The Tiger Lily

Armstrong Dale walked up and down his grim-looking, soot-smudged studio, as if he had determined to wear a track on one side similar to that made by a wild beast in his cage.

“I won’t go again,” he said; “it’s a kind of madness. Heavens! how beautiful she is! And that man – that wretched, effete, miserable little piece of conceit, with his insolent criticisms of my work. I felt as if I could strangle him. If it had not been for her appealing looks, I should have had a row with him before now. I will not put up with it. But how she seems to hate him; how she – ”

“Bah! Brute! Idiot! Ass! Conceited fool! Because nature has given you a decent face, can’t a handsome woman look at you without your thinking she admires you – can’t she speak gently, and in her graceful refined way, without your thinking that she is in love with you?”

“It’s all right, Cornel, my darling! I’ve been a fool – a conceited fool; but I’ve got your sweet, innocent little face always before me, the remembrance of your dear arms about my neck, and your kisses – armour, all of them, to guard me against folly. Pish! Fancy and conceit! I will go, finish my painting, get it exhibited if I can, and pile up Philistine gold as spoil to bear home to her who is to be my very own.”

It was the third time of making this declaration, and, full of his self-confidence, Dale made his way for the fourth time to Portland Place, to find his pulses, which had been accelerating their rate, calm down at once, for his reception by the Contessa was perfect, but there was a mingling of annoyance with his satisfaction on finding that his hostess was not alone.

Lady Grayson, one of Valentina’s greatest intimates, was there, a handsome, arch-looking woman, widow of a wealthy old general, who, after a long life of warfare in the East, had commenced another in the West, but this was not even of seven years’ duration before he fell.

Lady Grayson smiled sweetly upon the artist as he entered; and he felt that there was as much meaning in her words as in her looks.

“I forgot this was your sitting day, Tina. Do you know, I thought ladies always had to go to an artist’s studio to be painted. There, I suppose you two want to be alone?”

“Pray, don’t go,” said Valentina calmly. “I do not suppose Mr Dale will mind you being present.”

“I? Not at all,” said Armstrong. “It will not make any difference to me.”

“Indeed!” said the lady archly, “I thought you might both want to talk.”

Armstrong Dale turned to his palette and brushes; and, as the Contessa took up her position, he crossed to the window, half-closed the shutters, and drew a curtain, so as to get the exact light upon his sitter, whose eyes had met those of her dearest friend, and a silent skirmish, none the less sharp for no words being spoken, went on.

Dale returned to the front of his easel, and after a few words of request to his sitter respecting her position, to which she responded by a pained look, which made him shiver, he began to paint.

“Oh, how clever!” cried Lady Grayson, who had resumed her seat.

“Then she is waiting to see Cesare,” thought the Contessa, smiling at her friend.

“Did you mean that dab I just made with my brush, Lady Grayson?” said Armstrong coldly.

“Fie! to speak so slightingly of your work. Dab, indeed! why, I have had lessons in painting and ought to know. Every touch you give that canvas shows real talent.”

“And with all due respect, Lady Grayson, I, as a man who has studied hard in New York, Paris, Rome, and here in London, confidently say that you are no judge.”

“I declare I am, sir,” cried Lady Grayson merrily. “The fact is, you are too modest. – Don’t you think he is far too modest, dear?”

“I am debarred from entering into the discussion,” said the Contessa, with a fixed smile.

“Then I must do all the talking. – Capital! The portrait grows more like at every touch. By the way, Mr Dale, how is your big picture getting on – the one I saw at your studio?”

In spite of her self-command, Valentina turned pale, and a flash darted from her eyes.

She at his studio!

Then she drew a long breath, the light in her eyes grew fixed, and there was a peculiar hardening in her smile, as Armstrong went on painting, and said calmly —

“The large mythological study I showed you and the Conte?”

“Yes, that one,” said Lady Grayson, who, in spite of her assurance, did not dare to look at her friend, whose smile grew a little harder now, though there was a feeling of triumph glowing at her heart, as she detected her friend’s slip.

“Badly,” said Armstrong quietly. “I beg your pardon, Lady Dellatoria; that smile is too hard. Are you fatigued?”

“Oh no,” she replied; and the smile he was trying to transfer to the canvas came back with a look which he avoided, and he continued hastily —

“I cannot satisfy myself with my sitters. I want a good – a beautiful, intense-looking – face, full of majesty, passion, and refinement; but the models are all so hard and commonplace. I can find beautiful women to sit, but there is a vulgarity in their faces where I want something ethereal or spiritual.”

“Why not get the Contessa to sit?”

“Or Lady Grayson?” said Valentina scornfully.

“Oh, I should sit for Mr Dale with pleasure.”

“My dear Henriette, how can you be so absurd?”

“Oh, but I do not mean until you have quite done with him, dear.”

“You would not do,” said Dale bluntly. – “Quite still now, please, Lady Dellatoria.”

“Alack and alas! not to be beautiful. But would your present sitter do?”

“I should not presume to ask Lady Dellatoria to sit for a study in a picture to be publicly exhibited,” said the young man coldly.

“But you – so famous. – Ah, here is the Conte!”

“Yes; what is it?” said Dellatoria, entering. “Want me?”

“I knew it,” thought the Contessa. “It was an appointment.”

“Yes, to judge. That picture of Mr Dale’s. You know – the one we saw that day at his studio.”

The Conte’s eyes contracted a little, and he glanced at his wife, whose face was calm and smiling.

“Oh yes, I remember,” he said – then, in an aside, “You little fool. – What about it?” he added aloud.

“Mr Dale can’t find a model who would do for Juno. I was suggesting that dearest Valentina should sit.”

“Very good of you, Lady Grayson,” said the Conte shortly; “but her ladyship does not sit for artists.”

“And Mr Dale does not wish her ladyship to do so, sir,” said the artist, as haughtily as the Conte.

“There, I’ve said something wrong,” cried Lady Grayson. “Poor me! It’s time I went. I had no business to stay and hinder the painting. Good morning, Mr Dale. Good-bye, Valentina, dear. Ask the Conte to forgive me.”

She bent down and kissed the beautiful face, which did not wince, but there was war between two pairs of eyes. Then, turning round, she held out her hand.

“Good-bye, dreadful man. I’m too awfully sorry I cannot give you a lift on my way back to the park.”

“No, thanks. By-the-by, yes; I want to go to Albert Gate. Would it be taking you out of your way?”