Fenwick's Career Part 18

'Of course, I know the "Polyxena" is a fine thing--a very fine thing.'

She looked a little surprised--as though he offered her moods to which she had no key. 'Shall I show you something I like much better?' she said, with quick resource. And drawing towards her a small portfolio she had brought with her, she took out a drawing and handed it to him.

'I am taking it to be framed. Isn't it beautiful?'

It was a drawing, in silver-point, of an orange-tree in mingled fruit and bloom--an exquisite piece of work, of a j.a.panese truth, intricacy, and perfection. Fenwick looked at it in silence. These silver-point drawings of Welby's were already famous. In the preceding May there had been an exhibition of them at an artistic club. At the top of the drawing was an inscription in a minute handwriting--'Sorrento: Christmas Day,' with the monogram 'A.W.' and a date three years old.

As Madame de Pastourelles perceived that his eyes had caught the inscription, she rather hastily withdrew the sketch and returned it to the portfolio.

'I watched him draw it,' she explained--'in a Sorrento garden. My father and I were there for the winter. Mr. Welby was in a villa near ours, and I used to watch him at work.'

It seemed to Fenwick that her tone had grown rather hurried and reserved, as though she regretted the impulse which had made her show him the drawing. He praised it as intelligently as he could; but his mind was guessing all the time at the relation which lay behind the drawing. According to Cuningham's information, it was now three years since a separation had been arranged between Madame de Pastourelles and her husband, Comte Albert de Pastourelles, owing to the Comte's outrageous misconduct. Lord Findon had no doubt taken her abroad after the catastrophe. And, besides her father, Welby had also been near, apparently--watching over her?

He returned to his work upon the hands, silent, but full of speculation. The evident bond between these two people had excited his imagination and piqued his curiosity from the first moment of his acquaintance with them. They were both of a rare and fine quality; and the signs of an affection between them, equally rare and fine, had not been lost on those subtler perceptions in Fenwick which belonged perhaps to his heritage as an artist. If he gave the matter an innocent interpretation, and did not merely say to himself, 'She has lost a husband and found a lover,' it was because the woman herself had awakened in him fresh sources of judgement. His thoughts simply did not dare besmirch her.

The clock struck five; and thereupon a sound of voices on the stairs outside.

'Papa!' said Madame de Pastourelles, jumping up--in very evident relief--her teeth chattering.

The door opened and Lord Findon put in a reconnoitring head.

'May I--or we--come in?'

And behind him, on the landing, Fenwick with a start perceived the smiling face of Arthur Welby.

'I've come to carry off my daughter,' said Findon, with a friendly nod to the artist. 'But don't let us in if you don't want to.'

'Turn me out, please, at once, if I'm in the way,' said Welby. 'Lord Findon made me come up.'

It was the first time that Welby had visited the Bernard Street studio. Fenwick's conceit had sometimes resented the fact. Yet now that Welby was there he was unwilling to show his work. He muttered something about there being 'more to see in a day or two.'

'There's a great deal to see already,' said Lord Findon. 'But, of course, do as you like. Eugenie, are you ready?'

'Please!--may I be exhibited?' said Madame de Pastourelles to Fenwick, with a smiling appeal.

He gave way, dragged the easel into the best light, and fell back while the two men examined the portrait.

'Stay where you are, Eugenie,' said Lord Findon, holding up his hand.

'Let Arthur see the pose.'

She sat down obediently. Fenwick heard an exclamation from Welby, and a murmured remark to Lord Findon; then Welby turned to the painter, his face aglow.

'I say, I do congratulate you! You _are_ making a success of it! The whole scheme's delightful. You've got the head admirably.'

'I'm glad you like it,' said Fenwick, rather shortly, ready at once to suspect a note of patronage in the other's effusion. Welby--a little checked--returned to the picture, studying it closely, and making a number of shrewd, or generous comments upon it, gradually quenched, however, by Fenwick's touchy or ungracious silence. Of course the picture was good. Fenwick wanted no one to tell him that.

Meanwhile, Lord Findon--though in Fenwick's studio he always behaved himself with a certain jauntiness, as a man should who has discovered a genius--was a little discontented.

'It's a fine thing, Eugenie,' he was saying to her, as he helped her put on her furs, 'but I'm not altogether satisfied. It wants animation. It's too--too--'

'Too sad?' she asked, quietly.

'Too grave, my dear--too grave. I want your smile.'

Madame de Pastourelles shook her head.

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'I can't go smiling to posterity!' she said; first gaily--then suddenly her lip quivered.

'Eugenie, darling--for G.o.d's sake--'

'I'm all right,' she said, recovering herself instantly. 'Mr. Arthur, are you coming?'

'One moment,' said Welby; then, turning to Fenwick as the others approached them, he said, 'Might I make two small criticisms?'

'Of course.'

'The right hand seems to me too large--and the chin wants fining.

Look!' He took a little ivory paper-cutter from his pocket, and pointed to the line of the chin, with a motion of the head towards Madame de Pastourelles.

Fenwick looked--and said nothing.

'By George, I think he's right,' said Lord Findon, putting on spectacles. 'That right hand's certainly too big.'

'In my opinion, it's not big enough,' said Fenwick, doggedly.

Welby withdrew instantly from the picture, and took up his hat. Lord Findon looked at the artist--half angry, half amused. 'You don't buy her gloves, sir--I do.'

Eugenie's eyes meanwhile had begun to sparkle, as she stood in her sable cap and cloak, waiting for her companions. Fenwick approached her.

'Will you sit to-morrow?'

'I think not--I have some engagements.'

'Next day?'

'I will let you know.'

Fenwick's colour rose.

'There is a good deal to do still--and I must work at my other picture.'

'Yes, I know. I will write.'

And with a little dry nod of farewell she slipped her hand into her father's arm and led him away. Welby also saluted pleasantly, and followed the others.