In the same pile there was a note from Rebecca sent by hand from the Regina where she was stopping. It read:
“I’m sorry about last night but it couldn’t be helped. How was I to know that Aunt Lina was arriving from Vienna and hadn’t been in Paris for twenty-five years? She had to be looked after and will take a great deal of my time, I suppose, as she plans to stay a month if I cannot get her off before that. She is important because she is very rich and has no children. Uncle Otto owns a sapphire mine in Cambodia. And I am her god-daughter. (Her real name is Rebecca, but in the family they call her Lina because there are so many Rebeccas.) Besides, some day she may be of use to us in Vienna, especially when the time comes for you to play there. She is rich and has myriads of rich friends who all spend money on the arts.
“I won’t let her interfere with the plans for London. I’ve talked to Schneidermann and in case I can’t get away at once, he will go over and arrange things in plenty of time. He knows the ropes. Don’t let Lily help to choose your gown without my being there. She has beautiful taste but it’s too quiet for an artist. The public, especially in England and America, expects something spectacular from a musician. I’ll try to run out for a moment to-day if I can get rid of Aunt Lina. Perhaps I can make her believe she is tired from the journey and stay in bed all day. Here’s to the triumph in London!
The note troubled her, so that when Lily rose, and murmuring something, went into the house to dress, Ellen took no notice of her but got up and walked, in her slim black riding habit with the skirt pinned high (she did not ride astride, because she thought it ugly) down the steps into the garden.
If Rebecca failed her now, either through Aunt Lina or otherwise, she felt that she would not have courage to go on. She would kill herself because there would be nothing left. She fancied the humiliation of playing before row upon row of empty seats. If fate played her such a dirty trick, she would put herself out of fate’s way. She was sick to death of being buffeted about, this way and that, achieving neither success nor happiness.
Angrily she beat her skirt with her riding crop. If Schneidermann went to London, it would only put her hopelessly in his debt. She might have to marry him out of gratitude, and she wanted no more weak husbands to clutter up her life.
And then this business of Wyck turning up suddenly as a lodger in her mother’s house! It could be no one else; her mother’s description fitted him too perfectly ... a man whose family had been rich once, who worked with an electrical company, who talked a great deal of past splendors. He had reappeared, armed with her secret. She could fancy her mother caring for him, making him comfortable, giving him all the attentions he yearned for and never received in a world which kicked him about. She could trust Fergus, but Mr. Wyck was nasty, feminine. Still he had not betrayed his acquaintance either with her or poor Clarence. If he had done that, her mother would have spoken of it in her letter.... A friend of one of Hattie’s children would be like a child of her own. It may have been that he felt as guilty as she herself felt; if that were true, he would not be likely to betray her. She thought of his shifting green eyes, his mincing manner and his habit of talking perpetually of the past. He was a worm ... something one might find on lifting a stone!
Twice she had made the round of the garden, indifferent now in the midst of her own worries to the nearness of the guilty pavilion, when she saw Augustine, the maid, coming toward her with a card. For some reason, she was overcome by a sudden feeling that this bit of paper which the red-faced Breton girl held in her hand was of immense importance. She found herself hurrying forward to meet her. She found herself reading the name and then, looking up, she saw in one of the tall windows that opened on the terrace, the figure of Sabine Cane ... Sabine Callendar ... standing in the brilliant sunlight, dressed all in gray, superbly, with a gray veil that fell over her shoulders ... the same Sabine, poised, indifferent, striking. Nothing had changed save that she looked old, surprisingly so considering the perfection of her make-up.
The call must indeed be important, since Sabine had followed Augustine straight into the garden.