Chapter 8

CHAPTER XXIITOO LATE! TOO LATE!There is no disguise which can long conceal love when it does, or feign it when it does not exist.--LA ROCHEFOUCAULD."How strange it is to be rich!" cried Alice Sinclair, as she sat with Doris in a shelter by the sea at Hastings. "Itisdelightful!"Doris smiled, but her smile only seemed to enhance the sadness in the expression of her beautiful face, and she shivered slightly as she drew a fur-lined cloak more closely round her. "This is different from account-collecting," she said, looking at the fashionably dressed people sauntering by, and then allowing her eyes to rest upon the beauty of the sunlit waves before them."Yes, or making imitation oil-paintings either!" exclaimed Alice. "Who would have thought to see us, now, that we were two poor girls toiling in a London garret not long ago?""To feed a 'Lion' and pay a monstrous debt," said Doris, plaintively."And now our task is done," continued Alice, with cheerfulness. "The Lion is fed, and is roaring loudly in the Royal Academy: moreover, he has food enough for a lifetime. And as for you, your struggle with the hard cold world is ended, dear," and as she spoke she laid her hand on Doris's thin arm. "Are you not glad?" she asked a little wistfully, for the sadness of her friend was a great trouble to her."I try to be," answered Doris."Try to be?" Alice raised her eyebrows."Yes. I have to try, you know, for I don't feel able to rejoice about anything in these days." The tears came to Doris's eyes as she spoke, and her lips trembled."Poor dear! That is because you are out of health----""Sometimes I wish it was out of life," interrupted Doris wearily. For it was a dark hour with her, and, in her trouble in losing Bernard's love and having promised to marry a man for whom she had no affection, she had for the time being lost her usual happy faith in the golden thread of her Heavenly Father's love."Oh, Doris!" Alice was shocked. Things were even worse than she had feared."I cannot help it," returned Doris. "I am sad, and there is no denying it. Whichever way I look I see nothing but sadness--sadness in the past, in the present--and, God help me, in the future." Her tones were miserable."In the future with Norman? Oh, Doris, you cannotlovehim!" Alice's tones were full of distress."At least, I am not deceiving him. He knows what my feelings are.""Do you think he does--quite?" asked Alice, softly."Yes, quite. And he is content: he says the love will come in time--that he will win it.""I don't think he will," said Alice--they were talking in low tones which others could not hear, as they had the shelter to themselves--"love cannot be compelled. I don't know much about it myself," she added candidly; "no man has ever wanted to marry me, and I have never cared for any one so much as I care for Norman, but I have read about love in books, and I know it cannot be forced. You do not love Norman.""Alice," protested Doris, "you ought not to say that!""Listen, dear," said Alice, "in your innermost heart you know that I am right. I am only calling a spade a spade, and it isn't the least use to make a pretence of calling it anything else. You do not love Norman. Now, dear, hear me out,you do not love him at all. I was watching you this morning when you received that letter from him, and you looked infinitely bored. When he is over here you escape from his presence whenever you can, especially if I am not with you. You say that he is not being deceived, but does he realise what a wretched man he will be if he marries you when you are feeling like that? He is full of love and tenderness towards you, and you have not even the old liking for him and interest in his talk and doings which you had at first. You can, in fact, barely tolerate him now. Think, then, what it will be to have to live with him for years and years, until you are old and die----""Hush, dear! Perhaps I shall die soon." There was a peculiar sound in the poor girl's voice, and Alice, looking at her with searching eyes, could see that her heart was breaking, and that she would indeed die soon if she were not released from what was slowly killing her."The marriage must not take place," said Alice, firmly. "If not for your own sake, you must stop it for Norman's. Ifyourheart is breaking now,hiswill break after marriage, when he finds that he has only bought an empty shell without its kernel, a lovely woman without a heart which can return his love, a wife without the wifely qualities he craves. Poor old Norman! He deserves a better fate," and there was indignation in her tones."Yes," said Doris, "it is true. He deserves a better fate."They were silent for a few minutes after she had said that. The girls sat watching the sunlit sea dotted here and there with boats of various descriptions. They listened to the gentle lapping of the waves, the shouts and laughter of the children paddling on the beach, and the scraps of conversation from the passers-by. But mentally they were seeing very different scenes, and they were hearing, too, other more interesting words. Doris was thinking of Bernard, of the gradual growth of their love for each other, and his proposal upon the hill at Askern in Yorkshire, and, later on, his more mature declaration of love, in Mrs. Austin's house in North London. Alice, on the other hand, was thinking of her brother Norman, and of the pained expression of his face when Doris too manifestly avoided atête-à-têtewith him. If it were so now, what would it be when they were married? What prospect of happiness could there be for either of them?"Look! See who is coming towards us!" exclaimed Doris, suddenly. Her face had lighted up with a smile of singular beauty, and she was leaning forward the better to discern the features of a tall young man hurrying towards them through the promenaders on the front."Why, it is Mr. Cameron!" cried Alice, in great surprise. "What can he want here?"It was soon evident what he wanted, for he came straight up to Doris, exclaiming, "Ah, you are here! How are you?" His eyes sought hers, eagerly and with great wistfulness. "And how are you, Miss Sinclair," he added, holding out his hand to Alice; but his eyes went back to Doris. "They told me at 'The Queen's,'" he went on hurriedly, "that I should find you here, so I came straight along, looking in at every shelter.""We are very glad to see you," said Alice, rather gravely. Was it for the best, she wondered, for her brother and Doris, that the latter's first lover should return to claim her? She knew instinctively that it was for that purpose this very resolute young man had come. Perhaps, indeed, this would be the solution of the very unsatisfactory state of things she had been grieving over.Doris said nothing. She dared not bid Bernard welcome, but she could not feign displeasure at his persistency in following her there: it was impossible for her to simulate unconcern and coldness. She was glad to see him, and to know, by his very presence and the way in which he came to her, that she still possessed his love: a great weight was lifted from her heart, and a glow as of returning happiness crept through her frame, bringing the pretty colour into her cheeks, reddening her pale lips, and brightening the eyes which had shed so many tears.Alice, glancing at her, understood that Doris's happiness, perchance even her life itself, might depend upon her interview with Bernard at this fateful time. "He has her heart," thought Alice, "he may as well have her altogether: for Doris without a heart would make poor Norman as miserable as she would be herself." Therefore Alice said briskly:"I am glad you have come up, Mr. Cameron, for I want to do some shopping, and you can sit here with Miss Anderson whilst I am away. I did not like leaving her alone, but now I can go. You will be all right with Mr. Cameron, Doris, and I will return presently," and before they could make any coherent reply, she had set off, walking briskly away from the sea-front.Bernard gave one grateful look after her, then he quickly turned to Doris. "I may sit down," he said, "may I not? For I have much to say."Doris bowed. She could not speak, for hope and happiness had come to her, which she was vainly endeavouring to resist. Bernard was there, she had him all to herself; might she not for one half-hour give herself up to the happy present before she was made miserable for life?"Have you anything to say to me first?" asked Bernard, gently. She looked so frail that he determined to be very gentle with her, and he said to himself that he could not really believe that she was engaged to Norman Sinclair, unless she said it with her own lips.Doris could not speak. She endeavoured to do so, but in vain. It did not seem to her to be right to say what she wanted to tell him, and yet she could not utter the words that duty demanded. Therefore she remained silent."I have given her a chance to speak of her engagement to Sinclair, and she has not availed herself of it; therefore I will not believe she is engaged to him," said Bernard to himself; and then one of his hands stole under Doris's fur cloak and clasped hers warmly, as he cried in low yet earnest tones, "My darling, I have brought good news. I have had a legacy left me in part payment of my lost money."Doris uttered a cry of joy. "My father!" she exclaimed. "You have heard from him! He has sent you money! Oh, thank God! Where is father? Tell me quickly! And did he mention mother?" She spoke rapidly, in intense eagerness.Bernard was grieved to disappoint her; still, the truth had to be told, so he said quickly, "The money was not from your father. Mr. Hamilton, his co-trustee, has died and left me five thousand pounds in his will, he said, as some compensation for my lost money. Immediately I knew it I came to claim you, my dearest!" He drew the shrinking girl a little nearer. "I always said," he continued--"I always said that you and no other woman in the world should be my wife.""I cannot! Oh, I cannot!" The words were only just audible, but reached Bernard's ears at length."Cannot!" He looked at her with pained surprise. Being very sanguine and also very young, he had already, in the last few minutes, almost forgotten the unwelcome news of her having become engaged to Norman Sinclair, which he had heard in London, and which had hurried him to Hastings. "Cannot!" he repeated. "But you must, and you shall! I have been too poor and too ill to claim you for some time. Now, however, that that money has come to me, I have immediately hastened here, in order to claim the fulfilment of your promise made to me upon the hill at Askern Spa. Don't trifle with me, Doris," he added, with a little choke in his manly voice. "I have been through so very much that I cannot bear it.""I have, too," she faltered. "God knows what I have been through.""But that is ended," he said, quickly. "Thank God, that is all ended, and I have come now toclaim your promise?"I cannot marry you--I cannot," she repeated."Why cannot you?" he demanded."Oh, Bernard, do not try to question me. Dear Bernard," she looked up at him beseechingly, "be so very good as not to ask me that question. Take my answer, dear, and go away.""Go away! Doris, do you know what you are saying? I come to you in order to claim you for my own, and you tell me to go away.""Forgive me, dear," she said, weeping now and turning away her face so that he might not see her tears. "Forgive me, dear, and go.""I shall not. I cannot--I will not unless you say that you have ceased to love me.""I cannot say that, Bernard, for I love you," Doris answered, "and I know that I shall never love any other man as I love you." Then she tried to rise, as she ended miserably, "Nevertheless,I cannot marry you.""Sit still." He placed her on the seat again. "You say that you love me, and yet persist in saying you cannot marry me. I must know how that is. You must tell me, dear. I have a right to know."Slowly the words dropped from Doris's lips, "I cannot marry you, because I am engaged to Norman Sinclair.""Engaged to Norman Sinclair?" Bernard repeated indignantly. "Then it is true, that tale they told me in London. You--my promised wife--have engaged yourself to marry that man!""Yes, it--is--true," again the words dropped falteringly from the poor girl's lips. "But I could not help it, Bernard," she added, quickly. "I could not help it--I was obliged. You see, you did not write. There was nothing before me except starvation; and then Norman came to me with his offer, and I was tempted. Oh, Bernard!" she exclaimed, "why did you not write? I waited and waited for a letter so anxiously, especially after I had told you about Mr. Sinclair's offer. Oh, you might have written just one line!" She looked at him with reproach in her blue eyes."My dear girl, I did not receive that letter, or any at all from you after the first week of my return to Moss, although I wrote repeatedly. Some one has suppressed our letters, Doris!""Cruel! Cruel!" cried the girl, instantly suspecting who it was. "But how was it that, not hearing, you did not come to me in order to ascertain the reason? It is such a long, long time since you returned to Yorkshire, almost a year--and it seems more.""I have been so ill," replied Bernard sadly, "and when I recovered from my first illness, I caught chills and had bad relapses. I was not out of the doctor's hands during nine months, and my mother nursed me so devotedly. How could I suspect that at the same time she was grievously injuring you and me?""And then there was another thing," complained poor Doris. "I wrote to Susan, our old servant, you know, and asked her about you; whereupon she replied that I was to think no more about you, as she had heard on good authority that you were going to marry a young lady at Doncaster.""Oh, but you couldn't believe that, Doris? Surely you had more faith in my love!" exclaimed Bernard, reproachfully."What else could I believe when you never wrote and she said that?""Doris, I should not have believed it of you!" exclaimed Bernard, stopping short, with a little frown, as he remembered that she had become engaged to Norman Sinclair.Doris looked up miserably. "Circumstances were too much for me," she said, "and, forgive me--I thought that they had been too much for you.""Did you think I was so weak?" cried Bernard--"so weak," he repeated, "as not to be true to the only girl I have ever loved?""How was it," asked Doris, gently--"how was it that Susan could hear on good authority that you were going to marry a Doncaster lady?""Well, if you must know," said Bernard, "my mother set her heart on the match, and she was always having the girl over and trying to leave us together, and taking her with us everywhere, and she must have spread it about that we were engaged; so I daresay she told Susan the same thing.""Which would account for Susan's saying that she had the news on good authority," interposed Doris. "But tell me, was the girl rich? And did you like her?" and she looked searchingly at Bernard."Yes, she was very well off," he admitted, "and she was nice enough; but of course I did not love her, for I love you.""It's very,verysad," said Doris, the tears rising to her eyes as she spoke. "But, dear Bernard, there is nothing to be done. It is too late! Too late!""Oh, but it is not. You are not married yet. You will have to break with Sinclair.""I cannot. He is a good and honourable man, and he loves me. I cannot break my promise and make him miserable.""But your engagement was made upon false premises: you thought I was faithless, and I was not. Everything must be explained to Sinclair, and as a man of honour he will feel bound to release you."Doris shook her head. "I cannot make him miserable," she said.It was in vain Bernard argued and pleaded, he could get no concession at all from the poor distracted girl, who simply repeated in different words her one cry, "I cannot, dear, I cannot be your wife."The young man became angry, at length, at her unreasonableness, as he called it, declaring that she could not love him as much as he loved her, or she would not see such great difficulties in the way of their union; and when, upon his adding that he would see Mr. Sinclair and thrash the matter out with him, she said that she could not consent to that, he got quite out of patience with her, and, saying goodbye rather coldly, went away towards the railway station, with the intention of taking the next train for London.CHAPTER XXIII.ALICE SINCLAIR'S INTERVENTION.It never could be kind, dear, to give a needless pain:It never could be honest, dear, to sin for greed again,And there could not be a world, dear, while God is true above,When right and wrong are governed by any law but love.Anon.Bernard Cameron was hurrying along towards the station when he met Alice Sinclair.The girl looked immensely surprised to see him there, and immediately exclaimed:"What? You here, Mr. Cameron? Why, I left you in charge of Miss Anderson until I returned. I was on my way back, now," she added."I am off by the next train to town," said Bernard, in very injured tones. "I was a fool," he added, bitterly, "to come down here at all."Alice read the lines of distress and disappointment written upon his face, and was very patient with him."There isn't a train to London for at least an hour," she said, "and you must not think of going until you have had some tea. Let us return to Doris, and then we will go into the Creamery and have some tea.""I must beg you to excuse me," said Bernard, stiffly. "I have taken leave of Miss Anderson, and must now bid you good-bye." He held out his hand as he spoke.Alice perceived that he had been hard hit. "You must not leave me like this," she said, gently. "Mr. Cameron, I thought you and I were friends.""So we are. You have always been good to me, but----" He stopped short, and his eyes wandered in the direction of the station."It is no use thinking of starting to London yet. As I said, there is no train for fully an hour. Tell me," she regarded him very sympathisingly, "what is the matter? Have you and Doris quarrelled?"Bernard looked at her kind sympathising face and his resolution wavered. "Quarrelled is not the word," he said; adding, with an effort, "I should like to tell you all about it, Miss Sinclair, if I might.""I wish you would," said Alice, earnestly--it was one cause of her influence with others that she was always in earnest. "Come and let us walk up and down in Cambridge Gardens, where it is quiet. Then we can have a long talk."They turned into the less frequented street, and walked slowly along, whilst in low, rapid tones Bernard told Alice all his trouble, and especially the grievous fact that his and Doris's letters had been suppressed and kept from them for many months, finally ending by complaining bitterly of Doris's ultimatum."Doris must not marry your brother, Miss Sinclair." Bernard's tone was as decided and masterful as the artist's as he concluded with these words: "She must marry me. We loved each other long before your brother ever saw her, and we love each other still--and shall until death."It seemed to Alice, walking by Bernard's side and listening to his low, earnest voice, that no power on earth would be able to separate him from the girl he loved, and certainly Norman would not endeavour to do so. Norman was a man of honour, and when he learnt how the two lovers had been kept apart and separated by the wickedness of Mrs. Cameron, and after everything was explained to him he would release Doris from her engagement, no matter at what cost to himself.Alice tried to say something of this sort to Bernard, but he scarcely listened.He was glad of her for a confidante, but did not want to hear her views or listen to her advice, because in his own mind he had already solved the problem. And first, his thoughts, as was natural, returned to Doris, from whom he had parted in anger."All this time," he said, hastily, as if only then realising it, "Doris, whom I left in anger, must be in distress. She must be suffering intensely, for you know she is so very sensitive. I must therefore return to her at once, and must encourage her to hope that all will yet be well. If she will not throw Sinclair over----""Allow me to remark that you are speaking ofmy brother," interposed Alice."I beg your pardon," said Bernard, in remorseful tones, as he looked at the kind girl, whose colour had risen. "It was an awful shame for me to speak like that, but----" He broke off, and began again, "I thought we were agreed that she would have to give him up.""That is not the way to put it," said Alice. "My brother, who is really the soul of honour, will have to release Doris from her promise. He must do it--and will, when he knows everything.""Yes, of course. As I was saying, if Doris will not--I beg your pardon, as she cannot in honour release herself, I shall go to Sinclair and tell him that it will be most dishonourable of him if he does not release her from her engagement----""That won't do!" exclaimed Alice; "that won't do at all. If you go to Norman in that spirit you will soon be outside his door again. My brother is a bit of a lion, you know, in more senses than one. He might listen to any one speaking very courteously, but if a bear comes in and tries to get his bone, oh! therewillbe a pandemonium!""Well, he must be told----""I will tell him," said Alice. "I will go to London to-morrow, and will see him and explain everything to him. It will not be a very pleasant task--it will pain me very much to make my brother unhappy, but I will do it for dear Doris and for you.""It is very,verygood of you," said Bernard, gratefully, "to say that you will go and explain everything to your brother. Perhaps you will be able to do it in a nicer way than I could."Alice smiled. She certainly thought that was possible. "Norman is very good," she said. "I am sure he will release Doris, but it will be a dreadful sorrow to him, for he loves her very much.""I am sure of that. Though he shouldn't have come poaching in my preserves!"The last words were uttered so low that he did not intend Alice to hear them. But the girl heard, and instantly retorted:"You forget that was the fault of the person who kept back Doris's letters and yours, causing her to think that you no longer loved her; so that naturally both she and Norman concluded that she was free to marry whom she pleased.""Yes, of course. You are right. I beg your pardon for forgetting that," said Bernard, penitently."Now we will return to Doris together, and after we have explained to her how matters stand, we will go and have some tea at the Creamery in Robertson Street. Afterwards----"Alice paused, looking wistfully at him."I will keep out of her way until you return from London," Bernard said, understanding that he ought not to proceed further until Norman had freed Doris from her engagement to him.CHAPTER XXIV.NORMAN SINCLAIR'S LETTER.Not only those above us on the height,With love and praise and reverence I greet:Not only those who walk in paths of lightWith glad, untiring feet:These, too, I reverence toiling up the slope,And resting not upon their rugged way,Who plant their feet on faith and cling to hope,And climb as best they may.And even these I praise, who, being weak,Were led by folly into deep disgrace:Now striving on a pathway rough and bleak,To gain a higher place.* * * * *Oh! struggling souls, be brave and full of cheer,Nor let your holy purpose swerve, or break!The way grows smoother and the light more clearAt every step you take.Lo! in the upward path God's boundless loveSupports you evermore upon your way:You cannot fail to reach the heights aboveWho climb as best you may!EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD.Doris sat alone in the shelter, after Bernard had left her, in a state of unhappiness so great that she could not even weep."All is over between us," she sighed, "and Bernard has gone away in anger. How wretched it is! Nothing could be more wretched! Nothing! I am the most unfortunate girl in all the world!" And she sat with her pale face turned towards the sunlit waves, watching them and yet in reality seeing nothing except her own utter misery. What had become of all her prayers, she wondered--the prayers which she had poured out to her Heavenly Father from a sorrow-laden heart?He had saved her from starvation, and placed her in a position of great temporal prosperity; yes, but what about her previous many, many prayers for Bernard, for their mutual reconciliation and union when a part at least of the debt was paid, and for the happy and useful married life which they had once planned together on the hill at Askern, and for which she had so often longed and prayed?"I have done my best," thought Doris, "and have tried to serve God all the while. The thought of Him was ever in my heart, and I gave up my prosperous little business--all that I had--in obedience to His Voice, speaking to me through Norman's words and my own conceptions of what I ought to do. I cast my all into His treasury: and all the time--every day--I prayed for Bernard--and for our future together--until--until I was led by circumstances to believe that he did not love me. And since then--since then everything has gone wrong, and I seem to have lost hope and faith in God and man."She was in despair. It was the darkest hour of all her sorrowful young life, and she could see no gleam of light in any direction.How long she sat thus she never knew, but it seemed an immense time before she heard the cheerful voice of Alice behind her saying brightly, "Doris! Doris darling, we have brought you good news!""There is no good news for me," answered Doris, without turning her head, and the two who loved her were aghast at the hopelessness of her tones."Doris!" exclaimed Bernard, "I have returned, in order to bring you the glad news that there is hope for us, and help, for Miss Sinclair is going to be our good angel and is going to save the situation.""How? What? I don't understand," said Doris, turning to look at them in relief and surprise. "Do explain, please," she added, tremulously, feeling quite unable to bear any more suspense.Sitting down beside her, they hastened to tell everything, and then to combat her conscientious objections to Alice's proposed arbitration, as it seemed to her, at first, that it was scarcely right for Alice to persuade her brother to release hisfiancée."I shall not persuade him," replied Alice, "I shall simply tell him the facts of the case, and leave him to act as it seems right to him. But I will tell you this, Doris," she added, "I know dear old Norman will at once release you from your engagement."Then Alice carried them off to the Creamery, and, after they had partaken of a charming little tea, she invited Bernard to meet her at the Warrior Square Station at five o'clock on the following day, when she expected to be back from London, in order that she might tell him first what her brother decided. When that matter was settled to every one's satisfaction, Bernard took leave of the girls and went away, to pass the time as best he could until Norman Sinclair's ultimatum was received.* * * * *The following evening, as Doris sat in one of the large balconies of the Queen's Hotel, enjoying the fine air, the pleasing sea view, and most of all the delightful hope that all might yet be well, Alice, who had been to London, and Bernard, who had met her at the station, came to her there."All is well," said Alice, "as I knew it would be. Doris," she took the girl's thin hand in hers, and placed it gently within Bernard's, "Norman has sent you your freedom. You can marry Bernard now as soon as you like, and Norman hopes you will be very happy. He has sent you a letter, dear," she said in conclusion, putting one into Doris's hand.Doris swayed in her chair. She could not even see the letter for the tears which filled her eyes.Alice, too, began to cry, and Bernard had to clear his voice two or three times before he could speak."I am afraid I was a little rough on your brother, Miss Sinclair," he said at length. "He is indeed a man of honour. I am sure I beg to withdraw all that I have said against him, and to apologise for my hot words. I hope that you will tell him how grateful we are when you see him.""I'm afraid I shall not see him for a very long time," answered Alice; "he is going abroad alone." She looked deeply pained. "He wishes me to stay with Doris and see after her getting married." She said the last words more cheerfully, for, being a woman, the idea of a wedding was pleasant."There won't be much to see about in my wedding," said Doris, with a smile, "for I shall have to do without a trousseau and without a good many things, because I am not taking Bernard any money. You will have a poor bride, Bernard.""I shall not! You will be the very best bride that ever a man could have!" he cried, rapturously.Then Alice went away, and left them together. Later on in the evening, when Doris was alone, she opened Norman's letter, which was as follows:"DEAR DORIS,"I give you back your promise to marry me. I am sorry for the mistakes which have been made and the suffering through which you have passed, and trust that your future life with Mr. Cameron may be all joy and gladness."You will, I am sure, do me the justice to believe that had I known he was true to you I should not have tried to induce you to become engaged to me, however much I loved and esteemed you."Yours very faithfully,"NORMAN SINCLAIR."Doris shed tears over the letter, for she knew that, reticent though the writer was about his own feelings, she must have made him exceedingly unhappy.And when Doris thanked God that night before she slept that He had heard her prayers, and that He had mercifully given her her heart's desire, she prayed, also, for Norman Sinclair that he might be comforted and blessed exceedingly.CHAPTER XXV.A HAPPY WEDDING.Never to part till angels call us home.Song, "Golden Love."The span of life's not long enough,Nor deep enough the sea,Nor broad enough this weary worldTo part my love from me.Anon.So they were wed, and merrily rang the bells,Merrily rang the bells when they were wed.LONGFELLOW."After all, Doris," said Alice, the next morning, "you will have a trousseau, and a very pretty one, too. For I am going to buy it for you. Yes, indeed, it is to be my wedding present.""I don't know how to thank you," said Doris."Then don't try. Pay me the compliment of accepting what I have much pleasure in giving."Doris rose, and, throwing her arms round her friend's neck, gave her a hug."How soon do you intend to be married?" asked Alice, presently."In three weeks. There is no reason for delay.""Of course not. The sooner the better. Where shall you be married?" asked Alice, a shadow falling across her face at the thought that she could scarcely take her friend home to be married from Norman's house."Oh, here, in this dear place, where my happiness has come to me!" said Doris."Here? At Hastings? From this hotel?""Yes, why not? I am sure the Vicar of All Saints, whose church I have attended, will marry us.""Oh, I don't doubt that! Yes, of course you shall be married here.""There's only one thing," said Doris. "The Austins are not here. And I must have dear Mrs. Austin, and her good son Sam, at my wedding.""Send for them all," interposed Bernard, entering the room and overhearing her last remark. He had been for a bathe, and was looking well and happy. There is no greater restorative for body and mind than happiness."Send for them?" said Doris. "Oh, but I don't think they will come if we send for them. I think I shall have to go and see Mrs. Austin, and arrange with her about their coming down.""You're not strong enough to take all that trouble," said Bernard. "It will take you all your time until our wedding-day"--he spoke with joy and pride--"to recover sufficiently for it and for our little tour afterwards.""We'll not go far," said Doris. "Why should we go far," she laughed happily, "when we have found each other?""Why indeed? Supposing we go to the Isle of Wight, will that do?""Yes, charmingly. I have never been there. But, Bernard, I must go to see dear old Mrs. Austin and invite her to the wedding.""Cannot you write to her?""No, a letter will not do. Think how good she was to me when I was penniless and a stranger in London! Can I ever forget how she received me into her house, and trusted me to repay her as I could? And then she gave me her late son's painting materials, and tried to make me believe I should succeed as an artist,--and, afterwards, when that had failed, she comforted and encouraged me, and got her nephew to find me work, and, later, interested Alice in employing me; and then afterwards, when I gave up the business and became poor again, she stood by me, trusting and caring for me more lovingly than ever. Bernard, if there is one friend in all the world whom we ought to value and esteem next to the Sinclairs it is Mrs. Austin, and, next to her is Sam Austin, the cabman.""What did he do?" asked Bernard, though indeed he partly knew."He saved me from despair that first night, when, on coming to London by the night train, I found my godmother, Miss Earnshaw, had died, and that I was alone in the great metropolis, with only a few shillings in my pocket, and no claim upon any one in all the vast city. He took me to his mother, and persuaded her to receive me into her house; and then, afterwards, when I had made my first little water-colour sketches, he drove me round to the dealers in his cab, and would take no payment then, nor afterwards, until I was earning a lot of money, and then compelled him to do so.""He shall come to our wedding, too," said Bernard. "They shall both be our honoured guests.""Oh, thank you! Thank you!""And I'll tell you what we will do, darling. We will give them a wedding-present, yes, we will!""Oh, thank you!""Nay, you must not thank me, dear! It is you who will invite the wedding guests, that is always the prerogative of the bride. I will pay their expenses, if you will allow me.""Thank you, I will," said Doris, gladly."Shall we go up to town to invite her?" said Bernard, tentatively."I should like to do so," said Doris."But----""Wouldn't it be too tiring for you?" said Alice. "Otherwise," she added, "I should like to go up to shop with you in Bond Street.""And I," said Bernard, "should like to go over to Richmond on business. The fact is, I have heard that the school in which I used to work is for sale, and I rather think of buying it. When I was a poor assistant there I used to think what a future it might have if it were more efficiently managed. How would you like to live on Richmond Hill, Doris?""Near the Terrace, with the loveliest view of the Thames to be seen anywhere! Oh, Bernard, how charming that would be!""Well, I'll go and look after the school, if you like; and if you come, too, we can see the Austins while we are in town and invite them to our wedding."In about a week Doris was strong enough for this arrangement to be carried out. She and Bernard, accompanied by Alice as far as Victoria, where they separated, went to London for the day, and after going to Richmond, where negotiations were commenced for the purchase of Bernard's former school and the head master's house, they went on to King's Cross in order to see Mrs. Austin.The good woman was delighted to see them together, apparently on such intimate terms."Miss Doris!" she cried. "And Mr. Cameron! And both looking so happy! So very happy," she repeated. "Don't tell me anything, I know it all. There'll be a wedding. I saw it in the fire last night. Come in. Come in."They followed her into her little room, which seemed to Doris to be smaller and dingier than ever after the great rooms to which she was accustomed."Oh, Mrs. Austin, I am so happy!" she cried."It's Mr. Right this time, and no mistake!" exclaimed the good woman. "Between you and me, miss," she added aside, "I didn't want you to marry that other gentleman. Miss Sinclair was a dear, sweet lady, but the brother was so upsetting!""He has been very, very kind to me," said Doris, "and to Mr. Cameron, too. He has been a very good friend to us.""Has he, miss? Well, I'm glad to hear it, but----" she broke off, and began again, "Give me Mr. Cameron, for a fine, pleasant-speaking, right-living gentleman!" she declared.Doris laughed, and her eyes rested on Bernard with loving pride. "Do you know, Mrs. Austin," she said, "I was engaged to him before I came to London at all--only unfortunately our engagement had been cruelly broken off.""Indeed, miss! Ah, I could see you were in deep sorrow when you came to me. If you had seen her then, Mr. Cameron," and she turned to Bernard, "you would have been sorry. She was that white, and there was such a stricken look upon her poor, dear face. And yet, for all she was in such trouble, she did me good; so that I thanked God for sending her here.""She does me good, too," said Bernard. "That's why I love her.""Ah, he's one of the right sort!" exclaimed Mrs. Austin to Doris."Yes,Ithink so," said Doris, laughing merrily.Mrs. Austin looked wonderingly at her."I never heard you laugh like that before, Miss Anderson," she exclaimed.Presently the widow's two visitors sat at tea in the little parlour."And how are you getting on, Mrs. Austin?" asked Doris, presently. "You say so little about yourself.""Well, miss, this is such a joyful occasion I don't like to spoil it----""Oh, then, I'm afraid you are not doing well?" said Doris, sympathisingly.Tears came into the widow's eyes; but she dashed them off with a corner of her apron, and tried to smile, as she answered, "I have a lodger in my front rooms, and a young shop-girl rents my attic; but--but----" and she broke down, weeping bitterly.Doris and Bernard tried to comfort her, and at length ascertained, with some difficulty, that the cause of her distress was that her landlord had given her notice to leave the house."And I've lived in it all my life," she said. "I was born in it and brought up here: my dear mother lived with me here till she died, and when my husband made me an offer of marriage I said, 'Yes, if you'll come and live in my dear home.' And he did, and was so good to my mother--as good as good could be--always taking off his boots before he went upstairs on the stair carpets, and always lighting the kitchen-fire and making me a cup of tea before he went to his work, till he fell ill of his last illness. He died in the front sitting-room. I had the bed brought down there for him. And there was my Silas, he was born in my front bedroom; and he used to paint his lovely pictures, as you know, miss, in the attic; and he lay down and died, as sweet and calmly as a child, in the back bedroom, 'Going Home,' he said, 'to the Great Artist, Who will put in the finishing touches to the work that He has made.' I couldn't bear to leave this house, with all its memories! It will kill me--I know it will! And my Sam feels almost as bad. 'I shall never drive down this road, mother,' he says, 'when the old home isn't yours.'" Mrs. Austin stopped at last for want of breath."But why does the landlord want to turn you out?" asked Bernard. "You must be such good tenants.""Mrs. Austin is," said Doris. "She pays her rent regularly.""Yes, miss. I've always paid it to the day, though I have been rather hard put to sometimes, when my lodgers haven't paid up. It's not for want of the rent that the landlord gives notice. It's because he's selling a lot of his houses to a man who wants them for his own workpeople, and therefore must have them emptied." The widow's tears flowed again."Don't cry, Mrs. Austin dear!" said Doris, rising and putting her arms round the good woman's neck, while she kissed her kind old face."You shall not be turned out," said Bernard; "I will see your landlord, and buy the house, if I can. Then you shall not be turned out.""But, sir, it will cost you a lot!""It will be an investment, and I shall have a good tenant. You know, Doris," he added, turning to her, "I must not put all the money into the school."Having asked the landlord's name and address, Bernard left Doris resting in Mrs. Austin's sitting-room, and departed to transact the business, which he was able to do satisfactorily, as the landlord happened to be in a hurry to sell."I have bought the house for three hundred and fifty pounds," Bernard announced, on his return to Doris. "You tell Mrs. Austin, dear," he added.So it was Doris who had the pleasure of telling the good woman that Mr. Cameron had bought her house, and so she would be able to remain in it as long as she lived."Thank God! Thank God! That is all I want. And you shall have your rent regularly, sir," said the widow."You shall never be asked for it," said Bernard. "When you have the money to spare you can pay it, and when you have not any to hand over, nothing shall be said.""You are too good, sir," began Mrs. Austin. But Doris interrupted:"He is only treating you as you treated me," she said. "When I could not pay you, dear Mrs. Austin, you always let it pass over, and forgave me the debt.""But you have paid everything now, miss." (Through the Sinclairs' kindness Doris had been able to do this.)"I can never repay you for all your exceeding kindness," cried the girl; adding, "And I am delighted that we can enable you to remain in your comfortable home."Mrs. Austin was overjoyed. She shed tears again, not for sorrow now, but for joy. "How little I knew when I took you in, Miss Anderson," she said, "that I should be entertaining an angel unawares!"Then Doris asked Mrs. Austin if she would come to Hastings with her son, in order to be present at the wedding, and this the widow joyfully consented to do, saying:"I would go further than that, miss, to see you married, and so would my Sam. We'll come to your wedding, if we have to walk every inch of the way.""That's right," said Bernard; "that's the right spirit! But you will have to allow me to pay your fare, for you might not arrive in time if you walk the sixty miles or so to Hastings, and I shall be only too pleased to pay your fare."Doris wanted to see Sam, but he was away with his cab, and therefore she could only leave a message for him.She was exceedingly happy as she returned to Hastings with Bernard in a luxurious corridor-train--so happy, indeed, that she felt at peace with all the world, and therefore ventured to suggest:"Couldn't we have your mother to our wedding, too, Bernard?"The young man's face darkened, and his voice shook as he answered, "No, I think not. I--Icouldnot.""We shall have to forgive her, dear," pleaded Doris."Yes--in time. You must give me time, dear." Bernard was silent for several minutes after that, and then he said abruptly, "We will go to see her after we are married.""Yes, dear," acquiesced Doris; "I should like that."The day came quickly which was to make them man and wife.Theirs was a pretty wedding, although the wedding guests were only two, and they were not of the same rank in life as the handsome bridegroom and the beautiful bride, supported by her friends, and bridesmaid, dressed like herself in costly silk and lace. Doris was in white, and Alice in creamy yellow, whilst Bernard, of course, was in immaculate attire, his good-looking young face lit up with love and joy and thankfulness to God."Bless them! God bless them!" exclaimed good Mrs. Austin as the young couple left the vestry, where Doris had signed her maiden name for the last time."Amen," said Sam, "and may they live long happy years!"Sam had only one regret about the wedding, and that was that he could not bring his cab down to be used on the occasion. "I should like to have driven them to church in it," he confided to his mother. "It would have been a sort of finish to the two rides I gave Miss Anderson in it. First when I drove her to Earl's Court Square, and then home to you when she was in such distress, and afterwards when I drove her round to see those skin-flinty old picture-dealers about selling her pictures."But now the bride and bridegroom had to be met, congratulated, and wished all sorts of happiness."Thank you! Thank you!" said Doris, shaking hands with Sam, and lifting up her glad young face to kiss his mother, while Bernard shook hands warmly with them both, thanking them for himself and his bride.Later in the day Alice drove with Bernard and Doris to the station to see them off in the train for Portsmouth, as they were going to the Isle of Wight for their honeymoon.Doris clung to her a little at the last. "I don't know how to thank you, Alice," she said; "you have been like a dear sister to me."

CHAPTER XXII

TOO LATE! TOO LATE!

There is no disguise which can long conceal love when it does, or feign it when it does not exist.--LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.

"How strange it is to be rich!" cried Alice Sinclair, as she sat with Doris in a shelter by the sea at Hastings. "Itisdelightful!"

Doris smiled, but her smile only seemed to enhance the sadness in the expression of her beautiful face, and she shivered slightly as she drew a fur-lined cloak more closely round her. "This is different from account-collecting," she said, looking at the fashionably dressed people sauntering by, and then allowing her eyes to rest upon the beauty of the sunlit waves before them.

"Yes, or making imitation oil-paintings either!" exclaimed Alice. "Who would have thought to see us, now, that we were two poor girls toiling in a London garret not long ago?"

"To feed a 'Lion' and pay a monstrous debt," said Doris, plaintively.

"And now our task is done," continued Alice, with cheerfulness. "The Lion is fed, and is roaring loudly in the Royal Academy: moreover, he has food enough for a lifetime. And as for you, your struggle with the hard cold world is ended, dear," and as she spoke she laid her hand on Doris's thin arm. "Are you not glad?" she asked a little wistfully, for the sadness of her friend was a great trouble to her.

"I try to be," answered Doris.

"Try to be?" Alice raised her eyebrows.

"Yes. I have to try, you know, for I don't feel able to rejoice about anything in these days." The tears came to Doris's eyes as she spoke, and her lips trembled.

"Poor dear! That is because you are out of health----"

"Sometimes I wish it was out of life," interrupted Doris wearily. For it was a dark hour with her, and, in her trouble in losing Bernard's love and having promised to marry a man for whom she had no affection, she had for the time being lost her usual happy faith in the golden thread of her Heavenly Father's love.

"Oh, Doris!" Alice was shocked. Things were even worse than she had feared.

"I cannot help it," returned Doris. "I am sad, and there is no denying it. Whichever way I look I see nothing but sadness--sadness in the past, in the present--and, God help me, in the future." Her tones were miserable.

"In the future with Norman? Oh, Doris, you cannotlovehim!" Alice's tones were full of distress.

"At least, I am not deceiving him. He knows what my feelings are."

"Do you think he does--quite?" asked Alice, softly.

"Yes, quite. And he is content: he says the love will come in time--that he will win it."

"I don't think he will," said Alice--they were talking in low tones which others could not hear, as they had the shelter to themselves--"love cannot be compelled. I don't know much about it myself," she added candidly; "no man has ever wanted to marry me, and I have never cared for any one so much as I care for Norman, but I have read about love in books, and I know it cannot be forced. You do not love Norman."

"Alice," protested Doris, "you ought not to say that!"

"Listen, dear," said Alice, "in your innermost heart you know that I am right. I am only calling a spade a spade, and it isn't the least use to make a pretence of calling it anything else. You do not love Norman. Now, dear, hear me out,you do not love him at all. I was watching you this morning when you received that letter from him, and you looked infinitely bored. When he is over here you escape from his presence whenever you can, especially if I am not with you. You say that he is not being deceived, but does he realise what a wretched man he will be if he marries you when you are feeling like that? He is full of love and tenderness towards you, and you have not even the old liking for him and interest in his talk and doings which you had at first. You can, in fact, barely tolerate him now. Think, then, what it will be to have to live with him for years and years, until you are old and die----"

"Hush, dear! Perhaps I shall die soon." There was a peculiar sound in the poor girl's voice, and Alice, looking at her with searching eyes, could see that her heart was breaking, and that she would indeed die soon if she were not released from what was slowly killing her.

"The marriage must not take place," said Alice, firmly. "If not for your own sake, you must stop it for Norman's. Ifyourheart is breaking now,hiswill break after marriage, when he finds that he has only bought an empty shell without its kernel, a lovely woman without a heart which can return his love, a wife without the wifely qualities he craves. Poor old Norman! He deserves a better fate," and there was indignation in her tones.

"Yes," said Doris, "it is true. He deserves a better fate."

They were silent for a few minutes after she had said that. The girls sat watching the sunlit sea dotted here and there with boats of various descriptions. They listened to the gentle lapping of the waves, the shouts and laughter of the children paddling on the beach, and the scraps of conversation from the passers-by. But mentally they were seeing very different scenes, and they were hearing, too, other more interesting words. Doris was thinking of Bernard, of the gradual growth of their love for each other, and his proposal upon the hill at Askern in Yorkshire, and, later on, his more mature declaration of love, in Mrs. Austin's house in North London. Alice, on the other hand, was thinking of her brother Norman, and of the pained expression of his face when Doris too manifestly avoided atête-à-têtewith him. If it were so now, what would it be when they were married? What prospect of happiness could there be for either of them?

"Look! See who is coming towards us!" exclaimed Doris, suddenly. Her face had lighted up with a smile of singular beauty, and she was leaning forward the better to discern the features of a tall young man hurrying towards them through the promenaders on the front.

"Why, it is Mr. Cameron!" cried Alice, in great surprise. "What can he want here?"

It was soon evident what he wanted, for he came straight up to Doris, exclaiming, "Ah, you are here! How are you?" His eyes sought hers, eagerly and with great wistfulness. "And how are you, Miss Sinclair," he added, holding out his hand to Alice; but his eyes went back to Doris. "They told me at 'The Queen's,'" he went on hurriedly, "that I should find you here, so I came straight along, looking in at every shelter."

"We are very glad to see you," said Alice, rather gravely. Was it for the best, she wondered, for her brother and Doris, that the latter's first lover should return to claim her? She knew instinctively that it was for that purpose this very resolute young man had come. Perhaps, indeed, this would be the solution of the very unsatisfactory state of things she had been grieving over.

Doris said nothing. She dared not bid Bernard welcome, but she could not feign displeasure at his persistency in following her there: it was impossible for her to simulate unconcern and coldness. She was glad to see him, and to know, by his very presence and the way in which he came to her, that she still possessed his love: a great weight was lifted from her heart, and a glow as of returning happiness crept through her frame, bringing the pretty colour into her cheeks, reddening her pale lips, and brightening the eyes which had shed so many tears.

Alice, glancing at her, understood that Doris's happiness, perchance even her life itself, might depend upon her interview with Bernard at this fateful time. "He has her heart," thought Alice, "he may as well have her altogether: for Doris without a heart would make poor Norman as miserable as she would be herself." Therefore Alice said briskly:

"I am glad you have come up, Mr. Cameron, for I want to do some shopping, and you can sit here with Miss Anderson whilst I am away. I did not like leaving her alone, but now I can go. You will be all right with Mr. Cameron, Doris, and I will return presently," and before they could make any coherent reply, she had set off, walking briskly away from the sea-front.

Bernard gave one grateful look after her, then he quickly turned to Doris. "I may sit down," he said, "may I not? For I have much to say."

Doris bowed. She could not speak, for hope and happiness had come to her, which she was vainly endeavouring to resist. Bernard was there, she had him all to herself; might she not for one half-hour give herself up to the happy present before she was made miserable for life?

"Have you anything to say to me first?" asked Bernard, gently. She looked so frail that he determined to be very gentle with her, and he said to himself that he could not really believe that she was engaged to Norman Sinclair, unless she said it with her own lips.

Doris could not speak. She endeavoured to do so, but in vain. It did not seem to her to be right to say what she wanted to tell him, and yet she could not utter the words that duty demanded. Therefore she remained silent.

"I have given her a chance to speak of her engagement to Sinclair, and she has not availed herself of it; therefore I will not believe she is engaged to him," said Bernard to himself; and then one of his hands stole under Doris's fur cloak and clasped hers warmly, as he cried in low yet earnest tones, "My darling, I have brought good news. I have had a legacy left me in part payment of my lost money."

Doris uttered a cry of joy. "My father!" she exclaimed. "You have heard from him! He has sent you money! Oh, thank God! Where is father? Tell me quickly! And did he mention mother?" She spoke rapidly, in intense eagerness.

Bernard was grieved to disappoint her; still, the truth had to be told, so he said quickly, "The money was not from your father. Mr. Hamilton, his co-trustee, has died and left me five thousand pounds in his will, he said, as some compensation for my lost money. Immediately I knew it I came to claim you, my dearest!" He drew the shrinking girl a little nearer. "I always said," he continued--"I always said that you and no other woman in the world should be my wife."

"I cannot! Oh, I cannot!" The words were only just audible, but reached Bernard's ears at length.

"Cannot!" He looked at her with pained surprise. Being very sanguine and also very young, he had already, in the last few minutes, almost forgotten the unwelcome news of her having become engaged to Norman Sinclair, which he had heard in London, and which had hurried him to Hastings. "Cannot!" he repeated. "But you must, and you shall! I have been too poor and too ill to claim you for some time. Now, however, that that money has come to me, I have immediately hastened here, in order to claim the fulfilment of your promise made to me upon the hill at Askern Spa. Don't trifle with me, Doris," he added, with a little choke in his manly voice. "I have been through so very much that I cannot bear it."

"I have, too," she faltered. "God knows what I have been through."

"But that is ended," he said, quickly. "Thank God, that is all ended, and I have come now toclaim your promise?

"I cannot marry you--I cannot," she repeated.

"Why cannot you?" he demanded.

"Oh, Bernard, do not try to question me. Dear Bernard," she looked up at him beseechingly, "be so very good as not to ask me that question. Take my answer, dear, and go away."

"Go away! Doris, do you know what you are saying? I come to you in order to claim you for my own, and you tell me to go away."

"Forgive me, dear," she said, weeping now and turning away her face so that he might not see her tears. "Forgive me, dear, and go."

"I shall not. I cannot--I will not unless you say that you have ceased to love me."

"I cannot say that, Bernard, for I love you," Doris answered, "and I know that I shall never love any other man as I love you." Then she tried to rise, as she ended miserably, "Nevertheless,I cannot marry you."

"Sit still." He placed her on the seat again. "You say that you love me, and yet persist in saying you cannot marry me. I must know how that is. You must tell me, dear. I have a right to know."

Slowly the words dropped from Doris's lips, "I cannot marry you, because I am engaged to Norman Sinclair."

"Engaged to Norman Sinclair?" Bernard repeated indignantly. "Then it is true, that tale they told me in London. You--my promised wife--have engaged yourself to marry that man!"

"Yes, it--is--true," again the words dropped falteringly from the poor girl's lips. "But I could not help it, Bernard," she added, quickly. "I could not help it--I was obliged. You see, you did not write. There was nothing before me except starvation; and then Norman came to me with his offer, and I was tempted. Oh, Bernard!" she exclaimed, "why did you not write? I waited and waited for a letter so anxiously, especially after I had told you about Mr. Sinclair's offer. Oh, you might have written just one line!" She looked at him with reproach in her blue eyes.

"My dear girl, I did not receive that letter, or any at all from you after the first week of my return to Moss, although I wrote repeatedly. Some one has suppressed our letters, Doris!"

"Cruel! Cruel!" cried the girl, instantly suspecting who it was. "But how was it that, not hearing, you did not come to me in order to ascertain the reason? It is such a long, long time since you returned to Yorkshire, almost a year--and it seems more."

"I have been so ill," replied Bernard sadly, "and when I recovered from my first illness, I caught chills and had bad relapses. I was not out of the doctor's hands during nine months, and my mother nursed me so devotedly. How could I suspect that at the same time she was grievously injuring you and me?"

"And then there was another thing," complained poor Doris. "I wrote to Susan, our old servant, you know, and asked her about you; whereupon she replied that I was to think no more about you, as she had heard on good authority that you were going to marry a young lady at Doncaster."

"Oh, but you couldn't believe that, Doris? Surely you had more faith in my love!" exclaimed Bernard, reproachfully.

"What else could I believe when you never wrote and she said that?"

"Doris, I should not have believed it of you!" exclaimed Bernard, stopping short, with a little frown, as he remembered that she had become engaged to Norman Sinclair.

Doris looked up miserably. "Circumstances were too much for me," she said, "and, forgive me--I thought that they had been too much for you."

"Did you think I was so weak?" cried Bernard--"so weak," he repeated, "as not to be true to the only girl I have ever loved?"

"How was it," asked Doris, gently--"how was it that Susan could hear on good authority that you were going to marry a Doncaster lady?"

"Well, if you must know," said Bernard, "my mother set her heart on the match, and she was always having the girl over and trying to leave us together, and taking her with us everywhere, and she must have spread it about that we were engaged; so I daresay she told Susan the same thing."

"Which would account for Susan's saying that she had the news on good authority," interposed Doris. "But tell me, was the girl rich? And did you like her?" and she looked searchingly at Bernard.

"Yes, she was very well off," he admitted, "and she was nice enough; but of course I did not love her, for I love you."

"It's very,verysad," said Doris, the tears rising to her eyes as she spoke. "But, dear Bernard, there is nothing to be done. It is too late! Too late!"

"Oh, but it is not. You are not married yet. You will have to break with Sinclair."

"I cannot. He is a good and honourable man, and he loves me. I cannot break my promise and make him miserable."

"But your engagement was made upon false premises: you thought I was faithless, and I was not. Everything must be explained to Sinclair, and as a man of honour he will feel bound to release you."

Doris shook her head. "I cannot make him miserable," she said.

It was in vain Bernard argued and pleaded, he could get no concession at all from the poor distracted girl, who simply repeated in different words her one cry, "I cannot, dear, I cannot be your wife."

The young man became angry, at length, at her unreasonableness, as he called it, declaring that she could not love him as much as he loved her, or she would not see such great difficulties in the way of their union; and when, upon his adding that he would see Mr. Sinclair and thrash the matter out with him, she said that she could not consent to that, he got quite out of patience with her, and, saying goodbye rather coldly, went away towards the railway station, with the intention of taking the next train for London.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ALICE SINCLAIR'S INTERVENTION.

It never could be kind, dear, to give a needless pain:It never could be honest, dear, to sin for greed again,And there could not be a world, dear, while God is true above,When right and wrong are governed by any law but love.Anon.

It never could be kind, dear, to give a needless pain:

It never could be honest, dear, to sin for greed again,

And there could not be a world, dear, while God is true above,

When right and wrong are governed by any law but love.

Anon.

Bernard Cameron was hurrying along towards the station when he met Alice Sinclair.

The girl looked immensely surprised to see him there, and immediately exclaimed:

"What? You here, Mr. Cameron? Why, I left you in charge of Miss Anderson until I returned. I was on my way back, now," she added.

"I am off by the next train to town," said Bernard, in very injured tones. "I was a fool," he added, bitterly, "to come down here at all."

Alice read the lines of distress and disappointment written upon his face, and was very patient with him.

"There isn't a train to London for at least an hour," she said, "and you must not think of going until you have had some tea. Let us return to Doris, and then we will go into the Creamery and have some tea."

"I must beg you to excuse me," said Bernard, stiffly. "I have taken leave of Miss Anderson, and must now bid you good-bye." He held out his hand as he spoke.

Alice perceived that he had been hard hit. "You must not leave me like this," she said, gently. "Mr. Cameron, I thought you and I were friends."

"So we are. You have always been good to me, but----" He stopped short, and his eyes wandered in the direction of the station.

"It is no use thinking of starting to London yet. As I said, there is no train for fully an hour. Tell me," she regarded him very sympathisingly, "what is the matter? Have you and Doris quarrelled?"

Bernard looked at her kind sympathising face and his resolution wavered. "Quarrelled is not the word," he said; adding, with an effort, "I should like to tell you all about it, Miss Sinclair, if I might."

"I wish you would," said Alice, earnestly--it was one cause of her influence with others that she was always in earnest. "Come and let us walk up and down in Cambridge Gardens, where it is quiet. Then we can have a long talk."

They turned into the less frequented street, and walked slowly along, whilst in low, rapid tones Bernard told Alice all his trouble, and especially the grievous fact that his and Doris's letters had been suppressed and kept from them for many months, finally ending by complaining bitterly of Doris's ultimatum.

"Doris must not marry your brother, Miss Sinclair." Bernard's tone was as decided and masterful as the artist's as he concluded with these words: "She must marry me. We loved each other long before your brother ever saw her, and we love each other still--and shall until death."

It seemed to Alice, walking by Bernard's side and listening to his low, earnest voice, that no power on earth would be able to separate him from the girl he loved, and certainly Norman would not endeavour to do so. Norman was a man of honour, and when he learnt how the two lovers had been kept apart and separated by the wickedness of Mrs. Cameron, and after everything was explained to him he would release Doris from her engagement, no matter at what cost to himself.

Alice tried to say something of this sort to Bernard, but he scarcely listened.

He was glad of her for a confidante, but did not want to hear her views or listen to her advice, because in his own mind he had already solved the problem. And first, his thoughts, as was natural, returned to Doris, from whom he had parted in anger.

"All this time," he said, hastily, as if only then realising it, "Doris, whom I left in anger, must be in distress. She must be suffering intensely, for you know she is so very sensitive. I must therefore return to her at once, and must encourage her to hope that all will yet be well. If she will not throw Sinclair over----"

"Allow me to remark that you are speaking ofmy brother," interposed Alice.

"I beg your pardon," said Bernard, in remorseful tones, as he looked at the kind girl, whose colour had risen. "It was an awful shame for me to speak like that, but----" He broke off, and began again, "I thought we were agreed that she would have to give him up."

"That is not the way to put it," said Alice. "My brother, who is really the soul of honour, will have to release Doris from her promise. He must do it--and will, when he knows everything."

"Yes, of course. As I was saying, if Doris will not--I beg your pardon, as she cannot in honour release herself, I shall go to Sinclair and tell him that it will be most dishonourable of him if he does not release her from her engagement----"

"That won't do!" exclaimed Alice; "that won't do at all. If you go to Norman in that spirit you will soon be outside his door again. My brother is a bit of a lion, you know, in more senses than one. He might listen to any one speaking very courteously, but if a bear comes in and tries to get his bone, oh! therewillbe a pandemonium!"

"Well, he must be told----"

"I will tell him," said Alice. "I will go to London to-morrow, and will see him and explain everything to him. It will not be a very pleasant task--it will pain me very much to make my brother unhappy, but I will do it for dear Doris and for you."

"It is very,verygood of you," said Bernard, gratefully, "to say that you will go and explain everything to your brother. Perhaps you will be able to do it in a nicer way than I could."

Alice smiled. She certainly thought that was possible. "Norman is very good," she said. "I am sure he will release Doris, but it will be a dreadful sorrow to him, for he loves her very much."

"I am sure of that. Though he shouldn't have come poaching in my preserves!"

The last words were uttered so low that he did not intend Alice to hear them. But the girl heard, and instantly retorted:

"You forget that was the fault of the person who kept back Doris's letters and yours, causing her to think that you no longer loved her; so that naturally both she and Norman concluded that she was free to marry whom she pleased."

"Yes, of course. You are right. I beg your pardon for forgetting that," said Bernard, penitently.

"Now we will return to Doris together, and after we have explained to her how matters stand, we will go and have some tea at the Creamery in Robertson Street. Afterwards----"

Alice paused, looking wistfully at him.

"I will keep out of her way until you return from London," Bernard said, understanding that he ought not to proceed further until Norman had freed Doris from her engagement to him.

CHAPTER XXIV.

NORMAN SINCLAIR'S LETTER.

Not only those above us on the height,With love and praise and reverence I greet:Not only those who walk in paths of lightWith glad, untiring feet:These, too, I reverence toiling up the slope,And resting not upon their rugged way,Who plant their feet on faith and cling to hope,And climb as best they may.And even these I praise, who, being weak,Were led by folly into deep disgrace:Now striving on a pathway rough and bleak,To gain a higher place.* * * * *Oh! struggling souls, be brave and full of cheer,Nor let your holy purpose swerve, or break!The way grows smoother and the light more clearAt every step you take.Lo! in the upward path God's boundless loveSupports you evermore upon your way:You cannot fail to reach the heights aboveWho climb as best you may!EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD.

Not only those above us on the height,

With love and praise and reverence I greet:

Not only those who walk in paths of light

With glad, untiring feet:

These, too, I reverence toiling up the slope,

And resting not upon their rugged way,

Who plant their feet on faith and cling to hope,

And climb as best they may.

And even these I praise, who, being weak,Were led by folly into deep disgrace:Now striving on a pathway rough and bleak,To gain a higher place.* * * * *Oh! struggling souls, be brave and full of cheer,Nor let your holy purpose swerve, or break!The way grows smoother and the light more clearAt every step you take.Lo! in the upward path God's boundless loveSupports you evermore upon your way:You cannot fail to reach the heights aboveWho climb as best you may!EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD.

And even these I praise, who, being weak,

Were led by folly into deep disgrace:

Now striving on a pathway rough and bleak,

To gain a higher place.* * * * *

To gain a higher place.

* * * * *

Oh! struggling souls, be brave and full of cheer,

Nor let your holy purpose swerve, or break!

The way grows smoother and the light more clear

At every step you take.

Lo! in the upward path God's boundless love

Supports you evermore upon your way:

You cannot fail to reach the heights above

Who climb as best you may!EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD.

Who climb as best you may!

EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD.

Doris sat alone in the shelter, after Bernard had left her, in a state of unhappiness so great that she could not even weep.

"All is over between us," she sighed, "and Bernard has gone away in anger. How wretched it is! Nothing could be more wretched! Nothing! I am the most unfortunate girl in all the world!" And she sat with her pale face turned towards the sunlit waves, watching them and yet in reality seeing nothing except her own utter misery. What had become of all her prayers, she wondered--the prayers which she had poured out to her Heavenly Father from a sorrow-laden heart?

He had saved her from starvation, and placed her in a position of great temporal prosperity; yes, but what about her previous many, many prayers for Bernard, for their mutual reconciliation and union when a part at least of the debt was paid, and for the happy and useful married life which they had once planned together on the hill at Askern, and for which she had so often longed and prayed?

"I have done my best," thought Doris, "and have tried to serve God all the while. The thought of Him was ever in my heart, and I gave up my prosperous little business--all that I had--in obedience to His Voice, speaking to me through Norman's words and my own conceptions of what I ought to do. I cast my all into His treasury: and all the time--every day--I prayed for Bernard--and for our future together--until--until I was led by circumstances to believe that he did not love me. And since then--since then everything has gone wrong, and I seem to have lost hope and faith in God and man."

She was in despair. It was the darkest hour of all her sorrowful young life, and she could see no gleam of light in any direction.

How long she sat thus she never knew, but it seemed an immense time before she heard the cheerful voice of Alice behind her saying brightly, "Doris! Doris darling, we have brought you good news!"

"There is no good news for me," answered Doris, without turning her head, and the two who loved her were aghast at the hopelessness of her tones.

"Doris!" exclaimed Bernard, "I have returned, in order to bring you the glad news that there is hope for us, and help, for Miss Sinclair is going to be our good angel and is going to save the situation."

"How? What? I don't understand," said Doris, turning to look at them in relief and surprise. "Do explain, please," she added, tremulously, feeling quite unable to bear any more suspense.

Sitting down beside her, they hastened to tell everything, and then to combat her conscientious objections to Alice's proposed arbitration, as it seemed to her, at first, that it was scarcely right for Alice to persuade her brother to release hisfiancée.

"I shall not persuade him," replied Alice, "I shall simply tell him the facts of the case, and leave him to act as it seems right to him. But I will tell you this, Doris," she added, "I know dear old Norman will at once release you from your engagement."

Then Alice carried them off to the Creamery, and, after they had partaken of a charming little tea, she invited Bernard to meet her at the Warrior Square Station at five o'clock on the following day, when she expected to be back from London, in order that she might tell him first what her brother decided. When that matter was settled to every one's satisfaction, Bernard took leave of the girls and went away, to pass the time as best he could until Norman Sinclair's ultimatum was received.

* * * * *

The following evening, as Doris sat in one of the large balconies of the Queen's Hotel, enjoying the fine air, the pleasing sea view, and most of all the delightful hope that all might yet be well, Alice, who had been to London, and Bernard, who had met her at the station, came to her there.

"All is well," said Alice, "as I knew it would be. Doris," she took the girl's thin hand in hers, and placed it gently within Bernard's, "Norman has sent you your freedom. You can marry Bernard now as soon as you like, and Norman hopes you will be very happy. He has sent you a letter, dear," she said in conclusion, putting one into Doris's hand.

Doris swayed in her chair. She could not even see the letter for the tears which filled her eyes.

Alice, too, began to cry, and Bernard had to clear his voice two or three times before he could speak.

"I am afraid I was a little rough on your brother, Miss Sinclair," he said at length. "He is indeed a man of honour. I am sure I beg to withdraw all that I have said against him, and to apologise for my hot words. I hope that you will tell him how grateful we are when you see him."

"I'm afraid I shall not see him for a very long time," answered Alice; "he is going abroad alone." She looked deeply pained. "He wishes me to stay with Doris and see after her getting married." She said the last words more cheerfully, for, being a woman, the idea of a wedding was pleasant.

"There won't be much to see about in my wedding," said Doris, with a smile, "for I shall have to do without a trousseau and without a good many things, because I am not taking Bernard any money. You will have a poor bride, Bernard."

"I shall not! You will be the very best bride that ever a man could have!" he cried, rapturously.

Then Alice went away, and left them together. Later on in the evening, when Doris was alone, she opened Norman's letter, which was as follows:

"DEAR DORIS,

"I give you back your promise to marry me. I am sorry for the mistakes which have been made and the suffering through which you have passed, and trust that your future life with Mr. Cameron may be all joy and gladness.

"You will, I am sure, do me the justice to believe that had I known he was true to you I should not have tried to induce you to become engaged to me, however much I loved and esteemed you.

"NORMAN SINCLAIR."

Doris shed tears over the letter, for she knew that, reticent though the writer was about his own feelings, she must have made him exceedingly unhappy.

And when Doris thanked God that night before she slept that He had heard her prayers, and that He had mercifully given her her heart's desire, she prayed, also, for Norman Sinclair that he might be comforted and blessed exceedingly.

CHAPTER XXV.

A HAPPY WEDDING.

Never to part till angels call us home.Song, "Golden Love."The span of life's not long enough,Nor deep enough the sea,Nor broad enough this weary worldTo part my love from me.Anon.So they were wed, and merrily rang the bells,Merrily rang the bells when they were wed.LONGFELLOW.

Never to part till angels call us home.

Song, "Golden Love."

The span of life's not long enough,

Nor deep enough the sea,

Nor broad enough this weary world

To part my love from me.Anon.

To part my love from me.

Anon.

So they were wed, and merrily rang the bells,

Merrily rang the bells when they were wed.LONGFELLOW.

Merrily rang the bells when they were wed.

LONGFELLOW.

"After all, Doris," said Alice, the next morning, "you will have a trousseau, and a very pretty one, too. For I am going to buy it for you. Yes, indeed, it is to be my wedding present."

"I don't know how to thank you," said Doris.

"Then don't try. Pay me the compliment of accepting what I have much pleasure in giving."

Doris rose, and, throwing her arms round her friend's neck, gave her a hug.

"How soon do you intend to be married?" asked Alice, presently.

"In three weeks. There is no reason for delay."

"Of course not. The sooner the better. Where shall you be married?" asked Alice, a shadow falling across her face at the thought that she could scarcely take her friend home to be married from Norman's house.

"Oh, here, in this dear place, where my happiness has come to me!" said Doris.

"Here? At Hastings? From this hotel?"

"Yes, why not? I am sure the Vicar of All Saints, whose church I have attended, will marry us."

"Oh, I don't doubt that! Yes, of course you shall be married here."

"There's only one thing," said Doris. "The Austins are not here. And I must have dear Mrs. Austin, and her good son Sam, at my wedding."

"Send for them all," interposed Bernard, entering the room and overhearing her last remark. He had been for a bathe, and was looking well and happy. There is no greater restorative for body and mind than happiness.

"Send for them?" said Doris. "Oh, but I don't think they will come if we send for them. I think I shall have to go and see Mrs. Austin, and arrange with her about their coming down."

"You're not strong enough to take all that trouble," said Bernard. "It will take you all your time until our wedding-day"--he spoke with joy and pride--"to recover sufficiently for it and for our little tour afterwards."

"We'll not go far," said Doris. "Why should we go far," she laughed happily, "when we have found each other?"

"Why indeed? Supposing we go to the Isle of Wight, will that do?"

"Yes, charmingly. I have never been there. But, Bernard, I must go to see dear old Mrs. Austin and invite her to the wedding."

"Cannot you write to her?"

"No, a letter will not do. Think how good she was to me when I was penniless and a stranger in London! Can I ever forget how she received me into her house, and trusted me to repay her as I could? And then she gave me her late son's painting materials, and tried to make me believe I should succeed as an artist,--and, afterwards, when that had failed, she comforted and encouraged me, and got her nephew to find me work, and, later, interested Alice in employing me; and then afterwards, when I gave up the business and became poor again, she stood by me, trusting and caring for me more lovingly than ever. Bernard, if there is one friend in all the world whom we ought to value and esteem next to the Sinclairs it is Mrs. Austin, and, next to her is Sam Austin, the cabman."

"What did he do?" asked Bernard, though indeed he partly knew.

"He saved me from despair that first night, when, on coming to London by the night train, I found my godmother, Miss Earnshaw, had died, and that I was alone in the great metropolis, with only a few shillings in my pocket, and no claim upon any one in all the vast city. He took me to his mother, and persuaded her to receive me into her house; and then, afterwards, when I had made my first little water-colour sketches, he drove me round to the dealers in his cab, and would take no payment then, nor afterwards, until I was earning a lot of money, and then compelled him to do so."

"He shall come to our wedding, too," said Bernard. "They shall both be our honoured guests."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!"

"And I'll tell you what we will do, darling. We will give them a wedding-present, yes, we will!"

"Oh, thank you!"

"Nay, you must not thank me, dear! It is you who will invite the wedding guests, that is always the prerogative of the bride. I will pay their expenses, if you will allow me."

"Thank you, I will," said Doris, gladly.

"Shall we go up to town to invite her?" said Bernard, tentatively.

"I should like to do so," said Doris.

"But----"

"Wouldn't it be too tiring for you?" said Alice. "Otherwise," she added, "I should like to go up to shop with you in Bond Street."

"And I," said Bernard, "should like to go over to Richmond on business. The fact is, I have heard that the school in which I used to work is for sale, and I rather think of buying it. When I was a poor assistant there I used to think what a future it might have if it were more efficiently managed. How would you like to live on Richmond Hill, Doris?"

"Near the Terrace, with the loveliest view of the Thames to be seen anywhere! Oh, Bernard, how charming that would be!"

"Well, I'll go and look after the school, if you like; and if you come, too, we can see the Austins while we are in town and invite them to our wedding."

In about a week Doris was strong enough for this arrangement to be carried out. She and Bernard, accompanied by Alice as far as Victoria, where they separated, went to London for the day, and after going to Richmond, where negotiations were commenced for the purchase of Bernard's former school and the head master's house, they went on to King's Cross in order to see Mrs. Austin.

The good woman was delighted to see them together, apparently on such intimate terms.

"Miss Doris!" she cried. "And Mr. Cameron! And both looking so happy! So very happy," she repeated. "Don't tell me anything, I know it all. There'll be a wedding. I saw it in the fire last night. Come in. Come in."

They followed her into her little room, which seemed to Doris to be smaller and dingier than ever after the great rooms to which she was accustomed.

"Oh, Mrs. Austin, I am so happy!" she cried.

"It's Mr. Right this time, and no mistake!" exclaimed the good woman. "Between you and me, miss," she added aside, "I didn't want you to marry that other gentleman. Miss Sinclair was a dear, sweet lady, but the brother was so upsetting!"

"He has been very, very kind to me," said Doris, "and to Mr. Cameron, too. He has been a very good friend to us."

"Has he, miss? Well, I'm glad to hear it, but----" she broke off, and began again, "Give me Mr. Cameron, for a fine, pleasant-speaking, right-living gentleman!" she declared.

Doris laughed, and her eyes rested on Bernard with loving pride. "Do you know, Mrs. Austin," she said, "I was engaged to him before I came to London at all--only unfortunately our engagement had been cruelly broken off."

"Indeed, miss! Ah, I could see you were in deep sorrow when you came to me. If you had seen her then, Mr. Cameron," and she turned to Bernard, "you would have been sorry. She was that white, and there was such a stricken look upon her poor, dear face. And yet, for all she was in such trouble, she did me good; so that I thanked God for sending her here."

"She does me good, too," said Bernard. "That's why I love her."

"Ah, he's one of the right sort!" exclaimed Mrs. Austin to Doris.

"Yes,Ithink so," said Doris, laughing merrily.

Mrs. Austin looked wonderingly at her.

"I never heard you laugh like that before, Miss Anderson," she exclaimed.

Presently the widow's two visitors sat at tea in the little parlour.

"And how are you getting on, Mrs. Austin?" asked Doris, presently. "You say so little about yourself."

"Well, miss, this is such a joyful occasion I don't like to spoil it----"

"Oh, then, I'm afraid you are not doing well?" said Doris, sympathisingly.

Tears came into the widow's eyes; but she dashed them off with a corner of her apron, and tried to smile, as she answered, "I have a lodger in my front rooms, and a young shop-girl rents my attic; but--but----" and she broke down, weeping bitterly.

Doris and Bernard tried to comfort her, and at length ascertained, with some difficulty, that the cause of her distress was that her landlord had given her notice to leave the house.

"And I've lived in it all my life," she said. "I was born in it and brought up here: my dear mother lived with me here till she died, and when my husband made me an offer of marriage I said, 'Yes, if you'll come and live in my dear home.' And he did, and was so good to my mother--as good as good could be--always taking off his boots before he went upstairs on the stair carpets, and always lighting the kitchen-fire and making me a cup of tea before he went to his work, till he fell ill of his last illness. He died in the front sitting-room. I had the bed brought down there for him. And there was my Silas, he was born in my front bedroom; and he used to paint his lovely pictures, as you know, miss, in the attic; and he lay down and died, as sweet and calmly as a child, in the back bedroom, 'Going Home,' he said, 'to the Great Artist, Who will put in the finishing touches to the work that He has made.' I couldn't bear to leave this house, with all its memories! It will kill me--I know it will! And my Sam feels almost as bad. 'I shall never drive down this road, mother,' he says, 'when the old home isn't yours.'" Mrs. Austin stopped at last for want of breath.

"But why does the landlord want to turn you out?" asked Bernard. "You must be such good tenants."

"Mrs. Austin is," said Doris. "She pays her rent regularly."

"Yes, miss. I've always paid it to the day, though I have been rather hard put to sometimes, when my lodgers haven't paid up. It's not for want of the rent that the landlord gives notice. It's because he's selling a lot of his houses to a man who wants them for his own workpeople, and therefore must have them emptied." The widow's tears flowed again.

"Don't cry, Mrs. Austin dear!" said Doris, rising and putting her arms round the good woman's neck, while she kissed her kind old face.

"You shall not be turned out," said Bernard; "I will see your landlord, and buy the house, if I can. Then you shall not be turned out."

"But, sir, it will cost you a lot!"

"It will be an investment, and I shall have a good tenant. You know, Doris," he added, turning to her, "I must not put all the money into the school."

Having asked the landlord's name and address, Bernard left Doris resting in Mrs. Austin's sitting-room, and departed to transact the business, which he was able to do satisfactorily, as the landlord happened to be in a hurry to sell.

"I have bought the house for three hundred and fifty pounds," Bernard announced, on his return to Doris. "You tell Mrs. Austin, dear," he added.

So it was Doris who had the pleasure of telling the good woman that Mr. Cameron had bought her house, and so she would be able to remain in it as long as she lived.

"Thank God! Thank God! That is all I want. And you shall have your rent regularly, sir," said the widow.

"You shall never be asked for it," said Bernard. "When you have the money to spare you can pay it, and when you have not any to hand over, nothing shall be said."

"You are too good, sir," began Mrs. Austin. But Doris interrupted:

"He is only treating you as you treated me," she said. "When I could not pay you, dear Mrs. Austin, you always let it pass over, and forgave me the debt."

"But you have paid everything now, miss." (Through the Sinclairs' kindness Doris had been able to do this.)

"I can never repay you for all your exceeding kindness," cried the girl; adding, "And I am delighted that we can enable you to remain in your comfortable home."

Mrs. Austin was overjoyed. She shed tears again, not for sorrow now, but for joy. "How little I knew when I took you in, Miss Anderson," she said, "that I should be entertaining an angel unawares!"

Then Doris asked Mrs. Austin if she would come to Hastings with her son, in order to be present at the wedding, and this the widow joyfully consented to do, saying:

"I would go further than that, miss, to see you married, and so would my Sam. We'll come to your wedding, if we have to walk every inch of the way."

"That's right," said Bernard; "that's the right spirit! But you will have to allow me to pay your fare, for you might not arrive in time if you walk the sixty miles or so to Hastings, and I shall be only too pleased to pay your fare."

Doris wanted to see Sam, but he was away with his cab, and therefore she could only leave a message for him.

She was exceedingly happy as she returned to Hastings with Bernard in a luxurious corridor-train--so happy, indeed, that she felt at peace with all the world, and therefore ventured to suggest:

"Couldn't we have your mother to our wedding, too, Bernard?"

The young man's face darkened, and his voice shook as he answered, "No, I think not. I--Icouldnot."

"We shall have to forgive her, dear," pleaded Doris.

"Yes--in time. You must give me time, dear." Bernard was silent for several minutes after that, and then he said abruptly, "We will go to see her after we are married."

"Yes, dear," acquiesced Doris; "I should like that."

The day came quickly which was to make them man and wife.

Theirs was a pretty wedding, although the wedding guests were only two, and they were not of the same rank in life as the handsome bridegroom and the beautiful bride, supported by her friends, and bridesmaid, dressed like herself in costly silk and lace. Doris was in white, and Alice in creamy yellow, whilst Bernard, of course, was in immaculate attire, his good-looking young face lit up with love and joy and thankfulness to God.

"Bless them! God bless them!" exclaimed good Mrs. Austin as the young couple left the vestry, where Doris had signed her maiden name for the last time.

"Amen," said Sam, "and may they live long happy years!"

Sam had only one regret about the wedding, and that was that he could not bring his cab down to be used on the occasion. "I should like to have driven them to church in it," he confided to his mother. "It would have been a sort of finish to the two rides I gave Miss Anderson in it. First when I drove her to Earl's Court Square, and then home to you when she was in such distress, and afterwards when I drove her round to see those skin-flinty old picture-dealers about selling her pictures."

But now the bride and bridegroom had to be met, congratulated, and wished all sorts of happiness.

"Thank you! Thank you!" said Doris, shaking hands with Sam, and lifting up her glad young face to kiss his mother, while Bernard shook hands warmly with them both, thanking them for himself and his bride.

Later in the day Alice drove with Bernard and Doris to the station to see them off in the train for Portsmouth, as they were going to the Isle of Wight for their honeymoon.

Doris clung to her a little at the last. "I don't know how to thank you, Alice," she said; "you have been like a dear sister to me."

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