A CHANCE FOR ESCAPE.
Alone in the world! Lying back in a chair by the open window of the
woodman’s cottage--for she could not bring herself to go back to the
lodgings in Barton, where every inanimate object would remind her of
the father-like friend she had lost--Doris kept repeating the ominous
words to herself. Although a week had passed since the funeral she
had not yet recovered from the terrible blow, and as she lay back
with half-closed eyes and white, wan face she still looked “like one
wandering in other worlds than this.”
The dead man had been so much to her. Mother, father, brother--indeed
her only friend and companion--that the sense of helplessness which
follows all bereavement was intensified in her case. She was indeed
utterly alone; drifting on the stream of life like a rudderless vessel,
to be blown hither and thither by the cruel caprice of every wind.
Since the day of Jeffrey’s death she had seen no one excepting the
kind-hearted woman of the cottage, Mrs. Jelf; and had done nothing but
commune in silence with the great sorrow that had fallen upon her.
In one day, in one hour, she had lost her lover and the man who had
been as a father to her.
She tried to put all thought of Lord Cecil Neville away from her, and
to think of Jeffrey alone; but with an agony of remorse she found that
the loss of her lover seemed almost as great a grief as the death of
poor Jeffrey.
All day long she dwelt upon the joy and happiness of those few short
days while he had been hers; recalling every word he had spoken, every
tone of the musical voice that seemed to have spoken of nothing but
love--deep, true, passionate love to her. She remembered how many times
he had kissed her, the fond endearing names by which he had called
her; and now it was all over! So completely a thing of the past, and
gone from her life, that it appeared more like a dream than a reality.
Were it not for the aching void in her heart, and the letter--the
cruel letter he had written, and that lay crushed and hidden against
her bosom--she could almost have believed that no such person as Cecil
Neville existed.
Where was he now? she wondered. Did he still think of her? or had he
never really loved her?
“Who am I, that I should have won the love of such as he?” she asked
herself over and over again. “No, he never loved me! He never loved me,
while I----” Then she would cover her face with her hands, and wish
that she could find relief in the unshed tears that seemed to scorch
her heart.
This morning, as she sat by the window, her hands folded listlessly in
her lap, thinking and thinking till her head ached, and wishing that
she lay in the quiet churchyard beside Jeffrey, Mrs. Jelf came into
the room, and, speaking in the subdued voice which is perhaps the most
irritating and trying to one in Doris’ condition, said:
“How do you find yourself this morning, miss?”
“I am quite well,” said Doris, rousing herself.
“I am glad to hear it, miss,” responded Mrs. Jelf, gently arranging the
pillow which she had insisted upon placing in the armchair. “Do you
think you are well enough to see any one this morning?”
“To see any one?” said Doris, with a start, and a sudden thrill of the
heart, for a wild, mad hope arose within her breast that it might be
Cecil Neville.
“Yes, miss; you are not to unless you quite like, he says, but if you
do feel strong enough----”
“He--who?” asked Doris.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill, the gentleman who has been so kind all through
your great trouble, miss.”
The color ebbed from Doris’ face, and she sank back.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill,” she said, vacantly, then a vague sense of
dread fell upon her, and she recalled Jeffrey’s warning.
“Yes, miss; the kindest-hearted gentleman as ever I knew. I’m sure, if
he’d been your own father or brother, he couldn’t have done more. Why,
he’s seen to everything, you know.”
Doris thrilled with an indefinable alarm and remorse.
“Why--why did you not tell me? Why should he do all this?” she asked.
“Well, miss, because it’s his nature, I suppose,” replied Mrs. Jelf.
“You see, he’s what they call a--a philanthropish; always ready to do
a kind action, and--lor’, come to that, who wouldn’t be glad to do
anything for a sweet young creature like yourself, left so friendless
and helpless? There he is now, just coming up the path. Now, you’re not
to see him unless you feel strong enough; he can wait, he says----”
“Will you please tell Mr. Churchill that I will see him,” said Doris,
and Mrs. Jelf, after another pat or two to the pillow, went out.
Doris tried to brace herself to the coming interview. Her mind had been
so clouded that she had not until this moment realized all that this
strange gentleman--against whom poor Jeffrey had warned her as her
greatest foe--had done for her, and she scarcely knew how to receive
him.
The door opened and Spenser Churchill entered. He was dressed in black,
and his face was almost seraphic with its expression of reverent
sympathy.
“Do not rise, my dear young lady,” he murmured softly. “Mrs. Jelf
assured me that you felt equal to seeing me; indeed, wished me to do
so, or I should not have intruded upon the sacred solitude of your
grief.”
Notwithstanding the honeyed accents, the words seemed to sound
artificial to Doris’ acute sense, and she turned her large dark eyes
upon him with an unconscious scrutiny.
“I am quite well, and I did wish to see you, sir,” she said, “I wish
to thank you for all you have done for me. I scarcely know yet the
extent of your kindness”--her voice faltered--“I think I must have been
ill, for I seem to have forgotten”--she put her hand to her brow for a
moment, then with an effort recovered herself.
“What I have done, my dear Miss Marlowe, does not deserve a word of
thanks. It has been a sad satisfaction to me to have been of some
slight service to you.”
“But you have done everything,” persisted Doris, in a low
voice--“everything! Why----?” she stopped abruptly, the question
sounded a cold and ungrateful one.
But Mr. Spenser Churchill filled up the pause.
“You would--and not unnaturally--ask why I have taken upon myself to
interfere in your affairs, my dear young lady?”
Doris made a slight gesture of dissent.
“Well, we will not say interfere,” he murmured, softly; “we will use
the word ‘interested.’ The question is very easily answered. For one
thing, I happened to be on the spot when your poor guardian--but we
will not recall the sad scene,” he broke off, as Doris winced and her
face grew paler. “And the second reason is that I was once a friend of
poor Mr. Jeffrey’s.”
“A friend?” Doris could not help saying.
He shot a sharp glance at her, unseen by her, and sighed.
“I understand your surprise,” he said, mournfully. “You will observe
that I said that I was once a friend. Some time ago, I regret to say,
a difference arose between us. I do not know whether you know the
circumstances, whether he ever told you?”
Doris shook her head, and he emitted a suppressed and inaudible sigh of
relief.
“Well, well, we will not speak of it; but this I will say, the quarrel,
the misunderstanding, arose from no fault of his. The fault was mine,
entirely mine, my dear young lady!”
It was a cunning speech, and produced the effect he had intended.
“Looking back to that time--when we parted, friends no longer--my heart
is filled with remorse and sorrow! Ah, Miss Marlowe, if we would all
of us reflect that life is short, and that death may come to prevent
forever any reconciliation between parted friends, how often--ah, how
often the rash and foolish quarrel would be averted;” and, apparently
overcome by his emotion, he turned his head away and softly blew his
nose. “But we will not go back over this sad quarrel,” he said. “I
have come to see you this morning that I may see if I can be of any
further use to you. I trust I may be. There are several things I find
that I must speak to you about, much as I should wish to leave you
undisturbed.”
“Will you please tell me everything I should know,” said Doris. “I am
ashamed that I should have left everything so entirely.”
“No, no,” he murmured. “Such a terrible bereavement as yours, so
sudden, is so overwhelming that no excuse is needed.” He took some
papers from his pocket. “I will not trouble you more than I can avoid
with business matters, my dear young lady, but there are a few things
that I find I must speak to you about. First, I must ask you if there
is any one, any friend you would rather I went to who would take this
trouble off your shoulders?”
Doris shook her head.
“No, there is no one,” she said, quietly enough and with a firm voice.
“I have no friend in all the world.”
“Except--dare I say except my humble self?” he murmured. “My dear young
lady, what little I have done afforded me a melancholy satisfaction.
I have felt all through that by serving you in some slight measure, I
have been making an attempt at some poor atonement for the error that
separated my poor dead friend and myself. Will you allow me to call
myself your friend?”
Doris turned to thank him, and he inclined his head gratefully.
“Well, then, I have taken upon myself to see to all the arrangements,
and have ventured to act, just as if I were, say your father. It was
necessary that I should look into poor Jeffrey’s affairs, and I have
come to tell you the result. I am sorry to say, my dear young lady,
that your guardian did not leave any wealth behind him. He died a poor
man--perhaps this will not surprise you?”
“No,” said Doris, in a low voice; “we were always poor, I think. There
was always enough----”
He nodded.
“Yes, yes, I understand. There is some money; it is not much, about a
hundred pounds, I think.”
Doris listened with faint interest. If she had heard that she had
been left without a penny, or heiress to a million, it would not have
affected her in her present condition.
“Besides the money there were some papers--nothing of any consequence,
however--letters and documents relating to business affairs,
engagements at theatres, and so on.”
A faint flush came into Doris’ face, then left it absolutely colorless.
“Nothing more?” she said, with downcast eyes.
“Nothing more,” he said, gravely, watching her closely, though he
seemed occupied in turning over the papers. “Did you expect----”
“I do not know,” she faltered; then she raised her large, sad eyes.
“You know that I am not--Jeffrey’s daughter?”
He inclined his head.
“Yes, I know that; and I know what you expected--hoped, shall I say;
that I should find something, some papers that would give us a clew to
your parentage. Is that not so?”
Doris’ lips formed the “Yes.”
He sighed and shook his head.
“I regret there is no such clew. The secret of your birth, my dear
young lady, is buried in my poor friend’s grave.”
Doris had leaned forward with a suppressed eagerness, and she sank back
as her eyes filled with tears.
“I am sorry, sorry,” he murmured, “for I too had hoped that I might
make some discovery. But there is not a single paper, not the slightest
clew.”
“And yet”--said Doris, more to herself than to him--“there was
something he--he was going to tell me, some papers; he had them with
him the morning----” Her voice broke.
Spenser Churchill listened with the deepest sympathy glowing in his
benevolent face.
“Dear, dear!” he murmured. “And he did not tell you? And these papers
now? He had them with him, you say? They were not found. I myself did
not examine----; but the doctor assured me there was nothing beyond a
little money and so on. I fear--I very much fear--that our poor friend
must have decided to allow the mystery to remain, and have destroyed
the papers you speak of.”
Doris’ hands closed tightly.
“He knew best,” she said, with all a woman’s loving loyalty. “I--I am
satisfied. He knew best,” and the tears came at last and rolled down
the pale cheeks.
Spenser Churchill heaved a sigh.
“Nobly said, my dear young lady! Yes, doubtless he knew best. Rest
assured that he kept the secret from you for good reasons. Yes, he knew
best! Poor Jeffrey, poor Jeffrey!” He wiped his eyes. “And now shall I
go--some other time----”
“No, no,” said Doris. “Tell me everything, please; I do not know what
to do--I am so alone----”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “About your future; forgive me if I mention such a
subject; but I presume you will continue your profession----”
A shudder ran through Doris’ frame at the thought of again facing the
crowded theatre.
“No, no!” she said, almost fiercely. “I shall never act again!”
As she answered, the scene of the first night of “Romeo and Juliet”
rose before her, and she thrilled with the recollection of the
inspiration which had come to her from her love for Cecil Neville. That
inspiration had vanished forever now, and to act with a broken heart
would, she knew, be impossible to her.
“I shall never go on the stage again,” she responded firmly.
Spenser Churchill put up his white hand to his lips to hide the smile
of satisfaction her words called up on them.
“No?” he said, thoughtfully and significantly. “Yes, I understand! I
quite understand, and I must say I think your decision is a wise one.
It was different while your guardian was alive, to watch over you and
protect you! You, great as your success has been, I think you are right
in your resolve to leave the profession.”
“I shall never go back,” she said, quietly.
“Then, forgive me, may I ask what you intend doing?”
Doris let her eyes fall upon him almost vacantly for a moment. She had
been lost in the memory of those few happy days and nights, and had
almost forgotten his presence.
“What I intend doing? Oh, I don’t know! I have not thought,” she said,
and her white hand went to her brow.
“I understand! I understand! and fully sympathize, my dear young lady,
but, as your friend--you know you have allowed me to be your friend--it
is my duty to ask you! This sum of money, alas, will soon take to
itself wings, and----”
Doris roused herself.
“And I must still live, and eat, even after it is gone, you would say,”
she said, not bitterly, but, ah, so wearily. “Yes, I know!”
“You could earn a large sum on the stage, of course,” he murmured.
She put out her hand as if to silence him.
“That is out of the question,” she said. “I suppose there are other
ways of earning money?”
“There are,” he murmured, softly.
“I am young and strong,” she said. “Other women have to work. What do
they do? Needlework----”
She looked at her hands with a smile that was like the glint of her old
light-hearted one.
He shook his head.
“That, too, is out of the question,” he said. “But there are still
other ways. I believe--indeed, I have heard--that you are very
accomplished, Miss Marlowe.”
“Am I?” said Doris, simply.
“I believe that you are a musician, and that you speak several
languages----”
“Yes,” she said, as simply as before. “Ah, how much I owe to him! I
understand it better now--now that it is too late to thank him,” and
she turned her head away.
“A good musician and linguist need not take to her needle for her
maintenance,” said Spenser Churchill. “I have, of course, foreseen
that the question would arise, and I have--pray forgive me, my dear
young lady--been making some inquiries on your behalf.” He drew out a
pocketbook, and took a letter from it. “It happens that a friend of
mine--Lady Despard--you may have heard of her; she is well known for
her charitable work----”
Doris shook her head.
“I have never heard of her,” she said, trying to speak with some
interest.
“A sweet creature! A widow, alas, though young! Very wealthy, moving
in the best society--ahem!--and fond of traveling. She is just going
abroad, and requires a companion. I think--I am sure--that you would
like her, and that if you could bring yourself to accept the position,
which is so much below your genius----”
“She is going abroad?” said Doris, with sudden eagerness.
He inclined his head.
“Yes, to Italy. The change would do you good--is, indeed, absolutely
necessary.”
Abroad, out of England, beyond the chance of meeting Cecil Neville! A
faint hope, for the first time since Jeffrey’s death, rose in Doris’
heart.
“But you need not decide to-day. You shall think it over,” he said,
taking up his hat. “By the way, if you should need me, will you send
word--at any time, and the very moment you would like to see me--to
Barton Towers? I am staying with my friend, the Marquis of Stoyle.”
Doris started, and the blood rose to her face.
“Barton Towers?” she murmured, mechanically.
“Yes,” he said, smoothly, as if he had not noticed her sudden
agitation. “The marquis is an old friend of mine. So is his nephew and
heir, Lord Cecil Neville. You may have heard of him?”
“Yes--I--have heard of him,” said Doris, in a low voice, which
faltered, notwithstanding her efforts to keep it steady.
“Yes; a most charming young fellow,” he went on, with a smile, “but a
terribly unsteady one. But, there, we must not be hard upon a young
fellow in his position. Young men who are blessed with good looks and
heirships to marquisates are apt to be unsteady; though I am glad to
say that Lord Neville’s wild days are nearly over. He is in Ireland at
present, but when he comes back he is to marry Lady Grace Peyton.”
Doris sat perfectly motionless, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes
fixed on the lovely summer scene framed in the window; but the view was
all blurred in her sight, and a sound as of rushing waves rang in her
ears.
“To marry Lady Grace Peyton!” she echoed, dully, as if the words
possessed no sense.
“Yes,” he purred. “It is a very old attachment. She is a most charming
and beautiful creature, and I am not surprised that, notwithstanding
his numerous flirtations, Lord Neville has remained constant. It will
be a most suitable and advantageous match for both of them----My dear
young lady,” he broke off, for Doris had sunk back, white to the lips,
and with closed eyes, “you are ill. Let me call Mrs. Jelf.”
But, with an almost superhuman effort, Doris fought down the terrible
faintness, and, stretching out her hand, commandingly, said:
“No! It is nothing. The heat--stay, please!”
He stood, regarding her silently, watchfully, with an anxious,
sympathetic expression on his smooth face.
“This lady”--she went on, speaking every word as if it cost her an
effort--“this Lady Despard. Will you ask her to take me?”
“But, my dear Miss Marlowe! Had you not better consider----”
“I have considered,” she said, interrupting him. “If she thinks I can
be of any service to her--if she is going away from England at once----”
“She is,” he said, softly.
“Well, then--tell her, please, that I am ready; that I will go with
her!”
“I will do everything you wish, my dear young lady,” he murmured.
“I fear I have wearied you! Leave it all to me,” and with a softly
murmured “Heaven bless you!” he left her.