The Beloved Cinderella

By Mary Imlay Taylor

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 9

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.

Star studies at a convent-school in Paris and makes great improvement. Blanchard brings her back to New York and gives a party in her honor. John Nelson is promised the first dance, but does not appear and Carr claims it but is refused as Star dances with another partner. Carr later makes love to Star and kisses her. She is furious. Carr hints that if she will accept his suit he will not expose her. Star does not understand. She attempts to leave when Nelson appears and a quarrel between him and Carr ensues. She asks Nelson to go inside. Nelson obeys. Now go on with the story.

Afterwards, the thought of that moment on the balcony turned Star hot with anger. She tossed on her pillow half the night, angry because Carr had dared to kiss her, shamed, too, because Nelson had seen it. What could he think? Then she told herself angrily that she did not care what he thought, he had not cared enough to dance with her at her first ball ! But she lay awake thinking about it; she would have thought of nothing else, trying to solve John’s astonishing failure to keep his engagement, if it had not been that Carr’s words came back and troubled her. What did he mean by the suggestion that there was something between them, some mutual knowledge, some secret, that he would bargain about — at the price of her love? At first she had only been angry and repulsed him violently, without thought, but now she began to puzzle over what he had said. She remembered that he had said something like it before — as if she might be allowed to keep her place here — if she would listen to him! It seemed inexplicable, an astonishing impertinence. What right had he to behave so to her? She knew, too, that he must have previously courted Etta, and he was offering to transfer his allegiance to — to the heiress!

Even in solitude. Star did not like to think of her father’s money as a thing to covet. That he had a great deal, she knew; she had never asked how much. She had a fine feeling of reluctance. She had tried faithfully to love her father; it had not been easy. Ties that bind are formed in childhood; as a child she had adored old Pap Binney. There was nothing in Blanchard — successful, alert, pitiless in the accumulation of money — that suggested the kindly, brusk old man who had carried her, a dew-drenched baby, from the stargrass into his home. Of Pap’s love Star had never had any more doubt than of the rising and the setting of the sun; of Blanchard’s she was only timidly half-assured.

There had been a glamor in the acquisition of so much wealth, her old allegiance had been badly shaken by an insight into the social conditions of her new life. Temptation had come to her, golden-winged, but, in moments of trouble and doubt, her heart turned back to the old pond; she could see its glimmer in the dusk and feel Pap’s hard old hand, clasping her small one.

“See that teeny-weeny tadpole, Stargrass, going to be a big frog some day — want to catch it?”

Star, small and wondering, hanging far out over the lilypads to look.

“I’m not afraid of ‘em ‘cept when dey wiggles dem tails, Pap!”

Then he had carried her back to the shop in his arms.

Star sat up in bed in the darkness. “I ought to go down to see them — I will tomorrow! I’ll ask father — “ her voice trailed and her heart beat.

“We’ll call it a deal, I’ll never open my mouth. You can go on forever as you are — if you’ll marry me!”

What did he mean? How dared he? Star could not sleep. She slipped out of bed, threw on her wrapper and opened her bedroom window wide to the chill of a December dawn.

It was still dark down among the houses, but a pale light diffused itself above them, against which the blackened roofs and chimney-pots showed themselves in fantastic profiles. Star’s room overlooked the garden. The wing which held the ballroom had an upper story. She had never explored it, but she knew that Nelson’s room was over there; he slept in the house, at Blanchard’s beck and call. As she looked across at it now she saw a light in one of the windows. The shade was drawn and, as she looked, a shadow was outlined on it occasionally, passing and repassing, as if the person who threw it there was tramping to and fro in an endless promenade. Star recognized the shadow, it was Nelson’s. So, he could not sleep! She rested her elbows on the sill and watched him march with a gradual relenting. He cared then, he must! Her heart began to beat again with something akin to happiness. She stole back to bed and fell into her first dreamless sleep.

She was late getting up and was only half dressed when Etta came to her door. Something in her face startled Star.

“What is it, Etta? What’s happened?”

“There’s been a flare-up downstairs; Uncle’s furious with John Nelson — on your account; he kept him from the ball. He sent him away, I think, for he was off somewhere last night.”

Star stood up. “Etta, not really? Because — “ her voice trailed, suddenly the color rose hotly in her face. “It’s Carr — he’s done it!”

“No!” said Etta steadily, “it’s your fault. You’ve been at Nelson to go and see the Binneys, haven’t you? Uncle’s furious, that’s it.”

“Etta, I’ve a right to hear from them!”

Star flashed out angrily. “They saved me as a baby, they brought me up!”

Etta nodded. “I know! I don’t blame you. I hated to keep their letters back. I had to — in Paris; uncle made me. But I never read them, Mary Agnes.”

“You kept my letters?” Star’s eyes flashed scorn. “I wouldn’t have done it — for anyone!”

Etta’s face crimsoned. “Yes, you would — if you’d been brought up only to please uncle! I burnt them all so no one could read them. But Nelson — uncle meant to give him a fine berth on his railroad, where he’d have a chance to rise; I know that, and I don’t believe he will now. It’s all your fault!”

“But it’s not just!” Star cried. “It’s Carr. I— I hate him!”

Etta, leaning against the door, flushed darkly, her eyes gleaming. “What have you done to Carr?” she asked quickly. “Something, I know, for he’s furious, too, and he’s mad about you. Tell me,” she came closer and caught Star’s wrist, her hand shaking, “did he ask you to marry him?”

Star hesitated, then her eyes flashed back to Etta. “Yes! I refused him.” Etta dropped her hand and caught her breath. For a moment she was mad with joy; he could not get the heiress after all!

Star, dressing with shaking hands, felt a hot wave of resentment sweep over her. “I hate him!” she said, bitterly. “It’s his fault. I don’t even like him; I told him so!”

Etta went to the door. She was shaken, too, but with a storm of emotion that had to do with all Carr’s love-making. She turned and looked back at Star. Something in the girl’s beauty, her honesty, touched her.

“I’m going to tell you,” she said shakily. “I know I shouldn’t, but there’s trouble, besides the trouble about Nelson — Carr has made it for you. I don’t know what it is, but uncle’s stricken by it, I saw his face. You were wrong — “ she added in a low voice — “wrong to make Carr angry; he’s uncle’s lawyer. There’s something terribly amiss — there! I’ve warned you — “ Etta caught at the door, half sobbing.

Star turned a startled face. “What do you mean?” she cried.

“I don’t know it all — I can’t tell you what I do know — but I’ve warned you!” Etta panted and went out, half sobbing.

Star, left alone, felt more bewildered than alarmed. She could make nothing of Etta’s strange warning. There was trouble — what kind of trouble? She was hooking up her gown in feverish haste when a maid came to her door.

“Mr. Blanchard would like to see you in the library, miss,” she said in a low voice.

The girl’s face was grave; something in her look told Star that the summons was unusual. Her father had sent for her to come to his library; he had never so summoned her before. Vague misgivings stirred in her mind, a strange thrill of fear ran through her, but she went firmly downstairs and crossed the hall to the library door. She drew a sharp breath there, pressing the handkerchief against her lips. Then, suddenly, she remembered her father telling her, indulgently, that if she wanted anything to come to him. How foolish she was to let Etta frighten her about Carr! Her father was good to her, she trusted him. Perhaps he was going to offer her a check for a new gown — it would be so like him! She laughed hysterically, opened the door and went in.

Blanchard was sitting at his desk his face in shadow. A little way off, standing with his back toward the fire, was James Carr. At the sight of him Star stopped short.

“You wanted me. Father?”

Blanchard made a mute sign of assent and then, as Carr started, apparently intending to leave the room, he stopped him.

“Please remain, Jim, you’ll have to clear up some points for her, no doubt.” Turning to Star he spoke grimly: “Sit down, I have some questions to ask. Perhaps you know what they are?”

Star sank into the nearest chair and looked at him, startled and flushed. “No, I don’t know! Why are you angry. Father?”

“I’m no father of yours,” Blanchard replied harshly; “of course you know that!”

Star was dumb. The shock of it sent the blood back to her heart. She did not understand, but his voice was convincing; he meant what he said! Had she been dreaming? Was she mad? Her white lips moved but no words came.

Blanchard drummed on the desk with his strong nervous fingers. They were in a circle of light and Star fixed her eyes on them, fascinated — how short and square-tipped they were !

“I see you have nothing to say,” he went on after a moment, and his tone hardened. “Of course these people — the Binneys — knew. But I thought you might be only their dupe. It’s clear enough; it was a put-up job, you’re no relation of mine whatever. It may have looked like a good thing; it has been a good thing for you for awhile, but it couldn’t last; you should have known that, my girl!”

Star lifted her eyes to his face but it was still obscured by the shadows. Beyond him she saw Carr, and he avoided her look. She rose slowly to her feet.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said in a low voice. “You told me — you were my father!”

Blanchard’s lips twisted into a hard smile.

“We’ll have to make a clear statement, Jim,” he said grimly. “It’s this way, young woman. Mrs. Binney produced the clothes my poor child wore, her locket and certain other proofs; she, this Binney woman, had them from Pharcellus. We happen to know that such a man was one of the kidnappers. Mrs. Binney claimed that, through his death at her house, she had just learned that you were the stolen heiress. Her proofs were good, I accepted them. Jim Carr, here, my legal adviser, as you know, could have unmasked you long ago but he hated to do it. He believed you innocent, I was happy, and you were young and pretty. Today, when I was to make certain financial provisions for my daughter, he felt forced to tell me the truth. Some time ago I offered twenty-five thousand dollars for news of my child — alive or dead. Carr had just received absolute proof when I summoned him to see you and hear that I’d found my child. He kept silent. Jim,” Blanchard turned to him sternly, “I do blame you for that!” Carr spoke with an efi’ort. “It was hard, sir,” his voice deepened with emotion; “it’s hard now — spare her, Mr. Blanchard!”

Blanchard drew a long breath. “It’s bitter!” he exclaimed, and then to Star: “I want you to understand all the points against you. A convict in State’s prison has confessed, he sent for Carr. He, the convict, and this Pharcellus were together when my baby girl was stolen. Pharcellus took the clothes but the child died — “ Blanchard’s voice broke — “and they buried her. Carr has proved all this. He’s had the grave opened. A little ring — missing from the things Mrs. Binney had — was there. I have it here, Jim brought it to me. I — .” Blanchard stopped, choked, commanded himself, and went on — “I can see the temptation was great; a fortune was involved. I suppose you were to pay a living to these people, the Binneys. But it was a poor game; it’s found out, it was sure to be found out. You’re no daughter of mine.”

Star stood up, straight and slim and pale, her gray eyes wide.

“This — this story is true?” she looked from one to the other, from Blanchard’s angry face to Carr’s flushed and uneasy one. She took a step nearer, facing Carr,

“Tell me, it’s you who did this! You meant this — you would never tell, you said, if I’d marry you! It was this! Is it true?”

He met her eyes reluctantly, but he stood his ground. “It’s all true — unfortunately,” he replied in a low voice.

Blanchard, too angry to heed Star’s accusation of Carr, nodded his head. “All true! That old man and woman down there, your friends, are liable to a charge of conspiracy to defraud.”

“You think they knew it was false?” Star cried suddenly — “the Binneys? No, no! Pap’s the soul of honor — he wouldn’t do it! It’s — oh, it’s a hideous mistake.”

“About you, yes,” Blanchard, in his disappointment and grief, was unmerciful, “It was all a lie.”

Star caught at the side of the table opposite to him and leaned upon it. “Do you mean — you think I came here — as an imposter — on purpose?” she cried.

He nodded. “What else can we think?” he demanded sharply. “You came through a fraud, a frame-up,” he laughed bitterly. “It’s paid pretty well, Carr, hasn’t it?” he added, with biting irony, appealing to the young man by the fire.

But Carr did not answer him, his eyes were on the girl. Etta was right; he was mad about the girl and he had dragged her down from her pedestal. He was flushed and shaken now — how lovely she was!

Star put her hand to her throat, backing away from the table and staring at Blanchard with dilated eyes.

“You think I came — to take you in — to get your money — like a thief?” she gasped. “Like a thief! No, no, I — “ she swayed, stretching out her beautiful hands with a poignant gesture, took a faltering step backward and fell unconscious to the floor.

(To be continued)