Stella Rosevelt

If Mrs. Richards had conducted herself according to her own inclination, she would have left Newport at once. But she was unwilling that Mr. Rosevelt or Star should think that she had run away from them, or that she was heart-broken over the disclosures which her uncle had made to her.

Besides, Newport was full of wealthy and fashionable people, and among them several eligible young gentlemen, whose acquaintance, for Josephine’s sake, she was desirous of cultivating; and surely she was not going to sacrifice all these advantages, and leave the field clear for Star to win even greater victories.

No; she would stay, and she resolved she would make things just as uncomfortable for the young girl as possible, while Josephine should be made to shine with all the splendor of which their means, and Mr. Richards’ credit, were capable.

But all the proud woman’s efforts were of no avail, for our fair heroine had created a sensation which threatened to turn the heads and lead captive the hearts of every unmarried man, at least, in Newport.

A week passed quickly by, and then Grace Meredith and her brother arrived at the watering-place, and immediately attached themselves to Mr. Rosevelt and Star by mutual consent; and many envious looks were bestowed upon the dark, handsome stranger, who appeared to assume the right of acting as escort to the two beautiful girls upon every occasion.

But Star, whenever she appeared in company, laughed, chatted, and danced with all that was possible of her admirers, dispensing her smiles and favors with an impartiality that was exasperating not only to her victims—if such they could be called who were each anxious to win the prize—but also to the many forlorn damsels who were all sighing for the attentions she was receiving and the honors she was usurping.

One day, about a week after the arrival of the Merediths, an excursion was arranged to visit a point on Narragansett Bay, and it was to be a picnic after the good old-fashioned style of carrying each his own basket and sharing with his neighbor.

A boat had been chartered to take the party down the bay in the morning and return at night by moonlight.

Ralph Meredith and two or three of his friends were the originators of the affair, and the invitations were very select, and limited to one hundred.

As it happened, Mrs. Richards and Josephine, with quite a number of others from their hotel, were included in this party.

The morning was delightful, and the spirits of the whole company at their highest point, while the jaunty, white-winged boat, with its inspiriting band of music and its gayly dressed picnickers, seemed like a little floating world devoted entirely to pleasure, as indeed it was.

Josephine Richards had arrayed herself in a very elaborate costume for the occasion, determined that Star, who she knew was to be one of the company, should not outshine her.

It fitted her like a glove, and was vastly becoming; she never had looked more brilliant in her life, but she was too fussy for a picnic, and looked as if she was decked out for a fashionable reception rather than for a day in the woods.

In direct contrast to all this “fuss and feathers,” was Star, in a simple suit of white lawn, a belt of blue, of her eyes’ own hue, girdling her slender waist; a dainty, broad-brimmed hat, set in a jaunty way upon her golden head, and a little cluster of blue-fringed gentians nestling beneath her beautifully rounded chin.

The very simplicity of her attire made her conspicuous, and fashionable maidens, who had groaned in spirit over what they should wear and how they should wear it, glared at her with envious eyes.

Ralph Meredith had arranged a cozy little nook on the boat for Star and his sister, by taking some camp-chairs along and cushioning them with handsome rugs, with a couple of hassocks for their feet, while a sail had been adjusted as an awning to screen them from the hot sun.

But when, after they were well on their way, he conducted them thither, he found to his chagrin that this snug corner, upon which he had spent so much care, had been appropriated by Mrs. Richards and her brilliant daughter, who were holding a little court by themselves.

“Never mind,” Star whispered; “I do not care to sit just now, and I particularly wish not to disturb them.”

“But I particularly wished you and Grace to have a comfortable place where you could enjoy your sail,” he returned, indignantly.

“I know, and you were very kind and thoughtful; but I shall feel better to leave them to get what enjoyment they can from occupying seats which they must know were intended for others. What do you say, Grace?” Star asked, appealing to Miss Meredith.

“I do not see but what we shall be obliged to submit, since I do not wish to be rude to any of our party. But I must say I think they are very cool.”

They moved away to another portion of the boat, but when, an hour later, they saw the interlopers promenading the deck, they quietly slipped into the vacated seats, and settled themselves for the remainder of the sail.

Here they were soon chatting in the most sociable manner, and were right in the midst of a most interesting discussion regarding their toilet for an approaching reception, when a cold voice broke out upon them, saying:

“Miss Gladstone, may I trouble you to vacate our chairs?”

Star started and flushed. Too well she knew those incisive tones.

But she quickly recovered herself, however, and looking up at Mrs. Richards, for it was she who had spoken, said:

“Your chairs? Are they yours?”

“Certainly; you have already seen us occupying them, I believe,” the woman responded, haughtily.

Star’s face began to dimple with amusement, for she knew well enough that this demand was only made to annoy her and make her unpleasantly conspicuous, and she was determined to turn the tables to their own mortification; for they could not fail to learn when they landed to whom the chairs and other comforts belonged.

She made a motion to Grace, who, she saw, was bristling with indignation, to keep silent; then she arose, bowing with graceful politeness to Mrs. Richards and her daughter, though her eyes were gleaming with suppressed laughter.

“I beg pardon if I have been occupying what does not rightfully belong to me, and I cheerfully resign my chair to your prior claim.”

Josephine flushed, for she saw that it was all Star could do to restrain her merriment, though what should have caused it she could not understand; while she looked so pretty and was so lady-like, it made her angry.

“I’m sure,” she began, hotly, and raising her voice so that others could hear her, “I don’t see what you’re so amused over, Stella Gladstone; and it seems to me that you’re putting on altogether too many airs for a girl who used to perform the services of a chambermaid in our house.”

For a moment Star stood as if dumfounded; then she lifted her bright head a trifle, as if in conscious superiority, gave Miss Richards a cool stare of surprise, and turned away without a word.

Not so Miss Meredith, however.

She kept her seat with the utmost composure, watching this little scene with both interest and amusement until Josephine so tauntingly insulted her friend.

Then she, too, arose, drawing her tall form to its fullest height.

“I cannot understand,” she said, in a voice of scorn, “why you should so maliciously insult Miss Gladstone; but allow me to say for your enlightenment, that these chairs, rugs, and so forth, belong to my brother, Mr. Ralph Meredith, and he arranged them here especially for Miss Gladstone’s and my comfort. However, I will emulate her example, and resign my right to ladies who have proved themselves so superior in point of refinement and politeness.”

Having uttered this cutting sarcasm, Miss Meredith bowed mockingly and walked away to rejoin her friend, leaving those haughty and overbearing women about as chagrined and crestfallen as it is possible for two people to feel.

The gay company reached their destination after a delightful sail of two hours.

It was a lovely grove upon the shore of the bay, which people were in the habit of frequenting for picnics of this sort, and the party wandered about in groups for another two hours, exploring the beauties and attractions around them.

At two o’clock everybody gathered to dine in a place which had been prepared for that purpose; the tables were spread with the contents of the numerous baskets, which contained every delicacy which the season afforded, and the gay company, making the woods resonant with laughter and merriment, sat down to their rural meal.

It was four in the afternoon before this important part in the day’s programme was concluded, and then the company scattered, some to lounge about and rest, others to stroll into the deep, inviting shadows of the woods.

Mr. Rosevelt and Star, Miss Meredith and her brother, with two or three others, wandered away by themselves, and finally sat down beneath a wide-spreading tree for a quiet chat.

While they sat there, Star got up quietly and slipped out of sight, some spirit of restlessness possessing her to get away for a ramble still farther into the far-reaching woods.

She had walked some distance, when she heard voices, and soon saw a gentleman and a lad, both with guns over their shoulders, approaching her, and looking heated and anxious.

They saluted her courteously, and then the gentleman said, abruptly:

“Have you seen anything of a small, white Spitz dog, miss? It is a pretty little creature, wearing a silver collar around his neck, and tiny blue bows tied in his ears.”

“No,” Star answered; “I have seen no dog to-day.”

“We are in search of it because we are afraid it has run mad,” the stranger continued, peering about with a troubled countenance. “It has not been well for several days, and this morning showed unmistakable signs of hydrophobia. It escaped confinement from the cottage, a mile or so from here, and ran toward these woods about an hour ago.”

They passed on, and Star thought it would be best for her to go back to her friends, and therefore turned to retrace her steps.

She had only accomplished about half of the distance, when she heard a clear, musical laugh ring out from among the shrubbery on the right of the path.

Thinking it must be some of her party, she stepped forward to warn them of their danger. She parted the branches with her hands and looked through.

What was her horror to see Josephine Richards sitting at the foot of a tree, her hat tossed upon the ground beside her, and holding in her lap the little mad dog against which she had just been warned.

It was a beautiful little creature, and had evidently been made a pet and plaything. It had lovely brown eyes, looking out from beneath its shaggy brows; its coat was as white as snow, while around its neck there glistened the silver collar, and in its pretty ears were the tiny blue bows of which she had been told.

Miss Richards evidently had just coaxed the little pet into her lap, and was playing with it without a suspicion of the terrible danger that she was in, while just for that moment it showed no signs of the madness which possessed it.

Star’s face was as white as her spotless dress as she took in the dreadful situation; then she stepped quickly forward and said, in clear but authoritative tones:

“Miss Richards, put that dog down as quietly as you can, and come away with me instantly, for I have just been told that it is mad.”

Scarcely were the words uttered, when the little creature snapped at the hand raised to caress it, and, with a scream of fright, Josephine sprang to her feet and turned to fly.

But the act aroused all the fury of the maddened animal, and he seized hold of her skirts, biting and tearing them in the most furious manner, foaming at the mouth, and howling frightfully in its sudden paroxysm of frenzy.

“Save me! save me!” Josephine screamed, and flying toward Star for protection.

There was not a thought of personal danger in the fair young girl’s heart—not a thought of enmity, or of malice or evil; all her mind was concentrated upon one thing—how best to save her companion from this terrible danger and from a horrible death.

“Stand still!” she commanded, in steady, almost stern tones. “Let him bite at your clothes all he chooses, but do not allow him to get at your feet; if you run, he will seize them and bite right through your boot. Have you courage to stand where you are for a moment? I will go behind him and slip the end of my parasol through his collar and pin him to the ground; then you can go and call help for me.”

She spoke calmly but rapidly, and Josephine saw at once how much wisdom there was in her plan.

“Yes, yes; I will do anything,” she said, hysterically; “but be quick, for I cannot bear this much longer; I shall faint dead away.”

“If you faint,” Star returned, in an awful voice, “you are lost! There! he has entangled himself in that ruffle which he has torn from your dress. Be still just a moment longer, and I will save you if I can.”

Watching her opportunity, she stole softly behind the struggling animal, and, by a dextrous movement, slipped the end of her parasol, which was quite a stout one, into his collar, and then, with all her strength, drove it into the ground and held it there, though the creature struggled furiously to release himself.

Her face had not an atom of color in it, but her lips did not falter as she said to the horror-stricken girl watching her:

“Go now quickly and call help for me, for, small as he is, I cannot hold him long.”

Josephine did not need a second bidding, but went shrieking back to the company in a way to arouse the dead almost.

She had not been gone two minutes—though those two minutes seemed like an age to Star, who found an almost superhuman strength in that writhing, twisting thing at her feet—when the bushes behind her parted again, and the same gentleman who had met and warned her of this danger sprang toward her, with his gun cocked and aimed at the dog.

His face was almost as colorless as her own.

“Can you hold him just an instant longer?—will you dare hold him while I shoot him? I will not harm you in the least,” he questioned, in rapid tones.

“Yes, I will hold him,” she said, resolutely. “If I let him loose now, he will surely bite somebody.”

Although she spoke so steadily and with so much fortitude, she looked like some beautiful spirit from another world, and the gentleman knew he must do what he had to do quickly, or it would be too late.

There was an instant of silence, then a quick, sharp report rang through the woods, and the little danger-fiend lay bleeding and dead at her feet.

All peril was past.

Star had saved an enemy from a horrible fate—she had done a heroic deed; but the tension on her own nerves gave way when it was over. She swayed, tottered, and would have fallen to the ground, but another figure sprang through the bushes to her side, and her fainting form was received into the strong arms of Ralph Meredith.