Chapter III: Part 3

“This,” said the Captain sternly, with a jerk of his head towards Mr. Scott. “Did you invite him here?”

Clara started--but in a lesser degree than Mr. Scott--and looked down modestly at a hole in the hearth-rug. Mrs. Brampton and her daughter gazed at her in hushed expectation.

“I didn’t, not to say, invite him,” replied Clara, “but I can’t help him coming here.”

“_H’m!_ Perhaps you didn’t try,” said the Captain with unexpected mildness. “How long have you known him?”

“Some time, sir,” said Clara vaguely.

“Does he want to marry you?”

Clara looked at her mistress for guidance, but the latter was engaged at the moment in an eye-to-eye duel with the fermenting Mr. Scott. Over the Captain’s face stole an expression of great and unusual benevolence.

“Well, well,” he said slowly. “We’ve all been young once. He’s not much to look at, but he looks clean and respectable. When do you think of getting married?”

“That’s for him to say, sir,” said the modest Clara.

“Well, there’s no hurry,” said the Captain, “no hurry. He can come round once a week for you on your evening out, but no other time, mind.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Clara, who was beginning to enjoy herself. “It’s my evening out to-night, sir. He was going to take me to the pictures.”

A stifled exclamation came from the direction where Mr. Scott was standing, which the Captain chose to interpret as an expression of gratitude. With instructions to Clara to regale her admirer with bread and cheese and one glass of beer, he shepherded his wife and daughter from the kitchen. Humming a light air, Clara began to set the table.

“What the devil did you want to say I was going to take you to the pictures for?” demanded the ungrateful Mr. Scott.

“’Cos I wanted to go,” said his hostess calmly.

Mr. Scott regarded her coldly. “I will walk with you as far as the corner of this road,” he said with an air of finality.

“We’ll go to the best seats and I’ll have a box of chocolates,” said Clara. “Do you like chocolates?”

“No,” said the other sternly.

“Praise be!” said the girl piously. “My other young man----”

Mr. Scott coughed violently.

“All right,” said the girl, “don’t get excited. He’s away on a job for a week or two, else I wouldn’t dare to be seen with you. When the cat’s away the mice will play,” she added.

The young man eyed her in amazement. This was a new Clara. His lips quivered and his eyes watered. He took up his glass of beer and nodded.

“Right-o!” he agreed.

He smoked a cigarette while the girl went upstairs to dress, and a little later, watched by three pairs of eyes from the front window, sailed up the street with her arm-in-arm.

“She’s too good for him,” said the Captain, with decision.

“Much,” assented his daughter, with a smile.

“Tailor’s dummy!” soliloquised the Captain.

“Cheap tailor, too,” murmured the acquiescent Miss Brampton. “Did you notice how baggy his trousers are at the knees?”

The Captain shot a glance at her. Twenty years’ experience of a wife whose only anxiety was to please him was not the best preparation for handling a daughter who, to say the least of it, had other ambitions. He began to fear that she had inherited more of his strength of character--a quality for which some of his friends found another name--than was convenient.

“He’s a softy,” he growled. “He ought to have a year or two at sea. That might make a man of him.”

He got up and went into the garden, leaving mother and daughter to discuss the possibilities of a situation which had found them somewhat unprepared.

“It might have been worse,” said Mrs. Brampton. “If your father had caught him in here----”

“He couldn’t eat him,” said her daughter rebelliously.

“There are worse things than being eaten,” said Mrs. Brampton, with some feeling.

Miss Brampton nodded. “Taking Clara to the pictures, for instance,” she remarked. “Poor Leonard!”

Her mother sniffed. “I dare say he will get over it,” she said dryly. “Unless Clara’s young man gets to hear of it. From what she has told me he is a very hot-tempered young man--and very strong.”

“Pity father didn’t find _him_ in the kitchen,” said the dutiful daughter.

She sat down, and in sympathetic mood tried to share the misery of the absent one at the cinema. A vision of Clara’s hat, perilously near Mr. Scott’s shoulder, mercifully eluded her, but, the window being open to the summer air, she was unable to help hearing the cheerful babble of laughter that heralded their return. It seemed to strike a wrong note; and the couple of noisy kisses which Clara saw fit to bestow upon the back of her hand for the Captain’s benefit were registered on the wrong target.

Mrs. Brampton obtained the explanation from Clara next day, and accepted it without prejudice. Her daughter declined to accept it at all.

“You quite understand that he must not come to see you again?” she said stiffly.

“But he’s got to,” said the staring handmaiden. “The Captain says so. And if he plays fast-and-loose with me I’m to have him up for breach of promise. Lively for me, ain’t it? When I think of Bill and his temper I get goose-flesh all over.”

The ladies eyed each other in silent consternation.

“Your father _knows_,” said the elder at last. “He has done this on purpose.”

“Set a trap for him,” said Clara, nodding. “Looks like it. And I’m the little bit o’ cheese, I suppose?”

Mrs. Brampton stared at her.

“Father forgets that I am nineteen,” said her daughter. “Why shouldn’t I----?”

“I was only fifteen when _I_ started,” murmured Clara, “and not big for my age neither.”

“That will do,” said Mrs. Brampton.

“Yes’m,” said the girl. “Still----”

“Still what?” demanded her mistress.

“I’ve been dragged into it,” said Clara mutinously. “Nobody asked me or troubled about my feelings. I do the best I can, and that’s all the thanks I get for it. Suppose I had told the Captain it was Miss Edith he was after? Where would you have been then?”

“We won’t discuss it,” said Mrs. Brampton with an air of feeble dignity.

She made as stately an exit as the size of the kitchen would allow, and, carefully closing the door of the sitting-room, made a few remarks on Clara’s character, and more on her lack of it.

“It’s no good blaming Clara,” said her daughter. “It’s father’s doing. He wants to make Leonard look like a fool first and scare him away afterwards. He’ll tell all his friends about it.”

“Mr. Hopkins, for one,” said Mrs. Brampton, nodding sagely. “I wonder----”

“I don’t,” said the girl, reddening.

“Your father seems to have taken a great fancy to him,” continued Mrs. Brampton. “Now, does he come here to see your father, or----”

“Or,” said her daughter bitterly. “It’s just like father. I suppose he will want to choose my tooth-powder for me next. But he won’t get any satisfaction out of me--_or_ Leonard. I’ll see to that. As for Mr. Hopkins--_brrh!_”

She beamed, however, on that innocent man when her father brought him in next day to see the garden, and when the wily Captain went indoors for his pipe made no attempt to follow him. It was a pipe that was notorious for the discovery of new and unusual hiding-places, and on this occasion made no attempt to belie its reputation.

Meantime, the delighted Mr. Hopkins, under the skilful management of Miss Brampton, walked with his head in the clouds and his feet on various choice border plants.

“Hadn’t you better walk on the path?” inquired the girl, who had been monopolising three-quarters of it. “It’s more comfortable.”

Mr. Hopkins started. “Good heavens!” he said in an alarmed voice, as he bent down to render first aid to a stock with a broken neck. “Did I do that?”

Miss Brampton nodded. “Those, too, I think,” she replied, with a wave of her hand. “Don’t you care for flowers?”

Mr. Hopkins, who was fearfully endeavouring to conceal the traces of his crime, made no reply. When the Captain came out they were both speechless, but he was, if anything, the redder of the two.

“These paths are very narrow, father,” remarked the humane Edith.

The Captain made a noise.

“Afraid--crowding--Miss Edith,” panted the offender.

The Captain made another noise. In the present company all the useful words he knew were useless.

“Did you find your pipe, father?” inquired the persevering Miss Brampton.

The Captain was understood to say “Yes.” At the same time he favoured her with a glance which would have made her mother tremble. On Miss Brampton it had a bracing effect.

“Father’s always mislaying his pipe,” she said, with a bright laugh. “I shouldn’t trouble any more about those, if I were you, Mr. Hopkins. You can’t do them any good, and you are standing on an antirrhinum.”

Mr. Hopkins removed his foot hastily, and placing it carefully in the centre of the path offered up another apology. It was received with what the Captain fondly believed to be a smile.

“Accidents will happen,” he said hoarsely.

“In the best-regulated families,” said Miss Brampton, with a satisfied smile.

She paid a touching tribute to the excellence of the victims after the visitor had gone, and sought for some time for an explanation of the tragedy.

“He must have been ‘wool-gathering,’” she declared at length.

“What do you mean by that?” demanded her father.

“Absent-minded,” said Edith. “He seemed like a man walking on air, instead of some of the best stocks in the neighbourhood. Even Clara’s young man would have more sense than that.”

“Clara’s young man won’t go into my garden,” said the Captain. “The kitchen is the place for him.”

He stalked out into the garden, and, digging up hopeless cases with a trowel, sought to revive the less badly injured with a water-can.

It might have been a sign of a forgiving nature, but was more likely due to an obstinate one, that he invited Mr. Hopkins back to the scene of his footwork a day or two later. Missing plants had been replaced by a consignment from the florists, and rolled paths and raked flower-beds testified to the Captain’s industry. Everything was “shipshape and Bristol fashion” as the greatly relieved visitor walked with Miss Brampton in the garden in the cool of the evening. The Captain, after satisfying himself that Mr. Hopkins was walking almost as carefully as a performer on the tight-rope, had disappeared indoors.

The path was narrow, but even when Miss Brampton sent electric thrills through his being by leaning against him, Mr. Hopkins kept to it. The air was soft and the scent of the flowers delightful. Never before had his conversation been so appreciated. The low-voiced laughter of his companion was a tribute to his wit as rare as it was welcome.

“You ought to write plays,” she said thoughtfully, as she planted her foot firmly on a geranium.

“You want influence to get them accepted,” said Mr. Hopkins.

“I should try, if I were you, though,” said the girl, nearly missing another geranium.

Mr. Hopkins purred. Miss Brampton, with downcast eyes, trod down six flowers in succession.

“Dialogue would be your strong point,” mused the girl, continuing her ravages. “Crisp and sparkling.”

She took the other side as they turned at the end of the path, and in a hushed voice called his attention to some beautiful cloud effects. Mr. Hopkins, with his head at an acute angle, murmured his admiration.

“An evening to remember,” he said, very softly.

He brought his gaze slowly to earth and started convulsively.

“Giddy?” inquired the girl, with much solicitude.

Mr. Hopkins shook his head and, speech failing him, pointed with a trembling finger to the prostrate victims of misdirected industry. Miss Brampton stared in her turn.

“Oh, Mr. Hopkins!” she said, in accusing tones.

“I--I haven’t been near them,” stammered the unfortunate.

“They must have done it themselves, then,” said the girl calmly. “Perhaps they were not strong enough to stand the breeze.”

Mr. Hopkins breathed heavily. “I--I really think----” he began.

“Yes?” said Miss Brampton.

“I don’t know what to think,” concluded the other feebly.

His companion gazed wistfully at the wreckage.

“Poor father!” she said softly. “He is so fond of his garden. He seems to know every flower, but, of course, he hasn’t had these long enough to know them.”

Mr. Hopkins groaned and cast a fearful glance at the house.

“It’s his one hobby,” continued the girl. “I have heard him use worse language about cats than anything else, I think. And the doctor says excitement is so bad for him.”

“I can’t understand it,” ventured Mr. Hopkins, with an appealing glance.

“I wonder whether father will?” said the girl. “He is coming out, I think.”

Mr. Hopkins looked around panic-stricken. Then he pulled out his watch.

“Good gracious!” he murmured. “I must be going, I think. No idea so late. Appointment.”

He moved hastily in the direction of the side-gate, and hardly realising the geniality of Miss Brampton’s hand-clasp, disappeared. The girl stood watching until he had turned the corner and then went into the house.

“Where’s Hopkins!” inquired the Captain.

“He has just gone.”

“Gone!” repeated her father. “Why, I asked him to stay to supper. Did you send him off? Eh?”

His daughter shook her head. “He went off in a hurry,” she murmured. “I think he had an idea that perhaps he had offended you.”

“Rubbish!” grunted the Captain, eyeing her suspiciously. “What should he offend me about?”

“Knowing how fond you are of your flowers----” began Miss Brampton.

The Captain uttered a smothered cry and, springing from his chair, dashed into the garden. Cries that were anything but smothered, and words that ought to have been, brought his wife to her daughter’s side. Together they watched the head of the house as, with fists raised to heaven, he danced a strange and frenzied dance down the path.

“He’s wonderfully supple for his age,” said the admiring daughter.

Mrs. Brampton shivered. “I don’t suppose that poor young man will dare to show his face here again,” she said slowly.

“If he does, there will be an accident to the rose trees,” said her daughter, compressing her lips. “I’ve had all I can stand of Mr. Hopkins.”

“And then there’s Mr. Scott,” said her mother plaintively. “Clara says that she thinks her young man has heard something, and if he should happen to meet them one evening----”

“It might be bad for the young man,” said the girl calmly. “Leonard would have a better nose if he didn’t box so much. Look at father!”

Mrs. Brampton looked.

“He--he seems to be examining the foot-marks,” she gasped.

“Time I changed your sensible low-heeled shoes for something more dressy,” said her daughter, disappearing.

She was back before the Captain re-entered the house, and sitting cross-legged, displayed a pair of sharp-toed, high-heeled shoes of blameless aspect, which met his ardent gaze with a polished stare. He turned his back at last and stood gazing blankly out at his cherished garden.

It never occurred to him to accept defeat, and his daughter was therefore more annoyed than surprised to see Mr. Hopkins--a nervous, chastened Mr. Hopkins--back again after a few days. On this occasion, however, the Captain lingered in the garden, and from a deck-chair beneath the window watched his faltering steps.

Conscious of this scrutiny, the visitor babbled incoherences to Miss Brampton, until in self-defence she retreated to the house on the plea of a thorn in her foot.

The sound of Mr. Scott’s voice in the kitchen did not add to her comfort. A glance from her window showed her that her father had taken her place with the visitor and was pointing out to him the merits of the rockery. She stole downstairs and, opening the kitchen-door, peeped in.

“I thought you were going to the cinema,” she said, addressing Mr. Scott coldly.

“Can’t,” was the reply. “Clara’s Bill is outside, and she’s afraid to come.”

“He’s waiting for him,” said Clara breathlessly. “There’ll be murder done--and I shall be the cause of it.”

“Cheer up,” said Mr. Scott. “He’ll only have a week or two in a nice comfortable hospital. You’ll be able to see him on Sunday afternoons and take him grapes.”

“I know who’ll want the grapes,” said Clara miserably. “You don’t know his strength. I don’t believe he knows it himself.”

“Where is he?” demanded Miss Brampton.

“Outside the side-gate, miss,” replied Clara. “Like a cat waiting for a mouse.”

“A mouse!” ejaculated the startled Mr. Scott. “Now look here, Clara----”

“I’ll go and send him away,” said Miss Brampton with decision.

She slipped into the garden and, her father’s back still being towards her, opened the side-gate and looked out. A bullet-headed young man, standing just outside, drew up sharply at her appearance and stood scowling at her.

“Do you want to see Clara?” she inquired.

“I’m waiting,” said Mr. Bill Jones, “waiting for a toff.”

Miss Brampton stood regarding him with a puzzled air. Then she had an inspiration that almost took her breath away.

“Do you mean the gentleman who is in the garden talking to father?” she inquired.

Mr. Jones’s eyes glistened. He licked his lips and stood breathing hard and short. Miss Brampton, with an encouraging smile, pushed the door open.

Mr. Jones needed no further invitation. With head erect and eyes ablaze he entered the garden and, catching sight of the unconscious Mr. Hopkins, strode rapidly towards him.

“Here! What do you want?” demanded the astonished Captain.

Mr. Jones ignored him, and continuing his progress, thrust his face into that of Mr. Hopkins.

“Take my gal away, will yer?” he shouted. “Take ’er to the pictures, will yer? Take that!”

Mr. Hopkins took it and went down with a cry of anguish. Through a mist of pain he heard the voice of his assailant.

“Get up! Get up, else I’ll jump on yer.”

Mr. Hopkins got up, and the appearance of Mr. Jones was so terrible that he turned and fled, with the other in hot pursuit.

“Stop!” yelled the choking Captain. “Mind the flowers! Mind the fl----”

Mr. Hopkins paid no heed; neither, to do him justice, did Mr. Jones. Firmly convinced that his life was in danger, the former performed miracles of agility, while his opponent pounded doggedly behind. A bad third, owing to his keeping to the path, the Captain followed raving in the rear.

Broken plants lay in the wake of Mr. Hopkins; churned-up earth marked the progress of Mr. Jones as he endeavoured to head him off. And at this juncture Mr. Scott appeared from the kitchen, shedding his coat.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.

Mr. Jones pulled up suddenly and favoured him with a menacing glare.

“Look at those flowers,” cried Mr. Scott severely. “You chump-headed, mutton-headed son of a gun!”

Mr. Jones stood irresolute. He looked longingly at Mr. Hopkins taking cover behind the Captain; then with a loud roar he threw himself upon this new arrival.

Mr. Scott side-stepped neatly and smote him heavily on the chin. Mr. Jones, turning in amazement, took three more and, being by this time acclimatised, settled down to a steady mill.

“You’d better go,” said the Captain harshly, to Mr. Hopkins. “This isn’t a sight for you.”

Mr. Hopkins went, somewhat reluctantly. He was a man of peace, but the sight of Mr. Jones’s damages seemed in some way to afford him an odd feeling of satisfaction. The Captain stayed to see fair play--also the only fight with fists he had seen since he left the sea. It was with almost a sigh that he went at length to help Mr. Scott assist his adversary to his feet. The dazed Mr. Jones, with Clara’s arm about his waist, was led indoors and his head placed under the scullery tap. The cooling sounds of running water and the heated comments of Mr. Jones alone broke the silence.

“Well, that’s over,” said Mr. Scott, tenderly dabbing his face with his handkerchief, as Miss Brampton came out. “I’m afraid Clara has jilted me, sir.”

The Captain grunted and eyed him curiously.

“I was going to take her to the cinema, now I suppose I shall have to go alone. Unless----”

“Well?” barked the Captain, waiting.

“Unless Miss Brampton comes with me.”

The Captain stood up and faced him, choking.

“Cinema!” he roared. “Cinema! If you want to do something to pass the evening, you can help her help me help make the garden tidy.”

The Model

I

It was getting too dark to work, and the artist, a cigarette between his lips, was sitting restfully at the open window, lazily scanning through his half-closed lids the languid life of the old Italian city below. As the objects in his studio retired farther and farther into the shadows, he arose, and taking his hat from a peg, passed slowly down the long staircase into the street. The air, which had been almost stifling during the day was now freshening, and he passed from street to street with the aimless enjoyment of the man to whom the mere exercise of his cramped limbs is a luxury.

Standing idly at a lighted corner preparatory to turning back, his gaze fell upon a middle-aged woman of poor appearance who was passing. He started violently, and in an undecided fashion stood gazing after her retreating figure until it disappeared down a small by-street. Then, on a sudden impulse, he threw away his cigarette and started in pursuit.

At first he gained but little on her, and once or twice nearly lost her in the rapidly increasing darkness, but in the end his youth and strength told, and the woman, who had been conscious for some time that her steps were dogged, slackened her pace and walked with her hand pressed to her side, breathing distressfully. In the centre of the old stone bridge which leads from the narrow streets of the town to the open country beyond, he overtook her.

“Pardon, signora,” he said softly.

The woman halted, her hand on the low stone parapet, and confronted him.

“You walk fast,” he continued, smiling.

She murmured an indistinct something, and made as though to go.

“No, I have followed you some distance,” said the artist, “I can’t afford to lose you. Will you let me see your face? I have a reason for the request.”

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.’

“‘He’s been made away with, that’s my opinion,’ ses Ginger. ‘We shall never see ’im agin, any more than we shall see that monkey-faced chap that gave us the slip yesterday.’

“They went downstairs to go out and get some brekfuss, and the very fust thing they saw was the young feller, leaning up agin the wall, smoking a fag.

“‘’Ullo!’ he ses. ‘Did you find the spider?’

“Ginger couldn’t answer ’im for a minute. He stood there staring at him as if he was a ghost.

“‘Wot did you run off for?’ he ses, at last, growling at ’im.

“‘Me?’ ses the other. ‘I didn’t run off. But I thought that if pore old Sam ’ad to wait till you found that spider he’d never get ’is money.’

“‘Is he alive?’ ses Peter.

“‘_Alive?_’ ses the young feller. ‘I on’y ’ope I shall be ’arf as lively at ’is age as wot he is. I’ve got another letter for you.’

“He fished it out of ’is pocket and handed it to Ginger, and then stood sucking his teeth and looking at the winder opposite while Ginger read it.

“It was a longer letter than the other. One thing was Sam called ’imself a silly fool two or three times over ’cos he ’ad gambled away the five pounds. He wanted Ginger to send ’im the other three, and said as ’ow he had ’ad awful bad luck, and never wanted to see a card agin as long as ’e lived. He told Ginger to give the other three pounds to ’is friend Sid, wot took the five pounds, and said if they followed ’im again he would never forgive ’im.

“‘Fair old cough-drop, ain’t he?’ ses the young feller.

“‘He’s fell into bad ’ands,’ ses Ginger, glaring at ’im.

“‘That’s right,’ ses Sid, ‘and we’ve got to get ’im out. You find the ready, and I’ll do the rest.’

“Ginger read the letter agin, arter Peter ’ad done with it, and then ’e told the chap to wait while he went indoors for the money. Wot ’e really went indoors for was to tell the land-lady’s gal, a smart little kid of eleven, as ’ad two bilious attacks a week reg’lar to stay at ’ome and ’elp ’er mother, to foller Mr. Sid ’ome.

“‘Here’s the three quid,’ ’e ses, coming out. ‘Take it and go.’

“‘And let’s ’ope he won’t lose that,’ ses Sid. ‘Are you coming to see me as far as the--I mean, as far as you can?’

“‘I am not,’ ses Ginger.

“‘Ah, well, I don’t blame you,’ ses Sid. ‘It’s a waste of your time and mine too, ain’t it? The last chap that tried to foller me ’ome seemed to think I lived in the canal. I never see a chap make ’imself so wet.’

“He gave Peter a playful little tap in the stummick, and, arter asking Ginger for a lock of ’is ’air to frighten the gals with, went off whistling. And he had ’ardly turned the corner afore the little gal was arter ’im.

“By the time Peter and Ginger was back from their brekfuss she was ’ome agin, ’aving follered the young man to his ’ouse, and seen ’im go inside. He didn’t seem to ’ave any idea that ’e was being follered; and Ginger was so pleased with ’imself and ’is cleverness that Peter ’ad to remind ’im of all sorts of things he didn’t want to be reminded of.

“They waited in for some time to see if Sam came ’ome, but there was no sign of ’im, and Ginger began to wonder whether he ’ad lost the three quid as well as the five.

“‘We’ll give ’im till eight o’clock,’ he ses. ‘And if he ain’t ’ome by then we’ll go round and fetch ’im.’

“‘It’s my belief they won’t let ’im go,’ ses Peter.

“‘Or p’r’aps he’s lost ’is trowsis agin,’ ses Ginger. ‘We’ll take his other pair with us in case. And we’ll get one or two to come with us to see fair play.’

“They picked up a couple o’ firemen they knew, that arternoon. Stiff-built chaps they was, and always ready for a bit of trouble, ’aving both ’ad Irish mothers. They ’ad a few drinks to steady themselves, and then one of ’em, Bob Mills by name, got so upset because Ginger said he thought it ’ud be better not to burn the ’ouse down, that it took three men and the landlord to get ’im outside.