The fire sank low in the grate. Sounds of the little house being locked up for the night, and the footsteps of Mrs. Austin going upstairs to bed fell unheeded on her ears, as she sat there still absorbed in these reflections.
The business was wrong; she must get out of it, must give it up. But, could she? Would she have strength of mind and will sufficient for the task? It would be a hard thing to do. "If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee." Yes, she would do it. For conscience' sake, she would strip herself of this really lucrative business which was so wrong, and would commence in some other way to toil for the money which was required to pay some of the debt to Bernard. With a capital of a hundred pounds she might start some business, she thought, which would enable her to earn money rapidly.
Having made up her mind for what she called "The great renunciation," she lost no time in setting about it.
And first of all, before going to bed, she ascertained from her books what sum of money was due to Alice--for all this time she had regularly forwarded to her ex-partner's brother one third of all profits made in the business--then placing the amount in notes, in a sealed envelope, in the inside of which she wrote "Conscience Money," she went out and slipped it into the nearest pillar-box. "I cannot bother to register it this time," she said to herself, "it will get there all right." Then, quickly re-entering the house, she locked and bolted the door, and went upstairs to her bed-room. But not to sleep. For hours she lay awake, pondering over ways and means. Should she hand over to Bernard the hundred pounds there would be altogether, after she had sold the last remaining pictures, and the paint, mill-boards, etc., she had in the garret? Or should she trade with the hundred pounds in some way, with the view to making it bring forth a hundredfold? But in what way could that be done? And, supposing she were to lose it? Bernard might never have even that hundred pounds restored to him.
She fell asleep at last, her thoughts running to the tune of the hundred pounds, and awoke about seven o'clock, still with the problem unsolved. But the post brought her a letter from Bernard, saying that he was ill and in trouble. He had lost his situation through ill health, and was alone, helplessly ill, in his lodgings at Richmond.
That morning Doris left her assistants to pack up her stock-in-trade, while she went to Richmond to see Bernard, whom she found in a small, dingy house in Jocelyn Road. He was not in bed, but lying on a couch, looking ill and unhappy. His unhappiness, however, quickly disappeared when he perceived her.
"You here!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Doris, does my sight deceive me? Are you really standing before me?"
"Yes. It is I," replied Doris, and then, laying her cool hand upon his burning brow, she added, "Why, how hot you are! What is the matter?"
"The doctor calls it influenza, but I think they call everything influenza in these days. I know I have been ill a horribly long time, and I can't get better. I have written to my mother, Doris. I have been obliged to write to her. Perhaps if I could go home a little--quite away from this wretched place--my native air might restore me. But mother has not replied. I think she will have nothing more to do with me. The old idea of the prodigal son's being welcomed back with best robes and rings and fatted calf is exploded. Parents are not like that in these days!" He spoke bitterly.
"But you have not been a prodigal son," said Doris. "Perhaps if you had been, your mother would have proved more merciful. It is the fact that you have acted more nobly than she about not proceeding against my father which stings and humiliates her. Don't you know, dear, that the higher we raise our standard the more it seems to reflect upon those who allow theirs to drag in the mire? Your mother cannot forgive you for being better than she."