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.”
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 hisvis-à-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.
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 hisvis-à-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.
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 portière, 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.
“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 portière, 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.