Fenwick's Career Part 33

After spending three days at the hotel, he suddenly said to Lord Findon, as he was mounting guard one night, while Eugenie wrote some letters:

'I say, pater, do you want Eugenie to marry that fellow Fenwick?'

Lord Findon turned uneasily in his bed.

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, he's dreadfully gone on her--never happy except when she's there--and she--well, she encourages him a good bit, father.'

'You don't understand, Marmie. You see, you don't care for books and pictures; Eugenie does.'

'I suppose she does,' said Marmaduke, doubtfully--'but she wouldn't care so much if Fenwick wasn't there to talk about them.'

'His talk is admirable!' said Lord Findon.

'I dare say it is, but he isn't my sister's equal,' replied the son, with stolidity.

'A good artist is anybodyies equal,' cried Lord Findon, much heated.

'You don't really think it, papa,' said Marmaduke, firmly. 'Shall I give Eugenie a talking to?--as you're not in a condition.'

Lord Findon laughed, though not gaily.

'You'd better try! Or rather, I don't advise you to try!'

Marmaduke, however, did try; with the only result that Eugenie soon grew a little vexed and tremulous, and begged him to go home. He might be a master of brewing finance, and a dear, kind, well-meaning brother, but he really did not understand his sister's affairs.

Marmaduke went home, much puzzled, urgently commanding Theresa to write to him, and announcing to Arthur Welby, who listened silently, as he talked, that if Fenwick did propose, he should think it a d.a.m.ned impertinence.

Lord Findon meanwhile held his peace. Every day Eugenie 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. If she chose, as she seemed about to choose--why, they must all make the best of it!--Marmaduke might talk as he liked. Naturally, Arthur kept away from them. Poor Arthur! But what a darling she looked in her black, with this fresh touch of colour in her pale cheeks!

The Welbys certainly had but little to do with the party at the Reservoirs. Welby seemed to be absorbed in his new picture, and Mrs.

Welby let it be plainly understood that at home Arthur was too busy, and she too ill, to receive visitors; while out-of-doors they neither of them wished to be thrown across Mr. Fenwick.

Every evening, after taking his wife home, Welby went out by himself for a solitary walk. He avoided the Park and the woods; chose rather the St. Cyr road, or the Avenue de Paris. He walked, wrapt, a little too picturesquely perhaps, in an old Campagna cloak, relic of his years in Rome--with a fine collie for his companion. Once or twice in the distance he caught sight of Eugenie and Fenwick--only to turn down a side street, out of their way.

His thoughts meanwhile, day by day, his silent, thronging thoughts, dealt with his own life--and theirs. Would she venture it? He discussed it calmly with himself. It presented itself to him as an act altogether unworthy of her. What hurt him most, however, at these times, was the occasional sudden memory of Eugenie's face, trembling with pain, under some slight or unkindness shown her by his wife.

One day Welby was sitting beside his wife on the sheltered side of the Terrace, when Eugenie and Fenwick came in sight, emerging from the Hundred Steps. Suddenly Welby bent over his wife.

'Elsie!--have _you_ noticed anything?'

'Noticed what?'

He motioned towards the distant figures. His gesture was a little dry and hostile.

Elsie in amazement raised herself painfully on her elbow to look.

'Eugenie!' she said, breathlessly--'Eugenie--and Mr. Fenwick!'

Arthur Welby watched the transformation in her face. It was the first time he had seen her look happy for months.

'What an _excellent_ thing!' she cried; all flushed and vehement.

'Arthur, you know you said how lonely she must be!'

'Is he worthy of her?' he said, slowly, finding his words with difficulty.

'Well, of course, _we_ don't like him!--but then Uncle Findon does.

And if he didn't, it's Eugenie that matters--isn't it?--only Eugenie!

At her age, you can't be choosing her husband for her! Well, I never, never thought--Eugenie's so close!--she'd make up her mind to marry anybody!'

And she rattled on, in so much excitement that Welby hastily and urgently impressed discretion upon her.

But when she and Eugenie next met, Eugenie was astonished by her gaiety and good temper--her air of smiling mystery. Madame de Pastourelles hoped it meant real physical improvement, and would have liked to talk of it to Arthur; but all talk between them grew rarer and more difficult. Thus Eugenie's walks with Fenwick through the enchanted lands that surround Versailles became daily more significant, more watched. Lord Findon groaned in his sick-room, but still restrained himself.

It was a day--or rather a night--of late October--a wet and windy night, when the autumn leaves were coming down in swirling hosts on the lawns and paths of Trianon.

Fenwick was hard at work, in the small apartment which he occupied on the third floor of the Hotel des Reservoirs. It consisted of a sitting-room and two bedrooms looking on an inner _cour_. One of the bedrooms he had turned into a sort of studio. It was now full of drawings and designs for the sumptuous London 'production' on which he was engaged--rooms at Versailles and Trianon--views in the Trianon gardens--fragments of decoration--designs for stage grouping--for the reproduction of one of the famous _fetes de nuit_ in the gardens of the 'Hameau'--studies of costume even.

His proud ambition hated the work; he thought it unworthy of him; only his poverty had consented. But he kept it out of sight of his companions as much as he could, and worked as much as possible at night.

And here and there, amongst the rest, were the sketches and fragments, often the grandiose fragments, which represented his 'buried life'--the life which only Eugenie de Pastourelles seemed now to have the power to evoke. When some hours of other work had weakened the impulse received from her, he would look at these things sadly, and put them aside.

To-night, as he drew, he was thinking incessantly of Eugenie; pierced often by intolerable remorse. But whose fault was it? Will you ask a man, peris.h.i.+ng of need, to put its satisfaction from him? The tests of life are too hard. The plain, selfish man must always fail under them.

Why act and speak as though he were responsible for what Nature and the flesh impose?

But how was it all to end?--that was what tormented him. His conscience shrank from the half-perceived villainies before him; but his will failed him. What was the use of talking? He was the slave of an impulse, which was not pa.s.sion, which had none of the excuse of pa.s.sion, but represented rather the blind search of a man who, like a child in the dark, recoils in reckless terror from loneliness and the phantoms of his own mind.

Eleven o'clock struck. He was busying himself with a cardboard model, on which he had been trying the effect of certain arrangements, when he heard a knock at his door.

'_Entrez_!' he said, in astonishment.

At this season of the year the hotel kept early hours, and there was not a light to be seen in the _cour_.

The door opened. On the threshold stood Arthur Welby. Fenwick gazed at him open-mouthed.

'You?--you came to see me?'

He advanced, head foremost, hand outstretched.

'I have something important to say to you.' Welby took no notice of the hand. 'Shall we be undisturbed?'

'I imagine so!' said Fenwick, fiercely retreating; 'but, as you see, I am extremely busy!' He pointed to the room and its contents.

'I am sorry to interrupt you'--Welby's voice was carefully controlled--'but I think you will admit that I had good reason to come and find you.' He looked round to see that the door was shut, then advanced a step nearer. 'You are, I think, acquainted with that lady?'

He handed Fenwick a card. Fenwick took it to the light. On it was lithographed 'Miss Isabel Morrison,' and a written address, 'Corso de Madrid, Buenos Ayres,' had been lightly scratched out in one corner.