The Irish standard., 1900-09-01
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PORTRAIT.

Sprague was seated before his easel
arranging his palette for the morn
ing's work. The unfinished portrait of
Agnes Murdoch looked down upon him
with eyes of living beauty. Occasional
ly the artist would bestow a deft
touch upon the glowing canvas and
would retire to Il distance to note with
a critical eye the new effect. Then he
would consult his watch in nervous i'm
patience; and, going to the window,
he would glance anxiously up and
down the street. Once or twice the
rumble of wheels caused him to look
up in glad expectancy, which gradual
ly gave way to gloomy discomfort as
the noise died away in The distance.
At length hope seemed to depart al
together from the young mans breast.
He threw down his brushes, gave up all
pretcnse Of work and tlrirted off into a
brown study. His eyes, fixed upon
those of the portrait, had troubled
look i'll them-so troubled that it was
clearly out Of all proportion to the
professionaldisappo ola paint
er kept waiting for a fair subject.
So absorbed did he become in his
gloomy meditations, that, when at last
a carriage stopped before the house,
the artist did not hear it. But when,
presently, a gentle tap sounded upon
the door of the studio, he sprang to his
feet as if he had received an electric
shock.
Perhaps he had; for it was followed
by rapid current of delicious thrills
tingling through every nerve and ef-
fccting in his whole being q sudden
and marvellous transformation. At
once the furrowcd brow was smooth;
the dropping lips We're wreathed in
smiles; the troubled look gave way to
one of glad welcome.
For she had come at last. There she
stood, with laughing brown eyes and
glowing checks, when Sprague threw
open the door. Alas, as usual, she was
accompaniedby by her maid. Never mind;
was it not enough to have her there at
all, to bask in the sunshine of her
smile, to look into the dangerous
depths of those soul-stirring eyes, to
listen to the ripping of her silvery
voice?
"Ifear am a little late, Mr.. Sprague; !;
am sorry to have kept you waiting.
But you see this is how it was"
What mattered it to him now how it
was? Was she not there? An eternity
of suspense and misery would have
been wiped out by that single entran-
cling fact. Her words beat upon his ear
like rapturous melody; he drank them
in, hardly conscious of their meaning
Agnes Murdoch, followed by her
maid, proceeded ut once to the dress.
ing-room set apart for the use of the
artists models. When she returned
dressed for the sitting, she assumed I'M.
der Sprague's directions the pose of the
portrait, while the artist critically ar.
ranged her draperies and adjusted the
shades and screens.
The maid had remained in the dress.
ing-room.
"And so these are positively the last
| final touches, are they, Mr.. Sprague?'
asked the young girl, mischievously
after few minutes. "You artists seen
to be quite US uncertain about you,
farewell appearances as any famous ac
tress or singer"
The artist looked up quickly as the
girl spoke. An expression of pai-
crossed his features.
Eyes, Miss Murdock," he answered
gravely. II shall not have to trouble
you to pose again."
Miss Murdock's attention was at
tracted by the melancholy note in hi:
voice. She observed him from the cor
ner of her eyes in kindly curiosity.
The artist fell into moody silence
For awhile he worked with feverish nc
tivity at the portrait; and then, grad
ually falling into fit of melancholy
abstraction, he sat, with poised brush
gazing intently at the beautiful gir
before him. His task forgotten, HI
was apparently unconscious that h.
was taking advantage of his privileged
position to stare at his fair subject. Ag
mes felt his burning glance and was EN-
barrassed by it; but, womanlike, sh,
retained control Of herself, outwardly
at all events, as she uttered some com
monplace remark, which broke tn,
spell and brought the artist to hi.
senses with sharp consciousness o.
his rudeness. He replied to the youua
girls question in a low, changed voice
and then relapsed into gloomy silence