Part 10

"Oh, you poor, dear darling!" wrote Alice to Doris, "what an awfully inconvenient thing it is to have a conscience! And an appetite for food, with a conscience which prevents one from having the means to satisfy it, is a piling on of the agony! With Norman on his high horse, so that he will not allow me to do this and that, and you with a conscience which prevents your sending me any more money, truly I am in a fix. But I won't be beaten. I must find grist for the mill somewhere and somehow, if I have to sing in the street, or be a flower-girl. My dear old Norman shan't starve to death while I have any wits left at all. As for you, if you were not too proud, there are artists who would pay much for the privilege of painting your lovely face. I know Norman would be charmed to have it for his picture of 'Ganymede.' Indeed, he is painting her astonishingly like you, although an ordinary model is sitting for it. Your face is your fortune, darling, when all is said and done. And you'll marry a duke, no doubt, in the end, while I shall be only an insignificant nobody, perhaps mentioned in the 'Life of Norman Sinclair, R.A.' as having fed the lion when he was oblivious of such mundane things as pounds, shillings and pence. Good night. When I have thought of what I will do, I'll send you word. Then maybe you will join me in doing it: and we won't let anybody come between us ever again.

"Thine, "ALICE."

Another day, when Doris was despairing of ever getting anything to do, she received a second letter from her friend, which was short and to the point.

"Eureka! I have found it," wrote Alice, "now at last our woes will be all over. Our work will be honourable of its sort, and it will pay a little--enough to feed the lion and our humble selves, although we shall not be able to save money. Oh, dear no. But we must be thankful for small mercies in these days. Meet me to-morrow at twelve o'clock at the Park Square entrance to the Broad Walk in Regent's Park; then we will have a walk and talk about it.

"Thine, "ALICE."

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*NEW EMPLOYMENT FOR DORIS.*

No soul can be quite separate, However set aside by fate, However cold or dull or shy Or shrinking from the public eye. The world is common to the race, And nowhere is a hiding-place: Behind, before, with rhythmic beat, Is heard the tread of marching feet. * * * * * And as we meet and touch each day, The many travellers on our way, Let every such brief contact be A glorious, helpful ministry: The contact of the soil and seed, Each giving to the other's need, Each helping on the other's best, And blessing, each, as well as blest. SUSAN COOLIDGE.

"Oh, my dear Doris, isn't it lovely to be out here in the fresh air and sunshine, with you, too, at last? At last!" Alice's feet almost danced over the ground, as with a smiling face she drew her friend along the Broad Walk in Regent's Park. "Oh, I have so much to tell you! We have been parted ages--_ages_!" she cried.

"Ages indeed!" sighed Doris. "It does seem such a long, _long_ time: and yet I suppose it is barely four months since you left me."

"Months? Four months did you say? It seems like _years_! Why, it was the depth of winter then, and now it is spring, though the trees are bare yet," and Alice glanced up at the fine chestnut trees on both sides of the walk.

"I am afraid I cannot walk so fast as this if I am to talk as well," panted Doris, as she was being hurried along.

"Why, what is the matter with you? You dear thing, what is the matter? You are pale. You are ill?" Alice was looking at her now with great concern.

"Not at all. I'm all right, only I cannot walk so quickly. You walk very fast."

"How worn your clothes are!" cried Alice, scrutinising her closely. "And how thin you are! Doris, I believe you are _starving_."

"Nothing of the sort." A bright colour had come into Doris's face now, making it look more beautiful than ever, although it was so thin.

"Have you had a good breakfast?" questioned practical Alice.

"Yes. Mrs. Austin saw to that. She is very good to me."

"Oh, Doris!" Alice read between the lines. Her friend had been suffering want; indeed, was suffering it now.

"I am all right," declared Doris again. "Come, tell me, dear, what is the work you have found for me to do?"

"Well, it is honest work, at all events, and although it isn't at all romantic, it is interesting enough. I tried to get into several other things first, but found them all so difficult without a special training, and time is the commodity in which we are deficient: for what we want is immediate money--cash _down_" and Alice gave a little stamp with her foot to emphasise "down."

"It is, indeed," cried Doris. "Go on quickly, please. Tell me what you have found for us to do?" It was a matter of vital importance to her, for she had reached her last coin that day, and her only hope was in Alice's promised work.

"It is account collecting. You know, calling at people's houses for the money they are owing."

"Oh!" Doris's "Oh!" was rather dubious. Such work seemed indeed most unattractive.

"It was my grocer who gave me the idea," Alice went on briskly. "I was apologising for not paying him at once, and he said that he wished every one was as honest. Upon which I remarked that I was looking out for work, and should have more cash in hand when I obtained it. He seemed quite sorry for me. 'It is only temporary, of course, this want of yours,' he said, oh, so kindly; and then I was such a goose, I couldn't help the tears coming into my eyes, upon which he jumped up, went into an inner room, and presently returned to invite me in. Then he asked if I would like to collect his outstanding debts, the debts people owed him, you know, and he offered me from 5 per cent. to 10 per cent. on all the money I got in for him. 'Young ladies do such work,' said he, 'and if you are successful, Miss Sinclair, I will recommend my friends to employ you also. I know one or two lady-collectors,' he added, 'who make from L50 to L100 a year by this sort of thing.' Beggars cannot be choosers; therefore I accepted the work, and began at once."

"How clever of you!"

"It was a bit rough on me at first, you know. People very rarely indeed pay their debts pleasantly. Most people who greeted me with smiles when I went to their houses, looked considerably less amiable when they found out that I wanted some of their money; and then going about in all weathers--for the money has often to be collected weekly--is not nice. Nevertheless, I am getting on. I earned a pound a week at first, and now it is usually nearer two pounds a week than one. And, best of all," Alice gave a little laugh, "dear old Norman hasn't found out about it yet; and--and," she could scarcely speak for laughing, although there was a little choke in her voice, "he swallows the fruits of my toil beautifully!"

"Alice," exclaimed Doris, with immense admiration, "what a brave girl you are! A sister in a thousand!"

"And now I have more work than I can do," went on Alice earnestly, "and I thought you would assist me, dear. If I could hand over some of the surplus work to you, why, it would prevent my overworking, and it might help you."

"It certainly would!" exclaimed Doris. "But before taking up the work I ought to have good references to give you and your employers, and who----"

"_I_ should be responsible, of course," interrupted Alice. "You will simply act as my assistant. I will give you your work to do, and you will have a percentage of all the money you collect. It will be all right. You will simply act for me."

Doris could not do otherwise than gratefully accept this kind offer. Indeed, there was nothing for her between it and starvation, unless she would be a helpless burden upon poor Mrs. Austin. Alice explained to Doris fully about the work, arranged where they should meet daily, and went thoroughly into every detail connected with the new employment. Moreover, she thoughtfully advanced ten shillings, that Doris might be able to buy herself a new hat, veil, and a pair of gloves, also a note-book and pencil.

When that matter was settled, the girls sat down under one of the chestnut trees, enjoying to the full the sights and sounds of spring about them, the fresh green of the grass, the blue sky, and the sunshine resting over all and everything--not to mention the singing and twittering of the birds, the barking of dogs, the rolling of the carriages, and the bright appearance of the ladies walking or driving by.

Presently Alice ventured to ask after Bernard Cameron. Upon which Doris, with her heart lightened from carking care and warmed by her friend's affection, for the first time took her entirely into her confidence, by relating how matters stood between her and the young man, together with a full statement of the manner in which his money had been lost. She could trust Alice completely, and, moreover, felt that, as the latter was about to be responsible for her honesty in dealing with other people's money, no detail of the cloud of disgrace resting over the Andersons should be concealed.

"But it does not make the slightest difference about you, darling," cried Alice, looking tenderly into Doris's downcast face. "It is very sweet of you to tell me all about it. And I think, dear, that you take rather too serious a view of your father's fault----"

"Say, _sin_," corrected Doris, gravely. "Let us call things by their right names----"

"Well, _sin_," conceded Alice. "But in my opinion it was not so bad as you think. When he speculated with Bernard Cameron's money, of course he thought it quite safe to do so, and anticipated a big profit, which no doubt he intended to hand over to Bernard. If things had 'panned out,' as the Americans say, successfully, no one would have blamed him. Indeed, people would have thought he acted very cleverly and with rare discrimination. It seems to me that it was the mere accident of non-success, instead of success, which made his conduct reprehensible and not praiseworthy."

Doris took no little comfort from this view of the matter, and wished she had confided in Alice before.

"How very sensible you are, Alice, dear!" she cried. "Oh, I am fortunate in having such a friend!"

"And I am fortunate in having you for a friend, darling!" returned the other, adding, in her most matter-of-fact tone, "When an outsider brings eyes that haven't been saddened by grief to look at a trouble, of course the vision is clearer. And I must say, also, that I like Bernard for not accepting that money from you."

"Oh, but I did want him to take it," said Doris. "Though, really," she added, "I don't know what I should have done without it. He does not know that I have given up my lucrative business," she said in conclusion. "He thought it all right."

"Have you heard from him lately?" asked Alice.

"Not very lately. He wrote to tell me of his safe arrival in Yorkshire, and that his mother was very kind in nursing him. And then he wrote again, to tell me he had been very ill, and mentioned that his mother worried him considerably by endeavouring to induce him to do things which were utterly distasteful to him. 'But this is a free country,' he wrote, 'and I shall do as I please.' Since then," Doris continued, "I have heard nothing; indeed, I have not written much lately."

The two girls sat there talking for some time, and then went to get some lunch at Alice's expense.

On the day following, Doris commenced work as Alice's assistant account-collector. But, being thoroughly run down and out of health, she found her duties extremely arduous and fatiguing. She was not adapted for the work, and it was to her most irksome and unpleasant to have to ask people for money. She would rather have given it to them. When they were disagreeable--and, as Alice had said, it was rarely indeed that people could be pleasant when they were asked for money by an account-collector--Doris had the most absurd inclination to apologise and hurry away. In fact, she did that more than once, and had to be severely scolded by Alice for neglecting her duties. It was in vain, however, that Alice lectured and coached her; Doris was much too tender-hearted to make a good collector. When people began to make excuses for not paying their debts it was only with difficulty she could refrain from assisting them to do so; her sympathy was always on their side, consequently she did not earn much of a percentage.

Alice paid her liberally, as liberally indeed as she could afford to do, for she had her "Lion" to keep, and her means were limited; but Doris earned barely enough money to pay her rent for the garret and for the food with which Mrs. Austin supplied her, and, in consequence, her clothes grew shabbier and her health became worse every day. She did not hear from Bernard, and was often despondent and hopeless about the future. How could she possibly pay him back any money out of the trifling sums she was earning? And he would not take it if she could. He would rather remain poor, and there could never be any marriage between her and Bernard Cameron.

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*A POWERFUL TEMPTATION.*

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

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

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

"Is Miss Anderson in?"

"Well, yes, sir, she is, but----"

"Be so good as to announce me!"

"I don't know about that, sir. Miss Anderson is not very well; and I think--I think it might be better for her not to see visitors."

"Visitors? I am not visitors. Be so good as to show me in."

Mrs. Austin reluctantly led the way to her sitting-room--a small one at the back of the house--where Doris was reclining on an old-fashioned sofa. She started up on perceiving Mr. Sinclair, and would have risen, but he put her gently back again.

"Don't let me disturb you, I beg," he entreated. "I shall have to go away if you don't lie still. And I want to see you very much," he pleaded. "It is so long since I had that pleasure."

As of old, his strong will dominated hers, and she fell back against the soft pillows Mrs. Austin had placed for her head, and looked at him in silence. Her blue eyes seemed bigger than ever, and her complexion was more clear and waxen; but her cheeks were too thin for beauty, and her mouth drooped pathetically.

"My dear child, what have you been doing with yourself?" Norman's tone was more fatherly than loverlike now: he took Doris's hands in his and held them gently.

Overcome with emotion, and unable to command herself, she burst into tears. What had she been doing? Much, much that he little suspected. She had visited a pawn-broker's shop more than once, for the purpose of raising money on articles of dress. That was because her earnings were not sufficient for her maintenance; and then she disliked her work exceedingly. There were all sorts of annoyances connected with it. More than one irate householder, on learning that her visit was for money owing, had treated her with rudeness and disrespect, shutting the door in her face. She had also been affronted with coarse jests and familiarities, which terrified and wounded her more than unkind words. Sleepless nights and unsuccessful, ill-feel days combined to rob her of health and strength, while uneasiness about Bernard's lengthened silence and anxiety about ways and means harassed her mind continually.

They were alone in the little room, Mrs. Austin having returned upstairs. Norman Sinclair's heart ached for the poor girl's distress, although he by no means knew what occasioned it. He soothed and comforted her as best he could, and then, bit by bit, as she became calmer, drew from her the history of those last months since he had seen her.

Doris could not keep anything back. Now, as ever, the strong will of the man compelled her to reveal her very soul, with all its doings, yearnings, and despair, even in regard to Bernard Cameron.

When all was told there was silence in the little room, save for the ticking of the eight-day clock and the purring of the cat upon the hearth. Doris had said everything there was to say: she could add nothing, but only waited for the artist to speak. She looked at him to see why he did not begin.

His head was averted, as if he were trying to conceal the emotion which caused his strong features to work convulsively. Then he turned towards her, and the love revealed in his eyes and in his whole expressive countenance blinded and dazzled her.

Suddenly, with a swift movement, he took her hands, saying in tones full of deep feeling, "You must come to me. You are totally unfitted to contend with this wicked world. Will you not be my wife?" he pleaded.

"I am to be Bernard's," she faltered, releasing her hands with gentle dignity.

Sinclair frowned a little. He did not think that Bernard Cameron loved her; from what Alice had told him he was inclined to think the young man was treating her rather badly.

"Are you quite sure that he loves you?" asked Norman Sinclair drily.

Doubts born of Bernard's long silence recurred to the girl's mind. If he loved her, surely he would have written, in spite of his mother's prohibition.

"I have given him time," persisted Norman, "but he has apparently deserted you, whilst I am---- Oh, Doris, you little know how much I love you! Will you not be my wife?"

"Oh, hush! Hush, please!" said Doris. "I am _so sorry_! You have been such a dear, good friend--I have thought so much of your advice--you know it was that mainly which caused me to give up my business, and sink--sink into poverty."

"It was very brave of you to do it."

"I have thought so much of your advice," she repeated, "and have looked up to you so much. Do not spoil it all."

His face fell. Where was his power over her. She seemed to be receding from him.

"Doris," he urged, "will you marry me?"

"I cannot," she replied, very earnestly. "Indeed I cannot!"

"You cannot?" There was a great disappointment in his tone.

"I cannot," she repeated.

For a minute or two after she said that, the artist sat motionless and silent. Then he began to speak rapidly and with deep feeling.

In a few well-chosen words he described graphically the loneliness and hardship of his orphan boyhood, when Alice was a baby and therefore unable to give him even sympathy; and then he spoke of the dawning of ambition within him and of his boyhood's dreams that one day he would become an artist worthy of the name, and went on to relate the story of his striving to acquire the necessary skill and culture, and to mount one by one the golden stairs. Tremendous difficulties had to be overcome, indomitable, unfaltering resolution and untiring industry had to be displayed by him: perseverance under many adverse circumstances became almost his second nature, until at last, gradually, success came nearer. Then he spoke of his hard work more recently, and of the pictures he had painted that last year, two of which had now been accepted and hung in the Royal Academy. Only quite incidentally did he mention that he and Alice would have actually wanted bread sometimes if it had not been for mysterious bank-notes arriving anonymously, labelled "Conscience Money," which made him think they came from one or another to whom he had formerly lent cash which could ill be spared. In conclusion he said quietly, "However, thank God, all that is ended, for, through the death of a rather distant relation, I have quite unexpectedly inherited a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds. As soon as I was absolutely certain that there was no mistake about the matter, I said to myself, 'I will go to Doris. If she will share my life and help me to do some good with the money, ah, then I shall be happy.' So, Doris dear, I came."

The girl was silent. She was deeply touched. He came to her as soon as the cloud of poverty had lifted and he was able to offer her a home and plenty.

"You came to me," she faltered at length, without daring to lift her eyes to his, lest he should see the tears which filled them--"you came to me--a beggar girl--a pauper----"

"No," he said, "a brave, hard-working, honourable girl! Doris, you have suffered, are suffering now; but by marrying me you will be lifted at once out of all difficulties. Think, dear, how easy and pleasant your life would be, and how useful, too, for you would help me to do much good with our riches."

But Doris shook her head. She could not accept his offer.

Sinclair went away presently, disappointed for the time being, but determined to try again. The next day he sent his sister to visit Doris, and Alice brought her useful presents of chickens, jelly, cream, and cakes.

"It's so delightful to be rich," she said. "You've no idea how pleasant it is to be able to buy everything we want! Wouldn't you like to be rich, too, Doris?" she asked.

"Yes," said Doris. "Yes, I should. I hate poverty. It is so belittling--so sordid to have to think so much of ways and means! I should like to forget what things cost, and accept everything as unconsciously as we accept the air we breathe."

"And yet you won't be rich," said Alice, with meaning.

Doris coloured a little. "How can I?" she asked, "when there is Bernard?"

"Perhaps he would like to be rich, too?" suggested Alice.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, _do_ you think it would be best for him to marry you, and plunge both himself and you into poverty?" asked Alice.

"You talk as his mother did," sighed Doris.

"After all, there was commonsense in her view of the matter," persisted Alice. "What is the use of two young people marrying, and living in poverty ever after, when they may both be rich and happy if they will?"

"Riches and happiness do not always go together."

"I don't think poverty and happiness do," said Alice, curtly.

Doris felt a little shaken. Would it really be better for Bernard and she to be true to each other, when their marriage would only mean poverty and anxiety?

Norman came again that afternoon when Alice had gone.

"Doris," he said, when they were conversing in Mrs. Austin's back parlour, "perhaps, as Cameron has been so long in writing, he may have ceased to care for you."

"Perhaps so indeed!" rejoined Doris, with a sigh.

"Couldn't you ascertain whether it is so?" suggested the other.

"Yes--if he will answer me; but--I don't know how it is--I receive no answer to my letters," faltered the girl.

"Is there no one else to whom you can write in Yorkshire--I mean, so that you can get to know his feeling about you?"

"There's only Susan Gaunt, our old servant, I might write to her; but I scarcely think that she can do anything, though she has known him since he was a boy, and he is always nice to her, and talks to her quite freely."

"Well, ask her about him. And write to him, too, once more, asking him straight out if he has changed towards you."

"I think I will," said Doris. "It can do no harm."

She accordingly wrote that evening both to Susan and to Bernard.

The old servant answered immediately. Her letter was as follows:

"MY PRECIOUS MISS DORIS,

"At last you send me your address, and I hasten to write these few lines to ask if you are well, as this doesn't leave me so at present.

"My heart is very bad, dearie, and the doctor says I may die quite suddenly any time. Well, I've always liked that verse--