CHANGE OF FORTUNE.
A few mornings after Star’s emancipation from her duties as a servant,
she encountered, as she was coming down stairs to her breakfast,
Josephine, who was also on her way to the dining-room.
“Well, I suppose you feel mighty set up over the fine show you made of
yourself the other day,” that young lady remarked, sneeringly.
“I had no desire to make a ‘show,’ as you express it,” Star answered,
courteously, and ignoring her companion’s rudeness. “But it is always
pleasant to receive thanks when one has tried to do one’s best.”
“Thanks!” was the scornful rejoinder. “You have been very sly about it
all; and I should think you’d feel mean enough about wheedling papa into
giving you music and painting lessons.”
“I have never asked Mr. Richards for either, and—I am not going to take
painting lessons at all,” Star said, with scarlet cheeks.
“You needn’t try to make me think papa would ever have made such a row
if you hadn’t been at him and pretended to be so abused and ill-treated.
But—where did you get that lovely cameo that you wore in that knot at
your throat?” Josephine asked, her eyes having been sharp enough to
detect the pretty trinket.
“It was given to me by a friend,” the young girl answered, with
trembling lips, for she was cut to the heart by the unjust accusations
heaped upon her.
“Some one must have liked to fool away money pretty well, to give you an
elegant trifle like that,” the rude girl said, for she had known that it
was valuable at a glance. “It doesn’t correspond with the rest of your
wardrobe,” she continued, jeeringly; “you’d better give it to me.”
Star looked up into the bold, handsome face beside her with
astonishment.
“I cannot give it to you,” she said, with compressed lips.
“Well, _lend_ it to me, then.”
She was loaded with jewelry, early as it was in the day. She wore a
heavy gold chain, from which was suspended a blue enameled locket set
with pearls and diamonds; heavy jewels hung in her ears, broad bands of
gold clasped her wrists, while her fingers gleamed with numerous costly
gems; and here she was coveting the single ornament which she had seen
Star wear.
“I do not like to appear disobliging,” she returned, “but there are
reasons why I do not even like to lend it.”
“What reasons, pray, can you have for refusing so simple a request?”
Josephine persisted.
“I have told you—it is the gift of a friend. I do not like to part with
it.”
“I will give you this handsome emerald for it,” said the spoilt beauty,
turning a valuable ring upon her finger.
“Thank you. No; I could not make the exchange.”
“Nonsense! You’re stuffy enough, I hope,” the refined young lady
retorted; and, with lowering brow, she turned impatiently away, and went
into the dining-room.
An hour later, while Star was busily practicing, she stole slyly into
her room and pounced greedily upon the coveted little treasure, which
was stuck into a dainty pincushion made of bits of silk and covered with
an embroidered lace tidy, all the work of the little maiden’s skillful
fingers.
“I was _bound_ to have it,” the unprincipled girl said, triumphantly, as
she examined it closely.
“It is lovely; the most delicately carved cameo that I ever saw, and,
for a little thing, must have cost no mean sum. Ah! it is marked on the
back of the setting,” she continued, turning it over. “A. S. and two
tiny strawberry leaves underneath. I wonder who ‘A. S.’ is, or—was? What
a lovely ring it would make.”
She lifted the skirt to her basque and deliberately pinned it upon the
lining, an evil look in her brilliant eyes.
“I’ll capture it for awhile, just to torment her for her presumption in
trying to outshine me before papa the other day. The little minx! she is
altogether too high-headed and airy to suit me.”
This important matter disposed of, she began to look about Star’s room
with some curiosity.
To begin with, it was exquisitely neat and clean, and the utmost had
been made of the small and meagerly furnished apartment. A sheet had
been ripped in halves, gathered across the one window, and then looped
on either side with broad bands and bows of light blue cambric. A corner
bracket, brought to light from among some rubbish in the store-room, had
been covered with blue cambric, and over this hung a daintily ruffled
curtain of dotted muslin, while upon the shelf were arranged Star’s few
books and a small vase filled with flowers. This last-mentioned object
had been a gift from Mrs. Blunt at Christmas—her only remembrance on
that day.
The small table was covered with a spotless towel having a blue
border—more of Mrs. Blunt’s thoughtfulness—and there was a bright strip
of carpeting before the bed, which was covered with a cheap but
immaculate spread. Upon the bureau another towel was laid, and on this
Star’s few toilet articles were arranged with the utmost care.
Josephine opened and curiously peeped into the drawers.
In one there was a very limited supply of clean, neatly folded clothing;
in another two or three handkerchiefs, as many collars, a ribbon or two,
a small wooden box which was locked, and a worn portfolio—another trophy
from the store-room—which was also locked and no key visible.
“I wonder what is in this?” Josephine said, taking up the box and
shaking it, to ascertain, if possible, its contents.
They appeared to be somewhat heavy, and to be wrapped about with cotton
or a napkin, and she was forced to put it down, her curiosity
ungratified. It was the same with the portfolio, and, with a frown of
disappointment, she returned this also to its place.
There was very little to attract any one in the little maiden’s bower,
and yet it had a cozy, home-like air about it; but her scant wardrobe,
as Josephine opened the closet door to look within, appeared very mean
in the petted and indulged beauty’s eyes; and, indeed, it compared very
unfavorably with the pretty outfit which had gone down on the ill-fated
vessel on which Star had sailed.
“It is a mystery to me how she manages always to look so nice with these
few traps,” Miss Richards muttered, as she shut the door with a sign of
disgust and turned to leave the room.
“Ha! what have we here?” she cried, as she caught sight of a new,
prettily bound book lying on the small table. “Oh, this is that new
novel that I heard Charlie Carpenter raving about the other evening. I
wonder where _she_ got it. I think I’ll appropriate it myself; it looks
inviting,” she added, slipping the leaves through her fingers.
“Chatsworth’s Pride,” she continued, turning to the title page. “I
should like to know who wrote it; but the author’s name is not given.
However, I’ll read it, and see if it is as wonderful as Charlie said.”
It was not a large book, and dropping it into her pocket, this “Paul
Pry” in petticoats stole from Star’s little bower and glided unobserved
to her own room, having accomplished her object in securing the coveted
cameo, and vented her spite upon the offending girl for having dared to
outshine her in the presence of her father.
Later, when Star went up to her little sanctum and found both pin and
book gone, she surmised at once who had been there.
The loss of the book she did not mind so much, although she was reading
it and had been obliged to lay it aside in the midst of a most
interesting chapter; while she knew that when Josephine had read it she
would doubtless throw it one side, and she could easily get it again.
But to lose the cameo—that precious gift of kind, handsome Archibald
Sherbrooke—was more than she could bear with either patience or
fortitude, and a passion of tears testified to her grief for her loss.
She knew that it would be useless to appeal to Josephine for it; she
could not _prove_ that she had taken it, and she would doubtless feign
astonishment and innocence if questioned regarding it, and unless she
could regain possession of it by strategy, it was, she feared, lost to
her forever.
A week subsequently the family repaired to their country residence at
Yonkers, where they usually spent the hot months, excepting a few weeks’
sojourn at some fashionable watering-place or mountain resort.
Here Star, who had been told that she was to have the use of the
music-room whenever she wished, began her work in earnest, and gave six
hours a day to hard, faithful practice.
Wednesdays and Saturdays, however, she went into New York to take her
lesson, Mr. Richards having arranged with one of the first teachers for
her instruction. In spite of Mr. Richards’ commands to the contrary, she
persisted in doing many little things to assist Mrs. Blunt, although she
was relieved from all regular duty. The housekeeper often demurred when
Star offered her services.
“You shall not spoil your hands, child,” she would say, with a fond
glance at those delicate members; “I can get along as well alone now as
I used to, or I’m much mistaken.”
“Never mind my hands, Mrs. Blunt; I can’t practice all the time, and I
must have some exercise. It is a pleasant change for me to help you once
in awhile, and have a little cozy chat,” Star answered, heartily; and
the woman, who, to say the least, did not have either an easy or
pleasant time herself, was often beguiled into allowing her to have her
own way, and was cheered in no small degree by her sunny face and gay
chatter.
“That girl’ll make her mark in the world, bless her heart! She’ll make a
better and smarter woman than Miss Josephine, or I’m much mistaken,” she
was wont to remark forty times a month to the cook, and she grew to love
our gentle Star with an almost motherly affection.
When not attending to her music, Star spent most of the time in her own
room, and no one questioned as to how she occupied it; and although she
continued to be ignored by the family when it was possible to do so, and
snubbed and sneered at when it was not, she was comparatively happy,
knowing that every day well spent was helping her on toward emancipation
and independence.
One day Mr. Richards came home with a very grave face and sought an
audience with his wife.
“I have a letter from your Uncle Jacob here,” he said, drawing one from
his pocket as he spoke.
Mrs. Richards’ face lighted instantly.
“From Uncle Jacob? That is good news. Has he returned?”
“Yes.”
“How is the dear old man, and when is he coming to make us a visit?” she
asked, with animation.
“He is not at all well—has been having serious trouble with his head and
eyes. He returned last fall, and since then has been visiting your
brother in the West. Listen, and I will read you what he says:
“‘MY DEAR GEORGE:—You see by the heading of this that the wanderer has
returned—yes, and returned to wander no more. I cannot write much, for
I am not able to do so. I returned from abroad last fall, since when I
have been with Henry, and now propose to go East and visit or make my
future home with you, as you have so often pressed me to do. I know
you will heartily sympathize with me when I tell you that the steamer
on which I sailed was wrecked, and all I had was lost. I regret to
come to you, as I shall, almost penniless, and in this broken state;
but you have so often told me that there would always be “a warm
corner in your home” for me, that I am going to take you at your word.
I shall not wait for a reply to this, but follow almost immediately,
for I know I shall meet with a hearty welcome.’”
Then followed a few affectionate sentences for each member of the
family, but Mrs. Richards scarce heeded them.
“It can’t be possible that Uncle Jacob has lost all his property!” she
cried, aghast. “Why, the last we heard he was worth a million!”
“I know; but in these days it does not take long to lose a million,” her
husband replied, gravely, adding: “It is a misfortune, indeed, for the
old man; but we will do the best we can for him, allowing him to feel it
as little as possible. He _will_ feel it, however, for he was, as I
remember him, a very high-spirited, independent man.”
Mrs. Richards’ face was crimson from mingled emotions.
“It is a shame!” she cried, angrily. “Uncle Jacob always gave Henry and
me to understand that we should be his heirs; and now we have to lose
half a million apiece. How under the sun do you suppose he lost it?”
“I have no idea—some speculation, doubtless.”
“It appears that he expects to be taken care of in his old age just the
same as if he were the Crœsus we have always supposed him to be,” Mrs.
Richards said, wrathfully.
“He has a right to expect it,” her husband replied, with some sternness;
“you have always professed the deepest affection for him, and urged him
to make his home with you. Who _should_ take care of him in his
misfortune if not his only brother’s children?”
“Henry is as well able to have him as I am, and I don’t see why he could
not have staid there.”
“Perhaps he was no more welcome there than it appears he will be here,”
Mr. Richards remarked, sarcastically.
“Well, I’m not going to have him here, and there’s an end of the matter.
I shall post him right back to Henry. His wife does not have half the
care that I do, socially. We might as well open a hospital for the lame,
the blind, the halt, and beggars generally.”
“I am astonished to hear you speak thus, Ellen, and of your own
relatives, too, especially after all your flattering protestations. Of
course we will receive your uncle kindly, and show him all proper
attention.”
“I will _not_,” his wife retorted, angrily. “I may as well set my foot
down first as last; he shall not come here to be a burden upon us. You
have had your way about Stella; now I’ll have mine in this matter. One
beggar in the house is enough.”
“Ellen, how you are changed! When I first knew you, you were
sweet-tempered and kind. I believe your life of unlimited indulgence and
luxury has soured and hardened you,” Mr. Richards said, with a regretful
sigh for the early days of his married life, when his wife was loving
and lovable.
“Thank you; your _compliments_ are not of a particularly ‘sweet’
nature,” she answered, scornfully.
“Your uncle says he shall follow his letter immediately; he may arrive
at any hour. What shall we do with him?” asked Mr. Richards, taking no
notice of her sarcasm.
“I don’t know—I don’t care. Tell him that the house is full of
company—anything you please; only mind, _I_ will not be burdened with a
half blind, decrepit old man;” and the excited woman flounced angrily
from the room, leaving her husband sitting alone in sad and troubled
thought.