George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

“Woman, I tell you again, this is madness—your husband?”

“With Lady Grayson, I believe. What does it matter? I am here—with you. Armstrong, am I to go on my knees to you? I will—you have humbled me so. Why are you so cruel, when you love me too?”

“I—love you—no!”

She laughed softly as, in spite of his shrinking, her arms enfolded him once more, and her words came in a low sweet murmur to his ear.

“Yes; you love me—as wildly and passionately as I love you. I knew it—I could feel it, though you would not answer my appeals. Look,” she whispered, “it is as I felt; you are always thinking of me. I am ever in your thoughts. But am I as beautiful as that? Yes: to you. But look from the picture to my eyes. They could not gaze so fiercely and scornfully as that. Now, tell me that you do not love me, and I was not in your thoughts.”

She pointed to the features, glowing—almost speaking, from the canvas—her faithful portrait, full of the angry majesty he had sought to convey.

Alas! poor Cornel. Not a lineament was hers.

Armstrong groaned.

“Heaven help me!” he muttered. “Is it fate?”

His hands repulsed her no longer, and he stood holding her at arm’s length, gazing into the eyes which fascinated, lost to everything but her influence over him, till with a hasty gesture, full of anger, she shrank away and sought her veil from the floor.

“Some one!” she whispered fiercely, for there was a step upon the stair.

“The Conte,” cried Dale, startled at the interruption.

“Hide me, quick! That room,” cried the Contessa; and she took a step toward it as she veiled her face. “No,” she cried, turning proudly, and resisting an inclination to step behind the great canvas close to which she stood, “Let him see me. His faithlessness has divorced us, and given me to the man I love. You will protect me. Kill him if you wish. I am not afraid.”

This in a hasty whisper as the steps came nearer, and Valentina’s eyes glistened through her veil as she saw the artist draw himself up, and take a step forward to meet the intruder.

“Better that it should be so at once,” she whispered. “Let him come.”

The door was thrown quickly open as she spoke.

Chapter Ten.

There is Only One Way.

Armstrong’s teeth and hands were clenched for the encounter with the angry husband who had tracked his wife to the studio, and he was ready to accept his fate, for he told himself that he could fight no more against his destiny. The woman had told him that he would defend her, and he must—he would.

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 cushions.

“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 passion 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 God, 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.”

He rose from the chair, tapped the ashes out of his pipe, looking at them thoughtfully, and picked up his hat from where he had cast it upon the dusty floor. He then turned to face Dale, holding out his hand, but the artist did not see it, and sat buried in thought.

“Good-bye, old lad,” said Pacey again.

Dale sprang to his feet, saw the outstretched hand, and drew back, shaking his head.

“Shake hands,” said Pacey again, more loudly.

“No,” said Dale bitterly; “you cannot think of me as of old.”

“No; but more warmly perhaps, for there is pity mingled with the old friendship that I felt. I came here this afternoon, as schoolboys say, to make it up. I was in ignorance then; now I have eaten of the bitter fruit and know. Armstrong, lad, knowing all this, and as one who, with all his reckless Bohemianism and worldliness, has kept up one little habit taught by her long dead, how can I say ‘forgive me my trespasses’ to-night if, with such a temptation as yours, I can’t forgive?”

Dale gazed at him wildly, and Pacey went on.

“The bond between us two is stronger now, lad, so strong that I think it would take death to snap the cord. Good-bye. If you do not see me soon, it is not that we are no longer friends.”

Then their hands joined in a firm grip, and Pacey slowly left the room, muttering to himself as he passed out into the square—

“Fallen so low, to rise so high. Yes, I must save him, and there is only one way in which it can be done.”

Chapter Eleven.

Jaggs Makes a Discovery.

“Their scent sickens me,” Dale cried passionately, as he committed them to the flames unread, for he frankly owned to himself that he dare not read one, lest he should falter in the resolution he had made.

For he had struggled hard to fight against his fate, and though tied and tangled by the threads which still clung to him, he had mockingly told himself that he was not mad enough to venture into the spider’s web again.

Then, twice over, he had hastily drawn a curtain in front of his great picture upon Keren-Happuch coming up to the studio to bring in a card—the Conte’s—and bit his lip with rage and mortification as that gentleman was shown up, in company with Lady Grayson.

The visit on the first occasion was to complain about Dale’s curt refusal to go on with the picture; while the young artist haltingly gave as his reason that it was impossible for him to complete Lady Dellatoria’s portrait on account of a large work that he was compelled to finish. And all the while Lady Grayson, with the reckless effrontery of her nature, looked at him mockingly, her eyes laughingly telling him that he was a poor weak coward, and that she could read him through and through.

Then came the second visit with the wretched Italian, blindly, or knowingly, to use him as a screen for his own amours, almost imploring him to come.

“Lady Dellatoria is so disappointed,” he said volubly. “She takes the matter quite to heart. No doubt, Mr Dale, there is a little vanity in the matter—the desire to be seen in the exhibition, painted by the famous young American artist.”

“There are plenty of men, sir, who would gladly undertake the commission,” said Dale angrily. “I beg that you will not ask me again.”

“Mr Dale, you are cruel,” cried Lady Grayson. “Our poor Contessa will be desolate. Let me plead for you to come and finish the work.”

“Aha! yes,” cried the Conte, wrinkling up his face, though it was full enough before of premature lines. “A lady pleads. You cannot refuse her.”

Dale gave the woman a look so full of contempt and disgust that she coloured and then turned away, shrugging her shoulders.

“He is immovable,” she said to the Conte.

“No, no! Body of Bacchus! I understand;” and he placed his finger to his lips, and half closing his eyes, signed to Dale to step aside with him. “Mr Dale,” he whispered, “Lady Dellatoria has set her mind upon this, and I see now: a much more highly paid commission that you wish to do for some one. That shall not stand in the way. Come, I double the amount for which we—what do you name it? Ah, yes—bargained.”

Dale turned upon him fiercely.

“No, sir!” he cried; “it is not a question of money. No sum would induce me to finish that portrait.”

“Ah, well: we shall see,” said the Conte. “Do not be angry, my young friend. Lady Dellatoria will be eaten by chagrin. But we will discuss the matter no more to-day. Good morning.”

He held out his hand to Lady Grayson, but she did not take it. She moved toward Dale, and held out her gloved fingers.

“Good morning, Mr Dale,” she said merrily. “You great men in oil are less approachable than a Prime Minister.” Then in a low tone: “It is not true, all this show of opposition. I am not blind.”

She turned and gave her hand to the Conte, and they left the studio, Armstrong making no effort to show them out, but standing motionless till he heard the door close, when, with a gesture of contempt and disgust, he threw open the windows and lit his pipe.

A minute later he had thrown the pipe aside and taken out Cornel’s letter to read; but the words swam before his eyes, and he could only see the face hidden behind that curtain.

“Poor little talisman!” he said, sadly apostrophising the letter, “you have lost your power. Evil is stronger than good, after all.”

“Good-bye, little one,” he continued, “for ever. You would forgive me if you knew all, for I am drifting—drifting, and my strength has gone.”

Two days passed—a week, and hour by hour he had waited, fully expecting that Valentina would come. He shrank from the meeting, but felt that it must be, for her influence seemed to be over him sleeping or waking, her eyes always gazing into his.

But she did not come. Only another note, and this he read in its brevity, for it contained but these words—

“You will drive me to my death.”

“Or me to mine,” he muttered, as he burned the letter; and then, in a raging desire to crush down the thoughts which troubled him, he turned to his work.

“Never!” he cried fiercely. “I will not go. If she comes here—well, if she does. That mockery of a man will track her some day, and then, in spite of English law, there will be a meeting, and he will kill me. I hope so. Then there would be rest.”

The picture which he had now stubbornly set himself to finish, as if he were urged by some unseen power, progressed but slowly. “The Emperor” came to sit, and tried to mould his features into the desired aspect with more or less success; but, in spite of inquiries, and interview after interview with different models recommended by brother artists as suitable to stand for the figure, Dale’s taste was too fastidious to be satisfied, and Juno’s face alone looked scornfully from the canvas.

Pacey had been again and again, but only in a friendly way, to chat as of old, sometimes bringing with him Leronde to gossip and fence with, at other times alone. No reference was made to the picture or the past.

“I shall never finish it,” said Dale, as he sat alone one day gazing at his canvas. “What shall I do—go abroad? Joe would come with me, and all this horrible dream might slowly die away.”

“No,” he muttered, after a pause; “it would not die. Better seek the true forgetfulness. Do all men at some time in their lives suffer from such a madness as mine?”

His musings were interrupted by a step upon the stairs, and he hastily drew the curtain before hi? canvas.

A single rap, which sounded as if it had been given with the knob of a walking-stick, came upon the door panel, and directly afterwards, in answer to a loud “Come in,” Jaggs entered with the knocker in his hand, to wit, a silk umbrella—one of those ingenious affairs formed by sewing all the folds where they have been slit up by wear and tear, and declared by the kerb vendor as being better than new—a fact as regards the price.

“Ah, Jaggs, good morning,” said Dale. “But I don’t want you. I shall let your face go as it is.”

“Quite right, sir,” said the man, glancing at the curtain. “Couldn’t be better; but I didn’t come about that.”

“Oh, I see,” said Dale sarcastically. “Your banker gone on the Continent?”

“The Emperor” drew himself up, and looked majestic in the face and pose of the head, shambling as to his legs, and extremely deferential in the curve of his body and the position of his hands and arms.

“Mr Dale,” he said, “I don’t deny, sir, as there ’ave been times when a half-crown has been a little heaven, and a double florin a delight, but I was not agoing to ask assistance now, though I am still a strugglin’ man, and been accustomed to better things. It was not to ask help, sir, as I’d come, but to bestow it, if so be as you’d condescend to accept it of your humble servant, as always feels a pride in your success, not to hide the fack that it does me good, sir, to be seen upon the line.”

“Well, what do you mean?” said Dale gruffly.

“I want to see that picture done, sir. It’ll make our fortune, sir. I’m sure on it, and I say it with pride, there isn’t anything as’ll touch it for a mile round.”

“Thank you, Jaggs; you are very complimentary,” said Dale ironically, but the tone was not observed.

“It’s on’y justice, sir, and I ain’t set going on for twenty years for artists without knowing a good picture when I see one. But that ain’t business, sir. You want a model, sir, and that Miss Montesquieu, as she calls herself, won’t be here for a month or two, and you needn’t expect her. Did you try her as Mr Pacey calls the Honourable Miss Brill?”

“Pish! I don’t want to paint a fishwife, man.”

“No, sir, you don’t; and of course Miss Varsey Vavasour wouldn’t do?”

“No, no, no! there is not one of them I’d care to have, Jaggs. If I go on with the figure, I shall work from some cast at first, and finish afterward from a model.”

“No, sir, don’t, pr’y don’t,” cried Jaggs. “You’ll only myke it stiff and hard. It wouldn’t be worthy on you, Mr Dale, sir; and besides, there ain’t no need. You’re a lion, sir, a reg’lar lion ’mong artisses, sir, and you was caught in a net, sir, and couldn’t get free, and all the time, sir, there was a little mouse a nibblin’ and a nibblin’ to get you out, sir, though you didn’t know it, sir, and that mouse’s nyme was Jaggs.”

“What! You don’t mean to say you know of a suitable model?”

“But I just do, sir. That’s what I do say, sir.”

“No, no,” cried Armstrong peevishly. “I don’t want to be worried into seeing one of your friends, Jaggs. Your taste and mine are too different for a lady of your choice to suit my work.”

“Don’t s’y that, sir,” cried Jaggs, in an aggrieved tone of voice. “I’m on’y a common sort o’ man, I own, sir, but I do know a good model when I see one—I mean one as shows breed. I don’t mean one o’ your pretty East End girls, with the bad stock showing through, but one as has got good furren breed in her.”

“Is this a foreign woman, then?”

“That’s it, sir. Comes from that place last where they ketch the little fishes as they sends over here for breakfast—not bloaters, sir, them furren ones.”

“Anchovies?”

“No, sir, t’other ones in tins.”

“Sardines?”

“That’s it, sir: comes from Sardineyer last, but her father was a Human. Sort o’ patriot kind o’ chap as got into trouble for trying to free his country. Them furren chaps is always up to their games, sir, like that theer Mr Lerondy, and then their country’s so grateful that they has to come over here to save themselves from being shot.”

“But the woman?”

“Oh, she come along with her father, sir, and he’s been trying to give Hightalian lessons, and don’t get on ’cause they say he don’t talk pure, and he’s too proud to go out as a waiter and earn a honest living, so the gal’s begun going out to sit. But she don’t get on nayther, ’cause her figure’s too high.”

“What! a great giraffe of a woman?”

“Lor’ bless you, no, sir! ’bout five feet two half. I should say. I meant charges stiff; won’t go out for less nor arf crown a hour, and them as tried her don’t like her ’cause she’s so stuck-up.”

“Look here, Jaggs; is she a finely formed, handsome woman?”

“Well, Mr Dale, sir, I won’t deceive you, for from what I hear her face ain’t up to much; but she don’t make a pynte o’ faces, and I’m told as she’s real good for anything, from a Greek statoo to a hangel.”

“Well, I’ll see her. Where does she live?”

“Leather Lane way, sir.”

“Address?”

“Ah, that I don’t know, sir. I b’leeve it’s her father as does the business and takes the money.”

“He is her father?”

“Oh yes, sir, it’s all square. I’m told they’re very ’spectable people. Old man’s quite the seedy furren gent, and the gal orful stand-offish.”

“Tell him to come and bring his daughter. If I don’t like her, I’ll pay for one sitting and she can go—”

“Eight, sir; and speaking ’onest, sir, I do hope as she will turn out all right.”

“Thank you. There’s a crown for your trouble.”

“Raly, sir, that ain’t nessary,” said “The Emperor,” holding out his hand.—“Oh, well, sir, if you will be so gen’rous, why, ’tain’t for me to stop you.—Good mornin’, sir, good mornin’.”

Chapter Twelve.

The New Model.

Two days passed, and Dale was standing, brush in hand, before his canvas, thinking. He had made up his mind to trust to his imagination to a great extent for the finishing of Juno’s figure: this, with the many classic sketches he had made in Greece and Rome, would, he believed, enable him to be pretty well independent. He was in better spirits, for he had heard nothing from Portland Place, and flattered himself that the impression which had troubled him was growing fainter.

“Come in,” he cried, as there was a tap at the door, and Keren-Happuch appeared, evidently fresh from a study in black-lead, and holding a card between a finger and thumb, guarded by her apron.

“Here’s a model, sir, and she give me this.”

Dale took a very dirty card, which looked as if it had been for some time in an old waistcoat pocket. Printed thereon were the words—“D. Jaggs. Head and face. Roman fathers, etc,” and written on the back in pencil, in Jaggs’ cramped hand—

“Signora Azatchy Figgers.”

“Where is she, Miranda?”

“On the front door mat, sir. And please, Mr Dale, sir, mayn’t I bring you some beef-tea?”

“No, thank you, Miranda. Bring up the visitor instead.”

“Oh, dear! he do worry me,” muttered Keren-Happuch. “I do hope he ain’t going into a decline.”

Dale smiled at the dirty card, and waited for the entrance of the new model, who was shown in directly by the grimy maid, and immediately, in a quick, jerky, excited way, looked sharply round the room before turning her face to the artist as the girl closed the door.

On his side he gazed with cold indifference at his visitor, who, after taking a couple of steps forward, stopped short, and he saw that she was rather tall, wore a closely fitting bonnet, over which a thick dark Shetland wool veil was drawn, and was draped from head to foot in a long black cloak, which had evidently seen a good deal of service.

“Signora Azacci?” said Dale, glancing at the card again, and making a good shot at her name.

It was evidently correct, for the woman said, in a husky voice, as if suffering from intense nervousness—

“Si, si.”

“You are willing to stand for me—for this picture?” said Dale, scanning her closely, but learning nothing respecting her figure on account of the cloak; and he spoke very coldly, for the woman’s actions on entering struck him as being angular and awkward; now they were jerky, as she raised her hands to her temples.

“No Inglese, signore,” she said then, excitedly; and again, after an embarrassed pause, “Parlate Italiano?—No?”

“No,” said Dale, shaking his head.

Her hands again came from beneath her cloak in a despairing gesture. Then, placing one to her forehead, she looked round at the lumber of paintings and properties, as if seeking for a way to express herself, till her eyes lit upon the great uncovered canvas. Bending forward in a quick, alert way, she uttered a low, peculiar cry, and almost ran to it, leaned forward again, as if examining, and then, with extreme rapidity, pointed to the blank place in the picture where Lady Dellatoria’s face stood out weirdly. She then took a few quick steps aside from where Dale stood, frowning and annoyed at what seemed to be a hopeless waste of time. Then, with a rapid movement, she unclasped the cloak, swept it from her shoulders, and holding it only with her left hand, let it fall in many folds to the floor, while as she stood before him now in a plainly made, tightly fitting black cloth princess dress, she instinctively fell into almost the very attitude Dale had in his mind’s eye, and he saw at once that her figure must be all that he wished.

“Bravo!” he cried involuntarily, and with an artist’s pleasure in an intelligence that grasps his ideas.

At the word “Bravo!” the woman turned her head quickly.

“Excellent,” he continued; “that promises well.”

Her face was hidden, but as she shrugged up her shoulders nearly to her ears, and raised her hands with the fingers contracted and toward him, he felt that she must be wrinkling up her forehead and making a grimace expressive of her vexation.

“Yes, it is tiresome,” he said; “but we don’t want to talk. I dare say I can make you understand. But I’ve forgotten every word I picked up in Rome.”

“Ah!” cried the woman, with quick pantomimic action, as she changed her attitude again, and leant toward him—“Roma—Roma?”

“Si, si.”

“My lord has been in Rome?” she cried in Italian.

“I think I understand that,” muttered Dale, “and if your form proves to be equal to your quick intelligence, my picture will be painted. Now then, signora, this is a language I dare say you can understand. Here are two half-crowns. For two hours—‘due ore.’”

“Si, si,” she cried eagerly, and she almost snatched the coins and held them to her veiled lips.

“Silver keys to your understanding, madam,” he muttered, taking a mahlstick from where it stood against a chair. “Humph! I begin to be hopeful. Yes, more than hopeful,” he continued, as the model was rapidly drawing off her shabby, carefully mended gloves, before taking a little common portemonnaie from her pocket and dropping the coins in one by one. Then aloud, as he pointed with the mahlstick, “La bella mano.”

“Aha!” she cried quickly. But she gave her shoulders another shrug, and shook the purse, saying sadly—“Pel povero padre.”

”‘Padre.’ For her father,” muttered Dale. “Not so sordid as I thought, poor thing. Will you remove your veil?”

She leaned toward him.

“I said, Will you remove your veil?—Hang it, what is veil in Italian? ‘Velum’ in Latin.”

She was evidently trying hard to grasp his meaning, and at the Latin “velum” she clapped her beautifully formed hands to her veil.

“No, no!” she cried haughtily; and then volubly, in Italian—“I am compelled to do this for bread. I do not know you, neither need you know me. My face is not beautiful, and we are strangers. You wish to paint my figure. I will retain my veil.”

“I do not understand you, signora, and yet I have a glimmering of what you wish to express,” said Dale, as gravely as if his visitor could grasp every word. “There, you seem to be a lady, and—hang it all, this is very absurd, my preaching to you, and you to me. I wish Pacey were here. He speaks Italian like a native. No, poor lass, I suppose they must be starving nearly, or she would not stoop to this. I don’t wish Joe Pacey were here.”

Then quietly bowing as if acceding to her wishes, he made a sign to his visitor to take her attention, and as she watched him from behind her thick veil, he walked to the entrance and turned the key.

Crossing the studio to the farther door, he threw it open, and then drew forward from the end of the great room a large folding-screen, which he placed at the back of the dais and opened wide.

“There, signora,” he said, “I am at your service;” and he pointed to the inner room, turned from her, and walked to the canvas.

The model stood motionless for a moment or two, and then caught up the great cloak from where it lay upon the floor.

“Grazie, Signore,” she said then, with quiet dignity, and she was hurrying across to the inner room, but he arrested her.

“One moment,” he said, with grave respect, and the chivalrous manner of a true gentleman toward one whose tones seemed to suggest that she trusted him. “Let us arrange the pose first. Look at the picture: study it well. You see the subject.”

Dale continued speaking, but kept on pointing to the scene he had depicted, and, to his intense gratification, she threw the cloak across a chair back, gazed intently at the picture for a few moments, letting her eyes rest longest upon the beautiful, scornful face, and then went quickly to the dais, stepped up, turned, and with rare intelligence fell once more into the very position he desired, bettering in fact that which she had sketched at first.

“Eccellentissimo!” he cried; and then she stepped down quickly, and glided into the inner room, while Dale gazed at his painting with a feeling of triumph sweeping away the morbid thoughts which had troubled him so long.

“Art is my mistress after all,” he said to himself, as he glanced upward to see that the skylight was properly blinded, and then, going to a box, rapidly prepared his palette, armed himself with a sheaf of brushes, and altered the position of his easel a little.

He was hardly ready when he heard the slight rattle of the handle, a faint rustling sound, and the swinging of the door again.

But he did not turn as a light step passed behind him, and a faint creaking sound announced that the model had mounted upon the dais.

He raised his eyes, and she was standing there apparently as he had seen her first, closely veiled, and still draped in the long, heavy, black cloak.

Then, with a quick movement, the long garment was thrown aside, and the model stood before him in the very attitude, and the perfection of her womanly beauty—a beauty made hideous in the ghastly effect produced by the black face and head swathed in the thick veil.

But this passed unnoticed by the artist, who, with a triumphant ejaculation, began to sketch rapidly, as he muttered to himself without vanity—

“Pacey is right: my canvas must be a success.”

Chapter Thirteen.

A Strange Sitting.

“Yes,” said Dale to himself again, “Art is my mistress. I have betrayed one, fought clear of the web of another, and now I am free to keep true to the only one I love.”

And all through that visit of the Italian, he worked on with a strange eagerness, till, at what seemed to be the end of an hour at most, his model made a sudden movement.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I ought to have told you to rest more often. Stanca?” For he recalled a word meaning fatigued or wearied.

“Si—si,” she said quickly, and pointed to the clock on the mantelpiece, when, to Dale’s astonishment, he saw that the two hours had elapsed, and that his model had quickly resumed her cloak. Then, without a word, she crossed to the door of the inner room, and about a quarter of an hour later emerged, to find him standing back studying his morning’s work.

“Grazie,” he cried, and then pointed to the roughly sketched in figure. “Bravo!” he added, smiling.

She bent her head in a quiet, dignified manner, and raking up another Italian word or two, Armstrong said—

“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, passed 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 passed 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!” ejaculated 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 snatched, 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 space 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 hoarsely.

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 passed, 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 passed 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.

Then, throwing the board aside, he began to pace the studio impatiently.

“What nonsense!” he muttered. “What craze is this! Her face is nothing to me. I’m overwrought. Worry and work are having their effect. I have had no exercise either lately. Yes: that’s it: I’m overdone.”

He stood hesitating for a few moments, and then thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out five shillings.

“I’ll rout out Pacey and Leronde, and we’ll go up the river for a row.”

He rang the bell and waited, giving one more glance at his picture, and then turning it face to the wall, with the curtain drawn.

He had hardly finished when Keren-Happuch’s step was heard at the door, and she knocked and entered.

“You ring, please, sir?”

“Yes. Take this money. No—no—stop a moment. She would be hurt,” he muttered, and, hastily wrapping it in a sheet of note-paper at the side table, he thrust the packet into an envelope, fastened it down, and directed it to La Signora Azacci.

“There, Keren-Happuch,” he said.

“Don’t call me that now, please, Mr Dale, sir. I likes the other best, ’cause you don’t do it to tease me, like Mr Pacey.”

“Well then, Miranda, my little child of toil,” he said merrily, “I have wrapped up this money because the young lady might not like it given to her loose. It isn’t that I don’t trust you.”

The girl laughed.

“Zif I didn’t know that, sir. Why, you give me a fi’ pun’ note to get changed once.”

“So I did, Miranda, and will again.”

“And sovrins lots o’ times. I don’t mind.”

“Give this to the Italian lady.”

“Is she a lady, sir? I think she is sometimes, and sometimes I don’t, ’cause she’s so shabby. Why, some o’ them models as comes could buy her up out and out.”

“Yes, Miranda; but don’t be so loquacious.”

“No, sir, I won’t,” said Keren-Happuch, wondering the while what the word meant.

“Tell her that I’m not well this morning, and have gone into the country for a day, but I hope to see her at the same time to-morrow morning.”

“There, I knowed you wasn’t well, sir,” cried the girl eagerly.

“Pooh! only a little seedy.”

“But was she to come at the reg’lar time this morning, sir?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then she ain’t comin’, sir, for it’s nearly an hour behind by the kitchen clock.”

Dale glanced at his watch in astonishment, then at the clock on the mantelpiece.

Keren-Happuch was quite correct in every respect, for the model did not come, and Dale felt so startled by this that he did not leave the studio all day, but spent it with a growing feeling of trouble.

That night, to get rid of the anxiety which kept his brain working, he sought out his two friends and dined with them at one of the cafés, eating little, drinking a good deal, and sitting at last smoking, morose and silent, listening to Leronde’s excited disquisitions on art, and Pacey’s bantering of the Frenchman, till it was time to return to his studio, which he entered with a shudder, to cross to his room.

Keren-Happuch had been up and lit the gas, leaving one jet burning with a ghastly blue flame, and when this was turned up, the place seemed to be full of shadows, out of which the various casts and busts looked at him weirdly.

“Phew! how hot and stuffy the place is,” he muttered. “Am I going to be ill—sickening for a fever? Bah! Rubbish! I drank too much of that Chianti.”

The Italian name of the wine of which he had freely partaken suggested the Conte, but only for a moment, and then he was brooding again over the failure of the model to keep her appointment.

“Surely she is not ill,” he said excitedly; then, with an angry gesticulation, “well, if she is, what is it to me? Poor woman! she will get better, and I must wait.”

He hurried into his room, and turned up the gas there, but he could not rest without going back into the studio and turning the gas on full before dragging round the great easel, and throwing back the curtains to unveil the picture, with its graceful white figure standing right out from the group like sunlit ivory. But a shadow was cast upon the upper part by a portion of the curtain whose rings had caught upon the rod, and a strange shudder ran through him, for the paper he had used to hide the face looked dark, and, to his excited vision, took the form of the close black veil, through which a pair of brilliant eyes appeared to flash.

Snatching back the curtain, he wheeled the easel into its place, with its face to the wall, turned down the gas after fastening the door, and threw himself upon his bed to lie tossing hour after hour, never once going right off to sleep, but thinking incessantly of the beautiful model, and the masked face whose eyes burned into his brain.

Chapter Fifteen.

After the Lapse.

Dale’s hands trembled, and there were feverish marks in his cheeks as he dressed next morning, and then walked into his sitting-room and rang.

The breakfast things were laid, and in a few minutes Keren-Happuch came through the studio with his coffee and toast, while an hour later, without daring to speak to him, she bore the almost untouched breakfast away.

As soon as he was alone, he made an effort to master himself, and walked firmly into the studio, drew forward his easel, and after removing the curtain, stood there to study his work and criticise and mark its failings.

He found none to mark, but stood there waiting for its living, breathing model, knowing well enough that he must check the madness attacking him—at once, in its incipient stage.

“I’m as weak a fool as other men,” he muttered. “Bah! I can easily disillusionise myself. I’ll insist upon her removing her veil to-day. It is that and the foolish wish to see her face that has upset me, I being in a weak, nervous state. Once I’ve finished and had the work framed, I really will give up painting for a few weeks and rest.”

That maddening day passed, but no model came, and as soon as it was dark he went out, but not until the last post had come in that was likely to bring him a letter of excuse from his sitter.

He went straight to the street where Jaggs lodged, to learn that he was away from home. The people of the house thought that he had gone down somewhere in the country to sit for an artist who was doing a sea-picture, but they were not sure whether it was Surrey or Cornwall.

Somewhere Leather Lane way, Jaggs had told him that the father lived. Perhaps he was ill, and his child was nursing him. But how could he go about asking at random in that neighbourhood about the missing model?

But he did, seeking out first one and then another handsome picturesque vagabond belonging to the artistic Italian colony, and questioning them, but without avail. They had never heard the name.

He tried a lodging-house or two, upon whose steps Italian women were seated, dark-eyed, black-haired, and with showy glass bead necklaces about their throats. But no; those who could understand him neither knew the name, nor had they heard of a Sardinian patriot whose daughter went out to sit.

Dale returned to his rooms to pass another sleepless night, hoping that the next morning would put an end to his anxiety, fever, or excitement, whichever it was—for he savagely refrained from confessing to himself that he grasped what his trouble might be.

But the morning came, and seven more mornings, to find him seated before his unfinished picture, practising a kind of self-deceit, and telling himself that he was feverish, haggard, and mentally careworn on account of his dread of not being able to finish his picture as satisfactorily as he could wish.

He had tried hard during the interval, but, in spite of all his efforts, he had been able to get tidings of neither Jaggs nor the model the man had introduced; while to make his state the more wretched, Pacey had not been near him, and for some unaccountable reason Leronde, too, had stayed away.

He was seated, wild-eyed and despairing, one morning, when Keren-Happuch came running in, breathless with her exertions to reach the studio, and bear the news which she felt would be like life to the young artist.

“Here she is, sir!” panted the girl, “she’s come at last;” and then ran down to open the front door.

Dale staggered and turned giddy, but listened with eyes fixed upon the door, hardly daring to believe till he saw it open, and the dark, closely veiled figure enter quickly.

Then there was a reaction, and he asked himself why he had suffered like this. What was the poorly dressed woman who had just entered to him?

His lips parted, but he did not speak, only waited.

“Am I too late?” she said, in her strongly accented French. “Some other? The picture finished?”

“No,” he said coldly; and he wondered at her collected manner as he caught the glint of a pair of searching eyes. “I have waited for you. Why have you been so long?”

“I have been ill,” she said simply, and her tones suggested suffering.

“Ill?” he cried excitedly; and he took a step towards her with outstretched hand. “I am very sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and ignoring the extended hand. “I am once more well, and I must be quick. Shall I stay one more hour every day and you pay me more? Oh, no. For the same!”

“Yes, pray do,” he said huskily, and he thrust his hand into his pocket to pay her in advance according to his custom, but she ignored the money as she had previously passed his hand without notice, and after pointing to the door, she hurried through into his room, to return in a wonderfully short space of time and take her place upon the dais.

Dale began to paint eagerly, feverishly, so as to lose himself in his work, but in a few minutes he raised his eyes to see the glint of those which seemed to be watching him suspiciously through the thick veil, as if ready to take alarm at the slightest word or gesture on his part, and at once the power to continue his work was gone. He felt that he must speak, and in a deep husky voice he began—

“You have been very ill, then?”

“Yes, monsieur,” curtly and distantly.

“I wondered very much at not seeing you. I was alarmed.”

“I do not see why monsieur should feel alarm.”

“Of course, on account of my picture,” he said awkwardly. Then laying down his palette and brushes, he saw that the model gave a sudden start, but once more stood motionless as he took out his pocket-book, and withdrew the pencil.

“Will you give me your address?”

“Why should monsieur wish for my address?”

“To communicate with you. If I had known, I should have been spared much anxiety. Tell me, and I will write it down.”

“With that of the women who wait monsieur’s orders? No!”

This was spoken so imperiously that Dale replaced the pencil and book, and took up palette and brushes.

“As you will,” he said, and he began to paint once more.

But the power to convey all he wished to the canvas had gone, and he turned to her again.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he said. “You are a foreigner, and friendless here in England: I know that, but tell me more. I may be of service to you.”

“Monsieur is being of service to me. He pays me for occupying this degrading position to which I am driven.”

There was so much angry bitterness in her tones that Dale was again silenced; but his pulse beat high, and as he applied his brush to his canvas from time to time, there were only results that he would have to wipe away.

“I am sorry you consider the task degrading,” he said at last. “I have endeavoured to make it as little irksome as I could.”

“Monsieur has been most kind till now,” she said quickly; and then, in a bitterly contemptuous tone, “monsieur forgets that I am waiting. His pencil is idle.”

He started angrily, and went on painting, but the eyes were still watching him, and, strive all he would, there was the intense desire growing once more to see that face which was hidden from him so closely. He knew that he ought to respect his visitor’s scruples, but he could not, and again and again he shivered with a sensation nearly approaching to dread. But the wish was still supreme. That black woollen veil piqued him, and after a few minutes of worthless work, he asked her if she was weary.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Then we will rest a few minutes.”

“No, monsieur; go on. I am your slave for the time.”

He started at her words, and as much at her tone, which was as full of hauteur as if she were some princess. But now, instead of this driving him in very shame to continue his work, it only impressed him the more. There was a mystery about her and her ways. The almost insolent contempt with which she treated him made him angry, and his anger increased to rage as he fully realised how weak and mortal he was as man. He tried not to own it to himself, but he knew that a strange passion had developed itself within him, and with mingled pleasure and pain he felt that this beautiful woman could read him through and through, and that hour by hour her feelings toward him became more and more those of contempt.

He did not stop to reason, for he was rapidly becoming blind to everything but his unconquerable desire to see her face. There were moments when he felt ready to rage against himself for his weakness and, as he called it, folly; but all this was swept away, and at last, as the sitting went on and the model haughtily refused to leave the dais for a time to rest, he found himself asking whether there was not after all truth in the old legends, and whether, enraged by his shrinking from Lady Dellatoria’s passionate avowals, the author of all evil had not sent some beautiful demon to tempt him and show him how weak he was after all. It was maddening, and at last he threw down palette and brushes to begin striding up and down the room, carefully averting his eyes from his model, who stood there as motionless as if she were some lovely statue.

At last he returned to his canvas.

“You must be tired now,” he said hurriedly. “Rest for a while.”

“I’m not tired now,” she replied coldly, “if monsieur will continue.”

“I cannot paint to-day,” he said hoarsely. “You trouble me. What I have done is valueless.”

“I trouble monsieur?” she said coldly. “Am I not patient?—can I be more still?”

He made a mighty effort over self, and for the moment conquered. Seizing his brushes and palette, he began to paint once more, but in a reckless way, as if merely to keep himself occupied, but as he turned his eyes from his canvas from time to time to study the beautiful model, standing there in that imperious attitude, strange, mysterious, and weird, with the black enmasking above the graceful voluptuous figure, he lost more and more the self-command he had maintained.

For a few minutes he told himself that he was mistaken, that her eyes must be closed; but it was, he knew too well, a mere mental subterfuge: they were gleaming through that black network, and piercing him to the very soul.

He could bear it no longer, and again throwing down brushes and palette, he paced the room for a minute or two before turning to the marble figure standing so motionless before him.

“I tell you I cannot paint,” he cried angrily. “It is as if you were casting some spell over me. I must see your face. Why do you persist in this fancy? Your masked countenance takes off my attention. I beg—I insist—remove that veil.”

“I do not quite understand monsieur,” she said coldly. “He speaks in a language that is not mine, neither is it his. He confuses me. I am trying to be a patient model, but everything is wrong to-day. Will he tell me what I should do to give him satisfaction?”

“Take off that veil!” cried Dale.

The model caught up the cloak and flung it around her shoulders.

“Now, quick!” cried Dale excitedly, “that veil!”

“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 flashing, 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 snatched away the hand he held, and with the other thrust him back violently.

“It is infamous!” she cried, with her eyes flashing 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, passed 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 pass 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 passed 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 petition.

“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 passed 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 passed 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, snatched 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-à-vis, the exquisitely neat, waxed-moustached, closely clipped young Frenchman who assisted 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 ejaculated, 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 shaggy 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, passing 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 snatched the cards, glanced at them, uttered an ejaculation, and springing up, he threw down his pipe, and nearly did the same by his companion as he rushed to the door, passed 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.

“Here, Leronde,” cried Pacey excitedly. “Excuse me—very particular business, old fellow.”

“You wish me to go?” said Leronde stiffly, as he waited for an introduction.

“If you wouldn’t mind, and—look here,” continued Pacey, drawing him outside. “Don’t be hurt, old fellow—this is very particular. You saw the names on the cards?”

“Oh yes.”

“Not a word then to Armstrong.”

“I do not tiddle-taddle,” said Leronde stiffly. “That’s right. I trust you, old fellow. Come back at six, and we’ll go and dine in Soho.”

“But—the lady?”

“Bah! Nonsense, man! This is business. Au revoir—till six.”

Pacey hurried back and closed both doors, to find his visitors standing in the middle of the room, Cornel pale and anxious, and her brother stern, distant, and angry of eye.

“I did not expect you, Miss Thorpe,” cried Pacey warmly. “Pray sit down.”

“I think my sister and I can finish our interview without sitting down, sir. You are Mr Joseph Pacey?”

“I am,” said the artist, as coldly now as the speaker.

“And you wrote to my sister—”

“Michael, dear, I will speak to Mr Pacey, please,” said Cornel, and she turned to the artist and held out her hand. “Thank you for writing to me, Mr Pacey,” she continued. “I thought it better, as my brother was coming to England, to accompany him and see you myself.”

She sank into the chair Pacey had placed for her, and after a contemptuous look round at the shabby surroundings, the doctor followed her example.

“My brother is angry, Mr Pacey; he is indignant on my behalf. He thinks me foolish and obstinate in coming here to see you, and that I am lowering myself, and not displaying proper pride.”

“I do,” said the doctor firmly.

“Out of his tender love for me, Mr Pacey,” Cornel continued, with her sweet pathetic voice seeming to ring and find an echo in the old artist’s heart; “but I felt it to be my duty to come to know the truth.”

“You have done wisely, madam,” said Pacey. “When I wrote you it was in the hope that you would come and save a man whom I have liked—there, call it sentimentality if you please—loved as a brother—I ought to say, I suppose, as a son.”

“Your letter, sir, suggested that my old schoolfellow—the man who was betrothed to my sister—has in some way gone wrong.”

Pacey bowed his head.

“Cornel, dear, you hear this. It is sufficient. We do not wish to pry into Armstrong Dale’s affairs. We know enough. Now, are you satisfied?”

“No.—Mr Pacey, your words have formed a bond between us greater than existed before. I have heard of you so often from Armstrong, and come to you as our friend, in obedience to your letter. I ask you then to keep nothing back, but to speak to me plainly. Please remember that I am an American girl. I think we are different from your ladies here. Not bolder, but firm, plain-spoken, honest and true. We feel a true shame as keenly as the proudest of your patrician maidens; but we crush down false, and that is why I come to you instead of writing to and making appeals to the man whom I have known from childhood—the man who was betrothed to me, and who loved me dearly, as I loved him, only so short a time ago. There, you see how simply and plainly I speak, the more so that I know you have Armstrong Dale’s welfare at heart.”

“God knows I have,” said Pacey fervently.

“Then tell me plainly, Mr Pacey.”

“Cornel!”

“I will speak, Michael,” she said gently. “His happiness and mine depend upon my knowing the truth.—Mr Pacey, I am waiting.”

Pacey gazed at her with his face full of reverence for the woman before whom he stood, but no words left his lips.

“You are silent,” she said calmly. “You fear to tell me the worst. He is not ill: you said so. He cannot be in want of money. Then it is as I gathered from your letter: he has been led into some terrible temptation.”

Pacey bowed his head gravely.

“Now, are you satisfied?” said Thorpe earnestly. “I knew that it was so.”

“And I clung so fondly to the hope that it was not,” said Cornel, gazing straight before her, and as if she were thinking aloud. Then, turning to Pacey—“He was becoming famous, was he not?”

“Yes.”

“Succeeding wonderfully with his art?”

“Grandly.”

“And now this has all come like a cloud,” sighed Cornel dreamily. Then again to Pacey, in spite of her brother’s frown, “Is she very beautiful?”

Pacey paused for a moment, and then said sadly—“Very beautiful.”

“And does she love him as he does her?”

“I fear so,” said Pacey at last.

Cornel drew a long and piteous sigh, and they saw the tears brimming in her eyes, run over, and trickle down her cheeks.

“Let us go, dear,” she said softly. “I was too happy for it to last. Forgive me: I felt that I must know—all. Good-bye, Mr Pacey,” she continued, holding out her hand, while her face was of a deadly white. “I am glad you wrote. You thought it would be best, but he must love her better than ever he loved me, and perhaps it is for his advancement.”

“It is for his ruin, I tell you,” cried Pacey fiercely.

“But you said she loved him. Is she not true and good?”

“Girl!” cried Pacey, with his brows knotted by the swelling veins, “can the devil who tempts a man in woman’s form be true and good?”

“Ah!”

Ejaculation as much as sigh, and accompanied by a wild look of horror. Then, with her manner completely changed, Cornel laid her hand upon Pacey’s arm.

“Who is this woman?” she said firmly.

Pacey compressed his lips, but the beautiful eyes fixed upon him forced the words to come, and in a low voice he muttered the Contessa’s name.

Then he stood looking at his visitor wonderingly, as, with her lips now white as if all the blood within them had fled to her heart, she said firmly—

“And the Conte?”

“Is a man of fashion—a dog—a scoundrel whom I could crush beneath my heel.”

“Cornel,” cried her brother firmly, “you have heard enough: you shall not degrade yourself by listening to these wretched details.”

“Yes, I have heard enough,” she said firmly; but she did not stir, only stood with her brows knit, gazing straight before her.

“Then now you will come back to the hotel,” cried the doctor eagerly.

“No: not yet,” she said, drawing herself up.

“Not yet?” cried Thorpe, in wonder at the firmness and determination she displayed.

“Not yet: I am going to see Armstrong Dale.”

“No,” cried Pacey excitedly. “You must not do that. I will see him and tell him you are here. It may bring him to his senses, and he will come to you.”

Cornel turned to him, smiling sadly.

“You tell me that he is slipping away into the gulf, and when I would go to hold out my hands to save him, you say, ‘Wait, and he will come to you!’”

“At any rate you cannot go,” cried Thorpe.

“Armstrong Dale is my affianced husband, and at heart, in his weakness and despair, he calls to me for help. I am going to him now.”

“And God speed your work!” cried Pacey excitedly, “for if ever angel came to help man in his sorest need, it is now.”

The next minute, without a word, Cornel Thorpe was walking alone down the old staircase to the street, while Pacey and her brother followed, as if they were in a dream.

Chapter Seventeen.

Another’s Love.

Four days had passed, and Armstrong had not left his place, but waited, hoping against hope, and at last sinking into a wild state of despair.

“I must have been mad,” he said again and again. “One false step leads to another, and I am going downward rapidly enough now.”

He smiled bitterly as he sat with his head resting upon his hand, feeling that he had driven his beautiful model away for ever, and vainly asking himself how it could be that so mad a passion had sprung up within him for a woman whose face he had never seen.

Then all at once he sprang to his feet, with his eyes flashing as he listened eagerly, and then a strange look of triumph began to glow in his countenance. “I must be more guarded,” he said to himself, “or she will take flight again:” and catching up palette and brush, he made a pretence of painting as he waited with his back to the door for the entrance of her whose step was heard ascending the stairs in company with Keren-Happuch. Then he heard the girl’s voice, and his heart sank like lead in doubt, for he felt that the model would have come up without being shown.

But the next moment he was full of hope as the door was opened, closed, and he heard the familiar rustle of the drapery, and the step across the floor.

He did not turn, but stood there with his heart beating violently, and a wild desire bidding him turn round quickly and snatch the veil from his models face. He was a coward, he told himself, not to have done so before. What did her anger matter? Had she not come back—penitent—friendly—

His heart gave a great leap.

—Loving, for she laid her hand upon his shoulder, and he turned round with a smile of triumph, to drop palette and brushes and turn white as ashes.

“Cornel!”

“Yes, Armstrong. The world grows very small now. You wanted me, and I am here.”

“I—I wanted you?” he faltered, as she took a step or two back, and then stood gazing at him wistfully, with her hands clasped before her, and a look of love, pity, and despair in her eyes that stung him through and through.

“Yes, Armstrong, I heard that you were in great peril. We were children together. Armstrong—you wanted help—and—I have come.”

He sank into the nearest chair with a groan, and she advanced slowly and stood close to him.

“I have felt for weeks that there was something: your letters were so different. Then they became fewer; then they ceased. But I said you were busy, and I waited so patiently, Armstrong, till that message came.”

“What message?” he cried hoarsely.

“That which told me I ought to join Michael, and help you in this time of need.”

“Who—who wrote to you?” he cried.

“There is no need to hide his name. Your dearest friend, Mr Pacey.”

“The wretched meddler!”

“The true, honest gentleman you have always said he was, Armstrong. I have come from him now.”

“The cowardly hound!” muttered Dale.

“No; your truest and best friend. He wrote to me for your sake and mine, Armstrong, and I have come.”

“What for?—to treat me with scorn and contempt?” he cried angrily, snatching at a chance to speak; “to tell me that all is over between us? Why have you not brought your brother with you, to horsewhip me and add his insults to your upbraidings?”

“Michael is here,”—Dale started, and looked with a coward’s glance at the door—“he is in London, but it was not his duty to come to the man who is my betrothed. I came alone to ask you—if it is all true?”

He drew a hoarse breath, and then forced himself to speak brutally, to hide the shame and agony he felt.

“Yes,” he said roughly; “it is all true.”

She winced as if he had struck her, and there was silence for a few moments before she spoke again, and then in a curiously changed voice, from her agony of heart.

“No, no,” she whispered at last; “it cannot be true. It is a strange dream. I cannot—I will not believe it.”

He strove again and again to speak, but no words would come. He tried to speak gently and ask her to forgive him, but in vain; and at last, even more brutally than before, he cried—

“I tell you it is true! If you knew all this, how could you come?”

There was a pause before Cornel spoke again, and then she drew herself up with an imperious gesture, and her words came firmly and full of defiance of the world.

“I came because I heard the man I loved was beaten down and wounded in the fight of life, and I said—‘What is it to me?—he loved me very dearly, and if he has been met by a strange temptation, and has fallen, my place is there. I will go to him, and remind him of the past, and point out again the forward way.’ Armstrong, that is why I have come.”

He groaned, and his voice was softened now, and half-choked by the agony and despair at his heart.

“Go back,” he said, “and forget me, Cornel; I am not the man you thought. I left you strong in my belief in self, ready for the fight, but your knight of truth and honour has turned out to be only a sorry pawn. I don’t ask you to forgive me: I only say, for your own sake, go, and forget that such a villain ever lived.”

“Then it is all true?” she said sternly.

“I don’t know what Joe Pacey has said,” he cried bitterly, as he gazed in the sweet womanly face before him, “but I make the only reparation that I can. I speak frankly, Cornel dear, and tell you that the worst he could say of me would not exceed the truth. Utterly unworthy—utterly base—I am not fit to touch your hand.”

As he spoke now in his excitement, he took a step toward her, and she drew back.

“Yes!” he cried bitterly; “you are right. Shrink from me and go.”

“No,” she said, after another pause, “I will not shrink from you; I will not upbraid; I will only say to you, Tear these scales from your eyes, and see, as Armstrong Dale, my old playfellow—brother—lover—used to see. Break from the entanglement, like the man you always were, and be yourself again.”

“No!” he groaned, “I am no longer master of myself. For God’s sake, go!”

“And leave you to this—caught in these toils, to struggle wildly for a time, and for what?—a life of misery and repentance? It is not true; you are too strong for this. Armstrong, for your own sake—for all at home—one brave effort. Pluck her from your heart.”

He looked at her sadly for a few moments, and then shook his head.

“Impossible!” he groaned. “It is too late.”

“No!” she cried excitedly; “even on the very edge there is time to drag you away. Armstrong—I cannot bear it—come with me, dearest. You loved me once; you made me care for you and think of you as all the world to me. This woman—she cannot love you as I do, dear. For I do love you with all my poor heart. Don’t quite break it, dear, for I forgive you everything, only come back with me now. Do you not hear me? I forgive you everything, and you will come.”

She staggered toward him with her arms open to clasp him to her breast, but he shrank away with a groan of despair.

“No,” he said; “it is too late—too late!”

She heaved a piteous sigh, and her hands fell to her sides. Then, with her head bent, she walked slowly to the door, passed out, and he heard her steps descending. A few moments later there were voices in the hall, followed by the heavy closing of the door, which seemed to shut him for ever from all that was good and true, alone with his despair as he turned to his canvas, where he gazed upon the form he had created, apparently the only memory of a mad passion which had crushed him to the earth.

Chapter Eighteen.

Gage of Battle.

“You, Mr Pacey? Where is my brother?”

“Gone back to the hotel. Left me to wait till you came out.—Seen him? Bah! I needn’t have asked that.”

Cornel was silent for a few moments as she walked on side by side with her strange-looking companion.

“Why did my brother go back to the hotel?”

“To cool himself.”

Cornel looked round wonderingly.

“Temper,” said Pacey shortly. “Said he couldn’t contain himself; that he was mad to let you come to see Armstrong; and at last I persuaded him to go back, and said I’d see you safely to the hotel.”

“And do you think I was doing wrong to go, Mr Pacey?” she said, turning upon him her candid eyes.

“No: I stood out here feeling more religious than I have these twenty years. Ah! you don’t understand. Never mind. Tell me you’ve brought him to his senses.”

Corners brow contracted, and she shook her head.

“Oh, but you should have done, my dear,” cried Pacey angrily. “You’ve been too hard upon him. Try and forgive him just a little bit. It’s life and death, ruin and destruction to as fine a lad as ever stepped.”

“Yes,” said Cornel piteously.

“Then you shouldn’t have been so stern with him, you know. He has been a blackguard; he deserves something. I am more bitter with him than ever, but, my dear—don’t flinch because I speak so familiarly: I’m old enough to be your father—I say, if there is to be no forgiveness, there’ll be very few of us men in heaven, I’m afraid, for we’re a bad lot, my child, a very bad lot, though I don’t think it’s all our fault.”

Cornel looked up at him again, with her nether lip quivering.

“That’s right,” said Pacey; “I don’t know much about women, but that means being sorry for him just a little. Now, look here: don’t you think you and I might go back together, and I leave you with him five minutes while you bring him to his knees, and then promise to forgive him some day?”

Pacey stopped short to say this, and took a half turn to go back. To his surprise, Cornel placed her hand upon his arm.

“Take me out of this busy street,” she whispered, “or I shall break down. You do not know how I pleaded to him and offered him forgiveness.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” in a faint whisper, “I offered to forgive everything if he would come away.”

“And he wouldn’t? You tell me he wouldn’t?”

“No!” in the faintest of whispers.

“Oh!” ejaculated Pacey, as he hurried her along. “That settles it then. You offered to forgive him, and he refused? Then you’ve had an escape, my dear. He is not worthy of another thought. There, let me take you back to your brother. I thought better of him, and that the sight of the sweetest, truest little woman who ever breathed would bring him to his senses—make a man of him again. There, I’m very sorry—no, I’m not, for I’ve done my duty by him, and you’ve done yours.”

“No, we have not,” said Cornel, growing firmer once more. “There is much to do yet. This lady—this Contessa?”

“Well, what about her?” said Pacey, frowning.

“You told me that she is very beautiful.”

“Yes, and so is some poison—clear as crystal.”

“You know, then, where she lives?”

“Oh yes, I know where she lives,” growled Pacey savagely.

“Take me to her.”

Pacey shook himself free, and literally glared at the plainly dressed girl at his side.

“I wish you would take me to her, Mr Pacey. I must see her at once.”

“You? You see her? That tiger lily of a woman! No, that won’t do at all.”

“Mr Pacey, I must see her. I have failed with Armstrong, but something tells me that I may succeed with her.”

“But do you know what sort of a woman she is?”

“A lady of title, beautiful and rich.”

“Oh yes; but, my dear child, you who are as fresh as a little lily-of-the-valley, what could you say to her? Why, she is a heartless woman of fashion, proud as a female Lucifer, and you would only be exposing yourself to insult.”

“She would injure herself more than me,” replied Cornel. Then, after they had walked a few yards in silence, she turned to her companion.

“Mr Pacey, you are Armstrong’s most trusted friend?”

“I was once, but that’s over now.”

“No; true friends do not leave those they love when they are in their sorest need. I must—I will save Armstrong from this woman’s toils. He has ceased to love me, but I cannot, when a word might save him, keep back that word. Take me to this lady’s home.”

“But, my dear Miss Thorpe—”

“I have known you for over a year, Mr Pacey, though we only met to-day for the first time.”

“Yes; and I’ve known you, my dear,” said Pacey, “though he never half did you justice.”

“Then I am Cornel Thorpe to you. Now listen: we must save him.”

“But—”

“What is this lady’s name?”

“The Contessa Dellatoria.”

“Take me to her at once.”

“And she could not master him?” muttered Pacey. “She masters me.”

He was already walking her on fast towards Portland Place, where fortune favoured the mission, for a carriage and pair passed them, driven rapidly, as they were close to the house, and Pacey told his companion that the fashionably dressed lady leaning back was the Contessa, with the effect of making Cornel hasten her pace after quitting Pacey’s arm; while, resigning himself to the inevitable, he advanced more slowly, watching the scene before him as the carriage stopped. The footman ran up and gave a thundering knock and heavy peal, with the result that the door was thrown open at once, two more servants waiting to receive their lady.

By the time the steps were rattled down, and Valentina had alighted, Cornel was at her side, pale and trembling, in her simple, plainly cut black dress, cloak, and bonnet with its thin silk veil.

“Can I speak to you, madam?” she said faintly. The Contessa turned upon her in wonder, and Cornel shrank for the moment from the beautiful, magnificently dressed woman.

“Speak to me?” she said haughtily, as her eyes swept over the American girl. Then, as she walked towards the door, “Who are you? what are you—a hospital nurse?”

“Sometimes,” said Cornel, fighting hard to be firm.

“Oh, I see: then you want a subscription for your charity. This is neither the time nor the place.” The Contessa swept on, but Cornel was at her side again before she could reach the door.

“No, no, madam, you are mistaken,” she cried in a low voice. “I wish to—I must see you.”

Valentina’s eyes dilated a little, and she looked wonderingly at the speaker.

“I—I have a message for you. I must speak to you. Take me to your room, for Heaven’s sake.”

A policeman was approaching, and the butler stepped out, saying significantly—

“Shall I speak to the young person, my lady?” No answer was vouchsafed, for just then Cornel caught the Contessa by the arm and whispered—

“You must see me, madam. It is life or death to one you know—one whom, I believe, you would not injure.”