The Beloved Cinderella

By Mary Imlay Taylor

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 7

Stargrass, the lovely girl grown from the deserted baby the Binneys had found, was not theirs any more — she was the daughter of rich Mr. Blanchard. Pap Binney, broken-hearted, felt that something was wrong; Mrs. Binney, weeping comforted him by telling him that Star would be happy there in the big house — would have everything a girl’s heart could desire.

Up at the big house everything seemed strange to Star — cold and unfriendly — and Etta, niece of Blanchard, was frankly hostile. Even the friendship of John Nelson, Blanchard’ s secretary, could not counterbalance the sinister familiarity of James Carr.

Ma Binney, hungry for a sight of Star, is caught in the shrubbery by Blanchard and Nelson. Blanchard immediately takes Star to Paris. He tells her finally that he did so to remove her from the vicinity of Pap and Mother Binney. He refuses to allow her to return to visit the Binneys before leaving New York.

Now go on with the story.

It happened that Star did not stay a year in Paris. She did stay many months in a convent-school there, where Etta had previously acquired her perfect French, but Blanchard’s business called him back twice to the United States, and finally, coming to see Star one day early in December, he seemed to find her so greatly changed to his liking that he decided to take her home with him for Christmas.

“I’ll present her as my daughter,” he thought proudly. “She’s tremendously improved, and, by Jove,” he said to Nelson, “isn’t she lovely?”

Nelson, who had met them at the pier in Hoboken, tried to assent without too much enthusiasm. He knew Blanchard’s ambitions and he had heard certain discussions of the daughter’s future. Mary Agnes Blanchard would inherit about two millions, besides being the residuary-legatee! Nelson, poor and her father’s clerk, swallowed hard.

“I’d be a terrible cad if I tried to make love to her, even if she’d think of me now,” he said to himself. “A fellow with my prospects trying to get an heiress! Gosh, I’d deserve to be fired!”

It froze the natural impulses in him, and Star, watching him, from under her dark lashes, wondered.

“He must be ill!” she thought. “He’s white as a sheet and mum as a dormouse. Father’s overworking him, poor fellow!”

She was accordingly sweet and gracious to poor John. She made him come and help her at the first lunch in Blanchard’s beautiful town library.

“I had the table brought in here,” she explained, smiling at him. It was twilight now, and she looked entrancing, John thought, helping her arrange the corner to her liking. “Etta says she always served in the drawing-room,” Star went on, “but I like this — I love these books, don’t you?”

“Tremendously.” He felt choked; she had just touched his hand in passing a cup and her fingers thrilled.

“I think I always wanted a room like this.” She was looking around it lovingly.

“It’s a peach,” he agreed, scalding himself, but not looking at the room particularly.

“I never knew before how neutral tints can blend in such a rich-toned way, they’re perfect!” She leaned back in her chair and looked pensively at the fire. “I love it all!” she exclaimed.

John set down his cup. “I knew you would,” he replied harshly. “It’s the kind of thing that was meant for you, it’s a beautiful background, it suits you!”

“Does it?” Star looked across at him thoughtfully. “I wonder!”

“You were made for it,” he assured her, staring fixedly at his own feet.

She watched him narrowly, pretending to be busy with the tea things.

‘There is certainly something the matter with him,” she thought, “or else — “ she turned hot suddenly — “he’s fallen in love with someone else — he doesn’t like me any more!”

“If she keeps on looking at me like that,” John thought desperately, “I’ll — I’ll disgrace myself and kiss her!”

“I wonder who the creature is!” Star thought. “Some horrid girl here in the city, of course!”

“Father’s going to give me a dance tomorrow night,” she said aloud, in a frigid tone; “I believe Etta’s out now arranging to have the ballroom decorated. She came and asked what flowers I wanted. I felt so — so funny. As if it could all be just for me!”

“It is all for you,” said John miserably. “You’re to be presented to society, Miss Blanchard.

She poured another cup, her eyes down. “I suppose you’ve forgotten that I like to be called ‘Star’?” she said severely.

He caught his breath. “No, I haven’t forgotten,” he assured her after a moment; “only — I was afraid to.”

“Afraid to?” her head went up. “Afraid of what?”

He did not answer. He leaned forward and, picking up the tongs, adjusted a log.

“I hate men who are afraid!” Star cried.

He raised his head. “So do I!” he agreed in a harsh voice.

Star’s look wavered under his for the first time.

“Will you ask me to dance tomorrow night?” She spoke gently.

“I do ask you to dance tomorrow night!”

“The first dance?”

“Yes!”

She laughed. “Suppose I refuse; what then?”

“It would be your privilege,” he answered in an odd tone, his face flushing in the fire-light.

“Oh!”

There was a little silence; in it he heard his own heart thumping. The light outside the big windows wavered and the firelight made a fairy circle in which the girl sat, her fair head bowed a little, her hands restless on the tea-table. She looked like the presiding angel of the hearth to him. Suddenly she turned and leaned toward him, laying her hand lightly on his arm.

“Listen! Have you been down to Fishkill Point?” she asked softly.

They were close together, her face tender in the fire-light, but he was heroic. He only said, “Not lately!”

“I wonder if you know — “ she hesitated, looking around at the door behind her.

“She’s getting the cue, she’s ashamed of the old people down there!” he thought. Then she lifted her gray eyes and he was almost lost!

“How are they?”

“You mean — the Binneys?”

She nodded.

“Well, I think. Haven’t they written you?”

“Never!”

He was glad that she was too absorbed to notice him just then, for he knew Pap had written, the old man had told him so, asking anxiously about “little Stargrass.” “They don’t let her have their letters — the snobs!” he thought. “Phew, if I made love to her — the boss would roar like a lion. He’d be right, too!”

“I’m awfully changed, I know,” she said, in an amazed kind of tone. “I see things now as Father and Etta do, but I’m not unfaithful, I love them still!”

Nelson said nothing; he set his teeth hard. What a pity if they had changed her! In the unsympathetic silence her hand fell from his arm, she rose and walked to the window.

“I wish you’d ring for some hot water,” she said over her shoulder.

He rang obediently; then, he, too, looked out of the window.

“Beginning to snow, isn’t it?”

“There seems to be a frost,” Star retorted sharply, walking away.

He stared after her in a tumult of emotion. He adored her and he had no business to tell her so. But to be flouted like this! Suddenly he was tempted to throw his scruples to the winds. He took a step forward, but the portiers swung aside and Etta came in, a sparkle of snow on her furs and her cheeks red with cold. Behind her, bland, smiling, self-confident, came Carr.

Star held out a cordial hand. “Oh!” she cried effusively, “I’m so glad to see you again, Mr. Carr!”

It came as a relief to Nelson that Blanchard, who had come in with Etta, appeared at the door and called to him.

“I want you in the den, John. No! No tea, thanks, Mary Agnes.

The florist will be here in twenty minutes; you and Etta can tell him about the decorations — choose your flowers, I mean. I suppose the fellow knows his business. Jim, I’ve bought those stocks, the whole block.”

“Good!” Carr’s face flushed a little; then, as Blanchard and Nelson went, he turned to Star teasingly. “So, this is the coming-out ball tomorrow night!”

“So Father says.” Star’s sudden cordiality seemed to have dwindled and she let Etta take her place at the tea-table.

“I’m famished,” that young woman announced. “Blake, get me some sandwiches,” she called to the vanishing butler. “I’ve been running about all day to make your party a success tomorrow night,” she added to Star. “I think I’m a Christian martyr, no one cares about me arty more.”

“I do!” said Star sweetly, touching the other girl’s shoulder with caressing fingers.

Etta made a grimace. “Oh, don’t be sentimental! Leave that to Jimmy!” As she spoke she looked across at Carr with a flame of anger in her fine dark eyes.

But he did not see it, he was watching Star.

“I’m not sentimental,” he replied lightly, “I’m practical. I’m going to ask — while there’s time — for the first dance. Give it to me, Mary Agnes, won’t you?” He was standing, looking across at the girl, bewitched by something fresh and young and vital about her. But she smiled at him provokingly, showing him suddenly some of her newly acquired manner, gracious, non-commital, a little French.

“So sorry, but I’ve promised that already.”

Etta looked up from a sandwich, amazed. “Promised your first dance for tomorrow night? For heaven’s sake! You don’t know a soul.”

“Oh, yes, I do! Star smiled again at their surprised faces. “I promised John Nelson just now.”

Etta laughed hilariously. “Oh, Jimmy, isn’t that rich? Imagine how it sounds in the newspapers! ‘Miss Blanchard, the great heiress, opens ball by dancing with her father’s clerk!’ It sounds like a grocery-store!” Etta climaxed, giggling.

Star flushed crimson. “I’m going to dance with him just the same!” she said flatly.

“Oh, I don’t know about that! You wait and see what Uncle says.”

Carr, watching the two girls, saw the fire flash in Star’s gray eyes. “Little Wildcat!” he thought, but he interposed gracefully. “At least I can come in as second?” There was an eagerness in his tone intended to flatter Star’s self-love.

But it did not; she gave him that new pretty artificial smile. “Of course,” she said, and then: “Etta, I think that’s the florist. As it’s my dance I can tell him what I want, don’t you think?”

(To be continued)