The Tiger Lily Part 12

He dragged his eyes from the canvas, and looked wildly round the great studio, where all was silent as the grave. The bright light had pa.s.sed away; and he knew that it must be about sunset, for all was cold and grey, save the shadows in the corners of the room, and they were black.

Everything was growing dim and misty, save the face upon his canvas, and that stood out with its scornful, fierce anger, though, through it all, so wonderful had been the inspiration beneath whose influence he had worked, there was an intense look of pa.s.sionate love and forgiveness; the eyes, while scornfully condemning and upbraiding, seemed to say, "I love you still, for you are and always will be mine."

"Cornel!" he groaned. "Heaven help me! and I have fought so hard. Ah!"

he cried, with a sigh of relief, for there were hurried footsteps on the stairs, and the fancied dimness of the studio seemed to pa.s.s away as little, meagre Keren-Happuch gave one sharp tap on the door, and then ran in, to stop short, looking wonderingly at the artist's ghastly, troubled face.

"Oh, Mr. Dale, sir, you do work too hard," she cried reproachfully.

Then, in an eager whisper, "It's all right, sir. The model's come. I told her she was too late for to-day, but she said she'd see you all the same."

"Where is she?" said Armstrong, in a voice which startled him.

"In the 'all, sir. I made her wait while I come to know if you'd see her. She's got on a thick wail, but sech a figger, sir. She'll do."

"Send her up," said Dale, "but tell her I cannot be trifled with like this."

"Yes, sir. I'll tell her you're in a horful rage 'cause she didn't come this morning."

Dale hardly heard the words, but turned away as the girl left the room, to stand gazing at the face which had so magically sprung from the end of his brush; and he still stood gazing dreamily at the canvas when the door was once more opened, there was the rustling of a dress, and Keren-Happuch's voice was heard, saying snappishly--

"There's Mr. Dale."

Then the door was shut, and muttering, "Stuck-up, orty minx," the girl went down to her own region.

Dale did not stir, but still stood gazing at the canvas, fascinated by his work. But his lips moved, and he spoke half-angrily, but in a weary voice.

"I had given you up, Miss Montesquieu. I want you for this figure, but if you cannot keep faith with me--yes," he said, as his visitor stepped toward him, drawing off her veil--"for this."

He turned sharply then, as if influenced in some unaccountable way, and started back in horror and despair.

"Valentina!"

"Armstrong!" came in a low, pa.s.sionate moan, as she flung herself upon his breast--"at last, at last!"

The palette and brushes dropped from his hands--he was but man--and she uttered a low sigh of content as his arms closed round her soft yielding form, and his lips joined hers in a long, pa.s.sionate, clinging kiss.

Then reason mastered once more, and he thrust her from him.

"No, no," he gasped; "for G.o.d's sake, go! Why have you come?"

"A cold welcome," she said, smiling. "I come to beg that you will grant his prayer."

"I do not understand you."

"My husband wrote begging you to reconsider your determination, and come to finish my portrait."

"Impossible! He did not write."

She pointed to the unopened letter lying upon a table, with the florid crest plainly showing.

"I had not opened it," he said. "I thought--"

"That it was from me. How cruel men can be! He asks you to come back."

"At your persuasion?" cried Dale fiercely.

"Yes, at my persuasion, and you will come. You must--you shall." She clung closer to him. "Armstrong," she whispered, "I cannot live without you. You have drawn me to you; I could bear it no longer;" and she held to him once more in spite of his repellent hands.

"It is madness--your husband--your--your t.i.tle--your fair fame as a woman."

"Empty words to me now," she said in a low, thrilling whisper. "I could not stay. You are my world--everything to me now."

"Woman, I tell you again, this is madness--your husband?"

"With Lady Grayson, I believe. What does it matter? I am here--with you. Armstrong, am I to go on my knees to you? I will--you have humbled me so. Why are you so cruel, when you love me too?"

"I--love you--no!"

She laughed softly as, in spite of his shrinking, her arms enfolded him once more, and her words came in a low sweet murmur to his ear.

"Yes; you love me--as wildly and pa.s.sionately as I love you. I knew it--I could feel it, though you would not answer my appeals. Look," she whispered, "it is as I felt; you are always thinking of me. I am ever in your thoughts. But am I as beautiful as that? Yes: to you. But look from the picture to my eyes. They could not gaze so fiercely and scornfully as that. Now, tell me that you do not love me, and I was not in your thoughts."

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.