Stella Rosevelt

What could this strange thing mean? What was Archibald Sherbrooke—the man who, two days before, had told her that he loved her and no other—doing there in that character of Lord Carrol? Why was he there, laughing, chatting, and exchanging greetings in that familiar way with Mrs. Richards and her family?

Star’s heart nearly ceased its beating; she grew faint, giddy, and absolutely soul-sick. Her face paled until it was as white as those cold, waxen berries at her throat; her very life-blood seemed to be congealing.

What could it mean?

Looking down upon the little group, she saw that Josephine’s eyes were fastened upon him—her lover—with an expression that there was no mistaking. It was full of pride and wistful affection. Her voice was low and sweet when she spoke to him, her laugh silvery clear as it rang out upon the still evening air at some light jest of his; and Star knew that she loved him deeply, passionately; that she would stop at nothing to win him, if, indeed, he was not already won. Oh, what—what could it all mean?

It was cruel, cruel as death, to have her short, bright dream shattered thus; to have given all the wealth of her warm young heart to the handsome young stranger who had called himself Archibald Sherbrooke, and now to discover him to be a myth—that there was no such person, that she had been made the plaything of an idle hour. And yet it had all appeared so real; he had seemed so true and loyal, and to have loved her so fondly.

But stay—might she not be jumping to conclusions, after all?

A different solution to the mystery flashed into her mind. She started eagerly up, the color coming back to her face, a joyful light flashing into her eyes.

Archie had told her that he should “come to her Monday or Tuesday—that he could not wait longer;” but she had not thought he would come to-night. She did expect him to-morrow, and perhaps he had arrived.

On the other hand, Lord Carrol had, perchance, disappointed his friends. They had gone to meet him, and had not found him as they expected.

Archie, very likely, had taken the same train from New York that his lordship had intended to take, and on arriving had inquired of some one for the street and number that she had written on the card for him; the individual whom he asked might have known it was Mr. Richards’ residence—for he was well known there—directed him, and he, on learning the man’s errand, had probably, with his usual good nature, invited him to take a seat in his carriage, and had driven him home.

Thus she reasoned with her aching, fear-burdened heart, clutching at this little ray of hope as a drowning man clutches at a straw.

But he did not appear like a stranger to any of them; neither did Josephine seem like the disappointed girl she probably would have been if her expected lover had not arrived. She was chatting and laughing with him in the most friendly way; her face was glowing with happiness; her tones and her laughter were musical from very joy.

With these doubts mingling with her sudden hope, Star leaned forward, eagerly listening for him to inquire for her; but the words which came floating up to her smote her heart with a deadly pain, drove the color back again from her face, and made the love-light in her eyes change to a look of mortal agony and despair.

“My lord,” Mrs. Richards said, graciously, “we will not keep you standing here; the drawing-room, where we have other friends waiting to meet you, is more inviting, and our dinner will soon be served.”

And my lord, with his most charming smile and bow, replied:

“Mrs. Richards, you have given me a most hospitable welcome to your delightful home, and I shall be happy to meet your friends;” and giving his arm to Josephine, he followed his hostess within, to be presented to the other guests who had been invited to meet him.

All hope was gone now—they had called him Lord Carrol and he had replied, and, stricken with despair, Star slipped from her chair like one from which all life had been suddenly smitten, and fell prone upon the floor, where she lay in a semiconscious state for more than an hour.

But when at length thought and feeling began to return to her, she wondered if she were herself or some one else who had lived through a century of misery—youth and happiness, joy and hope seemed to be attributes of an age so long gone by.

“Why has he done this thing?” she moaned, sitting up and clasping her icy hands across her burning brow. “Why has he deceived me thus, making a fool and a plaything of me merely to pass an idle hour? Why did he call himself Archibald Sherbrooke, when he is Lord Carrol, of Carrolton. Why could he not have left me alone when I was content with my music, my studies, and my simple life? Oh! why need my whole future be blighted thus? I could have gone on my way—I could have carried out my plans and gratified my ambition to become a teacher and be independent, and believed myself happy, if he had left me to myself. But now—if I could only die—if I could even go mad—anything to make me forget how I have allowed myself to love him, and built all my future hopes on his love for me!”

The sound of gay voices and laughter came floating up to her from below as she sat there mourning her blighted life; it smote her like the stab of a knife, and she shivered from head to foot, every nerve cringing with keenest pain.

In imagination she could see how Josephine was assuming her most bewitching airs to win the treacherous man who had blotted out every hope of joy from her existence, and who, perhaps, was bending over her, speaking soft and tender words, even as he had done to her only two days ago.

Yesterday and the day before she had lived upon the mountain-tops—“upon the heights”—where life had seemed opening out before her like a paradise; to-night, in a single moment, she had been hurled into the very depths of misery.

She got up from the floor, tottered to the window and shut it, to keep out those hateful sounds from below which nearly drove her into a frenzy; then, too weak to sit up, she crept into her bed, where she lay shaking as with an ague and moaning with pain all the long night through.

Morning found her burning with fever, with an aching head and a crushed and breaking heart.

She could not rise, and, although faint, the very thought of food filled her with loathing, and yet her throat and mouth were dry and hot with a terrible thirst.

Thus good Mrs. Blunt found her about ten o’clock. She had missed her from breakfast—something very unusual, for Star was as prompt as the day itself generally—but she had not had time to inquire into the cause of her absence until now, for there had been lively doings down in her department that morning.

“Merciful sakes alive! whatever in the world has happened to you, Miss Star?” she cried, when, on thrusting her heated face in at the door, she saw the young girl in her wretched condition lying on the bed.

“I believe I do not feel very well this morning,” Star said, wearily.

“I should think not, indeed! You’ve got a high fever, and yet you’re shaking with the cold. Goodness gracious, child! and you all dressed out like this, too! What has happened?” Mrs. Blunt cried, aghast, as she pulled back the coverlid and saw at a glance that she had been lying all night in her clothing.

Star was too miserable to explain, as the good woman saw, and she did not press her with questions; but with nimble yet tender hands she removed her clothing, replacing it with her robe de nuit, and then wrapping her in a heavy blanket, she tucked her snugly into bed once more.

She then went down below, where she prepared a steaming drink of some kind, with which she hastened back to her patient, and insisted that she should drink it—“every drop.”

The poor child obeyed, feeling too wretched to offer any objections; and then saturating a napkin with camphor and water, Mrs. Blunt bound it about her aching head, and darkening the room, bade her go to sleep again as quickly as possible, for of course school was not to be thought of that day; and indeed Star had forgotten the existence of such an institution.

The hot drink warmed and soothed her, while the kind attention of the woman comforted her; and exhausted nature asserting itself, she soon dropped into a profound slumber.

It was late in the afternoon when she awoke again, and realized that she was much refreshed physically, although her burden of misery was still crushing down upon her heart.

Mrs. Blunt found her as white and wan as she had been flushed and feverish, when she looked in upon her again just before dinner, and she could not understand the look of hopeless despair that lay in her usually bright and joyous eyes.

“Whatever in the world is the matter with you, Miss Star?” she asked, anxiously. “It’ll be bad luck for me if you’re going to be sick, for since you came into the house, with your bright face and cheery ways, the days and months have grown shorter by half. Come, come, chicken, don’t look so downcast; it breaks my heart to see you so white and drooping.”

“I shall be all right by to-morrow, Mrs. Blunt. I am better already, thanks to your kind care,” Star returned, sitting up in bed and trying to bring her shattered nerves into better order. “If you will please hand me my school dress,” she added, “I think I will get up and take a run down to the lodge. I have not seen Uncle Jacob since yesterday morning, and he will wonder what has become of me.”

“Indeed, child, you mustn’t go out to-night, and as for Mr. Rosevelt, he knows all about you already. I sent word to him before noon that you wasn’t able to go to school, and he’s been up to the house twice since to inquire for you. He sets a store by you, Miss Star, and I believe it would break his heart if anything was to happen to you.”

A wan little smile flitted over Star’s face.

It was about the only ray of light or comfort that she had in her great darkness—this knowledge that there was one who did really love her, and to whom she also was almost a necessity.

She could rely on “Uncle Jacob,” if upon no one else, and she longed to go to him and lean upon him now in her trouble. Of course she could not tell him how she had let handsome, fascinating Archibald Sherbrooke win her heart from her, and then found all too late how cruelly she had been deceived. She was so thankful now that she had not allowed him to tell Mr. Rosevelt as he had wished, though, perhaps, that had only been another ruse of his, and he had not intended to tell him, after all; but it would be a comfort to go down to the lodge and see him, and listen to the kindly tones of his voice.

Mrs. Blunt helped her to dress, for she saw that she was glad to sit down by the window—though she shuddered as she remembered that she had sat just there last night when her heart had been broken—and rest, while she began to fear that she should not be able to get down stairs, after all, that night to go to see Mr. Rosevelt.

Mrs. Blunt watched her closely with those small, keen eyes of hers, and saw that her trouble was more of the mind than of the body, though what could have caused it was a puzzle to her.

She did not trouble her with conversation, but after making her room tidy, she went quietly out and left her alone. She returned after a little while, however, bringing her a bowl of hot soup and a plate of nice little biscuits.

“You are very good to me, Mrs. Blunt,” Star said, gratefully; and she ate the soup with a relish, for she was very faint and hungry, while the housekeeper looked on with a satisfied air as she saw a tinge of color coming back to her pale face.

“Somebody else was good to a poor old woman yesterday, or I’m much mistaken, and I reckon it’ll take a good while for you and me to be quits on that day’s work,” the kind-hearted creature returned, a tear starting to her eyes as she remembered how bright and happy the fair girl had been during those long hours while she had worked so busily and patiently with her.

But she could not stay with her, much as she wished to do so, and try to bring back her truant smiles, for her many duties called her below, and she went away, cautioning Star to be very careful and not take more cold.

Left alone, the unhappy girl felt that she must get out and away from that close room where she had suffered so much; she must do something to make her forget, or her brain would be turned.

So, wrapping a shawl about her, she stole down a back way, out by a side door into the grounds, and taking a circuitous path, made her way as rapidly as her strength would permit toward the lodge.

She had accomplished about half the distance when her limbs began to fail her, and she became so weak and faint from the exertion she had made that she was obliged to stop and lean against the trunk of a large tree to rest awhile.

It was nearly dark, for the sun had gone down and the heavy foliage of the surrounding trees made deep shadows all about her; the air was chill with the breath of the frost spirit—so different from the mild loveliness which had prevailed only forty-eight hours before—and the rustling leaves above her seemed mourning over the fate awaiting them, when its cold hand should sway their frail stems and lay them low.

A feeling of unutterable woe overcame her—such a sense of loneliness and desolation that she could not bear it; and covering her face with her hands, she gave way to the flood of tears which would not be restrained.

She had no idea how long she wept—time, place, everything was lost in the utter abandonment of her grief—until she was aroused, and a thrill of terror went tingling through all her nerves, as a hand fell suddenly yet lightly upon her shoulder.

With a start, her hands dropped from her tear-stained face and she looked up, to find the grave, questioning eyes of her faithless lover looking down into her own.

A low cry of surprise and dismay escaped him as he recognized her.

“Star! My darling, what does this mean?” he asked, in astonishment. “How came you here, and why do I find you grieving thus? You look more like some stricken white dove than like my bright, beautiful star. I was coming to you to-morrow—I wanted to come to-day, but I could not. Tell me, dear, how is it I find you here in the grounds of Mr. Richards, where I am visiting?” and he would have gathered her into his arms, but by a quick movement she evaded him, and stepping back a few paces, she confronted him with a haughty uplifting of her small head, her face and eyes glowing with scorn and indignation.

“To-morrow you would have come to me,” she repeated, with curling lips. “Pray, where would you have sought me?”

“Here in Yonkers, at No. 56 —— street. I think that was the address you wrote on the card,” he said, apparently bewildered by her strange conduct, and regarding her with a troubled look. “I wanted to go there to-day, but there has been no opportunity,” he said again. “And to-morrow I was intending to ask Mr. Richards to direct me to the address which you gave me.”

“Do you know the street and number of this residence?” Star asked, sternly.

“No. When it was arranged that I should come here to make a short visit, Mrs. Richards was so kind as to say that her carriage should meet me at the station, so that I do not even know the name of the street on which they live.”

“Then to-morrow, when you should ask to be directed to the address which I gave you—if, indeed, you intended to ask for it—you would have been told that you would find me here in this place—this house. Mr. Richards’ residence is No. 56 —— street,” Star said, proudly and coldly.

She had no faith in him; she believed he was acting a part.

“Impossible!” he cried. “I never dreamed of such a thing. Why, then, have I not seen you? Why were you not with the family when I arrived last night? Why have I not seen you to-day?” he asked, as if more and more astonished.

“Because,” she answered, her voice rising, with a scornful, bitter ring, “I am a dependent upon the bounty of the rich; because I am a burden and expense in a house of luxury, and only tolerated on account of a promise made to my dying father and to cancel a debt due to my mother. You have not seen me, because I am not allowed to breathe the same air, eat and drink, and sit at the same table with those who think they are of finer mold than I. But it is just as well, my lord——”

“My lord!” he repeated, in a startled tone, interrupting her. “Star, that from you!”

She laughed bitterly, lifting her head with a haughty gesture, though her face gleamed like a piece of marble in the waning light.

“Yes, that from me!” she said. “Fortunately, I was at a window above the entrance when you arrived last evening, and witnessed the honors that were heaped upon my Lord Carrol, of Carrolton, and the revelation of your true character, although a sudden and bitter one to me, was, perhaps, after all, a providential one; for, if it showed me how I had been duped and betrayed, how I had been made the plaything of an idle hour, it also gave me time to collect my scattered senses a trifle before meeting you and telling you how I scorn you for——”

“Duped! betrayed! plaything! Star, listen to me,” pleaded the young man, his breath almost taken away by these startling accusations and by her wild words, so full of derision and pain.

“I will not listen to you!” she cried, passionately; “I have listened to you too much already. Oh! why did you do this wicked thing? Why could you not have left me alone? Had you not enough already, with your riches, your title, and your life of pleasure, without coming in cruel sport to spoil a poor young girl’s life? Was it not enough that you could woo and win the heiress, the belle and beauty of Long Branch, without the amusement of trying to win and break my poor heart?”

“Star! Star!” he cried, drawing nearer the excited girl. “What wild, wild words! Every one is like a dagger plunged into my heart. You do not know what you are saying, dear. I try to win and break your heart! My poor darling, you have been misled by having learned of my title. I should have told you before, but——”

“Then you are Lord Carrol? You own it—you acknowledge it?” Star interrupted, with a ring of wild despair in her tones.

When she had looked up into his face, into his kind and loving eyes; when she had heard his voice, so low and eager, yet tender; when he had called her “his poor darling,” and said her words were like a dagger plunged into his heart, her own had begun to thrill anew, and she almost hoped against hope that there was after all some mistake, in spite of what she had seen and heard.

But now he owned it. He was not Archibald Sherbrooke at all; he was the titled peer, and he had sought to win her love under false colors; and all the pain, and bitterness, and scorn returned, even while she waited breathlessly for his answer.

“Yes, I am Lord Carrol, of Carrolton; but, Star——”

“That is enough; I want to hear no more,” she said, stopping him with an authoritative gesture of her white hand. “I will not listen to another word from your traitorous lips!”

She turned proudly from him and would have left him, but he sprang forward and seized her hands.

They were cold as ice and shaking as with palsy, and he was shocked by the hopelessness visible in her face as he looked down upon it.

“Star, my darling,” he began, in a voice that was almost stern from emotion; “you shall listen to me. It is my right to be heard, and I can explain everything to you if you will but give me the opportunity.”

But she would not. Pain, despair, outraged pride and affection made her unreasonable and almost insane.

She flashed a haughty glance up at him.

“Lord Carrol,” she said, in her iciest tones, “release my hands, if you please.”

He dropped them as if they had been coals of fire, and drew back a pace or two from her, deeply wounded, while his own face was nearly as white and pained as hers.

“Star, you are wronging me more than you dream. Surely you will listen to my defense,” he said, and his voice trembled with suppressed feeling.

Oh, how she longed to yield and allow him to win her back; how she longed to let him take her into his strong arms, and hear him murmur again those tender words such as he had spoken to her so recently; but, remembering his attentions to Josephine last night, her looks of affection and pride, her bright face and happy laugh—remembering what she had heard regarding his devotion to her at Long Branch, and the reason that had been given for his coming there to her home, she could not.

He had played the role of rich lover to the proud heiress; he had acted that of a poor sweetheart with her; for had he not told her he was an artist, but hoped to be able to take care of her, so that she need never know the meaning of the words poor and dependent again; and now, with all this evidence before her, how could she help believing him false to the core—to have simply amused himself at her expense?

“You can have no defense to offer me, and I will hear nothing,” she returned, coldly. “You have deceived me most cruelly; you came to me as Archibald Sherbrooke; you used all your powers of fascination to make me love you as a poor artist, while you had already played the part of a rich lover in a different character at a fashionable watering-place. I congratulate you upon your marvelous success as an actor, my lord,” she concluded, with scathing sarcasm.

A deep sigh broke from him; her words hurt him keenly, for he was very proud.

But he saw how she was suffering, and he tried to be patient with her, feeling sure that if he could only make her listen to him all would be well.

“My dear,” he said, gently, “you do not understand. Pray, let me tell you all about it. I swear that I am both——”

“You need not swear; I know enough already. Go back to my more fortunate cousin, Miss Richards, whom the whole household expects you intend to make Lady Carrol. She, I own, is better fitted to be the bride of a peer of England than the poor alien who is a burden upon her bounty. She will grace your proud home and name with her beauty; she will add to your riches with her wealth. But let me tell you”—and Star had no idea how superbly beautiful she was as she stood so proudly before him and uttered this prophetic sentence—“that the girl whom she has despised and insulted, whom you have deceived, and whose life you have blighted by your treachery, will yet rise to a position that shall shame and humiliate you both. Go back to her, I say, and—ask her for the cameo which you gave me. I told you that I had lost it. I put it that way because I did not like to tell you how badly I had been used by those who should have given me only sympathy and love; but she—the girl whom you have come to win for your wife—stole it from me, my one little treasure, the only ornament I had which I could wear in my humble position, and which I prized more than anything else in the world. But let her keep it; I relinquish it freely, now that I have discovered the baseness of the giver. My Lord Carrol, of Carrolton, alias Archibald Sherbrooke, the artist, I despise you, and I bid you farewell!”

She was gone before he could hardly realize that she had ceased speaking; she had sped down the avenue with the lightness and swiftness of a fawn, leaving him dazed, bewildered, almost paralyzed from the wild words, the terrible denunciation which she had uttered.