The Beloved Cinderella

By Mary Imlay Taylor

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 4

Breakfast proved a simpler, if no less exciting experience. Etta had slept late, there was no one at the table to criticize, and Star felt a growing kindness in her father’s eyes. At first they had seemed to her like hard steel; now she discovered a new warmth in them. Then she became aware of Carr, who was talking to Blanchard and watching her, while Nelson, silent at his meal was grave and pale. It brought her back to earth; she was conscious of new sounds, a bustle in the hall, and the butler bringing a message to her father. He looked around at her and smiled.

“Finished your breakfast, Mary Agnes? Run along then; one of the maids will be there to open boxes. I knew you wanted a few things and wired last night. Something’s come by the first train. Look the things over and send back what you don’t want, my child.”

Star’s gray eyes dilated. “For me?” she rose excitedly, a new color in her cheeks. “I’ll go and look! You’re — “ she stopped shyly beside his chair — “you’re awfully good, sir!”

He reached out a strong hand and drew her to him. ‘Father’,” he corrected gently. “Remember — if they’re not right you can have them all exchanged.”

Star was excited at the thought. Would it be a new dress? She flashed by Nelson, catching a smiling glance as she went, but it was Carr who opened the door for her. He was standing there, correct and smiling in his gray tweeds, his seal-brown head polished smooth and his keen eyes searching hers.

“Ready to choose?” he laughed ‘The curtain’s going up on the first act, Princess!”

Star danced past him, half pleased at his open admiration. She ran, panting, upstairs, for Madeline, the French maid, had told her that the boxes were opened in the upper hall.

It was a big place, like a room, with windows overlooking the gates of Windymere. It was full of boxes now and Madeline was taking out a bewildering mass of new and dainty clothes. Silk stockings, sandals, growns! Here was a shimmering blue silk, there a rose pink crepe, here a miracle in green. Sport skirts, silk sweaters, fluffy long coats, hats — everything!

Star stood bewildered.

“Oh!” she cried, “how lovely! I never dreamed of such things, never!”

“If mademoiselle will try this on.” The maid had selected, deftly, a pale blue thing for morning wear.

It fitted perfectly. Turning around delightedly before the mirror, Star caught her breath.

“I don’t know myself!” she cried, and then, hearing Blanchard’s deep voice in the hall below, she ran to the top of the stairs impulsively.

He was coming up.

“Will I do, Father?” she asked, suddenly shy.

“Just right! I didn’t want you to wear old clothes, my child.” He patted her shoulder. “Everything to suit, eh?”

“Oh, everything!” Star was childishly pleased. “I never dreamed of having such things — I don’t know what to keep!”

He laughed. “Keep them all. We’ll get something better when we go over to Paris.”

“Paris?” Star gasped. “Oh, Father!”

He looked down at her and his clever middle-aged face softened.

“You’d like to go to Paris, then?”

“Oh!”

“Nothing but ‘ohs,’ it seems,” he laughed again. “It’s a new world for you, Mary Agnes. We’ve lost each other for a long time, but I’ll make it up to you — “ he stopped to hear a low toned message from a servant who had come upstairs unnoticed.

Star did not hear it, but her father’s face changed quickly and she heard his curt: “Tell him to wait!” When he turned back to her his softened mood had disappeared; Star felt vaguely that there was an element in this aspect of him that froze the little budding impulse of affection in her heart. She began to pull over her boxes impulsively; she meant to ask him if he liked this or that. But she could not now, she was shy again. She forced herself to ask him cheerfully if he liked blue best — or pink.

“Keep the whole outfit, if it pleases you,” he said again. “By the way, here are some things for you that were your mother’s.” He drew two leather cases from his pockets. “I took them out of the safe this morning. Yours now, Mary Agnes.”

Star took the cases, flushed and grave. “Mother’s? How I have wanted to see her always!” she cried softly.

He put his hand on her bright hair and stroked it. “You’re not much like her, my child. I was always glad she didn’t know you were stolen; she died when you were born.”

“Oh, Father — was she very young?”

“About your age, Mary Agnes.”

Star looked up at him, expecting some show of feeling, but he did not even wait for her to speak, he was already on the stairs.

“I’ve got to see a man on business,” he explained briefly. “You keep everything you want, no need to worry over choosing.”

Star was chilled; there seemed to be something about him that she missed. Then she reproached herself. How good he was to her, how generous! It was a moment before she remembered the leather cases in her hands, and she went to the window in the hall to open them. The larger one held two bracelets set with diamonds, a ruby ring and a sapphire pendant; the smaller case, a single priceless string of pearls. Star gave a little cry of delight and dropped to her knees, looking at them. She could only vaguely surmise their value, but their beauty dazzled her. Surely, she had found Aladdin’s lamp! Yesterday — she laughed softly, tears in her eyes — she had ridden Mac’s old black mule!

Flushed and eager, she sprang to her feet, running to the mirror again to fasten the pearls around her neck. The light fell on them entrancingly. Star held her breath; she had never seen such pearls, far less dreamed that they would ever hang about her neck. Something hidden deep in her, some woman instinct of adornment, stirred and blossomed.

She was still gazing at them, touching them almost reverently, when a door opened and Etta Blanchard came slowly toward her. A stormy but lovely Etta, clad in something toned with the nasturtiums at her girdle, her black hair framing the rich color of her face.

Star saw her in the mirror and turned.

“Oh, Etta, look!” she cried. “My mother’s pearls!”

Etta laughed. “Don’t get so excited over pearls, Mary Agnes,” she said carelessly. “They’re lovely, of course. I’ve been dying to wear them myself, but Uncle’s always had the wildest conviction that — you’d come back for them.”

Star’s gray eyes softened. “He’s told me — mother never knew I was stolen!” For an instant her face was tender, then the flash of excitement lit it up again. “Oh, Etta, I think these pearls are wonderful!”

Etta leaned against the window-frame and watched her, half laughing. “Imagine pearls with a morning frock like yours,” she mocked.
“Good gracious, Mary Agnes, take them off, they look absurd — now!

For a second Star’s gray eyes sparkled. “As bad as the wrong fork?” she asked quickly.

Etta colored. “Oh, I’m sorry! Of course you’ll make mistakes. But — don’t wear pearls before twelve o’clock — unless you’re going to your own wedding.”

Star laughed, but she was still fingering the necklace lovingly. “I never knew before how lovely pearls were!” she murmured to herself, ignoring the dark-eyed cousin who was looking out of the window now toward the gates.

“Good gracious!” broke in Etta’s laughing voice, “who on earth is that old party going to the gate? Oh, how funny!”

Star, with the pearls still clasped about her throat, looked around.

“Pap!” she cried. “Why, it’s Pap!”

She seemed to feel, rather than see, that Etta caught her red lip between her teeth to keep back her laughter. A hot flush of anger ran all over Star’s young body and grew red in her cheeks. She stood, her hand still clasping the pearls, looking at Mr. Binney’s homely figure plodding to the gate. The scales fell suddenly from before her eyes and she saw him as he must look to other people — to her father, to Etta! Something in the old man’s walk spoke of defeat. He had been to see her father, perhaps to see her, and he had been turned away!

Without a word, Star ran past Etta to the stairs. There were window-doors below that opened on the terrace ; she flung one wide and darted down the marble steps. Pap had passed out the open gates, but he was moving slowly, plodding along, his head down.

“Pap!” she cried, “Pap!” and flung herself upon him, slipping her shaking hands around his stout old arm and clinging to it.

The old man stopped with sudden great relief. “Why, Stargrass!” He patted her hands. “You all right, honey?”

“Oh, Pap, why didn’t you come in? Just look at me — “ she let go of his arm and whirled around before him — “would you know me? Honest, would you, Pap?”

The old man looked at her wistfully. “Got new clothes? My, but you look peachy! Yes, I’d know you, honey, even if you are rigged up like the Queen of Sheba!”

“It’s only a morning frock — that’s what they call it, Pap!” Star said excitedly. “And I’ve got oceans and oceans of things. Father telegraphed last night; they came in boxes this morning! It’s like Cinderella and the fairy godmother, isn’t it? And — Pap,” she caught his arm again, her eyes shining, “look at these pearls — they’re real, they were my mother’s.”

Mr. Binney touched them cautiously. “My soul, Star, they’re most as big as navy beans! Remember that big one Ma b’iled in th’ oyster? I was goin’ t’ have it set for you, but, Lordy, I reckon you’d turn up your nose at it now!”

“No, I wouldn’t! But, Pap, why didn’t you stay and ask for me just now?”

Mr. Binney’s rugged face clouded, some of the tenderness died suddenly out of it, he knitted his brows.

“I meant to ask for you, Stargrass, I kinder aimed t’ see if you were satisfied ; but, of course, I went there to find out if — if it was all regular. You see, honey, Ma never let on to me until she’d gone an’ done it. She seems to have been scared for fear I’d stop her. I couldn’t; it had to be. Seems kinder like a special Providence that smashed up that rogue, Pharcellus, in front of our door. He was a tough one!”

“It’s been so hard for me to understand — please tell me, Pap.” Star slipped her hand through his arm again, the flush dying out of her face and leaving it pale.

Mr. Binney cleared his throat. “There ain’t so much to tell, Star, Pharcellus, an’ some more like him, stole you when your father an’ his folks were in Italy — must have been traveling or something. He advertised for you, it seems, but I never noticed — wouldn’t have connected you up with a little girl lost over there anyways. Pharcellus made a dyin’ statement, got it written down by Ma, an’ signed it. Pursuit got so hot over there they came across with you. One of th’ gang got shot robbin’ a house an’ th’ rest scattered. Pharcellus had you an’ found out they was after him, likely to push him hard, so he brought you down here an’ dropped you in th’ grass, honey. He was raised down here a-piece an’ knew the lay of th’ land. Now, it turns out there’s been a reward offered lately for any news of you, dead or alive, no questions asked. Pharcellus must have come down here, tryin’ to get that reward some way, see? Death took him, Star, an’ — “ Mr. Binney swallowed hard — “ Ma took it into her head to take you home without tellin’ me — that’s all. I was afraid maybe she’d been headstrong or somethin’, but th’ paper an’ everything’s all right. You’re a mighty lucky girl, Star, I s’pose, I — “ He stopped, his eyes misting.

Star’s hand tightened on his arm, an eager light came into her eyes. “Pap, there’s the reward — you ought to have it — yes, you should! You need it — oh, Pap, I know how it is — that mortgage and the Pahonkey Shop opposite. IF you had the money —“

“Pshaw, honey! Do you think I’d take money for bein’ good to you?” he asked indignantly.

“But, Papa, I know Father would like to give it to you!”

“Drat it!” cried Pap, hot with anger, “that’s all he thought I come for! Don’t seem to think maybe I — I — “ He choked and was silent.

Star’s gray eyes darkened; she caught at the old man’s sleeve “Wasn’t he — nice to you, Pap?” she asked in a low voice.

Mr. Binney, burning with secret resentment at his treatment, caught himself in time. He saw the girl’s face; a wave of tenderness submerged him.

“Don’t you fret, Stargrass! It’s all right — if you’re happy. You are happy, honey?” he asked wistfully.

She laid her soft cheek against his worn old sleeve.

“I ought to be, Pap,” she whispered; “I’ve got everything. Everything I ever dreamed about!”

He put his work-worn hand up. almost timidly, and stroked her hair.

‘Then it’s all right, honey!” he said, in a choked voice.

She did not answer. Her face was still half hidden on his shoulder when a big car suddenly resentment at his treatment, caught slipped through the gates, turned himself in time. He saw the girl’s and headed toward them.

“It’s Father!” she cried, her hand still on Pap’s arm.

Blanchard stopped the car. “Mary Agnes!” he said sharply.

Star went to him. “I’ve just found Pap — Mr. Binney — Father, and I want to — .”

“Get in!” commanded Blanchard imperatively.

Something in his tone made the girl obey, but she turned to look back.

“Pap,” she called, “I want to — “

“Drive on, Giddings!” Mr. Blanchard’s voice was hard.

The big car started and swung forward. Star, sinking into a place beside her father was aware of Etta’s amused eyes opposite and of Carr’s broad smile. She turned hot and leaned out, looking back. Pap still stood in the road, his stout old figure solid as a rock. Suddenly she saw herself a little girl running to him with her little troubles, clinging to his big hand, sure of his faithful old heart. It came back to her, and she felt — as the car glided on — that she was leaving him behind her in the dust!

Star’s lip trembled, she felt the sting of hot tears in her eyes and winked them back.

(To be continued)