“Star,” he breathed, a note of keen pain in his tone, “do not tell me
that I must give up my bright dream of joy.”

“Mr. Meredith,” she answered, looking up at him with sudden resolution,
“forget for a little while what you have just said to me, and listen,
while I read you a page out of my own heart.”

A look of suffering came into his eyes, his lips trembled, and he
breathed heavily, but he answered:

“I cannot ‘_forget_,’ but I will ‘listen,’ as you wish.”

“Nearly two years ago,” Star began, “I came to America in the ——, a
vessel that sailed from Liverpool to New York. Perhaps you remember that
it was lost at sea. I was one of the few who were saved, and afterward
picked up by the ——, another homeward bound vessel. As I was lifted from
the life-boat to the deck of the noble craft, I fainted from exhaustion,
and fell into the arms of a stranger, who bore me to a state-room and
gave me into the care of a stewardess. I met him a day or two afterward
on the deck. He was a noble, manly looking gentleman, some four years my
senior. We were thrown much into each other’s society during the
remainder of the voyage, and there came into my heart during that time a
feeling for him which will prevent me from ever loving another while I
live. When we landed we parted as friends, though we exchanged
souvenirs, and he expressed the hope that we should meet again. A few
months later we did meet, our friendship was renewed, and soon ripened
into something deeper—in fact, he won my heart entirely. We were
betrothed, and for a few days earth became a paradise to me. I firmly
believed him to be all that he appeared. I could have staked my life
upon his truth and honor, and I would have defended him with my latest
breath had any one assailed his fair fame or doubted his allegiance to
me. But I could not doubt the evidence of my own senses, and he proved
himself a traitor in my very presence. He played me false before the
vows which he had uttered to me had scarcely grown cold upon his lips. I
spurned him with scorn; I denounced him as the traitor and coward which
I knew him to be; but, oh, Mr. Meredith, strange as it may seem to you,
I—I love him still. Perhaps it is unmaidenly in me to tell you this,
perhaps it betrays weakness and a lack of proper dignity on my part; but
I feel that I owe it to you, to make you understand how impossible it is
for me to reciprocate your affection. He won my girlish heart, he bound
me irrevocably to him by the power of his will and the charm of his oily
tongue, and I can _never_ love another. You will say that he is unworthy
of such constancy, or even of a regret. I know he is, and yet while I
own it, my soul is reaching after him with all the strength of a
deathless love. I began to fear, a week ago, that you were entertaining
feelings for me which would bring sorrow upon us both. You say that I
have evaded you. I _have_ done so; I have tried to show you that the
hopes which I feared you were entertaining could never be realized, and
I wish that you had never spoken the words which you have to-night; for
I know—_you_ know, that you could never be satisfied to take any one to
your heart who was always turning from you to another, who, although she
knew she was loving unworthily, would not yet have the power to keep her
affections from straying from you, and who could not keep her vows of
allegiance to you, for such vows, if spoken, would be but mockery. Mr.
Meredith, you could never be satisfied with such a wife as that,” she
concluded, in a voice which shook with emotion.

“No, Miss Gladstone,” he answered, sorrowfully. “I love you too fondly,
too devotedly, to be content with anything save an affection as strong
and true as my own. But,” with a note of earnest appeal in his tone,
“could I not win you by and by? Could I not teach you to love me by
proving to you that I am worthy of your love?”

Star shook her head sadly.

“I _know_ that you are worthy at this moment,” she said. “I have the
deepest respect for you, and value you as a friend; but nothing—no one
can ever win the love which I must always bear for Archibald Sherbrooke.
He has broken my heart and ruined my life; for I can never be the wife
of any worthy man, since I will not live a lie. I can never have a home
of my own; I can never have those sweet domestic ties and duties which
other women have; I can only try to do my duty by the dear old man who
is so fond of me while he lives, and, after that, live out my lonely
life with what patience and courage I can,” she concluded, with such a
pathos that the young man for the moment forgot his own sorrow and
disappointment in pity for her.

“Where is he—where is this coward who has so imposed upon you, ruined
your life, and proved faithless to his troth? Tell me, that I may go and
brand him the knave and villain that he is!” Ralph Meredith cried, in
hot indignation.

“I do not know where he is,” Star answered. “I have never seen him since
that night when I told him that I had discovered his treachery. That was
nearly a year ago. I never expect to meet him again—I never _wish_ to
meet him again. I desire to ignore him—at least, to all outward
appearances; and if he possesses such an attribute as a conscience, his
punishment must come sometime. But,” she went on, in a voice of pain, “I
hope no one else will ever learn to love me, for I cannot endure the
thought that I shall spoil other lives as mine has been spoilt. Oh, Mr.
Meredith, I am sorry if I have unconsciously done you a wrong. Pray,
forget me if you can, and——”

“That I can never do,” he interrupted, gently, for he saw that she was
deeply moved; “but I will try and be content if you will allow me still
to be your friend.”

“Thank you,” she returned, while she wiped the tears which were falling
fast; “it will be a great comfort to me if you will permit me to regard
you as such. I feared I should incur your contempt by the confession I
have made to-night; but I could better endure that than that your future
should be ruined by hoping against hope.”

“Contempt!” he repeated, earnestly; “such a feeling I could never
entertain for you; you have, instead, my deepest sympathy and respect.
But if I ever meet and know the wretch who has played you false, let him
beware; for I will surely make him repent most bitterly his treachery
and baseness toward you,” he concluded, fiercely.

A faint smile of scorn curled Star’s lips.

Time would bring its own punishment to her faithless lover, she
believed, and she had no desire that any one should act as her champion
in this matter.

She had called him “Archibald Sherbrooke” purposely, for she felt
assured that if, by any chance, Ralph Meredith should yet meet him, he
would not recognize in Lord Carrol the man of whom she had told him.

                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                          A NOBLE RESOLUTION.

“You will remember that you have promised that I am still to be your
friend; you will not avoid me and deny me the pleasure of your society
because of what I have told you to-night?” Ralph pleaded, as he and Star
drew near the entrance of the park, and knew that they would soon be
rejoined by his sister and Mr. Rosevelt.

Star looked up at him with a grave face.

“You shall still be my friend. I will not avoid you if you will promise
me that you will build no false hopes upon our friendship,” she said.

“How can I, when you tell me that there is no hope?” he asked, yet his
voice trembled and was full of pain.

“May I continue to visit you when you return to New York?” he resumed,
after a moment.

“Certainly, as one friend would visit another. You have made my stay
here very pleasant, and I should be very sorry not to see you
occasionally, while Grace has become almost like a sister to me.”

The young man thanked her with glistening eyes, and with a pang at his
heart, as he thought how fondly he had hoped to make the two girls
sisters, and how rudely his bright dream had been broken.

Then they passed out at the gate, where they found Mr. Rosevelt and
Grace awaiting them.

Both saw at a glance that the interview had been a sorrowful one, and
Miss Meredith was bitterly disappointed, for she had trusted that Ralph
would be able to win the bright, beautiful girl for his wife.

Mr. Rosevelt surmised the cause of Star’s rejection of his suit, and
sighed heavily, for the young man had been a favorite with him, and he
would have been glad to give her to him.

But he would never try to influence her upon matters of such a delicate
nature. She should always do exactly as she liked, and he knew that
whoever her choice might be, it would never be an unworthy one.

They parted at the door of the hotel, Ralph bidding them good-by there,
as he was to leave early in the morning, and Star knew by the way he
wrung her hand that he was bidding farewell to hope as well.

When they reached their private parlor, she went directly to Mr.
Rosevelt’s side and laid her hand upon his arm. Her face was flushed and
sad, and he saw at once that she was very unhappy.

“What is it, my starling?” he asked, taking her hand in both of his, and
speaking very tenderly.

“Uncle Jacob, I want to go home,” she said, wearily.

“Bless you, child! you shall go wherever you like,” he said, in
surprise, and regarding her anxiously.

“I want to go where you and I can be by ourselves, and where I cannot do
any mischief,” she said, with a sob of pain, and he knew beyond a doubt
that Ralph Meredith had proposed and been rejected.

“Mischief! tut, tut, little one! What has made you so unhappy? Have you
sent our young friend away in sorrow?”

Star nodded her head in reply; she could not find voice to answer him.

“He is a fine young man—he is a _worthy_ young man,” Mr. Rosevelt said,
gently.

“Oh, I _know_ it, Uncle Jacob; but—_my heart is dead_, and it can never
live again. Don’t blame me, please—_you_ know all about it, and you know
that I could not help it and be true to him and myself,” she returned,
in deep distress.

“You have done everything to make me happy,” she went on, a little more
calmly, “and I thought I was beginning to be content and to enjoy life
once more; but I cannot endure many scenes like what transpired
to-night. Let us go home, where I can go to work again, and in my duties
there forget, if possible, the misery of the past, which I have been
made to live over again to-night.”

“We will leave Newport to-morrow, if you wish,” Mr. Rosevelt said, after
a little thought; “but we will not go back to New York just yet—we will
spend two or three weeks in sightseeing first. We will go to the White
Mountains, from there to Montreal, then down the St. Lawrence and the
lake to Niagara, and then home. That will give us a change and a nice
little trip, besides a knowledge of something of the country. It is a
long time since I went over that ground, and I think I should enjoy the
journey, if the idea pleases you.”

He was not going to let her go back to New York and bury herself at
home, where she would brood over her trouble and grow pale, thin, and
hollow-eyed again; so he put it in the form of a favor to himself.

Star assented, thinking if the trip would give him pleasure she would
not say “nay.” She only longed to get away from Newport; it would be a
change, and a spirit of unrest had suddenly possessed her.

So it was arranged that they should leave the gay resort the next day
but one.

“And, Uncle Jacob,” Star pleaded, as they were about to retire for the
night, “let us not say much about it until to-morrow; let us get away as
quietly as possible.”

“Very well; we will leave the announcement of our departure as long as
we can, without appearing to _run_ away,” he answered, understanding her
motive.

The next morning Star sought Miss Meredith, and confessed, with many
tears, her rejection of her brother.

“I knew he would tell you,” she said, “but I cannot bear that you should
blame me, Grace. I have not meant to wrong your brother, and I would
give much to make him as happy and free from pain as he was before he
knew me. Do not take your friendship from me on account of it, for I
need it more than I ever did before.”

And Grace Meredith, not knowing all, kissed her tenderly, while she
thought in her heart, “Perhaps I can help to win her for Ralph even yet,
if I am patient.”

“Do not grieve,” she said, gently. “I know you have intended no wrong.
You cannot help being beautiful and attractive; you cannot help it if
people _will_ love you. I do not blame you, dear, in the least, and I am
sure I should not think of breaking our friendship, which has been so
exceedingly pleasant. Ralph did tell me something of this last night,
and of course I am sorry for him, for he is a very dear brother, and a
noble fellow, too; but these affairs of the heart, you know,” she
concluded, smiling and flushing, for she knew something about it
herself, “are entirely beyond our control.”

“Thank you, Grace,” Star said, gratefully, although the trouble did not
fade out of her azure eyes; “you have lightened my burden considerably.
It would have been more than I could bear to make an enemy of you.”

“An enemy, you dear little goose!” Grace cried. “Do you suppose I would
be so foolish as to wish to drive you to marry my brother if you could
not love him? I love you both too well for that; and now don’t let me
hear anything more about broken friendships, unless I do something to
forfeit your respect, for it would cause me great sorrow to have
anything mar our intimacy.”

Star drew a long breath of relief.

“You are very good to me,” she returned; “and now I have a little
message to you from Uncle Jacob.”

“A message from Mr. Rosevelt! Do let me have it, then, for it must be
something good,” Miss Meredith said, gayly. She longed to drive the
clouds from her friend’s face.

“We are going to leave Newport.”

“Going to leave Newport! When?”

“To-morrow.”

“If that is your message, it is anything but a welcome one,” Miss
Meredith said, looking very much disturbed.

“Oh, but it isn’t,” Star replied; “I was to tell you of our plans. We
are going from here to the White Mountains, from there to Montreal, down
the St. Lawrence River and Lake Ontario to Niagara, and then home; and
Uncle Jacob commissioned me to ask you to be our guest during the trip.
Will you go, Grace?”

Miss Meredith looked thoughtful.

It would be a sudden start, but the trip offered great attraction, to
say nothing of the pleasure she would experience in Star’s and Mr.
Rosevelt’s society.

Ralph was gone, and if these friends should go also, she would be very
lonely, notwithstanding she had many acquaintances here.

“I _want_ you, Grace; _please_ do not refuse,” Star pleaded, as she
hesitated, and she assented without further demur.

Accordingly, the next day they all left Newport, and many blank faces
and wistful eyes watched their departure, for they had formed a nucleus
around which a brilliant circle had collected, and they would be sadly
missed.

The trip occupied three weeks, and proved a most delightful one also.

Star was a first-rate traveler, Miss Meredith a most pleasant companion,
and they all regained much of their accustomed spirits before it was
over, and Mr. Rosevelt congratulated himself that he had planned most
wisely.

“I think it is charming to travel in this way,” Star said, one day while
they were at Niagara; “just a few of us who enjoy each other, stopping
when we choose, going on when we like, and having everything our own
way. I think there is nothing so pleasant as traveling.”

“How would you like to go to California and the Yosemite Valley?” Mr.
Rosevelt asked.

“I _think_ I should like it,” she answered, enthusiastically.

“Will you go this fall?”

“Oh, Uncle Jacob, aren’t you tired? Do you not need to go home and rest
after so much dissipation?” the young girl asked, but her eyes sparkled
and her cheeks flushed with anticipation.

“Do you call it dissipation to travel?” he asked, smiling at her
eagerness. “I enjoy it almost more than anything else.”

“‘_Almost_ more,’” Star repeated, quickly. “What _would_ you enjoy
more?”

“To see _you_ perfectly happy,” he replied, tenderly; “and,” he added,
“I believe that traveling does you fully as much good as anything else.
We will go home and rest a week, then we will start for the far West.
What do you say to my plan?”

Miss Meredith’s face lighted.

“Say ‘yes’ to it, by all means, Star,” she said, “and—I will go with
you, if you will have me.”

“_If_ we will have you,” Star returned, with dancing eyes. “Why, I think
it would be the very nicest thing in all the world—we three, with Mrs.
Blunt to look after us, do have such delightful, cozy times.”

“I have been wishing for just such an opportunity for a long time,”
Grace said, “and if you will take me along with you, I should esteem it
a great favor.”

“I think with Star, that it would be the best arrangement in the world;
and, Miss Meredith, we shall consider you a member of our party,” Mr.
Rosevelt said, with a bow and a smile to that young lady.

Star looked up into the old gentleman’s face.

“Uncle Jacob, how _good_ you are to me!” she said; and her red lips
trembled over the words, for she knew that he had planned all this
expressly for her sake, to keep her thoughts pleasantly employed and
from brooding over the past.

“My dear, do I not owe my life and all that I am at present enjoying to
you?” he asked, gravely. “Remember,” he added, “that when you are happy
I am happy also, and _vice versa_; whatever cloud darkens your sky is
sure to bring sorrow to me also; so let us make the most of our lives
while we have them.”

Star looked up brightly after Mr. Rosevelt’s last remark, and glancing
archly from him to Miss Meredith, said:

“Well, if so much depends upon my decision—if I hold the fate of two
such important people in my hands, I shall be obliged to say, we will go
to California and be happy. But,” she added, laughing, “I warn you both
beforehand that I shall not be easily satiated; I shall want to go
everywhere and see everything. Yes; we will go home and rest a week,
then turn our faces toward the ‘golden gate,’ and—‘westward, ho!’”

                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                              “I PROMISE.”

On returning to New York, Star learned that Ralph Meredith had sailed
for Europe a couple of days before their arrival.

The week that they had promised themselves for rest at home proved to be
a busy one instead, for considerable preparation was necessary for the
long journey they were contemplating, as it was to occupy three or four
months.

Star was glad to be at home again, and went flitting about the house,
full of business and life.

One day they were out making a few necessary purchases, when suddenly,
in one of the stores, they came upon Mr. Richards.

He looked aged and care-worn, neglected and unhappy. His face lighted
with momentary pleasure, however, when he caught sight of Mr. Rosevelt
and Star, and he came forward to greet them with extended hand.

“I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you once more,” he said,
heartily. “I am not going to reproach you either for running away from
us, for, unpleasant as it is for me to say it, I could not blame you
under the circumstances. But it is only within a week or two that I have
learned of the change in your life; and, Uncle Jacob, I am sincerely
glad that you did not lose your fortune, as we supposed.”

“Thank you. Then you do not feel aggrieved over the ruse I played upon
you?” replied Mr. Rosevelt, regarding him searchingly.

“Not at all; it was no more than right that you should wish to know who
was worthy to be your heir,” but he sighed heavily as he spoke, as he
remembered how unworthy his wife had proved herself to be.

“How goes the world with you?” Mr. Rosevelt asked, and noticing the
return of the care-worn look to Mr. Richards’ face.

“Rather discouragingly just now. I have met with some pretty heavy
losses lately; don’t know whether I shall be able to pull through all
right or not. A couple of weeks will tell the story, however.”

He spoke in a desperate tone, and there was a look in his eyes that made
Star shudder and involuntarily draw closer to Mr. Rosevelt.

“You don’t mean that you are in danger of going under?” he said, in
surprise, and remembering how his wife and daughter had flourished at
Newport.

“Just that,” Mr. Richards returned, nervously; “but if it was not for
the horror I have of debt, and the thought that others must suffer
through me, I would gladly lay down my arms and give up the battle; I am
tired to death of this endless struggle to keep up appearances. But,” he
added, trying to speak more cheerfully, “I won’t bore you with my
troubles. How well you are both looking; and Star—they tell me _you_ are
the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride.’ I declare I was never prouder of
anything in my life when I heard it. I always knew you’d make your mark
in the world.”

Star colored. She was a trifle sensitive regarding compliments of this
kind, and never talked about her book if she could help it, except with
those whom she was sure were her true friends.

But she thanked him gracefully, and then turned the conversation to some
other topic, while all the time she was wondering if there was not
something that she could do to help or comfort him in his trouble.

“Now that I have found you,” he said, later, “tell me where you live and
I will come to see you. I will not invite you to Brooklyn,” he
continued, with a frown, “for I know you could not come there with any
comfort, though I should be glad enough to see you there.”

While he was speaking, Star had drawn a little back, so that Mr.
Rosevelt was between her and Mr. Richards, and he could not see her face
at all.

“Uncle Jacob,” she whispered, close to his ear, “cannot we do something
to help him out of his trouble? He looks so wild and desperate that he
frightens me. He was always kind to me, and I’ll willingly give up
California or anything else you please.”

Jacob Rosevelt’s face flushed hotly at these words, and a strange gleam
came into his fine eyes. He appeared to take no notice of her plea, but
after giving Mr. Richards their street and number, continued:

“If you have no other engagement, George, come up and dine with us
to-night, and see how cozy we are. We have dinner at six, and as we
leave for California on Wednesday night, I am afraid we shall not see
you again.”

George Richards caught his breath with a sudden gasp at this
intelligence, and Star noticed again that frenzied gleam in his eyes
which had made her heart throb painfully.

“California, do you?” he said, trying to speak steadily. “Well, I will
come, of course, then; for life is uncertain, you know, and I may never
see you again,” he added, with a harsh, grating laugh. “Thank you for
the invitation, and as I have no engagement, I will be on hand in season
for dinner. But I must be off now, for I have agreed to meet a couple of
gentlemen at twelve, and it only wants fifteen minutes of that now.”

He lifted his hat and bowed to them, then turned away; but the
white-haired gentleman and the beautiful girl who stood looking after
him saw the aged, dejected look return almost instantly to his face, and
heard the heavy sigh that escaped his lips, telling of some fearful
burden of care that was wearing his life away.

“So you want me to help George Richards out of his trouble, do you,
Star?” Mr. Rosevelt said, on their way home, and his eyes rested fondly
on the graceful figure sitting by his side, driving her pretty gray
ponies.

“Perhaps it was presuming in me to ask you to do so, Uncle Jacob,” Star
answered, gravely, and flushing a vivid crimson; “but I feel very sorry
for him. He was kind to me in many ways while I was living with his
family, and but for him I should have been made a common servant.”

When George Richards was ushered into Jacob Rosevelt’s luxurious and
cozy dining-room that evening, where the table was laid with exquisite
taste for three, his eyes lighted, and the look of care vanished as if
by magic from his face.

Three times after dessert Star made Mr. Richards let her fill his tiny
cup with the delicious coffee; then she playfully told him that she
should not give him any more, but if he would come into the library, she
would try and see what she could do toward intoxicating him in some
other way.

“I have not forgotten how fond you are of music,” she added, smiling,
“and I want you to tell me if you do not think I have improved some
since you last heard me play.”

She slipped her hand through his arm and led him into the library, while
Mr. Rosevelt watched her with humorous eyes as she performed this labor
of love.

Seated at the piano, she whiled away another hour, making George
Richards forget everything disagreeable, and appear the pleasant, genial
gentleman whom she used to know.

“‘Richard is almost himself again,’ I think,” she thought, with a happy
little smile, as once, after a comic song which she sang to him, he
leaned back in his chair and laughed long and heartily.

But this could not go on forever, and finally Mr. Rosevelt gradually led
him to talk business, and asked him to tell him just what his trouble
was.

This changed everything, and he became at once the anxious, care-worn
man again.

“I do not like to trouble you, Uncle Jacob,” he said, uneasily. “You
have had your day of business, with all its cares and perplexities,
without bothering your brain with those of other people. I’m in a
terrible muddle, it is true; but—I guess there will be _some way_ out of
it;” and there came into his eyes that same wild, desperate look which
Star had noticed in the morning, and which made her shudder with a
terrible fear.

But Mr. Rosevelt insisted, and finally drew from him a true statement of
facts.

“I am sorry you are having such a hard time of it, George,” he said,
thoughtfully, when he had concluded. “How much would it take to relieve
you of your embarrassment?”

Mr. Richards cast a startled look at the old gentleman at this question;
then, while a deep flush mounted to his brow, he said:

“I can raise enough to meet all my present liabilities with ten thousand
dollars. I have tried to borrow it everywhere, but everybody seems to
have become suddenly shy of me for some reason, and I might as well be
without a dollar in the world as without the whole amount. If I _could_
raise it, it would set me on my legs again, for my credit would be good,
and, with care and patience, I believe I could retrieve my position.”

Star almost held her breath while she waited for Mr. Rosevelt’s reply to
this.

To her infinite surprise, he turned to her.

“My dear,” he said, gently, “you shall return some of the kindness of
which you told me this morning. I think you understand what I want you
to do.”

He glanced as he concluded toward the private drawer in his desk, where
he always kept his check-book, and she knew that he wanted her to go and
fill out a check for the amount that Mr. Richards had named.

She arose, went to the desk, unlocked the drawer with trembling fingers,
and drew forth the book.

Opening it, she filled out a check, as she had often done for him during
the last few months, then tearing it out, carried it to him, with a pen
filled with ink.

He turned it over and wrote his name on the back without a word, and
then returned it to her to sign.

She took it mechanically, but stood irresolute for a moment, looking at
him, while her cheeks grew crimson.

“Give it to him, dear; it is to be your gift,” Mr. Rosevelt said,
glancing at Mr. Richards, who sat staring at them both in blank
amazement.

A brilliant smile parted Star’s red lips; she shot a grateful look at
Uncle Jacob, and advancing to their visitor’s side, laid the check down
before him.

One glance at the figures, and the overburdened man bowed his head upon
the table with a groan.

“I cannot take it! I cannot take it—and from _you_, of all persons!” he
said, brokenly.

“Why not from her?” Mr. Rosevelt asked, huskily. “All that I have
belongs to this dear girl, and, as I have told her many times, I live
only to make her happy. _She_ asked me to do this to-day after we had
met you, because, she said, you had been kind to her in the past, and
she longed to help you out of your trouble. So take it as her gift, my
boy; make the best use of it that you can, and welcome.”

George Richards groaned again, while he reached forth and grasped the
old man’s hand, wringing it in silent gratitude, yet overwhelmed with
shame and remorse as he remembered all that he and the fair-haired,
gentle girl standing beside him had suffered while they were members of
his family.

He had no words of thanks to offer for this generous help in time of
need, but if ever a world-weary heart was relieved of a burden too heavy
to be borne, his was, when at length he folded that precious bit of
paper and put it away for future use.

When he arose to take his leave, he took both of Star’s hands in his and
drew her aside, where he could speak to her alone.

“But for you,” he said, in unsteady tones, “I should have been a ruined
man a week hence. To tell you that I am _ashamed_ to receive this gift
from you does not express half what I feel, when I look back and
remember your position in my family. But you have bestowed it so kindly
and delicately that it would be churlish in me to refuse it; and you
have taught me a lesson which, God helping me, I will never forget—a
lesson of forgiveness and charity; and _no one_ in my house shall ever
be treated unkindly again, no matter what their position may be,” he
concluded, with stern resolution.

“Please forget all the past, Mr. Richards,” Star returned, sweetly, but
with evident embarrassment. “I never entertained any feeling save that
of gratitude and good-will toward you, for you proved yourself
interested in my welfare in more instances than one while I was with
you. But,” she added, solemnly, while she clung tightly to his hands,
and looked into his eyes with an expression which made them droop
guiltily before her, “will you not promise me that, no matter how dark
the future may be to you, no matter what trials or disappointments may
come to you, you will never again meditate _doing yourself an
irreparable wrong_?”

A streak of dusky red shot across the man’s forehead, while his veins
filled out hard and full.

“Star,” he stammered, “what do you mean?—what do you know?”

“_You_ know what I mean. I read it in your eyes, I heard it in the tones
of your voice this morning. But, oh! my friend,” and her voice was full
of tears, “remember that you are ‘bought with a price’—you are _not your
own_. Promise me.”

He raised her hands and kissed them reverently, and two hot tears rolled
over his cheeks and dropped upon them in the act.

“I promise,” he whispered, hoarsely. “My child, I should indeed have
been ruined, body and soul, but for you. God bless you!”

Star and Mr. Rosevelt followed him to the door as he went out, both
trying to cheer him with kind wishes for the future.

“Good-night and good-by,” the young girl said, in tones that sounded to
him like an angel’s voice, as she stood in the door-way and watched him
go down the steps. “Be sure to come and see us again when we return; the
latch-string is always out, as they say at the West, for our friends.”

A mighty sob burst from the overcharged heart of George Richards as he
reached the street, and the tears—tears of mingled remorse, gratitude,
and relief—rolled thick and fast over his face.

“Thank God,” he murmured, fervently, “for the light of that ‘star’ in
the midst of what was worse than Stygian darkness. But for its friendly
beams and cheering influence, I should have been lost indeed.”

He had proceeded some distance, when he stopped short and seemed about
to retrace his steps.

“How thoughtless of me!” he muttered, impatiently. “I meant to tell her
all about Lord Carrol. He deserves to be set right with her, and she
deserves—well, _nothing_ can be too good for her; but they knocked
everything out of my head by their unexampled generosity. I will not go
back to-night,” he added, after thinking a moment; “I will write her
to-morrow the whole story.”

But the morrow brought its busy cares and perplexities, and his
resolution was forgotten. After that it was too late, for he did not
know where to address her during her absence; and so Star still believed
her lover to be false, and still mourned her shattered idol.

                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                         “YOU ARE THE TRAITOR.”

Mr. Rosevelt, Star, and Grace Meredith, with good-natured Mrs. Blunt to
attend to matters of comfort, started on the day appointed for their
Western trip, full of bright anticipations of the pleasures in store for
them; and while they are gone, we will follow Ralph Meredith on his
voyage across the Atlantic to the old world.

Arriving in London, he transacted what business he had to do there, and
then turned his attention, with what interest he could muster while his
heart was still so sore from his recent disappointment, to the
attractions which the great city afforded.

He visited the House of Parliament, the Tower, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the
National Gallery of Art, and many other points of interest, reserving
Westminster Abbey until the last, as he wished to give plenty of time to
this wonderful and magnificent structure and its countless curiosities.

Upon his second visit thither, and while he was in the chapel of Henry
the Seventh, with his guide, who was pointing out for his admiration the
beauties of its architecture, the vaulted roof, with its magnificent
carvings, and many precious relics gathered there, a clear, sweet voice
suddenly broke the solemn stillness of the place by calling out just
behind him:

“Why, Archie Sherbrooke, do you know what time it is? Quarter past
eleven, and we promised Lady Dunham that we would be back in season to
attend the rehearsal at the Albert Memorial Hall with her.”

Ralph had thought that he was the only visitor there that morning, and
that silvery voice speaking that name, which he remembered but too well,
gave him a shock which sent the blood coursing like fire through his
veins.

“It is later than I thought, Vivien; we must go at once, if we keep that
appointment,” a rich, manly voice said in reply; and turning quickly to
look at the speaker, Ralph saw a tall, handsome young man of perhaps two
or three-and-twenty, with the head of an Apollo, the form of an Adonis,
and having a keen, intellectual face, with frank, truthful eyes, and a
pleasant, winning smile.

The lady who accompanied, and who addressed him, was a year or two
younger evidently, and _almost_ as lovely as Star, Ralph thought,
although her beauty was of a different style.

Archie Sherbrooke! There surely could not be two young men of the same
age, handsome as one of the gods, and bearing the same name.

His heart had bounded into his throat as he heard it spoken, his face
had flushed a painful crimson, while his hands instinctively clinched
themselves in hot indignation, and he longed to confront the handsome
traitor and denounce him for the villainous part he had played.

This, then, must be the man who had broken Star Gladstone’s heart and
ruined her life; there was not a doubt of it in his own mind.

Yes, he was sure this was the Archibald Sherbrooke of whom Star had told
him.

Who, then, was the woman who had been with him? Was it his wife?

He did not think she was his sister, for, except in the color of her
hair, she did not resemble him in the least.

Were they Americans, and traveling, like himself, in the kingdom?

Perhaps, if they were married, they were thus spending the honeymoon;
but they had spoken of “Lady Dunham” in a way to make him doubt that
they were his countrymen.

Such thoughts as these tortured him, and he became possessed to seek out
the young man and discover if he were indeed Star’s recreant lover.

The young lady had spoken of a rehearsal at the Albert Hall. He knew
there was to be a concert there that evening, and possibly it might be
an outgrowth of the rehearsal. He would go and see.

Accordingly, at the hour designated upon the bills, he went, armed with
a powerful opera-glass, and procuring a conspicuous seat, he swept tier
after tier of faces, searching for those which he had seen in the
morning.

But disappointment was the result of his efforts; for that fair, girlish
face was nowhere to be seen, nor could he find him who had been the
young lady’s attendant.

Suddenly, however, a strangely sweet, bird-like voice, rising clear and
full on the air, drew his attention to the stage, and there, with a
thrill which tingled through every nerve, he saw the lovely girl for
whom he was looking.

Ralph Meredith sought for her name upon his programme, which stated that
the concert was given, under the auspices of some of the nobility, for
some charitable object, and that the talent was all amateur.

“Miss Vivien Sherbrooke,” he read, and he again experienced that sudden
heart-throb.

She was not, then, Archibald Sherbrooke’s wife, but, in all probability,
his sister.

He listened intently throughout her song; and then, as the sweet voice
died away, and she turned to leave the stage, he leaned breathlessly
forward to watch her, while thunders of applause went rolling up into
the heights bove him.

She came back again after a moment, slightly flushed at the _encore_,
but in a graceful, modest way, and sang a simple ballad.

She was as sweet and charming as she could be, and when at length she
ceased and went away again, Ralph Meredith heard a long-drawn breath, as
of relief, directly behind him, while a voice said:

“I believe Vivien _never_ sang so well before; but I am glad that part
of the programme is over.”

“Yes,” replied deeper, but more familiar tones; “I was a trifle anxious
myself, although I know she never fails in what she undertakes. Vivien
is a jewel!”

“You are right, Archie. So is my son; and I am surprised that, at your
age, some one has not won you both away from me,” returned the lady, in
suppressed, but fond and playful tones.

“You are not anxious to get rid of either of us, I hope, mother?”

“No, indeed; and yet it would be expected in the natural course of
events; and with so many fair maidens and gallant young gentlemen
playing the agreeable to me, I cannot but feel some curiosity as to who
will eventually get my treasures.”

There was no reply to this speech, but Ralph was sure he heard a sigh.

After a few moments he turned and ran his eye with seeming carelessness
over the sea of faces behind him, glancing at those two to whose
conversation he had just been listening.

It was even as he had surmised when he heard that manly voice.

Archibald Sherbrooke sat directly behind him, and beside him a noble,
matronly looking woman whom he closely resembled; but there was an
unmistakable look of pain upon the young man’s face, and a wistful,
anxious look in his handsome eyes.

“Not married, after all this time, and with that sorrowful face and
bitter sigh. I begin to think there may have been a misunderstanding of
some kind, instead of a willful wrong,” he said to himself. “He does not
look like a man to prove treacherous to a woman,” he added; “there is
something noble and prepossessing about him; and yet Star said she
denounced him to his face.”

When the concert was over, and while he was slowly passing out with the
crowd, some one at his side suddenly exclaimed:

“Halloa, Meredith! where on earth did you come from?” and a friendly
hand grasped and shook his with a vigorous cordiality.

“Alden! is it you?” he cried, in return. “I might ask the same question
of you, since I had not a thought of seeing you here; but since it is
evident that we are both Americans, it is safe to assume that we came
from ‘over the seas and far away.’”

“When did you arrive? Where are you stopping, and how long do you stay
in London?” demanded Alden, his tongue going like a race-horse.

“Well,” Ralph returned, laughing, “you mean to know all about me, I see.
I arrived a week ago yesterday; I am stopping at the Midland Grand, and
my stay is—indefinite.”

“Good! but now I have found you, I mean to keep an eye upon you. I tell
you it sets a fellow up wonderfully to see a home-face. Have you any
other engagement for this evening?”

“No.”

“Then come with me. I have an invitation to Lady Stamfield’s
reception—and, by the by, she does entertain charmingly—with permission
to bring as many friends as I choose. Come; my lady is a delightful
hostess, besides having two of the loveliest daughters in the world.”

“Such an inducement as the latter I am unable to resist,” Ralph
responded, with a smile. “I will come with pleasure.”

“You’re a sensible fellow,” replied young Alden, as, linking his arm
familiarly in that of his friend, he led him away.

Ralph found Stamfield House a delightful place. Lady Stamfield all, and
more, than Herbert Alden had promised him in the way of a hostess, and
the Misses Stamfield, young ladies of eighteen and twenty, pretty and
talented, and entertaining enough to make an hour or two pass very
agreeably.

He was very cordially received upon being presented by his friend, and
introduced to a number of pleasant people, and he began to think that he
had not seen the best side of London after all, since he had not
heretofore been favorably impressed with its citizens.

After he had danced two or three times, young Alden sought him again,
and took him away to the billiard-room, which, for that evening, had
been set apart for a smoking-room.

“I want to introduce you to some fine fellows,” he said, on the way
thither, “‘bang up’ boys, we should say in America, who will give you a
good time while you stay here.”

He found a dozen or twenty young men gathered in the billiard-room, and
was introduced to several of them by his friend.

He spent half an hour very pleasantly there, and then began to think
that it was time that he was getting back to his hotel, for it was a
long distance from that portion of the city.

He stood by the billiard-table alone for a moment, waiting to bid young
Alden good-night, when suddenly he heard his voice at his elbow,
introducing him to “Lord Carrol, of Carrolton.”

He half put out his hand, glanced up at the stranger, started, withdrew
it, and bowed stiffly to his lordship. He had recognized Archibald
Sherbrooke!

The fine, genial face of the young peer clouded at the act and his cool
greeting; but, with his natural good-breeding, he appeared not to heed
it, and expressed his pleasure at the meeting; while Alden, the
introduction over, turned away, leaving them together.

“I beg your pardon,” Ralph said, the hot blood mounting to his brow, for
his loyal heart could not forget Star and her wrongs, “I have heard you
addressed twice to-day by another name—Archibald Sherbrooke. Has my
friend made a mistake in introducing you to me as Lord Carrol?”

His lordship laughed, and his face cleared instantly.

“No,” he said; “I am both Archibald Sherbrooke and Lord Carrol. I am
troubled with a plurality of names, which frequently cause mistakes,
some of which are ludicrous, and some—painful.”

This last statement was supplemented with a heavy sigh.

“But,” he added, more lightly, “I will shake hands with you over
either,” and he extended his hand again.

But Ralph would not take it.

He drew back a step, and bent a perplexed look upon his companion’s
face.

“Pardon me again,” he said; “but before I take your hand, allow me to
ask you a single question.”

“Certainly; a dozen if you like,” Lord Carrol answered, haughtily, for
Ralph’s refusal to take his hand had hurt him keenly.

“You have been in America?”

“Yes.”

“You met there a young lady by the name of Miss Stella Gladstone?”

Lord Carrol started as from a sudden shock, and grew pale to his lips.

“Stella Gladstone! What can you tell me of Star Gladstone?” he demanded,
hoarse from emotion.

“That her heart is broken—her life ruined,” Ralph Meredith answered,
sternly, for he knew now that he had found his man, and he meant to show
him no mercy.

He trembled with excitement, and his fingers ached to strangle the
villain and coward who had so basely betrayed the trust of the loveliest
woman on earth.

“Her life ruined! _Don’t_ tell me that,” Lord Carrol whispered, with
white lips, while the look of agony which leaped to his eyes would have
moved the hardest heart, had it been less sore than Ralph Meredith’s.

“Yes, and _you_ are the traitor who is accountable for it,” he answered,
hotly.

The young man flushed, and he drew himself up with sudden dignity,
struggling to regain his self-possession, which had been sadly disturbed
at the mention of that dearly loved name.

“You forget yourself, sir,” he said, haughtily. “What right have you to
address me thus? Why do _you_ speak to me in this way of Miss Gladstone,
and arraign me for what you assert?”

“Why should I _not_?” Ralph Meredith demanded, in low, fierce tones.
“Did she not tell me with her own lips of your baseness and treachery?
And do you think that I can take the hand of the man, were he twice a
lord, who has ruined the life of”—“the only woman whom I ever loved,” he
was about to add, but something restrained him and made him
substitute—“an angel?”

Archibald Sherbrooke was very pale now. He was a proud, brave young man,
and all the hot blood in his composition had been aroused by this sudden
and unexpected attack from the stranger to whom he had been introduced
by a mutual friend.

He had uttered words which, under any other circumstances, would have
made him fell him to the ground and chastise him for his insolence.

But he controlled himself, for he saw that Ralph was a noble fellow,
although he had constituted himself the champion of the woman whom he
still loved with a deathless love, and meant to avenge her wrongs if he
was assured that he had found the right man.

He reasoned, too, that he must be laboring under the same mistake of
which Star had been the victim, and that the only way to deal with him
would be to explain just how matters stood.

Besides, a wild hope was springing up in his heart that through him he
might be able to find her whom he had lost, and whom he never ceased for
one moment to love.

He laid his hand on Ralph’s arm, and the young man felt it tremble with
the emotion which thrilled him.

“Come with me,” he said, in a low, earnest voice, “where we can be by
ourselves, and I will talk this matter over with you. There has been a
terrible mistake, and my two names have been the cause of it all. I
loved Star Gladstone devotedly; I love her to-day. I have done her no
wrong, as I will explain to you, and nothing would have kept me from her
side if she had not hid herself from me. Come.”

He linked his arm familiarly within Ralph’s, and drew him from the room
to a small antechamber leading from the hall, and shut the door, while
the young man was dumb with astonishment at what he heard, and began to
feel as if he had got himself into a very unpleasant predicament by his
rashness.

                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
                          MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS.

“Have _I_ made a mistake? Have I wronged you?” Ralph Meredith asked,
when the door was shut, while he gazed blankly at his companion, and
feeling convinced in his heart that no man could show the emotion which
Lord Carrol manifested at the mention of Star, and willfully betray her.

“If I were not confident that you _had_ made a mistake,” his lordship
returned, drawing himself up with dignity, though he was still very pale
and deeply agitated—“if I did not believe that you share in the
misunderstanding which has been the cause of all Miss Gladstone’s
trouble and my own exceeding sorrow, I could not pass lightly over the
disparaging imputation which you have cast upon me to-night. I am no
traitor, Mr. Meredith. I have never willingly wronged Miss Gladstone,
for I have loved her, and I _do_ love her to-day, with a deathless love.
My plurality of names, as I told you before,” he went on, with a wan
smile, “has been the cause of it all; and if Star has unconsciously been
made a victim on account of it, I also have suffered in no small degree.
Sit down, Mr. Meredith, and let me tell you all about it;” and he
motioned him to a chair.

“Not until I have apologized for my rash words to you, my lord,” Ralph
said, in a manly, straightforward way, and advancing to him, convinced
now of his honor, and that he had never intended Star even a thought of
harm. “Miss Gladstone,” he continued, “confided the story of her grief
to me only a short time before I sailed for Europe, although she did not
enter into particulars very minutely. I think she had not the slightest
idea that I should ever meet you, but I made up my mind at the time that
if I ever did come in contact with ‘Archibald Sherbrooke,’ which was the
only name by which she designated you, that I should make him answer for
the wrong which I believed he had done her. I saw you to-day with a lady
in the chapel of Henry the Seventh, at Westminster Abbey. I heard her
call you by the name that I remembered only too well, and was convinced
I had found Miss Gladstone’s recreant knight. I resolved at once to
remain in London beyond the time I had originally intended, look you up,
and call you to account for what you had done. You were at the concert
in the Albert Hall this evening, but I had no thought of meeting you
when I came hither, at the invitation of my friend Alden. You can
imagine, perhaps, something of the shock which I experienced when he
introduced you as Lord Carrol. This will explain why I refused your
hand, and why I addressed you in the way I did.”

“I cannot blame you in the least, under the circumstances,” Lord Carrol
returned, smiling.

“Your words, however,” Ralph went on, “regarding the young lady in
question, convince me that you are entirely guiltless, and have been as
great a sufferer from an unfortunate misunderstanding as herself. I
trust you will accept my explanation, and also my hand with it,” he
concluded, extending his hand to the young peer.

Lord Carrol grasped and shook it warmly.

“I have no right to harbor any ill-will toward you for espousing so
gallantly the cause of one who is very dear to me,” he said, cordially;
“and perhaps, after all, this meeting, which at first promised to end in
a stormy manner, may be the means of restoring happiness to two very
unhappy people.”

“I feel assured that such will be the case,” Ralph answered, but there
was a keen pain in his heart, notwithstanding.

Lord Carrol now wheeled a chair forward and made him sit down; then,
taking another near him, he related in substance what he had already
told Mr. Richards regarding his relations with Star, the erroneous
conclusions she had jumped at upon learning of his title, her refusal to
allow him to explain his position to her, and her flight on the morning
after her painful discovery.

Ralph Meredith found it hard to conceal the bitterness which he
experienced, as he realized how gladly Star would give herself to her
manly lover when she learned of his fidelity. His heart was still sore
over his recent disappointment, but his nature was too noble, he was too
generous in his love for her, to wish to place a single obstacle in the
way of her happiness, or of the man whom he now deemed worthy of her in
every respect.

He gave Lord Carrol a history of Star’s life during the last year,
telling him of her success as a young authoress, and of the happy change
in her worldly circumstances as the acknowledged ward and heiress of
Jacob Rosevelt, the millionaire. He spoke also of the admiration which
her grace and beauty had excited during the past season at Newport.

“I am glad,” Archibald Sherbrooke said, earnestly, and his lip trembled
as he spoke, “that her life has been made so much brighter during the
past year, and I shall always be grateful to Mr. Rosevelt for his
kindness; and yet I am almost selfish enough to wish that _I_ could have
been the one to raise her to a more congenial sphere. I shall go to the
United States at once. I must seek her and set myself right with her as
soon as possible. Will you be so good as to give me Mr. Rosevelt’s
address?”

“With pleasure,” Ralph responded; “but you will not find them in New
York just at present, for they, with my sister—who is a very intimate
friend of Miss Gladstone’s—are traveling in the far West, and will not
return under three or four months.”

Lord Carrol looked thoughtful and disappointed at this intelligence.

“I must wait, then,” he said, with a sigh, “until their return. The time
will seem very long, although I am greatly needed here just now, and it
would be much to my own disadvantage were I to leave before my affairs
are in a more settled state; but I should let no pecuniary consideration
deter me from going to Star if I was sure I should find her. However, I
must submit to the inevitable; and now, Mr. Meredith,” he concluded,
with a genial smile, “what can I do to make your stay in our city
pleasant? I am at your disposal for any length of time.”

“Thank you, my lord. My business will not permit my tarrying much longer
just now; but I intend to return to London in the course of three or
four months, and shall hope to meet you again then,” Ralph answered.

“I shall most certainly see to it that we _do_ meet again,” Lord Carrol
returned; “and now, if you have no engagement for to-morrow, will you do
me the honor to dine with me?”

“It will give me great pleasure to do so. I have no other engagement,”
Mr. Meredith returned.

He was growing to admire Star Gladstone’s handsome lover exceedingly,
notwithstanding the fact that he was his own rival.

“Thanks. Now come with me and let me introduce you to my mother and
sister, who are both here at Stamfield House; and, Mr. Meredith,” the
young lord added, grasping his hand again, and speaking with emotion, “I
cannot be sufficiently grateful to you, for you have put new life and
hope into my heart to-night.”

Ralph tried to feel generously glad for this, but it was not in human
nature not to experience a pang over the happiness which he knew was in
store for him, especially when he knew, too, that it would be at the
expense of his own.

“I am very glad if I have been able to atone in any way for my rudeness
upon first meeting you,” he said, smiling faintly.

“Do not mention it; you were espousing a good cause, and through your
championship I shall regain what is far dearer to me than life; so we
will forget the unpleasantness of a moment, and I trust I may call you
my friend in the future.”

Lord Carrol then led the way back to Lady Stamfield’s drawing-room,
where, seeking his mother and sister, he presented his new friend to
them.

Mrs. Sherbrooke Ralph found to be a handsome, genial matron, with a
large heart and plenty of Christian charity, although it was plainly to
be seen that her two children, in her estimation, were perfect in every
respect.

No one ever before possessed a more noble and devoted son; no one had so
charming a daughter.

Miss Vivien Sherbrooke was truly that; she was even more beautiful than
she had appeared to be when he saw her on the stage in the character of
a songstress.

She was vivacious and witty, and exerted herself to the utmost to be
entertaining to her brother’s new acquaintance, and Ralph actually
forgot himself and the haunting pain which had hitherto pursued him
during all his wanderings, while talking with her and listening to her
bright conversation, and watching her quick, graceful motions.

“Archie tells me that you are coming to dine with us to-morrow, Mr.
Meredith,” she said, as her mother came to tell her that it was time for
them to go.

“Yes, I believe I am to have that pleasure,” he returned, with a glance
of admiration into her sparkling eyes.

“I am glad, for I have a hundred questions to ask you about America
which only a true American can answer. You will be sure to come?”

“I certainly shall,” he replied, thinking that those clear gray eyes,
looking so frankly and smilingly into his, were about as beautiful as
any he had ever seen.

                             CHAPTER XXXV.
                   MRS. RICHARDS’ GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

The following day Mr. Meredith, according to his promise, went to dine
with Lord Carrol at his mother’s elegant mansion near Belgrave Square.

After the meal was over, and the other guests comfortably disposed of,
Archie took his friend up into the “sanctum,” as he called it, for a
smoke and a quiet talk.

If Lord Carrol suspected anything of the feeling which Ralph had
entertained for Star, he gave no sign, but confided to him, as they sat
there together, more of his hopes and plans for the future, and spoke
with much more of freedom regarding Star than he had done the day
before.

When they had finished their cigars, Lord Carrol arose and said:

“Come inside, Mr. Meredith, and I will show you one of my treasures.”

He went back into his “sanctum,” followed by Ralph, and passing by all
the beautiful paintings, drawings, and engravings which hung upon the
walls, he walked to an easel which stood in a corner, and removing a
cloth that covered it, stepped back for his friend to look.

Ralph Meredith gave one look, and then exclaimed, in unfeigned surprise:

“Star!”

“Yes, it is Star,” Lord Carrol said, with a tender smile, as he looked
upon the portrait. “I am glad you recognize her, for I should be sorry
if she had changed so much that you could not. This is a picture which I
love, and which I keep for myself alone. It is very seldom that I show
it to any one, and I have never told its history to any living being
until I told it to you last night. As she stood there that morning in
her modest beauty, severing that tress at my request, I began to love
her with a love that will never die while I live. I have that little
lock of gold here now, Mr. Meredith,” he said, touching the
diamond-studded locket which hung from his watch-chain, “and untold
wealth could not purchase it from me. Here is the cameo also which I
gave her in exchange, and of which I told you, too, last night,” and he
held up his left hand, on the little finger of which gleamed the ring
that Josephine Richards had made of it. “Ah,” he added, with a sigh, “it
is hard to think that she could believe me so false—so treacherous and
cowardly, as to win her love and then cast it aside as of no value.”

“Yet it was very natural for her to think so under the circumstances,”
Ralph returned, thoughtfully. “You must realize that yourself, for you
say that on Saturday you declared your affection for her under the name
of Archibald Sherbrooke, and won an expression of her own for you in
return; while on the Monday following you appeared in Mr. Richards’
family as Lord Carrol, who, she had been told, was a suitor for his
daughter’s hand. It does not seem strange to me that she should think
the very worst of you. You certainly were in a false position before
her, and it must have been a severe blow to her pride as well as to her
affection; for, as we have seen, Miss Gladstone is not lacking either in
self-respect or spirit.”

“No, I suppose it is not strange; but, oh! if she would but have given
me one minute, I could have convinced her of her mistake, and all the
sorrow that has followed might have been avoided,” sighed the young
lord, as, with another fond glance at the picture, he covered it again
and turned away.

“You will be more successful when you go to her again,” Ralph said,
cheerfully.

“Yes,” Archie returned, with firmly compressed lips; “Miss Gladstone
_will_ listen to me when I go to her again. It is but right that she
should hear my justification, whether she receives it favorably or
otherwise.”

“I have no fear of the result,” his guest returned, smiling; “for Miss
Gladstone acknowledged to me that, in spite of her belief in your
unworthiness, her affection for you remained the same.”

A flush of joy shot over Lord Carrol’s face at this.

“Did she tell you that?” he asked, eagerly. “Then I will doubt no more;
and I have _you_ to thank for bestowing such happiness upon me as I
never expected to know again.”

They spent a half hour longer looking at other pictures, but sweet
sounds coming up again from the drawing-room distracted Ralph’s
attention and tempted him below.

“Do I not hear the fair songstress of last night again?” he asked.

“Yes, that is Vivien singing,” replied her brother.

“I am very fond of music; shall we rejoin the company?”

They went down, and, seeking the fair Vivien’s side, Ralph Meredith
spent a most delightful evening, the memory of which clung to him for
many a week afterward.

The next morning he left London for a three-months’ tour through
Scotland, Ireland, and the Continent.

Mrs. Richards sat in her handsome boudoir one morning a few weeks later,
reading a newspaper.

Something had evidently gone wrong with her, for her face was overcast,
an angry red glowed in her cheeks, and her eyes gleamed with a sullen
fire.

The reason for this was the flat refusal, on the part of Mr. Richards,
to accede to her immoderate demand for five hundred dollars, to purchase
for herself and Josephine new dresses for the coming winter, and she had
just returned to her room after the stormy interview.

“I cannot let you have a dollar,” he had said, with a gravity almost
amounting to sternness, “for I haven’t it to spare.”

“Not a _dollar_, George!” she retorted, with a scornful laugh. “Who ever
heard of anything so absurd?”

“It is true, nevertheless,” he answered, gloomily. “Two months ago I
expected that to-day would find us all beggars.”

“What _do_ you mean?” his wife gasped.

“Just what I say; and but for the appearance of a friendly hand just
when and where I least expected it, I should have been obliged to fail,
overwhelmed with debt and disgrace, and everything we have—house,
furniture, horses, and carriages—would all have had to come under the
hammer of the auctioneer.”

“I cannot believe it,” Mrs. Richards said, growing pale.

“That does not alter the fact, however,” her husband replied,
laconically.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I _did_ tell you. I kept writing to you when you were at Newport,
Ellen, that I could not long endure such a drain upon my purse as you
were subjecting it to, and that you must curtail your expenses; but you
paid no heed to me, launching instead into greater extravagances.”

“But I never dreamed that things were so serious as you represented,”
she said, a guilty flush mounting to her forehead, as she remembered
that all her lavishness had been to outshine Star. “I never thought you
were really embarrassed, or I would not have asked for so much.”

“Well, then,” he answered, in a gentler tone, “show your consideration
for me now, for you and Josephine will have to wear your old clothes
this winter. My trouble has been tided over for the present through the
kindness of a friend, but it will require great care and calculation on
my part to keep my head above board even now. I shall have to begin
cautiously, or I shall be back again in the slough of despond.”

“But I do not see how we can get along without _some_ new things,” began
Mrs. Richards, selfishly.

“You must; that is all there is about it,” returned her husband,
positively. “If you can’t go into society and wear what you have, then
you must stay at home this winter; and I do not think it would do you
any harm for once, either.”

Mrs. Richards flushed angrily. When she saw her husband in this mood,
she knew there was no turning him, and she would be obliged to submit to
his edict.

“I’m sure I do not see what can have happened to make you so penurious
all of a sudden,” she said, sullenly.

“Penurious! Oh, Ellen!”

He looked at her yearningly for a moment.

She was a handsome, distinguished-looking woman, and had been a very
fond and tender wife during the first years of their married life; but
unlimited indulgence, and constantly mingling in the fashionable world,
had made her selfish and unfeeling.

“My dear,” he went on, after a moment, “why cannot you comfort me a
little—give me a little sympathy in my trouble? My burden has been very
hard to bear alone, and the worst of it has been that I was obliged to
refuse your requests. You _know_ that I am not penurious—that I never
denied you anything that I could possibly grant you. Ellen, I wish you
could be a little more kind to me than you have been of late.”

“I do not know anything about business matters; I could give you very
little advice or comfort in that way,” she replied, coldly; and then she
left him feeling very miserable, and in anything but a comfortable frame
of mind herself, and not a little startled to know that they had been so
near the brink of ruin as he had represented.

She returned to her own room, picking up the morning paper, which lay
upon the hall table, on her way. Sitting down, she ran her eye
carelessly over its columns, while her mind was busy planning some way
to get along without her accustomed full purse, and “keep up
appearances.”

Suddenly her glance was transfixed by a paragraph which sent sharp,
prickling pains throughout her body, and every nerve quivered with
excitement as she read:

  “The heirs, or nearest of kin to Sir Charles Thornton, late of
  Halowell Park, Devonshire, England, will find it to their
  advantage to communicate at once with Compton & Bailey, No. 54
  Lincoln’s-inn-fields, London.”

Just below this advertisement was a notice of the sudden death of the
young baronet from diphtheria.

Mrs. Richards sat like one overcome by some violent shock for a few
moments after reading this account. Then springing to her feet, and
taking the paper with her, she went back in hot haste to her husband,
her cheeks crimson, her eyes glowing with agitation.

“If what I suspect should prove to be true, the dream of my life will be
realized. Sir George and Lady Richards would sound very well, indeed,”
she murmured as she went.

Her husband looked up as she entered, and she was startled as she
noticed how pale and care-worn his face had become; but she was too
eager to communicate her news to pay much heed to it.

“George,” she said, eagerly, “read this!”

She laid the paper before him as she spoke, and pointed to the paragraph
which had excited her so.

“Well, I have read it, but I do not understand it; I do not know
anything about Sir Charles Thornton,” he returned, indifferently.

“What are you thinking of, George Richards!” cried his wife,
impatiently. “_My mother_ was half-sister to Sir Charles Thornton’s
mother. Sir Charles had no family; there are no other relatives to be
found on either side, it seems, or his lawyers would not have advertised
thus, and I believe that _I_ am ‘the nearest of kin.’”

“Nonsense, Ellen! Don’t get such a wild idea as that into your head, for
you will surely be disappointed,” Mr. Richards answered, skeptically.

“I don’t know about that. But one thing I have long known, and that is
that the Thornton branch of the family is nearly, if not quite, extinct.
It is evident that no heirs are to be found in England, or Compton &
Bailey would not have advertised in the United States papers,” she
returned, feeling more and more sure in her own mind that her first
impressions had not been at fault.

“That is a good argument, truly,” Mr. Richards said, with sudden
interest, and then began to question his wife, and to examine more
closely into the matter.

The result was that the next steamer bore a long letter to Compton &
Bailey, No. 54 Lincoln’s-inn-fields, stating Mrs. Richards’ relationship
to Sir Charles Thornton, of Halowell Park, Devonshire, together with
proofs of what they asserted.

A month passed, and they had begun to think they had been nourishing a
chimera, when, one day, there came an answer from Compton & Bailey,
saying that they had faithfully studied the chronological tables of both
sides of the Thornton family, and had arrived at the conclusion that
Mrs. Richards was undoubtedly the nearest of kin to the late Sir
Charles.

They stated that they had been advertising for a long time in English
papers, and no one had presented any claim. They had then concluded to
publish a similar notice in the American papers, and as it had met with
no other response, they would undoubtedly decide the matter in favor of
her.

However, they suggested that she come to London at once, as they could
conclude better what to do after a personal interview.

“If it should prove a ‘wild-goose chase,’ as I fear it will, I can ill
afford the expense of the trip,” Mr. Richards said, when considering the
question.

But his wife was all enthusiasm, as well as very sanguine regarding the
result, and it was at length decided that they should sail as soon as
practicable, and preparations were at once begun for the voyage.

Mrs. Richards merely remarked to her friends, when informing them of
their plans, that Mr. Richards was not well; they all wanted a change,
and had resolved to try what a trip across the Atlantic would do for
them. Not one word was breathed regarding her expectations, however.

“If I am successful, there will be time enough then to make it public;
if I am _not_, no one shall ever be able to crow over my
disappointment,” she said, cautiously, to her husband; although in her
own mind she had not a doubt as to the issue of the matter, while
already visions of a title and a life among the nobility of England,
presentation at court, and a marriage in high life for Josephine, were
taking shape in her head.

                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
                         JOSEPHINE’S AMBITION.

Mrs. Richards’ vision of magnificence bade fair to be realized; for,
upon arriving in London in November, she and her family were most
courteously received by the firm of Compton & Bailey, who assured her
that her credentials and proofs of her relationship to Sir Charles were
incontestable.

“I do not see, madam, anything to prevent you from taking possession of
the property,” Mr. Compton said, in his most affable tones. “Your
identity is proved beyond a question as the cousin or half-cousin of Sir
Charles, and, as far as we have been able to learn, you are the only
living relative. Lord William Thornton—Sir Charles’ father—had a younger
brother, but he left his home years ago to go as a missionary to the
heathen, and has never been heard of since; so it is reasonable to
suppose that he also is dead, and, as he was unmarried, of course left
no issue. It will take a month or so to get things in order for you, and
if at the end of that time everything remains as it is now, you can then
take possession of your estate, and I am very happy to offer my
congratulations upon your good fortune.”

Mrs. Richards’ face glowed with pride and happiness; Josephine was
jubilant, while Mr. Richards was too astonished to be able to really
appreciate this sudden turning of fortune’s wheel in their favor.

The rent-roll of Halowell Park was fifty thousand pounds or more per
annum; then there was a fine residence in London, and a sea-side resort
at Cowes.

It was, indeed, a fortune, coming just at that time of need, calculated
to turn one’s head, so to speak.

“It is too good to be true,” Mr. Richards said, with a doubtful shake of
the head. “Ellen, we don’t _deserve_ any such good fortune,” he added,
remorsefully, as his mind went back to their treatment of Mr. Rosevelt
and Star.

“Nonsense, George!” she retorted, scornfully. “We deserve whatever we
can get, and I mean to enjoy this windfall to the utmost. I reckon that
jade will find it hard work to outshine us after this, and Uncle Jacob’s
grand airs won’t trouble me in the least in the future. I shall go down
to Halowell Park this week, see for myself what kind of a place it is,
and what repairs and improvements are needed on the estate,” she
concluded, ready to spend money with her accustomed energy and
lavishness.

Accordingly, in a few days they repaired thither, and were charmed with
the grand old place.

On their return to London they visited the late Sir Charles’ town house,
and found that in keeping with the estate in Devonshire, and surely
their prospects appeared to be as bright as they or any one could wish.

One evening Mr. Compton, the lawyer, who was one of the first among his
profession in the city, invited them to his mansion to meet some of his
friends, and they were introduced to a number of people who frequented
the highest circles in the great city.

Among others, they met Lady Sherbrooke and her charming daughter,
Vivien, and who, they were not long in discovering, greatly to their
joy, were the mother and sister of Lord Carrol.

Mrs. Richards was exultant over this piece of good luck, as she deemed
it, and tried to make herself very agreeable to her ladyship, while
Josephine sought to ingratiate herself with the younger lady.

“I had the pleasure of meeting your son, Lord Carrol, when he was in
America,” Mrs. Richards remarked, during her conversation with the young
lord’s mother.

“Indeed!” she said, looking interested at once, for her children were an
all-absorbing topic at any time with her.

“Yes; we first met him at Long Branch, a fashionable watering-place, and
he afterward favored us with a visit of a few days at our country-seat,
in Yonkers.”

Mrs. Richards was determined to make the most out of the advantages she
had enjoyed.

“Ah, yes, I believe he has told me something about it,” the lady
responded, while she thought that if such was the case she must arrange
in some way to return the compliment thus paid to her idolized son.

If they were successors to Sir Charles Thornton, they would occupy no
mean position in the social world, she reasoned, and it would be no more
than right to cultivate their acquaintance, while she could but
acknowledge that Mrs. Richards was quite a superior appearing woman, and
Josephine possessed beauty of a very brilliant type.

The half hour that she spent conversing with Mrs. Richards only served
to strengthen the good opinion she had at first formed, and before they
left Mr. Compton’s she had arranged with them to spend a portion of the
following week at their estate in Cheshire.

This was more than Mrs. Richards had expected, but she plumed herself
upon her tact in managing things so cleverly, and looked forward to the
visit with no small amount of interest.

The next day, through Lady Sherbrooke’s influence, she received cards
for a grand reception at Lady Tukesbury’s, who resided in a palatial
mansion in Piccadilly, and she felt assured that they were now fully
launched upon a brilliant career.

Of course they accepted the invitation, she appearing in black velvet,
point lace, and diamonds, while Josephine was resplendent in rich white
silk and scarlet verbenas, and created quite a sensation in
“Japonica-dom,” greatly to her mother’s delight and her own
satisfaction.

“Who is she? Where did she come from?” was whispered on all sides.

“An American? Ah! that accounts for her brilliant style of beauty, then.
Inherit Sir Charles Thornton estates, do they? In that case they will be
quite an acquisition to society,” were the opinions expressed and the
conclusions arrived at by people who were careful in such matters; and
then seekers for introductions—and seekers for fortunes—pressed forward
for an introduction to the beautiful young heiress.

But notwithstanding Josephine enjoyed herself, and felt no small degree
of pride at receiving these attentions from lords and baronets, she
found herself looking everywhere for one familiar form, one dark,
handsome face, which she had never forgotten, and which she knew she
should recognize anywhere and under any circumstances.

“Mamma, I wonder if Lord Carrol is here?” she whispered, when once
during the evening they happened to be together.

“I don’t know; I will ask Lady Sherbrooke if I have an opportunity,” she
replied.

She managed to get near her ladyship soon after, and asked:

“Is your son out of town, Lady Sherbrooke?”

“No; he is not out of town. He had another engagement to-night, but he
said he would drop in in season to take us home,” Lord Carrol’s mother
returned. “Ah! there he is now,” she added, as she saw him approaching,
and her face lighted with both pride and pleasure.

He appeared to be greatly surprised to find Mrs. Richards there, but
greeted her politely, although she felt the restraint in his manner
which he could not quite conceal.

She beckoned to Josephine, who was not far distant, and presented her,
with a feeling of pride in her brilliant beauty that she did not try to
hide.

He shook hands with her, though his face flushed as he remembered the
awkward position in which she had placed him at Yonkers by
misrepresenting the motive of his visit there.

“You did not come to see us again before leaving America, after all,”
she said, in tones of playful reproach, when they had exchanged
greetings.

“No; my time was so fully occupied that I found it impossible to make
any calls,” he returned, a shade of sadness coming into his fine eyes as
he thought of _how_ his time had been employed and the unhappiness it
had caused him.

“You received my little package, I perceive,” Josephine said, glancing
at the cameo upon his hand, and with a flush rising to her cheeks.

“Yes; did you not receive my acknowledgment of it?” he asked, in
surprise.

“No; I have never heard anything from you,” she answered, with downcast
eyes.

“But I wrote, thanking you. You must have thought me lacking in
courtesy,” Lord Carrol said, regretfully.

“No—but—Lord Carrol, there has been a misunderstanding about that jewel
from the first. I really do not know what you believe regarding it, for
your note was somewhat ambiguous, and I trust you will allow me to
explain more fully to you sometime how I happened to have it,” Josephine
replied, with an appealing glance at him from her brilliant dark eyes.

He bowed somewhat coldly in return. He could not forget that his darling
had said that she _stole_ it from her—that one little treasure which she
had prized more than anything else in the world, and there could be no
excuse for, no explanation of, an act so cowardly and cruel, he thought.

“I presume you have heard that we have come to reside in England,” the
artful girl continued, desiring to change the topic of conversation, yet
determined to keep him by her side.

“So I have been told. How do you like England and English people so
far?” he asked.

“Very much. We have been down to Halowell Park, where we expect to
reside most of the year, and it is delightful there. I hope now that we
shall sometime see your home, of which you have told us so much. We
intend to become familiar with all of England.”

“I little thought that day at Long Branch, when Mrs. Richards was
telling me that you were relatives of Sir Charles Thornton, that you
would eventually become his heirs,” Lord Carrol said, ignoring her
evident desire that he should invite her to visit his home, and little
dreaming that such an invitation had already been given by his mother.

“Mamma thought of it, however, although she did not really expect
anything of the kind. Do you remember her asking you if Sir Charles had
any family?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she knew that there were very few relatives, and she did wonder
then who would inherit the estates if he should die childless. But it
seems like some romantic tale to me. I can scarcely realize it even
yet.”

“How does English society compare with American, in your opinion?” Lord
Carrol asked, glancing over the brilliant throng around them.

“I am sure, my lord, I should not presume to judge upon so short an
experience,” Josephine answered, modestly, yet her glance told him that
she admired one Englishman excessively.

“_I_ should judge,” he said, smiling, “if I could form any opinion from
the court which I saw you holding as I entered, that you would be
considered quite an acquisition in London circles.”

He did not say that _he_ should consider her such, and a thrill of pain
shot through her heart at his indifference; but she appeared to take it
as a personal compliment from him, and answered, with a shy look:

“Thank you; I find it very pleasant to be here, at all events.”

Her tone, her glance, and the emphasis which she threw into that last
sentence, would have turned half the heads in that room, but they did
not move him in the least.

He was constantly thinking of a fair, sweet face, framed in gold; of
azure eyes, with white lids and long, curling lashes, and smiling coral
lips, with the gleam of small white teeth between; of his bright,
beautiful Star—the light of his life.

He was thinking of that day when they drove on the beach at Coney
Island, when he had told her of his love, and won her promise to be his
wife; how she had called him “Archie” in those sweet, low tones, which
had made his heart thrill with an ecstasy it had never known before;
while this proud, brilliant girl had no power to stir even a feeling of
friendship in his breast.

She kept him at her side for half an hour or more, and then she was
obliged to release him, and fulfill an engagement to dance.

But her heart was full of a passionate longing to win his love; he had
never appeared so grand and manly to her before; and as she stood before
her glass that night, after her return from Lady Tukesbury’s reception,
and removed the flowers from her hair and bosom, she said, while she set
her small white teeth resolutely together:

“I will move heaven and earth to win him; I will bend all my energies to
become Lady Carrol. A whole year has passed and he has not married;
there was not even any one present to-night to whom he paid particular
attention, and it cannot be possible that he is still grieving for that
milk-and-water beauty, Star Gladstone. No; I have the field clear to
myself, and I swear I will yet be Countess of Carrol.”

“But suppose he is not to be won—suppose you fail in what you have sworn
to accomplish by fair means or foul?” whispered something within, with
such startling distinctness that it almost seemed like a human voice.

“If I fail!” she repeated, growing white to her very lips. “If I
_cannot_ win the man whom I love with my whole soul, then”—and there was
a look of wretchedness, almost of despair, in her midnight eyes at the
thought—“then I will marry some poor fool who shall lose his head over
my pretty face, and be lady somebody else.”

                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
                           THE MOCK MARRIAGE.

When Lady Sherbrooke informed her son that she had invited Mr. Richards
and his family to spend the following week with them at their country
residence, and to help them make merry with a number of their friends,
his face had clouded instantly, and she saw that he was not pleased with
the arrangement.

“Have I done anything wrong, Archie?” she asked, much disturbed. “I
thought you would be pleased. They spoke of your spending several days
with them when you were in America, and I supposed you would be glad to
return the civility.”

His lips had curled slightly when she had mentioned that they had told
of his visit to Yonkers. He thought they should have preferred to keep
it to themselves, rather than boast of it in order to get a return,
under the circumstances.

But he said nothing of this, and answered, as brightly as he could:

“No, mother dear; you have done nothing wrong, and I will try and make
myself as agreeable as possible to your guests. But I must confess that
neither Mrs. nor Miss Richards is agreeable to me.”

“Why, Archie?”

“I would prefer to say nothing more just now, since they are coming to
visit us. Perhaps sometime I can tell you why,” he answered,
thoughtfully.

“I am sorry,” Lady Sherbrooke returned, regretfully, while she studied
her son’s face wistfully. “I wish I had known of this in season to have
avoided anything so extremely unpleasant. But they were so profuse in
their praises of you that I supposed of course that you reciprocated
their friendliness.”

“Never mind,” he said, lightly; “a week will not be very long. No doubt
Miss Richards—who, I admit, is a very brilliant girl—will be a great
addition to your party, and I would not have any little whim of mine mar
it for the world.”

“Archie, did you ever—” began his mother, with a startled, rueful glance
at him, as it suddenly came to her that there might be a more serious
reason for this than she had dreamed.

But he interrupted her, with a laugh.

“No, mother; I never did,” he said, with an amused gleam in his eyes.
“And now ask me nothing more at present, please; but when your guests
are all gone, I have a little story for your ear, and shall want a share
of sympathy and counsel from your wise head and great heart.”

Cheshire House, situated about a dozen miles out from London, and so
called because it overlooked a little village which, at that time, bore
that name, was filled to overflowing during the following week, and
everybody appeared to anticipate a season of intense enjoyment.

We cannot follow the gay company in all their enjoyments, but it was an
eventful time, during which the hospitable hostess and her lovely
daughter, assisted by Lord Carrol, spared no effort to make it a
memorable one; and when, right in the midst of it all, Ralph Meredith
came by special invitation, one, at least, of that merry number felt
that everything was complete, and nothing more to be wished for.

The last night of their stay there had been set apart for a great time.

Invitations had been sent in every direction through the county, bidding
all the young people to gather there and make merry in their own way.

The evening was to be spent in games, private theatricals, and
masquerade until twelve o’clock, after which hour they were to “trip the
light fantastic toe” as long as they liked.

It was a merry, merry time indeed, and everybody seemed to vie with his
neighbor to see who could contribute most to the enjoyment of the
occasion.

Vivien Sherbrooke and Josephine Richards were declared by each and all
to be the belles of the evening, notwithstanding they were entirely
different in the style of their beauty.

The former wore a dress of rose-colored silk, with overdress of tulle
looped with roses. Ropes of pearls were wound around her fair neck and
arms and twined in her shining brown hair. Her clear gray eyes gleamed
with a brighter luster than usual, a deeper flush was on her cheeks, and
her lips wreathed with happier smiles.

Josephine was in simple white, with not an atom of color to relieve it.
A peculiarly dainty dress of some soft clinging stuff fell in matchless
folds of grace around her lithe form, with rare, costly lace for
garniture, and great poppies, in which diamonds glistened like drops of
dew, fastened on her breast and in her hair.

This spotless toilet was wonderfully becoming to her clear, dark
complexion, and her mother’s heart swelled with pride as she looked upon
her and knew that she was the most distinguished-looking girl among all
that company of aristocrats.

“She cannot fail to win a high position in the world,” she said to
herself, as she saw several titled men hovering about her and hanging
upon her smiles. “If she fail to win Lord Carrol—if he remains blind to
her charms—there are plenty of others, thank Heaven, who _will_
appreciate her. There is his grace, the Duke of Anerby, who admires her
very much, and it would be very nice to be able to say ‘my daughter, the
Duchess of Anerby;’ but I’m afraid she loves Lord Carrol altogether too
well,” she concluded, with a sigh.

There could not be much doubt regarding Josephine’s sentiments toward
his lordship, for, as they stood for a few moments together beneath an
arch of evergreen which had been erected at one end of the hall, her
face was raised to his, as she listened to what he was saying, with a
tender, almost rapt expression, and her eyes were humid with the love
which filled her heart for him.

He thought that she had never appeared to so much advantage as now.
During all her stay at Cheshire House she had been more kind and gentle,
more womanly than he had ever seen her before; and now he lingered by
her side, realizing how very beautiful she was, and feeling almost as if
he had wronged her in the past by judging her so harshly, and his manner
involuntarily became more gracious and friendly toward her.

She saw it, and it made her heart bound with a wild hope, and she became
so radiant, so fascinating and bewildering, that he wondered if he had
indeed been nourishing an unjust prejudice against her.

Lady Sherbrooke saw them standing there, apparently oblivious of
everything and everybody else, and an anxious look shot into her face,
for she had studied Miss Richards during her unguarded moments the past
week, reading her character like an open book with her womanly
intuition, and she knew that she would never make a good man happy; she
would never yield that wifely self-sacrifice which was necessary to
domestic enjoyment; and seeing how passing fair she was to-night, she
dreaded her influence over her idolized son, notwithstanding what he had
already told her.

Suddenly one merry sprite appeared to be possessed by a novel idea of
some kind, and went flitting about the room, whispering, laughing, and
making signs at the pair under the evergreen arch.

The company, who were mostly young people, appeared to join in with her
proposals, whatever they were, and at length she danced gayly up to Lord
Carrol and Josephine, saying, eagerly:

“Archie”—she had known him all her life, and being intimate in the
family, felt privileged to address him thus—“Archie, we have been
arranging such capital fun, and we want you to agree to help us in it.”

“Certainly I will assist you. You know you are to do exactly as you like
to-night, and get all the enjoyment you can out of this occasion.”

“Oh, you are perfectly delightful! Isn’t he, Miss Richards?” returned
the merry girl, with a glance at Josephine, and the look which that
young lady shot at him, half startled but wholly admiring, together with
the flush which leaped into her cheeks, answered the question better
than any words could have done.

“Well, granted that I am all that,” Lord Carrol said, laughing, “what
next?”

“We are going to have a mock marriage; everybody has agreed that it will
be something new under the sun, and we’re just in the mood for a wedding
or any event equally exciting. It is almost on the stroke of twelve, and
it will be just the thing to wind up with before we begin our dancing.”

“Don’t you think it will seem like trifling with a serious subject?”
Lord Carrol asked, rather gravely.

“Oh, no. Of course we do not mean anything wrong; it is only for a
little fun, and we do so want a bride to lead off in the dance,” replied
the thoughtless girl.

“Well,” the young man returned, lightly, “anything you like, only do not
let the ceremony be too tedious, for I am ready for my dance, and I
believe I shall ask you to be my first partner, Minnie. But who are you
going to have for victims?” he concluded, unsuspicious of the trap he
was walking into.

“Oh, you’re to be groom, and Miss Richards the bride. She is the only
one in the room who is dressed all in white, as a bride should be, and
this green arch is just the place for the ceremony to be performed.”

Lord Carrol felt anything but comfortable over this arrangement. He
glanced at Josephine to see how she would take it. But she stood with
downcast eyes, looking the picture of lovely confusion, a beautiful
color in her face, while he noticed that the hand which held her fan
trembled visibly.

“Lord Henderson said he would play parson and pronounce the banns,” the
merry child rattled on, “and he is so portly he will make a first-rate
one. Now, Archie, you and Miss Richards go into the anteroom yonder, so
as to come in like a real bridal party. Wait, there is that lovely lace
shawl of Lady Orton’s; she will lend it, I know, for a vail, and it will
be just the thing. Now don’t stand there like a pair of bashful lovers,
for it is only play, you know,” she added, saucily, “but do as I tell
you, and I will arrange everything, then bring the vail;” and giving her
two victims a gentle push, the excited girl whisked away to another part
of the hall.

“Well, Miss Richards, Miss Shelton intends to have everything her own
way, and I do not see but what we shall be obliged to help her carry out
her plans.” Lord Carrol said, trying to speak lightly, and to make the
best of a very—to him—disagreeable situation.

“You certainly do resemble a bride in your dress,” he added, “more than
any one else in the room, and, if agreeable to you, we will assist in
the little piece of folly just to please the child.”

Little piece of folly!

If he could but have known of the tumult that was raging within her at
the mere thought of such a ceremony in connection with him, he would not
have called it that—it would have been sacrilege!

She was trembling like a leaf, and she knew that that marriage service,
though but the meaningless freak of a wild girl, would seem as solemn to
her as if he were really to make her his wife.

That was “folly” without doubt, but she loved him so that she could not
help the feeling.

He offered her his arm, and they retired to the anteroom together, and
Lord Carrol could not help perceiving the strange thrill which pervaded
the girl’s whole frame as her hand came in contact with his arm.

But they were not left long alone, for Minnie Shelton soon came tripping
in with an exquisite point lace shawl hanging over her arm.

“Everybody is on the _qui vive_,” she said, breathlessly, “and we must
not keep them waiting. Sit down, Miss Richards, on this divan, and let
me pin this shawl on your head; it will make a lovely bridal vail.
There, Lord Carrol, isn’t she charming?” she asked, after she had
dextrously arranged it in graceful folds. “Doesn’t she look like a
_real_ bride?”

“I think your efforts have been eminently successful to make her appear
like one,” he answered, smiling; and certainly Josephine was as lovely
as it was possible for any one to be.

“I only hope, my lord, that when you _do_ get married you’ll find
somebody half as beautiful,” retorted the saucy elf. “There, you’ll do;
now go, for they are all waiting, and the parson is ready to pronounce
the banns.”

Lord Carrol felt very uneasy, but he offered his arm to Josephine again,
and her hand fell upon it, white and soft as a snow-flake.

They passed out into the great ball-room and paused under the green
arch, while murmurs of surprise and admiration greeted them from every
side, for the addition of the lace shawl to Josephine’s already charming
toilet had greatly enhanced her appearance.

Two or three young girls, led by Minnie Shelton, advanced and took their
station by her side to act as bride-maids, and then Lord Henderson, clad
in a long white robe improvised for the occasion, came forward and read
the marriage service.

When the ring was called for, the gay girl who had planned all this
reached behind the bride and tucked one into Lord Carrol’s hand.

He was strangely impressed, a feeling of awe, a chill, creeping over him
as he felt it and thought of its significance. But he took it and put it
on the finger of the mock bride, repeating, “with this ring I wed thee,
and all my goods endow thee,” feeling as if he were going through a
mockery almost too horrible to endure.

Josephine, too, trembled visibly, while the hand that he held was as
cold as ice.

She would have given the world to have been able to control herself, for
she feared that the company would suspect something of the tumult in her
heart, but she could not.

However, when the ceremony was over, the gay crowd came forward,
brimming with mirth, and in the jollity that followed, these impressions
in a measure passed away.

There were laughter and compliment on every lip, shaking of hands and
congratulation on every side, until at length Minnie Shelton put a stop
to it by coming forward and saying:

“The musicians are all ready, Lord Carrol; you’ll have to dance the
first quadrille with your bride; I’ll claim you for the second. Hasn’t
it been a lovely wedding, though?—just as if it had been real, you
know—and we’ve had all the fun without any flurry. My!” perking her
restless head on one side and eying Josephine out of her bright eyes
like some pretty bird, “don’t I hope I may make as charming a bride when
somebody comes to marry me!”

There was a general laugh at this sally, for Miss Minnie was a favorite
with everybody.

“Now come, please; and, Lord Henderson, if you have no objection, I’d
like you for a partner, and we will be the happy couple’s _vis a vis_.”

Without waiting for his consent, she slipped her little hand within his
arm and led him along after Lord Carrol and Josephine, who could do
nothing but obey her commands.

                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.
                           “I HAVE BEEN MAD.”

When that first dance was over, Lord Carrol led Josephine to a seat,
and, bowing before her, said, in as light a tone as he could command:

“Thank you, Miss Richards. I suppose our part in this little farce
closes now. Allow me to congratulate you upon having assisted in
carrying it off in the most perfect manner. I must confess,” he added, a
slight shade falling over his face, “that it does not strike me as just
the thing to make a mockery of sacred subjects; but since Minnie
Shelton, who is a veritable witch, and our guests have enjoyed it,
perhaps I should not preach about it.”

Josephine looked up at him with a strange glitter in her eyes, while her
face was crimson.

Oh, if he would but utter one fond, tender word to her—if he would but
give her a sign even, to show that his heart had been thrilled like her
own while they were standing there side by side!

He noticed her heightened color, and thought she looked at him queerly,
but he never mistrusted the storm that was tearing her heart asunder.

“I fear you are very warm,” he said, kindly. “Shall I get you an ice?”

“Thanks, no. I shall do very well,” she answered, constrainedly.

And then, with another bow, he excused himself and left her.

A convulsive sob broke from the girl’s lips as she watched him pass down
the long room and out at a lower door; then she, too, arose and glided
through the window near which she had been sitting.

She sped along the wide piazza until she came to the end, where a flight
of steps led down to a little arbor, or cluster of small trees which
inclosed a great piece of statuary.

She fled within it, and sinking down upon the granite base which
supported the marble group, she gave vent to her misery in a burst of
passionate tears.

Lord Carrol, too, as he passed out of the ball-room, was more deeply
moved than he would have liked to betray, and not very well pleased
either with the part he had been compelled to play so much against his
inclination.

Had his companion been any other than Josephine, perhaps he would have
felt differently; but he could not forget that he had once been
represented as her lover, and something in her manner to-night warned
him that she would not have regretted it had that farce been a _bona
fide_ marriage service instead, and he was exceedingly annoyed over the
affair.

He met his mother as he was going through a hall, and she detained him
by gently laying her hand upon his arm.

“Has anything disturbed you?” she asked, looking up into his clouded
face.

“No, mother; nothing but that farce which has just been enacted. I do
not like such things; they seem too much like sacrilege,” he returned.

“Neither do I like them, Archie,” she said, gravely. “We have no right
to make light of any subject so serious as marriage; but Minnie is a
wild, thoughtless girl, intent only on the excitement of the moment, and
did not stop to consider. I must say, though, that Miss Richards helped
to carry it off splendidly, and appeared the blushing, modest bride to
perfection. She is a fine-looking girl.”

She said this to sound him, regarding him searchingly all the time that
she was speaking.

“Yes; she appears to attract considerable admiration,” he replied,
indifferently, and then passed on.

He went out at the great hall-door upon the veranda, which Josephine had
just a moment or two ago traversed, and followed almost in her
footsteps, until he came to that little circle of shrubbery, when,
instead of going within it, he went around it.

He could not shake off the unpleasant sensations that were upon him;
everything in his nature had suddenly seemed to become out of tune, and
he wished to get away from even the sounds of the gay revelers within
the house, while his thoughts turned wistfully toward the new world and
Star.

He was getting very impatient to go to her, and he had intended to be on
his way thither before this, but circumstances had recently transpired
by which he would be detained another month, and the time seemed very
long to him.

He paced back and forth in the moonlight for some time, his footsteps
making no sound on the velvety turf; but all at once, as he passed that
evergreen circle, within which Josephine still sat, a sob fell upon his
ear and startled him. He stopped to listen, and heard the sound
repeated. With his usual energy and decision, he passed around to the
entrance and approached the group of statuary to ascertain who was
there.

At first he could see no one, for just then the moon was hidden by a
cloud, and Josephine’s dress being white, her form blended with the
marble and could not be distinguished, while she was so absorbed by her
own emotions that she was not aware of Lord Carrol’s presence until he
touched her on the shoulder and said:

“Pardon me, you are grieving; is your trouble anything that I can help?”

She sprang to her feet instantly and confronted him, her cheeks blazing
hotly, her whole form trembling from the touch of his hand.

“Miss Richards!” he exclaimed, in surprise, as he recognized her, while
involuntarily he recoiled from her, so unexpected and disagreeable—in
his present frame of mind—was this meeting.

“I thought,” he added, “that you were in the ball-room enjoying yourself
with the other merrymakers.”

She noticed the coldness of his tone, as well as his unconscious
shrinking from her, and it cut her to the heart, while at the same time
it aroused her anger.

“Enjoying myself!” she repeated, passionately and unguardedly; “the
evening is spoiled for me; everything is spoiled—the world and my life.
That mockery through which we have just passed has made me _miserable_.”

It was strange, he thought, that they should both feel thus.

“I regret that anything should have occurred to make you so unhappy,” he
returned. “I hoped while you were the guest of my mother that nothing
would transpire to mar the pleasure of any one. But,” he added, more
cheerfully, “you must not allow that farce to oppress you thus. I do
not, as I have said before, approve of making light of such serious
things, and marriage, to me, seems like a sacred ordinance. But no harm
was done, I trust; our friends were amused for a half hour; and really,
Miss Richards,” he concluded, smilingly, “if, when you come to be
married in earnest, you make as charming a bride as you did to-night,
the happy man will be one to be envied.”

“_Don’t_, Lord Carrol,” Josephine cried out, in a sharp tone of pain,
and laying her hand appealingly on his arm; “_don’t_ say such things to
me!”

She was trembling like a leaf, and he saw that she was terribly excited,
while the piteous tone in which she had just spoken went directly to his
kind heart. He took her hand and drew it under his arm.

“You are nervous,” he said, kindly. “Come and walk with me a few moments
until you are calmer—the night is almost like summer—then I will take
you back to the company.”

His tone was so sympathizing, his touch on her arm so gentle, while it
thrilled every fiber of her body, that it was more than she could bear.

She was going to-morrow, and this man whom she loved with a passion
almost amounting to idolatry, would be beyond her reach. She would not
meet him again for months, perhaps never, and this thought, added to her
other pain, broke her down completely.

She grasped his arm with both her white hands, her heart was beating
like a frightened bird’s, there was a choking sensation in her throat,
and bowing her graceful head upon her clasped and trembling hands, she
burst into a fresh fit of weeping, which was like a tempest.

The young lord found himself in a very awkward position. Those shaking
hands, that bowed head lying so near his heart, that lithe, quivering
form, those tears and sobs, told him but too plainly what caused this
deep emotion.

“Miss Richards—Josephine,” he said, unwittingly using her first name in
his embarrassment, “let me take you in. You will make yourself ill. What
can I do for you?”

But she could not control herself. She had abandoned herself too
entirely now to her passion to conquer it readily, and she sobbed on,
conscious only of how she loved him, and that she was near him.

Oh! if he could but have returned her love, she would gladly have given
the best years of her life. There was no sacrifice too great, she
thought at that moment, for her to make in exchange for the prize she
wished to win.

“What can I do for you, my friend?” he asked again.

“_Love me!_” burst most unconsciously from her trembling lips.

He started violently. He had not imagined that she would dare to give
utterance to such words as these; while she knew, the instant that they
were spoken, that instead of gaining his affection, she had forfeited
even his respect.

There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Lord Carrol said very
gravely, but still very gently:

“Miss Richards, you have become so excited over what has transpired,
that I think you are hardly conscious of, or responsible for what you
have said. Shall we go in now?”

“No!” she answered, lifting her head proudly, and stifling her sobs,
although she still clung tightly to his arm, as if she could not let him
go. “No; I will not go in yet. Having said so much, I must say more. You
are right. I am not responsible for the words which I have spoken. I did
not mean to speak them—they escaped me unawares; but since I have spoken
them, I cannot recall them, and my secret is mine no longer. Oh!” she
continued, with a heart-breaking sob, “pity me, have compassion on me,
_forgive_ me!”

“I have nothing to forgive,” he said, kindly; “and, believe me, I am
very sorry that your nerves should have been so overtaxed to-night;
but,” and his face flushed, “perhaps it will be better for both of us if
I tell you that, however much I may esteem you, my heart could never
respond to the wish you have expressed; it has long been given to
another. I thought you knew this; I thought your knew that—I loved your
cousin, Miss Gladstone.”

Her hands dropped from his arm as if they had been burned, while keen,
quivering pains shot all over her body at this avowal.

Her head came up with a haughty gesture, her eyes blazed with sudden
anger, her red lips curled with bitter scorn. She had humiliated
herself—she had bowed her proud spirit to the dust to win him, and now
he dared to tell her this—dared to tell her that he loved the girl whom
she hated, whom she had triple cause to hate in that she was far her
superior in every way—she had won the heart of the only man whom she had
ever loved, and had laid her under an obligation which she could never
repay.

“I believe I have been _mad_!” she whispered, fiercely, through her
tightly shut teeth, which shone like lovely pearls in the moonlight.
“Yes, I must have been mad,” she went on; “some spirit of evil must have
possessed me to make me tell you what I have; for—hear me, Lord Carrol—I
do _not_ love you; I _hate_ you! If I ever had any love for you, it has
turned to hate now, and I detest the girl whom you profess to love, and
for whom you have dared to confess your affection, knowing how I hate
her.”

She pressed her hands wildly to her temples, with a low moan. It was not
so easy as she thought to hate where she had loved so passionately.

“Do you think it is a light thing,” she asked, hotly, “for a girl to
reveal the secrets of her heart, as I have revealed mine to-night? Do
you think there has been no sacrifice of pride or modesty on my part to
tell you what I have told you? My heart has been burning to ashes while
standing here by your side, and you have pitilessly tortured me still
further by telling me that you love Star Gladstone—that girl who has
only crossed my path to mar my every prospect in life. I thought half an
hour ago, when I stood beside you during that mock ceremony and spoke
those sacred words, that if they could only have been real—if I could
indeed have been made your lawful wife, it would have been like the
happiness of heaven for me. If you could have but called me by that fond
name only once—if you had looked tenderly into my eyes and owned me
yours, I could have asked no greater bliss in life. But, heavens! when I
break every barrier down, when I forget my womanhood and modesty and
tell you how I idolize you, you coolly inform me that _you_ love the
girl _I_ hate. Beware! you have made me an eternal enemy to you both,
and I will ruin _both_ your lives, as you have ruined mine, if I can.”

She would have dashed wildly by him after uttering those last fierce,
revengeful words, but he placed himself directly in her path and would
not let her pass.

He saw now that all his sympathy and kindly feeling had been worse than
wasted. He had read her character aright from the first; she was totally
selfish, and her love—if an unreasoning passion like hers could be
called love—would have made any true man miserable, for her ambition
would never be satisfied.

He did not wonder now that he had not had more faith in her, and his
sympathy and sorrow for her were at once turned into contempt.

“Miss Richards,” he began, in a stern, cold voice, and looking down into
her angry, blazing eyes with a glance which cowed her in spite of her
passion, “what respect I may have entertained for you heretofore, what
pity or compassion I may have experienced for your apparent suffering
to-night, and the only emotion which ever made you appear really womanly
or gentle in my eyes, has wholly vanished during those last vindictive
words of yours. I had begun to hope that you had learned lessons of
charity and kindness during the past year—that you had come to realize
there was something _more_ required in life than a continual seeking
after pleasure and the gratification of pride and ambitious desires; but
I perceive that I was mistaken, and I am sorry, for you will be the
greatest sufferer. Your declaration of hatred, and your threat that you
will ruin Miss Gladstone’s and my life, are but idle words; for our love
is something that malice can never touch, and a month hence I shall be
on my way to America to make her my wife.”

Josephine uttered a cry of mingled pain and anger at this, and made
another effort to leave him, but he would not let her go even yet.

“I have not quite finished what I wish to say, Miss Richards,” he
continued, “and we may as well come to a full understanding at once. I
have been told of the change in Miss Gladstone’s fortunes. I have,
indeed, learned much regarding her life while she was with you that has
both pained and surprised me. I know, too, of some things which occurred
this year, when you were both visitors at the same fashionable resort.
You are, it appears, to remain a resident of England, and we may meet
occasionally in society; but let me tell you I shall never allow any
such indignity to be heaped upon the future Lady Carrol as that of which
you were guilty this summer at Newport.”

He saw her start as he said this.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, haughtily.

“I do not think you are so ignorant of my meaning as you appear,” he
returned, his handsome lips curling with scorn; “but if you wish to be
reminded of the fact that you publicly twitted Miss Gladstone last
summer of having once performed the duties of a chambermaid in your
family, I can do so. But do not let it ever happen again, or I shall
feel it my duty to make _all_ the facts of the case public.”

“Who has told you all this?” she demanded, angrily.

“That does not matter,” he replied, coldly; “it is sufficient that I
know it.”

“Ralph Meredith has told you!” she cried.

“Mr. Meredith is my friend—but that is a point we need not discuss, I
think,” he answered, quietly.

She beat the air frantically with her hands. She felt how little, how
contemptible she must appear in his sight.

“Perhaps you do not know that he played the role of devoted lover to
Miss Gladstone this summer,” she sneered, hoping to make him jealous.

Lord Carrol flushed.

He had mistrusted something of this from what Ralph had told him. He did
not believe that Star would have confessed what she had to him, except
to convince him that she could never entertain feelings of affection
toward any one save the man who, as she supposed, had wronged her.

“Miss Gladstone is my affianced wife,” he replied, proudly feeling that
he had a perfect right to regard and speak of her as such, knowing that
she still loved him, and that his explanations to her would re-establish
their former relations. “But,” he added, as he stepped aside now to
allow her to pass, “it is useless to prolong this interview; only let me
caution you, Miss Richards, to remember that while you show proper
respect for me and _mine_, I shall also tender _you_ the respect
belonging to a lady.”

She was as white as her spotless dress now. He could see by the
moonlight that she had grown perfectly ghastly, but there was a wild,
fearful light in her eyes.

“My hate will follow you both,” she said, hoarsely, “and I tell you I
will ruin your lives if I can.”

She dashed by him with the speed of a fawn and disappeared from his
sight, leaving him standing there wonder-stricken that a creature so
beautiful to look upon could possess so depraved a nature.

                             CHAPTER XXXIX.
                            A CRUSHING BLOW.

The next morning when the company met at breakfast, Josephine
experienced a feeling of intense relief upon learning that Lord Carrol
had been called away to London at an early hour on “important business.”

This was the day of their departure also, and she was not sorry to leave
the house which had been the scene of her humiliation and despair over
her unrequited love.

The meal was not a very social one, for every one was tired out with
last night’s dissipation, and it required more of an effort than they
felt capable of making to be very merry.

After it was over, and as Josephine was passing through the hall on her
way to her own room, she espied the morning papers lying on the table.

Mechanically she took up one, glancing carelessly over the columns, when
almost the first thing she saw was a notice of the arrival of a steamer
from New York two days previous, with a list of the passengers below.

A lurid light shot into her eyes and an angry exclamation burst from her
lips as she read; for, among the other names in that list, she read
those of Jacob Rosevelt, Miss Star Gladstone and maid, from New York.

“What on earth can have possessed them to come aboard just at this
time?” she muttered, with lowering brow. “If they had only waited a
month they would have missed him, but now they will be sure to meet.”

She took the paper and went up stairs to her mother’s room, and showed
the notice to her.

She was very angry also.

“It seems as if that girl was bound to be the ruination of us. They are
continually crossing our path, and I declare it is more than human
nature can patiently bear. I wonder what has brought them to England?”

“I suppose Uncle Jacob thinks he must give his charming _protegee_ every
advantage possible,” Josephine sneered, bitterly.

“Well, I’m sure we do not need to mind them now,” Mrs. Richards said,
with a sigh of satisfaction. “Even if she gets every penny of his money,
your position will henceforth be far superior to hers.”

“I don’t know about that,” the girl retorted, with a painful flush. “If
Lord Carrol meets her, and they make up their quarrel, I shall still be
rather in the background, I imagine.”

“True; I had not thought of that,” her mother replied with a blank look.
“I wish you could have managed to entrap him, Jo.”

“Jo” bit her lips until the blood spurted from them, as she remembered
how her “trap” had sprung and wounded only herself.

“Lord Carrol is a _fool_!” she said, passionately.

Her mother looked up at her searchingly, mistrusting that her daughter
had more reason for her pale face and heavy eyes than she knew of.

“If only that marriage last night could have been a real one, I should
have been the happiest woman in England this morning,” she said,
wistfully.

“With one exception,” Josephine thought, with a bitter sigh and a hard
glitter in her eyes; but she said nothing.

They did not leave Sherbrooke House that day, however. A sudden storm
came on during the afternoon, too violent to admit of the departure of
any one, and Lady Sherbrooke would not allow any of her guests to
mention such a thing. And so the long, dreary day was spent in rest and
quiet.

But the next day broke bright and pleasant, and just as the company were
sitting down to the morning meal, Minnie Shelton came dancing into the
breakfast-room, her cheeks glowing, her eyes sparkling, and her lips
parted in the brightest of smiles, while a paper fluttered in her small
hands.

“Such fun!” she exclaimed, merrily. “Here is a description of your ball,
Lady Sherbrooke, in the Cheshire _Gazette_—the mock marriage and all;
and the best of the whole thing is, they have written up that event so
that at a first glance any one would naturally suppose that a real
wedding had occurred. Listen.”

She held up the paper and read:

  “MARRIED.—At the country residence of Lady Sherbrooke, on the 10th
  instant, Sir Archibald Sherbrooke and Lord Carrol, of Carrolton, to
  Miss Josephine Richards, formerly of New York, U. S. A., but recently
  reported to be the heiress presumptive to the Thornton estates in
  Devonshire. The fair bride was lovely in her bridal robes, not the
  least noticeable of which was the exquisite point lace vail, which was
  also of great value.”

“There—isn’t that too rich for anything?” the gay girl cried; “and do
look at the mock bride’s blushes!” pointing at Josephine, whose face was
crimson from varied emotions; “what a pity it is that our handsome groom
is not here to see them; and one would almost imagine she was a real
bride by her confusion.”

“Then there follows a long account of the ball, which explains
everything,” she added, laying down the paper; “but I’m so out of breath
that I can’t read any more, and you’ll have to peruse it for
yourselves.”

There was an awkward silence for a moment after she had ceased speaking;
then Lady Sherbrooke said, in tones of grave reproof:

“Minnie, my dear, what a wild child you are; but you must learn to be
more thoughtful of the feelings of others.”

“Why, what have I done?” she asked, with great, round, innocent eyes,
yet a guilty flush rose to her cheeks.

“I am very glad if you enjoyed the ball,” her ladyship continued, still
gravely; “but I regret that you should have proposed turning so serious
a subject as marriage into mockery, and I am very sorry—yes, deeply
displeased, that any one, in writing an account of our gathering here,
should have given that farce such an appearance of reality, for it might
make it very awkward, not only for my son, but also for some of our
guests,” she concluded, with glance at Josephine’s downcast face.

Little Miss Shelton was very uneasy during this reproof, but she
rallied, and said, lightly:

“But, dear Lady Sherbrooke, it was all done so nicely; and everything
was so lovely that it almost seemed like a real wedding. I wish we
_could_ have a real wedding. Won’t somebody get married, please, and
give me an invitation? I haven’t been to one since I was a little girl
in short clothes.”

And the elf looked around her so roguishly, and with such an expression
of mock distress on her pretty face, that the company broke into an
indulgent laugh, and then the subject was for the time dropped.

But Josephine, watching her opportunity when some of the guests were
leaving, and people generally were occupied saying farewell, sought and
found that paper, and slipped it unobserved into her pocket.

In one of the rooms of a beautiful suite of apartments looking out upon
St. James square, a young girl sat by a window, looking out upon the
passers-by in the street below.

She was tall, and slender, and graceful as a young elm, her small head
crowned with masses of golden hair, her eyes—“heaven’s own blue”—looking
out from under a broad forehead, which was partially concealed by the
shining mist which lay lightly upon it, her red lips parted with an
expression of eager interest as she gazed upon the hurrying throng
below. She was as fair as the day—a perfect picture, upon which the eye
would love to linger.

It is our Star, fresh and beautiful as ever, but with something more of
maturity and dignity in her bearing than when we last saw her.

She has been in London just one week, and is enjoying every day, despite
the proverbial rain and fog, for she has returned to her native land
once more, and every inch of ground is replete with interest for her.

The past few months have been full of enjoyment, for she has “been
everywhere and seen everything” in the far West of the New World—at
least as far as that was practicable, and as she had warned Mr. Rosevelt
she should wish to do—and with such congenial companions as he and Miss
Meredith always were the time could not fail to pass pleasantly.

But she had turned her face with even keener anticipations toward
England’s shores, while not even the memory of her previous terrible
experience at sea had power to make her shrink from the long voyage, or
mar the delight of this glad return.

As she sits there in her handsome parlor, looking out upon the street, a
door opens, and Jacob Rosevelt enters.

He looks younger and in better health than we have ever seen him before,
while his face is animated and genial, as if life was at its brightest
with him.

Star looked around as he entered.

“How quickly you have returned, Uncle Jacob,” she said, rising, and
going to meet him, and taking his hat.

“Yes; I knew you would be impatient for your letters, and, as there is
quite a budget to be gone through with, I thought it best not to keep
you in suspense.”

As he spoke he drew from his capacious pocket a half-dozen letters, and
as many papers, which he had just received from the American Legation,
and half of which he gave into Star’s own hands.

“This is from Grace, this from Mr. Appleton, and—this must be from
Nattie Browning, to whom I gave up my position as a teacher,” she said,
running the letters through her white fingers.

She laid the papers, which, of course, were of minor importance, upon
the table, and, sitting down in a low chair, carefully cut the ends of
the envelopes, and was soon deep in the contents of her news from beyond
the sea.

It took her nearly an hour to read them all.

Miss Meredith’s was full of chat and innocent gossip, just like that
charming young lady’s own self, and contained a number of commissions
and charges, not the least important of which was that Star must be sure
to hunt up her brother Ralph, who wrote that he should spend nearly the
whole of the month of December in or near London.

Mr. Appleton’s letter was mostly on business, and regarding the book she
had written, as well as another which he wanted her to write. It
contained also a check, and Star always felt very proud whenever these
bits of paper came made out to her. They gave her a feeling of
independence and pleasure which no other money did.

The third letter was an entertaining one from a classmate—a poor girl to
whom she had, as she said, resigned a position as teacher upon finding
herself the heiress to a million.

After reading these she took up her papers in a listless way; she did
not feel much in the mood for looking them over; they seemed tame and
uninteresting after the letters.

But all at once she noticed that one was not a home paper; it bore the
London postmark, and was addressed in a hand she did not recognize.

“It cannot be from Ralph Meredith,” she said to herself, “for he does
not know that I am here. Besides, it is not his handwriting. I wonder
who could have sent it?”

She opened it with considerable curiosity, and yet with a feeling of
foreboding at her heart.

The Cheshire _Gazette_, she read, as she espied the heading, and then
her eye glanced down over the columns underneath.

Suddenly she started.

There is a paragraph marked.

Her eyes dilate—a look of horror comes into them; her lips grow pale,
and she feels as if she is suffocating as she reads:

  “MARRIED.—At the country residence of Lady Sherbrooke, on the 10th
  instant, Sir Archibald Sherbrooke and Lord Carrol, of Carrolton, to
  Miss Josephine Richards, of New York, U. S. A., and heiress
  presumptive to the Thornton estates in Devonshire, etc.”

Could it be true? The paper dropped from her nerveless hands. Was the
deed really done at last, and Archibald Sherbrooke lost to her forever?

She had not realized until that moment how much of hope had lived in her
heart during all this time.

But these dreadful words had suddenly cut it down, as the sharp sickle
cuts down the tender grass.

Had she really read them, or had her imagination played her some
terrible trick?

Feeling as if she were turning to stone, she picked up the paper and
compelled herself to go over the horrible sentence again.

Yes, it was all true—it was as plain as print could make it. But what
was this?

A new terror seized her—something that she had not thought of until now,
she had been so stunned by the bare fact that her lover was married.

“Sir Archibald Sherbrooke _and_ Lord Carrol, of Carrolton!”

A mist comes over her eyes; her heart drops like a thing of lead in her
bosom.

In an instant a suspicion of the truth flashed upon her.

Had she done her lover an irreparable wrong? she asked herself, with a
feeling of despair. Had she driven him from her, taunting him with
treachery and cowardice, and refusing to listen to his defense, when
perhaps he had the best in the world to offer her?

Oh! if she had but heeded Mr. Rosevelt when he begged her to let him see
him and learn the reason of his mysterious conduct. Oh! if she had only
answered that advertisement and allowed him to come to her as he had
entreated.

She had been cruel, unjust, wicked; and now it was too late to atone for
it.

She felt as if bands of ice were being bound about her heart—as if coals
of fire were heaped upon her brain, and branded upon it, in letters
which would haunt her till her dying hour, those two names, Sir
Archibald Sherbrooke and Lord Carrol, of Carrolton.

Familiar as she was with English customs, she could understand readily
enough how he had become possessed of them, and it was so strange that
she had never thought of it before.

In all her suffering upon learning, as she had supposed, that she had
been betrayed, she had never endured pain like this; and, with her sight
failing, her senses reeling, without sound or warning, she slipped from
her chair to the floor, where she lay white and still in a lifeless heap
at Jacob Rosevelt’s feet.

                              CHAPTER XL.
                         STELLA’S MENTAL AGONY.

“Bless my soul! what does this mean?” Jacob Rosevelt cried, as, looking