The room had been built for a smaller studio, and was lit from the roof, blinds being contrived so as to draw like a Roman _velum_ across the gla.s.s.

These were partly undrawn now, giving a weird effect to the half-dark room, across whose gloom a boldly-defined broad bar of light, full of tiny dancing motes, shone down upon the artist's bed.

The door was by the head of the couch, and the figure of its occupant was hidden by the hangings, as well as by a carefully-arranged screen covered with fantastic j.a.panese designs, but Artingale felt a strange thrill run through him as he caught sight of the lower portion of the bed, and took a couple of steps rapidly forward, but only to stop short the next moment, as if paralysed by what he saw.

PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

MAGNUS MAKES CONFESSION.

Not many moments before, Artingale had wonderingly asked himself whether Magnus cared for her whom he regarded quite as a sister, and about whose state he was troubled in no small degree. The question was answered now without room for a doubt.

Poor fellow! It had been a terrible cut he had received upon his head in the fall that night. There had been concussion of the brain, with fever and delirium, and for a long time his state had been very serious.

Then came some slight amendment, but only to be followed, for months, by a depression which seemed to master the strong man's spirits; and this, too, in spite of the efforts of the medical men, constant nursing, and the companionship of Artingale, given to such an extent that Cynthia had pouted, and then thrown her arms round "dear Harry's" neck, and told him she loved him ten thousand times better for his devotion to his friend.

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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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.

"Don't hide it, old fellow," he said. "Why should you?"

Magnus looked at him as if in dread and shame.

"Why should you mind?" continued Artingale. "I've never been ashamed to confess to you. But how wonderfully like."

Magnus still gazed at him in a troubled way, but he did not speak, and the two men remained looking into each other's eyes as Artingale seated himself upon the edge of the bed.

"Mag, old fellow," said Artingale at last, "I'm very, very glad."

"Why should you be?" said the other, in a low, weak voice. "It is only an empty dream."

"No, no. Nonsense, man. Why, come, with that idea in your brain you ought to be up and doing."

"What!" said Magnus, bitterly; "trying to make her life unhappy by my mad love?"

"Mad love! Is it mad to love a beautiful woman with all your heart, as I'm sure you do, with that confession before my eyes?"

"Yes, when she is engaged to be married to another."

"But that would never be if she knew of your love."

"Harry, my dear boy," said the artist sadly, "it comes very easy to you to make sketches or build castles in the air. You love little Cynthia, and your love is returned."

"Yes; of course."

"And you both think how pleasant it would be for the sister of both to become the wife of the friend."

"Yes. Well, where's the madness?"

Magnus shook his head sadly.

"Why should I tell you?" he said. "I have studied nature too long not to know something of women. Do you think I could see and converse with--with--her without knowing something of her heart?"

"Her heart is untouched. Of that I am sure," cried Artingale.

"I don't know that," said Magnus, sadly; "but this I do know--that no word I could utter, no look I could give, would ever make it throb."

"Nonsense, man," said Artingale, merrily. "Why, Mag, where's your courage? Up, lad, and try. Don't lie there and let that piece of imitation human being carry her off."

Magnus, who was very weak, lay back thinking.

"Why," continued Artingale, "you are bound to succeed. What could be better? She was insulted, and you seized the scoundrel who insulted her, and became seriously injured in her service. Nothing could be more fortunate."

"Have you found out anything more about that fellow?" said Magnus, at last.

"No: nothing; and the police have given it up. I want you to get well and help me."

"Nothing more has been seen of him, then?"

"Indeed but there has," said Artingale; "he has turned up no less than three times by the carriage when the girls have been out, and poor Julia has been frightened almost into hysterics. Come, you must get well, Mag, for if ever poor girl wanted a stout protector, it is Julia Mallow."

"Tell me about her engagement."

"What for? To make you worse?"

"It will not make me worse, Harry. Tell me. She is engaged to Perry-Morton, is she not?"

"Hang him! Well, I suppose there is something of the kind. My respected papa-in-law-to-be seems to have run mad over the fellow, and suffers himself to be regularly led by the nose. But it can't last; it's impossible. No sane man could go on long without finding out what an a.s.s the fellow is, with his vain conceit and pretensions to art and poetry. It is all the Rector's doing, and he is everything; poor Mrs Mallow, as you know, never leaves her couch."

"You said the other day that they were going back into the country."