The Tiger Lily

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Awakening

“Don’t you be in a flurry, miss,” said Keren-Happuch coolly; “he ain’t so very bad. Here, you’ll soon see.”

She rushed into the bedroom, and returned with a basin, sponge, and towel, which, to her surprise and annoyance, were taken from her hand; and she saw Cornel, with deft manipulation, bathe the cut, examine it, and then take from her pocket a little case, out of which she drew a pair of scissors and a leaf of adhesive plaster. A minute later she had closely clipped away a little of the hair, pressed the cut together, and cleverly strapped it up.

“Hold this handkerchief pressed to it tightly, while I bathe his temples,” said Cornel; and, as the little maid obeyed, she watched with wide open eyes the pulse felt and the temples bathed before a few drops from a stoppered bottle were added to a wine-glass full of water, and gently poured between the insensible man’s lips.

“Lor’, if she ain’t one o’ them female doctors,” thought Keren-Happuch. “Wonder what she’s give him to drink?”

There was a singular look of dislike condensed into a frown on the girl’s brows as she watched Cornel, and a jealous scowl or two as she saw her take Armstrong’s hand and kneel by his side, waiting for some signs of returning animation; but at last it seemed as if the girl could not keep her tongue quiet.

“I say,” she whispered, “are you a doctor, miss?”

“No: my brother is a medical man, though, and I have been often to a hospital and helped him as a nurse.”

“Oh, then you know what’s right. But oughtn’t he to have some beef-tea?”

Cornel shook her head, and Keren-Happuch was silent for a few minutes, but she could refrain no longer.

“You’re the ’Merican lady he was engaged to, aren’t you?”

Cornel bowed.

“I thought you was. I’ve took him your letters with Bosting on ’em, lots o’ times.”

Cornel sighed.

“You’re going to marry him, ain’t you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s all off?”

“Yes.”

Keren-Happuch looked relieved. The scowl disappeared from her countenance, and she smiled at Cornel.

“Don’t you take on about it, miss. It ain’t worth it. I allers liked Mr Dale, and he makes me feel as if I’d do anything for him, and I allus have done as much as missus’d let me; but it’s no use to worry about artisses; they’re all like Mr Dale – all them as we’ve had here.”

Cornel looked at her indignantly.

“Oh, it ain’t my fault, miss. I never wanted him to have ladies come to see him. I’ve gone down into the kitchen along with our old cat, and had many a good cry about it. Not as he ever thought anything about me.”

Cornel looked at the girl in wonder and horror.

“But he was allus kind to me, and never called me names, and made fun of me like the others did. On’y Mirandy, and I didn’t mind that. Them others teased me orful, you know. Men ain’t much good; but you can’t help liking of ’em.”

“Hush!” whispered Cornel; “he is coming to.” For there was a quivering about Dale’s lips, and then his eyes opened wildly, to gaze vacantly upward for some moments before memory reasserted itself, and he gave a sudden start and looked sharply round.

Cornel suppressed a sigh.

“Not for me,” she said to herself; and she was right. The look was not for her.

She knew it directly, for he turned to her, caught her wrist, and said excitedly —

“Gone?”

“Yes; they are gone.”

“But Lady Dellatoria – gone – with him?”

The words seemed as if they would choke her, but Cornel spoke out quite plainly, and without a tremor in her voice, though there was a terrible compression at her breast.

“Yes,” she said calmly, though every word she uttered caused her a pang; “she has gone back with her husband.”

Armstrong lay perfectly still for a few minutes, thinking deeply. Then, as if resolved what to do, he said sharply —

“Help me up.”

Cornel bent over him, but he turned from her.

“No, no, not you: Miranda.”

The girl eagerly helped him to rise, and he leaned upon her as she guided him to a chair.

“Thanks,” he said huskily. “Now, you wait there.”

The girl stopped at the place he had pointed out, watching Armstrong as he signed to Cornel to approach, and held out his hand.

She took it mechanically, and held it fast.

“Thank you for what you have done,” he said.

“Now go and forget me. You see I am hopelessly gone. It was to be, and it is of no use to fight against fate. Now go back to your brother.”

“And leave you – sick?”

“Yes; even if I were dying. God bless you, dear! Think of me as I used to be.”

“Armstrong!” she cried, with her hands extended toward him. But he waved her off.

“No, no. I am a scoundrel, but not black enough for that. Go back to your brother.”

“Go?”

“Yes; I insist. You cannot forgive me now.”

She could bear no more. Her chin sank upon her breast, and with one low, heart-wrung sigh, she went quickly from the room.

“Thank Heaven! that’s over,” muttered Armstrong. “Now for the end, and the quicker the better. Life is not worth living, after all.”

He looked sharply round to where Keren-Happuch stood, wiping her eyes upon her apron.

“Here, girl!” he cried.

“Yes, Mr Dale, sir.”

“Go at once to Mr Leronde’s rooms – you know – in Poland Street, and ask him to come on here at once.”

“But are you fit to leave, sir?”

“Yes, yes. Go quickly.”

The girl hurried off on her mission, leaving the artist thinking.

“He would challenge me if I did not challenge him. I suppose it ought to come from me after the blow, for me to prove that I am not ‘un lâche,’ as our French friends term it. A duel! What a mockery! Well, better so. Let him shoot me, and have done with it. There is not room here for us both. Poor Cornel! It will be like making some expiation. It will leave her free. She can deal more tenderly with my memory as dead than she could with me living still. I should be a blight upon her pure young life. Ah! if we had never met.”

He lay back feverish and excited, for the blow had had terrible effect, and there were minutes when he was half-delirious, and had hard work to control his thoughts.

For he was wandering away now with Cornel, who had forgiven him because Valentina was dead. Then it was Cornel who was dead, and he was with the Contessa far away in some glorious land of flowers, fruit, and sunshine; but the fruit was bitter, the flowers gave forth the scent of poison, and the sun beat down heavily upon his head, scorching his throbbing brain.

He woke up from a dream crowded with strange fancies, and uttered an ejaculation of satisfaction, for his brain was clear again, and the young Frenchman was standing before him, waiting to know why he had been fetched.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Second Second

“Ah, oui, of course,” said Leronde, exhaling a little puff of smoke. “It is so, of course. I know. If there had been no knog viz ze stique, ze huzziband would shallenge you. But viz ze knog viz ze stique – so big a knog, I sink you shallenge him, and satisfy l’honneur. I go at once and ask him to name his friends.”

“Yes, I suppose that will be right,” said Armstrong, after a few moments’ thought.

“But I am not sure that you can fight so soon.”

“Why?”

“You ’ave ze bad head.”

“Bah! a mere nothing. I am ready; but of course, as you say, it cannot be here. Listen! Is not that some one on the stairs?”

They were not left in doubt, for Keren-Happuch came in, round-eyed and wondering, with a couple of cards held in her apron-guarded thumb and finger.

“Please, Mr Dale, sir, here’s two doctors come to see you.”

“Ma foi! two,” cried Leronde. “One is bad, too much. Send zem away, my friend.”

“Bah! Show them up,” said the artist; and Keren-Happuch hurried out. “Look,” continued Armstrong; “Italians – his friends, I suppose.”

“Aha! that is good,” cried Leronde, holding out the cards. “He shallenge then. I am glad, for I was get in head muddled after all vezzer you ought to shallenge. Now we are quite square.”

A minute later two important-looking men were ushered in, to whom Leronde at once advanced with a dignified mien, receiving them and listening to the declaration of their mission, and after a few exchanges of compliments on one side of the studio, away from where Armstrong sat scowling, they left with the understanding that Leronde was to wait upon them shortly to arrange all preliminaries.

“I am still not quite satisfy,” said Leronde thoughtfully. “I ought to have been first, and take your shallenge to him.”

“But what does it matter if we are to meet?”

“But you vas ze insulte.”

“Indeed!” said Armstrong, with a bitter smile. “Opinions are various, boy. But let that rest. Help me to lie down on that couch, and give me a cigar.”

Leronde obeyed, watching his friend anxiously.

“You vill not be vell enough to fight.”

“I will be well enough to fight, man,” cried Armstrong savagely. “There: wait a bit. It is too soon to follow them yet;” and for a while they sat and smoked, till Leronde burst out with —

“I am so glad you go to fight, my dear Dale.”

“Are you?” said Armstrong gruffly.

“Yes; it do me good that you are ready to fight M’sieu le Conte like a gentleman. I thought all Englishmans degrade themself viz le boxe. Bah! it is not good. You have ze muscle great, but so have ze dustman and ze navigator; let them fight – so.”

“But look here, Leronde; this must be kept a secret from every one.”

“Oh, certainement, name of a visky and sodaire. I tell nobdis. You think I go blab and tell of ze meeting? Valkaire! Mums!”

“Have you ever seen one of these affairs at home?”

“Oh no, my friend, not chez-moi – at home. It was in the Bois de Boulogne.”

“And you saw one there?”

“Four – five – and all were journalistes. I was in two as principal, in two as friend of my friend, and in ze oder one I go as ze friend of ze docteur.”

“Then you quite understand how it should be carried out?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Leronde, nearly closing his eyes, and nodding his head many times. “Soyez content. I mean make yourself sholly comfortable, and it shall all go off to ze marvel.”

“Very well, then; I leave myself in your hands.”

“That is good. Everything shall be done, as you say, first-class.”

“And about weapons?”

“You are ze person insulte, and you have ze choice. Le sword, of course?” cried Leronde; and, throwing himself on guard, he foiled, parried, and hopped about the studio, as if he were encountering an enemy.

“Sit down, man,” said Armstrong peevishly. “No; I choose the pistol.”

“My friend! Oh!”

“It is shorter and sharper.”

“But you do not vant to shoot ze man for stealing – fence like angels, and there will be a little gentlemanly play; you prick ze Conte in ze arm, honneur is satisfy, you embrace, and we return to Paris. What can be better than that?”

“Pistol!” said Armstrong sternly.

“But you do not want to shoot ze man for stealing away his vife.”

“No,” said Armstrong, in a low voice. “I want him to shoot me.”

“Ha, ha! You are a fonnay fellow, my dear Dale. You will not talk like zat when you meet ze sword?”

“Pistols.”

“As you will,” said the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders. “You are my principal, and I see zat your honneur is satisfy. I go then to see ze friend of M’sieu le Conte, and to make all ze preparations for to cross to Belgium; but, my faith, my dear Dale, it is very awkward: I have not ze small shange for all ze preliminary. May I ask you to be my banker?”

“Yes, of course. I ought to have thought,” said Armstrong.

He went to his desk and took out the necessary sum, passed it to the voluble little Frenchman, who rose, shook him by both hands, looked at him with tears in his eyes, told him he was proud of him, and then hurried off with his head erect his hat slightly cocked, and his eyes now sparkling with excitement.

“Step ze first to be in ordaire; whom shall ve ’ave for ze ozaire seconde?”

He frowned severely and walked on a few yards, looking very thoughtful. Then the idea came.

“Of course: Shoe Pacey. He vill be proud to go viz me to meet ze ozaire secondes.”

Leronde had been in the lowest of low spirits that morning. The news from Paris had been most disastrous for gentlemen of communistic principles, who, in spite of crying “Vive la Commune!” saw the unfortunate idol of their lives withering and dying daily. Money, too, had been very “shorts,” as he called it, and he had gone to Armstrong Dale’s in the most despondent manner. But now all that was altered. He had money in his purse, and walked as if on air. There was no opportunity for following the tracks of either “la gloire, or l’amour;” but here was “l’honneur,” the other person of a Frenchman’s trinity, calling him to the front; and on the strength of the funds in hand, he entered the first tobacconist’s, bought a whole ninepenny packet of cigarettes, and then smoked in triumph all the way to Pacey’s lodgings.

This gentleman was growling over a notice of the Old Masters’ Exhibition which he had written for a morning paper, and with which, to use his own words, “the humbug of an editor had taken confounded liberties.”

“Hallo! Signor Barricado, what’s up? Republic gone to the dogs?”

“No, no, mon ami; but great news – a secret.”

“Keep it, then.”

“No, no; it is for you as well. An affaire of honneur.”

“An affair of fluff! Bosh! we don’t fight here.”

“No,” said Leronde, frowning fiercely. “Belgium.”

“Why, you confounded young donkey, whom are you going to fight?”

“I fight? But, no; I am one seconde. I come to you as my dear friend to be ze ozaire.”

“Oh, of course,” cried Pacey ironically. “Exactly – just in my line.”

“I knew you would,” cried Leronde, lighting a fresh cigarette, and offering the packet, which was refused.

“Bah! I like a draught, not a spoonful,” growled Pacey, taking up and filling his big meerschaum. “Now then, about this honour mania? Who’s the happy man?”

“Armstrong Dale, of course, for certaine.”

“What!” roared Pacey. “Who with?”

“Ze Conte Dellatoria, my friend.”

“The devil. Has it come to that?”

“But, yes. Why not? Zes huzziband is sure to find out some ozaire day.”

“Phew!” whistled Pacey, wiping his brow. Then striking a match, he began to smoke tremendously.

“And you will help our friend?” said Leronde.

“Help him? Certainly.”

“I knew it. Pacey, my friend, you are one grand big brique.”

“Oh yes, I am,” cried Pacey banteringly. “Now then, how was it?”

“Ze Conte follow his vife to chez Armstrong, find zem togezzer, and knog our dear friend down viz a cane.”

“Humph! Serious as that?”

“Oh yes. There is a great offence, of course. Zey meet in Belgium, and we go togezzer to see ze friend of ze Conte and arrange ze – ze – ze – vat you call zem?”

“Preliminaries?”

“Precisely. Now, my dear ole friend, you put on your boot an’ ze ozaire coat, and brush your hair – oh! horreur; why do you not get zem cut short like mine?”

“Because I don’t want to look like a convict. Come in here.”

Pacey seized his tobacco-jar and a box of matches.

“Got any cigarette papers?”

“But yes, and plenty of cigarettes.”

“Come in here, then.”

He opened the door leading into his little bedroom, and Leronde followed him.

Pacey banged down the tobacco-jar upon the dressing-table, and then threw open the window.

“Come and look out here,” he cried.

“But we have no time to spare, my friend.”

“Come and look out here,” roared Pacey.

As Leronde approached him wonderingly, Pacey seized him by the collar, and half dragged his head out.

“Look down there,” he said, pointing into the square pit-like place formed by the backs of the neighbouring houses, from the second floor, where they stood, to the basement; “you can’t jump down there?”

“My faith, no. It would be death.”

“And there is no way of climbing on to the roof.”

Leronde shook his head, and looked to see if his friend was mad.

“And you cannot fly?”

“No; I leave zat to your cocksparrow de Londres,” said Leronde, trying to conceal his wonder and dread by a show of hilarity.

“That’s right, then. You sit down there and smoke cigarettes till I come back.”

“But, my friend, ze engagement, ze meeting viz ze amis of ze Conte. What go you to do?”

“See Armstrong Dale, and bring him to his senses. If I can’t – go and break the Count’s neck.”

“But, mon cher Pacey!” cried Leronde, “l’honneur?”

“Hang honour!” roared his friend. “I’m going in for common-sense;” and before the Frenchman could arrest him, the door was banged to, locked, the key removed, and steps were heard on the landing; then the sitting-room door was locked, and, with his face full of perplexity, Leronde lit a fresh cigarette.

“Faith of a man, these English,” he said, “zey are mad, as Shakespeare did say about Hamlet, and I am sure, if zey do shave Shoe Pacey head, zey will find ze big crack right across him.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

The News Spreads

“If I have sinned,” muttered Armstrong, as he leaned back in his chair, for when from time to time he tried to walk about, a painful sensation of giddiness seized upon him, “I am having a foretaste of my punishment. How long he is – how long he is!”

But still Leronde did not come, and to occupy his mind, the sufferer sat and thought out a plan for their journey, which he concluded would mean a cab to Liverpool Street, then the express to Harwich, the boat to Ostend; next, where the seconds willed: and afterwards —

“What?” said the wretched man, with a strange smile. “Ah, who knows! If it could only be oblivion – rest from all this misery and despair!”

He rose to try and write a letter or two, notably one to Cornel, but the effort was painful, and he crept back to his chair.

“She will know – she will divine – that I preferred to die,” he muttered, “Ah, at last! Why, he has been hours.”

For there was a step outside, and then the door was thrown open, as he lay back, with his aching eyes shaded by his hand.

“Come at last, then!” he sighed; and the next moment he started, for the studio door was banged to, and locked. “You, Joe?”

“Yes, I’ve come at last,” cried Pacey, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and striding up, to stand before him with his legs far apart.

“Well, then, shake hands and go,” said Armstrong quietly. “I’m not well. I’ve had an accident.”

“Accident?” roared Pacey. “Yes, you have had an accident, the same as a man has who goes and knocks his head against a wall.”

“What do you mean?” cried Armstrong, starting.

“Mean? I mean that you’re the biggest fool that fortune ever pampered and spoiled.”

“Joe Pacey!”

“Hold your tongue, idiot, and listen to me. Here you are, gifted by nature with ten times the brains of an ordinary man; you can paint like Raphael or Murillo; fame and fortune are at your feet; and you have the love waiting for you of one of the sweetest, most angelic women who ever stepped this earth.”

“Pacey!”

“Hold your tongue, boy! Haven’t I been like a father to you ever since you came into this cursed village? Haven’t I devoted myself to you as soon as I saw you were a good fellow, full of genius? I’m a fool to say so, but in my wretched, wrecked life, I felt that I’d found something to live for at last, and that I could be proud and happy in seeing you, who are as much an Englishman as I am in blood, rise to the highest pitch of triumph; while, if you grew proud then and forgot me, it wouldn’t matter; I could afford it, for you had achieved success.”

“You’ve been a good true adviser to me, Joe, ever since I have known you.”

“And you have turned out the most ungrateful dog that ever breathed. Morals? You’ve no more morals than a mahlstick. You had everything man could wish for, and then you must kick it all over, and break the heart of an angel.”

“Let her rest. Say what you like to bully me, Joe. It’s all true. I don’t fight against it. But you can’t understand it all. Say what you like, only go and leave me. I want to be alone.”

“Do you?” cried Pacey excitedly. “Then I don’t want you to be. So the Conte gave you that crack on the head, did he?”

“What!” cried Armstrong, springing up. “How came you to think that?”

“How came I to think that? Why, I was told by a chattering French ape.”

“Leronde? Told you?”

“Of course he did. Came to me to be your other second.”

“The idiot! Where is he?”

“Locked up where he’ll stay till I let him loose.”

Armstrong used a strong expression.

“And so we must have a duel, must we? Go out to Belgium to fight this Italian organ-grinder. Curse him, and his Jezebel of a wife!”

“Silence, man!” cried Armstrong excitedly. “Pacey, no more of this! Where is Leronde? He must be set free at once. My honour is at stake.”

“His what?” cried Pacey, bursting into a roar of ironical laughter. “My God! His honour! You adulterous dog, you talk to me of your honour and duelling, and all that cursed, sickly, contemptible code that ought to have been dead and buried, and wondered at by us as a relic of the dark ages – you talk to me of that? Why, do you know what it means? First and foremost, murdering Cornel Thorpe: for, as sure as heaven’s above us, that organ-man will shoot you like the dog you are, and in killing you he’ll kill that poor girl. I swear it. She can’t help it. She gave her love to you, poor lassie, and she’s the kind of woman who loves once and for all. There’s the first of it. As for you, well, the best end of you is that you should be buried at once, out of the way, as you would be if I let you go to meet this man.”

“If you let me?” raged Armstrong.

“Yes, if I let you; for I won’t. Why, you’re mad. That Jezebel has turned your brain, and I’ll have you in a strait waistcoat, and then in a padded room, before I’ll let you go to save your honour and his. Ha, ha! His honour! The Italian greyhound! He never took any notice of his wife till he found she had a lover, but was after as many light-famed creatures as there are cards in the devil’s books. Then – his honour! Ha, ha! his honour! Why, the whole gang of French and Italian monkeys never knew what honour is, and never will. Now then, I said I’d thrash you, and I have. I only wish Dellatoria had jolly well fractured your skull, so as to make you an invalid for six months. Look here; I’ve locked up Leronde, I’ll lock up you, and if the Conte comes here, I’ll kick him downstairs.”

“You are mad. I must meet him.”

“I’m not mad, and you shan’t meet him.”

“You mean well, Pacey, but it is folly to go on like this. Run back and set Leronde at liberty.”

“I’m going to do what I like, not what you like,” cried Pacey fiercely, pulling out a knife; “and first of all, I’ll finish that cursed picture.”

He swung the great easel round, and in a few minutes had slashed the canvas to ribbons, and torn it from the frame.

“There’s an end of that!” he roared.

“So much the better,” said Armstrong, who had looked on unmoved.

“Oh! you like that, then?” cried Pacey. “You’re coming round.”

“Now go,” said Armstrong, “and end this folly.”

“You’ll swear first of all that you will not meet this man?”

“I’ll swear I will,” said Armstrong coldly.

“He’ll shoot you dead.”

“I hope so.”

“Armstrong, lad, listen to me,” said Pacey, calming down. “You’ll be sensible?”

“Yes.”

“And give it up? For poor Cornel’s sake?”