The wife rested her hand on the piano. She was visibly fighting with the fear she had always cherished for her husband, whose mental superiority she felt deeply, without, at the same time, ever venturing on an attempt to raise herself to him. In the knowledge that he stood so high above her, she had ever placed herself completely under him, without ever attaining anything by it excepting toleration, which almost amounted to contempt.
Now that he loved another, the toleration ceased; the contempt remained--she felt that plainly in his confession, which he made so quietly, so positively; his love for the beautiful singer "neither injured nor wounded any of her rights." She had indeed no right to his spiritual life. And she should keep firm hold of that man now, when the love of a beautiful, universally admired actress, when the magical charm of Italy, when a future full of renown and glory beckoned to him, she, who had nothing to give excepting herself--Ella was conscious for the first time of the impossibility of the task which had been appointed to her.
"I know you have never belonged to us, never loved any of us," she said, with quiet resignation. "I have always felt it; it has only become clear to me since I was your wife, and then it was too late. But I am it now, and if you forsake me and the child, you will give us up for the sake of another."
"Who says so?" cried Reinhold, with anger, which exonerated him from the suspicion that such a thought had really entered his mind. "Forsake? Give up you and the child? Never!"
The young wife fixed her eyes enquiringly upon him, as if she did not understand him.
"But you said just now you loved Beatrice Biancona?"
"Yes, but--"
"But! Then you must choose between her and us."
"You suddenly develope most unusual determination," cried Reinhold, roused. "I must? And if I will not do it? If I consider this ideal artist love quite compatible with my duties, if--"
"If you follow her to Italy," completed Ella.