Kitabı oku: «The Tiger Lily», sayfa 12
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Husband and Wife
Startled beyond bearing by the sounds of mortal suffering, Cornel unfastened the door, drew it toward her, and then stopped, utterly paralysed by the scene in the studio.
There, not a yard away from the door, lay the beautiful woman, her face drawn in agony and horror, with the blood welling from a wound in her throat: her bonnet was back on her shoulders, and her hair torn down, as if a hand had suddenly been savagely laid upon her brow, her head dragged back, and a blow struck at her from behind; while standing upon the other side, with his compressed lips drawn away from his set teeth, eyes nearly closed, and brow contracted, was the Conte, looking down at his work.
For a few moments Cornel could not stir. The studio, with its many casts, seemed to perform a ghastly dance round her, and she felt as if this were some horrible nightmare. Then the deathly sickness passed off, and she cried wildly to the Conte, who did not even seem aware of her presence —
“O Heaven! What have you done?”
Her piteous appeal made him start back into consciousness, and with a hasty motion he hurled something across the studio, where it fell with a tinkling, metallic sound.
“I – I struck her,” he gasped, in a harsh cracked voice. “I loved her – ah! how I loved her; and she was false. Look: she had even robbed me, and fled with all her jewels – to him. See where they lie, scattered upon his floor. Ah, signora,” he cried passionately, and growing more and more Italian in his excitement, “I poured out wealth at her feet. There was nothing I would not have done to gratify her. For I loved her – I loved her. Dio mio, how I loved!”
“Hush!” cried Cornel, recovering herself somewhat in the presence of suffering and danger, her medical education asserting itself. “Go quickly and call help. Send for a surgeon.”
“No, no!” he cried excitedly, as his face blanched with dread. “If I call, it means the police, and – oh! horror – they will say I have murdered her.”
“Man!” cried Cornel, in disgust at his sudden display of selfishness, “have you no feeling? – Is this your love? Quick! – your handkerchief. Mine too; take it from my pocket. God help me, and give me strength,” she whispered, as her busy fingers staunched the wound by closing the cut. Then, as the Conte stood looking on, trembling like a leaf, she bade him fetch a large wide lotah from where it stood upon a bracket, pour water into it from the carafe, and place it upon the floor beside the Contessa’s head.
And as she knelt there all hatred and horror of the beautiful woman passed away. It was an erring sister and sufferer for sin, bleeding to death; and, knowing how precious minutes were at such a time, she tore up the handkerchiefs and portions of the Contessa’s attire, as, with skilled hands, she checked the bleeding, and securely bandaged the wound.
She was so intent upon her work, that, after he had obeyed her orders, she was hardly conscious of the Conte’s presence, while he, after watching her acts for some minutes, suddenly looked round, startled by some sound which penetrated to where they were. Then, trembling visibly, he began to examine the front of his clothes, passing his hands over them, and examining his palms for traces of the deed, but finding none.
Then a fresh thought struck him, and after keenly watching Cornel to see if she noticed the action, he crept on tip-toe – a miserably bent, decrepit-looking figure – to where the tinkling sound had been heard, picked up a little ivory-handled stiletto, examined its blade in the faint light, with his back to the group by the inner room door, and, catching up a piece of Moorish scarf, wiped it quickly, and hid the weapon in his breast pocket.
Then creeping on tip-toe to the studio door, he listened, his face full of abject fear, and hearing nothing, he turned the key.
He glanced toward Cornel, whose back was toward him, as she busily went on with her task, hiding too his wife’s face from him by her position.
Hesitating for a moment or two, he then drew a deep breath, and crossed softly to where the bag lay open with some of the glittering jewels still hanging to its edge: great strings of pearls, and a necklet of diamonds.
These he hurriedly thrust back, and then went quickly and silently about, picking up rings, bracelets, brooches, and tiaras of emerald, ruby, diamond, and sapphire, till, with a sigh of satisfaction, he closed the morocco bag, the fastening giving forth a loud snap.
“Is – is she dead?” he whispered; and his lips were so close to Cornel’s ear that she started round, and let fall the wrist upon whose pulse her fingers were pressed.
“No,” she whispered. “I have staunched the wound till you can get proper help, but I fear internal bleeding.”
At that moment there was a piteous sigh followed by a low moan, and the beautiful dark eyes opened, to gaze vacantly for a few moments. Then intelligence came into them, as they rested upon Cornel, who was now bending over her.
“Ah,” she said softly, as her hand felt for Cornel’s, which was laid upon her brow; “you? Good for evil;” and she drew Cornel’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “Forgive me,” she whispered, “before I die. I loved him so.”
A curiously harsh low cry escaped from the Conte, who literally writhed in his jealous agony, and Valentina turned her eyes upon him where he stood dimly seen, as if looking at her from out of a mist.
“You there!” she said bitterly, as Cornel once more grasped her wrist. “Well, are you satisfied? You have killed my body, as you killed my love, when, as a young innocent girl, I was sold to you for your wealth and title, and Heaven knows I would have tried to be your true loving wife.”
“Oh, Valentina! my beautiful – my own!” he groaned; and he stooped to take her hand.
“Pah! don’t touch me!” she cried hoarsely; and she raised the hand she had snatched away, and pointed to the bag he held. “Take them to your mistresses whose smiles you have always bought. Let me die in peace.”
“No, no; live!” he cried.
“To save you from the punishment you merit?” she whispered scornfully.
“No, no! to be my dearest love and wife again. Let us go back to sunny Italy, away from all this miserable city.”
“Too late!” she said sadly. “You should have said that years ago.”
“For pity’s sake don’t speak,” whispered Cornel.
“Why not, little doctor?” said Valentina softly. “Better so. Ah, I was not all bad, dear. I loved him before I knew of you. How could I help looking on you with jealous hate? Let me kiss you once – before I go. Be loving to him and forgive him – it was all my fault – tell me you will forgive him – when I am gone.”
“With all my heart,” said Cornel softly; and she bent down to press her lips to those of the suffering woman, while the tears over-ran her brimming eyelids, and her heart swelled with pity for one so deeply punished for her sin.
But as if the Contessa recollected the scene of a short time before, she thrust the gentle face away before lips touched lips, and with a loud cry —
“No, no! I had forgotten. I remember now. How could you be so base? No! don’t touch me. I will see him once again. Armstrong! – my love – my own.”
She dragged herself over, and began to crawl to the door, when the Conte’s face became convulsed with passion once more, his hand sought his breast, the bag fell to the ground, and with an oath he cried —
“Then he is in there! – in hiding.”
Springing over the crawling figure, he dashed through to the inner room, and, as Valentina uttered a piteous moan, the Conte flung open the bedroom door.
“Dog! – Coward!” he yelled, and then stopped, petrified at the sight of the motionless figure upon the bed. Then the door swung to between them, and he thrust back the little blade, and came stealthily out, muttering softly to himself as he bent over his wife, insensible to all that passed.
He was trembling violently now.
“I did not know,” he muttered to Cornel. “I struck him when I found them together, but I did not know. I – I must go – away. Your laws are bad. An affair of honour. Will – will she die too?”
“I cannot say,” replied Cornel coldly. “She must have better surgical help. I am only a nurse.”
“Yes,” he said hastily. “Better help. A great surgeon. She must not die. I will get a carriage and take her away.”
“It would be dangerous to move her.”
“More dangerous far to leave her here,” he muttered. Then aloud, “It must be risked, madam. But listen. You are his friend?”
“Yes.”
“This is a terrible misfortune, but a private matter – not for the police. You will not tell them how – by accident – I struck my wife?”
“No,” said Cornel, after a pause; and a shudder ran through her.
“Hah! Then the law need not meddle with what was a private quarrel – a mistake. My wife, here, shall live, and you who are so good and beautiful and kind, you shall be silent, and – one moment.”
He fumbled with the clasp of the bag he had picked up, opened it, and, as Cornel’s brows contracted with horror, he searched within and drew out a magnificent diamond and sapphire bracelet.
“Hah!” he cried. “You will wear that for both our sakes, and be silent, and blind to the past.”
“I will be silent and blind, for the sake of the man I loved,” she said to herself, as she thrust back the jewel and shook her head.
“But you will not tell?” he said.
“No, sir; your secret is safe.”
The Conte uttered a sigh of satisfaction, threw back the bracelet, and closed the bag with a snap, while Cornel eyed him with disgust.
“Do you intend to risk removing this lady?”
“Certainly,” he said firmly; “it must be done. Lock the door after me,” he whispered, as he crossed the studio.
Cornel followed and obeyed, listening to his descending steps. Then, returning to where Valentina lay insensible, she satisfied herself of the security of the bandages, and once more felt her pulse.
“If there is no internal bleeding she will live. Yes, I will forgive you. Some day you may know the truth. And then? Ah, who can tell?”
She bent down and kissed the broad forehead, and then knelt there for a few moments before rising and going quickly into Armstrong’s bedroom to gaze at him for a minute, and return, carefully closing after her both the doors.
She kept her vigil there for a few minutes before there were steps again, and a soft tap at the door.
She admitted the Conte.
“I have a carriage waiting, and a man here to help,” he said.
“I am not clever and experienced,” said Cornel anxiously. “Let a doctor see her first.”
For answer the Conte gave her a quick nod.
“It is secrecy, is it not?”
“Oh yes, but – ”
“The best London can give,” he whispered. “When I have her back at home. And you understand that was nonsense which I said about striking him?”
The bag was on his arm, with his hand pushed far through, as he went back to the door, and signalled to a man to come in. Then seeing that this removal was inevitable, Cornel rapidly replaced the cloak well round the insensible figure, and rearranged the head.
“Don’t – don’t waste time,” said the Conte impatiently, and signing to the man, the latter bent down and lifted the motionless figure as easily as if it had been a child.
“Be careful, my friend. A sad accident. Be careful. Mind.”
He opened the door for the man to pass through, and Cornel followed them, to listen to the heavy descending steps, till all was silent. Then came the rattle of wheels, and she knew that they were gone.
Closing the door of the studio, she walked across it, dropped upon her knees, and clasped her hands.
“Have I done rightly?” she murmured. “I don’t know. It seems like madness now.” Then a weary sigh, as she laid her head against the door leading to the chamber. “Armstrong! what I have suffered for your sake!”
Chapter Thirty.
The Last
“And you gave him enough to keep him in that insensible state?” said Dr Thorpe next night, after seeing and treating Armstrong, who lay in a weak, half-delirious state.
Cornel nodded and gazed wildly at her brother, who continued —
“To keep him from going abroad to fight this duel?”
“Yes, I felt sure that the Conte would kill him.”
“And serve him right. Well,” he went on, as his sister winced at his harsh words, “this proves the truth of the saying – ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,’ You know a bit about narcotics and anaesthetics, and you may congratulate yourself upon not having killed him. But there, perhaps, it was right; and anyhow, you have saved him.”
“You think he will recover now?” she cried eagerly.
“Think so? Oh yes! of course. Nothing to prevent him. Only wants time. But it’s nothing to you.”
“How is the Contessa?”
“Getting better, I hear. Fact is, I met the surgeon who is attending her at the society. But never mind them. I shall have done all I want here in less than a fortnight. That is when the Spartania sails, so be ready, and let’s get back.”
“Yes, dear,” said Cornel quietly, “I shall have finished my task, too.”
Two years later Armstrong Dale went back home, but only for a visit, for his fame was increasing rapidly, and he had more commissions than he could undertake. He wanted help and counsel, and he brought them back with him, for he did not return to London alone.
Four more years had elapsed, and that season there was a great deal of talk about Armstrong Dale’s big picture at the Academy. The press had praised it unanimously; society had endorsed the critics’ words; and it was sold for a heavy sum. But though he was importuned to take portraits, Armstrong sternly refused.
The picture that year was a fanciful subject of a beautiful woman reclining upon a tiger skin, with a huge cluster of orange maculated lilies thrust, as if by careless hands, into a magnificent repoussé copper vase. And as he painted it, he had turned to his wife one day, and said, “I can’t help it, Little Heart; it will come so like her. I shall paint it out and give up.”
Then he seized a cloth to pass across the fresh paint, but Cornel caught his wrist.
“Absurd!” she cried. “That magnificent piece of work – and because of a fancied resemblance?”
“Then you do not mind?” he said sadly.
Palette, brushes, and mahlstick were slowly and softly taken from his hands, which were drawn round Cornel’s neck, and she nestled closely in his breast.
“Mind? No,” she said gently; “let the dead past bury its dead.”
The picture went to the Academy then, and was the most discussed work of the year.
One sunny morning early, so as to be before the crush, Armstrong and his wife walked through the principal room, joined together by a little fairy-like golden-haired link, whose bright eyes flashed with delight as she clung to the hand on either side, for she was at her urgent request being taken “to see papa’s picture – ‘The Tiger Lily.’”
The trio had been standing in front of it for some minutes, when, after playfully responding to the happy child’s many questions, Cornel and Armstrong turned to take her round the room, but both stopped short as if petrified.
For within a couple of yards stood Valentina, pale as death, her eyes abnormally large, and her whole countenance telling of bodily suffering and mental pain.
Beside her was an invalid-chair, occupied by a wasted, prematurely old man, wrapped in furs – in May – and attended by a servant, who stood motionless behind.
The meeting was a surprise, and all present save one remained fascinated by some spell.
The silence was broken by Valentina, who took a step forward, and held out her hand, while Armstrong saw at a glance that the Conte was gazing vacantly at the pictures, his eyes dull and glazed, the light of recognition being absent.
“It is six years since we met, Mrs Dale,” said the Contessa softly, but the tones of her voice were changed, and she turned her head slightly to let her eyes rest upon Armstrong. “As in all human probability we shall never meet again, I cannot resist referring once to the past – to thank your sweet wife for the life she saved.”
“Oh, pray,” whispered Cornel in a tremulous voice, “no more.”
“No,” said Valentina, holding Cornel’s hand tightly, and gazing wildly in her eyes, though her voice was very calm. “We go back to Italy at once. My husband, who is a great invalid, seems better there.”
She paused for a moment, as if to gain strength to continue; and then, in a low, passionate whisper, full of the maternal longing of an unsatisfied heart —
“Your child? May I kiss her once?”
Cornel bowed her head – she could not speak, but held the child a little forward, and Valentina bent down.
“Will you kiss me?” she asked.
The bright, innocent eyes looked smilingly up, and the silvery voice said, as the soft little arms clasped her neck —
“Yes, I’ll give you two.” Then, as she was held tightly for a few moments, “Do you like dear papa’s picture? I saw him make it. Is it you?”
The eager, wondering question sent a pang through three breasts, but not another word was uttered, till the invalid-chair and its attendants had passed through the door close by.
It was the child who broke the silence just as Cornel had stolen her hand to her husband’s side to press his with a long, firm, trusting grasp.
“Why did that lady cry when she kissed me, mamma? I know:” the child added quickly. “It was because that poor gentleman is so ill.”
It was the winter of the same year when Armstrong was seated by his studio fire with his child upon his knee, and Cornel upon the rug, with the warm light of the fire upon her cheek – not in the old studio, but the great, artistically furnished salon in Kensington. The door opened, and a gruff voice exclaimed —
“May I come in?”
The child uttered a cry of delight, sprang from her father’s knee, and dashed across the studio, to begin dragging forward the rough grey-beard in a shabby velvet coat, and soft black hat.
He raised her in his arms, and bore her forward caressingly, to sit chatting for some time. Then Cornel rose and took the child’s hand.
“Come, dear,” she said. “Your tea-time.”
“No, no. I want to stop with Uncle Joe.”
“Uncle Joe wants to talk to papa about business,” said Cornel, with a nod and a smile, as she drew the little one away. “You shall come in to dessert if you are good.”
She nodded, smiling at the rough-looking old friend, and then tripped out playfully with the child.
“Light your pipe, old man,” said Armstrong. “Is it business?”
“Yes. Your wife reads my face like a book. Have you seen to-day’s paper?”
“No. Been growling all day at the bad light and playing with Tiny.”
“Read that, then.”
Pacey passed a crumpled newspaper, folded small, and under the Paris news Armstrong read —
“M. Leronde has been appointed French Consul at Constantinople, and leaves Marseilles by the Messageries Maritimes steamer Corne d’Or on Friday.”
“Well, I am glad. Hang it, Joe, I could find it in my heart to run over to Paris to have one dinner with him, and say ‘Good-bye.’”
“No time,” said Pacey gruffly. “Now read that.” He took back the paper and doubled it again, so that the front page was outward, and pointed to the column of deaths.
Armstrong started, and for some moments held the paper with his eyes fixed upon his friend, in whose countenance he seemed to divine what was to come.
He was in no wise surprised, when he looked down, to find the name Dellatoria, and he began to read the announcement with the remembrance that the Conte’s face, when they last met, bore the stamp of impending death; but he was not prepared for what he did read. The type was blurred, and the paper quivered a little as he saw as through a mist the name Valentina, the age thirty, Rome, and then the last words stood out clearly – “Only surviving the Conte Dellatoria four days.”
“Chapter the last, boy,” said Pacey, taking back the paper, and folding it tightly before replacing it in his breast pocket.
“Yes,” said Armstrong slowly, as he mentally looked backward through the golden mists of six years, “chapter the last.”
