Do we furnish the weaver a web each day?
It were better then, O kind friend, to spin
A beautiful thread--not a thread of sin.
_Anon_.
"Is Miss Anderson in?"
"Well, yes, sir, she is, but----"
"Be so good as to announce me!"
"I don't know about that, sir. Miss Anderson is not very well; and I
think--I think it might be better for her not to see visitors."
"Visitors? I am not visitors. Be so good as to show me in."
Mrs. Austin reluctantly led the way to her sitting-room--a small one at
the back of the house--where Doris was reclining on an old-fashioned
sofa. She started up on perceiving Mr. Sinclair, and would have risen,
but he put her gently back again.
"Don't let me disturb you, I beg," he entreated. "I shall have to go
away if you don't lie still. And I want to see you very much," he
pleaded. "It is so long since I had that pleasure."
As of old, his strong will dominated hers, and she fell back against the
soft pillows Mrs. Austin had placed for her head, and looked at him in
silence. Her blue eyes seemed bigger than ever, and her complexion was
more clear and waxen; but her cheeks were too thin for beauty, and her
mouth drooped pathetically.
"My dear child, what have you been doing with yourself?" Norman's tone
was more fatherly than loverlike now: he took Doris's hands in his and
held them gently.
Overcome with emotion, and unable to command herself, she burst into
tears. What had she been doing? Much, much that he little suspected.
She had visited a pawn-broker's shop more than once, for the purpose of
raising money on articles of dress. That was because her earnings were
not sufficient for her maintenance; and then she disliked her work
exceedingly. There were all sorts of annoyances connected with it.
More than one irate householder, on learning that her visit was for
money owing, had treated her with rudeness and disrespect, shutting the
door in her face. She had also been affronted with coarse jests and
familiarities, which terrified and wounded her more than unkind words.
Sleepless nights and unsuccessful, ill-feel days combined to rob her of
health and strength, while uneasiness about Bernard's lengthened silence
and anxiety about ways and means harassed her mind continually.
They were alone in the little room, Mrs. Austin having returned
upstairs. Norman Sinclair's heart ached for the poor girl's distress,
although he by no means knew what occasioned it. He soothed and
comforted her as best he could, and then, bit by bit, as she became
calmer, drew from her the history of those last months since he had seen
her.
Doris could not keep anything back. Now, as ever, the strong will of
the man compelled her to reveal her very soul, with all its doings,
yearnings, and despair, even in regard to Bernard Cameron.
When all was told there was silence in the little room, save for the
ticking of the eight-day clock and the purring of the cat upon the
hearth. Doris had said everything there was to say: she could add
nothing, but only waited for the artist to speak. She looked at him to
see why he did not begin.
His head was averted, as if he were trying to conceal the emotion which
caused his strong features to work convulsively. Then he turned towards
her, and the love revealed in his eyes and in his whole expressive
countenance blinded and dazzled her.
Suddenly, with a swift movement, he took her hands, saying in tones full
of deep feeling, "You must come to me. You are totally unfitted to
contend with this wicked world. Will you not be my wife?" he pleaded.
"I am to be Bernard's," she faltered, releasing her hands with gentle
dignity.
Sinclair frowned a little. He did not think that Bernard Cameron loved
her; from what Alice had told him he was inclined to think the young man
was treating her rather badly.
"Are you quite sure that he loves you?" asked Norman Sinclair drily.
Doubts born of Bernard's long silence recurred to the girl's mind. If
he loved her, surely he would have written, in spite of his mother's
prohibition.
"I have given him time," persisted Norman, "but he has apparently
deserted you, whilst I am---- Oh, Doris, you little know how much I
love you! Will you not be my wife?"
"Oh, hush! Hush, please!" said Doris. "I am _so sorry_! You have been
such a dear, good friend--I have thought so much of your advice--you
know it was that mainly which caused me to give up my business, and
sink--sink into poverty."
"It was very brave of you to do it."
"I have thought so much of your advice," she repeated, "and have looked
up to you so much. Do not spoil it all."
His face fell. Where was his power over her. She seemed to be receding
from him.
"Doris," he urged, "will you marry me?"
"I cannot," she replied, very earnestly. "Indeed I cannot!"
"You cannot?" There was a great disappointment in his tone.
"I cannot," she repeated.
For a minute or two after she said that, the artist sat motionless and
silent. Then he began to speak rapidly and with deep feeling.
In a few well-chosen words he described graphically the loneliness and
hardship of his orphan boyhood, when Alice was a baby and therefore
unable to give him even sympathy; and then he spoke of the dawning of
ambition within him and of his boyhood's dreams that one day he would
become an artist worthy of the name, and went on to relate the story of
his striving to acquire the necessary skill and culture, and to mount
one by one the golden stairs. Tremendous difficulties had to be
overcome, indomitable, unfaltering resolution and untiring industry had
to be displayed by him: perseverance under many adverse circumstances
became almost his second nature, until at last, gradually, success came
nearer. Then he spoke of his hard work more recently, and of the
pictures he had painted that last year, two of which had now been
accepted and hung in the Royal Academy. Only quite incidentally did he
mention that he and Alice would have actually wanted bread sometimes if
it had not been for mysterious bank-notes arriving anonymously, labelled
"Conscience Money," which made him think they came from one or another
to whom he had formerly lent cash which could ill be spared. In
conclusion he said quietly, "However, thank God, all that is ended, for,
through the death of a rather distant relation, I have quite
unexpectedly inherited a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds. As
soon as I was absolutely certain that there was no mistake about the
matter, I said to myself, 'I will go to Doris. If she will share my
life and help me to do some good with the money, ah, then I shall be
happy.' So, Doris dear, I came."
The girl was silent. She was deeply touched. He came to her as soon as
the cloud of poverty had lifted and he was able to offer her a home and
plenty.
"You came to me," she faltered at length, without daring to lift her
eyes to his, lest he should see the tears which filled them--"you came
to me--a beggar girl--a pauper----"
"No," he said, "a brave, hard-working, honourable girl! Doris, you have
suffered, are suffering now; but by marrying me you will be lifted at
once out of all difficulties. Think, dear, how easy and pleasant your
life would be, and how useful, too, for you would help me to do much
good with our riches."
But Doris shook her head. She could not accept his offer.
Sinclair went away presently, disappointed for the time being, but
determined to try again. The next day he sent his sister to visit Doris,
and Alice brought her useful presents of chickens, jelly, cream, and
cakes.
"It's so delightful to be rich," she said. "You've no idea how pleasant
it is to be able to buy everything we want! Wouldn't you like to be
rich, too, Doris?" she asked.
"Yes," said Doris. "Yes, I should. I hate poverty. It is so
belittling--so sordid to have to think so much of ways and means! I
should like to forget what things cost, and accept everything as
unconsciously as we accept the air we breathe."
"And yet you won't be rich," said Alice, with meaning.
Doris coloured a little. "How can I?" she asked, "when there is
Bernard?"
"Perhaps he would like to be rich, too?" suggested Alice.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, _do_ you think it would be best for him to marry you, and plunge
both himself and you into poverty?" asked Alice.
"You talk as his mother did," sighed Doris.
"After all, there was commonsense in her view of the matter," persisted
Alice. "What is the use of two young people marrying, and living in
poverty ever after, when they may both be rich and happy if they will?"
"Riches and happiness do not always go together."
"I don't think poverty and happiness do," said Alice, curtly.
Doris felt a little shaken. Would it really be better for Bernard and
she to be true to each other, when their marriage would only mean
poverty and anxiety?
Norman came again that afternoon when Alice had gone.
"Doris," he said, when they were conversing in Mrs. Austin's back
parlour, "perhaps, as Cameron has been so long in writing, he may have
ceased to care for you."
"Perhaps so indeed!" rejoined Doris, with a sigh.
"Couldn't you ascertain whether it is so?" suggested the other.
"Yes--if he will answer me; but--I don't know how it is--I receive no
answer to my letters," faltered the girl.
"Is there no one else to whom you can write in Yorkshire--I mean, so
that you can get to know his feeling about you?"
"There's only Susan Gaunt, our old servant, I might write to her; but I
scarcely think that she can do anything, though she has known him since
he was a boy, and he is always nice to her, and talks to her quite
freely."
"Well, ask her about him. And write to him, too, once more, asking him
straight out if he has changed towards you."
"I think I will," said Doris. "It can do no harm."
She accordingly wrote that evening both to Susan and to Bernard.
The old servant answered immediately. Her letter was as follows:
"MY PRECIOUS MISS DORIS,
"At last you send me your address, and I hasten to write these few lines
to ask if you are well, as this doesn't leave me so at present.
"My heart is very bad, dearie, and the doctor says I may die quite
suddenly any time. Well, I've always liked that verse--
Sudden as thought is the death I would die--
I would suddenly lay these shackles by,
Nor feel a single pang at parting,
Or see the tear of sorrow starting,
Nor feel the hands of love that hold me,
Nor hear the trembling words that bless me;
So would I die,
Not slain, but caught up, as it were,
To meet my Captain in the air.
So would I die
All joy without a pang to cloud it;
All bliss without a pain to spoil it,
Even so, I long to go:
These parting hours how sad and slow!
But I would like to see you once more, my precious young lady, before I
go. I have cried about you often and often, and I always pray for you
day and night--I did so specially that first night when you went
away--that God would guard and protect you. And He did, didn't He, or
you would not now be writing to old Susan so peacefully?
"You ask about Mr. Bernard Cameron. Don't think any more of him, lovey.
I have heard on the best authority that he is going to marry a rich
young lady at Doncaster. It is his mother's doing, no doubt; she always
hankered after riches, and while he has been ill she has had him to talk
to morning, noon, and night--and this is the result. So don't think any
more of him, dear Miss Doris, but look out for a good, honourable
gentleman, and don't marry at all unless you find him.
"Please excuse bad writing--I know my spelling is all right, for I
always was a good speller--and accept my love and duty.
"Your faithful servant,
"SUSAN GAUNT."
There was no letter from Bernard; no letter, though Doris waited for it
many days.
It seemed clear, therefore, that he must be going to marry the young
lady at Doncaster, of whom Susan wrote; and that being so, and poverty
and starvation weighing heavily in the balance against prospective
wealth and every comfort that money can give, Doris yielded at length to
Sinclair's persistent urging, and consented to become his wife.
*CHAPTER XX.*
*THE WELCOME LEGACY.*
All things come round to him who will but wait.
_Tales of a Wayside Inn_.
"Late for breakfast again, Bernard! It's idle you are! Bone idle,
that's what it is!" Mrs. Cameron's tones were angry, and when angry
they were very shrill.
Bernard, who had entered the room languidly, did not hasten to reply,
but stood leaning wearily against the mantelpiece. His face was pale,
his eyes heavy and a little bloodshot; he looked unhappy and as if he
had passed a sleepless night, which, indeed, was the case; but he had
not spirit enough to plead that as an excuse for his lateness. Instead,
he glanced at the clock, murmuring that it was scarcely half-past eight.
"And late enough, too!" cried Mrs. Cameron, who was pouring out the
coffee as she spoke. "I told you breakfast would be at eight. You are
quite well now, and must get out of the lazy, lackadaisical habits of an
invalid."
"Yes, yes! All right." Bernard took his place at the table opposite
his mother, looking askance at the large plate of porridge set there for
him to eat.
"Your porridge will be half cold by this time," continued the scolding
voice.
"It is." Bernard just tasted it, and pushed the plate away. "I cannot
eat porridge yet," he said.
"You must try. Porridge made as Jane makes it, of good Scotch oatmeal,
is just what you want to put some life in you."
Bernard did not think so. He drank his coffee disconsolately.
His mother looked as if she would have liked to make him eat the
porridge, as she had done often in that very room when he was a little
pale-faced lad, with a small appetite and a strong will of his own. As
it was, however, she pushed a loaf of brown bread towards him, saying
that he could have some bread and butter, though it was poor stuff
compared with porridge.
"Are there no fresh eggs?" asked her son.
Mrs. Cameron reluctantly conceded that there were such things in the
house, and Bernard rang for them.
After that, the breakfast proceeded in silence for a time, and then
Bernard remarked that he hoped to get another situation as tutor, near
London, very soon. "I have written to one or two agents," he said. "I
want to get a private tutorship, if I can. It will be less disagreeable
than being an under-master in a school."
"Why do you want to be near London?" asked his mother, frowning.
Bernard did not answer. She knew very well that he wanted to be near
Doris Anderson, and he did not wish to discuss Doris with her. During
his illness, it had been one of his heaviest afflictions that he could
not escape from the sound of his mother's voice, as she railed against
Doris and her parents.
"Has the newspaper come?" he asked presently.
"Yes." Mrs. Cameron pointed to the local daily newspaper lying on the
sideboard; and, as her son rose to get it, she remarked: "I cannot think
why the postman has not come."
"Oh, he has. I took the letters from him at the door, as I was passing
it----"
"You did?" Mrs. Cameron looked annoyed. "How often have I requested you
to allow Jane to bring the letters into the room in a decent manner!"
she snapped.
"They were only for me. Surely a man is entitled to his own letters!"
"Whom were they from?" was the next sharp question, as his mother looked
keenly at him over her glasses.
"I really don't know. I simply glanced at them to see----" He stopped
short, not caring to say that, as there was not a letter from Doris, he
had not deemed the others worthy of immediate consideration. Thrusting
his hand into his pocket, he produced a couple of unopened letters.
"We will see what this one is," he remarked with an attempt at
cheerfulness, taking up a table knife and cutting open an envelope.
"Ha!" he exclaimed as he read. "Oh, mother! Oh, how good of Mr.
Hamilton! How good of him! What a boon!--what a great boon for us!"
"What is it? What do you mean?" exclaimed his mother, in great
excitement.
"Read it," he said, handing her the letter, and leaning back quite faint
and dizzy with surprise and gladness not unmingled with sorrow.
[Illustration: "'READ IT,' HE SAID, HANDING HER THE LETTER."]
Adjusting her glasses, his mother read the letter, which was from a
well-known firm of lawyers in Birmingham.
"DEAR SIR,
"We have to inform you that by the will of our late client, the Rev.
John Hamilton, you are bequeathed a legacy of five thousand pounds free
of legacy duty, as some compensation for the loss of your fortune, for
which our client always felt a little responsible, as, had he been a
more businesslike man, he might have prevented the defalcations of your
other trustee, Mr. Anderson, or at least he would not have left your
money so entirely in his hands.
"If you would kindly write and tell us how you would like to receive
your legacy--whether we should pay it into your bank, or directly to
yourself, you would oblige,
"Yours faithfully,
"MARK AND WATSON,
"Solicitors."
"Well," cried Mrs. Cameron, "I never was more surprised in my life, nor
more pleased!" she added. "And it was right, too, of Mr. Hamilton! I
told him about his being to blame, you know, for not looking after his
co-trustee--and I told him my mind about it; and he went away in anger.
But, you see, he has been thinking about my words, and he recognised the
justice of them----"
"Oh, mother, I wish you hadn't blamed him!" exclaimed Bernard.
"Wish I hadn't blamed him? How silly you are, Bernard! Why, it's to
that you are indebted for all this good fortune. If I hadn't stood up
for you and put his duty before him, you wouldn't have had anything."
"Did you suggest he should leave me money?" asked Bernard, aghast.
"I did that! I said it was his bounden duty to give you a thousand or
two."
"Mother! How could you?"
"Well, I could. It was for you I did it. What right had he to leave all
your money in that Anderson's hand? What right had he to sign
papers--as he confessed he did--at Anderson's request without reading
them? I told him he ought to have been ashamed of himself, and, in
fact, that he ought to give you half of all that he possessed--we all
knew he had a lot of money somewhere."
"Will it be wronging his relations if I take this legacy?" asked
Bernard.
"If you take it? Why, Bernard, how silly you are! You'll deserve to
starve if you don't take what the man has left you," cried his mother,
angrily.
"I won't take it--if any one else ought to have it," said Bernard.
"Simpleton!" muttered his mother. Then she added, "He hadn't a single
relation nearer than a second cousin, who is a rich brewer, so you may
make your mind quite easy about that."
Bernard felt much relieved. In that case he would not have any scruples
in accepting the legacy which his late trustee had left him, and how
welcome the money would be!
"My boy," cried his mother, with more kindliness, as she realised what a
blessing the money would be to them, "you can return to Oxford, obtain
your degree, and afterwards have a school of your own!"
Bernard smiled, as he mentally said good-bye to hard toil as an usher,
or assistant-master in another man's school. He would have one of his
own one day; but first there was something else of great importance for
him to do.
Later in the day, after he had written to the lawyers thanking them for
their communication, and asking them to be so kind as to pay the five
thousand pounds to his account in the London and County Bank, and after
he and his mother had discussed Mr. Hamilton's somewhat sudden decease
during an attack of pneumonia, he damped all her joy by declaring that
the first step he should take would be to go to London to Doris
Anderson, and the second would be to marry her forthwith.
"I think she will consent," he said, "as her only reason for refusing me
before was that the debt was not paid. Now I have only to go to her and
say, 'Doris, part of the debt is paid. I have come to marry you,' and
then she will consent--oh, yes, I know she will consent!" and his face
was bright with joy and thankfulness.
It was in vain that his mother vociferated and protested against his
marrying Doris, he would not listen to her any longer.
"It is of no use your talking about the matter, mother," he said; "I am
going to marry Doris, and no amount of talking will prevent me."
His mother was miserable; now less than ever did she desire Doris to be
her son's wife.
As she lay tossing about on her sleepless bed that night she almost
wished Bernard had not received his very substantial legacy, as he was
going to use some of it for such a purpose.
In the early morning she dressed hurriedly, purposing to speak to her
son on the subject before he started for Doncaster to catch the early
express for London.
Early as she was, however, Bernard had been earlier, for he had already
left the house when she came downstairs.
Mrs. Cameron hired a dogcart and ordered a man to drive her as fast as
possible to Doncaster Station.
But it happened that the dogcart collided with a waggon on the way. No
one was hurt, but there was some confusion and considerable delay, and
when at length Mrs. Cameron was able to walk into the station at
Doncaster, it was to catch sight of the express fast disappearing in the
distance.
"I have lost my son!" said the unhappy woman to herself. "He will never
speak to me again when he finds out about the letters I have suppressed.
He will hate me--yes, he will hate me for doing it." The thought
followed that she would deserve her fate, for if ever a parent provoked
her son to wrath she had done so.
*CHAPTER XXI.*
*BERNARD SEEKS DORIS.*
The course of true love never did run smooth.
SHAKESPEARE.
"Is Miss Anderson in?"
"No, sir. She doesn't live here now, sir," answered Mrs. Austin, in
melancholy tones.
"Not live here! Then where is she?" cried Bernard somewhat faintly, for
in his surprise and consternation at not finding Doris there a return of
the faintness that had before troubled him seemed imminent.
The good woman caught hold of him by the arm.
"Excuse me, Mr. Cameron, sir," she exclaimed. "You are ill. Come
inside, sir. Come inside the house."
Bernard shook her hand off, declaring he was all right; but he walked
unsteadily into the little sitting-room, where he had expected to find
Doris.
"Sit down, sir; I'll get you a glass of water or a cup of tea in a
moment----"
"Nonsense! I mean, I'm much obliged to you. But all I wish to know is
this, where is Miss Anderson? Where--is--Miss--Anderson?
"Oh, I'll tell you, sir, in a moment," answered Mrs. Austin, bustling
about and getting him some water. "Take a drink, sir," and she held the
glass to his lips.
He drank slowly. The room, which had been turning round and sinking
into the ground, became once more stationary, whilst the clouds of
darkness disappeared, and it was light again.
"There, you'll do now," said Mrs. Austin. "Miss Anderson told me that
you had been ill."
"Never mind me. Where is she?" Bernard asked the question impatiently.
Would the woman never answer him?
"There have been changes, sir, since you were here," said Mrs. Austin,
rather nervously, standing before him, twisting her apron round her
fingers, with her eyes fixed upon it. "It all came of the artist
gentleman. I wish to goodness he had never set his foot inside of my
door!"
"Do you mean Miss Sinclair's brother?" interrupted Bernard, taking alarm
at Norman Sinclair's influencing Doris's movements. He remembered
warning her against him in this very room, and telling her that if she
grew to care for him she would not love her Bernard any more.
"Yes, Mr. Sinclair. I begged her not to listen to him. But she did.
And he came again and again, until he had persuaded her to stop making
those pictures and give up her business, which was paying her so
grandly."
"Give up her business! Did you say he persuaded her to give up her
business? Did she do that?"
"Yes, sir, yes. Didn't she tell you? For, now I come to think of it,
she had done that before you were ill, when she went to see you at
Richmond."
"Had she taken such a step then? She never told me so. She never said
a word about it to me."
"Didn't she, sir? Then perhaps she thought you were too ill to be
bothered. She told me when she returned from Richmond that she had seen
you off by train for the north, hoping that your native air and your
mother's nursing would restore you. Not that it has done much for you,
sir, as far as I can see----"
"Never mind that. Tell me what Miss Anderson did next?" Bernard asked
anxiously.
"She told me that she sold what she had left of the pictures she had
finished, and all the materials she had bought in for others; and then,
having given up the business, she began seeking employment again,
answering advertisements, applying at shops, and all that sort of weary
work. It made my heart ache to see her come in at nights tired out,
pale, and worn--a lady like that, who ought only to have been fatigued
with cycling, or tennis, or amusing herself as other young ladies do!
'Perhaps I shall have more success to-morrow,' she would say to me, with
her patient smile. But months went by, and it was always the same,
until, at length, she came towards the end of her savings, and then she
began to economise and pinch herself of comforts, and--necessaries."
"You don't say so!" cried Bernard in consternation.
"I'm afraid you are ill, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Austin, seeing him turn
very pale.
"No, I'm all right. Go on," he said though his old faintness was
troubling him.
"Well, sir, the day came when Miss Anderson said to me very plainly that
she had no money left, or next to none, so she begged me to allow her to
give up her rooms and just have the garret to sleep in until she found
work that she could do."
"Why didn't she write to me?" cried Bernard.
"She hadn't much time for writing, sir, when she was all day seeking
work; and at nights she was too tired, too down-hearted. And I think,
sir, she kept looking for a letter, which didn't come, from you."
"From me? Why, I wrote to her almost every week when I was well enough,
until, latterly, having no answer, I became discouraged. But hurry on
with your story. Where is she now?"
"She had a letter from Miss Sinclair which made her very glad; and then
Miss Sinclair found her some work, about which she was very hopeful at
first; but it was difficult to do, I am sure, for she used to come home
quite fagged out, and it must have paid badly, for she had very little
money. 'I'm such a poor hand at it, Mrs. Austin!' she used to say. And
sometimes she used to add, 'My heart isn't hard enough for it.' Poor
dear! If it was a hard heart the work wanted, Miss Anderson was quite
the wrong lady for it. I've seen ladies who would 'skin a flint,' as
the saying is, but----"
"Never mind that!" interrupted Bernard with more impatience than
courtesy. "Tell me where Miss Anderson is?"
Mrs. Austin began again, for she would tell things in her own way. "She
fell into a poor state of health, and got a hacking cough, which
wouldn't be cured, though I made her linseed tea, and honey and lemon,
and----"
"Where is she? Speak! Tell me, is she alive?" For now Bernard's fear
caused him to leap to the conclusion that Doris must have died.
"Oh, dear, sir, she's alive, of course! Though she was in a bad state
at that time, and had a regular churchyard cough."
"Go on. You frighten me."
"I'm sorry, sir. Where was I? Oh, there came a day when she couldn't
go out. I made her lie on the sofa in my back parlour, and it just
happened that Mr. Sinclair called: he had been many times when she was
out, but that day he called when she was in. He had a very long talk
with Miss Anderson. And she was very much excited after he had gone.
She cried a good bit, and then, next day, his sister came to see her,
and afterwards he called again, and then Miss Anderson sat down and
wrote a letter to you, sir, and another one to an old servant in
Yorkshire, and she cried while she was writing them. I think those were
very important letters, sir, for she was very anxious that they should
be safely posted. I had to put on my bonnet and take them to the post
myself, for she would trust no one else. And then she waited so
anxiously for the answers, but only the old servant wrote. Oh, sir, why
didn't you write?"
"I received no letter from her. I have had none from her since the
first week after my return to Yorkshire."
"And I'm sure she wrote to you, sir, several times."
Bernard uttered an exclamation. It was clear to him that his mother
must have seized his letters and kept them from him.
"There was something in the old servant's letter," continued Mrs.
Austin, "which struck my dear young lady all of a heap and made her go
about like a stricken lamb, with her poor young face so white and drawn.
She did not cry then, sir. I only wished she would, for there was a
heart-broken look in her poor face. Then Miss Sinclair came, full of
affectionate concern, and she did her best to comfort Miss Anderson; but
in vain.
"'It's no use,' she said to me, 'I cannot make Doris cheer up. I shall
send my brother.'
"And then, the next thing was Mr. Sinclair came, and after he had gone,
Miss Anderson said to me, quiet-like, 'I'm not going to be poor any
longer, Mrs. Austin!' And then she went on to say, 'It will be better
for you, dear Mrs. Austin; I've only been a burden on you lately, and
now you will be well paid for all you have done for me---not that money
will ever repay you, my good, kind friend!' and, throwing her arms round
my neck, she kissed me more than once. 'I should have died if it hadn't
been for you,' she said. 'And now I am going to live and be Mr.
Sinclair's wife. He is rich now, and I have promised to marry him.'"
"To marry him!" Bernard exclaimed, starting up so violently that he
overturned a small table. "Did she say to marry him?"
"Yes, sir," Mrs. Austin answered, with great sympathy; "I'm sorry to say
she did."
"But she is _my_ promised wife!" cried Bernard, picking up the table and
beginning to pace up and down the room, in his agitation.
"Indeed, sir!" Mrs. Austin's round eyes opened widely in astonishment.
She had always understood that Mr. Cameron loved Doris, and indeed she
wondered who could help loving her! But it was altogether another thing
to hear that Doris had promised to marry Mr. Cameron.
"Where is she? I must speak to her--must hear from her own lips how it
was that she could do such a thing. Where is she?" cried Bernard.
"Wait a minute, please, sir," said Mrs. Austin. "I must tell you that
after the engagement was settled Miss Sinclair came the next day and
took Miss Anderson away. Miss Sinclair gave me her address,--Steele's
Road, Hampstead, and said that I was to forward all Miss Anderson's
letters there. Miss Sinclair also gave me a five-pound-note, and Miss
Anderson promised to come and see me, and settle up everything before
she got married. She begged me to pack up all her things, and take care
of them for her; but she said, too, that she would never be able to come
and live here again. 'No,' I said, 'you are going to be a grand lady,
and you'll forget all about poor Mrs. Austin!' But she said, 'No, no,
indeed!' and she cried, and kissed me. 'I'm not very happy,' she said,
and could say no more for weeping, especially as Miss Sinclair came up
to urge her to make haste, for the cab was waiting.
"Not very happy? I should think not indeed! Oh, Doris!" The last
words were said very low, as Bernard turned his head away for a few
moments.
"She looked miserable, sir. I'm thinking it was only for a home and
support that she was thinking of marriage."
"But she wouldn't sell herself for that!" exclaimed Bernard.
"And then it was such a grievous thing, sir, that you didn't write to
her. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. And very sick at heart my
poor dear young lady was, many and many a time, while she was looking
for the post bringing her a letter, in the days before she got engaged
to Mr. Sinclair."
"But I did write! I wrote many more letters than I received from her.
I never heard from her after the first week."
"Then there has been foul play, sir, somewhere! Letters have been
stopped, and have got into the wrong hands before to-day."
Bernard knew well who must have been the culprit. His mother had
wronged and sinned against him in a way which would be hard to forgive.
She had done all she possibly could to destroy his happiness in this
world. But he told himself that he must not waste time in thinking of
that just now; he would hasten to Doris and have a talk with her.
"Do you say she is at Hampstead?" he inquired, hastily.
"She went there with Miss Sinclair, but they are not there now, sir.
They have gone to the seaside somewhere, for the benefit of Miss
Anderson's health."
"Gone!" cried Bernard. "To the seaside! What seaside? Where?"
"I don't know, sir. They'll tell you at--Steele's Road, Hampstead."
"I'll go there at once. You've been a good friend to Miss Anderson.
Allow me," and he pressed a sovereign into the landlady's hand, and
hurried out of the house.
In the shortest possible time he was at Hampstead, inquiring at Steele's
Road for Miss Anderson's address. Mr. Sinclair happened to be
out--which Bernard thought was just as well for him; but the servant
being under the impression that his master was somewhere about the
house, Bernard was shown up into the studio. There, as he waited, he
perceived more than one painting in which Doris's fair sweet face was
beautifully delineated. The sight of it there, however, only maddened
her unhappy lover. What right had the fellow to make Doris's loveliness
so common? What right had he to possess the presentment of it there?
By the power of his strong will and helped by his riches he had
prevailed upon the lonely girl to promise him her hand in marriage. In
the absence of her own true lover he had stolen her from him. But a
Nemesis had come, was coming indeed; and when Doris saw her Bernard and
spoke with him, face to face, she would throw over the usurper, and
matters would be readjusted as happily, nay, more happily, than if this
engagement had not occurred.
"'For things can never go wholly wrong
If the heart be true and the love be strong'"--
quoted Bernard to himself, "and there shall be no mere engagement, but a
marriage shall take place forthwith. For, thank God! I am rich enough
now," he said to himself, "to be able to marry my Doris. Yes, all will
come right when I see her again."
A maidservant entered, bringing in an address on a slip of paper. "Mr.
Sinclair is out," she said, "but this is where we have to send all
letters that come, either for Miss Sinclair or Miss Anderson."
"Thank you," said Bernard, taking up the scrap of paper, and reading,
"The Queen's Hotel, Hastings," upon it.
"I will go there immediately," he said to himself, as he left the house.
"I will take the very first express train to Hastings." He hailed a
cab. "Drive me to Charing Cross," he ordered, "and drive your fastest."
*CHAPTER XXII*
*TOO LATE! TOO LATE!*
There is no disguise which can long conceal love when it does, or feign
it when it does not exist.--LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
"How strange it is to be rich!" cried Alice Sinclair, as she sat with
Doris in a shelter by the sea at Hastings. "It _is_ delightful!"
Doris smiled, but her smile only seemed to enhance the sadness in the
expression of her beautiful face, and she shivered slightly as she drew
a fur-lined cloak more closely round her. "This is different from
account-collecting," she said, looking at the fashionably dressed people
sauntering by, and then allowing her eyes to rest upon the beauty of the
sunlit waves before them.
"Yes, or making imitation oil-paintings either!" exclaimed Alice. "Who
would have thought to see us, now, that we were two poor girls toiling
in a London garret not long ago?"
"To feed a 'Lion' and pay a monstrous debt," said Doris, plaintively.
"And now our task is done," continued Alice, with cheerfulness. "The
Lion is fed, and is roaring loudly in the Royal Academy: moreover, he
has food enough for a lifetime. And as for you, your struggle with the
hard cold world is ended, dear," and as she spoke she laid her hand on
Doris's thin arm. "Are you not glad?" she asked a little wistfully, for
the sadness of her friend was a great trouble to her.
"I try to be," answered Doris.
"Try to be?" Alice raised her eyebrows.
"Yes. I have to try, you know, for I don't feel able to rejoice about
anything in these days." The tears came to Doris's eyes as she spoke,
and her lips trembled.
"Poor dear! That is because you are out of health----"
"Sometimes I wish it was out of life," interrupted Doris wearily. For
it was a dark hour with her, and, in her trouble in losing Bernard's
love and having promised to marry a man for whom she had no affection,
she had for the time being lost her usual happy faith in the golden
thread of her Heavenly Father's love.
"Oh, Doris!" Alice was shocked. Things were even worse than she had
feared.
"I cannot help it," returned Doris. "I am sad, and there is no denying
it. Whichever way I look I see nothing but sadness--sadness in the
past, in the present--and, God help me, in the future." Her tones were
miserable.
"In the future with Norman? Oh, Doris, you cannot _love_ him!" Alice's
tones were full of distress.
"At least, I am not deceiving him. He knows what my feelings are."
"Do you think he does--quite?" asked Alice, softly.
"Yes, quite. And he is content: he says the love will come in
time--that he will win it."
"I don't think he will," said Alice--they were talking in low tones
which others could not hear, as they had the shelter to
themselves--"love cannot be compelled. I don't know much about it
myself," she added candidly; "no man has ever wanted to marry me, and I
have never cared for any one so much as I care for Norman, but I have
read about love in books, and I know it cannot be forced. You do not
love Norman."
"Alice," protested Doris, "you ought not to say that!"
"Listen, dear," said Alice, "in your innermost heart you know that I am
right. I am only calling a spade a spade, and it isn't the least use to
make a pretence of calling it anything else. You do not love Norman.
Now, dear, hear me out, _you do not love him at all_. I was watching you
this morning when you received that letter from him, and you looked
infinitely bored. When he is over here you escape from his presence
whenever you can, especially if I am not with you. You say that he is
not being deceived, but does he realise what a wretched man he will be
if he marries you when you are feeling like that? He is full of love
and tenderness towards you, and you have not even the old liking for him
and interest in his talk and doings which you had at first. You can, in
fact, barely tolerate him now. Think, then, what it will be to have to
live with him for years and years, until you are old and die----"
"Hush, dear! Perhaps I shall die soon." There was a peculiar sound in
the poor girl's voice, and Alice, looking at her with searching eyes,
could see that her heart was breaking, and that she would indeed die
soon if she were not released from what was slowly killing her.
"The marriage must not take place," said Alice, firmly. "If not for
your own sake, you must stop it for Norman's. If _your_ heart is
breaking now, _his_ will break after marriage, when he finds that he has
only bought an empty shell without its kernel, a lovely woman without a
heart which can return his love, a wife without the wifely qualities he
craves. Poor old Norman! He deserves a better fate," and there was
indignation in her tones.
"Yes," said Doris, "it is true. He deserves a better fate."
They were silent for a few minutes after she had said that. The girls
sat watching the sunlit sea dotted here and there with boats of various
descriptions. They listened to the gentle lapping of the waves, the
shouts and laughter of the children paddling on the beach, and the
scraps of conversation from the passers-by. But mentally they were
seeing very different scenes, and they were hearing, too, other more
interesting words. Doris was thinking of Bernard, of the gradual growth
of their love for each other, and his proposal upon the hill at Askern
in Yorkshire, and, later on, his more mature declaration of love, in
Mrs. Austin's house in North London. Alice, on the other hand, was
thinking of her brother Norman, and of the pained expression of his face
when Doris too manifestly avoided a _tete-a-tete_ with him. If it were
so now, what would it be when they were married? What prospect of
happiness could there be for either of them?
"Look! See who is coming towards us!" exclaimed Doris, suddenly. Her
face had lighted up with a smile of singular beauty, and she was leaning
forward the better to discern the features of a tall young man hurrying
towards them through the promenaders on the front.
"Why, it is Mr. Cameron!" cried Alice, in great surprise. "What can he
want here?"
It was soon evident what he wanted, for he came straight up to Doris,
exclaiming, "Ah, you are here! How are you?" His eyes sought hers,
eagerly and with great wistfulness. "And how are you, Miss Sinclair," he
added, holding out his hand to Alice; but his eyes went back to Doris.
"They told me at 'The Queen's,'" he went on hurriedly, "that I should
find you here, so I came straight along, looking in at every shelter."
"We are very glad to see you," said Alice, rather gravely. Was it for
the best, she wondered, for her brother and Doris, that the latter's
first lover should return to claim her? She knew instinctively that it
was for that purpose this very resolute young man had come. Perhaps,
indeed, this would be the solution of the very unsatisfactory state of
things she had been grieving over.
Doris said nothing. She dared not bid Bernard welcome, but she could
not feign displeasure at his persistency in following her there: it was
impossible for her to simulate unconcern and coldness. She was glad to
see him, and to know, by his very presence and the way in which he came
to her, that she still possessed his love: a great weight was lifted
from her heart, and a glow as of returning happiness crept through her
frame, bringing the pretty colour into her cheeks, reddening her pale
lips, and brightening the eyes which had shed so many tears.
Alice, glancing at her, understood that Doris's happiness, perchance
even her life itself, might depend upon her interview with Bernard at
this fateful time. "He has her heart," thought Alice, "he may as well
have her altogether: for Doris without a heart would make poor Norman as
miserable as she would be herself." Therefore Alice said briskly:
"I am glad you have come up, Mr. Cameron, for I want to do some
shopping, and you can sit here with Miss Anderson whilst I am away. I
did not like leaving her alone, but now I can go. You will be all right
with Mr. Cameron, Doris, and I will return presently," and before they
could make any coherent reply, she had set off, walking briskly away
from the sea-front.
Bernard gave one grateful look after her, then he quickly turned to
Doris. "I may sit down," he said, "may I not? For I have much to say."
Doris bowed. She could not speak, for hope and happiness had come to
her, which she was vainly endeavouring to resist. Bernard was there,
she had him all to herself; might she not for one half-hour give herself
up to the happy present before she was made miserable for life?
"Have you anything to say to me first?" asked Bernard, gently. She
looked so frail that he determined to be very gentle with her, and he
said to himself that he could not really believe that she was engaged to
Norman Sinclair, unless she said it with her own lips.
Doris could not speak. She endeavoured to do so, but in vain. It did
not seem to her to be right to say what she wanted to tell him, and yet
she could not utter the words that duty demanded. Therefore she
remained silent.
"I have given her a chance to speak of her engagement to Sinclair, and
she has not availed herself of it; therefore I will not believe she is
engaged to him," said Bernard to himself; and then one of his hands
stole under Doris's fur cloak and clasped hers warmly, as he cried in
low yet earnest tones, "My darling, I have brought good news. I have
had a legacy left me in part payment of my lost money."
Doris uttered a cry of joy. "My father!" she exclaimed. "You have
heard from him! He has sent you money! Oh, thank God! Where is father?
Tell me quickly! And did he mention mother?" She spoke rapidly, in
intense eagerness.
Bernard was grieved to disappoint her; still, the truth had to be told,
so he said quickly, "The money was not from your father. Mr. Hamilton,
his co-trustee, has died and left me five thousand pounds in his will,
he said, as some compensation for my lost money. Immediately I knew it
I came to claim you, my dearest!" He drew the shrinking girl a little
nearer. "I always said," he continued--"I always said that you and no
other woman in the world should be my wife."
"I cannot! Oh, I cannot!" The words were only just audible, but
reached Bernard's ears at length.
"Cannot!" He looked at her with pained surprise. Being very sanguine
and also very young, he had already, in the last few minutes, almost
forgotten the unwelcome news of her having become engaged to Norman
Sinclair, which he had heard in London, and which had hurried him to
Hastings. "Cannot!" he repeated. "But you must, and you shall! I have
been too poor and too ill to claim you for some time. Now, however,
that that money has come to me, I have immediately hastened here, in
order to claim the fulfilment of your promise made to me upon the hill
at Askern Spa. Don't trifle with me, Doris," he added, with a little
choke in his manly voice. "I have been through so very much that I
cannot bear it."
"I have, too," she faltered. "God knows what I have been through."
"But that is ended," he said, quickly. "Thank God, that is all ended,
and I have come now to _claim your promise_?
"I cannot marry you--I cannot," she repeated.
"Why cannot you?" he demanded.
"Oh, Bernard, do not try to question me. Dear Bernard," she looked up at
him beseechingly, "be so very good as not to ask me that question. Take
my answer, dear, and go away."
"Go away! Doris, do you know what you are saying? I come to you in
order to claim you for my own, and you tell me to go away."
"Forgive me, dear," she said, weeping now and turning away her face so
that he might not see her tears. "Forgive me, dear, and go."
"I shall not. I cannot--I will not unless you say that you have ceased
to love me."
"I cannot say that, Bernard, for I love you," Doris answered, "and I
know that I shall never love any other man as I love you." Then she
tried to rise, as she ended miserably, "Nevertheless, _I cannot marry
you_."
"Sit still." He placed her on the seat again. "You say that you love
me, and yet persist in saying you cannot marry me. I must know how that
is. You must tell me, dear. I have a right to know."
Slowly the words dropped from Doris's lips, "I cannot marry you, because
I am engaged to Norman Sinclair."
"Engaged to Norman Sinclair?" Bernard repeated indignantly. "Then it is
true, that tale they told me in London. You--my promised wife--have
engaged yourself to marry that man!"
"Yes, it--is--true," again the words dropped falteringly from the poor
girl's lips. "But I could not help it, Bernard," she added, quickly. "I
could not help it--I was obliged. You see, you did not write. There
was nothing before me except starvation; and then Norman came to me with
his offer, and I was tempted. Oh, Bernard!" she exclaimed, "why did you
not write? I waited and waited for a letter so anxiously, especially
after I had told you about Mr. Sinclair's offer. Oh, you might have
written just one line!" She looked at him with reproach in her blue
eyes.
"My dear girl, I did not receive that letter, or any at all from you
after the first week of my return to Moss, although I wrote repeatedly.
Some one has suppressed our letters, Doris!"
"Cruel! Cruel!" cried the girl, instantly suspecting who it was. "But
how was it that, not hearing, you did not come to me in order to
ascertain the reason? It is such a long, long time since you returned
to Yorkshire, almost a year--and it seems more."
"I have been so ill," replied Bernard sadly, "and when I recovered from
my first illness, I caught chills and had bad relapses. I was not out
of the doctor's hands during nine months, and my mother nursed me so
devotedly. How could I suspect that at the same time she was grievously
injuring you and me?"
"And then there was another thing," complained poor Doris. "I wrote to
Susan, our old servant, you know, and asked her about you; whereupon she
replied that I was to think no more about you, as she had heard on good
authority that you were going to marry a young lady at Doncaster."
"Oh, but you couldn't believe that, Doris? Surely you had more faith in
my love!" exclaimed Bernard, reproachfully.
"What else could I believe when you never wrote and she said that?"
"Doris, I should not have believed it of you!" exclaimed Bernard,
stopping short, with a little frown, as he remembered that she had
become engaged to Norman Sinclair.
Doris looked up miserably. "Circumstances were too much for me," she
said, "and, forgive me--I thought that they had been too much for you."
"Did you think I was so weak?" cried Bernard--"so weak," he repeated,
"as not to be true to the only girl I have ever loved?"
"How was it," asked Doris, gently--"how was it that Susan could hear on
good authority that you were going to marry a Doncaster lady?"
"Well, if you must know," said Bernard, "my mother set her heart on the
match, and she was always having the girl over and trying to leave us
together, and taking her with us everywhere, and she must have spread it
about that we were engaged; so I daresay she told Susan the same thing."
"Which would account for Susan's saying that she had the news on good
authority," interposed Doris. "But tell me, was the girl rich? And did
you like her?" and she looked searchingly at Bernard.
"Yes, she was very well off," he admitted, "and she was nice enough; but
of course I did not love her, for I love you."
"It's very, _very_ sad," said Doris, the tears rising to her eyes as she
spoke. "But, dear Bernard, there is nothing to be done. It is too
late! Too late!"
"Oh, but it is not. You are not married yet. You will have to break
with Sinclair."
"I cannot. He is a good and honourable man, and he loves me. I cannot
break my promise and make him miserable."
"But your engagement was made upon false premises: you thought I was
faithless, and I was not. Everything must be explained to Sinclair, and
as a man of honour he will feel bound to release you."
Doris shook her head. "I cannot make him miserable," she said.
It was in vain Bernard argued and pleaded, he could get no concession at
all from the poor distracted girl, who simply repeated in different
words her one cry, "I cannot, dear, I cannot be your wife."
The young man became angry, at length, at her unreasonableness, as he
called it, declaring that she could not love him as much as he loved
her, or she would not see such great difficulties in the way of their
union; and when, upon his adding that he would see Mr. Sinclair and
thrash the matter out with him, she said that she could not consent to
that, he got quite out of patience with her, and, saying goodbye rather
coldly, went away towards the railway station, with the intention of
taking the next train for London.
*CHAPTER XXIII.*
*ALICE SINCLAIR'S INTERVENTION.*
It never could be kind, dear, to give a needless pain:
It never could be honest, dear, to sin for greed again,
And there could not be a world, dear, while God is true above,
When right and wrong are governed by any law but love.
_Anon_.
Bernard Cameron was hurrying along towards the station when he met Alice
Sinclair.
The girl looked immensely surprised to see him there, and immediately
exclaimed:
"What? You here, Mr. Cameron? Why, I left you in charge of Miss
Anderson until I returned. I was on my way back, now," she added.
"I am off by the next train to town," said Bernard, in very injured
tones. "I was a fool," he added, bitterly, "to come down here at all."
Alice read the lines of distress and disappointment written upon his
face, and was very patient with him.
"There isn't a train to London for at least an hour," she said, "and you
must not think of going until you have had some tea. Let us return to
Doris, and then we will go into the Creamery and have some tea."
"I must beg you to excuse me," said Bernard, stiffly. "I have taken
leave of Miss Anderson, and must now bid you good-bye." He held out his
hand as he spoke.
Alice perceived that he had been hard hit. "You must not leave me like
this," she said, gently. "Mr. Cameron, I thought you and I were
friends."
"So we are. You have always been good to me, but----" He stopped
short, and his eyes wandered in the direction of the station.
"It is no use thinking of starting to London yet. As I said, there is
no train for fully an hour. Tell me," she regarded him very
sympathisingly, "what is the matter? Have you and Doris quarrelled?"
Bernard looked at her kind sympathising face and his resolution wavered.
"Quarrelled is not the word," he said; adding, with an effort, "I should
like to tell you all about it, Miss Sinclair, if I might."
"I wish you would," said Alice, earnestly--it was one cause of her
influence with others that she was always in earnest. "Come and let us
walk up and down in Cambridge Gardens, where it is quiet. Then we can
have a long talk."
They turned into the less frequented street, and walked slowly along,
whilst in low, rapid tones Bernard told Alice all his trouble, and
especially the grievous fact that his and Doris's letters had been
suppressed and kept from them for many months, finally ending by
complaining bitterly of Doris's ultimatum.
"Doris must not marry your brother, Miss Sinclair." Bernard's tone was
as decided and masterful as the artist's as he concluded with these
words: "She must marry me. We loved each other long before your brother
ever saw her, and we love each other still--and shall until death."
It seemed to Alice, walking by Bernard's side and listening to his low,
earnest voice, that no power on earth would be able to separate him from
the girl he loved, and certainly Norman would not endeavour to do so.
Norman was a man of honour, and when he learnt how the two lovers had
been kept apart and separated by the wickedness of Mrs. Cameron, and
after everything was explained to him he would release Doris from her
engagement, no matter at what cost to himself.
Alice tried to say something of this sort to Bernard, but he scarcely
listened.
He was glad of her for a confidante, but did not want to hear her views
or listen to her advice, because in his own mind he had already solved
the problem. And first, his thoughts, as was natural, returned to
Doris, from whom he had parted in anger.
"All this time," he said, hastily, as if only then realising it, "Doris,
whom I left in anger, must be in distress. She must be suffering
intensely, for you know she is so very sensitive. I must therefore
return to her at once, and must encourage her to hope that all will yet
be well. If she will not throw Sinclair over----"
"Allow me to remark that you are speaking of _my brother_," interposed
Alice.
"I beg your pardon," said Bernard, in remorseful tones, as he looked at
the kind girl, whose colour had risen. "It was an awful shame for me to
speak like that, but----" He broke off, and began again, "I thought we
were agreed that she would have to give him up."
"That is not the way to put it," said Alice. "My brother, who is really
the soul of honour, will have to release Doris from her promise. He must
do it--and will, when he knows everything."
"Yes, of course. As I was saying, if Doris will not--I beg your pardon,
as she cannot in honour release herself, I shall go to Sinclair and tell
him that it will be most dishonourable of him if he does not release her
from her engagement----"
"That won't do!" exclaimed Alice; "that won't do at all. If you go to
Norman in that spirit you will soon be outside his door again. My
brother is a bit of a lion, you know, in more senses than one. He might
listen to any one speaking very courteously, but if a bear comes in and
tries to get his bone, oh! there _will_ be a pandemonium!"
"Well, he must be told----"
"I will tell him," said Alice. "I will go to London to-morrow, and will
see him and explain everything to him. It will not be a very pleasant
task--it will pain me very much to make my brother unhappy, but I will
do it for dear Doris and for you."
"It is very, _very_ good of you," said Bernard, gratefully, "to say that
you will go and explain everything to your brother. Perhaps you will be
able to do it in a nicer way than I could."
Alice smiled. She certainly thought that was possible. "Norman is very
good," she said. "I am sure he will release Doris, but it will be a
dreadful sorrow to him, for he loves her very much."
"I am sure of that. Though he shouldn't have come poaching in my
preserves!"
The last words were uttered so low that he did not intend Alice to hear
them. But the girl heard, and instantly retorted:
"You forget that was the fault of the person who kept back Doris's
letters and yours, causing her to think that you no longer loved her; so
that naturally both she and Norman concluded that she was free to marry
whom she pleased."
"Yes, of course. You are right. I beg your pardon for forgetting
that," said Bernard, penitently.
"Now we will return to Doris together, and after we have explained to
her how matters stand, we will go and have some tea at the Creamery in
Robertson Street. Afterwards----"
Alice paused, looking wistfully at him.
"I will keep out of her way until you return from London," Bernard said,
understanding that he ought not to proceed further until Norman had
freed Doris from her engagement to him.
*CHAPTER XXIV.*
*NORMAN SINCLAIR'S LETTER.*
Not only those above us on the height,
With love and praise and reverence I greet:
Not only those who walk in paths of light
With glad, untiring feet:
These, too, I reverence toiling up the slope,
And resting not upon their rugged way,
Who plant their feet on faith and cling to hope,
And climb as best they may.
And even these I praise, who, being weak,
Were led by folly into deep disgrace:
Now striving on a pathway rough and bleak,
To gain a higher place.
* * * * *
Oh! struggling souls, be brave and full of cheer,
Nor let your holy purpose swerve, or break!
The way grows smoother and the light more clear
At every step you take.
Lo! in the upward path God's boundless love
Supports you evermore upon your way:
You cannot fail to reach the heights above
Who climb as best you may!
EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD.
Doris sat alone in the shelter, after Bernard had left her, in a state
of unhappiness so great that she could not even weep.
"All is over between us," she sighed, "and Bernard has gone away in
anger. How wretched it is! Nothing could be more wretched! Nothing!
I am the most unfortunate girl in all the world!" And she sat with her
pale face turned towards the sunlit waves, watching them and yet in
reality seeing nothing except her own utter misery. What had become of
all her prayers, she wondered--the prayers which she had poured out to
her Heavenly Father from a sorrow-laden heart?
He had saved her from starvation, and placed her in a position of great
temporal prosperity; yes, but what about her previous many, many prayers
for Bernard, for their mutual reconciliation and union when a part at
least of the debt was paid, and for the happy and useful married life
which they had once planned together on the hill at Askern, and for
which she had so often longed and prayed?
"I have done my best," thought Doris, "and have tried to serve God all
the while. The thought of Him was ever in my heart, and I gave up my
prosperous little business--all that I had--in obedience to His Voice,
speaking to me through Norman's words and my own conceptions of what I
ought to do. I cast my all into His treasury: and all the time--every
day--I prayed for Bernard--and for our future together--until--until I
was led by circumstances to believe that he did not love me. And since
then--since then everything has gone wrong, and I seem to have lost hope
and faith in God and man."
She was in despair. It was the darkest hour of all her sorrowful young
life, and she could see no gleam of light in any direction.
How long she sat thus she never knew, but it seemed an immense time
before she heard the cheerful voice of Alice behind her saying brightly,
"Doris! Doris darling, we have brought you good news!"
"There is no good news for me," answered Doris, without turning her
head, and the two who loved her were aghast at the hopelessness of her
tones.
"Doris!" exclaimed Bernard, "I have returned, in order to bring you the
glad news that there is hope for us, and help, for Miss Sinclair is
going to be our good angel and is going to save the situation."
"How? What? I don't understand," said Doris, turning to look at them
in relief and surprise. "Do explain, please," she added, tremulously,
feeling quite unable to bear any more suspense.
Sitting down beside her, they hastened to tell everything, and then to
combat her conscientious objections to Alice's proposed arbitration, as
it seemed to her, at first, that it was scarcely right for Alice to
persuade her brother to release his _fiancee_.
"I shall not persuade him," replied Alice, "I shall simply tell him the
facts of the case, and leave him to act as it seems right to him. But I
will tell you this, Doris," she added, "I know dear old Norman will at
once release you from your engagement."
Then Alice carried them off to the Creamery, and, after they had
partaken of a charming little tea, she invited Bernard to meet her at
the Warrior Square Station at five o'clock on the following day, when
she expected to be back from London, in order that she might tell him
first what her brother decided. When that matter was settled to every
one's satisfaction, Bernard took leave of the girls and went away, to
pass the time as best he could until Norman Sinclair's ultimatum was
received.
* * * * *
The following evening, as Doris sat in one of the large balconies of the
Queen's Hotel, enjoying the fine air, the pleasing sea view, and most of
all the delightful hope that all might yet be well, Alice, who had been
to London, and Bernard, who had met her at the station, came to her
there.
"All is well," said Alice, "as I knew it would be. Doris," she took the
girl's thin hand in hers, and placed it gently within Bernard's, "Norman
has sent you your freedom. You can marry Bernard now as soon as you
like, and Norman hopes you will be very happy. He has sent you a letter,
dear," she said in conclusion, putting one into Doris's hand.
Doris swayed in her chair. She could not even see the letter for the
tears which filled her eyes.
Alice, too, began to cry, and Bernard had to clear his voice two or
three times before he could speak.
"I am afraid I was a little rough on your brother, Miss Sinclair," he
said at length. "He is indeed a man of honour. I am sure I beg to
withdraw all that I have said against him, and to apologise for my hot
words. I hope that you will tell him how grateful we are when you see
him."
"I'm afraid I shall not see him for a very long time," answered Alice;
"he is going abroad alone." She looked deeply pained. "He wishes me to
stay with Doris and see after her getting married." She said the last
words more cheerfully, for, being a woman, the idea of a wedding was
pleasant.
"There won't be much to see about in my wedding," said Doris, with a
smile, "for I shall have to do without a trousseau and without a good
many things, because I am not taking Bernard any money. You will have a
poor bride, Bernard."
"I shall not! You will be the very best bride that ever a man could
have!" he cried, rapturously.
Then Alice went away, and left them together. Later on in the evening,
when Doris was alone, she opened Norman's letter, which was as follows:
"DEAR DORIS,
"I give you back your promise to marry me. I am sorry for the mistakes
which have been made and the suffering through which you have passed,
and trust that your future life with Mr. Cameron may be all joy and
gladness.
"You will, I am sure, do me the justice to believe that had I known he
was true to you I should not have tried to induce you to become engaged
to me, however much I loved and esteemed you.
"Yours very faithfully,
"NORMAN SINCLAIR."
Doris shed tears over the letter, for she knew that, reticent though the
writer was about his own feelings, she must have made him exceedingly
unhappy.
And when Doris thanked God that night before she slept that He had heard
her prayers, and that He had mercifully given her her heart's desire,
she prayed, also, for Norman Sinclair that he might be comforted and
blessed exceedingly.
*CHAPTER XXV.*
*A HAPPY WEDDING.*
Never to part till angels call us home.
_Song_, "_Golden Love_."
The span of life's not long enough,
Nor deep enough the sea,
Nor broad enough this weary world
To part my love from me.
_Anon_.
So they were wed, and merrily rang the bells,
Merrily rang the bells when they were wed.
LONGFELLOW.
"After all, Doris," said Alice, the next morning, "you will have a
trousseau, and a very pretty one, too. For I am going to buy it for
you. Yes, indeed, it is to be my wedding present."
"I don't know how to thank you," said Doris.
"Then don't try. Pay me the compliment of accepting what I have much
pleasure in giving."
Doris rose, and, throwing her arms round her friend's neck, gave her a
hug.
"How soon do you intend to be married?" asked Alice, presently.
"In three weeks. There is no reason for delay."
"Of course not. The sooner the better. Where shall you be married?"
asked Alice, a shadow falling across her face at the thought that she
could scarcely take her friend home to be married from Norman's house.
"Oh, here, in this dear place, where my happiness has come to me!" said
Doris.
"Here? At Hastings? From this hotel?"
"Yes, why not? I am sure the Vicar of All Saints, whose church I have
attended, will marry us."
"Oh, I don't doubt that! Yes, of course you shall be married here."
"There's only one thing," said Doris. "The Austins are not here. And I
must have dear Mrs. Austin, and her good son Sam, at my wedding."
"Send for them all," interposed Bernard, entering the room and
overhearing her last remark. He had been for a bathe, and was looking
well and happy. There is no greater restorative for body and mind than
happiness.
"Send for them?" said Doris. "Oh, but I don't think they will come if
we send for them. I think I shall have to go and see Mrs. Austin, and
arrange with her about their coming down."
"You're not strong enough to take all that trouble," said Bernard. "It
will take you all your time until our wedding-day"--he spoke with joy
and pride--"to recover sufficiently for it and for our little tour
afterwards."
"We'll not go far," said Doris. "Why should we go far," she laughed
happily, "when we have found each other?"
"Why indeed? Supposing we go to the Isle of Wight, will that do?"
"Yes, charmingly. I have never been there. But, Bernard, I must go to
see dear old Mrs. Austin and invite her to the wedding."
"Cannot you write to her?"
"No, a letter will not do. Think how good she was to me when I was
penniless and a stranger in London! Can I ever forget how she received
me into her house, and trusted me to repay her as I could? And then she
gave me her late son's painting materials, and tried to make me believe
I should succeed as an artist,--and, afterwards, when that had failed,
she comforted and encouraged me, and got her nephew to find me work,
and, later, interested Alice in employing me; and then afterwards, when
I gave up the business and became poor again, she stood by me, trusting
and caring for me more lovingly than ever. Bernard, if there is one
friend in all the world whom we ought to value and esteem next to the
Sinclairs it is Mrs. Austin, and, next to her is Sam Austin, the
cabman."
"What did he do?" asked Bernard, though indeed he partly knew.
"He saved me from despair that first night, when, on coming to London by
the night train, I found my godmother, Miss Earnshaw, had died, and that
I was alone in the great metropolis, with only a few shillings in my
pocket, and no claim upon any one in all the vast city. He took me to
his mother, and persuaded her to receive me into her house; and then,
afterwards, when I had made my first little water-colour sketches, he
drove me round to the dealers in his cab, and would take no payment
then, nor afterwards, until I was earning a lot of money, and then
compelled him to do so."
"He shall come to our wedding, too," said Bernard. "They shall both be
our honoured guests."
"Oh, thank you! Thank you!"
"And I'll tell you what we will do, darling. We will give them a
wedding-present, yes, we will!"
"Oh, thank you!"
"Nay, you must not thank me, dear! It is you who will invite the
wedding guests, that is always the prerogative of the bride. I will pay
their expenses, if you will allow me."
"Thank you, I will," said Doris, gladly.
"Shall we go up to town to invite her?" said Bernard, tentatively.
"I should like to do so," said Doris.
"But----"
"Wouldn't it be too tiring for you?" said Alice. "Otherwise," she
added, "I should like to go up to shop with you in Bond Street."
"And I," said Bernard, "should like to go over to Richmond on business.
The fact is, I have heard that the school in which I used to work is for
sale, and I rather think of buying it. When I was a poor assistant
there I used to think what a future it might have if it were more
efficiently managed. How would you like to live on Richmond Hill,
Doris?"
"Near the Terrace, with the loveliest view of the Thames to be seen
anywhere! Oh, Bernard, how charming that would be!"
"Well, I'll go and look after the school, if you like; and if you come,
too, we can see the Austins while we are in town and invite them to our
wedding."
In about a week Doris was strong enough for this arrangement to be
carried out. She and Bernard, accompanied by Alice as far as Victoria,
where they separated, went to London for the day, and after going to
Richmond, where negotiations were commenced for the purchase of
Bernard's former school and the head master's house, they went on to
King's Cross in order to see Mrs. Austin.
The good woman was delighted to see them together, apparently on such
intimate terms.
"Miss Doris!" she cried. "And Mr. Cameron! And both looking so happy!
So very happy," she repeated. "Don't tell me anything, I know it all.
There'll be a wedding. I saw it in the fire last night. Come in. Come
in."
They followed her into her little room, which seemed to Doris to be
smaller and dingier than ever after the great rooms to which she was
accustomed.
"Oh, Mrs. Austin, I am so happy!" she cried.
"It's Mr. Right this time, and no mistake!" exclaimed the good woman.
"Between you and me, miss," she added aside, "I didn't want you to marry
that other gentleman. Miss Sinclair was a dear, sweet lady, but the
brother was so upsetting!"
"He has been very, very kind to me," said Doris, "and to Mr. Cameron,
too. He has been a very good friend to us."
"Has he, miss? Well, I'm glad to hear it, but----" she broke off, and
began again, "Give me Mr. Cameron, for a fine, pleasant-speaking,
right-living gentleman!" she declared.
Doris laughed, and her eyes rested on Bernard with loving pride. "Do
you know, Mrs. Austin," she said, "I was engaged to him before I came to
London at all--only unfortunately our engagement had been cruelly broken
off."
"Indeed, miss! Ah, I could see you were in deep sorrow when you came to
me. If you had seen her then, Mr. Cameron," and she turned to Bernard,
"you would have been sorry. She was that white, and there was such a
stricken look upon her poor, dear face. And yet, for all she was in such
trouble, she did me good; so that I thanked God for sending her here."
"She does me good, too," said Bernard. "That's why I love her."
"Ah, he's one of the right sort!" exclaimed Mrs. Austin to Doris.
"Yes, _I_ think so," said Doris, laughing merrily.
Mrs. Austin looked wonderingly at her.
"I never heard you laugh like that before, Miss Anderson," she
exclaimed.
Presently the widow's two visitors sat at tea in the little parlour.
"And how are you getting on, Mrs. Austin?" asked Doris, presently. "You
say so little about yourself."
"Well, miss, this is such a joyful occasion I don't like to spoil
it----"
"Oh, then, I'm afraid you are not doing well?" said Doris,
sympathisingly.
Tears came into the widow's eyes; but she dashed them off with a corner
of her apron, and tried to smile, as she answered, "I have a lodger in
my front rooms, and a young shop-girl rents my attic; but--but----" and
she broke down, weeping bitterly.
Doris and Bernard tried to comfort her, and at length ascertained, with
some difficulty, that the cause of her distress was that her landlord
had given her notice to leave the house.
"And I've lived in it all my life," she said. "I was born in it and
brought up here: my dear mother lived with me here till she died, and
when my husband made me an offer of marriage I said, 'Yes, if you'll
come and live in my dear home.' And he did, and was so good to my
mother--as good as good could be--always taking off his boots before he
went upstairs on the stair carpets, and always lighting the kitchen-fire
and making me a cup of tea before he went to his work, till he fell ill
of his last illness. He died in the front sitting-room. I had the bed
brought down there for him. And there was my Silas, he was born in my
front bedroom; and he used to paint his lovely pictures, as you know,
miss, in the attic; and he lay down and died, as sweet and calmly as a
child, in the back bedroom, 'Going Home,' he said, 'to the Great Artist,
Who will put in the finishing touches to the work that He has made.' I
couldn't bear to leave this house, with all its memories! It will kill
me--I know it will! And my Sam feels almost as bad. 'I shall never
drive down this road, mother,' he says, 'when the old home isn't
yours.'" Mrs. Austin stopped at last for want of breath.
"But why does the landlord want to turn you out?" asked Bernard. "You
must be such good tenants."
"Mrs. Austin is," said Doris. "She pays her rent regularly."
"Yes, miss. I've always paid it to the day, though I have been rather
hard put to sometimes, when my lodgers haven't paid up. It's not for
want of the rent that the landlord gives notice. It's because he's
selling a lot of his houses to a man who wants them for his own
workpeople, and therefore must have them emptied." The widow's tears
flowed again.
"Don't cry, Mrs. Austin dear!" said Doris, rising and putting her arms
round the good woman's neck, while she kissed her kind old face.
"You shall not be turned out," said Bernard; "I will see your landlord,
and buy the house, if I can. Then you shall not be turned out."
"But, sir, it will cost you a lot!"
"It will be an investment, and I shall have a good tenant. You know,
Doris," he added, turning to her, "I must not put all the money into the
school."
Having asked the landlord's name and address, Bernard left Doris resting
in Mrs. Austin's sitting-room, and departed to transact the business,
which he was able to do satisfactorily, as the landlord happened to be
in a hurry to sell.
"I have bought the house for three hundred and fifty pounds," Bernard
announced, on his return to Doris. "You tell Mrs. Austin, dear," he
added.
So it was Doris who had the pleasure of telling the good woman that Mr.
Cameron had bought her house, and so she would be able to remain in it
as long as she lived.
"Thank God! Thank God! That is all I want. And you shall have your
rent regularly, sir," said the widow.
"You shall never be asked for it," said Bernard. "When you have the
money to spare you can pay it, and when you have not any to hand over,
nothing shall be said."
"You are too good, sir," began Mrs. Austin. But Doris interrupted:
"He is only treating you as you treated me," she said. "When I could
not pay you, dear Mrs. Austin, you always let it pass over, and forgave
me the debt."
"But you have paid everything now, miss." (Through the Sinclairs'
kindness Doris had been able to do this.)
"I can never repay you for all your exceeding kindness," cried the girl;
adding, "And I am delighted that we can enable you to remain in your
comfortable home."
Mrs. Austin was overjoyed. She shed tears again, not for sorrow now,
but for joy. "How little I knew when I took you in, Miss Anderson," she
said, "that I should be entertaining an angel unawares!"
Then Doris asked Mrs. Austin if she would come to Hastings with her son,
in order to be present at the wedding, and this the widow joyfully
consented to do, saying:
"I would go further than that, miss, to see you married, and so would my
Sam. We'll come to your wedding, if we have to walk every inch of the
way."
"That's right," said Bernard; "that's the right spirit! But you will
have to allow me to pay your fare, for you might not arrive in time if
you walk the sixty miles or so to Hastings, and I shall be only too
pleased to pay your fare."
Doris wanted to see Sam, but he was away with his cab, and therefore she
could only leave a message for him.
She was exceedingly happy as she returned to Hastings with Bernard in a
luxurious corridor-train--so happy, indeed, that she felt at peace with
all the world, and therefore ventured to suggest:
"Couldn't we have your mother to our wedding, too, Bernard?"
The young man's face darkened, and his voice shook as he answered, "No,
I think not. I--I _could_ not."
"We shall have to forgive her, dear," pleaded Doris.
"Yes--in time. You must give me time, dear." Bernard was silent for
several minutes after that, and then he said abruptly, "We will go to
see her after we are married."
"Yes, dear," acquiesced Doris; "I should like that."
The day came quickly which was to make them man and wife.
Theirs was a pretty wedding, although the wedding guests were only two,
and they were not of the same rank in life as the handsome bridegroom
and the beautiful bride, supported by her friends, and bridesmaid,
dressed like herself in costly silk and lace. Doris was in white, and
Alice in creamy yellow, whilst Bernard, of course, was in immaculate
attire, his good-looking young face lit up with love and joy and
thankfulness to God.
"Bless them! God bless them!" exclaimed good Mrs. Austin as the young
couple left the vestry, where Doris had signed her maiden name for the
last time.
"Amen," said Sam, "and may they live long happy years!"
Sam had only one regret about the wedding, and that was that he could
not bring his cab down to be used on the occasion. "I should like to
have driven them to church in it," he confided to his mother. "It would
have been a sort of finish to the two rides I gave Miss Anderson in it.
First when I drove her to Earl's Court Square, and then home to you when
she was in such distress, and afterwards when I drove her round to see
those skin-flinty old picture-dealers about selling her pictures."
But now the bride and bridegroom had to be met, congratulated, and
wished all sorts of happiness.
"Thank you! Thank you!" said Doris, shaking hands with Sam, and lifting
up her glad young face to kiss his mother, while Bernard shook hands
warmly with them both, thanking them for himself and his bride.
Later in the day Alice drove with Bernard and Doris to the station to
see them off in the train for Portsmouth, as they were going to the Isle
of Wight for their honeymoon.
Doris clung to her a little at the last. "I don't know how to thank
you, Alice," she said; "you have been like a dear sister to me."
[Illustration: "DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST. 'YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A
DEAR SISTER TO ME.'"]
"I don't want thanking," protested Alice.
"But you will feel so lonely, dear, when we have gone."
"Never mind me," said Alice; "you know to-morrow I shall start for
Switzerland, in order to join my brother there, and then there will be
no more loneliness for me."
"You will Give him our kindest remembrances, Miss Sinclair," said
Bernard, earnestly.
"If I can I will--that is, if he speaks of you."
The train began to move off, and there was no time to talk any more.
"Good-bye--good-bye, dear," cried the travellers, and then--Alice
Sinclair was left alone upon the platform.
*CHAPTER XXVI.*
*TWO MONTHS LATER.*
Time and the hour run through the longest day.
SHAKESPEARE.
Mrs. Cameron was a miserable woman. Poor, unhappy, and remorseful, she
sat alone in her solitary house--even her one maidservant had left
her--thinking dismally of her sad past, mournful present, and hopeless
future. On her lap was her son's letter of two months before, the only
one he had sent her since he left home to go in search of Doris, and she
thought that it would probably be the last one she would ever receive
from him.
"I know all that you have done," he wrote, "to destroy my happiness and
that of my beloved Doris, and the means by which you sought to separate
us for ever in this world, and I write to inform you that your schemes
and machinations have failed; for we are engaged to be married, and,
there being no longer any obstacle to prevent it, the marriage will take
place on the 20th of this month.
"That, I think, is all I need say now, or at any time, to one who has
done her utmost to alienate me for life from the one I loved.
"I remain, Mother,
"Your much-wronged Son,
"BERNARD CAMERON."
"A nice letter for a mother to receive!" grumbled the widow. "Yet I
know that I deserve it," she added mentally. "I've been too hard--too
hard on him, and too hard on other people. If I hadn't been so
quarrelsome with my husband, he would not have left most of his money to
Bernard, and that wretch John Anderson would not have had the chance of
stealing it all. And if I hadn't been so hard on Bernard and on Doris
Anderson, I should have retained my boy's love, which would have been
better than nothing." She sniffed and passed the back of her bony hand
across her tearless eyes. "Yes, it would have been better than nothing,
and I might have come in for a bit of his money now he is richer; but,
as it is, I've got nothing, neither money, nor love, nor anything at
all!"
She looked dismally at the dusk stealing across the room with its
threadbare carpet and faded chairs and curtains. There was no servant
to come in and light the gas and close the blinds. She was all alone,
and so hopeless that she did not care whether the gas was lighted or
not. "What matter if it is dark, so long as I have nothing to do but
think!" she said to herself, dismally. "They'll have had their
honeymoon now, and perhaps will be getting settled in their new home. I
wonder where it is? To think that I shouldn't know where my son is
going to live! I never thought Bernard would turn against me; and
yet--and yet I deserve it, for mine was a crooked policy, directed
against all his wishes and ignoring his rights. I told myself I was
doing it for him, for his best interests; but really I was doing it more
for myself, that he might become rich and be in a position to give his
mother a good home; and out of spite, too, against those Andersons, and
a determination that Doris should not have him." She paused, listening.
Some street singers were wailing forth the hymn, "O God, our help in
ages past!" before the house; but the woman, who had found no help in
God, because she had never sought it, was only angered by the sound.
Rising and going to the window, she made emphatic signs to the man and
woman--the latter with a child in her arms and another clinging to her
skirts--to pass on; but they either could not see her in the deepening
dusk or would not be persuaded to go away, for they continued singing
even more loudly than before.
"Well, I shall not give them anything!" declared Mrs. Cameron,
relinquishing the attempt to stop them and returning to her chair by the
fireless hearth. "What right have they to come disturbing folks in this
way?"
Again she sank into gloomy, miserable reflections, while the darkness
increased about her.
The door-bell rang; but she paid no attention to it, thinking that it
was only the singers wanting alms. "They may want!" she said to herself
grimly. "Other folks want what they can't get, too!"
Once more the bell rang, and yet a third time, and even a fourth; but
still Mrs. Cameron remained firm in her determination not to speak to
the intruders.
"I'm a hard woman," she said to herself; "aye, and I'll be hard. I'm
too old to change now, and nobody cares, nobody cares what I'm like or
what I do. If any one cared ever such a little bit, I might be
different; but nobody cares, least of all God; He's shut me out of His
good books long ago. I shall never get to His Heaven, never! Even if
He let me into His Heaven, I shouldn't be happy psalm-singing, and
praising Him, and living in His presence. Not I! I don't care at all
for Him, and that's truth. And if, as some say, in heaven the angels
are always ministering to others and doing deeds of kindness, that work
wouldn't suit me. Not it!" She laughed shrilly, as if in derision of
the idea; and the darkness deepened around her. "I don't care an atom
for other people. Not I!" she went on, and again her weird, unholy
laugh rang through the room.
Its echoes reached a young man and woman who stood at the door,
hesitating before ringing the bell again, and caused them both to
shiver.
"Nobody cares for me, and I care for nobody!" soliloquised Mrs. Cameron.
"If any one cared ever so little, it would be different. Oh, dear!
What's that?"
An exceedingly loud rapping at the street door made her start up,
exclaiming angrily, "Those tramps again!"
She bounced out of the room and across the little hall to the door,
opening it somewhat gingerly, and crying out the while in her sharpest
tones, "I've nothing for you! Get away! Go!" Then she attempted to
shut the door, but a strong hand held, it so firmly that she could not
close it, whilst a voice spoke, which she was unable to hear for her own
clamour.
"If you don't be off I'll prosecute you!" she cried, menacingly.
"Mother! It is I, Bernard! Let me in."
The words reached her ears at last, penetrating even to her starved and
icy heart.
"Bernard!" She fell back a pace, and the door flew open, revealing her
son and a lady by his side. The street light fell upon the two, and
also upon the pale, astonished face of the unhappy woman they had come
to see.
"Bernard!"
"Mother!" He put his arms round her neck, in his old boyish way,
forgetting everything except that she was his mother, who was looking
miserable, whilst he had come to her in his joy, with his dear young
wife by his side.
"If any one cared ever so little, it would be different," she had said
to herself. Well, here was Bernard, and he cared for her, in spite of
everything, and--_it was different_.
"My son! My son! Forgive me," she said, clinging to him, her tears
falling on his manly face and neck, as he kissed her tenderly.
"All right, mother! The past is past," he whispered. "I want you to
welcome Doris," he added low in her ear. "She is my wife now."
Mrs. Cameron turned to Doris, holding out her hand, but the young wife
raised her face, and she had to kiss her, too.
Then they went in, closing the street door after them; and Bernard,
striking a light, lit up every gas-burner he could find about the place;
so that the darkness was gone, and it was light, very light.
*CHAPTER XXVII.*
*RESTITUTION.*
Does any one know what's in your heart and mine,
The sorrow and song,
The demon of sin and the angel divine,
The right and the wrong:
The dread of the darkness, the love of the day,
The ebb and the flow
Of hope and of doubt for ever and aye,
Does any one know?
NIXON WATERMAN.
He wins at last who puts his trust
In loving words and actions just.
* * * * *
On every action blazon bright,
"For toil, and truth, and love, we fight."
T. S. COLLIER.
An hour later, after they had partaken of a substantial tea-supper, the
principal constituents of which Bernard fetched from the village shops,
with boyish glee, renewing his acquaintance with the shop-keepers quite
merrily, Mrs. Cameron and her son and daughter-in-law sat round the fire
Doris had lighted, talking about the future.
Bernard had placed the school at Richmond (of which he had now completed
the purchase) in good hands, and he and Doris were going to live in
rooms at Oxford until he had obtained his degree, when they would at
once proceed to their new home in Richmond.
"We want you to come and live with us, mother," said Bernard; "or if you
would prefer not to live with us, at least to occupy rooms near us, so
that we may often look in upon you, to prevent your feeling lonely."
"Do you wish that, too, Doris?" asked her mother-in-law, quite timidly.
"Yes, indeed I do," said Doris, heartily. In her great happiness it was
impossible for her to cherish any resentment against Bernard's mother.
Mrs. Cameron looked red and confused. Their love made a difference, yes,
a very great difference in her feelings. But she shook her head,
saying, "You will be better without me. Far better. I will remain here.
You can come and see me sometimes, and you must remain here a few days
now. I'm afraid we are rather desolate here in the house, but I'll have
a charwoman in to-morrow, and we'll try to make the place comfortable."
"The house ails nothing," said Bernard, "for it is home."
"Yes," remarked Doris, brightly, "and you know, 'East or West, home is
best.'"
Mrs. Cameron thought remorsefully that she had made only a poor home for
Bernard in the last year or two, since he lost his money.
But he appeared to forget all about that, as he merrily assisted her and
Doris to arrange a room for their accommodation that night--in point of
fact he had engaged a bedroom at the comfortable hydro at Askern, but he
did not venture to mention that to his mother under their altered and
happier relations.
The next morning, as they were sitting at breakfast, the postman dropped
a letter into the letter-box, and Bernard, upon going to the door to
fetch it, discovered that it was addressed to himself.
Bringing the letter into the room he looked at the envelope curiously,
and perceived that it bore the impression, "London, City & Midland
Banking Company, Ltd," whilst the postmark was Doncaster.
"Why, what's this?" he said, and then, opening it wonderingly, found
that it was an official intimation from the Doncaster branch of the
London, City & Midland Bank, saying that the sum of twenty-five thousand
pounds had been placed there to his credit.
The young man put his hand to his brow in great bewilderment. What did
it mean? Mechanically he handed the document to his mother, saying,
"Look at this. What does it mean?"
Mrs. Cameron fumbled about for her spectacles, found them, could not see
through them, shook her head, and, handing the document to Doris,
remarked, "You read it, Doris. What does it mean?"
Doris read aloud the printed and written words, which stated that the
bank had received twenty-five thousand pounds, and placed the money to
the credit of Bernard Cameron.
"Twenty-five thousand pounds!" cried Mrs. Cameron, excitedly. "Why,
some one has restored your fortune to you, Bernard!"
Bernard was amazed and glad.
"Who can have paid the money in?" questioned Doris.
"You will have to go to Doncaster to the bank, to see the manager, and
ascertain who it is," said Mrs. Cameron.
"Yes," Bernard agreed, still looking very mystified.
"It may be some mistake of the bank's," suggested Mrs. Cameron. "It is
dated all right for yesterday."
They were still wondering and conjecturing about the matter, when the
sound of a carriage driving up to the door, followed by a loud peal of
the door-bell, startled them.
Bernard went to the door, and, upon opening it, perceived, to his
intense astonishment, his wife's father.
"Is Mr. Cameron in?" began the visitor, and then, recognising Bernard,
he cried, "Bernard! My dear fellow, I _am glad_ you are at home."
"Mr. Anderson!" exclaimed Bernard. "Mr. Anderson _here_!"
"Father! Father!" cried Doris, overhearing Bernard's greeting, and
running into her father's arms. "My dear father!" Forgotten were all
his shortcomings, his desertion of herself and appropriation of
Bernard's money, forgotten was everything except love in that glad
moment of reunion. "Where is mother?" asked Doris, kissing him again
and again.
"In the cab, there." He waved his hand towards the vehicle, out of
which Mrs. Anderson was leaning forward, in the endeavour to obtain a
glimpse of her child.
Doris ran to the cab, and disappeared within it, as there only could she
have her beloved mother entirely to herself for a few moments.
Mr. Anderson signed to the cabman to wait for a little while, and then
went into the house with Bernard, asking, "Are you alone? Or is your
mother within?"
"She is here. This is her house still," answered Bernard, leading the
way into the dining-room, where Mrs. Cameron stood, very erect, and
looking extremely grave.
Mr. Anderson bowed without making the attempt to shake hands, indeed she
had placed hers behind her with a very significant gesture.
"I have to thank you, Mrs. Cameron," said the barrister, "and your son,
for your exceeding clemency in not prosecuting me for my terrible
defalcations more than a year ago, and I must explain how it was that I
lost your son's money, and how it is that I have been able yesterday to
place the whole amount in the Doncaster branch of the London, City &
Midland Banking Co. for him. Have you had an intimation of this money
being placed in the bank to your credit, Bernard?" he asked the young
man.
"Yes. This morning. I could not understand who placed it there. I am
glad it was you. Oh, Mr. Anderson, I am _very glad_!" Bernard seized
the elder man's hand, and shook it with warmth. "I feel inclined to
throw up my cap and shout 'Hurrah!'" he continued, boyishly, "for I am
so delighted for your sake and for Doris's!"
"Well, it's a good thing you've done it," said Mrs. Cameron. "I must
say I'm surprised--I never thought you would. What are you nudging me
for, Bernard?" she asked, rather crossly. "You know very well that I
always say what is in my mind. And I must tell you, Mr. Anderson," she
continued, "that it's not me you have to thank for not being prosecuted.
I was determined to set the whole machinery of the law to work--I was so
mad with you--but Bernard would not have it. He would not raise a
finger against you--no, not though I turned him out of my house for his
stupidity, as I thought it then, though it seems to have answered well,"
she admitted.
"Bernard," said Mr. Anderson, looking gratefully at him, "my dear boy,
how can I thank you enough? What you must have borne for me!"
"I'm afraid I thought most of Doris," said Bernard, honestly. "It would
never have done for me to have brought disgrace and trouble upon her
family."
"I sinned," said Mr. Anderson, regarding Bernard's stern mother very
mournfully, "I sinned greatly in using money which was not my own for
speculations which were risky, as most speculations are. And when all
was lost, and I possessed nothing with which to meet my liabilities, as
you know, instead of courageously confessing and submitting to the
penalty I had incurred, I absconded. Later on, together with my wife,
who would not leave me, I took refuge with an old servant of ours, who
had married a shepherd in Wales, and there, in a remote place up amongst
the mountains, we hid ourselves for a long and weary time. Often I
thought of coming down and surrendering to justice, but as often my wife
persuaded me to remain in concealment. Eventually, however, I became so
convinced that the only right thing to do was to give myself up to the
police that, leaving my retreat, I returned, accompanied by my wife, to
Yorkshire.
"Then," continued he, "a strange thing happened. Upon reaching York I
first went to a lawyer with whom I had formerly transacted business,
whereupon he informed me that there had never been a warrant taken out
for my arrest, thanks to you, my dear Bernard," and again the elder man
gave the younger a grateful glance. "Moreover," the barrister
continued, "the lawyer told me that Howden, the man who in the first
place led me into those disastrous speculations, had just died, and in
his last hours, remembering remorsefully his bad advice to me about
speculating, which led to my ruin and desiring to make reparation as far
as possible, he bequeathed to me by will the large sum of thirty
thousand pounds. You can judge of my extreme delight.
"As soon as the will had been proved and I was in possession of the
money I returned to Doncaster, paid all my debts in full, and placed
twenty-five thousand pounds in the bank for you, Bernard. After which I
came here in the hope of finding you at home. I cannot tell you," Mr.
Anderson added, with deep feeling, "I cannot tell you all that I have
suffered on account of my sin, nor can I say how great is my relief and
satisfaction in being able to restore to you your fortune."
The tears were in his eyes as he said this, and they perceived that his
hair had become as white as snow during the last thirteen months, and
also that care and trouble had drawn deep lines upon his face. They
could not, therefore, doubt the truth of what he was saying, and so Mrs.
Cameron as well as Bernard hastened to express their entire forgiveness
of his sin and sympathy with him in his sufferings. And if the mother
did it less gracefully than her son, Mr. Anderson could not cavil at
that, for he knew that it was much more difficult for her, with her hard
nature, to speak so kindly than for Bernard.
And when she added, penitently, "I, too, must ask your forgiveness, Mr.
Anderson, for the harsh and bitter thoughts I have cherished about you
and the hard words I have said," he was only too glad to shake hands
with her and say she was not to trouble about that any more.
Upon this touching scene entered Doris and her mother--the two who
having not sinned in the matter of the pecuniary defalcations, had yet
suffered so grievously by reason of them. Whereupon, kind and loving
words were exchanged, and the new relationship of the young people was
discussed and approved of by her parents, who both said that they could
not have wished for a better husband for their daughter.
*CHAPTER XXVIII.*
*CONCLUSION.*
Poets are all who love, who feel great truths
And tell them, and the truth of truths is love.
BAILEY.
In Switzerland, where Alice had joined Norman as soon as Doris's
marriage had taken place, Alice heard of the surprising restoration of
the lost money with the greatest satisfaction.
Doris wrote a full account of the return of her father and the wonderful
restitution he was able to make of all the money that he had taken from
Bernard and that which he owed the tradespeople.
"Do you know, dear Alice," she wrote in conclusion, "I often and often
prayed that he might be able to do this, but it seemed as if my prayers
were all in vain, both about this and other matters, and then I grew
despondent and doubted--oh, I doubted dreadfully! What patience God
must have with us when we have so little faith! And how impatient and
short-sighted we are! Why, I might have been sure that just as He
clothes the lilies and feeds the birds of the air, so He would give me
all things that were needful and that were according to His will. And
it must have been His will that my father should be enabled to do right
in the end. Well, I'm going to believe in future that He really meant
His words when He said, 'Ask, and ye shall receive.'
"And there's another thing, dear Alice," the writer continued joyfully,
"Bernard and I want to make one or two thank-offerings for the great
mercies we have received.
"First for poor Mrs. Austin, who was so very good to me. You know that
Bernard bought her house, in order to prevent her being turned out of
it, and now we are giving it to her for life, and to her son after her.
She is so delighted, and so is Sam, and it is such a pleasure to us to
do this.
"And then, with regard to the school at Richmond, you know Bernard
purchased it, and arranged for it to be managed for him until he has
finished his career at Oxford, after which he will take it in hand
personally; and now he has determined that he will always give schooling
and board to two pupils free of charge. They need not necessarily be
orphans, but they are to be poor boys of gentle birth, who would
otherwise be worsted in the battle of life. They are to receive exactly
the same benefits as the other boys, and I am to provide them with
clothes, and look after them as a mother might. I need not tell you how
glad I am to do this.
"Dear old Susan is coming to live with us and be our matron, much to her
satisfaction. She is so glad that Bernard and I are married. You know we
could not have her at the wedding, as Mrs. Cameron was not there--for it
might have made the villagers at Moss talk if one had been present and
not the other, and it would certainly have hurt Mrs. Cameron's feelings.
"Write to me, dear Alice, and let me know what you think of these
schemes, which we have planned in this lovely Isle of Wight."
Alice read the letter aloud to Norman, a little later, when, having left
Switzerland, they were going up the Rhine in a river-steamer, one lovely
day in autumn. She was glad of her friend's happiness, and rejoiced in
it so much that she could not keep the letter to herself.
"Cameron seems a decent sort of fellow," said the artist, "after all."
"Oh, yes, he is. Wasn't it nice of him to buy Mrs. Austin's little
house in order that she might not be turned out of it, and then to give
it to her when he became richer?"
"Yes," said Norman, "I must say that Mrs. Austin deserves it for her
goodness to Doris; though she never favoured me, but always endeavoured
to make me feel that I was an intruder."
"But she was very good to me," said Alice, softly.
"Yes," said her brother, "and for that, too, she shall be forgiven
everything by the poor artist, whom you fed when he was a surly,
inconsiderate old bear."
"I'm very proud of my Lion!" exclaimed Alice, lovingly. "See," she
added, "I have brought out with us some London papers which arrived just
as we were leaving our hotel. I want you to see what is said of your
Academy pictures, especially of 'Ganymede.' The likeness of the girl,"
she added, "is so marvellously like Doris, that I expect her husband
will be wanting to buy it."
"Don't!" said Norman, walking a little way apart, in order that she
might not see his face.
Presently he returned to her without a shadow on his fine expressive
countenance.
"I hope you are observing the beauty of all this Rhine scenery," he
said, with a smile. "It ought to appeal to the poetry in your nature."
"Poetry! Poetry in my nature!" exclaimed Alice. "Why, Norman, I always
thought that you considered me so _very_ prosaic and matter-of-fact."
"On the contrary," said her brother. "It is _I_ who have been so often
matter-of-fact; _you_ have always been steeped in love, so much so, in
fact, that you have idealised and nursed illusions for the sake of your
beloved ones. Don't you know--
Poets are all who love, who feel great truths
And tell them, and the truth of truths is love.
Yes," continued Norman, humbly, "you are before me, Alice, in the great
race, because through your life--as through Doris's--the golden thread
of Love leads you and dominates your actions. Not the mere lover's love
for one, but a noble enthusiasm and love for all who are near and dear
to you."