The Tiger Lily

“Well, I’ll see her. Where does she live?”

“Leather Lane way, sir.”

“Address?”

“Ah, that I don’t know, sir. I b’leeve it’s her father as does the business and takes the money.”

“He is her father?”

“Oh yes, sir, it’s all square. I’m told they’re very ’spectable people. Old man’s quite the seedy furren gent, and the gal orful stand-offish.”

“Tell him to come and bring his daughter. If I don’t like her, I’ll pay for one sitting and she can go – ”

“Eight, sir; and speaking ’onest, sir, I do hope as she will turn out all right.”

“Thank you. There’s a crown for your trouble.”

“Raly, sir, that ain’t nessary,” said “The Emperor,” holding out his hand. – “Oh, well, sir, if you will be so gen’rous, why, ’tain’t for me to stop you. – Good mornin’, sir, good mornin’.”

Chapter Twelve.

The New Model

Two days passed, and Dale was standing, brush in hand, before his canvas, thinking. He had made up his mind to trust to his imagination to a great extent for the finishing of Juno’s figure: this, with the many classic sketches he had made in Greece and Rome, would, he believed, enable him to be pretty well independent. He was in better spirits, for he had heard nothing from Portland Place, and flattered himself that the impression which had troubled him was growing fainter.

“Come in,” he cried, as there was a tap at the door, and Keren-Happuch appeared, evidently fresh from a study in black-lead, and holding a card between a finger and thumb, guarded by her apron.

“Here’s a model, sir, and she give me this.”

Dale took a very dirty card, which looked as if it had been for some time in an old waistcoat pocket. Printed thereon were the words – “D. Jaggs. Head and face. Roman fathers, etc,” and written on the back in pencil, in Jaggs’ cramped hand —

“Signora Azatchy Figgers.”

“Where is she, Miranda?”

“On the front door mat, sir. And please, Mr Dale, sir, mayn’t I bring you some beef-tea?”

“No, thank you, Miranda. Bring up the visitor instead.”

“Oh, dear! he do worry me,” muttered Keren-Happuch. “I do hope he ain’t going into a decline.”

Dale smiled at the dirty card, and waited for the entrance of the new model, who was shown in directly by the grimy maid, and immediately, in a quick, jerky, excited way, looked sharply round the room before turning her face to the artist as the girl closed the door.

On his side he gazed with cold indifference at his visitor, who, after taking a couple of steps forward, stopped short, and he saw that she was rather tall, wore a closely fitting bonnet, over which a thick dark Shetland wool veil was drawn, and was draped from head to foot in a long black cloak, which had evidently seen a good deal of service.

“Signora Azacci?” said Dale, glancing at the card again, and making a good shot at her name.

It was evidently correct, for the woman said, in a husky voice, as if suffering from intense nervousness —

“Si, si.”

“You are willing to stand for me – for this picture?” said Dale, scanning her closely, but learning nothing respecting her figure on account of the cloak; and he spoke very coldly, for the woman’s actions on entering struck him as being angular and awkward; now they were jerky, as she raised her hands to her temples.

“No Inglese, signore,” she said then, excitedly; and again, after an embarrassed pause, “Parlate Italiano? – No?”

“No,” said Dale, shaking his head.

Her hands again came from beneath her cloak in a despairing gesture. Then, placing one to her forehead, she looked round at the lumber of paintings and properties, as if seeking for a way to express herself, till her eyes lit upon the great uncovered canvas. Bending forward in a quick, alert way, she uttered a low, peculiar cry, and almost ran to it, leaned forward again, as if examining, and then, with extreme rapidity, pointed to the blank place in the picture where Lady Dellatoria’s face stood out weirdly. She then took a few quick steps aside from where Dale stood, frowning and annoyed at what seemed to be a hopeless waste of time. Then, with a rapid movement, she unclasped the cloak, swept it from her shoulders, and holding it only with her left hand, let it fall in many folds to the floor, while as she stood before him now in a plainly made, tightly fitting black cloth princess dress, she instinctively fell into almost the very attitude Dale had in his mind’s eye, and he saw at once that her figure must be all that he wished.

“Bravo!” he cried involuntarily, and with an artist’s pleasure in an intelligence that grasps his ideas.

At the word “Bravo!” the woman turned her head quickly.

“Excellent,” he continued; “that promises well.”

Her face was hidden, but as she shrugged up her shoulders nearly to her ears, and raised her hands with the fingers contracted and toward him, he felt that she must be wrinkling up her forehead and making a grimace expressive of her vexation.

“Yes, it is tiresome,” he said; “but we don’t want to talk. I dare say I can make you understand. But I’ve forgotten every word I picked up in Rome.”

“Ah!” cried the woman, with quick pantomimic action, as she changed her attitude again, and leant toward him – “Roma – Roma?”

“Si, si.”

“My lord has been in Rome?” she cried in Italian.

“I think I understand that,” muttered Dale, “and if your form proves to be equal to your quick intelligence, my picture will be painted. Now then, signora, this is a language I dare say you can understand. Here are two half-crowns. For two hours – ‘due ore.’”

“Si, si,” she cried eagerly, and she almost snatched the coins and held them to her veiled lips.

“Silver keys to your understanding, madam,” he muttered, taking a mahlstick from where it stood against a chair. “Humph! I begin to be hopeful. Yes, more than hopeful,” he continued, as the model was rapidly drawing off her shabby, carefully mended gloves, before taking a little common portemonnaie from her pocket and dropping the coins in one by one. Then aloud, as he pointed with the mahlstick, “La bella mano.”

“Aha!” she cried quickly. But she gave her shoulders another shrug, and shook the purse, saying sadly – “Pel povero padre.”

”‘Padre.’ For her father,” muttered Dale. “Not so sordid as I thought, poor thing. Will you remove your veil?”

She leaned toward him.

“I said, Will you remove your veil? – Hang it, what is veil in Italian? ‘Velum’ in Latin.”

She was evidently trying hard to grasp his meaning, and at the Latin “velum” she clapped her beautifully formed hands to her veil.

“No, no!” she cried haughtily; and then volubly, in Italian – “I am compelled to do this for bread. I do not know you, neither need you know me. My face is not beautiful, and we are strangers. You wish to paint my figure. I will retain my veil.”

“I do not understand you, signora, and yet I have a glimmering of what you wish to express,” said Dale, as gravely as if his visitor could grasp every word. “There, you seem to be a lady, and – hang it all, this is very absurd, my preaching to you, and you to me. I wish Pacey were here. He speaks Italian like a native. No, poor lass, I suppose they must be starving nearly, or she would not stoop to this. I don’t wish Joe Pacey were here.”

Then quietly bowing as if acceding to her wishes, he made a sign to his visitor to take her attention, and as she watched him from behind her thick veil, he walked to the entrance and turned the key.

Crossing the studio to the farther door, he threw it open, and then drew forward from the end of the great room a large folding-screen, which he placed at the back of the dais and opened wide.