Читать книгу The Tiger Lily - Fenn George Manville - Страница 6

Three weeks soon pass in busy London, but to Armstrong Dale the twenty-one days which ensued after the scene at Portland Place were like months of misery.

Stern in his resolve to avoid all further entanglement, and to keep faith to her whom in his heart of hearts he loved, he shut himself up in his studio, and made a desperate attack upon his great mythological picture, a broad high canvas, at which Keren-Happuch stared open-mouthed, when she went into the studio every morning “to do Mr Dale up” – a feat which consisted in brushing the fluff about from one corner to another, and resulted in a good deal of sniffing, and the lodging of more dust upon casts, ledges, furniture, and above all, upon Keren-Happuch’s by no means classical features, where it adhered, consequent upon a certain labour-and-exercise-produced moisture which exuded from the maiden’s skin.

“I can’t help looking smudgy,” she used to say; and directly after, “Comin’, mum,” for her name was shouted in an acid voice by Mrs Dunster, the elderly lady who let the studio and rooms in Fitzroy Square to any artist who would take them for a time.

But the poor little slavey was Keren-Happuch to that lady alone. To Armstrong she was always Miranda, on account of her friend, the dirty-white cat of the kitchen; to his artist friends such names as seemed good to them, and suited to their bizarre thoughts.

To Armstrong one morning came Keren-Happuch, as he was painting out his previous day’s work upon his great picture, and she stood staring with her mouth open.

“Oh, Mr Dale, sir, what a shame! What would Miss Montmorency say?”

“What about, Miranda?”

“You a-smudging out her beautiful figure as you took such pains to paint. Why, she was a-talking to me ’bout it, sir, when she was a-goin’ yesterday, and said she was goin’ to be Queen June-ho at the ’cademy.”

“But she will not be, Miranda,” said Armstrong sadly; “it was execrable. Ah, my little lass, what a pity it is that you could not stand for the figure.”

“Me, sir! Oh, my!” cried the girl, giggling. “Why, I’m a perfect sight. And, oh! – I couldn’t, you know. I mustn’t stop, sir. I on’y come to tell you I was opening the front top winder, and see your funny friend, Mr Pacey, go into Smithson’s. He always do before he comes here.”

“Keren-Happuch!” came faintly from below.

“Comin’, mum,” cried the girl, and she dashed out of the studio.

“Poor, patient little drudge!” said Armstrong, half aloud. “Well washed, neatly clothed, spoken to kindly, and not worked to death, what a good faithful little lassie she would be for a house. I wish Cornel could see her, and see her with my eyes.”

He turned sharply, for there was a step – a heavy step – on the stair, and the artist’s sad face brightened.

“Good little prophetess too. Here’s old Joe at last. Where’s the incense-box?”

He took a tobacco-jar from a cupboard and placed it upon the nearest table, just as the door opened and a big, heavy, rough, grey-haired man entered, nodded, and, placing his soft felt hat upon his heavy stick, dropped into an easy-chair.

“Welcome, little stranger!” cried Armstrong merrily. “Why tarried the wheels of your chariot so long?”

There was no answer, but the visitor fixed his deeply set piercing eyes upon his brother artist.

“Was there a smoke somewhere last night, old lad, and the whisky of an evil brew?”

“No!” said the visitor shortly.

“Why, Joe, old lad, what’s the matter? Coin run out?”

“No!”

“But there is something, old fellow,” said Armstrong. “Can I help you?” And, passing his brush into the hand which held his palette, he grasped the other by the shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” cried the visitor angrily, and he struck Armstrong’s hand aside.

There was a pause, and then the latter said gravely —

“Joe, old fellow, I don’t want to pry into your affairs, but if I can counsel or help you, don’t shrink from asking. Can I do anything?”

“Yes – much.”

“Hah! that’s better,” cried Armstrong, as if relieved. “What’s the good of an Orestes, if P. does not come to him when he is in a hole! But you are upset. There’s no hurry. Fill your pipe, and give me a few words about my confounded picture while you calm down. Joe, old man, it’s mythological, and it’s going to turn out a myth. Isn’t there a woman in London who could sit for my Juno?”

“Damn all women!” cried the visitor, in a deep hoarse tone.

“Well, that’s rather too large an order, old fellow. Come, fill your pipe. Now, let’s have it. What’s wrong – landlady?”

The eyes of the man to whom he had been attracted from his first arrival in London, the big, large-hearted, unsuccessful artist, who yet possessed more ability than any one he knew, and whose advice was eagerly sought by a large circle of rising painters, were fixed upon him so intently that the colour rose in Armstrong Dale’s cheeks, and, in spite of his self-control, the younger man looked conscious.

“Then it’s all true,” said Pacey bitterly.

“What’s all true?” cried Dale.

“Armstrong, lad, I passed a bitter night, and I thought I would come on.”

The young artist was silent, but his brow knit, and there was a twitching about the corner of his eyes.

“I sat smoking hard – ounces of strong tobacco; and in the clouds I saw a frank, good-looking young fellow, engaged to as sweet and pure a woman as ever breathed, coming up to this hell or heaven, London, whichever one makes of it, and going wrong. Ulysses among the Sirens, lad; and they sang too sweetly for him – that is, one did. The temptation was terribly strong, and he went under.”

Armstrong’s brow was dark as night now, and he drew his breath hard.

“Do you know what that meant, Armstrong? You are silent. I’ll tell you. It meant breaking the heart of a true woman, and the wrecking of a man. He had ability – as a painter – and he could have made a name, but as soon as he woke from his mad dream, all was over. The zest had gone out of life. You know the song, lad – ‘A kiss too long – and life is never the same again.’”

“I made you my friend, Joe Pacey,” said Armstrong huskily, “but by what right do you dare to come preaching your parables here?”

“Parable, man? It is the truth. Eight? I have a right to tell you what wrecked my life – the story of twenty years ago.”

“Joe!”

There was a gripping of hands.

“Ah! That’s better. I tell you because history will repeat itself. Armstrong, lad, you have often talked to me of the one who is waiting and watching across the seas. Look at me – the wreck I am. For God’s sake – for hers – your own, don’t follow in my steps.”

Neither spoke for a few minutes, and then with his voice changed —

“I can’t humbug, Joe,” said Armstrong. “Of course I understand you. You mean about – my commission.”

“Yes, and I did warn you, lad. It is the talk of every set I’ve been into lately. There is nothing against her, but her position with that miserable hound, Dellatoria, is well-known. He insults her with his mistresses time after time. Her beauty renders her open to scandal, and they say what I feared is true.”

“What? Speak out.”

“That she is madly taken with our handsome young artist.”

“They say that?”

“Yes, and I gave them the lie. Last night I had it, though more definitely. I was at the Van Hagues – all artistic London goes there, and a spiteful, vindictive woman contrived, by hints and innuendoes, as she knew I was your friend, to let me know the state of affairs.”

“Lady Grayson?”

“The same.”

“The Jezebel!”

“And worse, lad. But, Armstrong, my lad – I have come then too late?”

Pride and resentment kept Dale silent for a few moments, and then he said huskily —

“It is false.”

“But it is the talk of London, my lad, and it means when it comes to Dellatoria’s ears – Bah! a miserable organ-grinder by rights – endless trouble. Perhaps a challenge. Brutes who have no right to name the word honour yell most about their own, as they call it.”

“It is not true – or – there, I tell you it is not true.”

“Not true?”

For answer Armstrong walked to the side of the studio, took a large canvas from where it stood face to the wall, and turned it to show the Contessa’s face half painted.

“Good,” said Pacey involuntarily, “but – ”

“Don’t ask me any more, Joe,” said Dale. “Be satisfied that history is not going to repeat itself. I have declined to go on with the commission.”

“Armstrong, lad,” cried Pacey, springing from his seat, and clapping his hands on the young man’s shoulders to look him intently in the eyes. “Bah!” he literally roared, “and I spoiled my night’s rest, and – Here: got any whisky, old man? ’Bacco? Oh, here we are;” and he dragged a large black briar-root, well burned, from his breast and began to fill it. Then, taking a common box of matches from his pocket – a box he had bought an hour before from a beggar in the street, he threw himself back in the big chair, lifted one leg, and gave the match a sharp rub on his trousers, lit up, sending forth volumes of cloud, and in an entirely different tone of voice, said quite blusteringly —

“Now then, about that goddess canvas; let’s have a smell at it. Hah! yes, you want a Juno – a living, breathing divinity, all beauty, scorn, passion, hatred. No, my lad, there are plenty of flesh subjects who would do as well as one of Titian’s, and you could beat an Etty into fits; but there isn’t a model in London who could sit for the divine face you want. Your only chance is to evolve it from your mind as you paint another head.”

“Yes; perhaps you are right,” said Dale dreamily. “Sure I am. There, go in and win, my lad. You’ll do it. – Hah! that’s good whisky. – My dear old fellow, I might have known. I ought to have trusted you.”

“Don’t say any more about it.”

“But I must, to ease my mind. I ought to have known that my young Samson would not yield to any Delilah, and be shorn of his manly locks. – Yes, that’s capital whisky. I haven’t had a drop since yesterday afternoon. A toast: ‘Confound the wrong woman.’ Hang them,” he continued after a long draught, “they’re always coming to you with rosy apples in their hands or cheeks, and saying, ‘Have a bite,’ You don’t want to paint portraits. You can paint angels from clay to bring you cash and fame. Aha, my goddess of beauty and brightness, I salute thee, Bella Donna, in Hippocrene!”

“Oh, do adone, Mr Pacey,” said the lady addressed to wit, Keren-Happuch. “I never do know what you mean, I declare,” – (sniff) – “I wouldn’t come into the studio when you’re here if I wasn’t obliged. Please, Mr Dale, sir, here’s that French Mossoo gentleman. He says, his compliments, and are you too busy to see him?”

“No, Hebe the fair, he is not,” cried Pacey. “Tell him there is a symposium on the way, and he is to ascend.”

“A which, sir? Sym – sym – ”

“Sym – whisky, Bella Donna.”

The girl glanced at Dale, who nodded his head, and she hurried out. The door opened the next minute to admit a slight little man, most carefully dressed, and whose keen, refined features, essentially French, were full of animation.

“Ah, you smoke, and are at rest,” he said. “Then I am welcome. Dear boys, both of you. And the picture?”

He stood, cigarette in teeth, gazing at the large canvas for a few moments.

“Excellent! So good!” he cried. “Ah, Dale, my friend, you would be great, but you do so paint backwards.”

“Eh?” cried Pacey.

“I mean, my faith, he was much more in advance a month ago. There was a goddess here. Where is she now?”

“Behind the clouds,” said Pacey, forming one of a goodly size; and the others helped in a more modest way, as an animated conversation ensued upon art, Pacey giving his opinions loudly, and with the decision of a judge, while the young Frenchman listened to his criticism, much of it being directed at a flower-painting he had in progress.

The debate was at its height, when the little maid again appeared with a note in her hand.

“Aha!” cried Pacey, who was in the highest spirits – “maid of honour to the duchess – the flower of her sex again. Hah! how sweet the perfume of her presence wafted to my sense of smell.”

“Oh, do adone, please, Mr Pacey, sir. You’re always making game of me. I’ll tell missus you call her the duchess – see if I don’t. It ain’t me as smells: it’s this here letter, quite strong. Please, Mr Dale, sir, it was left by that lady in her carriage.”

“Keren-Happuch!” came from below stairs as the girl handed Dale the note; and his countenance changed as he involuntarily turned his eyes to his friend.

“Keren-Happuch!” came again.

“Comin’, mum,” shouted the girl, thrusting her head for a moment through the ajar door, and turning back again.

“Said there wasn’t no answer, sir.”

“Keren-Happuch!”

“A call from the Duchess of Fitzroy Square,” said Pacey merrily.

“No, sir, it was that Hightalian lady, her as is painted there,” said the girl innocently, and pointing to the canvas leaning against the wall, as she ran out.

“Confound her!” roared Pacey, springing to his feet, and turning upon his friend, with his eyes flashing beneath his shaggy brows; “is there no such thing as truth in this cursed world?”

“What do you mean?” cried Dale hotly, as he crushed the scented note in his hand.

“Samson and Delilah,” said Pacey, with savage mockery in his tones. “Here, Leronde, lad,” he continued, taking up his glass, “a toast for you – Vive la gallantry. Bah!”

He lifted the glass high above his head, but did not drink. He gave Armstrong a fierce, contemptuous look, and dashed the glass into the grate, where it was shivered to atoms.