After that—­some evil days!  Quarrels with his father, refusals to be bound to the trade, to accept the shop as his whole future and inheritance—­painful scenes with the old man, and with the customers who complained of the son’s rudeness and inattention—­attempts of relations to mediate between the two, and all the time his own burning belief in himself and passion to be free.  And at last a time of truce, of conditions made and accepted—­the opening of the new Art School—­evenings of delightful study there—­and, suddenly, out of the mists, Phoebe’s brown eyes, and Phoebe’s soft encouragement!

Yes, it was Phoebe, Phoebe herself who had determined his career; let her consider that, when he asked for sacrifices!  But for the balm she had poured upon his sore ambitions—­but for those long walks and talks, in which she had been to him first the mere recipient of his dreams and egotisms, and then—­since she had the loveliest eyes, and a young wild charm—­a creature to be hotly wooed and desired, he might never have found courage enough to seize upon his fate.

For her sake indeed he had dared it all.  She had consoled and inspired him; but she had made the breach with his father final.  When they met she was only a struggling teacher in Miss Mason’s school, the daughter of a small farmer in the Vale of Keswick.  Old Fenwick looked much higher for his son.  So there was renewed battle at home, till at last a couple of portrait commissions from a big house near Kendal clinched the matter.  A hurried marriage had been followed by the usual parental thunders.  And now they had five years to look back upon, years of love and struggle and discontent.  By turning his hand to many things, Fenwick had just managed to keep the wolf from the door.  He had worked hard, but without much success; and what had been an ordinary good opinion of himself had stiffened into a bitter self-assertion.  He knew very well that he was regarded as a conceited, quarrelsome fellow, and rather gloried in it.  The world, he considered, had so far treated him ill; he would at any rate keep his individuality.

Phoebe, too, once so sweet, so docile, so receptive, had begun to be critical, to resist him now and then.  He knew that in some ways he had disappointed her; and there was gall in the thought.  As to the London plan, his word would no longer be enough.  He would have to wrestle with and overcome her.

London!—­the word chimed him from the past—­threw wide the future.  He moved on along the rough road, possessed by dreams.  He had a vision of his first large picture; himself rubbing in the figures, life-size, or at work on the endless studies for every part—­fellow-students coming to look, Academicians, buyers; he heard himself haranguing, plunging headlong into ideas and theories, holding his own with the best of ‘the London chaps.’  Between whiles, of course, there would be hack-work—­illustration—­portraits—­anything to keep the pot boiling.  And always, at the end of this vista, there was success—­success great and tangible.