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
