THE GOAL REACHED.
The winter passed, the summer came again, and on a sunny day in June the
great chapel of the Normal College of New York city was packed with
human beings to its utmost capacity.
Upon the broad platform were seated the professors, the tutors, and
guests, while the body of the vast hall was filled with its fifteen
hundred students, attentive and vigilant like so many soldiers at their
posts.
These were girls all the way from fourteen to twenty years of age; girls
of every shade of complexion and degree of beauty, or the reverse;
bright maidens with latent mischief twinkling in their eyes, of every
variety of color and shade; lasses of mercurial temperament, such as
keep a household in a state of excitement and tumult, brimming with
animal spirits and kittenish pranks. Others there were, however, with
quiet serenity and dignity of manner, having sweet, clear-cut faces, and
gentle ways shining through their countenances; and those, too—let us
whisper it—with a suspicion of the vixen and virago; prudes and tomboys,
angels and shrews—all mixed indiscriminately in that immense place,
gathered for the final act of the school year—the graduating exercises,
the distributing of the diplomas, and the departure of the senior class
from the halls of learning out into the great world, there to take up
their duties as teachers.
Among the large number of this class who occupy, on this occasion, the
front seats in the chapel, there is one quiet figure, having a pale,
delicate face, large, deep blue eyes, and a fair, gleaming brow, shaded
by hair of brightest gold, which more than one of the numerous visitors
have singled out from her sister graduates, on account of her peculiar
loveliness and an indefinite something which seems to appeal to them
from the depths of her lovely but rather sorrowful eyes.
Slight of form, unassuming in manner, but with a dainty, star-like
beauty that was almost magnetic in its influence, she sat quietly in her
seat until one of the professors announced the “Address in French,” as
per programme, when she arose, and Miss Star Gladstone at once stepped
upon the platform, saluting first the officers, teachers, and guests,
then her fellow-students, with a charming little bow and a graceful
inclination of her body.
In clear, bell-like tones she began her address, without the slightest
appearance of self-consciousness or embarrassment, rolling out sentence
after sentence in the smoothest and purest of French, until those who
were well versed in the language wondered at such proficiency in one so
young, while those who could not understand it were spell-bound by her
exquisite voice and graceful gestures.
Star had been well taught in French before coming to this country, until
it had become almost like her native tongue; therefore, after a year of
arduous study under the best of teachers at the Normal College, it is
not strange that she should have been chosen, on account of her purity
of accent, to deliver the French oration.
“Who is she?” questioned one of the visitors of a teacher.
“Miss Gladstone,” she answered, pointing to the name on the programme.
“How lovely she is, in that simple lace bunting, trimmed with its knots
of blue ribbon, and those blush-roses in her belt!”
“So I think,” the teacher replied, with an affectionate glance at Star.
“She has only been with us a year, however. She was hardly up to the
mark when she entered the class, although she came highly recommended by
Professor Roberts, of Brooklyn. Our standard, you know, is very high.
But she was anxious to enter the senior class, and assured us that she
would not drag, and said she was particularly anxious to graduate this
year.”
“And she has done well, I am sure,” the visitor said, bending another
admiring glance upon the fair graduate.
“She has been one of the most brilliant scholars of the class. Her
recitations have been wonderful. I do not think she has made a single
failure during the entire year. If she had been with us throughout the
course, she must have taken the valedictory; but she has acquitted
herself grandly in the French essay, which she composed and translated
herself.”
“She has, indeed. I never heard purer French spoken, even in Paris. Does
she live in the city?”
“I believe so, although I do not know where. She comes and goes very
quietly, and her clothing indicates that her friends, whoever they may
be, are in limited circumstances. She appears to have no intimates, and
yet she is a favorite with all. There must be some sorrowful story
connected with her life, I think, for there is a haunting sadness in her
eyes whenever they meet yours, except when she smiles or becomes
animated in conversation; then she is charming.”
“I should like to know her,” said the first speaker, musingly; but
President Hunter here arose to distribute the diplomas, and she gave her
attention to his remarks, although her glance frequently sought the
lovely face which had so attracted her attention.
The subject of the above conversation, although unconscious of it, was
none the less worthy of it.
After leaving Jacob Rosevelt on the night of her exciting interview with
Mrs. Richards, she sped swiftly back to her room, where she gathered
together a few articles of clothing and packed them into a small valise;
her school-books also, with her portfolio and the small box which had so
aroused Josephine’s curiosity that day when she went to steal Star’s
lovely cameo.
These preparations ended, she retired to rest.
She awoke long before daylight, and dressing herself in a dark street
dress, she sat down by the window to wait for the dawn.
She penned that little note to Mrs. Blunt the last thing before leaving
the house. The woman had been so kind to her that she could not find it
in her heart to go away without a single word of farewell; to the others
she gave not a thought.
As soon as it was light enough, she stole softly down stairs and out at
the front door, as it was nearer, and, besides, some of the servants
might be up if she went out the back way, and turned her back forever
upon the house in which she had only been “tolerated.”
When she reached the lodge, she found Mr. Rosevelt waiting for her on
the vine-covered porch.
He smiled a silent good-morning, motioning her not to speak, with a
gesture which told her that John Mellen’s wife was not far off; and
together they went out from the grounds by a side gate and proceeded
toward the station.
They were in time for the early morning train, and reached New York long
before the household which they had left behind were aware of their
flight.
“We will go to some quiet street and board for a few days,” Mr. Rosevelt
said, as they sat down in the waiting-room of the station to consult
upon what was best to be done. “You must not lose a day of school if you
can help it. I know just the place for us, I think, where there is a
good, motherly soul of a landlady. Perhaps she will know of some rooms
which we can obtain at a reasonable price until you graduate, and then,
perhaps, you may not care to remain in New York.”
Star assented to this plan, and they repaired to the boarding-place
which Mr. Rosevelt had mentioned, and found the “good, motherly soul”
very willing to take them in.
After partaking of a simple but wholesome breakfast, Star went at once
to Brooklyn, and had an interview with Professor Roberts, as we already
know.
She told him just as little as was possible, but said that circumstances
obliged her to make a change, although she had not yet decided where she
should pursue her education.
She was surprised at the recommendation which he gave her, for it was
indeed the very best that he could put into words, and she felt very sad
when he shook her cordially by the hand and expressed his regret at
being obliged to part with her.
On her way back to New York she decided, if she could pass the
examination, she would enter the Normal College, believing that among
the multitude who attended there she would escape observation more
easily than in a smaller school.
She went immediately to the corner of Sixty-ninth street and Fourth
avenue, had an interview with the president, who consented to give her a
private examination; but the curriculum was a little different from that
of Professor Roberts’ seminary, and she was not quite up to the standard
in some of its branches, and being unwilling to go back into another
grade, she was admitted to the senior class, “upon conditions.”
She was not long in showing him, however, that such a stipulation was
wholly unnecessary.
She gave up all thoughts of music for the present, and bent all her
energies to her studies, and soon not one of the forty who were to
graduate gave promise of a more brilliant ending to her career as a
scholar than she who had been admitted “upon conditions.”
Meantime Mr. Rosevelt had found three furnished rooms in a cheap but
respectable locality, where they took up their abode, the woman, who
owned and lived in the house, agreeing to furnish their meals and act as
sort of housekeeper general for a reasonable amount.
Mr. Rosevelt would not hear a word to any other arrangement, although
Star declared she could do a portion of the work herself.
“No; you shall do nothing of the kind. You will have all you can attend
to to keep up with your classes,” he said.
“But it will cost so much, Uncle Jacob,” Star answered, ruefully, for
she found that her poor hundred pounds was melting rapidly away—at
least, it would do so if they paid for having all their work done. Mr.
Rosevelt smiled.
“My dear,” he said, though somewhat sadly, she thought, “you did not
suppose I was going to allow you to assume the burden of my whole
support, did you? I never should have consented to come away with you in
that case. I am not quite penniless, and what I can afford to pay toward
our support will at least relieve you of all necessity of laboring as a
household drudge.”
They were as cozy as they could well be with their simple yet home-like
little parlor, and two bedrooms leading out of it, and with their meals
served to them there, it was very much like a home of their own.
“It is just as nice as can be, and I am happy as a queen,” Star
declared, over and over again; but he often looked troubled when he saw
how thin her cheeks were growing, noticed her oft-repeated but quickly
suppressed sighs, and that “haunting sadness” in her eyes.
They lived in a very quiet way, never going out except for a quiet walk
or to the little church near by on Sunday, and never met or heard
anything of Mr. Richards or his family.
Star had read that advertisement relating to herself, and it had caused
her bitter pain, for it brought all her suffering so freshly to her
mind; but she had not the least faith that Lord Carrol could say
anything which could justify himself in her mind. She felt that he only
desired to cheat her still further with honeyed words, and so paid no
heed to it.
Mr. Rosevelt also saw it, and wondered if she had read it; but she gave
no sign, and he never mentioned that name to her; it was a topic which
they avoided by tacit consent.
Once during the year, when speaking of what she should do as soon as she
graduated, she said that she had decided to apply for a situation as
teacher in the city; she had concluded to remain in America instead of
returning to England, as she had at first planned to do.
He did not ask her why; he understood what she meant—she wished the sea
to roll between her and the man who had so ruined her life; and perhaps,
he thought, with a very tender feeling in his heart, she wanted to stay
with him.
Thus the year sped round, and brought with its revolution another
commencement day for Star.
“Uncle Jacob, you are coming to-day to see me graduate, are you not?”
she asked that morning, as she poured his coffee for him, and looking up
into his face with more eagerness than he had seen her manifest since
her trouble.
“Of course I shall; I would not miss it for anything. Then you have
really passed your final examination, and are going to receive your
diploma?” he said, bending a look of pride on her.
“Indeed I have. You did not suppose I should _fail_, did you, if I
really set about it?” she asked, with a little accent of scorn on the
disagreeable word.
“I did not know, dear. I was confident that you would do your best; but
you told me you were only received upon conditions, and I sometimes
feared the work might be too hard for you.”
“I should not have begged to be allowed to enter the senior class if I
had not felt confident that I could do justice to myself,” Star
answered, quietly, as she buttered her roll. “I considered the matter
thoroughly before I applied. I had already read almost as far in Latin
as the whole course demanded, and my French, thanks to papa’s care, was
nearly equal in pronunciation to monsieur’s own. The review of some of
the studies of the junior class, with which I was not familiar, and the
training for teaching, were all that was very hard for me.”
She spoke lightly, but he well knew that she had labored unremittingly
upon those reviews, and that she had spent many extra hours with one of
the “critic” teachers, who had kindly offered to assist her, in order
that she might be up to the mark in the practice of “model
school-teaching.”
Thus she had persevered and overcome every obstacle until the goal was
reached, and to-day she would receive her diploma.
And so Uncle Jacob had gone to the great chapel with other interested
friends, and watched the dear girl with glistening eyes while she so
creditably performed the part assigned to her, feeling that she was an
honor to her class, and in his eyes, at least, the gem of them all.
That evening there was to be a grand reunion in a commodious hall near
by, where graduates of previous years were to meet the senior class of
to-day, to offer their congratulations on their success and their good
wishes for their future career.
Star had no fine clothes in which to make a show of herself, and was
obliged to go clad in the same simple lace bunting that she had worn
during the day; but she gave herself an air of elegance by substituting
some bright flowers for the knots of blue ribbon, and excitement lending
a rich color to her cheeks and light to her eyes, no one thought of
criticising her garments.
Jacob Rosevelt, too, dressed in a full new suit of handsome broadcloth,
with a satin neck-tie and light kid gloves, did not look much like the
bent, shabby old man who had arrived, dusty and travel-stained, at Mr.
Richards’ mansion a little less than a year ago.
“Where _did_ you get it, Uncle Jacob?” Star exclaimed, as he came forth
from his chamber and asked her if she thought he’d do.
He smiled mysteriously, then said:
“I told you that I was not quite a beggar, dear, when I left my niece
Ellen’s inhospitable roof, and so I’ve been saving up for this occasion,
in order that I might do honor to you.”
“You are just as fine as you can be,” Star said, delightedly, as she
went round and round him to examine the material and fashion of his new
garments, “and I do not believe any one will be more proud of her escort
to-night than I shall be; and yet,” she thought, “Uncle Jacob must have
been _very saving_ indeed to have been able to buy such an expensive
suit.”
His eyes glowed with pleasure at her words; but when they entered the
brilliantly lighted hall, and he saw the elegant toilets of some of the
young ladies, he could not help regarding her with something of regret,
although very many admiring eyes were fixed upon the arm of the stately,
gray-haired gentleman, as they went forward to pay their respects to
President Hunter and his corps of assistants.
“Miss Gladstone, I have a friend who desires to be presented to you,”
said one of Star’s teachers, seeking her out later in the evening.
She led her toward a lady who was standing a little apart from them, and
who appeared to be three or four years Star’s senior, and introduced her
as Miss Meredith.
It was the visitor who had inquired so particularly regarding our
heroine during the graduating exercises.
She was drawn toward her at once, and they were soon chatting as
sociably as if they had been acquaintances of long standing.
While thus engaged, a gentleman approached them, greeting both young
ladies in the most cordial manner.
“I was hoping that you two would meet to-night,” he said, bestowing a
smiling face upon them both. “Miss Meredith is a graduate of two years
ago, Miss Gladstone, and I am sure you will find her a congenial
spirit.”
“Thank you, Mr. Appleton,” Miss Meredith responded, brightly; “but you
should have put it the other way, for I have been very impatient to meet
Miss Gladstone. I singled her out from her class to-day, and felt sure
that we should be _en rapport_, as the spiritualists say, if we could
only become acquainted.”
“Well, I think it does not matter much which way you put it, now that
you know each other,” the gentleman returned, smiling; then turning to
Star, he added:
“So, my young friend, you have really ‘run the race, and finished the
course;’ and now do you remember the promise which you made me several
months ago?”
Star flushed vividly at this question.
“Did I make you a promise, Mr. Appleton?” she asked, evasively, adding,
with an arch glance: “I thought it was _you_ who made _me_ a promise.”
He laughed and shook his finger at her.
“You said that on your eighteenth birthday I might reveal a secret.”
“And you _promised_ you would _not_ reveal it until I was eighteen,” she
retorted, brightly, although the color deepened in her cheeks as she
continued: “I am not eighteen yet, Mr. Appleton.”
“No, but you will be to-morrow. You see I have not forgotten the date.
Now, let me take time by the forelock a little, and whisper to Miss
Meredith _who_ the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride’ is. She has been on
the _qui vive_ to know ever since the book was published,” Mr. Appleton
said, bending a roguish look upon Star, who now stood with drooping eyes
and appearing somewhat confused.
“Oh, do you know? Is it some friend of yours, Miss Gladstone?” Miss
Meredith said, eagerly, to her. “I think it is so tantalizing not to
know the name of the author of a book,” she went on, “particularly if it
is one you happen to like very much; and here this provoking man who
published this one only put a great star where he should have printed
the author’s name. Do tell me, please, Miss Gladstone; I am, indeed, all
curiosity.”
Then remarking Star’s embarrassment, she looked from her to Mr.
Appleton, questioningly.
“Is it?” she went on, excitedly, as he smiled and glanced at the fair
girl. “Can it be possible that it is Miss Gladstone herself? I believe
it is,” she said, with sparkling eyes, as she seized Star’s hands; “and
oh! what can I say to you? It is a charming little book, and I have
enjoyed it more than I can tell you. There! let me shake the hand that
wrote it, and if I had a laurel wreath here I would put it on this
golden head and make you wear it the remainder of the evening.”
And she squeezed and shook that small, white, gloved hand until Star
laughingly begged for mercy.
“See what you have subjected me to,” she said, with a half-reproachful
look at Mr. Appleton.
“You might just as well make the best of it, my modest little friend,”
that gentleman replied, laughing. “I have kept silence for a year under
the most trying circumstances, for I have been unmercifully besieged to
tell who the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride’ is, and I could not stand
the fire any longer. My time is too valuable to be spent in any such
way; and I came here to-night not only to congratulate you upon your
graduation, but also to introduce my fair young author to my friends.
Yes, Miss Meredith, Miss Stella Gladstone is the author of ‘Chatsworth’s
Pride.’”
“Miss _Stella_ Gladstone?” Miss Meredith repeated.
“Yes; and, you perceive, I was not far from giving the name after all. I
was obliged to ‘make her mark,’ since I could not write her name,”
returned Mr. Appleton, jocosely.
“Ah, yes, I see. Stella means a star; and certainly,” Miss Meredith
said, turning to her new acquaintance again, “you bid fair to shine like
one.”