Fenwick's Career

ide. The wind was cold, but again a glorious sun bathed the terrace and the chateau. It was a day of splendour-a day when heaven and earth seemed to have conspired

the nearer alleys which branch from the terrace, the eye travelled, through a deep magnificence of shade, to an arched and framed sunlight beyond, embroidered with every radiant or sparkling colour; in others, the trees, al

d outline, sharp and vehement, full-bodied and rich-the greenest greens, the bluest blues, the most dazzling gold:-this was Versailles, as Eugénie saw it, on this autumn day.

the Paris mob, and the urgent summons to return at once;-the day when she passed the Temple of Love, gleaming amid the quiet streams, for the last time, and fled back through the leafy avenues leadin

told once again the most piteous of stories; a story, however, which seemed then, and still seems, to be not even ye

ears, not so much for Marie Antoinette, as for all griefs!-for this duped, tortured, struggling life of ours-for the 'mortalia' which grip all hearts, which none escap

ut because of that vast power of pity, that genius for compassion to which she was born. Not a tremor of body or soul, not a pang of physical or spiritual fear, but she had passed through them, in common with the man she upheld; a man who, like Louis the W

for respite in vain

slept with

after M. de Pastourelles' death-incited, forced thereto by Eugénie-in order to marry and go out to Canada. Eugénie had missed her sorely; and insensibly, the struggle to get well had been the harder. The doctors ordered travel and change, and she had wandered from place to place; only half-conscious, as it often seemed to her; the most docile of patients; accompanied now by one member of the family, now by ano

have instinctively shrunk from her, as too perfect-now-for human nature's daily food. But from that she was saved by a score of most womanish, most mundane qualities. Nobody knew her, luckily, for the saint she was; she herself least of all. As her strength renewed itself, her soft fun, too, came back, her gentle, inexhaustible delight in the absurdities of men and things, which gave to her talk and her perso

though she were, lived really by the heart, and the heart only. And since it is the heart that makes youth and keeps it-it was a return of youth-and of beauty-that had come upon her. In her black dress and shady hat, her collar and cuffs of white lawn, she was very discreetly, quietly beautiful; the passer-by did not know what it was that had touched and delighted him, till she had gone, and he found himself, perhaps, looking after the slim yet stately figure; but it was beauty none the

lf-though Lord Findon indeed had been for long much out of patience with him; and during the last few months she herself had written every week. But she had never felt so clearly the inexorable limits of her influence with him. This morning, just as of old, he had thrown himself tempestuously upon her advice, her sympathy; and she had given him counsel as sh

onality had possessed in his sulky, gifted youth. He had expressed himself with a bitter force on the decline of his inspiration 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 more to say or to paint. And she had been very, very sorry for him, but conscious all the time that he had never been so eloquent, and never in such good looks, what with the

in a sigh of aspiration. If only this unlucky thing had not happened!-this meeting

ore a little grey and pinched. They had somehow missed all the letters which should have warned them. To find Arthur established here, with his poor invalid wife-nothi

friends-poor, bitter, stricken Elsie. Eugénie's lips quivered. There flitted before her the image of the girl of eighteen-muse of laughter and delight. And she recalled the

been already ill, and therewith jealous and tyrannical, for some little time before Madame de Pastourelles had been

, and the strange hostility of her manner, especially towards the Findons, and her cousin

after a short apparent recovery, a rapid loss of strength and power. Poor, poor Elsie! But why-why should

ughts. Elsie was young, and would get well. And when she re

eived her father-just released, no doubt, from two English acqua

recreated the army, and saved the Colonies to the Empire. That history was not as well aware of these feats as it should be, he knew; but in the memoirs, of which there were now ten volumes privately printed in his drawer, he had provided for that. Meanwhile, in the rush of his opinions and partisanships,

, frowning, an

the blindness of some

wn, papa, and

m, smiling, and pointed to th

d Lord Findon, seating himself-'bu

the restaurant are so

y must keep these

e knows that the very smallest attention to their diet-and they might be

ounce a little conference in the sal

omething about their gluttony to M. de Villeton this morning-and he fired up!-declared he had spent this summer in English country-houses

there,' s

ch you eat. We can't produce such women as one sees here. I tell

ie sm

n walking with L

looked a lit

ion, my dear-a h

id Eugénie, softly-'if only th

indon

was baccarat in the Marney's' apartment last night, and Lady Marney lost enormous

ll play till the last

changed-'is tha

but Lord Findon, even at seventy, had the eyes o

rbed, and, turning, he scanned the terrace

siness about these two men. I don't be

. For our sakes, Arthu

ugénie, you had tamed the bear-but, upon my so

on,' said Eugénie, softly, and as she spoke she

more than friendly interest in that strange fellow, Fenwick? If so, he would be tolerably punished for his meddling of long ago! To have snatch

house. Why not? Eugénie's distinctions of person and family-leaving her fortune, which was considerable, out of count-were equ

e was and at half-power. Alderney-almost certain to be the next Viceroy of India-one of the most charming of widowers, with an only daughter-it had been plain both to Lord Findon and his stupid wife that Eugénie had made a deep impression upon a man no less romantic than fas

ficulties generally. Well, he had it himself, he reflected, frowning, as he strolled after her; but there were limits. Marr

more than social anarchy, by the failures and drawbacks of arrangements which were on the whole for people's good. Passe encore!-if Fen

ree! Supposing this poor gir

rwards was shaking Welby by the hand and stooping with an old man's

st any movement or jar should let loose the enemy, pain; an emaciated body, from which all the soft mouldings of youth had departed; a frail hand, lying in mute

r her, and Mrs. Welby w

his kind of thing. And there isn't a bit of

a hand on h

é, you like the

o have missed the Grandes Eaux. So like French red tape, to insist on stopping them on a particular date. Why should they be stopped? As to expense, t

s tenderly and sadly listening, till prese

, Elsie, I could do with a little more sun! Arthur, s

he had closed her eyes, and her pale

sie to stay with her,'

th Elsie, pleas

e eyes

said the young wife, ungraciously. 'Yo

upon Madame de Pastourelles that Arthur was only allowed

d herself bitterly as to the appearance of Mr. Fenwick at Versailles. Arthur had been so taken aback-Mr. Fenwick was always so atrociously rude to him! Arthur would have never come t

d Eugénie, soothingly-'and papa and I will

e came,' said E

play on Marie Antoinette. And I suppose he wanted

k why you lik

ear!-and just now very unh

Arthur says. He had

, smiling sadly. 'That

ompanion. A variety of expressions, all irritable

*

that peasant France which destroyed Versailles. It was four o'clock, and to their left, as they sat sheltered on the southern side of the chateau, the visitors of the day were pouring out into the gardens. The shutters of the lower rooms, in the apartments of the Dauphin and of Mesdames, were being closed one by one, by the gardiens within. Eugénie peered through the window besi

light died; the marble withdrew into the dark;

r mother turning miserably on her bed, sleepless with grief and cold, waiting for that last rendezvous of seven o'clock which the King had prom

!' she said, aloud, press

Mrs. Welby's voice beside her-st

oked up an

!-I was thinking o

ing it fall again, inert. 'All the silly memorials of her they sell here!-and the senti

ural

beautiful, with those staring eyes, and that lower lip! I say so to Arthur-and he raves-and quotes Horace Walpole-and all sorts of pe

ly child, this flower withered before i

sted upon her companion, ther

d women whom Arthur painted?-no

over her, chatting and caressing. Then, as the sun began to drop quickly, Madame de Pastourelles rose, and went to th

said, fretfully. 'This p

génie, involuntarily; sharply reproaching hers

back through the darkening streets, taking good care that he

e bitterness and the glory of human things. In the distance the voices of the children, still playing beside their nurses on the upper terrace, died away. Close by, a white Artemis on her pedestal bent forward-eager-her gleaming bow in air, watching, as it were, the arrow she had

*

oor Arthur! And I

y of Eugénie'

's illness that things dimly visible before had sprung into that sharp and piteous relief in which they stood to-day. Before it, indications, waywardnesses, the faults of a young and petted wife. But since the physical collapse, the inner motives and passio

uld she give him, that such a nature most deeply needed? Home, wifely love, and children-it was to these dear enwrapping powers she had committed him in wh

ht or act, had she given Arthur's wife the smallest just cause of offence. Eugénie's was often

or her own peace? How 'sacrifice'? She had given the child her heart's desire. Arthur was not in love; but Elsie Bligh would have accepted him as a

t had been done, had the girl's passion guessed the truth? And having gues

r, full of mean ambitions and small antipathies. Arthur had played his part bravely, with all the chivalry and the conscience that might h

ll this tragic breakdown. Indeed, so long as she could dress, dance, dine, and chatter as much as she pleased, with her husband in constant attendance, Mr

Eugénie might try to persuade herself of the possibility of Elsie's recovery; her real instinct denied it. Yet life was not necessarily threatened, it seemed, though cert

vious were the lesser men-such a man as John Fenwick, for instance-of a reputation and a success they thought overdone and undeserved. But Arthur himself! She seemed to be looking into his face, graven on the dusk, the face of a man tr

head against the pedestal of a m

rnate possibility-Elsie's death-freedom for herself and Ar

ck dress, wrestling as though with an attacking Apollyon. She seemed t

n to her!-to shut down and trample on this mutiny of a sinful and selfish heart-to make it impossible-impossible!-that e

she could not stop. Unconsciously, to hide them, she threw round her head a black lace sca

!' said a joyous

f which she was hurrying, stood before her, bareheaded, as he often

e a lit

tartle

t at least it was nothing hostile to himself; nay, it was borne in upon him as he turned his steps, and she walked beside him w

. For his thoughts, as he wandered through the Satory woods alone, had been the

ose lightly into the evening sky, marching in ordered ranks beside the water. Young men were fishing in the lake; boys and children were playing near it, and swe

ples of that happy, sensuous, confident art, produced by a society that knew no doubts of itself, which not t

t had penetrated him, its gay, perpetual festa-as compared with t

and every sort of theatricality and expense! Nature has sent us starvelings on the scene a hundr

n,' said Eugénie. 'But they br

bitterly. 'We are all stil

e of Beauty-and bring ever

pleasure were only for the few. Try and spread them, mak

e artist ma

oy themselves. By the way, I took one of your ideas this morning, and made a sketch of it. I haven't n

him, received the news w

ll to hold a golden twilight captive. The picture was to represent that fine metal-worker of the ancien régime who, when the Revolution came, to

the pure sympathy and compassion of her feeling for him, between her and the ugly memory which hovered round her like a demon thing. These dreams of the intellect and of ar

aint it!' she s

o promise her a time and date. It must be ready for a new

ok his

an't care abou

prot

you were

lking to you! When you're not there-I know very

be fed on sugar-plums of praise; but the silence with which he met h

-flung out into the wilderness and the woods, because Louis, after adding the flames to Bernini's composition, finally pronounced the statue unworthy of himself and of the sacred enclosure of the Park. So here, on the outer edge of Versailles

way. He believed in himself-felt himself an artist-again. The relief, physical and mental, was too tempting. He flung himself upon it with reckless desire, incapable of denying himself, or of counting the cost. And meanwhile, the effect of her black scarf, loosened, and eddying round her head and face in the soft night wind, defining the

ry-her fierce comments on the deserted wife-the lovely mistress. Perhaps, while she stood looking at the por

e presence he was already a better and a more hopeful man!-who seemed to br

But this was the inner history of a man's weakness and failure-of his quarrels and hatreds, his baffled ambitions and ideals. She put it together as best she could from his hurried, excited talk-from stories half told, fierce charges against 'charlatans' and 'intriguers,' ming

r, on the dim upturned faces of Ceres or Flora, or the limbs of flower-crowned nymphs and mermaids. It seemed impossible to turn homeward, to break off their conversation. When they reached the 'Bassin de Neptune' they left the Park, turning down the Trianon Avenue, in the growing dark, till they saw to their right, behind its iron gates, the gleaming fa?ade of the Petit Trianon; woods all about the

e Trianon gate,

said, faintly. 'I am a

on hers-the sudden appeal of a task which seemed to be given her by God-for the bridling of her own heart, and the comforting and restoring of John Fenwick. From all th

into the snare which Fate had set fo

llumination streamed upon the passers-by. They stepped within its bounds. And at the moment, a woman who had just crossed to the opposite side of the street stopped abruptly to look at them. They paused a few minutes in the entrance, still

to the conclusion that the situation, as it then

rary and the British Museum. But suddenly, just as the maids had been warned, and Lord Findon's man had been sent to look out trains, his master caught a chill, going obstinately, and in a mocking spirit, to see what 'Faust' might be like, as given at the Municipal Theatre of Versailles. There was fever, and a touch of bronchitis; nothing serious; but the docto

his father. He was a talkative Evangelical, like his mother; a partner in the

enly said to Lord Findon, as he was mounting gu

want Eugénie to marr

urned uneasil

kes you

happy except when she's there-and she-wel

You see, you don't care for boo

btfully-'but she wouldn't care so much if

dmirable!' sai

n't my sister's equal,' repl

odyies equal,' cried L

armaduke, firmly. 'Shall I give Eugénie a

laughed, tho

Or rather, I don't

and tremulous, and begged him to go home. He might be a master of brewing finance, and a

o him, and announcing to Arthur Welby, who listened silently, as he talke

f Fenwick's work-bringing his sketches to show. Lord Findon would lie and listen-a little suspicious and ill at ease-sometimes a little sulky. But he let his illness and his voicelessness excuse him from grappling with her. She must, of course, please herself. If

his new picture, and Mrs. Welby let it be plainly understood that at home Arthur was too busy, and she to

r road, or the Avenue de Paris. He walked, wrapt, a little too picturesquely perhaps, in an old Campagna cloak, relic of his years in Rome-with a fi

ussed it calmly with himself. It presented itself to him as an act altogether unworthy of her. What hurt him most, however, at these

e of the Terrace, when Eugénie and Fenwick came in sight, emer

e you notic

ced w

tant figures. His gesture w

ised herself painfull

breathlessly-'Eugén

on in her face. It was the first time

ing!' she cried; all

you said how lon

e said, slowly, finding

nie that matters-isn't it?-only Eugénie! At her age, you can't be choosing her husband for h

itement that Welby hastily and urg

ysical improvement, and would have liked to talk of it to Arthur; but all talk between them grew rarer and more difficult. Thus Eugénie's walks with Fenwick thro

nd windy night, when the autumn leaves were coming dow

ne of the bedrooms he had turned into a sort of studio. It was now full of drawings and designs for the sumptuous London 'production' on which he was engaged-rooms at Versailles and Trianon-

ly his poverty had consented. But he kept it out of sight of his com

ed his 'buried life'-the life which only Eugénie de Pastourelles seemed now to have the power to evoke. When some hou

? Will you ask a man, perishing of need, to put its satisfaction from him? The tests of life are too hard. The plain, self

d him. What was the use of talking? He was the slave of an impulse, which was not passion, which had none of the excuse of passion, but represe

dboard model, on which he had been trying the effect of

e said, in

el kept early hours, and there was

hold stood Arthur Welby. Fenw

u came t

ad foremost, ha

to you.' Welby took no notice of

eating; 'but, as you see, I am extremely bu

ll admit that I had good reason to come and find you.' He looked round to see that the d

thographed 'Miss Isabel Morrison,' and a written address, 'Corso de

put down

sharply-'and if

nding, with one hand lightly resting on the table, his eyes fi

ing himself. 'She followed my wife and me to-day, after we met you in the Park. She spo

rward and gripped

ell me!-is

imson face-his anguish, seemed to affect

nched him

e had a respect for your wife-she wished to know what had become of her-and her curiosity impelled her to speak to us. She seems to have been in Buenos Ayres for many year

, his face in his hands. As Welb

hing about my wif

She know

why she

hesi

ms to have her own

?' Fenwick ro

. Naturally, you can

tting down again, lik

ay anythi

r,' said Welby, coldly-'some matter that she had

his long deception as to his wife was he humiliated and tortured by these words relating to his debt to Morrison on Welby's lips. T

face still twitching-'you know, Mr. Welby-by this accident-the secret of my life. My wife left me-for the maddest, emptiest reasons-and she took our child with her. I did everything I could to dis

den gesture of passion, approaching Fe

silent. Th

said Welby, controlling himself, 'you made him-you ma

adn't your easy manners! I was a raw country fellow-and I h

kindness-you became her friend. Later on, you allowed her to advise you-write to you-talk to you about marrying, when

dding. 'The second false step wa

as a wife is at last over-when in the tenderness and compassion of her heart she begins to show you a friendship which-which those who know her'-he laboured for breath and words-'can only-presently-interpret in one way-you who owe her everything-everything!-you dare to play

occasional note of littleness, or malice, such as 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 flame of his only, his inextinguishable passion. For his dear mistress-in the purest, loftiest sense of tha

g lying in front of it, laid it carefully on the others. Then he looked at Welby, who

nwick, slowly-'I have no answer to make-e

wn the length of the room, slowl

the first train to-morrow, as soon as these things'-he loo

still drawn and furrowed with emot

'I had better not see her'-he

y, quietly. 'The more completely you ca

elby's ignorance of the whole truth oppressed

e back to

ry this conversation further. I will let Miss M

rrupting him. 'I shall see he

ting it fall uncertainly-'if there is anyth

of impatience. He felt

ept to tell the truth-and to

Was the refere

with you-

d questioningly, piercingly, on the man beside him. They seemed to express the marvel of his whole being that such

e door, and Fe

ing to the retreating step, which echoed in the silence of t

st of a wild autumnal storm, he had finished his letter to Madame de Past

him out-really particularly sorry! She wouldn't have done so for the world; but her curiosity got the better of her. Also, she confessed, she had wished to see whether Mr. Fenwick would acknowledge his debt to her. It was only lately that she had come across a statement of it amongst her father's papers. It was funny he should have forgotten it

ntioned her visit to Phoebe; but her eyes seemed to mock her visitor all the time. Fenwick cut the interview short as soon as he could, hastily pa

his table. It cost him

e told me from my father, for the present, at any rate. There would be no possibility of our talking here. We

e moment he had dreaded for twelve years had arrived; and the worl

r-King. Reared in solid masonry on bare sandy ground now entirely disguised, the artificial rock that holds the grotto towers to a great height, crowned by ancient trees, weathered by wind and rain, overgrown by leaf and grass, and laved at its base by clear water. All round, the trees stand close-the lawns spread their quiet slopes. On this sparkling autumn morning, a glory of russet, amber, and red, begirt the white

hock passed through him. He ma

turbs the quiet of the Bosquet d'Apollon. In its deep dell of trees and grass, they were absolutely alone; the sunlight which dap

Beneath it, framed in it, the face appeared of an ivory rigidity and pallor. The eyes only were wi

been your friend!-if you have ever felt any kindness for

me so soon to this point?-by th

us,' he said, hoarsely, walking on

culty-'of any of your models?-I know that sometime

carcely audible; but

And I was utterly blind and selfish-I ought to

ppened? I kn

ragic visit to his studio. His letter of the night before had scarcely touched on the details of the actual

nterr

he mother in the

ented

ing, in her suffering, the face o

ase, please go on! When was it? It

o her head, trying

e the Academy,' he

were

l Watson and Cunin

ice dr

aught each

y-that very day

nod

g?-go-for ever-without seeing you-without a w

e!' he said,

she had. Can't-can't you

at the end of

she had resented

e been something more-someth

She grew whit

only one course of action-that can ever-make ame

had conquered. Anything was better than to

ecision. Then, slowly, he put his

she wrote me. I fo

is pocket-book, which he had worn thus alm

his!-in one so strictly, so tenderly scrupulous. Even at that moment

looking up-'I don't under

t the sketch? and I told you-it

ank upon a seat. He saw that her forces were almost failing he

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 to grief-

oss Eugénie's mind that he had probably worn it there, through these last days, while their relation had grown so int

ning-much more difficult or impe

stand. Now-we ha

ped, her eyes gazing into the sun

-repeat some of the things he had said in his letter. But here, in her

, the cry for pardon he had spent the nig

nished-would return to England that night. After his departure, Madame de Pastourelles would inform her father of what had happened; a

hand; but her sweet face suddenly trembled afresh-before her will could ma