Fenwick's Career

t any more. I'm that stiff

, his palette on his thumb, brush and mahlstick suspended. His eyes were cast down: a flush had risen in his cheek. Miss Bella's manner was not sweet; she wished evidently to slight somebody, and the painter could not flatter himself that the somebody was

pouted. The artist, John Fenwick, returned discreetly to

ly don't see anything in me!'-she looked over her shoulder at the picture, with a shrug of mo

turned and looked at the girl-a coarsely pretty young woman, very airily clothed in a white muslin dress, of which the transparency displayed her neck and a

of regret, Miss Mor

I sat. He promised me, if I didn't like it, he'd put it in his own d

er mother, severely. She rose

per accent; her chest rose and f

ing my upper lip miles too long-and that I hadn't got a nasty staring l

ancing at her in dismay, saw that she

long departed. Even in repose, her expression suggested hidden anxieties-fears grown habitual and watchful; and when she moved or spoke, it

picture, and the

aid, slowly. 'But I can't s

threw a shawl round her shoulders; gathered up some working materials and a book with which she had

She turned to the painter. 'I'd

Miss Morrison,' murmured the young

all this?' said a ch

you off to? Is t

o I should think I'd had about enough,

er caught he

n't we, mamma? Well, now

ore towards the painter, he detained

Miss Morrison, with her

minute,

d a waist like Fanny's?' Fanny was the

Bella; you

more beat the ground impatiently, while her fathe

u're advancing! You are: no doubt about that. Some of the execution there is astonishing. But all the

d Fenwick on the shoulder, returning immedi

compelled!' said the young man, in a proud, muffled voic

h to die "clemmed," as we say in Lancashire,' ret

s of desk-work; and those who saw him for the first time were apt to be struck by a certain eager volatility of aspect-expressed by th

le, familiar pang passed through her. As the chief and trusted official of an old-established bank in one of the smaller cotton-towns, Mr. Morrison had a large command of money. His wife had suspected him for years

m, she felt certain that he had just received some news which had given him great pleasure

dumb recoil. Her hands trembl

n of mine did nothing

k looked up

ughed her

find a better use for his time than ministering to the vanity of silly girls, and wasting h

ear!' said Morrison, throwing up his hands. 'Yo

n the Bible-though I believe you think it is. Well, good-night to you, Mr. Fenwick. I'm sorry you h

son departed. She looked again at her husband a

spirits. When he and Fenwick were left alone, he went

the money h

stinctively moving away. It might have been seen t

re comm

. And Satterthwaite, the butcher, says he'll give me a commission soon

do you get for

es five,' said the yo

ore than a

e there's plenty as'll take their pict

k, you're not exactly galloping

, as much as to say, 'What's

what are your plans? Can y

er, abruptly. 'I'm

ur own idea? You must have

on,' said the other, in

n find a

t preven

't really, sir, need to ask. I've

me head, and his eyes sparkled. It was plain that Mr. Morrison's catechising mann

mprudent match of

er-ho

before him. His head hung in meditation. And every now and then he looked to

drawings-'I've known most of the men who painted them, and I've assisted a very great many of them. Those pictures-most of them-represent loans, sir!-loans at times of difficulty, which I was proud to make'-Mr. Morrison struck his hand on the table-'yes, proud-beca

s lip could not restrain escaped the notice of his companion. 'And so, you see, I'm only following out an old custom when I say, I believe in you, Fenwick!-I believe in your abilities-I'

,' said the paint

nds. And what

her shelter, and the child. And of

ity? How, John, in plain words

ne benevolently on the artist-his mouth was all sensibility. Whereas, for a moment, there had been something of th

k hesi

or this portrait?' He nodded towards t

Bella dislikes it so. I shan't be able to h

n drew himse

sign of assent. 'Well, I could run up to your place-to Bartonbury-and paint those in the winter, when I come to see m

ter not promise to repay me in cash. It'll be a mi

ntic subject-medium size, by the end of the year, or make you copies-you said you want

d-temperedly. He tou

ying on t

n he was a young man, Baron Schack, it appears, paid him one hundred pounds a year, for all hi

ison was not looking at him, or he w

uess living in London's dearer now than living in Italy

know all abo

e. However'-Fenwick ros

ggressive. Nothing of the suppliant, in ton

d, lifting his delicate eyebrows a

he window. He looked out upon a Westmoreland valley in the first flush of spring; but he saw nothing. His

lding it. He was tall, a little round-shouldered, with a large, broad-browed head, covered with brown, straggling hair; eyes, glancing and darkish, full of force, of excitement even, c

ule, than sympathetic; and the hands, which were large and yet slender,

d on his heel and looked at

s-and I'll be bound he got them for nothing. He'll try

Morrison had been for years a bank-clerk in Birmingham before his appointment to the post he now held. A group of Midland artists, whose work had become famous, and costly in proportion,

then, pointing him to a chair at the table, he dictated a form of IOU, specifying that

mering out his thanks. 'That's been my nature all my life, I tell you-to help the lame dogs-ask

e that vainly endeavoured t

o the editors of the illustrated papers and show them some things. I shall attend some l

omentary wrinkling o

, if I were you, Fenwick. But pai

ideas,' said Fenwick,

earned a right

of the Pre-Raphaelites with the truth and drawing of the

d his companion

ck, you won't fail f

reddened, then

e English Romantic school have no more future, unless they absorb French drawing and

e with which Fenwick spoke had never yet shown themselves so plain

st work in the world?' said th

k hesi

se. Then, suddenly raising his head, he added, 'And if

son l

nd now what will Mrs

himself of the envelope, and buttone

tely. What shall I do with this picture?

said Morrison, in a tone of good-humour. 'You've got a lot of worldl

king sharply for a moment into the picture-which was a strong, ugly thing, with some passages of remarkable technique-he put it aside, savi

to you!' he said, h

ung fellow, the vivacity of the ey

redoubled urbanity. 'It's my way

eek. I'll come a

ale. On either side of the stream, wooded or craggy fells, gashed with stone-quarries, accompanied the windings of the water, now leaving room for a scanty field or two, and now hemming in the river with close-piled rock and tree. Before him rose a white Westmoreland farm, with its gabled porch and moss-grown roof, its traditional yews and sycamores; while to his left, and above the f

of light and shade which filled the valley-a pleasure involuntary, physical, automatic, depending on certain del

her different-foreman, a clerk, perhaps, in his uncle's upholstery business at Darlington, a ticket-collector on the line-anything! He could always earn his own living and Phoebe's. There

thought him a conceit

ing, he thought of his father and mother, and of his childhood in the little Kendal s

o keep the peace between him and his irritable old father. He remembered her death-and those pictorial effects in the white-sheeted room-effects of light and shadow-of flowers-of the grey head uplifted; he remembe

d been a trouble to him; though, as he well knew, he had done nothing supremely well. But Homer and Virgil had been unlocked for him; and in the school library he found Shakespeare and Chaucer, 'Morte d'Arthur' and 'Don Quixote,' fresh and endless material for his drawing, which nev

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 I believe. But not in Europe. Ve Europeans are all tam fools. But I vill not svear!-no!-you onderstand, Fenwick; you haf never heard me svear?' And then a round oath,

he had learnt-the two going about arm-in-arm-Backhouse asking the questions according to a paper drawn up by John-'How many heads to the deltoid?'-and so on-over and over again-and with what an eagerness, what an ardour!-till the brain was bursting and the hand quivering with new knowledge-and the power to use it. Then Leonardo's 'Art of Painting' a

s who complained of the son's rudeness and inattention-attempts of relations to mediate between the two, and all the time his own burning belief in himself and passion to be free. And at last a tim

his sore ambitions-but for those long walks and talks, in which she had been to him first the mere recipient of his dreams and egotisms, and then-since sh

last a couple of portrait commissions from a big house near Kendal clinched the matter. A hurried marriage had been followed by the usual parental thunders. And now they had five years to look back upon, years of love and struggle and discontent. By turning his hand to many things, Fenwick had just managed to keep the wolf from the door. H

d then. He knew that in some ways he had disappointed her; and there was gall in the thought. As to

at work on the endless studies for every part-fellow-students coming to look, Academicians, buyers; he heard himself haranguing, plunging headlong into ideas and theories, holding his own with the best of 'th

wn self-confidence, an

ood never

e had imagination-enough to show him what it is that makes the mere craftsman into the artist, enough to make him hunger night and day for knowledge, tra

own hands supporting him on either side; the maidens of Achilles washing the dead and gory body of Hector in the dark background of the hut, while in front swift-foot Achilles holds old Priam in talk till the sad offices are over, and the father may be permitted to behold his son; Arthur and Sir Bedivere beside the lake; Crusaders riding to battle-the gleam of their harness-the arched necks of their steeds-the glory of their banner

he physical action released the brain from the tyranny of the forms which held it. Gradually they passed away. He began to breathe more quietly, and, si

t he might do well in London, might make a name for himself, and leave his mark on English art. This was