Stella Rosevelt

The first of the week following the events just related, Mrs. Richards and her daughter were suddenly “recalled to Brooklyn.”

Newport had become, as Miss Meredith had prophesied, “too hot for them.”

They were gone almost before any one knew that they contemplated going; and, it must be confessed, that it was a great relief to both Star and Mr. Rosevelt when they learned of their flitting, and knew they would be obliged to meet them no more.

Star had recovered her usual health and strength, but she had suffered such a shock that she could not meet or see a dog without a feeling of fear and an almost overpowering weakness, and she never entirely outgrew this feeling during her life.

She had seemed unusually thoughtful, too, since the event. Most people, noticing it, thought it but natural, considering the fearful danger she had been in, but Star had a very different reason for it.

The moment she had returned to consciousness and found herself in Ralph Meredith’s arms, seen his agonized looks, heard his tones of fear, realized the passionate, though trembling clasp in which she was held, the terrible throbbings of his heart as she lay against it, and noted the quiver of his pale lips as he hung over her and begged her to assure him that she was unharmed, she knew that he was no longer what she had hitherto regarded him—merely a kind and congenial friend.

Those signs she had interpreted in a way to make her feel very grave and deeply troubled.

She felt that he regarded her with feelings which she knew it would be impossible for her ever to return, and she feared he was cherishing hopes which, if not “nipped in the bud,” might ruin his whole life.

His every look and act since that day had told her as plainly as words could have done that he loved her, and she was constantly trying to think of some way to make him discover how hopeless his passion was without bringing matters to a crisis.

But this was not to be.

One evening they all went for a walk in the park, where they spent an hour listening to the music and strolling about.

As they were returning, Ralph succeeded in securing Star as a companion; perchance his sister knew his design in so doing, and aided him by asking Mr. Rosevelt for his arm and making herself as agreeable as she could to him.

“Come this way,” Ralph whispered, leading the fair girl down a path at right angles to the one they had been traversing; “we shall all meet at the gate;” and Star could find no reasonable excuse to offer, although her heart beat ominously at the request.

The evening was delightfully cool and pleasant, the air fragrant with the perfume of many flowers, while the music in the distance lent its own enchantment to the place and hour.

It was just the time for Cupid to be busy with his arrows, and Ralph Meredith felt that it was an opportunity not to be lost, and governed himself accordingly.

“Miss Gladstone,” he said, abruptly, after a rather awkward silence, “I am obliged to return to New York to-morrow.”

“Are you?” Star asked, in surprise. “Is it not a sudden departure?”

“Rather. I had hoped to remain a week longer.”

“Surely your sister does not accompany you? I should miss her sorely; I should regret to lose her more than I can tell you.”

The young man’s face fell. He had not been included in her regret. But he rallied, and said, lightly:

“My sister is highly favored, Miss Gladstone; but I had flattered myself that I also should be missed.”

“Pardon me, if my words conveyed to you the idea that you would not,” Star said, quickly. “You have been most kind, Mr. Meredith, and I shall most certainly miss your companionship and your friendly attentions.”

Friendly attentions!

Mr. Meredith had received another stab.

“But,” she added, “will Grace go with you? You have not yet told me, and I have not heard her say anything about leaving.”

She hoped thus to ward off what she feared was coming, and turn the conversation in another channel.

“No; Grace will remain for another week. But, Miss Gladstone—Star,” he began, desperately, “I could not leave without seeking this private interview with you to learn my fate. You have called my attentions ‘friendly.’ Have you not realized that they have been vastly more than that? Have you not seen that I have grown to love you madly, idolatrously? You are modest as a violet, my bright Star; and although I have tried to win some sign of answering affection from you, yet you have not given me one. You have evaded my every look, my every word of love. But, my beautiful darling, it seems as if my true heart must find in yours a fond return. You will tell me to-night, will you not, dear, that you will give yourself to me? Star, how shall I tell you of the depth of my love?—how you have become so necessary to me, that if you should send me away without hope, the future would hold nothing to tempt me, nothing to make life worth the living. When I held you in my arms last Wednesday, and believed that your life had been endangered—when you lay unconscious upon my breast, close to my heart, so white and still, so exactly as if you were dead, I said to myself that I could not, I cared not to live, if you were taken from me. My love, look up into my eyes, lay your hand in mine, and tell me you will give yourself to me.”

He stopped in the path and waited for her answer—waited for her to lay her hand in his, as he had asked her to do, and bid him to hope and be the happiest man in the universe.

But her beautiful golden head was bent, as if weighted with some heavy care or sorrow. The star-like face was pale and downcast, and the lovely eyes, into which he longed to read an answering tale of love, were hidden by their white lids and curling lashes.

“Star,” he breathed, a note of keen pain in his tone, “do not tell me that I must give up my bright dream of joy.”

“Mr. Meredith,” she answered, looking up at him with sudden resolution, “forget for a little while what you have just said to me, and listen, while I read you a page out of my own heart.”

A look of suffering came into his eyes, his lips trembled, and he breathed heavily, but he answered:

“I cannot ‘forget,’ but I will ‘listen,’ as you wish.”

“Nearly two years ago,” Star began, “I came to America in the ——, a vessel that sailed from Liverpool to New York. Perhaps you remember that it was lost at sea. I was one of the few who were saved, and afterward picked up by the ——, another homeward bound vessel. As I was lifted from the life-boat to the deck of the noble craft, I fainted from exhaustion, and fell into the arms of a stranger, who bore me to a state-room and gave me into the care of a stewardess. I met him a day or two afterward on the deck. He was a noble, manly looking gentleman, some four years my senior. We were thrown much into each other’s society during the remainder of the voyage, and there came into my heart during that time a feeling for him which will prevent me from ever loving another while I live. When we landed we parted as friends, though we exchanged souvenirs, and he expressed the hope that we should meet again. A few months later we did meet, our friendship was renewed, and soon ripened into something deeper—in fact, he won my heart entirely. We were betrothed, and for a few days earth became a paradise to me. I firmly believed him to be all that he appeared. I could have staked my life upon his truth and honor, and I would have defended him with my latest breath had any one assailed his fair fame or doubted his allegiance to me. But I could not doubt the evidence of my own senses, and he proved himself a traitor in my very presence. He played me false before the vows which he had uttered to me had scarcely grown cold upon his lips. I spurned him with scorn; I denounced him as the traitor and coward which I knew him to be; but, oh, Mr. Meredith, strange as it may seem to you, I—I love him still. Perhaps it is unmaidenly in me to tell you this, perhaps it betrays weakness and a lack of proper dignity on my part; but I feel that I owe it to you, to make you understand how impossible it is for me to reciprocate your affection. He won my girlish heart, he bound me irrevocably to him by the power of his will and the charm of his oily tongue, and I can never love another. You will say that he is unworthy of such constancy, or even of a regret. I know he is, and yet while I own it, my soul is reaching after him with all the strength of a deathless love. I began to fear, a week ago, that you were entertaining feelings for me which would bring sorrow upon us both. You say that I have evaded you. I have done so; I have tried to show you that the hopes which I feared you were entertaining could never be realized, and I wish that you had never spoken the words which you have to-night; for I know—you know, that you could never be satisfied to take any one to your heart who was always turning from you to another, who, although she knew she was loving unworthily, would not yet have the power to keep her affections from straying from you, and who could not keep her vows of allegiance to you, for such vows, if spoken, would be but mockery. Mr. Meredith, you could never be satisfied with such a wife as that,” she concluded, in a voice which shook with emotion.

“No, Miss Gladstone,” he answered, sorrowfully. “I love you too fondly, too devotedly, to be content with anything save an affection as strong and true as my own. But,” with a note of earnest appeal in his tone, “could I not win you by and by? Could I not teach you to love me by proving to you that I am worthy of your love?”

Star shook her head sadly.

“I know that you are worthy at this moment,” she said. “I have the deepest respect for you, and value you as a friend; but nothing—no one can ever win the love which I must always bear for Archibald Sherbrooke. He has broken my heart and ruined my life; for I can never be the wife of any worthy man, since I will not live a lie. I can never have a home of my own; I can never have those sweet domestic ties and duties which other women have; I can only try to do my duty by the dear old man who is so fond of me while he lives, and, after that, live out my lonely life with what patience and courage I can,” she concluded, with such a pathos that the young man for the moment forgot his own sorrow and disappointment in pity for her.

“Where is he—where is this coward who has so imposed upon you, ruined your life, and proved faithless to his troth? Tell me, that I may go and brand him the knave and villain that he is!” Ralph Meredith cried, in hot indignation.

“I do not know where he is,” Star answered. “I have never seen him since that night when I told him that I had discovered his treachery. That was nearly a year ago. I never expect to meet him again—I never wish to meet him again. I desire to ignore him—at least, to all outward appearances; and if he possesses such an attribute as a conscience, his punishment must come sometime. But,” she went on, in a voice of pain, “I hope no one else will ever learn to love me, for I cannot endure the thought that I shall spoil other lives as mine has been spoilt. Oh, Mr. Meredith, I am sorry if I have unconsciously done you a wrong. Pray, forget me if you can, and——”

“That I can never do,” he interrupted, gently, for he saw that she was deeply moved; “but I will try and be content if you will allow me still to be your friend.”

“Thank you,” she returned, while she wiped the tears which were falling fast; “it will be a great comfort to me if you will permit me to regard you as such. I feared I should incur your contempt by the confession I have made to-night; but I could better endure that than that your future should be ruined by hoping against hope.”

“Contempt!” he repeated, earnestly; “such a feeling I could never entertain for you; you have, instead, my deepest sympathy and respect. But if I ever meet and know the wretch who has played you false, let him beware; for I will surely make him repent most bitterly his treachery and baseness toward you,” he concluded, fiercely.

A faint smile of scorn curled Star’s lips.

Time would bring its own punishment to her faithless lover, she believed, and she had no desire that any one should act as her champion in this matter.

She had called him “Archibald Sherbrooke” purposely, for she felt assured that if, by any chance, Ralph Meredith should yet meet him, he would not recognize in Lord Carrol the man of whom she had told him.