LINNET’S RIVAL
Will hailed a cab in St James’s Street, and drove straight to his
sister’s, only pausing by the way to despatch a hasty telegram to the
management of the Harmony: “Signora Casalmonte seriously indisposed.
Quite unable to sing this evening. Must fill up her place for to-night,
at least, and probably for to-morrow as well, by understudy.”
Then he went on to Maud’s. “Mrs Sartoris at home?”
“Yes, sir; but she’s just this minute gone up to dress for dinner.”
“Tell her I must see her at once,” Will exclaimed with decision,—“on
important business. Let her come down just as she is. If she’s not
presentable, ask her to throw a dressing-gown round her, or anything, to
save time, and run down without delay, as I must speak with her
immediately on a most pressing matter.”
The maid, smiling incredulity, ran upstairs with his message. Will, with
heart on fire, much perturbed on Linnet’s account, walked alone into the
drawing-room, to await his sister’s coming. He was too anxious to sit
still; he paced up and down the room, with hands behind his back, and
eyes fixed on the carpet. A minute . . . two minutes . . . four, five,
ten passed, and yet no Maud. It seemed almost as if she meant to keep
him waiting on purpose. He chafed at it inwardly; at so critical a
juncture, surely she might hurry herself after such an urgent message.
At last, Maud descended—ostentatiously half-dressed. She wore an
evening skirt—very rich and handsome; but, in place of a bodice, she
had thrown loosely around her a becoming blue bedroom jacket, trimmed
with dainty brown facings. Arthur Sartoris, in full clerical evening
costume and spotless white tie, followed close behind her. Maud burst
into the room with a stately sweep of implied remonstrance. “This is
very inconvenient, Will,” she said in her chilliest tone, holding up one
cheek as she spoke in a frigid way for a fraternal salute, and pulling
her jacket together symbolically—“very, very inconvenient. We’ve the
Dean and his wife coming to dine, as you know, in a quarter of an
hour—and the Jenkinses, and the Macgregors, and those people from St
Christopher’s. Fortunately, I happened to go up early to dress, and had
got pretty well through with my hair when your name was announced, or
I’m sure I don’t know how I could ever have come down to you. Oh,
Arthur—you’re ready—run and get me the maiden-hair and the geranium
from my room; I can be sticking them in before the glass, while Will’s
talking to me about this sudden and mysterious business of his. They’re
in the tumbler on the wash-hand-stand, behind the little red pot;
and—wait a moment—of course I shall want some hairpins—the thin
twisted American ones. You know where I keep them—in the silver-topped
box. Go quick, there’s a dear. Well, Will, what do you want me for?”
This was a discouraging reception, to be sure, and boded small good for
his important errand. Will knew well on a dinner night the single
emotion of a British matron! Church, crown, and constitution might fall
apart piecemeal before Maud Sartoris’s eyes, and she would take no
notice of them. Still at least he must try, for Linnet’s sake he must
try; and he began accordingly. In as brief words as he could find, he
explained hastily to Maud the nature and gravity of the existing
situation. Signora Casalmonte, that beautiful, graceful singer who had
made the success of _Cophetua’s Adventure_—Signora Casalmonte (he never
spoke of her as “Linnet” to Maud, of course,) had long suffered terribly
at the hands of her husband, whose physical cruelty, not to mention
other things, had driven her to-day to leave his house hurriedly,
without hope of return again. Flying in haste from his violence, and not
knowing where to look for aid in her trouble, she had taken refuge for
the moment—Will eyed his sister close—it was an error of judgment—no
more—at his rooms in St James’s. “You recollect,” he said
apologetically, “we were very old friends; I had known her in the Tyrol,
and had so much to do with her while she was singing in my opera.”
Maud nodded assent, and went on unconcerned, with a quiet smile on her
calm face, arranging the geranium and maiden-hair in a neat little spray
at one side of her much frizzed locks, with the profoundest attention.
“Well?” she said inquiringly at last, as Will, floundering on, paused
for a moment and glanced at her. “So the lady with many
names—Casalmonte, Hausberger, Linnet, Carlotta, and so forth—is this
moment at your rooms, and I suppose is going to sup there. A queer
proceeding, isn’t it? It’s no business of mine, of course, but I
certainly must say I should have thought your own sister was the last
person in the world even _you_ would dream of coming to tell about this
nice little escapade of yours.”
“Maud,” Will said, very seriously, “let’s be grave; this is no laughing
matter.” Then, in brief words once more, he went on to explain the
difficulty he felt as to Linnet’s arrangements for the immediate future.
He said nothing about the divorce, of course; nothing about his love and
devotion towards Linnet. Those chords could have struck no answering
string in the British matron’s severely proper nature. He merely pointed
out that Linnet was a friend in distress, whose good name he wished to
save against unjust aspersions. Having left her husband she ought to go
somewhere to a responsible married woman—“And I’ve come to ask you,
Maud,” he concluded, “as an act of Christian charity to a sister in
distress, will you take her in, for to-night at least, till I can see
with greater clearness what to do with her in future?”
Maud stared at him in blank horror. “My dear boy,” she cried, “are you
mad? What a proposal to make to me! How on earth can you ever think I
could possibly do it?”
“And it would be such a splendid chance, too,” Will cried, carried away
by his enthusiasm—“the Dean coming to dinner and all! in a clergyman’s
house, with such people to vouch for her! Why, with backers like that,
scandal itself couldn’t venture to wag its vile tongue at her!”
Maud looked at him with a faint quiver in her clear-cut nostrils.
“That’s just it!” she answered promptly. “But there, Will, you’re a
heathen! You’ll never understand! You have quite a congenital incapacity
for appreciating and entering into the clerical situation. Isn’t that
so, dear Arthur? You belong to another world—the theatrical
world—where morals and religion are all topsy-turvy, anyhow! How could
you suppose for a moment a clergyman’s wife could receive into her
house, on such a night as this, an opera-singing woman with three
_aliases_ to her name, who’s just run away in a fit of pique from her
lawful husband! Whether she’s right or wrong, she’s not a person one
could associate with! To mix oneself up like that with a playhouse
scandal! and the Dean coming to dine, whose influence for a canonry’s so
important to us all! The dear, good Dean! Now Arthur, isn’t Will just
too ridiculous for anything?”
“It certainly _would_ seem extremely inconsistent,” Arthur Sartoris
replied, fingering that clerical face dubiously; “extremely
inconsistent.” But he added after a pause, with a professional
afterthought, “Though, of course, Maud, if she’s leaving him on
sufficient grounds—compelled to it, in fact, not through any fault of
her own, but through the man’s misconduct—and if she thinks it would be
wrong to put up with him any longer, yet feels anxious to avoid all
appearance of evil, why, naturally, _as_ Christians, we sympathise with
her _most_ deeply. But as to taking her into our house—now really,
Will, you must see—I put it to you personally—would you do it yourself
if you were in our position?”
Maud for her part, being a woman, was more frankly worldly. “And it’d
get into the papers, too!” she cried. “Labby’d put it in the
papers. . . . Just imagine it in _Truth_, Arthur!—‘I’m also told, on
very good authority, that the erring soul, having drifted from her
anchorage, went straight from her husband’s house to Mrs Arthur
Sartoris’s. Now, Mrs Arthur Sartoris, it may be necessary to inform the
innocent reader, is Mr Deverill’s sister; and Mr Deverill is the
well-known author and composer of _Cophetua’s Adventure_,—in which
capacity he must doubtless have enjoyed, for many months, abundant
opportunities for making the best of the Signora’s society. _Verbum
sap._—but I would advise the Reverend Arthur to remember in future the
Apostle’s injunctions on the duty of ruling his own house well, and
having his children in subjection with all gravity.’ That’s just about
what Labby would say of it!”
Will’s face burned bright red. If his own sister spoke thus, what things
could he expect the outer world to say of his stainless Linnet. “You
forget,” he said, a little angrily, “the Apostle advises, too, in the
self-same passage, that a bishop should be given to hospitality; and
that his wife should be grave; not a slanderer; sober and faithful in
all things. I came to you to-night hoping you would extend that
hospitality to an injured wife who desires to take refuge blamelessly
from an unworthy husband. If you refuse her such aid, you are helping in
so far to drive her into evil courses. I asked you as my sister; I’m
sorry you’ve refused me.”
“But, my dear boy,” Maud began, “you must see for yourself that for a
clergyman’s wife to have her name mixed up—oh, good gracious, there’s
the bell! They’re coming, Will, I’m sure. I must rush up this very
moment, and put on my bodice at once. Thank goodness, Arthur, you’re
dressed, or what ever should I do? Stop down here and receive them.”
“Then you absolutely refuse?” Will cried, as she fled, scuffling,
woman-wise, to the door.
“I absolutely refuse!” Maud answered from the landing. “I’m surprised
that you should even dream of asking your sister to take into her house,
under circumstances like these, a runaway actress-woman!” And, with a
glance towards the hall, she scurried hastily upstairs, with the
shuffling gait of a woman surprised, to her own bedroom.
Mechanically, Will shook hands with that irreproachable Arthur Sartoris,
passed the Dean, all wrinkled smiles, in the vestibule below, and
returned again with a hot heart to his waiting hansom. “Hans Place,
Chelsea!” he cried through the flap: and the cabman drove him straight
to Rue’s miniature palace.
Mrs Palmer was at home; yes, sir; but she was dressing for dinner. “Say
I must see her at once!” Will cried with a burst. And in less than
half-a-minute Rue descended, looking sweet, to him.
She had thrown a light tea-gown rapidly around her to come down; her
hair was just knotted in a natural coil on top; she was hardly
presentable, she said, with an apologetic smile, and a quick glance at
the glass; but Will thought he had never seen her look prettier or more
charming in all his life than she looked that moment.
“I wouldn’t keep you waiting, Will,” she cried, seizing both his hands
in hers. “I knew if you called at this unusual hour, you must want to
see me about something serious.”
“It _is_ serious,” Will answered, with a very grave face. “Rue, I’ve
something to tell you that may surprise you much. That wretch Hausberger
has been very, very cruel to Linnet. He’s offered her bodily violence
to-day. And that’s not all;—she has proof, written proof of his
intimacy with Philippina. He’s thrown her on the floor, and struck her
and bruised her. So she’s left him at once—and she’s now at my
chambers.”
A sudden shade came over Rue’s face. The shock was a terrible one. This
news was different, very different indeed from what she expected to
hear. Could Will have found out, she asked herself with a flutter, as
she put on her tea-gown, that he loved her at last, better even than
Linnet? Linnet had been away one whole long winter; and when he dined
here last week, he was so kind and attentive! So she came down with a
throbbing heart, all expectant of results. That was why Will had never
seen her look so pretty before. And now, to find out it was all for
Linnet he had come! All for Linnet, not for her! Ah me, the pity of it!
Yet she bore up bravely, all the same, though her lips quivered quick,
and her eyelids blinked hard to suppress the rising moisture. “At your
chambers!” she cried, with a jump of her heart. “O Will, she mustn’t
stop there!”
She sank into a chair, and looked across at him piteously. Will, dimly
perceptive, seized her hands once more, and held them in his own with a
gentle pressure. Then he went on to explain, in very different words
from those he had used to Maud, all that had happened that day to
himself and to Linnet. He didn’t even hide from Rue the question of
divorce, or the story of Linnet’s complete self-surrender. He knew Rue
would understand; he knew Linnet herself would not be afraid of Rue’s
violating her confidence. He said everything out, exactly as he felt it.
Last of all, he explained how he had been round to Maud’s, what he had
asked of Maud, and what answer Maud had made to him.
He had got so far when Rue rose and faced him. Her cheeks were very
white, and she trembled violently. But she spoke out like a woman, with
a true woman’s heart. “She must come here at once, Will,” she cried.
“There’s not a moment to lose. She must come here at once. Go quick home
and fetch her.”
“You’re _quite_ sure you can take her in, Rue?” Will asked, with a very
guilty feeling, seizing her hands once more. “I can’t bear to ask you;
but since you offer it of your own accord——”
Rue held his hands tremulously in her own for awhile, and gazed at him
hard with a wistful countenance. “Dear Will,” she faltered out in a
half-articulate voice, “I invite her here myself; I beg of you to bring
her. Though it breaks my own heart—it breaks my heart. Yet I ask you
all the same—bring her here, oh, bring her!”
Heart-broken she looked, indeed. Will leant forward automatically. “Dear
Rue,” he cried, “you’re too good—too good and kind for anything; I
never knew till this moment how very good and kind you were. And I love
you so much!” He held forward his face. “Only once!” he murmured,
drawing her towards him with one arm. “Just this once! It’s so good of
you!”
Rue held up her face in return, and answered him back in a choking
voice, “Yes, yes; just this once, O Will, my Will—before I feel you’re
Linnet’s for ever!”
He clasped her tight in his arms. Rue let him embrace her unresistingly.
She kissed him long and hard, and nestled there tenderly. For fifty
whole seconds she was in heaven indeed. At last, with a little start,
she broke away and left him. “Now go,” she said, standing a yard or two
off, and gazing at him, tearfully. “Go at once and fetch her. Every
moment she stops in your rooms is compromising. . . . Go, go; goodbye!
. . . You’re mine no longer. But, Will, don’t be afraid I shall be sad
when she comes! I’ll have my good cry out in my own room first; and, by
the time she arrives, I’ll be smiling to receive her!”