The Tiger Lily Part 13

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 cus.h.i.+ons.

"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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d, 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."