Chapter Twenty Three.Too Late.“And my poor painting,” said Armstrong, smiling, as Valentina, cloaked and ready to go once more, still clung to him—“not a step farther;” and he unlocked the door.“No,” she whispered softly, “not a step farther,” and she looked up through her thick veil in his saddened face. “Let fate be kind to us and the work go on for years and years.”“Until I am old and grey.”“And I a bent, withered creature,” she whispered. “No; you will never be old and grey in my eyes, but always the same as now. Can you say that to me?”She laid her hands upon his shoulders, and forced him back, so that she could gaze searchingly in his eyes.“Yes!” he cried passionately. “You know only too well.”“Yes, I know it well,” she murmured. “And it shall go on and on. What is the praise of a fickle public worth? It is your masterpiece, but what of that? It might bring you fame and fortune, but it has already brought us love that can know no change.”“That can know no change, dearest. Now you must go, or you will be breaking faith with me again to-morrow, and you have made me so that I cannot live without you now.”“Yes, once more,” she sighed, “I must go—back to my gilded prison.”She clung to him fondly again, and her voice was very soft and tender, as she rested her brow upon his breast.“When will you say to me—‘Stay; go back no more?’ Armstrong, this life is killing me. End all the miserable trickery and subterfuge. That woman is planning and plotting to take my place. Once it roused up all my pride and hatred; now all that is past. Let him sue for his divorce if Lady Grayson wishes, and then I shall have my revenge: for he will laugh in her false, deceitful face. Marry her?—Not he.—What is it, dearest?”He had started back, and as she raised her eyes, she saw that he was looking angrily at something behind her.She turned slowly, calling upon herself for readiness to meet the face of her husband, as she believed, but it was Cornel standing just within the doorway, flushed, proud, and stern, and she uttered a sigh of relief.“A domani, signore,” she said quietly to Armstrong, and then turned and took a step toward the door, but Cornel raised her hand, and the proud, haughty-looking figure shrank back a step or two in surprise.“Stop!” said Cornel firmly; and she closed the door behind. “I wish to speak to you both.”“Cornel!” cried Armstrong, in a low and excited voice, “this is madness. For Heaven’s sake, go. Have you no delicacy—no shame?”“You ask me that!” she cried scornfully; and he shrank from her indignant eyes. “Man, where is your own delicacy?—woman, where is your shame? I claim the right—in the name of truth and honour—to come and upbraid you both.”Valentina made a gesture with her hands, and turned to Armstrong to say in French—“What does the strange lady mean?”Cornel took a step forward, with her eyes flashing.“Mean, Lady Dellatoria!” she cried loudly; and her rival started and drew herself up.“Cornel! Silence, for Heaven’s sake.”“You invoke Heaven?” she cried; and she turned from him with a look of disgust and scorn. “It means,” she cried, “that this is no scene in amateur theatricals played by your set, but real life. You are face to face with me—the woman whose love you have outraged, whose life you have wrecked as well as his. And for what? Your pastime for a few weeks.”“No!” said Valentina, throwing back her head and seizing Armstrong’s hand, to hold it tightly between her own. “He is mine—my love for ever. I told you, when you came and defied me, that I could laugh at your girlish efforts to separate us—for it was fate. There, you have tracked me down and seen; now go.”“Yes, I have tracked you down and seen, and you throw off your contemptible disguise—this paltry cloaking and veiling. Armstrong, is this the type of the boasted British woman—an example to the world?”“Cornel, silence! Pray go!”“Not yet. I have a right here in the home of my affianced husband. I find him being dragged to ruin and despair by a heartless creature, devoid of love as she is of shame.”“You lie!” cried Valentina fiercely, as she made a quick movement toward Cornel, but Armstrong held her back. “Yes,” she said, calming as quickly as she had flashed into rage; “poor child, she is half mad with misery and disappointment. I will not speak—but pity.”Cornel held out her hands to Armstrong as Lady Dellatoria half turned away and linked her fingers upon his arm.“Before it is too late, Armstrong,” said Cornel softly. “No word of reproach shall ever come from those who love you.”He shook his head.“Listen, dear,” she whispered, but her voice thrilled both. “I come to you a weak woman, but strong in my armour of love and truth. They tell me it is lowering, weak, and contemptible—that I am utterly lost to a woman’s sense of dignity and shame. But they do not know my love for you—yes, my love for you, I say it even before this creature, who cannot know the depth and truth of a true woman’s love—I come, I say, once again to plead, to beg of you to come. Let her go back to her own people; come you to yours, before it is too late.”“It is too late, girl,” said Valentina gently. “I forgive you all you have said in ignorance that my love is stronger, more womanly, than yours. In Heaven’s sight this is my husband now. We sorrow for you, and can pity. But go now, and leave us in peace. I tell you again—it is too late.”“Yes,” said Cornel, with a piteous sigh. “God forgive you, Armstrong! I am beaten.” Then, as if inspired, her eyes flashed, and the colour left her cheeks, and she cried wildly, “Yes, it is too late.” There were voices on the stairs coming plainly to them, for Cornel had in ignorance left the door unlatched, so that the sounds were uninterrupted.“He’s got a lady with him.”“I know, girl. Stand aside. Do you know who I am?”“Yes, sir; Count Delly-tory, sir.”“Yes!” cried Cornel, with a wail of horror; “her husband. Then it is indeed too late.”“No!” cried Valentina fiercely; “your opportunity for revenge.”She drew back, and stood there erect and proud, with defiance flashing through her thick veil as the Conte entered, quickly followed by Lady Grayson. A heavy, gold-topped, ebony stick was in his hand, his lips were compressed, and it was plain to see in his pallid face and dilated nostrils that he was struggling with suppressed passion.He was making straight for Armstrong when his eyes fell upon Cornel, who stood now white and calm, as if ready to interpose. Then he looked sharply at the cloaked and veiled figure just on the artist’s right.He stopped in astonishment, confused, and as if the supply of vital force which had urged him on had suddenly been checked.It was Armstrong’s opportunity. A few carelessly spoken, contemptuous utterances as to the meaning of this intrusion and the like would have sufficed to send the Conte back, mortified, and in utter ignorance, to vent his rage upon Lady Grayson, who, in her malignant desire to cast down her dearest confidante and friend from her throne, had brought him on there to be a witness of one of his wife’s secret meetings with her lover, such as she had vowed to him were taking place. But Armstrong, in utter scorn of all subterfuge, stood there manly and ready to meet the man in full defiance, come what might.A terrible silence followed, of moments that felt to all like hours, while each waited for others to speak.It was Cornel’s opportunity too, to bring her rival to her knees and sweep her for ever from her path, and Valentina felt it as she stood there with her teeth clenched and face convulsed behind the thick veil. For, after all, in spite of her bravery and readiness to defy the man whose name she bore, she was a woman still, and instinctively shrank from the dénouement, knowing as she did that a terrible scene must follow; and another later, in spite of English laws, for it was an Italian pitted against a man who would dare all.But Cornel remained silent, and Lady Grayson scanned all in turn, ending by fixing her eyes upon the great canvas whose back was toward them where they stood.“I—I beg pardon—some mistake,” stammered the Conte. “I did not know that—Curse you,” he whispered to Lady Grayson, and relapsing in his excitement into broken English, “You make me with you silly cock-bull tale a fool.”Armstrong still made no movement, said no word, but Lady Grayson read him as if he were an open page laid before her, and her eyes twinkled and flashed.The keen-witted American girl saw it too, and with all her gentleness and love, she possessed the quick perception and readiness of a people born in a clearer air and warmer clime. In those moments, with all her hatred and scorn for the woman who was the blight upon her life, she shrank in all the tenderness of her nature from seeing her humbled to the very dust. More; she grasped the horror of the situation; how that, beneath the weak flippancy of the man of fashion, there smouldered the hot passions of his countrymen—passions which, once roused, are as hot and destructive as the lava of their great volcano. She saw in imagination, blows, and Armstrong injuring or injured, either being too horrible to be borne. Lastly, she grasped Lady Grayson’s plan.“It is for his sake,” she said to herself, “not for hers;” and as, apparently prompted by a whisper from Lady Grayson, the blood flushed into the Conte’s face again and he fixed his eyes on his wife, Cornel stepped forward and held out her hand.“Good-bye, Mr Dale,” she said gently; “you have business with this lady and gentleman; we shall see you another time. Come, signora.”She turned and held out her hand to Valentina, proving herself a better actress, for there was a smile upon her lip, and she bent forward as if whispering something through the veil, the only utterances being the words—“Don’t hesitate. Quick!”Valentina stared at her—half stunned. Then, as if moved by a stronger will than her own, she laid one white hand on Cornel’s arm, and, just bending her head to Armstrong, they moved slowly toward the door.It was the left hand, and ungloved.Cornel saw it, and could not restrain a start.The hand was ungloved, and upon it sparkled several rings—for there had been no need of late to keep up the disguise so closely—and one of those rings was of plain gold.They were nearly at the door, the Conte drawing back on one side to let them pass, Lady Grayson on the other, Armstrong still motionless, and feeling as if a hand were compressing his throat, while Cornel, as she went on with the set smile upon her lip, felt that the hand upon her arm trembled, and fancied she heard a sob.“It is for his sake,” she said to herself, “for his sake;” and the next minute they would have been outside the door, when, with one quick movement, Lady Grayson reached out her hand, and snatched the veil from Valentina’s face.The Conte uttered a cry of rage, and made a dash at her, but she avoided him, and sprang toward Armstrong, who caught her to his breast, but so as to have his right hand at liberty.But it was not free in time, for the Conte, with a cry of rage, swung round, and brought down the heavy ebony stick with a sickening crash upon the artist’s head, then caught Valentina from him as he fell inert and senseless upon the floor.“Well, am I such a simple idiot and fool?” said Lady Grayson in a quick whisper.“Yes; to talk now,” was the fierce reply. “Help me; get her away, or I shall kill him.”Without another word she went to Valentina’s side, and between them they dragged her, sick at heart, trembling, and half fainting, out of the studio and down the stairs to Lady Grayson’s carriage, which was waiting at the door.“Is anything the matter, miss? Can I do anything?” said a voice.Cornel looked up from where she was kneeling on one of the rugs with Armstrong’s head in her lap, and saw that the grimy little face of Keren-Happuch was peering in at the door.Cornel looked at her wildly for a few moments, and then, in a low hoarse voice, whispered—“Yes: quick, water!” Then, with a piteous sigh, “Oh, the blood—the blood! Help!—quick, quick! He is dying. Oh, my love, my love, that it should come to this!”
“And my poor painting,” said Armstrong, smiling, as Valentina, cloaked and ready to go once more, still clung to him—“not a step farther;” and he unlocked the door.
“No,” she whispered softly, “not a step farther,” and she looked up through her thick veil in his saddened face. “Let fate be kind to us and the work go on for years and years.”
“Until I am old and grey.”
“And I a bent, withered creature,” she whispered. “No; you will never be old and grey in my eyes, but always the same as now. Can you say that to me?”
She laid her hands upon his shoulders, and forced him back, so that she could gaze searchingly in his eyes.
“Yes!” he cried passionately. “You know only too well.”
“Yes, I know it well,” she murmured. “And it shall go on and on. What is the praise of a fickle public worth? It is your masterpiece, but what of that? It might bring you fame and fortune, but it has already brought us love that can know no change.”
“That can know no change, dearest. Now you must go, or you will be breaking faith with me again to-morrow, and you have made me so that I cannot live without you now.”
“Yes, once more,” she sighed, “I must go—back to my gilded prison.”
She clung to him fondly again, and her voice was very soft and tender, as she rested her brow upon his breast.
“When will you say to me—‘Stay; go back no more?’ Armstrong, this life is killing me. End all the miserable trickery and subterfuge. That woman is planning and plotting to take my place. Once it roused up all my pride and hatred; now all that is past. Let him sue for his divorce if Lady Grayson wishes, and then I shall have my revenge: for he will laugh in her false, deceitful face. Marry her?—Not he.—What is it, dearest?”
He had started back, and as she raised her eyes, she saw that he was looking angrily at something behind her.
She turned slowly, calling upon herself for readiness to meet the face of her husband, as she believed, but it was Cornel standing just within the doorway, flushed, proud, and stern, and she uttered a sigh of relief.
“A domani, signore,” she said quietly to Armstrong, and then turned and took a step toward the door, but Cornel raised her hand, and the proud, haughty-looking figure shrank back a step or two in surprise.
“Stop!” said Cornel firmly; and she closed the door behind. “I wish to speak to you both.”
“Cornel!” cried Armstrong, in a low and excited voice, “this is madness. For Heaven’s sake, go. Have you no delicacy—no shame?”
“You ask me that!” she cried scornfully; and he shrank from her indignant eyes. “Man, where is your own delicacy?—woman, where is your shame? I claim the right—in the name of truth and honour—to come and upbraid you both.”
Valentina made a gesture with her hands, and turned to Armstrong to say in French—
“What does the strange lady mean?”
Cornel took a step forward, with her eyes flashing.
“Mean, Lady Dellatoria!” she cried loudly; and her rival started and drew herself up.
“Cornel! Silence, for Heaven’s sake.”
“You invoke Heaven?” she cried; and she turned from him with a look of disgust and scorn. “It means,” she cried, “that this is no scene in amateur theatricals played by your set, but real life. You are face to face with me—the woman whose love you have outraged, whose life you have wrecked as well as his. And for what? Your pastime for a few weeks.”
“No!” said Valentina, throwing back her head and seizing Armstrong’s hand, to hold it tightly between her own. “He is mine—my love for ever. I told you, when you came and defied me, that I could laugh at your girlish efforts to separate us—for it was fate. There, you have tracked me down and seen; now go.”
“Yes, I have tracked you down and seen, and you throw off your contemptible disguise—this paltry cloaking and veiling. Armstrong, is this the type of the boasted British woman—an example to the world?”
“Cornel, silence! Pray go!”
“Not yet. I have a right here in the home of my affianced husband. I find him being dragged to ruin and despair by a heartless creature, devoid of love as she is of shame.”
“You lie!” cried Valentina fiercely, as she made a quick movement toward Cornel, but Armstrong held her back. “Yes,” she said, calming as quickly as she had flashed into rage; “poor child, she is half mad with misery and disappointment. I will not speak—but pity.”
Cornel held out her hands to Armstrong as Lady Dellatoria half turned away and linked her fingers upon his arm.
“Before it is too late, Armstrong,” said Cornel softly. “No word of reproach shall ever come from those who love you.”
He shook his head.
“Listen, dear,” she whispered, but her voice thrilled both. “I come to you a weak woman, but strong in my armour of love and truth. They tell me it is lowering, weak, and contemptible—that I am utterly lost to a woman’s sense of dignity and shame. But they do not know my love for you—yes, my love for you, I say it even before this creature, who cannot know the depth and truth of a true woman’s love—I come, I say, once again to plead, to beg of you to come. Let her go back to her own people; come you to yours, before it is too late.”
“It is too late, girl,” said Valentina gently. “I forgive you all you have said in ignorance that my love is stronger, more womanly, than yours. In Heaven’s sight this is my husband now. We sorrow for you, and can pity. But go now, and leave us in peace. I tell you again—it is too late.”
“Yes,” said Cornel, with a piteous sigh. “God forgive you, Armstrong! I am beaten.” Then, as if inspired, her eyes flashed, and the colour left her cheeks, and she cried wildly, “Yes, it is too late.” There were voices on the stairs coming plainly to them, for Cornel had in ignorance left the door unlatched, so that the sounds were uninterrupted.
“He’s got a lady with him.”
“I know, girl. Stand aside. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir; Count Delly-tory, sir.”
“Yes!” cried Cornel, with a wail of horror; “her husband. Then it is indeed too late.”
“No!” cried Valentina fiercely; “your opportunity for revenge.”
She drew back, and stood there erect and proud, with defiance flashing through her thick veil as the Conte entered, quickly followed by Lady Grayson. A heavy, gold-topped, ebony stick was in his hand, his lips were compressed, and it was plain to see in his pallid face and dilated nostrils that he was struggling with suppressed passion.
He was making straight for Armstrong when his eyes fell upon Cornel, who stood now white and calm, as if ready to interpose. Then he looked sharply at the cloaked and veiled figure just on the artist’s right.
He stopped in astonishment, confused, and as if the supply of vital force which had urged him on had suddenly been checked.
It was Armstrong’s opportunity. A few carelessly spoken, contemptuous utterances as to the meaning of this intrusion and the like would have sufficed to send the Conte back, mortified, and in utter ignorance, to vent his rage upon Lady Grayson, who, in her malignant desire to cast down her dearest confidante and friend from her throne, had brought him on there to be a witness of one of his wife’s secret meetings with her lover, such as she had vowed to him were taking place. But Armstrong, in utter scorn of all subterfuge, stood there manly and ready to meet the man in full defiance, come what might.
A terrible silence followed, of moments that felt to all like hours, while each waited for others to speak.
It was Cornel’s opportunity too, to bring her rival to her knees and sweep her for ever from her path, and Valentina felt it as she stood there with her teeth clenched and face convulsed behind the thick veil. For, after all, in spite of her bravery and readiness to defy the man whose name she bore, she was a woman still, and instinctively shrank from the dénouement, knowing as she did that a terrible scene must follow; and another later, in spite of English laws, for it was an Italian pitted against a man who would dare all.
But Cornel remained silent, and Lady Grayson scanned all in turn, ending by fixing her eyes upon the great canvas whose back was toward them where they stood.
“I—I beg pardon—some mistake,” stammered the Conte. “I did not know that—Curse you,” he whispered to Lady Grayson, and relapsing in his excitement into broken English, “You make me with you silly cock-bull tale a fool.”
Armstrong still made no movement, said no word, but Lady Grayson read him as if he were an open page laid before her, and her eyes twinkled and flashed.
The keen-witted American girl saw it too, and with all her gentleness and love, she possessed the quick perception and readiness of a people born in a clearer air and warmer clime. In those moments, with all her hatred and scorn for the woman who was the blight upon her life, she shrank in all the tenderness of her nature from seeing her humbled to the very dust. More; she grasped the horror of the situation; how that, beneath the weak flippancy of the man of fashion, there smouldered the hot passions of his countrymen—passions which, once roused, are as hot and destructive as the lava of their great volcano. She saw in imagination, blows, and Armstrong injuring or injured, either being too horrible to be borne. Lastly, she grasped Lady Grayson’s plan.
“It is for his sake,” she said to herself, “not for hers;” and as, apparently prompted by a whisper from Lady Grayson, the blood flushed into the Conte’s face again and he fixed his eyes on his wife, Cornel stepped forward and held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Mr Dale,” she said gently; “you have business with this lady and gentleman; we shall see you another time. Come, signora.”
She turned and held out her hand to Valentina, proving herself a better actress, for there was a smile upon her lip, and she bent forward as if whispering something through the veil, the only utterances being the words—
“Don’t hesitate. Quick!”
Valentina stared at her—half stunned. Then, as if moved by a stronger will than her own, she laid one white hand on Cornel’s arm, and, just bending her head to Armstrong, they moved slowly toward the door.
It was the left hand, and ungloved.
Cornel saw it, and could not restrain a start.
The hand was ungloved, and upon it sparkled several rings—for there had been no need of late to keep up the disguise so closely—and one of those rings was of plain gold.
They were nearly at the door, the Conte drawing back on one side to let them pass, Lady Grayson on the other, Armstrong still motionless, and feeling as if a hand were compressing his throat, while Cornel, as she went on with the set smile upon her lip, felt that the hand upon her arm trembled, and fancied she heard a sob.
“It is for his sake,” she said to herself, “for his sake;” and the next minute they would have been outside the door, when, with one quick movement, Lady Grayson reached out her hand, and snatched the veil from Valentina’s face.
The Conte uttered a cry of rage, and made a dash at her, but she avoided him, and sprang toward Armstrong, who caught her to his breast, but so as to have his right hand at liberty.
But it was not free in time, for the Conte, with a cry of rage, swung round, and brought down the heavy ebony stick with a sickening crash upon the artist’s head, then caught Valentina from him as he fell inert and senseless upon the floor.
“Well, am I such a simple idiot and fool?” said Lady Grayson in a quick whisper.
“Yes; to talk now,” was the fierce reply. “Help me; get her away, or I shall kill him.”
Without another word she went to Valentina’s side, and between them they dragged her, sick at heart, trembling, and half fainting, out of the studio and down the stairs to Lady Grayson’s carriage, which was waiting at the door.
“Is anything the matter, miss? Can I do anything?” said a voice.
Cornel looked up from where she was kneeling on one of the rugs with Armstrong’s head in her lap, and saw that the grimy little face of Keren-Happuch was peering in at the door.
Cornel looked at her wildly for a few moments, and then, in a low hoarse voice, whispered—
“Yes: quick, water!” Then, with a piteous sigh, “Oh, the blood—the blood! Help!—quick, quick! He is dying. Oh, my love, my love, that it should come to this!”
Chapter Twenty Four.The Awakening.“Don’t you be in a flurry, miss,” said Keren-Happuch coolly; “he ain’t so very bad. Here, you’ll soon see.”She rushed into the bedroom, and returned with a basin, sponge, and towel, which, to her surprise and annoyance, were taken from her hand; and she saw Cornel, with deft manipulation, bathe the cut, examine it, and then take from her pocket a little case, out of which she drew a pair of scissors and a leaf of adhesive plaster. A minute later she had closely clipped away a little of the hair, pressed the cut together, and cleverly strapped it up.“Hold this handkerchief pressed to it tightly, while I bathe his temples,” said Cornel; and, as the little maid obeyed, she watched with wide open eyes the pulse felt and the temples bathed before a few drops from a stoppered bottle were added to a wine-glass full of water, and gently poured between the insensible man’s lips.“Lor’, if she ain’t one o’ them female doctors,” thought Keren-Happuch. “Wonder what she’s give him to drink?”There was a singular look of dislike condensed into a frown on the girl’s brows as she watched Cornel, and a jealous scowl or two as she saw her take Armstrong’s hand and kneel by his side, waiting for some signs of returning animation; but at last it seemed as if the girl could not keep her tongue quiet.“I say,” she whispered, “are you a doctor, miss?”“No: my brother is a medical man, though, and I have been often to a hospital and helped him as a nurse.”“Oh, then you know what’s right. But oughtn’t he to have some beef-tea?”Cornel shook her head, and Keren-Happuch was silent for a few minutes, but she could refrain no longer.“You’re the ’Merican lady he was engaged to, aren’t you?”Cornel bowed.“I thought you was. I’ve took him your letters with Bosting on ’em, lots o’ times.”Cornel sighed.“You’re going to marry him, ain’t you?”“No.”“Then it’s all off?”“Yes.”Keren-Happuch looked relieved. The scowl disappeared from her countenance, and she smiled at Cornel.“Don’t you take on about it, miss. It ain’t worth it. I allers liked Mr Dale, and he makes me feel as if I’d do anything for him, and I allus have done as much as missus’d let me; but it’s no use to worry about artisses; they’re all like Mr Dale—all them as we’ve had here.”Cornel looked at her indignantly.“Oh, it ain’t my fault, miss. I never wanted him to have ladies come to see him. I’ve gone down into the kitchen along with our old cat, and had many a good cry about it. Not as he ever thought anything about me.”Cornel looked at the girl in wonder and horror.“But he was allus kind to me, and never called me names, and made fun of me like the others did. On’y Mirandy, and I didn’t mind that. Them others teased me orful, you know. Men ain’t much good; but you can’t help liking of ’em.”“Hush!” whispered Cornel; “he is coming to.” For there was a quivering about Dale’s lips, and then his eyes opened wildly, to gaze vacantly upward for some moments before memory reasserted itself, and he gave a sudden start and looked sharply round.Cornel suppressed a sigh.“Not for me,” she said to herself; and she was right. The look was not for her.She knew it directly, for he turned to her, caught her wrist, and said excitedly—“Gone?”“Yes; they are gone.”“But Lady Dellatoria—gone—with him?”The words seemed as if they would choke her, but Cornel spoke out quite plainly, and without a tremor in her voice, though there was a terrible compression at her breast.“Yes,” she said calmly, though every word she uttered caused her a pang; “she has gone back with her husband.”Armstrong lay perfectly still for a few minutes, thinking deeply. Then, as if resolved what to do, he said sharply—“Help me up.”Cornel bent over him, but he turned from her.“No, no, not you: Miranda.”The girl eagerly helped him to rise, and he leaned upon her as she guided him to a chair.“Thanks,” he said huskily. “Now, you wait there.”The girl stopped at the place he had pointed out, watching Armstrong as he signed to Cornel to approach, and held out his hand.She took it mechanically, and held it fast.“Thank you for what you have done,” he said.“Now go and forget me. You see I am hopelessly gone. It was to be, and it is of no use to fight against fate. Now go back to your brother.”“And leave you—sick?”“Yes; even if I were dying. God bless you, dear! Think of me as I used to be.”“Armstrong!” she cried, with her hands extended toward him. But he waved her off.“No, no. I am a scoundrel, but not black enough for that. Go back to your brother.”“Go?”“Yes; I insist. You cannot forgive me now.”She could bear no more. Her chin sank upon her breast, and with one low, heart-wrung sigh, she went quickly from the room.“Thank Heaven! that’s over,” muttered Armstrong. “Now for the end, and the quicker the better. Life is not worth living, after all.”He looked sharply round to where Keren-Happuch stood, wiping her eyes upon her apron.“Here, girl!” he cried.“Yes, Mr Dale, sir.”“Go at once to Mr Leronde’s rooms—you know—in Poland Street, and ask him to come on here at once.”“But are you fit to leave, sir?”“Yes, yes. Go quickly.”The girl hurried off on her mission, leaving the artist thinking.“He would challenge me if I did not challenge him. I suppose it ought to come from me after the blow, for me to prove that I am not ‘un lâche,’ as our French friends term it. A duel! What a mockery! Well, better so. Let him shoot me, and have done with it. There is not room here for us both. Poor Cornel! It will be like making some expiation. It will leave her free. She can deal more tenderly with my memory as dead than she could with me living still. I should be a blight upon her pure young life. Ah! if we had never met.”He lay back feverish and excited, for the blow had had terrible effect, and there were minutes when he was half-delirious, and had hard work to control his thoughts.For he was wandering away now with Cornel, who had forgiven him because Valentina was dead. Then it was Cornel who was dead, and he was with the Contessa far away in some glorious land of flowers, fruit, and sunshine; but the fruit was bitter, the flowers gave forth the scent of poison, and the sun beat down heavily upon his head, scorching his throbbing brain.He woke up from a dream crowded with strange fancies, and uttered an ejaculation of satisfaction, for his brain was clear again, and the young Frenchman was standing before him, waiting to know why he had been fetched.
“Don’t you be in a flurry, miss,” said Keren-Happuch coolly; “he ain’t so very bad. Here, you’ll soon see.”
She rushed into the bedroom, and returned with a basin, sponge, and towel, which, to her surprise and annoyance, were taken from her hand; and she saw Cornel, with deft manipulation, bathe the cut, examine it, and then take from her pocket a little case, out of which she drew a pair of scissors and a leaf of adhesive plaster. A minute later she had closely clipped away a little of the hair, pressed the cut together, and cleverly strapped it up.
“Hold this handkerchief pressed to it tightly, while I bathe his temples,” said Cornel; and, as the little maid obeyed, she watched with wide open eyes the pulse felt and the temples bathed before a few drops from a stoppered bottle were added to a wine-glass full of water, and gently poured between the insensible man’s lips.
“Lor’, if she ain’t one o’ them female doctors,” thought Keren-Happuch. “Wonder what she’s give him to drink?”
There was a singular look of dislike condensed into a frown on the girl’s brows as she watched Cornel, and a jealous scowl or two as she saw her take Armstrong’s hand and kneel by his side, waiting for some signs of returning animation; but at last it seemed as if the girl could not keep her tongue quiet.
“I say,” she whispered, “are you a doctor, miss?”
“No: my brother is a medical man, though, and I have been often to a hospital and helped him as a nurse.”
“Oh, then you know what’s right. But oughtn’t he to have some beef-tea?”
Cornel shook her head, and Keren-Happuch was silent for a few minutes, but she could refrain no longer.
“You’re the ’Merican lady he was engaged to, aren’t you?”
Cornel bowed.
“I thought you was. I’ve took him your letters with Bosting on ’em, lots o’ times.”
Cornel sighed.
“You’re going to marry him, ain’t you?”
“No.”
“Then it’s all off?”
“Yes.”
Keren-Happuch looked relieved. The scowl disappeared from her countenance, and she smiled at Cornel.
“Don’t you take on about it, miss. It ain’t worth it. I allers liked Mr Dale, and he makes me feel as if I’d do anything for him, and I allus have done as much as missus’d let me; but it’s no use to worry about artisses; they’re all like Mr Dale—all them as we’ve had here.”
Cornel looked at her indignantly.
“Oh, it ain’t my fault, miss. I never wanted him to have ladies come to see him. I’ve gone down into the kitchen along with our old cat, and had many a good cry about it. Not as he ever thought anything about me.”
Cornel looked at the girl in wonder and horror.
“But he was allus kind to me, and never called me names, and made fun of me like the others did. On’y Mirandy, and I didn’t mind that. Them others teased me orful, you know. Men ain’t much good; but you can’t help liking of ’em.”
“Hush!” whispered Cornel; “he is coming to.” For there was a quivering about Dale’s lips, and then his eyes opened wildly, to gaze vacantly upward for some moments before memory reasserted itself, and he gave a sudden start and looked sharply round.
Cornel suppressed a sigh.
“Not for me,” she said to herself; and she was right. The look was not for her.
She knew it directly, for he turned to her, caught her wrist, and said excitedly—
“Gone?”
“Yes; they are gone.”
“But Lady Dellatoria—gone—with him?”
The words seemed as if they would choke her, but Cornel spoke out quite plainly, and without a tremor in her voice, though there was a terrible compression at her breast.
“Yes,” she said calmly, though every word she uttered caused her a pang; “she has gone back with her husband.”
Armstrong lay perfectly still for a few minutes, thinking deeply. Then, as if resolved what to do, he said sharply—
“Help me up.”
Cornel bent over him, but he turned from her.
“No, no, not you: Miranda.”
The girl eagerly helped him to rise, and he leaned upon her as she guided him to a chair.
“Thanks,” he said huskily. “Now, you wait there.”
The girl stopped at the place he had pointed out, watching Armstrong as he signed to Cornel to approach, and held out his hand.
She took it mechanically, and held it fast.
“Thank you for what you have done,” he said.
“Now go and forget me. You see I am hopelessly gone. It was to be, and it is of no use to fight against fate. Now go back to your brother.”
“And leave you—sick?”
“Yes; even if I were dying. God bless you, dear! Think of me as I used to be.”
“Armstrong!” she cried, with her hands extended toward him. But he waved her off.
“No, no. I am a scoundrel, but not black enough for that. Go back to your brother.”
“Go?”
“Yes; I insist. You cannot forgive me now.”
She could bear no more. Her chin sank upon her breast, and with one low, heart-wrung sigh, she went quickly from the room.
“Thank Heaven! that’s over,” muttered Armstrong. “Now for the end, and the quicker the better. Life is not worth living, after all.”
He looked sharply round to where Keren-Happuch stood, wiping her eyes upon her apron.
“Here, girl!” he cried.
“Yes, Mr Dale, sir.”
“Go at once to Mr Leronde’s rooms—you know—in Poland Street, and ask him to come on here at once.”
“But are you fit to leave, sir?”
“Yes, yes. Go quickly.”
The girl hurried off on her mission, leaving the artist thinking.
“He would challenge me if I did not challenge him. I suppose it ought to come from me after the blow, for me to prove that I am not ‘un lâche,’ as our French friends term it. A duel! What a mockery! Well, better so. Let him shoot me, and have done with it. There is not room here for us both. Poor Cornel! It will be like making some expiation. It will leave her free. She can deal more tenderly with my memory as dead than she could with me living still. I should be a blight upon her pure young life. Ah! if we had never met.”
He lay back feverish and excited, for the blow had had terrible effect, and there were minutes when he was half-delirious, and had hard work to control his thoughts.
For he was wandering away now with Cornel, who had forgiven him because Valentina was dead. Then it was Cornel who was dead, and he was with the Contessa far away in some glorious land of flowers, fruit, and sunshine; but the fruit was bitter, the flowers gave forth the scent of poison, and the sun beat down heavily upon his head, scorching his throbbing brain.
He woke up from a dream crowded with strange fancies, and uttered an ejaculation of satisfaction, for his brain was clear again, and the young Frenchman was standing before him, waiting to know why he had been fetched.
Chapter Twenty Five.The Second Second.“Ah, oui, of course,” said Leronde, exhaling a little puff of smoke. “It is so, of course. I know. If there had been no knog viz ze stique, ze huzziband would shallenge you. But viz ze knog viz ze stique—so big a knog, I sink you shallenge him, and satisfy l’honneur. I go at once and ask him to name his friends.”“Yes, I suppose that will be right,” said Armstrong, after a few moments’ thought.“But I am not sure that you can fight so soon.”“Why?”“You ’ave ze bad head.”“Bah! a mere nothing. I am ready; but of course, as you say, it cannot be here. Listen! Is not that some one on the stairs?”They were not left in doubt, for Keren-Happuch came in, round-eyed and wondering, with a couple of cards held in her apron-guarded thumb and finger.“Please, Mr Dale, sir, here’s two doctors come to see you.”“Ma foi! two,” cried Leronde. “One is bad, too much. Send zem away, my friend.”“Bah! Show them up,” said the artist; and Keren-Happuch hurried out. “Look,” continued Armstrong; “Italians—his friends, I suppose.”“Aha! that is good,” cried Leronde, holding out the cards. “He shallenge then. I am glad, for I was get in head muddled after all vezzer you ought to shallenge. Now we are quite square.”A minute later two important-looking men were ushered in, to whom Leronde at once advanced with a dignified mien, receiving them and listening to the declaration of their mission, and after a few exchanges of compliments on one side of the studio, away from where Armstrong sat scowling, they left with the understanding that Leronde was to wait upon them shortly to arrange all preliminaries.“I am still not quite satisfy,” said Leronde thoughtfully. “I ought to have been first, and take your shallenge to him.”“But what does it matter if we are to meet?”“But you vas ze insulte.”“Indeed!” said Armstrong, with a bitter smile. “Opinions are various, boy. But let that rest. Help me to lie down on that couch, and give me a cigar.”Leronde obeyed, watching his friend anxiously.“You vill not be vell enough to fight.”“I will be well enough to fight, man,” cried Armstrong savagely. “There: wait a bit. It is too soon to follow them yet;” and for a while they sat and smoked, till Leronde burst out with—“I am so glad you go to fight, my dear Dale.”“Are you?” said Armstrong gruffly.“Yes; it do me good that you are ready to fight M’sieu le Conte like a gentleman. I thought all Englishmans degrade themself viz le boxe. Bah! it is not good. You have ze muscle great, but so have ze dustman and ze navigator; let them fight—so.”“But look here, Leronde; this must be kept a secret from every one.”“Oh, certainement, name of a visky and sodaire. I tell nobdis. You think I go blab and tell of ze meeting? Valkaire! Mums!”“Have you ever seen one of these affairs at home?”“Oh no, my friend, not chez-moi—at home. It was in the Bois de Boulogne.”“And you saw one there?”“Four—five—and all were journalistes. I was in two as principal, in two as friend of my friend, and in ze oder one I go as ze friend of ze docteur.”“Then you quite understand how it should be carried out?”“Yes, yes, yes,” said Leronde, nearly closing his eyes, and nodding his head many times. “Soyez content. I mean make yourself sholly comfortable, and it shall all go off to ze marvel.”“Very well, then; I leave myself in your hands.”“That is good. Everything shall be done, as you say, first-class.”“And about weapons?”“You are ze person insulte, and you have ze choice. Le sword, of course?” cried Leronde; and, throwing himself on guard, he foiled, parried, and hopped about the studio, as if he were encountering an enemy.“Sit down, man,” said Armstrong peevishly. “No; I choose the pistol.”“My friend! Oh!”“It is shorter and sharper.”“But you do not vant to shoot ze man for stealing—fence like angels, and there will be a little gentlemanly play; you prick ze Conte in ze arm, honneur is satisfy, you embrace, and we return to Paris. What can be better than that?”“Pistol!” said Armstrong sternly.“But you do not want to shoot ze man for stealing away his vife.”“No,” said Armstrong, in a low voice. “I want him to shoot me.”“Ha, ha! You are a fonnay fellow, my dear Dale. You will not talk like zat when you meet ze sword?”“Pistols.”“As you will,” said the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders. “You are my principal, and I see zat your honneur is satisfy. I go then to see ze friend of M’sieu le Conte, and to make all ze preparations for to cross to Belgium; but, my faith, my dear Dale, it is very awkward: I have not ze small shange for all ze preliminary. May I ask you to be my banker?”“Yes, of course. I ought to have thought,” said Armstrong.He went to his desk and took out the necessary sum, passed it to the voluble little Frenchman, who rose, shook him by both hands, looked at him with tears in his eyes, told him he was proud of him, and then hurried off with his head erect his hat slightly cocked, and his eyes now sparkling with excitement.“Step ze first to be in ordaire; whom shall ve ’ave for ze ozaire seconde?”He frowned severely and walked on a few yards, looking very thoughtful. Then the idea came.“Of course: Shoe Pacey. He vill be proud to go viz me to meet ze ozaire secondes.”Leronde had been in the lowest of low spirits that morning. The news from Paris had been most disastrous for gentlemen of communistic principles, who, in spite of crying “Vive la Commune!” saw the unfortunate idol of their lives withering and dying daily. Money, too, had been very “shorts,” as he called it, and he had gone to Armstrong Dale’s in the most despondent manner. But now all that was altered. He had money in his purse, and walked as if on air. There was no opportunity for following the tracks of either “la gloire, or l’amour;” but here was “l’honneur,” the other person of a Frenchman’s trinity, calling him to the front; and on the strength of the funds in hand, he entered the first tobacconist’s, bought a whole ninepenny packet of cigarettes, and then smoked in triumph all the way to Pacey’s lodgings.This gentleman was growling over a notice of the Old Masters’ Exhibition which he had written for a morning paper, and with which, to use his own words, “the humbug of an editor had taken confounded liberties.”“Hallo! Signor Barricado, what’s up? Republic gone to the dogs?”“No, no, mon ami; but great news—a secret.”“Keep it, then.”“No, no; it is for you as well. An affaire of honneur.”“An affair of fluff! Bosh! we don’t fight here.”“No,” said Leronde, frowning fiercely. “Belgium.”“Why, you confounded young donkey, whom are you going to fight?”“I fight? But, no; I am one seconde. I come to you as my dear friend to be ze ozaire.”“Oh, of course,” cried Pacey ironically. “Exactly—just in my line.”“I knew you would,” cried Leronde, lighting a fresh cigarette, and offering the packet, which was refused.“Bah! I like a draught, not a spoonful,” growled Pacey, taking up and filling his big meerschaum. “Now then, about this honour mania? Who’s the happy man?”“Armstrong Dale, of course, for certaine.”“What!” roared Pacey. “Who with?”“Ze Conte Dellatoria, my friend.”“The devil. Has it come to that?”“But, yes. Why not? Zes huzziband is sure to find out some ozaire day.”“Phew!” whistled Pacey, wiping his brow. Then striking a match, he began to smoke tremendously.“And you will help our friend?” said Leronde.“Help him? Certainly.”“I knew it. Pacey, my friend, you are one grand big brique.”“Oh yes, I am,” cried Pacey banteringly. “Now then, how was it?”“Ze Conte follow his vife to chez Armstrong, find zem togezzer, and knog our dear friend down viz a cane.”“Humph! Serious as that?”“Oh yes. There is a great offence, of course. Zey meet in Belgium, and we go togezzer to see ze friend of ze Conte and arrange ze—ze—ze—vat you call zem?”“Preliminaries?”“Precisely. Now, my dear ole friend, you put on your boot an’ ze ozaire coat, and brush your hair—oh! horreur; why do you not get zem cut short like mine?”“Because I don’t want to look like a convict. Come in here.”Pacey seized his tobacco-jar and a box of matches.“Got any cigarette papers?”“But yes, and plenty of cigarettes.”“Come in here, then.”He opened the door leading into his little bedroom, and Leronde followed him.Pacey banged down the tobacco-jar upon the dressing-table, and then threw open the window.“Come and look out here,” he cried.“But we have no time to spare, my friend.”“Come and look out here,” roared Pacey.As Leronde approached him wonderingly, Pacey seized him by the collar, and half dragged his head out.“Look down there,” he said, pointing into the square pit-like place formed by the backs of the neighbouring houses, from the second floor, where they stood, to the basement; “you can’t jump down there?”“My faith, no. It would be death.”“And there is no way of climbing on to the roof.”Leronde shook his head, and looked to see if his friend was mad.“And you cannot fly?”“No; I leave zat to your cocksparrow de Londres,” said Leronde, trying to conceal his wonder and dread by a show of hilarity.“That’s right, then. You sit down there and smoke cigarettes till I come back.”“But, my friend, ze engagement, ze meeting viz ze amis of ze Conte. What go you to do?”“See Armstrong Dale, and bring him to his senses. If I can’t—go and break the Count’s neck.”“But, mon cher Pacey!” cried Leronde, “l’honneur?”“Hang honour!” roared his friend. “I’m going in for common-sense;” and before the Frenchman could arrest him, the door was banged to, locked, the key removed, and steps were heard on the landing; then the sitting-room door was locked, and, with his face full of perplexity, Leronde lit a fresh cigarette.“Faith of a man, these English,” he said, “zey are mad, as Shakespeare did say about Hamlet, and I am sure, if zey do shave Shoe Pacey head, zey will find ze big crack right across him.”
“Ah, oui, of course,” said Leronde, exhaling a little puff of smoke. “It is so, of course. I know. If there had been no knog viz ze stique, ze huzziband would shallenge you. But viz ze knog viz ze stique—so big a knog, I sink you shallenge him, and satisfy l’honneur. I go at once and ask him to name his friends.”
“Yes, I suppose that will be right,” said Armstrong, after a few moments’ thought.
“But I am not sure that you can fight so soon.”
“Why?”
“You ’ave ze bad head.”
“Bah! a mere nothing. I am ready; but of course, as you say, it cannot be here. Listen! Is not that some one on the stairs?”
They were not left in doubt, for Keren-Happuch came in, round-eyed and wondering, with a couple of cards held in her apron-guarded thumb and finger.
“Please, Mr Dale, sir, here’s two doctors come to see you.”
“Ma foi! two,” cried Leronde. “One is bad, too much. Send zem away, my friend.”
“Bah! Show them up,” said the artist; and Keren-Happuch hurried out. “Look,” continued Armstrong; “Italians—his friends, I suppose.”
“Aha! that is good,” cried Leronde, holding out the cards. “He shallenge then. I am glad, for I was get in head muddled after all vezzer you ought to shallenge. Now we are quite square.”
A minute later two important-looking men were ushered in, to whom Leronde at once advanced with a dignified mien, receiving them and listening to the declaration of their mission, and after a few exchanges of compliments on one side of the studio, away from where Armstrong sat scowling, they left with the understanding that Leronde was to wait upon them shortly to arrange all preliminaries.
“I am still not quite satisfy,” said Leronde thoughtfully. “I ought to have been first, and take your shallenge to him.”
“But what does it matter if we are to meet?”
“But you vas ze insulte.”
“Indeed!” said Armstrong, with a bitter smile. “Opinions are various, boy. But let that rest. Help me to lie down on that couch, and give me a cigar.”
Leronde obeyed, watching his friend anxiously.
“You vill not be vell enough to fight.”
“I will be well enough to fight, man,” cried Armstrong savagely. “There: wait a bit. It is too soon to follow them yet;” and for a while they sat and smoked, till Leronde burst out with—
“I am so glad you go to fight, my dear Dale.”
“Are you?” said Armstrong gruffly.
“Yes; it do me good that you are ready to fight M’sieu le Conte like a gentleman. I thought all Englishmans degrade themself viz le boxe. Bah! it is not good. You have ze muscle great, but so have ze dustman and ze navigator; let them fight—so.”
“But look here, Leronde; this must be kept a secret from every one.”
“Oh, certainement, name of a visky and sodaire. I tell nobdis. You think I go blab and tell of ze meeting? Valkaire! Mums!”
“Have you ever seen one of these affairs at home?”
“Oh no, my friend, not chez-moi—at home. It was in the Bois de Boulogne.”
“And you saw one there?”
“Four—five—and all were journalistes. I was in two as principal, in two as friend of my friend, and in ze oder one I go as ze friend of ze docteur.”
“Then you quite understand how it should be carried out?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Leronde, nearly closing his eyes, and nodding his head many times. “Soyez content. I mean make yourself sholly comfortable, and it shall all go off to ze marvel.”
“Very well, then; I leave myself in your hands.”
“That is good. Everything shall be done, as you say, first-class.”
“And about weapons?”
“You are ze person insulte, and you have ze choice. Le sword, of course?” cried Leronde; and, throwing himself on guard, he foiled, parried, and hopped about the studio, as if he were encountering an enemy.
“Sit down, man,” said Armstrong peevishly. “No; I choose the pistol.”
“My friend! Oh!”
“It is shorter and sharper.”
“But you do not vant to shoot ze man for stealing—fence like angels, and there will be a little gentlemanly play; you prick ze Conte in ze arm, honneur is satisfy, you embrace, and we return to Paris. What can be better than that?”
“Pistol!” said Armstrong sternly.
“But you do not want to shoot ze man for stealing away his vife.”
“No,” said Armstrong, in a low voice. “I want him to shoot me.”
“Ha, ha! You are a fonnay fellow, my dear Dale. You will not talk like zat when you meet ze sword?”
“Pistols.”
“As you will,” said the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders. “You are my principal, and I see zat your honneur is satisfy. I go then to see ze friend of M’sieu le Conte, and to make all ze preparations for to cross to Belgium; but, my faith, my dear Dale, it is very awkward: I have not ze small shange for all ze preliminary. May I ask you to be my banker?”
“Yes, of course. I ought to have thought,” said Armstrong.
He went to his desk and took out the necessary sum, passed it to the voluble little Frenchman, who rose, shook him by both hands, looked at him with tears in his eyes, told him he was proud of him, and then hurried off with his head erect his hat slightly cocked, and his eyes now sparkling with excitement.
“Step ze first to be in ordaire; whom shall ve ’ave for ze ozaire seconde?”
He frowned severely and walked on a few yards, looking very thoughtful. Then the idea came.
“Of course: Shoe Pacey. He vill be proud to go viz me to meet ze ozaire secondes.”
Leronde had been in the lowest of low spirits that morning. The news from Paris had been most disastrous for gentlemen of communistic principles, who, in spite of crying “Vive la Commune!” saw the unfortunate idol of their lives withering and dying daily. Money, too, had been very “shorts,” as he called it, and he had gone to Armstrong Dale’s in the most despondent manner. But now all that was altered. He had money in his purse, and walked as if on air. There was no opportunity for following the tracks of either “la gloire, or l’amour;” but here was “l’honneur,” the other person of a Frenchman’s trinity, calling him to the front; and on the strength of the funds in hand, he entered the first tobacconist’s, bought a whole ninepenny packet of cigarettes, and then smoked in triumph all the way to Pacey’s lodgings.
This gentleman was growling over a notice of the Old Masters’ Exhibition which he had written for a morning paper, and with which, to use his own words, “the humbug of an editor had taken confounded liberties.”
“Hallo! Signor Barricado, what’s up? Republic gone to the dogs?”
“No, no, mon ami; but great news—a secret.”
“Keep it, then.”
“No, no; it is for you as well. An affaire of honneur.”
“An affair of fluff! Bosh! we don’t fight here.”
“No,” said Leronde, frowning fiercely. “Belgium.”
“Why, you confounded young donkey, whom are you going to fight?”
“I fight? But, no; I am one seconde. I come to you as my dear friend to be ze ozaire.”
“Oh, of course,” cried Pacey ironically. “Exactly—just in my line.”
“I knew you would,” cried Leronde, lighting a fresh cigarette, and offering the packet, which was refused.
“Bah! I like a draught, not a spoonful,” growled Pacey, taking up and filling his big meerschaum. “Now then, about this honour mania? Who’s the happy man?”
“Armstrong Dale, of course, for certaine.”
“What!” roared Pacey. “Who with?”
“Ze Conte Dellatoria, my friend.”
“The devil. Has it come to that?”
“But, yes. Why not? Zes huzziband is sure to find out some ozaire day.”
“Phew!” whistled Pacey, wiping his brow. Then striking a match, he began to smoke tremendously.
“And you will help our friend?” said Leronde.
“Help him? Certainly.”
“I knew it. Pacey, my friend, you are one grand big brique.”
“Oh yes, I am,” cried Pacey banteringly. “Now then, how was it?”
“Ze Conte follow his vife to chez Armstrong, find zem togezzer, and knog our dear friend down viz a cane.”
“Humph! Serious as that?”
“Oh yes. There is a great offence, of course. Zey meet in Belgium, and we go togezzer to see ze friend of ze Conte and arrange ze—ze—ze—vat you call zem?”
“Preliminaries?”
“Precisely. Now, my dear ole friend, you put on your boot an’ ze ozaire coat, and brush your hair—oh! horreur; why do you not get zem cut short like mine?”
“Because I don’t want to look like a convict. Come in here.”
Pacey seized his tobacco-jar and a box of matches.
“Got any cigarette papers?”
“But yes, and plenty of cigarettes.”
“Come in here, then.”
He opened the door leading into his little bedroom, and Leronde followed him.
Pacey banged down the tobacco-jar upon the dressing-table, and then threw open the window.
“Come and look out here,” he cried.
“But we have no time to spare, my friend.”
“Come and look out here,” roared Pacey.
As Leronde approached him wonderingly, Pacey seized him by the collar, and half dragged his head out.
“Look down there,” he said, pointing into the square pit-like place formed by the backs of the neighbouring houses, from the second floor, where they stood, to the basement; “you can’t jump down there?”
“My faith, no. It would be death.”
“And there is no way of climbing on to the roof.”
Leronde shook his head, and looked to see if his friend was mad.
“And you cannot fly?”
“No; I leave zat to your cocksparrow de Londres,” said Leronde, trying to conceal his wonder and dread by a show of hilarity.
“That’s right, then. You sit down there and smoke cigarettes till I come back.”
“But, my friend, ze engagement, ze meeting viz ze amis of ze Conte. What go you to do?”
“See Armstrong Dale, and bring him to his senses. If I can’t—go and break the Count’s neck.”
“But, mon cher Pacey!” cried Leronde, “l’honneur?”
“Hang honour!” roared his friend. “I’m going in for common-sense;” and before the Frenchman could arrest him, the door was banged to, locked, the key removed, and steps were heard on the landing; then the sitting-room door was locked, and, with his face full of perplexity, Leronde lit a fresh cigarette.
“Faith of a man, these English,” he said, “zey are mad, as Shakespeare did say about Hamlet, and I am sure, if zey do shave Shoe Pacey head, zey will find ze big crack right across him.”
Chapter Twenty Six.The News Spreads.“If I have sinned,” muttered Armstrong, as he leaned back in his chair, for when from time to time he tried to walk about, a painful sensation of giddiness seized upon him, “I am having a foretaste of my punishment. How long he is—how long he is!”But still Leronde did not come, and to occupy his mind, the sufferer sat and thought out a plan for their journey, which he concluded would mean a cab to Liverpool Street, then the express to Harwich, the boat to Ostend; next, where the seconds willed: and afterwards—“What?” said the wretched man, with a strange smile. “Ah, who knows! If it could only be oblivion—rest from all this misery and despair!”He rose to try and write a letter or two, notably one to Cornel, but the effort was painful, and he crept back to his chair.“She will know—she will divine—that I preferred to die,” he muttered, “Ah, at last! Why, he has been hours.”For there was a step outside, and then the door was thrown open, as he lay back, with his aching eyes shaded by his hand.“Come at last, then!” he sighed; and the next moment he started, for the studio door was banged to, and locked. “You, Joe?”“Yes, I’ve come at last,” cried Pacey, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and striding up, to stand before him with his legs far apart.“Well, then, shake hands and go,” said Armstrong quietly. “I’m not well. I’ve had an accident.”“Accident?” roared Pacey. “Yes, you have had an accident, the same as a man has who goes and knocks his head against a wall.”“What do you mean?” cried Armstrong, starting.“Mean? I mean that you’re the biggest fool that fortune ever pampered and spoiled.”“Joe Pacey!”“Hold your tongue, idiot, and listen to me. Here you are, gifted by nature with ten times the brains of an ordinary man; you can paint like Raphael or Murillo; fame and fortune are at your feet; and you have the love waiting for you of one of the sweetest, most angelic women who ever stepped this earth.”“Pacey!”“Hold your tongue, boy! Haven’t I been like a father to you ever since you came into this cursed village? Haven’t I devoted myself to you as soon as I saw you were a good fellow, full of genius? I’m a fool to say so, but in my wretched, wrecked life, I felt that I’d found something to live for at last, and that I could be proud and happy in seeing you, who are as much an Englishman as I am in blood, rise to the highest pitch of triumph; while, if you grew proud then and forgot me, it wouldn’t matter; I could afford it, for you had achieved success.”“You’ve been a good true adviser to me, Joe, ever since I have known you.”“And you have turned out the most ungrateful dog that ever breathed. Morals? You’ve no more morals than a mahlstick. You had everything man could wish for, and then you must kick it all over, and break the heart of an angel.”“Let her rest. Say what you like to bully me, Joe. It’s all true. I don’t fight against it. But you can’t understand it all. Say what you like, only go and leave me. I want to be alone.”“Do you?” cried Pacey excitedly. “Then I don’t want you to be. So the Conte gave you that crack on the head, did he?”“What!” cried Armstrong, springing up. “How came you to think that?”“How came I to think that? Why, I was told by a chattering French ape.”“Leronde? Told you?”“Of course he did. Came to me to be your other second.”“The idiot! Where is he?”“Locked up where he’ll stay till I let him loose.”Armstrong used a strong expression.“And so we must have a duel, must we? Go out to Belgium to fight this Italian organ-grinder. Curse him, and his Jezebel of a wife!”“Silence, man!” cried Armstrong excitedly. “Pacey, no more of this! Where is Leronde? He must be set free at once. My honour is at stake.”“His what?” cried Pacey, bursting into a roar of ironical laughter. “My God! His honour! You adulterous dog, you talk to me of your honour and duelling, and all that cursed, sickly, contemptible code that ought to have been dead and buried, and wondered at by us as a relic of the dark ages—you talk to me of that? Why, do you know what it means? First and foremost, murdering Cornel Thorpe: for, as sure as heaven’s above us, that organ-man will shoot you like the dog you are, and in killing you he’ll kill that poor girl. I swear it. She can’t help it. She gave her love to you, poor lassie, and she’s the kind of woman who loves once and for all. There’s the first of it. As for you, well, the best end of you is that you should be buried at once, out of the way, as you would be if I let you go to meet this man.”“If you let me?” raged Armstrong.“Yes, if I let you; for I won’t. Why, you’re mad. That Jezebel has turned your brain, and I’ll have you in a strait waistcoat, and then in a padded room, before I’ll let you go to save your honour and his. Ha, ha! His honour! The Italian greyhound! He never took any notice of his wife till he found she had a lover, but was after as many light-famed creatures as there are cards in the devil’s books. Then—his honour! Ha, ha! his honour! Why, the whole gang of French and Italian monkeys never knew what honour is, and never will. Now then, I said I’d thrash you, and I have. I only wish Dellatoria had jolly well fractured your skull, so as to make you an invalid for six months. Look here; I’ve locked up Leronde, I’ll lock up you, and if the Conte comes here, I’ll kick him downstairs.”“You are mad. I must meet him.”“I’m not mad, and you shan’t meet him.”“You mean well, Pacey, but it is folly to go on like this. Run back and set Leronde at liberty.”“I’m going to do what I like, not what you like,” cried Pacey fiercely, pulling out a knife; “and first of all, I’ll finish that cursed picture.”He swung the great easel round, and in a few minutes had slashed the canvas to ribbons, and torn it from the frame.“There’s an end of that!” he roared.“So much the better,” said Armstrong, who had looked on unmoved.“Oh! you like that, then?” cried Pacey. “You’re coming round.”“Now go,” said Armstrong, “and end this folly.”“You’ll swear first of all that you will not meet this man?”“I’ll swear I will,” said Armstrong coldly.“He’ll shoot you dead.”“I hope so.”“Armstrong, lad, listen to me,” said Pacey, calming down. “You’ll be sensible?”“Yes.”“And give it up? For poor Cornel’s sake?”“Silence! or you’ll drive me really mad.”“Now then, get your hat, and come with me.”“Will you go?”“Will you come with me?”“Look here,” said Armstrong. “I can bear no more. I want to be cool and act like a man to the end, but you are pushing me to the very brink.—Will you go?”“Yes,” said Pacey, buttoning up his coat. “I’m off now, boy.”“Where?”“Straight to the police. I’ll swear a breach of the peace against you both, and have you seized, or bound over, or something. This meeting shan’t take place. For Cornel’s sake—do you hear? For her sake, so there!”He strode to the door, unlocked it, opened, and banged it loudly behind him, and Armstrong stood thinking what course he ought to pursue, while Pacey went straight away, not to the police, but to Thorpe’s hotel, where he told the doctor how matters stood.“I don’t know what you are to do, sir,” said Thorpe coldly. “I wash my hands of the whole business. He has behaved horribly to my poor sister, and turned her brain. Let him go and be shot.”“Likely,” growled Pacey. “Nice Christian advice to give. Why, it would kill her.”“Not it. She has too much womanly determination in her, poor girl. But I can do nothing. She has been to him again and again in opposition to my wishes—forgotten all her woman’s dignity.”“To try and save your old schoolfellow, her lover.”“Bah! she has cast him off, sir, as the scoundrel deserves.”“Not she,” said Pacey. “She loves him still in spite of all, and in time she would forgive him, if he behaved like a man.”“Not if I can prevent it,” retorted Thorpe. “She shall not forgive him.”“Well, sir,” said Pacey, “I have not come to dispute with you about that. He is almost your brother, and he is in deadly peril of his life. That Italian has challenged him; they will fight, as sure as we stand here, and the malignant, spiteful scoundrel will shoot Armstrong like a dog.”“Nonsense! What can he care for such a wife?”“Nothing; but his honour is at stake.”“His honour!” cried Thorpe contemptuously.“Exactly so. What such men call their honour. Armstrong will evade me somehow, and go off to Belgium, I am sure; and if he does, he is so careless of his own life now, in his despair, misery, and degradation, that he will never come back alive.”“Pish!”“It is a fact, sir. I have heard that Dellatoria is deadly with sword or pistol, and he has been out more than once before—Good heavens, Miss Thorpe! are you there?”“Yes,” said Cornel slowly, as she came forward from the door leading into an inner room. “I have heard every word.”
“If I have sinned,” muttered Armstrong, as he leaned back in his chair, for when from time to time he tried to walk about, a painful sensation of giddiness seized upon him, “I am having a foretaste of my punishment. How long he is—how long he is!”
But still Leronde did not come, and to occupy his mind, the sufferer sat and thought out a plan for their journey, which he concluded would mean a cab to Liverpool Street, then the express to Harwich, the boat to Ostend; next, where the seconds willed: and afterwards—
“What?” said the wretched man, with a strange smile. “Ah, who knows! If it could only be oblivion—rest from all this misery and despair!”
He rose to try and write a letter or two, notably one to Cornel, but the effort was painful, and he crept back to his chair.
“She will know—she will divine—that I preferred to die,” he muttered, “Ah, at last! Why, he has been hours.”
For there was a step outside, and then the door was thrown open, as he lay back, with his aching eyes shaded by his hand.
“Come at last, then!” he sighed; and the next moment he started, for the studio door was banged to, and locked. “You, Joe?”
“Yes, I’ve come at last,” cried Pacey, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and striding up, to stand before him with his legs far apart.
“Well, then, shake hands and go,” said Armstrong quietly. “I’m not well. I’ve had an accident.”
“Accident?” roared Pacey. “Yes, you have had an accident, the same as a man has who goes and knocks his head against a wall.”
“What do you mean?” cried Armstrong, starting.
“Mean? I mean that you’re the biggest fool that fortune ever pampered and spoiled.”
“Joe Pacey!”
“Hold your tongue, idiot, and listen to me. Here you are, gifted by nature with ten times the brains of an ordinary man; you can paint like Raphael or Murillo; fame and fortune are at your feet; and you have the love waiting for you of one of the sweetest, most angelic women who ever stepped this earth.”
“Pacey!”
“Hold your tongue, boy! Haven’t I been like a father to you ever since you came into this cursed village? Haven’t I devoted myself to you as soon as I saw you were a good fellow, full of genius? I’m a fool to say so, but in my wretched, wrecked life, I felt that I’d found something to live for at last, and that I could be proud and happy in seeing you, who are as much an Englishman as I am in blood, rise to the highest pitch of triumph; while, if you grew proud then and forgot me, it wouldn’t matter; I could afford it, for you had achieved success.”
“You’ve been a good true adviser to me, Joe, ever since I have known you.”
“And you have turned out the most ungrateful dog that ever breathed. Morals? You’ve no more morals than a mahlstick. You had everything man could wish for, and then you must kick it all over, and break the heart of an angel.”
“Let her rest. Say what you like to bully me, Joe. It’s all true. I don’t fight against it. But you can’t understand it all. Say what you like, only go and leave me. I want to be alone.”
“Do you?” cried Pacey excitedly. “Then I don’t want you to be. So the Conte gave you that crack on the head, did he?”
“What!” cried Armstrong, springing up. “How came you to think that?”
“How came I to think that? Why, I was told by a chattering French ape.”
“Leronde? Told you?”
“Of course he did. Came to me to be your other second.”
“The idiot! Where is he?”
“Locked up where he’ll stay till I let him loose.”
Armstrong used a strong expression.
“And so we must have a duel, must we? Go out to Belgium to fight this Italian organ-grinder. Curse him, and his Jezebel of a wife!”
“Silence, man!” cried Armstrong excitedly. “Pacey, no more of this! Where is Leronde? He must be set free at once. My honour is at stake.”
“His what?” cried Pacey, bursting into a roar of ironical laughter. “My God! His honour! You adulterous dog, you talk to me of your honour and duelling, and all that cursed, sickly, contemptible code that ought to have been dead and buried, and wondered at by us as a relic of the dark ages—you talk to me of that? Why, do you know what it means? First and foremost, murdering Cornel Thorpe: for, as sure as heaven’s above us, that organ-man will shoot you like the dog you are, and in killing you he’ll kill that poor girl. I swear it. She can’t help it. She gave her love to you, poor lassie, and she’s the kind of woman who loves once and for all. There’s the first of it. As for you, well, the best end of you is that you should be buried at once, out of the way, as you would be if I let you go to meet this man.”
“If you let me?” raged Armstrong.
“Yes, if I let you; for I won’t. Why, you’re mad. That Jezebel has turned your brain, and I’ll have you in a strait waistcoat, and then in a padded room, before I’ll let you go to save your honour and his. Ha, ha! His honour! The Italian greyhound! He never took any notice of his wife till he found she had a lover, but was after as many light-famed creatures as there are cards in the devil’s books. Then—his honour! Ha, ha! his honour! Why, the whole gang of French and Italian monkeys never knew what honour is, and never will. Now then, I said I’d thrash you, and I have. I only wish Dellatoria had jolly well fractured your skull, so as to make you an invalid for six months. Look here; I’ve locked up Leronde, I’ll lock up you, and if the Conte comes here, I’ll kick him downstairs.”
“You are mad. I must meet him.”
“I’m not mad, and you shan’t meet him.”
“You mean well, Pacey, but it is folly to go on like this. Run back and set Leronde at liberty.”
“I’m going to do what I like, not what you like,” cried Pacey fiercely, pulling out a knife; “and first of all, I’ll finish that cursed picture.”
He swung the great easel round, and in a few minutes had slashed the canvas to ribbons, and torn it from the frame.
“There’s an end of that!” he roared.
“So much the better,” said Armstrong, who had looked on unmoved.
“Oh! you like that, then?” cried Pacey. “You’re coming round.”
“Now go,” said Armstrong, “and end this folly.”
“You’ll swear first of all that you will not meet this man?”
“I’ll swear I will,” said Armstrong coldly.
“He’ll shoot you dead.”
“I hope so.”
“Armstrong, lad, listen to me,” said Pacey, calming down. “You’ll be sensible?”
“Yes.”
“And give it up? For poor Cornel’s sake?”
“Silence! or you’ll drive me really mad.”
“Now then, get your hat, and come with me.”
“Will you go?”
“Will you come with me?”
“Look here,” said Armstrong. “I can bear no more. I want to be cool and act like a man to the end, but you are pushing me to the very brink.—Will you go?”
“Yes,” said Pacey, buttoning up his coat. “I’m off now, boy.”
“Where?”
“Straight to the police. I’ll swear a breach of the peace against you both, and have you seized, or bound over, or something. This meeting shan’t take place. For Cornel’s sake—do you hear? For her sake, so there!”
He strode to the door, unlocked it, opened, and banged it loudly behind him, and Armstrong stood thinking what course he ought to pursue, while Pacey went straight away, not to the police, but to Thorpe’s hotel, where he told the doctor how matters stood.
“I don’t know what you are to do, sir,” said Thorpe coldly. “I wash my hands of the whole business. He has behaved horribly to my poor sister, and turned her brain. Let him go and be shot.”
“Likely,” growled Pacey. “Nice Christian advice to give. Why, it would kill her.”
“Not it. She has too much womanly determination in her, poor girl. But I can do nothing. She has been to him again and again in opposition to my wishes—forgotten all her woman’s dignity.”
“To try and save your old schoolfellow, her lover.”
“Bah! she has cast him off, sir, as the scoundrel deserves.”
“Not she,” said Pacey. “She loves him still in spite of all, and in time she would forgive him, if he behaved like a man.”
“Not if I can prevent it,” retorted Thorpe. “She shall not forgive him.”
“Well, sir,” said Pacey, “I have not come to dispute with you about that. He is almost your brother, and he is in deadly peril of his life. That Italian has challenged him; they will fight, as sure as we stand here, and the malignant, spiteful scoundrel will shoot Armstrong like a dog.”
“Nonsense! What can he care for such a wife?”
“Nothing; but his honour is at stake.”
“His honour!” cried Thorpe contemptuously.
“Exactly so. What such men call their honour. Armstrong will evade me somehow, and go off to Belgium, I am sure; and if he does, he is so careless of his own life now, in his despair, misery, and degradation, that he will never come back alive.”
“Pish!”
“It is a fact, sir. I have heard that Dellatoria is deadly with sword or pistol, and he has been out more than once before—Good heavens, Miss Thorpe! are you there?”
“Yes,” said Cornel slowly, as she came forward from the door leading into an inner room. “I have heard every word.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.A Potent Drug.What to do? Leronde a prisoner; Pacey threatening legal steps. He must go somehow. The only way open appeared to be this; he must leave London at once, telegraphing to the Conte that he had gone on, and would meet him and his friends at the principal hotel in Ostend.Armstrong, after much mental struggling, had come to this decision, when there was a knock at the door.“Too late,” he muttered. Then aloud, “Come in!” and Keren-Happuch entered.“If you please, sir, there’s—”“I know,” he said shortly. “Show them up.”“Please, sir, it ain’t them; it’s her.”“What?” he cried, starting. “Whom do you mean?”“Her in the thick veil, sir, as come before.”“Great Heavens!” panted Armstrong; and his brain seemed to reel. “No. I cannot—I will not see her.”“’M I to tell her so, sir?” cried the girl joyfully, “and send her away?”“Yes. I’ll go no farther,” he muttered. “Send her away at once.”The girl turned to the door, but, when she twisted the handle, it moved in her hand, the door was pushed against her, and as she gave way, the closely veiled and cloaked figure walked slowly into the room.Armstrong turned savagely upon Keren-Happuch. “Go!” he said sharply.“I knowed it,” muttered the girl as she went out. “Men can’t keep to their words, and it’s very hard on us poor girls.”Armstrong stood facing his visitor as the door closed, and then the giddiness came over him again. He staggered to a chair, dropped into it, and his head fell upon his hand.“How could you be so mad!” he groaned. “Go back to your husband; we must never meet again. Woman, you have been a curse to me and ruined my poor life. But there, I will not reproach you.” He closed his eyes, for his senses nearly left him, and his visitor stood gazing sadly down at him not a yard away.“I suppose you will despise me,” he groaned, “but I cannot help that. You will think that I ought to hold to you now, and save you from your husband’s anger. But I can do nothing. Broken, conscience-stricken, if ever poor wretch was in despair it is I. There, for God’s sake, go back to him. He will forgive you, as I ask you to forgive me now.”He paused, and then went on as if she had just spoken something which coincided with his thoughts.“You will despise me and think me weak, but I am near the end, and I do not shrink from speaking and telling you that I go to meet your husband with the knowledge that I have broken the heart of as pure and true a woman as ever breathed.”A low, pitiful sigh came from behind the veil.“Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, don’t, now. It is all over; the mad comedy is played out—all but the last scene. Try and forget it all, and go with the knowledge that his life is safe for me, for I will not raise my hand against him—that I swear.”He uttered a low moan, for the place seemed strange to him, and his words far distant, as if they were spoken by some one else. Incipient delirium was creeping in to assault his brain, and in another minute he would have been quite insensible; but a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and the touch electrified him, making him spring wildly from his seat with a cry.“No, no,” he cried passionately, and with his eyes flashing; “slave to you no more; I tell you, woman, all is over between us. For the few hours left to me, let me be in peace.”The veil was slowly drawn aside, and he clapped his hands to his temples and bent forward, gazing at his visitor.“Cornel!” he muttered—“Cornel!—No, no! It is a dream.”He shook his head, and passed his hand across his eyes, to try and sweep away the mist that was gathering in his brain.“No, no,” he muttered again, in a low tone; “a dream—a dream.”“No,” came softly to his ears, “it is not a dream, Armstrong. It is I—Cornel.”“Why have you come?” he cried, roused by her words, and staggering up to grasp the mantelpiece and save himself from falling.“To try and save you,” she said sadly. “Armstrong, you are going to fight this man?”He was silent. The dreamy feeling was coming back.“You do not deny it. Armstrong—brother—companion of my childhood—you must not, you shall not do this wicked thing. Think of it. Your life against his. The shame—the horror of the deed.”He laughed softly.“I have sinned enough,” he said. “He will not fall.”“Will the sin be less if you let him, in your despair, take his enemy’s life? This is madness. Armstrong, you cannot—you shall not go.”He was silent.“What am I to say to you again?” she pleaded. “You are like stone. Must I humble myself to you once more, and cast off all a woman’s modesty and dignity? Armstrong, weak, doting as it is, I tell you I forgive you, dear—only promise me that you will not go.”He passed his hand across his eyes as he clung to the shelf to keep himself from falling, and said, in a low, dreamy voice—“An insult to you—a degradation to me to take your pardon. No! Cornel, and once more, no. Now, if you have any feeling for me, leave me to myself, for I have much to do.”“You will prepare to go?”He remained stubbornly silent, with his eyes half-closed.“Then,” she cried passionately, as she saw him sway gently to and fro, as if prior to falling helpless upon the floor, “I will save you in spite of all. You shall not give away your life like this. You are weak, half-delirious, and cannot command even your thoughts. You shall not go.”He opened his eyes widely, and it was as if it took some moments for him to grasp her words. Then, with a little laugh, he said softly—“How will you stop me?”“I would sooner see you dead.”“Well, then—dead—dead—at rest. Why not! You are mistress of all his secrets—all his drugs. Why not? I have injured you; kill me now—at once.”“Are you really mad, Armstrong?” she said, looking at him wonderingly.“Yes—I suppose so—my head swims. I can’t—can’t think. But it is time to go.”“Go?—go where?” she cried excitedly.He uttered a low laugh and shook his head, as if to clear it again, but the vertigo increased.She started and looked wildly round with her eyes flashing; and a strangely set look of determination came over her face, as she took a step to a table upon which stood a carafe of water and a glass, which she rapidly filled. Then, going toward him again, she hesitated once more, and her whole manner changed.“Armstrong!” she cried, but he did not hear her; “Armstrong!”She shook him, and he sprang up, fully roused now.“Ah!” he muttered. “Giddy from the blow.”He took a step or two aside, and caught the back of a chair.“You are going!” she said mockingly.He looked at her sharply.“You will not go,” she said. “It is all a braggart’s boast, to hide the cowardice in your heart.”“What!” he cried wildly.“A man who is going to fight does not tell his friends for fear they should stop him.”“No,” he groaned. “I’m not myself. What have I said?”“Coward’s words,” she cried, “to frighten a weak girl. You bade me poison you to end your miserable life.”“I—I said that?” he cried. “Well, why not?”“Why not?” she said, gazing at him fixedly, “why not? Look, then.”He bent forward wondering, as he struggled with the fit that was coming on again, while she took a bottle from the little satchel hanging from her wrist, snatched out the stopper, and poured a portion of its contents into the glass.“There!” she cried triumphantly. “The test. Poison—one of our strongest drugs. Are you brave enough to drink?”He took a step forward, seized the glass, tottered for a moment, and let a little splash over the side on to the floor. Then, drawing himself up, he placed the vessel to his lips, and drained it—the last drop seeming to scald his throat, and making him drop the tumbler, and clap his hands to his lips.Then, half turning round, he thrust out his hands again, as if feeling, like one suddenly struck blind, for something to save himself from falling. A little later, he lurched suddenly, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank heavily upon the floor.
What to do? Leronde a prisoner; Pacey threatening legal steps. He must go somehow. The only way open appeared to be this; he must leave London at once, telegraphing to the Conte that he had gone on, and would meet him and his friends at the principal hotel in Ostend.
Armstrong, after much mental struggling, had come to this decision, when there was a knock at the door.
“Too late,” he muttered. Then aloud, “Come in!” and Keren-Happuch entered.
“If you please, sir, there’s—”
“I know,” he said shortly. “Show them up.”
“Please, sir, it ain’t them; it’s her.”
“What?” he cried, starting. “Whom do you mean?”
“Her in the thick veil, sir, as come before.”
“Great Heavens!” panted Armstrong; and his brain seemed to reel. “No. I cannot—I will not see her.”
“’M I to tell her so, sir?” cried the girl joyfully, “and send her away?”
“Yes. I’ll go no farther,” he muttered. “Send her away at once.”
The girl turned to the door, but, when she twisted the handle, it moved in her hand, the door was pushed against her, and as she gave way, the closely veiled and cloaked figure walked slowly into the room.
Armstrong turned savagely upon Keren-Happuch. “Go!” he said sharply.
“I knowed it,” muttered the girl as she went out. “Men can’t keep to their words, and it’s very hard on us poor girls.”
Armstrong stood facing his visitor as the door closed, and then the giddiness came over him again. He staggered to a chair, dropped into it, and his head fell upon his hand.
“How could you be so mad!” he groaned. “Go back to your husband; we must never meet again. Woman, you have been a curse to me and ruined my poor life. But there, I will not reproach you.” He closed his eyes, for his senses nearly left him, and his visitor stood gazing sadly down at him not a yard away.
“I suppose you will despise me,” he groaned, “but I cannot help that. You will think that I ought to hold to you now, and save you from your husband’s anger. But I can do nothing. Broken, conscience-stricken, if ever poor wretch was in despair it is I. There, for God’s sake, go back to him. He will forgive you, as I ask you to forgive me now.”
He paused, and then went on as if she had just spoken something which coincided with his thoughts.
“You will despise me and think me weak, but I am near the end, and I do not shrink from speaking and telling you that I go to meet your husband with the knowledge that I have broken the heart of as pure and true a woman as ever breathed.”
A low, pitiful sigh came from behind the veil.
“Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, don’t, now. It is all over; the mad comedy is played out—all but the last scene. Try and forget it all, and go with the knowledge that his life is safe for me, for I will not raise my hand against him—that I swear.”
He uttered a low moan, for the place seemed strange to him, and his words far distant, as if they were spoken by some one else. Incipient delirium was creeping in to assault his brain, and in another minute he would have been quite insensible; but a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and the touch electrified him, making him spring wildly from his seat with a cry.
“No, no,” he cried passionately, and with his eyes flashing; “slave to you no more; I tell you, woman, all is over between us. For the few hours left to me, let me be in peace.”
The veil was slowly drawn aside, and he clapped his hands to his temples and bent forward, gazing at his visitor.
“Cornel!” he muttered—“Cornel!—No, no! It is a dream.”
He shook his head, and passed his hand across his eyes, to try and sweep away the mist that was gathering in his brain.
“No, no,” he muttered again, in a low tone; “a dream—a dream.”
“No,” came softly to his ears, “it is not a dream, Armstrong. It is I—Cornel.”
“Why have you come?” he cried, roused by her words, and staggering up to grasp the mantelpiece and save himself from falling.
“To try and save you,” she said sadly. “Armstrong, you are going to fight this man?”
He was silent. The dreamy feeling was coming back.
“You do not deny it. Armstrong—brother—companion of my childhood—you must not, you shall not do this wicked thing. Think of it. Your life against his. The shame—the horror of the deed.”
He laughed softly.
“I have sinned enough,” he said. “He will not fall.”
“Will the sin be less if you let him, in your despair, take his enemy’s life? This is madness. Armstrong, you cannot—you shall not go.”
He was silent.
“What am I to say to you again?” she pleaded. “You are like stone. Must I humble myself to you once more, and cast off all a woman’s modesty and dignity? Armstrong, weak, doting as it is, I tell you I forgive you, dear—only promise me that you will not go.”
He passed his hand across his eyes as he clung to the shelf to keep himself from falling, and said, in a low, dreamy voice—
“An insult to you—a degradation to me to take your pardon. No! Cornel, and once more, no. Now, if you have any feeling for me, leave me to myself, for I have much to do.”
“You will prepare to go?”
He remained stubbornly silent, with his eyes half-closed.
“Then,” she cried passionately, as she saw him sway gently to and fro, as if prior to falling helpless upon the floor, “I will save you in spite of all. You shall not give away your life like this. You are weak, half-delirious, and cannot command even your thoughts. You shall not go.”
He opened his eyes widely, and it was as if it took some moments for him to grasp her words. Then, with a little laugh, he said softly—
“How will you stop me?”
“I would sooner see you dead.”
“Well, then—dead—dead—at rest. Why not! You are mistress of all his secrets—all his drugs. Why not? I have injured you; kill me now—at once.”
“Are you really mad, Armstrong?” she said, looking at him wonderingly.
“Yes—I suppose so—my head swims. I can’t—can’t think. But it is time to go.”
“Go?—go where?” she cried excitedly.
He uttered a low laugh and shook his head, as if to clear it again, but the vertigo increased.
She started and looked wildly round with her eyes flashing; and a strangely set look of determination came over her face, as she took a step to a table upon which stood a carafe of water and a glass, which she rapidly filled. Then, going toward him again, she hesitated once more, and her whole manner changed.
“Armstrong!” she cried, but he did not hear her; “Armstrong!”
She shook him, and he sprang up, fully roused now.
“Ah!” he muttered. “Giddy from the blow.”
He took a step or two aside, and caught the back of a chair.
“You are going!” she said mockingly.
He looked at her sharply.
“You will not go,” she said. “It is all a braggart’s boast, to hide the cowardice in your heart.”
“What!” he cried wildly.
“A man who is going to fight does not tell his friends for fear they should stop him.”
“No,” he groaned. “I’m not myself. What have I said?”
“Coward’s words,” she cried, “to frighten a weak girl. You bade me poison you to end your miserable life.”
“I—I said that?” he cried. “Well, why not?”
“Why not?” she said, gazing at him fixedly, “why not? Look, then.”
He bent forward wondering, as he struggled with the fit that was coming on again, while she took a bottle from the little satchel hanging from her wrist, snatched out the stopper, and poured a portion of its contents into the glass.
“There!” she cried triumphantly. “The test. Poison—one of our strongest drugs. Are you brave enough to drink?”
He took a step forward, seized the glass, tottered for a moment, and let a little splash over the side on to the floor. Then, drawing himself up, he placed the vessel to his lips, and drained it—the last drop seeming to scald his throat, and making him drop the tumbler, and clap his hands to his lips.
Then, half turning round, he thrust out his hands again, as if feeling, like one suddenly struck blind, for something to save himself from falling. A little later, he lurched suddenly, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank heavily upon the floor.