Kitabı oku: «The Tiger Lily», sayfa 7
Chapter Seventeen.
Another’s Love
Four days had passed, and Armstrong had not left his place, but waited, hoping against hope, and at last sinking into a wild state of despair.
“I must have been mad,” he said again and again. “One false step leads to another, and I am going downward rapidly enough now.”
He smiled bitterly as he sat with his head resting upon his hand, feeling that he had driven his beautiful model away for ever, and vainly asking himself how it could be that so mad a passion had sprung up within him for a woman whose face he had never seen.
Then all at once he sprang to his feet, with his eyes flashing as he listened eagerly, and then a strange look of triumph began to glow in his countenance. “I must be more guarded,” he said to himself, “or she will take flight again:” and catching up palette and brush, he made a pretence of painting as he waited with his back to the door for the entrance of her whose step was heard ascending the stairs in company with Keren-Happuch. Then he heard the girl’s voice, and his heart sank like lead in doubt, for he felt that the model would have come up without being shown.
But the next moment he was full of hope as the door was opened, closed, and he heard the familiar rustle of the drapery, and the step across the floor.
He did not turn, but stood there with his heart beating violently, and a wild desire bidding him turn round quickly and snatch the veil from his models face. He was a coward, he told himself, not to have done so before. What did her anger matter? Had she not come back – penitent – friendly —
His heart gave a great leap.
– Loving, for she laid her hand upon his shoulder, and he turned round with a smile of triumph, to drop palette and brushes and turn white as ashes.
“Cornel!”
“Yes, Armstrong. The world grows very small now. You wanted me, and I am here.”
“I – I wanted you?” he faltered, as she took a step or two back, and then stood gazing at him wistfully, with her hands clasped before her, and a look of love, pity, and despair in her eyes that stung him through and through.
“Yes, Armstrong, I heard that you were in great peril. We were children together. Armstrong – you wanted help – and – I have come.”
He sank into the nearest chair with a groan, and she advanced slowly and stood close to him.
“I have felt for weeks that there was something: your letters were so different. Then they became fewer; then they ceased. But I said you were busy, and I waited so patiently, Armstrong, till that message came.”
“What message?” he cried hoarsely.
“That which told me I ought to join Michael, and help you in this time of need.”
“Who – who wrote to you?” he cried.
“There is no need to hide his name. Your dearest friend, Mr Pacey.”
“The wretched meddler!”
“The true, honest gentleman you have always said he was, Armstrong. I have come from him now.”
“The cowardly hound!” muttered Dale.
“No; your truest and best friend. He wrote to me for your sake and mine, Armstrong, and I have come.”
“What for? – to treat me with scorn and contempt?” he cried angrily, snatching at a chance to speak; “to tell me that all is over between us? Why have you not brought your brother with you, to horsewhip me and add his insults to your upbraidings?”
“Michael is here,” – Dale started, and looked with a coward’s glance at the door – “he is in London, but it was not his duty to come to the man who is my betrothed. I came alone to ask you – if it is all true?”
He drew a hoarse breath, and then forced himself to speak brutally, to hide the shame and agony he felt.
“Yes,” he said roughly; “it is all true.”
She winced as if he had struck her, and there was silence for a few moments before she spoke again, and then in a curiously changed voice, from her agony of heart.
“No, no,” she whispered at last; “it cannot be true. It is a strange dream. I cannot – I will not believe it.”
He strove again and again to speak, but no words would come. He tried to speak gently and ask her to forgive him, but in vain; and at last, even more brutally than before, he cried —
“I tell you it is true! If you knew all this, how could you come?”
There was a pause before Cornel spoke again, and then she drew herself up with an imperious gesture, and her words came firmly and full of defiance of the world.
“I came because I heard the man I loved was beaten down and wounded in the fight of life, and I said – ‘What is it to me? – he loved me very dearly, and if he has been met by a strange temptation, and has fallen, my place is there. I will go to him, and remind him of the past, and point out again the forward way.’ Armstrong, that is why I have come.”
He groaned, and his voice was softened now, and half-choked by the agony and despair at his heart.
“Go back,” he said, “and forget me, Cornel; I am not the man you thought. I left you strong in my belief in self, ready for the fight, but your knight of truth and honour has turned out to be only a sorry pawn. I don’t ask you to forgive me: I only say, for your own sake, go, and forget that such a villain ever lived.”
“Then it is all true?” she said sternly.
“I don’t know what Joe Pacey has said,” he cried bitterly, as he gazed in the sweet womanly face before him, “but I make the only reparation that I can. I speak frankly, Cornel dear, and tell you that the worst he could say of me would not exceed the truth. Utterly unworthy – utterly base – I am not fit to touch your hand.”
As he spoke now in his excitement, he took a step toward her, and she drew back.
“Yes!” he cried bitterly; “you are right. Shrink from me and go.”
“No,” she said, after another pause, “I will not shrink from you; I will not upbraid; I will only say to you, Tear these scales from your eyes, and see, as Armstrong Dale, my old playfellow – brother – lover – used to see. Break from the entanglement, like the man you always were, and be yourself again.”
“No!” he groaned, “I am no longer master of myself. For God’s sake, go!”
“And leave you to this – caught in these toils, to struggle wildly for a time, and for what? – a life of misery and repentance? It is not true; you are too strong for this. Armstrong, for your own sake – for all at home – one brave effort. Pluck her from your heart.”
He looked at her sadly for a few moments, and then shook his head.
“Impossible!” he groaned. “It is too late.”
“No!” she cried excitedly; “even on the very edge there is time to drag you away. Armstrong – I cannot bear it – come with me, dearest. You loved me once; you made me care for you and think of you as all the world to me. This woman – she cannot love you as I do, dear. For I do love you with all my poor heart. Don’t quite break it, dear, for I forgive you everything, only come back with me now. Do you not hear me? I forgive you everything, and you will come.”
She staggered toward him with her arms open to clasp him to her breast, but he shrank away with a groan of despair.
“No,” he said; “it is too late – too late!”
She heaved a piteous sigh, and her hands fell to her sides. Then, with her head bent, she walked slowly to the door, passed out, and he heard her steps descending. A few moments later there were voices in the hall, followed by the heavy closing of the door, which seemed to shut him for ever from all that was good and true, alone with his despair as he turned to his canvas, where he gazed upon the form he had created, apparently the only memory of a mad passion which had crushed him to the earth.
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.
