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.