CHAPTER XXVI

A WOMAN’S HEART

The papers next morning, with one accord, were almost unanimous in their

praise of _Honeysuckle_. Will’s operetta didn’t set the Thames on fire,

to be sure—a first work seldom does—but it secured such an amount of

modest success as decided him to change his plans largely for the

future. It was certain, now, that he might take himself seriously as a

musical purveyor. So he began to drop off to some extent from the hack

work of journalism, and devote his energies in earnest to his new task

in life as a playwright and composer. Rue had nothing to pay for her

guarantee of _Honeysuckle_; on the contrary, Will received a very solid

sum for his royalties on the run through the remainder of that season.

He never knew, indeed, how much he had been indebted to the pretty

American’s not wholly disinterested act of kindness; for Mr Blades kept

his word; and, in spite of what he said, Rue’s timely intervention had

decided him not a little in accepting that first piece by an unknown

author.

Thus, during the next few years, as things turned out, Will’s position

and prospects improved very rapidly. He was regarded as one of our most

rising composers; critics spoke of him as the sole representative and

restorer of the serious English poetical opera. Monetary troubles no

longer oppressed his soul; he had leisure to write—and to write, if he

would, the thing that pleased him. His position was secured—so much so,

indeed, that judicious mammas gave him frequent invitations to their

gayest At Homes and garden parties. But he successfully avoided all

snares so set for him. Many people expressed no little surprise that so

nice a young man—and a poet to boot—with a position like his, and such

excellent Principles, should refrain from marriage. Society expects that

every man will do his duty; it intends him to marry as soon as he has

means to relieve it becomingly of one among its many superfluous

daughters. But, in spite of Society, Will still remained single, and met

all the casual feelers of interested acquaintances as to the reasons

which induced him so to shirk his duty as a British citizen with a quiet

smile of self-contained resolution.

Rue came to London now for each succeeding season. Will was much at her

house, and a very real friendship existed between them. Busybodies

wondered, indeed, that those two young people, who were so thick

together, didn’t stop scandal’s mouth by marrying as they ought to do.

The busybodies could see no just cause or impediment why they should not

at once be joined together in holy matrimony. The young woman was rich;

the young man was a genius. She was “mad for him,” every one said, in

every one’s usual exaggerated phraseology; and as for him, though

perhaps he wasn’t quite so wildly in love, yet he liked her so well, and

was so often in her company, that it would surely be better to avoid

whispers at once by marrying her offhand, like the earl in the “Bab

Ballads,” “quite reg’lar, at St George’s!” The busybodies were surprised

he didn’t see it so himself; it really was almost somebody’s duty, they

thought, to suggest the idea to him. But perhaps Mrs Palmer’s money was

strictly tied up; in which case, of course—Society broke off short, and

shrugged its sapient shoulders.

To some extent, in fact, Will agreed with them himself. He almost

fancied he would have proposed to Rue—if he wasn’t so fond of her. As

he sat with her one evening by the drawing-room fire at Hans Place,

before the lights were turned on, during blind-man’s holiday, he said to

her suddenly, after a long, deep pause, “I daresay, Rue, you sometimes

wonder why it is I’ve never tried to ask you to marry me.”

Rue gave a little start of half-tremulous surprise. He could see how the

colour mounted fast to her cheek by the glow of the firelight. She gave

a faint gasp as she answered candidly, with American frankness, “Well,

to tell you the truth, Will, I’ve fancied once or twice you were just

going to do it.”

Will looked across at her kindly. She was very charming. “I won’t be

cruel enough, Rue,” he said, leaning forward to her like a brother, “to

ask you what answer you meant to give, if I’d done as you expected. I

hope you won’t think me conceited if I say I half believe I know it

already. And that’s just why I want to tell you now the reason that has

prevented me from ever asking you. If your nature were a little less

deep, and a little less womanly than it really is, I might have asked

you long ago. But, Rue, you know—I feel sure you know—how deeply I

loved that other woman. I love her still, and I won’t pretend to deny

it. I’ve waited and wondered whether in time her image might fade out of

my heart; but it never has faded. She’s another man’s wife, and probably

I shall never see her again; yet I love her as dearly and regret her as

much as I did on the day when I first heard she’d thrown herself away

for life upon Andreas Hausberger.”

“I’ve felt sure you did,” Rue answered, with downcast eyes. “_I’ve_ felt

it, Will—and for that very reason, I’ve wondered all the less you

didn’t ask me.”

Will looked across at her again. She was beautiful as she sat there with

the glow of the fire on her pensive features. “Dear Rue,” he said,

softly, “you and I are no mere children. We know our own minds. We’re

grown man and woman. We can venture to talk freely to one another of

these things, without the foolish, childish nonsense of false shame or

false blushes. In spite of Linnet, I’d have asked you long ago to be my

wife—if I hadn’t respected and admired you so deeply. But I feel you’re

not a woman who could ever put up with half a man’s heart, or half a

man’s confidence; and half my heart is all I could give you. I love

Linnet still, and I shall always love her. I never shall cease to feel

an undying regret that _I_ didn’t marry her, instead of that fellow

Hausberger. Now, there are women not a few I might still have asked to

marry me, in spite of that regret; but _you’re_ not one of them. I love

you better than I ever have loved anyone else on this earth—anyone

else, but Linnet; and, therefore, I don’t ask you to marry a man who

could give you a second place only in his affections.”

The tears stood dim in Rue’s swimming eyes. She looked at him steadily,

and let them trickle one by one down her cheeks, unheeded. “Dear Will,”

she answered him back, with equal frankness, “it was kind of you to

speak, and I’m glad you’ve spoken. It’ll make our relations all the

easier in future! I guessed how you felt; I guessed it all long ago; but

I’m glad, all the same, to have heard from your own lips the actual

facts of it. And, Will, you quite rightly interpret my feelings. I’m an

American at heart, and, you know, we Americans are very exacting in

matters of affection. Some savage strain of monopoly exists in us still.

I can’t help it. I acknowledge it. I won’t deny to you”—and she

stretched out her hand quite frankly, and let him hold it in his own for

a few brief moments—“I won’t deny that I’m very very fond indeed of

you. If you could have given me your whole heart, I would have accepted

it gratefully. I admired you with a deep admiration from the very first

day I ever met you. I loved you from the time we sat together on the

Lanser Kopf that afternoon at Innsbruck. I’m not ashamed to tell you

so—nay, rather, dear, I’m proud of it; for, Will, you’re a man any

woman might be proud to waste her love upon. But much as I love you,

much as I admire you, I never could accept you if you feel like that. As

an American born, with my monopolist instincts, I must have a whole man

to myself all alone—or I won’t have any of him.”

“I knew it,” Will answered, caressing her hand with his fingers, and

bending over it chivalrously. “And that’s why I never have ventured to

ask you. But I’ve loved you all the same, Rue—as one loves the woman

who stands best of all . . . save one . . . in one’s affections.”

Rue withdrew her hand gently. Her tears were falling faster. “Well,

now,” she said, with a quiet sigh, “we can be friends in future—all the

better, I hope, for this little explanation. I’m rich, of course, Will;

and a great many men, circumstanced as you were, would have been glad to

marry me for the sake of my money. I liked you all the more, I like you

the more to-day, in that _that_ has never counted for one moment with

you. If you’d been a mercenary man, you’d have dissembled and pretended;

you need never have let me see how much you loved that girl; or, if you

had, you might have led me to suppose you had gradually forgotten

her. . . . Dear friend”—and she turned to him once more with a sudden

burst of uncontrollable feeling—“we are man and woman, as you say, not

boy and girl; so why should I be ashamed to open my whole heart to you?

You’ve told me the truth, like a man; why shouldn’t I tell you the

truth, in return, like a woman? I will. I can’t help it. I have waited

and watched and thought often to myself, ‘In time, he must surely,

surely get over it. He must cease to love her; he can never really have

loved her so much as he imagines; he must turn at last to me, when he

forgets all about her.’ So I waited and watched, and, month after month,

I thought at last you must surely begin to forget her. But, month after

month, I have seen you loved her still; and while you loved her still,

. . . Will, Will, dear Will, I didn’t want you to ask me.”

Will seized her hand once more, and kissed it tenderly. “Oh, how good

you are!” he cried, in a very melting voice. “Rue, do you know, when you

talk like that, you make me love you!”

“But not better than _her_?” Rue murmured, softly.

Will couldn’t lie to her. “No; not better than her,” he answered slowly,

in a very low voice. “If it were otherwise, I’d have asked you this very

minute, dear sister.”

Rue rose and faced him. The firelight flickered red on her soft white

dress; he could see by its bright glow the tears still trickling slow

down those full round cheeks of hers. “After this, Will, I must go,” she

said. “Don’t come again to-morrow. Next week, you may call if you like,

some afternoon, casually; but for Heaven’s sake, please, don’t refer to

this interview. I have only one thing to say, and when I’ve said it, I

must run from you. Remember, I’m a woman; my pride is fighting hard

against my love to-night—and, if I let love win, I should for ever

despise myself. As long as you live, don’t speak to me of this matter

again, unless you speak to say, ‘Rue, Rue, I’ve forgotten her.’ If ever

that day comes—” and she flushed rosy red—“you have my answer already;

you know you can claim me.”

She moved over to the door, with hurried step and beating heart, hardly

able to trust herself. With a true sense of delicacy, Will abstained

from opening it. He stood on the hearth-rug, irresolute, and just

watched her depart; he felt, in the circumstances, that course was the

more respectful.

With her fingers on the handle, Rue paused, and looked round again. “I

wouldn’t have said so much, even now,” she faltered, “if it weren’t for

this—that I feel you’re the one man I’ve ever met in my life to whom

the question of my money was as dust in the balance. You speak the

truth, and I know I can trust you. If ever you can say to me, ‘I love

you better now, Rue, than I ever loved anyone,’ I am yours: then, take

me! But till that day comes, if come it ever does, let us only be

friends. Never speak to me again, for Heaven’s sake, never speak, as we

have spoken this evening.”

She opened the door and passed out, all tremulous. Will waited a moment,

and then, with a throbbing heart, went slowly down the stairs. As he did

so, something moist fell suddenly on his hand that grasped the

bannister. To his immense surprise, he found it was a tear from his own

eyelids—for he too was crying. Poet that he was, he felt more than

half-inclined, while he stood there, hesitating, to rush after her as

she went, and seize her in his strong arms, and cover her with warm

kisses that very minute. For a poet is a man even more than the rest of

us. But could he tell her with truth he had quite forgotten Linnet? Oh,

no, no, no; Linnet’s image on his heart remained graven, even then,

quite as deeply as ever. We men are built so.