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