A woman--with the fierce lurid look of a tigress in her dark eyes, and
in her action as lithe and elastic, she paced up and down her bedroom
hour after hour. Now she threw herself upon a couch in utter
exhaustion, but anon she sprang up again to resume the hurried walk to
and fro.
At times she went to the door to open it and listen, for it was secured
only by the locks and bolts of the Grundy Patent--Dellatoria, in spite
of his newly awakened jealous rage, feeling that his wife would join
with him in keeping the servants in ignorance of their terrible rupture.
But all was still downstairs; and at last, enforcing an outward
appearance of composure, Valentina changed her dress, bathed her burning
eyes with spirit-scented water, and descended to her boudoir, where she
turned down the lamp beneath its rose-coloured shade, and rang the bell,
before seating herself in a lounge with her back half turned from the
door.
"Pretty well time," said the butler, who had been heading the discussion
below stairs regarding the meaning of what had taken place. "There,
cook, you may dish up."
The footman presented himself at the door.
"Your ladyship rang?"
"Yes. Where is your master?"
"In the lib'ry, my lady."
"Alone?"
"No, my lady. Colonel Varesti and Baron Gratz are with him again."
"That will do."
"Yes, my lady."
The man hesitated at the door.
"Well?"
"Does your ladyship wish the dinner to be served?"
"No: wait till your master orders it. I am unwell. Give me that flacon
of salts."
The man handed the large cut-glass bottle, and went down.
The aspect of languor passed away in an instant, and Valentina sprang
from the seat.
"I might have known it," she panted. "He is no coward when he is
roused, despicable as he is at other times. Those men. It means a
meeting. They will fight, and--"
She clapped her hands to her forehead as in imagination she saw
Armstrong lying bleeding at her husband's feet. Strong and brave as he
was, she doubted the artist's ability to stand before a man like the
Conte, who had often boasted to her of his skill with the small sword,
and ability as a marksman.
"And I have wasted all this time."
Then, after a few moments' thought, divining that the inevitable meeting
would take place abroad, she went up at once to her bedroom and locked
herself in.
Her brain was still misty and confused by the intense excitement through
which she had passed, for upon reaching home, and savagely dismissing
Lady Grayson, the Conte had turned upon her furiously. The passion of
his southern nature had been aroused, and a mad jealousy developed
itself respecting the woman whom of late he had utterly neglected.
In a few moments her mind was quite made up, and, taking a small
dressing bag, she rapidly emptied into it the whole of the costly
contents of her jewel-cases, unlocked a small cabinet, and took from it
what money she possessed, and then hastily dressed for going out.
A very few minutes sufficed for this, and, after pausing for a few
moments to collect herself, she took up the bag, and, unlocking the
door, passed out silently on to the thickly carpeted landing, descended
to the hall, where she paused again as she heard a low buzz of voices in
the library, and then walked quickly to the door, passed out, and
hurried up the wide street, breathing freely as she felt that she had
been unobserved.
Not quite. Ladies in large establishments live beneath the observation
of many eyes. Valentina had no sooner begun to descend the wide stairs
than a white cap was thrust out from the door of a neighbouring room,
and the eyes beneath it were immediately after looking down the great
staircase, while a pair of ears twitched as they listened till the front
door was heard to close.
The next minute the wearer of the cap was in the bed and dressing rooms,
gazing at the empty jewel-cases, noting the absence of the bag, cloak,
and bonnet, even to the veil; and then came the low ejaculation of the
one word, "Well!"
The Abigail ran down the backstairs and made her way into the hall, just
in time to meet the butler returning from ushering out the Conte's two
friends, who had been closeted with him, consulting as to what
proceedings should be taken, as there had been no appearance put in by
the other side.
The butler heard the lady's-maids hurried communication, nodded sagely,
and said oracularly that he wasn't a bit surprised; then coughed to
clear his voice, waved the maid away, closed the baize door after her,
and entered the library to repeat what he had heard.
The Conte did not even change countenance.
"Stop all tattling amongst the servants," he said. "Her ladyship is not
well--a strange seizure to-day. It must be past the dinner hour."
"Yes, my lord."
"Let it be served at once."
The butler bowed, and went out solemnly.
The moment he was alone, a sharp grating sound was heard, and a strange
look came over the Conte's face as he hastily opened a cabinet, took
something from a drawer, and placed it in his breast pocket. Then,
hurrying upstairs, he satisfied himself of the truth of all he had
heard, and descended, took his hat from the stand and went out quietly,
unheard, even by the servants.
Meanwhile Valentina had walked straight to the studio.
The street-door was ajar, for Keren-Happuch had just gone into the next
street to post a letter at the pillar, so the closely veiled woman
passed in unseen, and went upstairs, stood for a few moments listening,
and then softly entered.
She uttered a low sigh of relief, glad to have entered the place which,
for the moment, felt to her like a sanctuary.
It was many hours since she had been surprised there by her husband and
Lady Grayson; but to her then it seemed only a few minutes before, and
she looked round the great dim room quickly, with a smile upon her lips.
But the smile froze there, and a horrible sensation of fear came over
her. She had waited too long. There must have been a challenge from
her husband, and Armstrong had responded. The street-door open; the
studio unfastened; and this dim light! Then she was too late: he had
gone. But where? Belgium? France? The thought was horrible--almost
more than she could bear.
"No, no," she murmured. "It cannot be."
She advanced into the great dim place excitedly, with the many
grim-looking plaster figures and busts seeming to watch her furtively
out of the gloom; and as she looked quickly from side to side, she
fancied that the faces were menacing and full of reproach, as if telling
her that she had sent her lover to his death.
She had nearly crossed the room when she started and shrank back in
horror, for one of the rugs had been kicked slightly aside, and there
was a wet dark mark upon the boards which she knew at a glance to be
blood--his blood, for it was here he had fallen when her husband struck
him down.
With the faintest of hopes amid her despair that she might still be in
time, she went on to the inner door, seized the handle, and was pressing
it, but it was twisted from her fingers, the door opened, and she was
about to fling herself into Armstrong's arms, but only shrank back with
a look of jealous rage and despair.
For Cornel stood framed in the opening and closed the door, then looked
her firmly and defiantly in the face.
Neither spoke for a full minute, and as Valentina gazed in the blanched
countenance before her, she read here so stony and despairing a look,
that she shrank away in horror, certain that either there was some
terrible revelation awaiting her beyond the door which had been so
carefully closed, or else that Cornel's eyes were confirming her worst
dread, and that Armstrong had gone forth to meet his death.
It was some moments before the Contessa could command herself
sufficiently to speak aloud. She wished to get from Cornel's lips the
truth, and to show her how, possessed as she was of Armstrong's love,
she could treat her with calm, contemptuous tolerance, as one almost
beneath her notice. But the stern disdain in those large flashing eyes
mastered her and kept her silent. There was a magnetism in their
glance, and she felt that if she spoke it would be in a broken feeble
manner, which would lower her in her rival's eyes.
She fought against it, struggled for a long time vainly, and moment by
moment felt how strong in her innocence and truth her rival stood before
her. It was not until she had lashed herself into a state of fury that
she could force herself to speak.
"Mr. Dale--where is he?" she cried at last imperiously.
"How dare you come and ask?" said Cornel fiercely, her whole manner
changed.
"Because I have a right," cried Valentina, who, stung now by her rival's
words, began to recover herself. Her eyes too dilated as she went on,
and something of her old hauteur and contempt flashed out.
"You!--a right?"
"Yes; the right of the woman he loves--who has given up everything for
his sake."
"Loves! The woman he loves!" cried Cornel contemptuously.
"Yes, and who loves him as such a woman as I can love. Do you think
that you, in your girlish coldness, could ever have won him as I have?
Tell me where he is."
"That you may join him?" cried Cornel. "You would give him over to your
husband--to that horror--and his death."
"Ah!" cried Valentina excitedly; "then he has not gone yet. He is
safe." And, in spite of herself, she gave way to a hysterical burst of
tears.
"What is it to you?" said Cornel coldly. "He has escaped from your
hands. You have no right here, woman. Go."
"I am right, then," cried the Contessa, mastering her weakness once
more. "You are trying to keep us apart. He is mine, I tell you, mine
for ever. He is there, then; I am not too late--there in that room.
Armstrong!" she cried loudly, "come to me. I am here."
She made for the door again, but Cornel seized her, and strove with all
her might to keep the furious woman back, but she was like a child in
her hands, and was rudely flung aside. Valentina thrust open the door,
entered the study, and passed through it to the chamber beyond, to utter
a wild cry, and fall upon her knees beside the bed on which Armstrong
lay cold and still.
Then, starting up, she bent over him, laid her hand upon his brow, her
cheek against his lips, and staggered back.
"Dead!" she cried, "dead!"
For his eyes were closed, and the bandaged cut upon his brow gave him a
ghastly look, seen as he was by the shaded light of a lamp upon the
table by the bed's head.
She rushed back through the little room to the studio, where Cornel
stood, wild-eyed, and white as the figure upon the bed.
"Wretch! you have killed him in your insane jealousy. It could not have
been that blow. Tell me! confess!" she cried, seizing her by the arms.
"Better so than that he should have fallen back into your power," said
Cornel bitterly.
"Ah! You own it, then? Oh, it is too horrible!"
Her face convulsed with agony, the Contessa seized Cornel by the arm,
threw down the bag, which flew open, so that the jewels scattered on the
floor, and tried to drag her toward the studio door, calling hoarsely
for help. But her voice rose to the ceiling, and not a sound was heard
below.
But Cornel resisted now with all her might, and in the struggle which
ensued wrested herself away, ran across the studio, darted through the
door of the little room, dashed it to, and had time to slip the bolt
before her rival flung herself against it, and then beat heavily against
the panel with her hand.
Pale as ashes, and panting with excitement, Cornel stood with her left
shoulder pressed against the panel, feeling the blows struck upon it
through the wood, as, with her eyes fixed and strained, she felt about
for the key, her hand trembling so that she could hardly turn it in the
lock.
"No, no!" she muttered. "I'll die sooner than she shall touch him
again."
Then she held her breath, listening, for she fancied she heard a sound
in the studio above the beating on the panel, which suddenly culminated
in one strangely given blow, accompanied by a wild shriek of agony,
followed by a heavy fall and a piteous groan.