The Tiger Lily Part 17

"A rivederia--au revoir."

"Ah, monsieur speaks French!" she cried in that tongue, but with a very peculiar accent.

"Yes, badly," he replied, also in French. "That is good; now we can get on better. Can you come to-morrow at the same time?"

"I am at monsieur's service."

"Then I shall expect you. Thank you for your patient attention.

Another time, pray rest when you are fatigued."

She bowed in a stately manner, and pointed to the door which he had locked, and as soon as it was unfastened, pa.s.sed out without turning her head.

Dale stood working at his sketch for another hour, and then turned it to the wall, to light his pipe and begin thinking about his model now that he had ceased work.

It was quite mysterious her insisting upon keeping her face covered.

Why was it? Had she some terrible disfigurement, or was it from modesty? Possibly. Her manner was perfect. She was evidently miserably poor, and seemed eager to gain money to support her father--he had quite grasped that--and the poor creature being compelled to stoop to this way of earning a livelihood, she naturally desired to remain incognito. Well, it was creditable, he thought; but the first idea came back. She was evidently a woman gifted by nature with an exquisite form, and at the same time, by accident or disease, her countenance was so marked that she was afraid of her clients being repelled, and declining to engage her.

"Ah, well, signora, the mysterious Italienne, I will respect your desire to remain incog. It is nothing to me," said Dale, half aloud, as he sent a cloud of blue vapour upward. "I may congratulate myself, though, on my good fortune in finding such a model."

He sat back in his chair, dwelling upon the figure, and then went twice over to his canvas, to compare his work with the figure in his imagination, and returned to his seat more than satisfied.

Then he put work aside, and began thinking of home, and the sweet sad face he could always picture, with its eyes gazing reproachfully at him.

"Yes," he said, with a sigh; "poor darling! It was fate. I was not worthy of her. When the misery and disappointment have died away-- Heaven bless her!--she will love and be the wife of a better man, unless--unless some day she forgives me--some day when I have told her all."

The next morning he was all in readiness and expectant. The light was good for painting, and his mind was more at rest, for there was no letter from the Contessa. But for a few moments he was angry with himself on finding that he felt a kind of pique at the readiness with which she had given up writing her reproaches. But that pa.s.sed off, and as the time was near for the coming of the model, he drew the easel forward to see whether, after the night's rest, he felt as satisfied with his work as he did the previous day. But he hardly glanced at the figure, for the eyes were gazing at him in a terribly life-like way, full of scorn and reproach; and as he met them, literally fascinated by the work to which his imagination lent so much reality, he shuddered and asked himself whether he had after all been able to free himself from the glamour--dragged himself loose from the spell of the Circe who had so suddenly altered the even course of his life.

He was still contemplating the face, and wondering whether others would look upon it with the fascination it exercised upon him, when Keren-Happuch came up to announce the arrival of his model, who entered directly after, to look at him sharply through her thick veil.

He uttered a low sigh full of satisfaction, for her coming was most welcome. It would force his attention to his work.

"Good morning," he said gravely and distinctly, in French. "You are very punctual."

She bowed distantly, and then her attention seemed to be caught by the face upon the canvas, and she drew near to stand gazing at it attentively.

She turned to him sharply. "The lady who sat for that: why did she not stay for you to finish the portrait?"

Dale started, half wondering, half annoyed by his model's imperious manner.

"It is great!" she said. Then in a quick, eager tone: "The lady you love?"

He was so startled by the suddenness of the question, that he replied as quickly--

"No, no. It is not from a model. It is imagination."

"Ah!" she said, and she looked at the picture more closely. "You thought of her and painted. You are very able, monsieur, but I like it not. It makes me to shiver, I know not why. It makes me afraid to look."

"Then don't look," said Dale, in an annoyed tone. "You will cover it, please, monsieur. The face is so angry; it gives me dread."

"Pish!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Dale. "Very well, though. Get ready, please. I want to do a long morning's work."

"Monsieur will pay me," she said, holding out her hand in its well-mended glove.

He took out a couple of half-crowns, which she almost s.n.a.t.c.hed, and then, without a word, pointed to the door almost imperiously.

He nodded shortly, and went to fasten it, while she glided into the inner room, and in a wonderfully short s.p.a.ce of time returned ready, took her place upon the dais, dropped the cloak, and he began to paint.

"Monsieur has not covered the dreadful head," she said hoa.r.s.ely.

Without a word he took a square of brown paper, gummed it, and covered the face; then in perfect silence he went on painting, deeply interested in his work as his sketch took softer form and grew rapidly beneath his brush.

But the work did not progress so fast as on the previous day: he was painting well, but the black head, so incongruous and weird of aspect, posed upon the beautiful female form he was transferring to canvas, irritated him, and as he looked at his model from time to time, he could see that a pair of piercing eyes were watching him.

Half-an-hour had pa.s.sed, when there was a low, weary sigh.

"We will rest a little," he said quietly, and pointing to a chair and the screen, he devoted himself to an unimportant part of the work for some ten minutes, but to be brought back to his model by her words--

"I am waiting, monsieur."

He started and resumed his work, remembering to pause for his patient model to rest twice over, and then to continue, and grow so excited over his efforts--painting so rapidly--that when he heard another weary sigh he glanced at the clock, and found that he had kept his model quite a quarter of an hour over her time.

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle," he said. "You must be very weary."

"Yes, very weary," she said sadly, as she moved towards the door, glancing over her right shoulder at the picture. "It is better now. I can look at your work; the dreadful face makes me too much alarmed."

"A strange sitting," he said. "Two veiled faces." There was a quick look through the thick veil, but she walked on into the room, and in due time pa.s.sed him on her way, bowed distantly, and went out, leaving Dale motionless by his canvas, gazing after her at the door, and conjuring up in his mind the figure he had so lately had before him.

He recovered himself with a start, and raised one hand to his forehead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

LIFE'S FEVER.

It was with a novel feeling of anxiety that Dale waited for the coming of his model. A peculiar feverish desire to know more of her position had come over him, and he made up his mind to question her about her father and the cause of his exile. Jaggs had said that he had had to flee for life and liberty, and if he questioned her about these she would, foreigner-like, become communicative.

It was nothing to him, of course. This woman--lady perhaps, for her words bespoke refinement--would answer his purpose till the picture was finished. She was paid for her services, and when she was no longer required, there was an end of the visits to his studio.

He told himself all this as he sat before his great canvas, working patiently, filling up portions, and preparing for his model's coming.

And as he worked on, with the figure as strongly marked as the model, the softly rounded contour of the graceful form began to glow in imagination with life, and at last Dale sprang from his seat, threw down palette and brushes, and shook his head as if to clear it from some strange confusion of intellect.

"How absurd!" he said aloud, and trying to turn the current of his thoughts, they drifted back at once to his model, and he gazed at his work, wondering which of his ideas was correct about her persistently keeping her face covered.

"She cannot be disfigured," he muttered. "It must be for reasons of her own.--She is, as I thought, forced to undertake a task that must be hateful to her.--I wonder whether her face is beautiful too?"

"Bah! what is it to me?" he muttered angrily. "I do not want to paint her face, and yet she must be very beautiful."

He sat down again before his canvas, thoughtful and dreamy, picturing to himself what her face might be, and the next minute he had seized a drawing-board upon which grey paper was already stretched, picked up a crayon, and with great rapidity sketched in memories of dark aquiline faces that he had studied in Home and Paris, with one of later time--one of the women of the Italian colony which lives by the patronage of artists.

These soon covered the paper, and he sat gazing at them, wondering which would be suited to the figure he was painting.