PARTED AT THE ALTAR.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 5117, 13 January 1888, Page 4

PARTED AT THE ALTAR.

[by lavka jean* libdey."!

CHAPTER 111

___BRYI-N*Cr IS* -lASTE —TO BEI'EXT AT LEISI'IU.. AYheu Doris entered tho grand hall-room she caught her breath with a cry of delight. "Oh, Mr Frederick.'" she gasped, clutching* at his arm with her little, trembling white hands, "it seems like Fairyland—or—a—a glimpse of heaven '."

Prederiek Thornton laughed amusedly : to him there was nothing out of the common in the banks of roses, the palms and waving ferns, the dazzling- chandeliers, mid the unique and brilliant costumes of bc■witchingly pretty maidens and paste matrons.

" A young girl's first ball does seem like a glimpse of fairy life," lie answered, gaily. "Those that follow never seem (ruite so nice." " I shall always remember you when I think of my first ball," she answered, impulsively. " " And, indeed, lam quite sure it will be my last and only one. No one will ever take mc to a ball again."

"Do not bo so sure of that, Doris," he replied, in a low voice. '' What are you thinking of that you gaze so intently tit that bank of roses." he asked, curiously.

" I was thinking what a pity it was to cut them from tho stem and bring them here, for just a few hours. By to-morrow they will all lie withered and dead against that wall."

"What a waste of pity !" he laughed. " They will have served their purpose well —gladdened the eye, delighted tlie sense. But come : the band is about to strike up a ■waltz. I hope you have learned to waltz, Doris."

The hour that followed seemed like a dream to poor, pretty little Doris. She could have danced on amid the lights and the music forever and forever. Ami in the excitement, the revelry, the brilliancy, can it be wondered at that time seemed fairly to take wings and whirl away ': Doris had been very much abashed at first to see that she was, as usual, the poorest, dressed girl in the gay throng : but in the excitement of the lights and music, and in the exuberance of happy youth, she soon forgot it, and was enjoying herself as she had never enjoyed herself before.

Tho eyes of the gentlemen followed her admiringly, and the ladies, in consequence, wero exceedingly jealous aud envious. "AVho is shel'" the}* asked of each other. But nobody teemed to know.

In all her simpleness and plainness, as is often the case, even amidst that throng of beauties, Deris was acknowledged the belle of the grand ball. Mrs Langdon, the hostess, gazed at the pretty young girl in wonder, and at last she sought her sou. " Max," she said, leading him aside, " who is that young girl r How came she here? AVho invited ber'r"'

" I did, mother,'" hei'csp mded, promptly. "She is one of the seminary girls. Miss Doris Brandon is her name, I believe. You remember we sent a card to Miss Courtney. She could not attend. And my old chum there, Frederick Thornton, asked me to send a can! to her, and. of course, I complied. Are you displeased, mother"-" " No," she answered. " Srill I should havo been heller pleased had I be. ii consulted first. The gitl is pretty, 1. grant. yon : but she does not look quite at home in our set, and you know how particular 1 am in that regard."

" She uiiiy be a little awkward," luu-jhed the .sou. '* Sihool-i-irl-s have the reputalion for being- so. She must be our equal socially—some millionaire's daughter—or Thornton would li.-t be paying so mttch attention to her. He *."ver takes :i step backward in the .-oeial scale, yt.-n know."

Mrs Langdon looked relieved. On returning to the ball-room sho observed that young Mr Thornton titul the pretty belle of the bail hud disappeared. As we have said, time ilew by on golden wings. Neither Doris nor Frederick noted the fleeting moments. Over and over a-raiu Doris told herself how happy she was, as she li-ok-d into Frederick Thornton's handsome face with glad, shining eyes. Jn th-.se blissful moments, a woman's heritage of lovo had come to her, and more than oneo that evening the thought occurred that her life would -be doubly dark and dreary when he left the village. She dared not think of the cold. dark hours when she should see him no more. And like the faint echo of a dream, the words of the poet recurred to her :

'* lYrc'iance if w<: had never met. I had been s*i;'rc'.l this vain r.-_-re' A.id yet I ..-oai.l not '.car lie- ..-in Of never sc-iuy I'len u>:.>i-t."

Yes, Doris bad leu mod to love him—love him with all the deep, romantic ji.ission of her girlish heart. "With youth, love is not a plant of slow growth. Tho glance of au eye, the touch of a hand a smile, a tender word, often lights the llainc of it deathless love.

In striving to be kind to Doris, to make this ball a happy, memorable epoch iv her girlish life, Frederick Thornton had unwittingly opened her eyes to the truth. She was deeply i:i love with him.

But, girl-like, she would have died rather than he should guess her sweet secret.

Suddenly he paused abruptly, in tlie midst of a waltz.

"I am afraid it is almost time to go, Doris,'' he said, hurriedly taking out his watch and glancing at it. Great Heaven '. wtis ho mad or dreaming. It wanted exactly eight minutes to liali'past ten—the timo for closing the seminary gates. " Doris,'" he stiid, gently. She turn <l a btarllcd face toward him. '• Oh, Mr Frederick, wliat is it;- AV'hv do you loo!; like that:- AVbat is the -natter:-*' '• We have not a moment to lose. AYe haw not seven minutes left to reach the seminary. -It wants just that time to l.uifpast teu." He never fid-got tho deadly, awful despair that came over her face—-tlie ghastly pallor —how the blue eves darkened with awful four.

"Ob. MrFrcleriek:" she gasped '• AVhat shall I dor"

••Courage. Doris," lie said. "AV"e can make it, ii you aro (prick ia getting your Wl'ilJlS."

A moment inure and they were out in the starlight together, fairly living down the white mud. He could biirely keep pace with the girl's lleet footsteps.

She wit- out of ii.re.uh as she reached the steep path that led up the rugged hillshb- to the seminary, ami was obliged to take his

More und more deadly grew her fear as uioinet.it ai't'-r moment slipped by.

Fredt-riek Thornton could hear the quick beating of the girl's heart and the piteous sighs that shook her slender frame.

"Doris, are you crying-" he suddenly asked, in deep distress.

Before she could ieply, from a church tower near thorn the hour of eleven rang out. blow, solemn strokes, cat-hone a death-knell to Doris.

She fell tlov.-u ou 1..-1- knees ill the path, unable to move a step further, sol.i.hig as lie had never heard anyone sob in his life before. Ah 1 the pity of it.' His watch was half an hour late.

He could see the great, heavy iron gate from where he stood. Tlie ytte wo* ehud.

" Oh, Mr Frederick ! Mr Frederick 1 what shall I do:" moaned Doris. "Madame will never let me enter her door .".gain. Oh, I. am lost ! lost 1 lost ! I am homeless, penniless I I will be tin-own ou the world's mercy, with nowhere to go ! It was my only refuge, and now I have lost it ! Oh, if I could but die '"

Frederick Thornton stood before the kneeling little figure like one petrified. '• I will take- all the blame upon myself, Doris," he said, huskily," f-.r assuredly the fault was mine iv coaxing-yon to go. Come, cheer up. All will be well. Come, lei us wtilk boldly up to th- gate aud rim. the bell."

Doris drew bark'in terror too great" for words.

'' It. would make mutters no better. You do not. know niaditme. She will never let me enter her door again. Oh, I wish £ wee dead .'''

" I meant that you should have such a happy time in g»ing to the ball," he said, gently. '• Tarn so forty it lms ended so." She bowed her beautiful golden head until it touched tho cold stones.

'• Where can Igo r Wh.it shall I do, _-. r Frederick-" she sobbed, "law so )-otm_r and friendless I Oh, I wish indeed that 1. had died when I was so happy amidst the -isrhts and the music, dancing with you at the bull !"

She was clinging to him like a terrified child, sobbing pitcously now. Ho was quite at a loss what to say to comfort her.

"Are you quite sure it will be as bad as you say, Doris?" ho asked, hoarsely. "Are you sure she will turn you from her door for phis j*"

"Oh, yes, yes," sobbed Doris, " I am as sure of it as though it had already happened." As she speaks, a strange thought flits through his brain—a thought that twentyfour hours ago he would have scouted.

"Oh, what shall I do, Mr FYedcrick ?" sho moaned. "I am so young—l—lam afraid of the great, cold, cruel world."

"You shall not face the cruel world, Doris," he said, huskily. "lam a gentleman. I cannot leave you iii distress brought on by myself. There is but one way out of the "dilrieiilty, and that is this:"l must marry you." " Marry mc 1" she echoes, her little hands dropping from her tear-stained eyes, | and gazing at him aghast. " Do you sec any other way out of it r_" he asked, repressing a groan that rose to his lips. " I confess that Ido not, uuder the circumstances. I must make tho only atone- ■ ment possible. I must make you my wife, if you are willing. It is the only reparation within my power. Will you accept it, poor littlo Doris f" She looked vrp at him wistfully. " Do you really want mo to marry your" she asked, shyly and wonderingly. " I suppose that would bo the only proper thing," he remarked, hopelessly. "But do people ever marry each other who have only been acquainted such a short whilo as we have been—not quite a week r" " Sometimes," he answered, abstractedly. "How- strango it is that you should rcallv want to marry me," she mused. " 1 don't see what for. But, really, I don't mind if—if you want me so very much." AYaut her.' He could have laughed aloud at the very idea, lie did "not want her. Ho was* forced, as it were, into making her his wife. He could have cursed his folly, as ho stood there, that had led him into the fatal error that bad persuaded hor into sointr to that ball. He aroused himself from his bitter thoughts by a great effort. "It may as well bo now, Doris," hesaid, with reckless despair. "No doubt we can find somebody to perform the ceremony at once." She was romantic and impressible. Ah . how nice it would be to have a handsome young husband like Frederick Thornton to lovo and protect her. There would bo no bitter scoldings from harsh, grim Madame Delmar: no more heartaches because she was alone in the great, cold world. She had led such a lonely life : her poor heart had always craved love so much.

She never forgot that ride through the sweet, pink clover to the stone church that stood on the cliff overlooking the glittering Chesapeake. How the night-birds twittered, and the crickets chirped, and the fireilies twinkled like earth-stars in the green trrnss by the roadside. She "had a" dim recollection of the few moments that were spent iv the old rector's parlor, and of how the rector's daughter had loaned her her own wedding veil to wear, and of Frederick leading her up the dim aisle of the church—up to the altar— his face grave almost to sternness, and pale as death.

Oh ! how weird it all seemed to Doris. Then, as if in a dream, she stood quite still by his side while the fatal ceremony went on. She heard the questions and responses, and answered the questions put to her ; and the white-haired minister pronounced her his lawfully wedded wife.

The bridegroom bent down his handsome head to kiss his bride ; he knew it was customary, it was expected of him. Doris drew back with a startled cry, for his lips were as cold as ice.

Poor little bride llt was done. In a moment she had sown the stnds from which was to spring up a harvest of woe so terrible that her wildest imagination could never have painted it. ' Are—are you glad to havo married me, Mr Frederick';' she whispered, timidly, as they turned from the dim old altar toward the"vestry to sign the register. 1 Glad 1' he groaned, under his breath.

But low as the words were muttered, her strained ear caught them, and every word shocked her, and stabbed her heart like the thrust of a dagger.

'Glad! You have wrecked my life. You have parted me forever from A'ivbin, whom I loved so madly. I havo given you my name, I will care for you, because in the eyes of the world you aro my wife : but here at the altar we part. I pray Heaven I may never look on your face again.'

She did not. faint. She did not cry out, or utter any moan.

All in v mouieii- her young heart seemed turned to stone.

AVhen the names were all signed in the register, Doris turned piteously to her bridegroom : " 1 have 0>... prayer to make," she said. " All — ff/n ."•', Fr-.-doriek—leave me alone in the vestry for a brief half hour. Do not refuse me. ' You will come h'.-re alone to me then, Frederick, my husband." It was a strange, unheard-of request. Ho bowed wonderingly. aud left her, and the door closed after him, shutting him out from her • icw.

"He married me and he does not lovo me '." she moaned, wildly, as slit- sank down shivering on her knees. " I have wrecked his life, for I have parted him from Vivian. That is what, he said. Oh, 1 heard it. But it, is not too late to repair what I have done,"' she panted, as the low dash of the wave-- caught her ear. " I can set him free at the very altar. " I can, ami I will. If I have to part from him, I had better die." And this brings us back, dear reader, to the pitiful scene that opens this story.

ITO in: CONTINUED, j