Fenwick's Career. Mrs. Humphry Ward

hands absurd, muscles anyhow. 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 learnt 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 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 needlework.

      He turned upon her aggressively.

      'And why, please?'

      'Because the last article you wrote lost you a commission. 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 written 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 Phoebe. 'And oh, I had counted on that five pounds!'

      'What does five pounds matter, compared to speaking to 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, Phoebe.'

      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 listened restlessly, his brow frowning, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. They were all glad when it was over.

      Phoebe, hearing a whimper from the child, went upstairs. 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 Phoebe 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 upstairs, and in that tiny cottage all sounds were audible.

      Fenwick wrapt 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 valley 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 window, 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. Phoebe, beside him, clasped her hands round her knees; in a full light it would have been seen that the hands were trembling.

      'Phoebe—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.'

      [Illustration: Husband and Wife]

      '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 London, 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 for ever, 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 upraised 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 footing. 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.'

      'It isn't that!' he said, impatiently, but kissing her. 'It is that I must be my own master—I must have nothing 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 myself—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, scrutinising 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 shan'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