Fenwicks Career | Page 5

into debt.'
'That's bad. But what's your own idea? You must have some notion of a
way out.'
'If I could get to London,' said the other, in a low, dragging voice, 'I'd
soon find a way out.'
'And what prevents you?'
'Well, it's simple enough. You don't really, sir, need to ask. I've no
money--and I've a wife and child.'
Fenwick's tone was marked by an evident ill-humour. He had thrown
back his handsome head, and his eyes sparkled. It was plain that Mr.
Morrison's catechising manner had jarred upon a pride that was all on
edge--wounded by poverty and ill-success.
'Yes--that was an imprudent match of yours, my young man!
However--however--'
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. Those pictures--most of
them--represent loans, sir!--loans at times of difficulty, which I was
proud to make'--Mr. Morrison struck his hand on the table--'yes,
proud--because I believed in the genius of the men to whom I made
them. I said, "I'll take a picture"--and they had the money--and the
money saved their furniture--and their homes--and their wives and
children. Well, I'm glad and proud to have done it, Fenwick!--you mark
my words.'
He paused, his eyes on the artist, his attitude grasping, as it were, at the
other's approval--hungry for it. Fenwick said nothing. He stood in the
shadow of a curtain, and the sarcasm his lip could not restrain escaped
the notice of his companion. 'And so, you see, I'm only following out
an old custom when I say, I believe in you, Fenwick!--I believe in your
abilities--I'm sorry for your necessities--and I'll come to your assistance.
Now, how much would take you to London and keep you there for six
months, till you've made a few friends and done some work?'
'A hundred pounds,' said the painter, breathing hard.
'A hundred pounds. And what about the wife?'
'Her father very likely would give her shelter, and the child. And of
course I should leave her provided.'
'Well, and what about my security? How, John, in plain words, do you
propose to repay me?'
Mr. Morrison spoke with extreme mildness. His blue eyes, whereof the
whites were visible all round the pupils, shone benevolently on the
artist--his mouth was all sensibility. Whereas, for a moment, there had
been something of the hawk in his attitude and expression, he was now
the dove--painfully obliged to pay a passing attention to business.

Fenwick hesitated.
'You mentioned six guineas, I think, for this portrait?' He nodded
towards the canvas, on which he had been at work.
'I did. It is unfortunate, of course, that Bella dislikes it so. I shan't be
able to hang it. Never mind. A bargain's a bargain.'
The young man drew himself up proudly.
'It is so, Mr. Morrison. And you wished me to paint your portrait, I
think, and Mrs. Morrison's.' The elder man made a sign of assent. 'Well,
I could run up to your place--to Bartonbury--and paint those in the
winter, when I come to see my wife. As to the rest--I'll repay you
within the year--unless--well, unless I go utterly to grief, which of
course I may.'
'Wait here a moment. I'll fetch you the money. Better not promise to
repay me in cash. It'll be a millstone round your neck. I'll take it in
pictures.'
'Very well; then I'll either paint you an original finished
picture--historical or romantic subject--medium size, by the end of the
year, or make you copies--you said you wanted two or three--one large
or two small, from anything you like in the National Gallery.'
Morrison laughed good-temperedly. He touched a copy of The Art
Journal lying on the table.
'There's an article here about that German painter--Lenbach--whom
they crack up so nowadays. When he was a young man, Baron Schack,
it appears, paid him one hundred pounds a year, for all his time, as a
copyist in Italy and Spain.' He spoke very delicately, mincing his words
a little.
Fenwick's colour rose suddenly. Morrison was not looking at him, or he
would have seen a pair of angry eyes.

'Prices have gone up,' said the painter, dryly. 'And I guess living in
London's dearer now than living in Italy was when Lenbach (which