Chapter Twenty Eight.Two Women’s Love.A woman—with the fierce lurid look of a tigress in her dark eyes, and in her action as lithe and elastic, she paced up and down her bedroom hour after hour. Now she threw herself upon a couch in utter exhaustion, but anon she sprang up again to resume the hurried walk to and fro.At times she went to the door to open it and listen, for it was secured only by the locks and bolts of the Grundy Patent—Dellatoria, in spite of his newly awakened jealous rage, feeling that his wife would join with him in keeping the servants in ignorance of their terrible rupture.But all was still downstairs; and at last, enforcing an outward appearance of composure, Valentina changed her dress, bathed her burning eyes with spirit-scented water, and descended to her boudoir, where she turned down the lamp beneath its rose-coloured shade, and rang the bell, before seating herself in a lounge with her back half turned from the door.“Pretty well time,” said the butler, who had been heading the discussion below stairs regarding the meaning of what had taken place. “There, cook, you may dish up.”The footman presented himself at the door.“Your ladyship rang?”“Yes. Where is your master?”“In the lib’ry, my lady.”“Alone?”“No, my lady. Colonel Varesti and Baron Gratz are with him again.”“That will do.”“Yes, my lady.”The man hesitated at the door.“Well?”“Does your ladyship wish the dinner to be served?”“No: wait till your master orders it. I am unwell. Give me that flacon of salts.”The man handed the large cut-glass bottle, and went down.The aspect of languor passed away in an instant, and Valentina sprang from the seat.“I might have known it,” she panted. “He is no coward when he is roused, despicable as he is at other times. Those men. It means a meeting. They will fight, and—”She clapped her hands to her forehead as in imagination she saw Armstrong lying bleeding at her husband’s feet. Strong and brave as he was, she doubted the artist’s ability to stand before a man like the Conte, who had often boasted to her of his skill with the small sword, and ability as a marksman.“And I have wasted all this time.”Then, after a few moments’ thought, divining that the inevitable meeting would take place abroad, she went up at once to her bedroom and locked herself in.Her brain was still misty and confused by the intense excitement through which she had passed, for upon reaching home, and savagely dismissing Lady Grayson, the Conte had turned upon her furiously. The passion of his southern nature had been aroused, and a mad jealousy developed itself respecting the woman whom of late he had utterly neglected.In a few moments her mind was quite made up, and, taking a small dressing bag, she rapidly emptied into it the whole of the costly contents of her jewel-cases, unlocked a small cabinet, and took from it what money she possessed, and then hastily dressed for going out.A very few minutes sufficed for this, and, after pausing for a few moments to collect herself, she took up the bag, and, unlocking the door, passed out silently on to the thickly carpeted landing, descended to the hall, where she paused again as she heard a low buzz of voices in the library, and then walked quickly to the door, passed out, and hurried up the wide street, breathing freely as she felt that she had been unobserved.Not quite. Ladies in large establishments live beneath the observation of many eyes. Valentina had no sooner begun to descend the wide stairs than a white cap was thrust out from the door of a neighbouring room, and the eyes beneath it were immediately after looking down the great staircase, while a pair of ears twitched as they listened till the front door was heard to close.The next minute the wearer of the cap was in the bed and dressing rooms, gazing at the empty jewel-cases, noting the absence of the bag, cloak, and bonnet, even to the veil; and then came the low ejaculation of the one word, “Well!”The Abigail ran down the backstairs and made her way into the hall, just in time to meet the butler returning from ushering out the Conte’s two friends, who had been closeted with him, consulting as to what proceedings should be taken, as there had been no appearance put in by the other side.The butler heard the lady’s-maids hurried communication, nodded sagely, and said oracularly that he wasn’t a bit surprised; then coughed to clear his voice, waved the maid away, closed the baize door after her, and entered the library to repeat what he had heard.The Conte did not even change countenance.“Stop all tattling amongst the servants,” he said. “Her ladyship is not well—a strange seizure to-day. It must be past the dinner hour.”“Yes, my lord.”“Let it be served at once.”The butler bowed, and went out solemnly.The moment he was alone, a sharp grating sound was heard, and a strange look came over the Conte’s face as he hastily opened a cabinet, took something from a drawer, and placed it in his breast pocket. Then, hurrying upstairs, he satisfied himself of the truth of all he had heard, and descended, took his hat from the stand and went out quietly, unheard, even by the servants.Meanwhile Valentina had walked straight to the studio.The street-door was ajar, for Keren-Happuch had just gone into the next street to post a letter at the pillar, so the closely veiled woman passed in unseen, and went upstairs, stood for a few moments listening, and then softly entered.She uttered a low sigh of relief, glad to have entered the place which, for the moment, felt to her like a sanctuary.It was many hours since she had been surprised there by her husband and Lady Grayson; but to her then it seemed only a few minutes before, and she looked round the great dim room quickly, with a smile upon her lips.But the smile froze there, and a horrible sensation of fear came over her. She had waited too long. There must have been a challenge from her husband, and Armstrong had responded. The street-door open; the studio unfastened; and this dim light! Then she was too late: he had gone. But where? Belgium? France? The thought was horrible—almost more than she could bear.“No, no,” she murmured. “It cannot be.”She advanced into the great dim place excitedly, with the many grim-looking plaster figures and busts seeming to watch her furtively out of the gloom; and as she looked quickly from side to side, she fancied that the faces were menacing and full of reproach, as if telling her that she had sent her lover to his death.She had nearly crossed the room when she started and shrank back in horror, for one of the rugs had been kicked slightly aside, and there was a wet dark mark upon the boards which she knew at a glance to be blood—his blood, for it was here he had fallen when her husband struck him down.With the faintest of hopes amid her despair that she might still be in time, she went on to the inner door, seized the handle, and was pressing it, but it was twisted from her fingers, the door opened, and she was about to fling herself into Armstrong’s arms, but only shrank back with a look of jealous rage and despair.For Cornel stood framed in the opening and closed the door, then looked her firmly and defiantly in the face.Neither spoke for a full minute, and as Valentina gazed in the blanched countenance before her, she read here so stony and despairing a look, that she shrank away in horror, certain that either there was some terrible revelation awaiting her beyond the door which had been so carefully closed, or else that Cornel’s eyes were confirming her worst dread, and that Armstrong had gone forth to meet his death.It was some moments before the Contessa could command herself sufficiently to speak aloud. She wished to get from Cornel’s lips the truth, and to show her how, possessed as she was of Armstrong’s love, she could treat her with calm, contemptuous tolerance, as one almost beneath her notice. But the stern disdain in those large flashing eyes mastered her and kept her silent. There was a magnetism in their glance, and she felt that if she spoke it would be in a broken feeble manner, which would lower her in her rival’s eyes.She fought against it, struggled for a long time vainly, and moment by moment felt how strong in her innocence and truth her rival stood before her. It was not until she had lashed herself into a state of fury that she could force herself to speak.“Mr Dale—where is he?” she cried at last imperiously.“How dare you come and ask?” said Cornel fiercely, her whole manner changed.“Because I have a right,” cried Valentina, who, stung now by her rival’s words, began to recover herself. Her eyes too dilated as she went on, and something of her old hauteur and contempt flashed out.“You!—a right?”“Yes; the right of the woman he loves—who has given up everything for his sake.”“Loves! The woman he loves!” cried Cornel contemptuously.“Yes, and who loves him as such a woman as I can love. Do you think that you, in your girlish coldness, could ever have won him as I have? Tell me where he is.”“That you may join him?” cried Cornel. “You would give him over to your husband—to that horror—and his death.”“Ah!” cried Valentina excitedly; “then he has not gone yet. He is safe.” And, in spite of herself, she gave way to a hysterical burst of tears.“What is it to you?” said Cornel coldly. “He has escaped from your hands. You have no right here, woman. Go.”“I am right, then,” cried the Contessa, mastering her weakness once more. “You are trying to keep us apart. He is mine, I tell you, mine for ever. He is there, then; I am not too late—there in that room. Armstrong!” she cried loudly, “come to me. I am here.”She made for the door again, but Cornel seized her, and strove with all her might to keep the furious woman back, but she was like a child in her hands, and was rudely flung aside. Valentina thrust open the door, entered the study, and passed through it to the chamber beyond, to utter a wild cry, and fall upon her knees beside the bed on which Armstrong lay cold and still.Then, starting up, she bent over him, laid her hand upon his brow, her cheek against his lips, and staggered back.“Dead!” she cried, “dead!”For his eyes were closed, and the bandaged cut upon his brow gave him a ghastly look, seen as he was by the shaded light of a lamp upon the table by the bed’s head.She rushed back through the little room to the studio, where Cornel stood, wild-eyed, and white as the figure upon the bed.“Wretch! you have killed him in your insane jealousy. It could not have been that blow. Tell me! confess!” she cried, seizing her by the arms.“Better so than that he should have fallen back into your power,” said Cornel bitterly.“Ah! You own it, then? Oh, it is too horrible!”Her face convulsed with agony, the Contessa seized Cornel by the arm, threw down the bag, which flew open, so that the jewels scattered on the floor, and tried to drag her toward the studio door, calling hoarsely for help. But her voice rose to the ceiling, and not a sound was heard below.But Cornel resisted now with all her might, and in the struggle which ensued wrested herself away, ran across the studio, darted through the door of the little room, dashed it to, and had time to slip the bolt before her rival flung herself against it, and then beat heavily against the panel with her hand.Pale as ashes, and panting with excitement, Cornel stood with her left shoulder pressed against the panel, feeling the blows struck upon it through the wood, as, with her eyes fixed and strained, she felt about for the key, her hand trembling so that she could hardly turn it in the lock.“No, no!” she muttered. “I’ll die sooner than she shall touch him again.”Then she held her breath, listening, for she fancied she heard a sound in the studio above the beating on the panel, which suddenly culminated in one strangely given blow, accompanied by a wild shriek of agony, followed by a heavy fall and a piteous groan.
A woman—with the fierce lurid look of a tigress in her dark eyes, and in her action as lithe and elastic, she paced up and down her bedroom hour after hour. Now she threw herself upon a couch in utter exhaustion, but anon she sprang up again to resume the hurried walk to and fro.
At times she went to the door to open it and listen, for it was secured only by the locks and bolts of the Grundy Patent—Dellatoria, in spite of his newly awakened jealous rage, feeling that his wife would join with him in keeping the servants in ignorance of their terrible rupture.
But all was still downstairs; and at last, enforcing an outward appearance of composure, Valentina changed her dress, bathed her burning eyes with spirit-scented water, and descended to her boudoir, where she turned down the lamp beneath its rose-coloured shade, and rang the bell, before seating herself in a lounge with her back half turned from the door.
“Pretty well time,” said the butler, who had been heading the discussion below stairs regarding the meaning of what had taken place. “There, cook, you may dish up.”
The footman presented himself at the door.
“Your ladyship rang?”
“Yes. Where is your master?”
“In the lib’ry, my lady.”
“Alone?”
“No, my lady. Colonel Varesti and Baron Gratz are with him again.”
“That will do.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The man hesitated at the door.
“Well?”
“Does your ladyship wish the dinner to be served?”
“No: wait till your master orders it. I am unwell. Give me that flacon of salts.”
The man handed the large cut-glass bottle, and went down.
The aspect of languor passed away in an instant, and Valentina sprang from the seat.
“I might have known it,” she panted. “He is no coward when he is roused, despicable as he is at other times. Those men. It means a meeting. They will fight, and—”
She clapped her hands to her forehead as in imagination she saw Armstrong lying bleeding at her husband’s feet. Strong and brave as he was, she doubted the artist’s ability to stand before a man like the Conte, who had often boasted to her of his skill with the small sword, and ability as a marksman.
“And I have wasted all this time.”
Then, after a few moments’ thought, divining that the inevitable meeting would take place abroad, she went up at once to her bedroom and locked herself in.
Her brain was still misty and confused by the intense excitement through which she had passed, for upon reaching home, and savagely dismissing Lady Grayson, the Conte had turned upon her furiously. The passion of his southern nature had been aroused, and a mad jealousy developed itself respecting the woman whom of late he had utterly neglected.
In a few moments her mind was quite made up, and, taking a small dressing bag, she rapidly emptied into it the whole of the costly contents of her jewel-cases, unlocked a small cabinet, and took from it what money she possessed, and then hastily dressed for going out.
A very few minutes sufficed for this, and, after pausing for a few moments to collect herself, she took up the bag, and, unlocking the door, passed out silently on to the thickly carpeted landing, descended to the hall, where she paused again as she heard a low buzz of voices in the library, and then walked quickly to the door, passed out, and hurried up the wide street, breathing freely as she felt that she had been unobserved.
Not quite. Ladies in large establishments live beneath the observation of many eyes. Valentina had no sooner begun to descend the wide stairs than a white cap was thrust out from the door of a neighbouring room, and the eyes beneath it were immediately after looking down the great staircase, while a pair of ears twitched as they listened till the front door was heard to close.
The next minute the wearer of the cap was in the bed and dressing rooms, gazing at the empty jewel-cases, noting the absence of the bag, cloak, and bonnet, even to the veil; and then came the low ejaculation of the one word, “Well!”
The Abigail ran down the backstairs and made her way into the hall, just in time to meet the butler returning from ushering out the Conte’s two friends, who had been closeted with him, consulting as to what proceedings should be taken, as there had been no appearance put in by the other side.
The butler heard the lady’s-maids hurried communication, nodded sagely, and said oracularly that he wasn’t a bit surprised; then coughed to clear his voice, waved the maid away, closed the baize door after her, and entered the library to repeat what he had heard.
The Conte did not even change countenance.
“Stop all tattling amongst the servants,” he said. “Her ladyship is not well—a strange seizure to-day. It must be past the dinner hour.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Let it be served at once.”
The butler bowed, and went out solemnly.
The moment he was alone, a sharp grating sound was heard, and a strange look came over the Conte’s face as he hastily opened a cabinet, took something from a drawer, and placed it in his breast pocket. Then, hurrying upstairs, he satisfied himself of the truth of all he had heard, and descended, took his hat from the stand and went out quietly, unheard, even by the servants.
Meanwhile Valentina had walked straight to the studio.
The street-door was ajar, for Keren-Happuch had just gone into the next street to post a letter at the pillar, so the closely veiled woman passed in unseen, and went upstairs, stood for a few moments listening, and then softly entered.
She uttered a low sigh of relief, glad to have entered the place which, for the moment, felt to her like a sanctuary.
It was many hours since she had been surprised there by her husband and Lady Grayson; but to her then it seemed only a few minutes before, and she looked round the great dim room quickly, with a smile upon her lips.
But the smile froze there, and a horrible sensation of fear came over her. She had waited too long. There must have been a challenge from her husband, and Armstrong had responded. The street-door open; the studio unfastened; and this dim light! Then she was too late: he had gone. But where? Belgium? France? The thought was horrible—almost more than she could bear.
“No, no,” she murmured. “It cannot be.”
She advanced into the great dim place excitedly, with the many grim-looking plaster figures and busts seeming to watch her furtively out of the gloom; and as she looked quickly from side to side, she fancied that the faces were menacing and full of reproach, as if telling her that she had sent her lover to his death.
She had nearly crossed the room when she started and shrank back in horror, for one of the rugs had been kicked slightly aside, and there was a wet dark mark upon the boards which she knew at a glance to be blood—his blood, for it was here he had fallen when her husband struck him down.
With the faintest of hopes amid her despair that she might still be in time, she went on to the inner door, seized the handle, and was pressing it, but it was twisted from her fingers, the door opened, and she was about to fling herself into Armstrong’s arms, but only shrank back with a look of jealous rage and despair.
For Cornel stood framed in the opening and closed the door, then looked her firmly and defiantly in the face.
Neither spoke for a full minute, and as Valentina gazed in the blanched countenance before her, she read here so stony and despairing a look, that she shrank away in horror, certain that either there was some terrible revelation awaiting her beyond the door which had been so carefully closed, or else that Cornel’s eyes were confirming her worst dread, and that Armstrong had gone forth to meet his death.
It was some moments before the Contessa could command herself sufficiently to speak aloud. She wished to get from Cornel’s lips the truth, and to show her how, possessed as she was of Armstrong’s love, she could treat her with calm, contemptuous tolerance, as one almost beneath her notice. But the stern disdain in those large flashing eyes mastered her and kept her silent. There was a magnetism in their glance, and she felt that if she spoke it would be in a broken feeble manner, which would lower her in her rival’s eyes.
She fought against it, struggled for a long time vainly, and moment by moment felt how strong in her innocence and truth her rival stood before her. It was not until she had lashed herself into a state of fury that she could force herself to speak.
“Mr Dale—where is he?” she cried at last imperiously.
“How dare you come and ask?” said Cornel fiercely, her whole manner changed.
“Because I have a right,” cried Valentina, who, stung now by her rival’s words, began to recover herself. Her eyes too dilated as she went on, and something of her old hauteur and contempt flashed out.
“You!—a right?”
“Yes; the right of the woman he loves—who has given up everything for his sake.”
“Loves! The woman he loves!” cried Cornel contemptuously.
“Yes, and who loves him as such a woman as I can love. Do you think that you, in your girlish coldness, could ever have won him as I have? Tell me where he is.”
“That you may join him?” cried Cornel. “You would give him over to your husband—to that horror—and his death.”
“Ah!” cried Valentina excitedly; “then he has not gone yet. He is safe.” And, in spite of herself, she gave way to a hysterical burst of tears.
“What is it to you?” said Cornel coldly. “He has escaped from your hands. You have no right here, woman. Go.”
“I am right, then,” cried the Contessa, mastering her weakness once more. “You are trying to keep us apart. He is mine, I tell you, mine for ever. He is there, then; I am not too late—there in that room. Armstrong!” she cried loudly, “come to me. I am here.”
She made for the door again, but Cornel seized her, and strove with all her might to keep the furious woman back, but she was like a child in her hands, and was rudely flung aside. Valentina thrust open the door, entered the study, and passed through it to the chamber beyond, to utter a wild cry, and fall upon her knees beside the bed on which Armstrong lay cold and still.
Then, starting up, she bent over him, laid her hand upon his brow, her cheek against his lips, and staggered back.
“Dead!” she cried, “dead!”
For his eyes were closed, and the bandaged cut upon his brow gave him a ghastly look, seen as he was by the shaded light of a lamp upon the table by the bed’s head.
She rushed back through the little room to the studio, where Cornel stood, wild-eyed, and white as the figure upon the bed.
“Wretch! you have killed him in your insane jealousy. It could not have been that blow. Tell me! confess!” she cried, seizing her by the arms.
“Better so than that he should have fallen back into your power,” said Cornel bitterly.
“Ah! You own it, then? Oh, it is too horrible!”
Her face convulsed with agony, the Contessa seized Cornel by the arm, threw down the bag, which flew open, so that the jewels scattered on the floor, and tried to drag her toward the studio door, calling hoarsely for help. But her voice rose to the ceiling, and not a sound was heard below.
But Cornel resisted now with all her might, and in the struggle which ensued wrested herself away, ran across the studio, darted through the door of the little room, dashed it to, and had time to slip the bolt before her rival flung herself against it, and then beat heavily against the panel with her hand.
Pale as ashes, and panting with excitement, Cornel stood with her left shoulder pressed against the panel, feeling the blows struck upon it through the wood, as, with her eyes fixed and strained, she felt about for the key, her hand trembling so that she could hardly turn it in the lock.
“No, no!” she muttered. “I’ll die sooner than she shall touch him again.”
Then she held her breath, listening, for she fancied she heard a sound in the studio above the beating on the panel, which suddenly culminated in one strangely given blow, accompanied by a wild shriek of agony, followed by a heavy fall and a piteous groan.
Chapter Twenty Nine.Husband and Wife.Startled beyond bearing by the sounds of mortal suffering, Cornel unfastened the door, drew it toward her, and then stopped, utterly paralysed by the scene in the studio.There, not a yard away from the door, lay the beautiful woman, her face drawn in agony and horror, with the blood welling from a wound in her throat: her bonnet was back on her shoulders, and her hair torn down, as if a hand had suddenly been savagely laid upon her brow, her head dragged back, and a blow struck at her from behind; while standing upon the other side, with his compressed lips drawn away from his set teeth, eyes nearly closed, and brow contracted, was the Conte, looking down at his work.For a few moments Cornel could not stir. The studio, with its many casts, seemed to perform a ghastly dance round her, and she felt as if this were some horrible nightmare. Then the deathly sickness passed off, and she cried wildly to the Conte, who did not even seem aware of her presence—“O Heaven! What have you done?”Her piteous appeal made him start back into consciousness, and with a hasty motion he hurled something across the studio, where it fell with a tinkling, metallic sound.“I—I struck her,” he gasped, in a harsh cracked voice. “I loved her—ah! how I loved her; and she was false. Look: she had even robbed me, and fled with all her jewels—to him. See where they lie, scattered upon his floor. Ah, signora,” he cried passionately, and growing more and more Italian in his excitement, “I poured out wealth at her feet. There was nothing I would not have done to gratify her. For I loved her—I loved her. Dio mio, how I loved!”“Hush!” cried Cornel, recovering herself somewhat in the presence of suffering and danger, her medical education asserting itself. “Go quickly and call help. Send for a surgeon.”“No, no!” he cried excitedly, as his face blanched with dread. “If I call, it means the police, and—oh! horror—they will say I have murdered her.”“Man!” cried Cornel, in disgust at his sudden display of selfishness, “have you no feeling?—Is this your love? Quick!—your handkerchief. Mine too; take it from my pocket. God help me, and give me strength,” she whispered, as her busy fingers staunched the wound by closing the cut. Then, as the Conte stood looking on, trembling like a leaf, she bade him fetch a large wide lotah from where it stood upon a bracket, pour water into it from the carafe, and place it upon the floor beside the Contessa’s head.And as she knelt there all hatred and horror of the beautiful woman passed away. It was an erring sister and sufferer for sin, bleeding to death; and, knowing how precious minutes were at such a time, she tore up the handkerchiefs and portions of the Contessa’s attire, as, with skilled hands, she checked the bleeding, and securely bandaged the wound.She was so intent upon her work, that, after he had obeyed her orders, she was hardly conscious of the Conte’s presence, while he, after watching her acts for some minutes, suddenly looked round, startled by some sound which penetrated to where they were. Then, trembling visibly, he began to examine the front of his clothes, passing his hands over them, and examining his palms for traces of the deed, but finding none.Then a fresh thought struck him, and after keenly watching Cornel to see if she noticed the action, he crept on tip-toe—a miserably bent, decrepit-looking figure—to where the tinkling sound had been heard, picked up a little ivory-handled stiletto, examined its blade in the faint light, with his back to the group by the inner room door, and, catching up a piece of Moorish scarf, wiped it quickly, and hid the weapon in his breast pocket.Then creeping on tip-toe to the studio door, he listened, his face full of abject fear, and hearing nothing, he turned the key.He glanced toward Cornel, whose back was toward him, as she busily went on with her task, hiding too his wife’s face from him by her position.Hesitating for a moment or two, he then drew a deep breath, and crossed softly to where the bag lay open with some of the glittering jewels still hanging to its edge: great strings of pearls, and a necklet of diamonds.These he hurriedly thrust back, and then went quickly and silently about, picking up rings, bracelets, brooches, and tiaras of emerald, ruby, diamond, and sapphire, till, with a sigh of satisfaction, he closed the morocco bag, the fastening giving forth a loud snap.“Is—is she dead?” he whispered; and his lips were so close to Cornel’s ear that she started round, and let fall the wrist upon whose pulse her fingers were pressed.“No,” she whispered. “I have staunched the wound till you can get proper help, but I fear internal bleeding.”At that moment there was a piteous sigh followed by a low moan, and the beautiful dark eyes opened, to gaze vacantly for a few moments. Then intelligence came into them, as they rested upon Cornel, who was now bending over her.“Ah,” she said softly, as her hand felt for Cornel’s, which was laid upon her brow; “you? Good for evil;” and she drew Cornel’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “Forgive me,” she whispered, “before I die. I loved him so.”A curiously harsh low cry escaped from the Conte, who literally writhed in his jealous agony, and Valentina turned her eyes upon him where he stood dimly seen, as if looking at her from out of a mist.“You there!” she said bitterly, as Cornel once more grasped her wrist. “Well, are you satisfied? You have killed my body, as you killed my love, when, as a young innocent girl, I was sold to you for your wealth and title, and Heaven knows I would have tried to be your true loving wife.”“Oh, Valentina! my beautiful—my own!” he groaned; and he stooped to take her hand.“Pah! don’t touch me!” she cried hoarsely; and she raised the hand she had snatched away, and pointed to the bag he held. “Take them to your mistresses whose smiles you have always bought. Let me die in peace.”“No, no; live!” he cried.“To save you from the punishment you merit?” she whispered scornfully.“No, no! to be my dearest love and wife again. Let us go back to sunny Italy, away from all this miserable city.”“Too late!” she said sadly. “You should have said that years ago.”“For pity’s sake don’t speak,” whispered Cornel.“Why not, little doctor?” said Valentina softly. “Better so. Ah, I was not all bad, dear. I loved him before I knew of you. How could I help looking on you with jealous hate? Let me kiss you once—before I go. Be loving to him and forgive him—it was all my fault—tell me you will forgive him—when I am gone.”“With all my heart,” said Cornel softly; and she bent down to press her lips to those of the suffering woman, while the tears over-ran her brimming eyelids, and her heart swelled with pity for one so deeply punished for her sin.But as if the Contessa recollected the scene of a short time before, she thrust the gentle face away before lips touched lips, and with a loud cry—“No, no! I had forgotten. I remember now. How could you be so base? No! don’t touch me. I will see him once again. Armstrong!—my love—my own.”She dragged herself over, and began to crawl to the door, when the Conte’s face became convulsed with passion once more, his hand sought his breast, the bag fell to the ground, and with an oath he cried—“Then he is in there!—in hiding.”Springing over the crawling figure, he dashed through to the inner room, and, as Valentina uttered a piteous moan, the Conte flung open the bedroom door.“Dog!—Coward!” he yelled, and then stopped, petrified at the sight of the motionless figure upon the bed. Then the door swung to between them, and he thrust back the little blade, and came stealthily out, muttering softly to himself as he bent over his wife, insensible to all that passed.He was trembling violently now.“I did not know,” he muttered to Cornel. “I struck him when I found them together, but I did not know. I—I must go—away. Your laws are bad. An affair of honour. Will—will she die too?”“I cannot say,” replied Cornel coldly. “She must have better surgical help. I am only a nurse.”“Yes,” he said hastily. “Better help. A great surgeon. She must not die. I will get a carriage and take her away.”“It would be dangerous to move her.”“More dangerous far to leave her here,” he muttered. Then aloud, “It must be risked, madam. But listen. You are his friend?”“Yes.”“This is a terrible misfortune, but a private matter—not for the police. You will not tell them how—by accident—I struck my wife?”“No,” said Cornel, after a pause; and a shudder ran through her.“Hah! Then the law need not meddle with what was a private quarrel—a mistake. My wife, here, shall live, and you who are so good and beautiful and kind, you shall be silent, and—one moment.”He fumbled with the clasp of the bag he had picked up, opened it, and, as Cornel’s brows contracted with horror, he searched within and drew out a magnificent diamond and sapphire bracelet.“Hah!” he cried. “You will wear that for both our sakes, and be silent, and blind to the past.”“I will be silent and blind, for the sake of the man I loved,” she said to herself, as she thrust back the jewel and shook her head.“But you will not tell?” he said.“No, sir; your secret is safe.”The Conte uttered a sigh of satisfaction, threw back the bracelet, and closed the bag with a snap, while Cornel eyed him with disgust.“Do you intend to risk removing this lady?”“Certainly,” he said firmly; “it must be done. Lock the door after me,” he whispered, as he crossed the studio.Cornel followed and obeyed, listening to his descending steps. Then, returning to where Valentina lay insensible, she satisfied herself of the security of the bandages, and once more felt her pulse.“If there is no internal bleeding she will live. Yes, I will forgive you. Some day you may know the truth. And then? Ah, who can tell?”She bent down and kissed the broad forehead, and then knelt there for a few moments before rising and going quickly into Armstrong’s bedroom to gaze at him for a minute, and return, carefully closing after her both the doors.She kept her vigil there for a few minutes before there were steps again, and a soft tap at the door.She admitted the Conte.“I have a carriage waiting, and a man here to help,” he said.“I am not clever and experienced,” said Cornel anxiously. “Let a doctor see her first.”For answer the Conte gave her a quick nod.“It is secrecy, is it not?”“Oh yes, but—”“The best London can give,” he whispered. “When I have her back at home. And you understand that was nonsense which I said about striking him?”The bag was on his arm, with his hand pushed far through, as he went back to the door, and signalled to a man to come in. Then seeing that this removal was inevitable, Cornel rapidly replaced the cloak well round the insensible figure, and rearranged the head.“Don’t—don’t waste time,” said the Conte impatiently, and signing to the man, the latter bent down and lifted the motionless figure as easily as if it had been a child.“Be careful, my friend. A sad accident. Be careful. Mind.”He opened the door for the man to pass through, and Cornel followed them, to listen to the heavy descending steps, till all was silent. Then came the rattle of wheels, and she knew that they were gone.Closing the door of the studio, she walked across it, dropped upon her knees, and clasped her hands.“Have I done rightly?” she murmured. “I don’t know. It seems like madness now.” Then a weary sigh, as she laid her head against the door leading to the chamber. “Armstrong! what I have suffered for your sake!”
Startled beyond bearing by the sounds of mortal suffering, Cornel unfastened the door, drew it toward her, and then stopped, utterly paralysed by the scene in the studio.
There, not a yard away from the door, lay the beautiful woman, her face drawn in agony and horror, with the blood welling from a wound in her throat: her bonnet was back on her shoulders, and her hair torn down, as if a hand had suddenly been savagely laid upon her brow, her head dragged back, and a blow struck at her from behind; while standing upon the other side, with his compressed lips drawn away from his set teeth, eyes nearly closed, and brow contracted, was the Conte, looking down at his work.
For a few moments Cornel could not stir. The studio, with its many casts, seemed to perform a ghastly dance round her, and she felt as if this were some horrible nightmare. Then the deathly sickness passed off, and she cried wildly to the Conte, who did not even seem aware of her presence—
“O Heaven! What have you done?”
Her piteous appeal made him start back into consciousness, and with a hasty motion he hurled something across the studio, where it fell with a tinkling, metallic sound.
“I—I struck her,” he gasped, in a harsh cracked voice. “I loved her—ah! how I loved her; and she was false. Look: she had even robbed me, and fled with all her jewels—to him. See where they lie, scattered upon his floor. Ah, signora,” he cried passionately, and growing more and more Italian in his excitement, “I poured out wealth at her feet. There was nothing I would not have done to gratify her. For I loved her—I loved her. Dio mio, how I loved!”
“Hush!” cried Cornel, recovering herself somewhat in the presence of suffering and danger, her medical education asserting itself. “Go quickly and call help. Send for a surgeon.”
“No, no!” he cried excitedly, as his face blanched with dread. “If I call, it means the police, and—oh! horror—they will say I have murdered her.”
“Man!” cried Cornel, in disgust at his sudden display of selfishness, “have you no feeling?—Is this your love? Quick!—your handkerchief. Mine too; take it from my pocket. God help me, and give me strength,” she whispered, as her busy fingers staunched the wound by closing the cut. Then, as the Conte stood looking on, trembling like a leaf, she bade him fetch a large wide lotah from where it stood upon a bracket, pour water into it from the carafe, and place it upon the floor beside the Contessa’s head.
And as she knelt there all hatred and horror of the beautiful woman passed away. It was an erring sister and sufferer for sin, bleeding to death; and, knowing how precious minutes were at such a time, she tore up the handkerchiefs and portions of the Contessa’s attire, as, with skilled hands, she checked the bleeding, and securely bandaged the wound.
She was so intent upon her work, that, after he had obeyed her orders, she was hardly conscious of the Conte’s presence, while he, after watching her acts for some minutes, suddenly looked round, startled by some sound which penetrated to where they were. Then, trembling visibly, he began to examine the front of his clothes, passing his hands over them, and examining his palms for traces of the deed, but finding none.
Then a fresh thought struck him, and after keenly watching Cornel to see if she noticed the action, he crept on tip-toe—a miserably bent, decrepit-looking figure—to where the tinkling sound had been heard, picked up a little ivory-handled stiletto, examined its blade in the faint light, with his back to the group by the inner room door, and, catching up a piece of Moorish scarf, wiped it quickly, and hid the weapon in his breast pocket.
Then creeping on tip-toe to the studio door, he listened, his face full of abject fear, and hearing nothing, he turned the key.
He glanced toward Cornel, whose back was toward him, as she busily went on with her task, hiding too his wife’s face from him by her position.
Hesitating for a moment or two, he then drew a deep breath, and crossed softly to where the bag lay open with some of the glittering jewels still hanging to its edge: great strings of pearls, and a necklet of diamonds.
These he hurriedly thrust back, and then went quickly and silently about, picking up rings, bracelets, brooches, and tiaras of emerald, ruby, diamond, and sapphire, till, with a sigh of satisfaction, he closed the morocco bag, the fastening giving forth a loud snap.
“Is—is she dead?” he whispered; and his lips were so close to Cornel’s ear that she started round, and let fall the wrist upon whose pulse her fingers were pressed.
“No,” she whispered. “I have staunched the wound till you can get proper help, but I fear internal bleeding.”
At that moment there was a piteous sigh followed by a low moan, and the beautiful dark eyes opened, to gaze vacantly for a few moments. Then intelligence came into them, as they rested upon Cornel, who was now bending over her.
“Ah,” she said softly, as her hand felt for Cornel’s, which was laid upon her brow; “you? Good for evil;” and she drew Cornel’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “Forgive me,” she whispered, “before I die. I loved him so.”
A curiously harsh low cry escaped from the Conte, who literally writhed in his jealous agony, and Valentina turned her eyes upon him where he stood dimly seen, as if looking at her from out of a mist.
“You there!” she said bitterly, as Cornel once more grasped her wrist. “Well, are you satisfied? You have killed my body, as you killed my love, when, as a young innocent girl, I was sold to you for your wealth and title, and Heaven knows I would have tried to be your true loving wife.”
“Oh, Valentina! my beautiful—my own!” he groaned; and he stooped to take her hand.
“Pah! don’t touch me!” she cried hoarsely; and she raised the hand she had snatched away, and pointed to the bag he held. “Take them to your mistresses whose smiles you have always bought. Let me die in peace.”
“No, no; live!” he cried.
“To save you from the punishment you merit?” she whispered scornfully.
“No, no! to be my dearest love and wife again. Let us go back to sunny Italy, away from all this miserable city.”
“Too late!” she said sadly. “You should have said that years ago.”
“For pity’s sake don’t speak,” whispered Cornel.
“Why not, little doctor?” said Valentina softly. “Better so. Ah, I was not all bad, dear. I loved him before I knew of you. How could I help looking on you with jealous hate? Let me kiss you once—before I go. Be loving to him and forgive him—it was all my fault—tell me you will forgive him—when I am gone.”
“With all my heart,” said Cornel softly; and she bent down to press her lips to those of the suffering woman, while the tears over-ran her brimming eyelids, and her heart swelled with pity for one so deeply punished for her sin.
But as if the Contessa recollected the scene of a short time before, she thrust the gentle face away before lips touched lips, and with a loud cry—
“No, no! I had forgotten. I remember now. How could you be so base? No! don’t touch me. I will see him once again. Armstrong!—my love—my own.”
She dragged herself over, and began to crawl to the door, when the Conte’s face became convulsed with passion once more, his hand sought his breast, the bag fell to the ground, and with an oath he cried—
“Then he is in there!—in hiding.”
Springing over the crawling figure, he dashed through to the inner room, and, as Valentina uttered a piteous moan, the Conte flung open the bedroom door.
“Dog!—Coward!” he yelled, and then stopped, petrified at the sight of the motionless figure upon the bed. Then the door swung to between them, and he thrust back the little blade, and came stealthily out, muttering softly to himself as he bent over his wife, insensible to all that passed.
He was trembling violently now.
“I did not know,” he muttered to Cornel. “I struck him when I found them together, but I did not know. I—I must go—away. Your laws are bad. An affair of honour. Will—will she die too?”
“I cannot say,” replied Cornel coldly. “She must have better surgical help. I am only a nurse.”
“Yes,” he said hastily. “Better help. A great surgeon. She must not die. I will get a carriage and take her away.”
“It would be dangerous to move her.”
“More dangerous far to leave her here,” he muttered. Then aloud, “It must be risked, madam. But listen. You are his friend?”
“Yes.”
“This is a terrible misfortune, but a private matter—not for the police. You will not tell them how—by accident—I struck my wife?”
“No,” said Cornel, after a pause; and a shudder ran through her.
“Hah! Then the law need not meddle with what was a private quarrel—a mistake. My wife, here, shall live, and you who are so good and beautiful and kind, you shall be silent, and—one moment.”
He fumbled with the clasp of the bag he had picked up, opened it, and, as Cornel’s brows contracted with horror, he searched within and drew out a magnificent diamond and sapphire bracelet.
“Hah!” he cried. “You will wear that for both our sakes, and be silent, and blind to the past.”
“I will be silent and blind, for the sake of the man I loved,” she said to herself, as she thrust back the jewel and shook her head.
“But you will not tell?” he said.
“No, sir; your secret is safe.”
The Conte uttered a sigh of satisfaction, threw back the bracelet, and closed the bag with a snap, while Cornel eyed him with disgust.
“Do you intend to risk removing this lady?”
“Certainly,” he said firmly; “it must be done. Lock the door after me,” he whispered, as he crossed the studio.
Cornel followed and obeyed, listening to his descending steps. Then, returning to where Valentina lay insensible, she satisfied herself of the security of the bandages, and once more felt her pulse.
“If there is no internal bleeding she will live. Yes, I will forgive you. Some day you may know the truth. And then? Ah, who can tell?”
She bent down and kissed the broad forehead, and then knelt there for a few moments before rising and going quickly into Armstrong’s bedroom to gaze at him for a minute, and return, carefully closing after her both the doors.
She kept her vigil there for a few minutes before there were steps again, and a soft tap at the door.
She admitted the Conte.
“I have a carriage waiting, and a man here to help,” he said.
“I am not clever and experienced,” said Cornel anxiously. “Let a doctor see her first.”
For answer the Conte gave her a quick nod.
“It is secrecy, is it not?”
“Oh yes, but—”
“The best London can give,” he whispered. “When I have her back at home. And you understand that was nonsense which I said about striking him?”
The bag was on his arm, with his hand pushed far through, as he went back to the door, and signalled to a man to come in. Then seeing that this removal was inevitable, Cornel rapidly replaced the cloak well round the insensible figure, and rearranged the head.
“Don’t—don’t waste time,” said the Conte impatiently, and signing to the man, the latter bent down and lifted the motionless figure as easily as if it had been a child.
“Be careful, my friend. A sad accident. Be careful. Mind.”
He opened the door for the man to pass through, and Cornel followed them, to listen to the heavy descending steps, till all was silent. Then came the rattle of wheels, and she knew that they were gone.
Closing the door of the studio, she walked across it, dropped upon her knees, and clasped her hands.
“Have I done rightly?” she murmured. “I don’t know. It seems like madness now.” Then a weary sigh, as she laid her head against the door leading to the chamber. “Armstrong! what I have suffered for your sake!”
Chapter Thirty.The Last.“And you gave him enough to keep him in that insensible state?” said Dr Thorpe next night, after seeing and treating Armstrong, who lay in a weak, half-delirious state.Cornel nodded and gazed wildly at her brother, who continued—“To keep him from going abroad to fight this duel?”“Yes, I felt sure that the Conte would kill him.”“And serve him right. Well,” he went on, as his sister winced at his harsh words, “this proves the truth of the saying—‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,’ You know a bit about narcotics and anaesthetics, and you may congratulate yourself upon not having killed him. But there, perhaps, it was right; and anyhow, you have saved him.”“You think he will recover now?” she cried eagerly.“Think so? Oh yes! of course. Nothing to prevent him. Only wants time. But it’s nothing to you.”“How is the Contessa?”“Getting better, I hear. Fact is, I met the surgeon who is attending her at the society. But never mind them. I shall have done all I want here in less than a fortnight. That is when theSpartaniasails, so be ready, and let’s get back.”“Yes, dear,” said Cornel quietly, “I shall have finished my task, too.”Two years later Armstrong Dale went back home, but only for a visit, for his fame was increasing rapidly, and he had more commissions than he could undertake. He wanted help and counsel, and he brought them back with him, for he did not return to London alone.Four more years had elapsed, and that season there was a great deal of talk about Armstrong Dale’s big picture at the Academy. The press had praised it unanimously; society had endorsed the critics’ words; and it was sold for a heavy sum. But though he was importuned to take portraits, Armstrong sternly refused.The picture that year was a fanciful subject of a beautiful woman reclining upon a tiger skin, with a huge cluster of orange maculated lilies thrust, as if by careless hands, into a magnificent repoussé copper vase. And as he painted it, he had turned to his wife one day, and said, “I can’t help it, Little Heart; it will come so like her. I shall paint it out and give up.”Then he seized a cloth to pass across the fresh paint, but Cornel caught his wrist.“Absurd!” she cried. “That magnificent piece of work—and because of a fancied resemblance?”“Then you do not mind?” he said sadly.Palette, brushes, and mahlstick were slowly and softly taken from his hands, which were drawn round Cornel’s neck, and she nestled closely in his breast.“Mind? No,” she said gently; “let the dead past bury its dead.”The picture went to the Academy then, and was the most discussed work of the year.One sunny morning early, so as to be before the crush, Armstrong and his wife walked through the principal room, joined together by a little fairy-like golden-haired link, whose bright eyes flashed with delight as she clung to the hand on either side, for she was at her urgent request being taken “to see papa’s picture—‘The Tiger Lily.’”The trio had been standing in front of it for some minutes, when, after playfully responding to the happy child’s many questions, Cornel and Armstrong turned to take her round the room, but both stopped short as if petrified.For within a couple of yards stood Valentina, pale as death, her eyes abnormally large, and her whole countenance telling of bodily suffering and mental pain.Beside her was an invalid-chair, occupied by a wasted, prematurely old man, wrapped in furs—in May—and attended by a servant, who stood motionless behind.The meeting was a surprise, and all present save one remained fascinated by some spell.The silence was broken by Valentina, who took a step forward, and held out her hand, while Armstrong saw at a glance that the Conte was gazing vacantly at the pictures, his eyes dull and glazed, the light of recognition being absent.“It is six years since we met, Mrs Dale,” said the Contessa softly, but the tones of her voice were changed, and she turned her head slightly to let her eyes rest upon Armstrong. “As in all human probability we shall never meet again, I cannot resist referring once to the past—to thank your sweet wife for the life she saved.”“Oh, pray,” whispered Cornel in a tremulous voice, “no more.”“No,” said Valentina, holding Cornel’s hand tightly, and gazing wildly in her eyes, though her voice was very calm. “We go back to Italy at once. My husband, who is a great invalid, seems better there.”She paused for a moment, as if to gain strength to continue; and then, in a low, passionate whisper, full of the maternal longing of an unsatisfied heart—“Your child? May I kiss her once?”Cornel bowed her head—she could not speak, but held the child a little forward, and Valentina bent down.“Will you kiss me?” she asked.The bright, innocent eyes looked smilingly up, and the silvery voice said, as the soft little arms clasped her neck—“Yes, I’ll give you two.” Then, as she was held tightly for a few moments, “Do you like dear papa’s picture? I saw him make it. Is it you?”The eager, wondering question sent a pang through three breasts, but not another word was uttered, till the invalid-chair and its attendants had passed through the door close by.It was the child who broke the silence just as Cornel had stolen her hand to her husband’s side to press his with a long, firm, trusting grasp.“Why did that lady cry when she kissed me, mamma? I know:” the child added quickly. “It was because that poor gentleman is so ill.”It was the winter of the same year when Armstrong was seated by his studio fire with his child upon his knee, and Cornel upon the rug, with the warm light of the fire upon her cheek—not in the old studio, but the great, artistically furnished salon in Kensington. The door opened, and a gruff voice exclaimed—“May I come in?”The child uttered a cry of delight, sprang from her father’s knee, and dashed across the studio, to begin dragging forward the rough grey-beard in a shabby velvet coat, and soft black hat.He raised her in his arms, and bore her forward caressingly, to sit chatting for some time. Then Cornel rose and took the child’s hand.“Come, dear,” she said. “Your tea-time.”“No, no. I want to stop with Uncle Joe.”“Uncle Joe wants to talk to papa about business,” said Cornel, with a nod and a smile, as she drew the little one away. “You shall come in to dessert if you are good.”She nodded, smiling at the rough-looking old friend, and then tripped out playfully with the child.“Light your pipe, old man,” said Armstrong. “Is it business?”“Yes. Your wife reads my face like a book. Have you seen to-day’s paper?”“No. Been growling all day at the bad light and playing with Tiny.”“Read that, then.”Pacey passed a crumpled newspaper, folded small, and under the Paris news Armstrong read—“M. Leronde has been appointed French Consul at Constantinople, and leaves Marseilles by the Messageries Maritimes steamerCorne d’Oron Friday.”“Well, I am glad. Hang it, Joe, I could find it in my heart to run over to Paris to have one dinner with him, and say ‘Good-bye.’”“No time,” said Pacey gruffly. “Now read that.” He took back the paper and doubled it again, so that the front page was outward, and pointed to the column of deaths.Armstrong started, and for some moments held the paper with his eyes fixed upon his friend, in whose countenance he seemed to divine what was to come.He was in no wise surprised, when he looked down, to find the name Dellatoria, and he began to read the announcement with the remembrance that the Conte’s face, when they last met, bore the stamp of impending death; but he was not prepared for what he did read. The type was blurred, and the paper quivered a little as he saw as through a mist the name Valentina, the age thirty, Rome, and then the last words stood out clearly—“Only surviving the Conte Dellatoria four days.”“Chapter the last, boy,” said Pacey, taking back the paper, and folding it tightly before replacing it in his breast pocket.“Yes,” said Armstrong slowly, as he mentally looked backward through the golden mists of six years, “chapter the last.”The End.
“And you gave him enough to keep him in that insensible state?” said Dr Thorpe next night, after seeing and treating Armstrong, who lay in a weak, half-delirious state.
Cornel nodded and gazed wildly at her brother, who continued—
“To keep him from going abroad to fight this duel?”
“Yes, I felt sure that the Conte would kill him.”
“And serve him right. Well,” he went on, as his sister winced at his harsh words, “this proves the truth of the saying—‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,’ You know a bit about narcotics and anaesthetics, and you may congratulate yourself upon not having killed him. But there, perhaps, it was right; and anyhow, you have saved him.”
“You think he will recover now?” she cried eagerly.
“Think so? Oh yes! of course. Nothing to prevent him. Only wants time. But it’s nothing to you.”
“How is the Contessa?”
“Getting better, I hear. Fact is, I met the surgeon who is attending her at the society. But never mind them. I shall have done all I want here in less than a fortnight. That is when theSpartaniasails, so be ready, and let’s get back.”
“Yes, dear,” said Cornel quietly, “I shall have finished my task, too.”
Two years later Armstrong Dale went back home, but only for a visit, for his fame was increasing rapidly, and he had more commissions than he could undertake. He wanted help and counsel, and he brought them back with him, for he did not return to London alone.
Four more years had elapsed, and that season there was a great deal of talk about Armstrong Dale’s big picture at the Academy. The press had praised it unanimously; society had endorsed the critics’ words; and it was sold for a heavy sum. But though he was importuned to take portraits, Armstrong sternly refused.
The picture that year was a fanciful subject of a beautiful woman reclining upon a tiger skin, with a huge cluster of orange maculated lilies thrust, as if by careless hands, into a magnificent repoussé copper vase. And as he painted it, he had turned to his wife one day, and said, “I can’t help it, Little Heart; it will come so like her. I shall paint it out and give up.”
Then he seized a cloth to pass across the fresh paint, but Cornel caught his wrist.
“Absurd!” she cried. “That magnificent piece of work—and because of a fancied resemblance?”
“Then you do not mind?” he said sadly.
Palette, brushes, and mahlstick were slowly and softly taken from his hands, which were drawn round Cornel’s neck, and she nestled closely in his breast.
“Mind? No,” she said gently; “let the dead past bury its dead.”
The picture went to the Academy then, and was the most discussed work of the year.
One sunny morning early, so as to be before the crush, Armstrong and his wife walked through the principal room, joined together by a little fairy-like golden-haired link, whose bright eyes flashed with delight as she clung to the hand on either side, for she was at her urgent request being taken “to see papa’s picture—‘The Tiger Lily.’”
The trio had been standing in front of it for some minutes, when, after playfully responding to the happy child’s many questions, Cornel and Armstrong turned to take her round the room, but both stopped short as if petrified.
For within a couple of yards stood Valentina, pale as death, her eyes abnormally large, and her whole countenance telling of bodily suffering and mental pain.
Beside her was an invalid-chair, occupied by a wasted, prematurely old man, wrapped in furs—in May—and attended by a servant, who stood motionless behind.
The meeting was a surprise, and all present save one remained fascinated by some spell.
The silence was broken by Valentina, who took a step forward, and held out her hand, while Armstrong saw at a glance that the Conte was gazing vacantly at the pictures, his eyes dull and glazed, the light of recognition being absent.
“It is six years since we met, Mrs Dale,” said the Contessa softly, but the tones of her voice were changed, and she turned her head slightly to let her eyes rest upon Armstrong. “As in all human probability we shall never meet again, I cannot resist referring once to the past—to thank your sweet wife for the life she saved.”
“Oh, pray,” whispered Cornel in a tremulous voice, “no more.”
“No,” said Valentina, holding Cornel’s hand tightly, and gazing wildly in her eyes, though her voice was very calm. “We go back to Italy at once. My husband, who is a great invalid, seems better there.”
She paused for a moment, as if to gain strength to continue; and then, in a low, passionate whisper, full of the maternal longing of an unsatisfied heart—
“Your child? May I kiss her once?”
Cornel bowed her head—she could not speak, but held the child a little forward, and Valentina bent down.
“Will you kiss me?” she asked.
The bright, innocent eyes looked smilingly up, and the silvery voice said, as the soft little arms clasped her neck—
“Yes, I’ll give you two.” Then, as she was held tightly for a few moments, “Do you like dear papa’s picture? I saw him make it. Is it you?”
The eager, wondering question sent a pang through three breasts, but not another word was uttered, till the invalid-chair and its attendants had passed through the door close by.
It was the child who broke the silence just as Cornel had stolen her hand to her husband’s side to press his with a long, firm, trusting grasp.
“Why did that lady cry when she kissed me, mamma? I know:” the child added quickly. “It was because that poor gentleman is so ill.”
It was the winter of the same year when Armstrong was seated by his studio fire with his child upon his knee, and Cornel upon the rug, with the warm light of the fire upon her cheek—not in the old studio, but the great, artistically furnished salon in Kensington. The door opened, and a gruff voice exclaimed—
“May I come in?”
The child uttered a cry of delight, sprang from her father’s knee, and dashed across the studio, to begin dragging forward the rough grey-beard in a shabby velvet coat, and soft black hat.
He raised her in his arms, and bore her forward caressingly, to sit chatting for some time. Then Cornel rose and took the child’s hand.
“Come, dear,” she said. “Your tea-time.”
“No, no. I want to stop with Uncle Joe.”
“Uncle Joe wants to talk to papa about business,” said Cornel, with a nod and a smile, as she drew the little one away. “You shall come in to dessert if you are good.”
She nodded, smiling at the rough-looking old friend, and then tripped out playfully with the child.
“Light your pipe, old man,” said Armstrong. “Is it business?”
“Yes. Your wife reads my face like a book. Have you seen to-day’s paper?”
“No. Been growling all day at the bad light and playing with Tiny.”
“Read that, then.”
Pacey passed a crumpled newspaper, folded small, and under the Paris news Armstrong read—
“M. Leronde has been appointed French Consul at Constantinople, and leaves Marseilles by the Messageries Maritimes steamerCorne d’Oron Friday.”
“Well, I am glad. Hang it, Joe, I could find it in my heart to run over to Paris to have one dinner with him, and say ‘Good-bye.’”
“No time,” said Pacey gruffly. “Now read that.” He took back the paper and doubled it again, so that the front page was outward, and pointed to the column of deaths.
Armstrong started, and for some moments held the paper with his eyes fixed upon his friend, in whose countenance he seemed to divine what was to come.
He was in no wise surprised, when he looked down, to find the name Dellatoria, and he began to read the announcement with the remembrance that the Conte’s face, when they last met, bore the stamp of impending death; but he was not prepared for what he did read. The type was blurred, and the paper quivered a little as he saw as through a mist the name Valentina, the age thirty, Rome, and then the last words stood out clearly—“Only surviving the Conte Dellatoria four days.”
“Chapter the last, boy,” said Pacey, taking back the paper, and folding it tightly before replacing it in his breast pocket.
“Yes,” said Armstrong slowly, as he mentally looked backward through the golden mists of six years, “chapter the last.”
The End.
|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12| |Chapter 13| |Chapter 14| |Chapter 15| |Chapter 16| |Chapter 17| |Chapter 18| |Chapter 19| |Chapter 20| |Chapter 21| |Chapter 22| |Chapter 23| |Chapter 24| |Chapter 25| |Chapter 26| |Chapter 27| |Chapter 28| |Chapter 29| |Chapter 30|