The Tiger Lily
by George Manville Fenn · English · Gutenberg #40673 · 329,328 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tiger Lily
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Tiger Lily
Author: George Manville Fenn
Release date: September 5, 2012 [eBook #40673]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40673
Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIGER LILY ***
Tiger Lily, by George Manville Fenn.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
TIGER LILY, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.
CHAPTER ONE.
MODERN SKILL.
"Hallo, Sawbones!"
The speaker raised his head from the white pillow of the massive,
old-fashioned four-post bed, and set the ornamental bobs and tags of the
heavy bullion fringe upon the great cornice quivering. He was a
sharp-faced, cleanly shaven man, freshly scraped, and the barber who had
been operating was in the act of replacing his razor and strop as these
words were spoken to the calm, thoughtful-looking person who entered the
substantially furnished room.
"Good morning, Mr. Masters. Had a quiet night?"
"Bah! You know I haven't. How is a man to have a good night when ten
thousand imps are boring into him with red-hot iron, and jigging his
nerves till he is half mad! Here, you: be off!"
"Without brushing your hair, sir?"
"Brush a birch broom! My head never wants brushing. You know that."
He gave himself a jerk, and the short, crisp, wavy grey locks glistened
in the bright morning sun, which streamed in through the window.
"Look here; you can cut it to-morrow when you come--if I'm not dead. If
I am, you may have a bit to keep in remembrance."
"Oh, not so bad as that, sir, I hope. Dr. Thorpe is too--"
"That'll do," said the man in the bed sharply. "I kept to you because
you didn't chatter like the ordinary barber brood. I may get better, so
don't spoil your character. Be off!"
The barber smiled, bowed, and left the room to doctor and patient.
"Well?" said the latter, meeting his attendant's searching eye. "I'm
not gone."
"No; and I do not mean to let you go if I can help it."
"Ho!--But perhaps you can't."
"God knows, sir; but I shall do my best. I would rather, though, that
you would let me bring in some one in consultation."
"And I wouldn't. If you can't set me right, Thorpe, no one in Boston
can. Look here; brought your tools?"
The young doctor smiled.
"Ah, it's nothing to grin about."
"No; it is serious enough, my dear sir."
"Then answer my question. Brought your tools?"
"I have come quite prepared."
"Then I shan't have it done."
Michael Thorpe looked at his patient as if he did not believe him, and
the latter continued--
"I say: it's confoundedly hard that I should suffer like this. Spent
all my life slaving, and now at sixty, when I want a little peace and
enjoyment, this cursed trouble comes on. Look here, Thorpe; don't fool
about with me. Charge me what you like, but tell me; couldn't you give
me some stuff that would cure it without this operation?"
"Do you want me to be perfectly plain with you, sir, once more?"
"Of course. Do I look the sort of man to be humbugged?"
"Then I must tell you, sir, the simple truth. You may go on for months,
perhaps a year, as you are. That is the outside."
"I wouldn't go on for a week as I have been, my lad.--But if I have it
done?"
"There is no reason why you should not live to be eighty, or a hundred,
if you can."
"Right; I'll go in for the hundred, Thorpe. I'm tough enough. There,
get it over."
"You will have it done?"
"Of course I will. Don't kill me, or I'll come back and haunt you."
"I should be too glad to see a dear old friend again, so that wouldn't
alarm me," said Thorpe, examining his patient, who smiled grimly. "I
shall not kill you. All I'm afraid of is that I may perform the
operation so unskilfully that my labour and your suffering will have
been in vain."
"And then I'll call you a miserable pretender, and shan't pay you a
cent. Bah! You can do it. I know you, Michael Thorpe, and haven't
watched you for nothing."
The young surgeon held out his hands to his patient.
"Give me your full confidence, Mr. Masters," he said, "work with me, and
I can cure you."
"Right, my lad. But you had it before," he cried, grasping the hands
extended to him. "I trust you, boy, as I always did your father--God
bless him! Now, no more talking. Get to work. I won't holloa. Where
are you going?"
"Only down to the drawing-room to fetch the nurse."
"Ring for her--she's downstairs."
"I mean the other--the professional nurse whom I brought with me."
"What for?"
"To help me now, and to attend you for a few days afterwards exactly as
I wish."
"Two nurses? One has nearly killed me. Two will be downright murder."
"No, sir," said Michael Thorpe, smiling. "The good in one will
neutralise all the ill that there may be in the other."
"Fetch her up, then; and look here, Thorpe; I'm a man, not a weak
hysterical girl. None of your confounded chloroform, or anything of
that kind."
"You leave yourself in my hands, please," said the surgeon, smiling, and
going across to the door, which he left open, and then uttering a sharp
cough, returned.
A minute later there was a faint rustling sound beyond the heavy
curtains, and the patient, frowning heavily, turned his head in the
direction of the door. Then the scowl upon his sharp face gave place to
a look of wonder and delight as a rather slight, dark-haired girl, in a
closely fitting black dress and white-bibbed apron, advanced towards
him, with her large dark eyes beaming sympathy, and a smile, half
pitying, half affectionate, played about her well-formed, expressive
lips.
"Cornel!" he cried. "Why, my dear little girl, this is good of you to
come and see me. I thought it was the nurse."
He stretched out his hands, drew the girl to him, and kissed her
tenderly on both cheeks, and then on the lips, before sinking back with
the tears in his eyes--two utter strangers, which, possibly finding
their position novel, hurriedly quitted their temporary resting-place,
fell over the sides, and trickled down his cheeks.
"I am the nurse," came now, in a sweet, silvery voice, as the new-comer
began to arrange the pillow in that peculiarly refreshing way only given
by loving hands.
"You? Impossible!"
"Oh no, Mr. Masters. Michael told me everything, and I was going to
offer, when he asked me if I would come and help him."
"Oh, but nonsense! You, my child! It would be too horrible and
disgusting for a young girl like you."
"Why?" she replied gently. "Michael trusts me, and thinks I carry out
his wishes better than a paid servant would."
"That's it, my dear sir. I want, both for the sake of an old friend and
for my reputation, to make my operation perfectly successful. Cornel
here will carry out my instructions to the letter. She will help me too
in the operation."
"But an operation is not fit--not the place for a young girl."
"Why not?" said Cornel, smiling.
"It is unsexing you, my child."
"Unsexing me, when I come to help to calm your pain, to nurse you back
to health and strength! A woman never unsexes herself in proving a help
to those who suffer. Besides, I have often helped my brother before."
Meanwhile the surgeon had busied himself at a table upon which he had
placed a mahogany case. He had had his back to them, but now turned and
advanced to the bed, with a little silver implement in his hand.
"Now, my dear sir, a little manly fortitude and patience, and you may
believe me when I tell you that there is nothing to fear."
"Who is afraid?" said the old man sharply. "But what's that?"
"A little apparatus for injecting an anaesthetic."
"I said I wouldn't have anything of the kind," cried the patient
angrily. "I can and will bear it."
"But I cannot and will not," said the surgeon, smiling. "You could not
help wincing and showing your suffering. That would trouble, perhaps
unnerve me, and I could not work so well."
"What are you going to do?--give me chloroform?"
"No; I am going to inject a fluid that will dull the sensitive nerves of
the part, and place you in such a condition that you will lose all sense
of suffering."
"And if I don't come to?"
"You will not for some time. Now, old friend, show me your confidence.
Are you ready?"
There was a long, deep-drawn breath, a look at the young girl's patient,
trust-giving face and then Ezekiel Masters, one of the wealthiest men in
Boston, said calmly--
"Yes."
A few minutes later he was lying perfectly insensible, and breathing as
gently as an infant. "Can you repeat that from time to time, as I tell
you?" said the surgeon.
"Yes, dear."
"Without flinching?"
"Yes. It is to save him. I shall not shrink."
"Then I depend upon you."
Busy minutes followed, with the patient lying perfectly unconscious.
"How long could he be kept like this, Michael?" whispered Cornel, whose
face looked very white.
"As long as you wished--comparatively. Don't talk; you hinder me."
"As long as I liked," thought Cornel, with her eyes dilating as she
gazed at the patient, with the little syringe in her hand, and the
stoppered bottle, from which the fluid was taken, close by--"as long as
I liked, and he as if quite dead. What an awful power to hold within
one's grasp!"
CHAPTER TWO.
THE CERTAIN PERSON.
"Hah!"
A long-drawn sigh of content, which made Cornelia Thorpe emerge from her
chair behind the bed-curtains, and bend over to lay her soft white hand
upon the patient's forehead, but only for it to be taken and held to his
lips.
"Well, angel?" he said quietly.
"Your head is quite cool; there is no fever. Have you had a good
night's rest?"
"Good, my child? It has been heavenly. I seemed to sink at once into a
delicious dreamless sleep, such as I have not known for a year, and I
feel as if I had not stirred all night."
"You have not."
"Then you have watched by me?"
"Oh, yes."
"Hah!" There was a pause. Then: "You must have given me a strong
dose?"
"No," said Cornel, smiling. "Your sleep was quite natural. Why should
it not be? Michael says the cause of all your suffering is completely
removed, and that he has been successful beyond his hopes."
The old man lay holding his nurse's hand, and gazing at her fair,
innocent face intently for some minutes before breaking the silence
again.
"When was it?" he said at last.
"A week to-day, and in another month you may be up again."
"Hah! And they say there are no miracles now, and no angels upon
earth," said the patient, half to himself. Then more loudly, "Cornel,
my child, I think I must turn over a new leaf."
"Don't," she said, smiling. "I like the old page. You have always been
my fathers dear friend--always good and kind."
"I? Bah! A regular money-scraping, harsh tyrant. A regular miser."
"Nonsense, Mr. Masters."
"Then I'll prove it. I won't pay Michael his fees, nor you your wages
for nursing me--not till I'm dead. Well, have I said something funny?
Why do you laugh?"
"I smiled because I felt pleased."
"Because I'm better?"
"Yes; and because you are not going to insult Michael, nor your nurse,
by offering us--"
"Dollars? Humph! There, let's talk about something else. Does Michael
still hold to that insane notion of going to Europe?"
"Oh yes; we should have been there now, if it had not been for your
illness."
"Then he gave it up for a time, because I wanted him to attend me?"
Cornel bowed her head.
"Humph! Sort of madness to want to go at all. Isn't America big enough
for him?"
"Of course," said Cornel, laughing gently; and now the air of the nurse
appeared to have dropped away, to give place to the bright happy look of
a girl of twenty. "Surely it is not madness to want to increase his
knowledge by a little study at the English and French hospitals.
Besides, it was our father's wish."
"Yes; Jack was very mad about the English doctors, when there was not
one who could touch him. I say, though: Michael is going to be as
clever."
"I hope so," said Cornel, with animation. "He studies very hard."
"Yes, he's a clever one, girl; and Jack Thorpe would have been very
proud of him if he had lived. But, I say--"
Cornel looked inquiringly in the keen eyes which searched her face.
"You really want to go with your brother?"
"Yes," she said with animation--"I should very much like to go."
"To study with him in the English and French hospitals?"
"I should like him to take me round with him," she said, with her cheeks
growing slightly tinged. "I am always interested in his cases, and
surely a woman is none the worse for a little surgical and medical
knowledge."
"A precious deal better, my dear. But, I say--"
"Yes, dear guardian," she said, with a sweet, thrilling modulation now
in her tones, as her eyes grew dim, and she laid both her little hands
in the patient's.
"I promised your father I'd always have an eye on you two, and I don't
think I ought to let you think of going, Cornel dear."
She was silent.
"Isn't it a sort of madness for you--to--eh? You know."
"To love and keep my faith to Armstrong Dale?" she said gently; and the
love-light shone brightly in the eyes which met the old man's now
without shrinking.
"Yes; that's what I meant, little one. I don't know how you could get
yourself engaged to him."
Cornel laughed gently--a pleasant, silvery little laugh, which seemed to
do the patient good, for he smiled and listened to the last note of the
musical sounds. But he grew serious, and there was a cynicism in his
tones as he went on.
"I don't believe in him, my girl. He's good-looking and a bit clever;
but when you have said that, you have said all."
A little white finger was laid upon the speaker's lips, but he went on.
"I know: he gammoned you with his love nonsense, but if he had been the
fellow I took him for, he'd have stayed here in Boston and painted and
glazed. Painted you. Painted me--glazed me too, if he had liked. What
did he want to go and study at Rome and Paris and London for? We've
cleverer people in the States than out there."
"To get breadth, and learn his own failings," said Cornel gently.
"Hadn't any--I mean he was full of 'em, of course. Couldn't have loved
you, or he'd have stopped at home."
"It was to show his love for me, and to try and make himself a master of
his art, that he went away," said Cornel, with a look of faith and pride
in her eyes.
"Bah! He has forgotten you by this time. Give him up, puss. He'll
never come back. He'll marry some fine madam in the old country."
Cornel winced, and her eyes dilated as these words stung her; but the
pang was momentary, and she laughed in the full tide of her happy trust
in the man she loved.
"You mark my words, Cornel," said the old man; "that fellow will throw
you over, and then that will set your monkey up, and you'll come and ask
me to marry you, and I will. The folks 'll all laugh, but let 'em. We
shall be all right, little one. I shall have a sweet little nurse and
housekeeper to take care of me to the end, and you'll have an ugly,
cantankerous old husband, who won't live very long, and will die and
leave you a million dollars, so that you can laugh at the whole world,
and be the prettiest little widow in Boston--bah! in the whole States--
and with too much good sense to throw yourself away.--Who's that?"
"Doctor," said Michael Thorpe, entering. "How is he, Cornel?"
"Getting better fast; so well this morning that he is saying all kinds
of harsh and cruel things."
"Capital sign," said the young surgeon.--"Yes, capital. Why, you are
splendid, Mr. Masters, and at the end of only a week."
"Oh, I'm better. Only said you were mad to want to go to Europe; and
that she's worse to pin her faith to a gad-about artist who'll only
break her heart."
Michael Thorpe's stern, thoughtful face expanded into a pleasant smile.
"Yes, Cornel dear," he said; "there's no doubt about it; he's mending
fast. I'll book my cabin in one of the Allan boats for about the
beginning of next month. You will not be able to go."
CHAPTER THREE.
A FAIR CLIENT.
A noble-looking specimen of humanity, with a grand grizzly head, and
strongly marked aquiline features, lit up by deeply set, piercing eyes,
got out of a four-wheeler at Number 409 Portland Place, knocking off a
very shabby hat in the process.
"Mind the nap, guv'nor," said the battered-looking driver with a laugh,
as his fare stooped to pick up the fallen edifice; and as he spoke, the
man's look took in the ill-fitting coat and patched boots of him whom he
had driven only from Fitzroy Square.
"Not the first time that's been down, cabby. Hand 'em off."
A minute later, Daniel Jaggs, familiarly known in art circles as "The
Emperor," and by visitors to the Royal Academy from his noble face,
which had appeared over the bodies of noble Romans and heroes of great
variety, stood on the pavement with an easel under one arm, a large
blank canvas under the other, and a flat japanned box of oil colours and
case of brushes held half hidden by beard, beneath his chin.
He walked up to the door of the great mansion, whose window-sills and
portico were gay with fresh flowers, and gave a vigorous tug at the
bell.
The double doors flew open almost directly, and "The Emperor" was faced
by a portly butler, who was flanked by a couple of men in livery.
"Oh! the painters traps," said the former. "Look here, my good fellow;
you should have rung the other bell. Step inside."
"The Emperor" obeyed, and, leaving the visitor waiting in the handsome
hall, in company with the footman and under-butler, who looked rather
superciliously at the well-worn garments of the artist's model, the
out-of-livery servant walked slowly up the broad staircase to the
drawing-room, and as slowly returned, to stand beckoning.
"You are to bring them up yourself," he said haughtily.
Daniel Jaggs placed his hat upon one of the crest-blazoned hall chairs,
loaded himself well with the artistic impedimenta, and then went forward
to the foot of the stairs up which the butler was leading the way, when,
hearing a sound, he turned sharply.
"Here! Hi!" he cried loudly; "what are you going to do with that 'at?"
For one of the footmen was putting it out of sight, disgusted with the
appearance of the dirty lining.
"Hush! Recollect where you are," whispered the butler. "Her ladyship
will hear."
"But that's my best 'at," grumbled the model, and then he subsided into
silence as he was ushered into a magnificently furnished room; the door
was closed behind him, and he stood staring round, thinking of
backgrounds, when there was the rustling of silk, and "The Emperor" was
dazzled, staring, as he told himself, at the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen in his life.
Valentina, Contessa Dellatoria, was worthy of the man's admiration as
she stood there with her dark eyes half veiled by their long lashes, in
all the proud matured beauty of a woman of thirty, who could command
every resource of jewel and robe to heighten the charms with which
nature had liberally endowed her. She was beautiful; she knew it; and
at those moments, eager with anticipations which had heightened the
colour in her creamy cheeks, and the lustre in her eyes, she stood ready
to be amused as she thoroughly grasped the meaning of the man's
astonished gaze.
"You have brought those from Mr. Dale, have you not?" she said at last,
in a rich, soft voice.
"Yes, my lady. I 'ave, my lady. The heasel and canvas, my lady."
"Perhaps you had better bring them into this room."
"Yes, my lady--of course, my lady," said the model eagerly, as he
blundered after the Contessa, "The Emperor's" rather shambling
movements, being due to a general looseness of joint, in no wise
according with the majesty of his head and face.
"Yes; about there. That will do; they are sure to be moved."
"Oh yes, my lady, on account of the light. Mr. Dale's very partickler."
"Indeed? Will he be here soon?"
"Direc'ly, I should say, my lady. He bordered me to bring on his
traps."
"From his studio?" said the lady, sinking into a chair, and taking a
purse from a little basket on a table.
"The Emperor's" eyesight was very good, and the movement suggested
pleasant things. The lady, too, seemed disposed to question him, and he
winked to himself mentally, as he glanced at the beautiful face before
him, thought of his employer's youth and good looks, and then had sundry
other thoughts, such as might occur to a man of a very ordinary world.
But his hands were not idle; they were as busy as his thoughts, and he
spread the legs of the easel, and altered the position of the pegs ready
for the canvas.
"Will you take this--for your trouble?" came in that soft, rich,
thrilling voice.
"Oh no--thank you, my lady--that ain't necessary," said the man hastily,
as his fingers closed over the coin extended with a smile by fingers
glittering with jewels.--"A suv, by jingo," he added to himself.
"Are you Mr. Dale's servant?"
"No, ma'am--my lady. Oh, dear, no. An old friend--that is, you know, I
sit for him--and stand. I'm in a many of his pictures."
"Oh, I see. He takes your portrait?"
"Well, no, my lady; portraits is quite another line. I meant for his
gennery pictures."
"_Genre_?"
"Yes, my lady. I was standing for Crackticus that day when you and his
lordship come to the studio."
"Indeed? I did not see you."
"No, my lady. I had to go into the next room. You see I was a hancient
Briton, and not sootable for or'nary society 'cept in a picture.--I
think that'll do, my lady. He'll alter it to his taste."
"Yes, but--er--does Mr. Dale paint many portraits of ladies?" said the
Contessa, detaining the model as he made as if to depart.
"Oh no, my lady. I never knew him do such a thing afore. He never
works away from his studio, and he went on a deal about having to come
here--er--that is--of course, he did not know," added the man hastily.
The Contessa smiled.
"But he has painted the human countenance a great deal? I mean the
faces of ladies. There were several of nymphs in his Academy picture
this year--beautiful women."
"The Emperor" smiled and shook his head.
"On'y or'nary models, my lady. He made 'em look beautiful. That's art,
my lady."
"Then he had sitters for that picture?" she asked, rather eagerly.
"Oh yes, my lady; but Lor' bless you! it isn't much you'd think of them.
He's a doing a picture now--a tayblow about Juno making a discovery
over something. Her good man wasn't quite what he ought to have been,
my lady, and she's in a reg'lar rage."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, my lady; and he tried all the reg'lar lady models--spent no end on
'em, but they none of 'em wouldn't do."
"Not beautiful enough?"
"He didn't think so, my lady, though, as I told him, it was too much to
expeck to get one as was perfeck. You see in art, to make our best
studies, we has to do a deal of patching."
"Painting the picture over and over again?"
"Your ladyship does not understand. It's like this: many of our best
tayblows of goddesses and nymphs is made up. One model does for the
face, another for the arms and hands, another for busties and--I beg
your ladyship's pardon; I was only talking art."
"I understand. I take a great deal of interest in the subject."
"Thankye, my lady. I told Mr. Dale as it was expecting too much to get
a perfeck woman for a model, for there wasn't such a thing in nature.
But, all hignorance, my lady, all hignorance. I hadn't seen your
ladyship then. I beg your ladyship's pardon for being so bold."
"The Emperor" had seen the dreamy dark eyes open wide and flash angrily,
but the look changed back to the listless, half-contemptuous again, and
the lady said with a smile--
"Granted.--That will do. I suppose you will fetch Mr. Dale's easel when
it is removed?"
"I hope so, my lady, and thank you kindly. So generous! Never forget
it, and--oh! I beg your pardon, sir."
"The Emperor" had been backing toward the door, and nearly came in
contact with a short, slight, carefully dressed, middle-aged man--that
is to say, he was about forty-five, looked sixty-five the last thing at
night, and as near thirty-five as his valet could make him in the day.
He gazed keenly at the noble features of the man who towered over him,
and "The Emperor" returned the gaze, noting, from a professional point
of view, the rather classic Italian mould of the features, disfigured by
a rather weak sensual mouth, and dark eyes too closely set.
"Two sizes larger, and what a Yago he would have made to my Brabantio,"
muttered "The Emperor," as he was let out by one of the footmen; and at
the same moment Armstrong Dale, artist, strode up--a manly, handsome,
carelessly dressed, typical Saxon Englishman in appearance, generations
of his family, settled in America since the Puritan days, having
undergone no change.
"Traps all there, Jaggs?"
"Yes, sir, everything," said the man confidentially, "and oh! sir--"
"That will do. Say what you have to say when I return: I'm late. Take
my card up to the Contessa," he continued, turning sharply to the
servant; and there was so much stern decision in his manner that the
door was held wide, and the artist entered.
Meanwhile a few words passed in the drawing-room.
"Who's that fellow, Tina?" said the man too small, in "The Emperor's"
estimation, for Iago.
The Contessa had sunk back in her lounge, and a listless, weary air had
come over her face like a cloud, as she said, with a slight shrug of her
shoulders--
"Mr. Dale's man."
"Who the dickens is Mr. Dale?"
Twenty years of life in London society had so thoroughly Anglicised
Conte Cesare Dellatoria, that his conversation had become perfectly
insular, and the Italian accent was only noticeable at times.
"You know--the artist whom we visited."
"Oh, him! I'd forgotten. That his litter?"
"Yes."
"Humph! I haven't much faith in English artists. Better have waited
till we went to Rome in the winter. Why, Tina, you look lovely this
morning. That dress suits you exactly, beloved one."
He bent down and kissed the softly rounded cheek, with the effect that
the lady's dark brows rose slightly, but enough to make a couple of
creases across her forehead. Then, as a dull, cracking noise, as of the
giving of some form of stay or stiffening was heard, the gentleman rose
upright quickly, and glanced at himself in one of the many mirrors.
"Well, make him do you justice. But no--he cannot."
"You are amiable this morning," said the lady contemptuously.
"Always most amiable in your presence, my queen," he replied.
"Oh, I see! You are going out?"
"Yes, dearest. By the way, don't wait lunch, and I shall not be back to
dinner."
"Do you dine with Lady Grayson?"
The Conte laughed.
"Delightful!" he cried. "Jealousy. And of her dearest, most
confidential friend."
"No," said the lady quietly. "I have only one confidential friend."
"Meaning me. Thank you, dearest."
"Meaning myself," said the lady to herself. Then haughtily: "Yes?"
This to one of the servants who brought in a card on a waiter.
"Caller?" exclaimed the Conte. "Here, stop a moment; I've an
engagement;" and he hurried out through the back drawing-room, while the
lady's eyes closed a little more as she took the card from the silver
waiter, and sat up, listening intently, as she said in a low voice--
"Where is Mr. Dale?"
"In the library, my lady."
There was a pause, during which the Contessa turned her head toward the
back room, and let her eyes pass over the preparations that had been
made for her sitting.
"Move that easel a little forward," she said.
The man crossed to the back room and altered the position of the tripod
and canvas.
"A little more toward the middle of the room."
At that moment there was the faintly heard sound of a whistle, followed
by the rattle of wheels, which stopped in front of the house. A few
moments later the rattle of the wheels began again, and there was the
faint, dull, heavy sound of the closing front door.
"I think that will do," said the Contessa carelessly. "Show Mr. Dale
up."
The man left the room, and the change was instantaneous. His mistress
sprang up eager and animated, stepped to one of the mirrors, gave a
quick glance at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, laid her hand for
a moment upon her heaving bosom, and then hurriedly resumed her seat,
with her head averted from the door. She took up a book, with which she
half screened her face, the hand which held open the leaves trembling
slightly from the agitation imparted by her quickened pulses.
The door opened silently, and the servant announced loudly--"Mr. Dale,"
and withdrew.
The artist took a step or two forward, and then waited for a sign of
recognition, which did not come for a few moments, during which there
was a quick nervous palpitation going on in the lady's temples.
Then she rose quickly, letting fall the book, and advanced towards the
visitor.
"You are late," she said, in a low, deep, emotional voice.
"I beg your ladyship's pardon," said Dale, looking wonderingly, and with
all an artist's admiration for the beautiful in nature, at the glowing
beauty of the woman whose eyes were turned with a soft appealing look in
his, while the parted lips curved into a smile which revealed her purely
white teeth.
"I forgive you," she said softly, as she held out her hand--"now that
you have come."
Armstrong Dale's action was the most natural in the world. He was in
London, and it was two years since he left Boston to increase his
knowledge of the world of art. He took the hand held out to him, and
for the moment was fascinated by the spell of the eyes which looked so
strangely deep down into his own. Then he was conscious of the soft
white hand clinging tightly to his with a pressure to which it had been
a stranger since he left the States.
CHAPTER FOUR.
AN UNEXPECTED SCENE.
Armstrong Dale walked up and down his grim-looking, soot-smudged studio,
as if he had determined to wear a track on one side similar to that made
by a wild beast in his cage.
"I won't go again," he said; "it's a kind of madness. Heavens! how
beautiful she is! And that man--that wretched, effete, miserable little
piece of conceit, with his insolent criticisms of my work. I felt as if
I could strangle him. If it had not been for her appealing looks, I
should have had a row with him before now. I will not put up with it.
But how she seems to hate him; how she--"
"Bah! Brute! Idiot! Ass! Conceited fool! Because nature has given
you a decent face, can't a handsome woman look at you without your
thinking she admires you--can't she speak gently, and in her graceful
refined way, without your thinking that she is in love with you?"
"It's all right, Cornel, my darling! I've been a fool--a conceited
fool; but I've got your sweet, innocent little face always before me,
the remembrance of your dear arms about my neck, and your kisses--
armour, all of them, to guard me against folly. Pish! Fancy and
conceit! I will go, finish my painting, get it exhibited if I can, and
pile up Philistine gold as spoil to bear home to her who is to be my
very own."
It was the third time of making this declaration, and, full of his
self-confidence, Dale made his way for the fourth time to Portland
Place, to find his pulses, which had been accelerating their rate, calm
down at once, for his reception by the Contessa was perfect, but there
was a mingling of annoyance with his satisfaction on finding that his
hostess was not alone.
Lady Grayson, one of Valentina's greatest intimates, was there, a
handsome, arch-looking woman, widow of a wealthy old general, who, after
a long life of warfare in the East, had commenced another in the West,
but this was not even of seven years' duration before he fell.
Lady Grayson smiled sweetly upon the artist as he entered; and he felt
that there was as much meaning in her words as in her looks.
"I forgot this was your sitting day, Tina. Do you know, I thought
ladies always had to go to an artist's studio to be painted. There, I
suppose you two want to be alone?"
"Pray, don't go," said Valentina calmly. "I do not suppose Mr. Dale
will mind you being present."
"I? Not at all," said Armstrong. "It will not make any difference to
me."
"Indeed!" said the lady archly, "I thought you might both want to talk."
Armstrong Dale turned to his palette and brushes; and, as the Contessa
took up her position, he crossed to the window, half-closed the
shutters, and drew a curtain, so as to get the exact light upon his
sitter, whose eyes had met those of her dearest friend, and a silent
skirmish, none the less sharp for no words being spoken, went on.
Dale returned to the front of his easel, and after a few words of
request to his sitter respecting her position, to which she responded by
a pained look, which made him shiver, he began to paint.
"Oh, how clever!" cried Lady Grayson, who had resumed her seat.
"Then she is waiting to see Cesare," thought the Contessa, smiling at
her friend.
"Did you mean that dab I just made with my brush, Lady Grayson?" said
Armstrong coldly.
"Fie! to speak so slightingly of your work. Dab, indeed! why, I have
had lessons in painting and ought to know. Every touch you give that
canvas shows real talent."
"And with all due respect, Lady Grayson, I, as a man who has studied
hard in New York, Paris, Rome, and here in London, confidently say that
you are no judge."
"I declare I am, sir," cried Lady Grayson merrily. "The fact is, you
are too modest.--Don't you think he is far too modest, dear?"
"I am debarred from entering into the discussion," said the Contessa,
with a fixed smile.
"Then I must do all the talking.--Capital! The portrait grows more like
at every touch. By the way, Mr. Dale, how is your big picture getting
on--the one I saw at your studio?"
In spite of her self-command, Valentina turned pale, and a flash darted
from her eyes.
She at his studio!
Then she drew a long breath, the light in her eyes grew fixed, and there
was a peculiar hardening in her smile, as Armstrong went on painting,
and said calmly--
"The large mythological study I showed you and the Conte?"
"Yes, that one," said Lady Grayson, who, in spite of her assurance, did
not dare to look at her friend, whose smile grew a little harder now,
though there was a feeling of triumph glowing at her heart, as she
detected her friend's slip.
"Badly," said Armstrong quietly. "I beg your pardon, Lady Dellatoria;
that smile is too hard. Are you fatigued?"
"Oh no," she replied; and the smile he was trying to transfer to the
canvas came back with a look which he avoided, and he continued
hastily--
"I cannot satisfy myself with my sitters. I want a good--a beautiful,
intense-looking--face, full of majesty, passion, and refinement; but the
models are all so hard and commonplace. I can find beautiful women to
sit, but there is a vulgarity in their faces where I want something
ethereal or spiritual."
"Why not get the Contessa to sit?"
"Or Lady Grayson?" said Valentina scornfully.
"Oh, I should sit for Mr. Dale with pleasure."
"My dear Henriette, how can you be so absurd?"
"Oh, but I do not mean until you have quite done with him, dear."
"You would not do," said Dale bluntly.--"Quite still now, please, Lady
Dellatoria."
"Alack and alas! not to be beautiful. But would your present sitter
do?"
"I should not presume to ask Lady Dellatoria to sit for a study in a
picture to be publicly exhibited," said the young man coldly.
"But you--so famous.--Ah, here is the Conte!"
"Yes; what is it?" said Dellatoria, entering. "Want me?"
"I knew it," thought the Contessa. "It was an appointment."
"Yes, to judge. That picture of Mr. Dale's. You know--the one we saw
that day at his studio."
The Conte's eyes contracted a little, and he glanced at his wife, whose
face was calm and smiling.
"Oh yes, I remember," he said--then, in an aside, "You little fool.--
What about it?" he added aloud.
"Mr. Dale can't find a model who would do for Juno. I was suggesting
that dearest Valentina should sit."
"Very good of you, Lady Grayson," said the Conte shortly; "but her
ladyship does not sit for artists."
"And Mr. Dale does not wish her ladyship to do so, sir," said the
artist, as haughtily as the Conte.
"There, I've said something wrong," cried Lady Grayson. "Poor me! It's
time I went. I had no business to stay and hinder the painting. Good
morning, Mr. Dale. Good-bye, Valentina, dear. Ask the Conte to forgive
me."
She bent down and kissed the beautiful face, which did not wince, but
there was war between two pairs of eyes. Then, turning round, she held
out her hand.
"Good-bye, dreadful man. I'm too awfully sorry I cannot give you a lift
on my way back to the park."
"No, thanks. By-the-by, yes; I want to go to Albert Gate. Would it be
taking you out of your way?"
"Oh no. Delighted. My horses don't have half enough to do."
"Then come along."
Armstrong could not help glancing at the couple as they crossed towards
the door; and then as he turned back to the canvas his heart began to
beat painfully, for he heard a peculiar hissing sound as of a long deep
breath being drawn through teeth closely set, and a dangerous feeling of
pity entered his breast. He could not paint, but stood fixed with the
brush raised, completely mastered by the flood of thought which rushed
through his brain. He saw plainly how great cause there was for the
coldness and contempt with which the Contessa viewed her husband, and he
realised fully the truth of the rumours he had heard of how she--a
beautiful English girl--had been hurried into a fashionable marriage
with this contemptible, wealthy, titled man. What else could come of it
but such a life as he saw too plainly that they led!
He fought against these thoughts, but vainly; and they only opened the
way to others still more dangerous. The first time he had met Lady
Dellatoria, when she visited his studio in company with her husband, she
had seemed attracted to him, and he had felt flattered by the eagerness
with which she listened to his words. Then came an invitation to dinner
at Portland Place, for the discussion of his undertaking the portrait.
That night, the Conte was called away to an engagement, and he was left
in that luxurious drawing-room, talking to the clever, refined, and
beautiful woman who seemed to hang upon his words.
Soon after he went back to his studio half intoxicated by her smiles;
but the next morning he had grown more himself, and had a long talk with
Joe Pacey, his greatest intimate, and been advised to paint the portrait
by all means, but to hit hard for price.
"Do you no end of good, boy; but take care of yourself; she's the most
beautiful woman in society."
Dale had laughed contemptuously, accepted the commission, and matters
had gone on till it had come to this. He had been forced to be a
witness of the breach between husband and wife, the cruelty of the
treatment she received, and he had heard that painful drawing in of the
breath, as she sat there almost within touch. She, the suffering woman,
who had from the first accorded to him what had seemed to be the warmest
friendship; and now the blood rose to his brain, and his resolutions,
his fierce accusations, appeared to have been all in vain.
He dared not look round in the terrible silence which had ensued. He
could only think that he was alone with the woman against whom his
friend had warned him, and for the moment, in the giddy sensation that
attacked him, he felt that he must rush from the room.
Then he started, and the brush fell from his hand, for there was a quick
movement in the chair on his left, and he turned sharply, to find
Valentina's eyes filled with tears, but not dimmed so that he could not
read the yearning, passionate look with which she gazed at him, as she
said in a low, thrilling whisper--
"You heard--you saw--all. Have you no pity for me--no word to say?"
For a few moments not a word.
The Contessa rose and took a step toward him, with her hands raised
appealingly.
"You do not--you cannot--understand," she half whispered, "or you would
speak to me. Can you not see how alone I am in the world, insulted,
outraged, by that man whose wife I was almost forced to become? Wife!"
she cried, "no, his slave, loaded with fetters of gold, which cut into
my flesh till my life becomes insufferable. Mr. Dale--Armstrong, I
thought you sympathised with me in my unhappy state. Have I not shown
you, since fate threw us so strangely together, that my life has been
renewed that everything has seemed changed?"
He looked at her wildly, and the palette he held fell upon the rich
thick carpet in the struggle going on within his breast.
"Are you dumb?" she whispered softly; "have you been blind to my
sufferings?"
"No, no!" he cried. "Indeed, I have not. But you must not speak like
this. It is madness. I have seen and pitied. I have felt that your
husband--"
"Husband!" she said contemptuously.
"Oh, hash!" he cried. "Lady Dellatoria, you are angry--excited. Yes, I
see and know everything, but for your own sake, don't--for Heaven's
sake, don't speak to me like this."
"Why," she said bitterly, "are you not honest and true?"
"No," he cried wildly. "It is mere folly. It has all been a terrible
mistake my coming here. I cannot--I will not continue this work. It is
impossible. The Conte insults me. He is dissatisfied. Lady
Dellatoria, I cannot submit to all his--"
He shrank from her, for her hand was laid upon his arm.
"Yes," she said, as she raised her face towards his; "he insults you, as
he insults me; he--poor, weak, pitiful creature--insults you who are so
true and manly. I am not blind. I have seen all that you try to hide.
You pity me; you have shown yourself my sympathetic friend. Yes, and I
have seen more--all that you have tried so hard to hide in your
veneration--your love for a despairing woman. Mr. Dale--Armstrong," she
whispered--and her voice was low, tender, and caressing; her eyes
seeking his with a passionate, yearning look, which thrilled him--"don't
leave me now; I could not bear it."
"Lady Dellatoria!" he panted wildly, as honour made one more stand in
his behalf.
"Valentina," she whispered, "who casts off all a woman's reserve for
you, the first who ever taught her that, after all, there is such a
thing as love in this weary world, and with it hope and joy."
The hands which had rested upon his arm rose to his shoulders, and
tightened about his neck, as she laid her burning face upon his breast.
CHAPTER FIVE.
LADY GRAYSON'S PURSE.
With one quick motion, Armstrong threw Valentina back into her seat, and
snatched up palette and brushes, mad with rage and shame, as he made an
effort to go on painting. For the drawing-room door had been opened
with a good deal of rattling of the handle, and he expected that the
next minute he would have to turn and face the husband.
But it was a woman's voice, full of irony and sarcasm, and he turned
sharply, to see that the Contessa sat back in her chair with a strangely
angry light in her dark eyes, gazing at Lady Grayson.
"Pray forgive me, dear," said the latter mockingly. "So sorry to
disturb you. I was obliged to come back, for I have lost my purse. Did
I leave it here?"
"How could you have left it here?" said the Contessa coldly, as she
quivered beneath her friend's gaze.
"I thought, love, that perhaps I had drawn it out with my handkerchief.
It is so tiresome to lose one's purse; is it not, Mr. Dale?"
"Worse, madam, not to have one to lose," said Armstrong, who was placing
his brushes in their case.
"How droll you are," said Lady Grayson; "as if anybody except a beggar
could be without a purse. But surely you have not done painting the
portrait?"
"Yes, Lady Grayson, I have done painting the portrait," replied Dale
gravely.
"And all through my interruption. Oh, my dearest Valentina, how could I
be so indiscreet as to come and interrupt your charming sitting."
"Would it be a sin to strangle this mocking wretch, who is triumphing
over her shame and my disgrace?" thought Dale.
The Contessa was silent, and the situation growing maddening, when Lady
Grayson suddenly exclaimed--"Why, there! I told the dear Conte that I
felt sure I had dropped it here; and when I am influenced about anything
happening, as I was in this case, I am pretty sure to be right."
She said this meaningly, with a smile at the other actors in the scene,
and then took a few steps toward the couch she had occupied, and,
picking from it the missing purse, held it up in triumph, and with her
eyes sparkling with malicious glee.
"I am so glad," she cried; "I was so sure. Goodbye once more, dearest
Valentina. Good morning, Mr. Dale. Oh, you fortunate man," she
continued, gazing at the canvas. "To paint like that. Ah, well,
perhaps it may be my turn next," she added, with a mocking glance at the
Contessa. "What, you going too, Mr. Dale? Then I did spoil the
sitting."
"No, madam," said Armstrong coldly; "your arrival was most opportune.
Lady Dellatoria, my man shall come for the canvas."
Valentina darted a wildly reproachful look at him, which he met for a
moment, flushed, and turned from with a shiver.
"May I see you to your carriage, Lady Grayson?" he said.
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Dale: if you would. Goodbye, dearest," she cried,
with a triumphant mocking look at the fierce, beautiful face. "You must
let me drop you at your studio, Mr. Dale," she continued; and as the
door closed behind them, Valentina started from her chair to press her
hands to her temples, uttering a low, piteous moan.
"Cast off! and for her!" she cried wildly. "She has always been trying
to lure him from me--him--my husband; and she could not rest in her
suspicions without coming back."
She ran to the window to stand unseen, gazing down, and to her agony she
saw Dale step into the carriage, take his seat beside Lady Grayson, and
be carried off.
Valentina turned from the window with her face convulsed, but it grew
smooth and beautiful, and there was a dreamy look in her eyes, and a
smile upon her parted, humid lips.
"I am mad," she said to herself, with a mocking laugh. "He care for
her! Absurd! He loves me! In his brave fight he struggled hard, but--
he loves me. His arms did hold me to his breast; his lips did press
mine. And she?--poor weak fool, with her transparent trick, to return
and play the spy. Let her know, and have a hold upon me, and defy me
about Cesare. She will threaten me some day if I revile her. Poor
fool! I am the stronger--stronger than ever now. I could defy the
world, for, in spite of his cold looks, his anger against himself--he
loves me."
She raised her eyes and stood looking straight before her for some
moments, and then started, but recovered herself and smiled as she gazed
at the figure before her in one of the mirror-filled panels of the room.
For she saw reflected there a face and figure that she felt no man could
resist, and the smile upon her face grew brighter, the dreamy look
intensified, as she murmured--
"At last! After these long, barren, weary years, love, the desire of a
woman's life;" and closing her eyes, she slowly extended her arms as, in
a whisper soft as the breath of eve, she murmured, "At last! Come back
to me, my love--my life--my god."
CHAPTER SIX.
WHAT PACEY SAW IN THE CLOUDS.
Three weeks soon pass in busy London, but to Armstrong Dale the
twenty-one days which ensued after the scene at Portland Place were like
months of misery.
Stern in his resolve to avoid all further entanglement, and to keep
faith to her whom in his heart of hearts he loved, he shut himself up in
his studio, and made a desperate attack upon his great mythological
picture, a broad high canvas, at which Keren-Happuch stared
open-mouthed, when she went into the studio every morning "to do Mr.
Dale up"--a feat which consisted in brushing the fluff about from one
corner to another, and resulted in a good deal of sniffing, and the
lodging of more dust upon casts, ledges, furniture, and above all, upon
Keren-Happuch's by no means classical features, where it adhered,
consequent upon a certain labour-and-exercise-produced moisture which
exuded from the maiden's skin.
"I can't help looking smudgy," she used to say; and directly after,
"Comin', mum," for her name was shouted in an acid voice by Mrs.
Dunster, the elderly lady who let the studio and rooms in Fitzroy Square
to any artist who would take them for a time.
But the poor little slavey was Keren-Happuch to that lady alone. To
Armstrong she was always Miranda, on account of her friend, the
dirty-white cat of the kitchen; to his artist friends such names as
seemed good to them, and suited to their bizarre thoughts.
To Armstrong one morning came Keren-Happuch, as he was painting out his
previous day's work upon his great picture, and she stood staring with
her mouth open.
"Oh, Mr. Dale, sir, what a shame! What would Miss Montmorency say?"
"What about, Miranda?"
"You a-smudging out her beautiful figure as you took such pains to
paint. Why, she was a-talking to me 'bout it, sir, when she was a-goin'
yesterday, and said she was goin' to be Queen June-ho at the 'cademy."
"But she will not be, Miranda," said Armstrong sadly; "it was execrable.
Ah, my little lass, what a pity it is that you could not stand for the
figure."
"Me, sir! Oh, my!" cried the girl, giggling. "Why, I'm a perfect
sight. And, oh!--I couldn't, you know. I mustn't stop, sir. I on'y
come to tell you I was opening the front top winder, and see your funny
friend, Mr. Pacey, go into Smithson's. He always do before he comes
here."
"Keren-Happuch!" came faintly from below.
"Comin', mum," cried the girl, and she dashed out of the studio.
"Poor, patient little drudge!" said Armstrong, half aloud. "Well
washed, neatly clothed, spoken to kindly, and not worked to death, what
a good faithful little lassie she would be for a house. I wish Cornel
could see her, and see her with my eyes."
He turned sharply, for there was a step--a heavy step--on the stair, and
the artist's sad face brightened.
"Good little prophetess too. Here's old Joe at last. Where's the
incense-box?"
He took a tobacco-jar from a cupboard and placed it upon the nearest
table, just as the door opened and a big, heavy, rough, grey-haired man
entered, nodded, and, placing his soft felt hat upon his heavy stick,
dropped into an easy-chair.
"Welcome, little stranger!" cried Armstrong merrily. "Why tarried the
wheels of your chariot so long?"
There was no answer, but the visitor fixed his deeply set piercing eyes
upon his brother artist.
"Was there a smoke somewhere last night, old lad, and the whisky of an
evil brew?"
"No!" said the visitor shortly.
"Why, Joe, old lad, what's the matter? Coin run out?"
"No!"
"But there is something, old fellow," said Armstrong. "Can I help you?"
And, passing his brush into the hand which held his palette, he grasped
the other by the shoulder.
"Don't touch me," cried the visitor angrily, and he struck Armstrong's
hand aside.
There was a pause, and then the latter said gravely--
"Joe, old fellow, I don't want to pry into your affairs, but if I can
counsel or help you, don't shrink from asking. Can I do anything?"
"Yes--much."
"Hah! that's better," cried Armstrong, as if relieved. "What's the good
of an Orestes, if Pú does not come to him when he is in a hole! But you
are upset. There's no hurry. Fill your pipe, and give me a few words
about my confounded picture while you calm down. Joe, old man, it's
mythological, and it's going to turn out a myth. Isn't there a woman in
London who could sit for my Juno?"
"Damn all women!" cried the visitor, in a deep hoarse tone.
"Well, that's rather too large an order, old fellow. Come, fill your
pipe. Now, let's have it. What's wrong--landlady?"
The eyes of the man to whom he had been attracted from his first arrival
in London, the big, large-hearted, unsuccessful artist, who yet
possessed more ability than any one he knew, and whose advice was
eagerly sought by a large circle of rising painters, were fixed upon him
so intently that the colour rose in Armstrong Dale's cheeks, and, in
spite of his self-control, the younger man looked conscious.
"Then it's all true," said Pacey bitterly.
"What's all true?" cried Dale.
"Armstrong, lad, I passed a bitter night, and I thought I would come
on."
The young artist was silent, but his brow knit, and there was a
twitching about the corner of his eyes.
"I sat smoking hard--ounces of strong tobacco; and in the clouds I saw a
frank, good-looking young fellow, engaged to as sweet and pure a woman
as ever breathed, coming up to this hell or heaven, London, whichever
one makes of it, and going wrong. Ulysses among the Sirens, lad; and
they sang too sweetly for him--that is, one did. The temptation was
terribly strong, and he went under."
Armstrong's brow was dark as night now, and he drew his breath hard.
"Do you know what that meant, Armstrong? You are silent. I'll tell
you. It meant breaking the heart of a true woman, and the wrecking of a
man. He had ability--as a painter--and he could have made a name, but
as soon as he woke from his mad dream, all was over. The zest had gone
out of life. You know the song, lad--`A kiss too long--and life is
never the same again.'"
"I made you my friend, Joe Pacey," said Armstrong huskily, "but by what
right do you dare to come preaching your parables here?"
"Parable, man? It is the truth. Eight? I have a right to tell you
what wrecked my life--the story of twenty years ago."
"Joe!"
There was a gripping of hands.
"Ah! That's better. I tell you because history will repeat itself.
Armstrong, lad, you have often talked to me of the one who is waiting
and watching across the seas. Look at me--the wreck I am. For God's
sake--for hers--your own, don't follow in my steps."
Neither spoke for a few minutes, and then with his voice changed--
"I can't humbug, Joe," said Armstrong. "Of course I understand you.
You mean about--my commission."
"Yes, and I did warn you, lad. It is the talk of every set I've been
into lately. There is nothing against her, but her position with that
miserable hound, Dellatoria, is well-known. He insults her with his
mistresses time after time. Her beauty renders her open to scandal, and
they say what I feared is true."
"What? Speak out."
"That she is madly taken with our handsome young artist."
"They say that?"
"Yes, and I gave them the lie. Last night I had it, though more
definitely. I was at the Van Hagues--all artistic London goes there,
and a spiteful, vindictive woman contrived, by hints and innuendoes, as
she knew I was your friend, to let me know the state of affairs."
"Lady Grayson?"
"The same."
"The Jezebel!"
"And worse, lad. But, Armstrong, my lad--I have come then too late?"
Pride and resentment kept Dale silent for a few moments, and then he
said huskily--
"It is false."
"But it is the talk of London, my lad, and it means when it comes to
Dellatoria's ears--Bah! a miserable organ-grinder by rights--endless
trouble. Perhaps a challenge. Brutes who have no right to name the
word honour yell most about their own, as they call it."
"It is not true--or--there, I tell you it is not true."
"Not true?"
For answer Armstrong walked to the side of the studio, took a large
canvas from where it stood face to the wall, and turned it to show the
Contessa's face half painted.
"Good," said Pacey involuntarily, "but--"
"Don't ask me any more, Joe," said Dale. "Be satisfied that history is
not going to repeat itself. I have declined to go on with the
commission."
"Armstrong, lad," cried Pacey, springing from his seat, and clapping his
hands on the young man's shoulders to look him intently in the eyes.
"Bah!" he literally roared, "and I spoiled my night's rest, and--Here:
got any whisky, old man? 'Bacco? Oh, here we are;" and he dragged a
large black briar-root, well burned, from his breast and began to fill
it. Then, taking a common box of matches from his pocket--a box he had
bought an hour before from a beggar in the street, he threw himself back
in the big chair, lifted one leg, and gave the match a sharp rub on his
trousers, lit up, sending forth volumes of cloud, and in an entirely
different tone of voice, said quite blusteringly--
"Now then, about that goddess canvas; let's have a smell at it. Hah!
yes, you want a Juno--a living, breathing divinity, all beauty, scorn,
passion, hatred. No, my lad, there are plenty of flesh subjects who
would do as well as one of Titian's, and you could beat an Etty into
fits; but there isn't a model in London who could sit for the divine
face you want. Your only chance is to evolve it from your mind as you
paint another head."
"Yes; perhaps you are right," said Dale dreamily. "Sure I am. There,
go in and win, my lad. You'll do it.--Hah! that's good whisky.--My dear
old fellow, I might have known. I ought to have trusted you."
"Don't say any more about it."
"But I must, to ease my mind. I ought to have known that my young
Samson would not yield to any Delilah, and be shorn of his manly
locks.--Yes, that's capital whisky. I haven't had a drop since
yesterday afternoon. A toast: `Confound the wrong woman.' Hang them,"
he continued after a long draught, "they're always coming to you with
rosy apples in their hands or cheeks, and saying, `Have a bite,' You
don't want to paint portraits. You can paint angels from clay to bring
you cash and fame. Aha, my goddess of beauty and brightness, I salute
thee, Bella Donna, in Hippocrene!"
"Oh, do adone, Mr. Pacey," said the lady addressed to wit,
Keren-Happuch. "I never do know what you mean, I declare,"--(sniff)--"I
wouldn't come into the studio when you're here if I wasn't obliged.
Please, Mr. Dale, sir, here's that French Mossoo gentleman. He says,
his compliments, and are you too busy to see him?"
"No, Hebe the fair, he is not," cried Pacey. "Tell him there is a
symposium on the way, and he is to ascend."
"A which, sir? Sym--sym--"
"Sym--whisky, Bella Donna."
The girl glanced at Dale, who nodded his head, and she hurried out. The
door opened the next minute to admit a slight little man, most carefully
dressed, and whose keen, refined features, essentially French, were full
of animation.
"Ah, you smoke, and are at rest," he said. "Then I am welcome. Dear
boys, both of you. And the picture?"
He stood, cigarette in teeth, gazing at the large canvas for a few
moments.
"Excellent! So good!" he cried. "Ah, Dale, my friend, you would be
great, but you do so paint backwards."
"Eh?" cried Pacey.
"I mean, my faith, he was much more in advance a month ago. There was a
goddess here. Where is she now?"
"Behind the clouds," said Pacey, forming one of a goodly size; and the
others helped in a more modest way, as an animated conversation ensued
upon art, Pacey giving his opinions loudly, and with the decision of a
judge, while the young Frenchman listened to his criticism, much of it
being directed at a flower-painting he had in progress.
The debate was at its height, when the little maid again appeared with a
note in her hand.
"Aha!" cried Pacey, who was in the highest spirits--"maid of honour to
the duchess--the flower of her sex again. Hah! how sweet the perfume of
her presence wafted to my sense of smell."
"Oh, do adone, please, Mr. Pacey, sir. You're always making game of me.
I'll tell missus you call her the duchess--see if I don't. It ain't me
as smells: it's this here letter, quite strong. Please, Mr. Dale, sir,
it was left by that lady in her carriage."
"Keren-Happuch!" came from below stairs as the girl handed Dale the
note; and his countenance changed as he involuntarily turned his eyes to
his friend.
"Keren-Happuch!" came again.
"Comin', mum," shouted the girl, thrusting her head for a moment through
the ajar door, and turning back again.
"Said there wasn't no answer, sir."
"Keren-Happuch!"
"A call from the Duchess of Fitzroy Square," said Pacey merrily.
"No, sir, it was that Hightalian lady, her as is painted there," said
the girl innocently, and pointing to the canvas leaning against the
wall, as she ran out.
"Confound her!" roared Pacey, springing to his feet, and turning upon
his friend, with his eyes flashing beneath his shaggy brows; "is there
no such thing as truth in this cursed world?"
"What do you mean?" cried Dale hotly, as he crushed the scented note in
his hand.
"Samson and Delilah," said Pacey, with savage mockery in his tones.
"Here, Leronde, lad," he continued, taking up his glass, "a toast for
you--Vive la gallantry. Bah!"
He lifted the glass high above his head, but did not drink. He gave
Armstrong a fierce, contemptuous look, and dashed the glass into the
grate, where it was shivered to atoms.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE SCENTED NOTE.
Leronde stood for a moment watching his friends excitedly; and then, as
Pacey moved towards the door, he sprang before it.
"No, no!" he cried; "you two shall not quarrel. I will not see it.
You, my two artist friends who took pity on me when I fly--I, a
communard--for my life from Paris. You, Pacie, who say I am brother of
the crayon, and help me to sell to the dealaire; you, Dale, dear friend,
who say, `Come, ole boy, and here is papaire and tobacco for cigarette,'
and at times the dinner and the bock of biere, and sometimes wine--you
shake hands, both of you. I, Alexis Leronde, say you muss."
"Silence!" roared Pacey. "Whoever heard of good coming of French
mediation?"
"Be quiet, Leronde," cried Armstrong firmly. "Joe, old fellow, let me--
a word--explain."
"Explain?" growled Pacey, as the young Parisian shrugged his shoulders
and stood aside to begin rolling up a cigarette with his thin deft
fingers.
"Stop, Joe!" cried Armstrong, "you shall not go. The letter is some
request about the picture--for another artist to finish it. Here, read
it, and satisfy yourself."
He tore open the scented missive, glanced at it, and was about to hand
it over to his friend; but a few words caught his eye, and he crushed
the paper in his hand, to stand flushed and frowning before his friend.
"All right: I see," said the latter, with a bitter, contemptuous laugh.
"We're a paltry, weak lot, we men. Poor little daughter of the stars
and stripes across the herring-pond! I'm sorry, for I did think I could
believe your word."
"Dear boys--ole men!" cried Leronde, advancing once more to play
mediator.
"Shut up!" roared Pacey, so fiercely that the young Frenchman frowned,
folded his arms across his chest, and puffed out a cloud of smoke in
defiance.
"Joe, I swear--"
"Thank you," said Pacey ironically. "I can do enough of that as I go
home;" and, swinging open the door, he strode out and went downstairs,
whistling loudly the last popular music-hall air.
"Aha! he flies," cried Leronde, biting through his cigarette, the
lighted end falling to the floor, while he ground up the other between
his teeth. "I go down. He insult me--he insult you, my dear friend. I
pull his nose on ze door mat, and say damn."
"Be quiet, lad!" cried Armstrong fiercely. "It is nothing to do with
you. It is my affair."
"Yes, I understand, dear ole man," said Leronde, placing his fingers to
his lips, and nodding his head a great deal, while Armstrong stood
dreamy and thoughtful, frowning, as if undecided what to do. "I know I
am French--man of the whole world, my friend. I love the big Pacie. So
good, so noble, but he is not young and handsome. The lady, she
prefaire my other good friend. What marvel? And the good Pacie is
jealous."
"No, no; you do not understand."
"But, yes. Cherchez la femme! It is so always. They make all the
mischief in the great world, but we love them always the same."
"I tell you that you do not understand," cried Armstrong angrily.
"Well, no; but enough, my friend. Ah, there is so much in a lettaire
that is perfumed. I do not like it; you two are such good friends--my
best friends; you, the American, he, the big honest Jean Bull. I do not
like you to fight, but there, what is it?--a meeting for the honour in
Hyde Park, a few minutes wiz the small sword, a scratch, and then you
embrace, and we go to the dejeuner better friends than before. You are
silent. I will make another cigarette."
"I was thinking," said Dale slowly.
"What--you fear to ask me to be your second? Be of good courage, my
friend. I will bear your cartel of defiance, and ask him who is his
friend."
"Bah!" ejaculated Dale, so roughly that Leronde frowned. "There, don't
take any notice of me, old fellow," he cried. "Sit down and smoke. You
will excuse me."
Leronde bowed, and Armstrong hurried into his inner room, where he
smoothed out the note, and read half aloud and in a disconnected way:--
"_How can you stay away--those long weary weeks--my unhappy state--force
me to write humbly--appealingly--my wretched thoughts--Lady Grayson--her
double looks of triumph over me--will not believe it of you--could not
be so base for such a heartless woman as that--heartbroken--my first and
only love--won from me my shameless avowal--not shameless--a love as
true as ever given--for you so good and noble. In despair--no rest but
in the grave--forgive your coldness. Come back to me or I shall die--
die now when hope, love, and joy are before me. You must--you shall--I
pray by all that is true and manly in your nature--or in my mad
recklessness and despair I shall cast consequences to the winds and come
to you_."
Dale crushed up the letter once again, and as he stood frowning and
thoughtful, he struck a match, lit the paper, and held it in his hand
till it had completely burned out, scorching his hand the while. Then,
going to the window, he blew the tinder out and saw it fall.
"The ashes of a dead love," he muttered; and then quickly, "No, it was
not love. The mad fancy of the moment. There, it is all over. Poor
woman! if all she says is honest truth, she must fight it down, and
forgive me if I have been to blame. Yes; some day I can tell her. She
will not forgive me, for there is nothing to forgive. Poor little
woman! Ah, if the one who loves us could see and know all--the life,
the thoughts of the wisest and best man who ever breathed! Nature, you
are a hard mistress. Well, that is over; but poor old Joe! He will
find out the truth, though, and ask my pardon. Everything comes to the
man who waits."
He crossed to a desk lying on a table by his bed, opened it, took out a
photograph, and gazed at it for a few moments before replacing it with a
sigh.
"You can be at rest, little one. Surely I am strong enough to keep my
word."
Then he started and bit his lip, for a hot flush came to his temples as
the last words in the letter he had burned rose before him: "_cast
consequences to the winds and come to you_."
He shivered at the idea, as for the moment he saw the beautiful,
passionate woman standing before him with her pleading eyes and
outstretched hands.
"No!" he cried aloud, "she would not go to the man who treats her with
silence and--"
"Did you call me, mon ami?" said a voice at the door.
"No, old fellow; I'm coming," cried Dale; and then to himself, as one
who has mastered self. "That is all past and gone--in ashes to the
winds. Now for work."
CHAPTER EIGHT.
IN THE SCALES.
"Nothing like hard work. I've conquered," said Dale to himself one
morning, as he sat toiling away at his big picture, whose minor portions
were standing out definitely round the principal figure, which had been
painted in again and again, but always to be cleaned off in disgust, and
was now merely sketched in charcoal.
He was waiting patiently for the model who was to attend to stand for
that figure--the figure only--for Pacey's idea had taken hold, and,
though he could not dwell upon it without a nervous feeling of dread,
and asking himself whether it was not dangerous ground to take, he had
determined, as he thought, to prove his strength, to endeavour to
idealise the Contessa's features for his Juno. It was the very
countenance he wished to produce, and if he could have caught her
expression and fixed it upon canvas that day when the Conte entered, so
evidently by preconcerted arrangement with Lady Grayson, the picture
would have been perfect.
"It need not be like her," he argued; "it is the expression I want."
He knew that in very few hours he could produce that face with its
scornful eyes, but he always put it off.
After a time, when the trouble there was not so fresh, it would be more
easy--"and the power to paint it as I saw it then have grown faint," he
added in despair, with the consequence that between the desire to paint
a masterpiece, and the temptation to which he had been exposed, the face
of Lady Dellatoria was always before him, sleeping and waking; though
had he made a strong effort to cast out the recollection of those
passionate, yearning eyes, the letters he received from time to time
would have kept the memory fresh.
"At last!" he cried that morning, as steps were heard upon the stairs.
"But she has not a light foot. I remember, though: they told me that
she was a fine, majestic-looking woman."
There was a tap at the door.
"Come in."
Jupiter himself, in the person of Daniel Jaggs, thrust in his noble
head.
"All right, Emperor, come in," said Dale, going on painting, giving
touches to the background of his Olympian scene, with its group of
glowing beauties, who were to be surpassed by the majesty of the
principal figure still to come. "What is it? Don't want you to-day."
"No, sir. I knowed it was a lady day, but I've come with a message from
one."
"Not from Lady--"
He ceased speaking, and his heart beat heavily. Jaggs had been to and
from Portland Place with the canvas. Had she made him her messenger?
"Yes, sir; from Lady Somers Town."
"What?" cried Dale, with a sigh of relief, though, to his agony, he felt
that he longed to hear from the Contessa again.
"Lady Somers Town, sir; that's what Mr. Pacey used to call her. Miss
Vere Montesquieu of the Kaiserinn."
"Miss Vere Montesquieu!" said Dale contemptuously.
"Well, that's what she calls herself, sir. Did you say what was her
real name, sir?"
"No, I didn't, but I thought it. Oh, by the way, Jaggs, I must have
another sitting or two from you. We haven't quite caught the expression
of Jupiter's lips."
"No, sir, we haven't, sir," said the model, looking at the canvas
wistfully. "I know azactly what you want, but it's so hard to put it
on."
"It is, Jaggs."
"You want him to be looking as he would if he was afraid of his missus,
and she'd just found him out at one of his games."
"That's it."
"Well, sir, I'll try again. Perhaps I can manage it next time. I was a
bit on the other night, and I did get it pretty warm when I went home.
I'll try and feel like I did then, next time I'm a settin'."
"Yes, do," said Dale, who kept on with his work. "Ah, that's better.
Well, you were going to say something. Is anything wrong?"
"Well, sir, I'm only a poor model, and it ain't for me to presoom."
"Lookers-on see most of the game, Jaggs. What is it?"
"Well, sir, I was looking at Jupiter's corpus."
"Eh? See something out of drawing?"
"No, sir; your nattomy's all right, of course. Never see it wrong.
You're splendid on 'ticulation, muskle, and flesh. But that's Sam
Spraggs as sat for the body, wasn't it?"
"Yes; I've fitted it to your head."
"Well, sir, not to presoom, do you feel sure as it wouldn't be more
god-like, more Jupitery as you may say, if you let me set, painted that
out, and give the head the proper body. Be more nat'ral like, wouldn't
it?"
"No. What's the matter with that?--the composition of a more muscular
man with your head is, I think, excellent."
"But it ain't nat'ral like, sir. You see, Sam's too fat."
"Oh no, Jaggs. He only looks as if Hebe and Ganymede had poured him out
good potions of a prime vintage, and as if the honey of Hybla often
melted in his mouth."
"Well, sir, you knows best. Maria Budd says--"
"Who?"
"Miss Montesquieu, sir. She's old Budd's--the Somers Town
greengrocer's--gal."
"Humph! Idiot! Well, what message has she sent? Not coming again?"
"No, sir. She's very sorry, sir; but she's got an engagement to early
dinner at Brighton to-day, and won't only be back in time to take her
place in the chorus to-night."
"Confound the woman! I shall never get the figure done. Do you know of
any one else, Jaggs?"
"No, sir; and I'm afraid that you won't after all be satisfied with
her."
"All, well, you needn't wait. Seen Mr. Pacey lately?"
"Yes, sir. Looks very ill, he do. Good morning, sir."
"Good morning."
"Beg pardon, sir; but my missus--"
"There, there, I don't want to hear a long string of your inventions,
Jaggs. How much do you want?"
"Oh, thankye, sir. If you could manage to let me have five shillings on
account.--Thankye, sir. You are a gentleman."
"The Emperor" departed, winking to himself as if he had something on his
mind; and Dale threw down brushes and palette, sat back with his hands
clasped behind his head, gazing at the blank place in his great canvas,
till by slow degrees it was filled, and in all her majestic angry beauty
Juno stood there, with her attendants shrinking and looking on, while
she seemed to be flashing at her lord lightnings more terrible than
those he held in his hand.
The face, the wondrous figure, in all its glow of mature womanhood, were
there; and then the eyes seemed to turn upon Dale a look of love and
appeal to him to think upon her piteous state, vowed to love and honour
such a man as that.
Armstrong shuddered and wrenched his eyes away, wondering at the power
of his vivid imagination, which had conjured up before him the Contessa
in all the pride of her womanly beauty; and strive how he might to think
of her only in connection with his picture, as he felt that he could
produce her exactly there, and make the group a triumph of his work, he
knew that his thoughts were of another cast, and that, in spite of all,
this woman had inspired him with a passion that enthralled his very
soul.
He started up, for the maid entered with a letter, and he fancied that
she seemed to read his thoughts, as he took it and threw it carelessly
on the table.
He did not look at the address. There was the Conte's florid crest,
face upward, and it lay there ready to be burned as soon as he left his
seat, for the matches were over the fireless grate.
Keren-Happuch had reached the door.
"'Tain't scented up like some on 'em," she said to herself; and then she
turned to look wistfully at the artist, whose eyes were fixed upon
vacancy, for he was reading the letter in imagination. He knew every
word of sorrowful reproach it would contain, for the letters were little
varied. She would tell him of her solitary state, beg him to reconsider
his decision, and ask him whether, in spite of the world and its laws,
it was not a man's duty to take compassion upon the woman who loved him
with all her heart. Yes: he could read it all.
"Must get away," he said to himself. "Why not go back home, and seek
for safety behind the armour of her innocency? My poor darling, I want
to be true to you, but I am sorely tempted now. It cannot be love; only
a vile, degrading passion from which I must flee, for I am--Heaven
knows, how weak."
"Ain't yer well, sir?" said Keren-Happuch, in commiserating tones.
He started, not knowing that the girl was there.
"Well? Oh yes, Miranda, quite well."
"No, you ain't, sir, I know; and it ain't because you smokes too much,
nor comes home all tipsy like some artisses does, for I never let you in
when you wasn't just what you are now, the nicest gent we ever had
here."
"Why, you wicked little flatterer, what does this mean?" cried Dale
merrily.
"No, sir, and that won't do," said the girl. "I'm little, but I'm
precious old, and I've seen and knows a deal. You ain't well, sir!"
"Nonsense, girl! I'm quite well. There, run away."
"No, sir, there ain't no need; she's out. There's no one at home but me
and puss. I can talk to you to-day without her knowing and shouting
after me. She 'ates me talking to the lodgers.--I knows you ain't
well."
"What rubbish, my girl! I'm well enough."
"Oh no; you ain't, sir. I don't mean poorly, and wants physic, but ill
with wherritin', same as I feels sometimes when I gets it extry from
missus. I know what's the matter; you've got what Mr. Branton had when
he spent six months over his 'cademy picture as was lovely, and they
sent it back. He said it was the blues. That's what you've got,
because you can't get on with yours, which is too lovely to be sent
back. I know what a bother you've had to get a model for the middle
there, and it worries you."
"Well, yes, Miranda, my girl, I'll confess it does."
"I knowed it," she cried, clapping her hands; "and just because you're
bothered, none of the gents don't seem to come and see you now. Mr.
Leerondee ain't been, and Mr. Pacey don't seem to come anigh you.
Sometimes I feel glad, because he teases me so, and allus says things I
don't understand. But I don't mind: I wish he'd come now and cheer you
up."
"Oh, I shall be all right, Mirandy, my little lassie, as soon--"
"Yes, that you will, sir, because you must get it done, you know. It is
lovely."
"Think so?" said Dale, who felt amused by the poor, thin, smutty little
object's interest in his welfare.
"Think so! Oh, there ain't no thinking about it. I heard Mr. Pacey
tell Mr. Leerondee that it was the best thing he ever see o' yours. I
do want you to get it done, sir. It seems such a pity for that big bit
in the middle not to be painted."
"Yes, girl; but it must wait."
"Mr. Dale, sir, you won't think anything, will you?"
"Eh? What about?"
"'Cause of what I'm going to say, sir," she said bashfully. "I do want
you to get that picture well hung, sir, and make your fortune, and get
to be a RúA."
"Thank you. What were you going to say?"
"Only, sir, as I wouldn't for any one else; no, not if it was for the
Prince o' Wales, or the Dook o' Edinburgh hisself, but I would for you."
"I don't understand you," said Dale, wondering at the girl's manner.
"I meant, sir, as sooner--sooner--than you shouldn't get that picture
done and painted proper, I'd come and stand for that there figure
myself." Dale wanted to burst out laughing at the idea of the poor,
ill-nurtured, grubby little creature becoming his model for the mature,
graceful Juno; but there was so much genuine desire to help him, so much
naive innocency in the poor little drudge's words, that he contained
himself, and before he could think of how to refuse without hurting her
feelings, there was a resonant double knock and ring at the front door.
"Why, if it ain't the postman again," cried the girl. "He was here just
now. I know: it's one o' them mail letters, as they calls 'em, from
foreign abroad."
Keren-Happuch was right, for she came panting up directly with a thin
paper envelope in her hand, branded "Boston, UúSúA."
"For you, sir," she said; and she looked at him wistfully, as in an
emotional way he snatched the letter from her hand and pressed it to his
lips.
"Salvation!" he muttered, as he turned away to go to the inner room.
"God bless you, darling! You are with me once again. I never wanted
you worse."
"It's from his sweetheart over acrost the seas," said Keren-Happuch, as
she spread her dirty apron on the balustrade, so as not to soil the
mahogany with her hand as she leaned upon it to go down, sadly. "And
he's in love, too; that's what's the matter with him. Puss, puss,
puss!"
There was a soft mew, and a dirty-white cat trotted up to meet her, and
leaped up to climb to her thin shoulders, and then rub its head
affectionately against her head, to the disarrangement of her dirty cap.
"Ah! don't stick your claws through my thin clothes.--Yes," she mused,
"he's in love. Wonder what people feel like who are in love, and
whether anybody 'll ever love me. Don't suppose any one ever will: I'm
such a poor-looking sort o' thing. But it don't matter. You like me,
don't you, puss? And them as is in love don't seem to be very happy
after all."
CHAPTER NINE.
THE MODEL.
Armstrong Dale did not hear the door close. Picture--the Contessa--
everything was forgotten, and for the time he was back in Boston. For
he had thrown himself into a chair, and torn open the envelope. But he
could not rest like that. He wanted room, and he came back to begin
striding about his studio, reading as he walked.
But it did not seem to him like reading, for the words he scanned took
life and light and tone as he grasped the pure, sweet, trusting words of
the writer, breathing her intense love for the man to whom she had
plighted her troth. And as in imagination he listened to the sweet
breathings of her affection, and revelled in her homely prattle about
those he knew, and her hopeful talk of the future, when he would have
grown famous and returned home to the honours which would be showered
upon him by his people--to the welcome for him in that one true
throbbing heart, his own throbbed, too, heavily, and his eyes grew moist
and dim.
"God bless you, darling!" he cried passionately; "you have saved me when
I was tottering on the brink and ready to fall. The touch of your dear
hand has drawn me back when all was over, as I thought. I will keep
faith with you, Cornel. Forgive me, love! Heaven help me; how could I
be so mad!"
There was a brightness directly after in his eyes, as he carefully
bestowed the letter in his pocket-book and placed it in his breast.
"And they say the day of miracles is past, and that there is no magic in
the world," he cried proudly. "Poor fools! they don't know. Lie there,
little talisman. You are only a scrap of paper stained with ink, but
you are a charm of the strongest magic. Bah! It was all a passing
madness, and I have won. What a silly, weak, morbid state I was in," he
continued, as he stood in front of his picture, and snatched up palette
and brushes. "Why, Cornel darling, you have burned up all the clouds
with the bright sun of your dear love. And I can finish you now, my
good old daub. Jupiter can easily have that hang-dog, cowardly,
found-out look imported into his phiz. I feel as if I can see, and do
it now. The nymphs are as good as anything I have done. I don't always
satisfy myself, but that background is jolly. I've got so much light
and sunshine into it, such a dreamy, golden atmosphere effect, that it
brightens the whole thing, and what a nuisance it is that old Turner
ever lived! If he had never been born, my background would have been
grand. As it is--well, it's only an imitation. No, no; come, old
fellow: say, a good bit of work by an honest student of old Turner's
style. Yes," he continued, drawing back, "I think it will do. Even
dear old Joe praised that; he said it wasn't so bad. Poor old chap! I
wish we were friends again. And as for my Juno, I think I can manage
her. Montesquieu shall come--esquieu--askew--no, not askew; I'll get
her into a noble, dignified position somehow. I hope she has a good
figure. While her face--why, Cornel, my darling, it shall be yours."
He paused to stand thoughtfully before the great canvas, drawn out upon
its easel into the best light cast down from the sky panes above, and
let his mahlstick rest upon the picture just above the blank,
paint-stained portion left for the principal figure.
"Queer way of working," he said with a laugh, "finishing the
surroundings before putting in the mainspring of my theme. That's
hardly fair, though, for I painted my Juno first--ah! how many times,
and rubbed her out. Never mind; she must come strong now to stand out
well in front of these figures. She must--she shall."
He stood there motionless for a few minutes; and then, quite eagerly--
"Why not?" he said. "Too soft, sweet, and gentle-looking? Cornel,
darling, it shall be an expiation of a fault, and some day in the future
you shall stand before it and gaze in your own true face as I have
painted you--made grand, crushing, majestic, full of scorn and contempt,
as it would have been, had you stood face to face with me, awaking to
the fact that I was utterly lost, unworthy of your love. I can--I
will--paint that face, and that day, darling, when you turn to me with
those questioning eyes, and tell me you could not have looked like this,
you shall know the truth."
The inspiration was there, and with wonderful skill and rapidity he
began to sketch in the face glowing before him in his imagination. No
model could have given him the power to paint in so swiftly those
lineaments, which began to live upon the canvas as the hours went on.
For he was lost to everything but the task before him, and he grew
flushed and excited as the noble frowning brow threatened, and then by a
few deft touches those wonderful liquid eyes began to blaze with
passionate scorn. The ruddy, beautifully curved lips were parted,
revealing the glistening teeth; and at last, how long after he could not
tell, he shrank away from the great canvas, to gaze at the features he
had limned, trembling, awe-stricken, knowing that his work was masterly,
but asking himself whether the painting was his, or some occult
spiritual deed of which he had been the mere animal mechanism, worked by
the powers of evil to blast him for ever.
His lips were parched, his tongue and throat felt dry with the fever
which burned within him, as he stood trying to gather the courage to
seize a cloth and wipe out the face that gazed at him and made him
shrink in his despair.
He dragged his eyes from the canvas, and looked wildly round the great
studio, where all was silent as the grave. The bright light had passed
away; and he knew that it must be about sunset, for all was cold and
grey, save the shadows in the corners of the room, and they were black.
Everything was growing dim and misty, save the face upon his canvas, and
that stood out with its scornful, fierce anger, though, through it all,
so wonderful had been the inspiration beneath whose influence he had
worked, there was an intense look of passionate love and forgiveness;
the eyes, while scornfully condemning and upbraiding, seemed to say, "I
love you still, for you are and always will be mine."
"Cornel!" he groaned. "Heaven help me! and I have fought so hard. Ah!"
he cried, with a sigh of relief, for there were hurried footsteps on the
stairs, and the fancied dimness of the studio seemed to pass away as
little, meagre Keren-Happuch gave one sharp tap on the door, and then
ran in, to stop short, looking wonderingly at the artist's ghastly,
troubled face.
"Oh, Mr. Dale, sir, you do work too hard," she cried reproachfully.
Then, in an eager whisper, "It's all right, sir. The model's come. I
told her she was too late for to-day, but she said she'd see you all the
same."
"Where is she?" said Armstrong, in a voice which startled him.
"In the 'all, sir. I made her wait while I come to know if you'd see
her. She's got on a thick wail, but sech a figger, sir. She'll do."
"Send her up," said Dale, "but tell her I cannot be trifled with like
this."
"Yes, sir. I'll tell her you're in a horful rage 'cause she didn't come
this morning."
Dale hardly heard the words, but turned away as the girl left the room,
to stand gazing at the face which had so magically sprung from the end
of his brush; and he still stood gazing dreamily at the canvas when the
door was once more opened, there was the rustling of a dress, and
Keren-Happuch's voice was heard, saying snappishly--
"There's Mr. Dale."
Then the door was shut, and muttering, "Stuck-up, orty minx," the girl
went down to her own region.
Dale did not stir, but still stood gazing at the canvas, fascinated by
his work. But his lips moved, and he spoke half-angrily, but in a weary
voice.
"I had given you up, Miss Montesquieu. I want you for this figure, but
if you cannot keep faith with me--yes," he said, as his visitor stepped
toward him, drawing off her veil--"for this."
He turned sharply then, as if influenced in some unaccountable way, and
started back in horror and despair.
"Valentina!"
"Armstrong!" came in a low, passionate moan, as she flung herself upon
his breast--"at last, at last!"
The palette and brushes dropped from his hands--he was but man--and she
uttered a low sigh of content as his arms closed round her soft yielding
form, and his lips joined hers in a long, passionate, clinging kiss.
Then reason mastered once more, and he thrust her from him.
"No, no," he gasped; "for God's sake, go! Why have you come?"
"A cold welcome," she said, smiling. "I come to beg that you will grant
his prayer."
"I do not understand you."
"My husband wrote begging you to reconsider your determination, and come
to finish my portrait."
"Impossible! He did not write."
She pointed to the unopened letter lying upon a table, with the florid
crest plainly showing.
"I had not opened it," he said. "I thought--"
"That it was from me. How cruel men can be! He asks you to come back."
"At your persuasion?" cried Dale fiercely.
"Yes, at my persuasion, and you will come. You must--you shall." She
clung closer to him. "Armstrong," she whispered, "I cannot live without
you. You have drawn me to you; I could bear it no longer;" and she held
to him once more in spite of his repellent hands.
"It is madness--your husband--your--your title--your fair fame as a
woman."
"Empty words to me now," she said in a low, thrilling whisper. "I could
not stay. You are my world--everything to me now."
"Woman, I tell you again, this is madness--your husband?"
"With Lady Grayson, I believe. What does it matter? I am here--with
you. Armstrong, am I to go on my knees to you? I will--you have
humbled me so. Why are you so cruel, when you love me too?"
"I--love you--no!"
She laughed softly as, in spite of his shrinking, her arms enfolded him
once more, and her words came in a low sweet murmur to his ear.
"Yes; you love me--as wildly and passionately as I love you. I knew
it--I could feel it, though you would not answer my appeals. Look," she
whispered, "it is as I felt; you are always thinking of me. I am ever
in your thoughts. But am I as beautiful as that? Yes: to you. But
look from the picture to my eyes. They could not gaze so fiercely and
scornfully as that. Now, tell me that you do not love me, and I was not
in your thoughts."
She pointed to the features, glowing--almost speaking, from the canvas--
her faithful portrait, full of the angry majesty he had sought to
convey.
Alas! poor Cornel. Not a lineament was hers.
Armstrong groaned.
"Heaven help me!" he muttered. "Is it fate?"
His hands repulsed her no longer, and he stood holding her at arm's
length, gazing into the eyes which fascinated, lost to everything but
her influence over him, till with a hasty gesture, full of anger, she
shrank away and sought her veil from the floor.
"Some one!" she whispered fiercely, for there was a step upon the stair.
"The Conte," cried Dale, startled at the interruption.
"Hide me, quick! That room," cried the Contessa; and she took a step
toward it as she veiled her face. "No," she cried, turning proudly, and
resisting an inclination to step behind the great canvas close to which
she stood, "Let him see me. His faithlessness has divorced us, and
given me to the man I love. You will protect me. Kill him if you wish.
I am not afraid."
This in a hasty whisper as the steps came nearer, and Valentina's eyes
glistened through her veil as she saw the artist draw himself up, and
take a step forward to meet the intruder.
"Better that it should be so at once," she whispered. "Let him come."
The door was thrown quickly open as she spoke.
CHAPTER TEN.
THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY.
Armstrong's teeth and hands were clenched for the encounter with the
angry husband who had tracked his wife to the studio, and he was ready
to accept his fate, for he told himself that he could fight no more
against his destiny. The woman had told him that he would defend her,
and he must--he would.
There was no feeling of dread, then, in his breast as he advanced to the
encounter, but only to stop speechless with amazement as Pacey entered
in his abrupt, noisy manner, to grasp his hand and clap him on the
shoulder.
"Armstrong, old man," he cried loudly, "I could not stand it any longer.
You and I must be friends. I believe you told me the truth, lad, I do
from my soul. La Bella Donna told me Miss Montesquieu was here, but I
thought that wouldn't matter, as she wouldn't be sitting at this time."
Dale could not speak: he was paralysed.
"Don't hold off, old lad," said Pacey, in a low tone. "We must make it
up. Any apology when she's gone."
He turned sharply to where the Contessa stood, closely veiled, and
nodded to her familiarly.
"Glad you and Mr. Dale have come to terms. Many engagements on the
way?"
There was no reply, but the tall proud figure seemed to stiffen, and
there was a flash of the eyes through the veil at Armstrong, who now
recovered his voice, while his heart sank low within him.
"Go now," he said, "at once."
"Oh, Montesquieu won't mind my being here. But do you really--"
Pacey stopped speaking, as he realised for the first time that it was
not the model he had heard was sitting to his friend. He stared at her
hard, as if puzzled, then at the canvas, where the beautiful sketch
gazed at him fiercely, and he grasped in his own mind the situation.
The paint was wet and glistening: this was the model who had been
sitting for the face, and it could be none other than the Contessa.
A change came over him on the instant. His brows knit, the free, noisy
manner was gone, and he took off his hat, to say with quiet dignity, as
he bent his head, but in a voice husky with the pain he felt--
"I beg Lady Dellatoria's pardon for my rudeness. I was mistaken," and
he turned to go.
"Stay, sir," she cried, in her low, deep, and musical tones; "my visit
to your friend is over. Mr. Dale, will you see me to my carriage? It
is waiting."
Valentina held out her hand, and, pale now with emotion, Armstrong
advanced to the door, which he opened, and then offered his arm. This
she took, and he led her down to the hall in silence.
"Your imprudence has ruined you," he said then, bitterly, "and disgraced
me in the eyes of my friend."
"No," she said softly. "You can trust that man. He would die sooner
than injure a woman because she loves. Now I am at rest. You will come
to me, for I have won. You see," she continued, as Armstrong
mechanically opened the door, and she stepped out proudly on to the
steps, "I have no fear. Let the world talk as it will."
A handsomely appointed carriage drew up, and the footman sprang down to
open the door, while Dale, who moved as if he were in a dream, handed
her in, she touching his arm lightly, and sinking back upon the
cushions.
"I shall expect you to-morrow then, Mr. Dale," she said aloud, "at the
usual time." Then to the servant, "Home."
Armstrong stood at the edge of the pavement, bareheaded, till the
carriage turned the corner out of the square; and then, still as if in a
dream, he walked in, closed the door, and ascended to the studio to face
his friend.
Pacey was standing with his hands behind him, gazing at the face upon
the canvas. He did not stir when Dale took a couple of steps forward
into the great, gloomy, darkening room, waiting for an angry outburst of
reproaches.
A full minute must have elapsed before a single word was uttered, and
then Pacey said slowly, and in the voice of one deeply moved--
"Is she as beautiful as this?"
Dale started, and looked wonderingly at his friend.
"I say, is she as beautiful as this?" repeated Pacey, still without
turning his head.
"Yes: I have hardly done her justice."
"A woman to win empires--to bring the world to her feet," said Pacey
slowly. "`Beautiful as an angel' is a blunder, lad. Such as she cannot
be of Heaven's mould, but sent to drag men down to perdition.
Armstrong, lad, I pity you. I suppose there are men who would come
scathless through such a trial as this, but they must be few."
There was another long pause, and Pacey still gazed at the luminous face
upon the canvas.
"Is that all you have to say?" said Dale at last.
"Yes, that is all, man. How can I attack you now? I knew that you had
been tempted, and, in spite of appearances, I believed your word. I
thought you had not fallen, and that I had been too hasty in all I said.
Now I can only say once more, I pity you, and feel that I must
forgive."
Dale drew a deep breath, which came sighing through his teeth as if he
were in pain.
"Let's talk Art now, boy," said Pacey, taking out his pipe, and, going
to the tall mantelpiece, he took down the tobacco-jar, filled the bowl,
lit up, and began to smoke with feverish haste, as he threw one leg over
a chair, resting his hands upon the back, and gazing frowningly at the
face, while Dale stood near him with folded arms.
"From the earliest days men gained their inspiration in painting and
sculpture from that which moved them to the core," said Pacey, slowly
and didactically. "Yes, I believe in inspiration, lad. We can go on
working, and studying, and painting, as you Yankees say, `our level
best', but something more is needed to produce a face like that."
He was silent again, and sat as if fascinated by the work before him.
"What am I to say to you, lad?" he continued at last. "It is like
sacrificing everything--honour, manhood, all a man should hold dear, to
his art; but as a brother artist, what am I to say? I am dumb as a man,
for I have seen her here and felt her presence. There was no need for
me to look upon her face. It is beautiful indeed. I say that as the
man. As the artist who has done so little for myself--"
"So much for others," said Dale quickly.
"Well, you fellows all believe in me and the hints I give, and some of
you have made your mark pretty deep. Yes, as the man who has studied
art these five and twenty years, I say this is wonderful. It did not
take you long?"
"No."
"Of course not. There is life and passion in every touch. You must
finish that, my lad, and we will keep it quiet. No one must see that
but us till you send it in. Armstrong, boy, you are one of the great
ones of earth. I knew that you had a deal in you, but this is all a
master's touch."
"You think it is so good, then?" said Dale sadly. "Think it good? You
know how good it is. Better, perhaps, than you will ever paint again;
but would to God, my lad, that you had not sunk so low to rise so high."
Dale sank into a chair, and let his face fall forward upon his hands,
while Pacey went on slowly, still gazing at the canvas.
"Yes," he said, "it wanted that. All the rest is excellent. That bit
of imitation of Turner comes out well. The man wants more feeling in
the face--a little more of the unmasked--but this dwarfs all the rest,
as it should. Armstrong, lad, it is the picture of the year. There,"
he continued, "my pipe's out, and I think I'll go. But be careful, lad.
Don't touch that face more than you can help, and only when she is
here."
Dale laughed bitterly.
"Why do you laugh? Is it such bad advice?"
"Yes."
And he partly told his friend how the work was done--leaving out all
allusion to Cornel--Pacey hearing him quietly to the end.
"I am not surprised," he said at last. "What you say only endorses my
ideas. Good-bye, lad; I'll go."
He rose from the chair, tapped the ashes out of his pipe, looking at
them thoughtfully, and picked up his hat from where he had cast it upon
the dusty floor. He then turned to face Dale, holding out his hand, but
the artist did not see it, and sat buried in thought.
"Good-bye, old lad," said Pacey again.
Dale sprang to his feet, saw the outstretched hand, and drew back,
shaking his head.
"Shake hands," said Pacey again, more loudly.
"No," said Dale bitterly; "you cannot think of me as of old."
"No; but more warmly perhaps, for there is pity mingled with the old
friendship that I felt. I came here this afternoon, as schoolboys say,
to make it up. I was in ignorance then; now I have eaten of the bitter
fruit and know. Armstrong, lad, knowing all this, and as one who, with
all his reckless Bohemianism and worldliness, has kept up one little
habit taught by her long dead, how can I say `forgive me my trespasses'
to-night if, with such a temptation as yours, I can't forgive?"
Dale gazed at him wildly, and Pacey went on.
"The bond between us two is stronger now, lad, so strong that I think it
would take death to snap the cord. Good-bye. If you do not see me
soon, it is not that we are no longer friends."
Then their hands joined in a firm grip, and Pacey slowly left the room,
muttering to himself as he passed out into the square--
"Fallen so low, to rise so high. Yes, I must save him, and there is
only one way in which it can be done."
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
JAGGS MAKES A DISCOVERY.
Letter after letter, which had remained unanswered.
"Their scent sickens me," Dale cried passionately, as he committed them
to the flames unread, for he frankly owned to himself that he dare not
read one, lest he should falter in the resolution he had made.
For he had struggled hard to fight against his fate, and though tied and
tangled by the threads which still clung to him, he had mockingly told
himself that he was not mad enough to venture into the spider's web
again.
Then, twice over, he had hastily drawn a curtain in front of his great
picture upon Keren-Happuch coming up to the studio to bring in a card--
the Conte's--and bit his lip with rage and mortification as that
gentleman was shown up, in company with Lady Grayson.
The visit on the first occasion was to complain about Dale's curt
refusal to go on with the picture; while the young artist haltingly gave
as his reason that it was impossible for him to complete Lady
Dellatoria's portrait on account of a large work that he was compelled
to finish. And all the while Lady Grayson, with the reckless effrontery
of her nature, looked at him mockingly, her eyes laughingly telling him
that he was a poor weak coward, and that she could read him through and
through.
Then came the second visit with the wretched Italian, blindly, or
knowingly, to use him as a screen for his own amours, almost imploring
him to come.
"Lady Dellatoria is so disappointed," he said volubly. "She takes the
matter quite to heart. No doubt, Mr. Dale, there is a little vanity in
the matter--the desire to be seen in the exhibition, painted by the
famous young American artist."
"There are plenty of men, sir, who would gladly undertake the
commission," said Dale angrily. "I beg that you will not ask me again."
"Mr. Dale, you are cruel," cried Lady Grayson. "Our poor Contessa will
be desolate. Let me plead for you to come and finish the work."
"Aha! yes," cried the Conte, wrinkling up his face, though it was full
enough before of premature lines. "A lady pleads. You cannot refuse
her."
Dale gave the woman a look so full of contempt and disgust that she
coloured and then turned away, shrugging her shoulders.
"He is immovable," she said to the Conte.
"No, no! Body of Bacchus! I understand;" and he placed his finger to
his lips, and half closing his eyes, signed to Dale to step aside with
him. "Mr. Dale," he whispered, "Lady Dellatoria has set her mind upon
this, and I see now: a much more highly paid commission that you wish to
do for some one. That shall not stand in the way. Come, I double the
amount for which we--what do you name it? Ah, yes--bargained."
Dale turned upon him fiercely.
"No, sir!" he cried; "it is not a question of money. No sum would
induce me to finish that portrait."
"Ah, well: we shall see," said the Conte. "Do not be angry, my young
friend. Lady Dellatoria will be eaten by chagrin. But we will discuss
the matter no more to-day. Good morning."
He held out his hand to Lady Grayson, but she did not take it. She
moved toward Dale, and held out her gloved fingers.
"Good morning, Mr. Dale," she said merrily. "You great men in oil are
less approachable than a Prime Minister." Then in a low tone: "It is
not true, all this show of opposition. I am not blind."
She turned and gave her hand to the Conte, and they left the studio,
Armstrong making no effort to show them out, but standing motionless
till he heard the door close, when, with a gesture of contempt and
disgust, he threw open the windows and lit his pipe.
A minute later he had thrown the pipe aside and taken out Cornel's
letter to read; but the words swam before his eyes, and he could only
see the face hidden behind that curtain.
"Poor little talisman!" he said, sadly apostrophising the letter, "you
have lost your power. Evil is stronger than good, after all."
"Good-bye, little one," he continued, "for ever. You would forgive me
if you knew all, for I am drifting--drifting, and my strength has gone."
Two days passed--a week, and hour by hour he had waited, fully expecting
that Valentina would come. He shrank from the meeting, but felt that it
must be, for her influence seemed to be over him sleeping or waking, her
eyes always gazing into his.
But she did not come. Only another note, and this he read in its
brevity, for it contained but these words--
"You will drive me to my death."
"Or me to mine," he muttered, as he burned the letter; and then, in a
raging desire to crush down the thoughts which troubled him, he turned
to his work.
"Never!" he cried fiercely. "I will not go. If she comes here--well,
if she does. That mockery of a man will track her some day, and then,
in spite of English law, there will be a meeting, and he will kill me.
I hope so. Then there would be rest."
The picture which he had now stubbornly set himself to finish, as if he
were urged by some unseen power, progressed but slowly. "The Emperor"
came to sit, and tried to mould his features into the desired aspect
with more or less success; but, in spite of inquiries, and interview
after interview with different models recommended by brother artists as
suitable to stand for the figure, Dale's taste was too fastidious to be
satisfied, and Juno's face alone looked scornfully from the canvas.
Pacey had been again and again, but only in a friendly way, to chat as
of old, sometimes bringing with him Leronde to gossip and fence with, at
other times alone. No reference was made to the picture or the past.
"I shall never finish it," said Dale, as he sat alone one day gazing at
his canvas. "What shall I do--go abroad? Joe would come with me, and
all this horrible dream might slowly die away."
"No," he muttered, after a pause; "it would not die. Better seek the
true forgetfulness. Do all men at some time in their lives suffer from
such a madness as mine?"
His musings were interrupted by a step upon the stairs, and he hastily
drew the curtain before hi? canvas.
A single rap, which sounded as if it had been given with the knob of a
walking-stick, came upon the door panel, and directly afterwards, in
answer to a loud "Come in," Jaggs entered with the knocker in his hand,
to wit, a silk umbrella--one of those ingenious affairs formed by sewing
all the folds where they have been slit up by wear and tear, and
declared by the kerb vendor as being better than new--a fact as regards
the price.
"Ah, Jaggs, good morning," said Dale. "But I don't want you. I shall
let your face go as it is."
"Quite right, sir," said the man, glancing at the curtain. "Couldn't be
better; but I didn't come about that."
"Oh, I see," said Dale sarcastically. "Your banker gone on the
Continent?"
"The Emperor" drew himself up, and looked majestic in the face and pose
of the head, shambling as to his legs, and extremely deferential in the
curve of his body and the position of his hands and arms.
"Mr. Dale," he said, "I don't deny, sir, as there 'ave been times when a
half-crown has been a little heaven, and a double florin a delight, but
I was not agoing to ask assistance now, though I am still a strugglin'
man, and been accustomed to better things. It was not to ask help, sir,
as I'd come, but to bestow it, if so be as you'd condescend to accept it
of your humble servant, as always feels a pride in your success, not to
hide the fack that it does me good, sir, to be seen upon the line."
"Well, what do you mean?" said Dale gruffly.
"I want to see that picture done, sir. It'll make our fortune, sir.
I'm sure on it, and I say it with pride, there isn't anything as'll
touch it for a mile round."
"Thank you, Jaggs; you are very complimentary," said Dale ironically,
but the tone was not observed.
"It's on'y justice, sir, and I ain't set going on for twenty years for
artists without knowing a good picture when I see one. But that ain't
business, sir. You want a model, sir, and that Miss Montesquieu, as she
calls herself, won't be here for a month or two, and you needn't expect
her. Did you try her as Mr. Pacey calls the Honourable Miss Brill?"
"Pish! I don't want to paint a fishwife, man."
"No, sir, you don't; and of course Miss Varsey Vavasour wouldn't do?"
"No, no, no! there is not one of them I'd care to have, Jaggs. If I go
on with the figure, I shall work from some cast at first, and finish
afterward from a model."
"No, sir, don't, pr'y don't," cried Jaggs. "You'll only myke it stiff
and hard. It wouldn't be worthy on you, Mr. Dale, sir; and besides,
there ain't no need. You're a lion, sir, a reg'lar lion 'mong artisses,
sir, and you was caught in a net, sir, and couldn't get free, and all
the time, sir, there was a little mouse a nibblin' and a nibblin' to get
you out, sir, though you didn't know it, sir, and that mouse's nyme was
Jaggs."
"What! You don't mean to say you know of a suitable model?"
"But I just do, sir. That's what I do say, sir."
"No, no," cried Armstrong peevishly. "I don't want to be worried into
seeing one of your friends, Jaggs. Your taste and mine are too
different for a lady of your choice to suit my work."
"Don't s'y that, sir," cried Jaggs, in an aggrieved tone of voice. "I'm
on'y a common sort o' man, I own, sir, but I do know a good model when I
see one--I mean one as shows breed. I don't mean one o' your pretty
East End girls, with the bad stock showing through, but one as has got
good furren breed in her."
"Is this a foreign woman, then?"
"That's it, sir. Comes from that place last where they ketch the little
fishes as they sends over here for breakfast--not bloaters, sir, them
furren ones."
"Anchovies?"
"No, sir, t'other ones in tins."
"Sardines?"
"That's it, sir: comes from Sardineyer last, but her father was a Human.
Sort o' patriot kind o' chap as got into trouble for trying to free his
country. Them furren chaps is always up to their games, sir, like that
theer Mr. Lerondy, and then their country's so grateful that they has to
come over here to save themselves from being shot."
"But the woman?"
"Oh, she come along with her father, sir, and he's been trying to give
Hightalian lessons, and don't get on 'cause they say he don't talk pure,
and he's too proud to go out as a waiter and earn a honest living, so
the gal's begun going out to sit. But she don't get on nayther, 'cause
her figure's too high."
"What! a great giraffe of a woman?"
"Lor' bless you, no, sir! 'bout five feet two half. I should say. I
meant charges stiff; won't go out for less nor arf crown a hour, and
them as tried her don't like her 'cause she's so stuck-up."
"Look here, Jaggs; is she a finely formed, handsome woman?"
"Well, Mr. Dale, sir, I won't deceive you, for from what I hear her face
ain't up to much; but she don't make a pynte o' faces, and I'm told as
she's real good for anything, from a Greek statoo to a hangel."
"Well, I'll see her. Where does she live?"
"Leather Lane way, sir."
"Address?"
"Ah, that I don't know, sir. I b'leeve it's her father as does the
business and takes the money."
"He is her father?"
"Oh yes, sir, it's all square. I'm told they're very 'spectable people.
Old man's quite the seedy furren gent, and the gal orful stand-offish."
"Tell him to come and bring his daughter. If I don't like her, I'll pay
for one sitting and she can go--"
"Eight, sir; and speaking 'onest, sir, I do hope as she will turn out
all right."
"Thank you. There's a crown for your trouble."
"Raly, sir, that ain't nessary," said "The Emperor," holding out his
hand.--"Oh, well, sir, if you will be so gen'rous, why, 'tain't for me
to stop you.--Good mornin', sir, good mornin'."
CHAPTER TWELVE.
THE NEW MODEL.
Two days passed, and Dale was standing, brush in hand, before his
canvas, thinking. He had made up his mind to trust to his imagination
to a great extent for the finishing of Juno's figure: this, with the
many classic sketches he had made in Greece and Rome, would, he
believed, enable him to be pretty well independent. He was in better
spirits, for he had heard nothing from Portland Place, and flattered
himself that the impression which had troubled him was growing fainter.
"Come in," he cried, as there was a tap at the door, and Keren-Happuch
appeared, evidently fresh from a study in black-lead, and holding a card
between a finger and thumb, guarded by her apron.
"Here's a model, sir, and she give me this."
Dale took a very dirty card, which looked as if it had been for some
time in an old waistcoat pocket. Printed thereon were the words--"Dú
Jaggs. Head and face. Roman fathers, etc," and written on the back in
pencil, in Jaggs' cramped hand--
"Signora Azatchy Figgers."
"Where is she, Miranda?"
"On the front door mat, sir. And please, Mr. Dale, sir, mayn't I bring
you some beef-tea?"
"No, thank you, Miranda. Bring up the visitor instead."
"Oh, dear! he do worry me," muttered Keren-Happuch. "I do hope he ain't
going into a decline."
Dale smiled at the dirty card, and waited for the entrance of the new
model, who was shown in directly by the grimy maid, and immediately, in
a quick, jerky, excited way, looked sharply round the room before
turning her face to the artist as the girl closed the door.
On his side he gazed with cold indifference at his visitor, who, after
taking a couple of steps forward, stopped short, and he saw that she was
rather tall, wore a closely fitting bonnet, over which a thick dark
Shetland wool veil was drawn, and was draped from head to foot in a long
black cloak, which had evidently seen a good deal of service.
"Signora Azacci?" said Dale, glancing at the card again, and making a
good shot at her name.
It was evidently correct, for the woman said, in a husky voice, as if
suffering from intense nervousness--
"Si, si."
"You are willing to stand for me--for this picture?" said Dale, scanning
her closely, but learning nothing respecting her figure on account of
the cloak; and he spoke very coldly, for the woman's actions on entering
struck him as being angular and awkward; now they were jerky, as she
raised her hands to her temples.
"No Inglese, signore," she said then, excitedly; and again, after an
embarrassed pause, "Parlate Italiano?--No?"
"No," said Dale, shaking his head.
Her hands again came from beneath her cloak in a despairing gesture.
Then, placing one to her forehead, she looked round at the lumber of
paintings and properties, as if seeking for a way to express herself,
till her eyes lit upon the great uncovered canvas. Bending forward in a
quick, alert way, she uttered a low, peculiar cry, and almost ran to it,
leaned forward again, as if examining, and then, with extreme rapidity,
pointed to the blank place in the picture where Lady Dellatoria's face
stood out weirdly. She then took a few quick steps aside from where
Dale stood, frowning and annoyed at what seemed to be a hopeless waste
of time. Then, with a rapid movement, she unclasped the cloak, swept it
from her shoulders, and holding it only with her left hand, let it fall
in many folds to the floor, while as she stood before him now in a
plainly made, tightly fitting black cloth princess dress, she
instinctively fell into almost the very attitude Dale had in his mind's
eye, and he saw at once that her figure must be all that he wished.
"Bravo!" he cried involuntarily, and with an artist's pleasure in an
intelligence that grasps his ideas.
At the word "Bravo!" the woman turned her head quickly.
"Excellent," he continued; "that promises well."
Her face was hidden, but as she shrugged up her shoulders nearly to her
ears, and raised her hands with the fingers contracted and toward him,
he felt that she must be wrinkling up her forehead and making a grimace
expressive of her vexation.
"Yes, it is tiresome," he said; "but we don't want to talk. I dare say
I can make you understand. But I've forgotten every word I picked up in
Rome."
"Ah!" cried the woman, with quick pantomimic action, as she changed her
attitude again, and leant toward him--"Roma--Roma?"
"Si, si."
"My lord has been in Rome?" she cried in Italian.
"I think I understand that," muttered Dale, "and if your form proves to
be equal to your quick intelligence, my picture will be painted. Now
then, signora, this is a language I dare say you can understand. Here
are two half-crowns. For two hours--`due ore.'"
"Si, si," she cried eagerly, and she almost snatched the coins and held
them to her veiled lips.
"Silver keys to your understanding, madam," he muttered, taking a
mahlstick from where it stood against a chair. "Humph! I begin to be
hopeful. Yes, more than hopeful," he continued, as the model was
rapidly drawing off her shabby, carefully mended gloves, before taking a
little common portemonnaie from her pocket and dropping the coins in one
by one. Then aloud, as he pointed with the mahlstick, "La bella mano."
"Aha!" she cried quickly. But she gave her shoulders another shrug, and
shook the purse, saying sadly--"Pel povero padre."
"`Padre.' For her father," muttered Dale. "Not so sordid as I thought,
poor thing. Will you remove your veil?"
She leaned toward him.
"I said, Will you remove your veil?--Hang it, what is veil in Italian?
`Velum' in Latin."
She was evidently trying hard to grasp his meaning, and at the Latin
"velum" she clapped her beautifully formed hands to her veil.
"No, no!" she cried haughtily; and then volubly, in Italian--"I am
compelled to do this for bread. I do not know you, neither need you
know me. My face is not beautiful, and we are strangers. You wish to
paint my figure. I will retain my veil."
"I do not understand you, signora, and yet I have a glimmering of what
you wish to express," said Dale, as gravely as if his visitor could
grasp every word. "There, you seem to be a lady, and--hang it all, this
is very absurd, my preaching to you, and you to me. I wish Pacey were
here. He speaks Italian like a native. No, poor lass, I suppose they
must be starving nearly, or she would not stoop to this. I don't wish
Joe Pacey were here."
Then quietly bowing as if acceding to her wishes, he made a sign to his
visitor to take her attention, and as she watched him from behind her
thick veil, he walked to the entrance and turned the key.
Crossing the studio to the farther door, he threw it open, and then drew
forward from the end of the great room a large folding-screen, which he
placed at the back of the dais and opened wide.
"There, signora," he said, "I am at your service;" and he pointed to the
inner room, turned from her, and walked to the canvas.
The model stood motionless for a moment or two, and then caught up the
great cloak from where it lay upon the floor.
"Grazie, Signore," she said then, with quiet dignity, and she was
hurrying across to the inner room, but he arrested her.
"One moment," he said, with grave respect, and the chivalrous manner of
a true gentleman toward one whose tones seemed to suggest that she
trusted him. "Let us arrange the pose first. Look at the picture:
study it well. You see the subject."
Dale continued speaking, but kept on pointing to the scene he had
depicted, and, to his intense gratification, she threw the cloak across
a chair back, gazed intently at the picture for a few moments, letting
her eyes rest longest upon the beautiful, scornful face, and then went
quickly to the dais, stepped up, turned, and with rare intelligence fell
once more into the very position he desired, bettering in fact that
which she had sketched at first.
"Eccellentissimo!" he cried; and then she stepped down quickly, and
glided into the inner room, while Dale gazed at his painting with a
feeling of triumph sweeping away the morbid thoughts which had troubled
him so long.
"Art is my mistress after all," he said to himself, as he glanced upward
to see that the skylight was properly blinded, and then, going to a box,
rapidly prepared his palette, armed himself with a sheaf of brushes, and
altered the position of his easel a little.
He was hardly ready when he heard the slight rattle of the handle, a
faint rustling sound, and the swinging of the door again.
But he did not turn as a light step passed behind him, and a faint
creaking sound announced that the model had mounted upon the dais.
He raised his eyes, and she was standing there apparently as he had seen
her first, closely veiled, and still draped in the long, heavy, black
cloak.
Then, with a quick movement, the long garment was thrown aside, and the
model stood before him in the very attitude, and the perfection of her
womanly beauty--a beauty made hideous in the ghastly effect produced by
the black face and head swathed in the thick veil.
But this passed unnoticed by the artist, who, with a triumphant
ejaculation, began to sketch rapidly, as he muttered to himself without
vanity--
"Pacey is right: my canvas must be a success."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
A STRANGE SITTING.
"Yes," said Dale to himself again, "Art is my mistress. I have betrayed
one, fought clear of the web of another, and now I am free to keep true
to the only one I love."
And all through that visit of the Italian, he worked on with a strange
eagerness, till, at what seemed to be the end of an hour at most, his
model made a sudden movement.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I ought to have told you to rest more
often. Stanca?" For he recalled a word meaning fatigued or wearied.
"Si--si," she said quickly, and pointed to the clock on the mantelpiece,
when, to Dale's astonishment, he saw that the two hours had elapsed, and
that his model had quickly resumed her cloak. Then, without a word, she
crossed to the door of the inner room, and about a quarter of an hour
later emerged, to find him standing back studying his morning's work.
"Grazie," he cried, and then pointed to the roughly sketched in figure.
"Bravo!" he added, smiling.
She bent her head in a quiet, dignified manner, and raking up another
Italian word or two, Armstrong said--
"A rivederia--au revoir."
"Ah, monsieur speaks French!" she cried in that tongue, but with a very
peculiar accent.
"Yes, badly," he replied, also in French. "That is good; now we can get
on better. Can you come to-morrow at the same time?"
"I am at monsieur's service."
"Then I shall expect you. Thank you for your patient attention.
Another time, pray rest when you are fatigued."
She bowed in a stately manner, and pointed to the door which he had
locked, and as soon as it was unfastened, passed out without turning her
head.
Dale stood working at his sketch for another hour, and then turned it to
the wall, to light his pipe and begin thinking about his model now that
he had ceased work.
It was quite mysterious her insisting upon keeping her face covered.
Why was it? Had she some terrible disfigurement, or was it from
modesty? Possibly. Her manner was perfect. She was evidently
miserably poor, and seemed eager to gain money to support her father--he
had quite grasped that--and the poor creature being compelled to stoop
to this way of earning a livelihood, she naturally desired to remain
incognito. Well, it was creditable, he thought; but the first idea came
back. She was evidently a woman gifted by nature with an exquisite
form, and at the same time, by accident or disease, her countenance was
so marked that she was afraid of her clients being repelled, and
declining to engage her.
"Ah, well, signora, the mysterious Italienne, I will respect your desire
to remain incog. It is nothing to me," said Dale, half aloud, as he
sent a cloud of blue vapour upward. "I may congratulate myself, though,
on my good fortune in finding such a model."
He sat back in his chair, dwelling upon the figure, and then went twice
over to his canvas, to compare his work with the figure in his
imagination, and returned to his seat more than satisfied.
Then he put work aside, and began thinking of home, and the sweet sad
face he could always picture, with its eyes gazing reproachfully at him.
"Yes," he said, with a sigh; "poor darling! It was fate. I was not
worthy of her. When the misery and disappointment have died away--
Heaven bless her!--she will love and be the wife of a better man,
unless--unless some day she forgives me--some day when I have told her
all."
The next morning he was all in readiness and expectant. The light was
good for painting, and his mind was more at rest, for there was no
letter from the Contessa. But for a few moments he was angry with
himself on finding that he felt a kind of pique at the readiness with
which she had given up writing her reproaches. But that passed off, and
as the time was near for the coming of the model, he drew the easel
forward to see whether, after the night's rest, he felt as satisfied
with his work as he did the previous day. But he hardly glanced at the
figure, for the eyes were gazing at him in a terribly life-like way,
full of scorn and reproach; and as he met them, literally fascinated by
the work to which his imagination lent so much reality, he shuddered and
asked himself whether he had after all been able to free himself from
the glamour--dragged himself loose from the spell of the Circe who had
so suddenly altered the even course of his life.
He was still contemplating the face, and wondering whether others would
look upon it with the fascination it exercised upon him, when
Keren-Happuch came up to announce the arrival of his model, who entered
directly after, to look at him sharply through her thick veil.
He uttered a low sigh full of satisfaction, for her coming was most
welcome. It would force his attention to his work.
"Good morning," he said gravely and distinctly, in French. "You are
very punctual."
She bowed distantly, and then her attention seemed to be caught by the
face upon the canvas, and she drew near to stand gazing at it
attentively.
She turned to him sharply. "The lady who sat for that: why did she not
stay for you to finish the portrait?"
Dale started, half wondering, half annoyed by his model's imperious
manner.
"It is great!" she said. Then in a quick, eager tone: "The lady you
love?"
He was so startled by the suddenness of the question, that he replied as
quickly--
"No, no. It is not from a model. It is imagination."
"Ah!" she said, and she looked at the picture more closely. "You
thought of her and painted. You are very able, monsieur, but I like it
not. It makes me to shiver, I know not why. It makes me afraid to
look."
"Then don't look," said Dale, in an annoyed tone. "You will cover it,
please, monsieur. The face is so angry; it gives me dread."
"Pish!" ejaculated Dale. "Very well, though. Get ready, please. I
want to do a long morning's work."
"Monsieur will pay me," she said, holding out her hand in its
well-mended glove.
He took out a couple of half-crowns, which she almost snatched, and
then, without a word, pointed to the door almost imperiously.
He nodded shortly, and went to fasten it, while she glided into the
inner room, and in a wonderfully short space of time returned ready,
took her place upon the dais, dropped the cloak, and he began to paint.
"Monsieur has not covered the dreadful head," she said hoarsely.
Without a word he took a square of brown paper, gummed it, and covered
the face; then in perfect silence he went on painting, deeply interested
in his work as his sketch took softer form and grew rapidly beneath his
brush.
But the work did not progress so fast as on the previous day: he was
painting well, but the black head, so incongruous and weird of aspect,
posed upon the beautiful female form he was transferring to canvas,
irritated him, and as he looked at his model from time to time, he could
see that a pair of piercing eyes were watching him.
Half-an-hour had passed, when there was a low, weary sigh.
"We will rest a little," he said quietly, and pointing to a chair and
the screen, he devoted himself to an unimportant part of the work for
some ten minutes, but to be brought back to his model by her words--
"I am waiting, monsieur."
He started and resumed his work, remembering to pause for his patient
model to rest twice over, and then to continue, and grow so excited over
his efforts--painting so rapidly--that when he heard another weary sigh
he glanced at the clock, and found that he had kept his model quite a
quarter of an hour over her time.
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle," he said. "You must be very weary."
"Yes, very weary," she said sadly, as she moved towards the door,
glancing over her right shoulder at the picture. "It is better now. I
can look at your work; the dreadful face makes me too much alarmed."
"A strange sitting," he said. "Two veiled faces." There was a quick
look through the thick veil, but she walked on into the room, and in due
time passed him on her way, bowed distantly, and went out, leaving Dale
motionless by his canvas, gazing after her at the door, and conjuring up
in his mind the figure he had so lately had before him.
He recovered himself with a start, and raised one hand to his forehead.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
LIFE'S FEVER.
It was with a novel feeling of anxiety that Dale waited for the coming
of his model. A peculiar feverish desire to know more of her position
had come over him, and he made up his mind to question her about her
father and the cause of his exile. Jaggs had said that he had had to
flee for life and liberty, and if he questioned her about these she
would, foreigner-like, become communicative.
It was nothing to him, of course. This woman--lady perhaps, for her
words bespoke refinement--would answer his purpose till the picture was
finished. She was paid for her services, and when she was no longer
required, there was an end of the visits to his studio.
He told himself all this as he sat before his great canvas, working
patiently, filling up portions, and preparing for his model's coming.
And as he worked on, with the figure as strongly marked as the model,
the softly rounded contour of the graceful form began to glow in
imagination with life, and at last Dale sprang from his seat, threw down
palette and brushes, and shook his head as if to clear it from some
strange confusion of intellect.
"How absurd!" he said aloud, and trying to turn the current of his
thoughts, they drifted back at once to his model, and he gazed at his
work, wondering which of his ideas was correct about her persistently
keeping her face covered.
"She cannot be disfigured," he muttered. "It must be for reasons of her
own.--She is, as I thought, forced to undertake a task that must be
hateful to her.--I wonder whether her face is beautiful too?"
"Bah! what is it to me?" he muttered angrily. "I do not want to paint
her face, and yet she must be very beautiful."
He sat down again before his canvas, thoughtful and dreamy, picturing to
himself what her face might be, and the next minute he had seized a
drawing-board upon which grey paper was already stretched, picked up a
crayon, and with great rapidity sketched in memories of dark aquiline
faces that he had studied in Home and Paris, with one of later time--one
of the women of the Italian colony which lives by the patronage of
artists.
These soon covered the paper, and he sat gazing at them, wondering which
would be suited to the figure he was painting.
Then, throwing the board aside, he began to pace the studio impatiently.
"What nonsense!" he muttered. "What craze is this! Her face is nothing
to me. I'm overwrought. Worry and work are having their effect. I
have had no exercise either lately. Yes: that's it: I'm overdone."
He stood hesitating for a few moments, and then thrust his hand into his
pocket, and drew out five shillings.
"I'll rout out Pacey and Leronde, and we'll go up the river for a row."
He rang the bell and waited, giving one more glance at his picture, and
then turning it face to the wall, with the curtain drawn.
He had hardly finished when Keren-Happuch's step was heard at the door,
and she knocked and entered.
"You ring, please, sir?"
"Yes. Take this money. No--no--stop a moment. She would be hurt," he
muttered, and, hastily wrapping it in a sheet of note-paper at the side
table, he thrust the packet into an envelope, fastened it down, and
directed it to La Signora Azacci.
"There, Keren-Happuch," he said.
"Don't call me that now, please, Mr. Dale, sir. I likes the other best,
'cause you don't do it to tease me, like Mr. Pacey."
"Well then, Miranda, my little child of toil," he said merrily, "I have
wrapped up this money because the young lady might not like it given to
her loose. It isn't that I don't trust you."
The girl laughed.
"Zif I didn't know that, sir. Why, you give me a fi' pun' note to get
changed once."
"So I did, Miranda, and will again."
"And sovrins lots o' times. I don't mind."
"Give this to the Italian lady."
"Is she a lady, sir? I think she is sometimes, and sometimes I don't,
'cause she's so shabby. Why, some o' them models as comes could buy her
up out and out."
"Yes, Miranda; but don't be so loquacious."
"No, sir, I won't," said Keren-Happuch, wondering the while what the
word meant.
"Tell her that I'm not well this morning, and have gone into the country
for a day, but I hope to see her at the same time to-morrow morning."
"There, I knowed you wasn't well, sir," cried the girl eagerly.
"Pooh! only a little seedy."
"But was she to come at the reg'lar time this morning, sir?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then she ain't comin', sir, for it's nearly an hour behind by the
kitchen clock."
Dale glanced at his watch in astonishment, then at the clock on the
mantelpiece.
Keren-Happuch was quite correct in every respect, for the model did not
come, and Dale felt so startled by this that he did not leave the studio
all day, but spent it with a growing feeling of trouble.
That night, to get rid of the anxiety which kept his brain working, he
sought out his two friends and dined with them at one of the cafes,
eating little, drinking a good deal, and sitting at last smoking, morose
and silent, listening to Leronde's excited disquisitions on art, and
Pacey's bantering of the Frenchman, till it was time to return to his
studio, which he entered with a shudder, to cross to his room.
Keren-Happuch had been up and lit the gas, leaving one jet burning with
a ghastly blue flame, and when this was turned up, the place seemed to
be full of shadows, out of which the various casts and busts looked at
him weirdly.
"Phew! how hot and stuffy the place is," he muttered. "Am I going to be
ill--sickening for a fever? Bah! Rubbish! I drank too much of that
Chianti."
The Italian name of the wine of which he had freely partaken suggested
the Conte, but only for a moment, and then he was brooding again over
the failure of the model to keep her appointment.
"Surely she is not ill," he said excitedly; then, with an angry
gesticulation, "well, if she is, what is it to me? Poor woman! she will
get better, and I must wait."
He hurried into his room, and turned up the gas there, but he could not
rest without going back into the studio and turning the gas on full
before dragging round the great easel, and throwing back the curtains to
unveil the picture, with its graceful white figure standing right out
from the group like sunlit ivory. But a shadow was cast upon the upper
part by a portion of the curtain whose rings had caught upon the rod,
and a strange shudder ran through him, for the paper he had used to hide
the face looked dark, and, to his excited vision, took the form of the
close black veil, through which a pair of brilliant eyes appeared to
flash.
Snatching back the curtain, he wheeled the easel into its place, with
its face to the wall, turned down the gas after fastening the door, and
threw himself upon his bed to lie tossing hour after hour, never once
going right off to sleep, but thinking incessantly of the beautiful
model, and the masked face whose eyes burned into his brain.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
AFTER THE LAPSE.
Dale's hands trembled, and there were feverish marks in his cheeks as he
dressed next morning, and then walked into his sitting-room and rang.
The breakfast things were laid, and in a few minutes Keren-Happuch came
through the studio with his coffee and toast, while an hour later,
without daring to speak to him, she bore the almost untouched breakfast
away.
As soon as he was alone, he made an effort to master himself, and walked
firmly into the studio, drew forward his easel, and after removing the
curtain, stood there to study his work and criticise and mark its
failings.
He found none to mark, but stood there waiting for its living, breathing
model, knowing well enough that he must check the madness attacking
him--at once, in its incipient stage.
"I'm as weak a fool as other men," he muttered. "Bah! I can easily
disillusionise myself. I'll insist upon her removing her veil to-day.
It is that and the foolish wish to see her face that has upset me, I
being in a weak, nervous state. Once I've finished and had the work
framed, I really will give up painting for a few weeks and rest."
That maddening day passed, but no model came, and as soon as it was dark
he went out, but not until the last post had come in that was likely to
bring him a letter of excuse from his sitter.
He went straight to the street where Jaggs lodged, to learn that he was
away from home. The people of the house thought that he had gone down
somewhere in the country to sit for an artist who was doing a
sea-picture, but they were not sure whether it was Surrey or Cornwall.
Somewhere Leather Lane way, Jaggs had told him that the father lived.
Perhaps he was ill, and his child was nursing him. But how could he go
about asking at random in that neighbourhood about the missing model?
But he did, seeking out first one and then another handsome picturesque
vagabond belonging to the artistic Italian colony, and questioning them,
but without avail. They had never heard the name.
He tried a lodging-house or two, upon whose steps Italian women were
seated, dark-eyed, black-haired, and with showy glass bead necklaces
about their throats. But no; those who could understand him neither
knew the name, nor had they heard of a Sardinian patriot whose daughter
went out to sit.
Dale returned to his rooms to pass another sleepless night, hoping that
the next morning would put an end to his anxiety, fever, or excitement,
whichever it was--for he savagely refrained from confessing to himself
that he grasped what his trouble might be.
But the morning came, and seven more mornings, to find him seated before
his unfinished picture, practising a kind of self-deceit, and telling
himself that he was feverish, haggard, and mentally careworn on account
of his dread of not being able to finish his picture as satisfactorily
as he could wish.
He had tried hard during the interval, but, in spite of all his efforts,
he had been able to get tidings of neither Jaggs nor the model the man
had introduced; while to make his state the more wretched, Pacey had not
been near him, and for some unaccountable reason Leronde, too, had
stayed away.
He was seated, wild-eyed and despairing, one morning, when Keren-Happuch
came running in, breathless with her exertions to reach the studio, and
bear the news which she felt would be like life to the young artist.
"Here she is, sir!" panted the girl, "she's come at last;" and then ran
down to open the front door.
Dale staggered and turned giddy, but listened with eyes fixed upon the
door, hardly daring to believe till he saw it open, and the dark,
closely veiled figure enter quickly.
Then there was a reaction, and he asked himself why he had suffered like
this. What was the poorly dressed woman who had just entered to him?
His lips parted, but he did not speak, only waited.
"Am I too late?" she said, in her strongly accented French. "Some
other? The picture finished?"
"No," he said coldly; and he wondered at her collected manner as he
caught the glint of a pair of searching eyes. "I have waited for you.
Why have you been so long?"
"I have been ill," she said simply, and her tones suggested suffering.
"Ill?" he cried excitedly; and he took a step towards her with
outstretched hand. "I am very sorry."
"Thank you," she said quietly, and ignoring the extended hand. "I am
once more well, and I must be quick. Shall I stay one more hour every
day and you pay me more? Oh, no. For the same!"
"Yes, pray do," he said huskily, and he thrust his hand into his pocket
to pay her in advance according to his custom, but she ignored the money
as she had previously passed his hand without notice, and after pointing
to the door, she hurried through into his room, to return in a
wonderfully short space of time and take her place upon the dais.
Dale began to paint eagerly, feverishly, so as to lose himself in his
work, but in a few minutes he raised his eyes to see the glint of those
which seemed to be watching him suspiciously through the thick veil, as
if ready to take alarm at the slightest word or gesture on his part, and
at once the power to continue his work was gone. He felt that he must
speak, and in a deep husky voice he began--
"You have been very ill, then?"
"Yes, monsieur," curtly and distantly.
"I wondered very much at not seeing you. I was alarmed."
"I do not see why monsieur should feel alarm."
"Of course, on account of my picture," he said awkwardly. Then laying
down his palette and brushes, he saw that the model gave a sudden start,
but once more stood motionless as he took out his pocket-book, and
withdrew the pencil.
"Will you give me your address?"
"Why should monsieur wish for my address?"
"To communicate with you. If I had known, I should have been spared
much anxiety. Tell me, and I will write it down."
"With that of the women who wait monsieur's orders? No!"
This was spoken so imperiously that Dale replaced the pencil and book,
and took up palette and brushes.
"As you will," he said, and he began to paint once more.
But the power to convey all he wished to the canvas had gone, and he
turned to her again.
"Tell me more about yourself," he said. "You are a foreigner, and
friendless here in England: I know that, but tell me more. I may be of
service to you."
"Monsieur is being of service to me. He pays me for occupying this
degrading position to which I am driven."
There was so much angry bitterness in her tones that Dale was again
silenced; but his pulse beat high, and as he applied his brush to his
canvas from time to time, there were only results that he would have to
wipe away.
"I am sorry you consider the task degrading," he said at last. "I have
endeavoured to make it as little irksome as I could."
"Monsieur has been most kind till now," she said quickly; and then, in a
bitterly contemptuous tone, "monsieur forgets that I am waiting. His
pencil is idle."
He started angrily, and went on painting, but the eyes were still
watching him, and, strive all he would, there was the intense desire
growing once more to see that face which was hidden from him so closely.
He knew that he ought to respect his visitor's scruples, but he could
not, and again and again he shivered with a sensation nearly approaching
to dread. But the wish was still supreme. That black woollen veil
piqued him, and after a few minutes of worthless work, he asked her if
she was weary.
"Yes," she replied.
"Then we will rest a few minutes."
"No, monsieur; go on. I am your slave for the time."
He started at her words, and as much at her tone, which was as full of
hauteur as if she were some princess. But now, instead of this driving
him in very shame to continue his work, it only impressed him the more.
There was a mystery about her and her ways. The almost insolent
contempt with which she treated him made him angry, and his anger
increased to rage as he fully realised how weak and mortal he was as
man. He tried not to own it to himself, but he knew that a strange
passion had developed itself within him, and with mingled pleasure and
pain he felt that this beautiful woman could read him through and
through, and that hour by hour her feelings toward him became more and
more those of contempt.
He did not stop to reason, for he was rapidly becoming blind to
everything but his unconquerable desire to see her face. There were
moments when he felt ready to rage against himself for his weakness and,
as he called it, folly; but all this was swept away, and at last, as the
sitting went on and the model haughtily refused to leave the dais for a
time to rest, he found himself asking whether there was not after all
truth in the old legends, and whether, enraged by his shrinking from
Lady Dellatoria's passionate avowals, the author of all evil had not
sent some beautiful demon to tempt him and show him how weak he was
after all. It was maddening, and at last he threw down palette and
brushes to begin striding up and down the room, carefully averting his
eyes from his model, who stood there as motionless as if she were some
lovely statue.
At last he returned to his canvas.
"You must be tired now," he said hurriedly. "Rest for a while."
"I'm not tired now," she replied coldly, "if monsieur will continue."
"I cannot paint to-day," he said hoarsely. "You trouble me. What I
have done is valueless."
"I trouble monsieur?" she said coldly. "Am I not patient?--can I be
more still?"
He made a mighty effort over self, and for the moment conquered.
Seizing his brushes and palette, he began to paint once more, but in a
reckless way, as if merely to keep himself occupied, but as he turned
his eyes from his canvas from time to time to study the beautiful model,
standing there in that imperious attitude, strange, mysterious, and
weird, with the black enmasking above the graceful voluptuous figure, he
lost more and more the self-command he had maintained.
For a few minutes he told himself that he was mistaken, that her eyes
must be closed; but it was, he knew too well, a mere mental subterfuge:
they were gleaming through that black network, and piercing him to the
very soul.
He could bear it no longer, and again throwing down brushes and palette,
he paced the room for a minute or two before turning to the marble
figure standing so motionless before him.
"I tell you I cannot paint," he cried angrily. "It is as if you were
casting some spell over me. I must see your face. Why do you persist
in this fancy? Your masked countenance takes off my attention. I beg--
I insist--remove that veil."
"I do not quite understand monsieur," she said coldly. "He speaks in a
language that is not mine, neither is it his. He confuses me. I am
trying to be a patient model, but everything is wrong to-day. Will he
tell me what I should do to give him satisfaction?"
"Take off that veil!" cried Dale.
The model caught up the cloak and flung it around her shoulders.
"Now, quick!" cried Dale excitedly, "that veil!"
"Monsieur is ill. Shall I call for help?"
"No, no, I am not ill. Once more I beg, I pray of you--take off that
veil."
"But monsieur is so strange--so unlike himself," she cried, as, taking
another step forward, Dale caught the hand which held the cloak in his.
"Now!" he cried wildly, with his eyes flashing, and trying to pierce the
woollen mask--"that veil!" For a moment the warm soft hand clung to his
convulsively, and the other rose with the arm in a graceful movement
towards the shrouded face; but, as if angry with herself for being about
to yield to his mad importunity, she snatched away the hand he held, and
with the other thrust him back violently.
"It is infamous!" she cried, with her eyes flashing through the veil.
"It is an insult. Monsieur, it is to the woman you love that you should
speak those words;" and, with an imperious gesture, she stepped down
from the dais as if it had been her throne, and with her face turned
toward Dale, she walked with calm dignity, her head thrown back, and the
folds of the cloak gathered round her, to the inner door, passed
through, and for the first time, when it was closed, he heard the lock
give a sharp snap as it was shot into the socket Dale stood motionless
in the middle of the studio, his eyes bloodshot and his pulses throbbing
heavily, unable for some little time either to think or move.
"Yes," he muttered, as he grew calmer; "it was an insult, and she
revenges herself upon me. An hour ago I was to her a chivalrous man in
whose honour she could have faith. Now I am degraded in her eyes to the
level of the brute, and--she trusts me no longer. Do I love this woman
whose face I have never seen, or am I going mad?"
But he was alone now, and he grew more calm as the minutes glided by;
and once more making a tremendous effort to command himself, he waited
as patiently as he could for the opening of the door.
In a few minutes there was the sharp snap again of the lock being
turned, the door was thrown open, and the tall dark figure swept out
into the great studio with head erect and indignant mien.
She had to pass close by him to reach the farther door, but she looked
straight before her, completely ignoring his presence till in excited
tones he said--"One moment--pray stop."
She had passed him, but she arrested her steps and half turned her head
as a queen might, to listen to some suppliant who was about to offer his
petition.
"Forgive me," he panted. "I was not myself. You will forget all this.
Do not let my madness drive you away."
He was standing with his hands extended as if to seize her again, but
she gathered her cloak tightly round her, so that he could see once more
the curves and contour of the form he had transferred to canvas, as she
passed on to the door, where she stopped and waited for him, according
to his custom, to turn the key.
Her mute action and gesture dragged him to the door as if he were
completely under her influence; and, throwing it open, he once more said
pleadingly, and in a low deep voice which trembled from the emotion by
which he was overcome--
"Forgive me: I was half mad."
But she made no sign. Walking swiftly now, she passed out on to the
landing, descended the staircase, and as he stood listening, he heard
the light step and the rustling of her garments, till she reached the
heavy front door, which was opened and closed with a heavy, dull,
echoing sound.
But still Dale did not move. He stood as if bound there by the spell of
which he had spoken, till all at once he uttered a faint cry, snatched
his hat, and followed her out into the street.
Too late. There was no sign of the black cloaked figure, and, after
hurrying in different directions for several minutes, he returned to his
studio utterly crushed.
"Gone!" he muttered, as he threw himself into a chair. "I shall never
see her more. Great heavens! Do I love this woman? Am I so vile?"
"Please, sir, may I come in?"
Dale started up and tried to look composed, as little Keren-Happuch
entered with a note in her hand.
"One o' them scented ones, sir," said the girl. "It was in the
letter-box. I found it two hours ago, but I did not like to bring it
in."
As soon as Dale was alone, his eyes fell upon the Contessa's well-known
hand, and, without opening the letter, he gazed at it, and recalled the
past.
At last his lips parted, and he said thoughtfully--
"Loved me with an unholy love. It is retribution! She must have felt
as I do now."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
JOB PACEY AT HOME.
Pacey sat back in a shabby old chair, in a shabby room. The
surroundings were poor and yet rich--the former applying to the
furniture, the latter to the many clever little gems presented to him by
his artist friends, many of whom were still poor as he, others high up
on the steps leading to the temple of fame.
Joseph Pacey's hair needed cutting, and his beard looked tangled and
wild; and as he sat back in his slippers, he looked the very opposite of
his _vis-a-vis_, the exquisitely neat, waxed-moustached, closely clipped
young Frenchman who assisted briskly in the formation of the cloud of
smoke which floated overhead by making and consuming cigarettes, what
time the tenant of the shabby rooms nursed a huge meerschaum pipe, which
he kept in a glow and replenished, as he would an ordinary fire, by
putting a pinch of fresh fuel on the top from time to time.
"Humph!" he ejaculated, frowning. "And so you think he has got the
feminine fever badly?"
"But you do say it funny, my friend," said Leronde. "Why, of course.
Toujours--always the same. As we say--`cherchez la femme.' Vive la
femme! But helas! How she do prove our ruin, and turn us as you say
round your turn."
There was silence for a few moments, during which, as he sat shaggy and
frowning in the smoke, Pacey looked as if some magician were gradually
turning his head into that of a lion.
"Seen him the last day or two?"
"Yes," said Leronde, putting out his tongue and running the edge of a
newly rolled cigarette paper along the moist tip. "I go to see him
yesterday."
"Well. What did he say?"
"And I ask him to come for an hour to the Vivarium to see the new
ballet."
"I asked you what he said."
"He say--`Go to the devil.'"
"Well, did you go?"
"Yes. I come on here at once."
Pacey glowered at him, but his French friend was innocent of any double
entendre; and at that moment there was a sharp knock at the outer door--
the well-worn oak on the staircase of Number 9 Bolt Inn.
"Aha! Vive la compagnie!" cried Leronde.
"Humph! Some one for money," muttered Pacey. "Who can it be? Well, it
doesn't matter: I've got none.--Here, dandy," he said aloud, "open the
door. Shut the other first, and tell whoever it is that I cannot see
him. Engaged--ill--anything you like."
"Yes, I see. I am a fly," said the young Frenchman, and, passing
through the inner door, he closed it after him and opened the outer, to
return in a minute with two cards.
"Who was it?" growled Pacey.
"A lady and gentleman. I told them you could not see any one, and they
are gone."
Pacey snatched the cards, glanced at them, uttered an ejaculation, and
springing up, he threw down his pipe, and nearly did the same by his
companion as he rushed to the door, passed out on to the landing, and
began to run down the stairs.
"My faith, but he is a droll of a man," muttered Leronde, pointing his
moustache; "but I love him. Aha! always the woman. How he run as soon
as he read the name. We are all alike, we men. What was it? Mees
Torpe and--faith of a man--she was pretty. Mees! I thought it was her
husband at first. H'm! The lover perhaps."
The door flew open again and Pacey returned, showing in Cornel Thorpe
and her brother.
"Here, Leronde," cried Pacey excitedly. "Excuse me--very particular
business, old fellow."
"You wish me to go?" said Leronde stiffly, as he waited for an
introduction.
"If you wouldn't mind, and--look here," continued Pacey, drawing him
outside. "Don't be hurt, old fellow--this is very particular. You saw
the names on the cards?"
"Oh yes."
"Not a word then to Armstrong."
"I do not tiddle-taddle," said Leronde stiffly. "That's right. I trust
you, old fellow. Come back at six, and we'll go and dine in Soho."
"But--the lady?"
"Bah! Nonsense, man! This is business. Au revoir--till six."
Pacey hurried back and closed both doors, to find his visitors standing
in the middle of the room, Cornel pale and anxious, and her brother
stern, distant, and angry of eye.
"I did not expect you, Miss Thorpe," cried Pacey warmly. "Pray sit
down."
"I think my sister and I can finish our interview without sitting down,
sir. You are Mr. Joseph Pacey?"
"I am," said the artist, as coldly now as the speaker.
"And you wrote to my sister--"
"Michael, dear, I will speak to Mr. Pacey, please," said Cornel, and she
turned to the artist and held out her hand. "Thank you for writing to
me, Mr. Pacey," she continued. "I thought it better, as my brother was
coming to England, to accompany him and see you myself."
She sank into the chair Pacey had placed for her, and after a
contemptuous look round at the shabby surroundings, the doctor followed
her example.
"My brother is angry, Mr. Pacey; he is indignant on my behalf. He
thinks me foolish and obstinate in coming here to see you, and that I am
lowering myself, and not displaying proper pride."
"I do," said the doctor firmly.
"Out of his tender love for me, Mr. Pacey," Cornel continued, with her
sweet pathetic voice seeming to ring and find an echo in the old
artist's heart; "but I felt it to be my duty to come to know the truth."
"You have done wisely, madam," said Pacey. "When I wrote you it was in
the hope that you would come and save a man whom I have liked--there,
call it sentimentality if you please--loved as a brother--I ought to
say, I suppose, as a son."
"Your letter, sir, suggested that my old schoolfellow--the man who was
betrothed to my sister--has in some way gone wrong."
Pacey bowed his head.
"Cornel, dear, you hear this. It is sufficient. We do not wish to pry
into Armstrong Dale's affairs. We know enough. Now, are you
satisfied?"
"No.--Mr. Pacey, your words have formed a bond between us greater than
existed before. I have heard of you so often from Armstrong, and come
to you as our friend, in obedience to your letter. I ask you then to
keep nothing back, but to speak to me plainly. Please remember that I
am an American girl. I think we are different from your ladies here.
Not bolder, but firm, plain-spoken, honest and true. We feel a true
shame as keenly as the proudest of your patrician maidens; but we crush
down false, and that is why I come to you instead of writing to and
making appeals to the man whom I have known from childhood--the man who
was betrothed to me, and who loved me dearly, as I loved him, only so
short a time ago. There, you see how simply and plainly I speak, the
more so that I know you have Armstrong Dale's welfare at heart."
"God knows I have," said Pacey fervently.
"Then tell me plainly, Mr. Pacey."
"Cornel!"
"I will speak, Michael," she said gently. "His happiness and mine
depend upon my knowing the truth.--Mr. Pacey, I am waiting."
Pacey gazed at her with his face full of reverence for the woman before
whom he stood, but no words left his lips.
"You are silent," she said calmly. "You fear to tell me the worst. He
is not ill: you said so. He cannot be in want of money. Then it is as
I gathered from your letter: he has been led into some terrible
temptation."
Pacey bowed his head gravely.
"Now, are you satisfied?" said Thorpe earnestly. "I knew that it was
so."
"And I clung so fondly to the hope that it was not," said Cornel, gazing
straight before her, and as if she were thinking aloud. Then, turning
to Pacey--"He was becoming famous, was he not?"
"Yes."
"Succeeding wonderfully with his art?"
"Grandly."
"And now this has all come like a cloud," sighed Cornel dreamily. Then
again to Pacey, in spite of her brother's frown, "Is she very
beautiful?"
Pacey paused for a moment, and then said sadly--"Very beautiful."
"And does she love him as he does her?"
"I fear so," said Pacey at last.
Cornel drew a long and piteous sigh, and they saw the tears brimming in
her eyes, run over, and trickle down her cheeks.
"Let us go, dear," she said softly. "I was too happy for it to last.
Forgive me: I felt that I must know--all. Good-bye, Mr. Pacey," she
continued, holding out her hand, while her face was of a deadly white.
"I am glad you wrote. You thought it would be best, but he must love
her better than ever he loved me, and perhaps it is for his
advancement."
"It is for his ruin, I tell you," cried Pacey fiercely.
"But you said she loved him. Is she not true and good?"
"Girl!" cried Pacey, with his brows knotted by the swelling veins, "can
the devil who tempts a man in woman's form be true and good?"
"Ah!"
Ejaculation as much as sigh, and accompanied by a wild look of horror.
Then, with her manner completely changed, Cornel laid her hand upon
Pacey's arm.
"Who is this woman?" she said firmly.
Pacey compressed his lips, but the beautiful eyes fixed upon him forced
the words to come, and in a low voice he muttered the Contessa's name.
Then he stood looking at his visitor wonderingly, as, with her lips now
white as if all the blood within them had fled to her heart, she said
firmly--
"And the Conte?"
"Is a man of fashion--a dog--a scoundrel whom I could crush beneath my
heel."
"Cornel," cried her brother firmly, "you have heard enough: you shall
not degrade yourself by listening to these wretched details."
"Yes, I have heard enough," she said firmly; but she did not stir, only
stood with her brows knit, gazing straight before her.
"Then now you will come back to the hotel," cried the doctor eagerly.
"No: not yet," she said, drawing herself up.
"Not yet?" cried Thorpe, in wonder at the firmness and determination she
displayed.
"Not yet: I am going to see Armstrong Dale."
"No," cried Pacey excitedly. "You must not do that. I will see him and
tell him you are here. It may bring him to his senses, and he will come
to you."
Cornel turned to him, smiling sadly.
"You tell me that he is slipping away into the gulf, and when I would go
to hold out my hands to save him, you say, `Wait, and he will come to
you!'"
"At any rate you cannot go," cried Thorpe.
"Armstrong Dale is my affianced husband, and at heart, in his weakness
and despair, he calls to me for help. I am going to him now."
"And God speed your work!" cried Pacey excitedly, "for if ever angel
came to help man in his sorest need, it is now."
The next minute, without a word, Cornel Thorpe was walking alone down
the old staircase to the street, while Pacey and her brother followed,
as if they were in a dream.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
ANOTHER'S LOVE.
Four days had passed, and Armstrong had not left his place, but waited,
hoping against hope, and at last sinking into a wild state of despair.
"I must have been mad," he said again and again. "One false step leads
to another, and I am going downward rapidly enough now."
He smiled bitterly as he sat with his head resting upon his hand,
feeling that he had driven his beautiful model away for ever, and vainly
asking himself how it could be that so mad a passion had sprung up
within him for a woman whose face he had never seen.
Then all at once he sprang to his feet, with his eyes flashing as he
listened eagerly, and then a strange look of triumph began to glow in
his countenance. "I must be more guarded," he said to himself, "or she
will take flight again:" and catching up palette and brush, he made a
pretence of painting as he waited with his back to the door for the
entrance of her whose step was heard ascending the stairs in company
with Keren-Happuch. Then he heard the girl's voice, and his heart sank
like lead in doubt, for he felt that the model would have come up
without being shown.
But the next moment he was full of hope as the door was opened, closed,
and he heard the familiar rustle of the drapery, and the step across the
floor.
He did not turn, but stood there with his heart beating violently, and a
wild desire bidding him turn round quickly and snatch the veil from his
models face. He was a coward, he told himself, not to have done so
before. What did her anger matter? Had she not come back--penitent--
friendly--
His heart gave a great leap.
--Loving, for she laid her hand upon his shoulder, and he turned round
with a smile of triumph, to drop palette and brushes and turn white as
ashes.
"Cornel!"
"Yes, Armstrong. The world grows very small now. You wanted me, and I
am here."
"I--I wanted you?" he faltered, as she took a step or two back, and then
stood gazing at him wistfully, with her hands clasped before her, and a
look of love, pity, and despair in her eyes that stung him through and
through.
"Yes, Armstrong, I heard that you were in great peril. We were children
together. Armstrong--you wanted help--and--I have come."
He sank into the nearest chair with a groan, and she advanced slowly and
stood close to him.
"I have felt for weeks that there was something: your letters were so
different. Then they became fewer; then they ceased. But I said you
were busy, and I waited so patiently, Armstrong, till that message
came."
"What message?" he cried hoarsely.
"That which told me I ought to join Michael, and help you in this time
of need."
"Who--who wrote to you?" he cried.
"There is no need to hide his name. Your dearest friend, Mr. Pacey."
"The wretched meddler!"
"The true, honest gentleman you have always said he was, Armstrong. I
have come from him now."
"The cowardly hound!" muttered Dale.
"No; your truest and best friend. He wrote to me for your sake and
mine, Armstrong, and I have come."
"What for?--to treat me with scorn and contempt?" he cried angrily,
snatching at a chance to speak; "to tell me that all is over between us?
Why have you not brought your brother with you, to horsewhip me and add
his insults to your upbraidings?"
"Michael is here,"--Dale started, and looked with a coward's glance at
the door--"he is in London, but it was not his duty to come to the man
who is my betrothed. I came alone to ask you--if it is all true?"
He drew a hoarse breath, and then forced himself to speak brutally, to
hide the shame and agony he felt.
"Yes," he said roughly; "it is all true."
She winced as if he had struck her, and there was silence for a few
moments before she spoke again, and then in a curiously changed voice,
from her agony of heart.
"No, no," she whispered at last; "it cannot be true. It is a strange
dream. I cannot--I will not believe it."
He strove again and again to speak, but no words would come. He tried
to speak gently and ask her to forgive him, but in vain; and at last,
even more brutally than before, he cried--
"I tell you it is true! If you knew all this, how could you come?"
There was a pause before Cornel spoke again, and then she drew herself
up with an imperious gesture, and her words came firmly and full of
defiance of the world.
"I came because I heard the man I loved was beaten down and wounded in
the fight of life, and I said--`What is it to me?--he loved me very
dearly, and if he has been met by a strange temptation, and has fallen,
my place is there. I will go to him, and remind him of the past, and
point out again the forward way.' Armstrong, that is why I have come."
He groaned, and his voice was softened now, and half-choked by the agony
and despair at his heart.
"Go back," he said, "and forget me, Cornel; I am not the man you
thought. I left you strong in my belief in self, ready for the fight,
but your knight of truth and honour has turned out to be only a sorry
pawn. I don't ask you to forgive me: I only say, for your own sake, go,
and forget that such a villain ever lived."
"Then it is all true?" she said sternly.
"I don't know what Joe Pacey has said," he cried bitterly, as he gazed
in the sweet womanly face before him, "but I make the only reparation
that I can. I speak frankly, Cornel dear, and tell you that the worst
he could say of me would not exceed the truth. Utterly unworthy--
utterly base--I am not fit to touch your hand."
As he spoke now in his excitement, he took a step toward her, and she
drew back.
"Yes!" he cried bitterly; "you are right. Shrink from me and go."
"No," she said, after another pause, "I will not shrink from you; I will
not upbraid; I will only say to you, Tear these scales from your eyes,
and see, as Armstrong Dale, my old playfellow--brother--lover--used to
see. Break from the entanglement, like the man you always were, and be
yourself again."
"No!" he groaned, "I am no longer master of myself. For God's sake,
go!"
"And leave you to this--caught in these toils, to struggle wildly for a
time, and for what?--a life of misery and repentance? It is not true;
you are too strong for this. Armstrong, for your own sake--for all at
home--one brave effort. Pluck her from your heart."
He looked at her sadly for a few moments, and then shook his head.
"Impossible!" he groaned. "It is too late."
"No!" she cried excitedly; "even on the very edge there is time to drag
you away. Armstrong--I cannot bear it--come with me, dearest. You
loved me once; you made me care for you and think of you as all the
world to me. This woman--she cannot love you as I do, dear. For I do
love you with all my poor heart. Don't quite break it, dear, for I
forgive you everything, only come back with me now. Do you not hear me?
I forgive you everything, and you will come."
She staggered toward him with her arms open to clasp him to her breast,
but he shrank away with a groan of despair.
"No," he said; "it is too late--too late!"
She heaved a piteous sigh, and her hands fell to her sides. Then, with
her head bent, she walked slowly to the door, passed out, and he heard
her steps descending. A few moments later there were voices in the
hall, followed by the heavy closing of the door, which seemed to shut
him for ever from all that was good and true, alone with his despair as
he turned to his canvas, where he gazed upon the form he had created,
apparently the only memory of a mad passion which had crushed him to the
earth.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
GAGE OF BATTLE.
"You, Mr. Pacey? Where is my brother?"
"Gone back to the hotel. Left me to wait till you came out.--Seen him?
Bah! I needn't have asked that."
Cornel was silent for a few moments as she walked on side by side with
her strange-looking companion.
"Why did my brother go back to the hotel?"
"To cool himself."
Cornel looked round wonderingly.
"Temper," said Pacey shortly. "Said he couldn't contain himself; that
he was mad to let you come to see Armstrong; and at last I persuaded him
to go back, and said I'd see you safely to the hotel."
"And do you think I was doing wrong to go, Mr. Pacey?" she said, turning
upon him her candid eyes.
"No: I stood out here feeling more religious than I have these twenty
years. Ah! you don't understand. Never mind. Tell me you've brought
him to his senses."
Corners brow contracted, and she shook her head.
"Oh, but you should have done, my dear," cried Pacey angrily. "You've
been too hard upon him. Try and forgive him just a little bit. It's
life and death, ruin and destruction to as fine a lad as ever stepped."
"Yes," said Cornel piteously.
"Then you shouldn't have been so stern with him, you know. He has been
a blackguard; he deserves something. I am more bitter with him than
ever, but, my dear--don't flinch because I speak so familiarly: I'm old
enough to be your father--I say, if there is to be no forgiveness,
there'll be very few of us men in heaven, I'm afraid, for we're a bad
lot, my child, a very bad lot, though I don't think it's all our fault."
Cornel looked up at him again, with her nether lip quivering.
"That's right," said Pacey; "I don't know much about women, but that
means being sorry for him just a little. Now, look here: don't you
think you and I might go back together, and I leave you with him five
minutes while you bring him to his knees, and then promise to forgive
him some day?"
Pacey stopped short to say this, and took a half turn to go back. To
his surprise, Cornel placed her hand upon his arm.
"Take me out of this busy street," she whispered, "or I shall break
down. You do not know how I pleaded to him and offered him
forgiveness."
"You did?"
"Yes," in a faint whisper, "I offered to forgive everything if he would
come away."
"And he wouldn't? You tell me he wouldn't?"
"No!" in the faintest of whispers.
"Oh!" ejaculated Pacey, as he hurried her along. "That settles it then.
You offered to forgive him, and he refused? Then you've had an escape,
my dear. He is not worthy of another thought. There, let me take you
back to your brother. I thought better of him, and that the sight of
the sweetest, truest little woman who ever breathed would bring him to
his senses--make a man of him again. There, I'm very sorry--no, I'm
not, for I've done my duty by him, and you've done yours."
"No, we have not," said Cornel, growing firmer once more. "There is
much to do yet. This lady--this Contessa?"
"Well, what about her?" said Pacey, frowning.
"You told me that she is very beautiful."
"Yes, and so is some poison--clear as crystal."
"You know, then, where she lives?"
"Oh yes, I know where she lives," growled Pacey savagely.
"Take me to her."
Pacey shook himself free, and literally glared at the plainly dressed
girl at his side.
"I wish you would take me to her, Mr. Pacey. I must see her at once."
"You? You see her? That tiger lily of a woman! No, that won't do at
all."
"Mr. Pacey, I must see her. I have failed with Armstrong, but something
tells me that I may succeed with her."
"But do you know what sort of a woman she is?"
"A lady of title, beautiful and rich."
"Oh yes; but, my dear child, you who are as fresh as a little
lily-of-the-valley, what could you say to her? Why, she is a heartless
woman of fashion, proud as a female Lucifer, and you would only be
exposing yourself to insult."
"She would injure herself more than me," replied Cornel. Then, after
they had walked a few yards in silence, she turned to her companion.
"Mr. Pacey, you are Armstrong's most trusted friend?"
"I was once, but that's over now."
"No; true friends do not leave those they love when they are in their
sorest need. I must--I will save Armstrong from this woman's toils. He
has ceased to love me, but I cannot, when a word might save him, keep
back that word. Take me to this lady's home."
"But, my dear Miss Thorpe--"
"I have known you for over a year, Mr. Pacey, though we only met to-day
for the first time."
"Yes; and I've known you, my dear," said Pacey, "though he never half
did you justice."
"Then I am Cornel Thorpe to you. Now listen: we must save him."
"But--"
"What is this lady's name?"
"The Contessa Dellatoria."
"Take me to her at once."
"And she could not master him?" muttered Pacey. "She masters me."
He was already walking her on fast towards Portland Place, where fortune
favoured the mission, for a carriage and pair passed them, driven
rapidly, as they were close to the house, and Pacey told his companion
that the fashionably dressed lady leaning back was the Contessa, with
the effect of making Cornel hasten her pace after quitting Pacey's arm;
while, resigning himself to the inevitable, he advanced more slowly,
watching the scene before him as the carriage stopped. The footman ran
up and gave a thundering knock and heavy peal, with the result that the
door was thrown open at once, two more servants waiting to receive their
lady.
By the time the steps were rattled down, and Valentina had alighted,
Cornel was at her side, pale and trembling, in her simple, plainly cut
black dress, cloak, and bonnet with its thin silk veil.
"Can I speak to you, madam?" she said faintly. The Contessa turned upon
her in wonder, and Cornel shrank for the moment from the beautiful,
magnificently dressed woman.
"Speak to me?" she said haughtily, as her eyes swept over the American
girl. Then, as she walked towards the door, "Who are you? what are
you--a hospital nurse?"
"Sometimes," said Cornel, fighting hard to be firm.
"Oh, I see: then you want a subscription for your charity. This is
neither the time nor the place." The Contessa swept on, but Cornel was
at her side again before she could reach the door.
"No, no, madam, you are mistaken," she cried in a low voice. "I wish
to--I must see you."
Valentina's eyes dilated a little, and she looked wonderingly at the
speaker.
"I--I have a message for you. I must speak to you. Take me to your
room, for Heaven's sake."
A policeman was approaching, and the butler stepped out, saying
significantly--
"Shall I speak to the young person, my lady?" No answer was vouchsafed,
for just then Cornel caught the Contessa by the arm and whispered--
"You must see me, madam. It is life or death to one you know--one whom,
I believe, you would not injure."
"Hush! Who cure you?"
"A stranger from a distant land, madam." Valentina started, and the
rich blood flushed to her cheeks.
"I landed from America yesterday. Pray hear me. Your future depends
upon it, and--perhaps--my life."
The Contessa made a sign to Cornel to follow, and entered the door; and
a minute after, as Pacey passed slowly by, he ground his teeth when he
heard the coachman say to the footman, who was crossing the pavement
with a shawl over one arm, and a basket containing a carriage clock,
scent bottle, card case, and Court Guide--
"I say, Dicky, what game do you call that?"
"Last noo dodge for raising the wind," said the footman, and he went in
and closed the door.
"A hurricane, I should say," muttered Pacey. "Poor little girl, can she
face the storm?--I don't know though--there's a strength in her that
masters me."
Meanwhile Lady Dellatoria led the way to the boudoir, held aside the
portiere, and signed to Cornel to enter. Then following, the great
velvet curtain was dropped, and they stood face to face, scanning each
other's features, and measuring the one whom a natural instinct taught
each to consider the great enemy of her life. Cornel's heart sank as
she stood thus in the presence of her beautiful rival. For the moment,
she was ready to sink into one of the luxurious lounges, and sob for
very despair as she felt how unlikely it was that Armstrong could still
care for the simple homely girl who had come across the wide ocean to
save him--him, a willing victim to one who gazed at her with such
contempt, and who at last broke the silence.
"Well," she said, "I have granted your request. Why do you not speak?"
"I was thinking, madam, how beautiful you are."
Valentina smiled faintly, and raised her eyebrows. It was such an old
compliment paid to her.
"You wished to speak to me about some one I know. Have you brought a
message? Who are you?"
"I am the poor American girl to whom Armstrong Dale plighted his troth
before he left us to make his name and fame."
The Contessa's eyes were slightly veiled. It was no message then from
him, and she avoided the searching eyes, so full of innocence and truth,
that gazed at her, as she said huskily--
"Well, what is that to me?"
Cornel looked at her wonderingly, asking herself whether there was a
mistake; but growing confident, she went on--
"This, madam: my lover--I speak to you in the homely fashion of our
people--my lover came here to England, and his success was beyond my
wildest dreams. We wrote to each other, and we were happy in the
expectation of our future, till he saw you, and then--all was changed."
"Is this the beginning of some romance? But, of course--your
love-story."
"Yes, madam, and no romance. But I do not come to speak angrily to
you--I do not heap reproaches upon your head. I come to you simply as
one woman in suffering should appeal to another."
The Contessa made a contemptuous gesture.
"In my simple, faithful love for the man pledged to be my husband--the
man who has sinned against me in what is but a base love for you--I am
ready to forgive him, and look upon the past as dead. And now I come as
a suppliant to you, asking you to set him free, that he may sin no
more."
"What! How dare you?" cried the Contessa. "Such words to me!"
"From his promised wife, madam! Yes: I dare tell you, because, with all
your wealth and beauty, even your power over his weakness, I am stronger
in my right. You have blinded him--turned him from the path of duty--
you are the destroyer of his future."
"Absurd, girl! This Mr. Dale, the artist employed by my husband--surely
in his vanity he has not dared--"
She ceased speaking, and shrank from Cornel's clear, candid gaze.
"No, madam, he has not dared--he has not spoken. He does not know that
I have taken this step."
"Most unwisely."
"No, madam, I know that I am acting wisely--in his interest and yours."
"My good girl, this is insufferable. If you were not a stranger to our
customs in England, I would not listen to you."
"There is no custom, madam, in a woman's love, here or in America.
Heart speaks to heart. He is my promised husband: give him back to me.
I plead to you for your own sake as well as mine."
"This is mere romance."
"Again I say no, madam, but the truth. Think of your peril, too."
"Silence!"
"I will not be silent," said Cornel firmly. "You love him: I see it in
your quivering lips, and the blood that comes and goes in your cheek.
You hate me, madam, as a rival. Well, let me prove your love for him."
"Will you be silent, girl?" cried the Contessa hastily.
"No; I must speak now. You would not have listened to me so long had I
not spoken truth. You love him--you dare not deny it. Well, I love him
too, and I tell you that your love came like a blight upon his life."
"Woman, will you--"
"No; I will not be silent," said Cornel firmly: "but even if I ceased to
speak, my words would ring in your ears. It is not love that holds him
to you, or you to him, but a blind mad passion, the destroyer of you
both. Call it love if you will, but prove that love by giving him up to
return to his old, peaceful life."
"And your arms?" whispered the Contessa maliciously.
"Ah! The proof!" cried Cornel. "No one but a spiteful rival could have
spoken that. But your love is not as mine. I will not ask you to give
him back to me, but to set him free before some horror descends upon you
both. Your husband--"
"Hush!"
Valentina gave a quick look round, and Cornel flushed in her eagerness
as she exclaimed--
"The shadow over both your lives! You know it. Now, madam, prove your
love by freeing him from such a risk. How can you call it love that
threatens him with danger and disgrace!"
"And if I tell you that you, a foolish, jealous girl, are conjuring up
all this in your excited brain--that I have listened to you patiently--
and that I will hear no more?"
"I will tell you that your love for Armstrong is a mockery and snare,
that you throw down the guage, and that I will save him from you yet."
"And how? Bring some false charge against him to my husband? Set about
some lying slander on my name?"
"Bring you to public shame--bring disgrace upon the head of the man I
love? No, madam. You refuse my offer?--No: you will hear me. Give him
up, as I will for his sake--woman--sister--am I to plead in vain?"
The Contessa pointed to the door.
"Yes," said Cornel quietly. "I will go, but I will save him yet."
"Then it is war," muttered the Contessa, whose eyes contracted as she
stood listening as if expecting a return; "and you will save him? Yes:
to take to your heart? Not yet."
She hurried to the window as the faint sound of the closing door was
heard, and held aside the curtain, so as to gaze down the wide place,
and see Cornel take Pacey's arm, and, as if weak and suffering, walk
slowly away.
"Bah! What is she to me, with her pitiful schoolgirl love?--`Save him
yet!'"
She crossed the room and rang. Then, throwing herself into a lounge,
she waited till the servant entered.
"Is your master in?"
"No, my lady. Lady Grayson called. Gone to the Academy, I think."
"That will do."
Left alone, Valentina sprang to her feet, and pressed her temples.
The next minute, with a smile upon her lip, and an intense look as of a
set purpose in her eye, she went slowly from the room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
CHECK.
What to do?
Armstrong's constant question to himself.
His determination, arrived at again and again, was to flee at once from
the horrible passion which was sapping the life out of him--his insane
love for a woman who evidently despised him, and whose face he had never
seen.
He argued that, by going right away to Rome, Florence, or even merely to
Paris, he would avoid Lady Dellatoria, who would soon forget him as he
would forget this Italian woman, who--he could not explain to himself
why--had, as it were, woven some spell round him and made him half mad.
He reasoned with himself, called upon the teaching of his early life,
mocked at his folly, and told himself that he had got the better of the
insane passion--that he had disgusted this woman by his insults, and
that he was free, for she would come no more. But in another hour he
was watching for her coming, and trying to contrive some means of
tracing her, and begging her to come again.
Why?--that he might stand spell-bound again before that masked face,
tortured, enslaved, and in greater despair than ever?
"It is of no use!" he muttered passionately. "I have not the mental
strength of a child. I must go right away from the horrible
temptation--and at once."
He made a step or two toward his room. He had money enough; a few
things could be packed, and in an hour he might be on his way to Dover.
After that the world was before him, so that he could seek for peace.
No. Michael Thorpe and his sister were in London. It would be the act
of a coward to flee now, and be dragging himself down lower still in
their eyes. He could not go: Michael Thorpe would be sure to come
before long, he felt, and he wished he would. It would be a relief to
have some savage quarrel. Hah! there was an opportunity: Pacey, who had
betrayed him and brought Cornel over for that shameful scene, after
which he had felt that his life had better end.
"No," he said half aloud, "I can't quarrel with poor old Joe. He meant
well, and he was right. But I cannot leave London now."
He burst into a mocking laugh the next minute, for he would not indulge
in self-deceit. He knew that it was not merely the dread of being
thought cowardly which kept him there, but his mad passion for this
woman, who treated him as if he were a dog.
Then he grew calmer, and tried to reason with himself. She had not
treated him as a dog. Her conduct had been irreproachable. No lady
could have been more modest or refined in her conduct throughout. She
had come there merely as a model, and he had conceived this strange
passion for her in spite of distant coldness, and complete disdain. He
remembered in a score of things how she had borne herself as if
conferring a favour by coming and taking his money; and he knew, too,
how it was forced upon her by her filial affection.
"No!" he groaned, "she is not to blame. I shall never see her more,
thank Heaven! and in time the recollection will die out."
His eyes reverted to the picture, as this thought held him for the
moment, and he again laughed bitterly and cried aloud, while gazing at
the beautiful figure which inspiration and the work of his brush had
placed upon the canvas.
"Die out, while she is there to renew my passion hour by hour, minute by
minute! Curse the picture!" he raged. "Why did I ever conceive the
vile thought?"
He stepped to it and tore off the paper which covered the face.
The next moment he had stepped back, startled and wondering at the
perfection of his art, as Lady Dellatoria's eyes seemed to be gazing
passionately into his.
He shivered and turned away, holding one hand to his brow.
"I am ill," he said, in a low, muttering tone, "unstrung, half wild.
Well, this shall be the first step toward a cure;" and, taking a large
Spanish knife from among the knick-knacks upon the table, he felt the
point and edge, stepped forward, and was in the act of thrusting the
blade through the canvas close to the frame, when the door-handle
rattled, and the grimy face of Keren-Happuch was thrust in.
"She's come again," said the girl gleefully.
"The lady who was here yesterday?" cried Dale, throwing the knife from
him.
"No, sir; her!" cried the girl. "She's coming up now."
She pointed to the canvas as she spoke, and Dale involuntarily turned to
see the counterfeit presentment of Lady Dellatoria looking at him from
the group with indignant scorn, and as if enraged at his mad passion for
the model whose steps were now heard as the girl slipped out.
"It is fate!" muttered Dale, as the door was flung open, and the closely
veiled and cloaked figure stood before him.
For some moments neither spoke. The model stood just within the closed
door, proud and imperious in her pose, and with the glint of her eyes
flashing through the thick veil, while, a prey to his emotion, Armstrong
strove to find words as the struggle within him continued.
He would master himself, he thought. It was madness, and he called upon
his manhood to protect this woman, who trusted to him, from a repetition
of his last insult.
"You have returned, then," he said to her coldly, but with his voice
trembling.
"Yes, monsieur," she replied, in her peculiarly accented French. "It
was necessary. Monsieur wishes me to continue?"
He made a sign toward the door at the other end of the studio, and she
seemed to hesitate, but the next moment she walked firmly across to the
room and disappeared, while Dale fastened the outer door.
Then mechanically drawing the easel into its proper position in the
light, he took up palette and brushes, and stood gazing straight before
him, his nerves astrain, and pulses beating with a heavy dull throb.
His back was to the entrance of his room, and with a mist before his
eyes he waited, ignorant of how the time passed till he heard the door
behind him open, and the rustling sound of the heavy cloak as it swept
over the rug-covered floor.
Then, with every sense at its acutest pitch, he felt her approach till
she was close behind his chair on her way to the dais.
The model stopped suddenly, and he turned to see that she was gazing
fixedly at the uncovered face upon the canvas, as if struck by the
intense gaze of the goddess's eyes.
It was almost momentary, that pause. Then she continued her way to the
dais, and mounted it to resume her familiar attitude, and, once more,
Dale began to paint; a quarter of an hour before about to destroy, now
eagerly bent upon finishing the task, while the piercing eyes gleamed
through the veil, and seemed to pierce him.
"It is fate!" he muttered, as those eyes fixed his, meeting them through
the veil; but was it lovingly tempting him, or watching him in dread--a
dread born of the doubt he inspired at the last visit?
He could not tell, but everything of the past died away in that present,
and in a voice which he hardly knew as his own, he said softly--
"Why were you so angry with me last time?"
There was no reply, but the eyes gleamed distrustfully through the veil.
"You are angry still," he continued. "Was it so great an offence to ask
you to discard your veil?"
"Monsieur is wasting time," was the reply, and he went on using his
brush angrily for a few minutes.
"Tell me," he said at last, "why you are so obstinate? Do you not wish
me to see your face?"
She shook her head quickly, and he watched her, telling himself that
there was something coquettish in the act.
"But you will not refuse me now?" he said. "I beg--I pray of you--let
me see your face."
"It is not possible. I do not wish you to know me again if we ever
meet."
"Why not?" he said eagerly. "For Heaven's sake, do not be so distant
with me."
"I come here at your wish, monsieur, and you pay me to be your model.--
Monsieur insults me once more."
"No!" he cried passionately, as he threw down palette and brush; "a man
cannot insult a woman he loves with all his soul."
He took a step or two towards her, but with one quick movement, she
stooped and swung the great cloak about her shoulders, and, unseen by
him, caught up the knife he had so recently held. The next moment she
made for the inner room, but he intercepted her.
"No, no!" he cried wildly. "You must not leave me again like this.
Listen: you will hear me. Once for all, you shall remove that veil."
"I--will--not," she cried firmly. "Why does monsieur wish to see my
face?"
"You, as a woman, know," he cried, in a low, excited voice. "It is of
no use. I must speak now. I tell you again, I love you."
"It is not true!" she whispered. "You dare to tell me that, when I know
that it is not true. That is the woman whom you love, monsieur!" and
she pointed scornfully at the face upon the canvas.
"No!" he cried, half startled by her manner, "I swear that you are
wrong."
"It is her portrait, monsieur."
"It is no one's portrait. Imagination, every stroke," he cried. "Now
let me see the face of the woman I really love."
He raised one hand to snatch off the veil, but with a quick movement she
sprang from him, and, with her eyes gleaming through the film, flung one
white arm from the cloak, gave her wrist a turn, and he saw that she was
holding the great Spanish knife dagger-wise, with the point towards his
breast.
"Don't come near me, or it will be your death," she panted.
"Ah!" he said, with a half-laugh, as, stirred now to the deepest depths,
he bent forward trying to penetrate her disguise, but without avail;
"can you punish me so cruelly as that for loving you? Well, you have
made me yours, and it is my fate. Better death than the misery I have
suffered, the despair of losing you and not seeing you again."
"It is a mockery!" she cried, and her voice now was strangely altered.
"A man cannot love a woman whose face he has not seen."
"You know that is not true," he whispered, as he still advanced, and she
now began to retreat--"you know I love you with all my soul. I have
told you so, and you know it in your heart."
"Keep back!" she cried huskily, as she retreated, keeping the
knife-point toward his breast.
"No! Remove your veil."
"Bah!" she cried contemptuously, and with her voice resuming its former
tone. "Go, monsieur; dwell upon and love your picture when I am gone."
"No; I love you, the living, breathing embodiment. Now, if I die for
it, I will see your face."
He stretched out one hand, and touched her veil, but it was tightly
knotted behind her head, and with her left hand she caught his fingers
and held them firmly, their warm contact sending a thrill through every
nerve.
At the same moment, he felt the point of the knife touch his breast, but
he did not shrink, only struggled to free his hand.
Then, as if moved by the same impulse, they remained motionless, gazing
into each other's eyes, and he felt her warm breath upon his lips.
"Then you do love me?" she whispered in a voice that, in its soft
passionate tones, made every fibre vibrate in strange music to the
melody of her utterance.
"More than life," he whispered back. "You see."
A low mocking laugh came from her lips as she loosened her grasp, flung
up her hands, and the knife fell far away upon the floor. Then, with a
sudden movement, as he seized her waist and drew her to him, she threw
herself back, snatched off the veil, flung it upon the dais, and clasped
her arms about his neck.
"Valentina!--You!"
CHAPTER TWENTY.
THE CONTRETEMPS.
A mingling of rage, passion, disappointment, and delight swept over Dale
at the revelation. One moment he wondered at his blindness in not
divining long before that it was she; then at her daring recklessness,
and the skill with which she had played her part, deceiving him
completely to the very end.
And as she gazed in his eyes, clasped then in his arms, yielding as he
did to what he told himself again was fate, a mystery which he could not
unravel, he asked himself the question, did he love her or did he not?
His passion had been for another woman, and paradoxically it was she
from whom he had literally lied, and from whom, had she come openly, he
would have turned in disgust.
And yet how beautiful she was. What love and passion beamed from the
half-closed eyes that sought his, as her lips murmured words that told
him she was his at last, as he was hers, her very own; while, mastered
by her tenderness, he found no words then of angry reproach or blame.
"Venus victrix." She had brought him to her feet, but there was no
sound of triumph in her tones. Every word was a caress, and he found
himself wondering that he could ever have treated her with the coldness
he had shown.
"I knew you loved me," she murmured in his ear, "and that in your mad
belief in what you told yourself was your duty, you were punishing
yourself and me. It was a mere schoolboy friendship pledged years ago,
against which nature rebelled. For the first time in my unhappy life I
knew what it was to love, and knowing, as a woman soon divines, that you
loved me, I felt a new joy in my heart that I was so beautiful, and that
it pleased you, the only man I ever felt that I cared for--that I did
love, for I knew that you were mine as I was yours. And so I had no
hesitation about running all the risks I have, deceiving even Lady
Grayson, who watches me like a cat. I said in my heart that I would
dare all, even to degrading myself--no: it was no degradation, for it
was for the sake of him I loved. But tell me now; you did know me from
the beginning?"
"I swear I had not the least idea," he said angrily.
"You had not," she sighed; and then mockingly, "and, cruel to the last,
you began to love another as you thought. I saw it growing from the
first, and for a minute it made me angry, and ready to turn and revile
you, instead of carrying on the deceit; but a feeling of intense joy ran
through me, for was not all your loving passion for me--was I not
winning you to confess the love you always did feel, though blindly
thinking that you had conquered self? You did love me--did you not?"
"Yes, I always loved you," he whispered, "and I fought so hard for both
our sakes."
"And lost," she said with a laugh. "I have won. No, no," she whispered
caressingly, "don't repulse me now. You are so much to me. But yes, if
you will. I do not mind. Strike your poor slave if you wish; she will
never murmur or complain. Your blows would be like tender caresses to
me now, for your words have dragged me forth fr
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/40673