"To keep him from going abroad to fight this duel?"
"Yes, I felt sure that the Conte would kill him."
"And serve him right. Well," he went on, as his sister winced at his
harsh words, "this proves the truth of the saying--`A little knowledge
is a dangerous thing,' You know a bit about narcotics and anaesthetics,
and you may congratulate yourself upon not having killed him. But
there, perhaps, it was right; and anyhow, you have saved him."
"You think he will recover now?" she cried eagerly.
"Think so? Oh yes! of course. Nothing to prevent him. Only wants
time. But it's nothing to you."
"How is the Contessa?"
"Getting better, I hear. Fact is, I met the surgeon who is attending
her at the society. But never mind them. I shall have done all I want
here in less than a fortnight. That is when the _Spartania_ sails, so
be ready, and let's get back."
"Yes, dear," said Cornel quietly, "I shall have finished my task, too."
Two years later Armstrong Dale went back home, but only for a visit, for
his fame was increasing rapidly, and he had more commissions than he
could undertake. He wanted help and counsel, and he brought them back
with him, for he did not return to London alone.
Four more years had elapsed, and that season there was a great deal of
talk about Armstrong Dale's big picture at the Academy. The press had
praised it unanimously; society had endorsed the critics' words; and it
was sold for a heavy sum. But though he was importuned to take
portraits, Armstrong sternly refused.
The picture that year was a fanciful subject of a beautiful woman
reclining upon a tiger skin, with a huge cluster of orange maculated
lilies thrust, as if by careless hands, into a magnificent repousse
copper vase. And as he painted it, he had turned to his wife one day,
and said, "I can't help it, Little Heart; it will come so like her. I
shall paint it out and give up."
Then he seized a cloth to pass across the fresh paint, but Cornel caught
his wrist.
"Absurd!" she cried. "That magnificent piece of work--and because of a
fancied resemblance?"
"Then you do not mind?" he said sadly.
Palette, brushes, and mahlstick were slowly and softly taken from his
hands, which were drawn round Cornel's neck, and she nestled closely in
his breast.
"Mind? No," she said gently; "let the dead past bury its dead."
The picture went to the Academy then, and was the most discussed work of
the year.
One sunny morning early, so as to be before the crush, Armstrong and his
wife walked through the principal room, joined together by a little
fairy-like golden-haired link, whose bright eyes flashed with delight as
she clung to the hand on either side, for she was at her urgent request
being taken "to see papa's picture--`The Tiger Lily.'"
The trio had been standing in front of it for some minutes, when, after
playfully responding to the happy child's many questions, Cornel and
Armstrong turned to take her round the room, but both stopped short as
if petrified.
For within a couple of yards stood Valentina, pale as death, her eyes
abnormally large, and her whole countenance telling of bodily suffering
and mental pain.
Beside her was an invalid-chair, occupied by a wasted, prematurely old
man, wrapped in furs--in May--and attended by a servant, who stood
motionless behind.
The meeting was a surprise, and all present save one remained fascinated
by some spell.
The silence was broken by Valentina, who took a step forward, and held
out her hand, while Armstrong saw at a glance that the Conte was gazing
vacantly at the pictures, his eyes dull and glazed, the light of
recognition being absent.
"It is six years since we met, Mrs. Dale," said the Contessa softly, but
the tones of her voice were changed, and she turned her head slightly to
let her eyes rest upon Armstrong. "As in all human probability we shall
never meet again, I cannot resist referring once to the past--to thank
your sweet wife for the life she saved."
"Oh, pray," whispered Cornel in a tremulous voice, "no more."
"No," said Valentina, holding Cornel's hand tightly, and gazing wildly
in her eyes, though her voice was very calm. "We go back to Italy at
once. My husband, who is a great invalid, seems better there."
She paused for a moment, as if to gain strength to continue; and then,
in a low, passionate whisper, full of the maternal longing of an
unsatisfied heart--
"Your child? May I kiss her once?"
Cornel bowed her head--she could not speak, but held the child a little
forward, and Valentina bent down.
"Will you kiss me?" she asked.
The bright, innocent eyes looked smilingly up, and the silvery voice
said, as the soft little arms clasped her neck--
"Yes, I'll give you two." Then, as she was held tightly for a few
moments, "Do you like dear papa's picture? I saw him make it. Is it
you?"
The eager, wondering question sent a pang through three breasts, but not
another word was uttered, till the invalid-chair and its attendants had
passed through the door close by.
It was the child who broke the silence just as Cornel had stolen her
hand to her husband's side to press his with a long, firm, trusting
grasp.
"Why did that lady cry when she kissed me, mamma? I know:" the child
added quickly. "It was because that poor gentleman is so ill."
It was the winter of the same year when Armstrong was seated by his
studio fire with his child upon his knee, and Cornel upon the rug, with
the warm light of the fire upon her cheek--not in the old studio, but
the great, artistically furnished salon in Kensington. The door opened,
and a gruff voice exclaimed--
"May I come in?"
The child uttered a cry of delight, sprang from her father's knee, and
dashed across the studio, to begin dragging forward the rough grey-beard
in a shabby velvet coat, and soft black hat.
He raised her in his arms, and bore her forward caressingly, to sit
chatting for some time. Then Cornel rose and took the child's hand.
"Come, dear," she said. "Your tea-time."
"No, no. I want to stop with Uncle Joe."
"Uncle Joe wants to talk to papa about business," said Cornel, with a
nod and a smile, as she drew the little one away. "You shall come in to
dessert if you are good."
She nodded, smiling at the rough-looking old friend, and then tripped
out playfully with the child.
"Light your pipe, old man," said Armstrong. "Is it business?"
"Yes. Your wife reads my face like a book. Have you seen to-day's
paper?"
"No. Been growling all day at the bad light and playing with Tiny."
"Read that, then."
Pacey passed a crumpled newspaper, folded small, and under the Paris
news Armstrong read--
"Mú Leronde has been appointed French Consul at Constantinople, and
leaves Marseilles by the Messageries Maritimes steamer _Corne d'Or_ on
Friday."
"Well, I am glad. Hang it, Joe, I could find it in my heart to run over
to Paris to have one dinner with him, and say `Good-bye.'"
"No time," said Pacey gruffly. "Now read that." He took back the paper
and doubled it again, so that the front page was outward, and pointed to
the column of deaths.
Armstrong started, and for some moments held the paper with his eyes
fixed upon his friend, in whose countenance he seemed to divine what was
to come.
He was in no wise surprised, when he looked down, to find the name
Dellatoria, and he began to read the announcement with the remembrance
that the Conte's face, when they last met, bore the stamp of impending
death; but he was not prepared for what he did read. The type was
blurred, and the paper quivered a little as he saw as through a mist the
name Valentina, the age thirty, Rome, and then the last words stood out
clearly--"Only surviving the Conte Dellatoria four days."
"Chapter the last, boy," said Pacey, taking back the paper, and folding
it tightly before replacing it in his breast pocket.
"Yes," said Armstrong slowly, as he mentally looked backward through the
golden mists of six years, "chapter the last."
The End.