The Tiger Lily Part 21

"Here, Leronde," cried Pacey excitedly. "Excuse me--very particular business, old fellow."

"You wish me to go?" said Leronde stiffly, as he waited for an introduction.

"If you wouldn't mind, and--look here," continued Pacey, drawing him outside. "Don't be hurt, old fellow--this is very particular. You saw the names on the cards?"

"Oh yes."

"Not a word then to Armstrong."

"I do not tiddle-taddle," said Leronde stiffly. "That's right. I trust you, old fellow. Come back at six, and we'll go and dine in Soho."

"But--the lady?"

"Bah! Nonsense, man! This is business. Au revoir--till six."

Pacey hurried back and closed both doors, to find his visitors standing in the middle of the room, Cornel pale and anxious, and her brother stern, distant, and angry of eye.

"I did not expect you, Miss Thorpe," cried Pacey warmly. "Pray sit down."

"I think my sister and I can finish our interview without sitting down, sir. You are Mr. Joseph Pacey?"

"I am," said the artist, as coldly now as the speaker.

"And you wrote to my sister--"

"Michael, dear, I will speak to Mr. Pacey, please," said Cornel, and she turned to the artist and held out her hand. "Thank you for writing to me, Mr. Pacey," she continued. "I thought it better, as my brother was coming to England, to accompany him and see you myself."

She sank into the chair Pacey had placed for her, and after a contemptuous look round at the shabby surroundings, the doctor followed her example.

"My brother is angry, Mr. Pacey; he is indignant on my behalf. He thinks me foolish and obstinate in coming here to see you, and that I am lowering myself, and not displaying proper pride."

"I do," said the doctor firmly.

"Out of his tender love for me, Mr. Pacey," Cornel continued, with her sweet pathetic voice seeming to ring and find an echo in the old artist's heart; "but I felt it to be my duty to come to know the truth."

"You have done wisely, madam," said Pacey. "When I wrote you it was in the hope that you would come and save a man whom I have liked--there, call it sentimentality if you please--loved as a brother--I ought to say, I suppose, as a son."

"Your letter, sir, suggested that my old schoolfellow--the man who was betrothed to my sister--has in some way gone wrong."

Pacey bowed his head.

"Cornel, dear, you hear this. It is sufficient. We do not wish to pry into Armstrong Dale's affairs. We know enough. Now, are you satisfied?"

"No.--Mr. Pacey, your words have formed a bond between us greater than existed before. I have heard of you so often from Armstrong, and come to you as our friend, in obedience to your letter. I ask you then to keep nothing back, but to speak to me plainly. Please remember that I am an American girl. I think we are different from your ladies here.

Not bolder, but firm, plain-spoken, honest and true. We feel a true shame as keenly as the proudest of your patrician maidens; but we crush down false, and that is why I come to you instead of writing to and making appeals to the man whom I have known from childhood--the man who was betrothed to me, and who loved me dearly, as I loved him, only so short a time ago. There, you see how simply and plainly I speak, the more so that I know you have Armstrong Dale's welfare at heart."

"G.o.d knows I have," said Pacey fervently.

"Then tell me plainly, Mr. Pacey."

"Cornel!"

"I will speak, Michael," she said gently. "His happiness and mine depend upon my knowing the truth.--Mr. Pacey, I am waiting."

Pacey gazed at her with his face full of reverence for the woman before whom he stood, but no words left his lips.

"You are silent," she said calmly. "You fear to tell me the worst. He is not ill: you said so. He cannot be in want of money. Then it is as I gathered from your letter: he has been led into some terrible temptation."

Pacey bowed his head gravely.

"Now, are you satisfied?" said Thorpe earnestly. "I knew that it was so."

"And I clung so fondly to the hope that it was not," said Cornel, gazing straight before her, and as if she were thinking aloud. Then, turning to Pacey--"He was becoming famous, was he not?"

"Yes."

"Succeeding wonderfully with his art?"

"Grandly."

"And now this has all come like a cloud," sighed Cornel dreamily. Then again to Pacey, in spite of her brother's frown, "Is she very beautiful?"

Pacey paused for a moment, and then said sadly--"Very beautiful."

"And does she love him as he does her?"

"I fear so," said Pacey at last.

Cornel drew a long and piteous sigh, and they saw the tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g in her eyes, run over, and trickle down her cheeks.

"Let us go, dear," she said softly. "I was too happy for it to last.

Forgive me: I felt that I must know--all. Good-bye, Mr. Pacey," she continued, holding out her hand, while her face was of a deadly white.

"I am glad you wrote. You thought it would be best, but he must love her better than ever he loved me, and perhaps it is for his advancement."

"It is for his ruin, I tell you," cried Pacey fiercely.

"But you said she loved him. Is she not true and good?"

"Girl!" cried Pacey, with his brows knotted by the swelling veins, "can the devil who tempts a man in woman's form be true and good?"

"Ah!"

e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n as much as sigh, and accompanied by a wild look of horror.

Then, with her manner completely changed, Cornel laid her hand upon Pacey's arm.

"Who is this woman?" she said firmly.

Pacey compressed his lips, but the beautiful eyes fixed upon him forced the words to come, and in a low voice he muttered the Contessa's name.