“WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?”
Newport was teeming with all that was gay, beautiful, and attractive
during this particular season of which we write.
Never had so much wealth and luxury been represented there, or so many
elegant equipages seen driving through the streets or along the smooth,
sweeping beach.
Not the least attractive among these equipages was the light and airy,
though costly phaeton of “Mr. Rosevelt’s ward,” with its embroidered
lap-robes, its luxurious velvet-cushioned seats, its plump, sleek, and
spirited gray ponies in their gold-mounted harnesses.
Star had created quite a sensation when she arrived at the hotel where
they had taken rooms; and the tall, distinguished old gentleman, with
such silvery hair and beard, and who appeared so devoted to her, was
scarcely less a target for all eyes. But when it began to be whispered
that Miss Gladstone was not only the heiress of Jacob Rosevelt, the
millionaire, but also the authoress of that bright little book which for
a year had created such a sensation in New York circles, the excitement
increased, and everybody was on the _qui vive_ to obtain an
introduction.
When, on the second evening after her arrival, she came into the great
parlors of the hotel—for there was to be a grand hop or assembly there
that night—leaning on Mr. Rosevelt’s arm, and looking “so divinely fair”
in her shimmering robe of cream-colored silk and mist-like tulle,
garnished with velvet-leaved, golden-hearted pansies, her shining hair
coiled like a crown about her small head, with a little cluster of
pansies nestling lovingly among its glossy plaits, every eye was
attracted by her loveliness, and everybody—of the masculine gender, at
least—was ready to “rave over” her, “swear by” her, and “fight for” her
if need be.
It is needless to say that she was not allowed to become a wall-flower,
and it was amusing to observe the maneuvers of the battalion of gallant
young knights who swarmed about her, like bees around their queen, eager
to secure an introduction.
And now the excitement for Star began.
She was whisked away to the ball-room, and the evening sped like a
vision of delight.
She had been taught to dance at home, notwithstanding the fact that her
father was a clergyman, for in all English homes dancing is considered a
necessary accomplishment, because it imparts ease and grace to the
manners of the young.
Mr. Rosevelt followed, for he enjoyed looking upon the merry dancers,
and taking up his station near a window, and by a stand of flowers where
he was partially shielded from observation, he watched his pet with a
fond smile upon his lips, proud of her beauty, proud of her intelligence
and of the admiration she was attracting.
While standing here, a group of half a dozen ladies and gentlemen
gathered near him, and he overheard a conversation which amused him, and
caused at the same time something of a feeling of triumph to pervade his
heart.
“Have you seen the new arrivals?” asked a gentleman of one of his
companions.
“No; what new arrivals do you refer to? There are many every day.”
“An old codger from New York—rich as a king, they say—and his ward, who
bids fair to be _the_ beauty of the season.”
“_In_deed!” returned the lady, assuming a piqued tone. “How dare you
make such an assertion, and in the presence of three acknowledged
beauties, too?”
“I beg pardon if I have offended,” the gentleman roguishly replied;
“but—I have had _Washingtonian_ instructions regarding the principle of
_truth_.”
The young lady tapped him playfully upon the arm with her fan, while she
remarked, significantly:
“How glad I am that you have _told_ me of it!” whereupon the whole party
joined in a laugh at the “truthful” gentleman’s expense.
“But about this fair charmer,” the lady pursued; “who is she, and what
is the name of this ‘old codger’ who is ‘rich as a king’?”
“The lady’s name is Miss Gladstone, and she is not only beautiful,
charming, and rich, but is also the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride,’
which you have doubtless read.”
“Oh! a blue-stocking!” cried the gay girl, with well-affected horror;
and just here another voice chimed in—a voice which made Mr. Rosevelt
start and listen more intently:
“Miss Gladstone! How strange I never heard the author’s name before!
There was only a simple star upon the title page where the author’s name
should have been. Mamma!” in a startled tone, as if a strange idea had
suddenly come into the speaker’s mind, “it cannot possibly be _Stella
Gladstone_, can it?”
“Certainly not,” returned Mrs. Richards—for both she and Josephine were
among the group referred to, having come from a neighboring hotel to
attend the hop. “Such a thing cannot be possible; _she_ could not write
a book.”
The woman spoke contemptuously, and yet the utterance of that name
produced an uneasy sensation in her mind.
“What is the gentleman’s name? Whose ward did you say she is?” she
asked, a moment later, thinking that would throw some light on the
subject.
“I declare I have forgotten,” the gentleman returned; “it’s a
high-sounding name, though, and he is an aristocratic-looking old
fellow, too. By the way, Miss Richards,” he continued, turning to the
young lady, “I am willing to wager a handsome fan against a new pair of
gloves that Miss Gladstone’s phaeton and pair of ponies will be the envy
of every lady in Newport, for a more trappy turn-out I’ve never seen in
my life.”
“Then she drives her own ponies, does she? Well, I must say you have
aroused my curiosity to the highest notch, and I’d like to see this
paragon of perfection, Mr. Pendleton,” Josephine said, a feeling of
jealousy springing up in her heart at hearing another’s praises sounded
so profusely.
“You can be gratified, for there she stands now—that slight, graceful
girl in the cream-colored silk trimmed with pansies,” replied Mr.
Pendleton, drawing her attention to the spot where Star stood surrounded
by an admiring crowd.
Her back was turned toward them, and they could not judge of her beauty;
but they saw a tall, willowy figure in trailing robes of exceeding
richness, a stately head crowned with golden hair, and there was a
familiar something about the fair stranger which made both mother and
daughter look more closely, while their eyes were filled with anxious
foreboding.
“She is elegantly dressed, I must confess,” Josephine said, putting up
her glass to get a better view of the “belle of the evening;” “and,
mamma,” she added, in a lower tone, “is it my imagination, or is there
something really familiar in that figure? _Can it be Stella?_”
“Impossible! What could have put such a foolish notion into your head?
Where under heavens could _she_ get money enough to flourish in such
style?” Mrs. Richards retorted, impatiently.
“But if she is really the author of the book—it has been very popular,
you know——”
“Nonsense!” interrupted her mother. “I tell you such a thing could not
be possible.”
Nevertheless, Mrs. Richards was closely watching the object of their
conversation, and her heart was beating with a painful throb, for the
young girl did strangely resemble that poor orphan whom she had so
despised and ill-treated, and who had fled from her tyranny.
But her uneasiness increased, for just now she observed a tall,
white-haired gentleman moving toward the girl, and upon reaching her
side, he bent down and spoke a few words in her ear.
His back also was toward them, but the matron’s face was dark with
trouble; she grew white with the sudden fear which possessed her, and
she moved forward to get a better view of the couple.
At that instant Star turned and lifted her bright face to reply to Mr.
Rosevelt, who had left his position by the stand of flowers when she
ceased dancing and approached her, her eyes shining, her cheeks glowing,
and her coral lips wreathed with bright smiles, and both Josephine and
Mrs. Richards recognized her instantly.
A low cry of surprise and dismay broke from Josephine Richards’ lips.
“It is—it surely is Stella Gladstone,” she said; “and that man talking
to her is certainly Uncle Jacob Rosevelt! What can it all mean?”
“Rosevelt! Yes, that is the name,” said Mr. Pendleton, who had caught
it, and who had first called their attention to Star. “‘Jacob Rosevelt,
the millionaire,’ I heard him called this afternoon, but I forget names
so easily.”
“Jacob Rosevelt, the millionaire!” repeated Mrs. Richards, with white
lips and astonished eyes, while a tumult of emotions raged within her
heart.
“Yes; he must be very rich, for they have every appearance of it, and
Miss Gladstone’s turn-out, which was sent on before them, is a marvel of
luxury and elegance. But—do _you know_ them?” Mr. Pendleton asked,
regarding her curiously.
Mrs. Richards’ thoughts worked very rapidly.
If this was really Jacob Rosevelt, and she could not doubt the evidence
of her own eyes, he must by some stroke of luck have recovered a
portion, if not the whole, of his fortune since leaving her house; and
in this case he became at once an entirely different person from the
feeble, poverty-stricken individual who had come to her a little more
than a year ago to sue for food and shelter.
He had been a person of no account then—one to be ignored and neglected,
for there was nothing to be gained by treating him otherwise.
But “Jacob Rosevelt, the millionaire,” if such he had become again, must
be propitiated, flattered, and cajoled.
Therefore she had a new role to play, and she would begin at once by
claiming him as a relative before these friends of hers.
“It would be very strange if I did _not_ know him, for he is my father’s
brother,” she said, calling to her lips her blandest smiles; “but I am
sure I had no idea that he was here in Newport. Come, Josephine, we must
go and speak to him;” and she drew the astonished girl away before they
could question them any further, and she wished to collect her own
scattered senses a little before encountering those two whom she had so
deeply injured.
“What can it mean, mamma?” Josephine repeated, with a blank look, for
she had no longer any doubt about the identity of the strangers.
“I don’t know, but I am going to find out,” she answered resolutely.
“Then you are convinced that it is Stella?”
“Yes, it is _that girl_ fast enough; there can be no mistake about it;
and what a sensation she is making! She seems to checkmate us at every
move.”
“Where can they have been hiding all this time?” Josephine asked.
“How do you suppose I know?” retorted her mother, sharply. “I am more
interested to know where all the money comes from to enable them to cut
such a swell. Why, the dress she has on must have cost a cool three
hundred, to say nothing about her other expensive fixings; and then you
heard what Pendleton said about her carriage and ponies.”
“Well, he said she was the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride,’ and if that
is so, it must have brought her a good deal.”
“Pooh! you don’t suppose one book is going to enable her to live and
dress like a young empress, do you?” returned Mrs. Richards, scornfully.
“No; Uncle Jacob has recovered his fortune, or else——”
“Or else what?”
“He has played it upon us.”
“Played what upon us?”
“Why, poverty, you goose!”
“Mamma! that would be too dreadful. I never thought of such a thing,”
Josephine said, feeling almost faint.
“Nor I, until this moment; but I can account for their appearance here
to-night in no other way. If he has done this thing, and that girl gets
all his money, it will be a bitter pill to swallow, I can tell you.”
“But she could inherit nothing; she is no blood relation.”
“But he could make a will.”
“And we could break it.”
“Not a bit of it; your Uncle Jacob is keen enough to look out for that,
I assure you. But come this way; they are passing out into the hall, and
I am going to sift this matter at once.”
She drew her daughter from the upper door of the parlor, just as Star
and Mr. Rosevelt passed out at the lower one, intending to waylay them
and demand an explanation of their presence.
They turned and came toward those waiting women, walking slowly and
chatting pleasantly, and wholly unconscious of the exciting interview in
store for them.