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 occupied, and,
picking from it the missing purse, held it up in triumph, and with her
eyes sparkling with malicious glee.
"I am so glad," she cried; "I was so sure. Goodbye once more, dearest
Valentina. Good morning, Mr. Dale. Oh, you fortunate man," she
continued, gazing at the canvas. "To paint like that. Ah, well,
perhaps it may be my turn next," she added, with a mocking glance at the
Contessa. "What, you going too, Mr. Dale? Then I did spoil the
sitting."
"No, madam," said Armstrong coldly; "your arrival was most opportune.
Lady Dellatoria, my man shall come for the canvas."
Valentina darted a wildly reproachful look at him, which he met for a
moment, flushed, and turned from with a shiver.
"May I see you to your carriage, Lady Grayson?" he said.
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Dale: if you would. Goodbye, dearest," she cried,
with a triumphant mocking look at the fierce, beautiful face. "You must
let me drop you at your studio, Mr. Dale," she continued; and as the
door closed behind them, Valentina started from her chair to press her
hands to her temples, uttering a low, piteous moan.
"Cast off! and for her!" she cried wildly. "She has always been trying
to lure him from me--him--my husband; and she could not rest in her
suspicions without coming back."
She ran to the window to stand unseen, gazing down, and to her agony she
saw Dale step into the carriage, take his seat beside Lady Grayson, and
be carried off.
Valentina turned from the window with her face convulsed, but it grew
smooth and beautiful, and there was a dreamy look in her eyes, and a
smile upon her parted, humid lips.
"I am mad," she said to herself, with a mocking laugh. "He care for
her! Absurd! He loves me! In his brave fight he struggled hard, but--
he loves me. His arms did hold me to his breast; his lips did press
mine. And she?--poor weak fool, with her transparent trick, to return
and play the spy. Let her know, and have a hold upon me, and defy me
about Cesare. She will threaten me some day if I revile her. Poor
fool! I am the stronger--stronger than ever now. I could defy the
world, for, in spite of his cold looks, his anger against himself--he
loves me."
She raised her eyes and stood looking straight before her for some
moments, and then started, but recovered herself and smiled as she gazed
at the figure before her in one of the mirror-filled panels of the room.
For she saw reflected there a face and figure that she felt no man could
resist, and the smile upon her face grew brighter, the dreamy look
intensified, as she murmured--
"At last! After these long, barren, weary years, love, the desire of a
woman's life;" and closing her eyes, she slowly extended her arms as, in
a whisper soft as the breath of eve, she murmured, "At last! Come back
to me, my love--my life--my god."