Читать книгу Love's Golden Thread - E. C. Kenyon - Страница 4

CHAPTER IV.

A HARD WOMAN.

O for the rarity

Of Christian charity

Under the sun!

LONGFELLOW.

"I have come to say a bit of my mind, Doris Anderson!"

The words were hard and uncompromising. Mrs. Cameron, who, in the twilight, had sought and obtained access to the bedroom of the missing trustee's daughter, stood over her with a gesture which was almost menacing. The difficulty she had met with in forcing her way upstairs against the wishes of Susan and the other frightened maidservants, in whose eyes she looked terrible in her wrath, had much increased her displeasure. She now longed to "have it out" with the only member of Mr. Anderson's family within her reach, or, as she expressed it to Doris, to give her a "bit of her mind."

It was not a nice mind, Doris knew, so far as gentleness, charity, and courtesy constitute niceness, and the poor girl shrank away from her visitor, burying her tear-stained face still deeper in the pillows. A pent-up sigh escaping as she did so might have appealed to a more tender-hearted woman, but only served to still further incense Mrs. Cameron, who, tossing her head with a muttered malediction, forthwith proceeded to disclose the real vulgarity and unkindness of her nature.

"It's no use sniffing and crying there, young woman," she said, "and it's not a bit of good your playing the innocent, and pretending you knew nothing of what was going on. Your father is a thief and a scoundrel! Now what is the use of your sitting up, with that white face, and pointing to the door like a tragedy queen? I shall say what I've come to say, and no power on earth shall stop me. John Anderson, your father, has stolen my poor boy's money, and wasted every penny of it! There is nothing left! Nothing! All has gone! Twenty-five thousand pounds were entrusted to your father by his dying friend Richard Cameron, my husband, who had unlimited faith in him, as had also Mr. Hamilton; and it's all gone! There is nothing left! Nothing! Nothing! My poor boy is ruined, absolutely ruined! Just at the starting of his life, when he is doing so well at Oxford, with all his ambition----"

She broke down for a moment, with something like a sob, but, suppressing it, frowned the more fiercely to hide the momentary weakness, "He has this blow hurled at him by one of the very men who, of all others, were appointed to protect his interests, and make everything smooth before him. It isn't as if your father wasn't paid for being acting executor, or trustee. My husband, who was always just"--Mrs. Cameron was one of those wives who abuse and quarrel with their husbands while they have them, but after their death wear perpetual mourning and lose no opportunity of sounding their praises--"left John Anderson a legacy of a hundred pounds, to repay him for any trouble the business of administering his estate might cause. Little did he think what a thief and rogue the man would turn out to be!"

"Leave the room!" gasped poor Doris, sitting up and waving her hand frantically towards the door. Whatever her father had done, she could not listen to such abuse of him.

"Leave the room, indeed!" cried Mrs. Cameron, sitting down on a bedroom chair, which trembled beneath her weight--she weighed at least twelve stone, being stout and tall--"I shall leave it when I choose, and when I've said what I have to say, and not before! And it doesn't become you, Doris," she cried--"it doesn't become you to speak saucily to me. You're as bad as John Anderson, no doubt. Like father, like daughter! You're all tarred with the same stick. If you didn't actually take my boy's money yourself, perhaps you used some of it; or, if you didn't, no doubt it was your extravagance and your mother's that made Anderson want money so badly that he took what was not his own. However," she went on inconsequently, "you are as bad as he if you defend him, and take sides against my poor boy, who never did anything to harm you in his life----"

"Oh, I don't!" interrupted Doris, distressed beyond measure at the idea of such a thing. "If you only knew how I esteem Bernard, and I----" She broke off with a saving instinct which told her that not by pleading her love for Bernard would she soften his mother's heart.

"Esteem him, and yet take the part of the villain who has robbed him of everything?" cried the other indignantly.

"You forget"--almost soundlessly murmured Doris, her white lips only just parting for the words to escape--"you forget, the wrong-doer is my father. Yes, he has done wrong--I acknowledge it," she cried pathetically. "But still he is my father!" And the tears fell down her cheeks.

It was a sight to melt a heart of stone; but Mrs. Cameron was not looking. Though her eyes were fixed upon Doris, and her ears heard the faintly uttered words, she perceived nothing but her boy's wrongs and her own, the vanished £25,000, the stopping of Bernard's education at Oxford, the failure of her own tiny income to provide for their daily bread and the commonest clothes, the sinking of her son into a poor, subordinate sphere at the very commencement of his life, the slipping of herself into squalid, poverty-stricken surroundings, and a narrow, meagre old age. Another picture, too, presented itself the next moment, and that was the mental vision of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson enjoying themselves abroad, in the lap of luxury, eating and drinking at the best hotels, arrayed in handsome clothing, and laughing, yes, actually laughing together about the way in which they had lightened the Camerons pockets.

That being so, it was no wonder that Mrs. Cameron's next words were even harsher than those which had preceded them.

"Yes, you've a scoundrel for a father! You must never forget that!" she cried. "Never, never, for one moment! Wherever you are, whatever you may be doing, you must never forget that. You'll have to take a back seat in life, I can tell you. Not yours will be the lot of other girls. With a father who is a felon in the eyes of the law you can never marry into a respectable family without bringing into it such a load of disgrace as will do it a cruel wrong."

She fixed her eyes sharply on the girl's pale miserable face as she spoke, with more than a suspicion of a love affair between her and Bernard, which she determined to quash, cost what it might to Doris.

"If you marry," she continued harshly, "you will take your husband a dowry of disgrace--that, and nothing else!" She laughed harshly. "Why," she ejaculated the next minute, "why, the girl's not listening!" for she perceived Doris springing from her bed and beginning, in trembling haste, to dress herself.

To get away from that terrible voice, and the sound of those cruel words, was Doris's first determination; her second was to go where she could hide for ever and ever from Bernard Cameron, lest in his noble, disinterested love for her he should venture, in spite of what had occurred, to insist upon marrying her. The idea of bringing him a dowry of disgrace was so frightful that it over-balanced for the moment the poor, distraught mind of the suffering girl.

Mrs. Cameron was one of those women who, when wronged, are blind and deaf to all else; suffering acutely, they pour out torrents of words, unseeing, unheeding the mischief they may be doing to others. She, therefore, continued talking, in a loud, harsh voice, with unsparing bitterness, all the time Doris was dressing and putting on her plainest outdoor apparel; and the mother's mind having turned to the subject of marriage, and her wish being to destroy any thoughts Doris might have cherished of Bernard as a possible husband, she said:

"My son, though poor as a pauper now--thanks to your father--bears an unblemished name. Honourable as the day, he comes of a most honourable race of men. In time, when he has worked up some sort of position for himself, he may marry a girl with money, and thus, in a way, attain to something like the position he has lost. It is all a chance, of course, but it is the only chance he has. There are lots of girls with money. He is handsome and taking; he must marry one of them. Do you hear me, Doris? I say he must! It is the only chance he has. Are you not glad for him to have just that one little chance?"

Doris was silent.

"Ha! You do not answer? Can it be, can it possibly be," Mrs. Cameron's voice grew hysterical, in her fear and anxiety, "that from any foolish words the poor, ruined lad has said--such words as lads will say to giddy girls--you can possibly consider him at all, in any way, bound to you?"

The poor girl would not answer. She looked appealingly around. Was there no one who could save her from this woman? Where was Bernard? Why was he not at her side, to shield and protect her? The next moment she realised the impossibility of his being there in her bedroom; and again her eyes roved longingly round the limited space.

On the morrow no doubt pitying friends, hearing of her trouble, would rally round her: the clergyman's wife, the doctor's, the ladies to whose school she used to go, and others, acquaintances more or less intimate. There was not one of them who would not be kinder to her than this woman, who was goading her now beyond endurance. But they were absent--and Mrs. Cameron was so very, very present.

"Do you mean to say--do you mean to say--there is anything between you, the daughter of a criminal, who shall yet be brought to justice, if there be any power in the arm of the law, and my son--my stainless, innocent child? Will you answer me?"

The room, which was going round and round, in a cloud of darkness crossed by sparks of light, seemed to Doris to assume once more its ordinary appearance, as she came round out of a half-swoon. What to answer, however, she knew not. She could only dimly comprehend the question. Was there anything between her, overwhelmed as she was with disgrace, and Bernard, poor, defrauded, yet honourable in the eyes of all men? Was there anything between them? Yes. There was something between them--there was love. But could she speak of that to a third person, and that third person one so aggressive as Mrs. Cameron? She felt she could not: therefore again she was silent, while the woman poured out on her the wrath which now completely over-mastered her.

"You bad girl!" she cried. "Not content with your father's having ruined my boy by stealing all his money, you are mean enough and wicked enough to deliberately determine to cut away his one remaining chance of rising in the world! 'Pon my word"--all the vulgarity of the woman was coming to the surface--"you would ruin him body and soul, if you could! All for your own ambition, that you, too, may rise in the world; you intend to cling to him as a limpet clings to a rock--and he won't be able to raise you, not he, poor lad! but you will drag him down into the mire, which will close over his head and then--then perhaps you will be content."

She waited for Doris to speak, but still the girl was unable to articulate a word. She was fastening her hat now, and putting the last touches to her veil and gloves; in a moment or two she would be able to escape into the open air, and into the night, now fast coming on.

"It is to his chivalry, doubtless, that you are trusting, to his generosity, his love, his charity, his magnanimity. By his virtues you would slay him, that is, I mean, debase him in the eyes of the world--the world we live in," continued the upbraiding voice.

Then Doris, stung beyond endurance and driven to bay, made answer, confronting Mrs. Cameron proudly, with her little head held high:

"You may keep your son. I will never marry him. He is nothing to me now--nothing."

"I can tell him that?"

"Tell him," cried Doris passionately, "tell him that I would not marry the son of such a mother for any consideration in the world! Tell him that I would rather die." She felt at that moment as if she would, for the woman's cruel words had dragged her heart far from its moorings.

The next moment Mrs. Cameron was alone, standing in the middle of the room, where she had so brow-beaten and insulted the innocent daughter of that unhappy house, listening to Doris's retreating footsteps on the stairs and in the hall, and then the gentle closing of the outer door.

CHAPTER V.

BERNARD SEARCHES FOR DORIS.

Life is so sad a thing, its measure

Brims over full with human tears;

A blighted hope, a buried treasure,

Infinite pain, delusive pleasure,

Make sorrowful our years.

* * * * *

Heaven is so near, oh friend, 'tis yonder,

God's word doth clear the uncertain way;

His hand will bear thee, lest thou wander,

His Spirit teach thee thoughts to ponder

Till thou hast found the day.

LOLA MARSHALL DEANE.

Doris had gone. She had promised never to marry Bernard. The young people were parted for ever. Mrs. Cameron, though poor, had her son, her dear, if penniless, son all to herself. By a vigorous onslaught she had defeated and driven away the enemy, utterly routed and confounded. It was a moment of triumph for her, and yet she felt anything but triumphant; and it was with a cross and gloomy countenance that she proceeded downstairs in search of her son, whom she found at last closeted with Mr. Hamilton in the study.

"How is Doris?" asked Bernard, rising as his mother entered, and offering her a chair.

Mrs. Cameron sat down heavily, a little disconcerted by this interrogation.

"What does that matter?" she snapped. "The question is how are we, the wronged, defrauded, robbed?"

Her son looked at her impatiently. "After all, it is worse for Doris," he said, with great feeling.

"Worse?" ejaculated his mother.

"Worse?" echoed Mr. Hamilton. He was a long, lean man, remarkable for his habitual silence and great learning.

"Yes, ten thousand times worse!" cried Bernard. "We have lost only our money, but she has lost her parents, her home, her money, and everything--that is, almost everything," correcting himself, as a smile flitted across his face, "at one stroke."

"Bernard is right--and the poor girl has the disgrace to bear as well," interjected Mr. Hamilton.

"Humph!" Mrs. Cameron tossed her head. "The Andersons deserve all that they have got," she was beginning, when Bernard stopped her hastily.

"Mother," he said, and his tone had lost its usual submissiveness in speaking to her, "Doris has nothing to do with the cause of our misfortunes. She knew nothing about all this until after it had happened."

"How do you know?" asked Mrs. Cameron sharply.

"Doris told me so."

"Doris told you so! And you believed her?"

"Yes, and always shall!" cried Bernard, his face glowing and his eyes flashing. "And I would have you understand, mother, that I will have no word said against Doris. She and I are engaged to be married. She is my promised wife."

There was a dead silence in the room when his clear, manly voice ceased speaking. His mother was too much astounded and disturbed to easily find words; she had not imagined things had gone quite so far as that between the young people. And Mr. Hamilton, not knowing what to say, shrank back into his habitual silence.

"She is my promised wife," said Bernard again, and there was even more pride and confidence in his young tones. A smile, joyous and brilliant, broke out all over his handsome face. Forgotten were the pecuniary troubles now, the broken career at Oxford, the school that would never be his. In their place was Doris, his beautiful beloved, who would more than make up to him for all and everything. To his mother's amazement and consternation he went on rapidly, "I shall marry her at once, then I shall have the right to protect her against every breath of calumny,--though indeed, if you will respect my wish, Mr. Hamilton," he added, turning to the minister, "and will not tell the police, or prosecute Mr. Anderson, the matter can be hushed up as far as possible, and her name will not be tarnished. But in any case, in any case," he repeated, "Doris is mine. I shall marry her and work for her. If the worst comes to the worst, I can get a clerkship, or a post as schoolmaster--and with Doris, with Doris," he concluded, "I shall be very, very happy."

His mother's words broke like a bombshell into the midst of his fond imaginings. "Doris has just been telling me," she said, in low, cruel tones, "that she will never marry you!"

"What? What are you saying?" exclaimed Bernard, agitatedly, the joy in his face giving place to an expression of great anxiety.

His mother said again, "Doris has just been saying to me that she will never, never marry you. She told me I was to tell you so."

"But this is most unaccountable!" cried Bernard, beginning to walk up and down the room. "This is most unaccountable," he repeated. "Why, she told me----" he broke off, beginning again, "Where is she? I must see her--must hear from her own lips the reason of this change."

"You cannot see her, Bernard," said his mother, in slow, icy tones. "You cannot see her. She is not in this house----"

"Not in this house? Not here? What do you mean?"

"She has gone away."

"But where? Where has she gone?"

"I do not know."

"But has she left no message for me?" he asked, with exceeding anxiousness.

"She left the message I have given you," answered his mother. "Tell Bernard," she said, "that I will never, never marry him!"

"That message I refuse to receive!" cried Bernard. "Poor Doris was in such trouble she did not know what she was saying--I am sure she did not mean that."

"I suppose you think I am telling you a lie?" began his mother hotly.

Bernard did not reply, indeed he did not apparently hear her words. He hurried out into the hall, got his hat, and then returned to the room to say to his mother:

"Have you no idea where Doris has gone?"

"Not the least!" snapped Mrs. Cameron.

"I shall find out. I shall follow her, wherever she has gone. You will not see me again till she is found!"

"Bernard! You silly lad!"

But he had gone. No use, Mrs. Cameron, in rushing after him into the hall, with all the arguments you can think of! No use in standing there, frowning and execrating his folly! The influence that draws him after Doris, in her poor distracted flight, is stronger than that which binds him to your warped and selfish nature. Love is spurring his footsteps onward, far, far away from you. If you wish to keep him by your side, you, too, must have some of its magic.

Bernard first went on his bicycle to Doncaster, to the railway station, where, after many inquiries and much futile questioning, he ascertained that a young lady answering to the description he gave of Miss Anderson had booked for King's Cross, London, and had set off to go there by the 7.34 train.

Without hesitation he determined to follow her by the next express, which was to leave Doncaster at 11.18. It was then eight o'clock, so he had time to cycle back to Doris's home, there to question Susan Gaunt as to what relations or friends Miss Anderson had in London besides Miss Earnshaw, for he thought that in case Doris had not gone to her, as her mother had directed in the letter he had seen, she might be with other friends.

Susan was in a state of great distress and anxiety when she heard that her dear young lady had gone alone to London so late in the evening. "There will be no one to meet her when she arrives!" cried the good woman. "It will be night, and Miss Doris has never been to London before! She won't know what to do. There won't be any one to take care of her. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! what will she do?"

"Well, I'm going after her," said Bernard, "as fast as I can. And I intend to go straight to Miss Earnshaw's in Earl's Court Square. She will go there, I suppose?" And he looked searchingly into the old servant's face.

"Yes, sir. She will go there, for her mother told her to do so."

"But, in case she is not there when I arrive?" said the young man tentatively, "have you any idea of any other friends in London to whom she may go?"

"No, sir; no," answered Susan, shaking her head. "She knows no one in London except Miss Earnshaw. How should she when she has never been there? Oh, my poor young lady! My poor, dear young lady! God grant she may find Miss Earnshaw!"

Bernard left her in tears, and hurried off to his home, in order to pack a small bag which he could carry on his bicycle to Doncaster Station. Having trimmed his bicycle-lamp and eaten a little supper, without much appetite, he strapped his bag on his bicycle and again set off for Doncaster, arriving there in time for the first night express.

During the hours of that long, rapid journey south he was full of fears and doubts; fears for the welfare of the girl who had run away from her old home in such terrible grief, and despair and doubt as to his power to find, console, and persuade her to take back her promise not to marry him.

The hours of the night wore slowly away, until at 3.5 in the morning his train arrived at King's Cross. Nothing could be done at that hour, and, after making inquiries at the station as to whether any young lady had arrived by the train from Doncaster, which reached King's Cross at 10.45 P.M., without eliciting any satisfactory information, he lounged about for a couple of hours, and then went out in search of a coffee-house, and was glad to find one at last where he could obtain some hot, if muddy, coffee, and a little bread and butter.

The homely fare caused him to realise the state of his finances as nothing else would have done. This was what it meant to be bereft of fortune! For others would be the comforts and pleasant appointments of good hotels; for others would be ease, culture, and luxuries: he himself would have to take a poor man's place in the world. He would have to be content with penny cups of coffee and halfpenny buns, with poor clothes and a little home--thankful indeed if he could secure that.

"But no matter," he said to himself, raising his head and smiling so brightly that several persons in the coffee-house turned to look at him. "No matter, if I win Doris for my wife. With her dear face near me, and her sweet and gentle words of encouragement sounding in my ears, I can bear all and everything. She will transform a plain little cottage into a palace by her presence, and will make a poor man rich. I can be content with anything, shall want nothing, when I have Doris." And afterwards, when he was walking about in the soft, misty rain, which seemed to him so black and cheerless, he said again to himself, "It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now that I am going to Doris."

For he felt confident that he would find her at Earl's Court Square when he arrived there. Of course she would have gone straight there in a cab, as it would be night-time when she arrived at King's Cross. There was nothing else that she could do.

He would follow her as soon as he possibly could. Dear little Doris! How glad she would be that he had not taken her at her word, if indeed she had sent him that cruel message! How devoted she would think him to follow her at once! How much comforted she would be to receive the protestations of unchanging, nay, more, increasing love!

Time seemed to drag with leaden wings, until what he thought a decent hour for calling upon Doris began to approach. Then he took a hansom in a hurry, bidding the cabman drive to Earl's Court Square as fast as he could.

It was scarcely ten o'clock when he stood at the great door of the house in Earl's Court Square, touching the electric button, and waiting in breathless suspense for the door to open. No one answered his summons for quite five minutes--which seemed an eternity to him--then the door slowly opened, and a lad in plain livery stood before him.

"Is Miss Anderson in?" inquired Bernard.

"Miss Anderson, sir?" asked the page slowly.

"Yes, Miss Anderson. Has she not arrived?"

"No, sir. I don't know whom you mean, sir. There is no one here of that name."

Then Doris had not arrived! It was a great blow to poor Bernard. "Can I see Miss Earnshaw?" he asked at length.

"No, sir. You can't, sir. She is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, sir. She died suddenly yesterday of heart disease. Very sudden it was, sir."

Dead! Miss Earnshaw! Then what had become of Doris? "Are you quite sure that a young lady did not come here in the early hours of this morning?" asked Bernard, slipping a coin into the youth's hand.

The touch of silver seemed to quicken the latter's memory. "I was in bed, sir. But if you wait here I will ask Mr. Giles, the butler," he said, inviting Bernard into the hall and going in search of the information he needed.

Presently he returned with a deferential butler, who said to Bernard:

"There was a young lady came to this house in a hansom, sir, about one o'clock this morning. She wanted Miss Earnshaw, and seemed terribly cut up to find she was dead. She saw Mr. Earnshaw, Miss Earnshaw's distant cousin, who inherits everything. But I think he couldn't do anything for her, sir, for she went away in great trouble."

"Where is Mr. Earnshaw?" demanded Bernard excitedly.

"He went off by an early train to Reigate, where he lives. He won't return until the day of the funeral."

"When will that be?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"Give me his address. I must wire to him!" exclaimed Bernard. "Did you observe whether the lady went away in a cab or walked?"

The butler had not noticed the manner of her departure, nor had any one else in the house. All the inquiries Bernard made--and they were many--resulted in nothing. Doris had vanished as completely as it was possible for any one to vanish in our great and crowded metropolis.

Bernard was in the greatest distress and anxiety about her, and sought for her in every possible way, by advertising, through the police, by telegraphing, and when he returned from Reigate by a personal interview with Mr. Earnshaw, who said that he had told her that any claim she, Miss Doris Anderson, had on Miss Earnshaw could not be considered at all by him, for he had nothing to do with it, and could not see his way to do anything to help her.

Bernard said strong words, and looked with exceeding anger upon the wealthy man who had just inherited the great house. But the warmth of his feelings only hastened his own departure, for Mr. Earnshaw requested his servant to show him out with all speed.

And nowhere in London could Bernard discover a trace of Doris Anderson, though he sought for her diligently and with care.

Bernard was a true Christian, possessing earnest faith, otherwise he would have been perfectly overwhelmed by these sad reverses of love and fortune; as it was, although he was very unhappy, hope never quite left him, and in this, his darkest hour, he was able to trust in God and take courage.

CHAPTER VI.

DORIS ALONE IN LONDON.

Most men in a brazen prison live

Where is the sun's lost eye,

With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly

Their lives to some unmeaning task, work give,

Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall.

But often in the world's most crowded streets,

And often in the din of strife,

There rises an unspeakable desire

After the knowledge of our buried life.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Doris felt quite stunned when she found that her friend Miss Earnshaw was dead, and that Mr. Earnshaw, the heir, refused to recognise any obligation to be kind to one whom she had loved. Night though it was when Doris arrived in London she hurried to Earl's Court Square in a cab, for she knew not where else to go. It seemed to her most fortunate that Miss Earnshaw's house was lighted up, little knowing the reason for it. And then the shock of learning the sad news of the sudden decease of her old friend was great, and the cold and almost rude behaviour of Mr. Earnshaw, who would have nothing to do with one whom he looked upon as a protégée of his late cousin's, gave poignancy to her distress.

"THE SHOCK OF LEARNING THE SAD NEWS WAS GREAT."

Doris had very little money in her purse, and knew not what to do. Mechanically therefore she returned to the cab, whose driver she had not paid, and re-entered it.

"Where next, madam?" asked the cabman.

Not knowing what to say, Doris made no answer. Was there in all the world, she wondered, a being more deplorably hopeless, homeless, and overwhelmed with trouble than she? Where could she turn? What could she do? It was out of the question that she should return to Yorkshire, where there was now nothing but ruin and disgrace for an Anderson. She would not encounter Mrs. Cameron again if she could by any means avoid doing so, and she had promised never to marry her son. Bernard would be sorry for her now, she knew, yes, very sorry indeed. Still he had shrunk from her and looked very strange upon hearing of her father's misappropriation of his money and absconding, which was enough truly to seriously lessen his affection for her. Indeed, Doris thought he could no longer love her, in which case she had certainly lost him entirely.

Father, mother, lover, all gone; cut off from friends by a black cloud of disgrace and shame, penniless and alone, terribly alone in a world of which she knew so little, amidst dangers more vast than she, with her limited experience, could imagine, what could she do? Surely God as well as man had forsaken her! She turned quite sick and faint.

"Where to, lady?" asked the cabman again, and this time there was a note of compassion in his rough voice which appealed to Doris.

She burst into tears.

The man turned his head aside. He was one of nature's gentlemen, though only a poor cabman, and it was not for him to look upon a lady's tears. He stepped back to his horse the next minute, and pretended to busy himself with the harness.

Doris had time to recover. In a few minutes she was able to check her tears. Then she beckoned to the cabman to approach.

"I am in trouble," she said; "the friend to whose house you have driven me died suddenly yesterday----" She broke down pitifully.

The cabman nodded. "That's bad!" said he, looking down on the ground.

"I don't know what to do," added Doris in tones of despair.

"There'll be servants in this big house, won't they take you in for the remainder of the night, at least," suggested the man.

"I dare say they would if they were alone," answered Doris. "But there is a man in the house--I cannot call him a gentleman--who says everything is now his, and that I have no claim upon him, and he will do nothing for me."

The cabman muttered something strong, and then broke off to apologise for speaking so roughly. "You'll excuse me, miss," he added, "if I say I should like to punch the fellar's 'ead. May I go to the door and make 'em take you in if I can?" he asked finally.

"No, thank you," replied Doris. "I am poor and homeless"--her lips quivered--"but I am too proud to intrude where I am not wanted." She turned her head on one side.

The horse started forward a step or two, and the cabman went to its head. A sudden gust of wind and rain swept over Doris through the open door, causing her to shiver. The man returned to her side.

"We can't stay here any longer, miss," he said.

"No"--Doris hesitated--"no, but----" she paused.

"Where shall I take you, lady?" asked the cabman.

"I don't know," replied Doris miserably.

The man stood waiting somewhat impatiently. All was silent in the square: there were no passers by, except one solitary policeman, who stood to look at them for a moment, and then passed on.

"Drive me to an hotel, please," said Doris at length.

"Yes, lady."

The cabman drove her to two or three hotels without avail; either they were closed for the night, or the night-porter on duty refused to admit a lady without any luggage.

Again the cabman came to Doris for orders. "What will you do?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Doris, pitifully, with quivering lips. She felt terribly desolate and lonely.

Fortunately for her the cabman happened to be an honest man, who had a wife and children of his own, therefore seeing his "fare" so helpless, and so entirely ignorant of the great city, with its immense dangers for a young and solitary girl, stranded in its midst, in the night-time, he suggested, "You might go to a decent lodging, lady, until morning."

"Yes, I should be glad. But how can I find one? Do you know of one?" asked the girl desperately.

"There's my mother at King's Cross. She's poor, but respectable, and she lets lodgings and happens to have no one in them at present."

Doris looked at him as he spoke. Could she venture to go to his mother? He seemed an honest man. And what else could she do?

"Mother's house is clean," continued the cabman. "She lives in a quiet street a few doors from where I live with my wife and children. Mother's always been very particular about her lodgers: and she's so clean," he persisted. "Any one might eat off her floor, as they say."

The simple words appealed to Doris; they bore the stamp of sincerity, and so also did the honest kindly face of the poor man. But still she hesitated: her common sense told her she could not be too careful.

"Perhaps you'd look at this, miss," said the man, putting his hand in his breast pocket and producing a small New Testament. He opened it and pointed to the inscription written on the fly-leaf, which Doris read by the light of the cab-lamp:

"Presented to Sam Austin by his friend and teacher the Rev. Charles Barnett, as a small acknowledgment of his valuable assistance in the St. Michael's Night School, London, N."

"How nice!" said Doris. "Thank you for showing that to me. I will go to your mother's. I am sure she must be a good woman."

"She is indeed, lady. A better woman never lived, though I say it."

"Drive me there, please," said Doris.

The man shut the door of the cab and returned to his seat.

An hour afterwards poor tired Doris found herself comfortably lodged in a small but respectable house near King's Cross, and before retiring to rest she thanked God for His providential care of her during the difficulties and dangers of the night.

Downstairs Mrs. Austin was giving her son a cup of cocoa and asking questions about the young lady he had brought to her.

"We don't know anything about her, Sam," she said cautiously. "There is of course no doubt about her being in trouble, and looking as good as an angel, too, but one can never tell. I'd rather she'd have had some luggage. Don't you think if she had come up from the country to stay with her friend, now, she'd have had some luggage?"

"Well, yes, so she would in an ord'nary way--but we don't know all the circumstances. And it was a first-class big house in a fashionable square, and she went up to the door as boldly as if she expected a welcome----"

"Which she didn't get, and they wouldn't have anything to do with her there. That looks bad. For the rest you have only her own tale to go by."

"Mother, are you going to turn her out?" asked Sam, with reproach in his voice.

"No, Sam, I can't do that. But I shall keep my eyes open."

"You'll be good to her, mother, I know."

"Yes, of course." Mrs. Austin smiled, and her son knew that she would keep her word.

He went away then with his cab, and Mrs. Austin closed her house for the night and went upstairs to bed, pausing on the landing by her new lodger's door. Did the girl want anything, she wondered, and after a low knock she opened the door softly.

Doris was kneeling by her bed-side, and with a little nod of satisfaction Mrs. Austin withdrew.

Doris's sleep, when at last she sought her couch, was long, so that when she awoke it was afternoon and she found her landlady standing by her bedside, with a little tray, on which was tea and toast.

"You are very good to me, Mrs. Austin," she said, gratefully, as she partook of the refreshing tea.

"I'm very pleased to have such a nice lodger, miss," said the widow, completely won over and forgetting all her misgivings, as her stout, good-humoured countenance expanded in a broad smile. "There are some who like gentlemen lodgers best, but I don't. 'Give me a nice young lady,' says I, 'and you may take all your gentlemen!'"

Doris smiled a little dolefully. "But I haven't very much money----" she began.

"Don't you worrit yourself about that, miss! The sovereign you gave me when you came in will see you through at least two weeks here, so far as lodging is concerned--of course the food will come to rather more--but it may be that you will find work, if it is work you are wanting, miss, though you do seem too much of a lady for that sort of thing."

"I shall have to work," said Doris, "because I have very little money, and no one to give me any more."

"Dear me, that's bad. Might I make so bold, miss, as to ask if you have been running away from home--from your parents, miss?"

Running away from her parents? How different the case really was! It was her parents who had run away from her! But she could not tell Mrs. Austin this. She therefore only shook her head, saying gently, "I lost my parents before leaving home. The--the reason I have no luggage is this, I--I was in great trouble when I came away, and so I forgot to pack any."

"Then can't you send for your luggage, miss?" asked the woman.

"No, no. There are reasons why the people I left, at least one of them, must not know where I am. So I can't send. Besides, I left in debt, and as I cannot pay the money, I want the people to have my clothes and jewellery."

Mrs. Austin's round eyes opened wider. It was queer, and her first feelings of compassion, which had been aroused by her lodger's pitiable situation, and by the fact that she had seen her on her knees, became mingled with doubts and suspicions. This young lady left the last place she stayed at in debt; it would behove her present landlady to be careful lest she, too, should be taken in. Miss Anderson was very young and innocent-looking, but it was wonderful how sharp those baby-faced girls could be!

"I shall have to buy a few things," said Doris, "and that will cost money. But I must look out for work immediately. The question is, what can I do?"

"I should think you can do a great many things, miss," said Mrs. Austin. "A young lady like you will almost have been taught everything."

Doris shook her head. "I know a smattering of many things," she said, "but I doubt if I could earn money by any one of them."

"Well, miss, time will show. I wouldn't worrit myself about it this evening, if I were you--I would just lie still and go to sleep. You're worn out, that's what you are."

Doris took this good advice so far as to lie down again after she had her tea, with her face to the wall. But for some time she did not go to sleep, for her heart ached too much; yet she did not weep, though there was a pain at the back of her eyes which hurt more than tears, and did not give her the relief that they would have given. She felt keenly her changed circumstances. Two days ago she had a good home, kind parents, an ardent lover, and many friends and acquaintances; now she had lost all. She was homeless, her parents had forsaken her, she and her lover had parted for ever. She was without friends and without acquaintances, for they, too, were left behind. "I am alone, quite alone," she thought; and then remembered that the best Friend of all, her Heavenly Father, was still with her. That idea saved her from despair, and gave birth to the resolve that she would not allow herself to sink beneath her troubles, but would keep a brave heart and endeavour to live worthily. Her life would be different from of old; yes, but it need not be worse--rather, it should be better. Longfellow's familiar words rose to her mind:

Not enjoyment and not sorrow

Is our destined end or way;

But to act that each to-morrow

Finds us further than to-day.

And she grasped the idea, even then, in that hour of bitter humiliation and despair, that the brave soul is not made by circumstances, and the environment which they bring, but, strengthened by Him who first trod the narrow way, it makes stepping-stones of what would otherwise deter and hinder it, pressing on to the prize of our high calling, the "Well done, good and faithful servant!" of our Master.

So Doris said to herself, "I will live to some purpose, and first of all I will set before myself one aim above all others. If I possibly can earn money enough, in some way or other, I will repay Bernard the money of which my father robbed him--yes, that shall be my ambition. To pay the debt--the debt my father owes him."

Twenty-five thousand pounds! An immense sum truly! But immense are the courage and the hopefulness of youth, inexperienced, ignorant but magnificent with the rainbow hues of undaunted imagination.

When at last Doris fell asleep the last words she murmured to herself were these:

To pay the debt.

And her last thought was that she would be honourable and true to the teaching of that Voice which is not far from any one of us, if only we have hearing ears and an understanding heart.