Looking down upon the little group, she saw that Josephine’s eyes were fastened upon him—her lover—with an expression that there was no mistaking. It was full of pride and wistful affection. Her voice was low and sweet when she spoke to him, her laugh silvery clear as it rang out upon the still evening air at some light jest of his; and Star knew that she loved him deeply, passionately; that she would stop at nothing to win him, if, indeed, he was not already won. Oh, what—what could it all mean?
It was cruel, cruel as death, to have her short, bright dream shattered thus; to have given all the wealth of her warm young heart to the handsome young stranger who had called himself Archibald Sherbrooke, and now to discover him to be a myth—that there was no such person, that she had been made the plaything of an idle hour. And yet it had all appeared so real; he had seemed so true and loyal, and to have loved her so fondly.
But stay—might she not be jumping to conclusions, after all?
A different solution to the mystery flashed into her mind. She started eagerly up, the color coming back to her face, a joyful light flashing into her eyes.
Archie had told her that he should “come to her Monday or Tuesday—that he could not wait longer;” but she had not thought he would come to-night. She did expect him to-morrow, and perhaps he had arrived.
On the other hand, Lord Carrol had, perchance, disappointed his friends. They had gone to meet him, and had not found him as they expected.
Archie, very likely, had taken the same train from New York that his lordship had intended to take, and on arriving had inquired of some one for the street and number that she had written on the card for him; the individual whom he asked might have known it was Mr. Richards’ residence—for he was well known there—directed him, and he, on learning the man’s errand, had probably, with his usual good nature, invited him to take a seat in his carriage, and had driven him home.
Thus she reasoned with her aching, fear-burdened heart, clutching at this little ray of hope as a drowning man clutches at a straw.
But he did not appear like a stranger to any of them; neither did Josephine seem like the disappointed girl she probably would have been if her expected lover had not arrived. She was chatting and laughing with him in the most friendly way; her face was glowing with happiness; her tones and her laughter were musical from very joy.
With these doubts mingling with her sudden hope, Star leaned forward, eagerly listening for him to inquire for her; but the words which came floating up to her smote her heart with a deadly pain, drove the color back again from her face, and made the love-light in her eyes change to a look of mortal agony and despair.