And now this possibility had received corroboration from his own words, shedding a new light, in which both his character and his genius became more intelligible.  He had only stood out of the shadows which obscured him for one instant; but that instant had been enough.

And Rainham did not find the occasion less valuable, nor the impression which he had received less pitiful, because he believed it to be ultimate and unique; his friend would make no vain, elaborate confidences; he would simply step back into his old obscurity, leaving Rainham with the memory of that instructive cry which had been wrung from him by the irony of tardy recognition, when he had seen him luridly standing over the wreck of his honour and of his life.  And with his pity there came to him a fresh sense of the greatness of the painter’s work.  His genius, so full of suffering, and of the sense of an almost fiendish cruelty in things, was, simply, his life, his experience, his remorse.

With the hand of a master, with the finest technique, which made his work admirable even to persons who misinterpreted or were revolted by its conception, he rendered the things he had known, so that his art was nothing so much as an expression of his personal pain in life.

In the light of this vision into the bottom of Oswyn’s soul, Rainham’s own pain seemed suddenly shallow and remote; he had gazed for a moment upon a blacker desolation than any which he could know.  He felt a new, a tolerant sympathy towards his friend, and it struck him, not for the first time, but with an increased force, as he reminded himself how his days were bounded, that they had many things which they had still to say, things which must certainly be said.

CHAPTER XXIX

In the same room one afternoon a fortnight later, Oswyn sat, absently correcting the draft catalogue of his exhibition, when he received an intimation, which for some days he had expected—­his friend felt strong enough to see him.  He put down his pen, glancing up inquiringly at the bearer of this message, a young woman in the neat, depressing garb of a professional nurse; but for answer she slightly shook her head with the disinterested complacency of the woman used to sickness, who would encourage no false notions.

“It is only temporary,” she said with deliberation.  “I fear there has been no real improvement; the patient is steadily losing strength.  Only he insists on seeing you; and when they are like that, one must give them what they want.  I must beg you to excite him as little as possible.”

Oswyn bowed a dreary assent, and followed her up the obscure staircase, which creaked sullenly beneath his tread.  And he stood for a few moments in silence, until his eyes were accustomed to the darkened room, when the nurse had gently closed the door behind him, leaving him alone with his friend.

He almost believed, at first, that Rainham must be sleeping, he lay back with such extreme quietness in the large old-fashioned bed.  And seeing him there in that new helplessness, he realized, almost for the first time, how little there was to say or to hope.