The Beloved Cinderella

By Mary Imlay Taylor

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 2

Vaguely, Star began to be aware of voices; they seemed far off at first. Someone was fanning her. The thick lashes lifted and the gray eyes opened slowly.

“What — happened?” she whispered, only half roused. “Did I fall off Tex, Pap?”

“She’ll be all right in a moment now!”

A voice that she did not recognize! Star’s eyes opened wide and she raised herself on her elbow. She was lying on a lounge and another girl was fanning her briskly. Star’s startled gaze met dark smouldering eyes, a rich colored face, glossy brown hair and an astonishingly lovely gown. Where was she? Then she remembered. She sat up weakly and pushed the golden hair out of her eyes, looking at the girl.

“You’re very good — please don’t fan me any more, I’m all right,” she gasped. “Where’s — “ she looked around vaguely at the room and saw no one she knew — “where’s Mother Binney?”

“Right here, dearie.” The voice was thick and shaky, so unnatural, indeed, that Star turned and looked at the speaker.

Mrs. Binney looked old and flabby and her eyes blinked. She did not dare to put these strangers aside and hold Star in her arms; she could only swallow hard, her chin shaking.

“Here — drink a little water, my child,” Mr. Blanchard suggested gravely, taking a glass from the tray the butler had just brought.

Star rose unsteadily to her feet.
“Thank you,” she said gently, “I don’t need it. I — I think I’ll go home now — “ and she turned toward Mrs. Binney.

But Blanchard intervened. “You don’t understand,” he said gravely. “This is your home, your name is Mary Agnes Blanchard, you are to stay here tonight — and always! I’m your father,” he added, as an afterthought, too absorbed in his study of the pale young face, the startled eyes and the lovely, shining, touseled head to know exactly what to do himself. For a railroad magnate and a successful business man, J. C. Blanchard felt incredibly awkward.

The girl, backing away from him, stretched out a wavering hand, found Mrs. Binney’s plump familiar arm and clung to it.

“I don’t understand,” she faltered; “please tell me!”

Mr. Blanchard cast a severe look upon Mrs. Binney. “You should have told her beforehand,” he said sternly.

Mrs. Binney, whose chin was still wobbly, tried ineffectually to make up for her delinquency.

“She knows about bein’ left in th’ grass by th’ barn, sir,” she began, in a flustered voice. “I — I didn’t tell anybody about this — this — I mean about Pharcellus. You see, he didn’t tell me until th’ night he died.”

“That horrible man?” Star’s hand tightened on her arm. “Why, Mother Binney, he was thrown out of an automobile by accident. Pap took him in because he was so hurt — he couldn’t have known about me!

“You were stolen, my child,” Mr. Blanchard explained kindly. “It appears now that when pursuit was hot, one of the gang, that very man who died at Mrs. Binney’s house, dropped you behind their barn. He seems to have come back there to find out how things were — mainly, I presume, because I recently offered another reward for any news of my daughter, alive or dead. The accident — an auto- mobile crushed him, I believe — prevented action on his part. But he told this — good woman, and she came to me. I took this place here for the season, took it just as Phar — par — what was his name, madam?”

Mrs. Binney swallowed hard. “Pharcellus, sir.”

“Just as he died,” Mr. Blanchard ended.

There was a little silence. In it they heard Star draw a quick breath like a sigh. They were standing now in a semi-circle about her, Blanchard in the center, his niece, flushed, grave, not pleased with it all, on his left, young Nelson at his right, and hovering, interested but respectful, the butler with his tray. Star let go of Mrs. Binney’s arm and moved waveringly forward. She looked about the beautiful room, bewildered; then the color came back into her face and she lifted wondering eyes.

“Is it — does this all — “ she hesitated — “is this my home?”

Blanchard smiled. “It certainly is, Mary Agnes Blanchard, and I’m your father. Have you nothing to say to me?”

“Oh!” cried Star softly, looking up at him, her face quivering. “What have I to say? I — I’m so bewildered. You see, I don’t know you, but if you’re my father — “

Blanchard drew her gently into his arms. “I am certainly your father,” he assured her, “and I’ll have to manage to reconcile you to it! Etta,” he turned to the dark girl in yellow, “hadn’t you better take your cousin upstairs now?”

“Oh, but I’d like to go home — to go back with Mother Binney first,” Star faltered; there was something in Etta’s smouldering dark eyes that was unfriendly. “I’d—”

“Yes, I know!” Mr. Blanchard cut her short; he had the quick, incisive way of the successful business man, “but I’d like you to dine with us. I presume you’re willing to do that for me, my dear?”

Star assented, but her eyes filled suddenly; she wanted Pap Binney. Pap would know just how she felt! Then suddenly she met young Nelson’s eyes. She went over to him quickly; he seemed almost like an old friend here.

“Please ask about Mother Binney — isn’t she to stay here, too, for dinner?” she faltered, looking appealingly at Blanchard.

But he was already dismissing poor flustered Mrs. Binney.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, madam,” he said gravely. “The reward — my secretary here, Mr. Nelson, will see to that; I’ll pay it all to you.”

Mrs. Binney gasped, her round face crimsoned. “I won’t take it, sir, not a cent! I — “ her chin shook forlornly, “I just want to see Star happy!” she sobbed aloud.

Star, half way to the door with Etta, turned and ran back.

“Oh, Mother— Father,” she choked on the word, “let me go back with her now!”

He shook his head, laying a firm hand on her arm, while John Nelson led the weeping Mrs. Binney out.

John had a feeling of exultation; without reason he was glad that he had accepted Blanchard’s offer of work to tide him over. He had intended to continue his study of law, but he had needed money to complete his self-imposed course, and now — it was luck that had made him take the work here! He was so self-absorbed that he was startled when Mrs. Binney stumbled.

“Let me help you,” he exclaimed with contrition.

“You ain’t got any call to put me out!” Mrs. Binney sobbed. “I’m goin’ just as fast as I can!”

John came down from the clouds.

“I’m sure you can’t think as badly of us as that!” he said gravely. “I know Mr. Blanchard is grateful. He’s searched for his daughter all these years. It’s a great relief to know that, all this time, she’s been safe with you!”

“He didn’t say anything in particular,” Mrs. Binney went on, ignoring the interruption, “but I’ve never been told so plain before to — to get out! I want he should know I’m Mrs. Elisha Binney, an’ I’m a church member. I’m respectable, I ain’t just — just mud!” she panted, climbing down the marble steps of the imposing terrace. “No, I ain’t goin’ home in one of his automobiles, young man, I’m goin’ to walk! And I don’t want company either. Goodnight.”

John Nelson stood still, stunned by the unexpected explosion, and watched until the stout, middle- aged figure disappeared into the shrubbery by the gate. He had an impression that Mrs. Binney had gone suddenly mad, and he did not know that she stopped the other side of a bank of blooming laurel and shed bitter, frightened tears.

“I hadn’t ought t’ have done it!” she sobbed to herself. “He’s a stuck-up old piece of hard cash an’ th’ child won’t ever be happy if he can help it! I wish I hadn’t. I wish — “ she choked back her tears and peered through the laurel at the great house.

The thought of the luxury she had seen there began to take the edge off her resentment at Blanchard’s cavalier treatment. She did her wet handkerchief up into a ball and mopped her swollen eyes with it.

“I couldn’t have done any better for her — not that I can see!” She sobbed less violently now. “Maybe he’s only got that yeast-risen manner for outsiders — he put his arm around Star real kind an’ fatherly. Anyhow — “ she sobbed again — “Pap’s losing money, there ain’t anything for th’ child — Jordan’s a hard road — Lord!” she jumped violently. “I kinder felt as if there was something in those bushes right now — I’ll go home! Seems as if I could see Pharcellus starin’ at me — .” She shivered, dodged past the white stone gateposts and fled.

“I can’t help it!” she cried over and over again, in the dark shadows of the lane. “I’ve given her everything; now — I — I’m glad I did it!”

She had her hand on the back door of the old shop when she stopped again, staring at the time-worn panels with breathless dismay. She had to tell Pap! It was a long moment before she lifted the latch and plunged in.

Mr. Binney was sitting in the little back room, reading the newspaper. The light from the old lamp fell full on his round face and the scanty lock of white hair stood up on top of his head. Mrs. Binney, who was holding the door open with a hand that began to shake again, had never seen him look so old and so worn.

“It’s that mortgage,” she thought, and winked back tears. “If only I could take that reward — but I can’t! Land end, I ain’t as bad as that!”

“You ain’t as bad as what?” Pap looked around at her.

She did not know that she had spoken out loud and his question startled her; she sat down weakly.

“Where’s Star?” Mr. Binney

“Up t’ Blanchard’s.” Ma was laconic.

Pap laid his paper across his knee and looked at her.

“What in Sam Hill have you been cryin’ about?” he asked finally.

Brokenly, disjointedly, with hard sobs choked down, Mrs. Binney told him.

“Pharcellus had th’ clothes an’ the locket an’ everything; there wasn’t a thing missing — Mr. Blanchard looked em’ all over careful. Star’s there now, his daughter! Pharcellus, he come down here to get the reward — that’s what he told me th’ day he died, an’ — .” Mrs. Binney stopped for breath, and then she sobbed. “It’s happened so — Star’s got everything! It’s like a story-book ‘Lisha, I — it just kinder made me cry t’ think of how — how fine it all is for her. Ain’t it wonderful. Pap?” she added, nervously appealing.

Pap was silent.

“Sittin’ there like a frozen image,” she thought angrily, “an’ just listenin’!”

The silence was so thick that it seemed to choke her; she looked around at him, sniffing violently.

“Ain’t it grand for our little Star?” she demanded.

Mr. Binney made no reply in words; he rose slowly, put on his coat and began reaching for his hat. His wife watched him, her eyes round with sudden dismay.

“Pap, what are you goin’ t’ do?”

“Do?” Mr. Binney stood still and stared at her, his broad face exceedingly pale. “I’m a-goin’ right up there. How d’you know but what Pharcellus was lyin’? You hadn’t any business to go an’
do it, Maggie Binney! That man, Pharcellus — “ Pap spat out the word — “I ain’t a mite surprised he was a kidnapper; looked to me like he’d hopped right out of Sing Sing. But you went an’ took his word for it!”

Mrs. Binney was trembling again, her chin shaking so violently that her teeth fairly chattered. “Pap, what you goin’ t’ do?” she asked brokenly. “Mr. Blanchard went over th’ papers an’ th’ clothes an’ everything. He says Star’s his daughter. An’ he’s rich — my goodness, that house — an’ it’s Star’s — our little Star’s!”

“I’m goin’ to find out if it’s all straight an’ square!” cried Pap, breathing hard, “I ain’t goin’ to let you be imposed on an’ then take in some other folks — not meaning to, of course, Ma. Star — why. Star’s my little gal. I’m goin’ right there now — soon as I get my hat.”

Mrs. Binney caught his arm and clung to it, weeping.

“Pap!”

He looked down at her, relenting. “It ain’t your fault if you were took in. Ma,” he said kindly, “but — it’s up to me.”

“Pap, it ain’t up to you!” she cried. “It’s Star’s. She’s there an’ — she’s happy, she’s got her own father.”

“Her own father?” Mr. Binney stood still. His arm fell at his side, the old hat dropped to the floor unheeded, his face lost its color, his eyes stared. “Why, ain’t I her daddy? She’ll miss me — my little Star!” His voice broke suddenly; he choked. “Ma, I can’t believe that little Star’ll forget me — or you either!”

“She’s a rich man’s daughter, Pap; we can’t give her anything. It ain’t right t’ interfere. Th’ papers an’ th’ locket an’ th’ dress — “ Mrs. Binney gasped — “Oh, Pap, she’ll be so happy an’ safe an’ well cared for — it ain’t right for you to butt in!”

Pap stared at her; the hand that he had laid on her shoulder tightened its grip, it almost made her wince.

“Star happy there! Didn’t she want to come home?” he asked tremulously.

Mrs. Binney was trembling now, but she shook her head vigorously. “She wanted all those things, Pap. She’s just a girl; she’s got a right to be happy an’ rich an’ beautiful!”

Pap weakened. Slowly his grim purpose relaxed; he sank into a chair, staring in front of him. “Didn’t she say nothin’ — any thin’ about me?” he asked hoarsely.

“Why, ‘Lisha, she’s got her own father, just found him!” Mrs. Binney cried reprovingly. “Ain’t that enough — her own father?”

Mr. Binney stared at her a moment in silence. His chin dropped; he looked ten years older. He turned his eyes away from his wife’s and stared blankly at the wallpaper in front of him; it had been there the morning he had brought the little foundling into the house in his arms. He could still see the sun shining on her little yellow head — little Stargrass. Suddenly he struck his hand on the table.

“Maybe I shan’t go tonight, but — father or no father — I’m goin’ first thing in th’ mornin’. If it ain’t all regular an’ — an’ she ain’t happy there, I’m goin’ to bring her straight home!” he cried hoarsely.

(To be continued)