The Tiger Lily

“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.”