Doris Marlowe Or "A WOMAN'S SOUL."

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIV, Issue 173, 22 July 1903, Page 3 (Supplement)

Doris Marlowe Or "A WOMAN'S SOUL."

By CHARLES GARVICE

tpßtar of" Lsola Dais's Fortune,"" The Marquis," " Lorrie, or Hollow Gold," Etc. Etc.

OPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

™.{q Marlowe, the adopted daughter tJffrer has been trained for the stage, «t the time of the opening of the "Vis abont to appear as Juliet, in ff!L While studying in the fields, she ■ trampled by a horse which comes ' ne ?in?over a hedge close to which she P«L Stumbling, the horse throws f- ider°' and Doris has a considerable i y nToi trouble in restoring him to 1 ■ n <me"S The victim of the mis- ■ falßC ro 7 e3 to be Lord Cecil Neville, Wi « of the Marquis of Stoyle. The i:eP Xn of the young couple for each ;•;.feT mntnal, but the younz Lord | : *i. L without discovering much about ° # Te J t ahjner that evening, he learns that has invited Lady Grace Pey*Tßty e beauty, whom he intends $*J»nhexr to marry. Lady Grace frankly V r 7cU that this 13 the object of the fj. £ bnt that his wishes on the subof little value in governing their : im The night 'comes round when ■'11 .« Iβ to apnear as Juliet, and not 1?"Sn" that the Juliet of the piece is ?. ia , .Soaintance of the fields. Lord Nev- £ h among the andience. The appear- ; «i« a veritable triumph, largely owing seeing Lord Neville In the andi- ■ . md her almost unconscious inter■Stafcta Another meeting, the foilowiir enhances the mutual attachment. Hi when Lord Neville wishes Doris to ;,« him again, she declines to promise any■iSe THet night, at the play, in a bunch ' : Toilets she receives a note from Lord "Lme urgins her again to meet him. iffiolay ends. Jeffrey.white & frightenidStte alpht of Spencer Churchill in a ' i points him out to Doris as her greatT7enemy. Churchill is staying with the iSLffi of Stoyle, and is really present IT performance because he has an inkitpetLoa. Neville's fascination.

CHAPTER XL LOTE'S SUBTLE SPELL. I k other time Doris -would have ■to alarmed at Jeffrey's sudden outt burst of rage, occasioned by the I BgW of thb amiable-looking stranger ! iding in the right-hand box, but she 5 fluid think of nothing but the little \ white note lying hidden in the bunch of ; riolets which Lord Cecil Neville had 1 town to her. . I It was the first note she had received I in that way, and she felt guilty and un-

fit , she had only told Jeffrey on the int of her acquaintance with Lord Seville! She would have taken the aoteto him. if she had done so; but she fdt that to place it in hi 3 hands now wild he to call forth one of his fierce outbursts of rage, in which it was quite possible he might seek Lord Neville and iorce a quarrel on him. What shoud she do? The question limited her all the way home. Should she write and tell Lord Neville that she wild not meet him, and request him not io write to her again? This seemed the easiest thing to do, but she shrank from it for two reasons: One, because Jeffrey had often warned her against writing to strangers, and the other, because iheemed so'stern a rebuke for so slight in offence.

For, after all, hjs sin was not so peat. He had asked permission to call upon her, asked it respectfully and with ill lie deference of a gentleman addressfng a lady his equal in position, and she hid refused to grant him the permission. 'line wanted to see her, what else could hi do than write and ask her to meet ■Jin?

I Once she nearly summoned up courage fa tell Jeffrey everything, but, as she looked up at "him a3 he leaned back in tie corner of the fly, with bent head and folded arras, she saw so stern and moody a expression on his face that her course failed her; he was just in the humour to consider the note an insuLt, and ink to avenge it. And somehow Doris could not regard it in this way. A3 she read the words, she seemed to heard Lord Neville' 3 deep, Msical voice pronouncing tfiem, pleadii?ly, respectfully, with reverence rather tiia insult.

Doris was a great actress, but she was m ignorant of the world outside the fteatre as a child; she had only her in£tinct to guide her, and that seemed to a? that it was impossible Lord Ne'fie could have meant to insult her!

Bat the result of all her thinking was fe: That her acquaintance with him Hat cea3e. She must have no friends *»c those of the theatre; least of all, J young nobleman who tossed her bouTjieta of violets, and begged her to meet ton in the meadows!

I Jeffry'a mood clung to him during the : | remainder of the night. As a rule, after I ! |ieir rapper, which was an exceedingly J ample one, he grew cheerful and talk--1 'fee; but to-night he sat with bent I iead and frowning brows, apparently hooding over the past. face or twice she saw him look up at kr J»ith a half-troubled glance; then, ** Ms eyes met hers, he compressed his ¥ and sighed; and after a while he a ji suddenly: "YOl are happy, Doris?" started slightly and the colour to her face. It almost seemed as ito knew something was troubling her. "Happy, Jeffrey? Yes," she said, and ?"«went and sat at his feet and folded h.and3 on his knee. Sβ looked down into her beautiful face I "Dot into her eyes, for they were down- : east.

I he said, moodily and absently, I j» 3 he communing with his own rather than addressing her, 1 ft* , 011 are ha PP7S &ow could it be perwise? All that I hare wished for J* 3 come to pass. You are a great *ess, you W in he famous. The world be at your feet—even as you are °* at mine! It will hang upon your Olc e, watch with breathless interest fcV aCe, pour its » old into your lap ' . e M, famous; you are—you must be — Jappyj» Jeffrey," she said, "and I owe it "To me?' he said. "Yes. But if you 2*n a debt that I myself owed. To X to Ler~» Z 0 er ' 5 ' she murmured, wonderingly. Lucy, to your mother," he said, kt.^ lll7 m otter?" said Doris, with *£ d ltteath. silent for a moment, then he Was if awakening from a dream. W^ 3 , h e said, gravely, and with taJ c potion, "there is something I )te iT 1 y° u - I otisht to have told *idSV h i 3 ' but x P ufc !t off - f /^ff 1 * » off now—" his lips quivered

—"for I hate the thought of it. But tonight my conscience has been roused. That man—" he stopped, and his teeth clicked. "Doris!" he exclaimed, with a catch in his breath. "Tell me, have I not been as a father to you? Could any father hare striven more hardly for his daughter's good? Could any father have loved better, and lived for you more solely and entirely than I have done!" "No, Jeffrey, none!" she said, in a low voice, and laying her soft, white hand upon his rugged and gnarled one soothingly. "I call Heaven to witness that T have only had one thought, your welfare. When you lay, a little child, in my arms, I devoted my life to you. Every hour of the day I have thought of you, and planned out your future. It was not my own happiness I sought, not my own ambition, but yours —yours! I have lived and striven for one end —your success, and your happiness! And I have won! You are a great actress, Doris, and it is I —l! —who have taught and trained and made you what you are!" '•Yes, Jeffrey," she murmured, "I know itr and lam grateful—grateful!"

"But are you happy?, Are you happy, child?' , he demanded, and his voice sounded almost stern in its intensity.

The colour came and went in her face. '•How could I be otherwise. Jeffrey?" she said. "Yes, lam happy!"

He drew a long breath, as of relief, but went on—

"Compare your lot with others. I don't mean the poor and commonplace; but those others, the rich, the well-born, the titled. Would you have been happier, for instance, if you had been —let me say —the daughter of a nobleman —" She smiled at the question, earnestly as it was put. "I don't know any daughters of noblemen, Jeffrey," she said; "but I don't think I would exchange places with any of them." He nodded, and laid his hand upon her head. "No, no," he said, moodily. "No," she said, with a faint laugh. "I would not exchange places with the highest lady in the land! To be able to move a theatre full of people to tears or lauahter, that is better than being an earl's daughter, is it not, Jeffrey?" He started. "Yes, ye 3," he said, eagerly; "that is what I wanted you to feel! Any one can be an earl's daughter, but few!— how few! —the Doris Marlowe who wrought an audience to enthusiasm tonight?" She smiled up at him. "And what is this that you are going to tell me, Jeffrey?" He started, and his hand fell from her head. '•I—I —" he said, uncertainly. "I don't think I'll tell you to-night, Doris; it will keep. I'm not certain that it would make you happier; I'm half inclined to think that it would ozly make you miserable. No!—I won't tell you. Go to bed, and forget " He stopped. "Forget that pleasant-locking gentleman in the box, Jeffrey?" she said, with a smile. Hi 3 face darkened, and the hand that res-ted on the table clenched tightly. "You saw him! —you saw him!" he said, with suppressed fury. "Eemember him, Doris! He is a villain! —a scoundrel! He is your, and my, greatest enemy " "That smiling, fair-haired gentleman?" she said. "One may smile, and smile, and then be a villain, Doris," he said, quoting "Hamlet." "And you won't tell me who he is and all about him, Jeffrey?" "Not to-night," he said, knitting hi 3 brows. "Go now, Dori3, Some other time " She touched his forehead with her lips, and stole away from him quietly, and went upstairs. She slept little that night. The roar of the crowded theatre seemed to force its way into the white little room, and with it mingled Jeffrey's strange words hinting at some fraud, and the words of Lord Cecil Neville's note. The morning broke clear and bright, and she came down, looking rather pale and grave. Jeffrey ate his breakfast almost in silence, and there was ao trace of last night's emotions on Ms broad brow. As was usual with him, he went down to the theatre directly after breakfast, and Doris was left alone. The time had now arrived in which she must decide what she must do respecting Lord Neville's note. She opened her writing-case, and, after sitting before it for about half-an-hour, wrote a note in which she declined a meeting with him; and it gave her every satisfaction for a few minutes, at the end of which she—tore it up! No answer she could pen—and she -tried hard —seemed satisfactory. Some were too familiar, others too stiff and haughty. "I shall have to see him," she murmured, at last, as if in despair—"for the last timeJ" A thrill of regret ran through her at <the words; they sounded so sad and significant. Trying to frame some form of words in which she could speak to him, she made her way to the meadows, and as she went the beauty of the spring morning seemed to take to itself a new and strange loveliness, and, notwithstanding her difficult task, the thought that she was going to meet him again filled her with a vague, indescribable sensation that half-pleased, half-troubl-ed her. All 'the place was silent save for the singing of the birds and the babbling of the" brook, and as she seated herself on the mossy bank, she looked round, a* one views a place rendered familiar and pleasant by associations. Wherever she went, whatever happened to her in the future, she thought, she would always remember Barton meadows the clump of elms, the silver brook, and-ah, yee!-4he _ handsome fare Iving so still and white in her lap. As she was recalling the scene, dwellon it with a singular commingling of'pleaaure and pain, she heard the beat of a horse's hoofs, just as she had heard it the first morning; and Lord Nellie came flying ever the hedge, a little fur-

' ther from her this time, and still upon his horse, and not upon his head. He pulled the animal up almost on its haunches, and, slipping from tlr \ saddle, hurried toward her. J In the second that she raised he- ' eyes, she took in. as if by a species of ! mental photography, the handsome face, ! with its clear and now eager eyes, the I graceful figure, in its suit of gray cords 'that seemed to be part and parcel of the wearer, and the air—distinguished, paj trician, it is so difficult ro describe it. : whi'.-h is the birthright of the gentlehe count his gold by the million, cannot ■nan. th* , air which the parvenu, though purchase. "You have come!" he said, raising his j hat. "I am so glad, so grateful, Miso Marlowe." "You would not be. Lord Neville, if you knew how sorry I a-m to be here," she said, and her wonderful eyes met his ardent gaze steadily and with a gravity that lent a subtle and altogether new charm to her face. His face fell. "Sorry?" he said, regretfully. "Yes," she sail; "very, very sorry. Lord Neville, you should not have written me that note: it was wrong." "Let me tell you," he said, eagerly, pleadingly; "I feared you would say this " "I did not intend to come," she said, as if he had not spoken. "I meant to pass the note by unanswered. But it seemed —well, yes, unkind. And 1 tried to write, but " her brows came together, "I could not please myself. It is so hard to write such a letter for the first time in one's life, and at last I decided to meet you, that I might tell you how wrong you were, and that your note showed me —ah! so plainly —that we must not meet again—that, in short, Lord Neville, our acquaintance must cease!" (To be continued daily.)