Artingale had been with Magnus the night before, but had been kept away that morning, and it was now close upon five o’clock when he stood as it were petrified at the sight which met his eyes.
As has been said, the greater portion of the chamber was in a state of semi-obscurity; but a broad band of light fell direct from the skylight upon the bed where James Magnus had been propped up with pillows before a dwarf easel and canvas, upon which, rapidly dashed in by his masterly hand, showing in every line the inspiration that had been thrown upon the canvas by the artist’s mind, was the work upon which he had been engaged.
Had been engaged, for, palette in one hand, brush in the other, he had sunk back, his pallid face, with the hair cut closely now, giving him in the gloom wherein he lay the aspect of some portrait by Rembrandt or Velasquez, the stern lines cut by sickness softened by a contented smile.
He must have fallen back as he was raising his hand to continue his work, for the colour-charged brush in his thin white fingers had fallen upon the white sheet, making a broad smear, and as he gazed Artingale thought that he was dead.
It was but for an instant though, for the loose open collar of the shirt was rising and falling gently at each respiration, and even as the young man went over towards the bed a low sigh escaped from the invalid’s lips.
Satisfied upon that point, Artingale’s eyes were turned upon the canvas illumined by the soft white light; and for the moment, simple and unfinished as the portrait was, he could almost have fancied that it was Julia’s self gazing up at him with a sweet pensive smile upon her lips, but with the strange nameless horror in her appealing eyes.
It was wonderful. He had often watched with interest the way in which some face would grow up beneath the pencil of his friend, but in this case there was the effort of genius at its best, and he stood there gazing in rapt admiration at the portrait.
His question was answered, for no one but a man who loved could so perfectly have reproduced those features from memory.
“I wish Cynthia could see it,” he thought; and he took another step forward.
That broke the sick man’s slumber, for he started into wakefulness, and made a snatch at the canvas, to hide it from his friend, two red spots burning in his pallid cheeks, and a look of anger flashing from his sunken eyes; but Artingale laid a hand upon his arm.