Chapter 7

CHAPTER XIX.A POWERFUL TEMPTATION.When shall this wonderful web be done!In a thousand years, perhaps, or one--Or to-morrow: who knoweth? Not you or I,But the wheels turn on and the shuttles fly.Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow,But each one is nearer the end, we know:And some day the last thread shall be woven in,God grant it be love, instead of sin!Then are we spinners of wool for this life-web--say?Do we furnish the weaver a web each day?It were better then, O kind friend, to spinA 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 amso 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,doyou 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 dieAll 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.[image]"'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 ismypromised 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 wrongIf 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 XIX.

A POWERFUL TEMPTATION.

When shall this wonderful web be done!In a thousand years, perhaps, or one--Or to-morrow: who knoweth? Not you or I,But the wheels turn on and the shuttles fly.Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow,But each one is nearer the end, we know:And some day the last thread shall be woven in,God grant it be love, instead of sin!Then are we spinners of wool for this life-web--say?Do we furnish the weaver a web each day?It were better then, O kind friend, to spinA beautiful thread--not a thread of sin.Anon.

When shall this wonderful web be done!In a thousand years, perhaps, or one--Or to-morrow: who knoweth? Not you or I,But the wheels turn on and the shuttles fly.

When shall this wonderful web be done!

In a thousand years, perhaps, or one--

Or to-morrow: who knoweth? Not you or I,

But the wheels turn on and the shuttles fly.

Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow,But each one is nearer the end, we know:And some day the last thread shall be woven in,God grant it be love, instead of sin!

Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow,

But each one is nearer the end, we know:

And some day the last thread shall be woven in,

God grant it be love, instead of sin!

Then are we spinners of wool for this life-web--say?Do we furnish the weaver a web each day?It were better then, O kind friend, to spinA beautiful thread--not a thread of sin.Anon.

Then are we spinners of wool for this life-web--say?

Do we furnish the weaver a web each day?

It were better then, O kind friend, to spin

A beautiful thread--not a thread of sin.Anon.

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 amso 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,doyou 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 dieAll 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!

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 dieAll 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!

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.

"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.

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.

[image]"'READ IT,' HE SAID, HANDING HER THE LETTER."

[image]

"'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,

"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.

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 ismypromised 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 wrongIf the heart be true and the love be strong'"--

"'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."

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