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.”

“You think so?” Will cried, eagerly. Her words were balm to him. Rue

drew a deep sigh. “I don’t _think_ it; I know it,” she answered, sadly.

“O Rue, how good you are,” Will murmured, with a feeling very much like

remorse. “What other woman on earth but yourself would tell me so?”

Rue sighed a second time. “I saw it in her eyes,” she went on, looking

hard at him still, “when first she noticed you; I saw it still more when

that dreadful man Lindner came up into the box, and she waited

trembling, to see what was going to happen. I watched her face; it was

full of terror. But it wasn’t the loving terror of a woman who thinks

the husband she adores is just about to be attacked; it was the mere

physical terror of a shrinking soul at the sight of a crime, a quarrel,

a scuffle. You saved that man’s life, Will; whether you know it or not,

you saved it; for the other was a quarrelsome, revengeful fellow, who

came there fully prepared, as Florian told us, to stab his rival. You

saved his life; and when I looked at yourself, and Linnet standing by, I

thought at the time what a bad turn you had done——”

“For _her_?” Will suggested, in a very low tone.

“Oh no,” Rue answered aloud; “not for her alone, but for you as

well—for you and her—for both of you.”