Originally published: 1883
Genres: Romance
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/11410358
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70696
Chapters: 44
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
ON THE ATLANTIC
“A star
Which moves not ’mid the moving heavens alone,
A smile among dark frowns—a gentle tone
Among rude voices, a beloved light,
A solitude, a refuge, a delight.”—Shelley.
A noble steamer was laboriously plowing the turbulent waters of the great Atlantic, heaving, struggling, and creaking with every revolution of her gigantic screw, for the waves were rolling high—“mountain high”—in very truth. The huge dark masses of water would swell and rise up like a great black wall, reaching, it seemed, almost to the angry, leaden sky above, then sweeping down with mighty force, thunder upon the decks of that great vessel, making it shudder to its very center, sending it down, down into the yawning depths, as if eager, in venomous spite, to blot it out of existence.
There were very few first cabin passengers on board the — as she thus labored on her weary way between Liverpool and New York, for it was late in the year, and the rush of travel was over for that season.
Fifteen were all they numbered, while there were about twice as many in the steerage; and well it was that there were no more to share the horrors of that dreadful voyage.
It had been a very gloomy passage, a severe storm arising the second day out, which had increased in violence until now—the fifth day—it appeared as if all the elements had conspired to work destruction upon the stanch ship which was faithfully battling with the cruel waves and toiling to bear its precious freight of human souls safely into port.
It was a forlorn little company that sat shivering and trembling in the close saloon—only five, all out of the fifteen who had not succumbed to the seasickness—and these five had the appearance, with their pale, pinched faces, their heavy eyes and disordered attire, of feeling anything but comfortable or well.
An old man of perhaps sixty years, his hair and beard white as snow, his face sallow and wrinkled, his eyes anxious and sunken, sat upon the floor—indeed, it was impossible to sit anywhere else—braced against a stationary seat and clinging to one of the iron posts which supported the roof of the saloon. He was wrapped in a heavy shawl and two elegant rugs; his soft hat was drawn down over his forehead, and he seemed entirely oblivious to everything about him.
Two spinsters, companions and sisters, lay upon cushions flat upon the floor, and, also wrapped in their rugs, looked not unlike two huge bags of wool rolling from side to side with every motion of the boat.
Another man had crept into a corner, where he tried to keep himself from pitching about by clinging to a rope that he had fastened to an immovable table.
The only other occupant of the place was a little fair-haired maiden of perhaps fifteen or sixteen years.
She was small and delicate and was sitting, or trying to sit, on the floor, not far from the old gentleman before mentioned.
She was wrapped in a thick woolen shawl, and her head was covered with a crimson hood so that not much could be seen of her, save the fair, pale face, with its sad, appealing blue eyes, which looked out from beneath masses of shining golden ringlets that had strayed from her hood and lay upon her white forehead. She had a sensitive mouth, a pretty, rounded chin, and a small, straight nose, and altogether, had she possessed something of color and less of sadness in her face, would have been considered wondrously fair to look upon.
This little waif, with her child-like countenance, her pathetic eyes, and her patient, uncomplaining spirit, was traveling alone.
There was not a soul on board that vessel whom she had ever seen before the day of sailing.
An orphan—her father, and the only relative on whom she could depend, had died just three months previous—she was going to the United States, to some distant connections who had consented to take her until she was of age and teach her to earn her own living.
She had been put in the care of the captain by the people with whom she had been staying since her father’s death, and he was to deliver her to the strangers to whom she was going.
Some strange magnetism had attracted her toward the old gentleman with the white hair and beard of whom we have spoken, and near to whom she was now sitting.
She had hovered about him ever since the first day of the voyage, not in an obtrusive way, but as if she liked to be near him—as if there were something trustworthy and protective about him.
Perhaps one reason for this was that her seat had been next to his at table—while they had been able to sit at the table—and once or twice, when she could not attract the attention of the steward, he had handed her what she wanted and helped her bountifully to fruit when otherwise she would have been neglected.
When the storm came on with such violence that those not confined to their berths were obliged to take to the floor of the saloon for safety, she had crept as near to him as she dared, and though she had sat there all day long, he had never spoken to her once, or appeared to heed her presence, but remained, instead, wrapped in his own thoughts.
Suddenly the ship rose upon a mighty wave—up, up she went, until every trembling passenger held his breath with awe; then she plunged headlong down into the raging deep, with a sinking, sickening sensation that chilled the blood and made the flesh creep with fear.
The next moment another terrific wave struck her, with a noise like the roar of a hundred cannons, and with a force which made her quiver like a frightened creature from stem to stern; and in the dread pause which followed, and which was fraught with horrible suspense, the little maid clasped her small hands and cast an appealing glance at her gray-haired companion.
He, seeing it, smiled grimly as he asked, in rather a gruff tone:
“Afraid, sis?”
Before she could answer him the vessel gave another tremendous lurch, and she was rudely precipitated almost into the arms of her questioner.
He caught her just in time to save her from being dashed against the iron post by which he was sitting, and when she had recovered her breath a little, he put her gently down beside him, keeping one strong arm around her to save her from a second fall.
“This is pretty rough weather. Are you afraid?” he asked again, looking with something of pity down upon her white face.
“It startles me to have the vessel pitch and tremble so, and those dreadful waves seem as if they want to swallow us; but I know that nothing can harm us, unless—”
“Unless what?” the old man queried, as she hesitated and glanced shyly up at him, a tinge of color coming into her cheeks.
“Unless it is God’s will,” she answered, reverently.
A sneer curled her companion’s lip at this reply; but the sweet eyes looking up into his seemed to touch some tender memory, for it quickly died, and he repressed the skeptical words to which he was about to give utterance.
But she felt it, nevertheless, and, with a grave look and serious tone, she asked:
“Don’t you believe that God rules the storm and that He will take care of us?”
“My experience all through life has been that I have had to take care of myself,” he returned, with some bitterness.
“And I have been taught to trust ‘our Heavenly Father.’ I think one would hardly have much faith in one’s self at such a time as this,” the little maiden said, with a look of awe and an involuntary shudder, as another wave broke over them.
The man by her side felt the gentle rebuke, but he evaded it by saying:
“I think no harm will come to us. I have crossed the Atlantic many times; I have sailed upon other oceans, and have been in storms equal to, if not worse, than this. I do not fear the elements much in one of these well-built boats. There is only one thing at sea that I really feel afraid of.”
“And what is that?”
“Fire.”
He felt the thrill of fear that went vibrating through her whole frame as he uttered the dread word, and appeared to regret having added to her apprehension, for he continued, reassuringly:
“But an accident of that kind rarely happens nowadays, and where everything is so carefully conducted as on these large steamers. There, sit close beside me,” he went on, as still another thundering mass of water swept over them; “lean against me—so. I will keep my arm about you, and you will be safer than sitting by yourself. But how does it happen that you are traveling alone?”
“My father and mother are dead,” she answered, with the same appealing look that had touched him before, while her lips quivered over the sad sentence. “I had no friends in England, and so I am going to live with a cousin of my mother’s in America.”
“What is your name, little girl?”
The “little girl” flushed rosily at this question—as what maiden of fifteen or sixteen would not at this slur upon her proudly attained “teens?”—while she thought he need not have asked if he had taken pains to look at the passenger list; but she replied:
“Star Rosevelt Gladstone.”
A startled, almost agonized gleam shot into the old man’s eyes, and his face seemed to shrivel, until he looked ninety instead of sixty, as the young girl, in her sweet, clear tone, uttered this name.
“Star Rosevelt!” he repeated, with pale lips, while his voice sounded weak and far away.
“Yes, sir,” she said, not noticing his emotion; “or rather my real name is Stella, but Mamma called me Star always;” and her voice faltered as she spoke of her dead mother.
Her companion did not answer, and with the roar of the elements increasing, further conversation was out of the question, even had they been so disposed, which they appeared not to be.
The old man’s head dropped upon his broad chest, and he seemed suddenly to have forgotten his companion, the angry waters, the rolling vessel, and everything else in his own sad thoughts.
Darkness began to settle down upon them. The storm raged on; the spinsters moaned and rolled upon their comfortless couches; the man in the corner swore and raved as he was rudely jostled about, with no prospect of rest or sleep; while the gray-haired man and the fair-haired maid, encircled by his strong arm, sat side by side, silent, yet less forlorn than their comrades by reason of a feeling of companionship, until the young girl’s blue eyes closed, her golden head sank unconsciously upon the broad shoulder, and she slept sweetly and tranquility the whole night through, a smile on her red lips, a sense of comfort and protection in her young heart.
When morning broke and Star Gladstone awoke, she found herself lying upon a heap of rugs, a pillow underneath her head, and a soft robe covering her.
The sun was shining brightly into the saloon, where, only a few hours before, all had been so dark and dismal; the sky was beautifully clear and blue, without a vestige of the angry clouds that had so threatened the ship and life a little while ago, and the good vessel was riding the gradually subsiding waves with strong and steady pulsations, which seemed to have almost a sense of victory in their throbbings, while the terrors of the night seemed only a troubled dream of the past.
She arose from her soft couch with a murmured “How kind!” as she realized who had made her so comfortable, and went below to her state-room to make her toilet.
After a refreshing bath she brushed out her long, abundant hair until it shone like strands of finest gold; then gathering it in her two hands, she plaited it into one massive braid, leaving the ends loose like a great golden tassel, and tying them with a broad blue ribbon.
Then she substituted a charming little blue hood edged with white for the thick crimson one that she had worn all night, wrapped a soft gray shawl about her shoulders, and went up on deck looking as bright and sunny as the morn itself.
She was very lovely. Short fluffy locks of her hair fell like a shining mist over her white forehead; her great azure eyes gleamed like bluebells after a shower; her cheeks were tinged with delicate color, and a smile of joy at the return of fair weather parted her red lips, showing two rows of small white teeth between.
As she stepped out upon the deck, she espied her companion of the night standing aft, looking out upon the silver-tipped, dancing waves.
She glided to his side and saluted him with a sweetly spoken “good morning,” which fell like music on his ear.
He turned and looked at her, an involuntary smile parting his lips, which evidently were unaccustomed to such relaxation.
“You are rightly named—you look like a star,” he said, abruptly, while his keen eyes were fixed intently on her bright face.
She flushed, but answered archly:
“Stars belong to the night; they are of no account in this glorious sunshine;” and she lifted her face up to the sun, as if in gratitude that its friendly beams were shining on her once more.
“It is a glorious morning,” said the old man, taking a long breath of the pure, keen air.
“Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,” Star murmured, in a low tone, but with a thrill in her voice which told how she felt the words.
Again a sneering smile distorted the lips of her companion.
She saw it and flushed a vivid crimson, and the tears sprang quickly to her eyes.
“Mamma used to repeat those words so often when she lay sick and dying,” she said, sadly. “I know that she looked forward to the ‘morning’ when she should be released from her suffering, but they never sounded so pleasantly to me as they do now on this beautiful morning after our night of terror.”
“Anything which was a source of comfort to your mother you doubtless treasure very tenderly,” kindly replied the gentleman, who was a gentleman, and felt sorry that his unbelief or skepticism should have brought a shadow upon that fair young face.
“There is the breakfast bell,” he added, in a light tone, as it rang out its keen notes. “Are you hungry?”
“Indeed I am, sir,” Star answered, eagerly, adding, with a clear, sweet laugh that fell like music on his ear: “Eating has been an impossibility during the last few days, and I have considerably lost time to make up. That bell has a welcome sound.”
“Then take my arm, little girl, and we will go down together; the boat is not quite steady even yet.”
“Little girl!”
She flushed again and shrugged her graceful shoulders.
Then she glanced up at him with a seriocomic air, and said, with a pretty pout:
“I am sixteen years old, Mr.—”
She could not finish, because she did not know his name.
He laughed.
“And maidens of sixteen don’t like to be called little girls, eh?” he said. “Well,” he continued, “I feel as if I am privileged to call you that, since I am nearly sixty, and my name is Jacob Rosevelt.”
Star stopped short and looked up at him in surprise.
“How strange!” she exclaimed.
“Rather,” Mr. Rosevelt returned; then asked: “How did you come by your middle name?”
“My grandmother gave it to me.”
“Was her name Rosevelt?”
“No; her maiden name was Stella Winthrop.”
Mr. Rosevelt started, then turned suddenly to look out over the sea, and to hide the pallor of his face. He asked no more questions, and all through breakfast he appeared absent-minded and taciturn. He scarcely spoke to Star during the meal—indeed, hardly noticed her at all—and she wondered if she could have offended him in any way.
Before she was half through he left the table, and she saw no more of him until late in the afternoon.
About three o’clock she left the saloon, where she had been trying to while away the time by reading, and went on deck.
It was very cold, but the sky was cloudless, the sea calm and beautiful, and, save an occasional call and response from the sailors, the distant thud of the machinery, and the swash of the water as they plowed the sea, there was scarcely a sound on board the vessel.
Star found a sheltered spot, and wrapping her shawl close about her, sat down for a little while to watch the white-capped waves and the speeding ship.
She had scarcely settled herself, thinking with a feeling of gratitude how lovely it was after the dreadful storm when there came the noise of a dreadful explosion from somewhere forward, followed by a fearful rocking of the vessel; then the most horrible shrieks and cries rent the air; a column of smoke, sparks, and cinders went pouring up from the region of the engine-room, and immediately passengers and sailors began running about in great confusion, and perfectly frantic from fright.
Star was unhurt, but she sprang to her feet and stood as if paralyzed with fear, a look of horror on her young face, a feeling like death at her heart.
“Something dreadful has happened,” she murmured, with white lips. “Have we escaped the storm only to encounter a worse fate?”
Then, as she saw the sailors getting down the lifeboats, a sudden thought seemed to inspire her. She darted from the deck down into her stateroom, where, opening a tiny trunk, she seized a package of papers, which she pulled up from beneath her clothing, and thrust into her bosom. She then took from a pretty box several articles of jewelry, which evidently had belonged to her mother, and fastened them about her clothing, putting some of them into a pocket of a skirt and pinning it securely together. This done, she darted out and up to the deck again.
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