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

A noble-looking specimen of humanity, with a grand grizzly head, and strongly marked aquiline features, lit up by deeply set, piercing eyes, got out of a four-wheeler at Number 409 Portland Place, knocking off a very shabby hat in the process.

“Mind the nap, guv’nor,” said the battered-looking driver with a laugh, as his fare stooped to pick up the fallen edifice; and as he spoke, the man’s look took in the ill-fitting coat and patched boots of him whom he had driven only from Fitzroy Square.

“Not the first time that’s been down, cabby. Hand ’em off.”

A minute later, Daniel Jaggs, familiarly known in art circles as “The Emperor,” and by visitors to the Royal Academy from his noble face, which had appeared over the bodies of noble Romans and heroes of great variety, stood on the pavement with an easel under one arm, a large blank canvas under the other, and a flat japanned box of oil colours and case of brushes held half hidden by beard, beneath his chin.

He walked up to the door of the great mansion, whose window-sills and portico were gay with fresh flowers, and gave a vigorous tug at the bell.

The double doors flew open almost directly, and “The Emperor” was faced by a portly butler, who was flanked by a couple of men in livery.

“Oh! the painters traps,” said the former. “Look here, my good fellow; you should have rung the other bell. Step inside.”

“The Emperor” obeyed, and, leaving the visitor waiting in the handsome hall, in company with the footman and under-butler, who looked rather superciliously at the well-worn garments of the artist’s model, the out-of-livery servant walked slowly up the broad staircase to the drawing-room, and as slowly returned, to stand beckoning.

“You are to bring them up yourself,” he said haughtily.

Daniel Jaggs placed his hat upon one of the crest-blazoned hall chairs, loaded himself well with the artistic impedimenta, and then went forward to the foot of the stairs up which the butler was leading the way, when, hearing a sound, he turned sharply.

“Here! Hi!” he cried loudly; “what are you going to do with that ’at?”

For one of the footmen was putting it out of sight, disgusted with the appearance of the dirty lining.

“Hush! Recollect where you are,” whispered the butler. “Her ladyship will hear.”

“But that’s my best ’at,” grumbled the model, and then he subsided into silence as he was ushered into a magnificently furnished room; the door was closed behind him, and he stood staring round, thinking of backgrounds, when there was the rustling of silk, and “The Emperor” was dazzled, staring, as he told himself, at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

Valentina, Contessa Dellatoria, was worthy of the man’s admiration as she stood there with her dark eyes half veiled by their long lashes, in all the proud matured beauty of a woman of thirty, who could command every resource of jewel and robe to heighten the charms with which nature had liberally endowed her. She was beautiful; she knew it; and at those moments, eager with anticipations which had heightened the colour in her creamy cheeks, and the lustre in her eyes, she stood ready to be amused as she thoroughly grasped the meaning of the man’s astonished gaze.

“You have brought those from Mr. Dale, have you not?” she said at last, in a rich, soft voice.

“Yes, my lady. I ’ave, my lady. The heasel and canvas, my lady.”

“Perhaps you had better bring them into this room.”

“Yes, my lady—of course, my lady,” said the model eagerly, as he blundered after the Contessa, “The Emperor’s” rather shambling movements, being due to a general looseness of joint, in no wise according with the majesty of his head and face.

“Yes; about there. That will do; they are sure to be moved.”

“Oh yes, my lady, on account of the light. Mr. Dale’s very partickler.”

“Indeed? Will he be here soon?”

“Direc’ly, I should say, my lady. He bordered me to bring on his traps.”

“From his studio?” said the lady, sinking into a chair, and taking a purse from a little basket on a table.

“The Emperor’s” eyesight was very good, and the movement suggested pleasant things. The lady, too, seemed disposed to question him, and he winked to himself mentally, as he glanced at the beautiful face before him, thought of his employer’s youth and good looks, and then had sundry other thoughts, such as might occur to a man of a very ordinary world.

But his hands were not idle; they were as busy as his thoughts, and he spread the legs of the easel, and altered the position of the pegs ready for the canvas.

“Will you take this—for your trouble?” came in that soft, rich, thrilling voice.

“Oh no—thank you, my lady—that ain’t necessary,” said the man hastily, as his fingers closed over the coin extended with a smile by fingers glittering with jewels.—“A suv, by jingo,” he added to himself.

“Are you Mr. Dale’s servant?”

“No, ma’am—my lady. Oh, dear, no. An old friend—that is, you know, I sit for him—and stand. I’m in a many of his pictures.”

“Oh, I see. He takes your portrait?”

“Well, no, my lady; portraits is quite another line. I meant for his gennery pictures.”

“Genre?”

“Yes, my lady. I was standing for Crackticus that day when you and his lordship come to the studio.”

“Indeed? I did not see you.”

“No, my lady. I had to go into the next room. You see I was a hancient Briton, and not sootable for or’nary society ’cept in a picture.—I think that’ll do, my lady. He’ll alter it to his taste.”

“Yes, but—er—does Mr. Dale paint many portraits of ladies?” said the Contessa, detaining the model as he made as if to depart.

“Oh no, my lady. I never knew him do such a thing afore. He never works away from his studio, and he went on a deal about having to come here—er—that is—of course, he did not know,” added the man hastily.

The Contessa smiled.

“But he has painted the human countenance a great deal? I mean the faces of ladies. There were several of nymphs in his Academy picture this year—beautiful women.”

“The Emperor” smiled and shook his head.

“On’y or’nary models, my lady. He made ’em look beautiful. That’s art, my lady.”

“Then he had sitters for that picture?” she asked, rather eagerly.

“Oh yes, my lady; but Lor’ bless you! it isn’t much you’d think of them. He’s a doing a picture now—a tayblow about Juno making a discovery over something. Her good man wasn’t quite what he ought to have been, my lady, and she’s in a reg’lar rage.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, my lady; and he tried all the reg’lar lady models—spent no end on ’em, but they none of ’em wouldn’t do.”

“Not beautiful enough?”

“He didn’t think so, my lady, though, as I told him, it was too much to expeck to get one as was perfeck. You see in art, to make our best studies, we has to do a deal of patching.”

“Painting the picture over and over again?”

“Your ladyship does not understand. It’s like this: many of our best tayblows of goddesses and nymphs is made up. One model does for the face, another for the arms and hands, another for busties and—I beg your ladyship’s pardon; I was only talking art.”

“I understand. I take a great deal of interest in the subject.”

“Thankye, my lady. I told Mr. Dale as it was expecting too much to get a perfeck woman for a model, for there wasn’t such a thing in nature. But, all hignorance, my lady, all hignorance. I hadn’t seen your ladyship then. I beg your ladyship’s pardon for being so bold.”

“The Emperor” had seen the dreamy dark eyes open wide and flash angrily, but the look changed back to the listless, half-contemptuous again, and the lady said with a smile—

“Granted.—That will do. I suppose you will fetch Mr. Dale’s easel when it is removed?”

“I hope so, my lady, and thank you kindly. So generous! Never forget it, and—oh! I beg your pardon, sir.”

“The Emperor” had been backing toward the door, and nearly came in contact with a short, slight, carefully dressed, middle-aged man—that is to say, he was about forty-five, looked sixty-five the last thing at night, and as near thirty-five as his valet could make him in the day.

He gazed keenly at the noble features of the man who towered over him, and “The Emperor” returned the gaze, noting, from a professional point of view, the rather classic Italian mould of the features, disfigured by a rather weak sensual mouth, and dark eyes too closely set.

“Two sizes larger, and what a Yago he would have made to my Brabantio,” muttered “The Emperor,” as he was let out by one of the footmen; and at the same moment Armstrong Dale, artist, strode up—a manly, handsome, carelessly dressed, typical Saxon Englishman in appearance, generations of his family, settled in America since the Puritan days, having undergone no change.

“Traps all there, Jaggs?”

“Yes, sir, everything,” said the man confidentially, “and oh! sir—”

“That will do. Say what you have to say when I return: I’m late. Take my card up to the Contessa,” he continued, turning sharply to the servant; and there was so much stern decision in his manner that the door was held wide, and the artist entered.

Meanwhile a few words passed in the drawing-room.

“Who’s that fellow, Tina?” said the man too small, in “The Emperor’s” estimation, for Iago.

The Contessa had sunk back in her lounge, and a listless, weary air had come over her face like a cloud, as she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders—

“Mr. Dale’s man.”

“Who the dickens is Mr. Dale?”

Twenty years of life in London society had so thoroughly Anglicised Conte Cesare Dellatoria, that his conversation had become perfectly insular, and the Italian accent was only noticeable at times.

“You know—the artist whom we visited.”

“Oh, him! I’d forgotten. That his litter?”

“Yes.”

“Humph! I haven’t much faith in English artists. Better have waited till we went to Rome in the winter. Why, Tina, you look lovely this morning. That dress suits you exactly, beloved one.”

He bent down and kissed the softly rounded cheek, with the effect that the lady’s dark brows rose slightly, but enough to make a couple of creases across her forehead. Then, as a dull, cracking noise, as of the giving of some form of stay or stiffening was heard, the gentleman rose upright quickly, and glanced at himself in one of the many mirrors.

“Well, make him do you justice. But no—he cannot.”

“You are amiable this morning,” said the lady contemptuously.

“Always most amiable in your presence, my queen,” he replied.

“Oh, I see! You are going out?”

“Yes, dearest. By the way, don’t wait lunch, and I shall not be back to dinner.”

“Do you dine with Lady Grayson?”

The Conte laughed.

“Delightful!” he cried. “Jealousy. And of her dearest, most confidential friend.”

“No,” said the lady quietly. “I have only one confidential friend.”

“Meaning me. Thank you, dearest.”

“Meaning myself,” said the lady to herself. Then haughtily: “Yes?”

This to one of the servants who brought in a card on a waiter.

“Caller?” exclaimed the Conte. “Here, stop a moment; I’ve an engagement;” and he hurried out through the back drawing-room, while the lady’s eyes closed a little more as she took the card from the silver waiter, and sat up, listening intently, as she said in a low voice—

“Where is Mr. Dale?”

“In the library, my lady.”

There was a pause, during which the Contessa turned her head toward the back room, and let her eyes pass over the preparations that had been made for her sitting.

“Move that easel a little forward,” she said.

The man crossed to the back room and altered the position of the tripod and canvas.

“A little more toward the middle of the room.”

At that moment there was the faintly heard sound of a whistle, followed by the rattle of wheels, which stopped in front of the house. A few moments later the rattle of the wheels began again, and there was the faint, dull, heavy sound of the closing front door.

“I think that will do,” said the Contessa carelessly. “Show Mr. Dale up.”

The man left the room, and the change was instantaneous. His mistress sprang up eager and animated, stepped to one of the mirrors, gave a quick glance at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, laid her hand for a moment upon her heaving bosom, and then hurriedly resumed her seat, with her head averted from the door. She took up a book, with which she half screened her face, the hand which held open the leaves trembling slightly from the agitation imparted by her quickened pulses.

The door opened silently, and the servant announced loudly—“Mr. Dale,” and withdrew.

The artist took a step or two forward, and then waited for a sign of recognition, which did not come for a few moments, during which there was a quick nervous palpitation going on in the lady’s temples.

Then she rose quickly, letting fall the book, and advanced towards the visitor.

“You are late,” she said, in a low, deep, emotional voice.

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” said Dale, looking wonderingly, and with all an artist’s admiration for the beautiful in nature, at the glowing beauty of the woman whose eyes were turned with a soft appealing look in his, while the parted lips curved into a smile which revealed her purely white teeth.

“I forgive you,” she said softly, as she held out her hand—“now that you have come.”

Armstrong Dale’s action was the most natural in the world. He was in London, and it was two years since he left Boston to increase his knowledge of the world of art. He took the hand held out to him, and for the moment was fascinated by the spell of the eyes which looked so strangely deep down into his own. Then he was conscious of the soft white hand clinging tightly to his with a pressure to which it had been a stranger since he left the States.