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!