FILTHY LUCRE.
The next morning word was brought from the lodge that Mr. Rosevelt was
quite ill, and not able to come up to the mansion for his breakfast.
“Breakfast, indeed!” muttered Mrs. Richards, with a toss of her proud
head; “as if he supposed he was going to be invited to sit at the table
with my fashionable guests in his shabby clothes.”
She had received a full account of his arrival and appearance from her
husband the night previous, after Mr. Rosevelt’s departure for the
lodge.
Mr. Richards went at once to see him, and to give orders to Mrs. Mellen,
the wife of the gardener, to do everything for his comfort.
Later, his wife, with much inward fretting and fuming, followed his
example, not because she had any desire to see him or felt in any way
anxious about him, but to save unpleasant remarks and comments.
She met her uncle with anything but a cordial greeting, and which, even
in the midst of his suffering, he could not fail to feel keenly.
“I am very sorry, Uncle Jacob, that you are ill, especially as I am full
of company just now, and cannot personally give you the attention that
you ought to receive,” she said, trying to speak sympathetically, but
failing utterly.
“Never mind me, Ellen. Mrs. Mellen seems very kindly disposed, and will,
no doubt, do all that is necessary for me. I am sorry to be a burden to
you in my misfortune, but you have always been so kind to me, urging me
so cordially to come to you at any time, that I thought you would be
glad to see your old uncle under any circumstances,” the old man said,
regarding her closely while he was speaking.
“I hope you will soon be better,” Mrs. Richards returned, evasively.
She did not think it necessary to tell him that he was no burden, or to
say anything to make him feel comfortable and at ease in his trying
situation.
She was so deeply disappointed and chagrined on account of the loss of
his fortune, and consequently of her share of his million, that it was
impossible not to betray something of her feelings.
“Thank you,” he returned, coldly. “Do not allow my condition to cause
you any anxiety. I am very comfortable. It is very quiet here, and I
shall doubtless do very well.”
“Yes; you _will_ be more quiet here than up at the house, where there
are so many people and so much going on,” she replied, eagerly seizing
this pretext for keeping him where he was. “And,” she added, “if you
need anything, Mrs. Mellen can attend to all your wants.”
After a few more commonplace remarks, she took her departure, feeling
quite relieved to have him so easily disposed of. She had nothing to
gain now by fawning and flattery, and since his gold was gone, he was no
more to her than any other feeble old man, and it would not pay even to
pretend what she did not feel.
As she went rustling out of the room and down stairs in her rich attire,
her aged and dependent relative lay back in his chair, with a darkening
brow and a pale, pained face.
“Money! money! money!” he muttered. “No one is of much account in this
world without plenty of the filthy lucre. If I had come here as I used
to, with plethoric pockets instead of an empty purse and shabby attire,
no one would have been sweeter or more delighted to see ‘dear Uncle
Jacob’ than Ellen Richards. And it was just the same with Henry and his
family. When I could make them costly presents and shower favors upon
them—when I was ‘Jacob Rosevelt, the millionaire’—no trouble was too
great, nothing too good for me. It is a cold-hearted, selfish world; _no
one_ is to be trusted. But it is a little hard on an old man to find
that he must go down to his grave and feel that he is regarded with
affection by nobody. Talk of ‘Divine dispensations,’ of ‘tempering the
wind to the shorn lamb’—there is no divinity about it, for the adverse
winds of the world never blew so coldly on me as at this moment,” he
concluded, bitterly; and bowing his head upon his hands, he seemed to
lose himself in troubled thought.
“May I come in?” asked a gentle voice behind him, after a few minutes;
and turning, he saw two blue eyes gleaming at him from beneath soft
curls of sunny hair, a pair of red lips smiling upon him, while a
slight, graceful figure, daintily clad in a pretty blue lawn gown, stood
in the door-way, waiting for his permission to enter.
Jacob Rosevelt’s sad face involuntarily brightened at the sight of this
attractive picture, and he said, hastily:
“Well, well, child, I believe you are rightly named, for you come like a
veritable star into the gloom of my life. Star Gladstone—it is but an
index to your character, for you both brighten and cheer. Of course you
may come in.”
“Thank you,” Star said, laughing, and advancing to his side. “I did not
expect to be so highly complimented when I came out. I have brought you
this lovely spray of oleanders which the gardener gave me from the
conservatory,” and she held up her little vase containing the bright,
fragrant blossoms. “And here,” she continued, “is a dish of the most
delicious raspberries you ever tasted, every one picked by my own
fingers,” and she held up her right hand, showing her slender fingers
stained by the rosy fruit.
He watched her, his pale lips relaxing into a smile, which even extended
to the eyes that had been so sad a little while before. She was
irresistible in her bright beauty; she was as fresh and sweet as the
morning itself, while with her heart filled with kindness and
consideration for him, he began to think that all the world was not
quite so bad as he had thought.
“Mrs. Mellen told me, as I came in, that you did not eat much
breakfast,” Star continued; “and as she is about to serve you a little
lunch, I brought my berries right up to give them to you myself.”
Mrs. Mellen entered at this moment, bearing a little tray with a
tempting lunch spread upon it.
Star wheeled a small table to the invalid’s side, spread a spotless
towel which she found upon the rack upon it, and then deftly arranged
the dishes in the most tempting way before him, putting the oleander
blossoms in the center and the raspberries just under his nose, where he
could not fail to get their delicious odor and long to eat them.
“How pretty and inviting you make everything look, little one,” he said,
affectionately, as he watched her graceful movements and their result.
“What would the world be but for the beauty there is in it? and what are
pretty things given us for, but to enjoy?” Star returned, with a fond
glance at the flowers, as she moved them a trifle nearer to his plate.
“There,” she went on, smiling, and tossing her hat upon a chair, “I
believe I am hungry myself, and if you will allow me to pour your tea, I
think I could eat a slice of Mrs. Mellen’s delicious bread and butter
with you afterward. You don’t often see such bread as that, I can assure
you, and I frequently run down here and beg her to give me some.”
The young girl shot a smiling glance at the woman as she spoke, and the
woman’s face beamed with pleasure at this tribute to her skill.
“Bless you, child!” Mr. Rosevelt said, as he unfolded his napkin and
drew nearer the table; “the sight of your bright face and the smell of
your berries have given me an appetite already. Sit down, sit down; my
tea will taste ten per cent. better to be poured by your fair hands, and
while we eat you shall tell me how it has fared with you during the past
year. I see it has not changed _you_ at heart; you are the same as when
we parted, and you were as ready as ever last night to sacrifice your
own comfort for a poor old man.”
Star blushed. She felt almost as guilty, knowing that there had been
room for him at the house, as if _she_ had been the one to turn him
away.
“I knew these rooms were low and close, while my room, although rather
high up, was much more airy; besides, you looked too tired and ill to
walk way down here,” Star explained, with some embarrassment.
“Your own is rather high up, is it? How high?” he asked, giving her a
keen glance.
“It is in the third story,” she answered, flushing again.
“Ah! one _would_ be apt to get good air in that latitude,” said Mr.
Rosevelt, dryly. “Now tell me,” he added, “what you have been doing
since I saw you.”
Star gave him an account of her life at school, omitting for several
reasons to speak of the fate which had been intended for her, and said
just as little as she could in connection with Mrs. Richards and her
haughty daughter, or their treatment of her. She told him of her music,
of the books she had read, and what her plans for the future were when
she should graduate at the end of another year.
She spent more than an hour with him, and when at length she left him,
he was apparently much cheered and a good deal better for her visit.
She went every morning afterward while her vacation lasted, always
taking him something in the way of fruit or flowers, and cheering him
with her lively chatting, until he began to look for her coming as the
chief event of the day.
Sometimes they would wander together through the beautiful grounds of
Mr. Richards’ place, or, finding a cozy nook, Star would take some
interesting book and read to him; and as the week went by, he appeared
to improve in health and to grow more contented with his lot.
He continued to remain at the lodge, in spite of the fact that the
company had all departed, and there was now plenty of room in the
mansion.
Mr. Richards had gone West on a prolonged business trip, and, of course,
could not use his influence as to any change; while Mrs. Richards
appeared to ignore his presence entirely, unless she came upon him
unexpectedly, when she would treat him with indifferent politeness.
Josephine’s attitude toward him was one of proud disdain, although once
she professed great friendship for him; but now he was nothing more than
an aged, decrepit man—a sort of “cumberer of the ground,” and simply
tolerated because it would be considered inhuman to cast him out at that
time of life.
In September Mrs. Richards and her daughter went to Long Branch for a
change, leaving the household in charge of Mrs. Blunt.
Star began school again, going back and forth by rail, as the town house
would not be opened again until October.
This made it hard for her, because she was obliged to go so early and
return so late; but as her comfort was not a matter which usually
demanded much consideration, and she made no complaint, the fact
remained unnoticed.
During the absence of the family, Mr. Rosevelt frequented the house, for
it was much more comfortable through those hot September days than his
contracted room at the lodge, and he was glad to avail himself of the
privilege of the well-stocked library to while away the long hours of
Star’s absence.
In the evening she would entertain him with her music, while on Saturday
they both felt like children out of school; and thus day by day they
grew to feel a deep affection for each other.
“She at least does not love me for my money,” the old man would often
mutter to himself, with a grim smile, after receiving some thoughtful
attention from the young girl; “her affection is sincere and
disinterested, and I pray that her gentle heart may never become seared
and hardened by the cold world.”
He had long ago learned just how Star was regarded by the family, and
how they had attempted to degrade her to the level of a common servant,
and this did not tend to make him entertain any deeper respect for them.
His information on this point he had gathered chiefly from Mrs. Blunt.
Star would not talk about it, always evading or changing the subject in
a dextrous way that amused him in no small degree.
Meanwhile Josephine and her mother were flourishing among the
fashionable at Long Branch.
The season proved to be a very gay one; every hotel was crowded, and
many noted people from various countries were sojourning there.
Among others, the Richardses heard upon their arrival, there was a young
English lord of great reputed wealth, having, it was said, the largest
rent-roll in Derbyshire, England.
“They say he is the handsomest man in the place, as well as the
richest,” Josephine said to her mother, the night after their arrival at
the gay watering-place, having heard this piece of news, with much else,
from an intimate friend. “All the girls are wild about him,” she
pursued. “Annie Falkner was introduced to him yesterday, and says he is
as charming in conversation as he is in appearance.”
“How old is he?” asked Mrs. Richards, pricking up her maternal ears at
once over this wonderful information.
“About twenty-one or two, Annie thought he might be. He has been
traveling in this country for a year, just to see a little of the world
before settling upon his own estate. It is whispered,” the eager damsel
went on, with flushing cheeks and sparkling eyes, “that he has heard of
the beauty of American ladies, and is on the lookout for a handsome
wife;” and Josephine tossed her head with a conscious smile, as her eyes
wandered to the reflection of her own fine face and figure in an
opposite mirror.
“That is somewhat doubtful, I think, since the English nobility are very
jealous regarding marriages outside the pale of their own rank. However,
such things are happening every year now, and this young lord may be
captivated by some of our American beauties, after all;” and Mrs.
Richards bestowed a glance of pride upon her handsome daughter, and
thought how delightful it would be to figure as mother-in-law to an
English lord, and to be able to say, “my daughter, Lady So-and-So.”
That evening Josephine Richards, the most brilliant girl in the
ball-room of the Howard House—the hotel where they were stopping—was
made supremely happy by receiving an introduction to Lord Carrol, of
Carrolton, Derbyshire, England.
One look into the frank, handsome eyes of the manly stranger, one touch
of his hand, one tone of his rich, musical voice as it vibrated in her
ears, and she knew that she had met the man whom she should love with
the one great passion of her life.
He was tall, with a well-developed form, straight, strong, and lithe; a
splendidly shaped head, with masses of waving brown hair; clear,
truthful, brown eyes, full of fire and intelligence; a full, rather low
brow, a straight nose, and a smiling but decided mouth, with brilliant,
even teeth.
It was not much wonder that the “girls were wild” over such a man as
this, and he a lord, with a rent-roll of sixty thousand a year.
Josephine herself, at nineteen, was a magnificent-looking girl, at least
when she was good-natured and animated.
She was a clear, brilliant brunette, with eyes as black as night, a
wealth of midnight hair, a fine form, and clearly cut, rather delicate
features; and all this, added to a faultless taste in matters of dress,
went far toward making her the chief attraction wherever she went.
My Lord of Carrolton seemed no less pleased with her than she with him,
and spent a goodly portion of the evening by her side after making her
acquaintance, much to the chagrin and indignation of other anxious,
blooming maidens and fond, managing mammas.
“Have you ever visited Europe?” the young peer asked his companion, as
he led her to a seat at the conclusion of a quadrille.
“Never, my lord, but I think we shall persuade papa to take us upon a
European trip by another year. Mamma has some distant relatives, I
believe, somewhere in England,” Josephine replied.
“I trust you will be as well pleased with my country and countrymen as I
am with America and Americans,” Lord Carrol remarked, gallantly, with an
inclination of his grand head, and bestowing a look of admiration upon
his companion.
Josephine flushed with pleasure. His glance, his gesture, his words, all
plainly indicated that he did not consider her the least attraction in
America or among Americans.
“Thank you, in the name of my native land,” she said; “but I think you
must be an exception to the proverbial Englishman, for I have been told
that, as a rule, they do not like us any too well. They cannot forgive
us our independence.”
“One may be forced to admire in one way that which it might not be
pleasant to contemplate in another,” his lordship returned. “But,” he
added, “I trust that as we, as nations, become better acquainted with
each other by the frequent interchange of courtesies, we shall also
become better friends.”
“Have you been long in America?”
“Nearly a year. I have visited a large portion of the country, and I
must confess that I am greatly pleased and interested in what I have
seen, and particularly so with your free institutions and schools. Your
people, too, are generous, free-hearted, and intelligent, while the
beauty of American ladies, you know, is proverbial,” he concluded,
smiling.
Josephine’s dark eyes drooped shyly beneath his glance, while the blood
went rippling to her heart with a thrill such as she had never before
experienced.
“I shall remain two or three months longer,” he continued; “and I think
when I do return, notwithstanding I love old England very dearly, I
shall go with something of regret.”
He would remain two or three months longer.
Josephine’s heart leaped exultingly; she would meet him often, perhaps,
this noble young peer; and what might not happen in two or three months?
“Do you remain long at Long Branch?” she asked.
“Three or four weeks, perhaps. I find it very pleasant here,” he said;
and again that thrill leaped through her veins. “I shall then go to New
York,” he added, “where I shall make my headquarters until I return to
England.”
“Perhaps we can help to make your stay in New York pleasant,” Josephine
said, with her most brilliant smile. “Mamma and I are to remain here
until the first of October, when we shall go home, and can, perhaps,
help to show you more of our great city than you would otherwise see.”
“Thanks; I shall be very happy to avail myself of your kindness. But
there is the signal for supper; may I take you in?”
It is needless to say that the fascinated girl accepted his invitation,
and spent the hour feasting more upon the young lord’s handsome looks
and charming conversation than upon the choice viands which he placed
before her.
It was evident that he also experienced pleasure in her society, for,
when he took her to Mrs. Richards—as she made a signal that she wished
to retire from the company—and was introduced to her, and then
accompanied them both to the foot of the staircase leading to their
apartments, he asked and obtained permission to call upon them on the
morrow.