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IfiilL-L-IHTVT BRIGGS

29-33 Richmond Street West,
30-36 Temperance Street,

TORONTO, ONT.

DOEIS GHEYNK

Zbc Slors ot a IRoblc Xttc

;^' %

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 !

:i U 1 0 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?

MI. AN OFFER OF MAKRIAUK,

IV'. A DARK IIOI R, .

V. OABiMKL WINDRIIJGE, ,

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,

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 ■ '

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

DOA'/S CIIEYNE.

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.

usriU'irAKi-.n.

AfhT that ju'iii'traliiiL,' look Mi'. INnt'oM (ImpiMMl
Ill's «'ves on iIh; taltlf, and li(lu»'t»'<l willi tiii'j;('r and
lliunilt ainonj; (•< rtain dociinifnt.-i l}in^ thort'oM.
Tliu task Itcforo liiiii was not plcasatit; slmswd,
liard-licadtMl man of l»usini'ss tlioiii^di ln^ was, .Tacol)
IVnfold at that nionicnt wislicd liinisclt' a thonsand
inihis away from tlio Swallows' Xcst.

* Did Itobert apeak much of his aflairs before he
died, Mrs. Chcyno ? ' he asked at len,L,'th.

'Dear nu?, no ! Von n<'e(l scareely ask. It was
all so dreadfully sudden. J low eould he have any
time to speak or think of wills or sueh thing's; a
man in t..e j)rime of life, and who never had a day's
illness in his life { IJut, of course, he always
intended that I should ^'et every thiniL,'. Ves, he
iiud every contidenee in me, and we were very
happy,' said Mrs. Cheyne, and her tears fell afresh.

Mr. Tenfold fidgeted yet more nervouslv with the
papers on the table. 1m what words, lie wondtaed,
bhould he acM[uaint this unconscious, self-satislied
woman with the stern fact that her future, instead
of bein;j:, as she fondly imagined, one of case and
allluence, must be darkened immediately by the
shadows of poverty and care ?

^ \

lilt'

I i

i'l

;j!'!

I t

DORIS CHEYNE.

' You are not aware, then, that lie speculated
largely during the last years of his life?* he askid
gravely.

'No; I knew nothing alxnit Robert's business
affairs. ITe never troubled me witli them. It was
his constant aim to keep me in ease and freedom
from care. He was indeed the best of husbands.'

Emily Cheyne was sincere in the tribute she paid
to her dead husband. He had indeed sheltered and
cared for her very tenderly. Had he been less
solicitous for her absolute ease, she miglit have been
better prepared for her fallen fortunes.

' May I ask your attention for a few minutes,
Emily, while I endeavour to explain this unhappy
business to you as simply as possible ? ' said the
lawyer, in his calm, grave, professional manner.
Arrested by his words and looks, Mrs. Cheyne dried
her eyes, and fixed them, in soft bewillerment, on
his face. Mr. Tenfold did not like that look ; tliere
was no strength of character, no firnniess of will in
it. He feared the result of the communication he
was about to make.

'You know well enough, I think,' he began, 'that

I never approved of Hubert retiring from business in

UNPREPARED.

1.^

Ill's primo. A man who lias boon loni,' arcnstonit'd
lo an active life cannot live in idle soclnsion. Kit her
he must .i^et some enfjjrossini:^ hobby to rido, or he
will fall into mischief. I am sorrow to sav, that
the dcMiinii of speciil.'ition — it is notliin<( less — rjot
possession of Kobort; and to my certain knowledge,
he risked his means often in a foolish and wicked
manner. I fre([nently remonstrated with hiin, but
it was of no avail. Yon know that he was a man
who would have his own way, who would go the full
length of his tether, if I may so put it. That was
his weakness.'

^frs. Choyne drew herself up a little, resenting the
tone in which the lawyer spoke of her late husband.

* I really don't know what yrtu mean by all this
tirade against my dear husband, Mr. Tenfold,' she
said stillly. * On the very day of the funeral, too !
It is as extraordinary as it is unkind.'

' T am trying to pr('])are you for what I have to
tell you, Emily,' said tlie lawyer (piietly. ' I suppose
I had better out with it plainly, or you will not
understand me. Briefly, then, liobert's death is a
greater calamity even than you have imagined, for
he has left next to nothing. It will be impossible

■t?'

li^

DORIS CHEYNE,

tor you to live in anytliini^' like tlic style to which
you hiive liecni aeeustonied.'

As he spoke he ulaneed su<i;i(estively round the
handsomely - furnislied room in which they stood.
It was the lihiaiv of tlie house, and contained not
only expensive t'uniilnre, hut a lar*,'e Jind valuahle
collection of luxtks. h'ohert Chevne had had his
fine tastes ; well toi- the helpless women he had left
had he been content with these.

' There must be some mistake,' said Emily Cheyne
ir.credulouslv. * liohert made a cjreat deal of money
in business ; quite a fortune in fact, and he bought
the Swallows' Xest. It is impossible that his money
can be all Lione already. We have been only six
years here ; we came on Ttose's eleventh birthday,
and she will be sixleen next week.'

' It is (piite true, Emily. I only wish it were
less so. These rash speculations on the Stojk
Exchan.n'e have not only swallowed up the hj<rd-
won earnings of a lifetime, they have cost him
his life. There cannot be a doubt that anxiety
uiidermined his constitution, and prepared the way
for the shock under which he succumbed. Don't
think me harsh and cruel, Emily. I do feel for

UNPREPARED.

VMii ; l)ut I cjiniiot liol]) my indignation at Ikoliort's
fully.'

' "What are we to do, Uncle Tenfold ? Explain it
again,' said Mrs. Clieyne very pitifully. She had
received a great shock.

' You'll need to leave this place, and your girls
will need to turn their hands to work. It will he
their duty and privilege now to make yon feel the
difference as little as possihle.'

' Is it so bad as that ? Are we beggars, Uncle
Penfold ? '

* After all just claims are settled, there will be
very little left,' answered the lawyer candidly.

' But there is the house. IJobert paid tliree
thousand pounds for it. If we sell it, that will
be something,' said the widow eagerly.

Mr. Penfold shook his head.

' It is no longer yours, Emily. I question if ev(»n
you will be allowed to claim the furniture.'

* This is terrible!' said Emily Cheyne, with a kind
of wail. * What is to become of us ? '

* You must not despair, Emily. There are five
strong young women up-stairs who ought to, and I
would fain hope will, bear tlie burden for you/ said

\% i

DORIS CIIEYNR.

llio lawvor practically. * They will have a chnnce
now to redeem the time, and to make jijood account
of the means their father spent so lavishly on their
education and accomplishments. There are many
who have less to fall back upon.'

Mrs. Cheyne wrung her hands. No face ever
wore a more pitifully helpless expression than hers
(lid at that moment.

' You are quite sure there is no mistake, Uncle
Tenfold ?'

' I only wisli I were less sure,' was the grave
reply. ' I need not assure you, Emily, that you may
rely upon any assistance I may have it in my power
to oifer you. I am not a rich man. I have pur-
sued my business in the old slow beaten tracks where
no fortunes are made. But I will do my best for
you. I must return to London to-n>.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

UNPRF.rARED.

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

\A\

\M\

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-

UNPREIWRED.

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

Hll

I \

l:i

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.

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

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

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.

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

»!;

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lii

fill*

DORIS CUEYNE,

( I

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

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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.

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.*

» 1

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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

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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

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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

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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?

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,

\ .

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?

, 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?

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

I t

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f A

DORIS CIIEYNE.

I i

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.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 an<l
privile'^G to make; ??ic feel this calamitv as little as
possible. He said as much as that your father had
invested money in your education, and that you would
turn it all to account,' she said mournfu/'^". 'I only
hope he may be right.'

' It was wicked of papa to treat us so,' said Miriam,
turning round suddenly, lu^r fine eyes Hashing as if a
whirlwind of passion had swept over her. * He
])r()Ught us up like ladies. How did he suppose we
could accommodate ourselves to poverty on a moment's
notice, when we had no preparation for it ? Yes, I
say it was wicked and heartless.'

'Well, when you look at it in that way, it does

I. ai

WHAT IS TO liECOME Of V^l

sccin liiiid,' assented Mrs. Clieyne. ' l^.iit I tlaresiiy
your |MM(r lather did not furusue the conseiinences.
N(» donltl lie nieiint \\A\!

' All the Siinie, irr have to snIVer, and \v<' have done
nothing,' to deserve it,' said Miriam hotly and Itillerly.
' I say it was a cruel shame. ilci oii^ht to jiave had
some eonsidenilion for us.*

'Oil, how can von sav such thiiiLrs ? ' ciied 1 )oiis in
a stille<l, indi,L,Miant voice, and coming- hack to the
middle of the room. Kverv one looked at her in
suritrise. Her face was Hushed, her hands trend)lin,i,',
her heantiful eyes llashini^' tire.

f V

You have no ri^ht to speak like that of \a\

)a.

i\ririam. I wonder you do not sink with shame even
to think such things. Whatever we do, we dare not
hlame him. All he did was out of love; for us We
can never have a friend who will he more to us, or
love us as he did.*

' Really, you are quite uielodramatio, ])oris,' said
]\liiiam with a slight sneer, and returned to her
contemplation of the tire. Doris had silenced her,
for the time at least.

* Well, what would you sug<4est that we should do,
Doris ? Have you an opinion ? " asked ^Irs. Cheyne,

; 1

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ililij'!

DOJ^/S CHEYNE.

languidly smoothing the crape on her dress. The
others waited anxiously for Doris's answer, it was so
unusual for her to intrude her opinion, or to have
anything to say on any subject.

* Whatever we do, mamma, we must not cast any
reflection on lus memory,' said Doris, in a sharp
quivering voice, for she still smarted under the sting
of Miriam's uittcr words. * Let us all cling together,
and do the best we can, and love each other, as he
would like us to do. If only we are in earnest, the
way will be opened up, and we need not be badly off
at all.'

' That's right, Doris. I believe you have all the
grit,' cried Kitty in honest admiration. * I believe
youll put us all on the right track, after all.'

' Let us hear what you would have us do ? Of
course you have some practical suggestion to make ? '
said Miriam, looking round with cold inquiry on
Doris's face.

But Doris had had her say, and immediately shrank
into herself. Indignation at any aspersion cast on
the memory of the father she had so p»assionately
loved had roused her for tlie moment, and revealed
something of that inner nature of which they knew

e?'
on

lied
levv

PV//AT IS TO BECOME OF USt

nothing. She mude no reply, but crept away out of
the room, and oblivious of the chill November air,
stole out into the gathering darkness of the night.

When she was gone, the rest gathered themselves
close about the hearth, and tried to face the reality
of the misfortunes which had come so unexpectedly
and ruthlessly upon them. But all their talk was to
no practical end, and constantly reverted to the hard-
ship of their position, and unavailing regrets over the
happy past.

Doris had not gone many steps across the park
when Mr. Penfold, returning from his stroll, caught
sight of her among the leafless trees. He followed
her, and came upon her leaning with her arms on a
stile which separated their grounds from the rugged
slope of Nab Scar.

* My dear,' he said very gently for him, * you will
catch your death of cold ; let me wrap this round
you.' He took his muffler from his own neck and
put it about her head and shoulders, and as he looked
into the pale, dark face, and saw the strange look in
her eyes, he felt himself moved in no ordinary way.
He had never paid much attention to the women of
Eobert Cheyne's household. He knew them all by

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DORIS CIIEYNE,

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Ill

name, Init soiiietiines confused tlieir individualities,
and often felt [•lad that lie liad no sucli enfunibranees
and responsibilities, liut just at that momeiit he
wondered that he had never before been struck by
Doris's appearance.

Doris sliivered at liis toueli, l)ut lier Icjok was
grateful, and wlien she spf)ke lier voice shook.
'Uncle Pent'old, 1 am very niis(n-able.'
' Yes, my detir. I know.' Jle i)atted her iirni as if
she had b(K'n a little child, and tlie touch soothed
her. * I am vei'y sorry for you all. It is a great
trouble.'

* It is not that, Uncle Tenfold. It is the way
they speak about him,' said Doris reljclliously.
' When I hear them, and thiidv of all he was to us
— of his goodness and unseUislmess — I cannot bear
it ; I cannot, indeed.'

* Try to be gentle with them, Doris. It is a great
shock to lliem all. Tliey are hardly responsible for
anything they may say,' said the lawyer soothingly.

It was carious that he should speak to her as if
she were not one of them, almost ns if she were an
outsider like Idmself. He honoured her for her
loyalty to the memory of her father.

I if'

WHAr IS TO BECOME OF US'i

'You must not dwell on these little things, Doris,
because you have a great deal before you. If I am
not mistjiken, you will have mucli to do witli the
future of your mother and sisters. Your father used
sometimes to speak of his girls to me. Doris, I have
lieard him say that there were great possibilities in
your nature. Perliaps, wlio knows, this may have
come to help you to fulfil the })urpose of your life.'

Doris said nothing, but her eyes grew less troubled,
a look of peace stole into her face.

' I did not think of tliat, Uncle Penfold. Perhaps
you are right.'

* It is r great thing to have a purpose in life,
Doris. If it be a noble one, we are ennobled by it,'
said tlie old man, and then he saw a liglit kindle in
the girl's eve. She turned to him, and with an
impulsive movement laid her hand on liis arm.

' If I have a purpose in life. Uncle Tenfold, I
cannot be poor. Perhaps that is the legacy he left
me.'

•'1.

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CHAPTER IIT.

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.

'Auld Robin Gray.*

i !

Hi ^

|;ELL, Emily, I have only to repeat what I
said last night. If I can be of any use
to you, pray command me,' said Mr.
Penfold next morning after breakfast. *Have you
formed any plans ?*

* Not yet, — we are so stunned by the suddenness
of the shock, that we cannot all at once compose our
minds to the consideration of practical details.*

* There can be only one course open to us as gentle-
women. Uncle Penfold,' said Miriam's clear cool voice.
* We must open a school somewhere, and starve upon
the proceeds. Probably we shall come to London,
We can at least hide our poverty there.'

* I would not advise you, my dear. I would not

I''

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.

iidvise you/ said j\Ir. Penfold quickly. ' There is no
room there. The market is overstocked, and with-
out influence it is impossible to succeed. You would
do better in a country town. Is there no opening
in the neighbourhood V

' We shall not seek it/ Miriam answered decisively.
' Wherever we go, it must be where we are not knowri.
Don't you think we shall have enough to bear with-
out the sympathizing contemptuous pity of those who
were proud of our acquaintance ? No, thank you.'

* You are quite right, I think, Miriam/ Josephine
acquiesced languidly.

' I don't/ said Kitty honestly. * When people
know our circumstances, we shall be saved answering
uncomfortable questions. I think it would be a very
good thing if we could get something to do where we
are known/

' I shall be on the look-out,' said the lawyer kindly.
' I suppose you will stay here for a few weeks at
least. In the meantime I must go. Good-bye to
you all. But where is Doris ?'

* I think she is dressing to walk part of the way
with you, uncle/ said liosie ; and just then Doris
appeared attired for her walk.

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DORIS CHEYNE.

(Ij;! ■,!

W
m.

! nil ,

This little attention pleased the old man, iind he
looked at tlie slight figure and the dark sad face
with a very kindly eye.

lie bade tlieni all good-ltye, and followed Doris
out of doors, almost witli a feeling of relief.

' It is a fine morning, my dear,' he said quite
pleasantly. ' 1'he jiir is so much clearer and fresher,
and the mists are all gone from tlie hills.'

* Yes, and the sun will strike on Nab Scar pre-
sently, and make the lake like gold,' said Doris,
with a slight smile. 'Uncle Tenfold, I lo not know
how I shall ever feel at home away from these
mountains.'

'We are creatures of habit, my dear,' said the
lawyer cheerfully. ' Tlie secret of contentment is
work. When you begin to work in earnest, you will
cease to fret for what you have lost, and you will
come sometimes for a p'^ep at your old haunts ; and
though the familiar scenes will warm your heart, you
will not be tormented by any longing for the old
life. I am quite sure, Doris, that such will be your
experience. You are what I call a woman above the
average.'

Doris smiled again, but slightly shook her head.

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AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.

' I have tiiought a gi 2at deal about what you said
to me last night, Uncle Tenfold, and now I see things
so differently. I feel quite strong and brave for the
future, and though I do not know in what way I
shall be able to help, I am certain I shall know when
the time comes. You are quite sure that if we are.
truly earnest in seeking our duty or life-work, it will
be revealed to us ?'

She spoke the last words with a touch of wistful-
ness, and her fine eyes looked into his face with
eager questioning.

* My dear, I am quite sure of it,' he said, touched
by that look. It was a new experience for this
shrewd, silent, self-contained man to be called upon
to consider the awakenings of a young soul.

' But why do you say you do not know how you
shall be able to help ? Are you not accomplished
like your sisters?'

* Oh no. I cannot paint or sing or play upon
the pianoforte. I do not even know how to make
myself agreeable. I have always been a burden to
myself and others. But I think papa knew, at least
he loved *• —

Her voice shook, and a silence fell upon them,

i
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DORIS CJIEYNE,

llii;

"V'

v.'Iiich was unbrokon till tliey hud reaclK3(l the high-
way, and tmiiud their fact's toward.^ Ambleside.

* I'll tell you what you can do, ])oris,' said the
lawyer at length. ' You can be a tower of strength
to them all. You can be courageous when they are
down-hearted ; and I am sure you will be able to be
useful in many (dher ways, which will be revealed
to you when you are waiting and looking for
them.'

* Miriam and Jose])hine are highly accomplished,
and so is Kitty, and I am sure the children would
love her, she is so good-natured. If only we had an
opening, I think they would be very successful.'

* I am sure of it. There is another thing, Doris ;
at first, of course, you will require to be economical.
It might be your duty to turn your attention to
housework, and so save the expense of a domestic'

Doris shook her head. The prospect did not
charm lier. She had all a young girl's ardent long-
iigs after the noble and grand in life. It takes a lot
of sjul-training to convince us of the heroism and
beauty of ' the daily round and common task.' Doris
Cheyne had not reached that lieight.

'There is another thing I should like to speak

AN O/'/'EK 01 MARRIAGE,

5»

about, Doris,' siiid the lawyer presently. 'Ho yoii
think liosamond would eonu; and live with luc V

' Live with you, Uncle Tenfold V

'Yes. It would niak(} one less to be ])rovided for.
I am not a rich man, and I cannot offer her anythiuii
very fine. ]>ut 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

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5»

JJORJS CIIEYNE.

hiilj) to licr, lu', li;i(l sli<nvii her iiiimy possil)ilities, but
Doris (lid not know wliiit a ru^r^fcd and jminful patli
lay lu.'foru her. She had often felt the emptiness of
her life, she had chafed in the pleasant idleness of
her home, she hjid lonnjed for action, in a word, for a
more purposeful life, instinct with worthy aims. It
had come to her then quite suddenly, and now,
instead of stagnation, there was so much to do, it
was not easy to know how or where to begin. But
her heart beat, her pulses thrilled, her whole being
responded to the call. Doris Cheyne was ready for
her lifework, anxious to take it up, and to go through
with it nobly, when it should be revealed. She
knew little of the world, nothing of the sorrows of
life. She had yet to learn that the cross is before
the crown, that no deep satisfaction or satisfying joy
can be won except through pain. It remained to be
seen bow Doris would come out of the ordeal, what
strength for the battle lay hid in her soul. She did
not hurry back to the Svvallows' Nest that morning.
The air was sweet and invigorating, the subdued
glow of the winter sunlight, glinting on hill and dale,
vHoi>thed her; she loved to stand by the parapet of
the <»ld bridge, and watch the lovely shadows in the

AN OFFER OF MARRTACn.

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

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.S4

DORIS CHEVNR.

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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,

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-

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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 th<i
same puzzled expression on her face.

* Of course I am. I got mamma's quilling. I
hope it is right. I don't know anything about such
things/

So saying, Doris ran up-stairs, and entered the
drawing-room. The busy hum of talk instantly
ceased, and she became conscious that they were all
looking very intently at her. Her mother's face was
slightly flushed, and wore a pleased, animated ex-
pression.

* Come and kiss me, Doris. My child, a gleam of
light has shone through the gloom. Your future,
at least, is happily assured.'

Doris looked mystified, but drew off her gloves,
and, coming to her mother's side, kissed her
cheek.

* I got your quilling, mother. They had no other
kind/ she said, opening the small paper parcel she
had in her hand. ' It was two shillings for that
piece. Is it right ? '

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.

* Never miixd it just now. Did you meet any one
in the avenue, Doris ? '

* Yes ; Mr. Hard wick e. Why do you ask, mamma?'
Miriam laughed, shrugged her shoulders, and

turned away to the window. She was especially
struck by Doris's plain, unprepossessing appearance.
Her walk had given her no colour, and the big hat,
heavily trimmed with crape, seemed to add a darker
tinge to her sallow face.

* "What did Mr. Hardwicke say to you, Doris ?
Anything particular, my dear ? ' asked Mrs. Cheyne,
with a little coquettish gesture.

'Nothing, mamma, except that it was a fine morn-
ing. Why do you ask ? ' asked Doris, not curiously,
but with a certain slow surprise.

* Did he make no reference to his erra-nd here this
morning ? '

*No,' answered Doris reflectively. *0h, I re-
member though, he told me you v/ould acquaint me
with his hopes. What did he mean ? Why should
we speak about him at all ? Why should he come
here ? We do not like him. He is not a true friend
like Uncle Penfold.'

* Hush, Doris, you have no right to speak so dis-

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DORIS CIIEYNE,

ij III

>li::;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,

* 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

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W'\

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,

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

;

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

li'

t I.

nOR/S CIIEYNF.

[ <Hi>

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.

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 :

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DORIS CJJEYNE.

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' 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.

' 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

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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

< !

}

A DARK HOUR.

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

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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.

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.

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

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A DARK HOUR,

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

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>,' ;

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,

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|iv^^^

CHAPTER V.

GABRIEL WINDKIDGE.

* There was soint'thin<,' of the sea about him,
SoiiK'thin^i^ open, generous, and strong.*

[ISS DOliIS, wliy are you here so late ?

Have you "been at the service ? '

* No ; I came a little while ago. I

am going homo now,' she answered in a grave, quiet,

still voice. * Have you been in the church ? '

'No. I was passing, and came in before they

slnit the gates. I cannot realize that he is lying

here, Miss Doris,' returned Gabriel Windridge gently.

* Come, we must go now.'

Doris turned with him at once. The kind tones

of his voice soothed her. She felt towards him as

she might have felt towards a brother.

' How did you come ? Are they waiting to drive

vdu home ? *

I d\

I
I

DORIS C7/EYNE,

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' No ; I WMlkcd down. No oiu; knows whore I am.
I will j^o home now. Cjood-nij^dit, Dr. Windiidge.*

' Nol yet. Von will let me drive you. I can get
a tly in a few minutes.'

* No ; I {ihall walk. Oood-night, Dr. Windridge,*
Doris rej)eated, and offered liim her hand.

He took it, and drew it through his arm.

* Then 1 must take you home. Hush ! not a
word. Do you think I could let Ids daughter walk
that long darksome road nlone, and on such a night ? '

J)oris felt her eyes fill. His voice and manner
were indescrihahly gentle and kind; she felt at home
and even hap})y in his care. It renunded her of
what had been hers, liobert Cheyne had always
been very gentle with his shy, proud, reticent girl,
who none but himself understood. Gabriel Wind-
ridge remembering it, did not marvel that she should
be stunned by the shock of his sudden death.

' It is hard to think we shall see him no more
here, Miss Doris. I understand and sympathize with
you. I loved him too,' he said.

* Do you think you shall see him again anywhere.
Dr. Windridge ? ' Doris asked abruptly.

*I hope and believe it, if I so live, that I may

GABRIEL WINDRWGE.

join liiin wluae he now is,' answcriHl \\\(\ siirLfcoii
rcverciiitly.

* IV'oplo tiilk a great deal about iiuseting tliose
tlu^y liave lost. To me it is only to.lk. How can wo
know or be certain ? The only thing we do know is
that tliey have left us, and that we cannot see or
follow them/ Doris said l»itterly.

* I understand how you feel. I have gone through
it all. I buried my mother twelv^e months ago, an»l
she was the last.'

' Have you no relatives left ? '
' Not one.'

* I envy you. Ilelatives are not always a blessing.
Sometimes they hinder any good we might do.
Often they make the path of duty so hard, that it is
impossible we can follow it.

The surgeon was silent, wondering what she could
mean. That she spoke of herself, he kmnv by the
bitterness of her tone. He pitied her very much.
Life would be hard for her now, as those find it who
cannot walk the beaten track. Doris would seek to
carve a way for herself — no easy task.

They were silent as they walked quickly along the
sheltered road skirt in* ^ the edi»e of Grasmere Lake.

t
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DDK IS CHEYXE,

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!!':;

'I'licy ('(Mild iiol Slit; it, l'(ir tln' (hikiicss nvms intense;
only I hose, laniiliai' willi (he way citiil 1 have walkcil
uilh (!<)nli(l(!nc'i3.

' Miss Doris, in a lew weeks you will see thin,i;.s
(lirierently. Tlie keen edi^x; will wear away from
your sorrow, and ' —

'I do noL wish it to wear oH',' interrupted Doris
(juickly. * Do you thiidv it would Ixi haj^piness for
me to forget liim, or to think less regretfully of the
past when he was with me? AVhen 1 hear ])eoplo
say time will heal, and other dreary jjlatitudes, I can
scarcely he still. To me it is cruel, hard, uuL^rateful.
Why should we make it the aim of our lives to for^Lj^ct
those we have laid in the urave ? It is a poor return
for their love, if thev loved us.'

Gahriel AVindridLie ditl not know what to say.
The girl's soul was writhing with pain ; her whole
heing was stirred. But his silence was sympathetic,
as is the silence of some, and it comforted Doris not
a little. It was a relief to her to speak, althougli
she was not aware of it ; her need of liuman
sympathy had become so gicat that she could no
Ioniser do witliout it. And (lahritd AVindrid-'c liad
been her father's friend.

GABRIEL WINDRJJyaE.

'Miss Doris,' lio said, ami liis voice' was vc^ry
j,'eiitli; and true, ' I wisli I could \w\\^ you. My
heart is sore Icr you.'

'You do hull) \\\ii\ you hjved hiiu,' crii.'d Doris
inipulsivoly. * Dr. Wiiidrid^'o, will ;;'ou tell mo
V hilt is the ri.^lit tiling for me to do ?'

Slie was moved to <,dve him lier entire con-
fidence; she could not fi;^lit the battle alone;
she was not strong nor brave enough yet to decide
for herself in this crisis. Terhaps her choice of
a confidant was a stranger one, but Doris nad no
friends. Till now she had never felt the ueed
for any.

And her father had loved Gabriel Windridge.
She had heard him '^"," that, had God given him a
son, he could have wished him to be like Gabriel
Windridge. These things Doris Cheyne treasured in
her heart, a^id because of them Gabriel Windridge
would henceforth be singled out from the world as
one deserving oi confidence and esteem.

' I have a decision to make before to-morrow. Dr.
Windridge. They tell me my duty is clear, but T
cannot see it yet. My mother says I need not
sacrifice myself, but the very tone of her voice tell8

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.i'^>,!

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.

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.

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;

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

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

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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?'

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])('id<iil»le satisfaction to me if 1 liave hocn of
tlie slightest use to you. We are sometinu's very
de[)endont on sympathy.'

*I tliink we must l)e. I did not know until
to-day,' Doris answered, and still 'iigered as if loth
to "0. She was thinkinif of tliose in the liouse ;
pictiiring her mother's expression wlion she should
hoar the final decision.

' I am. selfish, k(!eping you from tliose who may
need you,' slu; said at longtli. Then they shook
liands and parted.

If Doris had received the benefit of help and
sym})athy from Gabriel Windridge, slie had awakened
in Y^w a new vein of tliought. She had roused his
interest not oidy in herself, but in some of the
])r<'b]rnis of 'ife. Of late be had given liiniself up
whol'y o bis passional (' admiration and love for

GABRIEL WINDRIDGE,

J.Iiriara ClieyiK; ; he liad thoiiglit of hei' imcensinoly
by day., and dreamed of Iier by night. A great writer
has said that an absorbing love is a purifying and
ennobling influence, but it seems to me tliat it
depends for these attributes upon its object. If we
fix our hearts upon wliat is shallow and ini-insically
worthless, our natures must suffer deterioration. So
was it with Gabriel AVindridge. ]\firirtfli <Jhevne
was a beautiful woman, l)ut her mind was the k*)me
of selfish, frivolous, ambitious aims. She ■eaMved
a man not by his moral worth, but by thf iia^ii ii.u^sle'
of his possessions, by \\\^ worldly status. Jje Ja^r
eyes there could be no virtue m poverty ; k wm m-
crim.e. Had she been a legislntor, she wooU fcaeve
supported rigorous measures for the suppression of
pauperism. She could forgive anything in a man
but shabby clothes and empty pockets.

She was also avai icious. She liked to save money,
perhaps because its possession meant power. It
must not be supposed, however, that she mtruded
these opinions, or suffered them to make her disagree-
able in her intercourse with others. On the contrary,
she had the reputation of l)eing charmin'^' and
amial)le as well as beautiful. Her manner was

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I 'I!''

noias CUEYNE.

ii.i

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Mil'

perfect in its graciousiicss ; her voice was always
sweet ; she couhl (iven be humhle wlieii she saw
occasion, tliougli at heart she had the pride of a
queen. But she was one of tliose women wliose
sr-iiles are sekhjni seen at home. She was feared
rather than loved by her sisters; even her mother
stood in [iwe of her.

Perhaps Doris was less timid than tlie rest, and
the time had now come when two strong wills would
clash. Hitherto Doris, her father's close companion,
had lived very much outside of her sisters' lives.

Gabriel VViiidridge thought more or Doris than of
Miriam as he walked through the rain to Grasmere.
He was sur})rised to hear of Hardwicke's proposal.
Doris was not a woman to attract by her beauty.
He wondered what such a man saw to make her
desirable as a wife. She was not only plain, but
inexperienced. In some things she thought as a
school-girl^ in otheis as a woman of deep knowledge
and wide sympdlhy. The surgeon felt that she was
not an ordinary woman ; ehe interested him in spite
of himself, lie could not lielp looking ahead, and
trying to picture her future. Her confidence in him
touched him ; it also llattered liim, though he was

.,:.., ^-

GABRIEL VVINDMDGE.

not a vain man. "\Vc like to be • trusted ; it makes
us feel satisfied with ourselves ; if confidenee be-
stowed makes us strive to be more worthy of it, then
it has fulfilled its chief end.

AV^indridge was still thinking of Doris, puzzling
himself over the course she would be likely to
pursue, when he found himself at the gate of ])r.
Prescott's house. He entered by the surgery dooi',
and there being no message for him, he took oil" his
boots and went to the dining-room. Windridge's
position in Grasmere was not altogether pleasant.
For attendance upon the majority of the old man's
patients he received the sum of sixty pounds a year,
with board in the house. He never complained,
but he did not feel at home in the house. Dr.
Prescott was a bachelor, and his servants, who had
grown grey in his service, regarded the assistant as
one of themselves. They accorded him scant enough
courtesy, and any extra attention he required was
grudgingly bestowed. The master was to blame for
tliat. He kept his assistant at arm's-length ; he gave
him a seat at his board and by his hearth, but
showed him the gulf between them. The servants
took their cue from him. Wiinh-idge had \wy\\ vvilli

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DORIS CHliYA'E.

iiiii) f'o- ( wo years, .'111(1 diii-iiiL;- tlial tiino liad Ixtnic
himself as a ,L;ent.luiiiaii sIkuiM. J)r. Trescott was a
liard mail, and also of a jcnlous, narrow iiiiiid. He
knew liis assistant to be a man of jutlu'inent and skill
in his profession, and he saw him winniiii^^ golden
opinions on every hand. That lie could not forLjive.
He had all the vaniiv of ai^e, whieli, when meanly
dis])layed, is more j-itiahle and saddciiini^ than the
Vanity of youth. We smile at yonnj:]^ ponfident
conceits, knowing years will hring a clearer vision.
l»nt there is no ho])e foi' a vain, self-glorified old age.
Dr. Prescott was now in his seventieth year. He
had been a fine-looking man in his day, but his tall
figure wns r,">w 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,

' 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.

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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<IEI. WLWDRIDGE.

liinj;luMl at him, and said \ didn't ihink you were
such a fool.'

Windiid'4o reddened a'^ain, and threw down the
paper.

'What rij^dit lias Hardwicke or any oilier man to
come here gossi[)ing about mc?' he exehunu'd hotly.
'Next time I see him I'll Lell him Lo mind his own
])usiness.'

* No, you won't,' chuckled tlio old Doctor. ' It's
true, I see. You arc a fool, Wind ridge ! What can
you marry on ? *

'Time enough to ask me that, sir, wlien I intend
marriage — that is, if it is your business,' retorted the
young man, still angrily.

'They've lost all their money, too, it seems. I
hope you've not committed yourself. It isn't easy
crying oil' from a woman. She is generally so wide-
awake to her own interests.'

Windridge was silent, being too indignant to
speak.

'Hardwicke seems to take a profound interest in
these people. I shouldn't l)e a bit astonished now,
though the mother slioidd marry him one of these
days. Where are you ott' to ? '

\ \

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. USM

(716) S73-4S03

!!{ 1

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!>:

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'

ili.

•4 1 11 '

I -1^

t"f

I. , i

ill

m !!

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.

'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,

;i !!,

I .

M«

Illjl

DORIS CJIEYNE,

'i '
I?

y'.i

Iwi

iWili ^

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,

I do now, and for the niolivos wliicli von nr^c, no

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

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.

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

struggle enough in all likelihood to sujtpoit those

ho are working ; then there is mamma.

*n »

ill!

:t'l ;l

iiy.'

h'< i

til

9 ..■

't 1 ,'

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

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,<i;. Her motives for wishing Doris to
marry were selfish, like her mother's; it mi^ht be
Jl very i^ood thing to have a sister mistress of
Ilardwicke Manor.

'Uncle Tenfold has oflered to tjd\e liosamond, said
Doris slowly. * And if you ojten a schocd, i' will take

}

ou all to leaeh. There is one thinif I eould d

Miriam — 1 could save the expense of a servant.

m ^

s/syi:A\s\

lOI

nil

( >

' 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

■1

pl^

t02

DOAWS CIIFA'iXE.

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 \

s/srE/^:s.

11)11 CnoKlli'J, «

•ll^

MSktMl

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 <lii(l'
concern was her fond and raiment; these assured,
she could he iiidiircrent to ail else. Tiu^ ni'cds of
th(^ body are uiore easily satisfied than the neinls of
the soul.

Doris did not slee]) much in the (iarly jiart r»f the
ni,i,dit, hut towards nioinin^ she fell into a heavy,
(Ireandess sbuuber, from which she was awakriietl i»y
some one Jit her bedside. She started up. It was
her mother with a snudl breakfast tray in her hands.
She set it down, and, bending over Doris, kissed her
atrectionately.

* Lazy girl ! do you knoA' it is half-past nine ?' slie
said, in her most pUuisant manner. ' Come, sit n]>.
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(lere<l if her mother would he so sweet
jind kind if she knew lier dt'cision rei^ardiii;.^' Mr.
Ilanlwicke. She feh secretly a|tl>reheiisivu, huL not
ill the, lea<l shaken in her resolve.

'So you have (jiiiti! decided to have iiothiii'^ to say
t(» the, s([uirt! jit invsent,' said Mrs. ( 'heyne presently.
'Miriiini canu; to nie last ni-'Iit [ind told nu; so. AIv
dear, I uin ([uite jileased. I rei^ret, of course, that
you cannot sec; your way to aceejit him, hut, as 1
saiil to you yesterday, I am n(»t mercenary. T do
)t wish you to sacrifice yourself. He will he lu^re
ning, Doris ; of course you do not wish to

IS nior

see him ? '

'I would rather not, mamma,' said Doris in a
low voice.

'Then the melancliolv task nuist he mine, I
su])pose,* said Mrs. (Jheyne with a smile. 'It was
a mistake to startle you at all with a ])ro]»osal just
now. Gentlemen an; so odd, I)oris. Thi'y seem to
think we are iust wailin-f t(» sav ves to them, when

ifeiV

l!^'

¥i

■ 1 . i

iSfft

1, :

"' 1

i mt

Iti^'

or,

ro(,

DORIS CIJEYNE.

they ask us to marry. Your poor dear papa was just
tliG saiiic. He asked nic point l)lank v/ithouL giving
me the slightest warning. Of course T refused him ;
then he took the wiser plan — wooed me before he
won me.'

Doris's eyes filled with tears. Slie wondc^red
that her mother could allude so calndy to that past
happiness. She did not see the impression intended
to be made upon her. Doris was unsopliistieated in
the worhl's ways, her motlier was as wily as a
diplomatist, then^fore Doris was at a disadvantage.

* Now that that is so far settled,' continued j\Irs.
Cheyne, * I may tell you something else. There is
a school to be disposed of at Keswick. You have
heard of the Misses Raymond's establishment for
young ladies. They are old ladies now, iind anxious
to retire. I think it likely we shall purchase the
goodwill, and remove there during the Christmas
vacation ; if the concern is as good as it is represented
to be, we should do very well. Miriam will make
a splendid principal.*

' I am sure of it,' said Doris heartily, for their
troubles seemed to be rolling away. ' Mamma,
promise me you will let me do as I wish. I am

I !

rilli

J5/STR/^S.

107

^oiiiL; (l(t\vn to tlic kitclK'ii to learn, irannnh will \>c.
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

; I

' \

i
1 I

If 1

^1 !

< "ii

loS

DORIS CHFA'NE.

^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

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<j;e ^i;irl.
She is distant, and often (lisaureeal)le to those slie
loves. She is very proud, too. She resents the
idea of your marrying her, lest it should be out of

pity.'

' If that had been my reason, ma'am, I'd have
asked the best-looking,' said Josiah Hardwicke. ' Of
course, in present circumstances it would l»e a lucky
thing for her to get a home like the Manor, but I'd
never cast it up to her. I'm not that kind of man.'

' I'm sure of it. Then will you try my i)lan ?
]\Iind, Doris hasn't refused you, only she thinks you
nuist pay some attention to her. Girls are fond of
attention, you know ; a little gift now and again
j^oes a long way.'

' I won't grudge the money. I'm not mean,
whatever I am. I'll buy diamonds for hei if she'll
wear tlieni — the fruits of my honest toil, Mrs.
C'lieyne,' said Air. Hjirdwicke |)roudly.

'Not yet, thou^di,' corrected Mrs. Cheyne • ' May V

\ \

:»

ii,

\\\

! 12

DORIS CUFA'NE.

« ; 'I

oiler you .'idvici', ]\Ir. lliinlwicki! ? T iiin Doris's
mother, and 1 know liur ihroiiL'Ii and llirou''li.
ContiniKj your visii,> 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'<l her eyes. * If you are
often here, you will hteonie indispensable toiler; you
know what 1 mean. You must win 1 )oris by degrees,
or not at all.'

The idea ]»leased Mr. llardwieke. The dilficnlties
in his way made J)oris seem yet more desirable.
lie was in earnest. Strange as it may seem, the
([uiet, reserved, })lain girl possessed great attractions
for him. Mrs. Clieyne saw the impression she had
made, and skilfully followed it up.

Before he left he had pledged himself to advance
whatever sum might be required for the purchase of
the school at Keswick. He was a shrewd, clever
nu\n iu his way, but no match for Emily Cheyne.

CHAPTER VIL

A WORLDLY WOMAN.

* Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys.*

Tennyson.

ABRTEL AVINDRIDGE had had a long
and weary day. Ho had been called at
the dawning to see a sick woman in a
shepherd's hut beyond tlie Kirkstone Pass, and had
reached her bedside only to find her dying. The
spark of life had fled while he stood helplessly by,
and the occurrence had saddened and depressed
liim.

Other tilings, too, were weighing on liis mind, and
altogether life looked dreary enough to liini as ho
rode slowly along the road between Ambleside and
Grasmere towards the close of that bleak December
afternoon.

Jusfc on the outskirts of Piydal he saw Miriam

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DORIS CIIEYNE.

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Cheyne, The sighl of tliu tall, graceful figure in
black made his heart beat, and he liccanie suddenly
conscious of his unkempt and mud - bespattered
condition. The cob had been wading ankle-deep
in mud on the bridle -paths through the hills.
Nevertheless he urged the animal forward, anxious
to overtake Miss Cheyne before slie sliould turn
up the road to the Swallows' Nest. It was many
months since he had had an opportunity of speaking
to her alone.

She did not look round at the sound of approach-
ing hoofs, but intuition told her that the rider was
Gabriel Windridge.

* Good afternoon, Miss Cheyne. I hope you are
quite well ? '

As he spoke he stepped from the saddle, threw
the reins over his arm, and lifted his hat.

Miss Cheyne smiled upon him, and gave him her
hand. Her colour had risen when she knew he was
approaching, but it had now faded, leaving only the
delicate rose bloom which always dwelt upon her cheek.
JShe betrayed no sign of confusion, her magnificent
eyes did not falter as they met his impassioned gaze.
Miriam was absolutely mistress of herself^

A WORLDLY WOMAN,

'T imist apologise for my a|ipi'iiriin(i',* lie said
willi a lau^'li. ' I have heeii in the sadtlle sine*!
(layltieak ; and the mountain patlis are nearly iin-
passahle with the rains. Are yiai (juite well ?'

* Quite well, thank you,' leturned Miriam serenely.
'You look tired.'

* I am tired ; I had not ahove a c(»ni»le of hours'
sleep last night. A eountry practitioner's life, Miss
(Mieyne, is no sineeure, more especially if he happens
to be a poor assistant.'

'Does Dr. Prescott take no share now s'

' Very little, except when a message comes from
Conimore Hall or (Jirdlestone. 1 do not go tliere,'
returned Gabriel Windridge, with some l)ilterness.

'Some day you will be anotlier Dr. rrescott, with
an unfortunate assistant, whom you can ])ersecutc,
just by way of retaliation,' said ^liriam, snowing her
white teeth in a little malicious smile.

*I hope, if I am ever lucky enougli to l)e in a
position like Prescott, I shall have more Immunity,'
said Windridge shortly. *\Vhen do you leave
Kvdal?'

' Next week.'

' How do you like the prospect ?*

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* Xot nt nil,' iiiiswcnMl Miss Clicyno, and her ' '•')W
visilily (laikciicd. ' Hut it has t(» Im' (luiiu. \. are
s>!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

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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 y<ju,' said

Windridge, marv-elling at his own temerity.

* Then don't come,' she answered abruptly, and
they took the next few steps in silence.

* Why not ? '

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'You know host.' slin nnswoivd, n!itl liftnl lior
(aim cytts Lo liis face. If llii'ir dcjitlis liad l>L'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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.'

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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/

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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.'

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CHAPTER VITI.

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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^

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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138

DORIS CHEYNE.

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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.'

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140

DORIS CIIEYNE.

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

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FACING THE FUTURE.

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

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144

DORIS CIIEYNE.

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(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
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FACING THE FUTURE

cliiss-rooiii'^, with their l»ar(' llom-s and rows of
forms, and n^lired with a sluvcr. X<itInn,L' could
])c done to ;;ive tlicm a honiidy litok ; it was williiii
tlicir walls tliat the hardest part of tlicir discipline
lay. She pictured Miriam, tall and ([Uccnly, movini^
ahout these rooms, L,dvinL;- lessons in history and
!4eoL;rai)hy, and sonu'liow she dismally shook her head.
She could not help them there, and something told
her that it would he just there they would need
help. She tried to banish these thoughts, and
busied herself in the kitchen (her own domain
henceforth) until it was time to infuse the tea.

Doris had not forgotten anything. The afternoon
tea-set which Miriam had pain ted, the dainty five o'clock
tea-cloth Josepliine had embroidered, and the tea-cosy
Kitty had made, were all there. Nothing was new or
strange or common — it was just like the tea-table
at the Nest. At half-past four a cab rattled noisily
up the street, and drew up at the door. Doris flew
down-stairs to welcome her mother and bring her in.

* Is this the place ? Dear me, wliat a common stufi'y
house ! ' was Mrs. Cheyne's first exclamation. ' Wliat
on earth have you been doing here all day, Doris ? '

* Come up-stairs and I shall show you,' cried Doria

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146

DOKJS CHEYNE,

: 1

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gleefull J. ' Follow me, girls ; tea is all ready.
How cold you all look ! *

Kitty was the only one who looked pleased or
interested. The faces of Miriam and Josephine
wore expressions of sour disgust.

* Dear me I this is rather nice I ' Mrs. Cheyne
said, when Doris led her into the pretty little
room. * How comfortable ! and all our own things !
How did they come here ? '

'Never mind, mother dear. They are here, and
they are yours. This is your own sanctum,* said
Doris gleefully. * Let me take off your bonnet and
boots. Kitty, do pour out the tea. Mother needs it.*

*Ileally, you are very kind, Doris. I cannot
think how you can be troubled to think of such
things,* said Mrs. Cheyne, with languid approval.

She leaned back in her cosy chair, and allowed
Doris to unlace her boots.

What was her thought at the moment ? Was
it loving gratitude to the brave, bright, patient girl
who had thought and done so much for her ?

She only thought that Doris was really very
helpful, and that she might not miss her maid so
very much after all

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CIIAITKU IX.

PKUrLKXITIES.

'Men can counsel, iiu'l sprak onmfort to that ^'rief
Wliich tbcy tlniiisclv' not t'col.*

SirAKKSI'KAUK

Dr. PrescoLt, when liis {issisLiint enUTL'd the library

one even me a

bout

SIX <) (

'lock.

'Is one of tlie servants ill, sir?' AVindridge asked,
with a slight curl of the lip. lie had never before
been asked to go to so fii:<} a liou'^e as the [Manor.

*AVhat do you mean by ihaL sneer?* asked tlie

old

man irasei

bly

Xo. one of the servants is not

ill, sir. It's the S(|uire himself, and the message

said Dr. AVindridge was to come uj). AVill tliat

please you? You're getting yourself wormed by
de:irei-!S into fuAour witli niv patients/

147

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148

DORIS CBEYNE,

' If the patients prefer my services to yours, sir,
I cannot help it. I simply do my duty to the best
of my ability. If my success is unpleasant to you,
I am quite willing to leave.'

* Hoity toity ! We're getting very high and
mighty,' said the old man, with a grin. * Pray, why
should your success, as you term it, be unpleasant to
me ? Do you think I'm jealous, eh 'i The conceit of
the rising generation is incredible.'

Wiudridge bit his lip and turned upon his heel
to go.

* And as to leaving, where would you go, eh ?
I'd like CO know if you would be better off anywhere
than you are here. Pray, are you not treated as if
you were my own son ? '

A dry smile touches Windridge'" lips.

* I cannot tell how you might have treated your
own son. Dr. Prescott. Only I know I feel unhappy
enough at times.'

' Unhappy, eh ? *

The old man sat up very straight in his chair, and
grew very red in the face. He looked very angry
indeed, but he was not in the least irritated. Dr.
Preseott/s disagreeable manner and mode of specili

t j i«

PERPLEXITIES.

149

were rather things of outward habit than of inward
feeling. Windridge had become necessary to him.
He admired his independent spirit — nay, even loved
him in a way.

* And pray what are you unhappy about ? Do
you want your salary raised, eh ? *

* It would be no more than my due,' Windridge
made bold to answer plainly.

*Well, it is raised, then. You shall have it
doubled next quarter-day.*

'- Thank you, sir,' Windridge answered quietly. * I
had better go to the Manor now, then. It may be
late before I return. If I am not detained with Mr.
Hardwicke, I shall ride on to Keswick.*

' Keswick, eh ? That's where those girls have
gone. Keeping school there, I'm told, and not very
successfully. Still hankering after her, eh ? Do you
think she could keep house on a hundred and twenty ?
Would you rush into matrimony on that ? ^lisery,
Windridge, abject misery I that's what it would be.'

•You need not advise me, Dr. Prescott. I am
not a man likely to ask any woman to share my
poverty. A man can bear it for himself, but he has
no right to drag a woman down with him.*

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* 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.

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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''

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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

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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

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DORIS CHEYNE.

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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

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 i

\; < II

i 1 '.I

i;i

1 I

I !•

\ \

W !

'58

DORIS ClfEYNE,

1 1 ym;;

HI!

<il

ill

r n- Ni-
si i:"i[*s:i

.1 ^!:;NI

* Xo, tlicn^ n('\('r \v;is sudi a .'^iil,' icixmIciI ^fr.
irardwickc;, l)i iiiL^iiin' liis liahd dctwn on tliu table
with a thump. ' Sliu's woilh the whole lot, if you'll
excuse me sayin^,' it. Of course you t.j'nk the same
of yours. ]\Iayl)o you're ast(^ui,sh('d at my choice.
I ^^rant I'm older than .she is; but what's the odds?
I'll take better care of lier. Slui'U have an easi(;r
time of it than she'd have with any young man.*

' Then Miss Doris is your allianced wife, Mr.
Ilardwicke ? ' said Windridge in(|uiringly.

* Well, she hasn't said so in so many words, you
know ; but her mother says it's all right, and it'll be
settled fair and square one of these days when I'm
able to ride over.'

* I wish you every happiness, sir,' said Windridge
sincerely enough ; but somehow his heart ached for
the girl of whom they spoke. Had a few months'
poverty and care so changed her, that she could
resolve to pass her life with this man, with whom
she could not have even one thought in conmion ?

The idea saddened Windridge. It weighed upon
his heart. He felt as if a dear sister were about to
take a step of which he could not approve.

It need not be wondered that he left Hardwicke
Manor that ni^ht in ratlier a perj^jlexed frame of minUt

ciiAriEn X.

AN UNPLEASAXT SUKI'iaSE.

*For Thine own purpose Tliou hast sent
Tlie strife and llio discouragcmeiit. *

Lo NO FELLOW.

GUIS, my dear, I want you to ^vntu a letter
for nic*

' Just now, iiianiina ? '

* When you are ready, dear. Are you very busy ? '

* I can be ready in a few minutes, mother ; school
will be out in half an hour, and the dinner is almost
done.*

'Very well, my dear.*

Mrs. Cheyne leaned back in her comfortable chair
and closed her eyes. Doris went to the kitchen, put
the potatoes on the fire, and made herself tidy before
she rejoined her mother. 33oris had a great deal to
do. It was often three o'clock before she could

160

1*1 .IJ'L

1!,

J On

DORIS CIIEYNE,

clmnj^'e her morninj,' - dross ; tluiii IMrs. Choyiie folt
herself aggrieved, and coiii])lain('(l of her dimgliter's
appearance. Yet she never lent a helping hand.
The other three were busy in the scliool-rooins, foi',
having had no practical experience, they had no idea
how to economize time and labour. Therefore it
required three to do wliat one might have done with-
out being overtaxed. Certainly tliere was accommo-
dation for a nnich larger nund)er of scholars than
attended tlie school kept l)y the Misses Cheyne,

It was ui»lnll, disheartening, dreary work. At
that time jMiriam Chevne was not the most i)leasant
person to live with. She was like an eagle pent in
a cage — fretting her proud heart until it well-nigli
broke. Jose])hine was discontented in a less degree;
Kitty did the best she could, and hoped for better
things. Mrs. Cheyne spent tlie best part of her time
in her own snug room, devouring novels from the cir-
culating library, and comi)laining of nervous headache
and prostration. Tliey had to l)e gentle with her,
in order to spare themselves tlie burden of her
reproaclies about the happy past and the painful
present. Slie friMpiently alludud to herself as ;i
burden, but math^, no cIToiK \.\\ }i<-!fr'o)ue a lielpi Dori?«

^ftt

fl:

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.

i6i

was sorely tried in those days. Slie had the look of
one weighed down by many cares. Slie knew that
the present state of things coukl not go on. She
eaw signs in Miriam which warned her — symptoms
of restlessness which would take action ere long.
She did not know what was to become of them. She
tried to be brave and hopeful ; she uplifted her heart
many times to the great Helper, and she laboured
with all her might. I am afraid to tell you all those
loving, useful hands of hers accomplished — what a
weight of physical toil that slender frame daily bore
without a murmur. It had told upon her, however.
It was seen in her face, in the shadow dwelling deeply
in her large eyes ; her hands were rough and red and
broadened now, not without cause. Life seemed a
mystery of trial to Doris. She endeavoured to trust,
but did not find it easy. No doubt that hard time
had its uses, its purpose to fulfil in her, which perhaps
she might recognise some day from a happy distance.
But it was all dark yet.

' It is to Mr. Hardwicke I wish you to write, dear/
said Mrs. Cheyne, when Doris re-entered the room.
'He has been ill. It is but right we should ask
^fter his welfare. He has been a kind friend to us.'

1. '

\ I

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l62

DORIS CHEYNE,

W. !

m:i

*Very well, mother,' answered Doris; and, lifting
the Japanese table into the window recess, she set
the writing materials upon it. 'What shall I
say?'

* Oh, just write a kind note asking how he is.
Say we hope to see him very soon — that we miss his
visits.'

'Very well, mother,' repeated Doris, and took the
pen in her hand.

'Deak Mr. Hardwicke,' she began, and then
paused, reluctant — she could not tell why — to go on.

* Mamma, couldn't you write yourself, if I brought
the table to your side ? ' she asked ; * I do not know
what to say.'

* Nonsense ; say something I have told you already.
My head is very bad this morning. The room spins
round me,' returned Mrs. Ohoyne, determined that
Doris should write.

Doris looked out of the window meditatively for a
few minutes. It was not a cheerful prospect. Rain
was falling lieavily, and a mist hung over Derwent-
water like a pall. It was a depressing ^ay, grey and
cheerless — sometiing like Doris's life just then.

his

the

ready.

spins

that

for a
Eain
Kvent-

py and

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.

1C3

She sighed slightly, and tlien hending her eyes on
the paper, hastily wrote a few lines.

* Will this do, mother ? ' she asked, and proceeded
to read as follows : —

* Dear Mr. Hardwicke, — Mother requests me to
write and ask how you are. We were sorry to hear
of your indisposition. She hopes to see you very
soon again. She is not quite well to-day, or she
v/ould have written herself. She sends her kind
regards, and, — I am, yours truly,

'Doris Ciieyne.'

' Yes, that will do,* said Mrs. Cheyne, not quite
pleased, it is true, but too wary to say so to Doris.
Things were coming to a crisis, Mrs. Cheyne felt, and
the affair must be nettled somehow with Mr. Hard-
wicke. It was even more imperative now than it
had ever been, that Doris sliould see her clear duty
in this matter. He had been most kind and attentive
to them all, sending game and fruit and flowers in
season from the IManor ; but tliough Doris was always
frank and cordial enough to him when he came, Mrs.
Cheyne knew right well that not one step liaJ been
advanced with her. She was ratlier perplexed about

!i|

I \

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164

DORIS CHEYNE.

,V'W i

w iiii

the issue. Mr. Hardwicke was growing impatient.
He had long wished to speak openly to Doris. The
wily mother knew she could not keep him back
much longer. She meditated making another strong
appeal to Doris's sense of duty, to throw herself, as it
were, on the girl's mercy. It was the last resource
for her selfishness. Her own ease and comfort were
her chief concerns, to be secured at any cost.

Doris wrote the letter then, and after dinner took
it out herself to post. It still rained, but it was a
gentle rain unaccompanied by wind. Doris liked it ;
the soft monotonous drip of the drops seemed to be
in unison with her own sober thoughts. When she
had posted the letter, she turned down one of the
side streets which led to the lake. She was not
in a hurry to go home. She was thinking deeply,
anxiously, perplexedly of their affairs. Miriam had
talked with um-estrained bitterness at the table,
had indeed plaijily srad she was sick of the drudgery
of school, and would not continue it long. Doris
pondered how she could help, and by what means she
could earn a little money for the common good. By
the labour of her hands during the past nine months
she had undoubtedly saved money, though she had

\ iilfs.

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.

l6:

earned none ; but unless the numbers at school were
augmented, or money came from some other source,
they could not pay the present high rent, iuid obtain
even the plainest food and clothing. Tliese things
were before Doris, problems for which she must
find a solution somewhere. She walked slowly to
and fro by the side of the grey lake, watching its
little wavelets breaking sullenly on the pebbly shore.
They gave forth a monotonous sound, the rain-drops
plashed with dreary regularity in tne water ; the
whole aspect of water, sky, and shore was depressing
in the extreme. Doris felt very much alone, her
hard struggle had been unaided, unappreciated,
apparently unseen by any eye but God's. But for
that certain faith Doris must have sunk, her need of
sympathy, her craving for love was so intense. Poor
girl, life was indeed bitterly changed. A year ago
she had known nothing; of care, she had boon blessed
with a love which satisfied her heart, she luul been
indifferent to everything in the world except that
love.

And now she was face to face wicli tlie naked
reality of life ; she was compelled to find ways and
means to procure even its necessaries. That solitary

If-

Mi'

rill

-IH

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t66

DORIS CIIEYNE.

: i

walk did Doris good. She was always the better and
braver for a quiet coiiiiniiniiig with herself. Her
heart sank often under lier Tuother's fretful com-
plaining and her sisters' perpetual grumblings. She
had sometimes to steal away to still the rebellion
rising in her heart. But the question what was to
become of them was still unanswered.

Next afternoon, when l^Irs. Cheyne happened to be
out shopping, a groom from Hardwicke Manor rode
up to the gate. He had a basket over his arm, and
when Doris opened the door he took a letter from his
breast-pocket and presented both to her v/ith a touch
of his hat.

Doris thanked him, inquired after his master's
health in a quiet, unembarrassed numner, and then
bade him good -day. When she was indoors she
looked into the basket and smiled at its contents,
thinking of her mother's satisfaction. It contained
fruit and flowers of tlic choicest kinds, there being
splendid hothouses at the Manor. Sometimes Doris
wished the squire would not send so many gift'', and
she wondered that her motlier should always exhibit
such eau'crness about them. There was a touch of
greed in Mrs. Cheyne's nature, and she had none of

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.

167

that independence which makes a proud spirit resent
benefits bestowed by one in aftiuent circumstances.
Doris, however, felt it ; but seeing how the delicacies
pleased her mother, she tried to be pleased too, and
to think it only kind and natural in Mr. Hardwicke,
being an old acquaintance of li'^r fatlier's.

She took out the Howers, and being touched by
their great beauty, and by memories they awakened
of home, she pressed them to her lips witliout a
thought of him who had sent them. She arranged
them in a crystal dish, and carried them up to her
mother's table. She set the basket down beside it, and
then opened her letter. To her astonishment, instead
of a few words, it contained many closely-written
lines. She began to read them, however, without the
slightest hesitation or apprehension. Mr. Hardwicke
expressed himself thus : —

' Hardwicke Manor, Se.pt. 28.

' My Dear Miss Doeis, — I am very much obliged
to you for your kind nott. received this morning. It
has made me very happy, and has given me courage
to write this in reply. It is natural that I should
think you have grown more accustomed to the

-l^

i68

DORIS CIIEYNE.

nifflii

'I Miiif

thought of me, or you would not have written so
kindly. Dear Miss Doris, I have been very anxious
for months, ever since I asked you to become my
wife. But for your mother, I should have grown
disheartened altogether. I made a great mistake
in coming upon you so suddenly as I did then. T
might have known you could not have the slightest
idea of my hopes. I could not have expected any
other answer than that you gave me at the time. I
have acted on your mother's advice ; I have tried to
prove to you how muc/i in earnest I am, and I must
say I have occasionally had hopes. You have at
least not made me feel that I am distasteful to vou.
My dear, I know I am older than you, but I am
sincerely attached to you. I have never seen any
woman who has so impressed me with her goodness
and common sense. I nii^ht run on at great length
on this subject, but for fear of worrying you I shall
desist. Dear Miss Doris, I know you are finding it
a very uphill job at Keswick. It has made me
wretched to see you toiling like a common servant.
I could hardly restrain myself, only your mother
begged me to be patient. She told me you required
time to grow accustomed to any new idea ; that was

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE,

169

your nature. I am sure she is right, for you have
been very kind to me lately. I have been very
patient, dear IMiss Doris, considering how very much
in earnest I am, but I really can't wait any longer
without having ay or no from your lips. I have
often thouo-ht it mi^ht have been better if we had
talked this over quietly last December, but your
mother advised not. I did not mean to write at
such a length. In case your patience should be
quite exhausted, I will draw to a close. Before
doing so I should like to say that if you will consent
to become mistress of Hardwicke Manor, I shall see
that you have not another care in the world. You
have had enough, poor dear, to last you all your
Hfe. All I have is yours, and I am your respectful
and attached, Josiah Hardwicke.'

Doris folded up the letter, put it in her pocket,
and went quietly down-stairs to attend to the cooking
of the dinner. About a quarter of an hour later,
Mrs. Cheyne came in. She went straight up-stairs,
and seeing the fruit and flowers on her table, came
out to the landin" and called down to Doris, —

* Is there no message from Mr. Hardwicke, Doris V

till

I'H

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170

DORJS CIIEYNE.

. m

: I

There was no reply for a few seconds ; then Doris
came up-stairs. When Mrs. Cheyne saw her face —
white still, strangely stern and cold — she felt that
something h. u f/ ..v. wrong. Doris shut the door
upon her moi>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'

-1

1.:'
r ■

i .

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 • ■

■ 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 ,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.

\\\

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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

\ 11

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■ I' I ii

'78

DORIS CHEYNE.

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 ;

■'!•>

!lf

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!.

^«.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 '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 {'•

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<e/ slu;
said, NviLli a sli,^]it falter in her voice, ' 1 only
learned to-(lay for the first time that you had lent
money to mamma for the ])urcliase of the school,
and — and other things. It liuiiiiliated me very
much to know that it was on my account, on the
understantHug that 1 was to become your wife. Mr.
TTardwicke, I knew notliing about it, and 1 liav(^
come to-day to ask you to let tliat money be my
debt. It may be a long time before 1 can pay it
back, but I will })ay it, Mr. Hardwicke, indeed I will,
some day, if you will only wait.'

' Your debt, my poor, dear girl ? Bless my heart
and soul ! '

Mr. Hardwicke was genuiiuily affected ; to see

that

youn

<•', slim creature standing- there, with her

large, pathetic eyes and her solemn, earnest face,
asking him to let her earn money to pay him l)ack
a few paltry hundreds, was more than he could bear.
And lie would willin<'lv have niveu her idl he had
if she wtjuld only take it.

! ;

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23 WeST MAIN STRf fl

WEBSTER, N.Y. USSO

(716) 873-4503

1.^^

,'iT

1 88

DORIS CIIEYNE.

; ?

'Yes, rny dcht, if you please,' said Doris, nninin^r
strength. * If you would please to give me a jtiecc
of pap(!r witlj tlie amount written upon it, 1 should
kee)' it, and give you an ackuowhMlgment.'

'Miss Doris, 1 won't do it; not a word, I won't
do it ; lliere now !'

Mr. Hardwieke brouglit his iiand down on tliu
table with a crash.

* I tell you what I'll do, though. I'll write the
amount on a pieee of paper, aiul then I'll cancel it
and write my name at the foot,' he said ; anil his
])lain face beamed with the generous purpose thai
had touched his lieart.

* JMiss Doris, I was a fool to dream that I could
ever win you for my wife. It'll hv some noble
young fellow who'll do that, and I wish him hai)pi-
ness and success wherever or whoever he may be.
Let's bury it all. Let's foiget everything ; but that
T knew you when you were in pinafores, and used to
sit before your father's saddle when he rode ovti
here. Not a word, my dear. You've taught me
something. You've shown me that there are thiu-js
better than money in this wcnld. I'm in your dclii,
my dear, dee})er than ever I'll be al»le to [)ay. Voii

TRUE TO HERSELF,

l.<^9

don't know what you've tauglit nie. I've waidK'il
you, and I'vo l)een a hotter man ever since a tliou^lit
of you tilled my heart. And you walked ten miles
to he fair and .s(|uare with me! Ay, ay, 1 won't
forget thfit ; hut we'll hury the other for ever and he
friends. "Will you shake hands upon it V

Doris WMs driven home to K(;swiek that ni'jjit in
the curriajie from llardwieke Manor.

,i > 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?

0 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

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,

' 1

ii'

I '' 1

! 1:
jl |i
.V. 1

h I

I •,:

JWA'/S CliEVNE,

and liastily oiicncd the; (l<Mir, in tiino to soo Dori«
st(']» from Jl call iiiLjc; which sh( ctnild not fail to
rt'co'Miisi!. 1'h(; laancin'' havs wiih the hrass-
mounted liarn(\ss were Mr. Ilardw ickc's. She coidd
not 1>(! 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(jwno<l ! Oh, no I ' I)(»ris kis.^ed hor sister,
and (?ven smiled as she hooked into lier eyes.

* That was the Manor carria;_;o, Dori.s. AVhere did
you «,'et into it ? '

'At the Manor. T have hoen there. Is nianinia
in her own room yet ?'
' Yes, she is alone.'

* Well, come up with nic, Kitty. I want to tell
her where J have been.'

Doris wound her arm round her sister's waisl,
and they entered the room to^H;t1 or.

Thcai Doris quitted Kilty's side, and walking over
to the tirej)laoe, stood dirwctl^ before her niotlieri

\f\

naniinii

//• .hV /:\/).

»'^5

Sln' l<M»Isc(l jiiilc :inil Nvoin, Iml lit-r ('\|in'<^i"n wus
(•;illii, lici' iiiMiilii'f pcirciily .s('ll'-|«tss('sst'(l.

' Will ytiii ludk III inc. iii;iiiiiii:i '. ' .she >iiitl (|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

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

liii'' to uo there alone, ainl ask i'»)r Mi. Ilardwieke (

il(; was my lather's I'lieiid. lie is niiiu^ no

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, <!i('\v Mind iiikI curtMiiis el

((>»'

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

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

'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

n!^

1^^

"''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

Hiri

iiji

;.| 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.

' (

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 ii

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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/

-:( '

1 i

;

IS'!,''

Hil

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 ma<le
daliriel ^Vindrid<4e's own lot seem intolerabh^ to him,
and h(! had even determined to act upon ]\Ir.
Hardwicke's suggestion, and begin to practise on liis
own account in Grasmere. But on his return home,
the sight of the feeble old man, and the knowledge
that he depended upon and trusted him implicitly,
made the young surgeon resolve to battle yet a little
longer, and to wait with patience the issues of time.

Windridge heard a great deal of tittle-tiitt.e, though
he never encouraged it, in the houses of L o patients.
Needless to say, he had heard the story of iJori:^
Cheyne's visit to ITardwicke ^Ijinor. He had din-
beliHved it at first, t-hen it had pue^jJed hiui. Ho vvn-'

YOUril A\J) ACE.

209

(Hsnj»|>C)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(^ <>I<I mail. h'osaiiioiid liad the iiiakiii'4' of a
L'<io(l woman in Iht, and sIkj was under sale and kiinl

luidai

lee.

In London they knew nothing; of tie' d*'|ir<'ssion at
Kesvviek. Doris was the eliief eorres]toiident, and
she always endeavoured to write in a. ehccrfiil \ciii.
They thoui^ht the seliool was fairly successful ; in
reality, it was ^'oin^ hack every day. The ,nossi[»inL;"
townspeople gave them six months t(j l»e starved out
of Sun bury Villa.

It was (piite dark when Dr. AVindrid^^i; ro.lc
into Keswick that night, but he would hav moon-
light to guide him back. He ])ut up the cob
at the 'George Hotel,' and walked round to Sun-
buiy Villa. Kitty o[)ened the door in answer to his
knock.

* ')b, Dr. Wiudrid^e I ' 8h« cried breathlessly. ' 1h

ill

iif

212

/)OA/S CIIEYXE.

1 ''

i,,

I A

il ivuUy you ? Wu ihuii^^lit yuu uiiisl bo cleiid, or
^'oiic awiiy i'rnm (liiisnicre. Coinif in.'

' I am slill to ilu! fore, Miss Kitty, llioiiLjli haid
put to it to <,'i!t tiv(! iiiiuutcs' luisuru,' he said ;,Mily.
' llow aiu you all ? '

' Xii'L'ly, thank you, except uianiuia ; but she is
never very well. \'ou look so well! J)i(l you ride

over

Ves; "Jack" is at tl

eorirr

n »

answered

AVindridi^e, and followed Kitty up-slairs.

They .it constantly in ^Mrs. Cheyne's room since
fires had become necessary in tlu^ eveninijs, thus

rt'jj

saviuL,' the use of fire and fuel in the dinin,i;-room.

' There's somebody eoniiut;' uj) stairs, ;4irls,' said Mrs.
Clieyne quickly. ' It is a man's ste}). AVho can it
be? Oh ])r. AVindrid^e I how do you do?'

Mrs. ("hevne was ''raciouslv ideased to see the
surgeon. Anvthin'4 to break the dreary monotonv
of her life was welcome, and the entrance of the
strong', l)road-shonldered, hearty youni^- man was like
a breath of mountain air to these women, pent l)y thi'
narrowness of their lives.

' I am well, thank yon,' he answered cheerily. ' I
hope you are well also. How are you, Miss Clieyne \

\ %j

I •

vol III A\n AGE.

2».^

He li;ii| sliiikcii liMiuIs lirst. with Mrs. ('Ii»'}'iio ami
.I"tS('|>liiii(» 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 sai<l,
glancing in(iuiringly round the room as he took a
chair.

* Oh, Doris will lie somewhere. She chooses not
to sit here generally,' said Mrs. Cheyne. ' Kitty, you
may find her, and tell her Dr. Windridge wishes
to see her.'

Kitty left the room, but returned in a few minutes
without Doris, and nobody spoke of her again.

Mrs. Cheyne, with a vivacity scarcely hi keeping
with her invalid pretensions, immediately monopolised
the surgeon. He was hard put to it to answer the
flood of questions with which she deluged him.
While he talked, however, he keenly watched Miriam.
She did not appear to be interested. She sat in the
same listless attitude, her pale hands folded on her

\ I !

i t

H !

, y

2-4

DORIS CHEYNE,

lap, her 3yes fixed dully on the fire. She had not a
word to say. She was like ji heing who had lost liold
of the concerns of life. How Windridge longed for
a moment's quiet talk with her ! But he found no
opportunity, a!id was obliged at parting to bend
towards her and speak in a low voi("e, —

* When may I see you again alone ? I see you
are unhap})y. I fear this is too much for you.
When may I come ? '

* If you should come in another four months, Dr.
Windridge, there will be changes here,' she said
enigmatically, and that was all. He was left to make
of it what he pleased.

As Kitty was helping him with his coat in the
hall, the dining-room door was opened, and Doris
came out. She had been sitting alone in the dark-
ness— it was preferable to the atmosphere of the room
up-stairs.

* How are you, Dr. Windridge ? 1 thought I
should like to see you before you went,' she said,
offering her hand.

He took it in both of his, greatly to the astonish-
ment of Kitty, who discreetly retired.

One look at the face of Doris, in its earnest,

!lf

YOUTH AND AGE.

215

pathetic wistfiilnoss, liad iiiiKlo. his synipatliy revive
in a tenfold dej]i;ree.

'I thought you had forgotten ns,' slie said simply.

* No, I have not forgotten. I am a husy man.
Miss Doris, you look far from well*

' I am not well — in mind at least. I have had a
great trouble since I saw you, Dr. Windiidge.'

' r>ut 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

'■

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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

r i

![!

? )

■.M

nOR/S CI/EYAE.

M ;

- I ; I

.!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 ? '

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 :

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

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

;'il

m ■

1 ,
t

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

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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-

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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

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

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^

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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!

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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'-'

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

■? ^

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DORIS CIIEYNE.

ahrcKifl. Is it tmo that we niav

livLi to see a sweet wife in the old house ? JJcar me,

t >

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; :

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

■ I ■

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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

240

DORIS CJIEYNE.

||)

W i

i 11 i ^

^ll

: 11 1 : :'

\[i :

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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<iply moved. 'May I ask what you intend to do
now ? Can you keep on the seliool /'

* Oh, no! even liad Miriam l)een witli ns, we
sliouhl iiave heen obliged to give it up next month.
We have so few pupils, they do not nearly jiay the
rent,' answered Doris quietly. * Josepliinc; and Kilty
must go out as governesses. Kilty has already
answered several advertisements. Josephine paints
beautifullv, if she would exert herself. I beli(3ve
there are phuiis in London for the sale of gentle-
women's work. I must get these addresses.'

'And yourself? Forgive me asking. It is not
out of idle curiosity. I am deeply, truly inleresled
in you all,' said Windridge earnestly.

* I know you to be true, else I could not speak to
you so unreservedly. It is a relief to me even to
see you,' answered Doris quietly. She really f(;lt all
she said, and the words were simjjly and honestly
utlered. They went very deep to Windridge's heart.
* We must leave this house and take a smaller one,
a very small one, to hold mamma and me. I hope
to get something to do in the town ; a few hours'
engagement of some sort. I must not be very long
away from mamma. Uncle Tenfold will help us,

1 1

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,1,:.

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.
.i<j,h the
holly of

CHAPTEK XVI.

A BRAVE WOMAN.

'ITature often enshrines gallant and noble liearts in weak bosoms
— oftenest, God bless her ! in female breasta.' — Dickens.

iRE you there, Doris ? May I come in ? *

* Yes, dear.'

Doris opened the door of her own room
and admitted Kitty, who liad an o[)('n letter in her
hand. It was the day after Wind ridge's visit to
Sunbury Villa.

* This has just come. It is from the ladv who
advertised from Carlisle. What do you think of it ? *

Doris took tlie letter and read it carefully.

* I like tlie tone of it, Kitty ; but the salary is not
large,' said Doris. * AVhat do you think ?'

'I want to go. I think that Mrs. Hesketh must
be a nice woman. She says so honestly she can't

244

DORIS CHEYNE.

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,l,|;_,

afford to give more than live -and -twenty pounds.
The hall of it would buy my clothes, and I could
send the other half to you.*

Tears were in the eyes of Doris ; but she had a
very thankful heai.. Kitty, v/ith ail her nonsense
and lightness of heart, was real and true, and would
yet make a woman of herself.

' Have you shown this to mamma ? *

* Not yet. It is better to have one's mind made
up, I think, before speaking to mamma about any-
thing. She sees so many difficulties in the way/
said Kitty, with her usual candour.

* Poor mamma. She has had a hard life of it
since we lost papa,' said Doris softly.

In word and act she was loyal always to her
mother, but sometimes she was sorely tempted to
have some hard thoughts of her. Nothing pleased
her ; her best mood was a sort of resigned acquies-
cence in misery, and they were thankful when she
was quiet. Her fretful complaining was the most
trying thing in Doris's life.

* I shall talk to mamma about it by and by, then.
Yes, I like this letter,' said Doris, glancing over it
again. * A good woman wrote it. You will be at

A BRAVE WOMAN.

245

junds.
could

had a
tisense
would

, made
t any-
way/

J of it

to her
ted to
Dleased
squies-
en she
B most

', then.

over it

be at

home at Oaldiill. How glad I am to think you will
be comfortable ! She wants you to come at once
though.'

' Yes. How soon do you think I could go ? *
asked Kitty.

She asked Doris's advice more readily than she
would ask her motlier's. Doris was practically the
head of the house, who thoufjht and decided for
them all. But for her, I fear they would have found
themselves in a sorry plight.

* Then it is settled, and I shall write that I shall
come on Saturday. It is not /cry far away, that is
one comfort. I can run often through to see you all.*

'That will take money, my darling. We shall
have to CKcrcise very strict self-denial for a time,*
said Doris, with a sad smile.

* Don't you think Josephine is very lazy, Doris ?
She does nothing but lie on the sofa and read novels.
Does she suppose you are going to support her ? '

* Oh, no ! she will rouse up presently,' said Doris,
trying to speak cheerfully. ' Slie will do ;reat
tilings with her painting when she sees there is
absoluialy nothing but it between her and want.'

'How awful to think it has come to that with

k i

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iii

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•'I

246

DORIS CHEYNE.

us ! * said Kitty drearily. * Dori.s, doc- 't it seem
positively centuries since we were at the " Nest" ?
We must have been very wicked, surely, to need such
a sore punishment. When I think of mamma and
you, Doris, I don't know what to do. Do you never
think that even Hardwicke Manor would have been
preferable to these straits ? *

' No.' Doris emphatically shook her head. * Do
you know, Xitty, if it weren't for mamma, I should
enjoy fighting my way. I must be very pugnacious,
I think, for no sooner am I confronted with a new
problem than I feel determined to overcome it. But
mamma cannot accommodate herself to changed
circumstances. She misses what she has been
accustomed to. We are younger, and can bear
hardships better.'

'You are very noble, Doris. I do think you a
grand woman. I don't know what you deserve. I
know I was a selfish little wretch until you made me
ashamed.'

* I have done nothing very grand, Kitty. My
work has been all among little things and in
by-paths. It is only in a quiet way I can be of any
use. I am very glad that God has made me useful.

A BRAVE WOMAN.

\ I

even in a small way, I used to think and long for
great things, bnt now I only ask to he guided every
step. It is the only way we can bravely face our
life, I think. Its mystery is not for us to penetrate.
It is much easier and sweeter for us not to try, but
to leave it with God ; at least I have found living
from day to day the only way for me.'

The face of Doris wore a restful dreamy expres-
sion, her beautiful eyes a soft and exquisite peace.
Her heart was resting on Him who bids us cast all
our care upon Him. That was the secret of Doris's
calm demeanour in the midst of many sore per-
plexities. She had no fear, because her case was in
His hand. Such faith had come to the girl by slow
degrees, and when her faith in all else was shaken.
The dearth of human love in her lot had driven her
into the shadow of the Divine.

* Have you thought what you are to do with this
house, then, Doris ? ' asked Kitty, sitting down on
the front of the bed, and folding her arms.

' Oh, yes ; I have seen al)out that too. There is a
lady who will rent it furnished, if we can let her
have it before Christmas.*

* And will ^"ou ? *

; I

\ ;

•(i

248

DORIS CHEYNE,

' Certainly. We cannot afford to let any ofTer
pass us. I spoke to Mr. Hardwicke about it yester-
day. I happened to meet him when I was in the
town. He was very good. He says the furniture
is mine to do as I like with. I will regard it as
such until I can pay him for it. I hope to do that
some day.'

* What does mamma say to that ? '

* I have not told her. I shall not tell her until I
have got another house for her. She would fret
herself and us out of sorts. I am very sorry to keep
things from her in that way. Kitty, but it is the only
way.'

* Don't I know ? ' asked Kitty, with an expressive
shrug, for which she may be forgiven.

Mrs. Cheyne was not an old woman, and she was
perfectly strong and able to take part in the battle.
There was not the shadow of a reason why she
should leave it all to Doris. It was too much for
the mind of a young girl, the constant strain must
make her old before her time.

* I know of a little cottage near the lake-side,
Kitty,' continued Doris. ' I have had my eye on it
for some time ; for I feared we would need to make

A PRAVE WOMAN.

240

y ofTeT
yester-
in the
rniture
d it as
lo that

until I
lid fret
to keep
he only

pressive

she was
i battle,
hy she
iich for
m must

ke-side,
1^ on it
o make

a chanj^^e. It is omitt.y now. I am going to see
about it to-day. Will you come ? '

' Yes, Doris ; do you know you are a perfect
genius ? IIow can you think of everything, and do
it too ? *

Doris smiled.

* It is the only tliini' T am eond for. The cottage is
a very tiny place, Kitty, not so big as the lodge at
the " Nest." Only two tiny rooms and a kitchen I
expect to have a terrible battle with mamma over it.
])Ut there is a dear little garden, and a lovely view
of the lake ; and what is more important than all at
present, the rent is only eight pounds.'

' And what aV)out the furniture for it ? *

* The lady whom I saw about this house offered to
pay me a quarter's rent in advance. With part of
it I shall buy a few things, and get the house
set in order at once. We must move before next
Thursday.'

' And after tliat, Doris, how will you live ? '

*I must get something to do, and I wilV, said

Doris, with quiet resolution. 'God will help me;

I know Tla will, bcrnuso I have asked Him. Then

Josephuie must earn something, or she cannot remain.

■'. !

II I

250

DORIS CIJEYNR.

"'"

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with us, Kitty. It would not be just to mnmina or
to myself to keep her, and she is quite as able to go
out as a governess as you are. If she does not
think of it, I must speak to her. It will not be
pleasant, but it must be done.'

Doris was unselfish, but she had common sense.
For her mother she would work and deny herself to
the last degree, but not for her sisters, so long as
they could help themselves. In this she exhibited
a firmness and knowledge of the world which was a
fine offset to the sweeter points of her nature. She
knew that unless Josephine could be thoroughly
roused, she would sink into a state of mental lethargy
which would be her ruin, so far as fulfilling any
useful purpose in the world was concerned. With
their fallen fortunes Josephine had lost all her pride
in herself, and had even become slovenly in her
personal appearance. So long as she could obtain
creature comforts and an engrossing novel, she cared
for nothing else — a very bad condition for any young
woman to be in.

Kitty went out with Doris to see the cottage at
the lake-side, and then they called on the proprietor.
Kitty was amazed at the quiet, collected, business-

ill.

iiinia or

lie to go

oes not

not be

n sense.

jrself to

long as

exhibited

h was a

re. She

oroughly

lethargy

ling any

[. With

lier pride

'' in her

d obtain

;he cared

ay young

ottage at
roprietor.
business-

A BRAVE WOMAN.

25»

like manner in which Doris made every arrangcinciit,
asking that certain improvements might be made
before she decided to take it. The affair was
satisfactorily settled, and the house was to be in
readiness for them by the middle of the following
week.

* I must go now and see the lady, Mrs. Boothroyd,
who wishes to rent Sunbury Villa,' said Doris when
they left the landlord's house. * She is in apart-
ments at the other side of the town. We can be
back in time for tea. Will you come ? '

Kitty would rather not. She was shy of strangers,
and their errand was not singularly pleasant. Doris
saw her hesitation, and laughed.

* There is a touch of pride in you yet, Kitty,' she
said good-naturedly, understanding her so thoroughly.
* Never mind, I don't mind going alone — in fact, I
think I would rather. Say nothing to mamma. I
shall tell her everything when I come home.'

So saying, Doris went off with a nod and a smile,,
and Kitty turned her face towards home. It was a
perfect mystery to her how Doris could do un-
pleasant things so calmly, just because they had
to be done ; if the family welfare had depended

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252

DORIS CIIEYNE.

even on Kilty, tlicy would liavc been in a sin|:^ular
position.

Doris's idea of duty was very strong ; on no
oeeasion would slio allow licrsolf to shirk it. She
was conscientious to n degree. And tlieir affairs now
had become so urgent that they reciuired instant iietion,
which Doris undertook l)ecause tliere was no one else.

She had found Mrs. I'oothroyd a singularly
pleasant person to deal witli. She was a childless
widow, just returninl from India, where her husband
had been engaged in the Civil Service. Her heallli
had been injured by a too long residence in the
trying climate, and she was .almost constantly con-
iined to the house, lli'r early home had been within
sight of AVindermere, but she had come back to find
it a land of stran<>ers. 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

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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

' ('

253

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0 :

A BRAVE WOMAN.

suit. Tlicy were JiU too large and too expt'Msiv(i f(ir
her. Wliuii it became a certainty that they must
leave Sunhury Villa, Doris had thought of this lady,
and, haviu'' obtained her address from the stationer
called upon her. The result was that Mrs.
Pioothroyd said she would rent the house, being
quite willing to take it on Miss Cheyne's recom-
mendation. Doris did not know how much her own
earnest, shnple, lady-like demeanour had to do with
this decision, nor how much the lady had been
interested in her.

She found Mrs. Boothroyd on the sofa that
afternoon, looking white and tired, it having been
one of her bad days. She was a very sweet won. an
— one of those who carry the sunshine of a loving
heart on their faces. Her smile inspired trust and
even love at first sight.

* Miss Cheyne ! I am so glad to see you ! ' she
said, extending her hand in cordial welcome. ' I
was thinking of you a little time ago. Have you
talked over the house with your mother ? I hope
you are not going to disappoint me. I have set my
heart on that little room with the peep of the lake.
D(» sit down, you look so tired,'

;■ 1 I

256

DORIS CIIEYNE,

■ t

. ii I

* Yes, I am tired, Llmnk you ; T Imve not been
sleeping well of late. I have not spoken to inanima
yvX, Mrs. Bootliroyd ; I should like it all settled
first;

' Tliat is rather extraordinary, but I daresay —
yes, I know it is all right,' said Mrs. lioothroyd, with
a keen, kind look into the girl's eyes. ' Then have
you got another house for yourselves ? '

' Yes.'

' And you could let me in next week ? I know
of a nice girl I coukl get for a servant, at once. I
should dearly like to have a corner of my own to
spend Christmas in.'

'Yes, our house is to be ready for us next
Wednesday. Y^'ou could get into Sunbury Villa on
that day, ^Irs. Boothroyd.'

* That will do very nicely, then ; I am glad it is
settled. But I am sorry to think you have to give
up your home. Don't you feel rather hard against
me?'

' Oh, no ! it has never been our home. It will
cost us nothing to leave it,' said Doris quickly. * I
think I shall be glad. We have had a great deal to
bear ii it.'

■:
1 S

L -1 '

1 ' Li')' *

■■

lk^ti^*',^i[ji^

A BRA VE WOMAN.

257

r)t been

luaiinna

settled

Tesay —
yd, with
cu have

I know

once. I

own to

ns next
Villa on

lad it is

i to give
. auainst

It will
kly. 'I
,t deal to

' Ah I have touched a tender spot ; my dear,
forgive me/ said ^Irs. l)00throyd, with a sympathetic
glance at the girl's shabby mourning.

*Not that kind of trouble. It happened in our
old home. Our father left us there,' said Doris,
and her voice shook. She was worn with the strain
upon her, and had not dared to let her mind dwell
on the past. Her father's name, hidden deeply in
lier heart, had not been on her lips for many months.
But all at once the memory of hijs loving care, the
very tone of his voice when he had called her * my
daughter,' swept over her, and her tired head fell
upon her hands, while strong sobbing shook her from
head to foot. She did not know how weak and
spent she was physically and mentally till the
mystic touch of a genuinely sympathetic nature had
opened the floodgates of her heart.

She was sitting quite close to the couch ; Mrs.
Boothroyd laid her hand with great tonderness on
the girl's arm, with the other she wiped her own
eyes.

* Pray, forgive me. I do not know how to excuse
myself,' said Doris hurriedly at length, and calming
herself by a strong effort. * I did not mean — I had

■4

»■;

f.K I;

i.:

* / i :

258

DORIS CHEYNE.

no right to distress you. I do not knov why I
should have lost my self-control.'

'Hush, my dear! make no excuses. I see you
are borne down with trouble and anxiutv. I am a
stranger t<" you, Miss Cheyne, but I have known
very bitter sorrow, and my heart bleeds for you.
[f it would relieve you to talk to me as a friend, do
so. My dear, your confidence would be sacred. If
not, never mind, we may learn to know each other
by and by.*

* You are very good, very good,' Doris said, with
real gratitude; but though her heart went out to
the dear woman, her natural reserve prevented her
from talking of their troubles to the acquaintance of
a few hours. Had these troubles been exclusively
her own, she might have unburdened her heart.

* You will come sometimes and see me, I hope,
when I am in your old house,' said Mrs. Boothroyd
cheerfully. * I shall be lonely enough. I do not
know any one in the town.*

'Thank you, I shall come, if I have time, Mrs.
Boothroyd. I hope you will like the house, and be
encouraged to stay in it. It is very pleasant to
think of you as being there. I had such a dread of

; - ■[ :■

h]!?

. ill

'1.1:

'ft:

A BRAVE WOMAN.

259

what my experience might be in hunting fur a
tenant.'

Mrs. Ijoothroyd smiled.

' And you, my dear, are very different from
the ordinary landlady. You are the landlady, T
suppose ? '

* I suppose so. Yes, I must be,' said Doris, a
momentary hesitation vanishing as siie tiiought of
her helpless, complaining mother and her indolent
sister.

'Would you kindly pass me my desk from the
cabinet ? ' Mrs. Boothroyd asked ; and when it was
placed before her she opened it, and counted out
fifteen sovereigns.

' There, Miss Cheyne, that is the quarter's rent in
advance, and you will write a receipt while I ring
for tea,' she said, in her pleasant, chatty way. ' Yes,
my dear, you must have a cup with ine just to
humour my whim. Besides, you look so tired and
exhausted. I am quite anxious about you.'

The next half -hour was the pleasantest Doris had
spent since their exile from the ' Nest.'

Mrs. Boothroyd was an accomplished, far-travelled
woman and a fluent talker, and she entertained hur

i i

m m '

260

DORIS CIIEYNE,

visitor with gossipy details about her Indian life,
wliich Doris found deeply interesting. She forgot
that she was with a stranger, and came wonderfully
out of her shell.

While she was speaking, Mrs. Boothroyd keenly
watched the girl, studying every expression. She
was deeply interested in her. She decided to see
more of Doris Cheyne, to befriend her if she could.

^^m

CHAPTEE XYII.

WAYS AND MEANS.

'There's many a good piece o' work done witli a sad heart.' —

Oeouck Eliot.

OSEPHINE and Kitty had gone out for a
walk, leaving Doris to acquaint their
mother with tlie clianges innnediately in
prospect. It was not an easy task, it was one of
the hard things in Doris's life.

Mrs. Cheyne had shown herself shrewd and clever
enough in the Hardwicke affair ; how, then, could
she so calmly allow herself to drift with the tide
now, without so much as inquiring how the wind
blew ? Perhaps it was to annoy Doris.

Miriam's llight had given Mrs. Cheyne a fine
opportunity for a display of wounded resignation.
She was being gradually deserted by her children,

261

' ■, '

262

DORIS CHEYNE,

If ■ ■ '■!

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l)iit it was no more than she expected. Such was
the tone slie adojitcd. It was excessively trying' to
Doris. She was no saint, nor even gentle and
patient hy nature ; her temper was liot and hasty ;
it was sometimes more than slie could do to conquer
it. She nerved herself for this conversation, with
her mother, she called all her forbearfince to the
front, and entered her mother's room with a cheerful
expression on her face. Mrs. Cheyne had just had
tea, and was placid and resigned.

* Where have you been, Doris ? ' she asked. ' Have
you had tea ? '

' Yes, dear mamma ; I had tea out to-day/ she
said, almost gaily.

Mrs. Cheyne looked mystified.

' Tea out ! With whom ? Do you know any one
in the tow^n ? '

Doris sat down by her mother's side, and looked
into her face with something of anxiety in her own.

' Dear mother, I must have quite a long talk with
you. I have done such a lot of business to-day. I
hope you will approve of it all.'

* What kind of business ? Pray don't keep me in
suspense, child,' said Mrs. Cheyne, a trifle sharply.

^lliiir

WA YS AND MEANS.

263

Lich was
ryiiij^ to
tic and
[ hfisty ;
conquer
on with
to the
cheerful
just had

' Have

lay/ she

any one

d looked
er own.
alk with
-day. I

ep me in
arply.

About this house, in the first place. You know
it will be impossible for us to remain in it.'

* I suppose so, but what can we do ? They will
not take it ofT our hands.'

* No, but we could let it furnished.*
Mrs. Cheyne shook her head.

' No easy task out of the season, Doris. And it
isn't well furnished.

* Mamma, I have got a tenant who on my recom-
mendation will pay us sixty pounds a year for it,'
said Doris with a little natural triumph ; and she
drew the bright sovereigns from her pocket, and
counted them out on the table.

* Dear me ! How did you manage that ? But
v/hat will become of us ? *

* I have ventured to take a dear little cottage by
the lake-side, where you and I can be very com-
fortable, and Kitty has got a situation, and Josephine
will earn something soon, I hope, and we will be
very comfortable, dear mamma, and very happy too,
though our house is so very small,' cried Doris ; and
tears welled in her eyes out of the earnestness of her
heart,

A wonderfully softened expression stole into the

2 64

nORJS CIIEVNL

•

fare

Mrs.

loyne.

She

patted

Doris

udly

the

arm

i ■

de.'ir.

u are

a hra

ve. thou

rrhtflll

'1. 1

roil

I i.

i 1

have 'ake^ load ofT my mind,' slie said, very gently

for li

Doris .slid c"!* -n to the floor, and foldinf; lier hands

hei

looked

ith

indescribable
patlios into her face.

* Dear manmia, if sometimes I have seemed
undutifui to you, or unmindful of your wislies, pray
forgive me. It is very hard to know sometimes
what to do, but I would lay down my life for you,
dear mamma. There will be nothing too hard or
unpleasant for me to do if only you will love me a
little. I have felt it so hard to be shut out of your
heart.*

* My dear, I was acting for your welfare, and
though I still regret very much that your views of
duty differed so much from mine, I do not wish to
say any more al)out it,' said j\Irs. Cheyne, kindly
enough, yet with dignity. * I believe you are anxious
to help in every way ; and I am quite pleased with
what you have done to-day. I shall endeavour to
be contented in the poor little place you speak of,

il '!

IVAYS AND MEANS.

265

indly on

rl. You

y gently

er hands
scribablu

seemed
lies, pray
Dnietinies
for you,
hard or
ove me a
: of your

fare, and
views of
t wish to
3, kindly
3 anxious
ised with
}avour to
speak of,

thou^di it will he so dirr(3rent from anything to wliich
I have been accustomed.'

Doris rose from her knees with a dull, aching
pain at her heart. Her mother's tone was perfectly
kind, but it said as jilainly as possible that she was
not yet forgiven for refusing Mr. Hai'dwicke. The
momentary gleam wliich had fallen mnily across
the path was (pu-nched in the shadow )tliing she

could do, or ever hojje to do, wr,M atone to her
mother for that past opposition to her cherished
wish. Doris did not feel angry 01 bitter, but a dull
hopelessness seemed to encompass her.

Evidently it was intended that her web of life
should be of sober grey threads, the brightness was
for other more highly favoured beings. Doris
resolved quietly to accept her destiny, and to work
and strive hour by hour without seeking to look
ahead, and above all to try and keep down any
feeling of envy or bitterness which might seek into
her heart. The inner life of this girl, the tumults,
and yearnings, and sufferings of her soul, are common
to many young pilgrims, awaking on the threshold
of life to its realities and responsibilities. It is a
critical time in a young life, and generally gives the

iHfl

1 '^11

266

no/as CIIEYNE.

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keynote to the. whole tenor of its future. It 's vciy
well if tliere be a trusted, wise, imd loviiiL!; friend
to advise in such a crisis, tlius savini^ the younir
traveller from many pitfalls, and sparinjf him or her
many bitter hours.

My Doris, however, was quite alone, and these
solitary strng!]jlin,fTs with her inner self, as well as
with outer hardships, were makini,' a p-and, stron^r,
self - reliant woman of her. But on some natures
it would have had an opposite elf'ect. It is a sweet
thouL^ht that (}od knows v;hat is best for us all,
and will never try us beyond our capaloility for
endurance.

The ensuing week was a very busy one for Doris.
Kitty had to be got away to her new home, which
entailed some work both with head and liands. Tlie
house on Saturday night was very dull without her
bright presence ; Doris wondered how she should
get along without her sympathetic companion.
Josephine's indolent habits had certainly made her
health suffer. She never went out of doors except
under compulsion, and the want of exercise made
her languid and feeble. She constantly complaiiie(l
of headaches, and when Doris, grown weary at times

IVAVS AND MEANS.

267

It 'S VCIT

ii.l;' fiicnd
lie yoiiiiM-
ill! or her

intl these
s well as
(], stronfT,
' natures
s a sweet
»r US all,
jility for

or Doris,
lie, whicli
(Is. Tlie
lioiit her
3 slioiild
111 pan ion.
aade her
s except
se made
nplaiiicd
at times

of her perpetual grumblings, told her plainly she
could not be well unless she exerted herself, shd
would sulk for several days, which n\r,do the
atmosphere of the house very unpleasaut. She
was horrified to hear where their new heme was
to be, but refrained from any comment, except that
conveyed by a shrug of her shoulders, which was
expressive enough.

'Josephine, don't you think you might get some
plaques and Easter cards to paint ? ' said Doris,
when they were sitting round the fire after Kitty
had left. * I asked Mr. Hopkinson to-day, and he
says he would be glad to have some for his windows.
They generally sell well — the plaques, I mean ; of
course it is too early yet for Easter cards, but if you
send them in early you have more chance of getting
them sold.'

* It is most degrading to think of working to such
as Hopkinson — a common shopkeeper — for money,'
said Josephine, with a curl of the lip. * But I
suppose it is stern necessity now. You may bring
me home some if you like, and I'll try what I can
do. I have seen frightful daubs in his window. If
they sell, surely mine will But I won't go and

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268

DORIS CHEYNE.

\va\\i;m\\ witli liiii), Doris. You schmii to (3iijoy it, ho
you iii;iy elo lliMt }>;irt of it.*

The tone of Josepliine's remarks was rather
iiTitatirij^, but Doris was too intent upon interesting
her to mind it.

' You Tni,L?ht make some little sketches of Derwent-
water when spring comes in, or Skiddaw just now
with his white nightcap would make a lovely picture,'
she said enthusiastically. * I only wish I had your
talent, I sliould be rich in no time.'

* No, you shouldn't ; you couldn't paint whenever
you like, any more than a poet can make poems to
order,' said Josephine calmly. * You should have to
wait for inspiration.*

' I'd ratlier make inspiration wait for me. If one
has a gift, it should be one's servant and not one's
master,' said Doris meditatively. ' The only way to
accomplish good and thorough work is to have some
kind of metliod.'

' Oh, you are too dreadfully practical ! ' cried
Josephine, with a yawn. * I do think Miriam might
have written to us by this time. I shall be dying of
curiosity to hear her adventures.'

* I don't think we shall hear from her for a long

!ti I

/F//KV AND MEAXS,

369

"j'^y it, H(j

13 ratlier

nterestiiii;

Derwent-
just now
y picture,'
had your

whenever

poems to

d have to

i. If one
not one's
ly way to
ave some

\ \ ' cried
im might
dying of

31 a long

tiin(\' s:iid Doris; then sliu thou^'lit of Windridge,
and rehipscd into .silence.

She liad Kiqtt his confidcuice to licrsi^lf , sin; h;»d
not breathed to any his inti'ntiou to seek out ^liriaiii.
Josephine condescended to go out with Doris ahout
the furnishing of the new home ; and to make some
very impracticable suggestions, onti of whicii was that
they should get a wing added to the cottage to make
a drawing-room with a studio for her use above.
Doris listened patiently to these stupid remarks, and
made her own choice of articles, cheap and plain, to
suit the state of her purse. The 'le treasures had
to be removed from Mrs. Cheyne's room at Sunbuiy
Villa, and altogether Doris had a great deal of
running to and fro and real hard work before the
place was ??*• in order. She had not quite the same
heart over it as she had had in making Suubury
Villa home-like for her mother, for somehow there
vas a fearful uncertainty about their way of life now ;
they had really nothing to depend upon. Doris was
indeed living from day to day by faith, not by sight.

Sometimes when a nervousness came over her in
thinkinji about their future, she would steal awnv
down to the lake-side, and in that sweet 8olilu;lfj

270

DORIS CHEYNE.

I i-U, S

regain her peace of mind. God seemed near

there; she felt sometimes as if some unseen st

presence was close at her side. It was a wonderful
thin- how utterly Doris liad become dependent on
Higher lielp; witli.;ut that dinging and trustful
faith, which was not indeed natural to her, hut luid
been born of liarsh experience and absolute need, she
would certainly have been in despair.

The second morning after their removal to their
new house, a basket of fruit and flowers and game
came from tlie Manor— a gift wliieh touched Doris,
and made her very grateful. It was like a reminder
that an old friend liad not forgotten them. Mr.
Hardvvicke continued to send such occasional remem-
brances to the cottage, but he ne\'er came himself.
He was duly realizing the depth of his disappoint-
ment, and he felt it better not to see Doiis at all—
at least for a time.

A parcel of cards and terra-cotta plaques duly
came up from Hopkinson's, and Josephine, like a
child over a new toy, set to work, and with exciuisite
results. Slie was a genius with tlie brusli. They
were exhibited in the stationer's window, and found
ready purchasers. Witl.. tlie money, Josephinu

WA YS AND MEANS.

purchased herself an elegant and expensive winter
wrap, and gave the siirjilus, a few .shillin'_;s, to Doris
to help with the housekeei»ing. She made a half-
a])olngv fur it, saving she suH'ered so dreadfullv from
the cold, and promised to give up tlie wliole next

time. But that time never came, for slie onlv worked
by h's and starts, and when any money came in, she
was always in desperation for some new arlicle of
dress. Doris did not know what to do. It seemed
of no use to speak to Josephine, and after a time it
became a question wliat they were to eat and drink.

Doris had n(jt called at Sunhury Villa to see Mrs.
Boothroyd . hut one afternoon, about the middle of
February, when their straits were weighing \\\)(m hei',
she bethought herself of the dear ladv, and became
possessed of a desire to see her.

She found her at home in (he little room where
Mrs. Clieyne had cliiel!/ lived during iier residence
at the villa, and received a kind and cordial wtdcome.

' I should scold vou, mv dear, for being so laidy
in coming, but I am so glad to see you that 1 have
nut the heart,' she said blithesomely. ' l)o tak<; oil"
your hat and let me lo(jk at you. I do like the
house so much. This little room is a perfect gem ;

if -

I : '!

272

DORIS C/JEYNE,

ifli:

i 1
1 1

. 1

)

and do you know that, in additiijn to the lake and the
hills,I can see tlie smoke of your cottage chimney. Had
I been able, I should have come to see you long ago.'

Doris took off her hat, and sat down in a low
rocking-chair, with a strange sense of relief and rest
stealing over her.

The atmosphere of this room, though it was an
invalid's home, was very dilTerent from that at the
cottage. It seemed to Doris's exaggerated ideas just
then that it breathed of heaven.

* My dear, you look tired and worn, and much thinner
than when I saw you last. Has care grown heavier ? '

Doris nodded. Her heart was full. Had she
spoken, she must have broken down, as before, in
Mrs. Boothroyd's presence.

* Perhaps you would rather not speak of it just
now. Some time, I hope, you will be able to trust
me fully,' said the invalid brightly. * Sit and rest,
my dear, and I shall look at you and talk to you
about myself. I am so glad I was suited with a
house in Keswick, Miss Cheyne. Tliese hills are per-
petual comi)anions to me. I study them as I might
study a book, and T am always learning from them.
There is only onu thing I ft'd I. want somelinu^Pii'

IVAVS AND MEANS.

273

* What is that ? ' Doris asked, in a quiet, dreamy
way. She was resting, listening to that sweet,
sympathetic voice ; looking on the bright yet peaceful
face, she forgot for a moment her many cares.

* Some one to talk to when I am in the mood.
Some one to read to me when my own eyes are tired,
as they are tc often ; some one to relieve me <%
little of the care of the house, and to see that the
necessary work is done. My young servant is
willing, but she is thoughtUss. I have not just
full reliance upon her. I was thinking only this
morning that if the mild weather continued, I should
come down and ask you if you knew of any young
lady, or middle-aged lady, who might have a few hovirs
to spare, and would be willing to come to me.'

Doris sat up suddenly, and her face flushed all
over.

* Dear Mrs. Boothroyd, take me ! I will do the
best I can ; and we are almost in need,' she said, in
a half-choking voice.

* Come here, Doris.*

Doris rose and knelt down by the invalid's couch.
' God sent you to me to-day. 1 need you, my
dea>-i We will b«^ ^ help and com fort \,^ each other i'

% an III I. ' '

CHAPTER XVIII.

DAWNING LIGHT.

r,,i M

U ' I:-

ir ;

'And from the field of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended —
Charity, meekness, love and hope, and forgiveness an<l patience.'

Longfellow.

ORIS was sitting alone by the fire on the
evening of Christmas day. Mr3. Cheyne
had gone to London on a visit to Uncle
Penfold and Hosaniond " Josephine and Kitty, the
latter home for Christmas, were dining with Mrs.
Boothroyd. They had all been asked, but Doris,
suffering from severe headaclie and cold, liad been
obliged to send an excuse, mucli against her will.
An evening sj)ent at Sunbury Villa with Mrs.
Boothroyd was a delightful experience, as Doris
knew. Yet she had enjoyed her quiet afternoon,
lyipg in an unusual luxury of idleness on the sofa
in the hrelit room, with only her own thoughts for

DAWNING LIGHT.

275

companions, and tlio lialf-sad, half-sweet fields of
memory ior a background fur the ]>resent. The days
were briiiliter now for the Clievnes, tlie worst of
their straits seemed to be past. A year had elapsed
since they had removed to the cottage at the lake-
side, and it was already verjr dear to J>oris. She
had been very ]iap})y in it, alt)iou;.:h sl>e, had spent
some sad hours in it too. Sh*,- h ^ found a true
friend in Mrs. IJoothroyd, and wa r alnK-nt lik*i

a daughter. Tlu*se two women 1. »m_. c;. .i 'jl-ier as
well as it is ixxsible to love in ittb vt •' ' Doris
knew she was of use to Afrs. r»oo<Jif»wf<i ;afu. ha<- no
foolish i)rid<' in accepting paymeat hm w^x work.
She was therefore the jaainstay of tine •esCabiishmens
though Kitly paid the rent out of her salary.
Xobody in the wide world could b< ha})pier than
Kitty Cheyne at Oakhill. It was easy to see that
in her briijht and sweet face. Dons wondered lo
herself sometimes, with a quiet idle, how much a
certain neigh])0uring S(piire, Mrs. llesketli'-i l)rotli(;r,
had to do with Kitty's unutteralde I'ontcnt There
was a bright futui-e in store tdi' Kilty, for which
Doris's heart overllowed wilh deep tl /dvl'iiltiess.
During the year Josepldm^, liad done work by fits

176

no/as CI/EYNE.

I'S'

Uf*ililt!

and starts, niakin;^ siillicicnit to kcc.'p herself ele.t^^antly
dressed and help a liille; willi that Doris had to be
eonttnit. d(.)S('[)Iiine \v;is not stron*;', and was by
nature indohsnt, Doris was very lenient with her
even in thoiiu;lit. So long as she could earn enouij^h
to keep them in ]ilain eonil'ort, '^hc wou.ld never be
hard on otlnMs. Mis. Ciievne's visit to Ljudon was
a C'ln'istiiias ijii't tVoni Doris. Slie saw tliat her
mother needed a change of some sort, and she was
anxious al)Out lier health. ^irs. Clicvne's ailments
liad become real insl-.-ad of imuL^inary, but, curious to
tell, as her health L^av(3 way lier spiiits seemed to
improve, and she became ueiille and Ijright and
cheerful, so thai Doris had veiy much to be tliaukful
foi'. Nothing had been heard i'lom or of Miriam
since her Hiiilit ; her name was never mentioned at
the cottage, but Doris knew that lier mother was
S'lvnitlv anxious and (hstressed about her. Doris
!iad maiiv a tlioughl about ]\Iiriam too; and many
a silent j>rayer arose from ht.T true liearL for her
sister's welfare.

She was thinking of ]\Iiriam thai e\ening, when
a smart double knock came lo the door. Siie ,",pra.".;
Dp a.ud ran to open it, ajid what wa? \w.x a^f.nislj-

DAWNING :JGHT,

277

lo'jantlv

O t.'

ud to bo
was by
vitli her

I enougn

tiever be
iilou was
that licr

she was

iiihnents
nrious to

eiiu'd to
i^'ht and

thankful
,' Miriam

ioned at

thur WLis

Doris

lid Hi;UiV
V }'(ir liiT

nu, whi'U
u; .';)»rii."i'
Uf I'llii^.li-

ment to see Windridge on the step ! Her heart
warmed at sight of liim, and her colour heightened.
She liad only once seen him since they left the villa,
and he had then found no clue to Miriam.

*A merry Christmas to you,' rbe said gaily.
Come in, I am all alone. Had I been well, I
should have been out too. I am glad something
kept me in ; it is so great a pleasure to see you.'

Windridge hung up his coat and followed her into
the little sitting-room without a word. Then he
took a long look at her, as if to satisfy liimself that she
was well. It was such a look as a man casts on
what is very dear t-o him. Windridge did not know
he was so deeply interested in Doris ; he imagined
himself in love with Miriam. He was cherishing a
memory of what had been, and what would never
come to life again. We can so delude ourselves
sometimes, and thus make serious mistakes, for
which we have to pay very dearly. Doris lit the
candles on the mantleshelf, and tlien looked at
Windridge with a smile. She was pleased to see
him : he was her friend, of whom she often thought.
He had grown more maidy-looking, and his face was
that of a good, true man, who found life a thing of

I I

* 3

278

DORIS CIIFA'NE.

iciil (inmost. TT{i tlif»iijT;ht Doris cbanj^^erl, thoui^h ho
(lid not say so. She sceincd to liave gTOwn taller,
more slender, more womanly and diifniiied in appear-
unce. Her face was veiv tliin, and dark-coloured as
of old, l)Ut her eyes were still as luminous, kind, and
true. Slie was a plain woman to look at, — even those
who IovvmI her l)esL could not insist on any physical
l)eauty in lier ; hut slie had wliat is more valuable
than beauty — an uns(;lfish, loving- heart, a sweet and
noble soul. AVindridiJ'e felt the intluence of her
]>resence that ni;^ht as he had often felt it before,
and honoured her aljove women. He loved her too,
but did not know it.

' You are tired, I think. I see you have been
lying down,' he said gently. ' Do not let me disturb
you. I can sit here and talk to you.'

'Not tired, only lazy. I have had an idle,
delicious time. Did you know mannna had gone
to London ? Kitty is liera She and Josephine
have gone to dine at our old home, Sunbury Villa;
you know Mrs. Boothroyd, our tenant, is our very
dear friend ? '

* No ; I did not know,' said Windridge, and w^aited
to hear what slie had to tell. He had news,

i*»

DA WNING LIGHT,

279

liou<'h ho
vn taller,
11 appear-
iloiired as
kind, and
veil those
[)hysical
valnal)le
iweet and
e of her
it before,
1 her too,

ave been
le disturb

an idle,
lad ffone
rosephino
ry Villa;
our very

id waited
Lid news,

important news, but he wanted to hear "Doris sponk
first. It gave him a strange, sweet pleasure to listen
to her voice giving him her free sisterly confidence.

He had not many friends, and was miserly over
those he had.

'Yes, she is our dear friend,' said Doris, nodding
brightly. * The girls will have a happy evening, and
will meet Mrs. Booth royd's nephew, who was to
arrive yesterday from India to spend a few weeks
with her. Kitty is still at Oakhill, and very happy.
Dear child, it makes my heart glad to know she is
so thoroughly at home there.'

Windridge was touched by the manner in which
Doris spoke of the others. It was almost motherly
in its tone. And she was so young, life ought to be
all sunshine for her yet.

* I have heard of Miss Kitty,' said Windridge, with
a smile. * I know young Barnett of Barnes Edge,
Mrs. Hesketh's brother.*

Doris laughed too, and there was no more said ;
both understood what was meant.

* I do think it is the most wonderful thing in the
world how paths have been opened up for our
feet, Dr. Windridge,' said Doris dreamily. 'For a

fiiK'

liiiil'H-

•1 , i

> : , <

..1 1 1

280

JJOA'JS CJIEYNE,

loll'' time I sceiiiod to bo wulkiiii]: blindfolded aloim
;i very rocky road, on wliich T stumbled at every
step. Hut my very lielplessness made me depend so
utterly 011 a higher power ; and I have been amazed
at the stren;4th T have reeeived. Do you know, I
would not irivt! llie ])nst two years of my life even
for all that went before it. I have learned so very
many precious lessons.'

' And wliile leiirning you have taui^dit others,' said
Windridi^e earnestly. * You have taught me what I
trust Ikis made me a better man.'

Doris blushed. She was sensitive to praise.

' Tell me about yourself. I hear a great deal, you
know, of the good being done in Grasmere. Very
many call you friend. But I like to hear of your
life and work from your own lips.'

' There is not much to tell,' said AVindridge. Then
a little nervousness came upon him, and rising, he
walked twice across the floor.

' 1 have just returned from London, Miss Doris,' he
said, quite abruptly at length ; ' I have seen your sister.'

Doris started, and grew very pale, while her fine
eyes asked the question her lips feared to frame. She
did not know how it miuht be with Mii-iam.

DA WNING LIGHT.

281

fled along
at every
depend so
jn amazed
u know, I
life even
:;d so very

hers/ said
ne what I

lise.

deal, you
re. Very
ir of your

\Q. Tlien
rising, he

Doris,' he

)ur sister.'
3 her fine
tne. She

She is well. She asked me to take you her

love.

Windridge felt keenly at liaving to deliver the
brief cold message. Doris felt it too. Miriam had
not acted well by them.

'What is slie about?' she asked tremblinuly.
* Tell me all you know. It will at hiast end the
suspense we have so long endured.'

' It was by an accident I discovered a clue, or my
errand would probably have been as futile as it was last
time,' said Windridge. ' I saw her in the street, and
took the liberty of following her to what I supposed
to be her home. It was a good house in Cecil Street,
Strand. I waited about ten minutes, and then
walked up to the door and asked for jMiss Clieyne.
I was shown into a room, and in a few minutes i'lie
came to me. She was very much surprised to see
me, I could see,' he continued, after a momentary
pause. ' But quite indiflerent. She is very much
changed. Miss Doris.'

' 111 what way ? What is she doing ? ' asked
Doris sharply.

* It is as you thought. She is preparing for the
stage. She is in the family of a stage-manager, who

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282

DORIS CUE YNE,

knows it will Ix- td his a(lvantit<;o to train lior. Tier
t'aci! and voice will cnsuic, her surccss. She liad just.
returned from a four months' s(tjf)urn in Italy, where
she liad heen under some of tlie best masters. She
is to mak(; lier r///y///, she told me, in the sjn-inj:^ of
next veiir, about three months h(!nee. She would
not tidl Tue very much, Miss Doris, Init I think she
has had a hard strum,d(^ She lias been f,nvin,L( as
well as reeeivinu; lessons in musie and sinuinu;. She
ask(Ml for V(tu all, J thou'dit theic were tears in
her eyes when slie spoken of you, but I mi^ht have
been mistaken. Slie bade me tell you, you should
hear of her in s])rinJ^^'

Doris was silent a moment, relieved yet cast down.
There seemed to be a great gulf fixed between
Miriam and home.

*l)r. AVindridge, did you speak to her about
coming back?' asked Doris hesitatingly.

*Xo, I tlid not, I saw it would be useless. Her
heart is in her work. You should have seen her
eyes kindle when she spoke of the spring. I believe
she v/ill be a grand success.*

Doris sighed.

' Tt is a strange, unreal world to live in, Dr.

DA ivy /KG LIG/n\

Iier about

Winrlridge. Mirlum may be successful, but how cau
she be happy ? Mere satisfied anibilidu will not
satisfy her. If she thinks so, she will iiud out her
grievous mistake.*

* She is excited already over the prospect. Should
any unforeseen circunistauce mar her success, it will
be a fearful disap]x»intment to her.*

' Do you thin", if you had asked her .she would
not have come back?* Doris ventured to ask attain.
She had accustomed herself to the idea of Miiiam
being restored through "Wiiidridgi^ niid for his sake,
and it had ceased to contain anv stimr for her.

Windridse shook his head. Theie was a slight
impatience in the gesture and in the look which
accompanied it.

*I think I made a mistake, ]\riss l^oris. IMiriam
would never be happy with me,'

* I am very sorry, Dr. Windridge,' Doris said
quietly.

* You need not be, T aiu not at all sorry for
myself. I am ])eifectly hapjiy,' he said, with a short
laugh, wliich jarred a little on Doris's ear.

She was silent a little, and then began to talk of
somethin'r else. But there seemed to be a sliijht

284

DORIS CUEVyE.

roust raint lictwcoii tlicni. i)oris diil not know Ikiw
or wliy it should 1)0.

His visit was not ])rolrmn;eil. lie liad work
awaiting liiiii at Ikhih', lie said, but had niadu ihi-
lime to hriun' l^er tidinL:s of Miriam.

' I thauk you ; you have relieved my mind of a
great uncerli.inly. My mother will thank you too,'
said Horis, as she, stood up to hid him good-bye.

' There is no need for thanks. I satislied mvself
by going, l)ut it was for your sake, Doris,' AVindridge
said; and with that enigmatieal speeeh abruj)tly left.
])(jris felt rather de])ressed in spirits as she lay down
on the S(jfa again ; the pleasant relations between
Windridge and herself scemetl to be disturbed. She
did not know that they were wholly destroyed, that
they could never be renewed.

She was thiukiuL!; over these thinj^s \vl:en she
heard the chatter of many voices at the Liate,
mingled with the dee[)er tones of a man's voice;
Mrs. Boothroyd's ne[»hew had brought the girls home.
They came into the house by and by, both radiant,
Josephine with an unusually brilliant colour, and a
brightness in her whole demeanour which surprised
Doris. They threw oil" their wraps, and clustered

1 ^i-

know lir.w

IliJid work
iiiado tlic

mind of a
Jk you too,'

l-l)ve.

ii'd nivsdf

AMndiid^c
nij)tly iL'lt.
3 lay down
s l)etW(j(.'n
bed. She
'oyed, that

\vl:en she
the gate,
I's voiee ;
ills home.
1 radiant,
'ur, and a
surprised
clustered

DAWNING LIGHT. 285

al'out tlie fire to tell Doris all about the events of
tlie evening'. Charlie l>oothroyd, Mrs. r)Oothroyd's
nephew, was splendid, Kitty said, so full of fun and
nonsense. He was coming to see Doris to-niorrow.
It was Kitty who chattered most.
Josephine had little to say.

* I am going to bed, I am as sleepy as can be,' she
said. ' That whist was rather slow.'

* Hear her ! * laughed Kitty. ' Why, hadn't you
Mr. Eoothroyd for your partner, and didn't he lose
the rubber twice because he was more intent on
admiring you than looking at his eaids ? '

'You are an absurd thing, Kitty Cheyne,* said
Josephine with dignity, but with visihly heightened
colour. Doris smiled, and looked admirinj^lv at
Josephine. She looked so handsome and stately in
her black velvet robe, with her fair hair coiled round
her shapely head, and the bunch of scarlet geraniums
lending their bloom to her cheek. Josephine might
have a brilliant future before her, aft<'r all.

'I do think Charlie Loolliroyd — he is such a
ridiculously funny fellow, always m.'iking jokes — has
fallen in love with Josepliine,* said Kitty confi-
dentially, the moment they were alonei ' She looked

286

/JO A' AS CIIEYNE.

': V,

Splendid to-iii;^ht, you know, and was so aj:^eeable.
She has promised Lo sk He wilh him on Bassenthwaite
to-morrow, if tlie ice is j,'ood. How nice Mrs.
IjooLhroyd is, Doris, and how she loves you !'

Doris smiled. ISlie knew lliat to be true.

' I have had a visitor, Kitty ; Gabriel Windridge
has been here. He came to tell me he had found
Miriam.'

*0h!' cried Kitty breathlessly. 'What is she
doing ? '

In a few words Doris acquainted her with the
particulars Windridge had brought, and the sisters
talked far into the night, rather sorrowfully, about
their sister. She seemed to be so far away from
them ; they could hardly hope ever to see her again.
Kitty had her contidence to bestow too. She had
promised to become the niisUess of Barnes Edge, and
when Mrs. Cheyne returned home, George Barnett
was to journey to Keswick to ask formal sanction to
their betrothal

I ■:

•sj^^

CHArTEK XIX.

NEW PUOSPECTS.

HEliE really doesn't seem to be any
medium for us,' said Mrs. Clieyne. We
are either overwhelmed willi misfortune,
or surrounded with a great many blessings at once.
I hope I accept both in a meek, thankful spirit/

Iler tone of voice was very satisfied ; Mrs.
Cheyne was at peace with herself and all the world.

Doris looked up witli a smile from a letter she
was writing to Iiosamond. They were alone
together in their little sitting - room, which was
filled witli the radiance of the setting sun. It was
February now, the rays were mild and fine, a tinge
of greenness and bright sjiring promise was over all
the waking earth. It was a time of li()i)e. Doris
was very happy in these early spring days, her

2.S.S

J)OJ</S CUE YXE.

i !

'k- ' X

PI,

'!!■ I"

i-' ^ ,

II--

iK'ini,' was always touclKid Ity tlit' spirit of nature;
and slie especially loved the (layl»reak of the year.

'What is it now, mamma ? Wliat special bless-
\\v^ or misfortune Jire you talkinj:; of? '

' Oh, nothiu!^' in particular. I am very nuuli
pleased with Kitty's choice, Doris, (leori^'o liarnelt
really is a finc^ y<"in^' man. And such a f^'ood
]ii(»p('rty ! It is really wonderful Intv,' Providence
has dealt with my fatherless jfirls.'

Doris htoked out upon *'i . golden waters of th(!
lake sJiimmeriuLi" in the st • ' .i.,' sun, and her eyes
had a far-olV, dreamy expression in their depths.

* Xo sooner is it all .so satisfactorily settled about
her, than I have another i)leasant surprise,' continued
Mr.s. Chevne, not heediu'' Doris's silence. * I don't
suppose, now, you have noticed Charlie Boothroyd's
devotion to Jo.sephine.'

' Imleed I have ; long before you came home,
mother,' laughed Dori.s. * It does not take very
keen vision to see that.'

' I hope he will speak before he goes away. Tf
he insists on taking doseplijue away to India, I
should think it my dut>- t.«» yo with Iter. Dnrisi'

M)h, mother!'

NEW PROSPECTS.

289

'Don't look so surprised. She is not stroni^, and
it would be a slianie to allow her to ^'o to tliat
stranj^e land alone.'

' Hut if she j^'oes with Mr. Boothroyd, slie cannot
need any one else,' Doris ventured to say.

* Doris, though you are never likely to be married,
I assure you, that thou;^'li you had a hu.si)and
to-morrow, he would never fill a mother's place,' said
Mrs. Cheyne severely. * Besides, the climate would
suit me. I feel the winters here really too trying.*

Doris wore a perplexed expression. Her mother,
with the customary fertility of her ima;,anation, had
already arranged the whole affair; and no doubt
had already settled the question of outfit and other
items.

Her busy brain had found a new channel in which
to work. And Charlie had not, so far as any of
them knew, even hinted of his hopes to Josephine.

* From wJiat I have seen of him, I think him very
generous, and of course he is rich,' said Mrs. Cheyne.
« I have spoken to Josephine about it. She says she
would no*^^ care to go to India without me.'

Doris was silent, not caring to express her
tln)ughts. To her it seemed a strange thing to

<*!

' J

290 DOR IS CHEYXr..

discuss as settled a matter wliidi iiiinlil iu'ver ItLcunie
a fact. It janvtl upon hci-, hnl slic did iioi say so.

Hrr llioiii^Iits wandered s(t iinicli llial she (•(•aid
not fix lii'i" iiiiiKl nil IJusic's letler: slie was lunkiii^f
dreaiiiilv out of lla^ window, when she saw Charlie
IJoothroyd and doscjthine connn:^ uji tlie lane.
Josej)hine's liand was on his aim, licr lace was
Ihislied, her eyes hri^dil and spark liniif, whiUi lie had
that happy, conscious look characteristic of the
accepted lover. iJoris saw how it was, and {gathering
up h(!r writing' materials, lied hefore they came in.

Just as they joini'd Mrs. Cheyne in the sittini,'-
rooni, Doris, with her hat and ^d(jves in her hand,
slipped out hy the back-door, and hastily dressing-
there, went oir hy a roundahcait wjiy to Sunbury
Villa. They would be better without her just theii
at the cottage.

Mrs. Boothruyd, now a little stronger, was sitting at
the dining-room window when Doris came to the door.

'Tome, my dear. Did some little biid whisj)er of
my loneliness to you { ' she said heartily. ' Charlie's
visit was supjxtsed to be to me, Imt an old aunt has
no attraction in comparison with a beautiful young
lady. I had my day once, so 1 must wol grumble.'

lii

NEW rKOSPECTS.

291

Doris Inni^'hcd, but hur eyes were •,'rave ami even
Iroiihled. She sat down on a stool at the fire, while
Mrs. Iiootliroyd took her own htuii^^'iiiL,' ehair on the rug.

' Is Cliarlie at your house, J)oris ?'

' Yes ! Josephine and he came in toj^'ctlier jnst as
T came out. It was because of them, indeed, tliat I
came out. I tliought tliey might wisli to speak to
mother,' said Doris, with a tremulous snule.

'You were quite rigl t. Cliarlie spoke to me
frankly and unreservedly to-day, and went from me
to Josephine. How did they look ? Do you think
she will, say " Yes " ? '

* I think she has,' answered Doris.

* And are you pleased ? You look very serious
over it. Have you any obj«;ctions to my boy ? '
asked Mrs. I^oothntyd playfully.

' Oh, none ! I like him very much. I hope
Josephine will make him happy.'

* He is going to ask a strong proof of her love,
Doris. He wishes her to return to Calcutta with
him as his wife witliin a month.'

* If Josephine loves him, that is a very little
thing to grant. It should not cost her any thought,'
Doris answered.

3()3

DORIS C//EY\/:.

'That is 1k)W yaw woiilil not, I)(>ris. You would
give all unr(!s<'rvt'(lly, (►r nolliiii;.'. Wv will be a
lmi)py iiiiiii wli(» wins you,' said Mrs. I'oothroyd,
lookii:.; keenly inlo llie;^'iiTs ;^'iave face. J)<)ris heard
her, but she was not thiid<in;^' of lujrsili' at the moment.

* Are you pleased with your ncplnnv's choice, Mrs.
lioothroyd?' she asked suddenly, in that strai;,'ht-
forward fashion of liers.

' What shall I say, that I would h.ive been better
pleased had it fallen on you ? ]»ut Josephine is a
charminj,' ^irl. She will mak(; a fine An_i,do-lndian.
I fear the lan;;uor and tni forced idleness of Indian
life would not suit you, njy most active and practical
of maidens. Charlie is devotedly attached to her ;
there is no doubt of that. 1 do not, as a rule,
approve of hasty marriai^^es, but exceptions are to be
admitted. I think they will be very happy.'

' Mrs. P>oothroyd, mamma was speaking of it to
me to-night. She would like to go with Josephine.
The climate, I know, would suit her admirably ;
Dr. Windridge said so long ago. What would you
think of that ? '

' 1 would approve of it ; so wouk! Charlie, I am
sure. He spoke of that too. It would leave you

NJciy rh'Osj'iiCTS.

2«Ai

aloru\ I)<tris — nml a si'lfish jny took jxisscssion of int-
There will \n\ no altciiiiitive for yoii. tlicn, my laily,
but to come to me. Could you make your home
here, Doris ? *

'I Iiave made it already,' Dori'^ nnswerrd (juietly ;
but still her eyes were troubled, her manner grave
and preoccupied.

'Will you lend me five pounds, Mrs. IJoothroyd?'
she asked suddenly.

'Surely, twice live, if you like, my child.'
'At once — to-nij^'lit, would you let me have it?'
' This moment, if you like. My desk is u[)-stairs,
there are my keys, go and get the money for your-
self.'

' How absolutely you trust me ! ' said Doris, smiling,
as she took the keys in her harul * "Will you not
even ask what I want with the money?'

* You will tell me, dear, if you wish me to know.*

' I will tell you. I am goim^ to London to-
morrow.'

* To see Miriam ? *
« Yes.'

*I am not surprised. I expected you to have
gone long ago.*

ui f

, ) s,

u >

■

294 DORIS CHEYNE.

' I have thought of it since Dr. Windridge told
me about her. Had she expressed any desire to
see us, I should have gone long ago. She has never
even beei at Uncle Penfold's, though she knows
Eosamond is there.*

' She must be a strange, cold being,' said Mrs.
Boothroyd musingly. 'Then why do you wish to
see her now ? *

• I wish to see for myself how it is with her. She
might have need of me, Mrs. Boothroyd. If mamma
should decide to go to India, my first duty would be
removed ; but if Miriam succeeds in the life she has
planned for herself, it might be my duty to try and
make a home for her if she will let me. She will have
need of it, if I mistake not. She will find even fame
and fortune fearfully empty and hollow things. And
unless she has some softening influences about her,
she will become hardened and proud. I am very
anxious about her, Mrs. Boothroyd. My heart is
like to break when I think of her.'

* God bless you, Doris. You have, indeed, been
the good angel of your family.'

' Oh, no ! What I do is very, very little. I can
only work with my hands, and I have met with

NE IV PROSPECTS.

295

many kind friends. Who would have been so
generous as you ? I am deeply in your debt, but I
am presuming enough not to mind it at alL It is
easy to be indebted to those we love.*

* There can be no question of indebtedness
between you and ine, Doris,' said ^Irs. Boothroyd.
* But you will at least promise me one thing, that
if your sister should not need you — she may marry,
you know — you will come to me.*

' I will.'

* Then we understand each other. I will give
way to Miriam, but to no otlier. Kitty, dear
child, will soon have her own happy home. If she
wants you there, you don't go, unless on a visit*

Doris laughed.

* I would not approve of living on my brother-in-
law, however good he might be. I could be of no
use to them, but I can be of use to you.*

' Will you never marry, Doris ? '

* No.'

Doris answered calmly, and without embarrass-
ment.

' How can vou be certain ? '

* I cannot, of course, be quite certain, but there

i * '

296

DORIS CHEYNE.

is hardly a possibility of such a thing. Shall I go
up, then, and play havoc among your gold ? '

* By and by. Kitty told me last night about Mr.
Hardwicke, Doris. I felt that I ought not to have
allowed her to tell the story. Had you wished me
to know, you would have told me.*

D<:ris coloured sliglitly.

* It was not my secret alone, Mrs. Boothroyd, else
J would have told you. To me it is not only
incomprehensible, but wrong, for a woman to betray
a man's confidence. I could not do so.'

* You would have had a noble home, Doris, and a
wide sphere of usefulness, had your decision been
otherwise.'

' Yes,- but the one essential was lacking. I did
not love the man who offered them to me. I like
and respect Mr. Hardwicke, he has been ou'* most
true friend in our time of need.'

* Doris, I shall be sorry if you do not marry.
A woman like you ought to have a wide sphere.
Your sympathies and capabilities are so boundless.'

* I do not know. I have always had enough to
do. If at times I have chafed a little at the nature
of my work, it has soon passed. There is a certain

Ll-

JSIE W PROSPECTS,

297

IIP rowness and monotony, you know, in mere hand-
work in a household. I have not been without my
yearnings after greater things, being only human.'

' It will come in His own time, my dear,* said Mrs.
Boothroyd. Doris nodded with a smile on her
lips. Had she not proved beyond all doubt, through
the vicissitudes of the past three years, that He
doeth all things well ?

Her heart was at rest as she walked home in the
sweet spring dusk. She had no fear for the future,
knowing her portion would be sure.

She found her mother much exciicd, Josephine
calm, collected, but evidently pleased. Doris having
come home through by-paths, did not meet Charlie
Boothroyd, who had just left.

' I suppose you have been at Mrs. Booth royd's,*
exclaimed Mrs. Cheyne breathlessly. ' She knows
all about it. We have had such a nice long talk,
Doris. I am proud to have such a son as Charlie
Boothioyd, so generous and kind. I told him so,
and I think Josephine may think herself well off.
And it's all settled ; I am to go too. He said that
Josephine's mother must be his now, and I need not
have any feeling about it ; so good and kind ! How

298

DORIS CBEYNE,

few men would take the trouble to consider such a
thing ! •

Doris walked up to Josephine, and put her hands
on her shoulders

' God bless you, dear, for ever, and make you very
happy/ she said, with a quiver in her voice.

'Thank you, Doris,* Josephine answered, really
touched. * Of course you must come too ; Charlie
said so.*

* He cannot marry the whole family,* said Doris
merrily, though her heart was just a little sore. She
felt outside the family circle, as if nobody had any
longer need of her.

' Oh, no ! It really would be nothing. Wait till
Charlie speaks of it himself. He is so rich ! He
has horses and carriages, and black servants and
bungalows, and all these kind of things in abun-
dance,' exclaimed Mrs. Cheyne incoherently.. She
was pleased and excited as a child over a new
toy. Doris, remembering the hardship of the past
three years, felt very tender and very compassionate
toward.* her. The anxiety and troubles of these
years must have been worse for her to bear, because
she lacked the buoyancy of youth, which points
perpetually to jhe dawn of brighter days.

:!•

r such a

er hands

rou very

i, really
Charlie

id Doris
re. She
had any

Wait till
ih ! He
mts and
in abun-
ly.. She
? a new
the past
assionate
of these
, because
\i points

200

:i I

,!'

NKW rKOSrECTS.

301

*We shall have a busy time of it for tho next few
weeks, then, preparing two travellers for India,' said
Doris brightly. ' We shall need all our wits about us.'

* Charlie is to come again to-morrow and give us
all the information about outfits and sucli things,'
said Josephine. * Of course we nuist have the very
quietest of weddings. I was thinking how very
dearly I should like to be married in the old church
at Grasmere.*

Doris felt her eyes fill. She dared nob at that
moment think of anything but the most practical

details.

* I forjrot f i-t there must be t wedding ! ' she
exclaimed. * Why, I don't l:now how it is to be all
accomplished. How soon does I\Ir. Boothroyd wish

to sail ? *

* He must go by the Khedive, which sails on the
tenth of next month. We have four weeks and
three days to prepare,' answered Josephine. ' Miriam
and Rosie must come down then.*

* Uncle Penfold will bring Eosie, of course, but I
really do not know about Miriam,' said Mrs. Cheyne
stiffly. ' I must say she has behaved in an extra-
ordinary and unlilial fashion to me. I never injured

302

DORIS CIIEYNE,

her. Why shoiihl «lie disgrace me ? It is not]iinj:»
short of (hsi^niice for her to be living with strange
peoi)le, and i)repjiring for the theatre. I oni ghid I
am going away. 1 could not have supj)orted seeing
lier name on vulgar posters, and lu?r ])hotographs in
shop windows among (pi(i8tionablti characters.'

* Mamma, I am going to London to-morrow,' said
Doris abruptly.

' Bless me, child, surjnises are the order of the
day. London ! What are you going to do there ? '

* I wish to see ]\Iiriam. 1 shall stay over night
at Uncle Pen fold's and return on Thursday, then we
can begin to work in earnest.'

* But you will think of going with us. Charlie
was in earnest, Doris,' said Josephine wistfully.

Doris smiled, but shook her head.

' If you have mannna you will do well, dear, and
there is Miriam, and Kitty, and Tfosie. I should not
like to leave them all.'

'It is a pity Kitty's wedding had not been
fixed. We might have had them both on one day
and then I should have left with a lighter heart,'
said Mrs. CheynO. * But really, Doris, if you don't
go to India, what will you do ?'

NEW PROSPECTS.

Z^l

*I shall tell you, (U-ar inotlier, wlicn T coiik! liack^
finm London,' Doris answiMud. 'You uclmI not fret
about me. I shall llml a (|uiet eorner somewhere.'

Mrs. Cheyne sighed, thinking of llardwieke
IManor.

* Uosie has a home for life. I newer saw a child
so content, and the old man is just devoted to her.
Of course she will inherit all his means. And when
she is left alone, she can come out to us. 1 am
most anxious al)out Miriam. I don't know what her
poor father would have said to it. If she had
stayed quietly with me, she might have made a
splendid marriage. Look at Josephine and Kitty,
and you too, Doris, for you know your chance was
as good as either, though not good enough for you,*
said Mrs. Cheyne complacently, just as if her virtues
had secured these prizes for her daughters.

There was still a little soreness in ]\Irs. Cheyne's
heart about the Hardwicke ati'air, indicated ]»v a
chance word now and again which reminded Doris of
her shortcomings. But on the whole, Mrs. Cheyne
had improved, and admitted freely that Doris had
really been her mainstay and comfort since her
husband's death.

, '

CHAPTER XX.

HEIi PLACE.

Too much rfst is rust.'— Sir "Waltkr Scott.

ORIS was sitting alone in the window of
tlie dniwing-room at Sunbury Villa, on
the evening of a sunny June day. Her
face, though grave an<l thoughtful, wove an expression
of peace. She was at home and at rest ; for the
first time for years, no sordid care liad reached her
heart. A year and more had gone since Mrs.
Cheyne and Josephine had set sail for India ; Kitty
was now happily married ; Rosamond still making
the sunshine of life for the old man in London ;
Miriam had reached the height of her ambition ;
Doris was alone, but she had her quiet work to do.
If at times a sense of narrov/ness, a little weariness
of the perfect rest and sweet monotonous ease of

HER PLACE.

305

her life opi)re.ssc(l licr, slio i»ut it ;i\v;iy with sclf-
nipioac'h, as disloyal to the kind, tiu«' I'lici d wlio
had j^dvun her so truu a ln^im; in her liour <•!" wwA.

Doris was now six-and-twentv, and hxtkcd her
years to tln^ full. Slie had lived s<> inuch (hiring
the early womanhood, that she even iVlt muc li (ddcr.
She had foULjlit a hard battle; she had Wv\\ facci to
face with the stern (luestion of mere existence ; she
had had to solve the problem of how jind wliere
even daily bread was to be obtained. Such experi-
ences must leave their trace, both pliysically and
mentally. The soldier who has been in the thickest
of the strife, takes a dill'erent view of it from him
who has only read of it in song or story. Doris
had known the very depths of anxious care, she had
lived throu^.5h days of almost intolerable uncertainty,
and now, when such things could not come near her
any more, she felt at times the lack of some
stimulating energy to give a relish to existence.
The companionship of a solitary woman, the
sweet, dull routine of the quiet life at the villa,
was not for Doris Clieyue. Jiefore she had
been six months with Mrs. Boothroyd, tliat keen-
eyed woman saw it all clearly. liut she didn't

3o6

DORIS CIIEYXE,

\''

know how to net; slit* loved Doris ns a dinij^liter,
and ' (»uld scaividy buiir tliu thou;4ht of imitinL' from
hor ; l)L'.sidL*s, whore could she ^'o ? Mrs. r>ootliroyd
spent many hours tliinkin;^' (jver the (question, and
at ieni,'th was coiniudled to leave it where she had
left all other cares, and sini]»ly asked that some
work ini«^ht he ;^iven Doris to do.

She had never Itroached the subject to Doris.
The girl did not even know tluit her friend was
aware of the slight feelinj^' of discontent which
sometimes troubled her. Doris did her duty
faithfully, reliev^ing Mrs. iioothroyd of every house-
hold care; but housekeeping at Sunbuiy Villa was
very difl'erent from her first experience of it under
the same roof. Doris was not sure that she did
not regretfully recall the old days as happier than
these. Then every energy, every faculty was on
the alert, every day had its special little difficulty to
overcome. Now she had nothing to do but say,
and it was done. Money was plentiful, there was
no need for plannings to secure little comforts at
the expense of her own ; every desire she had was
gratified, and still Doris was not content. It was
a life of ease ; but having tasted that strange, fearful

jiER ri Acn

307

jny NNllif'li only lllnsc kiKiW wlio li;iV(! Slni'^'^Kd ill
IIh' IllLli^l-;! NV;i\S nt puVcJiy, I >n| is InnlNrd liMlk ll|Mtn

itwilli it'uri't. Slir was iiui a juitici wninan, l»iiL
II I'aiilly liiiiiiaii Itjii'^', who, like many aimilici' in
t Ills woild, dill iini scciii t<» a]>[>ivcial(.; tin' Mcssiiij^s
liy w iiicli slic was siii nmiidcd,

Slic! had a pit'cc ol" jicwinL,' in Iht hand, iijMin
wliirli litr cvcs and lin-'crs were intent, tlmn-di her
tlninu'hts were \V('a\in'4 a siran^tr wch, in \sliich the
ihivads (if I'asl, ]»rts(iit, and I'nlnio wric slranucly
ciMnndii^U'd. Mrs. luxilliiuyd had ^ncMir lo liu down,
hciiiL:; lirt'd willi the heal. I)(.lis fell oppl-L'Sscd,

Ino, liv the sidtiini'ss of the air, thonuli iht; wind

was wide oj'i'n. She was sillinL; lu'ldnd ihc cnitain,
and could not sec into tlui sin'el. it was a (|ni('t,
dull, unintcrt'sliiii;- sUuL't, howcviT, in wliirh thcic

was n(»tliin'4 to he seen. So ahsorhin;j; W(T(! tl

giiTs thou;_;hls, that thoui^h she was conseious of
hearing' the hell linu', >h(' ihouuht n(t more of it
until the ilrawinL^-ioitm door was suddenly o[iene<l,
and the serxanl announced Dr. A\'indrid^-e. Doris
]tut down h(^r seam and rose with ciimson faco
Why? llecausu she iiad liccn thinking <jf him at
the, niunient ; she had been l.hinkin,^ how fiutirel^

I-

ii!

308

DORIS CHEYNE.

she had passed out of his life, and he out of hers ;
she had not seen him for many months — not, indeed,
since a few weeks after Josephine's marriage.

* Dr. Windridge, I am surprised to see you,' she
said. ' I tliought you had forgotten the way to
Keswick.'

' No ; I have romembered it perhaps too well,'
he said, as he took the slender hand, grown smooth
and white now, in his firm clasp.

*Mrs. Boothroyd has so often spoken of you,*
said Doris. ' She is tired to-day ; the heat is so
trying. But I hope she will be able to see you
before you go. Do sit down and let us talk. I
do not feel at all strange to you, though I have
not seen you for so long.*

' Do you not ? *

Windridge asked the question quietly, and even
carelessly, but his eyes said something very dififerent.
Perhaps he wished she would not so frankly
acknowledge her pleasure at seeing him ; the old
familiar friendship was not now enough for him.
He had waited the test of time, he had done
nothing to strengthen his attachment to this giil,
and now he kxxew she waa the woman who would

jv >"«.■;

IJER PLACE.

309

make his life's liappinesF,. He had come to ask
that that sweet friemisliip might be merged in a
dearer relationsliip ; he liad come to ask her to
become his wife. But those clear eyes, so fearlessly
meeting his, the grave, womanly face so frankly
turned towards him, tlie unaffected, unembarrassed
manner made him tremble. None of these promised
him a happy answer to his pleading.

* You look well. I have never seen you look better.
Miss Doris. It is an unspeakable source of thankful-
ness to me that you have at last been al)le to rest a
little. The past was too much for you ; it used to
unman me to think of what you had to do and to bear.'
'It was a happy life, though,' she said, foldir.g
her hands above her work, and turning her eyes for
a moment dreamily towards the setting sun. 'I
am selfish and ungrateful, I fear, Pr. Windridge, but
I sometimes feel as if this life, sweet and easeful
though it is, will kill me with stagnation. What
do you suppose is to become of a being so utterly
ungrateful and unreasonable as I ? '

She brought her eyes on his face with a sudden,
swift glance as she asked the question ; but Wind-
ridge did not immediately answer.

^t*

r< 11

:U-i

'i^\

1-1 ^

310

DORIS CHEYNE.

• Have von no (incslioii to ask al)ont thorn all?'
she asked blithely, takiiii;" up lier seam acjain, after
a inoiiiont's silence. *J)o yiui know that I have
attained to the dii^iiity of Aunt iJoris now ? — that a
little Charlie Boothroyd has arrived at J]ond)ay. They
are all well, and of course tliere never was such a bahy.'

•I knew of liis advent/ smiled Windridiie. 'I
was at Carlisle one day last week, iind dined at
Barnes Jid^e. What a charniinu; mistress vour
sister makes of the old house ! I came away
thiid^inii' Barnett a verv lucky fellow.'

' They arc; very happy ; but Kitty would be hap]_)y
anywhere. I often envy her her sunny nature and
contentment. I wish, she would impart her secret
to me.'

Windridge did not say what he thought, that
there could be no comparison between the two.
Kitty was happy and gay and lu'ight indeed, but
slie had neither the deptli of character nor the
nobility of boul which iJoris possessed.

* Your sister is liaving a very successful career in
London. Her name is on every lip. I have wondered
how you take it all,' said A\ indridge presently,
approaching more nearly to tlangerous ground.

li«f',

HER PLACE.

3'i

Doris's lip trembled. jMiriam was a ver\ sore
subject with lier.

* I suppose I ought to be glad, Init T have thought
sometimes that had she been less successful she
might not have been so utterly lost to us.'

* Have you seen her lately ? '

' No, not since before mamma went to India. She
did not behave well to us at that time. I did not
Lell you at the wedding, when you asked where she
was, that 1 had seen her only a few weeks before.'

' No, you did not. I understood that you had
never seen her since she left this house.'

' When it was settled that mother and Josephine
were going to Bombay, I went to see Miriam, to
ask her to allow me to make my home with her.
She was very cold and distant, and she refused.
She said I should be no help, but a hindrance to
her, because I was too particular and narrow in my
views. I felt it very much, and I believe I spoke
hastily. We parted, if not in anger, at least coldly.
I regretted it so much, that after I came home I
wrote to her, asking her forgiveness, but she never
answered it. I have written to her several times
since, but with the same result. Last week she

;512

DORIS CJIEYNE.

it.i

sent niG a cheque for a hundred pounds, without a
word or a line attached. I felt that very much. I
shall not use the money, hut shall return it to hci-
some day when I see her.'

* I saw her on th ■ stage in London early in April,
Miss Doris.'

* Did you ? T do not ask what impression she
made upon you. I am not interested in her
professional career. I may be bigoted and narrow,
but I shall never grow reconciled to her public
life. It is not for a woman, it cannot fail to take
the fine edge off her nature.'

* There is no doubt about her genius, but I did
not think she looked happy,' said Windridge.

* Did she see you ? '

* No. I left before the performance was over.'
Doris would have liked to ask another question,

but she retrained. She did not wish to touch a
painful chord in the surgeon's memory.

* You are still very busy, I suppose ? I hear
you have two assistants now,' she said presently.

* I have. My main object in coming to-night was
to tell you of a change I am about to n^ake. I
leave Orasmere in Aujiust.'

^ii-

HER PLACE.

Z^^

' Leave Grasmcre ! Wliy, I thought you would
be there all vour life.'

* So did I at one time, hut I have changed my
views. My friend Dr. Manson, of Manchester, and
I have agreed to nmke an exchange. He hns
an immense practice in one of the most populous
districts in Manchester, and his health has falK'd
him under the strain. It is imperative for his
wife's sake also that they should make a change.
So in August he comes to Grasmere, and T go to
obtain a new experience as a city physician. What
do you think of it ? '

*I can see your friend's object in coming to
Grasmere, but yours is not quite so clear,' said
Doris. * You are so much beloved where you now
are, that I cannot think you will be any better
where you are going.'

*I want new experiences, wider ranges for my
sympathies ; I am stagnating, growing indolent and
selfish, in spite of my hard work. It is time for
me to go.'

' You are very conscientious ; I wish you every
success, Dr. Windridge,' Doris said, in a low
voice. She felt as if the last link which bound

i , :;

4^-;-

3'4

DORIS CllEYNE.

l»(jr to the old life wore about to be snnppcfl. She
could not understand the dull fcciing of misery
whicli crept over her. Sh.e felt alone, desolate , slic
nuirvcdled at herself.

Windridge rose to his feet. He was pale, and
wlien he spf»ke it was in a hesitating voice, veiy
dillcrent from liis usual clear, calm utterances. A
strange feeling calne over Doris. She laid down
her work, and allowed her eyes to meet those of
Windridge,

* Doris, will y(ni come with me and help me ?
I have been too long alone. There is no woman
who will make life what you could for me. I love
you with my whole soul.'

Doris covered her face with her hands. She was
overcome with surprise, and also with the wild thrill
of happiness caused by his words. She knew in a
moment that this was her destiny, from which she
could not, dare not, turn away.

* You know my whole past, but if you could ever
care for me, I entreat you do not let anything
therein stand between us. This is the love which
makes or mars a man's happiness, the other was a
foolish passion which could not stand the test of

HER PLACE.

315

change. Doris, let nio see your face. I am in
fearful earnest.*

But Doris neither spoke nor moved.

*I am not worthy of you,' he eontinncd, with the
humility of a great earnestness. * I have no riglit
to expeet you to answer me just at onee ; but if
you think that in time you might tru5;t yourself
with me, give me a word of hope to earry with me
to my new sphere of labour. You spoke a littk; ago
of being weary of this (|uiet life. There is mueh to
do in that great city, Doris. Will you come r '

Doris raised her head. Her tine eyes, shining
with a new and lovely light, met his.

' I will come,' she said quietly, and gave him her
hand.

So the old friendship received its crown. Hence-
forth these two would be sufiicient, one to the other.

It was a sultry July afternoon, and great London
was oppressed by the hot, merciless glare of a
midsunnner sun. Although windows were opened
wide, no air entered the stilling rooms ; it was one
of those days on whicli it is a burden almost to
breathe. In the small but elegantly furnished

nOKiS CIIEYNE.

:l .

f! !

... : ! i

fci(

Itiiudoir of n bijou house at St. John's Wood, a
iHtaiilifiil woiiiaii, alliit'tl in a ricli dressing- j^own,
was lyiii,L( on a, sofa in an attitude of listli'ss
weariness. Mowers were al)out lier everywhere, the
air was laden with their rieli ])erfunie, a littki hird
in a j^ilded ea^c; triUed a sweet melodious strain, a
pet s])aniel with wistful melancholy eyes lay at her
feet lookiiiL^- at her with almost human ad'eetion.
Miriam (Jhevne needed none of these tinners. She
was weary, weary, almost siek unto death of her
way of life. A ]>ile (jf uno[)ened letters and a few
news[)apers lay on tlie table near her, and tiiough
the latter contained glowing eulogiums on her
performance of the previous evening, they were of
no ni(jre value than waste paper in her eyes.
Miriam Cheyne was a dissatisfied, miserable woman.
Of what was she thinking as she lay there, with
her white arms folded above her golden head ? what
tender thought had softened her proud face, and filled
the haughty eyes with such a lovely light ? She was
thinking of a leafy lane among towering hills, of a
still grey winter's afternoon, of two figures walking side
by side within sight of Eydal Mere. She saw a man's
grave, eainest, thoughtful face; she heard his voice say:

HER riACE.

3'7

'(Jive me the \\'j\\\ to work for von.'
^liriam Clieyne was ronivtliiiL;- tlio pnst, and
something more. She was nicdiial in^' n[)on tryini,'
to recall tliat lost happiness ; she knew now that
her love was given to Gahriel Wintlriduv, and that
only life willi him wtjuld satisfy tiie (U'c}* yt-arnin^s
of her heart. She had weighed fame in tiie bahmee
with love, and had fonnd it wantin;^. If love w(!re
still within her reach, slie would seek to make it
her own. Uut she was a proud woman, and though
no doubt of Gabriel Windrid^e's unaltered re^'ard
troubled her, she could not brin;^' herself to ask him
to come back. She nuule her plans as she lay there,
and a sweet smile wreathed her lips, as in imai^ina-
tion she pictured the hap})y ending;'. AVlien th(;
season ended, she would ask to i)e allowed to visit
Doris at Sunbury Villa, and while there would see
Windrido-e. One short meetincj would make him
understand that she was willing to give up all for
his sake. She would be very hundde, she told
herself; she would atone to 1dm for all she had
made him sutler. Then her happy imaginings
carried her into the future, where happiness and
love and rest awaited her — throuf^h him. It did

3-8

DORIS CflFA'XE.

'V' i

«■!

not occur to her, even us a piissiiiLj thon^lit, that it
niiglit he now too lute.

'A letter for ycm, Miss Chcync,' lici' maid said,
entering the room with a salver in hei- hand.

'Put it down here lu'sidn tlie otiiei's, Katldeen,
and hring me a cup of tea in half an liour. I shall
require to he dressed to-night hy half-i)ast six. (let
my things ready.'

' Very well, ma'am.'

Miss Cheyne turned her head as she addressed
the girl, and as tlie letter was placed on the tahlc,
she caught sight of tlie handwriting, and her face
fluslicd. It was that of Doris.

She did not open it until the maid had left the
room, and that was well, (^nly a few lines were
written on the sheet of note paper, hut they were of
terrihle interest for ]\liriam Chevne.

'SuNUuiiY Villa, Keswick, July 23.
'My Dear Miuiam, — Although you have not
answered any of my letters during the past year,
I think it right to t(;ll you of a great change about
to take place in my life. 1 am to be married to
Di\ Windrid^^e in GrasnujrH Church on the fifth

HER PLACE,

3»9

of next month, anil after a sliort tour on the
Continent, we go to make our liome in Manchester,
Dr. Windridge having excliaiiged his practice with a
medical man in that city, liosamond is to he my
only hridesmaid, and Uncle Tenfold, of course, will
give me away. You know that if you can or will
Rccompany them, it will remove the only shadow
which might rest upon my wedding - day. You are
ceaselessly in my heart and prayers. — I am, dear
Miriam, your loving sister, Douis Ciieyne,'

Miriam Cheyne cruslied the letter in her hand,
and burying her face in her cushions, lay absolutely
Btill. The little spaniel crept up to her and licked
her clenched hand, showing his dumb sympathy with
the mistress he loved ; but she heeded him not, she
was crushed by the blow which had fallen upon her.

In her blind ambition and worship of self, she
had forgotten that love cannot always wait. Having
whispered itself to her heart once, and finding her
cold as ice, it had passed her by for evermore.

It is not my purpose here to dwell upon the after
life of Doris Cheyne. Suflicient to say that she is

320

DORIS CIIEYNE.

v^ '

m v>

■ i

the rcctuver and the ;^'ivi!r of niiuiy lilcssiii'^'.s, and
that hur life is not ench^d, hut oidy hcnun.

It is, and will be, a noble life in the triient sense
of the word, because she re,L,'ards it as a trust from
God. If we can so re-^Mrd our lot, whatever it may
be, many dillicultics and pciplcxities will be removed
from our ])ath.

It has been of use to me to record these early
eN]terieu('es of Doiis — a woman ])ossessed of no
sjteeial ,uifls, but who nevertheless, with God's help,
was able to be a blesyin<^' to so many.

She asked that somethiui; might be <.fiven her to
do, that her life-work niii^ht be made plain, and then
took up with earnestness what was at hand. And
that I cannot but think the true secret of earnest
living, not to be perpetually yjarning and striving
after what is beyond us —

'It is the (li.stiiiit and tlic dim
That we are fain to greet ;
k man's best things are nearest him —
Lie close about his feet.'

■'!' \

• !

ill I ■

mv^

iiii'^s, and

ost sense

'list from

r it may

removed

['se early
m1 of no
id's help,

n her to
and then
id. And
' earnest

striving

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