STELLA ROSEVELT.
=A Novel.=
BY
MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON.
AUTHOR OF
“BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH,” “THE FORSAKEN BRIDE,” “LOST—A PEARLE,” “EARLE
WAYNE’S NOBILITY,” ETC., ETC.
[Illustration: logo]
NEW YORK:
_G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers_.
Copyright, 1883 and 1890
By STREET & SMITH
Stella Rosevelt
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I.— ON THE ATLANTIC 9
II.— SAVED 19
III.— THE YOUNG STRANGER 30
IV.— MRS. RICHARDS 38
V.— BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 47
VI.— STELLA’S APPEAL 57
VII.— A CONSULTATION 68
VIII.— RETRENCHMENT 76
IX.— CHANGE OF FORTUNE 89
X.— THE UNWELCOME GUEST 97
XI.— FILTHY LUCRE 104
XII.— THE CAMEO RING 114
XIII.— A GLAD MEETING 124
XIV.— “LET ME DEPICT YOUR FUTURE.” 135
XV.— A FATAL MISTAKE 146
XVI.— A GREAT SHOCK 154
XVII.— “WHY HAS HE DONE THIS THING?” 162
XVIII.— EXPLANATIONS 175
XIX.— MALICIOUS FALSEHOODS 188
XX.— STAR’S DETERMINATION 198
XXI.— FRUITLESS EFFORTS 212
XXII.— THE GOAL REACHED 222
XXIII.— AN INTERESTING STORY 234
XXIV.— WHAT NEXT? 248
XXV.— STAR’S DELIGHT 258
XXVI.— “WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?” 265
XXVII.— DEFEATED 273
XXVIII.— RESCUED FROM A HORRIBLE FATE 279
XXIX.— JOSEPHINE’S INGRATITUDE 288
XXX.— “I LOVE HIM STILL.” 294
XXXI.— A NOBLE RESOLUTION 301
XXXII.— “I PROMISE.” 308
XXXIII.— “YOU ARE THE TRAITOR.” 316
XXXIV.— MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS 325
XXXV.— MRS. RICHARDS’ GREAT EXPECTATIONS 330
XXXVI.— JOSEPHINE’S AMBITION 337
XXXVII.— THE MOCK MARRIAGE 345
XXXVIII.— “I HAVE BEEN MAD.” 353
XXXIX.— A CRUSHING BLOW 363
XL.— STELLA’S MENTAL AGONY 371
XLI.— REHEARSING THE PAST 382
XLII.— THE LAWYER’S REBUKE 393
XLIII.— “GOD BLESS OUR STAR.” 403
XLIV.— FAITH’S TRIUMPH 414
STELLA ROSEVELT.
CHAPTER I.
ON THE ATLANTIC.
“A star
Which moves not ’mid the moving heavens alone,
A smile among dark frowns—a gentle tone
Among rude voices, a beloved light,
A solitude, a refuge, a delight.”—SHELLEY.
A noble steamer was laboriously plowing the turbulent waters of the
great Atlantic, heaving, and struggling, and creaking with every
revolution of her gigantic screw, for the waves were rolling
high—“mountain high”—in very truth. The huge dark masses of water would
swell and rise up like a great black wall, reaching, it seemed, almost
to the angry, leaden sky above, then sweeping down with mighty force,
thunder upon the decks of that great vessel, making it shudder to its
very center, sending it down, down into the yawning depths, as if eager,
in venomous spite, to blot it out of existence.
There were very few first cabin passengers on board the —— as she thus
labored on her weary way between Liverpool and New York, for it was late
in the year, and the rush of travel was over for that season.
Fifteen were all they numbered, while there were about twice as many in
the steerage; and well it was that there were no more to share the
horrors of that dreadful voyage.
It had been a very gloomy passage, a severe storm arising the second day
out, which had increased in violence until now—the fifth day—it appeared
as if all the elements had conspired to work destruction upon the stanch
ship which was faithfully battling with the cruel waves and toiling to
bear its precious freight of human souls safely into port.
It was a forlorn little company that sat shivering and trembling in the
close saloon—only five, all out of the fifteen who had not succumbed to
the seasickness—and these five had the appearance, with their pale,
pinched faces, their heavy eyes and disordered attire, of feeling
anything but comfortable or well.
An old man of perhaps sixty years, his hair and beard white as snow, his
face sallow and wrinkled, his eyes anxious and sunken, sat upon the
floor—indeed, it was impossible to sit anywhere else—braced against a
stationary seat, and clinging to one of the iron posts which supported
the roof of the saloon. He was wrapped in a heavy shawl and two elegant
rugs; his soft hat was drawn down over his forehead, and he seemed
entirely oblivious of everything about him.
Two spinsters, companions and sisters, lay upon cushions flat upon the
floor, and, also wrapped in their rugs, looked not unlike two huge bags
of wool rolling from side to side with every motion of the boat.
Another man had crept into a corner, where he tried to keep himself from
pitching about by clinging to a rope which he had fastened to an
immovable table.
The only other occupant of the place was a little fair-haired maiden of
perhaps fifteen or sixteen years.
She was small and delicate, and was sitting, or trying to sit, upon the
floor, not far from the old gentleman before mentioned.
She was wrapped in a thick woolen shawl, and her head was covered with a
crimson hood, so that not much could be seen of her, save the fair, pale
face, with its sad, appealing blue eyes, which looked out from beneath
masses of shining golden ringlets that had strayed from her hood and lay
upon her white forehead. She had a sensitive mouth, a pretty, rounded
chin, a small, straight nose, and altogether, had she possessed
something of color and less of sadness in her face, would have been
considered wondrously fair to look upon.
This little waif, with her child-like countenance, her pathetic eyes,
and her patient, uncomplaining spirit, was traveling alone.
There was not a soul on board that vessel whom she had ever seen before
the day of sailing.
An orphan—her father, and the only relative on whom she could depend,
had died just three months previous—she was going to the United States,
to some distant connections who had consented to take her until she was
of age and teach her to earn her own living.
She had been put in the care of the captain by the people with whom she
had been staying since her father’s death, and he was to deliver her to
the strangers to whom she was going.
Some strange magnetism had attracted her toward the old gentleman with
the white hair and beard of whom we have spoken, and near to whom she
was now sitting.
She had hovered about him ever since the first day of the voyage, not in
an obtrusive way, but as if she liked to be near him—as if there were
something trustworthy and protective about him.
Perhaps one reason for this was that her seat had been next his at
table—while they had been able to sit at the table—and once or twice,
when she could not attract the attention of the steward, he had handed
her what she wanted, and helped her bountifully to fruit when otherwise
she would have been neglected.
When the storm came on with such violence that those not confined to
their berths were obliged to take to the floor of the saloon for safety,
she had crept as near to him as she dared, and though she had sat there
all day long, he had never spoken to her once, or appeared to heed her
presence, but remained, instead, wrapped in his own thoughts.
Suddenly the ship rose upon a mighty wave—up, up she went, until every
trembling passenger held his breath with awe; then she plunged headlong
down into the raging deep, with a sinking, sickening sensation that
chilled the blood and made the flesh creep with fear.
The next moment another terrific wave struck her, with a noise like the
roar of a hundred cannon, and with a force which made her quiver like a
frightened creature from stem to stern; and in the dread pause which
followed, and which was fraught with horrible suspense, the little maid
clasped her small hands and cast an appealing glance at her gray-haired
companion.
He, seeing it, smiled grimly as he asked, in rather a gruff tone:
“Afraid, sis?”
Before she could answer him the vessel gave another tremendous lurch,
and she was rudely precipitated almost into the arms of her questioner.
He caught her just in time to save her from being dashed against the
iron post by which he was sitting, and when she had recovered her breath
a little, he put her gently down beside him, keeping one strong arm
around her to save her from a second fall.
“This is pretty rough weather. Are you afraid?” he asked again, and
looking with something of pity down upon her white face.
“It startles me to have the vessel pitch and tremble so, and those
dreadful waves seem as if they want to swallow us; but I know that
nothing can harm us, unless——”
“Unless what?” the old man queried, as she hesitated and glanced shyly
up at him, a tinge of color coming into her cheeks.
“Unless it is God’s will,” she answered, reverently.
A sneer curled her companion’s lip at this reply; but the sweet eyes
looking up into his seemed to touch some tender memory, for it quickly
died, and he repressed the skeptical words to which he was about to give
utterance.
But she _felt_ it, nevertheless, and, with a grave look and serious
tone, she asked:
“Don’t you believe that God rules the storm, and that He will take care
of us?”
“My experience all through life has been that I have had to take care of
_myself_,” he returned, with some bitterness.
“And I have been taught to trust ‘our Heavenly Father.’ I think one
would hardly have much faith in _one’s self_ at such a time as this,”
the little maiden said, with a look of awe and an involuntary shudder,
as another wave broke over them.
The man by her side felt the gentle rebuke, but he evaded it by saying:
“I think no harm will come to us. I have crossed the Atlantic many
times; I have sailed upon other oceans, and have been in storms equal
to, if not worse, than this. I do not fear the elements much in one of
these well-built boats. There is only one thing at sea that I _really_
feel _afraid_ of.”
“And what is that?”
“Fire.”
He felt the thrill of fear that went vibrating through her whole frame
as he uttered the dread word, and appeared to regret having added to her
apprehension, for he continued, reassuringly:
“But an accident of that kind rarely happens nowadays, and where
everything is so carefully conducted as on these large steamers. There,
sit close beside me,” he went on, as still another thundering mass of
water swept over them; “lean against me—so. I will keep my arm about
you, and you will be safer than sitting by yourself. But how does it
happen that you are traveling alone?”
“My father and mother are dead,” she answered, with the same appealing
look that had touched him before, while her lips quivered over the sad
sentence. “I had no friends in England, and so I am going to live with a
cousin of my mother’s in America.”
“What is your name, little girl?”
The “little girl” flushed rosily at this question—as what maiden of
fifteen or sixteen would not at this slur upon her proudly attained
“teens?”—while she thought he need not have asked if he had taken pains
to look at the passenger list; but she replied:
“Star Rosevelt Gladstone.”
A startled, almost agonized gleam shot into the old man’s eyes, and his
face seemed to shrivel, until he looked ninety instead of sixty, as the
young girl, in her sweet, clear tone, uttered this name.
“Star Rosevelt!” he repeated, with pale lips, while his voice sounded
weak and far away.
“Yes, sir,” she said, not noticing his emotion; “or rather my real name
is Stella, but mamma called me Star always;” and her voice faltered as
she spoke of her dead mother.
Her companion did not answer, and the roar of the elements increasing,
further conversation was out of the question, even had they been so
disposed, which they appeared not to be.
The old man’s head dropped upon his broad chest, and he seemed suddenly
to have forgotten his companion, the angry waters, the rolling vessel,
and everything else in his own sad thoughts.
Darkness began to settle down upon them. The storm raged on; the
spinsters moaned and rolled upon their comfortless couches; the man in
the corner swore and raved as he was rudely jostled about, with no
prospect of rest or sleep; while the gray-haired man and the fair-haired
maid, encircled by his strong arm, sat side by side, silent, yet less
forlorn than their comrades by reason of a feeling of companionship,
until the young girl’s blue eyes closed, her golden head sank
unconsciously upon the broad shoulder, and she slept sweetly and
tranquilly the whole night through, a smile on her red lips, a sense of
comfort and protection in her young heart.
When morning broke and Star Gladstone awoke, she found herself lying
upon a heap of rugs, a pillow underneath her head and a soft robe
covering her.
The sun was shining brightly into the saloon, where, only a few hours
before, all had been so dark and dismal; the sky was beautifully clear
and blue, without a vestige of the angry clouds which had so threatened
ship and life a little while ago, and the good vessel was riding the
gradually subsiding waves with strong and steady pulsations, which
seemed to have almost a sense of victory in their throbbings, while the
terrors of the night seemed only a troubled dream of the past.
She arose from her soft couch with a murmured “How kind!” as she
realized who had made her so comfortable, and went below to her
state-room to make her toilet.
After a refreshing bath she brushed out her long, abundant hair until it
shone like strands of finest gold; then gathering it in her two hands,
she plaited it into one massive braid, leaving the ends loose like a
great golden tassel, and tying them with a broad blue ribbon.
Then she substituted a charming little blue hood edged with white for
the thick crimson one which she had worn all night, wrapped a soft gray
shawl about her shoulders, and went up on deck looking as bright and
sunny as the morn itself.
She was very lovely. Short fluffy locks of her hair fell like a shining
mist over her white forehead; her great azure eyes gleamed like
bluebells after a shower; her cheeks were tinged with a delicate color,
and a smile of joy at the return of fair weather parted her red lips,
showing two rows of small white teeth between.
As she stepped out upon the deck, she espied her companion of the night
standing aft, looking out upon the silver-tipped, dancing waves.
She glided to his side and saluted him with a sweetly spoken
“good-morning,” which fell like music on his ear.
He turned and looked at her, an involuntary smile parting his lips,
which evidently were unaccustomed to such relaxation.
“You are rightly named—you look like a star,” he said, abruptly, while
his keen eyes were fixed intently on her bright face.
She flushed, but answered archly:
“Stars belong to the night; they are of no account in this glorious
sunshine;” and she lifted her face up to the sun, as if in gratitude
that its friendly beams were shining on her once more.
“It _is_ a glorious morning,” said the old man, taking a long breath of
the pure, keen air.
“Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,” Star
murmured, in a low tone, but with a thrill in her voice which told how
she felt the words.
Again a sneering smile distorted the lips of her companion.
She saw it, and flushed a vivid crimson, and the tears sprang quickly to
her eyes.
“Mamma used to repeat those words so often when she lay sick and dying,”
she said, sadly. “I know that _she_ looked forward to the ‘morning’ when
she should be released from her suffering; but they never sounded so
pleasantly to me as they do now on this beautiful morning after our
night of terror.”
“Anything which was a source of comfort to your mother you doubtless
treasure very tenderly,” kindly replied the gentleman, who _was_ a
gentleman, and felt sorry that his unbelief or skepticism should have
brought a shadow upon that fair young face.
“There is the breakfast-bell,” he added, in a light tone, as it rang out
its keen notes. “Are you hungry?”
“Indeed I am, sir,” Star answered, eagerly, adding, with a clear, sweet
laugh that fell like music on his ear: “Eating has been an impossibility
during the last few days, and I have considerable lost time to make up.
That bell has a welcome sound.”
“Then take my arm, little girl, and we will go down together; the boat
is not quite steady even yet.”
“Little girl!”
She flushed again, and shrugged her graceful shoulders.
Then she glanced up at him with a serio-comic air, and said, with a
pretty pout:
“I am sixteen years old, Mr.——”
She could not finish, because she did not know his name.
He laughed.
“And maidens of sixteen don’t like to be called little girls, eh?” he
said. “Well,” he continued, “I feel as if I am privileged to call you
that, since I am nearly sixty, and _my_ name is Jacob Rosevelt.”
Star stopped short and looked up at him in surprise.
“How strange!” she exclaimed.
“Rather,” Mr. Rosevelt returned; then asked: “How did you come by your
middle name?”
“My grandmother gave it to me.”
“Was her name Rosevelt?”
“No; her maiden name was Stella Winthrop.”
Mr. Rosevelt started, then turned suddenly to look out over the sea, and
to hide the pallor of his face. He asked no more questions, and all
through breakfast he appeared absent-minded and taciturn. He scarcely
spoke to Star during the meal—indeed, hardly noticed her at all—and she
wondered if she could have offended him in any way.
Before she was half through he left the table, and she saw no more of
him until late in the afternoon.
About three o’clock she left the saloon, where she had been trying to
while away the time by reading, and went on deck.
It was very cold, but the sky was cloudless, the sea calm and beautiful,
and, save an occasional call and response from the sailors, the distant
thud of the machinery, and the swash of the water as they plowed the
sea, there was scarcely a sound on board the vessel.
Star found a sheltered spot, and wrapping her shawl close about her, sat
down for a little while to watch the white-capped waves and the speeding
ship.
She had scarcely settled herself, thinking with a feeling of gratitude
how lovely it was after the dreadful storm, when there came the noise of
a dreadful explosion from somewhere forward, followed by a fearful
rocking of the vessel; then the most horrible shrieks and cries rent the
air; a column of smoke, sparks, and cinders went pouring up from the
region of the engine-room, and immediately passengers and sailors began
running about in great confusion, and perfectly frantic from fright.
Star was unhurt, but she sprang to her feet and stood as if paralyzed
with fear, a look of horror on her young face, a feeling like death at
her heart.
“Something dreadful has happened,” she murmured, with white lips. “Have
we escaped the storm only to encounter a worse fate?”
Then, as she saw the sailors getting down the life-boats, a sudden
thought seemed to inspire her. She darted from the deck down into her
state-room, where, opening a tiny trunk, she seized a package of papers,
which she pulled up from beneath her clothing, and thrust it into her
bosom. She then took from a pretty box several articles of jewelry,
which evidently had belonged to her mother, and fastened them about her
clothing, putting some of them into a pocket of a skirt and pinning it
securely together. This done, she darted out and up to the deck again.