The Tiger Lily

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?”