The Tiger Lily

Chapter Eighteen.

Gage of Battle

“You, Mr Pacey? Where is my brother?”

“Gone back to the hotel. Left me to wait till you came out. – Seen him? Bah! I needn’t have asked that.”

Cornel was silent for a few moments as she walked on side by side with her strange-looking companion.

“Why did my brother go back to the hotel?”

“To cool himself.”

Cornel looked round wonderingly.

“Temper,” said Pacey shortly. “Said he couldn’t contain himself; that he was mad to let you come to see Armstrong; and at last I persuaded him to go back, and said I’d see you safely to the hotel.”

“And do you think I was doing wrong to go, Mr Pacey?” she said, turning upon him her candid eyes.

“No: I stood out here feeling more religious than I have these twenty years. Ah! you don’t understand. Never mind. Tell me you’ve brought him to his senses.”

Corners brow contracted, and she shook her head.

“Oh, but you should have done, my dear,” cried Pacey angrily. “You’ve been too hard upon him. Try and forgive him just a little bit. It’s life and death, ruin and destruction to as fine a lad as ever stepped.”

“Yes,” said Cornel piteously.

“Then you shouldn’t have been so stern with him, you know. He has been a blackguard; he deserves something. I am more bitter with him than ever, but, my dear – don’t flinch because I speak so familiarly: I’m old enough to be your father – I say, if there is to be no forgiveness, there’ll be very few of us men in heaven, I’m afraid, for we’re a bad lot, my child, a very bad lot, though I don’t think it’s all our fault.”

Cornel looked up at him again, with her nether lip quivering.

“That’s right,” said Pacey; “I don’t know much about women, but that means being sorry for him just a little. Now, look here: don’t you think you and I might go back together, and I leave you with him five minutes while you bring him to his knees, and then promise to forgive him some day?”

Pacey stopped short to say this, and took a half turn to go back. To his surprise, Cornel placed her hand upon his arm.

“Take me out of this busy street,” she whispered, “or I shall break down. You do not know how I pleaded to him and offered him forgiveness.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” in a faint whisper, “I offered to forgive everything if he would come away.”

“And he wouldn’t? You tell me he wouldn’t?”

“No!” in the faintest of whispers.

“Oh!” ejaculated Pacey, as he hurried her along. “That settles it then. You offered to forgive him, and he refused? Then you’ve had an escape, my dear. He is not worthy of another thought. There, let me take you back to your brother. I thought better of him, and that the sight of the sweetest, truest little woman who ever breathed would bring him to his senses – make a man of him again. There, I’m very sorry – no, I’m not, for I’ve done my duty by him, and you’ve done yours.”

“No, we have not,” said Cornel, growing firmer once more. “There is much to do yet. This lady – this Contessa?”

“Well, what about her?” said Pacey, frowning.

“You told me that she is very beautiful.”

“Yes, and so is some poison – clear as crystal.”

“You know, then, where she lives?”

“Oh yes, I know where she lives,” growled Pacey savagely.

“Take me to her.”

Pacey shook himself free, and literally glared at the plainly dressed girl at his side.

“I wish you would take me to her, Mr Pacey. I must see her at once.”

“You? You see her? That tiger lily of a woman! No, that won’t do at all.”

“Mr Pacey, I must see her. I have failed with Armstrong, but something tells me that I may succeed with her.”

“But do you know what sort of a woman she is?”

“A lady of title, beautiful and rich.”

“Oh yes; but, my dear child, you who are as fresh as a little lily-of-the-valley, what could you say to her? Why, she is a heartless woman of fashion, proud as a female Lucifer, and you would only be exposing yourself to insult.”

“She would injure herself more than me,” replied Cornel. Then, after they had walked a few yards in silence, she turned to her companion.

“Mr Pacey, you are Armstrong’s most trusted friend?”

“I was once, but that’s over now.”

“No; true friends do not leave those they love when they are in their sorest need. I must – I will save Armstrong from this woman’s toils. He has ceased to love me, but I cannot, when a word might save him, keep back that word. Take me to this lady’s home.”

“But, my dear Miss Thorpe – ”

“I have known you for over a year, Mr Pacey, though we only met to-day for the first time.”

“Yes; and I’ve known you, my dear,” said Pacey, “though he never half did you justice.”

“Then I am Cornel Thorpe to you. Now listen: we must save him.”

“But – ”

“What is this lady’s name?”

“The Contessa Dellatoria.”

“Take me to her at once.”

“And she could not master him?” muttered Pacey. “She masters me.”

He was already walking her on fast towards Portland Place, where fortune favoured the mission, for a carriage and pair passed them, driven rapidly, as they were close to the house, and Pacey told his companion that the fashionably dressed lady leaning back was the Contessa, with the effect of making Cornel hasten her pace after quitting Pacey’s arm; while, resigning himself to the inevitable, he advanced more slowly, watching the scene before him as the carriage stopped. The footman ran up and gave a thundering knock and heavy peal, with the result that the door was thrown open at once, two more servants waiting to receive their lady.

By the time the steps were rattled down, and Valentina had alighted, Cornel was at her side, pale and trembling, in her simple, plainly cut black dress, cloak, and bonnet with its thin silk veil.

“Can I speak to you, madam?” she said faintly. The Contessa turned upon her in wonder, and Cornel shrank for the moment from the beautiful, magnificently dressed woman.

“Speak to me?” she said haughtily, as her eyes swept over the American girl. Then, as she walked towards the door, “Who are you? what are you – a hospital nurse?”

“Sometimes,” said Cornel, fighting hard to be firm.

“Oh, I see: then you want a subscription for your charity. This is neither the time nor the place.” The Contessa swept on, but Cornel was at her side again before she could reach the door.

“No, no, madam, you are mistaken,” she cried in a low voice. “I wish to – I must see you.”

Valentina’s eyes dilated a little, and she looked wonderingly at the speaker.

“I – I have a message for you. I must speak to you. Take me to your room, for Heaven’s sake.”

A policeman was approaching, and the butler stepped out, saying significantly —

“Shall I speak to the young person, my lady?” No answer was vouchsafed, for just then Cornel caught the Contessa by the arm and whispered —

“You must see me, madam. It is life or death to one you know – one whom, I believe, you would not injure.”

“Hush! Who cure you?”

“A stranger from a distant land, madam.” Valentina started, and the rich blood flushed to her cheeks.

“I landed from America yesterday. Pray hear me. Your future depends upon it, and – perhaps – my life.”

The Contessa made a sign to Cornel to follow, and entered the door; and a minute after, as Pacey passed slowly by, he ground his teeth when he heard the coachman say to the footman, who was crossing the pavement with a shawl over one arm, and a basket containing a carriage clock, scent bottle, card case, and Court Guide —

“I say, Dicky, what game do you call that?”

“Last noo dodge for raising the wind,” said the footman, and he went in and closed the door.

“A hurricane, I should say,” muttered Pacey. “Poor little girl, can she face the storm? – I don’t know though – there’s a strength in her that masters me.”

Meanwhile Lady Dellatoria led the way to the boudoir, held aside the portière, and signed to Cornel to enter. Then following, the great velvet curtain was dropped, and they stood face to face, scanning each other’s features, and measuring the one whom a natural instinct taught each to consider the great enemy of her life. Cornel’s heart sank as she stood thus in the presence of her beautiful rival. For the moment, she was ready to sink into one of the luxurious lounges, and sob for very despair as she felt how unlikely it was that Armstrong could still care for the simple homely girl who had come across the wide ocean to save him – him, a willing victim to one who gazed at her with such contempt, and who at last broke the silence.

“Well,” she said, “I have granted your request. Why do you not speak?”

“I was thinking, madam, how beautiful you are.”

Valentina smiled faintly, and raised her eyebrows. It was such an old compliment paid to her.

“You wished to speak to me about some one I know. Have you brought a message? Who are you?”

“I am the poor American girl to whom Armstrong Dale plighted his troth before he left us to make his name and fame.”

The Contessa’s eyes were slightly veiled. It was no message then from him, and she avoided the searching eyes, so full of innocence and truth, that gazed at her, as she said huskily —

“Well, what is that to me?”

Cornel looked at her wonderingly, asking herself whether there was a mistake; but growing confident, she went on —

“This, madam: my lover – I speak to you in the homely fashion of our people – my lover came here to England, and his success was beyond my wildest dreams. We wrote to each other, and we were happy in the expectation of our future, till he saw you, and then – all was changed.”

“Is this the beginning of some romance? But, of course – your love-story.”

“Yes, madam, and no romance. But I do not come to speak angrily to you – I do not heap reproaches upon your head. I come to you simply as one woman in suffering should appeal to another.”

The Contessa made a contemptuous gesture.

“In my simple, faithful love for the man pledged to be my husband – the man who has sinned against me in what is but a base love for you – I am ready to forgive him, and look upon the past as dead. And now I come as a suppliant to you, asking you to set him free, that he may sin no more.”

“What! How dare you?” cried the Contessa. “Such words to me!”

“From his promised wife, madam! Yes: I dare tell you, because, with all your wealth and beauty, even your power over his weakness, I am stronger in my right. You have blinded him – turned him from the path of duty – you are the destroyer of his future.”

“Absurd, girl! This Mr Dale, the artist employed by my husband – surely in his vanity he has not dared – ”

She ceased speaking, and shrank from Cornel’s clear, candid gaze.

“No, madam, he has not dared – he has not spoken. He does not know that I have taken this step.”

“Most unwisely.”

“No, madam, I know that I am acting wisely – in his interest and yours.”

“My good girl, this is insufferable. If you were not a stranger to our customs in England, I would not listen to you.”

“There is no custom, madam, in a woman’s love, here or in America. Heart speaks to heart. He is my promised husband: give him back to me. I plead to you for your own sake as well as mine.”

“This is mere romance.”

“Again I say no, madam, but the truth. Think of your peril, too.”

“Silence!”

“I will not be silent,” said Cornel firmly. “You love him: I see it in your quivering lips, and the blood that comes and goes in your cheek. You hate me, madam, as a rival. Well, let me prove your love for him.”

“Will you be silent, girl?” cried the Contessa hastily.

“No; I must speak now. You would not have listened to me so long had I not spoken truth. You love him – you dare not deny it. Well, I love him too, and I tell you that your love came like a blight upon his life.”

“Woman, will you – ”

“No; I will not be silent,” said Cornel firmly: “but even if I ceased to speak, my words would ring in your ears. It is not love that holds him to you, or you to him, but a blind mad passion, the destroyer of you both. Call it love if you will, but prove that love by giving him up to return to his old, peaceful life.”

“And your arms?” whispered the Contessa maliciously.

“Ah! The proof!” cried Cornel. “No one but a spiteful rival could have spoken that. But your love is not as mine. I will not ask you to give him back to me, but to set him free before some horror descends upon you both. Your husband – ”

“Hush!”

Valentina gave a quick look round, and Cornel flushed in her eagerness as she exclaimed —

“The shadow over both your lives! You know it. Now, madam, prove your love by freeing him from such a risk. How can you call it love that threatens him with danger and disgrace!”

“And if I tell you that you, a foolish, jealous girl, are conjuring up all this in your excited brain – that I have listened to you patiently – and that I will hear no more?”

“I will tell you that your love for Armstrong is a mockery and snare, that you throw down the guage, and that I will save him from you yet.”

“And how? Bring some false charge against him to my husband? Set about some lying slander on my name?”

“Bring you to public shame – bring disgrace upon the head of the man I love? No, madam. You refuse my offer? – No: you will hear me. Give him up, as I will for his sake – woman – sister – am I to plead in vain?”

The Contessa pointed to the door.

“Yes,” said Cornel quietly. “I will go, but I will save him yet.”

“Then it is war,” muttered the Contessa, whose eyes contracted as she stood listening as if expecting a return; “and you will save him? Yes: to take to your heart? Not yet.”

She hurried to the window as the faint sound of the closing door was heard, and held aside the curtain, so as to gaze down the wide place, and see Cornel take Pacey’s arm, and, as if weak and suffering, walk slowly away.

“Bah! What is she to me, with her pitiful schoolgirl love? – ‘Save him yet!’”

She crossed the room and rang. Then, throwing herself into a lounge, she waited till the servant entered.

“Is your master in?”

“No, my lady. Lady Grayson called. Gone to the Academy, I think.”

“That will do.”

Left alone, Valentina sprang to her feet, and pressed her temples.

The next minute, with a smile upon her lip, and an intense look as of a set purpose in her eye, she went slowly from the room.

Chapter Nineteen.

Check

What to do?

Armstrong’s constant question to himself.

His determination, arrived at again and again, was to flee at once from the horrible passion which was sapping the life out of him – his insane love for a woman who evidently despised him, and whose face he had never seen.

He argued that, by going right away to Rome, Florence, or even merely to Paris, he would avoid Lady Dellatoria, who would soon forget him as he would forget this Italian woman, who – he could not explain to himself why – had, as it were, woven some spell round him and made him half mad.

He reasoned with himself, called upon the teaching of his early life, mocked at his folly, and told himself that he had got the better of the insane passion – that he had disgusted this woman by his insults, and that he was free, for she would come no more. But in another hour he was watching for her coming, and trying to contrive some means of tracing her, and begging her to come again.

Why? – that he might stand spell-bound again before that masked face, tortured, enslaved, and in greater despair than ever?

“It is of no use!” he muttered passionately. “I have not the mental strength of a child. I must go right away from the horrible temptation – and at once.”

He made a step or two toward his room. He had money enough; a few things could be packed, and in an hour he might be on his way to Dover. After that the world was before him, so that he could seek for peace.

No. Michael Thorpe and his sister were in London. It would be the act of a coward to flee now, and be dragging himself down lower still in their eyes. He could not go: Michael Thorpe would be sure to come before long, he felt, and he wished he would. It would be a relief to have some savage quarrel. Hah! there was an opportunity: Pacey, who had betrayed him and brought Cornel over for that shameful scene, after which he had felt that his life had better end.

“No,” he said half aloud, “I can’t quarrel with poor old Joe. He meant well, and he was right. But I cannot leave London now.”

He burst into a mocking laugh the next minute, for he would not indulge in self-deceit. He knew that it was not merely the dread of being thought cowardly which kept him there, but his mad passion for this woman, who treated him as if he were a dog.

Then he grew calmer, and tried to reason with himself. She had not treated him as a dog. Her conduct had been irreproachable. No lady could have been more modest or refined in her conduct throughout. She had come there merely as a model, and he had conceived this strange passion for her in spite of distant coldness, and complete disdain. He remembered in a score of things how she had borne herself as if conferring a favour by coming and taking his money; and he knew, too, how it was forced upon her by her filial affection.

“No!” he groaned, “she is not to blame. I shall never see her more, thank Heaven! and in time the recollection will die out.”

His eyes reverted to the picture, as this thought held him for the moment, and he again laughed bitterly and cried aloud, while gazing at the beautiful figure which inspiration and the work of his brush had placed upon the canvas.

“Die out, while she is there to renew my passion hour by hour, minute by minute! Curse the picture!” he raged. “Why did I ever conceive the vile thought?”

He stepped to it and tore off the paper which covered the face.

The next moment he had stepped back, startled and wondering at the perfection of his art, as Lady Dellatoria’s eyes seemed to be gazing passionately into his.

He shivered and turned away, holding one hand to his brow.

“I am ill,” he said, in a low, muttering tone, “unstrung, half wild. Well, this shall be the first step toward a cure;” and, taking a large Spanish knife from among the knick-knacks upon the table, he felt the point and edge, stepped forward, and was in the act of thrusting the blade through the canvas close to the frame, when the door-handle rattled, and the grimy face of Keren-Happuch was thrust in.

“She’s come again,” said the girl gleefully.

“The lady who was here yesterday?” cried Dale, throwing the knife from him.

“No, sir; her!” cried the girl. “She’s coming up now.”

She pointed to the canvas as she spoke, and Dale involuntarily turned to see the counterfeit presentment of Lady Dellatoria looking at him from the group with indignant scorn, and as if enraged at his mad passion for the model whose steps were now heard as the girl slipped out.

“It is fate!” muttered Dale, as the door was flung open, and the closely veiled and cloaked figure stood before him.

For some moments neither spoke. The model stood just within the closed door, proud and imperious in her pose, and with the glint of her eyes flashing through the thick veil, while, a prey to his emotion, Armstrong strove to find words as the struggle within him continued.

He would master himself, he thought. It was madness, and he called upon his manhood to protect this woman, who trusted to him, from a repetition of his last insult.

“You have returned, then,” he said to her coldly, but with his voice trembling.

“Yes, monsieur,” she replied, in her peculiarly accented French. “It was necessary. Monsieur wishes me to continue?”

He made a sign toward the door at the other end of the studio, and she seemed to hesitate, but the next moment she walked firmly across to the room and disappeared, while Dale fastened the outer door.

Then mechanically drawing the easel into its proper position in the light, he took up palette and brushes, and stood gazing straight before him, his nerves astrain, and pulses beating with a heavy dull throb.

His back was to the entrance of his room, and with a mist before his eyes he waited, ignorant of how the time passed till he heard the door behind him open, and the rustling sound of the heavy cloak as it swept over the rug-covered floor.

Then, with every sense at its acutest pitch, he felt her approach till she was close behind his chair on her way to the dais.

The model stopped suddenly, and he turned to see that she was gazing fixedly at the uncovered face upon the canvas, as if struck by the intense gaze of the goddess’s eyes.

It was almost momentary, that pause. Then she continued her way to the dais, and mounted it to resume her familiar attitude, and, once more, Dale began to paint; a quarter of an hour before about to destroy, now eagerly bent upon finishing the task, while the piercing eyes gleamed through the veil, and seemed to pierce him.

“It is fate!” he muttered, as those eyes fixed his, meeting them through the veil; but was it lovingly tempting him, or watching him in dread – a dread born of the doubt he inspired at the last visit?

He could not tell, but everything of the past died away in that present, and in a voice which he hardly knew as his own, he said softly —

“Why were you so angry with me last time?”

There was no reply, but the eyes gleamed distrustfully through the veil.

“You are angry still,” he continued. “Was it so great an offence to ask you to discard your veil?”

“Monsieur is wasting time,” was the reply, and he went on using his brush angrily for a few minutes.

“Tell me,” he said at last, “why you are so obstinate? Do you not wish me to see your face?”

She shook her head quickly, and he watched her, telling himself that there was something coquettish in the act.

“But you will not refuse me now?” he said. “I beg – I pray of you – let me see your face.”

“It is not possible. I do not wish you to know me again if we ever meet.”

“Why not?” he said eagerly. “For Heaven’s sake, do not be so distant with me.”

“I come here at your wish, monsieur, and you pay me to be your model. – Monsieur insults me once more.”

“No!” he cried passionately, as he threw down palette and brush; “a man cannot insult a woman he loves with all his soul.”

He took a step or two towards her, but with one quick movement, she stooped and swung the great cloak about her shoulders, and, unseen by him, caught up the knife he had so recently held. The next moment she made for the inner room, but he intercepted her.

“No, no!” he cried wildly. “You must not leave me again like this. Listen: you will hear me. Once for all, you shall remove that veil.”

“I – will – not,” she cried firmly. “Why does monsieur wish to see my face?”

“You, as a woman, know,” he cried, in a low, excited voice. “It is of no use. I must speak now. I tell you again, I love you.”

“It is not true!” she whispered. “You dare to tell me that, when I know that it is not true. That is the woman whom you love, monsieur!” and she pointed scornfully at the face upon the canvas.

“No!” he cried, half startled by her manner, “I swear that you are wrong.”

“It is her portrait, monsieur.”

“It is no one’s portrait. Imagination, every stroke,” he cried. “Now let me see the face of the woman I really love.”

He raised one hand to snatch off the veil, but with a quick movement she sprang from him, and, with her eyes gleaming through the film, flung one white arm from the cloak, gave her wrist a turn, and he saw that she was holding the great Spanish knife dagger-wise, with the point towards his breast.

“Don’t come near me, or it will be your death,” she panted.

“Ah!” he said, with a half-laugh, as, stirred now to the deepest depths, he bent forward trying to penetrate her disguise, but without avail; “can you punish me so cruelly as that for loving you? Well, you have made me yours, and it is my fate. Better death than the misery I have suffered, the despair of losing you and not seeing you again.”

“It is a mockery!” she cried, and her voice now was strangely altered. “A man cannot love a woman whose face he has not seen.”

“You know that is not true,” he whispered, as he still advanced, and she now began to retreat – “you know I love you with all my soul. I have told you so, and you know it in your heart.”