Chapter 9

[image]"DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST. 'YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A DEAR SISTER TO ME.'""I don't want thanking," protested Alice."But you will feel so lonely, dear, when we have gone.""Never mind me," said Alice; "you know to-morrow I shall start for Switzerland, in order to join my brother there, and then there will be no more loneliness for me.""You will Give him our kindest remembrances, Miss Sinclair," said Bernard, earnestly."If I can I will--that is, if he speaks of you."The train began to move off, and there was no time to talk any more."Good-bye--good-bye, dear," cried the travellers, and then--Alice Sinclair was left alone upon the platform.CHAPTER XXVI.TWO MONTHS LATER.Time and the hour run through the longest day.SHAKESPEARE.Mrs. Cameron was a miserable woman. Poor, unhappy, and remorseful, she sat alone in her solitary house--even her one maidservant had left her--thinking dismally of her sad past, mournful present, and hopeless future. On her lap was her son's letter of two months before, the only one he had sent her since he left home to go in search of Doris, and she thought that it would probably be the last one she would ever receive from him."I know all that you have done," he wrote, "to destroy my happiness and that of my beloved Doris, and the means by which you sought to separate us for ever in this world, and I write to inform you that your schemes and machinations have failed; for we are engaged to be married, and, there being no longer any obstacle to prevent it, the marriage will take place on the 20th of this month."That, I think, is all I need say now, or at any time, to one who has done her utmost to alienate me for life from the one I loved."I remain, Mother,"Your much-wronged Son,"BERNARD CAMERON.""A nice letter for a mother to receive!" grumbled the widow. "Yet I know that I deserve it," she added mentally. "I've been too hard--too hard on him, and too hard on other people. If I hadn't been so quarrelsome with my husband, he would not have left most of his money to Bernard, and that wretch John Anderson would not have had the chance of stealing it all. And if I hadn't been so hard on Bernard and on Doris Anderson, I should have retained my boy's love, which would have been better than nothing." She sniffed and passed the back of her bony hand across her tearless eyes. "Yes, it would have been better than nothing, and I might have come in for a bit of his money now he is richer; but, as it is, I've got nothing, neither money, nor love, nor anything at all!"She looked dismally at the dusk stealing across the room with its threadbare carpet and faded chairs and curtains. There was no servant to come in and light the gas and close the blinds. She was all alone, and so hopeless that she did not care whether the gas was lighted or not. "What matter if it is dark, so long as I have nothing to do but think!" she said to herself, dismally. "They'll have had their honeymoon now, and perhaps will be getting settled in their new home. I wonder where it is? To think that I shouldn't know where my son is going to live! I never thought Bernard would turn against me; and yet--and yet I deserve it, for mine was a crooked policy, directed against all his wishes and ignoring his rights. I told myself I was doing it for him, for his best interests; but really I was doing it more for myself, that he might become rich and be in a position to give his mother a good home; and out of spite, too, against those Andersons, and a determination that Doris should not have him." She paused, listening.Some street singers were wailing forth the hymn, "O God, our help in ages past!" before the house; but the woman, who had found no help in God, because she had never sought it, was only angered by the sound. Rising and going to the window, she made emphatic signs to the man and woman--the latter with a child in her arms and another clinging to her skirts--to pass on; but they either could not see her in the deepening dusk or would not be persuaded to go away, for they continued singing even more loudly than before."Well, I shall not give them anything!" declared Mrs. Cameron, relinquishing the attempt to stop them and returning to her chair by the fireless hearth. "What right have they to come disturbing folks in this way?"Again she sank into gloomy, miserable reflections, while the darkness increased about her.The door-bell rang; but she paid no attention to it, thinking that it was only the singers wanting alms. "They may want!" she said to herself grimly. "Other folks want what they can't get, too!"Once more the bell rang, and yet a third time, and even a fourth; but still Mrs. Cameron remained firm in her determination not to speak to the intruders."I'm a hard woman," she said to herself; "aye, and I'll be hard. I'm too old to change now, and nobody cares, nobody cares what I'm like or what I do. If any one cared ever such a little bit, I might be different; but nobody cares, least of all God; He's shut me out of His good books long ago. I shall never get to His Heaven, never! Even if He let me into His Heaven, I shouldn't be happy psalm-singing, and praising Him, and living in His presence. Not I! I don't care at all for Him, and that's truth. And if, as some say, in heaven the angels are always ministering to others and doing deeds of kindness, that work wouldn't suit me. Not it!" She laughed shrilly, as if in derision of the idea; and the darkness deepened around her. "I don't care an atom for other people. Not I!" she went on, and again her weird, unholy laugh rang through the room.Its echoes reached a young man and woman who stood at the door, hesitating before ringing the bell again, and caused them both to shiver."Nobody cares for me, and I care for nobody!" soliloquised Mrs. Cameron. "If any one cared ever so little, it would be different. Oh, dear! What's that?"An exceedingly loud rapping at the street door made her start up, exclaiming angrily, "Those tramps again!"She bounced out of the room and across the little hall to the door, opening it somewhat gingerly, and crying out the while in her sharpest tones, "I've nothing for you! Get away! Go!" Then she attempted to shut the door, but a strong hand held, it so firmly that she could not close it, whilst a voice spoke, which she was unable to hear for her own clamour."If you don't be off I'll prosecute you!" she cried, menacingly."Mother! It is I, Bernard! Let me in."The words reached her ears at last, penetrating even to her starved and icy heart."Bernard!" She fell back a pace, and the door flew open, revealing her son and a lady by his side. The street light fell upon the two, and also upon the pale, astonished face of the unhappy woman they had come to see."Bernard!""Mother!" He put his arms round her neck, in his old boyish way, forgetting everything except that she was his mother, who was looking miserable, whilst he had come to her in his joy, with his dear young wife by his side."If any one cared ever so little, it would be different," she had said to herself. Well, here was Bernard, and he cared for her, in spite of everything, and--it was different."My son! My son! Forgive me," she said, clinging to him, her tears falling on his manly face and neck, as he kissed her tenderly."All right, mother! The past is past," he whispered. "I want you to welcome Doris," he added low in her ear. "She is my wife now."Mrs. Cameron turned to Doris, holding out her hand, but the young wife raised her face, and she had to kiss her, too.Then they went in, closing the street door after them; and Bernard, striking a light, lit up every gas-burner he could find about the place; so that the darkness was gone, and it was light, very light.CHAPTER XXVII.RESTITUTION.Does any one know what's in your heart and mine,The sorrow and song,The demon of sin and the angel divine,The right and the wrong:The dread of the darkness, the love of the day,The ebb and the flowOf hope and of doubt for ever and aye,Does any one know?NIXON WATERMAN.He wins at last who puts his trustIn loving words and actions just.* * * * *On every action blazon bright,"For toil, and truth, and love, we fight."T. S. COLLIER.An hour later, after they had partaken of a substantial tea-supper, the principal constituents of which Bernard fetched from the village shops, with boyish glee, renewing his acquaintance with the shop-keepers quite merrily, Mrs. Cameron and her son and daughter-in-law sat round the fire Doris had lighted, talking about the future.Bernard had placed the school at Richmond (of which he had now completed the purchase) in good hands, and he and Doris were going to live in rooms at Oxford until he had obtained his degree, when they would at once proceed to their new home in Richmond."We want you to come and live with us, mother," said Bernard; "or if you would prefer not to live with us, at least to occupy rooms near us, so that we may often look in upon you, to prevent your feeling lonely.""Do you wish that, too, Doris?" asked her mother-in-law, quite timidly."Yes, indeed I do," said Doris, heartily. In her great happiness it was impossible for her to cherish any resentment against Bernard's mother.Mrs. Cameron looked red and confused. Their love made a difference, yes, a very great difference in her feelings. But she shook her head, saying, "You will be better without me. Far better. I will remain here. You can come and see me sometimes, and you must remain here a few days now. I'm afraid we are rather desolate here in the house, but I'll have a charwoman in to-morrow, and we'll try to make the place comfortable.""The house ails nothing," said Bernard, "for it is home.""Yes," remarked Doris, brightly, "and you know, 'East or West, home is best.'"Mrs. Cameron thought remorsefully that she had made only a poor home for Bernard in the last year or two, since he lost his money.But he appeared to forget all about that, as he merrily assisted her and Doris to arrange a room for their accommodation that night--in point of fact he had engaged a bedroom at the comfortable hydro at Askern, but he did not venture to mention that to his mother under their altered and happier relations.The next morning, as they were sitting at breakfast, the postman dropped a letter into the letter-box, and Bernard, upon going to the door to fetch it, discovered that it was addressed to himself.Bringing the letter into the room he looked at the envelope curiously, and perceived that it bore the impression, "London, City & Midland Banking Company, Ltd," whilst the postmark was Doncaster."Why, what's this?" he said, and then, opening it wonderingly, found that it was an official intimation from the Doncaster branch of the London, City & Midland Bank, saying that the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds had been placed there to his credit.The young man put his hand to his brow in great bewilderment. What did it mean? Mechanically he handed the document to his mother, saying, "Look at this. What does it mean?"Mrs. Cameron fumbled about for her spectacles, found them, could not see through them, shook her head, and, handing the document to Doris, remarked, "You read it, Doris. What does it mean?"Doris read aloud the printed and written words, which stated that the bank had received twenty-five thousand pounds, and placed the money to the credit of Bernard Cameron."Twenty-five thousand pounds!" cried Mrs. Cameron, excitedly. "Why, some one has restored your fortune to you, Bernard!"Bernard was amazed and glad."Who can have paid the money in?" questioned Doris."You will have to go to Doncaster to the bank, to see the manager, and ascertain who it is," said Mrs. Cameron."Yes," Bernard agreed, still looking very mystified."It may be some mistake of the bank's," suggested Mrs. Cameron. "It is dated all right for yesterday."They were still wondering and conjecturing about the matter, when the sound of a carriage driving up to the door, followed by a loud peal of the door-bell, startled them.Bernard went to the door, and, upon opening it, perceived, to his intense astonishment, his wife's father."Is Mr. Cameron in?" began the visitor, and then, recognising Bernard, he cried, "Bernard! My dear fellow, Iam gladyou are at home.""Mr. Anderson!" exclaimed Bernard. "Mr. Andersonhere!""Father! Father!" cried Doris, overhearing Bernard's greeting, and running into her father's arms. "My dear father!" Forgotten were all his shortcomings, his desertion of herself and appropriation of Bernard's money, forgotten was everything except love in that glad moment of reunion. "Where is mother?" asked Doris, kissing him again and again."In the cab, there." He waved his hand towards the vehicle, out of which Mrs. Anderson was leaning forward, in the endeavour to obtain a glimpse of her child.Doris ran to the cab, and disappeared within it, as there only could she have her beloved mother entirely to herself for a few moments.Mr. Anderson signed to the cabman to wait for a little while, and then went into the house with Bernard, asking, "Are you alone? Or is your mother within?""She is here. This is her house still," answered Bernard, leading the way into the dining-room, where Mrs. Cameron stood, very erect, and looking extremely grave.Mr. Anderson bowed without making the attempt to shake hands, indeed she had placed hers behind her with a very significant gesture."I have to thank you, Mrs. Cameron," said the barrister, "and your son, for your exceeding clemency in not prosecuting me for my terrible defalcations more than a year ago, and I must explain how it was that I lost your son's money, and how it is that I have been able yesterday to place the whole amount in the Doncaster branch of the London, City & Midland Banking Co. for him. Have you had an intimation of this money being placed in the bank to your credit, Bernard?" he asked the young man."Yes. This morning. I could not understand who placed it there. I am glad it was you. Oh, Mr. Anderson, I amvery glad!" Bernard seized the elder man's hand, and shook it with warmth. "I feel inclined to throw up my cap and shout 'Hurrah!'" he continued, boyishly, "for I am so delighted for your sake and for Doris's!""Well, it's a good thing you've done it," said Mrs. Cameron. "I must say I'm surprised--I never thought you would. What are you nudging me for, Bernard?" she asked, rather crossly. "You know very well that I always say what is in my mind. And I must tell you, Mr. Anderson," she continued, "that it's not me you have to thank for not being prosecuted. I was determined to set the whole machinery of the law to work--I was so mad with you--but Bernard would not have it. He would not raise a finger against you--no, not though I turned him out of my house for his stupidity, as I thought it then, though it seems to have answered well," she admitted."Bernard," said Mr. Anderson, looking gratefully at him, "my dear boy, how can I thank you enough? What you must have borne for me!""I'm afraid I thought most of Doris," said Bernard, honestly. "It would never have done for me to have brought disgrace and trouble upon her family.""I sinned," said Mr. Anderson, regarding Bernard's stern mother very mournfully, "I sinned greatly in using money which was not my own for speculations which were risky, as most speculations are. And when all was lost, and I possessed nothing with which to meet my liabilities, as you know, instead of courageously confessing and submitting to the penalty I had incurred, I absconded. Later on, together with my wife, who would not leave me, I took refuge with an old servant of ours, who had married a shepherd in Wales, and there, in a remote place up amongst the mountains, we hid ourselves for a long and weary time. Often I thought of coming down and surrendering to justice, but as often my wife persuaded me to remain in concealment. Eventually, however, I became so convinced that the only right thing to do was to give myself up to the police that, leaving my retreat, I returned, accompanied by my wife, to Yorkshire."Then," continued he, "a strange thing happened. Upon reaching York I first went to a lawyer with whom I had formerly transacted business, whereupon he informed me that there had never been a warrant taken out for my arrest, thanks to you, my dear Bernard," and again the elder man gave the younger a grateful glance. "Moreover," the barrister continued, "the lawyer told me that Howden, the man who in the first place led me into those disastrous speculations, had just died, and in his last hours, remembering remorsefully his bad advice to me about speculating, which led to my ruin and desiring to make reparation as far as possible, he bequeathed to me by will the large sum of thirty thousand pounds. You can judge of my extreme delight."As soon as the will had been proved and I was in possession of the money I returned to Doncaster, paid all my debts in full, and placed twenty-five thousand pounds in the bank for you, Bernard. After which I came here in the hope of finding you at home. I cannot tell you," Mr. Anderson added, with deep feeling, "I cannot tell you all that I have suffered on account of my sin, nor can I say how great is my relief and satisfaction in being able to restore to you your fortune."The tears were in his eyes as he said this, and they perceived that his hair had become as white as snow during the last thirteen months, and also that care and trouble had drawn deep lines upon his face. They could not, therefore, doubt the truth of what he was saying, and so Mrs. Cameron as well as Bernard hastened to express their entire forgiveness of his sin and sympathy with him in his sufferings. And if the mother did it less gracefully than her son, Mr. Anderson could not cavil at that, for he knew that it was much more difficult for her, with her hard nature, to speak so kindly than for Bernard.And when she added, penitently, "I, too, must ask your forgiveness, Mr. Anderson, for the harsh and bitter thoughts I have cherished about you and the hard words I have said," he was only too glad to shake hands with her and say she was not to trouble about that any more.Upon this touching scene entered Doris and her mother--the two who having not sinned in the matter of the pecuniary defalcations, had yet suffered so grievously by reason of them. Whereupon, kind and loving words were exchanged, and the new relationship of the young people was discussed and approved of by her parents, who both said that they could not have wished for a better husband for their daughter.CHAPTER XXVIII.CONCLUSION.Poets are all who love, who feel great truthsAnd tell them, and the truth of truths is love.BAILEY.In Switzerland, where Alice had joined Norman as soon as Doris's marriage had taken place, Alice heard of the surprising restoration of the lost money with the greatest satisfaction.Doris wrote a full account of the return of her father and the wonderful restitution he was able to make of all the money that he had taken from Bernard and that which he owed the tradespeople."Do you know, dear Alice," she wrote in conclusion, "I often and often prayed that he might be able to do this, but it seemed as if my prayers were all in vain, both about this and other matters, and then I grew despondent and doubted--oh, I doubted dreadfully! What patience God must have with us when we have so little faith! And how impatient and short-sighted we are! Why, I might have been sure that just as He clothes the lilies and feeds the birds of the air, so He would give me all things that were needful and that were according to His will. And it must have been His will that my father should be enabled to do right in the end. Well, I'm going to believe in future that He really meant His words when He said, 'Ask, and ye shall receive.'"And there's another thing, dear Alice," the writer continued joyfully, "Bernard and I want to make one or two thank-offerings for the great mercies we have received."First for poor Mrs. Austin, who was so very good to me. You know that Bernard bought her house, in order to prevent her being turned out of it, and now we are giving it to her for life, and to her son after her. She is so delighted, and so is Sam, and it is such a pleasure to us to do this."And then, with regard to the school at Richmond, you know Bernard purchased it, and arranged for it to be managed for him until he has finished his career at Oxford, after which he will take it in hand personally; and now he has determined that he will always give schooling and board to two pupils free of charge. They need not necessarily be orphans, but they are to be poor boys of gentle birth, who would otherwise be worsted in the battle of life. They are to receive exactly the same benefits as the other boys, and I am to provide them with clothes, and look after them as a mother might. I need not tell you how glad I am to do this."Dear old Susan is coming to live with us and be our matron, much to her satisfaction. She is so glad that Bernard and I are married. You know we could not have her at the wedding, as Mrs. Cameron was not there--for it might have made the villagers at Moss talk if one had been present and not the other, and it would certainly have hurt Mrs. Cameron's feelings."Write to me, dear Alice, and let me know what you think of these schemes, which we have planned in this lovely Isle of Wight."Alice read the letter aloud to Norman, a little later, when, having left Switzerland, they were going up the Rhine in a river-steamer, one lovely day in autumn. She was glad of her friend's happiness, and rejoiced in it so much that she could not keep the letter to herself."Cameron seems a decent sort of fellow," said the artist, "after all.""Oh, yes, he is. Wasn't it nice of him to buy Mrs. Austin's little house in order that she might not be turned out of it, and then to give it to her when he became richer?""Yes," said Norman, "I must say that Mrs. Austin deserves it for her goodness to Doris; though she never favoured me, but always endeavoured to make me feel that I was an intruder.""But she was very good to me," said Alice, softly."Yes," said her brother, "and for that, too, she shall be forgiven everything by the poor artist, whom you fed when he was a surly, inconsiderate old bear.""I'm very proud of my Lion!" exclaimed Alice, lovingly. "See," she added, "I have brought out with us some London papers which arrived just as we were leaving our hotel. I want you to see what is said of your Academy pictures, especially of 'Ganymede.' The likeness of the girl," she added, "is so marvellously like Doris, that I expect her husband will be wanting to buy it.""Don't!" said Norman, walking a little way apart, in order that she might not see his face.Presently he returned to her without a shadow on his fine expressive countenance."I hope you are observing the beauty of all this Rhine scenery," he said, with a smile. "It ought to appeal to the poetry in your nature.""Poetry! Poetry in my nature!" exclaimed Alice. "Why, Norman, I always thought that you considered me soveryprosaic and matter-of-fact.""On the contrary," said her brother. "It isIwho have been so often matter-of-fact;youhave always been steeped in love, so much so, in fact, that you have idealised and nursed illusions for the sake of your beloved ones. Don't you know--Poets are all who love, who feel great truthsAnd tell them, and the truth of truths is love.Yes," continued Norman, humbly, "you are before me, Alice, in the great race, because through your life--as through Doris's--the golden thread of Love leads you and dominates your actions. Not the mere lover's love for one, but a noble enthusiasm and love for all who are near and dear to you."THE END.Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld.,London and Aylesbury*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKLOVE'S GOLDEN THREAD***

[image]"DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST. 'YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A DEAR SISTER TO ME.'"

[image]

"DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST. 'YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A DEAR SISTER TO ME.'"

"I don't want thanking," protested Alice.

"But you will feel so lonely, dear, when we have gone."

"Never mind me," said Alice; "you know to-morrow I shall start for Switzerland, in order to join my brother there, and then there will be no more loneliness for me."

"You will Give him our kindest remembrances, Miss Sinclair," said Bernard, earnestly.

"If I can I will--that is, if he speaks of you."

The train began to move off, and there was no time to talk any more.

"Good-bye--good-bye, dear," cried the travellers, and then--Alice Sinclair was left alone upon the platform.

CHAPTER XXVI.

TWO MONTHS LATER.

Time and the hour run through the longest day.SHAKESPEARE.

Time and the hour run through the longest day.

SHAKESPEARE.

Mrs. Cameron was a miserable woman. Poor, unhappy, and remorseful, she sat alone in her solitary house--even her one maidservant had left her--thinking dismally of her sad past, mournful present, and hopeless future. On her lap was her son's letter of two months before, the only one he had sent her since he left home to go in search of Doris, and she thought that it would probably be the last one she would ever receive from him.

"I know all that you have done," he wrote, "to destroy my happiness and that of my beloved Doris, and the means by which you sought to separate us for ever in this world, and I write to inform you that your schemes and machinations have failed; for we are engaged to be married, and, there being no longer any obstacle to prevent it, the marriage will take place on the 20th of this month.

"That, I think, is all I need say now, or at any time, to one who has done her utmost to alienate me for life from the one I loved.

"BERNARD CAMERON."

"A nice letter for a mother to receive!" grumbled the widow. "Yet I know that I deserve it," she added mentally. "I've been too hard--too hard on him, and too hard on other people. If I hadn't been so quarrelsome with my husband, he would not have left most of his money to Bernard, and that wretch John Anderson would not have had the chance of stealing it all. And if I hadn't been so hard on Bernard and on Doris Anderson, I should have retained my boy's love, which would have been better than nothing." She sniffed and passed the back of her bony hand across her tearless eyes. "Yes, it would have been better than nothing, and I might have come in for a bit of his money now he is richer; but, as it is, I've got nothing, neither money, nor love, nor anything at all!"

She looked dismally at the dusk stealing across the room with its threadbare carpet and faded chairs and curtains. There was no servant to come in and light the gas and close the blinds. She was all alone, and so hopeless that she did not care whether the gas was lighted or not. "What matter if it is dark, so long as I have nothing to do but think!" she said to herself, dismally. "They'll have had their honeymoon now, and perhaps will be getting settled in their new home. I wonder where it is? To think that I shouldn't know where my son is going to live! I never thought Bernard would turn against me; and yet--and yet I deserve it, for mine was a crooked policy, directed against all his wishes and ignoring his rights. I told myself I was doing it for him, for his best interests; but really I was doing it more for myself, that he might become rich and be in a position to give his mother a good home; and out of spite, too, against those Andersons, and a determination that Doris should not have him." She paused, listening.

Some street singers were wailing forth the hymn, "O God, our help in ages past!" before the house; but the woman, who had found no help in God, because she had never sought it, was only angered by the sound. Rising and going to the window, she made emphatic signs to the man and woman--the latter with a child in her arms and another clinging to her skirts--to pass on; but they either could not see her in the deepening dusk or would not be persuaded to go away, for they continued singing even more loudly than before.

"Well, I shall not give them anything!" declared Mrs. Cameron, relinquishing the attempt to stop them and returning to her chair by the fireless hearth. "What right have they to come disturbing folks in this way?"

Again she sank into gloomy, miserable reflections, while the darkness increased about her.

The door-bell rang; but she paid no attention to it, thinking that it was only the singers wanting alms. "They may want!" she said to herself grimly. "Other folks want what they can't get, too!"

Once more the bell rang, and yet a third time, and even a fourth; but still Mrs. Cameron remained firm in her determination not to speak to the intruders.

"I'm a hard woman," she said to herself; "aye, and I'll be hard. I'm too old to change now, and nobody cares, nobody cares what I'm like or what I do. If any one cared ever such a little bit, I might be different; but nobody cares, least of all God; He's shut me out of His good books long ago. I shall never get to His Heaven, never! Even if He let me into His Heaven, I shouldn't be happy psalm-singing, and praising Him, and living in His presence. Not I! I don't care at all for Him, and that's truth. And if, as some say, in heaven the angels are always ministering to others and doing deeds of kindness, that work wouldn't suit me. Not it!" She laughed shrilly, as if in derision of the idea; and the darkness deepened around her. "I don't care an atom for other people. Not I!" she went on, and again her weird, unholy laugh rang through the room.

Its echoes reached a young man and woman who stood at the door, hesitating before ringing the bell again, and caused them both to shiver.

"Nobody cares for me, and I care for nobody!" soliloquised Mrs. Cameron. "If any one cared ever so little, it would be different. Oh, dear! What's that?"

An exceedingly loud rapping at the street door made her start up, exclaiming angrily, "Those tramps again!"

She bounced out of the room and across the little hall to the door, opening it somewhat gingerly, and crying out the while in her sharpest tones, "I've nothing for you! Get away! Go!" Then she attempted to shut the door, but a strong hand held, it so firmly that she could not close it, whilst a voice spoke, which she was unable to hear for her own clamour.

"If you don't be off I'll prosecute you!" she cried, menacingly.

"Mother! It is I, Bernard! Let me in."

The words reached her ears at last, penetrating even to her starved and icy heart.

"Bernard!" She fell back a pace, and the door flew open, revealing her son and a lady by his side. The street light fell upon the two, and also upon the pale, astonished face of the unhappy woman they had come to see.

"Bernard!"

"Mother!" He put his arms round her neck, in his old boyish way, forgetting everything except that she was his mother, who was looking miserable, whilst he had come to her in his joy, with his dear young wife by his side.

"If any one cared ever so little, it would be different," she had said to herself. Well, here was Bernard, and he cared for her, in spite of everything, and--it was different.

"My son! My son! Forgive me," she said, clinging to him, her tears falling on his manly face and neck, as he kissed her tenderly.

"All right, mother! The past is past," he whispered. "I want you to welcome Doris," he added low in her ear. "She is my wife now."

Mrs. Cameron turned to Doris, holding out her hand, but the young wife raised her face, and she had to kiss her, too.

Then they went in, closing the street door after them; and Bernard, striking a light, lit up every gas-burner he could find about the place; so that the darkness was gone, and it was light, very light.

CHAPTER XXVII.

RESTITUTION.

Does any one know what's in your heart and mine,The sorrow and song,The demon of sin and the angel divine,The right and the wrong:The dread of the darkness, the love of the day,The ebb and the flowOf hope and of doubt for ever and aye,Does any one know?NIXON WATERMAN.He wins at last who puts his trustIn loving words and actions just.* * * * *On every action blazon bright,"For toil, and truth, and love, we fight."T. S. COLLIER.

Does any one know what's in your heart and mine,

The sorrow and song,

The demon of sin and the angel divine,

The right and the wrong:

The dread of the darkness, the love of the day,

The ebb and the flow

Of hope and of doubt for ever and aye,

Does any one know?NIXON WATERMAN.

Does any one know?

NIXON WATERMAN.

He wins at last who puts his trust

In loving words and actions just.

* * * * *

On every action blazon bright,

"For toil, and truth, and love, we fight."

T. S. COLLIER.

An hour later, after they had partaken of a substantial tea-supper, the principal constituents of which Bernard fetched from the village shops, with boyish glee, renewing his acquaintance with the shop-keepers quite merrily, Mrs. Cameron and her son and daughter-in-law sat round the fire Doris had lighted, talking about the future.

Bernard had placed the school at Richmond (of which he had now completed the purchase) in good hands, and he and Doris were going to live in rooms at Oxford until he had obtained his degree, when they would at once proceed to their new home in Richmond.

"We want you to come and live with us, mother," said Bernard; "or if you would prefer not to live with us, at least to occupy rooms near us, so that we may often look in upon you, to prevent your feeling lonely."

"Do you wish that, too, Doris?" asked her mother-in-law, quite timidly.

"Yes, indeed I do," said Doris, heartily. In her great happiness it was impossible for her to cherish any resentment against Bernard's mother.

Mrs. Cameron looked red and confused. Their love made a difference, yes, a very great difference in her feelings. But she shook her head, saying, "You will be better without me. Far better. I will remain here. You can come and see me sometimes, and you must remain here a few days now. I'm afraid we are rather desolate here in the house, but I'll have a charwoman in to-morrow, and we'll try to make the place comfortable."

"The house ails nothing," said Bernard, "for it is home."

"Yes," remarked Doris, brightly, "and you know, 'East or West, home is best.'"

Mrs. Cameron thought remorsefully that she had made only a poor home for Bernard in the last year or two, since he lost his money.

But he appeared to forget all about that, as he merrily assisted her and Doris to arrange a room for their accommodation that night--in point of fact he had engaged a bedroom at the comfortable hydro at Askern, but he did not venture to mention that to his mother under their altered and happier relations.

The next morning, as they were sitting at breakfast, the postman dropped a letter into the letter-box, and Bernard, upon going to the door to fetch it, discovered that it was addressed to himself.

Bringing the letter into the room he looked at the envelope curiously, and perceived that it bore the impression, "London, City & Midland Banking Company, Ltd," whilst the postmark was Doncaster.

"Why, what's this?" he said, and then, opening it wonderingly, found that it was an official intimation from the Doncaster branch of the London, City & Midland Bank, saying that the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds had been placed there to his credit.

The young man put his hand to his brow in great bewilderment. What did it mean? Mechanically he handed the document to his mother, saying, "Look at this. What does it mean?"

Mrs. Cameron fumbled about for her spectacles, found them, could not see through them, shook her head, and, handing the document to Doris, remarked, "You read it, Doris. What does it mean?"

Doris read aloud the printed and written words, which stated that the bank had received twenty-five thousand pounds, and placed the money to the credit of Bernard Cameron.

"Twenty-five thousand pounds!" cried Mrs. Cameron, excitedly. "Why, some one has restored your fortune to you, Bernard!"

Bernard was amazed and glad.

"Who can have paid the money in?" questioned Doris.

"You will have to go to Doncaster to the bank, to see the manager, and ascertain who it is," said Mrs. Cameron.

"Yes," Bernard agreed, still looking very mystified.

"It may be some mistake of the bank's," suggested Mrs. Cameron. "It is dated all right for yesterday."

They were still wondering and conjecturing about the matter, when the sound of a carriage driving up to the door, followed by a loud peal of the door-bell, startled them.

Bernard went to the door, and, upon opening it, perceived, to his intense astonishment, his wife's father.

"Is Mr. Cameron in?" began the visitor, and then, recognising Bernard, he cried, "Bernard! My dear fellow, Iam gladyou are at home."

"Mr. Anderson!" exclaimed Bernard. "Mr. Andersonhere!"

"Father! Father!" cried Doris, overhearing Bernard's greeting, and running into her father's arms. "My dear father!" Forgotten were all his shortcomings, his desertion of herself and appropriation of Bernard's money, forgotten was everything except love in that glad moment of reunion. "Where is mother?" asked Doris, kissing him again and again.

"In the cab, there." He waved his hand towards the vehicle, out of which Mrs. Anderson was leaning forward, in the endeavour to obtain a glimpse of her child.

Doris ran to the cab, and disappeared within it, as there only could she have her beloved mother entirely to herself for a few moments.

Mr. Anderson signed to the cabman to wait for a little while, and then went into the house with Bernard, asking, "Are you alone? Or is your mother within?"

"She is here. This is her house still," answered Bernard, leading the way into the dining-room, where Mrs. Cameron stood, very erect, and looking extremely grave.

Mr. Anderson bowed without making the attempt to shake hands, indeed she had placed hers behind her with a very significant gesture.

"I have to thank you, Mrs. Cameron," said the barrister, "and your son, for your exceeding clemency in not prosecuting me for my terrible defalcations more than a year ago, and I must explain how it was that I lost your son's money, and how it is that I have been able yesterday to place the whole amount in the Doncaster branch of the London, City & Midland Banking Co. for him. Have you had an intimation of this money being placed in the bank to your credit, Bernard?" he asked the young man.

"Yes. This morning. I could not understand who placed it there. I am glad it was you. Oh, Mr. Anderson, I amvery glad!" Bernard seized the elder man's hand, and shook it with warmth. "I feel inclined to throw up my cap and shout 'Hurrah!'" he continued, boyishly, "for I am so delighted for your sake and for Doris's!"

"Well, it's a good thing you've done it," said Mrs. Cameron. "I must say I'm surprised--I never thought you would. What are you nudging me for, Bernard?" she asked, rather crossly. "You know very well that I always say what is in my mind. And I must tell you, Mr. Anderson," she continued, "that it's not me you have to thank for not being prosecuted. I was determined to set the whole machinery of the law to work--I was so mad with you--but Bernard would not have it. He would not raise a finger against you--no, not though I turned him out of my house for his stupidity, as I thought it then, though it seems to have answered well," she admitted.

"Bernard," said Mr. Anderson, looking gratefully at him, "my dear boy, how can I thank you enough? What you must have borne for me!"

"I'm afraid I thought most of Doris," said Bernard, honestly. "It would never have done for me to have brought disgrace and trouble upon her family."

"I sinned," said Mr. Anderson, regarding Bernard's stern mother very mournfully, "I sinned greatly in using money which was not my own for speculations which were risky, as most speculations are. And when all was lost, and I possessed nothing with which to meet my liabilities, as you know, instead of courageously confessing and submitting to the penalty I had incurred, I absconded. Later on, together with my wife, who would not leave me, I took refuge with an old servant of ours, who had married a shepherd in Wales, and there, in a remote place up amongst the mountains, we hid ourselves for a long and weary time. Often I thought of coming down and surrendering to justice, but as often my wife persuaded me to remain in concealment. Eventually, however, I became so convinced that the only right thing to do was to give myself up to the police that, leaving my retreat, I returned, accompanied by my wife, to Yorkshire.

"Then," continued he, "a strange thing happened. Upon reaching York I first went to a lawyer with whom I had formerly transacted business, whereupon he informed me that there had never been a warrant taken out for my arrest, thanks to you, my dear Bernard," and again the elder man gave the younger a grateful glance. "Moreover," the barrister continued, "the lawyer told me that Howden, the man who in the first place led me into those disastrous speculations, had just died, and in his last hours, remembering remorsefully his bad advice to me about speculating, which led to my ruin and desiring to make reparation as far as possible, he bequeathed to me by will the large sum of thirty thousand pounds. You can judge of my extreme delight.

"As soon as the will had been proved and I was in possession of the money I returned to Doncaster, paid all my debts in full, and placed twenty-five thousand pounds in the bank for you, Bernard. After which I came here in the hope of finding you at home. I cannot tell you," Mr. Anderson added, with deep feeling, "I cannot tell you all that I have suffered on account of my sin, nor can I say how great is my relief and satisfaction in being able to restore to you your fortune."

The tears were in his eyes as he said this, and they perceived that his hair had become as white as snow during the last thirteen months, and also that care and trouble had drawn deep lines upon his face. They could not, therefore, doubt the truth of what he was saying, and so Mrs. Cameron as well as Bernard hastened to express their entire forgiveness of his sin and sympathy with him in his sufferings. And if the mother did it less gracefully than her son, Mr. Anderson could not cavil at that, for he knew that it was much more difficult for her, with her hard nature, to speak so kindly than for Bernard.

And when she added, penitently, "I, too, must ask your forgiveness, Mr. Anderson, for the harsh and bitter thoughts I have cherished about you and the hard words I have said," he was only too glad to shake hands with her and say she was not to trouble about that any more.

Upon this touching scene entered Doris and her mother--the two who having not sinned in the matter of the pecuniary defalcations, had yet suffered so grievously by reason of them. Whereupon, kind and loving words were exchanged, and the new relationship of the young people was discussed and approved of by her parents, who both said that they could not have wished for a better husband for their daughter.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CONCLUSION.

Poets are all who love, who feel great truthsAnd tell them, and the truth of truths is love.BAILEY.

Poets are all who love, who feel great truths

And tell them, and the truth of truths is love.

BAILEY.

In Switzerland, where Alice had joined Norman as soon as Doris's marriage had taken place, Alice heard of the surprising restoration of the lost money with the greatest satisfaction.

Doris wrote a full account of the return of her father and the wonderful restitution he was able to make of all the money that he had taken from Bernard and that which he owed the tradespeople.

"Do you know, dear Alice," she wrote in conclusion, "I often and often prayed that he might be able to do this, but it seemed as if my prayers were all in vain, both about this and other matters, and then I grew despondent and doubted--oh, I doubted dreadfully! What patience God must have with us when we have so little faith! And how impatient and short-sighted we are! Why, I might have been sure that just as He clothes the lilies and feeds the birds of the air, so He would give me all things that were needful and that were according to His will. And it must have been His will that my father should be enabled to do right in the end. Well, I'm going to believe in future that He really meant His words when He said, 'Ask, and ye shall receive.'

"And there's another thing, dear Alice," the writer continued joyfully, "Bernard and I want to make one or two thank-offerings for the great mercies we have received.

"First for poor Mrs. Austin, who was so very good to me. You know that Bernard bought her house, in order to prevent her being turned out of it, and now we are giving it to her for life, and to her son after her. She is so delighted, and so is Sam, and it is such a pleasure to us to do this.

"And then, with regard to the school at Richmond, you know Bernard purchased it, and arranged for it to be managed for him until he has finished his career at Oxford, after which he will take it in hand personally; and now he has determined that he will always give schooling and board to two pupils free of charge. They need not necessarily be orphans, but they are to be poor boys of gentle birth, who would otherwise be worsted in the battle of life. They are to receive exactly the same benefits as the other boys, and I am to provide them with clothes, and look after them as a mother might. I need not tell you how glad I am to do this.

"Dear old Susan is coming to live with us and be our matron, much to her satisfaction. She is so glad that Bernard and I are married. You know we could not have her at the wedding, as Mrs. Cameron was not there--for it might have made the villagers at Moss talk if one had been present and not the other, and it would certainly have hurt Mrs. Cameron's feelings.

"Write to me, dear Alice, and let me know what you think of these schemes, which we have planned in this lovely Isle of Wight."

Alice read the letter aloud to Norman, a little later, when, having left Switzerland, they were going up the Rhine in a river-steamer, one lovely day in autumn. She was glad of her friend's happiness, and rejoiced in it so much that she could not keep the letter to herself.

"Cameron seems a decent sort of fellow," said the artist, "after all."

"Oh, yes, he is. Wasn't it nice of him to buy Mrs. Austin's little house in order that she might not be turned out of it, and then to give it to her when he became richer?"

"Yes," said Norman, "I must say that Mrs. Austin deserves it for her goodness to Doris; though she never favoured me, but always endeavoured to make me feel that I was an intruder."

"But she was very good to me," said Alice, softly.

"Yes," said her brother, "and for that, too, she shall be forgiven everything by the poor artist, whom you fed when he was a surly, inconsiderate old bear."

"I'm very proud of my Lion!" exclaimed Alice, lovingly. "See," she added, "I have brought out with us some London papers which arrived just as we were leaving our hotel. I want you to see what is said of your Academy pictures, especially of 'Ganymede.' The likeness of the girl," she added, "is so marvellously like Doris, that I expect her husband will be wanting to buy it."

"Don't!" said Norman, walking a little way apart, in order that she might not see his face.

Presently he returned to her without a shadow on his fine expressive countenance.

"I hope you are observing the beauty of all this Rhine scenery," he said, with a smile. "It ought to appeal to the poetry in your nature."

"Poetry! Poetry in my nature!" exclaimed Alice. "Why, Norman, I always thought that you considered me soveryprosaic and matter-of-fact."

"On the contrary," said her brother. "It isIwho have been so often matter-of-fact;youhave always been steeped in love, so much so, in fact, that you have idealised and nursed illusions for the sake of your beloved ones. Don't you know--

Poets are all who love, who feel great truthsAnd tell them, and the truth of truths is love.

Poets are all who love, who feel great truths

And tell them, and the truth of truths is love.

Yes," continued Norman, humbly, "you are before me, Alice, in the great race, because through your life--as through Doris's--the golden thread of Love leads you and dominates your actions. Not the mere lover's love for one, but a noble enthusiasm and love for all who are near and dear to you."

THE END.

Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld.,London and Aylesbury

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKLOVE'S GOLDEN THREAD***

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