Part 13

"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!"

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

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

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

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

"But----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, _I_ think so," said Doris, laughing merrily.

Mrs. Austin looked wonderingly at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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