STELLA’S MENTAL AGONY.
“Bless my soul! what does this mean?” Jacob Rosevelt cried, as, looking
up from his own letters, in which he had been deeply absorbed, he saw
the beautiful girl lying so white and still at his feet.
He rushed to the bell and rang it violently, then back again to Star,
whom he lifted tenderly in his arms and laid her upon a sofa, where he
began chafing her cold hands vigorously.
Mrs. Blunt soon made her appearance in answer to her master’s summons,
and looked as alarmed as himself to find the girl she loved so devotedly
in such a critical state.
But Star’s insensibility did not last long.
All too soon she awoke to a consciousness of this new misery.
“What is the matter?” she asked, as, opening her eyes, she found her
fond friends bending anxiously over her.
“You had a fainting turn, dear; but you are better now,” Mrs. Blunt
returned, holding a glass of wine to her lips.
Star passed her hand across her forehead and sighed heavily, as she
began slowly to gather up the broken threads of memory again.
“What was it, Starling?” Mr. Rosevelt questioned, with a troubled look
at her white face; “did you have bad news in your letters?”
“No, there were no ill-tidings in my letters,” she answered, avoiding
his eye, and wishing to conceal, if possible, the cause of her swoon
from him. “I read them through,” she added, “and was opening my papers,
when I began to feel queerly. I believe I never fainted but once before
in my life.”
But she shuddered as she remembered how Josephine Richards had been the
cause of that ill-turn also.
She sat up and tried to collect herself.
She still felt as if those icy bands were encircling her heart, and as
if her brain was on fire; but she was anxious to get hold of that paper
once more, and go away by herself.
She did not mean that Jacob Rosevelt should ever know that she had seen
the notice of her lover’s marriage; she meant to keep her secret locked
close within her own breast, and not even let him suspect that she was
still grieving for the man whose name had not been mentioned between
them for over a year.
“I am afraid you are going to be ill,” he said, noticing the great blue
circles under her eyes with alarm.
“No; do not be anxious about me, Uncle Jacob,” she returned, trying to
smile. “I shall be all right again in a few minutes.”
And she was, apparently.
She called all her will to her aid; she drank a full glass of wine, and
soon felt much stronger, but oh! still so wretched and heart-sick.
She arose after awhile and began to move about the room, although both
Mr. Rosevelt and Mrs. Blunt insisted that she was not able—that she
ought to be still and rest all day.
But that paper was still lying upon the floor, with that marked
paragraph staring her in the face.
She must get it and hide it, or they would learn all her trouble, and
know how weak and foolish she was—how lacking in pride and self-respect
to grieve thus after another woman’s husband; and her lips curled with
scorn at her own folly, while all the time the pain at her heart was
growing more bitter.
Very quietly she gathered up her letters and papers, which had slipped
to the floor when she fell.
With trembling fingers she folded that fatal sheet into the smallest
compass, and tucked it slyly into her pocket; then laying the others on
the table beside Mr. Rosevelt, she said:
“I do not think I will read any more now, Uncle Jacob; but perhaps you
would like to look over these home papers. I will go and lie down for a
little while, and try to sleep off my weakness.”
He took her white face between his hands and looked anxiously into her
eyes.
“My dear, my dear,” he said, earnestly, “I hope you are not going to be
sick; what should I do without you? You must take care of yourself for
my sake, as well as for your own, my Star.”
She smiled, and, taking one of the hands that held her face, touched her
lips to it.
She knew that no daughter was ever more tenderly beloved than she was by
this grand old man, whose deathless affection had been given to her
grandmother.
“No, I shall not be sick, Uncle Jacob; do not worry,” she returned,
trying to speak lightly. “Many people frequently faint, and get entirely
over it in an hour. I shall be as well as ever in a little while, and
all right for the reception at the American Legation this evening.”
“I do not believe you will be able to go,” he said, doubtfully. “You
must not expose yourself.”
“Oh, I would not miss it on any account,” Star answered, quickly. “Let
me run away now for a nap, and I will show you how fresh I shall be when
the hour arrives.”
She was anxious to get away from his questioning eyes, and, gently
releasing herself from him, she sought her own room and locked herself
in.
All day long she battled there with her tortured heart; all day long she
fought with the love which she still bore Archie Sherbrooke, for it rose
up stronger by a hundred-fold now that she had discovered that he was
innocent of any wrong toward her, and realized her own cruel injustice
to him.
If she had but opened and read more of that paper, she would have
learned her error; but the moment she found herself alone, she took it
from her pocket and threw it upon the glowing coals in the grate, and
watched it while it burned to ashes. She was determined that Mr.
Rosevelt should never see it.
All day long she lay upon her bed, and thought bitterly of Josephine as
the proud and happy wife of Lord Carrol—as the mistress of his elegant
home, the sharer of his position and title.
Oh! it was too cruel, when she had loved him so; when she knew that she
could have made him so happy, while Josephine had only sought to win him
from selfish and ambitious motives.
She knew now that she had never despised him—never scorned him, as she
told him that night at Mr. Richards’.
She knew that never for a moment had she swerved in the least degree
from her allegiance to him; that her heart had been true and loyal to
him, even when she had thought most bitterly of him; and she knew,
too—this was the worst of all to contemplate—that she should go on
loving him as long as she lived.
Five days they had been married.
The wedding had occurred the tenth of December, and it was now the
fifteenth.
It almost seemed as if she would have given as many years of her life to
have saved him from such a fate as she believed would be his with that
vain and heartless girl for his life-long companion.
Of course it would do no good to grieve over that now; but her own
future looked like a weary journey, marked only by the mile-stones of
duty, without a stage of happiness to cheer her along the way.
She had known nothing of the Richardses coming abroad; that notice of
Josephine’s marriage had been the first intimation that she had had of
it.
She wondered if she had not sent her that paper—if, having seen their
names and address registered at the American Legation, she had not, from
a spirit of cruel triumph, sent it to wound and humiliate her.
Yes, she was sure it must be so.
But she should never know how fully her vile purpose had been
accomplished. She would hide her anguish deep within her own heart.
Wherever she went she would appear with a bright face and smiling lips,
and no one should dream that her heart lay like a withered thing in her
bosom.
Mr. Rosevelt came in to see her several times during the day, and she
always smiled and told him she was resting so as to be fresh for the
evening.
Mrs. Blunt tried to make her give up the reception, but she would not,
protesting that she was as well as ever, although she could not hide her
misery quite so effectually from that good woman’s sharp eyes.
“Something has happened to upset her and break her heart again, or I’m
much mistaken,” she muttered, uneasily, while, according to Star’s
direction, she laid out her elegant dress for the evening.
She had learned to read that fair young face too plainly not to feel
sure that something very unusual had occurred to prostrate her so.
Nine o’clock came, and Star Gladstone, a vision of bewildering beauty,
entered the drawing-room of the United States Minister’s elegant
residence, leaning on the arm of her distinguished-looking attendant.
There was a buzz of admiration as she crossed the threshold, as there
always was wherever she appeared, for it was not often that even that
place was graced by the presence of one so wondrously gifted with
beauty.
She wore a dress of pale ecru silk, rich and heavy, and made perfectly
plain save for the deep flounce of costly lace which reached almost to
her knees, and the delicate vine or fringe of drooping ferns that headed
it.
Her fair, beautifully formed arms and neck, which were concealed only by
the same rare lace, were clasped by unique ornaments of dull gold, and
these, together with the cluster of fine ferns upon her bosom, fastened
there with a miniature, diamond-studded bouquet-holder, comprised her
only ornaments.
But her face, so pure and peerless, looking out beneath that golden
crown of hair, though a little paler than usual from her recent pain,
was the loveliest object in that vast room.
“American ladies are noted for their beauty, I believe; but though I
have met many, I have never yet seen a more exquisite face and form than
that,” said one gentleman to another, who stood leaning against the
frame of the door through which Star and Mr. Rosevelt had passed but a
moment before.
“You are right; but Gladstone, which is the young lady’s name, sounds
more English than American,” returned the gentleman addressed.
“They are registered as Americans, however, and she has the peculiar
beauty of one,” said the first speaker. “They have a way of enhancing
their charms, too, by their perfect taste in dress. Our English ladies,
as a rule, do not understand the art of dressing well, though there are,
of course, exceptions to the rule, as Miss Vivien Sherbrooke’s charming
costume over there testifies. By the way,” he added, with more
animation, “they say that that handsome young American—Meredith, they
call him—is going to win our Cheshire beauty away from us.”
He glanced, as he ceased speaking, across the room to where Miss
Sherbrooke was sitting, while Ralph Meredith, in an attitude of
devotion, was bending over her chair.
He was talking to her in a low tone, a smile on his handsome lips, a new
light in his fine eyes, while she listened with drooping lids and
flushed cheeks.
But chancing to glance up suddenly, Ralph started and uttered a low
exclamation of surprise.
“Excuse me a few moments; I see friends,” he said; and then leaving her
hastily, he made his way quickly across the room.
“Miss Gladstone!” he cried, approaching and holding out his hand to her,
his face all aglow. “I never was so happily surprised in my life! And
here is Mr. Rosevelt, too! How does it happen that you are here? It
seems almost like home to see home faces.”
Star and Mr. Rosevelt greeted him most cordially, while Vivien
Sherbrooke sat and watched them with wondering eyes and sinking heart.
Who could this beautiful young girl be who appeared so delighted to meet
the man whom she had been learning to love of late?
What was she to him that she had power to make his face light up like
that, and cause him to forget for the time the existence of any one
else?
It must be confessed that the charming Miss Sherbrooke was for the
moment jealously inclined to regard Star as her rival.
“I am afraid that you are not quite so well as usual. Your Western trip
was too much for you, was it not?” Ralph said, when their greetings were
over, as he noted her paleness, and was quick to see the look of pain in
her expressive eyes.
“Oh, no; I am very well, and you are looking finely. I think English air
must agree with you,” Star said, quickly turning attention from herself
to him.
“Yes, I am in excellent condition,” he confessed, with rising color, as
he remembered how miserable he had been when he last saw her, and what
had caused the change in his feelings and appearance. “How long have you
been in London?” he queried.
“Only a week,” Mr. Rosevelt answered.
“Wasn’t it a sudden start?”
“Rather. I am here just now on a matter of business, but we intend to
see something of this side of the world before we go back,” the old
gentleman explained, with a smile.
“We hoped we should find you somewhere on our travels, for a familiar
face makes the heart of the stranger glad, you know,” Star said. “I
received a letter from Grace to-day, and she writes: ‘Be sure and hunt
up Ralph, who is, without doubt, in London now.’ But who is that pretty
young lady across the room with the blush-roses in her hair, and with
whom I saw you talking as I came in?”
Mr. Meredith flushed again at this; but his eyes kindled as he glanced
over at Vivien, and replied:
“Oh, that is an acquaintance that I have made since coming here. Come,
and let me introduce you.”
He purposely avoided mentioning her name, wishing to see how Star would
receive the introduction.
As he turned to lead the way to Vivien, she looked up at Mr. Rosevelt
and smiled archly.
He understood her, and gently patted the hand on his arm while he nodded
his head, and said, dryly:
“He’ll do, my young lady, never fear.”
“Miss Sherbrooke, allow me to make you acquainted with Miss Gladstone, a
friend from beyond the sea; also Mr. Rosevelt. Miss Gladstone, Mr.
Rosevelt—Miss Sherbrooke.”
Ralph Meredith watched Star closely while he introduced and she
exchanged greetings with Archibald Sherbrooke’s sister; and although she
might have appeared self-possessed enough to the casual observer, _he_
noticed the quick catching of her breath as she heard the familiar name,
and remarked the flush which leaped into her hitherto pale cheeks, and
which, although pain had caused it, enhanced her loveliness tenfold.
“It is Archie’s sister,” Star said to herself, as their two white-gloved
hands met, and a thrill of keenest pain shot through every nerve.
“How lovely she is!” she added. “Her eyes are like his in their
expression, although not in color. Oh! I should have loved her, I know;
and how rashly I have thrown all my happiness away!”
It needed all the power of her will to sustain her as she stood there
beside Miss Sherbrooke, apparently so calm, and chatted with her for the
next fifteen minutes; and Vivien never mistrusted the wild emotions
which were surging in the heart of her new acquaintance, with whom she
was exceedingly pleased.
“How perfectly charming she is!” she thought, as for a moment Star
turned to speak to Ralph, and she studied her face more closely.
Then she started violently.
Surely she had seen that face somewhere before—those great, earnest blue
eyes—that white forehead gleaming through a golden mist—that straight,
delicate nose, and those beautiful red lips.
Yes, surely it was the face that her brother had painted when he was in
America; only there was a look of pain in those eyes now that there had
not been then; there were tense lines about the small, sweet mouth, and
a seriousness about the whole countenance which told that the passing
years since then had not been full of unalloyed pleasure.
It was the same, nevertheless, she felt convinced, and she resolved that
she would find Archie, point Miss Gladstone out to him, and ascertain if
she were right in her surmises.
“Perhaps,” she thought, light suddenly breaking in upon her mind, “it
was something connected with this lovely stranger which had caused his
own sadness during the last year.”
A gentleman approached her just then, and, turning to Star, she said,
with a smile:
“I must ask to be excused, as I have an engagement to dance now. I am
sorry to leave you in the midst of our pleasant chat, but I will see you
again before the evening is out.”
Star, with an answering smile, said she “hoped they would meet again;”
but, oh! how she longed to inquire about her brother. If she had but
spoken just one word to tell her that he was well and happy.
Happy! The thought nearly made her cry out with pain.
He must be changed indeed if he could be that with Josephine Richards;
and, loving him as she did, it was agony to contemplate it.
What if he himself was there among that gay throng, with the bride he
had so lately wedded?
What if she were to meet them together?
For a moment, as this contingency presented itself to her, her brain
reeled, and she felt as if her senses were forsaking her again; the
next, she called all her pride to her aid.
This would never do; no one must ever mistrust her weakness and
wretchedness, and Ralph Meredith surely would if she gave up to her
feelings, for had she not told him of her false lover?
It was strange, she thought, that she should have found him with
Archie’s sister, and she wondered if they had met and Ralph had called
him to account for his treatment of her, as he had said he should.
Oh! why had she not been more reasonable? Why did she not let him
explain his position to her when he had begged so earnestly to do so?
She felt as if she could not bear to remain there—she longed to go away
by herself until she could get a little more calm; and, seeing that Mr.
Rosevelt and Ralph were deeply engaged in conversation, she slipped away
unobserved to a small anteroom, which connected the drawing-room with
the conservatory, and which she saw was at that moment empty.
Here she sat down in a chair near a large urn filled with flowers, which
stood on one side of the door leading into the conservatory, and fell to
musing sadly upon her broken hopes.
She had not been there long when she was aroused by hearing a gay laugh
ring out close at hand. She started as if some viper had stung her.
She knew that sound but too well, and, looking up, she saw Josephine
Richards, or Lady Carrol, as she believed her to be, standing almost
beside her.
She was just upon the threshold and was looking back into the
conservatory, from which she had come, and at a couple standing there
among the flowers.
She had been exchanging some jesting words with them, and her laugh was
in reply to some playful remark from them.
She was dressed all in white; she wore it almost constantly now, for she
knew she looked lovelier in it than in anything else; everybody had told
her that she had never been so beautiful as when she had stood beside
Lord Carrol during that mock ceremony. There were great pearls in her
hair and on her arms, and clusters of white lilacs on her bosom.
Star held her breath as she looked at her, thinking that she was indeed
wondrously fair, and that it was not strange that she should allure any
one by her beauty; but she believed she was dressed thus because she was
a bride.
How bright and happy she looked, too, with the vivid color in her
cheeks, her eyes sparkling from the excitement of the moment, and with
that light laugh just leaving her red lips!
Why should she not be happy, Star thought, bitterly, as the wife of one
of the noblest men in England, and occupying one of the proudest
positions in the land?
A heavy sigh involuntarily escaped her, and, hearing it, Josephine
turned quickly to see whence it came.
“Stella Gladstone!” she exclaimed, and instantly all the color went out
of her face, all the light from her eyes, the laughter from her lips,
and she stood regarding the beautiful girl with lowering brow and angry
eyes.