Fenwick's Career Part 12

She listened with a charming kindness, laughing now and then, putting in a humorous comment or two, and never by another word betraying her own position. But he was more and more conscious of the double self in her--of the cultivated, social self she was bringing into play for his benefit, and of something behind--a spirit watchful and still--wrapt in a great melancholy--or perhaps a great rebellion? And by this sense of something concealed or strongly restrained, she began to affect his imagination, and so, presently, to absorb his attention. Something exquisite in her movements and looks, also in the quality of her voice and the turn of her phrases, drew from his own crude yet sensitive nature an excited response. He began to envisage what these highly trained women of the upper cla.s.s, these _raffinees_ of the world, may be for those who understand them--a stimulus, an enigma, an education.

It flashed on him that women of this type could teach him much that he wanted to know; and his ambition seized on the idea. But what chance that she would ever give another thought to the raw artist to whom her father had flung a pa.s.sing invitation?

He made haste, indeed, to prove his need of her or some other Egeria; for she was no sooner departed with the other ladies than he came to mischief. Left alone with the gentlemen, his temperament a.s.serted itself. He had no mind in any company to be merely a listener.

Moreover, that slight, as he regarded it, of sending him down without a lady, still rankled; and last, but not least, he had drunk a good deal of champagne, to which he was quite unaccustomed. So that when Lord Findon fell into a discussion with the Amba.s.sador of Irving's _Hamlet_ and _Oth.e.l.lo_, then among the leading topics of London--when the foreigner politely but emphatically disparaged the English actor and Lord Findon with zeal defended him--who should break into the august debate but this strong-browed, black-eyed fellow, from no one knew where, whose lack of some of the smaller conventions had already been noticed by a few of the company.

At first all looked well. A London dinner-party loves novelty, and is always ready to test the stranger within its gates. Fenwick slipped into the battle as a supporter of Lord Findon's argument, and his host with smiling urbanity welcomed him to the field. But in a few minutes the newcomer had ravaged the whole of it. The older men were silenced, and Fenwick was leaning across the table, gesticulating with one hand, and lifting his port-wine with the other, addressing now Lord Findon and now the Amba.s.sador--who stared at him in amazement--with an a.s.surance that the world only allows to its oldest favourites. Lord Findon in vain tried to stop him.

'Didn't know this was to be a dinner with speeches,' murmured the financier, after a few minutes, in his neighbour's ear. 'Think I'll get up and propose a vote of thanks to the chairman.'

'There ought, at least, to be a time-limit,' said the neighbour, with a shrug. 'Where on earth did Findon pick him up?'

'I say, what an awfully rum chap!' said the young son of the house--wondering--to Arthur Welby. 'What does he talk like that for?'

'He doesn't talk badly,' said Welby, whose mouth showed the laughter within.

Meanwhile Fenwick--loud-voiced, excited--had brought his raid to a climax by an actual attack upon the stately Frenchman opposite, whose slight sarcastic look p.r.i.c.ked him intolerably. All other conversation at the table fell dumb.

Lord Findon coloured, and rose.

'You are a great deal more sure of my own opinion than I am myself,'

he said, coldly. 'I am much obliged to you, but--shall we adjourn this conversation?'

As the men walked upstairs, Fenwick realised that he had blundered; he felt himself isolated and in disfavour. Arthur Welby had approached him, but Lord Findon had rather pointedly drawn an arm through Welby's and swept him away. No one else spoke to him, and even the private secretary, who had before befriended him, left him severely alone.

None of the ladies in the drawing-room upstairs showed, as it seemed to him, any desire for his company, and he was reduced to looking at a stand of miniatures near the door, while his heart swelled fiercely.

So this was what society meant?--a wretched pleasure purchased on degrading terms! A poor dependant like himself, he supposed, was to be seen and not heard--must speak when he was spoken to, play chorus, and whisper humbleness. As to meeting these big-wigs on equal terms, that clearly was not expected. An artist may be allowed to know something about art; on any other subject let him listen to his betters.

He said to himself that he was sick of the whole business; and he would gladly have slipt through the open door down the stairs, and out of the house. He was restrained, however, by the protest of a sore ambition which would not yet admit defeat. Had he set Lord Findon against him?--ruined the chance of a purchaser for his picture and of a patron for the future? Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cuningham, neat, amiable, and self-possessed, sitting in a corner by Lady Findon, who smiled and chatted incessantly. And it was clear to him that Welby was the spoilt child of the room. Wherever he went men and women grouped themselves about him; there was a constant eagerness to capture him, an equal reluctance to let him go.

'Well, I'm as good as he--as either of them,' thought Fenwick fiercely, as he handled a Cosway. 'Only they can talk these people's lingo, and I can't. I can paint as well as they any day--and I'll be bound, if they let me alone, I could talk as well. Why do people ask you to their houses and then ill-treat you? d.a.m.n 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. A man ought to be made to understand that he can't behave like that.'

'What did he do?'

'My dear, he spoiled the whole business after dinner--harangued the table!--as good as told De Chailles he had no right to talk about Irving or Shakespeare, being a foreigner. You never saw such an exhibition!'

'Poor Mr. Fenwick. I must go and talk to him.'

'Eugenie, 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 sc.r.a.pes. 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 Eugenie! And how beautifully she moved!--with what grace and sweetness! As he turned to do his duty by an elderly countess near him, he stifled a sigh--that was also an imprecation.

It had often been said of Eugenie de Pastourelles that she possessed a social magic. She certainly displayed it on this occasion. Half an hour later Lord Findon, who was traversing the drawing-rooms after having taken the Amba.s.sadress 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. The ruffled host was half appeased, half wroth. For if he _could_ make this agreeable impression, why such a superfluity of naughtiness downstairs? And the fellow had really some general cultivation; nothing like Welby, of course--where would you find another Arthur Welby?--but enough to lift him above the mere journeyman. After all, one must be indulgent to these novices--with no traditions behind them--and no--well, to put it plainly--no grandfathers! And so, with reflexions of this kind, the annoyance of a good-natured man subsided.

It was all Eugenie's doing, of course. She and Welby between them had caught the bear, tamed him, and set him to show whatever parlour tricks he possessed. 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 _decollete_ shoulders and buxom good looks of his wife. When Eugenie 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.

'That youth has asked me to sit to him.'

'The audacious rascal!' cried Lord Findon, fuming. 'He has never seen you before--and, besides, how does any one know what he can do?'

'Why, you said yourself his picture was remarkable.'

'So it is. But what's one picture? What do you think, Welby?' he said, impulsively addressing the man beside him. 'Wasn't it like his impudence?'

Welby smiled.

'Like Eugenie's kindness! It was rather charming to see his look when she said "Yes"!'

'You said "_Yes_"!' Lord Findon stared at her.

'Come with me and see what he can do in a morning.' She laid a quieting hand on her father's arm. 'You know that always amuses you.

And I want to see his picture.'

'His picture is not bad,' said Lord Findon, with decision.

'I think you will have to buy it, papa.'

'There you go,' said Lord Findon--'letting me in!'

'Well, I'm off to bed.' Smiling, she gave her hand to each, knowing that she had gained her point, or would gain it. Arthur Welby, turning, watched her move away, say 'Good-night' to Lady Findon, and disappear through a distant door. Then for him, though the room was still full of people, it was vacant. He slipped away without any more 'Good-byes.'

CHAPTER V

It was Christmas Eve, and the dark had fallen. The train from Euston had just drawn up in Windermere Station, and John Fenwick, carrying his bag, was making his way among the vehicles outside the station, inquiring whether any one was going in the direction of Great Langdale, who could give him a lift. He presently found a farmer's cart bound for a village on the road, and made a bargain with the lad driving it to carry him to his destination.