“There is no mistake,” Star returned, with despair in her tones. “I was sitting at the window of my room when he arrived, and, of course, I recognized him at once. His form, his bearing, his handsome face, the tones of his voice—everything was identical with the Archie Sherbrooke from whom we parted last Saturday evening. At first I was crushed by the blow; then I thought perhaps Lord Carrol had disappointed them, and Archie had come to me as he had promised to do Monday or Tuesday; but this hope fled when I heard them address him as Lord Carrol, and he replied at once to the name. It has broken my heart, Uncle Jacob,” Star wailed, pouring out all her sorrow to him. “I do not know how I ever lived last night through; I do not believe I was conscious half the time; while to-day I have been too weak, and ill, and wretched to care what became of me.”
“Poor child! poor child!” he murmured, softly.
“To-night,” she went on, “I felt as if I must get out into the air. I must see a friendly face and hear a kindly voice, so I came to you, although I did not mean to tell you anything of my trouble. I meant to bear it alone, and never let any one know how cruelly I had been deceived, or how readily I had given my foolish heart away.”
The old gentleman laid his hand on her shining head, smoothing her hair with a tender touch. He was nearly weeping himself to see this beautiful young girl so crushed.
“On my way down here,” she pursued, “I felt faint; my strength all left me, and I stopped and leaned against a tree to recover myself, and while I stood there he stole up behind me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and asked me in surprise how I came to be there. I gave him the street and number where we lived last Saturday, but I suppose when Mr. Richards and Josephine went to meet him at the station and brought him here, he did not once think it was the same place, for I have never told him their names. He believed me to be a poor girl, and never would have thought of finding me in a place like this; that was why he was so overcome with surprise when he saw me to-night. But when I charged him with personating two characters—having two names—he could not deny it; he owned that he was Lord Carrol, but tried to make me let him explain. I would not; there could be nothing to explain. He had deceived me, and it was enough; I could never trust him after that. I called him a traitor and a coward, and then I ran away and came to you, who are the only friend I have in this wide, weary world.”
“You did right, dear, to come to me; but were you not a trifle hasty and rash? I think you should have listened to young Sherbrooke’s—or whoever he may be—defense,” Mr. Rosevelt said, gently.
“What possible defense could he have had to offer?” Star cried, in a voice of scorn. “He has pretended to be Archibald Sherbrooke, a simple artist, to me, while everybody else knows him as Lord Carrol, of Carrolton.”
“But he may have been traveling incognito under the former name,” suggested Mr. Rosevelt.
“Then why did he not keep it to the end? Why did he go to a fashionable watering-place and flourish as a titled Englishman, and devote himself to Josephine? Why did he resume the former name upon meeting me again, and lead me to love him, believing him to be a poor artist? No; there can be nothing said in defense of such double-dealing as this. He has cheated and fooled me. I have found him out, and compelled him to own it. It is enough to make me scorn him; but it has been a bitter lesson, and has taught me never to trust a man again,” Star concluded, with vehement bitterness.
“Never, Star? Surely that acrimonious resolve does not include me,” said Mr. Rosevelt, with gentle reproach.