FENWICK'S CAREER

by

MRS HUMPHRY WARD

1910

TO

MY DEAR SISTER

J. F. H. 

MAY, 1906

[Illustration: _Robin Ghyll Cottage_]

A PREFATORY WORD

The story told in the present book owes something to the past, in itspicturing of the present, as its predecessors have done; though inmuch less degree. The artist, as I hold, may gather from any field, so long as he sacredly respects what other artists have already madetheir own by the transmuting processes of the mind. To draw on theconceptions or the phrases that have once passed through the warmminting of another's brain, is, for us moderns, at any rate, theliterary crime of crimes. But to the teller of stories, all that isrecorded of the real life of men, as well as all that his own eyes cansee, is offered for the enrichment of his tale. This is a clear andsimple principle; yet it has been often denied. To insist upon it is, in my belief, to uphold the true flag of Imagination, and to defendthe wide borders of Romance. 

In addition to this word of notice, which my readers will perhapsaccept from me once for all, this small preface must also containa word of thanks to my friend Mr. Sterner, whose beautiful art hascontributed to this story, as to several of its forerunners. I haveto thank him, indeed, not only as an artist, but as a critic. In theinterpreting of Fenwick, he has given me valuable aid; has correctedmistakes, and illumined his own painter's craft for me, as none buta painter can. But his poetic intelligence as an artist is what makeshim so rare a colleague. In the first lovely drawing of the husbandand wife sitting by the Westmoreland stream, Phoebe's face and lookwill be felt, I think, by any sympathetic reader, as a light on thecourse of the story; reappearing, now in storm, as in the picture ofher despair, before the portrait of her supposed rival; and now intremulous afterglow, as in the scene with which the drawings close. Tobe so understood and so bodied forth is great good-fortune; and I begto be allowed this word of gratitude. 

The lines quoted on page 166 are taken, as any lover of modern poetrywill recognise, from the 'Elegy on the Death of a Lady, ' by Mr. RobertBridges, first printed in 1873. 

MARY A. WARD. 

CONTENTS

PART I. WESTMORELAND

PART II. LONDON

PART III. AFTER TWELVE YEARS

NOTES ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS

FENWICK'S COTTAGE

This cottage, known as Robin Ghyll, is situated near the LangdalePikes in Westmoreland. It is owned by Miss Dorothy Ward, the author'sdaughter. The older part of the building served as the model forFenwick's cottage. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE

From an original drawing by Albert Sterner. 

EUGÉNIE

From an original drawing by Albert Sterner. 

PHOEBE'S RIVAL

From an original drawing by Albert Sterner. 

'BE MY MESSENGER'

From an original drawing by Albert Sterner. 

ROBIN GHYLL COTTAGE

A nearer view of Miss Ward's cottage. (See frontispiece. )

FENWICK STOOD LOOKING AT THE CANVAS

From an original drawing by Albert Sterner. 

All of the illustrations in this volume are photogravures, and exceptwhere otherwise stated, are from photographs taken especially for thisedition. 

INTRODUCTION

Fenwick's career was in the first instance suggested by some incidentsin the life of the painter George Romney. Romney, as is well known, married a Kendal girl in his early youth, and left her behind him inthe North, while he went to seek training and fortune in London. Therehe fell under other influences, and finally under the fascinationsof Lady Hamilton, and it was not till years later that he returned toWestmoreland and his deserted wife to die. 

The story attracted me because it was a Westmoreland story, andimplied, in part at least, that setting of fell and stream, wherein, whether in the flesh or in the spirit, I am always a willing wanderer. But in the end it really gave me nothing but a bare situationinto which I had breathed a wholly new meaning. For in Eugénie dePastourelles, who is Phoebe's unconscious rival, I tried to embody, not the sensuous intoxicating power of an Emma Hamilton, but thosemore exquisite and spiritual influences which many women haveexercised over some of the strongest and most virile of men. Fenwickindeed possesses the painter's susceptibility to beauty. Beauty comesto him and beguiles him, but it is a beauty akin to that of MichelAngelo's 'Muse and dominant Lady, spirit-wed'--which yet, for all itspurity, is not, as Fenwick's case shows, without its tragic effects inthe world. 

On looking through my notes, I find that this was not my first idea. The distracting intervening woman was to have been of a commoner type, intellectual indeed rather than sensuous, but yet of the predatorytype and class, which delights in the capture of man. When I began towrite the first scene in which Eugénie was to appear, she was stillnebulous and uncertain. Then she did appear--suddenly!--as though themists parted. It was not the woman I had been expecting and preparingfor. But I saw her quite distinctly; she imposed herself; andthenceforward I had nothing to do but to draw her. 

The drawing of Eugénie made perhaps my chief pleasure in the story, combined with that of the two landscapes--the two sharply contrastedlandscapes--Westmoreland and Versailles, which form its mainbackground. I find in a note-book that it was begun 'early in May, 1905, at Robin Ghyll. Finished (at Stocks) on Tuesday night or ratherWednesday morning, 1 A. M. , Dec. 6, 1905. Deo Gratias!' And an earliernote, written in Westmoreland itself, records some of the impressionsamid which the first chapters were written. I give it just as I findit:

'The exquisiteness of the spring. The strong-limbed sycamores withtheir broad expanding leaves. The leaping streams, and the smallwaterfalls, white and foaming--the cherry blossom, the whitefarms, the dark yews which are the northern cypresses--and the tallupstanding firs and hollies, vigorously black against the delicatebareness of the fells, like some passionate self-assertive life.... 

'The "old" statesman B----. His talk of the gentle democratic poetwho used to live in the cottage before us. "He wad never täak wi thebetther class o' foak--but he'd coom mony a time, an hae a crack wi mymissus an me. "

'The swearing ploughman that I watched this morning--driving hisplough through old pastures and swearing at the horse--"Dang ye!Darned old hoss! Pull up, will ye--_pull_ up, dang ye!"

'Elterwater, and the soft grouping of the hills. The blue lake, thewoods in tints of pale green and pinkish brown, nestling into thefells, the copses white with wind flowers. Everywhere, softness andausterity side by side--the "cheerful silence of the fells, " the highexhilarating air, dark tortured crags and ghylls--then a soft andlaughing scene, gentle woods, blue water, lovely outlines, andflower-carpeted fields. 

'The exquisite _colour_ of Westmoreland in May! The red of the autumnstill on the hills, --while the bluebells are rushing over the copses. '

The little cottage of Robin Ghyll, where the first chapters werewritten, stands, sheltered by its sycamore, high on the fell-side, above the road that leads to the foot of the Langdale Pikes. But--inthe dream-days when the Fenwicks lived there!--it was the _old_cottage, as it was up to ten or fifteen years ago;--a deep-walled, low-ceiled labourer's cottage of the sixteenth century, and before anyof the refinements and extensions of to-day were added. 

The book was continued at Stocks, during a quiet summer. Then withlate September came fatigue and discouragement. It was imperative tofind some stimulus, some complete change of scene both for the taleand its writer. Was it much browsing in Saint-Simon that suggestedto me Versailles? I cannot remember. At any rate by the beginning ofOctober we were settled in an apartment on the edge of the park and astone's throw from the palace. Some weeks of quickened energy and morerapid work followed--and the pleasures of that chill golden autumn arereflected in the later chapters of the book. Each sunny day wasmore magnificent than the last. Yet there was no warmth in themagnificence. The wind was strangely bitter; it was winter before thetime. And the cold splendour of the weather heightened the spell ofthe great, dead, regal place; so that the figures and pageants of avanished world seemed to be still latent in the sharp bright air--afilmy multitude. 

This brilliance of an incomparable _décor_ followed me back toHertfordshire, and remained with me through winter days. But when thelast pages came, in December, I turned back in spirit to the softer, kinder beauty amid which the little story had taken its rise, and Iplaced the sad second spring of the two marred lives under the dearshelter of the fells. 

MARY A. WARD. 

PART I

WESTMORELAND

 'Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb?'

CHAPTER I

Really, mother, I can't sit any more. I'm that stiff!--and as cold asanything. '

So said Miss Bella Morrison, as she rose from her seat with anaffected yawn and stretch. In speaking she looked at her mother, andnot at the painter to whom she had been sitting for nearly two hours. The young man in question stood embarrassed and silent, his palette onhis thumb, brush and mahlstick suspended. His eyes were cast down: aflush had risen in his cheek. Miss Bella's manner was not sweet; shewished evidently to slight somebody, and the painter could not flatterhimself that the somebody was Mrs. Morrison, the only other personin the room beside the artist and his subject. The mother looked upslightly, and without pausing in her knitting--'It's no wonder you'recold, ' she said, sharply, 'when you wear such ridiculous dresses inthis weather. '

It was now the daughter's turn to flush; she coloured and pouted. Theartist, John Fenwick, returned discreetly to his canvas, and occupiedhimself with a fold of drapery. 

'I put it on, because I thought Mr. Fenwick wanted something pretty topaint. And as he clearly don't see anything in _me_!'--she looked overher shoulder at the picture, with a shrug of mock humility concealinga very evident annoyance--'I thought anyway he might like my bestfrock. '

'I'm sorry you're not satisfied, Miss Morrison, ' said the artist, stepping back from his canvas and somewhat defiantly regarding thepicture upon it. Then he turned and looked at the girl--a coarselypretty young woman, very airily clothed in a white muslin dress, ofwhich the transparency displayed her neck and arms with a freedomnot at all in keeping with the nipping air of Westmoreland inspringtime--going up to his easel again after the look to put inanother 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, andso I sat. He promised me, if I didn't like it, he'd put it in hisown den, where _my_ friends couldn't see it. So I really don't care astraw!'

'Bella! don't be rude!' said her mother, severely. She rose and cameto look at the picture. 

Bella's colour took a still sharper accent; her chest rose and fell;she fidgeted an angry foot. 

'I told Mr. Fenwick hundreds of times, ' she protested, 'that he wasmaking my upper lip miles too long--and that I _hadn't_ got a nastystaring look like that--nor a mouth like that--nor--nor anything. It's--it's too bad!'

The girl turned away, and Fenwick, glancing at her in dismay, saw thatshe was on the point of indignant tears. 

Mrs. Morrison put on her spectacles. She was a small, grey-hairedwoman with a face, wrinkled and drawn, from which all smiles seemedto have long departed. Even in repose, her expression suggested hiddenanxieties--fears grown habitual and watchful; and when she movedor spoke, it was with a cold caution or distrust, as though in alldirections she was afraid of what she might touch, of possibilitiesshe 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'tlike you, Bella. '

'Oh, I knew _you'd_ say something like that, mother!' said thedaughter, scornfully. She stooped and threw a shawl round hershoulders; gathered up some working materials and a book with whichshe had been toying during the sitting; and then straightened herselfwith an air at once tragic and absurd. 

'Well, good-bye, Mr. Fenwick. ' She turned to the painter. 'I'd rathernot sit again, please. '

'I shouldn't think of asking you, Miss Morrison, ' murmured the youngman, 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 sitting done?'

'It's been going on two hours, papa, so I should think I'd had aboutenough, ' said Miss Bella, making for the door. 

But her father caught her by the arm. 

'I say, we _are_ smart!--aren't we, mamma? Well, now then--let mehave a look. '

And drawing the unwilling girl once more towards the painter, hedetained her while he scrutinised the picture. 

'Do I squint, papa?' said Miss Morrison, with her head haughtilyturned away. 

'Wait a minute, my dear. '

'_Have_ I got the colour of a barmaid, and a waist like Fanny's?'Fanny was the Morrison's housemaid, and was not slim. 

'Be quiet, Bella; you disturb me. '

Bella's chin mounted still higher; her foot once more beat the groundimpatiently, while her father looked from the picture to her, and backagain. 

Then he released her with a laugh. 'You may run away, child, if youwant to. Upon my word, Fenwick, you're advancing! You are: no doubtabout that. Some of the execution there is astonishing. But allthe same I don't see you earning your bread-and-butter atportrait-painting; and I guess you don't either. '

The speaker threw out a thin hand and patted Fenwick 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!'said the young man, in a proud, muffled voice. He began to gather uphis 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 to look at her. He was a tall man, a little bent at the shoulders from long years ofdesk-work; and those who saw him for the first time were apt to bestruck by a certain eager volatility of aspect--expressed by thesmall head on its thin neck, by the wavering blue eyes, and smilingmouth--not perhaps common in the chief cashiers of country banks. 

As his wife met his appeal to her, the slight habitual furrow on herown brow deepened. She saw that her husband held a newspaper crushedin his right hand, and that his whole air was excited and restless. Amiserable, familiar pang passed through her. As the chief andtrusted official of an old-established bank in one of the smallercotton-towns, Mr. Morrison had a large command of money. His wife hadsuspected him for years of using bank funds for the purposes of hisown speculations. She had never dared to say a word to him on thesubject, but she lived in terror--being a Calvinist by nature andtraining--of ruin here, and Hell hereafter. 

Of late, some instinct told her that he had been forcing the pace; andas she turned to him, she felt certain that he had just received somenews which had given him great pleasure, and she felt certain alsothat it was news of which he ought rather to have been ashamed. 

She drew herself together in a dumb recoil. Her hands trembled as sheput 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, measuredvoice, 'that a Christian might find a better use for his time thanministering to the vanity of silly girls, and wasting hours and hourson making a likeness of this poor body, that's of no real matter toanybody. '

'You'd make short work of art and artists, my dear!' said Morrison, throwing up his hands. 'You forget, perhaps, that St. Luke was apainter?'

'And where do you get that from, Mr. Morrison, I'd like to ask?' saidhis wife, slowly; 'it's not in the Bible--though I believe you thinkit is. Well, good-night to you, Mr. Fenwick. I'm sorry you haven'tenjoyed yourself, and I'm not going to deny that Bella was very rudeand trying. Good-night. '

And with a frigid touch of the hand, Mrs. Morrison departed. Shelooked 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. Whenhe and Fenwick were left alone, he went up to the painter and laid anarm across his shoulders. 

'Well!--how's the money holding out?'

'I've got scarcely any left, ' said the painter, instinctively movingaway. It might have been seen that he felt himself dependent, andhated to feel it. 

'Any more commissions?'

'I've painted a child up in Grasmere, and a farmer's wife justmarried. And Satterthwaite, the butcher, says he'll give me acommission soon. And there's a clergyman, up Easedale way, wants me topaint his son. '

'Well; and what do you get for these things?'

'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'll taketheir pictures, and they can't throw away money. '

'H'm! Well, at this rate, Fenwick, you're not exactly galloping into afortune. And your father?'

Fenwick made a bitter gesture, as much as to say, 'What's the good ofdiscussing _that_?'

'H'm!--Well, now, Fenwick, what are your plans? Can you live on whatyou 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 away 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 nomoney--and I've a wife and child. '

Fenwick's tone was marked by an evident ill-humour. He had thrownback his handsome head, and his eyes sparkled. It was plain that Mr. Morrison's catechising manner had jarred upon a pride that was all onedge--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 wereclasped before him. His head hung in meditation. And every now andthen he looked towards the newspaper he had thrown down. At last heagain approached the artist. 

'Upon my word, Fenwick, I've a mind to do something for you--I haveindeed. I believe you'd justify it--I do! And I've always had a softheart for artists. You look at the things in this room'--he wavedhis hand towards the walls, which were covered with water-colourdrawings--'I've known most of the men who painted them, andI've assisted a very great many of them. Those pictures--most ofthem--represent loans, sir!--loans at times of difficulty, which Iwas _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 madethem. I said, "I'll take a picture"--and they had the money--and themoney saved their furniture--and their homes--and their wives andchildren. Well, I'm glad and proud to have done it, Fenwick!--you markmy words. '

He paused, his eyes on the artist, his attitude grasping, as it were, at the other's approval--hungry for it. Fenwick said nothing. He stoodin the shadow of a curtain, and the sarcasm his lip could not restrainescaped the notice of his companion. 'And so, you see, I'm onlyfollowing out an old custom when I say, I believe in you, Fenwick!--Ibelieve in your abilities--I'm sorry for your necessities--and I'llcome to your assistance. Now, how much would take you to London andkeep you there for six months, till you've made a few friends and donesome work?'

'A hundred pounds, ' said the painter, breathing hard. 

'A hundred pounds. And what about the wife?'

'Her father very likely would give her shelter, and the child. And ofcourse I should leave her provided. '

'Well, and what about my security? How, John, in plain words, do youpropose to repay me?'

Mr. Morrison spoke with extreme mildness. His blue eyes, whereof thewhites were visible all round the pupils, shone benevolently on theartist--his mouth was all sensibility. Whereas, for a moment, therehad been something of the hawk in his attitude and expression, hewas now the dove--painfully obliged to pay a passing attention tobusiness. 

Fenwick hesitated. 

'You mentioned six guineas, I think, for this portrait?' He noddedtowards the canvas, on which he had been at work. 

'I did. It is unfortunate, of course, that Bella dislikes it so. Ishan'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 inthe winter, when I come to see my wife. As to the rest--I'll repay youwithin the year--unless--well, unless I go utterly to grief, which ofcourse I may. '

'Wait here a moment. I'll fetch you the money. Better not promise torepay me in cash. It'll be a millstone round your neck. I'll take itin pictures. '

'Very well; then I'll either paint you an original finishedpicture--historical or romantic subject--medium size, by the end ofthe year, or make you copies--you said you wanted two or three--onelarge or two small, from anything you like in the National Gallery. '

Morrison laughed good-temperedly. He touched a copy of _The ArtJournal_ lying on the table. 

'There's an article here about that German painter--Lenbach--whomthey crack up so nowadays. When he was a young man, Baron Schack, itappears, paid him one hundred pounds a year, _for all his time_, asa copyist in Italy and Spain. ' He spoke very delicately, mincing hiswords a little. 

Fenwick's colour rose suddenly. Morrison was not looking at him, or hewould have seen a pair of angry eyes. 

'Prices have gone up, ' said the painter, dryly. 'And I guess livingin London's dearer now than living in Italy was when Lenbach (which hepronounced Lenback) was young!'

'Oh! so you know all about Lenbach?'

'You lent me the article. However'--Fenwick rose--'is that ourbargain?'

The note in the voice was trenchant, even aggressive. Nothing of thesuppliant, in tone or attitude. Morrison surveyed him, amused. 

'If you like to call it so, ' he said, lifting his delicate eyebrows amoment. 'Well, I'll take the risk. '

He left the room. Fenwick thrust his hands into his pockets, with amuttered exclamation, and walked to the window. He looked out upon aWestmoreland valley in the first flush of spring; but he saw nothing. His blood beat in heart and brain with a suffocating rapidity. So hischance was come! What would Phoebe say?

As he stood by the large window, face and form in strong reliefagainst the crude green without, the energy of the May landscape was, as it were, repeated and expressed in the man beholding it. He wastall, a little round-shouldered, with a large, broad-browed head, covered with brown, straggling hair; eyes, glancing and darkish, fullof force, of excitement even, curiously veiled, often, by suspicion;nose, a little crooked owing to an injury at football; and mouth, notcoarse, but large and freely cut, and falling readily into lines ofsarcasm. 

The general look was one of great acuteness, rather antagonistic, asa rule, than sympathetic; and the hands, which were large and yetslender, were those of a craftsman finely endowed with all theinstincts of touch. 

Suddenly the young man turned on his heel and looked at thewater-colours on the wall. 

'The old hypocrite!' he thought; 'they're worth hundreds--and I'll bebound he got them for nothing. He'll try to get mine for nothing; buthe'll find I'm his match!'

For among these pictures were a number of drawings by men long sincewell known, and of steady repute among the dealers or in the auctions, especially of Birmingham and the northern towns. Morrison had been foryears a bank-clerk in Birmingham before his appointment to the posthe now held. A group of Midland artists, whose work had become famous, and costly in proportion, had evidently been his friends at onetime--or perhaps merely his debtors. They were at any rate wellrepresented on the wall of this small Westmoreland house in which hespent his holidays. 

Presently Mr. Morrison was heard returning. He placed an envelope inFenwick's hand, and then, pointing him to a chair at the table, hedictated a form of IOU, specifying that the debt was to be returnedwithin a year, either in money or in the pictures agreed upon. 

'Oh, no fine speeches, please, my boy--no fine speeches!' saidMorrison, as the artist rose, stammering out his thanks. 'That's beenmy nature all my life, I tell you--to help the lame dogs--ask anybodythat knows me. That'll do; that'll do! Now then, what's going to beyour line of action?'

Fenwick turned on him a face that vainly endeavoured to hide the joyof its owner. 

'I shall look out, of course, first of all, for some bread-and-butterwork. I shall go to the editors of the illustrated papers and showthem some things. I shall attend some life-school in the evenings. Andthe rest of the time I shall paint--paint like Old Harry!'

The words caused a momentary wrinkling of Mr. Morrison's brow. 

'I should avoid those expressions, if I were you, Fenwick. But paintwhat, my dear boy?--paint what?'

'Of course I have my ideas, ' said Fenwick, staring at the floor. 

'I think I have earned a right to hear them. '

'Certainly. I propose to combine the colour and romance of thePre-Raphaelites with the truth and drawing of the French school, ' saidthe 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. 

'No one gets on without ambition. My ideas have been pretty clear fora long time. The English Romantic school have no more future, unlessthey absorb French drawing and French technique. When they have donethat, they will do the finest work in the world. '

Morrison's astonishment increased. The decision and self-confidencewith which Fenwick spoke had never yet shown themselves so plainly inthe 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'dnever 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, andbuttoned his coat over it, before he replied. 

'I shall, of course, consult her immediately. What shall I do withthis picture?' He pointed to the portrait 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-humour. 'You've got a lot of worldlywisdom 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 andlooking sharply for a moment into the picture--which was a strong, ugly thing, with some passages of remarkable technique--he put itaside, saving that he would send for it in the evening. Then, havingpacked up and shouldered the rest of his painter's gear, he stoodready to depart. 

'I'm awfully obliged to you!' he said, holding out his hand. 

Morrison looked at the handsome young fellow, the vivacity of theeyes, the slight agitation of the lip. 

'Don't mention it, ' he said, with redoubled urbanity. 'It's myway--only my way! When'll you be off?'

'Probably next week. I'll come and say good-bye. '

'I _must_ have a year! But Phoebe will take it hard. ' John Fenwick hadpaused on his way home, and was leaning over a gate beside a stream, now thinking anxiously of his domestic affairs, and now steeped inwaves of delight--vague, sensuous, thrilling--that flowed from thecolours and forms around him. He found himself in an intricate andlovely valley, through which lay his path to Langdale. On either sideof the stream, wooded or craggy fells, gashed with stone-quarries, accompanied the windings of the water, now leaving room for a scantyfield or two, and now hemming in the river with close-piled rock andtree. Before him rose a white Westmoreland farm, with its gabled porchand moss-grown roof, its traditional yews and sycamores; while to hisleft, and above the farm, hung a mountain-face, dark with rock, andpurple under the evening shadows--a rich and noble shape, lost abovein dim heights of cloud, and, below, cleft to the heart by onedeep ghyll, whence the golden trees--in the glittering green ofMay--descended single or in groups, from shelf to shelf, till theirseparate brilliance was lost in the dense wood which girdled the whitefarmhouse. 

The pleasure of which he was conscious in the purple of the mountain, the colour of the trees, and all that magic of light and shade whichfilled the valley--a pleasure involuntary, physical, automatic, depending on certain delicacies of nerve and brain--rose andpersisted, while yet his mind was full of harassing and disagreeablethoughts. 

Well, Phoebe might take her choice!--for they had come to the partingof the ways. Either a good painter, a man on the level of thebest, trained and equipped as they, or something altogetherdifferent--foreman, a clerk, perhaps, in his uncle's upholsterybusiness at Darlington, a ticket-collector on the line--anything! Hecould always earn his own living and Phoebe's. There was no fear ofthat. But if he was finally to be an artist, he would be a first-rateone. 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 hungover the gate smoking, he thought of his father and mother, and of hischildhood in the little Kendal shop--the bookseller's shop which hadbeen the source and means of his truest education. 

Not that he had been a neglected child. Far from it. He rememberedhis gentle mother, troubled by his incessant drawing, by his growingdetermination to be an artist, by the constant effort as he grew toboyhood to keep the peace between him and his irritable old father. Heremembered her death--and those pictorial effects in the white-sheetedroom--effects of light and shadow--of flowers--of the grey headuplifted; he remembered also trying to realise them, stealthily, atnight, in his own room, with chalk and paper--and then his passionwith 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 endowedschool at Penrith, that he might be away from home and underdiscipline. There he had received a plain commercial education, together with some Latin and Greek. His quick, restless mind hadsoaked it all in; nothing had been a trouble to him; though, as hewell knew, he had done nothing supremely well. But Homer and Virgilhad been unlocked for him; and in the school library he foundShakespeare and Chaucer, 'Morte d'Arthur' and 'Don Quixote, ' freshand endless material for his drawing, which never stopped. Drawingeverywhere--on his books and slates, on doors and gate-posts, or onthe whitewashed wall of the old Tudor school-room, where a hunt, drawnwith a burned stick, and gloriously dominating the whole room, hadprovoked the indulgence, even the praise, of the headmaster. 

And the old drawing-master!--a German--half blind, though he wouldnever confess it--who dabbled in oil-painting, and let the boy watchhis methods. How he would twirl his dirty brush round and dab down alump of Prussian blue, imagining it to be sepia, hastily correctingit a moment afterwards with a lump of lake, and then say chucklingto himself: 'By Gode, dat is fine!--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 Ibelieve. But not in Europe. Ve Europeans are all tam fools. But Ivill not svear!--no!--you onderstand, Fenwick; you haf never heard mesvear?' 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, takingit in his blindness for an old one, to clean his palette with; and itwas thought, by the boys, that it was the unseemly result of this rashact, as disclosed at church the following Sunday morning, which hadled to the poor old man's dismissal. 

But from him John had learnt a good deal about oil-painting--somethingtoo 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 himselflying on the floor--poring over the old plates, morning, noon, andnight--then using a little lad, his father's apprentice, to examinehim in what he had learnt--the two going about arm-in-arm--Backhouseasking the questions according to a paper drawn up by John--'How manyheads to the deltoid?'--and so on--over and over again--and with whatan eagerness, what an ardour!--till the brain was bursting and thehand quivering with new knowledge--and the power to use it. ThenLeonardo's 'Art of Painting' and Reynolds's Discourses'--bothdiscovered in the shop, and studied incessantly, till the boy ofeighteen felt himself the peer of any Academician, and walked proudlydown the Kendal streets, thinking of the half-finished paintings inhis garret at home, and of the dreams, the conceptions, the ambitionsof which that garret had already been the scene. 

After that--some evil days! Quarrels with his father, refusals tobe bound to the trade, to accept the shop as his whole future andinheritance--painful scenes with the old man, and with the customerswho complained of the son's rudeness and inattention--attempts ofrelations to mediate between the two, and all the time his own burningbelief in himself and passion to be free. And at last a time oftruce, of conditions made and accepted--the opening of the new ArtSchool--evenings of delightful study there--and, suddenly, out of themists, Phoebe's brown eyes, and Phoebe's soft encouragement!

Yes, it was Phoebe, Phoebe herself who had determined his career; lether consider that, when he asked for sacrifices! But for the balmshe had poured upon his sore ambitions--but for those long walks andtalks, in which she had been to him first the mere recipient of hisdreams and egotisms, and then--since she had the loveliest eyes, anda young wild charm--a creature to be hotly wooed and desired, he mightnever have found courage enough to seize upon his fate. 

For her sake indeed he had dared it all. She had consoled and inspiredhim; but she had made the breach with his father final. When they metshe was only a struggling teacher in Miss Mason's school, the daughterof a small farmer in the Vale of Keswick. Old Fenwick looked muchhigher for his son. So there was renewed battle at home, till at lasta couple of portrait commissions from a big house near Kendal clinchedthe matter. A hurried marriage had been followed by the usual parentalthunders. And now they had five years to look back upon, years oflove and struggle and discontent. By turning his hand to many things, Fenwick had just managed to keep the wolf from the door. He had workedhard, but without much success; and what had been an ordinary goodopinion of himself had stiffened into a bitter self-assertion. He knewvery well that he was regarded as a conceited, quarrelsome fellow, andrather gloried in it. The world, he considered, had so far treated himill; he would at any rate keep his individuality. 

Phoebe, too, once so sweet, so docile, so receptive, had begun to becritical, to resist him now and then. He knew that in some ways he haddisappointed her; and there was gall in the thought. As to the Londonplan, his word would no longer be enough. He would have to wrestlewith and overcome her. 

London!--the word chimed him from the past--threw wide the future. Hemoved on along the rough road, possessed by dreams. He had a vision ofhis first large picture; himself rubbing in the figures, life-size, orat work on the endless studies for every part--fellow-students comingto look, Academicians, buyers; he heard himself haranguing, plungingheadlong into ideas and theories, holding his own with the bestof 'the London chaps. ' Between whiles, of course, there would behack-work--illustration--portraits--anything to keep the pot boiling. And always, at the end of this vista, there was success--success greatand 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 himdraw. And he had, besides, what so many men of his own class madeshipwreck for want of--he had _imagination_--enough to show him whatit is that makes the mere craftsman into the artist, enough to makehim hunger night and day for knowledge, travel, experience. Thanks tohis father's shop, he had read a great deal already; and with a littlemoney, how he would buy books, how he would read them!--

And at the thought, fresh images, now in rushing troops, and now insolitary fantastic beauty, began to throng before the inward eye, along the rich background of the valley; images from poetry andlegend, stored deep in a greedy fancy, a retentive mind. They camefrom all sources--Greek, Arthurian, modern; Hephaestus, the lame godand divine craftsman, receiving Thetis in his workshop of the skies, the golden automata wrought by his own hands supporting him on eitherside; the maidens of Achilles washing the dead and gory body of Hectorin the dark background of the hut, while in front swift-foot Achillesholds old Priam in talk till the sad offices are over, and the fathermay be permitted to behold his son; Arthur and Sir Bedivere besidethe lake; Crusaders riding to battle--the gleam of their harness--thearched necks of their steeds--the glory of their banners--the shadeand sunlight of the deep vales through which they pass; the Lady ofShalott as the curse conies upon her--Oenone--Brunhilda--Atalanta. Swift along the May woods the figures fled, vision succeeding vision, beauty treading on beauty. It became hallucination--a wildness--anecstasy. Fenwick stood still, gave himself up to the possession--letit hold him--felt the strangeness and the peril of it--then, suddenly, wrenched himself free. 

Running down to the edge of the river, he began to pick up stonesand throw them violently into the stream. It was a remedy he had longlearnt to use. The physical action released the brain from the tyrannyof the forms which held it. Gradually they passed away. He began tobreathe more quietly, and, sitting down by the water, his head in hishands, he gave himself up to a quieter pleasure in the nature roundhim, and in the strength of his own faculty. 

To something else also. For while he was sitting there, he foundhimself _praying_ ardently for success--that he might do well inLondon, might make a name for himself, and leave his mark on Englishart. This was to him a very natural outlet of emotion; he was not surewhat he meant by it precisely; but it calmed him. 

CHAPTER II

Meanwhile Phoebe Fenwick was watching for her husband. 

She had come out upon the green strip of ground in front of GreenNab Cottage, and was looking anxiously along the portion of high-roadwhich was visible from where she stood. 

The small, whitewashed house--on this May day, more than a generationago--stood on a narrow shelf that juts out from the face of one of theeastern fells, bounding the valley of Great Langdale. 

When Phoebe, seeing no one on the road, turned to look how near thesun might be to its setting, she saw it, as Wordsworth saw it ofold, dropping between the peaks of those 'twin brethren' which to thenorthwest close in the green bareness of the vale. Between the twopikes the blaze lingered, enthroned; the far winding of the valley, hemmed in also by blue and craggy fells, was pierced by rays ofsunset; on the broad side of the pikes the stream of Dungeon Ghyllshone full-fed and white; the sheep, with their new-born lambs besidethem, studded the green pastures of the valley; and sounds of watercame from the fell-sides. Everywhere lines of broad and flowingharmony, moulded by some subtle union of rock and climate andimmemorial age into a mountain beauty which is the peculiar possessionof 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 olderworld--giants decayed, but of a great race and ancestry; they havethe finish, the delicate or noble loveliness--one might almost say the_manner_--that comes of long and gentle companionship with thosechief forces that make for natural beauty, with air and water, withtemperate suns and too abundant rains. Beside them the Alps areinhuman; the Apennines mere forest-grown heaps--mountains in themaking; while all that Scotland gains from the easy enveloping gloryof its heather, Westmoreland, which is almost heatherless, must oweto an infinitude of fine strokes, tints, curves, and groupings, totouches of magic and to lines of grace, yet never losing the wildenergy of precipice and rock that belongs of right to a mountainworld. 

To-day Langdale was in spring. The withered fern was still red on thesides of the pikes; there was not a leaf on the oaks, still less onthe ashes; but the larches were green in various plantations, and thesycamores were bursting. Half a mile eastward the woods were all insoft bloom, carpeted with windflowers and bluebells. Here, but for thelarches, and the few sycamores and yews that guard each lonely farm, all was naked fell and pasture. The harsh spring wind came rioting upthe valley, to fling itself on the broad sides of the pikes; the lambsmade a sad bleating; the water murmured 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 scanty list of small commissionsahead, which she knew by heart; the uncertainty of the year beforethem; clothes urgently wanted for the child, for John, for herself. She drew a long and harassed breath. 

Phoebe Fenwick was a tall, slender creature, very young; with a littlegolden head on a thin neck, features childishly cut, and eyes thatmade the chief adornment of a simple face. The lines of the brow, thelids and lashes, and the clear brown eye itself were indeed of a mostsubtle and distinguished beauty; they accounted, perhaps, for theattention with which most persons of taste and cultivation observedFenwick'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 ofagreeable pink-and-white. 

She wore a dress of dark-blue cotton, showing the spring of herbeautiful throat. The plain gown with its long folds, the uncoveredthroat, and rich simplicity of her fair hair had often remindedFenwick and a few of his patrons of those Florentine photographs whichnow, since the spread of the later Pre-Raphaelites and the opening ofthe Grosvenor Gallery, were to be seen even in the shops of countrytowns. There was a literary gentleman in Kendal who said that Mrs. Fenwick was like one of Ghirlandajo's tall women in Santa MariaNovella. Phoebe had sometimes listened uncomfortably to thesecomparisons. She was a Cumberland girl, and had no wish at all to belike people in Italy. It seemed somehow to cut her off from her ownfolk. 

'John is late!' said a voice beside her. An elderly woman had steppedout of the cottage porch. Miss Anna Mason, the head-mistress ofan endowed girls school in Hawkshead, had come to spend a Saturdayafternoon with her old pupil, Phoebe Fenwick. A masterful-lookingwoman--ample in figure, with a mouth of decision. She wore a greyalpaca dress, adorned with a large tatted collar, made by herself, andfastened by a brooch containing a true-lover's knot in brown hair. 

'He'll have stayed on to finish, ' said Phoebe, looking round. 'Where'sCarrie?'

Miss Mason replied that the child wouldn't wait any longer for hersupper, and that Daisy, the little servant, was feeding her. Then, slipping her arm inside Mrs. Fenwick's, Miss Mason looked at thesunset. 

'It's a sweet little cottage, ' she said, shading her eyes from thefast-sinking orb, and then turning them on the tiny house--'but I daresay you'll not be here long, Phoebe. '

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 torooms in Kendal or Ambleside. '

'Well, if that's what you're thinking of, my dear, you'd better make aclerk of him at once and have done with it! He told me his uncle wouldalways 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--'andthen we'll go to London; and--and John will get on. '

'Yes--when 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 doinganything but muddle on here--having a "crack" with this farmer andthat--and painting pictures he's a sight too good for, since I camethis morning; and we've talked for hours. No--I may as well have itout--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 youdon't drive him out of this. '

'Where should I drive him to?' cried Mrs. Fenwick, stifled. She hadbroken a sycamore twig, and was stripping it violently of its buds. 

Miss Anna looked at her unmoved. The grey-haired schoolmistress wasa woman of ideas and ambitions beyond her apparent scope in life. She had read her Carlyle and Ruskin, and in her calling she was anenthusiast. But, in the words of the Elizabethan poet, she wasperhaps 'unacquainted still with her own soul. ' She imagined herself aRadical; she was in truth a tyrant. She preached Ruskin and thesimple life; no worldling ever believed more fiercely in the gospelof success. But, let it be said promptly, it was success for others, rarely or never for herself; she despised the friend who could notbreast and conquer circumstance; as for her own case, there werematters much more interesting to think of. But she was the gadfly, thespur of all to whom she gave her affection. Phoebe, first her pupil, then her under-mistress, and moulded still by the old habit ofsubordination to her, both loved and dreaded her. It was said that shehad made the match between her _protégée_ and old Fenwick's rebelliousand gifted son. She had certainly encouraged it, and, whether fromconscience or invincible habit, she had meddled a good deal with itever since. 

In reply to Phoebe's question, Miss Anna merely inquired whether Mrs. Fenwick supposed that George Romney--the Westmoreland artist--wouldhave had much chance with his art if he had stayed on in Westmoreland?Why, the other day a picture by Romney had been sold for threethousand pounds! And pray, would he ever have become a great painterat all if he had stuck to Kendal or Dalton-in-Furness all hislife?--if he had never been brought in contact with the influences, the money, and the sitters of London? Those were the questions thatPhoebe had to answer. 'Would the beautiful Lady This and Lady Thatever have come to Kendal to be painted?--would he ever have seen LadyHamilton?'

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 thirtyyears--so--so long as he painted pictures of that bad woman, LadyHamilton, for you to look at!'

Miss Anna looked curiously at her companion. The schoolmistress waspuzzled--and provoked. 

'Well!--you don't suppose that John's going to desert you for thirtyyears!' said the other, with an impatient laugh. 'Don't be absurd, Phoebe. '

Phoebe said nothing. She heard a cry from the baby Carrie, and shehurried across the little garden to the house. At the same momentthere was a shout of greeting from below, and Fenwick came into sighton 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 handsomefigure as he approached her, his painter's wallet slung over hisshoulder. That something remarkable had happened to him she divined atonce. In moments of excitement a certain foreign look--as some peoplethought, a _gypsyish_ look--was apt to show itself. The roving eyes, the wild manner, the dancing step betrayed the in most man--banishingaltogether the furtive or jealous reserve of the North-Countryman, which were at other times equally to be noticed. Miss Anna had oftenwondered how the same man could be so shy--and so vain!

However, though elation of some sort was uppermost, he was not atfirst inclined to reveal himself. He told Miss Anna as they walked uptogether that he had done with Miss Bella; that old Morrison praisedthe portrait, and the girl hated it; that she was a vulgar, conceitedcreature, and he was thankful to have finished. 

'If I were to show it at Manchester next month, you'd see what thepapers would say. But I suppose Miss Bella would sooner die than lether father send it. Silly goose! Powdering every time--and suckingher lips to make them red--and twisting her neck about--ugh! I've nopatience with women like that! When I get on a bit, I'll paint nobodyI 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 anironical hand towards the green desolation of the valley. 

He looked at her, walked up and down a moment, then said with anoutburst, though in a low tone, and with a look over his shoulder atthe 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 Phoebe, ' he said, in a hasty, rather injured voice. 

'Not take Phoebe!' cried the other under her breath, seeming to heararound her the ghosts of words which had but just passed between herand Phoebe--'and what on earth are you going to do with her?'

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 parlour:

'Is that you, John? Supper's ready. '

He and Miss Anna turned. 

'Hush, please!' said Fenwick to his companion, finger on lip; and theyentered. 

'You'll have got the money from Mr. Morrison, John?' said Phoebe, presently, when they were settled to their meal. 

'Aye, ' said Fenwick, 'that's all right. Phoebe, that's a real prettydress of yours. '

Soft colour rose in the wife's cheeks. 

'I'm glad you like it, ' said Phoebe, soberly. Then looking up--

'John--don't give Carrie that!--it'll make her sick. '

For Fenwick was stealthily feeding the baby beside him with morselsfrom his own plate. The child's face--pink mouth and blue eyes, bothwide open--hung upon him in a fixed expectancy. 

'She does like it so--the little greedy puss! It won't do her anyharm. '

But the mother persisted. Then the child cried, and the father andmother wrangled over it, till Fenwick caught up the babe by Phoebe'speremptory directions and carried it away upstairs. At the door ofthe little parlour, while Phoebe was at his shoulder, wiping away thechild's tears and cooing to it, Fenwick suddenly turned his head andkissed his wife's cheek, or rather her pretty ear, which presenteditself. Miss Anna, still at table, laughed discreetly behind theirbacks--the laugh of the sweet-natured old maid. 

When the child was asleep upstairs, Phoebe and the little servantcleared away while Fenwick and Miss Anna read the newspaper, andtalked on generalities. In this talk Phoebe had no share, and it mighthave been noticed by one who knew them well, that in his conversationwith Miss Mason, Fenwick became another man. He used tones and phrasesthat he either had never used, or used no longer, with Phoebe. Heshowed himself, in fact, intellectually at ease, expansive, and, attimes, amazingly arrogant. For instance, in discussing a paragraphabout 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 bestmen and all the coming forces were now _outside the Academy_. Millais, Leighton, Watts--spent talents, extinct volcanoes!--Tadema amarvellous mechanic, without ideas!--the landscape men, chaotic, --nostandard anywhere, no style. On the other hand, Burne-Jones and theGrosvenor Gallery group--ideas without drawing, without knowledge, feet and hands absurd, muscles anyhow. While as for Whistler andthe 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 learntto draw, and could yet keep a hold on ideas--

'_Character_!--that's what we want!' He struck the table; and finallywith a leap he was at the goal which Miss Anna--sitting beforehim, arms folded, her strong old face touched with satire--had longforeseen. '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 sittingunder 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 youremember--that gentleman at Grasmere--what he said?'

She nodded her fair head gravely. It struck Miss Anna that she waslooking pale and depressed. 

'Old fool!' said Fenwick. 'Yes, I remember. He wouldn't ask anybodyto paint his children who'd written such a violent article. As if Iwanted to paint his children! Besides, it was a mere excuse--to savethe money. '

'I don't think so, ' murmured Phoebe. 'And oh, I had counted on thatfive 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 themunsympathetic, 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 litthe candles. 

She played some Irish and Scotch airs, in poor settings, and withmuch stumbling. After a little, Fenwick listened restlessly, his browfrowning, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. They were allglad when it was over. 

Phoebe, hearing a whimper from the child, went upstairs. The twoothers were soon in hushed but earnest conversation. 

Miss Anna had gone to bed. Fenwick was sitting with a book beforehim--lost in anxious and exciting calculations--when Phoebe enteredthe room. 

'Is that you?' he said, jumping up. 'That's all right. I wanted totalk to you. '

'I thought you did, ' she said, with a very quiet, drooping air; thengoing to the window, which was open, she leaned out into the Maynight. '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 tinycottage 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 thefarthest 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. Nota light was visible anywhere. Their little cottage on its shelf, withthe rays of its small lamp shining through the window, seemed tobe the only spectator of the fells; it talked with them in a lonelycompanionship. 

They passed through the fence of the small garden out on to thefell-side. Dim forms of sheep rose in alarm as they came near, andbleating lambs hurried beside them. Soft sounds of wind, rising andfalling along the mountain or stirring amid last year's bracken, pursued them, till they reached the edge of the ghyll, and, descendingits side, found the water murmuring among the stones, the only audiblething 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 beenseen 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'tpay me for the portrait, though. That's like him. And of course Icouldn'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 andmake my fortune?--our fortune?'

'As if I could stop you!' she said, hoarsely. 'It's what you've wantedfor months. '

[Illustration: _Husband and Wife_]

'Well, and if I have, where's the harm? We can't go on living likethis!'

And he began to talk, with great rapidity, about the absurdity ofattempting to make a living as an artist out of Westmoreland--out ofany place, indeed, but London, the natural centre and clearing-houseof talent. 

'I could make a living out of teaching, I suppose, up here. I couldget--in time--a good many lessons going round to schools. But thatwould 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? Icould chuck it all, of course, and go in for business. But I can tellyou, England would lose something if I did. '

And, catching up another stone, he threw it into the beck with apassion which made the clash of it, as it struck upon a rock, echothrough the ghyll. There was something magnificent in the gesture, anda movement, half thrill, half shudder, ran through the wife's delicateframe. 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, rosefrom deep founts of feeling; but she kept the sob in it restrained. Fenwick felt the warmth and softness of her young body; the freshface, the fragrant hair were close upon his lips. He threw both hisarms round her and folded her to him. 

'Just for a little while, ' he pleaded--'till I get my footing. Oneyear! For both our sakes--Phoebe!'

'I could live on such a little--we could get two rooms, which would becheaper for you than lodgings. '

'It isn't that!' he said, impatiently, but kissing her. 'It is that Imust be my own master--I must have nothing to think of but my art--Imust slave night and day--I must live with artists--I must get toknow all sorts of people who might help me on. If you and Carrie cameup--just at first--I couldn't do the best for myself--I couldn't, Itell 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 youdon't quarrel with people. '

'Quarrel, ' he repeated, angrily. 'You're always harping onthat--you're always so _afraid_ of people. It does a man no harm, Itell 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 aftermoney. You're dreadfully bad about money, John. Directly you've gotit, you spend it--and sometimes when you borrow you forget all aboutpaying it back. '

He was struck dumb for a moment with astonishment; feeling at the sametime the trembling of the form which his arm still encircled. 

'Well, Phoebe, ' he said, at last, 'you seem determined to saydisagreeable things to me to-night. I suppose I might remind you thatyou're much younger than I; and that of course a man knows much moreabout business than a young thing like you can. How, I should liketo know, could we have done any better than we have done, since wemarried? As far as money goes, we've had a hell of a time, from firstto last!'

'It would have been much worse, ' said Phoebe, softly, 'if I hadn'tbeen there--you know it would. You know last year when we were in suchstraits, and all our things were nearly sold up, you let me take overthings, and keep the money. And I went to see all the people we owedmoney 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 longerrepress. 

'Well, of course it's better, ' said Fenwick, ungraciously; 'I don'tsay you haven't got a head, Phoebe--why, I know you have! You didfirst-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 littlethings--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 hundredpounds, Phoebe!'

He enjoyed her amazement. 

'A hundred pounds!' she repeated, faintly. 'And however are we goingto repay all that?'

He drew her back to him triumphantly. 

'Why, you silly child, I'm going to earn it, of course--and a dealmore. Don't you hinder me, Phoebe! and I shall be a rich man beforewe can look round, and you'll be a lady--with a big house--and yourcarriage, perhaps!'

He kissed her vehemently, as though to coerce her into agreeing withhim. 

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 moneyin it--and fame--and happiness 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 wasevident, curiously evident, that he cared for her opinion. 

'Of course I believe in you, ' she said, her chest heaving. 'It's--it's--other things. '

Then, coming to him again, she flung her arms piteously round him. 'Oh, John, John--for a year past--and more--you've been sorry youmarried me!'

'What on earth's the matter with you?' he cried, half in wrath, halfastonished. 'What's come to you, Phoebe?'

'Oh! I know, ' she said, withdrawing herself and speaking in a lowcurrent of speech. 'You were very fond of me when we married--and--andI dare say you're fond of me now--but it's different. You were a boythen--and you thought you'd get drawing-lessons in Kendal, and perhapsa place at a school--and you didn't seem to want anything more. Andnow you're so ambitious--so ambitious, John--I'--she turned her headaway--'I sometimes feel when I'm with you--I can't breathe--it's justburning you away--and me too. You've found out what you can do--andpeople tell you you're so clever--and then you think you've thrownyourself away--and that I'm a clog on you. John'--she approached himsuddenly, panting--'John, do you mean that baby and I are to stay allthe 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 Keswick for the summer and possibly forthe winter, till he had got a footing. He would come up to see her asoften 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 sixmonths and more, John, so don't ask me. No, we'll stay here--we'llstay here!'

She began to pluck at the grass with her hand, staring before her atthe moonlit stream like one who sees visions of the future. The beautyof her faintly visible head and neck suddenly worked on John Fenwick'ssenses. He threw his arm round her. 

'And I shall soon be back. You little silly, can't you understand thatI shall always be wanting you?'

'We'll stay here, ' she repeated, slowly. 'And you'll be in Londonmaking smart friends--and dining with rich folk--and having ladies tosit to you--'

'Phoebe, you're not jealous of me?' he cried, with a great, good-humoured laugh--'that would be the last straw. '

'Yes, I am jealous of you!' she said, with low-voiced passion; 'andyou know very well that I've had some cause to be. '

He was silent. Through both their minds there passed the memory ofsome episodes in their married life--slight, but quite sufficient toshow that John Fenwick was a man of temperament inevitably attractedby womankind. 

He murmured that she had made mountains out of mole-hills. She merelyraised 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 moodthat was partly the love of wife for husband and partly an exquisitematernity--the same feeling she gave her child. He responded witheagerness, feeling indeed that he had won his battle. 

For she lay in his arms--weak--protesting no more. The note ofanguish, of deep, incalculable foreboding, which she had shown, passedaway from her manner and words; while on his side he began to drawpictures of the future so full of exultation and of hope thather youth presently could but listen and believe. The sickle moondescended behind the pikes; only the stars glimmered on the great sideof the fell, on solitary yews black upon the night, on lines of wall, on dim, mysterious paths, old as the hills themselves, on the softlychiding water. The May night breathed upon them, calmed them, broughtout the better self of each. They returned to the cottage likechildren, hand in hand, talking of a hundred practical details, thankful that the jarring moment had passed away, each refraining fromany word that could wound the other. Nor was it till Fenwick was soundasleep beside her that Phoebe, replunged in loneliness and dread, gaveherself in the dawn-silence to a passion of unconquerable tears. 

PART II

LONDON

'Was _that_ the landmark? What, --the foolish well Whose wave, lowdown, I did not stoop to drink, But sat and flung the pebbles fromits brink In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell, (And mine ownimage, had I noted well!) Was that my point of turning? I had thoughtThe stations of my course should rise unsought, As altar-stone, orensigned citadel. '

CHAPTER III

'Why does that fellow upstairs always pass you as though he were ina passion with somebody?' said Richard Watson, stepping back as hespoke, palette on thumb, from the picture upon which he was engaged. 'He almost knocked me down this morning, and I am not conscious ofhaving done anything to offend his worship. '

His companion in the dingy Bloomsbury studio, where they were both atwork, also put down palette and brush, examining the canvas before himwith 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 andlined, with fatigue or ill health. Beside him, his comrade, PhilipCuningham, had the air of a shrewd clerk or man of business--with hislight alertness of frame, his reddish hair, and sharp, small features. A pleasant, serviceable ability was stamped on Cuningham's wholeaspect; while Watson's large, lounging way, and dishevelled orromantic good looks suggested yet another perennial type--the dreamerentangled in the prose of life. 

He looked at the picture which Cuningham turned towards him--his handsthrust into the vast pockets of his holland coat. It was a piece ofcharming _genre_--a crowded scene in Rotten Row, called 'Waiting forthe Queen, ' painted with knowledge and grace; owing more to Wilkiethan to Frith, and something to influences more modern than either;a picture belonging to a familiar English tradition, and worthilyrepresenting it. 

'Yes--you've got it!' he said, at last, in a voice rather colourlessand forced. Then he made one or two technical comments, to whichthe other listened with something that was partly indulgence, partlydeference; adding, finally, as he moved away, 'And it'll sell, ofcourse--like hot potatoes!'

'Well, I hope so, ' said Philip, beginning to put away his brushes andtubes with what seemed to be a characteristic orderliness--'or I shallbe in Queer Street. But I think Lord Findon wants it. I shouldn'twonder if he turned up this afternoon!'

'Ah?' Watson raised his great shoulders with a gesture which mighthave been sarcastic, but was perhaps more than anything else languidand weary. He returned to his own picture, looking at it with apainful 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, oldfellow!'

'That--_never_!' said the other, under his breath. 'Starve--and pleaseyourself! But I shan't starve--you forget that. '

'Worse luck!' laughed Cuningham. 'I believe Providence ordained theBritish Philistine for our good--drat him! It does no one any harm tohave to hook the public. All the great men have done it. You're toosqueamish, Master Dick!'

Watson went on painting in silence, his lips working. PresentlyCuningham 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 somesort into consideration! I like your jester. '

He bent forward to look into the front line of the large compositioncrowded with life-size figures on which Watson was engaged. It was anillustration of some Chaucerian lines, describing the face of a man onhis way to execution, seen among a crowd:

 'a pale face Among a press ... '

so stricken that, amid all the thronging multitude, 'men might knowhis face that was bestead' from all the rest. 

The idea--of helpless pain, in the grip of cruel and triumphantforce--had been realised with a passionate wealth of detail, comparable to some of the early work of Holman Hunt. The head of thevictim bound with blood-stained linen, a frightened girl hiding hereyes, a mother weeping, a jester with the laugh withered on his lip bythis sudden vision of death and irremediable woe--and in the distancea frail, fainting form, sweetheart or sister--each figure and group, rendered often with very unequal technical merit, had yet in itsomething harshly, intolerably true. The picture was too painful to beborne; 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 youpaid me!'

'Because you look at it wrongly, ' said Watson, gruffly. 'You take itas 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 gruesome than ever. Hullo, who's that? Comein!'

The door opened. A young man, in some embarrassment, appeared on thethreshold. 

'I believe these letters are yours, ' he said, offering a couple toCuningham. 'They brought them up to me by mistake. '

Philip Cuningham took them with thanks, then scanned the newcomer ashe was turning to depart. 

'I think I saw you at Berners Street the other night?'

John Fenwick paused. 

'Yes--' he said, awkwardly. 

'Have you been attending all the summer?'

'Pretty well. There were about half a dozen fellows left in August. Weclubbed 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 bebothered with the Academy!'

Watson turned and looked at the figure in the doorway. 

'Won't you come in and sit down?'

The young man hesitated. Then something in his look kindled as it fellon Watson's superb head, with its strong, tossed locks of ebon-blackhair touched with grey, the penthouse brows, and the blue eyes beneathwith their tragic force of expression. 

Fenwick came in and shut the door. Cuningham pushed him a chair, andWatson offered him a cigarette, which he somewhat doubtfully accepted. His two hosts--men of the educated middle-class--divined at oncethat he was self-taught, and risen from the ranks. Both Cuningham andWatson were shabbily dressed; but it was an artistic and metropolitanshabbiness. Fenwick's country clothes were clumsy and unbecoming; andhis manner seemed to fit him as awkwardly as his coat. The sympathy ofboth 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 Fenwick wasattending, the opening of a new _atelier_ in North London by awell-known Academician, the successes at the current 'Academy, ' thefame of certain leading artists. At least Cuningham talked; Fenwick'scontributions were mostly monosyllabic; he seemed to be feeling hisway. 

Suddenly, by a change of attitude on the painter's part, the pictureon which Dick Watson was engaged became visible to Fenwick. He walkedeagerly up to it. 

'I say!'--his face flushed with admiration. 'That figure's wonderful. 'He pointed to the terror-stricken culprit. 'But that horse there--youdon'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 anymore!'

'It should be like this. '

He took out a sketch-book from his pocket, caught up a piece ofcharcoal and rapidly sketched the horse in the attitude required. Thenhe handed the book to Watson, who looked first at the sketch, and thenat some of the neighbouring pages, which were covered with studies ofhorses observed mostly on the day of some trade-union procession, whenmounted police were keeping the road. 

Watson was silent a moment, then, walking up to his picture, he tookhis palette-knife and scraped out the whole passage. 'I see!' he said, and, laying down the knife, he threw himself into a chair, flushed anddiscomposed. 

'Oh, you'll soon put it right!' said Fenwick, encouragingly. 

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 itwas full, showed great brilliancy and facility, an accurate eye, and avery practised hand. They were the notes of a countryman artistnewly come to London. The sights, and tones, and distances of Londonstreets--the human beings, the vehicles, the horses--were all freshlyseen, as though under a glamour. Cuningham examined them with care. 

'Is this the sort of thing you're going to do?' he said, lookingup, and involuntarily his eye glanced towards his own picture on thedistant easel. 

Fenwick smiled. 

'That's only for practice. I want to do big things--romanticthings--if I get the chance. '

'What a delightful subject!' said Cuningham, stooping suddenly overthe book. 

Fenwick started, made a half-movement as though to reclaim hisproperty, and then withdrew his hand. Cuningham was looking at acharcoal study of a cottage interior. The round table of rude blackoak was set for a meal, and a young woman was feeding a child in apinafore who sat in a high-chair. The sketch might have been a merepiece of domestic prettiness; but the handling of it was so strongand free that it became a significant, typical thing. It breathedthe North, a life rustic and withdrawn--the sweetness of home andmotherhood. 

'Are you going to make a picture of that?' said Watson, putting on hisspectacles, and peering into it. 'You'd better. '

Fenwick replied that he might some day, but had too many things onhand to think of it yet a while. Then with no explanation and a ratherhasty hand he turned the page. Cuningham looked at him curiously. 

They were still busy with the sketch-book when a voice was heard onthe stairs outside. 

'Lord Findon, ' said Cunningham. 

He coloured a little, ran to his picture, arranged it in the bestlight, 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 oneof the best-known buyers of the day. 

Watson in reply beckoned him on to the leads, upon which the Georgianbow-window at the end of the room opened. They found themselves ona railed terrace looking to right and left on a row of gardens, eachglorified by one of the plane-trees which even still make the charm ofBloomsbury. 

Watson hung over the rail, smoking. He explained that Lord Findon hadcome to see Cuningham's picture, which he had commissioned, but notwithout leaving himself a loophole, in case he didn't like it. 

'He will like it, ' said Fenwick. 'It's just the kind of thing peoplewant. '

Watson said nothing, but smoked with energy. Fenwick went on talking, letting it be clearly understood that he personally thought thepicture of no account, but that he knew very well that it was of akind to catch buyers. In a few minutes Watson resented his attitudeas offensive; he fell into a cold silence; Fenwick's half-concealedcontempt threw him fiercely on his friend's side. 

'Well, I've done the trick!' said Cuningham, coming out jauntily, hishands in his trousers pockets; then, with a jerk of the head towardsthe studio, and a lowered voice, 'He's writing the cheque. '

'How much?' said Watson, without turning his head. Fenwick thought itdecent to walk away, but he could not prevent himself from listening. It seemed to him that he heard the words 'Two hundred and fifty, ' buthe could not be sure. What a price!--for such a thing. His own bloodran warm and quick. 

As he stood at the further end of the little terrace ruminating, Cuningham touched him on the shoulder. 

'I say, have you got anything to show upstairs?'

Fenwick turned to see in the sparkling eyes and confident bearing ofthe Scotchman, success writ large, expressing itself in an impulse ofgenerosity. 

'Yes--I've got a picture nearly finished. '

'Come and be introduced to Findon. He's a crank--but a good sort--lotsof money--thinks he knows everything about art--they all do--give himhis head when he talks. '

Fenwick nodded, and followed Cuningham back to the studio, where LordFindon was now examining Watson's picture with no assistance whateverfrom the artist, who seemed to have been struck with dumbness. 

Fenwick was introduced to a remarkably tall and handsome man, with thebearing of a sportsman or a soldier, who greeted him with a cordialshake of the hand, and a look of scrutiny so human and kindly that thevery sharp curiosity which was in truth the foundation of it passedwithout offence. Lord Findon was indeed curious about everything;interested in everything; and a dabbler in most artistic pursuits. He liked the society of artists; and he was accustomed to spend somehundreds, or even thousands, a year out of his enormous income, in thepurchase of modern pictures. Possibly the sense of power over humanlives which these acquisitions gave him pleased him even more than theacquisitions themselves. 

He asked Fenwick a few easy questions, sitting rakishly on the edge ofa 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 neglectedtravel. 'But you go! Beg your way, paint your way--but go! Go beforethe wife and the babies come! Matrimony is the deuce. Don't you agreewith me, Philip?' He laid a familiar hand on the artist's arm. 

'Take care!' said Cuningham, laughing. 'You don't know what I may havebeen up to this summer. '

Findon shrugged his shoulders. 'I know a wise man when I see him. Butthe fools there are about! Well, I take a strong line'--he waved hishand, with a kind of laughing pomposity, rolling his words--'wheneverI see a young fellow marrying before he has got his training--beforehe has seen a foreign gallery--before he can be sure of a year'sincome ahead--above all, before he knows anything at all about_women_, and the different ways in which they can play the devil withyou!--well, I give him up--I don't go to see his pictures--I don'tbother about him any more. The man's an ass--must be an ass!--let himbray his bray! Why, you remember Perry?--Marindin?'

On which there followed a rattling catalogue of matrimonial failuresin the artist world, amusing enough--perhaps a little cruel. Cuninghamlaughed. Watson, on whom Lord Findon's whole personality seemed tohave an effect more irritating than agreeable, fidgeted with hisbrushes. He struck in presently with the dry remark that artists werenot the only persons who made imprudent marriages. 

Lord Findon sprang up at once, and changed the subject. His youngestson, the year before, had married the nurse who had pulled him throughtyphoid--and was still in exile, and unforgiven. 

Meanwhile no one had noticed John Fenwick. He stood behind the othertwo while Lord Findon was talking--frowning sometimes and restless--amovement now and then in lips and body, as though he were about tospeak--yet not speaking. It was one of those moments when a man feelsa band about his tongue, woven by shyness or false shame, or socialtimidity. He knows that he ought to speak; but the moment passes andhe has not spoken. And between him and the word unsaid there rises onthe instant a tiny streamlet of division, which is to grow and broadenwith the nights and days, till it flows, a stream of fate, not to beturned back or crossed; and all the familiar fields of life are ruinedand blotted out. 

Finally, as the great patron was going, Cuningham whispered a word inhis 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 upstairs. Cuningham's puzzled impression was that he gave the invitationreluctantly, but could not make up his mind not to give it. 

They marched upstairs, Lord Findon and Cuningham behind. 

'Does he ever sell?' said Lord Findon, in Cuningham's ear, noddingtowards 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 dearold fellow! He has too many ideas for this wicked world. '

Cuningham spoke with a pleasant loyalty. Lord Findon shrugged hisshoulders. 

'The ideas are too lugubrious! And this young fellow--thisFenwick--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'vebeen going on. '

Cuningham laughed. 'We've seen no sign of a wife. But I really knownothing about him. '

They were entering the upper room, and at sight of the large pictureit contained, Lord Findon exclaimed:

'My goodness!--what an ambitious thing!'

The three men gathered in front of the picture. Fenwick lingerednervously 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 Westmorelandghyll or ravine. Behind her the white water of the beck flowed steeplydown from shelf to shelf; beyond the beck rose far-receding walls ofmountain, purple on purple, blue on blue. Light, scantily nourishedtrees, sycamore or mountain-ash, climbed the green sides of the ghyll, and framed the woman's form. She sat on a stone, bending over a frailnew-born lamb upon her lap, whereof the mother lay beside her. Againsther knee leaned a fair-haired child. The pitiful concern in thewoman'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 rusticalsuggestion, touched here and there by a harsh realism that did butheighten the general harmony. The woman's grave comeliness flowerednaturally, as it were, out of the scene. She was no model posing witha Westmoreland stream for background. She seemed a part of the fells;their silences, their breezes, their pure waters, had passed into herface. 

But it was the execution of the picture which perhaps speciallyarrested the attention of the men examining it. 

'Eclectic stuff!' said Watson to himself, presently, as he turnedaway--'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, orrather of attempts at many things--Burne-Jones' mystical colour--therustic character of a Bastien-Lepage or a Millet--with the jewelleddetail of a fourteenth-century Florentine, so wonderful were theharebells in the foreground, the lichened rocks, the dabbled fleeceof the lamb: but they realised that it was a combination that only aremarkable talent could have achieved. 

'By Jove!' said Findon, turning on the artist with animation, 'wheredid you learn all this?'

'I've been painting a good many years, ' said Fenwick, his cheeksaglow. '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 hadno 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 geniusunawares to his only profitable patron?

'Who is the model, if I may ask?' said Lord Findon, still examiningthe 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 furtherquestions. Cuningham noticed that the face was certainly from the sameoriginal as the face in the sketch-book, but he kept his observationto himself. 

Lord Findon, with the eagerness of a Londoner discovering some newthing, fell into quick talk with Fenwick; looked him meanwhile upand down, his features, bearing, clothes; noticed his North-Countryaccent, and all the other signs of the plebeian. And presentlyFenwick, placed at his ease, began for the first time to expand, became argumentative and explosive. In a few minutes he waslaying down the law in his Westmoreland manner--attacking theAcademy--denouncing certain pictures of the year--with a flushed, confident face and a gesticulating hand. Watson observed him with someastonishment; Lord Findon looked amused--and pulled out his watch. 

'Oh, well, everybody kicks the Academy--but it's pretty strong, asyou'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 andhis loquacity disappeared. 

'Well, I must be off, ' said Lord Findon. 'But you're coming to dinnerwith me to-morrow night, Cuningham, aren't you? Will you excuse ashort invitation'--he turned, after a moment's pause, to Fenwick--'andaccompany him? Lady Findon would, I'm sure, be glad to make youracquaintance. St. James's Square--102. All right'--as Fenwick, colouring violently, stammered an acceptance--'we shall expect you. Aurevoir! I'm afraid it's no good to ask _you_!' The last words wereaddressed smilingly to Watson, as Lord Findon, with outstretched hand, passed through the door, which Cuningham opened for him. 

'Thank you, ' said Watson, with a grave inclination--'I'm a hermit. '

The door closed on a gay and handsome presence. Lord Findon could notpossibly have been accused of anything so ill-mannered as patronage. But there was in his manner a certain consciousness of power--ofvantage-ground; a certain breath of autocracy. The face of Watsonshowed it as he returned to look closely into Fenwick's picture. 

A few minutes later Fenwick found himself alone. He stood in front ofthe picture, staring into Phoebe's eyes. A wave of passionate remorsebroke upon him. He had as good as denied her; and she sat there beforehim like some wronged, helpless thing. He seemed to hear her voice, tosee 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 toChristmas. Carrie kisses your photograph morning and night, but I'mafraid she'll have forgotten you a good deal. Sometimes I'm very wearyhere--but I don't mind if you're getting on, and if it won't be muchlonger. Miss Anna has sent me some new patterns for my tatting, andI'm getting a fine lot done. All the visitors are quite gone now, andit's that quiet at nights! Sometimes when it's been raining I think Ican hear the Dungeon Ghyll stream, though it's more than a mile away. '

Fenwick put up the letter. He had a sudden vision of Phoebe in herwhite night-dress, opening the casement-window of the little cottageon a starry night, and listening to the sounds of distant water. Behind her was the small room with its candle--the baby'scot--the white bed, with his vacant place. A pang of longing--ofhomesickness--stirred him. 

Then he began to pace his room, driven by the stress of feeling totake stock of his whole position. He had reached London in May; it wasnow November. Six months--of the hardest effort, the most strenuouslabour he had ever passed through. He looked back upon it withexultation. Never had he been so conscious of expanding power andjustified ambition. Through the Berners Street life-school he hadobtained some valuable coaching and advice which had corrected faultsand put him on the track of new methods. But it was his own righthand and his own brain he had mostly to thank, together with theopportunities of London. Up early, and to bed late--drawing from themodel, the antique, still life, drapery, landscape; studying pictures, old and new, and filling his sketch-book in every moment of so-calledleisure with the figures and actions of the great city--he had mademagnificent use of his time; Phoebe could find no fault with himthere. 

Had he forgotten her and the babe?--found letters to her sometimes aburden, and his heart towards her dry often and barren? Well, he _had_written regularly; and she had never complained. Men cannot be likewomen, absorbed for ever in the personal affections. For him it wasthe day of battle, in which a man must strain all his powers to theuttermost if any laurels are to be won before evening. His whole soulwas 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 impatient worry. Morrison's hundred was nearly gone. He knew well enough that Phoebewas right when she accused him of managing his money badly. It ranthrough his fingers loosely, incessantly. He hardly knew now where thenext remittances to Phoebe were to come from. At first he had donea certain amount of illustrating work and had generally sent her theproceeds 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'twritten those articles to the _Mirror_, there would have been time forsome? Well, why shouldn't he write them? His irritable pride took fireat 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 Bloomsbury!--the rest of London might nothave existed for him. A gallery-seat at the Lyceum Theatre, then inits early fame, and hot discussions of Irving and Ellen Terry withsuch artistic or literary acquaintance as he had made through thelife-school or elsewhere--these had been his only distractions. Hestood amazed before his own virtues. He drank little--smoked little. As for women--he thought with laughter or wrath of Phoebe's touch ofjealousy! There was an extremely pretty girl--a fair-haired, consciousminx--drawing in the same room with him at the British Museum. Evidently she would have been glad to capture him; and he had loftilydenied her. If he had ever been as susceptible as Phoebe thought him, he was susceptible no more. Life burned with sterner fire!

And yet, for all these self-denials, Morrison's money and his ownsavings were nearly gone. Funds might hold out till after Christmas. What then?

He had heard once or twice from Morrison, asking for news of thepictures promised. Lately he had left the letters unanswered; but helived in terror of a visit. For he had nothing to offer him--neithermoney nor pictures. His only picture so far--as distinguished fromexercises--was the 'Genius Loci. ' He had begun that in a moment ofweariness with his student work, basing it on a number of studiesof Phoebe's head and face he had brought South with him. He had beenlucky enough to find a model very much resembling Phoebe in figure;and now, suddenly, the picture had become his passion, the centre ofall his hopes. It astonished himself; he saw his artistic advance init writ large; of late he had been devoting himself entirely to it, wrapt, like the body of Hector, in a heavenly cloud that lifted himfrom the earth! If the picture sold--and it would surely sell--thenall paths were clear. Morrison should be paid; and Phoebe have herrights. Let it only be well hung at the Academy, and well sold to somediscriminating buyer--and John Fenwick henceforward would owe no mananything--whether money or favour. 

At this point he returned to his picture, grappling with it afresh ina 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 insome colour he had bought the day before; and ended in a fresh burstof 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 hispicture, praying that he might finish it prosperously, that it mightbe given a good place in the Academy, and bring him fame and fortune. 

Then he got up sheepishly, looking furtively round the room to be surethat the door was shut, and no one had seen him. He was a good dealashamed 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 mattersconnected with his pictures the Evangelical tradition of his youthstill held him. He was the descendant of generations of men and womenwho had prayed on all possible occasions--that customers might beplentiful and business good--that the young cattle might do well, andthe hay be got in dry--that their children might prosper--and theythemselves be delivered from rheumatism, or toothache, or indigestion. Fenwick's prayer to some 'magnified non-natural man' afar off, to comeand help him with his picture, was of the same kind. Only he was nolonger whole-hearted and simple about it, as he had been when Phoebemarried him, as she was still. 

He put on his studio coat and sat down to his work again, in a verytender, repentant mood. What on earth had possessed him to make thatanswer to Lord Findon--to let him and those other fellows take himfor unmarried? He protested, in excuse, that Westmoreland folk are'close, ' and don't like talking about their own affairs. He came of asecretive, suspicious stock; and had no mind at any time to part withunnecessary facts about himself. As talkative as you please about artand opinion; of his own concerns not a word! London had made him allthe more cautious and reticent. No one knew anything about him exceptas an artist. He always posted his letters himself; and he believedthat neither his landlady nor anybody else suspected him of a wife. 

But to-day he had carried things too far--and a guilty discomfortweighed upon him. What was to be done? Should he on the firstopportunity set himself right with Lord Findon--speak easily andunexpectedly of Phoebe and the child? Clearly what would have beensimplicity itself at first was now an awkwardness. Lord Findon wouldbe puzzled--chilled. He would suppose there was something to beashamed of--some skeleton in the cupboard. And especially would hetake it ill that Fenwick had allowed him to run on with his diatribesagainst matrimony as though he were talking to a bachelor. Then thelie about the picture. It had been the shy, foolish impulse of amoment. But how explain it to Lord Findon?

Fenwick stood there tortured by an intense and morbid distress;realising how much this rich and illustrious person had alreadyentered into his day dream. For all his pride as an artist--and he wasfull of it--his trembling, crude ambition had already seized on LordFindon as a stepping-stone. He did not know whether he could stoop tocourt a patron. His own temper had to be reckoned with. But to losehim at the outset by a silly falsehood would be galling. A man whohas to live in the world as a married man must not begin by making amystery of his wife. He felt the social stupidity 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 downastonishment. His _gaucherie_ should be lost in his success. 

He tossed about that night, sleepless, and thinking of Cuningham's twohundred and fifty pounds--for a picture so cheaply, commonly clever. It filled him with the thirst to _arrive_. He had more brains, moredrawing, more execution--more everything!--than Cuningham. No doubt acertain prudence and tact were wanted--tact in managing yourself andyour gifts. 

Well!--in spite of Watson's rude remark, what human being _knew_ hewas writing those articles in the _Mirror_? He threw out his challengeto the darkness, and so fell asleep. 

CHAPTER IV

Fenwick had never spent a more arduous hour than that which he devotedto the business of dressing for Lord Findon's dinner-party. It was hisfirst acquaintance with dress-clothes. He had, indeed, dined once ortwice at the tables of the Westmoreland gentry in the course of hisportrait-painting experiences. But there had been no 'party, ' and ithad been perfectly understood that for the Kendal bookseller's sona black Sunday coat was sufficient. Now, however, he was to meet thegreat world on its own terms; and though he tried hard to disguise hisnervousness from his sponsor, Philip Cuningham, he did not succeed. Cuningham instructed him where to buy a second-hand dress-suit thatvery nearly fitted him, and he had duly provided himself with glovesand tie. When all was done he put his infinitesimal looking-glass onthe floor of his attic, flanked it with two guttering candles, andwalked up and down before it in a torment, observing his own demeanourand his coat's, saying 'How d'ye do?' and 'Good-bye' to an imaginaryhost, or bending affably to address some phantom lady across thetable. 

When at last he descended the stairs, he felt as though he were justescaped from a wrestling-match. He followed Cuningham into the omnibuswith nerves all on edge. He hated the notion, too, of taking anomnibus to go and dine in St. James's Square. But Cuningham's Scotchthriftiness scouted the proposal of a hansom. 

On the way Fenwick suddenly asked his companion whether there was aLady Findon. Cuningham, startled by the ignorance of his _protégé_, 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, anda still better hater; two sons, silent, good-looking and clever, onein the brewery that provided his mother with her money, the otherin the Hussars; two daughters not long 'introduced'--one pretty--theother bookish and rather plain; so ran the catalogue. 

'I believe there is another daughter by the firstwife--married--something queer about the husband. But I've never seenher. She doesn't often appear--Hullo--here we are. '

They alighted at the Haymarket, and as they walked down the streetFenwick found himself in the midst of the evening whirl of the WestEnd. The clubs were at their busiest; men passed them in dress-suitsand overcoats like themselves, and the street was full of hansoms, whence the faces of well-dressed women, enveloped in soft silks andfurs, looked out. 

Fenwick felt himself treading a new earth. At such an hour he wasgenerally wending his way to a Bloomsbury eating-house, where hedined for eighteenpence; he was a part of the striving, moneylessstudent-world. 

But here, from this bustling Haymarket with its gay, hurrying figures, there breathed new forces, new passions which bewildered him. As hewas looking at the faces in the carriages, the jewels and feathersand shining stuffs, he thought suddenly and sharply of Phoebe sittingalone at her supper in the tiny cottage room. His heart smote him alittle. But, after all, was he not on her business as well as his own?

The door of Lord Findon's house opened before them. At sight of theliveried servants within, Fenwick's pride asserted itself. He walkedin, head erect, as though the place belonged to him. 

Lord Findon came pleasantly to greet them as they entered thedrawing-room, and took them up to Lady Findon. Cuningham she alreadyknew, and she gave a careless glance and a touch of the hand to hiscompanion. It was her husband's will to ask these raw, artistic youthsto dinner, and she had to put up with it; but really the difficulty ofknowing whom to send them in with was enormous. 

'I am glad to make your acquaintance, ' she said, mechanically, toFenwick, as he stood awkwardly beside her, while her eyes searched thedoor for a Cabinet Minister and his wife who were the latest guests. 

'Thank you; I too am pleased to make yours, ' said Fenwick, nervouslypulling at his gloves, and furious with his own _malaise_. 

Lady Findon's eyebrows lifted in amusement. She threw him anotherglance. 

Good-looking!--but really Findon should wait till they were a little_décrotté_. 

'I hear your picture is charming, ' she said, distractedly; and then, suddenly perceiving the expected figures, she swept forward to receivethem. 

'Very sorry, my dear fellow, we have no lady for you; but you willbe next my daughter, Madame de Pastourelles, ' said Lord Findon, a fewminutes later, in his ear, passing him with a nod and a smile. Hisgay, half-fatherly ways with these rising talents were well known. They made part of his fame with his contemporaries; a picturesqueelement in his dinner-parties which the world appreciated. 

Fenwick found his way rather sulkily to the dining-room. It annoyedhim that Cuningham had a lady and he had none. His companion on theroad downstairs was the private secretary, who tried good-naturedlyto point out the family portraits on the staircase wall. But Fenwickscarcely replied. He stalked on, his great black eyes glancingrestlessly from side to side; and the private secretary thought him aboor. 

As he was standing bewildered inside the dining-room a servant caughthold of him and piloted him to his seat. A lady in white, who wasalready seated in the next chair, looked up and smiled. 

'My father told me we were to be neighbours. I must introduce myself. '

She held out a small hand, which, in his sudden pleasure, Fenwickgrasped more cordially than was necessary. She withdrew it smiling, and he sat down, feeling himself an impulsive ass, intimidated by thelights, the flowers, the multitude of his knives and forks, and mostof all, perhaps, by this striking and brilliant creature beside him. 

Madame de Pastourelles was of middle height, slenderly built, withpale-brown hair, and a delicately white face, of a very perfect oval. She had large, quiet eyes, darker than her hair; features small, yetof a noble outline--strength in refinement. The proud cutting of thenose and mouth gave delight; it was a pride so unconscious, so maskedin sweetness, that it challenged without wounding. The short upper lipwas sensitive and gay; the eyes ranged in a smiling freedom; theneck and arms were beautiful. Her dress, according to the Whistlerianphrase just coming into vogue, might have been called an 'arrangementin white. ' The basis of it seemed to be white velvet; and breast andhair were powdered with diamonds delicately set in old flower-likeshapes. 

'You are in the same house with Mr. Cuningham?' she asked, when adean had said grace and the soup was served. Her voice was soft andcourteous; 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 coloured 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 Isuppose 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 dreadfullycatholic taste. He tells me you haven't been abroad yet?'

Fenwick acknowledged it. 

'Ah, well; of course you'll go. All artists do--except'--she droppedher voice--'the gentleman opposite. '

Fenwick looked, and beheld a personage scarcely, indeed, to be seenat all for his very bushy hair, whiskers, and moustache, fromwhich emerged merely the tip of a nose and a pair of round eyes inspectacles. As, however, the hair was of an orange colour and the eyesof a piercing and pinlike sharpness, the eclipse of feature was nota loss of effect. And as the flamboyant head was a tolerably familiarobject in the shop-windows of the photographers and in the illustratedpapers, Fenwick recognised almost immediately one of the most popularartists of the day--Mr. Herbert Sherratt. 

Fenwick flushed hotly. 

'Lord Findon doesn't admire _his_ work?' he said, almost withfierceness, turning to his companion. 

'He hates his pictures and collects his drawings. '

'Drawings!' Fenwick shrugged his shoulders. 'Anybody can make a cleverdrawing. It's putting on the paint that counts. Why doesn't he goabroad?'

'Oh, well, he does go to Holland. But he thinks Italian painting allstuff, and that so many Madonnas and saints encourage superstition. But what's the use of talking? They have to station a policeman besidehis picture in the Academy to keep off the crowd. Hush-sh! He islooking this way. '

She turned her head, and Fenwick feared she was lost to him. Hemanaged to get in another question. 'Are there any other paintershere?'

She pointed out the president of the Academy, a sculptor, and anart-critic, at whose name Fenwick curled his lip, full of the naturalanimosity of the painter to the writer. 

'And, of course, you know my neighbour?'

Fenwick looked hastily, and saw a very handsome youth bending forwardto answer a question which Lord Findon had addressed to him fromacross the table; a face in the 'grand style'--almost the face ofa Greek--pure in outline, bronzed by foreign suns, and lit byeyes expressing so strong a force of personality that, but for thesweetness with which it was tempered, the spectator might have beenrather repelled than won. When the young man answered Lord Findon, thevoice was, like the face, charged--perhaps over-charged--with meaningand sensibility. 

'I took Madame de Pastourelles to see it to-day, ' the youth wassaying. 'She thought it as glorious as I did. '

'Oh! you are a pair of enthusiasts, ' said Lord Findon. 'I keep myhead. '

The 'it' turned out to be a Titian portrait from the collection ofan old Roman family, lately brought to London and under offer to theNational Gallery, of which Lord Findon was a trustee. 

Madame de Pastourelles looked towards her father, confirming whatthe unknown youth had said. Her eyes had kindled. She began to talkrapidly in defence of her opinion. Between her, Lord Findon, and herneighbour there arose a conversation which made Fenwick's ears tingle. How many things and persons and places it touched upon that werewholly unknown to him! Pictures in foreign museums--Vienna, Berlin, St. Petersburg--the names of French or German experts--quotations fromItalian books or newspapers--the three dealt lightly and familiarlywith a world in which Fenwick had scarcely a single landmark. Howclever she was! how charming! What knowledge without a touch ofpedantry! And how the handsome youth kept up with her--nay, rather, led her, with a mastery, a resource, to which she always yielded incase of any serious difference of opinion! It seemed that theyhad been abroad together--had seen many sights in each other'scompany--had many common friends. 

Fenwick felt himself strangely sore and jealous as he listened. Whowas this man? Some young aristocrat, no doubt, born silver spoon inmouth--one of your idle, insolent rich, with nothing to do but make ahobby of art, and patronise artists. He loathed the breed. 

Her voice startled him back from these unspoken tirades, and once morehe found her eyes fixed upon him. It provoked him to feel that theirscrutiny made him self-conscious--anxious to please. They were sogentle, so gay!--and yet behind the first expression there sat whatseemed 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. 

'Oh! don't you know him? You must let me introduce him. It is Mr. Arthur Welby. Doesn't he talk well?'

She introduced them. Welby received the introduction with areadiness--a touch of eagerness indeed--which seemed to show a mindfavourably prepared for it. 

'Lord Findon tells me you're sending in a most awfully jolly thingto the Academy!' he said, bending across Madame de Pastourelles, hismusical voice full of cordiality. Fenwick made a muttered reply. Itmight have been thought he disliked being talked to about his ownwork. Welby accordingly changed the subject at once; he returned tothe picture he had been pressing on Lord Findon. 

'Haven't you seen it? You really should. ' But this elicited even lessresponse. Fenwick glared at him--apparently tongue-tied. Then Madamede Pastourelles and her neighbour talked to each other, endeavouringto draw in the stranger. In vain. They fell back, naturally, intothe talk of intimates, implying a thousand common memories andexperiences; and Fenwick found himself left alone. 

His mind burned with annoyance and self-disgust. Why did he let thesepeople intimidate him? Why was he so ridiculously self-conscious?--soincapable of holding his own? He knew all about Arthur Welby; his nameand fame were in all the studios. The author of the picture of theyear--in the opinion, at least, of the cultivated minority for whomrails and policemen were not the final arbiters of merit; glorified inthe speeches at the Academy banquet; and already overwhelmed with morecommissions than he could take--Welby should have been one of thebest hated of men. On the contrary, his mere temperament had drawnthe teeth of that wild beast, Success. Well-born, rich, a socialfavourite, trained in Paris and Italy, an archaeologist and student aswell as a painter, he commanded the world as he pleased. Society askedhim to dinners, and he gave himself no professional airs and wentwhen he could. But among his fellows he lived a happy comrade's life, spending his gifts and his knowledge without reserve, always ready tohelp a man in a tight place, to praise a friend's picture, to take upa friend's quarrel. He took his talent and his good-fortune so simplythat the world must needs insist upon them, instead of contestingthem. 

As for his pictures, they were based on the Italian tradition--rich, accurate, learned, full of literary allusion and reminiscence. InFenwick's eyes, young as was their author, they were of the pastrather than of the future. He contemptuously thought of them asbelonging to a dead _genre_. But the man who painted them could_draw_. 

Meanwhile he seemed to have lost Madame de Pastourelles, and mustneeds fall back on the private secretary beside him. This gentleman, who had already entered him on the tablets of the mind as a mannerlessoutsider, was not particularly communicative. But at least Fenwicklearned the names of the other guests. The well-known Ambassadorbeside Lady Findon, with a shrewd, thin, sulky face, and very blackeyes under whitish hair--eyes turned much more frequently on thepretty actress to his right than upon his hostess; a financieropposite, much concerned with great colonial projects; the CabinetMinister--of no account, it seemed, either in the House or theCabinet--and his wife, abnormally thin, and far too discreet for theimportance of her husband's position; a little farther, the wife ofthe red-haired Academician, a pale, frightened creature who lookedlike her husband's apology, and was in truth his slave;--all these helearned 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 fewancient shams and hollow pretenders--

Ah! once more the soft, ingratiating voice beside him. Madame dePastourelles was expressing a flattering wish to see his picture, ofwhich her father had talked so much. 

'And he says you have found such a beautiful model--or, rather, betterthan beautiful--characteristic. '

Fenwick stared at her. It was on the tip of his tongue to say 'Sheis my wife. ' But he did not say it. He imagined her look ofsurprise--'Ah, my father had no idea!'--imagined it with a morbidintensity, and saw no way of confronting or getting round it; notat the dinner-table, anyway--with all these eyes and ears abouthim--above all, with Lord Findon opposite. Why, they might think hehad been ashamed of Phoebe!--that there was some reason for hiding heraway. It was ridiculous--most annoying and absurd; but now thatthe thing had happened, he must really choose his own moment forunravelling 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 having escaped a danger he found his tongue for thefirst 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, ata moment of pause, she said, with a smile and a shrug, 'How happy youare to have an art! Now I--'

She let her hand fall with a little plaintive movement. 

'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 remainedunspoken. Perhaps she divined them, for she began hastily to describeher dog--its tricks and fidelities. Fenwick could meet her here; fora mongrel fox-terrier--taken, a starving waif, out of the streets--hadbeen his companion since almost the first month of his solitude. Eachstimulated the other, and they fell into those legends of dog-life inwhich every dog-lover believes, however sceptical he may be in otherdirections. Till presently she said, with a sigh and a stiffening ofher delicate features:

'But mine shows some symptoms of paralysis. He was run over lastsummer. I'm afraid it will be long and painful. '

Fenwick replied that she should send for the vet. And have the dogpainlessly 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 withsuffering. '

As she spoke, she drew herself slightly more erect. Neither tone normanner showed softness, made any appeal. The words seemed to havedropped from her, and the strange pride and dignity she at once threwaround them made a veiling cloud through which only a man entirelywithout the finer perceptions would have tried to penetrate. Fenwick, for all his surface _gaucherie_, did not attempt it. But he attackedher generalisation. With some vehemence he developed against ita Neo-pagan doctrine of joy--love of the earth and its naturalpleasures--courage to take and dare--avoidance of suffering--and waron asceticism. He poured out a number of undigested thoughts, whichshowed 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, puttingin a humorous comment or two, and never by another word betraying herown position. But he was more and more conscious of the double self inher--of the cultivated, social self she was bringing into play for hisbenefit, and of something behind--a spirit watchful and still--wraptin a great melancholy--or perhaps a great rebellion? And by this senseof something concealed or strongly restrained, she began to affecthis imagination, and so, presently, to absorb his attention. Somethingexquisite in her movements and looks, also in the quality of her voiceand the turn of her phrases, drew from his own crude yet sensitivenature an excited response. He began to envisage what these highlytrained women of the upper class, these _raffinées_ of the world, maybe for those who understand them--a stimulus, an enigma, an education. 

It flashed on him that women of this type could teach him much that hewanted to know; and his ambition seized on the idea. But what chancethat she would ever give another thought to the raw artist to whom herfather 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 cameto mischief. Left alone with the gentlemen, his temperament asserteditself. He had no mind in any company to be merely a listener. Moreover, that slight, as he regarded it, of sending him down withouta lady, still rankled; and last, but not least, he had drunk a gooddeal of champagne, to which he was quite unaccustomed. So that whenLord Findon fell into a discussion with the Ambassador of Irving's_Hamlet_ and _Othello_, then among the leading topics of London--whenthe foreigner politely but emphatically disparaged the English actorand Lord Findon with zeal defended him--who should break into theaugust debate but this strong-browed, black-eyed fellow, from no oneknew where, whose lack of some of the smaller conventions had alreadybeen noticed by a few of the company. 

At first all looked well. A London dinner-party loves novelty, and isalways ready to test the stranger within its gates. Fenwick slippedinto the battle as a supporter of Lord Findon's argument, and his hostwith smiling urbanity welcomed him to the field. But in a few minutesthe newcomer 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 Findonand now the Ambassador--who stared at him in amazement--with anassurance that the world only allows to its oldest favourites. LordFindon in vain tried to stop him. 

'Didn't know this was to be a dinner with speeches, ' murmured thefinancier, after a few minutes, in his neighbour's ear. 'Think I'llget up and propose a vote of thanks to the chairman. '

'There ought, at least, to be a time-limit, ' said the neighbour, witha shrug. 'Where on earth did Findon pick him up?'

'I say, what an awfully rum chap!' said the young son of thehouse--wondering--to Arthur Welby. 'What does he talk like that for?'

'He doesn't talk badly, ' said Welby, whose mouth showed the laughterwithin. 

Meanwhile Fenwick--loud-voiced, excited--had brought his raid to aclimax by an actual attack upon the stately Frenchman opposite, whoseslight sarcastic look pricked him intolerably. All other conversationat the table fell dumb. 

Lord Findon coloured, 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 thisconversation?'

As the men walked upstairs, Fenwick realised that he had blundered;he felt himself isolated and in disfavour. Arthur Welby had approachedhim, but Lord Findon had rather pointedly drawn an arm through Welby'sand swept him away. No one else spoke to him, and even the privatesecretary, who had before befriended him, left him severely alone. None of the ladies in the drawing-room upstairs showed, as it seemedto him, any desire for his company, and he was reduced to looking ata stand of miniatures near the door, while his heart swelled fiercely. So this was what society meant?--a wretched pleasure purchased ondegrading terms! A poor dependant like himself, he supposed, was to beseen and not heard--must speak when he was spoken to, play chorus, andwhisper humbleness. As to meeting these big-wigs on equal terms, thatclearly was not expected. An artist may be allowed to know somethingabout art; on any other subject let him listen to his betters. 

He said to himself that he was sick of the whole business; and hewould gladly have slipt through the open door down the stairs, andout of the house. He was restrained, however, by the protest of asore ambition which would not yet admit defeat. Had he set Lord Findonagainst him?--ruined the chance of a purchaser for his picture andof a patron for the future? Out of the corner of his eye he sawCuningham, neat, amiable, and self-possessed, sitting in a corner byLady Findon, who smiled and chatted incessantly. And it was clear tohim that Welby was the spoilt child of the room. Wherever he went menand women grouped themselves about him; there was a constant eagernessto capture him, an equal reluctance to let him go. 

'Well, I'm as good as he--as either of them, ' thought Fenwickfiercely, as he handled a Cosway. 'Only they can talk these people'slingo, and I can't. I can paint as well as they any day--and I'll bebound, if they let me alone, I could talk as well. Why do people askyou to their houses and then ill-treat you? Damn them!'

Meanwhile, Lord Findon had had a few whispered words with his daughterin an inner room. 

'My dear!'--throwing up his hands--'a _barbarian_! Can't have him hereagain. '

'Mr. Fenwick, papa?'

'Of course. Cuningham ought to have warned me. However, I suppose Ibrought 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 apologise. '

'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 understand that he can'tbehave like that. '

'What did he do?'

'My dear, he spoiled the whole business after dinner--harangued thetable!--as good as told De Chailles he had no right to talk aboutIrving or Shakespeare, being a foreigner. You never saw such anexhibition!'

'Poor Mr. Fenwick. I must go and talk to him. '

'Eugénie, don't be a goose. Why should you take any trouble abouthim?'

'He's wonderfully clever, papa. And clever people are always gettinginto scrapes. Somebody must take him in hand. '

And, rising, she threw her father a whimsical backward look as shedeparted. Lord Findon watched her with mingled smiles and chagrin. How charmingly she was dressed to-night--his poor Eugénie! And howbeautifully she moved!--with what grace and sweetness! As he turned todo his duty by an elderly countess near him, he stifled a sigh--thatwas also an imprecation. 

It had often been said of Eugénie de Pastourelles that she possesseda social magic. She certainly displayed it on this occasion. Half anhour later Lord Findon, who was traversing the drawing-rooms afterhaving taken the Ambassadress to her carriage, found a regenerate andhumanised Fenwick sitting beside his daughter; the centre, indeed, ofa circle no less friendly to untutored talent than the circle of thedinner-table had been hostile. Lord Findon stopped to listen. Reallythe young man was now talking decently!--about matters he understood;Burne-Jones, Rossetti--some French pictures in Bond Street--and soforth. The ruffled host was half appeased, half wroth. For if he_could_ make this agreeable impression, why such a superfluityof naughtiness downstairs? And the fellow had really some generalcultivation; nothing like Welby, of course--where would you findanother Arthur Welby?--but enough to lift him above the merejourneyman. After all, one must be indulgent to these novices--withno traditions behind them--and no--well, to put it plainly--nograndfathers! And so, with reflexions of this kind, the annoyance of agood-natured man subsided. 

It was all Eugénie's doing, of course. She and Welby between themhad caught the bear, tamed him, and set him to show whatever parlourtricks he possessed. Just like her! He hoped the young man understoodher condescension--and that to see her and talk with her was aprivilege. Involuntarily Lord Findon glanced across the room, at the_décolleté_ shoulders and buxom good looks of his wife. When Eugéniewas in the house the second Lady Findon never seemed to him welldressed. 

When Fenwick and Cuningham had departed--Fenwick in a glow of gratefulgood-humour, expressing himself effusively to his host--Madame dePastourelles approached her father, smiling. 

'That youth has asked me to sit to him. '

'The audacious rascal!' cried Lord Findon, fuming. 'He has never seenyou before--and, besides, how does any one know what he can do?'

'Why, you said yourself his picture was remarkable. '

'So it is. But what's one picture? What do you think, Welby?' hesaid, impulsively addressing the man beside him. 'Wasn't it like hisimpudence?'

Welby smiled. 

'Like Eugénie's kindness! It was rather charming to see his look whenshe said "Yes"!'

'You said "_Yes_"!' Lord Findon stared at her. 

'Come with me and see what he can do in a morning. ' She laid aquieting hand on her father's arm. 'You know that always amuses you. And I want to see his picture. '

'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, knowingthat she had gained her point, or would gain it. Arthur Welby, turning, watched her move away, say 'Good-night' to Lady Findon, anddisappear through a distant door. Then for him, though the room wasstill full of people, it was vacant. He slipped away without any more'Good-byes. '

CHAPTER V

It was Christmas Eve, and the dark had fallen. The train from Eustonhad just drawn up in Windermere Station, and John Fenwick, carryinghis bag, was making his way among the vehicles outside the station, inquiring whether any one was going in the direction of GreatLangdale, who could give him a lift. He presently found a farmer'scart bound for a village on the road, and made a bargain with the laddriving it to carry him to his destination. 

They set off in bitter weather. The driver was a farmer's son who hadcome to the station to fetch his small brother. Fenwick and he tookthe little school-boy between them, to protect him as best they couldfrom the wind and sleet. They piled some empty sacks, from the backof the cart, on their knees and shoulders; and the old grey horseset forward cautiously, feeling its way down the many hills of theAmbleside road. 

The night was not yet wholly in possession. The limestone road shonedimly white, the forms of the leafless trees passed them in a windyprocession, and afar on the horizon, beyond the dark gulf of the lake, there was visible at intervals a persistent dimness, something lessblack than the sky above and the veiled earth below, which Fenwickknew must be the snowy tops of the mountains. But it was a twilightmore mournful than 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 broadWestmoreland speech. To Fenwick the dialect of his childhood wasalready strange and disagreeable. So, too, was the wild roughness ofthe Northern night, the length of the road, the sense of increasingdistance from all that most held his mind. He longed, indeed, to seePhoebe and the child, but it was as though he had wilfully set up somebarrier between himself and them, which spoiled his natural pleasure. Moreover, he was afraid of Phoebe, of her quick jealous love, and ofcertain passionate possibilities in her character that he had longago discerned. If she discovered that he had made a mystery of hismarriage--that he had passed in London as unmarried? It was an uglyand uncomfortable 'if. ' Did he shrink from the possible blow toher--or the possible trouble to himself? Well, she must not find itout! It had been a wretched sort of accident, and before it could doany harm it should be amended. 

Suddenly, a sound of angry water. They were close on the lake, andwaves driven by the wind were plashing on the shore. Across the lake, a light in a house-window shone through the storm, the only reminderof human life amid a dark wilderness of mountains. Wild sounds crashedthrough the trees; and accompanying the tumult of water came therattle of a bitter rain lashing the road, the cart, and their bentshoulders. 

'There'll not be a dry stitch on us soon, ' said Fenwick, presently, tothe young man beside him. 

'Aye, it's dampish, ' said his companion, cheerfully. 

The caution of the adjective set Fenwick grinning. The North found andgripped him; these are not the ways of the South. 

And in a moment the sense of contrast, thus provoked, had carried himfar--out of the Westmoreland night, back to London, and his shabbystudio in Bernard Street. There, throned on a low platform, sat Madamede Pastourelles; and to her right, himself, sitting crouched beforehis easel, working with all his eyes and all his mind. The memory ofher was, as it were, physically stamped upon his sight, his hands;such an intensity of study had he given to every detail of her faceand form. Did he like her? He didn't know. There were a number ofcurious resentments in his mind with regard to her. Several times inthe course of their acquaintance she had cheapened or humiliated himin his own eyes; and the sensation had been of a sharpness as yetunknown to him. 

Of course, there was in it, one way or another, an aristocraticinsolence! There must be: to move so delicately and immaculatelythrough life, with such superfine perceptions, must mean that you werebrought up to scorn the common way, and those who walk in it. 'Thepoor in a lump are bad'--coarse and ill-mannered at any rate--thatmust be the real meaning of her soft dignity, so friendly yet soremote, her impossibly ethereal standards, her light words that sooften 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-hour sketch of her. Hetriumphed in the remembrance that she and Lord Findon had found thesketch so remarkable that, when he had timidly proposed a portrait inoils, Lord Findon himself had persuaded her to sit. Since that momenthis work on the portrait, immediately begun, had absorbed him to sucha 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 Pastourelles being away, and he in a mood to destroy all that he had done, he had suddenlyspent a stray earning on a railway ticket to Paris. 

There--excitement!--illumination!--and a whole fresh growth ofambition! Some of the mid-century portraits in the Luxembourg, and ina loan exhibition then open in the Rue Royale, excited him so thathe lost sleep and appetite. The work of Bastien-Lepage was also tobe seen; and the air rang with the cries of Impressionism. But thebeautiful surface of the older men held him. How to combine thebreadth 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 feelhimself so tongue-tied in the presence of this cosmopolitan culture ofhers, which she did her feminine best to disguise--which neverthelessmade the atmosphere of her personality. She had lived some six yearsin Paris, it appeared; and had known most of the chief artists andmen of letters. Fenwick writhed under his ignorance of the Frenchlanguage; 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 showedlittle. And indeed she led him on. Upon his art he had a rightto speak, and the keen intellectual interest she betrayed in hisimpressions--the three days impressions of a painter--stirred andflattered him. 

But he made a great many rather ludicrous mistakes, inevitable to onewho had just taken a first canter through the vast field of Frenchart; 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 absurdly, orexcuse it elaborately. She soon gave up correcting him, even in thegentle, hesitating way she at first made use of. She said nothing; butthere was sometimes mischief, perhaps mockery, in her eyes. Fenwickknew it; and would either make fresh plunges, or paint on in a sulkysilence. 

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 toher. At any rate, she had made him feel in some intangible way thatit seemed to her a dishonourable thing to be writing anonymous attacksupon a body from whom you were asking, or intending to ask, exhibitionspace for your pictures and the chance of selling your work. Hisauthorship was never avowed between them. Nevertheless this criticismannoyed and pricked him. He said to himself that it was just like awoman--who always took the personal view. But he had not yet begun onhis last two articles, which were overdue. 

On one occasion, encouraged perhaps by some kindness of expressionon her part, he had ventured an indirect question or two, meant toprocure him some information about her past history and present wayof life. She had rebuffed him at once; and he had said to himselffiercely that it was of course because he was a man of the peopleand she one of 'the upper ten. ' He might paint her; but he must notpresume to know her!

On the other hand, his mind was still warm with memories of herencouragement, her praise. Sometimes in their talks he would put theportrait aside, and fall to sketching for her--either to illustratehis memories of pictures, or things noticed in French life andlandscapes. And as the charcoal worked; as he forgot himself inhurried speech, and those remarks fell from him which are the naturaloutcome of a painter's experience, vivacious also and touched withliterature; then her brown eyes would lighten and soften, and foronce his mind would feel exultant that it moved with hers on equalterms--nay, that he was teacher and she taught. Whenever there emergedin him the signs of that demonic something that makes greatnessshe would be receptive, eager, humble even. But again his commoner, coarser side, his mere lack of breeding, would reappear; and she wouldfall back on her cold or gentle defensiveness. Thus protected by whathis wrath called 'airs, ' she was a mystery to him, yet a mystery thattamed and curbed him. He had never dreamt 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; andthrough Madame de Pastourelles certain sublimities or delicacies ofpoetry 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 hourhe was all restlessness to resume his task, the next it was a reliefto be temporarily quit of it. As for Lord Findon, except for a certainteasing vagueness on the business side of things, he had shown himselfa good friend. Several times since the first variegated evening hadFenwick dined with them, mostly _en famille_. Lady Findon, indeed, hadbeen away, nursing an invalid father; Madame de Pastourellesfilled her place. The old fellow would talk freely--politics, connoisseurship, art. Fenwick too was allowed his head, and saidhis say; though always surrounded and sometimes chafing underthat discipline of good society which is its only or its bestjustification. It flattered his vanity enormously, however, to be thuswithin touch of the inner circle in politics and art; for the Findonshad relations and friends in all the foremost groups of both; andincidentally Fenwick, who had the grudges and some of the dreams ofthe democrat, was beginning to have a glimpse of the hidden springsand powers of English society--to his no small bewilderment often!

Great luck--he admitted--all this--for a nameless artist of thepeople, only six months in London. He owed it to Cuningham, andbelieved himself grateful. Cuningham was often at the Findons, made apoint, indeed, of going. Was it to maintain his place with them, andto keep Fenwick under observation? Fenwick triumphantly believedthat Lord Findon greatly preferred his work--and even, by now, hisconversation--to Cuningham's. But he was still envious of Cuningham'ssmooth tact, and agreeable, serviceable ways. 

As to Welby and his place in the Findon circle, that was anothermatter altogether. He came and went as he pleased, on brotherly termswith the son and the younger daughters, clearly an object of greataffection to Lord Findon, and often made use of by her ladyship. What was the degree of friendship between him and Madame dePastourelles?--that had been already the subject of many meditationson Fenwick's part. 

The cart deposited the school-boy in Brathay and started again forLangdale. 

'Yo couldna get at Langdale for t' snaw lasst week, ' said the youngfarmer, as they turned a corner into the Skelwith Valley. 'T' roadswere fair choked wi't. '

'It's been an early winter, ' said Fenwick. 

'Aye, 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, andthe trees clashed and moaned overhead. Not a house, not a light, upontheir path--only swirling darkness, opening now and then on that highglimmer of the snow. Fresh from London streets, where winter, even ifit attack in force, is so soon tamed and conquered, Fenwick was forthe first time conscious of the harsher, wilder aspects of his nativeland. Poor Phoebe! Had she been a bit lonesome in the snow and rain?

The steep lane to the cottage was still deep in snow. The cart couldnot 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 Phoebe, with the child in her arms, stood on the threshold. 

'John!'

'Yes! God bless my soul, what a night!' He reached the door, put downhis umbrella with difficulty, and dragged his bag into the passage. Then, in a moment, his coat was off and he had thrown his arm roundher and the child. It seemed to him that she was curiously quiet andrestrained. But she kissed him in return, drew him further within thelittle 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 andlamp, the table spread, and his chair beside the blaze. Kneeling down, she tried to unlace his wet boots. 

'No, no!' he said, holding her away--'I'll do that, Phoebe. What'swrong with you?--you look so--so queer!'

She straightened herself, and with a laugh put back her fair hair. Herface was very pale--a greyish pallor--and her wonderful eyes staredfrom it in an odd, strained way. 

'Oh, I'm all right, ' she said; and she turned away from him to thefire, opening the oven-door to see whether the meat-pie was done. 

'How have you kept in this weather?' he said, watching her. 'I'd nonotion you'd had it so bad. '

'Oh, I don't know. I suppose I've had a chill or something. It's beenrather weariful. '

'You didn't tell me anything about your chill. '

'Didn't I? It seems hardly worth while telling such things, from sucha distance. Will you have supper at once?'

He drew up to the table, and she fed him and hovered round him, askingthe while about his work, in a rather perfunctory way, about his roomsand the price of them, inquiring after the state of his clothes. Buther tone and manner were unlike herself, and there was in his mind aprotesting consciousness that she had not welcomed him as a young wifeshould after a long separation. Her manner too was extraordinarilynervous; her hand shook as she touched a plate; her movements werefull of starts, and checks, as though, often, she intended a thing andthen forgot it. 

They avoided talking about money, and he did not mention the name ofMadame de Pastourelles; though of course his letters had reported theexternal history of the portrait. But Phoebe presently inquired afterit. 

'Have you nearly done painting that lady, John?--I don't know how tosay her name. '

As she spoke, she lifted a bit of bread-and-butter to her mouth andput it down untasted. In the same way she had tried to drink some tea, and had not apparently succeeded. Fenwick rose and went over to her. 

'Look here, Phoebe, ' he said, putting his hand on her beautiful hairand 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 Isuppose I haven't got over it. '

'A fright?'

'Yes. There was a tramp one night came to the door. I half-openedit--and his face was so horrible I tried to shut it again at once. Andhe struggled with me, but I was strongest. Then he tried to get inat the window, but luckily I had fastened the iron bar across theshutter--and the back door. But it all held, mercifully. He couldn'tget in. Then he abused me through the door, and said he would havekilled me and the child, if he could have got in--and some day hewould come again. ' She shuddered. 

Fenwick had turned pale. With his painter's imagination he saw thething--the bestial man outside, the winter night, the slender formwithin pressing against the door and the bolt--

'Look here, ' he said, abruptly. 'We can't have this. Somebody mustsleep here. Did you tell the police?'

'Yes, I wrote--to Ambleside. They sent a man over to see me. But theycouldn't catch him. He's probably left the country. I got a bell'--sheopened her eyes, and pointed to it. 'If I rang it, they might hear itdown 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. Hereturned to his place, repeating with a frowning energy--'You musthave some one to sleep here. '

'Daisy would come--if I'd pay her. '

Daisy was their little servant of the summer, the daughter of aquarryman near by. 

'Well, pay her!'

She drew herself up sharply. 'I haven't got the money--and you alwayssay, 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 particularlyaffectionate. He was horribly discomposed indeed, could not get theterrible image out of his mind. But as he went on with his supper, theshock of it mingled with a good many critical or reproachful thoughts. Why had she persisted in staying on in Langdale, instead of going toher father? All that foolish dislike of her stepmother! It had beenopen to her to stay in her father's farm, with plenty of company. Ifshe wouldn't, was _he_ to blame if the cottage was lonesome?

But as though she divined this secret debate she presently 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 begoing into a consumption. '

'Doctors'll say anything!' cried Fenwick, wrathfully. 'If ever therewas a strong man, it's your father. Don't you believe any croaking ofthat sort, Phoebe. '

She shook her head. 

'He looks so changed, ' she said; and began drawing with her finger onthe tablecloth. He saw that her lips were trembling. A strong impulseworked in him, bidding him go to her again, kiss away her tears, andsay--'Hang everything! Come with me to London, and let's sink or swimtogether. '

Instead of which some perverse cross-current hurried him into thewords:

'He'd be all right if you'd go and nurse him, Phoebe. '

'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 thetime. '

'I expect you imagined that. '

Phoebe's face flushed angrily. 

'I didn't!' she said, shortly. 'Everybody in the house knew it. '

The meal went on rather silently. Fenwick's conscience saidto him, 'Take her back with you!--whatever happens, take her toLondon--she's moping her life out here. ' And an inner voice clamouredin reply--'Take her to those rooms?--in the very middle of thestruggle with those two pictures?--go through all the agitationand discomfort of explanations with Lord Findon and Madame dePastourelles?--run the risk of estranging them, and of distractingyour own mind from your work at this critical moment?--the furtherrisk, moreover, of Phoebe's jealousy?'

For in her present nervous and fidgety state she would very likely bejealous of his sitter, and of the way in which Madame de Pastourelles'portrait possessed his mind. No, it really couldn't be done!--itreally _couldn't!_ He must finish the two pictures--persuade LordFindon to buy the 'Genius Loci, ' and make the portrait such a successthat he must needs buy that too. Then let discovery come on; it shouldfind him steeled. 

Meanwhile, Phoebe must have a servant, and not any mere slip of agirl, but some one who would be a companion and comfort. He beganto talk of it, eagerly, only to find that Phoebe took but a languidinterest in the idea. 

She could think of no one--wanted no one, but Daisy. Again his secretill-humour waxed and justified itself. It was unreasonable and selfishthat 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, observing him, and every now and then applying her pink lips to some morsel he heldout to her on his fork. He had kissed her, and tossed her, and she wasnow sitting in his pocket. But after these eight months the child offour was shy and timid with this unfamiliar father. He on his side sawthat she was prettier than before; his eye delighted in some of therarer and lovelier lines of her little face; and he felt a fatherlypride. He must make some fresh studies of her; the child in the'Genius Loci' might be improved. 

After supper, Phoebe seemed to him so pale and tottering that he madeher rest beside the fire, while he himself cleared the supper-thingsaway. She lay back in her chair, laughing at his awkwardness, orstarting up when china clashed. 

Meanwhile, as in their farewell talk beside the ghyll eight monthsbefore, her mood gradually and insensibly changed. Whatever unlovingthoughts or resentments had held her in the first hour of theirmeeting, however strong had been the wish to show him that she hadbeen lonely and suffering, she could not resist what to her was themagic of his presence. As he moved about in the low, firelit room, andshe watched him, her whole nature melted; and he knew it. 

Presently she took the child upstairs. He waited for her, hanging overthe fire--listening to the storm outside--and thinking, thinking--

When she reappeared, and he, looking round, saw her standing in thedoorway, so tall and slender, her pale face and hair coloured by theglow of the fire, passion and youth spoke in him once more. 

He sprang up and caught her in his arms. Presently, sitting in the oldarmchair beside the blaze, he had gathered her on his knee, and shehad 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 thewindows, and a cheerless storm-light in the tiny rooms--the hardfacts of the situation resumed their sway. In the first place moneyquestions had to be faced. Fenwick made the most of his expectations;but at best they were no more, and how to live till they becamecertainties was the problem. If Lord Findon had commissioned theportrait, or definitely said he would purchase the 'Genius Loci, 'some advance might have been asked for. As it was, how could moneybe mentioned yet a while? Phoebe had a fine and costly piece ofembroidery on hand, commissioned through an 'Art Industry' started atWindermere the summer before; but it could not be finished for someweeks, possibly months, and the money Fenwick proposed to earn duringhis fortnight in the North by some illustrations long overdue had beenalready largely forestalled. He gloomily made up his mind to appealto an old cousin in Kendal, the widow of a grocer, said to be richlyleft, who had once in his boyhood given him five shillings. With muchdistaste he wrote the letter and walked to Elterwater in the rainto post it. Then he tried to work; but little Carrie, fractious fromconfinement indoors, was troublesome and disturbed him. Phoebe, too, would make remarks on his drawing which seemed to him inept. In olddays he would have laughed at her for pretending to know, and turnedit off with a kiss. Now what she said set him on edge. The talk he hadbeen living amongst had spoilt him for silly criticisms. Moreover, for the first time he detected in her a slight tone of the'schoolmarm'--didactic and self-satisfied, without knowledge. Themeasure Madame de Pastourelles had dealt out to him, he in some sortavenged on Phoebe. 

At the same time there were much more serious causes of difference. Each had a secret from the other. Fenwick's secret was that he hadfoolishly passed in London as an unmarried man, and that he could nottake Phoebe back with him, because of the discomforts and risks inwhich a too early avowal of her would involve him. He was morbidlyconscious of this; brooded over it, and magnified it. 

She on the other hand was tormented by a fixed idea--already inexistence at the time of their first parting, but much strengthened byloneliness and fretting--that he was tired of her and not unwilling tobe without her. The joy of their meeting banished it for a time, butit soon came back. She had never acquiesced in the wisdom of theirseparation; and to question it was to resent it more and moredeeply--to feel his persistence in it a more cruel offence, month bymonth. Her pride prevented her from talking of it; but the sorenessof her grievance invaded their whole relation. And in her moral unrestshe showed faults which had been scarcely visible in their earlymarried years--impatience, temper, suspicion, a readiness to magnifysmall troubles whether of health or circumstance. 

During her months alone she had been reading many novels of anindifferent sort, which the carrier brought her from the lendinglibrary 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 haddone her harm, made her more nervous and difficult. But at night, whenhe had done his work, he never took any trouble to read to her, or totalk to her about other than household things. He smoked or drew insilence; and she sat over her embroidery, lost in morbid reverie. 

One morning he discovered amongst her books a paper-covered 'Life ofRomney'--a short compilation issued by a local bookseller. 

'Why, whatever did you get this for, Phoebe?' he said, holding it up. 

She looked up from her mending, and coloured. '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--'therewas 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-defiantsmile--'and leaving her behind!'

'Oh! so you think that's like me?' he said, seating himself again athis drawing. 

'It's rather like. '

'You suppose you're going to be left here for thirty years?' Helaughed as he spoke. 

She laughed too, but not gaily--with a kind of defiance. 

'Well, it wouldn't be quite as easy now, would it?--with trains, andall that. There were only coaches then, I suppose. Now, London's sonear. '

'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 threemonths' time, things will be all right and square again. '

'I dare say, ' she said, sighing. 

'Why can't you wait cheerfully?' he asked, ratherexasperated--'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 drewherself together. 'You've never shown me your studies of that--thatlady--John; you said you would. '

Relieved at the change of subject, he took a sketch-book out of hispocket and gave it to her. It contained a number of 'notes' for hisportrait of Madame de Pastourelles--sketches of various poses, aspectsof the head and face, arrangements of the hands, and so forth. Phoebepondered 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 hereyes. Is her hair like mine?'

'No, not nearly so good. '

'Ah, if I could only do it as prettily as she does!' 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 prettywell at the top. '

Phoebe asked various other questions, then fell silent, stillpondering the sketches. After a while she put down her work and cameto sit on a stool beside Fenwick, sometimes laying her goldenhead against his knee, or stretching out her hand to touch his. Heresponded affectionately enough; but as the winter twilight deepenedin the little room, Phoebe's eyes, fixed upon the fire, resumed theirmelancholy discontent. She was less necessary to him even than before;she knew by a thousand small signs that the forces which possessed hismind--perhaps his heart!--were not now much concerned with her. 

She tried to control, to school herself. But the flame within wasnot to be quenched--was, indeed, perpetually finding fresh fuel. Howquietly he had taken the story of the tramp's attack upon her!--whichstill, 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 hehad arranged that the little servant, Daisy, should come to her whenhe left. But if he had merely caught her to him with oneshuddering cry of love and rage--that would have been worth all hisprecautions!--would have effaced the nightmare, and filled her heart. 

As to his intellectual life, she was now much more conscious of herexclusion from it than she ever had been in their old life together. 

For it was a consciousness quickened by jealousy. Little as Fenwicktalked about Madame de Pastourelles, Phoebe understood perfectly thatshe was a woman of high education and refinement, and that her storedand subtle mind was at once an attraction and a cause of humiliationto John. And through his rare stories of the Findon household and theFindon 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 for evershut out from it--to knowing it from his report only. How could sheever hold her own with such people? He would talk with them, paintthem, dine with them, while she sat at home--Carrie's nurse, and thedomestic drudge. 

And yet she was of that type which represents perhaps the mostambitious element in the lower middle class. It had been a greatmatter that she, a small farmer's daughter, should pass herexaminations and rise to be a teacher in Miss Mason's school. She hadhad her triumphs and conceits; had been accustomed to think herselfclever and successful, to hold her head high amongst her schoolmates. Whereas now, if she tried to talk of art or books, she was hotly awarethat everything she said was, in John's eyes, pretentious orabsurd. He was comparing her with others all the time, with menand women--women especially--in whose presence he felt himself asdiffident as she did in his. He was thinking of ladies in velvetdresses and diamonds, who could talk wittily of pictures and theatresand books, who could amuse him and distract him. And meanwhile _she_went about in her old stuff dress, her cotton apron and rolled-upsleeves, cooking and washing and cleaning--for her child and for him. She felt through every nerve that he was constantly aware of detailsof dress or _ménage_ that jarred upon him; she suspected miserablythat all her little personal ways and habits seemed to him ugly andcommon; and the suspicion showed itself in pride or _brusquerie_. 

Meanwhile, if she had been _restful_, if he could only have forgottenhis cares in her mere youth and prettiness, Fenwick would have beeneasily master of his discontents. For he was naturally of a warm, sensuous temper. Had the woman understood her own arts, she could haveheld 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 ofan all-questioning thought and culture, she had been turning toEvangelical religion for consolation. There was a new minister in aBaptist chapel a mile or two away, of whom she talked, whose servicesshe attended. The very mention of him presently became a boredomto Fenwick. The new influence had no effect upon her jealousies anddiscontents; but it re-enforced a natural asceticism, and weakenedwhatever power she possessed of playing on a husband's passion. Meanwhile, Fenwick was partly aware of her state of mind, and farfrom happy himself. His conscience pricked him; but such prickings aresmall help to love. Often he found himself guiltily brooding over LordFindon's tirades against the early marriages of artists. There wasa horrid truth in them. No doubt an artist should wait till hiscircumstances were worthy of his gifts; and then marry a woman whocould understand and help him on. 

Nor was even the child a binding influence. Fenwick in this visitbecame for the first time a fond father. A certain magic in the littleCarrie flattered his vanity and excited his hopes. He drew her manytimes, and prophesied confidently that she would be a beauty. But, in his secret opinion, she was spoilt and mismanaged; and he talked agood deal to Phoebe about her bringing-up, theorising and haranguingin his usual way. Phoebe listened generally with impatience, resentinginterference with her special domain. And often, when she saw thefather and child together, a fresh and ugly misery would raise itshead. Would he in time set even Carrie against her--teach the child tolook down upon its mother?

One day he returned from Ambleside, pale and excited--bringing aManchester paper. 

'Phoebe!' he called, from the gate. 

Startled by something in his voice, Phoebe ran out to him. 

'Phoebe, an awful thing's happened! Old Morrison's--dead! Look here!'

And he showed her a paragraph headed 'Defalcations and suicide. ' Itdescribed how Mr. James Morrison, the chief cashier of the BartonburyBank, had committed suicide immediately after the discovery by thebank authorities of large falsifications in the bank accounts. Mr. Morrison had shot himself, leaving a statement acknowledging a longcourse of fraudulent dealings with the funds entrusted to him, and pleading with his employers for his wife and daughter. 'Greatsympathy, ' said the _Guardian_ reporter, 'is felt in Bartonbury withMrs. Morrison, whose character has always been highly respected. But, indeed, the whole family occupied a high position, and the shock tothe locality has been great. ' On which followed particulars of thefrauds and a long report of the inquest. 

Phoebe was struck with horror. She lingered over the paper, commenting, exclaiming; while Fenwick sat staring into the fire, hishands 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'll be all right. I must think about it. There'll be no hurry. '

'Did Mrs. Morrison know--about the loan?'

'I dare say. I never heard. '

'I suppose she and the daughter'll have nothing?'

'That doesn't follow at all. Very likely he'd settled something onthem, which can't be touched. A man like that generally does. '

'Poor things!' she said, shuddering. 'But, John--you'll pay it back toMrs. Morrison?'

'Of course I shall, ' he said, impatiently--'in due time. But pleaseremember, Phoebe, that's my affair. Don't you talk of it--_to anyone_. '

He looked up to emphasise his words. 

Phoebe flushed. 

'I wasn't going to talk of it to any one, ' she said, proudly, as shemoved away. 

Presently he took up his hat again and went out, that he might bealone with his thoughts. The rain had vanished; and a frosty sunshinesparkled on the fells, on the red bracken and the foaming becks. Hetook the mountain-path which led past the ghyll, up to the ridgewhich separates Langdale from Grasmere and Easedale. Morrison's finelywrinkled face, with its blue, complacent eyes and thin nose, hoveredbefore him--now as he remembered it in life, and now as he imagined itin death. Hard fate! There had been an adventurous, poetic element inMorrison--something beyond the ken of the ordinary Philistine--andit had come to this. Fenwick remembered him among the drawings he hadcollected. Real taste--real sense of beauty--combined no doubt withthe bargaining instinct and a natural love of chicanery. Moreover, Fenwick believed that, so far as a grasping temper would allow, therehad been a genuine wish to help undiscovered talent. He thought of thehand which had given him the check, and had a vision of it holdingthe revolver--of the ghastly, solitary end. And no one hadguessed--unless, indeed, it were his wife? Perhaps that look ofhers--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 thispotentiality of a double life--it is only a question of less or more. 

Suddenly he coloured, as he saw _himself_ thus writ double--firstas he appeared to Madame de Pastourelles, and then as he appeared toPhoebe. Masquerading was easy, it seemed; and conscience made littlefuss! Instantly, however, the inner man rebelled against the impliedcomparison of himself with Morrison. An accidental concealment, acquiesced in temporarily, for business reasons--what had that incommon with villainy like Morrison's? An awkward affair, no doubt; andhe had been a fool to slip into it. But in a few weeks he would put itright--come what would. 

As to the debt--he tried to fight against a feeling ofdeliverance--but clearly he need be in no hurry to pay it. He had beenliving in dread of Morrison's appearing in Bernard Street to claimhis bond--revealing Phoebe's existence perhaps to ears unprepared--andlaying greedy hands upon the 'Genius Loci. ' It would have been hard tokeep him off it--unless Lord Findon had promptly come forward--and itwould have been odious to yield it to him. 'Now I shall take my time. 'Of course, ultimately, he would repay the money to Mrs. Morrison andBella. But better, even in their interests, to wait a while, tillthere could be no question of any other claim to it. 

So from horror he passed to a personal relief, of which he was ratherashamed, and then again to a real uneasy pity for the wife and forthe vulgar daughter who had so bitterly resented his handling of hercharms. He remembered the note in which she had acknowledged the finaldelivery of her portrait. In obedience to Morrison's suggestion, hehad kept it by him a few days; and then, either unable or proudlyunwilling to alter it, he had returned it to its owner. Whereupon afurious note from Miss Bella, which--knowing that her father took noaccount of her tempers--Fenwick had torn up with a laugh. It was clearthat 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 andpersonal insult--a sign that he disliked her and meant to humiliateher. It was an odd variety of the _spretae injuria formae_. Fenwickhad never been in the least penitent for his behaviour. The picturewas true, clever--and the best he could do. It was no painter'sbusiness 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 tofind it out. 

Poor girl!--what husband now would venture on such a termagantwife?--penniless too, and disgraced! He would like to help her, andher mother--for Morrison's sake. Stirred by a fleeting impulse, hebegan to scheme how he might become their benefactor, as Morrison hadbeen his. 

Then, as he raised his eyes from the path--with a rush of delighthe noticed the flood of afternoon sunlight pouring on the steepfell-side, the sharp black shadows thrown by wall and tree, thebrilliance of the snow along the topmost ridge. He raced along, casting the Morrisons out of his thoughts, forgetting everythingbut the joy of atmosphere and light--the pleasure of his physicalstrength. Near one of the highest crags he came upon a shepherd-boyand his dog collecting some sheep. The collie ran hither and thitherwith the marvellous shrewdness of his breed, circling, heading, driving; the stampede of the sheep, as they fled before him, could beheard along the fell. The sun played upon the flock, turning its dirtygrey to white, caught the little figure of the shepherd-boy, as hestood shouting and waving, or glittered on the foaming stream besidehim. Purple shadows bathed the fell beyond--and on its bosom therustic scene emerged--a winter idyl. 

Fenwick sat down upon a rock, ransacked his pockets for sketch-bookand paints, and began to sketch. When he had made his 'note, ' he satlost a while in the pleasure of his own growing skill and sharpeningperceptions, and dreaming of future 'subjects. ' A series of'Westmoreland months, ' illustrating the seasons among the fells andthe life of the dalesmen, ran through his mind. Nature appeared to hisexultant sense as a vast treasure-house stored for him only--a mineinexhaustible offered to his craftsman's hand. For him the sweepinghues, the intricate broideries--green or russet, red or purple--ofthis winter world!--for him the delicacy of the snow, the pale azureof the sky, the cloud-shadows, the white becks, the winding river inthe valley floor, the purple crags, the lovely accents of light andshade, the hints of composition that wooed his eager eye. Who was itthat said 'Composition is the art of preserving the accidental look'?Clever fellow!--there was the right thing said, for once! And so heslipped into a reverie, which was really one of those moments--plasticand fruitful--by which the artist makes good his kinship with 'thegreat of old, ' his right to his own place in the unending chain. 

Strange!--from that poverty of feeling in which he had consideredthe Morrison tragedy--from his growing barrenness of heart towardsPhoebe--he had sprung at a bound into this ecstasy, this expansion ofthe whole man. It brought with it a vivid memory of the pictures hewas engaged upon. By the time he turned homeward, and the light wasfailing, he was counting the days till he could return to London--andto work. 

 * * * * *

There was still, however, another week of his holiday to run. He wroteto Mrs. Morrison a letter which cost him much pains, expressing asympathy that he really felt. He got on with his illustration work, and extracted a further advance upon it. And the old cousin in Kendalproved unexpectedly generous. She wrote him a long Scriptural letter, rating him for disobedience to his father, and warning him againstdebt; but she lent him twenty pounds, so that, for the present, Phoebecould be left in comparative comfort, and he had something in hispocket. 

Yet with this easing of circumstance, the relation between husband andwife did not improve. During this last week, indeed, Phoebe teasedhim to make a sketch of himself to leave with her. He began itunwillingly, then got interested, and finally made a vigorous sketch, as ample as their largest looking-glass would allow, with which he wasextremely pleased. Phoebe delighted in it, hung it up proudly in theparlour, and repaid him with smiles and kisses. 

Yet the very next day, under the cloud of his impending departure, shewent about pale and woe-begone, on the verge of tears or temper. Hewas provoked into various harsh speeches, and Phoebe felt that despairwhich weak and loving women know, when parting is near, and theyforesee the hour beyond parting--when each unkind word and look, toowell remembered, will gnaw and creep about the heart. 

But she could not restrain herself. Nervous tension, doubt of herhusband, and condemnation of herself drove her on. The very last nightthere was a quarrel--about the child--whom Fenwick had punished forsome small offence. Phoebe hotly defended her--first with tears, thenwith passion. For the first time these two people found themselveslooking into each other's eyes with rage, almost with hate. Then theykissed and made up, terrified at the abyss which had yawned betweenthem; and when the moment came, Phoebe went through the partingbravely. 

But when Fenwick had gone, and the young wife sat alone beside thecottage fire, the January darkness outside seemed to her the naturalsymbol of her own bitter foreboding. Why had he left her? There wasno reason in it, as she had said. But there must be some reason behindit. And slowly, in the firelight, she fell to brooding over the imageof that pale classical face, as she had seen it in the sketch-book. John had talked quite frankly about Madame de Pastourelles--not likea man beguiled; making no mystery of her at all, answering allquestions. But his restlessness to get back to London had beenextraordinary. Was it merely the restlessness of the artist?

This was Tuesday. To-morrow Madame de Pastourelles was to come to asitting. Phoebe sat picturing it; while the curtain of rain descendedonce more upon the cottage, blotting out the pikes, and washing downthe sodden fields. 

CHAPTER VI

'I must alter that fold over the arm, ' murmured Fenwick, steppingback, with a frown, and gazing hard at the picture on his easel--'it'stoo 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 beensitting for an hour and a half. Her hands and feet were frozen, andthe fur cloak which she wore over her white dress had to be thrownback for the convenience of the painter, who was at work on the velvetfolds. 

Meanwhile, on the further side of the room sat 'propriety'--alsoshivering--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, numbedfingers lightly crossed on her lap. Her wonderful velvet dress, ofivory-white, fell about her austerely in long folds, which, as theybent or overlapped, made beautiful convolutions, firm yet subtle, onthe side turned towards the painter, and over her feet. The classicalhead, with its small ear, the pale yet shining face, combined withthe dress to suggest a study in ivory, wrought to a great delicacy andpurity. Only the eyes, much darker than the hair, and the rich brownof the sable cloak where it touched the white, gave accent and forceto the ethereal pallor, the supreme refinement, of the rest--face, dress, hands. Nothing but civilisation in its most complex workingscould have produced such a type; that was what prevailed dimly inFenwick's mind as he wrestled with his picture. Sometimes his day'swork left him exultant, sometimes in a hell of despair. 

'I went to see Mr. Welby's studio yesterday, ' he said, hastily, afteranother 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 coloured 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 coloured wax. '

'Of course there is a decorative convention in his painting'--her tonewas a little stiff--'but so there is in all painting. '

Fenwick shrugged his shoulders. 

'Go and look at Rubens--or Velasquez. '

[Illustration: _Eugénie_]

'Why not at Leonardo--and Raphael?'

'Because they are not _moderns_--and we can't get back into theirskins. 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 onlyfashion--or something else--that makes you like this archaisticstuff!' But he restrained himself, and they fell into a skirmish, inwhich, as usual, he came off badly. As soon as he perceived it, hebecame rather heated and noisy, trying to talk her down. Whereupon shesprang up, came down from her pedestal to look at the picture, calledmademoiselle to see--praised--laughed--and all was calm again. OnlyFenwick was left once more reflecting that she was Welby's championthrough thick and thin. And this ruffled him. 

'Did Mr. Welby study mostly in Italy?' he asked her presently, as hefetched a hand-glass, in which to examine his morning's work. 

'Mostly--but also in Vienna. '

And, to keep the ball rolling, she described a travel-year--apparentlybefore 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. Theexperiences she described roused a kind of secret exasperation inFenwick. And what was really resentment against the meagreness ofhis own lot showed itself, as usual, in jealousy. He said somethingcontemptuous of this foreign training for an artist--so much concernedwith galleries and Old Masters. Much better that he should use hiseyes upon his own country and its types; that had been enough for allthe best men. 

Madame de Pastourelles politely disagreed with him; then, to changethe subject, she talked of some of the humours and incidents oftheir stay in Vienna--the types of Viennese society--the Emperor, thebeautiful mad Empress, the Archdukes, the priests--and also ofsome hurried visits to Hungarian country houses in winter, of thecosmopolitan luxury and refinement to be found there, ringed byforests and barbarism. 

Fenwick listened greedily, and presently inquired whether Mr. Welbyhad 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 suddenroughness. 

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--'weweren'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 presently a little tact, a few questions on her part had broughtout some of his own early history--his mother's death--his years ofstruggle with his father. As he talked on--disjointedly--paintinghard all the time, she had a vision of the Kendal shop and itscustomers--of the shrewd old father, moulded by the business, theavarice, the religion of an English country town, with a Calvinistcontempt for art and artists--and trying vainly to coerce his sulkyand rebellious son. 

'Has your father seen these pictures?' She pointed to the 'GeniusLoci' on its further 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?'

'Aye, that's North-Country. If you've once committed yourself, youstick to it--like death. '

She declared that it might be North-Country, but was none the lessbarbarous. However, of course it would all come right. All theinteresting tales of one's childhood began that way--with a cruelfather, and a rebellious son. But they came to magnificent ends, notwithstanding--with sacks of gold and a princess. Diffident, yetsmiling, she drew conclusions. 'So, you see, you'll make money--you'llbe an R. A. --you'll _marry_--and Mr. Fenwick will nurse thegrandchildren. I assure you--that's the fairy-tale way. '

Fenwick, who had flushed hotly, turned away and occupied himself inreplenishing his palette. 

'Papa, of course, would say--Don't marry till you're a hundred andtwo!' she resumed. 'But pray, don't listen to him. '

'I dare say he's right, ' said Fenwick, returning to his easel, hisface bent over it. 

'Not at all. People should have their youth together. '

'That's all very well. But many men don't know at twenty what they'llwant at thirty, ' said Fenwick, painting fast. 

Madame de Pastourelles laughed. 

'The doctors say nowadays--it is papa's latest craze--that it doesn'tmatter what you eat--or how little--if you only chew it properly. Iwonder if that applies to matrimony?'

'What's the chewing?'

'Manners, ' she said, laughing--'that you think so little of. Whetherthe 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 meany persons, please, that want them more!'

'The people I've been living among, ' said Fenwick, with sharppersistence, 'haven't got time for fussing about manners--in the senseyou mean. Life's too hard. '

A flush of bright colour sprang into her face. But she held herground. 

'What do you suppose I mean? I don't meant court trains andcourtesies--I really don't. '

Fenwick was silent a moment, and then said--aggressively--' We can'tall of us have the same chances--as Mr. Welby, for instance. '

Madame de Pastourelles looked at him in astonishment. What anextraordinary obsession! They seemed not to be able to escape fromArthur Welby's name: yet it never cropped up without producing somesign of irritation in this strange young man. Poor Arthur!--who hadalways shown himself so ready to make friends, whenever the twomen met--as they often did--in the St. James's Square drawing-room. Fenwick's antagonism, indeed, had been plain to her for some time. It was natural, she supposed; he was clearly very sensitive on thesubject of his own humble origin and bringing-up; but she sighed thata perverse youth should so mismanage his opportunities. 

As to 'chances, ' she declared rather tartly that they had nothing todo with it. It was natural to Arthur Welby to make himself agreeable. 

'Yes--like all other kinds of aristocrats, ' said Fenwick, grimly. 

Madame de Pastourelles frowned. 

'Of all the words in the dictionary--that word is the mostdetestable!' she declared. 'It ought to be banished. Well, thankgoodness, it _is_ generally banished. '

'That's only because we all like to hide our heads in the sand--youwho possess the privileges--and we who envy them!'

'I vow I don't possess any privileges at all, ' she said, withdefiance. 

'You say so, because you breathe them--live in them--like theair--without knowing it, ' said Fenwick, also trying to speak lightly. Then he added, suddenly putting down his palette and brushes, whilehis black eyes lightened--'And so does Mr. Welby. You can see fromhis pictures that he doesn't know anything about common, coarsepeople--_real_ people--who make up the world. He paints wax, and callsit life; and you--'

'Go on!--_please_ go on!'

'I shall only make a fool of myself, ' he said, taking up his brushesagain. 

'Not at all. And I praise humbug?--and call it manners?'

He paused, then blurted out--'I wouldn't say anything rude to you forthe world!'

She smiled--a smile that turned all the delicate severity of her faceto sweetness. 'That's very nice of you. But if you knew Mr. Welbybetter, you'd never want to say anything rude to _him_ either!'

Fenwick was silent. Madame de Pastourelles, feeling that for themoment she also had come to the end of her tether, fell into areverie, from which she was presently roused by finding Fenwickstanding 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 whichshe had no key. 'Shall I show you something I like much better?' shesaid, with quick resource. And drawing towards her a small portfolioshe 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 fruitand bloom--an exquisite piece of work, of a Japanese truth, intricacy, and perfection. Fenwick looked at it in silence. These silver-pointdrawings of Welby's were already famous. In the preceding May therehad been an exhibition of them at an artistic club. At the top ofthe 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 eyes had caught theinscription, she rather hastily withdrew the sketch and returned it tothe portfolio. 

'I watched him draw it, ' she explained--'in a Sorrento garden. Myfather and I were there for the winter. Mr. Welby was in a villa nearours, and I used to watch him at work. '

It seemed to Fenwick that her tone had grown rather hurried andreserved, as though she regretted the impulse which had made her showhim the drawing. He praised it as intelligently as he could; but hismind was guessing all the time at the relation which lay behind thedrawing. According to Cuningham's information, it was now three yearssince a separation had been arranged between Madame de Pastourellesand her husband, Comte Albert de Pastourelles, owing to the Comte'soutrageous misconduct. Lord Findon had no doubt taken her abroad afterthe 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 ofspeculation. The evident bond between these two people had excitedhis imagination and piqued his curiosity from the first moment of hisacquaintance with them. They were both of a rare and fine quality; andthe signs of an affection between them, equally rare and fine, hadnot been lost on those subtler perceptions in Fenwick which belongedperhaps to his heritage as an artist. If he gave the matter aninnocent interpretation, and did not merely say to himself, 'She haslost a husband and found a lover, ' it was because the woman herselfhad awakened in him fresh sources of judgement. His thoughts simplydid not dare besmirch her. 

 * * * * *

The clock struck five; and thereupon a sound of voices on the stairsoutside. 

'Papa!' said Madame de Pastourelles, jumping up--in very evidentrelief--her teeth chattering. 

The door opened and Lord Findon put in a reconnoitring head. 

'May I--or we--come in?'

And behind him, on the landing, Fenwick with a start perceived thesmiling face of Arthur Welby. 

'I've come to carry off my daughter, ' said Findon, with a friendly nodto 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. 'LordFindon made me come up. '

It was the first time that Welby had visited the Bernard Streetstudio. Fenwick's conceit had sometimes resented the fact. Yet nowthat Welby was there he was unwilling to show his work. He mutteredsomething about there being 'more to see in a day or two. '

'There's a great deal to see already, ' said Lord Findon. 'But, ofcourse, do as you like. Eugénie, are you ready?'

'Please!--may I be exhibited?' said Madame de Pastourelles to Fenwick, with a smiling appeal. 

He gave way, dragged the easel into the best light, and fell backwhile the two men examined the portrait. 

'Stay where you are, Eugénie, ' said Lord Findon, holding up his hand. 'Let Arthur see the pose. '

She sat down obediently. Fenwick heard an exclamation from Welby, anda 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! Thewhole scheme's delightful. You've got the head admirably. '

'I'm glad you like it, ' said Fenwick, rather shortly, ready at once tosuspect a note of patronage in the other's effusion. Welby--a littlechecked--returned to the picture, studying it closely, and making anumber of shrewd, or generous comments upon it, gradually quenched, however, by Fenwick's touchy or ungracious silence. Of course thepicture was good. Fenwick wanted no one to tell him that. 

Meanwhile, Lord Findon--though in Fenwick's studio he always behavedhimself with a certain jauntiness, as a man should who has discovereda genius--was a little discontented. 

'It's a fine thing, Eugénie, ' he was saying to her, as he helpedher put on her furs, 'but I'm not altogether satisfied. It wantsanimation. 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 gaily--thensuddenly her lip quivered. 

'Eugénie, 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 Fenwick as the othersapproached 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, andpointed to the line of the chin, with a motion of the head towardsMadame de Pastourelles. 

Fenwick looked--and said nothing. 

'By George, I think he's right, ' said Lord Findon, putting onspectacles. '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. LordFindon looked at the artist--half angry, half amused. 'You don't buyher gloves, sir--I do. '

Eugénie's eyes meanwhile had begun to sparkle, as she stood in hersable cap and cloak, waiting for her companions. Fenwick approachedher. 

'Will you sit to-morrow?'

'I think not--I have some engagements. '

'Next day?'

'I will let you know. '

Fenwick's colour rose. 

'There is a good deal to do still--and I must work at my otherpicture. '

'Yes, I know. I will write. '

And with a little dry nod of farewell she slipped her hand into herfather's arm and led him away. Welby also saluted pleasantly, andfollowed the others. 

 * * * * *

Fenwick was left to pace his room in a tempest, denouncing himself asa 'damned fool, ' bent on destroying all his own chances in life. Whywas it that Welby's presence always had this effect upon him:--settinghim on edge, and making a bear of him? No!--it was not allowed tobe so handsome, so able, so ingratiating. Yet he knew very wellthat Welby made no enemies, and that in his grudging jealousy of adelightful artist he, Fenwick, stood alone. 

He walked to the window. Yes, there they were, all three--MademoiselleBarras seemed to have gone her ways separately--just disappearing intoRussell Square. He saw that Welby had possessed himself of thefair lady's portfolio, and was carrying her shawl. He watched theirintimate, laughing ways--how different from the stiffness she hadjust shown _him_--from the friendly, yet distant relations she alwaysmaintained between herself and her painter! A fierce and irritableambition swept through him--rebellion against the hampering conditionsof birth and poverty, which he felt as so many chains upon body andsoul. Why was he born the son of a small country tradesman, narrow, ignorant, and tyrannical?--harassed by penury, deniedopportunities--while a man like Welby found life from the beginning abroad road, as it were, down a widening valley, to a land of abundanceand delight?

But the question led immediately to an answering outburst of vanity. He paced up and down, turning from the injustice of the past tochallenge the future. A few more years, and the world would know whereto place _him_--with regard to the men now in the running--men withhalf his power--Welby and the like. A mad arrogance, a boundlessconfidence in himself, flamed through all his veins. Let him paint, paint, _paint_--think of nothing, care for nothing but the maturing ofhis gift!

How long he lost himself in this passion of egotism and defiance hehardly knew. He was roused from it by the servant bringing a lamp; andas she set it down, the light fell upon a memorandum scrawled on theedge 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 andmiserable. How on earth was he going to get through the next fewweeks? Abominable!--thoughtlessly cruel!--that neither Lord Findon norMadame de Pastourelles should ever yet have spoken to him of money!These months of work on the portrait--this constant assumption on thepart of the Findon circle that both the portrait and the 'Genius Loci'were to become Findon possessions--and yet no sum named--no clearagreement even--nothing, as it seemed to Fenwick's suspicious temper, in either case, that really bound Lord Findon. 'Write to the oldboy'--so Cuningham had advised again and again--'get somethingdefinite out of him. ' But Fenwick had once or twice torn up a letterof the kind in morbid pride and despair. Suppose he were rebuffed?That would be an end of the Findon connexion, and he could not bringhimself to face it. He must keep his _entrée_ to the house; above all, he clung to the portrait and the sittings. 

But the immediate outlook was pretty dark. He was beginning to bepestered with debts and duns--the appointment on the morrow was withan old frame-maker who had lent him twenty pounds before Christmas, and was now begging piteously for his money. There was nothing to payhim with--nothing to send Phoebe, in spite of a constant labour atpaying jobs in black-and-white that often kept him up till three orfour in the morning. He wondered whether Watson would help him with aloan. According to Cuningham, the queer fellow had private means. 

The fact was he was overstrained--he knew it. The year had been thehardest of his life, and now that he was approaching the time ofcrisis--the completion of his two pictures, the judgement of theAcademy and the public, his nerve seemed to be giving way. As hethought of all that success or failure might mean, he plunged intoa melancholy no less extravagant than the passion of self-confidencefrom which he had emerged. Suppose that he fell ill before thepictures were finished--what would become of Phoebe and the child?

As he thought of Phoebe, suddenly his heart melted within him. Wasshe, too, hating the hours? As he bowed his head on his arms a fewhot, unwilling tears forced themselves into his eyes. Had he beenunkind and harsh to her?--his poor little Phoebe! An imperious impulseseemed 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 customsand ideals. Let him only recover her, and his child--and live his ownlife 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 hishands--because he had not behaved with proper deference to her spoiltand petted favourite. 

Involuntarily he looked up. The lamp-light fell on the portrait. 

There she sat, the delicate, ethereal being, her gentle brow bentforward, her eyes fixed upon him. He perceived, as though for thefirst time, what an image of melancholy grace it was which he hadbuilt up there. He had done it, as it were, without knowing--hadpainted something infinitely pathetic and noble without realising itin the doing. 

As he looked, his irritation died away, and something whollycontradictory took its place. He felt a rush of self-pity, and then oftrust. What if he called on her to help him--unveiled himself tothis kind and charming woman--confessed to her his remorse aboutPhoebe--his secret miseries and anxieties--the bitterness of hisenvies and ambitions? Would she not rain balm upon him--quiethim--guide him?

He yearned towards her, as he sat there in the semi-darkness--seekingthe _ewig-weibliche_ in the sweetness of her face--without a touch ofpassion--as a Catholic might yearn towards his Madonna. Her slight andhaughty farewell showed that he had tried her patience--had behavedlike an ungenerous cur. But he must and would propitiate her--winher friendship for himself and Phoebe. The weakness of the man threwitself strangely, instinctively, on the moral strength of the woman;as though in this still young and winning creature he might recoversomething of what he had lost in childhood, when his mother died. Hemocked at his own paradox, but it held him. That very night wouldhe write to her; not yet about Phoebe--not yet!--but letting herunderstand, at least, that he was _not_ ungrateful, that he valued hersympathy and good-will. Already the phrases of the letter, warm andeloquent, yet restrained, began to flow through his mind. It might bean unusual thing to do; but she was no silly conventional woman; shewould understand. 

By Jove! Welby was perfectly right. The hand was too big. It should bealtered at the next sitting. Then he sprang up, found pen and paper, and began to write to Phoebe--still in the same softened and agitatedstate. He wrote in haste and at length, satisfying some hungryinstinct in himself by the phrases of endearment which he scatteredplentifully through the letter. 

 * * * * *

That letter found Phoebe on a mid-March morning, when the thrusheswere beginning to sing, when the larches were reddening, and only inthe topmost hollows of the pikes did any snow remain, to catch thestrengthening sunlight. 

As she opened it, she looked at its length with astonishment. Then thetone of it brought the rushing colour to her cheek, and when itwas finished she kissed it and hid it in her dress. After weeks ofbarrenness, of stray post-cards and perfunctory notes, these amplepages, with their rhetorical and sentimental effusion, brought newlife to the fretting, lonely woman. She went about in penitence. Surely she had done injustice to her John; and she dreaded lest anyinkling of those foolish or morbid thoughts she had been harbouringshould ever reach him. 

She wrote back with passion--like one throwing herself on his breast. The letter was long and incoherent, written at night beside Carrie'sbed--and borrowing much, unconsciously, from the phraseology of thenovels she still got from Bowness. Alack! it is to be feared that JohnFenwick--already at another point in spiritual space when the letterreached 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 herbeautiful embroidery that John had designed for her. Miss Anna cameto see her, exclaimed at her frail looks, wanted to lend her money. Phoebe in a new exaltation, counting the weeks, and having still threeor four sovereigns in the drawer, refused--would say nothing abouttheir 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 graduallythe shadows re-closed about her. Fenwick's letters dwindled again topost-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 ofwork needed to get the beastly thing right--the portrait still farfrom complete--but the dress would be a _marvel_!--without quenchingthe head in the least. And not a loving word!--scarcely an inquiryafter the child. 

April came. The little shop in the neighbouring village gave Mrs. Fenwick credit--but Phoebe, brought up in frugal ways, to loathe theleast 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 gonein to the Academy. She saw a paragraph, however, in the local papersdescribing 'Show Sunday. ' Had John been entertaining smart people totea, and showing his pictures, with the rest? If so, couldn't he findten minutes in which to send her news of it? It _was_ unkind! All hersuspicions and despair revived. 

As she carried her child back from the village, tottering often underthe weight, gusts of mingled weakness and passion would sweep overher. She would not be treated so--John should see! She would get hermoney for her work and go to London--whether he liked it or no--taxhim with his indifference to her--find out what he was really doing. 

The capacity for these moments of violence was something new inher--probably depending, if the truth were known, on some obscurephysical misery. She felt that they degraded her, yet could not curbthem. 

And, in this state, the obsession of the winter seized her again. Shebrooded perpetually over the doleful Romney story--the tale of a greatpainter, born, like her John, in this Northern air, and reared inKendal streets, deserting his peasant wife--enslaved by Emma Hamiltonthrough many a passionate year--and coming back at last that thedrudge of his youth might nurse him through his decrepit old age. Sheremembered going with John in their sweetheart days to see the housewhere Romney died, imbecile and paralysed, with Mary Romney besidehim. 

'I would never have done it--_never_!' she said to herself in a madrecoil. 'He had chosen--he should have paid!'

She sat closer and closer at her work, in a feverish eagerness tofinish it, sleeping little and eating little. When she wrote toher husband it was in a bitter, reproachful tone she had never yetemployed 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'llhardly wonder if I think you sent that one to keep me quiet. ' Shewrote 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 sitting at her workin the parlour, with the window open to the lengthening day, when sheheard the gate open and shut. A woman in black came up the pathway, and, seeing Phoebe at the window, stopped short. Phoebe rose, and, asthe visitor threw back her veil, recognised the face of Mr. Morrison'sdaughter, Bella. 

She gave a slight cry; then, full of pity and emotion, she hastened toopen the door. 

'Oh, Miss Morrison!' She held out her hand; her attitude, herbeautiful eyes, breathed compassion, and also embarrassment. Thethought of the debt rushed into her mind. Had Miss Morrison come topress for it? It was within a fortnight of twelve months since theloan was granted. She felt a vague terror. 

The visitor just touched her hand, then looked at her with anexpression which stirred increasing alarm in the woman before her. Itwas so hard and cold; it threatened, without speech. 

'I came to return you something I don't want any more, ' said the girl, with a defiant air; and Phoebe noticed, as she spoke, that she carriedin her left hand a large, paper-covered roll. In her deep black shewas more startling than ever, with spots of flame-colour on eithercheek, the eyes fixed and staring, the lips wine-red. It might havebeen a face taken from one of those groups of crudely painted woodor terra-cotta, in which northern Italy--as at Orta or Varallo--hasexpressed the scenes of the Passion. The Magdalen in one of the rudergroups might have looked so. 

'Will you please to come in?' said Phoebe, leading the way to theparlour, which smelled musty and damp for lack of fire, and was stilllittered with old canvases, studies, casts, and other gear of thepainter 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 likewhat I came to do--I know that. '

Phoebe looked at her, bewildered. 

'I've brought back that picture of me your husband painted, ' said thegirl, putting down her parcel on the table. 'It's in there. '

'What have you done that for?' said Phoebe, wondering. 

'Because I loathe it--and all my friends loathe it, too. Papa--'

'Oh! do tell me--how is Mrs. Morrison?' cried Phoebe, steppingforward, her whole aspect quivering with painful pity. 

'She's all right, ' said Bella, looking away. 'We're going to live inGuernsey. We're selling this house. It's hers, of course. Papa settledit on her, years before--'

She stopped--then drew herself together. 

'So, you see, I got that picture out of mother. I've never forgivenMr. Fenwick for taking it home, saying he'd improve it, and thensending it back as bad as ever. I knew he'd done that to spiteme--he'd disliked me from the first. '

'John never painted a portrait to spite anybody in his life, ' criedPhoebe. 'I never heard such nonsense. '

'Well, anyway, he can take it back, ' said the girl. 'Mother wouldn'tlet 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 wastemy husband's work on some one who couldn't appreciate it. ' She tookthe roll and stood with her hand upon it, protecting it. 'I'll tellhim 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 flashof 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, drawing in herbreath--and then, restraining herself, 'or else a silly mistake. '

'It's no mistake at all, ' said Bella, with a toss of the head. 'Ithought you ought to know, and mother agreed with me. The men are allalike. 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 toPhoebe. 

Phoebe made no motion to take it. She stood rigid, her fierce, stilllook fixed on her visitor. 

'You'd better, ' said Bella; 'I declare you'd better. If my husband hadbeen behaving like this, I should want to know the truth--and pay himout. '

Phoebe took the letter, opened it with steady fingers, and read it. While she was reading it the baby Carrie, escaped from the littleservant's tutelage, ran in and hid her face in her mother's skirts, peering sometimes at the stranger. 

When she had finished the letter, Phoebe handed it back to its owner. 

'Who wrote that?'

'A friend of mine who's working at South Kensington. You can see--sheknows a lot about artists. '

'And what she doesn't know she makes up, ' said Phoebe, with slowcontempt. 'You tell her, Miss Morrison, from me, she might be betteremployed than writing 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 Phoebe, walking to thedoor and throwing it wide. 'You'd better go, Miss Morrison. I am sureI can't imagine why you came. I should have thought you'd havehad sorrow enough of your own, without trying to make it for otherpeople. '

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 thetruth about your father?' Her white face, encircled by the child'sarms, 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 wassorry for him--and for your mother. But _you've_ got a hard, wickedheart--and I hope I'll never see you again, Miss Morrison. I'll thankyou, 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 myfriend wasn't such a fool to write that letter--and I wasn't such abeast to tell you--as you think now. Good-bye!'

Phoebe said nothing. The girl passed her insolently, and left thehouse. 

Phoebe put the child to bed, sat without touching a morsel while Daisysupped, and then shut herself into the parlour, saying that she wasgoing to sit up over her work, to which only a few last toucheswere wanting. It had been her intention to go with the carrier toWindermere the following day in order to hand it over to the shop thathad got her the commission, and ask for payment. 

But as soon as she was alone in the room, with her lamp and her work, she swept its silken, many-coloured mass aside, found a sheet ofpaper, and began to write. 

She was trying to write down, as nearly as she could remember, thewords of the letter which Bella had shown her. 

'Didn't you tell me about a man called John Fenwick, who painted yourportrait?--a beastly thing you couldn't abide? Well, they say he'sgoing to be awfully famous soon, and make a pile of money. I don'tknow him, but I have a friend who knows one of the two men who usedto lodge in the same house with him--I believe they've just moved toChelsea. He says that Mr. Fenwick will have two ripping pictures inthe 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 tobuy everything he can paint. But I thought you said your man wasmarried?--do you remember I chaffed you about him when he began, andyou said, "No fear--he is married to a school-teacher, " or somethingof that sort? Well, I asked about the wife, and my friend says, "Nonsense! 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 besomething wrong somewhere. " By the way, one of the pictures he'ssending in is a wonderful portrait. An awfully beautiful woman--with awhite _velvet_ dress, my dear--and they say the painting of the dressis marvellous. She's the daughter of the Lord Somebody who's takenhim up. They've introduced him to all sorts of smart people, and, asI said before, he's going to have a _tremendous_ success. Some peoplehave luck, haven't they?'

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 bymidnight 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 hoursshe would be in London. If he had really disowned and betrayed her--orif he had merely grown tired of her and wished to be quit of her--ineither case she would soon discover what it behoved her to know. 

When at last, in the utter silence of midnight, she took up her candleto go to bed, its light fell, as she moved towards the door, on theportrait of himself that Fenwick had left with her at Christmas. Shelooked at it long, dry-eyed. It was as though it began already to bethe face of a stranger. 

CHAPTER VII

Eugénie, are you there?'

'Yes, papa. '

Lord Findon, peering short-sightedly into the big drawing-room, obstructed by much furniture and darkened by many pictures, had notat first perceived the slender form of his daughter. The April daywas receding, and Eugénie de Pastourelles was sitting very still, herhands lightly clasped upon a letter which lay outspread upon her lap. These moments of pensive abstraction were characteristic of her. Herlife was turned within; she lived more truly in thought than in speechor action. 

Lord Findon came in gaily. 'I say, Eugénie, that fellow's made a hit. '

'What fellow, papa?'

'Why, Fenwick, of course. Give me a cup of tea, there's a dear. I'vejust seen Welby, who's been hob-nobbing with somebody on the HangingCommittee. Both pictures accepted, and the portrait will be on theline in the big room--the other very well hung, too, in one ofthe later rooms. Lucky dog! Millais came up and spoke to me abouthim--said he heard we had discovered him. Of course, there's lotsof criticism. Drawing and design, modern and realistic--the whole_painting_ method, traditional and old-fashioned, except for somewonderful touches of pre-Raphaelitism--that's what most people say. Ofcourse, the new men think it'll end in manner and convention; and theold men don't quite know _what_ to say. Well, it don't much matter. Ifhe's genius, he'll do as he likes--and if he hasn't--'

Lord Findon shrugged his shoulders, and then, throwing back his headagainst the back of his capacious chair, proceeded to 'sip' his tea, held in both hands, according to an approved digestive method--tenseconds to a sip--he had lately adopted. He collected new doctors withthe same zeal that he spent in pushing new artists. 

Eugénie put out a hand and patted his shoulder tenderly. She and herfather were the best of comrades, and they showed it most plainly inLady Findon's absence. That lady was again on her travels, occupiedin placing her younger daughter for a time in a French family, witha view to 'finishing. ' Eugénie or Lord Findon wrote to her every day;they discussed her letters when they arrived with all proper _égards_;and, for the rest, enjoyed their _tête-à-tête, _ and never dreamed ofmissing her. _Tête-à-tête_, indeed, it scarcely was; for there wasstill another daughter in the house, whom Madame de Pastourelles--hermuch older half-sister--mothered with great assiduity in Lady Findon'sabsence; and the elder son also, who was still unmarried, lived mainlyat home. Nevertheless, it was recognised that 'papa' and Eugénie hadspecial claims upon each other, and as the household adored them both, they were never interfered with. 

On this occasion Eugénie was bent on business as well as affection. She withdrew her hand from her father's shoulder in order to raise amonitory finger. 

'Genius or no, papa, it's time you paid him his money. '

'How you go on, Eugénie!' said Lord Findon, crossing his kneesluxuriously, as the tea filtered down. 'Pray, what money do I owehim?'

'Well, of course, if you wait till he's made a hit, prices will goup, ' said Eugénie, 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 themisdeed. 

'Oh, shuffling papa! Come--how much?--two hundred?'

'Upon my word! A painter shouldn't propose to paint a picture, mydear, 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 Eugénie, slyly, replenishing his cup. 'Iconsider, papa, that you have bolted that cup. '

'Then for goodness' sake, don't give me any more!' cried Lord Findon. 'It's no joke, Eugénie, this sipping business--Where were we? Oh, well, of course I knew we should have to take it--and I don't say I'mnot pleased with it. But two hundred!'

'Not a penny less, ' said Eugénie--'and the apotheosis of my frockalone is worth the money. Two hundred for that--and two-fifty for theother?'

'Welby told me that actually was the price he had put on it! The youngman won't starve, my dear, for want of knowing his own value. '

'I shouldn't wonder if he had been rather near starving, ' saidEugénie, gravely. 

'Nothing of the kind, Eugénie, ' said her father, testily. 'You thinkeverybody 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 Eugénie. 'Do you know, papa, that I have been extremely uncomfortable about ourbehaviour to Mr. Fenwick?'

'I entirely fail to see why, ' said Lord Findon, absently. He washolding his watch in his hand, and calculating seconds. 

'We have let him paint my portrait without ever saying a word ofmoney--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 watchwith a sigh of satisfaction. 

'You should have told him so, papa, and advanced him some money. '

'It is an excellent thing, my dear Eugénie, for a young man to be kepton 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 lending 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 in great straits. He has not been able to buy a winter overcoat, and Mr. Cuninghamsuspects he has often not had enough to eat. He does illustration-workthe greater part of the night--_et cetera_. '

'The way you pile on the agony, my dear!' said Lord Findon, rising. 'What I see you want is that I should write the check, and then gowith you to call on the young man?'

'Precisely!' said Eugénie, nodding. 

Lord Findon looked at her. 

'And that you suppose is your own idea?'

Eugénie waited--interrogatively. 

'Do you know why I have never said a word to the young man aboutmoney?'

'Because you forgot it, ' said Eugénie, smiling. 

'Not in the least, ' said Lord Findon, flushing like a school-boy foundout; 'I wanted my little sensation at the end. '

'My very epicurean papa!' said Eugénie, caressing him. 'I see! Youngman in a garret--starving--_au désespoir. _ Enter Providence, _alias_my papa--with fame in one hand and gold in the other. Ah, _que tu escomédien, mon père. A la bonne heure_!--I now order the carriage!'

She moved toward 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 itdown again. 

'Eugénie!'

'Yes, papa. '

Lord Findon went up to her and took her hand. She stood with downcasteyes, the other hand playing with the folds of her dress. Her father'sface was discomposed. 

'Eugénie!' 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 alow 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 onthe 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, passionately; then, immediately curbing herself, she turned deliberately to a vase ofroses that stood near and began to rearrange them, picking out a fewfaded blooms and throwing them on the wood-fire. 

Lord Findon watched her, the delicate, drooping figure in its greydress, the thin hand among the roses. 

'Eugénie!--tell me one thing!--you are in the same mind as ever aboutthe divorce?'

She made a sign of assent. 

'Just the same. I am Albert's wife--unless he himself asks me torelease him--and then the release would only be--for him. '

'You are too hard on yourself, Eugénie!' cried Lord Findon. 'I vow youare! You set an impossible standard. '

'I am his wife'--she repeated, gently--'while he lives. And if he sentfor me--at any hour of the day or night--I would go. '

Lord Findon gave an angry sigh. 

'You can't wonder, Eugénie, ' he said, impetuously, 'that I often wishhis 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 Ithink. '

Lord Findon restrained himself. In his eyes there was no excusewhatever for his scoundrel of a son-in-law, who after six years ofmarriage had left his wife for an actress, and was now living withanother woman of his own class, a Comtesse S. , ten years older thanhimself. He knew that Eugénie believed her husband to be insane;as for him, he had never admitted anything of the kind. But if itcomforted her to believe it, let her, for Heaven's sake, believeit--poor child!

So he said nothing--as he paced up and down--and Eugénie finished therearrangement 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 ishe going to satisfy her?'

'Only too easily. She would marry him blindly--on any terms. '

There was a short silence. Then Eugénie gathered up the letter she hadbeen reading when her father entered. 

'Let's talk of something else, papa! Do you know that I've had a veryinteresting 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 Eugénie, smiling. 'He began it in March, when he thought he had offended me--by beingrude to Arthur. '

'So he was--abominably rude. But what can one expect? He hasn't hadthe bringing-up of a gentleman--and there you are. That kind of thingwill out. '

'I wonder whether it matters--to a genius?' said Eugénie, musing. 

'It matters to everybody!' cried Lord Findon. 'Gentlefolk, my dear, say what you will, are the result of a long natural selection--and youcan't make 'em in a hurry. '

'And what about genius? You will admit, papa, that a good manygentlefolk in the world go to one genius!'

The light was still good enough to show Lord Findon that, in spite ofher flicker of gaiety, Eugénie was singularly pale. And he knewwell 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 itis--or who has it? Everybody's so diabolically clever nowadays. Takemy advice, Eugénie--I know you want to play Providence to that youngfellow--you think you'll civilise him, and that kind of thing; but Iwarn you--he hasn't got breeding enough to stand it. '

Eugénie 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 clearingaway the tea, and that they were alone. 

'The days--and the hours, ' she said, softly. 'One must have somethingto think of. '

Lord Findon frowned. 

'He will fall in love with you, Eugénie--and then where shall we be?'

He heard a laugh--very sweet--very feminine, yet, to his ear, veryforlorn. 

'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. Eugénie satmotionless, looking into the fire, her hands on her knee. Lord Findonlistened a moment. 

'I'm going to my room. Eugénie!--if I could be the slightest use--'

'Dear papa!' she looked up, smiling. 'It's very simple. '

With a muttered exclamation, Lord Findon walked to the further end ofthe drawing-room, and vanished through an inner door. 

The footman announced 'Mr. Welby. '

As soon as the door was shut, Eugénie rose. 

Welby hurriedly approached her. 'You say in your note that you havesomething important to tell me?'

She made a sign of assent, and as he grasped her hand, she allowedherself a moment's pause. Her eyes rested--just perceptibly--on theface of the man whose long devotion to her, expressed through everyphase of delicate and passionate service, had brought them both atlast to that point where feeling knows itself--where illusions dieaway--and the deep foundations of our life appear. 

Welby's dark face quivered. In the touch of his friend's hand, in thelook of her eyes there was that which told him that she had biddenhim to no common meeting. The air between them was in an instant alivewith memories. Days of first youth; youth's high impressions of greatand lovely things; all the innocent, stingless joys of art and travel, of happy talk and ripening faculty, of pure ambitions, hero-worships, compassions, shared and mutually enkindled: these were for everintertwined with their thoughts of each other. 

But much more than these!

For him, the unspoken agony of loss suffered when she married; forher, the memories of her marriage, of the dreary languor into whichits wreck had plunged her, and of the gradual revival in her of theold intellectual pleasures, the old joys of the spirit, under theinfluence of Arthur's life and Arthur's companionship. How simply hehad offered all that his art, his tact, his genius had to give!--andhow pitifully, how hungrily she had leaned upon it! It had seemed sonatural. Her own mind was clear, her own pulses calm; their friendshiphad appeared a thing apart, and she was able to feel, with sincerityand dignity, that if she received much, she also gave much--the hoursof relief and pleasure which ease the labour, the inevitable tormentof the artist, all that protecting environment which a woman's sweetand 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 hadhimself trained in her the faculty of response; to rouse in her thegentle, diffident humour which seemed to him a much rarer and moredistinguished thing than other women's brilliance; to watch the waysof a personality which appeared to many people a little cold, pale, and over-refined, and was to him supreme distinction; to search forpleasures for her, as a botanist hunts rare flowers; to save her fromthe most trifling annoyance, if time and brains could do it;--thesethings, for three years, had made the charm of Welby's life. AndEugénie knew it--knew it with an affectionate gratitude that hadfor long seemed both to her and to the world the last word of theirsituation on both sides--a note, a tone, which could always be evokedfrom it, touch or strike it where you would. 

And now?

Through what subtle phases and developments had time led them tothis moment of change and consciousness?--representing in her, sharprecoil, an instant girding of the will--and in him a new despair, which was also a new docility, a readiness to content and tranquilliseher at any cost. As they stood thus, for these few seconds, amid theshadows of the rich encumbered room, the picture of the weeksand months they had just passed through flashed through bothminds--illuminated--thrown into true relation with surrounding andirrevocable fact. Both trembled--she under the admonition of her ownhigher life--he, because existence beside her could never again be assweet 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 shan'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, balancinga paper-knife on one finger, fidgeting with a newspaper of which henever read a word, and otherwise beguiling the time until the sound ofWelby's step on the stairs should tell him that the interview upstairswas over. 

His mind was full of disagreeable thoughts. Eugénie was dearer to himthan any other human being, and Welby--his ward, the orphan child ofone of his oldest friends--had been from his boyhood almost a son ofthe house. Eight years before, what more natural than that these twoshould marry? Welby had been then deeply in love; Eugénie in her firstmaiden bloom had been difficult to read, but a word from the fathershe adored would probably have been enough to incline her towardsher lover, to transform and fire a friendship which was already moreromantic than she knew. But Lord Findon could not make up his mind toit. Arthur was a dear fellow; but from the worldly point of view itwas not good enough. Eugénie was born for a large sphere; it was herfather's duty to find it for her if he could. 

Hence the French betrothal--the crowning point of a summer visit toa French château where Eugénie had been the spoiled child of a partycontaining some of the greatest names in France. It flattered bothLord Findon's vanity and imagination to find himself brought intoconnexion with historic families all the more attractive becauseof that dignified alienation from affairs, imposed on them by theircommon hatred of the Second Empire. Eugénie, too, had felt the romanceof the _milieu_; had invested her French suitor with all that herown poetic youth could bring to his glorification; had gone to him atimid, willing, and most innocent bride. 

Ah, well! it did not do to think of the sequel. Perhaps the man wasmad, as Eugénie insisted; perhaps much was due to some obscure braineffects of exposure and hardship during the siege of Paris--for thewar had followed close on their honeymoon. But, madness or wickedness, it was all the same; Eugénie's life was ruined, and her father couldneither mend it nor avenge it. 

For owing to some--in his eyes--quixotic tenderness of conscience onEugénie's part, she would not sue for her divorce. She believed thatAlbert was not responsible--that he might return to her. And thatpassionate spiritual life of hers, the ideas of which Lord Findon onlyhalf understood, forbade her, it seemed, any step which would finallybar the way of that return; unless Albert should himself ask her totake it. But the Comte had never made a sign. Lord Findon could onlysuppose that he found himself as free as he wished to be, that theladies he consorted with were equally devoid of scruples, and that he, therefore, very naturally, preferred to avoid publicity. 

So here was Eugénie, husbandless and childless ateight-and-twenty--for the only child of the marriage had died withina year of its birth; the heroine of an odious story which, if it hadnever reached the law courts, was none the less perfectly well knownin society; and, in the eyes of those who loved her, one of thebravest, saddest, noblest of women. Of course Welby had shared in theimmense effort of the family to comfort and console her. They hadbeen so eager to accept his help; he had given it with such tact andself-effacement; and now, meanly, they must help Eugénie to dismisshim! For it was becoming too big a thing, this devotion of his, bothin Eugénie's life and also in the eyes of the world. Lord Findon mustneeds suppose--he did not choose to _know_--that people were talking;and if Eugénie would not free herself from her wretched Albert, shemust not provide him--poor child!--with any plausible excuse. 

All of which reasoning was strictly according to the canons as LordFindon understood them; but it did not leave him much the happier. Hewas a sensitive, affectionate man, with great natural cleverness, and much natural virtue--wholly unleavened by either thought ordiscipline. He did the ordinary things from the ordinary motives; buthe suffered when the ordinary things turned out ill, more than anotherman would have done. It would certainly have been better, he ruefullyadmitted, if he had not meddled so much with Eugénie's youth. Andpresently he supposed he should have to forgive Charlie!--(Charlie wasthe son who had married his nurse)--if only to prove to himself thathe was not really the unfeeling or snobbish father of the story-books. 

Ah! there was the upstairs door! Should he show himself, and makeArthur understand that he was their dear friend all the same, andalways would be?--it was only a question of a little drawing-in. 

But his courage failed him. He heard the well-known step comedownstairs and cross the hall. The front door closed, and Lord Findonwas still balancing the paper-knife. 

Would he really marry that nice child Elsie? Elsie Bligh was a cousinof the Findons; a fair-haired, slender slip of a thing, the daughterof a retired Indian general. The Findons had given a ball the yearbefore for her coming-out, and she had danced through the season, haloed, Euphrosyne-like, by a charm of youth and laughter--till shemet Arthur Welby. Since then Euphrosyne had grown a little whiteand piteous, and there had been whisperings and shakings of the headamongst the grown-ups who were fond of her. 

Well, well; he supposed Eugénie would give him some notion of the waythings had gone. As to her--his charming, sweet-natured Eugénie!--itcomforted him to remember the touch of resolute and generally cheerfulstoicism in her character. If a hard thing had to be done, she wouldnot only do it without flinching, but without avenging it on thebystanders 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 wasseated beside him, and they were making their way eastwards throughthe sunset streets. 

'Dear?' he said, with timid interrogation, laying his hand momentarilyon hers. 

Eugénie was looking out of window with her face turned away. 

'He was very--kind, ' she said, rather deliberately. 'Don't let us talkabout it, papa--but wait--and see!'

Lord Findon understood that she referred to Elsie Bligh--that she hadsown her seed, and must now let it germinate. 

But herself--what had it cost her? And he knew well that he shouldnever ask the question; and that, if he did, she would never answerit. 

By the time they were threading the slums of Seven Dials, she wastalking rather fast and flowingly of Fenwick. 

'You have brought the cheque, papa?'

'I have my cheque-book. '

'And you are quite certain about the pictures?'

'Quite. '

'It will be nice to make him happy, ' she said, softly. 'His lettershave been pretty doleful. '

'What has he found to write about?' exclaimed Lord Findon, wondering. 

'Himself, mostly!' she laughed. 'He likes rhetoric--and he seemsto have found out that I do too. As I told you, he began with anapology--and since then he writes about books and art--and--and theevils of aristocracy. '

'Bless my soul, what the deuce does he know about it! And you answerhim?'

'Yes. You see he writes extremely well--and it amuses me. '

Privately, he thought that if she encouraged him beyond a verymoderate point, Fenwick would soon become troublesome. But whenevershe pleaded that anything 'amused' her, he could never find a word tosay. 

Every now and then he watched her, furtively trying to pierce thatgrey veil in which she had wrapt herself. To-morrow morning, hesupposed, he should hear her step on the stairs, towards eighto'clock--should hear it passing his door in going, and an hourlater in coming back--and should know that she had been to a littleRitualist church close by, where what Lady Findon called 'fooleries'went on, in the shape of 'daily celebrations' and 'vestments' and'reservation. ' How lightly she stepped; what a hidden act it was;never spoken of, except once, between him and her! It puzzled himoften; for he knew very well that Eugénie was no follower of thingsreceived. She had been a friend of Renan and of Taine in her Frenchdays; and he, who was a Gallic with a leaning to the Anglican Church, had sometimes guessed with discomfort that Eugénie was in truth whathis Low Church wife called a 'free-thinker. ' She never spoke of heropinions, 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, thatshe and Arthur were in closest sympathy; and every one knew thatArthur, poor old boy, was an agnostic. 

And yet this daily pilgrimage--and that light and sweetness itbreathed into her aspect!--

So one day he had asked her abruptly why she liked the little churchso much, and its sacramental 'goings-on. '

'One wouldn't expect it, you know, darling--from the things youread. '

Eugénie had coloured faintly. 

'Wouldn't you, papa? It seems to me so simple. It's an _Action_--notwords--and an action means anything you like to put into it--one thingto me--another to you. Some day we shall all be tired, shan't we?--ofcreeds, and sermons, but never of "This _do, _ in remembrance of Me!'"

And she had put up her hand to caress his, with such a timid sweetnessof lip, and such a shining of the eye, that he had been silenced, feeling himself indeed in the presence of something he was notparticularly well fitted to explore. 

Well, if she was inconsequent, she was dear!--and if her mysticalfancies comforted and sustained her, nobody should ever annoy or checkher in the pursuit of them. He put a very summary stop to his wife's'Protestant nonsense, ' whenever it threatened to worry Eugénie; thoughon other occasions it amused him. 

 * * * * *

The landlady in Bernard Street greeted them with particular effusion. If they had only known, they represented to her--cautious yet notunkindly soul!--the main security for those very long arrears of rentshe had allowed her lodger to run up. Were they now come--at thisunusual hour--to settle up with Mr. Fenwick? If so, her own settlingup--sweet prospect!--might be in sight. Cuningham and Watson hadrecently left her, and taken a joint studio in Chelsea. Their rooms, moreover, were still unlet. Her anxieties therefore were many, and itwas with lively expectation that she watched the 'swells' grope theirway upstairs to Mr. Fenwick's room. She always knew it must come rightsome day, with people like that about. 

Lord Findon and Eugénie mounted the stairs. The studio door washalf-open. As they approached the threshold they heard Fenwickspeaking. 

'I say, hand me that rag--and look sharp and bring me some moreoil--quick! And where the devil is that sketch? Well, get the oil--andthen look for it--under that pile over there--No!--hi!--stand stilla moment--just where you are--I want to see the tone of your headagainst this background! Hang it!--the light's going!'

The visitors paused--to see Fenwick standing between them and a largecanvas covered with the first 'laying-in' of an important subject. Themodel, a thin, dark-faced fellow, was standing meekly on the spot towhich Fenwick had motioned him, while the artist, palette on thumb, stood absorbed and frowning, his keen eye travelling from the man'shead to the canvas behind it. 

Lord Findon smiled. He was a clever amateur, and relished the detailsof the business. 

'Smells good!' he said, in Eugénie's ear, sniffing the scents of thestudio. '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 meetthem with mingled pleasure and embarrassment. 

'Come in, please! Hope you don't mind this get-up. ' He pointed to hisshirt-sleeves. 

'It's we who apologise!' smiled Eugénie. 'You are in a great moment!'

She glanced at the canvas, filled with a rhythmical group of dimfigures, already beautiful, though they had caught the artist and hiswork in the very act of true creation--when after weeks or monthsof brooding, of hard work, of searching study of this or that, ofinspiration tested and verified, of mechanical drudgery, of patientconstruction, _birth_ begins--the birth of values, relations, distances, the _drawing of colour_. 

Fenwick shrugged his shoulders. His eyes sparkled in a strainedand haggard face, with such an ardour that Eugénie had the strangeimpression of some headlong force, checked in mid-career, and fillingthe quiet studio with the thrill of its sudden reining-up; and LordFindon'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 privatelyprinted volume, a poem, of which the new, strange music was thenfreshly in men's ears--suggesting that he should take it as a theme. The poem is called 'An Elegy on a Lady, whom grief for the death ofher betrothed killed. ' Its noble verse summons all true maids andlovers to bear the dead company, in that burial procession whichshould have been her bridal triumph. The priests go before, white-robed; the 'dark-stoled minstrels follow'; then the bier withthe 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 andwatching her eagerly. 

She bent over it in emotion, conscious of that natural delight ofwoman 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 tothe whole. No monotony! Character everywhere--expressing grief--andlonging. An evening light-between sunset and moonrise. The skygold--and the torches. Then below--in the crowd, the autumn woods, thedistant River of Death, towards which the procession moves--a massingof blues and purples'--his hand--pointing--worked rapidly over thecanvas; 'and here, some pale rose, black, emerald green, dimly wovenin--and lastly, the whites of the bride-maidens, and of the bride uponher bier--towards which, of course, the whole construction mounts. '

'I see!--a sort of Mantegna Triumph--with a difference!'

'The drawing's all right, ' said Fenwick, with a long breath, anda stretch. 'If I can only get the paint as I want it'--he stoopedforward again peering into the canvas--'it's the _handling of thepaint_--that's what excites me! I want to get it broad and pure--nomessing--no working over!--a fine surface!--and yet none of your waxyprettiness. The forms like Millet--simple--but full of knowledge. _Ah!_'--he took up a brush, flung it down bitterly, and turned on hisheel--'I can draw!--but why did no one ever teach me to paint?'

Eugénie lifted her eyebrows--amused at the sudden despair. Lord Findonlaughed. He had restrained himself so far with difficulty while thesetwo romanced; and now, bursting with his tidings, he laid a hand onFenwick:--

'Look here, young man--we didn't come just on the loose--to botheryou. Have you heard--?'

Fenwick made a startled movement. 

'Heard what?'

'Why, that your two pictures are _accepted_!--and will be admirablyhung--both on the line, and one in the big room. '

The colour rushed again into Fenwick's cheeks. 

'Are you sure?' he stammered, looking from one to the other. 

Lord Findon gave his authority, and then Eugénie held out her hand. 

'We _are_ so glad!'

She had thrown back the gauze veil in which she had shrouded herselfduring her drive with her father, and her charming face--still sopale!--shone in sympathy. 

Fenwick awkwardly accepted her congratulation, and shook the profferedhand. 

'I expect it's your doing, ' he said, abruptly. 

'Not in the least!' cried Lord Findon. His eye twinkled. 'My dearfellow, what are you thinking of? These are the days of merit, andpublicity!--when every man comes to his own. ' Fenwick grinned alittle. 'You've earned _your_ success anyway, and it'll be a thumper. Now look here, where can we talk business?'

Fenwick put down his palette, and slipped his arms into his coat. The model lit a lamp, and disappeared. Eugénie meanwhile withdrewdiscreetly to the further end of the room, where she busied herselfwith some wood-blocks on which Fenwick had been drawing. The two menremained hidden behind the large canvas, and she heard nothing oftheir conversation. She was aware, however, of the scratching of apen, and immediately after her father called to her. 

'Eugénie, come!--we must get back for dinner. '

Fenwick, looking up, saw her emerging from the shadows of the furtherroom into the bright lamp-light, her grey veil floating cloudwiseround her. As she came towards him, he felt her once more the emblemand angel of his good-fortune. All the inspiration she had been tohim, all that closer acquaintance, to which during the preceding weeksshe had admitted him, throbbed warm at his heart. His mind was full ofgratitude--full also of repentance!--towards Phoebe and towards her. That very night would he write his confession to her, at last!--tellall his story, beg her to excuse his foolish lack of frankness andpresence of mind to Lord Findon, and ask her kindness for Phoebe andthe child. He already saw little Carrie on her knee, and the _aegis_of her protecting sweetness spread over them all. 

Meanwhile the impression upon her was that he had taken the news ofhis success with admirable self-restraint, that he was growing andshaping as a human being, no less than as an artist, that his mannerto her father was excellent, neither tongue-tied nor effusive, andhis few words of thanks manly and sincere. She thought to herselfthat here was the beginning of a great career--the moment when thestreamlet finds its bed, and enters upon its true and destined course. 

And in the warm homage, the evident attachment she had awakened inthe man before her, there was for Eugénie at the moment a peculiartemptation. Had she not just given proof that she was set apart--thatfor her there could be no more thought of love in its ordinary sense?In her high-strung consciousness of Welby's dismissal, she feltherself not only secure against the vulgar snares of vanity and sex, but, as it were, endowed with a larger spiritual freedom. She had sentaway the man of whom she was in truth afraid--the man whom she mighthave loved. But in this distant, hesitating, and yet strong devotionthat Fenwick was beginning to show her, there was something thatappealed--and with peculiar force, in the immediate circumstances, --toa very sore and lonely heart. Here was no danger to be feared!--nothingbut a little kind help to a man of genius, whose great gifts might beso 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 ofFenwick's first remarkable letter to her, had led unconsciously toa new attitude on the part of Madame de Pastourelles. That he was aninteresting and promising artist she knew; that on subjects connectedwith his art he could talk copiously and well, that also, sheknew; but that he could write, with such pleasant life, detail, andingenuity, was a surprise, and it attracted her, as it would haveattracted a French-woman of the eighteenth century. Her maimed lifehad made her perforce an 'intellectual'; and in these letters, theman's natural poetry and force stirred her enthusiasm. Hence a newinterest and receptivity in her, quickened by many small and naturalincidents--books lent and discussed, meetings in picture-galleries, conversations in her father's house, and throughout it that tempting, dangerous pleasure of 'doing good, ' that leads astray so many on whomSatan has no other hold! She was introducing him every week to newfriends--her friends, the friends she wished him to have; she wasmaking his social way plain before him; she had made her father buyhis pictures; and she meant to look after his career in the future. 

So that, quivering as she still was under the strain of her scenewith Welby--so short, so veiled, and at bottom so tragic!--she showedherself glitteringly cheerful--almost gay--as she stood talking afew minutes with her father and Fenwick. The restless happiness inFenwick's face and movements gave his visitors indeed so much pleasurethat they found it hard to go; several times they said good-bye, onlyto plunge again into the sketches and studies that lay litteredabout the room, to stand chatting before the new canvas, to laugh andgossip--till Lord Findon remembered that Eugénie did not yet knowthat he had offered Fenwick five hundred pounds for the two picturesinstead of four hundred and fifty pounds; and that he might havethe prompt satisfaction of telling her that he had bettered herinstructions, he at last dragged her away. On this day of all days, did he wish to please her!--if it were only in trifles. 

CHAPTER VIII

When Fenwick was alone, he walked to a chest of drawers in which hekept a disorderly multitude of possessions, and took out a mingledhandful of letters, photographs, and sketches. Throwing them on atable, he looked for and found a photograph of Phoebe with Carrie onher knee, and a little sketch of Phoebe--one of the first ideas forthe 'Genius Loci. ' He propped them up against some books, and lookedat them in a passion of triumph. 

'It's all right, old woman--it's all right!' he murmured, smiling. Then he spread out Lord Findon's cheque before the photograph, asthough he offered it at Phoebe's shrine. 

Five hundred pounds! Well, it was only what his work was worth--whathe had every right to expect. None the less, the actual possession ofthe money seemed to change his whole being. What would his oldfather say? He gave a laugh, half-scornful, half-good-humoured, ashe admitted to himself that not even now--probably--would the old manrelent. 

And Phoebe!--he imagined the happy wonder in her eyes--the rollingaway of all clouds between them. For six weeks now he had been averitable brute about letters! First, the strain of his work (and thefinal wrestle with the 'Genius Loci, ' including the misfortune ofthe paints, had really been a terrible affair!)--then--he confessedit--the intellectual excitement of the correspondence with Madame dePastourelles: between these two obsessions, or emotions, poor Phoebehad fared ill. 

'But you'll forgive me now, old girl--won't you?' he said, kissing herphotograph in an effusion that brought the moisture to his eyes. Thenhe replaced it, with the sketches, in the drawer, forgetting in hisexcitement the letters which lay scattered on the table. 

What should he do now? Impossible to settle down to any work! TheNorth post had gone, but he might telegraph to Phoebe and writelater. Meanwhile he would go over to Chelsea, and see Cuningham andWatson--repay Watson his debt!--or promise it at least for the morrow, when he should have had time to cash the cheque--perhaps even--pompousthought!--to open a banking account. 

Suddenly a remembrance of Morrison crossed his mind and he stood amoment with bent head--sobered--as though a ghost passed through theroom. Must he send a hundred pounds to Mrs. Morrison? He envisagedit, unwillingly. Already his treasure seemed to be melting away. Timeenough, surely, for that. He and Phoebe had so much to do--to get ahouse and furnish it, to pay pressing bills, to provide models for thenew picture! Why, it would be all gone directly!

He locked up the cheque safely, took his hat, and was just runningout when his eye fell on the three-hours' sketch of Madame dePastourelles, which had been the foundation of the portrait. He hadrecently framed it, but had not yet found a place for it. It stoodon the floor, against the wall. He took it up, looked at it withdelight--by Jove! it was a brilliant thing!--and placing it on a smalleasel, he arranged two lamps with moveable shades, which he often usedfor drawing in the evening, so as to show it off. There was in himmore than a touch of theatricality, and as he stood back from thislittle arrangement to study its effect, he was charmed with his ownfancy. There she queened it, in the centre of the room--his patronsaint, and Phoebe's. He knew well what he owed her--and Phoebe shouldsoon know. He was in a hurry to be off; but he could not make up hismind--superstitiously--to put out the lights. So, after lingering afew 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. Gibbswas soon made happy, so far as promises could do it, and in anotherminute he was in a hansom speeding westward. It was nearly seveno'clock on a mild April evening. The streets were full, the shopsstill open. As he passed along Oxford Street, monarch it seemed of allhe beheld, his eyes fell on Peter Robinson's windows, glittering withlights, and gay with spring ribbons, laces, and bright silks. An idearushed into his mind. Only the week before, on his first visit tothe new Chelsea quarters whither Cuningham and Watson had betakenthemselves, he had stumbled upon an odd little scene in the stillbare, ungarnished studio. Cuningham, who had been making money withsome rapidity of late, was displaying before the half-sympathetic, half-sarcastic eyes of Watson, some presents that he was just sendingoff to his mother and sisters in Scotland. A white dress, a laceshawl, some handkerchiefs, a sash, a fan--there they lay, ranged onbrown paper on the studio floor. Cuningham was immensely proud ofthem, and had been quite ready to show them to Fenwick also, fingeringtheir fresh folds, enlarging on their beauties. And Fenwick hadthought sorely of Phoebe as he watched Cuningham turn the prettythings over. When had he ever been able to give her any femininegauds? Always this damned poverty, pressing them down!

But now--by Jove!--

He made the hansom stop, rushed into Peter Robinson's, bought adress-length of pink-and-white cotton, a blue sash for Carrie, and afichu of Indian muslin and lace. Thrusting his hand into his pocketfor money, he found only a sovereign--pretty nearly his last!--andsome silver. 'That's on account, ' he said loftily, givingthe sovereign to the shopman; 'send the things home to-morrowafternoon--to-morrow _afternoon_, mind--and I'll pay for them ondelivery. '

Then he jumped into his hansom again, and for sheer excitement toldthe man to hurry, and he should have an extra shilling. On they speddown Park Lane. The beds of many-coloured hyacinths in the Park shonethrough the cheerful dusk; the street was crowded, and beyond, therailings, the seats under the trees were full of idlers. There was asparkle of flowers in the windows of the Park Lane houses, togetherwith golden sunset touches on the glass; and pretty faces wrapt inlace or gauze looked out from the hansoms as they passed him by. Againthe 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 ownupward progress had begun; he was no longer jealous of the people whostood higher. 

Dorchester House, Dudley House;--he looked at them with agood-humoured tolerance. After all, London was pleasant; therewas some recognition of merit; and even something to be said forAcademies. 

Then his picture began to hover before him. It was a big thing;suppose it took him years? Well, there would be portraits to keephim alive. Meanwhile it was true enough what he had said to Madame dePastourelles. As a _painter_ he had never been properly trained. Hisvalues were uncertain; and he had none of the sureness of method whichmen 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 ofthe Englishmen who went to Paris lost their individuality and becamethird-rate Frenchmen. He would puzzle out things for himself--stick tohis own programme and ideas. 

English poetic feeling, combined with as much of French technique asit could assimilate--there was the line of progress. Not the techniqueof these clever madmen--Manet, Degas, Monet, and the rest--with themean view of life of some, and the hideous surface of others. No!--butthe Barbizon men--and Mother Nature, first and foremost! Beauty too, beauty of idea and selection--not mere beauty of paint, to whicheverything else--line, modelling, construction--was to be vilelysacrificed. 

In his exaltation he began an imaginary article denouncing theImpressionists, spouting it aloud as he went along; so that thepassers-by caught a word or two, through the traffic, now and then, and turned to look, astonished, at the handsome, gesticulating fellowin the hansom. Till he stopped abruptly, first to laugh at himself, and then to chuckle over the thought of Phoebe, and the presents hehad just bought. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, at the very moment, probably, that Fenwick was in PeterRobinson's shop, an omnibus coming from Euston passed through RussellSquare, and a woman, volubly advised by the conductor, alighted fromit at the corner of Bernard Street. She was very tall and slender; herdress was dusty and travel-stained, and as she left the omnibus shedrew down a thickly spotted veil over a weary face. She walked quicklydown Bernard Street, looking at the numbers, and stopped before thedoor of Fenwick's lodgings. 

The door was opened by Mrs. Gibbs, the landlady. 

'Is Mr. Fenwick 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 advancedinto the hall. 

'I've got a parcel for him'--she showed it under her arm. 'If you'llallow 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 somemistake--he hasn't got no wife!'

Phoebe drew herself up fiercely. 

'You mustn't say such things to me, please! I _am_ Mr. Fenwick'swife--and you must please show me his rooms. '

The emphasis and the passion with which these words were said leftMrs. Gibbs gaping. She was a worthy woman, for whom the world--so faras it could be studied from a Bernard Street lodging-house--had fewsurprises; and a number of alternative conjectures ran through hermind as she studied Phoebe's appearance. 

'I'm sure, ma'am, I meant no offence, ' she said, hurriedly; 'but, yousee, Mr. Fenwick has never--as you might say--'

'No, ' said Phoebe, proudly, interrupting her; 'there was no reason whyhe 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 hisroom?'

But Mrs. Gibbs did not move. She stood staring at Phoebe, irresolute--thinking, no doubt, of the penny novelettes on which shefed her leisure moments--till Phoebe impatiently drew a letter fromher pocket. 

'I see you doubt what I say. Of course it is quite right that youshould be careful about admitting anybody to my husband's rooms in hisabsence. But here is the last letter I received from him a week or twoago. '

And, drawing it from its envelope, Phoebe 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, andslowly retreating--'and he never lettin' me post a letter since hecame here--not once--no confidence nowhere--and I'm sure I have beenhis good friend!'

Phoebe moved towards the staircase. 

'Is Mr. Fenwick's room on the first floor or the second?'

Lost in protesting wonder, Mrs. Gibbs wheezily mounted the stairs farenough to point to the door of Fenwick's room. 

'Here's matches'--she fumbled in her apron-pocket. 'There's a candleon the mantelpiece. Though I dare say he's left his lamp going. Hegenerally does--he don't take no account of what I says to him aboutit. '

Phoebe passed on. Mrs. Gibbs called after her:

'So I'm to say "Mrs. Fenwick, " am I, madam--when Mr. Fenwick getsback?'

She stood leaning against the banisters, one hand behind her, lookingher visitor up and down with impertinent eyes. 

'Certainly, ' said Phoebe. Then she put her hand to her head, and said, in a low, bewildered voice, 'At least, if I'm here--if he comes backsoon--but I can't stay. '

Mrs. Gibbs went downstairs again, consumed with conjecture andexcitement. 

'Wife indeed!--that's what they all say--bound to. But of all thecool young women! I hope I haven't done no harm, letting her into thestudio. But that letter and all--it was enough to make a jelly of youthings a-turnin' out like this. And me all a-tremblin', and givin'in!'

 * * * * *

Phoebe opened the studio door, noticed the bright light withamazement, and shut the door behind her. She stood there, with herback to it, sharply arrested, her eyes held by the spectacle beforeher. 

Close to her, in the centre of the freest portion of the floor, rosethe sketch of Eugénie de Pastourelles, lit by the two lamps, whichthrew a concentrated glow upon the picture, and left all the rest ofthe room shadowy. Nothing could have been more strange than the aspectof the drawing, thus solitary, and brightly illuminated. Phoebe lookedat it in bewilderment, then round the littered studio. Beyondthe lamps, she saw the large new canvas, showing dimly the first'laying-in' of its important subject. On the floor, and running roundthe walls, was a thin line of sketches and canvases. The shallow, semi-circular window at the further end of the room was not yetcurtained, and the branches of the still leafless plane-tree outsideshowed darkly in the gathering dusk. The room, apart from its one spotof light, struck bare and chill. Except for the 'throne' and a fewchairs, it contained scarcely any furniture. But, for Phoebe, it washeld by two presences. Everything around her spoke of John. Herewas his familiar belongings--his clothes that she had mended--hisbooks--his painting-things. And over John's room--her husband'sroom--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 impulsewhich had possessed her since the evening of Bella Morrison's visit. Nights almost sleepless, arrangements made and carried out in a tumultof excitement, a sense of impending tragedy, accepted, and almostwelcomed, as the end of long weeks of doubt and self-torment, whichhad become at last unbearable--into this fatal coil of actions andimpressions, the young wife had been sinking deeper and deeper witheach successive hour. She had neither friend nor adviser. Her father, a weak inarticulate man, was dying; her stepmother hated her; andshe had long ceased to write to Miss Anna, because it was she who hadurged John to go to London! All sane inference and normal reasoningwere now indeed, and had been for some time, impossible to her. Fenwick, possessed by the imaginations of his art, had had noimagination--alack!--to spend upon his wife's case, and those morbidprocesses 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 themerest common sense. She came prepared to discover the worst--to findevidence for all her fears. And for the worst she had elaborately laidher plans. Only if it should turn out that she had been an unkind, unreasonable wife, wrongly suspicious of her husband, was sheuncertain what she would do. 

With dry, reddened eyes, she stared at the portrait of the womanwho must have stolen John from her. The mere arrangement of the roomseemed to her excited nerves a second outrage;--Mrs. Gibbs's receptionof her and all that it had implied, had been the first. What couldthis strange illumination mean but that John's thoughts were takenup with his sitter in an unusual and unlawful way? For weeks he couldleave his wife without a letter, a word of affection. But before goingout for an hour, he must needs light these lamps and place them so--inorder that this finicking lady should not feel herself deserted, thathe should still seem to be admiring and adoring her!

And after all, was she so pretty? Phoebe looked at the pale and subtleface, at the hair and eyes so much less brilliant than her own, at thethin figure, and the repose of the hands. Not pretty at all!--she saidto herself, violently--but selfish, and artful, and full, of course, of all the tricks and wiles of 'society people. ' _Didn't_ she knowthat John was married? Phoebe scornfully refused to believe it. Suchwomen simply didn't care what stood in their way. If they took afancy to a man, what did it matter whether he were married or no?

The poor girl stood there, seething with passion, pluming herself ona knowledge of the world which enabled her to 'see through' theseabominable great ladies. 

But if she didn't know, if Bella Morrison's tale were true, then itwas John, on whom Phoebe's rage returned to fling itself with freshand maddened bitterness. That he should have thus utterly ignoredher in his new surroundings--have never said a word about her to thelandlady with whom he had lodged for nearly a year, or to any of hisnew acquaintances and friends--should have deliberately hidden thevery fact of his marriage--could a husband give a wife any morehumiliating proof of his indifference, or of her insignificance in hislife?

[Illustration: _Phoebe's Rival_]

Meanwhile the picture possessed her more and more. Closer and closershe came, her chest heaving. Was it not as though John had foreseenher coming, her complaints--and had prepared for her this silent, thiscruel 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 withoutMadame de Pastourelles. So the sketch, with which he had finished, really, months ago, was dragged out, and made queen of all itsurveyed, because, no doubt, he was miserable at parting with thepicture. 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 morebitter, a more significant offence. Presently, in her foolish agony, she did actually believe that he had thought she might descend uponhim, provoked beyond bearing by his silence and neglect, and hadcarefully planned this infamous way of telling her--what he wanted herto know!

Waves of unreasoning passion swept across her. The gentleness anddocility of her youth had been perhaps mechanical, half-conscious; shecame in truth of a hard stock, capable of violence. She put her handsto her face, trembled, and turned away. She began to be afraid ofherself. 

With a restless hand, as though she caught hold of anything that mightdistract her from the picture, she began to rummage among the paperson the table. Suddenly her attention pounced upon them; she bent herhead, took up some and carried them to the lamp. Five or six largeenvelopes, bearing a crest and monogram, addressed in a clear hand, and containing each a long letter--she found a packet, of these, tiedround with string. Throwing off her hat and veil, she sat down underthe lamp, and, without an instant's demur, began to read. 

First, indeed, she turned to the signature--'Eugénie de Pastourelles. 'Why, pray, should Madame de Pastourelles write these long letters toanother woman's husband? The hands which held them shook with angerand misery. These pages filled with discussion of art and books, whichhad seemed to the woman of European culture, and French associations, so natural to write, which had been written as the harmless and kindlyoccupation of an idle hour, with the shades of Madame de Sévigné andMadame du Deffand standing by, were messengers of terror and despairto this ignorant and yet sentimental Westmoreland girl. Why shouldthey be written at all to _her_ John, her own husband? No nice womanthat she had ever known wrote long letters to married men. What couldhave been the object of writing these pages and pages about John'spictures and John's prospects?--affected stuff!--and what was themeaning of these appointments to see pictures, these invitations toSt. James's Square, these thanks 'for the kind and charming things yousay'--above all, of the constant and crying omission, throughout thesedelicately written sheets, of any mention whatever of Fenwick's wifeand child? But of course for the two correspondents whom these lettersimplied, such dull, stupid creatures did not exist. 

Ah! but wait a moment. Her eye caught a sentence--then fastenedgreedily on the following passage:

'I hardly like to repeat what I said the other day--you will thinkme a very intrusive person!--but when you talk of melancholy andloneliness, of feeling the strain of competition, and the nervousburden of work, so that you are sometimes tempted to give it upaltogether, I can't help repeating that some day a wife will save youfrom all this. I have seen so much of artists!--they of all menshould marry. It is quite a delusion to suppose that art--whateverart means--is enough for them, or for anybody. Imagination is the mostexhausting of all professions!--and if we women are good for nothingelse we _can_ be cushions--we can "stop a chink and keep the windaway. " So pay no attention, please, to my father's diatribes. You willvery soon be prosperous--sooner perhaps than you think. A _home_ iswhat you want. '

Kind and simple sentences!--written so innocently and interpretedso perversely! And yet the fierce and blind bewilderment with whichPhoebe read or misread them was natural enough. She never doubted fora moment but that the bad woman who wrote them meant to offer herselfto John. She was separated from her husband, John had said, declaringof course that it was not her fault. As if any one could be sureof that! But, at any rate, if she were separated, she might bedivorced--some time. And then--_then_!--_she_ would be so obliging asto make a 'cushion, ' and a home, for Phoebe Fenwick's husband! As tohis not being grand enough for her, that was all nonsense. When a manwas as clever as John, he was anybodies equal--one saw that every day. No, this creature would make people buy his pictures--she would pushhim on--and after a while--

With a morbid and devastating rapidity, a whole scheme, by which thewoman before her might possess herself of John, unfolded itself inPhoebe's furious mind. 

Yet, surely, it would only want one word from her--from her, hiswife?--

She felt herself trembling. Her limbs began to sink under her. Shedropped upon a chair, sobbing. What was the use of fighting, ofprotesting? John had forgotten her--John's heart had grown cold toher. She might dismay and trample on her rival--how would that giveher back her husband?

Oh, how could he, how _could_ he have treated her so! 'I know Iwas ill-tempered and cross, John, --I couldn't write letters likethat--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 asa stone, with a hard, contemptuous mouth. A lonely agony, a blacknessof despair, seized on Phoebe, as she crouched there, the letters onher lap, her hands hanging, her beautiful eyes, blurred with tears andsleeplessness, fixed on the picture. What she felt was absurd; but howmany tragedies--aye, the deepest--are at bottom ridiculous! She hadlost him; he cared no more for her; he had passed into another worldout of her ken; and what was to become of her?

She started up, goaded by a blind instinct of revenge, seizing shescarcely knew what. On the table lay a palette, laden with some darkpigment with which Fenwick had just been sketching in part of his newpicture. In a pot beside it were brushes. 

She caught up a large brush, dipped it in the paint, and going tothe picture--panting and crimson--she daubed it from top to bottom, blotting out the eyes, the mouth, the beautiful outline of thehead--above all, the hands, whose delicate whiteness specially enragedher. 

When the work of wreck was done, she stood a moment 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 dePastourelles' letters, and she roughly tore it off. Making use of abook held on her knee, and finding the pen and ink with which, onlyhalf an hour before, Lord Findon had written his cheque, she began towrite:

Good-bye, John, --I have found out all I want to know, and you willnever see me again. I will never be a burden on a man who is ashamedof me, and has behaved as though I were dead. It is no good wastingwords--you know it's true. Perhaps you may think I have no right totake Carrie. But I can't be alone--and, after all, she is more minethan yours. Don't trouble about me. I have some money, and I mean tosupport myself and Carrie. It was only last night this idea came tome, though it was the night before that--Never mind--I can't writeabout it, it would take too long, and it doesn't really matter toeither of us. I don't want you to find me here; you might persuade meto come back to you, and I know it would be for the misery of both ofus. What was I saying?--oh, the money--Well, last night, a cousin ofmine, from Keswick, perhaps you remember him--Freddie Tolson--cameto see me. Father sent him. You didn't believe what I told you aboutfather--you thought I was making up. You'll be sorry, I think, whenyou read this, for by now, most likely, father has passed away. Freddie told me the doctor had given him up, and he was very neargoing. But he sent Freddie to me, with some money he had really leftme 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 andblessing--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 mindhow much it was. It's my very own, and I'm glad it comes from myfather, and not from you. I have my embroidery money too, and I shallbe all right--though very, very miserable. The idea of what I would docame into my head while I was talking with Freddie--and since I cameinto this room, I have made up my mind. I'm sorry I can't set you freealtogether. 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'mdisgracing 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 thethings we said?

I've spoiled your sketch--I couldn't help it--and I'm not sorry--notyet, anyway. She has everything in the world, and I had nothing--butyou. 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 Icouldn'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, whichcontained papers and small personal possessions belonging to herhusband; in front of the packet she laid the five letters of Madame dePastourelles, her own letter in an envelope addressed to him, and uponit her ring. 

Then she put on her hat and veil, tying the veil closely round herface, and, with one last look round the room, she crept to the doorand unlocked it. So quietly did she descend the stairs that Mrs. Gibbs, who was listening sharply, with the kitchen door open, for anysound of her departure, heard nothing. The outer door opened and shutwithout the smallest noise, and the slender, veiled figure was quicklylost in the darkness and the traffic of the street. 

PART III

AFTER TWELVE YEARS

 'Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. '

CHAPTER IX

'Quand vous arriverez au troisième, monsieur, montez, montez toujours!Vous trouverez un petit escalier tournant, en bois. Ça vous conduira àl'atelier. '

Thus advised by the wife of the concierge, Fenwick crossed thecourtyard of an old house in the Rue du Bac, looked up a moment at thesober 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 justtouched with classical decoration; each line and tint contributingto a seemly, restrained whole, as of something much worn by time, yetmerely enhanced thereby, something deliberately built, moreover, tostand the years, and abide the judgement of posterity. The house inSaint-Simon's day had belonged to one of those newly ennobled dukes, his contemporaries and would-be brethren, whose monstrous claims torank with himself and the other real magnificences among the _ducset pairs de France_ drove him to distraction. It was now let out to amultitude of families, who began downstairs in affluence and endedin the genteel or artistic penury of the garrets. The first floor wasoccupied by a deputy and ex-minister, one of the leaders of the CentreGauche--in the garrets it was possible for a _rapin_ to find a bedroomat sixteen francs a month. But it was needful that he should bea seemly _rapin_, orderly and quietly ambitious, like the house, otherwise he would not have been long suffered within its tranquil andself-respecting walls. 

Fenwick climbed and climbed, discovered the little wooden staircase, and still climbed. At the very top he found a long and narrowcorridor, along which he groped in darkness. Suddenly, at the end, adoor opened, and a figure appeared on the threshold. 

'Fenwick!--that you? All right!--no steps! The floor was left _aunaturel_ about 1680--but you won't come to grief. '

Fenwick arrived at the open door, and Dick Watson drew him into thelarge studio beyond. Fenwick looked round him in astonishment. Theroom was a huge _grenier_ in the roof of the old house, roughlyadapted to the purposes of a studio. A large window to the north hadbeen put in, and the walls had been rudely plastered. But all theblasts of heaven seemed still to blow through them, and through thechinks or under the eaves of the roof; while in the middle of thefloor a pool of water, the remains of a recent heavy shower, testifiedto the ease with which the weather could enter if it chose. 

'I say'--said Fenwick, pointing to the water--'can you stand this kindof thing?'

Watson shivered. 

'Not in this weather. I'm off next week. In the summer it's pleasantenough. Well, it's deuced lucky I caught sight of you at that showyesterday! How are you? I believe it's nearly two years since we metlast. '

'I'm all right, ' said Fenwick, accepting a shaky seat and a cigarette. 

Watson lighted a fresh one for himself, and then with arms akimbosurveyed his visitor. 

'I've seen you look better. What's the matter? Have you been workingthrough the summer in London?'

'I'm all right, ' Fenwick repeated; then, with a little grimace--'orI should be, if I could pay my way, and paint the things I want topaint. '

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 now, Fenwick had been always well and carefullydressed--an evident Londoner, accustomed to drawing-rooms andfrequenting expensive tailors. But to-day there was something in histired, dishevelled look, and comparatively shabby coat, which remindedWatson of years long gone by--of a studio in Bernard Street, and abroad-browed, handsome fellow, with queer manners and a North-Countryaccent. As to good looks, Fenwick's face and head were now far finerthan they had been in first youth; Watson's critical eye took note ofit. The hair, touched lightly with grey, had receded slightly on thetemples, and the more ample brow, heavily lined, gave a noblershelter 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 primeof life. Nevertheless, there was in his aspect, as he sat there, aprophetic note of discouragement, of ebbing vitality which startledhis friend. 

'I say, ' said Watson, abruptly, 'you've been over-doing it. Have youmade it up with the Academy?'

Fenwick laughed. 

'Goodness, no!'

'Where have you been exhibiting this year?'

'At the gallery I always take. And I sent some things to theGrosvenor. '

Watson shook his head. 

'It's an awful pity. You'd got in--you should have stayed in--and madeyourself a power. '

Fenwick's attitude stiffened. 

'I have never regretted it for a single hour--except that the sceneitself 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 anewly elected Associate of the Academy, and at what seemed to be theheight of his first success as an artist, had sent in a picture tothe Spring Exhibition which appeared to the Hanging Committee ofthe moment a perfunctory thing. They gave it a bad place, and anAcademician told Fenwick what had happened. He rushed to BurlingtonHouse, tore down his picture from the wall, stormed at the astonishedmembers of the Hanging Committee, carried off his property, and vowedthat he would resign his Associateship. He was indeed called upon todo so; and he signalised his withdrawal by a furious letter to the_Times_ in which the rancours, grievances, and contempts of tenchequered and ambitious years found full and rhetorical expression. The letter naturally made a breach between the writer and England'sofficial art. Watson, who was abroad when the whole thing happened, had heard of it with mingled feelings. 'It will either make him--orfinish him!' was his own judgement, founded on a fairly exhaustiveknowledge of John Fenwick; and he had waited anxiously for results. So far no details had reached him since. Fenwick seemed to be stillexhibiting, still writing to the papers, and, as far as he knew, stillselling. But the aspect of the man before him was not an aspect ofprosperity. 

Watson, however, having started a subject which he well knew to beinterminable, would instantly have liked to escape from it. He washimself nervous, critical, and easily bored. He did not know what heshould 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 declaiming, his eyes blazing, one handplaying with Watson's favourite dog, an Aberdeen terrier who wassoftly smelling and pushing against him. All that litany of mockeryand bitterness, which the Comic Spirit kindles afresh on the lips ofeach rising generation, only to quench it again on the lips of thosewho 'arrive, ' flowed from him copiously. He was the age indeed for'arrival, ' when, as so often happens, the man of middle life, appeasedby success, dismisses the revolts of his youth. But this was still thelanguage--and the fierce language--of revolt! The decadence of Englishart and artists, the miserable commercialism of the Academy, theabsence of any first-rate teaching, of any commanding traditions, ofany 'school' worth the name--the vulgarity of the public, from royaltydownward, the snobbery of the rich world in its dealings with art:all these jeremiads which he recited were much the same--_mutatismutandis_--as those with which, half a century before, poor BenjaminHaydon had filled the 'autobiography' 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 ofHaydon. '

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 therepassed the same image of Haydon lying dead by his own hand beneath thevast pictures that no one would buy. 

'Why you talk like this, I'm sure I don't know, ' Watson said, with animpatient laugh. 'I'm always seeing your name in the papers. You havea great reputation, and I don't expect the Academy matters to your_clientèle_. '

Fenwick shook his head. 'I haven't sold a picture for more than ayear--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 otherinstantly divined that, friends as they were, the comparison withhimself had not been at all welcome to his companion. And, indeed, atthe time when Watson left England to begin the wandering life he hadbeen leading for some three years, it would have been nothing lessthan 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 lead, to many goals;but with him, at that time, the omens were of the best. His pictureswere always among the events of the spring exhibitions; he hadgathered round him a group of enthusiastic pupils who worked in thestudio of the new house; and he had already received a good manyhonours at the hands of foreign juries. He was known to be on thethreshold of the Academy, and to be making, besides, a good dealof money. 'Society' had first admitted him as the _protégé_ of LordFindon and the friend of Madame de Pastourelles, and was now ready toamuse itself with him, independently, as a genius and an 'eccentric. 'He had many enemies; but so have all 'fighters. ' The critics spokeseverely of certain radical defects in his work, due to insufficiencyof early training; defects which time might correct--or stereotype. But the critics 'must be talking'; and the public, under the spell ofa new and daring talent, appeared to take no notice. 

As these recollections passed through Watson's mind, anotherexpression showed itself in the hollow-cheeked, massive face. It wasthe look of the visionary who sees in events the strange verificationof obscure instincts and divinations in which he himself perhapshas only half-believed. He and Fenwick had been friends now--in somerespects, close friends--for a good many years. Of late, they hadmet rarely, and neither of the men was a good correspondent. But thefriendship, the strong sense of congruity and liking, persisted. Ithad sprung, originally--unexpectedly enough--from that loan made toFenwick in his days of stress and poverty; and there were many whoprophesied that it would come to an end with Fenwick's success. Watson had no interest in and small tolerance for the prosperous. Hisconnexion with Cuningham, in spite of occasional letters, had droppedlong ago, ever since that clever Scotch painter had shown himselffinally possessed of the usual Scotch power to capture London and acompetence. But his liking for Fenwick had never wavered through allthe blare of Fenwick's success. 

Was it that the older man with his melancholy Celtic instinct haddivined from the first that he and Fenwick were in truth of the samerace--the race of the [Greek: dusammoroi]--the ill-fated--those forwhom happiness is not written in the stars?

He sat staring at his companion, his eyes dreamily intent, takingnote of the restless depression of the man before him, and of thedisagreeable facts which emerged from his talk--declining reputation, money difficulties, and--last and most serious--a new doubt of himselfand his powers, which Watson never remembered to have noticed in himbefore. 

'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 tryingto sell the house. But it's a white elephant. '

'Building's the deuce, ' said Watson, gloomily. 'It ruins everybodyfrom Louis Quatorze and Walter Scott downward. Have no barns--that'smy 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 asclever as ever--cleverer. You've only got to _paint_--and it'll beall right. But, of course, if you will spend all your time in writingletters 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 largepictures in eight months--if only somebody would buy 'em. And I'm inParis now'--he hesitated a moment--'on a painting job. I've promisedC----' (he named a well-known actor-manager in London) 'to helphim with the production of a new play! I never did such a thingbefore--but--'

He looked up uncertainly, his colour rising. 

'What?--scenery for _The Queen's Necklace?_ I've seen the puffs in thepapers. Why not? Hope he pays well. Then you're going to Versailles, of course?'

Fenwick replied that he had taken some rooms at the Hôtel desRéservoirs and must make some sketches in the palace; also in thepark, and the Trianon garden. Then he rose abruptly. 

'Well, and what have you been after?'

'The same old _machines_, ' said Watson, tranquilly, pointing to acouple of large canvases. 'My subjects are no gayer than they used tobe. Except that--ah, yes--I forgot--I had a return upon myself thisspring--and set to work on some Bacchantes. ' He stopped, and picked upa 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. 'Theophile Gautier saidof some other fellow's Bacchantes that they had got drunk on"philosophical" wine. He might, I fear, have said it of mine. Anyway, I felt I was not made for Bacchantes--so I fell back on the usualthing. '

And he showed an 'Execution of a Witch'--filled with gruesome andpoignant 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 mecontented--that and my animals. Anatole!--_vaurien_!--_où es-tu_?'

A small monkey, in a red jacket, who had been sitting unnoticed onthe top of a cabinet since Fenwick's entrance, clattered down to thefloor, and, running to his master, was soon sitting on his shoulder, staring at Fenwick with a pair of grave, soft eyes. Watson caressedhim;--and then pointed to a wicker cage outside the window in which apigeon 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 herthere--the darling! In the evening she spreads her wings, and I watchher fly toward 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 herabominably. '

'You seem also to be favoured by mice?' said Fenwick, idly looking attwo traps on the floor beside him. 

Watson smiled. 

'My _femme de service_ sets those traps every night. She says we areoverrun--the greatest nonsense! As if there wasn't enough for all ofus! Then in the night--I sleep there, you see, behind that screen--Iwake, and hear some little fool squeaking. So I get up, and take thetrap downstairs in the dark--right away down--to the first floor. Andthere I let the mouse go--those folk down there are rich enough tokeep him. The only drawback is that my old woman is so cross in themorning, and she spends her life thinking of new traps. _Ah, ben!--Jela 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 athim more closely. 

'How are you, by the way?' he asked, repentantly, 'I ought to haveinquired before. You mentioned consulting some big man here. What didhe 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 ofsubject--'you know, of course, that Lord Findon and madame are to beat 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 doingsince?'

Fenwick replied that since the death of her husband--about a yearbefore this date--Madame de Pastourelles, worn out with nursing, hadbeen pursuing health--in Egypt and elsewhere. Her father, stepmother, and sister had been travelling with her. The sister and she were tostay at Versailles till Christmas. It was a place for which Madame dePastourelles had an old affection. 

'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'sthe fellow for telling you the news. Welby has begun a big picture ofMarie Antoinette, at Trianon, and has taken a studio in Versailles forthe 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 mixedup in the "hanging" affair?' said Watson, with a quick look at hiscompanion. 

'He was ill the day it was done, but in my opinion he behaved in anextremely mean and ungenerous manner afterwards!' exclaimed Fenwick, suddenly flushing from brow to chin. 

'You mean he didn't support you?'

'He shilly-shallied. He thought--I have very good reason tobelieve--that I had been badly treated--that there was personalfeeling in the matter--resentment of things that I had written--and soon but he would never come out into the open and say so!'

The excitement with which Fenwick spoke made it evident that Watsonhad touched an extremely sore point. 

Watson was silent a little, lit another cigarette, and then said, witha smile:

'Poor Madame de Pastourelles!'

Fenwick looked up with irritation. 

'What on earth do you mean?'

'I am wondering how she kept the peace between you--her two greatfriends. '

'She sees very little of Welby. '

'Ah! Since when?'

'Oh! for a long time. Of course they meet occasionally--'

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 Fenwick, turning asideto look through some sketches that lay on a chair beside him. 

Watson shook his head, still smiling, then remarked:

'By the way, 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 discussedthe pictures on the easels, or Fenwick's own projects, as they talkedof Manet, and Zola's 'L'Oeuvre, ' and the Goncourts, as they comparedthe state of painting in London and Paris, employing all the latestphrases, both of them astonishingly well informed as to men andtendencies--Watson as an outsider, Fenwick as a passionate partisan, loathing the Impressionists, denouncing a show of Manet and Renoirrecently opened at a Paris dealer's--Watson's inner mind was reallyfull of Madame de Pastourelles, and that _salon_ of hers in theold Westminster house in Dean's Yard, of which during so many yearsFenwick had made one of the principal figures. It should perhapsbe explained that some two years after Fenwick's arrival in London, Madame de Pastourelles had thought it best to establish a little_ménage_ of her own, distinct from the household in St. James'sSquare. Her friends and her stepmother's were not always congenial toeach other; and in many ways both Lord Findon and she were the happierfor the change. Her small panelled rooms had quickly become themeeting-place of a remarkable and attractive society. Watson himself, indeed, had never been an _habitué_ of that or any other drawing-room. As he had told Lord Findon long ago, he was not for the world, nor theworld for him. But whereas his volatile lordship could never draw himfrom his cell, Lord Findon's daughter was sometimes irresistible, andWatson's great shaggy head and ungainly person was occasionally tobe seen beside her fire, in the years before he left London. He had, therefore, been a spectator of Fenwick's gradual transformation at thehands 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 theminds of any reasonable being. All the same, the deep store of hiddensentiment which this queer idealist possessed had been touched bythe position. The young woman isolated and childless, so charming, so nobly sincere, 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 himunmarried? Ever since the death of M. Le Comte de Pastourelles, dreamsconcerning 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 of his oldBernard Street landlady, who had become his housekeeper and factotumin 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 neverpaid 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 ofthe head. 

Fenwick raised his eyebrows interrogatively. 

'I imagine that what Mrs. Gibbs did well, "Mrs. Fenwick" might do evenbetter--_n'est-ce pas?_'

Fenwick sprang up. 

'Mrs. --?' he repeated, vaguely. 

He stood a moment bending over Watson--his eyes staring, his mouthopen. Then he controlled himself. 

'You talk as though she were round the corner, ' he said, turning awayand 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 hiscoat. 

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 minutesto four. Some impulse, born of the seething thoughts within, took himto the door of the Musée. He mounted rapidly, and found himself in thelarge room devoted to the modern French school. 

He went straight to two pictures by Hippolyte Flandrin--'Madame Vinet'and 'Portrait de Jeune Fille. ' When, in the first year of his Londonlife, he had made his hurried visits to Paris, these pictures, then inthe Luxembourg, had been among those which had most vitally affectedhim. The beautiful surface and keeping which connected them withthe old tradition, together with the modern spirit, the trenchantsimplicity of their portraiture, had sent him back--eager andpalpitating--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 tosuffocation under the stress of that startling phrase of Watson's. Still tremulous--as one in flight--he made himself recognise certaindetails of drawing and modelling in 'Madame Vinet' which had given himhints for the improvement of the portrait of Phoebe; and, again, the ease with which the head moves on its shoulders, its relief, itsrefinement--how he had toiled to rival them in his picture of MadameEugénie!--translating as he best could the cold and disagreeablecolour of the Ingres school into the richer and more romantic handlingof an art influenced by Watts and Burne-Jones!

Then he passed on to the young girl's portrait--the girl in whitemuslin, turning away her graceful head from the spectator, and showingthereby the delicacy of her profile, the wealth of her brown hair, thebeauty of her young and virginal form. Suddenly, his eyes clouded;he turned abruptly away, left the room without looking at anotherpicture, and was soon hurrying through the crowded streets northwardtowards the Gare Saint-Lazare. 

Carrie!--his child!--his own flesh and blood. His heart cried out forher. Watson's _brusquerie_--the young girl of the picture--and hisown bitter and disappointed temper--they had all their share in theemotion which possessed him. 

The child whom he remembered, with her mother's eyes, and that lightmutinous charm, which was not Phoebe's--why, she was now seventeen!--alittle 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 familiarimage!--of the baby at his knee, open-mouthed, her pink lips roundedfor the tidbit just about to descend upon them, her sweet andsparkling eyes fixed upon her father. 

'My God!--where are they?--are they alive, or dead? Howcruel--_cruel_!' And he ground his teeth in one of those paroxysmswhich every now and then, at long intervals, represented the returnupon him of the indestructible past. Often for months together itmeant little or nothing to him, but the dull weight of his secret;twelve years had inevitably deadened feeling, and filled the mind withfresh interests, while of late the tumult of his Academy and Presscampaign had silenced the stealing, distant voices. Yet there weremoments when all was as fresh and poignant as it had been in the firsthours, when Phoebe, with her golden head and her light, springingstep, seemed to move beside him, and he felt the drag of a small handin his. 

He stiffened himself--like one attacked. The ghosts of dead hours cametrooping and eddying round him, like the autumn leaves that had begunto strew the Paris streets--all the scenes of that first ghastly weekwhen he had hunted in desperation for his lost wife and child. Hisjoyous return from Chelsea, on the evening of his good-fortune--Mrs. Gibbs's half-sulky message on the door-step that 'Mrs. Fenwick' wasin the studio--his wild rush upstairs--the empty room, the letter, thering:--his hurried journey North--the arrival at the Langdale cottage, only to find on the table of the deserted parlour another letter fromPhoebe, written before she left Westmoreland, in the prevision thathe would come there in search of a clue, and urging him for both theirsakes to make no scandal, no hue and cry, to accept the inevitable, and let her go in peace--his interview with the servant Daisy, who hadwaited with the child in an hotel close to Euston, while Phoebe wentto Bernard Street, and had been sent back to the North immediatelyafter Phoebe's return, without the smallest indication of whather mistress meant to do--his fruitless consultations with AnnaMason!--the whole dismal story rose before him, as it was wont to doperiodically, filling him with the same rage, the same grief, the samefierce and inextinguishable resentment. 

Phoebe had destroyed his life. She had not only robbed him of herselfand of their child, she had forced him into an acted lie which hadpoisoned his whole existence, and, first and foremost, that graciousand beautiful friendship which was all, save his art, that she hadleft him. For, in the first moments of his despair and horror, he hadremembered what it would mean to Madame de Pastourelles, did she everknow that his mad wife had left him out of jealousy of her. He wasnot slow to imagine the effect of Phoebe's action on that proud, purenature and sensitive conscience; and he knew what she and herfather must feel towards the deception which had led her into such aposition, and made such a tragedy possible. He foresaw her recoil, herbitter condemnation, the final ruin of the relation between himselfand 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 whichhad already suffered so much, in the very first hours of his own shockand misery, he had shrunk from this, he had tried his best to protectMadame de Pastourelles. 

Hence the compact with his landlady, by which he had in fact bribedher to silence, and transformed her into a devoted servant alwaysunder his eye; hence the various means by which he had found itpossible to quiet the members of his own family and of Phoebe's--needyfolk, most of them, cannily unwilling to make an enemy of a man whowas likely, so they understood, to be rich, and who already showed ahelpful disposition. When once he had convinced himself that he hadno clue, and that Phoebe had disappeared, it had not been difficultindeed to keep his secret, and to hide the traces of his ownwrong-doing, his own share in the catastrophe. Between Phoebe's worldand 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 motherhad moved to Guernsey, and a year after Phoebe's flight Fenwickascertained that old Mrs. Morrison was dead, and that Bella had goneto South America as companion to a lady. 

So in an incredibly short time the crisis was over. The last phase wasconnected with the cousin--Freddy Tolson--who had visited Phoebe thenight before her journey to London, and was now in New South Wales. 

A letter from Fenwick to this young man, containing a number ofquestions as to his conversation with Phoebe, and written immediatelyafter Phoebe's flight, obtained an answer after some three or fourmonths, but Tolson's reply was wholly unprofitable. He merely avowedthat he had discovered nothing at all of Phoebe's intention, andcould throw no light whatever upon her disappearance. The letterwas laboriously written by a man of imperfect education, and barelycovered three loosely written sides of ordinary note-paper. It arrivedwhen Fenwick's own researches were already at a standstill, and seemedto leave nothing more to hope for. The police inquiries which had beeninitiated went on intermittently for a while, then ceased; the watersof life closed over Phoebe Fenwick and her child. 

What was Fenwick's present feeling towards his wife? If amid thiscrowded Paris he had at last beheld her coming to him, had seen thetall figure and the childish look, and the lovely, pleading eyes, would his heart have leapt within him?--would his hands have beenoutstretched to enfold and pardon her?--or would he have looked at hersombrely, unable to pass the gulf between them--to forget what she haddone?

In truth, he could not have answered the question; he was uncertainof himself. Her act, by its independence, its force of will, and theability she had shown in planning and carrying it out, had transformedhis whole conception of her. In a sense, he knew her no longer. Thatshe could do a thing at once so violent and so final, was so whollyout of keeping with all his memories of her, that he could only thinkof the woman who had come in his absence to the Bernard Street studio, and defaced the sketch of Madame de Pastourelles, as in some sort astranger--one whom, were she to step back into his life, he wouldhave had to learn afresh. Sometimes, when anything reminded him of hersuddenly--as, for instance, the vision in a shop-window of the verypopular mezzotint which had been made from the 'Genius Loci' the yearafter its success in the Academy--the pang from which he sufferedwould seem to show that he still loved her, as indeed he had alwaysloved her, through all the careless selfishness of his behaviour. But, again, there were many months when she dropped altogether--or seemedto drop--out of his mind and memory, when he was entirely absorbed inthe only interests she had left him--his art, his quarrels, and hisrelation to Eugénie de Pastourelles. 

There was a time, indeed--some two or three years after thecatastrophe--when he passed through a stage of mental and moraltumult, natural to a man of strong passions and physique. Even intheir first married life, Phoebe had been sometimes jealous, and withreason. It was her memory of these occasions that had predisposed herto the mad suspicion which wrecked her. And when she had deserted him, he came violently near, on one or two occasions, to things base andirreparable. But he was saved--first by the unconscious influence, themere trust, of a good woman--and, secondly, by his keen and advancingintelligence. Dread lest he should cast himself out of Eugénie'sdelightful presence; and the fighting life of the mind: it was bythese he was rescued, by these he ultimately conquered. 

And yet, was it, perhaps, his bitterest grievance against his wifethat she had, in truth, left him _nothing_!--not even friendship, noteven art. In so wrenching herself from him, she had perpetuated inhim that excitable and unstable temper it should have been her firstobject to allay, and had thus injured and maimed his artistic power;while at the same time she had so troubled, so falsified his wholeattitude towards the woman who on his wife's disappearance from hislife had become naturally and insensibly his dearest friend, thatnot even the charm of Madame de Pastourelles' society, of hertrue, delicate, and faithful affection, could give him any lastinghappiness. He himself had begun the falsification, but it was Phoebe'sact which had prolonged and compelled it, through twelve years. 

For a long time, indeed, his success as an artist steadily developed. The very energy of his resentment--his inner denunciation--of hiswife's flight, the very force of his fierce refusal to admit that hehad given her the smallest real justification for such a step, hadquickened in him for a time all the springs of life. Through hispainting, as we have seen, he wrestled out his first battles withfate and with temptation; and those early years were the years ofhis artistic triumph, as they were also the years of Madame dePastourelles' strongest influence upon him. But the concealment onwhich his life was based, the tragedy at the heart of it, workedlike 'a worm i' the bud. ' The first check to his artistic career--the'hanging' incident and its sequel--produced an effect of shockand disintegration out of all proportion to its apparentcause--inexplicable indeed to the spectators. 

Madame de Pastourelles wondered, and sorrowed. But she could donothing to arrest the explosion of egotism, arrogance, and passionwhich Fenwick allowed himself, after his breach with the Academy. Theobscure causes of it were hidden from her; she could only pity andgrieve; and Fenwick, unable to satisfy her, unable to re-establish hisown equilibrium, full of remorse towards her, and of despair about hisart, whereof the best forces and inspirations seemed to have witheredwithin 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 deucehad got hold of him--whether he had begun to take morphia--or hadfallen into the clutches of a woman. 

In the midst of these developments, so astonishing and disappointingto Fenwick's best friends, Eugénie de Pastourelles was suddenlysummoned to the death-bed of the husband from whom she had beenseparated for nearly fifteen years. It was now nearly twelve monthssince Fenwick had seen her; and it was his eagerness to meet heragain, much more than the necessities of his new commission, whichhad 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 atthe Gare Saint-Lazare, taking his ticket at the _guichet_. It wascharacteristic of him that he bought a first-class return withoutthinking of it, and then, when he found himself pompously alone inhis compartment, while crowds were hurrying into the second-class, hereproached himself for extravagance, and passed the whole journey ina fume of discomfort. For eight or nine years he had been rich; and heloathed the small ways of poverty. 

Versailles was in the glow of an autumn sunset, as he walked from thestation to the famous Hôtel des Réservoirs on the edge of the Park. The white houses, the wide avenues, the château on its hill, weresteeped in light--a light golden, lavish, and yet melancholy, asthough the autumn day still remembered the October afternoon whenMarie Antoinette turned to look for the last time at the lake and thewoods of Trianon. 

As Fenwick crossed the Rue de la Paroisse, a lady on the other side ofthe road, who was hurrying in the opposite direction, stopped suddenlyat sight of him, and stared excitedly. She was a woman no longeryoung, much sunburnt, with high cheek-bones and a florid complexion. He did not notice her, and after a moment's hesitation she resumed herwalk. 

He went into the Park, where the statues shone flamelike amid thebronze and orange of the trees, where the water of the fountains wasdyed in blue and rose, and all the faded magnificence and decayinggrace of the vast incomparable scene were kindling into an hour's richlife, under the last attack of the sun. He wandered a while, restlessand unhappy--yet always counting the hours till he should see theslight, worn figure which for a year had been hidden from him. 

He dined in the well-known restaurant, wandered again in the milddusk, then mounted to his room and worked a while at some of thesketches he was making for his new commission. While he was soengaged, a carriage drew up below, and two persons descended. Herecognised Lord Findon, much aged and whitened in these last years. The lady in deep mourning behind him paused a moment on the broadpathway, and looked round her, at the hill of the château, atthe bright lights in the restaurant. She threw back her veil, andFenwick's heart leapt as he recognised the spiritual beauty, thepatient sweetness of a face which through twelve troubled years hadkept him from evil and held him to good--had been indeed 'the masterlight' of all his seeing. 

And to his best and only friend he had lied, persistently andunforgiveably, for twelve years. There was the sting--and there thepity of it. 

CHAPTER X

Eugénie de Pastourelles was sitting on the terrace at Versailles. Orrather she was established in one of the deep embrasures between thewindows, on the western side. The wind was cold, but again a glorioussun bathed the terrace and the château. It was a day of splendour--aday when heaven and earth seemed to have conspired to flatter and toadorn the vast creation of Louis Quatorze, this white, flaming palace, amid the gold and bronze of its autumn trees, and the blue of itswaters. Superb clouds, of a royal sweep and amplitude, sailed throughthe brilliant sky; the woods that girdled the horizon were paintedbroadly and solidly in the richest colour upon an immense canvassteeped in light. In some of the nearer alleys which branch from theterrace, the eye travelled, through a deep magnificence of shade, toan arched and framed sunlight beyond, embroidered with every radiantor sparkling colour; in others, the trees, almost bare, met lightlyarched above a carpet of intensest green--a _tapis vert_ stretchingtoward a vaporous distance, and broken by some god, or nymph, on whosewhite shoulders the autumn leaves were dropping softly one by one. 

Wide horizons, infinitely clear--a blazing intensity of light, beatingon the palace, the gardens, the statues, and the distant water ofthe 'Canal de Versailles'--each tint and outline, sharp and vehement, full-bodied and rich--the greenest greens, the bluest blues, the mostdazzling gold:--this was Versailles, as Eugénie saw it, on this autumnday. And through it all, the blowing of a harsh and nipping windsounded the first approach of winter, still defied, as it were, bythese bright woods decked for a last festival. 

It was the 5th of October--the very anniversary of the day when MarieAntoinette, sitting alone beside the lake at Trianon, was startled bya page from the château bringing the news of the arrival of the Parismob, and the urgent summons to return at once;--the day when shepassed the Temple of Love, gleaming amid the quiet streams, forthe last time, and fled back through the leafy avenues leading toVersailles, under a sky--cloudy and threatening rain--which wasremembered by a later generation as blending fitly with the first actof that most eminent tragedy--'The Fall of the House of France. '

Madame de Pastourelles had in her hand a recent book in which a Frenchman of letters, both historian and poet, had told once again the mostpiteous of stories; a story, however, which seemed then, and stillseems, to be not even yet ripe for history--so profound and livingare the sympathies and the passions which to this day surround it inFrance. 

Eugénie had closed the book, and her eyes, as they looked out upon theastonishing light and shade of the terrace and its surroundings, hadfilled unconsciously with tears, not so much for Marie Antoinette, as for all griefs!--for this duped, tortured, struggling lifeof ours--for the 'mortalia' which grip all hearts, which noneescape--pain, and separation, and remorse, hopes deceived, and promisemocked, decadence in one's self, change in others, and that irongentleness of death which closes all. 

For nearly a year she had been trying to recover her forces after anexperience which had shaken her being to its depths. Not because, when she went to nurse his last days, she had any love left, in theordinary sense, for her ruined and debased husband; but because ofthat vast power of pity, that genius for compassion to which shewas born. Not a tremor of body or soul, not a pang of physical orspiritual fear, but she had passed through them, in common with theman she upheld; a man who, like Louis the Well-Beloved, former masterof the building beneath whose shadow she was sitting, was ready togrovel for her pardon, when threatened with a priest and the lastterrors, and would have recalled his mistress, rejoicing, with thefirst day of recovered health. 

He and she had asked for respite in vain, however; and M. DePastourelles slept with his fathers. 

Since his death, her strength had failed her. There had been nodefinite illness, but a giving way for some six or seven months ofnature's resisting powers. Also--significant sign of the strength ofall her personal affections!--in addition to the moral and physicalstrain she had undergone, she had suffered much about this time fromthe loss of her maid, an old servant and devoted friend, who left hershortly after M. De Pastourelles' death--incited, forced thereto byEugénie--in order to marry and go out to Canada. Eugénie had missedher sorely; and insensibly, the struggle to get well had been theharder. The doctors ordered travel and change, and she had wanderedfrom place to place; only half-conscious, as it often seemed to her;the most docile of patients; accompanied now by one member of thefamily, now by another; standing as it were, like the bather who haswandered too far from shore, between the onward current which meansdestruction, and that backward struggle of the will which leads tolife. And little by little the tide of being had turned. Aftera winter in Egypt, strength had begun to come back; since thenSwitzerland and high air had quickened recovery; and now, physically, Eugénie was almost herself again. 

But morally, she retained a deep and lasting impress of what she hadgone through. More than ever was she a creature of tenderness, of themost delicate perceptions, of a sensibility, as our ancestors wouldhave called it, too great for this hurrying world. Her unselfishness, always one of her cradle-gifts, had become almost superhuman; and hadshe been of another temperament, the men and women about her mighthave instinctively shrunk from her, as too perfect--now--for humannature's daily food. But from that she was saved by a score of mostwomanish, most mundane qualities. Nobody knew her, luckily, for thesaint she was; she herself least of all. As her strength reneweditself, her soft fun, too, came back, her gentle, inexhaustibledelight in the absurdities of men and things, which gave to her talkand her personality a kind of crackling charm, like the crispness ofdry leaves upon an autumn path. Naturally, and invincibly, she lovedlife and living; all the high forces and emotions called to her, butalso all the patches, stains, and follies of this queer world; andthere is no saint, man or woman, of whom this can be said, that hasever repelled the sinners. It is the difference between St. Francisand St. Dominic!

How very little--all the same--could Eugénie feel herself with thesaints, on this October afternoon! She sat, to begin with, on thethreshold of Madame de Pompadour'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 are-birth; not of youth--how could that be, she herself would haveasked, seeing that she was now thirty-seven?--but of the naturalEugénie, who, 'intellectual' though she were, lived really by theheart, and the heart only. And since it is the heart that makes youthand keeps it--it _was_ a return of youth--and of beauty--that had comeupon her. In her black dress and shady hat, her collar and cuffs ofwhite lawn, she was very discreetly, quietly beautiful; the passer-bydid not know what it was that had touched and delighted him, till shehad gone, and he found himself, perhaps, looking after the slimyet stately figure; but it was beauty none the less. And the autumnviolets, her sister's gift, that were fastened to-day in profusionat her waist, marked in truth the re-awakening of buried things, offeminine instincts long repressed. For months, her maid Fanchette haddressed her, and she had worn obediently all the long crape gowns andveils dictated by the etiquette of French mourning. But to-day shehad chosen for herself; and in this more ordinary garb, she wasvaguely--sometimes remorsefully--conscious of relief and deliverance. 

Two subjects filled her mind. First, a conversation with Fenwick thatshe had held that morning, strolling through the upper alleys ofthe Park. Poor friend, poor artist! Often and often, during herwanderings, had her thoughts dwelt anxiously on his discontents andcalamities; she had made her sister or her father write to him whenshe could not write herself--though Lord Findon indeed had been forlong much out of patience with him; and during the last few months sheherself had written every week. But she had never felt so clearly theinexorable limits of her influence with him. This morning, just asof old, he had thrown himself tempestuously upon her advice, hersympathy; and she had given him counsel as she best could. But a womanknows when her counsel is likely to be followed, or no. Eugénie had noillusions. In his sore, self-tormented state he was, she saw, atthe mercy of any passing idea, of anything that seemed to offer himvengeance on his enemies, or the satisfaction of a vanity that writhedunder the failure he was all the time inviting and assuring. 

Yet as she thought of him, she liked him better than ever. He might beperverse, yet he appealed to her profoundly! The years of his successhad refined and civilised him no doubt, but they had tended to makehim like anybody else. Whereas this passionate accent of revolt--as ofsome fierce, helpless creature, struggling blindly in bonds of its ownmaking--had perhaps restored to him that more dramatic element whichhis personality had possessed in his sulky, gifted youth. Hehad expressed himself with a bitter force on the decline of hisinspiration and the weakening of his will. He was going to the dogs, he declared; had lost all his hold on the public; and had nothing moreto say or to paint. And she had been very, very sorry for him, butconscious all the time that he had never been so eloquent, and neverin such good looks, what with the angry energy of the eyes, and thesweep of grizzled hair across the powerful brow, and the lines cut bylife and thought round the vigorous, impatient mouth. How could he beat once so able and so childish! Her woman's wit pondered it; whileat the same time she remembered with emotion the joy with which he hadgreeted her, his eager, stammering sympathy, his rough grasp of herhand, 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 thinghad not happened!--this meeting of Arthur and of Fenwick, before thetime, before she had prepared and engineered it. 

And so she came to her second topic of meditation. Gradually as hermind pursued it, her aspect seemed to lose its new and tremulousbrightness; the face became once more a little grey and pinched. Theyhad somehow missed all the letters which should have warned them. Tofind Arthur established here, with his poor invalid wife--nothinghad been more unexpected, and, alack, more unwelcome, considering therelations between them and John Fenwick--Fenwick who was practicallyher father's guest and hers. 

Did Arthur think it strange, unkind? Wouldn't he really believe thatit was pure accident! If so, it would be only because Elsie was there, influencing him against his old friends--poor, bitter, stricken Elsie. Eugénie's lips quivered. There flitted before her the image of thegirl of eighteen--muse of laughter and delight. And she recalledthe taciturn woman whom she had seen on her sofa the night before, speaking coldly, in dry, sharp sentences, to her husband, her cousin, her maid--evidently unhappy and in pain. 

Eugénie shaded her eyes from the light of the terrace. Her heartseemed to be sinking, contracting. Mrs. Welby had been already ill, and therewith jealous and tyrannical, for some little time beforeMadame de Pastourelles had been summoned to the death-bed of herhusband! But now!--Eugénie shrank aghast before what she saw and whatshe guessed. 

And it was, too, as if the present state of things--as if the newhardness in Elsie's eyes, and the strange hostility of her manner, especially towards the Findons, and her cousin Eugénie--threw light onearlier years, on many a puzzling trait and incident of the past. 

There had been a terrible confinement, at the end of years ofchildlessness--a still-born child--and then, after a short apparentrecovery, a rapid loss of strength and power. Poor, poor Elsie! Butwhy--why should this trouble have awakened in her this dumb tyrannytowards Arthur, this alienation from Arthur's friends?

Eugénie sharply drew herself together. She banished her thoughts. Elsie was young, and would get well. And when she recovered, she wouldknow who were her friends, and Arthur's. 

A figure came towards her, crossing the _parterre d'eau_. Sheperceived her father--just released, no doubt, from two Englishacquaintances with whom he had been exploring the 'Bosquet d'Apollon. '

He hurried towards her--a tall Don Quixote of a man, gaunt, active, grey-haired, with a stride like a youth of eighteen, and the veryminimum of flesh on his well-hung frame. Lord Findon had gone throughmany agitations during the last ten or twelve years. In his ownopinion, he had upset a Ministry, he had recreated the army, and savedthe Colonies to the Empire. That history was not as well aware ofthese feats as it should be, he knew; but in the memoirs, of whichthere were now ten volumes privately printed in his drawer, hehad provided for that. Meanwhile, in the rush of his opinions andpartisanships, two things at least had persisted unchanged--hisadoration for Eugénie--and his belief that if only man--and much morewoman--would but exchange 'gulping' for 'chewing'--would only, thatis to say, reform their whole system of mastication, and thereby ofdigestion, the world would be another and a happier place. 

He came up now, frowning, and out of temper. 

'Upon my word, Eugénie, the blindness of some people 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, seating himself--'butthis place tries me a good deal. '

'Because the ladies in the restaurant are so stout?' said Eugénie. 'Dear papa--somebody must keep these cooks in practice!'

'Never did I see such spectacles!' said Lord Findon, fuming. 'And whenone knows that the very smallest attention to their diet--and theymight be sylphs again--as young as their grandchildren!--it's reallydisheartening. '

'It is, ' said Eugénie. 'Shall we announce a little conference in thesalon? I'm sure the ladies would flock. '

'The amount the French eat is appalling!' exclaimed LordFindon--without noticing. 'And they have such ridiculous ideas aboutus! I said something about their gluttony to M. De Villeton thismorning--and he fired up!--declared he had spent this summer inEnglish country-houses, and we had seven meals a day--all told--andthere wasn't a Frenchman in the world had more than three--countinghis coffee in the morning. '

'He had us there, ' said Eugénie. 

'Not at all! It doesn't matter _when_ you eat--it's what and how muchyou eat. We _can't_ produce such women as one sees here. I tell you, Eugénie, we _can't_. It takes all the poetry out of the sex. '

Eugénie 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 Eugénie, softly--'if only thecomplexion were better done. '

Lord Findon laughed. 

'Paint is on the increase, ' he declared--'and gambling too. Villetontells me there was baccarat in the Marney's' apartment last night, and Lady Marney lost enormously. Age seems to have no effect on thesepeople. She must be nearly seventy-five. '

'You may be sure she'll play till the last trump, ' said Eugénie. 'Papa!'--her tone changed--'is that Elsie's chair?'

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, hescanned the terrace up and down before he bent towards Eugénie. 

'You know, darling, it's an awkward business about these two men. Idon'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, Eugénie, you had tamedthe bear--but, upon my soul!'--Lord Findon threw up his hands inprotest. 

'He's in low spirits, papa. It will be better soon, ' said Eugénie, softly, and as she spoke she rose and went down the steps to meet theWelbys. 

Lord Findon followed her, tormented by a queer, unwelcome thought. Was it possible that Eugénie was now--with her widowhood--beginning totake a more than friendly interest in that strange fellow, Fenwick? Ifso, _he_ would be tolerably punished for his meddling of long ago!To have snatched her from Arthur, in order to hand her to JohnFenwick!--Lord Findon crimsoned hotly at the notion, all his pride ofrace and caste up in arms. 

Of course she ought now to marry. He wished to see her before he diedthe wife of some good fellow, and the mistress of a great house. Whynot? Eugénie's distinctions of person and family--leaving her fortune, which was considerable, out of count--were equal to any fate. 'It'sall very well to despise such things--but we have to keep up thetraditions, ' he said to himself, testily. 

And in spite of her thirty-seven years a suitable bridegroom would notbe at all hard to find. Lord Findon had perceived that in Egypt, where they had spent the winter and early spring. Several of the mostdistinguished men then in Cairo had been her devoted slaves--ill asshe was and at half-power. Alderney--almost certain to be the nextViceroy of India--one of the most charming of widowers, with an onlydaughter--it had been plain both to Lord Findon and his stupid wifethat Eugénie had made a deep impression upon a man no less romanticthan fastidious. Eugénie had but to lift her hand, and he would havefollowed them to Syria. On the contrary, she had taken special painsto prevent it. And General F, --and that clever fellow X, --who was nowreorganising Egyptian finance--and several more--they were all underthe spell. 

But Eugénie had this quixotic liking for the 'intellectuals' of aparticular sort, for artists and poets, and people in difficultiesgenerally. Well, he had it himself, he reflected, frowning, as hestrolled after her; but there were limits. Marriage was a thing apart;in that quarter, at any rate, it was no good supposing you couldescape from the rules of the game. 

Not that the rules always led you right--witness De Pastourelles andhis villainies. But matrimonial anarchy was not to be justified, any more than social anarchy, by the failures and drawbacks ofarrangements which were on the whole for people's good. _Passeencore_!--if Fenwick had only fulfilled the promise of hisyouth!--were at least a successful artist, instead of promising tobecome a quarrelsome failure!

Now if Arthur himself were free! Supposing this poor girl were tosuccumb?--what then?

At this point Lord Findon checked himself roughly, and a minuteafterwards was shaking Welby by the hand and stooping with an oldman's courtesy over the invalid carriage in which Mrs. Welby layreclined. 

Euphrosyne, indeed, had shed her laughter! A face with sunken eyesand drawn lips, and with that perpetual suspicious furrow in the brow, which meant a terror lest any movement or jar should let loose theenemy, pain; an emaciated body, from which all the soft mouldings ofyouth had departed; a frail hand, lying in mute appeal on the shawlwith which she was covered:--this was now Elsie Welby, whose beautyin the first years of her marriage had been one of the adornments ofLondon. 

Eugénie was bending over her, and Mrs. Welby was pettishly answering. 

'It's so stiff and formal. I don't admire this kind of thing. Andthere isn't a bit of shade on this terrace. _I_ think it's ugly!'

Welby laid a hand on hers, smiling. 

'But to-day, Bébé, you like the sun?--in October?'

Mrs. Welby was very decidedly of opinion that even in October therewas a glare--and in August--she shuddered to think of it! It was sotiresome, too, to have missed the Grandes Eaux. So like French redtape, to insist on stopping them on a particular date. Why should theybe stopped? As to expense, that was nonsense. How could watercost anything! It was because the French were so _doctrinaire_, sotyrannical--so fond of managing for managing's sake. 

So the pettish voice rambled on, the others tenderly and sadlylistening, till presently Lord Findon shook his gaunt shoulders. 

'Upon my word, it begins to get cold. With your leave, Elsie, I coulddo with a little more sun! Arthur, shall we take a brisk walk roundthe canal before tea?'

Welby looked anxiously at his wife. She had closed her eyes, and herpale lips, tightly shut, made no movement. 

'I think I promised Elsie to stay with her, ' he said, uncertainly. 

'Let _me_ stay with Elsie, please, ' said Eugénie. 

The blue eyes unclosed. 

'Don't be more than an hour, Arthur, ' said the young wife, ungraciously. 'You know I asked Mrs. Westmacott to tea. '

The gentlemen walked off, and a sharp sensation impressed upon Madamede Pastourelles that Arthur was only allowed to go with Lord Findon, because _she_ was not of the party. 

A sudden colour rose into her cheeks. For the hour that followed, she devoted herself to her cousin. But Mrs. Welby was difficult andquerulous. Amongst other complaints she expressed herself bitterlyas to the appearance of Mr. Fenwick at Versailles. Arthur had been sotaken aback--Mr. Fenwick was always so atrociously rude to him! Arthurwould have never come to Versailles had he known; but of course, asUncle Findon and Eugénie liked Mr. Fenwick, as he was their friend, Arthur couldn't now avoid meeting him. It was extremely disagreeable. 

'I think they needn't meet very much, ' said Eugénie, soothingly--'andpapa 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 MarieAntoinette. And I suppose he wanted to meet us. You see, we didn'tknow about Arthur. '

'I can't think why you like him so much. '

'He is an old friend, my dear!--and just now very unhappy, and out ofspirits. '

'All his own fault, Arthur says. He had the ball at his feet. '

'I know, ' said Eugénie, smiling sadly. 'That's the tragedy of it!'

There was silence. Mrs. Welby still observed her companion. A varietyof expressions, all irritable or hostile, passed through the large, languid eyes. 

 * * * * *

The afternoon faded--on the blue surface of the distant 'canal, ' thegreat 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 ofFrance!--threw long shadows on the water; and across the openingwhich they marked, drifted the smoke of burning weeds, the only butsufficient symbol, amid the splendid scene, of that peasant Francewhich destroyed Versailles. It was four o'clock, and to their left, asthey sat sheltered on the southern side of the château, the visitorsof the day were pouring out into the gardens. The shutters of thelower rooms, in the apartments of the Dauphin and of Mesdames, werebeing closed one by one, by the _gardiens_ within. Eugénie peeredthrough the window beside her. She saw before her a long vista ofdarkened and solitary rooms, dim portraits of the marshals of Francejust visible on their walls. Suddenly--under a gleam of light from ashutter not yet fastened--there shone out amid the shadows a bustof Louis Seize! The Bourbon face, with its receding brow, its heavy, good-natured lips, its smiling incapacity, held--dominated--thepalace. 

Eugénie watched, holding her breath. Slowly the light died; the marblewithdrew into the dark; and Louis Seize was once more with the ghosts. 

Eugénie's fancy pursued him. She thought of the night of the 20thof January, 1793, when Madame Royale, in the darkness of the Temple, heard her mother turning miserably on her bed, sleepless with griefand cold, waiting for that last rendezvous of seven o'clock which theKing had promised her--waiting--waiting--till the great bell of NotreDame 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 onher eyes. 

'What on earth do you mean!' said Mrs. Welby's voice besideher--startled--stiff--a little suspicious. 

Eugénie looked up and blushed. 

'I beg your pardon!--I was thinking of Marie Antoinette. '

'I'm so tired of Marie Antoinette!' said the invalid, raising apetulant hand, and letting it fall again, inert. 'All the sillymemorials of her they sell here!--and the 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 Antoinette. I wish he'dtaken another subject. And as to her beauty--how could she have beenbeautiful, with those staring eyes, and that lower lip! I say so toArthur--and he raves--and quotes Horace Walpole--and all sorts ofpeople. But one can see for one's self. People are much prettier nowthan they ever were then! We should think nothing of their beauties. '

And the delicate lips of this once lovely child, this flower witheredbefore its time, made a cold gesture of contempt. 

In Eugénie's eyes, as they rested upon her companion, there was aflash--was it of horror?

Was she jealous even of the dead women whom Arthur painted?--no lessthan of his living friends?

Eugénie came close to her, took the irresponsive hand in hers, tuckedthe shawls closer round the wasted limbs, bent over her, chattingand caressing. Then, as the sun began to drop quickly, Madame dePastourelles rose, and went to the corner of the château, to see ifthe gentlemen were in sight. But in less than a minute Mrs. Welbycalled 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 Eugénie, involuntarily;sharply reproaching herself, a moment afterwards, for the merethought. 

But when Elsie had been safely escorted home, Eugénie slipped backthrough the darkening streets, taking good care that her path shouldnot lead her across her father and Arthur Welby. 

She fled towards the western flight of the Hundred Steps, and ran downthe vast staircase towards the Orangerie, and the still shining lakebeyond, girdled with vaporous woods. A majesty of space and lightenwrapt her, penetrated, as everywhere at Versailles, with memory, with the bitterness and the glory of human things. In the distance thevoices of the children, still playing beside their nurses on the upperterrace, died away. Close by, a white Artemis on her pedestal bentforward--eager--her gleaming bow in air, watching, as it were, thearrow she had just sped toward the windows of Madame de Pompadour;and beside her, a nymph, daughter of gods, turned to the palace with afree, startled movement, shading her eyes that she might gaze the moreintently on that tattered tricolour 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 Eugénie's inmost life. 

And before she knew, she found herself enveloped in memories thatrolled in upon her like waves of storm. How long it had been beforeshe would allow herself to see anything amiss with this marriage shehad herself made! And, indeed, it was only since Elsie's illness thatthings dimly visible before had sprung into that sharp andpiteous relief in which they stood to-day. Before it, indications, waywardnesses, the faults of a young and petted wife. But since thephysical collapse, the inner motives and passions had stood up bareand black, like the ribs of a wrecked ship from the sand. And asEugénie had been gradually forced to understand them, they had workedupon her own mind as a silent, yet ever-growing accusation, againstwhich she defended herself in vain. 

Surely, surely she had done no wrong! To have allowed Arthur to go onbinding his life ever more and more closely to hers, would have been acrime. What could she give him, that such a nature most deeply needed?Home, wifely love, and children--it was to these dear enwrappingpowers she had committed him in what she had done. She had feared forherself indeed. But is it a sin to fear sin?--the declension of one'sown best will, the staining of one's purest feeling?

On her part she could proudly answer for herself. Never since Welby'smarriage, either in thought or act, had she given Arthur's wife thesmallest just cause of offence. Eugénie's was often an anxious anda troubled conscience; but not here, not in this respect. She knewherself true. 

But from Elsie's point of view? Had she in truth sacrificed anignorant child to her impetuous wish for Arthur's happiness, a tooscrupulous care for her own peace? How 'sacrifice'? She had giventhe child her heart's desire. Arthur was not in love; but Elsie Blighwould have accepted him as a husband on any terms. Tenderly, in goodfaith, trusting to the girl's beauty, and Arthur's rich and lovingnature, Eugénie had joined their hands. 

Was that in reality her offence? In spite of all the delicacy withwhich it had been done, had the girl's passion guessed the truth? Andhaving guessed it, had she then failed--and failed consciously--tomake the gift her own?

Eugénie had watched--often with a sinking spirit--the development ofa nature, masked by youth and happiness, but essentially narrow andpoor, full of mean ambitions and small antipathies. Arthur had playedhis part bravely, with all the chivalry and the conscience that mighthave been expected of him. And there had been moments--intervals--ofapparent happiness, when Eugénie's own conscience had been laid tosleep. 

Was there anything she might have done for those two people, that shehad not done? And Elsie had seemed--she sadly remembered--to love her, to trust her--till this tragic breakdown. Indeed, so long as shecould dress, dance, dine, and chatter as much as she pleased, withher husband in constant attendance, Mrs. Welby had shown no opendiscontent with her lot; and if her caresses often hurt Eugénie morethan they pleased, there had been no outward dearth of them. 

Alack!--Eugénie's heart was wrung with pity for the young maimedcreature; but the peevish image of the wife was swept away by themore truly tragic image of the husband. Eugénie might try to persuadeherself of the possibility of Elsie's recovery; her real instinctdenied it. Yet life was not necessarily threatened, it seemed, thoughcertain fatal accidents might end it in a week. The omens pointed toa long and fluctuating case--to years of hopeless nursing for Arthur, and complaining misery for his wife. 

Years! Eugénie sat down in a corner of the Orangerie garden, lockingher hands together, in a miserable pity for Arthur. She knew well whata shining pinnacle of success and fame Welby occupied in the eyes ofthe world; she knew how envious were the lesser men--such a man asJohn Fenwick, for instance--of a reputation and a success they thoughtoverdone and undeserved. But Arthur himself! She seemed to be lookinginto his face, graven on the dusk, the face of a man tragicallysilent, patient, eternally disappointed; of an artist conscious ofideals and discontents, loftier, more poignant, far than his fellowswill 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 amarble vase--wrestling with herself. 

Then, quick as fire, there flew through her veins the alternatepossibility--Elsie's death--freedom for herself and Arthur--the powerto retrace her own quixotic, fatal step.... 

Madame de Pastourelles rose to her feet, rigid and straight in herblack dress, wrestling as though with an attacking Apollyon. Sheseemed to herself a murderess in thought--the lowest and vilest ofhuman beings. 

In an anguish she looked through the darkness, in a wild appeal toHeaven to save her from herself--this new self, unknown to her!--toshut down and trample on this mutiny of a sinful and selfish heart--tomake it impossible--_impossible_!--that ever again, even without herwill, against her will, a thought so hideous, so incredible, shouldenter and defile her mind. 

She walked on blindly towards the water and the woods. Her eyes werefull of tears, which she could not stop. Unconsciously, to hide them, she threw round her head a black lace scarf she had brought out withher against the evening chill, and drew it close round her face. 

'How late you are!' said a joyous voice beside her. 

She looked up. Fenwick emerging from the wood, towards the shelterof which she was hurrying, stood before her, bareheaded, as he oftenwalked, 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; andit seemed to him that she was or had been in agitation. But at leastit was nothing hostile to himself; nay, it was borne in upon him as heturned his steps, and she walked beside him with a quick yet graduallysubsiding breath, that his appearance had been a relief to her, thatshe was glad of his companionship. 

And he--miserable fellow!--to him it was peace after struggle, balmafter torment. For his thoughts, as he wandered through the Satorywoods alone, had been the thoughts of a hypochondriac. He hastened toleave them, now that she was near. 

They wandered along the eastern edge of the 'Swiss Water, ' towards thewoods amid which the railway runs. Through the gold-and-purple airthe thin autumn trees rose lightly into the evening sky, marching inordered ranks beside the water. Young men were fishing in the lake;boys and children were playing near it, and sweethearts walking inthe dank grass. The evening peace, with its note of decay and death, seemed to stir feeling rather than soothe it. It set the nervestrembling. 

He began to talk of some pictures he had been studying in thePalace that day--Nattiers, Rigauds, Drouais--examples of that happy, sensuous, confident art, produced by a society that knew no doubts ofitself, which not to have enjoyed--so the survivors of it thought--wasto be for ever ignorant of what the charm of life might be. 

Fenwick spoke of it with envy and astonishment. The _pleasure_ of ithad penetrated him, its gay, perpetual _festa_--as compared with thestrain of thought and conscience under which the modern lives. 

'It gives me a perfect hunger for fine clothes, and jewels, andmasquerades--and "fêtes de nuit"--and every sort of theatricality andexpense! Nature has sent us starvelings on the scene a hundred yearslate. We are like children in the rain, flattening our noses against aballroom window. '

'There were plenty of them then, ' said Eugénie. 'But they broke in andsacked the ballroom. '

'Yes. What folly!' he said, bitterly. 'We are all still groping amongthe ruins. '

'No, no! Build a new Palace of Beauty--and bring everybody in--out ofthe rain. '

'Ridiculous!' he declared, with sparkling eyes. Art and pleasure wereonly for the few. Try and spread them, make current coin of them, andthey vanished like fairy gold. 

'So only the artist may be happy?'

'The artist is never happy!' he said, roughly. 'But the few people whoappreciate him and rob him, enjoy themselves. By the way, I took oneof your ideas this morning, and made a sketch of it. I haven't noteda composition of any sort for weeks--except for this beastly play. Itcame to me while we talked. '

'Ah!' Her face, turned to him, received the news with a shrinkingpleasure. 

He developed his idea before her, drawing it on the air with hisstick, or on the sand of the alleys where the arching trees overheadseemed still to hold a golden twilight captive. The picture was torepresent that fine metal-worker of the _ancien régime_ who, when theRevolution came, took his ragged children with him and went to thepalace which contained his work--work for which he had never beenpaid--and hammered it to pieces. 

Fenwick talked himself at last into something like enthusiasm; andEugénie listened to him with a pitiful eagerness, only anxious to leadhim on, to put this friendship, and the pure sympathy and compassionof her feeling for him, between her and the ugly memory which hoveredround her like a demon thing. These dreams of the intellect and ofart, as they gradually rose and took shape between them, were soinfinitely welcome! Clean, blameless, strengthening--they put theghosts 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 promiseher a time and date. It must be ready for a new gallery, and adistinguished exhibition, just about to open. 

He shook his head. 

'I probably shan't care about it to-morrow. '

She protested. 

'Just now you were so keen!'

He hesitated--then blurted out--'Because I was talking to you! Whenyou're not there--I know very well--I shall fall back to where I wasbefore. '

She tried to laugh at him for a too dependent friend, who must alwaysbe fed on sugar-plums of praise; but the silence with which he mether, checked her. It was too full of emotion; and she ran away fromit. 

She ran, however, in vain. They reached the end of the lake, and wentto look at the mouldering statue of Louis Quatorze at its furtherend--fantastic work of the great Bernini--Louis on a vast, curly-manedbeast, with flames bursting round him--flung out into the wildernessand the woods, because Louis, after adding the flames to Bernini'scomposition, finally pronounced the statue unworthy of himself andof the sacred enclosure of the Park. So here, on the outer edge ofVersailles, the crumbling failure rises, in exile to this day, withoutso much as a railing to protect it from the scribbling tourist whowrites his name all over it. In the realm of Art, it seemed, theKing'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, Eugénie meanwhile winning fromhim 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 despondency began to give way. He believed in himself--felt himself an artist--again. The relief, physical and mental, was too tempting. He flung himself upon it withreckless desire, incapable of denying himself, or of counting thecost. And meanwhile, the effect of her black scarf, loosened, andeddying round her head and face in the soft night wind, defining theirsmall oval, and the beauty of the brow, enchanted his painter's eye. There was a moment, just as they reentered the Park, when, as shestood looking at a moon-touched vista before them, the floating scarfsuddenly recalled to him the outline of that lovely hood in whichRomney framed the radiant head of Lady Hamilton as 'The Sempstress. '

The recollection startled him. Romney! Involuntarily there flashedacross him Phoebe's use of the Romney story--her fierce commentson the deserted wife--the lovely mistress. Perhaps, while she stoodlooking at the portrait in his studio, she was thinking of LadyHamilton, 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!--whoseemed to bring a fellow comfort, and moral renewal, in the mere touchof 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 intimateconfession of himself than he had yet made to her. In the morning hehad given her the _outer_ history of his life, during the year ofher absence. But this was the inner history of a man's weaknessand failure--of his quarrels and hatreds, his baffled ambitionsand 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-comicreturns upon himself, attacks on all the world, alternating with aruthless self-analysis--the talk of a man who challenges societyone moment with an angry '_J'accuse!_'--and sees himself thenext--sardonically--as the chief obstacle in his own way. 

Then suddenly a note of intense loneliness--anguish--inexplicabledespair. Eugénie could not stop it, could not withdraw herself. There was a strange feeling that it brought her the answer to herprayer. --They hurried on through the lower walks of the Park--plungingnow through tunnelled depths of shade, and now emerging into spaceswhere sunset and moonrise rained a mingled influence on glimmeringwater, on the dim upturned faces of Ceres or Flora, or the limbsof flower-crowned nymphs and mermaids. It seemed impossible to turnhomeward, to break off their conversation. When they reached the'Bassin de Neptune' they left the Park, turning down the TrianonAvenue, in the growing dark, till they saw to their right, behind itsiron gates, the gleaming façade of the Petit Trianon; woods all aboutthem, and to their left, again, the shimmer of wide water. Meanwhilethe dying leaves, driven by the evening wind, descended on them ina soft and ceaseless shower; the woods, so significant and human intheir planned and formal beauty, brought their 'visionary majesties'of moonlight and of gloom to bear on nerve and sense, turned all thatwas said and all that was felt, beneath their spell, to poetry. 

Suddenly, at the Trianon gate, Eugénie stopped. 

'I'm very tired, ' she said, faintly. 'I am afraid we must go back. '

Fenwick denounced himself for a selfish brute; and they turnedhomeward. But it was not physical fatigue she felt. It was rather theburden of a soul thrown headlong upon hers--the sudden appeal of atask which seemed to be given her by God--for the bridling of her ownheart, and the comforting and restoring of John Fenwick. From allthe conflicting emotion of an evening which changed her life, whatremained--or seemed to remain--was a missionary call of duty andaffection. 'Save him!--and master thyself!'

So, yet again, poor Eugénie slipped into the snare which Fate had setfor one who was only too much a woman. 

The Rue des Réservoirs was very empty as Fenwick and Madame dePastourelles mounted the paved slope leading towards the hotel. Thestreet-lamps were neither many nor bright--but from the glazed galleryof the restaurant, a broad, cheerful illumination streamed upon thepassers-by. They stepped within its bounds. And at the moment, awoman who had just crossed to the opposite side of the street stoppedabruptly to look at them. They paused a few minutes in the entrance, still chatting; the woman opposite made a movement as though tore-cross the street, then shook her head, laughed, and walked away. Fenwick went into the restaurant and Eugénie hurried through thecourtyard to the door of the Findon's apartment. 

But in her reflexions of the night, Eugénie came to the conclusionthat the situation, as it then stood at Versailles, was not one to beprolonged. 

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; theholiday was overspreading its due limits; and she urged pressing onand home. Lord Findon was puzzled, but submissive; the bookish sisterTheresa, now a woman of thirty, welcomed anything that would bring herback to the London Library and the British Museum. But suddenly, justas the maids had been warned, and Lord Findon's man had been sent tolook out trains, his master caught a chill, going obstinately, and ina mocking spirit, to see what 'Faust' might be like, as given atthe Municipal Theatre of Versailles. There was fever, and a touch ofbronchitis; nothing serious; but the doctor who had been summonedfrom Paris would not hear of travelling. Lord Findon hoarsely preached'chewing' to him, through the greater part of his visits; he revengedhimself by keeping a tight hold on his patient, in all that was nothis tongue. Eugénie yielded, with what appeared to Theresa a strangeamount of reluctance; and they settled down for a week or two. 

In the middle of the convalescence, the elder son, Marmaduke, cameover to see his father. He was a talkative Evangelical, like hismother; a partner in the brewery owned by his mother's kindred; andrecently married to a Lady Louisa. 

After spending three days at the hotel, he suddenly said to LordFindon, as he was mounting guard one night, while Eugénie wrote someletters:

'I say, pater, do you want Eugénie 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 except when she'sthere--and she--well, she encourages him a good bit, father. '

'You don't understand, Marmie. You see, you don't care for books andpictures; Eugénie does. '

'I suppose she does, ' said Marmaduke, doubtfully--'but she wouldn'tcare 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 anybodyies equal, ' cried Lord Findon, much heated. 

'You don't really think it, papa, ' said Marmaduke, firmly. 'Shall Igive Eugénie a talking to?--as you're not in a condition. '

Lord Findon laughed, though not gaily. 

'You'd better try! Or rather, I don't advise you to try!'

Marmaduke, however, did try; with the only result that Eugénie soongrew a little vexed and tremulous, and begged him to go home. Hemight be a master of brewing finance, and a dear, kind, well-meaningbrother, but he really did not understand his sister's affairs. 

Marmaduke went home, much puzzled, urgently commanding Theresa towrite to him, and announcing to Arthur Welby, who listened silently, as he talked, that if Fenwick did propose, he should think it a damnedimpertinence. 

Lord Findon meanwhile held his peace. Every day Eugénie came in fromher walk with Fenwick, to sit with or read to her father. Shealways spoke of what she had been doing, quite naturally and simply, describing their walk and their conversation, giving the news ofFenwick's work--bringing his sketches to show. Lord Findon would lieand listen--a little suspicious and ill at ease--sometimes a littlesulky. But he let his illness and his voicelessness excuse him fromgrappling with her. She must, of course, please herself. If she chose, as she seemed about to choose--why, they must all make the best ofit!--Marmaduke might talk as he liked. Naturally, Arthur kept awayfrom them. Poor Arthur! But what a darling she looked in her black, with this fresh touch of colour in her pale cheeks!

The Welbys certainly had but little to do with the party at theRéservoirs. 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 neitherof them wished to be thrown across Mr. Fenwick. 

Every evening, after taking his wife home, Welby went out by himselffor a solitary walk. He avoided the Park and the woods; chose ratherthe St. Cyr road, or the Avenue de Paris. He walked, wrapt, a littletoo picturesquely perhaps, in an old Campagna cloak, relic of hisyears in Rome--with a fine collie for his companion. Once or twice inthe distance he caught sight of Eugénie and Fenwick--only to turn downa 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? Hediscussed it calmly with himself. It presented itself to him as anact altogether unworthy of her. What hurt him most, however, at thesetimes, was the occasional sudden memory of Eugénie's face, tremblingwith pain, under some slight or unkindness shown her by his wife. 

One day Welby was sitting beside his wife on the sheltered side ofthe Terrace, when Eugénie and Fenwick came in sight, emerging from theHundred 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 dryand hostile. 

Elsie in amazement raised herself painfully on her elbow to look. 

'Eugénie!' she said, breathlessly--'Eugénie--and Mr. Fenwick!'

Arthur Welby watched the transformation in her face. It was the firsttime 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 withdifficulty. 

'Well, of course, _we_ don't like him!--but then Uncle Findon does. And if he didn't, it's Eugénie that matters--isn't it?--only Eugénie!At her age, you can't be choosing her husband for her! Well, I never, never thought--Eugénie's so close!--she'd make up her mind to marryanybody!'

And she rattled on, in so much excitement that Welby hastily andurgently impressed discretion upon her. 

But when she and Eugénie next met, Eugénie was astonished by hergaiety and good temper--her air of smiling mystery. Madame dePastourelles hoped it meant real physical improvement, and would haveliked to talk of it to Arthur; but all talk between them grew rarerand more difficult. Thus Eugénie's walks with Fenwick throughthe enchanted lands that surround Versailles became daily moresignificant, more watched. Lord Findon groaned in his sick-room, butstill restrained himself. 

It was a day--or rather a night--of late October--a wet and windynight, when the autumn leaves were coming down in swirling hosts onthe lawns and paths of Trianon. 

Fenwick was hard at work, in the small apartment which he occupiedon the third floor of the Hôtel des Réservoirs. It consisted of asitting-room and two bedrooms looking on an inner _cour_. One ofthe bedrooms he had turned into a sort of studio. It was now full ofdrawings and designs for the sumptuous London 'production' on whichhe was engaged--rooms at Versailles and Trianon--views in the Trianongardens--fragments of decoration--designs for stage grouping--for thereproduction of one of the famous _fêtes de nuit_ in the gardens ofthe '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 hiscompanions as much as he could, and worked as much as possible atnight. 

And here and there, amongst the rest, were the sketches and fragments, often the grandiose fragments, which represented his 'buriedlife'--the life which only Eugénie de Pastourelles seemed now to havethe power to evoke. When some hours of other work had weakened theimpulse received from her, he would look at these things sadly, andput them aside. 

To-night, as he drew, he was thinking incessantly of Eugénie; piercedoften by intolerable remorse. But whose fault was it? Will you ask aman, perishing of need, to put its satisfaction from him? The tests oflife are too hard. The plain, selfish man must always fail under them. Why act and speak as though he were responsible for what Nature andthe flesh impose?

But how was it all to end?--that was what tormented him. Hisconscience shrank from the half-perceived villainies before him; buthis will failed him. What was the use of talking? He was the slaveof an impulse, which was not passion, which had none of the excuse ofpassion, but represented rather the blind search of a man who, like achild in the dark, recoils in reckless terror from loneliness and thephantoms of his own mind. 

Eleven o'clock struck. He was busying himself with a cardboard model, on which he had been trying the effect of certain arrangements, whenhe heard a knock at his door. 

'_Entrez_!' he said, in astonishment. 

At this season of the year the hotel kept early hours, and there wasnot a light to be seen in the _cour_. 

The door opened. On the threshold stood Arthur Welby. Fenwick gazed athim 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 ofthe hand. 'Shall we be undisturbed?'

'I imagine so!' said Fenwick, fiercely retreating; 'but, as you see, Iam extremely busy!' He pointed to the room and its contents. 

'I am sorry to interrupt you'--Welby's voice was carefullycontrolled--'but I think you will admit that I had good reason to comeand find you. ' He looked round to see that the door was shut, thenadvanced a step nearer. 'You are, I think, acquainted with that lady?'

He handed Fenwick a card. Fenwick took it to the light. On it waslithographed 'Miss Isabel Morrison, ' and a written address, 'Corso deMadrid, 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 theastonishing 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 whenyou and she last met you were not on very good terms; she shrank, therefore, from addressing you. But she had a respect for yourwife--she wished to know what had become of her--and her curiosityimpelled her to speak to us. She seems to have been in Buenos Ayresfor many years. This year she returned--as governess--with the familyof a French engineer, who have taken an apartment in Versailles. Shefirst saw you in the street nearly a month ago. '

Fenwick had dropped into a chair, his face in his hands. As Welbyceased 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 noconcern with that. '

Fenwick's face, which had become deathly pale, was suddenly overspreadwith a rush of crimson. More almost than by the revelation of his longdeception as to his wife was he humiliated and tortured by these wordsrelating to his debt to Morrison on Welby's lips. This successfulrival, this fine gentleman!--admitted to his sordid affairs. He roseuncertainly, pulling himself passionately together. 

'Now that she has reappeared, I shall pay my debt to Miss Morrison--ifit exists, ' he said, haughtily; 'she need be in no fear as to that. Well, now then'--he leaned heavily on the mantelpiece, his face stilltwitching--'you know, Mr. Welby--by this accident--the secret of mylife. My wife left me--for the maddest, emptiest reasons--and she tookour child with her. I did everything I could to discover them. It wasall in vain--and if Miss Morrison cannot enlighten me, I am as muchin the dark to-night as I was yesterday, whether my wife is alive--ordead. 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 Findon, ' said Welby, controlling himself, 'you made him--you made all of us--believe thatyou were an unmarried man?'

'I did. It was the mistake--the awkwardness of a moment. I hadn't youreasy 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 herkindness--you became her friend. Later on, you allowed her to adviseyou--write to you--talk to you about marrying, when your means shouldbe sufficient--without ever allowing her to guess for a moment thatyou had already a wife and child!'

'That is true, ' said Fenwick, nodding. 'The second false step was theconsequence 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 drivenyour wife away--for twelve years'--he dragged the words between histeeth--'you masquerade to Madame de Pastourelles--and when her longmartyrdom as a wife is at last over--when in the tendernessand compassion of her heart she begins to show you a friendshipwhich--which those who know her'--he laboured for breath andwords--'can only--presently--interpret in one way--you who owe hereverything--everything!--you _dare_ to play with her innocent, herstainless life--you _dare_ to let her approach--to let those abouther approach--the thought of her marrying you--while all the time youknew--what you know! If there ever was a piece of black cruelty inthis world, it is you, _you_ that have been guilty of it!'

The form of Arthur Welby, drawn to its utmost height, towered abovethe man he accused. Fenwick sat, struck dumb. Welby's increasingstoop, which of late had marred his natural dignity of gait; theslight touches of affectation, of the _petit-maître_, which were nowoften perceptible; the occasional note of littleness, or malice, suchas his youth had never known:--all these defects, physical and moral, had been burnt out of the man, as he spoke these words, by the flameof his only, his inextinguishable passion. For his dear mistress--inthe purest, loftiest sense of that word--he stood champion, denouncingwith all his soul the liar who had deceived and endangered her; astern, unconscious majesty expressed itself in his bearing, his voice;and the man before him--artist and poet like himself--was sensible ofit in the highest, the most torturing degree. 

Fenwick turned away. He stooped mechanically to the fire, put ittogether, lifted a log lying in front of it, laid it carefully on theothers. Then he looked at Welby, who on his side had walked to thewindow and opened it, as though the room suffocated him. 

'Everything that you say is just'--said Fenwick, slowly--'I have noanswer 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 firsttrain to-morrow, as soon as these things'--he looked round him--'canbe gathered together, I shall be gone!'

Welby moved sharply, showing a face still drawn and furrowed withemotion--'No! she will want to see you. '

Fenwick's composure broke down. 'I had better not see her'--hesaid--'I had better not see her!'

'You will bear that for her, ' said Welby, quietly. 'The morecompletely you can enlighten her, the better for us all. '

Fenwick's lips moved, but without speaking. Welby's ignorance of thewhole 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 conversationfurther. I will let Miss Morrison know that I have communicated withyou. '

'No need, ' said Fenwick, interrupting him. 'I shall see her firstthing in the morning--'

'And'--resumed Welby, lifting a book and letting it falluncertainly--'if there is anything I can do--with Lord Findon--forinstance--'

Fenwick had a movement of impatience. He felt his endurance givingway. 

'There is nothing to do!--except to tell the truth--and to as fewpeople 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 allhe had to say. Then, involuntarily, his eyes rested questioningly, piercingly, on the man beside him. They seemed to express the marvelof his whole being that such an offence could ever be--they triedto penetrate a character, a psychology which in truth baffled themaltogether. 

He moved to the door, and Fenwick opened it. 

As his visitor walked away, Fenwick stood motionless, listening to theretreating step, which echoed in the silence of the vast, empty hotel, once the house of Madame de Pompadour. 

He looked at his watch. Past midnight. By about three o'clock, in themidst of a wild autumnal storm, he had finished his letter to Madamede Pastourelles; and he fell asleep at his table, worn out, his headon his arms. 

Before ten on the following morning Fenwick had seen Bella Morrison. A woman appeared--the caricature of something he had once known, thehigh cheek-bones of his early picture touched with rouge, little curlsof black hair plastered on her temples, with a mincing gait, and amanner now giggling and now rude. She was extremely sorry if she hadput him out--really particularly sorry! She wouldn't have done sofor the world; but her curiosity got the better of her. Also, sheconfessed, she had wished to see whether Mr. Fenwick would acknowledgehis debt to her. It was only lately that she had come across astatement of it amongst her father's papers. It was funny he shouldhave forgotten it so long; but there--she wasn't going to be nasty. Asto poor Mrs. Fenwick, no, of course she knew nothing. She had inquiredof some friends in the North, and they also knew nothing. They hadonly 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 expectedit, mightn't they?

The crude conceit and violence of her girlhood had given place, underthe pressure of a hard life, to something venomous and servile. Shenever mentioned her visit to Phoebe; but her eyes seemed to mock hervisitor all the time. Fenwick cut the interview short as soon as hecould, hastily paid her a hundred pounds, though it left him overdrawnand almost penniless, and then rushed back to his hotel to see whatmight be waiting for him. 

An envelope was lying on his table. It cost him a great effort to openit. 

'I have received your letter. There is nothing to say, except that Imust see you. I wish to keep what you have told me from my father, forthe present, at any rate. There would be no possibility of our talkinghere. We have only one sitting-room, and my sister is there all thetime. I will be at the Bosquet d'Apollon, by 11. 30. '

Only that! He stared at the delicate, almost invisible writing. Themoment he had dreaded for twelve years had arrived; and the worldstill went on, and quiet notes like that could still be written. 

Long before the hour fixed he was in the Bosquet d'Apollon, walking upand down in front of the famous grotto, on whose threshold the whiteApollo, just released from the chariot of the Sun, receives theministrations of the Muses, while his divine horses are being fed andstalled in the hollows of the rock to either side. No stranger fancythan this ever engaged the architects and squandered the finances ofthe Builder-King. Reared in solid masonry on bare sandy ground nowentirely disguised, the artificial rock that holds the grotto towersto a great height, crowned by ancient trees, weathered by wind andrain, overgrown by leaf and grass, and laved at its base by clearwater. All round, the trees stand close--the lawns spread their quietslopes. On this sparkling autumn morning, a glory of russet, amber, and red, begirt the white figures and the gleaming grotto. TheImmortals, the champing horses, locked behind their _grilles_ lestthe tourist should insult them--all the queer crumbling romance ofthe statuary, all the natural beauty of leaf and water, of the whiteclouds overhead and their reflexions below--combined to make Fenwick'sguilty bewilderment more complete, to turn all life to dream, and allits figures into the puppets of a shadow-play. 

A light step on the grass. A shock passed through him. He made amovement, then checked it. 

Eugénie paused at some distance from him. In this autumnal moment ofthe year, and on week-days, scarcely any passing visitor disturbs thequiet of the Bosquet d'Apollon. In its deep dell of trees and grass, they were absolutely alone; the sunlight which dappled the whitebodies of the Muses, and shone on the upstretched arm of Apollo, seemed the only thing of life besides themselves. 

She threw back her veil as she came near him--her long widow's veil, which to-day she had resumed. Beneath it, framed in it, the faceappeared of an ivory rigidity and pallor. The eyes only were wild andliving as she came up to him, clasping her hands, evidently shrinkingfrom him--yet composed. 

'There is one thing more I want to know. If I have ever been yourfriend!--if you have ever felt any kindness for me, tell me--tell mefrankly--why did your wife leave you?'

Fenwick's face fell. Had she come so soon to this point?--by thesureness of her own instinct?

'There were many troubles between us, ' he said, hoarsely, walking onbeside her, his eyes on the grass. 

'Was she--was she jealous?'--she breathed with difficulty--'of any ofyour models?--I know that sometimes 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 utterlyblind and selfish--I ought to have known what was going on--and I hadno idea. '

'And what happened? I know so little. '

Her voice so peremptorily strange--so remote--compelled him. Withdifficulty he gave an outline of Phoebe's tragic visit to his studio. His letter of the night before had scarcely touched on the details ofthe actual crisis, had dwelt rather on the months of carelessness andneglect 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 ofthe young mother and her child. 

'But go on. And you were away? Please, please go on! When was it? Itmust have been that spring when--'

She put her hand to her head, trying to remember dates. 

'It was just before the Academy, ' he said, reluctantly. 

'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 somedesperate reason. '

'She had none!' he said, with energy. 

'But she must have thought she had. Can't--can't you explain it to meany more?'

He was almost at the end of his resistance. 

'I told you--how she had resented--my concealment?'

'Yes--yes! But there must have been something more--somethingsudden--that maddened her?'

He was silent. She grew whiter than before. 

'Mr. Fenwick--I--I have much to forgive. There is only one courseof action--that can ever--make amends--and that is--an entire--anabsolute frankness!'

Her terrible suspicion--her imperious will had conquered. Anything wasbetter than to deny her, torture her--deceive her afresh. 

He looked at her in a horrible indecision. Then, slowly, he put hishand 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 hadworn thus almost from the day of Phoebe's disappearance. 

Eugénie fell upon it, devoured it. Not a demur, not a doubt, asto this!--in one so strictly, so tenderly scrupulous. Even at thatmoment, it struck him pitifully. It seemed to give the measure of herpain. 

'The picture?' she said, looking up--'I don't understand--you had sentit in. '

'Do you remember--asking me about the sketch? and I told you--it hadbeen accidentally spoilt?'

She understood. Her lips trembled. Returning the letter, she sank upona seat. He saw that her forces were almost failing her. And he darednot say a word or make a movement of sympathy. 

For some little time she was silent. Her eyes ranged the green circuitof the hollow--the water, the reeds, the rock, and that idle god amonghis handmaidens. Her attitude, her look expressed a moral agony, how strangely out of place amid this setting! Through her--innocent, unconscious though she were--the young helpless wife had come togrief--a soul had been risked--perhaps lost. Only a nature trained asEugénie's had been, by suffering and prayer and lofty living, couldhave felt what she felt, and as she felt it. 

Fumbling, Fenwick put back the letter in his pocket-book--thrust itagain into his coat. Never once did the thought cross Eugénie's mindthat he had probably worn it there, through these last days, whiletheir relation had grown so intimate, so dear. All recollection ofherself had left her. She was possessed with Phoebe. Nothing elsefound entrance. 

At last, after much more questioning--much more difficult or impetuousexamination--she rose feebly. 

'I think I understand. Now--we have to find her!'

She stood, her hands loosely clasped, her eyes gazing into the sunnyvacancy of sky, above the rock. 

Fenwick advanced a step. He felt that he must speak, must grovel toher--repeat some of the things he had said in his letter. But here, in her presence, all words seemed too crude, too monstrous. His voicedied away. 

So there was no repetition of the excuses, the cry for pardon he hadspent the night on; and she made no reference to them. 

They walked back to the hotel, talking coldly, precisely, almost asstrangers, of what should be done. Fenwick--whose work indeed wasfinished--would return to England that night. After his departure, Madame de Pastourelles would inform her father of what had happened;a famous solicitor, Lord Findon's old friend, was to be consulted; allpossible measures were to be taken once more for Phoebe's discovery. 

At the door of the hotel, Fenwick raised his hat. Eugénie did notoffer her hand; but her sweet face suddenly trembled afresh--beforeher will could master it. To hide it, she turned abruptly away; andthe door closed upon her. 

CHAPTER XI

After a moderately bright morning, that after-breakfast fog which weowe to the British kitchen and the domestic hearth was descending onthe Strand. The stream of traffic, on the roadway and the pavements, was passing to and fro under a yellow darkness; the shop-lightswere beginning to flash out here and there, but without any of theirevening cheerfulness; and on the passing faces one saw written theinconvenience and annoyance of the fog--the fear, too, lest it shouldbecome worse and impenetrable. 

Fenwick was groping his way along, eastward; one moment feeling andhating the depression of the February day, of the grimy, overcrowdedstreet; the next, responsive to some dimly beautiful effect of colouror line--some quiver of light--some grouping of phantom forms in thegloom. Halfway towards the Law-Courts he was hailed and overtaken by atall, fair-haired man. 

'Hallo, Fenwick!--just the man I wanted to see!'

Fenwick, whose eyes--often very troublesome of late--were smartingwith the fog, peered at the speaker, and recognised 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?'

'No!' cried Fenwick, arrested. 'I thought he was in Algiers. '

Cuningham walked on beside him, telling what he knew, Fenwick allthe time dumbly vexed that this good-looking, prosperous fellow, thisAcademician 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 toLondon, as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to bear the journey. Fenwick, much troubled, protested that it was madness to have comeback to the English winter. 

'No, ' said Cuningham, looking grave. 'Better die at home than amongstrangers. 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 theinvalid from a dingy Bloomsbury hotel, and settled him in some roomsin Fitzroy Square, with a landlady who could be trusted. 

'We must have a nurse before long--but he won't have one yet. He wantsbadly to see you. I told him I'd look you up this evening. But this'lldo instead, won't it? You'll remember?--23, Fitzroy Square. ShallI tell him when he may expect you? Every day we try to get him somelittle pleasure or other. '

Fenwick's irritation grew. Cuningham was talking as though the oldrelation between him and Richard Watson were still intact; whileFenwick knew well how thin and superficial the bond had grown. 

'I shall go to-day, ' he said, rather shortly. 'I have two or threethings to do this morning, but there'll be time before my rehearsalthis afternoon. '

'Your rehearsal?' Cuningham looked amiably curious. 

Fenwick explained, but with fresh annoyance. The papers had been fullenough of this venture on which he was engaged; Cuningham's ignoranceoffended him. 

'Ah, indeed--very interesting, ' said Cuningham, vaguely. 'Well, good-bye. I must jump into a hansom. '

'Where are you off to?'

'The Goldsmiths' Company are building a new Hall, and they want myadvice about its decoration. Precious difficult, though, to get awayfrom 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 Fenwick, shortly. 

Cuningham stared--frowned--and remembered. 

'Oh, my dear fellow--what a mistake that was!--if you'll let me sayso. 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 thetype of busy, pretentious mediocrity, the type which eternally keepsEnglish 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 beenblocked by the traffic, close to the pavement. He was hanging over thedoor, 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, ' saidCuningham, raising his voice, and bringing himself as near to Fenwickas 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 trafficprevented his hearing Cuningham's remark. But he had heard distinctly. 

'Do you know when they'll be home?' he asked, reluctantly, walkingbeside the hansom. 

'No--haven't an idea. I believe I'm to go to them for Easter. Ah!--nowwe go on. Ta-ta!'

He waved his hand, and the hansom moved away. 

Fenwick pursued his walk plunged in disagreeable thought. 'Muchchanged?' What did that mean? He had noticed no such change before theFindons left London. The words fell like a fresh blow upon a wound. 

He turned north, toward Lincoln's Inn Fields, called at the offices ofMessrs. Butlin & Forbes, the well-known solicitors, and remainedthere half an hour. When he emerged from the old house, he looked, ifpossible, more harried and cast down than when he had entered it. 

They had had a letter to show him, but in his opinion it contributednothing. There was no hope--and no clue! How could there be? He hadnever himself imagined for a moment that any gain would come of thesenew researches. But he had been allowed no option with regard to them. Immediately after his return to London from Versailles he had receiveda stern letter from Lord Findon, insisting--as his daughter hadalready done--that the only reparation he, Fenwick, could make to thefriends he had so long and cruelly deceived, was to allow them a freehand in a fresh attempt to discover his wife, and so to clear Madamede Pastourelles from the ridiculous suspicions that Mrs. Fenwickhad been led so disastrously to entertain. 'Most shamefully andindefensibly my daughter has been made to feel herself an accomplicein Mrs. Fenwick's disappearance, ' wrote Lord Findon; 'the only amendsyou can ever make for your conduct will lie in new and vigorousefforts, even at this late hour, to find and to undeceive your wife. '

Hence, during November and December, constant meetings andconsultations in the well-known offices of Lord Findon's solicitors. At these meetings both Madame de Pastourelles and her father hadbeen often present, and she had followed the debates with a quick andstrained intelligence, which often betrayed to Fenwick the sufferingbehind. He painfully remembered with what gentleness and chivalryEugénie had always treated him personally on these occasions, withwhat anxious generosity she had tried to curb her father. 

But there had been no private conversation between them. Not only didthey shrink from it; Lord Findon could not have borne it. The storm offamily and personal pride which the disclosure of Fenwick's story hadaroused in the old man had been of a violence impossible to resist. That Fenwick's obscure and crazy wife should have dared to entertain_jealousy_ of a being so far above his ken and hers, as Eugénie thenwas--that she should have made a ridiculous tragedy out of it--andthat Fenwick should have conduced to the absurd and insultingimbroglio by his ill-bred and vulgar concealment:--these thingswere so irritating to Lord Findon that they first stimulated a rapidrecovery from his illness at Versailles, and then led him to franticefforts on Phoebe's behalf, which were in fact nothing but theexpression of his own passionate pride and indignation--resting, nodoubt ultimately, on those weeks at Versailles when even he, with allthe other bystanders, had supposed that Eugénie would marry this man. His mood, indeed, had been a curious combination of wounded affectionwith a class arrogance stiffened by advancing age and long indulgence. When, in those days, the old man entered the room where Fenwick was, he bore his grey head and sparkling eyes with the air of a teasedlion. 

Fenwick, a man of violent temper, would have found much difficultyin keeping the peace under these circumstances, but for the frequentpresence of Eugénie, and the pressure of his own dull remorse. 'Itoo--have--much to forgive!'--that, he knew well, would be the onlyreference involving personal reproach that he would ever hear fromher lips, either to his original deceit, or to those wild weeks atVersailles (that so much ranker and sharper offence!)--when, in hisloneliness and craving, he had gambled both on her ignorance and onPhoebe's death. Yet he did not deceive himself. The relation betweenthem was broken; he had lost his friend. Her very cheerfulness andgentleness somehow enforced it. How natural!--how just! None the lesshis bitter realisation of it had worked with crushing effect upon amiserable man. 

About Christmas, Lord Findon's health had again caused his familyanxiety. He was ordered to Cannes, and Eugénie accompanied him. Beforeshe went she had gone despairingly once more through all the ingeniousbut quite fruitless inquiries instituted by the lawyers; and she hadwritten a kind letter to Fenwick begging to be kept informed, andadding at the end a few timid words expressing her old sympathy withhis work, and her best wishes for the success of the pictures that sheunderstood he was to exhibit in the spring. 

Then she and her father departed. Fenwick had felt their going asperhaps the sharpest pang in this intolerable winter. But he hadscarcely answered her letter. What was there to say? At least he hadnever asked her or her father for money--had never owed Lord Findon apenny. There was some small comfort in that. 

 * * * * *

Nevertheless, it was of money that he thought--and must think--nightand day. 

After his interview with the magnificent gentlemen in Lincoln's InnFields, he made his way wearily to a much humbler office in BedfordRow. Here was a small solicitor to whom he had often resorted lately, under the constant pressure of his financial difficulties. He spentan hour in this man's room. When he came out, he walked fast towardsOxford Street and the west, hardly conscious in his excitement ofwhere he was going. The lawyer he had just seen had for the first timementioned the word 'bankruptcy. ' 'I scarcely see, Mr. Fenwick, how youcan avoid it. '

Well, it might come to that--it might. But he still had his sixpictures--time to finish two others that were now on hand--and theexhibition. 

It was with that he was now concerned. He called on the manager ofa small gallery near Hanover Square with whom he had already made anarrangement for the coming May--paying a deposit on the rent--earlyin the winter. In his anxiety, he wished now to make the matter stillclearer, to pay down the rest of the rent if need be. He had the notesalways in his breast-pocket, jealously hidden away, lest any otherclaim, amid the myriads which pressed upon him, should sweep them fromhim. 

The junior partner in charge of the gallery and the shop of which itmade part, received him very coldly. The firm had long since regrettedtheir bargain with a man whose pictures were not likely to sell, especially as they could have relet the gallery to much betteradvantage. But their contract with Fenwick--clinched by thedeposit--could not be evaded; so they were advised. 

All, therefore, that the junior partner could do was to try to alarmFenwick, as to the incidental expenses involved--hanging, printing, service, etc. But Fenwick only laughed. 'I shall see to that!' hesaid, contemptuously. 'And my pictures will sell, I tell you, ' headded, raising his voice. 'They'll bring a profit both to you and tome. '

The individual addressed said nothing. He was a tall, well-fed youngman, in a faultless frock-coat, and Fenwick, as they stood togetherin the office--the artist had not been offered a chair--disliked himviolently. 

'Well, shall I pay you the rest?' said Fenwick, abruptly, turning togo, and fumbling at the same time for the pocket-book in which he keptthe notes. 

The other gave a slight shrug. 

'That's just as you please, Mr. Fenwick. '

'Well, here's fifty, anyway, ' said Fenwick, drawing out a fifty-poundnote 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 coolindifference; but at the same time his hand secured the note, andplaced it safely in the drawer of the table between 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 theexhibition-rooms of the shop, hung in dark purple, Fenwick perceivedin the distance what looked like a fine Corot, and a Daubigny--andpaused. 

'Got some good things, since I was here last?'

'Oh, we're always getting good things, ' said his companion, carelessly, without the smallest motion towards the pictures. 

Fenwick nodded haughtily, and walked towards the door. But his soulsmarted within him. Two years before, the owners of any picture-shopin London would have received him with _empressement_, have shown himall they had to show, and taken flattering note of his opinion. 

On the threshold he ran against the Academician with the orange hairand beard, who had been his fellow-guest at the Findon's on the nightof his first dinner-party there. The orange hair was now nearly white;its owner had grown to rotundity; but the sharp, glancing eyes andpompous manner were the same as of old. Mr. Sherratt nodded curtly toFenwick, and was then received with bows and effusion by the juniorpartner 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 morbidself-consciousness. It seemed to him that all the world knew him bynow for a failure and a bankrupt; that he was stared and pointed at. 

He took refuge from this nightmare in an Oxford Street restaurant, andas he ate his midday chop he asked himself, for the hundredth time, how the deuce it was that he had got into the debts which weighed himdown. He had been extravagant on the building and furnishing ofhis house--but after all he had earned large sums of money. He satgloomily over his meal--frowning--and trying to remember. And once, amid the foggy darkness, there opened a vision of a Westmorelandstream, and a pleading face upturned to his in the moonlight--'Andthen, you know, I could look after money! You're _dreadfully_ badabout money, John!'

The echo of that voice in his ears made him restless. He rose and setforth again--toward Fitzroy Square. 

On the way his thoughts recurred to the letter he had found waitingfor him at the lawyer's. It came from Phoebe's cousin, Freddy Tolson. Messrs. Butlin had traced this man anew--to a mining town in New SouthWales. He had been asked to come to England and testify--no matterat what expense. In the letter just received--bearing witness in itsimproved writing and spelling to the prosperous development of thewriter--he declined to come, repeating that he knew nothing whateverof his Cousin Phoebe's where-abouts, nor of her reasons for leavingher husband. He gave a fresh and longer account of his conversationwith her, as far as he could remember it at this distance of time;and this longer account contained the remark that she had asked himquestions about other colonies than Australia, to which he was himselfbound. He thought Canada had been mentioned--the length of the passagethere, and its cost. He had not paid much attention to it at the time. It had seemed to him that she was glad, poor thing, of some oneto have a 'crack' with--'for I guess she'd been pretty lonesome upthere. ' 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 ofthe colonies, he had had no hand in it, and knew no more than a 'bornbaby' where she might be hidden. 

So now, on this vague hint, a number of fresh inquiries were to beset on foot. Fenwick hoped nothing from them. Yet as he walked fastthrough the London streets, from which the fog was lifting, his mindwrestled with vague images of great lakes, and virgin forests, androlling wheat-lands--of the streets of Montreal, or the Heights ofQuébec--and amongst them, now with one background, now with another, the slender figure of a fair-haired woman with a child beside her. Andthrough his thoughts, furies of distress and fear pursued him--now asalways. 

'Well, this is a queer go, isn't it?' said Watson, in ahalf-whispering voice. 'Nature has horrid ways of killing you. I wishshe'd chosen a more expeditious one with me. '

Fenwick sat down beside his friend, the lamp-light in the old panelledroom 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 hoarsewhisper. 'My right lung has been getting rotten for a year past, andat Marseilles it happened to break. That's my explanation, anyway, andit 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, anddescribed the arrangements made to exhibit them. He was not as readyas usual to speak of himself; his gaze and his attention were fixedupon his friend. But Watson probed further, into the subjects of hisrecent work. Fenwick was nearing the end, he explained, of a series ofrustic 'Months' with their appropriate occupations--an idea which hadhaunted 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 badenough to paint the things you've seen--it's the devil to paint thethings you've not seen. "'

'The usual fallacy, ' said Fenwick, firing up. 'What do they mean by"seen"?'

He would have liked this time to go off at score. But a sure instincttold him that he was beside a dying man; and he held himself back, trying instead to remember what small news and gossip he could, forthe amusement of his friend. 

Watson sat in a deep armchair, propped up by pillows. The room inwhich they met had been a very distinguished room in the eighteenthcentury. It had still some remains of carved panelling, a gracefulmantelpiece of Italian design, and a painted ceiling half-effaced. Itwas now part of a lodging-house, furnished with shabby cheapness; butthe beauty, once infused, persisted; and it made no unworthy settingfor a painter's death. 

The signs of desperate illness in Richard Watson were indeed plainlyvisible. His shaggy hair and thick, unkempt beard brought into reliefthe waxen or purple tones of the skin. The breath was laboured and thecough 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 agreat historian--'The Celts have shaken all States, and founded none!'No founder, no _achiever_, this--no happy, harmonious soul--but aman who had vibrated to life and Nature, in their subtler and sadderaspects, 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, ' hesaid, presently, in a pause of Fenwick's talk, to which he hadhardly listened--'and a good job too. But I don't find myself at allrebellious. I'm curiously content to go. I've had a good time. '

This from a man who had passed from one disappointed 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 lastsaid:

'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 touchedsome raw nerve in Fenwick. 

'I don't want anything, ' he said, almost angrily. 'I shall getthrough. '

Cuningham had been talking, no doubt. His affairs had been discussed. His morbid pride took offence at once. 

'Mine'll just hold out, ' said Watson, presently, with a humorousinflexion--'it'll bury me, I think--with a few shillings over. But Icouldn't have afforded another year. '

There was silence a while--till a nurse came in to make up the fire. Fenwick began to talk of old friends, and current exhibitions; andpresently tea made its appearance. Watson's strength seemed to revive. He sat more upright in his chair, his voice grew stronger, and hedallied with his tea, joking hoarsely with his nurse, and askingFenwick all the questions that occurred to him. His face, in itsrugged pallor and emaciation, and his great head, black or iron-greyon the white pillows, were so fine that Fenwick could not takehis 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 silencemade more intimate still by the darkness of the panelled walls, whichseemed to isolate them from the rest of the room, enclosing them in aglowing ring of lamp and firelight, Fenwick was suddenly seized by animpulse 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 suddensharp attention. 

There was a pause; then Fenwick said, with bent head, staring into thefire:

'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'tknow 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--andother friends. '

'Great Scott!' said Watson, slowly, bringing the points of his long, emaciated fingers together, like one trying to master a new image. 'Sothat's been the secret--'

'Of what?' said Fenwick, testily; but as Watson merely replied byan interrogative and attentive silence, he threw himself into histale--headlong. He told it at far greater length than Eugénie had everheard it; and throughout, the subtle, instinctive appeal of man to mangoverned the story, differentiating it altogether from the same story, told to a woman. 

He spoke impetuously, with growing emotion, conscious of an infiniterelief and abandonment. Watson listened with scarcely a comment. Midway a little pattering, scuffling noise startled the speaker. Helooked round and saw the monkey, Anatole, who had been lying asleepin his basket. Watson nodded to Fenwick to go on, and then feeblymotioned to his knee. The monkey clambered there, and Watson foldedhis bony arms round the creature, who lay presently with his weirdface pressed against his master's dressing-gown, his melancholy eyesstaring out at Fenwick. 

'It was Madame she was jealous of?' said Watson, when the story cameto 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 dyingman. 

'And Madame knows?'

'Yes. '

But Fenwick sharply regretted the introduction of Madame dePastourelles' name. He had brought the story down merely to the pointof Phoebe's flight and the search which followed, adding only--withvagueness--that the search had lately been renewed, without success. 

Watson pondered the matter for some time. Fenwick took out hishandkerchief and wiped a brow damp with perspiration. His story--addedto the miseries of the day--had excited and shaken him still further. 

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 onyour knee! You don't go to your grave--[Greek: apraktos]--an ignorant, barren fool--like me!'

Fenwick looked at him in amazement. Self-scorn--bitter and passionateregret--transformed the face beside 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 ofliving--and art is our refuge. Then art takes its revenge--and weare bad artists, because we are poor and sterilised human beings. But you'--he spoke with fresh energy, composing himself--'don't talkrot!--as though _your_ chance was done. You'll find her--she'll comeback to you--when she's drunk the cup. Healthy young women don't diebefore thirty-five;--and by your account she wasn't bad--she had aconscience. The child'll waken it. Don't you be hard on her!'--heraised himself, speaking almost fiercely--'you've no right to!Take her in--listen to her--let her cry it out. My God!'--his voicedropped, as his head fell back on the pillows--'what happiness--whathappiness!'

His eyes closed. Fenwick stooped over him in alarm, but the thin handclosed again on his. 

'Don't go. What was she like?'

Fenwick asked him whether he remembered the incident of thesketch-book at their first meeting--the drawing of the mother andchild in the kitchen of the Westmoreland farm. 

'Perfectly. And she was the model for the big picture, too? I see. Alovely creature! How old is she now?'

'Thirty-six--if she lives. '

'I tell you, she _does_ live! Probably more beautiful now than shewas 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. Fenwickrose to go, conscious that he had stayed too long. Watson looked up. 

'Good-bye, old man--courage! Seek--till you find. She's in theworld--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 Khayyám--"Onething is certain and the rest is lies--The flower that once is bornfor ever dies"--and the next it's the Psalms, and I think I'm at aprayer-meeting--a Welsh Methodist again. '

He fell into a flow of Welsh, hoarsely musical. Then, with a smile, henodded farewell; and Fenwick went. 

 * * * * *

Fenwick wrote that night to Eugénie de Pastourelles at Cannes, enclosing a copy of the letter received from Freddy Tolson. It meantnothing; but she had asked to be kept informed. As he entered upon thebody of his letter, his eyes still recurred to its opening line:

'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, ofthose walks through the Trianon woods, was constantly with him. But hehad used her recklessly and selfishly, and she had done with him. He admitted it now, as often before, in a temper of dull endurance;bending himself to the task of his report. 

 * * * * *

Eugénie read his letter, sitting on a bench above the blueMediterranean, in the pine woods of the Cap d'Antibes. She had tornit open in hope, and the reading of it depressed her. In thepine-scented, sun-warmed air she sat for long motionless and sad. Thedelicate greenish light fell on the soft brown hair, the white faceand hands. Eugénie's deep black had now assumed a slight 'religious'air which disturbed Lord Findon, and kindled the Protestant wrathof her stepmother. That short moment of a revived _mondanité_ whichVersailles had witnessed, was wholly past; and for the first and onlytime in her marred life, Eugénie's natural gaiety was quenched. Sheknew well that in the burden which weighed upon her there were morbidelements; but she could only bear it; she could not smile under it. 

Fenwick's letter led her thoughts back to the early incidents ofthis fruitless search. Especially did she recall every moment of herinterview with Daisy Hewson--Phoebe Fenwick's former nursemaid, nowmarried to a small Westmoreland farmer. One of the first acts of thelawyers had been to induce this woman to come to London to repeat oncemore what she knew of the catastrophe. 

Then, after the examination by the lawyers, Eugénie had pleaded thatshe might see her--and see her alone. Accordingly, a shy and timidwoman, speaking with a broad Westmoreland accent, called one morningin Dean's Yard. 

Eugénie had won from her many small details the lawyers had beenunable to extract. They were not, alack, of a kind to help the searchfor Phoebe; but, interpreted by the aid of her own quick imagination, they drew a picture of the lost mother and child, which sank deep, deep, into Eugénie'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 Daisythought there was 'soomat wrang'--but dared not ask. In sayinggood-bye at Euston, Mrs. Fenwick had kissed her, and given the guard ashilling to look after her. She was holding Carrie in her arms, asthe train moved away. The girl had supposed she was going to join herhusband. 

And barely a week later, John Fenwick had been dining in St. James'sSquare, looking harassed and ill indeed--it was supposed, fromoverwork; but, to his best friends, as silent as that grave ofdarkness and oblivion which had closed over his wife. 

Yet, as the weeks of thought went on, Eugénie blamed him less andless. Her clear intelligence showed her all the steps of the unhappybusiness. She remembered the awkward, harassed youth, as she had firstseen him at her father's table, with his curious mixture of arroganceand timidity; now haranguing the table, and now ready to die withconfusion over some social slip. She understood what he had told her, in his first piteous letter, of his paralysed, tongue-tied states--ofhis fear of alienating her father and herself. And she went deeper. She confessed the hatefulness of those weakening timidities, thoseservile states of soul, by which our social machine balances theinsolences and cruelties of the strong--its own breeding also; shefelt herself guilty because of them; the whole of life seemed to hersick, because a young man, ill at ease and cowardly in a world not hisown, had told or lived a foolish lie. It was as though she hadforced it from him; she understood 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 atVersailles, so quick and marvellous was the play of her great gift ofsympathy, which was only another aspect of imagination. In recoil froma dark moment of her own experience, of which she could never thinkwithout anguish, she had offered him a friend's hand, a friend'sheart--offered them eagerly and lavishly. Had he done more thantake them, with the craving of a man, for whom already the ways aredarkening, who makes one last clutch at 'youth and bloom, and thisdelightful world'? He had been reckless and cruel indeed. But in itsprofound tenderness and humility and self-reproach her heart forgavehim. 

Yet of that forgiveness she could make no outward sign--for her ownsake and Phoebe's. That old relation could never be again; the weeksat Versailles had killed it. Unless, indeed, some day it were herblessed lot to find the living Phoebe, and bring her to her husband!Then friendship, as well as love, might perhaps lift its head oncemore. And as during the months of winter, both before and since herdeparture from England, the tidings reached her of Fenwick's growingembarrassments, of his increasing coarseness and carelessness of work, his violence of temper, the friend in her suffered profoundly. Sheknew 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 ofthe woman, for jealousy of whom the wife had so ignorantly destroyedherself and Fenwick, a thing impossible. 

Eugénie's only comfort indeed, at this time, was the comfort ofreligion. Her soul, sorely troubled and very stern with itself, wandered in mystical, ascetic paths out of human ken. Every morningshe hurried through the woods to a little church beside the sea, filled with fishing-folk. There she heard Mass, and made the spiritualcommunion which sustained her. 

Once, in the mediaeval siege of a Spanish fortress, so a Spanishchronicler tells us, all the defenders were slaughtered but one man;and he lay dying on the ground, across the gate. There was neitherpriest nor wafer; but the dying man raised a little of the soilbetween the stones to his lips, and so, says the chronicler, 'communicated in the earth itself, ' before he passed to the EternalPresence. Eugénie would have done the same with a like ardour andsimplicity; her thought differing much, perhaps, in its perceived andlogical elements, from that of the dying Spaniard, but none the lessprofoundly akin. The act was to her the symbol and instrument of anInflowing Power; the details of those historical beliefs with whichit was connected, mattered little. And as she thus leant 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 invisiblemultitude, in a twilight soon to be dawn. 

CHAPTER XII

A fortnight later Dick Watson died. Fenwick saw him several timesbefore the end, and was present at his last moments. The funeralwas managed by Cuningham; so were the obituary notices; and Fenwickattended the funeral and read the notices, with that curious mixtureof sore grief and jealous irritation into which our human nature is sooften betrayed at similar moments. 

Then he found himself absorbed by the later rehearsals of _The Queen'sNecklace_; 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 for everworsted. He was still trying in vain to sell his house at Chelsea, thehouse planned at the height of his brief prosperity, built and finelyfurnished on borrowed money, and now apparently unsaleable, becauseof certain peculiarities in it, which suited its contriver, and no oneelse. And meanwhile the bank from which he had borrowed most of hisbuilding money was pressing inexorably for repayment; the solicitor inBedford Row could do nothing, and was manifestly averse to runningup a longer bill on his own account; so that, instead of painting, Fenwick often spent his miserable days in rushing about London, tryingto raise money by one shift after another, in an agony to get a billaccepted or postponed, borrowing from this person and that, and withevery succeeding week losing more self-respect and self-control. 

The situation would have been instantly changed if only his artisticpower had recovered itself. And if Eugénie had been within his reachit might have done so. She had the secret of stimulating in him whatwas poetic, and repressing what was merely extravagant or violent. Butshe was far away: and as he worked at the completion of his series of'Months, ' or at various portraits which the kindness or compassion ofold friends had procured for him, he fell headlong into all his worstfaults. 

His handling, once so distinguished through all its inequalities, grewsteadily more careless and perfunctory; his drawing lost force andgrip; his composition, so rich, interesting, and intelligent in hisearly days, now meant nothing, said nothing. The few friends who stillhaunted his studio during these dark months were often struck withpity; criticism or argument was useless; and some of them believedthat he was suffering from defects of sight, and was no longer capableof judging his own work. 

The portrait commissions, in particular, led more than once todisaster. His angry vanity suspected that while he was now thoughtincapable of the poetic or imaginative work in which he had onceexcelled, he was still considered--'like any fool'--good enough forportraits. This alone was enough to make him loathe the business. Ontwo or three occasions he ended by quarrelling with the sitter. Thenfor hours he would walk restlessly about his room, smoking enormously, drinking--sometimes excessively--out of a kind of excitement and_désoeuvrement_--his strong, grizzled hair bristling about his head, his black eyes staring and bloodshot, and that wild gypsyish lookof his youth more noticeable than ever in these surroundings of whatpromised soon to be a decadent middle age. 

One habit of his youth had quite disappeared. The queer tendency tocall on Heaven for practical aid in any practical difficulty--to makeof prayer a system of 'begging-letters to the Almighty'--which had often quieted or distracted him in his early years of struggle, affectedhim no longer. His inner life seemed to himself shrouded in a sullennumbness and frost. 

And the old joy in reading, the old plenitude and facility ofimagination, were also in abeyance. He became the fierce criticof other men's ideas, while barren of his own. To be original, successful, happy, was now in his eyes the one dark and desperateoffence. Yet every now and then he would have impulses of the largestgenerosity; would devote hours to the teaching of some strugglingstudent and the correction of his work; or draw on his last remains ofcredit or influence--pester people with calls, or write reams to thenewspapers--on behalf of some one, unduly overlooked, whose work headmired. 

But through it all, the shadows deepened, and a fixed conviction thathe was moving towards catastrophe. In spite of Watson's touching wordsto him, he did not often let himself think of Phoebe. Towards her, astowards so much else, his mind and heart were stiffened and voiceless. But for hours in the night--since sleeplessness was now added to hisother torments--he would brood on the loss of his child, would tryto imagine her dancing, singing, sewing--or helping her mother in thehouse. Seventeen! Why, soon no doubt they would be marrying her, andhe, her father, would know nothing, hear nothing. And in the darknesshe would feel the warm tears rise in his eyes, and hold them there, proudly arrested. 

The rehearsals in which he spent many hours of the week, generallyadded to his distress and irritation. The play itself was, in hisopinion, a poor vulgar thing, utterly unworthy of the 'spectacle' hehad contrived for it. He could not hide his contempt for the piece, and indeed for most of its players; and was naturally unpopularwith the management and the company. Moreover, he wanted his moneydesperately, seeing that the play had been postponed, first fromNovember to February, and then from February to April; but theactor-manager concerned was in somewhat dire straits himself, andnothing 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 ofFenwick's most beautiful scenes--carefully studied from the Trianongardens on the spot--had been, in his opinion, hopelessly spoilt inorder to bring in some ridiculous 'business' wholly incongruous withthe setting and date of the play. He had had a fierce altercation onthe stage with the actor-manager. The cast, meanwhile, dispersedat the back of the stage or in the wings, looked on maliciously orchatted among themselves; while every now and then one or other of theantagonists would call up the leading lady, or the conceited gentlemanwho was to act Count Fersen, and hotly put a case. Fenwick was madlyconscious all the time of his lessened consideration and dignity inthe eyes of a band of people whom he despised. Two years before, his cooperation would have been an honour and his opinion law. Now, nothing of the kind; indeed, through the heated remarks of theactor-manager there ran the insolent implication that Mr. Fenwick'swrath was of no particular account to anybody, and that he waspresuming on a commission he had been very lucky to get. 

At last a crowd of stage-hands, setting scenery for another piece inthe evening, invaded the stage, and the rehearsal was just breakingup when Fenwick, still talking in flushed exasperation, happened tonotice two ladies standing in the wings, on the other side of the vaststage, close to the stage-entrance. 

He suddenly stopped talking--stammered--looked again. They were twogirls, one evidently a good deal older than the other. The elder wastalking with the assistant stage-manager. The younger stood quietly, afew yards away, not talking to any one. Her eyes were on Fenwick, andher young, slightly frowning face wore an expression of amusement--ofsomething besides, also--something puzzled and intent. It flashed uponhim that she had been there for some time, that he had been vaguelyconscious of her--that she had, in fact, been watching from a distancethe angry scene in which he had been engaged. 

'Why!--whatever is the matter, Mr. Fenwick?' said the actor besidehim, startled by his look. 

Fenwick made no answer, but he dropped a roll of papers he was holdingand suddenly rushed forward across the stage, through the throng ofcarpenters and scene-shifters who were at work upon it. Some gardensteps 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 hisassistance, rose again, and ran on, blindly, pushing at the groups inhis way, till he ran into the arms of the stage-manager. 

'Who were those ladies?--where are they?' he said, panting, andlooking round him in despair; for they had vanished, and thestage-entrance was blocked by an outgoing stream of people. 

'Don't know anything about them, ' said the man, sulkily. Fenwick hadbeen the plague of his life in rehearsals. 'What?--you mean those twogirls? Never saw 'em before. '

'But you must know who they are--you must!' shouted Fenwick. 'What'stheir 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 aworkman, when Fenwick caught him by the arm. 

'I implore you, ' he said, in a shaking voice, his face crimson--'tellme who they are--and where they went. '

The man looked at him astonished, but something in the artist's facemade him speak more considerately. 

'I am extremely sorry, Mr. Fenwick, but I really know nothing aboutthem. Oh, by the way'--he fumbled in his pocket. 'Yes--one of them didgive me a card--I forgot--I never saw the name before. ' He extractedit with difficulty and handed it to Fenwick, who stood trembling fromhead 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 wasFison. 'They came in here twenty minutes ago and asked to see me. Thedoor-keeper told them the rehearsal was just over and they would findme on the stage. The lady I was talking to wished to know whether wehad all the people we wanted for the ballroom scene. Some friend withwhom 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--Halifax--was it? It'saltogether 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 goton, as you may say, at once. I talked to her while you were discussingover there. But I had to tell her there was no room for her--and nomore there is. Her sister--or her friend--whichever it was--was anuncommonly pretty girl. I noticed that as she went out--which remindsme--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 againinto a shout, then failed him. 

'No, I really can't, ' said the other, decidedly, pulling himself away. 'You go and ask the door-keeper. Perhaps 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 togo, and had opened the stage-door for them. He hadn't happened to bein his 'lodge' when they went out, and couldn't say in which directionthey had gone. 

'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 thetheatrical section of it several times, questioning the policemen onduty. But he could discover 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 seenCarrie--his child; his little Carrie!--his own flesh and blood. It washer face--her eyes--her movement--changed, indeed, but perfectly tobe recognised by him, her father. And by the cruel, the monstrousaccidents of the meeting, she had been swept away from him again intothis whirlpool of London, before he had had the smallest chance ofgrasping at the little form as it floated past him on this aimlessstream of things. His whole nature was in surging revolt againstlife--against men's senseless theories of God and Providence. If itshould prove that he had lost all clue again to his wife and child, he would put an end, once for all, to his share in the business--heswore, with clenched hands, that he would. The Great Potter had madesport of him long enough; it was time to break the cup and toss itsfragments back into the vast common heap of ruined and wasted things. 'Some to honour--and some to dishonour'--the words rang in his ears, mingling with that deep bell of St. Paul's, whereof the echoes werebeing carried up the river towards him on the light southeasterlywind. 

But first--he tried to make his mind follow out the naturalimplications and consequences of what had happened. Carrie had askedhis name. But clearly, when it was given her, it had meant nothingto her. She could not have left her father there--knowing it was herfather--without a word. No; Phoebe's first step, of course, would havebeen to drop her old name, and the child would have no knowledge ofit. 

But Phoebe? If Carrie was in England, so was Phoebe. He could notbelieve that she would part with the child. And supposing Carrie spokeof the prating, haranguing fellow she had seen?--mentioned the name, which the stage-manager had given her?--what then? Could Phoebe stillhave the cruelty, the wickedness to maintain her course of action--tokeep Carrie from him? Ah! if he had been guilty towards her in the olddays, she had wrung out full payment long ago; the balance of injuryhad long since dropped heavily on his side. But who could know howshe had developed?--whether towards hardness or towards repentance. Still--to-night, probably--she would hear what and whom Carrie hadseen. Any post might bring the fruits of it. And if not--he wasnot without a clue. If a girl whose name is known has been playingrecently at an English provincial theatre, it ought to be possiblesomehow to recover news of her. He looked at his watch. Too late forthe lawyers. But he roused himself, hailed a cab, and went to hisclub, where he wrote at length to his solicitor, describing what hadhappened, and suggesting various lines of action. 

Then he went home, got some charcoal and paper and by lamp-light beganto draw the face which he had seen--a very young and still plasticface, with delicate lips open above the small teeth; and eyes--why, they were Phoebe's eyes, of course!--no other eyes like them in theworld. He drew them with an eager hand, knowing the way of them. Heput the light--the smile--into them; a happy smile!--as of one towhom life has been kind. No sign of fear, distress, or cringingpoverty--rather an innocent sovereignty, lovely and unashamed. Thenthe brow, and the curly hair in its brown profusion; and the smallneck; and the thin, straight shoulders. He drew in the curve of theshady hat--the knot of lace at the throat--the spare young lines ofthe breast. 

So it emerged; and when it was done, he put it on an easel and satstaring 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 Phoebe--Phoebe so like her, and yet sodifferent. But of Phoebe--still--he would not think. It was as whena man, mortally tired, shrinks from some fierce contest of brain andlimb, which yet he knows may some day have to be faced. He put hiswife aside, and sank himself in the covetous, devouring vision of hischild. 

Next day there was great activity among the lawyers. They wereconfident of recovering the clue, and if Fenwick's identification wasa just one, the search was near its end. 

Only, till they really _were_ on the track, better say nothing toLord Findon and Madame de Pastourelles. This was the suggestion of theFindon's solicitor, and Fenwick eagerly endorsed it. 

Presently inquiry had been made from every management in London as tothe touring companies of the year; confidential agents had been sentto every provincial town that possessed a theatre; long lists of nameshad been compiled and carefully scanned. Fenwick's drawing of the girlwhom he had seen had been photographed; and some old likenesses ofPhoebe and Carrie had been reproduced and attached to it, for theuse of Messrs. Butlin's provincial correspondents. The police wereappealed to; the best private detectives to be had were employed. 

In vain! The smiling child of seventeen had emerged for that oneappearance on the stage of her father's life, only, it seemed, tovanish again for ever. No trace could be found anywhere of a 'MissLarose, ' either as a true or a theatrical name; the photographssuggested nothing to those who saw them; or if various hints and cluessometimes seemed to present themselves, they led to no result. 

Meanwhile, day after day, Fenwick waited on the post, hurrying for andscanning his letters with feverish, ever-waning hope. Not a sign, nota word from Phoebe. His heart grew fierce. There were moments whenhe felt something not unlike hatred for this invisible woman, who wasstill able to lay a ghostly and sinister hand upon his life. And yet, and yet!--suppose, after all, that she were dead?

During these same weeks of torment _The Queen's Necklace_ wasproduced; it was a pretentious failure, and after three weeks ofdifficult existence flickered to an end. The management wentinto bankruptcy, and the greater part of Fenwick's payment wasirrecoverable. He could hardly now meet his daily living expenses, and there was an execution in his house, put in by the last firm ofbuilders employed. 

Close upon this disaster came the opening of his private exhibition. Grimly, in a kind of dogged abstraction, he went through with it. He himself, with the help of a lad who was his man-of-all-work inChelsea, nailed up the draperies, hung the pictures, and issued theinvitations for the private view. 

About a hundred people came to the private view. His reputation wasnot yet dead, and there was much curiosity about his circumstances. But Fenwick, looking at the scanty crowd, considering the faces thatwere there and the faces that were not there, knew very well that itcould be of no practical assistance to him. Not a picture sold; andnext day there were altogether seven people in the gallery, ofwhom five were the relations of men to whom he had given gratuitousteaching at one period or other of his career. 

And never, alack, in the case of any artist of talent, was there aworse 'press' than that which dealt with his pictures on the followingmorning. The most venomous article of all was the work of a man whomFenwick had treated with conceit and rudeness in the days of hissuccess. The victim now avenged himself, with the same glee which aliterary club throws into the black-balling of some evil tongue--sometoo harsh and too powerful critic of the moment. 'Scamped and emptywork, ' in which 'ideas not worth stating' find an expression 'notworth criticism. ' Mannerisms grown to absurdity; faults of earlytraining writ dismally large; vulgarity of conception and carelessnessof 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, Fenwickfelt himself artistically dead and buried. 

A great silence fell upon him. He spoke to no one in the gallery, andhe avoided his club. Early in the afternoon he went to Lincoln's InnFields--only to hear from the lawyers that they had done all theycould with the new scent, and it was no use pursuing it further. Heheard what they had to say in silence, and after leaving their officehe visited a shop in the Strand. Just as the light was waning, aboutseven o'clock on a May evening, he found himself again in his studio. It was now absolutely bare, save for a few empty easels, a chairor two, and some tattered portfolios. The two men representing theexecution were in the dining-room. He could hear the voices of acharwoman 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 hadrecoiled, shivering, from the empty desolation of the house. In thegeneral disarray of the ticketed furniture and stripped walls, allartistic charm had disappeared. And he said to himself, with a grimtwist of the mouth, that if the house had grown ugly and commonplace, that only made it a better setting for the ugly and commonplace thingwhich he was about to do. 

 * * * * *

About half an hour later a boy, looking like the 'buttons' of alodging-house, walked up to the side entrance of Fenwick's ambitiousmansion--which possessed a kind of courtyard, and was built round twosides of an oblong. The door was open and the charwoman just inside, so that the boy had no occasion to ring. He carried a parcel carefullywrapped in an old shawl. 

'Is this Mr. Fenwick's?' asked the boy, consulting a dirty scrap ofpaper. 

'Aye, ' said the woman. 'Well, who's it from? isn't there no note withit?'

The boy replied that there was no note, and his instructions were toleave it. 

'But what name am I to say?' the woman called after him as he wentdown 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, reflectingas she went that by the feel of it it was an unframed picture, andthat if some one would only take away some of the beastly, dustythings that were already in the house--that wouldn't, so the bailiffssaid, fetch a halfpenny--it would be better worth while than bringingnew ones where they weren't wanted. 

There was at first no answer to her knock. She tried the door, andwondered to find it locked. But presently she heard Fenwick movingabout inside. 

'Well, what is it?'

His voice was low and impatient. 

'A parcel for you, sir. '

'Take it away. '

'Very well, sir. '

She turned obediently and was halfway down the passage which led tothe dining-room, when the studio door opened with a great crash andFenwick 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 withdrew into thestudio and again locked the door. She noticed that he seemed tohave lit one candle in the big studio, and his manner struck her asstrange. But her slow mind followed the matter no further, and shewent back to the cooking of his slender supper. 

Fenwick meanwhile was standing with the parcel in his hand. At thewoman's knock he had risen from a table, where he had been writing aletter. A black object, half-covered with a painting-rag, lay besidethe 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 hadabsently deposited the parcel on the floor, where it rested againstthe leg of the table. 

'Another page will finish it. Hôtel Bristol, Rome--till the end of theweek?--if I only could be _sure_ that was what Butlin said!'

He paced up and down, frowning, in an impotent distress, trying tomake his brain work as usual. On his visit of the afternoon he hadasked the lawyers for the Findon's address; but his memory now was ofthe worst. 

Suddenly he wheeled round, sat down, and took up a book which had beenlying face downwards on the table. It was the 'Memoirs of BenjaminHaydon, ' and he opened it at one of the last pages--

'About an hour after, Miss Haydon entered the painting-room, andfound her father stretched out dead, before the easel on which stood, blood-sprinkled, his unfinished picture. A portrait of his wife stoodon a smaller easel facing his large picture. '

 * * * * *

The man reading, paused. 

'He had suffered much more than I, ' he thought--'but his wife hadhelped him--stood by him--'

And he passed on to the next page--to the clause in Haydon's willwhich runs--'My dearest wife, Mary Haydon, has been a good, dear, and affectionate wife to me--a heroine in adversity and an angel inpeace. '

'And he repaid her by blowing his brains out, ' thought Fenwick, contemptuously. 'But he was mad--of course he was mad. We are allmad--when it comes to this. '

And he turned back, as though in fascination, to the page before, tothe last entry in Haydon's Journal. 

 '21st. --Slept horribly. Prayed in sorrow and got up in agitation. '22d. --God forgive me. Amen. '

'Amen!' repeated Fenwick, aloud, as he dropped the book. The wordechoed in the empty room. He covered his eyes with his right hand, leaning his arm on the table. 

The other hand, as it fell beside him, came in contact with theparcel which was propped against the table. His touch told him thatit contained a picture--an unframed canvas. A vague curiosity awoke inhim. He took it up, peered at the address, then began to finger withand unwrap it. 

Suddenly--he bent over it. What was it!

He tore off the shawl, and some brown paper beneath it, lifted thething upon the table, so that the light of the one candle fell uponit, and held it there. 

Slowly his face, which had been deeply flushed before, lost all itscolour; his jaw dropped a little. 

He was staring at the picture of himself which he had painted forPhoebe in the parlour of the Green Nab Cottage thirteen years before. The young face, in its handsome and arrogant vigour, the gypsy-blackhair and eyes, the powerful shoulders in the blue serge coat, thesunburnt neck exposed by the loose, turn-down collar above thegreenish tie--there they were, as he had painted them, lying oncemore under his hand. The flickering light of the candle showed him hissignature and the date. 

He laid it down and drew a long breath. Thrusting his hands into hispockets, he stood staring at it, his brain, under the sharp stimulus, beginning to work more clearly. So Phoebe, too, was alive--and inEngland. The picture was her token. That was what it meant. 

He went heavily to the door, unlocked it, and called. The charwomanappeared. 

'Who brought this parcel?'

'A boy, sir. '

'Where's the note?--he must have brought something with it. '

'No, he didn't, sir--there was no note. '

'Don't be absurd!' cried Fenwick. 'There must have been. '

Mrs. Flint, outraged, protested that she knew what she was a-sayingof. He questioned her fiercely, but there was nothing to be got out ofher rigmarole account, which Fenwick cut short by retreating into thestudio in the middle of it. 

This fresh check unhinged him altogether--seemed to make a mere foolof him--the sport of gods and men. There he paced up and down in amad excitement. What in the Devil's name was the meaning of it? Thepicture came from Phoebe--no one else. But it seemed she had onlysent it to him to torment him to punish him yet more? Women were thecruellest of God's creatures. And as for himself--idiot!--if he hadonly finished his business an hour ago, both she and he would havebeen released by this time. He worked himself up into a wild passionof rage, stopping every now and then to look at that ghost of hisyouth, which lay on the table, propped up against some books--and onceat the reflexion of his haggard face and grey hair as he passed infront of an old mirror on the wall. 

Then suddenly the tension gave way. He sank on the chair beside thetable, hiding his face on his arms in an utter exhaustion, while yet, through the physical weakness, something swept and vibrated, which wasin truth the onset of returning life. 

As he lay there a cab drove up to the front door, and a lady dressedin black descended from it. She rang, and Mrs. Flint appeared. 

'Is Mr. Fenwick at home?'

'He is, ma'am, ' said the woman, hesitating--'but he did say he wasn'tto be disturbed. '

'Will you please give him my card and say I wish to see him at once? Ihave brought him an important letter. '

Mrs. Flint, wavering between her dread of Fenwick's ill-humour and theimpression 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 ofthe dismantled sitting-room--'I'll speak to Mr. Fenwick. '

She shuffled off. Eugénie de Pastourelles threw back her veil. Shehad arrived only that morning in London after a night journey, and herface showed deep lines of fatigue. But its beauty of expression hadnever been more striking. Animation--joy--spoke in the eyes, quiveredin the lips. She moved restlessly up and down, holding in one hand aparcel of letters. Once she noticed the room--the furniture ticketedin lots--and paused in concern and pity. But the momentary cloud wassoon chased by the happiness of the thought which held her. MeanwhileMrs. Flint knocked at the door of the studio. 

'Mr. Fenwick! Sir! There's a lady come, sir, and she wishes to speakto 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 saysit'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. 

'Where is she? Ask her to come in. '

He himself retreated into the darkness of the studio, clinging, sothe charwoman noticed, to the back of a chair, as though for support. Wondering 'what was up, ' she clattered back again down the longpassage which led from the sitting-room to the studio. 

But Eugénie 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 theSheriff's horficers--though they do it as kind as they can. '

Eugénie 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, whostood 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. Flintlooked at them curiously, and withdrew again into the back premises. 

Fenwick turned and walked in front of Eugénie towards the table fromwhich he had risen. She looked at him in sudden horror--arrested--thewords she had come to speak stifled on her lips. Then a quick impulsemade her shut the door behind her. He turned again, bewildered, andraised his hand to his head. 

'My God!' he said, in a low voice; 'I oughtn't to have let you come inhere. Go away--please go away. '

Then she saw him totter backward, raise an overcoat which hung acrossthe back of a chair, and throw it over something lying on the table. Terror possessed her; his aspect was so ghastly, his movements sostrange. She flew to him, and took his hand in both hers. 

'No, no--don't send me away! My friend--my dear friend--listen 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. Andlisten--_listen_!--I've brought you good news. '

She paused, still holding him. Her eyes were bright with tears, buther mouth smiled. He looked at her, trembling. Her pale charm, herpleading grace moved him unbearably; this beauty, this tenderness--thesudden apparition of them in this dark room--unmanned him altogether. 

But she came nearer. 

'We got home only this morning. It was a sudden wish of myfather's--he thought Italy wasn't suiting him. We came straightfrom Rome. I wrote to you by this morning's post. Then--thisafternoon--after we'd settled my father--I drove to Lincoln's InnFields. And I found them so excited--just sending off a messenger toyou. A letter had arrived by the afternoon post, an hour after youleft 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_ clue thistime! Your wife has been in Canada--they know where she was threemonths ago--it's only a question of time now. Oh! and they told meabout the theatre--how _wonderful_! Oh! I believe they're not faroff--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'mafraid--about money, was it? Oh, if I'd only known! But you'll let memake 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. Shecherished 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 mantelpiece, lit another candle, and broughtit, holding it towards something on a chair--beckoning to her. Shewent to him--perceived the unframed portrait--and cried out. 

'Phoebe sent it me--just now, ' he said, almost in a whisper--'withouta word--without a single word. It was left here by a boy--with noletter--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, andexamined it. Then she shook out the folds of the shawl, the fragmentsof the brown paper, and still found nothing. But as she took thecandle and stooped with it to the floor, something white gleamed. A neatly folded slip of paper had dropped among some torn lettersbeneath 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 somethingwrong with my eyes. '

And he held his hands pressed to them, while she--little reluctantly, wistfully--opened and read:

 * * * * *

MY DEAR JOHN, --I have Phoebe safe. She can't write. But she sends youthis--as her sign. It's been with her all through. She knows she'sbeen a sinful wife. But there, it's no use writing. Besides, it makesme cry. But come!--come soon! Your child is an angel. You'll forgetand forgive when you see her. 

[Illustration: '_Be my messenger_']

I brought Phoebe here last week. Do you see the address?--it's the oldcottage! I took it with a friend--three years ago. It seemed the rightplace for your poor wife--till she could make up her mind how and whento let you know. 

As to how _I_ came to know--we'll tell you all that. 

Carrie knows nothing yet. I keep thinking of the first look in hereyes! Come soon!

Ever your affectionate old friend, ANNA MASON. 

There was silence. Eugénie had read the letter in a soft voice thattrembled. She looked up. Fenwick was staring straight before him, andshe saw him shudder. 

'I know it's horrible, ' he said, in a low voice--'and cowardly--but Ifeel 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, grey-haired man in the dim grotesqueness of the light. Eugénieunderstood. She felt, with mingled dread and pity, that she was in thepresence of a weakness which represented far more than the immediateemotion; was the culmination, indeed, of a long, disintegratingprocess. 

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 hischair. 

He sank upon it, his eyes hanging on her. She stooped over him. 

'Shall I, ' she said, uncertainly--'shall I--go first? Oh, I _oughtn't_to go! Nobody ought to interfere--between husband and wife. But if youwish 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 thecandle-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, broughtthem to his lips. Close to them--unseen by her--for the momentunremembered by him--lay the revolver with which he had meant to takehis life--and the letter in which he had bid her a last farewell. 

CHAPTER XIII

Great Langdale was once more in spring. After the long quiet of thewinter, during which these remoter valleys of the Lakes resume theirprimitive and self-dependent life, there were now a few early touristsin the two Dungeon Ghyll hotels, and the road traffic had begun torevive. Phoebe Fenwick, waiting and listening for the post in an upperroom of Green Nab Cottage, ran hurriedly to the window several timesin vain, drawn by the sound of wheels. The cart which clattered pastwas not that which bore Her Majesty's mails. 

At the third of these false alarms she lingered beside the opencasement window, looking out into the valley. It was a very wearywoman who stood thus--motionless and drooping; a woman so tired, soconscious of wasted life and happiness, that although expectation heldher 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, thosebare fields and winding river! Twelve years! Time, the inexorable, haddealt with her, and not softly. All that rounded grace which Fenwickhad once loved to draw had dropped from her, as the bloom drops froma wild cherry in the night. Phoebe was now thirty-five--close onthirty-six; and twelve years of hard work, joyless struggle, andpursuing remorse had left upon her indelible marks. She had grownexcessively thin, and lines of restlessness, of furtive pain andsuspicion, had graven themselves, delicately, irrevocably, abouther eyes and mouth, on her broad brow and childish neck. There werehollows in the cheeks, the cutting of the face seemed to be ruder andthe skin browner than of old. Nevertheless, the leanness of the facewas that of energy, not that of emaciation. It pointed to life inthe open air, a strenuous physical life; and, but for the lookof fretting, of ceaseless and troubled longing with which it wasassociated, it would rather have given beauty than taken it away. 

Her eyes were more astonishing than ever; but there was a touch ofwildness in them, and they were grown, in truth, too big and staringfor the dwindled face. A pathetic face!--as of one in whom the impulseto weep is always present, yet for ever stifled. It had none of thatnoble intimacy with sorrow which so often dignifies a woman's wholeaspect; it spoke rather of the painful, struggling, desiring will, the will of passion and regret, the will which fights equally with thepast and with the future, and is, for Buddhist and Christian alike, the torment of existence. 

Again a sound of wheels drew her eyes to the road. But it was only theHawkshead butcher going his rounds. He stopped below the cottage, and Miss Anna's servant went out to him. Phoebe sighed afresh indisappointment, her ears still strained the while to catch the firstsound of that primitive horn, wherewith the postman in his cart, ashe mounts the Langdale Valley, summons the dwellers in the scatteredfarms and cottages to come and take their letters. 

But very likely there would be no letter at all. This was Thursday. On Saturday Miss Anna had met her and Carrie at Windermere, and hadbrought them to the old place. Sunday and Monday had been filledwith agitated consultations. Then, on Tuesday, a neighbour living inElterwater, and an old friend of Miss Anna's, had gone up to London, bearing with her a parcel addressed to 'John Fenwick, ConstableHouse, East Road, Chelsea, ' which she had promised to deliver, eitherpersonally or through one of the servants of the boarding-housewhither she was bound. 

This lady must have delivered it on Wednesday--some time onWednesday--she would not pledge herself. But probably not till theafternoon or evening. If so, there could be no letter. But if not aletter, a telegram; unless, indeed, John were determined not totake her back; unless her return were in his eyes a mere trouble andburden; unless they were to be finally and for ever separated. Then hewould take his time--and write. 

But--_Carrie_! Phoebe resumed her wandering from room to room andwindow to window, her mind deafened as it were by the rush of her ownthoughts--unable to rest for a moment. He must want to see Carrie! Andthat seeing must and should carry with it at least one interview withhis 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 toMiss Anna?--from the Surrey lodging, where for nearly two months shehad hidden herself after their landing in England. Each day sincethen had been at once the longest and the shortest she had ever known. Every emotion of which she was capable had been roused into freshlife, crowding the hours; while at the same time each day had flownon wings of flame, bringing the moment--so awful, yet so desired--whenshe should see John's face again. After the slow years ofself-inflicted exile; after the wavering weeks and months ofrepentance, doubt, and changing resolution, life had suddenly becomebreathless--a hurrying rush down some Avernian descent, towardscrashing pain and tumult. For how could it end well? She was no sillygirl to suppose that such things can be made right again with a fewsoft 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 whatshe had done, and could see no way, consistently with the beliefswhich still held her; and through the first hours of sharp reaction, produced partly by events in her own history and partly by fresh andunexpected information. She had thought of John as hard, prosperous, and cruel; removed altogether out of her social ken, a rich andfashionable gentleman who might have and be what he would. The Londonletter of a Canadian weekly paper had given her the news of hiselection to the Academy. Then, from the same source, she had learntof the quarrel, the scene with the Hanging Committee, the noisyresignation, and all the controversy surrounding it. She read andre-read every line of this scanty news, pondering and worrying overit. How like John, to ruin himself by these tempers! And yet, ofcourse, he had been abominably treated!--any one could see that. Fromher anger and concern sprang new growths of feeling in a softenedheart. If she had only been there!

Well!--what did it matter? The great lady who advised and patronisedhim no doubt had been there. If she had not been able to smooth outthe tangle, what chance would his despised wife have had with him?

Then--last fall--there had come to the farm in the green Ontariocountry, a young artist, sent out on a commission from an Englishpublishing firm who were producing a great illustrated book on Canada. The son of the house, who was at college in Montreal, had met him, andmade friends with him; had brought him home to draw the farm, and theapple-orchards, heavy with fruit. And there, night after night, he hadsat 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 nownowhere. What call had he to quarrel with the Academy? The Academy hadtreated him handsomely enough--much better than it had treated a lotof 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, anda man wants all his time to get the better of _that_--instead ofspouting and scribbling all over the place. No--John Fenwick woulddo nothing more of importance. Mrs. Wilson might take his word forthat--sorry if he had said anything unpleasant of a friend of hers. General report, besides, made him an unhappy, moody kind of fellow, living alone, with very few friends, taking nobody's advice--and asobstinate as a pig about his work. 

So said this young Daniel-come-to-judgement, between the whiffs of hispipe, in the Canadian farm-garden, while the darkness came down andhid the face of the silent woman beside him. 

And so Remorse, and anguished Pity, sprang up beside her--grey andstern comrades--and she walked between them night and day. John, alonely failure in England--poor and despised. And she, an exile here, with her child. And this dumb, irrevocable Time, on which she hadstamped her will, so easily, so fatally, flowing on the while, year byyear, towards Death and the End!--and these voices of 'Too late!' inher ears!

But still the impulse of return grew--mysteriously itseemed--independently. And other facts and experiences came strangelyto its aid. In the language of Evangelicalism which had been naturalto her youth, Phoebe felt now, as she looked back, that she had beenwonderfully 'led. ' It was this sense, indeed, which had softenedthe humiliation and determined the actual steps of her homewardpilgrimage; she seemed to have been yielding to an actual externalforce 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 neveryet had the courage to tell her the truth. She had spoken vaguely of'business' obliging them to take a journey to England--had asked thechild to trust her--and taken refuge in tears and depression fromCarrie's objections. In consequence, she had seen the first shadowdescend on Carrie's youth; she had been conscious of the first breachbetween herself and her daughter. 

In a sudden agony, she walked back to the window in her own room, looking this time, not towards Elterwater and the post, but towardsDungeon Ghyll and the wild upper valley. 

Anna Mason had taken Carrie for a walk. At that moment, on Phoebe'sprayer, she was telling the child the story of her father and mother. 

Phoebe's eyes filled. She was, in truth, waiting for judgement--atthe hands of her husband--and her daughter. Ever since their flighttogether, Carrie had been taught to regard her father as dead. Asthe years went on, 'poor papa' was represented to her by a few fadingmemories, by the unframed picture which her mother kept jealouslylocked from sight, which she had been only once or twice allowed tosee. 

And now? Phoebe 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, described the queer, passionate, grey-hairedman--'Mr. Fenwick, they called him'--whom she had seen directingthe rehearsal at the Falcon Theatre. Phoebe had a vision of herselfleaning back in her chair, wrapped in shawls, feigning the exhaustionand blindness of nervous headache--while the child gave her laughingaccount of the scene, in the intervals of kissing and comforting 'poormummy. '

And that drive from Windermere, beside Miss Anna, with Carrieopposite!--Carrie excitable, happy, talkative--her father's child--nowabsorbed in a natural delight, exclaiming at the beauty of themountains, the trees, the river, catching her mother's hand, to makeher smile too, and then in a sudden shyness and hardness, lookingwith her deep jealous eyes at the unknown friend opposite, wonderingclearly what it all meant, resenting that she was told so little, andtoo proud to insist on more--or, perhaps, afraid to pierce what mightturn out to be the unhappy or shameful secret of their life?

Yet Phoebe had tried to make it plausible. They were going to staywith an old friend, in a place which Carrie and her parents had livedin when she was a baby, near to the town where she was born. She knewalready that her mother was from Westmoreland, from a place calledKeswick; but she understood that her mother's father was dead, and allher people scattered. 

Until they came actually in sight of the cottage, the child hadbetrayed no memory of her own; though as they entered Langdaleher chatter ceased, and her eyes sped nervously from side to side, considering the woods and fells and whitewashed farms. As theystopped, however, at the foot of the steep pitch leading to thelittle house, Carrie suddenly caught sight of it--the slate porch, theyew-tree to the right, the sycamore in front. She changed colour, andas she jumped down, she wavered and nearly fell. 

And without waiting for the others she ran up the hill and through thegate. 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 sostrange! I remember sitting there, and a man'--she drew her handacross her brow--'a man, feeding me. That--that was father?'

Phoebe could not remember how she had answered her; only sometrembling words from Anna Mason, and an attempt to draw the childaway--that her mother might enter the cottage alone and unwatched. Andshe had entered it alone--had walked into the little parlour. 

The next thing she recollected--amid that passion of desperate tearswhich had seemed to dissolve her, body and soul--were Carrie's armsround her, Carrie's face pressed against hers. 

'Mother! mother! Oh! what is the matter? Why did we come here? You'vebeen keeping things from me all these weeks--for years even. Thereis something I don't know--I'm sure there is. Oh, it _is_ unkind. Youthink I'm not old enough--but I am. Oh! you ought to tell me, mother!'

How had she defended herself? staved off the inevitable once again?All she knew was that Miss Anna had again come to the rescue, hadtaken the child away, whispering to her. And since then, in theselast forty-eight hours--oh! Carrie had been good! So quiet, souseful--unpacking their clothes, helping Miss Anna's maid with thesupper, cooking, dusting, mending, as a Canadian girl knows how--onlystopping sometimes to look round her, with that clouded, wonderinglook, as though the past invaded her. 

Oh! she was a darling! John would see that--whatever he might feeltowards her mother. 'I stole her--but I've brought her back. I may bea bad wife--but there's Carrie! I've not neglected her--I've done thebest by her. '

It was in incoherent, unspoken words like this that Phoebe was forever pleading with her husband, even now. 

Presently, in her walk about the room, she came to stand before themantelpiece, where a photograph had been propped up against thewall by Carrie--of a white walled farm, with its out-buildings andorchards--and, gleaming beneath it, the wide waters of Lake Ontario. Phoebe shuddered at the sight of it. Twelve years of her life had beenwasted there. 

Carrie, indeed, took a very different view. 

Restlessly the mother left her room and wandered into Carrie's. It wasalready--by half-past nine--spotlessly clean and neat; and Eliza, thegirl from Hawkshead, had not been allowed to touch it. On the bed laya fresh 'waist, ' which Carrie had just made for herself, and on thedressing-table stood another photograph--not a place this time, but aperson--a very evident and very good-looking young man!

Phoebe stood looking at it forlornly. Carrie's young romance--and herown spoilt life--these two images held her. Carrie would go back, intime, 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. Phoebestood on the threshold, looking in. It had been her room and John's inthe old days. Their very furniture was still there--as in the parlour, too. For John had sold it all to their landlord, when he wound upaffairs. Miss Anna knew even what he had got for it--poor John!

She dared not go in. She stood leaning against the door-post, lookingfrom outside, like one in exile, at the low-raftered room, with itsoak press, and its bed, and its bit of green carpet. Thoughts passedthrough her mind--thoughts which shook her from head to foot. 

The cottage was now enlarged. Miss Mason, when she took it on leasethree years before this date, had built two new rooms, or got theHawkshead 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--honourable and seemly_ménages_--for which the Lakes have always been famous. But MissWetherby was now away, visiting her relations in the South. Had shebeen there, Phoebe could never have made up her mind to accept MissAnna's urgent invitation. She shrank from everybody--strangers, or oldacquaintance--it was all one. The terror which ranked, in her mind, next to the disabling, heart-arresting terror of the first meetingwith her husband, was that of the first moment when she must discoverherself to her old acquaintance in Langdale or Elterwater--in Kendalor Keswick--as Phoebe Fenwick. She had arrived, closely veiled, as'Mrs. Wilson, ' and she had never yet left the cottage door. 

Then again she caught her breath, remembering that at that very momentCarrie was learning her true name from Miss Anna--was realising thatshe had seen her father without knowing it--was hearing the story ofwhat her mother had done. 

'Perhaps she'll hate me!' thought Phoebe, miserably. Through thewindow came the soft spring air. The big sycamore opposite was nearlyin full leaf, and in the field below sprawled the helpless, new-bornlambs, so white beside their dingy mothers. The voice of the rivermurmured through the valley, and sometimes, as the west wind blewstronger, Phoebe's fine and long-practised ear could distinguish otherand more distant sounds, wafted from the leaping waterfalls whichthreaded the ghyll, perhaps even from the stream of Dungeon Ghyllitself, thundering in its prison of rocks. It was a characteristicWestmoreland day, with high grey cloud and interlacing sun, the fellsclear from base to top, their green or reddish sides marked with whitefarms or bold clumps of fir; with the blackness of scattered yews, landmarks through generations; or the purple-grey of the emerginglimestone. Fresh, lonely, cheerful--a land at once of mountainsolitude, and of a long-settled, long-humanised life--it breathedkindly on this penitent, anxious woman; it seemed to bid her takecourage. 

Ah! the sound of a horn echoing along the fell. Phoebe flew down tothe porch; then, remembering she might be seen, perhaps recognised, bythe postman, she stepped back into the parlour, listening, but out ofsight. 

The servant, who had run down to fetch the letters, seemed to behaving something of an argument with the postman. In a few minutes shereappeared, breathless. 

'There's no letters, mum, ' she said, seeing Phoebe at the parlourwindow--'and I doan't think this has owt to do here. ' She held up atelegram, doubtfully--yet with an evident curiosity and excitementin her look. It was addressed to 'Mrs. John Fenwick. ' The postman hadclearly made some remark upon it. 

Phoebe took it. 

'It's all right. Tell him to leave it. '

The girl, noticing her agitation and her shaking fingers, ran down thehill again to give the message. Phoebe carried the telegram upstairsto her room, and locked the door. 

For some moments she dared not open it. If it said that he refused tocome?--that he would never see her again? Phoebe felt that she shoulddie 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 ablow--a repulse. She had feared--but also she had hoped--she scarcelyknew for what--yet at least for something more, something differentfrom this. 

He was not coming, then, at once! A messenger! What messenger could aman send to his wife in such a case? Who knew them both well enoughto dare to come between them? Old fiercenesses woke up in her. Hadthe word been merely cold and unforgiving it would have crushed herindeed; but there was that in her which would have scarcely daredcomplain. An eye for an eye--no conscience-stricken creature butadmits the wild justice of that. 

But a 'messenger'!--when she that was lost is found, when a man's wifecomes back to him from the dead! Phoebe sat voiceless, the telegram onher lap, a kind of scorn trembling on her lip. 

Then her eye caught the word 'welcome, ' and it struck home. She beganto sob, her angry pride melting. And suddenly the door of her roomopened, and there on the threshold stood Carrie--Carrie, who had beencrying, too--with wide, startled eyes and flushed cheeks. She lookedat her mother, then flew to her, while Phoebe instinctively coveredthe 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 onthe way home Amélie mimicked him--and his voice--and his queer ways;and I laughed. Oh, what a beast I was! Oh, mother, and I told you hisname, and you never--never--said a word!'

The child flung herself on the floor, her feet tucked under her, herhands clasped round her knees, swaying backwards and forwards in atempest of excited feeling, hardly knowing what she said. 

Phoebe looked at her, bewildered; then she removed her hand, andCarrie saw the telegram. She threw herself on it, read the address, gulping, then the words:

'A messenger!' She understood that no more than her mother. It meant aletter, perhaps? But she fastened on 'immediately'--'welcome. '

And presently--all in a moment--she leapt to her feet, and began todance and spring about the room. And as Phoebe watched her, startledand open-mouthed, wondering if this was all the reproach that Carriewas ever going to make her, the flushed and joyous creature came andflung her arms round Phoebe's neck, so that the fair hair and thebrown were all in a confusion together, and the child's cheek was onher mother's. 

'Mummy!--and I was only five, and you weren't so very old--onlyseven years older than I am now--and you thought father was tiredof you--and you went off to Canada right away. My!--it was plucky ofyou--I will say that for you. And if you hadn't gone, I should neverhave seen George. But--oh, mummy, mummy!'--this between laughing andcrying--'I do guess you were just a little fool! I guess you were!'

Miss Anna sat downstairs listening to the murmur of those hurryingvoices above her in Phoebe's room. She was darning a tablecloth, with the Manchester paper beside her; and she sat peculiarly erect, alittle stern and pinched, --breathing protest. 

It was extraordinary how Carrie had taken it. These were your Canadianways, she supposed. No horror of anything--no shyness. Looking a thingstraight in the face, at a moment's notice--with a kind of humorouscommon sense--refusing altogether to cry over spilt milk, evensuch spilt milk as this--in a hurry, simply, to clear it up! A meremetaphorical refusal to cry, this--for, after all, there had beentears. But the immediate rebound, the determination to be cheerful, though the heavens fell, had been so amazing! The child had begunto 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 thatfine-drawn or shrinking sentiment, that 'moral sense, ' in short, withwhich, as it seemed to the elder woman, half-hours of this quality inlife should be decently accompanied. Little heathen! Miss Anna thoughtgrimly of all the precautions she had taken to spare the young lady'sfeelings--of her own emotions--her sense of a solemn and epoch-makingexperience. She might have saved her pains!

But at this point the door upstairs opened, and the 'little heathen'descended presently to the parlour, bringing the telegram. She came inshyly, and it might perhaps have been seen that she was conscious ofher disgrace with Miss Anna. But she said nothing; she merely heldout the piece of pink paper; and Miss Anna, surprised out of her own'moral sense, ' fell upon it, hastily adjusting her spectacles to alarge and characteristic nose. 

She read it frowning. A messenger! What on earth did they want withsuch a person? Just like John!--putting the disagreeables on otherpeople. She said to herself that one saw where the child's levity camefrom. 

'It's nice of father, isn't it?' said Carrie, rather timidly, touchingthe telegram. 

'He'd better have come himself, ' said Miss Anna, sharply. 

'But he is coming!' cried Carrie. 'He's only sending a letter--or apresent--or something--to smooth the way--just as George does with me. Well, now then'--she bent down and brought her resolute little faceclose to Miss Anna's--'where's he to sleep?'

Miss Anna jumped, pushed back her chair, and said, coldly, 'I'll seeto that. '

'Because, if he's going into my room, ' said Carrie, thoughtfully, 'something'll have to be done to lengthen that bed. The pillow slipsdown, and even I hung my feet out last night. But, if you'll let me, Icould fix it up--I could make that room real nice. '

Miss Anna told her to do what she liked. 'And where'll you sleepto-night, pray?'

'Oh, I'll go in to mother. '

'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 shewent. 

Presently there was a commotion upstairs--hammering, pulling, pushing. 

Miss Anna wondered what on earth she was doing to the bed. 

Then, Phoebe came down, white and fluttered enough to satisfy the mostexacting canons. Miss Anna tried not to show that she was dissatisfiedwith the terms of the telegram, and Phoebe did not complain. But herdespondency was very evident, and Miss Anna was extremely sorry forher. In her restlessness she presently said that she would go out tothe ghyll and sit by the water a little. If anybody came, they were toshout 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 andthin, in her plain dress of grey Carmelite and her mushroom hattrimmed 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. Herown fault, no doubt. Phoebe would have poured out her soul, withoutreserve, on that first night of her return to her old home. But MissAnna had entirely refused to allow it. 'No, no!' she had said, evenputting her hand on the wife's trembling lips; 'you shan't tell me. Keep that for John--it's his right. If you've got a confession--itbelongs to _John_!'

On the other hand, of the original crisis--of the scene inBernard Street, the spoilt picture, and the letters of Madame dePastourelles--Miss Anna had let Phoebe tell her what she pleased;and in truth--although Phoebe seemed to be no longer of a similaropinion--it appeared to the ex-schoolmistress that John had a gooddeal to explain--John and the French lady. If people are not married, and not relations, they have no reasonable call whatever to write eachother long and interesting letters. In spite of her education andher 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 Annarose hastily and looked out. 

A lady in black entered the little garden, walked up to the door, andknocked timidly. Was this the 'messenger'? Miss Anna hurried into thelittle hall. 

'Is Mrs. Fenwick in?' asked a very musical voice. 

'Mrs. Fenwick is sitting a little way off on the fell, ' said MissAnna, 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 toMiss Anna. 

Miss Anna glanced at it, and then at the bearer. 

'Kindly step this way, ' she said, pointing to the parlour, and holdingher grey-capped head rather impressively high. 

Madame de Pastourelles obeyed her, murmuring that she had sent hercarriage on to the Dungeon Ghyll Hôtel, whence it would return for herin an hour. 

Eugénie had made her first speech--her first embarrassed explanation. She and Miss Anna sat on either side of the parlour table, their eyeson each other. Eugénie felt herself ill at ease under the criticalgaze of this handsome, grey-haired woman, with her broad shoulders andher strong brows. She had left London in hurry and agitation, andwas, after all, but very slenderly informed as to the situationin Langdale. Had she inadvertently said something to set thisformidable-looking person against her and her mission?

On her side Miss Anna surveyed the delicate refinement 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 perfectlydressed, no doubt by the maid without whom these fine ladies neverventure themselves abroad; the rings which sparkled on the thinfingers; the single string of pearls, which alone relieved theseverity of the black bodice. She noticed the light, distinguishedfigure, the beauty of the small head; and her hostility waxed withinher. 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. Fenwick has been terribly overworked, ' Eugénie repeated, colouring against her will, 'and yesterday he was quite broken downby your letter. It seemed too much for him. You will understand, I'msure. When a person is so weak, they shrink--don't they?--even fromwhat they most desire. And so he asked me--to--to come and tell Mrs. Fenwick something about his health, and his circumstances theselast two years--just to prepare the way. There is so much--isn'tthere?--Mrs. Fenwick cannot yet know; and I'm afraid--it will pain herto hear. '

The speaker's voice faltered and ceased. She felt through every nervethat 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 wifeto-night?' said Miss Mason at last, in a voice of battle. 

'He arrives by the afternoon train, ' said Eugénie, looking at herquestioner with a slight frown of perplexity. 

'What is the matter with him?' said Miss Anna, dryly. 

Eugénie hesitated; then she bent forward, the colour rushing againinto her cheeks. 

'I think'--her voice was low and hurried, and she looked round her tosee that the door was shut and they were really alone--'I think it hasbeen an attack of depression--perhaps--perhaps melancholia. He has hadgreat misfortunes and disappointments. Unfortunately, my father and Iwere abroad, and did not understand. But, thank God!'--she clasped herhands involuntarily--'I got home yesterday--I went to see him--just intime--'

She paused, looking at her companion as though she asked for theunderstanding which would save her further words. But Miss Anna satpuzzled and cold. 

'Just in time?' she repeated. 

'I didn't understand at first, ' said Eugénie, with emotion; 'I onlysaw that he was ill and terribly broken. But he has told me since--ina letter I got just before I started. And I want you to advise me--totell me whether you think Mrs. Fenwick should know--'

'Know what?' cried Miss Anna. 

Madame de Pastourelles bent forward again, and said a few words underher breath. 

Anna Mason recoiled. 

'Horrible!' she said; 'and--and so cowardly! So like a man!'

Eugénie 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 hadfallen out, among some other papers on the floor--and he was nearlybeside himself with disappointment. I was lucky enough to find it andgive 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 tellher about his troubles and his breakdown--I felt as if I could notrefuse--though, of course, I know'--she looked up appealingly--'it maywell seem strange and intrusive to Mrs. Fenwick. But perhaps whenshe understands how we have all been searching for her these manymonths--'

'Searching!' exclaimed Miss Anna. 'Who has been searching?'

Her question arrested her companion. Eugénie drew herself more erect, collecting her thoughts. 

'Shall we face the facts as they are?' she said at last, quietly. 'Ican 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, Eugénie 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 parlour. She wentupstairs to find Carrie. 

Carrie was sitting beside the open door of her room, calmly rippingup a mattress. The bed behind her had been substantially lengthened, apparently by the help of a packing-case in which Mrs. Fenwick hadbrought some of her possessions across the Atlantic. A piece of whitedimity 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 gotlumpy. ' Then she laid down her scissors, flushed, and looked at MissAnna. 'Who's that downstairs?'

'It's a lady who wants to see your mother. Will you go and fetch her?'

'Father's "messenger"?' cried Carrie, springing up, and breathingquick. 

Miss Anna nodded. 

'Your mother should be very grateful to her, ' she said, in rather ashaky voice. 

Carrie put on her hat in silence, and descended. The door of theparlour was open, and between it and the parlour window stood thestrange lady, staring at the river and the fell opposite, apparentlydeep in thought. 

At the sound of the girl's step Eugénie turned. 

'Carrie!' she cried, involuntarily--'you are Carrie!' And she cameforward, impetuously holding out both her hands. 'How like thepicture--how like!'

And Eugénie gazed in delight at the small, slight creature, soactively and healthily built, in spite of her fairy proportions, atthe likeness to Fenwick in hair and skin, at the apple-freshness ofher colour, the beauty of her eyes, the lightness of her pretty feet. 

Twelve years!--and then to find _this_, dropped into your arms by thegods--this living, breathing promise of all delight! Deep in Eugénie'sheart there stirred the pang of her own pitiful motherhood, of thechild who had just flickered into life, and out of it, through onesummer'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, submitted. 

'I am going to tell my mother. Father sent you, didn't he?'

Eugénie said 'Yes' gently, and released her. The child ran off. 

Phoebe came slowly into the room, with an uncertain gait, touching thedoor and the walls like one groping her way. 

'Oh, Mrs. Fenwick!'

It was a little cry from Eugénie--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 Eugénie touched and then letdrop--so full of rugged, passionate things were the face and form shelooked at. 

'He's coming by the afternoon train. ' Eugénie threw all her will intocalmness and clearness. 'He gets to Windermere before five--andhe thought he might be here a little after six. He was so illyesterday--when I found him--when I went to see him! That's whathe wanted me to tell you before you saw him again--and so I camefirst--by the night train. '

'You went to see him--yesterday?' said Phoebe, still in the same tenseway. 

She had never asked her guest to sit, and she stood herself, one handleaning heavily on the table. 

'I had heard from the lawyers--the lawyers my father had recommendedto Mr. Fenwick--that they had found a clue--they had discovered sometraces of you in Canada--and I went to tell him. '

'Lawyers?' Phoebe raised her left hand in bewilderment. 'I don'tunderstand. '

Eugénie came a little nearer. Hurriedly, with changing colour, shegave an account of the researches of the lawyers during the precedingseven months--interrupted in the middle by Phoebe. 

'But why was John looking for us, after--after all this time?' shesaid, in a fainter, weaker voice, dropping at the same time into achair. 

Eugénie hesitated; then said, firmly, 'Because he wished to find you, more than anything else in the world. And my father and I helped himall we could--'

'But you didn't know?'--Phoebe caught piteously at her dress--'youdidn't know--?'

'That Mr. Fenwick was married? No--never!--till last autumn. That washis wrong-doing, towards all his old friends. '

Phoebe looked at the dignity and pureness of the face before her, andshrank a little. 

'And how was it found out?' she breathed, turning away. 

'There was a Miss Morrison--'

'Bella Morrison!' cried Phoebe, 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--whotold 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 Eugénie, with a gesture of emotion. 'It made my father very angry, and we could not be friends anymore--as we had been. And Mr. Fenwick had a wretched winter. He wasill--and his painting seemed to go wrong--and he was terribly in needof money--and then came that day at the theatre--'

'I know, ' whispered Phoebe, hanging on the speaker's lips--'when hesaw Carrie?'

'It nearly killed him, ' said Eugénie, gently. 'It was like a lightkindled, and then blown out. '

Phoebe leant 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'tknow what to do--I couldn't make up my mind. We'd taken lodgings downat Guildford--near some acquaintances we'd made in Canada. Andthe girl was a great friend of Carrie's--we used to stay withthem sometimes in Montreal. She had acted a little at Halifax andMontreal--and she wanted an opening in London--and somebody told herto apply at that theatre--I forget its name. '

'Halifax!' cried Eugénie--'Halifax, Nova Scotia? Oh, now I understand!We have searched England through. The stage-manager said one of theyoung ladies mentioned Halifax. Nobody ever thought--'

She paused. Phoebe said nothing; she was grappling with some of thenew ideas presented to her. 

'And this was his second search, you know, ' said Eugénie, laying ahand timidly on Phoebe's shoulder. 'He had done all he could--whenyou left him. But when he lost sight of Carrie again--and so of youboth--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. Hehas 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, pluckingat the tablecloth, trying to compose voice and features. 

'Yes--but it didn't last. He seemed to get angry with himself--andeverybody else. He quarrelled with the Academy--and his work didn'timprove--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 and shaking. 'It can never be the same again. I was a fool to come home. '

Eugénie withdrew her hand. Unconsciously, a touch of sternness showeditself in her bearing, her pale features. 

'No, no!'--she said, with energy. 'You will comfort him, Mrs. Fenwick--you will give him heart and hope again. It was a cruelthing--forgive me if I say it once!--it was a cruel thing to leavehim! A man like that--with his weaknesses and his temperament--whichare part of his gift really--its penalty--wants his wife at everyturn--the woman who loves him--who understands. But to desert him fora suspicion!--a dream! Oh! Mrs. Fenwick, there are those who--who arereally starved--really forsaken--really trampled under foot--by thosethey love!'

Her voice broke. She stood gazing straight before her, quivering withthe passion of recollection. Phoebe looked up--awed--remembering whatJohn had said, so long ago, of the unhappy marriage, the faithless andcruel husband. But Eugénie'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--myhusband was still alive. If he had sent me a word--any day--anyhour--I would have gone to him--to the ends of the world. I don'tmean--I don't pretend--that my feeling for him remained unchanged. Butmy pride was--my duty was--that he should never find _me_ lacking. Andlast year--he turned to me--I was able to help him--through his death. I had been his true wife--and he knew it. '

She spoke quietly, brushing the tears from her eyes. But with the lastwords, her voice wavered a little. Phoebe had bowed her head upon thehand which held hers, and there was no spectator of the feeling inEugénie's face. Was her pure conscience tormented with the thoughtthat she had not told all, and could never tell it? Her innocenttempting of Fenwick--as an act, partly, of piteous self-defenceagainst impulses of quite another quality and power--this must remainher secret to the end. Sad evasions, which life forces upon even thenoblest 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 onlyknown 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 calmherself. 

Phoebe rose and followed her. 

'Do you know?'--she said, piteously--'can't you tell me?--will Johntake me back?'

Eugénie paused just a moment; then said, steadily, 'He is coming here, because you are his wife--because he is faithful to you--because hewants 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 youthink anybody is to deny you anything, when you bring such a gift asthat?'

Carrie and Miss Mason were entering the little garden. Eugénie'ssmile, as she motioned towards the girl, seemed to reflect the Maysunshine and Carrie's young charm. 

But after Madame de Pastourelles was gone, a cloud of nervousdread fell upon the little cottage and its inmates. Phoebe wanderedrestlessly about the garden, waiting--and listening--hour after hour. 

The May evening drew towards sunset. Flame descended on the valley, striking athwart the opening which leads to its furthest recess, superbly guarded by the crags of Bowfell, and turning all themountain-side above the cottage, still dyed with the fern of'yesteryear, ' to scarlet. A fresh breeze blew through the sycamoreleaves, bringing with it the cool scents of rain-washed grass. Allwas hushed--richly hued--expectant--like some pageant waiting for itsking. 

Alas--poor king! In the full glory of the evening light, a manalighted from a wagonette at the foot of the cottage hill, and draggedhis weary limbs up the steep ground. He opened the gate, looking roundhim slowly to right and left. 

Then, in the porch, Fenwick saw his wife. He walked up to her, andgripped her wrists. She fell back with a stifled cry; and they stoodthere--speechless and motionless--looking into each other's eyes. 

CHAPTER XIV

Phoebe first withdrew herself. In that first moment of contact, Fenwick's changed aspect had pierced her to the heart. But the shockitself 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. '

Phoebe's voice stumbled over the words. 

Fenwick understood that the child and Anna Mason were leaving themto themselves, out of delicacy; and his exhaustion of mind and bodyrecoiled impatiently from the prospect of a 'scene, ' with which hefelt himself wholly unable to cope. He had been sorely tempted to stayat 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 amedley of feelings had prevailed over the impulse; and here he was. 

They entered the little parlour, and he looked round him in amazement, muttering, 'Why, it looks just as it did--not a thing changed. '

Phoebe closed the door, and then turned to him, trembling. 

'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 suppose that. '

'No, ' said Phoebe--'I know. '

She too sat down on the other side of the table, deadly pale, notknowing what to say or do. 

Suddenly he raised his head and looked at her, with his searchingpainter's eyes. 

'My God!' he said, under his breath. 'We are changed, both ofus--aren't we?'

She too studied the face before her--the grey hair, the red-rimmedeyes, of which the lids fluttered perpetually, shrinking from thelight, the sombre mouth; and slowly a look of still more completedismay overspread her own; reflected, as it were, from thathalf-savage discouragement and weariness which spoke from the drawnfeatures, the neglected dress, and slouching figure, and seemedto make of the whole man one sore, wincing at a touch. Her heartsank--and sank. 

'Can't we begin again?' she said, in a low voice, while the tears rosein 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 aha'p'orth _what_ I paint. I should be a bankrupt--but for Madame dePastourelles--'

'John!' cried Phoebe, bending forward--'I've got a little money--Isaved it--and there are some shares a friend advised me to buy, thatare worth a lot more than I gave for them. I've got eight hundredpounds--and it's all yours, John, --it's all yours. ' She stretched outher hands in a yearning anguish, and touched his. 

'What friend?' he said, with a quick, suspicious movement, taking nonotice 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 amoment had arrived for which she had long prepared; through rebellion, and through yielding; now in defiance, and now in fear: the momentwhen 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 believethat she should see her husband again. There had been no finality inher action. In her eyes the play had been always going on, the curtainalways up. 

'You know I told you about Freddy--Freddy Tolson's--coming to seeme--that night? Well, it was the things he said about Canada made medo it. Of course I didn't want to go where he was going. But he saidthat one could get to Canada for a few pounds, and it took aboutnine days. And it was a fine place, and any one could find work. He'dthought of it, he said, but as he had friends in Australia, he wasgoing there. And so, when he'd left the cottage, I thought--if, whenI came up to town--I--I did find what I expected--I'd take Carrie--andgo to Canada. '

Fenwick rose, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, began to walkup 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 Findonhad 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 cheque'--hestopped in front of her, rapping the table with his finger foremphasis--'the cheque was actually in the drawer!--under yourhand--where I'd left it. It was too late to catch the North post for aletter to you, so I went out to tell one or two people, and on the wayI bought some things for you at a shop--prettinesses that I'd neverbeen able to give you. Why, I thought of nothing but you. '

His voice had risen to a cry. He stooped, bending over the table, hishaggard 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 foundthat picture in my room--I'll tell you about that presently--and youwrote me the letter. Well, then you went back to Euston, and you sentDaisy away. After that?'

His stern, sharp tone, which was really the result of a nerve-tensionhardly to be borne, scared her. It was with painful difficulty thatshe collected her forces enough to meet his gaze and to reply. 

'I took Carrie to Liverpool. We had to wait three days there. Then wegot on a steamer for Québec. The voyage was dreadful. Carrie was ill, and I was so--so miserable! We stopped at Québec a little. But I feltso strange there, with all the people speaking French--so we wenton to Montreal. And the Government people there who look afterthe emigrants found me a place. I got work in an hotel--a sort ofhousekeeper. I looked after the linen, and the servants, and after abit I learnt how to keep the accounts. They paid me eight dollarsa week, and Carrie and I had a room at the top of the hotel. It wasawfully hard work. I was so dead tired at night, sometimes, I couldn'tundress. I would sit down on the side of my bed to rest my feet; andthen the next thing I'd know would be waking in the morning, just asI was, in my clothes. But so long as I slept, it was all right. It waslying awake--that killed me!'

The trembling of her lips checked her, and she began to play nervouslywith the fringe of the tablecloth, trying to force back emotion. Hehad again seated himself opposite to her, and was observing her witha half-frowning attention, as of one in whom the brain action isphysically difficult. He led her on, however, with questions, seeinghow much she needed the help of them. 

From Montreal, it appeared, she had gone to a fruit-farm in theHamilton district, Ontario, as housekeeper to a widower with a familyof children varying in age from five to sixteen. She had made theacquaintance of this man--a decent, rough, good-tempered fellow, Canadian-born--through the hotel. He had noticed her powers ofmanagement, and her overwork; and had offered her equal pay, an easiertask, and country air, instead of the rush of Montreal. 

'I accepted for Carrie's sake. It was an apple-farm, running down toLake Ontario. I had to look after the house and the children--and tocook--and wash--and bake--and turn one's hand to anything. It wasn'ttoo hard--and Carrie went to school with the others--and used to runabout the farm. Mr. Crosson was very kind. His old mother was livingthere--or I--wouldn't have gone'--she flushed deeply--'but shewas very infirm, and couldn't do anything. I took in two Englishpapers--and used to get along somehow. Once I was ill, with congestionof the lungs, and once I went to Niagara, with some people who livednear. And I can hardly remember anything else happening. It was alljust the same--day after day--I just seemed to be half-alive. '

'Ah! you felt that?' he said, eagerly--'you felt that? There's astuff they call curare. You can't move--you're paralysed--but you feelhorrible 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 twopenceabout anything, except a little bit of pleasure--and should never vexmyself about anything again. One was dead, and it didn't matter--wasrather 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 theexciteable, sanguine, self-confident man whom she had deserted in hisyouth. 

'Well, ' he resumed, 'and what was your farmer like?' Then, suddenly--lifting his eyes--'Did he make love to you?'

She coloured hotly, and threw back her head. 

'And if he did, it was no one's fault!--neither his nor mine. Hewasn't a bad fellow!--and he wanted some one to look after hischildren. '

'Naturally. Quite content also to look after mine!' said Fenwick, with a laugh which startled her--resuming his agitated walk, a curiousexpression 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 hadmade up her mind to a long patience, 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, withdifficulty. 

'What--that I was a flat failure?--a quarrelsome ass, and that kind ofthing? You began to pity me?'

'Oh, John, don't talk to me like that?' She held out her hands tohim in appealing misery. 'I was _sorry_, I tell you!--I saw how I'dbehaved to you. I thought if you hadn't been getting on, perhaps itwas my fault. It upset me altogether!'

But he didn't relent. He stood still--fiercely interrogative--hishands 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!'

'Maid to Madame de Pastourelles'--she said, hastily, stumbling overthe French name. 

He exclaimed:

'In Ontario!'

'She married a man she had been engaged to for years; he'd been makinga home for her out there. I liked her directly I saw her; and she wastoo delicate for the life; she came in the fall, and the wintertried her dreadfully. I used to go in to nurse her--she was very muchalone--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--Inever said anything. She'd been with her fifteen years--and she justworshipped her. And she told me about her bad husband--how she'dnursed him, and that--and how he died last year!'

A wild colour leapt into Fenwick's cheeks. 

'And you began to think--there might be a false position--theretoo--between her and me?'

His cruel, broken words stung her intolerably. She sprang up, lookingat him fiercely. 

'And if I did, it wasn't all selfishness. Can't you understand, Imight have been afraid for her--and you--as well as for myself?'

He moved again to the window, and stood with head bent, twisting hislip painfully. 

'And to-day you've seen her?' he said, still looking out. 

'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 mostridiculous reasons! But after you'd left me--in that way--you couldn'texpect me to give her up--her friendship--all I had. For nine or tenyears, if I prospered at all, I tell you it was her doing--because sheupheld me--because she inspired me--because her mere existence shamedme 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 toyou, in spite of everything, it was her doing too!'

He sank down upon the window-seat--his face working. And suddenlyPhoebe was at his knees. 

'Oh, John--John--forgive me!--do, John!--try and forgive me!' Shecaught his hands in hers, kissing them, bathing them with her tears. 'John, we _can_ begin again!--we're not so old. You'll have a longrest--and I'll work for you night and day. We'll go abroad with someof my money. Don't you know how you always said, if you could studyabroad a bit, what good it'd do you? We'll go, won't we? And you'llpaint as well as ever--you'll get everything back. Oh, John! don'thate me!--don't hate me! I've loved you always--always--even when Iwas so mad and cruel to you. Every night in Canada, I used to long forit to be morning--and then in the morning I longed for it to be night. Nothing was any good to me, or any pleasure--without you. But atfirst, I was just in despair--I thought I'd lost you for ever--couldnever, never come back. And then afterwards--when I wanted to comeback--when I knew I'd been wicked--I didn't know how to do it--howto face it. I was frightened--frightened of what you'd say to me--howyou'd look!'

She paused, her arms flung round him, her tear-stained face upraised. In her despair, and utter sincerity, she was once more beautiful--witha tragic beauty of character and expression, not lost for one momentupon 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 ina bitter passion--the upper lip drawn back a little over the teeth, which held and tormented the lower. 

'Twelve years!' he said, slowly, after a minute, his eyes plunginginto 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 thesame with me. '

Phoebe 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 sixweeks ago--and then swept her away again. '

She cried out. 'It was the merest accident!' Andvolubly--abjectly--she explained. 

He listened to her, but without seeming to understand--his own mindworking irrelevantly all the time. And presently he interrupted her. 

'Besides--I'm unhinged--I'm not fit to have women dependent on me. Ican't answer for myself. Yesterday--if that picture had come at eighto'clock instead of seven--it would have been too late!'

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 mymind. It was just touch and go. '

Phoebe sat speechless. It seemed as though her eyes--so wide andterrified--were fixed in their places, and could not release him. Hemoved impatiently; the appeal, the horror of them, were more than hecould bear. 

'And much better for you if I had!--and as for Carrie!--Ah!--goodHeavens! there she is. '

He sprang up in agitation, looking through the open window, yetwithdrawing from it. Phoebe too rose, the colour rushing back intoher cheeks. This was to be her critical, her crucial moment. If sherecovered him, she was to owe it to her child. 

Carrie and Miss Mason came along the path together. They had been ina wood beside the Elterwater road; not knowing how to talk to eachother; wandering apart, and gathering flowers idly, to pass the time. Carrie held a large bunch of bluebells in her hand. She wore a cottondress of greyish-blue, just such a dress as Phoebe might have worn inher first youth. The skirt was short, and showed her tripping feet. Under her shady hat with its pink rose, her eyes glanced timidlytowards the house, and then withdrew themselves again. Fenwick sawthat the eyes were in truth darker than Phoebe's, and the hair muchdarker--no golden mist like her mother's, but nearer to his own--awarm brown, curly and vigorous. Her face was round and rosy, but sodelicately cut and balanced, it affected him with a thrill of delight. He perceived also that she was very small--smaller than he hadthought, in the theatre. But at the same time, her light proportionshad in them no hint of weakness or fragility. If she were a fairy, shewas no twilight spirit, but rather a cheerful dawn-fairy--one of thosehappy 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 ofMiss Mason. 

'Father!' she said, gravely, and looking at him, she held out herhand. 

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. Butshe had long since determined not to cry--because poor mummy would besure to. 

'I guess you'll be wanting your tea, ' she said, shyly, looking fromhim to her mother; 'I'll go and see to it. '

Miss Anna came up behind, concealing as best she could the impressionmade upon her by the husband and wife as they stood in the porch, under the full western light. Alack! here was no happy meeting!--andit was no good pretending. 

[Illustration: _Robin Ghyll Cottage_]

Fenwick greeted her with little or no demonstration of any sort, though he and she, also, had never met since the year of Phoebe'sflight. His sunken eyes indeed regarded her with a look that seemed tohold her at bay--a strange look full of bitterness. She understood itto mean that he was not there to lend himself to any sham sentimentalbusiness; and that physically he was ill, and could stand no strain, whatever women might wish. 

After a few questions about his journey, Miss Anna quietly begged himto come in and rest. He hesitated a moment, then with his hands in hispockets followed her to the parlour; while Phoebe, with Carrie's armround her, went falteringly upstairs. 

Miss Anna made no scene and asked for no information. She and Carriebustled to and fro, preparing supper. Fenwick at his own requestremained alone in the parlour. But when supper-time came, it wasevident that he was too feeble to face an ordinary meal. He layback in Miss Anna's armchair with closed eyes, and took no noticeof Phoebe's timid summons. The women looked in upon him, alarmed andwhispering together. Then Miss Anna drew Phoebe away, and mixing somemilk and brandy sent Carrie in with it. 'He will go away to-morrow!'she said, in Phoebe's ear, referring to a muttered saying of thepatient, --'we shall see!'

As Carrie entered the parlour with the milk and brandy, Fenwick lookedup. 

'Where am I to sleep?' he asked her, abruptly, his eyes lingering onher. 

'In my room, ' she said, softly; 'I'm going in to Miss Anna. I'velengthened the bed!'

A faint smile flickered over his face. 

'How did you do that?'

'I nailed on a packing-case. Isn't it queer?--Miss Anna hadn't anytools. I had to borrow some at the farm--and they were the poorestscratch lot you ever saw. Why, everybody in Canada has tools. '

He held her with a shaking hand, still looking intently at her brightface. 

'Did you like Canada?'

She smiled. 

'Why, it's _lovely_!'

Then her lips parted eagerly. She would have liked to go on talking, to make acquaintance. But she refrained. This man--this strange newfather--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 leant on her shoulder as they mounted the steepcottage stair. Her physical strength astonished him--the amount ofsupport that this child of seventeen was able to give him. 

She led him into his room, where she had already brought his bag, andunpacked his things. 

'Is it all right, father? Do you want anything else? Shall I sendmother?'

'No, no, ' he said, hastily--'I'm all right. Tell them I'm all right; Ionly 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_!'

He was thinking of the child as she stood bathed in the mingled gloryof sunset and moonlight flowing in upon her from the open window; forthe long day of northern summer was still lingering in the valley. 

'Ah! if I could only _paint_!--oh, God, if I could _paint_!' hegroaned aloud, rubbing his hands together in a fever of impotence andmisery. 

Then he tumbled into bed, and lay there weak and passive, feeling thestrangeness of the remembered room, of the open casement window, ofthe sycamore outside, and the mountain forms beyond it; of this pearlyor golden light in which everything was steeped. 

In the silence he heard the voice of the beck, as it hurried down theghyll. Twelve years since he had heard it last; and the eternal water'at its priestlike task' still murmured with the rocks, still drankthe rain, and fed the river. No rebellion there, no failure; nohelpless will!

He tried to think of Phoebe, to remember what she had said to him. Hewondered if he had been merely brutal to her. But his heart seemed adry husk within him. It was, as it had been. He could neither thinknor feel. 

Next day he was so ill that a doctor was sent for. He prescribed longrest, said all excitement must be avoided, all work put away. 

Four or five dreary weeks followed. Fenwick stayed in bed most of theday, struggled down to the garden in the afternoon, was nursed by thethree women, and scarcely said a word from morning till night thatwas not connected with some bodily want or discomfort. He showed norepugnance to his wife, would let her wait upon him, and sit besidehim in the garden. But he made no spontaneous movement towards herwhatever; and the only person who evidently cheered him was Carrie. He watched the child incessantly--in her housework, her sewing, hergardening, her coaxing of her pale mother, her fun with Miss Anna, whowas by now her slave. There was something in the slight foreignnessof her ways and accent, in her colonial resource and independence thatdelighted and amused him like a pleasant piece of acting. She had thecottage under her thumb. By now she had cleaned all the furniture, 'coloured' most of the walls, and mended all the linen, which had beenin a sad condition--Miss Anna's powers being rather intellectualthan practical. And through it all she kept a natural daintiness andrefinement, was never clumsy, or loud, or untidy. She came and wentso lightly--and always bringing with her the impression of somethinghidden and fragrant, a happiness within, that gave a dancing grace andperfume to all her life. 

To her father she chattered mostly of Canada, and he would sit in theshade 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, thesleighing in winter, the beauty of the fall, the splendour of thesummers, 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 Phoebe ventured on them his manner stiffened at once. Miss Anna'sstrong impression was, still, that with his wife he was always on hisguard against demands he felt himself physically unable to meet. Yetit seemed to her, as time went on, that he was more and more aware ofPhoebe, more sensitive to her presence, her voice. 

She too watched Phoebe, and with a growing, involuntary respect. This changed woman had endured 'hardness, ' had at last followed herconscience; and, rebuffed and unforgiven as she seemed to be, she wasclothed none the less in a new dignity, modest and sad, but real. Shemight be hopeless of recovering her husband; but all the same, thelaw which links that strange thing, spiritual peace, with certainsurrenders, had already begun to work, unknown even to herself. 

As she moved about the cottage and garden, indeed, new contacts, newrelations, slowly established themselves, unseen and unexpressed, between her and the man who scarcely noticed her in words, frommorning till night. 'I should offend you twenty times a day, ' he hadsaid to her--'and perhaps it might be the same with me!' But theydid not offend each other!--that was the merciful new fact, assertingitself through this silent, suspended time. She was still beautiful. The mountain air restored her clear, pure colour; and what time hadrobbed her of in bloom it had given her back in _character_--theartist's supreme demand. Self-control, bitterly learnt--freshcapacities, moral or practical--these expressed themselves in athousand trifles. Not only in her tall slenderness and fairness wasshe presently a challenge to Fenwick's sharpening sense; she began, in a wholly new degree, to interest his intelligence. Her own hadblossomed; and in spite of grief, she had brought back with her someof 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?--hetossed at nights thinking of it. There came a time when he wouldgladly have exchanged Carrie's gossip for hers; and through her softsilence, as she sat beside him, he would hear suddenly, in memory, the echoes of her girlish voice, and make a quick movement towardsher--only to check himself in shyness or pride. 

Meanwhile he could not know that he too had grown in her eyes, as shein his. In spite of all his errors and follies, he had not wrestledwith his art, he had not lived among his intellectual peers, he hadnot known Eugénie de Pastourelles through twelve years, for nothing. Embittered he was, but also refined. The nature had grown harsher andmore rugged--but also larger, more complex, more significant, better worth the patiences of love. As for his failure, the moreshe understood it, the more it evoked in her an angry advocacy, apassionate championship, a protesting faith--which she had much ado tohide. 

And all this time letters came occasionally from Madame dePastourelles--indifferently to her or to him--full of London artisticgossip, 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 asthough 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 byday replaced and hid away the old. 

The days lengthened towards midsummer. After a spell of rain, Junedescended in blossom and sunshine on the Westmoreland vales. Thehawthorns were out, and the wild cherries. The bluebells werefading in the woods, but in the cottage gardens the lilacs were allfragrance, and the crown-imperials showed their heads of yellow andred. Each valley and hillside was a medley of soft and shimmeringcolour, save in the higher, austerer dales, where, as in Langdale, the woods scarcely climb, and the bare pastures have only a livelieremerald to show, or the crags a warmer purple, as their testimony tothe spring. 

Fenwick was unmistakeably better. The signs of it were visible in manydirections. His passive, silent ways, so alien to his natural self andtemperament, were at last breaking down. 

One evening, Carrie, who had been to Elterwater, brought back someafternoon letters. They included a letter from Canada, which Carrieread over her mother's shoulder, laughing and wondering. Phoebe wassitting on a bench in the garden, an old yew-tree just above her onthe slope. The heads of both mother and child were thrown out sharplyon the darkness of the yew background--Phoebe's profile, upturned, andthe abundant coils of her hair, were linked in harmonious line withthe 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 hearhim rummaging in his room, where Phoebe had lately unpacked some boxesforwarded from London. He had never so far touched brush or crayonduring his stay at the cottage. 

Presently he returned with a canvas and palette. 

'Don't go!' he said, peremptorily, to Carrie, raising his hand. 'Standas you were before. '

'You don't want me?' asked Phoebe, startled, her pale cheeks suddenlypink. 

'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. 

They held themselves as still as mice. Carrie could see her mother'shands 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 timewithout knowing it. It was nerves like the rest. '

Fenwick said nothing. He went on painting, painting fast andfreely--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 theHouse of Life. 

[Illustration: _Fenwick stood looking at the canvas_]

Then the artist threw his canvas on the grass, and stood looking atit. 

'By Jove!' he said, presently. 'By Jove!--that'll do. '

Phoebe said nothing. Carrie came up to him and put her hand in hisarm. 

'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 intothe house. 

Then Fenwick looked up irresolutely. His wife was still sitting on thebench. 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. Shewould offer herself no more--implore no more--but he knew in thatmoment that she loved him more maturely, more richly, than she hadever loved him in the old days. A shock, that was also a thrill, ranthrough him. They remained thus for some seconds gazing at each other. Then, as Carrie returned, Phoebe went into the house. 

Carrie studied her father for a little, and then came to sit down onthe 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 heldit 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. Yououghtn't to be thinking of any such things. '

Carrie shook her head resolutely. 'I'm not a baby. I've been in lovewith 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 myleave?'

Carrie hesitated. 'In Canada I wouldn't have to, ' she said, at last, decidedly. 

'Oh! they've abolished the Fifth Commandment there, have they?'

'No, no. But the girls choose for themselves!' said Carrie, tossingback 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 madproposal?--that I'm going to give you up altogether, just as I've gotyou 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 hismind--but without coming to speech. It was intolerable, inhuman--thatat this very moment, when he wanted her most, this threat of freshloss should be sprung upon him. She was _his_--his property. He wouldnot give her up to any Canadian fellow, and he altogether disapprovedof such young love-affairs. 

'Father, ' said Carrie, after a moment, 'when George asked me--wedidn't know--'

'About me? Well, now you do know, ' said Fenwick, roughly. 'I'mhere--and I have my rights. '

He put out his hand and seized her arm, looking at her, devouring her, in a kind of angry passion. 

Carrie grew a little pale, and, coming nearer, she laid her headagainst 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 coursewe wouldn't! I don't want to be all settled that soon. And, besides, we're going abroad--you and mummy and I. I'm going to take you!' Shesat up, tossing her pretty head, her eyes as bright as stars. 

'And be thinking all the time of the Canadian chap?--bored witheverything!' growled Fenwick. 

Carrie surveyed him. A film of tears sparkled. 

'I'm never bored. Father!'--she held herself erect, throwing all hersoul into every word--'George is--_awfully--nice!_'

Ah! the 'life-force'! There it was before him, embodied in this light, ardent creature, on whose brown head and white dress the June sunstreamed through the sycamore-leaves. With a groan--suddenly--Fenwickweakened. 

'What's his horrid name?--who is he?--quick!'

Carrie gave a little crow--and began to talk, sitting there on thegrass, with her hands round her knees. The interloper, it appeared, had every virtue and every prospect. What was to be done? PresentlyCarrie crept up to him again. 

'Father!--he wants to come to Europe. When you've found a plan--if welet him come and hitch up alongside of us somewhere--why, hewouldn't be any trouble!--_I'd_ see to that! And you don't knowwhether--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 haswritten to _me_!'

'But he has--this mail!' And in triumph she hastily dragged a letterout of the little bag at her waist, and gave it him. 'It came thisafternoon, 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 wasblowing from the north down the fell-side. He put his arm round Carrieas she stood beside him, kissed her, and in a gruff, unintelligiblevoice, murmured something that brought the tears again to her eyes. Then he announced that he was going for a short walk. Neither Phoebenor Miss Anna were to be seen. Carrie protested on the score of hishealth. 

'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 goingdirectly. '

Fenwick looked scared, but was soon reminded that Miss Anna wasto drive the child that evening to Bowness, where Carrie was to beintroduced to some old friends of Miss Anna's and stay with them acouple of days. He evidently did not like the prospect, but he madeno audible protest against it, as he would perhaps have done a weekbefore. 

Carrie watched him go--followed his figure with her eyes along theroad. 

'And I'm glad _we're_ off!'--she said to herself, her small feetdancing--'we've been cumbering this ground, Miss Anna and I--a dealtoo long!'

He was soon nearly a mile from home; rejoicing strangely in hisrecovered power of movement, and in the freshness of the evening air. He found himself on a hill above Elterwater, looking back on thelake, and on a wide range of hills beyond, clothed, in all their lowerslopes, with the full leaf of June. Wood rose above wood, in everygradation of tone and loveliness, creeping upwards through blue haze, till they suddenly lost hold on the bare peaks, which rose, augustlyclear, into the upper sky. The lake with its deep or glowingreflexions--its smiling shore--the smoke of its few houses--lay belowhim; and between him and it, glistening sharply, in a sun-steepedmagic, upon the blue and purple background of the hills and woods--awild cherry, in its full mantle of bridal white. 

What tranquillity!--what colour!--what infinite variety of beauty!His heart swelled within him. Life of the body--and life of thesoul--seemed to be flowing back upon him, lifting him on its wave, steeping him in its freshening strength. 'My God!' he thought, remembering the sketch he had just made, and the mastery with which hehad worked--'if I am able to paint again!--if I am!'

An ecstasy of hope arose in him. What if really there had beensomething wrong with his eyes!--something that rest might set right?What if he had wanted rest for years?--and had gone on defying natureand common sense?

And in a moment, as he sat there, looking out into the evening, theold whirl of images invaded him--the old tumult of ideas--clamouringfor shape and form--flitting, phantom-like, along the woods and overthe bosom of the lake. He let himself be carried along, urging hisbrain, his fancy, filled with indescribable happiness. It was yearssince the experience had last befallen him! Did it mean the returnof youth?--conception?--creative power? What matter!--years, orhardship?--if the mind could still imagine, the hand still shape?

He thought of his own series of the 'Months'--which he had plannedamong these hills, and had carried out perfunctorily and vulgarly, in the city, far from the freshness and infinity of Nature. Allthe faults of his designs appeared to him, and the poverty of theirexecution. But he was only exultant, not depressed. Now that he couldjudge himself, now that his brain had begun to react once more, withthis vigour, this wealth of idea--surely all would be well. 

Then for the first time he thought of the money which Phoebe hadsaved. Abroad! Italy?--or France? To go as a wanderer and a student, on pilgrimage to the sources of beauty and power. What was old, orplayed out? Not Beauty!--not the mind within him--not his craftsman'ssense. He threw himself on the grass, face downwards, praying as hehad been wont to do in his youth, but in a far more mystical, moreinward way; not to a far-off God, invited to come down and change ortamper with external circumstance; but to something within himself, identified with himself, the power of beauty in him, the resurgentforces of hope--and love. 

At last, after a long time, as the summer twilight was waning, there struck through his dream the thought of Phoebe--alone in thecottage--waiting for him. He sprang up, and began to hurry down thehill. 

Phoebe was quite alone. The little servant who only came for the dayhad gone back to the farm where she slept, and Carrie and Miss Annahad long since departed on their visit. 

Carrie had told her mother that 'father' had gone for a walk. Andstrangely enough, though he was away two hours, and she knew himstill far from his usual strength, Phoebe was not anxious. But shewas mortally tired--as though of a sudden a long tension had beenloosened, a long effort relaxed. 

So she had gone upstairs to bed. But she had not begun to undress, andshe sat in a low chair near the window, with the casements wide open, and the twin-peaks visible through them under a starry sky. Her headhad 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 couldhardly 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 colour in his face, and hisbreath 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 himtowards her. 

He knelt down by her, and she flung an arm round his neck, and laidher fair head on his shoulder with a long sigh. 

'You are very tired?'

'No. I knew you would come. '

A silence. Then he said, waveringly, stooping over her:

'Phoebe--I was very hard to you. But there was a black pall on me--andnow it's lifting. Will you forgive me?--my dear--my dear!'

She clung to him with a great cry. And once more the torrent of loveand repentance was unsealed, which had been arrested through allthese weeks. In broken words--in mutual confession--each helping, eachexcusing the other--the blessed healing time passed on its way; tillsuddenly, as her hand dropped again upon her knee, he noticed, as hehad often bitterly noticed before, the sham wedding-ring on the thirdfinger. 

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 hiscoat, and brought out the same large pocket-book which still held herlast letter to him. He took out the letter, and offered it to her. 'Don't read it, ' he said, peremptorily. 'Tear it up. '

She recognised it, with a sob, and, trembling, did as he bade her. Hegathered up the small fragments of it, took them to the grate, and lita match under them. Then he returned to her--still holding the openpocket-book. 

'Give me your hand. '

She held it out to him, bewildered. He slowly drew off the ring, putit aside; then from the inmost fold of the pocket-book he took anotherring, slipt it on her finger, and kissed the hand. After which heknelt down again beside her, and they clung to each other--close andlong. 

'I return it'--he murmured--'after twelve years! God bless you forCarrie. God bless you for coming back to me. We'll go to Italy. Youshall do that for me. But I'll repay you--if I live. Now, are youhappy? Why, we're young yet!'

And so they kissed; knowing well that the years are irreparable, andyet defying them; conscious, as first youth is never conscious, ofthe black forces which surround our being, and yet full of passionatehope; aware of death, as youth is never aware of it, and yetdetermined to shape something out of life; sad and yet rejoicing, 'cast down, but not destroyed. '

EPILOGUE

Of Eugénie, still a few words remain to say. About a year afterFenwick's return she lost her father. A little later Elsie Welby died. To the end of her life she had never willingly accepted Eugénie'sservice, and the memory of this, alack, is for Eugénie among the painsthat endure. What influence it may have had upon her later course canhardly be discussed here. She continued to live in Westminster, andto be the friend of many. One friend was tacitly accepted by allwho loved her as possessing a special place and special privileges. Encouraged and inspired by her, Arthur Welby outlived the cold andacademic manner of his later youth, and in the joy of richer powers, and the rewards of an unstained and pure affection, he recovered muchthat life seemed once to have denied him. Eugénie never married him. In friendship, in ideas, in books, she found the pleasures of herway. Part of her life she spent--with yearning and humility--amongthe poor. But with them she never accomplished much. She was timid intheir presence, and often unwise; neither side understood the other. Her real sphere lay in what a great Oxford preacher once enforcedat St. Mary's, as--'our duty to our equals'--the hardest of all. Herinfluence, her mission, were with her own class; with the young girlsjust 'out, ' who instinctively loved and clung to her; with the tiredor troubled women of the world, who felt her presence as the passageof something pure and kindling which evoked their better selves; andwith those men, in whom the intellectual life wages its difficultwar with temperament and circumstance, for whom beauty and truth arerealities, and yet--great also is Diana of the Ephesians! Thus in hersoft, glancing, woman's way, she stood with 'the helpers and friendsof mankind. ' But she never knew it. In her own opinion, few personswere so unprofitable as she; and but for her mystical belief, theyears would have brought her melancholy. They left her smile, however, undimmed. For the mystic carries within a little flame of joy, veryhard to quench. The wind of Death itself does but stir and strengthenit. 

[Illustration: _Robin Ghyll Cottage_]