The Tiger Lily
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 P. 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 bière, 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 déjeûner 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.”