laces, displayed their uncomprehended passions in such a way as would have shocked their worthy burgher souls had they been consciously aware of what they were doing. The voluptuousness of the music and the balminess of the air were responsible for lingering touch of hand on hand as the men helped the ladies with cloak or shawl. But the major, whose erotic temperament was never allowed to encroach upon his courtesy and formal politeness, was careful to avoid any contact with Diana.

Now the opera pursued its course, ominous, poignant. As Carmen, laying out the cards, pronounced the word of doom, Diana shuddered. It seemed to her that all of a sudden she was quite alone, no longer young, cut off from liberty. She was annoyed at the meeting of these two men, a meeting which had at first seemed to her so piquant. Yet she could not leave the house until once again she had drunk the intoxicating rhythm of the toreador music; had seen the brilliant sunlight illuminating the bull ring; had relished to the full the medley of horses, soldiers, flags; had thrilled responsively to the hymn of triumph and the glamour of the bloodthirsty sport. Amid all the noise and brilliancy, she had been snatched away into another realm by the exquisite tenderness of Micaela's appeal....

At last the curtain fell on the final act. Clapping of hands, bows before the footlights, a rush to the exits. All were still under the spell of the music and the drama; all were silent; all seemed for the moment to be rudderless, adrift.

As the three friends pressed forward in the crowd, their movements were closely followed by Scherer. For a week now he had had this amazing woman under observation, and the more he was tempted to utilize her for his purposes, the more he was struck with the qualities chance happenings revealed. He had noticed the meeting in the box, had instantly recognized the woman as Diana and the officer as an old acquaintance; the younger man was unknown to him. Their gestures and general behaviour showed the trio to hail from cultured circles; but he was puzzled as to the relationship of one to the other.

"I wonder how they are going to spend the remainder of the evening," he mused. "To which of those men does she belong?"

The question continued to occupy his mind for the rest of the night. He followed them into one of the larger restaurants, and engaged a table near the wall whence he could watch them unobserved.

After the second glass of Chambertin, the spirits of the three rose. It was as if they had thrown off a load. The major began to feel that this brother of Diana's was not in his way, after all; while Sidney saw that the officer was a gentleman although their first encounter had taken place in so dubious a spot. Both men placed implicit faith in Diana, and she for her part was able by her tactful management to bring the two to a better understanding.

"Sidney, do you remember where we last met?"

"Yes, in London."

"Whereabouts?"

"In the British Museum, before the Assyrian fresco with the lion. You were showing me around. I was keen to learn. Three times a week for at least two months...."

"Do you still draw?..."

"Occasionally."

"Will you show me some of your work?..."

"Any time you please!"

"Have you tried your hand at a portrait of your sister yet?" asked the major.

"Not as far as I can remember."

"Oh, but you did," cried Diana, laughing, "you made a sketch of me once at Brighton when I was wearing that lilac bathing cloak." Then, suddenly: "Oh, how I long for the sea! I want to go south, to Athens! Not just now, later on. I know south-eastern Europe, and nearly half the East, but I've never been to Athens, the only place that really matters. I like all that far better than your Assyrian lions!"

"Isn't it in Athens that one sees those riders?" asked the major, his voice suddenly assuming a tone of genuine inquiry. "You know, the riders you once showed me a cast of?"

Diana looked at him with lively comprehension as she replied:

"Yes, the riders are to be seen there."

Sidney thought:

"I wonder what memories the riders bring back to them?"

The major thought:

"How mad we were that day in Mecklenburg... I locked the garden gates ... it was early morning ... and I sat her naked on the Irish stallion ... bareback, like the Grecian riders in the museum.... Will she ever be mine again?"

Diana thought:

"I rode in the sunlight, naked, and I felt the quivering sides of the beast against my thighs.... It was of a chestnut colour, just like a nut freshly taken from the husk. We were like children together, he and I. How long ago those days seem to me now."

At last she roused herself to ask:

"So you are in the garrison here?"

"I'm on the general staff," he said testily, in an endeavour to hide the turmoil within. A pause. Then: "At that time, the last time I had the good luck to meet you--exactly three years ago--you were kind enough to suggest that we might meet again...."

"Yes, we did speak of the matter," answered Diana airily, hoping to quell his excitement; for she saw while he was speaking that he winced at the recollection of all he had made her suffer through his jealousy and his pride, of all that had led to the final parting.

Her tone drew a look of gratitude from him, which Sidney was quick to intercept. The young man rose, trying to find an excuse for leaving them alone together.

"Excuse me a moment," he said, "there's old Heinz over there...."

He was away for a quarter of an hour, and amused himself by sketching a caricature of the cloakroom attendant.

The officer seized his opportunity.

"Diana," he cried, taking her hand and covering it with kisses, "I have you to thank for what I have become. At the time of our parting, I hated you, yes, hated you. I could not bear you to look at any one else.... But when you had gone I drew a line--please don't laugh, I have not given up love, but I no longer devote all my time to love. I started studying seriously, and in two years I got promoted to the general staff. In the ordinary course I could not have gone that far in less than five years, and only then by a fluke. Meanwhile I've been devoting my leisure to opera--not just the ballet--museums, exhibitions, books of travel." Suddenly he found he could speak in lighter vein again as he exclaimed: "I actually read, yes, read: a novelty in my family. My forefathers away there in the churchyard at home would turn in their graves if they could see me!"

Diana closed her eyes, listening as her friend paid her this belated homage, and tried to conceal his emotion under cover of a joke. When he ceased speaking, she lifted her glass, and, with a charming and dignified mien, toasted him thus:

"Here's to the golden laurel leaf on your red collar!"

He embraced her in his glance and raised his glass to clink with hers, his hand trembling as he did so.

"How long shall we be alone? I do so much want to tell you what I've been planning these three years past.--Diana, I'm sorry to make you such a request in all this racket, but won't you share with me what remains of my life?"

Her face stiffened; she looked thirty years old at least as she put her glass down, and said softly:

"Never try to repeat things, my friend. Do you want the pleasant things you have just been saying to lose their flavour? Is not this moment of greater value than all the remainder of your life, which may prove a hollow sham if we do what you propose? Do not try to tame the falcon. Let me fly in a free sky."

She shot a glowing look at him, but as she emptied her glass her companion saw that her eyes were moist with tears.

Sidney came back at this moment. Diana rose, saying:

"It is late. Good-bye. Please do not come with me."

Both men protested; but Diana, wearied of the male's everlasting suspicion of women, beckoned them both towards her and flashed:

"Can't you trust me to go home by myself?"

She got into a taxi, and even as it was starting Scherer's big bulk appeared in the doorway of the restaurant. He had witnessed their farewells, and was seeking a taxi wherein to follow her and find out what was her next move. The major, who on no account wanted to lose her trail, bade Sidney a hasty good-night, and jumped into another taxi which was drifting along across the street. Sidney, however, understood the officer's manœuvre. He felt curious as to his sister's relations with the major and in his turn hailed a taxi.

In the busier parts of the town the procession was not very noticeable, but as soon as Diana's cab reached the quiet neighbourhood where she lived it was evident that she was being followed by three vehicles in fairly close formation.... When her driver stopped in front of her door, the others drew up likewise. Three heads were cautiously poked out of three windows. Scherer at once knew who the other two men were, but they were puzzled as to his identity.

As Diana stepped up to the front door she took the whole comedy in at a glance, and laughed. She laughed again when she reached her room:

"I'll never succeed in making men believe that I am a virtuous woman!"