Fenwick's Career Part 25

Five hundred pounds! Well, it was only what his work was worth--what he had every right to expect. None the less, the actual possession of the money seemed to change his whole being. What would his old father say? He gave a laugh, half-scornful, half-good-humoured, as he admitted to himself that not even now--probably--would the old man relent.

And Phoebe!--he imagined the happy wonder in her eyes--the rolling away of all clouds between them. For six weeks now he had been a veritable brute about letters! First, the strain of his work (and the final wrestle with the 'Genius Loci,' including the misfortune of the paints, had really been a terrible affair!)--then--he confessed it--the intellectual excitement of the correspondence with Madame de Pastourelles: between these two obsessions, or emotions, poor Phoebe had fared ill.

'But you'll forgive me now, old girl--won't you?' he said, kissing her photograph in an effusion that brought the moisture to his eyes. Then he replaced it, with the sketches, in the drawer, forgetting in his excitement the letters which lay scattered on the table.

What should he do now? Impossible to settle down to any work! The North post had gone, but he might telegraph to Phoebe and write later. Meanwhile he would go over to Chelsea, and see Cuningham and Watson--repay Watson his debt!--or promise it at least for the morrow, when he should have had time to cash the cheque--perhaps even--pompous thought!--to open a banking account.

Suddenly a remembrance of Morrison crossed his mind and he stood a moment with bent head--sobered--as though a ghost pa.s.sed through the room. Must he send a hundred pounds to Mrs. Morrison? He envisaged it, unwillingly. Already his treasure seemed to be melting away. Time enough, surely, for that. He and Phoebe had so much to do--to get a house and furnish it, to pay pressing bills, to provide models for the new picture! Why, it would be all gone directly!

He locked up the cheque safely, took his hat, and was just running out when his eye fell on the three-hours' sketch of Madame de Pastourelles, which had been the foundation of the portrait. He had recently framed it, but had not yet found a place for it. It stood on the floor, against the wall. He took it up, looked at it with delight--by Jove! it was a brilliant thing!--and placing it on a small easel, he arranged two lamps with moveable shades, which he often used for drawing in the evening, so as to show it off. There was in him more than a touch of theatricality, and as he stood back from this little arrangement to study its effect, he was charmed with his own fancy. There she queened it, in the centre of the room--his patron saint, and Phoebe's. He knew well what he owed her--and Phoebe should soon know. He was in a hurry to be off; but he could not make up his mind--superst.i.tiously--to put out the lights. So, after lingering a few 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. Gibbs was soon made happy, so far as promises could do it, and in another minute he was in a hansom speeding westward. It was nearly seven o'clock on a mild April evening. The streets were full, the shops still open. As he pa.s.sed along Oxford Street, monarch it seemed of all he beheld, his eyes fell on Peter Robinson's windows, glittering with lights, and gay with spring ribbons, laces, and bright silks. An idea rushed into his mind. Only the week before, on his first visit to the new Chelsea quarters whither Cuningham and Watson had betaken themselves, he had stumbled upon an odd little scene in the still bare, ungarnished studio. Cuningham, who had been making money with some rapidity of late, was displaying before the half-sympathetic, half-sarcastic eyes of Watson, some presents that he was just sending off to his mother and sisters in Scotland. A white dress, a lace shawl, some handkerchiefs, a sash, a fan--there they lay, ranged on brown paper on the studio floor. Cuningham was immensely proud of them, and had been quite ready to show them to Fenwick also, fingering their fresh folds, enlarging on their beauties. And Fenwick had thought sorely of Phoebe as he watched Cuningham turn the pretty things over. When had he ever been able to give her any feminine gauds? Always this d.a.m.ned poverty, pressing them down!

But now--by Jove!--

He made the hansom stop, rushed into Peter Robinson's, bought a dress-length of pink-and-white cotton, a blue sash for Carrie, and a fichu of Indian muslin and lace. Thrusting his hand into his pocket for money, he found only a sovereign--pretty nearly his last!--and some silver. 'That's on account,' he said loftily, giving the sovereign to the shopman; 'send the things home to-morrow afternoon--to-morrow _afternoon_, mind--and I'll pay for them on delivery.'

Then he jumped into his hansom again, and for sheer excitement told the man to hurry, and he should have an extra s.h.i.+lling. On they sped down Park Lane. The beds of many-coloured hyacinths in the Park shone through the cheerful dusk; the street was crowded, and beyond, the railings, the seats under the trees were full of idlers. There was a sparkle of flowers in the windows of the Park Lane houses, together with golden sunset touches on the gla.s.s; and pretty faces wrapt in lace or gauze looked out from the hansoms as they pa.s.sed him by. Again the 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 own upward progress had begun; he was no longer jealous of the people who stood higher.

Dorchester House, Dudley House;--he looked at them with a good-humoured tolerance. After all, London was pleasant; there was some recognition of merit; and even something to be said for Academies.

Then his picture began to hover before him. It was a big thing; suppose it took him years? Well, there would be portraits to keep him alive. Meanwhile it was true enough what he had said to Madame de Pastourelles. As a _painter_ he had never been properly trained. His values were uncertain; and he had none of the sureness of method which men 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 of the Englishmen who went to Paris lost their individuality and became third-rate Frenchmen. He would puzzle out things for himself--stick to his own programme and ideas.

English poetic feeling, combined with as much of French technique as it could a.s.similate--there was the line of progress. Not the technique of these clever madmen--Manet, Degas, Monet, and the rest--with the mean view of life of some, and the hideous surface of others. No!--but the Barbizon men--and Mother Nature, first and foremost! Beauty too, beauty of idea and selection--not mere beauty of paint, to which everything else--line, modelling, construction--was to be vilely sacrificed.

In his exaltation he began an imaginary article denouncing the Impressionists, spouting it aloud as he went along; so that the pa.s.sers-by caught a word or two, through the traffic, now and then, and turned to look, astonished, at the handsome, gesticulating fellow in the hansom. Till he stopped abruptly, first to laugh at himself, and then to chuckle over the thought of Phoebe, and the presents he had just bought.

Meanwhile, at the very moment, probably, that Fenwick was in Peter Robinson's shop, an omnibus coming from Euston pa.s.sed through Russell Square, and a woman, volubly advised by the conductor, alighted from it at the corner of Bernard Street. She was very tall and slender; her dress was dusty and travel-stained, and as she left the omnibus she drew down a thickly spotted veil over a weary face. She walked quickly down Bernard Street, looking at the numbers, and stopped before the door 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 advanced into the hall.

'I've got a parcel for him'--she showed it under her arm. 'If you'll allow 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 some mistake--he hasn't got no wife!'

Phoebe drew herself up fiercely.

'You mustn't say such things to me, please! I _am_ Mr. Fenwick's wife--and you must please show me his rooms.'

The emphasis and the pa.s.sion with which these words were said left Mrs. Gibbs gaping. She was a worthy woman, for whom the world--so far as it could be studied from a Bernard Street lodging-house--had few surprises; and a number of alternative conjectures ran through her mind as she studied Phoebe's appearance.

'I'm sure, ma'am, I meant no offence,' she said, hurriedly; 'but, you see, Mr. Fenwick has never--as you might say--'

'No,' said Phoebe, proudly, interrupting her; 'there was no reason why he 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 his room?'

But Mrs. Gibbs did not move. She stood staring at Phoebe, irresolute--thinking, no doubt, of the penny novelettes on which she fed her leisure moments--till Phoebe impatiently drew a letter from her pocket.

'I see you doubt what I say. Of course it is quite right that you should be careful about admitting anybody to my husband's rooms in his absence. But here is the last letter I received from him a week or two ago.'

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, and slowly retreating--'and he never lettin' me post a letter since he came here--not once--no confidence nowhere--and I'm sure I have been his 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 far enough to point to the door of Fenwick's room.

'Here's matches'--she fumbled in her ap.r.o.n-pocket. 'There's a candle on the mantelpiece. Though I dare say he's left his lamp going. He generally does--he don't take no account of what I says to him about it.'

Phoebe pa.s.sed on. Mrs. Gibbs called after her:

'So I'm to say "Mrs. Fenwick," am I, madam--when Mr. Fenwick gets back?'

She stood leaning against the banisters, one hand behind her, looking her 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 back soon--but I can't stay.'

Mrs. Gibbs went downstairs again, consumed with conjecture and excitement.

'Wife indeed!--that's what they all say--bound to. But of all the cool young women! I hope I haven't done no harm, letting her into the studio. But that letter and all--it was enough to make a jelly of you things a-turnin' out like this. And me all a-tremblin', and givin'

in!'

Phoebe opened the studio door, noticed the bright light with amazement, and shut the door behind her. She stood there, with her back to it, sharply arrested, her eyes held by the spectacle before her.

Close to her, in the centre of the freest portion of the floor, rose the sketch of Eugenie de Pastourelles, lit by the two lamps, which threw a concentrated glow upon the picture, and left all the rest of the room shadowy. Nothing could have been more strange than the aspect of the drawing, thus solitary, and brightly illuminated. Phoebe looked at it in bewilderment, then round the littered studio. Beyond the lamps, she saw the large new canvas, showing dimly the first 'laying-in' of its important subject. On the floor, and running round the walls, was a thin line of sketches and canvases. The shallow, semi-circular window at the further end of the room was not yet curtained, and the branches of the still leafless plane-tree outside showed darkly in the gathering dusk. The room, apart from its one spot of light, struck bare and chill. Except for the 'throne' and a few chairs, it contained scarcely any furniture. But, for Phoebe, it was held by two presences. Everything around her spoke of John. Here was his familiar belongings--his clothes that she had mended--his books--his painting-things. And over John's room--her husband's room--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 impulse which had possessed her since the evening of Bella Morrison's visit.