The Tiger Lily

“I am not clever and experienced,” said Cornel anxiously. “Let a doctor see her first.”

For answer the Conte gave her a quick nod.

“It is secrecy, is it not?”

“Oh yes, but – ”

“The best London can give,” he whispered. “When I have her back at home. And you understand that was nonsense which I said about striking him?”

The bag was on his arm, with his hand pushed far through, as he went back to the door, and signalled to a man to come in. Then seeing that this removal was inevitable, Cornel rapidly replaced the cloak well round the insensible figure, and rearranged the head.

“Don’t – don’t waste time,” said the Conte impatiently, and signing to the man, the latter bent down and lifted the motionless figure as easily as if it had been a child.

“Be careful, my friend. A sad accident. Be careful. Mind.”

He opened the door for the man to pass through, and Cornel followed them, to listen to the heavy descending steps, till all was silent. Then came the rattle of wheels, and she knew that they were gone.

Closing the door of the studio, she walked across it, dropped upon her knees, and clasped her hands.

“Have I done rightly?” she murmured. “I don’t know. It seems like madness now.” Then a weary sigh, as she laid her head against the door leading to the chamber. “Armstrong! what I have suffered for your sake!”

Chapter Thirty.

The Last

“And you gave him enough to keep him in that insensible state?” said Dr Thorpe next night, after seeing and treating Armstrong, who lay in a weak, half-delirious state.

Cornel nodded and gazed wildly at her brother, who continued —

“To keep him from going abroad to fight this duel?”

“Yes, I felt sure that the Conte would kill him.”

“And serve him right. Well,” he went on, as his sister winced at his harsh words, “this proves the truth of the saying – ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,’ You know a bit about narcotics and anaesthetics, and you may congratulate yourself upon not having killed him. But there, perhaps, it was right; and anyhow, you have saved him.”

“You think he will recover now?” she cried eagerly.

“Think so? Oh yes! of course. Nothing to prevent him. Only wants time. But it’s nothing to you.”

“How is the Contessa?”

“Getting better, I hear. Fact is, I met the surgeon who is attending her at the society. But never mind them. I shall have done all I want here in less than a fortnight. That is when the Spartania sails, so be ready, and let’s get back.”

“Yes, dear,” said Cornel quietly, “I shall have finished my task, too.”

Two years later Armstrong Dale went back home, but only for a visit, for his fame was increasing rapidly, and he had more commissions than he could undertake. He wanted help and counsel, and he brought them back with him, for he did not return to London alone.

Four more years had elapsed, and that season there was a great deal of talk about Armstrong Dale’s big picture at the Academy. The press had praised it unanimously; society had endorsed the critics’ words; and it was sold for a heavy sum. But though he was importuned to take portraits, Armstrong sternly refused.

The picture that year was a fanciful subject of a beautiful woman reclining upon a tiger skin, with a huge cluster of orange maculated lilies thrust, as if by careless hands, into a magnificent repoussé copper vase. And as he painted it, he had turned to his wife one day, and said, “I can’t help it, Little Heart; it will come so like her. I shall paint it out and give up.”

Then he seized a cloth to pass across the fresh paint, but Cornel caught his wrist.

“Absurd!” she cried. “That magnificent piece of work – and because of a fancied resemblance?”

“Then you do not mind?” he said sadly.

Palette, brushes, and mahlstick were slowly and softly taken from his hands, which were drawn round Cornel’s neck, and she nestled closely in his breast.

“Mind? No,” she said gently; “let the dead past bury its dead.”

The picture went to the Academy then, and was the most discussed work of the year.

One sunny morning early, so as to be before the crush, Armstrong and his wife walked through the principal room, joined together by a little fairy-like golden-haired link, whose bright eyes flashed with delight as she clung to the hand on either side, for she was at her urgent request being taken “to see papa’s picture – ‘The Tiger Lily.’”

The trio had been standing in front of it for some minutes, when, after playfully responding to the happy child’s many questions, Cornel and Armstrong turned to take her round the room, but both stopped short as if petrified.

For within a couple of yards stood Valentina, pale as death, her eyes abnormally large, and her whole countenance telling of bodily suffering and mental pain.

Beside her was an invalid-chair, occupied by a wasted, prematurely old man, wrapped in furs – in May – and attended by a servant, who stood motionless behind.

The meeting was a surprise, and all present save one remained fascinated by some spell.

The silence was broken by Valentina, who took a step forward, and held out her hand, while Armstrong saw at a glance that the Conte was gazing vacantly at the pictures, his eyes dull and glazed, the light of recognition being absent.

“It is six years since we met, Mrs Dale,” said the Contessa softly, but the tones of her voice were changed, and she turned her head slightly to let her eyes rest upon Armstrong. “As in all human probability we shall never meet again, I cannot resist referring once to the past – to thank your sweet wife for the life she saved.”

“Oh, pray,” whispered Cornel in a tremulous voice, “no more.”

“No,” said Valentina, holding Cornel’s hand tightly, and gazing wildly in her eyes, though her voice was very calm. “We go back to Italy at once. My husband, who is a great invalid, seems better there.”

She paused for a moment, as if to gain strength to continue; and then, in a low, passionate whisper, full of the maternal longing of an unsatisfied heart —

“Your child? May I kiss her once?”

Cornel bowed her head – she could not speak, but held the child a little forward, and Valentina bent down.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked.

The bright, innocent eyes looked smilingly up, and the silvery voice said, as the soft little arms clasped her neck —

“Yes, I’ll give you two.” Then, as she was held tightly for a few moments, “Do you like dear papa’s picture? I saw him make it. Is it you?”

The eager, wondering question sent a pang through three breasts, but not another word was uttered, till the invalid-chair and its attendants had passed through the door close by.

It was the child who broke the silence just as Cornel had stolen her hand to her husband’s side to press his with a long, firm, trusting grasp.

“Why did that lady cry when she kissed me, mamma? I know:” the child added quickly. “It was because that poor gentleman is so ill.”