Linnet: A Romance
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.”
CHAPTER XXXII
WEDDED FELICITY
Signora Casalmonte scored a distinct success. She was the great dramatic
and musical reality of that London season. All the world flocked to hear
her; her voice made the fortune of the Harmony Theatre. She was invited
everywhere—“You must have the Casalmonte,” Florian laid down the law in
his dictatorial way to Belgravian hostesses—and Andreas Hausberger went
always in charge, wherever she moved, to guard his splendid operatic
property. And what care Andreas took of her! It was beautiful,
beautiful! Unobservant people thought him a most devoted husband. He
lingered always by the Signora’s side; he supplied wraps and shawls on
the remotest threat of a coming chill; he watched what she ate and drank
with the composite eye of a lynx and a physician; he guarded her health
from the faintest suspicion of danger in any way. On off-nights, he
would seldom allow her to dine out or attend evening parties; on
Sundays, he took her down for change of scene and fresh air to the sea
or the country. Ozone was his hobby. Every day, the prima donna drove
out in the Park, and then walked for exercise a full hour in Kensington
Gardens. Unobservant people set all this down to the account of the
domestic affections; Will Deverill noticed rather that Andreas guarded
his wife as a racing man guards the rising hope of his stables. Andreas
was far too sensible a man of the world to run any needless risks with
the throat of the woman who made his fortune. He had staked a great deal
on her, and he meant to be repaid with compound interest.
As for London itself, it went wild about Linnet. ’Twas the Casalmonte
here, the Casalmonte there; the _diva_ will sing at Lady Smith’s
to-night; the _diva_ will go with Sir Thomas Brown and party to supper.
Linnet’s head was half-turned with so much admiration; if she hadn’t
been Linnet, indeed, it would have been turned altogether. But that
simple childlike nature, though artistically developed and
intellectually expanded, remained in emotion as straightforward and
unaffected and confiding as ever. Still, that season did the best it
knew to spoil her. She was queen of the situation. It rained choice
flowers; diamond bracelets and painted fans showered down upon her
plentifully. Linnet accepted all this homage, hardly realising its money
worth; she was pleased if she gave pleasure; what others gave in return,
she took as her right, quite simply and naturally. This charm of her
simplicity surprised and delighted all who grew to know her; she had