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diff --git a/49787.txt b/49787.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bd44bc1..0000000 --- a/49787.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7648 +0,0 @@ - LOVE'S GOLDEN THREAD - - - - -This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at -http://www.gutenberg.org/license. If you are not located in the United -States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are -located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Love's Golden Thread -Author: Edith C. Kenyon -Release Date: August 16, 2015 [EBook #49787] -Language: English -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE'S GOLDEN THREAD *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - - - -[Illustration: "WITH A GLAD CRY BERNARD SPRANG TO HIS FEET." (p. 134)] - - - - - LOVE'S GOLDEN - THREAD - - - BY - - *EDITH C. KENYON* - - AUTHOR OF - "A GIRL IN A THOUSAND," "A QUEEN OF NINE DAYS," - "SIR CLAUDE MANNERLEY," ETC. ETC. - - - - Mark how there still has run, enwoven from above, - Through thy life's darkest woof, the golden thread of love. - ARCHBISHOP TRENCH. - - - - _WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS_ - - - - London - S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO. - 8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW - 1905 - - - - - *CONTENTS.* - -CHAP. - - I. LOVE AND HOPE - II. A TERRIBLE WRONG - III. THE PENCIL NOTE - IV. A HARD WOMAN - V. BERNARD SEARCHES FOR DORIS - VI. DORIS ALONE IN LONDON - VII. FRIENDS IN NEED - VIII. NEW WORK FOR DORIS - IX. ALICE SINCLAIR'S POT-BOILERS - X. DORIS AND ALICE WORK TOGETHER - XI. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING - XII. AN ARTIST'S WRATH - XIII. CONSCIENCE MONEY - XIV. BERNARD CAMERON VISITS DORIS - XV. ANOTHER VISITOR FOR DORIS - XVI. THE GREAT RENUNCIATION - XVII. IN POVERTY - XVIII. NEW EMPLOYMENT FOR DORIS - XIX. A POWERFUL TEMPTATION - XX. THE WELCOME LEGACY - XXI. BERNARD SEEKS DORIS - XXII. TOO LATE! TOO LATE! - XXIII. ALICE SINCLAIR'S INTERVENTION - XXIV. NORMAN SINCLAIR'S LETTER - XXV. A HAPPY WEDDING - XXVI. TWO MONTHS LATER - XXVII. RESTITUTION - XXVIII. CONCLUSION - - - - - *LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.* - -WITH A GLAD CRY BERNARD SPRANG TO HIS FEET . . . _Frontispiece_ - -THE SHOCK OF LEARNING THE SAD NEWS WAS GREAT - -SHE UTTERED AN EXCLAMATION OF SURPRISE - -"GO! YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE" - -"READ IT," HE SAID, HANDING HER THE LETTER - -DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST. "YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A DEAR SISTER TO -ME" - - - - - *LOVE'S GOLDEN THREAD.* - - - *CHAPTER I.* - - *LOVE AND HOPE.* - - - Little sweetheart, stand up strong, - Gird the armour on your knight; - * * * * * - There are battles to be fought, - There are victories to be won, - Righteous labours to be wrought, - Valiant races to be run: - Grievous wrongs to be retrieved, - Right and justice to be done: - * * * * * - Little sweetheart, stand up strong, - Gird the armour on your knight: - Sing your bravest, sing your song, - Speak your word for truth and right. - ANNIE L. MUZZEY. - - -"You know, Doris, to-morrow I shall be of age and shall come into my -inheritance, the inheritance which my dear father left me," and the -speaker sighed lightly, as his thoughts went back for an instant to the -parent whose loving presence he still missed, although years had passed -since he died. - -"Yes, dear, I know," said Doris, lifting sweet sympathising eyes to his. -"And, Bernard, it will be a trust from him; he knew you would use it -well; you will feel almost as if you were a steward for him--for him and -God," she added, almost inaudibly. - -He gave her a quick nod of assent. "Money is a talent," he said, "and of -course I shall do heaps of good with mine. But you know, dear, I've not -got such a wise young head as yours. I shall be sure to make heaps of -blunders, and, in short, do more harm than good unless you help me." - -He looked at her very meaningly. But her eyes were fixed on the green -grass of the hill on which they were sitting, and instead of answering -she said, rather irrelevantly, "You will be a man to-morrow; quite -legally a man. I'm thinking you'll have to form your own opinions then, -and act upon your own responsibility." - -"Well, yes. And one day does not make much difference. I _am_ a man -now." He held himself up rather proudly; but the next moment, as "self -passed out of sight," he drew nearer to his companion, looking down into -her sweet flushed face very wistfully. - -"To-morrow will make a difference," she said lightly: - - "The little more, and how much it is! - And the little less, and what miles away!" - -she quoted. - -"I was thinking of those lines, too," said the youth, "but not in -connection with my coming of age. Doris, dear, the day after to-morrow -I shall return to Oxford." He hesitated. - -"Yes, I am sorry you are going." - -"Not half so sorry as I am to have to leave you!" he exclaimed. -"However, it is my last term at Oxford. When I return next time it will -be to stay." He hesitated a little, and then, summoning his courage, -added hastily, "Doris, couldn't we become engaged?" - -The girl looked up, startled, yet with love and happiness shining in her -bright blue eyes. "Is it your wish?" she asked. "Is it really and truly -your wish?" - -Bernard assured her that it was, and moreover that he had loved her all -his life, even when as children they played together at making mud-pies -and building castles in the sand, on the rare and joyous occasions when -their holidays were passed at the seaside. - -"You see, dear," he proceeded, after a few blissful moments, while the -autumn sunshine fell caressingly upon their bright young faces, "I am -rather young and could not speak to you quite like this if it were not -that to-morrow I shall be fairly well off. My money--oh, it seems -caddish to speak of money just now!--is invested in Consols, therefore -quite safe, and it will give me an income of L500 a year. We shall be -able to live on that, Doris." - -"Yes." The girl looked down shyly, her cheeks becoming pinker, and her -blue eyes shining. She was only nineteen, and she loved him very -dearly. - -"Of course I shall have to assist my mother," continued Bernard. "She -has very little money and will have to live with us when we marry. You -won't mind that, dear; if we keep together there will be enough for us -all." - -"Yes, of course." But for the first time a shadow stole across the -girl's face. She was rather afraid of Mrs. Cameron, who was the -somewhat stern widow of a Wesleyan minister. - -Bernard Cameron divined her thoughts. "Mother's sure to like you, -Doris," he said. "She's a bit particular, you know. But you are _so -good_. She cannot fail to approve of you. Ours will be a most suitable -match in every way. Mother will be very pleased about it." - -The shadow passed away from Doris's face, and she smiled. Bernard knew -his mother much better than she, therefore he must be right. And her -last misgiving vanishing, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the -present. - -Time passed as they sat there on the pretty hill at Askern, where so -many lovers have sat and walked, plighting their troth and building -castles in the air; and it seemed as if these two, who were so young and -ardent, would never tire of telling their version of the old, old story -of the love of man for woman and woman for man. It was all so new to -them that they would have been both startled and incredulous if any one -had suggested that the same sort of thing had gone on continuously ever -since Adam first saw Eve in the Garden of Eden. - -However, everything comes to an end, and the best events always pass the -quickest; and so it happened that, in an incredibly short time, the sun -sank low in the heavens and finally disappeared, leaving a radiance -behind, which was soon swallowed up in twilight and the approaching -shades of night. The girl first became uneasy at the lateness of the -hour. - -"We must go home," she said. "Mother will think I am lost. Oh, -Bernard, I did not know it was so late." - -"Never mind," said he, "we have been so happy. This has been the -first--the very first of many happy times, darling." - -"But I don't like annoying mother," said Doris penitently. "Oh, -Bernard, let us hurry home!" - -"All right, darling." - -So they went down the hill and across the fields to the village of Moss, -situated between Askern and Doncaster, where they lived; and as they -walked they talked of the bright and happy future when they would be -together always, helping and encouraging one another along the path of -human life. - -It was so fortunate for them, they considered, that Bernard Cameron's -father had left him L25,000 safely invested. Doris's father, Mr. -Anderson, a retired barrister, was one of Bernard's trustees, the other -was a Mr. Hamilton, a minister, who knew little about business but had -been an intimate friend of the late Mr. Cameron's. Mr. Hamilton was -expected at Bernard's home on the day following, when both trustees -would meet to hand over to the young man the securities of the money -they held in trust for him. Mrs. Cameron would then cease to receive the -income that had been allowed her for the maintenance of her son, and it -would become Bernard's duty to supplement her slender resources in the -way which seemed best to her and to him. There were people who blamed -the late Mr. Cameron for leaving the bulk of his property to his son, -instead of to his widow--that happened owing to an estrangement which -had arisen between husband and wife during the last years of Mr. -Cameron's life. - -Bernard mourned still for the father of whom his mother never spoke; but -he was attached to her also, for she was a good mother to him, and he -meant to do his duty as her son. It was his intention after taking his -degree to devote himself to tutorial work, as he was fond of boys. In -fact he intended to keep a school, and he told Doris this as they walked -home together, adding that he should realise part of his capital for the -purpose of starting the school. He talked so convincingly of the number -of boys he would have, the way in which he would manage them, the -profits which would accrue from the school-keeping, and the enormous -influence for good which he hoped the scheme would give him over the -young and susceptible minds of his pupils, that Doris felt convinced -that the enterprise would succeed, and admired his cleverness, -business-like ability, and, above all, his wish to help others in the -best and highest way. - -Timidly, yet with a few well chosen words, she sought to deepen and -strengthen his purpose, assuring him that nothing could be nobler or -more useful than to teach and train the young, and promising that she -would do everything in her power to assist him. - - - - - *CHAPTER II.* - - *A TERRIBLE WRONG.* - - - All day and all night I can hear the jar - Of the loom of life, and near and far - It thrills with its deep and muffled sound - As the tireless wheels go round and round. - - Busily, ceaselessly, goes the loom, - In the light of day and the midnight's gloom. - The wheels are turning, early and late, - And the woof is wound in warp of fate. - - Click! Click! There's a thread of love wove in: - Click! Click! another of wrong and sin-- - What a checkered thing will this life be - When we see it unrolled in eternity! - _Anon._ - - -It was late when Bernard Cameron left Doris at the garden-gate of her -home--so late indeed that the girl hurried up the path to the house with -not a few misgivings. - -How angry her mother would be with her for staying out so late with -Bernard! Doris was amazed that she had dared to linger with him so -long; but time had sped by on magic wings, and it so quickly became late -that evening. Well, she must make the best of it, beg pardon and -promise not to offend in that way again. And perhaps when her mother -knew what had been taking place, and that she and Bernard intended to -marry when he had obtained his degree and was ready to launch out into -his life-work, she would be pleased and would forgive everything. For -Mrs. Anderson admired Bernard very much, and had been heard to say that -she almost envied Mrs. Cameron her son. - -"He will be mother's son-in-law in time," thought Doris. "I am sure she -will like that." - -Doris had reached the hall door now. It was locked, and she hesitated -about ringing the bell, being dismayed at the unusual darkness of the -house. Why, it must be even later than she had imagined, for the -servants appeared to have fastened up the house and gone to bed! The -top windows which belonged to them were the only ones that were lighted. -No one appeared to be sitting up for her, and, not liking to ring the -bell, she went round to the French windows of the drawing-room, in the -hope that she might be able to open one of them. But they were closed -and in darkness. Then, going a little farther, Doris turned to see if -the library window would admit her, and found, to her satisfaction, that -a gleam of light from behind its curtains revealed the fact that it was -an inch open and that some one was within. - -The girl was about to open wide the window and enter the room, when her -attention was arrested by hearing her father exclaim, in tones of agony: - -"I am ruined! I am quite, _quite_ ruined! And what's more I've -speculated with Bernard's money--and it's all gone! It's all gone! And -to-morrow they'll all know! Everything will come out--and I shall be -arrested!" - -"Oh, John! John! What shall we do!" It was her mother's voice, -speaking in anguish. - -Tremblingly poor Doris drew back, away from the window, feeling -overwhelmed with horror and consternation. What had she heard? Bernard, -her lover, ruined by her father! She felt quite stunned. - -How long she stayed there in the dark, afraid to enter by the library -window lest her appearance just then should grieve her parents, and -uncertain what to do, she never knew; but at last she found herself -standing under her own bedroom window. - -There was a pear-tree against the wall. A boy would have thought -nothing of climbing it and of entering the room through the window; -Doris herself had often done that as a child, but now she hesitated, -feeling so much older because she had received her first offer that day -from the man whom she loved devotedly, and because, since then, great -shame and pain had overwhelmed her in learning that it was against -him--of all men in the world!--her father had sinned. Therefore she -felt it impossible to climb that tree, as a child, or a light-hearted -girl, might easily have done. So she stood beneath it, with bowed head, -feeling stunned with misery and utterly incapable of effort. - -Above her the stars looked down, and the lights of the village shone, -here and there, at a little distance, while the night wind stirred the -trees and shrubs close by, and gently swept the hair from off her brow. -Just so had she often seen and felt the sights and voices of the night -from her bedroom window up above; but everything was different now. No -longer a child, she was a girl engaged to marry Bernard Cameron, whom -she had always loved, and whom her father had plundered of all that made -his life pleasant and that was to make their marriage possible. - -For a moment Doris felt angry with her parent, but only for a moment: he -was too dear to her, and through her mind surged memories of his -kindness in the past and of his pride and joy in her, his only child. -It might have been that in speculating with Bernard's money he was -animated by the thought of still further enriching the son of his old -friend. At least Doris was quite certain that her father had not meant -to do him such an injury. - -"But oh, father, if only you had not done this thing," thought the poor -girl distractedly, "how happy we should be! But now, what shall we do? -What will poor Bernard do? And I, oh! what shall I do?" - -For a little while she stood crying under the old pear-tree, and then a -prayer ascended to the throne of Grace from her poor troubled heart. - - - - - *CHAPTER III.* - - *THE PENCIL NOTE.* - - - The winter blast is stern and cold, - Yet summer has its harvest gold. - - Sorrow and gloom the soul may meet, - Yet love rings triumph over defeat. - - The clouds may darken o'er the sun, - Yet rivers to the ocean run. - - Earth brings the bitterness of pain, - Yet worth the crown of peace will gain. - - The wind may roar amongst the trees, - Yet great ships sail the stormy seas. - THOS. S. COLLIER. - - -It was impossible for Doris to stay out in the garden all night, within -reach of her comfortable bedroom, and presently she took courage to -climb the tree and enter by the window. - -The little room, with its snow-white bed and dainty furniture, including -well-filled bookshelves and a pretty writing-table, looked different -from of old; it did not seem to belong to Doris in the familiar way in -which it had always hitherto belonged to her. Everything was changed. -Or perhaps it was she who was changed and who saw everything with other -eyes than of yore, and, recognising this, she sobbed, "It will never be -the same again--never, never! I shall _never_ be happy again." - -And then, because she was so lonely and so much in need of help, she -knelt down by her bedside, and poured out her full heart to Him who -comforts those who mourn and who strengthens the weak and binds up the -broken-hearted. After which, still sobbing, though more gently, she -undressed and went to bed. - -Thoroughly tired out in mind and body the poor girl slept heavily and -dreamlessly for many hours, so many in fact that she did not awake until -quite late the next morning. - -Then, oh, the pain of that awaking, the pain and the shame! Would she -ever forget it? - -The maidservants came into her room one after another, the young -housemaid and cook, and Susan Gaunt, the faithful old servant who acted -as working-housekeeper; they were all in consternation, asking question -after question of the poor distracted girl. Where were her parents? -Would she tell them what she knew about them? When had she seen them -last? What could have happened to them? and so on. - -Doris asked what they meant? Were not her father and mother in the -house? What had happened? What were they concealing from her? "Tell -me everything?" she implored in piteous accents. - -The servants, perceiving that she knew nothing of her parents' -disappearance, began to answer all together, making a confusion of -voices. Their master and mistress had gone away: they had vanished in -the night. Their beds had not been slept in. No one knew where they -had gone. And this was the day upon which Mr. Bernard Cameron was to -come of age. Mr. Hamilton and the family lawyer were expected to lunch, -and so were Mrs. Cameron and her son. What should they (the servants) -do if the master and mistress were absent? - -Doris, half stunned and wholly distracted, ordered every one to leave -the room, and, turning her face towards the wall, shed a few bitter -tears. That, then, was what her parents had done; they had run away and -had left their unhappy daughter behind. "It's not right! They have not -done the right thing!" Doris said to herself. "And they might have -offered to take me with them," was the next thought: though, upon -reflection, she knew that she could not have borne to leave Bernard in -such a way, and neither would she have consented to flee from justice -with those who had wronged him, even though they were her own parents. - -It was no use lying there crying, with her face turned towards the wall, -and so she arose, and, having dressed, began to search for a letter or -message which might have been left for her. - -After a long search, by the accidental overturning of the mat by her -bedroom door, she discovered a note which had been left under it and had -thus escaped earlier recognition. It was from her mother. - -Doris locked herself into her room in order to read the letter, which -was blotched and blurred with the tears that had been shed over it: - - -"MY DARLING CHILD,-- - -"I am grieved to tell you that a very terrible thing has happened. Your -father has unfortunately lost all Bernard Cameron's money. He -speculated with it as if it were his own, in the firm belief, he says, -that he would be able to double the capital. However, he lost -everything, and he is overwhelmed with grief and remorse, realising now, -when it is too late, that he had no right to speculate with Bernard's -money. Indeed, a terrible penalty is attached to such a mistake--the -law deems it a crime--as he has made. He dare not face Bernard and his -mother, Mr. Hamilton and the lawyer to-morrow, and his only chance of -escaping from a dreadful punishment is by flight. Doris darling, my -heart is torn in two; I cannot let him go alone for _his heart is -broken_--and something dreadful may happen if he is left to himself--so -you will forgive me, darling, but I must go with him--_I must_. For -twenty years we have been married, and I cannot leave his side, now that -he is in despair. Oh, I know it would be better of him, and more manly -and just, if he would stay and face the consequences of his sin, but I -_cannot_ persuade him to do it, though I have implored him with tears, -and so, if it is wrong to flee, I share the wrong-doing, and may God -forgive us! Now, my dear Doris, when we have gone you must tell Susan -that she must give notice to our landlord that we give up our tenancy of -the house; then she must arrange with an auctioneer to sell all the -furniture; and tell her when that has been done, after paying the rent -and taxes and the tradesmen's bills, she must put the remainder of the -money in the bank to your father's account. - -"And then, as for yourself, my dear child, it will be better for you to -know nothing of our whereabouts, or our doings. You must go to London -to my dear old friend Miss Earnshaw, and ask her _for my sake_ to give -you a home. I am sure she will do that, for she is so good and loves me -dearly. She lives at Earl's Court Square; and you must go to her at -once, travelling by train to King's Cross, and then taking a hansom -there. - -"Once before, long years ago, Miss Earnshaw wanted to adopt you and make -you her heiress, but your father and I could not give you up. Tell her -we do so now, and consent that you shall take her name--which was the -sole condition she made--it will, now, be more honourable than our own. -Farewell, dear, my heart would break at parting from you thus were it -not that what has happened has broken it already. - -"Your loving Mother, - "DOROTHY ANDERSON." - - -Doris read the letter over and over again before she could quite realise -all that it meant. She was nineteen years old, had received a fairly -good education, and now her parents had forsaken her, leaving her -entirely to her own resources, except for the command that she should go -to London to Mrs. Anderson's old friend, Miss Earnshaw. - -Doris had never been to London, and she had never stayed with Miss -Earnshaw, though the latter came to be at the hydro at Askern every -year, and never left without visiting them for a few days. She was rich -and generous, and Doris knew that she would be willing to give her a -home. - -"But oh," said the girl to herself, "it is hard to have to leave here in -this way--never to return--under a cloud, too, a dreadfully black -cloud!" And she sighed deeply, for it was difficult for her to -understand how her father could possibly have speculated with money that -was not his own. He was a reserved man, who had never spoken of -business matters to her, and she was a child yet in knowledge of the -world, and did not comprehend such things as speculating on the Stock -Exchange; but she knew that he had done wrong--for had not her mother -acknowledged that?--and realised, with the keenest pain, that Bernard -Cameron, her lover, was ruined by it, absolutely ruined, for he could -not continue his career at Oxford, and the capital with which he meant -to start his school, afterwards, was all lost, too. Moreover, they -could not marry, for he was penniless, and she a beggar, going now to -beg for a home in London. All thoughts of a marriage between them must -be over. It was a bright dream vanished, a castle in the air pulled -down and shattered. - -"I suppose we must prepare the luncheon, Miss Doris?" said Susan, when, -at length, in answer to her persistent knocking at the door, Doris -turned the key to admit her, and as she spoke the woman cast an -inquiring glance toward the letter in Doris's hand. - -"Lunch? Oh, yes, Susan! Mr. Hamilton, Mrs. Cameron, and the others -will be coming--although----" The poor girl broke down and wept. - -"Don't, Miss Doris! Don't cry so, dear!" said Susan, pityingly, wiping -her own tears away as she spoke. "Master and mistress may return in -time to sit down with their guests." - -"No, they won't. They'll never come back!" exclaimed Doris, with -another burst of sobs. - -"What do they say in the letter?" asked the old servant. - -"It's awful!" replied Doris. "Just see"--she passed the letter, with a -trembling hand--"see what mother has written to me. _You_ may read it, -Susan, though no one else shall. There's a message for you in it about -the house." - -Susan adjusted her glasses and began to read the letter with some -difficulty, for tears were in her eyes, and she had to take off her -spectacles again and again in order to wipe them away. - -"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she ejaculated more than once, as she read the -letter. "That I should have lived to see this day! My poor mistress! -What she must be suffering!" - -"And father!" exclaimed Doris. "Oh, how miserable he must be! For it -is his fault, you know, and the knowledge of that must be so dreadful." - -"I cannot understand his doing it," said Susan, looking deeply pained. -"Such a high-minded, honourable gentleman as he always seemed. Your -poor mother! your poor mother!" she repeated. "What must she be -feeling." - -"It's bad for me, too," said Doris, "to be deserted, to be left behind -like this." - -"Aye, dearie, it is," sighed the old servant, looking at her with great -affection. "But you must remember, 'When my father and mother forsake -me then the Lord taketh me up.'" - -"I don't feel as if He takes _me_ up," sobbed Doris, whose mind was too -full of trouble to receive any comfort just then. "Father and mother -_might_ have kissed me and said good-bye! Oh, it was cruel, cruel to -steal away when I was asleep!" And again she cried as if her heart -would break. - -Susan endeavoured to calm her, but for some time in vain. At last, -however, the old servant, glancing at the small clock on the -mantelpiece, exclaimed: - -"We _must_ prepare to meet the visitors who are coming! Miss Doris, -rouse yourself, be brave; we have our work to do now--afterwards we can -weep." Susan brushed away her own tears as she spoke, and, drawing -herself up, added in her more usual, matter-of-fact tone, "I should like -to have this letter, or at least the part of it containing that message -to me, so that I may be able to show it to those who may question my -right to sell the furniture, etc." - -"I can't spare the letter," replied Doris, "but I will tear off the half -sheet containing the message to you." - -"Yes, do, dearie, and write your mother's name after it, and your own, -too." - -"Very well," said Doris, "I will write my own name beside mother's--then -it will be seen that I have written hers for her." She did so, adding -"pro" before writing her mother's, and then Susan took the half sheet -and went to prepare for the coming guests. - -An hour afterwards, as Doris was mechanically arranging the drawing-room -in the way her mother always liked to have it when visitors were -expected, Bernard Cameron entered unannounced. - -"Doris!" he exclaimed, coming up to her with outstretched hands. "My -dear Doris, what has happened? Crying? Why, darling, what is the -matter?" - -"Oh, Bernard! Bernard!" She could not tell him for her tears; but the -touch of his cool, strong hand was comforting, and she clung to it for a -moment. - -He soothed her gently until she was able to speak and tell him what had -happened since she parted from him the night before, then she allowed -him to read her mother's letter. - -It was a great blow to the young man full of bright anticipations and -ambition, in the full tide of his Oxford career, on the eve of his -engagement of marriage, and on the day of his coming-of-age, to learn -that he was bereft of his entire fortune and rendered absolutely -penniless by one who had undertaken to care for him and protect his -rights; who was, moreover, the father of his beloved, with whom he -intended to share all that he possessed. Small wonder was it that the -young man drew back a little, covering his face with his hands, and -uttering something between a boyish sob and a manly sigh. - -The next minute he would have turned to Doris again, in order that he -might say kind, reassuring words; for not for a moment was his love for -her affected by her father's wrong-doing, but they were interrupted, Mr. -Hamilton being announced. - -The trustee looked worried. He came forward nervously, inquiring if -Doris knew where her father was. It was evident that he had already -heard from the servants of Mr. Anderson's absence. - -Doris could not speak. She looked helplessly at the man, and then at -Bernard, rose as if to leave the room, made a step or two forward, -stumbled over a footstool, and would have fallen if Bernard had not -caught hold of her. - -"All this is too much for you," he said, in a quick, authoritative -manner. "You must go and lie down. Mr. Hamilton, be so good as to -touch the bell. Thank you. Doris does not know where her father is. -That will do, Doris. No need to say any more at present. Susan," he -continued, as the door opened, "help Miss Anderson to her room. She is -ill." - -He handed Doris over to the maid with care; but it seemed to the poor -girl that he was only too anxious to get rid of her, now that he was -aware of the wrong her father had done him. She was, however, relieved -to be able to go to her own room, and, under the plea of illness, escape -the harassing questions which, otherwise, the coming guests might oblige -her to answer. In sending her to her room Bernard was really doing the -kindest thing. It never occurred to him that she could possibly imagine -that he blamed her, or in any way felt his love for her diminished by -her father's heinous conduct. - -It was a pity, and the cause of much unhappiness, that he had not time -to say one kind word to the poor girl, after the grievous disclosure she -had made to him. - - - - - *CHAPTER IV.* - - *A HARD WOMAN.* - - - O for the rarity - Of Christian charity - Under the sun! - LONGFELLOW. - - -"I have come to say a bit of my mind, Doris Anderson!" - -The words were hard and uncompromising. Mrs. Cameron, who, in the -twilight, had sought and obtained access to the bedroom of the missing -trustee's daughter, stood over her with a gesture which was almost -menacing. The difficulty she had met with in forcing her way upstairs -against the wishes of Susan and the other frightened maidservants, in -whose eyes she looked terrible in her wrath, had much increased her -displeasure. She now longed to "have it out" with the only member of -Mr. Anderson's family within her reach, or, as she expressed it to -Doris, to give her a "bit of her mind." - -It was not a nice mind, Doris knew, so far as gentleness, charity, and -courtesy constitute niceness, and the poor girl shrank away from her -visitor, burying her tear-stained face still deeper in the pillows. A -pent-up sigh escaping as she did so might have appealed to a more -tender-hearted woman, but only served to still further incense Mrs. -Cameron, who, tossing her head with a muttered malediction, forthwith -proceeded to disclose the real vulgarity and unkindness of her nature. - -"It's no use sniffing and crying there, young woman," she said, "and -it's not a bit of good your playing the innocent, and pretending you -knew nothing of what was going on. Your father is a thief and a -scoundrel! Now what is the use of your sitting up, with that white -face, and pointing to the door like a tragedy queen? I shall say what -I've come to say, and no power on earth shall stop me. John Anderson, -your father, has stolen my poor boy's money, and wasted every penny of -it! There is nothing left! Nothing! All has gone! Twenty-five -thousand pounds were entrusted to your father by his dying friend -Richard Cameron, my husband, who had unlimited faith in him, as had also -Mr. Hamilton; and it's all gone! There is nothing left! Nothing! -_Nothing_! My poor boy is ruined, absolutely ruined! Just at the -starting of his life, when he is doing so well at Oxford, with all his -ambition----" - -She broke down for a moment, with something like a sob, but, suppressing -it, frowned the more fiercely to hide the momentary weakness, "He has -this blow hurled at him by one of the very men who, of all others, were -appointed to protect his interests, and make everything smooth before -him. It isn't as if your father wasn't paid for being acting executor, -or trustee. My husband, who was always just"--Mrs. Cameron was one of -those wives who abuse and quarrel with their husbands while they have -them, but after their death wear perpetual mourning and lose no -opportunity of sounding their praises--"left John Anderson a legacy of a -hundred pounds, to repay him for any trouble the business of -administering his estate might cause. Little did he think what a thief -and rogue the man would turn out to be!" - -"Leave the room!" gasped poor Doris, sitting up and waving her hand -frantically towards the door. Whatever her father had done, she could -not listen to such abuse of him. - -"Leave the room, indeed!" cried Mrs. Cameron, sitting down on a bedroom -chair, which trembled beneath her weight--she weighed at least twelve -stone, being stout and tall--"I shall leave it when I choose, and when -I've said what I have to say, and not before! And it doesn't become -you, Doris," she cried--"it doesn't become you to speak saucily to me. -You're as bad as John Anderson, no doubt. Like father, like daughter! -You're all tarred with the same stick. If you didn't actually take my -boy's money yourself, perhaps you used some of it; or, if you didn't, no -doubt it was your extravagance and your mother's that made Anderson want -money so badly that he took what was not his own. However," she went on -inconsequently, "you are as bad as he if you defend him, and take sides -against my poor boy, who never did anything to harm you in his life----" - -"Oh, I don't!" interrupted Doris, distressed beyond measure at the idea -of such a thing. "If you only knew how I esteem Bernard, and I----" She -broke off with a saving instinct which told her that not by pleading her -love for Bernard would she soften his mother's heart. - -"Esteem him, and yet take the part of the villain who has robbed him of -everything?" cried the other indignantly. - -"You forget"--almost soundlessly murmured Doris, her white lips only -just parting for the words to escape--"you forget, the wrong-doer is my -father. Yes, he has done wrong--I acknowledge it," she cried -pathetically. "But still he is my father!" And the tears fell down her -cheeks. - -It was a sight to melt a heart of stone; but Mrs. Cameron was not -looking. Though her eyes were fixed upon Doris, and her ears heard the -faintly uttered words, she perceived nothing but her boy's wrongs and -her own, the vanished L25,000, the stopping of Bernard's education at -Oxford, the failure of her own tiny income to provide for their daily -bread and the commonest clothes, the sinking of her son into a poor, -subordinate sphere at the very commencement of his life, the slipping of -herself into squalid, poverty-stricken surroundings, and a narrow, -meagre old age. Another picture, too, presented itself the next moment, -and that was the mental vision of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson enjoying -themselves abroad, in the lap of luxury, eating and drinking at the best -hotels, arrayed in handsome clothing, and laughing, yes, actually -laughing together about the way in which they had lightened the Camerons -pockets. - -That being so, it was no wonder that Mrs. Cameron's next words were even -harsher than those which had preceded them. - -"Yes, you've a scoundrel for a father! You must never forget that!" she -cried. "Never, never, for one moment! Wherever you are, whatever you -may be doing, you must never forget that. You'll have to take a back -seat in life, I can tell you. Not yours will be the lot of other girls. -With a father who is a felon in the eyes of the law you can never marry -into a respectable family without bringing into it such a load of -disgrace as will do it a cruel wrong." - -She fixed her eyes sharply on the girl's pale miserable face as she -spoke, with more than a suspicion of a love affair between her and -Bernard, which she determined to quash, cost what it might to Doris. - -"If you marry," she continued harshly, "you will take your husband a -dowry of disgrace--that, and nothing else!" She laughed harshly. -"Why," she ejaculated the next minute, "why, the girl's not listening!" -for she perceived Doris springing from her bed and beginning, in -trembling haste, to dress herself. - -To get away from that terrible voice, and the sound of those cruel -words, was Doris's first determination; her second was to go where she -could hide for ever and ever from Bernard Cameron, lest in his noble, -disinterested love for her he should venture, in spite of what had -occurred, to insist upon marrying her. The idea of bringing him a dowry -of disgrace was so frightful that it over-balanced for the moment the -poor, distraught mind of the suffering girl. - -Mrs. Cameron was one of those women who, when wronged, are blind and -deaf to all else; suffering acutely, they pour out torrents of words, -unseeing, unheeding the mischief they may be doing to others. She, -therefore, continued talking, in a loud, harsh voice, with unsparing -bitterness, all the time Doris was dressing and putting on her plainest -outdoor apparel; and the mother's mind having turned to the subject of -marriage, and her wish being to destroy any thoughts Doris might have -cherished of Bernard as a possible husband, she said: - -"My son, though poor as a pauper now--thanks to your father--bears an -unblemished name. Honourable as the day, he comes of a most honourable -race of men. In time, when he has worked up some sort of position for -himself, he may marry a girl with money, and thus, in a way, attain to -something like the position he has lost. It is all a chance, of course, -but it is the only chance he has. There are lots of girls with money. -He is handsome and taking; he must marry one of them. Do you hear me, -Doris? I say he must! It is the only chance he has. Are you not glad -for him to have just that one little chance?" - -Doris was silent. - -"Ha! You do not answer? Can it be, can it possibly be," Mrs. Cameron's -voice grew hysterical, in her fear and anxiety, "that from any foolish -words the poor, ruined lad has said--such words as lads will say to -giddy girls--you can possibly consider him at all, in any way, bound to -you?" - -The poor girl would not answer. She looked appealingly around. Was -there no one who could save her from this woman? Where was Bernard? -Why was he not at her side, to shield and protect her? The next moment -she realised the impossibility of his being there in her bedroom; and -again her eyes roved longingly round the limited space. - -On the morrow no doubt pitying friends, hearing of her trouble, would -rally round her: the clergyman's wife, the doctor's, the ladies to whose -school she used to go, and others, acquaintances more or less intimate. -There was not one of them who would not be kinder to her than this -woman, who was goading her now beyond endurance. But they were -absent--and Mrs. Cameron was so very, very present. - -"Do you mean to say--do you mean to say--there is anything between you, -the daughter of a criminal, who shall yet be brought to justice, if -there be any power in the arm of the law, and my son--my stainless, -innocent child? Will you answer me?" - -The room, which was going round and round, in a cloud of darkness -crossed by sparks of light, seemed to Doris to assume once more its -ordinary appearance, as she came round out of a half-swoon. What to -answer, however, she knew not. She could only dimly comprehend the -question. Was there anything between her, overwhelmed as she was with -disgrace, and Bernard, poor, defrauded, yet honourable in the eyes of -all men? Was there anything between them? Yes. There was something -between them--there was love. But could she speak of that to a third -person, and that third person one so aggressive as Mrs. Cameron? She -felt she could not: therefore again she was silent, while the woman -poured out on her the wrath which now completely over-mastered her. - -"You bad girl!" she cried. "Not content with your father's having -ruined my boy by stealing all his money, you are mean enough and wicked -enough to deliberately determine to cut away his one remaining chance of -rising in the world! 'Pon my word"--all the vulgarity of the woman was -coming to the surface--"you would ruin him body and soul, if you could! -All for your own ambition, that you, too, may rise in the world; you -intend to cling to him as a limpet clings to a rock--and he won't be -able to raise you, not he, poor lad! but you will drag him down into the -mire, which will close over his head and then--then perhaps you will be -content." - -She waited for Doris to speak, but still the girl was unable to -articulate a word. She was fastening her hat now, and putting the last -touches to her veil and gloves; in a moment or two she would be able to -escape into the open air, and into the night, now fast coming on. - -"It is to his chivalry, doubtless, that you are trusting, to his -generosity, his love, his charity, his magnanimity. By his virtues you -would slay him, that is, I mean, debase him in the eyes of the -world--the world we live in," continued the upbraiding voice. - -Then Doris, stung beyond endurance and driven to bay, made answer, -confronting Mrs. Cameron proudly, with her little head held high: - -"You may keep your son. I will never marry him. He is nothing to me -now--_nothing_." - -"I can tell him that?" - -"Tell him," cried Doris passionately, "tell him that I would not marry -the son of such a mother for any consideration in the world! Tell him -that I would _rather die_." She felt at that moment as if she would, -for the woman's cruel words had dragged her heart far from its moorings. - -The next moment Mrs. Cameron was alone, standing in the middle of the -room, where she had so brow-beaten and insulted the innocent daughter of -that unhappy house, listening to Doris's retreating footsteps on the -stairs and in the hall, and then the gentle closing of the outer door. - - - - - *CHAPTER V.* - - *BERNARD SEARCHES FOR DORIS.* - - - Life is so sad a thing, its measure - Brims over full with human tears; - A blighted hope, a buried treasure, - Infinite pain, delusive pleasure, - Make sorrowful our years. - * * * * * - Heaven is so near, oh friend, 'tis yonder, - God's word doth clear the uncertain way; - His hand will bear thee, lest thou wander, - His Spirit teach thee thoughts to ponder - Till thou hast found the day. - LOLA MARSHALL DEANE. - - -Doris had gone. She had promised never to marry Bernard. The young -people were parted for ever. Mrs. Cameron, though poor, had her son, -her dear, if penniless, son all to herself. By a vigorous onslaught she -had defeated and driven away the enemy, utterly routed and confounded. -It was a moment of triumph for her, and yet she felt anything but -triumphant; and it was with a cross and gloomy countenance that she -proceeded downstairs in search of her son, whom she found at last -closeted with Mr. Hamilton in the study. - -"How is Doris?" asked Bernard, rising as his mother entered, and -offering her a chair. - -Mrs. Cameron sat down heavily, a little disconcerted by this -interrogation. - -"What does that matter?" she snapped. "The question is how are we, the -wronged, defrauded, robbed?" - -Her son looked at her impatiently. "After all, it is worse for Doris," -he said, with great feeling. - -"Worse?" ejaculated his mother. - -"Worse?" echoed Mr. Hamilton. He was a long, lean man, remarkable for -his habitual silence and great learning. - -"Yes, ten thousand times worse!" cried Bernard. "We have lost only our -money, but she has lost her parents, her home, her money, and -everything--that is, almost everything," correcting himself, as a smile -flitted across his face, "at one stroke." - -"Bernard is right--and the poor girl has the disgrace to bear as well," -interjected Mr. Hamilton. - -"Humph!" Mrs. Cameron tossed her head. "The Andersons deserve all that -they have got," she was beginning, when Bernard stopped her hastily. - -"Mother," he said, and his tone had lost its usual submissiveness in -speaking to her, "Doris has nothing to do with the cause of our -misfortunes. She knew nothing about all this until after it had -happened." - -"How do you know?" asked Mrs. Cameron sharply. - -"Doris told me so." - -"Doris told you so! And you believed her?" - -"Yes, and always shall!" cried Bernard, his face glowing and his eyes -flashing. "And I would have you understand, mother, that I will have no -word said against Doris. She and I are engaged to be married. She is -my promised wife." - -There was a dead silence in the room when his clear, manly voice ceased -speaking. His mother was too much astounded and disturbed to easily -find words; she had not imagined things had gone quite so far as that -between the young people. And Mr. Hamilton, not knowing what to say, -shrank back into his habitual silence. - -"She is my promised wife," said Bernard again, and there was even more -pride and confidence in his young tones. A smile, joyous and brilliant, -broke out all over his handsome face. Forgotten were the pecuniary -troubles now, the broken career at Oxford, the school that would never -be his. In their place was Doris, his beautiful beloved, who would more -than make up to him for all and everything. To his mother's amazement -and consternation he went on rapidly, "I shall marry her at once, then I -shall have the right to protect her against every breath of -calumny,--though indeed, if you will respect my wish, Mr. Hamilton," he -added, turning to the minister, "and will not tell the police, or -prosecute Mr. Anderson, the matter can be hushed up as far as possible, -and her name will not be tarnished. But in any case, _in any case_," he -repeated, "Doris is mine. I shall marry her and work for her. If the -worst comes to the worst, I can get a clerkship, or a post as -schoolmaster--and with Doris, with Doris," he concluded, "I shall be -very, _very_ happy." - -His mother's words broke like a bombshell into the midst of his fond -imaginings. "Doris has just been telling me," she said, in low, cruel -tones, "that she will _never_ marry you!" - -"What? What are you saying?" exclaimed Bernard, agitatedly, the joy in -his face giving place to an expression of great anxiety. - -His mother said again, "Doris has just been saying to me that she will -never, _never_ marry you. She told me I was to tell you so." - -"But this is most unaccountable!" cried Bernard, beginning to walk up -and down the room. "This is most unaccountable," he repeated. "Why, -she told me----" he broke off, beginning again, "Where is she? I must -see her--must hear from her own lips the reason of this change." - -"You cannot see her, Bernard," said his mother, in slow, icy tones. -"You cannot see her. She is not in this house----" - -"Not in this house? Not here? What do you mean?" - -"She has gone away." - -"But where? Where has she gone?" - -"I do not know." - -"But has she left no message for me?" he asked, with exceeding -anxiousness. - -"She left the message I have given you," answered his mother. "Tell -Bernard," she said, "that I will never, _never_ marry him!" - -"That message I refuse to receive!" cried Bernard. "Poor Doris was in -such trouble she did not know what she was saying--I am sure she did not -mean that." - -"I suppose you think I am telling you a lie?" began his mother hotly. - -Bernard did not reply, indeed he did not apparently hear her words. He -hurried out into the hall, got his hat, and then returned to the room to -say to his mother: - -"Have you no idea where Doris has gone?" - -"Not the least!" snapped Mrs. Cameron. - -"I shall find out. I shall follow her, wherever she has gone. You will -not see me again till she is found!" - -"Bernard! You silly lad!" - -But he had gone. No use, Mrs. Cameron, in rushing after him into the -hall, with all the arguments you can think of! No use in standing -there, frowning and execrating his folly! The influence that draws him -after Doris, in her poor distracted flight, is stronger than that which -binds him to your warped and selfish nature. Love is spurring his -footsteps onward, far, far away from you. If you wish to keep him by -your side, you, too, must have some of its magic. - -Bernard first went on his bicycle to Doncaster, to the railway station, -where, after many inquiries and much futile questioning, he ascertained -that a young lady answering to the description he gave of Miss Anderson -had booked for King's Cross, London, and had set off to go there by the -7.34 train. - -Without hesitation he determined to follow her by the next express, -which was to leave Doncaster at 11.18. It was then eight o'clock, so he -had time to cycle back to Doris's home, there to question Susan Gaunt as -to what relations or friends Miss Anderson had in London besides Miss -Earnshaw, for he thought that in case Doris had not gone to her, as her -mother had directed in the letter he had seen, she might be with other -friends. - -Susan was in a state of great distress and anxiety when she heard that -her dear young lady had gone alone to London so late in the evening. -"There will be no one to meet her when she arrives!" cried the good -woman. "It will be night, and Miss Doris has never been to London -before! She won't know what to do. There won't be any one to take care -of her. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! what will she do?" - -"Well, I'm going after her," said Bernard, "as fast as I can. And I -intend to go straight to Miss Earnshaw's in Earl's Court Square. She -will go there, I suppose?" And he looked searchingly into the old -servant's face. - -"Yes, sir. She will go there, for her mother told her to do so." - -"But, in case she is not there when I arrive?" said the young man -tentatively, "have you any idea of any other friends in London to whom -she may go?" - -"No, sir; no," answered Susan, shaking her head. "She knows no one in -London except Miss Earnshaw. How should she when she has never been -there? Oh, my poor young lady! My poor, dear young lady! God grant she -may find Miss Earnshaw!" - -Bernard left her in tears, and hurried off to his home, in order to pack -a small bag which he could carry on his bicycle to Doncaster Station. -Having trimmed his bicycle-lamp and eaten a little supper, without much -appetite, he strapped his bag on his bicycle and again set off for -Doncaster, arriving there in time for the first night express. - -During the hours of that long, rapid journey south he was full of fears -and doubts; fears for the welfare of the girl who had run away from her -old home in such terrible grief, and despair and doubt as to his power -to find, console, and persuade her to take back her promise not to marry -him. - -The hours of the night wore slowly away, until at 3.5 in the morning his -train arrived at King's Cross. Nothing could be done at that hour, and, -after making inquiries at the station as to whether any young lady had -arrived by the train from Doncaster, which reached King's Cross at 10.45 -P.M., without eliciting any satisfactory information, he lounged about -for a couple of hours, and then went out in search of a coffee-house, -and was glad to find one at last where he could obtain some hot, if -muddy, coffee, and a little bread and butter. - -The homely fare caused him to realise the state of his finances as -nothing else would have done. This was what it meant to be bereft of -fortune! For others would be the comforts and pleasant appointments of -good hotels; for others would be ease, culture, and luxuries: he himself -would have to take a poor man's place in the world. He would have to be -content with penny cups of coffee and halfpenny buns, with poor clothes -and a little home--thankful indeed if he could secure that. - -"But no matter," he said to himself, raising his head and smiling so -brightly that several persons in the coffee-house turned to look at him. -"No matter, if I win Doris for my wife. With her dear face near me, and -her sweet and gentle words of encouragement sounding in my ears, I can -bear all and everything. She will transform a plain little cottage into -a palace by her presence, and will make a poor man rich. I can be -content with anything, shall want nothing, when I have Doris." And -afterwards, when he was walking about in the soft, misty rain, which -seemed to him so black and cheerless, he said again to himself, "It -doesn't matter. Nothing matters now that I am going to Doris." - -For he felt confident that he would find her at Earl's Court Square when -he arrived there. Of course she would have gone straight there in a -cab, as it would be night-time when she arrived at King's Cross. There -was nothing else that she could do. - -He would follow her as soon as he possibly could. Dear little Doris! -How glad she would be that he had not taken her at her word, if indeed -she had sent him that cruel message! How devoted she would think him to -follow her at once! How much comforted she would be to receive the -protestations of unchanging, nay, more, increasing love! - -Time seemed to drag with leaden wings, until what he thought a decent -hour for calling upon Doris began to approach. Then he took a hansom in -a hurry, bidding the cabman drive to Earl's Court Square as fast as he -could. - -It was scarcely ten o'clock when he stood at the great door of the house -in Earl's Court Square, touching the electric button, and waiting in -breathless suspense for the door to open. No one answered his summons -for quite five minutes--which seemed an eternity to him--then the door -slowly opened, and a lad in plain livery stood before him. - -"Is Miss Anderson in?" inquired Bernard. - -"Miss Anderson, sir?" asked the page slowly. - -"Yes, Miss Anderson. Has she not arrived?" - -"No, sir. I don't know whom you mean, sir. There is no one here of that -name." - -Then Doris had not arrived! It was a great blow to poor Bernard. "Can -I see Miss Earnshaw?" he asked at length. - -"No, sir. You can't, sir. She is dead." - -"Dead?" - -"Yes, sir. She died suddenly yesterday of heart disease. Very sudden -it was, sir." - -Dead! Miss Earnshaw! Then what had become of Doris? "Are you quite -sure that a young lady did not come here in the early hours of this -morning?" asked Bernard, slipping a coin into the youth's hand. - -The touch of silver seemed to quicken the latter's memory. "I was in -bed, sir. But if you wait here I will ask Mr. Giles, the butler," he -said, inviting Bernard into the hall and going in search of the -information he needed. - -Presently he returned with a deferential butler, who said to Bernard: - -"There was a young lady came to this house in a hansom, sir, about one -o'clock this morning. She wanted Miss Earnshaw, and seemed terribly cut -up to find she was dead. She saw Mr. Earnshaw, Miss Earnshaw's distant -cousin, who inherits everything. But I think he couldn't do anything -for her, sir, for she went away in great trouble." - -"Where is Mr. Earnshaw?" demanded Bernard excitedly. - -"He went off by an early train to Reigate, where he lives. He won't -return until the day of the funeral." - -"When will that be?" - -"Day after to-morrow." - -"Give me his address. I must wire to him!" exclaimed Bernard. "Did you -observe whether the lady went away in a cab or walked?" - -The butler had not noticed the manner of her departure, nor had any one -else in the house. All the inquiries Bernard made--and they were -many--resulted in nothing. Doris had vanished as completely as it was -possible for any one to vanish in our great and crowded metropolis. - -Bernard was in the greatest distress and anxiety about her, and sought -for her in every possible way, by advertising, through the police, by -telegraphing, and when he returned from Reigate by a personal interview -with Mr. Earnshaw, who said that he had told her that any claim she, -Miss Doris Anderson, had on Miss Earnshaw could not be considered at all -by him, for he had nothing to do with it, and could not see his way to -do anything to help her. - -Bernard said strong words, and looked with exceeding anger upon the -wealthy man who had just inherited the great house. But the warmth of -his feelings only hastened his own departure, for Mr. Earnshaw requested -his servant to show him out with all speed. - -And nowhere in London could Bernard discover a trace of Doris Anderson, -though he sought for her diligently and with care. - -Bernard was a true Christian, possessing earnest faith, otherwise he -would have been perfectly overwhelmed by these sad reverses of love and -fortune; as it was, although he was very unhappy, hope never quite left -him, and in this, his darkest hour, he was able to trust in God and take -courage. - - - - - *CHAPTER VI.* - - *DORIS ALONE IN LONDON.* - - - Most men in a brazen prison live - Where is the sun's lost eye, - With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly - Their lives to some unmeaning task, work give, - Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall. - - But often in the world's most crowded streets, - And often in the din of strife, - There rises an unspeakable desire - After the knowledge of our buried life. - MATTHEW ARNOLD. - - -Doris felt quite stunned when she found that her friend Miss Earnshaw -was dead, and that Mr. Earnshaw, the heir, refused to recognise any -obligation to be kind to one whom she had loved. Night though it was -when Doris arrived in London she hurried to Earl's Court Square in a -cab, for she knew not where else to go. It seemed to her most fortunate -that Miss Earnshaw's house was lighted up, little knowing the reason for -it. And then the shock of learning the sad news of the sudden decease -of her old friend was great, and the cold and almost rude behaviour of -Mr. Earnshaw, who would have nothing to do with one whom he looked upon -as a protegee of his late cousin's, gave poignancy to her distress. - -[Illustration: "THE SHOCK OF LEARNING THE SAD NEWS WAS GREAT."] - -Doris had very little money in her purse, and knew not what to do. -Mechanically therefore she returned to the cab, whose driver she had not -paid, and re-entered it. - -"Where next, madam?" asked the cabman. - -Not knowing what to say, Doris made no answer. Was there in all the -world, she wondered, a being more deplorably hopeless, homeless, and -overwhelmed with trouble than she? Where could she turn? What could -she do? It was out of the question that she should return to Yorkshire, -where there was now nothing but ruin and disgrace for an Anderson. She -would not encounter Mrs. Cameron again if she could by any means avoid -doing so, and she had promised never to marry her son. Bernard would be -sorry for her now, she knew, yes, very sorry indeed. Still he had shrunk -from her and looked very strange upon hearing of her father's -misappropriation of his money and absconding, which was enough truly to -seriously lessen his affection for her. Indeed, Doris thought he could -no longer love her, in which case she had certainly lost him entirely. - -Father, mother, lover, all gone; cut off from friends by a black cloud -of disgrace and shame, penniless and alone, terribly alone in a world of -which she knew so little, amidst dangers more vast than she, with her -limited experience, could imagine, what could she do? Surely God as -well as man had forsaken her! She turned quite sick and faint. - -"Where to, lady?" asked the cabman again, and this time there was a note -of compassion in his rough voice which appealed to Doris. - -She burst into tears. - -The man turned his head aside. He was one of nature's gentlemen, though -only a poor cabman, and it was not for him to look upon a lady's tears. -He stepped back to his horse the next minute, and pretended to busy -himself with the harness. - -Doris had time to recover. In a few minutes she was able to check her -tears. Then she beckoned to the cabman to approach. - -"I am in trouble," she said; "the friend to whose house you have driven -me died suddenly yesterday----" She broke down pitifully. - -The cabman nodded. "That's bad!" said he, looking down on the ground. - -"I don't know what to do," added Doris in tones of despair. - -"There'll be servants in this big house, won't they take you in for the -remainder of the night, at least," suggested the man. - -"I dare say they would if they were alone," answered Doris. "But there -is a man in the house--I cannot call him a gentleman--who says -everything is now his, and that I have no claim upon him, and he will do -nothing for me." - -The cabman muttered something strong, and then broke off to apologise -for speaking so roughly. "You'll excuse me, miss," he added, "if I say -I should like to punch the fellar's 'ead. May I go to the door and make -'em take you in if I can?" he asked finally. - -"No, thank you," replied Doris. "I am poor and homeless"--her lips -quivered--"but I am too proud to intrude where I am not wanted." She -turned her head on one side. - -The horse started forward a step or two, and the cabman went to its -head. A sudden gust of wind and rain swept over Doris through the open -door, causing her to shiver. The man returned to her side. - -"We can't stay here any longer, miss," he said. - -"No"--Doris hesitated--"no, but----" she paused. - -"Where shall I take you, lady?" asked the cabman. - -"I don't know," replied Doris miserably. - -The man stood waiting somewhat impatiently. All was silent in the -square: there were no passers by, except one solitary policeman, who -stood to look at them for a moment, and then passed on. - -"Drive me to an hotel, please," said Doris at length. - -"Yes, lady." - -The cabman drove her to two or three hotels without avail; either they -were closed for the night, or the night-porter on duty refused to admit -a lady without any luggage. - -Again the cabman came to Doris for orders. "What will you do?" he asked. - -"I don't know," replied Doris, pitifully, with quivering lips. She felt -terribly desolate and lonely. - -Fortunately for her the cabman happened to be an honest man, who had a -wife and children of his own, therefore seeing his "fare" so helpless, -and so entirely ignorant of the great city, with its immense dangers for -a young and solitary girl, stranded in its midst, in the night-time, he -suggested, "You might go to a decent lodging, lady, until morning." - -"Yes, I should be glad. But how can I find one? Do you know of one?" -asked the girl desperately. - -"There's my mother at King's Cross. She's poor, but respectable, and -she lets lodgings and happens to have no one in them at present." - -Doris looked at him as he spoke. Could she venture to go to his mother? -He seemed an honest man. And what else could she do? - -"Mother's house is clean," continued the cabman. "She lives in a quiet -street a few doors from where I live with my wife and children. -Mother's always been very particular about her lodgers: and she's so -clean," he persisted. "Any one might eat off her floor, as they say." - -The simple words appealed to Doris; they bore the stamp of sincerity, -and so also did the honest kindly face of the poor man. But still she -hesitated: her common sense told her she could not be too careful. - -"Perhaps you'd look at this, miss," said the man, putting his hand in -his breast pocket and producing a small New Testament. He opened it and -pointed to the inscription written on the fly-leaf, which Doris read by -the light of the cab-lamp: - -"Presented to Sam Austin by his friend and teacher the Rev. Charles -Barnett, as a small acknowledgment of his valuable assistance in the St. -Michael's Night School, London, N." - -"How nice!" said Doris. "Thank you for showing that to me. I will go -to your mother's. I am sure she must be a good woman." - -"She is indeed, lady. A better woman never lived, though I say it." - -"Drive me there, please," said Doris. - -The man shut the door of the cab and returned to his seat. - -An hour afterwards poor tired Doris found herself comfortably lodged in -a small but respectable house near King's Cross, and before retiring to -rest she thanked God for His providential care of her during the -difficulties and dangers of the night. - -Downstairs Mrs. Austin was giving her son a cup of cocoa and asking -questions about the young lady he had brought to her. - -"We don't know anything about her, Sam," she said cautiously. "There is -of course no doubt about her being in trouble, and looking as good as an -angel, too, but one can never tell. I'd rather she'd have had some -luggage. Don't you think if she had come up from the country to stay -with her friend, now, she'd have had some luggage?" - -"Well, yes, so she would in an ord'nary way--but we don't know all the -circumstances. And it was a first-class big house in a fashionable -square, and she went up to the door as boldly as if she expected a -welcome----" - -"Which she didn't get, and they wouldn't have anything to do with her -there. That looks bad. For the rest you have only her own tale to go -by." - -"Mother, are you going to turn her out?" asked Sam, with reproach in his -voice. - -"No, Sam, I can't do that. But I shall keep my eyes open." - -"You'll be good to her, mother, I know." - -"Yes, of course." Mrs. Austin smiled, and her son knew that she would -keep her word. - -He went away then with his cab, and Mrs. Austin closed her house for the -night and went upstairs to bed, pausing on the landing by her new -lodger's door. Did the girl want anything, she wondered, and after a -low knock she opened the door softly. - -Doris was kneeling by her bed-side, and with a little nod of -satisfaction Mrs. Austin withdrew. - -Doris's sleep, when at last she sought her couch, was long, so that when -she awoke it was afternoon and she found her landlady standing by her -bedside, with a little tray, on which was tea and toast. - -"You are very good to me, Mrs. Austin," she said, gratefully, as she -partook of the refreshing tea. - -"I'm very pleased to have such a nice lodger, miss," said the widow, -completely won over and forgetting all her misgivings, as her stout, -good-humoured countenance expanded in a broad smile. "There are some -who like gentlemen lodgers best, but I don't. 'Give me a nice young -lady,' says I, 'and you may take all your gentlemen!'" - -Doris smiled a little dolefully. "But I haven't very much money----" -she began. - -"Don't you worrit yourself about that, miss! The sovereign you gave me -when you came in will see you through at least two weeks here, so far as -lodging is concerned--of course the food will come to rather more--but -it may be that you will find work, if it is work you are wanting, miss, -though you do seem too much of a lady for that sort of thing." - -"I shall have to work," said Doris, "because I have very little money, -and no one to give me any more." - -"Dear me, that's bad. Might I make so bold, miss, as to ask if you have -been running away from home--from your parents, miss?" - -Running away from her parents? How different the case really was! It -was her parents who had run away from her! But she could not tell Mrs. -Austin this. She therefore only shook her head, saying gently, "I lost -my parents before leaving home. The--the reason I have no luggage is -this, I--I was in great trouble when I came away, and so I forgot to -pack any." - -"Then can't you send for your luggage, miss?" asked the woman. - -"No, no. There are reasons why the people I left, at least one of them, -must not know where I am. So I can't send. Besides, I left in debt, -and as I cannot pay the money, I want the people to have my clothes and -jewellery." - -Mrs. Austin's round eyes opened wider. It was queer, and her first -feelings of compassion, which had been aroused by her lodger's pitiable -situation, and by the fact that she had seen her on her knees, became -mingled with doubts and suspicions. This young lady left the last place -she stayed at in debt; it would behove her present landlady to be -careful lest she, too, should be taken in. Miss Anderson was very young -and innocent-looking, but it was wonderful how sharp those baby-faced -girls could be! - -"I shall have to buy a few things," said Doris, "and that will cost -money. But I must look out for work immediately. The question is, what -can I do?" - -"I should think you can do a great many things, miss," said Mrs. Austin. -"A young lady like you will almost have been taught everything." - -Doris shook her head. "I know a smattering of many things," she said, -"but I doubt if I could earn money by any one of them." - -"Well, miss, time will show. I wouldn't worrit myself about it this -evening, if I were you--I would just lie still and go to sleep. You're -worn out, that's what you are." - -Doris took this good advice so far as to lie down again after she had -her tea, with her face to the wall. But for some time she did not go to -sleep, for her heart ached too much; yet she did not weep, though there -was a pain at the back of her eyes which hurt more than tears, and did -not give her the relief that they would have given. She felt keenly her -changed circumstances. Two days ago she had a good home, kind parents, -an ardent lover, and many friends and acquaintances; now she had lost -all. She was homeless, her parents had forsaken her, she and her lover -had parted for ever. She was without friends and without acquaintances, -for they, too, were left behind. "I am alone, quite alone," she -thought; and then remembered that the best Friend of all, her Heavenly -Father, was still with her. That idea saved her from despair, and gave -birth to the resolve that she would not allow herself to sink beneath -her troubles, but would keep a brave heart and endeavour to live -worthily. Her life would be different from of old; yes, but it need not -be worse--rather, it should be better. Longfellow's familiar words rose -to her mind: - - Not enjoyment and not sorrow - Is our destined end or way; - But to act that each to-morrow - Finds us further than to-day. - -And she grasped the idea, even then, in that hour of bitter humiliation -and despair, that the brave soul is not made by circumstances, and the -environment which they bring, but, strengthened by Him who first trod -the narrow way, it makes stepping-stones of what would otherwise deter -and hinder it, pressing on to the prize of our high calling, the "Well -done, good and faithful servant!" of our Master. - -So Doris said to herself, "I will live to some purpose, and first of all -I will set before myself one aim above all others. If I possibly can -earn money enough, in some way or other, I will repay Bernard the money -of which my father robbed him--yes, that shall be my ambition. To pay -the debt--the debt my father owes him." - -Twenty-five thousand pounds! An immense sum truly! But immense are the -courage and the hopefulness of youth, inexperienced, ignorant but -magnificent with the rainbow hues of undaunted imagination. - -When at last Doris fell asleep the last words she murmured to herself -were these: - - To pay the debt. - -And her last thought was that she would be honourable and true to the -teaching of that Voice which is not far from any one of us, if only we -have hearing ears and an understanding heart. - - - - - *CHAPTER VII.* - - *FRIENDS IN NEED.* - - - Like threads of silver seen through crystal beads - Let Love through good deeds show. - SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. - - -This is a very hard world for those who, untrained for any special -vocation, find themselves through stress of circumstances driven into -the labour market, to oppose with unskilful hands and untrained brain -the skilful and highly trained labour of professional workers. - -Pretty golden-haired Doris, with her slender array of accomplishments -and small amount of book learning, found herself at a great disadvantage -as compared with girls who had received a sound Board School, or High -School, education. As a teacher she could find no employment, having no -certificates, and testimonials, or references to give. After answering -many advertisements, which entailed much expenditure in bus and train -fares, though she walked whenever she could, thereby saving her pennies -at the cost of shoe leather, she was obliged to come to the conclusion -that not by teaching would her money be earned. The same ill success -attended her search for a situation as lady's companion. Her want of -references alone debarred her from any chance of success in that -direction. - -One day, when passing down a well-known street in north London, she -perceived a notice in a dress and milliner's shop window stating that -young girls were much needed as junior assistants. She therefore went -in to make inquiries, and found that if she liked to go there and sew -from morning to night she would receive in payment a couple of meals a -day and eighteenpence a week. It would be impossible for her to be -lodged also, the manageress said, as they had as many hands living in as -they had beds for. Plenty of girls were to be had for that trifling -wage, as they went there to get an insight into the business, hoping to -pass on to better work and higher wages in due course. - -As it was impossible for Doris to pay for a bedroom out of such a wage -she was compelled to decline the work; and as the weeks passed by and -nothing better turned up she at last found herself in a pawn shop, -trying to raise a little money on her watch and chain, and undergoing a -truly humiliating experience. - -The day came, only too soon, when Doris was obliged to confess to her -landlady that she could no longer pay for her week's lodging in advance. -By that time, however, Mrs. Austin had conceived a real attachment to -her young lady lodger. When, therefore, Doris stated her sad case, with -tears in her eyes, the good woman's heart was touched. - -"Now don't you take on about that, miss, don't!" she cried. "I shall -not ask you for any more money till I am obliged, miss. I know you will -pay me when you can." - -"You may be quite sure I shall do that," said Doris. "I am only too -distressed at the idea of your having to wait for the money." - -Mrs. Austin went out of the room, to return, however, in a few minutes -with what she thought might be a "helpful suggestion." - -"If you can paint, miss," she said, "perhaps they may be willing to sell -your pictures at some of the picture shops." - -Doris's face brightened. Her little water-colour and oil paintings had -been very much admired at home. But she sighed the next moment, as she -said gently, "I have no paints here, or brushes, or canvas, or -anything!" - -"I have thought of that," said Mrs. Austin cheerfully. "Just you come -upstairs with me." - -She led the way up the narrow stairs to the back bedroom where she -slept, and pointed to a chest of drawers with no little pride. "My Sam -made that," she said, "when he was a joiner and cabinet maker, before he -took to cab driving, which I wish sometimes he had not done. For it's a -life of temptation. The fares so often give drinks to -cabmen--'specially on cold nights. Sam says it's almost impossible -sometimes to keep from taking too much; and his wife has cried more than -once because he has come home 'with three sheets in the wind,' as they -call it. And he's reckoned a sober man, for he's that naturally, only -he lives in the way of temptation. But now, look here, miss!" - -Opening a drawer Mrs. Austin displayed all sorts of painting materials -heaped up within it. Water-colour paints, drawing blocks, palettes, -oil-tubes, canvases, pencils, and chalks were all mixed up together. - -"These belonged to my dear son Silas," said Mrs. Austin, wiping her eyes -with a corner of her apron. "He was never strong like Sam, he was -always a delicate lad. He couldn't do hard work, with his poor thin -hands and weakly legs. But he was a rare lad for a bit of colour. -'Mother, I'll be an artist,' he oft said to me. And I had him taught. -He used to attend classes, and go to a School of Art--I was at a deal of -expense--and now, now he's gone!" She broke down, sobbing bitterly, -while Doris put her arms round her neck and kissed her poor red face, -which was all she could do to comfort her. "He's gone," continued the -widow pathetically, "to be an artist up above, if so be it's true that -God permits people to carry on their work on high." - - "On the earth the broken arcs, in the - Heaven a perfect round," - -quoted Doris softly. - -"Ay, miss, I think so," said the poor woman, whom sorrow had taught -much. "My Silas, he said to me when he lay dying, 'Mother, God is the -Master Artist, He began me, just as I begin my pictures, and He never -makes mistakes, or wastes His materials; He'll turn me into something -good over there, as it isn't to be down here.'" - -"He had beautiful faith," said Doris, "and I am sure it will be as he -said." - -"Oh, my dear young lady," cried the other, with great feeling, "I thank -God that He sent you here! I do feel so comforted to have you here, and -I do hope you will do me the favour to accept these painting -things--every one of them, please. Then you can paint pictures and sell -them, as my poor dear boy wanted to do." - -Doris, however, was reluctant to accept so much, and only did so at last -on the understanding that if she were so fortunate as to sell her -pictures Mrs. Austin should have a percentage of the pay, for the use of -the materials. That settled, it became necessary to arrange where the -work should be done; for both Doris's bedroom and the little front -parlour, where she sat and had her meals, were too dark for the purpose. - -Mrs. Austin was equal to the occasion. "Why shouldn't you have the top -attic, where my boy used to paint?" she said. "There's a sky-light, you -know; and my Silas always said the light fell beautiful in his study, or -studio, as he used to call it. Do come upstairs and see what it is -like?" - -Doris did so, and found a large attic lighted by a huge sky-light. -Boxes and lumber littered the floor, an old square table was against the -wall, and a rather decrepit easel stood under the sky-light; a few -plaster casts, and big discoloured chalk drawings, were scattered about, -or stuck on the walls with gum-paper, or sealing wax. The atmosphere of -the attic was close and fusty, it having evidently been shut up for a -long time. - -"Why, this is the very place for me to paint in!" exclaimed Doris. -"Will the skylight open? Oh, thanks!" as the landlady, opening it, let -in a pleasant draught of fresh air. "That is charming!" - -"I will clean and tidy up the place for you, miss, and bring a chair or -two in, and scrub the table clean, and then you can begin as soon as you -like." - -Mrs. Austin was as good as her word, and when Doris returned to the -attic in the afternoon quite a transformation had taken place, and, if -not an ideal studio, it was certainly a light and extremely picturesque -one. An old but clean rug had been found for the centre of the floor, -an old-fashioned Windsor armchair and a three-legged stool were placed -near the table, on which was spread a large old crimson cloth, while a -little cheap art muslin of the colour of old gold was draped here and -there as curtains to hide the unsightly lumber. The attic smelt rather -strongly of soft soap and soda, but that, the landlady remarked -succinctly, was "a good fault," and certainly through the open sky-light -came remarkably good air for London. - -Doris could not do anything that first day, as by the time she had put a -few touches to the room and arranged her things it was too dark to -paint. But there was gas laid on, so she sat at the table that evening, -with pencil and paper before her, making little sketches from memory of -places she had seen, which she intended to utilise for her paintings by -daylight. And as she did so, for the first time since the dreadful -night on which she had heard of her father's crime, something like -happiness returned to her. - -Great is the power of work to tide us over waves of trouble--waves -strong enough, if we sit brooding over them, with idle hands clasped on -our knees, to sink our little crafts in the sea of life, so that they -will never reach the quieter waters where they can sail serenely. "Work -hard at something, work hard," said the Philosopher of Labour, over and -over again. "Idleness alone is worst: idleness alone is without hope." -Work, he went on to say, cleared away the ill humours of the mind, -making it ready to receive all sweet and gracious influences. And in -Doris's case it was so for a while that evening; and day by day -afterwards as she sat busily working in her attic, the cloud of -shame--laid upon her innocent shoulders by her guilty father--lifted and -disappeared; for she felt instinctively, as she worked, that she, at all -events, had no part nor lot in that matter, but was doing her -best--feebly enough, yet nevertheless her best--to destroy one of the -consequences of his sin, which was certainly the right thing to do. - -And as she worked Hope came, touching with rainbow hues the dreary -outlines of her dismal thoughts, letting a little light in here and -shutting a little dark out there, until the future began to look less -drearily forlorn, and even became gradually endowed with pleasant -happenings. She would sell her pictures, at first for low prices which -would tempt purchasers; they would be liked, orders would pour in, she -would raise her prices, earning more and more money. Living on quietly -where she was, with good, kind Mrs. Austin, she would save what was not -actually needed for her simple wants; and thus would begin that secret -hoard which, she hoped, would one day grow to such dimensions that she -could pay part of the debt her father owed Bernard Cameron. - -Then she grew happier every day, and as Mrs. Austin never failed to -applaud loudly every little picture that was made she thought that -others, too, would see some beauty in them. She knew, of course, that -the good landlady was only an uncultivated, ignorant woman, and -therefore one who could not be a judge of art, yet Doris fondly imagined -that, having had a son who aspired to be an artist, Mrs. Austin must -know more of such things than ordinary women of her class. - -She was disillusioned only too soon. There came a day upon which, -having half a dozen little pictures finished, she ventured out bravely -for the purpose of offering them for sale. Sam Austin, who took a great -interest in the project, had, at his mother's solicitation, written down -for her the names and addresses of three or four picture-dealers, and, -not content with doing that, he was most anxious to drive her to their -shops in his cab, in order that she might make a good impression. - -"It won't do, mother," he said, "to let them dealers imagine that she -can hardly scrape together a living by her work. They would not think -it very valuable in that case. Folks usually take us for what we appear -to be in this world; and if we want to get on we must not let outsiders -peep behind the scenes." - -Doris would have preferred to go alone, in order that she might make her -little venture unobserved even by the cabman's friendly eyes; but, not -liking to grieve him and his mother, she accepted the offer of his cab, -and was accordingly driven over to what she hoped would be the scenes of -her triumph and success, but which proved instead to be those of bitter -humiliation and disappointment. - -Cheerful and brave she was when she stepped out of her cab and entered -the first picture-dealer's shop, with her brown paper parcel in her -hand, to return saddened, disheartened, and chagrined ten minutes later, -with the same parcel rather less tidily wrapped up. The cabman, who -hastily opened the cab-door for her, guessing the truth, regarded her -very seriously, whereupon she endeavoured to smile; but the attempt was -a failure, and only her pale face quivered as she bowed assent to his -proposition that he should drive her on to the next dealer's. Here, as -before, she was received with effusive politeness--for, coming up, as -she did, in a cab, the driver of which hurried down from his seat to -open the door for her, touching his cap most deferentially as he did so, -the shopkeeper expected that at least her parcel contained some valuable -picture which they were to frame for her. But when it turned out that -she was only offering them what one or two men rudely termed "amateur -daubs" for sale, their manner changed with extraordinary rapidity. It -appeared that they did not want any pictures to sell, either in oils or -water-colours. They had more of that sort of "stuff" than they could do -with. Young ladies supplied them with any amount for a nominal payment, -and did the paintings better, too, than those which were being offered. -"Even if we bought yours," said one dealer, "and I tell you they are not -good enough for us, we should only offer you a price which would -scarcely pay for your materials." - -It was plain to poor Doris at length that there was no market at all for -her wares, and Sam waxed furious as he read the truth in her pitiful -face. As he drove her homeward he was divided in his mind as to two -lines of conduct. Should he go back and give these dealers a bit of his -mind, or should he try to speak words of comfort to the poor young lady -as he left her at his mother's door? Finally he decided to do the -latter, and therefore as he opened the carriage door for her to alight -he ventured: - -"I ought to have told you, miss, that it's terrible hard for any one -without a connection to get a footing in the business world. Dealers -always know people who can do work for them if they require it, and -outsiders have but little chance." This was a long speech for Sam to -make to a lady, and he only got through it by looking into his hat -steadily all the time he was speaking. - -"Yes," said Doris, "I suppose so. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. -Austin," she added gratefully. "I am sure," she continued, her pale -face lighting up with a smile, "if these picture-dealers were more like -you they would be much improved." - -"If I was a picture-dealer," said Sam to himself, as he drove off with -his empty cab, thinking over this compliment, "I'd buy the whole -bloomin' lot of pictures at a price that would ruin me rather than bring -tears to the eyes of that blessed little angel. It's horsewhipping, or -else shooting, them dealers want, and I'd give it them if I was the -Government, I would, as sure as my name is Sam Austin." - - - - - *CHAPTER VIII.* - - *NEW WORK FOR DORIS.* - - - Have hope, though clouds environ now, - And gladness hides her face in scorn: - Put thou the sadness from thy brow, - No night but hath its morn. - SCHILLER. - - -That was a dark time with Doris. Long afterwards she looked back upon -it as the hour of her deepest humiliation, when the tide of her life was -at its lowest ebb, and Giant Despair held out claw-like hands to seize -her for his own. - -She was unsuccessful: the pictures she had thought so pretty were of no -commercial value, her only hope of making a living for herself, not to -mention her magnificent project of repaying Bernard Cameron some of the -money of which her father had robbed him, was completely destroyed. She -had no gift by means of which she could - - Breast the blows of circumstance - And grapple with her evil star, - And make by force her merit known. - -And she was friendless, except for the Austins, and alone in London; -moreover, she was absolutely penniless, nay, worse than that, she was in -debt, not having paid for her food and lodging for at least three weeks. - -Going upstairs as quickly as possible, in order that she might escape -Mrs. Austin's questions and even her sympathy, which just then she could -not bear, Doris entered her little room, and, locking the door, flung -herself on her knees by her bedside. - -She had no words with which to beseech the intervention of the -All-Powerful; but words were not needed, her very attitude was a prayer, -her want of words a confession of the extremity of her need. It was -impossible for her to do anything more for herself. She knelt there and -waited for assistance. - -Now it happened that Mrs. Austin, on an errand to her grocer's, meeting -her son Sam, as he was driving away with his empty cab, learnt the truth -about Doris's failure from him, greatly to her disappointment. - -"Oh, poor dear young lady!" she cried, "what will she do now? Whatever -will she do now? Painting was the only thing she could do?" - -"Well, she'll have to do something else," said Sam, "since those -picture-dealers won't 'ave her work." - -"But what else can she do?" ejaculated Mrs. Austin in consternation. - -Sam did not know; but he was obliged to drive on, having spent more time -than he could afford on Miss Anderson's business that morning. Mrs. -Austin returned home, and, by way of comforting Doris, set the kettle -on, and began to prepare a little meal for her. As she was thus busily -engaged the door-latch was raised, and a youth entered dressed as a -shop-boy and bearing a family resemblance to the Austins. - -"Good afternoon, aunt," he said, looking round the room with sharp eyes -that noted everything. - -"Good afternoon. I suppose you are in want of a bite or a sup?" she -remarked sagaciously. - -"Well, I do feel a bit of a sinking here," and he made a rapid gesture -indicative of hunger. - -"Sit you down then; I'm just making a little dinner ready, and a cup of -tea for my lady-lodger, and you shall have some too, Sandy, if you'll -wait." - -"All right, I'll wait," and so saying he sat down and watched his aunt -as she boiled a couple of eggs and made tea in a little brown teapot -which had seen many days. - -As she worked Mrs. Austin talked, and, because her mind was full of -Doris she spoke most of her, not exactly revealing her artistic efforts -and subsequent failure to effect a sale of her pictures, but still -graphically portraying her need of remunerative work. - -Sandy listened with scanty attention. He was much more interested in -the egg and large cup of tea which his aunt placed before him, and it -seemed as if he were the last person in the world to do Doris any good. -Indeed, Mrs. Austin suddenly perceived that her words were absolutely -wasted, and therefore pulled herself up short, with the exclamation, "I -declare, I might as well talk to this lampshade as to you!" She glanced -as she spoke at the pretty crimson shade over the gas-light. It was -made of crinkled paper, tied together with a narrow ribbon. - -"You never have an idea in your head, Sandy," she added. - -Sandy grinned. "Who made that lampshade?" he asked, as he cut the top -off his egg. - -"What shade? Oh? the gas-shade! Miss Anderson, my lodger, you know, -made that for me one evening, with a bit of crinkled paper that only -cost 2-1/2*d*. Very handy she is with her fingers." - -Sandy made no further remark until he had finished eating and drinking -everything that was placed before him. "There," he said, at last, "I've -done! Now then for a look at this shade," rising to look at the pretty -lamp-shade, tied with a knot of crimson ribbon, which Doris had made in -a few minutes with her clever fingers, as a small thank-offering for her -landlady. - -"Well, what do you think? Isn't it pretty?" asked Mrs. Austin. - -"Pretty? Yes, well, it's pretty. I reckon if your lady-lodger made -some of these for our shop they'd sell." - -"Would they now?" There was eagerness in the question. Could this -possibly prove to be a chance of work for poor Miss Anderson? - -"Yes. We sell lots of flimsy silk lampshades that cost heaps of money. -And we're often asked for something cheaper. Our manager might be -inclined to buy some like this." - -"Would he indeed? Oh, Sandy, Sandy!" In her eagerness the good woman -caught hold of his arm. "Poor dear Miss Anderson does not know where to -turn for a penny. Could you get her this work to do, for good pay, do -you think?" - -Sandy grinned again. "You said I never have an idea in my head," he -began teasingly. - -"I did. Yes, I did, but I won't say so again. I won't if you'll get my -dear young lady some work that will keep the wolf from her door." - -"The wolf? What wolf?" Sandy looked round with an assumed air of -alarm. - -"The wolf of hunger." - -"I shouldn't have thought you would have allowed him to come near a -lodger of yours." - -"Get out with you!" Mrs. Austin pushed him towards the door. "Run and -see if there is a chance for Miss Anderson." - -"A chance? Oh, I see what you mean. Just ask her first if she would be -willing to do the work at a fair price." - -"Willing? She'd jump at it. But I tell you what, Sandy, we must not -have her disappointed again. I won't say anything to her about it until -we know whether she can have the work and on what terms." - -"But the manager will want to see a specimen," protested Sandy. "He's a -big man. You can't rush before him with nothing. He'd order me off at -once for fooling round in that way." - -"Specimen? Oh, well, if you want one, take this," said Mrs. Austin, -carefully taking down the pretty shade Doris had made, blowing the dust -from it, and wrapping it lightly up in a huge newspaper. "Now you must -hold it in this way not to crush it," she said, "and make as good terms -as you can for my young lady; tell your manager she is a real lady, who -won't do things for nothing." - -"All right!" Sandy darted off with the shade, and Mrs. Austin went -upstairs with her tea-tray. - -Doris opened the door slowly. Her eyes were red with weeping, and her -hair was dishevelled and dress untidy. "Oh, Mrs. Austin," she said, -"I've been so unfortunate! No one will have my pictures. They are not -good enough to sell----" - -"Nay, nay. That's not it. But there's no market for such pretty -things. I know all about it, my dear young lady. I met Sam and he told -me. He is so sorry, he has a feeling heart, has Sam. But there, there, -don't you take on so! Don't cry, dearie!" She was crying herself, with -sympathy. - -Doris had burst into tears, and sat down weeping as if her heart would -break. - -"Come! come! we mustn't give way. It's always the darkest hour before -the dawn," said the good woman soothingly. - -"If only I hadn't wasted all this time, and used your painting -materials! And now what shall I do? What shall I do?" cried Doris. - -Mrs. Austin's resolve not to tell her about the lamp-shade making until -Sandy returned with good news vanished in the stress of this necessity, -and she hastily related to Doris that her nephew had thought of some -paying work which she might be able to do. - -The girl was startled at the idea of such work. It was very different -from what she had been attempting; but her downfall was too real for her -to be able to indulge in her former hopes, and her need of money was too -great for her to be fastidious, she therefore brightened up a little, -and began to talk about the new project. At all events this might -provide her with sufficient money for food and lodgings until she could -procure something better. - -The two went on discussing the matter whilst Doris drank her tea and ate -her egg and bread and butter; and then Mrs. Austin took the tray down, -and waited impatiently for the return of her nephew. - -At last he came in, bringing the manager's compliments to Miss Anderson, -and he begged her to call upon him the next day. - -Doris, therefore, went to the ironmonger's shop in the morning, was duly -shown into the manager's room, and, after remaining there, some little -time talking over the matter with him, the result was that she was -engaged to work at lamp-shade making for the firm, in a little room -behind the shop, for eight hours a day, at a salary commencing at -sixteen shillings a week. - -This arrangement Doris thought a more desirable one than another which -would necessitate her providing her own materials, making the shades in -her attic, and receiving so much a dozen for them. She stipulated, -however, that if the shades sold well her salary should be increased in -proportion. - -Weeks and months of pretty, if monotonous work followed for Doris. Her -candle- and lamp-shades were a decided success, and sold quickly at low -prices. One window of the shop was given up for a display of them, and -they made a "feature," or a "speciality," which attracted customers. -The head of the firm, Mr. Boothby, sent for Doris one day, praised her -handiwork, and raised her salary to a pound a week. - -Doris was very thankful for the additional money, as it enabled her -gradually to pay her kind landlady all she owed, and still have fifteen -shillings a week for her board and lodging. More than this the good -woman would not take, and as for Sam, he stoutly refused to be paid -anything for the use of his cab on the picture business. One favour -only he begged, and that was that Miss Anderson would give him one of -the little pictures he had endeavoured to assist her to sell. - -Doris chose one of the best, and wrote his name on the back of it, much -to his delight. - -She became contented, if not happy, as time went on, knowing that she -could earn her living by work which was not too hard for her strength; -but her old dream of partially repaying Bernard Cameron was no nearer -fulfilment, for what could she do with only a few shillings a week for -dress and personal expenditure? Sometimes, as her fingers worked -busily, her thoughts were turning over new schemes for earning money, -which might in the future develop into something greater and more -lucrative than what she had in hand just then; and on a Saturday -afternoon or Sunday, when walking or sitting in Regent's Park, or more -occasionally in Hyde Park, or even at Richmond or Kew Gardens, her -thoughts would fly to those who loved her, and she would long to see -again her mother and father, and look once more on the beloved face of -Bernard Cameron. - -Did they ever think of her? she wondered. Would she ever meet them -again? They could have no possible clue to her whereabouts. She, buried -in a little back room at the ironmonger's shop for eight hours a day, -had small chance of being seen by any one except workpeople and shop -assistants. And even if she were out-of-doors more, walking about in -those North London streets, or in the parks, or mingling with the -"madding crowd" within the City, what likelihood was there that she -would run across any of the three who, in spite of the sad separation -from her, yet occupied the largest share of her heart of hearts? Where -were they now? Probably her parents were hiding away somewhere abroad, -perhaps in America or Australia, banished for ever from England by her -father's sin and fear of the penalty of the laws which he had broken. -It was wretched to think of them in their self-imposed, compulsory -exile. Her mother's words, "Farewell, my child: my heart would break at -parting from you, were it not that what has happened has broken it -already!" recurred to her, to fill her eyes with tears, and make her -heart ache painfully. - -Scarcely less painful was it to think of Bernard, and of his tender -love, because that was followed by his shrinking back from her when she -last saw him, and by his mother's upbraiding and harsh cry, "If you -marry, you will take your husband a dowry of shame." And again, "Do you -mean to say that there is anything between you, the daughter of a -criminal who shall yet be brought to justice if there be any power in -the arm of the law, and my son, my stainless, innocent child?" and then -her excited denunciation: - -"You bad girl! Not content with your father having ruined my boy by -stealing all his money, you are mean enough and wicked enough to -deliberately determine to cut away his one remaining chance of rising in -the world! You would ruin him ... you intend to cling to him as a -limpet clings to a rock ... he won't be able to raise you, poor lad, but -you will drag him down into the mire, which will close over his head!" - -Well, she had given him up; goaded by those words, following his obvious -shrinking from her, she had left him a message which, if he loved her -still, would sting him to the quick, and, in any case, had sufficed to -sever them for ever. - -It was done now. She must not brood; that would do no good, it would -only unfit her for her daily work. Perhaps in time the feelings which -racked her heart when she thought of these things would grow blunt, the -hand of Time would still the pain, and her Heavenly Father would send -angels down to whisper to her words of peace and consolation. - - - - - *CHAPTER IX.* - - *ALICE SINCLAIR'S POT-BOILERS.* - - - Yet gold is not all that doth golden seeme. - SPENSER. - - -"Good-morning! Some one has told me that you have a garret to let in -this house." The speaker, a merry girl a little over twenty, stood in -Mrs. Austin's doorway, smiling up at her, one hot day in summer. - -"A garret, miss. Who for?" asked Mrs. Austin, smiling back at her -visitor. - -"Well, for me," answered the girl, quite gaily. - -"For you, miss?" exclaimed Mrs. Austin, in surprise. "Why, you don't -look like one who would sleep in a garret!" - -"Well, no. I don't think I should like to sleep in a garret, unless it -were a very pretty one. But I want to rent one, if I can find one with -a good skylight. I want it for artistic work." - -"Oh, indeed, miss! Are you an artist?" - -There was respect, and even awe, in Mrs. Austin's tone. She had not -imagined that such a merry-looking lady could be one of the elect. - -"Well, yes, in a way I am; and I want to do something--paint some -pictures, you know--in a quiet, respectable garret, where I shall not be -interrupted. Is it true that you have one to let?" - -"Yes, miss. I have one to let. I had an artist son once who used to -use it. He's gone"--Mrs. Austin wiped her eyes with the corner of her -apron--"and since then," she continued, "I let my young lady lodger have -the use of it for her painting. Not that she uses it now,--poor -dear!--still, it's supposed to be hers." - -"If she does not use it, would she object to my having it?" - -"I don't know, miss. I'll just run over to Boothby & Barton's shop, in -the next street, and ask her. It is there she works." - -"Tell her I shall be immensely obliged if she will give up the garret to -me--that is, if it suits me--as I particularly want to have a garret -with a good skylight, and I should like you to be my landlady." The -young lady smiled again in Mrs. Austin's face. - -"Well, miss, you are flattering!" Mrs. Austin caught up an old bonnet -and proceeded to put it on. She looked doubtfully at her visitor as she -did so. Would it be safe to ask her to sit down in the house until she -returned? She thought so, and yet, "One never knows who strangers are," -she said to herself. She, therefore, closed the door, locked it, and -put the key in her pocket, saying, "Perhaps you'll step along with me, -miss, then you'll know sooner if you can have it." - -"Very well. And now," the girl continued, as they walked down the -street, "I must tell you my name. I am Miss Sinclair." - -"Oh, indeed! And I am Mrs. Austin." - -"How much a week shall I have to pay you for your attic, if I take it?" - -"Well, miss, there is not very much furniture in it." - -"All the better. I shall require a good deal of room for my own -things." - -"Shall you require much attendance?" - -"Oh, no, very little! But people will come to see me sometimes, and -they will bring things and take them away--there will be a little wear -and tear of your stair carpets." - -"I see, miss. Would six shillings a week be too much for you to pay?" - -"No, I can pay that." The girl's face brightened; she had feared the -rent would be heavier. "And I can give you a month's pay in advance." - -Mrs. Austin looked pleased. When they reached Messrs. Boothby & -Barton's she went in alone to see Doris, and speedily returned, saying -Miss Anderson had readily consented to the arrangement. She would -remove her few things out of the garret that evening, and then it would -be quite ready for Miss Sinclair. - -"That is very kind of her. She must be very pleasant," said Miss -Sinclair. "I have been wondering," she continued, "what work a lady who -paints can find to do in a shop like this?" - -Mrs. Austin told her, for Doris made no secret of her employment, and -the stranger was greatly interested, and could easily understand the -difficulty she had experienced in trying to sell her paintings. "The -fact is, too many people paint," Miss Sinclair said. "There are nearly -as many amateur artists as there are people to look at their -productions. Your lodger is quite right in taking a more practical line. -I'm doing that sort of thing myself." - -"Indeed, miss! What may you be doing?" - -Miss Sinclair did not answer, but went upstairs to look at Mrs. Austin's -garret when they got to the house, and, expressing herself as very well -satisfied, engaged it at once, saying she would begin to use it on the -morrow. - -Accordingly, the following day, just after Doris had gone to her work, -Miss Sinclair arrived early, together with a couple of boys bearing -great packages, canvas frames, and millboards. The boys went to and fro -a great many times, bringing pots of paint, sheets of gelatine, etc. - -Mrs. Austin's eyes opened wide with astonishment at some of the things -which were carried up her stairs that day, but she did not interfere. -Her new lodger made the boys assist her to prepare the garret for her -purposes and arrange her work. Then she sent them away, and remained -alone in the attic for two or three hours. When at last she left it she -locked the door, saying to Mrs. Austin, as she passed her on the stairs, -"You may have another key for the garret, but please do not allow any -one to enter it, or even look in. I know I can trust you." She put her -hand in the widow's as she spoke. - -Mrs. Austin rose to the occasion. "No one shall enter or look in, -miss," she said. "You have paid for the garret for a month, and it is -yours." - -When Doris returned home in the evening, however, Mrs. Austin confided -to her that she thought Miss Sinclair must be a funny sort of artist, if -indeed she was one at all. - -Doris felt a little curious, too, about the girl who painted with such -odd materials. But as she came after Doris went to her work in the -mornings, and had usually gone before Doris returned in the evenings, -several weeks passed before their first meeting. As time went on Mrs. -Austin told Doris tales of beautiful oil-paintings being carried out of -the garret and downstairs by men who came for them. - -"I only just catch a glimpse of them sometimes," she said, "and they -fairly stagger me, they are so gorgeous. Mountains and lakes, cattle -and running streams, pretty girls and laughing children, animals of all -sorts and I don't know what besides! Miss Sinclair must be a popular -artist." - -Doris felt a little sceptical. A young girl like Miss Sinclair to do -such great things all alone, and so quickly, too! It seemed very -strange. - -"I wonder if they are real paintings?" she said. - -"You might almost think she is a magician, or a fairy godmother, or -something or other," said Mrs. Austin. "Oh, yes, they are saleable -goods, for she gets lots of money for them--I know she does. She told -me she was getting on so well that she could give me half a crown a week -more for the garret, and would be glad to do that, for she liked it so -much." - -"I am very glad to hear it," said Doris kindly. "You deserve every -penny, dear Mrs. Austin." - -"Eh! dear, there's no one like you, Miss Anderson. I am well off to -have two such lodgers--one that pays so much, and the other that upholds -me with good words." - -Another evening she said to Doris, "Do you know, miss, I heard a dealer -saying to Miss Sinclair to-day, 'Well, I'll buy as many dozens of that -picture as you can do for me."' - -"Dozens of that picture!" Doris opened her eyes widely. _Dozens_? -What was this artist who painted dozens of paintings all alike? - -"I'm afraid, miss," continued Mrs. Austin, reading her thoughts, "that -although the paintings do seem really beautiful to me when I get a -glimpse of them from the garret door, or pass them as they are being -carried out of the house, they are not what may be called genuine works -of art. Still, they're very pretty: and they bring in lots of -money!--and what more do you want?" - -What indeed? Dealers would not buy the painstaking efforts of amateur -artists, and yet they flocked to a garret to purchase dozens of -pictures, which, to put it mildly, could not be called genuine works of -art. The public must buy these things, or the dealers would not want -them. - -"What a strange girl Miss Sinclair must be!" thought Doris, "to work -away at that sort of thing all alone. And she must be clever, too. I -wonder how she does it, and why she does it?" - -Doris was soon to know. Her work grew slack at the ironmonger's shop. -A rival firm in the same street had started selling tissue paper -lamp-shades, which were prettier than those Doris made, and cheaper -also. Messrs. Boothby & Barton tried to do it as cheaply but failed, -although they reduced Doris's wages and bought commoner tissue paper for -less money. Doris tried to improve her shades, or at least copy those -in the rival shop, but could do neither well, and, disheartened and -dissatisfied, her work grew irksome to her. - -It was then extremely hot weather, and Doris, drooping in her little -close workroom, grew pale and thin. She needed change of air and scene, -rest and freedom from anxiety as to ways and means, and she could get -none of these things. A presentiment that she would lose her employment -weighed heavily upon her mind: and one night she returned home in such -low spirits that Mrs. Austin discovered the whole state of affairs. - -The good landlady endeavoured to comfort Doris as best she could, -declaring that if she lost her work something better would turn up. - -"And in any case, my dear," she said in her motherly way, "you must put -your trust in the Lord and He will provide." And when at last she left -Doris it was with the words, "Don't lose heart. You have at least one -friend in the world who, although only a poor woman, will share her last -crust with you." - -The next morning, when Miss Sinclair was working hard in her garret, -with her door locked as usual, Mrs. Austin stood outside, knocking for -admittance. - -"If you please, miss, might I speak with you?" she asked through the -keyhole. - -The worker within uttered an impatient exclamation, but opened the door, -saying, with a little sigh, "Well, come in. I thought it would come to -this sooner or later." - -[Illustration: "SHE UTTERED AN EXCLAMATION OF SURPRISE."] - -"I'm very sorry to disturb you, miss," began Mrs. Austin. Then she -uttered an exclamation of surprise, as she looked round on the oil -paintings propped up on the table, against the walls, on the old easel, -and indeed everywhere about the room. Three or four were duplicates of -the same picture, and the colours were very vivid and brilliant. Most of -them were landscapes; but there were one or two ladies in ball-dresses, -and a couple of gaily dressed lovers. - -"What do you think of them?" asked Alice Sinclair, who stood by the -easel, a slight, tired girl in a huge, paint-smeared apron that -completely covered her dress, which fell open at the throat, revealing a -pretty white neck. - -"Well, I'm sure!" ejaculated the landlady. "I never saw such pictures! -Have you done them, miss?" - -"Yes, I have painted them--that is, I mean, I have coloured them. Do -you like them, Mrs. Austin?" - -The landlady thought of her son Silas, and the pretty sketches Doris had -taken such pains over, and her answer came slowly, "They'd just suit -some people. Now, my son Sam, who was never satisfied with his -brother's paintings, would go wild over these." - -"Is Mr. Sam an artist?" - -"No, he's a cab-driver." - -Alice began to laugh rather hysterically, and, turning playfully to Mrs. -Austin, she pushed her gently into the Windsor armchair. "Sit there," -she said, "and listen to me. I like you because you speak the truth! -I'm a bit of a sham, you know, and so are my pictures, and you have -found me out." - -"I'm sure I beg pardon, miss." - -"No, it is I who must beg your pardon for using your garret for such a -purpose." - -"The garret's no worse for it, miss. And there'll be lots and lots of -people who will be that pleased with your pictures!" - -"Yes, there are more Sams in the world than Silases!" said Alice, with a -little sigh. "And I give people what they want for their money." - -"Yes, of course, miss. When my boys were little 'uns they used to spend -their pennies over humbugs. The money soon went, and so did the -humbugs. But they were quite satisfied, having had their humbugs." - -"Just so--and my pictures are like the humbugs, only they don't vanish, -they stay. I'm a bit of a humbug myself," continued Alice ruefully. "I -must say this, however," she added, "what I do I do from a good -motive----" - -"And the motive's everything," interposed the widow. - -"Mine is to make money--and I succeed in making heaps." - -"Oh, but, miss, surely to get money isn't a very high motive, if I may -say so." - -"But I did not tell you what I want money for. It is in order that I -may be able to support and maintain one of the greatest of God's -artists, whilst he works at his heaven-sent tasks. He would have been -starved to death by now, or would have had to abandon his work, if it -had not been for this!" She waved her hand towards the pictures. "I -hate the work. I loathe it," she went on, with a little stamp of her -foot, "and never more so than now--for, to tell you the truth, I am -feeling ill and overworked--yet I am obliged to go on, as my artist has -only half finished his picture. _I must go on_." - -"But not to kill yourself," interrupted Mrs. Austin, whose opinion of -her lodger had gone through various stages since she entered the garret. -At first she disapproved of Miss Sinclair's work, then greatly admired -the noble, self-sacrificing spirit of the worker, and now the latter's -ill looks appealed to her motherly heart. - -"Oh, it does not matter about me," said Alice, with a little tired -smile; "but I must not waste any more time in talking. A man will be -here for these pictures in a couple of hours, and I haven't quite -finished them off. Why did you come? I mean, what did you come for?" - -"Bless me! I'm forgetting. I came to ask you if you could help poor -dear Miss Anderson, who is in trouble. Her wages have been reduced, and -she has reason to think she will lose her employment." - -"I should think she is about tired of it," said Alice. - -"She will have no means of livelihood if she loses her work," continued -the landlady. "She is very poor, and gets very anxious about the -future. She looks so thin and pale. I made so bold, miss, as to think -that perhaps you would allow her to assist you, or even that you would -suggest to her that she could do so in time." - -Alice smiled, and, taking the good woman's hands in both hers, cried: - -"You dear old soul! Here am I, ill through overwork, and earning lots -of money, and you ask me to help a girl who is ill from want of work and -want of money! Of course I must help her. That belongs to the fitness -of things. You must go now. I will stay a little longer than usual -to-day, and when Miss Anderson comes in ask her, please, to step up to -my garret." - -"Oh, thank you, miss. Thank you very much." - -"But remember," said Alice finally, "that I don't expect Miss Anderson -will like the idea of joining me in my work. She will think that I am a -sham and that my pictures are sham pictures, and will have nothing to do -with me, but will leave me to make my pot-boilers all alone." - -"She won't do that! Not if you tell her what you've told me," continued -Mrs. Austin. - -"Perhaps you had better tell her about that--I don't think I could tell -the tale a second time," said Alice, with a little wan smile. "Tell her -everything, dear Mrs. Austin, and then if she cares to come to me----" - -"She will--she will," and so saying the good woman hurried downstairs. - -That evening, as Alice knelt on her garret floor, sand-papering the -edges of her pictures, in order that the paper on the boards might not -be detected, there was a little knock at the garret door, and in answer -to her "Come in" Doris entered. - -The two girls looked at each other: one from her lowly position, flushed -with exertion, the other standing just inside the doorway, with -outstretched hand and a smile on her beautiful face. - -"I have come," said Doris. "Will you let me help you?" - -Alice rose from her knees, and took the outstretched hand in hers. "Do -you know everything? Has Mrs. Austin told you everything?" she asked. - -"Yes. I honour you. And the work that is good enough for you is good -enough for me. Besides I--I have been dismissed from my employment. My -lamp-shade work has failed, at last----" Doris broke down a little, -remembering her despair, but clung to the proffered hands. - -"Poor dear!" Alice kissed her, and from that moment they were friends. - - - - - *CHAPTER X.* - - *DORIS AND ALICE WORK TOGETHER.* - - - He that is thy friend indeed, - He will help thee at thy need. - _Old Proverb_. - - -A very beautiful thing is true friendship. History and mythology give us -many notable examples--for instance, David and Jonathan, Damon and -Pythias, Orestes and Pylades, and so on. Man was not meant to live -alone. All cannot marry, but no one need be without a friend. Our Lord -Himself loved one disciple more than all the others, and made him a -friend. "Friendship is love without wings," says a German proverb, and -certainly it is often more stable and more enduring. - -The friendship between Doris Anderson and Alice Sinclair began warmly, -and gave promise of growing apace. They were both young and -comparatively friendless, they had both seen much trouble, and both were -compelled to work hard and continuously. In some respects alike, their -characters were in others dissimilar: in fact, they were complementary -to each other. Doris was gentle and good-tempered, affectionate and -reserved, painstaking and conscientious: in fact, truly religious. -Alice, on the other hand, was lively, almost boisterous, sometimes -passionate, yet loving withal, and frank, clever and enterprising, but -not very scrupulous, and though religious extremely reserved about it. - -"I must tell you exactly how I came to make imitation oil-paintings," -said Alice candidly, as she sat on the three-legged stool in her garret -that first evening, with Doris in the Windsor chair beside her. "I was -forced into it by necessity. I am an orphan, you must know, and I live -with my dear elder brother Norman. He is an artist--a real gifted, -talented artist: he can paint such glorious pictures! But they don't -sell yet. The fact is, the British public is so foolish!" She tossed -her curly head as she spoke. "It--it prefers these," waving her hand -towards the artificial oil paintings. "And meantime," she continued, -"meantime, Norman and I have come to the end of our resources. He -doesn't know. He is such a dear old muddle-head about business matters -that he thinks the ten pounds he gave me last Christmas is still -unfinished!" - -She laughed--it was characteristic of her, Doris found, to laugh when -others would cry. "And I had been so puzzled," Alice continued, "as to -how I should be able to find the means of subsistence for us both. For -I had long known Norman hadn't another five-pound-note that he could put -his hands upon. I looked in his purse often, when he was asleep, and in -the secret drawer of his writing-table, which he uses as a cash-box, and -which he fondly imagines no one can open except himself. Don't look so -shocked! Motive is everything, and I don't pry about from curiosity, -but simply to keep the dear old fellow alive and myself incidentally. -Oh, where was I?" she paused for a moment in order to recover breath, -for she talked with great rapidity. "Oh, I know, I was saying we had -come to the end of our resources. I had sold my watch and my hair--oh, -yes, I didn't mind that. It is much less trouble now it is short, -though I have to put it up in curlers at night, which makes it rather -spiky to sleep upon. However, I am always so tired that I can sleep on -anything. And, to cut a long story short, I sold everything I could lay -my hands upon that Norman would not be likely to miss. Then I saw in a -magazine, in the Answers to Correspondents, that very striking imitation -oil paintings could be made in a certain way, which would sell well -amongst ignorant, uncultured people, and, knowing what numbers of such -folk there are, I determined to try to make them." She paused for -breath. - -Doris said nothing. Her blue eyes were fixed upon the other's face and -she was reading it, and reading also between the lines of her story as -she listened to her talk. - -"I practised the work at home first," said Alice, "until I could do it -properly, and had secured a few customers. But I was nearly found out, -for that dear old stupid brother of mine must needs take it into his -head that a very old engraving he wanted was in the attic--it wasn't, -Doris! Pity me! I had turned it into one of my oil-paintings, and it -had been sold for five shillings! Norman went to search in the attic, -and was amazed to find lots of my things, pot-paint, and so on, about -the place, which made him almost suspicious for a time. But, happily, -his painting absorbed him again, and he forgot about the queer things in -the attic. However, I thought it would be better to avoid such a risk -in the future, and so went, one morning, to search for a garret which I -could rent, and in which I should be able to work by day. When I had -fixed upon this one, and it was settled that I should have it, I had to -make some excuse to Norman for my long absences from home--don't ask me -what I said; I mean to tell him the whole truth one day, and then, -perhaps, he'll despise me! I cannot help that. It doesn't matter about -me." She tossed her head, as if dismissing the idea at once. "What -does matter," she continued very earnestly, "is, that I am maintaining -my dear old Norman, while he is painting his beautiful picture. He will -live, and his picture will be painted--and only I shall be in disgrace. -I don't care!" but tears were in her eyes. - -"Disgrace!" Doris leaned forward and caught hold of the small hands, -hard and discoloured with work and paint. "Disgrace! I should think he -will honour you, for your love and cleverness and self-sacrifice. He -will say you have made him. He will thank God for such a sister." - -But the other shook her head. "You don't know Norman," she said. "He -would not mind dying, and he could give up finishing his picture sooner -than endure the thought that I had 'gulled' that poor, stupid, credulous -British Public--at least the uneducated section of it. He has a great -reverence for truth and sincerity, and he hates and abhors a lie and a -sham." - -"Why do you do it, then?" - -"I am forced," returned Alice plaintively. "We _must_ live. And I want -him to finish his picture, yes, and others. I hope he will have more -than one in the Academy next year. I want him to be great--a great -artist, recognised by all the world." - -"How you must love him!" exclaimed Doris. "And what faith you have in -his gift for painting!" - -"I have no one except him," said Alice, simply. "He is father, mother, -and brother to me. And he has a great gift. I believe he will win -fame, and be one of the celebrities of the age--if I can keep him alive -meanwhile with my pot-boilers. But now about yourself, will you help -me?" - -"Certainly. Only too gladly. I also have a most excellent reason for -earning money." - -"What is it? Have you any one depending upon you? A parent perhaps? -Or a brother or sister?" - -"No, I have no one like that. I stand alone!" Doris sighed deeply. -When Alice was talking of her brother she had said to herself, "If I had -only a relation to work for like that how happy I should be!" - -"Poor Doris!--you will allow me to call you Doris, won't you?--you shall -never stand alone any more. I will be your friend." - -"Will you? But perhaps you wouldn't, if you knew all. I am under a -cloud, and I cannot--cannot tell you everything." - -Alice looked quickly and searchingly at her, as the unhappy words fell -slowly, tremulously from her lips; and there was that in Doris's -expression which reassured the artist's sister. - -"Tell me nothing if you prefer," she said, "but come and work with me -every day here. You shall be well paid, and you will have my -friendship----" - -"Which will be worth more than the pay!" cried Doris delightedly. "Oh, -how glad I am! How very glad I am! I thank you a thousand times!" In -the intensity of her gratitude she raised the other's hand to her lips. - -Deeply touched, Alice threw her arms round her neck and kissed her. -"Now we are friends," she said, "and chums! We shall get through lots -of work together." - -When they were a little calmer Doris explained the process, as she -called it, by which her "pot-boilers" were made. She bought prints, -both plain and coloured, and mounted them on stretched canvas frames, or -on thick mill-boards, being very careful to exclude all air bubbles from -between the board and the paper. Then she carefully rubbed the edges -with sandpaper, in order to conceal the edge of paper; and afterwards -the surface was covered with a solution of prepared gelatine, upon which -the picture was easily coloured with paint, and made to look as much as -possible like a genuine oil-painting. The coloured prints were less -trouble, because they had simply to be painted as they really were -underneath the gelatine. The plain prints, on the other hand, required -taste and judgment in the selection of colour and its arrangement. - -Doris was able to do this last extremely well, as she knew how to paint -much better than Alice, who had never attempted anything of the sort -before she embarked on her present undertaking. For Alice had only -watched her brother painting, and his method was widely different from -hers. The dealers who bought her pictures paid L2 a dozen for them, and -took them away to frame and sell for at least fifteen shillings or L1 -each. That the sale of them was good was evidenced by the dealers' -quick return to the garret with further orders. - -As for the business arrangement between the girls, Alice began by giving -Doris a weekly salary for assisting her; but as they prospered more and -more, the arrangement was altered, and Doris received a third of all the -profits they made--more she would not take, for, as she said, she -brought no capital into the business, nor connection, as did Alice. - -Weeks and months passed away, whilst the two who worked together in Mrs. -Austin's garret became sincerely and devotedly attached to each other. -Alice often talked freely to Doris of her beloved artist brother, and -told how when one beautiful picture was finished, he began another, in -the hope that he would have two or three ready for the Royal Academy the -next year. But Doris never told her secret, for her dread lest Alice -should turn from her if she knew of her father's crime was always -sufficient to close her mouth about the past; and neither could she tell -of the great aim of her life which was to make at least some little -reparation to Bernard Cameron, as to do so would necessitate the sad -disclosure of how he had been robbed. She was therefore very reticent, -which sometimes chafed and irritated Alice, who was, as we have seen, so -very frank. - -But the quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love. And after every -little coolness the two became more devoted to each other than ever. - - - - - *CHAPTER XI.* - - *AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.* - - - Have hope, though clouds environ now, - And gladness hides her face in scorn; - Put thou the shadow from thy brow, - No night but hath its morn. - SCHILLER. - - -It was a dull Sunday in November, cold, too, and damp and comfortless. -Grey was the prevailing colour out-of-doors; the clouds were grey, so, -too, were the leafless trees and bushes in Kew Gardens,--a dirty, -brownish grey. And grey appeared the pale-faced Londoners, who sought in -the nation's gardens for recreation and beauty. - -In the Palm House certainly there was vivid, beautiful green in the fine -trees and tropical plants collected there. It was very warm, too, and -over the faces of those who entered tinges of colour spread and stayed, -whilst smiles broke out, like sunshine illuminating all around. But it -was too enervating to remain there long, and Bernard Cameron, who had -wandered alone through the place, not excepting the high galleries, -hurried out of the house at last, and breathed more freely when once -more outside in the damp greyness of the gardens. - -"It is a heated, unnatural, artificial life in there," he said to -himself, "and does not appeal to me as does the beauty of the Temperate -House, with its healthy green in trees and plants, and, at this time of -the year, its masses of brightly coloured chrysanthemums." - -He walked off quickly in the direction of the Temperate House, looking -closely at all those he met or passed upon the way. "I never see -Doris," he said to himself. "I never, never see her! She is not among -the workers in London, so far as I can find out--though certainly the -field is so vast that I have scarcely touched it in my search for -her--neither is she in any pleasure resort. Sometimes I think she must -have left London, and that she may have returned to Yorkshire. But I, -having obtained a situation at a school at Richmond, must remain here -for the present. Oh, Doris! Doris! Why did you leave me? Could you not -have trusted my love for you? Why, oh, why did you send me that cruel -message? No doubt mother had irritated you, yet I had given you nothing -but love!" The greyness of the day seemed concentrated in his -despairing face as he said this. He looked ten years older than he did -on that bright, glad evening--his last happy day--when he proposed to -Doris upon the hill at Askern Spa. His clothes were a little worn and -untidy. He had grown thin, and there were sharp lines indicative of -care and anxiety upon his face. His dark brown hair was longer, too, -than he used to wear it, and he had all the appearance of one who had -come down in the world after having had an unusually sharp tussle with -fortune. - -He had been wandering about for hours that Sunday, having a day's leave -of absence from the school, and he felt tired and disheartened, for -wherever he went he looked for Doris, and nowhere could he find her. He -was, therefore, glad when, upon entering the Temperate House, he was -able to find a vacant seat, where he could rest undisturbed. It was -most people's luncheon time, and there were not many in the House just -then--the other seats were occupied, certainly, but they were a little -distance off. Bernard felt the comparative seclusion very pleasant; he -closed his eyes in order to rest them, although, indeed, the green -around was very refreshing to look upon, and, once again, he fell into a -reverie--a sad one now, for he was thinking of his mother, who was so -hard and bitter about Doris and her parents. Terrible had been the -scene when, in spite of Mrs. Cameron's earnest request that he should do -so, Bernard refused to prosecute John Anderson. - -"Then you will be as bad as he!" cried the incensed woman. "You will be -compounding a felony," she went on wildly. "You will be breaking the -law of the land." - -"Nay, nay, mother. Come," he answered, "look at the matter reasonably. -My prosecuting Mr. Anderson will not restore the money to me." - -"But it will cause him to be punished," she exclaimed. "That is what we -want--we want him to be made to suffer." - -"_I_ do not want him to surfer." - -"You're so foolish, Bernard, so very foolish!" screamed Mrs. Cameron, -scarcely knowing what she said. "It's that daughter of his you are -thinking about. I know it is. You are perfectly infatuated with her." - -"Will you please keep her out of this discussion?" asked Bernard. - -But his mother was unreasonable, and would drag Doris in, time after -time, telling him that she was a chip of the same block as John -Anderson, saying, "Like father, like daughter," and declaring that she -would never consent to his marrying Doris if there were not another -woman in the kingdom. - -Bernard was as patient as he could possibly be, but at length, finding -it impossible to endure any more such talk, he caught up his hat and -went out, with his mother's parting words ringing in his ears. - -"Unless you prosecute that rogue, John Anderson, and give me your -promise that you will never marry his daughter, my house shall be your -home no longer: you shall not sleep another night under my roof!" - -Hard words! stinging words! They seemed to ring in Bernard's ears -again, as, sitting there on a seat in the central walk of the Temperate -House in Kew Gardens under the shade of a fine Norfolk Island pine, he -thought about them sadly. No wonder was it that when they were uttered -they drove him immediately--and he thought for ever--from his mother's -house. Since then he had come to London and obtained an ill-paid -assistant mastership in a suburban school, and now he spent all his time -searching for Doris, yet in vain. "I have lost her," he said to -himself, "I have lost her in this huge metropolis. Yet I forbore to -prosecute her father for her sake: and for her sake I am an outcast from -home, a mere usher in a school, earning my daily bread in the outskirts -of this city!" - -A great longing to see the girl he loved once more filled his whole -heart; he longed to see her inexpressibly. - -And just then she came. Talk about telepathy, about magnetism, about -the hypnotism of will as people may, can anyone explain how it is that -immediately before a longed-for person, or a longed-for letter arrives, -that person or that letter is prominently present in the yearning mind? -The same thing is seen intensified in answers to prayers. The one who -prays longs unutterably for the boon he asks. It is given; and he -thanks God and knows that he has received an answer to prayer. And it -may also be that He Who alone knows the heart of man, is continually -answering the unspoken prayers of those others who long unutterably for -those things which yet they do not ask in words. - -So Doris came, walking straight down the central path in the Temperate -House, talking to Alice Sinclair, or rather listening, whilst Alice -prattled to her about the trees and flowers. - -"Look! See, there is a poor tired Londoner asleep," said the merry -voice. "He has been somebody's darling once," she added in a lower -tone, which Bernard could just hear. - -"Hush! He will hear you. Why--oh!----" Doris opened her eyes wide, a -look of apprehension came into them, and she reeled as if she would have -fallen. - -"Doris! Doris!" With a glad cry Bernard sprang to his feet, holding -out his hands. "Doris!" - -The girl recovered her presence of mind first. She touched Bernard's -hands for a moment, and then, releasing them, observed to Alice, with -forced calmness, "This gentleman is an old acquaintance of mine from -Yorkshire." - -"An acquaintance! Oh, Doris!" Bernard's voice expressed his chagrin, -nay, more, his consternation. He had found Doris at last. But she was -changed: she was no longer his Doris. He had slipped out of her life, -and she had adapted herself to the altered circumstances. Glancing at -her quickly, sharply, he perceived that she looked well, and even happy. -The unwonted exercise and the fresh air of Kew had done her good and -brought a pretty colour into her cheeks. She was with her dear friend -Alice, and the delightfulness of mutual sympathy and love had caused her -eyes to sparkle and her step to regain its buoyancy. Besides, the -meeting with her lover, calmly though she appeared to take it, had -brought back a tide of young life in her veins and imparted to her a -sweet womanliness. Altogether she looked quite unlike the drooping, -heartbroken Doris whom Bernard had last seen, and whom he had been -picturing to himself as unchanged. - -"Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Miss Sinclair," said Doris, -disregarding his protest. "Mr. Cameron, Miss Sinclair," she said, -adding, "Mr. Cameron comes from Yorkshire." - -Alice bowed and held out her hand, in her usual good-natured way. - -"We thought you were a poor, tired Londoner," she remarked with a smile, -"and lo! you come from the North." - -"I live in Richmond now," Bernard remarked quietly. "I have a--position -in a school there." - -"Indeed?" Alice was regarding him critically. He was a gentleman, -handsome, too, and he looked good. But he was also rather shabby: there -was no doubt about that; and she did not think Doris looked particularly -pleased to see him. There was an expression of apprehension in her eyes -which Alice had never seen there before. - -"Do you live here?" Bernard asked Doris. - -"No, no. We have only come over for the day." - -"Where are you living?" - -Doris made no reply. She stopped the answer Alice was about to make by -a beseeching look. - -"We have not any time to spare for visitors," she said, rather lamely. - -"Will you allow me to walk with you a little way?" he asked. "Or -perhaps," he hesitated, looking at Alice uneasily--"perhaps you will sit -here with me a little while? There is--is--room for three on this -seat." - -Alice good-naturedly came to his assistance. "Doris," she said, in her -brisk, businesslike way, "sit down and have a chat with your friend -while I go over there to the chrysanthemum house to look at the flowers. -I do so love chrysanthemums." - -"And so do I," said Doris quickly. "I will come too." - -"Doris!" Bernard's exclamation was pitiful. - -Alice felt for him, but concluding Doris did not wish to be left, she -said briskly, "We will all go there. Come on." - -Accordingly they all went to look at the chrysanthemums, amongst which -they talked mere commonplaces for a little while. - -Bernard was miserably disappointed. Doris was uncomfortable and -frightened--the shadow of her father's sin seemed to rest over her, -filling her with shame. She did not know whether Bernard was -prosecuting her father or not, and feared that he might say something -which would betray the wretched secret to Alice. Even if he regretted -the way he shrank from her when hearing of her father's misappropriation -of his money, or if he wished, as seemed evident, to renew their former -relations, she could not and would not ruin his life, as his mother had -said she would ruin it by marrying him. Poor he was, and shabby. Not a -detail of this escaped her--his worn clothes and baggy trousers touched -her deeply; but at least he bore an unblemished and honourable name. -Was she to smirch it? Was she to bring to him, as his mother had said, -a dowry of shame? No, no. His mother's words were still ringing in her -ears. - -Stung beyond endurance by the remembrance, Doris raised her head and -confronted Bernard proudly. - -"Mr. Cameron," she said, "you must see--I mean, do you think that it is -quite right to--accompany us--when----" - -"When I am not wanted," he suggested, bitterly. - -"I did not say that exactly. But----" - -"You meant it." Bernard's eyes flashed. He, too, was stung now. "I -will say 'Good-bye,'" he said, raising his hat. - -The girls bowed, and, turning away, walked quietly out of the great -house, leaving Bernard to return to his seat a crushed and miserable -man. - -He thought that it was all over between him and Doris. His mother had -spoken the truth in saying the girl had declared she would never marry -him. He need not have grieved his mother by refusing to prosecute her -father: he need not have lost his home for that. Doris no longer loved -him; she no longer loved him at all. He had lost his money, and he had -lost Doris. That was the worst blow that had ever befallen him; nothing -mattered now, nothing at all: he was in despair. It was far worse to -have met Doris and found her altogether estranged from him than not to -have met her at all. - -"She wasn't like Doris," he said to himself, miserably. "She wasn't -like my Doris at all. It might have been another girl; it might have -been another girl altogether." The hot tears came into his eyes, and he -buried his face in his hands that others might not see them. - -"Oh, don't, don't be so unhappy!" said a voice in his ear, suddenly. -"Didn't you notice that her manner was forced--unnatural?" - -"Oh!" Bernard rose, and stood looking wonderingly into Alice Sinclair's -face. It was full of kindness, and seemed to him, then, one of the -sweetest faces he had ever seen. - -"I have returned," she said in a low, confidential tone, "ostensibly to -find a glove I dropped somewhere, but really in order to tell you our -address. For I think--that is, I imagine, you might call to see her one -of these days." - -"Oh, can I? Do you think it is possible?" - -"Certainly. This is a free country. Call by all means. Doris was -awfully sad a few minutes after we left you. I am sure she was -repenting her harshness to you. She was crying, actually crying. And -you looked so miserable when we left you, so I thought I might try to -help you both." - -"You are good!" cried Bernard, taking one of her hands in his, and -pressing it warmly. - -The next minute he was alone, with an envelope in his hand, upon which -was written, "Miss Sinclair, c/o. Mrs. Austin, 3, Haverstock Road, -King's Cross, London, N." - -"How good she is!" Bernard thought. "And what a difference there is -now!--I am no longer in despair." He looked round. What a change had -come over everything! The huge conservatory in which he stood was a vast -palace of beauty: birds--robins mostly--were hopping about and singing a -few notes here and there. The visitors looked very happy, and through -the glass he could see gardens that were dreams of loveliness. It was -not a dull, grey world now: oh, no, but a very pleasant place, full of -boundless possibilities! - - - - - *CHAPTER XII.* - - *AN ARTIST'S WRATH.* - - - A man may buy gold too dear. - _Proverb_. - - -"What does this mean, Alice? Is it here you work? What are you doing?" - -"Oh, Norman! You here? Oh, dear!" Alice looked up in dismay from her -work on the floor of the garret to the tall figure standing in the -doorway, with head bent to prevent its being scalped by the low top. -"You shouldn't have come, dear," she faltered. - -"Shouldn't have come! I think it is time I did come! Great Scott! -What are you murdering here?" He had reached the middle of the room -with two strides, and was stooping over a brilliantly limned -"oil-painting" Alice had just finished, looking at it with eyes blazing -with wrath. "Did you do this?" he demanded. "Did you do this atrocious -thing?" - -"Yes--yes, Norman, I did," faltered his sister. - -"Then I'm ashamed of you! Here, let me put it on the fire-back." -Lifting the picture, he strode towards the fireplace with it. - -"Don't, Norman! Don't! You must not! It--it is _sold_!" - -"Sold!" cried the artist. "What do you mean? Can any one be so debased -as to have bought a thing like that?" he demanded. - -Alice began to laugh a little wildly. "Oh, Norman, how innocent you -are!" she cried. "Don't you know that some one has said that the -population of this island consists of men, women, and children, mostly -fools? There are a great many more who admire and buy 'works of art' -like mine than there are to appreciate such paintings as yours!" - -"You little goose!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "Are you content to -cater for simpletons, aye, and in the worst way possible, by pandering -to their foolish, insensate tastes?" - -Alice was silent a moment, and then she said, rather lamely, "It pays me -to do so." - -Her brother would not deign to notice that. He began to walk up and down -the room, with long strides and a frown on his face. He was above the -average height of men and broad in proportion, and his irregular -features were redeemed from plainness by the beauty of his expression -and his smile, which was by no means frequent. - -Doris was painting at her easel on one side of the room, but the visitor -did not appear to see her; his mind was absorbed with the distasteful -idea of his sister demeaning herself to cater for the uneducated masses. - -"It isn't as if you were trying to raise them," he burst out again. -"You are not teaching them what beauty is--you are pandering to their -faults! Leading them astray. Making them believe good is bad and bad -is good! For, don't you know"--he stopped short by his sister's side, -and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder--"don't you know that every time -you make them admire a false thing--a thing that ought not to be -admired--you rob them of the power to appreciate what is truly great and -beautiful? It is a crime--a crime you are committing in the sight of -God and man!" He gave her another frown, and began again to walk up and -down quite savagely. - -Alice looked wistfully towards Doris, but the latter was painting -steadily on, with heightened colour and hands that trembled, in spite of -the effort she was making to control herself. - -Norman then began to examine the pictures standing about in the room in -varying stages of completion. - -"Ha! I see!" he said, scoffingly. "The way you get your drawings is to -buy prints, and stick them on mill-boards. Yes, and then you smear them -over with gelatine and colour them with this wretched paint. How is it -you are not found out?" he continued, looking sharply at her, and then -turning to examine the edges of one of the pictures. "Ha! I see! -Sandpaper! So you rub the edges smooth with that! You little cheat! -You defraud your purchasers! I really--you must give up this work at -once. Do you hear? You must give it up forthwith--_immediately_!" - -"I cannot, Norman!" - -"Why not?" - -"It pays so well. Sometimes we get eight or nine pounds a week by it." - -"Pays well! Eight or nine pounds a week!" There was intense scorn in -the artist's tones. "So, for money--mere money--you will sell your -soul!" - -"Nonsense! We must live. I pay for food--your food and mine--and our -clothes, yes, and rent, gas, coal, and the servant's wages, with this -money." - -He stared at her. "I gave you money for those things," he said. "I'm -sure I gave you ten pounds not so very long since." - -"Last Christmas! Nearly twelve months ago! You are so impracticable, -Norman. That ten pounds was used in a few days, to pay bills that were -owing." - -"You never asked me for more." - -"Could you have given it me if I had?" - -A dusky red stole over the artist's face. He became conscious of the -presence of a stranger. "This lady must pardon us," he said to his -sister, with a glance at Doris, "for speaking of our private affairs -before her." - -"Oh, she does not mind, I'm sure," said Alice. "May I introduce my -brother to you, Doris?" - -Doris bowed coldly. She went on with her painting, begging them not to -mind her being there. "It is most important that the work should be -finished to-night," she said, "and I must work the harder because Alice -is being hindered." - -"I fear I am the cause of that," rejoined the artist, quite meekly. -"But I have had some difficulty in finding the place where my sister -works, and now that I am here I must say what I think." - -Doris made no rejoinder, and, having cast an admiring glance at her -winsome face and pretty figure, he turned to Alice again, saying, "No -consideration of mere money should prevent your instantly ceasing this -disgraceful work." - -Alice began to pout. "It's all very fine talking like that, Norman," -she said, "but how do you propose to keep us if--if I abandon this?" -She looked from him to her work. - -"How did we live before? I suppose we can exist in the same way." - -"We cannot! I have nothing more to sell, or--pawn." - -"If only my paintings would sell!" He began to walk up and down again. -He was thinking now, with huge disgust, that he had been living for many -months upon the proceeds of sham oil-paintings. It was a bitter -thought. "Better to have died," he muttered, "than to have lived so!" -Aloud he said, "But I must insist upon your giving up this work. It is -wicked, positively wicked work! You must not do it." - -"I cannot give it up. I must do it." - -"You must not! You shall not! I really---- Upon my word, if you do -such things you shall not live with me!" He was in great anger now, the -veins upon his temples stood out like cords; he could scarcely refrain -from rending into pieces the hateful "frauds" upon which he was looking. - -A cry of pain escaped from his sister's lips. She was pale as death. -Her brother had never been angry with her before. Their love for each -other had been ideal. - -Then Doris spoke, turning from her easel and looking up at the artist -with flashing eyes. - -"There are vipers," she said, "which sting the hands that feed them. -Alice, dear," she added, with a complete change of tone and manner, -"come to me." She held out her arms, and Alice flew into them, clinging -to her and crying as if her heart would break. "Go!" said Doris to the -artist, pointing to the door. "Go, and live alone with your works of -art. You cannot recognise or appreciate the self-denial and love which -is in the heart of one of the noblest sisters in the world!" - -[Illustration: "'GO! YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE.'"] - -Norman Sinclair went out of the room as meekly as a lamb, all his wrath -leaving him as he did so. Indeed, to tell the truth, he felt very small -and despicable, as he mentally looked at himself with Doris Anderson's -eyes, and saw a man, who had been fed for many months by the hard, if -mistaken, toil of his young sister, threatening her with the loss of her -home in his house if she would not abandon her only source of income. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIII.* - - *CONSCIENCE MONEY.* - - -No one should act so as to take advantage of the ignorance of his -neighbours.--CICERO. - - -After Norman Sinclair went away Doris comforted Alice as well as she -could, and then both girls set to work to finish the pictures which a -dealer would send for that evening. Alice, however, performed her part -half-heartedly. Through her ears were still ringing her brother's fierce -denunciation of her employment. It was a crime; she was a cheat, -defrauding the ignorant, making them believe bad was good and good was -bad; for money she was selling her soul. Oh, it was terrible to -remember! Her tears fell down and smeared the brilliant greens and -yellows, blues and reds, upon her mill-boards. - -Doris, seeing what was going on, felt extremely uncomfortable. She -imagined that Alice was fretting because her brother had practically -turned her out of his house, and her wrath against him increased. But -for some time she could not stop working in order to give utterance to -her feelings; the men would come soon for the pictures which must be -ready for them, and they had to be finished off, or the way they were -made would be detected. So the work went on until evening came, and with -it the men from the dealers, who packed up the sham oil-paintings and -carried them off. - -Mrs. Austin had been upstairs more than once, to see if her young -ladies, as she called them, were ready for tea--which, in those days -they usually took together in the sitting-room before Alice went -home--and the landlady's importunity caused them both to leave the -garret at length and descend to the sitting-room. - -"Now, darling, you shall have some tea," said Doris, affectionately. -"Sit there in the armchair. I will bring you a cup." - -She did so, and then, pouring out one for herself, sat down on the stiff -horse-hair sofa, and began to make plans for the future. - -"You and I, Alice," she said, "shall always live together." - -"Yes," said Alice, slowly, and with a little hesitation, which the other -did not appear to notice. - -"Your brother has, by his own act and deed"--that sounded legal and -therefore businesslike, so Doris repeated it--"by his own act and deed, -forfeited his claim to you. Instead of honouring you, as I honour you, -darling"--she caught up Alice's hand and kissed it--"for your bravery -and cleverness and industry, he has actually dared to blame you in most -unwarrantable, most uncalled-for language, and in the presence of a -third person--which makes his conduct far more heinous----" - -"Isn't that a little strong?" interposed Alice. "Doris, I love you for -your love, but you must remember he is my brother. He has a right to -say what he likes to me, for I am his sister, and--and I cannot bear -even you to blame him." - -"I beg to apologise!" said Doris, instantly. "It isn't right of me to -speak against him to you. And, now I think of it, I was wrong in -ordering him out of our--your--garret----" - -"Well, yes, dear, a little----" - -"I was wrong," said Doris, "and perhaps one day I will apologise. But -however wrong I was, that does not make him right. He has behaved -abominably." - -"Now, there you are again! You must not blame him to me, dear." - -"I beg your pardon!" Then Doris was silent a minute or two. It was -hard to be pulled up at every point. Still, Alice was right, therefore -her sense of justice caused her to refrain from taking offence. "But, -Alice," she said, at length, "the fact remains, that he will not consent -for you to remain in his house if you carry on your work here." - -"He is an autocrat!" Alice burst out. "A martinet! A tyrant! I must -carry on my work. I must. I have nothing else to sell. I have nothing -else to do. Either I must continue what I am doing, or we must starve, -or go into the workhouse. We cannot live on air." She paused, -breathless. It was like her fervent, inconsequent way of reasoning to -speak so strongly against her brother, whom she had just been chiding -Doris for blaming. However, we are all apt to say things about our -relations which we would not tolerate from other people. It is like -blaming ourselves, or hearing others blame us. A man may call himself -most foolish, yet if any one else were to say so it would be -unpardonable. - -Doris was silent, and in that she showed wisdom. Left to herself, Alice -would say all that Doris had been about to utter, and would act upon it -as the latter wished her to do. - -"I cannot return to his house," said Alice, with a little sob. "He has -indeed turned me out; for I cannot give up my means of livelihood. Who -will give me an income if I throw away the one I have? No one. No one. -The world is a world of adamant to those who have no coin." - -"It is indeed!" said Doris, tears filling her eyes as she thought of her -own struggles. - -"But where shall I live?" continued Alice. "Will you let me live with -you, Doris?" - -"Yes, darling, of course I will! I love you, darling, as you know; and -we will live together, and be like sisters--only--only perhaps----" - -"Perhaps what?" - -"Perhaps you wouldn't let me if you knew what a cloud of disgrace hangs -over me----" - -Doris broke down weeping. Was that cruel disgrace always to balk her -every time she saw a prospect of happiness? - -"Disgrace! How you talk! It is I who am in disgrace." Alice flung her -arms round her friend, and their tears mingled as they wept together. - -Mrs. Austin, coming in to see if they wanted any more tea, was quite -affected by the sight and beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen. "It -all comes of that horrid Mr. Sinclair forcing his way up to their -garret," she said to herself, mentally determining to admit no more -visitors to her young ladies without first acquainting them with their -names. - -When they were calmer the two girls discussed the feasibility of their -living together, as well as working together, with the result that they -agreed to try the plan. Accordingly, when night came, they withdrew to -Doris's room, and lay down side by side in Doris's bed, which happened -to be a rather large one. - -Tired out, Doris slept so heavily that she did not hear her more wakeful -companion's sighs and sobs, nor did she see her slip out of bed in the -early morning, dress hurriedly, and then go downstairs. - -When at last Doris awoke, Mrs. Austin was standing by her side, looking -very grave and with a letter in her hand. - -"What is the matter?" asked Doris, sleepily. "Have I overslept? Oh!" -She looked round for Alice. "Where is Miss Sinclair?" she asked. - -"Gone!" cried Mrs. Austin, tragically. - -"Gone? When? Where?" cried Doris, in alarm. - -"I don't know, miss. She went before I came down. When I came down -this morning I could see that some one had gone out at the front door, -for only the French latch was down. And there was this letter for you -on the sitting-room table, and Miss Sinclair's boots had been taken from -the kitchen, so I felt sure she must have gone." - -"You should have awoke me at once." - -"I came upstairs to do so, miss, but you were in such a beautiful sleep, -I really hadn't the heart to disturb you. But now it is getting late, -and I have brought your hot water." - -Doris opened the note when Mrs. Austin had left the room. It was short -and to the point. - - -"DORIS DARLING,-- - -"You are _sweet_ to want me to live with you, and I should love it. But -I have been thinking how kind Norman used to be when I had the -toothache, and that he gave me such a nice copy of Tennyson on my last -birthday,--and--the fact is, no one can make his coffee as he likes it -in the morning but me--so I must go and look after him. Poor old -Norman! He has no one else to look after his little comforts. And he -will starve, _absolutely starve_ if left to himself. I shall always -remember, darling, how you wanted me to live with you. - -"Yours lovingly, - "ALICE. - -"P.S.--I make you a present of the business. Perhaps when we are -starving, you will fling us a crust. Norman can't object to my -receiving charity, although he will not allow me to do the only work I -am fit for. - -"A.S." - - -Doris sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. What a child Alice was, after -all! And how impracticable and unbusinesslike! The head of the firm, -she had given up her position in favour of her junior partner without -demanding any compensation! "However, she knew she could trust me," -said Doris to herself. "I shall make her take half, or at least a -third, of the proceeds. But it will be hard on me to have to do all the -work alone, and I shall miss my dear partner. I hope she will come to -see me sometimes." - -After breakfast Doris went to the garret, and all day she worked hard, -scarcely leaving off to eat or rest for a few minutes. A dealer came -with a large order, and, after expressing his surprise at finding her -alone, advised her to engage a boy or two to do the rough work and to -assist her generally. In the evening she was almost too weary to eat -her supper, and when Mrs. Austin was lamenting the fact, she told her -what the dealer had suggested. - -"Well, now, how that does fit in, to be sure!" said the landlady. "It -was only this afternoon that my nephew Sandy came here, to tell me that -he and another nice lad, his friend, had lost their situations through -Messrs. Boothby & Barton's bankruptcy. They would be rare and glad to -work for you till such time as they could get another place." - -"I think I should be very glad to have them," said Doris, after a little -consideration. "Your nephew did me a kindness about the lamp-shades, and -I shall be pleased to offer him work now that he is out of a place." - -So the next day the two boys came up to the garret, and set to work -manfully to assist the young lady. They could soon do most of the work -really better than she could herself, and she found it a great relief to -confine her energies to the mere colouring. It was, however, not nearly -so pleasant for her working with the two lads as it had been with her -dear friend Alice, whom she missed at every turn. - -On the Wednesday morning she received a little note from Alice, saying -that at present she was forbidden to go to Mrs. Austin's, but hoped -later on to be able to do so. "My brother is angry yet about the -'oil-paintings,'" wrote Alice, "but he is very glad to have me back; -and, by the way, Doris, he would give worlds, if he had them, to make -you sit for a picture of Rosalind in her character of Ganymede in _As -You Like It_. Don't you think you could give him that gratification, -dear? But I know these are early days to speak of such a kindness as -that. And you would never have the time, even if you could forgive -poor, blundering old Norman." - -Then she referred to the letter Doris had sent her, in which the former -stated that half the money earned would still be set aside for Alice. -"It is lovely of you to say that about the money, dear," wrote Alice; -"but Norman declares I am not to touch what he is pleased to call -ill-gotten gains. Lest I should do so, he declares he will not eat -anything I buy, and in consequence he is living upon oatmeal porridge -and lentil soup! Oh, and the oatmeal is nearly finished! I have been -thinking that if you would kindly send a five-pound-note now and then, -anonymously, to him--mind, to him, not to me--and just put inside the -envelope that it is 'Conscience Money'--that would be quite true, you -know; for if you had not a conscience you would keep what I have thrust -into your hands--he might use it, thinking it was the repayment of some -old debt. For he has lent lots of money, in the old days, to people who -have never let him have it back again. I hope you can see your way, as -the dealers say, to do this. We must live, you know. It is so -miserable to starve, and it's worse for the housekeeper, as the fault -seems to be hers." - -"I don't like complying with her request," thought Doris. "Her brother -is an honest man, a most awkwardly honest man, and it is a shame to -deceive him. Yet the money is Alice's. It is a point of conscience -with me, as she says, to give it her. But I wish it could be done in -some other way. It seems such a shame to make him eat food which his -very soul would revolt from, if he knew everything." - -She thought over the matter as she was working, and the more she thought -about it the less she liked it. But when a dealer came in that -afternoon, and paid her ten pounds that was owing to the firm, in two -five-pound notes, she immediately posted one of them to Norman Sinclair, -Esq., at his address in Hampstead, writing inside the envelope the words -"Conscience Money." - -That done, she felt more comfortable about Alice, for at least she would -not starve when that money arrived. Doris still missed Alice, however, -exceedingly; and though turning to her painting with fresh energy, alas! -she felt for it more distaste than ever. For Doris could not forget--it -was impossible for her to forget--that an honest man had called her work -wicked, and declared that it was a crime in the sight of God and man. -If that were true, and it was a crime, then she was a criminal just as -her father was! Hereditary? Yes, the criminality must be hereditary. -In her thoughts she had been hard upon her father. Was she any better -herself? - - - - - *CHAPTER XIV.* - - *BERNARD CAMERON VISITS DORIS.* - - - Patience and abnegation of self and devotion to others, - This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. - LONGFELLOW. - - -It was on Saturday afternoon that Bernard Cameron called. Doris had -been through a particularly trying morning. It began with a letter from -Alice, evidently written at her brother's instigation, advising her to -give up the business of making sham oil-paintings and thus defrauding -the public. "Better to be poor and honest and honourable," wrote Alice, -virtuously. Doris read between the lines that her brother wished her to -say these words, and that annoyed her extremely. - -"What business is it of his?" she said to herself, resenting his -interference. - -When she went upstairs to the garret, to begin work for the day, she -accidentally overheard Sandy saying to his fellow-worker, "Ain't folks -simple to buy these for genuine oil-paintings? I know a chap who gave -three pounds for a pair of them at a shop. And, says he, them's real -oil-paintings. As proud as a peacock he was!" - -"He shouldn't have been so green," said the other youth. - -"The Government is down on folks who sell margarine for butter; it can't -be done now-a-days, but there don't seem to be no penalty for this sort -of thing!" He tapped one of the pictures meaningly. - -Doris entered, and the conversation ceased; but all the morning her -assistants' words and Alice's letter rankled in her mind. No doubt the -business was not by any means a high-class one, but no one would buy her -genuine paintings, she therefore told herself she was driven to make -what she could sell: and now she had quite a nice little sum already in -hand, to form the nucleus of what she would require to pay the debt to -Bernard Cameron. - -However, it was rather too much for her, when, as she was snatching a -hasty lunch in the little sitting-room, she overheard Sam Austin saying -to his mother in the kitchen, "Mother, I used to think them pictures -Miss Anderson made so fast were really beautiful, and my wife went and -bought one at a shop, but when the Vicar was in our house the other day, -and she was showing it to him, he says, 'My good woman, that's no more a -work of art than that stocking you are knitting, and it isn't half so -useful! Don't you waste your money over such stuff!' says he. I felt -so ashamed-like, mother, that our young lady's work should be so spoken -of. And the Vicar is a gentleman who knows what's what." - -"Hush, Sam! Miss Anderson is in the room, and she might hear. I am -sure she thinks they are all right and worth the money, or she would not -do them." - -When the good landlady entered the room, a few minutes afterwards, she -was dismayed to find the door ajar, and not closed, as she had imagined. -This caused her to turn very red. But Doris did not refer to what she -had overheard, for in truth she did not know what to say. Later she -might refund Mrs. Sam her money, and have that off her conscience; but -what about all the other people who had purchased her pictures? She -felt sick at heart, and quite unable to do her work as usual. However, -it had to be done, and she went upstairs slowly and heavily. "What -shall I do?" she thought. "I cannot earn my living unless I do it in -this way, which is not honest--I see that now; at first I thought it -was, but I know Alice's brother is quite right. I'm a cheat and a -fraud, a humbug and a thief; for I take money out of people's pockets, -and make them no adequate return for it, although I make them think I -do." - -And then Bernard called. He was dressed in his worn clothes, and looked -tired and harassed, but "every inch a gentleman," as Mrs. Austin said -when she gave his name to Doris, asking if she would come downstairs to -see him. - -At first Doris thought she ought to send word that she was engaged. But -she could not do it. She was so miserable and so hopeless; and the very -thought of Bernard's presence there in the house caused hope and joy to -spring up in her heart, and was like new life to her. She, therefore, -took off her painting-apron, washed her hands, and went down to the -sitting-room. - -"Doris"--Bernard spoke very quietly, holding out his hand exactly as any -other visitor might have done--"Doris, I have called to see you. It is -very kind of you to come down. I--I will not detain you long." - -"It is kind of you to call," said Doris, rather lamely, noticing all at -once how thin and worn he looked, "and I haven't much time to spare, but -I could not--could not refuse." Her voice trembled and broke; tears -filled her eyes. It was hard, very hard to have to speak thus to one -she still loved dearly. - -"Oh, Doris," he cried, hope springing up in his heart by leaps and -bounds at the sight of her downcast face, "Doris, darling, I cannot bear -to see you looking so sad, and to know that you are alone here except -for your friend----" - -"She has left me!" interrupted Doris, crying now. "I am quite alone." - -"Left you! You are alone! Oh, my darling!" He put his arms round her -slim waist. "You are not alone! You need never be alone again, for _I_ -am here. Nay, don't send me away, dearest," he pleaded; "hear me, I -beg. I love you, Doris. I love you with all my heart. The loss of my -money--ah! forgive my mentioning it--it is as nothing to the grief of -losing you. Ah, you don't know what I have suffered! Without you this -world is to me a howling wilderness." He drew her to him. "Darling," -he continued, low in her ear, "_never_ send me away again." - -The girl was powerfully tempted to surrender her determination and -submit her weaker will to his stronger one. Her inclination, her heart -was on his side; but what she thought was duty, and her sense of right, -held her frail bark to its moorings. She therefore drew herself away, -and with a little gesture waved him back, and then, to make her position -more secure, she feigned anger. - -"Don't! Don't!" she exclaimed sharply. "You go too fast, Mr. Cameron, -much too fast! What we might have been to each other in happier times, -events have rendered impossible now. You know they have----" - -"No, no, not impossible!" he cried. - -"I say impossible," insisted Doris. "My father appropriated your -fortune. He stole from you your birthright." - -"What of that? I forget it. I have forgotten it." - -"You think so now. In your magnanimity you choose to think so; but -supposing I were to trust to that, and we were to marry, do you think -you could live with me day by day, in poverty, remember--for we should -be very poor--without remembering that my father--mine--stole from you -all the money your father left you?" - -"I shouldn't think of it, or, if I did, I would say to myself that you -have, by giving me your hand"--he took hers in his as he spoke--"and -promising to be my wife," he added, "righted the wrong, paid the debt, -made me rich indeed with what is worth far more than money, yes, -infinitely more." Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it. - -"Don't!" She drew her hand away. "And there is another side to the -question," she continued. "Could I be happy seeing you poor, and -knowing what was the cause of it? Don't you think that daily, hourly, I -should realise with pain that my father's crime was blighting your -life?" - -"Nonsense! Mine would be a poor life indeed, if the loss of money--mere -money--could blight it!" - -"It has a very stupefying effect on one to have no money," said Doris, -with a little sigh, thinking of her past experience. "Don't you know -the song-- - - Dollars and dimes! Dollars and dimes! - To be without cash is the worst of crimes! - -It gets one into disgrace, anyway," she added. - -"Poor child! I am afraid you have been hard up since----" - -"Well," she interrupted, "it takes the courage out of one to have no -money. You know that verse-- - - Whereunto is money good? - Who has it not wants hardihood; - Who has it has much trouble and care, - Who does not have it has despair." - - -"_I_ shall have despair if I have not you!" he declared, moodily. - -"No, you will not. You will find some one else to love--some one who -has heaps and heaps of money. Then you will marry--will marry her." -Doris's voice shook a little, but she waved him back when he would have -drawn her to him again. "You will marry a girl with lots of money," she -continued, more firmly now. "That is what your mother wants you to do. -It is your one chance, she says, of retrieving your fortune." - -"Did she say that to you, Doris?" His voice was hoarse, he looked very -pale. - -"She did." - -"And that caused you to send me that dreadful message?" he asked. - -"What message?" - -"That you would never, _never_ marry me." - -"Yes." - -"Ah! I understand it now." He passed his hand wearily across his -brow--"I understand. But I can't help it, and she is my mother!" Again -he was silent, struggling to control himself. "Do you know," he said, -"she turned me out of my home?" - -"She did? Why?" - -"Because I would not prosecute your father." - -"Ah! You have not attempted to prosecute him?" - -"Doris! Did you think that I _could_?" - -"Forgive me," she said. "But after your shrinking from me, as you did, -when you heard what my father had done----" - -"Shrinking from you! Shrinking! Surely you did not think that I could -ever have done that?" - -"But you did, Bernard. You did. It was that which broke my heart." - -"My darling, you must be mistaken!" - -"Indeed I am not. You shrank away from me. And then, your mother came -and said those dreadful things--so I gave you up entirely, and I said -that I would never marry you." - -"But now that you know that I never intentionally shrank from you--and -indeed I think that it must have been your fancy, darling--surely you -will unsay those cruel words?" - -Doris looked at him, at the love in his eyes, and his earnest face as he -pleaded thus, and she softened considerably. - -"I'll just tell you how it is, Bernard," she said, and now her tone was -kinder, and there was a light in her blue eyes corresponding with the -glow in his. "I'll just tell you how it is, Bernard, exactly. I feel -that, because my father robbed you, I have had a share in the crime, and -so I am going to work hard, in order to make you some little -reparation--though of course I can never repay you all the money. Do -you understand?" and she looked up earnestly into his face. - -"To make some little reparation? To repay money? What do you mean?" - -"Twenty-five thousand pounds is so large a sum!" she said. "I can only -repay a small part of it. But I'm doing my best; I'm putting by four or -five pounds a week, and I have already saved forty pounds. You can have -that forty pounds now if you like. It's yours." - -"Forty pounds! My dear Doris, what are you talking about?" - -"I'm going to earn as much money as I possibly can for you, Bernard," -said the girl firmly, "in order to repay you at least some of the money -my father took from you." - -"You earn money for me? Your little hands"--he looked down admiringly -on them--"your little hands earn money for me?" - -"Of course I must. It is my bounden duty. And I'm getting on splendidly -as regards money: only they say, do you know, Bernard," and her tones -were troubled, "they say that I ought not to earn it in the way I do. -However," she broke off, and began again, "I mean to earn you a lot of -money, that you may have part at least of that which is your very own." - -"The idea!" he exclaimed; "the very idea of your earning money with -these hands, these little hands," he repeated, "for me! Why, if only -you would give me your hand in marriage, I should be more than repaid -for all and everything?" He spoke eagerly. - -"Bernard, I shall not marry you until I have done all that I possibly -can to pay the debt." - -In vain the young man protested, pleaded, and expostulated. Doris was -firm: the utmost that she would concede was that he might visit her -occasionally and see how she was getting on. - -When that matter was quite settled she gave him some tea, and then -explained to him about her work, which he was astonished to find so -remunerative. He did not think it wrong of her to make those poor -imitation oil-paintings. He said that people could not expect to obtain -real oil-paintings for such small sums. - -"You do not call them oil-paintings," he said, "you call them pictures; -and if people think them oil-paintings that is their fault: it is -because they are ignorant that they make the mistake. You are not -answerable for that. The case of margarine and butter is different. It -was because margarine used to be called butter that it was made illegal -to sell it as such. Margarine is still sold, but it is called -margarine." - -"How very sensible you are, Bernard!" said Doris. "I wish----" - -"What do you wish?" he asked earnestly, for he longed to serve her. - -"I wish you would convince the artist, my friend Alice's brother, that -he is wrong in thinking it so wicked to make those pictures and sell -them." - -"Does it matter what he thinks?" asked Bernard, full of a new alarm. -"Is the man anything to you, Doris?" - -"Anything to me? No, I have only seen him once." - -"Yet you would like to stand high in his opinion?" - -"Well, yes. There is something grand--heroic, about him. He would die -for the truth. The man is made of the sort of stuff of which the old -martyrs used to be made." Doris spoke with great enthusiasm. - -Bernard's alarm increased by leaps and bounds. "Oh, Doris, darling, -don't have anything to do with him!" he exclaimed passionately. - -"Why not?" She looked startled. The flush which had risen to her face -as she spoke so earnestly of Sinclair deepened into a very warm colour. - -"Because I do not wish you to know him." - -"Why not?" she repeated. - -"My instinct tells me that he has impressed you strongly and that you -think a great deal of him, and if you get to care for him, this hero -whom you admire so much, you won't care for your poor Bernard any more!" -He ended in doleful tones. - -"You foolish boy!" Doris cried, with complete change of voice. "You -know very well that although our engagement has been broken off and I -have vowed that I will never, never marry you--that is, unless some of -the debt is paid--I shall never love anybody in all the world as I love -you," she ended with a little sob, and buried her face in her hands, -lest he should see the tears which filled her eyes. - -It was impossible for him to refrain from kissing her then; but she only -suffered him to touch her hands, and then, starting up, waved him aside. - -"No, no! You must not," she exclaimed. "I shall not go back on my word. -I shall stick to my purpose. You may come to see me sometimes if you -like, but I shall promise nothing." - -He looked despairingly at her as she stood there, tall, erect, a very -queen of beauty, with brilliantly coloured cheeks, shining blue eyes, -and golden hair like an aureole above her small beautifully shaped head. - -"Oh, my dear, you cannot earn money for me!" he cried; "I would never -touch it. _Do_ dismiss the idea from your mind! What I want is _you_, -to be my own darling wife. We might be ever so happy--even if we are -poor." - -"I don't want you to be poor, Bernard," she rejoined. "If you are it -will be my father who has made you so, and I could not endure to see it. -Now, don't let us waste time in arguing about that again. I shall -continue my work here: for you have made it plain to me that it is all -right. You may come to see me occasionally, as I said----" - -"What do you think if I were to throw up my tutorship--it is badly -paid--and come daily to assist you with your work? It would be awfully -jolly working together, and I could see that your lads did their share, -instead of wasting their time in chattering about what they do not -understand." - -But Doris would not hear of that arrangement being made. The work might -do for her, but she revolted mentally from the idea of her Bernard -pursuing a calling which the artist had declared to be so utterly and -radically wrong: and it was like her inconsequent, girlish way of -reasoning not to see that what was right for one was right for the -other, and _vice versa_. - -However, when Bernard went away, she felt ever so much happier than she -did when he arrived. He loved her and she loved him: that was the chief -thing; all else was of secondary consideration. He approved of, and saw -no harm in her occupation--could he by any possibility see any harm in -anything that she did?--and that was healing balm to her hurt, -despondent feelings. - -"He is very nice and sensible, is Bernard," she said to herself, last -thing that night, as she laid her head on her pillow; "he is very -different from poor Alice's despotic brother. Now, I like a man I can -convince even against his will--and Bernard does love me in spite of -everything." She fell asleep thinking about him, and dreamt that they -were again in the Temperate House, looking at the chrysanthemums, and -she was not trying to send him away as she did before, but, on the -contrary, her hand rested within his arm, which held it tightly. - - - - - *CHAPTER XV.* - - *ANOTHER VISITOR FOR DORIS.* - - - Shun evil, follow good, hold sway - Over thyself. This is the way. - SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. - - -After Bernard's visit and his approval of her work, Doris went on with -it doggedly, disregarding all doubts that arose, and justifying her -doings to herself by thinking of Bernard's opinion of the rightfulness -of her occupation--exactly as men and women have sheltered themselves -behind the views of others ever since the day when Adam screened himself -behind his wife's, and she behind the serpent's. - -The business prospered, so that the girl's little store of money -increased, and she began to anticipate a not very distant time when -there would be one hundred pounds saved wherewith to make her first -payment to Bernard. She determined to begin by paying him one hundred -pounds at once, and wondered if the time would ever come when she would -have so much as one thousand pounds to hand over to him. The girl had a -very brave spirit, but it was often daunted by the herculean task she -had set herself. - -One day, when she was very busy with her assistants in the garret, Mrs. -Austin knocked at the door and asked her to be so good as to come -outside to speak to her. - -"That gentleman's come again," she said. "He who frightened away Miss -Sinclair. It's you he's after now, I'm thinking. But oh, Miss -Anderson, don't see him! He's got an awful look on his face, as if we -kept a gambling-place at least! Don't see him! For, oh, my dear, you -must live! What is to become of you if you give up such a good business -as you have got? Remember what a hard world this is for those who have -no money, and how difficult you found it to get dealers even to look at -those genuine little paintings you took so much trouble over!" - -"Mr. Sinclair might have saved himself the trouble, if he has come to -try to persuade me to give up the business," said Doris, rather hotly. -"I wonder what business it is of his, by the bye! No, I will not see -him." - -"Ah, forgive me, I followed your landlady upstairs! I beg a thousand -pardons for the intrusion." The artist stood behind Mrs. Austin, -towering above her. He spoke very humbly, but there was an air of -determination, if not of censure, about him which displeased Doris. - -"I am engaged," she said, shortly. "I was just sending you word that I -could not see you." - -"But I bring you a message from my sister," he observed, after a -moment's pause. "Surely you will receive it?" - -He looked at her as he spoke, and again Doris felt the dominating power -of his strong will. She was vexed with herself for yielding, and yet -could scarcely avoid it. Slowly and with reluctance the words fell from -her lips, "I cannot hear it here," as she looked significantly at her -assistants, who, busy though they appeared to be, were listening to what -was being said; "we will go downstairs." - -In the room below they stood and looked at each other--he tall, -broad-shouldered, vigorous; she slim and slight, but beautiful as a -dream. The girl did not ask him to be seated, nor did she look at the -chair he offered her with a gesture which was almost compelling. - -For a moment or two there was silence. Then Doris spoke. - -"You have come between your sister and me," she said. "You have drawn -her away and prevented my visiting her, and yet you have"--she -paused--"condescended," she hazarded, "to bring me a message from her!" - -"I have. Alice wants you to give up this--this business----" - -"If that is all," interrupted Doris, hotly, "you might have saved -yourself the trouble of coming here." - -"Don't say that! Listen to me. No doubt you are angry because I come -here, as I came before to express my disapproval of the whole affair. I -feel it my duty to do so. It is a prostitution of Art--a robbery in her -name----" - -"Stay!" interrupted Doris, passionately. "I know what you think it, and -I know also what I think of your speaking to me like this! You may -lecture your sister and do what you please with her, but is it any -business of yours--I mean, what right have you to come here to find -fault with _my_ work? As I was saying to Mrs. Austin when you----" - -"Intruded," he suggested, bitterly. - -"Yes, intruded," she went on, with severity, "upstairs, it is no -business of yours." - -"I think it is," he said, more gently. "You are Alice's friend, and I do -not wish my sister to associate intimately with one who----" - -"If I am not fit for your sister's society----" began Doris, furiously. - -"Don't you think it is a pity for us to quarrel in this way?" Mr. -Sinclair said, in a calm manner. "Please sit down, and let us talk -calmly and reasonably." He again waved his hand towards the chair which -he had placed for her. - -Doris sat down rather helplessly. How he dominated her! She felt as if -she were a little child, who did not know what to say in the presence of -a grown-up person. - -"My sister is extremely attached to you," said the artist, his rich -voice full of feeling and his grey eyes shining as they looked straight -into Doris's, as if they would read her soul. "She thinks that no one in -the world is like her friend. Nothing that one can say--I mean that one -can do--that is, that can be done--has any power to shake her loyalty to -you----" - -"Ah! You have been trying to estrange her from me----" - -"I will not deny your charge," said the other, "for there is some truth -in it. I do not wish my sister to see much of one who, for money--mere -money--is content to do that which is wrong. The love of money is the -root of all evil." - -"And you think," exclaimed Doris, "you think _I_ love money? You think -that for money I am content to do wrong?" - -"What else can I think?" - -"You are exceedingly uncharitable," cried the girl, bitterly, "to beg -the question in this way! Let me say that, in the first place, I do not -love money. That I want to earn as much of it as possible is true; but -I do not want the money for myself. It is to help to pay a debt, a debt -of honour so large that it is not possible for me to pay it all; but if -I can in time pay a few hundreds of pounds, I shall be very glad." - -"A debt of honour! A few hundreds! My child, you cannot earn all that -by such trashy work as this that you are doing!" In spite of himself, -Norman regarded her with great admiration. - -"The word cannot is not in my dictionary," said Doris, rather -grandiloquently. "It must be done!" - -"Impossible!" he ejaculated. - -"And as for the work being wrong," continued Doris, "I do not know that -it is wrong." - -"Not know that it is wrong!" exclaimed the other. "When every one of -your oil-paintings is a sin against truth. You know it; surely this -must appeal to your honour!" - -"I do not _call_ them oil-paintings," said Doris, proceeding to repeat -rapidly Bernard Cameron's arguments, and ending with the words, uttered -very meaningly, "What is truth? We can but obey it as it appears to us. -You judge of my pictures from such a different standpoint. They are -untrue to all your canons of high art. But I know nothing comparatively -of art: I only try to make pictures which will please people, and be -worth the trifling sums of money they give for them. Such people could -not see any beauty in great works of art; but they say, 'That's pretty! -That's very pretty!' when they see mine." - -The artist was silent. It was true. What beauty could Jack Hodge and -his cousins Dick, Tom, and Harry, see in the Old Masters, or in the new -ones either? Yet they were the people who paid their shillings, and -even pounds for such pictures as this young girl provided for them. - -"Believe me," continued Doris, "there is room in the world for workers -of all sort. The birds cannot all be nightingales; the flowers are not -all roses; and the human beings who entertain mankind are not all the -best and highest of their kind. But there is a place for the homely -sparrow, the little daisy, and the poor picture-maker to fill; and it is -not--not generous of those more gifted to come and find fault with -them!" - -Her voice trembled and shook as she concluded; and, feeling that she was -about to break down, she bowed slightly to her visitor and left the -room. - -Mr. Sinclair sprang up as if to stop her, yet did not do so. He opened -his mouth to speak, yet no word fell from his lips, and so he allowed -her to pass out. - -"What a wonderful girl!" he muttered aloud, when she was gone, closing -the door softly behind her. "I admire her exceedingly! And I have hurt -her feelings! She has gone away to cry! What a stupid blunderer I am! -How brutal of me to wound her so! I'm sure I'm very sorry. I'll write -her a message." He looked round for pen, ink, and paper, and, having -found some, wrote one line only: - -"Forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Norman Sinclair." - -Having folded the paper, he addressed it to Miss Anderson, and laid it -conspicuously upon the table, and then very quietly left the house. - - - - - *CHAPTER XVI.* - - *THE GREAT RENUNCIATION.* - - - And things can never go badly wrong - If the heart be true and the love be strong; - For the mist, if it comes, and the weeping rain - Will be changed by the love into sunshine again. - G. MACDONALD. - - -Doris was quite touched when, on coming down to tea, she found Mr. -Sinclair's communication upon the table. He could scarcely have written -anything which appealed to her more. If he had given in to her -arguments, and had said she was right and he was wrong, her feelings -about him would have been contemptuous: and if, on the other hand, he -had persisted in condemning her work she would have considered him -unreasonable. As it was, however, she could not feel either contempt or -anger for the man who simply asked for her forgiveness; and she thought -better of him for showing in that way that he was sorry for the pain his -arguments, and indeed his whole visit had caused her. - -She sat and thought about him a long time. How different he was from -Bernard! Not so loving and lovable, not nearly so loving and lovable, -and yet there was a grandeur about him, and an air of distinction which -Bernard did not possess. "I wish I could see his paintings!" she said -to herself. "Alice used to rave about them. But I did not take much -notice. I thought her simply infatuated with her brother; she thought -no one was his equal. Perhaps if I had a brother I might have felt like -that about him." And so, on and on went her thoughts, always about -Norman Sinclair, except when they flew for a moment or two to Bernard, -though always reverting quickly again to the artist. Mr. Sinclair was -the greater man of the two, there was no doubt about that, and her first -feeling of annoyance at its being so had changed into esteem for him; -yet she loved Bernard all the more because he did not stand on a -pedestal, he was on her own level--or it might be even a little -lower--which gave her such a delicious sense of motherhood towards him. -The latter feeling no doubt made her so determined that he should have -his own again, even if she had to wear herself out in winning it for -him. Bernard should not suffer loss, if by any exertion on her part it -could be averted. - -"I do hope, miss," said Mrs. Austin, coming in at last, unbidden, to -clear away the tea-things, "I do hope that gentleman hasn't gone and -worried you with his tall talk! It is all very fine to tell other folks -to give up their businesses, but would he give up his own, I wonder? -And will he ensure your having a good income if you throw away the one -you are earning?" - -Doris rose. - -"Mrs. Austin," she said, laying one hand on the good woman's shoulder, -and smiling kindly into her anxious face, "I am afraid I cannot discuss -Mr. Sinclair even with you. He is good and honourable, but I--I do not -see things quite as he does; and you may trust me not to be such a child -as to lightly throw away my good business." - -With that Mrs. Austin had to be content. But she distrusted the -stranger's influence over the young lady, and never willingly admitted -him into her little house when he called--as he did call--time after -time to see Miss Anderson. - -"I would rather see the other gentleman, Mr. Cameron," said the landlady -to herself many a time. But Bernard was not well, he had taken a severe -cold, and the mists rising continually in the Thames Valley caused him -to have chest troubles. He could therefore only write to Doris, now and -then, expressing hope that he would soon be better in health and able to -call upon her again, and regretting deeply the delay. - -Left alone, Doris quite looked forward to the artist's visits. He never -stayed long, and the short time he was with her was such a pleasant -break in the monotony of the girl's daily life. She was too -unsophisticated to scruple to receive him in her little sitting-room, -and he was altogether too great a Bohemian to hesitate to go there -alone. To his mind Doris stood on an entirely different plane from -other girls. The concern with which he had seen her making her poor -pictures had become merged in admiration for her bravery in attempting -to earn a few hundreds of pounds with which to pay part of a debt of -honour. How could it have been contracted, he wondered, by one so -guileless? _She_ could not have lost the money by gambling. It was -impossible that such an innocent girl could know anything about -gambling. And yet in what other way could she have become indebted to -such an extent? He was soon to know, for as his influence over her -increased, she became possessed with a restless longing to stand well in -his opinion, and it seemed to her untruthful to conceal from him the -cloud of disgrace which hung over her family, although she had thought -it right to keep the matter from Alice. - -She therefore told him, one day when he lingered with her a little -longer than usual, and the early twilight favoured confidences, -softening as it did the austere lines in the artist's face and revealing -only the good expression of his countenance. - -He listened in amazement and distress, having had no idea of the tragedy -in her young life. - -Simply and as briefly as possible she related the story of her father's -appropriation of his young ward's money, and his subsequent flight, with -her mother, in the dead of night. She was a little tired and dispirited -that day, and her voice broke now and again as she recounted the -wretched happenings of that woeful time, and then not allowing herself -to break down, or shed a tear, went on bravely to relate about the -letter her mother left for her, with its scanty information and command -to her to proceed to London, there to live with their good friend Miss -Earnshaw. - -But when Doris proceeded to relate how Mrs. Cameron came into her room -in order to upbraid her in her misfortunes, being overcome by the -recollection, she completely broke down and wept. - -Norman Sinclair was deeply moved. The tears were in his own eyes as he -waited in silence, without venturing to touch, or speak to her, lest any -move on his part should check her confidence. - -Presently she continued, "You must know I was just becoming engaged to -Bernard Cameron when all these things happened----" - -"Engaged?" interrupted the other, in dismay. - -"Yes. Bernard and I had loved each other long. But she--his mother, -you know--made me vow that I would not marry him--to bring disgrace upon -him." - -"Disgrace?" - -"Yes," Doris said. "The only thing my father had left him, Mrs. Cameron -told me, was his honourable name, which would be sullied if I married -him, and also, she said, the only hope for his being able to retrieve -his position was for him to marry some one who had money. I therefore -declared that I would never, never marry him, and I ran away at once -that I might not see him again." - -"Ran away? Alone?" - -"Yes," and then Doris told about her travelling to London and upon -arriving at Earl's Court Square in the night finding her friend Miss -Earnshaw dead, so that there was another person in possession of the -house, who was unkind and inhospitable. - -"My child, what did you do?" The words escaped involuntarily from -Norman's lips. - -Doris told him of the compassionate cabman, who most fortunately being a -good and honest man, took her to his mother, who proved to be a good -Samaritan to her in her poverty and need. Then she spoke rather shyly -of her abortive attempts to paint pictures which would sell, and the -work she found at last of lamp-shade making, which supported her for a -time, until, upon its failing her, she joined Alice Sinclair's more -remunerative business. - -"You spoilt our partnership," she said in conclusion, "but I am getting -on all right now, and have saved nearly one hundred pounds for Bernard. -In time I hope to let him have much more." - -"You consider yourself so greatly in his debt?" queried the artist, in -amazement. - -"Certainly. My father robbed him of much money. I must try to pay some -back." - -"But the man cannot legally claim a farthing from you. A girl--under -age, too--cannot be made to pay a debt." - -"You don't understand. It is a debt of honour. Ah!" she smiled sadly, -"you thought I acted dishonourably about the pictures, so you cannot -understand my being honourable about anything else." - -"You could not be dishonourable," exclaimed Norman, quite hotly, "or -anything else except most honourable. About the pictures you hold a -mistaken view, that is all. For the rest, your taking upon yourself -this debt is _noble_. I only know one other girl who would have -attempted it." He smiled grimly. - -"Alice?" - -"Yes." - -"Ah, she would have done it. How I wish you would let her come to me! -I have not many friends," Doris's lips trembled. There were times when -she yearned for Alice's bright young face and loving words. - -"You have not lost her love--she is always wanting to come to you. But -I really----" he hesitated, seeking a word. - -"You think I am not good enough to associate with Alice--that I should -contaminate her if she came here----" - -"Not good enough? Contaminate her?" Sinclair cried excitedly. "Oh, if -you knew what I think of you, how I esteem and admire you!" - -"Hush! hush! please," said Doris. "You are speaking excitedly--you do -not consider what you say. The fact remains that you think my work -altogether wrong. 'A crime,' you have called it, 'in the sight of God -and man.' And you have forbidden your sister to come here. That shows -you have not changed your opinion." - -"I have forbidden my sister to come here lest she should have a relapse -into her former views, and insist upon joining you again at the -business." - -"You would not allow her?" - -"Most certainly I should not allow her." - -His tone was emphatic. - -"Then you still think it wrong of me to do it, in spite of what I have -said?" - -"I think you are mistaken. I am sure you would not knowingly do wrong." - -After he had gone, for he went soon afterwards, not being able to trust -himself to stay there any longer, Doris sat a long time thinking over -what had passed. His evident admiration and indeed love for -herself--which she had discouraged, because if she belonged to any one -it was to Bernard--only heightened the effect of the uncompromising way -in which he regarded her employment. It was, then, in the eyes of an -honest man a fraud which even the exigency of her need of money -wherewith to pay Bernard his own again could by no means exonerate. - -"It certainly is wrong to do evil that good may come," she said to -herself. "And oh! my heart tells me that I have known in its depths for -a long time, in spite of what Bernard said, and in spite of my -sheltering behind his opinion, that mine is very questionable work, -leading, as I fear it often does, to poor and ignorant people giving -their money for what is of no real value. If the shops would sell my -pictures for a few shillings it would not be so bad; but though the -dealers only give me a few shillings for each, they sell many of them -for as much as a pound or thirty shillings each. I should not like any -one I loved to pay such a price for them--and it isn't fair to cheat -other people's loved ones. Every one is the loved one of the Lover of -mankind," was the next thought, "and He said, 'Inasmuch as ye have done -it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto -Me.'" - -The solemnity of the thought was great. "Unto Him!" she murmured. "Do I -treat Him like that? Can I possibly do it to Him?" She thought over -the essential points of her religion; over what He had done for her, and -then asked herself how could she make Him such a return? - -The fire sank low in the grate. Sounds of the little house being locked -up for the night, and the footsteps of Mrs. Austin going upstairs to bed -fell unheeded on her ears, as she sat there still absorbed in these -reflections. - -The business was wrong; she must get out of it, must give it up. But, -could she? Would she have strength of mind and will sufficient for the -task? It would be a hard thing to do. "If thy right hand offend thee, -cut it off and cast it from thee." Yes, she would do it. For -conscience' sake, she would strip herself of this really lucrative -business which was so wrong, and would commence in some other way to -toil for the money which was required to pay some of the debt to -Bernard. With a capital of a hundred pounds she might start some -business, she thought, which would enable her to earn money rapidly. - -Having made up her mind for what she called "The great renunciation," -she lost no time in setting about it. - -And first of all, before going to bed, she ascertained from her books -what sum of money was due to Alice--for all this time she had regularly -forwarded to her ex-partner's brother one third of all profits made in -the business--then placing the amount in notes, in a sealed envelope, in -the inside of which she wrote "Conscience Money," she went out and -slipped it into the nearest pillar-box. "I cannot bother to register it -this time," she said to herself, "it will get there all right." Then, -quickly re-entering the house, she locked and bolted the door, and went -upstairs to her bed-room. But not to sleep. For hours she lay awake, -pondering over ways and means. Should she hand over to Bernard the -hundred pounds there would be altogether, after she had sold the last -remaining pictures, and the paint, mill-boards, etc., she had in the -garret? Or should she trade with the hundred pounds in some way, with -the view to making it bring forth a hundredfold? But in what way could -that be done? And, supposing she were to lose it? Bernard might never -have even that hundred pounds restored to him. - -She fell asleep at last, her thoughts running to the tune of the hundred -pounds, and awoke about seven o'clock, still with the problem unsolved. -But the post brought her a letter from Bernard, saying that he was ill -and in trouble. He had lost his situation through ill health, and was -alone, helplessly ill, in his lodgings at Richmond. - -That morning Doris left her assistants to pack up her stock-in-trade, -while she went to Richmond to see Bernard, whom she found in a small, -dingy house in Jocelyn Road. He was not in bed, but lying on a couch, -looking ill and unhappy. His unhappiness, however, quickly disappeared -when he perceived her. - -"You here!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Doris, does my sight deceive me? Are -you really standing before me?" - -"Yes. It is I," replied Doris, and then, laying her cool hand upon his -burning brow, she added, "Why, how hot you are! What is the matter?" - -"The doctor calls it influenza, but I think they call everything -influenza in these days. I know I have been ill a horribly long time, -and I can't get better. I have written to my mother, Doris. I have -been obliged to write to her. Perhaps if I could go home a -little--quite away from this wretched place--my native air might restore -me. But mother has not replied. I think she will have nothing more to -do with me. The old idea of the prodigal son's being welcomed back with -best robes and rings and fatted calf is exploded. Parents are not like -that in these days!" He spoke bitterly. - -"But you have not been a prodigal son," said Doris. "Perhaps if you had -been, your mother would have proved more merciful. It is the fact that -you have acted more nobly than she about not proceeding against my -father which stings and humiliates her. Don't you know, dear, that the -higher we raise our standard the more it seems to reflect upon those who -allow theirs to drag in the mire? Your mother cannot forgive you for -being better than she." - -There was silence for a few moments in the little room. Bernard could -have said several things, but he did not wish to speak against his -mother. Presently, however, he remarked, - -"I don't feel as if I could get well here. These are such nasty, fusty -rooms--so depressing--such a want of air and light--so different from -dear old Yorkshire and the breezes to be had on Askern Hill. Do you -remember Askern Hill, Doris?" - -Did she remember? The colour returned into her pale cheeks, and the -light into her eyes, as she remembered the last happy occasion upon -which she and Bernard trod that hill. - -"Oh, Bernard, you ought to go back there!" she said. "My poor boy, you -would get well and strong if you were there again." - -"You also," he rejoined, with a look of yearning love. "Oh, Doris, if -we could return together!" - -"If wishes were horses beggars would ride," she said, lightly. "Look -here!" she spread a little heap of bank-notes before his astonished -eyes. "Count them. There are ninety pounds," she said, for she had -brought with her the money she had saved. - -"Ninety pounds!" exclaimed he. - -"Yes. Ninety pounds. It is yours. I repay that much of our debt to -you to-day." - -"Ninety pounds! You repay! Debt!" cried he, in bewilderment and -indignation. "What nonsense! I cannot take your money." - -"You must! I insist upon it! I have earned it for you. See. It is -all yours," and, gathering up the money, she tried to put it into his -hand. - -But he would not take it. He was no cad that he should take money from -a girl. And he seized the opportunity to show her practically that it -was quite impossible for him to accept any payment at all from her. - -The little contest made him so ill and feverish that Doris had to call -in his doctor, who, after giving him a draught, insisted upon his going -home to Yorkshire forthwith, while he was still able to travel. - -Doris went to the telegraph office, to wire to his mother to say that he -was returning home ill, and afterwards while she was packing up for him -the reply telegram arrived. It was short, but to the point: - -"Shall be glad to see you. Come immediately." - - -In the afternoon, Doris and Bernard went to King's Cross in a cab, and -there the girl saw him off in an express for Doncaster. - -He urged her to accompany him, but this she declined to do. - -"Well, of course, if you won't marry me at once, dear," he said, "it -would be a pity for you to leave your good, paying business." - -Doris had not told him that she was relinquishing the work, and he -departed in the belief that she still retained her remunerative -employment. - -But the girl returned slowly to Mrs. Austin's, to sell the tools of her -trade, which she no longer required, and thus complete the renunciation -of her business. - -And if the thought of that strong man, the champion of truth and honour, -Norman Sinclair, was a help and support to her in this difficult crisis -of her life, who can wonder at it? - -Bernard was ill and far away, and the artist had powerfully influenced -her. - - - - - *CHAPTER XVII.* - - *IN POVERTY.* - - - Give me neither poverty nor riches. - _The Prayer of Agar_. - - -Doris realised ten pounds by the sale of her stock-in-trade, the -materials and the pictures which had not been paid for previously, and -then, having altogether one hundred pounds in hand, she imagined herself -fairly well off, and with means sufficient to maintain herself in -comfort until she could find some other employment. - -And now she bought newspapers and frequented public reading-rooms, in -order to search through the columns of advertisements in papers and -ladies' journals for some post which she could hope to obtain. Her idea -of paying back even a small portion of her father's debt to Bernard -being now exploded, she hoped to obtain a comfortable home and small -salary as lady's companion, or governess, or secretary; and many were -the applications for such places that she made personally, or by letter, -but always in vain. Having no better reference to give than poor Mrs. -Austin, and having had no experience of the work, she was so unfortunate -as to meet with refusals everywhere. She was too pretty for some -mistresses to tolerate the idea of having her in their homes, and she -was too reticent about her parents and home to suit others. - -It would have been better for her had she written to some of her old -friends in Yorkshire asking if they would allow her to refer people to -them, but a mistaken idea that the knowledge of her father's crime might -prevent their vouching for his daughter's rectitude prevented her. -Since she left Askern she had written only once or twice to Susan Gaunt, -and then had given no address but the vague one "London," which caused -poor Susan to wring her hands in dismay, and complain that Miss Doris -couldn't want to hear from her. Perhaps Mrs. Cameron's insistence on -the shame which attached to her as being her father's daughter unduly -influenced the girl's mind, for she felt an intense shrinking from -renewing her former relations with her old friends. - -So it came about that, as weeks and months passed by, Doris found that -her money was rapidly diminishing, while her prospects did not brighten. -Bernard only wrote once after the first brief note saying that he had -arrived at home and received a kind welcome from his mother, and no more -letters coming Doris understood that Mrs. Cameron would not permit the -correspondence, and therefore she ceased writing. - -Mrs. Austin, who had deeply lamented the termination of the -picture-business and had even suggested its resuscitation, was loud in -expressions of grief and concern. - -"To think," she said,--"to think that you, who could earn ever so many -pounds a week, cannot now earn as many shillings! It all comes of that -Mr. Sinclair's coming here unsettling you! But there, I won't say any -more about him, Miss Anderson dear, since you don't like me to do so." - -"Thank you," said Doris, gently. "But now for business," she added, -with an attempt at cheerfulness. "I cannot pay you for this nice -bedroom much longer"--they were in her bedroom, and she looked round at -its cosy little appointments as she spoke--"you must try to let it to -some one else." - -"What? And part with you? Not if I know it!" cried Mrs. Austin, -throwing up both her hands to emphasise her words. - -"You need not part with me," said Doris, putting her arms round the good -woman's neck, and speaking with real affection. "Dear Mrs. Austin, I -should be homeless indeed if I left your roof! What I want is this: Let -me have the garret--only the garret; make me up a nice little bed there, -and let me have my food--anything that you happen to be having--for a -moderate charge." - -The widow began to protest vehemently, but Doris cut short her -vociferations by declaring that if her proposal was not agreed to she -would have to seek a lodging elsewhere, for she could not use the -bedroom when it was quite impossible to pay for it. - -Accordingly, that very day, a notice that a bedroom and sitting-room -were to let was put up in the front window, and when at length they were -let Doris carried up all her belongings to the garret, which Mrs. Austin -made as comfortable as she possibly could. - -Then Doris continued her weary search for work, even applying at shops -for a post as cashier or shop-assistant. But her lack of knowledge of -book-keeping precluded her from the one--even if she could have given -better references than the poor Austins'--and her want of experience and -of testimonials caused her failure as an applicant for the other. Every -evening she returned to her garret worn out with the futile attempt to -obtain employment, and every evening Mrs. Austin brought her up a nice -little hot supper, in spite of her protestations and declaration that -she was not at all hungry. That was true enough, alas! for she lost her -appetite and grew thin and worn during those days; and there were times -when she doubted her wisdom in having given up the sham oil-painting -business. "One must live," she said to herself, "and I had nothing -else. But at least--at least I have cast into God's treasury all that I -have. Will He bless me for it, I wonder? It does not seem like it at -present; but I suppose I must have faith, only I feel too weary to have -faith in these days." - -Such thoughts often came at nights, and she wept as she lay on her poor -garret bed, so that sleep forsook her, and she arose in the morning -unrefreshed and weary still. - -The artist called several times when she was out, and not being liked by -Mrs. Austin, he found the good woman taciturn and uncommunicative, so -that he did not hear anything about Doris's business having been given -up, and was in total ignorance upon that point. But Alice had heard the -news from Doris: for the latter was obliged to mention it in giving a -reason for the money remittances having ceased. To tell the truth, -Alice was dismayed, and very sorry that Doris, too, felt it to be her -duty to abandon the work. Though Alice, under her brother's compulsion, -had once requested Doris to give it up, she had not really wished her to -do so, for Alice was essentially practical, having, moreover, the -responsibility of keeping her artist brother alive until he won his -spurs as a Royal Academician. Sometimes Alice thought of acquainting her -brother with the fact that Doris, too, had given up the work he -abhorred, but as they had nearly quarrelled about Doris more than -once--owing to Norman's forbidding Alice to visit her--each was very -reticent about the girl. Alice did not know of the artist's visiting -Doris; and he did not know that she and Doris corresponded regularly. - -"Oh, you poor, dear darling!" wrote Alice to Doris, "what an awfully -inconvenient thing it is to have a conscience! And an appetite for -food, with a conscience which prevents one from having the means to -satisfy it, is a piling on of the agony! With Norman on his high horse, -so that he will not allow me to do this and that, and you with a -conscience which prevents your sending me any more money, truly I am in -a fix. But I won't be beaten. I must find grist for the mill somewhere -and somehow, if I have to sing in the street, or be a flower-girl. My -dear old Norman shan't starve to death while I have any wits left at -all. As for you, if you were not too proud, there are artists who would -pay much for the privilege of painting your lovely face. I know Norman -would be charmed to have it for his picture of 'Ganymede.' Indeed, he -is painting her astonishingly like you, although an ordinary model is -sitting for it. Your face is your fortune, darling, when all is said -and done. And you'll marry a duke, no doubt, in the end, while I shall -be only an insignificant nobody, perhaps mentioned in the 'Life of -Norman Sinclair, R.A.' as having fed the lion when he was oblivious of -such mundane things as pounds, shillings and pence. Good night. When I -have thought of what I will do, I'll send you word. Then maybe you will -join me in doing it: and we won't let anybody come between us ever -again. - -"Thine, - "ALICE." - - -Another day, when Doris was despairing of ever getting anything to do, -she received a second letter from her friend, which was short and to the -point. - - -"Eureka! I have found it," wrote Alice, "now at last our woes will be -all over. Our work will be honourable of its sort, and it will pay a -little--enough to feed the lion and our humble selves, although we shall -not be able to save money. Oh, dear no. But we must be thankful for -small mercies in these days. Meet me to-morrow at twelve o'clock at the -Park Square entrance to the Broad Walk in Regent's Park; then we will -have a walk and talk about it. - -"Thine, - "ALICE." - - - - - *CHAPTER XVIII.* - - *NEW EMPLOYMENT FOR DORIS.* - - - No soul can be quite separate, - However set aside by fate, - However cold or dull or shy - Or shrinking from the public eye. - The world is common to the race, - And nowhere is a hiding-place: - Behind, before, with rhythmic beat, - Is heard the tread of marching feet. - * * * * * - And as we meet and touch each day, - The many travellers on our way, - Let every such brief contact be - A glorious, helpful ministry: - The contact of the soil and seed, - Each giving to the other's need, - Each helping on the other's best, - And blessing, each, as well as blest. - SUSAN COOLIDGE. - - -"Oh, my dear Doris, isn't it lovely to be out here in the fresh air and -sunshine, with you, too, at last? At last!" Alice's feet almost danced -over the ground, as with a smiling face she drew her friend along the -Broad Walk in Regent's Park. "Oh, I have so much to tell you! We have -been parted ages--_ages_!" she cried. - -"Ages indeed!" sighed Doris. "It does seem such a long, _long_ time: -and yet I suppose it is barely four months since you left me." - -"Months? Four months did you say? It seems like _years_! Why, it was -the depth of winter then, and now it is spring, though the trees are -bare yet," and Alice glanced up at the fine chestnut trees on both sides -of the walk. - -"I am afraid I cannot walk so fast as this if I am to talk as well," -panted Doris, as she was being hurried along. - -"Why, what is the matter with you? You dear thing, what is the matter? -You are pale. You are ill?" Alice was looking at her now with great -concern. - -"Not at all. I'm all right, only I cannot walk so quickly. You walk -very fast." - -"How worn your clothes are!" cried Alice, scrutinising her closely. -"And how thin you are! Doris, I believe you are _starving_." - -"Nothing of the sort." A bright colour had come into Doris's face now, -making it look more beautiful than ever, although it was so thin. - -"Have you had a good breakfast?" questioned practical Alice. - -"Yes. Mrs. Austin saw to that. She is very good to me." - -"Oh, Doris!" Alice read between the lines. Her friend had been -suffering want; indeed, was suffering it now. - -"I am all right," declared Doris again. "Come, tell me, dear, what is -the work you have found for me to do?" - -"Well, it is honest work, at all events, and although it isn't at all -romantic, it is interesting enough. I tried to get into several other -things first, but found them all so difficult without a special -training, and time is the commodity in which we are deficient: for what -we want is immediate money--cash _down_" and Alice gave a little stamp -with her foot to emphasise "down." - -"It is, indeed," cried Doris. "Go on quickly, please. Tell me what you -have found for us to do?" It was a matter of vital importance to her, -for she had reached her last coin that day, and her only hope was in -Alice's promised work. - -"It is account collecting. You know, calling at people's houses for the -money they are owing." - -"Oh!" Doris's "Oh!" was rather dubious. Such work seemed indeed most -unattractive. - -"It was my grocer who gave me the idea," Alice went on briskly. "I was -apologising for not paying him at once, and he said that he wished every -one was as honest. Upon which I remarked that I was looking out for -work, and should have more cash in hand when I obtained it. He seemed -quite sorry for me. 'It is only temporary, of course, this want of -yours,' he said, oh, so kindly; and then I was such a goose, I couldn't -help the tears coming into my eyes, upon which he jumped up, went into -an inner room, and presently returned to invite me in. Then he asked if -I would like to collect his outstanding debts, the debts people owed -him, you know, and he offered me from 5 per cent. to 10 per cent. on all -the money I got in for him. 'Young ladies do such work,' said he, 'and -if you are successful, Miss Sinclair, I will recommend my friends to -employ you also. I know one or two lady-collectors,' he added, 'who -make from L50 to L100 a year by this sort of thing.' Beggars cannot be -choosers; therefore I accepted the work, and began at once." - -"How clever of you!" - -"It was a bit rough on me at first, you know. People very rarely indeed -pay their debts pleasantly. Most people who greeted me with smiles when -I went to their houses, looked considerably less amiable when they found -out that I wanted some of their money; and then going about in all -weathers--for the money has often to be collected weekly--is not nice. -Nevertheless, I am getting on. I earned a pound a week at first, and -now it is usually nearer two pounds a week than one. And, best of all," -Alice gave a little laugh, "dear old Norman hasn't found out about it -yet; and--and," she could scarcely speak for laughing, although there -was a little choke in her voice, "he swallows the fruits of my toil -beautifully!" - -"Alice," exclaimed Doris, with immense admiration, "what a brave girl -you are! A sister in a thousand!" - -"And now I have more work than I can do," went on Alice earnestly, "and -I thought you would assist me, dear. If I could hand over some of the -surplus work to you, why, it would prevent my overworking, and it might -help you." - -"It certainly would!" exclaimed Doris. "But before taking up the work I -ought to have good references to give you and your employers, and -who----" - -"_I_ should be responsible, of course," interrupted Alice. "You will -simply act as my assistant. I will give you your work to do, and you -will have a percentage of all the money you collect. It will be all -right. You will simply act for me." - -Doris could not do otherwise than gratefully accept this kind offer. -Indeed, there was nothing for her between it and starvation, unless she -would be a helpless burden upon poor Mrs. Austin. Alice explained to -Doris fully about the work, arranged where they should meet daily, and -went thoroughly into every detail connected with the new employment. -Moreover, she thoughtfully advanced ten shillings, that Doris might be -able to buy herself a new hat, veil, and a pair of gloves, also a -note-book and pencil. - -When that matter was settled, the girls sat down under one of the -chestnut trees, enjoying to the full the sights and sounds of spring -about them, the fresh green of the grass, the blue sky, and the sunshine -resting over all and everything--not to mention the singing and -twittering of the birds, the barking of dogs, the rolling of the -carriages, and the bright appearance of the ladies walking or driving -by. - -Presently Alice ventured to ask after Bernard Cameron. Upon which -Doris, with her heart lightened from carking care and warmed by her -friend's affection, for the first time took her entirely into her -confidence, by relating how matters stood between her and the young man, -together with a full statement of the manner in which his money had been -lost. She could trust Alice completely, and, moreover, felt that, as the -latter was about to be responsible for her honesty in dealing with other -people's money, no detail of the cloud of disgrace resting over the -Andersons should be concealed. - -"But it does not make the slightest difference about you, darling," -cried Alice, looking tenderly into Doris's downcast face. "It is very -sweet of you to tell me all about it. And I think, dear, that you take -rather too serious a view of your father's fault----" - -"Say, _sin_," corrected Doris, gravely. "Let us call things by their -right names----" - -"Well, _sin_," conceded Alice. "But in my opinion it was not so bad as -you think. When he speculated with Bernard Cameron's money, of course -he thought it quite safe to do so, and anticipated a big profit, which -no doubt he intended to hand over to Bernard. If things had 'panned -out,' as the Americans say, successfully, no one would have blamed him. -Indeed, people would have thought he acted very cleverly and with rare -discrimination. It seems to me that it was the mere accident of -non-success, instead of success, which made his conduct reprehensible -and not praiseworthy." - -Doris took no little comfort from this view of the matter, and wished -she had confided in Alice before. - -"How very sensible you are, Alice, dear!" she cried. "Oh, I am -fortunate in having such a friend!" - -"And I am fortunate in having you for a friend, darling!" returned the -other, adding, in her most matter-of-fact tone, "When an outsider brings -eyes that haven't been saddened by grief to look at a trouble, of course -the vision is clearer. And I must say, also, that I like Bernard for -not accepting that money from you." - -"Oh, but I did want him to take it," said Doris. "Though, really," she -added, "I don't know what I should have done without it. He does not -know that I have given up my lucrative business," she said in -conclusion. "He thought it all right." - -"Have you heard from him lately?" asked Alice. - -"Not very lately. He wrote to tell me of his safe arrival in Yorkshire, -and that his mother was very kind in nursing him. And then he wrote -again, to tell me he had been very ill, and mentioned that his mother -worried him considerably by endeavouring to induce him to do things -which were utterly distasteful to him. 'But this is a free country,' he -wrote, 'and I shall do as I please.' Since then," Doris continued, "I -have heard nothing; indeed, I have not written much lately." - -The two girls sat there talking for some time, and then went to get some -lunch at Alice's expense. - -On the day following, Doris commenced work as Alice's assistant -account-collector. But, being thoroughly run down and out of health, she -found her duties extremely arduous and fatiguing. She was not adapted -for the work, and it was to her most irksome and unpleasant to have to -ask people for money. She would rather have given it to them. When they -were disagreeable--and, as Alice had said, it was rarely indeed that -people could be pleasant when they were asked for money by an -account-collector--Doris had the most absurd inclination to apologise -and hurry away. In fact, she did that more than once, and had to be -severely scolded by Alice for neglecting her duties. It was in vain, -however, that Alice lectured and coached her; Doris was much too -tender-hearted to make a good collector. When people began to make -excuses for not paying their debts it was only with difficulty she could -refrain from assisting them to do so; her sympathy was always on their -side, consequently she did not earn much of a percentage. - -Alice paid her liberally, as liberally indeed as she could afford to do, -for she had her "Lion" to keep, and her means were limited; but Doris -earned barely enough money to pay her rent for the garret and for the -food with which Mrs. Austin supplied her, and, in consequence, her -clothes grew shabbier and her health became worse every day. She did -not hear from Bernard, and was often despondent and hopeless about the -future. How could she possibly pay him back any money out of the -trifling sums she was earning? And he would not take it if she could. -He would rather remain poor, and there could never be any marriage -between her and Bernard Cameron. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIX.* - - *A POWERFUL TEMPTATION.* - - - When shall this wonderful web be done! - In a thousand years, perhaps, or one-- - Or to-morrow: who knoweth? Not you or I, - But the wheels turn on and the shuttles fly. - - Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow, - But each one is nearer the end, we know: - And some day the last thread shall be woven in, - God grant it be love, instead of sin! - - Then are we spinners of wool for this life-web--say? - Do we furnish the weaver a web each day? - It were better then, O kind friend, to spin - A beautiful thread--not a thread of sin. - _Anon_. - - -"Is Miss Anderson in?" - -"Well, yes, sir, she is, but----" - -"Be so good as to announce me!" - -"I don't know about that, sir. Miss Anderson is not very well; and I -think--I think it might be better for her not to see visitors." - -"Visitors? I am not visitors. Be so good as to show me in." - -Mrs. Austin reluctantly led the way to her sitting-room--a small one at -the back of the house--where Doris was reclining on an old-fashioned -sofa. She started up on perceiving Mr. Sinclair, and would have risen, -but he put her gently back again. - -"Don't let me disturb you, I beg," he entreated. "I shall have to go -away if you don't lie still. And I want to see you very much," he -pleaded. "It is so long since I had that pleasure." - -As of old, his strong will dominated hers, and she fell back against the -soft pillows Mrs. Austin had placed for her head, and looked at him in -silence. Her blue eyes seemed bigger than ever, and her complexion was -more clear and waxen; but her cheeks were too thin for beauty, and her -mouth drooped pathetically. - -"My dear child, what have you been doing with yourself?" Norman's tone -was more fatherly than loverlike now: he took Doris's hands in his and -held them gently. - -Overcome with emotion, and unable to command herself, she burst into -tears. What had she been doing? Much, much that he little suspected. -She had visited a pawn-broker's shop more than once, for the purpose of -raising money on articles of dress. That was because her earnings were -not sufficient for her maintenance; and then she disliked her work -exceedingly. There were all sorts of annoyances connected with it. -More than one irate householder, on learning that her visit was for -money owing, had treated her with rudeness and disrespect, shutting the -door in her face. She had also been affronted with coarse jests and -familiarities, which terrified and wounded her more than unkind words. -Sleepless nights and unsuccessful, ill-feel days combined to rob her of -health and strength, while uneasiness about Bernard's lengthened silence -and anxiety about ways and means harassed her mind continually. - -They were alone in the little room, Mrs. Austin having returned -upstairs. Norman Sinclair's heart ached for the poor girl's distress, -although he by no means knew what occasioned it. He soothed and -comforted her as best he could, and then, bit by bit, as she became -calmer, drew from her the history of those last months since he had seen -her. - -Doris could not keep anything back. Now, as ever, the strong will of -the man compelled her to reveal her very soul, with all its doings, -yearnings, and despair, even in regard to Bernard Cameron. - -When all was told there was silence in the little room, save for the -ticking of the eight-day clock and the purring of the cat upon the -hearth. Doris had said everything there was to say: she could add -nothing, but only waited for the artist to speak. She looked at him to -see why he did not begin. - -His head was averted, as if he were trying to conceal the emotion which -caused his strong features to work convulsively. Then he turned towards -her, and the love revealed in his eyes and in his whole expressive -countenance blinded and dazzled her. - -Suddenly, with a swift movement, he took her hands, saying in tones full -of deep feeling, "You must come to me. You are totally unfitted to -contend with this wicked world. Will you not be my wife?" he pleaded. - -"I am to be Bernard's," she faltered, releasing her hands with gentle -dignity. - -Sinclair frowned a little. He did not think that Bernard Cameron loved -her; from what Alice had told him he was inclined to think the young man -was treating her rather badly. - -"Are you quite sure that he loves you?" asked Norman Sinclair drily. - -Doubts born of Bernard's long silence recurred to the girl's mind. If -he loved her, surely he would have written, in spite of his mother's -prohibition. - -"I have given him time," persisted Norman, "but he has apparently -deserted you, whilst I am---- Oh, Doris, you little know how much I -love you! Will you not be my wife?" - -"Oh, hush! Hush, please!" said Doris. "I am _so sorry_! You have been -such a dear, good friend--I have thought so much of your advice--you -know it was that mainly which caused me to give up my business, and -sink--sink into poverty." - -"It was very brave of you to do it." - -"I have thought so much of your advice," she repeated, "and have looked -up to you so much. Do not spoil it all." - -His face fell. Where was his power over her. She seemed to be receding -from him. - -"Doris," he urged, "will you marry me?" - -"I cannot," she replied, very earnestly. "Indeed I cannot!" - -"You cannot?" There was a great disappointment in his tone. - -"I cannot," she repeated. - -For a minute or two after she said that, the artist sat motionless and -silent. Then he began to speak rapidly and with deep feeling. - -In a few well-chosen words he described graphically the loneliness and -hardship of his orphan boyhood, when Alice was a baby and therefore -unable to give him even sympathy; and then he spoke of the dawning of -ambition within him and of his boyhood's dreams that one day he would -become an artist worthy of the name, and went on to relate the story of -his striving to acquire the necessary skill and culture, and to mount -one by one the golden stairs. Tremendous difficulties had to be -overcome, indomitable, unfaltering resolution and untiring industry had -to be displayed by him: perseverance under many adverse circumstances -became almost his second nature, until at last, gradually, success came -nearer. Then he spoke of his hard work more recently, and of the -pictures he had painted that last year, two of which had now been -accepted and hung in the Royal Academy. Only quite incidentally did he -mention that he and Alice would have actually wanted bread sometimes if -it had not been for mysterious bank-notes arriving anonymously, labelled -"Conscience Money," which made him think they came from one or another -to whom he had formerly lent cash which could ill be spared. In -conclusion he said quietly, "However, thank God, all that is ended, for, -through the death of a rather distant relation, I have quite -unexpectedly inherited a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds. As -soon as I was absolutely certain that there was no mistake about the -matter, I said to myself, 'I will go to Doris. If she will share my -life and help me to do some good with the money, ah, then I shall be -happy.' So, Doris dear, I came." - -The girl was silent. She was deeply touched. He came to her as soon as -the cloud of poverty had lifted and he was able to offer her a home and -plenty. - -"You came to me," she faltered at length, without daring to lift her -eyes to his, lest he should see the tears which filled them--"you came -to me--a beggar girl--a pauper----" - -"No," he said, "a brave, hard-working, honourable girl! Doris, you have -suffered, are suffering now; but by marrying me you will be lifted at -once out of all difficulties. Think, dear, how easy and pleasant your -life would be, and how useful, too, for you would help me to do much -good with our riches." - -But Doris shook her head. She could not accept his offer. - -Sinclair went away presently, disappointed for the time being, but -determined to try again. The next day he sent his sister to visit Doris, -and Alice brought her useful presents of chickens, jelly, cream, and -cakes. - -"It's so delightful to be rich," she said. "You've no idea how pleasant -it is to be able to buy everything we want! Wouldn't you like to be -rich, too, Doris?" she asked. - -"Yes," said Doris. "Yes, I should. I hate poverty. It is so -belittling--so sordid to have to think so much of ways and means! I -should like to forget what things cost, and accept everything as -unconsciously as we accept the air we breathe." - -"And yet you won't be rich," said Alice, with meaning. - -Doris coloured a little. "How can I?" she asked, "when there is -Bernard?" - -"Perhaps he would like to be rich, too?" suggested Alice. - -"What do you mean?" - -"Well, _do_ you think it would be best for him to marry you, and plunge -both himself and you into poverty?" asked Alice. - -"You talk as his mother did," sighed Doris. - -"After all, there was commonsense in her view of the matter," persisted -Alice. "What is the use of two young people marrying, and living in -poverty ever after, when they may both be rich and happy if they will?" - -"Riches and happiness do not always go together." - -"I don't think poverty and happiness do," said Alice, curtly. - -Doris felt a little shaken. Would it really be better for Bernard and -she to be true to each other, when their marriage would only mean -poverty and anxiety? - -Norman came again that afternoon when Alice had gone. - -"Doris," he said, when they were conversing in Mrs. Austin's back -parlour, "perhaps, as Cameron has been so long in writing, he may have -ceased to care for you." - -"Perhaps so indeed!" rejoined Doris, with a sigh. - -"Couldn't you ascertain whether it is so?" suggested the other. - -"Yes--if he will answer me; but--I don't know how it is--I receive no -answer to my letters," faltered the girl. - -"Is there no one else to whom you can write in Yorkshire--I mean, so -that you can get to know his feeling about you?" - -"There's only Susan Gaunt, our old servant, I might write to her; but I -scarcely think that she can do anything, though she has known him since -he was a boy, and he is always nice to her, and talks to her quite -freely." - -"Well, ask her about him. And write to him, too, once more, asking him -straight out if he has changed towards you." - -"I think I will," said Doris. "It can do no harm." - -She accordingly wrote that evening both to Susan and to Bernard. - -The old servant answered immediately. Her letter was as follows: - - -"MY PRECIOUS MISS DORIS, - -"At last you send me your address, and I hasten to write these few lines -to ask if you are well, as this doesn't leave me so at present. - -"My heart is very bad, dearie, and the doctor says I may die quite -suddenly any time. Well, I've always liked that verse-- - - Sudden as thought is the death I would die-- - I would suddenly lay these shackles by, - Nor feel a single pang at parting, - Or see the tear of sorrow starting, - Nor feel the hands of love that hold me, - Nor hear the trembling words that bless me; - So would I die, - Not slain, but caught up, as it were, - To meet my Captain in the air. - So would I die - All joy without a pang to cloud it; - All bliss without a pain to spoil it, - Even so, I long to go: - These parting hours how sad and slow! - -But I would like to see you once more, my precious young lady, before I -go. I have cried about you often and often, and I always pray for you -day and night--I did so specially that first night when you went -away--that God would guard and protect you. And He did, didn't He, or -you would not now be writing to old Susan so peacefully? - -"You ask about Mr. Bernard Cameron. Don't think any more of him, lovey. -I have heard on the best authority that he is going to marry a rich -young lady at Doncaster. It is his mother's doing, no doubt; she always -hankered after riches, and while he has been ill she has had him to talk -to morning, noon, and night--and this is the result. So don't think any -more of him, dear Miss Doris, but look out for a good, honourable -gentleman, and don't marry at all unless you find him. - -"Please excuse bad writing--I know my spelling is all right, for I -always was a good speller--and accept my love and duty. - -"Your faithful servant, - "SUSAN GAUNT." - - -There was no letter from Bernard; no letter, though Doris waited for it -many days. - -It seemed clear, therefore, that he must be going to marry the young -lady at Doncaster, of whom Susan wrote; and that being so, and poverty -and starvation weighing heavily in the balance against prospective -wealth and every comfort that money can give, Doris yielded at length to -Sinclair's persistent urging, and consented to become his wife. - - - - - *CHAPTER XX.* - - *THE WELCOME LEGACY.* - - - All things come round to him who will but wait. - _Tales of a Wayside Inn_. - - -"Late for breakfast again, Bernard! It's idle you are! Bone idle, -that's what it is!" Mrs. Cameron's tones were angry, and when angry -they were very shrill. - -Bernard, who had entered the room languidly, did not hasten to reply, -but stood leaning wearily against the mantelpiece. His face was pale, -his eyes heavy and a little bloodshot; he looked unhappy and as if he -had passed a sleepless night, which, indeed, was the case; but he had -not spirit enough to plead that as an excuse for his lateness. Instead, -he glanced at the clock, murmuring that it was scarcely half-past eight. - -"And late enough, too!" cried Mrs. Cameron, who was pouring out the -coffee as she spoke. "I told you breakfast would be at eight. You are -quite well now, and must get out of the lazy, lackadaisical habits of an -invalid." - -"Yes, yes! All right." Bernard took his place at the table opposite -his mother, looking askance at the large plate of porridge set there for -him to eat. - -"Your porridge will be half cold by this time," continued the scolding -voice. - -"It is." Bernard just tasted it, and pushed the plate away. "I cannot -eat porridge yet," he said. - -"You must try. Porridge made as Jane makes it, of good Scotch oatmeal, -is just what you want to put some life in you." - -Bernard did not think so. He drank his coffee disconsolately. - -His mother looked as if she would have liked to make him eat the -porridge, as she had done often in that very room when he was a little -pale-faced lad, with a small appetite and a strong will of his own. As -it was, however, she pushed a loaf of brown bread towards him, saying -that he could have some bread and butter, though it was poor stuff -compared with porridge. - -"Are there no fresh eggs?" asked her son. - -Mrs. Cameron reluctantly conceded that there were such things in the -house, and Bernard rang for them. - -After that, the breakfast proceeded in silence for a time, and then -Bernard remarked that he hoped to get another situation as tutor, near -London, very soon. "I have written to one or two agents," he said. "I -want to get a private tutorship, if I can. It will be less disagreeable -than being an under-master in a school." - -"Why do you want to be near London?" asked his mother, frowning. - -Bernard did not answer. She knew very well that he wanted to be near -Doris Anderson, and he did not wish to discuss Doris with her. During -his illness, it had been one of his heaviest afflictions that he could -not escape from the sound of his mother's voice, as she railed against -Doris and her parents. - -"Has the newspaper come?" he asked presently. - -"Yes." Mrs. Cameron pointed to the local daily newspaper lying on the -sideboard; and, as her son rose to get it, she remarked: "I cannot think -why the postman has not come." - -"Oh, he has. I took the letters from him at the door, as I was passing -it----" - -"You did?" Mrs. Cameron looked annoyed. "How often have I requested you -to allow Jane to bring the letters into the room in a decent manner!" -she snapped. - -"They were only for me. Surely a man is entitled to his own letters!" - -"Whom were they from?" was the next sharp question, as his mother looked -keenly at him over her glasses. - -"I really don't know. I simply glanced at them to see----" He stopped -short, not caring to say that, as there was not a letter from Doris, he -had not deemed the others worthy of immediate consideration. Thrusting -his hand into his pocket, he produced a couple of unopened letters. - -"We will see what this one is," he remarked with an attempt at -cheerfulness, taking up a table knife and cutting open an envelope. - -"Ha!" he exclaimed as he read. "Oh, mother! Oh, how good of Mr. -Hamilton! How good of him! What a boon!--what a great boon for us!" - -"What is it? What do you mean?" exclaimed his mother, in great -excitement. - -"Read it," he said, handing her the letter, and leaning back quite faint -and dizzy with surprise and gladness not unmingled with sorrow. - -[Illustration: "'READ IT,' HE SAID, HANDING HER THE LETTER."] - -Adjusting her glasses, his mother read the letter, which was from a -well-known firm of lawyers in Birmingham. - - -"DEAR SIR, - -"We have to inform you that by the will of our late client, the Rev. -John Hamilton, you are bequeathed a legacy of five thousand pounds free -of legacy duty, as some compensation for the loss of your fortune, for -which our client always felt a little responsible, as, had he been a -more businesslike man, he might have prevented the defalcations of your -other trustee, Mr. Anderson, or at least he would not have left your -money so entirely in his hands. - -"If you would kindly write and tell us how you would like to receive -your legacy--whether we should pay it into your bank, or directly to -yourself, you would oblige, - -"Yours faithfully, - "MARK AND WATSON, - "Solicitors." - - -"Well," cried Mrs. Cameron, "I never was more surprised in my life, nor -more pleased!" she added. "And it was right, too, of Mr. Hamilton! I -told him about his being to blame, you know, for not looking after his -co-trustee--and I told him my mind about it; and he went away in anger. -But, you see, he has been thinking about my words, and he recognised the -justice of them----" - -"Oh, mother, I wish you hadn't blamed him!" exclaimed Bernard. - -"Wish I hadn't blamed him? How silly you are, Bernard! Why, it's to -that you are indebted for all this good fortune. If I hadn't stood up -for you and put his duty before him, you wouldn't have had anything." - -"Did you suggest he should leave me money?" asked Bernard, aghast. - -"I did that! I said it was his bounden duty to give you a thousand or -two." - -"Mother! How could you?" - -"Well, I could. It was for you I did it. What right had he to leave all -your money in that Anderson's hand? What right had he to sign -papers--as he confessed he did--at Anderson's request without reading -them? I told him he ought to have been ashamed of himself, and, in -fact, that he ought to give you half of all that he possessed--we all -knew he had a lot of money somewhere." - -"Will it be wronging his relations if I take this legacy?" asked -Bernard. - -"If you take it? Why, Bernard, how silly you are! You'll deserve to -starve if you don't take what the man has left you," cried his mother, -angrily. - -"I won't take it--if any one else ought to have it," said Bernard. - -"Simpleton!" muttered his mother. Then she added, "He hadn't a single -relation nearer than a second cousin, who is a rich brewer, so you may -make your mind quite easy about that." - -Bernard felt much relieved. In that case he would not have any scruples -in accepting the legacy which his late trustee had left him, and how -welcome the money would be! - -"My boy," cried his mother, with more kindliness, as she realised what a -blessing the money would be to them, "you can return to Oxford, obtain -your degree, and afterwards have a school of your own!" - -Bernard smiled, as he mentally said good-bye to hard toil as an usher, -or assistant-master in another man's school. He would have one of his -own one day; but first there was something else of great importance for -him to do. - -Later in the day, after he had written to the lawyers thanking them for -their communication, and asking them to be so kind as to pay the five -thousand pounds to his account in the London and County Bank, and after -he and his mother had discussed Mr. Hamilton's somewhat sudden decease -during an attack of pneumonia, he damped all her joy by declaring that -the first step he should take would be to go to London to Doris -Anderson, and the second would be to marry her forthwith. - -"I think she will consent," he said, "as her only reason for refusing me -before was that the debt was not paid. Now I have only to go to her and -say, 'Doris, part of the debt is paid. I have come to marry you,' and -then she will consent--oh, yes, I know she will consent!" and his face -was bright with joy and thankfulness. - -It was in vain that his mother vociferated and protested against his -marrying Doris, he would not listen to her any longer. - -"It is of no use your talking about the matter, mother," he said; "I am -going to marry Doris, and no amount of talking will prevent me." - -His mother was miserable; now less than ever did she desire Doris to be -her son's wife. - -As she lay tossing about on her sleepless bed that night she almost -wished Bernard had not received his very substantial legacy, as he was -going to use some of it for such a purpose. - -In the early morning she dressed hurriedly, purposing to speak to her -son on the subject before he started for Doncaster to catch the early -express for London. - -Early as she was, however, Bernard had been earlier, for he had already -left the house when she came downstairs. - -Mrs. Cameron hired a dogcart and ordered a man to drive her as fast as -possible to Doncaster Station. - -But it happened that the dogcart collided with a waggon on the way. No -one was hurt, but there was some confusion and considerable delay, and -when at length Mrs. Cameron was able to walk into the station at -Doncaster, it was to catch sight of the express fast disappearing in the -distance. - -"I have lost my son!" said the unhappy woman to herself. "He will never -speak to me again when he finds out about the letters I have suppressed. -He will hate me--yes, he will hate me for doing it." The thought -followed that she would deserve her fate, for if ever a parent provoked -her son to wrath she had done so. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXI.* - - *BERNARD SEEKS DORIS.* - - - The course of true love never did run smooth. - SHAKESPEARE. - - -"Is Miss Anderson in?" - -"No, sir. She doesn't live here now, sir," answered Mrs. Austin, in -melancholy tones. - -"Not live here! Then where is she?" cried Bernard somewhat faintly, for -in his surprise and consternation at not finding Doris there a return of -the faintness that had before troubled him seemed imminent. - -The good woman caught hold of him by the arm. - -"Excuse me, Mr. Cameron, sir," she exclaimed. "You are ill. Come -inside, sir. Come inside the house." - -Bernard shook her hand off, declaring he was all right; but he walked -unsteadily into the little sitting-room, where he had expected to find -Doris. - -"Sit down, sir; I'll get you a glass of water or a cup of tea in a -moment----" - -"Nonsense! I mean, I'm much obliged to you. But all I wish to know is -this, where is Miss Anderson? Where--is--Miss--Anderson? - -"Oh, I'll tell you, sir, in a moment," answered Mrs. Austin, bustling -about and getting him some water. "Take a drink, sir," and she held the -glass to his lips. - -He drank slowly. The room, which had been turning round and sinking -into the ground, became once more stationary, whilst the clouds of -darkness disappeared, and it was light again. - -"There, you'll do now," said Mrs. Austin. "Miss Anderson told me that -you had been ill." - -"Never mind me. Where is she?" Bernard asked the question impatiently. -Would the woman never answer him? - -"There have been changes, sir, since you were here," said Mrs. Austin, -rather nervously, standing before him, twisting her apron round her -fingers, with her eyes fixed upon it. "It all came of the artist -gentleman. I wish to goodness he had never set his foot inside of my -door!" - -"Do you mean Miss Sinclair's brother?" interrupted Bernard, taking alarm -at Norman Sinclair's influencing Doris's movements. He remembered -warning her against him in this very room, and telling her that if she -grew to care for him she would not love her Bernard any more. - -"Yes, Mr. Sinclair. I begged her not to listen to him. But she did. -And he came again and again, until he had persuaded her to stop making -those pictures and give up her business, which was paying her so -grandly." - -"Give up her business! Did you say he persuaded her to give up her -business? Did she do that?" - -"Yes, sir, yes. Didn't she tell you? For, now I come to think of it, -she had done that before you were ill, when she went to see you at -Richmond." - -"Had she taken such a step then? She never told me so. She never said -a word about it to me." - -"Didn't she, sir? Then perhaps she thought you were too ill to be -bothered. She told me when she returned from Richmond that she had seen -you off by train for the north, hoping that your native air and your -mother's nursing would restore you. Not that it has done much for you, -sir, as far as I can see----" - -"Never mind that. Tell me what Miss Anderson did next?" Bernard asked -anxiously. - -"She told me that she sold what she had left of the pictures she had -finished, and all the materials she had bought in for others; and then, -having given up the business, she began seeking employment again, -answering advertisements, applying at shops, and all that sort of weary -work. It made my heart ache to see her come in at nights tired out, -pale, and worn--a lady like that, who ought only to have been fatigued -with cycling, or tennis, or amusing herself as other young ladies do! -'Perhaps I shall have more success to-morrow,' she would say to me, with -her patient smile. But months went by, and it was always the same, -until, at length, she came towards the end of her savings, and then she -began to economise and pinch herself of comforts, and--necessaries." - -"You don't say so!" cried Bernard in consternation. - -"I'm afraid you are ill, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Austin, seeing him turn -very pale. - -"No, I'm all right. Go on," he said though his old faintness was -troubling him. - -"Well, sir, the day came when Miss Anderson said to me very plainly that -she had no money left, or next to none, so she begged me to allow her to -give up her rooms and just have the garret to sleep in until she found -work that she could do." - -"Why didn't she write to me?" cried Bernard. - -"She hadn't much time for writing, sir, when she was all day seeking -work; and at nights she was too tired, too down-hearted. And I think, -sir, she kept looking for a letter, which didn't come, from you." - -"From me? Why, I wrote to her almost every week when I was well enough, -until, latterly, having no answer, I became discouraged. But hurry on -with your story. Where is she now?" - -"She had a letter from Miss Sinclair which made her very glad; and then -Miss Sinclair found her some work, about which she was very hopeful at -first; but it was difficult to do, I am sure, for she used to come home -quite fagged out, and it must have paid badly, for she had very little -money. 'I'm such a poor hand at it, Mrs. Austin!' she used to say. And -sometimes she used to add, 'My heart isn't hard enough for it.' Poor -dear! If it was a hard heart the work wanted, Miss Anderson was quite -the wrong lady for it. I've seen ladies who would 'skin a flint,' as -the saying is, but----" - -"Never mind that!" interrupted Bernard with more impatience than -courtesy. "Tell me where Miss Anderson is?" - -Mrs. Austin began again, for she would tell things in her own way. "She -fell into a poor state of health, and got a hacking cough, which -wouldn't be cured, though I made her linseed tea, and honey and lemon, -and----" - -"Where is she? Speak! Tell me, is she alive?" For now Bernard's fear -caused him to leap to the conclusion that Doris must have died. - -"Oh, dear, sir, she's alive, of course! Though she was in a bad state -at that time, and had a regular churchyard cough." - -"Go on. You frighten me." - -"I'm sorry, sir. Where was I? Oh, there came a day when she couldn't -go out. I made her lie on the sofa in my back parlour, and it just -happened that Mr. Sinclair called: he had been many times when she was -out, but that day he called when she was in. He had a very long talk -with Miss Anderson. And she was very much excited after he had gone. -She cried a good bit, and then, next day, his sister came to see her, -and afterwards he called again, and then Miss Anderson sat down and -wrote a letter to you, sir, and another one to an old servant in -Yorkshire, and she cried while she was writing them. I think those were -very important letters, sir, for she was very anxious that they should -be safely posted. I had to put on my bonnet and take them to the post -myself, for she would trust no one else. And then she waited so -anxiously for the answers, but only the old servant wrote. Oh, sir, why -didn't you write?" - -"I received no letter from her. I have had none from her since the -first week after my return to Yorkshire." - -"And I'm sure she wrote to you, sir, several times." - -Bernard uttered an exclamation. It was clear to him that his mother -must have seized his letters and kept them from him. - -"There was something in the old servant's letter," continued Mrs. -Austin, "which struck my dear young lady all of a heap and made her go -about like a stricken lamb, with her poor young face so white and drawn. -She did not cry then, sir. I only wished she would, for there was a -heart-broken look in her poor face. Then Miss Sinclair came, full of -affectionate concern, and she did her best to comfort Miss Anderson; but -in vain. - -"'It's no use,' she said to me, 'I cannot make Doris cheer up. I shall -send my brother.' - -"And then, the next thing was Mr. Sinclair came, and after he had gone, -Miss Anderson said to me, quiet-like, 'I'm not going to be poor any -longer, Mrs. Austin!' And then she went on to say, 'It will be better -for you, dear Mrs. Austin; I've only been a burden on you lately, and -now you will be well paid for all you have done for me---not that money -will ever repay you, my good, kind friend!' and, throwing her arms round -my neck, she kissed me more than once. 'I should have died if it hadn't -been for you,' she said. 'And now I am going to live and be Mr. -Sinclair's wife. He is rich now, and I have promised to marry him.'" - -"To marry him!" Bernard exclaimed, starting up so violently that he -overturned a small table. "Did she say to marry him?" - -"Yes, sir," Mrs. Austin answered, with great sympathy; "I'm sorry to say -she did." - -"But she is _my_ promised wife!" cried Bernard, picking up the table and -beginning to pace up and down the room, in his agitation. - -"Indeed, sir!" Mrs. Austin's round eyes opened widely in astonishment. -She had always understood that Mr. Cameron loved Doris, and indeed she -wondered who could help loving her! But it was altogether another thing -to hear that Doris had promised to marry Mr. Cameron. - -"Where is she? I must speak to her--must hear from her own lips how it -was that she could do such a thing. Where is she?" cried Bernard. - -"Wait a minute, please, sir," said Mrs. Austin. "I must tell you that -after the engagement was settled Miss Sinclair came the next day and -took Miss Anderson away. Miss Sinclair gave me her address,--Steele's -Road, Hampstead, and said that I was to forward all Miss Anderson's -letters there. Miss Sinclair also gave me a five-pound-note, and Miss -Anderson promised to come and see me, and settle up everything before -she got married. She begged me to pack up all her things, and take care -of them for her; but she said, too, that she would never be able to come -and live here again. 'No,' I said, 'you are going to be a grand lady, -and you'll forget all about poor Mrs. Austin!' But she said, 'No, no, -indeed!' and she cried, and kissed me. 'I'm not very happy,' she said, -and could say no more for weeping, especially as Miss Sinclair came up -to urge her to make haste, for the cab was waiting. - -"Not very happy? I should think not indeed! Oh, Doris!" The last -words were said very low, as Bernard turned his head away for a few -moments. - -"She looked miserable, sir. I'm thinking it was only for a home and -support that she was thinking of marriage." - -"But she wouldn't sell herself for that!" exclaimed Bernard. - -"And then it was such a grievous thing, sir, that you didn't write to -her. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. And very sick at heart my -poor dear young lady was, many and many a time, while she was looking -for the post bringing her a letter, in the days before she got engaged -to Mr. Sinclair." - -"But I did write! I wrote many more letters than I received from her. -I never heard from her after the first week." - -"Then there has been foul play, sir, somewhere! Letters have been -stopped, and have got into the wrong hands before to-day." - -Bernard knew well who must have been the culprit. His mother had -wronged and sinned against him in a way which would be hard to forgive. -She had done all she possibly could to destroy his happiness in this -world. But he told himself that he must not waste time in thinking of -that just now; he would hasten to Doris and have a talk with her. - -"Do you say she is at Hampstead?" he inquired, hastily. - -"She went there with Miss Sinclair, but they are not there now, sir. -They have gone to the seaside somewhere, for the benefit of Miss -Anderson's health." - -"Gone!" cried Bernard. "To the seaside! What seaside? Where?" - -"I don't know, sir. They'll tell you at--Steele's Road, Hampstead." - -"I'll go there at once. You've been a good friend to Miss Anderson. -Allow me," and he pressed a sovereign into the landlady's hand, and -hurried out of the house. - -In the shortest possible time he was at Hampstead, inquiring at Steele's -Road for Miss Anderson's address. Mr. Sinclair happened to be -out--which Bernard thought was just as well for him; but the servant -being under the impression that his master was somewhere about the -house, Bernard was shown up into the studio. There, as he waited, he -perceived more than one painting in which Doris's fair sweet face was -beautifully delineated. The sight of it there, however, only maddened -her unhappy lover. What right had the fellow to make Doris's loveliness -so common? What right had he to possess the presentment of it there? -By the power of his strong will and helped by his riches he had -prevailed upon the lonely girl to promise him her hand in marriage. In -the absence of her own true lover he had stolen her from him. But a -Nemesis had come, was coming indeed; and when Doris saw her Bernard and -spoke with him, face to face, she would throw over the usurper, and -matters would be readjusted as happily, nay, more happily, than if this -engagement had not occurred. - - "'For things can never go wholly wrong - If the heart be true and the love be strong'"-- - -quoted Bernard to himself, "and there shall be no mere engagement, but a -marriage shall take place forthwith. For, thank God! I am rich enough -now," he said to himself, "to be able to marry my Doris. Yes, all will -come right when I see her again." - -A maidservant entered, bringing in an address on a slip of paper. "Mr. -Sinclair is out," she said, "but this is where we have to send all -letters that come, either for Miss Sinclair or Miss Anderson." - -"Thank you," said Bernard, taking up the scrap of paper, and reading, -"The Queen's Hotel, Hastings," upon it. - -"I will go there immediately," he said to himself, as he left the house. -"I will take the very first express train to Hastings." He hailed a -cab. "Drive me to Charing Cross," he ordered, "and drive your fastest." - - - - - *CHAPTER XXII* - - *TOO LATE! TOO LATE!* - - -There is no disguise which can long conceal love when it does, or feign -it when it does not exist.--LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. - - -"How strange it is to be rich!" cried Alice Sinclair, as she sat with -Doris in a shelter by the sea at Hastings. "It _is_ delightful!" - -Doris smiled, but her smile only seemed to enhance the sadness in the -expression of her beautiful face, and she shivered slightly as she drew -a fur-lined cloak more closely round her. "This is different from -account-collecting," she said, looking at the fashionably dressed people -sauntering by, and then allowing her eyes to rest upon the beauty of the -sunlit waves before them. - -"Yes, or making imitation oil-paintings either!" exclaimed Alice. "Who -would have thought to see us, now, that we were two poor girls toiling -in a London garret not long ago?" - -"To feed a 'Lion' and pay a monstrous debt," said Doris, plaintively. - -"And now our task is done," continued Alice, with cheerfulness. "The -Lion is fed, and is roaring loudly in the Royal Academy: moreover, he -has food enough for a lifetime. And as for you, your struggle with the -hard cold world is ended, dear," and as she spoke she laid her hand on -Doris's thin arm. "Are you not glad?" she asked a little wistfully, for -the sadness of her friend was a great trouble to her. - -"I try to be," answered Doris. - -"Try to be?" Alice raised her eyebrows. - -"Yes. I have to try, you know, for I don't feel able to rejoice about -anything in these days." The tears came to Doris's eyes as she spoke, -and her lips trembled. - -"Poor dear! That is because you are out of health----" - -"Sometimes I wish it was out of life," interrupted Doris wearily. For -it was a dark hour with her, and, in her trouble in losing Bernard's -love and having promised to marry a man for whom she had no affection, -she had for the time being lost her usual happy faith in the golden -thread of her Heavenly Father's love. - -"Oh, Doris!" Alice was shocked. Things were even worse than she had -feared. - -"I cannot help it," returned Doris. "I am sad, and there is no denying -it. Whichever way I look I see nothing but sadness--sadness in the -past, in the present--and, God help me, in the future." Her tones were -miserable. - -"In the future with Norman? Oh, Doris, you cannot _love_ him!" Alice's -tones were full of distress. - -"At least, I am not deceiving him. He knows what my feelings are." - -"Do you think he does--quite?" asked Alice, softly. - -"Yes, quite. And he is content: he says the love will come in -time--that he will win it." - -"I don't think he will," said Alice--they were talking in low tones -which others could not hear, as they had the shelter to -themselves--"love cannot be compelled. I don't know much about it -myself," she added candidly; "no man has ever wanted to marry me, and I -have never cared for any one so much as I care for Norman, but I have -read about love in books, and I know it cannot be forced. You do not -love Norman." - -"Alice," protested Doris, "you ought not to say that!" - -"Listen, dear," said Alice, "in your innermost heart you know that I am -right. I am only calling a spade a spade, and it isn't the least use to -make a pretence of calling it anything else. You do not love Norman. -Now, dear, hear me out, _you do not love him at all_. I was watching you -this morning when you received that letter from him, and you looked -infinitely bored. When he is over here you escape from his presence -whenever you can, especially if I am not with you. You say that he is -not being deceived, but does he realise what a wretched man he will be -if he marries you when you are feeling like that? He is full of love -and tenderness towards you, and you have not even the old liking for him -and interest in his talk and doings which you had at first. You can, in -fact, barely tolerate him now. Think, then, what it will be to have to -live with him for years and years, until you are old and die----" - -"Hush, dear! Perhaps I shall die soon." There was a peculiar sound in -the poor girl's voice, and Alice, looking at her with searching eyes, -could see that her heart was breaking, and that she would indeed die -soon if she were not released from what was slowly killing her. - -"The marriage must not take place," said Alice, firmly. "If not for -your own sake, you must stop it for Norman's. If _your_ heart is -breaking now, _his_ will break after marriage, when he finds that he has -only bought an empty shell without its kernel, a lovely woman without a -heart which can return his love, a wife without the wifely qualities he -craves. Poor old Norman! He deserves a better fate," and there was -indignation in her tones. - -"Yes," said Doris, "it is true. He deserves a better fate." - -They were silent for a few minutes after she had said that. The girls -sat watching the sunlit sea dotted here and there with boats of various -descriptions. They listened to the gentle lapping of the waves, the -shouts and laughter of the children paddling on the beach, and the -scraps of conversation from the passers-by. But mentally they were -seeing very different scenes, and they were hearing, too, other more -interesting words. Doris was thinking of Bernard, of the gradual growth -of their love for each other, and his proposal upon the hill at Askern -in Yorkshire, and, later on, his more mature declaration of love, in -Mrs. Austin's house in North London. Alice, on the other hand, was -thinking of her brother Norman, and of the pained expression of his face -when Doris too manifestly avoided a _tete-a-tete_ with him. If it were -so now, what would it be when they were married? What prospect of -happiness could there be for either of them? - -"Look! See who is coming towards us!" exclaimed Doris, suddenly. Her -face had lighted up with a smile of singular beauty, and she was leaning -forward the better to discern the features of a tall young man hurrying -towards them through the promenaders on the front. - -"Why, it is Mr. Cameron!" cried Alice, in great surprise. "What can he -want here?" - -It was soon evident what he wanted, for he came straight up to Doris, -exclaiming, "Ah, you are here! How are you?" His eyes sought hers, -eagerly and with great wistfulness. "And how are you, Miss Sinclair," he -added, holding out his hand to Alice; but his eyes went back to Doris. -"They told me at 'The Queen's,'" he went on hurriedly, "that I should -find you here, so I came straight along, looking in at every shelter." - -"We are very glad to see you," said Alice, rather gravely. Was it for -the best, she wondered, for her brother and Doris, that the latter's -first lover should return to claim her? She knew instinctively that it -was for that purpose this very resolute young man had come. Perhaps, -indeed, this would be the solution of the very unsatisfactory state of -things she had been grieving over. - -Doris said nothing. She dared not bid Bernard welcome, but she could -not feign displeasure at his persistency in following her there: it was -impossible for her to simulate unconcern and coldness. She was glad to -see him, and to know, by his very presence and the way in which he came -to her, that she still possessed his love: a great weight was lifted -from her heart, and a glow as of returning happiness crept through her -frame, bringing the pretty colour into her cheeks, reddening her pale -lips, and brightening the eyes which had shed so many tears. - -Alice, glancing at her, understood that Doris's happiness, perchance -even her life itself, might depend upon her interview with Bernard at -this fateful time. "He has her heart," thought Alice, "he may as well -have her altogether: for Doris without a heart would make poor Norman as -miserable as she would be herself." Therefore Alice said briskly: - -"I am glad you have come up, Mr. Cameron, for I want to do some -shopping, and you can sit here with Miss Anderson whilst I am away. I -did not like leaving her alone, but now I can go. You will be all right -with Mr. Cameron, Doris, and I will return presently," and before they -could make any coherent reply, she had set off, walking briskly away -from the sea-front. - -Bernard gave one grateful look after her, then he quickly turned to -Doris. "I may sit down," he said, "may I not? For I have much to say." - -Doris bowed. She could not speak, for hope and happiness had come to -her, which she was vainly endeavouring to resist. Bernard was there, -she had him all to herself; might she not for one half-hour give herself -up to the happy present before she was made miserable for life? - -"Have you anything to say to me first?" asked Bernard, gently. She -looked so frail that he determined to be very gentle with her, and he -said to himself that he could not really believe that she was engaged to -Norman Sinclair, unless she said it with her own lips. - -Doris could not speak. She endeavoured to do so, but in vain. It did -not seem to her to be right to say what she wanted to tell him, and yet -she could not utter the words that duty demanded. Therefore she -remained silent. - -"I have given her a chance to speak of her engagement to Sinclair, and -she has not availed herself of it; therefore I will not believe she is -engaged to him," said Bernard to himself; and then one of his hands -stole under Doris's fur cloak and clasped hers warmly, as he cried in -low yet earnest tones, "My darling, I have brought good news. I have -had a legacy left me in part payment of my lost money." - -Doris uttered a cry of joy. "My father!" she exclaimed. "You have -heard from him! He has sent you money! Oh, thank God! Where is father? -Tell me quickly! And did he mention mother?" She spoke rapidly, in -intense eagerness. - -Bernard was grieved to disappoint her; still, the truth had to be told, -so he said quickly, "The money was not from your father. Mr. Hamilton, -his co-trustee, has died and left me five thousand pounds in his will, -he said, as some compensation for my lost money. Immediately I knew it -I came to claim you, my dearest!" He drew the shrinking girl a little -nearer. "I always said," he continued--"I always said that you and no -other woman in the world should be my wife." - -"I cannot! Oh, I cannot!" The words were only just audible, but -reached Bernard's ears at length. - -"Cannot!" He looked at her with pained surprise. Being very sanguine -and also very young, he had already, in the last few minutes, almost -forgotten the unwelcome news of her having become engaged to Norman -Sinclair, which he had heard in London, and which had hurried him to -Hastings. "Cannot!" he repeated. "But you must, and you shall! I have -been too poor and too ill to claim you for some time. Now, however, -that that money has come to me, I have immediately hastened here, in -order to claim the fulfilment of your promise made to me upon the hill -at Askern Spa. Don't trifle with me, Doris," he added, with a little -choke in his manly voice. "I have been through so very much that I -cannot bear it." - -"I have, too," she faltered. "God knows what I have been through." - -"But that is ended," he said, quickly. "Thank God, that is all ended, -and I have come now to _claim your promise_? - -"I cannot marry you--I cannot," she repeated. - -"Why cannot you?" he demanded. - -"Oh, Bernard, do not try to question me. Dear Bernard," she looked up at -him beseechingly, "be so very good as not to ask me that question. Take -my answer, dear, and go away." - -"Go away! Doris, do you know what you are saying? I come to you in -order to claim you for my own, and you tell me to go away." - -"Forgive me, dear," she said, weeping now and turning away her face so -that he might not see her tears. "Forgive me, dear, and go." - -"I shall not. I cannot--I will not unless you say that you have ceased -to love me." - -"I cannot say that, Bernard, for I love you," Doris answered, "and I -know that I shall never love any other man as I love you." Then she -tried to rise, as she ended miserably, "Nevertheless, _I cannot marry -you_." - -"Sit still." He placed her on the seat again. "You say that you love -me, and yet persist in saying you cannot marry me. I must know how that -is. You must tell me, dear. I have a right to know." - -Slowly the words dropped from Doris's lips, "I cannot marry you, because -I am engaged to Norman Sinclair." - -"Engaged to Norman Sinclair?" Bernard repeated indignantly. "Then it is -true, that tale they told me in London. You--my promised wife--have -engaged yourself to marry that man!" - -"Yes, it--is--true," again the words dropped falteringly from the poor -girl's lips. "But I could not help it, Bernard," she added, quickly. "I -could not help it--I was obliged. You see, you did not write. There -was nothing before me except starvation; and then Norman came to me with -his offer, and I was tempted. Oh, Bernard!" she exclaimed, "why did you -not write? I waited and waited for a letter so anxiously, especially -after I had told you about Mr. Sinclair's offer. Oh, you might have -written just one line!" She looked at him with reproach in her blue -eyes. - -"My dear girl, I did not receive that letter, or any at all from you -after the first week of my return to Moss, although I wrote repeatedly. -Some one has suppressed our letters, Doris!" - -"Cruel! Cruel!" cried the girl, instantly suspecting who it was. "But -how was it that, not hearing, you did not come to me in order to -ascertain the reason? It is such a long, long time since you returned -to Yorkshire, almost a year--and it seems more." - -"I have been so ill," replied Bernard sadly, "and when I recovered from -my first illness, I caught chills and had bad relapses. I was not out -of the doctor's hands during nine months, and my mother nursed me so -devotedly. How could I suspect that at the same time she was grievously -injuring you and me?" - -"And then there was another thing," complained poor Doris. "I wrote to -Susan, our old servant, you know, and asked her about you; whereupon she -replied that I was to think no more about you, as she had heard on good -authority that you were going to marry a young lady at Doncaster." - -"Oh, but you couldn't believe that, Doris? Surely you had more faith in -my love!" exclaimed Bernard, reproachfully. - -"What else could I believe when you never wrote and she said that?" - -"Doris, I should not have believed it of you!" exclaimed Bernard, -stopping short, with a little frown, as he remembered that she had -become engaged to Norman Sinclair. - -Doris looked up miserably. "Circumstances were too much for me," she -said, "and, forgive me--I thought that they had been too much for you." - -"Did you think I was so weak?" cried Bernard--"so weak," he repeated, -"as not to be true to the only girl I have ever loved?" - -"How was it," asked Doris, gently--"how was it that Susan could hear on -good authority that you were going to marry a Doncaster lady?" - -"Well, if you must know," said Bernard, "my mother set her heart on the -match, and she was always having the girl over and trying to leave us -together, and taking her with us everywhere, and she must have spread it -about that we were engaged; so I daresay she told Susan the same thing." - -"Which would account for Susan's saying that she had the news on good -authority," interposed Doris. "But tell me, was the girl rich? And did -you like her?" and she looked searchingly at Bernard. - -"Yes, she was very well off," he admitted, "and she was nice enough; but -of course I did not love her, for I love you." - -"It's very, _very_ sad," said Doris, the tears rising to her eyes as she -spoke. "But, dear Bernard, there is nothing to be done. It is too -late! Too late!" - -"Oh, but it is not. You are not married yet. You will have to break -with Sinclair." - -"I cannot. He is a good and honourable man, and he loves me. I cannot -break my promise and make him miserable." - -"But your engagement was made upon false premises: you thought I was -faithless, and I was not. Everything must be explained to Sinclair, and -as a man of honour he will feel bound to release you." - -Doris shook her head. "I cannot make him miserable," she said. - -It was in vain Bernard argued and pleaded, he could get no concession at -all from the poor distracted girl, who simply repeated in different -words her one cry, "I cannot, dear, I cannot be your wife." - -The young man became angry, at length, at her unreasonableness, as he -called it, declaring that she could not love him as much as he loved -her, or she would not see such great difficulties in the way of their -union; and when, upon his adding that he would see Mr. Sinclair and -thrash the matter out with him, she said that she could not consent to -that, he got quite out of patience with her, and, saying goodbye rather -coldly, went away towards the railway station, with the intention of -taking the next train for London. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXIII.* - - *ALICE SINCLAIR'S INTERVENTION.* - - - It never could be kind, dear, to give a needless pain: - It never could be honest, dear, to sin for greed again, - And there could not be a world, dear, while God is true above, - When right and wrong are governed by any law but love. - _Anon_. - - -Bernard Cameron was hurrying along towards the station when he met Alice -Sinclair. - -The girl looked immensely surprised to see him there, and immediately -exclaimed: - -"What? You here, Mr. Cameron? Why, I left you in charge of Miss -Anderson until I returned. I was on my way back, now," she added. - -"I am off by the next train to town," said Bernard, in very injured -tones. "I was a fool," he added, bitterly, "to come down here at all." - -Alice read the lines of distress and disappointment written upon his -face, and was very patient with him. - -"There isn't a train to London for at least an hour," she said, "and you -must not think of going until you have had some tea. Let us return to -Doris, and then we will go into the Creamery and have some tea." - -"I must beg you to excuse me," said Bernard, stiffly. "I have taken -leave of Miss Anderson, and must now bid you good-bye." He held out his -hand as he spoke. - -Alice perceived that he had been hard hit. "You must not leave me like -this," she said, gently. "Mr. Cameron, I thought you and I were -friends." - -"So we are. You have always been good to me, but----" He stopped -short, and his eyes wandered in the direction of the station. - -"It is no use thinking of starting to London yet. As I said, there is -no train for fully an hour. Tell me," she regarded him very -sympathisingly, "what is the matter? Have you and Doris quarrelled?" - -Bernard looked at her kind sympathising face and his resolution wavered. -"Quarrelled is not the word," he said; adding, with an effort, "I should -like to tell you all about it, Miss Sinclair, if I might." - -"I wish you would," said Alice, earnestly--it was one cause of her -influence with others that she was always in earnest. "Come and let us -walk up and down in Cambridge Gardens, where it is quiet. Then we can -have a long talk." - -They turned into the less frequented street, and walked slowly along, -whilst in low, rapid tones Bernard told Alice all his trouble, and -especially the grievous fact that his and Doris's letters had been -suppressed and kept from them for many months, finally ending by -complaining bitterly of Doris's ultimatum. - -"Doris must not marry your brother, Miss Sinclair." Bernard's tone was -as decided and masterful as the artist's as he concluded with these -words: "She must marry me. We loved each other long before your brother -ever saw her, and we love each other still--and shall until death." - -It seemed to Alice, walking by Bernard's side and listening to his low, -earnest voice, that no power on earth would be able to separate him from -the girl he loved, and certainly Norman would not endeavour to do so. -Norman was a man of honour, and when he learnt how the two lovers had -been kept apart and separated by the wickedness of Mrs. Cameron, and -after everything was explained to him he would release Doris from her -engagement, no matter at what cost to himself. - -Alice tried to say something of this sort to Bernard, but he scarcely -listened. - -He was glad of her for a confidante, but did not want to hear her views -or listen to her advice, because in his own mind he had already solved -the problem. And first, his thoughts, as was natural, returned to -Doris, from whom he had parted in anger. - -"All this time," he said, hastily, as if only then realising it, "Doris, -whom I left in anger, must be in distress. She must be suffering -intensely, for you know she is so very sensitive. I must therefore -return to her at once, and must encourage her to hope that all will yet -be well. If she will not throw Sinclair over----" - -"Allow me to remark that you are speaking of _my brother_," interposed -Alice. - -"I beg your pardon," said Bernard, in remorseful tones, as he looked at -the kind girl, whose colour had risen. "It was an awful shame for me to -speak like that, but----" He broke off, and began again, "I thought we -were agreed that she would have to give him up." - -"That is not the way to put it," said Alice. "My brother, who is really -the soul of honour, will have to release Doris from her promise. He must -do it--and will, when he knows everything." - -"Yes, of course. As I was saying, if Doris will not--I beg your pardon, -as she cannot in honour release herself, I shall go to Sinclair and tell -him that it will be most dishonourable of him if he does not release her -from her engagement----" - -"That won't do!" exclaimed Alice; "that won't do at all. If you go to -Norman in that spirit you will soon be outside his door again. My -brother is a bit of a lion, you know, in more senses than one. He might -listen to any one speaking very courteously, but if a bear comes in and -tries to get his bone, oh! there _will_ be a pandemonium!" - -"Well, he must be told----" - -"I will tell him," said Alice. "I will go to London to-morrow, and will -see him and explain everything to him. It will not be a very pleasant -task--it will pain me very much to make my brother unhappy, but I will -do it for dear Doris and for you." - -"It is very, _very_ good of you," said Bernard, gratefully, "to say that -you will go and explain everything to your brother. Perhaps you will be -able to do it in a nicer way than I could." - -Alice smiled. She certainly thought that was possible. "Norman is very -good," she said. "I am sure he will release Doris, but it will be a -dreadful sorrow to him, for he loves her very much." - -"I am sure of that. Though he shouldn't have come poaching in my -preserves!" - -The last words were uttered so low that he did not intend Alice to hear -them. But the girl heard, and instantly retorted: - -"You forget that was the fault of the person who kept back Doris's -letters and yours, causing her to think that you no longer loved her; so -that naturally both she and Norman concluded that she was free to marry -whom she pleased." - -"Yes, of course. You are right. I beg your pardon for forgetting -that," said Bernard, penitently. - -"Now we will return to Doris together, and after we have explained to -her how matters stand, we will go and have some tea at the Creamery in -Robertson Street. Afterwards----" - -Alice paused, looking wistfully at him. - -"I will keep out of her way until you return from London," Bernard said, -understanding that he ought not to proceed further until Norman had -freed Doris from her engagement to him. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXIV.* - - *NORMAN SINCLAIR'S LETTER.* - - - Not only those above us on the height, - With love and praise and reverence I greet: - Not only those who walk in paths of light - With glad, untiring feet: - These, too, I reverence toiling up the slope, - And resting not upon their rugged way, - Who plant their feet on faith and cling to hope, - And climb as best they may. - - And even these I praise, who, being weak, - Were led by folly into deep disgrace: - Now striving on a pathway rough and bleak, - To gain a higher place. - * * * * * - Oh! struggling souls, be brave and full of cheer, - Nor let your holy purpose swerve, or break! - The way grows smoother and the light more clear - At every step you take. - Lo! in the upward path God's boundless love - Supports you evermore upon your way: - You cannot fail to reach the heights above - Who climb as best you may! - EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD. - - -Doris sat alone in the shelter, after Bernard had left her, in a state -of unhappiness so great that she could not even weep. - -"All is over between us," she sighed, "and Bernard has gone away in -anger. How wretched it is! Nothing could be more wretched! Nothing! -I am the most unfortunate girl in all the world!" And she sat with her -pale face turned towards the sunlit waves, watching them and yet in -reality seeing nothing except her own utter misery. What had become of -all her prayers, she wondered--the prayers which she had poured out to -her Heavenly Father from a sorrow-laden heart? - -He had saved her from starvation, and placed her in a position of great -temporal prosperity; yes, but what about her previous many, many prayers -for Bernard, for their mutual reconciliation and union when a part at -least of the debt was paid, and for the happy and useful married life -which they had once planned together on the hill at Askern, and for -which she had so often longed and prayed? - -"I have done my best," thought Doris, "and have tried to serve God all -the while. The thought of Him was ever in my heart, and I gave up my -prosperous little business--all that I had--in obedience to His Voice, -speaking to me through Norman's words and my own conceptions of what I -ought to do. I cast my all into His treasury: and all the time--every -day--I prayed for Bernard--and for our future together--until--until I -was led by circumstances to believe that he did not love me. And since -then--since then everything has gone wrong, and I seem to have lost hope -and faith in God and man." - -She was in despair. It was the darkest hour of all her sorrowful young -life, and she could see no gleam of light in any direction. - -How long she sat thus she never knew, but it seemed an immense time -before she heard the cheerful voice of Alice behind her saying brightly, -"Doris! Doris darling, we have brought you good news!" - -"There is no good news for me," answered Doris, without turning her -head, and the two who loved her were aghast at the hopelessness of her -tones. - -"Doris!" exclaimed Bernard, "I have returned, in order to bring you the -glad news that there is hope for us, and help, for Miss Sinclair is -going to be our good angel and is going to save the situation." - -"How? What? I don't understand," said Doris, turning to look at them -in relief and surprise. "Do explain, please," she added, tremulously, -feeling quite unable to bear any more suspense. - -Sitting down beside her, they hastened to tell everything, and then to -combat her conscientious objections to Alice's proposed arbitration, as -it seemed to her, at first, that it was scarcely right for Alice to -persuade her brother to release his _fiancee_. - -"I shall not persuade him," replied Alice, "I shall simply tell him the -facts of the case, and leave him to act as it seems right to him. But I -will tell you this, Doris," she added, "I know dear old Norman will at -once release you from your engagement." - -Then Alice carried them off to the Creamery, and, after they had -partaken of a charming little tea, she invited Bernard to meet her at -the Warrior Square Station at five o'clock on the following day, when -she expected to be back from London, in order that she might tell him -first what her brother decided. When that matter was settled to every -one's satisfaction, Bernard took leave of the girls and went away, to -pass the time as best he could until Norman Sinclair's ultimatum was -received. - - * * * * * - -The following evening, as Doris sat in one of the large balconies of the -Queen's Hotel, enjoying the fine air, the pleasing sea view, and most of -all the delightful hope that all might yet be well, Alice, who had been -to London, and Bernard, who had met her at the station, came to her -there. - -"All is well," said Alice, "as I knew it would be. Doris," she took the -girl's thin hand in hers, and placed it gently within Bernard's, "Norman -has sent you your freedom. You can marry Bernard now as soon as you -like, and Norman hopes you will be very happy. He has sent you a letter, -dear," she said in conclusion, putting one into Doris's hand. - -Doris swayed in her chair. She could not even see the letter for the -tears which filled her eyes. - -Alice, too, began to cry, and Bernard had to clear his voice two or -three times before he could speak. - -"I am afraid I was a little rough on your brother, Miss Sinclair," he -said at length. "He is indeed a man of honour. I am sure I beg to -withdraw all that I have said against him, and to apologise for my hot -words. I hope that you will tell him how grateful we are when you see -him." - -"I'm afraid I shall not see him for a very long time," answered Alice; -"he is going abroad alone." She looked deeply pained. "He wishes me to -stay with Doris and see after her getting married." She said the last -words more cheerfully, for, being a woman, the idea of a wedding was -pleasant. - -"There won't be much to see about in my wedding," said Doris, with a -smile, "for I shall have to do without a trousseau and without a good -many things, because I am not taking Bernard any money. You will have a -poor bride, Bernard." - -"I shall not! You will be the very best bride that ever a man could -have!" he cried, rapturously. - -Then Alice went away, and left them together. Later on in the evening, -when Doris was alone, she opened Norman's letter, which was as follows: - - -"DEAR DORIS, - -"I give you back your promise to marry me. I am sorry for the mistakes -which have been made and the suffering through which you have passed, -and trust that your future life with Mr. Cameron may be all joy and -gladness. - -"You will, I am sure, do me the justice to believe that had I known he -was true to you I should not have tried to induce you to become engaged -to me, however much I loved and esteemed you. - -"Yours very faithfully, - "NORMAN SINCLAIR." - - -Doris shed tears over the letter, for she knew that, reticent though the -writer was about his own feelings, she must have made him exceedingly -unhappy. - -And when Doris thanked God that night before she slept that He had heard -her prayers, and that He had mercifully given her her heart's desire, -she prayed, also, for Norman Sinclair that he might be comforted and -blessed exceedingly. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXV.* - - *A HAPPY WEDDING.* - - - Never to part till angels call us home. - _Song_, "_Golden Love_." - - - The span of life's not long enough, - Nor deep enough the sea, - Nor broad enough this weary world - To part my love from me. - _Anon_. - - - So they were wed, and merrily rang the bells, - Merrily rang the bells when they were wed. - LONGFELLOW. - - -"After all, Doris," said Alice, the next morning, "you will have a -trousseau, and a very pretty one, too. For I am going to buy it for -you. Yes, indeed, it is to be my wedding present." - -"I don't know how to thank you," said Doris. - -"Then don't try. Pay me the compliment of accepting what I have much -pleasure in giving." - -Doris rose, and, throwing her arms round her friend's neck, gave her a -hug. - -"How soon do you intend to be married?" asked Alice, presently. - -"In three weeks. There is no reason for delay." - -"Of course not. The sooner the better. Where shall you be married?" -asked Alice, a shadow falling across her face at the thought that she -could scarcely take her friend home to be married from Norman's house. - -"Oh, here, in this dear place, where my happiness has come to me!" said -Doris. - -"Here? At Hastings? From this hotel?" - -"Yes, why not? I am sure the Vicar of All Saints, whose church I have -attended, will marry us." - -"Oh, I don't doubt that! Yes, of course you shall be married here." - -"There's only one thing," said Doris. "The Austins are not here. And I -must have dear Mrs. Austin, and her good son Sam, at my wedding." - -"Send for them all," interposed Bernard, entering the room and -overhearing her last remark. He had been for a bathe, and was looking -well and happy. There is no greater restorative for body and mind than -happiness. - -"Send for them?" said Doris. "Oh, but I don't think they will come if -we send for them. I think I shall have to go and see Mrs. Austin, and -arrange with her about their coming down." - -"You're not strong enough to take all that trouble," said Bernard. "It -will take you all your time until our wedding-day"--he spoke with joy -and pride--"to recover sufficiently for it and for our little tour -afterwards." - -"We'll not go far," said Doris. "Why should we go far," she laughed -happily, "when we have found each other?" - -"Why indeed? Supposing we go to the Isle of Wight, will that do?" - -"Yes, charmingly. I have never been there. But, Bernard, I must go to -see dear old Mrs. Austin and invite her to the wedding." - -"Cannot you write to her?" - -"No, a letter will not do. Think how good she was to me when I was -penniless and a stranger in London! Can I ever forget how she received -me into her house, and trusted me to repay her as I could? And then she -gave me her late son's painting materials, and tried to make me believe -I should succeed as an artist,--and, afterwards, when that had failed, -she comforted and encouraged me, and got her nephew to find me work, -and, later, interested Alice in employing me; and then afterwards, when -I gave up the business and became poor again, she stood by me, trusting -and caring for me more lovingly than ever. Bernard, if there is one -friend in all the world whom we ought to value and esteem next to the -Sinclairs it is Mrs. Austin, and, next to her is Sam Austin, the -cabman." - -"What did he do?" asked Bernard, though indeed he partly knew. - -"He saved me from despair that first night, when, on coming to London by -the night train, I found my godmother, Miss Earnshaw, had died, and that -I was alone in the great metropolis, with only a few shillings in my -pocket, and no claim upon any one in all the vast city. He took me to -his mother, and persuaded her to receive me into her house; and then, -afterwards, when I had made my first little water-colour sketches, he -drove me round to the dealers in his cab, and would take no payment -then, nor afterwards, until I was earning a lot of money, and then -compelled him to do so." - -"He shall come to our wedding, too," said Bernard. "They shall both be -our honoured guests." - -"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" - -"And I'll tell you what we will do, darling. We will give them a -wedding-present, yes, we will!" - -"Oh, thank you!" - -"Nay, you must not thank me, dear! It is you who will invite the -wedding guests, that is always the prerogative of the bride. I will pay -their expenses, if you will allow me." - -"Thank you, I will," said Doris, gladly. - -"Shall we go up to town to invite her?" said Bernard, tentatively. - -"I should like to do so," said Doris. - -"But----" - -"Wouldn't it be too tiring for you?" said Alice. "Otherwise," she -added, "I should like to go up to shop with you in Bond Street." - -"And I," said Bernard, "should like to go over to Richmond on business. -The fact is, I have heard that the school in which I used to work is for -sale, and I rather think of buying it. When I was a poor assistant -there I used to think what a future it might have if it were more -efficiently managed. How would you like to live on Richmond Hill, -Doris?" - -"Near the Terrace, with the loveliest view of the Thames to be seen -anywhere! Oh, Bernard, how charming that would be!" - -"Well, I'll go and look after the school, if you like; and if you come, -too, we can see the Austins while we are in town and invite them to our -wedding." - -In about a week Doris was strong enough for this arrangement to be -carried out. She and Bernard, accompanied by Alice as far as Victoria, -where they separated, went to London for the day, and after going to -Richmond, where negotiations were commenced for the purchase of -Bernard's former school and the head master's house, they went on to -King's Cross in order to see Mrs. Austin. - -The good woman was delighted to see them together, apparently on such -intimate terms. - -"Miss Doris!" she cried. "And Mr. Cameron! And both looking so happy! -So very happy," she repeated. "Don't tell me anything, I know it all. -There'll be a wedding. I saw it in the fire last night. Come in. Come -in." - -They followed her into her little room, which seemed to Doris to be -smaller and dingier than ever after the great rooms to which she was -accustomed. - -"Oh, Mrs. Austin, I am so happy!" she cried. - -"It's Mr. Right this time, and no mistake!" exclaimed the good woman. -"Between you and me, miss," she added aside, "I didn't want you to marry -that other gentleman. Miss Sinclair was a dear, sweet lady, but the -brother was so upsetting!" - -"He has been very, very kind to me," said Doris, "and to Mr. Cameron, -too. He has been a very good friend to us." - -"Has he, miss? Well, I'm glad to hear it, but----" she broke off, and -began again, "Give me Mr. Cameron, for a fine, pleasant-speaking, -right-living gentleman!" she declared. - -Doris laughed, and her eyes rested on Bernard with loving pride. "Do -you know, Mrs. Austin," she said, "I was engaged to him before I came to -London at all--only unfortunately our engagement had been cruelly broken -off." - -"Indeed, miss! Ah, I could see you were in deep sorrow when you came to -me. If you had seen her then, Mr. Cameron," and she turned to Bernard, -"you would have been sorry. She was that white, and there was such a -stricken look upon her poor, dear face. And yet, for all she was in such -trouble, she did me good; so that I thanked God for sending her here." - -"She does me good, too," said Bernard. "That's why I love her." - -"Ah, he's one of the right sort!" exclaimed Mrs. Austin to Doris. - -"Yes, _I_ think so," said Doris, laughing merrily. - -Mrs. Austin looked wonderingly at her. - -"I never heard you laugh like that before, Miss Anderson," she -exclaimed. - -Presently the widow's two visitors sat at tea in the little parlour. - -"And how are you getting on, Mrs. Austin?" asked Doris, presently. "You -say so little about yourself." - -"Well, miss, this is such a joyful occasion I don't like to spoil -it----" - -"Oh, then, I'm afraid you are not doing well?" said Doris, -sympathisingly. - -Tears came into the widow's eyes; but she dashed them off with a corner -of her apron, and tried to smile, as she answered, "I have a lodger in -my front rooms, and a young shop-girl rents my attic; but--but----" and -she broke down, weeping bitterly. - -Doris and Bernard tried to comfort her, and at length ascertained, with -some difficulty, that the cause of her distress was that her landlord -had given her notice to leave the house. - -"And I've lived in it all my life," she said. "I was born in it and -brought up here: my dear mother lived with me here till she died, and -when my husband made me an offer of marriage I said, 'Yes, if you'll -come and live in my dear home.' And he did, and was so good to my -mother--as good as good could be--always taking off his boots before he -went upstairs on the stair carpets, and always lighting the kitchen-fire -and making me a cup of tea before he went to his work, till he fell ill -of his last illness. He died in the front sitting-room. I had the bed -brought down there for him. And there was my Silas, he was born in my -front bedroom; and he used to paint his lovely pictures, as you know, -miss, in the attic; and he lay down and died, as sweet and calmly as a -child, in the back bedroom, 'Going Home,' he said, 'to the Great Artist, -Who will put in the finishing touches to the work that He has made.' I -couldn't bear to leave this house, with all its memories! It will kill -me--I know it will! And my Sam feels almost as bad. 'I shall never -drive down this road, mother,' he says, 'when the old home isn't -yours.'" Mrs. Austin stopped at last for want of breath. - -"But why does the landlord want to turn you out?" asked Bernard. "You -must be such good tenants." - -"Mrs. Austin is," said Doris. "She pays her rent regularly." - -"Yes, miss. I've always paid it to the day, though I have been rather -hard put to sometimes, when my lodgers haven't paid up. It's not for -want of the rent that the landlord gives notice. It's because he's -selling a lot of his houses to a man who wants them for his own -workpeople, and therefore must have them emptied." The widow's tears -flowed again. - -"Don't cry, Mrs. Austin dear!" said Doris, rising and putting her arms -round the good woman's neck, while she kissed her kind old face. - -"You shall not be turned out," said Bernard; "I will see your landlord, -and buy the house, if I can. Then you shall not be turned out." - -"But, sir, it will cost you a lot!" - -"It will be an investment, and I shall have a good tenant. You know, -Doris," he added, turning to her, "I must not put all the money into the -school." - -Having asked the landlord's name and address, Bernard left Doris resting -in Mrs. Austin's sitting-room, and departed to transact the business, -which he was able to do satisfactorily, as the landlord happened to be -in a hurry to sell. - -"I have bought the house for three hundred and fifty pounds," Bernard -announced, on his return to Doris. "You tell Mrs. Austin, dear," he -added. - -So it was Doris who had the pleasure of telling the good woman that Mr. -Cameron had bought her house, and so she would be able to remain in it -as long as she lived. - -"Thank God! Thank God! That is all I want. And you shall have your -rent regularly, sir," said the widow. - -"You shall never be asked for it," said Bernard. "When you have the -money to spare you can pay it, and when you have not any to hand over, -nothing shall be said." - -"You are too good, sir," began Mrs. Austin. But Doris interrupted: - -"He is only treating you as you treated me," she said. "When I could -not pay you, dear Mrs. Austin, you always let it pass over, and forgave -me the debt." - -"But you have paid everything now, miss." (Through the Sinclairs' -kindness Doris had been able to do this.) - -"I can never repay you for all your exceeding kindness," cried the girl; -adding, "And I am delighted that we can enable you to remain in your -comfortable home." - -Mrs. Austin was overjoyed. She shed tears again, not for sorrow now, -but for joy. "How little I knew when I took you in, Miss Anderson," she -said, "that I should be entertaining an angel unawares!" - -Then Doris asked Mrs. Austin if she would come to Hastings with her son, -in order to be present at the wedding, and this the widow joyfully -consented to do, saying: - -"I would go further than that, miss, to see you married, and so would my -Sam. We'll come to your wedding, if we have to walk every inch of the -way." - -"That's right," said Bernard; "that's the right spirit! But you will -have to allow me to pay your fare, for you might not arrive in time if -you walk the sixty miles or so to Hastings, and I shall be only too -pleased to pay your fare." - -Doris wanted to see Sam, but he was away with his cab, and therefore she -could only leave a message for him. - -She was exceedingly happy as she returned to Hastings with Bernard in a -luxurious corridor-train--so happy, indeed, that she felt at peace with -all the world, and therefore ventured to suggest: - -"Couldn't we have your mother to our wedding, too, Bernard?" - -The young man's face darkened, and his voice shook as he answered, "No, -I think not. I--I _could_ not." - -"We shall have to forgive her, dear," pleaded Doris. - -"Yes--in time. You must give me time, dear." Bernard was silent for -several minutes after that, and then he said abruptly, "We will go to -see her after we are married." - -"Yes, dear," acquiesced Doris; "I should like that." - -The day came quickly which was to make them man and wife. - -Theirs was a pretty wedding, although the wedding guests were only two, -and they were not of the same rank in life as the handsome bridegroom -and the beautiful bride, supported by her friends, and bridesmaid, -dressed like herself in costly silk and lace. Doris was in white, and -Alice in creamy yellow, whilst Bernard, of course, was in immaculate -attire, his good-looking young face lit up with love and joy and -thankfulness to God. - -"Bless them! God bless them!" exclaimed good Mrs. Austin as the young -couple left the vestry, where Doris had signed her maiden name for the -last time. - -"Amen," said Sam, "and may they live long happy years!" - -Sam had only one regret about the wedding, and that was that he could -not bring his cab down to be used on the occasion. "I should like to -have driven them to church in it," he confided to his mother. "It would -have been a sort of finish to the two rides I gave Miss Anderson in it. -First when I drove her to Earl's Court Square, and then home to you when -she was in such distress, and afterwards when I drove her round to see -those skin-flinty old picture-dealers about selling her pictures." - -But now the bride and bridegroom had to be met, congratulated, and -wished all sorts of happiness. - -"Thank you! Thank you!" said Doris, shaking hands with Sam, and lifting -up her glad young face to kiss his mother, while Bernard shook hands -warmly with them both, thanking them for himself and his bride. - -Later in the day Alice drove with Bernard and Doris to the station to -see them off in the train for Portsmouth, as they were going to the Isle -of Wight for their honeymoon. - -Doris clung to her a little at the last. "I don't know how to thank -you, Alice," she said; "you have been like a dear sister to me." - -[Illustration: "DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST. 'YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A -DEAR SISTER TO ME.'"] - -"I don't want thanking," protested Alice. - -"But you will feel so lonely, dear, when we have gone." - -"Never mind me," said Alice; "you know to-morrow I shall start for -Switzerland, in order to join my brother there, and then there will be -no more loneliness for me." - -"You will Give him our kindest remembrances, Miss Sinclair," said -Bernard, earnestly. - -"If I can I will--that is, if he speaks of you." - -The train began to move off, and there was no time to talk any more. - -"Good-bye--good-bye, dear," cried the travellers, and then--Alice -Sinclair was left alone upon the platform. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXVI.* - - *TWO MONTHS LATER.* - - - Time and the hour run through the longest day. - SHAKESPEARE. - - -Mrs. Cameron was a miserable woman. Poor, unhappy, and remorseful, she -sat alone in her solitary house--even her one maidservant had left -her--thinking dismally of her sad past, mournful present, and hopeless -future. On her lap was her son's letter of two months before, the only -one he had sent her since he left home to go in search of Doris, and she -thought that it would probably be the last one she would ever receive -from him. - -"I know all that you have done," he wrote, "to destroy my happiness and -that of my beloved Doris, and the means by which you sought to separate -us for ever in this world, and I write to inform you that your schemes -and machinations have failed; for we are engaged to be married, and, -there being no longer any obstacle to prevent it, the marriage will take -place on the 20th of this month. - -"That, I think, is all I need say now, or at any time, to one who has -done her utmost to alienate me for life from the one I loved. - -"I remain, Mother, - "Your much-wronged Son, - "BERNARD CAMERON." - - -"A nice letter for a mother to receive!" grumbled the widow. "Yet I -know that I deserve it," she added mentally. "I've been too hard--too -hard on him, and too hard on other people. If I hadn't been so -quarrelsome with my husband, he would not have left most of his money to -Bernard, and that wretch John Anderson would not have had the chance of -stealing it all. And if I hadn't been so hard on Bernard and on Doris -Anderson, I should have retained my boy's love, which would have been -better than nothing." She sniffed and passed the back of her bony hand -across her tearless eyes. "Yes, it would have been better than nothing, -and I might have come in for a bit of his money now he is richer; but, -as it is, I've got nothing, neither money, nor love, nor anything at -all!" - -She looked dismally at the dusk stealing across the room with its -threadbare carpet and faded chairs and curtains. There was no servant -to come in and light the gas and close the blinds. She was all alone, -and so hopeless that she did not care whether the gas was lighted or -not. "What matter if it is dark, so long as I have nothing to do but -think!" she said to herself, dismally. "They'll have had their -honeymoon now, and perhaps will be getting settled in their new home. I -wonder where it is? To think that I shouldn't know where my son is -going to live! I never thought Bernard would turn against me; and -yet--and yet I deserve it, for mine was a crooked policy, directed -against all his wishes and ignoring his rights. I told myself I was -doing it for him, for his best interests; but really I was doing it more -for myself, that he might become rich and be in a position to give his -mother a good home; and out of spite, too, against those Andersons, and -a determination that Doris should not have him." She paused, listening. - -Some street singers were wailing forth the hymn, "O God, our help in -ages past!" before the house; but the woman, who had found no help in -God, because she had never sought it, was only angered by the sound. -Rising and going to the window, she made emphatic signs to the man and -woman--the latter with a child in her arms and another clinging to her -skirts--to pass on; but they either could not see her in the deepening -dusk or would not be persuaded to go away, for they continued singing -even more loudly than before. - -"Well, I shall not give them anything!" declared Mrs. Cameron, -relinquishing the attempt to stop them and returning to her chair by the -fireless hearth. "What right have they to come disturbing folks in this -way?" - -Again she sank into gloomy, miserable reflections, while the darkness -increased about her. - -The door-bell rang; but she paid no attention to it, thinking that it -was only the singers wanting alms. "They may want!" she said to herself -grimly. "Other folks want what they can't get, too!" - -Once more the bell rang, and yet a third time, and even a fourth; but -still Mrs. Cameron remained firm in her determination not to speak to -the intruders. - -"I'm a hard woman," she said to herself; "aye, and I'll be hard. I'm -too old to change now, and nobody cares, nobody cares what I'm like or -what I do. If any one cared ever such a little bit, I might be -different; but nobody cares, least of all God; He's shut me out of His -good books long ago. I shall never get to His Heaven, never! Even if -He let me into His Heaven, I shouldn't be happy psalm-singing, and -praising Him, and living in His presence. Not I! I don't care at all -for Him, and that's truth. And if, as some say, in heaven the angels -are always ministering to others and doing deeds of kindness, that work -wouldn't suit me. Not it!" She laughed shrilly, as if in derision of -the idea; and the darkness deepened around her. "I don't care an atom -for other people. Not I!" she went on, and again her weird, unholy -laugh rang through the room. - -Its echoes reached a young man and woman who stood at the door, -hesitating before ringing the bell again, and caused them both to -shiver. - -"Nobody cares for me, and I care for nobody!" soliloquised Mrs. Cameron. -"If any one cared ever so little, it would be different. Oh, dear! -What's that?" - -An exceedingly loud rapping at the street door made her start up, -exclaiming angrily, "Those tramps again!" - -She bounced out of the room and across the little hall to the door, -opening it somewhat gingerly, and crying out the while in her sharpest -tones, "I've nothing for you! Get away! Go!" Then she attempted to -shut the door, but a strong hand held, it so firmly that she could not -close it, whilst a voice spoke, which she was unable to hear for her own -clamour. - -"If you don't be off I'll prosecute you!" she cried, menacingly. - -"Mother! It is I, Bernard! Let me in." - -The words reached her ears at last, penetrating even to her starved and -icy heart. - -"Bernard!" She fell back a pace, and the door flew open, revealing her -son and a lady by his side. The street light fell upon the two, and -also upon the pale, astonished face of the unhappy woman they had come -to see. - -"Bernard!" - -"Mother!" He put his arms round her neck, in his old boyish way, -forgetting everything except that she was his mother, who was looking -miserable, whilst he had come to her in his joy, with his dear young -wife by his side. - -"If any one cared ever so little, it would be different," she had said -to herself. Well, here was Bernard, and he cared for her, in spite of -everything, and--_it was different_. - -"My son! My son! Forgive me," she said, clinging to him, her tears -falling on his manly face and neck, as he kissed her tenderly. - -"All right, mother! The past is past," he whispered. "I want you to -welcome Doris," he added low in her ear. "She is my wife now." - -Mrs. Cameron turned to Doris, holding out her hand, but the young wife -raised her face, and she had to kiss her, too. - -Then they went in, closing the street door after them; and Bernard, -striking a light, lit up every gas-burner he could find about the place; -so that the darkness was gone, and it was light, very light. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXVII.* - - *RESTITUTION.* - - - Does any one know what's in your heart and mine, - The sorrow and song, - The demon of sin and the angel divine, - The right and the wrong: - The dread of the darkness, the love of the day, - The ebb and the flow - Of hope and of doubt for ever and aye, - Does any one know? - NIXON WATERMAN. - - - He wins at last who puts his trust - In loving words and actions just. - * * * * * - On every action blazon bright, - "For toil, and truth, and love, we fight." - T. S. COLLIER. - - -An hour later, after they had partaken of a substantial tea-supper, the -principal constituents of which Bernard fetched from the village shops, -with boyish glee, renewing his acquaintance with the shop-keepers quite -merrily, Mrs. Cameron and her son and daughter-in-law sat round the fire -Doris had lighted, talking about the future. - -Bernard had placed the school at Richmond (of which he had now completed -the purchase) in good hands, and he and Doris were going to live in -rooms at Oxford until he had obtained his degree, when they would at -once proceed to their new home in Richmond. - -"We want you to come and live with us, mother," said Bernard; "or if you -would prefer not to live with us, at least to occupy rooms near us, so -that we may often look in upon you, to prevent your feeling lonely." - -"Do you wish that, too, Doris?" asked her mother-in-law, quite timidly. - -"Yes, indeed I do," said Doris, heartily. In her great happiness it was -impossible for her to cherish any resentment against Bernard's mother. - -Mrs. Cameron looked red and confused. Their love made a difference, yes, -a very great difference in her feelings. But she shook her head, -saying, "You will be better without me. Far better. I will remain here. -You can come and see me sometimes, and you must remain here a few days -now. I'm afraid we are rather desolate here in the house, but I'll have -a charwoman in to-morrow, and we'll try to make the place comfortable." - -"The house ails nothing," said Bernard, "for it is home." - -"Yes," remarked Doris, brightly, "and you know, 'East or West, home is -best.'" - -Mrs. Cameron thought remorsefully that she had made only a poor home for -Bernard in the last year or two, since he lost his money. - -But he appeared to forget all about that, as he merrily assisted her and -Doris to arrange a room for their accommodation that night--in point of -fact he had engaged a bedroom at the comfortable hydro at Askern, but he -did not venture to mention that to his mother under their altered and -happier relations. - -The next morning, as they were sitting at breakfast, the postman dropped -a letter into the letter-box, and Bernard, upon going to the door to -fetch it, discovered that it was addressed to himself. - -Bringing the letter into the room he looked at the envelope curiously, -and perceived that it bore the impression, "London, City & Midland -Banking Company, Ltd," whilst the postmark was Doncaster. - -"Why, what's this?" he said, and then, opening it wonderingly, found -that it was an official intimation from the Doncaster branch of the -London, City & Midland Bank, saying that the sum of twenty-five thousand -pounds had been placed there to his credit. - -The young man put his hand to his brow in great bewilderment. What did -it mean? Mechanically he handed the document to his mother, saying, -"Look at this. What does it mean?" - -Mrs. Cameron fumbled about for her spectacles, found them, could not see -through them, shook her head, and, handing the document to Doris, -remarked, "You read it, Doris. What does it mean?" - -Doris read aloud the printed and written words, which stated that the -bank had received twenty-five thousand pounds, and placed the money to -the credit of Bernard Cameron. - -"Twenty-five thousand pounds!" cried Mrs. Cameron, excitedly. "Why, -some one has restored your fortune to you, Bernard!" - -Bernard was amazed and glad. - -"Who can have paid the money in?" questioned Doris. - -"You will have to go to Doncaster to the bank, to see the manager, and -ascertain who it is," said Mrs. Cameron. - -"Yes," Bernard agreed, still looking very mystified. - -"It may be some mistake of the bank's," suggested Mrs. Cameron. "It is -dated all right for yesterday." - -They were still wondering and conjecturing about the matter, when the -sound of a carriage driving up to the door, followed by a loud peal of -the door-bell, startled them. - -Bernard went to the door, and, upon opening it, perceived, to his -intense astonishment, his wife's father. - -"Is Mr. Cameron in?" began the visitor, and then, recognising Bernard, -he cried, "Bernard! My dear fellow, I _am glad_ you are at home." - -"Mr. Anderson!" exclaimed Bernard. "Mr. Anderson _here_!" - -"Father! Father!" cried Doris, overhearing Bernard's greeting, and -running into her father's arms. "My dear father!" Forgotten were all -his shortcomings, his desertion of herself and appropriation of -Bernard's money, forgotten was everything except love in that glad -moment of reunion. "Where is mother?" asked Doris, kissing him again -and again. - -"In the cab, there." He waved his hand towards the vehicle, out of -which Mrs. Anderson was leaning forward, in the endeavour to obtain a -glimpse of her child. - -Doris ran to the cab, and disappeared within it, as there only could she -have her beloved mother entirely to herself for a few moments. - -Mr. Anderson signed to the cabman to wait for a little while, and then -went into the house with Bernard, asking, "Are you alone? Or is your -mother within?" - -"She is here. This is her house still," answered Bernard, leading the -way into the dining-room, where Mrs. Cameron stood, very erect, and -looking extremely grave. - -Mr. Anderson bowed without making the attempt to shake hands, indeed she -had placed hers behind her with a very significant gesture. - -"I have to thank you, Mrs. Cameron," said the barrister, "and your son, -for your exceeding clemency in not prosecuting me for my terrible -defalcations more than a year ago, and I must explain how it was that I -lost your son's money, and how it is that I have been able yesterday to -place the whole amount in the Doncaster branch of the London, City & -Midland Banking Co. for him. Have you had an intimation of this money -being placed in the bank to your credit, Bernard?" he asked the young -man. - -"Yes. This morning. I could not understand who placed it there. I am -glad it was you. Oh, Mr. Anderson, I am _very glad_!" Bernard seized -the elder man's hand, and shook it with warmth. "I feel inclined to -throw up my cap and shout 'Hurrah!'" he continued, boyishly, "for I am -so delighted for your sake and for Doris's!" - -"Well, it's a good thing you've done it," said Mrs. Cameron. "I must -say I'm surprised--I never thought you would. What are you nudging me -for, Bernard?" she asked, rather crossly. "You know very well that I -always say what is in my mind. And I must tell you, Mr. Anderson," she -continued, "that it's not me you have to thank for not being prosecuted. -I was determined to set the whole machinery of the law to work--I was so -mad with you--but Bernard would not have it. He would not raise a -finger against you--no, not though I turned him out of my house for his -stupidity, as I thought it then, though it seems to have answered well," -she admitted. - -"Bernard," said Mr. Anderson, looking gratefully at him, "my dear boy, -how can I thank you enough? What you must have borne for me!" - -"I'm afraid I thought most of Doris," said Bernard, honestly. "It would -never have done for me to have brought disgrace and trouble upon her -family." - -"I sinned," said Mr. Anderson, regarding Bernard's stern mother very -mournfully, "I sinned greatly in using money which was not my own for -speculations which were risky, as most speculations are. And when all -was lost, and I possessed nothing with which to meet my liabilities, as -you know, instead of courageously confessing and submitting to the -penalty I had incurred, I absconded. Later on, together with my wife, -who would not leave me, I took refuge with an old servant of ours, who -had married a shepherd in Wales, and there, in a remote place up amongst -the mountains, we hid ourselves for a long and weary time. Often I -thought of coming down and surrendering to justice, but as often my wife -persuaded me to remain in concealment. Eventually, however, I became so -convinced that the only right thing to do was to give myself up to the -police that, leaving my retreat, I returned, accompanied by my wife, to -Yorkshire. - -"Then," continued he, "a strange thing happened. Upon reaching York I -first went to a lawyer with whom I had formerly transacted business, -whereupon he informed me that there had never been a warrant taken out -for my arrest, thanks to you, my dear Bernard," and again the elder man -gave the younger a grateful glance. "Moreover," the barrister -continued, "the lawyer told me that Howden, the man who in the first -place led me into those disastrous speculations, had just died, and in -his last hours, remembering remorsefully his bad advice to me about -speculating, which led to my ruin and desiring to make reparation as far -as possible, he bequeathed to me by will the large sum of thirty -thousand pounds. You can judge of my extreme delight. - -"As soon as the will had been proved and I was in possession of the -money I returned to Doncaster, paid all my debts in full, and placed -twenty-five thousand pounds in the bank for you, Bernard. After which I -came here in the hope of finding you at home. I cannot tell you," Mr. -Anderson added, with deep feeling, "I cannot tell you all that I have -suffered on account of my sin, nor can I say how great is my relief and -satisfaction in being able to restore to you your fortune." - -The tears were in his eyes as he said this, and they perceived that his -hair had become as white as snow during the last thirteen months, and -also that care and trouble had drawn deep lines upon his face. They -could not, therefore, doubt the truth of what he was saying, and so Mrs. -Cameron as well as Bernard hastened to express their entire forgiveness -of his sin and sympathy with him in his sufferings. And if the mother -did it less gracefully than her son, Mr. Anderson could not cavil at -that, for he knew that it was much more difficult for her, with her hard -nature, to speak so kindly than for Bernard. - -And when she added, penitently, "I, too, must ask your forgiveness, Mr. -Anderson, for the harsh and bitter thoughts I have cherished about you -and the hard words I have said," he was only too glad to shake hands -with her and say she was not to trouble about that any more. - -Upon this touching scene entered Doris and her mother--the two who -having not sinned in the matter of the pecuniary defalcations, had yet -suffered so grievously by reason of them. Whereupon, kind and loving -words were exchanged, and the new relationship of the young people was -discussed and approved of by her parents, who both said that they could -not have wished for a better husband for their daughter. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXVIII.* - - *CONCLUSION.* - - - Poets are all who love, who feel great truths - And tell them, and the truth of truths is love. - BAILEY. - - -In Switzerland, where Alice had joined Norman as soon as Doris's -marriage had taken place, Alice heard of the surprising restoration of -the lost money with the greatest satisfaction. - -Doris wrote a full account of the return of her father and the wonderful -restitution he was able to make of all the money that he had taken from -Bernard and that which he owed the tradespeople. - -"Do you know, dear Alice," she wrote in conclusion, "I often and often -prayed that he might be able to do this, but it seemed as if my prayers -were all in vain, both about this and other matters, and then I grew -despondent and doubted--oh, I doubted dreadfully! What patience God -must have with us when we have so little faith! And how impatient and -short-sighted we are! Why, I might have been sure that just as He -clothes the lilies and feeds the birds of the air, so He would give me -all things that were needful and that were according to His will. And -it must have been His will that my father should be enabled to do right -in the end. Well, I'm going to believe in future that He really meant -His words when He said, 'Ask, and ye shall receive.' - -"And there's another thing, dear Alice," the writer continued joyfully, -"Bernard and I want to make one or two thank-offerings for the great -mercies we have received. - -"First for poor Mrs. Austin, who was so very good to me. You know that -Bernard bought her house, in order to prevent her being turned out of -it, and now we are giving it to her for life, and to her son after her. -She is so delighted, and so is Sam, and it is such a pleasure to us to -do this. - -"And then, with regard to the school at Richmond, you know Bernard -purchased it, and arranged for it to be managed for him until he has -finished his career at Oxford, after which he will take it in hand -personally; and now he has determined that he will always give schooling -and board to two pupils free of charge. They need not necessarily be -orphans, but they are to be poor boys of gentle birth, who would -otherwise be worsted in the battle of life. They are to receive exactly -the same benefits as the other boys, and I am to provide them with -clothes, and look after them as a mother might. I need not tell you how -glad I am to do this. - -"Dear old Susan is coming to live with us and be our matron, much to her -satisfaction. She is so glad that Bernard and I are married. You know we -could not have her at the wedding, as Mrs. Cameron was not there--for it -might have made the villagers at Moss talk if one had been present and -not the other, and it would certainly have hurt Mrs. Cameron's feelings. - -"Write to me, dear Alice, and let me know what you think of these -schemes, which we have planned in this lovely Isle of Wight." - -Alice read the letter aloud to Norman, a little later, when, having left -Switzerland, they were going up the Rhine in a river-steamer, one lovely -day in autumn. She was glad of her friend's happiness, and rejoiced in -it so much that she could not keep the letter to herself. - -"Cameron seems a decent sort of fellow," said the artist, "after all." - -"Oh, yes, he is. Wasn't it nice of him to buy Mrs. Austin's little -house in order that she might not be turned out of it, and then to give -it to her when he became richer?" - -"Yes," said Norman, "I must say that Mrs. Austin deserves it for her -goodness to Doris; though she never favoured me, but always endeavoured -to make me feel that I was an intruder." - -"But she was very good to me," said Alice, softly. - -"Yes," said her brother, "and for that, too, she shall be forgiven -everything by the poor artist, whom you fed when he was a surly, -inconsiderate old bear." - -"I'm very proud of my Lion!" exclaimed Alice, lovingly. "See," she -added, "I have brought out with us some London papers which arrived just -as we were leaving our hotel. I want you to see what is said of your -Academy pictures, especially of 'Ganymede.' The likeness of the girl," -she added, "is so marvellously like Doris, that I expect her husband -will be wanting to buy it." - -"Don't!" said Norman, walking a little way apart, in order that she -might not see his face. - -Presently he returned to her without a shadow on his fine expressive -countenance. - -"I hope you are observing the beauty of all this Rhine scenery," he -said, with a smile. "It ought to appeal to the poetry in your nature." - -"Poetry! Poetry in my nature!" exclaimed Alice. "Why, Norman, I always -thought that you considered me so _very_ prosaic and matter-of-fact." - -"On the contrary," said her brother. "It is _I_ who have been so often -matter-of-fact; _you_ have always been steeped in love, so much so, in -fact, that you have idealised and nursed illusions for the sake of your -beloved ones. Don't you know-- - - Poets are all who love, who feel great truths - And tell them, and the truth of truths is love. - -Yes," continued Norman, humbly, "you are before me, Alice, in the great -race, because through your life--as through Doris's--the golden thread -of Love leads you and dominates your actions. Not the mere lover's love -for one, but a noble enthusiasm and love for all who are near and dear -to you." - - - - THE END. - - - - _Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., - London and Aylesbury_ - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE'S GOLDEN THREAD *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49787 - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so -the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. -Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this -license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg(tm) -electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg(tm) concept and -trademark. 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