Kitabı oku: «The Tiger Lily», sayfa 4
She pointed to the features, glowing – almost speaking, from the canvas – her faithful portrait, full of the angry majesty he had sought to convey.
Alas! poor Cornel. Not a lineament was hers.
Armstrong groaned.
“Heaven help me!” he muttered. “Is it fate?”
His hands repulsed her no longer, and he stood holding her at arm’s length, gazing into the eyes which fascinated, lost to everything but her influence over him, till with a hasty gesture, full of anger, she shrank away and sought her veil from the floor.
“Some one!” she whispered fiercely, for there was a step upon the stair.
“The Conte,” cried Dale, startled at the interruption.
“Hide me, quick! That room,” cried the Contessa; and she took a step toward it as she veiled her face. “No,” she cried, turning proudly, and resisting an inclination to step behind the great canvas close to which she stood, “Let him see me. His faithlessness has divorced us, and given me to the man I love. You will protect me. Kill him if you wish. I am not afraid.”
This in a hasty whisper as the steps came nearer, and Valentina’s eyes glistened through her veil as she saw the artist draw himself up, and take a step forward to meet the intruder.
“Better that it should be so at once,” she whispered. “Let him come.”
The door was thrown quickly open as she spoke.
Chapter Ten.
There is Only One Way
Armstrong’s teeth and hands were clenched for the encounter with the angry husband who had tracked his wife to the studio, and he was ready to accept his fate, for he told himself that he could fight no more against his destiny. The woman had told him that he would defend her, and he must – he would.
There was no feeling of dread, then, in his breast as he advanced to the encounter, but only to stop speechless with amazement as Pacey entered in his abrupt, noisy manner, to grasp his hand and clap him on the shoulder.
“Armstrong, old man,” he cried loudly, “I could not stand it any longer. You and I must be friends. I believe you told me the truth, lad, I do from my soul. La Bella Donna told me Miss Montesquieu was here, but I thought that wouldn’t matter, as she wouldn’t be sitting at this time.”
Dale could not speak: he was paralysed.
“Don’t hold off, old lad,” said Pacey, in a low tone. “We must make it up. Any apology when she’s gone.”
He turned sharply to where the Contessa stood, closely veiled, and nodded to her familiarly.
“Glad you and Mr Dale have come to terms. Many engagements on the way?”
There was no reply, but the tall proud figure seemed to stiffen, and there was a flash of the eyes through the veil at Armstrong, who now recovered his voice, while his heart sank low within him.
“Go now,” he said, “at once.”
“Oh, Montesquieu won’t mind my being here. But do you really – ”
Pacey stopped speaking, as he realised for the first time that it was not the model he had heard was sitting to his friend. He stared at her hard, as if puzzled, then at the canvas, where the beautiful sketch gazed at him fiercely, and he grasped in his own mind the situation.
The paint was wet and glistening: this was the model who had been sitting for the face, and it could be none other than the Contessa.
A change came over him on the instant. His brows knit, the free, noisy manner was gone, and he took off his hat, to say with quiet dignity, as he bent his head, but in a voice husky with the pain he felt —
“I beg Lady Dellatoria’s pardon for my rudeness. I was mistaken,” and he turned to go.
“Stay, sir,” she cried, in her low, deep, and musical tones; “my visit to your friend is over. Mr Dale, will you see me to my carriage? It is waiting.”
Valentina held out her hand, and, pale now with emotion, Armstrong advanced to the door, which he opened, and then offered his arm. This she took, and he led her down to the hall in silence.
“Your imprudence has ruined you,” he said then, bitterly, “and disgraced me in the eyes of my friend.”
“No,” she said softly. “You can trust that man. He would die sooner than injure a woman because she loves. Now I am at rest. You will come to me, for I have won. You see,” she continued, as Armstrong mechanically opened the door, and she stepped out proudly on to the steps, “I have no fear. Let the world talk as it will.”
A handsomely appointed carriage drew up, and the footman sprang down to open the door, while Dale, who moved as if he were in a dream, handed her in, she touching his arm lightly, and sinking back upon the cushions.
“I shall expect you to-morrow then, Mr Dale,” she said aloud, “at the usual time.” Then to the servant, “Home.”
Armstrong stood at the edge of the pavement, bareheaded, till the carriage turned the corner out of the square; and then, still as if in a dream, he walked in, closed the door, and ascended to the studio to face his friend.
Pacey was standing with his hands behind him, gazing at the face upon the canvas. He did not stir when Dale took a couple of steps forward into the great, gloomy, darkening room, waiting for an angry outburst of reproaches.
A full minute must have elapsed before a single word was uttered, and then Pacey said slowly, and in the voice of one deeply moved —
“Is she as beautiful as this?”
Dale started, and looked wonderingly at his friend.
“I say, is she as beautiful as this?” repeated Pacey, still without turning his head.
“Yes: I have hardly done her justice.”
“A woman to win empires – to bring the world to her feet,” said Pacey slowly. ”‘Beautiful as an angel’ is a blunder, lad. Such as she cannot be of Heaven’s mould, but sent to drag men down to perdition. Armstrong, lad, I pity you. I suppose there are men who would come scathless through such a trial as this, but they must be few.”
There was another long pause, and Pacey still gazed at the luminous face upon the canvas.
“Is that all you have to say?” said Dale at last.
“Yes, that is all, man. How can I attack you now? I knew that you had been tempted, and, in spite of appearances, I believed your word. I thought you had not fallen, and that I had been too hasty in all I said. Now I can only say once more, I pity you, and feel that I must forgive.”
Dale drew a deep breath, which came sighing through his teeth as if he were in pain.
“Let’s talk Art now, boy,” said Pacey, taking out his pipe, and, going to the tall mantelpiece, he took down the tobacco-jar, filled the bowl, lit up, and began to smoke with feverish haste, as he threw one leg over a chair, resting his hands upon the back, and gazing frowningly at the face, while Dale stood near him with folded arms.
“From the earliest days men gained their inspiration in painting and sculpture from that which moved them to the core,” said Pacey, slowly and didactically. “Yes, I believe in inspiration, lad. We can go on working, and studying, and painting, as you Yankees say, ‘our level best’, but something more is needed to produce a face like that.”
He was silent again, and sat as if fascinated by the work before him.
“What am I to say to you, lad?” he continued at last. “It is like sacrificing everything – honour, manhood, all a man should hold dear, to his art; but as a brother artist, what am I to say? I am dumb as a man, for I have seen her here and felt her presence. There was no need for me to look upon her face. It is beautiful indeed. I say that as the man. As the artist who has done so little for myself – ”
“So much for others,” said Dale quickly.
“Well, you fellows all believe in me and the hints I give, and some of you have made your mark pretty deep. Yes, as the man who has studied art these five and twenty years, I say this is wonderful. It did not take you long?”
“No.”
“Of course not. There is life and passion in every touch. You must finish that, my lad, and we will keep it quiet. No one must see that but us till you send it in. Armstrong, boy, you are one of the great ones of earth. I knew that you had a deal in you, but this is all a master’s touch.”
“You think it is so good, then?” said Dale sadly. “Think it good? You know how good it is. Better, perhaps, than you will ever paint again; but would to God, my lad, that you had not sunk so low to rise so high.”
Dale sank into a chair, and let his face fall forward upon his hands, while Pacey went on slowly, still gazing at the canvas.
“Yes,” he said, “it wanted that. All the rest is excellent. That bit of imitation of Turner comes out well. The man wants more feeling in the face – a little more of the unmasked – but this dwarfs all the rest, as it should. Armstrong, lad, it is the picture of the year. There,” he continued, “my pipe’s out, and I think I’ll go. But be careful, lad. Don’t touch that face more than you can help, and only when she is here.”
Dale laughed bitterly.
“Why do you laugh? Is it such bad advice?”
“Yes.”
And he partly told his friend how the work was done – leaving out all allusion to Cornel – Pacey hearing him quietly to the end.
“I am not surprised,” he said at last. “What you say only endorses my ideas. Good-bye, lad; I’ll go.”
He rose from the chair, tapped the ashes out of his pipe, looking at them thoughtfully, and picked up his hat from where he had cast it upon the dusty floor. He then turned to face Dale, holding out his hand, but the artist did not see it, and sat buried in thought.
“Good-bye, old lad,” said Pacey again.
Dale sprang to his feet, saw the outstretched hand, and drew back, shaking his head.
“Shake hands,” said Pacey again, more loudly.
“No,” said Dale bitterly; “you cannot think of me as of old.”
“No; but more warmly perhaps, for there is pity mingled with the old friendship that I felt. I came here this afternoon, as schoolboys say, to make it up. I was in ignorance then; now I have eaten of the bitter fruit and know. Armstrong, lad, knowing all this, and as one who, with all his reckless Bohemianism and worldliness, has kept up one little habit taught by her long dead, how can I say ‘forgive me my trespasses’ to-night if, with such a temptation as yours, I can’t forgive?”
Dale gazed at him wildly, and Pacey went on.
“The bond between us two is stronger now, lad, so strong that I think it would take death to snap the cord. Good-bye. If you do not see me soon, it is not that we are no longer friends.”
Then their hands joined in a firm grip, and Pacey slowly left the room, muttering to himself as he passed out into the square —
“Fallen so low, to rise so high. Yes, I must save him, and there is only one way in which it can be done.”
Chapter Eleven.
Jaggs Makes a Discovery
“Their scent sickens me,” Dale cried passionately, as he committed them to the flames unread, for he frankly owned to himself that he dare not read one, lest he should falter in the resolution he had made.
For he had struggled hard to fight against his fate, and though tied and tangled by the threads which still clung to him, he had mockingly told himself that he was not mad enough to venture into the spider’s web again.
Then, twice over, he had hastily drawn a curtain in front of his great picture upon Keren-Happuch coming up to the studio to bring in a card – the Conte’s – and bit his lip with rage and mortification as that gentleman was shown up, in company with Lady Grayson.
The visit on the first occasion was to complain about Dale’s curt refusal to go on with the picture; while the young artist haltingly gave as his reason that it was impossible for him to complete Lady Dellatoria’s portrait on account of a large work that he was compelled to finish. And all the while Lady Grayson, with the reckless effrontery of her nature, looked at him mockingly, her eyes laughingly telling him that he was a poor weak coward, and that she could read him through and through.
Then came the second visit with the wretched Italian, blindly, or knowingly, to use him as a screen for his own amours, almost imploring him to come.
“Lady Dellatoria is so disappointed,” he said volubly. “She takes the matter quite to heart. No doubt, Mr Dale, there is a little vanity in the matter – the desire to be seen in the exhibition, painted by the famous young American artist.”
“There are plenty of men, sir, who would gladly undertake the commission,” said Dale angrily. “I beg that you will not ask me again.”
“Mr Dale, you are cruel,” cried Lady Grayson. “Our poor Contessa will be desolate. Let me plead for you to come and finish the work.”
“Aha! yes,” cried the Conte, wrinkling up his face, though it was full enough before of premature lines. “A lady pleads. You cannot refuse her.”
Dale gave the woman a look so full of contempt and disgust that she coloured and then turned away, shrugging her shoulders.
“He is immovable,” she said to the Conte.
“No, no! Body of Bacchus! I understand;” and he placed his finger to his lips, and half closing his eyes, signed to Dale to step aside with him. “Mr Dale,” he whispered, “Lady Dellatoria has set her mind upon this, and I see now: a much more highly paid commission that you wish to do for some one. That shall not stand in the way. Come, I double the amount for which we – what do you name it? Ah, yes – bargained.”
Dale turned upon him fiercely.
“No, sir!” he cried; “it is not a question of money. No sum would induce me to finish that portrait.”
“Ah, well: we shall see,” said the Conte. “Do not be angry, my young friend. Lady Dellatoria will be eaten by chagrin. But we will discuss the matter no more to-day. Good morning.”
He held out his hand to Lady Grayson, but she did not take it. She moved toward Dale, and held out her gloved fingers.
“Good morning, Mr Dale,” she said merrily. “You great men in oil are less approachable than a Prime Minister.” Then in a low tone: “It is not true, all this show of opposition. I am not blind.”
She turned and gave her hand to the Conte, and they left the studio, Armstrong making no effort to show them out, but standing motionless till he heard the door close, when, with a gesture of contempt and disgust, he threw open the windows and lit his pipe.
A minute later he had thrown the pipe aside and taken out Cornel’s letter to read; but the words swam before his eyes, and he could only see the face hidden behind that curtain.
“Poor little talisman!” he said, sadly apostrophising the letter, “you have lost your power. Evil is stronger than good, after all.”
“Good-bye, little one,” he continued, “for ever. You would forgive me if you knew all, for I am drifting – drifting, and my strength has gone.”
Two days passed – a week, and hour by hour he had waited, fully expecting that Valentina would come. He shrank from the meeting, but felt that it must be, for her influence seemed to be over him sleeping or waking, her eyes always gazing into his.
But she did not come. Only another note, and this he read in its brevity, for it contained but these words —
“You will drive me to my death.”
“Or me to mine,” he muttered, as he burned the letter; and then, in a raging desire to crush down the thoughts which troubled him, he turned to his work.
“Never!” he cried fiercely. “I will not go. If she comes here – well, if she does. That mockery of a man will track her some day, and then, in spite of English law, there will be a meeting, and he will kill me. I hope so. Then there would be rest.”
The picture which he had now stubbornly set himself to finish, as if he were urged by some unseen power, progressed but slowly. “The Emperor” came to sit, and tried to mould his features into the desired aspect with more or less success; but, in spite of inquiries, and interview after interview with different models recommended by brother artists as suitable to stand for the figure, Dale’s taste was too fastidious to be satisfied, and Juno’s face alone looked scornfully from the canvas.
Pacey had been again and again, but only in a friendly way, to chat as of old, sometimes bringing with him Leronde to gossip and fence with, at other times alone. No reference was made to the picture or the past.
“I shall never finish it,” said Dale, as he sat alone one day gazing at his canvas. “What shall I do – go abroad? Joe would come with me, and all this horrible dream might slowly die away.”
“No,” he muttered, after a pause; “it would not die. Better seek the true forgetfulness. Do all men at some time in their lives suffer from such a madness as mine?”
His musings were interrupted by a step upon the stairs, and he hastily drew the curtain before hi? canvas.
A single rap, which sounded as if it had been given with the knob of a walking-stick, came upon the door panel, and directly afterwards, in answer to a loud “Come in,” Jaggs entered with the knocker in his hand, to wit, a silk umbrella – one of those ingenious affairs formed by sewing all the folds where they have been slit up by wear and tear, and declared by the kerb vendor as being better than new – a fact as regards the price.
“Ah, Jaggs, good morning,” said Dale. “But I don’t want you. I shall let your face go as it is.”
“Quite right, sir,” said the man, glancing at the curtain. “Couldn’t be better; but I didn’t come about that.”
“Oh, I see,” said Dale sarcastically. “Your banker gone on the Continent?”
“The Emperor” drew himself up, and looked majestic in the face and pose of the head, shambling as to his legs, and extremely deferential in the curve of his body and the position of his hands and arms.
“Mr Dale,” he said, “I don’t deny, sir, as there ’ave been times when a half-crown has been a little heaven, and a double florin a delight, but I was not agoing to ask assistance now, though I am still a strugglin’ man, and been accustomed to better things. It was not to ask help, sir, as I’d come, but to bestow it, if so be as you’d condescend to accept it of your humble servant, as always feels a pride in your success, not to hide the fack that it does me good, sir, to be seen upon the line.”
“Well, what do you mean?” said Dale gruffly.
“I want to see that picture done, sir. It’ll make our fortune, sir. I’m sure on it, and I say it with pride, there isn’t anything as’ll touch it for a mile round.”
“Thank you, Jaggs; you are very complimentary,” said Dale ironically, but the tone was not observed.
“It’s on’y justice, sir, and I ain’t set going on for twenty years for artists without knowing a good picture when I see one. But that ain’t business, sir. You want a model, sir, and that Miss Montesquieu, as she calls herself, won’t be here for a month or two, and you needn’t expect her. Did you try her as Mr Pacey calls the Honourable Miss Brill?”
“Pish! I don’t want to paint a fishwife, man.”
“No, sir, you don’t; and of course Miss Varsey Vavasour wouldn’t do?”
“No, no, no! there is not one of them I’d care to have, Jaggs. If I go on with the figure, I shall work from some cast at first, and finish afterward from a model.”
“No, sir, don’t, pr’y don’t,” cried Jaggs. “You’ll only myke it stiff and hard. It wouldn’t be worthy on you, Mr Dale, sir; and besides, there ain’t no need. You’re a lion, sir, a reg’lar lion ’mong artisses, sir, and you was caught in a net, sir, and couldn’t get free, and all the time, sir, there was a little mouse a nibblin’ and a nibblin’ to get you out, sir, though you didn’t know it, sir, and that mouse’s nyme was Jaggs.”
“What! You don’t mean to say you know of a suitable model?”
“But I just do, sir. That’s what I do say, sir.”
“No, no,” cried Armstrong peevishly. “I don’t want to be worried into seeing one of your friends, Jaggs. Your taste and mine are too different for a lady of your choice to suit my work.”
“Don’t s’y that, sir,” cried Jaggs, in an aggrieved tone of voice. “I’m on’y a common sort o’ man, I own, sir, but I do know a good model when I see one – I mean one as shows breed. I don’t mean one o’ your pretty East End girls, with the bad stock showing through, but one as has got good furren breed in her.”
“Is this a foreign woman, then?”
“That’s it, sir. Comes from that place last where they ketch the little fishes as they sends over here for breakfast – not bloaters, sir, them furren ones.”
“Anchovies?”
“No, sir, t’other ones in tins.”
“Sardines?”
“That’s it, sir: comes from Sardineyer last, but her father was a Human. Sort o’ patriot kind o’ chap as got into trouble for trying to free his country. Them furren chaps is always up to their games, sir, like that theer Mr Lerondy, and then their country’s so grateful that they has to come over here to save themselves from being shot.”
“But the woman?”
“Oh, she come along with her father, sir, and he’s been trying to give Hightalian lessons, and don’t get on ’cause they say he don’t talk pure, and he’s too proud to go out as a waiter and earn a honest living, so the gal’s begun going out to sit. But she don’t get on nayther, ’cause her figure’s too high.”
“What! a great giraffe of a woman?”
“Lor’ bless you, no, sir! ’bout five feet two half. I should say. I meant charges stiff; won’t go out for less nor arf crown a hour, and them as tried her don’t like her ’cause she’s so stuck-up.”
“Look here, Jaggs; is she a finely formed, handsome woman?”
“Well, Mr Dale, sir, I won’t deceive you, for from what I hear her face ain’t up to much; but she don’t make a pynte o’ faces, and I’m told as she’s real good for anything, from a Greek statoo to a hangel.”
“Well, I’ll see her. Where does she live?”
“Leather Lane way, sir.”
“Address?”
“Ah, that I don’t know, sir. I b’leeve it’s her father as does the business and takes the money.”
“He is her father?”
“Oh yes, sir, it’s all square. I’m told they’re very ’spectable people. Old man’s quite the seedy furren gent, and the gal orful stand-offish.”
“Tell him to come and bring his daughter. If I don’t like her, I’ll pay for one sitting and she can go – ”
“Eight, sir; and speaking ’onest, sir, I do hope as she will turn out all right.”
“Thank you. There’s a crown for your trouble.”
“Raly, sir, that ain’t nessary,” said “The Emperor,” holding out his hand. – “Oh, well, sir, if you will be so gen’rous, why, ’tain’t for me to stop you. – Good mornin’, sir, good mornin’.”
