Fenwicks Career | Page 6

he
pronounced Lenback) was young!'
'Oh! so you know all about Lenbach?'
'You lent me the article. However'--Fenwick rose--'is that our bargain?'
The note in the voice was trenchant, even aggressive. Nothing of the
suppliant, in tone or attitude. Morrison surveyed him, amused.
'If you like to call it so,' he said, lifting his delicate eyebrows a moment.
'Well, I'll take the risk.'
He left the room. Fenwick thrust his hands into his pockets, with a
muttered exclamation, and walked to the window. He looked out upon
a Westmoreland valley in the first flush of spring; but he saw nothing.
His blood beat in heart and brain with a suffocating rapidity. So his
chance was come! What would Phoebe say?
As he stood by the large window, face and form in strong relief against
the crude green without, the energy of the May landscape was, as it
were, repeated and expressed in the man beholding it. He was tall, a
little round-shouldered, with a large, broad-browed head, covered with
brown, straggling hair; eyes, glancing and darkish, full of force, of
excitement even, curiously veiled, often, by suspicion; nose, a little
crooked owing to an injury at football; and mouth, not coarse, but large
and freely cut, and falling readily into lines of sarcasm.
The general look was one of great acuteness, rather antagonistic, as a
rule, than sympathetic; and the hands, which were large and yet slender,
were those of a craftsman finely endowed with all the instincts of
touch.
Suddenly the young man turned on his heel and looked at the
water-colours on the wall.
'The old hypocrite!' he thought; 'they're worth hundreds--and I'll be

bound he got them for nothing. He'll try to get mine for nothing; but
he'll find I'm his match!'
For among these pictures were a number of drawings by men long
since well known, and of steady repute among the dealers or in the
auctions, especially of Birmingham and the northern towns. Morrison
had been for years a bank-clerk in Birmingham before his appointment
to the post he now held. A group of Midland artists, whose work had
become famous, and costly in proportion, had evidently been his
friends at one time--or perhaps merely his debtors. They were at any
rate well represented on the wall of this small Westmoreland house in
which he spent his holidays.
Presently Mr. Morrison was heard returning. He placed an envelope in
Fenwick's hand, and then, pointing him to a chair at the table, he
dictated a form of IOU, specifying that the debt was to be returned
within a year, either in money or in the pictures agreed upon.
'Oh, no fine speeches, please, my boy--no fine speeches!' said Morrison,
as the artist rose, stammering out his thanks. 'That's been my nature all
my life, I tell you--to help the lame dogs--ask anybody that knows me.
That'll do; that'll do! Now then, what's going to be your line of action?'
Fenwick turned on him a face that vainly endeavoured to hide the joy
of its owner.
'I shall look out, of course, first of all, for some bread-and-butter work.
I shall go to the editors of the illustrated papers and show them some
things. I shall attend some life-school in the evenings. And the rest of
the time I shall paint--paint like Old Harry!'
The words caused a momentary wrinkling of Mr. Morrison's brow.
'I should avoid those expressions, if I were you, Fenwick. But paint
what, my dear boy?--paint what?'
'Of course I have my ideas,' said Fenwick, staring at the floor.

'I think I have earned a right to hear them.'
'Certainly. I propose to combine the colour and romance of the
Pre-Raphaelites with the truth and drawing of the French school,' said
the young man, suddenly looking up.
Surprise betrayed his companion into a broad grin.
'Upon my word, Fenwick, you won't fail for lack of ambition!'
The young man reddened, then quietly nodded.
'No one gets on without ambition. My ideas have been pretty clear for a
long time. The English Romantic school have no more future, unless
they absorb French drawing and French technique. When they have
done that, they will do the finest work in the world.'
Morrison's astonishment increased. The decision and self-confidence
with which Fenwick spoke had never yet shown themselves so plainly
in the harassed and humbly born painter of Miss Bella's portrait.
'And you intend to do the finest work in the world?' said the patron, in a
voice of banter.
Fenwick hesitated.
'I shall do good work,' he said, doggedly, after a pause. Then, suddenly
raising his head, he added, 'And if I weren't sure of it, I'd never let you
lend me money.'
Morrison laughed.
'That's all right.--And now what will Mrs. Fenwick say to us?'
Fenwick