A FATAL MISTAKE.
The beautiful maiden cast one startled glance up at her handsome lover,
and then grew colorless as the dress she wore.
But when he softly laid his hand upon hers, saying, gently, “Darling, I
have frightened you with my abruptness,” her whole being thrilled
beneath his touch, and the rich crimson swept swiftly up over neck,
face, and brow, until it lost itself in the fluffy masses of sunny hair
which lay upon her forehead.
“I could not help it,” he went on, a glad light leaping to his eyes as
he saw her blushes; “and I have known that I love you, my beautiful one,
for a long time. Do you remember that it was I who received you into my
arms when you were lifted to the deck of our steamer from that frail
boat in which you so nearly perished? Do you know that your fair face
lay upon my breast, and as I looked down upon you, _I_ knew that no
other had ever moved me so strangely and so deeply, despite its pallor
and the tale of suffering that I read there? Its power grew upon me
during the few days which followed and while we were so much together,
and when at last we were obliged to part, and I begged a tress of this
sunshine”—touching the massive braid which lay over her shoulder almost
reverently—“the picture that you made, with your shy grace and modest
beauty as you unhesitatingly clipped it for me, stamped itself indelibly
upon my heart, where I have carried it ever since, growing to love it
more and more, until I determined to make it always mine by putting it
on canvas. I did not know as I should ever see you again, and yet I have
been haunted by a feeling that some magnetic influence or strange power
of attraction would eventually draw us together again; and so it has
proved. Star, I know that I love you as deeply and truly as it is
possible for one human being to love another. You say you love England;
you wish to go back and make your home there. Tell me that, some day,
_I_ may take you there—that _my_ home shall become your home, and you
will be my cherished wife. My darling, you have made yourself very fair
to-day—so like the picture I have painted, and which I showed you
yesterday, that something has whispered to me that a thought of _me_
prompted it; that there was something of tenderness in your heart which
made you put those shining locks, which you have been wearing in another
fashion of late, into this massive braid again, and tie it with this
lovely blue, so like your eyes. Raise them, dear, and let me look into
them, to see if I can read anything of the story I wish to know. Tell
me, Star, that when I come to America again, I may come to claim this
hand and call its owner my wife.”
His hand had rested lightly upon hers all the time he had been speaking.
She had not attempted to withdraw it, and now his fingers closed over it
in a firm, loving clasp.
It still lay trembling but unresistingly there; and when, as he bent to
look into those drooping eyes, she lifted them to his with one shy
glance of answering tenderness, he knew that he had not sued in vain.
“My own darling!” he whispered, passionately, his face flushing with
happiness; “you _do_ love me; I read it in your eyes, and the world was
never so bright to me as at this moment; but tell me, shall I have what
I want—will you give me your promise that, next year, when you have
completed your education, instead of going back to England as a teacher,
you will go with me as my wife?”
She grew suddenly grave, and lifting an earnest look to his face, said:
“I have told you that I am only a poor girl, with my own fortune to
carve out. You have no idea _how_ poor I am, how dependent, how
friendless. You, perhaps, have proud relatives; you may occupy a place
far above me socially, and your friends might object to your claiming
one in my position as your wife.”
“I care nothing for your poverty or dependence, dear,” he returned,
tenderly; “it cannot alter the fact that you are the only woman whom I
shall ever love well enough to make my wife. But,” he added, with a
thoughtful look, “I forget that I am almost a stranger to you—that you
know nothing of me, that I have told you nothing——”
“I have not given it a thought,” Star interrupted, earnestly. “I can
_trust_ you; I _know_ you are true.”
His face grew radiant.
“You will never regret your trust, my darling,” he said. “I—am an
artist, Star, but I believe I can take care of you, and promise you that
you shall never know the meaning of the words poor and dependent again.
Of course I have friends, and—but I will tell you all about them some
other time. I want my promise now—you will give yourself to me, dear?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her scarlet lips parting slightly with a tremulous
smile, “by and by, when I am better fitted to be your—wife.”
He longed to take her in his arms and draw her to his heart, and kiss
the lips that had promised him the greatest joy he had ever known; but
there were other carriages near, and curious eyes all about them; so he
could only clasp that small hand more fondly, and murmur low and tender
words to tell of the deep, true love of which his heart was full.
“You shall indeed go back to England now, my darling,” he said, “but
never to _teach_. You shall remain here until you have completed your
course of study if you wish; then I shall come, before this time next
year, and take you to my—our home. I shall return with a happy heart
now, for I shall have an object to work for and something to look
forward to. Ah, my dear, my dear, do _you_ realize what is in store for
us?—a long life of joy and love together, with brightest hopes and
congenial tastes. Star, my beloved—my _star_, indeed!”
Who can wonder that she gave herself up to the bliss of loving and being
loved, when wooed in this tender manner?
Who could chide this heart-hungry maiden, who had been starving for
affection and sympathy, for feeling that she had never known happiness
before?
And she loved him with all her soul. He had won all the passion of her
young heart, and she gave herself up to him wholly, unreservedly,
trusting him without a suspicion or thought that he could be anything
save truth and honor itself.
Twilight was beginning to gather when they returned to the hotel where
they had left Mr. Rosevelt, but it was not yet so dark but that that
gentleman remarked the glorified expression of the young man’s face, and
the brilliant light which gleamed in Star’s radiant eyes.
“May I tell our dear old friend, Star?” Archibald Sherbrooke whispered,
as he assisted her to alight from the carriage.
She started, and grew crimson.
“Oh, Mr. Sherbrooke, not to-night, please.”
“To whom are you speaking, my Star?” he interrupted, with assumed
sternness and reproach.
She glanced up questioningly, yet with burning cheeks, for she knew what
he meant, but was not quite sure yet what he wished her to call him.
“My mother calls me Archie,” he said, with a meaning smile.
“Must _I_ call you that?” she asked, her heart thrilling at the name,
yet instinctively shrinking from addressing him quite so familiarly just
yet.
“There is no ‘_must_’ about it, nor about anything else that you do not
like, my darling,” he said, very gently, but looking a trifle grave, she
thought.
“Then please let me go—Archie, for I know Uncle Jacob is wondering why
it takes me so long to get out of the carriage, and—and ever so many
people are looking at us,” Star said, wishing she could hide her hot
cheeks, and realizing, if he did not, that he was holding her hands a
great deal longer than there was any need of doing.
A brilliant smile parted his lips as he released her, and she darted
away just as a servant came forward to take the horse, he following more
leisurely to give her time to recover herself a little.
“You have enjoyed your drive, little one?” Mr. Rosevelt asserted,
questioningly, as she came and stood beside his chair, while he regarded
her with a keen glance.
“Very much, Uncle Jacob; and you—are you rested?” Star asked, eager to
turn his attention from herself.
“Entirely, and am as hungry as an old bear, too. These sea breezes have
sharpened my appetite to a painful degree,” he replied, as if his hunger
was the only subject which occupied his thoughts, while all the time he
was watching her closely, and telling himself that there must be some
cause more potent than “sea breezes” for her brilliant color and that
tender light in her eyes.
“I am delighted to hear it,” young Sherbrooke said, now joining them,
“for our tea is waiting for us, I am told, and we shall have just about
time enough to dispatch it comfortably before the boat is due.”
They went in to an inviting meal, spread in a private room for them. The
young man had given an order to this effect before going to ride, as he
had noticed that Star was annoyed at dinner by the attention which her
lovely face had attracted.
But it was noticeable that Mr. Rosevelt did most of the eating, for our
lovers were in altogether too exalted a state for such commonplace
realities as bread and butter, or even for anything so tempting as
peaches and cream.
When Mr. Rosevelt’s hunger was appeased, he asked Star to play something
before they left.
There was a piano in the room, and he was extremely fond of music.
“I want our friend here to know what a talented little musician we
have,” he said, with a fond glance at his favorite.
Star was only too willing to comply with his request, glad of anything
to relieve the awkward consciousness which had pervaded her all through
tea, and sitting down to the instrument, she played several pieces.
Archibald Sherbrooke was astonished at the proficiency which she
displayed, and the appreciative silence which prevailed upon the veranda
outside the open windows, told that her power had swayed a larger
audience than she had thought of having.
“She is mine; I have won her, this talented, beautiful, pure-hearted
girl,” Archibald Sherbrooke said, exultantly, to himself, as he closed
the piano for her, and pressed the hand that hung invitingly near him.
They repaired to the boat-landing soon after, for it was nearly time for
their departure.
When the steamer arrived, Archibald found a sheltered seat for Mr.
Rosevelt, and then drawing Star a little apart, wrapped her shawl
carefully about her and sat down beside her, her hand clasped in his
under cover of its soft folds.
“He will not mind, and I want you to myself,” he whispered. “I cannot
see you to-morrow, love, for it will be Sunday, but Monday or Tuesday I
shall come to you. I cannot wait longer.”
Star glanced at him somewhat anxiously.
She knew what that coming would entail upon her—sneers and taunts, and
perhaps more unkindness than she had ever yet received from Mrs.
Richards or Josephine.
Mr. Richards, she felt assured, would be more considerate of her
feelings; yet, under any circumstances, this visit of her lover would be
a very trying one.
Ah! _how_ trying, Heaven only knew.
She thought perhaps she ought to tell him something of her life during
the last year, that he might not be wholly unprepared when he should
present his suit for what she feared would be a very disagreeable
interview.
But she was so supremely happy sitting there by his side in the glorious
moonlight, and knowing that she was so tenderly beloved, that she could
not bear to mar it by so much as a word or thought of what she had
suffered in the past, or might have to endure in the future, until he
should come for her to claim her as his wife. No, she would not tell
him; she would wait until after he had been presented to her guardians.
There would be time enough then, and it would be just as well.
But it was a fatal mistake.
Had she told him then, all the pain and anguish, all the misery and
hopelessness which she afterward experienced would have been spared her;
but how could she know?
So they sailed on up the river, side by side, hand clasped in hand, and
thought only of the supreme happiness of the moment.
It was one of those beautiful fall evenings, calm and still, and bright
with an almost intoxicating brilliancy; the heavens, the river, with its
gliding banks on either side, all lighted with a radiance that was
absolutely dazzling; and Star wondered if ever in all her life before
she had seen the world so wondrously beautiful.
“Monday or Tuesday you are coming to Yonkers?” Star murmured, in reply
to this remark of her lover’s. “I thought you were to be away from New
York next week?”
“And so I am; I am coming to Yonkers to see you,” he answered, smiling.
“My darling, do you not know that all the world is changed for me now?”
It certainly was for her, she thought, with a tender little smile, and
then she said:
“Have you a card and a pencil? I must tell you where to find me, you
know.”
“True. How stupid of me not to have thought of it,” he returned, as he
searched his pockets to find what she wanted.
“I thought it better to write it than to tell you,” she said, archly,
“fearing you might forget.”
“I own that I am not in a condition to remember anything to-night, save
that you love me and that I have won you,” he whispered, putting pencil
and card into her hand.
She wrote the street and number of the house where she lived, and gave
it back to him, and he put it away without even looking at it.
And thus the moments sped swiftly on until they landed, and that
delightful homeward sail was over and had become one of those events to
be remembered and treasured when, in the dark future, they should look
back upon it and wonder if as bright a gleam of happiness had ever
really existed in their lives.
Mr. Sherbrooke accompanied Mr. Rosevelt and Star to the station where
they had to take the train for Yonkers, and found comfortable seats for
them.
“I shall see you again very soon,” he said to the old gentleman, as he
took his hand at parting.
“I trust so. We shall be glad to see you at any time; and many thanks
for this day’s pleasure,” Mr. Rosevelt replied, heartily.
“The obligation is all on my side,” Archie said, with a meaning glance
at Star, which made the color come again and her heart to bound like a
roe in her bosom.
The bell warned him that he must go, and with a lingering, loving
pressure of her hand, he reluctantly bade them a final good-night and
went away.
The young girl had no idea of the lapse of time after that, until she
heard Mr. Rosevelt heave a long-drawn sigh.
She started, realizing then that they were almost home, and that she had
not spoken one word since her lover left them.
“Uncle Jacob, are you very tired?” she asked, anxiously, and with a
feeling of selfreproach.
“No, dear; only thinking how beautiful the world is under some
conditions, how dreary under others,” he returned, watching her
intently.
The young girl’s cheeks glowed hotly, but she had not a word to say in
reply to those sentiments. But she knew that the events of that day had
glorified the whole world for her, and all the way home she had been
weaving golden plans for the future, when Archie—it came easier every
time now—should take her to his simple home over the water—for of course
it must be simple, since he was only an artist—and which she would make
just as bright and beautiful as love and taste could make it.