'Well, little woman, what do you think? Are you going to let me go and make my fortune?—our fortune?'
'As if I could stop you!' she said, hoarsely. 'It's what you've wanted for months.'
[Illustration: Husband and Wife]
'Well, and if I have, where's the harm? We can't go on living like this!'
And he began to talk, with great rapidity, about the absurdity of attempting to make a living as an artist out of Westmoreland—out of any place, indeed, but London, the natural centre and clearing-house of talent.
'I could make a living out of teaching, I suppose, up here. I could get—in time—a good many lessons going round to schools. But that would be a dog's life. You wouldn't want to see me at that for ever, would you, Phoebe? Or at painting portraits at five guineas apiece? I could chuck it all, of course, and go in for business. But I can tell you, England would lose something if I did.'
And, catching up another stone, he threw it into the beck with a passion which made the clash of it, as it struck upon a rock, echo through the ghyll. There was something magnificent in the gesture, and a movement, half thrill, half shudder, ran through the wife's delicate frame. She clasped her hands round his arm, and drew close to him.
'John!—are you going to leave baby and me behind?'
Her voice, as she pressed towards him, her face upraised to his, rose from deep founts of feeling; but she kept the sob in it restrained. Fenwick felt the warmth and softness of her young body; the fresh face, the fragrant hair were close upon his lips. He threw both his arms round her and folded her to him.
'Just for a little while,' he pleaded—'till I get my footing. One year! For both our sakes—Phoebe!'