Fenwick's Career

z, montez toujours! Vous trouverez un petit escalie

worn by time, yet merely enhanced thereby, something deliberately built, moreover, to stand the years, and abide the judgement of posterity. The house in Saint-Simon's day had belonged to one of those newly ennobled dukes, his contemporaries and would-be brethren, whose monstrous claims to rank with himself and the other real magnificences among the ducs et pairs de France drove him to distraction. It was now let out to a multitude of families, who began d

ed. At the very top he found a long and narrow corridor, along which he groped in da

ps! The floor was left au naturel abo

dapted to the purposes of a studio. A large window to the north had been put in, and the walls had been rudely plastered. But all the blasts of heaven seemed still to blow through them, and through

ting to the water-'can you

n shi

nough. Well, it's deuced lucky I caught sight of you at that show yest

enwick, accepting a sha

r himself, and then with arms

s the matter? Have you been worki

little grimace-'or I should be, if I could pay

ooke

why don

mehow-one h

-of a studio in Bernard Street, and a broad-browed, handsome fellow, with queer manners and a North-Country accent. As to good looks, Fenwick's face and head were now far finer than they had been in first youth; Watson's critical eye took note of it. The hair, touched lightly with grey, had receded slightly on the temples, and the more ample brow, heavily lined,

'you've been over-doing it. Have

ck la

ness,

u been exhibit

ways take. And I sen

sve

shook h

t in-you should have stayed i

attitude

a single hour-except that the

tore down his picture from the wall, stormed at the astonished members of the Hanging Committee, carried off his property, and vowed that he would resign his Associateship. He was indeed called upon to do so; and he signalised his withdrawal by a furious letter to the Times in which the rancours, grievances, and contempts of ten chequered and ambitious years found full and rhetorical expression. The letter naturally made a breach between the writer and England's official

stantly have liked to escape from it. He was himself nervous, critical, and easily bored.

rrive,' flowed from him copiously. He was the age indeed for 'arrival,' when, as so often happens, the man of middle life, appeased by success, dismisses the revolts of his youth. But this was still the language-and the fierce language-of revolt! The decadence of English art and artists, the miserable commercialism of the Academy, the absence of any first-rate teaching, of any commanding traditions, of any '

aid, with a queer sm

yd

patient movement he pushed

s not as bad as that

both there passed the same image of Haydon lying dead by h

patient laugh. 'I'm always seeing your name in the papers. You have a gr

cture for more than a year-except a beastly

son. 'Of course that's

e not use

, from which, indeed, many roads lead, to many goals; but with him, at that time, the omens were of the best. His pictures were always among the events of the spring exhibitions; he had gathered round him a group of enthusiastic pupils who worked in the studio of the new house; and he had already received a good many honours at the hands of foreign juries. He was known to be on the threshold of the Academy, and to be making, besides, a good deal of money. 'Society' had first admitted h

many years. Of late, they had met rarely, and neither of the men was a good correspondent. But the friendship, the strong sense of congruity and liking, persisted. It had sprung, originally-unexpectedly enough-from that loan made to Fenwick in his days of stress and poverty; and there were many who prophesied that it would come to an end with Fenwick's success. Wats

e first that he and Fenwick were in truth of the same race-the race of the [Greek

him, and of the disagreeable facts which emerged from his talk-declining reputation, money difficulties, and-last

eat deal of money!' he said

urned awa

and studio. I have been trying to sel

ou can't pull 'em down and build greater! But, you know, it's all great nonsense, your talking like this! You're as clever as ever-cleverer. You've only got t

ged his

ld buy 'em. And I'm in Paris now'-he hesitated a moment-'on a painting job. I've promised C--' (he named a well-k

ncertainly, hi

n the puffs in the papers. Why not? Hope he pays

s Réservoirs and must make some sketches in the palace; also

hat have you

no gayer than they used to be. Except that-ah, yes-I forgot-I had a return upon myself this spring-and set

Theophile Gautier said of some other fellow's Bacchantes that they had got drunk on "philosophical" wine. He mig

ome and poignant detail-excellent in some of its ideas an

ing away-'but it keeps me contented-that a

air of grave, soft eyes. Watson caressed him;-and then pointed to a wicker cage outside the window in which a pigeon was pecking at some Indian-corn. The cage door was wide open. 'She comes to feed here by day. In the morning I wake

ice?' said Fenwick, idly looking a

on s

d that screen-I wake, and hear some little fool squeaking. So I get up, and take the trap downstairs in the dark-right away down-to the first floor. And there I let the mouse go-those fo

place su

ld comes. Then I march

truck by something in his ton

'I ought to have inquired before. You mentioned co

-'that's no news. Ah! by the way'-he hurried the change of subject-'you

to-night,' said Fenw

ht. Then yo

ee them, o

be rid of that fellow!-Wh

ing, had been pursuing health-in Egypt and elsewhere. Her father, stepmother, and sister had been travelling with her. The s

ow that you will find

e a startle

How did you

low for telling you the news. Welby has begun a big picture of Marie Anto

d began to pace the ba

he said, eviden

ust he wasn't mixed up in the "hanging" affair?'

aved in an extremely mean and ungenerous manner afterward

e didn't su

badly treated-that there was personal feeling in the matter-resentment of things

spoke made it evident that Watson

, lit another cigarette, a

me de Past

ked up with

earth do

kept the peace between y

very littl

Since

me. Of course they

ile flickered ov

tle Madame We

aid Fenwick, turning aside to look through

head, still smili

rstand she has beco

Fenwick. 'I know

de Pastourelles had thought it best to establish a little ménage of her own, distinct from the household in St. James's Square. Her friends and her stepmother's were not always congenial to each other; and in many ways both Lord Findon and she were the happier for the change. Her small panelled rooms had quickly become the meeting-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 the world for him. But whereas his volatile lordship could never draw him from his cell, Lord Findon's daughter was sometimes irresistible, and Watson's great shaggy head and ungainly person was occasionally to be seen beside her fire, in the years before he left London. He had,

ernard Street landlady, who had become his housekeeper and factotum

ver paid a bill or engaged a servant for myself. She's done everyth

simple,' said Watson, wit

his eyebrows

s did well, "Mrs. Fenwick" mig

k spra

e repeated

tson-his eyes staring, his mouth

away and buttoning his coat afresh. 'But please understand, my

asis, smiling, and slappi

d at him and

of the Louvre. Twenty minutes to four. Some impulse, born of the seething thoughts within, took him to the d

ctures, then in the Luxembourg, had been among those which had most vitally affected him. The beautiful surface and keeping which connected them with the old tradition, together with the modern

and modelling in 'Madame Vinet' which had given him hints for the improvement of the portrait of Phoebe; and, again, the ease with which the head moves on its shoulders, its relief, its refinement-how he had toiled t

e delicacy of her profile, the wealth of her brown hair, the beauty of her young and virginal form. Suddenly, his eyes clouded; he turned abruptly

tson's brusquerie-the young girl of the picture-and his own bitter and disa

nger, 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 famili

er it meant little or nothing to him, but the dull weight of his secret; twelve years had inevitably deadened feeling, and filled the mind with fresh interests, while of late the tumult of his Academy and Press campaign had silenced the stealing,

irs-the empty room, the letter, the ring:-his hurried journey North-the arrival at the Langdale cottage, only to find on the table of the deserted parlour another letter from Phoebe, written before she left Westmoreland, in the prevision that he would come there in search of a clue, and urging him for both their sakes to make no scandal, no hue and cry, to accept the inevitable, and let her go in peace-his interview with the servant Daisy, w

Madame de Pastourelles, did she ever know that his mad wife had left him out of jealousy of her. He was not slow to imagine the effect of Phoebe's action on that proud, pure nature and sensitive conscience; and he knew what she and her father must feel towards the deception which had led her into such a position, and made such a tragedy possible. He foresaw her recoil, he

a man who was likely, so they understood, to be rich, and who already showed a helpful disposition. When once he had convinced himself that he had no clue, and that Phoebe had disappeared, it had not been difficult indeed to keep his secret, and to hide the traces of his own wrong-doing, his own share in the catastrophe. Bet

as connected with the cousin-Freddy Tolson-who had visited Phoebe th

wed that he had discovered nothing at all of Phoebe's intention, and could throw no light whatever upon her disappearance. The letter was laboriously written by a man of imperfect education, and barely covered three loosely written sides of ordinary note-paper. It a

ll figure and the childish look, and the lovely, pleading eyes, would his heart have leapt within him?-would his hands have been outstre

oman who had come in his absence to the Bernard Street studio, and defaced the sketch of Madame de Pastourelles, as in some sort a stranger-one whom, were she to step back into his life, he would have had to learn afresh. Sometimes, when anything reminded him of her suddenly-as, for instance, the vision in a shop-window of the very popular mezzotint which had been made from the 'Genius Loci' the year after its success i

. It was her memory of these occasions that had predisposed her to the mad suspicion which wrecked her. And when she had deserted him, he came violently near, on one or two occasions, to things base and irreparable. But he was saved-first by the unconscious influe

st object to allay, and had thus injured and maimed his artistic power; while at the same time she had so troubled, so falsified his whole attitude towards the woman who on his wife's disappearance from his life had become naturally and insensibly his dearest friend,

all the springs of life. Through his painting, as we have seen, he wrestled out his first battles with fate and with temptation; and those early years were the years of his artistic triumph, as they were also the years of Madame de Pastourelles' strongest influence upon him. But the concealment on

and grieve; and Fenwick, unable to satisfy her, unable to re-establish his own equilibrium, full of remorse towards her, and of despair about his art, whereof the best forces and inspirations seemed to have withered within him like a gourd in the night, went fro

whom she had been separated for nearly fifteen years. It was now nearly twelve months since Fenwick had seen her; and it was his eagerness to meet her again, much more than the ne

*

first-class return without thinking of it, and then, when he found himself pompously alone in his compartment, while crowds were hurrying into the second-class, he repro

e white houses, the wide avenues, the chateau on its hill, were steeped in light-a light golden, lavish, and yet melancholy, as though the a

ection, stopped suddenly at sight of him, and stared excitedly. She was a woman no longer young, much sunburnt, with

, and all the faded magnificence and decaying grace of the vast incomparable scene were kindling into an hour's rich life, under the last attack of the sun.

ended. He recognised Lord Findon, much aged and whitened in these last years. The lady in deep mourning behind him paused a moment on the broad pathway, and looked round her, at the hill of the chateau, at the bright lights in the restaurant. She th

ersistently and unforgiveably, for twelve year