The Tiger Lily Part 32

"Quite right," said Pacey, turning and smiling at Cornel. "She's all that."

"I join issue," cried Thorpe. "No: she is neither one nor the other."

"And I say that she is all three," cried Pacey, bringing his fist down on the table with a thump, which drew the waiters' attention. "I beg pardon," he said hastily. "No, I don't. I'm not ashamed of my earnestness."

"Just eight," said Thorpe, looking at his watch. "I've a meeting to attend. You will stop and talk to my sister?"

"Of course."

Ten minutes later they were alone, and Cornel's manner changed.

"You will not mind my brother's manner to you?" she said earnestly.

"Not I," replied Pacey bluffly. "He's mad against Dale, naturally.

Wouldn't be a good brother if he were not. I'm mad against him, and get worse; every day."

"But tell me now--what news have you for me?" Pacey looked at her with pitying thoughtfulness, and then said gravely--

"You have trusted me thoroughly since the first day we met, and made me your friend."

"Completely," she said earnestly.

"And a friend would be nothing unless sincere."

"No."

"I have no news, then, that is good."

Cornel sighed, and rested her head upon her hand.

"Can nothing be done?" she said at last. "Oh! it is too dreadful to let his whole career be blasted like this! Mr. Pacey, you are his friend; pray, pray, help me! Tell me what to do."

Pacey's brow wrinkled so that he looked ten years older, and he sat for some time with his eyes averted.

At last he spoke.

"I know what I ought to say to you as your friend."

"Yes; what?" she cried eagerly; but Pacey shook his head.

"Nothing but--be strong and bear your cruel disappointment like a true woman, proud of her dignity."

"I could bear all that," she said piteously, "even if it broke my heart, but I cannot bear the knowledge that the boy with whom I walked hand in hand as a child, grew up with as if he were my own brother, and whose child-love ripened into a sincere affection, should drift away like this. Mr. Pacey--this woman! I know how beautiful she is, and how she has ensnared him. I ceased to wonder when we stood face to face. I know too what influence she has, but nothing but horror and misery can result from it all, and it cuts me to the heart to think of what he will suffer--of the bitter repentance to come."

Pacey sighed.

"To me, night and day, it is as if he were drowning--being swept away; and if--utterly worn out--I sleep for a few minutes, I wake up with a start, for his hands seem to be stretched out to me to save him before it is too late."

Pacey was silent still as he sat with his arms resting upon his knees, and his head bent, gazing at the carpet.

At last he looked up, to meet her appealing eyes fixed on his.

"Yes," he said, and he took a long deep breath: "there is no other way."

"You--you have thought of something?" she cried eagerly.

"It is a forlorn hope," he replied. "I ought not to advise it, and your brother will blame me, and tell me I am not acting as an honest friend."

"The danger sweeps away all ideas of worldly custom, Mr. Pacey," she cried with animation, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed; and as he gazed at her, the artist mentally said that if his friend could see the woman he had so cruelly jilted, now, he would humbly ask her to pardon him, and take him back to her heart.

"Yes," he said firmly, "this is not time to study etiquette. Go to him, then. Don't look upon it as sinking your womanly dignity, but as a last effort to save the man you once loved from a deadly peril."

"Yes; and when I go," said Cornel faintly, "what can I say more than I have said?"

"Say nothing, child. If your face, and your reproachful forgiving eyes do not bring him to your feet, come away, and go down upon your knees to thank G.o.d for saving you from a man not worthy of a second thought."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

TOO LATE.

"And my poor painting," said Armstrong, smiling, as Valentina, cloaked and ready to go once more, still clung to him--"not a step farther;" and he unlocked the door.

"No," she whispered softly, "not a step farther," and she looked up through her thick veil in his saddened face. "Let fate be kind to us and the work go on for years and years."

"Until I am old and grey."

"And I a bent, withered creature," she whispered. "No; you will never be old and grey in my eyes, but always the same as now. Can you say that to me?"

She laid her hands upon his shoulders, and forced him back, so that she could gaze searchingly in his eyes.

"Yes!" he cried pa.s.sionately. "You know only too well."

"Yes, I know it well," she murmured. "And it shall go on and on. What is the praise of a fickle public worth? It is your masterpiece, but what of that? It might bring you fame and fortune, but it has already brought us love that can know no change."

"That can know no change, dearest. Now you must go, or you will be breaking faith with me again to-morrow, and you have made me so that I cannot live without you now."

"Yes, once more," she sighed, "I must go--back to my gilded prison."

She clung to him fondly again, and her voice was very soft and tender, as she rested her brow upon his breast.

"When will you say to me--`Stay; go back no more?' Armstrong, this life is killing me. End all the miserable trickery and subterfuge. That woman is planning and plotting to take my place. Once it roused up all my pride and hatred; now all that is past. Let him sue for his divorce if Lady Grayson wishes, and then I shall have my revenge: for he will laugh in her false, deceitful face. Marry her?--Not he.--What is it, dearest?"

He had started back, and as she raised her eyes, she saw that he was looking angrily at something behind her.

She turned slowly, calling upon herself for readiness to meet the face of her husband, as she believed, but it was Cornel standing just within the doorway, flushed, proud, and stern, and she uttered a sigh of relief.

"A domani, signore," she said quietly to Armstrong, and then turned and took a step toward the door, but Cornel raised her hand, and the proud, haughty-looking figure shrank back a step or two in surprise.