And this plain, dowdy woman knew the real meaning of that song. Only a woman who knew the joy and the pain of love could have sung it as she sang it. The cry of love rang through the room like a clear clarion call. Even the people who had wanted to play bridge felt it and looked vaguely uncomfortable. For a moment they were lured from their money-bags. The call was so clear that it penetrated the cotton-wool of everyday life.
Claudia found herself looking at the shabby woman at the piano with fierce envy. Once, she, Claudia, had thought she knew, once her heart had triumphantly chanted “Ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich,” like an eternal refrain. Once? Was it all quite over? Something stirred within her, something touched her cold heart like the rosy finger of hope. Once! Perhaps she and Gilbert had only drifted apart, perhaps she had not made due allowances for the inarticulate, more prosaic, unemotional nature of man. She had loved him very much—she did love him still, if only——
There was a bowl of red roses at her elbow. She did not notice them, but perhaps it was their perfume that mounted to her brain and brought back the remembrance just then of the garden at Wargrave, when she had questioned Gilbert and asked him if he had really loved her.... He had promised she should always come first ... she was right to demand that ... he had said that he was not good at pretty speeches and that she must take some things for granted ... that men were different from women.... Her blood tingled in her veins as she felt in imagination again the fierce pressure of his arms around her, his kisses on her lips. Surely he had really loved her then, she reiterated to herself. She knew more now than she did then. She had been initiated into the mysteries of life and death. She had begun to realize how large a part mere animal passion plays in a man’s life, how men take love (so called) where they find it, how “the worldly hopes men set their hearts upon” cheat women of their just dues, and leave them bankrupt. But with the passionate echo of “Ich liebe dich” in her ears, she felt she could not write that horrible word “finis” to this page of her life. Perhaps she had been too exigeante, impatient; perhaps she could be more tactful now. Eighteen months! Why, it must be that she had not had time to master the game of love. Their tastes were so different, perhaps that was partly the trouble. She remembered how he had talked her out of going to the enchanted Palace at Como and substituted a golfing honeymoon in Scotland. But he had been very charming to her—humoring all her fancies, his own having been satisfied—he had made her feel that she had only to command and he would always obey love’s call. It had been an intoxication. Was it all behind her? Was love behind her for the rest of her life? No, she could not do without love. She had always wanted it, she had tasted its sweets, no, no, no! Gilbert must love her again as he used to. He could not have entirely changed in eighteen months. He was at home probably. Perhaps he was thinking of her, wanting her to come in——
She rose abruptly to her feet, filled with an uncontrollable blind desire for action, to pursue this elusive thing which seemed to have escaped from her hands.
But Hamilton’s eyes fixed on her in surprise at her abrupt rising, drew her back to earth and the faded Aubusson carpet on which she stood. He, too, had been moved by the music. His artistic pulses, so easily set beating, had responded to the call also. But his thoughts had been of the rather capricious woman by his side, the woman who so far had never listened to his words of love.
After his first surprise at her action, he came to the flattering conclusion that the music had warmed her heart towards him. An easy favourite with women, he did not doubt that she cared for him. He had always gained what he wanted, though he had never before aimed at such big game as Claudia Currey. But he was rapidly becoming famous, he was sought after and flattered. Women begged him to paint them on his own terms. He was not what he had been. Mrs. Milton knew what he had been. Perhaps the game was not so difficult as he had begun to fear. He looked at her meaningly, with a rising sense of power, but she did not return his glance. That might be shyness.
He heard her make her adieux to their hostess, who protested at her going so early.
“It is only eleven o’clock.... I suppose you are going on somewhere else, you and”—markedly—“Mr. Hamilton.”
But her mother-in-law came to her rescue. “Claudia is quite right. I daresay Gilbert wants her. I know John is always fidgety when I am away from him.”
Claudia did not laugh as she would have done half an hour previously. Perhaps Gilbert was wanting her. She wanted him to want her.