Kitabı oku: «The Tiger Lily», sayfa 8
Chapter Nineteen.
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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.”
“Keep back!” she cried huskily, as she retreated, keeping the knife-point toward his breast.
“No! Remove your veil.”
“Bah!” she cried contemptuously, and with her voice resuming its former tone. “Go, monsieur; dwell upon and love your picture when I am gone.”
“No; I love you, the living, breathing embodiment. Now, if I die for it, I will see your face.”
He stretched out one hand, and touched her veil, but it was tightly knotted behind her head, and with her left hand she caught his fingers and held them firmly, their warm contact sending a thrill through every nerve.
At the same moment, he felt the point of the knife touch his breast, but he did not shrink, only struggled to free his hand.
Then, as if moved by the same impulse, they remained motionless, gazing into each other’s eyes, and he felt her warm breath upon his lips.
“Then you do love me?” she whispered in a voice that, in its soft passionate tones, made every fibre vibrate in strange music to the melody of her utterance.
“More than life,” he whispered back. “You see.”
A low mocking laugh came from her lips as she loosened her grasp, flung up her hands, and the knife fell far away upon the floor. Then, with a sudden movement, as he seized her waist and drew her to him, she threw herself back, snatched off the veil, flung it upon the dais, and clasped her arms about his neck.
“Valentina! – You!”
Chapter Twenty.
The Contretemps
A mingling of rage, passion, disappointment, and delight swept over Dale at the revelation. One moment he wondered at his blindness in not divining long before that it was she; then at her daring recklessness, and the skill with which she had played her part, deceiving him completely to the very end.
And as she gazed in his eyes, clasped then in his arms, yielding as he did to what he told himself again was fate, a mystery which he could not unravel, he asked himself the question, did he love her or did he not? His passion had been for another woman, and paradoxically it was she from whom he had literally lied, and from whom, had she come openly, he would have turned in disgust.
And yet how beautiful she was. What love and passion beamed from the half-closed eyes that sought his, as her lips murmured words that told him she was his at last, as he was hers, her very own; while, mastered by her tenderness, he found no words then of angry reproach or blame.
“Venus victrix.” She had brought him to her feet, but there was no sound of triumph in her tones. Every word was a caress, and he found himself wondering that he could ever have treated her with the coldness he had shown.
“I knew you loved me,” she murmured in his ear, “and that in your mad belief in what you told yourself was your duty, you were punishing yourself and me. It was a mere schoolboy friendship pledged years ago, against which nature rebelled. For the first time in my unhappy life I knew what it was to love, and knowing, as a woman soon divines, that you loved me, I felt a new joy in my heart that I was so beautiful, and that it pleased you, the only man I ever felt that I cared for – that I did love, for I knew that you were mine as I was yours. And so I had no hesitation about running all the risks I have, deceiving even Lady Grayson, who watches me like a cat. I said in my heart that I would dare all, even to degrading myself – no: it was no degradation, for it was for the sake of him I loved. But tell me now; you did know me from the beginning?”
“I swear I had not the least idea,” he said angrily.
“You had not,” she sighed; and then mockingly, “and, cruel to the last, you began to love another as you thought. I saw it growing from the first, and for a minute it made me angry, and ready to turn and revile you, instead of carrying on the deceit; but a feeling of intense joy ran through me, for was not all your loving passion for me – was I not winning you to confess the love you always did feel, though blindly thinking that you had conquered self? You did love me – did you not?”
“Yes, I always loved you,” he whispered, “and I fought so hard for both our sakes.”
“And lost,” she said with a laugh. “I have won. No, no,” she whispered caressingly, “don’t repulse me now. You are so much to me. But yes, if you will. I do not mind. Strike your poor slave if you wish; she will never murmur or complain. Your blows would be like tender caresses to me now, for your words have dragged me forth from an age of misery and despair into a new life of hope and brightness and joy. You told me you loved me with all your soul.”
“No, no,” he cried angrily, in his last struggle for truth and honour; “it is not true. It was all an imaginary passion for an imaginary being.”
“Am I an imaginary being?” she whispered, as she wreathed her arms about him and drew him to her breast. “No, no; it was all a solemn truth, the outspeaking of your heart to the only woman you love. You could not lie to me, my hero – my idol. What is the world to us, Armstrong? You cannot retract your words. I have won you – my own – my own. You can never leave me now.”
As those words left her lips, Dale started from her arms, for a carriage had stopped, and a heavy double knock resounded through the house.
Valentina stood listening as Dale crossed rapidly to the door, unlocked it, and returned, after relocking it, silently.
“Well?” she said calmly, “a visitor? Send him away.”
“Your husband,” he whispered.
“Bah!” she cried contemptuously. “The man the world calls my husband – the wretch who bought me as he would some trinket that gratified his eye.”
“But the risk – the scandal,” he whispered. “For your sake – there, dearest, for your sake,” he whispered, as he clasped her to his breast.
“Yes, you do love me,” she said softly.
“There, quick! in there! He must not know.”
“And why?” she said calmly, as she clung to him. “I do not fear him; and as for you,” she cried, with a look of pride, “you are brave and strong. Let him come: kill him as you would some wretched snake.”
He gazed at her half in wonder, half in horror, as she laughed mockingly, but there was a look of intense hatred and disgust in her eyes which told him how truly earnest were her words – how great her loathing for this man.
At that moment there was a tapping at the door, and Dale crossed to it quickly.
“Yes?” he said.
“This gent would like to see you, sir,” came in Keren-Happuch’s voice, and a card was shot under the door.
He caught it up, and hesitated a moment.
“Not at home,” he said.
“Please, sir, I said as you was.”
“Then show him up,” said Dale desperately, and darting across to where Valentina stood, he pointed to the inner door.
“Quick!” he cried.
“For your sake, yes,” she said, smiling calmly enough; but as he threw open the door, she flung one arm about his neck, and pressed her lips to his before he closed it upon her.
Then crossing quickly, he unfastened the other, caught up palette and brush, and dragged his great canvas round with its face to the wall.
He had not a moment to spare, for as he faced round, firm and defiant now, ready for anything that might come, Keren-Happuch entered, looked round wide-eyed and wondering for the model, and held the door wide for the Conte to enter.
Her position and the glance she gave round were not lost upon Armstrong, who frowned at her so severely that she hurried out.
“The crisis!” thought Dale, growing firm now that he was face to face with danger; and his eyes involuntarily measured his visitor’s physique.
The Conte’s first words set him wondering whether they were genuine or part of a plan laid by the wily Italian. For his face was smooth and smiling, and he came forward offering his hand in the frankest manner.
“Ah! my dear Mr Dale,” he cried, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”
Armstrong could not help taking the hand, but his grasp was cold and limp as that of his visitor.
Then, unasked, the Conte placed his glass in his eye, took out a cigarette, and gave it a wave.
“May I?” he said.
Armstrong bowed coldly, and the little, wrinkled, elderly-looking man struck a scented fusee, lit his cigarette, glanced round and seated himself.
“And how do the fine arts march?” he said cheerily. “By the way,” he continued, without waiting to be answered, “my dear Mr Dale, I was close by, and I thought I would call to ask if you have reconsidered that decision of yours?”
“My decision?” said Dale, following his example.
“Yes; about her ladyship’s portrait. We were discussing it this morning. I believe I introduced the subject, but her ladyship took to it eagerly. You will go on with it?”
“Surely, my lord, there are plenty of better artists in London who will be glad to undertake the commission,” said Dale quietly.
“Perhaps so, but you began the sketch, and we were so well satisfied that we wish you to continue it.”
“Then he suspects nothing,” Armstrong said to himself; and for the moment he felt ready to agree to the proposal. But directly after, a suspicious idea came to him. Suppose this were a deeply laid plan to entice him to the Conte’s place, so that an opportunity might be afforded for a discovery?
He had gone through so much excitement of late that his brain felt confused, and he was unable to calculate coolly. At the first he had decided in his own mind that the Conte must be aware of his wife’s visits to the studio, and had now tracked her there. All this talk then was for some ulterior reason, and in all probability he was waiting for an excuse to search the place, or else to trap her when she tried to leave. For aught the young artist knew, there might be half-a-dozen spies about the place, waiting to see her go, and his brow grew rugged with the intensity of his thoughts.
The Conte rose from his seat, and Dale started up.
“No, no; don’t move,” said the Conte. “I was only about to look round while you thought the matter over. Ah! you object? Good. I will reserve myself for your show day. Pardon, a thousand times.”
He resumed his seat, smiling, while in agony Dale thought of the great picture not twenty feet from where his visitor had stood.
“My proposal troubles you, I see; but why let it, my friend? Let us consider it as men of the world – as we did at first. It will do you good as an artist – it will do me good amongst my friends, for I shall be proud to see the face of my beautiful wife – a lady of society – upon the Academy walls. We made our little arrangement – I will not insult you by talking of money – and all was well. Then came this little pique. I affronted you by some thoughtless remark, and you retired.”
Dale was about to speak, but the Conte interrupted him.
“One word, my friend, and I have done. It is my wife’s wish that the picture should be finished; it is mine. I apologise as one gentleman to another. Now, say that I am pardoned, and that you will do it.”
The temptation was terribly strong. This man begged him to come; it meant endless freedom, the run of the house, and constant meetings with Valentina; but Dale’s manly instincts rose in revolt against so degrading an intimacy. He and the Conte could only be deadly enemies, and he rose slowly from his seat.
“It is impossible, sir,” he said. “I thank you for your consideration and your apology, but I must hold to my decision. I cannot – I will not commence the portrait again.”
“You are too hasty, Mr Dale. Take time. With your permission I will smoke another cigarette. Let us talk of other things.”
“No, sir,” replied Armstrong; “let us talk of this, and let me tell you plainly that I cannot and will not undertake this commission.”
“But, my dear friend, you did undertake it.”
“And repented almost at once,” said Armstrong bitterly.
“You English – I mean you Americans – are too hard and decisive,” said the Conte, with a smile and shrug. “Ah, as you know, everything depends upon the diplomat. I am a poor ambassador. I should have brought Madame the Contessa here to plead to you.”
Armstrong could not suppress a start, and he looked keenly at the Conte, whose eyes seemed to be fixed searchingly upon his, as if to read the secret thoughts of his heart. And now he felt sure that all this was subterfuge – a means of gaining time for some reason. He had tracked his wife there, and was waiting for the moment when the eruption ought to break forth; and a quarrel with a foreigner and for such a cause could only mean one thing.
“Ah,” said the Conte gaily, “the mention of madame has, I see, its effect. Say, if she comes and pleads you will yield?”
“This man is too subtle for me,” thought Armstrong. “He is playing with and torturing me before he strikes. Heavens! what have I done to bring me into such a position?”
“Come, you are giving way,” cried the Conte gaily, “and I may go back soon – after our friendly chat, as you people call it, and tell her ladyship that I have made our peace.”
“No, sir,” began Armstrong, keeping well upon his guard, in the full conviction that there was another motive for the visit, and determined to strike his visitor down if he approached the inner room. But he was interrupted again.
“By the way – in passing – apropos of portraits – Lady Grayson’s – is it commenced?”
“Lady Grayson’s?”
“Yes; you know her; you met her at our house. My wife’s bosom friend.”
“I remember Lady Grayson, of course, perfectly.”
“And you are painting her portrait?”
“I regret to say that you have been misinformed, sir.”
“But – how strange! Lady Grayson told us that she was going to ask you to undertake the commission. Of course – yes – and she said, laughingly – I remember now, perfectly – that she should visit you at your studio, be a most perfect sitter, and that there would be no giant – no, no, it was ogre of a husband – to pass criticisms and offend the artist.”
He laughed merrily as he spoke, and twisted his cane about in a peculiar way, suggesting to Armstrong that he meant to strike with it at first; and then, as he saw a gold garter-like band around it about six inches from the knob, his heart gave one throb, for he felt certain that there was a keen rapier-like blade concealed within.
But he spoke quite calmly.
“Lady Grayson has been premature in her announcement, Conte. I am under no promise to paint any such portrait, neither shall I undertake the commission.”
“Body of Bacchus!” cried the Conte, laughing, “how droll! Truth is more strange than romance, as you people say. Come, now, confess you have been too scrupulous – too secretive. – My dear Lady Grayson, this is wonderful. Your name was on our lips.”
For as he was speaking, Keren-Happuch ushered in the fashionably dressed woman, gave Dale an imploring look, which plainly said, “Forgive me,” glanced at the fastened door, next at the dais, and then disappeared.
“Ah, Conte, you here! Mr Dale, pray forgive me for coming unannounced. I want to make a petition – to lay an appeal before you.”
She held out her hand with a most winning smile, and then turned and shook hands with the Conte.
“What he has been waiting for,” thought Dale – “her coming – she, his mistress, to be a witness of his own wife’s shame.”
There was an angry, determined look in his eyes. A minute before, a feeling of misery and despair troubled him. There was a sensation akin to pity in his breast for the man who was being basely deceived; but now rage took its place, compunction was gone, and he felt hard as steel, as he prepared himself for the fight, determined at all hazards to save Valentina from such a humiliation as this.
The thoughts flew like lightning through his brain as, in her most silky tones, Lady Grayson addressed him.
“May I lay my petition before you now, Mr Dale?”
“Oh, I will not be de trop,” cried the Conte. “I am going. My dear Mr Dale, you will think over that, and write to me, I am sure?”
“I assure you, sir,” began Dale; and then he bit his lip savagely, for in a playful, girlish way, Lady Grayson had stepped aside, ostensibly that the gentlemen might speak together; really to obtain a glimpse of the picture on the easel. She succeeded, and turned back directly.
“I beg pardon,” she cried. “Oh, do forgive me, Mr Dale; it was very rude.”
Their eyes met, and he saw a look of malicious triumph in hers, which told him that this woman had recognised the face upon the canvas, and that her suspicion of the Contessa coming to sit for him was confirmed.
“I do so love pictures!” she cried. “But you need not go, Conte. I will stand aside till you have finished with Mr Dale.”
“Conte Dellatoria has finished his proposal to me, madam,” said Armstrong firmly. “I regret, sir, that I must hold to my decision.”
“Oh!” cried Lady Grayson, “don’t say that you have refused to continue my dearest friend’s portrait!”
“Yes, madam, I have declined decisively.”
“Oh, but that is too cruel,” cried Lady Grayson, looking quickly round the studio; and once more there was a look of triumph in her eyes which met his sparkling with malice, as they both cast them on the same object, which he too saw for the first time.
The thick veil Valentina had snatched off, lay upon the edge of the dais, where she had thrown it, and a chill of horror ran through Armstrong as he felt that they were in this woman’s power, even if he were wrong, and she had not been brought, as he had imagined.
Then a fresh idea struck him. He was perhaps mistaken, and his feeling of rage increased. It was an assignation; they had arranged to meet there for some reason – why they had chosen his studio, he could not divine.
“I am so sorry,” said Lady Grayson, after an awkward pause. “It augurs so badly for my success.”
“Shall I leave you to discuss the matter, my dear Lady Grayson? Mr Dale is a tyrant – an emperor among artists. As for me, I am crushed.”
“No, no; you will stay and help me to plead. My dear Mr Dale, do not be so cruel. I do so want to be on the line this year, and if you would consent to paint a poor, forlorn, helpless widow, I cannot tell you how grateful I should be.”
“It is impossible, madam,” said Armstrong coldly, but with a burning feeling of rage against his visitors seething in his breast. It was an assignation then, but Lady Grayson had divined Valentina’s presence, and he had seen her glance again and again at the further door. He was in a dilemma too: for if he refused this woman’s prayer, she would perhaps spitefully declare all she knew to the husband. But he cast that aside. If she did not speak now, she would at some other time, and in his then frame of mind he could only fight. He could not fence.
“Impossible! – you hear this cruel man, Conte? he is a tyrant indeed. Mr Dale, is it really in vain to plead?”
“I tell you again, madam, it is impossible.”
“But if I wait a week – a month – any time you like?”
“My answer would only be the same, madam, as I have given Conte Dellatoria. I can paint no more portraits for any one. I have, I think I may say, painted my last.”
“I am disappointed,” she said, giving him a peculiar look. “But, no – you will not refuse me. Come, Mr Dale – for the Exhibition. Only this one portrait at your own terms, and I will promise to preserve secrecy.”
The malicious look in her eyes intensified as she said these words, telling him plainly that she knew all, but that the Conte was, after all, still in ignorance.
His answer would have been a promise, for the sake of the unhappy woman within that room; but at that moment there was a sharp rap at the door, Keren-Happuch opened it, and blurted out —
“Oh, if you please, sir, here’s that there lady as you began to paint.”
Dale turned upon her dumbfounded.
“Who?”
“That there countess, sir, from Portland Place.”
The Conte turned excitedly to Lady Grayson.
“She must not find me here,” he whispered.
“Show the lady up,” said Armstrong recklessly, for, whoever it might be, it would rid him of his visitors.
“Yes, sir;” and the door closed.
“My dear Mr Dale,” said the Conte quickly, “I must speak plainly. I have reasons for not wishing to meet my wife here this morning. You will not ask me to explain, but let me step in here for a few minutes till she is gone. Remain here and meet her,” he said in a low voice to Lady Grayson, and as steps were heard upon the stairs, he stepped quickly to the inner door.
