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.