George Manville Fenn (continued 3)

“Hush! Who cure you?”

“A stranger from a distant land, madam.” Valentina started, and the rich blood flushed to her cheeks.

“I landed from America yesterday. Pray hear me. Your future depends upon it, and—perhaps—my life.”

The Contessa made a sign to Cornel to follow, and entered the door; and a minute after, as Pacey passed slowly by, he ground his teeth when he heard the coachman say to the footman, who was crossing the pavement with a shawl over one arm, and a basket containing a carriage clock, scent bottle, card case, and Court Guide—

“I say, Dicky, what game do you call that?”

“Last noo dodge for raising the wind,” said the footman, and he went in and closed the door.

“A hurricane, I should say,” muttered Pacey. “Poor little girl, can she face the storm?—I don’t know though—there’s a strength in her that masters me.”

Meanwhile Lady Dellatoria led the way to the boudoir, held aside the portière, and signed to Cornel to enter. Then following, the great velvet curtain was dropped, and they stood face to face, scanning each other’s features, and measuring the one whom a natural instinct taught each to consider the great enemy of her life. Cornel’s heart sank as she stood thus in the presence of her beautiful rival. For the moment, she was ready to sink into one of the luxurious lounges, and sob for very despair as she felt how unlikely it was that Armstrong could still care for the simple homely girl who had come across the wide ocean to save him—him, a willing victim to one who gazed at her with such contempt, and who at last broke the silence.

“Well,” she said, “I have granted your request. Why do you not speak?”

“I was thinking, madam, how beautiful you are.”

Valentina smiled faintly, and raised her eyebrows. It was such an old compliment paid to her.

“You wished to speak to me about some one I know. Have you brought a message? Who are you?”

“I am the poor American girl to whom Armstrong Dale plighted his troth before he left us to make his name and fame.”

The Contessa’s eyes were slightly veiled. It was no message then from him, and she avoided the searching eyes, so full of innocence and truth, that gazed at her, as she said huskily—

“Well, what is that to me?”

Cornel looked at her wonderingly, asking herself whether there was a mistake; but growing confident, she went on—

“This, madam: my lover—I speak to you in the homely fashion of our people—my lover came here to England, and his success was beyond my wildest dreams. We wrote to each other, and we were happy in the expectation of our future, till he saw you, and then—all was changed.”

“Is this the beginning of some romance? But, of course—your love-story.”

“Yes, madam, and no romance. But I do not come to speak angrily to you—I do not heap reproaches upon your head. I come to you simply as one woman in suffering should appeal to another.”

The Contessa made a contemptuous gesture.

“In my simple, faithful love for the man pledged to be my husband—the man who has sinned against me in what is but a base love for you—I am ready to forgive him, and look upon the past as dead. And now I come as a suppliant to you, asking you to set him free, that he may sin no more.”

“What! How dare you?” cried the Contessa. “Such words to me!”

“From his promised wife, madam! Yes: I dare tell you, because, with all your wealth and beauty, even your power over his weakness, I am stronger in my right. You have blinded him—turned him from the path of duty—you are the destroyer of his future.”

“Absurd, girl! This Mr Dale, the artist employed by my husband—surely in his vanity he has not dared—”

She ceased speaking, and shrank from Cornel’s clear, candid gaze.

“No, madam, he has not dared—he has not spoken. He does not know that I have taken this step.”

“Most unwisely.”

“No, madam, I know that I am acting wisely—in his interest and yours.”

“My good girl, this is insufferable. If you were not a stranger to our customs in England, I would not listen to you.”

“There is no custom, madam, in a woman’s love, here or in America. Heart speaks to heart. He is my promised husband: give him back to me. I plead to you for your own sake as well as mine.”

“This is mere romance.”

“Again I say no, madam, but the truth. Think of your peril, too.”

“Silence!”

“I will not be silent,” said Cornel firmly. “You love him: I see it in your quivering lips, and the blood that comes and goes in your cheek. You hate me, madam, as a rival. Well, let me prove your love for him.”

“Will you be silent, girl?” cried the Contessa hastily.

“No; I must speak now. You would not have listened to me so long had I not spoken truth. You love him—you dare not deny it. Well, I love him too, and I tell you that your love came like a blight upon his life.”

“Woman, will you—”

“No; I will not be silent,” said Cornel firmly: “but even if I ceased to speak, my words would ring in your ears. It is not love that holds him to you, or you to him, but a blind mad passion, the destroyer of you both. Call it love if you will, but prove that love by giving him up to return to his old, peaceful life.”

“And your arms?” whispered the Contessa maliciously.

“Ah! The proof!” cried Cornel. “No one but a spiteful rival could have spoken that. But your love is not as mine. I will not ask you to give him back to me, but to set him free before some horror descends upon you both. Your husband—”

“Hush!”

Valentina gave a quick look round, and Cornel flushed in her eagerness as she exclaimed—

“The shadow over both your lives! You know it. Now, madam, prove your love by freeing him from such a risk. How can you call it love that threatens him with danger and disgrace!”

“And if I tell you that you, a foolish, jealous girl, are conjuring up all this in your excited brain—that I have listened to you patiently—and that I will hear no more?”

“I will tell you that your love for Armstrong is a mockery and snare, that you throw down the guage, and that I will save him from you yet.”

“And how? Bring some false charge against him to my husband? Set about some lying slander on my name?”

“Bring you to public shame—bring disgrace upon the head of the man I love? No, madam. You refuse my offer?—No: you will hear me. Give him up, as I will for his sake—woman—sister—am I to plead in vain?”

The Contessa pointed to the door.

“Yes,” said Cornel quietly. “I will go, but I will save him yet.”

“Then it is war,” muttered the Contessa, whose eyes contracted as she stood listening as if expecting a return; “and you will save him? Yes: to take to your heart? Not yet.”

She hurried to the window as the faint sound of the closing door was heard, and held aside the curtain, so as to gaze down the wide place, and see Cornel take Pacey’s arm, and, as if weak and suffering, walk slowly away.

“Bah! What is she to me, with her pitiful schoolgirl love?—‘Save him yet!’”

She crossed the room and rang. Then, throwing herself into a lounge, she waited till the servant entered.

“Is your master in?”

“No, my lady. Lady Grayson called. Gone to the Academy, I think.”

“That will do.”

Left alone, Valentina sprang to her feet, and pressed her temples.

The next minute, with a smile upon her lip, and an intense look as of a set purpose in her eye, she went slowly from the room.

Chapter Nineteen.

Check.

What to do?

Armstrong’s constant question to himself.

His determination, arrived at again and again, was to flee at once from the horrible passion which was sapping the life out of him—his insane love for a woman who evidently despised him, and whose face he had never seen.

He argued that, by going right away to Rome, Florence, or even merely to Paris, he would avoid Lady Dellatoria, who would soon forget him as he would forget this Italian woman, who—he could not explain to himself why—had, as it were, woven some spell round him and made him half mad.

He reasoned with himself, called upon the teaching of his early life, mocked at his folly, and told himself that he had got the better of the insane passion—that he had disgusted this woman by his insults, and that he was free, for she would come no more. But in another hour he was watching for her coming, and trying to contrive some means of tracing her, and begging her to come again.

Why?—that he might stand spell-bound again before that masked face, tortured, enslaved, and in greater despair than ever?

“It is of no use!” he muttered passionately. “I have not the mental strength of a child. I must go right away from the horrible temptation—and at once.”

He made a step or two toward his room. He had money enough; a few things could be packed, and in an hour he might be on his way to Dover. After that the world was before him, so that he could seek for peace.

No. Michael Thorpe and his sister were in London. It would be the act of a coward to flee now, and be dragging himself down lower still in their eyes. He could not go: Michael Thorpe would be sure to come before long, he felt, and he wished he would. It would be a relief to have some savage quarrel. Hah! there was an opportunity: Pacey, who had betrayed him and brought Cornel over for that shameful scene, after which he had felt that his life had better end.

“No,” he said half aloud, “I can’t quarrel with poor old Joe. He meant well, and he was right. But I cannot leave London now.”

He burst into a mocking laugh the next minute, for he would not indulge in self-deceit. He knew that it was not merely the dread of being thought cowardly which kept him there, but his mad passion for this woman, who treated him as if he were a dog.

Then he grew calmer, and tried to reason with himself. She had not treated him as a dog. Her conduct had been irreproachable. No lady could have been more modest or refined in her conduct throughout. She had come there merely as a model, and he had conceived this strange passion for her in spite of distant coldness, and complete disdain. He remembered in a score of things how she had borne herself as if conferring a favour by coming and taking his money; and he knew, too, how it was forced upon her by her filial affection.

“No!” he groaned, “she is not to blame. I shall never see her more, thank Heaven! and in time the recollection will die out.”

His eyes reverted to the picture, as this thought held him for the moment, and he again laughed bitterly and cried aloud, while gazing at the beautiful figure which inspiration and the work of his brush had placed upon the canvas.

“Die out, while she is there to renew my passion hour by hour, minute by minute! Curse the picture!” he raged. “Why did I ever conceive the vile thought?”

He stepped to it and tore off the paper which covered the face.

The next moment he had stepped back, startled and wondering at the perfection of his art, as Lady Dellatoria’s eyes seemed to be gazing passionately into his.

He shivered and turned away, holding one hand to his brow.

“I am ill,” he said, in a low, muttering tone, “unstrung, half wild. Well, this shall be the first step toward a cure;” and, taking a large Spanish knife from among the knick-knacks upon the table, he felt the point and edge, stepped forward, and was in the act of thrusting the blade through the canvas close to the frame, when the door-handle rattled, and the grimy face of Keren-Happuch was thrust in.

“She’s come again,” said the girl gleefully.

“The lady who was here yesterday?” cried Dale, throwing the knife from him.

“No, sir; her!” cried the girl. “She’s coming up now.”

She pointed to the canvas as she spoke, and Dale involuntarily turned to see the counterfeit presentment of Lady Dellatoria looking at him from the group with indignant scorn, and as if enraged at his mad passion for the model whose steps were now heard as the girl slipped out.

“It is fate!” muttered Dale, as the door was flung open, and the closely veiled and cloaked figure stood before him.

For some moments neither spoke. The model stood just within the closed door, proud and imperious in her pose, and with the glint of her eyes flashing through the thick veil, while, a prey to his emotion, Armstrong strove to find words as the struggle within him continued.

He would master himself, he thought. It was madness, and he called upon his manhood to protect this woman, who trusted to him, from a repetition of his last insult.

“You have returned, then,” he said to her coldly, but with his voice trembling.

“Yes, monsieur,” she replied, in her peculiarly accented French. “It was necessary. Monsieur wishes me to continue?”

He made a sign toward the door at the other end of the studio, and she seemed to hesitate, but the next moment she walked firmly across to the room and disappeared, while Dale fastened the outer door.

Then mechanically drawing the easel into its proper position in the light, he took up palette and brushes, and stood gazing straight before him, his nerves astrain, and pulses beating with a heavy dull throb.

His back was to the entrance of his room, and with a mist before his eyes he waited, ignorant of how the time passed till he heard the door behind him open, and the rustling sound of the heavy cloak as it swept over the rug-covered floor.

Then, with every sense at its acutest pitch, he felt her approach till she was close behind his chair on her way to the dais.

The model stopped suddenly, and he turned to see that she was gazing fixedly at the uncovered face upon the canvas, as if struck by the intense gaze of the goddess’s eyes.

It was almost momentary, that pause. Then she continued her way to the dais, and mounted it to resume her familiar attitude, and, once more, Dale began to paint; a quarter of an hour before about to destroy, now eagerly bent upon finishing the task, while the piercing eyes gleamed through the veil, and seemed to pierce him.

“It is fate!” he muttered, as those eyes fixed his, meeting them through the veil; but was it lovingly tempting him, or watching him in dread—a dread born of the doubt he inspired at the last visit?

He could not tell, but everything of the past died away in that present, and in a voice which he hardly knew as his own, he said softly—

“Why were you so angry with me last time?”

There was no reply, but the eyes gleamed distrustfully through the veil.

“You are angry still,” he continued. “Was it so great an offence to ask you to discard your veil?”

“Monsieur is wasting time,” was the reply, and he went on using his brush angrily for a few minutes.

“Tell me,” he said at last, “why you are so obstinate? Do you not wish me to see your face?”

She shook her head quickly, and he watched her, telling himself that there was something coquettish in the act.

“But you will not refuse me now?” he said. “I beg—I pray of you—let me see your face.”

“It is not possible. I do not wish you to know me again if we ever meet.”

“Why not?” he said eagerly. “For Heaven’s sake, do not be so distant with me.”

“I come here at your wish, monsieur, and you pay me to be your model.—Monsieur insults me once more.”

“No!” he cried passionately, as he threw down palette and brush; “a man cannot insult a woman he loves with all his soul.”

He took a step or two towards her, but with one quick movement, she stooped and swung the great cloak about her shoulders, and, unseen by him, caught up the knife he had so recently held. The next moment she made for the inner room, but he intercepted her.

“No, no!” he cried wildly. “You must not leave me again like this. Listen: you will hear me. Once for all, you shall remove that veil.”

“I—will—not,” she cried firmly. “Why does monsieur wish to see my face?”

“You, as a woman, know,” he cried, in a low, excited voice. “It is of no use. I must speak now. I tell you again, I love you.”

“It is not true!” she whispered. “You dare to tell me that, when I know that it is not true. That is the woman whom you love, monsieur!” and she pointed scornfully at the face upon the canvas.

“No!” he cried, half startled by her manner, “I swear that you are wrong.”

“It is her portrait, monsieur.”

“It is no one’s portrait. Imagination, every stroke,” he cried. “Now let me see the face of the woman I really love.”

He raised one hand to snatch off the veil, but with a quick movement she sprang from him, and, with her eyes gleaming through the film, flung one white arm from the cloak, gave her wrist a turn, and he saw that she was holding the great Spanish knife dagger-wise, with the point towards his breast.

“Don’t come near me, or it will be your death,” she panted.

“Ah!” he said, with a half-laugh, as, stirred now to the deepest depths, he bent forward trying to penetrate her disguise, but without avail; “can you punish me so cruelly as that for loving you? Well, you have made me yours, and it is my fate. Better death than the misery I have suffered, the despair of losing you and not seeing you again.”

“It is a mockery!” she cried, and her voice now was strangely altered. “A man cannot love a woman whose face he has not seen.”

“You know that is not true,” he whispered, as he still advanced, and she now began to retreat—“you know I love you with all my soul. I have told you so, and you know it in your heart.”

“Keep back!” she cried huskily, as she retreated, keeping the knife-point toward his breast.

“No! Remove your veil.”

“Bah!” she cried contemptuously, and with her voice resuming its former tone. “Go, monsieur; dwell upon and love your picture when I am gone.”

“No; I love you, the living, breathing embodiment. Now, if I die for it, I will see your face.”

He stretched out one hand, and touched her veil, but it was tightly knotted behind her head, and with her left hand she caught his fingers and held them firmly, their warm contact sending a thrill through every nerve.

At the same moment, he felt the point of the knife touch his breast, but he did not shrink, only struggled to free his hand.

Then, as if moved by the same impulse, they remained motionless, gazing into each other’s eyes, and he felt her warm breath upon his lips.

“Then you do love me?” she whispered in a voice that, in its soft passionate tones, made every fibre vibrate in strange music to the melody of her utterance.

“More than life,” he whispered back. “You see.”

A low mocking laugh came from her lips as she loosened her grasp, flung up her hands, and the knife fell far away upon the floor. Then, with a sudden movement, as he seized her waist and drew her to him, she threw herself back, snatched off the veil, flung it upon the dais, and clasped her arms about his neck.

“Valentina!—You!”

Chapter Twenty.

The Contretemps.

A mingling of rage, passion, disappointment, and delight swept over Dale at the revelation. One moment he wondered at his blindness in not divining long before that it was she; then at her daring recklessness, and the skill with which she had played her part, deceiving him completely to the very end.

And as she gazed in his eyes, clasped then in his arms, yielding as he did to what he told himself again was fate, a mystery which he could not unravel, he asked himself the question, did he love her or did he not? His passion had been for another woman, and paradoxically it was she from whom he had literally lied, and from whom, had she come openly, he would have turned in disgust.

And yet how beautiful she was. What love and passion beamed from the half-closed eyes that sought his, as her lips murmured words that told him she was his at last, as he was hers, her very own; while, mastered by her tenderness, he found no words then of angry reproach or blame.

“Venus victrix.” She had brought him to her feet, but there was no sound of triumph in her tones. Every word was a caress, and he found himself wondering that he could ever have treated her with the coldness he had shown.

“I knew you loved me,” she murmured in his ear, “and that in your mad belief in what you told yourself was your duty, you were punishing yourself and me. It was a mere schoolboy friendship pledged years ago, against which nature rebelled. For the first time in my unhappy life I knew what it was to love, and knowing, as a woman soon divines, that you loved me, I felt a new joy in my heart that I was so beautiful, and that it pleased you, the only man I ever felt that I cared for—that I did love, for I knew that you were mine as I was yours. And so I had no hesitation about running all the risks I have, deceiving even Lady Grayson, who watches me like a cat. I said in my heart that I would dare all, even to degrading myself—no: it was no degradation, for it was for the sake of him I loved. But tell me now; you did know me from the beginning?”

“I swear I had not the least idea,” he said angrily.

“You had not,” she sighed; and then mockingly, “and, cruel to the last, you began to love another as you thought. I saw it growing from the first, and for a minute it made me angry, and ready to turn and revile you, instead of carrying on the deceit; but a feeling of intense joy ran through me, for was not all your loving passion for me—was I not winning you to confess the love you always did feel, though blindly thinking that you had conquered self? You did love me—did you not?”

“Yes, I always loved you,” he whispered, “and I fought so hard for both our sakes.”

“And lost,” she said with a laugh. “I have won. No, no,” she whispered caressingly, “don’t repulse me now. You are so much to me. But yes, if you will. I do not mind. Strike your poor slave if you wish; she will never murmur or complain. Your blows would be like tender caresses to me now, for your words have dragged me forth from an age of misery and despair into a new life of hope and brightness and joy. You told me you loved me with all your soul.”

“No, no,” he cried angrily, in his last struggle for truth and honour; “it is not true. It was all an imaginary passion for an imaginary being.”

“Am I an imaginary being?” she whispered, as she wreathed her arms about him and drew him to her breast. “No, no; it was all a solemn truth, the outspeaking of your heart to the only woman you love. You could not lie to me, my hero—my idol. What is the world to us, Armstrong? You cannot retract your words. I have won you—my own—my own. You can never leave me now.”

As those words left her lips, Dale started from her arms, for a carriage had stopped, and a heavy double knock resounded through the house.

Valentina stood listening as Dale crossed rapidly to the door, unlocked it, and returned, after relocking it, silently.

“Well?” she said calmly, “a visitor? Send him away.”

“Your husband,” he whispered.

“Bah!” she cried contemptuously. “The man the world calls my husband—the wretch who bought me as he would some trinket that gratified his eye.”

“But the risk—the scandal,” he whispered. “For your sake—there, dearest, for your sake,” he whispered, as he clasped her to his breast.

“Yes, you do love me,” she said softly.

“There, quick! in there! He must not know.”

“And why?” she said calmly, as she clung to him. “I do not fear him; and as for you,” she cried, with a look of pride, “you are brave and strong. Let him come: kill him as you would some wretched snake.”

He gazed at her half in wonder, half in horror, as she laughed mockingly, but there was a look of intense hatred and disgust in her eyes which told him how truly earnest were her words—how great her loathing for this man.

At that moment there was a tapping at the door, and Dale crossed to it quickly.

“Yes?” he said.

“This gent would like to see you, sir,” came in Keren-Happuch’s voice, and a card was shot under the door.

He caught it up, and hesitated a moment.

“Not at home,” he said.

“Please, sir, I said as you was.”

“Then show him up,” said Dale desperately, and darting across to where Valentina stood, he pointed to the inner door.

“Quick!” he cried.

“For your sake, yes,” she said, smiling calmly enough; but as he threw open the door, she flung one arm about his neck, and pressed her lips to his before he closed it upon her.

Then crossing quickly, he unfastened the other, caught up palette and brush, and dragged his great canvas round with its face to the wall.

He had not a moment to spare, for as he faced round, firm and defiant now, ready for anything that might come, Keren-Happuch entered, looked round wide-eyed and wondering for the model, and held the door wide for the Conte to enter.

Her position and the glance she gave round were not lost upon Armstrong, who frowned at her so severely that she hurried out.

“The crisis!” thought Dale, growing firm now that he was face to face with danger; and his eyes involuntarily measured his visitor’s physique.

The Conte’s first words set him wondering whether they were genuine or part of a plan laid by the wily Italian. For his face was smooth and smiling, and he came forward offering his hand in the frankest manner.

“Ah! my dear Mr Dale,” he cried, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”

Armstrong could not help taking the hand, but his grasp was cold and limp as that of his visitor.

Then, unasked, the Conte placed his glass in his eye, took out a cigarette, and gave it a wave.

“May I?” he said.

Armstrong bowed coldly, and the little, wrinkled, elderly-looking man struck a scented fusee, lit his cigarette, glanced round and seated himself.

“And how do the fine arts march?” he said cheerily. “By the way,” he continued, without waiting to be answered, “my dear Mr Dale, I was close by, and I thought I would call to ask if you have reconsidered that decision of yours?”

“My decision?” said Dale, following his example.

“Yes; about her ladyship’s portrait. We were discussing it this morning. I believe I introduced the subject, but her ladyship took to it eagerly. You will go on with it?”

“Surely, my lord, there are plenty of better artists in London who will be glad to undertake the commission,” said Dale quietly.

“Perhaps so, but you began the sketch, and we were so well satisfied that we wish you to continue it.”

“Then he suspects nothing,” Armstrong said to himself; and for the moment he felt ready to agree to the proposal. But directly after, a suspicious idea came to him. Suppose this were a deeply laid plan to entice him to the Conte’s place, so that an opportunity might be afforded for a discovery?

He had gone through so much excitement of late that his brain felt confused, and he was unable to calculate coolly. At the first he had decided in his own mind that the Conte must be aware of his wife’s visits to the studio, and had now tracked her there. All this talk then was for some ulterior reason, and in all probability he was waiting for an excuse to search the place, or else to trap her when she tried to leave. For aught the young artist knew, there might be half-a-dozen spies about the place, waiting to see her go, and his brow grew rugged with the intensity of his thoughts.

The Conte rose from his seat, and Dale started up.

“No, no; don’t move,” said the Conte. “I was only about to look round while you thought the matter over. Ah! you object? Good. I will reserve myself for your show day. Pardon, a thousand times.”

He resumed his seat, smiling, while in agony Dale thought of the great picture not twenty feet from where his visitor had stood.

“My proposal troubles you, I see; but why let it, my friend? Let us consider it as men of the world—as we did at first. It will do you good as an artist—it will do me good amongst my friends, for I shall be proud to see the face of my beautiful wife—a lady of society—upon the Academy walls. We made our little arrangement—I will not insult you by talking of money—and all was well. Then came this little pique. I affronted you by some thoughtless remark, and you retired.”

Dale was about to speak, but the Conte interrupted him.

“One word, my friend, and I have done. It is my wife’s wish that the picture should be finished; it is mine. I apologise as one gentleman to another. Now, say that I am pardoned, and that you will do it.”

The temptation was terribly strong. This man begged him to come; it meant endless freedom, the run of the house, and constant meetings with Valentina; but Dale’s manly instincts rose in revolt against so degrading an intimacy. He and the Conte could only be deadly enemies, and he rose slowly from his seat.

“It is impossible, sir,” he said. “I thank you for your consideration and your apology, but I must hold to my decision. I cannot—I will not commence the portrait again.”

“You are too hasty, Mr Dale. Take time. With your permission I will smoke another cigarette. Let us talk of other things.”

“No, sir,” replied Armstrong; “let us talk of this, and let me tell you plainly that I cannot and will not undertake this commission.”

“But, my dear friend, you did undertake it.”

“And repented almost at once,” said Armstrong bitterly.

“You English—I mean you Americans—are too hard and decisive,” said the Conte, with a smile and shrug. “Ah, as you know, everything depends upon the diplomat. I am a poor ambassador. I should have brought Madame the Contessa here to plead to you.”

Armstrong could not suppress a start, and he looked keenly at the Conte, whose eyes seemed to be fixed searchingly upon his, as if to read the secret thoughts of his heart. And now he felt sure that all this was subterfuge—a means of gaining time for some reason. He had tracked his wife there, and was waiting for the moment when the eruption ought to break forth; and a quarrel with a foreigner and for such a cause could only mean one thing.

“Ah,” said the Conte gaily, “the mention of madame has, I see, its effect. Say, if she comes and pleads you will yield?”

“This man is too subtle for me,” thought Armstrong. “He is playing with and torturing me before he strikes. Heavens! what have I done to bring me into such a position?”

“Come, you are giving way,” cried the Conte gaily, “and I may go back soon—after our friendly chat, as you people call it, and tell her ladyship that I have made our peace.”

“No, sir,” began Armstrong, keeping well upon his guard, in the full conviction that there was another motive for the visit, and determined to strike his visitor down if he approached the inner room. But he was interrupted again.

“By the way—in passing—apropos of portraits—Lady Grayson’s—is it commenced?”

“Lady Grayson’s?”

“Yes; you know her; you met her at our house. My wife’s bosom friend.”

“I remember Lady Grayson, of course, perfectly.”

“And you are painting her portrait?”

“I regret to say that you have been misinformed, sir.”

“But—how strange! Lady Grayson told us that she was going to ask you to undertake the commission. Of course—yes—and she said, laughingly—I remember now, perfectly—that she should visit you at your studio, be a most perfect sitter, and that there would be no giant—no, no, it was ogre of a husband—to pass criticisms and offend the artist.”

He laughed merrily as he spoke, and twisted his cane about in a peculiar way, suggesting to Armstrong that he meant to strike with it at first; and then, as he saw a gold garter-like band around it about six inches from the knob, his heart gave one throb, for he felt certain that there was a keen rapier-like blade concealed within.

But he spoke quite calmly.

“Lady Grayson has been premature in her announcement, Conte. I am under no promise to paint any such portrait, neither shall I undertake the commission.”

“Body of Bacchus!” cried the Conte, laughing, “how droll! Truth is more strange than romance, as you people say. Come, now, confess you have been too scrupulous—too secretive.—My dear Lady Grayson, this is wonderful. Your name was on our lips.”

For as he was speaking, Keren-Happuch ushered in the fashionably dressed woman, gave Dale an imploring look, which plainly said, “Forgive me,” glanced at the fastened door, next at the dais, and then disappeared.

“Ah, Conte, you here! Mr Dale, pray forgive me for coming unannounced. I want to make a petition—to lay an appeal before you.”

She held out her hand with a most winning smile, and then turned and shook hands with the Conte.

“What he has been waiting for,” thought Dale—“her coming—she, his mistress, to be a witness of his own wife’s shame.”

There was an angry, determined look in his eyes. A minute before, a feeling of misery and despair troubled him. There was a sensation akin to pity in his breast for the man who was being basely deceived; but now rage took its place, compunction was gone, and he felt hard as steel, as he prepared himself for the fight, determined at all hazards to save Valentina from such a humiliation as this.

The thoughts flew like lightning through his brain as, in her most silky tones, Lady Grayson addressed him.

“May I lay my petition before you now, Mr Dale?”

“Oh, I will not be de trop,” cried the Conte. “I am going. My dear Mr Dale, you will think over that, and write to me, I am sure?”

“I assure you, sir,” began Dale; and then he bit his lip savagely, for in a playful, girlish way, Lady Grayson had stepped aside, ostensibly that the gentlemen might speak together; really to obtain a glimpse of the picture on the easel. She succeeded, and turned back directly.

“I beg pardon,” she cried. “Oh, do forgive me, Mr Dale; it was very rude.”

Their eyes met, and he saw a look of malicious triumph in hers, which told him that this woman had recognised the face upon the canvas, and that her suspicion of the Contessa coming to sit for him was confirmed.

“I do so love pictures!” she cried. “But you need not go, Conte. I will stand aside till you have finished with Mr Dale.”

“Conte Dellatoria has finished his proposal to me, madam,” said Armstrong firmly. “I regret, sir, that I must hold to my decision.”

“Oh!” cried Lady Grayson, “don’t say that you have refused to continue my dearest friend’s portrait!”

“Yes, madam, I have declined decisively.”

“Oh, but that is too cruel,” cried Lady Grayson, looking quickly round the studio; and once more there was a look of triumph in her eyes which met his sparkling with malice, as they both cast them on the same object, which he too saw for the first time.

The thick veil Valentina had snatched off, lay upon the edge of the dais, where she had thrown it, and a chill of horror ran through Armstrong as he felt that they were in this woman’s power, even if he were wrong, and she had not been brought, as he had imagined.

Then a fresh idea struck him. He was perhaps mistaken, and his feeling of rage increased. It was an assignation; they had arranged to meet there for some reason—why they had chosen his studio, he could not divine.

“I am so sorry,” said Lady Grayson, after an awkward pause. “It augurs so badly for my success.”

“Shall I leave you to discuss the matter, my dear Lady Grayson? Mr Dale is a tyrant—an emperor among artists. As for me, I am crushed.”

“No, no; you will stay and help me to plead. My dear Mr Dale, do not be so cruel. I do so want to be on the line this year, and if you would consent to paint a poor, forlorn, helpless widow, I cannot tell you how grateful I should be.”

“It is impossible, madam,” said Armstrong coldly, but with a burning feeling of rage against his visitors seething in his breast. It was an assignation then, but Lady Grayson had divined Valentina’s presence, and he had seen her glance again and again at the further door. He was in a dilemma too: for if he refused this woman’s prayer, she would perhaps spitefully declare all she knew to the husband. But he cast that aside. If she did not speak now, she would at some other time, and in his then frame of mind he could only fight. He could not fence.

“Impossible!—you hear this cruel man, Conte? he is a tyrant indeed. Mr Dale, is it really in vain to plead?”

“I tell you again, madam, it is impossible.”

“But if I wait a week—a month—any time you like?”

“My answer would only be the same, madam, as I have given Conte Dellatoria. I can paint no more portraits for any one. I have, I think I may say, painted my last.”

“I am disappointed,” she said, giving him a peculiar look. “But, no—you will not refuse me. Come, Mr Dale—for the Exhibition. Only this one portrait at your own terms, and I will promise to preserve secrecy.”

The malicious look in her eyes intensified as she said these words, telling him plainly that she knew all, but that the Conte was, after all, still in ignorance.

His answer would have been a promise, for the sake of the unhappy woman within that room; but at that moment there was a sharp rap at the door, Keren-Happuch opened it, and blurted out—

“Oh, if you please, sir, here’s that there lady as you began to paint.”

Dale turned upon her dumbfounded.

“Who?”

“That there countess, sir, from Portland Place.”

The Conte turned excitedly to Lady Grayson.

“She must not find me here,” he whispered.

“Show the lady up,” said Armstrong recklessly, for, whoever it might be, it would rid him of his visitors.

“Yes, sir;” and the door closed.

“My dear Mr Dale,” said the Conte quickly, “I must speak plainly. I have reasons for not wishing to meet my wife here this morning. You will not ask me to explain, but let me step in here for a few minutes till she is gone. Remain here and meet her,” he said in a low voice to Lady Grayson, and as steps were heard upon the stairs, he stepped quickly to the inner door.

Chapter Twenty One.

The Ruse.

There was a puzzled look in Lady Grayson’s face as Dale sprang at the Conte, and swung him round, sending him staggering from the door, before which he placed himself, his face dark with wrath.

For the moment, the Italian looked utterly astounded. Then, with a fierce ejaculation, he made at Dale with his cane raised, and his countenance convulsed.

“Dog!” he muttered in Italian; and the artist clenched his fist, ready to proceed to any extremities now in Lady Dellatoria’s defence.

But Lady Grayson flew between them, whispering to the Conte eagerly, and Dale caught a word or two here and there—

“Scandal—mistake—my sake—meet her now.” The Conte drew himself up and pressed Lady Grayson’s hand, as he gave her a significant look. Then, veiling his anger with a peculiar smile, he turned to Dale.

“Lady Grayson is right,” he said, with grave courtesy; “it was a mistake. I was quite in the wrong, Mr Dale. I ought not to have attempted to break in upon your privacy. We all have our little secrets, eh? There, it is quite past. An accident, that Lady Dellatoria should be calling now when we are here?”

“Yes—a very strange accident,” said Lady Grayson, with a malicious look at the artist.

“It does not matter,” continued the Count. “All this contretemps because ladies are vain enough to wish the world to see how beautiful they are. But she is long coming, this wife of mine.”

No one spoke for a few moments, all standing listening for the steps upon the stairs, and the rustling sound of the Contessa’s dress, but everything was perfectly still, and at last, with a shrug of the shoulders, the Conte turned to Armstrong.

“Is the lady in some ante-room waiting for our departure?”

“No,” said Dale sharply.

“Because we would relieve you of our company, but we would rather meet the lady now.”

“Of course,” cried Lady Grayson. “We do not wish our visit to be misconstrued.”

“I do not understand it,” said Dale; and going to the bell, he rang sharply. Then once more there was silence, till shuffling steps were heard, then a tap at the door, and Keren-Happuch entered in answer to a loud “Come in,” wiping her hands upon her apron, and with her face scarlet.

“Where is the lady you announced just now?” said Dale sharply.

“Plee, sir, she’s gone, sir.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lady Grayson uttered a low sigh of satisfaction.

“What did she say?”

“Nothin’, sir.”

“Did you tell her that this lady and gentleman were here?”

“Oh no, sir. I never said nothin’ to her, sir.”

“But she said she would call again?”

“That she didn’t, sir. She couldn’t. She just comed and goed,” faltered the girl.

“But did she not hear our voices in the studio?”

“No, sir; she couldn’t. Why, she never come no further than the street-door mat, and you can’t hear no talking in here, even if you stand just outside.”

“Oh, you have tried?” said the Conte laughingly. “That I hain’t, sir, but I’ve seed missus more’n once.”

“That will do.”

“Yes, sir,” said Keren-Happuch, but Dale checked her.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“Ah, well then, Mr Dale, as the lady is not coming up to see us, we will go and see her: Mahomet to the mountain, eh! my dear Lady Grayson? May I see you to your carriage?”

“I have no carriage here,” she said quickly. “Yes, we had better go.”

“After our double failure to-day; but Mr Dale will alter his decision on our behalf. Good day, my dear modern representative of Fra Lippo Lippi. It is grand to be a handsome young artist,” the Conte continued, as he took a step toward the dais, and raised something on the end of his cane, “supplicated by beautiful ladies to transfer their features to canvas; but you should warn them not to leave their veils behind when they take refuge in another room. Look, my dear Lady Grayson;” and he held the veil toward her on the end of his cane, “thick—secretive—admirable for a disguise.—Come.”

He tossed the veil back on to the dais, and opened the door for his companion to pass out, while Dale stood fuming with rage, and Lady Grayson gave him a mocking look as he advanced.

“Good morning, Mr Dale,” she said laughingly, and then in a whisper—“secret for secret, my handsome friend. You and I cannot play at telling tales out of school.”

“Lor’, if it ain’t like being at the theayter,” thought Keren-Happuch, as the door was shut, and Dale crossed quickly to reopen it, and stand listening till the front door closed. Then he came back to where the little maid stood waiting, while, faintly heard, came a call from below.

“Keren—Hap—puch!”

“Comin’, mum. Please, Mr Dale, sir, missus is a callin’ of me; may I go?”

“Who was the lady who came just now?” Keren-Happuch writhed slightly, as she looked in a frightened way in the artist’s face.

“Do you hear me? I said, Who was the lady who came just now? It was not the Contessa?”

“No, sir.”

“Was it that—that American lady?”

“What! her with the pretty face, who went away crying, sir? Oh no; it wasn’t her.”

The girl’s words sent a sting through him.

“Then who was it?”

“Please, Mr Dale, sir, I don’t like to tell you.”

“Tell me this instant, girl,” he cried, catching her fiercely by the arm.

“Oh, don’t, please, Mr Dale,” she whimpered. “You frighten me.”

“Then speak.”

“Yes, sir; but I shall holler if you pinch my arm, and that ’Talian girl’ll hear me.”

“Who was it, then?”

“Please, sir, it was a cracker.”

“What?”

“A bit of a fib, sir. I knowed you wanted to get rid of them two ’cause you’d got her as you’re so fond on shut up in there.”

“Silence!”

“Yes, sir, but missus can’t hear; she’s down in the kitchen.”

“Then nobody came?”

“No, sir; I thought if I come and said that, you’d like it, because it would send them away. I’ve often done it for missus when some one’s been bothering her for money.”

“Go down,” said Dale, writhing beneath the sense of degradation he felt at being under this obligation to the poor little slut before him.

“Yes, Mr Dale, sir; but please don’t you be cross with me. I don’t mind missus, but it hurts me if you are.”

“Go down.”

“Yes, sir,” said the girl, with a sob; and the tears began to make faint marks on her dirty face. “I wouldn’t ha’ done it, sir, on’y I knowed you was in love with her and wanted to be alone.”

“Poor Cornel!” muttered Dale as he turned away. “Fallen so low as this! If you only knew!”

“Please, Mr Dale, sir, have I done very wrong?” she whimpered.

“No; go down now.”

“Keren—Hap—puch!”

“Comin’, mum,” cried the girl, thrusting her head out of the door, and then turning back “Oh, thankye, sir. I don’t mind now.”

Dale fastened the door after her; and as he turned back, that of the inner room opened, and Valentina came out with her eyes flashing and a joyful look upon her face, as she took his arm and nestled to him.

“We must never forget that poor, brave little drudge, dear,” she whispered fondly. “Don’t look so serious. All that is nothing to us.”

“Nothing?” he said, as he bent down, fascinated by the beautiful eyes which gazed so tenderly into his.

“Nothing. I am glad they came, to show you how little cause for compunction you have. You see what she is—what the wretched woman is who gives me her sickly kisses and calls me her friend.” She clung to him, and passed her soft white hand over his brow as she looked into his eyes, her voice growing gentle like the cooing of some dove, as she almost whispered—

“I am going now for awhile, but when I am gone don’t think of me as a mad, reckless woman, abandoned to her passion, false to her husband and her oaths. I never loved but you, Armstrong: I shall never love another. Try and think of me as one who was forced into a marriage with that despicable wretch who in one week taught me to loathe him; and till I saw you I was the wretched being whose life was void, a kind of gilded doll upon which he hung his jewels, and whom he paraded before his guests, while in private my life was a mockery. Wife? By law, yes, till we can break the tie, and then you will take me to your heart, dear, away from all that black despairing life, to a new one all delight and joy. For I shall be with you, my brave, noble—husband! May I call you husband then?”

She sank upon her knees, clasped her arms about him, and laid her cheeks against his hands, murmuring softly—

“If you will take me for your wife, dearest. If not, I should be always happy as your slave.”

He would have been more than man if he had not raised the beautiful appealing woman to his breast, and held her tightly there.

“I love you—I love you!” she murmured, as her soft, swimming eyes gazed in his, “and it is misery to leave you now. But there is all that new joy in my heart to keep me waiting and hopeful till I come again.”

“But the risk—for you?” he said.

“Risk?” she laughed softly. “You will protect me. I must go now, and you will wait till your poor Italian model is here once more—she whom you love so well.”

He clasped her to his heart, and held her till she faintly struggled to be free, and then laughingly covered her face with the thick veil her husband had thrown down.

“There,” she said merrily. “Now I must go. Back to my faithful Jaggs.”

“What!”

“He is my slave—‘The Emperor,’ he says you call him. He has been my slave from the first day you sent him to the house. He told me everything about you in answer to my questions regarding the portrait you had painted from memory, and then—‘Armstrong does love me with all his heart’ I said to myself, and I was ready to risk everything to win that love.”

“And did he suggest that you should be my model?” said Dale.

“No; that was my idea, when he told me how hard you were pressed. He helped me, and I came. And now, once more, I must go. It will not be like life until I am here again.”

She gave him her white hands, which he held passionately to his lips. Then, covering them hastily with her common gloves, she drew her cloak about her.

“One moment,” he whispered. “The address? Where are you now—for this?”

“Always in your heart,” she said, in a passionate whisper. Then, “A rivederla,” she said aloud, and was gone.

“Poor Cornel!” sighed Dale, as he sank into a chair. “Forgive me, dear. She is right; a boy and girl’s pure gentle love, of which I am not worthy. It is fate, dear, and this is really love—a love for which a man might sacrifice honour—even sell his very soul.”

So he said, for it has been written of old—“Love is blind.”

Chapter Twenty Two.

A Last Effort.

“Corny, I’ve no patience with you,” cried Dr Thorpe, as they sat at dinner in their hotel with a guest that evening—Joe Pacey.

“Not to-night, dear,” she said, with a quiet, grave smile.—“He has very little patience with me when he comes home tired from the hospitals,” she continued, turning to Pacey. “He works too hard.”

“Yes: he does seem a glutton over work; but we must work hard nowadays to succeed.”

“Hah, you are right,” said the young doctor. “It was all very well a hundred years ago. Plenty of medical men went through life then without half the knowledge I possess, while I’m a perfect baby to your big doctors.”

“No, you are not, dear,” said Cornel quietly. “You know that you stand first among our young medical men.”

“Humph! not saying much that; but this is begging the question. I shall want to stay in England another three months, and, as I was saying, the Hudsons go back by the next boat. I’ve been to the office: you can have a cabin, so you had better accompany them.”

“No, dear, I shall stay and go back with you.”

Thorpe pushed his chair away from the table impatiently.

“My dear sister, where is your pride?”

“My dear brother, where is your sympathy?”

“How can I have sympathy for a girl who is so blind to her own dignity! Now, my dear Pacey, do you not agree with me that my sister is behaving very foolishly?”

“No,” said Pacey, holding his glass of wine to the light, shutting one eye and scowling at it with the other—“no, sir, I don’t.”

“Thank you, Mr Pacey,” said Cornel, laying her hand upon the table, so that he could take it in his and press it warmly.

“Can’t kiss it before company,” he said, in his abrupt way. “Please take it as being done—or owing.”

“You are as bad over the scamp as she is,” cried Thorpe sharply.

“Come, come, doctor,” cried Pacey; “you are too hard. If Armstrong were suffering from a bodily disease, you would stand by him.”

“Of course. But this—”

“Is a mental disease,” cried Pacey, “so why blame your sister for standing by the patient?”

“Bah! Don’t talk like that. I haven’t patience with her. I thought her firm, self-reliant, and proud of her position as a woman.”

“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 God 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 passionately. “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.

“Stop!” said Cornel firmly; and she closed the door behind. “I wish to speak to you both.”

“Cornel!” cried Armstrong, in a low and excited voice, “this is madness. For Heaven’s sake, go. Have you no delicacy—no shame?”

“You ask me that!” she cried scornfully; and he shrank from her indignant eyes. “Man, where is your own delicacy?—woman, where is your shame? I claim the right—in the name of truth and honour—to come and upbraid you both.”

Valentina made a gesture with her hands, and turned to Armstrong to say in French—

“What does the strange lady mean?”

Cornel took a step forward, with her eyes flashing.

“Mean, Lady Dellatoria!” she cried loudly; and her rival started and drew herself up.

“Cornel! Silence, for Heaven’s sake.”

“You invoke Heaven?” she cried; and she turned from him with a look of disgust and scorn. “It means,” she cried, “that this is no scene in amateur theatricals played by your set, but real life. You are face to face with me—the woman whose love you have outraged, whose life you have wrecked as well as his. And for what? Your pastime for a few weeks.”

“No!” said Valentina, throwing back her head and seizing Armstrong’s hand, to hold it tightly between her own. “He is mine—my love for ever. I told you, when you came and defied me, that I could laugh at your girlish efforts to separate us—for it was fate. There, you have tracked me down and seen; now go.”

“Yes, I have tracked you down and seen, and you throw off your contemptible disguise—this paltry cloaking and veiling. Armstrong, is this the type of the boasted British woman—an example to the world?”

“Cornel, silence! Pray go!”

“Not yet. I have a right here in the home of my affianced husband. I find him being dragged to ruin and despair by a heartless creature, devoid of love as she is of shame.”

“You lie!” cried Valentina fiercely, as she made a quick movement toward Cornel, but Armstrong held her back. “Yes,” she said, calming as quickly as she had flashed into rage; “poor child, she is half mad with misery and disappointment. I will not speak—but pity.”

Cornel held out her hands to Armstrong as Lady Dellatoria half turned away and linked her fingers upon his arm.

“Before it is too late, Armstrong,” said Cornel softly. “No word of reproach shall ever come from those who love you.”

He shook his head.

“Listen, dear,” she whispered, but her voice thrilled both. “I come to you a weak woman, but strong in my armour of love and truth. They tell me it is lowering, weak, and contemptible—that I am utterly lost to a woman’s sense of dignity and shame. But they do not know my love for you—yes, my love for you, I say it even before this creature, who cannot know the depth and truth of a true woman’s love—I come, I say, once again to plead, to beg of you to come. Let her go back to her own people; come you to yours, before it is too late.”

“It is too late, girl,” said Valentina gently. “I forgive you all you have said in ignorance that my love is stronger, more womanly, than yours. In Heaven’s sight this is my husband now. We sorrow for you, and can pity. But go now, and leave us in peace. I tell you again—it is too late.”

“Yes,” said Cornel, with a piteous sigh. “God forgive you, Armstrong! I am beaten.” Then, as if inspired, her eyes flashed, and the colour left her cheeks, and she cried wildly, “Yes, it is too late.” There were voices on the stairs coming plainly to them, for Cornel had in ignorance left the door unlatched, so that the sounds were uninterrupted.

“He’s got a lady with him.”

“I know, girl. Stand aside. Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, sir; Count Delly-tory, sir.”

“Yes!” cried Cornel, with a wail of horror; “her husband. Then it is indeed too late.”

“No!” cried Valentina fiercely; “your opportunity for revenge.”

She drew back, and stood there erect and proud, with defiance flashing through her thick veil as the Conte entered, quickly followed by Lady Grayson. A heavy, gold-topped, ebony stick was in his hand, his lips were compressed, and it was plain to see in his pallid face and dilated nostrils that he was struggling with suppressed passion.

He was making straight for Armstrong when his eyes fell upon Cornel, who stood now white and calm, as if ready to interpose. Then he looked sharply at the cloaked and veiled figure just on the artist’s right.

He stopped in astonishment, confused, and as if the supply of vital force which had urged him on had suddenly been checked.

It was Armstrong’s opportunity. A few carelessly spoken, contemptuous utterances as to the meaning of this intrusion and the like would have sufficed to send the Conte back, mortified, and in utter ignorance, to vent his rage upon Lady Grayson, who, in her malignant desire to cast down her dearest confidante and friend from her throne, had brought him on there to be a witness of one of his wife’s secret meetings with her lover, such as she had vowed to him were taking place. But Armstrong, in utter scorn of all subterfuge, stood there manly and ready to meet the man in full defiance, come what might.

A terrible silence followed, of moments that felt to all like hours, while each waited for others to speak.

It was Cornel’s opportunity too, to bring her rival to her knees and sweep her for ever from her path, and Valentina felt it as she stood there with her teeth clenched and face convulsed behind the thick veil. For, after all, in spite of her bravery and readiness to defy the man whose name she bore, she was a woman still, and instinctively shrank from the dénouement, knowing as she did that a terrible scene must follow; and another later, in spite of English laws, for it was an Italian pitted against a man who would dare all.

But Cornel remained silent, and Lady Grayson scanned all in turn, ending by fixing her eyes upon the great canvas whose back was toward them where they stood.

“I—I beg pardon—some mistake,” stammered the Conte. “I did not know that—Curse you,” he whispered to Lady Grayson, and relapsing in his excitement into broken English, “You make me with you silly cock-bull tale a fool.”

Armstrong still made no movement, said no word, but Lady Grayson read him as if he were an open page laid before her, and her eyes twinkled and flashed.

The keen-witted American girl saw it too, and with all her gentleness and love, she possessed the quick perception and readiness of a people born in a clearer air and warmer clime. In those moments, with all her hatred and scorn for the woman who was the blight upon her life, she shrank in all the tenderness of her nature from seeing her humbled to the very dust. More; she grasped the horror of the situation; how that, beneath the weak flippancy of the man of fashion, there smouldered the hot passions of his countrymen—passions which, once roused, are as hot and destructive as the lava of their great volcano. She saw in imagination, blows, and Armstrong injuring or injured, either being too horrible to be borne. Lastly, she grasped Lady Grayson’s plan.

“It is for his sake,” she said to herself, “not for hers;” and as, apparently prompted by a whisper from Lady Grayson, the blood flushed into the Conte’s face again and he fixed his eyes on his wife, Cornel stepped forward and held out her hand.

“Good-bye, Mr Dale,” she said gently; “you have business with this lady and gentleman; we shall see you another time. Come, signora.”

She turned and held out her hand to Valentina, proving herself a better actress, for there was a smile upon her lip, and she bent forward as if whispering something through the veil, the only utterances being the words—

“Don’t hesitate. Quick!”

Valentina stared at her—half stunned. Then, as if moved by a stronger will than her own, she laid one white hand on Cornel’s arm, and, just bending her head to Armstrong, they moved slowly toward the door.

It was the left hand, and ungloved.

Cornel saw it, and could not restrain a start.

The hand was ungloved, and upon it sparkled several rings—for there had been no need of late to keep up the disguise so closely—and one of those rings was of plain gold.

They were nearly at the door, the Conte drawing back on one side to let them pass, Lady Grayson on the other, Armstrong still motionless, and feeling as if a hand were compressing his throat, while Cornel, as she went on with the set smile upon her lip, felt that the hand upon her arm trembled, and fancied she heard a sob.

“It is for his sake,” she said to herself, “for his sake;” and the next minute they would have been outside the door, when, with one quick movement, Lady Grayson reached out her hand, and snatched the veil from Valentina’s face.

The Conte uttered a cry of rage, and made a dash at her, but she avoided him, and sprang toward Armstrong, who caught her to his breast, but so as to have his right hand at liberty.

But it was not free in time, for the Conte, with a cry of rage, swung round, and brought down the heavy ebony stick with a sickening crash upon the artist’s head, then caught Valentina from him as he fell inert and senseless upon the floor.

“Well, am I such a simple idiot and fool?” said Lady Grayson in a quick whisper.

“Yes; to talk now,” was the fierce reply. “Help me; get her away, or I shall kill him.”

Without another word she went to Valentina’s side, and between them they dragged her, sick at heart, trembling, and half fainting, out of the studio and down the stairs to Lady Grayson’s carriage, which was waiting at the door.

“Is anything the matter, miss? Can I do anything?” said a voice.

Cornel looked up from where she was kneeling on one of the rugs with Armstrong’s head in her lap, and saw that the grimy little face of Keren-Happuch was peering in at the door.

Cornel looked at her wildly for a few moments, and then, in a low hoarse voice, whispered—

“Yes: quick, water!” Then, with a piteous sigh, “Oh, the blood—the blood! Help!—quick, quick! He is dying. Oh, my love, my love, that it should come to this!”

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Awakening.

“Don’t you be in a flurry, miss,” said Keren-Happuch coolly; “he ain’t so very bad. Here, you’ll soon see.”

She rushed into the bedroom, and returned with a basin, sponge, and towel, which, to her surprise and annoyance, were taken from her hand; and she saw Cornel, with deft manipulation, bathe the cut, examine it, and then take from her pocket a little case, out of which she drew a pair of scissors and a leaf of adhesive plaster. A minute later she had closely clipped away a little of the hair, pressed the cut together, and cleverly strapped it up.

“Hold this handkerchief pressed to it tightly, while I bathe his temples,” said Cornel; and, as the little maid obeyed, she watched with wide open eyes the pulse felt and the temples bathed before a few drops from a stoppered bottle were added to a wine-glass full of water, and gently poured between the insensible man’s lips.

“Lor’, if she ain’t one o’ them female doctors,” thought Keren-Happuch. “Wonder what she’s give him to drink?”

There was a singular look of dislike condensed into a frown on the girl’s brows as she watched Cornel, and a jealous scowl or two as she saw her take Armstrong’s hand and kneel by his side, waiting for some signs of returning animation; but at last it seemed as if the girl could not keep her tongue quiet.

“I say,” she whispered, “are you a doctor, miss?”

“No: my brother is a medical man, though, and I have been often to a hospital and helped him as a nurse.”

“Oh, then you know what’s right. But oughtn’t he to have some beef-tea?”

Cornel shook her head, and Keren-Happuch was silent for a few minutes, but she could refrain no longer.

“You’re the ’Merican lady he was engaged to, aren’t you?”

Cornel bowed.

“I thought you was. I’ve took him your letters with Bosting on ’em, lots o’ times.”

Cornel sighed.

“You’re going to marry him, ain’t you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s all off?”

“Yes.”

Keren-Happuch looked relieved. The scowl disappeared from her countenance, and she smiled at Cornel.

“Don’t you take on about it, miss. It ain’t worth it. I allers liked Mr Dale, and he makes me feel as if I’d do anything for him, and I allus have done as much as missus’d let me; but it’s no use to worry about artisses; they’re all like Mr Dale—all them as we’ve had here.”

Cornel looked at her indignantly.

“Oh, it ain’t my fault, miss. I never wanted him to have ladies come to see him. I’ve gone down into the kitchen along with our old cat, and had many a good cry about it. Not as he ever thought anything about me.”

Cornel looked at the girl in wonder and horror.

“But he was allus kind to me, and never called me names, and made fun of me like the others did. On’y Mirandy, and I didn’t mind that. Them others teased me orful, you know. Men ain’t much good; but you can’t help liking of ’em.”

“Hush!” whispered Cornel; “he is coming to.” For there was a quivering about Dale’s lips, and then his eyes opened wildly, to gaze vacantly upward for some moments before memory reasserted itself, and he gave a sudden start and looked sharply round.

Cornel suppressed a sigh.

“Not for me,” she said to herself; and she was right. The look was not for her.

She knew it directly, for he turned to her, caught her wrist, and said excitedly—

“Gone?”

“Yes; they are gone.”

“But Lady Dellatoria—gone—with him?”

The words seemed as if they would choke her, but Cornel spoke out quite plainly, and without a tremor in her voice, though there was a terrible compression at her breast.

“Yes,” she said calmly, though every word she uttered caused her a pang; “she has gone back with her husband.”

Armstrong lay perfectly still for a few minutes, thinking deeply. Then, as if resolved what to do, he said sharply—

“Help me up.”

Cornel bent over him, but he turned from her.

“No, no, not you: Miranda.”

The girl eagerly helped him to rise, and he leaned upon her as she guided him to a chair.

“Thanks,” he said huskily. “Now, you wait there.”

The girl stopped at the place he had pointed out, watching Armstrong as he signed to Cornel to approach, and held out his hand.

She took it mechanically, and held it fast.

“Thank you for what you have done,” he said.

“Now go and forget me. You see I am hopelessly gone. It was to be, and it is of no use to fight against fate. Now go back to your brother.”

“And leave you—sick?”

“Yes; even if I were dying. God bless you, dear! Think of me as I used to be.”

“Armstrong!” she cried, with her hands extended toward him. But he waved her off.

“No, no. I am a scoundrel, but not black enough for that. Go back to your brother.”

“Go?”

“Yes; I insist. You cannot forgive me now.”

She could bear no more. Her chin sank upon her breast, and with one low, heart-wrung sigh, she went quickly from the room.

“Thank Heaven! that’s over,” muttered Armstrong. “Now for the end, and the quicker the better. Life is not worth living, after all.”

He looked sharply round to where Keren-Happuch stood, wiping her eyes upon her apron.

“Here, girl!” he cried.

“Yes, Mr Dale, sir.”

“Go at once to Mr Leronde’s rooms—you know—in Poland Street, and ask him to come on here at once.”

“But are you fit to leave, sir?”

“Yes, yes. Go quickly.”

The girl hurried off on her mission, leaving the artist thinking.

“He would challenge me if I did not challenge him. I suppose it ought to come from me after the blow, for me to prove that I am not ‘un lâche,’ as our French friends term it. A duel! What a mockery! Well, better so. Let him shoot me, and have done with it. There is not room here for us both. Poor Cornel! It will be like making some expiation. It will leave her free. She can deal more tenderly with my memory as dead than she could with me living still. I should be a blight upon her pure young life. Ah! if we had never met.”

He lay back feverish and excited, for the blow had had terrible effect, and there were minutes when he was half-delirious, and had hard work to control his thoughts.

For he was wandering away now with Cornel, who had forgiven him because Valentina was dead. Then it was Cornel who was dead, and he was with the Contessa far away in some glorious land of flowers, fruit, and sunshine; but the fruit was bitter, the flowers gave forth the scent of poison, and the sun beat down heavily upon his head, scorching his throbbing brain.

He woke up from a dream crowded with strange fancies, and uttered an ejaculation of satisfaction, for his brain was clear again, and the young Frenchman was standing before him, waiting to know why he had been fetched.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Second Second.

“Ah, oui, of course,” said Leronde, exhaling a little puff of smoke. “It is so, of course. I know. If there had been no knog viz ze stique, ze huzziband would shallenge you. But viz ze knog viz ze stique—so big a knog, I sink you shallenge him, and satisfy l’honneur. I go at once and ask him to name his friends.”

“Yes, I suppose that will be right,” said Armstrong, after a few moments’ thought.

“But I am not sure that you can fight so soon.”

“Why?”

“You ’ave ze bad head.”

“Bah! a mere nothing. I am ready; but of course, as you say, it cannot be here. Listen! Is not that some one on the stairs?”

They were not left in doubt, for Keren-Happuch came in, round-eyed and wondering, with a couple of cards held in her apron-guarded thumb and finger.

“Please, Mr Dale, sir, here’s two doctors come to see you.”

“Ma foi! two,” cried Leronde. “One is bad, too much. Send zem away, my friend.”

“Bah! Show them up,” said the artist; and Keren-Happuch hurried out. “Look,” continued Armstrong; “Italians—his friends, I suppose.”

“Aha! that is good,” cried Leronde, holding out the cards. “He shallenge then. I am glad, for I was get in head muddled after all vezzer you ought to shallenge. Now we are quite square.”

A minute later two important-looking men were ushered in, to whom Leronde at once advanced with a dignified mien, receiving them and listening to the declaration of their mission, and after a few exchanges of compliments on one side of the studio, away from where Armstrong sat scowling, they left with the understanding that Leronde was to wait upon them shortly to arrange all preliminaries.

“I am still not quite satisfy,” said Leronde thoughtfully. “I ought to have been first, and take your shallenge to him.”

“But what does it matter if we are to meet?”

“But you vas ze insulte.”

“Indeed!” said Armstrong, with a bitter smile. “Opinions are various, boy. But let that rest. Help me to lie down on that couch, and give me a cigar.”

Leronde obeyed, watching his friend anxiously.

“You vill not be vell enough to fight.”

“I will be well enough to fight, man,” cried Armstrong savagely. “There: wait a bit. It is too soon to follow them yet;” and for a while they sat and smoked, till Leronde burst out with—

“I am so glad you go to fight, my dear Dale.”

“Are you?” said Armstrong gruffly.

“Yes; it do me good that you are ready to fight M’sieu le Conte like a gentleman. I thought all Englishmans degrade themself viz le boxe. Bah! it is not good. You have ze muscle great, but so have ze dustman and ze navigator; let them fight—so.”

“But look here, Leronde; this must be kept a secret from every one.”

“Oh, certainement, name of a visky and sodaire. I tell nobdis. You think I go blab and tell of ze meeting? Valkaire! Mums!”

“Have you ever seen one of these affairs at home?”

“Oh no, my friend, not chez-moi—at home. It was in the Bois de Boulogne.”

“And you saw one there?”

“Four—five—and all were journalistes. I was in two as principal, in two as friend of my friend, and in ze oder one I go as ze friend of ze docteur.”

“Then you quite understand how it should be carried out?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Leronde, nearly closing his eyes, and nodding his head many times. “Soyez content. I mean make yourself sholly comfortable, and it shall all go off to ze marvel.”

“Very well, then; I leave myself in your hands.”

“That is good. Everything shall be done, as you say, first-class.”

“And about weapons?”

“You are ze person insulte, and you have ze choice. Le sword, of course?” cried Leronde; and, throwing himself on guard, he foiled, parried, and hopped about the studio, as if he were encountering an enemy.

“Sit down, man,” said Armstrong peevishly. “No; I choose the pistol.”

“My friend! Oh!”

“It is shorter and sharper.”

“But you do not vant to shoot ze man for stealing—fence like angels, and there will be a little gentlemanly play; you prick ze Conte in ze arm, honneur is satisfy, you embrace, and we return to Paris. What can be better than that?”

“Pistol!” said Armstrong sternly.

“But you do not want to shoot ze man for stealing away his vife.”

“No,” said Armstrong, in a low voice. “I want him to shoot me.”

“Ha, ha! You are a fonnay fellow, my dear Dale. You will not talk like zat when you meet ze sword?”

“Pistols.”

“As you will,” said the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders. “You are my principal, and I see zat your honneur is satisfy. I go then to see ze friend of M’sieu le Conte, and to make all ze preparations for to cross to Belgium; but, my faith, my dear Dale, it is very awkward: I have not ze small shange for all ze preliminary. May I ask you to be my banker?”

“Yes, of course. I ought to have thought,” said Armstrong.

He went to his desk and took out the necessary sum, passed it to the voluble little Frenchman, who rose, shook him by both hands, looked at him with tears in his eyes, told him he was proud of him, and then hurried off with his head erect his hat slightly cocked, and his eyes now sparkling with excitement.

“Step ze first to be in ordaire; whom shall ve ’ave for ze ozaire seconde?”

He frowned severely and walked on a few yards, looking very thoughtful. Then the idea came.

“Of course: Shoe Pacey. He vill be proud to go viz me to meet ze ozaire secondes.”

Leronde had been in the lowest of low spirits that morning. The news from Paris had been most disastrous for gentlemen of communistic principles, who, in spite of crying “Vive la Commune!” saw the unfortunate idol of their lives withering and dying daily. Money, too, had been very “shorts,” as he called it, and he had gone to Armstrong Dale’s in the most despondent manner. But now all that was altered. He had money in his purse, and walked as if on air. There was no opportunity for following the tracks of either “la gloire, or l’amour;” but here was “l’honneur,” the other person of a Frenchman’s trinity, calling him to the front; and on the strength of the funds in hand, he entered the first tobacconist’s, bought a whole ninepenny packet of cigarettes, and then smoked in triumph all the way to Pacey’s lodgings.

This gentleman was growling over a notice of the Old Masters’ Exhibition which he had written for a morning paper, and with which, to use his own words, “the humbug of an editor had taken confounded liberties.”

“Hallo! Signor Barricado, what’s up? Republic gone to the dogs?”

“No, no, mon ami; but great news—a secret.”

“Keep it, then.”

“No, no; it is for you as well. An affaire of honneur.”

“An affair of fluff! Bosh! we don’t fight here.”

“No,” said Leronde, frowning fiercely. “Belgium.”

“Why, you confounded young donkey, whom are you going to fight?”

“I fight? But, no; I am one seconde. I come to you as my dear friend to be ze ozaire.”

“Oh, of course,” cried Pacey ironically. “Exactly—just in my line.”

“I knew you would,” cried Leronde, lighting a fresh cigarette, and offering the packet, which was refused.

“Bah! I like a draught, not a spoonful,” growled Pacey, taking up and filling his big meerschaum. “Now then, about this honour mania? Who’s the happy man?”

“Armstrong Dale, of course, for certaine.”

“What!” roared Pacey. “Who with?”

“Ze Conte Dellatoria, my friend.”

“The devil. Has it come to that?”

“But, yes. Why not? Zes huzziband is sure to find out some ozaire day.”

“Phew!” whistled Pacey, wiping his brow. Then striking a match, he began to smoke tremendously.

“And you will help our friend?” said Leronde.

“Help him? Certainly.”

“I knew it. Pacey, my friend, you are one grand big brique.”

“Oh yes, I am,” cried Pacey banteringly. “Now then, how was it?”

“Ze Conte follow his vife to chez Armstrong, find zem togezzer, and knog our dear friend down viz a cane.”

“Humph! Serious as that?”

“Oh yes. There is a great offence, of course. Zey meet in Belgium, and we go togezzer to see ze friend of ze Conte and arrange ze—ze—ze—vat you call zem?”

“Preliminaries?”

“Precisely. Now, my dear ole friend, you put on your boot an’ ze ozaire coat, and brush your hair—oh! horreur; why do you not get zem cut short like mine?”

“Because I don’t want to look like a convict. Come in here.”

Pacey seized his tobacco-jar and a box of matches.

“Got any cigarette papers?”

“But yes, and plenty of cigarettes.”

“Come in here, then.”

He opened the door leading into his little bedroom, and Leronde followed him.

Pacey banged down the tobacco-jar upon the dressing-table, and then threw open the window.

“Come and look out here,” he cried.

“But we have no time to spare, my friend.”

“Come and look out here,” roared Pacey.

As Leronde approached him wonderingly, Pacey seized him by the collar, and half dragged his head out.

“Look down there,” he said, pointing into the square pit-like place formed by the backs of the neighbouring houses, from the second floor, where they stood, to the basement; “you can’t jump down there?”

“My faith, no. It would be death.”

“And there is no way of climbing on to the roof.”

Leronde shook his head, and looked to see if his friend was mad.

“And you cannot fly?”

“No; I leave zat to your cocksparrow de Londres,” said Leronde, trying to conceal his wonder and dread by a show of hilarity.

“That’s right, then. You sit down there and smoke cigarettes till I come back.”

“But, my friend, ze engagement, ze meeting viz ze amis of ze Conte. What go you to do?”

“See Armstrong Dale, and bring him to his senses. If I can’t—go and break the Count’s neck.”

“But, mon cher Pacey!” cried Leronde, “l’honneur?”

“Hang honour!” roared his friend. “I’m going in for common-sense;” and before the Frenchman could arrest him, the door was banged to, locked, the key removed, and steps were heard on the landing; then the sitting-room door was locked, and, with his face full of perplexity, Leronde lit a fresh cigarette.

“Faith of a man, these English,” he said, “zey are mad, as Shakespeare did say about Hamlet, and I am sure, if zey do shave Shoe Pacey head, zey will find ze big crack right across him.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

The News Spreads.

“If I have sinned,” muttered Armstrong, as he leaned back in his chair, for when from time to time he tried to walk about, a painful sensation of giddiness seized upon him, “I am having a foretaste of my punishment. How long he is—how long he is!”

But still Leronde did not come, and to occupy his mind, the sufferer sat and thought out a plan for their journey, which he concluded would mean a cab to Liverpool Street, then the express to Harwich, the boat to Ostend; next, where the seconds willed: and afterwards—

“What?” said the wretched man, with a strange smile. “Ah, who knows! If it could only be oblivion—rest from all this misery and despair!”

He rose to try and write a letter or two, notably one to Cornel, but the effort was painful, and he crept back to his chair.

“She will know—she will divine—that I preferred to die,” he muttered, “Ah, at last! Why, he has been hours.”

For there was a step outside, and then the door was thrown open, as he lay back, with his aching eyes shaded by his hand.

“Come at last, then!” he sighed; and the next moment he started, for the studio door was banged to, and locked. “You, Joe?”

“Yes, I’ve come at last,” cried Pacey, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and striding up, to stand before him with his legs far apart.

“Well, then, shake hands and go,” said Armstrong quietly. “I’m not well. I’ve had an accident.”

“Accident?” roared Pacey. “Yes, you have had an accident, the same as a man has who goes and knocks his head against a wall.”

“What do you mean?” cried Armstrong, starting.

“Mean? I mean that you’re the biggest fool that fortune ever pampered and spoiled.”

“Joe Pacey!”

“Hold your tongue, idiot, and listen to me. Here you are, gifted by nature with ten times the brains of an ordinary man; you can paint like Raphael or Murillo; fame and fortune are at your feet; and you have the love waiting for you of one of the sweetest, most angelic women who ever stepped this earth.”

“Pacey!”

“Hold your tongue, boy! Haven’t I been like a father to you ever since you came into this cursed village? Haven’t I devoted myself to you as soon as I saw you were a good fellow, full of genius? I’m a fool to say so, but in my wretched, wrecked life, I felt that I’d found something to live for at last, and that I could be proud and happy in seeing you, who are as much an Englishman as I am in blood, rise to the highest pitch of triumph; while, if you grew proud then and forgot me, it wouldn’t matter; I could afford it, for you had achieved success.”

“You’ve been a good true adviser to me, Joe, ever since I have known you.”

“And you have turned out the most ungrateful dog that ever breathed. Morals? You’ve no more morals than a mahlstick. You had everything man could wish for, and then you must kick it all over, and break the heart of an angel.”

“Let her rest. Say what you like to bully me, Joe. It’s all true. I don’t fight against it. But you can’t understand it all. Say what you like, only go and leave me. I want to be alone.”

“Do you?” cried Pacey excitedly. “Then I don’t want you to be. So the Conte gave you that crack on the head, did he?”

“What!” cried Armstrong, springing up. “How came you to think that?”

“How came I to think that? Why, I was told by a chattering French ape.”

“Leronde? Told you?”

“Of course he did. Came to me to be your other second.”

“The idiot! Where is he?”

“Locked up where he’ll stay till I let him loose.”

Armstrong used a strong expression.

“And so we must have a duel, must we? Go out to Belgium to fight this Italian organ-grinder. Curse him, and his Jezebel of a wife!”

“Silence, man!” cried Armstrong excitedly. “Pacey, no more of this! Where is Leronde? He must be set free at once. My honour is at stake.”

“His what?” cried Pacey, bursting into a roar of ironical laughter. “My God! His honour! You adulterous dog, you talk to me of your honour and duelling, and all that cursed, sickly, contemptible code that ought to have been dead and buried, and wondered at by us as a relic of the dark ages—you talk to me of that? Why, do you know what it means? First and foremost, murdering Cornel Thorpe: for, as sure as heaven’s above us, that organ-man will shoot you like the dog you are, and in killing you he’ll kill that poor girl. I swear it. She can’t help it. She gave her love to you, poor lassie, and she’s the kind of woman who loves once and for all. There’s the first of it. As for you, well, the best end of you is that you should be buried at once, out of the way, as you would be if I let you go to meet this man.”

“If you let me?” raged Armstrong.

“Yes, if I let you; for I won’t. Why, you’re mad. That Jezebel has turned your brain, and I’ll have you in a strait waistcoat, and then in a padded room, before I’ll let you go to save your honour and his. Ha, ha! His honour! The Italian greyhound! He never took any notice of his wife till he found she had a lover, but was after as many light-famed creatures as there are cards in the devil’s books. Then—his honour! Ha, ha! his honour! Why, the whole gang of French and Italian monkeys never knew what honour is, and never will. Now then, I said I’d thrash you, and I have. I only wish Dellatoria had jolly well fractured your skull, so as to make you an invalid for six months. Look here; I’ve locked up Leronde, I’ll lock up you, and if the Conte comes here, I’ll kick him downstairs.”