THE YOUNG STRANGER.
Mr. Rosevelt began to mend at once under the skillful treatment of the
ship’s surgeon, and to regain his strength much more readily than the
young girl who had been so faithful to him.
He had been in a very dangerous condition, the physician said, and
doubtless would have died but for the unremitting attention which Star
gave him, in keeping his head cool and wet, and in forcing food upon him
to keep up his strength.
Mr. Rosevelt heard this with evident emotion, and during the remainder
of the voyage evinced the greatest tenderness for her.
They had not made much progress in their frail life-boat,
notwithstanding the unrelaxing energies of the sailors, and found that
they were still five days from New York when they were picked up by the
other steamer; and although somewhat weakened by hunger and suffering
and the intense cold, yet none appeared to be seriously affected by
their experience, and a day or two served to make a great change for the
better in them all.
On the evening of the second day after their rescue, Star consented to
be carried up on deck; the day was keen and cold, but the sun was bright
and inviting.
She was very wan and pale, but possessed a delicate beauty that
attracted every one.
They took her directly to Mr. Rosevelt, and she gave him her thin hand
without a word. He, too, looked so thin and white that the tears sprang
to her eyes, and she could not speak.
“Dear child,” he said, tremulously, and taking it in both of his, “they
tell me that but for your unwearied efforts I should have died. I have
no words adequate to thank you for the gift of my life; but, little
Star, I shall never forget it.”
She could not talk much, she was still too weak, but she was glad to be
near him, and gave him as bright a smile as she could summon to her
lips; and then, chancing to glance another way, she found a pair of
dark, handsome eyes fixed earnestly upon her face.
They belonged to the young man in whose arms she had fainted upon
finding that they were all safe once more.
He lifted his hat respectfully as he caught her glance, and then
advancing, said, courteously:
“I trust the young lady is much better this morning.”
Star bowed a somewhat cold assent, for she had been very carefully
reared by her refined mother, and taught to be rather shy of strangers.
Then, thinking that was but a poor return for his interest in her
welfare, she said, with a rising flush, for there was no mistaking the
look in those fine eyes:
“Thanks; I am very comfortable this morning.”
Mr. Rosevelt smiled. He had noticed Star’s reserve, and it pleased him.
“She is a little lady,” he thought; then he said aloud, with a look at
the young man, though he spoke to her: “I am very fortunate in finding
friends, for since you have been confined to your state-room, this young
gentleman—though I have not yet learned his name—has ministered to me in
a manner most kind.”
Star’s eyes glowed at this, and she vouchsafed the young stranger a
smile that set his heart bounding.
“I am afraid, though, that you are feeling far from well even yet,” she
said, with an anxious glance into Mr. Rosevelt’s face.
“Pretty well—pretty well, little one, for an old codger like myself, who
has seen a good many rough times. I’m a trifle weak yet, but time will
help that. We have had a narrow escape however, and you have proved
yourself a heroine.”
Star colored slightly at this compliment, and shot a shy look at the
young stranger of the dark eyes. Then she leaned wearily back in her
chair, tired with the exertion she had made.
The young man turned abruptly and walked away, but he soon reappeared,
bearing a beautiful reclining steamer-chair, cushioned with crimson
velvet, a couple of elegant rugs, and a silken pillow.
“Your chair is hard and uncomfortable, Miss Gladstone; pray allow me to
substitute this one and wrap you more warmly. The air is cold, even if
the sun is bright and genial,” he said, in a way that could not offend
the greatest stickler for propriety, without even taking into
consideration the license allowed on shipboard.
Star could not refuse this act of courtesy, and the chair and soft, warm
rugs, with the bright, silken pillow, did look inviting.
She let him assist her into it, arrange the rugs about her, and smiled
her thanks for his kindness, while she looked bewitchingly lovely with
her fair cheek resting on the crimson pillow.
“Your shawl is unfastened at the throat,” he said, seeing that it had
fallen away, and fearing she would take cold.
She put up her hands to fasten it, and found that she had lost the pin.
Her young attendant noticed it, and drawing a scarf-pin from his
neck-tie—a pin with a beautiful cameo head—he passed it to her.
“Can you make this do for the present?” he asked.
She took it, noticing the exquisitely carved stone as she did so, and
pinned her shawl closely once more.
When he saw that she was as comfortable as he could make her, he stepped
back a pace or two, and drawing a card from a pocket, wrote something
upon it, and then passed it to Mr. Rosevelt, saying, with a frank smile:
“I presume you think it is high time that I introduced myself; pardon my
neglect upon that point.”
The old gentleman took the card and read the name:
“Archibald Sherbrooke.”
He bent a searching look upon the young man’s face for a moment, but the
frank, honest eyes met his with such a genial expression that he could
not harbor a doubt of him, and he said, cordially:
“Thank you, Mr. Sherbrooke; I am glad to know your name. Mine is
Rosevelt—Jacob Rosevelt—and this young lady allow me to introduce as
Miss Star Gladstone,” he concluded, turning with a smile to Star.
Mr. Sherbrooke bowed to Miss Gladstone and raised his cap in the most
gallant manner; while Star, thinking what a nice-sounding name
Sherbrooke was, and what a nice-looking man its owner was, acknowledged
his salutation with a charming smile and blush.
The trio soon fell into an easy chat, which lasted more than an hour,
while the young girl grew more and more like herself. Several times she
forgot that she was weak or had been ill, in listening to the gay things
to which her new acquaintance gave utterance, and she indulged in a
hearty, joyous laugh, her face dimpling and flashing, her eyes gleaming,
her golden hair fluttering about her white forehead, until young
Sherbrooke thought her the loveliest girl he had ever seen.
He lingered long by her side, looking into her face with earnest,
honest, admiring eyes, listening to her clear, sweet tones, and exerting
himself to make himself agreeable to her; while Mr. Rosevelt sat and
watched them with a sense of pleasure in their enjoyment, and never
dreaming of the mischief brewing under his very eyes.
Star told the young man all about the terrible explosion, their
expectation of death when they found the vessel on fire, their
subsequent sufferings and terror while drifting about in the life-boat;
while her voice grew low and thrilling as she spoke of her feelings when
she began to realize that their provisions were falling short, and she
feared they would starve to death on the trackless ocean.
“If the captain had not been so generous to begin with,” she said, “it
would have been better for all of us. Mr. Rosevelt cautioned him, but he
appeared to think that some vessel would surely overtake us in a day or
two. But after that I saved my sea biscuit; I put away half of what was
given me every time; and if I had not done so, he”—with a shy glance
toward her friend, and dropping her voice—“would never have lived, for
when the captain found he was too ill to eat he gave his share to the
other men. He gave me a bottle of wine, though, for him, and I soaked
the biscuit in it and crowded it into his mouth when he was too
unconscious to feed himself.”
“And did _you_ go without necessary food to do this?” Archibald
Sherbrooke asked, with pitying eyes, and a feeling almost of reverence
for the beautiful, self-denying girl.
“I am young and strong; I knew it would not do me such serious harm to
get weakened by hunger as it would him,” Star said, evasively; “and,
besides——”
“Besides what?”
Star’s lips quivered, but she answered, in a hushed tone:
“I knew it was right to do _all_ that I could to save his life, and it
gave me something to think of besides myself; and I knew, too, if we all
_must_ die, the—suffering would be _shorter_ if I did not eat.”
“But you were dreadfully hungry, were you not?” persisted her
questioner, feeling a sort of horrible fascination in the subject, yet
shuddering over the dreadful story.
“You will not tell _him_?” Star said, with a little motion of her hand
over her shoulder to indicate Mr. Rosevelt.
“No.”
“Yes, I _was_ fearfully hungry,” she went on, with a shiver at the
remembrance, and she grew very white. “Ever so many times, when I was
soaking the biscuit for him, it smelled so good that I would raise it to
my lips before I was aware of what I was doing; but the thought always
came to me in time—‘he will die if I eat it.’ There was only a _very
little_ left that last day, and I knew if he died I should always feel
as if my selfishness killed him if I deprived him of it, and I was
saved.”
“I think you are the noblest girl that I ever heard of, Miss Star,”
young Sherbrooke exclaimed, with reverent enthusiasm.
“Amen!” said Mr. Rosevelt’s tremulous voice, close beside them.
“Oh!” cried Star, starting and flushing, while the tears sprang into her
eyes. “I did not mean that you should ever know——”
“You didn’t, eh?” the old man interrupted. “I thought so; and when I saw
you two talking so earnestly together, I imagined that you were giving
our young friend a few facts which I wished to know myself, so I got up
from my chair and came to listen. They told me,” he went on, with
emotion, after a moment, “that you saved my life; but, oh! child, you
should not have tried to do it by sacrificing your own; and you would
have done it on the steamer also. I shall never forget it of you, little
one, you may be sure.”
He laid his hand gently on her head a moment, then turned and left them,
to hide the tears that were welling to his own eyes.
“He has friends who doubtless are waiting for him,” Star said, jumping
to conclusions, and as if to excuse herself for sacrificing so much,
“while _I_ have nobody since papa and mamma died.”
“But you are so young and”—so beautiful, he came near adding, but
something in her earnest, uplifted eyes restrained him from speaking so
familiarly, and he added, solemnly—“and it must be so hard to die with
all the world before you.”
“Yes, if you have dear ones who love you,” Star returned, with a
deep-drawn sigh.
A wistful look shot into the young man’s eyes at this.
“You have no parents, then?” he inquired, in tones of sympathy.
“No. Mamma died more than a year ago, and papa has been gone three
months. I have no brothers or sisters, no home, only some distant
relatives in America whom I have never seen. They promised papa to give
me a home until my education is completed, when I intend to teach.”
“Was your home in England?”
“Yes, in Derbyshire. Papa was a clergyman in Chesterfield.”
“Was your home in Derbyshire?” Archibald Sherbrooke asked, with a slight
start, while his face lighted.
“Yes; were you ever there?”
“Often.”
“Isn’t it a lovely country?” Star asked, eagerly, so glad to meet one
who knew where her home had been. “Can you imagine anything more
delightful than a drive or a canter across the Derbyshire moors?”
“No, indeed. I have often galloped over them,” he said, and then they
fell to talking of other places that they knew; and when at last the
dinner-bell rang, Star said, with sparkling eyes and cheeks in which the
color was beginning to return:
“I am hungry—really, naturally hungry, and I feel ever so much better.”
Every day after that, during the remainder of the voyage, Archibald
Sherbrooke sought the companionship of Mr. Rosevelt and his lovely young
charge—for as such he regarded her.
They became the best of friends, and the brilliant young Englishman
seemed to arouse all that was brightest and liveliest in Star’s
composition, so that as her sweet, clear laugh rang out, and she replied
to his jests with merry wit and repartee equal to his own, many of the
passengers paused in their conversation or lifted up their eyes from
their books to smile at the cheerful sight and sound.
The last day of the voyage came, and during the afternoon the two young
people were pacing the upper deck, arm in arm, when Archibald Sherbrooke
suddenly stopped, and pointing toward a distant city of spires and
domes, said:
“Ah! we are nearing New York. A few hours more and we shall be there. Do
you know, Miss Star, I shall be sorry to bid you ‘good-by?’”
The young girl’s bright face clouded at these words. A hot flush mounted
for an instant to her brow, and her white lids drooped over her
beautiful eyes.
“You, of course, expect friends to meet you on your arrival,” her
companion continued, after a moment of silence.
“I do not know,” she answered, with a troubled look. “I did expect that
some one would meet me upon the arrival of the other vessel, but now
that we have had such trouble, I am afraid there will no one come for
me, and I shall be obliged to go to Brooklyn alone.”
“That will not be at all difficult, since Brooklyn is only just across
the river from New York. If you know the street and number where your
friends live, you can easily find them,” returned the young man,
encouragingly.
Star started and looked blank at his words.
“The street and number were written in my diary. That was lost on the
vessel. I did not think, in my haste, to get it,” she said, in dismay.
“Whew! that makes matters rather complicated for you, then; but never
mind, the captain will know what to do about it, and I feel sure that
you will have no trouble. It is probable that the pilot-boat, when it
returned, after leaving the pilot with us, took back the news that some
of the passengers from the wrecked steamer were with us, and your
friends may hope that you are among them, and come to ascertain.”
Star was greatly cheered by this view of the matter, and made up her
mind to wait patiently for whatever was to come.