Kitabı oku: «The Tiger Lily», sayfa 11
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.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Two Women’s Love
A woman – with the fierce lurid look of a tigress in her dark eyes, and in her action as lithe and elastic, she paced up and down her bedroom hour after hour. Now she threw herself upon a couch in utter exhaustion, but anon she sprang up again to resume the hurried walk to and fro.
At times she went to the door to open it and listen, for it was secured only by the locks and bolts of the Grundy Patent – Dellatoria, in spite of his newly awakened jealous rage, feeling that his wife would join with him in keeping the servants in ignorance of their terrible rupture.
But all was still downstairs; and at last, enforcing an outward appearance of composure, Valentina changed her dress, bathed her burning eyes with spirit-scented water, and descended to her boudoir, where she turned down the lamp beneath its rose-coloured shade, and rang the bell, before seating herself in a lounge with her back half turned from the door.
“Pretty well time,” said the butler, who had been heading the discussion below stairs regarding the meaning of what had taken place. “There, cook, you may dish up.”
The footman presented himself at the door.
“Your ladyship rang?”
“Yes. Where is your master?”
“In the lib’ry, my lady.”
“Alone?”
“No, my lady. Colonel Varesti and Baron Gratz are with him again.”
“That will do.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The man hesitated at the door.
“Well?”
“Does your ladyship wish the dinner to be served?”
“No: wait till your master orders it. I am unwell. Give me that flacon of salts.”
The man handed the large cut-glass bottle, and went down.
The aspect of languor passed away in an instant, and Valentina sprang from the seat.
“I might have known it,” she panted. “He is no coward when he is roused, despicable as he is at other times. Those men. It means a meeting. They will fight, and – ”
She clapped her hands to her forehead as in imagination she saw Armstrong lying bleeding at her husband’s feet. Strong and brave as he was, she doubted the artist’s ability to stand before a man like the Conte, who had often boasted to her of his skill with the small sword, and ability as a marksman.
“And I have wasted all this time.”
Then, after a few moments’ thought, divining that the inevitable meeting would take place abroad, she went up at once to her bedroom and locked herself in.
Her brain was still misty and confused by the intense excitement through which she had passed, for upon reaching home, and savagely dismissing Lady Grayson, the Conte had turned upon her furiously. The passion of his southern nature had been aroused, and a mad jealousy developed itself respecting the woman whom of late he had utterly neglected.
In a few moments her mind was quite made up, and, taking a small dressing bag, she rapidly emptied into it the whole of the costly contents of her jewel-cases, unlocked a small cabinet, and took from it what money she possessed, and then hastily dressed for going out.
A very few minutes sufficed for this, and, after pausing for a few moments to collect herself, she took up the bag, and, unlocking the door, passed out silently on to the thickly carpeted landing, descended to the hall, where she paused again as she heard a low buzz of voices in the library, and then walked quickly to the door, passed out, and hurried up the wide street, breathing freely as she felt that she had been unobserved.
Not quite. Ladies in large establishments live beneath the observation of many eyes. Valentina had no sooner begun to descend the wide stairs than a white cap was thrust out from the door of a neighbouring room, and the eyes beneath it were immediately after looking down the great staircase, while a pair of ears twitched as they listened till the front door was heard to close.
The next minute the wearer of the cap was in the bed and dressing rooms, gazing at the empty jewel-cases, noting the absence of the bag, cloak, and bonnet, even to the veil; and then came the low ejaculation of the one word, “Well!”
The Abigail ran down the backstairs and made her way into the hall, just in time to meet the butler returning from ushering out the Conte’s two friends, who had been closeted with him, consulting as to what proceedings should be taken, as there had been no appearance put in by the other side.
The butler heard the lady’s-maids hurried communication, nodded sagely, and said oracularly that he wasn’t a bit surprised; then coughed to clear his voice, waved the maid away, closed the baize door after her, and entered the library to repeat what he had heard.
The Conte did not even change countenance.
“Stop all tattling amongst the servants,” he said. “Her ladyship is not well – a strange seizure to-day. It must be past the dinner hour.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Let it be served at once.”
The butler bowed, and went out solemnly.
The moment he was alone, a sharp grating sound was heard, and a strange look came over the Conte’s face as he hastily opened a cabinet, took something from a drawer, and placed it in his breast pocket. Then, hurrying upstairs, he satisfied himself of the truth of all he had heard, and descended, took his hat from the stand and went out quietly, unheard, even by the servants.
Meanwhile Valentina had walked straight to the studio.
The street-door was ajar, for Keren-Happuch had just gone into the next street to post a letter at the pillar, so the closely veiled woman passed in unseen, and went upstairs, stood for a few moments listening, and then softly entered.
She uttered a low sigh of relief, glad to have entered the place which, for the moment, felt to her like a sanctuary.
It was many hours since she had been surprised there by her husband and Lady Grayson; but to her then it seemed only a few minutes before, and she looked round the great dim room quickly, with a smile upon her lips.
But the smile froze there, and a horrible sensation of fear came over her. She had waited too long. There must have been a challenge from her husband, and Armstrong had responded. The street-door open; the studio unfastened; and this dim light! Then she was too late: he had gone. But where? Belgium? France? The thought was horrible – almost more than she could bear.
“No, no,” she murmured. “It cannot be.”
She advanced into the great dim place excitedly, with the many grim-looking plaster figures and busts seeming to watch her furtively out of the gloom; and as she looked quickly from side to side, she fancied that the faces were menacing and full of reproach, as if telling her that she had sent her lover to his death.
She had nearly crossed the room when she started and shrank back in horror, for one of the rugs had been kicked slightly aside, and there was a wet dark mark upon the boards which she knew at a glance to be blood – his blood, for it was here he had fallen when her husband struck him down.
With the faintest of hopes amid her despair that she might still be in time, she went on to the inner door, seized the handle, and was pressing it, but it was twisted from her fingers, the door opened, and she was about to fling herself into Armstrong’s arms, but only shrank back with a look of jealous rage and despair.
For Cornel stood framed in the opening and closed the door, then looked her firmly and defiantly in the face.
Neither spoke for a full minute, and as Valentina gazed in the blanched countenance before her, she read here so stony and despairing a look, that she shrank away in horror, certain that either there was some terrible revelation awaiting her beyond the door which had been so carefully closed, or else that Cornel’s eyes were confirming her worst dread, and that Armstrong had gone forth to meet his death.
It was some moments before the Contessa could command herself sufficiently to speak aloud. She wished to get from Cornel’s lips the truth, and to show her how, possessed as she was of Armstrong’s love, she could treat her with calm, contemptuous tolerance, as one almost beneath her notice. But the stern disdain in those large flashing eyes mastered her and kept her silent. There was a magnetism in their glance, and she felt that if she spoke it would be in a broken feeble manner, which would lower her in her rival’s eyes.
She fought against it, struggled for a long time vainly, and moment by moment felt how strong in her innocence and truth her rival stood before her. It was not until she had lashed herself into a state of fury that she could force herself to speak.
“Mr Dale – where is he?” she cried at last imperiously.
“How dare you come and ask?” said Cornel fiercely, her whole manner changed.
“Because I have a right,” cried Valentina, who, stung now by her rival’s words, began to recover herself. Her eyes too dilated as she went on, and something of her old hauteur and contempt flashed out.
“You! – a right?”
“Yes; the right of the woman he loves – who has given up everything for his sake.”
“Loves! The woman he loves!” cried Cornel contemptuously.
“Yes, and who loves him as such a woman as I can love. Do you think that you, in your girlish coldness, could ever have won him as I have? Tell me where he is.”
“That you may join him?” cried Cornel. “You would give him over to your husband – to that horror – and his death.”
“Ah!” cried Valentina excitedly; “then he has not gone yet. He is safe.” And, in spite of herself, she gave way to a hysterical burst of tears.
“What is it to you?” said Cornel coldly. “He has escaped from your hands. You have no right here, woman. Go.”
“I am right, then,” cried the Contessa, mastering her weakness once more. “You are trying to keep us apart. He is mine, I tell you, mine for ever. He is there, then; I am not too late – there in that room. Armstrong!” she cried loudly, “come to me. I am here.”
She made for the door again, but Cornel seized her, and strove with all her might to keep the furious woman back, but she was like a child in her hands, and was rudely flung aside. Valentina thrust open the door, entered the study, and passed through it to the chamber beyond, to utter a wild cry, and fall upon her knees beside the bed on which Armstrong lay cold and still.
Then, starting up, she bent over him, laid her hand upon his brow, her cheek against his lips, and staggered back.
“Dead!” she cried, “dead!”
For his eyes were closed, and the bandaged cut upon his brow gave him a ghastly look, seen as he was by the shaded light of a lamp upon the table by the bed’s head.
She rushed back through the little room to the studio, where Cornel stood, wild-eyed, and white as the figure upon the bed.
“Wretch! you have killed him in your insane jealousy. It could not have been that blow. Tell me! confess!” she cried, seizing her by the arms.
“Better so than that he should have fallen back into your power,” said Cornel bitterly.
“Ah! You own it, then? Oh, it is too horrible!”
Her face convulsed with agony, the Contessa seized Cornel by the arm, threw down the bag, which flew open, so that the jewels scattered on the floor, and tried to drag her toward the studio door, calling hoarsely for help. But her voice rose to the ceiling, and not a sound was heard below.
But Cornel resisted now with all her might, and in the struggle which ensued wrested herself away, ran across the studio, darted through the door of the little room, dashed it to, and had time to slip the bolt before her rival flung herself against it, and then beat heavily against the panel with her hand.
Pale as ashes, and panting with excitement, Cornel stood with her left shoulder pressed against the panel, feeling the blows struck upon it through the wood, as, with her eyes fixed and strained, she felt about for the key, her hand trembling so that she could hardly turn it in the lock.
“No, no!” she muttered. “I’ll die sooner than she shall touch him again.”
Then she held her breath, listening, for she fancied she heard a sound in the studio above the beating on the panel, which suddenly culminated in one strangely given blow, accompanied by a wild shriek of agony, followed by a heavy fall and a piteous groan.
