Part 4

Pretty golden-haired Doris, with her slender array of accomplishments and small amount of book learning, found herself at a great disadvantage as compared with girls who had received a sound Board School, or High School, education. As a teacher she could find no employment, having no certificates, and testimonials, or references to give. After answering many advertisements, which entailed much expenditure in bus and train fares, though she walked whenever she could, thereby saving her pennies at the cost of shoe leather, she was obliged to come to the conclusion that not by teaching would her money be earned. The same ill success attended her search for a situation as lady's companion. Her want of references alone debarred her from any chance of success in that direction.

One day, when passing down a well-known street in north London, she perceived a notice in a dress and milliner's shop window stating that young girls were much needed as junior assistants. She therefore went in to make inquiries, and found that if she liked to go there and sew from morning to night she would receive in payment a couple of meals a day and eighteenpence a week. It would be impossible for her to be lodged also, the manageress said, as they had as many hands living in as they had beds for. Plenty of girls were to be had for that trifling wage, as they went there to get an insight into the business, hoping to pass on to better work and higher wages in due course.

As it was impossible for Doris to pay for a bedroom out of such a wage she was compelled to decline the work; and as the weeks passed by and nothing better turned up she at last found herself in a pawn shop, trying to raise a little money on her watch and chain, and undergoing a truly humiliating experience.

The day came, only too soon, when Doris was obliged to confess to her landlady that she could no longer pay for her week's lodging in advance. By that time, however, Mrs. Austin had conceived a real attachment to her young lady lodger. When, therefore, Doris stated her sad case, with tears in her eyes, the good woman's heart was touched.

"Now don't you take on about that, miss, don't!" she cried. "I shall not ask you for any more money till I am obliged, miss. I know you will pay me when you can."

"You may be quite sure I shall do that," said Doris. "I am only too distressed at the idea of your having to wait for the money."

Mrs. Austin went out of the room, to return, however, in a few minutes with what she thought might be a "helpful suggestion."

"If you can paint, miss," she said, "perhaps they may be willing to sell your pictures at some of the picture shops."

Doris's face brightened. Her little water-colour and oil paintings had been very much admired at home. But she sighed the next moment, as she said gently, "I have no paints here, or brushes, or canvas, or anything!"

"I have thought of that," said Mrs. Austin cheerfully. "Just you come upstairs with me."

She led the way up the narrow stairs to the back bedroom where she slept, and pointed to a chest of drawers with no little pride. "My Sam made that," she said, "when he was a joiner and cabinet maker, before he took to cab driving, which I wish sometimes he had not done. For it's a life of temptation. The fares so often give drinks to cabmen--'specially on cold nights. Sam says it's almost impossible sometimes to keep from taking too much; and his wife has cried more than once because he has come home 'with three sheets in the wind,' as they call it. And he's reckoned a sober man, for he's that naturally, only he lives in the way of temptation. But now, look here, miss!"

Opening a drawer Mrs. Austin displayed all sorts of painting materials heaped up within it. Water-colour paints, drawing blocks, palettes, oil-tubes, canvases, pencils, and chalks were all mixed up together.

"These belonged to my dear son Silas," said Mrs. Austin, wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron. "He was never strong like Sam, he was always a delicate lad. He couldn't do hard work, with his poor thin hands and weakly legs. But he was a rare lad for a bit of colour. 'Mother, I'll be an artist,' he oft said to me. And I had him taught. He used to attend classes, and go to a School of Art--I was at a deal of expense--and now, now he's gone!" She broke down, sobbing bitterly, while Doris put her arms round her neck and kissed her poor red face, which was all she could do to comfort her. "He's gone," continued the widow pathetically, "to be an artist up above, if so be it's true that God permits people to carry on their work on high."

"On the earth the broken arcs, in the Heaven a perfect round,"

quoted Doris softly.

"Ay, miss, I think so," said the poor woman, whom sorrow had taught much. "My Silas, he said to me when he lay dying, 'Mother, God is the Master Artist, He began me, just as I begin my pictures, and He never makes mistakes, or wastes His materials; He'll turn me into something good over there, as it isn't to be down here.'"

"He had beautiful faith," said Doris, "and I am sure it will be as he said."

"Oh, my dear young lady," cried the other, with great feeling, "I thank God that He sent you here! I do feel so comforted to have you here, and I do hope you will do me the favour to accept these painting things--every one of them, please. Then you can paint pictures and sell them, as my poor dear boy wanted to do."

Doris, however, was reluctant to accept so much, and only did so at last on the understanding that if she were so fortunate as to sell her pictures Mrs. Austin should have a percentage of the pay, for the use of the materials. That settled, it became necessary to arrange where the work should be done; for both Doris's bedroom and the little front parlour, where she sat and had her meals, were too dark for the purpose.

Mrs. Austin was equal to the occasion. "Why shouldn't you have the top attic, where my boy used to paint?" she said. "There's a sky-light, you know; and my Silas always said the light fell beautiful in his study, or studio, as he used to call it. Do come upstairs and see what it is like?"

Doris did so, and found a large attic lighted by a huge sky-light. Boxes and lumber littered the floor, an old square table was against the wall, and a rather decrepit easel stood under the sky-light; a few plaster casts, and big discoloured chalk drawings, were scattered about, or stuck on the walls with gum-paper, or sealing wax. The atmosphere of the attic was close and fusty, it having evidently been shut up for a long time.

"Why, this is the very place for me to paint in!" exclaimed Doris. "Will the skylight open? Oh, thanks!" as the landlady, opening it, let in a pleasant draught of fresh air. "That is charming!"

"I will clean and tidy up the place for you, miss, and bring a chair or two in, and scrub the table clean, and then you can begin as soon as you like."

Mrs. Austin was as good as her word, and when Doris returned to the attic in the afternoon quite a transformation had taken place, and, if not an ideal studio, it was certainly a light and extremely picturesque one. An old but clean rug had been found for the centre of the floor, an old-fashioned Windsor armchair and a three-legged stool were placed near the table, on which was spread a large old crimson cloth, while a little cheap art muslin of the colour of old gold was draped here and there as curtains to hide the unsightly lumber. The attic smelt rather strongly of soft soap and soda, but that, the landlady remarked succinctly, was "a good fault," and certainly through the open sky-light came remarkably good air for London.

Doris could not do anything that first day, as by the time she had put a few touches to the room and arranged her things it was too dark to paint. But there was gas laid on, so she sat at the table that evening, with pencil and paper before her, making little sketches from memory of places she had seen, which she intended to utilise for her paintings by daylight. And as she did so, for the first time since the dreadful night on which she had heard of her father's crime, something like happiness returned to her.

Great is the power of work to tide us over waves of trouble--waves strong enough, if we sit brooding over them, with idle hands clasped on our knees, to sink our little crafts in the sea of life, so that they will never reach the quieter waters where they can sail serenely. "Work hard at something, work hard," said the Philosopher of Labour, over and over again. "Idleness alone is worst: idleness alone is without hope." Work, he went on to say, cleared away the ill humours of the mind, making it ready to receive all sweet and gracious influences. And in Doris's case it was so for a while that evening; and day by day afterwards as she sat busily working in her attic, the cloud of shame--laid upon her innocent shoulders by her guilty father--lifted and disappeared; for she felt instinctively, as she worked, that she, at all events, had no part nor lot in that matter, but was doing her best--feebly enough, yet nevertheless her best--to destroy one of the consequences of his sin, which was certainly the right thing to do.

And as she worked Hope came, touching with rainbow hues the dreary outlines of her dismal thoughts, letting a little light in here and shutting a little dark out there, until the future began to look less drearily forlorn, and even became gradually endowed with pleasant happenings. She would sell her pictures, at first for low prices which would tempt purchasers; they would be liked, orders would pour in, she would raise her prices, earning more and more money. Living on quietly where she was, with good, kind Mrs. Austin, she would save what was not actually needed for her simple wants; and thus would begin that secret hoard which, she hoped, would one day grow to such dimensions that she could pay part of the debt her father owed Bernard Cameron.

Then she grew happier every day, and as Mrs. Austin never failed to applaud loudly every little picture that was made she thought that others, too, would see some beauty in them. She knew, of course, that the good landlady was only an uncultivated, ignorant woman, and therefore one who could not be a judge of art, yet Doris fondly imagined that, having had a son who aspired to be an artist, Mrs. Austin must know more of such things than ordinary women of her class.

She was disillusioned only too soon. There came a day upon which, having half a dozen little pictures finished, she ventured out bravely for the purpose of offering them for sale. Sam Austin, who took a great interest in the project, had, at his mother's solicitation, written down for her the names and addresses of three or four picture-dealers, and, not content with doing that, he was most anxious to drive her to their shops in his cab, in order that she might make a good impression.

"It won't do, mother," he said, "to let them dealers imagine that she can hardly scrape together a living by her work. They would not think it very valuable in that case. Folks usually take us for what we appear to be in this world; and if we want to get on we must not let outsiders peep behind the scenes."

Doris would have preferred to go alone, in order that she might make her little venture unobserved even by the cabman's friendly eyes; but, not liking to grieve him and his mother, she accepted the offer of his cab, and was accordingly driven over to what she hoped would be the scenes of her triumph and success, but which proved instead to be those of bitter humiliation and disappointment.

Cheerful and brave she was when she stepped out of her cab and entered the first picture-dealer's shop, with her brown paper parcel in her hand, to return saddened, disheartened, and chagrined ten minutes later, with the same parcel rather less tidily wrapped up. The cabman, who hastily opened the cab-door for her, guessing the truth, regarded her very seriously, whereupon she endeavoured to smile; but the attempt was a failure, and only her pale face quivered as she bowed assent to his proposition that he should drive her on to the next dealer's. Here, as before, she was received with effusive politeness--for, coming up, as she did, in a cab, the driver of which hurried down from his seat to open the door for her, touching his cap most deferentially as he did so, the shopkeeper expected that at least her parcel contained some valuable picture which they were to frame for her. But when it turned out that she was only offering them what one or two men rudely termed "amateur daubs" for sale, their manner changed with extraordinary rapidity. It appeared that they did not want any pictures to sell, either in oils or water-colours. They had more of that sort of "stuff" than they could do with. Young ladies supplied them with any amount for a nominal payment, and did the paintings better, too, than those which were being offered. "Even if we bought yours," said one dealer, "and I tell you they are not good enough for us, we should only offer you a price which would scarcely pay for your materials."

It was plain to poor Doris at length that there was no market at all for her wares, and Sam waxed furious as he read the truth in her pitiful face. As he drove her homeward he was divided in his mind as to two lines of conduct. Should he go back and give these dealers a bit of his mind, or should he try to speak words of comfort to the poor young lady as he left her at his mother's door? Finally he decided to do the latter, and therefore as he opened the carriage door for her to alight he ventured:

"I ought to have told you, miss, that it's terrible hard for any one without a connection to get a footing in the business world. Dealers always know people who can do work for them if they require it, and outsiders have but little chance." This was a long speech for Sam to make to a lady, and he only got through it by looking into his hat steadily all the time he was speaking.

"Yes," said Doris, "I suppose so. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Austin," she added gratefully. "I am sure," she continued, her pale face lighting up with a smile, "if these picture-dealers were more like you they would be much improved."

"If I was a picture-dealer," said Sam to himself, as he drove off with his empty cab, thinking over this compliment, "I'd buy the whole bloomin' lot of pictures at a price that would ruin me rather than bring tears to the eyes of that blessed little angel. It's horsewhipping, or else shooting, them dealers want, and I'd give it them if I was the Government, I would, as sure as my name is Sam Austin."

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*NEW WORK FOR DORIS.*

Have hope, though clouds environ now, And gladness hides her face in scorn: Put thou the sadness from thy brow, No night but hath its morn. SCHILLER.

That was a dark time with Doris. Long afterwards she looked back upon it as the hour of her deepest humiliation, when the tide of her life was at its lowest ebb, and Giant Despair held out claw-like hands to seize her for his own.

She was unsuccessful: the pictures she had thought so pretty were of no commercial value, her only hope of making a living for herself, not to mention her magnificent project of repaying Bernard Cameron some of the money of which her father had robbed him, was completely destroyed. She had no gift by means of which she could

Breast the blows of circumstance And grapple with her evil star, And make by force her merit known.

And she was friendless, except for the Austins, and alone in London; moreover, she was absolutely penniless, nay, worse than that, she was in debt, not having paid for her food and lodging for at least three weeks.

Going upstairs as quickly as possible, in order that she might escape Mrs. Austin's questions and even her sympathy, which just then she could not bear, Doris entered her little room, and, locking the door, flung herself on her knees by her bedside.

She had no words with which to beseech the intervention of the All-Powerful; but words were not needed, her very attitude was a prayer, her want of words a confession of the extremity of her need. It was impossible for her to do anything more for herself. She knelt there and waited for assistance.

Now it happened that Mrs. Austin, on an errand to her grocer's, meeting her son Sam, as he was driving away with his empty cab, learnt the truth about Doris's failure from him, greatly to her disappointment.

"Oh, poor dear young lady!" she cried, "what will she do now? Whatever will she do now? Painting was the only thing she could do?"

"Well, she'll have to do something else," said Sam, "since those picture-dealers won't 'ave her work."

"But what else can she do?" ejaculated Mrs. Austin in consternation.

Sam did not know; but he was obliged to drive on, having spent more time than he could afford on Miss Anderson's business that morning. Mrs. Austin returned home, and, by way of comforting Doris, set the kettle on, and began to prepare a little meal for her. As she was thus busily engaged the door-latch was raised, and a youth entered dressed as a shop-boy and bearing a family resemblance to the Austins.

"Good afternoon, aunt," he said, looking round the room with sharp eyes that noted everything.

"Good afternoon. I suppose you are in want of a bite or a sup?" she remarked sagaciously.

"Well, I do feel a bit of a sinking here," and he made a rapid gesture indicative of hunger.

"Sit you down then; I'm just making a little dinner ready, and a cup of tea for my lady-lodger, and you shall have some too, Sandy, if you'll wait."

"All right, I'll wait," and so saying he sat down and watched his aunt as she boiled a couple of eggs and made tea in a little brown teapot which had seen many days.

As she worked Mrs. Austin talked, and, because her mind was full of Doris she spoke most of her, not exactly revealing her artistic efforts and subsequent failure to effect a sale of her pictures, but still graphically portraying her need of remunerative work.

Sandy listened with scanty attention. He was much more interested in the egg and large cup of tea which his aunt placed before him, and it seemed as if he were the last person in the world to do Doris any good. Indeed, Mrs. Austin suddenly perceived that her words were absolutely wasted, and therefore pulled herself up short, with the exclamation, "I declare, I might as well talk to this lampshade as to you!" She glanced as she spoke at the pretty crimson shade over the gas-light. It was made of crinkled paper, tied together with a narrow ribbon.

"You never have an idea in your head, Sandy," she added.

Sandy grinned. "Who made that lampshade?" he asked, as he cut the top off his egg.

"What shade? Oh? the gas-shade! Miss Anderson, my lodger, you know, made that for me one evening, with a bit of crinkled paper that only cost 2-1/2*d*. Very handy she is with her fingers."

Sandy made no further remark until he had finished eating and drinking everything that was placed before him. "There," he said, at last, "I've done! Now then for a look at this shade," rising to look at the pretty lamp-shade, tied with a knot of crimson ribbon, which Doris had made in a few minutes with her clever fingers, as a small thank-offering for her landlady.

"Well, what do you think? Isn't it pretty?" asked Mrs. Austin.

"Pretty? Yes, well, it's pretty. I reckon if your lady-lodger made some of these for our shop they'd sell."

"Would they now?" There was eagerness in the question. Could this possibly prove to be a chance of work for poor Miss Anderson?

"Yes. We sell lots of flimsy silk lampshades that cost heaps of money. And we're often asked for something cheaper. Our manager might be inclined to buy some like this."

"Would he indeed? Oh, Sandy, Sandy!" In her eagerness the good woman caught hold of his arm. "Poor dear Miss Anderson does not know where to turn for a penny. Could you get her this work to do, for good pay, do you think?"

Sandy grinned again. "You said I never have an idea in my head," he began teasingly.

"I did. Yes, I did, but I won't say so again. I won't if you'll get my dear young lady some work that will keep the wolf from her door."

"The wolf? What wolf?" Sandy looked round with an assumed air of alarm.

"The wolf of hunger."

"I shouldn't have thought you would have allowed him to come near a lodger of yours."

"Get out with you!" Mrs. Austin pushed him towards the door. "Run and see if there is a chance for Miss Anderson."

"A chance? Oh, I see what you mean. Just ask her first if she would be willing to do the work at a fair price."

"Willing? She'd jump at it. But I tell you what, Sandy, we must not have her disappointed again. I won't say anything to her about it until we know whether she can have the work and on what terms."

"But the manager will want to see a specimen," protested Sandy. "He's a big man. You can't rush before him with nothing. He'd order me off at once for fooling round in that way."

"Specimen? Oh, well, if you want one, take this," said Mrs. Austin, carefully taking down the pretty shade Doris had made, blowing the dust from it, and wrapping it lightly up in a huge newspaper. "Now you must hold it in this way not to crush it," she said, "and make as good terms as you can for my young lady; tell your manager she is a real lady, who won't do things for nothing."

"All right!" Sandy darted off with the shade, and Mrs. Austin went upstairs with her tea-tray.

Doris opened the door slowly. Her eyes were red with weeping, and her hair was dishevelled and dress untidy. "Oh, Mrs. Austin," she said, "I've been so unfortunate! No one will have my pictures. They are not good enough to sell----"

"Nay, nay. That's not it. But there's no market for such pretty things. I know all about it, my dear young lady. I met Sam and he told me. He is so sorry, he has a feeling heart, has Sam. But there, there, don't you take on so! Don't cry, dearie!" She was crying herself, with sympathy.

Doris had burst into tears, and sat down weeping as if her heart would break.

"Come! come! we mustn't give way. It's always the darkest hour before the dawn," said the good woman soothingly.

"If only I hadn't wasted all this time, and used your painting materials! And now what shall I do? What shall I do?" cried Doris.

Mrs. Austin's resolve not to tell her about the lamp-shade making until Sandy returned with good news vanished in the stress of this necessity, and she hastily related to Doris that her nephew had thought of some paying work which she might be able to do.

The girl was startled at the idea of such work. It was very different from what she had been attempting; but her downfall was too real for her to be able to indulge in her former hopes, and her need of money was too great for her to be fastidious, she therefore brightened up a little, and began to talk about the new project. At all events this might provide her with sufficient money for food and lodgings until she could procure something better.

The two went on discussing the matter whilst Doris drank her tea and ate her egg and bread and butter; and then Mrs. Austin took the tray down, and waited impatiently for the return of her nephew.

At last he came in, bringing the manager's compliments to Miss Anderson, and he begged her to call upon him the next day.

Doris, therefore, went to the ironmonger's shop in the morning, was duly shown into the manager's room, and, after remaining there, some little time talking over the matter with him, the result was that she was engaged to work at lamp-shade making for the firm, in a little room behind the shop, for eight hours a day, at a salary commencing at sixteen shillings a week.