"Not very happy? I should think not indeed! Oh, Doris!" The last words were said very low, as Bernard turned his head away for a few moments.
"She looked miserable, sir. I'm thinking it was only for a home and support that she was thinking of marriage."
"But she wouldn't sell herself for that!" exclaimed Bernard.
"And then it was such a grievous thing, sir, that you didn't write to her. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. And very sick at heart my poor dear young lady was, many and many a time, while she was looking for the post bringing her a letter, in the days before she got engaged to Mr. Sinclair."
"But I did write! I wrote many more letters than I received from her. I never heard from her after the first week."
"Then there has been foul play, sir, somewhere! Letters have been stopped, and have got into the wrong hands before to-day."
Bernard knew well who must have been the culprit. His mother had wronged and sinned against him in a way which would be hard to forgive. She had done all she possibly could to destroy his happiness in this world. But he told himself that he must not waste time in thinking of that just now; he would hasten to Doris and have a talk with her.
"Do you say she is at Hampstead?" he inquired, hastily.
"She went there with Miss Sinclair, but they are not there now, sir. They have gone to the seaside somewhere, for the benefit of Miss Anderson's health."
"Gone!" cried Bernard. "To the seaside! What seaside? Where?"