(Earner
 
 FENWICK'S CAREER
 
 [See p. 36 
 
 'ARE YOU GOING TO LET ME GO AND MAKE MY FORTUNE 
 OUR FORTUNE?'"
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HUMPHRY WARD 
 
 Author ol 
 
 'The Marriage of William Aslie, " "Lady Rose's Daughter' 
 " Eleanor " etc. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 ALBERT STERNER 
 
 TORONTO 
 
 WILLIAM BRIGGS 
 
 MONTREAL 
 THE MONTREAL NEWS CO. 
 
 1906
 
 ENTKKKD according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in tht 
 year one thousand nine hundred and six, by 
 
 WILLIAM BRIOOS, 
 at the Department of Agriculture.
 
 TO 
 MY DEAR SISTER 
 
 J. F. H. 
 
 MAY, 1906
 
 Contents 
 
 PART I. WESTMORELAND i 
 
 PART II. LONDON 45 
 
 PART III. AFTER TWELVE YEARS . 187
 
 Illustrations 
 
 "ARE YOU GOING TO LET ME GO AND MAKE MY 
 
 FORTUNE? OUR FORTUNE?'" Frontispiece 
 
 'MADAME DE PASTOURELLES SAT AS STILL AS SHE 
 
 COULD, HER THIN, NUMBED FINGERS LIGHTLY 
 
 CROSSED ON HER LAP " Facing p. Il8 
 
 'WITH DRY, REDDENED EYES, SHE STARED AT THE 
 PORTRAIT OP THE WOMAN WHO MUST HAVE 
 
 STOLEN JOHN FROM HER" I7& 
 
 "BY TOVE!' HE SAID, PRESENTLY. 'BY JOVE! 
 
 THAT'LL DO'" " 3S 6
 
 A Prefatory Word 
 
 THE story told in the present book owes something 
 to the past, in its picturing of the present, as its 
 predecessors have done; though in much less degree. 
 The artist, as I hold, may gather from any field, so 
 long as he sacredly respects what other artists have 
 already made their own by the transmuting processes 
 of the mind. To draw on the conceptions or the phrases 
 that have once passed through the warm minting of 
 another's brain, is, for us moderns, at any rate, the 
 literary crime of crimes. But to the teller of stories, 
 all that is recorded of the real life of men, as well as all 
 that his own eyes can see, is offered for the enrichment 
 of his tale. This is a clear and simple principle; yet 
 it has been often denied. To insist upon it is, in my 
 belief, to uphold the true flag of Imagination, and to 
 defend the wide borders of Romance. 
 
 In addition to this word of notice, which my readers 
 will perhaps accept from me once for all, this small 
 preface must also contain a word of thanks to my 
 friend Mr. Sterner, whose beautiful art has contributed 
 to this story, as to several of its forerunners. I have 
 to thank him, indeed, not only as an artist, but as a 
 critic. In the interpreting of Fenwick, he has given me 
 valuable aid; has corrected mistakes, and illumined his 
 xi
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 own painter's craft for me, as none but a painter can. 
 But his poetic intelligence as an artist is what makes 
 him so rare a colleague. In the first lovely drawing 
 of the husband and wife sitting by the Westmoreland 
 stream, Phoebe's face and look will be felt, I think, by 
 any sympathetic reader, as a light on the course of the 
 story; reappearing, now in storm, as in the picture of 
 her despair, before the portrait of her supposed rival; 
 and now in tremulous afterglow, as in the scene with 
 which the drawings close. To be so understood and so 
 bodied forth is great good-fortune; and I beg to be al- 
 lowed this word of gratitude. 
 
 The lines quoted on page 163 are taken, as any lover 
 of modern poetry will recognize, from the "Elegy on 
 the Death of a Lady," by Mr. Robert Bridges, first 
 printed in 1873. 
 
 MARY A. WARD.
 
 PART I 
 
 Westmoreland 
 
 'Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
 The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb?"
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 creetly to his canvas, and occupied himself with a fold 
 of drapery. 
 
 "I put it on, because I thought Mr. Fenwick wanted 
 something pretty to paint. And as he clearly don't see 
 anything in me!" she looked over her shoulder at the 
 picture, with a shrug of mock humility concealing a 
 very evident annoyance "I thought anyway he might 
 like my best frock." 
 
 "I'm sorry you're not satisfied, Miss Morrison," said 
 the artist, stepping back from his canvas and somewhat 
 defiantly regarding the picture upon it. Then he turned 
 and looked at the girl a coarsely pretty young woman, 
 very airily clothed in a white muslin dress, of which the 
 transparency displayed her neck and arms with a free- 
 dom not at all in keeping with the nipping air of West- 
 moreland in springtime going up to his easel again 
 after the look to put in another touch. 
 
 As to his expression of regret, Miss Morrison tossed 
 her head. 
 
 "It doesn't matter to me!" she declared. "It was 
 father's fad, and so I sat. He promised me, if I didn't 
 like it, he'd put it in his own den, where my friends 
 couldn't see it. So I really don't care a straw!" 
 
 "Bella! don't be rude!" said her mother, severely. 
 She rose and came to look at the picture. 
 
 Bella's color took a still sharper accent; her chest rose 
 and fell; she fidgeted an angry foot. 
 
 "I told Mr. Fenwick hundreds of times," she pro- 
 tested, "that he was making my upper lip miles too 
 long and that I hadn't got a nasty staring look like 
 that nor a mouth like that nor nor anything. It's 
 it's too bad!"
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 The girl turned away, and Fenwick, glancing at her 
 in dismay, saw that she was on the point of indignant 
 tears. 
 
 Mrs. Morrison put on her spectacles. She was a small, 
 gray - haired woman with a face, wrinkled and drawn, 
 from which all smiles seemed to have long departed. 
 Even in repose, her expression suggested hidden anxie- 
 ties fears grown habitual and watchful; and when she 
 moved or spoke, it was with a cold caution or distrust, 
 as though in all directions she was afraid of what she 
 might touch, of possibilities she might set loose. 
 
 She looked at the picture, and then at her daughter. 
 
 "It's not flattered," she said, slowly. "But I can't 
 say it isn't like you, Bella." 
 
 "Oh, I knew you'd say something like that, mother!" 
 said the daughter, scornfully. She stooped and threw 
 a shawl round her shoulders; gathered up some work- 
 ing materials and a book with which she had been toying 
 during the sitting; and then straightened herself with 
 an air at once tragic and absurd. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, Mr. Fenwick." She turned to the 
 painter. "I'd rather not sit again, please." 
 
 "I shouldn't think of asking you, Miss Morrison," 
 murmured the young man, moving aside to let her 
 pass. 
 
 "Hullo, hullo! what's all this?" said a cheery voice 
 at the door. "Bella, where are you off to? Is the sit- 
 ting done?" 
 
 "It's been going on two hours, papa, so I should 
 think I'd had about enough," said Miss Bella, making 
 for the door. 
 
 But her father caught her by the arm. 
 5
 
 Fen toick' s Career 
 
 "I say, we are smart! aren't we, mamma? Well, 
 now then let me have a look." 
 
 And drawing the unwilling girl once more towards 
 the painter, he detained her while he scrutinized the 
 picture. 
 
 "Do I squint, papa?" said Miss Morrison, with her 
 head haughtily turned away. 
 
 "Wait a minute, my dear." 
 
 "Have I got the color of a bar-maid, and a waist like 
 Fanny's?" Fanny was the Morrisons' housemaid, and 
 was not slim. 
 
 "Be quiet, Bella; you disturb me." 
 
 Bella's chin mounted still higher ; her foot once more 
 beat the ground impatiently, while her father looked 
 from the picture to her, and back again. 
 
 Then he released her with a laugh. "You may run 
 away, child, if you want to. Upon my word, Fen wick, 
 you're advancing! You are: no doubt about that. 
 Some of the execution there is astonishing. But all 
 the same I don't see you earning your bread and butter 
 at portrait-painting; and I guess you don't either." 
 
 The speaker threw out a thin hand and patted Fen- 
 wick on the shoulder, returning immediately to a close 
 examination of the picture. 
 
 "I told you, sir, I should only paint portraits if I 
 were compelled!" saitl the young man, in a proud, 
 muffled voice. He began to gather up his things and 
 clean his palette. 
 
 "But of course you'll be compelled unless you wish 
 to die 'clemmed,' as we say in Lancashire," returned the 
 other, briskly. "What do you say, mamma?" 
 
 He turned towards his wife, pushing up his spectacles 
 6
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 to look at her. He was a tall man, a little bent at the 
 shoulders from long years of desk work ; and those who 
 saw him for the first time were apt to be struck by a 
 certain eager volatility of aspect expressed by the 
 small head on its thin neck, by the wavering blue eyes, 
 and smiling mouth not perhaps common in the chief 
 cashiers of country banks. 
 
 As his wife met his appeal to her, the slight habitual 
 furrow on her own brow deepened. She saw that her 
 husband held a newspaper crushed in his right hand, 
 and that his whole air was excited and restless. A 
 miserable, familiar pang passed through her. As the 
 chief and trusted official of an old-established bank in 
 one of the smaller cotton-towns, Mr. Morrison had a 
 large command of money. His wife had suspected him 
 for years of using bank funds for the purposes of his 
 own speculations. She had never dared to say a word 
 to him on the subject, but she lived in terror being a 
 Calvinist by nature and training of ruin here, and hell 
 hereafter. 
 
 Of late, some instinct told her that he had been forc- 
 ing the pace; and as she turned to him, she felt certain 
 that he had just received some news which had given 
 him great pleasure, and she felt certain also that it was 
 news of which he ought rather to have been ashamed. 
 
 She drew herself together in a dumb recoil. Her 
 hands trembled as she put down her knitting. 
 
 " I'd be sorry if a son of mine did nothing but paint 
 portraits." 
 
 John Fenwick looked up startled. 
 
 "Why?" laughed her husband. 
 
 "Because it often seems to me," she said, in a thin, 
 7
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 measured voice, "that a Christian might find a better 
 use for his time than ministering to the vanity of silly 
 girls, and wasting hours and hours on making a like- 
 ness of this poor body, that's of no real matter to any- 
 body." 
 
 "You'd make short work of art and artists, my dear! " 
 said Morrison, throwing up his hands. "You forget, 
 perhaps, that St. Luke was a painter?" 
 
 "And where do you get that from, Mr. Morrison, I'd 
 like to ask?" said his wife, slowly; "it's not in the 
 Bible though I believe you think it is. Well, good- 
 night to you, Mr. Fen wick. I'm sorry you haven't 
 enjoyed yourself, and I'm not going to deny that Bella 
 was very rude and trying. Good -night." 
 
 And with a frigid touch of the hand, Mrs. Morrison 
 departed. She looked again at her husband as she 
 closed the door a sombre, shrinking look. 
 
 Morrison avoided it. He was pacing up and down in 
 high spirits. When he and Fenwick were left alone, he 
 went up to the painter and laid an arm across his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Well! how's the money holding out?" 
 
 "I've got scarcely any left," said the painter, in- 
 stinctively moving away. It might have been seen that 
 he felt himself dependent, and hated to feel it. 
 
 "Any more commissions?" 
 
 "I've painted a child up in Grasmere, and a farmer's 
 wife just married. And Satterthwaite, the butcher, 
 says he'll give me a commission soon. And there's a 
 clergyman, up Easedale way, wants me to paint his 
 son." 
 
 "Well; and what do you get for these things?"
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 "Three pounds sometimes five," said the young man, 
 reluctantly. 
 
 "A little more than a photograph." 
 
 "Yes. They say if I won't be reasonable there's 
 plenty as '11 take their pictures, and they can't throw 
 away money." 
 
 "H'm! Well, at this rate, Fenwick, you're not ex- 
 actly galloping into a fortune. And your father?" 
 
 Fenwick made a bitter gesture, as much as to say, 
 "What's the good of discussing that ?" 
 
 "H'm! Well, now, Fenwick, what are your plans? 
 Can you live on what you make?" 
 
 "No," said the other, abruptly. "I'm getting into 
 debt." 
 
 "That's bad. But what's your own idea ? You must 
 have some notion of a way out." 
 
 "If I could get to London," said the other, in a low, 
 dragging voice, "I'd soon find a way out." 
 
 "And what prevents you?" 
 
 "Well, it's simple enough. You don't really, sir, 
 need to ask. I've no money and I've a wife and 
 child." 
 
 Fenwick's tone was marked by an evident ill-humor. 
 He had thrown back his handsome head and his eyes 
 sparkled. It was plain that Mr. Morrison's catechising 
 manner had jarred upon a pride that was all on edge 
 wounded by poverty and ill-success. 
 
 "Yes that was an imprudent match of yours, my 
 young man! However however " 
 
 Mr. Morrison walked up and down ruminating. His 
 long, thin hands were clasped before him. His head 
 hung in meditation. And every now and then he 
 9
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 looked towards the newspaper he had thrown down. 
 At last he again approached the artist. 
 
 "Upon my word, Fenwick, I've a mind to do some- 
 thing for you I have indeed. I believe you'd justify 
 it I do! And I've always had a soft heart for artists. 
 You look at the things in this room He waved his 
 hand towards the walls, which were covered with water- 
 color drawings "I've known most of the men who 
 painted them, and I've assisted a very great many of 
 them. Those pictures most of them represent loans, 
 sir! loans at times of difficulty, which I was proud to 
 make" Mr. Morrison struck his hand on the table 
 " yes, proud because I believed in the genius of the 
 men to whom I made them. I said , " I'll take a picture ' ' 
 and they had the money and the money saved their 
 furniture and their homes and their wives and chil- 
 dren. Well, I'm glad and proud to have done it, Fen- 
 wick! you mark my words." 
 
 He paused, his eyes on the artist, his attitude grasp- 
 ing, as it were, at the other's approval hungry for it. 
 Fenwick said nothing. He stood in the shadow of a cur- 
 tain, and the sarcasm his lip could not restrain escaped 
 the notice of his companion. "And so, you see, I'm 
 only following out an old custom when I say, I believe 
 in you, Fenwick! I believe in your abilities I am sorry 
 for your necessities and I'll come to your assistance. 
 Now, how much would take you to London and keep 
 you there for six months, till you've made a few friends 
 and done some work?" 
 
 "A hundred pounds," said the painter, breathing 
 hard. 
 
 "A hundred pounds. And what about the wife?"
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 "Her father very likely would give her shelter, and 
 the child. And of course I should leave her provided." 
 
 "Well, and what about my security? How, John, in 
 plain words, do you propose to repay me?" 
 
 Mr. Morrison spoke with extreme mildness. His blue 
 eyes, whereof the whites were visible all round the pupils, 
 shone benevolently on the artist his mouth was all 
 sensibility. Whereas, for a moment, there had been 
 something of the hawk in his attitude and expression, 
 he was now the dove painfully obliged to pay a passing 
 attention to business. 
 
 Fenwick hesitated. 
 
 "You mentioned six guineas, I think, for this por- 
 trait?" He nodded towards the canvas, on which he 
 had been at work. 
 
 "I did. It is unfortunate, of course, that Bella dis- 
 likes it so. I sha'n't be able to hang it. Never mind. 
 A bargain's a bargain." 
 
 The young man drew himself up proudly. 
 
 "It is so, Mr. Morrison. And you wished me to paint 
 your portrait, I think, and Mrs. Morrison's." The elder 
 man made a sign of assent. "Well, I could run up to 
 your place to Bartonbury and paint those in the 
 winter, when I come to see my wife. As to the rest 
 I'll repay you within the year unless well, unless I 
 go utterly to grief, which of course I may." 
 
 "Wait here a moment. I'll fetch you the money. 
 Better not promise to repay me in cash. It '11 be a 
 millstone round your neck. I'll take it in pictures." 
 
 "Very well; then I'll either paint you an original fin- 
 ished picture historical or romantic subject medium 
 size, by the end of the year, or make you copies you 
 ii
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 said you wanted two or three one large or two small, 
 from anything you like in the National Gallery." 
 
 Morrison laughed good-temperedly. He touched a 
 copy of The Art Journal lying on the table. 
 
 "There's an article here about that German painter 
 Lenbach whom they crack up so nowadays. When 
 he was a young man, Baron Schack, it appears, paid 
 him one hundred pounds a year, for all his time, as a 
 copyist in Italy and Spain." He spoke very delicately, 
 mincing his words a little. 
 
 Fenwick's color rose suddenly. Morrison was not 
 looking at him, or he would have seen a pair of angry 
 eyes. 
 
 " Prices have gone up," said the painter, dryly. "And 
 I guess living in London's dearer now than living in 
 Italy was when Lenbach (which he pronounced Len- 
 back) was young!" 
 
 " Oh ! so you know all about Lenbach ? " 
 
 "You lent me the article. However" Fenwick rose 
 "is that our bargain?" 
 
 The note in the voice was trenchant, even aggressive. 
 Nothing of the suppliant, in tone or attitude. Morrison 
 surveyed him, amused. 
 
 "If you like to call it so," he said, lifting his delicate 
 eyebrows a moment. " Well, I'll take the risk." 
 
 He left the room. Fenwick thrust his hands into his 
 pockets, with a muttered exclamation, and walked to 
 the window. He looked out upon a Westmoreland val- 
 ley in the first flush of spring ; but he saw nothing. His 
 blood beat in heart and brain with a suffocating rapidity. 
 So his chance was come! What would Phcebe say? 
 
 As he stood by the large window, face and form in
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 strong relief against the crude green without, the energy 
 of the May landscape was, as it were, repeated and ex- 
 pressed in the man beholding it. He was tall, a little 
 round-shouldered, with a large, broad-browed head, cov- 
 ered with brown, straggling hair; eyes, glancing and 
 darkish, full of force, of excitement even, curiously 
 veiled, often, by suspicion; nose, a little crooked owing 
 to an injury at football; and mouth, not coarse, but 
 large and freely cut, and falling readily into lines of 
 sarcasm. 
 
 The general look was one of great acuteness, rather 
 antagonistic, as a rule, than sympathetic ; and the hands, 
 which were large and yet slender, were those of a crafts- 
 man finely endowed with all the instincts of touch. 
 
 Suddenly the young man turned on his heel and looked 
 at the water-colors on the wall. 
 
 "The old hypocrite!" he thought; "they're worth 
 hundreds and I'll be bound he got them for nothing. 
 He'll try to get mine for nothing; but he'll find I'm his 
 match!" 
 
 For among these pictures were a number of drawings 
 by men long since well known, and of steady repute 
 among the dealers or in the auctions, especially of Bir- 
 mingham and the northern towns. Morrison had been for 
 years a bank clerk in Birmingham before his appoint- 
 ment to the post he now held. A group of Midland 
 artists, whose work had become famous, and costly in 
 proportion, had evidently been his friends at one time 
 or perhaps merely his debtors. They were at any 
 rate well represented on the wall of this small Westmore- 
 land house in which he spent his holidays. 
 
 Presently Mr. Morrison was heard returning. He 
 13
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 placed an envelope in Fenwick's hand, and then, point- 
 ing him to a chair at the table, he dictated a form of 
 I O U specifying that the debt was to be returned within 
 a year, either in money or in the pictures agreed upon. 
 
 "Oh, no fine speeches, please, my boy no tine 
 speeches!" said Morrison, as the artist rose, stammering 
 out his thanks. "That's been my nature all my life, I 
 tell you to help the lame dogs ask anybody that 
 knows me. That '11 do; that '11 do! Now then, what's 
 going to be your line of action?" 
 
 Fenwick turned on him a face that vainly endeavored 
 to' hide the joy of its owner. 
 
 "I shall look out, of course, first of all, for some 
 bread-and-butter work. I shall go to the editors of the 
 illustrated papers and show them some things. I shall 
 attend some life-school in the evenings. And the rest 
 of the time I shall paint paint like Old Harry!" 
 
 The words caused a momentary wrinkling of Mr. Mor- 
 rison's brow. 
 
 "I should avoid those expressions, if I were you, 
 Fenwick. But paint what, my dear boy ? paint what ? " 
 
 "Of course I have my ideas," said Fenwick, staring 
 at the floor. 
 
 "I think I have earned a right t-> hear them." 
 
 "Certainly. I propose to combine the color and 
 romance of the Pre-Raphaelites, with the truth and 
 drawing of the French school," said the young man, 
 suddenly looking up. 
 
 Surprise betrayed his companion into a broad grin. 
 
 "Upon my word, Fenwick, you won't fail for lack of 
 ambition!" 
 
 The young man reddened, then quietly nodded. 
 14
 
 Fenicick's Career 
 
 "No one gets on without ambition. My ideas have 
 been pretty clear for a long time. The English Roman- 
 tic school have no more future, unless they absorb 
 French drawing and French technique. When they 
 have done that, they will do the finest work in the 
 world." 
 
 Morrison's astonishment increased. The decision and 
 self-confidence with which Fenwick spoke had never yet 
 shown themselves so plainly in the harassed and humbly 
 born painter of Miss Bella's portrait. 
 
 "And you intend to do the finest work in the world?" 
 said the patron, in a voice of banter. 
 
 Fenwick hesitated. 
 
 "I shall do good work," he said, doggedly, after a 
 pause. Then, suddenly raising his head, he added, "And 
 if I weren't sure of it, I'd never let you lend me money." 
 
 Morrison laughed. 
 
 "That's all right. And now, what will Mrs. Fenwick 
 say to us?" 
 
 Fenwick turned away. He repossessed himself of the 
 envelope, and buttoned his coat over it, before he re- 
 plied. 
 
 "I shall, of course, consult her immediately. What 
 shall I do with this picture?" He pointed to the por- 
 trait on the easel. 
 
 "Take it home with you, and see if you can't beautify 
 it a little," said Morrison, in a tone of good-humor. 
 "You've got a lot of worldly wisdom to learn yet, my 
 dear Fenwick. The women must be flattered." 
 
 Fenwick repeated that he was sorry if Miss Bella was 
 disappointed, but the tone was no less perfunctory than 
 before. After stooping and looking sharply for a mo- 
 15
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 ment into the picture which was a strong, ugly thing, 
 with some passages of remarkable technique he put it 
 aside, saying that he would send for it in the evening. 
 Then, having packed up and shouldered the rest of his 
 painter's gear, he stood ready to depart. 
 
 "I'm awfully obliged to you!" he said, holding out 
 his hand. 
 
 Morrison looked at the handsome young fellow, the 
 vivacity of the eyes, the slight agitation of the lip. 
 
 " Don't mention it," he said, with redoubled urbanity. 
 "It's my way only my way! When '11 you be off?" 
 
 "Probably next week. I'll come and say good-bye." 
 
 "I must have a year! But Phcebe will take it hard." 
 John Fenwick had paused on his way home, and was 
 leaning over a gate beside a stream, now thinking anx- 
 iously of his domestic affairs, and now steeped in waves 
 of delight vague, sensuous, thrilling that flowed from 
 the colors and forms around him. He found himself in 
 an intricate and lovely valley, through which lay his path 
 to Langdale. On either side of the stream, wooded or 
 craggy fells, gashed with stone-quarries, accompanied 
 the windings of the water, now leaving room for a scanty 
 field or two, and now hemming in the river with close- 
 piled rock and tree. Before him rose a white Westmore- 
 land farm, with its gabled porch and moss-grown roof, 
 its traditional yews and sycamores ; while to his left, and 
 above the farm, hung a mountain-face, dark with rock, 
 and purple under the evening shadows a rich and noble 
 shape, lost above in dim heights of cloud, and, below, 
 cleft to the heart by one deep ghyll, whence the golden 
 trees in the glittering green of May descended single 
 16
 
 Fcntoick's Career 
 
 or in groups, from shelf to shelf, till their separate brill- 
 iance was lost in the dense wood which girdled the white 
 farm-house. 
 
 The pleasure of which he was conscious in the purple 
 of the mountain, the color of the trees, and all that 
 magic of light and shade which filled the valley a 
 pleasure involuntary, physical, automatic, depending on 
 certain delicacies of nerve and brain rose and persisted, 
 while yet his mind was full of harassing and disagreeable 
 thoughts. 
 
 Well, Phcebe might take her choice! for they had 
 come to the parting of the ways. Either a good painter, 
 a man on the level of the best, trained and equipped as 
 they, or something altogether different a foreman, a 
 clerk, perhaps, in his uncle's upholstery business at 
 Darlington, a ticket-collector on the line anything! 
 He could always earn his own living and Phoebe's. 
 There was no fear of that. But if he was finally to be 
 an artist, he would be a first-rate one. Let him only 
 get more training ; give him time and opportunity ; and 
 he would be as good as any one. 
 
 Morrison, plainly, had thought him a conceited ass. 
 Well, let him! 
 
 What chance had he ever had of proving what was in 
 him ? As he hung over the gate smoking, he thought of 
 his father and mother, and of his childhood in the little 
 Kendal shop the bookseller's-shop which had been the 
 source and means of his truest education. 
 
 Not that he had been a neglected child. Far from it. 
 He remembered his gentle mother, troubled by his inces- 
 sant drawing, by his growing determination to be an 
 artist, by the constant effort as he grew to boyhood to
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 keep the peace between him and his irritable old father. 
 He remembered her death and those pictorial effects 
 in the white-sheeted room effects of light and shadow 
 of flowers of the gray head uplifted ; he remembered 
 also trying to realize them, stealthily, at night, in hip 
 own room, with chalk and paper and then his passion 
 with himself, and the torn drawing, and the tears, which, 
 as it were, another self saw and approved. .. 
 
 Then came school-days. His father had sent him to 
 an old endowed school at Penrith, that he might be away 
 from home and tinder discipline. There he had received 
 a plain commercial education, together with some Latin 
 and Greek. His quick, restless mind had soaked it all 
 in; nothing had been a trouble to him; though, as he 
 well knew, he had done nothing supremely well. But 
 Homer and Virgil had been unlocked for him; and in 
 the school library he found Shakespeare and Chaucer, 
 Morte d' Arthur, and Don Quixote, fresh and endless 
 material for his drawing, which never stopped. Draw- 
 ing everywhere on his books and slates, on doors and 
 gate-posts, or on the whitewashed wall of the old Tudor 
 school-room, where a hunt, drawn with a burned stick, 
 and gloriously dominating the whole room, had pro- 
 voked the indulgence, even the praise, of the head- 
 master. 
 
 And the old drawing-master! a German half blind, 
 though he would never confess it who dabbled in oil- 
 painting, and let the boy watch his methods. How he 
 would twirl his dirty brush round and dab down a lump 
 of Prussian blue, imagining it to be sepia, hastily cor- 
 recting it a moment afterwards with a lump of lake, and 
 then say chuckling to himself: "By Gode, dat is fine! 
 18
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 dat is very nearly a good purple. Fenwick, my boy, 
 mark me you vill not find a good purple no-vere! 
 Some-vere in de depths of Japanese art dere is a good 
 purple. Dat I believe. But not in Europe. Ve Euro- 
 peans are all tam fools. But I vill not svear! no! 
 you onderstand, Fenwick; you haf never heard me 
 svear?" And then a round oath, smothered in a hasty 
 fit of coughing. And once he had cut off part of the 
 skirt of his Sunday coat, taking it in his blindness for 
 an old one, to clean his palette with ; and it was thought, 
 by the boys, that it was the unseemly result of this rash 
 act, as disclosed at church the following Sunday morn- 
 ing, which had led to the poor old man's dismissal. 
 
 But from him John had learned a good deal about 
 oil-painting something too of anatomy though more 
 of this last from that old book Albinus, was it ? that 
 he had found in his father's stock. He could see him- 
 self lying on the floor poring over the old plates, morn- 
 ing, noon, and night then using a little lad, his father's 
 apprentice, to examine him in what he had learned 
 the two going about arm-in-arm Backhouse asking the 
 questions according to a paper drawn up by John 
 "How many heads to the deltoid?" and so on over 
 and over again and with what an eagerness, what an 
 ardor! till the brain was bursting and the hand quiver- 
 ing with new knowledge and the power to use it. Then 
 Leonardo's Art of Painting and Reynolds's Discourses 
 both discovered in the shop, and studied incessantly, 
 till the boy of eighteen felt himself the peer of any 
 Academician, and walked proudly down the Kendal 
 streets, thinking of the half-finished paintings in his 
 garret at home, and of the dreams, the conceptions, the 
 
 3 19
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 ambitions of which that garret had already been the 
 sc -e. 
 
 After that some evil days! Quarrels with his father, 
 refusals to be bound to the trade, to accept the shop as 
 his whole future and inheritance painful scenes with 
 the old man, and with the customers who complained of 
 the son's rudeness and inattention attempts of relations 
 to mediate between the two, and all the time his own 
 burning belief in himself and passion to be free. And 
 at last a time of truce, of conditions made and accepted 
 the opening of the new Art School evenings of de- 
 lightful study there and, suddenly, out of the mists, 
 Phoebe's brown eyes, and Phoebe's soft encouragement! 
 
 Yes, it was Phcebe, Phcebe herself who had deter- 
 mined his career; let her consider that, when he asked 
 for sacrifices! But for the balm she had poured upon 
 his sore ambitions but for those long walks and talks, 
 in which she had been to him first the mere recipient of 
 his dreams and egotisms, and then since she had the 
 loveliest eyes, and a young wild charm a creature to 
 be hotly wooed and desired, he might never have found 
 courage enough to seize upon his fate. 
 
 For her sake indeed he had dared it all. She had 
 consoled and inspired him , but she had made the breach 
 with his father final. When they met she was only a 
 struggling teacher in Miss Mason's school, the daughter 
 of a small farmer in the Vale of Keswick. Old Fenwick 
 looked much higher for his son. So there was renewed 
 battle at home, till at last a couple of portrait commis- 
 sions from a big house near Kendal clinched the matter. 
 A hurried marriage had been followed by the usual 
 parental thunders. And now they had five years to
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 look back upon, years of love and struggle and discon- 
 tent. By turning his hand to many things, Fenwick 
 had just managed to keep the wolf from the door. He 
 had worked hard, but without much success; and what 
 had been an ordinary good opinion of himself had stiff- 
 ened into a bitter self-assertion. He knew very well 
 that he was regarded as a conceited, quarrelsome fellow, 
 and rather gloried in it. The world, he considered, had 
 so far treated him ill; he would at any rate keep his 
 individuality. 
 
 Phcebe, too, once so sweet, so docile, so receptive, had 
 begun to be critical, to resist him now and then. He 
 knew that in some ways he had disappointed her; and 
 there was gall in the thought. As to the London plan, 
 his word would no longer be enough. He would have to 
 wrestle with and overcome her. 
 
 London ! the word chimed him from the past threw 
 wide the future. He moved on along the rough road, 
 possessed by dreams. He had a vision of his first large 
 picture; himself rubbing in the figures, life-size, or at 
 work on the endless studies for every part fellow- 
 students coming to look, Academicians, buyers ; he heard 
 himself haranguing, plunging headlong into ideas and 
 theories, holding his own with the best of "the London 
 chaps." Between whiles, of course, there would be hack- 
 work illustration portraits anything to keep the pot 
 boiling. And always, at the end of this vista, there was 
 success success great and tangible. 
 
 He was amused by his own self - confidence, and 
 laughed as he walked. But his mood never wavered. 
 
 He had the power the gift. Nobody ever doubted 
 that who saw him draw. And he had, besides, what so
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 many men of his own class made shipwreck for want of 
 he had imagination enough to show him what it is 
 that makes the mere craftsman into the artist, enough 
 to make him hunger night and day for knowledge, travel, 
 experience. Thanks to his father's shop, he had read a 
 great deal already; and with a little money, how he 
 would buy books, how he would read them! 
 
 And at the thought, fresh images, now in rushing 
 troops, and now in solitary fantastic beauty, began to 
 throng before the inward eye, along the rich background 
 of the valley; images from poetry and legend, stored 
 deep in the greedy fancy, a retentive mind. They came 
 from all sources Greek, Arthurian, modern; Hephaes- 
 tus, the lame god and divine craftsman, receiving Thetis 
 in his workshop of the skies, the golden automata 
 wrought by his own hands supporting him on either side ; 
 the maidens of Achilles washing the dead and gory body 
 of Hector in the dark background of the hut, while in 
 front swift-foot Achilles holds old Priam in talk till the 
 sad offices are over, and the father may be permitted 
 to behold his son ; Arthur and Sir Bedivere beside the 
 lake; Crusaders riding to battle the gleam of their har- 
 ness the arched necks of their steeds the glory of their 
 banners the shade and sunlight of the deep vales 
 through which they pass; the Lady of Shalott as the 
 curse comes upon her CEnone Brunhilda Atalanta. 
 Swift along the May woods the figures fled, vision suc- 
 ceeding vision, beauty treading on beauty. It became 
 hallucination a wildness an ecstasy. Fenwick stood 
 still, gave himself up to the possession let it hold him 
 felt the strangeness and the peril of it then, suddenly, 
 wrenched himself free.
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Running down to the edge of the river, he began to 
 pick up stones and threw them violently into the stream. 
 It was a remedy he had long learned to use. The physi- 
 cal action released the brain from the tyranny of the 
 forms which held it. Gradually they passed away. He 
 began to breathe more quietly, and, sitting down by the 
 water, his head in his hands, he gave himself up to a 
 quieter pleasure in the nature round him, and in the 
 strength of his own faculty. 
 
 To something else also. For while he was sitting 
 there, he found himself praying ardently for success 
 that he might do well in London, might make a name 
 for himself, and leave his mark on English art. This 
 was to him a very natural outlet of emotion ; he was not 
 sure what he meant by it precisely ; but it calmed him.
 
 II 
 
 MEANWHILE Phoebe Fenwick was watching for 
 her husband. 
 
 She had come out upon the green strip of ground in 
 front of Green Nab cottage, and was looking anxiously 
 along the portion of high-road which was visible from 
 where she stood. 
 
 The small, whitewashed house on this May day, 
 more than a generation ago stood on a narrow shelf 
 that juts out from the face of one of the eastern fells, 
 bounding the valley of Great Langdale. 
 
 When Phoebe, seeing no one on the road, turned to 
 look how near the sun might be to its setting, she saw 
 it, as Wordsworth saw it of old, dropping between the 
 peaks of those "twin brethren," which to the northwest 
 close in the green bareness of the vale. Between the 
 two pikes the blaze lingered, enthroned ; the far winding 
 of the valley, hemmed in also by blue and craggy fells, 
 was pierced by rays of sunset ; on the broad side of the 
 pikes the stream of Dungeon Ghyll shone full-fed and 
 white; the sheep, with their new-born lambs beside 
 them, studded the green pastures of the valley; and 
 sounds of water came from the fell-sides. Everywhere 
 lines of broad and flowing harmony, moulded by some 
 subtle union of rock and climate and immemorial age 
 into a mountain beauty which is the peculiar possession 
 24
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 of Westmoreland and Cumberland. Neither awful, nor 
 yet trivial; neither too soft for dignity, nor too rugged 
 for delight. The Westmoreland hills are the remains 
 of an infinitely older world giants decayed, but of a 
 great race and ancestry; they have the finish, the deli- 
 cate or noble loveliness one might almost say the 
 manner that comes of long and gentle companionship 
 with those chief forces that make for natural beauty, 
 with air and water, with temperate suns and too abun- 
 dant rains. Beside them the Alps are inhuman; the 
 Apennines mere forest-grown heaps mountains in the 
 making; while all that Scotland gains from the easy en- 
 veloping glory of its heather, Westmoreland, which is al- 
 most heatherless, must owe to an infinitude of fine strokes, 
 tints, curves, and groupings, to touches of magic and to 
 lines of grace, yet never losing the wild energy of preci- 
 pice and rock that belongs of right to a mountain world. 
 
 To-day Langdale was in spring. The withered fern 
 was still red on the sides of the pikes; there was not a 
 leaf on the oaks, still less on the ashes; but the larches 
 were green in various plantations, and the sycamores 
 were bursting. Half a mile eastward the woods were 
 all in soft bloom, carpeted with wind-flowers and blue- 
 bells. Here, but for the larches, and the few sycamores 
 and yews that guard each lonely farm, all was naked 
 fell and pasture. The harsh spring wind came rioting 
 up the valley, to fling itself on the broad sides of the 
 pikes ; the lambs made a sad bleating ; the water mur- 
 mured in the ghyll beyond the house ; the very sunshine 
 was clear and cold. 
 
 Calculations quick and anxious passed through the 
 young wife's brain. Debts here, and debts there: the 
 25
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 scanty list of small commissions ahead, which she knew 
 by heart; the uncertainty of the year before them; 
 clothes urgently wanted for the child, for John, for her- 
 self. She drew a long and harassed breath. 
 
 Phoebe Fen wick was a tall, slender creature, very 
 young; with a little golden head on a thin neck, features 
 childishly cut, and eyes that made the chief adornment 
 of a simple face. The lines of the brow, the lids and 
 lashes, and the clear brown eye itself were indeed of a 
 most subtle and distinguished beauty; they accounted, 
 perhaps, for the attention with which most persons of 
 taste and cultivation observed Fenwick's wife. For the 
 eyes seemed to promise a character, a career; whereas 
 the rest of the face was no more, perhaps, than a piece 
 of agreeable pink and white. 
 
 She wore a dress of dark-blue cotton, showing the 
 spring of her beautiful throat. The plain gown with its 
 long folds, the uncovered throat, and rich simplicity of 
 her fair hair had often reminded Fenwick and a few of 
 his patrons of those Florentine photographs which now, 
 since the spread of the later Pre-Raphaelites and the 
 opening of the Grosvenor Gallery, were to be seen even 
 in the shops of country towns. There was a literary 
 gentleman in Kendal who said- that Mrs. Fenwick was 
 like one of Ghirlandajo's tall women in Santa Maria 
 Novella. Phcebe had sometimes listened uncomfortably 
 to these comparisons. She was a Cumberland girl, and 
 had no wish at all to be like people in Italy. It seemed 
 somehow to cut her off from her own folk. 
 
 "John is late!" said a voice beside her. 
 An elderly woman had stepped out of the cottage 
 26
 
 Fentoick' s Career 
 
 porch. Miss Anna Mason, the head-mistress of an 
 endowed girls' school in Hawkshead, had come to spend 
 a Saturday afternoon with her old pupil, Phoebe Fen- 
 wick. A masterful - looking woman ample in figure, 
 with a mouth of decision. She wore a gray alpaca dress, 
 adorned with a large tatted collar, made by herself, and 
 fastened by a brooch containing a true-lover's knot in 
 brown hair. 
 
 "He'll have stayed on to finish," said Phoebe, looking 
 round. " Where's Carrie ?" 
 
 Miss Mason replied that the child wouldn't wait any 
 longer for her supper, and that Daisy, the little ser- 
 vant, was feeding her. Then, slipping her arm in- 
 side Mrs. Fenwick's, Miss Mason looked at the sun- 
 set. 
 
 "It's a sweet little cottage," she said, shading her 
 eyes from the fast-sinking orb, and then turning them 
 on the tiny house "but I dare say you'll not be here 
 long, Phcebe." 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick started. 
 
 "John told Mr. Harrock he'd pay him rent for it till 
 next Easter." 
 
 Miss Mason laughed. 
 
 "Are you going to let John go wasting his time here 
 till next Easter?" 
 
 The arm she held moved involuntarily. 
 
 "He has several commissions people not far from 
 here," said Mrs. Fenwick, hurriedly. "And if the 
 weather's too bad, we can always go to rooms in Kendal 
 or Ambleside." 
 
 "Well, if that's what you're thinking of, my dear, 
 you'd better make a clerk of him at once and have done 
 27
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 with it! He told me his uncle would always find him 
 work in the upholstery business." 
 
 Phoebe's soft cheeks trembled a little. 
 
 "Some day we'll have saved some money," she said, 
 in a low voice "and then we'll go to London; and 
 and John will get on." 
 
 Y es w hen you stop holding him back, Mrs. Phoebe 
 Fenwick!" 
 
 "Oh! Miss Anna, I don't hold him back!" cried the 
 wife, suddenly, impetuously. 
 
 Miss Mason shook an incredulous head. 
 
 " I haven't heard a single word of his bettering himself 
 of his doing anything but muddle on here having a 
 ' crack ' with this farmer and that and painting pictures 
 he's a sight too good for, since I came this morning; and 
 we've talked for hours. No I may as well have it out 
 I'm a one for plain speaking; I'm a bit disappointed 
 in you both. As for you, Phoebe, you'll be precious sorry 
 for it some day if you don't drive him out of this." 
 
 "Where should I drive him to?" cried Mrs. Fenwick, 
 stifled. She had broken a sycamore twig, and was strip- 
 ping it violently of its buds. 
 
 Miss Anna looked at her unmoved. The gray-haired 
 school -mistress was a woman of ideas and ambitions be- 
 yond her apparent scope in life. She had read her Car- 
 lyle and Ruskin, and in her calling she was an enthusiast. 
 But, in the words of the Elizabethan poet, she was 
 perhaps "unacquainted still with her own soul." She 
 imagined herself a Radical; she was in truth a tyrant. 
 She preached Ruskin and the simple life; no worldling 
 ever believed more fiercely in the gospel of success. 
 But, let it be said promptly, it was success for others, 
 28
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 rarely or never for herself; she despised the friend who 
 could not breast and conquer circumstance; as for her 
 own case there were matters much more interesting to 
 think of. But she was the gadfly, the spur of all to 
 whom she gave her affection. Phcebe, first her pupil, 
 then her under-mistress, and moulded still by the old 
 habit of subordination to her, both loved and dreaded 
 her. It was said that she had made the match between 
 her protegee and old Fenwick's rebellious and gifted son. 
 She had certainly encouraged it, and, whether from con- 
 science or invincible habit, she had meddled a good deal 
 with it ever since. 
 
 In reply to Phcebe's question, Miss Anna merely in- 
 quired whether Mrs. Fenwick supposed that George 
 Romney the Westmoreland artist would have had 
 much chance with his art if he had stayed on in West- 
 moreland? Why, the other day a picture by Romney 
 had been sold for three thousand pounds! And pray, 
 would he ever have become a great painter at all if he 
 had stuck to Kendal or Dalton-in-Furness all his life ? 
 if he had never been brought in contact with the influ- 
 ences, the money, and the sitters of London? Those 
 were the questions that Phoebe had to answer. "Would 
 the beautiful Lady This and Lady That ever have come 
 to Kendal to be painted? would he ever have seen 
 Lady Hamilton?" 
 
 At this Mrs. Fenwick flushed hotly from brow to chin. 
 
 "I rather wonder at you, Miss Anna!" she said, 
 breathing fast; "you think it was all right he should 
 desert his wife for thirty years so so long as he 
 painted pictures of that bad woman, Lady Hamilton, 
 for you to look at!" 
 
 29
 
 Fenunck's Career 
 
 Miss Anna looked curiously at her companion. The 
 school-mistress was puzzled and provoked. 
 
 " Well! you don't suppose that John's going to desert 
 you for thirty years!" said the other, with an impatient 
 laugh. "Don't be absurd, Phoebe." 
 
 Phoebe said nothing. She heard a cry from the baby 
 Carrie, and she hurried across the little garden to the 
 house. At the same moment there was a shout of greet- 
 ing from below, and Fenwick came into sight on the 
 steep pitch of lane that led from the high road to the 
 cottage. Miss Anna strolled down to meet him. 
 
 In the eyes of his old friend, John Fenwick made a 
 very handsome figure as he approached her, his painter's 
 wallet slung over his shoulder. That something remark- 
 able had happened to him she divined at once. In mo- 
 ments of excitement a certain foreign look as some 
 people thought, a gypsyish look was apt to show itself. 
 The roving eyes, the wild manner, the dancing step be- 
 trayed the inmost man banishing altogether the furtive 
 or jealous reserve of the north-countryman, which were 
 at other times equally to be noticed. Miss Anna had 
 often wondered how the same man could be so shy 
 and so vain! 
 
 However, though elation of some sort was uppermost, 
 he was not at first inclined to reveal himself. He told 
 Miss Anna as they walked up together that he had done 
 with Miss Bella ; that old Morrison praised the portrait, 
 and the girl hated it; that she was a vulgar, conceited 
 creature, and he was thankful to have finished. 
 
 "If I were to show it at Manchester next month, 
 you'd see what the papers would say. But I suppose 
 30
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 Miss Bella would sooner die than let her father send it. 
 Silly goose! Powdering every time and sucking her 
 lips to make them red and twisting her neck about 
 ugh! I've no patience with women like that! When 
 I get on a bit, I'll paint nobody I don't want to paint." 
 
 "All right but get on first," said Miss Anna, patting 
 him on the arm. "What next, John what next?" 
 
 He hesitated. His look grew for a moment veiled and 
 furtive. "Oh, there's plenty to do," he said, evasively. 
 
 They paused on the green ledges outside the cottage. 
 
 " What portraits ?" 
 
 He nodded uncertainly. 
 
 "You'll not grow fat on Great Langdale," said Miss 
 Anna, waving an ironical hand towards the green deso- 
 lation of the valley. 
 
 He looked at her, walked up and down a moment, 
 then said with an outburst, though in a low tone, and 
 with a look over his shoulder at the open window of the 
 cottage, "Morrison's lent me a hundred pounds. He 
 advises me to go to London at once." 
 
 Miss Anna raised her eyebrows. "Oh oh!" she said 
 "that's news! What do you mean by 'at once'? 
 September?" 
 
 " Next week I won't lose a day." 
 
 Miss Anna pondered. 
 
 "Well, I dare say Phoebe can hurry up." 
 
 " Oh! I can't take Phcebe," he said, in a hasty, rather 
 injured voice. 
 
 " Not take Phoebe! " cried the other under her breath, 
 seeming to hear around her the ghosts of words which 
 had but just passed between her and Phoebe " and what 
 on earth are you going to do with her?"
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 He led her away towards the edge of the little garden 
 arguing, prophesying, laying down the law. While he 
 was thus engaged came Phoebe's silver voice from the 
 parlor: 
 
 " Is that you. John ? Supper's ready." 
 
 He and Miss Anna turned. 
 
 "Hush, please!" said Fenwick to his companion, fin- 
 ger on lip; and they entered. 
 
 "You'll have got the money from Mr. Morrison, 
 John?" said Phcebe, presently, when they were settled 
 to their meal. 
 
 "Ay," said Fenwick, "that's all right. Phcebe, that's 
 a real pretty dress of yours." 
 
 Soft color rose in the wife's cheeks. 
 
 "I'm glad you like it," said Phcebe, soberly. Then 
 looking up - 
 
 "John don't give Carrie that! it '11 make her 
 sick." 
 
 For Fenwick was stealthily feeding the baby beside 
 him with morsels from his own plate. The child's face 
 pink mouth and blue eyes, both wide open hung upon 
 him in a fixed expectancy. 
 
 "She does like it so the little greedy puss! It won't 
 do her any harm." 
 
 But the mother persisted. Then the child cried, and 
 the father and mother wrangled over it, till Fenwick 
 caught up the babe by Phoebe's peremptory directions 
 and carried it away up-stairs. At the door of the little 
 parlor, while Phcebe was at his shoulder, wiping away 
 the child's tears and cooing to it, Fenwick suddenly 
 turned his head and kissed his wife's cheek, or rather her 
 pretty ear, which presented itself. Miss Anna, still at 
 3'
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 table, laughed discreetly behind their backs the laugh 
 of the sweet-natured old maid. 
 
 When the child was asleep up-stairs, Phoebe and the 
 little servant cleared away while Fenwick and Miss Anna 
 read the newspaper, and talked on generalities. In this 
 talk Phcebe had no share, and it might have been noticed 
 by one who knew them well, that in his conversation 
 with Miss Mason, Fenwick became another man. He 
 used tones and phrases that he either had never used, 
 or used no longer, with Phoebe. He showed himself, in 
 fact, intellectually at ease, expansive, and, at times, 
 amazingly arrogant. For instance, in discussing a para- 
 graph about the Academy in the London letter of the 
 Westmoreland Gazette, he fired up and paced the room, 
 haranguing his listener in a loud, eager voice. Of course 
 she knew every one knew that all the best men 
 and all the coming forces were now outside the Acad- 
 emy. Millais, Leighton, Watts spent talents, extinct 
 volcanoes! Tadema a marvellous mechanic, without 
 ideas: the landscape men, chaotic, no standard any- 
 where, no style. On the other hand, Burne- Jones and 
 the Grosvenor Gallery group ideas without drawing, 
 without knowledge, feet and hands absurd, muscles any- 
 how. While as for Whistler and the Impressionists a 
 lot of maniacs, running a fad to death but clever by 
 Jove! 
 
 No! there was a new art coming! the creation of 
 men who had learned to draw, and could yet keep a 
 hold on ideas 
 
 " Character ! that's what we want! " He struck the 
 table ; and finally with a leap he was at the goal which 
 Miss Anna sitting before him, arms folded, her strong 
 33
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 old face touched with satire had long foreseen. "By 
 George, I'd show them! if I only had the chance." 
 
 He threw the pictures back into the cupboard. 
 
 "No doubt," said Miss Anna, dryly. "I think you 
 are a great man, John, though you say it. But you've 
 got to prove it." 
 
 He laughed uncomfortably. 
 
 "I've written a good many of these things to the 
 Gazette, he said, evading her direct attack. "They'll 
 put them in next week." 
 
 "I wish you hadn't, John!" said Phoebe, anxiously. 
 She was sitting under the lamp with her needle-work. 
 
 He turned upon her aggressively. 
 
 "And why, please?" 
 
 "Because the last article you wrote lost you acorn- 
 mission. Don't you remember that gentleman at 
 Grasmere what he said?" 
 
 She nodded her fair head gravely. It struck Miss 
 Anna that she was looking pale and depressed. 
 
 "Old fool!" said Fenwick. "Yes, I remember. He 
 wouldn't ask anybody to paint his children, who'd writ- 
 ten such a violent article. As if I wanted to paint his 
 children! Besides, it was a mere excuse to save the 
 money." 
 
 "I don't think so," murmured Phcebe. "And oh, I 
 had counted on that five pounds!" 
 
 " What does five pounds matter, compared to speak- 
 ing one's mind?" said Fenwick, roughly. 
 
 There was a silence. Fenwick, looking at the two 
 women, felt them unsympathetic, and abruptly changed 
 the subject. 
 
 "I wish you'd give us some music, Phcebe." 
 34
 
 Fentoick' s Career 
 
 Phoebe rose obediently. He opened the little pianette 
 for her, and lit the candles. 
 
 She played some Irish and Scotch airs, in poor settings, 
 and with much stumbling. After a little, Fenwick lis- 
 tened restlessly, his brow frowning, his fingers drumming 
 on the arm of his chair. They were all glad when it was 
 over. 
 
 Phcebe, hearing a whimper from the child, went up- 
 stairs. The two others were soon in hushed but earnest 
 conversation. 
 
 Miss Anna had gone to bed. Fenwick was sitting 
 with a book before him lost in anxious and exciting 
 calculations when Phcebe entered the room. 
 
 "Is that you?" he said, jumping up. "That's all 
 right. I wanted to talk to you." 
 
 "I thought you did," she said, with a very quiet, 
 drooping air; then going to the window, which was 
 open, she leaned out into the May night. "Where shall 
 we go? It's warmer." 
 
 " Let's go to the ghyll," said Fenwick; " I'll fetch you 
 a shawl." 
 
 For, as both remembered, Miss Anna was up-stairs, 
 and in that tiny cottage all sounds were audible. 
 
 Fenwick wrapped a shawl round his companion, and 
 they sallied forth. 
 
 The valley lay below them. A young moon was near 
 its setting over the farthest pike, and the fine lines of 
 the mountain rose dimly clear, from its base on the val- 
 ley floor to the dark cliffs of Pavey Ark. Not a light 
 was visible anywhere. Their little cottage on its shelf, 
 with the rays of its small lamp shining through the win- 
 4 35
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 dow, seemed to be the only spectator of the fells; it 
 talked with them in a lonely companionship. 
 
 They passed through the fence of the small garden 
 out on to the fell-side. Dim forms of sheep rose in 
 alarm as they came near, and bleating lambs hurried 
 beside them. Soft sounds of wind, rising and falling 
 along the mountain or stirring amid last year's bracken, 
 pursued them, till they reached the edge of the ghyll, 
 and, descending its side, found the water murmuring 
 among the stones, the only audible thing in a deep shade 
 and silence. 
 
 They sat down by the stream, and Fenwick, taking up 
 some pebbles, began to drop them nervously into the 
 water. Phcebe, beside him, clasped her hands round her 
 knees; in a full light it would have been seen that the 
 hands were trembling. 
 
 "Phcebe old Morrison's offered to lend me some 
 money." 
 
 Phoebe started. 
 
 "I I thought perhaps he had." 
 
 "And he wants me to go to London at once." 
 
 "You've got the money?" 
 
 "In my pocket" he laid his hand upon it. Then he 
 laughed: "He didn't pay me for the portrait, though. 
 That's like him. And of course I couldn't ask for it." 
 
 A silence. 
 
 Fenwick turned round and took one of her hands. 
 
 "Well, little woman, what do you think? Are you 
 going to let me go and make my fortune? our 
 fortune?" 
 
 "As if I could stop you!" she said, hoarsely. "It's 
 what you've wanted for months/' 
 36
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Well, and if I have, where's the harm? We can't 
 go on living like this!" 
 
 And he began to talk, with great rapidity, about the 
 absurdity of attempting to make a living as an artist 
 out of Westmoreland out of any place, indeed, but Lon- 
 don, the natural centre and clearing-house of talent. 
 
 " I could make a living out of teaching, I suppose, up 
 here. I could get in time a good many lessons going 
 round to schools. But that would be a dog's life. You 
 wouldn't want to see me at that forever, would you, 
 Phoebe ? Or at painting portraits at five guineas apiece ? 
 I could chuck it all, of course, and go in for business. 
 But I can tell you, England would lose something if I 
 did." 
 
 And, catching up another stone, he threw it into the 
 beck with a passion which made the clash of it, as it 
 struck upon a rock, echo through the ghyll. There was 
 something magnificent in the gesture, and a movement, 
 half thrill, half shudder, ran through the wife's delicate 
 frame. She clasped her hands round his arm, and drew 
 close to him. 
 
 " John! are you going to leave baby and me behind ? " 
 
 Her voice, as she pressed towards him, her face up- 
 raised to his, rose from deep founts of feeling ; but she 
 kept the sob in it restrained. Fenwick felt the warmth 
 and softness of her young body; the fresh face, the 
 fragrant hair were close upon his lips. He threw both 
 his arms round her and folded her to him. 
 
 "Just for a little while," he pleaded "till I get my 
 tooting. One year! For both our sakes Phoebe!" 
 
 " I could live on such a little we could get two rooms, 
 which would be cheaper for you than lodgings." 
 37
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "It isn't that!" he said, impatiently, but kissing her. 
 " It is that I must be my own master I must have noth- 
 ing to think of but my art I must slave night and day 
 I must live with artists I must get to know all sorts 
 of people who might help me on. If you and Carrie 
 came up just at first I couldn't do the best for my- 
 self I couldn't, I tell you. And of course I mean the 
 best for you, in the long run. If I go, I must succeed. 
 And if I can give all my mind, I shall succeed. Don't 
 you think I shall?" 
 
 He drew away from her abruptly holding her at 
 arm's-length, scrutinizing her face almost with hostility. 
 
 "Yes," said Phoebe, slowly, "Yes, of course you'll 
 succeed if you don't quarrel with people." 
 
 "Quarrel," he repeated, angrily. "You're always 
 harping on that you're always so afraid of people. 
 It does a man no harm, I tell you, to be a bit quick- 
 tempered. I sha'n't be a fool." 
 
 "No, but I could warn you often. And then you 
 know," she said, slowly, caressing his shoulder with her 
 hand " I could look after money. You're dreadfully 
 bad about money, John. Directly you've got it, you 
 spend it and sometimes when you borrow you forget 
 all about paying it back." 
 
 He was struck dumb for a moment with astonishment , 
 feeling at the same time the trembling of the form which 
 his arm still encircled. 
 
 "Well, Phoebe," he said, at last, "you seem deter- 
 mined to say disagreeable things to me to-night. I sup- 
 pose I might remind you that you're much younger than 
 I; and that of course a man knows much more about 
 business than a young thing like you can. How, I 
 38
 
 Fenvoicb's Career 
 
 should like to know, could we have done any better than 
 we have done, since we married ? As far as money goes, 
 we've had a hell of a time, from first to last!" 
 
 " It would have been much worse," said Phoebe, softly, 
 "if I hadn't been there you know it would. You know 
 last year when we were in such straits, and all our things 
 were nearly sold up, you let me take over things, and 
 keep the money. And I went to see all the people we 
 owed money to and and it's pretty bad but it isn't 
 as bad as it was" 
 
 She hid her face on her knees, choked by the sob she 
 could no longer repress. 
 
 "Well, of course it's better," said Fenwick, ungra- 
 ciously, "I don't say you haven't got a head, Phcebe 
 why, I know you have! You did first rate! But, after 
 all, I had to earn the money." 
 
 She looked up eagerly. "That's what I say. You'd 
 never be able to think about little things you'd have to 
 be painting always and going about and " 
 
 He bit his lip. 
 
 " Why, I could manage for myself for a bit," he 
 said, with a laugh. "I'm not such an idiot as all 
 that. Old Morrison's lent me a hundred pounds, 
 Phcebe!" 
 
 He enjoyed her amazement. 
 
 "A hundred pounds!" she repeated, faintly. "And 
 however are we going to repay all that?" 
 
 He drew her back to him triumphantly. "Why, you 
 silly child, I am going to earn it, of course and a deal 
 more. Don't you hinder me, Phcebe! and I shall be a 
 rich man before we can look round, and you'll be a lady 
 with a big house and your carriage, perhaps!" 
 39
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 He kissed her vehemently, as though to coerce her into 
 agreeing with him. 
 
 But she released herself. 
 
 "You and I'll never be rich. We don't know how." 
 
 "Speak for yourself, please." He stretched out his 
 right hand, laughing. "Look at that hand. If it gets 
 a fair chance it's got money in it and fame and happi- 
 ness for us both! Don't you believe in me, Phoebe? 
 Don't you believe I shall make a painter?" 
 
 He spoke with an imperious harshness, repeating his 
 query. It was evident, curiously evident, that he cared 
 for her opinion. 
 
 "Of course I believe in you," she said, her chest heav- 
 ing. "It's it's other things." 
 
 Then, coming to him again, she flung her arms pite- 
 ously round him. "Oh, John, John for a year past 
 and more you've been sorry you married me!" 
 
 "What on earth's the matter with you?" he cried, 
 half in wrath, half astonished. "What's come to you, 
 Phcebe?" 
 
 "Oh! I know," she said, withdrawing herself and 
 speaking in a low torrent of speech. "You were very 
 fond of me when we married and and I dare say 
 you're fond of me now but it's different. You were a 
 boy then and you thought you'd get drawing-lessons 
 in Kendal, and perhaps a place at a school and you 
 didn't seem to want anything more. And now you're 
 so ambitious so ambitious, John I" she turned her 
 head away "I sometimes feel when I'm with you I 
 can't breathe it's just burning you away and me too. 
 You've found out what you can do and people tell you 
 you're so clever and then you think you've thrown 
 40
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 yourself away and that I'm a clog on you. John" 
 she approached him suddenly, panting "John, do you 
 mean that baby and I are to stay all the winter alone in 
 that cottage?" She motioned towards it. 
 
 He protested that he had elaborately thought out all 
 that she must do. She must go to her father at Kes- 
 wick for the summer and possibly for the winter, till he 
 had got a footing. He would come up to see her as often 
 as work and funds would permit. She must look after 
 the child, make a little money perhaps by her beautiful 
 embroidery. 
 
 "I'll not go to my father," she said, with energy. 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 "You seem to forget that he married a second wife, 
 John, last year." 
 
 "I'm sure Mrs. Gibson was most friendly when we 
 were there last month. And we'd pay, of course we'd 
 pay." 
 
 "I'm not going to plant myself and Carrie down on 
 Mrs. Gibson for six months and more, John, so don't ask 
 me. No, we'll stay here we'll stay here!" 
 
 She began to pluck at the grass with her hand, staring 
 before her at the moonlit stream like one who sees 
 visions of the future. The beauty of her faintly visible 
 head and neck suddenly worked on John Fenwick's 
 senses. He threw his arm round her. 
 
 "And I shall soon be back. You little silly, can't you 
 understand that I shall always be wanting you?" 
 
 " We'll stay here," she repeated, slowly. "And you'll 
 be in London making smart friends and dining with 
 rich folk and having ladies to sit to you " 
 
 "Phcebe, you're not jealous of me?" he cried, with a
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 great, good-humored laugh "that would be the last 
 straw." 
 
 "Yes, I am jealous of you!" she said, with low-voiced 
 passion; "and you know very well that I've had some 
 cause to be." 
 
 He was silent. Through both their minds there passed 
 the memory of some episodes in their married life 
 slight, but quite sufficient to show that John Fen wick 
 was a man of temperament inevitably attracted by 
 womankind. 
 
 He murmured that she had made mountains out of 
 molehills. She merely raised his hand and kissed it. 
 "The women make a fool of you, John," she said, "and 
 I ought to be there to protect you for you do love me, 
 you know you do ! ' ' 
 
 And then with tears she broke down and clung to him 
 again, in a mood that was partly the love of wife for 
 husband, and partly an exquisite maternity the same 
 feeling she gave her child. He responded with eager- 
 ness, feeling indeed that he had won his battle. 
 
 For she lay in his arms weak protesting no more. 
 The note of anguish, of deep, incalculable foreboding, 
 which she had shown, passed away from her manner and 
 words ; while on his side he began to draw pictures of the 
 future so full of exultation and of hope, that her youth 
 presently could but listen and believe. The sickle moon 
 descended behind the pikes; only the stars glimmered 
 on the great side of the fell, on solitary yews black upon 
 the night, on lines of wall, on dim mysterious paths, old 
 as the hills themselves, on the softly chiding water. 
 The May night breathed upon them, calmed them, 
 brought out the better self of each. They returned to 
 42
 
 Fentoieh's Career 
 
 the cottage like children, hand in hand, talking of a 
 hundred practical details, thankful that the jarring mo- 
 ment had passed away, each refraining from any word 
 that could wound the other. Nor was it till Fenwick 
 was sound asleep beside her that Phcebe, replunged in 
 loneliness and dread, gavs herself in the dawn -silence to 
 a passion of unconquerable tears.
 
 PART II 
 
 London 
 
 'Was that the landmark? What, the foolish well 
 Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to drink, 
 But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink 
 In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell 
 (And mine own image, had I noted well!) 
 Was that my point of turning? I had thought 
 The stations of my course should rise unsought, 
 As altar-stone, or ensigned citadel."
 
 Ill 
 
 " "I )[ THY does that fellow up-stairs always pass you as 
 V V though he were in a passion with somebody?" 
 said Richard Watson, stepping back as he spoke, palette 
 on thumb, from the picture upon which he was engaged. 
 "He almost knocked me down this morning, and I am 
 not conscious of having done anything to offend his 
 worship." 
 
 His companion in the dingy Bloomsbury studio, where 
 they were both at work, also put down palette and brush, 
 examining the canvas before him with a keen, cheerful 
 air. 
 
 "Perhaps he loathes mankind, as I did yesterday." 
 
 "And to-day it's all right?" 
 
 "Well, come and look." 
 
 Watson crossed over. He was a tall and splendid 
 man, a "black Celt" from Merionethshire, with coal- 
 black hair, and eyes deeply sunken and lined, with 
 fatigue or ill-health. Beside him, his comrade, Philip 
 Cuningham, had the air of a shrewd clerk or man of 
 business with his light alertness of frame, his reddish 
 hair, and sharp, small features. A pleasant, serviceable 
 ability was stamped on Cuningham's whole aspect ; while 
 Watson's large, lounging way, and dishevelled or roman- 
 tic good looks suggested yet another perennial type 
 the dreamer entangled in the prose of life. 
 47
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 He looked at the picture which Cuningham turned 
 towards him his hands thrust into the vast pockets of 
 his holland coat. It was a piece of charming genre a 
 crowded scene in Rotten Row, called "Waiting for the 
 Queen," painted with knowledge and grace; owing more 
 to Wilkie than to Frith, and something to influences 
 more modern than either; a picture belonging to a 
 familiar English tradition, and worthily representing it. 
 
 "Yes you've got it!" he said, at last, in a voice 
 rather colorless and forced. Then he made one or two 
 technical comments, to which the other listened with 
 something that was partly indulgence, partly deference; 
 adding, finally, as he moved away, "And it '11 sell, of 
 course like hot potatoes!" 
 
 "Well, I hope so," said Philip, beginning to put away 
 his brushes and tubes with what seemed to be a char- 
 acteristic orderliness "or I shall be in Queer Street. 
 But I think Lord Findon wants it. I shouldn't wonder 
 if he turned up this afternoon!" 
 
 "Ah?" Watson raised his great shoulders with a 
 gesture which might have been sarcastic, but was per- 
 haps more than anything else languid and weary. He 
 returned to his own picture, looking at it with a painful 
 intensity. 
 
 " Nobody will ever want to buy that! " he said, quietly. 
 
 Cuningham stood beside him, embarrassed. 
 
 "It's full of fine things," he said, after a moment. 
 "But " 
 
 "You wish I wouldn't paint such damned depressing 
 subjects?" 
 
 "I wish you'd sometimes condescend to think of the 
 public, old fellow!" 
 
 48
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "That never!" said the other, under his breath. 
 "Starve and please yourself! But I sha'n't starve 
 you forget that." 
 
 "Worse luck!" laughed Cuningham. "I believe 
 Providence ordained the British Philistine for our good 
 drat him! It does no one any harm to have to hook 
 the public. All the great men have done it. You're too 
 squeamish, Master Dick!" 
 
 Watson went on painting in silence, his lips working. 
 Presently Cuningham caught half lost in the beard 
 "There's a public of to-day, though and a public of 
 to-morrow!" 
 
 "Oh, all right," said Philip. "So long as you take a 
 public of some sort into consideration! I like your 
 jester." 
 
 He bent forward to look into the front line of the 
 large composition crowded with life - size figures on 
 which Watson was engaged. It was an illustration of 
 some Chaucerian lines, describing the face of a man on 
 his way to execution, seen among a crowd: 
 
 a pale face 
 Among a press . . . 
 
 so stricken, that amid all the thronging multitude, "men 
 might know his face that was bestead," from all the 
 rest. 
 
 The idea of helpless pain, in the grip of cruel and 
 triumphant force had been realized with a passionate 
 wealth of detail, comparable to some of the early work 
 of Holman Hunt. The head of the victim bound with 
 blood-stained linen, a frightened girl hiding her eyes, a 
 mother weeping, a jester with the laugh withered on his 
 49
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 lip by this sudden vision of death and irremediable woe 
 and in the distance a frail, fainting form, sweetheart or 
 sister each figure and group, rendered often with very 
 unequal technical merit, had yet in it something harshly, 
 intolerably true. The picture was too painful to be 
 borne; but it was neither common, nor mean. 
 
 Cuningham turned away from it with a shudder. 
 
 "Some of it's magnificent, Dick but I couldn't live 
 with it if you paid me!" 
 
 "Because you look at it wrongly," said Watson, 
 gruffly. "You take it as an anecdote. It isn't an 
 anecdote it's a symbol." 
 
 "What? The World? and The Victim? from all 
 time? and to all time? Well, that makes it more 
 grewsome than ever. Hullo, who's that? Come in!" 
 
 The door opened. A young man, in some embarrass- 
 ment, appeared on the threshold. 
 
 "I believe these letters are yours," he said, offering a 
 couple to Cuningham. "They brought them up to me 
 by mistake." 
 
 Philip Cuningham took them with thanks, then 
 scanned the new-comer as he was turning to depart. 
 
 " I think I saw you at Berners Street the other night ? " 
 
 John Fen wick paused. 
 
 "Yes " he said, awkwardly. 
 
 "Have you been attending all the summer?" 
 
 "Pretty well. There were about half a dozen fellows 
 left in August. We clubbed together to keep the model 
 going." 
 
 "I don't remember you in the Academy." 
 
 "No. I come from the North. I've painted a lot 
 already I couldn't be bothered with the Academy!" 
 5
 
 FeniDick's Career 
 
 Watson turned and looked at the figure in the door- 
 way. 
 
 "Won't you come in and sit down?" 
 
 The young man hesitated. Then something in his 
 look kindled as it fell on Watson's superb head, with its 
 strong, tossed locks of ebon-black hair touched with 
 gray, the penthouse brows, and the blue eyes beneath 
 with their tragic force of expression. 
 
 Fenwick came in and shut the door. Cuningham 
 pushed him a chair, and Watson offered him a cigarette, 
 which he somewhat doubtfully accepted. His two hosts 
 men of the educated middle-class divined at once 
 that he was self-taught, and risen from the ranks. Both 
 Cuningham and Watson were shabbily dressed ; but it 
 was an artistic and metropolitan shabbiness. Fenwick's 
 country clothes were clumsy and unbecoming; and his 
 manner seemed to fit him as awkwardly as his coat. 
 The sympathy of both the older artists did but go out 
 to him the more readily. 
 
 Cuningham continued the conversation, while Watson, 
 still painting, occasionally intervened. 
 
 They discussed the personnel of the life-school Fen- 
 wick was attending, the opening of a new atelier in North 
 London by a well-known Academician, the successes at 
 the current "Academy," the fame of certain leading 
 artists. At least Cuningham talked ; Fenwick's contri- 
 butions were mostly monosyllabic; he seemed to be 
 feeling his way. 
 
 Suddenly, by a change of attitude on the painter's 
 part, the picture on which Dick Watson was engaged 
 became visible to Fenwick. He walked eagerly up to 
 it.
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "I say!" his face flushed with admiration. "That 
 figure's wonderful." He pointed to the terror-stricken 
 culprit. "But that horse there you don't mind, do 
 you? that horse is wrong!" 
 
 "I know he is! I've worked at him till I'm sick. 
 Can't work at him no more!" 
 
 "It should be like this." 
 
 He took out a sketch-book from his pocket, caught 
 up a piece of charcoal and rapidly sketched the horse in 
 the attitude required. Then he handed the book to 
 Watson, who looked first at the sketch, and then at 
 some of the neighboring pages, which were covered with 
 studies of horses observed mostly on the day of some 
 trade-union procession, when mounted police were keep- 
 ing the road. 
 
 Watson was silent a moment, then, walking up to his 
 picture, he took his palette-knife and scraped out the 
 whole passage. "I see!" he said, and, laying down the 
 knife, he threw himself into a chair, flushed and dis- 
 composed. 
 
 "Oh, you'll soon put it right!" said Fenwick, encour- 
 agingly. 
 
 Watson winced then nodded. 
 
 "May I see that book?" He held out his hand, and 
 Fenwick yielded it. 
 
 Watson and Cuningham turned it over together. The 
 "notes," of which it was full, showed great brilliancy 
 and facility, an accurate eye, and a very practised hand. 
 They were the notes of a countryman artist newly 
 come to London. The sights, and tones, and dis- 
 tances of London streets the human beings, the 
 vehicles, the horses were all freshly seen, as though 
 5 2
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 under a glamour. Cuningham examined them with 
 care. 
 
 " Is this the sort of thing you're going to do ? " he said, 
 looking up, and involuntarily his eye glanced towards his 
 own picture on the distant easel. 
 
 Fen wick smiled. 
 
 "That's only for practice. I want to do big things 
 romantic things if I get the chance." 
 
 "What a delightful subject!" said Cuningham, stoop- 
 ing suddenly over the book. 
 
 Fenwick started, made a half -movement as though 
 to reclaim his property, and then withdrew his hand. 
 Cuningham was looking at a charcoal study of a cottage 
 interior. The round table of rude black oak was set for 
 a meal, and a young woman was feeding a child in a 
 pinafore who sat in a high-chair. The sketch might have 
 been a mere piece of domestic prettiness ; but the hand- 
 ling of it was so strong and free that it became a signifi- 
 cant, typical thing. It breathed the North, a life rustic 
 and withdrawn the sweetness of home and mother- 
 hood. 
 
 "Are you going to make a picture of that?" said 
 Watson, putting on his spectacles, and peering into it. 
 "You'd better." 
 
 Fenwick replied that he might some day, but had too 
 many things on hand to think of it yet awhile. Then 
 with no explanation and a rather hasty hand he turned 
 the page. Cuningham looked at him curiously. 
 
 They were still busy with the sketch-book, when a 
 voice was heard on the stairs outside. 
 
 "Lord Findon," said Cuningham. 
 
 He colored a little, ran to his picture, arranged it in 
 S3
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 the best light, and removed a small fly which had stuck 
 to one corner. 
 
 "Shall I go?" said Fenwick. 
 
 He too had been clearly fluttered by the name, which 
 was that of one of the best-known buyers of the day. 
 
 Watson in reply beckoned him on to the leads, upon 
 which the Georgian bow-window at the end of the room 
 opened. They found themselves on a railed terrace 
 looking to right and left on a row of gardens, each glori- 
 fied by one of the plane-trees which even still make the 
 charm of Bloom sbury. 
 
 Watson hung over the rail, smoking. He explained 
 that Lord Findon had come to see Cuningham's picture, 
 which he had commissioned, but not without leaving 
 himself a loophole, in case he didn't like it. 
 
 "He will like it," said Fenwick. "It's just the kind 
 of thing people want." 
 
 Watson said nothing, but smoked with energy. Fen- 
 wick went on talking, letting it be clearly undersood that 
 he personally thought the picture of no account, but 
 that he knew very well that it was of a kind to catch 
 buyers. In a few minutes Watson resented his attitude 
 as offensive ; he fell into a cold silence ; Fenwick's half- 
 concealed contempt threw him fiercely on his friend's 
 side. 
 
 "Well, I've done the trick!" said Cuningham, coming 
 out jauntily, his hands in his trousers pockets; then, 
 with a jerk of the head towards the studio, and a lowered 
 voice, "He's writing the check." 
 
 "How much ? " said Watson, without turning his head. 
 Fenwick thought it decent to walk away, but he could 
 not prevent himself from listening. It seemed to him 
 54
 
 Fencoick's Career 
 
 that he heard the words "Two hundred and fifty," but 
 he could not be sure. What a price! for such a thing. 
 His own blood ran warm and quick. 
 
 As he stood at the farther end of the little terrace 
 ruminating, Cuningham touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 "I say, have you got anything to show up-stairs?" 
 
 Fenwick turned to see in the sparkling eyes and con- 
 fident bearing of the Scotchman, success writ large, ex- 
 pressing itself in an impulse of generosity. 
 
 "Yes I've got a picture nearly finished." 
 
 "Come and be introduced to Findon. He's a crank 
 but a good sort lots of money thinks he knows every- 
 thing about art they all do give him his head when 
 he talks. 
 
 Fenwick nodded, and followed Cuningham back to 
 the studio, where Lord Findon was now examining 
 Watson's picture with no assistance whatever from the 
 artist, who seemed to have been struck with dumbness. 
 
 Fenwick was introduced to a remarkably tall and 
 handsome man, with the bearing of a sportsman or a 
 soldier, who greeted him with a cordial shake of the 
 hand, and a look of scrutiny so human and kindly that 
 the very sharp curiosity which was in truth the founda- 
 tion of it passed without offence. Lord Findon was 
 indeed curious about everything; interested in every- 
 ching ; and a dabbler in most artistic pursuits. He liked 
 the society of artists; and he was accustomed to spend 
 some hundreds, or even thousands a year out of his 
 enormous income, in the purchase of modern pictures. 
 Possibly the sense of power over human lives which 
 these acquisitions gave him pleased him even more than 
 the acquisitions themselves. 
 55
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 He asked Fenwick a few easy questions, sitting 
 rakishly on the edge of a tilted chair, his hat slipping 
 back on his handsome, grizzled head. Where did he 
 come from with whom had he studied what were his 
 plans? Had he ever been abroad ? No. Strange! The 
 artists nowadays neglected travel. "But you go! Beg 
 your way, paint your way but go! Go before the wife 
 and the babies come! Matrimony is the deuce. Don't 
 you agree with me, Philip?" He laid a familiar hand 
 on the artist's arm. 
 
 "Take care!" said Cuningham, laughing. "You 
 don't know what I may have been up to this sum- 
 mer." 
 
 Findon shrugged his shoulders. " I know a wise man 
 when I see him. But the fools there are about! Well, 
 I take a strong line," he waved his hand, with a kind 
 of laughing pomposity, rolling his words " Whenever I 
 see a young fellow marrying before he has got his training 
 before he has seen a foreign gallery before he can be 
 sure of a year's income ahead above all, before he 
 knows anything at all about women, and the different 
 ways in which they can play the devil with you! well, 
 I give him up I don't go to see his pictures I don't 
 bother about him any more. The man's an ass must 
 be an ass! let him bray his bray! Why, you remember 
 Perry ? Marindin ?" 
 
 On which there followed a rattling catalogue of matri- 
 monial failures in the artist world, amusing enough 
 perhaps a little cruel. Cuningham laughed. Watson, 
 on whom Lord Findon's whole personality seemed to 
 have an effect more irritating than agreeable, fidgeted 
 with his brushes. He struck in presently with the dry 
 56
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 remark that artists were not the only persons who made 
 imprudent marriages. 
 
 Lord Findon sprang up at once, and changed the sub- 
 ject. His youngest son, the year before, had married 
 the nurse who had pulled him through typhoid and 
 was still in exile, and unforgiven. 
 
 Meanwhile no one had noticed John Fenwick. He 
 stood behind the other two while Lord Findon was talk- 
 ing frowning sometimes and restless a movement now 
 and then in lips and body, as though he were about to 
 speak yet not speaking. It was one of those moments 
 when a man feels a band about his tongue, woven by 
 shyness or false shame, or social timidity. He knows 
 that he ought to speak; but the moment passes and he 
 has not spoken. And between him and the word unsaid 
 there rises on the instant a tiny streamlet of division, 
 which is to grow and broaden with the nights and days, 
 till it flows, a stream of fate, not to be turned back or 
 crossed ; and all the familiar fields of life are ruined and 
 blotted out. 
 
 Finally, as the great patron was going, Cuningham 
 whispered a word in his ear. Lord Findon turned to 
 Fenwick. 
 
 "You're in this house, too? Have you anything 
 you'd let me see?" 
 
 Fenwick, flushed and stammering, begged him to walk 
 up-stairs. Cuningham's puzzled impression was that he 
 gave the invitation reluctantly, but could not make up 
 his mind not to give it. 
 
 They marched up-stairs, Lord Findon and Cuningham 
 behind. 
 
 57
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 "Does he ever sell?' said Lord Findon, in Cuning- 
 ham's ear, nodding towards the broad shoulders and 
 black head of Watson just in front. 
 
 "Not often," said Cuningham, after a pause. 
 
 "How, then, does he afford himself?" said the other, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Oh! he has means just enough to keep him from 
 starving. He's a dear old fellow! He has too many 
 ideas for this wicked world." 
 
 Cuningham spoke with a pleasant loyalty. Lord Fin- 
 don shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " The ideas are too lugubrious ! And this young fellow 
 this Fenwick where did you pick him up?" 
 
 Cuningham explained. 
 
 "A character! -perhaps a genius?" said Findon. 
 " He has a clever, quarrelsome eye. Unmarried ? Good 
 Lord, I hope so, after the way I have been going on." 
 
 Cuningham laughed. "We've seen no sign of a wife. 
 But I really know nothing about him." 
 
 They were entering the upper room, and at sight of 
 the large picture it contained, Lord Findon exclaimed: 
 
 "My goodness! what an ambitious thing!" 
 
 The three men gathered in front of the picture. Fen- 
 wick lingered nervously behind them. 
 
 " What do you call it ?" said Lord Findon, putting up 
 his glasses. 
 
 "The 'Genius Loci,'" said Fenwick, fumbling a little 
 with the words. 
 
 It represented a young woman seated on the edge of 
 
 a Westmoreland ghyll or ravine. Behind her the white 
 
 water of the beck flowed steeply down from shelf to 
 
 shelf , beyond the beck rose far-receding walls of moun- 
 
 58
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 tain, purple on purple, blue on blue. Light, scantily 
 nourished trees sycamores or mountain-ash, climbed 
 the green sides of the ghyll, and framed the woman's 
 form. She sat on a stone, bending over a frail new-born 
 lamb upon her lap, whereof the mother lay beside her. 
 Against her knee leaned a fair-haired child. The piti- 
 ful concern in the woman's lovely eyes was reflected in 
 the soft wonder of the child's. Both, it seemed, were of 
 the people. The drawing was full of rustical suggestion, 
 touched here and there by a harsh realism that did but 
 heighten the general harmony. The woman's grave 
 comeliness flowered naturally, as it were, out of the 
 scene. She was no model, posing with a Westmoreland 
 stream for background. She seemed a part of the fells; 
 their silences, their breezes, their pure waters, had 
 passed into her face. 
 
 But it was the execution of the picture which perhaps 
 specially arrested the attention of the men examining it. 
 
 "Eclectic stuff!" said Watson to himself, presently, 
 as he turned away "seen with other men's eyes!" 
 
 But on Lord Findon and on Cuningham the effect 
 was of another kind. The picture seemed to them also 
 a combination of many things, or rather of attempts at 
 many things Burne-Jones's mystical color the rustic 
 character of a Bastien-Lepage or a Millet with the 
 jewelled detail of a fourteenth-century Florentine, so 
 wonderful were the harebells in the foreground, the lich- 
 ened rocks, the dabbled fleece of the lamb: but they 
 realized that it was a combination that only a remark- 
 able talent could have achieved. 
 
 "By Jove!" said Findon, turning on the artist with 
 animation, "where did you learn all this?" 
 59
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "I've been painting a good many years," said Fen- 
 wick, his cheeks aglow. " But I've got on a lot this last 
 six months." 
 
 " I suppose, in the country, you couldn't get properly 
 at the model?" 
 
 "No. I've had no chances." 
 
 "Let's all pray to have none," said Cuningham, good- 
 naturedly. " I had no notion you were such a swell." 
 
 But his light-blue eyes as they rested on Fenwick were 
 less friendly. His Scotch prudence was alarmed. Had 
 he in truth introduced a genius unawares to his only 
 profitable patron ? 
 
 "Who is the model, if I may ask?" said Lord Findon, 
 still examining the picture. 
 
 The reply came haltingly, after a pause. 
 
 "Oh! some one I knew in Westmoreland." 
 
 The speaker had turned red. Naturally no one asked 
 any further questions. Cuningham noticed that the 
 face was certainly from the same original as the face 
 in the sketch-book, but he kept his observation to 
 himself. 
 
 Lord Findon, with the eagerness of a Londoner dis- 
 covering some new thing, fell into quick talk with Fen- 
 wick; looked him meanwhile up and down, his features, 
 bearing, clothes; noticed his north-country accent, and 
 all the other signs of the plebeian. And presently Fen- 
 wick, placed at his ease, began for the first time to ex- 
 pand, became argumentative and explosive. In a few 
 minutes he was laying down the law in his Westmoreland 
 manner attacking the Academy denouncing certain 
 pictures of the year with a flushed, confident face 
 and a gesticulating hand. Watson observed him with 
 60
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 some astonishment; Lord Findon looked amused and 
 pulled out his watch. 
 
 "Oh, well, everybody kicks the Academy but it's 
 pretty strong, as you'll find when you have to do with it." 
 
 " Have you been writing those articles in the Mirror?" 
 said Watson, abruptly. 
 
 "I'm not a journalist." The young man's tone was 
 sulky. He got up and his loquacity disappeared. 
 
 "Well, I must be off," said Lord Findon. "But 
 you're coming to dinner with me to-morrow night, Cun- 
 ingham, aren't you? Will you excuse a short invita- 
 tion" he turned, after a moment's pause, to Fenwick 
 "and accompany him? Lady Findon would, I am sure, 
 be glad to make your acquaintance. St. James's Square, 
 102. All right" as Fenwick, coloring violently, 
 stammered an acceptance "we shall expect you. Au 
 revoir! I'm afraid it's no good to ask you!" The last 
 words were addressed smilingly to Watson, as Lord 
 Findon, with out-stretched hand, passed through the 
 door, which Cuningham opened for him. 
 
 "Thank you," said Watson, with a grave inclination 
 "I am a hermit." 
 
 The door closed on a gay and handsome presence. 
 Lord Findon could not possibly have been accused of 
 anything so ill-mannered as patronage. But there was 
 in his manner a certain consciousness of power of 
 vantage-ground; a certain breath of autocracy. The 
 face of Watson showed it as he returned to look closely 
 into Fenwick's picture. 
 
 A few minutes later Fenwick found himself alone. 
 He stood in front of the picture, staring into Phoebe's 
 61
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 eyes. A wave of passionate remorse broke upon him. 
 He had as good as denied her; and she sat there before 
 him like some wronged, helpless thing. He seemed to 
 hear her voice, to see her lips moving. 
 
 Hastily he took her last letter out of his pocket. 
 
 " I am glad you're getting on so well, and I'm counting 
 the weeks to Christmas. Carrie kisses your photograph 
 morning and night, but I am afraid she'll have forgotten 
 you a good deal. Sometimes I'm very weary here but 
 I don't mind if you're getting on, and if it won't be much 
 longer. Miss Anna has sent me some new patterns for 
 my tatting, and I'm getting a fine lot done. All the 
 visitors are quite gone now, and it's that quiet at nights! 
 Sometimes when it's been raining I think I can hear the 
 Dungeon Ghyll stream, though it's more than a mile 
 away." 
 
 Fen wick put up the letter. He had a sudden vision 
 of Phcebe in her white night-dress, opening the casement- 
 window of the little cottage on a starry night, and listen- 
 ing to the sounds of distant water. Behind her was the 
 small room with its candle the baby's cot the white 
 bed, with its vacant place. A pang of longing of home- 
 sickness stirred him. 
 
 Then he began to pace his room, driven by the stress 
 of feeling to take stock of his whole position. He had 
 reached London in May: in was now November. Six 
 months of the hardest effort, the most strenuous labor 
 he had ever passed through. He looked back upon it 
 with exultation. Never had he been so conscious of 
 expanding power and justified ambition. Through the 
 Berners Street life-school he had obtained some valuable 
 coaching and advice which had corrected faults and put 
 62
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 him on the track of new methods. But it was his own 
 right hand and his own brain he had mostly to thank, 
 together with the opportunities of London. Up early, 
 and to bed late drawing from the model, the antique, 
 still life, drapery, landscape , studying pictures, old 
 and new, and filling his sketch-book in every mo- 
 ment of so called leisure with the figures and ac- 
 tions of the great city he had made magnificent use 
 of his time; Phoebe could find no fault with him 
 there. 
 
 Had he forgotten her and the babe ? found letters to 
 her sometimes a burden, and his heart towards her dry 
 often and barren ? Well, he had written regularly; and 
 she had never complained. Men cannot be like women, 
 absorbed forever in the personal affections. For him it 
 was the day of battle, in which a man must strain all his 
 powers to the uttermost if any laurels are to be won 
 before evening. His whole soul was absorbed in the 
 stress of it, in the hungry eagerness for fame, and 
 though in a lesser degree for money. 
 
 Money! The very thought of it filled him with impa- 
 tient worry. Morrison's hundred was nearly gone. He 
 knew well enough that Phoebe was right when she ac- 
 cused him of managing his money badly. It ran 
 through his fingers loosely, incessantly. He hardly knew 
 now where the next remittances to Phoebe were to come 
 from. At first he had done a certain amount of illustrat- 
 ing work and had generally sent her the proceeds of it. 
 But of late he had been absorbed in his big picture, and 
 there had been few or no small earnings. Perhaps, if 
 he hadn't written those articles to the Mirror, there 
 would have been time for some? Well, why shouldn't 
 63
 
 Fen coicb's Career 
 
 he write them ? His irritable pride took fire at once at 
 the thought of blame. 
 
 No one could say, anyway, that he had spent money 
 in amusement. Why, he had scarcely been out of 
 Blooms bury! the rest of London might not have ex- 
 isted for him. A gallery seat at the Lyceum Theatre, 
 then in its early fame, and hot discussions of Irving and 
 Ellen Terry with such artistic or literary acquaintance 
 as he had made through the life-school or elsewhere 
 these had been his only distractions. He stood amazed 
 before his own virtues. He drank little smoked little. 
 As for women he thought with laughter or wrath of 
 Phoebe's touch of jealousy! There was an extremely 
 pretty girl a fair-haired, conscious minx drawing in 
 the same room with him at the British Museum. Evi- 
 denly she would have been glad to capture him; and 
 he had loftily denied her. If he had ever been as sus- 
 ceptible as Phcebe thought him, he was susceptible no 
 more. Life burned with sterner fire! 
 
 And yet, for all these self-denials, Morrison's money 
 and his own savings were nearly gone. Funds might 
 hold out till after Christmas. What then ? 
 
 He had heard once or twice from Morrison, asking for 
 news of the pictures promised. Lately he had left the 
 letters unanswered ; but he lived in terror of a visit. 
 For he had nothing to offer him neither money nor 
 pictures. His only picture so far as distinguished from 
 exercises was the "Genius Loci." He had begun that 
 in a moment of weariness with his student work, basing 
 it on a number of studies of Phoebe's head and face he had 
 brought south with him. He had been lucky enough to 
 find a model very much resembling Phcebe in figure ; and 
 64
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 now, suddenly, the picture had become his passion, the 
 centre of all his hopes. It astonished himself; he saw 
 his artistic advance in it writ large ; of late he had been 
 devoting himself entirely to it, wrapped, like the body 
 of Hector, in a heavenly cloud that lifted him from the 
 earth! If the picture sold and it would surely sell 
 then all paths were clear. Morrison should be paid ; and 
 Phcebe have her rights. Let it only be well hung at the 
 Academy, and well sold to some discriminating buyer 
 and John Fenwick henceforward would owe no man 
 anything whether money or favor. 
 
 At this point he returned to his picture, grappling 
 with it afresh in a feverish pleasure. He caught up a 
 mirror and looked at it reversed ; he put in a bold accent 
 or two ; fumed over the lack of brilliancy in some color 
 he had bought the day before ; and ended in a fresh burst 
 of satisfaction. By Jove, it was good! Lord Findon 
 had been evidently "bowled over" by it Cuningham 
 too. As for that sour-faced fellow, Watson, what did it 
 matter what he thought ? 
 
 It must succeed! Suddenly he found himself on his 
 knees beside his picture, praying that he might finish it 
 prosperously, that it might be given a good place in the 
 Academy, and bring him fame and fortune. 
 
 Then he got up sheepishly, looked furtively round the 
 room to be sure that the door was shut, and no one had 
 seen him. He was a good deal ashamed of himself, for 
 he was not in truth of a religious mind, and he had, by 
 now, few or no orthodox beliefs. But in all matters con- 
 nected with his pictures the Evangelical tradition of his 
 youth still held him. He was the descendant of genera- 
 tions of men and women who had prayed on all possible 
 65
 
 Fenuoick's Career 
 
 occasions that customers might be plentiful and busi- 
 ness good that the young cattle might do well, and the 
 hay be got in dry that their children might prosper 
 and they themselves be delivered from rheumatism, or 
 tooth -ache, or indigestion. Fenwick's prayer to some 
 "magnified non-natural man " afar off, to come and help 
 him with his picture was of the same kind. Only he was 
 no longer whole-hearted and simple about it, as he had 
 been when Phoebe married him, as she was still. 
 
 He put on his studio coat and sat down to his work 
 again, in a. very tender, repentant mood. What on earth 
 had possessed him to make that answer to Lord Findon 
 to let him and those other fellows take him for unmarried ? 
 
 He protested, in excuse, that Westmoreland folk are 
 "close," and don't like talking about their own affairs. 
 He came of a secretive, suspicious stock; and had no 
 mind at any time to part with unnecessary facts about 
 himself. As talkative as you please about art and 
 opinion ; of his own concerns not a word ! London had 
 made him all the more cautious and reticent. No one 
 knew anything about him except as an artist. He always 
 posted his letters himself; and he believed that neither 
 his landlady nor anybody else suspected him of a wife. 
 
 But to-day he had carried things too far and a guilty 
 discomfort weighed upon him. What was to be done? 
 Should he on the first opportunity set himself right with 
 Lord Findon speak easily and unexpectedly of Phcebe 
 and the child ? Clearly what would have been simplicity 
 itself at first was now an awkwardness. Lord Findon 
 would be puzzled chilled. He would suppose there was 
 something to be ashamed of some skeleton in the cup- 
 board. And especially would he take it ill that Fen wick 
 66
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 had allowed him to run on with his diatribes against mat- 
 rimony as though he were talking to a bachelor. Then 
 the lie about the picture. It had been the shy, foolish im- 
 pulse of a moment. But how explain it to Lord Findon ? 
 
 Fenwick stood there tortured by an intense and 
 morbid distress; realizing how much this rich and illus- 
 trious person had already entered into his day dream. 
 For all his pride as an artist and he was full of it his 
 trembling, crude ambition had already seized on Lord 
 Findon as a stepping-stone. He did not know whether 
 he could stoop to court a patron. His own temper had 
 to be reckoned with. But to lose him at the outset by 
 a silly falsehood would be galling. A man who has to 
 live in the world as a married man must not begin by 
 making a mystery of his wife. He felt the social stupid- 
 ity of what he had done; yet could not find in himself 
 the courage to set it right. 
 
 Well, well, let him only make a hit in the Academy, 
 sell his picture, and get some commissions. Then Phoebe 
 should appear, and smile down astonishment. His 
 gaucherie should be lost in his success. 
 
 He tossed about that night, sleepless, and thinking of 
 Cuningham's two hundred and fifty pounds for a pict- 
 ure so cheaply, commonly clever. It filled him with 
 the thirst to arrive. He had more brains, more drawing, 
 more execution more everything! than Cuningham. 
 No doubt a certain prudence and tact were wanted tact 
 in managing yourself and your gifts. 
 
 Well! in spite of Watson's rude remark, what human 
 being knew he was writing those articles in the Mirror? 
 He threw out his challenge to the darkness, and so fell 
 asleep. 
 
 67
 
 rv 
 
 FENT/ICK had never spent a more arduous hour 
 than that which he devoted to the business of 
 dressing for Lord Findon's dinner-party. It was his 
 first acquaintance with dress -clothes. He had, indeed, 
 dined once or twice at the tables of the Westmoreland 
 gentry in the course of his portrait-painting experiences. 
 But there had been no "party," and it had been per- 
 fectly understood that for the Kendal bookseller's son a 
 black Sunday coat was sufficient. Now, however, he 
 was to meet the great world on its own terms; and 
 though he tried hard to disguise his nervousness from 
 his sponsor, Philip Cuningham, he did not succeed. 
 Cuningham instructed him where to buy a second-hand 
 dress-suit that very nearly fitted him, and he had duly 
 provided himself with gloves and tie. When all was 
 done he put his infinitesimal looking-glass on the floor 
 of his attic, flanked it with two guttering candles, and 
 walked up and down before it in a torment, observing 
 his own demeanor and his coat's, saying "How d'ye 
 do?" and "Good-bye" to an imaginary host, or bending 
 affably to address some phantom lady across the table. 
 When at last he descended the stairs he felt as though 
 he were just escaped from a wrestling-match. He fol- 
 lowed Cuningham into the omnibus with nerves all on 
 edge. ji3 hated the notion, too, of taking an omnibus 
 68
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 to go and dine in St. James's Square. But Cuningham's 
 Scotch thriftiness scouted the proposal of a hansom. 
 
 On the way Fenwick suddenly asked his companion 
 whether there was a Lady Findon. Cuningham, startled 
 by the ignorance of his proteg$, drew out as quickly as 
 he could la carte du pays. 
 
 Lady Findon, the second wife, fat, despotic, and rich, 
 rather noisy, and something of a character, a political 
 hostess, a good friend, and a still better hater; two sons, 
 silent, good-looking and clever, one in the brewery that 
 provided his mother with her money, the other in the 
 Hussars; two daughters not long "introduced" one 
 pretty the other bookish and rather plain; so ran the 
 catalogue. 
 
 " I believe there is another daughter by the first wife 
 married something queer about the husband. But 
 I've never seen her. She doesn't often appear Hullo 
 here we are." 
 
 They alighted at the Haymarket, and as they walked 
 down the street Fenwick found himself in the midst of 
 the evening whirl of the West End. The clubs were at 
 their busiest ; men passed them in dress-suits and over- 
 coats like themselves, and the street was full of hansoms, 
 whence the faces of well-dressed women, enveloped in 
 soft silks and furs, looked out. 
 
 Fenwick felt himself treading a new earth. At such 
 an hour he was generally wending his way to a Blooms- 
 bury eating-house, where he dined for eighteen -pence ; 
 he was a part of the striving, moneyless student-world. 
 
 But here, from this bustling Haymarket with its gay, 
 hurrying figures, there breathed new forces, new passions 
 which bewildered him. As he was looking at the faces 
 69
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 in the carriages, the jewels and feathers and shining 
 stuffs, he thought suddenly and sharply of Phoebe sitting 
 alone at her supper in the tiny cottage room. His heart 
 smote him a little. But, after all, was he not on her 
 business as well as his own ? 
 
 The door of Lord Find'on's house opened before them. 
 At sight of the liveried servants within, Fenwick's pride 
 asserted itself. He walked in, head erect, as though 
 the place belonged to him. 
 
 Lord Findon came pleasantly to greet them as they 
 entered the drawing-room, and took them up to Lady 
 Findon. Cuningham she already knew, and she gave a 
 careless glance and a touch of the hand to his companion. 
 It was her husband's will to ask these raw, artistic youths 
 to dinner, and she had to put up with it ; but really the 
 difficulty of knowing whom to send them in with was 
 enormous. 
 
 "I am glad to make your acquaintance," she said, 
 mechanically to Fenwick, as he stood awkwardly beside 
 her, while her eyes searched the door for a cabinet min- 
 ister and his wife who were the latest guests. 
 
 "Thank you; I too am pleased to make yours," said 
 Fenwick, nervously pulling at his gloves, and furious 
 with his own malaise. 
 
 Lady Findon's eyebrows lifted in amusement. She 
 threw him another glance. 
 
 Good-looking! but really Findon should wait till they 
 were a little d&crotti. 
 
 "I hear your picture is charming," she said, distract- 
 edly ; and then, suddenly perceiving the expected figures, 
 she swept forward to receive them. 
 
 "Very sorry, my dear fellow, we have no lady for you; 
 70
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 but you will be next my daughter, Madame de Pastour- 
 elles," said Lord Findon, a few minutes later, in his ear, 
 passing him with a nod and a smile. His gay, half 
 fatherly ways with these rising talents were well known. 
 They made part of his fame with his contemporaries ; a 
 picturesque element in his dinner-parties which the world 
 appreciated. 
 
 Fenwick found his way rather sulkily to the dining- 
 room. It annoyed him that Cuningham had a lady and 
 he had none. His companion on the road down-stairs 
 was the private secretary, who tried good-naturedly to 
 point out the family portraits on the staircase wall. But 
 Fenwick scarcely replied. He stalked on, his great black 
 eyes glancing restlessly from side to side ; and the private 
 secretary thought him a boor. 
 
 As he was standing bewildered inside the dining-room 
 a servant caught hold of him and piloted him to his seat. 
 A lady in white, who was already seated in the next 
 chair, looked up and smiled. 
 
 " My father told me we were to be neighbors. I must 
 introduce myself." 
 
 She held out a small hand, which, in his sudden pleas- 
 ure, Fenwick grasped more cordially than was necessary. 
 She withdrew it smiling, and he sat down, feeling himself 
 an impulsive ass, intimidated by the lights, the flowers, 
 the multitude of his knives and forks, and most of all, 
 perhaps, by this striking and brilliant creature beside 
 him. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles was of middle height, slen- 
 derly built, with pale-brown hair, and a delicately white 
 face, of a very perfect oval. She had large, quiet eyes, 
 darker than her hair; features small, yet of a noble out-
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 line strength in refinement. The proud cutting of the 
 nose and mouth gave delight; it was a pride so uncon- 
 scious, so masked in sweetness, that it challenged with- 
 out wounding. The short upper lip was sensitive and 
 gay ; the eyes ranged in a smiling freedom ; the neck and 
 arms were beautiful. Her dress, according to the 
 Whistlerian phrase just coming into vogue, might have 
 been called an "arrangement in white." The basis of it 
 seemed to be white velvet; and breast and hair were 
 powdered with diamonds delicately set in old flower-like 
 shapes. 
 
 "You are in the same house with Mr. Cuningham?" 
 she asked, when a dean had said grace and the soup 
 was served. Her voice was soft and courteous; the 
 irritation in Fenwick felt the soothing of it. 
 
 "I am on the floor above." 
 
 "He paints charming things." , 
 
 Fenwick hesitated. 
 
 "You think so?" he said, bluntly, turning to look at 
 her. 
 
 She colored slightly and laughed. 
 
 "Do you mean to put me in the Palace of Truth?" 
 
 "Of course I would if I could," said Fenwick, also 
 laughing. " But I suppose ladies never say quite what 
 they mean." 
 
 "Oh yes they do. Well, then, I am not much 
 enamoured of Mr. Cuningham's pictures. I like him, 
 and my father likes his painting." 
 
 "Lord Findon admires that kind of thing?" 
 
 "Besides a good many other kinds. Oh! my father 
 has a dreadfully catholic taste. He tells me you haven't 
 been abroad yet?" 
 
 72
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Fenwick acknowledged it. 
 
 "Ah, well; of course you'll go. All artists do 
 except" she dropped her voice "the gentleman oppo- 
 site." 
 
 Fenwick looked, and beheld a personage scarcely, in- 
 deed, to be seen at all for his very bushy hair, whiskers, 
 and mustache, from which emerged merely the tip of a 
 nose and a pair of round eyes in spectacles. As, how- 
 ever, the hair* was of an orange color and the eyes of a 
 piercing and pinlike sharpness, the eclipse of feature 
 was not a loss of effect. And as the flamboyant head 
 was a tolerably familiar object in the shop-windows of 
 the photographers and in the illustrated papers, Pen- 
 wick recognized almost immediately one of the moot 
 popular artists of the day Mr. Herbert Sherratt. 
 
 Fenwick flushed hotly. 
 
 "Lord Findon doesn't admire his work?" he said, 
 almost with fierceness, turning to his companion. 
 
 "He hates his pictures and collects his drawings." 
 
 " Drawings!" Fenwick shrugged his shoulac: -. "Any 
 body can make a clever drawing. It's putting on the 
 paint that counts. Why doesn't he go abroad?" 
 
 "Oh, well, he does go to Holland. But he thinks 
 Italian painting all stuff, and that so many Madonnas 
 and saints encourage superstition. But what's the use 
 of talking? They have to station a policeman beside his 
 picture in the Academy to keep off the crowd. Hush-sh! 
 He is looking this way." 
 
 She turned her head, and Fenwick feared she was lost 
 to him. He managed to get in another question. "Are 
 there any other painters here?" 
 
 She pointed out the president of the Academy, a 
 73
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 sculptor, and an art-critic, at whose name Fenwick 
 curled his lip, full of the natural animosity of the painter 
 to the writer. 
 
 "And, of course, you know my neighbor?" 
 
 Fenwick looked hastily, and saw a very handsome 
 youth bending forward to answer a question which Lord 
 Findon had addressed to him from across the table; a 
 face in the "grand style" almost the face of a Greek 
 pure in outline, bronzed by foreign suns, and lit by eyes 
 expressing* so strong a force of personality that, but for 
 the sweetness with which it was tempered, the.spectator 
 might have been rather repelled than won. When the 
 young man answered Lord Findon, the voice was, like 
 the face, charged perhaps overcharged with meaning 
 and sensibility. 
 
 "I took Madame de Pastourelles to see it to-day," the 
 youth was saying. "She thought it as glorious as I 
 did." 
 
 " Oh! you are a pair of enthusiasts," said Lord Findon. 
 "7 keep my head." 
 
 The "it" turned out to be a Titian portrait from the 
 collection of an old Roman family, lately brought to 
 London and under offer to the National Gallery, of which 
 Lord Findon was a trustee. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles looked towards her father, 
 confirming what the unknown youth had said. Her 
 eyes had kindled. She began to talk rapidly in defence 
 of her opinion. Between her, Lord Lindon, and her 
 neighbor, there arose a conversation which made Fen- 
 wick's ears tingle. How many things and persons and 
 places it touched upon that were wholly unknown to 
 him! Pictures in foreign museums Vienna, Berlin, St. 
 74
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Petersburg the names of French or German experts 
 quotations from Italian books or newspapers the 
 three dealt lightly and familiarly with a world in which 
 Fenwick had scarcely a single landmark. How clever 
 she was! how charming! What knowledge without a 
 touch of pedantry! And how the handsome youth kept 
 up with her nay, rather, led her, with a mastery, a 
 resource, to which she always yielded in case of any 
 serious difference of opinion! It seemed that they had 
 been abroad together had seen many sights in each 
 other's company had many common friends. 
 
 Fenwick felt himself strangely sore and jealous as he 
 listened. Who wa_, this man ? Some young aristocrat 
 no doubt, born silver spoon in mouth one of your idle, 
 insolent rich, with nothing to do but make a hobby of 
 art, and patronize artists. He loathed the breed. 
 
 Her voice startled him back from these unspoken 
 tirades, and once more he found her eyes fixed upon 
 him. It provoked him to feel that their scrutiny made 
 him self-conscious anxious to please. They were so 
 gentle, so gay! and yet behind the first expression 
 there sat what seemed to him the real personality, 
 shrewd, critical, and remote. 
 
 "You must see this picture," she said, kindly. "It's 
 glorious!" 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 " In a house near here. But father could get you in." 
 
 He hesitated, then laughed, ungraciously. 
 
 "I don't seem to have finished yet with the National 
 Gallery. Who please is the gentleman on your 
 right?" 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 75
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 "Oh! don't you know him ? You must let me intro- 
 duce him. It is Mr. Arthur Welby. Doesn't he talk 
 well?" 
 
 She introduced them. Welby received the introduc- 
 tion with a readiness a touch of eagerness indeed 
 which seemed to show a mind favorably prepared for it. 
 
 "Lord Findon tells me you're sending in a most 
 awfully jolly thing to the Academy!" he said, bending 
 across Madame de Pastourelles, his musical voice full of 
 cordiality. Fenwick made a muttered reply. It might 
 have been thought he disliked being talked to about his 
 own work. Welby accordingly changed the subject at 
 once; he returned to the picture he had been pressing 
 on Lord Findon. 
 
 " Haven'tyoii seen it ? You really should." But this 
 elicited even less response. Fenwick glared at him 
 apparently tongue-tied. Then Madame de Pastourelles 
 and her neighbor talked to each other, endeavoring to 
 draw in the stranger. In vain. They fell back, natu- 
 rally, into the talk of intimates, implying a thousand 
 common memories and experiences ; and Fenwick found 
 himself left alone. 
 
 His mind burned with annoyance and self -disgust. 
 Why did he let these people intimidate him ? Why was 
 he so ridiculously self-conscious ? so incapable of hold- 
 ing his own? He knew all about Arthur Welby; his 
 name and fame were in all the studios. The author of 
 the picture of the year in the opinion, at least, of the 
 cultivated minority for whom rails and policemen were 
 not the final arbiters of merit; glorified in the speeches 
 at the Academy banquet; and already overwhelmed 
 with more commissions than he could take Welby 
 76
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 should have been one of the best hated of men. On the 
 contrary, his mere temperament had drawn the teeth 
 of that wild beast, Success. Well-born, rich, a social fa- 
 vorite, trained in Paris and Italy, an archaeologist and 
 student as well as a painter, he commanded the world 
 as he pleased. Society asked him to dinners, and he 
 gave himself no professional airs and went when he 
 could. But among his fellows he lived a happy com- 
 rade's life, spending his gifts and his knowledge without 
 reserve, always ready to help a man in a tight place, to 
 praise a friend's picture, to take up a friend's quarrel. 
 He took his talent and his good-fortune so simply that 
 the world must needs insist upon them, instead of con- 
 testing them. 
 
 As for his pictures, they were based on the Italian tra- 
 dition rich, accurate, learned, full of literary allusion 
 and reminiscence. In Fenwick's eyes, young as was 
 their author, they were of the past rather than of the 
 future. He contemptuously thought of them as belong- 
 ing to a dead genre. But the man who painted them 
 could draw. 
 
 Meanwhile he seemed to have lost Madame de Pastour- 
 elles, and must needs fall back on the private secretary 
 beside him. This gentleman, who had already entered 
 him on the tablets of the mind as a mannerless outsider, 
 was not particularly communicative. But at least Fen- 
 wick learned the names of the other guests. The well- 
 known Ambassador beside Lady Findon, with a shrewd, 
 thin, sulky face, and very black eyes under whitish hair 
 eyes turned much more frequently on the pretty 
 actress to his right than upon his hostess; a financier 
 opposite, much concerned with great, colonial projects; 
 77
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 the Cabinet Minister of no account, it seemed, either 
 in the House or in the Cabinet and his wife abnormally 
 thin, and far too discreet for the importance of her hus- 
 band's position; a little farther, the wife of the red- 
 haired Academician, a pale, frightened creature who 
 looked like her husband's apology, and was in truth his 
 slave; all these he learned gradually to discriminate. 
 
 So this was the great world. He was stormily pleased 
 to be in it, and at the same time scornful of it. It 
 seemed to contain not a few ancient shams and hollow 
 pretenders 
 
 Ah! once more the soft, ingratiating voice beside him. 
 Madame de Pastourelles was expressing a flattering wish 
 to see his picture, of which her father had talked so 
 much. 
 
 "And he says you have found such a beautiful model 
 or, rather, better than beautiful characteristic." 
 
 Fenwick stared at her. It was on the tip of his 
 tongue to say "she is my wife." But he did not say it. 
 He imagined her look of surprise "Ah, my father had 
 no idea!" imagined it with a morbid intensity, and saw 
 no way of confronting or getting round it; not at the 
 dinner-table, anyway with all these eyes and ears about 
 him above all, with Lord Findon opposite. Why, they 
 might think he had been ashamed of Phcebe ! that there 
 was some reason for hiding her away. It was ridiculous 
 most annoying and absurd; but now that the thing 
 had happened, he must really choose his own moment 
 for unravelling the coil. 
 
 So he stammered something unintelligible about a 
 "Westmoreland type," and then hastily led the talk to 
 some other schemes he had in mind. With the sense of 
 78
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 having escaped a danger he found his tongue for the first 
 time, and the power of expressing himself. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles listened attentively drew 
 him out, indeed made him show himself to the best 
 advantage. And presently, at a moment of pause, she 
 said, with a smile and a shrug, "How happy you are to 
 have an art! Now I " 
 
 She let her hand fall with a little plaintive move- 
 ment. 
 
 "I am sure you paint," said Fenwick, eagerly. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then you are musical?" 
 
 "Not at all. I embroider 
 
 "All women should," said Fenwick, trying for a free 
 and careless air. 
 
 "I read " 
 
 "You do not need to say it." 
 
 She opened her eyes at this readiness of reply; but 
 still pursued: 
 
 "And I have a Chinese pug." 
 
 "And no children?" The words rose to Fenwick's 
 lips, but remained unspoken. Perhaps she divined them, 
 for she began hastily to describe her dog its tricks and 
 fidelities. Fenwick could meet her here ; for a mongrel 
 fox-terrier taken, a starving waif, out of the streets 
 had been his companion since almost the first month of 
 his solitude. Each stimulated the other, and they fell 
 into those legends of dog-life in which every dog-lover be- 
 lieves, however sceptical they may be in other directions. 
 Till presently she said, with a sigh and a stiffening of her 
 delicate features: 
 
 "But mine shows some symptoms of paralysis. He 
 79
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 was run over last summer. I am afraid it will be long 
 and painful." 
 
 Fenwick replied that she should send for the vet. and 
 have the dog painlessly killed. 
 
 "No. I shall nurse him." 
 
 "Why should you look on at suffering?" 
 
 "Why not if sometimes he enjoys life?" 
 
 "I am thinking of the mistress." 
 
 "Oh, for us," she said, quickly, "for me it is good to 
 be with suffering." 
 
 As she spoke, she drew herself slightly more erect. 
 Neither tone nor manner showed softness, made any 
 appeal. The words seemed to have dropped from her, 
 and the strange pride and dignity she at once threw 
 around them made a veiling cloud through which only 
 a man entirely without the finer perceptions would have 
 tried to penetrate. Fenwick, for all his surface gaucherie, 
 did not attempt it. But he attacked her generalization. 
 With some vehemence he developed against it a Neo- 
 pagan doctrine of joy love of the earth and its natural 
 pleasures courage to take and dare avoidance of suf- 
 fering and war on asceticism. He poured out a num- 
 ber of undigested thoughts, which showed a great deal 
 of reading, and at least betrayed a personality, whatever 
 value they might have as a philosophy. 
 
 She listened with a charming kindness, laughing now 
 and then, putting in a humorous comment or two, and 
 never by another word betraying her own position. But 
 he was more and more conscious of the double self in her 
 of the cultivated, social self she was bringing into play 
 for his benefit, and of something behind a spirit watch- 
 ful and still wrapped in a great melancholy or per- 
 80
 
 Fentoich's Career 
 
 haps a great rebellion ? And by this sense of something 
 concealed or strongly restrained, she began to affect his 
 imagination, and so, presently, to absorb his attention. 
 Something exquisite in her movements and looks, also 
 in the quality of her voice and the turn of her phrases, 
 drew from his own crude yet sensitive nature an excited 
 response. He began to envisage what these highly 
 trained women of the upper class, these raffintes of the 
 world, may be for those who understand them a stim- 
 ulus, an enigma, an education. 
 
 It flashed on him that women of this type could teach 
 him much that he wanted to know; and his ambition 
 seized on the idea. But what chance that she would 
 ever give another thought to the raw artist to whom her 
 father had flung a passing invitation ? 
 
 He made haste, indeed, to prove his need of her or 
 some other Egeria ; for she was no sooner departed with 
 the other ladies than he came to mischief. Left alone 
 with the gentlemen, his temperament asserted itself. 
 He had no mind in any company to be merely a listener. 
 Moreover, that slight, as he regarded it, of sending him 
 down without a lady, still rankled ; and last, but not 
 least, he had drunk a good deal of champagne, to which 
 he was quite unaccustomed. So that when Lord Findon 
 fell into a discussion with the Ambassador of Irving's 
 " Hamlet" and "Othello," then among the leading topics 
 of London when the foreigner politely but emphatically 
 disparaged the English actor and Lord Findon with zeal 
 defended him who should break into the august debate 
 but this strong-browed, black-eyed fellow, from no one 
 knew where, whose lack of some of the smaller conven- 
 81
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 tions had already been noticed by a few of the com- 
 pany ? 
 
 At first all looked well. A London dinner-party loves 
 novelty, and is always ready to test the stranger within 
 its gates. Fen wick slipped into the battle as a sup- 
 porter of Lord Findon's argument, and his host with 
 smiling urbanity welcomed him to the field. But in a 
 few minutes the new-comer had ravaged the whole of it. 
 The older men were silenced, and Fenwick was leaning 
 across the table, gesticulating with one hand, and lifting 
 his port-wine with the other, addressing now Lord Findon 
 and now the Ambassador who stared at him in amaze- 
 ment with an assurance that the world only allows to 
 its oldest favorites. Lord Findon in vain tried to stop 
 him. 
 
 "Didn't know this was to be a dinner with speeches," 
 murmured the financier, after a few minutes, in his 
 neighbor's ear. "Think I'll get up and propose a vote 
 of thanks to the chairman." 
 
 "There ought, at least, to be a time-limit," said the 
 neighbor, with a shrug. "Where on earth did Findon 
 pick him up?" 
 
 "I say, what an awfully rum chap!" said the young 
 son of the house wondering to Arthur Welby. " What 
 does he talk like that for?" 
 
 "He doesn't talk badly," said Welby, whose mouth 
 showed the laughter within. 
 
 Meanwhile Fenwick loud - voiced, excited had 
 brought his raid to a climax by an actual attack upon 
 the stately Frenchman opposite, whose slight sarcastic 
 look pricked him intolerably. All other conversation at 
 the table fell dumb. 
 
 82
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Lord Findon colored, and rose. 
 
 "You are a great deal more sure of my own opinion 
 than I am myself," he said, coldly. " I am much obliged 
 to you, but shall we adjourn this conversation?" 
 
 As the men walked up-stairs Fenwick realized that he 
 had blundered ; he felt himself isolated and in disfavor. 
 Arthur Welby had approached him, but Lord Findon 
 had rather pointedly drawn an arm through Welby's and 
 swept him away. No one else spoke to him, and even 
 the private secretary, who had before befriended him, left 
 him severely alone. None of the ladies in the drawing- 
 room up-stairs showed, as it seemed to him, any desire 
 for his company, and he was reduced to looking at a 
 stand of miniatures near the door, while his heart swelled 
 fiercely. So this was what society meant ? a wretched 
 pleasure purchased on degrading terms! A poor de- 
 pendant like himself, he supposed, was to be seen and 
 not heard must speak when he was spoken to, play 
 chorus, and whisper humbleness. As to meeting these 
 big-wigs on equal terms, that clearly was not expected. 
 An artist may be allowed to know something about art; 
 on any other subject let him listen to his betters. He 
 said to himself that he was sick of the whole business; 
 and he would gladly have slipped through the open door 
 down the stairs, and out of the house. He was re- 
 strained, however, by the protest of a sore ambition 
 which would not yet admit defeat. Had he set Lord 
 Findon against him ? ruined the chance of a purchaser 
 for his picture and of a patron for the future ? Out of the 
 corner of his eye he saw Cuningham, neat, amiable, and 
 self-possessed, sitting in a corner by Lady Findon, who 
 smiled and chatted incessantly. And it was clear to him 
 8*
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 that Welby was the spoiled child of the room. Wherever 
 he went men and women grouped themselves about him ; 
 there was a constant eagerness to capture him, an equal 
 reluctance to let him go. 
 
 " Well, I'm as good as he as either of them," thought 
 Fenwick fiercely, as he handled a Cosway. " Only they 
 can talk these people's lingo, and I can't. I can paint 
 as well as they any day and I'll be bound, if they let 
 me alone, I could talk as well. Why do people ask you 
 to their houses and then ill-treat you? Damn them!" 
 
 Meanwhile, Lord Findon had had a few whispered 
 words with his daughter in an inner room. 
 
 "My dear!" throwing up his hands "a barbarian/ 
 Can't have him here again." 
 
 "Mr. Fenwick, papa?" 
 
 "Of course. Cuningham ought to have warned me. 
 However, I suppose I brought it on myself. I do these 
 rash things, and must pay for them. He was so rude to 
 De Chailles that I have had to apologize." 
 
 "Poor papa! Where is he?" 
 
 "In the other room looking at things. Better leave 
 him alone." 
 
 "Oh no; he'll feel himself neglected." 
 
 "Well, let him. A man ought to be made to under- 
 stand that he can',, behave like that." 
 
 "What did he do?" 
 
 " My dear, he spoiled the whole business after dinner 
 harangued the table! as good as told De Chailles he had 
 no right to talk about Irving or Shakespeare, being a 
 foreigner. You never saw such an exhibition!" 
 
 "Poor Mr. Fenwick. I must go and talk to him." 
 84
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Eugenie, don't be a. goose. Why should you take 
 any trouble about him?" 
 
 "He's wonderfully clever, papa. And clever people 
 are always getting into scrapes. omebody must take 
 him in hand." 
 
 And, rising, she threw her father a whimsical back- 
 ward look as she departed. Lord Find on watched her 
 with mingled smiles and chagrin. How charmingly she 
 was dressed to-night his poor Eugenie ! And how beau- 
 tifully she moved! with what grace and sweetness! 
 As he turned to do his duty by an elderly countess near 
 him, he stifled a sigh that was also an imprecation. 
 
 It had often been said of Eugenie de Pastourelles that 
 she possessed a social magic. She certainly displayed 
 it on this occasion. Half an hour later Lord Findon, 
 who was traversing the drawing-rooms after having taken 
 the Ambassadress to her carriage, found a regenerate and 
 humanized Fenwick sitting beside his daughter; the 
 centre, indeed, of a circle no less friendly to untutored 
 talent than the circle of the dinner-table had been hostile. 
 Lord Findon stopped to listen. Really the young man 
 was now talking decently! about matters he under- 
 stood ; Burne-Jones, Rossetti some French pictures in 
 Bond Street and so forth. The ruffled host was half 
 appeased, half wroth. For if he could make this agree- 
 able impression, why such a superfluity of naughtiness 
 down-stairs? And the fellow had really some general 
 cultivation ; nothing like Welby , of course where would 
 you find another Arthur Welby ? but enough to lift him 
 above the mere journeyman. After all, one must be in- 
 dulgent to these novices with no traditions behind them 
 and no well , to put it plainly no grandfathers ! And
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 so, with reflections of this kind, the annoyance of a good- 
 natured man subsided. 
 
 It was all Eugenie's doing, of course. She and Welby 
 between them had caught the bear, tamed him, and set 
 him to show whatever parlor tricks he possessed. Just 
 like her! He hoped the young man understood her con- 
 descension and that to see her and talk with her was a 
 privilege. Involuntarily Lord Findon glanced across the 
 room, at the decollete shoulders and buxom good looks of 
 his wife. When Euge'nie was in the house the second 
 Lady Findon never seemed to him well dressed. 
 
 When Fenwick and Cuningham had departed Fen- 
 wick in a glow of grateful good-humor, expressing him- 
 self effusively to his host Madame de Pastourelles ap- 
 proached her father, smiling. 
 
 "That youth has asked me to sit to him." 
 
 "The audacious rascal!" cried Lord Findon, fuming. 
 "He has never seen you before and, besides, how does 
 any one know what he can do?" 
 
 "Why, you said yourself his picture was remark- 
 able." 
 
 "So it is. But what's one picture? What do you 
 think, Welby ?" he said, impulsively addressing the man 
 beside him. "Wasn't it like his impudence?" 
 
 Welby smiled. 
 
 "Like Eugenie's kindness! It was rather charming 
 to see his look when she said 'Yes'!" 
 
 "You said ' Yes' I" Lord Findon stared at her. 
 
 "Come with me and see what he can do in a morning." 
 She laid a quieting hand on her father's arm. "You 
 know that always amuses you. And I want to see his 
 picture." 
 
 86
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 "His picture is not bad," said Lord Findon, with 
 decision. 
 
 "I think you will have to buy it, papa." 
 "There you go," said Lord Findon "letting me in!" 
 "Well, I'm off to bed." Smiling, she gave her hand to 
 each, knowing that she had gained her point, or would 
 gain it. Arthur Welby, turning, watched her move 
 away, say "Good-night" to Lady Findon, and disappear 
 through a distant door. Then for him, though the room 
 was still full of people, it was vacant. He slipped away 
 without any more "Good-byes."
 
 IT was Christmas Eve, and the dark had fallen. The 
 train from Euston had just drawn up in Windermere 
 station, and John Fenwick, carrying his bag, was mak- 
 ing his way among the vehicles outside the station, in- 
 quiring whether any one was going in the direction of 
 Great Langdale, who could give him a lift. He presently 
 found a farmer's cart bound for a village on the road, and 
 made a bargain with the lad driving it to carry him to 
 his destination. 
 
 They set off in bitter weather. The driver was a 
 farmer's son who had come to the station to fetch his 
 small brother. Fenwick and he took the little school- 
 boy between them, to protect him as best they could 
 from the wind and sleet. They piled some empty sacks, 
 from the back of the cart, on their knees and shoulders; 
 and the old gray horse set forward cautiously, feeling its 
 way down the many hills of the Ambleside road. 
 
 The night was not yet wholly in possession. The 
 limestone road shone dimly white, the forms of the leaf- 
 less trees passed them in a windy procession, and afar 
 on the horizon, beyond the dark gulf of the lake, there 
 was visible at intervals a persistent dimness, something 
 less black than the sky above and the veiled earth below, 
 which Fenwick knew must be the snowy tops of the 
 mountains. But it was a twilight more mournful than 
 88
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 a total darkness; the damp air was nipping cold, and 
 every few minutes gusts of sleet drove in their faces. 
 
 The two brothers talked to each other sometimes, in 
 a broad Westmoreland speech. To Fenwick the dialect 
 of his childhood was already strange and disagreeable. 
 So, too, was the wild roughness of the Northern night, 
 the length of the road, the sense of increasing distance 
 from all that most held his mind. He longed, indeed, 
 to see Phoebe and the child, but it was as though he had 
 wilfully set up some barrier between himself and them, 
 which spoiled his natural pleasure. Moreover, he was 
 afraid of Phoebe, of her quick jealous love, and of certain 
 passionate possibilities in her character that he had long 
 ago discerned. If she discovered that he had made a 
 mystery of his marriage that he had passed in London 
 as unmarried ? It was an ugly and uncomfortable "if." 
 Did he shrink from the possible blow to her or the pos- 
 sible trouble to himself ? Well, she must not find it out! 
 It had been a wretched sort of accident, and before it 
 could do any harm it should be amended. 
 
 Suddenly, a sound of angry water. They were close 
 on the lake, and waves driven by the wind were plashing 
 on the shore. Across the lake, a light in a house-window 
 shone through the storm, the only reminder of human 
 life amid a dark wilderness of mountains. Wild sounds 
 crashed through the trees ; and accompanying the tumult 
 of water came the rattle of a bitter rain, lashing the road, 
 the cart, and their bent shoulders. 
 
 "There'll not be a dry stitch on us soon," said Fen- 
 wick, presently, to the young man beside him. 
 
 "Ay, it's dampish," said his companion, cheerfully. 
 
 The caution of the adjective set Fenwick grinning. 
 89
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 The North found and gripped him; these are not the 
 ways of the South. 
 
 And in a moment the sense of contrast, thus provoked, 
 had carried him far out of the Westmoreland night, 
 back to London, and his shabby studio in Bernard Street. 
 There, throned on a low platform, sat Madame de Pas- 
 tourelles; and to her right, himself, sitting crouched be- 
 fore his easel, working with all his eyes and all his mind. 
 The memory of her was, as it were, physically stamped 
 upon his sight, his hands; such an intensity of study had 
 he given to every detail of her face and form. Did he 
 like her? He didn't know. There were a number of 
 curious resentments in his mind with regard to her. 
 Several times in the course of their acquaintance she had 
 cheapened or humiliated him in his own eyes; and the 
 sensation had been of a sharpness as yet unknown to 
 him. 
 
 Of course, there was in it, one way or another, an 
 aristocratic insolence! There must be: to move so 
 delicately and immaculately through life, with such 
 superfine perceptions, must mean that you were brought 
 up to scorn the common way, and those who walk in it. 
 "The poor in a lump are bad " coarse and ill-mannered 
 at any rate that must be the real meaning of her soft 
 dignity, so friendly yet so remote, her impossibly ethereal 
 standards, her light words that so often abashed a man 
 for no reasonable cause. 
 
 She had been sitting to him, off and on, for about six 
 weeks. Originally she had meant him to make a three- 
 hours' sketch of her. He triumphed in the remembrance 
 that she and Lord Findon had found the sketch so re- 
 markable that, when he had timidly proposed a portrait 
 90
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 in oils, Lord Findon himself had persuaded her to sit. 
 Since that moment his work on the portrait, immediate- 
 ly begun, had absorbed him to such a degree that the 
 "Genius Loci," still unfinished, had been put aside, and 
 must have its last touches when he returned to town. 
 
 But in the middle of the sittings, Madame de Pas- 
 tourelles being away, and he in a mood to destroy all 
 that he had done, he had suddenly spent a stray earning 
 on a railway ticket to Paris. 
 
 There excitement illumination! and a whole fresh 
 growth of ambition ! Some of the mid-century portraits 
 in the Luxembourg, and in a loan exhibition then open 
 in the Rue Royale, excited him so that he lost sleep and 
 appetite. The work of Bastien-Lepage was also to be 
 seen; and the air rang with the cries of Impressionism. 
 But the beautiful surface of the older men held him. 
 How to combine the breadth of the new with the keeping, 
 the sheer pleasure of the old! He rushed home aflame! 
 and fell to work again. 
 
 And now he found himself a little more able to cope 
 with his sitter. He was in possession, at any rate, of fresh 
 topics need not feel himself so tongue-tied in the pres- 
 ence of this cosmopolitan culture of hers, which she did 
 her feminine best to disguise which nevertheless made 
 the atmosphere of her personality. She had lived some 
 six years in Paris, it appeared; and had known most of 
 the chief artists and men of letters. Fen wick writhed 
 under his ignorance of the French language; it was a 
 disadvantage not to be made up. 
 
 However, he talked much, and sometimes arrogantly; 
 he gave his views, compared one man with another; if 
 he felt any diffidence, he showed little. And indeed she
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 led him on. Upon his art he had a right to speak, and 
 the keen intellectual interest she betrayed in his impres- 
 sions the three days' impressions of a painter stirred 
 and flattered him. 
 
 But he made a great many rather ludicrous mistakes, 
 inevitable to one who had just taken a first canter 
 through the vast field of French art ; mistakes in names 
 and dates, in the order of men and generations. And 
 when he made a blunder he was apt to stick to it ab- 
 surdly, or excuse it elaborately. She soon gave up cor- 
 recting him, even in the gentle, hesitating way she at 
 first made use of. She said nothing; but there was 
 sometimes mischief, perhaps mockery, in her eyes. Fen- 
 wick knew it ; and would either make fresh plunges, or 
 paint on in a sulky silence. 
 
 How on earth had she guessed the authorship of those 
 articles in the Mirror? He supposed he must have 
 talked the same kind of stuff to her. At any rate, she 
 had made him feel in some intangible way that it seemed 
 to her a dishonorable thing to be writing anonymous 
 attacks upon a body from whom you were asking, or 
 intending to ask, exhibition space for your pictures, and 
 the chance of selling your work. His authorship was 
 never avowed between them. Nevertheless this criti- 
 cism annoyed and pricked him. He said to himself that 
 it was just like a woman who always took the personal 
 view. But he had not yet begun on his last two articles, 
 which were overdue. 
 
 On one occasion, encouraged perhaps by some kind- 
 ness of expression on her part, he had ventured an in- 
 direct question or two, meant to procure him some 
 information about her past history and present way of 
 92
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 life. She had rebuffed him at once; and he had said to 
 himself fiercely that it was of course because he was a 
 man of the people and she one of "the upper ten." He 
 might paint her ; but he must not .presume to know 
 her! 
 
 On the other hand, his mind was still warm with 
 memories of her encouragement, her praise. Sometimes 
 in their talks he would put the portrait aside, and fall 
 to sketching for' her either to illustrate his memories of 
 pictures, or things noticed in French life and landscapes. 
 And as the charcoal worked; as he forgot himself in 
 hurried speech, and those remarks fell from him which 
 are the natural outcome of a painter's experience, viva- 
 cious also and touched with literature ; then her brown 
 eyes would lighten and soften, and for once his mind 
 would feel exultant that it moved with hers on equal 
 terms nay, that he was teacher and she taught. When- 
 ever there emerged in him the signs of that demonic 
 something that makes greatness she would be receptive, 
 eager, humble even. But again his commoner, coarser 
 side, hte mere lack of breeding would reappear; and she 
 would fall back on her cold or gentle defensiveness. Thus 
 protected by what his wrath called "airs," she was a 
 mystery to him, yet a mystery that tamed and curbed 
 him. He had never dreamed that such women existed. 
 His own views of women were those of the shopkeeping 
 middle class, practical, selfish, or sensual. But he had 
 been a reader of books; and through Madame de Pas- 
 tourelles certain sublimities or delicacies of poetry began 
 to seem to him either less fantastic or more real. 
 
 All the same: he was not sure that he liked her, and 
 while one hour he was all restlessness to resume his task, 
 93
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 the next it was a relief to be temporarily quit of it. As 
 for Lord Findon, except for a certain teasing vagueness 
 on the business side of things, he had shown himself a 
 good friend. Several times since the first variegated 
 evening had Fenwick dined with them, mostly en famille. 
 Lady Findon, indeed, had been away, nursing an invalid 
 father; Madame de Pastourelles filled her place. The 
 old fellow would talk freely politics, connoisseurship, 
 art. Fenwick too was allowed his head, and said his say ; 
 though always surrounded and sometimes chafing under 
 that discipline of good society which is its only or its 
 best justification. It flattered his vanity enormously, 
 however, to be thus within touch of the inner circle in 
 politics and art; for the Findons had relations and 
 friends in all the foremost groups of both ; and incident- 
 ally Fenwick, who had the grudges and some of the 
 dreams of the democrat, was beginning to have a glimpse 
 of the hidden springs and powers of English society to 
 his no small bewilderment often! 
 
 Great luck he admitted all this: for a nameless 
 artist of the people, only six months in London. He 
 owed it to Cuningham, and believed himself grateful. 
 Cuningham was often at the Findons, made a point, 
 indeed, of going. Was it to maintain his place with 
 them, and to keep Fenwick under observation? Fen- 
 wick triumphantly believed that Lord Findon greatly 
 preferred his work and even, by now, his conversation 
 to Cuningham's. But he was still envious of Cuning- 
 ham's smooth tact, and agreeable, serviceable ways. 
 
 As to Welby and his place in the Findon circle, that 
 was another matter altogether. He came and went as 
 he pleased, on brotherly terms with the son and the 
 94
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 younger daughters, clearly an object of great affection 
 to Lord Findon, and often made use of by her ladyship. 
 What was the degree of friendship between him and 
 Madame de Pastourelles ? that had been already the 
 subject of many meditations on Fenwick's part. 
 
 The cart deposited the school-boy in Brathay and 
 started again for Langdale. 
 
 " Yo' cculdna' get at Langdale for t' snaw lasst week," 
 said the young farmer, as they turned a corner into the 
 Skelwith valley. "T' roads were fair choked wi't." 
 
 "It's been an early winter," said Fenwick. 
 
 "Ay, and t' Langdales get t' brunt o't. It's wild 
 livin' there, soomtimes, i' winter." 
 
 They began to climb the first steep hill of the old road 
 to Langdale. The snow lay piled on either side of the 
 road, the rain beat down, and the trees clashed and 
 moaned overhead. Not a house, not a light, upon their 
 path only swirling darkness, opening now and then on 
 that high glimmer of the snow. Fresh from London 
 streets, where winter, even if it attack in force, is so soon 
 tamed and conquered, Fenwick was for the first time 
 conscious of the harsher, wilder aspects of his native 
 land. Poor Phcebe! Had she been a bit lonesome in 
 the snow and rain ? 
 
 The steep lane to the cottage was still deep in snow. 
 The cart could not attempt it. Fenwick made his way 
 up, fighting the eddying sleet. As he let fall the latch 
 of the outer gate, the cottage door opened, and Phcebe, 
 with the child in her arms, stood on the threshold. 
 
 "John!" 
 
 "Yes! God bless my soul, what a night!" He 
 reached the door, put down his umbrella with difficulty, 
 95
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 and dragged his bag into the passage. Then, in a mo- 
 ment, his coat was off and he had thrown his arm round 
 her and the child. It seemed to him that she was curi- 
 ously quiet and restrained. But she kissed him in 
 return, drew him farther within the little passage, and 
 shut the outer door shivering. 
 
 "The kitchen's warm," she said, "at last!" 
 
 She led him in, and he found the low-ceiled room 
 bright with fire and lamp, the table spread, and his 
 chair beside the blaze. She made him take off his coat, 
 and kneeling down she 'tried to unlace his wet boots. 
 
 "No, no!" he said, holding her away "I'll do that, 
 Phcebe. What's wrong with you? you look so so 
 queer!" 
 
 She straightened herself, and with a laugh put back 
 her fair hair. Her face was very pale a grayish pallor 
 and her wonderful eyes stared from it in an odd, strained 
 way. 
 
 "Oh, I'm all right," she said; and she turned away 
 from him to the fire, opening the oven -door to see 
 whether the meat -pie was done. 
 
 " How have you kept in this weather ?" he said, watch- 
 ing her. "I'd no notion you'd had it so bad." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I suppose I've had a chill or 
 something. It's been rather weariful." 
 
 "You didn't tell me anything about your chill." 
 
 "Didn't I ? It seems hardly worth while telling such 
 things, from such a distance. Will you have supper at 
 once?" 
 
 He drew up to the table, and she fed him and hovered 
 round him, asking the while about his work, in a rather 
 perfunctory way, about his rooms and the price of them, 
 96
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 inquiring after the state of his clothes. But her tone 
 and manner were unlike herself, and there was in his 
 mind a protesting consciousness that she had not wel- 
 comed him as a young wife should after a long separa- 
 tion. Her manner too was extraordinarily nervous ; her 
 hand shook as she touched a plate ; her movements were 
 full of starts, and checks, as though, often, she intended 
 a thing and then forgot it. 
 
 They avoided talking about money, and he did not 
 mention the name of Madame de Pastourelles ; though 
 of course his letters had reported the external history of 
 the portrait. But Phoebe presently inquired after it. 
 
 "Have you nearly done painting that lady, John? 
 I don't know how to say her name." 
 
 As she spoke, she lifted a bit of bread-and-butter to 
 her mouth and put it down untasted. In the same way 
 she had tried to drink some tea, and had not apparently 
 succeeded. Fen wick rose and went over to her. 
 
 " Look here, Phcebe," he said, putting his hand on her 
 beautiful hair and turning her face to him "what's the 
 matter?" 
 
 Her eyelids closed, and a quiver went through the 
 face. 
 
 " I don't know. I I had a fright a few days ago at 
 night and I suppose I haven't got over it." 
 
 "A fright?" 
 
 " Yes. There was a tramp one night came to the door. 
 I half opened it and his face was so horrible I tried to 
 shut it again at once. And he struggled with me, but 
 I was strongest. Then he tried to get in at the win- 
 dow, but luckily I had fastened the iron bar across the 
 shutter and the back door. But it all held, mercifully. 
 97
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 He couldn't get in. Then he abused me through the 
 door, and said he would have killed me and the child, if 
 he could have got in and some day he would come 
 again." She shuddered. 
 
 Fenwick had turned pale. With his painter's imagina- 
 tion he saw the thing the bestial man outside, the win- 
 ter night, the slender form within pressing against the 
 door and the bolt 
 
 " Look here," he said, abruptly. " We can't have this. 
 Somebody must sleep here. Did you tell the police ?" 
 
 "Yes, I wrote to Ambleside. They sent a man over 
 to see me. But they couldn't catch him. He's probably 
 left the country. I got a bell" she opened her eyes, 
 and pointed to it. " If I rang it, they might hear it down 
 at Brow Farm. They might if the wind was that way." 
 
 There was silence a moment. Then Fenwick stooped 
 and kissed her. 
 
 "Poor old girl!" he said, softly. She made but slight 
 response. He returned to his place, repeating with a 
 frowning energy "You must have some one to sleep 
 here." 
 
 "Daisy would come if I'd pay her." 
 
 Daisy was their little servant of the summer, the 
 daughter of a quarryman near by. 
 
 "Well, pay her!" 
 
 She drew herself up sharply. "I haven't got the 
 money and you always say, when you write, you 
 haven't any either." 
 
 "I'll find some for that. I can't have you scared like 
 this." 
 
 But, though his tone was vehement, it was not par- 
 ticularly affectionate. He was horribly discomposed in 
 98
 
 Fcntoick's Career 
 
 deed, could not get the terrible image out of his mind. 
 But as he went on with his supper, the shock of it min- 
 gled with a good many critical or reproachful thoughts. 
 Why had she persisted in staying on in Langdale, instead 
 of going to her father? All that foolish dislike of her 
 step-mother! It had been open to her to stay in her 
 father's farm, with plenty of company. If she wouldn't, 
 was he to blame if the cottage was lonesome ? 
 
 But as though she divined this secret debate she pres- 
 ently said: 
 
 "I went to Keswick last week." 
 
 He looked up startled. "Well?" 
 
 "Father's ill he's got a bad chest, and the doctor 
 says he may be going into a consumption." 
 
 "Doctors '11 say anything!" cried Fenwick, wrathfully. 
 " If ever there was a strong man, it's your father. Don't 
 you believe any croaking of that sort, Phcebe." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "He looks so changed," she said; and began drawing 
 with her finger on the table-cloth. He saw that her lips 
 were trembling. A strong impulse worked in him, bid- 
 ding him go to her again, kiss away her tears, and say 
 " Hang everything! Come with me to London, and let's 
 sink or swim together." 
 
 Instead of which some perverse cross-current hurried 
 him into the words: 
 
 " He'd be all right if you'd go and nurse him, Phcebe." 
 
 "No, not at all. They didn't want me and Mrs. 
 Gibson, poor creature, was real glad when I said I was 
 going. She was jealous of me all the time." 
 
 "I expect you imagined that." 
 
 Phoebe's face flushed angrily. 
 8 99
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "I didn't!" she said, shortly. "Everybody in the 
 house knew it." 
 
 The meal went on rather silently. Fenwick's con- 
 science said to him, "Take her back with you! what- 
 ever happens, take her to London she's moping her life 
 out here." And an inner voice clamored in reply 
 "Take her to those rooms? in the very middle of the 
 struggle with those two pictures? go through all the 
 agitation and discomfort of explanations with Lord Fin- 
 don and Madame de Pastourelles ? run the risk of es- 
 tranging them, and of distracting your own mind from 
 your work at this critical moment ? the further risk, 
 moreover, of Phoebe's jealousy?" 
 
 For in her present nervous and fidgety state she would 
 very likely be jealous of his sitter, and of the way in 
 which Madame de Pastourelles 's portrait possessed his 
 mind. No, it really couldn't be done! it really couldn't ! 
 He must finish the two pictures persuade Lord Findon 
 to buy the "Genius Loci," and make the portrait such a 
 success that he must needs buy that too. Then let dis- 
 covery come on; it should find him steeled. 
 
 Meanwhile, Phoebe must have a servant, and not any 
 mere slip of a girl, but some one who would be a com- 
 panion and comfort. He began to talk of it, eagerly, 
 only to find that Phoebe took but a languid interest in 
 the idea. 
 
 She could think of no one wanted no one, but Daisy. 
 Again his secret ill-humor waxed and justified itself. It 
 was unreasonable and selfish that she should not be able 
 to think for herself and the child better; after all, he was 
 slaving for her as much as for himself. 
 
 Meanwhile, Carrie sat very silent beside her father,
 
 FentDick's Career 
 
 observing him, and every now and then applying her 
 pink lips to some morsel he held out to her on his fork. 
 He had kissed her, and tossed her, and she was now 
 sitting in his pocket. But after these eight months the 
 child of four was shy and timid with this unfamiliar 
 father. He on his side saw that she was prettier than 
 before ; his eye delighted in some of the rarer and lovelier 
 lines of her little face; and he felt a fatherly pride. He 
 must make some fresh studies of her; the child in the 
 "Genius Loci" might be improved. 
 
 After supper, Phcebe seemed to him so pale and totter- 
 ing that he made her rest beside the fire, while he himself 
 cleared the supper-things away. She lay back in her 
 chair ..laughing at his awkwardness, or starting up when 
 china clashed. 
 
 Meanwhile, as in their farewell talk beside the Ghyll 
 eight months before, her mood gradually and insensibly 
 changed. Whatever unloving thoughts or resentments 
 had held her in the first hour of their meeting, however 
 strong had been the wish to show him that she had been 
 lonely and suffering, she could not resist what to her was 
 the magic of his presence. As he moved about in the 
 low, firelit room, and she watched him, her whole nature 
 melted ; and he knew it. 
 
 Presently she took the child up-stairs. He waited for 
 her, hanging over the fire listening to the storm out- 
 side and thinking, thinking 
 
 When she reappeared, and he, looking round, saw her 
 standing in the doorway, so tall and slender, her pale 
 face and hair colored by the glow of the fire, passion and 
 youth spoke in him once more. 
 101
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 He sprang up and caught her in his arms. Presently, 
 sitting in the old arm-chair beside the blaze, he had gath- 
 ered her on his knee, and she had clasped her hands 
 round his neck, and buried her face against him. All 
 things were forgotten, save that they were man and wife 
 together, within this "wind-warm space" ringed by 
 night, and pattering sleet, and gusts that rushed in vain 
 upon the roof that sheltered them. 
 
 But next morning, within the little cottage beating 
 rain on the windows, and a cheerless storm-light in the 
 tiny rooms the hard facts of the situation resumed 
 their sway. In the first place money questions had to 
 be faced. Fenwick made the most of his expectations; 
 but at best they were no more, and how to live till they 
 became certainties was the problem. If Lord Findon 
 had commissioned the portrait, or definitely said he 
 would purchase the "Genius Loci," some advance might 
 have been asked for. As it was, how could money be 
 mentioned yet awhile? Phcebe had a fine and costly 
 piece of embroidery on hand, commissioned through an 
 "Art Industry" started at Windermere the summer be- 
 fore ; but it could not be finished for some weeks, possibly 
 months, and the money Fenwick proposed to earn during 
 his fortnight in the North by some illustrations long 
 overdue had been already largely forestalled. He gloom- 
 ily made up his mind to appeal to an old cousin in Ken- 
 dal, the widow of a grocer, said to be richly left, who had 
 once in his boyhood given him five shillings. With much 
 distaste he wrote the letter and walked to Elterwater in 
 the rain to post it. Then he tried to work; but little 
 Carrie, fractious from confinement in-doors, was trouble-
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 some and disturbed him. Phoebe, too, would make re- 
 marks on his drawing which seemed to him inept. In 
 old days he would have laughed at her for pretending to 
 know, and turned it off with a kiss. Now what she said 
 set him on edge. The talk he had been living among 
 had spoiled him for silly criticisms. Moreover, for the 
 first time he detected in her a slight tone of the 
 "school-marm" didactic and self -satisfied, without 
 knowledge. The measure Madame de Pastourelles 
 had dealt out to him, he in some sort avenged on 
 Phcebe. 
 
 At the same time there were much more serious causes 
 of difference. Each had a secret from the other. Fen- 
 wick's secret was that he had foolishly passed in London 
 as an unmarried man, and that he could not take Phcebe 
 back with him, because of the discomforts and risks in 
 which a too early avowal of her would involve him. He 
 was morbidly conscious of this; brooded over it, and 
 magnified it. 
 
 She on the other hand was tormented by a fixed idea 
 already in existence at the time of their first parting, 
 but much strengthened by loneliness and fretting that 
 he was tired of her and not unwilling to be without her. 
 The joy of their meeting banished it for a time, but it 
 soon came back. She had never acquiesced in the wis- 
 dom of their separation ; and to question it was to resent 
 it more and more deeply to feel his persistence in it a 
 more cruel offence, month by month. Her pride pre- 
 vented her from talking of it; but the soreness of her 
 grievance invaded their whole relation. And in her 
 moral unrest she showed faults which had been scarcely 
 visible in their early married years impatience, temper, 
 103
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 suspicion, a readiness to magnify small troubles whether 
 of health or circumstance. 
 
 During her months alone she had been reading many 
 novels of an indifferent sort, which the carrier brought 
 her from the lending library at Windermere. She talked 
 excitedly of some of them, had " cried her eyes out" over 
 this or that. Fenwick picked up one or two, and threw 
 them away for "trash." He scornfully thought that 
 they had done her harm, made her more nervous and 
 difficult. But at night, when he had done his work, he 
 never took any trouble to read to her, or to talk to her 
 about other than household things. He smoked or drew 
 in silence; and she sat over her embroidery, lost in mor- 
 bid reverie. 
 
 One morning he discovered among her books a paper- 
 covered Life of Romney a short compilation issued by 
 a local bookseller. 
 
 "Why, whatever did you get this for, Phcebe?" he 
 said, holding it up. 
 
 She looked up from her mending, and colored. "I 
 wanted to read it." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Well," she hesitated "I thought it was like you." 
 
 "Like me? you little goose!" 
 
 "I don't know," she said, doggedly, looking hard at 
 her work "there was the hundred pounds that he got 
 to go to London with and then, marrying a wife in 
 Kendal and" she looked up with a half -defiant smile 
 "and leaving her behind!" 
 
 "Oh! so you think that's like me?" he said, seating 
 himself again at his drawing. 
 
 "It's rather like." 
 
 104
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "You suppose you're going to be left here for thirty 
 years?" He laughed as he spoke. 
 
 She laughed too, but not gayly with a kind of defi- 
 ance. 
 
 " Well, it wouldn't be quite as easy now, would it ? 
 with trains, and all that. There were only coaches then, 
 I suppose. Now, London's so near." 
 
 "I wish you'd always think so!" he cried. "Why, of 
 course it's near. I'm only seven hours away. What's 
 that, in these days? And in three months' time, things 
 will be all right and square again." 
 
 "I dare say," she said, sighing. 
 
 "Why can't you wait cheerfully?" he asked, rather 
 exasperated "instead of being so down." 
 
 "Because" she broke out "I don't see the reason 
 of it there! No, I don't! However!" she pressed 
 back her hair from her eyes and drew herself together. 
 "You've never shown me your studies of that that 
 lady John; you said you would." 
 
 Relieved at the change of subject, he took a sketch- 
 book out of his pocket and gave it to her. It contained 
 a number of "notes" for his portrait of Madame de Pas- 
 tourelles sketches of various poses, aspects of the head 
 and face, arrangements of the hands, and so forth. 
 Phcebe pondered it in silence. 
 
 "She's pretty I think," she said, at last, doubtfully. 
 
 "I'm not sure that she is," said Fenwick. "She's 
 very pale." 
 
 "That doesn't matter. The shape of her face is 
 awfully pretty and her eyes. Is her hair like mine?" 
 
 "No, not nearly so good." 
 
 "Ah, if I could only do it as prettily as she does!" 
 105
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 said Phoebe, faintly smiling. "I suppose, John, she's 
 very smart and fashionable?" 
 
 "Well, she's Lord Findon's daughter that tells you. 
 They're pretty well at the top." 
 
 Phoebe asked various other questions, then fell silent, 
 still pondering the sketches. After a while she put down 
 her work and came to sit on a stool beside Fenwick, 
 sometimes laying her golden head against his knee, or 
 stretching out her hand to touch his. He responded 
 affectionately enough; but as the winter twilight deep- 
 ened in the little room, Phoebe's eyes, fixed upon the fire, 
 resumed their melancholy discontent. She was less nec- 
 essary to him even than before ; she knew by a thousand 
 small signs that the forces which possessed his mind 
 perhaps his heart ! were not now much concerned with 
 her. 
 
 She tried to control, to school herself. But the flame 
 within was not to be quenched was, indeed, perpetually 
 finding fresh fuel. How quietly he had taken the story 
 of the tramp's attack upon her! which still, whenever 
 she thought of it, thrilled her own veins with horror. 
 No doubt he had been over to Ambleside to speak to the 
 police; and he had arranged that the little servant, 
 Daisy, should come to her when he left. But if he had 
 merely caught her to him with one shuddering cry of love 
 and rage that would have been worth all his precau- 
 tions! would have effaced the nightmare, and filled her 
 heart. 
 
 As to his intellectual life, she was now much more 
 conscious of her exclusion from it than she ever had been 
 in their old life together. 
 
 For it was a consciousness quickened by jealousy. 
 106
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Little as Fenwick talked about Madame de Pastourelles, 
 Phoebe understood perfectly that she was a woman of 
 high education and refinement, and that her stored and 
 subtle mind was at once an attraction and a cause of 
 humiliation to John. And through his rare stories of 
 the Findon household and the Findon dinner-parties, the 
 wife dimly perceived a formidable world, bristling with 
 strange acquirements and accomplishments, in which he, 
 perhaps, was beginning to find a place, thanks to his art ; 
 while she, his obscure and ignorant wife, must resign 
 herself to being forever shut out from it to knowing it 
 from his report only. How could she ever hold her own 
 with such people ? He would talk with them, paint them, 
 dine with them, while she sat at home Carrie's nurse, 
 and the domestic drudge. 
 
 And yet she was of that type which represents perhaps 
 the most ambitious element in the lower middle class. 
 It had been a great matter that she, a small farmer's 
 daughter, should pass her examinations and rise to be a 
 teacher in Miss Mason's school. She had had her tri- 
 umphs and conceits; had been accustomed to think 
 herself clever and successful, to hold her head high 
 among her school-mates. Whereas now, if she tried to 
 talk of art or books, she was hotly aware that everything 
 she said was, in John's eyes, pretentious or absurd. He 
 was comparing her with others all the time, with men 
 and women women especially in whose presence he 
 felt himself as diffident as she did in his. He was think- 
 ing of ladies in velvet dresses and diamonds, who could 
 talk wittily of pictures and theatres and books, who 
 could amuse him and distract him. And meanwhile she 
 went about in her old stuff dress, her cotton apron and 
 107
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 rolled-up sleeves, cooking and washing and cleaning tor 
 her child and for him. She felt through every nerve that 
 he was constantly aware of detaite of dress or menage 
 that jarred upon him; she suspected miserably that all 
 her little personal ways and habits seemed to him ugly 
 and common ; and the suspicion showed itself in pride or 
 brusquerie. 
 
 Meanwhile, if she had been restful, if he could only 
 have forgotten his cares in her mere youth and pretti- 
 ness, Fen wick would have been easily master of his dis- 
 contents. For he was naturally of a warm, sensuous 
 temper. Had the woman understood her own arts, she 
 could have held him. 
 
 But she was not restful, she was exacting and self- 
 conscious; and, moreover, a certain new growth of 
 Puritanism in her repelled him. While he had been 
 passing under the transforming influences of an all- 
 questioning thought and culture, she had been turning 
 to Evangelical religion for consolation. There was a 
 new minister in a Baptist chapel a mile or two away, 
 of whom she talked, whose services she attended. The 
 very mention of him presently became a boredom to 
 Fenwick. The new influence had no effect upon her 
 jealousies and discontents; but it reinforced a natural 
 asceticism, and weakened whatever power she possessed 
 of playing on a husband's passion. Meanwhile, Fenwick 
 was partly aware of her state of mind, and far from 
 happy himself. His conscience pricked him; but such 
 prickings are small helps to love. Often he found him- 
 self guiltily brooding over Lord Findon's tirades against 
 the early marriages of artists. There was a horrid truth 
 in them. No doubt an artist should wait till his circum- 
 108
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 stances were worthy of his gifts; and then many a 
 woman who could understand and help him on. 
 
 Nor was even the child a binding influence. Fenwick 
 in this visit became for the first time a fond father. A 
 certain magic in the little Carrie flattered his vanity and 
 excited his hopes. He drew her many times, and proph- 
 esied confidently that she would be a beauty. But, in 
 his secret opinion, she was spoiled and mismanaged ; and 
 he talked a good deal to Phoebe about her bringing-up, 
 theorizing and haranguing in his usual way. Phcebe 
 listened generally with impatience, resenting interference 
 with her special domain. And often, when she saw the 
 father and child together, a fresh and ugly misery would 
 raise its head. Would he in time set even Carrie against 
 her teach the child to look down upon its mother ? 
 
 One day he returned from Ambleside pale and excited 
 bringing a Manchester paper. 
 
 "Phoebe!" he called, from the gate. 
 
 Startled by something in his voice, Phoebe ran out to 
 him. 
 
 "Phcebe, an awful thing's happened! Old Morrison's 
 dead! Look here!" 
 
 And he showed her a paragraph headed "Defalcations 
 and suicide." It described how Mr. James Morrison, 
 the chief cashier of the Bartonbury Bank, had committed 
 suicide immediately after the discovery by the bank au- 
 thorities of large falsifications in the bank accounts. 
 Mr. Morrison had shot himself, leaving a statement ac- 
 knowledging a long course of fraudulent dealings with 
 the funds intrusted to him, and pleading with his em- 
 ployers for his wife and daughter. "Great sympathy," 
 109
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 said the Guardian reporter, "is felt in Bartonbury with 
 Mrs. Morrison, whose character has always been highly 
 respected. But, indeed, the whole family occupied a 
 high position, and the shock to the locality has been 
 great." On which followed particulars of the frauds 
 and a long report of the inquest. 
 
 Phoebe was struck with horror. She lingered over the 
 paper, commenting, exclaiming; while Fenwick sat star- 
 ing into the fire, his hands on his knees. 
 
 Presently she came to him and said in a low voice: 
 
 "And what about the money, John the loan?" 
 
 "I am not obliged to return it in money," he said, 
 sharply. 
 
 "Well, the pictures ?" 
 
 "That '11 be all right. I must think about it. There 
 '11 be no hurry." 
 
 "Did Mrs. Morrison know about the loan?" 
 
 "I dare say. I never heard." 
 
 "I suppose she and the daughter '11 have nothing?" 
 
 "That doesn'-c follow at all. Very likely he'd settled 
 something on them, which can't be touched. A man 
 like that generally does." 
 
 "Poor things!" she said, shuddering. "But, John 
 you'll pay it back to Mrs. Morrison?" 
 
 "Of course I shall," he said, impatiently "in due 
 time. But please remember, Phoebe, that's my affair. 
 Don't you talk of it to any one." 
 
 He looked up to emphasize his words. 
 
 Phoebe flushed. 
 
 "I wasn't going to talk of it to any one," she said, 
 proudly, as she moved away. 
 
 Presently he took up his hat again and went out, that
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 he might be alone with his thoughts. The rain had van- 
 ished ; and a frosty sunshine sparkled on the fells, on the 
 red bracken and the foaming becks. He took the moun- 
 tain-path which led past the Ghyll, up to the ridge which 
 separates Langdale from Grasmere and Easedale. Mor- 
 rison's finely wrinkled face, with its blue, complacent 
 eyes and thin nose, hovered before him now as he re- 
 membered it in life, and now as he imagined it in death. 
 Hard fate! There had been an adventurous, poetic ele- 
 ment in Morrison something beyond the ken of the 
 ordinary Philistine, and it had come to this. Fenwick 
 remembered him among the drawings he had collected. 
 Real taste real sense of beauty combined no doubt 
 with the bargaining instinct and a natural love of 
 chicanery. Moreover, Fenwick believed that, so far as 
 a grasping temper would allow, there had been a genuine 
 wish to help undiscovered talent. He thought of the 
 hand which had given him the check, and had a vision 
 of it holding the revolver of the ghastly, solitary end. 
 And no one had guessed unless, indeed, it were his wife. 
 Perhaps that look of hers as of a creature hunted by 
 secret fears was now explained. 
 
 How common such things are! and probably, so ran 
 his thoughts, will always be. We are all acting. Each 
 man, or woman, carries this potentiality of a double life 
 it is only a question of less or more. 
 
 Suddenly he colored, as he saw himself thus writ 
 double first as he appeared to Madame de Pastourelles, 
 and then as he appeared to Phcebe. Masquerading was 
 easy, it seemed; and conscience made little fuss! In- 
 stantly, however, the inner man rebelled against the 
 implied comparison of himself with Morrison. An acci-
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 dental concealment, acquiesced in temporarily, for busi- 
 ness reasons what had that in common with villany 
 like Morrison's ? An awkward affair, no doubt ; and he 
 had been a fool to slip into it. But in a few weeks he 
 would put it right come what would. 
 
 As to the debt he tried to fight against a feeling of 
 deliverance but clearly he need be in no hurry to pay 
 it. He had been living in dread of Morrison's appearing 
 in Bernard Street to claim his bond revealing Phoebe's 
 existence perhaps to ears unprepared and laying greedy 
 hands upon the "Genius Loci." It would have been 
 hard to keep him off it unless Lord Findon had prompt- 
 ly come forward and it would have been odious to yield 
 it to him. " Now I shall take my time." Of course, ulti- 
 mately, he would repay the money to Mrs. Morrison and 
 Bella. But better, even in their interests, to wait awhile, 
 till there could be no question of any other claim to it. 
 
 So from horror he passed to a personal relief, of which 
 he was rather ashamed, and then again to a real uneasy 
 pity for the wife and for the vulgar daughter who had 
 so bitterly resented his handling of her charms. He re- 
 membered the note in which she had acknowledged the 
 final delivery of her portrait. In obedience to Morri- 
 son's suggestion, he had kept it by him a few days ; and 
 then, either unable or proudly unwilling to alter it, he 
 had returned it to its owner. Whereupon a furious note 
 from Miss Bella, which knowing that her father took 
 no account of her tempers Fenwick had torn up with 
 a laugh. It was clear that she had heard of her father's 
 invitation to him to "beautify" it, and when the picture 
 reappeared unaltered she took it as a direct and personal 
 insult a sign that he disliked her and meant to humil-
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 iate her. It was an odd variety of the spreta injuria 
 formce. Fenwick had never been in the least penitent 
 for his behavior. The picture was true, clever and the 
 best he could do. It was no painter's business to endow 
 Miss Bella with beauty, if she did not possess it. As a 
 piece of paint, the picture had beauty if she had only 
 eyes to find it out. 
 
 Poor girl' what husband now would venture on such 
 a termagant wife? penniless too, and disgraced! He 
 would like to help her, and her mother for Morrison's 
 sake. Stirred by a fleeting impulse, he began to scheme 
 how he might become their benefactor, as Morrison had 
 been his. 
 
 Then, as he raised his eyes from the path with a rush 
 of delight he noticed the flood of afternoon sunlight 
 pouring on the steep fell-side, the sharp black shadows 
 thrown by wall and tree, the brilliance of the snow along 
 the top-most ridge. He raced along, casting the Morri- 
 sons out of his thoughts, forgetting everything but the 
 joy of atmosphere and light the pleasure of his physical 
 strength. Near one of the highest crags he came upon 
 a shepherd - boy and his dog collecting some sheep. 
 The collie ran hither and thither with the marvellous 
 shrewdness of his breed, circling, heading, driving; the 
 stampede of the sheep, as they fled before him, could be 
 heard along the fell. The sun played upon the flock, 
 turning its dirty gray to white, caught the little figure 
 of the shepherd -boy, as he stood shouting and waving, 
 or glittered on the foaming stream beside him. Purple 
 shadows bathed the fell beyond and on its bosom the 
 rustic scene emerged a winter idyl. 
 
 Fenwick sat down upon a rock, ransacked his pockets 
 IJ 3
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 for sketch-book and paints, and began to sketch. When 
 he had made his "note," he sat lost awhile in the pleas- 
 ure of his own growing skill and sharpening perceptions, 
 and dreaming of future "subjects." A series of "West- 
 moreland months," illustrating the seasons among the 
 fells and the life of the dalesmen, ran through his mind. 
 Nature appeared to his exultant sense as a vast treasure- 
 house stored for him only a mine inexhaustible offered 
 to his craftsman's hand. For him the sweeping hues, 
 the intricate broideries green or russet, red or purple 
 of this winter world! for him the delicacy of the snow, 
 the pale azure of the sky, the cloud-shadows, the white 
 becks, the winding river in the valley floor, the purple 
 crags, the lovely accents of light and shade, the hints of 
 composition that wooed his eager eye. Who was it that 
 said " Composition is the art of preserving the accidental 
 look" ? Clever fellow! there was the right thing said, 
 for once! And so he slipped into a reverie, which was 
 really one of those moments plastic and fruitful by 
 which the artist makes good his kinship with "the great 
 of old," his right to his own place in the unending chain. 
 Strange! from that poverty of feeling in which he 
 had considered the Morrison tragedy from his growing 
 barrenness of heart towards Phcebe he had sprung at a 
 bound into this ecstasy, this expansion of the whole man. 
 It brought with it a vivid memory of the pictures he was 
 engaged upon. By the time he turned homeward, and 
 the light was failing, he was counting the days till he 
 could return to London and to work 
 
 There was still, however, another week of his holiday 
 to run. He wrote to Mrs. Morrison a letter which cost 
 114
 
 Fcntoick's Career 
 
 him much pains, expressing a sympathy that he really 
 felt. He got on with his illustration work, and ex- 
 tracted a further advance upon it. And the old cousin 
 in Kendal proved unexpectedly generous. She wrote 
 him a long Scriptural letter, rating him for disobedience 
 to his father, and warning him against debt; but she 
 lent him twenty pounds, so that, for the present, Phcebe 
 could be left in comparative comfort, and he had some- 
 thing in his pocket. 
 
 Yet with this easing of circumstance, the relation be- 
 tween husband and wife did not improve. During this 
 last week, indeed, Phcebe teased him to make a sketch 
 of himself to leave with her. He began it unwillingly, 
 then got interested, and finally made a vigorous sketch, 
 as ample as their largest looking-glass would allow, with 
 which he was extremely pleased. Phcebe delighted in it, 
 hung it up proudly in the parlor, and repayed him with 
 smiles and kisses. 
 
 Yet the very next day, under the cloud of his impend- 
 ing departure, she went about pale and woe-begone, on 
 the verge of tears or temper. He was provoked into 
 various harsh speeches, and Phcebe felt that despair 
 which weak and loving women know, when parting is 
 near, and they foresee the hour beyond parting when 
 each unkind word and look, too well remembered, will 
 gnaw and creep about the heart. 
 
 But she could not restrain herself. Nervous tension, 
 doubt of her husband, and condemnation of herself drove 
 her on. The very last night there was a quarrel about 
 the child whom Fenwick had punished for some small 
 offence. Phcebe hotly defended her first with tears, then 
 with passion. For the first time these two people found 
 "5
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 themselves looking into each other's eyes with rage, 
 almost with hate. Then they kissed and made up, terri- 
 fied at the abyss which had yawned between them ; and 
 when the moment came, Phcebe went through the part- 
 ing bravely. 
 
 But when Fenwick had gone, and the young wife sat 
 alone beside the cottage fire, the January darkness out- 
 side seemed to her the natural symbol of her own bitter 
 foreboding. Why had he left her ? There was no reason 
 in it, as she had said. But there must be some reason 
 behind it. And slowly, in the fire-light, she fell to brood- 
 ing over the image of that pale classical face, as she had 
 seen it in the sketch-book. John had talked quite frank- 
 ly about Madame de Pastourelles not like a man be- 
 guiled; making no mystery of her at all, answering all 
 questions. But his restlessness to get back to London 
 had been extraordinary. Was it merely the restlessness 
 of the artist ? 
 
 This was Tuesday. To-morrow Madame de Pastour- 
 elles was to come to a sitting. Phcebe sat picturing it ; 
 while the curtain of rain descended once more upon the 
 cottage, blotting out the pikes, and washing down the 
 sodden fields.
 
 VI 
 
 "T MUST alter that fold over the arm," murmured 
 
 1 Fen wick, stepping back, with a frown, and gazing 
 hard at the picture on his easel "it's too strong." 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles gave a little shiver. 
 
 The big bare room, with its Northern aspect and its 
 smouldering fire, had been of a polar temperature this 
 March afternoon. She had been sitting for an hour and 
 a half. Her hands and feet were frozen, and the fur 
 cloak which she wore over her white dress had to be 
 thrown back for the convenience of the painter, who 
 was at work on the velvet folds. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the farther side of the room sat "pro- 
 priety" also shivering an elderly governess of the 
 Findon family, busily knitting. 
 
 "The dress is coming!" said Fenwick, after another 
 minute or two. " Yes, it's coming." 
 
 And with a flushed face and dishevelled hair he stood 
 back again, staring first at his canvas and then at his 
 sitter. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles sat as still as she could, her 
 thin, numbed fingers lightly crossed on her lap. Her 
 wonderful velvet dress, of ivory-white, fell about her 
 austerely in long folds, which, as they bent or over- 
 lapped, made beautiful convolutions, firm yet subtle, on 
 the side turned towards the painter, and over her feet. 
 117
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 The classical head, with its small ear, the pale yet shin- 
 ing face, combined with the dress to suggest a study in 
 ivory, wrought to a great delicacy and purity. Only the 
 eyes, much darker than the hair, and the rich brown of 
 the sable cloak where it touched the white, gave accent 
 and force to the ethereal pallor, the supreme refinement, 
 of the rest face, dress, hands. Nothing but civilization 
 in its most complex workings could have produced such 
 a type; that was what prevailed dimly in Fenwick's 
 mind as he wrestled with his picture. Sometimes his 
 day's work left him exultant, sometimes in a hell of 
 despair. 
 
 " I went to see Mr. Welby's studio yesterday," he said, 
 hastily, after another minute or two, seeing her droop 
 with fatigue. 
 
 Her face changed and lit up. 
 
 "Well, what did you see?" 
 
 "The two Academy pictures several portraits and 
 a lot of studies." 
 
 "Isn't it fine the 'Polyxena'?" 
 
 Fenwick twisted his mouth in a trick he had. 
 
 "Yes," he said, perfunctorily. 
 
 She colored slightly, as though in antagonism. 
 
 "That means that you don't admire it at all." 
 
 "Well, it doesn't say anything to me," said Fenwick, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " What do you dislike ?" 
 
 "Why doesn't he paint flesh?" he said, abruptly 
 "not colored wax." 
 
 "Of course there is a decorative convention in his 
 painting" her tone was a little stiff "but so there is 
 in all painting." 
 
 118
 
 "MADAME DE PASTOURELLES SAT AS STILL AS SHE COULD, HER 
 THIN, NUMBED FINGERS LIGHTLY CROSSED ON HER LAP."
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 Fenwick shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Go and look at Rubens or Velasquez." 
 
 "Why not at Leonardo and Raphael?" 
 
 " Because they are not moderns and we can't get back 
 into their skins. Rubens and Velasquez are moderns," 
 he protested, stoutly. 
 
 "What is a 'modern' ?" she asked, laughing. It was 
 on the tip of his tongue to say, "You are and it is only 
 fashion or something else that makes you like this 
 archaistic stuff!" But he restrained himself, and they 
 fell into a skirmish, in which, as usual, he came off badly. 
 As soon as he perceived it, he became rather heated and 
 noisy, trying to talk her down. Whereupon she sprang 
 up, came down from her pedestal to look at the picture, 
 called mademoiselle to see praised laughed and all 
 was calm again. Only Fenwick was left once more re- 
 flecting that she was Welby's champion through thick 
 and thin. And this ruffled him. 
 
 " Did Mr. Wei by study mostly in Italy ?" he asked her 
 presently, as he fetched a hand-glass, in which to ex- 
 amine his morning's work. 
 
 "Mostly but also in Vienna." 
 
 And, to keep the ball rolling, she described a travel- 
 year apparently before her marriage which she, Lord 
 Findon, a girl friend of hers, and Welby had spent abroad 
 together mainly in Rome, Munich, and Vienna for 
 the purpose, it seemed, of Welby's studies. The experi- 
 ences she described roused a kind of secret exaspera- 
 tion in Fenwick. And what was really resentment 
 against the meagreness of his own lot showed itself, as 
 usual, in jealousy. He said something contemptuous of 
 this foreign training for an artist so much concerned 
 119
 
 Fentttick's Career 
 
 with galleries and Old Masters. Much better that he 
 should use his eyes upon his own country and its types ; 
 that had been enough for all the best men. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles politely disagreed with him; 
 then, to change the subject, she talked of some of the 
 humors and incidents of their stay in Vienna the types 
 of Viennese society the Emperor, the beautiful mad 
 Empress, the Archdukes, the priests and also of some 
 hurried visits to Hungarian country houses in winter, of 
 the cosmopolitan luxury and refinement to be found 
 there, ringed by forests and barbarism. 
 
 Fen wick listened greedily, and presently inquired 
 whether Mr. Welby had shared in all these amusements. 
 
 "Oh yes. He was generally the life and soul of 
 them." 
 
 " I suppose he made lots of friends and got on with 
 everybody?" 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles assented cautiously. 
 
 " That's all a question of manners," said Fenwick, with 
 sudden roughness. 
 
 She gave a vague "Perhaps" and he straightened 
 himself aggressively. 
 
 "I don't think manners very important, do you?" 
 
 "Very!" She said it, with a gay firmness. 
 
 "Well, then, some of us will never get any," his tone 
 was surly "we weren't taught young enough." 
 
 "Our mothers teach us generally all that's wanted!" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "It's not as simple as that. Besides one may lose 
 one's mother." 
 
 "Ah, yes! " she said, with quick feeling. And present- 
 ly a little tact, a few questions on her part had brought
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 out some of his own early history his mother's death 
 his years of struggle with his father. As he talked on 
 disjointedly painting hard all the time, she had a vision 
 of the Kendal shop and its customers of the shrewd old 
 father, moulded by the business, the avarice, the religion 
 of an English country town, with a Calvinist contempt 
 for art and artists and trying vainly to coerce his sulky 
 and rebellious son. 
 
 " Has your father seen these pictures ?" She pointed 
 to the "Genius Loci" on its farther easel and to the 
 portrait. 
 
 " My father! I haven't spoken to him or seen him for 
 years." 
 
 "Years!" She opened her eyes. "Is it as bad as 
 that?" 
 
 "Ay, that's North Country. If you've once com- 
 mitted yourself, you stick to it like death." 
 
 She declared that it might be North Country, but was 
 none the less barbarous. However, of course it would 
 all come right. All the interesting tales of one's child- 
 hood began that way with a cruel father, and a rebel- 
 lious son. But they came to magnificent ends, notwith- 
 standing with sacks of gold and a princess. Diffident, 
 yet smiling, she drew conclusions. "So, you see, you'll 
 make money you'll be an R.A. you'll marry and Mr. 
 Fenwick will nurse the grandchildren. I assure you 
 that's the fairy-tale way." 
 
 Fenwick, who had flushed hotly, turned away and 
 occupied himself in replenishing his palette. 
 
 "Papa, of course, would say Don't marry till you're 
 a hundred and two!" she resumed. "But pray, don't 
 listen to him." 
 
 121
 
 Fenvoick's Career 
 
 "I dare say he's right," said Fenwick, returning to his 
 easel, his face bent over it. 
 
 "Not at all. People should have their youth to- 
 gether." 
 
 "That's all very well. But many men don't know at 
 twenty what they'll want at thirty," said Fenwick, 
 painting fast. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles laughed. 
 
 "The doctors say nowadays it is papa's latest craze 
 that it doesn't matter what you eat or how little 
 if you only chew it properly. I wonder if that applies 
 to matrimony ?" 
 
 "What's the chewing?" 
 
 "Manners," she said, laughing "that you think so 
 little of. Whether the food's agreeable or not, manners 
 help it down." 
 
 "Manners! between husband and wife?" he said, 
 scornfully. 
 
 "But certainly!" She lifted her beautiful brows for 
 emphasis. " Show me any persons, please, that want 
 them more!" 
 
 "The people I've been living among," said Fenwick, 
 with sharp persistence, "haven't got time for fussing 
 about manners in the sense you mean. Life's too 
 hard." 
 
 A flush of bright color sprang into her face. But she 
 held her ground. 
 
 " What do you suppose I mean ? I don't mean court 
 trains and courtesies I really don't." 
 
 Fenwick was silent a moment, and then said aggres- 
 sively "We can't all of us have the same chances as 
 Mr. Welby, for instance." 
 
 122
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles looked at him in astonish- 
 ment. What an extraordinary obsession ! They seemed 
 not to be able to escape from Arthur Welby's name: 
 yet it never cropped up without producing some sign of 
 irritation in this strange young man. Poor Arthur! 
 who had always shown himself so ready to make friends, 
 whenever the two men met as they often did in the 
 St. James's Square drawing-room. Fenwick's antago- 
 nism, indeed, had been plain to her for some time. It was 
 natural, she supposed; he was clearly very sensitive on 
 the subject of his own humble origin and bringing-up; 
 but she sighed that a perverse youth should so misman- 
 age his opportunities. 
 
 As to "chances," she declared rather tartly that they 
 had nothing to do with it. It was natural to Arthur 
 Welby to make himself agreeable. 
 
 "Yes like all other kinds of aristocrats," said Fen- 
 wick, grimly. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles frowned. "Of all the words 
 in the dictionary that word is the most detestable!" 
 she declared. "It ought to be banished. Well, thank 
 goodness, it is generally banished." 
 
 "That's only because we all like to hide our heads in 
 the sand you who possess the privileges and we who 
 envy them!" 
 
 " I vow I don't possess any privileges at all," she said, 
 with defiance. 
 
 " You say so, because you breathe them live in them 
 like the air without knowing it," said Fenwick, also 
 trying to speak lightly. Then he added, suddenly put- 
 ting down his palette and brushes, while his black eyes 
 lightened "And so does Mr. Welby. You can see from 
 123
 
 Fenwick's Career 
 
 his pictures that he doesn't know anything about com- 
 mon, coarse people real people who make up the 
 world. He paints wax, and calls it life; and you " 
 
 "Go on! please go on!" 
 
 "I shall only make a fool of myself," he said; taking 
 up his brushes again. 
 
 "Not at all. And I praise humbug? and call it 
 manners?" 
 
 He paused, then blurted out "I wouldn't say any- 
 thing rude to you for the world!" 
 
 She smiled a smile that turned all the delicate sever- 
 ity of her face to sweetness. "That's very nice of you. 
 But if you knew Mr. Welby better, you'd never want to 
 say anything rude to him either!" 
 
 Fenwick was silent. Madame de Pastourelles, feeling 
 that for the moment she also had come to the end of her 
 tether, fell into a reverie, from which she was presently 
 roused by finding Fenwick standing before her, palette 
 in hand. 
 
 "I don't want you to think me an envious brute," he 
 said, stammering. "Of course, I know the 'Polyxena' 
 is a fine thing a very fine thing." 
 
 She looked a little surprised as though he offered her 
 moods to which she had no key. "Shall I show you 
 something I like much better?" she said, with quick 
 resource. And drawing towards her a small portfolio 
 she had brought with her, she took out a drawing and 
 handed it to him. " I am taking it to be framed. Isn't 
 it beautiful?" 
 
 It was a drawing, in silver-point, of an orange-tree in 
 mingled fruit and bloom an exquisite piece of work, of 
 a Japanese truth, intricacy, and perfection. Fenwick 
 124
 
 Fenvoiek's Career 
 
 looked at it in silence. These silver-point drawings of 
 Welby's were already famous. In the preceding May 
 there had been an exhibition of them at an artistic club. 
 At the top of the drawing was an inscription in a minute 
 handwriting "Sorrento: Christmas Day," with the 
 monogram "A. W." and a date three years old. 
 
 As Madame de Pastourelles perceived that his eye had 
 caught the inscription, she rather hastily withdrew the 
 sketch and returned it to the portfolio. 
 
 "I watched him draw it," she explained "in a Sor- 
 rento garden. My father and I were there for the winter. 
 Mr. Welby was in a villa near ours, and I used to watch 
 him at work." 
 
 It seemed to Fenwick that her tone had grown rather 
 hurried and reserved, as though she regretted the im- 
 pulse which had made her show him the drawing. He 
 praised it as intelligently as he could ; but his mind was 
 guessing all the time at the relation which lay behind the 
 drawing. According to Cuningham's information, it was 
 now three years since a separation had been arranged 
 between Madame de Pastourelles and her husband, 
 Comte Albert de Pastourelles, owing to the Comte's out- 
 rageous misconduct. Lord Findon had no doubt taken 
 her abroad after the catastrophe. And, besides her 
 father, Welby had also been near, apparently watching 
 over her ? 
 
 He returned to his work upon the hands, silent, but 
 full of speculation. The evident bond between these 
 two people had excited his imagination and piqued his 
 curiosity from the first moment of his acquaintance with 
 them. They were both of a rare and fine quality ; and 
 the signs of an affection between them, equally rare and 
 125
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 fine, had not been lost on those subtler perceptions in 
 Fenwick which belonged perhaps to his heritage as an 
 artist. If he gave the matter an innocent interpretation, 
 and did not merely say to himself, " She has lost a hus- 
 band and found a lover," it was because the woman her- 
 self had awakened in him fresh sources of judgment. 
 His thoughts simply did not dare besmirch her. 
 
 The clock struck five ; and thereupon a sound of voices 
 on the stairs outside. 
 
 "Papa!" said Madame de Pastourelles, jumping up 
 in very evident relief her teeth chattering. 
 
 The door opened and Lord Findon put in a recon- 
 noitring head. 
 
 "May I or we come in?" 
 
 And behind him, on the landing, Fenwick with a start 
 perceived the smiling face of Arthur Welby. 
 
 "I've come to carry off my daughter," said Findon, 
 with a friendly nod to the artist. "But don't let us in 
 if you don't want to." 
 
 "Turn me out please, at once, if I'm in the way," said 
 Welby. "Lord Findon made me come up." 
 
 It was the first time that Welby had visited the Ber- 
 nard Street studio. Fenwick's conceit had sometimes 
 resented the fact. Yet now that Welby was there he 
 was unwilling to show his work. He muttered some- 
 thing about there being "more to see in a day or two." 
 
 "There's a great deal to see already," said Lord Fin- 
 don. " But, of course, do as you like. Eugenie, are you 
 ready?" 
 
 " Please! may I be exhibited ?" said Madame de Pas- 
 tourelles to Fenwick, with a smiling appeal. 
 126
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 He gave way, dragged the easel into the best light, and 
 fell back while the two men examined the portrait. 
 
 "Stay where you are, Eugenie," said Lord Findon, 
 holding up his hand. "Let Arthur see the pose." 
 
 She sat down obediently. Fen wick heard an excla- 
 mation from Welby, and a murmured remark to Lord 
 Findon ; then Welby turned to the painter, his face aglow. 
 
 "I say, I do congratulate you! You are making a 
 success of it! The whole scheme's delightful. You've 
 got the head admirably." 
 
 "I'm glad you like it," said Fenwick, rather shortly, 
 ready at once to suspect a note of patronage in the other's 
 effusion. Welby a little checked returned to the pict- 
 ure, studying it closely, and making a number of shrewd, 
 or generous comments upon it, gradually quenched, how- 
 ever, by Fenwick's touchy or ungracious silence. Of 
 course the picture was good. Fenwick wanted no one to 
 tell him that. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lord Findon though in Fenwick's studio 
 he always behaved himself with a certain jauntiness, as 
 a man should who has discovered a genius was a little 
 discontented. 
 
 "It's a fine thing, Eugenie," he was saying to her, as 
 he helped her put on her furs, "but I'm not altogether 
 satisfied. It wants animation. It's too too " 
 
 "Too sad?" she asked, quietly. 
 
 "Too grave, my dear too grave. I want your 
 smile." 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles shook her head. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked. 
 
 "I can't go smiling to posterity!" she said; first gayly 
 then suddenly her lip quivered. 
 127
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 "Eugenie, darling for God's sake " 
 
 "I'm all right," she said, recovering herself instantly. 
 "Mr. Arthur, are you coming?" 
 
 "One moment," said Welby; then, turning to Fen- 
 wick as the others approached them, he said, "Might I 
 make two small criticisms?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "The right hand seems to me too large and the chin 
 wants fining. Look!" He took a little ivory paper- 
 cutter from his pocket, and pointed to the line of the 
 chin, with a motion of the head towards Madame de 
 Pastourelles. 
 
 Fenwick looked and said nothing. 
 
 "By George, I think he's right," said Lord Findon, 
 putting on spectacles. "That right hand's certainly too 
 big." 
 
 "In my opinion, it's not big enough," said Fenwick, 
 doggedly. 
 
 Welby withdrew instantly from the picture, and took 
 up his hat. Lord Findon looked at the artist half 
 angry, half amused. "You don't buy her gloves, sir 
 I do." 
 
 Eugenie's eyes meanwhile had begun to sparkle, as 
 she stood in her sable cap and cloak, waiting for her com- 
 panions. Fenwick approached her. 
 
 "Will you sit to-morrow?" 
 
 " I think not I have some engagements.'* 
 
 "Next day?" 
 
 "I will let you know." 
 
 Fenwick's color rose. 
 
 "There is a good deal to do still and I must work at 
 my other picture." 
 
 128
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Yes, I know. I will write." 
 
 And with a little dry nod of farewell she slipped her 
 hand into her father's arm and led him away. Welby 
 also saluted pleasantly, and followed the others. 
 
 Fenwick was left to pace his room in a tempest, de- 
 nouncing himself as a "damned fool," bent on destroy- 
 ing all his own chances in life. Why was it that Welby's 
 presence always had this effect upon him setting him 
 on edge, and making a bear of him? No! it was not 
 allowed to be so handsome, so able, so ingratiating. Yet 
 he knew very well that Welby made no enemies, and that 
 in his grudging jealousy of a delightful artist he, Fenwick, 
 stood alone. 
 
 He walked to the window. Yes, there they were, all 
 three Mademoiselle Barras seemed to have gone her 
 ways separately just disappearing into Russell Square. 
 He saw that Welby had possessed himself of the fair 
 lady's portfolio, and was carrying her shawl. He 
 watched their intimate, laughing ways how different 
 from the stiffness she had just shown him from the 
 friendly, yet distant relations she always maintained 
 between herself and her painter! A fierce and irritable 
 ambition swept through him rebellion against the 
 hampering conditions of birth and poverty, which he 
 felt as so many chains upon body and^soul. Why was 
 he born the son of a small country tradesman, narrow, 
 ignorant, and tyrannical? harassed by penury, denied 
 opportunities while a man like Welby found life from 
 the beginning a broad road, as it were, down a widening 
 valley, to a land of abundance and delight ? 
 
 But the question led immediately to an answering out- 
 129
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 burst of vanity. He paced up and down, turning from 
 the injustice of the past to challenge the future. A. few 
 more years, and the world would know where to place 
 him with regard to the men now in the running men 
 with half his power Welby and the like. A mad arro- 
 gance, a boundless confidence in himself flamed through 
 all his veins. Let him paint, paint, paint think of 
 nothing, care for nothing but the maturing of his gift! 
 
 How long he lost himself in this passion of egotism 
 and defiance he hardly knew. He was roused from it 
 by the servant bringing a lamp; and as she set it down, 
 the light fell upon a memorandum scrawled on the edge 
 of a sketch which was lying on the table: "Feb. 21 
 10 o'clock." 
 
 His mood collapsed. He sat down by the dying fire, 
 brooding and miserable. How on earth was he going 
 to get through the next few weeks? Abominable! 
 thoughtlessly cruel! that neither Lord Findon nor 
 Madame de Pastourelles should ever yet have spoken 
 to him of money! These months of work on the por- 
 trait this constant assumption on the part of the 
 Findon circle that both the portrait and the "Genius 
 Loci" were to become Findon possessions and yet no 
 sum named no clear agreement even nothing, as it 
 seemed to Fenwick's suspicious temper, in either case, 
 that really bound Lord Findon. "Write to the old 
 boy" so Cuningham had advised again and again 
 "get something definite out of him." But Fenwick 
 had once or twice torn up a letter of the kind in morbid 
 pride and despair. Suppose he were rebuffed? That 
 would be an end of the Findon connection, and he could 
 not bring himself to face it. He must keep his entree 
 130
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 to the house; above all, he clung to the portrait and the 
 sittings. 
 
 But the immediate outlook was pretty dark. He was 
 beginning to be pestered with debts and duns the ap- 
 pointment on the morrow was with an old frame-maker 
 who had lent him twenty pounds before Christmas, and 
 was now begging piteously for his money. There was 
 nothing to pay him with nothing to send Phoebe, in 
 spite of a constant labor at paying jobs in black-and- 
 white that often kept him up till three or four in the 
 morning. He wondered whether Watson would help 
 him with a loan. According to Cuningham, the queer 
 fellow had private means. 
 
 The fact was he was overstrained he knew it. The 
 year had been the hardest of his life, and now that he 
 was approaching the time of crisis the completion of 
 his two pictures, the judgment of the Academy and the 
 public, his nerve seemed to be giving way. As he 
 thought of all that success or failure might mean, he 
 plunged into a melancholy no less extravagant than the 
 passion of self-confidence from which he had emerged. 
 Suppose that he fell ill before the pictures were finished 
 what would become of Phoebe and the child ? 
 
 As he thought of Phoebe, suddenly his heart melted 
 within him. Was she, too, hating the hours? As he 
 bowed his head on his arms a few hot, unwilling tears 
 forced themselves into his eyes. Had he been unkind 
 and harsh to her ? his poor little Phoebe ! An imperious 
 impulse seemed to sweep him back into her arms. She 
 was his own, his very own; one flesh with him; of the 
 same clay, the same class, the same customs and ideals. 
 Let him only recover her, and his child and live his 
 10 131
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 own life as he pleased. No more dependence on the 
 moods of fine people. He hated them all! Clearly he 
 had offended Madame de Pastourelles. Perhaps she 
 would not sit again the portrait would be thrown on 
 his hands because he had not behaved with proper 
 deference to her spoiled and petted favorite. 
 
 Involuntarily he looked up. The lamp-light fell on 
 the portrait. 
 
 There she sat, the delicate, ethereal being, her gentle 
 brow bent forward, her eyes fixed upon him. He per- 
 ceived, as though for the first time, what an image of 
 melancholy grace it was, which he had built up there. 
 He had done it, as it were, without knowing had paint- 
 ed something infinitely pathetic and noble without realiz- 
 ing it in the doing. 
 
 As he looked, his irritation died away, and something 
 wholly contradictory took its place. He felt a rush of 
 self-pity, and then of trust. What if he called on her 
 to help him unveiled himself to this kind and charming 
 woman confessed to her his remorse about Phcebe his 
 secret miseries and anxieties the bitterness of his envies 
 and ambitions ? Would she not rain balm upon him 
 quiet him guide him ? 
 
 He yearned towards her, as he sat there in the semi- 
 darkness seeking the ewig-weibliche in the sweetness of 
 her face without a touch of passion as a Catholic 
 might yearn towards his Madonna. Her slight and 
 haughty farewell showed that he had tried her patience 
 had behaved like an ungenerous cur. But he must 
 and would propitiate her win her friendship for himself 
 and Phcebe. The weakness of the man threw itself 
 strangely, instinctively, on the moral strength of the 
 132
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 woman ; as though in this still young and winning creat- 
 ure he might recover something of what he had lost in 
 childhood, when his mother died. He mocked at his 
 own paradox, but it held him. That very night would he 
 write to her; not yet about Phcebe not yet! but let- 
 ting her understand, at least, that he was not ungrateful, 
 that he valued her sympathy and good-will. Already 
 the phrases of the letter, warm and eloquent, yet re- 
 strained, began to flow through his mind. It might be 
 an unusual thing to do; but she was no silly conven- 
 tional woman; she would understand. 
 
 By Jove! Welby was perfectly right. The hand was 
 too big. It should be altered at the next sitting. Then 
 he sprang up, found pen and paper, and began to write 
 to Phcebe still in the same softened and agitated state. 
 He wrote in haste and at length, satisfying some hungry 
 instinct in himself by the phrases of endearment which 
 he scattered plentifully through the letter. 
 
 That letter found Phcebe on a mid-March morning, 
 when the thrushes were beginning to sing, when the 
 larches were reddening, and only in the topmost hollows 
 of the Pikes did any snow remain, to catch the strength- 
 ening sunlight. 
 
 As she opened it, she looked at its length with aston- 
 ishment. Then the tone of it brought the rushing color 
 to her cheek, and when it was finished she kissed it and 
 hid it in her dress. After weeks of barrenness, of stray 
 post -cards and perfunctory notes, these ample pages, 
 with their rhetorical and sentimental effusion, brought 
 new life to the fretting, lonely woman. She went about 
 in penitence. Surely she had done injustice to her John ; 
 133
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 and she dreaded lest any inkling of those foolish or mor- 
 bid thoughts she had been harboring should ever reach 
 him. 
 
 She wrote back with passion like one throwing her- 
 self on his breast. The letter was long and incoherent, 
 written at night beside Carrie's bed and borrowing 
 much, unconsciously, from the phraseology of the novels 
 she still got from Bowness. Alack! it is to be feared that 
 John Fenwick already at another point in spiritual space 
 when the letter reached him gave it but a hasty reading. 
 
 But, for the time, it was an untold relief to the writer. 
 Afterwards, she settled down to wait again, working 
 meanwhile night and day at her beautiful embroidery 
 that John had designed for her. Miss Anna came to see 
 her, exclaimed at her frail looks, wanted to lend her 
 money. Phcebe in a new exaltation, counting the weeks, 
 and having still three or four sovereigns in the drawer, 
 refused would say nothing about their straits. John, 
 she declared, was on the eve of an enormous success. 
 It would be all right presently. 
 
 Weeks passed. The joy of that one golden letter 
 faded ; and gradually the shadows re-closed about her. 
 Fenwick's letters dwindled again to post-cards, and then 
 almost ceased. When the hurried lines came, the strain 
 and harass expressed in them left no room for affection. 
 Something wrong with the "Genius Loci"! some bad 
 paints hours of work needed to get the beastly thing 
 right the portrait still far from complete but the 
 dress would be a marvel ! without quenching the head 
 in the least. And not a loving word! scarcely an in- 
 quiry after the child. 
 
 134
 
 Fentcick's Career 
 
 April came. The little shop in the neighboring village 
 gave Mrs. Fenwick credit but Phcebe, brought up in 
 frugal ways, to loathe the least stain of debt, hated to 
 claim it, and went there in the dusk, that she might not 
 be seen. 
 
 Meanwhile not a line from John to tell her that his 
 pictures had gone in to the Academy. She saw a para- 
 graph, however, in the local papers describing "Show 
 Sunday." Had John been entertaining smart people to 
 tea, and showing his pictures, with the rest? If so, 
 couldn't he find ten minutes in which to send her news 
 of it? It was unkind! All her suspicions and despair 
 revived. As she carried her child back from the village, 
 tottering often under the weight, gusts of mingled weak- 
 ness and passion would sweep over her. She would not 
 be treated so John should see! She would get her 
 money for her work and go to London whether he liked 
 it or no tax him with his indifference to her find out 
 what he was really doing. 
 
 The capacity for these moments of violence was some- 
 thing new in her probably depending, if the truth were 
 known, on some obscure physical misery. She felt that 
 they degraded her, yet could not curb them. 
 
 And, in this state, the obsession of the winter seized 
 her again. She brooded perpetually over the doleful 
 Romney story the tale of a great painter, born, like 
 her John, in this Northern air, and reared in Kendal 
 streets, deserting his peasant wife enslaved by Emma 
 Hamilton through many a passionate year and coming 
 back at last that the drudge of his youth might nurse 
 him through his decrepit old age. She remembered go- 
 ing with John in their sweetheart days to see the house
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 where Romney died, imbecile and paralyzed, with Mary 
 Romney beside him. 
 
 " I would never have done it never / " she said to her- 
 self in a mad recoil. "He had chosen he should have 
 paid!" 
 
 She sat closer and closer at her work, in a feverish 
 eagerness to finish it, sleeping little and eating little. 
 When she wrote to her husband it was in a bitter, re- 
 proachful tone she had never yet employed to him. "I 
 have had one nice letter from you this winter, and only 
 one. As you can't take the trouble to write any more, 
 you'll hardly wonder if I think you sent that one to keep 
 me quiet." She wrote too often in this style. But, 
 whether in this style or another, John made no answer 
 had apparently ceased to write. 
 
 One afternoon towards the end of April she was sit- 
 ting at her work in the parlor, with the window open to 
 the lengthening day, when she heard the gate open and 
 shut. A woman in black came up the pathway, and, 
 seeing Phcebe at the window, stopped short. Phoebe 
 rose, and, as the visitor threw back her veil, recognized 
 the face of Mr. Morrison's daughter, Bella. 
 
 She gave a slight cry ; then, full of pity and emotion, 
 she hastened to open the door. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Morrison!" She held out her hand; her 
 attitude, her beautiful eyes, breathed compassion, and 
 also embarrassment. The thought of the debt rushed 
 into her mind. Had Miss Morrison come to press for it ? 
 It was within a fortnight of twelve months since the loan 
 was granted. She felt a vague terror. 
 
 The visitor just touched her hand, then looked at her 
 with an expression which stirred increasing alarm in the 
 136
 
 Fenroick's Career 
 
 woman before her. It was so hard and cold ; it threat- 
 ened, without speech. 
 
 "I came to return you something I don't want any 
 more," said the girl, with a defiant air; and Phcebe 
 noticed, as she spoke, that she carried in her left hand a 
 large, paper-covered roll. In her deep black she was 
 more startling than ever, with spots of flame-color on 
 either cheek, the eyes fixed and staring, the lips wine-red. 
 It might have been a face taken from one of those groups 
 of crudely painted wood or terra-cotta, in which northern 
 Italy as at Orta or Varallo has expressed the scenes 
 of the Passion. The Magdalen in one of the ruder groups 
 might have looked so. 
 
 " Will you please to come in ?" said Phcebe, leading the 
 way to the parlor, which smelled musty and damp for 
 lack of fire, and was still littered with old canvases, 
 studies, casts, and other gear of the painter who had once 
 used it as his studio. 
 
 Bella Morrison came in, but she refused a chair. 
 
 "There's no call for me to stay," she said, sharply. 
 "You won't like what I came to db I know that." 
 
 Phcebe looked at her, bewildered. 
 
 "I've brought back that picture of me your husband 
 painted," said the girl, putting down her parcel on the 
 table. "It's in there." 
 
 "What have you done that for?" said Phcebe, won- 
 dering. 
 
 " Because I loathe it and all my friends loathe it, too. 
 Papa" 
 
 "Oh! do tell me how is Mrs. Morrison?" cried 
 Phcebe, stepping forward, her whole aspect quivering 
 with painful pity. 
 
 137
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "She's all right," said Bella, looking away. "We're 
 going to live in Guernsey. We're selling this house. It's 
 hers, of course. Papa settled it on her, years before 
 
 She stopped then drew herself together. 
 
 "So, you see, I got that picture out of mother. I've 
 never forgiven Mr. Fenwick for taking it home, saying 
 he'd improve it, and then sending it back as bad as ever. 
 I knew he'd done that to spite me he'd disliked me 
 from the first." 
 
 "John never painted a portrait to spite anybody in 
 his life," cried Phcebe. "I never heard such nonsense." 
 
 "Well, anyway, he can take it back," said the girl. 
 "Mother wouldn't let me destroy it, but she said I might 
 give it back ; so there it is. We kept the frame that's 
 decent that might do for something else." 
 
 Phoebe's eyes flashed. 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Morrison. It would, indeed, be a 
 great pity to waste my husband's work on some one who 
 couldn't appreciate it." She took the roll and stood 
 with her hand upon it, protecting it. " I'll tell him what 
 you've done." 
 
 "Oh, then, you do know where he is!" said Bella, with 
 a laugh. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "What I say." The eyes of the two women met 
 across the table. A flash of cruelty showed itself in those 
 of the girl. "I thought, perhaps, you mightn't as he's 
 been passing in London for an unmarried man." 
 
 There was a pause a moment's dead silence. 
 
 "That, of course, is a lie!" said Phoebe at last, draw- 
 ing in her breath and then, restraining herself, "or else 
 a silly mistake." 
 
 138
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 " It's no mistake at all," said Bella, with a toss of the 
 head. "I thought you ought to know, ana mother 
 agreed with me. The men are all alike. There's a letter 
 I got the other day from a friend of mine." 
 
 She drew a letter from a stringbag on her wrist, and 
 handed it to Phoebe. 
 
 Phcebe made no motion to take it. She stood rigid, 
 her fierce, still look fixed on her visitor. 
 
 "You'd better," said Bella; "I declare you'd better. 
 If my husband had been behaving like this, I should want 
 to know the truth and pay him out." 
 
 Phoebe took the letter, opened it with steady fingers, 
 and read it. While she was reading it the baby Carrie, 
 escaped from the little servant's tutelage, ran in and hid 
 her face in her mother's skirts, peering sometimes at the 
 stranger. 
 
 When she had finished the letter, Phcebe handed it 
 back to its owner. 
 
 "Who wrote that?" 
 
 " A friend of mine who's working at South Kensington. 
 You can see she knows a lot about artists." 
 
 "And what she doesn't know she makes up," said 
 Phoebe, with slow contempt. "You tell her, Miss Mor- 
 rison, from me, she might be better employed than writ- 
 ing nasty, lying gossip about people she never saw." 
 
 She caught up her child , who flung her arms round her 
 mother's neck, nestling on her shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, well, if you're going to take it like that " said 
 the other, with a laugh. 
 
 "I am taking it like that, you see," said Phcebe, walk- 
 ing to the door and throwing it wide. " You'd better go, 
 Miss Morrison. I am sure I can't imagine why you came. 
 139
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 I should have thought you'd have had sorrow enough of 
 your own, without trying to make it for other people." 
 
 The other winced. 
 
 "Well, of course, if you don't want to know the truth, 
 you needn't." 
 
 Phoebe laughed. 
 
 "It isn't truth," she said. "But if it was Did 
 you want to know the truth about your father?" Her 
 white face, encircled by the child's arms, quivered as 
 she spoke. 
 
 "Don't you abuse my father," cried Bella, furiously. 
 
 Phoebe's eyes wavered and fell. 
 
 "I wasn't going to abuse him," she said, in a choked 
 voice. "I was sorry for him and for your mother. 
 But you've got a hard, wicked heart and I hope I'll 
 never see you again, Miss Morrison. I'll thank you, 
 please, to leave my house." 
 
 The other drew down her veil with an affected smile 
 and shrug. "Good-bye, Mrs. Fenwick. Perhaps you'll 
 find out before long that my friend wasn't such a fool to 
 write that letter and I wasn't such a beast to tell you 
 as you think now. Good-bye!" 
 
 Phcebe said nothing. The girl passed her insolently, 
 and left the house. 
 
 Phoebe put the child to bed, sat without touching a 
 morsel while Daisy supped, and then shut herself into 
 the parlor, saying that s v e was going to sit up over her 
 work, to which only a few last touches were wanting. 
 It had been her intention to go with the carrier to Win- 
 dermere the following day in order to hand it over to the 
 shop who had got her the commission, and ask for pay- 
 ment. 
 
 140
 
 EentDiek's Career 
 
 But as soon as she was alone in the room, with her 
 lamp and her work, she swept its silken, many-colored 
 mass aside, found a sheet of paper, and began to write. 
 
 She was trying to write down, as nearly as she could 
 remember, the words of the letter which Bella had shown 
 her. 
 
 " Didn't you tell me about a man called John Fenwick, 
 who painted your portrait ? a beastly thing you couldn't 
 abide ? Well, they say he's going to be awfully famous 
 soon, and make a pile of money. I don't know him, but 
 I have a friend who knows one of the two men who used 
 to lodge in the same house with him I believe they've 
 just moved to Chelsea. He says that Mr. Fenwick will 
 have two ripping pictures in the Academy, and is sure to 
 get his name up. And, besides that, there is some lord 
 or other who's wild about him and means to buy every- 
 thing he can paint. But I thought you said your man 
 was married? do you remember I chaffed you about 
 him when he began, and you said, ' No fear he is mar- 
 ried to a school-teacher,' or something of that sort? 
 Well, I asked about the wife, and my friend says, 'Non- 
 sense! he isn't married nothing of the sort or, at any 
 rate, if he is, he makes everybody believe he isn't and 
 there must be something wrong somewhere." By-the- 
 way, one of the pictures he's sending in is a wonderful 
 portrait. An awfully beautiful woman with a white 
 velvet dress, my dear and they say the painting of the 
 dress is marvellous. She's the daughter of the Lord 
 Somebody who's taken him up. They've introduced 
 him to all sorts of smart people, and, as I said before, 
 he's going to have a tremendous success. Some people 
 have luck, haven't they?" 
 
 141
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 She reproduced it as accurately as she could, read it 
 through again, and. then pushed, it aside. With set lips 
 she resumed, her work, and by midnight she had put in 
 the last stitch and fastened, the last thread. That she 
 should do so was essential to the plan she had in her 
 mind. 
 
 For she had already determined what to do. Within 
 forty-eight hours she would be in London. If he had 
 really disowned and betrayed her or if he had merely 
 grown tired of her and wished to be quit of her in either 
 case she would soon discover what it behooved her to 
 know. 
 
 When at last, in the utter silence of midnight, she took 
 up her candle to go to bed, its light fell, as she moved 
 towards the door, on the portrait of himself that Fenwick 
 had left with her at Christmas. She looked at it long, 
 dry-eyed. It was as though it began already to be the 
 face of a stranger.
 
 VII 
 
 EUGENIE, are you there?" 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 Lord Findon, peering short-sightedly into the big 
 drawing-room, obstructed by much furniture and dark- 
 ened by many pictures, had not at first perceived the 
 slender form of his daughter. The April day was reced- 
 ing, and Eugenie de Pastourelles was sitting very still 
 her hands lightly clasped upon a letter which lay out- 
 spread upon her lap. These moments of pensive ab- 
 straction were characteristic of her. Her life was turned 
 within; she lived more truly in thought than in speech 
 or action. 
 
 Lord Findon came in gayly. "I say, Eugenie, that 
 fellow's made a hit." 
 
 "What fellow, papa?" 
 
 "Why, Fenwick, of course. Give me a cup of tea, 
 there's a dear. I've just seen Welby, who's been hob- 
 nobbing with somebody on the Hanging Committee. 
 Both pictures accepted, and the portrait will be on the 
 line in the big room the other very well hung, too, in 
 one of the later rooms. Lucky dog! Millais came up 
 and spoke to me about him said he heard we had dis- 
 covered him. Of course, there's lots of criticism. Draw- 
 ing and design, modern and realistic the whole painting 
 method, traditional and old-fashioned, except for some
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 wonderful touches of pre-Raphaelitism that's what 
 most people say. Of course, the new men think it '11 end 
 in manner and convention ; and the old men don't quite 
 know what to say. Well, it don't much matter. If he's 
 genius, he'll do as he likes and if he hasn't " 
 
 Lord Findon shrugged his shoulders, and then, throw- 
 ing back his head against the back of his capacious chair, 
 proceeded to " sip " his tea, held in both hands, according 
 to an approved digestive method ten seconds to a sip 
 he had lately adopted. He collected new doctors with 
 the same zeal that he spent in pushing new artists. 
 
 Eugenie put out a hand and patted his shoulder ten- 
 derly. She and her father were the best of comrades, 
 and they showed it most plainly in Lady Findon's ab- 
 sence. That lady was again on her travels, occupied in 
 placing her younger daughter for a time in a French 
 family, with a view to "finishing." Euge'nie or Lord 
 Findon wrote to her every day ; they discussed her let- 
 ters when they arrived with all proper egards; and, for 
 the rest, enjoyed their tete-a-tete, and never dreamed of 
 missing her. Tete-a-tete, indeed, it scarcely was; for 
 there was still another daughter in the house, whom 
 Madame de Pastourelles her much older half-sister 
 mothered with great assiduity in Lady Findon's absence; 
 and the elder son also, who was still unmarried, lived 
 mainly at home. Nevertheless, if was recognized that 
 "papa" and Euge'nie had special claims upon each other, 
 and as the household adored them both, they were never 
 interfered with. 
 
 On this occasion Euge'nie was bent on business as well 
 as affection. She withdrew her hand from her father's 
 shoulder in order to raise a monitory finger. 
 144
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Genius or no, papa, it's time you paid him his 
 money." 
 
 "How you go on, Eugenie!" said Lord Findon, cross- 
 ing his knees luxuriously, as the tea filtered down. 
 "Pray, what money do I owe him?" 
 
 " Well, of course, if you wait till he's made a hit, prices 
 will go up," said Euge'nie, calmly. "I advise you to 
 agree with him quickly, while you are in the way with 
 him." 
 
 " I never asked him to paint you," said Lord Findon, 
 hastily, swallowing a sip of tea under the regulation time, 
 and frowning at the misdeed. 
 
 "Oh, shuffling papa! Come how much? two hun- 
 dred?" 
 
 "Upon my word! A painter shouldn't propose to 
 paint a picture, my dear, and then expect to get paid 
 for it as if he'd been commissioned. The girls might as 
 well propose matrimony to the men." 
 
 "Nobody need accept," said Euge'nie, slyly, replenish- 
 ing his cup. "I consider, papa, that you have bolted 
 that cup." 
 
 "Then for goodness' sake don't give me any more!" 
 cried Lord Findon. " It's no joke, Euge'nie, this sipping 
 business Where were we ? Oh, well, of course I knew 
 we should have to take it and I don't say I'm not 
 pleased with it. But two hundred !" 
 
 "Not a penny less," said Euge'nie "and the apotheo- 
 sis of my frock alone is worth the money. Two hundred 
 for that and two-fifty for the other?" 
 
 "Welby told me that actually was the price he had 
 put on it! The young man won't starve, my dear, for 
 want of knowing his own value." 
 MS
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if he had been rather near starv- 
 ing," said Eugenie, gravely. 
 
 "Nothing of the kind, Eugenie," said her father, 
 testily. "You think everybody as sensitive as yourself. 
 I assure you, young men are tough, and can stand a bit 
 of hardship." 
 
 "They seem to require butcher's meat all the same," 
 said Eugenie. "Do you know, papa, that I have been 
 extremely uncomfortable about our behavior to Mr. 
 Fenwick." 
 
 " I entirely fail to see why," said Lord Findon, absent- 
 ly. He was holding his watch in his hand, and calculat- 
 ing seconds. 
 
 "We have let him paint my portrait without ever 
 saying a word of money and you have always behaved 
 as though you meant to buy the 'Genius Loci.'" 
 
 "Well, so I do mean to buy it," said Lord Findon, 
 closing his watch with a sigh of satisfaction. 
 
 "You should have told him so, papa, and advanced 
 him some money." 
 
 "It is an excellent thing, my dear Eugenie, for a 
 young man to be kept on tenterhooks. Otherwise they 
 soon get above themselves." 
 
 "You have driven him into debt, papa." 
 
 " What on earth do you mean ?" 
 
 "I have been questioning Mr. Cuningham. He 
 doesn't know, but he thinks Mr. Watson has been lend- 
 ing him money." 
 
 "Artists are always so good to one another," said 
 Lord Findon, complacently. "Nice fellow, Watson 
 but quite mad." 
 
 " Papa, you are incorrigible. I tell you he has been 
 146
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 in great straits. He has not been able to buy a win- 
 ter overcoat, and Mr. Cuningham suspects he has often 
 not had enough to eat. He does illustration-work the 
 greater part of the night et cetera." 
 
 "The way you pile on the agony, my dear!" said Lord 
 Find on, rising. "What I see you want is that I should 
 write the check, and then go with you to call on the 
 young man ?" 
 
 "Precisely!" said Eugenie, nodding. 
 
 Lord Findon looked at her. 
 
 " And that you suppose is your own idea ?" 
 
 Euge'nie waited interrogatively. 
 
 " Do you know why I have never said a word to the 
 young man about money?" 
 
 "Because you forgot it," said Eugenie, smiling. 
 
 "Not in the least," said Lord Findon, flushing like a 
 school-boy found out; "I wanted my little sensation at 
 the end." 
 
 "My very epicurean papa!" said Euge'nie, caressing 
 him. "I see! Young man in a garret starving au 
 desespoir. Enter Providence, alias my papa with fame 
 in one hand and gold in the other. Ah, que tu es come- 
 dien, mon pere. A la bonne heure ! I now order the 
 carriage!" 
 
 She moved towards the bell, but paused suddenly: 
 
 "I forgot Arthur was to come before six." 
 
 A slight silence fell between the father and daughter. 
 Lord Findon cleared his throat, took up the evening 
 paper and laid it down again. 
 
 "Euge'nie!" 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 Lord Findon went up to her and took her hand. She
 
 Fenroick's Career 
 
 stood with downcast eyes, the other hand playing with 
 the folds of her dress. Her father's face was discom- 
 
 " Eugenie!" he broke out. " I don't think he ought to 
 come so much. Forgive me, dear!" 
 
 " You only think what I have thought for a long time," 
 she said, in a low voice, without raising her eyes. " But 
 to-day I sent for him." 
 
 "Because?" Lord Findon's face expressed a quick 
 and tender anxiety. 
 
 "I want to persuade him to marry Elsie Bligh." 
 
 Lord Findon made a hurried exclamation, drew her to 
 him, kissed her on the brow, and then, releasing her, 
 turned away. 
 
 "I might have known what you would do," he said, 
 in a muffled voice. 
 
 "I ought to have done it long ago," she said, passion- 
 ately; then, immediately curbing herself, she turned 
 deliberately to a vase of roses that stood near and began 
 to rearrange them, picking out a few faded blooms and 
 throwing them on the wood fire. 
 
 Lord Findon watched her, the delicate, drooping figure 
 in its gray dress, the thin hand among the roses. 
 
 "Eugenie! tell me one thing! you are in the same 
 mind as ever about the divorce?" 
 
 She made a sign of assent. 
 
 "Just the same. I am Albert's wife unless he him- 
 self asks me to release him and then the release would 
 only be for him." 
 
 "You are too hard on yourself, Eugenie!" cried Lord 
 Findon. "I vow you are! You set an impossible 
 standard." 
 
 148
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "I am his wife" she repeated, gently "while he 
 lives. And if he sent for me at any hour of the day 
 or night I would go." 
 
 Lord Findon gave an angry sigh. 
 
 "You can't wonder, Eugenie," he said, impetuously, 
 "that I often wish his death." 
 
 A shudder ran through her. 
 
 "Don't, papa! Never, never wish that. He loves 
 life so." 
 
 "Yes! now that he has ruined yours." 
 
 "He didn't mean to," she said, almost inaudibly. 
 "You know what I think." 
 
 Lord Findon restrained himself. In his eyes there 
 was no excuse whatever for his scoundrel of a son-in-law, 
 who after six years of marriage had left his wife for an 
 actress, and was now living with another woman of his 
 own class, a Comtesse S., ten years older than himself. 
 He knew that Euge"nie believed her husband to be in- 
 sane; as for him, he had never admitted anything of the 
 kind. But if it comforted her to believe it, let her, for 
 Heaven's sake, believe it poor child! 
 
 So he said nothing as he paced up and down and 
 Eugenie finished the rearrangement of the roses. Then 
 she turned to him, smiling. 
 
 "You didn't know I saw Elsie yesterday?" 
 
 " Did she confide in you ?" 
 
 "Oh, that long ago! The poor child's dreadfully in 
 love." 
 
 "Then it's a great responsibility," said Lord Findon, 
 gravely. "How is he going to satisfy her?" 
 
 " Only too easily. She would marry him blindly on 
 any terms." 
 
 149
 
 Fenioick's Career 
 
 There was a short silence. Then Eugenie gathered 
 up the letter she had been reading when her father 
 entered. 
 
 "Let's talk of something else, papa! Do you know 
 that I've had a very interesting letter from Mr. Fenwick 
 this afternoon ?" 
 
 Lord Findon stared. 
 
 "Fenwick? What on earth does he write to you 
 about?" 
 
 "Oh! this is not the first time by a long way!" said 
 Euge"nie, smiling. "He began it in March, when he 
 thought he had offended me by being rude to Arthur." 
 
 "So he was abominably rude. But what can one 
 expect ? He hasn't had the bringing-up of a gentleman 
 and there you are. That kind of thing will out." 
 
 "I wonder whether it matters to a genius?" said 
 Eugenie, musing. 
 
 "It matters to everybody!" cried Lord Findon. 
 " Gentlefolk, my dear, say what you will, are the result 
 of a long natural selection and you can't make 'em in 
 a hurry." 
 
 " And what about genius ? You will admit, papa> 
 that a good many gentlefolks in the world go to one 
 genius!" 
 
 The light was still good enough to show Lord Findon 
 that, in spite ot her flicker of gayety , Eugenie was singu- 
 larly pale. And he knew well that they were both 
 listening for the same step on the stairs. However, he 
 tried to keep it up. 
 
 "Genius?" he said, humming and hawing "genius? 
 How do we know what it is or who has it? Every- 
 body's so diabolically clever nowadays. Take my ad- 
 150
 
 Fentoick's Career. 
 
 vice, Eugenie I know you want to play Providence to 
 that young fellow you think you'll civilize him, and 
 that kind of thing ; but I warn you he hasn't got breed- 
 ing enough to stand it." 
 
 Eugenie drew a long breath. 
 
 "Well, don't scold me, papa if I try I must " 
 her voice escaped her, and she began again, firmly "I 
 must have something to fill up." 
 
 "Fill up what?" 
 
 She looked round to make sure that the servants 
 had finished clearing away the tea, and that they were 
 alone. 
 
 "The days and the hours," she said, softly. "One 
 must have something to think of." 
 
 Lord Findon frowned. 
 
 "He will fall in love with you, Eugenie and then 
 where shall we be ?" 
 
 He heard a laugh very sweet very feminine, yet, to 
 his ear, very forlorn. 
 
 "I'll take care of that. We'll find him a wife, too, 
 papa when he 'arrives.' We shall be in practice you 
 and I." 
 
 Lord Findon sprang up. 
 
 "Here he is!" he said, with very evident agitation. 
 The pronoun clearly had no reference to Fenwick. 
 Eugenie sat motionless, looking into the fire, her hands 
 on her knee. Lord Findon listened a moment. 
 
 "I'm going to my room. Eugenie! if I could be the 
 slightest use " 
 
 "Dear papa!" she looked up, smiling. "It's very 
 simple." 
 
 With a muttered exclamation, Lord Findon walked
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 to the farther end of the drawing-room, and vanished 
 through an inner door. 
 
 The footman announced "Mr. Welby." 
 
 As soon as the door was shut, Eugenie rose. 
 
 Welby hurriedly approached her. "You say in your 
 note that you have something important to tell me?" 
 
 She made a sign of assent, and as he grasped her hand, 
 she allowed herself a moment's pause. Her eyes rested 
 just perceptibly on the face of the man whose long 
 devotion to her, expressed through every phase of deli- 
 cate and passionate service, had brought them both at 
 last to that point where feeling knows itself where illu- 
 sions die away and the deep foundations of our life 
 appear. 
 
 Welby's dark face quivered. In the touch of his 
 friend's hand, in the look of her eyes there was that 
 which told him that she had bidden him to no common 
 meeting. The air between them was in an instant alive 
 with memories. Days of first youth; youth's high im- 
 pressions of great and lovely things; all the innocent, 
 stingless joys of art and travel, of happy talk and ripen- 
 ing faculty, of pure ambitions, hero-worships, compas- 
 sions, shared and mutually enkindled: these were for- 
 ever intertwined with their thoughts of each other. 
 
 But much more than these! 
 
 For him, the unspoken agony of loss suffered when she 
 married; for her, the memories of her marriage, of the 
 dreary languor into which its wreck had plunged her, 
 and of the gradual revival in her of the old intellectual 
 pleasures, the old joys of the spirit, under the influence 
 of Arthur's life and Arthur's companionship. How 
 simply he had offered all that his art, his tact, his genius
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 had to give! and how pitifully, how hungrily she had 
 leaned upon it! It had seemed so natural. Her own 
 mind was clear, her own pulses calm; their friendship 
 had appeared a thing apart, and she was able to feel 
 with sincerity and dignity, that if she received much, 
 she also gave much the hours of relief and pleasure 
 which ease the labor, the inevitable torment of the 
 artist, all that protecting environment which a woman's 
 sweet and agile wit can build around a man's taxed 
 brain or ruffled nerves. To chat with her, in success or 
 failure; to be sure of her welcome, her smile at all times; 
 to ask her sympathy in matters where he had himself 
 trained in her the faculty of response; to rouse in her 
 the gentle, diffident humor which seemed to him a much 
 rarer and more distinguished thing than other women's 
 brilliance; to watch the ways of a personality which 
 appeared to many people a little cold, pale, and over- 
 refined, and was to him supreme distinction; to search 
 for pleasures for her, as a botanist hunts rare flowers; 
 to save her from the most trifling annoyance, if time and 
 brains could do it; these things, for three years, had 
 made the charm of Welby's life. And Eugenie knew it 
 knew it with an affectionate gratitude that had for 
 long seemed both to her and to the world the last word 
 of their situation on both sides a note, a tone, which 
 could always be evoked from it, touch or strike it where 
 you would. 
 
 And now? 
 
 Through what subtle phases and developments had 
 time led them to this moment of change and conscious- 
 ness? representing in her, sharp recoil, an instant gird- 
 ing of the will and in him a new despair, which was 
 T 53
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 also a new docility, a readiness to content and tranquil- 
 lize her at any cost. As they stood thus, for these few 
 seconds, amid the shadows of the rich encumbered room, 
 the picture of the weeks and months they had just passed 
 through flashed through both minds illuminated 
 thrown into true relation with surrounding and irrevo- 
 cable fact. Both trembled she under the admonition 
 of her own higher life he, because existence beside her 
 could never again be as sweet to him to-morrow as it 
 had been yesterday. 
 
 She moved. The trance was broken. 
 
 "I do, indeed, want to talk to you," she said, in her 
 gentlest voice. "We sha'n't have very long. Papa 
 wants me in half an hour." 
 
 She motioned to the seat beside her ; and their talk 
 began. 
 
 Lord Findon sat alone in his study on the ground- 
 floor, balancing a paper-knife on one finger, fidgeting 
 with a newspaper of which he never read a word, and 
 otherwise beguiling the time until the sound of Welby's 
 step on the stairs should tell him that the interview up- 
 stairs was over. 
 
 His mind was full of disagreeable thoughts. Eugenie 
 was dearer to him than any other human being, and 
 Welby, his ward, the orphan child of one of his oldest 
 friends had been from his boyhood almost a son of the 
 house. Eight years before, what more natural than 
 that these two should marry? Welby had been then 
 deeply in love; Eugenie in her first maiden bloom had 
 been difficult to read, but a word from the father she 
 adored would probably have been enough to incline her
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 towards her lover, to transform and fire a friendship 
 which was already more romantic than she knew. But 
 Lord Findon could not make up his mind to it. Arthur 
 was a dear fellow, but from the worldly point of view 
 it was not good enough. Euge'nie was born for a large 
 sphere, it was her father's duty to find it for her if he 
 could. 
 
 Hence the French betrothal the crowning point of a 
 summer visit to a French chateau where Euge'nie had 
 been the spoiled child of a party containing some of the 
 greatest names in France. It flattered both Lord Fin- 
 don's vanity and imagination to find himself brought 
 into connection with historic families all the more at- 
 tractive because of that dignified alienation from affairs, 
 imposed on them by their common hatred of the Second 
 Empire. Euge'nie, too, had felt the romance of the 
 milieu ; had invested her French suitor with all that 
 her own poetic youth could bring to his glorification; 
 had gone to him a timid, willing, and most innocent 
 bride. 
 
 Ah, well! it did not do to think of the sequel. Per- 
 haps the man was mad, as Euge'nie insisted ; perhaps 
 much was due to some obscure brain effects of exposure 
 and hardship during the siege of Paris for the war had 
 followed close on their honeymoon. But, madness or 
 wickedness, it was all the same; Eugenie's life was 
 ruined, and her father could neither mend it nor avenge 
 it. 
 
 For owing to some in his eyes quixotic tenderness 
 of conscience on Eugenie's part, she would not sue for 
 her divorce. She believed that Albert was not respon- 
 sible that he might return to her. And that passionate 
 *S5
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 spiritual life of hers, the ideas of which Lord Findon only 
 half understood, forbade her, it seemed, any step which 
 would finally bar the way of that return; unless Albert 
 should himself ask her to take it. But the Comte had 
 never made a sign. Lord Findon could only suppose 
 that he found himself as free as he wished to be, that 
 the ladies he consorted with were equally devoid of 
 scruples, and that he, therefore, very naturally, pre- 
 ferred to avoid publicity. 
 
 So here was Eugenie, husbandless and childless at 
 eight and twenty for the only child of the marriage 
 had died within a year of its birth; the heroine of an 
 odious story which, if it had never reached the law 
 courts, was none the less perfectly well known in society ; 
 and, in the eyes of those who loved her, one of the 
 bravest, saddest, noblest of women. Of course Welby 
 had shared in the immense effort of the family to com- 
 fort and console her. They had been so eager to accept 
 his help ; he had given it with such tact and self-efface- 
 ment; and now, meanly, they must help Eugenie to 
 dismiss him! For it was becoming too big a thing, this 
 devotion of his, both in Eugenie's life and also in the 
 eyes of the world. Lord Findon must needs suppose 
 he did not choose to know that people were talking; 
 and if Eugenie would not free herself from her wretched 
 Albert, she must not provide him poor child! with 
 any plausible excuse. 
 
 All of which reasoning was strictly according to the 
 canons as Lord Findon understood them; but it did 
 not leave him much the happier. He was a sensitive, 
 affectionate man, with great natural cleverness, and 
 much natural virtue wholly unleavened by either 
 156
 
 Fenvoicfc's Career 
 
 thought or discipline. He did the ordinary things from 
 the ordinary motives; but he suffered when the ordinary 
 things turned out ill, more than another man would 
 have done. It would certainly have been better, he 
 ruefully admitted, if he had not meddled so much with 
 Eugenie's youth. And presently he supposed he should 
 have to forgive Charlie! (Charlie was the son who had 
 married his nurse) if only to prove to himself that he 
 was not really the unfeeling or snobbish father of the 
 story-books. 
 
 Ah! there was the up-stairs door! Should he show 
 himself, and make Arthur understand that he was their 
 dear friend all the same, and always would be ? it was 
 only a question of a little drawing-in. 
 
 But his courage failed him. He heard the well-known 
 step come down-stairs and cross the hall. The front-door 
 closed, and Lord Findon was still balancing the paper- 
 knife. 
 
 Would he really marry that nice child Elsie? Elsie 
 Bligh was a cousin of the Findons; a fair-haired, slender 
 slip of a thing, the daughter of a retired Indian general. 
 The Findons had given a ball the year before for her 
 coming-out, and she had danced through the season, 
 haloed, Euphrosyne - like, by a charm of youth and 
 laughter till she met Arthur Welby. Since then 
 Euphrosyne had grown a little white and piteous, and 
 there had been whisperings and shakings of the head 
 among the grown-ups who were fond of her. 
 
 Well, well ; he supposed Eugenie would give him some 
 notion of the way things had gone. As to her his 
 charming, sweet-natured Eugenie! it comforted him to 
 remember the touch of resolute and generally cheerful
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 stoicism in her character. If a hard thing had to be 
 done, she would not only do it without flinching, but 
 without avenging it on the by-standers afterwards. A 
 quality rare in women! 
 
 "Papa! is the carriage there?" 
 
 It was her voice calling. Lord Findon noticed with 
 relief its even, silvery note. The carriage was waiting, 
 and in a few minutes she was seated beside him, and 
 they were making their way eastwards through the sun- 
 set streets. 
 
 "Dear?" he said, with timid interrogation, laying his 
 hand momentarily on hers. 
 
 Eugenie was looking out of the window with her face 
 turned away. 
 
 "He was very kind," she said, rather deliberately. 
 "Don't let us talk about it, papa but wait and see!" 
 
 Lord Findon understood that she referred to Elsie 
 Bligh that she had sown her seed, and must now let it 
 germinate. 
 
 But herself what had it cost her ? And he knew well 
 that he should never ask the question; and that, if he 
 did, she would never answer it. 
 
 By the time they were threading the slums of Seven 
 Dials she was talking rather fast and flowingly of Fen- 
 wick. 
 
 "You have brought the check, papa?" 
 
 "I have my check-book." 
 
 "And you are quite certain about the pictures?" 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 " It will be nice to make him happy," she said, softly. 
 " His letters have been pretty doleful." 
 158
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "What has he found to write about ?" exclaimed Lord 
 Findon, wondering. 
 
 "Himself, mostly!" she laughed. "He likes rhetoric 
 and he seems to have found out that I do too. As I 
 told you, he began with an apology and since then he 
 writes about books and art and and the evils of aris- 
 tocracy." 
 
 "Bless my soul, what the deuce does he know about 
 it! And you answer him?" 
 
 "Yes. You see he writes extremely well and it 
 amuses me." 
 
 Privately, he thought that if she encouraged him be- 
 yond a very moderate point, Fenwick would soon become 
 troublesome. But whenever she pleaded that anything 
 "amused" her, he could never find a word to say. 
 
 Every now and then he watched her, furtively trying 
 to pierce that gray veil in which she had wrapped her- 
 self. To-morrow morning, he supposed, he should hear 
 her step on the stairs, towards eight o'clock should 
 hear it passing his door in going, and an hour later in 
 coming back and should know that she had been to a 
 little Ritualist church close by, where what Lady Findon 
 called "fooleries" went on, in the shape of "daily cele- 
 brations" and "vestments" and "reservation." How 
 lightly she stepped; what a hidden act it was; never 
 spoken of, except once, between him and her! It puz- 
 zled him often ; for he knew very well that Eugenie was 
 no follower of things received. She had been a friend 
 of Renan and of Taine in her French days ; and he, who 
 was a Gallic with a leaning to the Anglican Church, had 
 sometimes guessed with discomfort that Euge'nie was in 
 truth what his Low Church wife called a "free-thinker."
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 She never spoke of her opinions, directly, even to him. 
 But the books she ordered from Paris, or Germany, and 
 every now and then the things she let fall about them, 
 were enough for any shrewd observer. It was here too, 
 perhaps, that she and Arthur were in closest sympathy; 
 and every one knew that Arthur, poor old boy, was an 
 agnostic. 
 
 And yet this daily pilgrimage and that light and 
 sweetness it breathed into her aspect! 
 
 So one day he had asked her abruptly why she liked 
 the little church so much, and its sacramental "goings- 
 on." 
 
 "One wouldn't expect it, you know, darling from the 
 things you read." 
 
 Eugenie had colored faintly. 
 
 "Wouldn't you, papa? It seems to me so simple. 
 It's an Action not words and an action means any- 
 thing you like to put into it one thing to me another 
 to you. Some day we shall all be tired, sha'n't we? of 
 creeds, and sermons, but never of 'This do, in remem- 
 brance of Me!' " 
 
 And she had put up her hand to caress his, with such 
 a timid sweetness of lip, and such a shining of the eye, 
 that he had been silenced, feeling himself indeed in the 
 presence of something he was not particularly well-fitted 
 to explore. 
 
 Well, if she was inconsequent, she was dear! and if 
 her mystical fancies comforted and sustained her, no- 
 body should ever annoy or check her in the pursuit of 
 them. He put a very summary stop to his wife's 
 "Protestant nonsense," whenever it threatened to worry 
 Euge'nie; though on other occasions it amused him. 
 1 60
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 The landlady in Bernard Street greeted them with 
 particular effusion. If they had only known, they rep- 
 resented to her cautious yet not unkindly soul! the 
 main security for those very long arrears of rent she had 
 allowed her lodger to run up. Were they now come 
 at this unusual hour to settle up with Mr. Fenwick? 
 If so, her own settling up sweet prospect! might be in 
 sight. Cuningham and Watson had recently left her, 
 and taken a joint studio in Chelsea. Their rooms, more- 
 over, were still unlet. Her anxieties therefore were 
 many, and it was with lively expectation that she 
 watched the "swells" grope their way up-stairs to Mr. 
 Fen wick's room. She always knew it must come right 
 some day, with people like that about. 
 
 Lord Findon and Eugenie mounted the stairs. The 
 studio door was half -open. As they approached the 
 threshold they heard Fenwick speaking. 
 
 " I say, hand me that rag and look sharp and bring 
 me some more oil quick! And where the devil is that 
 sketch ? Well, get the oil and then look for it under 
 that pile over there No! hi! stand still a moment 
 just where you are I want to see the tone of your head 
 against this background! Hang it! the light's going!" 
 
 The visitors paused to see Fenwick standing between 
 them and a large canvas covered with the first "laying- 
 in" of an important subject. The model, a thin, dark- 
 faced fellow, was standing meekly on the spot to which 
 Fenwick had motioned him, while the artist, palette on 
 thumb, stood absorbed and frowning, his keen eye 
 travelling from the man's head to the canvas behind it. 
 
 Lord Findon smiled. He was a clever amateur, and 
 relished the details of the business, 
 161
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Smell's good!" he said, in Eugenie's ear, sniffing the 
 scents of the studio. "Looks like a fine subject too. 
 And just now he's king of it. The torments are all 
 ahead. Hullo, Fenwick! may we come in?" 
 
 Fenwick turned sharply and saw them in the doorway. 
 He came to meet them with mingled pleasure and em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 " Come in, please! Hope you don't mind this get-up." 
 He pointed to his shirt -sleeves. 
 
 "It's we who apologize!" smiled Eugenie. "You are 
 in a great moment!" 
 
 She glanced at the canvas, filled with a rhythmical 
 group of dim figures, already beautiful, though they had 
 caught the artist and his work in the very act of true 
 creation when after weeks or months of brooding, of 
 hard work, of searching study of this or that, of inspira- 
 tion tested and verified, of mechanical drudgery, of 
 patient construction, birth begins the birth of values, 
 relations, distances, the drawing of color. 
 
 Fenwick shrugged his shoulders. His eyes sparkled 
 in a strained and haggard face, with such an ardor that 
 Euge'nie had the strange impression of some headlong 
 force, checked in mid -career, and filling the quiet studio 
 with the thrill of its sudden reining -up; and Lord Fin- 
 don's announcement was checked on his lips. 
 
 "Why, it is my subject!" she cried, looking again at 
 the picture. 
 
 "Well, of course!" said Fenwick, flushing. 
 
 It was only a few weeks before that she had read him, 
 from a privately printed volume, a poem, of which the 
 new, strange music was then freshly in men's ears sug- 
 gesting that he should take it as a theme. The poem is 
 162
 
 Fen toi ck' s Career 
 
 called "An Elegy on a Lady, whom grief for the death 
 of her betrothed killed." Its noble verse summons all 
 true maids and lovers to bear the dead company, in that 
 burial procession which should have been her bridal 
 triumph. The priests go before, white-robed ; the " dark- 
 stoled minstrels follow" ; then the bier with the bride: 
 
 And then the maidens in a double row, 
 
 Each singing soft and low, 
 And each on high a torch upstaying: 
 
 Unto her lover lead her forth with light, 
 With music, and with singing, and with praying. 
 
 "Here is the finished sketch," he said, placing it in 
 her hands and watching her eagerly. 
 
 She bent over it in emotion, conscious of that natural 
 delight of woman when she has fired an artist. 
 
 "How fine! and how you must have worked!" 
 
 "Night and day. It possessed me. I didn't want 
 you to see it yet awhile. But you understand ? it is 
 to be romantic not sentimental. Strong form. Every 
 figure discriminated, and yet kept subordinate to the 
 whole. No monotony ! Character everywhere express- 
 ing grief and longing. An evening light between 
 sunset and moonrise. The sky gold and the torches. 
 Then below in the crowd, the autumn woods, the dis- 
 tant River of Death, towards which the procession 
 moves a massing of blues and purples" his hand 
 pointing worked rapidly over the canvas; "and here, 
 some pale rose, black, emerald green, dimly woven in 
 and lastly, the whites of the bride-maidens, and of the 
 bride upon her bier towards which, of course, the whole 
 construction mounts." 
 
 13 163
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "I see! a sort of Mantegna Triumph with a differ- 
 ence!" 
 
 "The drawing's all right," said Fenwick, with a long 
 breath, and a stretch. " If I can only get the paint as I 
 want it" he stooped forward again peering into the 
 canvas "It's the handling of the paint that's 'what 
 excites me! I want to get it broad and pure no mess- 
 ing no working over! a fine surface! and yet none 
 of your waxy prettiness. The forms like Millet simple 
 but full of knowledge. Ah!" he took up a brush, 
 flung it down bitterly, and turned on his heel "I 
 can draw! but why did no one ever teach me to 
 paint?" 
 
 Eugenie lifted her eyebrows amused at the sudden 
 despair. Lord Findon laughed. He had restrained 
 himself so far with difficulty while these two romanced ; 
 and now, bursting with his tidings, he laid a hand on 
 Fenwick: 
 
 "Look here, young man we didn't come just on the 
 loose to bother you. Have you heard ?" 
 
 Fenwick made a startled movement. 
 
 "Heard what?" 
 
 "Why, that your two pictures are accepted ! and will 
 be admirably hung both on the line, and one in the big 
 room." 
 
 The color rushed again into Fenwick's cheeks. 
 
 "Are you sure?" he stammered, looking from one to 
 the other. 
 
 Findon gave his authority, and then Eugenie held out 
 her hand. 
 
 "We are so glad!" 
 
 She had thrown back the gauze veil in which she had 
 164
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 shrouded herself during her drive with her father, and 
 her charming face still so pale! shone in sympathy. 
 
 Fenwick awkwardly accepted her congratulation, and 
 shook the proffered hand. 
 
 "I expect it's your doing," he said, abruptly. 
 
 "Not in the least!" cried Lord Findon. His eye 
 twinkled. "My dear fellow, what are you thinking of? 
 These are the days of merit, and publicity! when every 
 man comes to his own." Fenwick grinned a little. 
 "You've earned your success anyway, and it '11 be a 
 thumper. Now look here, where can we talk busi- 
 ness?" 
 
 Fenwick put down his palette, and slipped his arms 
 into his coat. The model lit a lamp, and disappeared. 
 Eugenie meanwhile withdrew discreetly to the farther 
 end of the room, where she busied herself with some 
 wood-blocks on which Fenwick had been drawing. The 
 two men remained hidden behind the large canvas, and 
 she heard nothing of their conversation. She was aware, 
 however, of the scratching of a pen, and immediately 
 after her father called to her. 
 
 "Eugenie, come! we must get back for dinner." 
 
 Fenwick, looking up, saw her emerging from the 
 shadows of the farther room into the bright lamp-light, 
 her gray veil floating cloudwise round her. As she came 
 towards him, he felt her once more the emblem and angel 
 of his good-fortune. All the inspiration she had been to 
 him, all that closer acquaintance, to which during the 
 preceding weeks she had admitted him, throbbed warm 
 at his heart. His mind was full of gratitude full also 
 of repentance! towards Phcebe, and towards her. That 
 very night would he write his confession to her, at last! 
 165
 
 FentDick's Career 
 
 tell all his story, beg her to excuse his foolish lack of 
 frankness and presence of mind to Lord Findon, and ask 
 her kindness for Phoebe and the child. He already saw 
 little Carrie on her knee, and the cegis of her protecting 
 sweetness spread over them all. 
 
 Meanwhile the impression upon her was that he had 
 taken the news of his success with admirable self-re- 
 straint, that he was growing and shaping as a human 
 being, no less than as an artist, that his manner to her 
 father was excellent, neither tongue-tied nor effusive, 
 and his few words of thanks manly and sincere. She 
 thought to herself that here was the beginning of 
 a great career the moment when the streamlet 
 finds its bed, and enters upon its true and destined 
 course. 
 
 And in the warm homage, the evident attachment 
 she had awakened in the man before her, there was for 
 Eugdnie at the moment a peculiar temptation. Had 
 she not just given proof that she was set apart that 
 for her there could be no more thought of love in its 
 ordinary sense? In her high-strung consciousness of 
 Welby's dismissal, she felt herself not only secure 
 against the vulgar snares of vanity and sex, but, as it 
 were, endowed with a larger spiritual freedom. She had 
 sent away the man of whom she was in truth afraid 
 the man whom she might have loved. But in this dis- 
 tant, hesitating, and yet strong devotion that Fenwick 
 was beginning to show her, there was something that 
 appealed and with peculiar force, in the immediate 
 circumstances, to a very sore and lonely heart. Here 
 was no danger to be feared! nothing but a little kind 
 help to a man of genius, whose great gifts might be so 
 166
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 easily nullified and undone by his thorny vehemence of 
 character, his lack of breeding and education. 
 
 The correspondence indeed which had arisen between 
 them out of Fenwick's first remarkable letter to her, had 
 led unconsciously to a new attitude on the part of Ma- 
 dame de Pastourelles. That he was an interesting and 
 promising artist she knew; that on subjects connected 
 with his art he could talk copiously and well, that also, 
 she knew; but that he could write, with such pleasant 
 life, detail, and ingenuity, was a surprise, and it attracted 
 her, as it would have attracted a Frenchwoman of the 
 eighteenth century. Her maimed life had made her per- 
 force an "intellectual"; and in these letters, the man's 
 natural poetry and force stirred her enthusiasm. Hence 
 a new interest and receptivity in her, quickened by many 
 small and natural incidents books lent and discussed, 
 meetings in picture - galleries, conversations in her 
 father's house, and throughout it that tempting, danger- 
 ous pleasure of "doing good," that leads astray so many 
 on whom Satan has no other hold! She was introducing 
 him every week to new friends her friends, the friends 
 she wished him to have ; she was making his social way 
 plain before him ; she had made her father buy his pict- 
 ures; and she meant to look after his career in the 
 future. 
 
 So that, quivering as she still was under the strain of 
 her scene with Welby so short, so veiled, and at bottom 
 so tragic! she showed herself glitteringly cheerful al- 
 most gay as she stood talking a few minutes with her 
 father and Fenwick. The restless happiness in Fen- 
 wick's face and movements gave his visitors indeed so 
 much pleasure that they found it hard to go; several 
 167
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 times they said good-bye, only to plunge again into the 
 sketches and studies that lay littered about the room, to 
 stand chatting before the new canvas, to laugh and gos- 
 sip till Lord Findon remembered that Eugenie did not 
 yet know that he had offered Fen wick five hundred 
 pounds for the two pictures instead of four hundred and 
 fifty pounds; and that he might have the prompt sat- 
 isfaction of telling her that he had bettered her instruc- 
 tions, he at last dragged her away. On this day of all 
 days, did he wish to please her! if it were only in 
 trifles.
 
 WHEN Fenwick was alone, he walked to a chest 
 of drawers in which he kept a disorderly multitude 
 of possessions, and took out a mingled handful of letters, 
 photographs, and sketches. Throwing them on a table, 
 he looked for and found a photograph of Phoebe with 
 Carrie on her knee, and a little sketch of Phcebe one of 
 the first ideas for the "Genius Loci." He propped them 
 up against some books, and looked at them in a passion 
 of triumph. 
 
 "It's all right, old woman it's all right!" he mur- 
 mured, smiling. Then he spread out Lord Findon's 
 check before the photograph, as though he offered it at 
 p hcebe's shrine. 
 
 Five hundred pounds! Well, it was only what his 
 work was worth what he had every right to expect. 
 None the less, the actual possession of the money seemed 
 to change his whole being. What would his old father 
 say ? He gave a laugh, half scornful, half good-humored, 
 as he admitted to himself that not even now probably 
 would the old man relent. 
 
 And Phcebe! he imagined the happy wonder in her 
 eyes the rolling away of all clouds between them. For 
 six weeks now he had been a veritable brute about let- 
 lers! First, the strain of his work (and the final wrestle 
 with the "Genius Loci," including the misfortune of the 
 169
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 paints, had really been a terrible affair!) then he con- 
 fessed it the intellectual excitement of the correspond- 
 ence with Madame de Pastourelles : between these two 
 obsessions, or emotions, poor Phoebe had fared ill. 
 
 "But you'll forgive me now, old girl won't you?" he 
 said, kissing her photograph in an effusion that brought 
 the moisture to his eyes. Then he replaced it, with the 
 sketches, in the drawer, forgetting in his excitement the 
 letters which lay scattered on the table. 
 
 What should he do now? Impossible to settle down 
 to any work! The North post had gone, but he might 
 telegraph to Phoebe and write later. Meanwhile he 
 would go over to Chelsea, and see Cuningham and Wat- 
 son repay Watson his debt! or promise it at least for 
 the morrow, when he should have had time to cash the 
 check perhaps even pompous thought! to open a 
 banking account. 
 
 Suddenly a remembrance of Morrison crossed his 
 mind and he stood a moment with bent head sobered 
 as though a ghost passed through the room. Must he 
 send a hundred pounds to Mrs. Morrison ? He envisaged 
 it, unwillingly. Already his treasure seemed to be melt- 
 ing away. Time enough, surely, for that. He and 
 Phcebe had so much to do to get a house and furnish 
 it, to pay pressing bills, to provide models for the new 
 picture! Why, it would be all gone directly! 
 
 He locked up the check safely, took his hat, and was 
 just running out when his eye fell on the three-hours' 
 sketch of Madame de Pastourelles, which had been the 
 foundation of the portrait. He had recently framed it, 
 but had not yet found a place for it. It stood on the 
 floor, against the wall. He took it up, looked at it with 
 170
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 delight by Jove! it was a brilliant thing! and placing 
 it on a small easel, he arranged two lamps with movable 
 shades, which he often used for drawing in the evening, 
 so as to show it off. There was in him more than a 
 touch of theatricality, and as he stood back from this 
 little arrangement to study its effect, he was charmed 
 with his own fancy. There she queened it, in the centre 
 of the room his patron saint, and Phoebe's. He knew 
 well what he owed her and Phcebe should soon know. 
 He was in a hurry to be off; but he could not make up 
 his mind superstitiously to put out the lights. So, 
 after lingering a few moments before her, in this tremor 
 of imagination and of pleasure, he left her thus, radiant 
 and haloed! the patron saint in charge. 
 
 On his way out he found an anxious landlady upon his 
 path. Mrs. Gibbs was soon made happy, so far as 
 promises could do it, and in another minute he was 
 in a hansom speeding westward. It was nearly seven 
 o'clock on a mild April evening. The streets were full, 
 the shops still open. As he passed along Oxford Street, 
 monarch it seemed of all he beheld, his eyes fell on Peter 
 Robinson's windows, glittering with lights, and gay with 
 spring ribbons, laces, and bright silks. An idea rushed 
 into his mind. Only the week before, on his first visit 
 to the new Chelsea quarters whither Cuningham and 
 Watson had betaken themselves, he had stumbled upon 
 an odd little scene in the still bare, ungarnished studio. 
 Cuningham, who had been making money with some 
 rapidity of late, was displaying before the half-sympa- 
 thetic, half -sarcastic eyes of Watson, some presents that 
 he was just sending off to his mother and sisters in Scot- 
 land. A white dress, a lace shawl, some handkerchiefs, 
 171
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 a sash, a fan there they lay, ranged on brown paper on 
 the studio floor. Cuningham was immensely proud of 
 them, and had been quite ready to show them to Fen- 
 wick also, fingering their fresh folds, enlarging on their 
 beauties. And Fenwick had thought sorely of Phoebe 
 as he watched Cuningham turn the pretty things over. 
 When had he ever been able to give her any feminine 
 gauds? Always this damned poverty, pressing them 
 down! 
 
 But now by Jove! 
 
 He made the hansom stop, rushed into Peter Robin- 
 son's, bought a dress-length of pink-and-white cotton, 
 a blue sash for Carrie, and a fichu of Indian muslin and 
 lace. Thrusting his hand into his pocket for money, he 
 found only a sovereign pretty nearly his last! and 
 some silver. "That's on account," he said loftily, giv- 
 ing the sovereign to the shopman; "send the things 
 home to-morrow afternoon to-morrow afternoon, mind 
 and I'll pay for them on delivery." 
 
 Then he jumped into his hansom again, and for sheer 
 excitement told the man to hurry, and he should have 
 an extra shilling. On they sped down Park Lane. The 
 beds of many -colored hyacinths in the Park shone 
 through the cheerful dusk; the street was crowded, and 
 beyond, the railings, the seats under the trees were full 
 of idlers. There was a sparkle of flowers in the windows 
 of the Park Lane houses, together with golden sunset 
 touches on the glass ; and pretty faces wrapped in lace 
 or gauze looked out from the hansoms as they passed 
 him by. Again the London of the rich laid hold on him ; 
 not threateningly this time, but rather as though a door 
 were opened and a hand beckoned. His own upward 
 172
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 progress had begun; he was no longer jealous of the 
 people who stood higher. 
 
 Dorchester House, Dudley House; he looked at them 
 with a good-humored tolerance. After all, London was 
 pleasant ; there was some recognition of merit ; and even 
 something to be said for Academies. 
 
 Then his picture began to hover before him. It was 
 a big thing; suppose it took him years? Well, there 
 would be portraits to keep him alive. Meanwhile it was 
 true enough what he had said to Madame de Pastour- 
 elles. As a painter he had never been properly trained. 
 His values were uncertain ; and he had none of the sure- 
 ness of method which men with half his talent had got 
 out of study under a man like, say, Carolus Duran. 
 
 Supposing now, he went to Paris for a year? No, no! 
 too many of the Englishmen who went to Paris lost 
 their individuality and became third-rate Frenchmen. 
 He would puzzle out things for himself stick to his own 
 programme and ideas. 
 
 English poetic feeling, combined with as much of 
 French technique as it could assimilate there was the 
 line of progress. Not the technique of these clever mad- 
 men Manet, Degas, Monet and the rest with the mean 
 view of life of some, and the hideous surface of others. 
 No! but the Barbizon men and Mother Nature, first 
 and foremost! Beauty too, beauty of idea and selection 
 not mere beauty of paint, to which everything else 
 line, modelling, construction was to be vilely sacrificed. 
 
 In his exaltation he began an imaginary article de- 
 nouncing the Impressionists, spouting it aloud as he 
 went along; so that the passers-by caught a word or 
 two, through the traffic, now and then, and turned to 
 173
 
 Fenvoick's Career 
 
 look, astonished, at the handsome, gesticulating fellow 
 in the hansom. Till he stopped abruptly, first to laugh 
 at himself, and then to chuckle over the thought of 
 Phoebe, and the presents he had just bought. 
 
 Meanwhile, at the very moment, probably, that Fen- 
 wick was in Peter Robinson's shop, an omnibus com- 
 ing from Euston passed through Russell Square, and a 
 woman, volubly advised by the conductor, alighted from 
 it at the corner of Bernard Street. She was very tall 
 and slender; her dress was dusty and travel-stained, 
 and as she left the omnibus she drew down a thickly 
 spotted veil over a weary face. She walked quickly 
 down Bernard Street, looking at the numbers, and 
 stopped before the door of Fenwick's lodgings. 
 
 The door was opened by Mrs. Gibbs, the landlady. 
 
 "Is Mr. Fen wick at home?" 
 
 "No; he's just this minute gone out. Did you want 
 to see him, miss?" 
 
 The young woman hung back a moment in hesitation. 
 Then she advanced into the hall. 
 
 " I've got a parcel for him" she showed it under her 
 arm. " If you'll allow me, I'll go up, and leave it in his 
 room. It's important." 
 
 "And what name, miss if I may ask?" 
 
 The visitor hesitated again then she said, quietly: 
 
 "I am Mrs. Fenwick Mr. Fenwick's wife." 
 
 "His wife!" cried the other, startled. "Oh no; there 
 is some mistake he hasn't got no wife!" 
 
 Phcebe drew herself up fiercely. 
 
 " You mustn't say such things to me, please! I am Mr. 
 Fenwick's wife and you must please show me his rooms. ' ' 
 174
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 The emphasis and the passion with which these words 
 were said left Mrs. Gibbs gaping. She was a worthy 
 woman, for whom the world so far as it could be studied 
 from a Bernard Street lodging-house had few surprises; 
 and a number of alternative conjectures ran through her 
 mind as she studied Phoebe's appearance. 
 
 "I'm sure, ma'am, I meant no offence," she said, hur- 
 riedly; "but, you see, Mr. Fenwick has never as you 
 might say " 
 
 "No," said Phoebe, proudly, interrupting her; "there 
 was no reason why he should speak of his private affairs. 
 I have been in the country, waiting till he could make a 
 home for me. Now will you show me his room?" 
 
 But Mrs. Gibbs did not move. She stood staring at 
 Phcebe, irresolute thinking, no doubt, of the penny 
 novelettes on which she fed her leisure moments till 
 Phcebe impatiently drew a letter from her pocket. 
 
 "I see you doubt what I say. Of course it is quite 
 right that you should be careful about admitting any- 
 body to my husband's rooms in his absence. But here 
 is the last letter I received from him a week or two 
 ago." 
 
 And, drawing it from its envelope, Phcebe showed first 
 the signature, "John Fenwick," and then pointed to the 
 address on the envelope "Mrs. John Fenwick, Green 
 Nab Cottage, Great Langdale." 
 
 "Well, I never!" said Mrs. Gibbs, staring still more 
 widely, and slowly retreating "And he never lettin' me 
 post a letter since he came here not once no confi- 
 dence nowhere and I'm sure I have been his good 
 friend!" 
 
 Phcebe moved towards the staircase. 
 175
 
 Fenuoick's Career 
 
 " Is Mr. Fenwick's room on the first floor or the sec- 
 ond?" 
 
 Lost in protesting wonder, Mrs. Gibbs wheezily 
 mounted the stairs far enough to point to the door of 
 Fenwick's room. 
 
 "Here's matches" she fumbled in her apron-pocket. 
 "There's a candle on the mantel-piece. Though I dare 
 say he's left his lamp going. He generally does he 
 don't take no account of what I says to him about it." 
 
 Phcebe passed on. Mrs. Gibbs called after her: 
 
 "So I'm to say 'Mrs. Fenwick,' am I, madam when 
 Mr. Fenwick gets back." 
 
 She stood leaning against the banisters, one hand 
 behind her, looking her visitor up and down with im- 
 pertinent eyes. 
 
 "Certainly," said Phcebe. Then she put her hand to 
 her head, and said, in a low, bewildered voice, "At least, 
 if I'm here if he comes back soon but I can't stay." 
 
 Mrs. Gibbs went down-stairs again, consumed with con- 
 jecture and excitement. 
 
 "Wife indeed! that's what they all say bound to. 
 But of all the cool young women! I hope I haven't done 
 no harm, letting her into the studio. But that letter 
 and all it was enough to make a jelly of you things 
 a-turnin' out like this. And me all a-tremblin', and 
 givin' in!" 
 
 Phcebe opened the studio door, noticed the bright 
 light with amazement, and shut the door behind her. 
 She stood there, with her back to it, sharply arrested, 
 her eyes held by the spectacle before her. 
 
 Close to her, in the centre of the freest portion of the 
 176
 
 Fentoick' s Career 
 
 floor, rose the sketch of Eugenie de Pastourelles, lit by 
 the two lamps, which threw a concentrated glow upon 
 the picture, and left all the rest of the room shadowy. 
 Nothing could have been more strange than the aspect 
 of the drawing, thus solitary, and brightly illuminated. 
 Phcebe looked at it in bewilderment, then round the lit- 
 tered studio. Beyond the lamps, she saw the large new 
 canvas, showing dimly the first "laying-in" of its im- 
 portant subject. On the floor, and running round the 
 walls, was a thin line of sketches and canvases. The 
 shallow, semi-circular window at the farther end of the 
 room was not yet curtained, and the branches of the still 
 leafless plane-tree outside showed darkly in the gather- 
 ing dusk. The room, apart from its one spot of light, 
 struck bare and chill. Except for the "throne" and a 
 few chairs, it contained scarcely any furniture. But, 
 for Phcebe, it was held by two presences. Everything 
 around her spoke of John. Here was his familiar be- 
 longings his clothes that she had mended his books 
 his painting things. And over John's room her hus- 
 band's room the woman in the picture held sway. 
 
 She slowly approached the drawing, while a sob 
 mounted in her throat. She was still in the grip of that 
 violent half-hysterical impulse which had possessed her 
 since the evening of Bella Morrison's visit. Nights al- 
 most sleepless, arrangements made and carried out in a 
 tumult of excitement, a sense of impending tragedy, 
 accepted, and almost welcomed, as the end of long weeks 
 of doubt and self-torment, which had become at last 
 unbearable into this fatal coil of actions and impres- 
 sions, the young wife had been sinking deeper and 
 deeper with each successive hour. She had neither 
 177
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 friend nor adviser. Her father, a weak inarticulate man, 
 was dying; her step-mother hated her; and she had long 
 ceased to write to Miss Anna, because it was she who 
 had urged John to go to London! All sane inference 
 and normal reasoning were now indeed, and had been 
 for some time, impossible to her. Fen wick, possessed by 
 the imaginations of his art, had had no imagination 
 alack! to spend upon his wife's case, and those morbid 
 processes of brain developed in her by solitude, and 
 wounded love, and mortified vanity. One hour with 
 him! one hour of love, scolding, tears would have 
 saved them both. Alone, she was incapable of the 
 merest common-sense. She came prepared to discover 
 the worst to find evidence for all her fears. And for 
 the worst she had elaborately laid her plans. Only if it 
 should turn out that she had been an unkind, unreason- 
 able wife, wrongly suspicious of her husband, was she 
 uncertain what she would do. 
 
 With dry, reddened eyes, she stared at the portrait of 
 the woman who must have stolen John from her. The 
 mere arrangement of the room seemed to her excited 
 nerves a second outrage; Mrs. Gibbs's reception of her 
 and all that it had implied, had been the first. What 
 could this strange illumination mean, but that John's 
 thoughts were taken up with his sitter in an unusual and 
 unlawful way ? For weeks he could leave his wife with- 
 out a letter, a word of affection. But before going out 
 for an hour, he must needs light these lamps and place 
 them so in order that this finicking lady should not feel 
 herself deserted, that he should still seem to be admir- 
 ing and adoring her! 
 
 And after all, was she so pretty? Phcebe looked at 
 178
 
 "WITH DRY, REDDENED EYES, SHE STARED AT THE PORTRAIT OF 
 THE WOMAN WHO MUST HAVE STOLEN JOHN FROM HER."
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 the pale and subtle face, at the hair and eyes so much 
 less brilliant than her own, at the thin figure, and the 
 repose of the hands. Not pretty at all! she said to 
 herself, violently but selfish, and artful, and full, of 
 course, of all the tricks and wiles of "society people." 
 Didn't she know that John was married ? Phoebe scorn- 
 fully refused to believe it. Such women simply didn't 
 care what stood in their way. If they took a fancy to 
 a man, what did it matter whether he were married or 
 no? The poor girl stood there, seething with passion, 
 pluming herself on a knowledge of the world which ena- 
 bled her to "see through" these abominable great 
 ladies. 
 
 But if she didn't know, if Bella Morrison's tale were 
 true, then it was John, on whom Phoebe's rage returned 
 to fling itself with fresh and maddened bitterness. That 
 he should have thus utterly ignored her in his new sur- 
 roundings have never said a word about her to the 
 landlady with whom he had lodged for nearly a year, or 
 to any of his new acquaintances and friends should 
 have deliberately hidden the very fact of his marriage 
 could a husband give a wife any more humiliating proof 
 of his indifference, or of her insignificance in his life ? 
 
 Meanwhile the picture possessed her more and more. 
 Closer and closer she came, her chest heaving. Was it 
 not as though John had foreseen her coming, her com- 
 plaints and had prepared for her this silent, this cruel 
 answer! The big picture of course was gone in to the 
 Academy, but his wife, if she came, was to see that he 
 could not do without Madame de Pastourelles. So the 
 sketch, with which he had finished, really, months ago, 
 was dragged out, and made queen of all it surveyed, be- 
 179
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 cause, no doubt, he was miserable at parting with the 
 picture. Ingenuity and self-torment grew with what 
 they fed on. The burning lamps the solitude the 
 graceful woman, with her slim, fine-lady hands with 
 every moment they became in Phoebe's eyes a more 
 bitter, a more significant offence. Presently, in her 
 foolish agony, she did actually believe that he had 
 thought she might descend upon him, provoked beyond 
 bearing by his silence and neglect, and had carefully 
 planned this infamous way of telling her what he 
 wanted her to know. i 
 
 Waves of unreasoning passion swept across her. The 
 gentleness and docility of her youth had been perhaps 
 mechanical, half -conscious; she came in truth of a hard 
 stock, capable of violence. She put her hands to her 
 face, trembled, and turned away. She began to be 
 afraid of herself. -4 
 
 With a restless hand, as though she caught hold of 
 anything that might distract her from the picture, she 
 began to rummage among the papers on the table. 
 Suddenly her attention pounced upon them; she bent 
 hsr head, took up some and carried them to the lamp. 
 Five or six large envelopes, bearing a crest and mono- 
 gram, addressed in a clear hand, and containing each a 
 long letter she found a packet of these, tied round with 
 string. Throwing off her hat and veil, she sat down 
 under the lamp, and, without an instant's demur, began 
 to read. 
 
 First, indeed, she turned to the signature "Eugdnie 
 
 de Pastourelles." Why, pray, should Madame de Pas- 
 
 tourelles write these long letters to another woman's 
 
 husband? The hands which held them shook with 
 
 180
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 anger and misery. These pages filled with discussion of 
 art and books, which had seemed to the woman of Euro- 
 pean culture, and French associations, so natural to 
 write which had been written as the harmless and 
 kindly occupation of an idle hour, with the shades of 
 Madame de Sevigne and Madame du Deffand standing 
 by, were messengers of terror and despair to this ignorant 
 and yet sentimental Westmoreland girl. Why should 
 they be written at all to her John, her own husband? 
 No nice woman that she had ever known wrote long 
 letters to married men. What could have been the 
 object of writing these pages and pages about John's 
 pictures and John's prospects? affected stuff! and 
 what was the meaning of these appointments to see 
 pictures, these invitations to St. James's Square, these 
 thanks "for the kind and charming things you say" 
 above all, of the constant and crying omission, through- 
 out these delicately written sheets, of any mention what- 
 ever of Fenwick's wife and child. But of course for the 
 two correspondents whom these letters implied, such 
 dull, stupid creatures did not exist. 
 
 Ah! but wait a moment. Her eye caught a sentence 
 then fastened greedily on the following passage: 
 
 "I hardly like to repeat what I said the other day 
 you will think me a very intrusive person! but when 
 you talk of melancholy and loneliness, of feeling the 
 strain of competition, and the nervous burden of work, 
 so that you are sometimes tempted to give it up alto- 
 gether, I can't help repeating that some day a wife will 
 save you from all this. I have seen so much of artists! 
 they of all men should marry. It is quite a delusion to 
 suppose that art whatever art means is enough for 
 181
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 them, or for anybody. Imagination is the most ex- 
 hausting of all professions! and if we women are good 
 for nothing else we can be cushions we can 'stop a 
 chink and keep the wind away.' So pay no attention, 
 please, to my father's diatribes. You will very soon be 
 prosperous sooner perhaps than you think. A home is 
 what you want." 
 
 Kind and simple sentences! written so innocently, 
 and interpreted so perversely! And yet the fierce and 
 blind bewilderment with which Phcebe read or misread 
 them was natural enough. She never doubted for a 
 moment, but that the bad woman who wrote them 
 meant to offer herself to John. She was separated from 
 her husband, John had said, declaring of course that it 
 was not her fault. As if any one could be sure of that! 
 But, at any rate, if she were separated, she might be 
 divorced some time. And then then ! she would be 
 so obliging as to make a "cushion," and a home, for 
 Phcebe Fen wick's husband! As to his not being grand 
 enough for her, that was all nonsense. When a man was 
 as clever as John, he was anybody's equal one saw that 
 every day. No, this creature would make people buy 
 his pictures she would push him on and after a 
 while 
 
 With a morbid and devastating rapidity, a whole 
 scheme by which the woman before her might possess 
 herself of John, unfolded itself in Phoebe's furious mind. 
 
 Yet, surely, it would only want one word from her 
 from her, his wife ? 
 
 She felt herself trembling. Her limbs began to sink 
 under her. She dropped upon a chair, sobbing. What 
 was the use of fighting, of protesting ? John had for- 
 182
 
 Fentoich's Career 
 
 gotten her John's heart had grown cold to her. She 
 might dismay and trample on her rival how would that 
 give her back her husband ? 
 
 Oh, how could he, how could he have treated her so! 
 "I know I was ill-tempered and cross, John I couldn't 
 write letters like that but I did, did love you you 
 know, you know I did!" 
 
 It seemed as though she twined her arms round him, 
 and he sat rigid as a stone, with a hard, contemptuous 
 mouth. A lonely agony, a blackness of despair, seized 
 on Phoebe, as she crouched there, the letters on her lap, 
 her hands hanging, her beautiful eyes, blurred with tears 
 and sleeplessness, fixed on the picture. What she felt 
 was absurd ; but how many tragedies ay, the deepest 
 are at bottom ridiculous! She had lost him ; he cared no 
 more for her ; he had passed into another world out of her 
 ken ; and what was to become of her ? 
 
 She started up, goaded by a blind instinct of revenge, 
 seizing she scarcely knew what. On the table lay a 
 palette, laden with some dark pigment with which Fen- 
 wick had just been sketching in part of his new picture. 
 In a pot beside it were brushes. 
 
 She caught up a large brush, dipped it in the paint, 
 and going to the picture panting and crimson she 
 daubed it from top to bottom, blotting out the eyes, the 
 mouth, the beautiful outline of the head above all, the 
 hands, whose delicate whiteness specially enraged her. 
 
 When the work of wreck was done, she stood a mo- 
 ment gazing at it. Then, violently, she looked for 
 writing-paper. She could see none: but there was an 
 unused half-sheet at the back of one of Madame de Pas- 
 tourelles's letters, and she roughly tore it off. Making 
 183
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 use of a book held on her knee, and finding the pen and 
 ink with which, only half an hour before, Lord Findon 
 had written his check, she began to write: 
 
 "Good-bye, John, I have found out all I want to 
 know, and you will never see me again. I will never be 
 a burden on a man who is ashamed of me, and has be- 
 haved as though I were dead. It is no good wasting 
 words you know it's true. Perhaps you may think I 
 have no right to take Carrie. But I can't be alone and, 
 after all, she is more mine than yours. Don't trouble 
 about me. I have some money, and I mean to support 
 myself and Carrie. It was only last night this idea came 
 to me, though it was the night before that Never 
 mind I can't write about it, it would take too long, and 
 it doesn't really matter to either of us. I don't want 
 you to find me here; you might persuade me to come 
 back to you, and I Jcnow it would be for the misery of 
 both of us. What was I saying? oh, the money 
 Well, last night, a cousin of mine, from Keswick, perhaps 
 you remember him Freddie Tolson came to see me. 
 Father sent him. You didn't believe what I told you 
 about father you thought I was making up. You'll be 
 sorry,! think, when you read this, for by now, most likely, 
 father has passed away. Freddie told me the doctor had 
 given him up, and he was very near going. But he sent 
 Freddie to me, with some money he had really left me in 
 his will only he was afraid Mrs. Gibson would get hold 
 of it, and never let me have it. So he sent it by hand, 
 with his love and blessing and Freddie was to say he 
 was sorry you had left me so long, and he didn't think it 
 was a right thing for a man to do. Never mind how 
 much it was. It's my very own, and I'm glad it comes 
 184
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 from my father, and not from you. I have my embroid- 
 ery money too, and I shall be all right though very, 
 very miserable. The idea of what I would do came into 
 my head while I was talking with Freddie and since I 
 came into this room, I have made up my mind. I'm 
 sorry I can't set you free altogether. There's Carrie to 
 think of, and I must live for her sake. But at any rate 
 you won't have to look after me, or to feel that I'm dis- 
 gracing you with the smart people who have taken you 
 up 
 
 "Don't look for us, for you will never, never find 
 us. 
 
 "Good-bye, John. Do you remember that night in 
 the Ghyll, and all the things we said? 
 
 " I've spoiled your sketch I couldn't help it and I'm 
 not sorry not yet, anyway. She has everything in the 
 world, and I had nothing but you. Why did you leave 
 the lamps? just to mock at me? 
 
 "Good-bye. I have left my wedding-ring on this 
 paper. You'll know I couldn't do that, if I ever meant 
 to come back!" 
 
 She rose, and moved a small table in front of the 
 ruined picture. On it she placed, first, the parcel she 
 had brought with her, which contained papers and small 
 personal possessions belonging to her husband ; in front 
 of the packet she laid the five letters of Madame de Pas- 
 tourelles, her own letter in an envelope addressed to him, 
 and upon it her ring. 
 
 Then she put on her hat and veil, tying the veil closely 
 round her face, and, with one last look round the room, 
 she crept to the door and unlocked it. So quietly did 
 she descend the stairs that Mrs. Gibbs, who was listening
 
 Fentcick's Career 
 
 sharply, with the kitchen door open, for any sound of her 
 departure, heard nothing. The outer door opened and 
 shut without the smallest noise, and the slender, veiled 
 figure was quickly lost in the darkness and the traffic of 
 the street.
 
 PART III 
 After Ttoeloe Years 
 
 1 Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 
 Our fatal shadows that walk by us still."
 
 IX 
 
 "^""NUAND vous arriverez au troisieme, Monsieur, 
 V^/montez, montez toujours! Vous trouverez un 
 petit escalier tournant, en bois. a vous conduira a 
 1' atelier." 
 
 Thus advised by the wife of the concierge, Fenwick 
 crossed the court-yard of an old house in the Rue du Bac, 
 looked up a moment at the sober and distinguished 
 charm of its architecture, at the corniced, many-paned 
 windows, so solidly framed and plentifully lined in white, 
 upon the stone walls, and the high roof, with its lucarne 
 windows just touched with classical decoration; each 
 line and tint contributing to a seemly, restrained whole, 
 as of something much worn by time, yet merely enhanced 
 thereby, something deliberately built, moreover, to stand 
 the years, and abide the judgment of posterity. The 
 house in Saint-Simon's day had belonged to one of those 
 newly ennobled dukes, his contemporaries and would-be 
 brethren, whose monstrous claims to rank with himself 
 and the other real magnificences among the dues 'et pairs 
 de France drove him to distraction. It was now let out 
 to a multitude of families, who began down-stairs in 
 affluence and ended in the genteel or artistic penury of 
 the garrets. The first floor was occupied by a deputy 
 and ex-minister, one of the leaders of the Centre Gauche 
 in the garrets it was possible for a rapin to find a bed- 
 189
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 room at sixteen francs a month. But it was needful that 
 he should be a seemly rapin, orderly and quietly ambi- 
 tious, like the house, otherwise he would not have been 
 long suffered within its tranquil and self-respecting walls. 
 
 Fenwick climbed and climbed, discovered the little 
 wooden staircase, and still climbed. At the very top 
 he found a long and narrow corridor, along which he 
 groped in darkness. Suddenly, at the end, a door 
 opened, and a figure appeared on the threshold. 
 
 "Fenwick! that you? All right! no steps! The 
 floor was left au naturel about 1680 but you won't 
 come to grief." 
 
 Fenwick arrived at the open door, and Dick Watson 
 drew him into the large studio beyond. Fenwick looked 
 round him in astonishment. The room was a huge 
 grenier in the roof of the old house, roughly adapted to 
 the purposes of a studio. A large window to the north 
 had been put in, and the walls had been rudely plastered. 
 But all the blasts of heaven seemed still to blow through 
 them, and through the chinks or under the eaves of the 
 roof ; while in the middle of the floor a pool of water, the 
 remains of a recent heavy shower, testified to the ease 
 with which the weather could enter if it chose. 
 
 "I say " said Fenwick, pointing to the water "can 
 you stand this kind of thing?" 
 
 Watson shivered. 
 
 "Not in this weather. I'm off next week. In the 
 summer it's pleasant enough. Well, it's deuced lucky I 
 caught sight of you at that show yesterday! How are 
 you ? I believe it's nearly two years since we met last." 
 
 "I'm all right," said Fenwick, accepting a shaky seat 
 and a cigarette. 
 
 190
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Watson lighted a fresh one for himself, and then with 
 arms akimbo surveyed his visitor. 
 
 " I've seen you look better. What's the matter ? Have 
 you been working through the summer in London?" 
 
 "I'm all right," Fenwick repeated; then, with a little 
 grimace "or I should be, if I could pay my way, and 
 paint the things I want to paint." He looked up. 
 
 "Well, why don't you?" 
 
 "Because somehow one has to live." 
 
 Watson climbed on to his high stool, still observing 
 his visitor. For a good many years nov/, Fenwick had 
 been always well and carefully dressed an evident Lon- 
 doner, accustomed to drawing-rooms and frequenting 
 expensive tailors. But to-day there was something in 
 his tired, dishevelled look, and comparatively shabby 
 coat, which reminded Watson of years long gone by of 
 a studio in Bernard Street, and a broad -browed, hand- 
 some fellow, with queer manners and a North-country 
 accent. As to good looks, Fenwick's face and head were 
 now far finer than they had been in first youth ; Watson's 
 critical eye took note of it. The hair, touched lightly 
 with gray, had receded slightly on the temples, and the 
 more ample brow, heavily lined, gave a nobler shelter 
 than of old to the still astonishing vivacity of the eyes. 
 The carriage of the head, too, was prouder and more 
 assured. Fenwick, indeed, as far as years went, was, as 
 Watson knew, in the very prime of life. Nevertheless, 
 there was in his aspect, as he sat there, a prophetic note 
 of discouragement, of ebbing vitality which startled his 
 friend. 
 
 "I say," said Watson, abruptly, "you've been over- 
 doing it. Have you made it up with the Academy ?" 
 191
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Fenwick laughed. 
 
 "Goodness, no!" 
 
 "Where have you been exhibiting this year?" 
 
 "At the gallery I always take. And I sent some 
 things to the Grosvenor." 
 
 Watson shook his head. 
 
 "It's an awful pity. You'd got in you should have 
 stayed in and made yourself a power." 
 
 Fenwick's attitude stiffened. 
 
 "I have never regretted it for a single hour except 
 that the scene itself was ridiculous." 
 
 Watson knew very well to what he referred. Some 
 two years before, it had been the nine days' wonder of 
 artistic London. Fenwick, then a newly elected Associate 
 of the Academy, and at what seemed to be the height of 
 his first success as an artist, had sent in a picture to the 
 Spring Exhibition which appeared to the Hanging Com- 
 mittee of the moment a perfunctory thing. They gave 
 it a bad place, and an Academician told Fenwick what 
 had happened. He rushed to Burlington House, tore 
 down his picture from the wall, stormed at the aston- 
 ished members of the Hanging Committee, carried off 
 his property, and vowed that he would resign his Asso- 
 ciateship. He was indeed called upon to do so; and he 
 signalized his withdrawal by a furious letter to the Times 
 in which the rancors, grievances, and contempts of ten 
 checkered and ambitious years found full and rhetorical 
 expression. The letter naturally made a breach be- 
 tween the writer and England's official art. Watson, 
 who was abroad when the whole thing happened, had 
 heard of it with mingled feelings. "It will either make 
 him or finish him!" was his own judgment, founded on 
 192
 
 Fentoicb's Career 
 
 a fairly exhaustive knowledge of John Fenwick ; and he 
 had waited anxiously for results. So far no details had 
 reached him since. Fenwick seemed to be still exhibit- 
 ing, still writing to the papers, and, as far as he knew, 
 still selling. But the aspect of the man before him was 
 not an aspect of prosperity. 
 
 Watson, however, having started a subject which he 
 well knew to be interminable, would instantly have liked 
 to escape from it. He was himself nervous, critical, and 
 easily bored. He did not know what he should do with 
 Fenwick's outpourings when he had listened to them. 
 
 But Fenwick had come over, charged and Watson 
 had touched the spring. He sat there, smoking and de- 
 claiming, his eyes blazing, one hand playing with Wat- 
 son's favorite dog, an Aberdeen terrier who was softly 
 smelling and pushing against him. All that litany of 
 mockery and bitterness, which the Comic Spirit kindles 
 afresh on the lips of each rising generation, only to 
 quench it again on the lips of those who " arrive," flowed 
 from him copiously. He was the age indeed for "arri- 
 val," when, as so often happens, the man of middle life, 
 appeased by success, dismisses the revolts of his youth. 
 But this was still the language and the fierce language 
 of revolt! The decadence of English art and artists, 
 the miserable commercialism of the Academy, the ab- 
 sence of any first - rate teaching, of any commanding 
 traditions, of any "school" worth the name the vul- 
 garity of the public, from royalty downward, the snob- 
 bery of the rich world in its dealing with art: all these 
 jeremiads which he recited were much the same mutatis 
 mutandis as those with which, half a century before, 
 poor Benjamin Haydon had filled the "autobiography" 
 193
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 which is one of the capital "documents" of the artistic 
 life. This very resemblance, indeed, occurred to Watson. 
 
 "Upon my word," he said, with a queer smile "you 
 remind me of Hay don." 
 
 Fenwick started; with an impatient movement he 
 pushed away the dog, who whimpered. 
 
 "Oh, come I hope it's not as bad as that," he said, 
 roughly. 
 
 Watson sharply regretted his remark. Through the 
 minds of both there passed the same image of Haydon 
 lying dead by his own hand beneath the vast pictures 
 that no one would buy. 
 
 " Why you talk like this, I'm sure I don't know," Wat- 
 son said, with an impatient laugh. "I'm always seeing 
 your name in the papers. You have a great reputation, 
 and I don't expect the Academy matters to your 
 clientele." 
 
 Fenwick shook his head. 
 
 " I haven't sold a picture for more than a year except 
 a beastly portrait one of the worst things I ever did." 
 
 "That's bad," said Watson. "Of course that's my 
 state perennially! But you're not used to it." 
 
 Fenwick said nothing, and the delicate sensibility of 
 the other instantly divined that, friends as they were, 
 the comparison with himself had not been at all welcome 
 to his companion. And , indeed , at the time when Watson 
 left England to begin the wandering life he had been 
 leading for some three years, it would have been nothing 
 less than grotesque. Fenwick was then triumphant, in 
 what, it was supposed, would be his " first period " that 
 "young man's success," brilliant, contested, noisy, from 
 which, indeed, many roads led, to many goals; but with 
 194
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 him, at that time, the omens were of the best. His pict- 
 ures were always among the events of the spring exhibi- 
 tions ; he had gathered round him a group of enthusiastic 
 pupils who worked in the studio of the new house ; and 
 he had already received a good many honors at the hands 
 of foreign juries. He was known to be on the threshold 
 of the Academy, and to be making, besides, a good deal 
 of money. "Society" had first admitted him as the 
 protege of Lord Findon and the friend of Madame de 
 Pastourelles, and was now ready to amuse itself with 
 him, independently, as a genius and an " eccentric." He 
 had many enemies; but so have all "fighters." The 
 critics spoke severely of certain radical defects in his 
 work, due to insufficiency of early training; defects 
 which time might correct or stereotype. But the 
 critics "must be talking"; and the public, under the 
 spell of a new and daring talent, appeared to take no 
 notice. 
 
 As these recollections passed through Watson's mind, 
 another expression showed itself in the hollow-cheeked, 
 massive face. It was the look of the visionary who sees 
 in events the strange verification of obscure instincts and 
 divinations in which he himself perhaps has only half 
 believed. He and Fenwick had been friends now in 
 some respects, close friends for a good many years. 
 Of late, they had met rarely, and neither of the men was 
 a good correspondent. But the friendship, the strong 
 sense of congruity and liking, persisted. It had sprung, 
 originally unexpectedly enough from that loan made 
 to Fenwick in his days of stress and poverty; and there 
 were many who prophesied that it would come to an end 
 with Fenwick's success. Watson had no interest in and 
 195
 
 Fenioick's Career 
 
 small tolerance for the prosperous. His connection with 
 Cuningham, in spite of occasional letters, had dropped 
 long ago, ever since that clever Scotch painter had 
 shown himself finally possessed of the usual Scotch 
 power to capture London and a competence. But his 
 liking for Fenwick had never wavered through all the 
 blare of Fenwick's success. 
 
 Was it that the older man with his melancholy Celtic 
 instinct had divined from the first that he and Fenwick 
 were in truth of the same race the race of the etuo-a/^opoi 
 the ill-fated those for whom happiness is not written 
 in the stars ? 
 
 He sat staring at his companion, his eyes dreamily 
 intent, taking note of the restless depression of the man 
 before him, and of the disagreeable facts which emerged 
 from his talk declining reputation, money difficulties, 
 and last and most serious a new doubt of himself and 
 his powers, which Watson never remembered to have 
 noticed in him before. 
 
 "But you must have made a great deal of money!" 
 he said to him once, interrupting him. 
 
 Fenwick turned away uneasily. 
 
 "So I did. But there was the new house and studio. 
 I have been trying to sell the house. But it's a white 
 elephant." 
 
 "Building's the deuce," said Watson, gloomily. "It 
 ruins everybody from Louis Quatorze and Walter Scott 
 downward. Have no barns that's my principle and 
 then you can't pull 'em down and build greater! But, 
 you know, it's all great nonsense, your talking like this! 
 You're as clever as ever cleverer. You've only got to 
 paint and it'll be all right. But, of course, if you will 
 196
 
 Fentoich's Career 
 
 spend all your time in writing letters to the papers, and 
 pamphlets, and that kind of thing well! " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Fenwick took the remark good-temperedly. "I've 
 finished three large pictures in eight months if only 
 somebody would buy 'em. And I'm in Paris now" he 
 hesitated a moment "on a painting job. I've prom- 
 ised C " (he named a well-known actor-manager in 
 
 London) "to help him with the production of a new 
 play! I never did such a thing before but " 
 
 He looked up uncertainly, his color rising. 
 
 "What? scenery for "The Queen's Necklace"? 
 I've seen the puffs in the papers. Why not ? Hope 
 he pays well. Then you're going to Versailles, of 
 course?" 
 
 Fenwick replied that he had taken some rooms at the 
 H6tel des Reservoirs and must make some sketches in 
 the palace; also in the park, and the Trianon garden. 
 Then he rose abruptly. 
 
 "Well, and what have you been after?" 
 
 "The same old machines," said Watson, tranquilly, 
 pointing to a couple of large canvases. "My subjects 
 are no gayer than they used to be. Except that ah, yes 
 I forgot I had a return upon myself this spring and 
 set to work on some 'Bacchantes.'" He stopped, and 
 picked up a canvas which was standing with its face to 
 the wall. 
 
 It represented a dance of Bacchantes. Fenwick looked 
 at it in silence. Watson replaced it with a patient sigh. 
 "The'ophile Gautier said of some other fellow's Bac- 
 chantes that they had got drunk on 'philosophical' 
 wine. He might, I fear, have said it of mine. Anyway, 
 197
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 I felt I was not made for -Bacchantes so I fell back 
 on the usual thing." 
 
 And he showed an "Execution of a Witch" filled 
 with grewsome and poignant detail excellent in some of 
 its ideas and single figures, but as a whole crude, horrible, 
 and weak. 
 
 "I don't improve," he said, abruptly, turning away 
 "But it keeps me contented that and my animals. 
 Anatole! vaurien ! ou es-tu?" 
 
 A small monkey, in a red jacket, who had been sitting 
 unnoticed on the top of a cabinet since Fenwick's en- 
 trance, clattered down to the floor, and, running to his 
 master, was soon sitting on his shoulder, staring at Fen- 
 wick with a pair of grave, soft eyes. Watson caressed 
 him; and then pointed to a wicker cage outside the 
 window in which a pigeon was pecking at some Indian- 
 corn. The cage door was wide open. "She comes to 
 feed here by day. In the morning I wake up and hear 
 her there the darling! In the evening she spreads her 
 wings, and I watch her fly towards Saint-Cloud. No 
 doubt the jade keeps a family there. Oh! some day 
 she'll go like the rest of them and I shall miss her 
 abominably." 
 
 "You seem also to be favored by mice ?" said Fen wick, 
 idly looking at two traps on the floor beside him. 
 
 Watson smiled. 
 
 "My femme de service sets those traps every night. 
 She says we are overrun the greatest nonsense! As if 
 there wasn't enough for all of us! Then in the night 
 I sleep there, you see, behind that screen I wake, and 
 hear some little fool squeaking. So I get up, and take 
 the trap down-stairs in the dark right away down to 
 198
 
 Fenvoick's Career 
 
 the first floor. And there I let the mouse go those folk 
 down there are rich enough to keep him. The only 
 drawback is that my old woman is so cross in the morn- 
 ing, and she spends her life thinking of new traps. Ah, 
 ben ! Je la laisse faire ! " 
 
 "And this place suits you?" 
 
 "Admirably till the cold comes. Then I march. I 
 must have the sun." 
 
 He shivered again. Fenwick, struck by something in 
 his tone, looked at him more closely. 
 
 "How are you, by-the-way?" he asked, repentantly, 
 " I ought to have inquired before. You mentioned con- 
 sulting some big man here. What did he say to 
 you?" 
 
 "Oh, that I am phthisical, and must take care," said 
 Watson, carelessly " that's no news. Ah ! by-the-way" 
 he hurried the change of subject "you know, of 
 course, that Lord Findon and madame are to be at 
 Versailles?" 
 
 "They will be there to-night," said Fenwick, after a 
 moment. 
 
 "Ah! to-night. Then you meet them ?" 
 
 "I shall see them, of course." 
 
 "What a blessed thing to be rid of that fellow! 
 What's she been doing since?" 
 
 Fenwick replied that since the death of her husband 
 about a year before this date Madame de Pastourelles, 
 worn out with nursing, had been pursuing health in 
 Egypt and elsewhere. Her father, step-mother, and sis- 
 ter had been travelling with her. The sister and she 
 were to stay at Versailles till Christmas. It was a place 
 for which Madame de Pastourelles had an old affection. 
 199
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "And I suppose you know that you will find the 
 Welbys there too?" 
 
 Fenwick made a startled movement. "The Welbys? 
 How did you hear that?" 
 
 "I had my usual half-yearly letter from Cuningham 
 yesterday. He's the fellow for telling you the news. 
 Welby has begun a big picture of Marie Antoinette, at 
 Trianon, and has taken a studio in Versailles for the 
 winter." 
 
 Fenwick turned away and began to pace the bare floor 
 of the studio. 
 
 "I didn't know," he said, evidently discomposed. 
 
 " By-the-way, I have often meant to ask you. I trust 
 he wasn't mixed up in the 'hanging' affair?" said Wat- 
 son, with a quick look at his companion. 
 
 " He was ill the day it was done, but in my opinion he 
 behaved in an extremely mean and ungenerous manner 
 afterwards!" exclaimed Fenwick, suddenly flushing from 
 brow to chin. 
 
 "You mean he didn't support you?" 
 
 " He shilly-shalleyed. He thought I have very good 
 reason to believe that I had been badly treated that 
 there was personal feeling in the matter resentment of 
 things that I had written and so on but he would 
 never come out into the open and say so!" 
 
 The excitement with which Fenwick spoke made it 
 evident that Watson had touched an extremely sore 
 point. 
 
 Watson was silent a little, lit another cigarette, and 
 then said, with a smile: 
 
 "Poor Madame de Pastourelles!" 
 
 Fenwick looked up with irritation. 
 200
 
 Feniick'8 Career 
 
 "What on earth do you mean?" 
 
 " I am wondering how she kept the peace between you 
 her two great friends." 
 
 "She sees very little of Welby." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! Since when ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh! for a long time. Of course they meet occa- 
 sionally " 
 
 A big, kindly smile flickered over Watson's face. 
 
 "What was little Madame Welby jealous?" 
 
 "She would be a great goose if she were," said Fen- 
 wick, turning aside to look through some sketches that 
 lay on a chair beside him. 
 
 Watson shook his head, still smiling, then remarked: 
 
 "By-the-wey, I understand she has become quite an 
 invalid." 
 
 "Has she?" said Fenwick. "I know nothing of 
 them." 
 
 Watson began to talk of other things. But as he and 
 Fenwick discussed the pictures on the easels, or Fen- 
 wick's own projects, as they talked of Manet, and Zola's 
 L'CEuvre, and the Goncourts, as they compared the state 
 of painting in London and Paris, employing all the latest 
 phrases, both of them astonishingly well informed as to 
 men and tendencies Watson as an outsider, Fenwick 
 as a passionate partisan, loathing the Impressionists, 
 denouncing a show of Manet and Renoir recently opened 
 at a Paris dealer's Watson's inner mind was really full 
 of Madame de Pastourelles, and that salon of hers in the 
 old Westminster house in Dean's Yard, of which during 
 so many years Fenwick had made one of the principal 
 figures. It should perhaps be explained that some two 
 years after Fenwick's arrival in London, Madame de
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Pastourelles had thought it best to establish a little 
 menage of her own, distinct from the household in St. 
 James's Square. Her friends and her step-mother's 
 were not always congenial to one another ; and in many 
 ways both Lord Findon and she were the happier for 
 the change. Her small panelled rooms had quickly be- 
 come the meeting-place of a remarkable and attractive 
 society. Watson himself, indeed, had never been an 
 hdbitu of that or any other drawing-room. As he had 
 told Lord Findon long ago, he was not for the world, nor 
 the world for him. But whereas his volatile lordship 
 could never draw him from his cell, Lord Findon's daugh- 
 ter was sometimes irresistible, and Watson's great shaggy 
 head and ungainly person had occasionally been to be 
 seen beside her fire, in the years before he left London. 
 He had, therefore, been a spectator of Fenwick's gradual 
 transformation at the hands of a charming woman; he 
 had marked the stages of the process ; and he knew well 
 that it had never excited a shadow of scandal in the 
 minds of any reasonable being. All the same, the deep 
 store of hidden sentiment which this queer idealist pos- 
 sessed had been touched by the position. The young 
 woman isolated and childless, so charming, so nobly sin- 
 cere, so full of heart was she to be always Ariadne, and 
 forsaken? The man excitable, nervous, selfish, yet, in 
 truth, affectionate and dependent what folly, or what 
 chivalry kept him unmarried ? Ever since the death of 
 M. le Comte de Pastourelles, dreams concerning these 
 two people had been stirring in the brain of Watson, and 
 these dreams spoke now in the dark eyes he bent on 
 Fenwick. 
 
 Presently, Fenwick began to talk gloomily of the death
 
 Fentoich's Career 
 
 of his old Bernard Street landlady, who had become his 
 housekeeper and factotum in the new Chelsea house and 
 studio, which he had built for himself. 
 
 "I don't know what I shall do without her. For 
 eleven years I've never paid a bill or engaged a servant 
 for myself. She's done everything. Every morning she 
 used to give me my pocket-money for the day." 
 
 "The remedy, after all, is simple," said Watson, with 
 a sudden turn of the head. 
 
 Fenwick raised his eyebrows interrogatively. 
 
 "I imagine that what Mrs. Gibbs did well, 'Mrs. Fen- 
 wick' might do even better n'est-ce pas?" 
 
 Fenwick sprang up. 
 
 "Mrs. ?" he repeated, vaguely. 
 
 He stood a moment bending over Watson his eyes 
 staring, his mouth open. Then he controlled himself. 
 
 "You talk as though she were round the corner," he 
 said, turning away and buttoning his coat afresh. "But 
 please understand, my dear fellow, that she is not round 
 the corner, nor likely to be." 
 
 He spoke with a hard emphasis, smiling, and slapping 
 the breast of his coat. 
 
 Watson looked at him and said no more. 
 
 Fenwick walked rapidly along the Quai Voltaire, 
 crossed the Pont Neuf, and found himself inside the 
 enclosure of the Louvre. Twenty minutes to four. 
 Some impulse, born of the seething thoughts within, 
 took him to the door of the Muse"e. He mounted 
 rapidly, and found himself in the large room devoted 
 to the modern French school. 
 
 He went straight to two pictures by Hippolyte 
 203
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 Flandrin "Madame Vinet" and "Portrait de Jeune 
 Fille." When, in the first year of his London life, he 
 had made his hurried visits to Paris, these pictures, then 
 in the Luxembourg, had been among those which had 
 most vitally affected him. The beautiful surface and 
 keeping which connected them with the old tradition, 
 together with the modern spirit, the trenchant simplicity 
 of their portraiture, had sent him back eager and pal- 
 pitating to his own work on the picture of Madame de 
 Pastourelles, or on the last stages of the "Genius Loci." 
 
 He looked into them now, sharply, intently, his heart 
 beating to suffocation under the stress of that startling 
 phrase of Watson's. Still tremulous as one in flight 
 he made himself recognize certain details of drawing and 
 modelling in " Madame Vinet " which had given him hints 
 for the improvement of the portrait of Phoebe; and, 
 again, the ease with which the head moves on its shoul- 
 ders, its relief, its refinement how he had toiled to rival 
 them in his picture of Madame Euge'nie! translating as 
 he best could the cold and disagree'able color of the 
 Ingres school into the richer and more romantic handling 
 of an art influenced by Watts and Burne- Jones! 
 
 Then he passed on to the young girl's portrait the girl 
 in white muslin, turning away her graceful head from 
 the spectator, and showing thereby the delicacy of her 
 profile, the wealth of her brown hair, the beauty of her 
 young and virginal form. Suddenly, his eyes clouded; 
 he turned abruptly away, left the room without looking 
 at another picture, and was soon hurrying through the 
 crowded streets northward towards the Gare St. Lazare. 
 
 Carrie! his child! his own flesh and blood. His 
 heart cried out for her. Watson's brusquene the young 
 204
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 girl of the picture and his own bitter and disappointed 
 temper they had all their share in the emotion which 
 possessed him. 
 
 The child whom he remembered, with her mother's 
 eyes, and that light mutinous charm,, which was not 
 Phoebe's why, she was now seventeen! a little younger 
 only a little younger, than the girl of the portrait. His 
 longing fancy pursued her saw her a wild, pretty, 
 laughing thing, nearly a woman and then fell back 
 passionately on a more familiar image! of the baby at 
 his knee, open-mouthed, her pink lips rounded for the 
 tidbit just about to descend upon them, her sweet and 
 sparkling eyes fixed upon her father. 
 
 " My God! where are they ? are they alive, or dead ? 
 How cruel cruel!" And he ground his teeth in one of 
 those paroxysms which every now and then, at long 
 intervals, represented the return upon him of the inde- 
 structible past. Often for months together it meant 
 little or nothing to him, but the dull weight of his secret; 
 twelve years had inevitably deadened feeling, and filled 
 the mind with fresh interests, while of late the tumult of 
 his Academy and Press campaign had silenced the steal- 
 ing, distant voices. Yet there were moments when all 
 was as fresh and poignant as it had been in the first 
 hours, when Phcebe, with her golden head and her light, 
 springing step, seemed to move beside him, and he felt 
 the drag of a small hand in his. 
 
 He stiffened himself like one attacked. The ghosts 
 of dead hours came trooping and eddying round him, 
 like the autumn leaves that had begun to strew the Paris 
 streets all the scenes of that first ghastly week when he 
 had hunted in desperation for his lost wife and child. 
 205
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 His joyous return from Chelsea, on the evening of his 
 good-fortune Mrs. Gibbs's half-sulky message on the 
 door-step that "Mrs. Fenwick" was in the studio his 
 wild rush up -stairs the empty room, the letter, the ring: 
 his hurried journey North the arrival at the Langdale 
 cottage, only to find on the table of the deserted parlor 
 another letter from Phoebe, written before she left West- 
 moreland, in the prevision that he would come there in 
 search of a clew, and urging him for both their sakes to 
 make no scandal, no hue and cry, to accept the inevi- 
 table, and let her go in peace his interview with the ser- 
 vant Daisy, who had waited with the child in a hotel 
 close to Euston, while Phcebe went to Bernard Street, 
 and had been sent back to the North immediately after 
 Phoebe's return, without the smallest indication of what 
 her mistress meant to do his fruitless consultations 
 with Anna Mason! the whole dismal story rose before 
 him, as it was wont to do periodically, filling him with 
 the same rage, the same grief, the same fierce and inex- 
 tinguishable resentment. 
 
 Phcebe had destroyed his life. She had not only 
 robbed him of herself and of their child, she had forced 
 him into an acted lie which had poisoned his whole 
 existence, and, first and foremost, that gracious and 
 beautiful friendship which was all, save his art, that she 
 had left him. For, in the first moments of his despair 
 and horror, he had remembered what it would mean to 
 Madame de Pastourelles, did she ever know that his mad 
 wife had left him out of jealousy of her. He was not 
 slow to imagine the effect of Phoebe's action on that 
 proud, pure nature and sensitive conscience; and he 
 knew what she and her father must feel towards the 
 206
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 deception which had led her into such a position, and 
 made such a tragedy possible. He foresaw her recoil, 
 her bitter condemnation, the final ruin of the relation 
 between himself and her; and yet more than these did 
 he dread her pain, her causeless, innocent pain. To stab 
 the hand which had helped him, the heart which had 
 already suffered so much in the very first hours of his 
 own shock and misery, he had shrunk from this, he had 
 tried his best to protect Madame de Pastourelles. 
 
 Hence the compact with his landlady, by which he 
 had in fact bribed her to silence, and transformed her 
 into a devoted servant always under his eye: hence the 
 various means by which he had found it possible to quiet 
 the members of his own family and of Phoebe's needy 
 folk, most of them, cannily unwilling to make an enemy 
 of a man who was likely, so they understood, to be rich, 
 and who already showed a helpful disposition. When 
 once he had convinced himself that he had no clew, and 
 that Phcebe had disappeared, it had not been difficult 
 indeed to keep his secret, and to hide the traces of his 
 own wrong-doing, his own share in the catastrophe. Be- 
 tween Phoebe's world and the world in which he was 
 now to live, there were few or no links. Bella Morrison 
 might have supplied one. But she and her mother had 
 moved to Guernsey, and a year after Phoebe's flight 
 Fenwick ascertained that old Mrs. Morrison was dead, 
 and that Bella had gone to South America as companion 
 to a lady. 
 
 So in an incredibly short time the crisis was over. 
 
 The last phase was connected with the cousin Freddie 
 
 Tolson who had visited Phcebe the night before her 
 
 journey to London, and was now in New South Wales. 
 
 207
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 A letter from Fenwick to this young man, containing a 
 number of questions as to his conversation with Phoebe, 
 and written immediately after Phoebe's flight, obtained 
 an answer after some three or four months, but Tolson's 
 reply was wholly unprofitable. He merely avowed that 
 he had discovered nothing at all of Phoebe's intention, 
 and could throw no light whatever upon her disappear- 
 ance. The letter was laboriously written by a man of 
 imperfect education, and barely covered three loosely 
 written sides of ordinary note-paper. It arrived when 
 Fenwick's own researches were already at a stand-still, 
 and seemed to leave nothing more to hope for. The 
 police inquiries which had been initiated went on inter- 
 mittently for a while, then ceased; the waters of life 
 closed over Phoebe Fenwick and her child. 
 
 What was Fenwick's present feeling towards his wife ? 
 If amid this crowded Paris he had at last beheld her com- 
 ing to him, had seen the tall figure, and the childish look, 
 and the lovely pleading eyes, would his heart have leaped 
 within him ? would his hands have been out-stretched to 
 enfold and pardon her ? or would he have looked at her 
 sombrely, unable to pass the gulf between them to for- 
 get what she had done. 
 
 In truth, he could not have answered the question ; he 
 was uncertain of himself. Her act, by its independence, 
 its force of will, and the ability she had shown in planning 
 and carrying it out, had transformed his whole concep- 
 tion of her. In a sense, he knew her no longer. That 
 she could do a thing at once so violent and so final, 
 was so wholly out of keeping with all his memories of 
 her, that he could only think of the woman who had 
 208
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 come in his absence to the Bernard Street studio, and 
 defaced the sketch of Madame de Pastourelles, as in some 
 sort a stranger one whom, were she to step back into 
 his life, he would have had to learn afresh. Sometimes, 
 when anything reminded him of her suddenly as, for 
 instance, the vision in a shop-window of the very popular 
 mezzotint which had been made from the "Genius Loci" 
 the year after its success in the Academy the pang from 
 which he suffered would seem to show that he still loved 
 her, as indeed he had always loved her, through all the 
 careless selfishness of his behavior. But, again, there 
 were many months when she dropped altogether or 
 seemed to drop out of his mind and memory, when he 
 was entirely absorbed in the only interests she had left 
 him his art, his quarrels, and his relation to Eugdnie de 
 Pastourelles. 
 
 There was a time, indeed some two or three years 
 after the catastrophe when he passed through a stage 
 of mental and moral tumult, natural to a man of strong 
 passions and physique. Even in their first married life, 
 Phcebe had been sometimes jealous, and with reason. 
 It was her memory of these occasions that had predis- 
 posed her to the mad suspicion which wrecked her. And 
 when she had deserted him, he came violently near, on 
 one or two occasions, to things base and irreparable. 
 But he was saved first by the unconscious influence, 
 the mere trust, of a good woman and, secondly, by his 
 keen and advancing intelligence. Dread lest he should 
 cast himself out of Eugenie's delightful presence; and 
 the fighting life of the mind : it was by these he was res- 
 cued, by these he ultimately conquered. 
 
 And yet, was it, perhaps, his bitterest grievance 
 209
 
 Fenuoick's Career 
 
 against his wife that she had, in truth, left him nothing ! 
 not even friendship, not even art. In so wrenching 
 herself from him, she had perpetuated in him that ex- 
 citable and unstable temper it should have been her first 
 object to allay, and had thus injured and maimed his 
 artistic power; while at the same time she had so 
 troubled, so falsified his whole attitude towards the 
 woman who on his wife's disappearance from his life 
 had become naturally and insensibly his dearest friend, 
 that not even the charm of Madame de Pastourelles' 
 society, of her true, delicate, and faithful affection, 
 could give him any lasting happiness. He himself had 
 begun the falsification, but it was Phoebe's act which 
 had prolonged and compelled it, through twelve years. 
 
 For a long time, indeed, his success as an artist stead- 
 ily developed. The very energy of his resentment his 
 inner denunciation of his wife's flight, the very force 
 of his fierce refusal to admit that he had given her the 
 smallest real justification for such a step, had quickened 
 in him for a time all the springs of life. Through his 
 painting, as we have seen, he wrestled out his first bat- 
 tles with fate and with temptation ; and those early years 
 were the years of his artistic triumph, as they were also 
 the years of Madame de Pastourelles' strongest influence 
 upon him. But the concealment on which his life was 
 based, the tragedy at the heart of it, worked like " a worm 
 i' the bud." The first check to his artistic career the 
 "hanging" incident and its sequel produced an effect 
 of shock and disintegration out of all proportion to its 
 apparent cause inexplicable indeed to the spectators. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles wondered, and sorrowed. 
 But she could do nothing to arrest the explosion of 
 210
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 egotism, arrogance, and passion which Fenwick allowed 
 himself, after his breach with the Academy. The obscure 
 causes of it were hidden from her; she could only pity 
 and grieve; and Fenwick, unable to satisfy her, unable 
 to re-establish his own equilibrium, full of remorse tow- 
 ards her, and of despair about his art, whereof the best 
 forces and inspirations seemed to have withered within 
 him like a gourd in the night, went from one folly to 
 another, while his pictures steadily deteriorated, his 
 affairs became involved, and a shrewd observer like Lord 
 Findon wondered who or what the deuce had got hold of 
 him whether he had begun to take morphia or had 
 fallen into the clutches of a woman. 
 
 In the midst of these developments, so astonishing 
 and disappointing to Fenwick's best friends, Euge'nie de 
 Pastourelles was suddenly summoned to the death-bed 
 of the husband from whom she had been separated for 
 nearly fifteen years. It was now nearly twelve months 
 since Fenwick had seen her; and it was his eagerness to 
 meet her again, much more than the necessities of his 
 new commission, which had brought him out post-haste 
 to Paris' and Versailles, where, indeed, Lord Findon, in a 
 kind letter, had suggested that he should join them. 
 
 Amid these memories and agitations, he found himself 
 presently at the Gare St. Lazare, taking his ticket at the 
 guichet. It was characteristic of him that he bought a 
 first-class return without thinking of it, and then, when 
 he found himself pompously alone in his compartment, 
 while crowds were hurrying into the second-class, he re- 
 proached himself for extravagance, and passed the whole 
 journey in a fume of discomfort. For eight or nine 
 
 15 211
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 years he had been rich ; and he loathed the small ways of 
 poverty. 
 
 Versailles was in the glow of an autumn sunset, as he 
 walked from the station to the famous Hdtel des Re"ser- 
 voirs on the edge of the Park. The white houses, the 
 wide avenues, the chateau on its hill, were steeped in 
 light a light golden, lavish, and yet melancholy, as 
 though the autumn day still remembered the October 
 afternoon when Marie Antoinette turned to look for the 
 last time at the lake and the woods of Trianon. 
 
 As Fenwick crossed the Rue de la Paroisse, a lady on 
 the other side of the road, who was hurrying in the op- 
 posite direction, stopped suddenly at sight of him, and 
 stared excitedly. She was a woman no longer young, 
 much sunburned, with high cheek-bones and a florid 
 complexion. He did not notice her, and after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation she resumed her walk. 
 
 He went into the Park, where the statues shone flame- 
 like amid the bronze and orange of the trees, where the 
 water of the fountains was dyed in blue and rose, and 
 all the faded magnificence and decaying grace of the 
 vast incomparable scene were kindling into an hour's 
 rich life, under the last attack of the sun. He wandered 
 awhile, restless and unhappy yet always counting the 
 hours till he should see the slight, worn figure which for 
 a year had been hidden from him. 
 
 He dined in the well-known restaurant, wandered 
 again in the mild dusk, then mounted to his room and 
 worked awhile at some of the sketches he was making 
 for his new commission. While he was so engaged, a 
 carriage drew up below, and two persons descended. 
 He recognized Lord Findon, much aged and whitened
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 in these last years. The lady in deep mourning behind 
 him paused a moment on the broad pathway, and looked 
 round her, at the hill of the chateau, at the bright lights 
 in the restaurant. She threw back her veil, and Fen- 
 wick's heart leaped as he recognized the spiritual beauty, 
 the patient sweetness of a face which through twelve 
 troubled years had kept him from evil and held him to 
 good had been indeed "the master light" of all his 
 seeing. 
 
 And to his best and only friend he had lied, persistent- 
 ly and unforgivingly, for twelve years. There was the 
 sting and there the pity of it.
 
 EUGENIE DE PASTOURELLES was sitting on 
 the terrace at Versailles. Or rather she was estab- 
 lished in one of the deep embrasures between the win- 
 dows, on the western side. The wind was cold, but 
 again a glorious sun bathed the terrace and the chateau. 
 It was a day of splendor a day when heaven and earth 
 seemed to have conspired to natter and to adorn the vast 
 creation of Louis Quatorze, this white, flaming palace, 
 amid the gold and bronze of its autumn trees, and the 
 blue of its waters. Superb clouds, of a royal sweep and 
 amplitude, sailed through the brilliant sky; the woods 
 that girdled the horizon were painted broadly and solidly 
 in the richest color upon an immense canvas steeped in 
 light. In some of the nearer alleys which branch from 
 the terrace, the eye travelled through a deep magnifi- 
 cence of shade, to an arched and framed sunlight beyond, 
 embroidered with every radiant or sparkling color; in 
 others, the trees, almost bare, met lightly arched above 
 a carpet of intensest green a tapis vert stretching tow- 
 ards a vaporous distance, and broken by some god, or 
 nymph, on whose white shoulders the autumn leaves 
 ware dropping softly one by one. 
 
 Wide horizons, infinitely clear a blazing intensity of 
 light, beating on the palace, the gardens, the statues, and 
 the distant water of the " Canal de Versailles " each tint 
 214
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 and outline, sharp and vehement, full-bodied and rich 
 the greenest greens, the bluest blues, the most dazzling 
 gold: this was Versailles, as Eugenie saw it, on this 
 autumn day And through it all, the blowing of a harsh 
 and nipping wind sounded the first approach of winter, 
 still defied, as it were, by these bright woods decked for a 
 last festival. 
 
 It was the 5th of October the very anniversary of 
 the day when Marie Antoinette, sitting alone beside the 
 lake at Trianon, was startled by a page from the chateau 
 bringing the news of the arrival of the Paris mob, and 
 the urgent summons to return at once; the day when 
 she passed the Temple of Love, gleaming amid the quiet 
 streams, for the last time, and fled back through the 
 leafy avenues leading to Versailles, under a sky cloudy 
 and threatening rain which was remembered by a later 
 generation as blending fitly with the first act of that 
 most eminent tragedy "The Fall of the House of 
 France." 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles had in her hand a recent 
 book in which a French man of letters, both historian 
 and poet, had told once again the most piteous of stories; 
 a story, however, which seemed then, and still seems, 
 to be not even yet ripe for history so profound and 
 living are the sympathies and the passions which to this 
 day surround it in France. 
 
 Eugenie had closed the book, and her eyes, as they 
 looked out upon the astonishing light and shade of the 
 terrace and its surroundings, had filled, unconsciously, 
 with tears, not so much for Marie Antoinette, as for 
 all griefs! for this duped, tortured, struggling life of 
 ours for the "mortalia" which grip all hearts, which 
 2I 5
 
 Pcntoick's Career 
 
 none escape pain, and separation, and remorse, hopes 
 deceived, and promise mocked, decadence in one's self, 
 change in others, and that iron gentleness of death which 
 closes all. 
 
 For nearly a year she had been trying to recover her 
 forces after an experience which had shaken her being 
 to its depths. Not because, when she went to nurse his 
 last days, she had any love left, in the ordinary sense, 
 for her ruined and debased husband; but because of 
 that vast power of pity, that genius for compassion to 
 which she was born. Not a tremor of body or soul, not 
 a pang of physical or spiritual fear, but she had passed 
 through them, in common with the man she upheld; a 
 man who, like Louis the Well-Beloved, former master 
 of the building beneath whose shadow she was sitting, 
 was ready to grovel for her pardon, when threatened 
 with a priest and the last terrors, and would have recalled 
 his mistress, rejoicing, with the first day of recovered 
 health. 
 
 He and she had asked for respite in vain however; 
 and M. de Pastourelles slept with his fathers. 
 
 Since his death, her strength had failed her. There 
 had been no definite illness, but a giving way for some 
 six or seven months of nature's resisting powers. Also 
 significant sign of the strength of all her personal 
 affections! in addition to the moral and physical strain 
 she had undergone, she had suffered much about this 
 time from the loss of her maid, an old servant and de- 
 voted friend, who left her shortly after M. de Pastour- 
 elles's death incited, forced thereto by Eugenie in 
 order to marry and go out to Canada. Eugenie had 
 missed her sorely; and insensibly, the struggle to get 
 216
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 well had been the harder. The doctors ordered travel 
 and change, and she had wandered from place to place, 
 only half -conscious, as it often seemed to her; the most 
 docile of patients; accompanied now by one member 
 of the family, now by another; standing as it were, like 
 the bather who has wandered too far from shore, be- 
 tween the onward current which means destruction, and 
 that backward struggle of the will which leads to life. 
 And little by little the tide of being had turned. After 
 a winter in Egypt, strength had begun to come back; 
 since then Switzerland and high air had quickened re- 
 covery ; and now, physically, Eugenie was almost herself 
 again. 
 
 But morally, she retained a deep and lasting impress 
 of what she had gone through. More than ever was she 
 a creature of tenderness, of the most delicate perceptions, 
 of a sensibility, as our ancestors would have called it, too 
 great for this hurrying world. Her unselfishness, always 
 one of her cradle-gifts, had become almost superhuman; 
 and had she been of another temperament, the men and 
 women about her might have instinctively shrunk from 
 her, as too perfect now for human nature's daily food. 
 But from that she was saved by a score of most woman- 
 ish, most mundane qualities. Nobody knew her, luckily, 
 for the saint she was; she herself least of all. As her 
 strength renewed itself, her soft fun, too, came back, her 
 gentle, inexhaustible delight in the absurdities of men 
 and things, which gave to her talk and her personality 
 a kind of crackling charm, like the crispness of dry 
 leaves upon an autumn path. Naturally, and invinci- 
 bly, she loved life and living; all the high forces and 
 emotions called to her, but also all the patches, stains, 
 217
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 and follies of this queer world; and there is no saint, 
 man or woman, of whom this can be said, that has ever 
 repelled the sinners. It is the difference between St. 
 Francis and St. Dominic! 
 
 How very little all the same could Eugenie feel 
 herself with the saints, on this October afternoon! She 
 sat, to begin with, on the threshold of Madame de Pom- 
 padour's apartment; and in the next place, she had 
 never been more tremulously steeped in doubts and 
 yearnings, entirely concerned with her friends and her 
 affections. It was a re-birth ; not of youth how could 
 that be, she herself would have asked, seeing that she 
 was now thirty-seven? but of the natural Eugenie, 
 who, "intellectual" though she were, lived really by the 
 heart, and the heart only. And since it is the heart that 
 makes youth and keeps it it was a return of youth 
 and of beauty that had come upon her. In her black 
 dress and shady hat, her collar and cuffs of white lawn, 
 she was very discreetly, quietly beautiful; the passer-by 
 did not know what it was that had touched and delight- 
 ed him, till she had gone, and he found himself, per- 
 haps, looking after the slim yet stately figure; but it was 
 beauty none the less. And the autumn violets, her sis- 
 ter's gift, that were fastened to-day in profusion at her 
 waist, marked in truth the re-awakening of buried things, 
 of feminine instincts long repressed. For months, her 
 maid Fanchette had dressed her, and she had worn 
 obediently all the long crape gowns and veils dictated 
 by the etiquette of French mourning. But to-day she 
 had chosen for herself; and in this more ordinary garb, 
 she was vaguely sometimes remorsefully conscious of 
 relief and deliverance. 
 
 218
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 Two subjects filled her mind. First, a conversation 
 with Fenwick that she had held that morning, strolling 
 through the upper alleys of the Park. Poor friend, poor 
 artist! Often and often, during her wanderings, had her 
 thoughts dwelt anxiously on his discontents and calami- 
 ties ; she had made her sister or her father write to him 
 when she could not write herself though Lord Findon 
 indeed had been for long much out of patience with him ; 
 and during the last few months she herself had written 
 every week. But she had never felt so clearly the inex- 
 orable limits of her influence with him. This morning, 
 just as of old, he had thrown himself tempestuously upon 
 her advice,her sympathy ; and she had given him counsel 
 as she best could. But a woman knows when her coun- 
 sel is likely to be followed, or no. Eugenie had no illu- 
 sions. In his sore, self -tormented state he was, she saw, 
 at the mercy of any passing idea, of anything that seemed 
 to offer him vengeance on his enemies, or the satisfaction 
 of a vanity that writhed under the failure he was all the 
 time inviting and assuring. 
 
 Yet as she thought of him, she liked him better than 
 ever. He might be perverse, yet he appealed to her 
 profoundly! The years of his success had refined and 
 civilized him no doubt, but they had tended to make 
 him like anybody else. Whereas this passionate accent 
 of revolt as of some fierce helpless creature, struggling 
 blindly in bonds of its own making had perhaps re- 
 stored to him that more dramatic element which his 
 personality had possessed in his sulky , gifted youth. He 
 had expressed himself with a bitter force on the decline 
 of his inspiration and the weakening of his will. He 
 was going to the dogs, he declared; had lost all his hold 
 219
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 on the public ; and had nothing more to say or to paint. 
 And she had been very, very sorry for him, but conscious 
 all the time that he had never been so eloquent, and 
 never in such good looks, what with the angry energy of 
 the eyes, and the sweep of grizzled hair across the power- 
 ful brow, and the lines cut by life and thought round the 
 vigorous, impatient mouth. How could he be at once so 
 able and so childish! Her woman's wit pondered it; 
 while at the same time she remembered with emotion 
 the joy with which he had greeted her, his eager, stam- 
 mering sympathy, his rough grasp of her hand, his 
 frowning scrutiny of her pale face. 
 
 Yes, he was a great, great friend and, somehow, she 
 must help him! Her lips parted in a sigh of aspiration. 
 If only this unlucky thing had not happened! this 
 meeting of Arthur and of Fenwick, before the time, be- 
 fore she had prepared and engineered it. 
 
 And so she came to her second topic of meditation. 
 Gradually as her mind pursued it, her aspect seemed to 
 lose its new and tremulous brightness ; the face became 
 once more a little gray and pinched. They had some- 
 how missed all the letters which should have warned 
 them. To find Arthur established here, with his poor 
 invalid wife nothing had been more unexpected, and, 
 alack, more unwelcome, considering the relations be- 
 tween them and John Fenwick Fenwick who was prac- 
 tically her father's guest and hers. 
 
 Did Arthur think it strange, unkind? Wouldn't he 
 really believe that it was pure accident! If so, it would 
 be only because Elsie was there, influencing him against 
 his old friends poor, bitter, stricken Elsie. Eugenie's 
 lips quivered. There flitted before her the image of the 
 220
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 girl of eighteen muse of laughter and delight. And she 
 recalled the taciturn woman whom she had seen on her 
 sofa the night before, speaking coldly, in dry, sharp sen- 
 tences, to her husband, her cousin, her maid evidently 
 unhappy and in pain. 
 
 Euge"me shaded her eyes from the light of the terrace. 
 Her heart seemed to be sinking, contracting. Mrs. 
 Welby had been already ill, and therewith jealous and 
 tyrannical, for some little time before Madame de Pas- 
 tourelles had been summoned to the death-bed of her 
 husband! But now! Eugdnie shrank aghast before 
 what she saw and what she guessed. 
 
 And it was, too, as if the present state of things as 
 if the new hardness in Elsie's eyes, and the strange 
 hostility of her manner, especially towards the Findons, 
 and her cousin Eugenie threw light on earlier years, 
 on many a puzzling trait and incident of the past. 
 
 There had been a terrible confinement, at the end of 
 years of childlessness a still-born child and then, after 
 a short apparent recovery, a rapid loss of strength and 
 power. Poor, poor Elsie! But why why should this 
 trouble have awakened in her this dumb tyranny tow- 
 ards Arthur, this alienation from Arthur's friends ? 
 
 Eugenie sharply drew herself together. She banished 
 her thoughts. Elsie was young, and would get well. 
 And when she recovered, she would know who were her 
 friends, and Arthur's. 
 
 A figure came towards her, crossing the parterre d'eau. 
 She perceived her father just released, no doubt, from 
 two English acquaintances with whom he had been ex- 
 ploring the "Bosquet d'Apollon." 
 
 He hurried towards her a tall Don Quixote of a man. 
 221
 
 Pentoick's Career 
 
 gaunt, active, gray-haired, with a stride like a youth of 
 eighteen, and the very minimum of flesh on his well-hung 
 frame. Lord Findon had gone through many agitations 
 during the last ten or twelve years. In his own opinion, 
 he had upset a ministry, he had re-created the army, and 
 saved the colonies to the empire. That history was not 
 as well aware of these feats as it should be, he knew ; but 
 in the memoirs, of which there were now ten volumes 
 privately printed in his drawer, he had provided for that. 
 Meanwhile, in the rush of his opinions and partisanships, 
 two things at least had persisted unchanged his adora- 
 tion for Eugenie and his belief that if only man and 
 much more woman would but exchange "gulping" for 
 "chewing" would only, that is to say, reform their 
 whole system of mastication, and thereby of digestion, 
 the world would be another and a happier place. 
 
 He came up now, frowning, and out of temper. 
 
 "Upon my word, Eugenie, the blindness of some peo- 
 ple is too amazing!" 
 
 "Is it? Sit down, papa, and look at that!" 
 
 She pushed a chair towards him, smiling, and pointed 
 to the terrace, the woods, the sky. 
 
 " It's all very well, my dear," said Lord Findon, seat- 
 ing himself "but this place tries me a good deal." 
 
 "Because the ladies in the restaurant are so stout?" 
 said Euge'nie. " Dear papa somebody must keep these 
 cooks in practice!" 
 
 "Never did I see such spectacles!" said Lord Findon, 
 fuming. "And when one knows that the very smallest 
 attention to their diet and they might be sylphs again 
 as young as their grandchildren! it's really disheart- 
 ening." 
 
 222
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "It is," said Eugenie. "Shall we announce a little 
 conference in the salon? I'm sure the ladies would 
 flock." 
 
 "The amount the French eat is appalling!" exclaimed 
 Lord Findon without noticing. "And they have such 
 ridiculous ideas about us! I said something about their 
 gluttony to M. de Villeton this morning and he fired up! 
 declared he had spent this summer in English country- 
 houses, and we had seven meals a day all told and 
 there wasn't a Frenchman in the world had more than 
 three counting his coffee in the morning." 
 
 "He had us there," said Eugenie. 
 
 "Not at all! It doesn't matter when you eat it's 
 what and how much you eat. We can't produce such 
 women, as one sees here. I tell you, Eugenie, we can't. 
 It takes all the poetry out of the sex." 
 
 Eugenie smiled. 
 
 "Haven't you been walking with Lady Marney, 
 papa?" 
 
 Lord Findon looked a little annoyed. 
 
 "She's an exception, my dear a hideous exception." 
 
 "I wouldn't mind her size," said Eugenie, softly "if 
 only the complexion were better done." 
 
 Lord Findon laughed. 
 
 "Paint is on the increase," he declared "and gam- 
 bling too. Villeton tells me there was baccarat in the 
 Marneys' apartment last night, and Lady Marney lost 
 enormously. Age seems to have no effect on these peo- 
 ple. She must be nearly seventy-five." 
 
 " You may be sure she'll play till the last trump," said 
 Eugenie. "Papa!" her tone changed "is that Elsie's 
 chair?" 
 
 223
 
 Fbntoick's Career 
 
 The group to which she pointed was still distant, but 
 Lord Findon, even at seventy, had the eyes of an eagle, 
 and could read an affiche a mile off. 
 
 "It is." Lord Findon looked a little disturbed, and, 
 turning, he scanned the terrace up and down before he 
 bent towards Euge'nie. 
 
 "You know, darling, it's an awkward business about 
 these two men. I don't believe Arthur's patience will 
 hold out." 
 
 " Oh yes it will, papa. For our sakes, Arthur would 
 keep the peace." 
 
 "If the other will let him! I used to think, Euge'nie, 
 you had tamed the bear but upon my soul!" Lord 
 Findon threw up his hands in protest. 
 
 "He's in low spirits, papa. It will be better soon," 
 said Euge'nie, softly, and as she spoke she rose and went 
 down the steps to meet the Welbys. 
 
 Lord Findon followed her, tormented by a queer, un- 
 welcome thought. Was it possible that Euge'nie was 
 now with her widowhood beginning to take a more 
 than friendly interest in that strange fellow, Fenwick? 
 If so, he would be tolerably punished for his meddling of 
 long ago! To have snatched her from Arthur, in order 
 to hand her to John Fenwick! Lord Findon crimsoned 
 hotly at the notion, all his pride of race and caste up in 
 arms. 
 
 Of course she ought now to marry. He wished to see 
 her before he died the wife of some good fellow, and the 
 mistress of a great house. Why not? Eugenie's dis- 
 tinctions of person and family leaving her fortune, 
 which was considerable, out of count were equal to 
 any fate. " It's all very well to despise such things 
 224
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 but we have to keep up the traditions," he said to him- 
 self, testily. 
 
 And in spite of her thirty -seven years a suitable bride- 
 groom would not be at all hard to find. Lord Findon 
 had perceived that, in Egypt, where they had spent the 
 winter and early spring. Several of the most distin- 
 guished men then in Cairo had been her devoted slaves 
 ill as she was and at half -power. Alderney almost cer- 
 tain to be the next Viceroy of India one of the most 
 charming of widowers, with an only daughter it had 
 been plain both to Lord Findon and his stupid wife that 
 Eugenie had made a deep impression upon a man no less 
 romantic than fastidious. Eugdnie had but to lift her 
 hand, and he would have followed them to Syria. On 
 the contrary, she had taken special pains to prevent it. 
 And General F. and that clever fellow X. who was 
 now reorganizing Egyptian finance and several more 
 they were all under the spell. 
 
 But Eugenie had this quixotic liking for the "intel- 
 lectuals" of a particular sort, for artists and poets, and 
 people in difficulties generally. Well, he had it himself, 
 he reflected, frowning, as he strolled after her; but there 
 were limits. Marriage was a thing apart ; in that quar- 
 ter, at any rate, it was no good supposing you could 
 escape from the rules of the game. 
 
 Not that the rules always led you right witness De 
 Pastourelles and his villanies. But matrimonial an- 
 archy was not to be justified, any more than social 
 anarchy, by the failures and drawbacks of arrange- 
 ments which were on the whole for people's good. 
 Passe encore! if Fen wick had only fulfilled the prom- 
 ise of his youth! were at least a successful art- 
 225
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 ist, instead of promising to become a quarrelsome fail- 
 ure! 
 
 Now if Arthur himself were free ! Supposing this poor 
 girl were to succumb ? what then ? 
 
 At this point Lord Findon checked himself roughly, 
 and a minute afterwards was shaking Welby by the hand 
 and stooping with an old man's courtesy over the invalid 
 carriage in which Mrs. Welby lay reclined. 
 
 Euphrosyne, indeed, had shed her laughter! A face 
 with sunken eyes and drawn lips, and with that perpetual 
 suspicious furrow in the brow, which meant a terror lest 
 any movement or jar should let loose the enemy, pain; 
 an emaciated body, from which all the soft mouldings of 
 youth had departed; a frail hand, lying in mute appeal 
 on the shawl with which she was covered: this was 
 now Elsie Welby, whose beauty in the first years of 
 her marriage had been one of the adornments of 
 London. 
 
 Eugenie was bending over her, and Mrs. Welby was 
 pettishly answering. 
 
 " It's so stiff and formal. I don't admire this kind of 
 thing. And there isn't a bit of shade on this terrace. 
 / think it's ugly!" 
 
 Welby laid a hand on hers, smiling. 
 
 "But to-day, Be'be', you like the sun? in October?" 
 
 Mrs. Welby was very decidedly of opinion that even 
 in October there was a glare and in August she shud- 
 dered to think of it! It was so tiresome, too, to have 
 missed the Grandes Eaux. So like French red tape, to 
 insist on stopping them on a particular date. Why 
 should they be stopped ? As to expense, that was non- 
 sense. How could water cost anything ! It was because 
 226
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 the French were so doctrinaire, so tyrannical so fond of 
 managing for managing's sake. 
 
 So the pettish voice rambled on, the others tenderly 
 and sadly listening, till presently Lord Findon shook his 
 gaunt shoulders. 
 
 "Upon my word it begins to get cold. With your 
 leave, Elsie, I could do with a little more sun! Arthur, 
 shall we take a brisk walk round the canal before 
 tea?" 
 
 Welby looked anxiously at his wife. She had closed 
 her eyes, and her pale lips, tightly shut, made no move- 
 ment. 
 
 "I think I promised Elsie to stay with her," he said, 
 uncertainly. 
 
 "Let me stay with Elsie, please," said Eugenie. 
 
 The blue eyes unclosed. 
 
 " Don't be more than an hour, Arthur." said the young 
 wife, ungraciously. "You know I asked Mrs. Westma- 
 cott to tea." 
 
 The gentlemen walked off, and a sharp sensation im- 
 pressed upon Madame de Pastourelles that Arthur was 
 only allowed to go with Lord Findon, because she was 
 not of the party. 
 
 A sudden color rose into her cheeks. For the hour 
 that followed, she devoted herself to her cousin. But 
 Mrs. Welby was difficult and querulous. Among other 
 complaints she expressed herself bitterly as to the ap- 
 pearance of Mr. Fenwick at Versailles. Arthur had been 
 so taken aback Mr. Fenwick was always so atrociously 
 rude to him! Arthur would have never come to Ver- 
 sailles had he known; but of course, as Uncle Findon 
 and Eugenie liked Mr. Fenwick, as he was their friend, 
 16 227
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Arthur couldn't now avoid meeting him. It was ex- 
 tremely disagreeable. 
 
 " I think they needn't meet very much," said Eugenie, 
 soothingly "and papa and I will do our best to keep 
 Mr. Fenwick in order." 
 
 "I wonder why he came," said Elsie, fretfully. 
 
 "He has some work to do for the production of this 
 play on Mane Antoinette. And I suppose he wanted to 
 meet us. You see, we didn't know about Arthur." 
 
 "I can't think why you like him so much." 
 
 " He is an old friend, my dear! and just now very un- 
 happy, and out of spirits." 
 
 "All his own fault, Arthur says. He had the ball at 
 his feet." 
 
 "I know," said Euge'nie, smiling sadly. "That's the 
 tragedy of it!" 
 
 There was silence. Mrs. Welby still observed her 
 companion. A variety of expressions, all irritable or 
 hostile, passed through the large, languid eyes. 
 
 The afternoon faded on the blue surface of the dis- 
 tant "canal," the great poplars that stand sentinel at 
 the western edge of the Park, one to right, and one to 
 left last gardes du corps of the House of France! 
 threw long shadows on the water; and across the open- 
 ing which they marked, drifted the smoke of burning 
 weeds, the only but sufficient symbol, amid the splendid 
 scene, of that peasant France which destroyed Versailles. 
 It was four o'clock, and to their left, as they sat sheltered 
 on the southern side of the chateau, the visitors of the 
 day were pouring out into the gardens. The shutters of 
 the lower rooms, in the apartments of the Dauphin and 
 228
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 of Mesdames, were being closed one by one, by the 
 gardiens within. Eugenie peered through the window 
 beside her. She saw before her a long vista of darkened 
 and solitary rooms, dim portraits of the marshals of 
 France just visible on their walls. Suddenly under a 
 gleam of light from a shutter not yet fastened there 
 shone out amid the shadows a bust of Louis Seize! The 
 Bourbon face, with its receding brow, its heavy, good- 
 natured lips, its smiling incapacity, held dominated 
 the palace. 
 
 Eugenie watched, holding her breath. Slowly the 
 light died; the marble withdrew into the dark; and 
 Louis Seize was once more with the ghosts. 
 
 Eugenie's fancy pursued him. She thought of the 
 night of the 2oth of January, 1793, when Madame Royale 
 in the darkness of the Temple, heard her mother turning 
 miserably on her bed, sleepless with grief and cold, 
 waiting for that last rendezvous of seven o'clock which 
 the King had promised her waiting waiting till 
 the great bell of Notre Dame told her that Louis 
 had passed to another meeting, more urgent, more 
 peremptory still. 
 
 "Oh, poor soul! poor soul!" she said, aloud, pressing 
 her hands on her eyes. 
 
 "What on earth do you mean!" said Mrs. Welby's 
 voice beside her startled stiff a little suspicious. 
 
 Eugenie looked up and blushed. 
 
 "I beg your pardon! I was thinking of Marie An- 
 toinette." 
 
 "I'm so tired of Marie Antoinette!" said the invalid, 
 raising a petulant hand, and letting it fall again, inert. 
 "All the silly memorials of her they sell here! and the 
 229
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 sentimental talk about her! Arthur, of course, now 
 with his picture thinks of nothing else." 
 
 "Naturally!" 
 
 "I don't know. People are bored with Marie An- 
 toinette. I wish he'd taken another subject. And as to 
 her beauty how could she have been beautiful, with 
 those staring eyes, and that lower lip! I say so to 
 Arthur and he raves and quotes Horace Walpole 
 and all sorts of people. But one can see for one's self. 
 People are much prettier now than they ever were then! 
 We should think nothing of their beauties." 
 
 And the delicate lips of this once lovely child, this 
 flower withered before its time, made a cold gesture of 
 contempt. 
 
 In Eugenie's eyes, as they rested upon her companion, 
 there was a flash was it of horror ? 
 
 Was she jealous even of the dead women whom Arthur 
 painted ? no less than of his living friends ? 
 
 Eug6nie came close to her, took the irresponsive hand 
 in hers, tucked the shawls closer round the wasted limbs, 
 bent over her, chatting and caressing. Then, as the sun 
 began to drop quickly, Madame de Pastourelles rose, and 
 went to the corner of the chateau, to see if the gentlemen 
 were in sight. But in less than a minute Mrs. Welby 
 called her back. 
 
 "I must go in now," she said, fretfully. "This place 
 is really too cold!" 
 
 " She won't let me go to meet them," thought Eugenie, 
 involuntarily; sharply reproaching herself, a moment 
 afterwards, for the mere thought. 
 
 But when Elsie had been safely escorted home, Eugenie 
 slipped back through the darkening streets, taking good 
 230
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 care that her path should not lead her across her father 
 and Arthur Welby. 
 
 She fled towards the western flight of the Hundred 
 Steps, and ran down the vast staircase towards the 
 Orangerie, and the still shining lake beyond, girdled 
 with vaporous woods. A majesty of space and light 
 enwrapped her, penetrated, as everywhere at Versailles, 
 with memory, with the bitterness and the glory of human 
 things. In the distance the voices of the children still 
 playing beside their nurses on the upper terrace died 
 away. Close by, a white Artemis on her pedestal bent 
 forward eager her gleaming bow in air, watching, as 
 it were, the arrow she had just sped towards the win- 
 dows of Madame de Pompadour; and beside her, a 
 nymph, daughter of gods, turned to the palace with a 
 free, startled movement, shading her eyes that she might 
 gaze the more intently on that tattered tricolor which 
 floats above the palace of "Le Roi Soleil." 
 
 "Oh, poor Arthur poor Arthur! And I did it! I 
 did it!" 
 
 It was the cry of Eugenie's inmost life. 
 
 And before she knew, she found herself enveloped in 
 memories that rolled in upon her like waves of storm. 
 How long it had been before she would allow herself to 
 see anything amiss with this marriage she had herself 
 made! And, indeed, it was only since Elsie's illness that 
 things dimly visible before had sprung into that sharp 
 and piteous relief in which they stood to-day. Before it, 
 indications, waywardnesses, the faults of a young and 
 petted wife. But since the physical collapse, the inner 
 motives and passions had stood up bare and black, like 
 231
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 the ribs of a wrecked ship from the sand. And as 
 Eugenie had been gradually forced to understand them, 
 they had worked upon her own mind as a silent, yet 
 ever-growing accusation, against which she defended 
 herself in vain. 
 
 Surely, surely she had done no wrong! To have 
 allowed Arthur to go on binding his life ever more and 
 more closely to hers, would have been a crime. What 
 could she give him, that such a nature most deeply 
 needed? Home, wifely love, and children it was to 
 these dear enwrapping powers she had committed him 
 in what she had done. She had feared for herself indeed. 
 But is it a sin to fear sin ? the declension of one's own 
 best will, the staining of one's purest feeling? 
 
 On her part she could proudly answer for herself. 
 Never since Welby's marriage, either in thought or act, 
 had she given Arthur's wife the smallest just cause of 
 offence. Eugenie's was often an anxious and a troubled 
 conscience; but not here, not in this respect. She knew 
 herself true. 
 
 But from Elsie's point of view? Had she in truth 
 sacrificed an ignorant child to her impetuous wish for 
 Arthur's happiness, a too scrupulous care for her own 
 peace? How "sacrifice" ? She had given the child her 
 heart's desire. Arthur was not in love; but Elsie Bligh 
 would have accepted him as a husband on any terms. 
 Tenderly, in good faith, trusting to the girl's beauty, and 
 Arthur's rich and loving nature, Eugenie had joined 
 their hands. 
 
 Was that in reality her offence? In spite of all the 
 delicacy with which it had been done, had the girl's 
 passion guessed the truth ? And having guessed it, had 
 232
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 she then failed and failed consciously to make the 
 gift her own ? 
 
 Euge"nie had watched often with a sinking spirit 
 the development of a nature, masked by youth and hap- 
 piness, but essentially narrow and poor, full of mean 
 ambitions and small antipathies. Arthur had played 
 his part bravely, with all the chivalry and the conscience 
 that might have been expected of him. And there had 
 been moments intervals of apparent happiness, when 
 Eugenie's own conscience had been laid to sleep. 
 
 Was there anything she might have done for those 
 two people, that she had not done? And Elsie had 
 seemed she sadly remembered to love her, to trust 
 her till this tragic break-down. Indeed, so long as she 
 could dress, dance, dine, and chatter as much as she 
 pleased, with her husband in constant attendance, Mrs. 
 Welby had shown no open discontent with her lot ; and 
 if her caresses often hurt Eugenie more than they pleased, 
 there had been no outward dearth of them. 
 
 Alack! Eugenie's heart was wrung with pity for the 
 young maimed creature; but the peevish image of the 
 wife was swept away by the more truly tragic image of 
 the husband. Eugenie might try to persuade herself of 
 the possibility of Elsie's recovery; her real instinct 
 denied it. Yet life was not necessarily threatened, it 
 seemed, though certain fatal accidents might end it in a 
 week. The omens pointed to a long and fluctuating 
 case to years of hopeless nursing for Arthur, and com- 
 plaining misery for his wife. 
 
 Years! Eugenie sat down in a corner of the Orangerie 
 garden, locking her hands together, in a miserable pity 
 233
 
 Fentoiek' s Career 
 
 for Arthur. She knew well what a shining pinnacle of 
 success and fame Welby occupied in the eyes of the 
 world ; she knew how envious were the lesser men such 
 a man as John Fenwick, for instance of a reputation 
 and a success they thought overdone and undeserved. 
 But Arthur himself! She seemed to be looking into his 
 face, graven on the dusk, the face of a man tragically 
 silent, patient, eternally disappointed ; of an artist con- 
 scious of ideals and discontents, loftier, more poignant 
 far than his fellows will ever know of a poet, alone at 
 heart, forbidden to "speak out," blighted, and in pain. 
 
 "Arthur Arthur!" She leaned her head against the 
 pedestal of a marble vase wrestling with herself. 
 
 Then, quick as fire, there flew through her veins, the 
 alternate possibility Elsie's death freedom for herself 
 and Arthur the power to retrace her own quixotic, 
 fatal step. . . . 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles rose to her feet, rigid and 
 straight in her black dress, wrestling as though with an 
 attacking Apollyon. She seemed to herself a murderess 
 in thought the lowest and vilest of human beings. In 
 an anguish she looked through the darkness, in a wild 
 appeal to Heaven to save her from herself this new self, 
 unknown to her! to shut down and trample on this 
 mutiny of a sinful and selfish heart to make it impos- 
 sible impossible ! that ever again, even without her 
 will, against her will, a thought so hideous, so incredible, 
 should enter and defile her mind. 
 
 She walked on blindly towards the water and the 
 
 woods. Her eyes were full of tears, which she could not 
 
 stop. Unconsciously, to hide them, she threw round 
 
 her head a black lace scarf she had brought out with her 
 
 234
 
 Fenroick's Career 
 
 against the evening chill, and drew it close round her 
 face. 
 
 " How late you are!" said a joyous voice beside her. 
 
 She looked up. Fen wick emerging from the wood, 
 towards the shelter of which she was hurrying, stood 
 before her, bareheaded, as he often walked, his eyes 
 unable to hide the pleasure with which he beheld her. 
 
 She gave a little gasp. 
 
 "You startled me!" 
 
 In the dim light, he could only see her slight fluttering 
 smile ; and it seemed to him that she was or had been in 
 agitation. But at least it was nothing hostile to himself; 
 nay, it was borne in upon him as he turned his steps, and 
 she walked beside him with a quick yet gradually subsid- 
 ing breath, that his appearance had been a relief to her, 
 that she was glad of his companionship. 
 
 And he miserable fellow! to him it was peace after 
 struggle, balm after torment. For his thoughts, as he 
 wandered through the Satory woods alone, had been the 
 thoughts of a hypochondriac. He hastened to leave 
 them, now that she was near. 
 
 They wandered along the eastern edge of the "Swiss 
 Water," towards the woods amid which the railway runs. 
 Through the gold-and-purple air the thin autumn trees 
 rose lightly into the evening sky, marching in ordered 
 ranks beside the water. Young men were fishing in the 
 lake; boys and children were playing near it, and sweet- 
 hearts walking in the dank grass. The evening peace, 
 with its note of decay and death, seemed to stir feeling 
 rather than soothe it. It set the nerves trembling. 
 
 He began to talk of some pictures he had been studying 
 in the Palace that day Nattiers, Rigauds, Drouais 
 235
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 examples of that happy, sensuous, confident art, pro- 
 duced by a society that knew no doubts of itself, which 
 not to have enjoyed so the survivors of it thought 
 was to be forever ignorant of what the charm of life 
 might be. 
 
 Fenwick spoke of it with envy and astonishment. 
 The pleasure of it had penetrated him, its gay, perpetual 
 festa as compared with the strain of thought and con- 
 science under which the modern lives. 
 
 "It gives me a perfect hunger for fine clothes, and 
 jewels, and masquerades and ' fetes de nuit ' and every 
 sort of theatricality and expense! Nature has sent us 
 starvelings on the scene a hundred years late. We are 
 like children in the rain, flattening our noses against a 
 ballroom window." 
 
 "There were plenty of them then" said Eugenie. 
 "But they broke in and sacked the ballroom." 
 
 "Yes. What folly!" he said, bitterly. "We are all 
 still groping among the ruins." 
 
 "No, no! Build a new Palace of Beauty and bring 
 everybody in out of the rain." 
 
 "Ridiculous!" he declared, with sparkling eyes. " Art 
 and pleasure were only for the few. Try and spread 
 them, make current coin of them, and they vanished like 
 fairy gold." 
 
 "So only the artist may be happy?" 
 
 "The artist is never happy!" he said, roughly. "But 
 the few people who appreciate him and rob him, enjoy 
 themselves. By-the-way, I took one of your ideas this 
 morning, and made a sketch of it. I haven't noted a 
 composition of any sort for weeks except for this 
 beastly play. It came to me while we talked." 
 236
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Ah!" Her face, turned to him, received the news 
 with a shrinking pleasure. 
 
 He developed his idea before her, drawing it on the 
 air with his stick, or on the sand of the alleys where the 
 arching trees overhead seemed still to hold a golden twi- 
 light captive. The picture was to represent that fine 
 metal-worker of the ancien regime who, when the Revo- 
 lution came, took his ragged children with him and went 
 to the palace which contained his work work for which 
 he had never been paid and hammered it to pieces. 
 
 Fenwick talked himself at last into something like 
 enthusiasm; and Eugenie listened to him with a pitiful 
 eagerness, only anxious to lead him on, to put this friend- 
 ship, and the pure sympathy and compassion of her feel- 
 ing for him, between her and the ugly memory which 
 hovered round her like a demon thing. These dreams 
 of the intellect and of art, as they gradually rose and 
 took shape between them, were so infinitely welcome! 
 Clean, blameless, strengthening they put the ghosts to 
 flight, they gave her back herself. 
 
 "Oh, you must paint it!" she said "you must." 
 
 He stopped, and walked on abruptly. Then she 
 pressed him to promise her a time and date. It must be 
 ready for a new gallery, and a distinguished exhibition, 
 just about to open. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I probably sha'n't care about it to-morrow." 
 
 She protested. 
 
 "Just now you were so keen!" 
 
 He hesitated then blurted out " Because I was talk- 
 ing to you! When you're not there I know very well 
 I shall fall back to where I was before." 
 237
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 She tried to laugh at him for a too dependent friend, 
 who must always be fed on sugar-plums of praise; but 
 the silence with which he met her, checked her. It was 
 too full of emotion ; and she ran away from it. 
 
 She ran, however, in vain. They reached the end of 
 the lake, and went to look at the mouldering statue of 
 Louis Quatorze at its farther end fantastic work of the 
 great Bernini Louis on a vast, curly maned beast, with 
 flames bursting round him flung out into the wilderness 
 and the woods, because Louis, after adding the flames to 
 Bernini's composition, finally pronounced the statue 
 unworthy of himself and of the sacred enclosure of the 
 Park. So here, on the outer edge of Versailles, the 
 crumbling failure rises, in exile to this day, without so 
 much as a railing to protect it from the scribbling tourist 
 who writes his name all over it. In the realm of art, it 
 seemed, the King's writ still ran, and the King's doom 
 stood. 
 
 Fenwick's rhetorical sense was touched by the statue 
 and its history. He examined it, talking fast and well. 
 Eugenie meanwhile winning from him all he had to give, 
 by the simplest words and looks he the reed, and she 
 the player. His mind, his fancy, worked easily once 
 more, under the stimulus of her presence. His despond- 
 ency began to give way. He believed in himself felt 
 himself an artist again. The relief, physical and men- 
 tal, was too tempting. He flung himself upon it with 
 reckless desire, incapable of denying himself, or of count- 
 ing the cost. And meanwhile, the effect of her black 
 scarf, loosened, and eddying round her head and face in 
 the soft night wind, defining their small oval, and the 
 beauty of the brow, enchanted his painter's eye. There 
 238
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 was a moment, just as they re-entered the Park, when, 
 as she stood looking at a moon-touched vista before 
 them, the floating scarf suddenly recalled to him the 
 outline of that lovely hood in which Romney framed 
 the radiant head of Lady Hamilton as "The Semp- 
 stress." 
 
 The recollection startled him. Romney! Involun- 
 tarily there flashed across him Phoebe's use of the 
 Romney story her fierce comments on the deserted 
 wife the lovely mistress. Perhaps, while she stood 
 looking at the portrait in his studio, she was thinking of 
 Lady Hamilton, and all sorts of other ludicrous and 
 shameful things! 
 
 And this, all the while, was the reality this pure, 
 ethereal being, in whose presence he was already a better 
 and a more hopeful man! who seemed to bring a fellow 
 comfort, and moral renewal, in the mere touch of her 
 kind hand. 
 
 The shock of inner debate still further weakened his 
 self-control. He slipped, hardly knowing how or why, 
 into a far more intimate confession of himself than he 
 had yet made to her. In the morning he had given her 
 the outer history of his life, during the year of her 
 absence. But this was the inner history of a man's 
 weakness and failure of his quarrels and hatreds, his 
 baffled ambitions and ideals. She put it together as 
 best she could from his hurried, excited talk from 
 stories half told, fierce charges against "charlatans" and 
 "intriguers," mingled with half -serious, half -comic re- 
 turns upon himself, attacks on all the world, alter- 
 nating with a ruthless self-analysis the talk of a man 
 who challenges society one moment with an angry 
 239
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 " ]' accuse!" and sees himself the next sardonically 
 as the chief obstacle in his own way. 
 
 Then suddenly a note of intense loneliness anguish 
 inexplicable despair. Eugenie could not stop it, could 
 not withdraw herself. There was a strange feeling that 
 it brought her the answer to her prayer. They hurried 
 on through the lower walks of the Park plunging now 
 through tunnelled depths of shade, and now emerging 
 into spaces where sunset and moonrise rained a mingled 
 influence on glimmering water, on the dim upturned 
 faces of Ceres or Flora, or the limbs of flower-crowned 
 nymphs and mermaids. It seemed impossible to turn 
 homeward, to break off their conversation. When they 
 reached the "Bassin de Neptune" they left the Park, 
 turning down the Trianon Avenue, in the growing dark, 
 till they saw to their right, behind its iron gates, the 
 gleaming facade of the Petit Trianon; woods all about 
 them, and to their left, again, the shimmer of wide water. 
 Meanwhile the dying leaves, driven by the evening wind, 
 descended on them in a soft and ceaseless shower; the 
 woods, so significant and human in their planned and 
 formal beauty, brought their "visionary majesties" of 
 moonlight and of gloom to bear on nerve and sense, 
 turned all that was said and all that was felt, beneath 
 their spell, to poetry. 
 
 Suddenly, at the Trianon gate, Eugenie stopped. 
 
 "I'm very tired," she said, faintly. "I am afraid we 
 must go back." 
 
 Fenwick denounced himself for a selfish brute; and 
 they turned homeward. But it was not physical fatigue 
 she felt. It was rather the burden of a soul thrown head- 
 long upon hers the sudden appeal of a task which 
 240
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 seemed to be given her by God for the bridling of her 
 own heart, and the comforting and restoring of John 
 Fenwick. From all the conflicting emotion of an even- 
 ing which changed her life, what remained or seemed 
 to remain was a missionary call of duty and affection. 
 "Save him! and master thyself!" 
 
 So, yet again, poor Eugenie slipped into the snare 
 which Fate had set for one who was only too much a 
 woman. 
 
 The Rue des Reservoirs was very empty as Fenwick 
 and Madame de Pastourelles mounted the paved slope 
 leading towards the hotel. The street-lamps were 
 neither many nor bright but from the glazed gallery 
 of the restaurant, a broad, cheerful illumination streamed 
 upon the passers-by. They stepped within its bounds. 
 And at the moment, a woman who had just crossed to 
 the opposite side of the street stopped abruptly to look 
 at them. They paused a few minutes in the entrance, 
 still chatting; the woman opposite made a movement 
 as though to re-cross the street, then shook her head, 
 laughed, and walked away. Fenwick went into the 
 restaurant and Eugenie hurried through the court-yard 
 to the door of the Findons' apartment. 
 
 But in her reflections of the night, Eugenie came to the 
 conclusion that the situation, as it then stood at Ver- 
 sailles, was not one to be prolonged. 
 
 Next day she proposed to her father and sister a 
 
 change of plan. On the whole, she said, she was anxious 
 
 to get back to London; the holiday was overspreading 
 
 its due limits; and she urged pressing on and home. 
 
 241
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Lord Findon was puzzled, but submissive; the bookish 
 sister Theresa, now a woman of thirty, welcomed any- 
 thing that would bring her back to the London Library 
 and the British Museum. But suddenly, just as the 
 maids had been warned, and Lord Findon 's man had 
 been sent to look out trains, his master caught a chill, 
 going obstinately, and in a mocking spirit, to see what 
 "Faust " might be like, as given at the Municipal Theatre 
 of Versailles. There was fever, and a touch of bron- 
 chitis; nothing serious; but the doctor who had been 
 summoned from Paris would not hear of travelling. 
 Lord Findon hoarsely preached "chewing" to him, 
 through the greater part of his visits; he revenged 
 himself by keeping a tight hold on his patient, in all 
 that was not his tongue. Eugenie yielded, with what 
 appeared to Theresa a strange amount of reluctance; 
 and they settled down for a week or two. 
 
 In the middle of the convalescence, the elder son, 
 Marmaduke, came over to see his father. He was a 
 talkative Evangelical, like his mother; a partner in the 
 brewery owned by his mother's kindred; and recently 
 married to a Lady Louisa. 
 
 After spending three days at the hotel, he suddenly 
 said to Lord Findon, as he was mounting guard one 
 night, while Eugenie wrote some letters: 
 
 "I say, pater, do you want Eugenie to marry that 
 fellow Fenwick?" 
 
 Lord Findon turned uneasily in his bed. 
 
 "What makes you say that?" 
 
 "Well, he's dreadfully gone on her never happy ex- 
 cept when she's there and she well, she encourages 
 him a good bit, father." 
 
 242
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "You don't understand, Marmie. You see, you don't 
 care for books and pictures; Eugenie does." 
 
 "I suppose she does," said Marmaduke, doubtfully 
 "but she wouldn't care so much if Fenwick wasn't there 
 to talk about them." 
 
 "His talk is admirable!" said Lord Findon. 
 
 " I dare say it is, but he isn't my sister's equal," replied 
 the son, with stolidity. 
 
 "A good artist is anybody's equal," cried Lord Findon, 
 much heated. 
 
 "You don't really think it, papa," said Marmaduke, 
 firmly. "Shall I gi.ve Eugenie a talking to? as you're 
 not in a condition." 
 
 Lord Findon laughed, though not gayly. " You'd bet- 
 ter try! Or rather, I don't advise you to try!" 
 
 Marmaduke, however, did try; with the only result 
 that Eugenie soon grew a little vexed and tremulous, and 
 begged him to go home. He might be a master of brew- 
 ing finance, and a dear, kind, well-meaning brother, but 
 he really did not understand his sister's affairs. 
 
 Marmaduke went home, much puzzled, urgently com- 
 manding Theresa to write to him, and announcing to 
 Arthur Welby, who listened silently, as he talked, that 
 if Fenwick did propose, he should think it a damned 
 impertinence. 
 
 Lord Findon meanwhile, held his peace. Every day 
 Eugenie came in from her walk with Fenwick, to sit with 
 or read to her father. She always spoke of what she had 
 been doing, quite naturally and simply, describing their 
 walk and their conversation, giving the news of Fenwick's 
 work bringing his sketches to show. Lord Findon 
 would lie and listen a little suspicious and ill-at-ease 
 i 343
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 sometimes a little sulky. But he let his illness and his 
 voicelessness excuse him from grappling with her. She 
 must, of course, please herself. If she chose, as she 
 seemed about to choose why, they must all make the 
 best of it! Marmaduke might talk as he liked. Natu- 
 rally, Arthur kept away from them. Poor Arthur! But 
 what a darling she looked in her black, with this fresh 
 touch of color in her pale cheeks ? 
 
 The Welbys certainly had but little to do with the 
 party at the Reservoirs. Welby seemed to be absorbed 
 in his new picture, and Mrs. Welby let it be plainly 
 understood that at home Arthur was too busy, and 
 she too ill, to receive visitors; while out-of-doors they 
 neither of them wished to be thrown across Mr. Fen- 
 wick. 
 
 Every evening, after taking his wife home, Welby 
 went out by himself for a solitary walk. He avoided 
 the Park and the woods; chose rather the St. Cyr road, 
 or the Avenue de Paris. He walked, wrapped, a little 
 too picturesquely perhaps, in an old Campagna cloak, 
 relic of his years in Rome with a fine collie for his 
 companion. Once or twice in the distance he caught 
 sight of Eugenie and Fenwick only to turn down a 
 side street, out of their way. 
 
 His thoughts meanwhile, day by day, his silent, 
 thronging thoughts, dealt with his own life and theirs. 
 Would she venture it? He discussed it calmly with 
 himself. It presented itself to him as an act altogether 
 unworthy of her. What hurt him most, however, at 
 these times, was the occasional sudden memory of 
 Eugenie's face, trembling with pain, under some slight 
 or unkindness shown her by his wife. 
 244
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 One day Welby was sitting beside his wife on the 
 sheltered side of the Terrace, when Eugenie and Fen- 
 wick came in sight, emerging from the Hundred Steps. 
 Suddenly Welby bent over his wife. 
 
 "Elsie! have you noticed anything?" 
 
 "Noticed what?" 
 
 He motioned towards the distant figures. His gesture 
 was a little dry and hostile. 
 
 Elsie in amazement raised herself painfully on her 
 elbow to look. 
 
 "Eugenie!" she said, breathlessly "Eugenie and 
 Mr. Fenwick!" 
 
 Arthur Welby watched the transformation in her face. 
 It was the first time he had seen her look happy for 
 months. 
 
 "What an excellent thing!" she cried; all flushed and 
 vehement. "Arthur, you know you said how lonely she 
 must be!" 
 
 "Is he worthy of her?" he said, slowly, finding his 
 words with difficulty. 
 
 "Well, of course, we don't like him! but then Uncle 
 Findon does. And if he didn't, it's Eugenie that mat- 
 ters isn't it? only Eugenie! At her age, you can't 
 be choosing her husband for her! Well, I never, never 
 thought Eugenie's so close! she'd make up her mind 
 to marry anybody!" 
 
 And she rattled on, in so much excitement that Welby 
 hastily and urgently impressed discretion upon her. 
 
 But when she and Eugenie next met, Eugdnie was 
 
 astonished by her gayety and good temper her air of 
 
 smiling mystery. Madame de Pastourelles hoped it 
 
 meant real physical improvement, and would have liked 
 
 245
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 to talk of it to Arthur ; but all talk between them grew 
 rarer and more difficult. Thus Eugenie's walks with 
 Fen wick through the enchanted lands that surround 
 Versailles became daily more significant, more watched. 
 Lord Findon groaned in his sick room, but still restrained 
 himself. 
 
 It was a day or rather a night of late October a 
 wet and windy night, when the autumn leaves were 
 coming down in swirling hosts on the lawns and paths 
 of Trianon. 
 
 Fenwick was hard at work, in the small apartment 
 which he occupied on the third floor of the H6tel des 
 Reservoirs. It consisted of a sitting-room and two bed- 
 rooms looking on an inner cour. One of the bedrooms he 
 had turned into a sort of studio. It was now full of 
 drawings and designs for the sumptuous London "pro- 
 duction" on which he was engaged rooms at Versailles 
 and Trianon views in the Trianon gardens fragments 
 of decoration designs for stage grouping for the re- 
 production of one of the famous fetes de nuit in 
 the gardens of the "Hameau" studies of costume 
 even. 
 
 His proud ambition hated the work; he thought it 
 unworthy of him ; only his poverty had consented. But 
 he kept it out of sight of his companions as much as he 
 could, and worked as much as possible at night. 
 
 And here and there, among the rest, were the sketches 
 and fragments, often the grandiose fragments, which 
 represented his "buried life," the life which only 
 Eugenie de Pastourelles seemed now to have the power 
 to evoke. When some hours of other work had weak- 
 246
 
 Fenvoick's Career 
 
 ened the impulse received from her, he would look at 
 these things sadly, and put them aside. 
 
 To-night, as he drew, he was thinking incessantly of 
 Euge'nie; pierced often by intolerable remorse. But 
 whose fault was it? Will you ask a man, perishing of 
 need, to put its satisfaction from him? The tests of 
 life are too hard. The plain, selfish man must always 
 fail under them. Why act and speak as though he were 
 responsible for what Nature and the flesh impose ? 
 
 But how was it all to end ? that was what tormented 
 him. His conscience shrank from the half -perceived 
 villanies before him ; but his will failed him. What was 
 the use of talking? He was the slave of an impulse, 
 which was not passion, which had none of the excuse of 
 passion, but represented rather the blind search of a 
 man who, like a child in the dark, recoils in reckless 
 terror from loneliness and the phantoms of his own 
 mind. 
 
 Eleven o'clock struck. He was busying himself with 
 a card-board model, on which he had been trying the 
 effect of certain arrangements, when he heard a knock 
 at his door. 
 
 " Entrez !" he said, in astonishment. At this season 
 of the year the hotel kept early hours, and there was not 
 a light to be seen in the cour. 
 
 The door opened. On the threshold stood Arthur 
 Welby. Fenwick gazed at him open-mouthed. 
 
 "You? you came to see me?" 
 
 He advanced head foremost hand outstretched. 
 
 " I have something important to say to you." Welby 
 took no notice of the hand. "Shall we be undisturbed ?" 
 
 "I imagine so!" said Fenwick, fiercely retreating; 
 247
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "but, as you see, I am extremely busy!" He pointed to 
 the room and its contents. 
 
 "I am sorry to interrupt you" Welby's voice was 
 carefully controlled "but I think you will admit that 
 I had good reason to come and find you." He looked 
 round to see that the door was shut, then advanced a 
 step nearer. "You are, I think, acquainted with that 
 lady?" 
 
 He handed Fenwick a card. Fenwick took it to the 
 light. On it was lithographed "Miss Isabel Morrison," 
 and a written address, " Corso de Madrid, Buenos Ayres," 
 had been lightly scratched out in one corner. 
 
 Fenwick put down the card. 
 
 "Well," he said, sharply "and if I am what then?" 
 
 Welby began to speak paused and cleared his 
 throat. He was standing, with one hand lightly resting 
 on the table, his eyes fixed on Fenwick. There was a 
 moment of shock, of mutual defiance. 
 
 "This lady seems to have observed the movements 
 of our party here," said Welby, commanding himself. 
 " She followed my wife and me to-day, after we met you 
 in the Park. She spoke to us. She gave us the aston- 
 ishing news that you were a married man that your 
 wife " 
 
 Fenwick rushed forward and gripped the speaker's 
 arm. 
 
 "My God! Tell me! is she alive?" 
 
 His eyes starting out of his head his crimson face 
 his anguish, seemed to affect the other with indescribable 
 repulsion. Welby wrenched himself free. 
 
 "That was what Miss Morrison wished to ask you. 
 She says that when you and she last met you were not 
 248
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 on very good terms ; she shrank, therefore, from address- 
 ing you. But she had a respect for your wife she wished 
 to know what had becoma of her and her curiosity 
 impelled her to speak to us. She seems to have been in 
 Buenos Ayres for many years. This year she returned 
 as governess with the family of a French engineer, 
 who have taken an apartment in Versailles. She first 
 saw you in the street nearly a month ago." 
 
 Fenwick had dropped into a chair, his face in his 
 hands. As Welby ceased speaking, he looked up. 
 
 " And she said nothing about my wife's where- 
 abouts?" 
 
 "Nothing. She knows nothing." 
 
 "Nor of why she left me?" 
 
 Welby hesitated. 
 
 "Miss Morrison seems to have her own ideas as to 
 that." 
 
 " Where is she ?" Fenwick rose hurriedly. 
 
 "Rue des Ecuries, 27. Naturally, you can't see her 
 to-night." 
 
 "No" said Fenwick, sitting down again, like a man 
 in a dream "no. Did she say anything else?" 
 
 "She mentioned something about a debt you owed 
 her," said Welby, coldly "some matter that she had 
 only just discovered. I had no concern with that." 
 
 Fenwick's face, which had become deathly pale, was 
 suddenly overspread with a rush of crimson. More al- 
 most than by the revelation of his long deception as to 
 his wife, was he humiliated and tortured by these words 
 relating to his debt to Morrison on Welby's lips. This 
 successful rival, this fine gentleman! admitted to his 
 sordid affairs. 
 
 249
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 He rose uncertainly, pulling himself passionately to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Now that she has reappeared, I shall pay my debt 
 to Miss Morrison if it exists," he said, haughtily; "she 
 need be in no fear as to that. Well, now then" he 
 leaned heavily on the mantel-piece, his face still twitch- 
 ing "you know, Mr. Welby by this accident the se- 
 cret of my life. My wife left me for the maddest, 
 emptiest reasons and she took our child with her. I 
 did everything I could to discover them. It was all in 
 vain and if Miss Morrison cannot enlighten me, I am as 
 much in the dark to-night as I was yesterday, whether 
 my wife is alive or dead. Is there anything more to be 
 said ?" 
 
 "By God, yes!" cried Welby, with a sudden gesture of 
 passion, approaching Fenwick. "There is everything to 
 be said!" 
 
 Fenwick was silent. Their eyes met. 
 
 "When you first made acquaintance with Lord Fin- 
 don," said Welby, controlling himself "you made him 
 you made all of us believe that you were an unmar- 
 ried man?" 
 
 "I did. It was the mistake the awkwardness of a 
 moment. I hadn't your easy manners! I was a raw 
 country fellow and I hadn't the courage, the mere self- 
 possession, to repair it." 
 
 "You let Madame de Pastourelles sit to you," said 
 Welby, steadily "week after week, month after month 
 you accepted her kindness you became her friend. 
 Later on, you allowed her to advise you write to 
 you talk to you about marrying, when your means 
 should be sufficient without ever allowing her to 
 250
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 guess for a. moment that you had already a wife and 
 child!" 
 
 " That is true," said Fenwick, nodding. "The second 
 false step was the consequence of the first." 
 
 "The consequence! You had but to say a word one 
 honest word! Then, when your conduct, I suppose I 
 don't dare to judge you had driven your wife away 
 for twelve years" he dragged the words between his 
 teeth "you masquerade to Madame de Pastourelles 
 and when her long martyrdom as a wife is at last over 
 when in the tenderness and compassion of her heart she 
 begins to show you a friendship which which those who 
 know her" he labored for breath and words " can only 
 presently interpret in one way you who owe her 
 everything everything! you dare to play with her 
 innocent, her stainless life you dare to let her approach 
 to let those about her approach the thought of her 
 marrying you while all the time you knew what you 
 know ! If there ever was a piece of black cruelty in this 
 world, it is you, you that have been guilty of it!" 
 
 The form of Arthur Welby, drawn to its utmost height, 
 towered above the man he accused. Fenwick sat, struck 
 dumb. Welby's increasing stoop, which of late had 
 marred his natural dignity of gait ; the slight touches of 
 affectation, of the petit-maitre, which were now often 
 perceptible ; the occasional note of littleness, or malice, 
 such as his youth had never known: all these defects, 
 physical and moral, had been burned out of the man, as 
 he spoke these words, by the flame of his only, his inex- 
 tinguishable passion. For his dear mistress; in the 
 purest, loftiest sense of that word he stood champion, 
 denouncing with all his soul the liar who had deceived 
 251
 
 Fenvoiek's Career 
 
 and endangered her; a stern, unconscious majesty ex- 
 pressed itself in his bearing, his voice; and the man 
 before him artist and poet like himself was sensible 
 of it in the highest, the most torturing degree. 
 
 Fenwick turned away. He stooped mechanically to 
 the fire, put it together, lifted a log lying in front of it, 
 laid it carefully on the others. Then he looked at Welby, 
 who on his side had walked to the window and opened 
 it, as though the room suffocated him. 
 
 "Everything that you say is just" said Fenwick, 
 slowly "I have no answer to make except that No! 
 I have no answer to make." 
 
 He paced once or twice up and down the length of the 
 room, slowly, thoughtfully, then he resumed: 
 
 "I shall write to Madame de Pastourelles to-night, 
 and by the first train to-morrow, as soon as these things," 
 he looked round him "can be gathered together I 
 shall be gone!" 
 
 Welby moved sharply, showing a face still drawn and 
 furrowed with emotion ' ' No ! she will want to see you. ' ' 
 
 Fenwick's composure broke down. " I had better not 
 see her" he said "I had better not see her!" 
 
 "You will bear that for her," said Welby, quietly. 
 "The more completely you can enlighten her, the better 
 for us all." 
 
 Fenwick's lips moved, but without speaking. Welby's 
 ignorance of the whole truth oppressed him; yet he 
 could make no effort to remove it. 
 
 Welby came back towards him. 
 
 "There is no reason, I think, why we should carry this 
 conversation further. I will let Miss Morrison know that 
 I have communicated with you." 
 252
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "No need" said Fenwick, interrupting him. "I 
 shall see her first thing in the morning " 
 
 "And" resumed Welby, lifting a book and letting it 
 fall uncertainly "if there is anything I can do with 
 Lord Findon for instance " 
 
 Fenwick had a movement of impatience. He felt his 
 endurance giving way. 
 
 "There is nothing to do! except to tell the truth 
 and to as few people as possible!" 
 
 Welby winced. Was the reference to his wife ? 
 
 "I agree with you of course." 
 
 He paused a moment irresolute wondering whether 
 he had said all he had to say. Then, involuntarily, his 
 eyes rested questioningly, piercingly, on the man beside 
 him. They seemed to express the marvel of his whole 
 being that such an offence could ever be they tried to 
 penetrate a character, a psychology which in truth 
 baffled them altogether. 
 
 He moved to the door, and Fenwick opened it. 
 
 As his visitor walked away, Fenwick stood motionless, 
 listening to the retreating step, which echoed in the 
 silence of the vast, empty hotel, once the house of Ma- 
 dame de Pompadour. 
 
 He looked at his watch. Past midnight. By about 
 three o'clock, in the midst of a wild autumnal storm, he 
 had finished his letter to Madame de Pastourelles ; and 
 he fell asleep at his table, worn out, his head on his 
 arms. 
 
 Before ten on the following morning Fenwick had seen 
 Bella Morrison. A woman appeared the caricature of 
 something he had once known, the high cheek-bones of 
 2 53
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 his early picture touched with rouge, little curls of black 
 hair plastered on her temples, with a mincing gait, and a 
 manner now giggling and now rude. She was extremely 
 sorry if she had put him out really particularly sorry! 
 She wouldn't have done so for the world ; but her curi- 
 osity got the better of her. Also, she confessed, she had 
 wished to see whether Mr. Fenwick would acknowledge 
 his debt to her. It was only lately that she had come 
 across a statement of it among her father's papers. It 
 was funny he should have forgotten it so long ; but there, 
 she wasn't going to be nasty. As to poor Mrs. Fen- 
 wick, no, of course she knew nothing. She had inquired 
 of some friends in the North, and they also knew nothing. 
 They had only heard that husband and wife couldn't hit 
 it off, and that Mrs. Fenwick had gone abroad. It was 
 a pity but a body might have expected it, mightn't 
 they? 
 
 The crude conceit and violence of her girlhood had 
 given place, under the pressure of a hard life, to some- 
 thing venomous and servile. She never mentioned her 
 visit to Phcebe ; but her eyes seemed to mock her visitor 
 all the time. Fenwick cut the interview short as soon 
 as he could, hastily paid her a hundred pounds, though 
 it left him overdrawn and almost penniless, and then 
 rushed back to his hotel to see what might be waiting 
 for him. 
 
 An envelope was lying on his table. It cost him a 
 great effort to open it. 
 
 " I have received your letter. There is nothing to say, 
 
 except that I must see you. I wish to keep what you 
 
 have told me from my father, for the present, at any rate. 
 
 There would be no possibility of our talking here. We 
 
 254
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 have only one sitting-room, and my sister is there all the 
 time. I will be at the Bosquet d'Apollon, by 11.30." 
 
 Only that! He stared at the delicate, almost invisible 
 writing. The moment he had dreaded for twelve years 
 had arrived ; and the world still went on, and quiet notes 
 like that could still be written. 
 
 Long before the hour fixed he was in the Bosquet 
 d'Apollon, walking up and down in front of the famous 
 grotto, on whose threshold the white Apollo, just re- 
 leased from the chariot of the Sun, receives the ministra- 
 tions of the Muses, while his divine horses are being fed 
 and stalled in the hollows of the rock to either side. No 
 stranger fancy than this ever engaged the architects and 
 squandered the finances of the Builder- King. Reared in 
 solid masonry on bare sandy ground now entirely dis- 
 guised, the artificial rock that holds the grotto towers to 
 a great height, crowned by ancient trees, weathered by 
 wind and rain, overgrown by leaf and grass, and laved 
 at its base by clear water. All round, the trees stand 
 close the lawns spread their quiet slopes. On this 
 sparkling autumn morning, a glory of russet, amber, and 
 red, begirt the white figures and the gleaming grotto. 
 The Immortals, the champing horses, locked behind 
 their grilles lest the tourist should insult them all the 
 queer crumbling romance of the statuary, all the natural 
 beauty of leaf and water, of the white clouds overhead 
 and their reflections below combined to make Fenwick's 
 guilty bewilderment more complete, to turn all life to 
 dream, and all its figures into the puppets of a shadow- 
 play. 
 
 A light step on the grass. A shock passed through 
 him. He made a movement, then checked it. 
 2 55
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Eugenie paused at some distance from him. In this 
 autumnal moment of the year, and on week-days, scarcely 
 any passing visitor disturbs the quiet of the Bosquet 
 d'Apollon. In its deep dell of trees and grass, they were 
 absolutely alone ; the sunlight which dappled the white 
 bodies of the Muses, and shone on the upstretched arm 
 of Apollo, seemed the only thing of life besides them- 
 selves. 
 
 She threw back her veil as she came near him her 
 long widow's veil, which to-day she had resumed. Be- 
 neath it, framed in it, the face appeared of an ivory 
 rigidity and pallor. The eyes only were wild and living, 
 as she came up to him, clasping her hands, evidently 
 shrinking from him yet composed. 
 
 "There is one thing more I want to know. If I have 
 ever been your friend! if you have ever felt any kind- 
 ness for me, tell me tell me frankly why did your 
 wife leave you?" 
 
 Fenwick's face fell. Had she come so soon to this 
 point ? by the sureness of her own instinct ? 
 
 "There were many troubles between us," he said, 
 hoarsely, walking on beside her, his eyes on the grass. 
 
 " Was she was she jealous ?" she breathed with dif- 
 ficulty "of any of your models? I know that some- 
 times happens or of your sitters of me, for instance?" 
 The last words were scarcely audible; but her gaze 
 enforced them. 
 
 "She was jealous of my whole life away from her. 
 And I was utterly blind and selfish I ought to have 
 known what was going on and I had no idea." 
 
 "And what happened ? I know so little." Her voice 
 so peremptorily strange so remote compelled him. 
 256
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 With difficulty he gave an outline of Phoebe's tragic visit 
 to his studio. His letter of the night before had scarcely 
 touched on the details of the actual crisis', had dwelt 
 rather on the months of carelessness and neglect on his 
 own part, which had prepared it. 
 
 She interrupted. 
 
 "That was she? the mother in the 'Genius Loci'?" 
 
 He assented mutely. 
 
 She closed her eyes a moment, seeing, in her suffering, 
 the face of the young mother and her child. 
 
 "But go on. And you were away? Please, please 
 go on! When was it? It must have been that spring 
 when " 
 
 She put her hand to her head, trying to remember 
 dates. 
 
 "It was just before the Academy," he said' reluc- 
 tantly. 
 
 "You were out?" 
 
 "I had gone to tell Watson and Cuningham the good 
 news." His voice dropped. 
 
 Her hands caught each other again. 
 
 "It was that day that very day we came to you?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "But why ? what was it made her do such a thing? 
 go forever without seeing you without a word? 
 She must have had some desperate reason." 
 
 "She had none!" he said, with energy. 
 
 " But she must have thought she had. Can't can't 
 you explain it to me any more?" 
 
 He was almost at the end of his resistance. 
 
 "I told you how she had resented my conceal- 
 ment?" 
 
 257
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Yes yes! But there must have been something 
 more something sudden that maddened her?" 
 
 He was silent. She grew whiter than before. 
 
 "Mr. Fenwick I I have much to forgive. There is 
 only one course of action that can ever make amends 
 and that is an entire an absolute frankness!" 
 
 Her terrible suspicion her imperious will had con- 
 quered. Anything was better than to deny her, torture 
 her deceive her afresh. 
 
 He looked at her in a horrible indecision. Then, 
 slowly, he put his hand within the breast of his coat. 
 "This is the letter she wrote me. I found it in my 
 room." 
 
 And he drew out the crumpled letter from his pocket- 
 book, which he had worn thus almost from the day of 
 Phoebe's disappearance. 
 
 Eugenie fell upon it, devoured it. Not a demur, not 
 a doubt, as to this! in one so strictly, so tenderly 
 scrupulous. Even at that moment, it struck him piti- 
 fully. It seemed to give the measure of her pain. 
 
 "The picture?" she said, looking up "I don't under- 
 stand you had sent it in." 
 
 "Do you remember asking me about the sketch? 
 and I told you it had been accidentally spoiled?" 
 
 She understood. Her lips trembled. Returning the 
 letter, she sank upon a seat. He saw that her forces 
 were almost failing her. And he dared not say a word 
 or make a movement of sympathy. 
 
 For some little time she was silent. Her eyes ranged 
 the green circuit of the hollow the water, the reeds, the 
 rock, and that idle god among his handmaidens. Her 
 attitude, her look expressed a moral agony, how strange-
 
 Fentoich's Career 
 
 ly out of place amid this setting! Through her inno- 
 cent, unconscious though she were the young helpless 
 wife had come to grief a soul had been risked perhaps 
 lost. Only a nature trained as Eugenie's had been, by 
 suffering and prayer and lofty living, could have felt 
 what she felt, and as she felt it. 
 
 Fumbling, Fenwick put back the letter in his pocket- 
 book thrust it again into his coat. Never once did the 
 thought cross Eugenie's mind that he had probably worn 
 it there, through these last days, while their relation had 
 grown so intimate, so dear. All recollection of herself 
 had left her. She was possessed with Phoebe. Nothing 
 else found entrance. 
 
 At last, after much more questioning much more 
 difficult or impetuous examination, she rose feebly. 
 
 "I think I understand. Now we have to find her!" 
 
 She stood, her hands loosely clasped, her eyes gazing 
 into the sunny vacancy of sky, above the rock. 
 
 Fenwick advanced a step. He felt that he must 
 speak, must grovel to her repeat some of the things 
 he. had said in his letter. But here, in her presence, all 
 words seemed too crude, too monstrous. His voice died 
 away. 
 
 So there was no repetition of the excuses, the cry for 
 pardon he had spent the night on; and she made no 
 reference to them. 
 
 They walked back to the hotel, talking coldly, pre- 
 cisely, almost as strangers, of what should be done. 
 Fenwick whose work indeed was finished would re- 
 turn to England that night. After his departure, Ma- 
 dame de Pastourelles would inform her father of what 
 had happened; a famous solicitor, Lord Findon's old 
 is 259
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 friend, was to be consulted ; all possible measures were 
 to be taken once more for Phoebe's discovery. 
 
 At the door of the hotel, Fenwick raised his hat. 
 Euge'nie did not offer her hand , but her sweet face sud- 
 denly trembled afresh before her will could master it. 
 To hide it, she turned abruptly away; and the door 
 closed upon her.
 
 XI 
 
 AFTER a moderately bright morning, that after- 
 , breakfast fog which we owe to the British kitchen 
 and the domestic hearth was descending on the Strand. 
 The stream of traffic, on the roadway and the pavements, 
 was passing to and fro under a yellow darkness; the 
 shop-lights were beginning to flash out here and there, 
 but without any of their evening cheerfulness; and on 
 the passing faces one saw written the inconvenience and 
 annoyance of the fog the fear, too, lest it should be- 
 come worse and impenetrable. 
 
 Fenwick was groping his way along, eastward; one 
 moment feeling and hating the depression of the Febru- 
 ary day, of the grimy, overcrowded street; the next, 
 responsive to some dimly beautiful effect of color or 
 line some quiver of light some grouping of phantom 
 forms in the gloom. Half-way towards the Law -Courts 
 he was hailed and overtaken by a tall, fair-haired man. 
 
 "Hallo, Fenwick! just the man I wanted to see!" 
 
 Fenwick, whose eyes often very troublesome of late 
 were smarting with the fog, peered at the speaker, and 
 recognized Philip Cuningham. His face darkened a 
 little, as they shook hands. 
 
 "What did you want me for?" 
 
 " Did you know that poor old Watson had come back 
 to town ill?" 
 
 261
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "No!" cried Fenwick, arrested. "I thought he was 
 in Algiers." 
 
 Cuningham walked on beside him, telling what he 
 knew, Fenwick all the time dumbly vexed that this good- 
 looking, prosperous fellow, this Academician in his new 
 fur coat, breathing success and commissions, should 
 know more of his best friend's doings than he. 
 
 Watson, it appeared, had been seized with hemorrhage 
 at Marseilles, and had thereupon given up his winter 
 plans, and crawled home to London, as soon as he was 
 sufficiently recovered to bear the journey. Fenwick, 
 much troubled, protested that it was madness to have 
 come back to the English winter. 
 
 "No," said Cuningham, looking grave. "Better die 
 at home than among strangers. And I'm afraid it's 
 come to that, dear old fellow!" 
 
 Then he described with evident self-satisfaction 
 how he had heard, from a common friend, of Watson's 
 arrival, how he had rescued the invalid from a dingy 
 Bloomsbury hotel, and settled him in some rooms in 
 Fitzroy Square, with a landlady who could be trusted. 
 
 "We must have a nurse before long but he won't 
 have one yet. He wants badly to see you. I told him 
 I'd look you up this evening. But this '11 do instead, 
 won't it ? You'll remember ? 23 Fitzroy Square. Shall 
 I tell him when he may expect you ? Every day we try 
 to get him some little pleasure or other." 
 
 Fenwick's irritation grew. Cuningham was talking as 
 though the old relation between him and Richard Watson 
 were still intact ; while Fenwick knew well how thin and 
 superficial the bond had grown. 
 
 " I shall go to-day," he said, rather shortly. " I have 
 262
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 two or three things to do this morning, but there '11 be 
 time before my rehearsal this afternoon." 
 
 "Your rehearsal?" Cuningham looked amiably curi- 
 ous. Fenwick explained, but with fresh annoyance. 
 The papers had been full enough of this venture on which 
 he was engaged; Cuningham 's ignorance offended him. 
 
 "Ah, indeed very interesting," said Cuningham, 
 vaguely. "Well, good-bye. I must jump into a han- 
 som." 
 
 "Where are you off to?" 
 
 "The Goldsmiths' Company are building a new Hall, 
 and they want my advice about its decoration. Precious 
 difficult, though, to get away from one's pictures, this 
 time of year, isn't it?" He hailed a hansom as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "That's not a difficulty that applies to me," said Fen- 
 wick, shortly. 
 
 Cuningham stared frowned and remembered. 
 
 "Oh, my dear fellow what a mistake that was! if 
 you'll let me say so. Can't we put it right ? Command 
 me at any time." 
 
 "Thank you. I prefer it as it is." 
 
 "We'll talk it over. Well, good-bye. Don't forget 
 old Dick." 
 
 Fenwick walked on, fuming. Cuningham, he said to 
 himself, was now the type of busy, pretentious medioc- 
 rity, the type which eternally keeps English art below 
 the level of the Continent. 
 
 " I say one moment ! Have you had any news of the 
 Findons lately?" 
 
 Fenwick turned sharply, and again saw Cuningham, 
 whose hansom had been blocked by the traffic, close to 
 263
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 the pavement. He was hanging over the door, and 
 smiling. 
 
 In reply to the question, Fenwick merely shook his 
 head. 
 
 "I had a capital letter from her ladyship a week or 
 two ago," said Cuningham, raising his voice, and bring- 
 ing himself as near to Fenwick as his position allowed. 
 "The old fellow seems to be as fit as ever. But Madame 
 de Pastourelles must be very much changed." 
 
 Fenwick said nothing. It might have been thought 
 that the traffic prevented his hearing Cuningham 's re- 
 mark. But he had heard distinctly. 
 
 "Do you know when they'll be home?" he asked, 
 reluctantly, walking beside the hansom. 
 
 "No haven't an idea. I believe I'm to go to them 
 for Easter. Ah! now we go on. Ta-ta!" He waved 
 his hand, and the hansom moved away. 
 
 Fenwick pursued his walk plunged in disagreeable 
 thought. "Much changed?" What did that mean? 
 He had noticed no such change before the Findons left 
 London. The words fell like a fresh blow upon a 
 wound. % 
 
 He turned north, towards Lincoln's Inn Fields, called 
 at the offices of Messrs. Butlin & Forbes, the well- 
 known solicitors, and remained there half an hour. 
 When he emerged from the old house he looked, if pos- 
 sible, more harried and cast down than when he had 
 entered it. 
 
 They had had a letter to show him, but in his opinion 
 
 it contributed nothing. There was no hope and no 
 
 clew! How could there be? He had never himself 
 
 imagined for a moment that any gain would come of 
 
 264
 
 FentDick's Career 
 
 these new researches. But he had been allowed no 
 option with regard to them. Immediately after his 
 return to London from Versailles he had received a 
 stern letter from Lord Findon, insisting as his daughter 
 had already done that the only reparation he, Fenwick, 
 could make to the friends he had so long and cruelly 
 deceived, was to allow them a free hand in a fresh 
 attempt to discover his wife, and so to clear Madame de 
 Pastourelles from the ridiculous suspicions that Mrs. 
 Fenwick had been led so disastrously to entertain. 
 "Most shamefully and indefensibly my daughter has 
 been made to feel herself an accomplice in Mrs. Fen- 
 wick's disappearance," wrote Lord Findon; "the only 
 amends you can ever make for your conduct will lie in 
 new and vigorous efforts, even at this late hour, to find 
 and to undeceive your wife." 
 
 Hence, during November and December, constant 
 meetings and consultations in the well-known offices of 
 Lord Findon's solicitors. At these meetings both Ma- 
 dame de Pastourelles and her father had been often 
 present, and she had followed the debates with a quick 
 and strained intelligence, which often betrayed to Fen- 
 wick the suffering behind. He painfully remembered 
 with what gentleness and chivalry Eugenie had always 
 treated him personally on these occasions, with what 
 anxious generosity she had tried to curb her father. 
 
 But there had been no private conversation between 
 them. Not only did they shrink from it; Lord Findon 
 could not have borne it. The storm of family and per- 
 sonal pride which the disclosure of Fenwick's story had 
 aroused in the old man, had been of a violence impossible 
 to resist. That Fenwick's obscure and crazy wife should 
 a6 S
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 have dared to entertain jealousy of a being so far above 
 his ken and hers, as Eugenie then was that she should 
 have made a ridiculous tragedy out of it and that Fen- 
 wick should have conduced to the absurd and insulting 
 imbroglio by his ill-bred and vulgar concealment: these 
 things were so irritating to Lord Findon that they first 
 stimulated a rapid recovery from his illness at Versailles, 
 and then led him to frantic efforts on Phcebe's behalf, 
 which were in fact nothing but the expression of his own 
 passionate pride and indignation resting no doubt ulti- 
 mately on those weeks at Versailles when even he, with 
 all the other by-standers, had supposed that Eugenie 
 would marry this man. His mood, indeed, had been a 
 curious combination of wounded affection with a class 
 arrogance stiffened by advancing age and long indul- 
 gence. When, in those days, the old man entered the 
 room where Fenwick was, he bore his gray head and 
 sparkling eyes with the air of a teased lion. 
 
 Fenwick, a man of violent temper, would have found 
 much difficulty in keeping the peace under these circum- 
 stances, but for the frequent presence of Eugenie, and 
 the pressure of his own dull remorse. "I too have 
 much to forgive!" that, he knew well, would be the 
 only reference involving personal reproach that he would 
 ever hear from her lips, either to his original deceit, or to 
 those wild weeks at Versailles (that so much ranker and 
 sharper offence I) when, in his loneliness and craving, 
 he had gambled both on her ignorance and on Phoebe's 
 death. Yet he did not deceive himself. The relation 
 between them was broken ; he had lost his friend. Her 
 very cheerfulness and gentleness somehow enforced it. 
 How natural! how just! None the less his bitter re- 
 266
 
 FenuDick's Career 
 
 alization of it had worked with crushing effect upon a 
 miserable man. 
 
 About Christmas, Lord Findon's health had again 
 caused his family anxiety. He was ordered to Cannes, 
 and Eugenie accompanied him. Before she went she 
 had gone despairingly once more through all the ingeni- 
 ous but quite fruitless inquiries instituted by the lawyers ; 
 and she had written a kind letter to Fenwick begging to 
 be kept informed, and adding at the end a few timid 
 words expressing her old sympathy with his work, and 
 her best wishes for the success of the pictures that she 
 understood he was to exhibit in the spring. 
 
 Then she and her father departed. Fenwick had felt 
 their going as perhaps the sharpest pang in this intoler- 
 able winter. But he had scarcely answered her letter. 
 What was there to say? At least he had never asked 
 her or her father for money had never owed Lord Fin- 
 don a penny. There was some small comfort in that. 
 
 Nevertheless, it was of money that he thought and 
 must think night and day. 
 
 After his interview with the magnificent gentlemen in 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields, he made his way wearily to a much 
 humbler office in Bedford Row. Here was a small solic- 
 itor to whom he had often resorted lately, under the con- 
 stant pressure of his financial difficulties. He spent an 
 hour in this man's room. When he came out, he walked 
 fast towards Oxford Street and the West, hardly con- 
 scious in his excitement of where he was going. The 
 lawyer he had just seen had for the first time mentioned 
 the word "bankruptcy." "I scarcely see, Mr. Fenwick, 
 how you can avoid it." 
 
 267
 
 Fenvoick's Career 
 
 Well, it might come to that it might. But he still 
 had his six pictures time to finish two others that were 
 now on hand and the exhibition. 
 
 It was with that he was now concerned. He called 
 on the manager of a small gallery near Hanover Square , 
 with whom he had already made an arrangement for the 
 coming May paying a deposit on the rent early in the 
 winter. In his anxiety, he wished now to make the mat- 
 ter still clearer, to pay down the rest of the rent if need 
 be. He had the notes always in his breast-pocket, jeal- 
 ously hidden away, lest any other claim, amid the myr- 
 iads which pressed upon him, should sweep them from 
 him. 
 
 The junior partner in charge of the gallery and the 
 shop of which it made part, received him very coldly. 
 The firm had long since regretted their bargain with a 
 man whose pictures were not likely to sell, especially as 
 they could have relet the gallery to much better ad- 
 vantage. But their contract with Fenwick clinched by 
 the deposit could not be evaded ; so they were advised. 
 
 All, therefore, that the junior partner could do was to 
 try to alarm Fenwick as to the incidental expenses in- 
 volved hanging, printing, service, etc. But Fenwick 
 only laughed. " I shall see to that!" he said, contemptu- 
 ously. " And my pictures will sell, I tell you," he added, 
 raising his voice. "They'll bring a profit both to you 
 and to me." 
 
 The individual addressed said nothing. He was a tall, 
 well-fed young man, in a faultless frock-coat, and Fen- 
 wick, as they stood together in the office the artist had 
 not been offered a chair disliked him violently. 
 
 "Well, shall I pay you the rest?" said Fenwick, 
 268
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 abruptly, turning to go, and fumbling at the same time 
 for the pocket-book in which he kept the notes. 
 
 The other gave a slight shrug. 
 
 "That's just as you please, Mr. Fenwick." 
 
 "Well, here's fifty, any way," said Fenwick, drawing 
 out a fifty-pound note and laying it on the table. 
 
 " We are not in any hurry, I assure you." The young 
 man stood looking at the artist, in an attitude of cool 
 indifference ; but at the same time his hand secured the 
 note, and placed it safely in the drawer of the table be- 
 tween them. 
 
 He wrote a receipt, and handed it to Fenwick. 
 
 "Good-day," said Fenwick, turning to go. 
 
 The other followed him, and as they stepped out into 
 the exhibition -rooms of the shop, hung in dark purple, 
 Fenwick perceived in the distance what looked like a 
 fine Corot, and a Daubigny and paused. 
 
 "Got some good things, since I was here last?" 
 
 "Oh, we're always getting good things," said his com- 
 panion, carelessly, without the smallest motion towards 
 the pictures. 
 
 Fenwick nodded haughtily, and walked towards the 
 door. But his soul smarted within him. Two years 
 before, the owners of any picture-shop in London would 
 have received him with empressement, have shown him 
 all they had to show, and taken flattering note of his 
 opinion. 
 
 On the threshold he ran against the Academician with 
 the orange hair and beard, who had been his fellow-guest 
 at the Findon's on the night of his first dinner-party 
 there. The orange hair was now nearly white ; its owner 
 had grown to rotundity; but the sharp, glancing eyes 
 269
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 and pompous manner were the same as of old. Mr. 
 Sherratt nodded curtly to Fenwick, and was then re- 
 ceived with bows and effusion by the junior partner 
 standing behind. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Sherratt! delighted to see you! Come to 
 look at the Corot? By all means! This way, please." 
 
 Fenwick pursued his course to Oxford Street in a 
 morbid self-consciousness. It seemed to him that all 
 the world knew him by now for a failure and a bankrupt ; 
 that he was stared and pointed at. 
 
 He took refuge from this nightmare in an Oxford 
 Street restaurant, and as he ate his mid-day chop he 
 asked himself, for the hundredth time, how the deuce it 
 was that he had got into the debts which weighed him 
 down. He had been extravagant on the building and 
 furnishing of his house but after all he had earned large 
 sums of money. He sat gloomily over his meal frown- 
 ing and trying to remember. And once, amid the 
 foggy darkness, there opened a vision of a Westmoreland 
 stream, and a pleading face upturned to his in the moon- 
 light "And then, you know, I could look after money! 
 You're dreadfully bad about money, John!" 
 
 The echo of that voice in his ears made him restless. 
 He rose and set forth again towards Fitzroy Square. 
 
 On the way his thoughts recurred to the letter he had 
 found waiting for him at the lawyers'. It came from 
 Phoebe's cousin, Freddie Tolson. Messrs. Butlin had 
 traced this man anew to a mining town in New South 
 Wales. He had been asked to come to England and 
 testify no matter at what expense. In the letter just 
 received bearing witness in its improved writing and 
 spelling to the prosperous development of the writer he 
 270
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 declined to come, repeating that he knew nothing what- 
 ever of his Cousin Phoebe's whereabouts, nor of her 
 reasons for leaving her husband. He gave a fresh and 
 longer account of his conversation with her, as far as he 
 could remember it at this distance of time; and this 
 longer account contained the remark that she had asked 
 him questions about other colonies than Australia, to 
 which he was himself bound. He thought Canada had 
 been mentioned the length of the passage there, and 
 its cost. He hadn't paid much attention to it at the 
 time. It had seemed to him that she was glad, poor 
 thing, of some one to have a "crack" with "for I guess 
 she'd been pretty lonesome up there." But she might 
 have had something in her head he couldn't say. All 
 he could declare was that if she were in Canada, or any 
 other of the colonies, he had had no hand in it, and 
 knew no more than a "born baby" where she might be 
 hidden. 
 
 So now, on this vague hint, a number of fresh inquiries 
 were to be set on foot. Fenwick hoped nothing from 
 them. Yet as he walked fast through the London 
 streets, from which the fog was lifting, his mind wrestled 
 with vague images of great lakes, and virgin forests, and 
 rolling wheat-lands of the streets of Montreal, or the 
 Heights of Quebec and among them, now with one 
 background, now with another, the slender figure of a 
 fair-haired woman with a child beside her. And through 
 his thoughts, furies of distress and fear pursued him 
 now as always. 
 
 "Well, this is a queer go, isn't it?" said Watson, in a 
 half -whispering voice. " Nature has horrid ways of kill- 
 271
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 ing you. I wish she'd chosen a more expeditious one 
 with me." 
 
 Fenwick sat down beside his friend, the lamp-light in 
 the old panelled room revealing, against his will, his 
 perturbed and shaken expression. 
 
 "How did this come on?" he asked. 
 
 "Of itself, my dear fellow" laughed Watson, in the 
 same hoarse whisper. "My right lung has been getting 
 rotten for a year past, and at Marseilles it happened to 
 break. That's my explanation, anyway, and it does as 
 well as the doctor's. Well, how are you?" 
 
 Fenwick shifted uneasily, and made a vague answer. 
 Watson turned to look at him. 
 
 "What pictures have you on hand?" 
 
 Fenwick gave a list of the completed pictures still in 
 his studio, and described the arrangements made to ex- 
 hibit them. He was not as ready as usual to speak of 
 himself; his gaze and his attention were fixed upon his 
 friend. But Watson probed further, into the subjects of 
 his recent work. Fenwick was nearing the end, he ex- 
 plained, of a series of rustic "Months" with their appro- 
 priate occupations an idea which had haunted his mind 
 for years. 
 
 "As old as the hills," said Watson, "but none the 
 worse for that. You've painted them, I suppose, out-of- 
 doors?" 
 
 Fenwick shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "As much as possible." 
 
 "Ah, that's where those French fellows have us, said 
 
 Watson, languidly. "One of them said to me in Paris 
 
 the other day, ' It's bad enough to paint the things you've 
 
 seen it's the devil to paint the things you've not seen.' " 
 
 272
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "The usual fallacy," said Fen wick, firing up. " What 
 do they mean by 'seen' ?" 
 
 He would have liked this time to go off at score. But 
 a sure instinct told him that he was beside a dying man ; 
 and he held himself back, trying instead to remember 
 what small news and gossip he could, for the amusement 
 of his friend. 
 
 Watson sat in a deep arm-chair, propped up by pil- 
 lows. The room in which they met had been a very 
 distinguished room in the eighteenth century. It had 
 still some remains of carved panelling, a graceful mantel- 
 piece of Italian design, and a painted ceiling half effaced. 
 It was now part of a lodging-house, furnished with shab- 
 by cheapness; but the beauty, once infused, persisted; 
 and it made no unworthy setting for a painter's death. 
 
 The signs of desperate illness in Richard Watson were 
 indeed plainly visible. His shaggy hair and thick, un- 
 kempt beard brought into relief the waxen or purple 
 tones of the skin. The breath was labored and the 
 cough frequent. But the eyes were still warm, living, 
 and passionate, the eyes of a Celt, with the Celtic gifts, 
 and those deficiencies, also, of his race, broadly and 
 permanently expressed in the words of a great historian 
 "The Celts have shaken all States, and founded none!" 
 No founder, no achiever, this no happy, harmonious 
 soul but a man who had vibrated to life and nature, 
 in their subtler and sadder aspects, through whom the 
 nobler thoughts and ambitions had passed, like sound 
 through strings, wringing out some fine, tragic notes, 
 some memorable tones. " I can't last more than a week 
 or two," he said, presently, in a pause of Fenwick's talk, 
 to which he had hardly listened "and a good job too. 
 273
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 But I don't find myself at all rebellious. I'm curiously 
 content to go. I've had a good time." 
 
 This from a man who had passed from one disappoint- 
 ed hope to another, brought the tears to Fenwick's eyes. 
 
 "Some of us may wish we were going with you," he 
 said, in a low voice, laying his hand a moment on his 
 friend's knee. 
 
 Watson made no immediate reply. He coughed 
 fidgeted and at last said: 
 
 "How's the money?" 
 
 Fenwick hastily drew himself up. "All right." 
 
 He reached out a hand to the tongs and put the fire 
 together. 
 
 " Is that so ?" said Watson. The slight incredulity in 
 his voice touched some raw nerve in Fenwick. 
 
 " I don't want anything," he said, almost angrily. "I 
 shall get through." 
 
 Cuningham had been talking, no doubt. His affairs 
 had been discussed. His morbid pride took offence at 
 once. 
 
 "Mine '11 just hold out," said Watson, presently, with 
 a humorous inflection "it '11 bury me, I think with a 
 few shillings over. But I couldn't have afforded another 
 year." 
 
 There was silence awhile till a nurse came in to make 
 up the fire. Fenwick began to talk of old friends, and 
 current exhibitions ; and presently tea made its appear- 
 ance. Watson's strength seemed to revive. He sat 
 more upright in his chair, his voice grew stronger, and 
 he dallied with his tea, joking hoarsely with his nurse, 
 and asking Fenwick all the questions that occurred to 
 him. His face, in its rugged pallor and emaciation, and 
 274
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 his great head, black or iron-gray on the white pillows, 
 were so fine that Fenwick could not take his eyes from 
 him; with the double sense of the artist, he saw the 
 subject in the man ; a study in black and white hovered 
 before him. 
 
 When the nurse had withdrawn, and they were alone 
 again, in a silence made more intimate still by the dark- 
 ness of the panelled walls, which seemed to isolate them 
 from the rest of the room, enclosing them in a glowing 
 ring of lamp and fire-light, Fenwick was suddenly seized 
 by an impulse he could not master. He bent towards 
 the sick man. 
 
 "Watson! do you remember advising me to marry 
 when we met in Paris?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 The invalid turned his haggard eyes upon the speaker, 
 in a sudden sharp attention. There was a pause; then 
 Fenwick said, with bent head, staring into the fire: 
 
 "Well I am married." 
 
 Watson gave a hoarse "Phew!" and waited. 
 
 "My wife left me twelve years ago and took our child 
 with her. I don't know whether they are alive or dead. 
 I thought I'd like to tell you. It would have been better 
 if I hadn't concealed it, from you and and other 
 friends." 
 
 "Great Scott!" said Watson, slowly, bringing the 
 points of his long, emaciated fingers together, like one 
 trying to master a new image. "So that's been the 
 secret 
 
 "Of what?" said Fenwick, testily; but as Watson 
 merely replied by an interrogative and attentive silence, 
 he threw himself into his tale headlong. He told it at 
 i 275
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 far greater length than Eugdnie had ever heard it; and 
 throughout, the subtle, instinctive appeal of man to man 
 governed the story, differentiating it altogether from the 
 same story, told to a woman. 
 
 He spoke impetuously, with growing emotion, con- 
 scious of an infinite relief and abandonment. Watson 
 listened with scarcely a comment. Midway a little pat- 
 tering, scuffling noise startled the speaker. He looked 
 round and saw the monkey, Anatole, who had been lying 
 asleep in his basket. Watson nodded to Fenwick to go 
 on, and then feebly motioned to his knee. The monkey 
 clambered there, and Watson folded his bony arms round 
 the creature, who lay presently with his weird face press- 
 ed against his master's dressing-gown, his melancholy 
 eyes staring out at Fenwick. 
 
 "It was madame she was jealous of?" said Watson, 
 when the story came to an end. 
 
 Fenwick hesitated then nodded reluctantly. He had 
 spoken merely of "one of my sitters." But it was not 
 possible to fence with this dying man. 
 
 "And Madame knows?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 But Fenwick sharply regretted the introduction of 
 Madame de Pastourelles' name. He had brought the 
 story down merely to the point of Phoebe's flight and the 
 search which followed, adding only with vagueness 
 that the search had lately been renewed without suc- 
 cess. 
 
 Watson pondered the matter for some time. Fenwick 
 took out his handkerchief and wiped a brow damp with 
 perspiration. His story added to the miseries of the 
 day had excited and shaken him still further. 
 276
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 Suddenly Watson put out a hand and seized his wrist. 
 The grip hurt. 
 
 "Lucky dog!" 
 
 "What on earth do you mean?" 
 
 "You've lost them but you've had a woman in 
 your arms a child on your knee! You don't go 'to 
 your grave a7rpam>e an ignorant, barren fool like 
 me!" 
 
 Fen wick looked at him in amazement. Self -scorn 
 a bitter and passionate regret transformed the face be- 
 side him. He pressed the fevered hand. "Watson! 
 dear fellow!" 
 
 Watson withdrew his hand, and once more folded the 
 monkey to him. 
 
 "There are plenty of men like me," he muttered. 
 "We are afraid of living and art is our refuge. Then 
 art takes its revenge and we are bad artists, because 
 we are poor and sterilized human beings. But you" 
 he spoke with fresh energy, composing himself "don't 
 talk rot! as though your chance was done. You'll find 
 her she'll come back to you when she's drunk the cup. 
 Healthy young women don't die before thirty-five ; and 
 by your account she wasn't bad she had a conscience. 
 The child '11 waken it. Don't you be hard on her!" he 
 raised himself, speaking almost fiercely "you've no 
 right to! Take her in listen to her let her cry it out. 
 My God!" his voice dropped, as his head fell back on 
 the pillows "what happiness what happiness!" 
 
 His eyes closed. Fen wick stooped over him in alarm, 
 but the thin hand closed again on his. 
 
 "Don't go. What was she like ?" 
 
 Fenwick asked him whether he remembered the in- 
 277
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 cident of the sketch-book at their first meeting the 
 drawing of the mother and child in the kitchen of the 
 Westmoreland farm. 
 
 "Perfectly. And she was the model for the big pict- 
 ure, too ? I see. A lovely creature ! How old is she now ?' ' 
 
 "Thirty-six if she lives." 
 
 "I tell you, she does live! Probably more beautiful 
 now than she was then. Those Madonna-like women 
 mellow so finely. And the child ? Vois-tu Anatole ! 
 something superior to monkeys!" 
 
 But he pressed the little animal closer to him as he 
 spoke. Fenwick rose to go, conscious that he had stayed 
 too long. Watson looked up. 
 
 "Good-bye, old man courage! Seek till you find. 
 She's in the world and she's sorry. I could swear it." 
 
 Fenwick stood beside him, quivering with emotion and 
 despondency. Their eyes met steadily, and Watson 
 whispered : 
 
 "I pass from one thing to another. Sometimes it's 
 Omar Khayam 'One thing is certain and the rest is 
 lies The flower that once is born forever dies' and 
 the next it's the Psalms, and I think I'm at a prayer- 
 meeting a Welsh Methodist again." He fell into a 
 flow of Welsh, hoarsely musical. 
 
 Then, with a smile, he nodded farewell; and Fenwick 
 went. 
 
 Fenwick wrote that night to Eugenie de Pastourelles 
 at Cannes, enclosing a copy of the letter received from 
 Freddie Tolson. It meant nothing; but she had asked 
 to be kept informed. As he entered upon the body of 
 his letter, his eyes still recurred to its opening line: 
 278
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Dear Madame de Pastourelles." 
 
 For many years he had never addressed her except as 
 "My dear friend." 
 
 Well, that was all gone and over. The memory of her 
 past goodness, of those walks through the Trianon woods, 
 was constantly with him. But he had used her reckless- 
 ly and selfishly, and she had done with him. He admit- 
 tsd it now, as often before, in a temper of dull endurance ; 
 bending himself to the task of his report. 
 
 Eugenie read his letter, sitting on a bench above the 
 blue Mediterranean, in the pine-woods of the Cap 
 d'Antibes. She had torn it open in hope, and the read- 
 ing of it depressed her. In the pine-scented, sun- 
 warmed air she sat for long motionless and sad. The 
 delicate greenish light fell on the soft brown hair, the 
 white face and hands. Eugenie's deep black had now 
 assumed a slight "religious" air which disturbed Lord 
 Findon, and kindled the Protestant wrath of her step- 
 mother. That short moment of a revived mondanite 
 which Versailles had witnessed, was wholly past; and 
 for the first and only time in her marred life, Eugenie's 
 natural gayety was quenched. She knew well that in 
 the burden which weighed upon her there were morbid 
 elements; but she could only bear it; she could not 
 smile under it. 
 
 Fenwick's letter led her thoughts back to the early 
 incidents of this fruitless search. Especially did she re- 
 call every moment of her interview with Daisy Hewson 
 Phcebe Fenwick's former nursemaid, now married to 
 a small Westmoreland farmer. One of the first acts of 
 the lawyers had been to induce this woman to come to 
 279
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 London to repeat once more what she knew of the 
 catastrophe. 
 
 Then, after the examination by the lawyers, Euge'nie 
 had pleaded that she might see her and see her alone. 
 Accordingly, a shy and timid woman, speaking with a 
 broad Westmoreland accent, called one morning in 
 Dean's Yard. 
 
 Euge'nie had won from her many small details the 
 lawyers had been unable to exact. They were not, 
 alack, of a kind to help the search for Phcebe; but, inter- 
 preted by the aid of her own quick imagination, they 
 drew a picture of the lost mother and child, which sank 
 deep, deep, into Eugenie's soul. 
 
 Mrs. Fenwick, said Mrs. Hewson, scarcely spoke on 
 the journey south. She sat staring out of window, with 
 her hands on her lap, and Daisy thought there was 
 "soomat wrang" but dared not ask. In saying good- 
 bye at Euston, Mrs. Fenwick had kissed her, and given 
 the guard a shilling to look after her. She was holding 
 Carrie in her arms, as the train moved away. The girl 
 had supposed she was going to join her husband. 
 
 And barely a week later, John Fenwick had been din- 
 ing in St. James's Square, looking harassed and ill in- 
 deed it was supposed, from overwork; but, to his best 
 friends, as silent as that grave of darkness and oblivion 
 which had closed over his wife. 
 
 Yet, as the weeks of thought went on, Euge'nie blamed 
 him less and less. Her clear intelligence showed her all 
 the steps of the unhappy business. She remembered 
 the awkward, harassed youth, as she had first seen him 
 at her father's table, with his curious mixture of arro- 
 gance and timidity; now haranguing the table, and now 
 280
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 ready to die with confusion over some social slip. She 
 understood what he had told her, in his first piteous 
 letter, of his paralyzed, tongue-tied states of his fear 
 of alienating her father and herself. And she went 
 deeper. She confessed the hatefulness of those weaken- 
 ing timidities, those servile states of soul, by which our 
 social machine balances the insolences and cruelties of 
 the strong its own breeding also ; she felt herself guilty 
 because of them; the whole of life seemed to her sick, 
 because a young man, ill at ease and cowardly in a 
 world not his own, had told or lived a foolish lie. It 
 was as though she had forced it from him; she under- 
 stood so well how it had come about. No, no! her 
 father might judge it as he pleased. She was angry no 
 longer. 
 
 Nor presently did she even resent the treachery of 
 those weeks at Versailles, so quick and marvellous was 
 the play of her great gift of sympathy, which was only 
 another aspect of imagination. In recoil from a dark 
 moment of her own experience, of which she could never 
 think without anguish, she had offered him a friend's 
 hand, a friend's heart offered them eagerly and lavish- 
 ly. Had he done more than take them, with the craving 
 of a man, for whom already the ways are darkening, who 
 makes one last clutch at "youth and bloom, and this 
 delightful world?" He had been reckless and cruel in- 
 deed. But in its profound tenderness and humility and 
 self-reproach her heart forgave him. 
 
 Yet of that forgiveness she could make no outward 
 
 sign for her own sake and Phoebe's. That old relation 
 
 could never be again ; the weeks at Versailles had killed 
 
 it. Unless, indeed, some day it were her blessed lot to 
 
 281
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 find the living Phoebe, and bring her to her husband! 
 Then friendship, as well as love, might perhaps lift its 
 head once more. And as during the months of winter, 
 both before and since her departure from England, the 
 tidings reached her of Fenwick's growing embarrass- 
 ments, of his increasing coarseness and carelessness of 
 work, his violence of temper, the friend in her suffered 
 profoundly. She knew that she could still do much for 
 him. Yet there, in the way, stood the image of Phoebe, 
 as Daisy Hewson described her pale, weary, desperate 
 making all speech, all movement, on the part of the 
 woman, for jealousy of whom the wife had so ignorantly 
 destroyed herself and Fenwick, a thing impossible. 
 
 Eugenie's only comfort indeed, at this time, was the 
 comfort of religion. Her soul, sorely troubled and very 
 stern with itself, wandered in mystical, ascetic paths, 
 out of human ken. Every morning she hurried through 
 the woods to a little church beside the sea, filled with 
 fishing folk. There she heard mass, and made the spir- 
 itual communion which sustained her. 
 
 Once, in the mediaeval siege of a Spanish fortress, so 
 a Spanish chronicler tells us, all the defenders were 
 slaughtered but one man ; and he lay dying on the 
 ground, across the gate. There was neither priest nor 
 wafer; but the dying man raised a little of the soil be- 
 tween the stones to his lips, and so, says the chronicler, 
 "communicated in the earth itself," before he passed to 
 the Eternal Presence. Eugenie would have done the 
 same with a like ardor and simplicity ; her thought differ- 
 ing much, perhaps, in its perceived and logical elements, 
 from that of the dying Spaniard, but none the less pro- 
 foundly akin. The act was to her the symbol and instru- 
 282
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 ment of an Inflowing Power ; the details of those histori- 
 cal beliefs with which it was connected, mattered little. 
 And as she thus leaned upon the old, while conscious of 
 the new, she never in truth felt herself alone. It seemed 
 to her often, that she clasped hands, with a vast invisible 
 multitude, in a twilight scc^ to be dawn.
 
 A FORTNIGHT later Dick Watson died. Penwick 
 /\saw him several times before the end, and was 
 present at his last moments. The funeral was managed 
 by Cuningham ; so were the obituary notices ; and Fen- 
 wick attended the funeral and read the notices, with that 
 curious mixture of sore grief and jealous irritation into 
 which our human nature is so often betrayed at similar 
 moments. 
 
 Then he found himself absorbed by the later rehears- 
 als of "The Queen's Necklace"; by the completion of 
 his pictures for the May exhibition ; and by the perpetual 
 and ignominious hunt for money. As to this last, it 
 seemed to him that each day was a battle in which he 
 was forever worsted. He was still trying in vain to sell 
 his house at Chelsea, the house planned at the height of 
 his brief prosperity, built and finely furnished on bor- 
 rowed money, and now apparently unsalable, because of 
 certain peculiarities in it, which suited its contriver and 
 no one else. And meanwhile the bank from which he 
 had borrowed most of his building money was pressing 
 inexorably for repayment; the solicitor in Bedford Row 
 could do nothing, and was manifestly averse to running 
 up a longer bill on his own account ; so that, instead of 
 painting, Fenwick often spent his miserable days in 
 rushing about London, trying to raise money by one 
 284
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 shift after another, in an agony to get a bill accepted 
 or postponed, borrowing from this person and that, and 
 with every succeeding week losing more self-respect and 
 self-control. 
 
 The situation would have been instantly changed if 
 only his artistic power had recovered itself. And if 
 Eugenie had been within his reach it might have done 
 so. She had the secret of stimulating in him what was 
 poetic, and repressing what was merely extravagant or 
 violent. But she was far away: and as he worked at 
 the completion of his series of "Months," or at various 
 portraits which the kindness or compassion of old friends 
 had procured for him, he fell headlong into all his worst 
 faults. 
 
 His handling, once so distinguished, through all its 
 inequalities, grew steadily more careless and perfunctory; 
 his drawing lost force and grip ; his composition, so rich, 
 interesting, and intelligent in his early days, now meant 
 nothing, said nothing. The few friends who still haunt- 
 ed his studio during these dark months were often struck 
 with pity ; criticism or argument was useless ; and some 
 of them believed that he was suffering from defects of 
 sight, and was no longer capable of judging his own 
 work. 
 
 The portrait commissions, in particular, led more than 
 once to disaster. His angry vanity suspected that while 
 he was now thought incapable of the poetic or imagina- 
 tive work in which he had once excelled, he was still con- 
 sidered "like any fool" good enough for portraits. 
 This alone was enough to make him loathe the business. 
 On two or three occasions he ended by quarrelling with 
 the sitter. Then for hours he would walk restlessly 
 285
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 about his room, smoking enormously, drinking some- 
 times excessively out of a kind of excitement and 
 desceuvrement his strong, grizzled hair bristling about 
 his head, his black eyes staring and bloodshot, and that 
 wild gypsyish look of his youth more noticeable than 
 ever in these surroundings of what promised soon to be 
 a decadent middle age. 
 
 One habit of his youth had quite disappeared. The 
 queer tendency to call on Heaven for practical aid in any 
 practical difficulty to make of prayer a system of "beg- 
 ging-letters to the Almighty" which had often quieted 
 or distracted him in his early years of struggle, affected 
 him no longer. His inner life seemed to himself shroud- 
 ed in a sullen numbness and frost. 
 
 And the old joy in reading, the old plenitude and 
 facility of imagination were also in abeyance. He be- 
 came the fierce critic of other men's ideas, while barren 
 of his own. To be original, successful, happy, was now 
 in his eyes the one dark and desperate offence. Yet 
 every now and then he would have impulses of the lar- 
 gest generosity; would devote hours to the teaching of 
 some struggling student and the correction of his work; 
 or draw on his last remains of credit or influence pester 
 people with calls, or write reams to the newspapers on 
 behalf of some one, unduly overlooked, whose work he 
 admired. 
 
 But through it all, the shadows deepened, and a fixed 
 conviction that he was moving towards catastrophe. 
 In spite of Watson's touching words to him, he did not 
 often let himself think of Phoebe. Towards her, as tow- 
 ards so much else, his mind and heart were stiffened and 
 voiceless. But for hours in the night since sleepless- 
 286
 
 Fcntoick's Career 
 
 ness was now added to his other torments he would 
 brood on the loss of his child, would try to imagine her 
 dancing, singing, sewing or helping her mother in the 
 house. Seventeen! Why, soon no doubt they would 
 be marrying her, and he, her father, would know nothing, 
 hear nothing. And in the darkness he would feel the 
 warm tears rise in his eyes, and hold them there, proud- 
 ly arrested. 
 
 The rehearsals in which he spent many hours of the 
 week, generally added to his distress and irritation. The 
 play itself was, in his opinion, a poor vulgar thing, 
 utterly unworthy of the "spectacle" he had contrived 
 for it. He could not hide his contempt for the piece, 
 and indeed for most of its players; and was naturally 
 unpopular with the management and the company. 
 Moreover, he wanted his money desperately, seeing that 
 the play had been postponed, first from November to 
 February, and then from February to April; but the 
 actor-manager concerned was in somewhat dire straits 
 himself, and nothing could be got before production. 
 
 One afternoon, late in March, a rehearsal was nearing 
 its completion, everybody was tired out, and everything 
 had been going badly. One of Fenwick's most beautiful 
 scenes carefully studied from the Trianon gardens on 
 the spot had been, in his opinion, hopelessly spoiled in 
 order to bring in some ridiculous "business " wholly in- 
 congruous with the setting and date of the play. He 
 had had a fierce altercation on the stage with the actor- 
 manager. The cast, meanwhile, dispersed at the back 
 of the stage or in the wings, looked on maliciously or 
 chatted among themselves; while every now and then 
 one or other of the antagonists would call up the leading 
 287
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 lady, or the conceited gentleman who was to act Count 
 Fersen, and hotly put a case. Fenwick was madly con- 
 scious all the time of his lessened consideration and dig- 
 nity in the eyes of a band of people whom he despised. 
 Two years before, his co-operation would have been an 
 honor and his opinion law. Now, nothing of the kind; 
 indeed, through the heated remarks of the actor-manager 
 there ran the insolent implication that Mr. Fenwick's 
 wrath was of no particular account to anybody, and that 
 he was presuming on a commission he had been very 
 lucky to get. 
 
 At last a crowd of stage-hands, setting scenery for 
 another piece in the evening, invaded the stage, and the 
 rehearsal was just breaking up when Fenwick, still talk- 
 ing in flushed exasperation, happened to notice two 
 ladies standing in the wings, on the other side of the vast 
 stage, close to the stage-entrance. 
 
 He suddenly stopped talking stammered looked 
 again. They were two girls, one evidently a good deal 
 older than the other. The elder was talking with the 
 assistant stage-manager. The younger stood quietly, a 
 few yards away, not talking to any one. Her eyes were 
 on Fenwick, and her young, slightly frowning face wore 
 an expression of amusement of something besides, also 
 something puzzled and intent. It flashed upon him 
 that she had been there for some time, that he had been 
 vaguely conscious of her that she had, in fact, been 
 watching from a distance the angry scene in which he 
 had been engaged. 
 
 "Why! whatever is the matter, Mr. Fenwick?" said 
 the actor beside him, startled by his look. 
 
 Fenwick made no answer, but he dropped a roll of 
 288
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 papers he was holding and suddenly rushed forward 
 across the stage, through the throng of carpenters and 
 scene-shifters who were at work upon it. Some garden 
 steps and a fountain just being drawn into position came 
 in his way; he stumbled and fell, was conscious of two 
 or three men coming to his assistance, rose again, and 
 ran on, blindly, pushing at the groups in his way, till he 
 ran into the arms of the stage-manager. 
 
 "Who were those ladies? where are they?" he said, 
 panting, and looking round him in despair; for they had 
 vanished, and the stage-entrance was blocked by an out- 
 going stream of people. 
 
 "Don't know anything about them," said the man, 
 sulkily. Fenwick had been the plague of his life in 
 rehearsals. ' ' What ? you mean those two girls ? Never 
 saw 'em before." 
 
 "But you must know who they are you must!" 
 shouted Fenwick. " What's their name ? Why did you 
 let them go?" 
 
 "Because I had finished with them." 
 
 The manager turned on his heel, and was about to 
 give an order to a workman, when Fenwick caught him 
 by the arm. 
 
 "I implore you," he said, in a shaking voice, his face 
 crimson "tell me who they are and where they 
 went." 
 
 The man looked at him astonished, but something in 
 the artist's face made him speak more considerately. 
 
 "I am extremely sorry, Mr. Fenwick, but I really 
 know nothing about them. Oh, by-the-way" he fum- 
 bled in his pocket. "Yes one of them did give me a 
 card I forgot I never saw the name before." He ex- 
 289
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 tracted it with difficulty and handed it to Fenwick, who 
 stood trembling from head to foot. 
 
 Fenwick looked at it. 
 
 "Miss Larose." Nothing else. No address. 
 
 "But the other one! the other one!" he said, beside 
 himself. 
 
 "I never spoke to her at all," said his companion, 
 whose name was Fison. "They came in here twenty 
 minutes ago and asked to see me. The door-keeper told 
 them the rehearsal was just over and they would find 
 me on the stage. The lady I was talking to wished to 
 know whether we had all the people we wanted for the 
 ballroom scene. Some friend with whom she had been 
 acting in the country had advised her to apply " 
 
 "Acting where?" said Fenwick, still gripping him. 
 The stage-manager rubbed his nose in perplexity. 
 
 "I really can't remember. Leeds Newcastle Hali- 
 fax was it ? It's altogether escaped my memory." 
 
 "For God's sake, remember!" cried Fenwick. 
 
 The stage-manager shook his head. 
 
 "I really^ didn't take notice. I liked the young lady 
 very well. We got on, as you may say, at once. I 
 talked to her while you were discussing over there. But 
 I had to tell her there was no room for her and no more 
 there is. Her sister or her friend whichever it was 
 was an uncommonly pretty girl. I noticed that as she 
 went out which reminds me she asked me to tell her 
 who you were." 
 
 Fenwick gazed at the speaker in passionate despair. 
 
 "And you can't tell me any more can't help me?" 
 
 His voice rose again into a shout, then failed him. 
 
 "No, I really can't," said the other, decidedly, pulling 
 290
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 himself away. "You go and ask the door-keeper. Per- 
 haps he'll know something." 
 
 But the door-keeper knew only that he had been asked 
 for "Mr. Fison" by two nice-spoken young ladies, that 
 he had directed them where to go, and had opened the 
 stage-door for them. He hadn't happened to be in his 
 " lodge " when they went out, and couldn't say in which 
 direction they had gtme. 
 
 "Why, lor' bless you, sir, they come here in scores 
 every week!" 
 
 Fenwick rushed out into the Strand, and walked from 
 end to end of the theatrical section of it several times, 
 questioning the policemen on duty. But he could dis- 
 cover nothing. 
 
 Then, blindly, he made his way down a narrow street 
 to the Embankment. There he threw himself on a 
 bench, almost fainting, unable to stand. 
 
 What should he do? He was absolutely convinced 
 that he had seen Carrie his child; his little Carrie! 
 his own flesh and blood. It was her face her eyes her 
 movement changed, indeed, but perfectly to be recog- 
 nized by him, her father. And by the cruel, the mon- 
 strous accidents of the meeting, she had been swept away 
 from him again into this whirlpool of London, before he 
 had had the smallest chance of grasping at the little form 
 as it floated past him on this aimless stream of things. 
 His whole nature was in surging revolt against life 
 against men's senseless theories of God and Providence. 
 If it should prove that he had lost all clew again to his 
 wife and child, he would put an end, once for all, to his 
 share in the business he swore, with clinched hands, 
 that he would. The Great Potter had made sport of him 
 ao 291
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 long enough ; it was time to break the cup and toss its 
 fragments back into the vast common heap of ruined and 
 wasted things. "Some to honor and some to dis- 
 honor" the words rang in his ears, mingling with that 
 deep bell of St. Paul's, whereof the echoes were being 
 carried up the river towards him on the light south- 
 easterly wind. 
 
 But first he tried to make his mind follow out the 
 natural implications and consequences of what had hap- 
 pened. Carrie had asked his name. But clearly, when 
 it was given her, it had meant nothing to her. She could 
 not have left her father there knowing it was her father 
 without a word. No. Phoebe's first step, of course, 
 would have been to drop her old name, and the child 
 would have no knowledge of it. 
 
 But Phoebe ? If Carrie was in England, so was Phoebe. 
 He could not believe that she would part with the child. 
 And supposing Carrie spoke of the prating, haranguing 
 fellow she had seen mentioned the name, which the 
 stage - manager had given her? what then? Could 
 Phoebe still have the cruelty, the wickedness to maintain 
 her course of action to keep Carrie from him? Ah! 
 if he had been guilty towards her in the old days, she 
 had wrung out full payment long ago; the balance of 
 injury had long since dropped heavily on his side. But 
 who could know how she had developed ? whether tow- 
 ards hardness or towards repentance. Still to-night, 
 probably she would hear what and whom Carrie had 
 seen. Any post might bring the fruits of it. And if not 
 he was not without a clew. If a girl whose name is 
 known has been playing recently at an English provin- 
 cial theatre, it ought to be possible somehow to recover 
 292
 
 Fcntoick's Career 
 
 news of her. He looked at his watch. Too late for the 
 lawyers. But he roused himself, hailed a cab, and went 
 to his club, where he wrote at length to his solicitor, 
 describing what had happened, and suggesting various 
 lines of action. 
 
 Then he went home, got some charcoal and paper, and 
 by lamp -light began to draw the face which he had seen 
 a very young and still plastic face, with delicate lips 
 open above the small teeth ; and eyes why, they were 
 Phoebe's eyes, of course! no other eyes like them in the 
 world. He drew l5hem with an eager hand, knowing the 
 way of them. He put the light the smile into them; 
 a happy smile! as of one to whom life has been kind. 
 No sign of fear, distress, or cringing poverty rather an 
 innocent sovereignty, lovely and unashamed. Then the 
 brow, and the curly hair in its brown profusion ; and the 
 small neck; and the thin, straight shoulders. He drew 
 in the curve of the shady hat the knot of lace at the 
 throat the spare young lines of the breast. 
 
 So it emerged ; and when it was done, he put it 
 on an easel and sat staring at it, his eyes blind with 
 tears. 
 
 Yes, it was Carrie he had no doubt whatever that it 
 was Carrie. And behind her, mingling with her image 
 yet distinct a veiled, intangible presence, stood Phcebe 
 Phoebe so like her, and yet so different. But of Phoebe 
 still he would not think. It was as when a man, 
 mortally tired, shrinks from some fierce contest of brain 
 and limb, which yet he knows may some day have to be 
 faced. He put his wife aside, and sank himself in the 
 covetous, devouring vision of his child. 
 
 Next day there was great activity among the lawyers. 
 293
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 They were confident of recovering the clew; and if Fen- 
 wick's identification was a just one, the search was near 
 its end. 
 
 Only, till they really were on the track, better say 
 nothing to Lord Findon and Madame de Pastourelles. 
 This was the suggestion of the Findons' solicitor, and 
 Fenwick eagerly indorsed it. 
 
 Presently inquiry had been made from every manage- 
 ment in London as to the touring companies of the year ; 
 confidential agents had been sent to every provincial 
 town that possessed a theatre; long lists of names had 
 been compiled and carefully scanned. Fenwick's draw- 
 ing of the girl whom he had seen had been photographed ; 
 and some old likenesses of Phoebe and Carrie had been 
 reproduced and attached to it, for the use of Messrs. 
 Butlin's provincial correspondents. The police were ap- 
 pealed to; the best private detectives to be had were 
 employed. 
 
 In vain ! The smiling child of seventeen had emerged 
 for that one appearance on the stage of her father's life, 
 only, it seemed, to vanish again forever. No trace could 
 be found anywhere of a "Miss Larose," either as a true 
 or a theatrical name ; the photographs suggested nothing 
 to those who saw them; or if various hints and clews 
 sometimes seemed to present themselves, they led to no 
 result. 
 
 Meanwhile, day after day, Fenwick waited on the post, 
 hurrying for and scanning his letters with feverish, ever- 
 waning hope. Not a sign, not a word from Phcebe. His 
 heart grew fierce. There were moments when he felt 
 something not unlike hatred for this invisible woman, 
 who was still able to lay a ghostly and sinister hand upon 
 294
 
 Fentcick's Career 
 
 his life. And yet, and yet! suppose, after all, that she 
 were dead ? 
 
 During these same weeks of torment "The Queen's 
 Necklace" was produced; it was a pretentious failure, 
 and after three weeks of difficult existence flickered to an 
 end. The management went into bankruptcy, and the 
 greater part of Fenwick's payment was irrecoverable. 
 He could hardly now meet his daily living expenses, and 
 there was an execution in his house, put in by the last 
 firm of builders employed. 
 
 Close upon this disaster came the opening of his pri- 
 vate exhibition. Grimly, in a kind of dogged abstrac- 
 tion, he went through with it. He himself, with the help 
 of a lad who was his man-of-all-work in Chelsea, nailed 
 up the draperies, hung the pictures, and issued the invi- 
 tations for the private view. 
 
 About a hundred people came to the private view. 
 His reputation was not yet dead, and there was much 
 curiosity about his circumstances. But Fenwick, look- 
 ing at the scanty crowd, considering the faces that were 
 there and the faces that were not there, knew very well 
 that it could be of no practical assistance to him. Not 
 a picture sold ; and next day there were altogether seven 
 people in the gallery, of whom five were the relations of 
 men to whom he had given gratuitous teaching at one 
 period or other of his career. 
 
 And never, alack, in the case of any artist of talent, 
 was there a worse "press" than that which dealt with 
 his pictures on the following morning. The most venom- 
 ous article of all was the work of a man whom Fenwick 
 had treated with conceit and rudeness in the days of his 
 success. The victim now avenged himself, with the 
 295
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 same glee which a literary club throws into the black- 
 balling of some evil tongue some too harsh and too 
 powerful critic of the moment. "Scamped and empty 
 work," in which "ideas not worth stating" find an ex- 
 pression "not worth criticism." Mannerisms grown to 
 absurdity; faults of early training writ dismally large; 
 vulgarity of conception and carelessness of execution 
 no stone that could hurt or sting was left unflung, and 
 the note of meditative pity in which the article came to 
 an end, marked the climax of a very neat revenge. 
 After reading it, Fenwick felt himself artistically dead 
 and buried. 
 
 A great silence fell upon him. He spoke to no one in 
 the gallery, and he avoided his club. Early in the after- 
 noon he went to Lincoln's Inn Fields only to hear from 
 the lawyers that they had done all they could with the 
 new scent, and it was no use pursuing it further. He 
 heard what they had to say in silence, and after leaving 
 their office he visited a shop in the Strand. Just as the 
 light was waning, about seven o'clock on a May evening, 
 he found himself again in his studio. It was now abso- 
 lutely bare, save for a few empty easels, a chair or two, 
 and some tattered portfolios. The two men representing 
 the execution were in the dining-room. He could hear 
 the voices of a charwoman and of the lad who had helped 
 him to arrange the gallery talking in the kitchen. 
 
 Fenwick locked himself into the studio. On his way 
 thither he had recoiled, shivering, from the empty deso- 
 lation of the house. In the general disarray of the 
 ticketed furniture and stripped walls, all artistic charm 
 had disappeared. And he said to himself, with a grim 
 twist of the mouth, that if the house had grown ugly and 
 296
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 commonplace, that only made it a better setting for the 
 ugly and commonplace thing which he was about to do. 
 
 About half an hour later a boy, looking like the "but- 
 tons" of a lodging-house, walked up to the side entrance 
 of Fenwick's ambitious mansion which possessed a kind 
 of court-yard, and was built round two sides of an oblong. 
 The door was open and the charwoman just inside, so 
 that the boy had no occasion to ring. He carried a par- 
 cel carefully wrapped in an old shawl. 
 
 "Is this Mr. Fenwick's?" asked the boy, consulting a 
 dirty scrap of paper. 
 
 "Ay," said the woman. "Well, who's it from? isn't 
 there no note with it?" 
 
 The boy replied that there was no note, and his in- 
 structions were to leave it. 
 
 "But what name am I to say?" the woman called 
 after him as he went down the path. 
 
 The boy shook his head. " Don't know give it up!" 
 he said, impudently, and went off whistling. 
 
 "Silly lout," said the woman, crossly, and, taking up 
 the package, which was not very large, she went with it 
 to the studio, reflecting as she went that by the feel of 
 it it was an unframed picture, and that if some one 
 would only take away some of the beastly, dusty things 
 that were already in the house that wouldn't, so the 
 bailiffs said, fetch a halfpenny it would be better worth 
 while than bringing new ones where they weren't wanted. 
 
 There was at first no answer to her knock. She tried 
 the door, and wondered to find it locked. But presently 
 she heard Fenwick moving about inside. 
 
 " Well, what is it ?" His voice was low and impatient. 
 297
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "A parcel for you, sir." 
 
 "Take it away." 
 
 "Very well, sir." She turned obediently and was 
 half-way down the passage which led to the dining-room, 
 when the studio door opened with a great crash and 
 Fen wick looked out. 
 
 " Bring that here. What is it ?" 
 
 She retraced her steps. 
 
 "Well, it's a picture, I think, sir." 
 
 He held out his hand for it, took it, and instantly with- 
 drew into the studio and again locked the door. She 
 noticed that he seemed to have lit one candle in the big 
 studio, and his manner struck her as strange. But her 
 slow mind followed the matter no further, and she went 
 back to the cooking of his slender supper. 
 
 Fenwick meanwhile was standing with the parcel in his 
 hand. At the woman's knock he had risen from a table, 
 where he had been writing a letter. A black object, 
 half covered with a painting - rag, lay beside the ink- 
 stand. 
 
 "I must make haste," he thought, "or she will be 
 bothering me again." 
 
 He looked at the letter, which was still unfinished. 
 Meanwhile he had absently deposited the parcel on the 
 floor, where it rested against the leg of the table. 
 
 "Another page will finish it. H6tel Bristol. Rome 
 till the end of the week? if I only could be sure that 
 was what Butlin said!" 
 
 He paced up and down, frowning, in an impotent dis- 
 tress, trying to make his brain work as usual. On his 
 visit of the afternoon he had asked the lawyers for the 
 Findons' address ; but his memory now was of the worst. 
 298
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Suddenly he wheeled round, sat down, and took up a 
 book which had been lying face downward on the table. 
 It was the Memoirs of Benjamin Hay don, and he opened 
 it at one of the last pages. 
 
 " About an hour after, Miss Haydon entered the painting- 
 room, and found her father stretched out dead, before the easel 
 on which stood, blood - sprinkled, his unfinished picture. A 
 portrait of his wife stood on a smaller easel facing his large 
 picture." 
 
 The man reading, paused. 
 
 "He had suffered much more than I," he thought 
 "but his wife had helped him stood by him " 
 
 And he passed on to the next page to the clause in 
 Haydon's will which runs "My dearest wife, Mary 
 Haydon, has been a good, dear, and affectionate wife to 
 me a heroine in adversity and an angel in peace." 
 
 "And he repaid her by blowing his brains out," 
 thought Fen wick, contemptuously. "But he was mad 
 of course he was mad. We are all mad when it 
 comes to this." 
 
 And he turned back, as though in fascination, to the 
 page before, to the last entry in Haydon's Journal. 
 
 " 2 1 st. Slept horribly. Prayed in sorrow and got up in agi- 
 tation. 
 
 " 22d. God forgive me. Amen." 
 
 "Amen!" repeated Fenwick, aloud, as he dropped the 
 book. The word echoed in the empty room. He cov- 
 ered his eyes with his right hand, leaning his arm on the 
 table. 
 
 The other hand, as it fell beside him, came in contact 
 with the parcel which was propped against the table. 
 299
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 His touch told him that it contained a picture an un- 
 framed canvas. A vague curiosity awoke in him. He 
 took it up, peered at the address, then began to finger 
 with and unwrap it. 
 
 Suddenly he bent over it. What was it! 
 
 He tore off the shawl, and some brown paper beneath 
 it, lifted the thing upon the table, so that the light of 
 the one candle fell upon it, and held it there. 
 
 Slowly his face, which had been deeply flushed before, 
 lost all its color; his jaw dropped a little. 
 
 He was staring at the picture of himself which he 
 had painted for Phcebe in the parlor of the Green Nab 
 Cottage thirteen years before. The young face, in its 
 handsome and arrogant vigor, the gypsy-black hair and 
 eyes, the powerful shoulders in the blue serge coat, the 
 sunburned neck exposed by the loose, turn-down collar 
 above the greenish tie there they were, as he had 
 painted them, lying once more under his hand. The 
 flickering light of the candle showed him his signature 
 and the date. 
 
 He laid it down and drew a long breath. Thrusting 
 his hands into his pockets, he stood staring at it, his 
 brain, under the sharp stimulus, beginning to work more 
 clearly. So Phcebe, too, was alive and in England. 
 The picture was her token. That was what it meant. 
 
 He went heavily to the door, unlocked it, and called. 
 The charwoman appeared. 
 
 "Who brought this parcel?" 
 
 "A boy, sir." 
 
 "Where's the note? he must have brought some- 
 thing with it." 
 
 "No, he didn't, sir there was no note." 
 300
 
 Pentoich's Career 
 
 "Don't be absurd!" cried Fenwick. "There must 
 have been." 
 
 Mrs. Flint, outraged, protested that she knew what 
 she was a-saying of. He questioned her fiercely, but 
 there was nothing to be got out of her rigmarole ac- 
 count, which Fenwick cut short by retreating into the 
 studio in the middle of it. 
 
 This fresh check unhinged him altogether seemed to 
 make a mere fool of him the sport of gods and men. 
 There he paced up and down in a mad excitement. 
 What in the devil's name was the meaning of it ? The 
 picture came from Phcebe no one else. But it seemed 
 she had only sent it to him to torment him to punish 
 him yet more? Women were the cruelest of God's 
 creatures. And as for himself idiot! if he had only 
 finished his business an hour ago, both she and he would 
 have been released by this time. He worked himself up 
 into a wild passion of rage, stopping every now and then 
 to look at that ghost of his youth, which lay on the table, 
 propped up against some books and once at the reflec- 
 tion of his haggard face and gray hair as he passed in 
 front of an old mirror on the wall. 
 
 Then suddenly the tension gave way. He sank on 
 the chair beside the table, hiding his face on his arms 
 in an utter exhaustion, while yet, through the physical 
 weakness, something swept and vibrated, which was in 
 truth the onset of returning life. 
 
 As he lay there a cab drove up to the front door, 
 and a lady dressed in black descended from it. She 
 rang, and Mrs. Flint appeared. "Is Mr. Fenwick at 
 home?" 
 
 301
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 "He is, ma'am," said the woman, hesitating "but 
 he did say he wasn't to be disturbed." 
 
 "Will you please give him my card and say I wish to 
 see him at once? I have brought him an important 
 letter." 
 
 Mrs. Flint, wavering between her dread of Fenwick's 
 ill-humor and the impression produced upon her by the 
 gentle decision of her visitor, retreated into the house. 
 The lady followed. 
 
 "Well, if you'll wait there, ma'am" the charwoman 
 opened the door of the dismantled sitting-room "I'll 
 speak to Mr. Fenwick." 
 
 She shuffled off. Eugdnie de Pastourelles threw back 
 her veil. She had only arrived that morning in London 
 after a night journey, and her face showed deep lines of 
 fatigue. But its beauty of expression had never been 
 more striking. Animation joy spoke in the eyes, 
 quivered in the lips. She moved restlessly up and down, 
 holding in one hand a parcel of letters. Once she noticed 
 the room the furniture ticketed in lots and paused in 
 concern and pity. But the momentary cloud was soon 
 chased by the happiness of the thought which held her. 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Flint knocked at the door of the studio. 
 
 "Mr. Fenwick! Sir! There's a lady come, sir, and 
 she wishes to speak to you particular." 
 
 An angry movement inside. 
 
 "I'm busy. Send her away." 
 
 "I've got her card here, sir," said Mrs. Flint, dropping 
 her voice. "It's a queer name, sir somethin' furrin 
 Madam somethin'. She says it's most pertickler. I was 
 to tell you she'd only got home to-day, from abroad." 
 
 A sudden noise inside. The door was opened. 
 302
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Where is she? Ask her to come in." 
 
 He himself retreated into the darkness of the studio, 
 clinging, so the charwoman noticed, to the back of a 
 chair, as though for support. Wondering "what was 
 up," she clattered back again down the long passage 
 which led from the sitting-room to the studio. 
 
 But Eugenie had heard the opening door and came 
 to meet her. 
 
 " Is anything wrong ?" she asked, anxiously. " Is Mr. 
 Fenwick ill?" 
 
 "Well, you see, ma'am," said Mrs. Flint, cautiously 
 "it's the sheriff's horficers though they do it as kind 
 as they can." 
 
 Eugenie looked bewildered. 
 
 "A hexecution, ma'am," whispered the woman as she 
 led the way. 
 
 "Oh!" It was a cry of distress, checked by the sight 
 of Fenwick, who stood in the door of his studio. 
 
 " I am sorry you were kept waiting," he said, hoarsely. 
 She made some commonplace reply, and they shook 
 hands. Mrs. Flint looked at them curiously, and with- 
 drew again into the back premises. 
 
 Fenwick turned and walked in front of Eugenie tow- 
 ards the table from which he had risen. She looked at 
 him in sudden horror arrested the words she had come 
 to speak stifled on her lips. Then a quick impulse made 
 her shut the door behind her. He turned again, be- 
 wildered, and raised his hand to his head. 
 
 " My God!" he said, in a low voice, " I oughtn't to have 
 let you come in here. Go away please go away." 
 
 Then she saw him totter backward, raise an overcoat 
 which hung across the back of a chair, and throw it over 
 303
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 something lying on the table. Terror possessed her ; his 
 aspect was so ghastly, his movements so strange. She 
 flew to him, and took his hand in both hers. "No, no 
 don't send me away! My friend my dear friend lis- 
 ten to me. You look so ill you've been in trouble ! If 
 I'd only known! But I've thought of you always I've 
 prayed for you. And listen listen ! I've brought you 
 good news." 
 
 She paused, still holding him. Her eyes were bright 
 with tears, but her mouth smiled. He looked at her, 
 trembling. Her pale charm, her pleading grace moved 
 him unbearably; this beauty, this tenderness the sud- 
 den apparition of them in this dark room unmanned 
 him altogether. 
 
 But she came nearer. 
 
 "We only got home this morning. It was a sudden 
 wish of my father's he thought Italy wasn't suiting 
 him. We came straight from Rome. I wrote to you 
 by this morning's post. Then this afternoon after 
 we'd settled my father I drove to Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 And I found them so excited just sending off a messen- 
 ger to you. A letter had arrived by the afternoon post, 
 an hour after you left the office. I have it here they 
 trusted it to me. Oh, dear Mr. Fenwick, listen to me! 
 They are on the track it's a real clew this time! Your 
 wife has been in Canada they know where she was three 
 months ago it's only a question of time now. Oh ! and 
 they told me about the theatre how wonderful ! Oh! 
 I believe they're not far off I know it I feel it!" 
 
 He had fallen on his chair ; she stood beside him. 
 
 "And you've been ill," she said, sadly, "and in 
 great distress, I'm afraid about money, was it? Oh, if 
 304
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 I'd only known! But you'll let me make that right, 
 won't you? you couldn't refuse me that? And 
 think! you'll have them again your wife your little 
 girl." 
 
 She smiled at him, while the tears slipped down her 
 cheeks. She cherished his cold hands, holding them 
 close in her warm, soft palms. 
 
 He seemed to be trying to speak. Then suddenly he 
 disengaged himself, rose feebly, went to the mantel-piece, 
 lit another candle, and brought it, holding it towards 
 something on a chair beckoning to her. She went 
 to him perceived the unframed portrait and cried 
 out. 
 
 "Phoebe sent it me just now," he said, almost in a 
 whisper "without a word without a single word. It 
 was left here by a boy with no letter no address. 
 Wasn't it cruel ? wasn't it horribly cruel ?" 
 
 She watched him in dismay. 
 
 "Are you sure there was nothing no letter?" 
 
 He shook his head. She released herself, took up the 
 picture, and examined it. Then she shook out the folds 
 of the shawl, the fragments of the brown paper, and still 
 found nothing. But as she took the candle and stooped 
 with it to the floor, something white gleamed. A neatly 
 folded slip of paper had dropped among some torn letters 
 beneath the table. She held it up to him with a cry of 
 delight. 
 
 He made a movement, then fell back. 
 
 "Read it, please," he said, hoarsely, refusing it. 
 "There's something wrong with my eyes." 
 
 And he held his hands pressed to them, while she a 
 little reluctantly, wistfully opened and read: 
 305
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Mv DEAR JOHN, I have Phoebe safe. She can't write. But 
 she sends you this as her sign. It's been with her all through. 
 She knows she's been a sinful wife. But there, it's no use writ- 
 ing. Besides, it makes me cry. But come! come soon! Your 
 child is an angel. You'll forget and forgive when you see her. 
 
 "I brought Phoebe here last week. Do you see the address? 
 it's the old cottage! 1 took it with a friend three years ago. 
 It seemed the right place for your poor wife till she could make 
 up her mind how and when to let you know. 
 
 "As to how 7 came to know we'll tell you all that. 
 
 "Carrie knows nothing yet. I keep thinking of the first look 
 in her eyes ! Come soon ! 
 
 " Ever your affectionate old friend, 
 
 "ANNA MASON." 
 
 There was silence. Eugenie had read the letter in a 
 soft voice that trembled. She looked up. Fenwick was 
 staring straight before him, and she saw him shudder. 
 
 "I know it's horrible," he said, in a low voice "and 
 cowardly but I feel as if I couldn't face it I couldn't 
 bear it." 
 
 And he began feebly to pace to and fro, looking like 
 an old, gray -haired man in the dim grotesqueness of 
 the light. Eugenie understood. She felt, with mingled 
 dread and pity, that she w.as in the presence of a weak- 
 ness which represented far more than the immediate 
 emotion; was the culmination, indeed, of a long, disinte- 
 grating process. 
 
 She hesitated moved wavered then took courage 
 again. 
 
 "Come and sit down," she said, gently. And, going 
 up to him, she took him by the arm and led him back to 
 his chair. 
 
 He sank upon it, his eyes hanging on her. She stooped 
 over him. 
 
 306
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 "Shall I," she said, uncertainly "shall I go first? 
 Oh, I oughtn't to go! Nobody ought to interfere be- 
 tween husband and wife. But if you wish it if I could 
 do any good 
 
 Her eyes sought the answer of his. 
 
 Her face, framed in the folds of her black veil, shone 
 in the candle-light ; her voice was humble, yet brave. 
 
 The silence continued a moment. Then his lips 
 moved. 
 
 "Be my messenger!" he said, just breathing it. 
 
 She made a sign of assent. And he, feebly lifting her 
 hands, brought them to her lips. Close to them unseen 
 by her for the moment unremembered by him lay 
 the revolver with which he had meant to take his life 
 and the letter in which he had bid her a last farewell.
 
 XIII 
 
 REAT LANGDALE was once more in spring. Af- 
 ter the long quiet of the winter, during which these 
 remoter valleys of the lakes resume their primitive and 
 self-dependent life, there were now a few early tourists 
 in the two Dungeon Ghyll hotels, and the road traffic had 
 begun to revive. Phcebe Fenwick, waiting and listen- 
 ing for the post in an upper room of Green Nab Cottage, 
 ran hurriedly to the window several times in vain, drawn 
 by the sound of wheels. The cart which clattered past 
 was not that which bore her Majesty's mails. 
 
 At the third of these false alarms she lingered beside 
 the open casement window looking out into the valley. 
 It was a weary woman who stood thus motionless and 
 drooping; a woman so tired, so conscious of wasted life 
 and happiness, that although expectation held her in a 
 grip of torture, there was in it little or nothing of hope. 
 
 Twelve years since she had last looked on those twin 
 peaks, those bare fields and winding river! Twelve 
 years! Time, the inexorable, had dealt with her, and not 
 softly. All that rounded grace which Fenwick had once 
 loved to draw had dropped from her, as the bloom drops 
 from a wild cherry in the night. Phcebe was now thirty- 
 five close on thirty-six ; and twelve years of hard work, 
 joyless struggle, and pursuing remorse had left upon her 
 indelible marks. She had grown excessively thin, and 
 308
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 lines of restlessness, of furtive pain and suspicion, had 
 graven themselves, delicately, irrevocably, about her 
 eyes and mouth, on her broad brow and childish neck. 
 There were hollows in the cheeks, the cutting of the face 
 seemed to be ruder and the skin browner than of old. 
 Nevertheless, the leanness of the face was that of energy, 
 not that of emaciation. It pointed to life in the open 
 air, a strenuous physical life; and, but for the look of 
 fretting, of ceaseless and troubled longing with which it 
 was associated, it would rather have given beauty than 
 taken it away. 
 
 Her eyes were more astonishing than ever; but there 
 was a touch of wildness in them, and they were grown, in 
 truth, too big and staring for the dwindled face. A 
 pathetic face! as of one in whom the impulse to weep 
 is always present, yet forever stifled. It had none of 
 that noble intimacy with sorrow which so often dignifies 
 a woman's whole aspect; it spoke rather of the painful, 
 struggling, desiring will, the will of passion and regret, 
 the will which fights equally with the past and with the 
 future, and is, for Buddhist and Christian alike, the tor- 
 ment of existence. 
 
 Again a sound of wheels drew her eyes to the road. 
 But it was only the Hawkshead butcher going his rounds. 
 He stopped below the cottage, and Miss Anna's servant 
 went out to him. Phoebe sighed afresh in disappoint- 
 ment, her ears still strained the while to catch th^ first 
 sound of that primitive horn, wherewith the postman in 
 his cart, as he mounts the Langdale valley, summons the 
 dwellers in the scattered farms and cottages to come and 
 take their letters. 
 
 But very likely there would be no letter at all. This 
 309
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 was Thursday. On Saturday Miss Anna had met her 
 and Carrie at Windermere, and had brought them to the 
 old place. Sunday and Monday had been filled with 
 agitated consultations. Then, on Tuesday, a neighbor 
 living in Elterwater, and an old friend of Miss Anna's, 
 had gone up to London, bearing with her a parcel ad- 
 dressed to "John Fenwick, Constable House, East Road, 
 Chelsea," which she had promised to deliver, either per- 
 sonally or through one of the servants cf the boarding- 
 house whither she was bound. 
 
 This lady must have delivered it on Wednesday 
 some time on Wednesday she would not pledge herself. 
 But probably not till the afternoon or evening. If so, 
 there could be no letter. But if not a letter, a telegram ; 
 unless, indeed, John were determined not to take her 
 back; unless her return were in his eyes a mere trouble 
 and burden ; unless they were to be finally and forever 
 separated. Then he would take his time and write. 
 
 But Carrie ! Phoebe resumed her wandering from 
 room to room and window to window, her mind deafened 
 as it were by the rush of her own thoughts unable to 
 rest for a moment. He must want to see Carrie! And 
 that seeing must and should carry with it at least one 
 interview with his wife, at least the permission to tell 
 her story, face to face. 
 
 Was it only a week since, under a sudden impulse, she 
 had written to Miss Anna? from the Surrey lodging, 
 where for nearly two months she had hidden herself after 
 their landing in England. Each day since then had been 
 at once the longest and the shortest she had ever known. 
 Every emotion of which she was capable had been roused 
 into fresh life, crowding the hours; while at the same
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 time each day had flown on wings of flame, bringing the 
 moment so awful, yet so desired when she should see 
 John's face again. After the slow years of self-inflicted 
 exile; after the wavering weeks and months of repent- 
 ance, doubt, and changing resolution, life had suddenly 
 become breathless a hurrying rush down some Avernian 
 descent, towards crashing pain and tumult. For how 
 could it end well ? She was no silly girl to suppose that 
 such things can be made right again with a few soft 
 words and a kiss. 
 
 Idly her mind wandered through the past; through 
 the years of dumb, helpless bitterness, when she would 
 have given the world to undo what she had done, and 
 could see no way, consistently with the beliefs which 
 still held her; and through the first hours of sharp re- 
 action, produced partly by events in her own history 
 and partly by fresh and unexpected information. She 
 had thought of John as hard, prosperous, and cruel; 
 removed altogether out of her social ken, a rich and 
 fashionable gentleman who might have and be what he 
 would. The London letter of a Canadian weekly paper 
 had given her the news of his election to the Academy. 
 Then, from the same source, she had learned of the 
 quarrel, the seene with the Hanging Committee, the 
 noisy resignation, and all the controversy surrounding 
 it. She read and re-read every line of this scanty news, 
 pondering and worrying over it. How like John, to ruin 
 himself by these tempers! And yet, of course, he had 
 been abominably treated ! any one could see that. From 
 her anger and concern sprang new growths of feeling in 
 a softened heart. If she had only been there! 
 
 Well! what did it matter? The great lady who ad-
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 vised and patronized him no doubt had been there. If 
 she had not been able to smooth out the tangle, what 
 chance would his despised wife have had with him ? 
 
 Then last fall there had come to the farm in the 
 green Ontario country, a young artist, sent out on a 
 commission from an English publishing firm who were 
 producing a great illustrated book on Canada. The son 
 of the house, who was at college in Montreal, had met 
 him, and made friends with him ; had brought him home 
 to draw the farm, and the apple-orchards, heavy with 
 fruit. And there, night after night, he had sat talking 
 in the rich violet dusk; talking to this sad -faced Mrs. 
 Wilson, this Englishwoman, who understood his phrases 
 and his ways, and had been in contact with artists in her 
 youth. 
 
 John Fenwick! Why, of course, he knew all about 
 John Fenwick! Quarrelsome, clever chap! Had gone 
 up like a rocket, and was now nowhere. What call had 
 he to quarrel with the Academy? The Academy had 
 treated him handsomely enough much better than it 
 had treated a lot of other fellows. The public wouldn't 
 stand his airs and his violence. He wasn't big enough. 
 A Whistler might be insolent, and gain by it; but the 
 smaller men must keep civil tongues in their heads. Oh, 
 yes, talent of course enormous talent! but a poor 
 early training, and a man wants all his time to get the 
 better of that instead of spouting and scribbling all over 
 the place. No John Fenwick would do nothing more 
 of importance. Mrs. Wilson might take his word for 
 that sorry if he had said anything unpleasant of a 
 friend of hers. General report, besides, made him an un- 
 happy, moody kind of fellow, living alone, with very few 
 312
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 friends, taking nobody's advice and as obstinate as a 
 pig about his work. 
 
 So said this young Daniei-come-to- judgment, between 
 the whiffs of his pipe, in the Canadian farm-garden, while 
 the darkness came down and hid the face of the silent 
 woman beside him. 
 
 And so Remorse, and anguished Pity, sprang up be- 
 side her gray and stern comrades and she walked 
 between them night and day. John, a lonely failure in 
 England poor and despised. And she, an exile here, 
 with her child. And this dumb, irrevocable Time, on 
 which she had stamped her will, so easily, so fatally, 
 flowing on the while, year by year, towards Death and 
 the End! and these voices of "Too late!" in her ears. 
 
 But still the impulse of return grew mysteriously it 
 seemed independently. And other facts and experi- 
 ences came strangely to its aid. In the language of Evan- 
 gelicalism which had been natural to her youth, Phoebe 
 felt now, as she looked back, that she had been wonder- 
 fully "led." It was this sense, indeed, which had softened 
 the humiliation and determined the actual steps of 
 her homeward pilgrimage ; she seemed to have been 
 yielding to an actual external force in what she had 
 done. 
 
 For it had not been easy, this second uprooting. 
 Carrie, especially, had had her own reasons for making it 
 difficult. And Phoebe had never yet had the courage 
 to tell her the truth. She had spoken vaguely of "busi- 
 ness" obliging them to take a journey to England had 
 asked the child to trust her and taken refuge in tears 
 and depression from Carrie's objections. In conse- 
 quence, she had seen the first shadow descend on Carrie's 
 313
 
 Feniciek's Career 
 
 youth; she had been conscious of the first breach be- 
 tween herself and her daughter. 
 
 In a sudden agony, she walked back to the window 
 in her own room, looking this time, not towards Elter- 
 water and the post, but towards Dungeon Ghyll and the 
 wild upper valley. 
 
 Anna Mason had taken Carrie for a walk. At that 
 moment, on Phoebe's prayer, she was telling the child 
 the story of her father and mother. 
 
 Phoebe's eyes filled. She was, in truth, waiting for 
 judgment at the hands of her husband and her 
 daughter. Ever since their flight together, Carrie had 
 been taught to regard her father as dead. As the years 
 went on, "poor papa" was represented to her by a few 
 fading memories, by the unframed picture which her 
 mother kept jealously locked from sight, which she had 
 been only once or twice allowed to see. 
 
 And now ? Phcebe recalled the anguish of that night, 
 when Carrie, returning to her mother in Surrey, from a 
 day's expedition to town, with a Canadian friend, de- 
 scribed the queer, passionate, gray -haired man "Mr. 
 Fenwick, they called him" whom she had seen direct- 
 ing the rehearsal at the Falcon Theatre. Phcebe had a 
 vision of herself leaning back in her chair, wrapped in 
 shawls, feigning the exhaustion and blindness of nervous 
 headache while the child gave her laughing account of 
 the scene, in the intervals of kissing and comforting 
 " poor mummy " ? 
 
 And that drive from Windermere, beside Miss Anna, 
 with Carrie opposite! Carrie excitable, happy, talka- 
 tive her father's child now absorbed in a natural de- 
 light, exclaiming at the beauty of the mountains, the
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 trees, the river, catching her mother's hand, to make her 
 smile too, and then in a sudden shyness and hardness, 
 looking with her deep jealous eyes at the unknown friend 
 opposite, wondering clearly what it all meant, resenting 
 that she was told so little, and too proud to insist on 
 more or, perhaps, afraid to pierce what might turn out 
 to be the unhappy or shameful secret of their life ? 
 
 Yet Phcebe had tried to make it plausible. They were 
 going to stay with an old friend, in a place which Carrie 
 and her parents had lived in when she was a baby, near 
 to the town where she was born. She knew already that 
 her mother was from Westmoreland, from a place called 
 Keswick; but she understood that her mother's father 
 was dead, and all her people scattered. 
 
 Until they came actually in sight of the cottage, the 
 child had betrayed no memory of her own; though as 
 they entered Langdale her chatter ceased, and her eyes 
 sped nervously from side to side, considering the woods 
 and fells and white-washed farms. As they stopped, 
 however, at the foot of the steep pitch leading to the 
 little house, Carrie suddenly caught sight of it the slate 
 porch, the yew-tree to the right, the sycamore in front. 
 She changed color, and as she jumped down, she wavered 
 and nearly fell. 
 
 And without waiting for the others she ran up the hill 
 and through the gate. When she met them again at the 
 house-door, her eyes were wet. 
 
 "I've been into the kitchen," she said, breathlessly 
 "and it's so strange! I remember sitting there, and a 
 man" she drew her hand across her brow "a man, 
 feeding me. That that was father ?" 
 
 Phcebe could not remember how she had answered her ; 
 315
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 only some trembling words from Anna Mason, and an 
 attempt to draw the child away that her mother might 
 enter the cottage alone and unwatched. And she had 
 entered it alone had walked into the little parlor. 
 
 The next thing she recollected amid that passion of 
 desperate tears which had seemed to dissolve her, body 
 and soul were Carrie's arms round her, Carrie's face 
 pressed against hers. 
 
 "Mother! mother! Oh! what is the matter ? Why 
 did we come here ? You've been keeping things from me 
 all these weeks for years even. There is something I 
 don't know I'm sure there is. Oh, it is unkind. You 
 think I'm not old enough but I am. Oh! you ought 
 to tell me mother!" 
 
 How had she defended herself ? staved off the inevi- 
 table once again ? All she knew was that Miss Anna had 
 again come to the rescue, had taken the child away, 
 whispering to her. And since then, in these last forty- 
 eight hours oh! Carrie had been good! So quiet, so 
 useful unpacking their clothes, helping Miss Anna's 
 maid with the supper, cooking, dusting, mending, as a 
 Canadian girl knows how only stopping sometimes to 
 look round her, with that clouded, wondering look, as 
 though the past invaded her. 
 
 Oh! she was a darling! John would see that what- 
 ever he might feel towards her mother. "I stole her 
 but I've brought her back. I may be a bad wife but 
 there's Carrie! I've not neglected her I've done the 
 best by her." 
 
 It was in incoherent, unspoken words like this that 
 Phcebe was forever pleading with her husband, even 
 now. 
 
 316
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 Presently, in her walk about the room, she came to 
 stand before the mantel-piece, where a photograph had 
 been propped up against the wall by Carrie of a white 
 walled farm, with its out -buildings and orchards and, 
 gleaming beneath it, the wide waters of Lake Superior. 
 Phoebe shuddered at the sight of it. Twelve years of 
 her life had been wasted there. 
 
 Carrie, indeed, took a very different view. 
 
 Restlessly the mother left her room and wandered 
 into Carrie's. It was already by half-past nine spot- 
 lessly clean and neat; and Eliza, the girl from Hawks- 
 head, had not been allowed to touch it. On the bed lay 
 a fresh "waist," which Carrie had just made for herself, 
 and on the dressing-table stood another photograph 
 not a place this time, but a person a very evident and 
 very good-looking young man! 
 
 Phoebe stood looking at it forlornly. Carrie's young 
 romance and her own spoiled life these two images 
 held her. Carrie would go back, in time, across the sea 
 would marry, would forget her mother. 
 
 "And I'm not old, neither I'm not old." 
 
 Trembling she left the room. The door of Miss Anna's 
 was open. Phoebe stood on the threshold, looking in. 
 It had been her room and John's in the old days. Their 
 very furniture was still there as in the parlor, too. 
 For John had sold it all to their landlord, when he wound 
 up affairs. Miss Anna knew even what he had got for 
 it poor John! 
 
 She dared not go in. She stood leaning against the 
 door-post, looking from outside, like one in exile, at 
 the low- raftered room, with its oak press, and its bed, 
 and its bit of green carpet. Thoughts passed through
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 her mind thoughts which shook her from head to 
 foot. 
 
 The cottage was now enlarged. Miss Mason, when 
 she took it on lease three years before this date, had 
 built two new rooms, or got the Hawkshead landlord to 
 build them. She had retired now, on her savings; and 
 there lived with her an old friend, a tired teacher like 
 herself. It was one of those spinster marriages honor- 
 able and seemly menages for which the Lakes have 
 always been famous. But Miss Wetherby was now 
 away, visiting her relations in the south. Had she been 
 there, Phoebe could never have made up her mind to 
 accept Miss Anna's urgent invitation. She shrank from 
 everybody strangers, or old acquaintance, it was all 
 one. The terror which ranked, in her mind, next to the 
 disabling, heart -arresting terror of the first meeting with 
 her husband, was that of the first moment when she 
 must discover herself to her old acquaintance in Lang- 
 dale or Elterwater in Kendal or Keswick as Phoebe 
 Fen wick. She had arrived, closely veiled, as " Mrs. Wil- 
 son," and she had never yet left the cottage door. 
 
 Then again she caught her breath, remembering that 
 at that very moment Carrie was learning her true name 
 from Miss Anna was realizing that she had seen her 
 father without knowing it was hearing the story of 
 what her mother had done. 
 
 "Perhaps she'll hate me!" thought Phcebe, miserably. 
 Through the window came the soft spring air. The big 
 sycamore opposite was nearly in full leaf, and in the field 
 below sprawled the helpless, new-born lambs, so white 
 beside their dingy mother. The voice of the river mur- 
 mured through the valley, and sometimes, as the west
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 wind blew stronger, Phoebe's fine and long-practised ear 
 could distinguish other and more distant sounds, wafted 
 from the leaping water -falls which threaded the Ghyll, 
 perhaps even from the stream of Dungeon Ghyll itself, 
 thundering in its prison of rocks. It was a characteristic 
 Westmoreland day, with high gray cloud and interlacing 
 sun, the fells clear from base to top, their green or reddish 
 sides marked with white farms or bold clumps of fir; 
 with the blackness of scattered yews, landmarks through 
 generations; or the purple-gray of the emerging lime- 
 stone. Fresh, lonely, cheerful a land at once of moun- 
 tain solitude, and of a long-settled, long-humanized life 
 it breathed kindly on this penitent, anxious woman; 
 it seemed to bid her take courage. 
 
 Ah! the sound of a horn echoing along the fell. Phcebe 
 flew down to the porch; then, remembering she might 
 be seen, perhaps recognized, by the postman, she stepped 
 back into the parlor, listening, but out of sight. 
 
 The servant, who had run down to fetch the letters, 
 seemed to be having something of an argument with the 
 postman. In a few minutes she reappeared, breath- 
 less. 
 
 "There's no letters, mum," she said, seeing Phcebe at 
 the parlor window "and I doan't think this has owt to 
 do here." She held up a telegram, doubtfully yet with 
 an evident curiosity and excitement in her look. It was 
 addressed to "Mrs. John Fenwick." The postman had 
 clearly made some remark upon it. 
 
 Phcebe took it. 
 
 " It's all right. Tell him to leave it." 
 
 The girl, noticing her agitation and her shaking fingers, 
 ran down the hill again to give the message. Phcebe
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 carried the telegram up-stairs to her room, and locked 
 the door. 
 
 For some moments she dared not open it. If it said 
 that he refused to come? that he would never see her 
 again? Phcebe felt that she should die of grief that 
 life must stop. 
 
 At last she tore it open. 
 
 " Sending messenger to-day. Hope to follow immediately. 
 Welcome." 
 
 She gasped over the words, feeling them in the first 
 instance as a blow a repulse. She had feared but 
 also she had hoped she scarcely knew for what yet at 
 least for something more, something different from this. 
 
 He was not coming, then, at once! A messenger! 
 What messenger could a man send to his wife in such a 
 case? Who knew them both well enough to dare to 
 come between them? Old fiercenesses woke up in her. 
 Had the word been merely cold and unforgiving it would 
 have crushed her indeed; but there was that in her 
 which would have scarcely dared complain. An eye for 
 an eye no conscience-stricken creature but admits the 
 wild justice of that. 
 
 But a "messenger"! when she that was lost is found, 
 when a man's wife comes back to him from the dead! 
 Phcebe sat voiceless, the telegram on her lap, a kind of 
 scorn trembling on her lip. 
 
 Then her eye caught the word "welcome," and it 
 struck home. She began to sob, her angry pride melt- 
 ing. And suddenly the door of her room opened, and 
 there on the threshold stood Carrie Carrie, who had 
 been crying, too with wide, startled eyes and flushed 
 320
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 cheeks. She looked at her mother, then flew to her, 
 while Phoebe instinctively covered the telegram with her 
 hand. 
 
 "Oh, mother! mother! how could you? And I 
 laughed at him I did I did !" she cried, wringing her 
 hands. "And he looked so tired! And on the way 
 home Amelie mimicked him and his voice and his 
 queer ways; and I laughed. Oh, what a beast I was! 
 Oh, mother, and I told you his name, and you never 
 never said a word!" 
 
 The child flung herself on the floor, her feet tucked 
 under her, her hands clasped round her knees, swaying 
 backward and forward in a tempest of excited feeling, 
 hardly knowing what she said. 
 
 Phoebe looked at her, bewildered; then she removed 
 her hand, and Carrie saw the telegram. She threw her- 
 self on it, read the address, gulping, then the words: 
 
 "A messenger!" She understood that no more than 
 her mother. It meant a letter, perhaps ? But she fas- 
 tened on "immediately" "welcome." 
 
 And presently all in a moment she leaped to her 
 feet, and began to dance and spring about the room. 
 And as Phcebe watched her, startled and open-mouthed, 
 wondering if this was all the reproach that Carrie was 
 ever going to make her, the flushed and joyous creature 
 came and flung her arms round Phoebe's neck, so that 
 the fair hair and the brown were all in a confusion to- 
 gether, and the child's cheek was on her mother's. 
 
 "Mummy! and I was only five, and you weren't so 
 
 very old only seven years older than I am now and 
 
 you thought father was tired of you and you went off 
 
 to Canada right away. My! it was plucky of you 
 
 321
 
 Fp.ntoick's Career 
 
 T will say that for you. And if you hadn't gone, I should 
 never have seen George. But oh, mummy, mummy!" 
 this between laughing and crying "I do guess you 
 were just a little fool! I guess you were!" 
 
 Miss Anna sat down-stairs listening to the murmur 
 of those hurrying voices above her in Phoebe's room. 
 She was darning a table-cloth, with the Manchester 
 paper beside her; and she sat peculiarly erect, a little 
 stern and pinched, breathing protest. 
 
 It was extraordinary how Carrie had taken it. These 
 were your Canadian ways, she supposed. No horror of 
 anything no shyness. Looking a thing straight in the 
 face, at a moment's notice with a kind of humorous 
 common-sense refusing altogether to cry over spilled 
 milk, even such spilled milk as this in a hurry, simply, 
 to clear it up! A mere metaphorical refusal to cry, this 
 for, after all, there had been tears. But the immediate 
 rebound, the determination to be cheerful, though the 
 heavens fell, had been so amazing! The child had begun 
 to laugh before her tears were dry letting loose a flood 
 of sharp, shrewd questions on her companion ; wondering, 
 with sparkling looks, how "George" would take it; and 
 quite refusing to provide that fine-drawn or shrinking 
 sentiment, that "moral sense," in short, with which, as 
 it seemed to the elder woman, half-hours of this quality 
 in life should be decently accompanied. Little heathen! 
 Miss Anna thought grimly of all the precautions she had 
 taken to spare the young lady's feelings of her own 
 emotions her sense of a solemn and epoch-making ex- 
 perience. She might have saved her pains. 
 
 But at this point the door up-stairs opened, and the 
 322
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "little heathen" descended presently to the parlor, 
 bringing the telegram. She came in shyly, and it might 
 perhaps have been seen that she was conscious of her 
 disgrace with Miss Anna. But she said nothing; she 
 merely held out the piece of pink paper; and Miss Anna, 
 surprised out of her own "moral sense," fell upon it, 
 hastily adjusting her spectacles to a large and character- 
 istic nose. 
 
 She read it frowning. A messenger! What on earth 
 did they want with such a person? Just like John! 
 putting the disagreeables on other people. She said to 
 herself that one saw where the child's levity came 
 from. 
 
 "It's nice of father, isn't it?" said Carrie, rather tim- 
 idly, touching the telegram. 
 
 "He'd better have come himself," said Miss Anna, 
 sharply. 
 
 "But he is coming!" cried Carrie. "He's only send- 
 ing a letter or a present or something to smooth the 
 way just as George does with me. Well, now then " 
 she bent down and brought her resolute little face close 
 to Miss Anna's "where's he to sleep?" 
 
 Miss Anna jumped, pushed back her chair, and said, 
 coldly, "I'll see to that." 
 
 "Because, if he's going into my room," said Carrie, 
 thoughtfully, "something '11 have to be done to lengthen 
 that bed. The pillow slips down, and even I hung my 
 feet out last night. But, if you'll let me, I could fix it 
 up I could make that room real nice." 
 
 Miss Anna told her to do what she liked. "And 
 where '11 you sleep to-night, pray ?" 
 
 "Oh, I'll go in to mother." 
 323
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "There's a second bed in my room," said Miss Anna, 
 stiffly. 
 
 "Ah! but that would crowd you up," said the girl, 
 softly ; and off she went. 
 
 Presently there was a commotion up-stairs hammer- 
 ing, pulling, pushing. 
 
 Miss Anna wondered what on earth she was doing to 
 the bed. 
 
 Presently, Phcebe came down, white and fluttered 
 enough to satisfy the most exacting canons. Miss Anna 
 tried not to show that she was dissatisfied with the terms 
 of the telegram, and Phcebe did not complain. But her 
 despondency was very evident, and Miss Anna was ex- 
 tremely sorry for her. In her restlessness she presently 
 said that she would go out to the Ghyll and sit by the 
 water a little. If anybody came, they were to shout for 
 her. She would only be a stone's -throw from the 
 house. 
 
 She went away along the fell-side, her head drooping 
 so tall and thin, in her plain dress of gray Carmelite 
 and her mushroom hat trimmed with black. 
 
 Miss Anna looked after her. She knew very little 
 indeed, as yet, of what it was that had really brought the 
 poor thing home. Her own fault, no doubt. Phcebe 
 would have poured out her soul, without reserve, on 
 that first night of her return to her old home. But Miss 
 Anna had entirely refused to allow it. "No, no!" she 
 had said, even putting her hand on the wife's trembling 
 lips; "you sha'n't tell me. Keep that for John it's 
 his right. If you've got a confession it belongs to 
 John!" 
 
 On the other hand, of the original crisis of the scene 
 324
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 in Bernard Street, the spoiled picture, and the letters of 
 Madame de Pastourelles Miss Anna had let Phoebe tell 
 her what she pleased, and in truth although Phoebe 
 seemed to be no longer of a similar opinion it appeared 
 to the ex-schoolmistress that John had a good deal to 
 explain John and the French lady. If people are not 
 married, and not relations, they have no reasonable 
 call whatever to write each other long and interest- 
 ing letters. In spite of her education and her reading, 
 Miss Anna's standards in these respects were the 
 small, Puritanical standards of the English country 
 town. 
 
 The gate leading to the steep pitch of lane opened and 
 shut. Miss Anna rose hastily and looked out. 
 
 A lady in black entered the little garden, walked 
 up to the door, and knocked timidly. Was this the 
 " messenger " ? Miss Anna hurried into the little hall. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Fenwick in ?" asked a very musical voice. 
 
 "Mrs. Fenwick is sitting a little way off on the fell," 
 said Miss Anna, advancing. " But I can call her directly. 
 What name, please?" 
 
 The lady took out her card. 
 
 "It's a French name," she said, with smiling apology, 
 handing it to Miss Anna. 
 
 Miss Anna glanced at it, and then at the bearer. 
 
 "Kindly step this way," she said, pointing to the 
 parlor, and holding her gray-capped head rather im- 
 pressively high. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles obeyed her, murmuring that 
 she had sent her carriage on to the Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, 
 whence it would return for her in an hour. 
 325
 
 Fentolck's Career 
 
 Eugenie had made her first speech her first embar- 
 rassed explanation. She and Miss Anna sat on either 
 side of the parlor-table, their eyes on each other. Euge'nie 
 felt herself ill at ease under the critical gaze of this hand- 
 some, gray -haired woman, with her broad shoulders and 
 her strong brows. She had left London in hurry and 
 agitation, and was, after all, but very slenderly informed 
 as to the situatioruin Langdale. Had she inadvertently 
 said something to set this formidable-looking person 
 against her and her mission ? 
 
 On her side Miss Anna surveyed the delicate refine- 
 ment of her visitor: the black dress so plain, yet so 
 faultless; the mass of brown hair, which even after a 
 night's railway journey was still perfectly dressed, no 
 doubt by the maid without whom these fine ladies never 
 venture themselves abroad ; the rings which sparkled on 
 the thin fingers; the single string of pearls, which alone 
 relieved the severity of the black bodice. She noticed 
 the light, distinguished figure, the beauty of the small 
 head, and her hostility waxed within her. John's smart 
 friend belonged to the pampered ones of the earth, and 
 Miss Anna did not intend to be taken in by her, not for 
 a moment. 
 
 "Mr. Fen wick has been terribly overworked," Eu- 
 ge'nie repeated, coloring against her will, " and yes- 
 terday he was quite broken down by your letter. It 
 seemed too much* for him. You will understand, I'm 
 sure. When a person is so weak, they shrink don't 
 they ? even from what they most desire. And so he 
 asked me to to come and tell Mrs. Fen wick some- 
 thing about his health, and his circumstances these last 
 two years just to prepare the way. There is so much 
 326
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 isn't there ? Mrs. Fenwick cannot yet know , and I'm 
 afraid it will pain her to hear." 
 
 The speaker's voice faltered and ceased. She felt 
 through every nerve that she was in a false position, and 
 wondered how she was to mend it. 
 
 " Do I understand you that John Fenwick is coming 
 to see his wife to-night?" said Miss Mason at last, in a 
 voice of battle. 
 
 "He arrives by the afternoon train," said Euge'nie, 
 looking at her questioner with a slight frown of per- 
 plexity. 
 
 " What is- the matter with him ?" said Miss Anna, dryly. 
 
 Euge'nie hesitated ; then she bent forward, the color 
 rushing again into her cheeks. 
 
 "I think" her voice was low and hurried, and she 
 looked round her to see that the door was shut and they 
 were really alone "I think it has been an attack of 
 depression perhaps perhaps melancholia. He has had 
 great misfortunes and disappointments. Unfortunately, 
 my father and I were abroad, and did not understand. 
 But, thank God!" she clasped her hands involuntarily 
 "I got home yesterday I went to see him just in 
 time 
 
 She paused, looking at her companion as though she 
 asked for the understanding which would save her fur- 
 ther words. But Miss Anna sat puzzled and cold. 
 
 "Just in time?" she repeated. 
 
 "I didn't understand at first," said Eugenie, with 
 emotion ; " I only saw that he was ill and terribly broken. 
 But he has told me since in a letter I got just before I 
 started. And I want you to advise me to tell me 
 whether you think Mrs. Fenwick should know 
 327
 
 Fentoiek's Career 
 
 "Know what?" cried Miss Anna. 
 
 Madame de Pastourelles bent forward again, and said 
 a few words under her breath. 
 
 Anna Mason recoiled. 
 
 "Horrible!" she said; "and and so cowardly! So 
 like a man!" 
 
 Eugenie could not help a tremulous smile; then she 
 resumed : 
 
 "The picture had come just come. It was that 
 which saved him. Ah, yes" the smile flashed out 
 again " I had forgotten! Of course Mrs. Fenwick must 
 know! It was the picture it was she that saved him. 
 But your note, by some strange accident, had escaped 
 him. It had fallen out, among some other papers on 
 the floor and he was nearly beside himself with disap- 
 pointment. I was lucky enough to find it and give it 
 him. But oh! it was pitiful to see him." 
 
 She shaded her eyes with her hand a moment, waiting 
 for composure. Miss Anna watched her, the strong 
 mouth softening unconsciously. 
 
 "And so, when he asked me to come and see his wife 
 first to tell her about his troubles and his break-down 
 I felt as if I could not refuse though, of course, I know" 
 she looked up appealingly "it may well seem strange 
 and intrusive to Mrs. Fenwick. But perhaps when she 
 understands how we have all been searching for her these 
 many months " 
 
 "Searching!" exclaimed Miss Anna. "Who has been 
 searching?" 
 
 Her question arrested her companion. Eugenie drew 
 herself more erect, collecting her thoughts. 
 
 " Shall we face the facts as they are ?" she said at last, 
 328
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 quietly. "I can tell you very shortly how the case 
 stands." 
 
 Miss Anna half rose, looked at the door, sat down 
 again. 
 
 "Mrs. Fenwick, you understand, may return at any 
 time!" 
 
 " I will be very short. We must consult mustn't we ? 
 for them both ?" 
 
 Timidly, her eyes upraised to the vigorous old face 
 beside her, Eugenie held out her delicate hand. With 
 a quick, impulsive movement, wondering at herself, 
 Miss Anna grasped it. 
 
 A little while later Miss Anna emerged from the parlor. 
 She went up-stairs to find Carrie. 
 
 Carrie was sitting beside the open door of her room, 
 calmly ripping up a mattress. The bed behind her had 
 been substantially lengthened, apparently by the help 
 of a packing-case in which Mrs. Fenwick had brought 
 some of her possessions across the Atlantic. A piece of 
 white dimity had been tacked round the packing-case. 
 
 "Carrie, what on earth are you doing?" cried Miss 
 Anna, in dismay. 
 
 "It's all right," said Carrie "I'm only making it 
 over. It's got lumpy." Then she laid down her scis- 
 sors, flushed, and looked at Miss Anna. 
 
 "Who's that down-stairs?" 
 
 " It's a lady who wants to see your mother. Will you 
 go and fetch her?" 
 
 "Father's 'messenger'?" cried Carrie, springing up, 
 and breathing quick. 
 
 Miss Anna nodded. "Your mother should be very 
 grateful to her," she said, in rather a shaky voice. 
 329
 
 Fentoich's Career 
 
 Carrie put on her hat in silence, and descended. The 
 door of the parlor was open, and between it and the 
 parlor window stood the strange lady, staring at the 
 river and the fell opposite, apparently deep in thought. 
 
 At the sound of the girl's step Eugenie turned. 
 
 "Carrie!" she cried, involuntarily "you are Carrie!" 
 And she came forward, impetuously holding out both 
 her hands. "How like the picture how like!" 
 
 And Eugenie gazed in delight at the small, slight 
 creature, so actively and healthily built, in spite of her 
 fairy proportions, at the likeness to Fenwick in hair and 
 skin, at the apple-freshness of her color, the beauty of 
 her eyes, the lightness of her pretty feet. 
 
 Twelve years! and then to find this, dropped into 
 your arms by the gods this living, breathing promise 
 of all delight! Deep in Eugenie's hea.rt there stirred the 
 pang of her own pitiful motherhood, of the child who had 
 just flickered into life, and out of it, through one sum- 
 mer's day. 
 
 She shyly put her arm round the girl. 
 
 "May I," she said, timidly "may I kiss you?" 
 
 Carrie, with down-dropped eyes, a little grave, sub- 
 mitted. 
 
 "I am going to tell my mother. Father sent you, 
 didn't he?" 
 
 Eugenie said "Yes" gently, and released her. The 
 child ran off. 
 
 Phcebe came slowly into the room, with an uncertain 
 gait, touching the door and the walls like one groping her 
 way. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Fenwick!" 
 
 330
 
 FenuMck's Career 
 
 It was a little cry from Eugenie deprecating, full of 
 pain. Phoebe took no notice of it. She went straight 
 to her visitor. 
 
 "Where is my husband, please?" she said, in a strong, 
 hoarse voice, mechanically holding out her hand, which 
 Eugenie touched and then let drop, so full of rugged, 
 passionate things were the face and form she looked at. 
 
 "He's coming by the afternoon train." Eugenie 
 threw all her will into calmness and clearness. "He 
 gets to Windermere before five and he thought he 
 might be here a little after six. He was so ill yesterday 
 when I found him when I went to see him! That's 
 what he wanted me to tell you before you saw him 
 again and so I came first by the night train." 
 
 "You went to see him yesterday?" said Phcebe, still 
 in the same tense way. She had never asked her guest 
 to sit, and she stood herself, one hand leaning heavily on 
 the table. 
 
 "I had heard from the lawyers the lawyers my 
 father had recommended to Mr. Fenwick that they 
 had found a clew they had discovered some traces of 
 you in Canada and I went to tell him." 
 
 " Lawyers ?" Phcebe raised her left hand in bewilder- 
 ment. "I don't understand." 
 
 Eugenie came a little nearer. Hurriedly, with chang- 
 ing color, she gave an account of the researches of the 
 lawyers during the preceding seven months interrupted 
 in the middle by Phcebe. 
 
 "But why was John looking for us, after after all this 
 time?" she said, in a fainter, weaker voice, dropping at 
 the same time into a chair. 
 
 Eugenie hesitated; then said, firmly, "Because he
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 wished to find you, more than anything else in the world. 
 And my father and I helped him all we could " 
 
 "But you didn't know?" Phoebe caught piteously at 
 her dress "you didn't know ?" 
 
 "That Mr. Fenwick was married? No never! till 
 last autumn. That was his wrong-doing, towards all 
 his old friends." 
 
 Phcebe looked at the dignity and pureness of the face 
 before her, and shrank a little. "And how was it found 
 out?" she breathed, turning away. 
 
 "There was a Miss Morrison " 
 
 "Bella Morrison!" cried Phcebe, suddenly, clasping 
 her hands "Bella! Of course, she did it to disgrace 
 him." 
 
 " We never knew what her motive was. But she told 
 an old friend who told us." 
 
 "And then what did John say?" The wife's hands 
 shook her eyes were greedy for an answer. 
 
 "Oh! it was all miserable!" said Eugenie, with a 
 gesture of emotion. "It made my father very angry, 
 and we could not be friends any more as we had been. 
 And Mr. Fenwick had a wretched winter. He was ill 
 and his painting seemed to go wrong and he was terri- 
 bly in need of money and then came that day at the 
 theatre " 
 
 " I know," whispered Phcebe, hanging on the speaker's 
 lips "when he saw Carrie?" 
 
 " It nearly killed him," said Eugenie, gently. " It was 
 like a light kindled, and then blown out." 
 
 Phcebe leaned her head against the table before her, 
 and began to sob " If I'd never let her go up that day! 
 When we first landed I didn't know what to do I 
 332
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 couldn't make up my mind. We'd taken lodgings down 
 at Guildford near some acquaintances we'd made in 
 Canada. And the girl was a great friend of Carrie's 
 we used to stay with them sometimes in Montreal. 
 She had acted a little at Halifax and Montreal and 
 she wanted an opening in London and somebody 
 told her to apply at that theatre I forgot its name." 
 
 "Halifax!" cried Eugenie "Halifax, Nova Scotia? 
 Oh, now I understand! We have searched England 
 through. The stage-manager said one of the young 
 ladies mentioned Halifax. Nobody ever thought ' 
 
 She paused. Phoebe said nothing; she was grappling 
 with some of the new ideas presented to her. 
 
 "And this was his second search, you know," said 
 Eugenie, laying a hand timidly on Phoebe's shoulder. 
 "He had done all he could when you left him. But 
 when he lost sight of Carrie again and so of you both 
 it wore his heart- out. I can see it did. He is a broken 
 man." Her voice trembled. "Oh, you will have to 
 nurse to comfort him. He has been in despair about 
 his art in despair about everything. He 
 
 But she checked herself. The rest was for him to 
 tell. 
 
 "For a long time- he seemed so so successful," said 
 Phoebe, plucking at the table-cloth, trying to compose 
 voice and features. 
 
 "Yes but it didn't last. He seemed to get angry 
 with himself and everybody else. He quarrelled with 
 the Academy and his work didn't improve it went 
 back. But then when one's unhappy 
 
 Her smile and the pressure of her hand said the rest. 
 
 " He'll never forgive me!" said Phoebe, her voice thick 
 333
 
 Pentoick's Career 
 
 and shaking. "It can never be the same again. I was 
 a fool to come home." 
 
 Eugenie withdrew her hand. Unconsciously, a touch 
 of sternness showed itself in her bearing, her pale 
 features. 
 
 "No, no!" she said, with energy. "You will com>- 
 fort him, Mrs. Fenwick you will give him heart and 
 hope again. It was a cruel thing forgive me if I say 
 it once ! it was a cruel thing to leave him ! A man like 
 that with his weaknesses and his temperament which 
 are part of his gift really its penalty wants his wife at 
 every turn the woman who loves him who under- 
 stands. But to desert him for a suspicion! a dream! 
 Oh! Mrs. Fenwick, there are those who who are really 
 starved really forsaken really trampled under foot 
 by those they love!" 
 
 Her voice broke. She stood gazing straight before 
 her, quivering with the passion of recollection. Phcebe 
 looked up awed remembering what John had said, so 
 long ago, of the unhappy marriage, the faithless and cruel 
 husband. But Eugenie's hand touched her again. 
 
 "And I know that you thought I had made Mr. 
 Fenwick forget you. That was so strange! At that 
 time and for many years afterwards my husband was 
 still alive. If he had sent me a word any day any 
 hour I would have gone to him to the ends of the 
 world. I don't mean I don't pretend that my feeling 
 for him remained unchanged. But my pride was my 
 duty was that he should never find me lacking. And 
 last year he turned to me I was able to help him 
 through his death. I had been his true wife and he 
 knew it." 
 
 334
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 She spoke quietly, brushing the tears from her eyes. 
 But with the last words, her voice wavered a little. 
 Phoebe had bowed her head upon the hand which held 
 hers, and there was no spectator of the feeling in Euge- 
 nie's face. Was her pure conscience tormented with the 
 thought that she had not told all, and could never tell it ? 
 Her innocent tempting of Fenwick as an act, partly, of 
 piteous self-defence against impulses of quite another 
 quality and power this must remain her secret to the 
 end. Sad evasions, which life forces upon even the 
 noblest worshippers of truth! 
 
 After a minute she stooped and kissed Phoebe's golden 
 hair. 
 
 " I was so glad to help Mr. Fenwick he interested me 
 so. If I had only known of you and the child why, 
 how happy we might all have been!" 
 
 She withdrew her hand, and walked away to the 
 window, trying to calm herself. Phoebe rose and fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 "Do you know?" she said, piteously- "can't you 
 tell me? will John take me back?" 
 
 Eugenie paused just a moment; then said, steadily, 
 "He is coming here, because you are his wife because 
 he is faithful to you because he wants you. Don't 
 agitate him too much ! He wants resting and healing. 
 And so do you!" She took Phoebe's hands again in hers. 
 "And how do you think anybody is to deny you any- 
 thing, when you bring such a gift as that?" 
 
 Carrie and Miss Mason were entering the little gar- 
 den. Eugenie's smile, as she motioned towards the girl, 
 seemed to reflect the May sunshine and Carrie's young 
 charm. 
 
 335
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 But after Madame de Pastourelles was gone, a cloud 
 of nervous dread fell upon the little cottage and its 
 inmates. Phcebe wandered restlessly about the garden, 
 waiting and listening hour after hour. 
 
 The May evening drew towards sunset. Flame de- 
 scended on the valley, striking athwart the opening 
 which leads to its farthest recess, superbly guarded by 
 the crags of Bowfell, and turning all the mountain-side 
 above the cottage, still dyed with the fern of "yester- 
 year," to scarlet. A fresh breeze blew through the syca- 
 more leaves, bringing with it the cool scents of rain- 
 washed grass. All was hushed richly hued expectant 
 like some pageant waiting for its king. 
 
 Alas poor king! In the full glory of the evening 
 light, a man alighted from a wagonette at the foot of 
 the cottage hill, and dragged his weary limbs up the 
 steep ground. He opened the gate, looking round him 
 slowly to right and left. 
 
 Then, in the porch, Fenwick saw his wife. He walked 
 up to her, and gripped her wrists. She fell back with a 
 stifled cry; and they stood there speechless and mo- 
 tionless looking into each other's eyes.
 
 XIV 
 
 first withdrew herself. In that first mo- 
 i ment of contact, Fenwick's changed aspect had 
 pierced her to the heart. But the shock itself brought 
 self-control. 
 
 "Come in," she said, mechanically; "Miss Anna's 
 gone out." 
 
 " Where's Carrie ?" He followed her in, glancing from 
 side to side. 
 
 " She she'll be here directly." Phcebe's voice stum- 
 bled over the words. 
 
 Fenwick understood that the child and Anna Mason 
 were leaving them to themselves, out of delicacy; and 
 his exhaustion of mind and body recoiled impatiently 
 from the prospect of a "scene," with which he felt him- 
 self wholly unable to cope. He had been sorely tempted 
 to stay at Windermere, and telegraph that he was too ill 
 to come that day. Such a course would at least have 
 given him the night's respite. But a medley of feel- 
 ings had prevailed over the impulse ; and here he 
 was. 
 
 They entered the little parlor, and he looked round 
 him in amazement, muttering, "Why, it looks just as it 
 did not a thing changed." 
 
 Phcebe closed the door, and then turned to him, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 337
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Won't you won't you say you're glad to see me, 
 John?" 
 
 He looked at her fixedly, then threw himself down 
 beside the table, and rested his head on his hands. 
 
 "It's no good to suppose we can undo these twelve 
 years," he said, roughly; "it's no good whatever to sup- 
 pose that." 
 
 "No," said Phoebe "I know." 
 
 She too sat down on the other side of the table, deadly 
 pale, not knowing what to say or do. Suddenly he raised 
 his head and looked at her, with his searching painter's 
 eyes. 
 
 "My God!" he said, under his breath. "We are 
 changed, both of us aren't we?" 
 
 She too studied the face before her the gray hair, 
 the red-rimmed eyes, of which the lids fluttered perpetu- 
 ally, shrinking from the light, the sombre mouth; and 
 slowly a look of still more complete dismay overspread 
 her own; reflected, as it were, from that half-savage dis- 
 couragement and weariness which spoke from the drawn 
 features, the neglected dress, and slouching figure, and 
 seemed to make of the whole man one sore, wincing at a 
 touch. Her heart sank and sank. 
 
 " Can't we begin again ?" she said, in a low voice, while 
 the tears rose in her eyes. " I'm sorry for what I 
 did." 
 
 "How does that help it?" he said, irritably. "I'm a 
 ruined man. I can't paint any more or, at any rate, the 
 world doesn't care a ha'p'orth what I paint. I should be 
 a bankrupt but for Madame de Pastourelles " 
 
 "John!" cried Phoebe, bending forward "I've got a 
 little money I saved it and there are some shares a 
 338
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 friend advised me to buy, that are worth a lot more than 
 I gave for them. I've got eight hundred pounds and 
 it's all yours, John it's all yours." 
 
 She stretched out her hands in a yearning anguish, 
 and touched his. 
 
 "What friend ?" he said, with a quick, suspicious move- 
 ment, taking no notice of her statement; "and where 
 have you been all these years?" 
 
 He turned and looked at her sharply. 
 
 "I've been in Canada on a farm near Montreal." 
 
 She held herself erect, speaking slowly and carefully, 
 as though a moment had arrived for which she had long 
 prepared; through rebellion, and through yielding; now 
 in defiance, and now in fear: the moment when she 
 should tell John the story of her flight. Her manner, 
 indeed for one who could have understood it proved 
 a curious thing ; that never, throughout their separation, 
 had she ceased to believe that she should see her husband 
 again. There had been no finality in her action. In her 
 eyes the play had been always going on, the curtain 
 always up. 
 
 "You know I told you about Freddie Freddie Tol- 
 son's coming to see me that night? Well, it was the 
 things he said about Canada made me do it. Of course 
 I didn't want to go where he was going. But he said 
 that one could get to Canada for a few pounds, and it 
 took about nine days. And it was a fine place, and 
 any one could find work. He'd thought of it, he said, 
 but as he had friends in Australia, he was going there. 
 And so, when he'd left the cottage, I thought if, when 
 I came up to town I I did find what I expected I'd 
 take Carrie and go to Canada." 
 * 339
 
 Fentcick's Career 
 
 Fenwick rose, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, 
 began to walk up and down excitedly. 
 
 "And of course as you expected it you found it," 
 he said, bitterly. "Who could ever have conceived that 
 a woman could act in such a way! Why, I had been 
 kissing your photograph the minute before! Lord Fin- 
 don had been there, to tell me my pictures were in the 
 Academy all right, and he'd given me five hundred 
 pounds for them and the check" he stopped in front 
 of her, rapping the table with his finger for emphasis 
 "the check was actually in the drawer! under 
 your hand where I'd left it. It was too late to 
 catch the North post for a letter to you, so I went out 
 to tell one or two people, and on the way I bought 
 some things for you at a shop prettinesses that I'd 
 never been able to give you. Why, I thought of noth- 
 ing but you." 
 
 His voice had risen to- a cry. He stooped, bending 
 over the table, his haggard face close to hers. 
 
 She recoiled, and burst into a wild sob: 
 
 "John, I I couldn't know!" 
 
 " Well, go on," he said, abruptly, raising himself "go 
 on. You found that picture in my room I'll tell you 
 about that presently and you wrote me the letter. 
 Well, then you went back to Euston, and you sent 
 Daisy away. After that?" 
 
 His stern, sharp tone, which was really the result of a 
 nerve tension hardly to be borne, scared her. It was 
 with painful difficulty that she collected her forces 
 enough to meet his gaze and to reply. 
 
 "I took Carrie to Liverpool. We had to wait three 
 days there. Then we got on a steamer for Quebec. The 
 340
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 voyage was dreadful. Carrie was ill, and I was so so 
 miserable! We stopped at Quebec a little. But I felt 
 so strange there, with all the people speaking French 
 so we went on to Montreal. And the Government peo- 
 ple there who look after the emigrants found me a place. 
 I got work in a hotel a sort of housekeeper. I looked 
 after the linen, and the servants, and after a bit I learned 
 how to keep the accounts. They paid me eight dollars 
 a week, and Carrie and I had a room at the top of the 
 hotel. It was awfully hard work. I was so dead tired 
 at night, sometimes, I couldn't undress. I would sit 
 down on the side of my bed to rest my feet; and then 
 the next thing I'd know would be waking in the morning, 
 just as I was, in my clothes. But so long as I slept, it 
 was all right. It was lying awake that killed me!" 
 
 The trembling of her lips checked her, and she began 
 to play nervously with the fringe of the table-cloth, try- 
 ing to force back emotion. He had again seated himself 
 opposite to her, and was observing her with a half-frown- 
 ing attention, as of one in whom the brain action is physi- 
 cally difficult. He led her on, however, with questions, 
 seeing how much she needed the help of them. From 
 Montreal, it appeared, she had gone to a fruit-farm in 
 the Hamilton district, Ontario, as housekeeper to a 
 widower with a family of children varying in age from 
 five to sixteen. She had made the acquaintance of this 
 man a decent, rough, good-tempered fellow, Canadian- 
 born through the hotel. He had noticed her powers 
 of management, and her overwork; and had offered her 
 equal pay, an easier task, and country air, instead of 
 the rush of Montreal. 
 
 " I accepted for Carrie's sake. It was an apple-farm,
 
 FentDick's Career 
 
 running down to Lake Ontario. I had to look after the 
 house and the children and to cook and wash and 
 bake and turn one's hand to anything. It wasn't too 
 hard and Carrie went to school with the others and 
 used to run about the farm. Mr. Crossonwas very kind. 
 His old mother was living there or I wouldn't have 
 gone" she flushed deeply "but she was very infirm, 
 and couldn't do anything. I took in two English papers 
 and used to get along somehow. Once I was ill, with 
 congestion of the lungs, and once I went to Niagara, 
 with some people who lived near. And I can hardly 
 remember anything else happening. It was all just the 
 same day after day I just seemed to be half alive." 
 
 "Ah ! you felt that ?" he said, eagerly "you felt that ? 
 There's a stuff they call curare. You can't move 
 you're paralyzed but you feel horrible pain. That's 
 what I used to feel like for months and months. And 
 then sometimes it was different as if I didn't care 
 twopence about anything, except a little bit of pleasure 
 and should never vex myself about anything again. 
 One was dead, and it didn't matter was rather pleasant 
 indeed." 
 
 She was silent. Her seeking, pitiful eyes were on him 
 perpetually, trying to make him out, to acquaint herself 
 with this new personality, which spoke in these harsh 
 staccato phrases to reconcile it with the excitable, 
 sanguine, self-confident man whom she had deserted in 
 his youth. 
 
 "Well," he resumed, "and what was your farmer 
 like ?" Then, suddenly lifting his eyes " Did he make 
 love to you?" 
 
 She colored hotly, and threw back her head. 
 342
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "And if he did, it was no one's fault! neither his nor 
 mine. He wasn't a bad fellow! and he wanted some 
 one to look after his children." 
 
 "Naturally. Quite content also to look after mine!" 
 said Fenwick, with a laugh which startled her resuming 
 his agitated walk, a curious expression of satisfaction, 
 triumph even, on his dark face. " So you found yourself 
 in a false position?" 
 
 He stopped to look at her, and his smile hurt her 
 sorely. But she had made up her mind to a long pa- 
 tience, and she struggled on. 
 
 " It was partly that made me come home that, and 
 other things." 
 
 "What other things?" 
 
 "Things I saw in some of the papers about you," 
 she said, with difficulty. 
 
 "What that I was a flat failure? a quarrelsome 
 ass, and that kind of thing ? You began to pity 
 me?" 
 
 "Oh, John, don't talk to me like thdt?" She held out 
 her hands to him in appealing misery. "I was sorry, I 
 tell you! I saw how I'd behaved to you. I thought if 
 you hadn't been getting on, perhaps it was my fault. 
 It upset me altogether!" 
 
 But he didn"t relent. He stood stillfiercely inter- 
 rogative his hands in his pockets, on the other side of 
 the table. 
 
 "And what else was there?" 
 
 Phoebe choked back her tears. 
 
 "There was a woman who came to live near us 
 who had been a maid" She hesitated. 
 
 "Please go on!" 
 
 343
 
 Fentuick's Career 
 
 "Maid to Madame de Pastourelles " she said, hastily, 
 stumbling over the French name. 
 
 He exclaimed: 
 
 "In Ontario!" 
 
 "She married a man she had been engaged to for 
 years; he'd been making a home for her out there. I 
 liked her directly I saw her; and she was too delicate 
 for the life; she came in the fall, and the winter tried 
 her dreadfully. I used to go in to nurse her she was 
 very much alone and she told me all about herself 
 and about " 
 
 "Madame?" 
 
 Phoebe nodded, her eyes swimming again in tears. 
 
 "And you found out you'd been mistaken?" 
 
 She nodded again. 
 
 "You see she talked about her to me a great deal. 
 Of course I I never said anything. She'd been with 
 her fifteen years and she just worshipped her. And 
 she told me about her bad husband how she'd nursed 
 him, and that and how he died last year!" 
 
 A wild color leaped into Fenwick's cheeks. 
 
 "And you began to think there might be a false posi- 
 tion there too between her and me?" 
 
 His cruel, broken words stung her intolerably. She 
 sprang up, looking at him fiercely "And if I did, it 
 wasn't all selfishness. Can't you understand, I might 
 have been afraid for her and you as well as for my- 
 self?" 
 
 He moved again to the window, and stood with head 
 bent, twisting his lip painfully. 
 
 "And to-day you've seen her?" he said, still looking 
 out. 
 
 344
 
 Pentoick's Career 
 
 "Yes she was very, very kind," said Phoebe, humbly. 
 
 He paused a moment, then broke out " And now you 
 see what you did! what a horrible thing! for the 
 most ridiculous reasons! But after you'd left me in 
 that way you couldn't expect me to give her up her 
 friendship all I had. For nine or ten years, if I pros- 
 pered at all, I tell you it was her doing because she 
 upheld me because she inspired me because her mere 
 existence shamed me out of doing well, what I could 
 never have resisted, but for her. If I ever did good 
 work, it was her doing if I have been faithful to you, 
 in spite of everything, it was her doing too!" 
 
 He sank down upon the window-seat his face work- 
 ing. And suddenly Phcebe was at his knees. 
 
 "Oh, John John forgive me! do, John! try and 
 forgive me!" She caught his hands in hers, kissing 
 them, bathing them with her tears. "John, we can be- 
 gin again! we're not so old. You'll have a long rest 
 and I'll work for you night and day. We'll go abroad 
 with some of my money. Don't you know how you 
 always said, if you could study abroad a bit, what good 
 it 'd do you? We'll go, won't we? And you'll paint as 
 well as ever you'll get everything back. Oh, John! 
 don't hate me! don't hate me! I've loved you always 
 always even when I was so mad and cruel to you. 
 Every night in Canada, I used to long for it to be morn- 
 ing and then in the morning I longed for it to be night. 
 Nothing was any good to me, or any pleasure without 
 you. But at first, I was just in despair I thought I'd 
 lost you forever I could never, never come back. And 
 then afterwards when I wanted to come back when I 
 knew I'd been wicked I didn't know how to do it how 
 345
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 to face it. I was frightened frightened of what you'd 
 say to me how you'd look!" 
 
 She paused, her arms flung round him, her tear- 
 stained face upraised. In her despair, and utter sincer- 
 ity, she was once more beautiful with a tragic beauty 
 of character and expression, not lost for one moment 
 upon the man beside her. 
 
 He laid his right hand on her head amid the masses of 
 her fair hair, and held it there, forcing her head back a 
 little, studying her in a bitter passion the upper lip 
 drawn back a little over the teeth, which held and tor- 
 mented the lower. 
 
 "Twelve years!" he said, slowly, after a minute, his 
 eyes plunging into hers "twelve years! What do you 
 know of me now? or I of you? I should offend you 
 twenty times a day. And perhaps it might be the 
 same with me." 
 
 Phcebe released herself, and laid her head against his 
 knee. 
 
 "John! take me back take me back!" 
 
 " Why did you torture me ?" he said, hoarsely. "You 
 sent me Carrie six weeks ago and then swept her away 
 again." 
 
 She cried out. "It was the merest accident!" And 
 volubly abjectly she explained. He listened to her. 
 but without seeming to understand his own mind work- 
 ing irrelevantly all the time. And presently he inter- 
 rupted her. 
 
 "Besides I'm unhinged I'm not fit to have women 
 dependent on me. I can't answer for myself. Yester- 
 day if that picture had come at eight o'clock instead 
 of seven it would have been too late!" 
 346
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 His voice altered strangely. Phoebe fell back upon 
 the floor, huddled together staring at him. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I should have destroyed myself. That's what I 
 mean. I had made up my mind. It was just touch 
 and go." 
 
 Phoebe sat speechless. It seemed as though her eyes 
 so wide and terrified were fixed in their places, and 
 could not release him. He moved impatiently; the ap- 
 peal, the horror of them, were more than he could bear. 
 
 " And much better for you if I had ! and as for Carrie! 
 Ah! good Heavens! there she is." 
 
 He sprang up in agitation, looking through the open 
 window, yet withdrawing from it. Phoebe too rose, the 
 color rushing back into her cheeks. This was to be her 
 critical, her crucial moment. If she recovered him, she 
 was to owe it to her child. 
 
 Carrie and Miss Mason came along the path together. 
 They had been in a wood beside the Elterwater road; 
 not knowing how to talk to each other; wandering apart, 
 and gathering flowers idly, to pass the time. Carrie held 
 a large bunch of bluebells in her hand. She wore a 
 cotton dress of grayish-blue, just such a dress as Phoebe 
 might have worn in her first youth. The skirt was short, 
 and showed her tripping feet. Under her shady hat 
 with its pink rose, her eyes glanced timidly towards the 
 house, and then withdrew themselves again. Fenwick 
 saw that the eyes were in truth darker than Phoebe's, 
 and the hair much darker no golden mist like her 
 mother's, but nearer to his own a warm brown, curly 
 and vigorous. Her face was round and rosy, but so 
 delicately cut and balanced, it affected him with a thrill 
 347
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 of delight. He perceived also that she was very small 
 smaller than he had thought, in the theatre. But at the 
 same time, her light proportions had in them no hint of 
 weakness or fragility. If she were a fairy, she was no 
 twilight spirit, but rather a cheerful dawn-fairy one of 
 those happy household sprites that help the work of 
 man. 
 
 He went and opened the door for them, trembling. 
 
 Carrie saw him there paused and then walked on 
 quickly ahead of Miss Mason. 
 
 "Father!" she said, gravely, and looking at him, she 
 held out her hand . 
 
 He took it, and then, drawing her to him, he kissed 
 her hurriedly. Carrie's cheeks grew very red, and her 
 eyes moist, for a moment. But she had long since de- 
 termined not to cry because poor mummy would be 
 sure to. 
 
 "I guess you'll be wanting your tea," she said, shyly, 
 looking from him to her mother "I'll go and see to it." 
 
 Miss Anna came up behind, concealing as best she 
 could the impression made upon her by the husband 
 and wife as they stood in the porch, under the full western 
 light. Alack! here was no happy meeting! and it was 
 no good pretending. 
 
 Fenwick greeted her with little or no demonstration 
 of any sort, though he and she, also, had never met since 
 the year of Phoebe's flight. His sunken eyes indeed re- 
 garded her with a look that seemed to hold her at bay 
 a strange look full of bitterness. She understood it to 
 mean that he was not there to lend himself to any sham 
 sentimental business; and that physically he was ill, and 
 could stand no strain, whatever women might wish. 
 348
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 After a few questions about his journey, Miss Anna 
 quietly begged him to come in and rest. He hesitated 
 a moment, then with his hands in his pockets followed 
 her to the parlor; while Phoebe, with Carrie's arm round 
 her, went falteringly up -stairs. 
 
 Miss Anna made no scene and asked for no informa- 
 tion. She and Carrie bustled to and fro, preparing 
 supper. Fenwick at his own request remained alone in 
 the parlor. But when supper-time came, it was evident 
 that he was too feeble to face an ordinary meal. He lay 
 back in Miss Anna's arm-chair with closed eyes, and took 
 no notice of Phoebe's timid summons. The women 
 looked in upon him, alarmed and whispering together. 
 Then Miss Anna drew Phoebe away, and mixing some 
 milk and brandy sent Carrie in with it. "He go away 
 to-morrow!" she said, in Phoebe's ear "we shall see!" 
 
 As Carrie entered the parlor with the milk and brandy, 
 Fenwick looked up. 
 
 "Where am I to sleep?" he asked her, abruptly, his 
 eyes lingering on her. 
 
 " In my room," she said, softly ; "I'm going in to Miss 
 Anna. I've lengthened the bed!" 
 
 A faint smile nickered over his face. 
 
 " How did you do that ?" 
 
 "I nailed on a packing-case. Isn't it queer? Miss 
 Anna hadn't any tools. I had to borrow some at the 
 farm and they were the poorest scratch lot you ever 
 saw. Why, everybody in Canada has tools." 
 
 He held her with a shaking hand, still looking intently 
 at her bright face. 
 
 "Did you like Canada?" 
 
 349
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "Why, it's lovely!" Then her lips parted eagerly. 
 She would have liked to go on talking, to make acquaint- 
 ance. But she refrained. This man this strange new 
 father was "sick" and must be kept quiet. 
 
 "Will you help me up to bed ?" he murmured as she 
 was just going away. 
 
 She obeyed, and he leaned on. her shoulder as they 
 mounted the steep cottage stair. Her physical strength 
 astonished, him the amount of support that this child 
 of seventeen was able to give him. 
 
 She led him into his room, where she had already 
 brought his bag, and unpacked his things. 
 
 "Is it all right, father? Do you want anything- else ? 
 Shall I send mother?" 
 
 " No, no," he said, hastily " I'm all right. Tell- them 
 I'm. all right; I only want to go to sleep." 
 
 She turned at the door, and looked at him wistfully. 
 
 "I did make that mattress over part of it. But it's 
 a real bad one." 
 
 He nodded, and she went. 
 
 "A dream!" he said to himself "a dream f" 
 
 He was thinking of the child as she stood bathed in 
 the mingled glory of sunset and moonlight flowing in 
 upon her from the open window; for the long day of 
 northern summer was still lingering in the valley. 
 
 "Ah! if I could only paint! oh, God, if I could 
 paint !" He groaned aloud, rubbing his hands together 
 in a fever of impotence and misery. 
 
 Then he tumbled into bed, and lay there weak and 
 passive, feeling the strangeness of the remembered room, 
 of the open casement window, of the sycamore outside, 
 350
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 and the mountain forms beyond it; of this pearly or 
 golden light in which everything was steeped. 
 
 In the silence he heard the voice of the beck, as it 
 hurried down the Ghyll. Twelve years since he had 
 heard it last; and the eternal water "at its priestlike 
 task" still murmured with the rocks, still drank the 
 rain, and fed the river. No rebellion there ; no failure ; 
 no helpless will! 
 
 He tried to think, of Phoebe, to remember what she 
 had said to him. He wondered if he had been merely 
 brutal to her. But his heart seemed a dry husk within 
 him. It was, as it had been. He could neither think 
 nor feel. 
 
 Next day he was so ill that a doctor was sent for. He 
 prescribed long rest, said all excitement must be avoided, 
 all work put away. 
 
 Four or five dreary weeks followed. Fenwick stayed 
 in bed most of the day, struggled down to the garden in 
 the afternoon, was nursed by the three women, and 
 scarcely said a word from morning till night that was 
 not connected with some bodily want or discomfort. 
 He showed no repugnance to his wife, would let her wait 
 upon him, and sit beside him in the garden. But he 
 made no spontaneous movement towards her whatever ; 
 and the only person who evidently cheered him was 
 Carrie. He watched the child incessantly in her house- 
 work, her sewing, her gardening, her coaxing of her pale 
 mother, her fun with Miss Anna, who was by now her 
 slave. There was something in the slight foreignness of 
 her ways and accent, in her colonial resource and inde- 
 pendence, that delighted and amused him like a pleasant 
 piece of acting. She had the cottage under her thumb.
 
 Fentoicb's Career 
 
 By now she had cleaned all the furniture, " colored " most 
 of the walls, and mended all the linen, which had been in 
 a sad condition Miss Anna's powers being rather intel- 
 lectual than practical. And through it all she kept a 
 natural daintiness and refinement, was never clumsy, or 
 loud, or untidy. She came and went so lightly and 
 always bringing with her the impression of something 
 hidden and fragrant, a happiness within, that gave a 
 dancing grace and perfume to all her life. 
 
 To her father she chattered mostly of Canada, and he 
 would sit in the shade of the cottage, listening to her 
 while she described their life ; the big, rambling farm, the 
 children she had been brought up with, the great lake 
 with its ice and its storms, the apple-orchards, the sleigh- 
 ing in winter, the beauty' of the fall, the splendor of the 
 summers, the boom that was beginning "up west." 
 Cunningly, in fact, she set the stage for an actor to come ; 
 but his "cue" was not yet. 
 
 It was only from her, indeed, that he would hear of 
 these things. If Phcebe ventured on them his manner 
 stiffened at once. Miss Anna's strong impression was, 
 still, that with his wife he was always on his guard 
 against demands he felt himself physically unable to 
 meet. Yet it seemed to her, as time went on, that he 
 was more and more aware of Phcebe, more sensitive to 
 her presence, her voice. 
 
 She too watched Phcebe, and with a growing, involun- 
 tary respect. This changed woman had endured "hard- 
 ness," had at last followed her conscience; and, rebuffed 
 and unforgiven as she seemed to be, she was clothed 
 none the less in a new dignity, modest and sad, but real. 
 She might be hopeless of recovering her husband; but 
 35*
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 all the same, the law which links that strange thing, 
 spiritual peace, with certain surrenders, had already be- 
 gun to work, unknown even to herself. 
 
 As she moved about the cottage and garden, indeed, 
 new contacts, new relations, slowly established them- 
 selves, unseen and unexpressed, between her and the 
 man who scarcely noticed her in words, from morning 
 till night. "I should offend you twenty times a day," 
 he had said to her "and perhaps it might be the same 
 with me!" But they did not offend each other! that 
 was the merciful new fact, asserting itself through this 
 silent, suspended time. She was still beautiful. The 
 mountain air restored her clear, pure color; and what 
 time had robbed her of in bloom it had given her back 
 in character the artist's supreme demand. Self-con- 
 trol, bitterly learned fresh capacities, moral, or practi- 
 cal these expressed themselves in a thousand trines. 
 Not only in her tall slenderness and fairness was she 
 presently a challenge to Fenwick's sharpening sense; 
 she began, in a wholly new degree, to interest his intelli- 
 gence. Her own had blossomed ; and in spite of grief, 
 she had brought back with her some of the ways of a 
 young and tiptoe world. Soon he was, in secret, hungry 
 for her history the history he had so far refused to hear. 
 Who was this man who had made love to her ? how far 
 had it gone ? he tossed at nights. thinking of it. There 
 came a time when he would gladly have exchanged 
 Carrie's gossip for hers; and through her soft silence, as 
 she sat beside him, he would hear suddenly in memory, 
 the echoes of her girlish voice, and make a quick move- 
 ment towards her ronly to check himself in shyness or 
 pride. 
 
 SS3
 
 Fentoick s Career 
 
 Meanwhile he could not know that he too had grown 
 in her eyes, as she in his. In spite of all his errors and 
 follies, he had not wrestled with his art, he had not lived 
 among his intellectual peers, he had not known Euge'nie 
 de Pastourelles through twelve years, for nothing. Em- 
 bittered he was, but also refined. The nature had grown 
 harsher and more rugged but also larger, more complex, 
 more significant, better worth the patiences of love. As 
 for his failure, the more she understood it, the more it 
 evoked in her an angry advocacy, a passionate cham- 
 pionship, a protesting faith which she had much ado 
 to hide. 
 
 And all this time letters came occasionally from 
 Madame de Pastourelles indifferently to her or to him 
 full of London artistic gossip, the season being now in 
 full swim, of sly stimulus and cheer. As they handed 
 them to each other, without talking of them, it was as 
 though the shuttle of fate flew from life to life, these in 
 Langdale, and that in London weaving the three into 
 a new pattern which day by day replaced and hid away 
 the old. 
 
 The days lengthened towards midsummer. After a 
 spell of rain, June descended in blossom and sunshine on 
 the Westmoreland vales. The hawthorns were out, and 
 the wild cherries. The bluebells were fading in the 
 woods, but in the cottage gardens the lilacs were all 
 fragrance, and the crown-imperials showed their heads 
 of yellow and red. Each valley and hill-side was a 
 medley of soft and shimmering color, save in the higher, 
 austerer dales, where, as in Langdale, the woods scarcely 
 climb, and the bare pastures have only a livelier emerald 
 354
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 to show, or the crags a warmer purple, as their testimony 
 to the spring. 
 
 Fenwick was unmistakably better. The signs of it 
 were visible in many directions. His passive, silent 
 ways, so alien to his natural self and temperament, were 
 at last breaking down. One evening, Carrie, who had 
 been to Elterwater, brought back some afternoon letters. 
 They included a letter from Canada, which Carrie read 
 over her mother's shoulder, laughing and wondering. 
 Phoebe was sitting on a bench in the garden, an old yew- 
 tree just above her on the slope. The heads of both 
 mother and child were thrown out sharply on the dark- 
 ness of the yew background Phoebe's profile, upturned, 
 and the abundant coils of her hair, were linked in har- 
 monious line with the bending figure and beautiful head 
 of the girl. 
 
 Suddenly Fenwick put down the newspaper which 
 Carrie had brought him. He rose, muttered something, 
 and went into the house. They could hear him rum- 
 maging in his room, where Phoebe had lately unpacked 
 some boxes forwarded from London. He had never so 
 far touched brush or crayon during his stay at the 
 cottage. 
 
 Presently he returned with a canvas and palette. 
 
 "Don't go!" he said, peremptorily, to Carrie, raising 
 his hand. "Stand as you were before." 
 
 "You don't want me?" asked Phoebe, startled, her 
 pale cheeks suddenly pink. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I do!" he said, impatiently. "For God's 
 sake don't move, either of you!" 
 
 He went back for an easel, then sat down and began 
 to paint. 
 
 , 4 355
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 They held themselves as still as mice. Carrie could 
 see her mother's hands trembling on her lap. 
 
 Suddenly Fenwick said, in emotion: "I don't know 
 how it is but I see much better than I did." 
 
 Miss Anna looked up from the low wall on which she 
 was sitting. "The doctor said you would, John, when 
 you got strong," she put in, quickly. "He said you'd 
 been suffering from your eyes a long time without know- 
 ing it. It was nerves like the rest." 
 
 Fenwick said nothing. He went on painting, paint- 
 ing fast and freely for nearly an hour. All the time 
 Phoebe could hardly breathe. It was as though she felt 
 the doors opening upon a new room in the House of 
 Life. 
 
 Then the artist threw his canvas on the grass, and 
 stood looking at it. 
 
 "By Jove!" he said, presently. "By Jove! that '11 
 do." 
 
 Phoebe said nothing. Carrie came up to him and put 
 her hand on his arm. 
 
 "Father, that's enough. Don't do any more." 
 
 "All right. Take it away and all these things." 
 
 She lifted the sketch, the palette and brushes, and 
 carried them into the house. 
 
 Then Fenwick looked up irresolutely. His wife was 
 still sitting on the bench. She had her sewing in her 
 hands. 
 
 "Your hair's as pretty as ever, Phoebe," he said, in a 
 queer voice. Phoebe raised her deep lids slowly, and 
 her eyes spoke for her. She would offer herself no more 
 implore no more but he knew in that moment that 
 she loved him more maturely, more richly, than she had 
 356
 
 "'BY JOVE!' HE SAID, PRESENTLY. 'BY JOVE! THAT'LL DO !' !
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 ever loved him in the old days. A shock, that was also 
 a thrill, ran through him. They remained thus for some 
 seconds gazing at each other. Then, as Carrie returned, 
 Phcebe went into the house. 
 
 Carrie studied her father for a little, and then came to 
 sit down on the grass beside him. Miss Anna had gone 
 for a walk along the fell. 
 
 "Are you feeling better, father?" 
 
 "Yes a good deal." 
 
 "Well, then now I can tell you my news." 
 
 And she deliberately drew out a photograph from her 
 pocket, and held it up to him. 
 
 " Well ' ' said Fenwick, mystified. " Who's the young 
 man?" 
 
 "He's my young man" was Carrie's entirely self- 
 possessed reply. "I'm going to marry him." 
 
 " What? " cried Fenwick. " Show him to me." 
 
 Carrie yielded up her treasure rather timidly. 
 
 Fenwick looked at the picture, then put it down 
 angrily. 
 
 "What nonsense are you talking, Carrie! Why, 
 you're only a baby. You oughtn't to be thinking of 
 any such things." 
 
 Carrie shook her head resolutely. 
 
 "I'm not a baby. I've been in love with him more 
 than a year." 
 
 "Upon my word!" said Fenwick; "who allowed you 
 to be in love with him ? And has it never occurred to 
 you lately that you'd have to ask my leave?" 
 
 Carrie hesitated. 
 
 "In Canada I wouldn't have to," she said, at last, de- 
 cidedly. 
 
 357
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 "Oh! they've abolished the Fifth Commandment 
 there, have they?" 
 
 "No, no. But the girls choose for themselves!" said 
 Carrie, tossing back her brown curls with the slightest 
 touch of defiance. Fenwick observed her, his brow 
 clouding. 
 
 "And you suppose that I'm going to say 'Yes' at 
 once to this mad proposal? that I'm going to give 
 you up altogether, just as I've got you back? I 
 warn you at once, I shall not consent to any such 
 thing!" 
 
 There was silence. Fenwick sat staring at her, his 
 lips moving, angry sentences of authority and reproach 
 forming themselves in his mind but without coming to 
 speech. It was intolerable, inhuman that at this very 
 moment, when he wanted her most, this threat of fresh 
 loss should be sprung upon him. She was his his 
 property. He would not give her up to any Canadian 
 fellow, and he altogether disapproved of such young 
 love-affairs. 
 
 "Father," said Carrie, after a moment, "when George 
 asked me we didn't know " 
 
 " About me ? Well, now you do know," said Fenwick, 
 roughly. "I'm here and I have my rights." He put 
 out his hand and seized her arm, looking at her, devour- 
 ing her, in a kind of angry passion. 
 
 Carrie grew a little pale, and, coming nearer, she laid 
 her head against his knee. 
 
 "Father, you don't understand what we propose." 
 
 "Well, out with it, then!" 
 
 "We wouldn't think about being married for three 
 years. Why, of course we wouldn't! I don't want to 
 358
 
 Fenrcick's Career 
 
 be settled all that soon. And , besides, we're going abroad 
 you and mummy and I. I'm going to take you!" 
 She sat up, tossing her pretty head, her eyes as bright 
 as stars. 
 
 "And be thinking all the time of the Canadian chap ? 
 bored with everything!" growled Fenwick. 
 
 Carrie surveyed him. A film of tears sparkled. 
 
 "I'm never bored. Father!" she held herself erect, 
 throwing all her soul into every word "George is 
 awfully nice /" 
 
 Ah! the "life-force"! There it was before him, em- 
 bodied in this light, ardent creature, on whose brown 
 head and white dress the June sun streamed through 
 the sycamore-leaves. With a groan suddenly Fen- 
 wick weakened. 
 
 "What's his horrid name? who is he? quick!" 
 
 Carrie gave a little crow and began to talk, sitting 
 there on the grass, with her hands round her knees. 
 The interloper, it appeared, had every virtue and every 
 prospect. What was to be done? Presently Carrie 
 crept up to him again. 
 
 "Father! he wants to come to Europe. When 
 you've found a plan if we let him come and hitch up 
 alongside of us somewhere why, he wouldn't be any 
 trouble ! I'd see to that ! And you don't know whether 
 whether a son mightn't suit you! Why! you've 
 never tried!" 
 
 He made an effort, and held her at arm's-length. 
 
 " I tell you, I can say nothing about it nothing till 
 George has written to me /" 
 
 " But he has this mail!" And in triumph she hastily 
 dragged a letter out of the little bag at her waist, and 
 359
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 gave it him. "It came this afternoon, only I didn't 
 know if you might have it." 
 
 He laughed excitedly, and took it. 
 
 An hour later Fenwick rose. The day had grown 
 cool. A fresh breeze was blowing from the north down 
 the fell-side. He put his arm round Carrie as she stood 
 beside him, kissed her, and in a gruff, unintelligible voice, 
 murmured something that brought the tears again to her 
 eyes. Then he announced that he was going for a short 
 walk. Neither Phcebe nor Miss Anna were to be seen. 
 Carrie protested on the score of his health. 
 
 "Nonsense! The doctor said I might do what I felt 
 I could do." 
 
 "Then you must say good-bye to me. For Miss Anna 
 and I are going directly." 
 
 Fenwick looked scared, but was soon reminded that 
 Miss Anna was to drive the child that evening to Bow- 
 ness, where Carrie was to be introduced to some old 
 friends of Miss Anna's and stay with them a couple of 
 days. He evidently did not like the prospect, but he 
 made no audible protest against it, as he would perhaps 
 have done a week before. 
 
 Carrie watched him go followed his figure with her 
 eyes along the road. 
 
 "And I'm glad we're off!" she said to herself, her 
 small feet dancing "we've been cumbering this ground, 
 Miss Anna and I a deal too long!" 
 
 He was soon nearly a mile from home; rejoicing 
 strangely in his recovered power of movement, and in 
 the freshness of the evening air. He found himself on 
 360
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 a hill above Elterwater, looking back on the Jake, and 
 on a wide range of hills beyond, clothed, in all their lower 
 slopes, with the full leaf of June. Wood rose above 
 wood, in every gradation of tone and loveliness, creeping 
 upward through blue haze, till they suddenly lost hold 
 on the bare peaks, which rose, augustly clear, into the 
 upper sky. The lake with its deep or glowing reflections 
 its smiling shore the smoke of its few houses lay 
 below him; and between him and it, glistening sharply, 
 in a sun-steeped rndgic, upon the blue and purple back- 
 ground of the hills and woods a wild cherry, in its full 
 mantle of bridal white. 
 
 What tranquillity ! what color ! wh at infinite variety 
 of beauty! His heart swelled within him. Life of the 
 body and life of the soul seemed to be flowing back 
 upon him, lifting him on its wave, steeping him in its 
 freshening strength. "My God!" he thought, remem- 
 bering the sketch he had just made, and the mastery 
 with which he had worked "if I am able to paint again! 
 if I am!" 
 
 An ecstasy of hope arose in him. What if really there 
 had been something wrong with his eyes! something 
 that rest might set right ? What, if he had wanted rest 
 for years ? and had gone on defying nature and com- 
 mon-sense ? 
 
 And in a moment, as he sat there, looking out into 
 the evening, the old whirl of images invaded him the 
 old tumult of ideas clamoring for shape and form 
 flitting, phantom - like, along the woods and over the 
 bosom of the lake. He. let himself be carried along, 
 urging his brain, his fancy, filled with indescribable hap- 
 piness. It was years since the experience had last be- 
 361
 
 Fenioick's Career 
 
 fallen him! Did it mean the return of youth ? concep- 
 tion ? creative power ? What matter! years, or hard- 
 ship? if the mind could still imagine, the hand still 
 shape ? 
 
 He thought of his own series of the " Months " which 
 he had planned among these hills, and had carried out 
 perfunctorily and vulgarly, in the city, far from the fresh- 
 ness and infinity of Nature. All the faults of his designs 
 appeared to him, and the poverty of their execution. 
 But he was only exultant, not depressed. Now that he 
 could judge himself, now that his brain had begun to 
 react once more, with this vigor, this wealth of idea 
 surely all would be well. 
 
 Then for the first time he thought of the money which 
 Phcebe had saved. Abroad! Italy? or France? To 
 go as a wanderer and a student, on pilgrimage to the 
 sources of beauty and power. What was old, or played 
 out? Not Beauty! not the mind within him not his 
 craftsman's sense. He"threw himself on the grass, face 
 downward, praying as he had been wont to do in his 
 youth, but in a far more mystical, more inward way; 
 not to a far-off God, invited to come down and change 
 or tamper with external circumstance ; but to something 
 within himself, identified with himself, the power of 
 beauty in him, the resurgent forces of hope and love. 
 
 At last, after a long time, as the summer twilight was 
 waning, there struck through his dream the thought of 
 Phcebe alone in the cottage waiting for him. He 
 sprang up, and began to hurry down the hill. 
 
 Phcebe was quite alone. The little servant who only 
 came for the day had gone back to the farm where she 
 362
 
 Fentoick's Career 
 
 slept, and Carrie and Miss Anna had long since departed 
 on their visit. 
 
 Carrie had told her mother that "father" had gone 
 for a walk. And strangely enough, though he was away 
 two hours, and she knew him still far from his usual 
 strength, Phoebe was not anxious. But she was mor- 
 tally tired as though of a sudden a long tension had 
 been loosened, a long effort relaxed. 
 
 So she had gone up-stairs to bed. But she had not 
 begun to undress, and she sat in a low chair near the win- 
 dow, with the casements wide upen, and the twin-peaks 
 visible through them under a starry sky. Her head had 
 fallen back against the chair; her hands were folded on 
 her lap. 
 
 Then she heard Fenwick come in and his step coming 
 up the stairs. 
 
 It paused outside her door, and her heart beat so that 
 she could hardly bear it. 
 
 "May I come in?" 
 
 It seemed to her that he did not wait for her low reply. 
 He came in, and shut the door. There was a bright 
 color in his face, and his breath came fast, as he stood 
 beside her, with his hands on his sides. 
 
 "Are you sure you like my coming?" he said, 
 brusquely. 
 
 She did not answer in words, but she put out her hand, 
 and drew him towards her. 
 
 He knelt down by her, and she flung an arm round his 
 neck, and laid her fair head on his shoulder with a long 
 sigh. 
 
 "You are very tired?" 
 
 11 No. I knew you would come." 
 363
 
 Fenvoick's Career 
 
 A silence. Then he said, waveringly, stooping over 
 her: 
 
 "Phoebe I was very hard to you. But there was a 
 black pall on me and now it's lifting. Will you for- 
 give me? my dear my dear!" 
 
 She clung to him with a great cry. And once more the 
 torrent of love and repentance was unsealed, which had 
 been arrested through all these weeks. In broken words 
 in mutual confession each helping, each excusing the 
 other the blessed, healing time passed on its way; till 
 suddenly, as her hand dropped again upon her knee, he 
 noticed, as he had often bitterly noticed before, the sham 
 wedding-ring on the third finger. 
 
 She saw his eyes upon it, and flushed. 
 
 "I had to, John," she pleaded. "I had to." 
 
 He said nothing, but he thrust his hand into the breast- 
 pocket of his coat, and brought out the same large 
 pocket-book which still held her last letter to him. He 
 took out the letter, and offered it to her. "Don't read 
 it," he said, peremptorily. "Tear it up." 
 
 She recognized it, with a sob, and, trembling, did as 
 he bade her. He gathered up the small fragments of it, 
 took them to the grate, and lit a match under them. 
 Then he returned to her still holding the open pocket- 
 book. 
 
 "Give me your hand." 
 
 She held it out to him, bewildered. He slowly drew 
 off the ring, put it aside; then from the inmost fold of 
 the pocket-book he took another ring, slipped it on her 
 finger, and kissed the hand. After which he knelt down 
 again beside her, and they clung to each other close and 
 long. 
 
 364
 
 FenuMck's Career 
 
 "I return it" he murmured "after twelve years! 
 God bless you for Carrie. God bless you for coming 
 back to me. We'll go to Italy. You shall do that for 
 me. But I'll repay you if I live. Now, are you 
 happy? Why, we're young yet!" 
 
 And so they kissed ; knowing well that the years are 
 irreparable, and yet defying them; conscious, as first 
 youth is never conscious, of the black forces which sur- 
 round our being, and yet full of passionate hope ; aware 
 of death, as youth is never aware of it, and yet deter- 
 mined to shape something out of life; sad and yet re- 
 joicing, " cast down, but not destroyed."
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 OF Eugenie, still a few words remain to say. About 
 a year after Fenwick's return she lost her father. 
 A little later Elsie Welby died. To the end of her life 
 she had never willingly accepted Eugenie's service, and 
 the memory of this, alack, is for Eugenie among the 
 pains that endure. What influence it may have had 
 upon her later course can hardly be discussed here. She 
 continued to live in Westminster, and to be the friend 
 of many. One friend was tacitly accepted by all who 
 loved her as possessing a special place and special 
 privileges. Encouraged and inspired by her, Arthur 
 Welby outlived the cold and academic manner of his 
 later youth, and in the joy of richer powers, and the 
 rewards of an unstained and pure affection, he recovered 
 much that life seemed once to have denied him. Eugenie 
 never married him. In friendship, in ideas, in books, 
 she found the pleasures of her way. Part of her life she 
 spent with yearning and humility among the poor. 
 But with them she never accomplished much. She was 
 timid in their presence, and often unwise; neither side 
 understood the other. Her real sphere lay in what a 
 great Oxford preacher once enforced at St. Mary's, as 
 " our duty to our equals " the hardest of all. Her influ- 
 ence, her mission, were with her own class; with the 
 young girls just "out," who instinctively loved and 
 366
 
 Fenwick's Career 
 
 clung to her; with the tired or troubled women of the 
 world, who felt her presence as the passage of something 
 pure and kindling which evoked their better selves; and 
 with those men, in whom the intellectual life wages its 
 difficult war with temperament and circumstance, for 
 whom beauty and truth are realities, and yet great also 
 is Diana of the Ephesians! Thus in her soft, glancing 
 woman's way, she stood with "the helpers and friends 
 of mankind." But she never knew it. In her own 
 opinion, few persons were so unprofitable as she; and 
 but for her mystical belief, the years would have brought 
 her melancholy. They left her smile, however, un- 
 dimmed. For the mystic carries within a little flame of 
 joy, very hard to quench. The wind of Death itself does 
 but stir and strengthen it. 
 
 THE END
 
 UC SOUTHERN R = 
 t "~ 
 
 A 000 025 743 6