and discontents; but it re-enforced a natural asceticism, and weakened whatever power she possessed of playing on a husband’s passion.  Meanwhile, Fenwick was partly aware of her state of mind, and far from happy himself.  His conscience pricked him; but such prickings are small help to love.  Often he found himself guiltily brooding over Lord Findon’s tirades against the early marriages of artists.  There was a horrid truth in them.  No doubt an artist should wait till his circumstances were worthy of his gifts; and then marry a woman who could understand and help him on.

Nor was even the child a binding influence.  Fenwick in this visit became for the first time a fond father.  A certain magic in the little Carrie flattered his vanity and excited his hopes.  He drew her many times, and prophesied confidently that she would be a beauty.  But, in his secret opinion, she was spoilt and mismanaged; and he talked a good deal to Phoebe about her bringing-up, theorising and haranguing in his usual way.  Phoebe listened generally with impatience, resenting interference with her special domain.  And often, when she saw the father and child together, a fresh and ugly misery would raise its head.  Would he in time set even Carrie against her—­teach the child to look down upon its mother?

One day he returned from Ambleside, pale and excited—­bringing a Manchester paper.

‘Phoebe!’ he called, from the gate.

Startled by something in his voice, Phoebe ran out to him.

‘Phoebe, an awful thing’s happened!  Old Morrison’s—­dead!  Look here!’

And he showed her a paragraph headed ‘Defalcations and suicide.’  It described how Mr. James Morrison, the chief cashier of the Bartonbury Bank, had committed suicide immediately after the discovery by the bank authorities of large falsifications in the bank accounts.  Mr. Morrison had shot himself, leaving a statement acknowledging a long course of fraudulent dealings with the funds entrusted to him, and pleading with his employers for his wife and daughter.  ’Great sympathy,’ said the Guardian reporter, ’is felt in Bartonbury with Mrs. Morrison, whose character has always been highly respected.  But, indeed, the whole family occupied a high position, and the shock to the locality has been great.’  On which followed particulars of the frauds and a long report of the inquest.

Phoebe was struck with horror.  She lingered over the paper, commenting, exclaiming; while Fenwick sat staring into the fire, his hands on his knees.

Presently she came to him and said in a low voice: 

‘And what about the money, John—­the loan?’

‘I am not obliged to return it in money,’ he said, sharply.

‘Well, the pictures?’

‘That’ll be all right.  I must think about it.  There’ll be no hurry.’

‘Did Mrs. Morrison know—­about the loan?’

‘I dare say.  I never heard.’

‘I suppose she and the daughter’ll have nothing?’