MALICIOUS FALSEHOODS.
As soon as Mr. Richards and his distinguished guest left the music-room,
a white hand parted the curtains from the window, and a blanched,
distorted face appeared in the aperture.
It belonged to Mrs. Richards, who had, as before mentioned, been a
listener to all that had transpired. Seeing that no one was in sight,
she stepped softly inside, for the window was a long one, reaching to
the floor, and sank back into a chair, the picture of a woman whom a
fierce passion had exhausted.
She had chanced to be out upon the veranda when Lord Carrol had entered
the music-room and requested a “few moments’ conversation” with her
husband, and feeling, with a thrill of delight, that the most important
moment of Josephine’s life had come, she drew near to listen, as she
supposed, to his lordship’s proposal for her hand.
Her emotions can better be imagined than described when instead she
heard the story which the young man told her husband, and learned that
Star, the despised and neglected waif, had secured the prize which she
had so coveted for her brilliant daughter.
A perfect tornado of wrath, jealousy, and hate raged within her heart as
she heard his praises of her, and his manly confession of love for her,
with the intention of making her his wife.
Star, the beggar maid, as she had always regarded her, the burden
reproach of her life, the wife of a peer of England!
It could not be; she would not have it so, when she had plotted and
schemed to win this proud, handsome young aristocrat for her daughter;
when she had spent hundreds to snare him; and when, she knew but too
well, Josephine had learned to love him with all the fire of her proud,
passionate nature.
If it had been a girl in a position equal to that which Josephine
occupied whom he had chosen, the disappointment would not have been less
severe, but the mortification would not have been so galling.
This was what had made Star’s face so radiant, then, during the past
week, making her seem to bloom into new beauty, and glorifying her with
exceeding happiness. She had noticed, but could not understand it.
This was the meaning of the unusual attention which she had bestowed
upon her toilet last Saturday—for Josephine had told her of that little
scene upon the veranda—and also of her protracted absence that day.
For half an hour she sat there, white as alabaster with passion, her
eyes glowing with hate for the innocent cause of all her disappointment.
“Not in her room, eh?” she muttered at length, vindictively. “I’ll find
the little vixen, and if it is possible to _widen_ this breach, it won’t
be my fault if it is not done.”
With a cruel expression on her still white face, she arose and swept
noiselessly from the room by the same way that she had entered, and
passed down the steps of the veranda out into the grounds.
With a quick, swinging pace she walked down the avenue, casting keen
glances among the trees and shrubbery as she went.
But Star was nowhere to be seen.
Mrs. Richards, however, was determined to have an interview with her
before either her husband or Lord Carrol could do so. She did not think
she had returned to the house, and had an idea that she might be at the
lodge with Mr. Rosevelt, so she persevered in her search.
She kept on her way until she came out by the lodge, where she saw John
Mellen, who was both gardener and porter, sitting upon the porch.
He looked greatly surprised as the light from the lantern at the gate
fell upon her face.
“Is anything the matter, marm?” he asked, touching his hat respectfully,
but wondering to see her there at that hour, with no wrap, while he
noticed that she was very pale.
“No, John; but have you seen anything of Miss Gladstone?” she asked.
“Yes, marm; she came running down here about half an hour ago, looking
like a wraith, and bounded up stairs like a fawn, to the old gentleman’s
room,” he answered.
“Is she there now?” Mrs. Richards demanded, quickly, her lips settling
down into a hard, straight line.
“Yes’m—leastways, I’ve not seen her come down yet.”
The woman bent her head in thought a moment, then briefly remarked:
“I think I’ll go up.”
Gathering her rustling skirts in her hand, she passed inside the lodge,
mounted the stairs with a noiseless tread, and paused before Mr.
Rosevelt’s door.
Bending close to the keyhole, she heard sounds of sobbing, mingled with
low, soothing words spoken by her uncle.
She softly opened the door, and standing upon the threshold, her face
grew dark and wrathful at the picture which she saw within the room.
Mr. Rosevelt sat in his arm-chair by the table which stood between the
two windows of his room, while Star knelt upon the floor at his side,
her golden head bowed upon the arm of his chair, sobbing as if her heart
was breaking.
The old gentleman had laid one hand upon her bright head, and was
soothing it gently as he tried to quiet her with low, fond words.
“Dear child,” he said, tenderly, “don’t grieve so; you have been very
brave so far; bear it a little longer, and all will be well. I know you
have tried to hide it from me and every one else, but I’ve seen and
known what you have had to contend with ever since I came here. You’ve
had no love, no sympathy, and your poor, starved heart was well-nigh
broken under it. But cheer up, my dear; you have been a blessing to me.
I have been very lonely and forlorn many times, but I should have had a
sorrowful time of it, indeed, if my bright little Star had not shed her
genial rays upon my pathway.”
“_In_deed!” interrupted a voice from behind them, in its most sarcastic
tones, causing Star to spring to her feet with a low cry of surprise, as
she turned her flushed, tear-stained face toward the intruder, while Mr.
Rosevelt looked up at his niece with a grave, displeased countenance.
“_Indeed!_” Mrs. Richards repeated, her anger waxing hotter and fiercer
as she imagined that Star had been pouring the story of her love and
trial into her uncle’s ears. “You have both been sadly abused and
heart-starved, haven’t you? For a couple of dependents you fare very
badly, don’t you? And this is the gratitude and appreciation that you
show. Stella Gladstone, go back to your room and remain there until I
come to you; I wish to have a private conversation with you. As for you,
Uncle Jacob, I am surprised that you should take sides with a
sentimental schoolgirl against those who are providing most bountifully
for her.”
Mr. Rosevelt reached out his hand and took one of Star’s.
“Remain where you are,” he said, with a quiet authority which amazed
while it enraged his niece.
Then turning to her, he continued, in the same quiet tone, but with a
deliberation which made every word tell:
“Ellen Richards, you are a heartless, arrogant woman. You need not speak
yet, for I am going to relieve my mind, once for all. I am your father’s
only brother, and when you were a child I helped him provide the very
bread that appeased your hunger. When, later on, I became a rich man,
and you were married and settled, you fawned upon and flattered me,
protesting that there was nothing in the world that you would not do for
‘dear Uncle Jacob.’ Every time I returned from abroad, bringing you rich
and elegant gifts, you urged me to quit my roving and come to live with
you—your ‘home and heart would always be open’ to me, you said. It was
the same with your brother Henry; words cost nothing, and his
protestations were as fluent as your own. But when misfortune overtook
me, and I returned to remain and to take him at his word, everything was
changed. He received me coldly, giving me the poorest accommodations his
house afforded, when before the best were none too good for me. Finally,
he and his family, by their coldness, neglect, and disagreeable hints,
drove me to desperation, and I left them. I came hither, hoping that
your woman’s heart would prompt you to receive a sick and failing old
man with the kindness and sympathy which he so much needed and craved.
But I met with even a worse reception; the very atmosphere of your house
when I entered it told me at once that I was an unwelcome guest. You
have ignored me when you could, and when you could not, you have taken
pains to make me feel like an intruder and a dependent, although your
husband evidently would be glad to be kind to me, if he could do so and
keep the peace. This child alone,” the old man continued, looking
tenderly up into Star’s sad face, “has given me love and sympathy. Her
kindness and little attentions have been like a bright spot in the
darkness and loneliness of my life since coming to you; while your
treatment of her has been _culpable_——”
“Has she dared to complain of me to you?” cried Mrs. Richards, crimson
with anger; for every word that he had uttered had been a reproach to
her, and while she did not quite dare to vent her wrath upon him, she
was glad of this allusion to Star, for upon her defenseless head she
felt free to relieve herself.
“No; she has never complained—she has even tried to conceal your
treatment of her—but I have eyes and can see for myself, and it has been
patent to me how her young heart has been starved, how every bright and
enjoyable thing has been crushed out of her life. I know how she has had
to do battle for even her education, and that you would have made a
drudge and a slave of her, had you dared and your husband allowed you to
do it. It is disgraceful, Ellen, for you to treat your cousin’s child in
such a manner, when you owe so much to her mother——”
“How do you know? Who has been telling you all this? I am out of all
patience!” Mrs. Richards interrupted, passionately. “Everybody is
continually throwing at me the fact that Anna Chudleigh once saved my
life. Hundreds of people have saved the lives of others and considered
it their duty to have done so. If I was drowning and Anna saw me, it was
natural for her—it _belonged_ to her to save me if she could, as I
should have done, no doubt, had the circumstances been reversed.”
“True; but this view of the case does not lessen your obligation, nor
license you to abuse the trust that has been committed to you,” Mr.
Rosevelt answered, sternly. “You bound yourself to this child’s dying
father to ‘do the best you could for her,’ to give her a home, and see
that her education was properly attended to, and you owed it to him and
to her to keep your promise.”
“I owed her nothing,” cried the enraged woman, losing all control of
herself; “and you, Uncle Jacob, are overstepping all bounds by
interfering with what is none of your business.”
“The girl saved my life almost at the sacrifice of her own, and I shall
_make_ it my business to do what I can for her while I live,” Mr.
Rosevelt answered, with dignity.
“Well, you will find, I reckon, that you have not helped her cause very
much by taking up weapons against me for her,” snapped his niece,
vindictively, and with a glance of dislike at Star. “Saved your life!”
she continued, sarcastically. “Well, perhaps, she did; but, in my
opinion, that is all sentimental gush, for she is an artful jade, and
has doubtless palavered and cooed over you until she has pulled the wool
over your eyes in fine shape.”
“What could have been her object, Ellen?” asked the old gentleman,
dryly. “Certainly not the expectation of getting any portion of my
fortune, since appearances must have indicated to her as well as to you
that I had nothing to give her. If she had known me, and done all this
_when I was considered rich_, there might possibly be some reason in
your accusations.”
This shaft told keenly, for his niece colored guiltily to the roots of
her hair.
“Your irony is ill-timed, it appears to me, Uncle Jacob,” she said,
sullenly, “especially as you are indebted to me for the bare necessaries
of life, not to speak of its comforts.”
“Indebted to you, am I, Ellen? I do not believe in recriminations, but
allow me to ask, do you know the cost of those diamonds which you have
on, and have you forgotten where you got them?”
Mrs. Richards’ brilliant color forsook her in an instant, and she became
as white as the mass of snowy lace which rose and fell with the angry
pulsation of her heart.
Her passionate temper prompted her to tear those flashing stones from
her person and cast them in the face of her accuser; but her pride and
avarice were the strongest attributes of her nature, and knowing that
she would not be likely to have them replaced, she refrained from so
rash an act.
“I do not begrudge you your jewels, Ellen,” Mr. Rosevelt continued, more
gently, perceiving how keenly she felt his reproof, “but when you twit
me of being indebted to you for the simple necessaries of life, it is
rather more than I can tamely submit to. I was fond of making presents
in the days that are gone, and I felt repaid for my diamonds by the joy
that lighted up your face when I gave them to you; but I confess it is a
little hard to be considered a burden by you now, while I am deeply
grieved to have Star’s young life made so unhappy.”
“I tell you you do not know the girl; she is as artful as she can be,
and I can prove it to you,” Mrs. Richards exclaimed, glad to have the
subject changed, for she was considerably conscience smitten over the
diamonds.
“I do not think you can prove anything of the kind, Ellen,” Mr. Rosevelt
returned, quietly.
“Listen, then,” she retorted, eagerly, “and I will tell you how to-night
I have discovered her to be guilty of the most shameless conduct.”
Star started and flushed at the accusation. She had not a suspicion that
her secret had been discovered.
“It seems,” continued Mrs. Richards, “that while going back and forth,
to and from school this fall, she has been flirting in the most
desperate manner with a young man—a perfect stranger to her, and one so
far above her socially that it was rankest presumption in her to do as
she has done. She has even entrapped him into—or rather, I should say,
she has misconstrued his conversation with her to mean a declaration of
love for her, and now that he has found her out and turns with disgust
from her artful designing, she has shamelessly taxed him with
unfaithfulness and treachery.”
Star turned and regarded her accuser in perfect amazement. She could
scarcely credit her sense of hearing.
How did Mrs. Richards know anything about her meetings with Lord Carrol,
alias Archibald Sherbrooke, or of her interest in him? And who had
represented it in this disgraceful light?
“This young man,” the cunning woman went on, “is no other than Lord
Carrol, who, for the month that we were at Long Branch, paid the most
devoted attention to Josephine, and accepted our invitation here with
the intention, as we supposed, of formally declaring himself to her and
securing her father’s consent to their marriage.”
A convulsive tremor ran through every fiber of the young girl’s being as
she stood there and listened to this artful tale, and Mr. Rosevelt, who
still held her hand, was sensible of it, and wondered what it could all
mean.
He had not a suspicion that Lord Carrol and the handsome young artist
whom he so admired were one and the same, but he knew that something
must be very wrong to move Star so and make her look so deathly white.
“You look astonished,” Mrs. Richards said, “and well you may, and your
surprise will increase when I have told you all.”
“I am sure,” he answered, glancing from one to the other, “that there
must be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake,” replied his niece, coldly, and fixing a merciless
glance upon Star, “for Lord Carrol has just had an interview with my
husband, during which he told him the whole story. He says his first
meeting with Stella was caused by an accident, and that she appeared so
bright and intelligent that whenever he met her afterward he spoke with
her and treated her kindly. He did not even have the least idea where
she lived until to-night, after dinner. He went out for a quiet smoke,
when she presented herself before him, accused him of coming here as
Josephine’s lover, and denounced him as a traitor in the strongest terms
and most unmaidenly manner, and telling him, greatly to his surprise,
that she was an inmate of the house where he was a visitor. Of course,
after such a denouement, he could do no other way than to seek Mr.
Richards and explain everything, lest this rash girl should, out of a
spirit of revenge and disappointment, destroy all his prospects with
Josephine.”
It was a cunningly distorted story, and Star, as she listened to it,
bowed her head and covered her face with her hands, while a low cry of
despair broke from her lips.
She had not _dreamed_ that the man whom she had learned to love, who,
with his open, handsome face, his frank, manly ways, had won her deepest
respect, her strongest affections, could be guilty of so cowardly an act
as to betray her thus.
And yet he must have done so, else how could Mrs. Richards have known
anything about the matter?
Yes, without doubt, he had feared that she would openly denounce him
before the family where he had so unexpectedly found her, and so had
given this version of the great wrong that he had done her in order to
shield himself.
His own prospects of winning the rich heiress must not be interfered
with, so he adopted this _coup d’etat_ of going to Mrs. Richards and,
with apparent frankness, confessing that his trifling attention to a
silly girl had resulted in leading her to believe she had won a wealthy
and titled husband.
This was just what Mrs. Richards had wished to make Star believe, and
she succeeded only too well, for the young girl was well-nigh crushed to
the earth with a sense of shame, and humiliation, and wounded love.
And yet, even while she felt that Archibald Sherbrooke—she could not
think of him in any other character—had been guilty of a most cowardly
and treacherous act, had steeped his soul in sin by winning her heart to
break it, and thus ruining her whole life, _she loved him still_.