What to do?
Armstrong's constant question to himself.
His determination, arrived at again and again, was to flee at once from
the horrible passion which was sapping the life out of him--his insane
love for a woman who evidently despised him, and whose face he had never
seen.
He argued that, by going right away to Rome, Florence, or even merely to
Paris, he would avoid Lady Dellatoria, who would soon forget him as he
would forget this Italian woman, who--he could not explain to himself
why--had, as it were, woven some spell round him and made him half mad.
He reasoned with himself, called upon the teaching of his early life,
mocked at his folly, and told himself that he had got the better of the
insane passion--that he had disgusted this woman by his insults, and
that he was free, for she would come no more. But in another hour he
was watching for her coming, and trying to contrive some means of
tracing her, and begging her to come again.
Why?--that he might stand spell-bound again before that masked face,
tortured, enslaved, and in greater despair than ever?
"It is of no use!" he muttered passionately. "I have not the mental
strength of a child. I must go right away from the horrible
temptation--and at once."
He made a step or two toward his room. He had money enough; a few
things could be packed, and in an hour he might be on his way to Dover.
After that the world was before him, so that he could seek for peace.
No. Michael Thorpe and his sister were in London. It would be the act
of a coward to flee now, and be dragging himself down lower still in
their eyes. He could not go: Michael Thorpe would be sure to come
before long, he felt, and he wished he would. It would be a relief to
have some savage quarrel. Hah! there was an opportunity: Pacey, who had
betrayed him and brought Cornel over for that shameful scene, after
which he had felt that his life had better end.
"No," he said half aloud, "I can't quarrel with poor old Joe. He meant
well, and he was right. But I cannot leave London now."
He burst into a mocking laugh the next minute, for he would not indulge
in self-deceit. He knew that it was not merely the dread of being
thought cowardly which kept him there, but his mad passion for this
woman, who treated him as if he were a dog.
Then he grew calmer, and tried to reason with himself. She had not
treated him as a dog. Her conduct had been irreproachable. No lady
could have been more modest or refined in her conduct throughout. She
had come there merely as a model, and he had conceived this strange
passion for her in spite of distant coldness, and complete disdain. He
remembered in a score of things how she had borne herself as if
conferring a favour by coming and taking his money; and he knew, too,
how it was forced upon her by her filial affection.
"No!" he groaned, "she is not to blame. I shall never see her more,
thank Heaven! and in time the recollection will die out."
His eyes reverted to the picture, as this thought held him for the
moment, and he again laughed bitterly and cried aloud, while gazing at
the beautiful figure which inspiration and the work of his brush had
placed upon the canvas.
"Die out, while she is there to renew my passion hour by hour, minute by
minute! Curse the picture!" he raged. "Why did I ever conceive the
vile thought?"
He stepped to it and tore off the paper which covered the face.
The next moment he had stepped back, startled and wondering at the
perfection of his art, as Lady Dellatoria's eyes seemed to be gazing
passionately into his.
He shivered and turned away, holding one hand to his brow.
"I am ill," he said, in a low, muttering tone, "unstrung, half wild.
Well, this shall be the first step toward a cure;" and, taking a large
Spanish knife from among the knick-knacks upon the table, he felt the
point and edge, stepped forward, and was in the act of thrusting the
blade through the canvas close to the frame, when the door-handle
rattled, and the grimy face of Keren-Happuch was thrust in.
"She's come again," said the girl gleefully.
"The lady who was here yesterday?" cried Dale, throwing the knife from
him.
"No, sir; her!" cried the girl. "She's coming up now."
She pointed to the canvas as she spoke, and Dale involuntarily turned to
see the counterfeit presentment of Lady Dellatoria looking at him from
the group with indignant scorn, and as if enraged at his mad passion for
the model whose steps were now heard as the girl slipped out.
"It is fate!" muttered Dale, as the door was flung open, and the closely
veiled and cloaked figure stood before him.
For some moments neither spoke. The model stood just within the closed
door, proud and imperious in her pose, and with the glint of her eyes
flashing through the thick veil, while, a prey to his emotion, Armstrong
strove to find words as the struggle within him continued.
He would master himself, he thought. It was madness, and he called upon
his manhood to protect this woman, who trusted to him, from a repetition
of his last insult.
"You have returned, then," he said to her coldly, but with his voice
trembling.
"Yes, monsieur," she replied, in her peculiarly accented French. "It
was necessary. Monsieur wishes me to continue?"
He made a sign toward the door at the other end of the studio, and she
seemed to hesitate, but the next moment she walked firmly across to the
room and disappeared, while Dale fastened the outer door.
Then mechanically drawing the easel into its proper position in the
light, he took up palette and brushes, and stood gazing straight before
him, his nerves astrain, and pulses beating with a heavy dull throb.
His back was to the entrance of his room, and with a mist before his
eyes he waited, ignorant of how the time passed till he heard the door
behind him open, and the rustling sound of the heavy cloak as it swept
over the rug-covered floor.
Then, with every sense at its acutest pitch, he felt her approach till
she was close behind his chair on her way to the dais.
The model stopped suddenly, and he turned to see that she was gazing
fixedly at the uncovered face upon the canvas, as if struck by the
intense gaze of the goddess's eyes.
It was almost momentary, that pause. Then she continued her way to the
dais, and mounted it to resume her familiar attitude, and, once more,
Dale began to paint; a quarter of an hour before about to destroy, now
eagerly bent upon finishing the task, while the piercing eyes gleamed
through the veil, and seemed to pierce him.
"It is fate!" he muttered, as those eyes fixed his, meeting them through
the veil; but was it lovingly tempting him, or watching him in dread--a
dread born of the doubt he inspired at the last visit?
He could not tell, but everything of the past died away in that present,
and in a voice which he hardly knew as his own, he said softly--
"Why were you so angry with me last time?"
There was no reply, but the eyes gleamed distrustfully through the veil.
"You are angry still," he continued. "Was it so great an offence to ask
you to discard your veil?"
"Monsieur is wasting time," was the reply, and he went on using his
brush angrily for a few minutes.
"Tell me," he said at last, "why you are so obstinate? Do you not wish
me to see your face?"
She shook her head quickly, and he watched her, telling himself that
there was something coquettish in the act.
"But you will not refuse me now?" he said. "I beg--I pray of you--let
me see your face."
"It is not possible. I do not wish you to know me again if we ever
meet."
"Why not?" he said eagerly. "For Heaven's sake, do not be so distant
with me."
"I come here at your wish, monsieur, and you pay me to be your model.--
Monsieur insults me once more."
"No!" he cried passionately, as he threw down palette and brush; "a man
cannot insult a woman he loves with all his soul."
He took a step or two towards her, but with one quick movement, she
stooped and swung the great cloak about her shoulders, and, unseen by
him, caught up the knife he had so recently held. The next moment she
made for the inner room, but he intercepted her.
"No, no!" he cried wildly. "You must not leave me again like this.
Listen: you will hear me. Once for all, you shall remove that veil."
"I--will--not," she cried firmly. "Why does monsieur wish to see my
face?"
"You, as a woman, know," he cried, in a low, excited voice. "It is of
no use. I must speak now. I tell you again, I love you."
"It is not true!" she whispered. "You dare to tell me that, when I know
that it is not true. That is the woman whom you love, monsieur!" and
she pointed scornfully at the face upon the canvas.
"No!" he cried, half startled by her manner, "I swear that you are
wrong."
"It is her portrait, monsieur."
"It is no one's portrait. Imagination, every stroke," he cried. "Now
let me see the face of the woman I really love."
He raised one hand to snatch off the veil, but with a quick movement she
sprang from him, and, with her eyes gleaming through the film, flung one
white arm from the cloak, gave her wrist a turn, and he saw that she was
holding the great Spanish knife dagger-wise, with the point towards his
breast.
"Don't come near me, or it will be your death," she panted.
"Ah!" he said, with a half-laugh, as, stirred now to the deepest depths,
he bent forward trying to penetrate her disguise, but without avail;
"can you punish me so cruelly as that for loving you? Well, you have
made me yours, and it is my fate. Better death than the misery I have
suffered, the despair of losing you and not seeing you again."
"It is a mockery!" she cried, and her voice now was strangely altered.
"A man cannot love a woman whose face he has not seen."
"You know that is not true," he whispered, as he still advanced, and she
now began to retreat--"you know I love you with all my soul. I have
told you so, and you know it in your heart."
"Keep back!" she cried huskily, as she retreated, keeping the
knife-point toward his breast.
"No! Remove your veil."
"Bah!" she cried contemptuously, and with her voice resuming its former
tone. "Go, monsieur; dwell upon and love your picture when I am gone."
"No; I love you, the living, breathing embodiment. Now, if I die for
it, I will see your face."
He stretched out one hand, and touched her veil, but it was tightly
knotted behind her head, and with her left hand she caught his fingers
and held them firmly, their warm contact sending a thrill through every
nerve.
At the same moment, he felt the point of the knife touch his breast, but
he did not shrink, only struggled to free his hand.
Then, as if moved by the same impulse, they remained motionless, gazing
into each other's eyes, and he felt her warm breath upon his lips.
"Then you do love me?" she whispered in a voice that, in its soft
passionate tones, made every fibre vibrate in strange music to the
melody of her utterance.
"More than life," he whispered back. "You see."
A low mocking laugh came from her lips as she loosened her grasp, flung
up her hands, and the knife fell far away upon the floor. Then, with a
sudden movement, as he seized her waist and drew her to him, she threw
herself back, snatched off the veil, flung it upon the dais, and clasped
her arms about his neck.
"Valentina!--You!"