Part 6

With a startled gesture, and not without looking right and left as though for assistance, should it be needed, she threw her head back, her pale features showing clearly in the light of an adjoining lamp.

“Beautiful!” said the artist joyfully, “beautiful!”

“Signor,” said the woman with dignity, conscious of forty years and sundry wrinkles, “you mock me.”

“By no means,” he said anxiously; “you have the face I have sought for years. You will sit for me, will you not?”

“The signor is an artist then,” said the woman, breathing more freely.

He nodded, and for the first time perceived that he had frightened her. “I was too abrupt,” he said regretfully. “I saw your face and forgot all else.”

The woman smiled faintly, a slight glow tinged her face and her eyes brightened. “I shall be pleased to sit, if I am any use.”

“Can you come to-morrow?” asked the enthusiast.

“Yes.”

“At eleven then, to this address. You will not fail me.”

Smiling at his earnestness, she gave the desired assurance, and with a soft good-night left him, and passed swiftly over the bridge into the darkness beyond.

For a moment the artist glanced after her as though desirous of obtaining further pledges of fidelity, and then abandoning the idea, seated himself on the parapet, and, lighting another cigarette, fell into a smoker’s reverie. The river went by with a soft swish against the piles of the old bridge, the air was cool and the ghostly outlines of the old buildings on either bank, indistinct in the darkness, appeared to be nodding in sleep. All these drowsy influences combined were beginning to have a soporific effect upon the smoker, the buildings nodded more violently than ever, the river murmured more sweetly.

“He who sleeps on the parapet awakes in the stream,” said a voice at his elbow in feigned solemnity.

“Ah! Rossa,” said the artist, slipping to his feet, and smiling as he recognised the speaker, “I was just wishing for company home. I have news for you; at last I have been successful in my search, and my picture can be finished.”

“It is time,” remarked the other as he walked by his side; “and where is she who has succeeded in satisfying your exacting fancy?”

“I parted from her on the bridge,” replied his friend. “Such a face, such an expression, the perfect type of bereaved maternity.”

“Charming!” said Rossa drily. “It must have been a pleasant task, the acquiring of that self-same expression.”

The artist, somewhat nettled at his tone, made no reply, and they traversed the narrow ill-lighted streets almost in silence until they reached his dwelling. Then with a hearty handshake Rossa took his leave, and the other climbed the steep stairs which led to his bed to lie awake half the night, thinking of his great work and the face of his model.

II

The woman was tired and hot when she reached his studio, for the sun was nearly at its height, and its heat, imprisoned in the narrow street, was stifling to those wayfarers who could not move at leisure and take advantage of such shade as offered. She greeted the artist timidly, and gazed, not without curiosity, at the littered floor and the sketches upon the walls.

“That is what I want you for,” said the artist, indicating with a nod a large unfinished canvas which stood upon an easel in the full light of the window.

His visitor crossed over, and stood looking at the roughly outlined figure of a woman upon her knees, bending over the calm, awful face of the dead Christ. She stood for some time in silence, and then as she understood what her part was to be, turned to the artist to receive his instructions.

And never had man a more devoted model.

True to time, cheerful and willing, she appeared day by day, and it required but little discernment on the part of the artist to see that her heart was in the work. Quiet and undemonstrative in manner, it was yet easy to see her devout joy at the fact that her face should have been chosen to represent that of the Virgin. Slowly but surely the work grew in strength and clearness, bit by bit the shadowy figure of the woman took life, and a weary earth-worn face now bent over the crucified Saviour.

It was while sitting at the window one morning, waiting for the appearance of his model, that the artist was surprised by a visit from his friend Rossa.

“Are you amiable to visitors this morning?” inquired the latter.

“It depends upon their criticisms,” replied the artist smiling.

“I feel at peace with all mankind at present,” said Rossa.

“In that case you are welcome,” said the other, “but you are the only man I allow to see it in its unfinished state.”

“Always hungry for my suggestions,” murmured Rossa complacently, as he advanced to the easel.

“Well?” asked the artist impatiently, after allowing plenty of time for his friend’s praises.

“It is the best you have done, as good as you will ever do,” said Rossa with gratifying energy. “Ah! when will you cease wasting your strength on these old-world superstitions, and use your brush on nobler themes?”

“There is none nobler,” said the other gravely.

Rossa shrugged his shoulders and smiled scornfully. “Bah! you spend your strength in painting advertisements for the priests, and what do the smug-faced black-gowns do for you in return? Give you their blessing, or recommend you to wealthy patrons? Are there no noble deeds of to-day to bring the blood to a man’s cheek and the water to his eyes, that you must go back to that hackneyed theme of eighteen centuries ago?”

“You are speaking too freely,” said the artist sternly.

“Freely!” repeated Rossa. “You paint pictures to foster and encourage ideas which are against all reason, and one may not even speak of it. And the materials, bah! Do you ask for certificates of character from the women you paint as Madonnas, or do you take the first that suits?”

“To tell the truth, I have never thought of it,” said the other, “but in this case the woman’s face is her best certificate.”

“It certainly supported her for many years,” said Rossa drily.

“What, do you know her? She told me she had never sat before,” said the artist in surprise.

“Years ago I knew her well,” said his friend, “but not as a model. It was in Naples. She had a large circle of acquaintances, and was commonly known as ‘The Doll.’ Even to an atheist there seems to be an incongruity somewhere in painting her in this character.”

“Is this a jest?” asked the artist, struggling between amazement and anger.

“Ask her,” said Rossa quietly. “Poor devil; I’m sorry I spoke though. She certainly has got a sad face, and I suppose it doesn’t matter to you how she got it.”

The artist shook his head.

“Come,” said the repentant Rossa, “don’t spoil your picture and rake up this poor thing’s past for nothing; perhaps I am mistaken.”

His friend smiled faintly, and bidding his visitor “good-bye” sat himself down in the window-seat in a brown study. A devout man, his heart was troubled. Art and religion strove within him for the mastery. He sat in perplexity until a light tap at the door announced the arrival of the model.

“It is hot, signor,” said she, smiling--“scarce a breath of air in the streets, but it is cool here.”

True to the minute, interested in his work, she had toiled through the heat. He looked at her coarse, work-stained hands and gentle face, and faltered.

“I told you that the picture is intended for a gift to the cathedral, did I not?” he inquired after a pause.

“Surely, signor.” She smiled again. Already she saw her face and that other looking down from the cathedral wall on to the hushed crowd beneath.

“I chose your face,” continued the artist, “because it seemed to me to contain all that I required for my subject; but there is one little matter of which I should have spoken before. The face that I have chosen for the Holy Mother, which is to remind the people of her divine goodness and great sorrow, must be that of a good woman. I dare not portray any other.”

There was no smile on the woman’s lips now, and in her face, pale one moment and flushed with shame the next, he saw that she guessed the extent of his knowledge.

“I did not think it mattered,” she said at length in a low voice. “I never thought of it. There--there were two Marys, signor, and He loved both.”

She looked at him humbly, with blurred eyes, but he had averted his face. He raised it at length at the sound of a door closing, and found that he was alone.

For a long time he sat motionless. At last, with the air of a man who has an unpleasant task before him, he arose and looked long and close at the nearly finished picture. Then he took it from the easel, and placing it on the floor with its face to the wall, he too went out.

III

Since the woman left the studio a year had passed. The neglected canvas still stood on the floor, its place on the easel being filled by a picture of “The Draught of Fishes.” The artist, disappointed in his favourite work, had done little that was worthy since, though he was as determined as ever not to complete it. Of the woman he had seen nothing, and he had abandoned as hopeless the task of finding a substitute.

He was sitting listlessly before his easel, brush in hand, when he was interrupted by a gentle tap at the door. It opened, and a priest--an old man with white hair and brown, rugged face--entered and stood on the threshold.

“The Signor Paoli?” he inquired.

The artist rose and bowed.

“I’m afraid I intrude,” said the old man. “You are busy, I see. I desired to see your pictures. Perhaps another time----”

“I am not busy,” said the artist, throwing down his brush. “There are but few here. I wish there were more.”

He closed the door, and stood by the old man’s side as he inspected the studies on the walls and such few completed works as were left in the studio. He paused at length before the easel, and after inspecting the canvas there, turned and pointed with his stick at the one which leaned against the wall.

“May I see it?” he asked.

“It is not finished,” said the artist. He hesitated a moment, and then removing the canvas from the easel, crossed the room, and returning with the other, silently placed it before his visitor.

An exclamation of delight burst from the old priest’s lips as he leaned on his stick and gazed on it.

“A noble work,” he murmured at length, without removing his eyes. “A noble work. When will you finish it?”

“It is not to be finished,” said the artist. “I discovered by accident that the woman who sat to me had led an infamous life; that the lines which I thought were caused by bereavement owed their birth to sin; that the woman who I thought mourned her dead children mourned instead her dead innocence.”

“She will sin no more,” said the priest gently. “Nay, I hope and believe she will mourn no more. She died last night.”

“Last night,” said the startled artist. “You know of the affair, then--she told you?”

“I have known her for years,” said the old man; “known her and loved her. She came to this city, and left her wickedness like a soiled garment behind her. Her father cursed her, and her mother bewailed the hour she was born; brothers and sisters forgot that she had ever been. Years ago, weary of sin, she came here, and maintained herself by hard and ill-paid toil.”

“Her hands said so,” muttered the artist.

“For a long time,” continued the priest without noticing the interruption, “she lived alone, without the love or sympathy of a single soul; and lived a good life. But one day she saw in the streets a blind, weary old man, hustled by boys. Him she took home and nursed and fed. He told her that he had lost wife and children, wealth and sight, and had no man left to call him friend; and yet, for fear that he should not accept her bounty, she never told him that he had one child left. So that he might be fed she worked late into the night and rose with the dawn, always haunted by the fear--for her early life had left in her the seeds of death--that he might outlive her and become destitute.”

He paused and looked at the artist.

“So it went on, and only I knew the story. Last night she lay dying, and the old man on his knees by her bedside kissed her hand and said that she was to him as a beloved daughter, and prayed to God for sight that he might behold her ere she died.”

“It must have been a painful moment when she made herself known,” said the artist.

“It might have been,” answered the priest; “who knows? But she died with her poor lips sealed, though I think it was almost more than she could bear. I have seen many sad sights, may God in His mercy keep me from such another.”

“Why not have told him, then?” inquired the artist after a long pause.

“There was a reason,” said the old man; “she had scraped together a small sum for her father’s use when she should no longer be able to work for him. It was possible, at least she thought so, that he might refuse it if he knew the donor.”

The air in the room was close, and the artist opened the window. He came back to the canvas and sat for some time slowly regarding it. More slowly still he filled his brush with colour and leaned forward. Then checking himself suddenly, he looked up at the priest.

The priest smiled.

Artful Cards

“Gambling I don’t ’old with,” said the night-watchman, pursing his lips. “There’s gamblers and gamblers. There’s people like myself as does it now and then out of good-nature to oblige, and there’s people like that squint-eyed, ginger-whiskered mate on the _Queen Mary_. If he ’ad spent as much time learning good manners as he ’as learning the three-card trick, it would ha’ been better for both of us. Especially me.

“He ain’t the only one. I remember teaching draughts to a man I met one evening. He was a born fool to look at, and ’e looked just the same when ’e bid me ‘Good night’ with seven-and-six o’ mine in ’is pocket. I ’eard arterwards that he could do anything with draughts except make ’em speak.

“Most sailormen like a bit of a flutter. One chap I knew used to spend all his time ashore backing ’orses. When ’e lost, ’e lost, and when he won the bookie used to get lost. And the only time he did get his winnings he got fourteen days for the way ’e spent ’em.

“I remember one time when old Sam Small got a perfeck craze for playing cards. His idea was to make some money for ’is old age, and, instead of going out and enjoying ’imself with Ginger Dick and Peter Russet, he sat all day in the bedroom being taught by a young professional sharper ’e met in the Three Widders. He even learnt ’ow to do the three-card trick--arter a fashion--and came round to show me one evening. We played for ha’pennies at fust, and I lost seven right off. Then we played for bobs, and it seemed as if I couldn’t lose. I never see anybody so puzzled as Sam was, and then ’e turned round and said he’d been doing it all wrong, and asked for ’is money back. I ’ad to be firm with ’im--for his own sake.

“A man never knows ’is best friends. If he’d kept on playing cards with me it would ha’ been better for both of us; instead o’ that, he preferred to let strangers win ’is money. He used to take ’em to his bedroom, and one night Ginger couldn’t get to bed because three or four of ’em had ’ad it for a card-table and spilt a can of beer in it.

“He could have ’ad two beds next night, ’cos to their surprise Sam didn’t come ’ome. He was still missing when they went out to brekfuss next morning, and by the time arternoon came Ginger began to feel uneasy about ’im.

“‘Mark my words,’ he ses to Peter Russet, ‘he’s been and gorn and got into some trouble.’

“‘Any fool could see that,’ ses Peter. ‘’Ow much money ’ad he got on ’im? Besides the eight quid you are minding for ’im?’

“Ginger shook his ’ead. ‘It’s my belief he’s been made away with,’ he ses, jingling the money in his trowsis-pocket. ‘It all comes of ’im thinking he can play cards.’

“‘P’r’aps I’d better mind ’arf of the money, in case you get robbed,’ ses Peter.

“Ginger didn’t hear ’im. He was too busy thinking about pore Sam. By the time twelve o’clock came, and no Sam, they felt certain that something had ’appened to ’im, and Ginger kept Peter awake ’arf the night talking to ’im about the ’appy times the three of them had ’ad together.

“‘I suppose we must go out and try and eat something,’ he ses next morning, shaking his ’ead.

“‘I s’pose so,’ ses Peter, very sorrowful; ‘but it’s wasting good money.’

“They went downstairs very slow, and opened the door just as Sam’s friend wot taught ’im ’ow to play cards knocked on it. Sharp-faced young chap ’e was, with ’is eyes ’arf-closed and a fag stuck in the corner of ’is mouth.

“‘’Ullo, Ginger,’ he ses, nodding.

“‘Wot do you want?’ ses Ginger, sniffing at ’im.

“‘I’ve got a letter for you,’ he ses.

“Ginger held out ’is ’and for it and, arter speaking sharp to Peter Russet about good manners, stood reading it as though he couldn’t believe ’is eyesight.

“‘It’s from Sam,’ he ses, at last. ‘He’s lost all ’is money at cards, as I knew ’e would; and ’e wants me to send ’im five quid.’

“‘Wot ’e owes,’ ses the young chap.

“‘He can go on owing it, then,’ ses Ginger, very firm. ‘If ’e wants ’is five quid let ’im come and fetch it.’

“‘He can’t,’ ses the young chap.

“‘Can’t? Why not?’ ses Ginger, turning on ’im.

“‘He’s lost other things besides money,’ ses the chap. ‘He played the last two hands in ’is shirt and cap, and ’e can’t come ’ome in _them_. ’Ow would you like it yourself? Besides, think of the cold!’

“‘Shirt and cap?’ ses Ginger, staring at ’im.

“‘He made ’imself a skirt out of tater-sack this morning,’ ses the young chap. ‘It’s a tight fit--still, it’s better than nothing.’

“‘All right,’ ses Ginger, arter a few words on the quiet with Peter Russet, ‘we’ll come with you and see wot can be done. Where is he?’

“‘Find out,’ ses the chap. ‘Why don’t you give me the money same as your pal tells you to? Wot are you wasting time like this for? It’s ’is money. He ’asn’t ’ad nothing to eat since yesterday arternoon. D’you want ’im to starve?’

“Ginger led Peter away again.

“‘We’ll lay low and foller ’im ’ome,’ he ses, in a whisper.

“‘Wot about brekfuss?’ ses Peter. ‘I want mine something cruel.’

“‘Plenty o’ time,’ ses Ginger. ‘Think o’ pore Sam; nothing to eat since yesterday arternoon.’

“He turned back to the young man, wot was doing a double-shuffle on the pavement and looking up at the chimbley-pots.

“‘Why don’t you tell us where ’e is?’ he ses, in a sharp voice.

“‘Fancy,’ ses the chap, lighting another fag.

“‘You won’t get no five pounds out o’ me,’ ses Ginger, ‘Come along, Peter; we’ll go back indoors and wait for Sam to come ’ome. You go and tell ’im wot I said,’ he ses, turning to the chap.

“‘Right-o,’ ses the young feller, turning away. ‘So long!’

“They stood peeping out of the doorway till he ’ad turned the corner, and then they set off arter ’im. It was easy work in a way, ’cos he never looked behind ’im; but ’e seemed to be fonder o’ walking than wot they was, and besides, as Peter said, no doubt he had ’ad a good brekfuss afore ’e started.

“‘P’r’aps he ain’t going ’ome,’ ses Ginger, looking puzzled. ‘This is the third time he ’as been in the Minories.’

“They followed ’im into Tower Street--it was on’y the second time they ’ad been there--and then to their thankfulness he turned into a pub. They went in too--into another bar--and Ginger ’ad just ordered two pints in a whisper, and paid for ’em, when the chap finished his beer and walked out. Pore Ginger didn’t even ’ave time to taste ’is, and the one mouthful Peter ’ad time to take went the wrong way. It was a big mouthful, and for a couple o’ minutes he thought it was ’is last. Then he got ’is breath back, and, arter asking the landlord whether he thought ’e was beating carpets, went out to look for Ginger. He caught ’im up arter a time, and they went on walking till they felt ready to drop.

“‘I believe ’e knows we are follering ’im,’ ses Peter.

“They went on for another ’arf hour, and then to Peter’s joy they saw the chap, arter standing a long time looking at the things in a cook-shop winder, go inside.

“‘He’s going to ’ave his dinner,’ he ses, ‘and while he’s ’aving it we’ll go and ’ave some bread and cheese and beer.’

“‘And suppose he slips out while we’re away?’ ses Ginger.

“‘Well, we’ll go one at a time,’ ses Peter.

“‘No, we won’t,’ ses Ginger. ‘I ain’t going to lose ’im arter all this trouble, and when we _do_ find out where ’e lives I might want your help.’

“They stood outside waiting for over a hour, and then the young feller came out wiping his mouth on the back of his ’and. He stood for a moment looking up and down the street till ’is eyes fell on Ginger, wot was trying to get behind Peter, and Peter wot was trying to get behind Ginger.

“‘’Ullo,’ he ses, coming up. ‘Fancy dropping acrost you agin like this! ’Ave you been ’aving a little walk to stretch your legs?’

“‘Yes; and we ain’t finished yet,’ ses Ginger very fierce.

“‘I’ll come with you, if you like,’ ses the chap. ‘I ain’t proud.’

“‘When we want your company we’ll ask you for it,’ ses Peter.

“‘Don’t get cross,’ ses the young feller, pretending to shiver. ‘’Cos if you do I might get frightened and _run_. Last time I was frightened by a ugly face I run three miles without stopping.’

“He lit a fag and stood there with ’is eyes ’arf closed, blowing smoke through ’is nose. Peter and Ginger stood there, waiting while ’e smoked two of ’em, and then waited outside a tobacco-shop while ’e went in to buy another packet. He got larky arter coming out, and when ’e tried to strike a match on Ginger’s trowsis people ’ad to step off the pavement ’cos Ginger was using it all.

“He moved off with Peter as he saw a policeman coming along, and then to their surprise they found that the young feller was following _them_. It upset their ideas altogether, and all of a sudden Ginger stopped and turned on ’im.

“‘Why don’t you go ’ome?’ he ses.

“‘Wot’s the good without the money?’ ses the chap. ‘Wot’s the good of going back and telling a starving old man in a tater-sack that his pals won’t ’elp ’im?’

“‘Why can’t we take it to ’im?’ ses Peter.

“‘He wouldn’t like it,’ ses the chap. ‘He said so. Besides, when you got there you might try and get ’im out without paying.’

“‘Well, we’ll give you the money now, and then come with you,’ ses Ginger.

“‘Why couldn’t you say so afore?’ ses the other. ‘’Ere we’ve been wasting the whole morning for nothing.’

“They all went into a pub and arter Ginger and Peter ’ad ’ad a pint or two, and a crust o’ bread and cheese, Ginger handed over the money and they all went out together, with the young man in the middle. Ginger’s opinion of ’im went up as they walked along, and, when he led ’em into another pub a little further on, and asked ’em wot they would ’ave, he got to feel quite a liking for ’im.

“They ’ad a pint each, and, while Peter was resting ’arf-way through his, the young man thought ’e saw a spider drop into it. Ginger ’elped Peter to look for it, but they couldn’t find it, and arter that they wasted a lot of time looking for the young man, but they couldn’t find ’im neither.

“‘If you’d kept your eye on ’im instead o’ fishing round in my beer with your dirty finger, it ’ud ha’ been better,’ ses Peter.

“They walked ’ome, quarrelling all the way, and then they sat indoors all the evening waiting for Sam to turn up so as they could tell ’im wot they thought of ’im.

“They sat there till eleven o’clock, and then they went to bed wondering wot had ’appened to ’im; and when they got up next morning Ginger said he ’ad a feeling that they should never see ’im again.

“‘He’s gorn where we’ve all got to go,’ he ses, shaking his ’ead.

“‘Unless we join the Salvation Army,’ ses Peter. ‘There’s plenty o’ time afore we get to his age.’