The Tiger Lily

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.”