Stella Rosevelt

Before Mr. Rosevelt and Star left him, Mr. Sherbrooke arranged a little pleasure trip to Coney Island for the following day.

“I suppose, to-morrow being Saturday, you will have no school, Miss Gladstone,” he said, with an appealing look at her.

“No; but I have a music lesson at nine,” she answered, doubtfully.

“Could you not arrange to postpone it for once?”

“I think not; the hour is engaged for me, and if I am not there I lose it. I should hardly like to do that, for I must make the most of my time this year.”

Star said this last more to herself than in reply to him. She wanted to go—oh, so much!—and yet felt that she ought not to lose her lesson.

“Well, an hour will not make much difference; you will be through by ten. It will not be too late for our excursion then, and that will give us the best part of the day. The sail will be delightful, and we will come home by moonlight. I speak for to-morrow, as I am to leave New York next week for awhile. I think you will go, Miss Star?” Mr. Sherbrooke concluded, questioningly.

“I think I should enjoy the trip very much,” Mr. Rosevelt here interposed. “We’ll say ‘go,’ little girl, for we have had no holiday this summer. Yes, yes, Sherbrooke, thank you, we will accept your invitation, and Star will, I think, be willing to shorten her lesson a trifle, so that we shall be able to leave the city by half-past ten.”

Yes, Star said she would do that; and the matter once decided, her face brightened and her eyes glowed with anticipation.

She had not had a holiday that summer, as Mr. Rosevelt said; indeed, no one had planned a day’s pleasure for her before since she came to America, and the thought of this little excursion was very gratifying to her. A whole day spent in the company of Archibald Sherbrooke would be a “red letter day” to her; and so, with thrilling pulses and bounding heart, she took leave of him and went away with Mr. Rosevelt, to talk about it, to dream about it, and, girl-like, to plan how to make herself as charming as possible for the occasion.

As for Archibald Sherbrooke himself, he sat down after his guests had departed, and allowed his thoughts to have their own way.

“She is as lovely as a dream,” he murmured, watching her from the window as she tripped lightly along by Mr. Rosevelt’s side. “I did not think when I started for America that I was coming to meet my fate; but so it proves. Unless I can win Star Gladstone’s love, the remainder of my life will not contain much that will be worth living for. She is as pure as a lily, beautiful as a veritable star; and yet there is something that I cannot quite understand about her; there is a reserve, an occasional sadness, that seems strange in one so young, while once in awhile she lets fall a word which makes me fear her life is not as bright as it should be. There is something of a mystery, too, about Mr. Rosevelt. How sort of ‘seedy’ and neglected he looked to-day, and I judged, when I met him before, that he was a man of abundant means, and without a care, pecuniarily.

“How startled my fair one looked when I showed her my picture,” he went on, with a luminous smile; “and I really believe that she realized something of the tenderness that I have put into it.”

He arose and went over to the easel, and removing the cloth, stood looking at the lovely girl with a world of affection in his handsome eyes.

“My glory-crowned Star,” he murmured, “I began to love you the moment that you fell exhausted into my arms when you were rescued from the hungry jaws of death, and I will spend my life in winning you if need be. I have seen no other woman your equal during all my sojourn in America—at least, no one who has so moved my heart—and I know of no one in all England whom I should care to win for my bride.

“Star Gladstone! It is a name symbolical of her nature,” he said, unconsciously repeating what Mr. Rosevelt had once told her, “or I am no adept in reading character. She will crown my life with light, and bring gladness and beauty into my home, if I can win her; and I think I am not mistaken in believing that I read the sequel to my own love-story to-day in her blushing face and shy, drooping eyes.”

Saturday came, and at an early hour Star awoke and arose to see what the morning promised, and to prepare for the anticipated pleasure of the day.

The sun rolled up from the east without a cloud, its light, a dusky red, tinging all the earth with a rosy hue—a sure harbinger of a hot, dry day, and just what Star of all things most desired.

“Why?” does curiosity question.

Because her one best dress for summer had been a simple white lawn, which her own fair hands had fashioned in the most dainty manner, and she had nothing else really pretty to wear.

“If I cannot have embroideries and laces, I can at least have ruffles and tucks, for they cost nothing but time and patience,” she had said to Miss Baker, when the question “how it should be trimmed” came up for discussion; and ruffled and tucked it was in the most artistic manner.

She ran down stairs to practice for an hour, after which she went to her breakfast, and confided to Mrs. Blunt the fact that “she and Uncle Jacob” were going to have a holiday—her throbbing pulses warned her not to mention the third member of the party, lest she should betray more than she cared to—and that good woman remarked, with characteristic emphasis, that “if she wasn’t glad of it, she was much mistaken, and hoped she’d have the best time in the world; she’d certainly had precious few good times since she came there.”

This duty over—for she did not feel right to be gone the whole day without telling some member of the family of her intention—she returned to her room to give her attention to that, for once with her, very important subject for consideration—her toilet.

She arranged her shining hair with great care. It was her glory, and Archibald Sherbrooke had made it appear such in that picture which he had shown her yesterday, and which she now remembered with crimson cheeks and glowing eyes, as she brushed those shining strands until they gleamed like burnished gold. She then wove it into one massive braid, as she had worn it that day which neither of them would ever forget, and tied it a little way from the end with a fresh, delicate blue ribbon.

This done, she donned the spotless white dress, with a broad belt of blue and its great bow on one side, and fastened a simple knot of the same at her throat, but heaving a regretful sigh as she thought of her precious cameo, and wished she could have had it to wear to-day. Then she tied a pretty chip hat, with its mull trimmings and bunch of forget-me-nots, over her golden head, and blushed rosy red at the vision of loveliness that looked out at her from her small mirror.

Taking her roll of music, and throwing a fleecy shawl over her arm, she ran down stairs with a light, springing step, intending to go to the lodge for a word with Mr. Rosevelt before she went to the station.

“Where are you going, miss, rigged out in that style?” was the rude query that saluted her ears as she came out upon the veranda and stopped a moment to fasten her gloves.

Looking up, she saw Josephine sitting at one end of the porch, and half hidden by the luxuriant growth of vines climbing the trellis.

Her radiant face clouded; it seemed almost like an omen of evil to have her anticipations of pleasure broken in upon thus.

“I am going to New York to take my music lesson,” she answered, touching the roll underneath her arm.

“Do you always dress yourself out like that to take your music lesson? Perhaps you are trying to strike up a flirtation with Professor What’s-his-name,” sneered the haughty beauty.

Poor Star glanced down at her offending dress, an indignant flush rising to her cheek.

The entire cost of it had been less than what Josephine was accustomed to pay for even a pair of shoes; and yet she knew, without being told, that the gay belle, with all her expensive trappings, had never looked half so fresh and lovely as she did at that moment.

Josephine realized it also, and her heart was filled with bitter envy and malice.

“Go back up stairs and change your gown,” she continued, angrily, without giving Star an opportunity to reply to her taunting remarks. “You have no business to go to the city, dressed as if you were going to a party.”

Star’s small head came up like a flash of light; her eyes darkened and glowed with a sense of wounded pride and injustice.

She stood still a moment, her scarlet lips compressed until only a narrow line of red was visible; then, in a calm, clear, but very decided tone, she said:

“You have no right to lay such commands upon me, Miss Richards, and I shall not obey you.”

“You insolent beggar! what do you mean by answering me in this way?” began the astonished girl; but Star had glided down the steps, and was walking with a proud, elastic step down the avenue; consequently her rage was expended upon the empty air.

But she was fairly startled by the exquisite loveliness of the young girl. She had never seen her dressed with so much care before, and had not dreamed of having such a rival in her own dwelling.

Mr. Rosevelt was standing on the porch of the lodge when Star came along, and he, too, marveled at her exceeding beauty, saying to himself that he had never seen her so brilliant and spirited before.

And, indeed, he had not, for she never had been so thoroughly aroused before during all her residence in Mrs. Richards’ family.

“Good-morning, Uncle Jacob,” she said, brightly, as she saw him standing there, and her indignation immediately began to subside.

What was Josephine Richards that she should allow her to mar all the pleasure of her own holiday?—that she should drive the happiness from her heart, the sunlight from her face, when she was going to spend long hours of delight in Archibald Sherbrooke’s presence?

Nothing, save a coarse, rude girl, devoid of feeling or refinement; and with a resolute effort she drove her from her thoughts, the smile returned to her red lips, the light to her eye, as she ran lightly up the steps and stood beside Mr. Rosevelt.

“How well you are looking,” she said, gayly. “I just ran down to see if you were all right, and to jog your memory about our little celebration to-day.”

“You did not need to do that, Starling. I am as eager as a schoolboy for my day of pleasure,” he returned, with a fond smile, adding: “But how dainty you are this morning. I shouldn’t wonder if our artist friend would be wanting to paint the picture of a ‘star’ one of these days, eh?”

Star blushed and laughed lightly.

She could have told him, had she chosen, that it was already painted.

But she only charged him playfully to make himself look as young and charming as possible if he intended to be her escort to Coney Island; then waving him a farewell, she tripped away with a smile on her lips, a song in her heart.

He stood and watched her out of sight, murmuring, with something like regretful fondness:

“My bright Star, somebody will want something more substantial than a painting if you are onehalf as attractive in his eyes as you are in mine.”

The little German professor of whom Star took music lessons rubbed his small fat hands with delight, his face dimpling all over with smiles, when she came like a ray of light into his room.

“Ach! but der fraulein should have been called Miss Gladheart,” he said, regarding her admiringly. “She is as bright as der day, as fair as der morn; she is like a flower dot is newly bloomed.”

Star laughed merrily.

It seemed ludicrous enough to her to hear this fat little man, with his bald pate, his red face, dumpy legs, and his broken English—who scarce ever was known to express a thought that was not connected with music before—bubble over thus unexpectedly with sentiment.

“Oh, Professor Schwab, you overwhelm me!” she cried, gayly; “and I’m almost certain that your compliments will degenerate into a veritable scolding before I have been here fifteen minutes, for I fear I am not in very good order to-day, my head is full of pleasure.”

“Pleasure is good now and then; it is made for youth,” the professor remarked, with a sigh, and a glance at Star’s bright face and dainty costume, as if he regretted that he was no longer young.

“I want you to let me go in just half an hour, for this is to be a holiday,” Star said, as she removed her hat and gloves.

“Der fraulein shall do shust vat she pleases—I can refuse her notting to-day; but,” he added, assuming a business-like air, “let her mind dot she keep her fingers right and der time goot.”

Star settled down at once to her work with such earnestness of purpose that she really outshone herself, executing her brilliant and difficult exercises in a way that would have done credit to the composer himself.

“Verra goot—excellent goot! Der heart is glad, her hopes are bright, and der work is well done. Miss Gladstone, in six months I teach you notting more; you go to Germany—to Italy, to study,” he said, his face beaming with satisfaction at her proficiency.

Star thanked him with her brightest smile for his praise, and then left him with a light heart; and when she reached the place appointed as the rendezvous by Mr. Rosevelt and Mr. Sherbrooke, this latter gentleman also thought her the fairest object he had ever seen, and knew that, as he clasped her small hand, his eyes were betraying that old, old story of which his heart was so full.

The sail down the river was even more charming than they had anticipated. The day was perfect, the air being just cool enough to be exhilarating, while our trio of friends were in a mood to enjoy everything in the way of pleasure that might present itself.

They reached the island about noon, when Mr. Sherbrooke, ordering a carriage, they drove directly to Manhattan Beach Hotel, where they partook of a sumptuous dinner, and thus fortified, sallied forth to enjoy the beauties and attractions all about them.

A couple of hours were spent in visiting the different objects of interest, and then Mr. Rosevelt said that he should be obliged to give up and take a rest.

So Mr. Sherbrooke ordered a room for him at the hotel, and he went to “take a nap,” while the young man, with a feeling of exultation that now he should have Star all to himself, took a carriage for a long drive upon the beach.

For miles and miles they drove over the smooth, hard road, both in their happiest mood, and giving themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour.

Every moment spent in Star’s society only served to entangle our young English friend more securely in the meshes of love’s net; while she began to realize that the world would never be quite the same again to her when he should be gone and no prospect of their meeting again.

“He is going away next week,” she kept saying again and again to herself, while a chill pain gnawed at her heart. “How can I bear to have him go, and feel that I may never see him again? Oh, England, my home! my home! would that I also could go back to you!”

So intense was her longing for her home, so keenly did she regret this parting, which she felt was inevitable, that the tears sprang into her eyes, and a deep sigh came welling up from her burdened heart.

“Miss Star, why that doleful sigh?” exclaimed Archibald Sherbrooke, in surprise.

Star started, and looking up, found her companion’s eyes fixed upon her with grave questioning.

She colored vividly, fearing he had read something of her thoughts.

“Did I sigh?” she asked, evasively.

“Yes; and I did not like the sound of it, either. Are you tired of driving? Shall we go back and try something else?” he asked, only anxious to give her pleasure.

“Oh, no; this is delightful,” she answered, quietly. “I fear I have been guilty of rudeness if I have given you the impression that I am not enjoying every moment of this lovely day. Do you know, Mr. Sherbrooke,” she asked, with a smile that had a tinge of sadness in it, “that I am indebted to you for the only real holiday that I have had since I came to America?”

He regarded her with surprise.

“Is it possible?” he asked. “I fear, then, that you have not had a very happy life during the last year, or else you are working too hard over your books.”

She feared she had betrayed more than she ought. She did not want him to know how hard life had been made for her. She was too proud to complain of the ill-treatment, the coldness, and even dislike which had been her lot, where she had expected to find only kindness, love, and sympathy.

“I have been working pretty busily,” she answered, as if that were all. “I am anxious to graduate this year, and I have to apply myself rather closely with my music and other duties.”

“Why are you so anxious to graduate this year? Why not take more time, rather than run the risk of injuring your health?” he questioned, gravely.

“I am going back to England some time,” she said, her eyes kindling, “and the sooner I can complete my education, the earlier I can go. I have my own future to carve out, Mr. Sherbrooke, and my aim is to prepare myself for a teacher.”

“Your own future to carve out!” he cried, greatly surprised. “I thought you had friends here who were to care for you always.”

She colored, but answered, gravely:

“I should not be content to pass my life here. I shall stay only long enough to complete my education; then I shall go back to my own country to teach.”

He understood her; he saw, even though she would not confess it, that her life since coming to America had not been a happy one.

He saw now, as he looked down into her face, so fair and beautiful, what he had not noticed before, she had always been so bright and animated when with him.

There was a wistful look in her eyes, lines of sadness about her sensitive mouth, that told him of a heart yearning for love and finding only husks to feed upon.

She was going to be a teacher, she said; she was bending all her energies in that direction, and was working, he felt assured, far beyond her strength.

She did not look fit to fight the battle of life alone; she was slender and delicate, although he felt that, in spite of her fragile appearance, there was an element of strength in her character which would overcome every obstacle which it was possible for a human being in her position to overcome.

She had “her future to carve out,” she had told him. What did she intend that future to be?—what were her hopes, her aims, her plans? Surely not to teach always.

Ah, if she would but learn to love him—if he could win her, it would be very different from the wearying, dragging life of a teacher.

Before he was hardly aware of his intention, his heart had overleaped every barrier, he bent toward her and said, in a low, earnest tone:

“Star, I love you. Let me depict your future for you.”