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Cloth, crown 8vo, yilt, Illustrated 50 Sundered Hearts. Crown Svo, cloth o 50 Across Her Path. CrownSvo, cloth o 50 IfiilL-L-IHTVT BRIGGS 29-33 Richmond Street West, 30-36 Temperance Street, TORONTO, ONT. es DOEIS GHEYNK Zbc Slors ot a IRoblc Xttc I. ;^' % c VT ANNIE S. SWAN AUTHOR OK 'AXJ)KRSYDK,' 'UATta OF EUEN,' -BUIAK AM> PALM.' rTO. «TC. L'l ' 'v^i /let)) (Ebitian TORONTO, CAXADA WII.LIAM eRIGGS KDIXnUlKllI AND LONDON OLirilANT, ANDKKSON & FERRIER 1889 ; 1 ! >y :i U 1 1 4 nZ ,r^ i"^,'? "*"' "' "■" ''■"■"« • ■ •' "^'""^•. In the rear one tho. Band eteh. humlrort and elBh, ...„. by \V„.,.„„ BriooT llook Sleward of ,h» MothcllM ll„„k and Publishing Xuse' Toronto, at the Department of Asrleulturc * CONTENTS. CRAF. I. UNPRKI'ARED, . • rAoa 9 II WHAT IS TO HKCOMK OF US? 29 MI. AN OFFER OF MAKRIAUK, 44 IV'. A DARK IIOI R, . 03 V. OABiMKL WINDRIIJGE, , 77 VI. SI.STERS, {).-) Vll. A WORLDLY WOMAN, . ii:i VIII. FACING THE FITIRE, . l-'8 IX. PERPLEXITIES, 147 X. AN UNPLEASANT SLIU'UISE, ir>9 XI. TRUE TO HERSELF, i 173 XIL AT AN END, 190 XIII. YOUTH AND AOE, 203 XIV. prkscott's will, 217 XV. SYMPATHY, .... 230 XVI. A BRAVE WOMAN, 243 XVIL WATS AND MEANS, . , 2G1 XVIII. DAWNING LIOIIT, , , 274 XIX. NEW PROSPECTS, . 287 XX. HER PLACE, . 304 f ■ ' !! ri I 4 t - i I "^ ■J,r^& ^^^^ '^. -^^ JhIS^j k^^^'t^I ^- ^ If^^ s^^^ Bfljw/^r^/jj ^ DORIS CIIEYNE. CHAPTER I. UNI'IJKPAUFID. 'When sotTowB come, they coint' not single spies, But iu battalions ! ' SlIAKESPEAUE. HAVE not consulted tlie girls, Undo Tenfold, but in all probability we shall elect to remain in this house. It has been our home so long, that though we shall be daily reminded of our loss, I am sure we shall all be happier here than anywhere else. Then we arc surrounded by friends, whose sympathy and com- panionship will somewhat soften our sorrow.* Mrs. Cheyne delivered her neat little speech with a certain quiet pathos, which sat admirably ujxrn her. She wiped lier eyes with her deep black-bordered lO DOA'/S CIIEYNE. H liiindkcrclilcf, and gavo a gentle sigh as she looked C()inj)lii(;('nlly into tlie lawyer's face. She had callejl him Uncle I'enfold, hut in reality he was oidy a distant lidative, with whom they had always Ixsen on intimate terms. At great personal inconvenience, and in wild wintry weather, he had travelled from London to the Lake country to attend the funeral of Kohert Cheyne. Perliaps, had the circumstances of his death hecn dill'erent, and his affairs less complicated, Jacob Penfold would have excused himself to the widow and family, and sent his condolences by post. It was pity for Kmily Cheyne and lier daughters that had brought him to JJydal that dreary November day. While Mrs. Cheyne was sj)eaking, his keen quiet eye was iixed on her pretty faded face, and there was deep compassion in that look. Emily Cheyne was a woman who could be measured almost at a glance. She was kind-hearted, affectionate, lovable, so long as all went well ; but what in the hour of trouble ? The most of us have had some experience of these butterfly natures, which the winds of adversity harden and sour^ making them fretful, peevish, discontented, and wholly selfish. i usriU'irAKi-.n. II AfhT that ju'iii'traliiiL,' look Mi'. INnt'oM (ImpiMMl Ill's «'ves on iIh; taltlf, and li(lu»'t»'.orrow, but I shall be glad to answer any communication you may address to me after you have consulted with your daughters ; and if I can do any good by coming back again, I shall come.' Mrs. Cheyne did not acknowledge the lawyer's offer of assistance. I am not sure even that she heard it. She walked away out of the room without I UNPRF.rARED. 17 utterinj:^ another word, and left her adviser to his own meditations. He stood for a few minutes in the same attitude, absently fini^ering the papers before him, his face wearing an expression of deep thought. Jacob Penfold was indeed perplexed regarding the future of the six helpless women up-stairs. He was not, however, long left to his ruminations, for he heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the approach, and presently the loud ring at the hall bell sent its deep echoes resounding through tlie silent house. Shortly thereafter the library door was opened, and a gentleman shown in. Mr. Penfold looked up quickly, and then returned, with some stiffness perhaps, the bow and bland smile with which the intruder favoured him. He re- cojrnised the face as one he had observed among the mourners at the burying- ground a few hours before. * Afternoon, sir,' said the stranger affably. * Cold- isli day.* ' Very,* was the lawyer's brief reply. ' But it is seasonable. AVe look for wintry weather in November.* *So we do, we do,' said the stranger, noddinjj B \A\ m \M\ m i8 DORIS CHEYNE. ! I ' I complacently. ' I'd better introduce myself, I suppose. My name is Hardwieke, sir ; Josiah Hardvvicke of Hardwieke Manor, at your service. An intimate friend of the deceased, and a sincere sympathizer with the bereaved family.' The lawyer gravely bowed. * My name is Penfold,* he said, but made no effort to sustain a conversation. He was, indeed, not greatly drawn towards the Squire of Hardwieke Manor. Certainly his appearance was not pre- possessing. He was a short, squat man, with a bald head, and a fat, sleek, complacent face, adorned by bushy grey whiskers. He was well dressed in the garb of a country squire, and had a great quantity of jewellery about him, his fat hands being ablaze with brilliant rings. He presented a great contrast indeed to the slender, spare, meek- looking little lawyer, whose appearance would never attract the slightest attention anywhere. Mr. Hardwieke had about him an air of easv self- satisi'action and complacency, which seemed to indicate that his position was assured, and that the word care had no meaning for him. But though his outward expression was one of affable good- I UNPREIWRED. 19 nature, ho had a keen, Imrd oyc, witli a prculiMily cuiinin;,' j^deani, wliich did not coinmeiid itself to the discriiiiinating observation of .Taeol» TenfohL * You are a connection of poor Cheyne's, I Itelieve,' he said, by way of passin«j: the time, wliile he waited a inessaj,'e from the ladies. * Very sudden foi- him, wasn't it?' he added, rubbing his lar^c^ fat hands comjdacently together. 'lie was a fine fellow, rmb ; pity he got so foolish latterly. Fact is, Mr. renfold, few folks can work the Stock Exchange to advantage. It recpiires a life-long apprenticeship, and even then, unless you're uncommonly slurp, you'll likely be uiin)ed. I wa{; '>orn speculating, so to si)eak — f(jr my father was a stockbroker, and he taught me all the tips he knew. Then I picked up a lot for myself, being rather wide-awake, so I've made a pretty good thing out of it, but it was very dilterent with poor Bob Cheyne.' 'You say you were intimate with him, Mi-. Hardwicke. Did you never try to show him his folly ? ' * Didn't I, just ! ' said Mr. Hardwicke, v.ith a grin. ' I was always at him, but, bless mc-, il was no use. It' Hob Cheyne was anything, he was si'U-willcd, and ^b II Hll I \ }l l:i 20 DORIS CIIEYNE. Ro it lir.s nil romo to an end. Do von know what they aro sayin;^ up at Anilil(!si(l(3 ? ' lit3 added, lowtsr- iii'' his voice. ' Thev're hintin'' that he didn't die a natural deatli. That when he knew liow bad tilings had turncMl out, ho took his own life. Do you suppose ihat'^ true, now ? * 'No, I don't ; it's a vile calumny, just like the tittle-tattle of these little places,' exclaimed the lawyer hotly. * I was particular in my iiniuiries, and that fine yount,' fellow, the surgeon at (Jrasmere, assured me he died of syncope and failure of the heart's action, due to intense excitement. Xo, sir; liohert Chevne was not such a coward as that.' * Very glad to hear it, I'm sure, for the sake of the poor ladies up-stairs,' said Mr. Hardwicke, not in the least ru filed by the lawyer's frowning brows and indignant voice. ' Fine woman, ]\Irs. Cheyne, and fine girls, particularly fine girls every one of them. Fact is, where there are so many pretty llowers in the bouquet, it's not easy to know which to admire most, eh, Mr. Tenfold ? ' Mr. Penfold's face assumed an expression of intense disgust. ]Ie felt nmcli inclined t<> order the aflfiJ.blj? squire out of the house. What riyht UNPREPARED. 21 had ihis vul^'ur, self-satistiinl, iiii[K'itinont man to intnule at sucli an unseasonalde time ? 'So there's notliini; left?' continued iho squire more soherly, seein,Lf his little pleasantly had fallen ratlier Hat. ' Pity for the old lady and the youn^' uues. l>ut I guess more Jian one of them liave i,'()(id cards to play, if they only play them out of lift caieful. That's the whole secret ol success 1 al\va}s say it's just like a rubber at whist. Tlay i)Ut your trumps in due course, and you'll swim into fortune; play 'em wroni;", and the game's up.' 'You api)OQr to have studied the game of life, ^Ir. llardwicke/ said Jacob Tenfold, with mild sarcasm. ' So I have, or I wouldn't be where 1 am to-day, as snug as I can be at the Manor. It's a fine place, though I say it, but for that matter you will get plenty to endorse my statement. If you are making a stay, I'll be glad to see you over to a knife and fork. I'll promise you as good a drop of Madeira as ever you tasted in your life.' 'Thank you, sir, but I return to London by an early train to-morrow.' * Eh well, another time, perhaps, I may have the pleasure,' said the squire affably. ' liut to return to h 23 DORIS C II FANE. I I • \ \\\K\ lidii's. I wiis in ciinicsi iiltout tlic cards, Mr. IViit'old. Vuini;^ \Vindrid,m!, I ho Hiirgi" (»f whom you .spoko so fiivounibly a minute i. , — though I must say lu; is an unsettiuj^ youui; ass, — is as sweet as he can he on Miss ^liriam. They say slie's the hcauty, ])Ut t^dve. me Miss — Eh well, my •,drl, what messa;^'e ?' he bivjke od' suddenly, as a servant ai>[)('aied at the door. * Mrs. Cheyne's compliments, sir, and she is sorry she will not he able to see Mr. Hardwicke to-day; but if he will take the trouble to call to-morrow, she will be glad to see him.' * All right, my girl. My compliments to your mistress, and I'll ride over to-morrow morning, about eleven. Good evening, Mr. l*enfold. Happy to meet you, sir. Hope we may have the pleasure of becoming bettor acquainted some day.' The lawyer thanked him, but did not re-echo the hope. When he was again left alone, he walked to the window and watched the squire mount his beautiful thoroughbred, and ride away. When he was out of sight, the lawyer left the room, and, taking his hat from the rack, went out of doors. As he passed out he could hear the sound of excited UNrREPARED. n voici's in the (Iniwiii^^-room, and a^'ain tliat look of deep and kindly compassion came upon Ids face. Jacob Tenfold was sincerely sorry for the helpless women upon whom the burden of liobert Cheyne's folly had so cruelly fallen. He drew a breath of relief as he stepped c t to the t,'ravelled sweep before the door, and stood still a moment, lo(>kin^' about him somewhat sadly. Even in the subdued grey liglit of that wintry afternoon, it was a lovely and desirable [)lace, the home where liobert Cheyne had expected to pass so many hapi)y years. The house, a long low building of only one storey, but possessing large accommodation, was built upon the brow of a hill which looked down upon the little hamlet of Kydal and the quiet still waters of Rydal Mere. It was sheltt^red on every side by noble trees, which, though now bare and leafless, still broke the fierceness of such winds as found their way into that sheltered vale. The ample grounds were tastefully laid out, and made the house perfectly secluded, although the approach was not long, and opened upon the public road. Jacob Penfold looked about him with a sigh, and then began to walk slowly along the avenue towards |! :i »!; i ' ■ ' i! lii fill* H ii 24 DORIS CUEYNE, ( I 'w tho pretty eiiliaiice-*,Mte. Tlion, with a kindly nod to the lod<,'e-keeper's liltlo boy, who ran out to open it for him, he sauntered out to the road and turned liis steps down the hill. The descent from the Swallows* Xest to the hi<,'h road was like the approach to a mansion-house, so evenly and closely were the trees planted, with their great boughs interlacing overhead. There were low- sloping green banks on either side, which in the spring and summer were covered with the bloom of the sweet wild-tlowers which grow in such profusion in the district. They were bare and bleached now with the wild rains which had ushered in drear November, and the sodden leaves lay thickly under foot. It was one of those still, grey, chilly days when the air seems soundless, as if some dead weight oppressed it — not a pleasant day to be in the country. Yet Jacob Penfold enjoyed it after his own quiet fashion, and saw beauties in the grey November landscape which might have escaped a less observant eye. When he reached the high road he crossed it at once, and cutting through a narrow belt of trees, found himself at the edge of Eydal Water. It was like a dead thing ; there was no ripple on its breast, UNPREPARED, 25 nor a motion amon<:j the tall reeds staiuiing so soli'iiiuly erect at its edge, yet it retlected the Ifiult'ii sky and the green slopes of the encircling hills. The silence was almost oppressive ; and wlu-n siultlcnly he heard the quick sharp click of horses' liuofs approacliing from the direction of Ambleside, the solitary stroller almost started. He retraced the few steps to the road, feeling a tritle curious, peihaps, to see the horseman. * Good evening, Mr. Penfold,' cried a cheery voice, even before Mr. Tenfold had recognised the grcN' cob and its rider. * Contemplating the mystic beauty of Rydal Mere ? Rather dreary work on such a night ? ' 'Rather,* answered the lawyer, and stepped on to the road while the horseman drew rein. He was u young fellow of six or seven-and-twenty, with a well- built manly figure and a strong decided cast of face redeemed from harshness by the mobile mouth and the kindly gleam of the honest grey eye. He wore a tweed suit and cap and a pair of top-boots, and looked more like a young squire or a gentleman farmer than a professional man. Such was Gabriel i> r ?1 I! \\ I 1 1 \' \t 1 ' .'i I I il I 1 ■ . ' ! ! I I 1 i: 26 DORIS CHEYNE. Winc^ ridge, surgeon, assistant to the oldest i)racti- tioner in Grr.smerc. * It is a pity you had not seen our classic ground in more propitious weather, Mr. Penfold,' continued the surgeon. 'But perhaps it may improve before you return to town.' 'That is hardly likely, as I return to-morrow morning,' answered the lawyer. ' But this is not my first visit to Eydal.' ' I suppose not. I have just been at Ambleside, Mr. I'enfold. Forgive me for repeating a rumour I heard there ; but is it true that the poor ladies up yonder,' he said, nodding towards the Swallows' Nest, ' are left in straits ? ' ' Quite true, Mr. Windridge ; they will be nearly penniless.' The surgeon whistled. Perhaps it was out of place, the subject being grave, but it was a boyish habit he had never rid himself of, and somehow it did not sit ill upon him. * I am mry sorry to hear it, sir,' he said at length, and his honest eyes confirmed his words. 'What will become of them ? * * They'll need to work, poor things,' returned the k>*-> C- UNPREPARED. 27 ilest i)nicti- ssic grouiul continued rove before to-niorrow 3 is not my Ambleside, I rumour I ' ladies up lows' ISTest, be nearly as out of a boyish »mehow it at lenn^th, ' What rned the law ver brielly. * It'll be hard upon them at lirst, hut they are not without resources. They are accomplished girls, I believe.' * They are, exceptionally so ; but being accom- plished for pleasure and for necessity are two (lili'erent things. It is no kindness to children, Mr. Penfoid, to rear them without any preparation for the vicissitudes of life. There are so many.* ' No, it is not right. It is wrong and wicked, but I daresay poor Kobert Cheyne never looked at it in that light. Poor fellow, he was a most devoted husband and father. These women ouglit to revere his memory in spite of this.* The surgeon did not at once reply. Looking at his fine face, which seemed just then wonderfully softened, Jacob Penfoid recalled Mr. Hardwicke's words about Miriam, and decided that she was a lucky girl. He had not met any one for a long time who attracted him as Gabriel Windridge had done that day. * I hope some way will be opened up. It would be a shame if they should be made to feel the sting of |)(»verty,' he said presently, and with slightly height- ened colour. 'Well, I must go ; good-bye, Mr. Penfoid.* 'm » 1 rllr If !:lil I : ; ! : . 28 DORIS CHEYNE, ' Good-bye, Mr. Windridge ; I hope to meet you again. I like you ; tliere is no nonsense about you,' said tlie lawyer frankly, as he warmly clasped the outstretched hand. ' If you hear tliat rumour about poor Chcyne's end, you'll contradict it, I am sure.' * Of course I will, Hatly. It has no foundation in fact. I know who set it abroad; a man whose mouth it is impossible to stop. Perhaps you know him — Hardwicke of the Manor ? ' The lawyer nodded. * Yes, I know him. Thank you. It will be well if the rumour doesn't spread. It would be a pity if the widow and the girls heard it. Good-bye/ I ii ; 1 1- I i'i CHAPTEE IL WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US ? 'Remember in that perilous hour, When m ;'3t afflicted and oppressed, From labour there shall come forth rest* Longfellow. HE drawing-room at the Swallows' Nest was a pretty and luxurious apartment, and had that homely, comfortable look which a room acquires when it is much occupied. The furnishings were in the best of taste, and there were many specimens of art, both in needlework and painting, which told that ^Ir. Cheyne's daughters had employed some of their leisure for the adorning of their home. They were all in the drawing-room that November afternoon, waiting for their mother to come up to tea. Ou the skin rug before the cheerful fire Kosamond .' a Ul i'»H: m a i .1 iili! i' ; ilk I i 30 DORIS CHKYNE. (commonly called Rosie) was stretched at full length, deep in the pages of a story - book. As yet Rosie Clieyne had had no grief heavy enough to refuse consolation in the magic pen of fiction. She was the youngest of the P(ick, and the pet, because of her happy, sunshiny temperament, her unfailing good- nature and unselfishness ; slie was indeed a sunbeam in the house. She was not particularly pretty, being of short stature, and having a round, red, comical face. Her hair was her one beauty ; it hung in a thick brown plait down her back, and had a sheen like gold upon it. Sitting quite near to her, so near indeed that the black folds of her dress sometimes interfered with the turning of the pages, sat the eldest sister Miriam. Mr. Hardwicke had spoken truly when he alluded to her as the beautv ; there could be no comparison between her and any of her sisters. I do not knov; that I shall try to describe her, for when each item is written down, what have we, after all ? We cannot express in words the living grace and charm with which every look and movement of a beautiful woman is instinct. Miriam Cheyne was (juite conscious tf her great lieauty , slie knew her own power well. On an ottoman almost in the ^J^ ' I , WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US?. 31 (•L'iili'(! of the room the third aiic^ fourth daughters, Josephine and Kitty, were poring together over tlie |);il:( s of a fashion journal. Josephine was tall, and pale, and slender, witli a stroni'" look of her mother about her. Her movements were indolent and languid, her manner indifferent, as if she liad little interest in anything. Josephine Itciiicj delicate in her childhood, had been much in- (lulged, and was consequently seltish and exacting, and rather fretful in her ways. She presented a striking contrast to the frank-faced, merry-eyed girl beside her. Josephine was a refined and even distinguished-looking young woman, Kitty one of the most ordinary and commonplace ; but very often the commonplace girl is much the better and sweeter companion with whom to walk through life, Kitty Cheyne was a general favourite, perhaps because she was invariably natural and unaffected. She wjis aeeustomed to speak her mind, and to act accordbigly. Josephine was more discreet, and sometimes found it to her advantage to hold her tongue. A little apart from the rest, standing in the side- window which commanded a tine view of the sweet vale of CIrasmere, stood the second daugliter, Doris ; ■ \ I ; I'M • i : 1 i H' Mil 32 DORIS CHEYNE, Cheyne, the lieroine of my story. Perhaps nobody ever looked less like a heroine tlian Doris Cheyne, or more uninteresting than she did at that moment. The sombre mourning gown, so exquisitely becoming to Miriam's delicate beauty, seemed to make Doris's sallow face darker in hue, and her hands larger and redder than usual. There was no reason why Doris should have such hands. She had never been placed in the interesting position of a household Cinderella, >he liad never swept or dusted a room, or washed a tea-cup in her life. The same dressmaker who took such delight in the gracious curves of Miriam's perfect figure was in despair over Doris. Her clothes never litted, and there she was, to the ordinary observer not half so attractive as the smart housemaid who had just brought in the tray for afternoon tea. Mrs. Cheyne was wont to sigh when she spoke of Doris, and to refer to her as * a trial.' Poor Doris ! Some- times she was a trial to herself. But had you looked into Doris's eyes just then, as they were fixed with a wild passion of yearning on the low-lying mist- enveloped roofs of Grasmere, you would probably have Ibrgotten all about tlie awkward figure, the red hands, th« snllow fftcc, ftiicl the utorn, rosoUjta month ; 1 i li:::f lir IVIfAT IS TO BECOME OF US? 33 because you would have seen in their trouliled depths the unspeakable longings of a woman's noble soul. There had not been any talk in the room for some time, except Josephine and Kitty's low-voiced dis- cussion of the fashion plates. Kitty was deeply interested in the new clothes which their bereavement demanded, and she did not think it heartless to wonder what new winter shapes of hats and jackets Jay would send for their approval. Doris thought it strange that they could bear to think about the symbols of their sorrow, much less to discuss and plan how they should be made ; but then Doris was not quite like other women. Had she been better favoured, perhaps her interest in gowns might have been livelier than it was. Kitty glanced once or twice at her, wondering, perliaps, how she could stand so long motionless in the cold window, but she did not address any remark to her. As a rule, Doris did not take much part in her sisters' talk ; she seemed to live outside of their circle, and she was seldom consulted on any domestic or social question. ' What can mamma and Uncle Tenfold be talkinuj about all this time, I wonder ? ' said Miriam at length, c !t \ . ii; 34 , JX)IUS CIIEYNE. secniiiig to awakci suddenly from a roverio. * Don't you tliink wu nii,L;iiL liavo luu, ^drls ? * ' Oh, yes ; do let us liave tea,' cried Kitty, quite relieved. * When do you su[»pose the old creature means to de[)art ? ' ' To-morrow, I heard him say,' said Kosie, without looking up. * I'm glad of that. I'm rather afraid of Uncle Penfold. He always looks at us as if he thought us a lot of useless lumber,' said Kitty candidly. ' And so I believe we are.' * Speak for yourself,' said jMiriam, as she rose to pour out the tea. ' Doris, are you chained to that window ? you look perfectly blue with cold.' Doris turned round at once. It seemed natural for every one to ol)ey the sweet cool tones of Miriam's voice. She was born to connnand. Just then a hurried step sounded in the corridor, the door was hastily opened, and to their astonishment, their mother rushed into the room and threw herself on a couch. In a moment they had all gathered round her, in wonder and alarm. * Mamma, what is it ? ' asked ^Miriam ; * what has happened ? ' ilM WHAT IS TO BECOME OE US? 35 , has ' It's I'liclt; rcnruld,' said Killy cnnlidciilly. • iJidii't I tell y(tu lit' was an old crejitiirc ? ' Mrs. Cliuyiu! sohbud wildly, and made ii<> icjily l)iris slipped (ivcr to the table then, and pouiiiii; (Mil ii cuj) of tea, hroH^ht it t<» her nmther. Slit; (hank it enj^a'ily, and inmuMliately L,n'ew cahiit'i;. It is interesting' and sni|)risinL;- to observe; th(; elVeet tea lias on the nerves of some women. After swallowing' the beveraii'e, Mrs. Chevne sat ni) and looked at tier daULiliters ealnily, tiionn'h she oeeasionally wiped her eves with her handkerehief. I am not (inile sure that she didn't rather enjoy the suri>rise she eould Liive them. 'Girls,' she said solemnly, 'we are be,L!;,L,fars.' 'What are you talkini^^ about, mamma ? AVliat do you mean ? ' asked Miriam, a trifle sharply. She never gave way to weakness herself, and was not very tolerant of it in others. 'I'm sure I'm speaking- plain enough,' said Mrs. Cheyne (|uerulously. ' We are beggars. We haven't a penny left in the world.' ' How can that be ? ' asked Miriam, who was jdwavs the most collected. ' If we are beggars, where has l'a[)a's money all gone i ' 'Hit 3« DORIS CIIHYNE. Il'i III ^^ ill \ ill 'I don't know. Yom* Undo Tenfold says he speculated with it and lost it all, and he said a <^Tcat many otlnir tliing-s which I must say T thou;^ht harsh and uncalhid for. Your Uncle Tenfold was always an extraoidinary and most uni»leasant man ; but I believe he speaks the truth as a rule, and when he solemnly assures me that we have nothing — that even the Swallows' Nest and the very furniture will have to be sold to settle claims — I suppose we must believe him ; but I must say it is a very hard dispensation for a desolate widow,' said Mrs. Cheyne, and agaiu found some relief in tears. It was a study, and a sad one, to watch the various expressions on the faces of the five girls who listened to her words. Blank astonishment and dismay prevailed, and on Miriam's face there was a shade of incredulity which indicated that she could not realize the full significance of her mother's an- nouncement. No doubt they would all feel the sting of their changed circumstances, but to Miriam it would be doubly cruel. She loved the good things of life with an absorbing love. * Can't some of you speak ? ' asked Mrs. Cheyne, looking up with something of an injured air. * Can't : .::i,i:i J 17/ AT IS TO BECOME OP US? 37 some of you sug^'cst soinL'thing ? "Wlnit do yuii suppose is to l)(>roiu(3 of us all ?* Ah! what indued — tluit was the question of ihc moment. 'Do you really mean, mamma, that there is nothing left ? — that we will be quite poor ? ' asked Josephine at length. * I said beggars, I think,* answered Mrs. Cheyne, with asperity. * 1 ectuldn't put it any plainer, and I nuist say, girls, that I think it was very wrong of your father to do any sueh thing, lie ought to have had some consideration for us. I*erhaps 1 am harsh, but what is to become of us ? * Doris turned round quickly ana went back to her post in the side window, but nobody paid any heed. Doris's opinion, even in this crisis, could not be of much value to anybody. * I don't know what is to become of us,' said Kitty at length, ' unless we retire in a body to the work- house.* * Or become housemaids,' said Josephine, her lips curling. * There is a brilliant prospect before us.' ' No, no ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Cheyne, pathetically waving her hand. ' We are ladies, and we must lind !l I t '•in w \ f A 38 DORIS CIIEYNE. I i II i li .sninn u'ciitccl occi patioii. Kiilicr y(»n must boooiiic ;^'()VL'ni(»s.s(»s, or nv(! imisl open a scliool.' iMiriuiii ClicyiK! tiiniud iivvay from (licin, and walk- \\v^ over to tlic licarlli, stood witli l>or cycis ^do(jmily on the fire. Her thou;4liLs were very liittiT, slie could not trust lierself to sjx'ak. Mrs. Cheyne did not like the silcnice which fell u])on tlu', j^irls, she wanted the sul)ject discusscid at once in all its l)earings. Jt was I lie only luxury remainin<,' to her now. * Your Uncle Tctufold seems to think we shall l)e very well oil". He said it would he; your duty anut she will have a quiet, coMd'ortable home, and if she has any particular bent — why, 1 shall try to help her.* ' You are very good, Uncle Tenfold.' * I don't mind telling you I should rather have you. I seem to know you better than the rest, but I see you are needed, and I will not be selfish. l)o you think the child will come V * 1 think so. I hope so. liosamond is very good, uncle. She is not headstrong, as I am.* * Well, we can see about that later, my dear. Now, I think you should not come any farther this morn- ing. I must hurry, I see, to catch the coach.' * I can hurry with you, uncle ; I have something to do for mamma in Ambleside.* They quickened pace together, and were soon in sight of the quiet little tov^n. Doris waited till her uncle had taken his place in the coach, and bad(3 him farewell with sincere reiiret. He had been a reitl I ' I ;• 1 \ H '1' 'i 5» JJORJS CIIEYNE. hiilj) to licr, lu', li;i(l slithed her; she loved to stand by the parapet of the <»ld bridge, and watch the lovely shadows in the AN OFFER OF MARRTACn. l^ siU'iit (U'ltlhs of the jtliicid mere. Wlicii she Iioljuu to asceud the hill to tlio Swallows* Xcst, sliu felt in a composed, hopeful mood. The fiiliiie, thoiii^ii un- certain, possessed many charms for her. The still, monotonous, self-contained life was at an end, and some of the longings which had possessed her were about to be fulfilled. She should have a chance with others to make a place for herself in the world. These thoughts, bewildering in their novelty, had weaned her away for a littL from what, only yester- day, had seemed an agony it was impossible for her to bear. Doris was not companionable nor demon- strative. To her sisters she was even cool. Her heart's love had been concentrated on her father ; she had loved him in a blind, worshipping way, and I do not think realized yet what it would be to live without him. As she passed through the lodge gates, she saw a horseman approaching from the direction of the house. She recognised him as the Squire of Hardwicke Manor, and thought no more of him until he drew rein before her. She stopped then, some- what reluctantly, and gravely returned his effusive greeting. * It is a fine morning, Miss Doris,' he said, beaming I 'iM Hi ii^iili :i w % t 1'! . i .S4 DORIS CHEVNR. I!| ii; u[)on liiii* Very expressively, and retaining her hand Ijetvveeu his fat palms, while the reins lay loosely on the cliestnut's glossy neck. * Yes, Mr. Hardvvicke,' Doris answered, and im- patiently withdrew her hand. She wondered why the man should stop at all. She disliked him, and m some vague way associated him witli their misfortunes. * Yes, it is an uncommon fine morning, and you look hlooming, Miss Doris. To think you should have been to Ambleside and back already ! You're a sensible girl, and deserve to ride in your carriage, you do ; and sc you will some day.' * I don't think so, Mr. Hardwicke. I am afraid we are all further off from carriage-riding than we have ever been. It is a good thing we are all able to walk.' * Now, there's a girl ! * exclaimed Mr. Hardwicke triumphantly, as if to convince some unbelieving third party of Doris's excellences. * You're game, Miss Doris ; you have a spirit equal to the occasion.* Doris smiled. The man amused her, but she could not understand why he detained her with his talk. She was anxious to get indoors, to be present at the AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE, 55 family council, and to aid in shaping the future which was now of such importance to them all. * Good morning, Mr. Hardwicke,' she said, with a little nod, and turned to go. ' You're in a hurry, Miss Doris. Don't grudge me a few seconds. You're very hard-hearted,' said tlie squire, looking quite pathetically into the girl's per- plexed face. * Do you want anything, Mr. Hardwicke ? ' she asked, ' because T am hurrying home now to mamma, and I am afraid I have rather put oil' my time.' * Want anything ? Yes, rather,' said Mr. Hard- wicke knowingly. ' But there, I'll let you go now. I hope to see you this afternoon again. Eun, then,' and your mother will acquaint you with my hopes.' Doris laughed, and with another nod walked off without ever looking round, though the squire kept the chestnut standing till she was out of sight. Rosamond was standing on tlie steps at the hall door, her face wearing an odd expression. * Did you meet him ? What did he say to you, Doris?' she asked in an awe-stricken whisper. 'He said it was a fine mornini'', and that I looked blooming!' Doris answered, and laughed, not under- I 1. *} . ;l HP 1; ; 1- ' 1 1 1* ll 1' 1 llll 56 DORIS CBEYNE, standing or even marvelling at the child's unusual questions. * Where is mamma ? * *In the drawing-room. The girls are there too. Are you going up, Doris ? ' Eosamond asked, with thli::;i > iiB.fi 111 paraginjjiy about a gentleman of Mr. Hardwicke's position and character,' said Mrs. Cheyne sharply. * Not a true friend, indeed ! He has given me to- day the strongest proof of his friendship. I only hope you will be capable of appreciating it as I do.' Doris was very much surprised. She looked from Miriam to Josephine and back to her mother almost helplessly. Miriam's face was still averted, Josephine's wore a cold, amused smile. Kitty found it difficult to suppress a laugh. She always saw the comical side of things. * Perhaps we had better leave the room, mamma, while you acquaint Doris with Mr. Hardwicke's hopes,' Miriam said presently. 'There is no necessity. There is nothing to be silly or affected about. Doris, Mr. Hardwicke came here this morning on a very unexpected errand. He has done you a great honour, the greatest in his power. He wishes to marry you.' Miriam looked keenly at Doris to see the effect of the announcement. Doris had taken off her hat as her mother spoke, and now she put up her hand to her head, and a dull red flush rose to her clieek. But she never spoke. I l AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE, 59 * Often when the cloud seems darkest we see the • silver lining,' said Mrs. Cheyne, softly clasping and unclasping her little white hands, and speaking in a purring, satisfied way. * I must say, Doris, thiit tlie idea of such a splendid settlement for you never occurred to me. You have every reason to be proud and grateful.' ' Why should I b > proud and grateful '* Doris's voice rang out sharp and shrill, and the colour rose still higher, till her brow was flushed. * Why ? because you will be so splendidly provided for. Your sisters may well envy you. To think that you should be the mistress-elect of Hardwicke Manor,' said Mrs. Cheyne, looking severely at Doris. * I hope, my dear, that you will show yourself pro- perly sensible of Mr. Hardwicke's kindness, and that you will not add to my burden by your obstinacy or self-will.' Doris looked helplessly from one to another, but spoke no other word. She only half-comprehended the meaning of it all. Marriage had never been a theme engrossing to her thoughts ; marriage for her- self had never once presented itself to he: mind. * You look as if you don't believe it, Doris/ said \-\ \ i :m 1 W'\ w n 6o DORIS CIIEYNE, Miriam. * I assure you it is quite true. Mr. Hard- wicke wants you for his wife, and if you take my a'^.vice, you will be glad to accept him. / should, if I had the chance.' * So should I, though he is not an Adonis,' said Josephine. * His possessions cover a multitude of shortcomings, and if you only scheme a little you will be able to wind him round your little finger. He is a fooL' Doris took a few steps nearer her mother, and fixed her gleaming eyes on the pretty faded face. The shallow-hearted woman winced under that look. * Mother ! ' Doris's voice shook. ' What does it mean ? Mr. Hardwicke wishes to marry me, and you wish me to marry him, is that it ? Please to tell me. I want to understand it quite clearly.' *I thought I spoke plainly,' said Mrs. Cheyne resignedly. 'Mr. Hardwicke has done you that honour. He truly loves you, and would make you very happy ; but if you are going to be headstrong and foolish over it, of course there is no more to be said about it. My wishes need not weigh with you. It is natural that I should have rejoiced at such a prospect, especially for you, for I must say, Doris, AN OFFER OF M/.RRIAGK, 61 I don't know what I am going to do with you ; but I lH>|)e I can bear disappointment. I have had many to ciuhirc ; no doubt they are all for my good.' J)oris drew a quick sobbing breath, and walked away out of the room. Then Mrs. Cheyne sat up and looked at Miriam. ' What are we to do with her ? Such a chance will never, I am sure, come in her way again. When slie looks at me with those great staring eyes of hers, she frightens me. What is to be done ? If only Mr. Hardwicke had asked anybody but Doris !' * You must just make up your mind, mother,' said Miriam. 'Doris will not become amenable to reason on this point. You may spare yourself the trouble of expatiating on the worldly advantages of such a marriasj^e. She doesn't understand it.' ' She will when she has to want a meal, snapped Josephine crossly. * It is time she understood these tilings at twenty-two. I believe half of her unconsci- ousness is affectation. Papa spoiled her altogether.' ' She didn't say she wculdn't have him, tliough,* said Mrs. Cheyne reflectively. ' Perhaps when she lias got accustomed to tlu'. idea, she may think better of it. Hardwicke Manor and three or four thousand n ; 62 DOR IS CHEYNE. "II a year are not to be picked up every day. It will be hard if we have to let it go. Why, Doris has our future in her own hands.' *I think you go too far, mamma,' said Miriam. ' Unless I am much mistaken in Mr. Hardwicke, he would object to marrying the whole family. We should be kept at a respectful distance. I do not think he is conspicuously generous.' ' Then what is to be done ? Mr. Hardwicke will be here in a few hours. Am I to tell him Doris will have nothing to say to him ? ' 'There is only one hope, mamma. If you can convince Doris that it would be her duty to marry Mr. Hardwicke, that it is what papa would wish her to do, she'll do it, though it should kill her.' ' I hope you won't try anything of the kind,' cried Kitty's fresh young voice. * I wonder you can bear to think of such a thing. Doris marry him indeed ! It would be a shame. He is old enough to be her grandfather. Poor old Doris, I'll be her champion, though you should all turn against me too.' CHAPTER IV. A DARK HOUR • reace ! be still.* OIiTS had received a cruel blow. The hopes of the morning wore quenched at noon ; on the very threshold of her nev/ resolve and bright purpose she was met by a great shadow. She was glad to creep up to her own little room, and shut herself in. Doris had always been the odd one in the family, and no one shared her room. She sat down by the window where she had idled and dreamed away many precious hours. She could not dream over this trouble, however. It required instant consideration, stern practical thought. It was overpowering. Her cheek burned with the shame of it, her heart beat 63 li' i% t I. 64 nOR/S CIIEYNF. [ It Jiii_i4;rily, lier hand uiicoiiscioiisly clenclicd. Ifow liL'iirllcss thoy were, how selfish, how careless and indillerent to her feelings ! It was a shock to Doris, who had never thought of marriage, to find it thrust upon her, a question demanding an immediate answer; and such a niiirriage ! Tlie girl shivered as if some cold breath h{id touched her, and crouched in her corner like a 1 united thing. She felt desolate, despairing almost, as if she were an outcast whom none pitied or loved. Could this be the cruel destiny she must fulfil, from which there could be no escape ? Must she stand before the altar with this man, who had nothing to recommend him, no attributes which could win even respect and esteem ? Was this the only way in which she could help them ? Could this be the path of duty for her, the purpose she must fulfil ? These thoughts rent her perplexed soul until she could have cried out in agony ; this was a crisis in the life of Doris Cheyne. In this mood her mother found her an hour later. She had peeped through the half-open door, and seeing the attitude of Doris, softly entered the rooui, and laid her hand gently on A n.ih'K HOUR. 6s tliu «MiTs bowed head. Mrs. Clu'vni! iMtuld wvaVv \\vv touch very gentle, her voice sweet and caressin*^', when slie pleased. 'Doris, my dear, don't fret. I'here is no one forcing you to marry ^Ir. Ilardwicke. We do ikjL want you to make a martyr of yourself.' Doris lifted her head, and, looking at her mother's face, said quietly, — * I don't know what to do, mamma ; I am very miserable.' * There is no need, Doris. As I said, we cannot compel you to marry any one. IJesides, it is a thing I would not do. 1 love my cliihhen too well to sacrifice them. I will sit down beside you, Doris, and we shall talk tliis matter over quietly and sensibly ; shall we, dear ? ' She sat down as she spoke, and gently patted Doris's hand. The girl was grateful for that kind touch. Her eyes filled with tears. At that moment her heart went out in a rush of love to her mother. She no longer felt desolate and alone. But she could not speak, feeling was pent in her heart ; then Mrs, Cheyne began in a low, sweet voice : t ' ii I I 1 Hiii 66 DORIS CJJEYNE. m 1™ ' ■f I lit ' It Wiis injudicious iiiiil unkind of me, Doris, to brtiuk it lo you so liisldy, especially before your sisters. It would have been inlinilely better had I come here (quietly and talked it over with you. You will no< blame nu', dear, that in tlie midsi of my sorrow and iieijihixity, my anxiety and care about my children, Mr. llardwicke's ])ro])osal should have seemed just at first a beautiful ray of lii^ht. He is an honest, generous-minded man, and he was your dear father's trusted friend.' * Oh, mamma, I think papa did not always trust him. I have heard him say he was not a true friend,' cried Doris. * I think you are mistaken, my dear. You must be thinking of some one else,' corrected Mrs. Cheyne, with gentle decision. * I knew your poor dear father's heart, and I assure you he had a warm esteem for our kind neighbour. lUit that can make no matter now. Doris, my love, do you quite understand our position ? Are you aware that we will be dependent on our own exertions, even for our daily bread ? ' ' Yes, niannna, I know ; but we can work. I will work ; yes, dear mamma, I will do all I can if only you will let me stay.' A DARK irOUR. 67 ' I do not (l(ml)t your uunu'st lu'ss, Dmis, l»ui what can you do? Can you sinij or i»liiy, <>r do you kiiow any lMn:4uaf,'(;s, liko your sist^irs ? I tliinU it \-'vj\\i to It'll you that your future causes nic many >l(rj>lL!ss hours and anxious thou^lits.' ' It need not, niotlicr; there will, there must he soiuethin^i,' for \\\(\ to do. I will not burden you. I will help you, indeed I will,' cried J)oris, with lieavinj^' bosom and «,deaminL,' eye. * You talk in an excited strain. It sounds well, my love, hut it is impracticable. What com you do i Nobody will pay you anythin;^ for fine words.' 'I will learn t(j work with luy hands, mother. Uncle Tenfold said it might be my duty to do so ; to do what a servant mij,dit. ]\Iamma, nothing could make me happier.' * Your Uncle Tenfold is a stupid old man,' sjud Mrs. Cheyne coldly. ' We cainiot forget that we are ladies, Doris. No child of mine shall ever degenerate into a domestic servant. I am afraid you are going to be the greatest trial of my life. If you can do nothing, you nuist not hinder those who can by your obstinacy and self-will' ' 1 will not, mother. I will try to be good and ■ I' 1 '11 68 DORIS CIIEYNE. ) IH'HlTU^i dutiful,' siiid Doris meekly, and her great eyes, like those of a timid fawn, uplifted themselves pleadingly to her mother's face. Mrs. Cheyne's heart was not touched by that look' she was engrossed l)y a desire to impress Doris in favour of marriage with the Squire of Hardwicke Manor. * When Mr. Hardwicke spoke of you in such high terms, Doris, I was very nmch surprised. You do not exert yourself to be agreeable, and I must say that I could not understand his choice. But he has chosen you, he loves you, and, my dear, his offer deserves kind consideration at your hands. I am not mercenary, and I hope none of my children are ; but when I think of that beautiful home, and picture you as its happy mistress, I cannot help wishing that '"ou would think better of it.' ' But, mamma, I should not be happy : I should be miserable. How could I be a wife ? I know nothing ; besides, I have not even respect for Mr. Hardwicke. He makes me shrink into myself.* ' Such absurd ideas are the fruit of an ill- reujulated mind. Mi'. Hardwicke is a most es*""nable man, and would make a generous and considerate f < ! } A DARK HOUR. 69 husband, rerhaps he is not the young, hnnds^onic suitor who readily wins a girl's foolish admiration, but he has the solid qualities of head and lieiirt. His generosity quite touched me. He was good enough to say that the Manor would be my home, and that he would see that we all had comfort — all for your sake, Doris. Does not that show a dis- interested and sincere love? Many women who have married unwillingly have become the hai»[)iest of wives ; and those who have rashly married for love, have found it could not stand the test. There must be comfort, solid, worldly comfort, Doris, or love is soon starved out.' Mrs. Cheyne again laid her hand softly on Doris's arm, and smoothed it w4th a gentle, caressing touch. ' You have all this in your power, Doris ; I may say, with truth, that my future rests with you. It is not a great deal to ask, after all. Mr. ITardwicke does not expect you to adore him ; he hopes to win your love witli kindness. You will think it over, then, my dear child, licmember, I do not wish you to sacrifice yourself, if you feel that it would be a sacrifice. Only think it over, and give it considera- tion. God bless you, my darling Doris.' ! i lli S' i:^i! 70 DORIS CHEYNE. So saying, Mrs. Clieyne pressed her lips to the girl's forehead, and glided from the room. She had made the girl's burden greater. Under the guise of motherly solicitude and tenderness, she liiid laid a stern duty upou her ; she had left her without a loophole of escape. She intended to be kind, and imagined that she was doing her utmost to further the :7'"rrs best interests as well as her own. Nevertheless each word went like a barbed arrow to the sensitive heart. Doris sank under it. She felt that she must accept the inevitable, that her destiny could not be set aside. It was a happy thing that Josiah Hardwicke was prevented returning to the Swallows' Nest that afternoon. Had he done so, it is certain that Mrs. Cheyne would have promised him her daughter's harid, and Doris would have acquiesced. She felt helpless, like some frail barque drifting upon a strong current, against which it were vain to strive. Often, when we becort3 thus passive under a heavy strain, it is removed from us. It is not always the best thing to fight against circumstances; the difhculty is to decide when discretion is the better part of valour. But even that will be -decided for A DARK HOUR. 7' us if we ask in faith, iiotliin^i^' doul>ting. Doris did not go down - stairs that afternoon. Her mollier respected her wish to be alone, it was not without its hopeful signs, and she forbade the (jtliers to disturb her, and sent one of the maids up witli a cup of tea. Doris allowed it to stand till it was cold. I am not sure even that she was conscious of the woman's entrance. She had never changed her position, except to clasp her hands round her knees ; and there she sit crouched up in the okl corner, her eyes strained with watching the shadows of the nidit "-atherino- about the hills. A low, moanint' wind had crept up, and waved the bare tree boughs weirdly to and fro in the grey twilight ; a few rain- drops pattered against the panes. Meanwliile the lamps were lighted in the drawing-room, and the logs piled on the wide hearth, and the rest enjoyed the warmth and comfort, not forgetful of Doris, only leaving her alone in the silence sue seemed to like best They did not hear her come softly down-stairs and steal out into the chill and biding night ; they did not dream of Doris speeding along the deserted high- way towards Grasmere to seek sympathy and comfort, and mayhap invisible help, beside a now-made grave. 72 DORIS CHEYNE, I' i9 The evening service was just beginning wlien Doris stole through the open gate, past tlie lighted windows, and np to the dark corner where they had laid Pioberfc Cheyne to rest. His grave was but a few yards from the resting-place of those who have made that churchyard inni'ortal. Many a time had Doris read these names ; she had heard her father say he should like to lie not far from Wordsworth's grave, and tlu^y had remend^cred his wish. She thought of it as slie sped past the railed enclosure, before which the stones are worn by the feet of many i)ilgrims, as are the stones before a shrine. Presently she came to the mound, easily distinguishable by the beaten sod, still bearing the impress of the sexton's spade. Down there Doris knelt, and folding her hands before Iier face, tried to pray. Hitherto, religion had not been a very real thing to Doris, perhaps she had not felt the need of it. Lilt now it had come to this — that £he was like one stumbling blindly upon an unbeaten way, lost and helpless without a guide. But she could not compose her thoughts, she could not think of any words ; even the familiar prayers she had known and repeated daily since her childhood, seemed to OJ 73 tli ^^ n ■ !: 1 1 r ^ 1 i i|! ' ! I !■ t 1 1 ' I 1 Hi n\ I i^i I;: ' I i i w m s A DARK HOUR, 75 have slipped wholly from her mind. Only hi'v whole being seemed possessed by a vast yearnin^:;, her soul was uplifted to the Unseen, and that is prayer. Insensibly as she knelt there, unconscious of any definable thought or desire, peace came to her, a strange and exquisite calm settled on her troul)led heart. She felt lifted above lier care, she knew her burden had "rown liuht. Altliough she did not know it, she had laid it at the feet of Him who bids us cast our care upon Him, because He careth for us. It is a wondrous love whicli tlius receives even the feeblest yearnings of a human soul, which makes no difference, even though we seek it only as a last extremity. While Doris knelt, the short evening service ended, and the few worshippers began to disperse. The sound of their voices roused her, and she stood up, and leaned her arm on the rail of the adjoining enclosure. She would wait there, she thought, until they were all gone, when she could steal away unobserved. She could see by the light from the church windows the dark figures moving towards the gate, but was presently startled by the sound of footsteps approaching the corner where iti i ! r'i >,' ; 76 DORIS CIIEYNE. she stood. Tfc was a man's step, and in a nion)ont she saw and reco^nistMl the figure. It was Gahiicd Windridge, the snri>eon, come to look for the second time that day at ^.he <-^ we of his friend, Kobert Cheyne, Ml'' \ !H fe< X f^ J;^ k\/v 53 5ii&"^ t^ / ^Xk"' ^91 k^C" \'NL/ ,! 82 DORIS CIIEYNE. me that such a sacritici; \V(jukl bu only a filial duty to her. I am very wretched.' ' Miss Doris, what is it ? Try and think of me as a brother. I may be your brother some day/ said the suri^eon, with a passing thought of Miriam, whom he loved. Doris, engrossed by her own perplexities, did not notice his words. * I will tell you. TJiey wish me to marry Mr. Hardwicke.' 'God forbid!' Gabriel Windridge's protest was very genuine. He was inexpressibly surprised and shocked. ' It is true. He has asked mamma, though I do not know why he sliould wish to nuirry me. What shall I do ? ' For a moment Gabriel Windridge was silent, ■picturing to himself what such a marriage would be like. A coarse, worldly-minded old man mated witli a pure, inexperienced young girl, wliose soul was sensitive to a degree, shrinking at every ungentle touch. 'God forbid!' he repeated in his inmost soul. * You know that we are left very poor, Dr. iiiii GABRIEL WINDRIDGE. K' # Wiudridge,' contiiiiKMl Doris in a Ltw noiVc ' ^Mr. Ilardwickc will jirovidi! for iniunnia and ludp tlu; oiliers if I becoiiio his wife. AVliat shall 1 do ?' * AVhat do you wish to do ? ' * I know that I would die almost rather than marry ]\Ir. Kardwicke,' said Doris. ' JJut as I cannot die, 1 have to decide what my duty in life is. 'I hey say it is a splendid chance for me. Do you think I ou'^hl to let it li'o ? ' It was pathetic to listen to the calm, matter-nf-fuct words which fell from the girl's lips. In the dark- ness the surgeon's face wore a look of dc('[) com- passion. He was inexpressibly touched, and liis idea of her duty on this question was clearly defined. 'If you feel as you say, Miss Doris, I do not think you need trouble any further al)out it,' he said in his quiet, decided way. 'To make siicli a sacritice would be a mistaken idea of duty, and a great wrong. It IS a sin to nuirry irry without, at least, the basis of respect and esteem.' 'I have never thought about these things until to-day, but I know you are right,' cried Doris. ' Do you thiidv papa would have liked nu; to become Mr llardwicke's wife ?' ^i; 84 DORIS CIIF.YNE. * Most assuredly not,' said Gabriel Windridge, with iiiiTiiistakable warnith. * You wore very dear to him, Miss Doris.' * You do not tliiidv it very strange tliat I should speak to you as I have done,' said Doris, as they began slowly to ascend the slope to the Swallows' Nest. ' I could not help it. I was very lonely. I have no one to whom I can speak, now that he is away.' 'You have honoured me willi your confidence, which shall be sacred to nie,' returned the surgeon sincerely. * T am afraid I have not been able to help you very much.' ' You have helped me. My mind is made up. I shall not marry Mr. Ilardwicke. To do so would be a great wrong to him. It cannot be ri«dit to marrv for money or for a home. Had T done so, it would have been for others, not for myself. Perhaps I shall be aided in finding something to do. Do you think any life is intended to be useless or purposeless ? ' * I do not. The Creator has a purpose in all He creates,' returned Gabriel Windridge. 'Miss Doris, life is '>nly beginning for you. Y'^ou will probe into tlie heart of things. You are so earnest. I feel sure you will do a grert work/ GABRIEL WINDRIDGE. 85 A beauliful smile toucliod for a iiioiiieiii the <;'irrs pale, anxious face, and her eyes shone with a stedfast resolve. They Jiad paused at the entrance gates, [ and the light from the cottage window fell upon r them both. Galjriel Windridge looked at Doris with great interest. She had revealed herself to him ; he saw in her tin; making of a nol)le woman. He was himself an earnest soul, seeking to do Ins life-work as it was revealed to him, often erring, d.id pursuing petty aims perhaps, but his heart was true, and his purpose pure and high. Doris liad made no mistake in her choice of a friend. Her trust had been unerriuiij. Shall I tell you what strange thouuht flashed across her as she looked into the surgeon's manly face ? She thought, that had Mr. Hardwicke Ijcen such as Gabriel Windridge, her perplexities had l)een easier ended. Life with him would be a good and pleasant thing, because he was wortliy of respect and esteem. Such a thought brought no blush to the cheek of Doris, her unconsciousness was perfect, she knew nothing about love. * Thank you very much,' slri said simply. * AVill you come home with me ? It cann(jt be very late. * No, thank you, it is time I was back. I'hci-e ,ir I ilii iH if J > 86 DORIS CITEYNE. ■ : 1 inny no a summons for mo, and Dr. Presoott doos not care to no out aL niijlit. You arc nut afraid lo \ixi Ti]) tho n])]iroa(']i alone?' D oi'is snu led. ''I am not afraid anywhere. Why slionld I he ? Good-niii'lit. Shall I see yo^ auain soon ? ' 'Very soon. CJood-ni^ht, Miss iJoiis. It is an nns])('idw bent, his face drawn and wrinkled, his hair as white as snow. He sat by the fire in a large easy-chair, attired in a handsome dressing-gown, and wearing a small black velvet cap. His slippered* feet rested on the bar of the fender, and his long thin white hands vvere clasped on his knees. When the dining-roora door opened, he turned his head and flashed his keen deep-set eyes on the assistant's face. * It is you, Windridge. T was wondering what had come over you. Ts your work done ?' 'It is, sir. ^n the meantime.' GABRIEL WINDRIDGE, 01 ' Then c(»ine over to tlu^ fire. It is wet, J believe.' * Very wet now, and cold as well,' Windridi^i' answered, and sat down at a respectful distance from the fire. The room was cold, the smouldering lump of cojil in the grate diffusing but little heat. Strict economy was the rule in the Doctor's houseliold ; he even denied himself the comforts of life, yet they said he had amassed a fortune in Grasmere. ' Where have you been?' he asked cahnly, fixing his eyes on the young man's face. Windridge reddened a little. The cross-question- ing to which he was frequently subjected, irritated him ; he was often tempted to make an unbecoming reply. The old man could not have kept a more vigilant supervision over him had he been a refractory school-boy. ^ * I was enjoying a stroll, sir,* he answered quietly. * What ? In the rain I were you alone ? * *Ko, I was not.' * Who was your companion ? * Windridge lifted a newspaper from the rack, and opened it out. ■! ! i ! v'V \\ \\ If! li ¥ \ ii l\ '•a m 92 DOKIS CIIF.YNE. *I sec ihi'-y arc still delialing the Land Quustioii,' he said, witli admirable coolness. A grim, dry smile dawned on Dr. Prescott's face. He liked to annoy his high-spirited assistant, he enjoyed seeing his cheek ilush and his eye gleam indignantly. It was a clicap amnsenient, for he knew Windridge had too nnich common sense to quarrel with what was practically his bread and butter. A poor man with uncertain prospects cannot afford to pander to his pride. He has to cultivate a meek spirit, unless he wishes delil)erately to stand in his own light. Windridge was not meek, but he bore a great deal from the old Doctor because he pitied him He was a man who was miserable in spite of his position and his means. * I have had a caller since you went out,' the old man said presently. * Hardwicke has been here.' Windridu'e started. The man was in his thouiihts at the moment. Indeed,' was all he said. * He came to consult me professionally, and we had some talk. Do you know wliat he told me ? — that you are in love with one of those girls at llydal — Ciieyne, IMiriam Cheyne, I think he called her. I GAIU' w Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. USM (716) S73-4S03 !!{ 1 94 DORIS CIIEYNE. 'That is tlie surwrv licll, sir. Good-ui'flit.' ' Are you not coiniiii,' back ? Let me know vvlio wants you,' said the old Doctor, who liked to know all that was yoin*' on. * All rij^dit, sir/ answered Windridge, not very courteously, and hurried out of the room. It was notliing new for him to he tried past his endurance. ])Ut for Miriam, he would have thrown common sense to the winds and thrown up liis post, though he knew that if he could only have patience, he would slip into the old man's fine practice. Dr. Prescott liked to annoy Windridge, but at the same time he felt as kindly towards him as it was in his nature to feel towards any human being other than himself. i'K- •M!>: is I •) ( I *> CIIAPTEIi VI. SISTKKS. 'Out of her periilcxities arosn a sulf-reliaiit spirit, which woulJ he a blcsaiii'' lu ht'i'st'lf and othiTs.' ;--v^; Vf^vi S Doris sLolu into tlie houso lliaL iiinlit, llio \^^.^xU l»:ill clock struck nine. It Nsas very * lat(! for her to lie out iiloiic. She almost feared to outer tlie drawing-room. A\'heu she did so after removing licr wet cloak and hoots, she found only ^Miriam, Josephine, and Kitty there. They made room for her heside the fire, without asking where she had heen. They thought slie had just come down from her own room. ])oi-is was (|uite conscious of their curious and interested glances. Tor the first time in her lift*, she was a iktsoii of importance in the house. Tlu; oiler i*>f maniago which had been made to her that dav J^nd altogether' M it il ili. •4 1 11 ' I -1^ ri il I ! t"f I. , i ill m !! 96 DORIS CHEYNE. clijiii^cd lier position. She hud a gicjit deul in licr power. 'Has mamma gone to bed?' she asked, sitting down beside Kitty, and smiling sliglitly at tlie look of sympathy in her good - natured face. Kitty thought Doris's fate was sealed, she didn't see how it would be possible for her to combat the combined wills of their mother and Miriam. Not an hour ngo slui hnd heard them make every arrangement for the future, just as if Doris's engagement to Mr. llardwic'ke had become a fact. She pitied Doris with a genuine sisterly pity. To marry Mr. Hard- wicke seemed to Kitty a living death. She thought it wrong to sacrifice Doris, but had been warned to hold her peace. Under pain of her mother's stern displeasure, she had agreed to say nothing to influence Doris either way. * You have quite a colour, Doris,' Miriam said. ' Mamma was anxious about you. I think I never saw you look better.' * I am quite well,' Doris answered. ' Have you been talking much about what we are going to do?' * We havM bf'cn vulkiii;;, rif rnursp/ sjiid Miriam; S/ST£A'S. 97 'but WO cannot njiikc aiiv (Iclinili; ananjiciiicnt.s uiiLil you SL'ttlc. the (luustion for us.' As she spoke, jMiriam's beautiful eyes were fixed witli evident kc^enness on Iut sister's face. ])oris met that hjok with one of eahnness and resolve. ' I have settled it. I am very much obliged to Mr. Hardwieke. 1 suppose I ought to be, but 1 cannot marry him.' Miriam and Jose]thine looked at each other; Kitty's eyes filled with pleased surprise, and she secretly pressed iJoris's hand. Kitty Cheyne had no great gifts, but she was an honest, true-hearted girl, who would develop into a womanly woman. The Hardwieke aMiance had not commended itself to her. * I think you must be mad, Doris, to refuse such a chance,' said jMiriam, with the haste of annoyance. ' What is to become of you ? * ' I don't know. I shall neither starve nor be a burden upon any of you, but I shall not marry Mr. ]lardwicke,' Doris said (quietly. 'Ihe sisterly hand clasping hers gave her a new sweet ccnirage, and she looked gratefully into Kitty's honest brown eyes. * Why will you not marry him ? ' asked Miriam, u ii ;i !!, I . M« If Illjl 98 DORIS CJIEYNE, 'i ' I? y'.i i Iwi iWili ^ I i!Si 51 „ 1f:|!' loaninpr forwjird m her chair. ' I.nck wlmt ho cjiu give you; a ifosition any wnmaii niji^^ht envy.' 'Yes, l)ut look at Die man.' Doris si)oke quietly, Ijut her sarcasm was inten.sely bitter. Kitty couhl not lepress a hiu-l,, Miriam looked ;>iit out. • What is the matter witli him ? He is oMer than you, and not very liandsome, lu'rhai.s, l)ut lie would make a good enough husband. It is impossible you can entertain any romantic ideas about love and marriage. Take care what you are doing, Doris. You are plain, unaccomi^lished, not particularly attractive. You cannot afford to throw Mr. llard- wicke away.' Doris laughed. Ifer heart was growing lighter. The strain was removed, she saw her duty, she felt brave to go forward against all opposition. In a moment, however, her face grew grave again, she fixed her large dark eyes solemnly on Miriam's beautiful face. ' I have thought it all over. T have looked at it from every side, and I have been helped to make my derision. 1 d(. not deny the truth of what you say Miriam, were I to nuirry .Air. llardwicke, feelin- aa I I- SISTERS, 99 I do now, and for the niolivos wliicli von nr^c, no in nishniL'nt could 1»l' too Ljrcut fur mu. I shall never do so j^MC'Jit a wronj^.' 'Fine talk.' said Miriam ('ontLMni>tnonsly. * I'.ut selfish, very seltish. Think of tlie eond'urls yon ciMiid U'ive nianmia. Ihil there! j^irls, it's no nst^ repining ; we had better renew our eontcMnplaliiJii of thi^ various lustries open to indi.n(!nt females. Our easile of cards has fallen to the ground.' *I think you are (piile ri^ht, Doris,' said Kitty stoutlv ; 'anvtiiinLf would \)v. lieller than manvin*' a man like Mr. Ilardwicke. iLdi, the very idea of UK It ma kes one sliive,r, *Sup])(>se we go away to some town and open a school ; what will you do, Doris i ' asked Miriam in her sweet, cold voice. ' You cannot expect us to kee]» yo 'For shame, Miriam,' cried Xitl waved her to be silent. u. y l)ut Miriam 'This is not a time to indul,L;(^ in sentimental nonsense. We have to look at things in a practical fashion. You know, Doris, that you could n(»t assist us to teach. Then wliat can V(»u do { It will 1 le struggle enough in all likelihood to sujtpoit those w ho are working ; then there is mamma. *n » ill! :t'l ;l iiy.' jl h'< i til a m 9 ..■ i jl 't 1 ,' 1 if t ? 11 I ' 1^ loo /;6>/v'/.V ClfEYNE, ' Iliirdwicko Manor is your (IcsLiuy, I)oiis,' snid .loscpliiiK! indolciilly. ' Far Itiitter a(*('L'i)L il gracufully; I <»iily Nvisli it had coiuu in my way.' ])ori.s made no reply. Slu; was Inirt liy licr sisters' tone, l)y tlieir evidr'nt d(!sire to Ik; rid of lier. Slie felt more tiian ever isolated; lliere seemed to be no jdaee tor li(!r on tin; fuee of the earth. Kitty read h(!r downcast exjtression, and spoke from the d^ipths of Iter ail'cetionate heart. ' Look liere, i^irls, wliat's the use -^'f i^'oing on at ])oris? If she won't marr lie and there's an end on't And as to say in; there IS notinnji th for her to do with ns, that's all nonsense. Whatever we do, we must stick to'^^lher. None of us knows what we ean d(j until we are put to it.' ^liriam was silenced, but ,^ave her shoulders an exin-essive shru, ' Vcs, I am slnm^ oiiduuIi, ami lliuu-h \ ddii'L know nnich, 1 cjin ^^o into tlio kitclu'ii whilt; wi! aiv hurt; and learn what l<> do.' Miriam hiu^lu'd. The idea was too a'lsurd. 'I am otr to hcd,' she said, risiiiif with a vawii. ' Th(!re will he weeping and wailiiiL,' to-morrow when our neiLihhonr learns his fate. May I lie theic to see. It is a shame of }oii, Doris, to nij) his }oiiiil,' alVections in tin; hud.' * Xu worse than tho way you ticat (lahriel Windrid^^'c,' said Kitty daiin<,dy ; ' L don't know how you can he so horrid to him. I'm nearly in love; with him myself.' Miriam drew herself up. She was taken unawares, and the hot colour swept over neck and cheek jind hrow. 'Don't presume, child,' she said in her haughtiest manner, and swept out of the room. Josephine followed her almost immediately. Kitty slid down on the hearthrui:^, and leaning,' her folded arms on Doris's knee, look(;d up wonder- ingly into her face. * Doris, I believe you are a trump. Shall we ii w ■1 % pl^ t02 DOAWS CIIFA'iXE. M i; i slick to^'ctlicr, and Ik; clmins tlinni;^!! thick and tiiiii r Killy liad a fondness for ])f>yisli words and plirascs; sli(f was fnll of life, too, and loved a frolic as dearly as any scliool-boy. ])oris answered liy a <[uiidv sol»liin,L;' hreatli, and beiidin^^ down, rested her hot cheek oji Kitty's tan.i^ded curls. That moment was very sweet to hoth. S(»nieh()w they had never seeine(l to know each (»ther until then. * Kitty, 1 think this troultic; lias come to us to rouse us w\\ out (tf our sinful idleness, to show us tlu; reality of life; don't you think so?* * TerhajJS ; but I don't think we were very sinful,* said Kitty doubtfully. 'Our lives were very sim]»le and hannless, I am sure.* ' Yes ; but we did not know or care anything about others. It was a selfish ease, Kitty,' said Doris, with a kindling eye. 'Don't you think that after a time we must have become very narrow and miserable ? We had nothing to draw out our sympathies or good impulses. "We have our lives in our hands now, Kitty ; we may make them very noble if we try.' ' Teaching other people's children, and you scrubbing i i \ s/srE/^:s. lO 11)11 CnoKlli'J, « •ll^ MSktMl I\ ittv. wiili n u'riiiiiicc 'Ihuis, 1 do lliiiik you aii' ii I'uiiii;' ^'irl. ^'ou look as if yon jxtsilivcly exin'ctctl to ('iij(»y liciiii^ poor.' ' I C'limioL liclp lliiiikiii;4 it will lie a splriHlid tliiii'^ to ovi'icoiiu! olislach'S, Kitty ; to iiiaki; the most (tf cvi'iy opiMtituiiity ; to set up ii liinh ideal, and stiivi! to attain il. sau 1 1)« ins. lavni '}■ bar u SOlUtJ of tln' secret yeariuu.Ljs of her soul. Kitty Ifioked niystitied le did not in tlie lea.st understand Doris. She was intensely praetieal, Jind keenly alive to the homely dilails of existenee. A new <,'owu was a very important matter to Kitty Cheyne. ' I don't understand yon, Doris/ she said simply. 'I wonder if you are goini,' to be very clever. Terhiips you will outshine ns all yet. Isn't it odd ? 1 feel as if I knew ever so litlh^ about you, though vou are my sister. You were always so in uch with pupa.' Doris was silent, looking stedfastly into the dying fire. Her mind was a strange chaos, where many con- flicting feelings wrestled with each other. She stood ou the threshold of life, she had awakened suddenly to its reality and responsiiiility, she had already 104 no /as ciiia'm:. '(I 5,1 * !■ k niiulu fnit^ f>f tliL! iimst iiinioriiiiii dccisicuja in a wniiiMirs cxi^tmcc. She was no Inii^^'cr a j^irl, but a WdiiiJiii, willi a NVdik licfctrc. her. What woiiM it lie t As }'L't it was not vciy clearly (Icliiicil. in cnni- l)aiison with her, Kitty was to he iMivicd. Her . Put this dressin'f-iacket on, and take vour breakfast.* * Why should I luive it in bed, mother ? I am qnite well. I am ashamed of myself for having oversle[»t. Yon should have awakened me.' *I looked in before we sat down to brcrkfast, and yon wen^ sleeping '^o soundly 1 thought il a ]>ity to Si/.sr/:A\s, !0? nmso voii. roiiic, let me s(m» vom rninfoitnlilc, mul we, sliiill li;ivt' ;i cosy fliiit,* sjiiil Mis. ('lu'Viir, |>li;ciii;4 tli(! trny before hori-:, ;nnl sitting' dnwii on the front (tf tlu! lieil. Porift won(lerereheiisivu, huL not ill the, leac. very willing' to tcacli mo. It would bo a ^n-oat saving not to have a niaiil; — at least until we see how we are to bo. Dear nianinia, it is the only way in which I can help. If I may not, I shall 1)0 miserable.* ' "We shall see about it,' said Mrs. Chevnc. 'And llosio is to go to your Uncle ronfold. I have a kind letter from liim this morning. It will b(^ a change for her, but she is really very bravo about it, and we cannot afford to throw any chance away.' Doris winced. She felt that she had thrown away what her mother regarded as a very good chance. She could only wonder that she had escaped so easily. * Well, I shall go and leave you to dress,' said Mrs. Clieyne, rising. ' And I think you had better go out for a long walk this morning, so as to be out of the way when Mr. Hardwicke calls. He might insist upon seeing you, which would be very un- comfortable fo)' you, my dear.* 'Very well; thank you, dear mamma. I shall try to rejay you for all your kinchuiss to mo,' said Doris with unusual domonstrativoness, Mrs. Choyne 1 ; I ' \ I i 1 I If 1 ^1 ! < "ii loS DORIS CHFA'NE. I il ^i;i! ( .., kissed her, and left tlic room, satisfied tl at she had don(3 her (hity. At eleven o'clock the Squire of Hardwicke Manor again rode up the avenue to the Swallows' Nest. He looked happy and hopeful ; a penniless girl like Doris Cheyne could not afford to refuse him. He, hiid a blr^id smile for the stable-boy, who ran to hold his horse, and for the maid who ushered him into the library. He had never felt in better si)irits. Mrs. Cheyne came fluttering into the room im- mediately, greeting him with her sweetest smile. She had a difficult task 1 efore her, one which would require all her tact and charm of manner. * "Well, ma'am, what's the verdict ? ' asked Mr. Hardwicke at once, with a certain anxiety in his tone. He had half expected to see Doris instead of Ik-i mother, but Mrs. Cheyne's looks were reassuring. * Sit down, dear Mr. Hardwicke. Yes, thank you ; I s^'Jl take a chair, too. We must have a cosy chat over this. I have spoken to Doris.' * Ay, and what did she say ? ' Mrs. Cheyne laughed softly, and caressed the folds of iier dress with he' white luiyfers. S/Sr£A'S. 109 ' She is very young, Mr. Ilaidwicke, very young, and girlisli, and inexperienced. Your oHer ratlicr .slarLled her. It was so unexpeeled. 1 tliink, ])erliaj)S, we made a little mistake about it at the lieginning. You see, she had not the slightest idea lliat you had any regard fur her.' 'No, she eouldn't liave, for 1 didn't know it inysL'lf, ma'am, until I thought of you .ill going away,' said Mr. Hardwicke sentimentally. ' I began to feel (jueer when I thought of the little girl going of!" where I couldn't see her. Then, says I to myself, says I, What does tliis mean ? Tlien 1 answers. It means marriage ; and so it does, Mrs. Cheyne. Tell me exactly what she said.' ' I could scarcely do that I don't believe she said anything at all, now that I think of it. She cried a little, as all girls do over tlieir first ofler ; but she is very sensible of your generous kindness, Mr. Hardwicke.' * Maybe, but did she say she'd have me ? That's the main point, Mrs. Cheyne,' said the squire, bringing his clenched liand duwn on tlie table with u tliump. * She didn't say she wouldn't, bat '— ^ r i I i I I ii U '. -u no DORIS CIIEYNE, 'Couldn't I sec her this morning ? I don't believe in third parties, if you'll excuse nie sayinj,' it so plain. I'd be better satisfied to j^ct ay or uo from Miss Doris's own li^^s.* Mrs. Cheyne rather nervously clasped her hands on her knee, but still kept the same smiling, calm expression. * You are quite right, Mr. Hardvvicke ; but some things take a little management. I sent Doris out this morning, because I wanted to see you alone. Do you care very much about her ? Would it be a great disappointment to you not to win her ? ' * Yes, it would. I like her. She's none of your silly wenches. She has more than ordinary in her. She'll develop into a splendid woman. I like every- thing extra good, out of the common if ])cssil)le, and why not when I can pay for it ? ' said Mr. Hardwicke, unconscious that he was saying anything ofl'ensive or out of taste. * You were astonished, ma'am, when I told you which of your daughters I wanted ; but I know what I am doing ; trust Josiah Hardwicke for that. Miss Miriam's a beautiful creature, I don't deny, but she won't last. "When Miss Doris has seen a bit of the worlds and has ten years more on her SISTERS, 1 II lio.'ul, it won't be easy to find her e(|'.al ; mark my words.' ' Then, Mr. Hardwi^ke, if yon are anxions to marry her, yon mnst try first of all to win her atleetions. It may take a little time, for Doris is a stran lo the house. JJe kind, but iiol specially attentive to ])oris. AVhen you *fet a chance, s])eak synipatlietically to hi-r ; just now she has only one idea, that is, her father.' Here i\Irs. (dn'ynt; \vij)i'!llt'iiM;4' now ihioii^^h \\\v. fully of aiiuthur.' Sli(3 rcl'i'irctl lo her father, and Iht tone was wry hitter. (Jahriel ^Vin(h•id^f(! did n(»t like it. lit was passional ely in love with Miriam Cheyne. Imt some- times a tone; of her vuiee, u luuk, a gesture, jarred u])on his liner inslinets. ' I have never seen you since all this trouhle came,' he said gently. * Yuu know how I sym[>athize with you all.' 'Don't pily us, if you j)lease,' said IMiss Cheyne coldly. * We get too nuich of that. It is cheap, and is supposed to he kind. It is not, however • to me it is the chief sting of our poverty.' Her clieek grew red, her perfect lips compressed, slie struck the ground with the ehony walking-stick in her hand. * I beg your pardon, Miss Cheyne. I was sincere in what I said,' said Gabriel Windridge humbly, for her beauty mastered him. He could have knelt and worshipped her at that moment. •I believe you. Good afternoon. Well, if you choose to add to your fatigue by climbinii' the hill ) I A WORLDLY WOMAN. i\-j witli IDC, ymi limy,' slic siiid l>;iiil('iiiij4ly. yt-l secretly ii<»t ill-[>lciisctl. She lil\(Ml to sc«! the adiUMlion in tlie surj^'con's fine eyes; it iniule lier i>ntU(l heart beat a little faster. The col), yeariiiiit,' for the gross deliuhls i-f cnrn and hay, made a show of resistance at the turn n|" the road, hut his master's tirni hand on the hridle calmed him, and he followed dejectedly and with reluctant stei). 'I am at least thankful that you arc to Ik; no farther away than Keswick,' Windrid^^c; said. 'May I call when I am in the town ? ' * Miimma no doubt will be pleased to see you,' said Miriam evasively. *Will yoit be glad to see me, Miss Cheyne ?' *\Vhy should I be specially glad?' she asked, with her eyes dowu-bent, and with an extpiisite colour in her check. ' There is no reason why you should be, only you know that if I conu.' at all it will be to see yL'en rulllcd liy any passing Ic'IkUtiicss, she had mastered it at oiict*. ' 1 must speak, thouj^di I am mad, I Ix'licve, to presume,' cried \Vin(hid^e in impassioned tones. ' Miriam, I love you. AVill you let me work for you ? "Will you <,dvc me the ri<,'ht to take you from the toil which is not for such as you? If you only give nic OIK! Word of hope, it will make a man of me. For your sake I i>lndl succeed.* lioth stood still, and the coh took advantage of the pause to munch a mouthful of gi'een from the slojnng hank. ^liriam was pale, for she was making an effort. Her iveart pleaded for Galniel Windridge. He was such an one as readily wins a woman's love and trust, heing in himself so true. * What is the use of heing so foolish ? ' she asked, quite calmly. * We are both as poor as church mice. We can be friendly, and condole with each other ; don't you think that is the wiser way ? * Windridge bit his lip. It was a poor answer to his impassioned pleading. * 1 love you, Miriam,' he A WORLDLY WOMAN IIQ ropoatod, and trio.ii to take her hand, but she (hew hack. 'Or you think you do; it is the same thin;^/ she saifl cahnly, as h(>fore. * Poor people cannot aflord such u hixurv. Thcv have to devote their whole ener^'ics towards earnin;^' the bread they must eat. It is only the rich who can aflord such a pleasant pastime.' Her cold, false reasoning repelled Windridt^'e ; it chilled his enthusiasm, yet he loved her well ; he had never seen one so beautiful as she looked then ; distant, haughty, unapproachable as a queen. * I only asked a word of hope, nothing more, until I had something substantial to ofler you. If I were a rich man, could you care for me, Miriam ? * * What is the use of assuming anything ? You are not rich, nor am I. Let us be friends.' * But I am young. I have life before me,' said Windridge eagerly, his heart's desire urging him to plead with yet greater earnestness. * For your sake I could dare anything, and win anything.* ' The days of chivalry and doughty deeds are past,' said Miriam Cheyne, with a slight cold smile. * It is i nh \\ \\v li^ii a I % 1 ivtiiki 1 1 i( i ^ W. !li iiil! 1 20 DORIS CIIEYNE. easy to talk. We have to walk tlic beaten tracks now, and they are not [)avcd with gold.' ' liut if T work hard and obtain a good position, may I come, Miriam ? ' * If that hapi)y day ever conies, we can discuss the matter again,' she said quietly. * Good-bye, Dr. Windridge.' He longed to clasp the fjueenly figure in his arms, to whisper words of passionate endearment, of gi ititude, even for such a slender thread of hope. But he did not dare. They parted with an ordinary hand-clasp, and went their separate ways. When Miriam Cheyne was left alone un the quiet road, she stood still a moment, and a shiver ran through her frame. Her lip quivered, and one bitter tear trembled for a moment on her eyelash. It was at once dashed aside, and with it the momentary weakness which had crept over her. Almost immediately she was herself again. And thus Miriam Cheyne put away out of her life for ever what might liave made her a happier and better woman. Her very selfishness was the instrument with whicli she bitterly punLslied herself. She was not capable of that dee]), earnest love which glorifies // WORLDLY WOMAN, 121 hardship and solf-saci'itico, Inil sucli slii^hl art'eclioii as she possessed was j^iven to Gabriel Windrid^ue. She had had many aihnirers, but few lovers ; perhaps he was I lie first. Xo quality in a man is so ai)preciated by a woman Jis manliness. A brave, true, independent spirit wins ri!L;;u(l very quiekly in the feminint- heart. (labriel "Windridge was manly, and all women liked him. We have seen how Doris laid her heart bare befitre him; he eould have reeeived no higher tribute to his worthiness, because Doris revealed herstdf to very few. His manliness, then, had won Miriam Clieyne's respect and esteem, but no idea of marriage with him ever occurred to her. Even had he been Dr. Prescott's successor, instead of his assistant, she would probably have refused to share his lot. ]\Iiriam had ambitions. How high they soared may be left to the imagination. Some- times she saw herself witli a coronet on her brow, receiving the homage of the noblest in the land, but as vet the earl had not come riding l)y. Xow he was farther oil' than ever; a poor schoolmistress would have but sniidl chance of meeting those of higli degree, But thouuh iiovertv, with all its l)itter w I 'I i 1! "I ■ill i Pi' i;f II |; ' : 1 1 1 tttikit i\ i T 2 2 DORIS CHEYNE. attributes and nnno, of its sweets, had ovfMtakoii ]\ririam in tlie lievdav of her dreamina', her pride and ambition had suffered no abatement. Perhaps they were rather enhanced and stren^tliened. She told herself sometimes she would defy destiny, and rise in spite of fate. JMiriam believed in chanec^ and altliough she had been reared in a churcli-uoim,' fanulv, reli'don was a sound without meaninLj to her. She had a vague belief, it is true, in an overniling power of some sort, but she knew or cared nothing for that blessed Prov-idence witliout whose guiding hand we were indeed lost on tliis turbulent sea of life. Self was in the meantime the idol of ^liriani Cheyne. The arrangements about the transfer of the school at Keswick had been satisfactorily concluded ; 'Mr. Hardwicke had paid tlie sum required for the good- will, and had also taken the furniture at a valuation. Only ]\Iiriam knew this ; Doris was not practical enough yet even to wonder where the money had come from. She was busy and happy just then, spending the best part of the day in llie kitclion, applying herself with all her might to the ac([uiring of houseliold knowledge. Domestic economy was at ■( , A WORLDLY WOMAN. 123 that tiiTiP. in Doris's estimation the only sciencf. worth stiidyinf:;. They let her alone, and when Mr. Hardwicke learned how she was occupying herself, he was profoundly impressed. His admiration for her increased, and being in London one day he brought back with him a very large folio on domestic nianaf ment, and a cookery - book containing five thousand recipes. These he sent over by his groom with a very kind note, worded in a friendly, almost fatherly tone, begging her acceptance, and hoping she would find them useful. Doris, believing that the man understood that a certain vexed question was finally settled, was largely delighted over her gifts, and almost touched by his kindness. She began to think that she must have misjudged him, for he had been really very neighbourly and kind, and had not allowed her refusal to make the slightest difference. Mrs. Cheyne, narrowly watching Doris, saw that the gift, absurd in itself, was well received, and she inwardly congratulated herself. A suite of rooms at Hardwicke Manor might yet be hers. Mr, Hardwicke had called several times at the Swallows' Nest, and had seen Doris, but never alone. Mrs. Cheyne manoeuvred to effect this, dreading lest rrl' I , : j 'I ; t 1 ; \ , I' ; ■tv II t : p»: ^i ll "^' iiiiii:* Mi !!i::!!! 124 DORIS CJIEYNE, y[x. nar(l\vick(\ in his anxiety, minlit let fall some chance word at whicli Doris nii'^lit take alarm. Prudence and caution must be observed if the sclieme were to succeed. Doris, quite unconscious of all tliis by-play, was happy because slie was busy, and had lier thnu<>lils fullv occui)ied. What thouuli puddings and pies, sweei»inu,-, dusting, mending, and darninLj were the l)urden of tiiese tliouG;lits ? She was makiuLi; a woman of herself. In these advanced days there is a disposition among young women to ignore the existence of such homely occupations, quite forgetting that to be a good housewife and homekeeper is to fulfil the iirst and chief destiny of womankind. At the very moment when Miriam was talking with Gabriel Windridge on Lhe road, Doris was talkino- to Mr. Hardwicke in the drawint,^- room, ]\Irs. Chevne and the other three sii'ls hiid driven to Windermere to get some additions to Eosie's wardrobe before she should go to her uncle in London. When the maid-servant brouoht Doris Mr. Hard- wicke's card, she went up-st.airs without the slightest hesitation. His ofier of marriage and its attendant miseries (for Doris bad been very miserable at tliat A WORLDLY WOMAN. 125 timo) sooiiicd like ii drcMiii to licr now, niid slic was L;latl tliat it slioiild 1h' so. 'J'licic wcic no pleasant iiu'Uiuries coniiectt'd willi t'lKtsc days, (jxcept perhaps the walk throuj^h the rain with Ciahriel AVindridge. ])()ris was conscious of a lin^crin,^' sweetness in her heart over that episode ; she thought of it sometimes, and of his ]iel}»fiil words when she was tired, and they rested her — a daiii^'erous sign in a young girl, hut J)oris knew nothing ahout signs. 'And how are you, my dear?' asked Mr. Hard- wicke, beaming all over as he clasped Doris's hot h;nid in his. She had been trying experiments in the oven all the morning, and there were several suggestive powderings of Hour on her hair. Otherwise she was neat and dainty enough in her appearance. * I am quite vrell, thank you,' Doris answered, releasing her hand quickly. ' There is no one at home but me. Mannna and the girls, all but Miriam, are at Windermere. I do not know where ]\liriam is.' Mr. Hardwicke grinned. ' She's standing on the road with her sweetheart, Miss Doris. I saw them as 1 rode in at the gate, but they didn't see me.' \\\': i ■ ' f f 1 \ i \\.\ i,;i ^ ',\:'\ n yi; i " :■]] -1 ,mmi A it 1 n M 4 . 1 i 1 ,1,11 1 i.,H 126 DO/^AS CIIEYNE. Doris starod. ' You don't know what 1 mean, eh ? * said Mr. Hardwicke heartily. ' She was speaking to Wind- ridge, and they were mighty earnest-like. Shouldn't wonder if that was a match.' Doris had received another shock. She had never associated Windridge with Miriam, they seemed to be the antipodes of each other. * Oh, I don't think so, Mr. Hardwicke,* was all she said, and immediately chaiiged the subject by thanking him for the books he had sent. * Don't mention it, it's nothing. I'd do far more if you'd let me,' he said fussily. 'When I heard you were going in for housekeeping, I thought I'd buy something to show you I approved or it. I bet now you'd rather have these two books than a diamond necklace.* Doris laughed. * What should I do with a diamond necklace, Mr. Hardwicke '{ Ah, there is Miriam coming up the avenue ! How pale she looks ! It is surely cold out of doors this morning ? ' ' Not particularly. Perhaps the surgeon and she have been falling out, tlien they'll be Cold enough/ il: A WORLDLY WOMAN, 127 vou kiKnv,' said Mr. llardwicke factitiously ; luit l)oiis did not see the point of his remark. Sht- was mlher ghid to hear ^liriani enter the house, somehow she did not feel quite comfortable with Mr. llai'd- wicke. For that she blamed herself, believing him only neighbourly and kind. xVs for Mr. llardwicke, he was quite pleased at llie few words he had had with Doris. He told himself that there was a distinct im[)rovement in her manner towards him. Mrs. Cheyne was a wise woman. Having followed her advice, he was un- doubtedly ' getting on.' Il 1' ! : ■ il I I I 6 : 4 ; '< nf' '■ -tu CHAPTER VITI. ^1! Il'lili 1 i;.i v.' FACING THE FUTURE. There's life aloiio in duty done, And rest aluno in striving.' "Whittier. UK house presented a cold, desolate appear- ance when Doris slipped softly down-stairs shortly after six o'clock on the mornin^^f of the twenty-fourth of December. The carpets were lifted, and lying rolled up on the floors ; the furniture stood about in confusion, with small numbered tickets attached to each article. There was to be an auction sale at the Swallows' Nest on the twenty-eighth for behoof of the creditors of Robert Cheyne. The servants had all left the house, and the inmates were now dependent for their comforts upon Doris's slender knowledge of domestic affairs. She .sccni d ut home in her work; liowever^ iilil !i;!!ii i \ FACING THE FUTURE. 1 29 for it took her only a few minutes to lii^'lil tlie kitchen fire and set on tlie kettle. Tlicu she proceeded to make the breakfast parlour conifortnMe liefore the others should come d(»\vn-slairs. ])y seven (j'clock a cheerful tire was burnin«^ merrily there, the breakfast laid, and Doris herself seated at the table swallowing a hasty meal. She had a gi"eat (leal before her that day, and in comparison with the others was to be envied. She had really no time to fret over the hardships of her lot. But for Doris, I do not know what would have become of these women at that time. She thouuht of everything, and not only thought, but acted ; and all so quietly and without fuss, that they had no idea of the magnitude of her work. They had so long lived perfectly idle and purposeless lives, that it seemed impossible for them to rouse themselves even when necessity seemed to demand it. Kitty certainly took spasmodic fits of helping Doris with packing and other domestic affairs, but she was more of a hindrance than anything else. I caimot quite tell you what a wonderful development liud taken place in Doris during the short space of a month. Instead of a dreamer, she became a 1^ • I : :l v\ ! t : ■ I 1 ^i 1 \\ . I30 DORIS CJIEYNE, in ti lUt worker ; and thoiiifli tlie work was commonplace, and even menial, she did it with all licr niit^ht, and found pleasure in it. All her powers were called into action, she had to think and plan and act for them all, a glorious and necessary thing for Doris just then. Nothing could have been more opportune or useful for her. She slipped very noiselessl} about the house, being particularly anxious that none of them should be awakened. After taking her breakfast slie scribbled a short note, which she left on her iQother's plate. It simply said she had gone away to catch the early coach in order to have a lire and some comfort in the new house before they should arrive in the afternoon. Doris had also another errand, but of that she said nothing. She did not take long to make her toilet, and having secured the keys of the Keswick house, she took one hurried look round the familiar home and stole out of doors, just as Kitty had sleepily suggested to Josephine that it might be time for them to get up. The day wais just breaking when Doris stei)ped out to the gravelled sweep before the house, and the air was bitterly cold and keen. A slight tliglit lAC/NG THE FUTURE. i\\ shower of snow luul falloii diiriiiLf the Tn\L;■l»^ iJiid liiy like manna on tlie _L,n-oun(l, The fmst nmis intense, tlie sky clear, Innd, and cold ; it was a liiif winter niorninn. Doris liad in oni; hand u small baj;, in the other a cross of everurccn and moss she had woven toj^elher in her own room before she; slept. It wanted a few Christmas roses to brighten it, so iJoris stole round to tlie j^arden, liiithercd a bunch, and fastened them like slais among the green. As she did so, tears droj)|)ed u])on hci- hands ; she felt keenly this ])arting from the home which was hallowed and endeared by memorit's of a father's love. Kobert Cheyne might have erred in his foolish pursuit of gain, but the memories he had left to his chlhlren were wholly worthy. He had been the best of fathers, a good man and true in his own home, and that is nnich. Doris revered his memory with a passionate and yearning love. As she stole along the avenue, the robins hopped and chirped about her feet, as if saucily inquiring why she was so early abroad. She smiled when she noticed them, their greeting was kindly, and ii;ave her better heart. She turned her head just as the house was receiling from view, and took a i 'r i 11 I . M , i \4 I SI. |i 'i' [if V:^ : 132 DORIS cukyne. loiii,', loiiL^' look, as if to ])lioto;^MM])li it on her iiicinoiy. Tlicii hor lips iiiovlmI, |ktI»!ii»s in prayer, and slio hnrried on her way. The li^^ht <^'rew broader as sh;; walked, and her heart t;rew li^ditor loo. She had left the old h(!hind ; th(i new, all untried, lay hefore her, demanding- all her thought and energy. J^oris was not one to hrood on the })ast, to draw bitter eoniparisctns betwixt ' then and now.' She had that woiidi^rful and blessed i)ower of a('ce})tiiig at once the inevitable, of adapting herself to whatever ciicumstanees might surround her. Slie would make the best of everything; and is not that the true secret of happiness and content- ment in this life ? Doris only met one man on the Kjad between IJydal and (Jrasmere — one of those melancholy wanderers who live in the open air, and who have no habitation upon the face of the earth. She bade him a pleasant good-morning, and seeing his need, gave him a copper, for which he seemed grateful. Seeing the lady alone on the unfrequented way, he had intended to make good his opportunity, and demand substantial help. But her pleasant word disarmed him, he took the copper meekly, FACING 77/ E FUTURE, ^11 and, with a toucli of his raj^^'ed cap, movpd on. SeL'inj^ his ahjcct condition, Doris thou^^ht of liur own mercies, and was j^rateful. So the wandrnT, all unconscious, had had his inlluence on the girl's heart and life. Grasniere seemed still asleep when she enteriMl it ; at least there was no one to be seen out of doors. Nothing could be more deserted and melan- choly than Grasniere on a winter morning. TIk^h; is nothing to remind one of the pleasant stir and bustle that characterize it during the season. The hotels are empty, the boarding - houses closed, it seems almost like a village of the dead. No one observed Doris slip into the churchyard, and she was glad of it. She did not wish to speak to any one, or to answer the inevitable questions whicli an acquaintance would be sure to ask She had only come to take a last look at her father's grave, not knowing when she might stand beside it again. Certainly it was not a long way to Keswick, but she expected to be closely occupied. Besides, it was not a great satisfaction to Doris to stand by that green mound. She didn't feel as if anything she loved were there. Sometimes she would uplift 6 !■ t ;|iiiH i * u I lii 31': 3'! t « I' t ii'; ijii ll: lit 'i III •i ' V. I I ! 134 DORIS CHEYNE. lier eyes in dumb entreaty to the skies as if seeking to penetrate its mystery, and find tlie great loving lieart from wliich she was parted for a httle while. Doris's grief was many-sided, it had many strange aspects to lierself, but she was coming • gradujdiy out of the deeps, she was within toucli of the idmighty hand of God. He was leading her by ways she knew not, very near to Himself. By taking tlie duty lying nearest to her, she had received a blessing which would be multiplied as the days went by. If only we could always do as Doris did, we should be saved many perplexities. Doris laid her cross above the now withered wreaths on the grave, and after touching the turf with a very tender hand, turned away. She did not care to stand there this morning ; she felt the upheaving of regrets which could avail nothing except to dishearten and pain her. She took a walk round clie churchyard, reading a :iame here and another there, each one more familiar than the last, and then passed out of the gates. She would walk along the Keswick Road, she thought, until the coach should overtake her. The sun had now risen, and the effect on the FACING THE FU7URE. 135 wliitened landscape was indt'scribably beautiful. Doris, with her keen eye for nature's lovely pictures, feasted her eyes upon it all, and feeling the delicious morning air about her, was hopeful and happy. This hour of solitude was preparing her, as nothing else could have done, for the trying duties of the (lay. As she was leisurely beginning the ascent of Dunmail IJaise she heard the horn blowing in (Irasrnere, indicating that ♦^he coach had entered the village. Just then a horse and rider, whom Doris knew very well, appeared on the crest of the hill, and it seemed to Doris that her only unfulfilled wish was gratified. She had earnestly wished a word with Gabriel Windridge before she left the old home and its associations behind. The surgeon had made the first call on his round, though it was only half-past nine. He had a long day before him, the severity of the weather having considerably added to the number of his patients. Life had not seemed very bright of late to Gabriel Windridge. Dr. Presco.t was more trvin" than ever, and the assistant was tired of his lot. Yet how could he better it ? He had not a penny in the world, and I! t ^W ; t II \ 1 iii ;:i , Wl Miiii'i lli III ■i I, : .f ;! li ii'':! iifi i j.l!' ijij.yi 136 DORJS CnEYNE. knew nobody who would advance the money to buy a practice. Dr. l^rescott was always talkin;^ of retiring, and had even hinted that Windridge should have his practice on easy terms. But as yet there liad been no outcome of that half-promise, and Windridge was growing weary with hope deferred. He had been day - dreaming in a melancholy fashion' about a grand future in which Miriam Cheyne was the central figure, when suddenly he was surprised by the vision of her sister Doris riglit before him on the road. He managed to lift his hat in response to her pleasant good-morning, and as she stood still he drew rein, and bent down from the saddle to sh.tke hands with her. * Good-morning, Miss Doris ; you are always appearing at the most unlikely times and places,' he said comically. ' May I ask without presumption what you are doing so far from home, so early in the day ? ' ' I am waiting for the coach to overtake me. It will be here presently. I caught a glimpse of the driver's red coat a minute a^o.' * Oh ! are Mrs. Cheyne and the young ladies in it ? ' he asked, with unmistakable eagerness. ( i FACJNG THE FUTURE. 137 * Xo ; I have stolon a march upon tliom. T took French leave of the Nest this morning, so that 1 iiiight make the new place home - like for them before they come.' Gabriel Windridge looked down into the girl's i-rave, earnest face with somethin'^ akin to tender- ness in his eyes. Her thoughtfnlness touc]ied him, it exhibited a spirit so sweet and unselfish that, unconsciously, he felt himself rebuked. PIov/ bravely tliis young girl had taken up her cross, how bright and earnest and uncomplaining in her accrT)tance of changed circumstances and irksome i- o duties ' Doris was quite unconscious tliat she had read Gabriel Windrid<4e a lesson that morninLj. ' You are very good,' he said quietly. * Y(ju remind rie very much of your father. lie was always thinking of others, just as you are.* Doris's face flushed, and her eyes shone. She wished no higher tribute than to be like him, for to her he had been wholly noble. ' How are you ? ' she asked after a little silence. ' Why do you come to see us so seldom ? ' It was his turn to redden now ; but he made no answer. He did not wish to say anything about . ' t : ; \ i L ■\ i lit' 138 DORIS CHEYNE. Mi. ' ■ ! L. 'G^B ■ 1 ' ■! A'' ■ ■ ii' i H^ 1 i JH 1 11 1 1 1 1 1 ',; ■ ' tii ^ 1 j 1 1 1 ; ! I ': 1 1 ''V} 1 \ : ,;J "11 ■'! ( "■ 1 ii i! i Miriam, and he would not tell a petty falsehood, and say his many duties prevented him. * I am quite well in health, thanks ; bui. in spirits out of tune. I fear i am a grumbler. Miss Doris.' ' Oh no, you are not that ! You, who do so much good, could have no pretence for grumbling.' ' I do good ? In what way ? I have just been telling myself this very morning that I am a cumberer of the ground.' * There you are wrong. Why, your whole time is spent in doing good. I do think. Dr. Wind- ridge, that your profession is the noblest in the world,' said Doris in her earnest fashion. Wind- ridge liked to see the light kindle in her fine eyes. It gave expression, beauty even, to her face. He no longer thought her plain. His admiration for the fine spirit of her womanhood was extending to her personal appearance. Love beautifies and in- vests its object with a thousand nameless graces unrevealed to the indifferent eye. Windridge was not, of course, in love with DoiIs, being enchained by her sister. But he knew that he enjoyed talking to her, that he felt at ease and even happy in her presence; sometimes when any FACING THE FUTURE. 139 new tlionght struck him, or any special experience happened to him in his profession, he caught himself wondering what view she would take of it. He would have made a friend and confidante of her, had opportunity been g'ven. * I am coming to see you at Keswick, Miss Doris,' he said quickly, for the coach was in sight. * I want a very long talk with you.' * Do come. I shall be pleased,' Doris answered sincerely. 'I want to relieve my mind. Would you let me abuse old Prescott to you for five minutes or so, just to let off the steam ? ' he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. ' Perhaps I should, if I were allowed the privilege of stopping you when I thought you had said enough.' ' All right. I'll gather up until I can't hold out any longer ; then I'll ride poor Jack like a fury over Dunmail Paise to you,' said Windridge. In a moment, however, the laughter died out of his eyes, and he again stooped from his saddle. * Miss Doris, how did it end — what you spoke to me about ? You look so happy, I think it must be all right.' I 'I I \ I'll ! It . i' t 140 DORIS CIIEYNE. t. ik i I V,l ' It is all nL;lit,' said Doris, witli a nod. ' It was you who helpijd me to niidv'j up my uiiud/ 'There was no uu})leasantuess over it, I hope?' * None, lie was very goud about it,' Doris answered, with a slight tinge of colour. * They were all very good. Of course it was a disappointment. I am trvin^ to be as useful as I can. It is wonderful, when one is in real earnest, what ways are opened up. I think I have been a comfort just now. I have tried to think of all that had to be done, and to do it.' ' I believe you. God bless you ! We are friends, aren't we ? ' * Yes, always.' Their hands met. Had not the coach been so near, Gabriel Windridge would have kissed that womanly hand, so sincere and true was his admira- tion for Doris Ciicyne. A few minutes more and Doris was inside the lund.)ering veiiicle, and Wind- ridge was cantering towards Grasmere, happier and better for his five minutes' chat with Doris Cheyne. It was about noon wlien ])oris turned the key in the door of the new house in Keswick. Slie could not repress a sigh as she entered the little narrow '( 1 It was eV iwercd, 1 verv I am iderful, opuiied ow. T ne, ami friemls, )eon so d that idiuira- )re and Wind- lier am I rne. ley key 111 uld le CO narrow 141 ^ H t- " I I •! 1, 't (I j' i' : j! i 1 ■ i 'S ;^ i;: ;; 1 if '• , H i ■ '11 'M\ ii ;;i| Mr 1 If i'i i ' 111 : '^ 'IlI i FACING THE FUTURE. M3 gateway and wulkiid up the short, Ihigged passage to the door. It was a S(jlid, square, two-storeyed liouse, uniform with the rest in the street, distinguished, perhaps, by the general dinginess of its aspect. The little plots on eitlier side of the door were intersected by various narrow walks, laid witli white pebble stones ; but there was not a green thing to be seen. Doris mentally resolved that she should have all these deformities removed, and grass substituted. It would at least not be so trying to the eyes. It was a commodious house, but to Doris it seemed cramped. The front windows commanded oiilv a view of the street, but those at the back overlooked a prospect which far surpassed anything to be seen from the windows at the Nest ; Derwent- water, with its wildly-beautiful shores, its encircling mountains casting their deep shadows on its breast ; Lassenthwaite, reflecting the graceful j)eak of Skiddaw ; the rugged crests of the Borrodale Hills — all these delimited the eves of Doris. Her spirits rose. She looked forward to many happy liours spent in exploring the beauties ut the iitiglibourhood. She could even think well of the ti !; t * ! ! II 144 DORIS CIIEYNE. i! ■,i II*' i ., 1 j!: ■ ii It l| 1 1 1 Ii 1 ■ 1 i '« ■ ■■i! jiiillil (liiiLcy liouso, bccauso of the prosjKict its iippci' windows {'oiiiiimiHled. Sho sul, to work with a will, for slu! had iimcli to accomplish hcfor(3 they shoidd arrive in I Ik; afternoon. After consulting with her Uncle Penfold, Doris had managed to smuggle certain articles away from the Xest ; secretly, because slie wished to give her mother a pleasant surprise. The things were not of much value in themselves — an old-fashioned, chintz-covered lounging-chair, a little Japanese work and tea table, a few i)ictures, and little ornaments Mrs. Cheyne had specially liked. These were all, but when they were arranged they gave the l)are, forinal-lookino- room a comfortable and home-like appearance which delighted Doris. When she had hung up warm, crimson curtains at the window and lighted the fire, nothing could have looked more inviting. Then there was a lovely peep at Derwentwater from the window, with which Doris hoped her mother would be charmed. When the room was in readiness, she shut the door and went to see what could be done in other ])arts of the house. It looked very dreary, and cold, and strange. She only lookeil into the two liu iiuch lliu [if old, awav give were ioiicd, work ,ments re all, i bare, le-likc irtaius could was a with armed. Lit the other d cold, vo l'i:-i FACING THE FUTURE M5 cliiss-rooiii'^, with their l»ar(' llom-s and rows of forms, and n^lired with a sluvcr. Xi I, ! \ I i ■l\ I I o DORTS CIIEYNE, -m ii: L i .'v '■' 1 I^^B m I !hHHqm ' i 1 .: ; 1 J 1 < n 1 l.| Ihi ' i' 1 !' I ■ m; ' If. ! 1 1 I'iij'i, I I J •' ' 1,-. ; ' ii' 1 J i* ■! 1 "■' i 1 ■- I ■j 1 . IW' 1 ■■: ; . 4 j ^^il III • •:)\il ' ^!l' P \ iibH^^h ■ ,,1 •Jif 'fll^^^^^^H ! . '.; 1\ ■ 'h^^^^^H 1 - '■^^^^^^^1 : y ' ' '":l ?i . I^B . 1 V- ^H^^^^^B ||^|H ■ \l\ Ji ■1 m ' ti * VrmVo iinproviiKj;, cMtheriii'^ wit with vour years,' said the old iiinii, iioddini^'. ' If these are your sentiments, what's tlie use of runnin!:j after the Q-irl ? It won't ]iel[* you to be more contented, especially if you find lier down-hearted.' AVindrid<^e smiled. He could not fancy ^Miriam down-hearted. She had pride enough to make a good and brave appearance before the world whatever heart-sickness and liumiliation she might privately endure. He had heard various rumours about the Cheyiics lately, all in tlie same tone. Evidently their venture was not going to succeed, whatever might be the cause. He had not been in Keswick since the beuinning of summer ; he did not feel it to be a good tiling for him to see ^Hriani very often. Dr. Prcscott let him oil' without any more personal remarks, but sat thinkiug of him long after he had heard the click of the hoofs die away in the distance. Had AVindridge been apprised of the nature of these thoughts, he would have been considerably astonished. The young surgeon was curious about Hardwieke Manor, which he had never seen except from a distance. It stood on the slope of a richly-wooded ! i PERPLEXITIES. i=;i knoll, pbont two miles north from Grasnicrc, and was approached by a long avenue leading through magnifi- cent old trees which made the honour and glory of the place. Upthwaite Hall had been the original name, and it had pertained to a noble family who had been compelled through reverses of fortune to sell the unentailed portion of their heritage. Mr. Hardwicke had rechi'istened it and otherwise altered it to please himself. The mansion was a fine solid pile of the Tudor period, and had a massive, imposing appearance when suddenly revealed to the gaze of the approaching visitor. Mr. Hardwicke kept up great style at the Manor. A footman in sober brown livery admitted the surgeon, and loading him through the fine old hall, ushered him into the library, pompously announcing him by name at the door. The sombre room was only dimly lighted by one hanj]jinfj lifrht above the mantel, but a cheerful fire was burning in the quaint brass grate, and before it sat the squire attired in a dressing - gown and smoking-cap of very large pattern and brilliant hue. * Ah, Wixidridge, it's you ! Good evening ; glad to see you. Brindle, some sherry and biscuits hen^' he called })eremptorily after the retreating footman. 1; \ i I I ' 1 1 ; ,1 •I ■ft 152 DORIS CHEYNE. ;.,y ^ t * You don't take anything' ? Oh, nonsense ! A bot ':; of claret, Brindie ! You know what sort. Sit down, sit down, Doctor, very glad to see you.' The squire's greeting was hearty to effusiveness ; it astonished the surgeon not a little. He sat down in a luxurious velvet-covered easy- chair, privately wondering what could be the matter with the squire. His eye was clear, his face as ruddy and well-favoured as usual. * Want to know what you're sent for, eh ? ' asked Mr. Hardwicke presently. ' I'm a little out of sorts. Haven't been well all summer. I consulted Prescott some months ago, and he advised me to drink port. Stuff and nonsense ! Port don't suit my stomach, never did. Fact is, I think Prescott's rather anti- quated, and I hear so much of your cleverness that I wanted to consult you.' The surgeon proceeded to ask Mr. Hardw^ickc several questions regarding his state of health, and assured him there was nothing seriously wrong. When the professional talk was at an end, Mr. Hardwicke wheeled round liis cluxir to the table, and prepared for a friendly cliat. * Come, Dr. Wintlridgt, make }'ourself at home. fi'' i ?. PERPLEXITIES. 153 Xo time to stay ? Oh, nonsense ! ' lie said heartily. ' You might take pity on a fellow who is lonely enougli here. Have you any more patients to see to-night ? ' ' No urgent case,' Windridge answered. ' Any particular engagement ? * ' No.' ' Then here you stay,' said the squire. * Try the claret ; and how :s the world using you ? ' Windridge could not understand the squire's affability and heartiness. He had known him slightly since the first time of his coming to Grasmere, and had not been accustomed to receive any special courtesy at his hands. We may know the secret. Doris Cheyne had let fall a chance word one evening when Mr. Hardwicke had been spending an hour at Sunbury Villa, which had made him resolve to know more of young Windridge. * No word of Prescott retiring in your favour yet,eh ?' * I do not think he has any present intention of it,' Windridge answered guardedly. He knew Mr. Hardwicke's gossiping tongue, and did not intend to give him anything to lay to his charge. * It isn't easy to convince old boy^ that they are behind the age,' said Mr. Hardwicke. * But it's in I \ i 1 I . ' f- 4 I I. I M [ 4 . m ! 1 il 11 il: s!5 'I' H i 1. . ■?! 154 DOR IS CllFAWE. everybody's nioutli tliut ho ou^ujlit to give way to yuu. Has he promised to ii^ive you tlie practice ? ' WindridL,ni coloured sli,L,ditly, resenting this question- ing on matters purely personal. *We have never talked it over definitely, Mr. Hardwicke, Imt I believe I am right in thinking Dr. Trescott would not ])ut the practice past me. I do not trouble myself about it,' he answered quietly. He did not know very well how to speak, and it was impossible altogether to evade the questions. Mr. Hardwicke nodded his head two or three times in a slow, knowing fashion. ' Quite so ; but unless you have it in black and white you're not safe, sir,' he said, ' AVhile you are w^orking on and wearing yourself out for him, he may quietly sell the thing to some one else. He's rather a near old chap, I'm told, and there's no gratitude under the suii.' * If you will excuse me, Mr. Hardwicke, I would much rather not discuss my employer and his affairs. I have no right to do so, even if I had a desire, which I have not,' said Windridge in his plain, straightf or wa rd wa v. *I admire you for that, but this is in confidence, and in a purely friendly spirit,' said Mr. Hardwiclce. pERrr.EyiTir.s. ^ss 'So ]»l(';iso let inii ask anoLlior ijiiestion. Has it ii(3ver occurred to you to bc^iu on your own account in Grasniere ? You know well enough the whole concern is yours if you like.' Again Windridgo reddened. * I can witli truth say no sudi idea has ever occurred to me, j\Ir. Hardwicke,' he answered stiflly. ' White Dr. Trescott lives, I shall never practise in opposition in Grasniere.' 'Why not ? How has he treated you ? Isn't he tlie very man who would take a mean advantage ? ?)('sides, there would be nothing mean in what you would do. It is fair enough.' * I don't see it in that liglit, sir. As Dr. Pres- cott's assistant, I have won, perhaps, the confidence of the people. It would certainly be a mean and dishonourable thing to use the advantages he had L^dven me for my ow^n ends. I would rather not talk of this, if you please, ]\Ir. Hardwicke.' Mr. Hardwicke drew his chair closer ^o that of the surgeon, and patted his knee as if to enforce his attention. He had something to say, and would say it, in spite of AVindridg:i's protest. 'Dr. AYindridge, I am speaking to you as a (i ! n 1 1 ! \ w T5^^ DORIS CHEYNE. w^-i-* ii^ If J 1 / i 1 1 .■ii' - V; i it n :il i ■ vi ■A III .iL'ii: , % friend,' he said impirssively. * Bear with inc a little yet. You are interested, I think, in the family of poor Robert Cheyne ; so am I.' Windridge was now too much surprised to speak. * Don't you see, if you had a practice of your own in Grasmere, you could marry Miriam at once,' continued Mr. Hardwicke rapidly. ' They are not succeeding in the school, poor things. They are to be pitied, they are indeed.' Windridge had nothing to say ; Mr. Hardwicke was altogether too much for him. * I'll stand by you, and there isn't a person possessed of the slightest common sense who won't approve of what you do. Prescott has made his own out of the folk, and done them mighty little good, I believe. It's somebody else's turn now ; why not yours ? ' * I have repeatedly heard that the ladies are not succeeding in Keswick,' said Windridge, choosing to ignore Mr. Hardwicke's urgent pleading. * I am very sorry to hear you confirm it' *Ay, ay, it's too true. Fact is, they have been brought up idle, and they can't work ; they can't do it, sir, however much they try. Miriam has the pride of a duchess, Windridge. She won't stoop to M PERPLEXITIES. 157 conciliate the i)C'()ple, and so they '.v^on't enii)loy her. l^eople won't pay for proud, scornful looks and condescending behaviour sucli as she shows, and she can't help it,' said Mr. Hardwicke, and tlien an in- definable change came up on his face. It grew grave and even tender in its expression. ' If it weren't for Miss Doris, poor girl, I don't know where tliey would all have been. The way she slaves, and thinks, and loves 'em all is a perfect sight to see. There never was such a girl, and never will be ; but she'll have her reward — not from them, mark you. There ain't one of them can appreciate her ; but when she comes here, she'll have her ease, or my name ain't Hardwicke.' • Is she coming here ? ' Windridge asked lamely. He was being talked at so much, that it was difficult for him to gather his thoughts sufficiently to make an intelligent remark. ' I hope and trust so ; yes, I think she is — there, it's out now,' said Mr. Hardwicke, with a sly twinkle ; ' and as we're both seeking mates from the same nest, we're bound to be friendly, aren't we ? Let us shake hands upon it.' Before Windridge could demur, his hand was being affectionately clasped in Mr.Hardwicke's spacious palm. 1 '1 i \; < II n^ i 1 '.I i;i 1 I I ,1 I !• I \ \ W ! m '58 DORIS ClfEYNE, i 1 1 ym;; HI! er .!. 1 herself, and took the letter from her pocket. * Please read that, mother, and tell me what it means.' Mrs. Cheyne took the open sheet and hastily scanned the contents. As she did so, she made up her mind what cour^ ij to take. She would be firm with Doris ; she would exercise a parent's rights. * Well,' she said defiantly, ' it means just what it says. What then ? ' * Is it true, then, mother, that you have misled Mr. Hardwicke all these months ? — you have led him to believe that I was not in earnest with my first refusal of his offer.* Mrs. Cheyne laid her gloves on the table and looked calmly at Doris. * Listen to me,' she said. * I was not surprised at your refusing Mr. Hardwicke last year, because you were a r"W, inexperienced girl, who really did not know the worth of what you were throwing away. SI ,i i ;u ill • cT ( ; . ised at se you d not away. AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE. 171 I said so to him. I asked him to wait a little, to try and impress you with his kindness, and then ask you again. He has done so ; what is there in that, pray, to make you look so angry ? ' * He writes confidently. He anticipates my con- sent, mother,' Doris said in a low voice. ' It ' you who have encouraged him, not I.' *I should think you ought to be grate* .' t:* me for that now. You have tried poverty. You have had your wish ; I have allowed you to do a servant's work simply to cure you of your absurd folly. Have you enjoyed it then ? Has life been very bright for you here ? No ; I think not. You should be glad and grateful, Doris, that I was wiser than you. But for me, you would have had no second chance of such a splendid home.' * It can make no difference, mother,' Doris answered quietly. * I feel now as I did then. Life is hard here, but it is preferable to what ib would be as Mr. Hardwicke's wife. I am grateful to him, because he is kind and sincere. I shall write to him to-night.* * That you accept him, my dear good girl. Think of your poor mother. What a blissful thing it would be for herl' 'H ^ MM u -1 i 1.:' r ■ \ 1 1 i . I n X-ji DORIS CIIEYNE. ' Not even for your sake, mother, will I wrong my- self and him. I respect him more than I did then. I will be true and honest with him this time. There shall be no mistake.' * JJoris, you — you daren't ! ' cried Mrs. Cheyne wildly. * You are bound to him. Do you know he paid the money for this school, he bought the furniture for us, he has repeatedly given me a five-pound note, which I took, as he gave it, for your sake ? Doris, you must marry him, or I don't know what will become of us. He could put us ail in jail if he liked; we owe him so much money.' Such was the coin in which Mrs. Cheyne repaid Doris for her unselfish, uncomplaining toiL ^! i j ( ii i • ■ ■ 1 11 i! 1 CHAPTER XI. TRUE TO HERSELF. ' I um woak, And cannot find the good I seek, Because I feel and fear the wrong.* Longfellow. HEX the scholars were all gone, and the young ladies came out of the schoolroom, they were astonished to find no dinner ready for them. What was Doris thinking of to- day ? It was not usual for her to be behind time. Miriam went up to her mother's room, and found her lying on the couch, exhibiting signs of nervous prostration. She had a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne lying on her forehead ; one hand held her smelling-salts to her nose, the other hung limply by her side. ' Dear me, manmia, what has happened now ? ' asked 173 • I ■■ I -^ ^ : ! I i ,1 f 1 • a I '74 DORIS C/IEVNE. i. r ; i' I\Iiri;uri Rliiir[)ly, alwiiys cross wlicii sli(3 r!iiii(3 out of scliool. 'Where is Doris? Arc W(3 to liave nothing' to cat to-day V ' l)(jii't ask me, I don't know anyiliinj^- about Doris, or any otlusr thin^L,'. Leave me alone. If only I nii.L,dit die and ])e laid beside my liobert, I should at least be at peace.' Here I\Trs. Clieyne wej)t, and ap[»li('d the scented handkerchief to her eyes. jMiriam looked impatient. She could scarcely tolerate her mother's silly exhil)i- tions, knowinuj perfectly well that tliey were only assumed for elleet. Mrs. Clieyne was a woman strong-minded enough in the main, Jind who never failed to gain every })oint she desired by an assumption of weakness and dependence on ollicrs. Unfortunately she is the representative of a large class of women ; we can all number at least one of them among our acquaintances. Miriam observed the gifts that had come from tlie Manor, just as Josephine and Kitty entered tlie room. 'Has Mr. Hardwicke l)cen here?' she asked, a light beginning to dawn upon her. No.' Mrs. Clieyne raised herself on her elbow TRUE TO HERSELF. 175 and looked round the room. * Is there a letter lyinfT anywhere about ? ' The girls h)()ked for it, hut in vaia Doris had been careful to rei)lace it in her pocket. It was her property, and she had an iniuiediato use for it. ' She must have taken it away. You all think Boris a model of kindness and unselfislmess, girls., but let me tell you she is ungrateful and hard at heart. She has grieved me very much this morning. I do not know how I shall be able to forgive her.* 'Please tell us what has happened, man. ma,' said Miriam in her cool, peremptory fashion. * It is very unsatisfactory to listen to these vague statements.' ' Give me time. I won't be hurried. It upsets my nerves so,' sot 1 Mrs. Cheyne pathetically. * Well, you see Mr. Hardwicke's usual tokens of kindness ; a letter accompanied them to-day. The footman bro ght it. It was for Doris.' Miriam looked concerned and apprehensive. She alone knew the extent of their obligation to Mr. Hardwicke. Josephine and Kitty looked interested,, as girls always do when any love or matrimonial afiair has to be discussed. m \\\ 1i: . ! 111! 176 DOJUS CIIEVNE, >' I': * Well ? ' aslvcd ]\Iiriam quickly. * It contained a repetition of his offer to marry her, and I must say a more touching and earnest letter I never read.' ' What did Doris say ? * Mrs. Cheyne wept afresh. * She said a great many unbecoming things, I am sorry to say. She quite forgot her filial duty. She accused me, I think, of deceiving her and Mr. Hardwicke, and, I believe, the whole world. She quite overwhehned me with her foolish indignation. And she will have nothing whatever to say to Mr. Hardwicke.* Miriam grew pale. This was complication upon complication. Until then she did not know how much she had been depending on Doris becoming the wife of Mr. Hardwicke. She had looked forward to it as a sure ending to the degrading worries of their present life. JMiriam was ashamed of their poverty, it was a humiliation for her to teach school ; she saw thiuLis in a different lidit from Doris. Doris thought nothing degrading so long as she could keep her own self-re.sj^ect. She would never lose it by marrying Mr. Hardwicke. TRUE TO HERSELF. 177 * T]ien what is to he done?' Miriam asked (|i!ietly. She could not say very niucli Itefore Josephine and Kitty, wlio knew nothing- of I lie money - lendinL,f episode. jMiriam herself did not know id)ont the five - pound notes to which ]\Irs. Cheyne had so rashly alluded. Jt is prubahle she would have resented tluit. ' Nothinu;' can be done. We must just go to the workhouse,' snid Mrs. Cheyne resignedly. * There is no use hoping that Doris will ever Ijceome convinced of her duty.' ' Where is she ? ' asked Kitty sympathetically. She was on Doris's side, but feared to say so. ' I don't know, nor do I care at j^i'esent ; I liave no wish to see her,' said Mrs. Cheyne resignedly. ' Ingratitude in a child can sour even a mother s aifections.' 'Oh, mamma, Doris has been a dear, good girl. Think how she has laboured for us all,' cried Kitty, rather indignantly. ' It is a shame to turn against li"r, just because she won't marry that ohl man ' ' Hold your tongue, child ; you have not common sense,' retorted Mrs. Cheyne sharply. 'Doris will likely be locked in her own room. She can stay M m iM \ 11 i+i ■ I' I ii i '78 DORIS CHEYNE. m m Fl^ '" tliore as lonc^ as slie y)leases. I forbid any of you to go neai' lier. She must bo made to feel that she has isolated herself from us. Xot one of you, I am sure, would have failed me in this crisis as she has done. Kitty could not forbear giving her shoulders a little shrug. iShe knew very well what her answer would have been had Mr. Hardwicke wished to marry her. By and by, forgetful of her mother's stern injunction, she slipped along the corridor to her sister's room to give her a word of sisterly sympathy and comfort. But, lo ! instead of a locked door it was wide open, and Doris was not within. Kitty took the trouble to look in the wardrol)e, and observed Doris's hat and jacket were gone too. Doris was not in the house. She did not wonder very much at it, however, knowing Doris's 'penchant for solitary strolls. It was but natural she should be glad to escape from the house, to think over this unfortunate occurrence in the freedom of the open air. We may now follow Doris. When she left her mother's presence, she w^ent up- stairs to her own room, and put on her walking garb. She also took TRUE TO HERSELF. 179 not the were wever, It from rreucc ft ber own [0 took an nnihrolla and a wnterproof witli lier, loft the house, and turned her face southwards to (Irasniere. Tliere was no haste or nervousness in the inaniicr of her actions; all was done quietly, and evidently with a settled resolve. It was scarcely three o'clock wiien slie set out upon her walk, and ii was a hue clear afternoon with a brilliant sunshine. It liad been showery in the morning', and there were some watery clouds still on the horizon. Doris noted them with rather an anxious eye ; she even tried to cal- culate how long they might take to overcast the sky. It is curious sometimes in our moments of strong feeling, even of keen suffering, we are very particular and minute in our observations, and even performance of little things. Doris Wiis feelinu' strongly enough, and suffering keeidy too ; she was dee}»ly hurt. But the weather was of some moment to her; she had a lon'j; walk before her. Her destination was Hardwicke Manor, nearly ten miles distant. But Doris was a good walker, and thouglit nothing of the distance. Sre tried not to ihink too much of what awaited her at the end of it. Sh(^ did not wish to plan any acf-ion or speech beforehand ; ■'!•> V !lf \\ m r8o DORIS CIJEYNE. she simply wished to see Mr. Hardwicke, and tell him the truth herself. Too mueh mischief had already been wrought by the action of a third person. The money-lending troubled Doris ; it made hei cheeks burn with shame to think that her mothei had been willing, nay, had tried to exchange her for Mr. Hardwicke's money. It was nothing less. It was half-past three when Doris stood on the crest of the hill above Keswick, and turned to look bad. upon the town. It looked lovely in the warm aiier- noon sunshine, with Dcrwen^water bathed in a flood ol golden light, and Bassenthwaite lying darkly under the purple shadow of Skiddaw. Doris was quite conscious of the exceeding bean<^-- of the picture, but it did not touch her heart. SI '>, had no home in Keswick. Dear heart, she thought, desolately at that moment, that no human being could be more utterly alone upon the earth than she. But as she walked briskly and determinedly on, she was con- scious of growing more light-hearted ; the delightful, hea'thfi'l 1 hysical exertion acted upon mind and lieor<- There was much beauty surrounding her; ':. wenlth of autumn colouring, of harvestfulness, i.«. !>otise of promise fullilled, seemed to be iu the 1 1 DEUWKNTWATlJll lilwM ISC Al'KI.L. IS!. f ^«.V;V' fflnt TRUE TO HERSELF. 183 scent-laden air. The lied^^eiows had scnrocly be^ini to change their hue, though the leaves were brown and yellow on the trees, and there was no hint of winter barrenness and storm. About three miles on her way, Doris met the afternoon coach on its way to Keswick. Only one passenger was within, she noticed, for the tourist season was almost past. A little way farther she met a group of anglers returning from their sport among the mountain tarns, and then for miles she encountered no living thing ; but was alone amid the solemn stillness which reigns for ever among the hills ; but no sense of fear or even of isolation oppressed her. The silence soothed her, the wild wide freedom of the solitudes was like a friend ; she felt at home, even at peace. The sun was setting in a clear, amber sky when Doris skirted the shores of picturesque Thirlmere. She could have lingered to watch the wonderful shafts of red and gold on the rippling water, but that she had begun to think about the return journey. Although she was not afraid, it might not be safe to walk alone through these wilds by night, even though a harvest-moon should be lit to guide her ■•l^g ntGiiiB i J J. I 'imwf' 184 DORIS CHEYNE. steps. Twiliglil, would he closin*,^ in before slie reached the Alanor. Slie (juiekeiied lier stoi)S as she a])proar'hed AVytlieburn, and only hriclly acknow- ledged the ] feasant good-evening accorded her by lae portly host of the 'Nag's Head.' Already a warning darkne.s rested on the mighty l)row of Helvellyn, even though the golden sun - '^hafts lay athwart its buttresses. The l)ell in the stable tower at Ilardwicke Manor was ringing six wlxn Doris passed through the stone gateway and hurried up the avenue to the house. She felt slightly nervous now, her errand being a painful one. The thought [hat her action was unusual and st;range in a young girl did not troul)le her. She was tor> much in earnest to thiidv of lit lie things. Mr. Hai'dwicke was at home, the footman said, and a most extraordinary exi)ression came on his face when he recognised the young lady. He was so surprised that for a moment he forgot his customary politeness and dignity. However, he recovered himself under ^liss Cheyne's quiet look of inquiry, and with a murmured apology took her up to the d)'awinu"-room. Doris was not given to taking inventories of TRUE TO HERSELF. 185 furniture and things in other people's houses, but she could not help being struck by the magnificence of the lofty room into which she was shown. It was furnished with taste too, and had a subdued and pleasing effect on the eye. The thought that this fine mansion and all within its walls was virtually lying at her feet did not occur to her. Her one idea and consuming desire was to come to a clear unders-tanding with ]\[r. Hardwicke, to tell him that she had had no hand in the deception her moLlier had practised upon him. She did not sit down. She was standing by a low marltle table near the door when Mr. Hardwicke came in. He looked very nervous ; he shut the door, and looked at her rather doubtfully. He knew this proceeding of Doris's was not prudent, that few young ladies would have ventured upon it. He did not know what it portended. Doris did not keep him in suspense. She did not even wait for a word of grcL'ting from him ; she simply opened out his own letter, which he recognised, and lifted her krge, clear eyes to his face. * I have come to speak to you, Mr. Hardwicke, about this letter,' she said quietly. I , i {'• \i ' m 186 DORIS CHEYNE, 1,1 1 ill I I mi] i ' Yes, yes, my dear Miss Doris,' he said hurriedly. ' I — I ho})e it did not vex or annoy you. 1 did not intend it to do so, I assure you. J3ut liow luive you come ? Is — is your mother with you ? * * No, my mother is not witli me, I am alone,' said Doris in clear, cold tones. ' Mr. Hardwicke, my mother has misled you about this matter. When it was spoken about last December, I saw then that it could never Ije — that there never could be any answer but that one. I — I am afraid you did not quite understand that, though my mother knew very well I had undergone no change. "When I read your letter to-day, and understood it, I came oM at once. I could not bear to wait another moment, and I was determined that there should be no mistake this time, so I walked off at once/ * Walked from Keswick, bless my heart and soul ! ' exclaimed Mr. Hardwicke. ' Poor dear, a letter would have done very well. Don't look distressed, Miss Doris, on my account. I daresay I was a foolish, silly old man to dream of such a thing. I was in earnest, my dear, but I would not seek you against your will' : ( TRUE TO HERSELF. 1S7 iris tone was so truly kind tliat Doris fult lier eyes fill. lUit she strove to be calm, having sonie- lIiiuL;' I'urtln'r to say. * There is another tliin,^-, IMr. Hard\viel 71 ■ ■ rr ; f ; ':,i: 1 1 !'.■ CHAPTER XIL AT AN END. •Tho snn litis liid his rayi These many dnys. Will (Inary liours novcr leave tho earth? doubting heart I * Adelaide Puuctuh AMMA, do you know Doris lias not como in yet ? ' said Kitty, entering lur mother's room aliout half-past eight tlial evening. Her face wore a concerned look ; she was alarmed about Doris. * Not in yet ? I did not even know she was out. "Where has she gone ? * Mrs. Cheyne was nursing her headache and her wrath by the fireside, and was not in an amiable mood. Miriam was in her own room poring over tlio pages of a book whicli she did not choose that the 190 AT AN END. 19 » others slioukl see. The title was, llinh to those Contimplatin(j the Sfarjc as a Means of Livelihood. Josephine hud aheady gone to bed. ' I do not know where she is, luaninia ; I wish I did. She has been out since thiee o'clock. 1 went to see if her door was locked then, and found she had gone out.* * Where on earth can she be, then ? ' asked Mrs. Clieyne fretfully, but without alarm. ' It is not seendy for a girl like Doris to be wandering about the streets or roads so much alone. It will hurt us in the town. But she has absolutely no consideration in the world for anybody but herself * Mamma, did she seem excited or anything when you spoke to her ? ' asked Kitty fearfully. A great unspoken dread filled her heart She thought of Derwentwater, and shuddered. * No, she was not excited ; she never is excited. That's why she is so aggravating ; she is so deep, one cannot fathom her. I am accustomed to wear my heart upon my sleeve, so to speak, and I do not profess to understand those who never let one get a glimpse of their feelings.' I ' \\i\ m ,; I ■i i i 192 DORIS CIIEYNE, Kitty sinlied. Sliu loved Doris with a uicul lovo. Sli(i did not quite undcrsLaiid tlu; stillness juid rcso-vc of her liiiture, perhaps, hut slie knew her to he the hest among tlieiu. Kitty liad seen and silently reverenced Doris for her self-al)ne^ation, her ([uicit l>nt real and earnest thonglit and \V(»rk for them all. And they were so ungrateful ! 'I'liey had nothing for lier hut short words and indiirerent or sour looks. * She nnist just come in when she gets rid of hor sulks,' said Mrs. Cheyne. ' I am going to hed shortly. Sleep is the only solace for my cares. You will not sit up for Doris, Kitty. She must not tliink we are at all concenuMl ahout her. She must he made to feel that she is not of the first importance in the house.' ' Yet I don't sec what in the world we should do without her,' said Kitty honestly. * We should never get anything to eat, and goodness knows what kind of a place the house would be. I don't think we .are half grateful enough for what she does. Mannna. when I see her poor hands rough and sore with scrul)hing and cooking, I feel like a wretch, I do> I'm for no use in the world.* AT JX EXP. 19.^ Mrs. Chcyne lanuuidlv closed licr eves. Slu? would not discuss the sulijcct, any I'm 1 her. She; was still very an^ry with Doris. I do not know that she would ever really foi;L;ive her for ret'usin^f Mr. Hardwicke. The uses of adversity had not been sweet to ^Irs. Cheyne ; change of fortunes had brought the grosser, more selfish traits of her character to the front. It is easy to be good and sweet and amiable when the sun of pros])erity shines upon us ; it is the rain and the storm-clouds that determine the real worth of our nature. Kitty stood a few minutes irresolute, sorely perplexed. She was very anxious, seriously alarmed. She feared some harm had come to Doris. She marvelled that her mother did not share her fore- bodings. She felt cast upon her own resources. She did not know how to act. To go out of doors in search of Doris w^ould be like setting out on a wild-goose chase. But still her thoughts reverted fearfully to Derwentwater. Suddenly there came the rattle of wheels upon the quiet street, then the sto})ping of a vehicle at the door. Kitty Hew down-stairs, expecting she knew not what. She put up the gas in the hall, *M r m 11 ' 1 ii' I '' 1 ! 1: jl |i .V. 1 h I I •,: II 94 JWA'/S CliEVNE, and liastily oiicncd the; (l(! mistaken in them even had she not scon the fanuliar face of Coinwall, the fat coaciiman, and hoard Inm say respocl fully, — ' CJood ni'dit, Miss Ciievne.* Noxt monujnt J)oris was in tlie Ikmiso. * Wliero liavi; you lie I )oris !* I liavo Itoon nearly wild. I thoUL^ht ^ Aero dntwncMl.' ' J)r(jwnoiiitl (|iii('lly. ' I liavti liccii ill Ilanlwickc Miiiior,' \V1 icru Mis. ( 'licviic's voice wus vci'V shrill, iiiid she s;il. link ii|>ii_L;lil ill licr cliiiir. 'I wiilkctl Id Ilartlwickc M;nit»r, iimtlu'i', to sul' Mr. Ilartlwickc. We iiiKlcrslaiul each oilier ii ow, Til 1 M'lc call never he any imsiaKe auaiii lak oil, w hat Coiisteriiat ion sal ^wx the eoimlc- naiKH! ol' Mrs. ( 'heyne. '1 ]iav(! seen Mr. ilanlwickc, and loM him the truth. He knows now \ can never he his wife. \ shall never f'or.L!;el his kindness while I li\e,' re|»eatu(I 1 )oiis (luictly, and Kilty s.iw that she was moved, ' I)oyou know what you liav(i done, L;iil .<'' asked Mrs. Clioyne, with llu; sttiiiiiess o|'su)>j»ressed wrath. ' \'ou have laid yoursidf oj^ni to the >(aiid;d nf the wlmlc iieiiilihourhood. Was it a maideiilv, tir e\eii a dccfiit tl liii'' to uo there alone, ainl ask i'»)r Mi. Ilardwieke ( il(; was my lather's I'lieiid. lie is niiiu^ no w I do not care what tla; jn'ople say. I am not • •niis('ii»ii:j nj' ha\ ill;; doiif wiuii^f,' .-aid Ijoiis. hut, hr-r u ' !■ 196 DORIS ciieym:. colour rose. ]\Ir. llardwicke will come to-morrow, iiiollier, to see }'oii.' So sayin^^ Doiis went out of the room. Tcace liad come back to her in the still (la^klu^«;s of her drive between the Manor and Keswick, but how ([uickly it vanished under her mother's dis- turbini; touch! J)oris was very wretched as slie knelt down l)y the oi)en window in her own room, and laid her hot head on the cold stone. Ivitty would fain have g(Uie to her, but she had Ji va;4uc consciousness that it might be better for Doris to be alone for a little. She had gone through a great deal that day. ]Joris was tlujroughly disheartened and nearly overcome. To look back was a trial of patience, to look forward a trial of faith. She did not know how she was to continue under the same roof-tree with her mother, unless there were to be better relations between them. She had the approval 01 her conscience for the manner in which she had acted toward Mr. Hardwicke, but her heart was tenibly sore. She loved her mother — how hard it was to be so coldly estranged from her! Slie did hot know how to conciliote or pleoi^e heri ]!Hfit»isi«# AT Ay EX I\ 197 slip had opjjosrd lior desires in one instnnro, nil .>'Jj(3r servioe was unju'ci'piablo in her ey»'S. l)()ris felt her cross heavv. It \vei;^died upon her heart. She had so honestly striven to do the (hitv Ivin*' nearest to her, she had horne weakness and weariness, she had ^Tudi^'ed no lahour, no time nor thou^lil, to make comfort for those at home. A little rehellion minj,ded with her downcast thoughts. She felt it hard that she should nave so little sunshine upon the npliill path of duty. She felt that she eould almost question the love and <,'oodness of (lod. That hour was full of real hitterness and paiu for i)nris. Siu? was bowed down to the ground. Looking forward, she could see no hope of briglitcr things; the thought of the morrow, with its irksome idund of homely duties, was repulsive to her. After a time, even the power of thought seemed to desert her. She sat crouched by the window-seat, with her head bent on her breast in an attitude of deep dejection. The window was open, and at length a feeling of intense physical cold roused her. Then she saw that her dress was quite wet. It had been raining for some time, and the night wind had been driving the drops in upon her. She rose hastily, and jii It 41 uji j)()A'/s c///:y\r.. slnilliii'' llir wiinlow, »' iiinl III I li-l (illlillc 'I'l M'll -lie liM.U oil lirr Wi'l !Ju\Mi and witli ;i sliiiwl iilinut licr slidiildi'i-s, smI down Ity tli(^ dn'ssin;4-liil»I(' and opened lier le\t-l>ook. It Wiis Iicr cii'-toin to I'ead ilie verse lur niorniii;^ and even- ing i('nn!arly, and sonM'linics it licliicd luT. 'And liii that taketli not Ins rrctss, and followutli after me, is not worthy of ini;.* Thai was the cvmini,' portion, and tlio words sank into the hcarl of 1 )oris. Slie lohled li(;r arms on tin; tahlc, and Icanini;- her h-ad npon tlicni, asked once more fervently for aid to l»ear her cross. It seemed ji very i-eal and heavy one lo the i^irh IJeniemlier slie was not inured to trilmlation. And after that l)rayer came strenntli and (juietness of heart. Slie was no Ioniser despairin<_; and rehellious, hut willing- as heforo to ufo forwai'd, (loin-'' the hest she could, (lod does not send His aie^els to us now, indeed ; hut His messen^^ers, thouj^di unseen, and unfelt at times, are non(^ the less juesent with us. A'ery <»ften what is simple, and even weak, is made use of to aid the stronn" in the contlict of life. liefore noon the next day \\iv. ITardwick(^ rode into Keswick, and liavin^" i>ut his hoise up at 'The 1' AT AN END. 199 (Jnor^'c/ walked to Sunluiry Villa. Mrs. Cheync wa.s ready for him, and even opened llie door to him herself. Doris had asked that she might not see Mr. Ilardwicke when lie came, and had therefore not appeared to answer his summons. * Good morning, ma'am,* the squire said, and there was a visible coolness in his manner which was not lost upon Mrs. Cheyne. She was stiff and dignified, she had even got the length of convincing herself that Mr. ILirdwicke had injured her. Tlu^re are no limits to a diseased imagination such as hers. Mr. Ilardwicke had prei)ared quite a series of remarks of a strong nature to be addressed to Mrs. Cheyne, but he forgot them all, and when he found himself alone with her in the little sanctum where she had so often flattered his hopes, he just faced her quite suddenly, and with his favourite thump on the table, said, in a very emphatic manner, — * It was a shame, Mrs. Cheyne — a downright shame to do it to the poor girl ; and I don't know how you, calling yourself a mother, could do it — there now ! ' * You forget yourself, Mr. Hardwicke ! ' said Mrs. Cheyne haughtily, and she could be very haughty when she pleased. \\ [ m I ;■ li « 200 DORIS ClIEYNE. '■ No, I don't ; excuse me, I'm only remembering myself. I said to myself l«'ist nij^ht I'd <^ive you a piece of my mind, and I will,' said the squire stoutly, and with a very red face. ' Yes, it wns a shame. When you knew the poor lamb did not care a straw for me, and never could marry me, you had no riglit to go on fooling us both, for it was nothing else.' Mrs. Cheyne gasped. 81ie had never had the truth so nakedly set before her in her life. * If it was for that paltry money, ma'am, you might have let me do it for you, for the sake of him that's gone,' said the squire. 'Have you never thought, ma'am, how he'd like to see such treatment of Miss Doris ? She was the very apple of his eye.' Mrs. Cheyne saw she had tlie worst of it, and immediately wept. The squire, 1 aving a soft corner in his heart, could not stand tears. Though he was rather suspicious of the genuineness of Mrs. Cheyne's emotion, he felt his ire fast melting away, but he had saM a few plain sentences which had considerably relieved his mind. * Now look here, ^Irs. Cheyne,' he said, in some- thing like his ordinary way ; ' would it not have AT AN END. doi boon a thoiisaiul liiiios bottor to linvo (old mo tbo real staUi of your daiij^btor's fooHn^^s ? It was no kiiubicss to licr n<»r to nic, and if you liad succeeded in luakini;- a ruarriage of it, wliat kind of a p;iir would we bavo made ? I can tell you, ma'am, I am very tbankful tbe tbinij's been remedied before it was too late.' * I was doinjj; it for tbe best, Mr. TTardwicke,' sobbed Mrs. Clieyne. * I tliouglit I was forwardin;^ ber in- terests, and tliat sbe would tbank me for it some day.' * If you say so, I'm bound to believe you, but marriages are ticklisb tilings to deal witli. It's best for no tliird party to bave a hand in it, then there can be no reflections. Well then, we needn't say any more about what's past; but there's one thing I must say, ^Mrs. Cheyne, and that is that I hope you won't make any dillerence to Miss Doris about it. Be kinder to her even than you are to the rest. She needs it, poor child ; she misses her father very badly, I can see that well enough.' ;Mrs. Cheyne preserved a discreet silence. She would make no rash promises. Slie was secretly resentin" everv word ]\Ir. llardwicke uttered, but prudence kept her silent. I -^^' ' I ; I 'it! ;02 nOR/S CIIKVNE. 'A word ;il»(mt \\\\\\ money, Afi-s. riu'yii(\nn(] iIkii '"> '»l*i' I'on't lliink iiiiv morn iil)ouL it. It's caiK'clled. Miss Doris and I lijive setllcd tliat. liiit, U'll mo, is the scliool payiiii^^ ?* ' No, it isn't.' 'Then don't slay on. The quicker yon ran soil oat the hotter, and let those who can; seek somothin'^' to do cdso where. That'? my advice to yon, and it's given in a friendly sj.irit. This will make no difVeronco in me, Mrs. Cheyn<» ; T never hear <;-nidues. I have had my say, and I'm done. ill help yon if I can.' Mrs. Cheyne nnn-mnred her thanks, and havinj^ no desire to prolong- his stay, the squire bade her good morning, and went his way. v\ \\ :f. j^W I 'i n i t >> % n!^ ^ ^ m 1^^ w i? "''t^ ^ r^^^BV ^flRS^v^^]^^* ^fW CHAPTER XIII. YOUTH AND AGE. Every man must patiently bide his turn ; he mnst wait.' LoNdFRLLOW. LD DR. RRESCOTT was failing very much ; lie was seldom now seen out of doors, and was unahle even to visit tlie great bouses to which he was professionally called. "VVindridge managed to undertake all the work, though it was too much for any man single-handed. He was much liked ; he had that happy faculty, invaluable to a medical man, of at once inspiring jjerfect con- fidence in his ability. His manner was calm, self- reliant, but gentleness itself. He thus won golden opinions everywhere, and it was freely said on all sides that it was full time the lucrative returns, as well as the heavy work connectcJi with the practice, ', li D: Hiri iiji 'I ;.| i n 504 Doris ciieyxe. should pass into liis liands. P>iit the old man still kept a firm hand on the reins of power, still drew in the hii;h fees and paid his assistant his one hundred and twenty pounds per annum. He was still th(i same caustic, sharp - tongued, irritable being; but Windrid«^e did not much mind him. He had s^rowu accustomed to his eccentricities, as we grow accus- tomed to almost anything in this world. Terhaps, too, he knew his worth and power in the place, and had few doubts concerning the future. The two were sitting at dinner one afternoon aljouL a week after Horis Cheyne's memorable pilgrimage to Hardwicke Manor. * You have no other place to go to-night, have you, Windridge ?' asked the old man, as he toyed with the morsel of chicken on his plate. His appetite was quite gone, and he was worn to a shadow. His appearance was calculated to excite compassion, and it presented such a contrast to that of the young man at the opposite side of the table. He was in the first prime of his manhood's strength, with every faculty alive and keen ; his face wearing the ruddy hue of health, his eye as clear and unclouded as a sununer sky. ' ( iM YOUTH AXn ACE, 20: ifin still drew in hundred still the ig ; but d grown 1 accus- Perluips, ace, and Dn al)ont image to ave yon, ed with tite was His on, and ►V ms: man the first faculty hue of isunnner 'No, sir, notliing pressing ; hut I liave heen think- ing lately that it has become im]»eralive tliat 1 should have assistance. It is imi)ossiblc for one man to (•vertake all the work, and to do it anvihinij like justice. The distances are too great.' * Dear me, you are a young strong man ! AVliat a dinner you can eat!' said the old man, looking suggestively at AVindridge's plate. ' AViien I was your !ige I tliouglit nothing of work, and I liad as much or more to do than vou have.' 'Then it could not all be well done,' replied Windridge quietly, quite pre])ared for some argument before he gained his point. ' A nuin cannot work both night and day. Nature vciy soon enters her protest strongly against that. I do not intend to do it any longer, sir.* * Indeed, we arc very independent,' said Dr. Prescott, with his customary sneer, which did not mean much after all. * You are beginning to crow now that you have got me laid on the shelf.' Windridge smiled, not in the bast put out. *I only wish you were oil' the shelf and could (liive to Girdlestone every day Just now. Lady '^ilchestcr is the greatest trial of my life at present. I' I ii m j ! ,9 4': j ' M ; t ^:1 i m I 206 DORIS CHEYNE. There is nothing the matter with her, but I can't convince her of it.' 'Don't try, my boy. Where is the poor practi- tioner to get his living if not off iiypochondriacal grandees like Lady Silchester ? ' said the old man shrewdly. * Poor patients don't pay, and when I hear of any medical man being in great request anion^' the poor, I mentally say, l*oor wretch ! He'll fhul out his mistake.* * If I can succeed, Dr. Prescott, it will not be by flattering the weaknesses of the rich,' said Windridge quietly. * I shall tell my Lady Silchester my mind one of these days, whatever be the conse- quences. She makes her whole household slaves to her selfish whims. She is really as well as I am at this moment, if she would only think it.* Dr. Prescott shook his head. 'A year or two's experience will cure you of such hot- headedness. But what about the young ladies at Kes- wick. Always hankering after one of them yet, eh ? ' "Windridge smiled, but shook his head. * You needn't shake your head, sir,' said the old man. * Are you not going to marry her ? ' * I have not thought of iti sir,' YOUTH AND AGE. 207 *Then don't, or your career's at an end. Why, if you liked, you might be at the very top of tlie tree ; but if you marry a silly thing with nothing but a pretty face to reconmiend her, you'll need to hang on the bottom branches all your days, and be thankful you're able to keep off the ground. If you must marry, marry money and position, and so get your foot firmly planted on the social ladder.* * Lady Silchester, for instance ? * suggested Windridge, with 1 laugh. * Well, you might do worse, and nobody has a better chance than yoa. That would be a lift, and no mistake. Why, I never thought of that ! It would be a capital thing.* * Don't be absurd, Dr. Prescott. The thing is beyond a joke. She is old enough to be my mother.' * But she's well preserved. She's never had any- thing to break her down, and think of Girdi«istone and its rent-roll, my boy.* 'What would my Lady Silchester say could she overhear us ? ' laughed Windridge. * I should get the right-about-face next time I presented myself at Girdlestone. Good-night, sir, good-night You will be in bed when I come home/ -:( ' il 1 i \\ ; IS'!,'' I Hil m 2oS J)()A'/S CUEVMi So siiyiii;^', the suri^uon wi'iit oil' to ihi; sluMo. It was true that he liad only been <»n('(! at Keswick since tlie Cheynes went lo their new iionie. They liad weleonied him kindly and made much of him, but he had ,L;(jne away a miserable man. lie saw liovv the proud spirit of his darlini;- (as he often passionately called ^liriam in his liearl) was chafing' under tlie dreary routine of her lifb. ]Ic knew from the tiMU' of their conversation, and from the air of dei)ression and didness about the house, that times were hard with them. 'I'hal visit had onlv maC)iiit(Ml ill l)(tris. He had tliuu^lii .she would liiivt; honiu and siill'rri'd nnylhiiiu liitlur llian licctiiiic. tlio \vil\j of Mr. JIardwic'kL'. Jiut now ilicrc could Im; no douljt of it, and he; wondiTiMl what thi'ii; could Ix; in the tiling- to uunoy and dissatisfy him. Siic was only doint^' what most women in her place would do, and for which nobody eould hlame her. There was a dill'erence in(U;ed between the luxury and si)lendour of Hardwicke Manor and the pinched gentility of Sunbury Villa. Yet he was disa])})ointed, even slightly angry, when he thought of it. Jle felt that the bonds of friendship and sympathy between Doris and himself were broken. She had deceived him, and he could never believe in her again. vSo poor Doris was misjudged. Had she known of Gabriel AVindridge's hard thoughts, it would have been another drop in an already too bitter cup. In spite of Mr. Hardwicke's very plain speaking, Mrs. Cheyne did not treat Doris well. She was cold and often bitter in her manner towards her. If she had ever been in her mother's heart, she was shut out now. Mrs. Cheyne ke[)t her out of the family circle. If she happened to be talking about anything, how- ever trivial, when Doris entered the room, she shut y. ; '■ 2IO nORJS CUE ) XE. '\ 1. I'!" I I :'' ' /, liur mouth. Slu; ucvur addrt'ssi'd vT vnlmil;nily. Her nuiS-^aijcs and orders — for t » iiartodk of tlio nature of (trders — were delivered to Doris tlinai^h one or other of the ;4irls, never ilire«^tly to herstilf. Mrs. Cheyne was not only a thorou_i:hly stdtish woman, she was cruel and heartless as well, tliout;h under the dis<^Miise of i'esi,<,^nation and sull'erinif mar- tyrdom. She is not exa^Ljerated. Her j)rototype is to be encountered everywhere. They are to be pilied who have to endure such a burden in their homes. Miriam also was cold and distant to Doris. She did not understand her, of course. She thou^jht she had made a ridiculous fool of herself, and renounced a very advantageous settlement in life. She could scarcely forgive her for having removed a i-ay of hope from their horizon. Josephine also was languidly disapproving, Kitty alone genuinely and actively sympathetic. But for Kitty's sweet comfort, Doris must have sunk under a load peculiarly trying to her sensitive nature. She sometimes thought of Gabriel Windridge with a kind of wistful longing which she did not understand. How quickly he had forgotten them ! The sympathy he had given her seemed more a dream of the ima filiation than a fact* YOUTH A.\n AUE. 2 I I Slio soiiM'tiincs llidU^Iit with loiiL^iiiu, iilso, of her Uncle rciitnld, with nvIkhii lldsiminiid was so vnv liai»|>y. llnsjuiiniKr.s h'Utjrs wi'ic vciv luiulil iliiii'^s ill I >(iris's life. The chiM scciimmI tn Im- ihumiiyhly nt home, mimI to he ciijoyiip^' the, |»r'' 'h'ni's her ^mnl unele HO willin;^]}' Jiccoiiled hei'. She was liiii>liiii.; InT (Mlueatioii, and at the saiiu^ time niakini^- a lininc tor th(^ <>Iliiii(» Itcfojc liii fame, to Miriam. r.tit tlit^ iiioiiiciit he ontcri'fl the room lie had scon the listless attitude, tlio disnirit('(l air, the i>ah« face, and weary eye. He even thoni^dit, as she laid her hand in his, that it was thinner than of yore, and that the tJLnire \\\ the I'Miuj, ]>lain Mack scr^^'e j^own had lust aoniu- thin^' of its rounded pace. *And where is Miss Doris? I miss Iut,' he saiut that will be all ended shortly, when you become mistress of Ilardwieke !Manor. It is to be soon, I am told.' ' It is not true.' That WMS all she said, and he felt hinxself re- buked, lie might have known she would be true to herself. ' I beg your pardon. I believed it, Miss Doris. I was not your friend. But I am glad it is not true.' ' Some day, perhaps, I may tell you of it,' said Doris, for somehow a great strength and sweetness seemed to fill her whole being while in this man's presence. ' How is life with you now ? ' 'Much tlie same. Toil and moil for ever. Surely there must be a good time coming for us all. Yuii are finding it a hard struggle, Miss Doris.' * A bitter struggle,' she answered, admitting it in H '■ IIM i a l\ t- I iii' m 'I I , 2l6 DORIS CHEYNE. words for the first time. ' I do not know how it will end ; God knows.' ' Else we could not battle on,' said the surgeon reverently, and a strange sense of acquiescence in the will of God came upon him. It was the influence of this young girl's pure, loving spirit, touching the fine side of his nature, calling his noblest impulses into being. •' Good-bye. I wish I could be sure of seeing you soon. We seem to be able to help each other,' he said ; and taking the toil worn hand in his, he raised it with tenderness to his lips. Doris did not resent it, and when he was gone she re-entered the dark room, and sitting down on the low couch, cried quietly to herself. Kitty thought she had made a discovery, and it was one that made her honest heart glad. She was convinced in her own mind that Gabriel Windridge had transferred his affections from Miriam to Doris, and that there was hope for him. Could there be a more beautiful ending to Doris's troubles ? Such was the question Kitty asked herself. ! f CHAPTER XIV. PRKSCOTTS WILL. *Tliey whoso licarts aro dry as summer's dust Bum to the socket.* Wordsworth. entered Dr. Prescott's house after putting |V(|raT was ten o'clock when Gabriel Windrid^e his horse to the stable. To his surprise the lights were burning brightly in the library still, and when he entered he found the old man sitting by the fire. * Not in bed yet, sir ! * he exclaimed. * It is surely too late for you to be down-stairs. You will suffer for it to-morrow.* *I did not feel drowsy. I suppose I can sit up if I like ! ' said the old man drily. ' Well, have you seen your inamorata ? ' 217 1 r i 'I ![! lU ? ) ■.M rS nOR/S CI/EYAE. M ; - I ; I ft .!l^! Wiiidridge made no reply, but drew a cliair to the lireside and took off his boots. * You are uncommonly toucliy on the subject. Can't you tell me how they're all getting on there ? Is the school a paying concern Y ' I don't think so, Dr. Prescott. The ladies did not seem to be in good spirits.' * Women can't manage business, especially women reared as they have been. Cheyne was a deal too indulgent to them. Is it true one of them is to marry our friend Hardwicke ? ' ' No, it is not I rue.' ' She would, I suppose, if she'd had a chance. I've heard it said that he was seeking one of them.' * Tliat was true enough, oir, but I believe she refused him.' * Fh, you don't say so ! Was it your lady-love ? ' 'No.' » ' Then she must be a woman out of thr common, or perhaps there was some one else, the usual poor young man, to whom she has vowed to be true,' said the old man grimly. * You look depressed yourself, Windridge. I suppose you wish you were rich now ? ' !M PRE SCOTT'S WILL. 219 * I do indeed,' Windiid^L^e answered fervontly, on the impulse of the moment. * Well, you may be some day, if you have [latience. I suppose you're only waiting here to step into my shoes, eh ? ' * You have freejucntly spoken of retiring from practice, sir. But for that, I should certiiinly have been out of Grasmere lonr; a^o. I think I have earned the right to succeed you,' said Windridge plainly. He was feeling keenly on the subject, or he might not have so candidly spoken his mind. 'You are honest, at least you don't say one thing and think another. You shall succeed me some day, my lad, perhaps sooner than you think.' The old man's tone was kind. He did not seem to resent his assistant's plain speaking. They had lived so long together that they understood each otlier. Each had a respect for the other, although they had so often a war of words. * I may tell you, Windridge, I shall never resign while I live, and so it becomes an interesting question, how long shall I live ? You need not look dismayed. I shall not keep you out of your own very long, I'm going off soon.* I "i 220 DORIS CIIEYNE. II; ■ i : ll i I I ' i li,' ^11 liii 1 \ ' If I looknd flismayofl, sir, it was at tho siifjciestioii (if yonr dcatli. I am sihcero in saying, .hat ratluT than calculate upon such a chance, or ask myself such a question, I would give up all idea of succeed- ing you. It is repulsive to me. Had you not so frequently spoken of retiring, the probability is, I should only have stayed an ordinary time here, and sought my livelihood elsewhere. You know that any time I have spoken of leaving, you have pressed me to remain, and indicated my prospects if I did so.* * I'm not denying it, am I ? That is a mighty proud spirit of yours, Windridge. It needs taming. Marriage will break you in. What about Lady Silchester, then ? Suppose you had ample means, or even a fairly large income just now, which would you seek, this Cheyne girl, or the lady of Girdle- stone ? * Windriage laughed, but answered frankly enough. ' If my position were secured, sir, I'd marry Miss Cheyne to-morrow, if she would have me.' * Marry in haste, repent at leisure ; but I suppose you must do it. It's the way of the world, though it was never my way. Women are useful enough in J^ Fj^Escorrs will. 221 tl:eir place, no doubt, but to be tied to one, who as a wife must know all vour concerns, and '^oke her nose into everybody's business, wouldn't have suited me. But every man to his taste. Well, 1 suppose, sunie day soon you and this fine wife you are so anxious about will be reiLjninf' here. Of course she'll turn the whole house up, burn my old sticks, and laui^h at the things I treasured.' Windridfje looked at the old man with somethini'" of apprehension in his eye. He did not like the tone of his conversation, and yet there was nothing in his appearance to excite alarm. On the contrary, he had never seemed so well. His eye was clear and bright ; his cheeks were wearing a line tinge of colour; his manner vivacious and natural — the symptoms of languor and weariness seemed to have left him. * Why are you looking at me ? I suppose you think I'm wandering in my mind. Not a bit of it ; but I think I'll go to bed, if you'll give me yuur arm up -stairs.' Windridge did so, guiding the faltering, unsteady step with a gentle firmness peculiarly his own. Ho stayed up-stairs with him, helping him to I ! 1 li ■1 ;'il r m ■ 1 , t i 1 1 h i ■ s '.22 DON IS CIIFAWE. nii'licss, Mild HL'uiiig Unit liL' liiid iill his coiuforls iiltoul liiiii. ' \'(>u iiro fi ujood l;id, "Wiiidiid^e, iiiid I'vo. (tftcii l)iM'ii liard ujioii you. Jliit it is i;<)()d Lo bear llu; Imrdiui ill oiiii's youth. You won't surii'i' for it, itiid you'll soiiK'tiines have a kindly thoii^lit of ihc tdd mail after lu; is ''one. I'd like you to call the tirst l)oy Trescott — Prescott AViiidridi^e ; ratlier a fancy name, eh ? ( Jood-night, goud-niuht.' * (Jood-night, and I hope you will have a sound sleep. You are looking and feeling much l)etter, 1 think.' ' Ay, I doul)t T am too well ; a sudden spurt, perhaps, before tlie eandle ex[)ire3 in the socket. Don't look so vexed. Boy, I believe you don't hate me, though you've had cause.' * Hate you, sir ! Such a thought was iie\'er farther from me,' said Windridge sincerely. ' But [ must not stand talking here, keeping you from your sleep. Good- night.' ' Good-night ! Here ! come back a moment,' said the old man, as AVindridge was at the door. ' Do you see that bureau ? The papers are all in there. Some of them concern you. There's only one littlw >^ w'wi'w I i^ jj J iw iiiimiuJi't' ■ i J'h'/C.SCO/'J'S WILL. thing to liu (l(>iu3. I'll do it lu-inorrow. Tlif \iiiir kimws all iiIkuiI it. lie sliouM be Icick I'ncii tlif ^kiditcrraiiciiu (uic <»!' ilicsc days. 1 daifsjiy lii'll l>i' lioiiic l)L't'(ir(j h(j is iiL'i'dt'd. ( i(M(d-ui'j.lit.' AViiidridgu went di)\vii-.stairs with a sli^lit feeling of unuiisiness in his mind. TIktu was siMuclhiiiL;- which |)uz/l('d and (MtncciiKMl him in llu; old man's manner. He liad seen such sudden animaliou and vigour pervade an exhausted franuj shortly hei'orc. death. He lit a cigar and sat down hy the lihrary tiro, intending to read tor an hour; hut his thoughts continually wandered, and at last he threw asidi; the book, put out the lights, and went u[» to bed. JJefore going into his own room he looked into the J )oetor's, and was satisfied to see him slee[)ing soundly. With a mind somewhat set at rest, he went to bed, and, being weary, fell asleep at once. He was accustomed to sleep lightly ;ind awaken often during the night, but his rest was unbroken till six o'clock, when he heard the maids stirring in tlu; house. His first thought was of the old man, and, being thoroughly aw^ake, he jumped up, and, dressing partially, crossed the landing to the Doctor's bedroom. He was lying very still, evidcuitly asleep \ but 1 1 ! I - ! 'h I hm M \ I': ai;i i^ .:l IH 224 JJOA'/S CUEYNE. Wiii(lri(lL,'e stepjkHl lij,'htly to tlu! Itrdside and Icjokcd at him. His expression was jjeaceful and caliii, like that of a person enjoying a sweet, iintronbled slunilier. But his face was colourless, and Windrid^e's keen eye failed to detect the slightest respiration or movement of the body. The old man was quite dead. Tt gave the surgeon a great shock. He staggered in liis ste{) as he left the room ; even his worst iniagiiings of I he previous night had never poiiit^'d to so suddiMi an end. He went to the top of the stairs and called to Hannah, the housekeeper, who had been so long v,ith Dr. Prescott. She came running up breathless, and, seeing Windridge half-dressed and looking so over- come, immediately surmised that something had gone wrong. ' The master, sir ? ' she asked, beginning to tremble. * I have just been in. He has passed away during the night,' answered Windridge. Then the pair entered the room together, and stood in silence by the side of the quiet sleeper. There was no sign of any struggle, or even a last pang; the expres'^ion was tile same as the face had worn when Windiidge \\m\ luoknil in It.foie retirin*^ » .'li PRESCOTTS 117 1. L 22i for the nic:ht. It was liard to liclitve tliat lli;it Imsv, active brain was still tor ever. AViiulridge went about his W(»rk that day like a man in a dream. He could not realize that there was no more a living presence in J)r. J'rescott's place, he could not accustom himself to the idea of his death. His thoughts dwelt morbidly on every turn their conversation had taken on that last evening ; he reproached himself for his hard plain dealing with the old man. He told himself that he ought to have had more respect for his age, that lu; should have been kind and gentle and considerate with his little weaknesses; he wished he hail performed each duty with more conscientious and unselfish care. It is ever so. There is no more perfect revenge than that which death takes for every hasty word or look, every neglected duty ; it comes back upon the living with relentless keenness. Yet Windridge had borne what few w^ould have borne ; in reality, he had nothing with which to reproach himself. The old Doctor's sudden death created a great sensa- tion in the neighbourhood. It had been known that he was far spent ; but death always conies with a shock. ', I- 1 ' ' ! ■ i ■; • 1 226 DORIS CIIEYNE. TliGj- talked low niid kindly uhout liim then, fnrcjottinj?, or at luast touchiii'^ very li;-;lilly on, the more riij^'i^ed points of his character; and recallin«,' and niiw^iiify- irg every deed wiiich had any claim to be called generous or good — a very ex([ui.site thing in our human nature, I think, and one which takes the sting and the bitterness away from death. Dr. Prescott had no living relatives, and it be- came a topic of much gossip and surmise how his means would be disi)oscd of. He had had few intimate friends, and it was generally supposed that the assistant would come in for a handsome share. Of late, especially, Dr. Prescott had spoken of Windridge to outsiders in very high terms. There were not wanting the usua. meed of envious jealous spirits, who remarked that Windridge knew what he was doing, and had played his cards well. Dr. Prescott had had no dealings with lawyers, and his affairs could not be meddled with until the return of the vicar, who was his sole executor. Windridge was in no haste to know anything about these affairs ; he was too genuinely troubled over the old man's sudden death to be even curious in the matter. He had a great deal to do, too, there Il I rKESCOTTS WILL, 227 } cjiIUmI in our lie 8tiii<,' , it be- how his iiul few sed that le share, oken of There jealous what he lawyers, intil the xecutor. YX about over the in the 0, there hcin'' no (iiic to niaki* anv anaii-'ciiK'nts fdr ilic funcial. The (iltl I )()ct(ir, wlio had jiiactiscd in (Jrasincri' tivc-and-forty years, was laid to rest in I hc( classic iiiuri'hyard, and was followed lo llie L;rave l»y a ^^icat uallierin;". AVindrid''e bein*' chief n)ourni'r. 'i'hcre was no one else to take the place, and jteoph' seeiiieil to ,L;iv«' way lo him, and to e.\|ie(i him to till llie place of a near relative. lie had tidc;4raphed {(» the vicar, and had received a rcjdy by lelicr on the niorninjjf of the funeral. it was cordial in its tone, and stated that he would return as early iis his family arran^L^^'Uients would permit, and coneluded by askin*'' AVindrid'-e to send liini fullest i)articulais at once. How dreary was the old house anujii^ the elms that night ! AVindridge fcit alone iind uii]iapj>y. lie thought it would be i)!ipossible for him to reiiiani withont conipanionslii]). He stayed in ihe library, and had his dinner served to him there, shriiddng from the idea of taking the familiar seat in the dining-room. Sti'ong man though he was, he could not bear the idea of the enijity chair! He occui)ied himself for a time by scanning the ccdumns of the Lancet, and then wrote out an advertisement for an r i 228 DORIS CHEYNE. assistant. That done, he sat down by the fire, and in spite of himself his thoughts began to shape towards the future. He could not help a thrill at his heart, for the chief barrier betwixt ^Ilriani Cheyne and himself was removed now. She had said that when his position was assured he might come back. He reproached himself for tliese thoughts, but they continued to intrude upon him. He rose and began to pace the room restlessly. He thought of the room up-stairs, of the bureau which contained the old man's papers. He felt annoyed that such a thing should occur to him, yet he thought of it more and more. How quickly he could end any suspense he might feel ! by one simple act he could learn all he might be interested to know. He grew excited. He called himself a fool, and even some harder names. He took down a book of solid literature, and tried to compel himself to read. But the letters danced before him, he saw only the bureau. He pictured each pigeon-hole with its document, which might be of so much importance to him. "VYindridge was an honest young fellow, but subject to temptation. He was fiercely tempted now, and had no special grace given him at the moment to resist it. He felt impelled PRE SCO TVS WILL, 229 towards tlie door ; lie ascended tlie stairs, slowly it must be told, but still ascended, and en'ered the master's room. Wo, did not even take tlie precaution to shut the door, and so niii^ht have been observed by the maids had they been about. But both were in the kitchen, discussing the events of the past days in low and depressed tones. Doubtless chanires were in store for them too. AVindridge { ^lened the desk without trouble, it being unlocked. Tlie first tiling he saw lying on the desk was a slieet of foolscap bearing tlic words, '■ William Prescott's Will.' Its contents were brief but unmistakalde enougli. After the mention of a few Ite^piests to servants and others, including two hundred pounds to the vicar for his trouble in acting as executor, it was conciselv and shortly stated that all means and properties of every kind whatsoever were unconditionally be- (j^ueathed to Gabriel Windridge. -^-^t tf^ ,n \l \ I I I i u f CHAPTEE XV. SYMPATHY. * Friendship, of itself an holy tie, Is made more sacred by adversity.* Dryden, Y dear "Windridge, I congratulate you. You deserve your good fortune. I am glad it has been all so satisfactorily settled, and the will proved in your favour. I was sometimes afraid the old man would change his mind. He was as capricious as a child.' So spoke the vicar in his genial, hearty way to the surgeon in the library of the Doctor's house on the evening of his return from abroad. He was a large- liearted, sympatlietic, truly lovable man, who in his daily walk fulfilled the Scripture behest, to rejoice with tliem that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep. 230 )ryden, te you. 1 am factorily I was nge his y to tlie on the a large- ) in his rejoice em that SYMPATHY. 231 He had a sincere respect for "Windiidge, and considered that his inheritance lioni Dr. I'lescott was no more than his due. 'Thank you, sir/ Siud AViudiidge quietly. He was not elated over liis good fuitune, the vicar thought, and hked hiiu all the better for liis regielful thoughts of tlie old man. *I would have been more than content with the practice and the house, ^Ir. Thorold/ he added by and l>y. 'I have no claim upon Dr. Trescoit. H we could find even a distant relative, I should be dad to L'ive it np.' 'My dear sir, your sentiments do you credit, but you can't set aside a document like this,' said the vicar, tappiug tlie will with his forefinger. 'And why should you not rejoice in it ? Accept your good fortune humbly, yet heartily, as a gift from God, and show your gratitude by enlargiug your good works. You have doue what you could with small means — nay, don't interrupt; [ hear of the good you do by stealth, and have loved you for it ; and surely the labourer is worthy <»f his hire.' 'I did not seem very much surjjrised when you told me the contents of the wib, Mr. Thorold, said ' I! fH ' i ji : I ;i * i: ii '}.i[ 232 DORIS CHEYNE, the surgeon rather shamefacedly. *I knew them already.' * Indeed ! Did Dr. Prescott tell you himself, then ? ' *No. He told me the night before his deatli where his papers were. In a weak and tempted moment I allowed myself to do a dishonourahle action, for which I sliall never forgive myself. I opened the bureau. It was not lockfast, of course, but I had no right with what it contained.' Windridge made his confession hesitatingly, yet with apparent relief. He hated himself for allowing temptation to overcome him so easily. The vicar sympathized with his keen feeling in the matter. He was not one to sit on a lofty height and judge a fellow-creature. He saw that the honourable nature of the young man had received a blemish from which it would be difficult to free himself. * It was a natural curiosity, perhaps, and we are all prone to temptation,' he said very kindly. * There has been no great harm done. Your action could not vex the dead or the living ; but it has hurt you, I see. Long may you retain that keen sensitiveness. It will be your safeguard in tlie hour of peril.* l.f \ A\ ni'-' i' SYMPATHY. tliem ' It was about the practice I was anxious, sir ; it was of vital moment to me that it should not be put past me/ said Windridge humbly. * I am glad I have told you the truth ; it has weighed upon me, making me a miserable man. I do not know how a human being can support the mental anguish necessarily entailed by the commission of actual crime.' * Ah ! there must be a hardening process first. The ladder leading down to gross sin is one of degrees of very shallow steps. The bottom is not reached by a single step. Lift up your head, man ! If I mistake not, this slight deviation from the most honourable path will be a solemn lesson. It will make a Hercules of you where temptation is con- cerned.' He held out his hand kindly. His heart was large, his soul luminous with human sympathy. It was not only his office, but his delight, to strengthen and comfort. Windridge gripped it firm it^nd fast in his, looked into the good man's face, and was comforted. * You say it was important that you should succeed to the practice,' said the vicar, with a twinkle in his eye. * Many little birds are flying in f ■? ^ ' i : 'I : II 1 P.f'T' 1 \ : V f |, ! 1 k m J '' , .1 ■ 1 ■1 i how iu wouUl biiL;liton tlie place ' It is true, sir/ Windridge answered, smiling too. * She is a beautiful girl. I hope she will make you l)a])py,' said tlie vicar, as he rose to go. Thinking over liis words afterwards, Windridge wondered a little at tlie form of his congratulation. Why liad he not expressed the hope that they would be- hjq)py together ? His inind somewhat relieved by the confession he had made to the vicar, Wind- ridge could now look a little ahead into the future winch had undergone so marvellous a change. He was a rich man, but he did not realize it. Care had been his companion so long — anxiety about sordid affiiirs had so long sapped the hearty springs of his youth, that he could not just at once believe that these buidens had rolled away from him for ever. It came upon him by degrees. I^erhaps the thing which brought it most strongly home to him was the treatment he received outside. There was a marked diflerence in the demeanour of the people towards him. He was met with cordiality and even warmth where he had formerly known only stiffness and cold SYMPATHY. 235 toleration. Gabriel "VViiidiidf,^- the assistant, and Gabriel Wiiidrid^e the sole heir and successor to Dr. Trescott, were two very different beings. These tilings amnsed Windrid^^e not a li^'le: but a certain bitterness mingled with that amusement. The world's homage was not for the man, but for his possessions. It loved not him, but wliat he had. He met their advances courteously, but coldly ; many remembered snubs and even insults were uppermost in his mind as their honeyed words fell upon his ears. Windridge was not in a hurry to go to Keswick. His finer instincts deterred him from wishing to acquaint Miriam Cheyne with his changed circum- stances. Doubtless they were all already acquainted with all tkat had befallen him. He would be in no unseemly haste to take advantage of his good fortune ; he would pay that respect to the memory of the old man. It being the beginning of winter, he was very busy professionally, and it was only when he had secured an efficient assistant towards the middle of December that he found breathing space. Seven weeks after the day of Dr. Prescott'3 funeral, on a fine frosty evening, "Windridge set out for Keswick, t; : f^ .1 236 DORIS CBEYNE. , . ! • K ;] He was in good spirits — nay, his heart was heating with hai)py exultation. He pictured Miriam, heauti- ful, queenly, gracious, reigning in tlie old house among the ehns, his wife, surrounded by every luxury and comfort, given to her by himself. It was a heart-stirring thought ; it quickened his pulses and made the blood flow faster in his veins. The town bells were ringing eight as he walked up the quiet street to Sunbury Villa. It was Doris who opened the door to him. And he thought her looking harassed and worn. She had not even a smile for him as she shook hands. * Dr. Windridge ! How are you ? Come in,' she said quietly, and took him into the dining-room. It was cold and cheerless, with one small lamp burning dimly on the table. Doris shut the door and asked him to sit down. ' You are all well, I trust ? * he said, depressed by his reception, by something in the atmosphere of the house. ' Yes, we are well. Mamma is prostrated by the shock. Of course you have heard ? * * Heard what ? ' ' That Miriam has left us.* SYMPATHY, ' Loft "OTi ! AVliero to go ? what to do ? ' askt'il WimlridLfe blanklv. 'All, that we do not know ! She left us two days ago. We have no ehie to her whereabouts.' Doris -saw the deep concern on the face of tlie surgeon ; liis eyes betrayed liis painful disapi)oint- nient. She thouuht it kind of him to be so interested in them ; they had now so few friends. She had heard of his good fortune, and had been glad for him. * Have you made no inquiries. Miss Doris ? Any- thing may have happened to lier. Why, sh'. might even be drowned in one of these treacherciis lakes/ he said hotly. Doris slightly smiled as she shook her head. ' Oh, no, she is not drowned. Miriam can and will be careful of herself. You may read this letter if you like. She left it for me.' As she spoke, Doris drew an envelope from her pocket and handed it to the surgeon. He tooK it eagerly, and devoured the contents, which were brief enough. ' My dear Doris,' it ran, * I have made up my mind to leave what is a losing concern, and try my fortune elsewhere. I think it better to go away M :H ■ I ■ ( -( n i (I At 1 1 , i : l^'. 1 f n; ' li > i9> i ; 'If '^ ' '' •mt 1. -ISkI' k 11 iffll' ^- 1 l!.i is ( 1:1 238 DORIS CIIEYNE. quiiitly, in order to uscii))c iimiiiiiiii's cuslomary fnss. Ynii iiccd not lui ill nil aiixiuiis ultoiit inc. ! am vny well able to take care oi' myself, and I am too iHoiid to do wroiiLi'. If I don't succeed, vou .shall never lieiir from nor see me again; l>ut if my lio[)e8 are realized, I hope to re])ay yon for the heavy share of the burden which is left to y(ai. Of course I know that now our mother will be de])endent upon yon. ]\Iy advice to yon is to give n[) the school, and let Josephine anil Kitty go out teaching. I cannot snggest anything for you, bnt I am not at all afraid. Yon can succeed when others would sink in despair. Don't think me very heartless. I am sick to death of this life, and if I have any talent, the sooner 1 tnrn it to acconnt the better. * MiKIAM ClIEYNE.' It was the letter of a selfish woman, the ontcomo of a thoroughly selfish heart. Windridge felt tliat as he folded it np. And now the bnrden lay njion the shonlders of the yonng frail girl before him ; his heart was filled with a vast compassion for her. If only he might ont of his own ample means offer her the help of a friend, bnt that he dared not do. SYMPATHY, 239 * Have you no idea where she has gone ? ' he asked. * Yes, I have. I think she has gone to London.' * What to do ? ' *To go upon the stage.' Windridge's face darkly clouded. That was a bitter moment for him. *My errand here to-night, Miss Doris, was to ask your sister Miriam to be my wife,' he said, impelled to give her his entire confidence. Doris winced, and even slightly shivered. She did not know why she should feel as if the darkest cloud of all had fallen upon her heart. It was only for a moment ; then, as ever, thought for others came to the front. She took a step nearer Wind- ridge, she laid her hand upon his arm. * Oh ! Dr. Windridge, if only you had been in time, she might not have gone away. Could you not bring her back ? I cannot bear the thought of the life she is seeking,' she cried, with great sad earnestness. *How much happier she would be with you ! ' * It will be no easy task to find her, I fear, Miss Doris, but I shall try,* Windridge answered ; and n ^ 240 DORIS CJIEYNE. % ||) W i i 11 i ^ ^ll : 11 1 : :' \[i : li ^^ 1 1 1" 1 1 w afjjain he was struck by sonu'tliini,' boiiutiful in tlio facii of iJuris Cheyne. It was tlie swuut, noble soul shinin'j; in her lustrous eyes. To be near her, to hear her s[)eak, was to feel the presence of a hauv^ better than himself, lie thought more kindly of her at that moment than of his absent love. * Tiumk you. I have such confidence in you, that I feel as if Miriam were safe already/ she said, with a ready smile. ' I have heard of your happy fortune, and was glad. Life should flow in pleasanter channels for you now.' ' I am at least freed from sordid cares, and that is much to be grateful for. They wear out the soul/ said Windridge. ' Ihit here this disappointment overtakes me at the very outset of my new life. It is hard to understand why we should be so tried.' 'We are only at school on earth, Dr. "Wind- ridge, and will have hard tasks set us to the end,' said Doris, with a slow, sad smile, which gave a pathetic curve to her grave mouth. * Some of us need harder discipline than others. Mine is a very stubborn will, but it is being subdued by degrees.' ' God bless and help you, Doris,' said Windridge fervently, from the bottom of his heart. Ho was ill tli(» l)lu soul lier, lo ' of liur oil, that id, witli fortune, easaiiter that is 10 soul,' lintmeiit ife. It ied; Wind- he end/ gave a e of us 3 a ^'ely roes.' ind ridge He was SYMPATHY. 241 de;f' ,1,:. h 'm 243 DORIS CHEYNE. and the girls wlicn they get settled. God will not let us be utterly cast down. I can still trust.' * Miss Doris, I am a rich man. Let mc help you. What is the use of money except to help those we love ? ' said Windridge earnestly. Doris was grateful, but shook her head. * We are already indebted to IVIr. Hardwicke ; I would prefer not to incur uny new obligations, even to you, who are so truly our friend. But I promise you that we will not suffer. I will come to you, if necessary, for Miriam's sake.' She said the last words in a whisper, finding them reluctant to come. Why, she could not tell. With that Windridge was obliged to be content. But as he rode along the bleak road through the mountains that night, his thoughts were wholly of Doria Cheyue, ill not Ip you. LOse we ■.■ ■!. If i (- . icke ; I IS, even promise I you, if ig them content. .iers. Her very name seemed to be forgotten in the Jace. Nevertheless, her lieart clung to the familiar scenes, and she had at length decided to winter in Keswick, if she could find a suitable abode. (»)uite by accident, Doris had heard her in a stationer's shop one day inquiring whether there were any furnished houses to let for the winter months. The man had given her a list, but after looking over it sh had said none of them would rr.m singular ; on no it. Sli(i Tail's now nt action, one else, lin^iilarly childless husband er health e in the itly con- ill within ;k to find led to be er heart at length d find a ad heard whether le winter )ut after n would ' (' i> 253 i ^ i