RESCUED FROM A HORRIBLE FATE.
If Mrs. Richards had conducted herself according to her own inclination,
she would have left Newport at once. But she was unwilling that Mr.
Rosevelt or Star should think that she had run away from them, or that
she was heart-broken over the disclosures which her uncle had made to
her.
Besides, Newport was full of wealthy and fashionable people, and among
them several eligible young gentlemen, whose acquaintance, for
Josephine’s sake, she was desirous of cultivating; and surely she was
not going to sacrifice all these advantages, and leave the field clear
for Star to win even greater victories.
No; she would stay, and she resolved she would make things just as
uncomfortable for the young girl as possible, while Josephine should be
made to shine with all the splendor of which their means, and Mr.
Richards’ credit, were capable.
But all the proud woman’s efforts were of no avail, for our fair heroine
had created a sensation which threatened to turn the heads and lead
captive the hearts of every unmarried man, at least, in Newport.
A week passed quickly by, and then Grace Meredith and her brother
arrived at the watering-place, and immediately attached themselves to
Mr. Rosevelt and Star by mutual consent; and many envious looks were
bestowed upon the dark, handsome stranger, who appeared to assume the
right of acting as escort to the two beautiful girls upon every
occasion.
But Star, whenever she appeared in company, laughed, chatted, and danced
with all that was possible of her admirers, dispensing her smiles and
favors with an impartiality that was exasperating not only to her
victims—if such they could be called who were each anxious to win the
prize—but also to the many forlorn damsels who were all sighing for the
attentions she was receiving and the honors she was usurping.
One day, about a week after the arrival of the Merediths, an excursion
was arranged to visit a point on Narragansett Bay, and it was to be a
picnic after the good old-fashioned style of carrying each his own
basket and sharing with his neighbor.
A boat had been chartered to take the party down the bay in the morning
and return at night by moonlight.
Ralph Meredith and two or three of his friends were the originators of
the affair, and the invitations were very select, and limited to one
hundred.
As it happened, Mrs. Richards and Josephine, with quite a number of
others from their hotel, were included in this party.
The morning was delightful, and the spirits of the whole company at
their highest point, while the jaunty, white-winged boat, with its
inspiriting band of music and its gayly dressed picnickers, seemed like
a little floating world devoted entirely to pleasure, as indeed it was.
Josephine Richards had arrayed herself in a very elaborate costume for
the occasion, determined that Star, who she knew was to be one of the
company, should not outshine her.
It fitted her like a glove, and was vastly becoming; she never had
looked more brilliant in her life, but she was too fussy for a picnic,
and looked as if she was decked out for a fashionable reception rather
than for a day in the woods.
In direct contrast to all this “fuss and feathers,” was Star, in a
simple suit of white lawn, a belt of blue, of her eyes’ own hue,
girdling her slender waist; a dainty, broad-brimmed hat, set in a jaunty
way upon her golden head, and a little cluster of blue-fringed gentians
nestling beneath her beautifully rounded chin.
The very simplicity of her attire made her conspicuous, and fashionable
maidens, who had groaned in spirit over what they should wear and how
they should wear it, glared at her with envious eyes.
Ralph Meredith had arranged a cozy little nook on the boat for Star and
his sister, by taking some camp-chairs along and cushioning them with
handsome rugs, with a couple of hassocks for their feet, while a sail
had been adjusted as an awning to screen them from the hot sun.
But when, after they were well on their way, he conducted them thither,
he found to his chagrin that this snug corner, upon which he had spent
so much care, had been appropriated by Mrs. Richards and her brilliant
daughter, who were holding a little court by themselves.
“Never mind,” Star whispered; “I do not care to sit just now, and I
particularly wish not to disturb them.”
“But _I_ particularly wished you and Grace to have a comfortable place
where you could enjoy your sail,” he returned, indignantly.
“I know, and you were very kind and thoughtful; but I shall feel better
to leave them to get what enjoyment they can from occupying seats which
they must know were intended for others. What do you say, Grace?” Star
asked, appealing to Miss Meredith.
“I do not see but what we shall be obliged to submit, since I do not
wish to be rude to any of our party. But I must say I think they are
very cool.”
They moved away to another portion of the boat, but when, an hour later,
they saw the interlopers promenading the deck, they quietly slipped into
the vacated seats, and settled themselves for the remainder of the sail.
Here they were soon chatting in the most sociable manner, and were right
in the midst of a most interesting discussion regarding their toilet for
an approaching reception, when a cold voice broke out upon them, saying:
“Miss Gladstone, may I trouble you to vacate our chairs?”
Star started and flushed. Too well she knew those incisive tones.
But she quickly recovered herself, however, and looking up at Mrs.
Richards, for it was she who had spoken, said:
“_Your_ chairs? Are they yours?”
“Certainly; you have already seen us occupying them, I believe,” the
woman responded, haughtily.
Star’s face began to dimple with amusement, for she knew well enough
that this demand was only made to annoy her and make her unpleasantly
conspicuous, and she was determined to turn the tables to their own
mortification; for they could not fail to learn when they landed to whom
the chairs and other comforts belonged.
She made a motion to Grace, who, she saw, was bristling with
indignation, to keep silent; then she arose, bowing with graceful
politeness to Mrs. Richards and her daughter, though her eyes were
gleaming with suppressed laughter.
“I beg pardon if I have been occupying what does not rightfully belong
to me, and I cheerfully resign _my_ chair to your _prior claim_.”
Josephine flushed, for she saw that it was all Star could do to restrain
her merriment, though what should have caused it she could not
understand; while she looked so pretty and was so lady-like, it made her
angry.
“I’m sure,” she began, hotly, and raising her voice so that others could
hear her, “I don’t see what you’re so amused over, Stella Gladstone; and
it seems to me that you’re putting on altogether too many airs for a
girl who used to perform the services of a chambermaid in our house.”
For a moment Star stood as if dumfounded; then she lifted her bright
head a trifle, as if in conscious superiority, gave Miss Richards a cool
stare of surprise, and turned away without a word.
Not so Miss Meredith, however.
She kept her seat with the utmost composure, watching this little scene
with both interest and amusement until Josephine so tauntingly insulted
her friend.
Then she, too, arose, drawing her tall form to its fullest height.
“I cannot understand,” she said, in a voice of scorn, “why you should so
maliciously insult Miss Gladstone; but allow me to say for your
enlightenment, that these chairs, rugs, and so forth, belong to my
brother, Mr. Ralph Meredith, and he arranged them here especially for
Miss Gladstone’s and my comfort. However, I will emulate her example,
and resign my right to ladies who have proved themselves so superior in
point of _refinement_ and _politeness_.”
Having uttered this cutting sarcasm, Miss Meredith bowed mockingly and
walked away to rejoin her friend, leaving those haughty and overbearing
women about as chagrined and crestfallen as it is possible for two
people to feel.
The gay company reached their destination after a delightful sail of two
hours.
It was a lovely grove upon the shore of the bay, which people were in
the habit of frequenting for picnics of this sort, and the party
wandered about in groups for another two hours, exploring the beauties
and attractions around them.
At two o’clock everybody gathered to dine in a place which had been
prepared for that purpose; the tables were spread with the contents of
the numerous baskets, which contained every delicacy which the season
afforded, and the gay company, making the woods resonant with laughter
and merriment, sat down to their rural meal.
It was four in the afternoon before this important part in the day’s
programme was concluded, and then the company scattered, some to lounge
about and rest, others to stroll into the deep, inviting shadows of the
woods.
Mr. Rosevelt and Star, Miss Meredith and her brother, with two or three
others, wandered away by themselves, and finally sat down beneath a
wide-spreading tree for a quiet chat.
While they sat there, Star got up quietly and slipped out of sight, some
spirit of restlessness possessing her to get away for a ramble still
farther into the far-reaching woods.
She had walked some distance, when she heard voices, and soon saw a
gentleman and a lad, both with guns over their shoulders, approaching
her, and looking heated and anxious.
They saluted her courteously, and then the gentleman said, abruptly:
“Have you seen anything of a small, white Spitz dog, miss? It is a
pretty little creature, wearing a silver collar around his neck, and
tiny blue bows tied in his ears.”
“No,” Star answered; “I have seen no dog to-day.”
“We are in search of it because we are afraid it has run mad,” the
stranger continued, peering about with a troubled countenance. “It has
not been well for several days, and this morning showed unmistakable
signs of hydrophobia. It escaped confinement from the cottage, a mile or
so from here, and ran toward these woods about an hour ago.”
They passed on, and Star thought it would be best for her to go back to
her friends, and therefore turned to retrace her steps.
She had only accomplished about half of the distance, when she heard a
clear, musical laugh ring out from among the shrubbery on the right of
the path.
Thinking it must be some of her party, she stepped forward to warn them
of their danger. She parted the branches with her hands and looked
through.
What was her horror to see Josephine Richards sitting at the foot of a
tree, her hat tossed upon the ground beside her, and _holding in her lap
the little mad dog_ against which she had just been warned.
It was a beautiful little creature, and had evidently been made a pet
and plaything. It had lovely brown eyes, looking out from beneath its
shaggy brows; its coat was as white as snow, while around its neck there
glistened the silver collar, and in its pretty ears were the tiny blue
bows of which she had been told.
Miss Richards evidently had just coaxed the little pet into her lap, and
was playing with it without a suspicion of the terrible danger that she
was in, while just for that moment it showed no signs of the madness
which possessed it.
Star’s face was as white as her spotless dress as she took in the
dreadful situation; then she stepped quickly forward and said, in clear
but authoritative tones:
“Miss Richards, put that dog down as quietly as you can, and come away
with me instantly, for I have just been told that it is mad.”
Scarcely were the words uttered, when the little creature snapped at the
hand raised to caress it, and, with a scream of fright, Josephine sprang
to her feet and turned to fly.
But the act aroused all the fury of the maddened animal, and he seized
hold of her skirts, biting and tearing them in the most furious manner,
foaming at the mouth, and howling frightfully in its sudden paroxysm of
frenzy.
“Save me! save me!” Josephine screamed, and flying toward Star for
protection.
There was not a thought of personal danger in the fair young girl’s
heart—not a thought of enmity, or of malice or evil; all her mind was
concentrated upon one thing—how best to save her companion from this
terrible danger and from a horrible death.
“Stand still!” she commanded, in steady, almost stern tones. “Let him
bite at your clothes all he chooses, but do not allow him to get at your
feet; if you run, he will seize them and bite right through your boot.
Have you courage to stand where you are for a moment? I will go behind
him and slip the end of my parasol through his collar and pin him to the
ground; then you can go and call help for me.”
She spoke calmly but rapidly, and Josephine saw at once how much wisdom
there was in her plan.
“Yes, yes; I will do anything,” she said, hysterically; “but be quick,
for I cannot bear this much longer; I shall faint dead away.”
“If you faint,” Star returned, in an awful voice, “you are lost! There!
he has entangled himself in that ruffle which he has torn from your
dress. Be still just a moment longer, and I will save you if I can.”
Watching her opportunity, she stole softly behind the struggling animal,
and, by a dextrous movement, slipped the end of her parasol, which was
quite a stout one, into his collar, and then, with all her strength,
drove it into the ground and held it there, though the creature
struggled furiously to release himself.
Her face had not an atom of color in it, but her lips did not falter as
she said to the horror-stricken girl watching her:
“Go now quickly and call help for me, for, small as he is, I cannot hold
him long.”
Josephine did not need a second bidding, but went shrieking back to the
company in a way to arouse the dead almost.
She had not been gone two minutes—though those two minutes seemed like
an age to Star, who found an almost superhuman strength in that
writhing, twisting thing at her feet—when the bushes behind her parted
again, and the same gentleman who had met and warned her of this danger
sprang toward her, with his gun cocked and aimed at the dog.
His face was almost as colorless as her own.
“Can you hold him just an instant longer?—will you _dare_ hold him while
I shoot him? I will not harm you in the least,” he questioned, in rapid
tones.
“Yes, I _will_ hold him,” she said, resolutely. “If I let him loose now,
he will surely bite somebody.”
Although she spoke so steadily and with so much fortitude, she _looked_
like some beautiful spirit from another world, and the gentleman knew he
must do what he had to do quickly, or it would be too late.
There was an instant of silence, then a quick, sharp report rang through
the woods, and the little danger-fiend lay bleeding and dead at her
feet.
All peril was past.
Star had saved an enemy from a horrible fate—she had done a heroic deed;
but the tension on her own nerves gave way when it was over. She swayed,
tottered, and would have fallen to the ground, but another figure sprang
through the bushes to her side, and her fainting form was received into
the strong arms of Ralph Meredith.