Chapter Thirty.

The Last.

“And you gave him enough to keep him in that insensible state?” said Dr Thorpe next night, after seeing and treating Armstrong, who lay in a weak, half-delirious state.

Cornel nodded and gazed wildly at her brother, who continued—

“To keep him from going abroad to fight this duel?”

“Yes, I felt sure that the Conte would kill him.”

“And serve him right. Well,” he went on, as his sister winced at his harsh words, “this proves the truth of the saying—‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,’ You know a bit about narcotics and anaesthetics, and you may congratulate yourself upon not having killed him. But there, perhaps, it was right; and anyhow, you have saved him.”

“You think he will recover now?” she cried eagerly.

“Think so? Oh yes! of course. Nothing to prevent him. Only wants time. But it’s nothing to you.”

“How is the Contessa?”

“Getting better, I hear. Fact is, I met the surgeon who is attending her at the society. But never mind them. I shall have done all I want here in less than a fortnight. That is when the Spartania sails, so be ready, and let’s get back.”

“Yes, dear,” said Cornel quietly, “I shall have finished my task, too.”

Two years later Armstrong Dale went back home, but only for a visit, for his fame was increasing rapidly, and he had more commissions than he could undertake. He wanted help and counsel, and he brought them back with him, for he did not return to London alone.

Four more years had elapsed, and that season there was a great deal of talk about Armstrong Dale’s big picture at the Academy. The press had praised it unanimously; society had endorsed the critics’ words; and it was sold for a heavy sum. But though he was importuned to take portraits, Armstrong sternly refused.

The picture that year was a fanciful subject of a beautiful woman reclining upon a tiger skin, with a huge cluster of orange maculated lilies thrust, as if by careless hands, into a magnificent repoussé copper vase. And as he painted it, he had turned to his wife one day, and said, “I can’t help it, Little Heart; it will come so like her. I shall paint it out and give up.”

Then he seized a cloth to pass across the fresh paint, but Cornel caught his wrist.

“Absurd!” she cried. “That magnificent piece of work—and because of a fancied resemblance?”

“Then you do not mind?” he said sadly.

Palette, brushes, and mahlstick were slowly and softly taken from his hands, which were drawn round Cornel’s neck, and she nestled closely in his breast.

“Mind? No,” she said gently; “let the dead past bury its dead.”

The picture went to the Academy then, and was the most discussed work of the year.

One sunny morning early, so as to be before the crush, Armstrong and his wife walked through the principal room, joined together by a little fairy-like golden-haired link, whose bright eyes flashed with delight as she clung to the hand on either side, for she was at her urgent request being taken “to see papa’s picture—‘The Tiger Lily.’”

The trio had been standing in front of it for some minutes, when, after playfully responding to the happy child’s many questions, Cornel and Armstrong turned to take her round the room, but both stopped short as if petrified.

For within a couple of yards stood Valentina, pale as death, her eyes abnormally large, and her whole countenance telling of bodily suffering and mental pain.

Beside her was an invalid-chair, occupied by a wasted, prematurely old man, wrapped in furs—in May—and attended by a servant, who stood motionless behind.

The meeting was a surprise, and all present save one remained fascinated by some spell.

The silence was broken by Valentina, who took a step forward, and held out her hand, while Armstrong saw at a glance that the Conte was gazing vacantly at the pictures, his eyes dull and glazed, the light of recognition being absent.

“It is six years since we met, Mrs Dale,” said the Contessa softly, but the tones of her voice were changed, and she turned her head slightly to let her eyes rest upon Armstrong. “As in all human probability we shall never meet again, I cannot resist referring once to the past—to thank your sweet wife for the life she saved.”

“Oh, pray,” whispered Cornel in a tremulous voice, “no more.”

“No,” said Valentina, holding Cornel’s hand tightly, and gazing wildly in her eyes, though her voice was very calm. “We go back to Italy at once. My husband, who is a great invalid, seems better there.”

She paused for a moment, as if to gain strength to continue; and then, in a low, passionate whisper, full of the maternal longing of an unsatisfied heart—

“Your child? May I kiss her once?”

Cornel bowed her head—she could not speak, but held the child a little forward, and Valentina bent down.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked.

The bright, innocent eyes looked smilingly up, and the silvery voice said, as the soft little arms clasped her neck—

“Yes, I’ll give you two.” Then, as she was held tightly for a few moments, “Do you like dear papa’s picture? I saw him make it. Is it you?”

The eager, wondering question sent a pang through three breasts, but not another word was uttered, till the invalid-chair and its attendants had passed through the door close by.

It was the child who broke the silence just as Cornel had stolen her hand to her husband’s side to press his with a long, firm, trusting grasp.

“Why did that lady cry when she kissed me, mamma? I know:” the child added quickly. “It was because that poor gentleman is so ill.”

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.