The Tiger Lily Part 20

"Monsieur is ill. Shall I call for help?"

"No, no, I am not ill. Once more I beg, I pray of you--take off that veil."

"But monsieur is so strange--so unlike himself," she cried, as, taking another step forward, Dale caught the hand which held the cloak in his.

"Now!" he cried wildly, with his eyes flas.h.i.+ng, and trying to pierce the woollen mask--"that veil!" For a moment the warm soft hand clung to his convulsively, and the other rose with the arm in a graceful movement towards the shrouded face; but, as if angry with herself for being about to yield to his mad importunity, she s.n.a.t.c.hed away the hand he held, and with the other thrust him back violently.

"It is infamous!" she cried, with her eyes flas.h.i.+ng through the veil.

"It is an insult. Monsieur, it is to the woman you love that you should speak those words;" and, with an imperious gesture, she stepped down from the dais as if it had been her throne, and with her face turned toward Dale, she walked with calm dignity, her head thrown back, and the folds of the cloak gathered round her, to the inner door, pa.s.sed through, and for the first time, when it was closed, he heard the lock give a sharp snap as it was shot into the socket Dale stood motionless in the middle of the studio, his eyes bloodshot and his pulses throbbing heavily, unable for some little time either to think or move.

"Yes," he muttered, as he grew calmer; "it was an insult, and she revenges herself upon me. An hour ago I was to her a chivalrous man in whose honour she could have faith. Now I am degraded in her eyes to the level of the brute, and--she trusts me no longer. Do I love this woman whose face I have never seen, or am I going mad?"

But he was alone now, and he grew more calm as the minutes glided by; and once more making a tremendous effort to command himself, he waited as patiently as he could for the opening of the door.

In a few minutes there was the sharp snap again of the lock being turned, the door was thrown open, and the tall dark figure swept out into the great studio with head erect and indignant mien.

She had to pa.s.s close by him to reach the farther door, but she looked straight before her, completely ignoring his presence till in excited tones he said--"One moment--pray stop."

She had pa.s.sed him, but she arrested her steps and half turned her head as a queen might, to listen to some suppliant who was about to offer his pet.i.tion.

"Forgive me," he panted. "I was not myself. You will forget all this.

Do not let my madness drive you away."

He was standing with his hands extended as if to seize her again, but she gathered her cloak tightly round her, so that he could see once more the curves and contour of the form he had transferred to canvas, as she pa.s.sed on to the door, where she stopped and waited for him, according to his custom, to turn the key.

Her mute action and gesture dragged him to the door as if he were completely under her influence; and, throwing it open, he once more said pleadingly, and in a low deep voice which trembled from the emotion by which he was overcome--

"Forgive me: I was half mad."

But she made no sign. Walking swiftly now, she pa.s.sed out on to the landing, descended the staircase, and as he stood listening, he heard the light step and the rustling of her garments, till she reached the heavy front door, which was opened and closed with a heavy, dull, echoing sound.

But still Dale did not move. He stood as if bound there by the spell of which he had spoken, till all at once he uttered a faint cry, s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat, and followed her out into the street.

Too late. There was no sign of the black cloaked figure, and, after hurrying in different directions for several minutes, he returned to his studio utterly crushed.

"Gone!" he muttered, as he threw himself into a chair. "I shall never see her more. Great heavens! Do I love this woman? Am I so vile?"

"Please, sir, may I come in?"

Dale started up and tried to look composed, as little Keren-Happuch entered with a note in her hand.

"One o' them scented ones, sir," said the girl. "It was in the letter-box. I found it two hours ago, but I did not like to bring it in."

As soon as Dale was alone, his eyes fell upon the Contessa's well-known hand, and, without opening the letter, he gazed at it, and recalled the past.

At last his lips parted, and he said thoughtfully--

"Loved me with an unholy love. It is retribution! She must have felt as I do now."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

JOB PACEY AT HOME.

Pacey sat back in a shabby old chair, in a shabby room. The surroundings were poor and yet rich--the former applying to the furniture, the latter to the many clever little gems presented to him by his artist friends, many of whom were still poor as he, others high up on the steps leading to the temple of fame.

Joseph Pacey's hair needed cutting, and his beard looked tangled and wild; and as he sat back in his slippers, he looked the very opposite of his _vis-a-vis_, the exquisitely neat, waxed-moustached, closely clipped young Frenchman who a.s.sisted briskly in the formation of the cloud of smoke which floated overhead by making and consuming cigarettes, what time the tenant of the shabby rooms nursed a huge meerschaum pipe, which he kept in a glow and replenished, as he would an ordinary fire, by putting a pinch of fresh fuel on the top from time to time.

"Humph!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, frowning. "And so you think he has got the feminine fever badly?"

"But you do say it funny, my friend," said Leronde. "Why, of course.

Toujours--always the same. As we say--`cherchez la femme.' Vive la femme! But helas! How she do prove our ruin, and turn us as you say round your turn."

There was silence for a few moments, during which, as he sat s.h.a.ggy and frowning in the smoke, Pacey looked as if some magician were gradually turning his head into that of a lion.

"Seen him the last day or two?"

"Yes," said Leronde, putting out his tongue and running the edge of a newly rolled cigarette paper along the moist tip. "I go to see him yesterday."

"Well. What did he say?"

"And I ask him to come for an hour to the Vivarium to see the new ballet."

"I asked you what he said."

"He say--`Go to the devil.'"

"Well, did you go?"

"Yes. I come on here at once."

Pacey glowered at him, but his French friend was innocent of any double entendre; and at that moment there was a sharp knock at the outer door-- the well-worn oak on the staircase of Number 9 Bolt Inn.

"Aha! Vive la compagnie!" cried Leronde.

"Humph! Some one for money," muttered Pacey. "Who can it be? Well, it doesn't matter: I've got none.--Here, dandy," he said aloud, "open the door. Shut the other first, and tell whoever it is that I cannot see him. Engaged--ill--anything you like."

"Yes, I see. I am a fly," said the young Frenchman, and, pa.s.sing through the inner door, he closed it after him and opened the outer, to return in a minute with two cards.

"Who was it?" growled Pacey.

"A lady and gentleman. I told them you could not see any one, and they are gone."

Pacey s.n.a.t.c.hed the cards, glanced at them, uttered an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, and springing up, he threw down his pipe, and nearly did the same by his companion as he rushed to the door, pa.s.sed out on to the landing, and began to run down the stairs.

"My faith, but he is a droll of a man," muttered Leronde, pointing his moustache; "but I love him. Aha! always the woman. How he run as soon as he read the name. We are all alike, we men. What was it? Mees Torpe and--faith of a man--she was pretty. Mees! I thought it was her husband at first. H'm! The lover perhaps."

The door flew open again and Pacey returned, showing in Cornel Thorpe and her brother.