CHAPTER XXXVIII

HUSBAND OR LOVER?

The Hausbergers spent that winter in Italy. Andreas thought the London

air was beginning to tell upon Linnet’s throat, and he took good care,

accordingly, to get her an autumn engagement in Vienna, followed by a

winter one at Rome and Naples. The money was less, to be sure, but in

the end ’twould repay him. Linnet was an investment, and he managed his

investment with consummate prudence. Before they went away, however, he

and Linnet had another slight difference of opinion about Will Deverill.

On the very morning of their departure, a bouquet arrived at the door in

Avenue Road, with a neat little note attached, which Linnet opened and

read with undisguised eagerness. Bouquets and notes were not infrequent

arrivals at that house, indeed, and Andreas, as a rule, took little or

no notice of them—unless accompanied by a holder of the precious

metals. But Linnet flushed so with pleasure as she read this particular

missive that Andreas leaned across and murmured casually, “What’s up?

Let me look at it.”

“I’d—I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” Linnet answered, colouring up,

and half-trying to hide it.

Andreas snatched the paper unceremoniously from her trembling hands. He

recognised the handwriting. “Ho, Will Deverill!” he cried, with a sneer.

“Let’s see what he says! It’s poetry, is it, then? He drops into verse!”

And he glanced at it angrily.

“TO LINNET.”

“Fair fortune gild your southward track,

Dear bird of passage, taking wing.

For me, when April wafts you back,

Will not the spring be twice the spring?”

It was imprudent of Will, to be sure; but we are all of us a _leetle_

imprudent at times (present company of course excepted); and some small

licence in these matters is accorded by common consent to poets. But

Andreas was angry, and more than merely angry; he was suspicious as

well—beginning to be afraid, in fact, of his hold over Linnet. At

first, when he came to England, the wise _impresario_ was so sure of his

wife—so sure of keeping her, and all the money she brought him, in his

own hands—that he rather threw her designedly into Will’s company than

otherwise. He saw she sang better when she was much with Will; and for

the sake of her singing, he lumped the little question of personal

preference. But of late he had begun really to fear Will Deverill. It

occurred to him at odd moments as just within the bounds of possibility,

after all, that Will might some day rob him of his wife altogether,—and

to rob him of his wife was to rob him of his most serious and profitable

property. Why, the sale of her presents alone—bracelets,

bouquet-holders, rings, and such like trifles—was quite a small fortune

to him. And, all Catholic that she was, and devout at that—a pure woman

who valued her own purity high—quite unlike Philippina—Andreas felt

none the less she might conceivably go off in the end with Will

Deverill. The heart is always a very vulnerable point in women. He might

attack her through the heart, or some such sentimental rubbish; and

Linnet had a heart such a fellow as that could strike chords upon

easily.

So Andreas looked at the flowers and simple little versicles with an

angry eye. Then he said, in his curt way, “Pretty things to address to a

married woman, indeed! Pack them up and send them back again!”

Linnet flushed, and flared up. For once in her life, her temper failed

her. “I won’t,” she answered, firmly. “I shall keep them if I choose.

There’s nothing in them a poet mayn’t rightly say to a married woman. If

there was, you know quite well I wouldn’t allow him to say it. . . .

Besides,” she went on, warmly, “you wouldn’t have asked me to send them

back if they’d been pearls or diamonds. You kept the duke’s necklet.”

And she hid the note in her bosom before the very eyes of her husband.

Andreas was not a noisy man. He knew a more excellent way than that to

carry his point in the end—by biding his time, and watching and

waiting. So he said no more for the moment, except to mutter a

resounding High German oath, as he flung the flowers, paper cover and

all, into the dining-room fireplace. In half-an-hour more, they were at

Charing Cross, on their way to Vienna. Linnet kept Will’s verses inside

the bosom of her dress, and close to her throbbing heart. Andreas asked

no more about them just then, but, all that winter through, he meditated

his plan of action for the future, in silence.

Their two months at Vienna were a great success, professionally. Linnet

went on to Rome laden with the spoils of susceptible Austrians. For the

first few weeks after their arrival in Italy, she noticed that Andreas

received no letters in Philippina’s handwriting; but, after that time,

notes in a familiar dark-hued scrawl began to arrive for him—at first,

once a fortnight or so, then, later, much more frequently. Andreas read

them before Linnet’s eyes, and burnt them cautiously, without note or

comment. Linnet was too proud to allude to their arrival in any way.

Early in April, with the swallows and sand-martins, they returned to

England. The spring was in the air, and Andreas thought the bracing

north would suit Linnet’s throat better now than that soft and relaxing

Italian atmosphere. On the very day when they reached Avenue Road,

Philippina came to see them. She greeted Andreas warmly; Linnet kissed

her on both cheeks. “Well, dear,” she said in German, clasping her

friend’s hand hard, “and how’s your husband?”

“What! that dreadful man! _Ach, lieber Gott_, my dear, don’t speak of

him!” Philippina cried, holding up both her hands in holy horror. Linnet

smiled a quiet smile. Florian’s forecast was correct; Andreas’s words

had come true. Her hot first love had cooled down again as quickly as it

had flared up, all aglow, like a straw fire in the first instance.

Then Philippina began, in her usual voluble style, to pour forth the

full gravamen of her charges against Theodore. She was living with him

still, oh yes, she was living with him,—for appearance’ sake, you

understand; and then besides—Philippina dropped her eyes with a

conventional smile, and glanced side-long at Andreas—there were

contingencies . . . well . . . which made it necessary, don’t you know,

to keep in with him for the present. But he was a dreadful man, all the

same, and she had quite seen through him. She wished to goodness she had

taken Herr Hausberger’s excellent advice at first, and never, never

married him. “Though there! when once one’s married to a man, like him

or lump him, my dear, the best thing one can do is to drag along with

him somehow, for the children’s sake, of course”—and Philippina

simpered once more like the veriest school-girl.

As soon as she had finished the recital of her troubles with that

dreadful man, she went on to remark, in the most offhand way, that Will

Deverill, presuming on his altered fortunes, had taken new and larger

rooms in a street in St James’s. They were beautiful rooms—oh yes, of

course—and Herr Florian had furnished them, _ach, so schön, so schön_,

was never anything like it. She saw Herr Florian often now; yes, he was

always so kind, and sent her flowers weekly—such lovely flowers. Herr

Will had heard that Linnet was coming back; and he was hoping to see

her. He would be round there that very night, he had told her so himself

just half-an-hour ago in Regent Street.

At those words, Andreas rose, without warning of any sort, and touched

the electric bell. The servant entered.

“You remember Mr Deverill?” he said to the girl; “the tall, fair

gentleman, with the light moustache, who called often last summer?”

“Oh yes, sir, I mind him well,” the girl answered, promptly “him as

brought the bokay for Mrs Hausberger the morning you was going away to

the Continent last October.”

It was an awkward reminiscence, though she didn’t intend it so. Andreas

frowned still more angrily than before at the suggestion. “That’s the

man!” he cried, savagely. “Now, Ellen, if he calls to-night and asks for

your mistress, say she isn’t at home, and won’t be at home in future to

Mr Deverill.”

His voice was cold and stern. Linnet started from her chair. Her face

flushed crimson. That Andreas should so shame her before Philippina and

her own servant—it was hateful, it was intolerable! She turned to the

girl with a tinge of unwonted imperiousness in her tone. “Say nothing of

the sort, Ellen,” she cried, in a very firm voice, standing forth and

confronting her. “If Mr Deverill comes, show him up to the

drawing-room.”

Andreas stood still and glared at her. He said never a word, but he

clenched his fists hard, and pressed his teeth together. The girl looked

from one to the other in feeble indecision, and then began to whimper.

“Which of you am I to take my orders from?” she burst out, with a little

sob. “From you, or my mistress?”

“From me!” Linnet answered, in a very settled voice. “This house is

mine, and you are _my_ servant. I earn the money that keeps it all

going. Mr Hausberger has no right to dictate to me here whom I may see

or not in my own drawing-room.”

The girl hesitated for a moment, and then left the room with evident

reluctance. As soon as she was gone, Andreas turned fiercely to his

wife. “This is open war,” he said, with a scowl; “open war, Frau

Hausberger. This is sheer rebellion. You are wrong in what you say. The

house is mine, and all that’s in it; I took it in my own name, I

furnished it, I pay the rent of it. The money you earn is mine; I have

your own signature to the document we drew up before I invested my hard

cash in getting you trained and educated. I’m your husband, and if you

disobey me, I’ll take you where I choose. Now mind, my orders are, you

don’t receive Mr Deverill in this house this evening. Philippina, you

are my witness. You hear what I say. If she does, all the world will

know what to think of it. She’ll receive him against my wish, and in my

absence. Every civilised court puts only one construction on such an act

of open disobedience.”

He went out into the hall, fiery hot, and returned with his hat. “I’m

going out,” he said, curtly. “I don’t want to coerce you. I leave it in

your own hands whether you’ll see this man alone against my will or not,

Frau Hausberger. But, recollect, if you see him, I shall take my own

course. I’ll not be bearded like this before my own servants by a

woman—a woman I’ve raised from the very dregs of the people, and put by

my own act in a position she’s unfit for.”

Linnet’s blood was up. “You can go, sir,” she said, briefly. “If Mr

Deverill calls, I shall see for myself whether or not I care to receive

him.”

Andreas strode out all on fire. As soon as he was gone, Linnet sank into

a chair, buried her face in her hands, pressed her nails against her

brow, and sobbed long and violently. The little Madonna in Britannia

metal gave scant comfort to her soul. She rocked herself to and fro in

unspeakable misery. Though she had spoken up so bravely to Andreas to

his face, she knew well in her heart this was the end of everything. As

a wife, as a Catholic, let him be ever so unworthy, let him be ever so

unkind, her duty was plain. She must never, in his absence, receive Will

Deverill!

Her strength was failing fast. She knew that well. Dear Lady, protect

her! If she saw Will after this, Heaven knew what might happen—for, oh,

in her heart, how she loved him, how she loved him! She had prayed to

the Blessed Frau that she might love Will Deverill less; but she never

meant it. The more she prayed, the better she loved him. And now, why,

the Madonna was crumpled up almost double in her convulsive grasp.

Philippina leant over her with a half-frightened air. Linnet rose and

rang the bell. It was terrible, terrible. Though it broke her poor

heart, she would obey the Church; she would obey her husband. “If Mr

Deverill calls,” she said, half-inaudibly, to the servant, once more,

“you may tell him . . . I’m not at home.”

The Church had conquered.

Then she sank back in her chair, sobbing and crying bitterly.