“You are very kind—to a poor—weak fellow,” he whispered. “After all—it is a desolate thing—to lie awake through the night—in a place like this.”
When the doctor returned the next morning, he appeared even a shade disconcerted. He had thought it quite likely that upon his second visit he might find a scant white sheet drawn over the narrow bed, and that it would not be necessary for him to remain or call again; but it appeared that his patient might require his attention yet a few days longer.
“You have not left him at all,” he said to Natalie. “It is easy to see you did not sleep last night.”
It was true that she had not slept. Through the night she had sat in the dim glow of the fire, scarcely stirring unless some slight sound of movement from the bed attracted her attention. During the first part of the night her charge had seemed to sleep; but as the hours wore on there had been no more rest for him, and then she had known that he lay with his eyes fixed upon her; she had felt their gaze even before she had turned to meet it. Just before the dawn he became restless, and called her to his side.
“I owe you a heavy debt,” he said drearily. “And I shall leave it unpaid. I wish—I wish it was finished.”
“It?” she said.
“The picture,” he answered, “the—picture.”
Usually he was too weak for speech; but occasionally a fit of restlessness seized upon him, and then it seemed as if he was haunted continually by the memory of his unfinished work.
“It only needed a few touches,” he said once. “One day of strength would complete it—if such a day would but come to me, I know the look so well now—I see it on your face so often.” And then he lay watching her, his eyes following her yearningly, as she moved to and fro.
In the studios below, the artists waited in vain for their model. They neither saw nor heard anything of her, and they knew her moods too well to be officiously inquisitive. So she was left alone to the task she had chosen, and was faithful to it to the end.