In a second, Linnet felt from head to foot a great thrill break over her. It broke like a wave of fire, in long, undulating movement, as she had felt it at Innsbruck. The wave rose from her feet, as before, and coursed hot through her limbs, and burnt bright in her body, till it came out as a crimson flush on neck and chin and forehead. Then it descended once more, thrilling through her as it went, in long, undulating movement, from her neck to her feet again. She felt it as distinctly as she could feel Our Blessed Lady clenched hard in her little fist. Her Englishman was there, whom she thought she had lost; as at Innsbruck, so in London, he had come to hear her sing her first song in public!
All at once, yet again, the same strange seizure came over her. As her eyes met Will’s, and that wave of fire ran resistlessly through her, she was conscious of a weird sense she had known but once in all her life before – a sudden failure of sound, a numb deadening of the orchestra. Not a note struck her ear. It was all a vast blank to her. Instinctively, as she sang, her right hand toyed with Will’s coral necklet, but her left, with all its might, still gripped and clasped Our Lady with trembling fingers. She heard not a word she herself was uttering; she knew not how she sang, or whether she sang at all; in an agony of terror, of remorse, of shame, she kept her eyes fixed on the conductor’s bâton. By its aid alone she kept true to her accompaniment. But her heart went up silently in one great prayer to Our Lady. When she felt this at Innsbruck she knew it was love. If it meant love still – Andreas Hausberger’s wife – Oh! Blessed Mother, help! Oh! Dear Lady, protect her!
CHAPTER XXX
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
How she got through that song, how she got through that scene, Linnet never knew. She was conscious of but two things – Will Deverill’s presence and the Blessed Madonna. Remorse and shame almost choked her utterance. But mechanically she went on, and sang her part out to the end – sang it exquisitely, superbly. Have you ever noticed that what we do most automatically, we often do best? It was so that night at the Harmony with Linnet. She knew her music well; she had studied it carefully; and the very absence of self-consciousness which this recognition gave her, made her sing it more artlessly, yet more perfectly than ever. She forgot the actress and the singer in the woman. That suited her best of all. Her mental existence was divided, as it were, into two distinct halves; one conscious and personal, absorbed with Will Deverill and Our Dear Lady in Britannia metal; the other unconscious and automatic, pouring forth with a full throat the notes and words it was wound up to utter. And the automatic self did its work to perfection. The audience hung entranced; Andreas Hausberger, watching them narrowly from a box at the side, hugged his sordid soul in rapture at the thought that Linnet had captured them on this her first night in that golden England.
She sang on and on. The audience sat enthralled. Gradually, by slow stages, the sense of hearing came back to her. But she had done as well, or even better without it. The act went off splendidly. Andreas Hausberger was in transports. At the first interval between the scenes, Rue debated in her own soul what to do about Linnet; but, being a wise woman in her way, she determined to wait till the end of the piece before deciding on action. Act the Second, Act the Third, Act the Fourth followed fast; in Act the Fifth when Linnet, no longer a peasant girl, but the bride of the Grand Duke, came on in her beautiful pale primrose brocade, cut square in the bodice like a picture of Titian’s, the audience cheered again with a vociferous outburst. Linnet blushed and bowed; a glow of conscious triumph suffused her face; then she raised her eyes timidly to the box on the first tier. Her victory was complete. She could see by his face Will Deverill was satisfied – and the grand lady with the diamonds was sincerely applauding her.
Was the grand lady his wife? Why not? Why not? What could it matter to her now? She was Andreas Hausberger’s. And Will – why, Will was but an old Zillerthal acquaintance.
Yet she clutched Our Blessed Frau tighter than ever in her grasp, at that painful thought, and somehow hoped illogically Our Blessed Frau would protect her from the chance of the grand lady being really married to Will Deverill. Not even the gods, says Aristotle, in his philosophic calm, can make the past not have been as it was. But Linnet thought otherwise.
The curtain fell to a storm of clapping hands. After that a moment’s lull; then loud cries of “Casalmonte!” The whole theatre rang with them. The Papadopoli, revived by magic from his open-air deathbed on the blood-stained grass, came forward before the curtain, alive and well, his wounds all healed, leading Linnet on his right, and bowing their joint acknowledgments. At sight of the soprano, even the cynical critics yielded spontaneous homage. It was a great success; a very great success. Linnet panted, and bowed low. Surely she had much to be grateful for that night; surely the Blessed Madonna in heaven above had stood by her well through that trying ordeal!
But in Rue Palmer’s box, after all was over, Florian’s voice rose loud in praise of this new star in our musical firmament. “When first she swam into my ken,” he said, “on her Tyrolese hillside – you remember it, Deverill – I said to myself, ‘Behold a singer indeed! Some day, we may be sure, we shall welcome her in London.’ And now, could any mortal mixture of earth’s mould breathe purer music or more innate poesy?”
For it was Florian’s cue, as things stood, to make much of Linnet, for many reasons. In the first place, it would reflect credit and glory on his insight as a critic that he should have spotted this flaming comet of a season while as yet it loomed no larger than the eleventh magnitude. Indeed, he had gone down among the other critics between the acts, and buttonholed each of them in the lobby, separately. “A discovery of my own, I can assure you. I found her out as a peasant-girl in a Tyrolese valley, and advised her friends to have her trained and educated.” Then, again, his praise of Linnet no doubt piqued Rue; and Florian, in spite of rebuffs, had still one eye vaguely fixed in reserve on Rue’s seven hundred thousand. Faint heart, he well knew, never won fair lady. Besides, Florian felt it was a good thing Will’s cow-girl should have come back to him in London thus transformed and transfigured; for he recognised in Will his one dangerous rival for Rue’s affections, and he was bent as of old on getting rid of Will by diverting him, if possible, upon poor helpless Linnet. The mere fact of her being married mattered little to a philosopher. So he murmured more than once, as Linnet bowed deeper and deeper, “What a beautiful creature she is, to be sure! You remember, Will, what I said of her when we met her first in the Zillerthal?”
Even poets are human. There was a malicious little twinkle in the corner of Will’s eye as he answered briskly, “Oh yes; I remember it word for word, my dear fellow. You said, you thought with time and training, she ought to serve Andreas Hausberger’s purpose well enough for popular entertainments. Her voice, though undeveloped, was not wholly without some natural compass.”
Will had treasured up those words. Florian winced at them a little – they were not quite as enthusiastic as he could have wished just now; but he recovered himself dexterously. “And I told Hausberger,” he went on, “it was a sin and a shame to waste a throat like that on a Tyrolese troupe; and, happily, he took my advice at once, and had her prepared for the stage by the very best teachers in Italy and Germany. I’m proud of her success. It’s insight, after all – insight, insight alone, that makes and marks the Heaven-born Critic.”
Rue was writing meanwhile a hurried little note in pencil on the back of a programme. She had debated with herself during the course of the piece whether or not to send down and ask Linnet to visit them. Her true woman’s nature took naturally at last the most generous course – which was also the safest one. She folded the piece of paper into a three-cornered twist, and handed it with one of her sunny smiles to the Seer. It was addressed “Herr Hausberger.” “Will you take that down for me, Mr Holmes?” she asked, with a little tremor, “and tell one of the waiting-girls to give it at once to Madame Casalmonte’s husband.”
The Seer accepted the commission with delighted alacrity. In a moment he had spied game; his quick eye, intuitive as a woman’s, had read at a glance conflicting emotions on Rue’s face, and Will’s and Florian’s. Whatever else it might mean, it meant grist for the mill; he would make his market of it. A suspicion of intrigue is the thought-reader’s opportunity.
Linnet was standing at the wings in a flutter of excitement, all tremulous from her triumph, and wondering whether or not Will would come down to ask for her, when Andreas Hausberger bustled up, much interested, evidently, with some pleasurable emotion. He had seen his wife between the acts already, and assured her of his satisfaction at so fortunate an event for the family exchequer. But now he came forward, brimming over with fresh pleasure, and waving a note in his hand, as he said to her briskly in German, “Don’t wait to change, Linnet. This is really most lucky. Mrs Palmer – the lady we met at Innsbruck, you know – wants to see you in her box. She’s immensely rich, I’m told; and Florian Wood’s up there with her. The manager assures me he’s one of the most influential critics in London. Come along, just as you are, and mind you speak nicely to her.”
The lights were left burning long in the passages, as is often the case on first nights in London. Andreas led the way; Linnet followed him like one blindfolded. Oh, Blessed Madonna, how strangely you order things on this earth of yours sometimes! It was her husband himself, then, of all men in the world, who was taking her to the box where Will Deverill was waiting for her!
As for Andreas Hausberger, he stalked on before, elated, hardly thinking of Will – as indeed he had no cause to do. The rich woman of the world and the influential critic monopolised his attention. Tyrolese though he was, he was by no means jealous; greed of gain had swallowed up in him all the available passions of that phlegmatic nature. Linnet was his chattel now; he had married her and trained her; her earnings were his own, doubly mortgaged to him for life, and no poet on earth, be he ever so seductive, could charm them away from him.
He opened the box door with stately dignity. At St Valentin or in London, he was a person of importance. Linnet entered, quivering. She still wore her primrose brocade, as all through the last act, and she looked in it, even yet, a very great lady. Not Rue herself looked so great or so grand – charming, smiling Rue – as she rose to greet her. They stood and faced each other. One second Rue paused; then a womanly instinct all at once overcame her. Leaning forward with the impulse, she kissed the beautiful, stately creature on both cheeks with effusion, in unfeigned enthusiasm.
“Why, Linnet,” she said, simply, as if she had always known her; “we’re so glad to see you – to be the very first to congratulate you on your success this evening!”
A flood of genuine passion rushed hot into Linnet’s face. Her warm southern nature responded at once to the pressure of Rue’s hand. She seized her new friend by either arm, and returned her double kiss in a transport of gratitude. “Dear lady,” she said, with fervour, in her still imperfect English, “how sweet that you receive me so! How kind and good you English are to me!”
Andreas Hausberger’s white shirt-front swelled with expansive joy. This all meant money. They were really making wonderful strides in England.
Will held his hand out timidly. “Have you forgotten me, Frau Hausberger?” he asked her in German.
Linnet’s face flushed a still deeper crimson than before, as she answered frankly, “Forgotten you, Herr Will. Ach, lieber Gott, no! How kind of you.. to come and hear my first performance!”
“Nor me either, Linnet, I hope,” Florian interposed more familiarly, in his native tongue; for he had caught at the meaning of that brief Teutonic interlude. “I shall always feel proud, Herr Andreas, to think it was I who first discovered this charming song-bird’s voice among its native mountains.”
But Will found no such words. He only gazed at his recovered peasant-love with profound admiration. Fine feathers make fine birds, and it was wonderful how much more of a personage Linnet looked as she stood there to-night in her primrose brocade, than she had looked nearly four years since in her bodice and kirtle on the slopes of the Zillerthal. She was beautiful then, but she was queenly now – and it was not dress alone, either, that made all the difference. Since leaving the Tyrol, Linnet had blossomed out fast into dignified womanhood. All that she had learnt and seen meanwhile had impressed itself vividly on her face and features. So they sat for awhile in blissful converse, and talked of what had happened to each in the interval. Rue sent Florian down with a message to ask their friend the manager not to turn his gas off while the party remained there. The manager, bland and smiling, and delighted at his prima donna’s excellent reception, joined the group in the box, and insisted that they should all accompany him to supper. To this, the Sartorises demurred, on the whispered ground of dear Arthur’s position. Dear Arthur himself, indeed, resisted but feebly; it was Maud who was firm; but Maud was firm as a rock about it. Let dear Arthur go to supper with a theatrical manager, to meet a bedizened young woman from a playhouse like that – and him a beneficed clergyman with an eye to a canonry! Maud simply put her foot down.
So the Sartorises went home in a discreet four-wheeler; but the rest lingered on, and gossipped of old times in the Tyrol together, and heard each others’ tales with the deepest interest.
“And your mother?” Will asked at last; he was the first who had thought of her.
Linnet’s face fell fast. She clasped her dark hands tight. “Ah, that dear mother,” she said, with a deep-drawn sigh, and a mute prayer to Our Lady. “She died last winter, when I was away from home – away down in Venice. I couldn’t get back to her. ’Twas the Herr Vicar’s fault. He never wrote she was ill till the dear God had taken her. It was too late then. I couldn’t even go home to say a pater noster over her.”
“So now you’re alone in the world,” Will murmured, gazing hard at her.
“Yes; now I’m alone in the world,” Linnet echoed, sadly.
“But you have your husband, of course,” Florian put in, with a wicked smile, and a side glance at Andreas, who for his part was engaged in paying court most assiduously to the rich young widow.
Linnet looked up with parted lips. “Ah, yes; I have my husband,” she answered, as by an afterthought, in a very subdued tone, which sent a pang and a thrill through Will’s heart at once – so much did it tell him. He knew from those few words she wasn’t happy in her married life. How could she be, indeed – such a soul as hers, with such a man as Andreas?
Their first gossip was over, and they were just getting ready to start for supper, when one of the box-keepers knocked at the door with a card in his hand, which he passed to Andreas Hausberger. “There’s a gentleman here who’s been waiting outside for some time to see you,” he said; “and he asked me to give you this card at once, if you’ll kindly step down to him, sir.”
Andreas took it with a smile, and gazed at it unconcernedly. But a dash of colour mounted suddenly into those pale brown cheeks, as his eye caught the words neatly engraved on the card, “Mr Franz Lindner,” and below in the corner, “Signor Francesco, The London Pavilion.”
CHAPTER XXXI
WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK
Andreas handed the card to Will with a sardonic smile. “That wild fellow again,” he muttered. “I didn’t know he was in England. I suppose I must go down to the door to see him.”
But Will glanced at the name in profound dismay. It was an awkward moment. Heaven knew what might come of it. As he gazed and paused, all that Franz had said to him at the Criterion bar a year before recurred to his mind vividly. He seized Hausberger’s arm with a nervous clutch, and drew him a little aside. “Take care of this man Lindner,” he said in a warning whisper. “He doesn’t love you. He is not to be trusted. If I were you, I wouldn’t see him alone. He owes you a grudge. Ask him up here, and talk with him before us all and the ladies.”
“Did you know he was in London?” Andreas inquired, scarcely flinching.
“Yes; I met him by accident in Bond Street a year ago. I’ve been to hear him sing at the music hall where he works, and he came with Mr Wood and myself to the Duke of Edinburgh’s to see Sweet Maisie, one of my pieces. But he was breathing forth fire and slaughter against you, even then, for leaving him in the lurch that time at Meran. To tell you the truth, he’s a dangerous man in a dangerous mood; I can’t answer for what may happen if you go down alone to him.”
“Let me go down and fetch him,” Florian suggested, blandly. “The job would just suit me. I’m warranted to disarm the most truculent fool in Christendom with a smile and a word or two.”
To this middle course Andreas consented somewhat doubtfully. He knew Franz’s temper and his Tyrolese impetuosity; but, as a Tyroler himself, hot-hearted at core for all his apparent phlegm, he didn’t feel inclined to parley through an ambassador with a pretentious Robbler. However, a scene on the first night would be bad business. That touched a tender point. So he gave way ungraciously. Florian departed, full of importance at his post of envoy, and returned in a minute or two with the Robbler’s ultimatum. “He’s been drinking, I fancy,” he said, “and he’s very wild and excited; Montepulciano in his eye, Lacrima Christi in his gait, Falernian in his utterance. But he’ll come up if you like; only I thought, Rue, as it’s your box, I’d better ask you first whether you’d care to see him.”
“He isn’t drunk, is he?” Rue asked, shrinking back. “We couldn’t have a drunken man shown up into the box here.”
“Not more drunk than a gentleman should be,” Florian answered, airily. “He can walk and talk, and I think he can behave himself. But he’s a good deal flushed, and somewhat flustered, and he expresses a burning desire for Herr Hausberger’s heart-blood, in a guttural bass, with quite unbecoming ferocity.”
Rue shrank away with a frightened face. “Oh, don’t bring him up here!” she cried. “Please, Florian, don’t bring him up here. I’m so afraid of tipsy men; and you don’t really think he wants to murder Herr Hausberger?”
“Well, not exactly to murder him, perhaps,” Florian replied, with a tolerant and expansive smile; “that would be positively vulgar; but to fight him, no doubt; and, if possible, to put an end to him. The duel in one form or another, you see, is a most polite institution. We don’t call it murder in good Society. Lindner feels himself aggrieved – there’s a lady in the case – ” and he gave an expressive side-glance over his shoulder towards Linnet, “so he desires to bury his knife to the hilt in the gentleman’s body whom, rightly or wrongly, he conceives to have acted ill towards him. Nothing vulgar in that you’ll allow: a most natural sentiment. Only, as Herr Hausberger’s friends in this little affair, we must strive our best to see that all things are done, as the apostle advises, decently and in order.”
Linnet drew back with a convulsive gasp. Was this bloodshed they contemplated, and were talking of so calmly? Will laid his hand on Rue’s arm. Even in the heat of the moment, Linnet noticed that simple action, and, she knew not why, her heart sank within her.
“If I were you, Rue,” Will put in very hurriedly, “I’d let this man come in; drunk or sober, I’d see him. It’s better he should speak with Herr Hausberger here than anywhere else. Try to sink your own feelings and put up with him for a minute or two. If you don’t, I’m afraid I can’t answer for the consequences.”
He spoke very seriously. Rue drew back, still shrinking. Her face was pale but her voice was firm. “Very well, Will,” she answered, without another word of demur. “I hate a tipsy man; but if you wish it, I’ll see him here.”
Linnet noticed the lingering stress of her voice on the you, and the obvious familiarity that subsisted between them; and she thought to herself once more, what did it matter to her? – she was Andreas Hausberger’s wife now. Blessed Madonna, protect her!
Florian disappeared a second time, buoyant as usual, and came back in a minute – bringing Franz Lindner with him. The Seer had left the box some moments earlier; Linnet and Rue stood forward towards the door, as if to break the attack, with Andreas in the background, between Will and the manager. Florian flung the door open with his customary flourish. “Mr Franz Lindner!” he said, introducing him with a wave of his dainty small hand, “whose charming performance on the zither we had the pleasure of hearing, you will recollect, Rue, with Signora Casalmonte, some years ago at Innsbruck.”
The Robbler stepped into the box, erect, haughty, defiant. His handsome face was flushed and flown with drink; but his manner was alert, self-respecting, angry. He glared about him with fierce eyes. His left hand, held to his bosom, just defined between finger and thumb the vague shape of the bowie in his breast coat pocket; his right was disengaged with a tremulous quiver, as if in readiness to spring at Andreas Hausberger and throttle him.
With unexpected presence of mind, Rue extended her pretty gloved hand towards the Robbler, cordially, as if she fancied he had come on the most ordinary errand. “We’re so glad to see you, Mr Lindner,” she cried, in a natural voice, and with apparent frankness – though that was a fearful feminine fib; “I remember so well your delightful jodels! You were a member of Herr Hausberger’s company then, I recollect. How charmingly his wife has been singing here this evening!”
The Robbler gazed about him, a little disconcerted at so different a welcome from the one he had expected. However, as things stood, the acquired instincts of civilisation compelled him to hold in check for a moment the more deeply ingrained impulses of his mountain nature. Besides, Rue’s words appealed at once to his personal vanity. To think that this beautiful and exquisitely-dressed lady, with the diamonds on her white neck, and the dainty pale gloves on her tapering fingers, should receive him in her box like a gentleman and an equal! How could he jump at his enemy’s throat then and there before her eyes? How remain insensible to so much grace, so much tact, so much elegance? Moreover, he was taken aback by the number of persons in the box, the unexpected brilliancy, the imposing evening dress, Linnet’s stately costume, Rue’s dazzling jewellery. He had come up there, meaning to rush at his antagonist the very moment he saw him, and plunge a knife into his heart, like a true Tyrolese Robbler, even here in London. Instead of that, he paused irresolute, took the gloved hand in his, bent over it with the native dignity and courtesy of his race, and faltered, in broken English, some inarticulate words of genuine gratification that Mrs Palmer should deign to remember so kindly his poor performances on the zither at Innsbruck.
Then Will came forward in turn, seized the Robbler’s right hand, wrang it hard and long – just to occupy the time, and prevent possible mischief – and poured forth hurried remarks, one after another, hastily, about Linnet’s first appearance, and the success of her singing. It was a friendly meeting. The manager chimed in, with Florian in his most ecstatic mood for chorus. Franz Lindner’s blood boiled; dazed and startled as he was, more than ever now he felt in his heart of how great a prize Andreas Hausberger had defrauded him. By trickery and stealth that sordid wretch had defrauded him. The ladies at the London Pavilion, indeed! Why, Linnet on those boards – Linnet in that dress – Linnet in her transformed and transfigured beauty – she was worth the whole troupe of them! Yet what could he do? Linnet held out her frank hand; Franz grasped it fervently. Her beauty surprised him. She was no longer, he saw well, the mere musical peasant girl; she had risen to the situation; she was now a great artist, a great lady, a queen of the theatre.
Primitive natures are quick. Their emotions are few, but strong and overpowering. Mood succeeds mood with something of the rapidity and successive effacement we see in children. Franz Lindner had entered that box, full of rage and anger, thirsting only for blood, eager to wreak his vengeance on the man who had offended him. He had no thought of love for Linnet then; only a fierce, keen sense of deadly resentment towards Andreas. Now, in a moment, as Linnet let her soft hand lie passive in his, like an old friend recovered, another set of feelings rushed over him irresistibly. His heart leaped up into his mouth at her pressure. Why, Linnet was beautiful; Linnet was exquisite; Linnet was a prize worth any man’s winning. If he stabbed Andreas then and there before his wife’s very eyes, he might glut his revenge, to be sure – but what would that avail him? Why go and be hanged for killing Linnet’s husband, and leave Linnet herself for some other man to woo, and win, and be happy with? Herr Will, there, would thank him, no doubt, for that chance; for he could plainly see by his eyes Herr Will was still deeply in love with Linnet. No, no, – hot heart; down, down for the present! Keep your hands off Andreas’s throat; wait for sweeter vengeance! To win away his wife from him, to steal her by force, to seduce her by soft words, to wile her by blandishment – that were a better revenge in the end than to stick a knife in him now – though to stick a knife, too, is very good requital! Sooner or later, Franz meant to have Andreas Hausberger’s blood. But not to be hanged for it. He would rather live on.. to kill Hausberger first, and enjoy his wife afterwards.
All this, quick as lightning, not thought but felt in an indivisible flash of time, darted fast through Franz Lindner’s seething brain, at touch of Linnet’s fingers. She spoke a few words to him of friendly reminiscence. Then Andreas, stepping forward, held out his hand in turn. It was a critical moment. Linnet’s heart stood still. Franz lifted his arm, half hesitating, towards his breast coat pocket. Should he stab him – or wring his hand? The surroundings settled it. It’s a thousand times harder to plunge your knife into your man before the eyes of ladies and dramatic critics, in a box of a London theatre, than among the quarrelsome hinds on a Tyrolese hillside. Surlily and grudgingly, Franz lifted his right – extended it with an effort, and shook hands with his enemy. Rue and Linnet looked on in an agony of suspense. Once the grasp was over, every member of the party drew a deep breath involuntarily. The tension was relieved. Conversation ran on as if nothing had happened. The whole little episode occupied no more than two fleeting minutes. At its end they were all chatting with apparent unconcern about old times at Meran and old friends at St Valentin.
Franz was sobered by the conflict of emotion within him. The manager, with great tact and presence of mind, invited him promptly to join them at supper. Franz accepted with a good grace, uncertain yet how he stood with them, and became before long almost boisterously merry. He kept himself within due bounds, indeed, before the faces of the ladies, and drank his share of champagne with surprising moderation. But he talked unceasingly, for the most part to Linnet, Rue, and Florian; very little to Will; hardly at all to Andreas Hausberger. They sat late and long. They had all much to say, and Will, in particular, wished to notice with care the nature of the relations between Linnet and Andreas. At last they rose to go. Will saw Franz sedulously to the door of the supper-rooms. He wanted to make sure the man was really gone. Franz paused for a minute on the threshold of the steps, and gazed out with vague eyes on the slippery Strand. “Zat’s a fine woman,” he said, slowly; “a very fine woman. Andreas Hausberger took her from me. You saved his life zis night. But she’s mine by ze right, and some day I shall claim her!”
Will took Rue home; she dismissed Florian early. In the brougham, as they drove, for some time neither spoke of the subject that was nearest both their hearts; an indescribable shyness possessed and silenced them. At last, Will said, tentatively, in a very timid voice, striking off at a tangent, “She’s more beautiful than ever, and she sang to-night divinely. These years have done much for her, Rue. She returns to us still the same; and yet, oh, how altered!”
“Yes; she is beautiful,” Rue answered, in a very low tone – “more beautiful than ever. And such a perfect lady, too – so charming and so graceful, one can’t help loving her. I don’t wonder at you men, Will, when even we women feel it.”
They drove on for another minute or two, each musing silently. Then Will spoke again. “Do you think,” he inquired, in a very anxious voice, “she’s.. she’s happy with her husband?”
“No!” Rue answered, decisively. It was the short, sharp, extremely explosive “No” that closes a subject.
“I thought not, myself,” Will went on, with still greater constraint. “I was afraid she wasn’t. But.. I thought.. I might be prejudiced.”
Rue lifted her eyes, and met his, by the gloom of the gas-lamps. “She’s very unhappy with him,” she burst out all at once with a woman’s instinct. “She does not love him, and has never loved him. How could she – that block of ice – that lump of marble. She tries to do everything that’s right and good towards him, because he’s her husband, and she ought to behave so to him. She’s a good woman, I’m sure – a pure, good woman; her soul’s in her art, and she tries not to think too much of her unhappiness. But she loves somebody else best – and she knows she loves him. I saw it in her eyes, and I couldn’t be deceived about it.”