The Wingham Times, 1911-06-01, Page 7rMilt
I'lf E WJNGTt Ut TIMES,. JUNE 1, 1911
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Parted at the Altar
By LAURA JEAN LIBBEY,
Author of
«17hen Lovely Maiden Stoops to Folly," "'Olives Court-
ship," "When His Love Grew Cold," Etc. 4
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>urpodely remained until past the hear niiulc Thermco, the banker's son, did
for the gates to be looked, to entrap you aa take place,
into marrying her—the orafty—" ;;trice the night of the ball many Lad
"Vivian!—Miss Courtneyt--rengmbor tanked a smitten and growing coldness
you are speaking of the deed;?" ex- between the lovers.
claimed ,Frederick Thornton, sternly. No one knew that, seeing Vivian in
"Do not speak another disparaging word her true light—onthat fatal night she
of that poor child if you would have Wise hetet boldly declared her hatred of poor,
retain the respect in whioh I have al- hapless little Doris—the last remnant of
ways held you. Remember—she was—my Frederick `I'tiornton's love for her lead
wife," been turned into loathing.
Vivian took a stop baokward, and He no longer sought Vivian's society;
looked at his pale, angry face. herather avoided it. Whole hours he
"One would almost imagine that you spent by the deep, dark, treacherous
were as much in love with the pretty water, his. face burled in hie .hands, .
little beggar as she was with, you," she greening aloud, It was too late naw for
cried; "and that you had just discovered 'vein regrets, His heart had gone out to
that smoldering love existed• in your poor little Doris too lido.
heart when her unexpected taking off No ono knew how ho mourned in
awakened it into life." secret for the bride he had lost so
She had put the idea into his head, and strangely,
he caught at the thought with strange To Vivian Courtney this strange re -
.eagerness. Was the great pain at his vulsion on the part of her lover was
heart the quivering, mighty throb of maddening. In vain she tried to woo him
love? He covered his face with his hands back to his allegiance; but the golden
with a deep groan. spell of love was broken. He shrank
The consolousness of the truth came from her. The dead coals of the old love
home to Frederick Thornton too late., were never again to be re -kindled in his
Ile loved little Doris, the pretty, trembl- heart,
ing young bride whom he had wedded, Yet Vivian Courtney would not be ff s-
and from whom fate had parted him so couraged. Even to herself she would not
strangely. admit the alarming truth that Frederick
The !nighty thrill that had stirred Ghurnton's heart had grown cold to he
his pulses as ho saw her kneeling, with One afternoon 'natters came to a tris
her golden head bowed, on the cold, Vivian drove up to the villa in her vi
hard stones outside of the closed gates, age-oart•tnd called for Frederick.
.•.crying out she would rather die than"I should like you to ride a little way
face the pitiless world—the nighty thrill with me, Frederick," she said. "I have
that had stirred his pulses and bade him something to say to you."
.•care for her—instead of pity, as hb Very reluctantly he complied, rather
thought it then, was love. Love, too, dreading a tete-a-tete with the willful
• that had prompted him to follow her to- beauty, and a shade of annoyance orossed
night down to the river, to give his life, his face which she was not slow in per -
if need be, to save her. Love that be. oeiving. For some distance they rode in
moaned her loss; and cried out to him silence—a silence broken only by the
that his life was ruined and blasted, tw1 teeing of the birds in the trees over-
- - •- head; or the drowsy hum of the bees
amid the sweet pink clover.
At length the silence became irksome
to Vivian. She clutched the reins tightly
with her little, white, ungloved hands;
•and looking dpwn he noticed that she
still wore Ms engagement ring.
She saw the glance, and a deep flush,
followed by a quick pallor, spread over
her fade.
"Frederick," she said, in a !ow,
vibrating voice, "it ie about this ring I
wish to speak to you. Do you still mean
whet you said on the night of the ball?"
It hurt her pride cruelly to utter those
words, but she must know. Her love-
her whole future—was at stake.
He tried to overcome his embarrass-
ment at the question, but It was` a fail -
1 now that Doris was no more; and the
;j bitterest strop in his cup of woe was the
knowledge that Doris loved him so well,
t• and that site had died because she could
• not live without him, and had `lied, too,
t believing he had willfully deserted her.
Ah! if she had but known just how
-.that terrible affair came about.
Again Vivian broke in upon his per-
t.turbed thoughts.
"You do not speak 1 You do not at-
e tempt to tTeny it!" she Dried, shrilly. "I
}believe you did love the girl, or you
-would never, never have asked her to
•marry you that night of the ball; and if
*that be true, I glory in the fact that you
are parted, from her—that she is dead!"
Great heaven! how the cruel words
smote him! and in that moment he
loathed Vivian more intensely than he
had ever loved her.
"As the ease now stands, Vivian," he
said, coldly, "I release you from your
,,engagement, realizing under what oh-
, uumstances it was made."
"But supposing I do not wish to be
released„” she said, slowly,
"We can never be anything to each
other in the future," he answered, firm-
ly. "All is over between us, Vivian;
awe must part forever."
CHAPTER XX. --A HUSBAND"S
FAULT.
Mrs. Thornton's dismay upon hearing
-the startling story Vivian related so in-
coherently to her :Ian better be imagined
than described:
She sought out her son at once. Re
was still pacing to and fro under the
beechesin the garden.
•"Fredeiink," sh-e whispered approach.
ing him and taking his cold hands in
her own, "you must not give way to
grief like this. Under the circumstances,
you are blameless. That accident, and
the delirious fever which followed it,
completely obliterated all knowledge of
•'youx waiting bride from your mind. The
fault lay with Doris herself. When she
.came here, why did she not tell me all,
instead of creeping into the house by
stealth, and in disguise? Or why did she
not confront you, and demand to know
why you deserted %her? Then matters
,.could have been righted."
"She was so young, mother, she did
not know what 'to do under the compli-
, catod circumstances. She believed, ' of
.course, that I was false to her," he
groaned.
"There is another matter of which I
wish to speak, Frederick." said his mo-
ther, timidly. "This is scarcely the time
and place, still it must be said, sooner or
later, and the subject may as well be
gotten over with first as last.
' "You married this girl on the spur of
the moment, my boy, oven at the time
•you did not love hor—you loved Vivian.
• Believing yourself afterward free to woo
,and win Vivian yon became engaged in
marriage to her. The wedding day is set;
she wears your ring upon her anger.
You cannot bring Doris back; therefore
it is best to keep all knowledge of this
tragedy from the public, and let your
marriage with Vivian go on." -
She was puzzled by the strange look
.that grossed his (ace, leaving it paler
than ever.'
"I will keep this pitiful affair from
the world's knowledge for my poor, un-
happy Doris's sake, if you think best,
mother," he answered, huskily; "but as
for marrying Vivian now, mother, i
,cannot. Do not urge mo. I cannot."
Mrs. Thornton looked into her son's
white, handsome, stormy face with dia.
may, not unmixed with fear Was this
terrible affair driving him mad? Was he
losing his reason? HO was evincing an
unaccountable, estrange dislike toward
Vivian whom he had fairly ldiolized.
Surely this Was a sign of it. Those strug-
gling on the verge of madness usually
turn against the one they love bust --first.
"Do not talk about it ally more, mo-
ther," he went en, huskily. "I cannot
bear it,"
livery effort was made to find poor
Doris's body, butt to no avail.
If she lay beneath the water, the sunlit
waves kept their own Secret 'well. The
disappearance of ;firs. Thornton's corn-
panion ereatotl no excitement whatever,
No one missed her, no ono took any in-
terest to know what had become of her;
and thus days lengthened into weary
Menthe. At last society was beginning
to wonder why the marriage between
Vivian Copra 3',:tbo heiress, enut Fred-
ure. He looked greatly distressed, He
was a thorough gentleman in word and
deed. How could be tell her that his
heart had changed toward her since the
evening she had expressed herself so
freely in regard to poor little Doris's
death? How he hated the ungracious
words he must speak; yet it must be
done. He must speak plainly, to her.
The words he must utter: "I have ceased
to love you," seemed to him most un-
manly; yet the sooner they understood
each other the better it would be for
them both.
In the gentlest words he could com-
mand, he told her that the engagement
they had entered into should never have
existed, owing to the fact that at that
time, ho was not free to woo and win
any young girl's heart, and bo begged
her to remember the accident which
had befallen him, followed by brain
fever,which had obliterated from his mind
all knowledge of his bride, who awaited
his return.
"No, no, Vivian," he went on, "do
not consider your promise binding, for I
do not. You aro as free as air."
The words died away on bis lips as he
saw the marble white pallor of the girl's
face. Her eyes glowed like purple Ilres,
and hor breast heaved convulsively.
"You have no heart, or you would not
break with met" she sobbed. "All the
world will know that I am a victim to
the fickleness of a man's love!" she cried
"You did love me once' Frederick," she
went on, pathetically, "and you would
have been mine but for that girl who
came between us, and I hate her for it;
yes. hate her in her grave, for I believe
in ono mad moment, as she stood before
you, pleading her cause that night, your
love turned from me to her. Is it not so?"
she panted. •
He was too honorable to deny the
truth, and he bowed his head in assent.
Again Vivian laid aside her pride, and
turned to hint.
"Is it too late, now that she is dead,
to care—for me—again?" she faltered.
He could not help 'feeling touched with
pity and distress for the humiliation it
must have cost this proud girl to speak
such words as these.
"If you over marry I—I shall despise
the woman who wins your love," she
•ie'i, bitterly; "I will be her cruelest
enemy, and yours, till the day I die."
"Cahn yourself, Vivian," he answered,
gently, taking her burning hands in his;
"I shall never marry never."
"You will wreck your life and mine
for foolish vagary," she Dried, bitterly.
"Doris is dead—why can you slot forget
her, Frederick?" she cried, with a spasm
of pain in hor voice. "Pause and think
before you give up such a deathless love
RA !,nine."
Ile slloek his head with a sad gesture.
"X am grieved, pained to tell you,
Vivian," he said, e'that it can never be:
the memory of my fair young bride
comes between us. My heart has gond
out to Doris, and is buried with her in
her grave."
"Shall we turn back?" she asked, in a
cold, constrained voice, that sounded
scarcely human.
"Yes," ho answered, gently.
Not It word was uttered during that
long drive homeward. Vivian's face was
white as death, but With a firm hued the
held the reins.
Before alighting from the vehicle, he
held out his hand to her: ---
"We can at least be fiends, Vivian,"
he said„ Appealingly s,
She uttered a bitter laugh that was
half a sob, recoiling from his outstrotehed
band.
"After breaking my heart, and placing
ma in a very sorry light before the pub -
lie, do not talk of being friends with me;
do Pot agk; .rill to touch von' hand," ,
"As you think best, Vivian,'' he said,
humbly,
Vivian Courtney never saw the green,
waving fields, the white, pebbled road,,
and thedaisy-starred e
meadows as she
drove slowly homeward• Vivian was in
a. whirl of emotion; she was trying to
picture what life would be without him,
"Qh my love!" she sobbed, "will you
never care for me? Shall T wait for you
all my life long? Shall I call, and hear
but the echo of my own voice?. Shall T
lova you year after year, and be no nearer
to you than I am now? Oh, Frederick,
if it be in .the power of woman to win
you, I will win you --I will devote my
life to the task,"
And then and there she made this vovr
whioh influenced her future life, and
made of it one long tragedy.
She vowed that she would win his
love—or no other woman should—that
her beauty. and the gifts nature had
lavished upon her, should all be used for
this one purpose. Even as she had had
undying love, so she would have undy-
ing patience. She would never wean':
she would bear all his coldness with
gentleness, but she would win him in
the end; it might be long years, but she
would win his love, or no other woman
should.
Over and,over she repeated those
words vehemently to herself, until that
ono idea was the one purpose of her life.
The next day society was considerably
shocked, by the announcement that the
engagement between handsome Frederick
Thornton and Vivian Courtney, the
beautiful heiress, was broken,
Vivian's father heard the report con-
firmed by his daughter's lips, with a face
white with rage.
"He has gone too far with this matter
to draw back now, Vivian," he cried.
"He must—he shall Ilve up to every
letter of his agreement, or he will answer
to ate, your father, for it."
In all her life Vivian had never seen
her father so terribly moved, or worked
up into such a terrible passion.
He strode toward the door and flung
it open, taking something bright and
gleaming from his desk as ho passed it,
and thrust it into his breast -pocket.
"What would you do, father?" orfed
Vivian, springing toward hint and catch-
ing his arm in the wildest alarm.
"I am going to see that he marries you
this very day, according to contract—or
gives me satisfaction!" he thundered.
CHAPTER XXL—DISOWNED.
We must now return to Doris and the
fatal moment in which she plunged mad-
ly from the rocks down into the swirling
water below.
The contaut with the water brought
Doris to her senses and the realization
that she had no right to take the life
God had given her. When she rose to the
surface, it was in the dark, dense sha-
dows of the willows that fringed the
bank.
Clutching the long branches that
drooped to the water's edge. Doris suo-
oeded in drawing herself into safety.
"May God forgive me," she murmured
again, falling upon her knee. "I think
for the moment I must have been mad
—yes, driven nitid by my terrible woe."
Kneeling there, she heard Frederick
Thornton wildly calling upon her name.
A low, bitter laugh that was half a sob
fell from her lips, then she knew nd
more.
For long hours Doris lay among the
daisy studded grass in the dense shadow
of the trees,her white stark face upturned
to the night sky. Surely the pitying
moonbeams, drifting down through the
swaying branches, never looked upon a
sadder sight in all their rounds.
At length consciousness returned to
her. For a moment she was stunned, be-
wildered. Then the low wash of the river
as it laved the banks brought a remem-
brance of what had transpired to her and
how she came to be lying there,
• Doris struggled to her -feet and stood
irresolute for a moment in the path.
Where should she go? Which way Should
she turn? "It does $ot matter much,"
she murmured, and again „she turned her
white, despairing face to the great pity.
"Cast adrift again on the streets of
New York," she mooned. "Ah 1 well. I
will look my oruel fate bravely in the
face. I will teach my heart to forget
him. I will tear his imago out of my
heart, though it take a lifetime, I shall
never cross his path again—never! From
thisleave the
hour I s eold life behind me."
e
The light broke, the sun rose, and an-
other day was begun in the bustling city
of New York, toward whioh poor, beau-
tiful, hapless }Doris, the child of fate,
had turned her steps.
The same sun whioh had crossed the
zenith was shining just." then upon a
strange scene which was transpiring in
the far-off village of Recoil Grove on the
Chesapeake.
Caught a Cold
d
Which Ended in a
Severe Attack of
Pneumonia.
.An hour before, a magnificent equip-
age had entered the village, and the
driver had stopped one of the pedestrians,
and inquired the way to Madame Dol
mar's seminary. •
The carriage oontained a lady and,
gentleman. Both were greatly agitated,
though the gentleman did his best to
soothe his oompanton.
"As we draw near the seminary gates,
my heart beats so tumultuously, I al.
moot fear it will break, Hulbert," she
said, Palling through her tears,
"Joy never kills, my dear Dora," he
replied. "Calrh yourself, darling,"
"How can you talk of being calm,
Hulbert," she crled, "when I have been
looking forward to this moment for
nearly eighteen years? It has haunted mo
'in my dreams, been ever present in my
waking hours. My ono prayer to heaven
has been, heaven hasten the hour in
which I am to meet my child, and olasp
her once more in her mother's loving
ernes."
"Doris mast have grown- into a beau-
tiful young girl," said the gentleman,
thoughtfully. "Sho bas your features,
my dear."
"Will she meet mo with a glad cry of
love, or with coldness, I wonder?" mur-
mured the lady. "It must have been a
great cross to her never to have known
her parents; and the knowledge that she
had been forsaken in her infancy by
those who should have been her protec-
tors. Poor little Doris1—my'pretty little,
golden -haired baby!" And the lady com-
menced to weep afresh.
"You forget, Dora, it was done for the
best—the very best," paid Hulbert Bran-
don, a look of pain crossing his noble
face. "You forget that our history—our
past—has been no common one—our ro-
mantic meeting and hasty, secret mar-
riage, and our dismay at finding out
there had been the bitterest kind of e
fend existing between our families for
years. You were obliged to keep the birth
of our child, as well as our marriage, a
secret from them, telling them you were
visiting friends during those months.
"I will neper forgot how we met in
secret at the park gate one night; how
they discovered us standing there to-
gether, and tore you from my arias.
They took you abroad, keeping you
abroad long years; and in disguise I fol-
lowed and was always near you. We
would have been happy even under these
disadvantages If we had but had our
child with us.
"You felt more contented when the
nurse wrote you that she had placed the
ohild at Madame Delmer's, and you re-
oeived her letters regularly for years that
she was watching the child. faithfully
from afar; and that Doris, who was
known as madame's ward, was growing
up into a beautiful young girl.
"Now, after all these years, death has
dissolved these bonds whioh bound us to
secrecy, and we can acknowledge the
marriage which vvas solemnized eighteen
years ago at last."
"And, hurrying here, we find the old
nurse passed away two months ago,"
sighed Mrs. Brandon. "That is why her
letters ceased to come. But we will speak
no more of the sad topic. What a joyful
future we will have, Hulbert. We will
take our daughter to our beautiful home,
and surround her with every luxury
wealth can purchase' and love , lavish
upon•her. How well we shall love her
to !!take up for these long years of en-
forced separation. Little Doris will be
quite an heiress, too—heiress to a mil-
lion. I hope it will not make the child
proud-"
Hulbert Brandon pressed his wife's
hand. At that moment the carriage
turned an abrupt curve In the stoop road,
and the towers anti gables of the grim
stone building, with the gilt letters,
"Madame Delmar'e Seminary," burst
upon their view.
The lady trembled with agitation as
her husband assisted her to alight, and
led her through the great arched gate-
way up the lilac -bordered path that led
to the broad marble steps of the entrance.
A tidy maid answered the summons
and showed the visitors info the recep-
tion room.
"They preferred not to send you their
card," said the. girl to madame, in de-
livering their message. "They said—"
Madame cut the maid short.
"No cards! Humph! Inferior people
most likely." And a drawn frown settled
on her face at being awakened from her
mid-day siesta.
"Indeed, they're not, madame," de-
clared themaid. "The ladyis a real
lady, with a silk dress on as stiff asa
board and diamonds on as big as part-
ridge eggs."
Madame Delmar walked down the
stairs with a feeling of cariosity.
"Why did they not send up their
cards?" site wondered.
Opening the door and entering with a
stately mien, she found herself in the
presence of iter visitors.
She took in at a glance the elegance
and quality of . the lady's apparel—the
diamonds that sparkled like suns, that
depended from her shell-like ears and on
her dainty white hands. Madame Del-
mar saw that the gentleman was stately
and of commanding presence—evidently
a thorough gentleman, and wealthy.
The wife was looking into madame's
face, her own face turning from red to
whit
There never was a grimmer sight than
Too much stress cannot be laid on the
fact that when a person catches cold it
must be attended to immediately, or
serious results aro liable to follow.
Bronchitis, Pneumonia and Consump-
tion are all caused by neglecting to cure
the simple cold.
Mrs. G. W. Bowman, PattuIlo, Ont.;
writes:—"Three years ago I caught a
cold which ended in a severe attack of
Pneumonia. Since that time at the
beginning of each winter I seem to catch
cold very easily. I have been so hoarse
1 was unable to speak loud enough to be
heard across the room. Last winter,
however, a friend advised me to try Dr.
Wood's Norway Ping `Syrup, saying it
had helped her. I bought a bottle and
before it was half used 1 was completely
cured. I also find it a good medicine for
the children when they have colds."
Beware of the many imitations of Dr.
Wood's Norway rine Syrup.
Ask for "Dr. Wood's" and insist on
getting what you ask for.
It is put up in a yellow wrapper; three
pine trees the trade mark; the (price,
25 cents, Manuf:tetured only by The
Milburn CO., Limited, Toronto, Ont..,:jA.
forth In the storm and darkness of the'
terrible night, to live or to die, tie Ciodt
saw fit? Closed her doors against poor, I
helpless, hapless Aerie, and forced her to'
face the oruel a world? ? She had the grace,
to feel ashamed. A terrible fear sefsedf
her as to the punishment that Haight be,
inflicted upon her when they disooverod
what she had done.
Warring and tyrannizing over a help -1
less, lone girl was one thing, and answer -1
ing to a stern, outraged father for those
offences was quite another matter,'
Words seemed to die on her lips.
"You do not answer, madame," cried
Hulbert Brandon, springing forward.
"Is Doris 111? Has anything befallen our,
child? For the love of heaven, speak, I1
implore you! See,. my wife is almost)
fainting with anxiety 1"
"I—I suppose I must speak sooner or.
later," tapered madame, huskily, hiding
her ghastly face in her shaking hands.
"Try and be prepared for a bitter blow,"
Mrs. Brandon reeled and fell backward
unconscious in her husband's arms. Thus
she was aaved from hearing the cruel
falsehood that fell so glibly from Ma-
dame Delinar's lips.
"In heaven's name speak! ' Dried Mr.
Brandon, hoarsely, "Suspense is killing
me, I cannot enduro it. What of Doris?"
"She is not here. She is gone!" mut-
tered madame.
"Gone!" ho repeated hoarsely. lei—I
do not understand."
"She left the seminary two months
ago, stole away at midnight under the•
cover of darkness. She eloped with some
one. Whom, or whore they met or Went,'
I know not. That is all I can tell you. II
ant sorry for you, sir. I always. loved!
Doris, dear—sweet little Doris."
"Oh, my God! my God!" groaned the
unhappy father, "love we returned for
this! It tv1Il kill my poor wife. It would
bo better if the girl had died in her in-'
fancy. From this hour I disown her.
Henceforth I have no daughter. I will
not search forher. Let the girl follow
the path she has chosen."
CHAPTER XXIL—AN ADVENTURE,
Madame Delmar, the dignified princi-
pal of the young Iadies' seminary, felt'
considerably perturbed at the strange
turn affairs were taking. After her visi-
tors had taken their leave she quickly
sought her brother and told him the
whole story.
"If the girl had been here they might
have settled a handsome annuity on me
for life for providing for her," she groan-
ed. " Yes, by sending her away I have
lost a little fortune. Was there ever such
an unlucky contretemps?"
"It servos von right, I should say,"
replied John Delmar, "for turning poor'
little Doris away from home in the bit-
ter storm that night."
"Who would have supposed, after all
these long years, her parents would have
claimed her, and that the creature I had
aways looked upon as a dependent and a
burden=born to be my especial cross—
was, in reality, a millionaire's daughter,
heiress to n million of money? Oh, dear,
if I had but known that! I would give
the world to find Doris again, the poor,
dear girl! I—I—ant afraid I was a little
too harsh with her, John. I never meant
to turn her from our door out into the
cold world that stormy night. I only
meant to frighten her into explaining
whore she had been. I never thought she
would take me at my word and go. Oh,
dear! oh, dear! if I could but find her."
"You can never tell when you are en-
tertaining an angel unawares," said
John, bluntly. "The poor child had a
hard enough life of it here. She was a
girl of spirit. I wonder little Doris did
not rebel long before; you were so cross,
so cruel, with the child."
"I meant only to discipline the girl
properly," faltered madame, her florid
face flushed guiltily. "One must be very
strict to keep up the reputation of a
fashionable seminary for -young ladies."
"There ought to be a line drawn some-
where between severity and strictness,"
declared John, emphatically.
"Would you really pare to see little
Doris again?" he asked, abruptly, eying
madame curiously.
She started to her feet, forgetting her
usual calm demeanor, her face turning
from white to rod be her great excitement.
"Do you know where she is, John?"
she naked, quickly. "There is something
you are trying to koop back from nee—
something you aro trying to hide from
me," she declared. "I see it in your
face."
"It is fortunate that I do know where
she is, that I may restore her to her par-
ents," answered John Delmar, gravely.
Madame Delmar was too astonished—
too amazed—for words. She listened like
ono dumbfounded while her brother re-
lated that pitiful story of how he had
followed poor little Doris out into the
storm, begging her to return, and how
she had persistently refused.
"Madame has turned me from her
door," site sobbed, "and never again will
I willingly cross her threshold," And,
finding all remonstrance useless, how he
had at length given Doris a letter to the
Granvilles in New York, and she had
gone on there.
"I shall go to New York at once and
fetch her back," declared madame; and,
without delay, she put her decision into
execution.
To her dismay, she learned, as Doris
Madame Delmar presented as she ad-
vancedbad to greet them. She was'rigidly left the city long since. What, then, had
refight, as one encased in strong whale- become of hapless Doris?
bone; there was not one bend in her, Cast adrift, homeless, friesidless, on
Her hair was iron -gray, drawn straight tli,e great desolate streets of New York,
back from hor temples into a little knot where had she gone? What had become
at the back of her head; her dress was of her? If ill find befallen poor, pretty,
iron -gray, 111 made, 111 fitting, with big pansy -eyed Doris, the guilty, heartless
horn buttons down the terribly long, woman felt that heaven would hold her
straight waist that ended in a welting accountable for it.
cord just where the too ample skirt be- Meanwhile, Mr. Brandon and his
gen• heart -sick wife had returned to their
A sudden fear filled' airs, Brandon's anxious heart. Did hor beautiful little elegant villa, on the bnn:te of the St.
Doris have a happy life of it here with
this grim, austere madame?
In a few, brief words Hulbert Bran-
don told his story—the story that seemed
mere like a weird romance than reality
to madame's astounded ears. ,
"My dear Hulbert, ask madame to
Lawrence. But, from the hour in whioh
they turned from Madame Delmar's seen
'nary, Mrs. Brandon haci grown rapidly
ill—a brain fever had resulted from the
horrible shock, and the deep, keen, bit-
ter disappointment sho ha sustained in
learning of the flight of her beautiful
send for Doris to come to us at onc•et" daughter from the eseninary while she
cried Mrs. Brandon, excitedly. "Don't was on her way to claim her, after long
years of separation.
you see the moments aro Lilco hours to Her distracted cries for Doris -'•-only
me? I must see may child." for Doris -lucre pitiful to hear. This
Anal, with a heart throbbing almost i was her one dream by dayand by night,
ns painfully as his wife's, air. Brandon `Tie bereaved father nsked God to pardon
nslced that Doris 'night be brought to Mtn the rash vow he had utteredthem without a moment's unnecessaryagainst his fair your,'; daiigitter its the
delay. bitter anger of nal moment,
••I am a wealthy man," he sold, with lie'i»nt,e strennotts efforts to find her;
emotion, "1 will make nett a rich are- still it was all to no purpose; if the earth
than for ilio for the caro you have be- haul opened aid :t':allowe1 her, site could
stowed upon our little Doris, not have been more completely lost to
They both saw Madame Delmar's face the world. And, lying on her sick bre,
turn from red to white, titan deepen the poor mother turned her face to the
into a dull ;;ray, Hoty could oho tell wall m-'fosin•t to h• enmforted.
them? How dare she face them and tell ,r. Iirat,dnn tyre in tic•spuir.
thein that, less than two montlta ago, r„gt.iu 1u'11.'t•ed they wool! 7si'u'r l e
she had titeven the poor, laomeless, flea Dari,; bathe nes:'' exhaec<ed
frl0ndlese girl from her door- driven her
tuts lhot runt to .his wife, lien dream tong
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STORIA
never to be realized. She died with the
name of "Doris" on her cold, stiffening
lips: In a few months' time her husband
was called upon to join her. He was a
victim to an accident; a train on which
he was a passenger had been hurled down
an embankment. He was picked un in
a fatal condition, and was barely able to
make his will in favor of his long lost
and missing daughter Doris before death
claimed him. Then it was discovered
that the gentleman, known as plain Mr.
Hulbert Brandonwas, in reality, Hul-
bert Brandon Fielding, son of the late
Lord Fielding, of Loam Abbey, England.
Dr. Laneaster, of New York city, was
named executor of the will. It was well
the doctor knew the sad history of Lord
Fielding's son; how he bad returned
with his wife, after long years of absence,
to find his child, and the hard experi-
ence he had met with. •
"Of course, I will do my best to find
Miss Fielding, the missing heiress,"
said the doctor, thoughtfully, as he
strolled leisurely down Broadway one
morning, "but I fear very much it will
be a patient work of years."
• "It would be very fortunate if the
young girl is modest and well-manner-
ed," said the dootor's wife to her hus-
band ono day, "and more fortunate still
if our son Karl would fall in love with
her."
"Heaven forbid!" groaned the doctor.
"By all I can learn of her history from
Madame Delmar, the very estimable
principal of the seminary where she
passed her early life, she is a regular
tartar, quite a barbarian, in fact, and
she Dapped the climax by willfully elop-
ing with someaone from boarding -school.
No doubt it is some shiftlesss vagabond
'whom the girl has fallen in love with
and married."
"She is heiress to a million!" sighed
the doctor's wife, "and I should have
liked our Karl to marry an heiress."
"There's time enough yet," declared
the doctor. "He is only twenty-four
now. Men would be better off if they did
not marry until thirty."
Meanwhile, fate bad destined long
since that the dootor's handsome son
and Doris should meet. In explaining
i how it occurred, we must go back to
Doris, and that night on which she had
left Thornton Villa forever turning her
face toward the crowded streets of New
York.
Hour after hour 'Doris traverses the
sunlit streets sick at heart, and discour-
aged, as many a young girl has been
before her:' Suddenly a thought struck
Doris.
Why not go to the lady at the agency,
who once 'before, in her time of need,
hnd come to her restate?
.Doris remembered the address, but it
was so far up town that she would have
to take a car to reach it.
As she steppes upon the platform the
car gave a sudden lurch forward, precip-
itating Doris to the crosswalk. The great •
iron wheel would have passed over the
tiny foot that fell within a hair'?; breadth
of it, and crushed it, if it had not been
for the timely assistance of n young man,
fortunately close at hand, who spntng
forward as in an instant of time, that
seemed an eternity to the horror-stricken,
paralyzed speetators, and sueee'ded in
rescuing the lovely young girl from her
perilous pnsltion,
For a moment Dials was quite stunned
by whet had transpired.
"I hope yon arc' not hurt." said her
resener, kindly, as he assisted her to her
feet.
A sharp rxclam:ttion broke from
Derip s lips, and she would have fallen
• to the pavement again had he not put
out his strong arm and ettuuht her.
"I-4 am afraid my font is sprained
• by the fall," she faltered. "I ---I cannot
1 stand."
"Let m:' call a ceri'laee for ,vett. and
take you to your b"nte," said the young
man, eagerly. "You taro Oat able to
stand."
"No, no " falter; d 1)ot ia, Didine. her
fere in her hat,'':. and bursting into
Yenta.
"Surely yott its,,, est me; 1 tun a
gentleman," le eels. rottrtenuely. "1
stn Karl T,anenet •. , son of Dr. Laneas-
ter, of No. — Lexington Avennn, I also
tau It do; for and a surgeon. Believe me,.
if, ns you fear, your feat or ankle is
sprained, I can be of assistance to you;
I beg of yon do not hesitate."
.And Ito tailed a passim,. gab as he
spoke, and delpite Dories incoherent
protestations, lifted her in his strong
arms as easily as though she were a little
child, placed her on the soft cushion,
and took his seat beside her.
"Now, if you will give the driver
your number, please," be said, "we will
soon have you with your friends,"
"I—I tried to explain before, but, sir,
you would not listen," sobbed Doris, in
the keenest of embarrassment. "I—I am
a stranger in New York, I have no re-
latives, no friends here. I was just on
my way up -town to .the employment
agency, to apply for a position; and now
—oh, heaven help me! -1f my foot is
sprained what shall I do?" she moaned.
This was certainly an extraordinary
dilemma, but Mr. Lancaster was equal
to the emergency.
"In that ease I may still hope of being
of service to you," henswered. "You
must put yourself -entirely under my
charge; will you?"
'+1 xsve no right to be a burden upon
the kindness of a stranger," sobbed'
Doris, piteously. "No, no; I could not."
"But, under? the 'oireumstances, you
must allow me to not for you," said Karl.
"Believe mo, it will be a pleasure to aid
you," he added, earnestly; and as he
looked down into the fair, girlish face,
he told himself never, in all his life, had
he beheld a being so gloriously fair.
CHAPTER XXIIL — THE MISSING
HEIRESS.
"No, no," repeated Doris, vehemently,
"I cannot accept any favor from a
stranger's hands. It would not be right."'
Fate decreed thtit it should be other-
wise, however; for at that moment
overcome by the pain of the swollen
ankle, Doris suddenly fell backward
against the cushions in a deep swoon.
Mr. Lancaster immediately gave the
order to No.— West Twenty—third street.
Thiswas a fashionable uptown boarding-
house, and to the landlady, Mrs. Morgan,
Dr. Lancaster's sou was well known.
She was sitting at the window when
the coal stopped before her door. She
looked with amazement as the door of
the vehicle was suJdonly flung open, ami
M>•. Lenteater steeped to the pavement
bearing the uneoeseioue figure of a
,young girl in his arms. What could it
peeeilay main dho atl:nit .:d hint her-
self.
In a few brief words, as bo laic' his
uncoeeelotu burden do:;n upon the sofa,
Karl told Mew. Mu:-g,iu how h> had met
the lovely young stranger, -and rescued
hl -r from being crini,l:-d for life—hat
the; the violent fall to the pavement ha.i
irate -11 Ler anat.}, however,
W:t.: :e;.s.` •11or:::1.11's t,seistance, the
eavellen :ovkle wee soon atte: doe 1u.
It wee. not as bad 11R tit line at first,
sup; (' ed; still it woul,i lima -hate the
fair )':enent's kceplr g her re;om for it fort -
eight et least.
"And you want the to keep her here
until she is able to be about?" asked
Mrs. Morgan, dubiously. "1 would do
anything in the world for you or your
family, Karl, for your Father's skill saved
my child's life onoo—I never forget that;
but I feel a Iittle reluctant about taking
in this stranger. You should have taken
her to the hospital"
Karl could not bear the thought, some-
how.
"She is so fair, so fragile and delicate,
it seems a pity to send iter there."
Wiaile they had been speaking, Mrs.
Morgan had been vigorously applying
cold water, 00 which a few drops of am-
monia had' been added, to the patient's
fate to revive her from her protrneted
swoon. Her face, hands and hair were
bathed and rubbed briskly to start the
eiroulation of blood, when lo! a strange
thing happened under the strong action
of the ammonia.
Tho dealt stain coiutnenced to quickly
disappear from both face and hair.
Mrs, Morgan called Karl to her side
with a cry of dismay.
"Look, Mr, Lancaster!" she cried.
"Ther girl is disguieedl She Is fair tis a
lily—not dark!"
Karl's amazement was certainly as
groat as her owit, They looked at each
other in 8l1enco and dismay.
• "There is sane dark mystery here,
depend upon it," declared :lits, ;Horgan.
emphatically. "No young woman who
lives au hence, straightforward life has
....-..ti,t-... ►n nnes,sn.t 'Chic girl nisi be 1V
ITo be continued.)