REHEARSING THE PAST.
Star arose as she addressed her thus, and with the act all her pride
arose as well.
“Yes,” she said, speaking with cold politeness. “I suppose you are
surprised; you did not expect to meet me here, Miss—Lady Carrol.”
Josephine’s face lighted at those last words, and a wicked gleam leaped
into her black eyes.
“No, I did not,” she returned, trying to call a happy smile to her false
lips. “And—and—you have heard, then?” and, dropping her darkly fringed
lids as if in confusion, she played with some flowers which she held in
her hands, and looked the modest bride to perfection at being addressed
by the title she had so lately assumed.
“Yes, I have heard of—or at least I saw your marriage in a paper which
was sent me recently,” Star answered, trying hard to steady her voice,
and resolving that the girl who hated her so should not suspect the
torture she was enduring.
But Josephine did suspect it, and was determined not to let her go
without wringing her heart with something of the agony which she had
suffered.
Lord Carrol had dared to tell her, in the midst of her humiliation, that
he loved Star, and she was bound to be revenged in some way for it.
She had sent her the Cheshire _Gazette_, even as Star had mistrusted,
but she had not expected to get any such satisfaction as this out of it.
She had been down to the American Legation and found out where Mr.
Rosevelt was stopping, and then had marked that paragraph and mailed
that paper to Star, just to arouse her jealousy and show her that she
had been a guest in Lord Carrol’s home for a week.
It had never entered her head that she would only read the notice of
that mock marriage, and believe it real, not observing that it was
connected with the remainder of the article describing Lady Sherbrooke’s
ball.
But she now saw that such was the case. Star believed that she was
really Lady Carrol; and she knew something of what she must be suffering
on account of it, and with a sense of cruel exultation she resolved to
give the wheels of the rack that she was on another vigorous turn.
She felt that the lovers would without doubt meet before long—perhaps
that very evening, for she had seen his lordship there only a short time
previous to this meeting, and she was assured he would waste no time in
coming to an understanding with Star; but now, while she had her in her
clutches, she would make the most of her opportunity.
“I presume it is something of a disappointment to you to find me here,
and—and situated just as—I am, when _you_ so confidently expected to win
his lordship,” sneered Josephine. “You perceive that it is not always
safe to be too trusting, and a young peer, even though he were traveling
under an assumed name, and made love to a pretty, poverty-stricken girl,
to while away an idle hour, could not be expected to marry her.”
Star was very pale, but she was more than a match for the unfeeling girl
in her proud beauty.
She stood like a tall and stately lily before her, and to all outward
appearance she was no more moved by her scathing words than the snows on
the peaks of lofty mountains are stirred by the fierce winds in the
valley far below them.
“Lord Carrol did not travel under an assumed name. I have discovered
that Sir Archibald Sherbrooke and Lord Carrol, of Carrolton, are one and
the same,” Star replied, with cold dignity.
Josephine started, then remembering, said:
“Oh, of course; I forgot that both names were given in the notice of the
marriage. But,” she went on, taking an intense delight in the torture
she was sure she was inflicting, although her fair victim gave no sign,
“you have no idea how lovely Cheshire House is—that is where the dowager
Lady Sherbrooke lives; and Carrolton is even more delightful, I am told.
We intend to go there before very long; but London is very gay just now,
though it is out of season, and we are having such nice times that we
prefer to remain here for the present.”
She glanced at Star angrily.
If she would but betray the least suffering, to show that she was
wounded by this apparent triumph over her, she would have been content.
But she stood there, her graceful form proudly erect, her shining head
thrown slightly back, her eyes fixed upon her face with an indifferent
glance that galled her almost beyond endurance, while her manner was
that of indulgent politeness, as if she were but listening, in a
well-bred sort of way, to the babblings of a spoiled child.
“I presume you have heard,” she resumed, “that we came abroad to take
possession of the estates of Sir Charles Thornton, whose death leaves
mamma the nearest of kin, and therefore we shall all henceforth occupy a
very high position in this country.”
“Indeed?” Star responded, as if it were a matter of no moment to her. “I
have heard of Sir Charles Thornton, but I did not know that you were
‘nearest of kin’ to him.”
“Well, you know it now,” Josephine retorted, sharply, beginning to lose
her temper at Star’s immobility; “and fortunately we can do exceedingly
well without Uncle Jacob’s money, which you so cunningly managed to
wheedle him out of. We shall not return to America, for we can enjoy so
much more here among the nobility, where, as I told you before, our
position is so high, and mine _particularly_, you know, as—as Lady
Carrol, is one to be rather envied.”
This last, she thought, must be a dagger in the fair girl’s breast, but
she was wholly unprepared to have it turned against her own.
“May I take the liberty to ask Miss Richards what she means by the
statements which she has made—to explain herself, if indeed that is
_possible_,” said a deep, stern voice just behind her.
Both girls started and turned instantly at the sound, and both uttered a
cry—one of surprise, the other of dismay.
Lord Carrol himself stood in the door-way of the conservatory from which
Josephine had entered, and through which he had passed on his way from
another portion of the building back to the drawing-room.
He had seen Ralph Meredith and Mr. Rosevelt but a moment or two after
Star slipped away. They told him that she was there, and he had
instantly left them to seek her.
He had seen her standing there in the anteroom through the glass as he
approached, and he recognized her instantly, although the sight had
nearly unmanned him.
As he drew near, however, he heard Josephine’s voice, sharp and
scoffing, and addressing the strangest words to her.
He stood still and listened, perfectly aghast at what she was saying,
until he comprehended the whole situation; and, when she made that last
amazing assertion, he could endure no more, and entered to confront her.
Star, with one look into his white set face, and a glance of
astonishment from him to Josephine, whose countenance, for once in her
life, expressed blankest dismay, sank back pale and shivering into the
chair from which she had risen when Miss Richards addressed her.
That young lady felt for the moment as if she would like the ground to
open and swallow her forever from sight.
But the situation was a desperate one—so desperate that she did not care
for anything; so, quickly rallying, she tossed her dark head and
retorted with a light laugh:
“Miss Gladstone was just telling me, my lord, that she had heard of my
marriage, and I was only carrying out the joke a little further.”
“I _understand_ you,” he said, briefly, but in accents of intense scorn.
Then, with a quick, eager step, he came between her and Star, who, with
her white hands folded helplessly in her lap, her face like purest
marble, felt as if earth was again slipping forever out of her reach,
for her senses were reeling.
With a stern, authoritative gesture he motioned Josephine away, and,
reaching down, he took Star’s hands in his.
“My darling,” he said, in low, thrilling tones, “has she been torturing
you to death? There is not one word of truth in what she has told you.
Come with me, and let me explain everything to you.”
A mocking laugh, which, however, was full of misery, rang through the
room.
Lord Carrol looked back and saw Josephine, her face almost convulsed
with pain and passion, passing out.
“Don’t think that it is going to be all clear sailing even now, my
proud, spirited lord, for I will spoil it all if I can.”
“Come,” he murmured, gently turning again to Star, and paying no heed to
those threatening words.
He drew her unresisting hand within his arm, and led her through the
conservatory out upon a covered porch at the rear.
This porch was more like a room, for during the winter it was inclosed
with glass windows, and, being heated with steam, formed a part of the
hot-house.
He placed the fair girl in a chair in a secluded corner, and then he
knelt down before her.
He took her hands again and drew them to his breast, where she could
feel the great heart-throbs which made his strong frame quiver like a
tree struck by the woodman’s ax.
“My darling,” he said again, “I have seen Mr. Rosevelt, and he told me
that you were here. I have been looking for you everywhere during the
last fifteen minutes. Dearest, you will let me defend myself now, will
you not? You will not turn away from me—you will not spoil both our
lives by again driving me from you, believing me to be a ‘traitor and
coward?’”
Star shivered. Those words smote her with terrible pain; but her heart
had been bounding with new hope since he had so sternly confronted
Josephine Richards and proclaimed her assertion a lie.
She could not comprehend it, for she had read the notice of their
marriage with her own eyes. Yet she instinctively trusted him, and it
was so sweet, after all the miserable past, to have him there, looking
so fondly down into her eyes, and calling her his darling in those dear,
familiar tones.
“Archie—Archie!” she murmured, with a sob, “I know all about it—you were
never a traitor or a coward. I know you never deceived me, and I alone
am guilty of a great wrong to you.”
With a low cry of joy he gathered her close in his arms, and laid her
shining head upon his breast, calling her by every endearing name with
which his heart was filled.
“You know all about it, my love? Who has told you?” he asked, surprised.
“Just one little sentence in a newspaper, which told me also that, when
at the very moment I found you had been true, my life was to be a blank
as long as I should live,” Star said, with unsteady voice and quivering
lips. “I read,” she added “the notice of your marriage with Miss
Richards in the Cheshire _Gazette_. These two names, Archibald
Sherbrooke and Lord Carrol were printed there, and told me the whole
story. I knew then _how_ I had been deceived. But I cannot understand.”
She broke off suddenly, and drew herself away from him shivering and
sick at heart again.
Surely that notice would never have been printed if he was not married,
and she had no right to be thus in the arms of another woman’s husband.
She knew that he neither loved nor respected Josephine from the way he
had addressed her; he called her Miss Richards, too, but it was a puzzle
that she could not comprehend.
Lord Carrol read her thoughts, and saw by her white face how she was
suffering, and he said, with infinite tenderness:
“My love, it was all a farce, a mock marriage planned by a wild and
thoughtless girl, while I was chosen as one of the unfortunate victims
and Miss Richards the other. Did you not read the description which
followed that notice?”
“No; I read nothing but those horrible words, which told me of my own
injustice, and that you and I would be parted forever. They burned
themselves into my brain as if they had been branded there with a hot
iron, and I cared to read no more.”
“If you had,” he returned, “you would have been undeceived; but I was
very angry when I saw how the affair had been published, and if I could
ascertain who wrote it up, I should be tempted to chastise the writer
severely.”
Star was weeping now; great, glad tears of joy chased each other over
her cheeks, and she did not resist him when he drew her into his arms
again, wiping with his own hands the glittering drops as they fell,
while in low, tender tones he told her all about the strange events
which had conspired to separate them for so long.
“Will you forgive me, Archie? I was very hard upon you, but I was nearly
mad with my misery that night when I refused to listen to you,” Star
said, when the story was ended.
“Forgive you, my own? This moment compensates for everything. How were
you to know that a titled relative had died, making me his heir, and
changing or adding to my name? I was indeed Archibald Sherbrooke, bound
for America, to travel and study art there, when we went on that
steamer. I merely dropped the ‘Sir’ lest you should be shy of me. I did
indeed know of the change in my circumstances when I next saw you in the
station in New York, but in my fear of losing you, I resolved not to
tell you until I had won you, feeling afraid that you, in your modesty,
would refuse to Lord Carrol the love you would perhaps give to Archibald
Sherbrooke. I never suspected, when I accepted Mrs. Richards’ invitation
to visit her, that I was going into the very house where my own love
dwelt. I had paid Miss Josephine some attention at Long Branch, but her
mother was always included, and it was only in a friendly way, as I was
drawn toward them from having discovered that they were of English
descent, and connected with people here whom I knew. I intended, as I
told you that night, to seek you the very next day; and when I had won
the consent of your friends to an engagement with you, in the character
of Archibald Sherbrooke, I was going to tell you of my real position in
life. Now, dear, you know that I have never swerved from my allegiance
to you. I have been as true as truth itself,” he concluded, smiling
fondly down upon her.
“I have been very foolish, Archie,” Star whispered, “but, oh! I am very,
very happy now. I was so utterly wretched this morning. I have been so
wretched all day that it required all my courage to come here to-night;
but I forced myself to do so because I did not wish Uncle Jacob to
mistrust anything.”
“And I hear that my modest little Star has become a great heiress; she
is no longer the quiet, retiring little maid whom I was so proud and
happy to have won that day when we went to Coney Island,” Lord Carrol
said, half regretfully.
Star lifted her head from his breast and looked at him inquiringly, and
he thought rather more searchingly than the occasion required.
“I mean,” he explained, “that Mr. Meredith has told me that Mr. Rosevelt
has adopted you as his heiress.”
She drew a long breath, but merely returned, in an absent way:
“Yes.”
“Mr. Meredith told me more, too, my darling,” her lover resumed; “he was
the one who lifted the burden of sadness, caused by your sentence of
banishment, from my heart. I imagined, also, although his confidence did
not extend quite so far as this, that he had been my unsuccessful rival,
and that was why you confessed what you did to him regarding your
affection for me.”
“Did Mr. Meredith tell you that—” Star began, blushing crimson as she
remembered what her confession had been.
“Yes, my beloved, and no hungry heart ever feasted upon sweeter words.
They changed the whole future for me, and I was intending to start again
for America in just three weeks, to search for the star of my life; the
past has been very lonely and hopeless.”
“Yes, indeed,” Star returned, with a long sigh; “and yet,” she added,
looking up with a smile, “I am glad that I am not to come to you _quite_
so empty-handed as you found me.”
“You surely do not regret the promise that you made me then?” Lord
Carrol questioned, reproachfully.
“No; for it proves that you won me for myself alone; but now that I know
you are a peer of England, it is a comfort to feel that no one can point
the finger of scorn at me and say that you have chosen beneath you.”
He stopped her with a tender caress.
“No one should ever have said that to me with impunity, under any
circumstances,” he rejoined, gravely.
They talked a long time, and everything was explained—all the events of
the past rehearsed, all Josephine’s duplicity and hatred made known.
“She is a heartless woman—a most contemptible woman,” Lord Carrol said,
with curling lips and stern brow; “and I deeply regret that she is to
become a resident in England, as we shall doubtless be obliged to meet
her in society. She has wronged you shamefully, my darling. However,” he
added, with a luminous smile, “she considers that the ‘position of Lady
Carrol will be an enviable one,’ and, since _you_ are to fill it, I
think her punishment will not be a light one.”
Her punishment _was_ to be no light one, but _he_ had no idea _how_
humiliating it would be.
Another blissful half hour slipped unheeded by, and then he said:
“Come, dear; people will begin to wonder what has become of us, and
besides, I want to introduce you to my mother and sister.”
He arose as he spoke, and drew her toward the conservatory, through
which they must pass in order to regain the drawing-room.
“I have already seen your sister,” Star answered, with a bright smile,
“and I began to love her immediately, and to mourn what I had lost in
not having her for _my_ sister, too.”
“She _is_ a dear girl, but I begin to think we shall not keep her with
us very much longer,” Archie returned, with a regretful sigh.
“I thought so, too, when Mr. Meredith introduced her to me to-night,”
Star said, archly.
“Ah! then _you_ read the signs of the times,” he answered, smiling. “But
here comes my mother, and she is looking for me, I know, by the
expression of her face.”
They were just entering the drawing-room as he spoke, and Lady
Sherbrooke was coming toward them, looking right and left for her son.
Her handsome face lighted as she saw him, and she quickened her steps,
while she wondered at that new light in his eyes, at the bright and
youthful expression on his face.
“Mother,” Archibald Sherbrooke said, and there was a proud ring in his
tone, “I want to introduce to you Miss Gladstone, a friend whom I met
while I was in America.”
Lady Sherbrooke shot a keen glance into that lovely, blushing face, and
there came a look of surprise into her own, while for once she lost
something of the graceful self-possession that was habitual to her as
she greeted Star.
Her heart went forth to the young girl at once, and she experienced a
shock akin to that which Vivien had felt when she met her.