humid lips.
“I am mad,” she said to herself, with a mocking laugh. “He care for her! Absurd! He loves me! In his brave fight he struggled hard, but – he loves me. His arms did hold me to his breast; his lips did press mine. And she? – poor weak fool, with her transparent trick, to return and play the spy. Let her know, and have a hold upon me, and defy me about Cesare. She will threaten me some day if I revile her. Poor fool! I am the stronger – stronger than ever now. I could defy the world, for, in spite of his cold looks, his anger against himself – he loves me.”
She raised her eyes and stood looking straight before her for some moments, and then started, but recovered herself and smiled as she gazed at the figure before her in one of the mirror-filled panels of the room.
For she saw reflected there a face and figure that she felt no man could resist, and the smile upon her face grew brighter, the dreamy look intensified, as she murmured —
“At last! After these long, barren, weary years, love, the desire of a woman’s life;” and closing her eyes, she slowly extended her arms as, in a whisper soft as the breath of eve, she murmured, “At last! Come back to me, my love – my life – my god.”
Chapter Six.
What Pacey Saw in the Clouds
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
