The Tiger Lily

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 —

“M. 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