Linnet: A Romance
without his capital to back her up and give her that needful training,
she could never use her voice to full (mercantile) advantage. She’d be a
fool, indeed, if she refused his offer. And if she did,—well, she was
bound to him for three years at any rate; he could use up her voice
pretty well in those three years, as he used up his horses—on
commercial principles—and make a very fair profit out of her meanwhile
in the process.
Thinking which things to himself during his stay in Meran, Andreas, who
was by nature a taciturn person, had been in no hurry to communicate his
ideas on the point prematurely to Linnet. He didn’t want to puff her up
with too much vanity beforehand, by disclosing to her over-soon the high
honour in store for her. She had received more than enough homage
already from the audiences at their concerts; it would turn her head
outright if she knew all at once she was also to be promoted to marry
her master. He would make all the legal preparations for the wedding in
due time, without consulting Linnet; then, when everything was finished,
and the day had come for them to leave Meran, he would break to her all
at once the good fortune he designed for her. Not only was she to marry
a man of substance, and a man of weight, and a _Land-amt_ of the parish,
but she was to be trained and fitted by him with sedulous care as a
special star of the operatic profession.
When Franz Lindner burst in upon him, however, at his old-fashioned inn,
in the street that is called Unter den Lauben, all indignant with the
news how he had lighted upon Linnet and the Herr Engländer together on
the slopes of the Küchelberg, and how he believed they had been meeting
there secretly for many mornings at a stretch, Andreas saw at once this
was no laughing matter. It was serious rivalry. For Franz Lindner
himself, as a possible suitor of Linnet’s, he didn’t care a button. He
could afford to despise the self-assertive Robbler. But Will
Deverill—ah, that was quite another matter! Will Deverill was
dangerous; he saw so much at a glance; and all the more dangerous in
that he made his advances to the girl clandestinely. Poaching on those
preserves must be severely repressed. Andreas didn’t for a moment
suppose the Engländer intended or wanted to _marry_ the child; that was
hardly likely: but he might upset her feelings, and, lead her into
trouble, and unsettle her heart, and what was worse still, stuff her
head all full of silly romantic nonsense.
Still, being always a prudent man, Andreas said little at the time. He
was content with assuring Franz, in a very confident tone, that he’d put
a stop at once to this folly of Linnet’s. He acquiesced for the
present—it being his nature to temporise—in Franz’s little pretension
to treat the girl as his acknowledged _mädchen_. He acquiesced, and
smiled,—though he hadn’t the slightest intention of relinquishing his
own hold on a future prima donna. Meanwhile, he pushed on all the legal
formalities for marrying Linnet himself, as soon as he thought it well
to disclose his matured plans to her.
So when Will went up to their stated meeting-place on the slopes of the
Küchelberg, the morning after that stormy interview at the knoll with
Franz Lindner, hardly daring to expect Linnet would be there to receive
him, he was astonished to find her awaiting him much as usual at the
accustomed seat, undeterred by either the _wirth_ or the redoubtable
Robbler. “I can’t understand it myself,” she said, holding his hand, and
half crying. “It’s awfully curious. I thought he’d be angry with me, and
scold me so hard, and perhaps shut me up in the house for a week, or, at
any rate, not let me come out any more to meet you. But, instead of
that, he never said a word; he hasn’t even spoken to me at all about the
matter. Perhaps Franz hasn’t told him yet; but I think he must have—and
so does Philippina. It almost seems as if he didn’t mind my coming out
at all. We can only wait and see. That’s all I can make of it.”
Thus, for the next few days, Linnet and Will lived on in a real fool’s
paradise. Andreas never said a word about the meetings on the hill;
Franz Lindner looked wise, and bided his time in silence. At the end of
the week, however, Will found himself reluctantly compelled to fulfil a
long-standing engagement with Rue and Florian, entered into before
Linnet’s arrival at Meran, to go for a three days’ tour among the Botzen
Dolomites. Will had put it off and put it off, not to miss one morning
of Linnet’s time in the town, till Rue declared in her imperious little
American way she wouldn’t wait a single day longer for anyone. And,
indeed, it was getting full late in the season, even south of the Alps,
for a mountain excursion. Rue had ordered her carriage, and settled her
day to start. Will must go or stop behind, she said; and to do the last
would be to confess all to Rue; so with a pang at his heart and no small
misgivings in his brain—for Linnet by this time had grown wonderfully
dear to him—he made up his mind to absent himself for three days, and
to miss three precious mornings on the hills with his lady-love. It
would freshen up the operetta, Rue declared, with deep conviction;
there’s nothing like change of scene to inspire one with the germs of
poetry and music. But Will, for his part, knew something better—and he
got it every day on the slopes of the Küchelberg.
“You won’t go away while I’m gone?” he asked eagerly of Linnet, on the
day before he left for those hateful Dolomites. “You’re sure Andreas
means to stop longer in the town. You’ll be here when I come back
again?”
“Oh yes; quite certain,” Linnet answered, confidently. “He’s not going
away yet. We’ve engagements at hotels for nearly another fortnight.”
Will held her hand long. It was only for three days, yet he found it
hard to part from her. “One last kiss!” he said, drawing her close to
him behind the sheltering gourd-vines. And Linnet let him take it
without struggling for it now. In after years, Will felt those words
were a kind of omen. It was far more of a last kiss than ever he dreamed
at the time. And Linnet—well, Linnet was glad in her heart, when she
came to look back on it, she had allowed him to take that last kiss so
easily.
Next morning Will left. Andreas knew he had gone. Not many things
escaped the wise Andreas’s notice. From the moment he first heard of
Will’s meetings with Linnet on the hill behind the town, that
cool-headed _wirth_ had been waiting for his chance; and now the chance
had come of its own accord to him. That day, after dinner, he went into
the parlour of their little inn, and called Linnet to speak to him.
Linnet came, all trembling. In a few short sentences—concise, curt,
business-like—Andreas unfolded to his tremulous ward the notable scheme
he had devised for her advancement. He would make her his wife. But that
wasn’t all; he would make her a great lady—a star of the first
magnitude. If she did as he bid, crowds would hang on her lips; silver
and gold would be hers; she should dress in silk robes, diamonds
dangling at her ears, pearls in strings on her bosom. But he said never
a word about her heretic lover. Still, he said never a word about
himself any more. He never mentioned love—her heart, her feelings. He
laid before her, like a man of the world as he was, a simple proposal
for an arrangement between them—in much the same spirit as he might
have laid before Franz Lindner an agreement for a partnership. And he
took it for granted Linnet would instantly jump at him. Why shouldn’t
she, indeed? She had every reason. Not a girl in St Valentin but would
be proud if she could get him.
Yet he wasn’t the least surprised when Linnet, growing pale, and with
quivering lips, hid her face in her hands at last and began to cry
bitterly. These girls are so silly!
“You agree to it?” Andreas asked, laying his palm on her neck behind
with what tenderness he could muster.
Linnet shook it away angrily. “Never, never!” she cried, “never!”
Andreas bore with her patiently. He knew the ways of women. They were
all little idiots! And this Engländer on the hill had filled her poor
head with sentimental rubbish. With infinite forbearance, like a
business man, he began to explain, to expostulate, to admonish her. He
pointed out to her how rare a chance in life it was for a girl in her
position to get an offer of marriage from a man in his; how his capital
would enable her to train herself for the stage; how, without it, she
must remain for ever just what she was now; how, with it, she might rise
to the very crown and head of an admired profession. And, besides, she
was bound to him for three years in any case. In those three years, of
course, he could do as he liked with her.
But Linnet, weeping passionately, with her face in her hands, and every
nerve in her body quivering with emotion, only sobbed out now and again
in a heart-broken voice, “No; never, never!”
At last, after one such convulsive outburst, even fiercer than before,
Andreas put the question point blank, “Is it because of this Engländer?”
And Linnet, raising her head, and clasping her hands in despair, made
answer, obliquely, in one wild burst of speech, “Oh, I love him, I love
him!”
At those words, Andreas smiled a peculiar cold smile, and began once
more. He kept his head cool; he explained, he reasoned. The Engländer,
of course, never meant to marry her. Marriage in such a case was out of
the question. She must know what that meant; why go off on such
side-issues? . . . . And, besides, she must never forget—the man was a
heretic!
Still, Linnet, unflinching, looked up and clasped her hands. “I don’t
care for that,” she cried wildly. “I love him! I love him!”
“Then you refuse, point blank?” Andreas asked, stepping a little aside,
and holding the knob of the bedroom door in his hand, half-irresolute.
“I utterly refuse!” Linnet answered, very firm, but sobbing.
With an air of cruel triumph, Andreas opened wide the door. “Come in,
Herr Vicar!” he cried, with real theatrical effect. And even as he
spoke, the Herr Vicar entered.
Linnet gazed at him, dumb with awe, surprise, and amazement. How had he
ever got here? It was her own parish priest—her confessor from St
Valentin!
CHAPTER XIX
SPIRITUAL WEAPONS
The Herr Vicar in Meran! It was wonderful, miraculous!
For a minute or two, Linnet was so utterly taken aback at this
unexpected portent that she hardly knew how to comport herself under
such novel circumstances. Now, that was exactly the result Andreas
Hausberger had counted upon. Andreas loved not the Church, to be sure,
but, like all sound strategists, political or social, he knew how to
make use of it for his own wise purposes. As soon as ever he learned
from Franz Lindner how things were going on between Linnet and her
Engländer, and had ascertained by private inquiry from the Herr
Oberkellner at the Erzherzog Johann that Herr Will was going away for a
few days’ tour among the Botzen Dolomites,—why, taking opportunity by
the forelock, he telegraphed at once to the Herr Vicar at St Valentin to
come on by the first train, all expenses paid, over the Brenner to
Meran, on purpose to save the soul of an erring member of his flock, in
imminent danger of faith and morals, from a heretic Englishman. And the
Herr Vicar, in return, though he loved not Andreas—for the _wirth_ was
a Liberal, an enemy of the “Blacks,” and reputed to be even not far
short of a freethinker—the Herr Vicar, for his part, was by no means
averse to a pleasant holiday in a fashionable watering-place south of
the Alps at that delightful season, especially if some one else was to
pay the piper. It is well to combine the salvation of souls with an