The Tiger Lily Part 39

"Yes," said Cornel slowly, as she came forward from the door leading into an inner room. "I have heard every word."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A POTENT DRUG.

What to do? Leronde a prisoner; Pacey threatening legal steps. He must go somehow. The only way open appeared to be this; he must leave London at once, telegraphing to the Conte that he had gone on, and would meet him and his friends at the princ.i.p.al hotel in Ostend.

Armstrong, after much mental struggling, had come to this decision, when there was a knock at the door.

"Too late," he muttered. Then aloud, "Come in!" and Keren-Happuch entered.

"If you please, sir, there's--"

"I know," he said shortly. "Show them up."

"Please, sir, it ain't them; it's her."

"What?" he cried, starting. "Whom do you mean?"

"Her in the thick veil, sir, as come before."

"Great Heavens!" panted Armstrong; and his brain seemed to reel. "No.

I cannot--I will not see her."

"'M I to tell her so, sir?" cried the girl joyfully, "and send her away?"

"Yes. I'll go no farther," he muttered. "Send her away at once."

The girl turned to the door, but, when she twisted the handle, it moved in her hand, the door was pushed against her, and as she gave way, the closely veiled and cloaked figure walked slowly into the room.

Armstrong turned savagely upon Keren-Happuch. "Go!" he said sharply.

"I knowed it," muttered the girl as she went out. "Men can't keep to their words, and it's very hard on us poor girls."

Armstrong stood facing his visitor as the door closed, and then the giddiness came over him again. He staggered to a chair, dropped into it, and his head fell upon his hand.

"How could you be so mad!" he groaned. "Go back to your husband; we must never meet again. Woman, you have been a curse to me and ruined my poor life. But there, I will not reproach you." He closed his eyes, for his senses nearly left him, and his visitor stood gazing sadly down at him not a yard away.

"I suppose you will despise me," he groaned, "but I cannot help that.

You will think that I ought to hold to you now, and save you from your husband's anger. But I can do nothing. Broken, conscience-stricken, if ever poor wretch was in despair it is I. There, for G.o.d's sake, go back to him. He will forgive you, as I ask you to forgive me now."

He paused, and then went on as if she had just spoken something which coincided with his thoughts.

"You will despise me and think me weak, but I am near the end, and I do not shrink from speaking and telling you that I go to meet your husband with the knowledge that I have broken the heart of as pure and true a woman as ever breathed."

A low, pitiful sigh came from behind the veil.

"Don't, for Heaven's sake, don't, now. It is all over; the mad comedy is played out--all but the last scene. Try and forget it all, and go with the knowledge that his life is safe for me, for I will not raise my hand against him--that I swear."

He uttered a low moan, for the place seemed strange to him, and his words far distant, as if they were spoken by some one else. Incipient delirium was creeping in to a.s.sault his brain, and in another minute he would have been quite insensible; but a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and the touch electrified him, making him spring wildly from his seat with a cry.

"No, no," he cried pa.s.sionately, and with his eyes flas.h.i.+ng; "slave to you no more; I tell you, woman, all is over between us. For the few hours left to me, let me be in peace."

The veil was slowly drawn aside, and he clapped his hands to his temples and bent forward, gazing at his visitor.

"Cornel!" he muttered--"Cornel!--No, no! It is a dream."

He shook his head, and pa.s.sed his hand across his eyes, to try and sweep away the mist that was gathering in his brain.

"No, no," he muttered again, in a low tone; "a dream--a dream."

"No," came softly to his ears, "it is not a dream, Armstrong. It is I-- Cornel."

"Why have you come?" he cried, roused by her words, and staggering up to grasp the mantelpiece and save himself from falling.

"To try and save you," she said sadly. "Armstrong, you are going to fight this man?"

He was silent. The dreamy feeling was coming back.

"You do not deny it. Armstrong--brother--companion of my childhood--you must not, you shall not do this wicked thing. Think of it. Your life against his. The shame--the horror of the deed."

He laughed softly.

"I have sinned enough," he said. "He will not fall."

"Will the sin be less if you let him, in your despair, take his enemy's life? This is madness. Armstrong, you cannot--you shall not go."

He was silent.

"What am I to say to you again?" she pleaded. "You are like stone.

Must I humble myself to you once more, and cast off all a woman's modesty and dignity? Armstrong, weak, doting as it is, I tell you I forgive you, dear--only promise me that you will not go."

He pa.s.sed his hand across his eyes as he clung to the shelf to keep himself from falling, and said, in a low, dreamy voice--

"An insult to you--a degradation to me to take your pardon. No!

Cornel, and once more, no. Now, if you have any feeling for me, leave me to myself, for I have much to do."

"You will prepare to go?"

He remained stubbornly silent, with his eyes half-closed.

"Then," she cried pa.s.sionately, as she saw him sway gently to and fro, as if prior to falling helpless upon the floor, "I will save you in spite of all. You shall not give away your life like this. You are weak, half-delirious, and cannot command even your thoughts. You shall not go."

He opened his eyes widely, and it was as if it took some moments for him to grasp her words. Then, with a little laugh, he said softly--

"How will you stop me?"

"I would sooner see you dead."