Chapter VI: Part 6

Early as she was, however, Bernard had been earlier, for he had already left the house when she came downstairs.

Mrs. Cameron hired a dogcart and ordered a man to drive her as fast as possible to Doncaster Station.

But it happened that the dogcart collided with a waggon on the way. No one was hurt, but there was some confusion and considerable delay, and when at length Mrs. Cameron was able to walk into the station at Doncaster, it was to catch sight of the express fast disappearing in the distance.

"I have lost my son!" said the unhappy woman to herself. "He will never speak to me again when he finds out about the letters I have suppressed. He will hate me--yes, he will hate me for doing it." The thought followed that she would deserve her fate, for if ever a parent provoked her son to wrath she had done so.

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*BERNARD SEEKS DORIS.*

The course of true love never did run smooth.
SHAKESPEARE.

"Is Miss Anderson in?"

"No, sir. She doesn't live here now, sir," answered Mrs. Austin, in melancholy tones.

"Not live here! Then where is she?" cried Bernard somewhat faintly, for in his surprise and consternation at not finding Doris there a return of the faintness that had before troubled him seemed imminent.

The good woman caught hold of him by the arm.

"Excuse me, Mr. Cameron, sir," she exclaimed. "You are ill. Come inside, sir. Come inside the house."

Bernard shook her hand off, declaring he was all right; but he walked unsteadily into the little sitting-room, where he had expected to find Doris.

"Sit down, sir; I'll get you a glass of water or a cup of tea in a moment----"

"Nonsense! I mean, I'm much obliged to you. But all I wish to know is this, where is Miss Anderson? Where--is--Miss--Anderson?

"Oh, I'll tell you, sir, in a moment," answered Mrs. Austin, bustling about and getting him some water. "Take a drink, sir," and she held the glass to his lips.

He drank slowly. The room, which had been turning round and sinking into the ground, became once more stationary, whilst the clouds of darkness disappeared, and it was light again.

"There, you'll do now," said Mrs. Austin. "Miss Anderson told me that you had been ill."

"Never mind me. Where is she?" Bernard asked the question impatiently. Would the woman never answer him?

"There have been changes, sir, since you were here," said Mrs. Austin, rather nervously, standing before him, twisting her apron round her fingers, with her eyes fixed upon it. "It all came of the artist gentleman. I wish to goodness he had never set his foot inside of my door!"

"Do you mean Miss Sinclair's brother?" interrupted Bernard, taking alarm at Norman Sinclair's influencing Doris's movements. He remembered warning her against him in this very room, and telling her that if she grew to care for him she would not love her Bernard any more.

"Yes, Mr. Sinclair. I begged her not to listen to him. But she did. And he came again and again, until he had persuaded her to stop making those pictures and give up her business, which was paying her so grandly."

"Give up her business! Did you say he persuaded her to give up her business? Did she do that?"

"Yes, sir, yes. Didn't she tell you? For, now I come to think of it, she had done that before you were ill, when she went to see you at Richmond."

"Had she taken such a step then? She never told me so. She never said a word about it to me."

"Didn't she, sir? Then perhaps she thought you were too ill to be bothered. She told me when she returned from Richmond that she had seen you off by train for the north, hoping that your native air and your mother's nursing would restore you. Not that it has done much for you, sir, as far as I can see----"

"Never mind that. Tell me what Miss Anderson did next?" Bernard asked anxiously.

"She told me that she sold what she had left of the pictures she had finished, and all the materials she had bought in for others; and then, having given up the business, she began seeking employment again, answering advertisements, applying at shops, and all that sort of weary work. It made my heart ache to see her come in at nights tired out, pale, and worn--a lady like that, who ought only to have been fatigued with cycling, or tennis, or amusing herself as other young ladies do! 'Perhaps I shall have more success to-morrow,' she would say to me, with her patient smile. But months went by, and it was always the same, until, at length, she came towards the end of her savings, and then she began to economise and pinch herself of comforts, and--necessaries."

"You don't say so!" cried Bernard in consternation.

"I'm afraid you are ill, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Austin, seeing him turn very pale.

"No, I'm all right. Go on," he said though his old faintness was troubling him.

"Well, sir, the day came when Miss Anderson said to me very plainly that she had no money left, or next to none, so she begged me to allow her to give up her rooms and just have the garret to sleep in until she found work that she could do."

"Why didn't she write to me?" cried Bernard.

"She hadn't much time for writing, sir, when she was all day seeking work; and at nights she was too tired, too down-hearted. And I think, sir, she kept looking for a letter, which didn't come, from you."

"From me? Why, I wrote to her almost every week when I was well enough, until, latterly, having no answer, I became discouraged. But hurry on with your story. Where is she now?"

"She had a letter from Miss Sinclair which made her very glad; and then Miss Sinclair found her some work, about which she was very hopeful at first; but it was difficult to do, I am sure, for she used to come home quite fagged out, and it must have paid badly, for she had very little money. 'I'm such a poor hand at it, Mrs. Austin!' she used to say. And sometimes she used to add, 'My heart isn't hard enough for it.' Poor dear! If it was a hard heart the work wanted, Miss Anderson was quite the wrong lady for it. I've seen ladies who would 'skin a flint,' as the saying is, but----"

"Never mind that!" interrupted Bernard with more impatience than courtesy. "Tell me where Miss Anderson is?"

Mrs. Austin began again, for she would tell things in her own way. "She fell into a poor state of health, and got a hacking cough, which wouldn't be cured, though I made her linseed tea, and honey and lemon, and----"

"Where is she? Speak! Tell me, is she alive?" For now Bernard's fear caused him to leap to the conclusion that Doris must have died.

"Oh, dear, sir, she's alive, of course! Though she was in a bad state at that time, and had a regular churchyard cough."

"Go on. You frighten me."

"I'm sorry, sir. Where was I? Oh, there came a day when she couldn't go out. I made her lie on the sofa in my back parlour, and it just happened that Mr. Sinclair called: he had been many times when she was out, but that day he called when she was in. He had a very long talk with Miss Anderson. And she was very much excited after he had gone. She cried a good bit, and then, next day, his sister came to see her, and afterwards he called again, and then Miss Anderson sat down and wrote a letter to you, sir, and another one to an old servant in Yorkshire, and she cried while she was writing them. I think those were very important letters, sir, for she was very anxious that they should be safely posted. I had to put on my bonnet and take them to the post myself, for she would trust no one else. And then she waited so anxiously for the answers, but only the old servant wrote. Oh, sir, why didn't you write?"

"I received no letter from her. I have had none from her since the first week after my return to Yorkshire."

"And I'm sure she wrote to you, sir, several times."

Bernard uttered an exclamation. It was clear to him that his mother must have seized his letters and kept them from him.

"There was something in the old servant's letter," continued Mrs. Austin, "which struck my dear young lady all of a heap and made her go about like a stricken lamb, with her poor young face so white and drawn. She did not cry then, sir. I only wished she would, for there was a heart-broken look in her poor face. Then Miss Sinclair came, full of affectionate concern, and she did her best to comfort Miss Anderson; but in vain.

"'It's no use,' she said to me, 'I cannot make Doris cheer up. I shall send my brother.'

"And then, the next thing was Mr. Sinclair came, and after he had gone, Miss Anderson said to me, quiet-like, 'I'm not going to be poor any longer, Mrs. Austin!' And then she went on to say, 'It will be better for you, dear Mrs. Austin; I've only been a burden on you lately, and now you will be well paid for all you have done for me---not that money will ever repay you, my good, kind friend!' and, throwing her arms round my neck, she kissed me more than once. 'I should have died if it hadn't been for you,' she said. 'And now I am going to live and be Mr. Sinclair's wife. He is rich now, and I have promised to marry him.'"

"To marry him!" Bernard exclaimed, starting up so violently that he overturned a small table. "Did she say to marry him?"

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Austin answered, with great sympathy; "I'm sorry to say she did."

"But she is _my_ promised wife!" cried Bernard, picking up the table and beginning to pace up and down the room, in his agitation.

"Indeed, sir!" Mrs. Austin's round eyes opened widely in astonishment. She had always understood that Mr. Cameron loved Doris, and indeed she wondered who could help loving her! But it was altogether another thing to hear that Doris had promised to marry Mr. Cameron.

"Where is she? I must speak to her--must hear from her own lips how it was that she could do such a thing. Where is she?" cried Bernard.

"Wait a minute, please, sir," said Mrs. Austin. "I must tell you that after the engagement was settled Miss Sinclair came the next day and took Miss Anderson away. Miss Sinclair gave me her address,--Steele's Road, Hampstead, and said that I was to forward all Miss Anderson's letters there. Miss Sinclair also gave me a five-pound-note, and Miss Anderson promised to come and see me, and settle up everything before she got married. She begged me to pack up all her things, and take care of them for her; but she said, too, that she would never be able to come and live here again. 'No,' I said, 'you are going to be a grand lady, and you'll forget all about poor Mrs. Austin!' But she said, 'No, no, indeed!' and she cried, and kissed me. 'I'm not very happy,' she said, and could say no more for weeping, especially as Miss Sinclair came up to urge her to make haste, for the cab was waiting.

"Not very happy? I should think not indeed! Oh, Doris!" The last words were said very low, as Bernard turned his head away for a few moments.

"She looked miserable, sir. I'm thinking it was only for a home and support that she was thinking of marriage."

"But she wouldn't sell herself for that!" exclaimed Bernard.

"And then it was such a grievous thing, sir, that you didn't write to her. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. And very sick at heart my poor dear young lady was, many and many a time, while she was looking for the post bringing her a letter, in the days before she got engaged to Mr. Sinclair."

"But I did write! I wrote many more letters than I received from her. I never heard from her after the first week."

"Then there has been foul play, sir, somewhere! Letters have been stopped, and have got into the wrong hands before to-day."

Bernard knew well who must have been the culprit. His mother had wronged and sinned against him in a way which would be hard to forgive. She had done all she possibly could to destroy his happiness in this world. But he told himself that he must not waste time in thinking of that just now; he would hasten to Doris and have a talk with her.

"Do you say she is at Hampstead?" he inquired, hastily.

"She went there with Miss Sinclair, but they are not there now, sir. They have gone to the seaside somewhere, for the benefit of Miss Anderson's health."

"Gone!" cried Bernard. "To the seaside! What seaside? Where?"

"I don't know, sir. They'll tell you at--Steele's Road, Hampstead."

"I'll go there at once. You've been a good friend to Miss Anderson. Allow me," and he pressed a sovereign into the landlady's hand, and hurried out of the house.

In the shortest possible time he was at Hampstead, inquiring at Steele's Road for Miss Anderson's address. Mr. Sinclair happened to be out--which Bernard thought was just as well for him; but the servant being under the impression that his master was somewhere about the house, Bernard was shown up into the studio. There, as he waited, he perceived more than one painting in which Doris's fair sweet face was beautifully delineated. The sight of it there, however, only maddened her unhappy lover. What right had the fellow to make Doris's loveliness so common? What right had he to possess the presentment of it there? By the power of his strong will and helped by his riches he had prevailed upon the lonely girl to promise him her hand in marriage. In the absence of her own true lover he had stolen her from him. But a Nemesis had come, was coming indeed; and when Doris saw her Bernard and spoke with him, face to face, she would throw over the usurper, and matters would be readjusted as happily, nay, more happily, than if this engagement had not occurred.

"'For things can never go wholly wrong
If the heart be true and the love be strong'"--

quoted Bernard to himself, "and there shall be no mere engagement, but a marriage shall take place forthwith. For, thank God! I am rich enough now," he said to himself, "to be able to marry my Doris. Yes, all will come right when I see her again."

A maidservant entered, bringing in an address on a slip of paper. "Mr. Sinclair is out," she said, "but this is where we have to send all letters that come, either for Miss Sinclair or Miss Anderson."

"Thank you," said Bernard, taking up the scrap of paper, and reading, "The Queen's Hotel, Hastings," upon it.

"I will go there immediately," he said to himself, as he left the house. "I will take the very first express train to Hastings." He hailed a cab. "Drive me to Charing Cross," he ordered, "and drive your fastest."

*CHAPTER XXII*

*TOO LATE! TOO LATE!*

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I try to be," answered Doris.

"Try to be?" Alice raised her eyebrows.

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

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

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

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

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

"In the future with Norman? Oh, Doris, you cannot _love_ him!" Alice's tones were full of distress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why cannot you?" he demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

*ALICE SINCLAIR'S INTERVENTION.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Allow me to remark that you are speaking of _my brother_," interposed Alice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alice paused, looking wistfully at him.

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

*CHAPTER XXIV.*

*NORMAN SINCLAIR'S LETTER.*

Not only those above us on the height,
With love and praise and reverence I greet:
Not only those who walk in paths of light
With glad, untiring feet:
These, too, I reverence toiling up the slope,
And resting not upon their rugged way,
Who plant their feet on faith and cling to hope,
And climb as best they may.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DEAR DORIS,

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

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

"Yours very faithfully,
"NORMAN SINCLAIR."

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

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

*CHAPTER XXV.*

*A HAPPY WEDDING.*

Never to part till angels call us home.
_Song_, "_Golden Love_."

The span of life's not long enough,
Nor deep enough the sea,
Nor broad enough this weary world
To part my love from me.
_Anon_.

So they were wed, and merrily rang the bells,
Merrily rang the bells when they were wed.
LONGFELLOW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Here? At Hastings? From this hotel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cannot you write to her?"

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

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

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

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

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!"

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

"Oh, thank you!"