[image]"'GO! YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE.'"Norman Sinclair went out of the room as meekly as a lamb, all his wrath leaving him as he did so. Indeed, to tell the truth, he felt very small and despicable, as he mentally looked at himself with Doris Anderson's eyes, and saw a man, who had been fed for many months by the hard, if mistaken, toil of his young sister, threatening her with the loss of her home in his house if she would not abandon her only source of income.CHAPTER XIII.CONSCIENCE MONEY.No one should act so as to take advantage of the ignorance of his neighbours.--CICERO.After Norman Sinclair went away Doris comforted Alice as well as she could, and then both girls set to work to finish the pictures which a dealer would send for that evening. Alice, however, performed her part half-heartedly. Through her ears were still ringing her brother's fierce denunciation of her employment. It was a crime; she was a cheat, defrauding the ignorant, making them believe bad was good and good was bad; for money she was selling her soul. Oh, it was terrible to remember! Her tears fell down and smeared the brilliant greens and yellows, blues and reds, upon her mill-boards.Doris, seeing what was going on, felt extremely uncomfortable. She imagined that Alice was fretting because her brother had practically turned her out of his house, and her wrath against him increased. But for some time she could not stop working in order to give utterance to her feelings; the men would come soon for the pictures which must be ready for them, and they had to be finished off, or the way they were made would be detected. So the work went on until evening came, and with it the men from the dealers, who packed up the sham oil-paintings and carried them off.Mrs. Austin had been upstairs more than once, to see if her young ladies, as she called them, were ready for tea--which, in those days they usually took together in the sitting-room before Alice went home--and the landlady's importunity caused them both to leave the garret at length and descend to the sitting-room."Now, darling, you shall have some tea," said Doris, affectionately. "Sit there in the armchair. I will bring you a cup."She did so, and then, pouring out one for herself, sat down on the stiff horse-hair sofa, and began to make plans for the future."You and I, Alice," she said, "shall always live together.""Yes," said Alice, slowly, and with a little hesitation, which the other did not appear to notice."Your brother has, by his own act and deed"--that sounded legal and therefore businesslike, so Doris repeated it--"by his own act and deed, forfeited his claim to you. Instead of honouring you, as I honour you, darling"--she caught up Alice's hand and kissed it--"for your bravery and cleverness and industry, he has actually dared to blame you in most unwarrantable, most uncalled-for language, and in the presence of a third person--which makes his conduct far more heinous----""Isn't that a little strong?" interposed Alice. "Doris, I love you for your love, but you must remember he is my brother. He has a right to say what he likes to me, for I am his sister, and--and I cannot bear even you to blame him.""I beg to apologise!" said Doris, instantly. "It isn't right of me to speak against him to you. And, now I think of it, I was wrong in ordering him out of our--your--garret----""Well, yes, dear, a little----""I was wrong," said Doris, "and perhaps one day I will apologise. But however wrong I was, that does not make him right. He has behaved abominably.""Now, there you are again! You must not blame him to me, dear.""I beg your pardon!" Then Doris was silent a minute or two. It was hard to be pulled up at every point. Still, Alice was right, therefore her sense of justice caused her to refrain from taking offence. "But, Alice," she said, at length, "the fact remains, that he will not consent for you to remain in his house if you carry on your work here.""He is an autocrat!" Alice burst out. "A martinet! A tyrant! I must carry on my work. I must. I have nothing else to sell. I have nothing else to do. Either I must continue what I am doing, or we must starve, or go into the workhouse. We cannot live on air." She paused, breathless. It was like her fervent, inconsequent way of reasoning to speak so strongly against her brother, whom she had just been chiding Doris for blaming. However, we are all apt to say things about our relations which we would not tolerate from other people. It is like blaming ourselves, or hearing others blame us. A man may call himself most foolish, yet if any one else were to say so it would be unpardonable.Doris was silent, and in that she showed wisdom. Left to herself, Alice would say all that Doris had been about to utter, and would act upon it as the latter wished her to do."I cannot return to his house," said Alice, with a little sob. "He has indeed turned me out; for I cannot give up my means of livelihood. Who will give me an income if I throw away the one I have? No one. No one. The world is a world of adamant to those who have no coin.""It is indeed!" said Doris, tears filling her eyes as she thought of her own struggles."But where shall I live?" continued Alice. "Will you let me live with you, Doris?""Yes, darling, of course I will! I love you, darling, as you know; and we will live together, and be like sisters--only--only perhaps----""Perhaps what?""Perhaps you wouldn't let me if you knew what a cloud of disgrace hangs over me----"Doris broke down weeping. Was that cruel disgrace always to balk her every time she saw a prospect of happiness?"Disgrace! How you talk! It is I who am in disgrace." Alice flung her arms round her friend, and their tears mingled as they wept together.Mrs. Austin, coming in to see if they wanted any more tea, was quite affected by the sight and beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen. "It all comes of that horrid Mr. Sinclair forcing his way up to their garret," she said to herself, mentally determining to admit no more visitors to her young ladies without first acquainting them with their names.When they were calmer the two girls discussed the feasibility of their living together, as well as working together, with the result that they agreed to try the plan. Accordingly, when night came, they withdrew to Doris's room, and lay down side by side in Doris's bed, which happened to be a rather large one.Tired out, Doris slept so heavily that she did not hear her more wakeful companion's sighs and sobs, nor did she see her slip out of bed in the early morning, dress hurriedly, and then go downstairs.When at last Doris awoke, Mrs. Austin was standing by her side, looking very grave and with a letter in her hand."What is the matter?" asked Doris, sleepily. "Have I overslept? Oh!" She looked round for Alice. "Where is Miss Sinclair?" she asked."Gone!" cried Mrs. Austin, tragically."Gone? When? Where?" cried Doris, in alarm."I don't know, miss. She went before I came down. When I came down this morning I could see that some one had gone out at the front door, for only the French latch was down. And there was this letter for you on the sitting-room table, and Miss Sinclair's boots had been taken from the kitchen, so I felt sure she must have gone.""You should have awoke me at once.""I came upstairs to do so, miss, but you were in such a beautiful sleep, I really hadn't the heart to disturb you. But now it is getting late, and I have brought your hot water."Doris opened the note when Mrs. Austin had left the room. It was short and to the point."DORIS DARLING,--"You aresweetto want me to live with you, and I should love it. But I have been thinking how kind Norman used to be when I had the toothache, and that he gave me such a nice copy of Tennyson on my last birthday,--and--the fact is, no one can make his coffee as he likes it in the morning but me--so I must go and look after him. Poor old Norman! He has no one else to look after his little comforts. And he will starve,absolutely starveif left to himself. I shall always remember, darling, how you wanted me to live with you."Yours lovingly,"ALICE."P.S.--I make you a present of the business. Perhaps when we are starving, you will fling us a crust. Norman can't object to my receiving charity, although he will not allow me to do the only work I am fit for."A.S."Doris sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. What a child Alice was, after all! And how impracticable and unbusinesslike! The head of the firm, she had given up her position in favour of her junior partner without demanding any compensation! "However, she knew she could trust me," said Doris to herself. "I shall make her take half, or at least a third, of the proceeds. But it will be hard on me to have to do all the work alone, and I shall miss my dear partner. I hope she will come to see me sometimes."After breakfast Doris went to the garret, and all day she worked hard, scarcely leaving off to eat or rest for a few minutes. A dealer came with a large order, and, after expressing his surprise at finding her alone, advised her to engage a boy or two to do the rough work and to assist her generally. In the evening she was almost too weary to eat her supper, and when Mrs. Austin was lamenting the fact, she told her what the dealer had suggested."Well, now, how that does fit in, to be sure!" said the landlady. "It was only this afternoon that my nephew Sandy came here, to tell me that he and another nice lad, his friend, had lost their situations through Messrs. Boothby & Barton's bankruptcy. They would be rare and glad to work for you till such time as they could get another place.""I think I should be very glad to have them," said Doris, after a little consideration. "Your nephew did me a kindness about the lamp-shades, and I shall be pleased to offer him work now that he is out of a place."So the next day the two boys came up to the garret, and set to work manfully to assist the young lady. They could soon do most of the work really better than she could herself, and she found it a great relief to confine her energies to the mere colouring. It was, however, not nearly so pleasant for her working with the two lads as it had been with her dear friend Alice, whom she missed at every turn.On the Wednesday morning she received a little note from Alice, saying that at present she was forbidden to go to Mrs. Austin's, but hoped later on to be able to do so. "My brother is angry yet about the 'oil-paintings,'" wrote Alice, "but he is very glad to have me back; and, by the way, Doris, he would give worlds, if he had them, to make you sit for a picture of Rosalind in her character of Ganymede inAs You Like It. Don't you think you could give him that gratification, dear? But I know these are early days to speak of such a kindness as that. And you would never have the time, even if you could forgive poor, blundering old Norman."Then she referred to the letter Doris had sent her, in which the former stated that half the money earned would still be set aside for Alice. "It is lovely of you to say that about the money, dear," wrote Alice; "but Norman declares I am not to touch what he is pleased to call ill-gotten gains. Lest I should do so, he declares he will not eat anything I buy, and in consequence he is living upon oatmeal porridge and lentil soup! Oh, and the oatmeal is nearly finished! I have been thinking that if you would kindly send a five-pound-note now and then, anonymously, to him--mind, to him, not to me--and just put inside the envelope that it is 'Conscience Money'--that would be quite true, you know; for if you had not a conscience you would keep what I have thrust into your hands--he might use it, thinking it was the repayment of some old debt. For he has lent lots of money, in the old days, to people who have never let him have it back again. I hope you can see your way, as the dealers say, to do this. We must live, you know. It is so miserable to starve, and it's worse for the housekeeper, as the fault seems to be hers.""I don't like complying with her request," thought Doris. "Her brother is an honest man, a most awkwardly honest man, and it is a shame to deceive him. Yet the money is Alice's. It is a point of conscience with me, as she says, to give it her. But I wish it could be done in some other way. It seems such a shame to make him eat food which his very soul would revolt from, if he knew everything."She thought over the matter as she was working, and the more she thought about it the less she liked it. But when a dealer came in that afternoon, and paid her ten pounds that was owing to the firm, in two five-pound notes, she immediately posted one of them to Norman Sinclair, Esq., at his address in Hampstead, writing inside the envelope the words "Conscience Money."That done, she felt more comfortable about Alice, for at least she would not starve when that money arrived. Doris still missed Alice, however, exceedingly; and though turning to her painting with fresh energy, alas! she felt for it more distaste than ever. For Doris could not forget--it was impossible for her to forget--that an honest man had called her work wicked, and declared that it was a crime in the sight of God and man. If that were true, and it was a crime, then she was a criminal just as her father was! Hereditary? Yes, the criminality must be hereditary. In her thoughts she had been hard upon her father. Was she any better herself?CHAPTER XIV.BERNARD CAMERON VISITS DORIS.Patience and abnegation of self and devotion to others,This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.LONGFELLOW.It was on Saturday afternoon that Bernard Cameron called. Doris had been through a particularly trying morning. It began with a letter from Alice, evidently written at her brother's instigation, advising her to give up the business of making sham oil-paintings and thus defrauding the public. "Better to be poor and honest and honourable," wrote Alice, virtuously. Doris read between the lines that her brother wished her to say these words, and that annoyed her extremely."What business is it of his?" she said to herself, resenting his interference.When she went upstairs to the garret, to begin work for the day, she accidentally overheard Sandy saying to his fellow-worker, "Ain't folks simple to buy these for genuine oil-paintings? I know a chap who gave three pounds for a pair of them at a shop. And, says he, them's real oil-paintings. As proud as a peacock he was!""He shouldn't have been so green," said the other youth."The Government is down on folks who sell margarine for butter; it can't be done now-a-days, but there don't seem to be no penalty for this sort of thing!" He tapped one of the pictures meaningly.Doris entered, and the conversation ceased; but all the morning her assistants' words and Alice's letter rankled in her mind. No doubt the business was not by any means a high-class one, but no one would buy her genuine paintings, she therefore told herself she was driven to make what she could sell: and now she had quite a nice little sum already in hand, to form the nucleus of what she would require to pay the debt to Bernard Cameron.However, it was rather too much for her, when, as she was snatching a hasty lunch in the little sitting-room, she overheard Sam Austin saying to his mother in the kitchen, "Mother, I used to think them pictures Miss Anderson made so fast were really beautiful, and my wife went and bought one at a shop, but when the Vicar was in our house the other day, and she was showing it to him, he says, 'My good woman, that's no more a work of art than that stocking you are knitting, and it isn't half so useful! Don't you waste your money over such stuff!' says he. I felt so ashamed-like, mother, that our young lady's work should be so spoken of. And the Vicar is a gentleman who knows what's what.""Hush, Sam! Miss Anderson is in the room, and she might hear. I am sure she thinks they are all right and worth the money, or she would not do them."When the good landlady entered the room, a few minutes afterwards, she was dismayed to find the door ajar, and not closed, as she had imagined. This caused her to turn very red. But Doris did not refer to what she had overheard, for in truth she did not know what to say. Later she might refund Mrs. Sam her money, and have that off her conscience; but what about all the other people who had purchased her pictures? She felt sick at heart, and quite unable to do her work as usual. However, it had to be done, and she went upstairs slowly and heavily. "What shall I do?" she thought. "I cannot earn my living unless I do it in this way, which is not honest--I see that now; at first I thought it was, but I know Alice's brother is quite right. I'm a cheat and a fraud, a humbug and a thief; for I take money out of people's pockets, and make them no adequate return for it, although I make them think I do."And then Bernard called. He was dressed in his worn clothes, and looked tired and harassed, but "every inch a gentleman," as Mrs. Austin said when she gave his name to Doris, asking if she would come downstairs to see him.At first Doris thought she ought to send word that she was engaged. But she could not do it. She was so miserable and so hopeless; and the very thought of Bernard's presence there in the house caused hope and joy to spring up in her heart, and was like new life to her. She, therefore, took off her painting-apron, washed her hands, and went down to the sitting-room."Doris"--Bernard spoke very quietly, holding out his hand exactly as any other visitor might have done--"Doris, I have called to see you. It is very kind of you to come down. I--I will not detain you long.""It is kind of you to call," said Doris, rather lamely, noticing all at once how thin and worn he looked, "and I haven't much time to spare, but I could not--could not refuse." Her voice trembled and broke; tears filled her eyes. It was hard, very hard to have to speak thus to one she still loved dearly."Oh, Doris," he cried, hope springing up in his heart by leaps and bounds at the sight of her downcast face, "Doris, darling, I cannot bear to see you looking so sad, and to know that you are alone here except for your friend----""She has left me!" interrupted Doris, crying now. "I am quite alone.""Left you! You are alone! Oh, my darling!" He put his arms round her slim waist. "You are not alone! You need never be alone again, forIam here. Nay, don't send me away, dearest," he pleaded; "hear me, I beg. I love you, Doris. I love you with all my heart. The loss of my money--ah! forgive my mentioning it--it is as nothing to the grief of losing you. Ah, you don't know what I have suffered! Without you this world is to me a howling wilderness." He drew her to him. "Darling," he continued, low in her ear, "neversend me away again."The girl was powerfully tempted to surrender her determination and submit her weaker will to his stronger one. Her inclination, her heart was on his side; but what she thought was duty, and her sense of right, held her frail bark to its moorings. She therefore drew herself away, and with a little gesture waved him back, and then, to make her position more secure, she feigned anger."Don't! Don't!" she exclaimed sharply. "You go too fast, Mr. Cameron, much too fast! What we might have been to each other in happier times, events have rendered impossible now. You know they have----""No, no, not impossible!" he cried."I say impossible," insisted Doris. "My father appropriated your fortune. He stole from you your birthright.""What of that? I forget it. I have forgotten it.""You think so now. In your magnanimity you choose to think so; but supposing I were to trust to that, and we were to marry, do you think you could live with me day by day, in poverty, remember--for we should be very poor--without remembering that my father--mine--stole from you all the money your father left you?""I shouldn't think of it, or, if I did, I would say to myself that you have, by giving me your hand"--he took hers in his as he spoke--"and promising to be my wife," he added, "righted the wrong, paid the debt, made me rich indeed with what is worth far more than money, yes, infinitely more." Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it."Don't!" She drew her hand away. "And there is another side to the question," she continued. "Could I be happy seeing you poor, and knowing what was the cause of it? Don't you think that daily, hourly, I should realise with pain that my father's crime was blighting your life?""Nonsense! Mine would be a poor life indeed, if the loss of money--mere money--could blight it!""It has a very stupefying effect on one to have no money," said Doris, with a little sigh, thinking of her past experience. "Don't you know the song--Dollars and dimes! Dollars and dimes!To be without cash is the worst of crimes!It gets one into disgrace, anyway," she added."Poor child! I am afraid you have been hard up since----""Well," she interrupted, "it takes the courage out of one to have no money. You know that verse--Whereunto is money good?Who has it not wants hardihood;Who has it has much trouble and care,Who does not have it has despair.""Ishall have despair if I have not you!" he declared, moodily."No, you will not. You will find some one else to love--some one who has heaps and heaps of money. Then you will marry--will marry her." Doris's voice shook a little, but she waved him back when he would have drawn her to him again. "You will marry a girl with lots of money," she continued, more firmly now. "That is what your mother wants you to do. It is your one chance, she says, of retrieving your fortune.""Did she say that to you, Doris?" His voice was hoarse, he looked very pale."She did.""And that caused you to send me that dreadful message?" he asked."What message?""That you would never,nevermarry me.""Yes.""Ah! I understand it now." He passed his hand wearily across his brow--"I understand. But I can't help it, and she is my mother!" Again he was silent, struggling to control himself. "Do you know," he said, "she turned me out of my home?""She did? Why?""Because I would not prosecute your father.""Ah! You have not attempted to prosecute him?""Doris! Did you think that Icould?""Forgive me," she said. "But after your shrinking from me, as you did, when you heard what my father had done----""Shrinking from you! Shrinking! Surely you did not think that I could ever have done that?""But you did, Bernard. You did. It was that which broke my heart.""My darling, you must be mistaken!""Indeed I am not. You shrank away from me. And then, your mother came and said those dreadful things--so I gave you up entirely, and I said that I would never marry you.""But now that you know that I never intentionally shrank from you--and indeed I think that it must have been your fancy, darling--surely you will unsay those cruel words?"Doris looked at him, at the love in his eyes, and his earnest face as he pleaded thus, and she softened considerably."I'll just tell you how it is, Bernard," she said, and now her tone was kinder, and there was a light in her blue eyes corresponding with the glow in his. "I'll just tell you how it is, Bernard, exactly. I feel that, because my father robbed you, I have had a share in the crime, and so I am going to work hard, in order to make you some little reparation--though of course I can never repay you all the money. Do you understand?" and she looked up earnestly into his face."To make some little reparation? To repay money? What do you mean?""Twenty-five thousand pounds is so large a sum!" she said. "I can only repay a small part of it. But I'm doing my best; I'm putting by four or five pounds a week, and I have already saved forty pounds. You can have that forty pounds now if you like. It's yours.""Forty pounds! My dear Doris, what are you talking about?""I'm going to earn as much money as I possibly can for you, Bernard," said the girl firmly, "in order to repay you at least some of the money my father took from you.""You earn money for me? Your little hands"--he looked down admiringly on them--"your little hands earn money for me?""Of course I must. It is my bounden duty. And I'm getting on splendidly as regards money: only they say, do you know, Bernard," and her tones were troubled, "they say that I ought not to earn it in the way I do. However," she broke off, and began again, "I mean to earn you a lot of money, that you may have part at least of that which is your very own.""The idea!" he exclaimed; "the very idea of your earning money with these hands, these little hands," he repeated, "for me! Why, if only you would give me your hand in marriage, I should be more than repaid for all and everything?" He spoke eagerly."Bernard, I shall not marry you until I have done all that I possibly can to pay the debt."In vain the young man protested, pleaded, and expostulated. Doris was firm: the utmost that she would concede was that he might visit her occasionally and see how she was getting on.When that matter was quite settled she gave him some tea, and then explained to him about her work, which he was astonished to find so remunerative. He did not think it wrong of her to make those poor imitation oil-paintings. He said that people could not expect to obtain real oil-paintings for such small sums."You do not call them oil-paintings," he said, "you call them pictures; and if people think them oil-paintings that is their fault: it is because they are ignorant that they make the mistake. You are not answerable for that. The case of margarine and butter is different. It was because margarine used to be called butter that it was made illegal to sell it as such. Margarine is still sold, but it is called margarine.""How very sensible you are, Bernard!" said Doris. "I wish----""What do you wish?" he asked earnestly, for he longed to serve her."I wish you would convince the artist, my friend Alice's brother, that he is wrong in thinking it so wicked to make those pictures and sell them.""Does it matter what he thinks?" asked Bernard, full of a new alarm. "Is the man anything to you, Doris?""Anything to me? No, I have only seen him once.""Yet you would like to stand high in his opinion?""Well, yes. There is something grand--heroic, about him. He would die for the truth. The man is made of the sort of stuff of which the old martyrs used to be made." Doris spoke with great enthusiasm.Bernard's alarm increased by leaps and bounds. "Oh, Doris, darling, don't have anything to do with him!" he exclaimed passionately."Why not?" She looked startled. The flush which had risen to her face as she spoke so earnestly of Sinclair deepened into a very warm colour."Because I do not wish you to know him.""Why not?" she repeated."My instinct tells me that he has impressed you strongly and that you think a great deal of him, and if you get to care for him, this hero whom you admire so much, you won't care for your poor Bernard any more!" He ended in doleful tones."You foolish boy!" Doris cried, with complete change of voice. "You know very well that although our engagement has been broken off and I have vowed that I will never, never marry you--that is, unless some of the debt is paid--I shall never love anybody in all the world as I love you," she ended with a little sob, and buried her face in her hands, lest he should see the tears which filled her eyes.It was impossible for him to refrain from kissing her then; but she only suffered him to touch her hands, and then, starting up, waved him aside."No, no! You must not," she exclaimed. "I shall not go back on my word. I shall stick to my purpose. You may come to see me sometimes if you like, but I shall promise nothing."He looked despairingly at her as she stood there, tall, erect, a very queen of beauty, with brilliantly coloured cheeks, shining blue eyes, and golden hair like an aureole above her small beautifully shaped head."Oh, my dear, you cannot earn money for me!" he cried; "I would never touch it.Dodismiss the idea from your mind! What I want isyou, to be my own darling wife. We might be ever so happy--even if we are poor.""I don't want you to be poor, Bernard," she rejoined. "If you are it will be my father who has made you so, and I could not endure to see it. Now, don't let us waste time in arguing about that again. I shall continue my work here: for you have made it plain to me that it is all right. You may come to see me occasionally, as I said----""What do you think if I were to throw up my tutorship--it is badly paid--and come daily to assist you with your work? It would be awfully jolly working together, and I could see that your lads did their share, instead of wasting their time in chattering about what they do not understand."But Doris would not hear of that arrangement being made. The work might do for her, but she revolted mentally from the idea of her Bernard pursuing a calling which the artist had declared to be so utterly and radically wrong: and it was like her inconsequent, girlish way of reasoning not to see that what was right for one was right for the other, andvice versa.However, when Bernard went away, she felt ever so much happier than she did when he arrived. He loved her and she loved him: that was the chief thing; all else was of secondary consideration. He approved of, and saw no harm in her occupation--could he by any possibility see any harm in anything that she did?--and that was healing balm to her hurt, despondent feelings."He is very nice and sensible, is Bernard," she said to herself, last thing that night, as she laid her head on her pillow; "he is very different from poor Alice's despotic brother. Now, I like a man I can convince even against his will--and Bernard does love me in spite of everything." She fell asleep thinking about him, and dreamt that they were again in the Temperate House, looking at the chrysanthemums, and she was not trying to send him away as she did before, but, on the contrary, her hand rested within his arm, which held it tightly.CHAPTER XV.ANOTHER VISITOR FOR DORIS.Shun evil, follow good, hold swayOver thyself. This is the way.SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.After Bernard's visit and his approval of her work, Doris went on with it doggedly, disregarding all doubts that arose, and justifying her doings to herself by thinking of Bernard's opinion of the rightfulness of her occupation--exactly as men and women have sheltered themselves behind the views of others ever since the day when Adam screened himself behind his wife's, and she behind the serpent's.The business prospered, so that the girl's little store of money increased, and she began to anticipate a not very distant time when there would be one hundred pounds saved wherewith to make her first payment to Bernard. She determined to begin by paying him one hundred pounds at once, and wondered if the time would ever come when she would have so much as one thousand pounds to hand over to him. The girl had a very brave spirit, but it was often daunted by the herculean task she had set herself.One day, when she was very busy with her assistants in the garret, Mrs. Austin knocked at the door and asked her to be so good as to come outside to speak to her."That gentleman's come again," she said. "He who frightened away Miss Sinclair. It's you he's after now, I'm thinking. But oh, Miss Anderson, don't see him! He's got an awful look on his face, as if we kept a gambling-place at least! Don't see him! For, oh, my dear, you must live! What is to become of you if you give up such a good business as you have got? Remember what a hard world this is for those who have no money, and how difficult you found it to get dealers even to look at those genuine little paintings you took so much trouble over!""Mr. Sinclair might have saved himself the trouble, if he has come to try to persuade me to give up the business," said Doris, rather hotly. "I wonder what business it is of his, by the bye! No, I will not see him.""Ah, forgive me, I followed your landlady upstairs! I beg a thousand pardons for the intrusion." The artist stood behind Mrs. Austin, towering above her. He spoke very humbly, but there was an air of determination, if not of censure, about him which displeased Doris."I am engaged," she said, shortly. "I was just sending you word that I could not see you.""But I bring you a message from my sister," he observed, after a moment's pause. "Surely you will receive it?"He looked at her as he spoke, and again Doris felt the dominating power of his strong will. She was vexed with herself for yielding, and yet could scarcely avoid it. Slowly and with reluctance the words fell from her lips, "I cannot hear it here," as she looked significantly at her assistants, who, busy though they appeared to be, were listening to what was being said; "we will go downstairs."In the room below they stood and looked at each other--he tall, broad-shouldered, vigorous; she slim and slight, but beautiful as a dream. The girl did not ask him to be seated, nor did she look at the chair he offered her with a gesture which was almost compelling.For a moment or two there was silence. Then Doris spoke."You have come between your sister and me," she said. "You have drawn her away and prevented my visiting her, and yet you have"--she paused--"condescended," she hazarded, "to bring me a message from her!""I have. Alice wants you to give up this--this business----""If that is all," interrupted Doris, hotly, "you might have saved yourself the trouble of coming here.""Don't say that! Listen to me. No doubt you are angry because I come here, as I came before to express my disapproval of the whole affair. I feel it my duty to do so. It is a prostitution of Art--a robbery in her name----""Stay!" interrupted Doris, passionately. "I know what you think it, and I know also what I think of your speaking to me like this! You may lecture your sister and do what you please with her, but is it any business of yours--I mean, what right have you to come here to find fault withmywork? As I was saying to Mrs. Austin when you----""Intruded," he suggested, bitterly."Yes, intruded," she went on, with severity, "upstairs, it is no business of yours.""I think it is," he said, more gently. "You are Alice's friend, and I do not wish my sister to associate intimately with one who----""If I am not fit for your sister's society----" began Doris, furiously."Don't you think it is a pity for us to quarrel in this way?" Mr. Sinclair said, in a calm manner. "Please sit down, and let us talk calmly and reasonably." He again waved his hand towards the chair which he had placed for her.Doris sat down rather helplessly. How he dominated her! She felt as if she were a little child, who did not know what to say in the presence of a grown-up person."My sister is extremely attached to you," said the artist, his rich voice full of feeling and his grey eyes shining as they looked straight into Doris's, as if they would read her soul. "She thinks that no one in the world is like her friend. Nothing that one can say--I mean that one can do--that is, that can be done--has any power to shake her loyalty to you----""Ah! You have been trying to estrange her from me----""I will not deny your charge," said the other, "for there is some truth in it. I do not wish my sister to see much of one who, for money--mere money--is content to do that which is wrong. The love of money is the root of all evil.""And you think," exclaimed Doris, "you thinkIlove money? You think that for money I am content to do wrong?""What else can I think?""You are exceedingly uncharitable," cried the girl, bitterly, "to beg the question in this way! Let me say that, in the first place, I do not love money. That I want to earn as much of it as possible is true; but I do not want the money for myself. It is to help to pay a debt, a debt of honour so large that it is not possible for me to pay it all; but if I can in time pay a few hundreds of pounds, I shall be very glad.""A debt of honour! A few hundreds! My child, you cannot earn all that by such trashy work as this that you are doing!" In spite of himself, Norman regarded her with great admiration."The word cannot is not in my dictionary," said Doris, rather grandiloquently. "It must be done!""Impossible!" he ejaculated."And as for the work being wrong," continued Doris, "I do not know that it is wrong.""Not know that it is wrong!" exclaimed the other. "When every one of your oil-paintings is a sin against truth. You know it; surely this must appeal to your honour!""I do notcallthem oil-paintings," said Doris, proceeding to repeat rapidly Bernard Cameron's arguments, and ending with the words, uttered very meaningly, "What is truth? We can but obey it as it appears to us. You judge of my pictures from such a different standpoint. They are untrue to all your canons of high art. But I know nothing comparatively of art: I only try to make pictures which will please people, and be worth the trifling sums of money they give for them. Such people could not see any beauty in great works of art; but they say, 'That's pretty! That's very pretty!' when they see mine."The artist was silent. It was true. What beauty could Jack Hodge and his cousins Dick, Tom, and Harry, see in the Old Masters, or in the new ones either? Yet they were the people who paid their shillings, and even pounds for such pictures as this young girl provided for them."Believe me," continued Doris, "there is room in the world for workers of all sort. The birds cannot all be nightingales; the flowers are not all roses; and the human beings who entertain mankind are not all the best and highest of their kind. But there is a place for the homely sparrow, the little daisy, and the poor picture-maker to fill; and it is not--not generous of those more gifted to come and find fault with them!"Her voice trembled and shook as she concluded; and, feeling that she was about to break down, she bowed slightly to her visitor and left the room.Mr. Sinclair sprang up as if to stop her, yet did not do so. He opened his mouth to speak, yet no word fell from his lips, and so he allowed her to pass out."What a wonderful girl!" he muttered aloud, when she was gone, closing the door softly behind her. "I admire her exceedingly! And I have hurt her feelings! She has gone away to cry! What a stupid blunderer I am! How brutal of me to wound her so! I'm sure I'm very sorry. I'll write her a message." He looked round for pen, ink, and paper, and, having found some, wrote one line only:"Forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Norman Sinclair."Having folded the paper, he addressed it to Miss Anderson, and laid it conspicuously upon the table, and then very quietly left the house.
[image]"'GO! YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE.'"
[image]
[image]
"'GO! YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE.'"
Norman Sinclair went out of the room as meekly as a lamb, all his wrath leaving him as he did so. Indeed, to tell the truth, he felt very small and despicable, as he mentally looked at himself with Doris Anderson's eyes, and saw a man, who had been fed for many months by the hard, if mistaken, toil of his young sister, threatening her with the loss of her home in his house if she would not abandon her only source of income.
CHAPTER XIII.
CONSCIENCE MONEY.
No one should act so as to take advantage of the ignorance of his neighbours.--CICERO.
After Norman Sinclair went away Doris comforted Alice as well as she could, and then both girls set to work to finish the pictures which a dealer would send for that evening. Alice, however, performed her part half-heartedly. Through her ears were still ringing her brother's fierce denunciation of her employment. It was a crime; she was a cheat, defrauding the ignorant, making them believe bad was good and good was bad; for money she was selling her soul. Oh, it was terrible to remember! Her tears fell down and smeared the brilliant greens and yellows, blues and reds, upon her mill-boards.
Doris, seeing what was going on, felt extremely uncomfortable. She imagined that Alice was fretting because her brother had practically turned her out of his house, and her wrath against him increased. But for some time she could not stop working in order to give utterance to her feelings; the men would come soon for the pictures which must be ready for them, and they had to be finished off, or the way they were made would be detected. So the work went on until evening came, and with it the men from the dealers, who packed up the sham oil-paintings and carried them off.
Mrs. Austin had been upstairs more than once, to see if her young ladies, as she called them, were ready for tea--which, in those days they usually took together in the sitting-room before Alice went home--and the landlady's importunity caused them both to leave the garret at length and descend to the sitting-room.
"Now, darling, you shall have some tea," said Doris, affectionately. "Sit there in the armchair. I will bring you a cup."
She did so, and then, pouring out one for herself, sat down on the stiff horse-hair sofa, and began to make plans for the future.
"You and I, Alice," she said, "shall always live together."
"Yes," said Alice, slowly, and with a little hesitation, which the other did not appear to notice.
"Your brother has, by his own act and deed"--that sounded legal and therefore businesslike, so Doris repeated it--"by his own act and deed, forfeited his claim to you. Instead of honouring you, as I honour you, darling"--she caught up Alice's hand and kissed it--"for your bravery and cleverness and industry, he has actually dared to blame you in most unwarrantable, most uncalled-for language, and in the presence of a third person--which makes his conduct far more heinous----"
"Isn't that a little strong?" interposed Alice. "Doris, I love you for your love, but you must remember he is my brother. He has a right to say what he likes to me, for I am his sister, and--and I cannot bear even you to blame him."
"I beg to apologise!" said Doris, instantly. "It isn't right of me to speak against him to you. And, now I think of it, I was wrong in ordering him out of our--your--garret----"
"Well, yes, dear, a little----"
"I was wrong," said Doris, "and perhaps one day I will apologise. But however wrong I was, that does not make him right. He has behaved abominably."
"Now, there you are again! You must not blame him to me, dear."
"I beg your pardon!" Then Doris was silent a minute or two. It was hard to be pulled up at every point. Still, Alice was right, therefore her sense of justice caused her to refrain from taking offence. "But, Alice," she said, at length, "the fact remains, that he will not consent for you to remain in his house if you carry on your work here."
"He is an autocrat!" Alice burst out. "A martinet! A tyrant! I must carry on my work. I must. I have nothing else to sell. I have nothing else to do. Either I must continue what I am doing, or we must starve, or go into the workhouse. We cannot live on air." She paused, breathless. It was like her fervent, inconsequent way of reasoning to speak so strongly against her brother, whom she had just been chiding Doris for blaming. However, we are all apt to say things about our relations which we would not tolerate from other people. It is like blaming ourselves, or hearing others blame us. A man may call himself most foolish, yet if any one else were to say so it would be unpardonable.
Doris was silent, and in that she showed wisdom. Left to herself, Alice would say all that Doris had been about to utter, and would act upon it as the latter wished her to do.
"I cannot return to his house," said Alice, with a little sob. "He has indeed turned me out; for I cannot give up my means of livelihood. Who will give me an income if I throw away the one I have? No one. No one. The world is a world of adamant to those who have no coin."
"It is indeed!" said Doris, tears filling her eyes as she thought of her own struggles.
"But where shall I live?" continued Alice. "Will you let me live with you, Doris?"
"Yes, darling, of course I will! I love you, darling, as you know; and we will live together, and be like sisters--only--only perhaps----"
"Perhaps what?"
"Perhaps you wouldn't let me if you knew what a cloud of disgrace hangs over me----"
Doris broke down weeping. Was that cruel disgrace always to balk her every time she saw a prospect of happiness?
"Disgrace! How you talk! It is I who am in disgrace." Alice flung her arms round her friend, and their tears mingled as they wept together.
Mrs. Austin, coming in to see if they wanted any more tea, was quite affected by the sight and beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen. "It all comes of that horrid Mr. Sinclair forcing his way up to their garret," she said to herself, mentally determining to admit no more visitors to her young ladies without first acquainting them with their names.
When they were calmer the two girls discussed the feasibility of their living together, as well as working together, with the result that they agreed to try the plan. Accordingly, when night came, they withdrew to Doris's room, and lay down side by side in Doris's bed, which happened to be a rather large one.
Tired out, Doris slept so heavily that she did not hear her more wakeful companion's sighs and sobs, nor did she see her slip out of bed in the early morning, dress hurriedly, and then go downstairs.
When at last Doris awoke, Mrs. Austin was standing by her side, looking very grave and with a letter in her hand.
"What is the matter?" asked Doris, sleepily. "Have I overslept? Oh!" She looked round for Alice. "Where is Miss Sinclair?" she asked.
"Gone!" cried Mrs. Austin, tragically.
"Gone? When? Where?" cried Doris, in alarm.
"I don't know, miss. She went before I came down. When I came down this morning I could see that some one had gone out at the front door, for only the French latch was down. And there was this letter for you on the sitting-room table, and Miss Sinclair's boots had been taken from the kitchen, so I felt sure she must have gone."
"You should have awoke me at once."
"I came upstairs to do so, miss, but you were in such a beautiful sleep, I really hadn't the heart to disturb you. But now it is getting late, and I have brought your hot water."
Doris opened the note when Mrs. Austin had left the room. It was short and to the point.
"DORIS DARLING,--
"You aresweetto want me to live with you, and I should love it. But I have been thinking how kind Norman used to be when I had the toothache, and that he gave me such a nice copy of Tennyson on my last birthday,--and--the fact is, no one can make his coffee as he likes it in the morning but me--so I must go and look after him. Poor old Norman! He has no one else to look after his little comforts. And he will starve,absolutely starveif left to himself. I shall always remember, darling, how you wanted me to live with you.
"ALICE.
"P.S.--I make you a present of the business. Perhaps when we are starving, you will fling us a crust. Norman can't object to my receiving charity, although he will not allow me to do the only work I am fit for.
"A.S."
Doris sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. What a child Alice was, after all! And how impracticable and unbusinesslike! The head of the firm, she had given up her position in favour of her junior partner without demanding any compensation! "However, she knew she could trust me," said Doris to herself. "I shall make her take half, or at least a third, of the proceeds. But it will be hard on me to have to do all the work alone, and I shall miss my dear partner. I hope she will come to see me sometimes."
After breakfast Doris went to the garret, and all day she worked hard, scarcely leaving off to eat or rest for a few minutes. A dealer came with a large order, and, after expressing his surprise at finding her alone, advised her to engage a boy or two to do the rough work and to assist her generally. In the evening she was almost too weary to eat her supper, and when Mrs. Austin was lamenting the fact, she told her what the dealer had suggested.
"Well, now, how that does fit in, to be sure!" said the landlady. "It was only this afternoon that my nephew Sandy came here, to tell me that he and another nice lad, his friend, had lost their situations through Messrs. Boothby & Barton's bankruptcy. They would be rare and glad to work for you till such time as they could get another place."
"I think I should be very glad to have them," said Doris, after a little consideration. "Your nephew did me a kindness about the lamp-shades, and I shall be pleased to offer him work now that he is out of a place."
So the next day the two boys came up to the garret, and set to work manfully to assist the young lady. They could soon do most of the work really better than she could herself, and she found it a great relief to confine her energies to the mere colouring. It was, however, not nearly so pleasant for her working with the two lads as it had been with her dear friend Alice, whom she missed at every turn.
On the Wednesday morning she received a little note from Alice, saying that at present she was forbidden to go to Mrs. Austin's, but hoped later on to be able to do so. "My brother is angry yet about the 'oil-paintings,'" wrote Alice, "but he is very glad to have me back; and, by the way, Doris, he would give worlds, if he had them, to make you sit for a picture of Rosalind in her character of Ganymede inAs You Like It. Don't you think you could give him that gratification, dear? But I know these are early days to speak of such a kindness as that. And you would never have the time, even if you could forgive poor, blundering old Norman."
Then she referred to the letter Doris had sent her, in which the former stated that half the money earned would still be set aside for Alice. "It is lovely of you to say that about the money, dear," wrote Alice; "but Norman declares I am not to touch what he is pleased to call ill-gotten gains. Lest I should do so, he declares he will not eat anything I buy, and in consequence he is living upon oatmeal porridge and lentil soup! Oh, and the oatmeal is nearly finished! I have been thinking that if you would kindly send a five-pound-note now and then, anonymously, to him--mind, to him, not to me--and just put inside the envelope that it is 'Conscience Money'--that would be quite true, you know; for if you had not a conscience you would keep what I have thrust into your hands--he might use it, thinking it was the repayment of some old debt. For he has lent lots of money, in the old days, to people who have never let him have it back again. I hope you can see your way, as the dealers say, to do this. We must live, you know. It is so miserable to starve, and it's worse for the housekeeper, as the fault seems to be hers."
"I don't like complying with her request," thought Doris. "Her brother is an honest man, a most awkwardly honest man, and it is a shame to deceive him. Yet the money is Alice's. It is a point of conscience with me, as she says, to give it her. But I wish it could be done in some other way. It seems such a shame to make him eat food which his very soul would revolt from, if he knew everything."
She thought over the matter as she was working, and the more she thought about it the less she liked it. But when a dealer came in that afternoon, and paid her ten pounds that was owing to the firm, in two five-pound notes, she immediately posted one of them to Norman Sinclair, Esq., at his address in Hampstead, writing inside the envelope the words "Conscience Money."
That done, she felt more comfortable about Alice, for at least she would not starve when that money arrived. Doris still missed Alice, however, exceedingly; and though turning to her painting with fresh energy, alas! she felt for it more distaste than ever. For Doris could not forget--it was impossible for her to forget--that an honest man had called her work wicked, and declared that it was a crime in the sight of God and man. If that were true, and it was a crime, then she was a criminal just as her father was! Hereditary? Yes, the criminality must be hereditary. In her thoughts she had been hard upon her father. Was she any better herself?
CHAPTER XIV.
BERNARD CAMERON VISITS DORIS.
Patience and abnegation of self and devotion to others,This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.LONGFELLOW.
Patience and abnegation of self and devotion to others,This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.LONGFELLOW.
Patience and abnegation of self and devotion to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
LONGFELLOW.
LONGFELLOW.
It was on Saturday afternoon that Bernard Cameron called. Doris had been through a particularly trying morning. It began with a letter from Alice, evidently written at her brother's instigation, advising her to give up the business of making sham oil-paintings and thus defrauding the public. "Better to be poor and honest and honourable," wrote Alice, virtuously. Doris read between the lines that her brother wished her to say these words, and that annoyed her extremely.
"What business is it of his?" she said to herself, resenting his interference.
When she went upstairs to the garret, to begin work for the day, she accidentally overheard Sandy saying to his fellow-worker, "Ain't folks simple to buy these for genuine oil-paintings? I know a chap who gave three pounds for a pair of them at a shop. And, says he, them's real oil-paintings. As proud as a peacock he was!"
"He shouldn't have been so green," said the other youth.
"The Government is down on folks who sell margarine for butter; it can't be done now-a-days, but there don't seem to be no penalty for this sort of thing!" He tapped one of the pictures meaningly.
Doris entered, and the conversation ceased; but all the morning her assistants' words and Alice's letter rankled in her mind. No doubt the business was not by any means a high-class one, but no one would buy her genuine paintings, she therefore told herself she was driven to make what she could sell: and now she had quite a nice little sum already in hand, to form the nucleus of what she would require to pay the debt to Bernard Cameron.
However, it was rather too much for her, when, as she was snatching a hasty lunch in the little sitting-room, she overheard Sam Austin saying to his mother in the kitchen, "Mother, I used to think them pictures Miss Anderson made so fast were really beautiful, and my wife went and bought one at a shop, but when the Vicar was in our house the other day, and she was showing it to him, he says, 'My good woman, that's no more a work of art than that stocking you are knitting, and it isn't half so useful! Don't you waste your money over such stuff!' says he. I felt so ashamed-like, mother, that our young lady's work should be so spoken of. And the Vicar is a gentleman who knows what's what."
"Hush, Sam! Miss Anderson is in the room, and she might hear. I am sure she thinks they are all right and worth the money, or she would not do them."
When the good landlady entered the room, a few minutes afterwards, she was dismayed to find the door ajar, and not closed, as she had imagined. This caused her to turn very red. But Doris did not refer to what she had overheard, for in truth she did not know what to say. Later she might refund Mrs. Sam her money, and have that off her conscience; but what about all the other people who had purchased her pictures? She felt sick at heart, and quite unable to do her work as usual. However, it had to be done, and she went upstairs slowly and heavily. "What shall I do?" she thought. "I cannot earn my living unless I do it in this way, which is not honest--I see that now; at first I thought it was, but I know Alice's brother is quite right. I'm a cheat and a fraud, a humbug and a thief; for I take money out of people's pockets, and make them no adequate return for it, although I make them think I do."
And then Bernard called. He was dressed in his worn clothes, and looked tired and harassed, but "every inch a gentleman," as Mrs. Austin said when she gave his name to Doris, asking if she would come downstairs to see him.
At first Doris thought she ought to send word that she was engaged. But she could not do it. She was so miserable and so hopeless; and the very thought of Bernard's presence there in the house caused hope and joy to spring up in her heart, and was like new life to her. She, therefore, took off her painting-apron, washed her hands, and went down to the sitting-room.
"Doris"--Bernard spoke very quietly, holding out his hand exactly as any other visitor might have done--"Doris, I have called to see you. It is very kind of you to come down. I--I will not detain you long."
"It is kind of you to call," said Doris, rather lamely, noticing all at once how thin and worn he looked, "and I haven't much time to spare, but I could not--could not refuse." Her voice trembled and broke; tears filled her eyes. It was hard, very hard to have to speak thus to one she still loved dearly.
"Oh, Doris," he cried, hope springing up in his heart by leaps and bounds at the sight of her downcast face, "Doris, darling, I cannot bear to see you looking so sad, and to know that you are alone here except for your friend----"
"She has left me!" interrupted Doris, crying now. "I am quite alone."
"Left you! You are alone! Oh, my darling!" He put his arms round her slim waist. "You are not alone! You need never be alone again, forIam here. Nay, don't send me away, dearest," he pleaded; "hear me, I beg. I love you, Doris. I love you with all my heart. The loss of my money--ah! forgive my mentioning it--it is as nothing to the grief of losing you. Ah, you don't know what I have suffered! Without you this world is to me a howling wilderness." He drew her to him. "Darling," he continued, low in her ear, "neversend me away again."
The girl was powerfully tempted to surrender her determination and submit her weaker will to his stronger one. Her inclination, her heart was on his side; but what she thought was duty, and her sense of right, held her frail bark to its moorings. She therefore drew herself away, and with a little gesture waved him back, and then, to make her position more secure, she feigned anger.
"Don't! Don't!" she exclaimed sharply. "You go too fast, Mr. Cameron, much too fast! What we might have been to each other in happier times, events have rendered impossible now. You know they have----"
"No, no, not impossible!" he cried.
"I say impossible," insisted Doris. "My father appropriated your fortune. He stole from you your birthright."
"What of that? I forget it. I have forgotten it."
"You think so now. In your magnanimity you choose to think so; but supposing I were to trust to that, and we were to marry, do you think you could live with me day by day, in poverty, remember--for we should be very poor--without remembering that my father--mine--stole from you all the money your father left you?"
"I shouldn't think of it, or, if I did, I would say to myself that you have, by giving me your hand"--he took hers in his as he spoke--"and promising to be my wife," he added, "righted the wrong, paid the debt, made me rich indeed with what is worth far more than money, yes, infinitely more." Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it.
"Don't!" She drew her hand away. "And there is another side to the question," she continued. "Could I be happy seeing you poor, and knowing what was the cause of it? Don't you think that daily, hourly, I should realise with pain that my father's crime was blighting your life?"
"Nonsense! Mine would be a poor life indeed, if the loss of money--mere money--could blight it!"
"It has a very stupefying effect on one to have no money," said Doris, with a little sigh, thinking of her past experience. "Don't you know the song--
Dollars and dimes! Dollars and dimes!To be without cash is the worst of crimes!
Dollars and dimes! Dollars and dimes!To be without cash is the worst of crimes!
Dollars and dimes! Dollars and dimes!
To be without cash is the worst of crimes!
It gets one into disgrace, anyway," she added.
"Poor child! I am afraid you have been hard up since----"
"Well," she interrupted, "it takes the courage out of one to have no money. You know that verse--
Whereunto is money good?Who has it not wants hardihood;Who has it has much trouble and care,Who does not have it has despair."
Whereunto is money good?Who has it not wants hardihood;Who has it has much trouble and care,Who does not have it has despair."
Whereunto is money good?
Who has it not wants hardihood;
Who has it not wants hardihood;
Who has it has much trouble and care,
Who does not have it has despair."
Who does not have it has despair."
"Ishall have despair if I have not you!" he declared, moodily.
"No, you will not. You will find some one else to love--some one who has heaps and heaps of money. Then you will marry--will marry her." Doris's voice shook a little, but she waved him back when he would have drawn her to him again. "You will marry a girl with lots of money," she continued, more firmly now. "That is what your mother wants you to do. It is your one chance, she says, of retrieving your fortune."
"Did she say that to you, Doris?" His voice was hoarse, he looked very pale.
"She did."
"And that caused you to send me that dreadful message?" he asked.
"What message?"
"That you would never,nevermarry me."
"Yes."
"Ah! I understand it now." He passed his hand wearily across his brow--"I understand. But I can't help it, and she is my mother!" Again he was silent, struggling to control himself. "Do you know," he said, "she turned me out of my home?"
"She did? Why?"
"Because I would not prosecute your father."
"Ah! You have not attempted to prosecute him?"
"Doris! Did you think that Icould?"
"Forgive me," she said. "But after your shrinking from me, as you did, when you heard what my father had done----"
"Shrinking from you! Shrinking! Surely you did not think that I could ever have done that?"
"But you did, Bernard. You did. It was that which broke my heart."
"My darling, you must be mistaken!"
"Indeed I am not. You shrank away from me. And then, your mother came and said those dreadful things--so I gave you up entirely, and I said that I would never marry you."
"But now that you know that I never intentionally shrank from you--and indeed I think that it must have been your fancy, darling--surely you will unsay those cruel words?"
Doris looked at him, at the love in his eyes, and his earnest face as he pleaded thus, and she softened considerably.
"I'll just tell you how it is, Bernard," she said, and now her tone was kinder, and there was a light in her blue eyes corresponding with the glow in his. "I'll just tell you how it is, Bernard, exactly. I feel that, because my father robbed you, I have had a share in the crime, and so I am going to work hard, in order to make you some little reparation--though of course I can never repay you all the money. Do you understand?" and she looked up earnestly into his face.
"To make some little reparation? To repay money? What do you mean?"
"Twenty-five thousand pounds is so large a sum!" she said. "I can only repay a small part of it. But I'm doing my best; I'm putting by four or five pounds a week, and I have already saved forty pounds. You can have that forty pounds now if you like. It's yours."
"Forty pounds! My dear Doris, what are you talking about?"
"I'm going to earn as much money as I possibly can for you, Bernard," said the girl firmly, "in order to repay you at least some of the money my father took from you."
"You earn money for me? Your little hands"--he looked down admiringly on them--"your little hands earn money for me?"
"Of course I must. It is my bounden duty. And I'm getting on splendidly as regards money: only they say, do you know, Bernard," and her tones were troubled, "they say that I ought not to earn it in the way I do. However," she broke off, and began again, "I mean to earn you a lot of money, that you may have part at least of that which is your very own."
"The idea!" he exclaimed; "the very idea of your earning money with these hands, these little hands," he repeated, "for me! Why, if only you would give me your hand in marriage, I should be more than repaid for all and everything?" He spoke eagerly.
"Bernard, I shall not marry you until I have done all that I possibly can to pay the debt."
In vain the young man protested, pleaded, and expostulated. Doris was firm: the utmost that she would concede was that he might visit her occasionally and see how she was getting on.
When that matter was quite settled she gave him some tea, and then explained to him about her work, which he was astonished to find so remunerative. He did not think it wrong of her to make those poor imitation oil-paintings. He said that people could not expect to obtain real oil-paintings for such small sums.
"You do not call them oil-paintings," he said, "you call them pictures; and if people think them oil-paintings that is their fault: it is because they are ignorant that they make the mistake. You are not answerable for that. The case of margarine and butter is different. It was because margarine used to be called butter that it was made illegal to sell it as such. Margarine is still sold, but it is called margarine."
"How very sensible you are, Bernard!" said Doris. "I wish----"
"What do you wish?" he asked earnestly, for he longed to serve her.
"I wish you would convince the artist, my friend Alice's brother, that he is wrong in thinking it so wicked to make those pictures and sell them."
"Does it matter what he thinks?" asked Bernard, full of a new alarm. "Is the man anything to you, Doris?"
"Anything to me? No, I have only seen him once."
"Yet you would like to stand high in his opinion?"
"Well, yes. There is something grand--heroic, about him. He would die for the truth. The man is made of the sort of stuff of which the old martyrs used to be made." Doris spoke with great enthusiasm.
Bernard's alarm increased by leaps and bounds. "Oh, Doris, darling, don't have anything to do with him!" he exclaimed passionately.
"Why not?" She looked startled. The flush which had risen to her face as she spoke so earnestly of Sinclair deepened into a very warm colour.
"Because I do not wish you to know him."
"Why not?" she repeated.
"My instinct tells me that he has impressed you strongly and that you think a great deal of him, and if you get to care for him, this hero whom you admire so much, you won't care for your poor Bernard any more!" He ended in doleful tones.
"You foolish boy!" Doris cried, with complete change of voice. "You know very well that although our engagement has been broken off and I have vowed that I will never, never marry you--that is, unless some of the debt is paid--I shall never love anybody in all the world as I love you," she ended with a little sob, and buried her face in her hands, lest he should see the tears which filled her eyes.
It was impossible for him to refrain from kissing her then; but she only suffered him to touch her hands, and then, starting up, waved him aside.
"No, no! You must not," she exclaimed. "I shall not go back on my word. I shall stick to my purpose. You may come to see me sometimes if you like, but I shall promise nothing."
He looked despairingly at her as she stood there, tall, erect, a very queen of beauty, with brilliantly coloured cheeks, shining blue eyes, and golden hair like an aureole above her small beautifully shaped head.
"Oh, my dear, you cannot earn money for me!" he cried; "I would never touch it.Dodismiss the idea from your mind! What I want isyou, to be my own darling wife. We might be ever so happy--even if we are poor."
"I don't want you to be poor, Bernard," she rejoined. "If you are it will be my father who has made you so, and I could not endure to see it. Now, don't let us waste time in arguing about that again. I shall continue my work here: for you have made it plain to me that it is all right. You may come to see me occasionally, as I said----"
"What do you think if I were to throw up my tutorship--it is badly paid--and come daily to assist you with your work? It would be awfully jolly working together, and I could see that your lads did their share, instead of wasting their time in chattering about what they do not understand."
But Doris would not hear of that arrangement being made. The work might do for her, but she revolted mentally from the idea of her Bernard pursuing a calling which the artist had declared to be so utterly and radically wrong: and it was like her inconsequent, girlish way of reasoning not to see that what was right for one was right for the other, andvice versa.
However, when Bernard went away, she felt ever so much happier than she did when he arrived. He loved her and she loved him: that was the chief thing; all else was of secondary consideration. He approved of, and saw no harm in her occupation--could he by any possibility see any harm in anything that she did?--and that was healing balm to her hurt, despondent feelings.
"He is very nice and sensible, is Bernard," she said to herself, last thing that night, as she laid her head on her pillow; "he is very different from poor Alice's despotic brother. Now, I like a man I can convince even against his will--and Bernard does love me in spite of everything." She fell asleep thinking about him, and dreamt that they were again in the Temperate House, looking at the chrysanthemums, and she was not trying to send him away as she did before, but, on the contrary, her hand rested within his arm, which held it tightly.
CHAPTER XV.
ANOTHER VISITOR FOR DORIS.
Shun evil, follow good, hold swayOver thyself. This is the way.SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
Shun evil, follow good, hold swayOver thyself. This is the way.SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
Shun evil, follow good, hold sway
Over thyself. This is the way.
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
After Bernard's visit and his approval of her work, Doris went on with it doggedly, disregarding all doubts that arose, and justifying her doings to herself by thinking of Bernard's opinion of the rightfulness of her occupation--exactly as men and women have sheltered themselves behind the views of others ever since the day when Adam screened himself behind his wife's, and she behind the serpent's.
The business prospered, so that the girl's little store of money increased, and she began to anticipate a not very distant time when there would be one hundred pounds saved wherewith to make her first payment to Bernard. She determined to begin by paying him one hundred pounds at once, and wondered if the time would ever come when she would have so much as one thousand pounds to hand over to him. The girl had a very brave spirit, but it was often daunted by the herculean task she had set herself.
One day, when she was very busy with her assistants in the garret, Mrs. Austin knocked at the door and asked her to be so good as to come outside to speak to her.
"That gentleman's come again," she said. "He who frightened away Miss Sinclair. It's you he's after now, I'm thinking. But oh, Miss Anderson, don't see him! He's got an awful look on his face, as if we kept a gambling-place at least! Don't see him! For, oh, my dear, you must live! What is to become of you if you give up such a good business as you have got? Remember what a hard world this is for those who have no money, and how difficult you found it to get dealers even to look at those genuine little paintings you took so much trouble over!"
"Mr. Sinclair might have saved himself the trouble, if he has come to try to persuade me to give up the business," said Doris, rather hotly. "I wonder what business it is of his, by the bye! No, I will not see him."
"Ah, forgive me, I followed your landlady upstairs! I beg a thousand pardons for the intrusion." The artist stood behind Mrs. Austin, towering above her. He spoke very humbly, but there was an air of determination, if not of censure, about him which displeased Doris.
"I am engaged," she said, shortly. "I was just sending you word that I could not see you."
"But I bring you a message from my sister," he observed, after a moment's pause. "Surely you will receive it?"
He looked at her as he spoke, and again Doris felt the dominating power of his strong will. She was vexed with herself for yielding, and yet could scarcely avoid it. Slowly and with reluctance the words fell from her lips, "I cannot hear it here," as she looked significantly at her assistants, who, busy though they appeared to be, were listening to what was being said; "we will go downstairs."
In the room below they stood and looked at each other--he tall, broad-shouldered, vigorous; she slim and slight, but beautiful as a dream. The girl did not ask him to be seated, nor did she look at the chair he offered her with a gesture which was almost compelling.
For a moment or two there was silence. Then Doris spoke.
"You have come between your sister and me," she said. "You have drawn her away and prevented my visiting her, and yet you have"--she paused--"condescended," she hazarded, "to bring me a message from her!"
"I have. Alice wants you to give up this--this business----"
"If that is all," interrupted Doris, hotly, "you might have saved yourself the trouble of coming here."
"Don't say that! Listen to me. No doubt you are angry because I come here, as I came before to express my disapproval of the whole affair. I feel it my duty to do so. It is a prostitution of Art--a robbery in her name----"
"Stay!" interrupted Doris, passionately. "I know what you think it, and I know also what I think of your speaking to me like this! You may lecture your sister and do what you please with her, but is it any business of yours--I mean, what right have you to come here to find fault withmywork? As I was saying to Mrs. Austin when you----"
"Intruded," he suggested, bitterly.
"Yes, intruded," she went on, with severity, "upstairs, it is no business of yours."
"I think it is," he said, more gently. "You are Alice's friend, and I do not wish my sister to associate intimately with one who----"
"If I am not fit for your sister's society----" began Doris, furiously.
"Don't you think it is a pity for us to quarrel in this way?" Mr. Sinclair said, in a calm manner. "Please sit down, and let us talk calmly and reasonably." He again waved his hand towards the chair which he had placed for her.
Doris sat down rather helplessly. How he dominated her! She felt as if she were a little child, who did not know what to say in the presence of a grown-up person.
"My sister is extremely attached to you," said the artist, his rich voice full of feeling and his grey eyes shining as they looked straight into Doris's, as if they would read her soul. "She thinks that no one in the world is like her friend. Nothing that one can say--I mean that one can do--that is, that can be done--has any power to shake her loyalty to you----"
"Ah! You have been trying to estrange her from me----"
"I will not deny your charge," said the other, "for there is some truth in it. I do not wish my sister to see much of one who, for money--mere money--is content to do that which is wrong. The love of money is the root of all evil."
"And you think," exclaimed Doris, "you thinkIlove money? You think that for money I am content to do wrong?"
"What else can I think?"
"You are exceedingly uncharitable," cried the girl, bitterly, "to beg the question in this way! Let me say that, in the first place, I do not love money. That I want to earn as much of it as possible is true; but I do not want the money for myself. It is to help to pay a debt, a debt of honour so large that it is not possible for me to pay it all; but if I can in time pay a few hundreds of pounds, I shall be very glad."
"A debt of honour! A few hundreds! My child, you cannot earn all that by such trashy work as this that you are doing!" In spite of himself, Norman regarded her with great admiration.
"The word cannot is not in my dictionary," said Doris, rather grandiloquently. "It must be done!"
"Impossible!" he ejaculated.
"And as for the work being wrong," continued Doris, "I do not know that it is wrong."
"Not know that it is wrong!" exclaimed the other. "When every one of your oil-paintings is a sin against truth. You know it; surely this must appeal to your honour!"
"I do notcallthem oil-paintings," said Doris, proceeding to repeat rapidly Bernard Cameron's arguments, and ending with the words, uttered very meaningly, "What is truth? We can but obey it as it appears to us. You judge of my pictures from such a different standpoint. They are untrue to all your canons of high art. But I know nothing comparatively of art: I only try to make pictures which will please people, and be worth the trifling sums of money they give for them. Such people could not see any beauty in great works of art; but they say, 'That's pretty! That's very pretty!' when they see mine."
The artist was silent. It was true. What beauty could Jack Hodge and his cousins Dick, Tom, and Harry, see in the Old Masters, or in the new ones either? Yet they were the people who paid their shillings, and even pounds for such pictures as this young girl provided for them.
"Believe me," continued Doris, "there is room in the world for workers of all sort. The birds cannot all be nightingales; the flowers are not all roses; and the human beings who entertain mankind are not all the best and highest of their kind. But there is a place for the homely sparrow, the little daisy, and the poor picture-maker to fill; and it is not--not generous of those more gifted to come and find fault with them!"
Her voice trembled and shook as she concluded; and, feeling that she was about to break down, she bowed slightly to her visitor and left the room.
Mr. Sinclair sprang up as if to stop her, yet did not do so. He opened his mouth to speak, yet no word fell from his lips, and so he allowed her to pass out.
"What a wonderful girl!" he muttered aloud, when she was gone, closing the door softly behind her. "I admire her exceedingly! And I have hurt her feelings! She has gone away to cry! What a stupid blunderer I am! How brutal of me to wound her so! I'm sure I'm very sorry. I'll write her a message." He looked round for pen, ink, and paper, and, having found some, wrote one line only:
"Forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Norman Sinclair."
Having folded the paper, he addressed it to Miss Anderson, and laid it conspicuously upon the table, and then very quietly left the house.