The Tiger Lily. George Manville Fenn
hard.”
“Yes, he’s a clever one, girl; and Jack Thorpe would have been very proud of him if he had lived. But, I say—”
Cornel looked inquiringly in the keen eyes which searched her face.
“You really want to go with your brother?”
“Yes,” she said with animation—“I should very much like to go.”
“To study with him in the English and French hospitals?”
“I should like him to take me round with him,” she said, with her cheeks growing slightly tinged. “I am always interested in his cases, and surely a woman is none the worse for a little surgical and medical knowledge.”
“A precious deal better, my dear. But, I say—”
“Yes, dear guardian,” she said, with a sweet, thrilling modulation now in her tones, as her eyes grew dim, and she laid both her little hands in the patient’s.
“I promised your father I’d always have an eye on you two, and I don’t think I ought to let you think of going, Cornel dear.”
She was silent.
“Isn’t it a sort of madness for you—to—eh? You know.”
“To love and keep my faith to Armstrong Dale?” she said gently; and the love-light shone brightly in the eyes which met the old man’s now without shrinking.
“Yes; that’s what I meant, little one. I don’t know how you could get yourself engaged to him.”
Cornel laughed gently—a pleasant, silvery little laugh, which seemed to do the patient good, for he smiled and listened to the last note of the musical sounds. But he grew serious, and there was a cynicism in his tones as he went on.
“I don’t believe in him, my girl. He’s good-looking and a bit clever; but when you have said that, you have said all.”
A little white finger was laid upon the speaker’s lips, but he went on.
“I know: he gammoned you with his love nonsense, but if he had been the fellow I took him for, he’d have stayed here in Boston and painted and glazed. Painted you. Painted me—glazed me too, if he had liked. What did he want to go and study at Rome and Paris and London for? We’ve cleverer people in the States than out there.”
“To get breadth, and learn his own failings,” said Cornel gently.
“Hadn’t any—I mean he was full of ’em, of course. Couldn’t have loved you, or he’d have stopped at home.”
“It was to show his love for me, and to try and make himself a master of his art, that he went away,” said Cornel, with a look of faith and pride in her eyes.
“Bah! He has forgotten you by this time. Give him up, puss. He’ll never come back. He’ll marry some fine madam in the old country.”
Cornel winced, and her eyes dilated as these words stung her; but the pang was momentary, and she laughed in the full tide of her happy trust in the man she loved.
“You mark my words, Cornel,” said the old man; “that fellow will throw you over, and then that will set your monkey up, and you’ll come and ask me to marry you, and I will. The folks ’ll all laugh, but let ’em. We shall be all right, little one. I shall have a sweet little nurse and housekeeper to take care of me to the end, and you’ll have an ugly, cantankerous old husband, who won’t live very long, and will die and leave you a million dollars, so that you can laugh at the whole world, and be the prettiest little widow in Boston—bah! in the whole States—and with too much good sense to throw yourself away.—Who’s that?”
“Doctor,” said Michael Thorpe, entering. “How is he, Cornel?”
“Getting better fast; so well this morning that he is saying all kinds of harsh and cruel things.”
“Capital sign,” said the young surgeon.—“Yes, capital. Why, you are splendid, Mr. Masters, and at the end of only a week.”
“Oh, I’m better. Only said you were mad to want to go to Europe; and that she’s worse to pin her faith to a gad-about artist who’ll only break her heart.”
Michael Thorpe’s stern, thoughtful face expanded into a pleasant smile.
“Yes, Cornel dear,” he said; “there’s no doubt about it; he’s mending fast. I’ll book my cabin in one of the Allan boats for about the beginning of next month. You will not be able to go.”
Chapter Three.
A Fair Client.
A noble-looking specimen of humanity, with a grand grizzly head, and strongly marked aquiline features, lit up by deeply set, piercing eyes, got out of a four-wheeler at Number 409 Portland Place, knocking off a very shabby hat in the process.
“Mind the nap, guv’nor,” said the battered-looking driver with a laugh, as his fare stooped to pick up the fallen edifice; and as he spoke, the man’s look took in the ill-fitting coat and patched boots of him whom he had driven only from Fitzroy Square.
“Not the first time that’s been down, cabby. Hand ’em off.”
A minute later, Daniel Jaggs, familiarly known in art circles as “The Emperor,” and by visitors to the Royal Academy from his noble face, which had appeared over the bodies of noble Romans and heroes of great variety, stood on the pavement with an easel under one arm, a large blank canvas under the other, and a flat japanned box of oil colours and case of brushes held half hidden by beard, beneath his chin.
He walked up to the door of the great mansion, whose window-sills and portico were gay with fresh flowers, and gave a vigorous tug at the bell.
The double doors flew open almost directly, and “The Emperor” was faced by a portly butler, who was flanked by a couple of men in livery.
“Oh! the painters traps,” said the former. “Look here, my good fellow; you should have rung the other bell. Step inside.”
“The Emperor” obeyed, and, leaving the visitor waiting in the handsome hall, in company with the footman and under-butler, who looked rather superciliously at the well-worn garments of the artist’s model, the out-of-livery servant walked slowly up the broad staircase to the drawing-room, and as slowly returned, to stand beckoning.
“You are to bring them up yourself,” he said haughtily.
Daniel Jaggs placed his hat upon one of the crest-blazoned hall chairs, loaded himself well with the artistic impedimenta, and then went forward to the foot of the stairs up which the butler was leading the way, when, hearing a sound, he turned sharply.
“Here! Hi!” he cried loudly; “what are you going to do with that ’at?”
For one of the footmen was putting it out of sight, disgusted with the appearance of the dirty lining.
“Hush! Recollect where you are,” whispered the butler. “Her ladyship will hear.”
“But that’s my best ’at,” grumbled the model, and then he subsided into silence as he was ushered into a magnificently furnished room; the door was closed behind him, and he stood staring round, thinking of backgrounds, when there was the rustling of silk, and “The Emperor” was dazzled, staring, as he told himself, at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.
Valentina, Contessa Dellatoria, was worthy of the man’s admiration as she stood there with her dark eyes half veiled by their long lashes, in all the proud matured beauty of a woman of thirty, who could command every resource of jewel and robe to heighten the charms with