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.

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.

CHAPTER XXXIX