PARTED AT THE ALTAR.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 5173, 19 March 1888, Page 4

PARTED AT THE ALTAR.

« |BY LAURA JEAN LIBBEY.] CHAPTER XXXI.. A STRANGE REVELATION. Great was Mrs Lancaster's surprisa to receive a hurriedly-written note from Doris the next morning, stating she had been called suddenly away, and would write to her when she reached her destination. " I cannot understand this strange freak of Doris," exclaimed Mrs Lancaster, in amazement, as sho passed the note over to her husband. " Where do you suppose Doris has gone ?" she cried. "It seems almost incredible to believe. Left, Newport—and the Beason at its height—without one word as to why or where she was > I really cannot comprehend it; can you ?" " I never attempt to comprehend a ■woman's motives," returned her husband, laconically. "It would bo a useless waste of time and thought." Vivian Carsdale heard of Doris's departure with a strange smile on her lips. She, and she alone, understood her sudden flight. She did not make known pnor Doris's story as she had threatened to <*>• She had merely meant to frighten the girl into acknowledging her identity. N"W tnat her rival was vanquished, she coi-d attord to hold her peace. There was creat. disopj-omrment among tho young ladies over Doris s sudden departure, for she wa* a general favorite, and this piqued Viv*A»n exceedingly. Very adroitly s* c set herself to the task of unravelUng whet seemed to her a wonderful mystery as w how poor, dependent Doris had become a great heiress, and was known as Miss .Delding. Little by little she drew from J--rs Lancaster tho story of her son Sari's adventure and his romantic meeting w Ui Doris, and their discovery subsequently that she was tho long lost heiress •whom they had been seeking. She had been identified, beyond a doubt, as the daughter of Hulbert Brandon Fielding. " But her past life ?" said Vivian, eagerly. " Did slio ever—" " She told me very little of her past life," interrupted Mrs Lancaster. '• Dorisdid not like to talk about it." Vivian knew, when she heard that, that Doris had never revealed then, that strange chapter in her past life. "It is a wonder that Mr Thornton, the banker's son, who left the hotel recently, and Miss Fielding, did not make a match." laughed Vivian. " I hear that he was so much in love with her." " Doris tools a strange dislike to Mm," responded Mrs Lancaster. "He was nil that', was gallant and handsome, following her around like a shadow. Yet she avoided him whenever it was possible." " I should not have thought that would have pleased your son, Mrs Lancaster," laughed Vivian, roguishly ; " fur, if report speaks truly, hu has hopes in that direction.'' "Doris always declares she will never marry, so all hope would be useless in that direction," said Karl's mother. And at that moment the entrance of Kali himself put a stop to all further conversation on that topic. Newport, even iv al! it* gaiety, would not have attracted Vivian thither had it not been for the hope "f seeing Fivderick Thornton again, and the wild delusion ot fanning tho old love into flame. The shock of coining face to faco with Doris, whom sho believed to be dead, had been a great and terrible blow to her. and she had realised, with this living barrier between thorn, that Frederick was indeed lost to her forever. Yet it was with a fooling of intense siiisfaction she had realise:!, [hat, owing to the great and surprising ehaugj in Djris, he had failed to recognise her. it.vas no wonder. The Doris he had known iv that past was but a timid slip of a school girl; lite Miss Fielding he had met iv later years was a society belie and a beauty. What strange fate had brought them together again, and palled them more widely than before "r "This is the second timo that girl has come between me aud Frederick Thornton's love!" groaned Vivian, desperately, as she paced the floor of her room excitedly. Meanwhile the days dragged slowly by; the weeks lengthened into a month, and as yet not a line had been received from Doris. Karl Lancaster and his mother wer.growing uneasy over the matter, while the old doctor declared that his capricious young ■ward was abundantly able to take care 01' herself- No need of'auxioty ; Doris must return soon, for her supply of pocket money, •which sho had taken with her, would rot. last forever. Buoyed up with this hope, they waited patiently ; but not so much as a line, revealing Doris's whereabouts, reached them. But let us follow Doris's letter written tliat night to Frederick Thornton, and see ■what became of it. Travelling about from place to place as he was, it was a difficult matter for a mail to reach him. It was quite six weeks ere Doris's letter fell into his hands. ♦He looked at the square white envelope, which, by its many crossed-out directions, seemed to have followed him about so persistently, with, curious eyes, wondering who his new correspondent could be. "The best way to find out would bo to open and see," he thought, suiting the action to the word. He saw it was a long, closely-written letter, blotted by tears. " It looks like Miss Fielding's writing," he cried, quickly turning over,the page. "Why, it is from Miss Fielding!" ho muttered, catching his breath hard. Like a man in a dazed, bewildered dream, Frederick Thornton read the startling letter through from beginning to end. What was it this letter told hig- ? Was he mad or dreaming 'i Doris, his little, neglected bride, whom he had mourned us dead, and Miss Fielding were one and tho same ! Oh, impossible ! There was some terrible mistake ! Again and again he read tho letter through. Yes, here it was, iv black and white, as plum as written words could make it, every incident brought up and lucidly explained. Greut drops of perspiration stood out on his face, and his hands trembled, strong man though ho was. But one thought filled her heart and brain. He could claim Doris Fielding; she was his ■wife. Xow she realised why he hud been so strangely attracted toward her from the first. Had he been blind that he had not noticed her great resemblance to tho young bride from whom fate had parted Jiiui so strangely in that bitter past? The revalatiou was wonderful to him .He would lose no time iv hurrying back to Newport to see Doris, and explain to her that which ehe had not given him time to explain on that fatal night—the innocent cause that had parted them, wrecking two lives. How he would kneel at her feet, and tell her how ho had mourned the young bride whom ho had lost so cruelly—mourned for her, refusing to be comforted ; and how the first sight of her face, which had reminded him so strangely of Doris, had thrilled anew the heart he had believed dead. Despite her coldness and aveision (and Heaven knows, under the cruel mistake; she •was laboring under, he well know she had reason to abhor him, innocent though ho iiad been of any thought of deserting his poor little bride), he believed she still loved iliin. Through his brain flashed the desperate cry that had fallen from her lips when they had faced death together iv tho mad surf : " Save yourself, Frederick ' Nevermind .me! You must not give up your lifo uselessly for roe ! Oh, save yourself for my sake—because I love you !" Six long weeks the letter—this precious letter—hud been following him about. What must Doris think because sho had received no reply ? Should he telegraph her that it had only been received within the Lour 'i No, no ! It would bo better to go on and see her in person. No telegram could tell one half or what he had to say to her. But one east ward-bound express stopped at the little village where he was staying, and that was at six in tho evening, if was not yet norm. How should ho pass tho intervening hours? Frederick Thornton asked himself. One heart iv that quiet village was fiery and restless enough as the hours rolled by. One man paced its streets with impatience, because the warm day would not go more quickly. Ho counted the hours. There were still two to pass;' then the train would .arrive. It seemed to him the sun was slow in " setting ; his watch was behind time ; tho .train .must be an hour late. He must do something," to while away the hours until then. He c"uld do nothing. It was imjwssible to his mind from her. He

could think of nothing but the strange revelation contained in Doris's letter. Like one dazed, he paced up and down the streets. The sun or moon might be shining; the earth be green or brown beneath his feet; the trees~be bare or full of leaf. He knew nothing, saw nothing, understood nothing but this: He was going to see Doris again—his beautiful, peerless Doris, that had blossomed from such a frail bud into such a magnificent flower—and claim her as his wife. Men and women and children looked curiously at him as he passed along with his handsome, absorbed face. They were nothing to him—the whole world was nothing—for he was going back to claim his beautiful young bride. [to bh continued.]