JOSEPHINE’S INGRATITUDE.
Confusion reigned during the next half hour among the company who had
hitherto been so gay. Josephine Richards had rushed into their midst,
startling everybody out of their senses by shrieking out:
“Go to Miss Gladstone! A mad dog! a mad dog!”
It was all that she could say, for she immediately after sank down
helpless in a violent fit of hysterics, while the women, with white
faces, huddled together in fear and trembling, and the men, with
horrified eyes and quaking hearts, ran hither and thither in search of
Star.
Then there had come that quick, sharp report, directing them to the
spot, and telling them that all danger to them was past. But the
terrible question arose:
“Was Miss Gladstone safe?”
Ralph Meredith, his feet winged with love and fear, was, as we have
seen, first upon the scene of the tragedy, and caught her frantically to
his heart just as she was falling to the ground.
“Is she bitten?” he cried, in a voice of agony, and with ashen lips, to
the stranger, who stood, gun in hand, over the dead dog.
“No; she has not even a scratch; she has merely fainted from fright,” he
answered; and throwing down his gun, he took a long pocket-flask filled
with brandy from his hunting-pouch, and approached the unconscious girl.
He knelt upon the ground beside her and poured a few drops between her
lips, though his hands trembled violently from the terrible excitement
and anxiety under which he had been laboring.
“Go for some water,” he said to his son, who, having heard the report of
his father’s fowling-piece, now appeared upon the scene.
He darted away like a fawn, and was back in less than three minutes with
a pitcherful, which he had seized from the camp, while a frightened
crowd followed at his heels.
But it was a long time before Star revived. The shock to her nervous
system had been a terrible one, and nature seemed loth to resume her
sway after it. But at the end of half an hour her chest began to heave,
and a slight tinge of color returned to her lips.
Ralph Meredith, who hung over her in an agony of suspense and fear,
would let no one touch her or come near her, save his sister and Mr.
Rosevelt; and he found that it required all the strength of his will to
keep him from betraying to the gaping crowd the passionate love he
entertained for the senseless girl.
Finally, to everybody’s relief, those white lids were unclosed, those
beautiful eyes looked up, and a long, shuddering sigh shook her whole
frame.
“What has happened?” she questioned, with a vacant look.
“You are faint, dear. Drink this and you will be better,” Grace Meredith
said, gently, while she held a silver cup to her lips.
She swallowed the stimulus mechanically, and then began to shiver, as if
from the cold.
“I remember,” she murmured, all the color fading from her face again,
and they feared another season of unconsciousness would follow.
“Is he dead?” she asked, a moment after, beginning to rally once more.
“Yes; he was killed instantly,” Ralph Meredith returned.
“And Josephine—Miss Richards—is she safe?”
Everybody looked surprised at this query, for no one had had any idea
that that young lady had been in any danger until now.
“Yes; Miss Richards is safe,” Mr. Rosevelt answered; but a frown
contracted his brow as he began to understand that Star had sacrificed
her own safety and endangered her own life to save that of an ungrateful
girl.
No one had been able to gather from Josephine’s excited and incoherent
account anything save that a mad dog had attacked Miss Gladstone in the
woods. She said not a word of how the noble girl had come to her rescue,
warned her of her danger, and then put into execution a hazardous plan
to secure her safety.
There was not an atom of gratitude in her heart toward Star for having
done this heroic deed—no softening, no sense of sorrow or repentance for
her own unkindness in the past, or for the insult which she had only
that day offered her; there was only a sense of triumph that she herself
was safe, no matter how or at whose risk.
When they came, bringing Star back—for she was still too weak to walk—to
the spot where they had all gathered so gay and thoughtless that
morning, there was a look of sadness and sympathy in every countenance
save those of Mrs. Richards and her daughter, who stole away by
themselves, jealous of the interest and concern manifested by the whole
company for the object of their hatred.
When Star found that Josephine had kept the facts of the encounter with
the mad dog to herself, simply stating that Miss Gladstone had been
attacked by it, she also appeared very reluctant to converse about it,
and as the subject seemed to excite her, no one felt disposed to press
her with questions.
The gentleman who owned the dog sent to his home for his carriage to
have her conveyed to the steamer, although she had smilingly affirmed
that she should be “able to walk with the help of Uncle Jacob’s arm.”
Upon reaching the boat they improvised a couch for her on deck, as she
objected going into the saloon, and by resting quietly during the two
hours’ sail, she seemed almost like herself, save her unusual pallor,
when the vessel touched the pier at Newport.
A carriage was here procured, and she was driven, with Mr. Rosevelt,
Miss Meredith, and her brother, to her hotel.
Grace insisted upon remaining through the night with her.
“You are not fit to be left alone, and—I _want_ to stay,” she pleaded,
as Star hesitated about accepting her offer.
So the two young girls passed the night together, and Star, growing
confidential, and feeling that some explanation regarding Josephine’s
insulting remarks that morning was due her friend, told her much
concerning her life, and how it had happened that she was at one time an
inmate of Mrs. Richards’ family; also relating the events that had
transpired since she and Mr. Rosevelt left them, and how she had rescued
Josephine from the mad dog.
Star was really ill from nervous prostration the next day, and obliged
to keep her room; but Miss Meredith regaled curious ears with the whole
story of Josephine Richards’ danger and Star’s courageous defense of
her, and all Newport did indeed “ring” even as she had hoped.
Enough could not be said in admiration of the brave girl, while scorn
and contempt were freely expressed for the recipients of so much heroism
for refusing to acknowledge their indebtedness, and awarding her the
commendation she deserved.
Mr. Rosevelt was even more unnerved, when he learned the truth, than he
had been the previous day.
He came to her room, wan and haggard, after talking with Miss Meredith,
and sank, weak and trembling, into a chair at her side.
“My child,” he said, brokenly, as he took both her hands and looked them
carefully over with tear-laden eyes, “are you _sure_ you did not get a
scratch anywhere?”
“Quite sure, Uncle Jacob,” Star replied, reassuringly; “the dog did not
touch me anywhere, and if he had, I had a pair of stout undressed kid
gloves on, and they would have protected me.”
“But you were in terrible danger. Suppose you had not succeeded in
pinning him down, and he had turned upon you?” he said, with a shudder.
“I did not think of that,” Star answered; “but if I had _known_ that he
would turn upon me, I believe I should have tried to save Josephine just
the same. _Somebody_ was in danger of being bitten even if she escaped
unharmed, and I felt that I must strain every nerve and not allow him to
get among the company. The dog was a tiny little thing,” she went on,
flushing and becoming excited as she seemed to live over again that
dreadful experience; “but, oh, Uncle Jacob, he was terribly strong. I
thought once that I should have to let him go; I could not have held him
one minute longer;” and she covered her face with her hands, weeping
from nervousness.
“We must not talk about it any more; it excites you,” Mr. Rosevelt said,
soothingly; “but the world would have been very dark for me if anything
had happened to you; and—I am bitter enough to feel that Josephine
Richards’ safety is dearly bought, even at the sacrifice of nothing more
than your nerves and strength,” he concluded, in a stern tone.
Star reached out one white hand and laid it gently upon his, saying,
with grave sweetness, while she wiped away her tears:
“Uncle Jacob, let us not judge too harshly nor be unforgiving.
‘Charity,’ you know, ‘suffereth long and is kind, and never faileth.’
Surely you would not have had me run away like a coward, and leave her
sitting there playing with that mad creature, _knowing_ that she was in
such fearful danger?”
“N-o,” he admitted, reluctantly.
“Just think,” Star went on; “she had him in her lap, and I did not speak
one instant too soon, for hardly had I told her that he was mad, when he
snapped at her. No; I am glad that I did what was right, and Josephine
Richards’ life was every bit as precious to me yesterday as that of any
one else, and I should have done just the same had she been an enemy a
hundred-fold more than she is. She has endeavored to injure me, I know,
in every possible way, and, in all the ordinary walks of life, I should
let her alone. Her spite and ill-will, however bitter, cannot do me any
real harm, although they may annoy me exceedingly, and doubtless will,
in the end, rebound upon herself; but I am glad that I did not falter
yesterday. I did what I could with the kindest of motives; and if _she_
does not feel that she owes me anything, it cannot alter the fact that I
did _my_ duty.”
Mr. Rosevelt regarded her with an almost worshipful look.
“That good book, which you love so well, says that ‘a little child shall
lead them;’ and truly, Star, you in your youth shame me in my maturer
years by your Christian spirit,” he said, in an humble tone.
Star did not reply, but she looked very happy.
“Surely Uncle Jacob must have been reading some in ‘that good book,’ to
quote thus from it,” she thought, while his remark about a Christian
spirit told that he was thinking upon the more serious questions of
life—all of which was very encouraging to her who had so often been
wounded by his bitterness and skepticism.