The Tiger Lily

Pacey was standing with his hands behind him, gazing at the face upon the canvas. He did not stir when Dale took a couple of steps forward into the great, gloomy, darkening room, waiting for an angry outburst of reproaches.

A full minute must have elapsed before a single word was uttered, and then Pacey said slowly, and in the voice of one deeply moved —

“Is she as beautiful as this?”

Dale started, and looked wonderingly at his friend.

“I say, is she as beautiful as this?” repeated Pacey, still without turning his head.

“Yes: I have hardly done her justice.”

“A woman to win empires – to bring the world to her feet,” said Pacey slowly. ”‘Beautiful as an angel’ is a blunder, lad. Such as she cannot be of Heaven’s mould, but sent to drag men down to perdition. Armstrong, lad, I pity you. I suppose there are men who would come scathless through such a trial as this, but they must be few.”

There was another long pause, and Pacey still gazed at the luminous face upon the canvas.

“Is that all you have to say?” said Dale at last.

“Yes, that is all, man. How can I attack you now? I knew that you had been tempted, and, in spite of appearances, I believed your word. I thought you had not fallen, and that I had been too hasty in all I said. Now I can only say once more, I pity you, and feel that I must forgive.”

Dale drew a deep breath, which came sighing through his teeth as if he were in pain.

“Let’s talk Art now, boy,” said Pacey, taking out his pipe, and, going to the tall mantelpiece, he took down the tobacco-jar, filled the bowl, lit up, and began to smoke with feverish haste, as he threw one leg over a chair, resting his hands upon the back, and gazing frowningly at the face, while Dale stood near him with folded arms.

“From the earliest days men gained their inspiration in painting and sculpture from that which moved them to the core,” said Pacey, slowly and didactically. “Yes, I believe in inspiration, lad. We can go on working, and studying, and painting, as you Yankees say, ‘our level best’, but something more is needed to produce a face like that.”

He was silent again, and sat as if fascinated by the work before him.

“What am I to say to you, lad?” he continued at last. “It is like sacrificing everything – honour, manhood, all a man should hold dear, to his art; but as a brother artist, what am I to say? I am dumb as a man, for I have seen her here and felt her presence. There was no need for me to look upon her face. It is beautiful indeed. I say that as the man. As the artist who has done so little for myself – ”

“So much for others,” said Dale quickly.

“Well, you fellows all believe in me and the hints I give, and some of you have made your mark pretty deep. Yes, as the man who has studied art these five and twenty years, I say this is wonderful. It did not take you long?”

“No.”

“Of course not. There is life and passion in every touch. You must finish that, my lad, and we will keep it quiet. No one must see that but us till you send it in. Armstrong, boy, you are one of the great ones of earth. I knew that you had a deal in you, but this is all a master’s touch.”

“You think it is so good, then?” said Dale sadly. “Think it good? You know how good it is. Better, perhaps, than you will ever paint again; but would to God, my lad, that you had not sunk so low to rise so high.”

Dale sank into a chair, and let his face fall forward upon his hands, while Pacey went on slowly, still gazing at the canvas.

“Yes,” he said, “it wanted that. All the rest is excellent. That bit of imitation of Turner comes out well. The man wants more feeling in the face – a little more of the unmasked – but this dwarfs all the rest, as it should. Armstrong, lad, it is the picture of the year. There,” he continued, “my pipe’s out, and I think I’ll go. But be careful, lad. Don’t touch that face more than you can help, and only when she is here.”

Dale laughed bitterly.

“Why do you laugh? Is it such bad advice?”

“Yes.”

And he partly told his friend how the work was done – leaving out all allusion to Cornel – Pacey hearing him quietly to the end.

“I am not surprised,” he said at last. “What you say only endorses my ideas. Good-bye, lad; I’ll go.”

He rose from the chair, tapped the ashes out of his pipe, looking at them thoughtfully, and picked up his hat from where he had cast it upon the dusty floor. He then turned to face Dale, holding out his hand, but the artist did not see it, and sat buried in thought.

“Good-bye, old lad,” said Pacey again.

Dale sprang to his feet, saw the outstretched hand, and drew back, shaking his head.

“Shake hands,” said Pacey again, more loudly.

“No,” said Dale bitterly; “you cannot think of me as of old.”

“No; but more warmly perhaps, for there is pity mingled with the old friendship that I felt. I came here this afternoon, as schoolboys say, to make it up. I was in ignorance then; now I have eaten of the bitter fruit and know. Armstrong, lad, knowing all this, and as one who, with all his reckless Bohemianism and worldliness, has kept up one little habit taught by her long dead, how can I say ‘forgive me my trespasses’ to-night if, with such a temptation as yours, I can’t forgive?”

Dale gazed at him wildly, and Pacey went on.

“The bond between us two is stronger now, lad, so strong that I think it would take death to snap the cord. Good-bye. If you do not see me soon, it is not that we are no longer friends.”

Then their hands joined in a firm grip, and Pacey slowly left the room, muttering to himself as he passed out into the square —

“Fallen so low, to rise so high. Yes, I must save him, and there is only one way in which it can be done.”

Chapter Eleven.

Jaggs Makes a Discovery

“Their scent sickens me,” Dale cried passionately, as he committed them to the flames unread, for he frankly owned to himself that he dare not read one, lest he should falter in the resolution he had made.

For he had struggled hard to fight against his fate, and though tied and tangled by the threads which still clung to him, he had mockingly told himself that he was not mad enough to venture into the spider’s web again.

Then, twice over, he had hastily drawn a curtain in front of his great picture upon Keren-Happuch coming up to the studio to bring in a card – the Conte’s – and bit his lip with rage and mortification as that gentleman was shown up, in company with Lady Grayson.

The visit on the first occasion was to complain about Dale’s curt refusal to go on with the picture; while the young artist haltingly gave as his reason that it was impossible for him to complete Lady Dellatoria’s portrait on account of a large work that he was compelled to finish. And all the while Lady Grayson, with the reckless effrontery of her nature, looked at him mockingly, her eyes laughingly telling him that he was a poor weak coward, and that she could read him through and through.

Then came the second visit with the wretched Italian, blindly, or knowingly, to use him as a screen for his own amours, almost imploring him to come.

“Lady Dellatoria is so disappointed,” he said volubly. “She takes the matter quite to heart. No doubt, Mr Dale, there is a little vanity in the matter – the desire to be seen in the exhibition, painted by the famous young American artist.”

“There are plenty of men, sir, who would gladly undertake the commission,” said Dale angrily. “I beg that you will not ask me again.”

“Mr Dale, you are cruel,” cried Lady Grayson. “Our poor Contessa will be desolate. Let me plead for you to come and finish the work.”

“Aha! yes,” cried the Conte, wrinkling up his face, though it was full enough before of premature lines. “A lady pleads. You cannot refuse her.”

Dale gave the woman a look so full of contempt and disgust that she coloured and then turned away, shrugging her shoulders.

“He is immovable,” she said to the Conte.