Fenwick's Career

d Watson, stepping back as he spoke, palette on thumb, from the picture upon which he was engaged. 'He al

y were both at work, also put down palette and brush, e

hes mankind, as

ay it's a

come an

mrade, Philip Cuningham, had the air of a shrewd clerk or man of business-with his light alertness of frame, his reddish hair, and sharp, small features. A pleasant, serviceable ability was s

arming genre-a crowded scene in Rotten Row, called 'Waiting for the Queen,' painted with knowledge and grace; owing more to Wilkie than to F

r two technical comments, to which the other listened with something that was partly indulgence, p

what seemed to be a characteristic orderliness-'or I shall be in Queer Street. Bu

been sarcastic, but was perhaps more than anything else languid and wear

want to buy that!'

od beside him

things,' he said, a

paint such damned d

condescend to think of

s breath. 'Starve-and please yourself!

Philistine for our good-drat him! It does no one any harm to have to hook th

resently Cuningham caught-half lost in the beard-'There

g as you take a public of some sort i

ife-size figures on which Watson was engaged. It was an illustration of some Chauce

ale

a pres

ing multitude, 'men might know his fa

-stained linen, a frightened girl hiding her eyes, a mother weeping, a jester with the laugh withered on his lip by this sudden vision of death and irremediable woe-and in the distance a frail, fainting form, sweeth

d away from it

, Dick-but I couldn't liv

atson, gruffly. 'You take it as an anecd

e?-and to all time? Well, that makes it more g

an, in some embarrassment,

rs are yours,' he said

brought them up t

thanks, then scanned the newco

at Berners Street

enwick

e said,

n attending a

dozen fellows left in August. We clu

ember you in

painted a lot already-I couldn'

looked at the figu

come in and

superb head, with its strong, tossed locks of ebon-black hair touched with grey, th

lass-divined at once that he was self-taught, and risen from the ranks. Both Cuningham and Watson were shabbily dressed; but it was an artistic and metropolitan shabbiness. Fenwick's

sation, while Watson, still pa

ondon by a well-known Academician, the successes at the current 'Academy,' the fame of certain leading artists

art, the picture on which Dick Watson was engaged be

nderful.' He pointed to the terror-stricken culprit. 'But th

d at him till I'm sick. C

ld be li

. Then he handed the book to Watson, who looked first at the sketch, and then at some of the neighbouring pages, which were cove

alette-knife and scraped out the whole passage. 'I see!' he said, and, lay

it right!' said Fen

inced-th

He held out his hand,

and a very practised hand. They were the notes of a countryman artist newly come to London. The sights, and tones, and distances of Lond

e said, looking up, and involuntarily his eye gla

ck sm

want to do big things-romanti

t!' said Cuningham, stoop

e of rude black oak was set for a meal, and a young woman was feeding a child in a pinafore who sat in a high-chair. The sketch might have been a mere piece of domestic prettiness;

t?' said Watson, putting on his spectac

hand to think of it yet a while. Then with no explanation and a rat

sketch-book when a voice was

on,' said

arranged it in the best light, and removed

go?' said

y the name, which was that of one o

he room opened. They found themselves on a railed terrace looking to right and left on a row of

had come to see Cuningham's picture, which he had commissioned, bu

enwick. 'It's just the ki

t the picture of no account, but that he knew very well that it was of a kind to catch buyers. In a few minutes Watson resented

his hands in his trousers pockets; then, with a jerk of the head t

ould not prevent himself from listening. It seemed to him that he heard the words 'Two hundred and

rther end of the litt

uched him on

got anything to

nfident bearing of the Scotchman, success writ lar

a picture ne

good sort-lots of money-thinks he knows everything a

rd Findon was now examining Watson's picture with no assistance wha

as in truth the foundation of it passed without 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 s

from-with whom had he studied-what were his plans? Had he ever been abroad? No. Strange! The artists nowadays neglected travel. 'But you go! Beg your way, pain

ughing. 'You don't know what I

ung fellow marrying before he has got his training-before he has seen a foreign gallery-before he can be sure of a year's income ahead-above all, before he knows anything at all about women, and the different ways in

uningham laughed. Watson, on whom Lord Findon's whole personality seemed to have an effect more irritating than agreeable, fidgete

ungest son, the year before, had married the nurse who had pul

one of those moments when a man feels a band about his tongue, woven by shyness or false shame, or social timidity. He knows that he ought to speak; but the moment passes and he has not spoken. And between him and the word unsaid there

ng, Cuningham whispered a word in hi

, too? Have you anyth

Cuningham's puzzled impression was that he gave the invitati

irs, Lord Findon a

ningham's ear, nodding towards the broad sho

aid Cuningham,

afford himself?' sai

from starving. He's a dear old fellow! He

easant loyalty. Lord Find

lugubrious! And thi

re did you

ham ex

has a clever, quarrelsome eye. Unmarried? Good L

n no sign of a wife. But I re

and at sight of the large picture i

-what an ambi

nt of the picture. Fenwick li

' said Lord Findon, p

aid Fenwick, fumbling

nd framed the woman's form. She sat on a stone, bending over a frail new-born lamb upon her lap, whereof the mother lay beside her. Against her knee leaned a fair-haired child. The pitiful concern in the woman's lovely eyes was reflected in the soft wonder of the child's. Both, it seemed, were of the people. The drawing was full of rustical sug

re which perhaps specially arrested t

himself, presently, as he turned

rne-Jones' mystical colour-the rustic character of a Bastien-Lepage or a Millet-with the jewelled detail of a fourteenth-century Florentine, so wonderful were the harebe

on the artist with animation,

said Fenwick, his cheeks aglow. 'But I

ntry, you couldn't get

e had no

d Cuningham, good-naturedly. 'I ha

friendly. His Scotch prudence was alarmed. Had he in truth

y ask?' said Lord Findon,

e haltingly,

e I knew in

s. Cuningham noticed that the face was certainly from the same original

the other signs of the plebeian. And presently Fenwick, placed at his ease, began for the first time to expand, became argumentative and explosive. In a few minutes he was laying down the law in his Westmoreland man

emy-but it's pretty strong, as you'

ose articles in the Mirro

g man's tone was sulky. He got u

ck-'and accompany him? Lady Findon would, I'm sure, be glad to make your acquaintance. St. James's Square-102. All right'-as Fenwick, colouring violently, stammered an acceptance-'we shall expect y

on, with a grave incli

ill-mannered as patronage. But there was in his manner a certain consciousness of power-of vantage-ground; a c

be's eyes. A wave of passionate remorse broke upon him. He had as good as denied her; and she sat th

her last letter

metimes I'm very weary here-but I don't mind if you're getting on, and if it won't be much longer. Miss Anna has sent me some new patterns for my tatting, and I'm getting a fine lot do

f the little cottage on a starry night, and listening to the sounds of distant water. Behind her was the small room

panding power and justified ambition. Through the Berners Street life-school he had obtained some valuable coaching and advice which had corrected faults and put him on the track of new methods. But it was his own right hand and his own brain he had mostly to thank, together with the opportunities of London. Up ear

complained. Men cannot be like women, absorbed for ever in the personal affections. For him it was the day of battle, in which a man must strain all his powers to the utter

y. He hardly knew now where the next remittances to Phoebe were to come from. At first he had done a certain amount of illustrating work and had generally sent her the proceeds of it. But of late he had been absorbed in his big picture,

literary acquaintance as he had made through the life-school or elsewhere-these had been his only distractions. He stood amazed before his own virtues. He drank little-smoked little. As for women-he thought with laughter or wrath of Phoebe's touch of jealousy! There was an extremely pretty

money and his own savings were nearly gone. Fund

g it on a number of studies of Phoebe's head and face he had brought South with him. He had been lucky enough to find a model very much resembling Phoebe in figure; and now, suddenly, the picture had become his passion, the centre of all his hopes. It astonished himself; he saw his artistic advance in it writ large; of late he had been devoting himself entirely to it, w

bold accent or two; fumed over the lack of brilliancy in some colour he had bought the day before; and ended in a fresh burst of satisfaction. By Jove,

icture, praying that he might finish it prosperously, that it might

angelical tradition of his youth still held him. He was the descendant of generations of men and women who had prayed on all possible occasions-that customers might be plentiful and business good-that the young cattle might do well, and the hay be got in dry-that their children might prosper-and they the

tmoreland folk are 'close,' and don't like talking about their own affairs. He came of a secretive, suspicious stock; and had no mind at any time to part with unnecessary facts about himself. As talkative as you please about art and opinion; of his ow

rly what would have been simplicity itself at first was now an awkwardness. Lord Findon would be puzzled-chilled. He would suppose there was something to be ashamed of-some skeleton in the cupboard. And especially would he take it il

crude ambition had already seized on Lord Findon as a stepping-stone. He did not know whether he could stoop to court a patron. His own temper had to be reckoned with. But to lose him at the outset by a silly falsehood wou

ure, and get some commissions. Then Phoebe should appear, and smi

ply, commonly clever. It filled him with the thirst to arrive. He had more brains, more drawing, more execution-more

knew he was writing those articles in the Mirror? He th