--to make
of prayer a system of 'begging-letters to the Almighty'--which had of
ten quieted or distracted him in his early years of struggle, affected
him no longer. His inner life seemed to himself shrouded in a sullen
numbness and frost.

And the old joy in reading, the old plenitude and facility of
imagination, were also in abeyance. He became the fierce critic
of other men's ideas, while barren of his own. To be original,
successful, happy, was now in his eyes the one dark and desperate
offence. Yet every now and then he would have impulses of the largest
generosity; would devote hours to the teaching of some struggling
student and the correction of his work; or draw on his last remains of
credit or influence--pester people with calls, or write reams to the
newspapers--on behalf of some one, unduly overlooked, whose work he
admired.

But through it all, the shadows deepened, and a fixed conviction that
he was moving towards catastrophe. In spite of Watson's touching words
to him, he did not often let himself think of Phoebe. Towards her, as
towards so much else, his mind and heart were stiffened and voiceless.
But for hours in the night--since sleeplessness was now added to his
other torments--he would brood on the loss of his child, would try
to imagine her dancing, singing, sewing--or helping her mother in the
house. Seventeen! Why, soon no doubt they would be marrying her, and
he, her father, would know nothing, hear nothing. And in the darkness
he would feel the warm tears rise in his eyes, and hold them there,
proudly arrested.

The rehearsals in which he spent many hours of the week, generally
added to his distress and irritation. The play itself was, in his
opinion, a poor vulgar thing, utterly unworthy of the 'spectacle' he
had contrived for it. He could not hide his contempt for the piece,
and indeed for most of its players; and was naturally unpopular
with the management and the company. Moreover, he wanted his money
desperately, seeing that the play had been postponed, first from
November to February, and then from February to April; but the
actor-manager concerned was in somewhat dire straits himself, and
nothing could be got before production.

One afternoon, late in March, a rehearsal was nearing its completion,
everybody was tired out, and everything had been going badly. One of
Fenwick's most beautiful scenes--carefully studied from the Trianon
gardens on the spot--had been, in his opinion, hop