The Tiger Lily Part 26

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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sionately into his.

He s.h.i.+vered 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 pa.s.sion 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 repet.i.tion 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.ddess's eyes.

It was almost momentary, that pause. Then she continued her way to the dais, and mounted it to resume her familiar att.i.tude, and, once more, Dale began to paint; a quarter of an hour before about to destroy, now eagerly bent upon finis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sionately, 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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.