This was Sophy’s way of keeping a secret. Her visit to Charles Street ended two days later. She was studiously uncivil to her host up to the hour of her departure; and in her farewell talk with her sister, being closely questioned by Eve as to the reason of this change in her manner, she prevaricated, hesitated, said things and unsaid them; and finally, in a flood of compassionate tears, she protested that it was only on Eve’s account she was angry with Eve’s husband. Mr. Sefton had told her that Vansittart still visited that odious woman. Mr. Sefton had met him leaving her house only a few days previously; and Mr. Sefton had assured her that it was he, Eve’s husband, who had brought Signora Vivanti to London, and paid for her musical education.
“Can you wonder that I am angry with him, Eve, loving you as I do? You have been so good to me, so generous. It would be wicked of me to go away without warning you. I hated the idea of telling you. I have thought over it again and again. I promised Mr. Sefton that I would tell you nothing; but I could not bear the idea of your being hoodwinked by an unfaithful husband. It was right to tell you, wasn’t it, dear? It is better for you to know the truth, is it not?”
“Yes, yes, it is better for me to know,” Eve answered, in a hard, cold voice.
“How quietly she takes it!” thought Sophy, as the footman announced the carriage.
Benson had gone on with Sophy’s luggage in a four-wheel cab; twice as much luggage as Sophy had brought from Fernhurst.
“I shall never forget your kindness to me,” said Sophy, with her parting kiss.
“And I shall never forget your visit,” answered Eve.
Eve was not at home at luncheon time, so Vansittart went off to his club, and only returned to Charles Street at Eve’s usual hour for afternoon tea, when he was told that Mrs. Vansittart had gone out at three o’clock, and had left a note for him in the study.
The note was a letter.
“I am taking a step which will no doubt make you angry,” Eve began, “but I cannot help myself. I cannot go on living as we are living now. Every hour of my life increases my misery. I have been told that you visit that woman—that woman who is the cause of all my unhappiness. I have been told that it is you who brought her to London, and had her educated for the stage; that her child is your child. I ought to have known all this without being told; but I shut my eyes to the truth. I wanted so to believe in you. I clung so desperately to that which makes the happiness of my life. You accuse me of unreasoning jealousy; but could any wife help being jealous, seeing what I have seen, hearing what I hear? That woman’s face and manner spoke volumes. I tried to accept your explanation—tried to believe you. I had even begun to feel happy again, when I learnt this hateful fact of your visit to her house. I cannot believe that you would have gone there, knowing my feelings on the subject, if this love of the past had not been more to you than your love for me, your wife. There is but one thing for me to do, only one thing which can set my mind at rest, or make me wretched forever; and that is to see this woman, and hear her story from her own lips. I have no fear that I shall fail in getting at the truth when she and I are face to face. Woman against woman, wife against mistress, I know who will be the stronger.
“If I have wronged you, my beloved, your wife in penitent love. If you have wronged me, your wife no longer—
“Eve.”
A pleasant letter to greet a husband on his homecoming.
“Woman against woman, face to face, those two!” thought Vansittart. “She will discover—not that which she fears to discover, but a darker secret—and then it will be as she has said, my wife no longer.”
He stood with his finger on the button of the bell till a servant came.
“A hansom instantly, but be sure you get a good horse,” he said, and went into the hall to wait for the man’s return.
XXVIII
In the Blue Chamber
Eve had learnt Madame Vivanti’s address from Lady Hartley the day after the singer’s appearance in Hill Street. So her letter to her husband written, and her mind made up, she had only to drive to Don Saltero’s Mansion, and to make her way to that upper floor in which the singer had her bower. The door was opened by Fiordelisa herself, who gave a little look of surprise at seeing her visitor, and then stood in mute wonder, waiting for Eve to speak, smiling faintly, and evidently embarrassed.
She wore her accustomed black stuff gown, with a yellow silk handkerchief knotted carelessly on her breast. The boy was hanging on to her gown, and peeping shyly at the strange lady, so pure and fresh looking in her soft grey silk, and dainty grey hat with pale pink roses. Lisa noted her rival’s toilette in all its details, the long loose grey gloves, the grey parasol.
For a minute or so the two women stood thus, looking at each other in silence. Then, with an effort, Eve spoke.
“Are you alone, Madame Vivanti?”
“Alone, all but Paolo, and I don’t suppose you count him anybody, Eccellenza. La Zia has gone to London.”
“I have come to talk to you—about my husband.”
Lisa flushed crimson.
“Please take
