The Tiger Lily. Fenn George Manville

dreadful man. I’m too awfully sorry I cannot give you a lift on my way back to the park.”

      “No, thanks. By-the-by, yes; I want to go to Albert Gate. Would it be taking you out of your way?”

      “Oh no. Delighted. My horses don’t have half enough to do.”

      “Then come along.”

      Armstrong could not help glancing at the couple as they crossed towards the door; and then as he turned back to the canvas his heart began to beat painfully, for he heard a peculiar hissing sound as of a long deep breath being drawn through teeth closely set, and a dangerous feeling of pity entered his breast. He could not paint, but stood fixed with the brush raised, completely mastered by the flood of thought which rushed through his brain. He saw plainly how great cause there was for the coldness and contempt with which the Contessa viewed her husband, and he realised fully the truth of the rumours he had heard of how she – a beautiful English girl – had been hurried into a fashionable marriage with this contemptible, wealthy, titled man. What else could come of it but such a life as he saw too plainly that they led!

      He fought against these thoughts, but vainly; and they only opened the way to others still more dangerous. The first time he had met Lady Dellatoria, when she visited his studio in company with her husband, she had seemed attracted to him, and he had felt flattered by the eagerness with which she listened to his words. Then came an invitation to dinner at Portland Place, for the discussion of his undertaking the portrait. That night, the Conte was called away to an engagement, and he was left in that luxurious drawing-room, talking to the clever, refined, and beautiful woman who seemed to hang upon his words.

      Soon after he went back to his studio half intoxicated by her smiles; but the next morning he had grown more himself, and had a long talk with Joe Pacey, his greatest intimate, and been advised to paint the portrait by all means, but to hit hard for price.

      “Do you no end of good, boy; but take care of yourself; she’s the most beautiful woman in society.”

      Dale had laughed contemptuously, accepted the commission, and matters had gone on till it had come to this. He had been forced to be a witness of the breach between husband and wife, the cruelty of the treatment she received, and he had heard that painful drawing in of the breath, as she sat there almost within touch. She, the suffering woman, who had from the first accorded to him what had seemed to be the warmest friendship; and now the blood rose to his brain, and his resolutions, his fierce accusations, appeared to have been all in vain.

      He dared not look round in the terrible silence which had ensued. He could only think that he was alone with the woman against whom his friend had warned him, and for the moment, in the giddy sensation that attacked him, he felt that he must rush from the room.

      Then he started, and the brush fell from his hand, for there was a quick movement in the chair on his left, and he turned sharply, to find Valentina’s eyes filled with tears, but not dimmed so that he could not read the yearning, passionate look with which she gazed at him, as she said in a low, thrilling whisper —

      “You heard – you saw – all. Have you no pity for me – no word to say?”

      For a few moments not a word.

      The Contessa rose and took a step toward him, with her hands raised appealingly.

      “You do not – you cannot – understand,” she half whispered, “or you would speak to me. Can you not see how alone I am in the world, insulted, outraged, by that man whose wife I was almost forced to become? Wife!” she cried, “no, his slave, loaded with fetters of gold, which cut into my flesh till my life becomes insufferable. Mr Dale – Armstrong, I thought you sympathised with me in my unhappy state. Have I not shown you, since fate threw us so strangely together, that my life has been renewed that everything has seemed changed?”

      He looked at her wildly, and the palette he held fell upon the rich thick carpet in the struggle going on within his breast.

      “Are you dumb?” she whispered softly; “have you been blind to my sufferings?”

      “No, no!” he cried. “Indeed, I have not. But you must not speak like this. It is madness. I have seen and pitied. I have felt that your husband – ”

      “Husband!” she said contemptuously.

      “Oh, hash!” he cried. “Lady Dellatoria, you are angry – excited. Yes, I see and know everything, but for your own sake, don’t – for Heaven’s sake, don’t speak to me like this.”

      “Why,” she said bitterly, “are you not honest and true?”

      “No,” he cried wildly. “It is mere folly. It has all been a terrible mistake my coming here. I cannot – I will not continue this work. It is impossible. The Conte insults me. He is dissatisfied. Lady Dellatoria, I cannot submit to all his – ”

      He shrank from her, for her hand was laid upon his arm.

      “Yes,” she said, as she raised her face towards his; “he insults you, as he insults me; he – poor, weak, pitiful creature – insults you who are so true and manly. I am not blind. I have seen all that you try to hide. You pity me; you have shown yourself my sympathetic friend. Yes, and I have seen more – all that you have tried so hard to hide in your veneration – your love for a despairing woman. Mr Dale – Armstrong,” she whispered – and her voice was low, tender, and caressing; her eyes seeking his with a passionate, yearning look, which thrilled him – “don’t leave me now; I could not bear it.”

      “Lady Dellatoria!” he panted wildly, as honour made one more stand in his behalf.

      “Valentina,” she whispered, “who casts off all a woman’s reserve for you, the first who ever taught her that, after all, there is such a thing as love in this weary world, and with it hope and joy.”

      The hands which had rested upon his arm rose to his shoulders, and tightened about his neck, as she laid her burning face upon his breast.

      Chapter Five.

      Lady Grayson’s Purse

      With one quick motion, Armstrong threw Valentina back into her seat, and snatched up palette and brushes, mad with rage and shame, as he made an effort to go on painting. For the drawing-room door had been opened with a good deal of rattling of the handle, and he expected that the next minute he would have to turn and face the husband.

      But it was a woman’s voice, full of irony and sarcasm, and he turned sharply, to see that the Contessa sat back in her chair with a strangely angry light in her dark eyes, gazing at Lady Grayson.

      “Pray forgive me, dear,” said the latter mockingly. “So sorry to disturb you. I was obliged to come back, for I have lost my purse. Did I leave it here?”

      “How could you have left it here?” said the Contessa coldly, as she quivered beneath her friend’s gaze.

      “I thought, love, that perhaps I had drawn it out with my handkerchief. It is so tiresome to lose one’s purse; is it not, Mr Dale?”

      “Worse, madam, not to have one to lose,” said Armstrong, who was placing his brushes in their case.

      “How droll you are,” said Lady Grayson; “as if anybody except a beggar could be without a purse. But surely you have not done painting the portrait?”

      “Yes, Lady Grayson, I have done painting the portrait,” replied Dale gravely.

      “And all through my interruption. Oh, my dearest Valentina, how could I be so indiscreet as to come and interrupt your charming sitting.”

      “Would it be a sin to strangle this mocking wretch, who is triumphing over her shame and my disgrace?” thought Dale.

      The Contessa was silent, and the situation growing maddening, when Lady Grayson suddenly exclaimed – “Why, there! I told the dear Conte that I felt sure I had dropped it here; and when I am influenced about anything happening, as I was in this case, I am pretty sure to be right.”

      She said this meaningly, with a smile at the other actors in the scene, and then took a few steps toward the couch she had