“LET ME DEPICT YOUR FUTURE.”
Before Mr. Rosevelt and Star left him, Mr. Sherbrooke arranged a little
pleasure trip to Coney Island for the following day.
“I suppose, to-morrow being Saturday, you will have no school, Miss
Gladstone,” he said, with an appealing look at her.
“No; but I have a music lesson at nine,” she answered, doubtfully.
“Could you not arrange to postpone it for once?”
“I think not; the hour is engaged for me, and if I am not there I lose
it. I should hardly like to do that, for I must make the most of my time
this year.”
Star said this last more to herself than in reply to him. She wanted to
go—oh, so much!—and yet felt that she ought not to lose her lesson.
“Well, an hour will not make much difference; you will be through by
ten. It will not be too late for our excursion then, and that will give
us the best part of the day. The sail will be delightful, and we will
come home by moonlight. I speak for to-morrow, as I am to leave New York
next week for awhile. I think you will go, Miss Star?” Mr. Sherbrooke
concluded, questioningly.
“I think I should enjoy the trip very much,” Mr. Rosevelt here
interposed. “We’ll say ‘go,’ little girl, for we have had no holiday
this summer. Yes, yes, Sherbrooke, thank you, we will accept your
invitation, and Star will, I think, be willing to shorten her lesson a
trifle, so that we shall be able to leave the city by half-past ten.”
Yes, Star said she would do that; and the matter once decided, her face
brightened and her eyes glowed with anticipation.
She had not had a holiday that summer, as Mr. Rosevelt said; indeed, no
one had planned a day’s pleasure for her before since she came to
America, and the thought of this little excursion was very gratifying to
her. A whole day spent in the company of Archibald Sherbrooke would be a
“red letter day” to her; and so, with thrilling pulses and bounding
heart, she took leave of him and went away with Mr. Rosevelt, to talk
about it, to dream about it, and, girl-like, to plan how to make herself
as charming as possible for the occasion.
As for Archibald Sherbrooke himself, he sat down after his guests had
departed, and allowed his thoughts to have their own way.
“She is as lovely as a dream,” he murmured, watching her from the window
as she tripped lightly along by Mr. Rosevelt’s side. “I did not think
when I started for America that I was coming to meet my fate; but so it
proves. Unless I can win Star Gladstone’s love, the remainder of my life
will not contain much that will be worth living for. She is as pure as a
lily, beautiful as a veritable star; and yet there is something that I
cannot quite understand about her; there is a reserve, an occasional
sadness, that seems strange in one so young, while once in awhile she
lets fall a word which makes me fear her life is not as bright as it
should be. There is something of a mystery, too, about Mr. Rosevelt. How
sort of ‘seedy’ and neglected he looked to-day, and I judged, when I met
him before, that he was a man of abundant means, and without a care,
pecuniarily.
“How startled my fair one looked when I showed her my picture,” he went
on, with a luminous smile; “and I really believe that she realized
something of the tenderness that I have put into it.”
He arose and went over to the easel, and removing the cloth, stood
looking at the lovely girl with a world of affection in his handsome
eyes.
“My glory-crowned Star,” he murmured, “I began to love you the moment
that you fell exhausted into my arms when you were rescued from the
hungry jaws of death, and I will spend my life in winning you if need
be. I have seen no other woman your equal during all my sojourn in
America—at least, no one who has so moved my heart—and I know of no one
in all England whom I should care to win for my bride.
“Star Gladstone! It is a name symbolical of her nature,” he said,
unconsciously repeating what Mr. Rosevelt had once told her, “or I am no
adept in reading character. She will crown my life with light, and bring
gladness and beauty into my home, if I can win her; and I think I am not
mistaken in believing that I read the sequel to my own love-story to-day
in her blushing face and shy, drooping eyes.”
Saturday came, and at an early hour Star awoke and arose to see what the
morning promised, and to prepare for the anticipated pleasure of the
day.
The sun rolled up from the east without a cloud, its light, a dusky red,
tinging all the earth with a rosy hue—a sure harbinger of a hot, dry
day, and just what Star of all things most desired.
“Why?” does curiosity question.
Because her one best dress for summer had been a simple white lawn,
which her own fair hands had fashioned in the most dainty manner, and
she had nothing else really pretty to wear.
“If I cannot have embroideries and laces, I can at least have ruffles
and tucks, for they cost nothing but time and patience,” she had said to
Miss Baker, when the question “how it should be trimmed” came up for
discussion; and ruffled and tucked it was in the most artistic manner.
She ran down stairs to practice for an hour, after which she went to her
breakfast, and confided to Mrs. Blunt the fact that “she and Uncle
Jacob” were going to have a holiday—her throbbing pulses warned her not
to mention the third member of the party, lest she should betray more
than she cared to—and that good woman remarked, with characteristic
emphasis, that “if she wasn’t glad of it, she was much mistaken, and
hoped she’d have the best time in the world; she’d certainly had
_precious few_ good times since she came there.”
This duty over—for she did not feel right to be gone the whole day
without telling some member of the family of her intention—she returned
to her room to give her attention to that, for once with her, very
important subject for consideration—her toilet.
She arranged her shining hair with great care. It was her glory, and
Archibald Sherbrooke had made it appear such in that picture which he
had shown her yesterday, and which she now remembered with crimson
cheeks and glowing eyes, as she brushed those shining strands until they
gleamed like burnished gold. She then wove it into one massive braid, as
she had worn it that day which neither of them would ever forget, and
tied it a little way from the end with a fresh, delicate blue ribbon.
This done, she donned the spotless white dress, with a broad belt of
blue and its great bow on one side, and fastened a simple knot of the
same at her throat, but heaving a regretful sigh as she thought of her
precious cameo, and wished she could have had it to wear to-day. Then
she tied a pretty chip hat, with its mull trimmings and bunch of
forget-me-nots, over her golden head, and blushed rosy red at the vision
of loveliness that looked out at her from her small mirror.
Taking her roll of music, and throwing a fleecy shawl over her arm, she
ran down stairs with a light, springing step, intending to go to the
lodge for a word with Mr. Rosevelt before she went to the station.
“Where are you going, miss, rigged out in that style?” was the rude
query that saluted her ears as she came out upon the veranda and stopped
a moment to fasten her gloves.
Looking up, she saw Josephine sitting at one end of the porch, and half
hidden by the luxuriant growth of vines climbing the trellis.
Her radiant face clouded; it seemed almost like an omen of evil to have
her anticipations of pleasure broken in upon thus.
“I am going to New York to take my music lesson,” she answered, touching
the roll underneath her arm.
“Do you always dress yourself out like that to take your music lesson?
Perhaps you are trying to strike up a flirtation with Professor
What’s-his-name,” sneered the haughty beauty.
Poor Star glanced down at her offending dress, an indignant flush rising
to her cheek.
The entire cost of it had been less than what Josephine was accustomed
to pay for even a pair of shoes; and yet she knew, without being told,
that the gay belle, with all her expensive trappings, had never looked
half so fresh and lovely as she did at that moment.
Josephine realized it also, and her heart was filled with bitter envy
and malice.
“Go back up stairs and change your gown,” she continued, angrily,
without giving Star an opportunity to reply to her taunting remarks.
“You have no business to go to the city, dressed as if you were going to
a party.”
Star’s small head came up like a flash of light; her eyes darkened and
glowed with a sense of wounded pride and injustice.
She stood still a moment, her scarlet lips compressed until only a
narrow line of red was visible; then, in a calm, clear, but very decided
tone, she said:
“You have no right to lay such commands upon me, Miss Richards, and I
shall not obey you.”
“You insolent beggar! what do you mean by answering me in this way?”
began the astonished girl; but Star had glided down the steps, and was
walking with a proud, elastic step down the avenue; consequently her
rage was expended upon the empty air.
But she was fairly startled by the exquisite loveliness of the young
girl. She had never seen her dressed with so much care before, and had
not dreamed of having such a rival in her own dwelling.
Mr. Rosevelt was standing on the porch of the lodge when Star came
along, and he, too, marveled at her exceeding beauty, saying to himself
that he had never seen her so brilliant and spirited before.
And, indeed, he had not, for she never had been so thoroughly aroused
before during all her residence in Mrs. Richards’ family.
“Good-morning, Uncle Jacob,” she said, brightly, as she saw him standing
there, and her indignation immediately began to subside.
What was Josephine Richards that she should allow her to mar all the
pleasure of her own holiday?—that she should drive the happiness from
her heart, the sunlight from her face, when she was going to spend long
hours of delight in Archibald Sherbrooke’s presence?
Nothing, save a coarse, rude girl, devoid of feeling or refinement; and
with a resolute effort she drove her from her thoughts, the smile
returned to her red lips, the light to her eye, as she ran lightly up
the steps and stood beside Mr. Rosevelt.
“How well you are looking,” she said, gayly. “I just ran down to see if
you were all right, and to jog your memory about our little celebration
to-day.”
“You did not need to do that, Starling. I am as eager as a schoolboy for
my day of pleasure,” he returned, with a fond smile, adding: “But how
dainty you are this morning. I shouldn’t wonder if our artist friend
would be wanting to paint the picture of a ‘star’ one of these days,
eh?”
Star blushed and laughed lightly.
She could have told him, had she chosen, that it was already painted.
But she only charged him playfully to make himself look as young and
charming as possible if he intended to be her escort to Coney Island;
then waving him a farewell, she tripped away with a smile on her lips, a
song in her heart.
He stood and watched her out of sight, murmuring, with something like
regretful fondness:
“My bright Star, somebody will want something more substantial than a
painting if you are onehalf as attractive in his eyes as you are in
mine.”
The little German professor of whom Star took music lessons rubbed his
small fat hands with delight, his face dimpling all over with smiles,
when she came like a ray of light into his room.
“Ach! but der fraulein should have been called Miss Gladheart,” he said,
regarding her admiringly. “She is as bright as der day, as fair as der
morn; she is like a flower dot is newly bloomed.”
Star laughed merrily.
It seemed ludicrous enough to her to hear this fat little man, with his
bald pate, his red face, dumpy legs, and his broken English—who scarce
ever was known to express a thought that was not connected with music
before—bubble over thus unexpectedly with sentiment.
“Oh, Professor Schwab, you overwhelm me!” she cried, gayly; “and I’m
almost certain that your compliments will degenerate into a veritable
scolding before I have been here fifteen minutes, for I fear I am not in
very good order to-day, my head is full of pleasure.”
“Pleasure is good now and then; it is made for youth,” the professor
remarked, with a sigh, and a glance at Star’s bright face and dainty
costume, as if he regretted that he was no longer young.
“I want you to let me go in just half an hour, for this is to be a
holiday,” Star said, as she removed her hat and gloves.
“Der fraulein shall do shust vat she pleases—I can refuse her notting
to-day; but,” he added, assuming a business-like air, “let her mind dot
she keep her fingers right and der time goot.”
Star settled down at once to her work with such earnestness of purpose
that she really outshone herself, executing her brilliant and difficult
exercises in a way that would have done credit to the composer himself.
“Verra goot—excellent goot! Der heart is glad, her hopes are bright, and
der work is well done. Miss Gladstone, in six months I teach you notting
more; you go to Germany—to Italy, to study,” he said, his face beaming
with satisfaction at her proficiency.
Star thanked him with her brightest smile for his praise, and then left
him with a light heart; and when she reached the place appointed as the
rendezvous by Mr. Rosevelt and Mr. Sherbrooke, this latter gentleman
also thought her the fairest object he had ever seen, and knew that, as
he clasped her small hand, his eyes were betraying that old, old story
of which his heart was so full.
The sail down the river was even more charming than they had
anticipated. The day was perfect, the air being just cool enough to be
exhilarating, while our trio of friends were in a mood to enjoy
everything in the way of pleasure that might present itself.
They reached the island about noon, when Mr. Sherbrooke, ordering a
carriage, they drove directly to Manhattan Beach Hotel, where they
partook of a sumptuous dinner, and thus fortified, sallied forth to
enjoy the beauties and attractions all about them.
A couple of hours were spent in visiting the different objects of
interest, and then Mr. Rosevelt said that he should be obliged to give
up and take a rest.
So Mr. Sherbrooke ordered a room for him at the hotel, and he went to
“take a nap,” while the young man, with a feeling of exultation that now
he should have Star all to himself, took a carriage for a long drive
upon the beach.
For miles and miles they drove over the smooth, hard road, both in their
happiest mood, and giving themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour.
Every moment spent in Star’s society only served to entangle our young
English friend more securely in the meshes of love’s net; while she
began to realize that the world would never be quite the same again to
her when he should be gone and no prospect of their meeting again.
“He is going away next week,” she kept saying again and again to
herself, while a chill pain gnawed at her heart. “How can I bear to have
him go, and feel that I may never see him again? Oh, England, my home!
my home! would that I also could go back to you!”
So intense was her longing for her home, so keenly did she regret this
parting, which she felt was inevitable, that the tears sprang into her
eyes, and a deep sigh came welling up from her burdened heart.
“Miss Star, why that doleful sigh?” exclaimed Archibald Sherbrooke, in
surprise.
Star started, and looking up, found her companion’s eyes fixed upon her
with grave questioning.
She colored vividly, fearing he had read something of her thoughts.
“Did I sigh?” she asked, evasively.
“Yes; and I did not like the sound of it, either. Are you tired of
driving? Shall we go back and try something else?” he asked, only
anxious to give her pleasure.
“Oh, no; this is delightful,” she answered, quietly. “I fear I have been
guilty of rudeness if I have given you the impression that I am not
enjoying every moment of this lovely day. Do you know, Mr. Sherbrooke,”
she asked, with a smile that had a tinge of sadness in it, “that I am
indebted to you for the only real holiday that I have had since I came
to America?”
He regarded her with surprise.
“Is it possible?” he asked. “I fear, then, that you have not had a very
happy life during the last year, or else you are working too hard over
your books.”
She feared she had betrayed more than she ought. She did not want him to
know how hard life had been made for her. She was too proud to complain
of the ill-treatment, the coldness, and even dislike which had been her
lot, where she had expected to find only kindness, love, and sympathy.
“I _have_ been working pretty busily,” she answered, as if that were
all. “I am anxious to graduate this year, and I have to apply myself
rather closely with my music and other duties.”
“Why are you so anxious to graduate this year? Why not take more time,
rather than run the risk of injuring your health?” he questioned,
gravely.
“I am going back to England some time,” she said, her eyes kindling,
“and the sooner I can complete my education, the earlier I can go. I
have my own future to carve out, Mr. Sherbrooke, and my aim is to
prepare myself for a teacher.”
“Your own future to carve out!” he cried, greatly surprised. “I thought
you had friends here who were to care for you always.”
She colored, but answered, gravely:
“I should not be content to pass my life here. I shall stay only long
enough to complete my education; then I shall go back to my own country
to teach.”
He understood her; he saw, even though she would not confess it, that
her life since coming to America had not been a happy one.
He saw now, as he looked down into her face, so fair and beautiful, what
he had not noticed before, she had always been so bright and animated
when with him.
There was a wistful look in her eyes, lines of sadness about her
sensitive mouth, that told him of a heart yearning for love and finding
only husks to feed upon.
She was going to be a teacher, she said; she was bending all her
energies in that direction, and was working, he felt assured, far beyond
her strength.
She did not look fit to fight the battle of life alone; she was slender
and delicate, although he felt that, in spite of her fragile appearance,
there was an element of strength in her character which would overcome
every obstacle which it was possible for a human being in her position
to overcome.
She had “her future to carve out,” she had told him. What did she intend
that future to be?—what were her hopes, her aims, her plans? Surely not
to teach _always_.
Ah, if she would but learn to love him—if he could win her, it would be
very different from the wearying, dragging life of a teacher.
Before he was hardly aware of his intention, his heart had overleaped
every barrier, he bent toward her and said, in a low, earnest tone:
“Star, I love you. Let _me_ depict your future for you.”