"I can't humbug, Joe," said Armstrong. "Of course I understand you.
You mean about--my commission."
"Yes, and I did warn you, lad. It is the talk of every set I've been
into lately. There is nothing against her, but her position with that
miserable hound, Dellatoria, is well-known. He insults her with his
mistresses time after time. Her beauty renders her open to scandal, and
they say what I feared is true."
"What? Speak out."
"That she is madly taken with our handsome young artist."
"They say that?"
"Yes, and I gave them the lie. Last night I had it, though more
definitely. I was at the Van Hagues--all artistic London goes there,
and a spiteful, vindictive woman contrived, by hints and innuendoes, as
she knew I was your friend, to let me know the state of affairs."
"Lady Grayson?"
"The same."
"The Jezebel!"
"And worse, lad. But, Armstrong, my lad--I have come then too late?"
Pride and resentment kept Dale silent for a few moments, and then he
said huskily--
"It is false."
"But it is the talk of London, my lad, and it means when it comes to
Dellatoria's ears--Bah! a miserable organ-grinder by rights--endless
trouble. Perhaps a challenge. Brutes who have no right to name the
word honour yell most about their own, as they call it."
"It is not true--or--there, I tell you it is not true."
"Not true?"
For answer Armstrong walked to the side of the studio, took a large
canvas from where it stood face to the wall, and turned it to show the
Contessa's face half painted.
"Good," said Pacey involuntarily, "but--"
"Don't ask me any more, Joe," said Dale. "Be satisfied that history is
not going to repeat itself. I have declined to go on with the
commission."
"Armstrong, lad," cried Pacey, springing from his seat, and clapping his
hands on the young man's shoulders to look him intently in the eyes.
"Bah!" he literally roared, "and I spoiled my night's rest, and--Here:
got any whisky, old man? 'Bacco? Oh, here we are;" and he dragged a
large black briar-root, well burned, from his breast and began to fill
it. Then, taking a common box of matches from his pocket--a box he had
bought an hour before from a beggar in the street, he threw himself back
in the big chair, lifted one leg, and gave the match a sharp rub on his
trousers, lit up, sending forth volumes of cloud, and in an entirely
different tone of voice, said quite blusteringly--
"Now then, about that goddess canvas; let's have a smell at it. Hah!
yes, you want a Juno--a living, breathing divinity, all beauty, scorn,
passion, hatred. No, my lad, there are plenty of flesh subjects who
would do as well as one of Titian's, and you could beat an Etty into
fits; but there isn't a model in London who could sit for the divine
face you want. Your only chance is to evolve it from your mind as you
paint another head."
"Yes; perhaps you are right," said Dale dreamily. "Sure I am. There,
go in and win, my lad. You'll do it.--Hah! that's good whisky.--My dear
old fellow, I might have known. I ought to have trusted you."
"Don't say any more about it."
"But I must, to ease my mind. I ought to have known that my young
Samson would not yield to any Delilah, and be shorn of his manly
locks.--Yes, that's capital whisky. I haven't had a drop since
yesterday afternoon. A toast: `Confound the wrong woman.' Hang them,"
he continued after a long draught, "they're always coming to you with
rosy apples in their hands or cheeks, and saying, `Have a bite,' You
don't want to paint portraits. You can paint angels from clay to bring
you cash and fame. Aha, my goddess of beauty and brightness, I salute
thee, Bella Donna, in Hippocrene!"
"Oh, do adone, Mr. Pacey," said the lady addressed to wit,
Keren-Happuch. "I never do know what you mean, I declare,"--(sniff)--"I
wouldn't come into the studio when you're here if I wasn't obliged.
Please, Mr. Dale, sir, here's that French Mossoo gentleman. He says,
his compliments, and are you too busy to see him?"
"No, Hebe the fair, he is not," cried Pacey. "Tell him there is a
symposium on the way, and he is to ascend."
"A which, sir? Sym--sym--"
"Sym--whisky, Bella Donna."
The girl glanced at Dale, who nodded his head, and she hurried out. The
door opened the next minute to admit a slight little man, most carefully
dressed, and whose keen, refined features, essentially French, were full
of animation.
"Ah, you smoke, and are at rest," he said. "Then I am welcome. Dear
boys, both of you. And the picture?"
He stood, cigarette in teeth, gazing at the large canvas for a few
moments.
"Excellent! So good!" he cried. "Ah, Dale, my friend, you would be
great, but you do so paint backwards."
"Eh?" cried Pacey.
"I mean, my faith, he was much more in advance a month ago. There was a
goddess here. Where is she now?"
"Behind the clouds," said Pacey, forming one of a goodly size; and the
others helped in a more modest way, as an animated conversation ensued
upon art, Pacey giving his opinions loudly, and with the decision of a
judge, while the young Frenchman listened to his criticism, much of it
being directed at a flower-painting he had in progress.
The debate was at its height, when the little maid again appeared with a
note in her hand.
"Aha!" cried Pacey, who was in the highest spirits--"maid of honour to
the duchess--the flower of her sex again. Hah! how sweet the perfume of
her presence wafted to my sense of smell."
"Oh, do adone, please, Mr. Pacey, sir. You're always making game of me.
I'll tell missus you call her the duchess--see if I don't. It ain't me
as smells: it's this here letter, quite strong. Please, Mr. Dale, sir,
it was left by that lady in her carriage."
"Keren-Happuch!" came from below stairs as the girl handed Dale the
note; and his countenance changed as he involuntarily turned his eyes to
his friend.
"Keren-Happuch!" came again.
"Comin', mum," shouted the girl, thrusting her head for a moment through
the ajar door, and turning back again.
"Said there wasn't no answer, sir."
"Keren-Happuch!"
"A call from the Duchess of Fitzroy Square," said Pacey merrily.
"No, sir, it was that Hightalian lady, her as is painted there," said
the girl innocently, and pointing to the canvas leaning against the
wall, as she ran out.
"Confound her!" roared Pacey, springing to his feet, and turning upon
his friend, with his eyes flashing beneath his shaggy brows; "is there
no such thing as truth in this cursed world?"
"What do you mean?" cried Dale hotly, as he crushed the scented note in
his hand.
"Samson and Delilah," said Pacey, with savage mockery in his tones.
"Here, Leronde, lad," he continued, taking up his glass, "a toast for
you--Vive la gallantry. Bah!"
He lifted the glass high above his head, but did not drink. He gave
Armstrong a fierce, contemptuous look, and dashed the glass into the
grate, where it was shivered to atoms.