THE CAMEO RING.
A fortnight passed, and the Brooklyn beauty, as Miss Richards was
designated, together with the attention she was receiving from the
handsome English lord, formed the principal theme of conversation at the
fashionable watering-place.
Mrs. Richards was in her element, and conducted herself remarkably well.
His lordship considered her a woman of very fine appearance and of
wonderful tact; and it was noticeable that when he was in her presence
he paid her full as much homage as he did her daughter; but people of
course said this was all for a particular purpose.
“By the way,” she said to him, one day, when they were comparing the
merits of their respective countries, “I am more than half English
myself. The late Lady Thornton, of Hallowell Park, Devonshire, was an
aunt of mine—at least, my mother was her half-sister—and I have other
distant relatives living in the same county.”
“Indeed!” said Lord Carrol, his face lighting at this intelligence. “I
had no idea that you had any English blood in your veins; I thought you
were purely American. I have often heard my father speak of Sir William
Thornton, of Devonshire, and his son, Sir Charles, was at Oxford with
me. I was only slightly acquainted with him, however, as he took his
degree a year before I took mine. I am very happy to learn of this
fact,” and, as if by some fascination, the young nobleman’s glance
sought Josephine as he spoke.
“I once visited at Hallowell Park when I was a young girl,” Mrs.
Richards continued, although a flush arose to her cheek as she
remembered all that had transpired during that visit, for it was then
that Star’s mother had saved her from drowning. “It is a lovely place,
and a very large estate, I believe.”
“So I have been told. Sir William was quite an active statesman before
his death, which occurred only a year after his wife’s. They had only
one child, Sir Charles, I believe.”
“Has _he_ a family?” Mrs. Richards asked, quickly.
“I think not—at least, I have never heard of his marriage. If he should
die without issue, I suppose the estate would pass into other hands.”
Mrs. Richards started, and gave the young man a quick glance at this.
“Whose, I wonder?” she said, reflectively, and suddenly seemed to lose
all interest in the conversation, and the young lord turned his
attention to the more appreciative Josephine.
The month which the Richardses spent at Long Branch was an eventful one;
it was the most brilliant season that Josephine had ever known.
She had several offers of marriage, but refused them all, for her heart
was set on becoming Lady Carrol, and going to shine among the nobility
of England.
When the time drew near for their departure, her heart beat high with
hope; for Lord Carrol had lingered beyond the time he had intended to
spend there, and she flattered herself that she was the cause of it.
He certainly had shown her considerable attention, and it was rumored
that there would be an engagement.
He appeared to enjoy the society of both ladies, and although he had not
committed himself in any way, he had accepted an invitation to visit
them at their country-seat the second week in October, and both
Josephine and her mother were hoping much from that event.
The last evening of their sojourn at Long Branch, Miss Richards
descended to the veranda of the hotel, dressed with the utmost care and
taste.
Her robe was of creamy white silk, with an overdress of filmy black
lace, looped with crimson fuchsias. There were diamonds in her ears, her
hair, and clasped about her neck and arms; but they were not brighter
than her midnight eyes, which glowed with hope and love, while her
smiling lips vied with the flowers which she wore.
She was brilliantly, dazzlingly beautiful.
The men watched her every movement with admiring glances; the women
could but acknowledge her superior charms, yet with something of a
feeling of envy on account of the prize they believed she was about to
bear away with her.
Lord Carrol seemed drawn to her as the needle to the pole. He had been
sitting at one end of the veranda when she came down, but he almost
immediately arose and went to her side, while he would not have been
human not to have betrayed his appreciation of the exquisite toilet,
which seemed to enhance her beauty more than ever.
She was conscious of looking her best, and this made her appear to
better advantage—for who does not feel more at ease and self-possessed
when conscious of looking well?—while there was an unusual gentleness,
almost sadness, in her manner, as if something foreshadowed that
something was slipping out of her life to-night—something which would
change and darken her whole future, unless the man whom she had grown to
worship should lay at her feet homage equal to that which she had given
to him.
“What will the devotees at beauty’s shrine do to-morrow, Miss Richards?”
the young lord asked, with a smile and a glance which told her what she
knew already—that she was particularly attractive to-night.
“The Howland House possesses a galaxy of beauties, and I do not think
there will be any occasion for the ‘devotees,’ as you call them, to
neglect their duty to-morrow,” she answered, smiling too, but with
heightened color.
“Ah! but it is plainly to be seen where they have bent the knee most
devoutly,” he replied, with a gesture which called her attention to the
many admiring eyes fixed upon her.
She shrugged her graceful shoulders with an air of impatience, as if
annoyed to find herself so conspicuous, while her darkly fringed lids
drooped over her glorious eyes, hiding the wistful look which had
suddenly crept into them.
“The night is lovely, and the band is playing delightfully; let us go
out and wander about the grounds for a little while,” Lord Carrol said,
after a moment of silence, during which sweet, enticing strains came
floating toward them on the evening air.
She took the arm he offered her, her heart throbbing so wildly that she
feared he would detect it, and they passed down the steps and away from
the crowd on the veranda, some of whom smiled to hide their envy, others
indulgently, as if upon a pair of lovers.
“I suppose this will be our last night in this charming place,” the
young man said, as they slowly wended their way along a sheltered
avenue.
She looked up with a slight start at the word “our.” He noticed it, and
smiled.
“I said ‘our,’ because I, too, shall leave on the afternoon express
to-morrow. I have business in New York which will occupy me for a week
or more.”
Josephine flushed with pleasure at this, for she felt sure that the
“business” was only a pretext. Her vanity led her to believe that Long
Branch would be nothing to him without her companionship, and that he
would go to New York merely to pass the interval of time which would
elapse before he would go to Yonkers to spend the promised week with
them.
“Oh!” she thought, “if he would but speak a single word to commit
himself that night, she could go away in the morning with a light and
happy heart.”
But he had never hinted of love for her; he had accompanied her and her
mother almost everywhere they had been, often showing Mrs. Richards more
attention than herself. He had danced with her, rode with her, walked
with her, and no word beyond the most commonplace expressions of
friendship had ever fallen from his lips.
Sometimes she had thought that he was drawn to them more than to any one
else simply because he had discovered them to be of English extraction,
and felt more freedom and more in sympathy with them on that account.
But she knew, too, that he admired her for her beauty, and she certainly
had exerted herself more than she had ever done in her life before to be
not only entertaining, but gentle, and winning, and womanly, and she
kept hoping that a crisis would come before they left for home.
They wandered on and on, the moonlight streaming upon them through the
overarching branches of the trees, and making lace-like patterns upon
the smoothly graveled walk at their feet, and he talked only of
yesterday’s boating, yesterday’s racing—of anything save what her heart
was craving to hear.
The band played its softest, sweetest strains; the leaves rustled
whisperingly above their heads, suggestive of lovers’ vows; they were
almost alone in the beautiful, moonlighted avenue, and everything was
conducive to love-making, if his lordship had only been so inclined.
Soon they came out by a fountain where the lights were shining
brilliantly, and he led her to a rustic seat, placed her in it, and sat
down beside her.
“I shall be very sorry to go,” Josephine said, with a pensive sigh, as
she looked around on the lovely scene; “it has been very pleasant here
this summer.”
“It has, indeed, and I shall carry the memory of it with me for a long
while,” her companion replied. “You have some very beautiful places of
resort in your country, Miss Richards. You and your mother have made my
sojourn at Long Branch more than pleasant. Since learning that you have
English blood in your veins, I have grown to regard you almost as my own
people; and sometimes,” he added, smiling, “I have felt as if I might be
intruding myself too much upon you; but I trust I shall be able to
return some of your kindness when you come to England.”
Josephine’s heart sank like lead in her bosom.
These were surely very commonplace words to speak to her on the eve of
her departure, if he entertained anything of affection for her.
“It would be a great delight to me to visit England,” she returned; “and
you have told me so much about your beautiful home—your mother and
sister—that I have a great desire to see both it and them.”
“You must come to Cheshire Park—my mother’s and sister’s home. Next year
I shall hope to show it to you,” he said, earnestly.
Did he mean that he hoped she would go there with him, or was it merely
a wish that she would visit England, that he might be able to return
some of the courtesies which she and her mother had shown him?
She could not tell, but hope seemed deserting her; her heart beat
heavily, she grew pale and sad, and a slight shiver shook her.
He noticed it.
“You are taking cold, I fear; we ought not to sit here in this evening
air.”
“No, I am not taking cold; I will tie my handkerchief around my throat,
however,” she answered.
It was so pleasant sitting there beside him, so pleasant to listen to
his rich, deep voice and look into his clear brown eyes, that she could
not bear to think of going back to the hotel just yet.
She tied her handkerchief about her white throat, and as she did so, the
light struck full upon a ring which he had not seen her wear before.
It was a lovely cameo, very delicately cut. It was Star’s little
treasure, the gift of Archibald Sherbrooke.
“Pardon me,” Lord Carrol said, with a slight start as he observed it,
“but you have a ring on your hand that I have never seen you wear
before. It is very lovely. May I examine it more closely?”
Josephine unhesitatingly laid her hand on his palm, her whole body
thrilling as his fingers closed over it, and he bent his proud head to
examine the ring.
She had had poor Star’s pin made into this ring, which she had worn a
few times, and then tiring of it, had thrown it into her jewel-box,
where it had lain unheeded until to-night, when a sudden whim had caused
her to put it on.
“It is a very finely carved cameo,” he said, after a few moments, during
which he had regarded it intently. “I once saw one so nearly like it
that I do not think I could distinguish it from this. It belonged to—to
a friend of mine, although that was in the form of a pin.”
“Was your friend a lady or gentleman?” Josephine asked, quickly, and not
giving herself time to realize that she was betraying undue curiosity.
“A gentleman,” he returned, briefly.
“It is a pretty trifle which was given to me by a relative,” Josephine
said, without even wincing at the _lie_, yet feeling guilty and
uncomfortable to have the stone recognized.
“It is evidently quite a valuable cameo,” Lord Carrol returned,
thoughtfully, “and the person of whom I spoke prized the one he had very
highly, for he is something of an artist, and had it carved in Italy
after a design which he made himself.”
“Indeed! Is your artist an Englishman?” Miss Richards asked, with
downcast eyes, and more interested in this matter than she cared to
appear.
“Yes; and his name is Sherbrooke—Archibald Sherbrooke,” Lord Carrol
replied, while he regarded her intently.
Josephine started, and the color flamed into her face.
Archibald Sherbrooke!
The name smote her unpleasantly, for she remembered those two initials,
“A. S.,” which were marked on the back of the setting of the cameo, and
having two tiny strawberry leaves engraved underneath.
Could it be possible that Star—the despised girl at Yonkers—knew
Archibald Sherbrooke, the _friend_ of Lord Carrol, and that he had given
this elegant cameo to her?
She remembered how, when she had asked her to give it to her, Star’s
lips had trembled as she said “it was the gift of a friend and she did
not like to part with it;” but she never imagined that the associate of
a peer would take interest enough in a girl occupying the position she
occupied to give her so costly an ornament as this.
The thought was not a pleasant one, or it told her that if such was the
case, and there could be no doubt of it, that Star was known and
appreciated by one whom this English lord held in high esteem.
She would have liked to question him more about this “friend” of his,
but did not wish to betray too much curiosity lest he should mistrust
that she had the identical stone which he referred to, and should in
turn ask unpleasant questions of her.
She therefore changed the subject as quickly as possible, hoping to win
him to a mood more congenial with her own feelings and desires.
But her efforts proved unavailing, for his lordship had suddenly become
thoughtful and taciturn; and Miss Richards at last, berating herself
soundly for having worn that unlucky ring that evening, signified her
desire to return to the hotel.
Mrs. Richards had watched them saunter from the veranda in a flutter of
anticipation, hoping that the all-important moment had at last arrived.
But one glance at her daughter’s face when they came back told her that
the much wished for crisis had _not_ arrived, and she felt deeply
disappointed.
“Good-night and good-by!” Josephine said, holding out her white hand to
her companion as they entered the hotel. She could not trust herself
longer in his society, lest she should betray something of her
disappointment and ill-nature. “I must say my farewell now, I suppose,
since we are to leave by the early train to-morrow.”
“It is always hard to say farewell to our friends,” Lord Carrol
answered, smiling as he took her extended hand. “However, I can say it
with a better grace now than if it was to be a final one. But are you
going to leave us so soon? There is a gay company in the dancing-hall,
and I fear many will be disappointed if you flit so early.”
“Yes, I am going up to my room,” she answered, wearily; and he noticed
that she had grown very pale and was shivering.
“I am really afraid you have taken cold; you look ill, and I fear I kept
you out too long,” he said, anxiously.
“No,” she returned, brightening a trifle as she saw how troubled he was
on her account. “I have not taken cold, but I do not feel like dancing
to-night, so I will retire. Good-by for a week.”
“Yes, for one week; then I shall see you in your own home at Yonkers,”
Lord Carrol said; and just then Mrs. Richards approached them.
“How is it that you two young people are not in the ball-room?” she
said, brightly.
“I am taking leave of Miss Richards, who thinks of retiring, as she says
you leave on the early train,” explained his lordship.
“What is the trouble, Josie—are you not well?” the elder lady asked,
with maternal solicitude.
“Yes; but I do not wish to dance to-night, so I am going up stairs.”
“Then I’ll go with you, for I have not quite finished packing. Well, my
lord,” she added, turning cheerily to him and giving him her hand, “I
trust you will spend the coming week pleasantly, and then we shall
expect to see you again.”
“Thanks. Shall I have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Richards then? Will he
have returned by that time?” the young man asked.
“Yes; he returns next week,” Mrs. Richards answered, a new idea striking
her.
Probably he wished to consult formally with her husband before proposing
to Josephine; the English, she knew, were very punctilious regarding
such matters.
Yes, she was confident, now she thought of it, that was why he had not
come to the point to-night.
So, after a few more cordially spoken regrets, good wishes, and so
forth, they left him and sought their rooms.
Lord Carrol turned and went out into the grounds again, his face grown
very grave and thoughtful.
“I never would have believed it. I do not understand it at all,” he
muttered to himself.
But what he did not understand or could not believe, the future must
develop.
The next morning Mrs. Richards and her daughter left for Yonkers, and
the same afternoon Lord Carrol was _en route_ for New York city.