The Tiger Lily Part 16

"Signora Azacci?" said Dale, glancing at the card again, and making a good shot at her name.

It was evidently correct, for the woman said, in a husky voice, as if suffering from intense nervousness--

"Si, si."

"You are willing to stand for me--for this picture?" said Dale, scanning her closely, but learning nothing respecting her figure on account of the cloak; and he spoke very coldly, for the woman's actions on entering struck him as being angular and awkward; now they were jerky, as she raised her hands to her temples.

"No Inglese, signore," she said then, excitedly; and again, after an embarra.s.sed pause, "Parlate Italiano?--No?"

"No," said Dale, shaking his head.

Her hands again came from beneath her cloak in a despairing gesture.

Then, placing one to her forehead, she looked round at the lumber of paintings and properties, as if seeking for a way to express herself, till her eyes lit upon the great uncovered canvas. Bending forward in a quick, alert way, she uttered a low, peculiar cry, and almost ran to it, leaned forward again, as if examining, and then, with extreme rapidity, pointed to the blank place in the picture where Lady Dellatoria's face stood out weirdly. She then took a few quick steps aside from where Dale stood, frowning and annoyed at what seemed to be a hopeless waste of time. Then, with a rapid movement, she unclasped the cloak, swept it from her shoulders, and holding it only with her left hand, let it fall in many folds to the floor, while as she stood before him now in a plainly made, tightly fitting black cloth princess dress, she instinctively fell into almost the very att.i.tude Dale had in his mind's eye, and he saw at once that her figure must be all that he wished.

"Bravo!" he cried involuntarily, and with an artist's pleasure in an intelligence that grasps his ideas.

At the word "Bravo!" the woman turned her head quickly.

"Excellent," he continued; "that promises well."

Her face was hidden, but as she shrugged up her shoulders nearly to her ears, and raised her hands with the fingers contracted and toward him, he felt that she must be wrinkling up her forehead and making a grimace expressive of her vexation.

"Yes, it is tiresome," he said; "but we don't want to talk. I dare say I can make you understand. But I've forgotten every word I picked up in Rome."

"Ah!" cried the woman, with quick pantomimic action, as she changed her att.i.tude again, and leant toward him--"Roma--Roma?"

"Si, si."

"My lord has been in Rome?" she cried in Italian.

"I think I understand that," muttered Dale, "and if your form proves to be equal to your quick intelligence, my picture will be painted. Now then, signora, this is a language I dare say you can understand. Here are two half-crowns. For two hours--`due ore.'"

"Si, si," she cried eagerly, and she almost s.n.a.t.c.hed the coins and held them to her veiled lips.

"Silver keys to your understanding, madam," he muttered, taking a mahlstick from where it stood against a chair. "Humph! I begin to be hopeful. Yes, more than hopeful," he continued, as the model was rapidly drawing off her shabby, carefully mended gloves, before taking a little common portemonnaie from her pocket and dropping the coins in one by one. Then aloud, as he pointed with the mahlstick, "La bella mano."

"Aha!" she cried quickly. But she gave her shoulders another shrug, and shook the purse, saying sadly--"Pel povero padre."

"`Padre.' For her father," muttered Dale. "Not so sordid as I thought, poor thing. Will you remove your veil?"

She leaned toward him.

"I said, Will you remove your veil?--Hang it, what is veil in Italian?

`Velum' in Latin."

She was evidently trying hard to grasp his meaning, and at the Latin "velum" she clapped her beautifully formed hands to her veil.

"No, no!" she cried haughtily; and then volubly, in Italian--"I am compelled to do this for bread. I do not know you, neither need you know me. My face is not beautiful, and we are strangers. You wish to paint my figure. I will retain my veil."

"I do not understand you, signora, and yet I have a glimmering of what you wish to express," said Dale, as gravely as if his visitor could grasp every word. "There, you seem to be a lady, and--hang it all, this is very absurd, my preaching to you, and you to me. I wish Pacey were here. He speaks Italian like a native. No, poor la.s.s, I suppose they must be starving nearly, or she would not stoop to this. I don't wish Joe Pacey were here."

Then quietly bowing as if acceding to her wishes, he made a sign to his visitor to take her attention, and as she watched him from behind her thick veil, he walked to the entrance and turned the key.

Crossing the studio to the farther door, he threw it open, and then drew forward from the end of the great room a large folding-screen, which he placed at the back of the dais and opened wide.

"There, signora," he said, "I am at your service;" and he pointed to the inner room, turned from her, and walked to the canvas.

The model stood motionless for a moment or two, and then caught up the great cloak from where it lay upon the floor.

"Grazie, Signore," she said then, with quiet dignity, and she was hurrying across to the inner room, but he arrested her.

"One moment," he said, with grave respect, and the chivalrous manner of a true gentleman toward one whose tones seemed to suggest that she trusted him. "Let us arrange the pose first. Look at the picture: study it well. You see the subject."

Dale continued speaking, but kept on pointing to the scene he had depicted, and, to his intense gratification, she threw the cloak across a chair back, gazed intently at the picture for a few moments, letting her eyes rest longest upon the beautiful, scornful face, and then went quickly to the dais, stepped up, turned, and with rare intelligence fell once more into the very position he desired, bettering in fact that which she had sketched at first.

"Eccellentissimo!" he cried; and then she stepped down quickly, and glided into the inner room, while Dale gazed at his painting with a feeling of triumph sweeping away the morbid thoughts which had troubled him so long.

"Art is my mistress after all," he said to himself, as he glanced upward to see that the skylight was properly blinded, and then, going to a box, rapidly prepared his palette, armed himself with a sheaf of brushes, and altered the position of his easel a little.

He was hardly ready when he heard the slight rattle of the handle, a faint rustling sound, and the swinging of the door again.

But he did not turn as a light step pa.s.sed behind him, and a faint creaking sound announced that the model had mounted upon the dais.

He raised his eyes, and she was standing there apparently as he had seen her first, closely veiled, and still draped in the long, heavy, black cloak.

Then, with a quick movement, the long garment was thrown aside, and the model stood before him in the very att.i.tude, and the perfection of her womanly beauty--a beauty made hideous in the ghastly effect produced by the black face and head swathed in the thick veil.

But this pa.s.sed unnoticed by the artist, who, with a triumphant e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, began to sketch rapidly, as he muttered to himself without vanity--

"Pacey is right: my canvas must be a success."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A STRANGE SITTING.

"Yes," said Dale to himself again, "Art is my mistress. I have betrayed one, fought clear of the web of another, and now I am free to keep true to the only one I love."

And all through that visit of the Italian, he worked on with a strange eagerness, till, at what seemed to be the end of an hour at most, his model made a sudden movement.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "I ought to have told you to rest more often. Stanca?" For he recalled a word meaning fatigued or wearied.

"Si--si," she said quickly, and pointed to the clock on the mantelpiece, when, to Dale's astonishment, he saw that the two hours had elapsed, and that his model had quickly resumed her cloak. Then, without a word, she crossed to the door of the inner room, and about a quarter of an hour later emerged, to find him standing back studying his morning's work.

"Grazie," he cried, and then pointed to the roughly sketched in figure.

"Bravo!" he added, smiling.

She bent her head in a quiet, dignified manner, and raking up another Italian word or two, Armstrong said--