A GLAD MEETING.
Back and forth every day from Yonkers, patiently and uncomplainingly,
went Star Gladstone to her school, glad to pursue her studies and music
at any cost or sacrifice.
This occupied nine long hours of five days in the week, and, weary as
she was upon her return, she always devoted what time she could to the
white-haired old gentleman who watched her depart with a sigh, waited
eagerly for her return, and who brightened so visibly when she appeared.
One day, after school, Star had an errand at a music store, and was
detained so long by the slow movement of the clerk who waited upon her,
that she was obliged to hurry with all her strength to catch her train.
She entered the station breathless, just as the last bell rang and the
cars began to move.
Hoping to overtake it even then, she ran for it, her small feet barely
touching the ground as she sped over it. She reached the last car, put
forth her hand to lay hold upon the railing and spring upon the steps,
when a firm grasp upon her arms from behind rendered her efforts
fruitless, and a deep, rich voice said:
“Young lady, pardon me the liberty I take, but that is a very dangerous
experiment.”
The train was gone. Mr. Rosevelt would look for her in vain when it came
in, but Star could not regret it, although she had exerted every nerve
to catch it, for she would know _that voice_ no matter where she heard
it; and, with a vivid flush leaping to her cheeks, her pulses thrilling
with excitement and delight, she turned quickly to find herself face to
face with her whilom _compagnon de voyage_—Archibald Sherbrooke!
His face lighted brilliantly in an instant as he recognized her, for
although she had changed somewhat during the past year, growing lovelier
than ever, he had never forgotten those star-like eyes, those waves of
soft, golden hair shading her forehead, nor that sweetly smiling,
scarlet mouth.
“Miss Gladstone!” he cried, putting out his hand to her. “I had no idea
whom I was saving from committing such an act of imprudence when I saw
you about to leap upon that moving train; but I am doubly glad now that
my presumption prevented you from doing anything so rash, and gave me
this unexpected pleasure.”
“I am glad, too, for I am delighted to see you again, Mr. Sherbrooke,”
Star said, heartily and frankly, as she gave him her neatly gloved hand,
and looking straight up into his handsome eyes in a way that testified
to the sincerity of her words.
“I know it was imprudent to try to leap upon a moving train,” she
continued; “but there is some one at home who is always disappointed if
I do not return at a certain hour, and so I was anxious to catch it.
However, another leaves in a half hour; and, indeed, I am very glad to
have met you.”
How lady-like she was! With what perfect self-possession and grace she
greeted him, notwithstanding her sparkling eyes and the flush which had
leaped to her cheek told of inward excitement.
She was the same, and yet not the same; she had developed wonderfully
since that morning when he had parted from her on the steamer.
Her hair was still of the same beautiful golden hue as the lock which
she had severed for him, and which he still treasured; her eyes were the
same heavenly blue, her smile as bright and sweet, but there was an
added, indescribable charm about her that made her tenfold more lovely
in his sight.
“Thank you,” he said, in reply to her hearty greeting; “and now, if you
have only half an hour before another train goes, let us make the most
of it, and find a seat in the waiting-room where we can compare notes on
the last ten months.”
He led the way to the ladies’ room, found a comfortable chair in a
corner for her where they could talk undisturbed, and the half hour
slipped by before they had any idea that it was time for Star to go.
“There is my train,” she said, suddenly starting up as the first bell
rang; “I must not miss this one, or Mr. Rosevelt will surely think
something dreadful has happened to me.”
“Mr. Rosevelt!” repeated young Sherbrooke, in surprise.
“Yes; is it not singular? We met as strangers on board the steamer, and,
after all, we were coming to be inmates of the same house and did not
know it.”
“Yes, it is strange. He was a fine-appearing old gentleman. I trust that
he has recovered from the effects of his exposure at sea.”
“Not entirely, and I fear he never will,” Star answered, with a sigh.
“His health is not very good, and his eyes trouble him exceedingly at
times. They were injured by the reflection of the glaring sun in the
water while we were in that open boat. We are excellent friends, and he
watches anxiously for my return every day.”
“Do you come to New York every day?” her companion questioned.
“Yes; I am attending a seminary in Brooklyn, and for the present go back
and forth every day. But see,” she added, pointing to the clock; “there
is only one minute more, and I must find a seat.”
He assisted her to enter and conducted her to a seat; then, extending
his hand, he said, smiling:
“If you come to the city every day, I shall hope to see you again.”
The ever ready color leaped to her cheeks again, more at the look he
gave her than at his words.
She was upon the point of giving him her address and asking him to come
out to Yonkers to see her and Mr. Rosevelt, but the train started, and
she was obliged to leave her invitation unspoken.
He had only time to lift his hat, dart away and leap upon the platform,
before the train was under way.
Archibald Sherbrooke not only _hoped_ to see her again, he _did_ see her
many times after that, for he contrived to be at the station on some
pretext or other, or overtake her on the way thither, every day for
nearly a week, and he was always greeted with a glad look and smile.
Every day she grew more beautiful in his sight; every day his eyes told
her so, and these chance (?) meetings grew very sweet to them both.
“You must come out to Yonkers, some day, and see Mr. Rosevelt,” Star
said, upon one of these occasions.
“There, I declare, we have found so much else to talk about, that I have
not even told you where I live,” she said, laughing.
“And I am invited out to see _Mr. Rosevelt_, am I?” he asked, with a
twinkle of mischief in his fine eyes.
“Yes,” Star returned, demurely. “I know he will be very much pleased to
see you—indeed, he said so when I told him of our meeting. He remembers
how good to him you were after his rescue.”
“Thanks. Then I shall certainly avail myself of your invitation, and go
out to see Mr. Rosevelt some day very soon,” he said, with a grave bow;
but his eyes told her that she would be the star to attract him thither.
“You say _he_ remembers what transpired on the steamer. Do _you_
remember, too, Miss Star, how you told me at parting that I should
always be your friend—that you would never forget me?”
Star’s glorious eyes drooped, and the quick color rushing upward,
stained all her fair face to those soft yellow curls on her forehead.
“I have not forgotten,” she murmured, softly.
“Neither have I, as perhaps this will prove to you,” said the young man,
lifting a tiny locket which hung from his watch-chain, and, touching a
spring, held it up before her.
It contained nothing save a tress of shining hair, and Star knew in an
instant to whom it had once belonged.
Like a flash she remembered the cameo that he had given her as a
souvenir, and a choking sensation came into her throat.
She knew by the way he was looking at her—by the way he had asked her if
she “remembered”—that he was wondering if she had kept his gift as he
had treasured that lock of silken hair.
There was not a piece of jewelry about her person, and he had remarked
that fact the first time he met her there at the station.
Every article of her toilet was as dainty as it was possible to make it
with her limited resources, and she looked every inch a lady; but it was
not usual in those days to see a young girl of her age without the
glitter of gold or tinsel somewhere about her.
“You have kept it all this time,” she said, scarce knowing what to say
from embarrassment, while she wondered what she ought to tell him about
the cameo.
“Certainly I have kept it all this time. I urged you to give it to me,
and you do not suppose I was going to cast it lightly aside, do you?”
“Perhaps not,” she answered, with downcast eyes; “but I hardly thought
you would keep it in—in such a way; and—oh I Mr. Sherbrooke, I have lost
that lovely little cameo that you gave to me.”
She looked up at him now, and he noted the troubled, even pained
expression that was in her eyes.
“Lost it!” he repeated; and although he did not intend it, his face
clouded, whether from disappointment or some other feeling she could not
tell.
She could not bear that he should know _how_ she had lost it, and she
felt that she was guilty of no untruth when she explained its absence
thus.
“Yes,” she returned. “Please do not think that I did not prize it, for I
did more than I can tell you, and I hope even yet to be able to recover
it.”
He did not reply, but his face had grown grave, almost severe, and she
imagined there was something of constraint in his manner at parting with
her.
She felt that he was hurt by her seeming carelessness or indifference
for his costly little gift, and bitter tears kept welling to her eyes
all the way home.
“I _will_ have it again. I will go to Josephine and demand it. She has
no right to it, for it is mine; and if she will not give it to me, I
will appeal to Mr. Richards,” she said, indignantly, to herself.
“I could not bear to tell him how I lost it,” she thought, with rising
color. “I do not wish him to know how I have been treated by my mother’s
relatives, or how bitterly I have been disappointed in my hopes since
coming to this country. But,” she added, with firmly compressed lips,
“it will not be so much longer. In a little while I shall be independent
of them all.”
She little imagined how soon she would be independent of them, or how it
would be achieved.
This was Thursday—she had first met young Sherbrooke the previous
Friday, and there had not been the slightest cloud to mar their
intercourse until now, though they had met almost every day—and Star
went home feeling somewhat sad and depressed.
But the next morning her sadness disappeared when Mr. Rosevelt told her
that he was feeling so strong and well that he would like a change, and
he proposed to go to New York and call upon their young friend.
He had given Star his address, and when she left for school on Friday
morning, it was arranged that Mr. Rosevelt should go to town that
afternoon and she would meet him at Mr. Sherbrooke’s studio after school
and they would return together.
It seemed, however, as if everything went wrong for our young friend
that day. Her mind, usually so keen and active, refused to work with its
accustomed vigor, and she was listless and almost inattentive, much to
the surprise of Professor Roberts and her other teachers.
Her thoughts were playing truant, and half the time were far away in
that artist studio where Mr. Rosevelt was visiting.
When the hour came for her to join them, all her listlessness departed,
and she was her own bright self once more; and when, in answer to her
gentle knock upon his door, Archibald Sherbrooke opened it to admit her,
he thought she had never seemed so lovely before.
He had begun to realize that the feelings with which he regarded her
were something deeper and stronger than mere friendship called for—in
fact, he knew that he loved her more dearly than any other object on
earth, and that his heart had not really been his own, if the truth were
known, since that day when they had parted on the steamer; and he had
that morning come to the conclusion that the time should not be far
distant when he should tell her in words of the emotions she had
awakened in his heart.
“This is a pleasure that I had not anticipated until about an hour ago,”
he said, with a brilliant smile, as he took her by the hand and led her
into the room, where she found Mr. Rosevelt reclining comfortably in a
luxurious chair.
“And this,” Star said, looking around her with a long-drawn breath of
delight as she noted the many beautiful paintings hanging on the walls,
“is a pleasure which I had not anticipated.”
“Ah! then it is my _work_ which shall give you pleasure, rather than my
_society_, as I had presumed to flatter myself,” the young man said,
ruefully, and making a comical grimace, although his eyes were looking
down into hers with an expression which made her tremble.
She laughed, while a lovely color leaped to her face. But she tried to
hide her embarrassment by retorting, archly:
“I suppose I must be polite, and affirm that I expect to enjoy both; but
really, Mr. Sherbrooke, although I knew you were an artist, I had no
idea that you painted such delightful things.”
“You give me more credit than belongs to me,” he answered, smiling; “but
wait until you are rested, and then I have something in particular to
show you.”
“Oh, I am not weary. Let me look now, if you please; we have only an
hour, you know;” and she began to move about the room, examining with no
uncritical eye the works upon the walls.
The young artist kept by her side, telling her the subjects of the
paintings, and relating many instances connected with them.
At length they came to a corner where there stood an easel, upon which
there was a picture covered with a green cloth.
Mr. Sherbrooke removed the covering, simply saying:
“This is the picture that I particularly wished to show you.”
It was quite a large painting, and represented a young man and maiden
standing on board a steamer, while silver-tipped waves and a deep blue
sky formed a charming background for their youthful figures.
The former stood in an eager attitude, with one hand extended, a smile
on his handsome lips, a gleam of wistful admiration in his honest brown
eyes, while his companion seemed to be clipping a tress from a massive
braid of shining golden hair that hung over her shoulders.
The fair young girl was a faithful representation of Star as she had
appeared on that day, which they both remembered so vividly, and in the
act of severing that lock at his request. She stood with drooping eyes,
a flush on her cheek, a half-smile on her beautiful scarlet lips, a shy
and modest grace in her posture, while her slender fingers daintily held
braid and scissors.
Archibald Sherbrooke watched her as she gazed upon his picture, his
heart in his earnest glance; while Star, although her eyes were riveted
as if fascinated upon the familiar scene, could not say one word
regarding it.
He had made her very, very lovely, with that sheen upon her hair, those
soft, bright curls lying low upon her forehead, which gleamed beneath
them like purest ivory; with those half-averted eyes, in which the iris
was just discernible, so richly blue,
* * “As if the sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall;”
with her delicate hands in their pretty act showing to such advantage,
and her slight, willowy figure so gracefully posed—so lovely that she
could not help the conscious blush which mounted to her temples, nor the
quick heart-throbs which stirred the lace upon her bosom; for something
whispered to her that his hand had lingered fondly upon that picture, as
if over a work that he had loved.
“What do you think of my work, Miss Gladstone?” he asked, gravely, and
breaking the silence which was becoming oppressive to him.
“It—it is very—correct, I think,” she faltered, with averted eyes and
deepening color.
An anxious gleam shot into his eyes at her reply.
“Have I displeased you by putting it on canvas?” he asked, earnestly.
“N-o,” she returned, somewhat hesitatingly.
“I fear I have,” he said, still more gravely than before. “Do not
hesitate to tell me if you are offended, and I will obliterate it with
one sweep of my brush.”
His eye was full of pain, a deep flush burned on his cheek, while there
was a thrill in his low, earnest tone that set her pulses bounding
afresh.
She glanced up at him, smiling slightly.
“No, I am not offended,” she said; “but I’m afraid I appeared very
foolish that day to offer you a tress of my yellow hair.”
“Have I made the picture appear so?” he asked, quickly.
“No; you have made it altogether too beautiful,” she answered,
earnestly, and then was covered with confusion at having admitted so
much.
“Thank you,” he said, brightly, his face clearing. “I could not do that,
if I had spent twice the time I did upon it, and”—bending nearer to her,
and speaking in a tender tone—“it is a picture that I painted for myself
alone; no one has ever seen it before, and I shall always keep it.”
He covered it carefully with the cloth again as he ceased speaking.
“These are not nearly all my work,” he said, as she turned to look at
some others; “they are the united work of an old artist, ‘our master,’
we call him, and of three of my friends—companion artists. We have been
traveling together during the last ten months, and these pictures are
some of the results of our pilgrimage. We are to return now in a couple
of months, having spent our year in America both pleasantly and
profitably, I trust. We had to make our headquarters somewhere, so we
took this room as a sort of studio, and thus putting our work all
together, we manage to make quite a respectable display.”
“I am glad to have seen these pictures,” Star said, “and to know they
are all the work of my countrymen. I wish, however, that _I_ was going
back to England in a month or two,” she concluded, with a sigh, and a
tear springing to her eye.
“Do you?” her companion asked, eagerly. “Then you have not become weaned
from your native land?”
“No, indeed,” she said, earnestly. “I love it as dearly as ever, and if
I live I shall go back some day to my home.”
The young man bent toward her, an eager light in his eye; his lips
parted as if he were about to speak, but Mr. Rosevelt, from the opposite
side of the room, suddenly addressed some remark to him, and he was
obliged to turn his attention to him.