Pfennig

“ Just like her! He hoped the young man understood her condescension—and that to see her and talk with her was a privilege. Involuntarily Lord Findon glanced across the room, at the décolleté shoulders and buxom good looks of his wife. When Eugénie was in the house the second Lady Findon never seemed to him well dressed.
When Fenwick and Cuningham had departed—Fenwick in a glow of grateful good-humour, expressing himself effusively to his host—Madame de Pastourelles approached her father, smiling. ”

“ As for Lord Findon, except for a certain teasing vagueness on the business side of things, he had shown himself a good friend. Several times since the first variegated evening had Fenwick dined with them, mostly en famille. Lady Findon, indeed, had been away, nursing an invalid father; Madame de Pastourelles filled her place. The old fellow would talk freely—politics, connoisseurship, art. Fenwick too was allowed his head, and said his say; though always surrounded and sometimes chafing under that discipline of good society which is its only or its best justification. ”

“ Lord Findon meanwhile held his peace. Every day Eugénie came in from her walk with Fenwick, to sit with or read to her father. She always spoke of what she had been doing, quite naturally and simply, describing their walk and their conversation, giving the news of 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. ”

“ Half an hour later Lord Findon, who was traversing the drawing-rooms after having taken the Ambassadress to her carriage, found a regenerate and humanised Fenwick sitting beside his daughter; the centre, indeed, of a circle no less friendly to untutored talent than the circle of the dinner-table had been hostile. Lord Findon stopped to listen. Really the young man was now talking decently!—about matters he understood; Burne-Jones, Rossetti—some French pictures in Bond Street—and so forth. ”

“ Fenwick, who had flushed hotly, turned away and occupied himself in replenishing his palette.
'Papa, of course, would say—Don't marry till you're a hundred and two!' she resumed. 'But pray, don't listen to him.'
'I dare say he's right,' said Fenwick, returning to his easel, his face bent over it.
'Not at all. People should have their youth together.'
'That's all very well. But many men don't know at twenty what they'll want at thirty,' said Fenwick, painting fast.
Madame de Pastourelles laughed. ”

“ If she wouldn't, was he to blame if the cottage was lonesome?
But as though she divined this secret debate she presently said:
'I went to Keswick last week.'
He looked up, startled. 'Well?'
'Father's ill—he's got a bad chest, and the doctor says he may be going into a consumption.'
'Doctors'll say anything!' cried Fenwick, wrathfully. 'If ever there was a strong man, it's your father. Don't you believe any croaking of that sort, Phoebe.'
She shook her head.
'He looks so changed,' she said; and began drawing with her finger on the tablecloth. He saw that her lips were trembling. ”

“ Fenn answered significantly.
Bright came over to the mantelpiece, leaned his elbow upon it, and hung his extraordinarily unattractive face down towards his companion’s.
“Nicholas,” he said, “I don’t blame you for fencing, but I like plain words. You’ve done well out of this new Party. I haven’t. You’ve no hobby except saving your money. I have. My last two experiments, notwithstanding the Government allowance, have left me drained. I need money as you others need bread. I can live without food or drink, but I can’t be without the means to keep my laboratories going. ”

“ Little as Fenwick talked about Madame de Pastourelles, Phoebe understood perfectly that she was a woman of high education and refinement, and that her stored and subtle mind was at once an attraction and a cause of humiliation to John. And through his rare stories of the Findon household and the Findon dinner-parties, the wife dimly perceived a formidable world, bristling with strange acquirements and accomplishments, in which he, perhaps, was beginning to find a place, thanks to his art ”

“ Mrs. Flint, wavering between her dread of Fenwick's ill-humour and the impression produced upon her by the gentle decision of her visitor, retreated into the house. The lady followed.
'Well, if you'll wait there, ma'am'—the charwoman opened the door of the dismantled sitting-room—'I'll speak to Mr. Fenwick.'
She shuffled off. Eugénie de Pastourelles threw back her veil. She had arrived only that morning in London after a night journey, and her face showed deep lines of fatigue. But its beauty of expression had never been more striking. Animation—joy—spoke in the eyes, quivered in the lips. ”

“ Fenwick rose, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, began to walk up and down excitedly.
'And of course—as you expected it—you found it,' he said, bitterly. 'Who could ever have conceived that a woman could act in such a way! Why, I had been kissing your photograph the minute before! Lord Findon had been there, to tell me my pictures were in the Academy all right, and he'd given me five hundred pounds for them—and the cheque'—he stopped in front of her, rapping the table with his finger for emphasis—'the cheque was actually in the drawer!—under your hand—where I'd left it. ”

“ Eugénie, gravely.
'Nothing of the kind, Eugénie,' said her father, testily. 'You think everybody as sensitive as yourself. I assure you, young men are tough, and can stand a bit of hardship.'
'They seem to require butcher's meat, all the same,' said Eugénie. 'Do you know, papa, that I have been extremely uncomfortable about our behaviour to Mr. Fenwick?'
'I entirely fail to see why,' said Lord Findon, absently. ”

“ Why do people ask you to their houses and then ill-treat you? Damn them!'
Meanwhile, Lord Findon had had a few whispered words with his daughter in an inner room.
'My dear!'—throwing up his hands—'a barbarian! Can't have him here again.'
'Mr. Fenwick, papa?'
'Of course. Cuningham ought to have warned me. However, I suppose I brought it on myself. I do these rash things, and must pay for them. He was so rude to De Chailles that I have had to apologise.'
'Poor papa! Where is he?'
'In the other room—looking at things. Better leave him alone.'
'Oh no; he'll feel himself neglected.'
'Well, let him. ”

“ Phoebe had bowed her head upon the hand which held hers, and there was no spectator of the feeling in Eugénie's face. Was her pure conscience tormented with the thought that she had not told all, and could never tell it? Her innocent tempting of Fenwick—as an act, partly, of piteous self-defence against impulses of quite another quality and power—this must remain her secret to the end. Sad evasions, which life forces upon even the noblest worshippers of truth! ”

“ You see, they don’t look like eyes!”
“Then what do they look like?” cried Aleck.
“Well, sir, I’ll tell yer: they looks just like the tops o’ bread loaves going to the oven.”
“Like what?”
“I mean like the holes the missuses makes in the dough with their fingers. Finishes off by giving a poke in the top with a finger, and that closes up into a crinkly slit with a swelling around.”
“Bah!” growled Aleck.
“Well, you would ask me, sir.”
“Yes, of course. Something like Big Jem’s?”
“Yes, sir; on’y more squeezed in like. Your eyes is allus handsome and bright like, but they arn’t now. ”

“ Her life was turned within; she lived more truly in thought than in speech or action.
Lord Findon came in gaily. 'I say, Eugénie, that fellow's made a hit.'
'What fellow, papa?'
'Why, Fenwick, of course. Give me a cup of tea, there's a dear. I've just seen Welby, who's been hob-nobbing with somebody on the Hanging Committee. Both pictures accepted, and the portrait will be on the line in the big room—the other very well hung, too, in one of the later rooms. Lucky dog! Millais came up and spoke to me about him—said he heard we had discovered him. Of course, there's lots of criticism. ”

“ John's smart friend belonged to the pampered ones of the earth, and Miss Anna did not intend to be taken in by her, not for a moment.
'Mr. Fenwick has been terribly overworked,' Eugénie repeated, colouring against her will, 'and yesterday he was quite broken down by your letter. It seemed too much for him. You will understand, I'm sure. When a person is so weak, they shrink—don't they?—even from what they most desire. And so he asked me—to—to come and tell Mrs. Fenwick something about his health, and his circumstances these last two years—just to prepare the way. ”

“ Fenwick. I must go and talk to him.'
'Eugénie, don't be a goose. Why should you take any trouble about him?'
'He's wonderfully clever, papa. And clever people are always getting into scrapes. Somebody must take him in hand.'
And, rising, she threw her father a whimsical backward look as she departed. Lord Findon watched her with mingled smiles and chagrin. How charmingly she was dressed to-night—his poor Eugénie! ”

“ Fenwick felt himself strangely sore and jealous as he listened. Who was this man? Some young aristocrat, no doubt, born silver spoon in mouth—one of your idle, insolent rich, with nothing to do but make a hobby of art, and patronise artists. He loathed the breed.
Her voice startled him back from these unspoken tirades, and once more he found her eyes fixed upon him. It provoked him to feel that their scrutiny made him self-conscious—anxious to please. ”

“ Mr. Morrison walked up and down ruminating. His long, thin hands were clasped before him. His head hung in meditation. And every now and then he looked towards the newspaper he had thrown down. At last he again approached the artist.
'Upon my word, Fenwick, I've a mind to do something for you—I have indeed. I believe you'd justify it—I do! And I've always had a soft heart for artists. You look at the things in this room'—he waved his hand towards the walls, which were covered with water-colour drawings—'I've known most of the men who painted them, and I've assisted a very great many of them. ”

“ Fenwick is as good a specimen of an English country parson's wife as you shall meet in a county,—gay, good-looking, fond of the society around her, with a little dash of fun, knowing in blankets and corduroys and coals and tea; knowing also as to beer and gin and tobacco; acquainted with every man and woman in the parish; thinking her husband to be quite as good as the squire in regard to position, and to be infinitely superior to the squire, or any other man in the world, in regard to his personal self;—a handsome, pleasant, well-dressed lady, who has no nonsense about her. ”

“ Fenwick flushed hotly.
'Lord Findon doesn't admire his work?' he said, almost with fierceness, turning to his companion.
'He hates his pictures and collects his drawings.'
'Drawings!' Fenwick shrugged his shoulders. 'Anybody can make a clever drawing. It's putting on the paint that counts. Why doesn't he go abroad?'
'Oh, well, he does go to Holland. But he thinks Italian painting all stuff, and that so many Madonnas and saints encourage superstition. But what's the use of talking? They have to station a policeman beside his picture in the Academy to keep off the crowd. ”

“ Then the Bishop rose to his feet.
“Mr. Julian Orden,” he announced, “better known to you all under the name of ‘Paul Fiske’, has been chosen by a large majority as your representative to take the people’s message to the Prime Minister.”
“I protest!” Fenn exclaimed passionately. “This is Mr. Orden’s first visit amongst us. He is a stranger. I repeat that he is not one of us. Where is his power? He has none. Can he do what any one of us can—stop the pulse of the nation? Can he still its furnace fires? ”

“ You'll find her—she'll come back to you—when she's drunk the cup. Healthy young women don't die before thirty-five;—and by your account she wasn't bad—she had a conscience. The child'll waken it. Don't you be hard on her!'—he raised himself, speaking almost fiercely—'you've no right to! Take her in—listen to her—let her cry it out. My God!'—his voice dropped, as his head fell back on the pillows—'what happiness—what happiness!'
His eyes closed. Fenwick stooped over him in alarm, but the thin hand closed again on his. ”

“ These are the days of merit, and publicity!—when every man comes to his own.' Fenwick grinned a little. 'You've earned your success anyway, and it'll be a thumper. Now look here, where can we talk business?'
Fenwick put down his palette, and slipped his arms into his coat. The model lit a lamp, and disappeared. Eugénie meanwhile withdrew discreetly to the further end of the room, where she busied herself with some wood-blocks on which Fenwick had been drawing. The two men remained hidden behind the large canvas, and she heard nothing of their conversation. ”

“ But of Phoebe—still—he would not think. It was as when a man, mortally tired, shrinks from some fierce contest of brain and limb, which yet he knows may some day have to be faced. He put his wife aside, and sank himself in the covetous, devouring vision of his child.
Next day there was great activity among the lawyers. They were confident of recovering the clue, and if Fenwick's identification was a just one, the search was near its end.
Only, till they really were on the track, better say nothing to
Lord Findon and Madame de Pastourelles. ”

“ Phoebe Fenwick was a tall, slender creature, very young; with a little golden head on a thin neck, features childishly cut, and eyes that made the chief adornment of a simple face. The lines of the brow, the lids and lashes, and the clear brown eye itself were indeed of a most subtle and distinguished beauty; they accounted, perhaps, for the attention with which most persons of taste and cultivation observed Fenwick's wife. For the eyes seemed to promise a character, a career ”