From the fair southern clime where her lines had hitherto been cast, little Golden traveled straight to the great, thronged city of New York.
During her long day and night of intense suffering, the thought, first suggested to her mind by old Dinah, of seeking and reclaiming her erring mother, had fastened on her mind with irresistible force and power.
Every thought and feeling of this beautiful, unhappy child was as pure as that of an angel.
The knowledge that the young mother who had given her birth was living a life of sin and dishonor was most revolting to her mind. She could not think of it without a mortal shudder.
When Dinah fell asleep by her pillow the girl awakened suddenly and lay for a little while in silent meditation. The idea she had been silently revolving in her mind all day gathered strength in the solitude and stillness of the midnight hour.
Golden was young, buoyant, ignorant of the world, and thought not of the difficulties that would hedge the path of duty which she was marking out for her little, untried feet.
She did not know how dear she was to her grandfather's heart, and how bitterly he would be wounded by her desertion. She only thought of escaping from the life which had suddenly become so unbearable, and of filling her heart with other aims now that the love she had given so lavishly from the depths of a warm and generous heart, had been cast back to her in scorn and contempt.
In the pocket of her best cashmere dress was a little purse filled with gold pieces of which no one knew but herself.
Bertram Chesleigh had given it to her in a happy, never-to-be-forgotten hour which now it almost killed her even to recall.
Almost staggering with weakness, Golden rose and silently and cautiously dressed herself in her blue cashmere dress and hat and jacket.
She decided not to take anything with her. It would be easier to purchase new things when she had arrived in New York.
When she was ready to go, Golden knelt down a moment and pressed her fair cheek lovingly and sorrowfully to the toil-worn wrinkled hand of her old black mammy.
She loved the old negress dearly. Under that homely black breast beat the only heart that had ever given a mother's love to the beautiful, forsaken child of poor, wronged and misguided little Golden.
Then with a lingering, loving, backward glance around, the girl left the room and proceeded to her grandfather's apartment.
The kind old man was asleep with a look of care and anxiety deeply imprinted on his pale, worn features.
Golden pressed her trembling lips to the thin, gray locks that straggled over the pillow, and her girlish tears fell on them, shining like jewels in the dim gleam of the night-lamp.
Then Golden stole away noiselessly. There was one more farewell to be said ere she set forth on the mission whose only clewlay in the crumpled card hidden away securely in the little purse of gold.
She knelt down on the banks of the tranquil little lake she had always loved so dearly, and clasped her little hands and lifted her white face in the bright moonlight.
"Farewell, little lake," she murmured to the silvery, tranquil sheet of water. "I pray God that the time may come when I shall kneel by you again, and tell you that I have reclaimed my erring mother, and that her soul has been washed as pure and free from sin as the lilies sleeping on your breast."
Was it only little Golden's excited fancy, or did a shadow, soft and impalpable as a mist wreath, and pale as the moonbeams, glide across the still water in the form of a woman, and a voice as soft and low as the sigh of the breeze murmur sadly:
"Bless you, my daughter."
She started and looked around; the voice and vision had been so real she could hardly imagine it fancy, but the phantom shape had dissolved into moonbeams again, and the voice had melted into music on the "homeless winds."
"If my poor mother was dead I should believe that her spirit had blessed me," said the beautiful girl to herself. "But she is alive, so it could not have been she, perhaps it was my guardian angel."
She plucked a beautiful, large, white lily from the lake and started on her way to the railway station, carrying the spotless flower in her hand.
Perhaps some thought of the poet, Longfellow's, verses came to her mind:
"Bear a lily in thine hand,Gates of brass cannot withstandOne touch of that magic wand,Bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth,On thy lips the smile of truth,In thy heart the dew of youth."
"Bear a lily in thine hand,Gates of brass cannot withstandOne touch of that magic wand,Bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth,On thy lips the smile of truth,In thy heart the dew of youth."
We will return to Bertram Chesleigh, little Golden's recreant lover.
All of John Glenalvan's influence had been brought to bear on the proud young man to induce him to relinquish his pursuit of the beautiful girl whose acquaintance he had so strangely and imprudently formed.
Mr. Chesleigh's own pride of birth, united to John Glenalvan's artful innuendoes, was a powerful ally in the young man's mind against his love for the lonely and beautiful little girl.
In the light of John Glenalvan's revelations, a great revulsion had taken place in his mind.
He heartily wished that he had never made the acquaintance of the lovely little creature, or that he had not followed it up with such ardor and passion.
With few, if any exceptions, men are naturally selfish. Bertram Chesleigh, who had never known a desire unfulfilled inthe course of his prosperous life, was no exception to the general rule.
In pursuing his acquaintance with little Golden, he had been actuated more by a regard for his own pleasure than by any thought of risk for her.
In the light of recent developments, he thought also first of himself. How to escape from the consequences of his headlong passion became momentarily a paramount consideration.
When his conscience reproached him he replied to it that it was only natural and right that he should think first of himself.
He had his high social station to maintain, and he was quite sure that his friends and relations would have declined to receive even as his bride, a woman of stained birth.
Golden had, it seemed, no place in the world, no social status whatever.
If he made her his bride, his troubles and embarrassments would be legion. If he left her all would go well with him, and he argued with himself that the child would speedily forget him and resign herself to her strange and lonely life.
So, under the influence of these vexing thoughts, and John Glenalvan's specious arguments and representations, that unjust letter was written to poor, suffering little Golden.
Ah, we are so careless and so thoughtless over what we write. Bertram Chesleigh was not a bad man, and never meant to be cruel, and yet he had done more harm in the writing of that letter than if he had pierced the tender heart with a dagger.
Even while writing it he felt ashamed and sorry, yet no premonition came to tell him of the dim future when he would have given tears of blood to have obliterated even the memory of that letter from the heart of little Golden which it had seared as with the breath of fire.
He never forgot a single word of that letter he had written to her, although in his haste and agitation he had kept no copy of it. It did not seem so hard to him at first as it did afterward, when he knew what suffering the writing had caused and the consequences were forever beyond recall.
After he had written and dispatched it he made his adieu to the family of John Glenalvan and departed, feeling like a coward, while if he had truly understood the depth of tenderness and capabilities of woe in the girl he had deserted, he might have felt more like a murderer.
The Glenalvans, while terribly disappointed in their hopes for Elinor, were relieved at the departure of their guest for the present. Elinor entreated her father to make arrangements for removing Golden out of the way in case the young man should repeat his visit, and he promised, with an oath more forcible than polite, that he would certainly do so.
But before he had taken any decisive step in the furtherance of his purpose, the unfortunate girl had taken her fate in her own hands. When John Glenalvan entered the ruined wing the second day for the purpose, as he had emphatically expressed it, of "having it out with his father in cursed few words," he foundthe old man and his faithful old servant in a frenzy of grief and despair over Golden's farewell letter.
John was unfeignedly glad that Golden had gone away herself without giving him the trouble and annoyance of sending her.
"It is much better as it is, father," he said to the poor, broken-hearted old creature. "I fully intended to send the girl away. She has only saved herself the ignominy of a summary dismissal. Do not fret yourself over her. She has only forsaken you to lead a life of shame with her erring mother. I hope that a lightning flash may strike her dead before she ever returns here again to disgrace and shame us yet further!"
"Forbear, John. You are cruel and impious," cried the old man, lifting his hand feebly, and his son strode angrily out of the room, muttering curses "not loud but deep," and followed by the vivid lightnings of old Dinah's black eyes.
"Oh, de brack-hearted wilyun!" she muttered. "May de good Lard hasten de time ob punishment for his cruel sins!"
The first thing that happened to little Golden Glenalvan after she arrived in the city of New York, was something that not infrequently happens to simple and inexperienced travelers.
She had her pocket picked of her purse by some expert thief. Such things have often happened in the annals of New York crime, and will again, but it is probable that no one's life was ever so much affected by such a loss as was the unfortunate little Golden's.
She found herself by this totally unlooked-for catastrophe thrown into the streets of the great, wicked city penniless, friendless, and utterly forsaken. Every cent she possessed in the world had been in the little purse, together with the card that bore her father's name. The latter was not so great a loss to her. The name of the man who had wronged her mother was engraven on her mind in characters that were never to be destroyed.
Her little plans for the discovery of her mother, laid with such girlish art, were all turned away by this accident. She had meant to take cheap lodgings somewhere, and prosecute her search, but now she knew not what to do, nor where to turn.
The great, busy city, with its strange faces and hurry and bustle frightened her, even though she dreamed not in her girlish innocence of its festering sin and underlying wickedness.
Sinking down on a secluded seat in Central Park where she had been walking when she first discovered her loss, she sobbed bitterly in her grief and distress—so bitterly that a well-dressed, benevolent-looking lady who was walking along a path with a pretty poodle frisking before her, went up to her with kind abruptness.
"My dear little girl," she said, laying her hand gently on the showering, golden wealth of hair that escaped from Golden's little sailor hat, "what is the matter? Can I help you?"
Golden lifted her head and the lady who had a kind, middle-aged face, decidedly aristocratic, started and uttered a cry of surprise at the beautiful, girlish face with its tearful eyes like purple-blue pansies drowned in dew.
In a moment the lady's quick eyes had seen from the cut and fashion of Golden's simple garments that she was a stranger in New York. She repeated kindly:
"What ails you, my child? Have you become separated from your friends?"
"No, for I have not a friend in this whole, great city. But I have lost my purse," answered Golden, with childish directness.
The lady sat down beside her and regarded her a moment in thoughtful silence. She saw nothing but the most infantile sweetness, purity and truth in the lovely, troubled young face. She was touched and interested.
"So you have lost your purse?" she said. "Have you had your pocket picked?"
"I do not know," answered Golden, forlornly. "I carried it in my jacket pocket, and awhile ago, when I felt for it I discovered that it was gone."
"Now, I am quite sure you are a stranger in New York," said the lady. "If you belonged in the city you would know better than to carry your purse carelessly in the pocket of your walking jacket. New York is full of sneak thieves who are on the watch for the unwary. You say you have not a friend in the city. Where are you from, my child?"
"From the south," replied Golden.
"Did you come to New York alone?"
"Yes madam. I am an orphan," replied the girl, not wishing to disclose her history to her interrogator.
"What do you wish for in this great city?" asked the lady.
"I want to find some employment at present. Can you help me?" asked Golden, timidly and beseechingly lifting her large blue eyes to the interested face of the lady.
"Perhaps I can," said the lady, smiling gently. "What kind of employment do you wish? What kind of work can you do?"
The beautiful, girlish face grew a little blank. She remembered her careless, idle life at Glenalvan Hall, where no one ever taught her anything but her grandfather and old Dinah. She was compelled to confess despondently that she did not know how to do anything.
The lady who was a really good woman with a decidedly benevolent turn, studied the drooping face attentively. She saw that there was some mystery about the girl, but the lovely young face was so guileless and winning that she could see no evil in it. She asked her, rather abruptly, what her name was.
"Golden Glenalvan," answered the girl, and the lady frowned slightly, and said it was too fanciful and pretty.
"If you are going to work for your living, I would advise you to call yourself by some plain and common name, such as Jones or Brown or Smith."
"Then I will call myself Mary Smith," replied Golden, resignedly.
"That will do very well. Now, my child, do you think you would like to undertake chambermaid's work?"
She glanced, as she spoke, at the girl's ungloved hands, and saw that they were delicately white and aristocratic, so she answered the question negatively to herself before Golden answered, shrinkingly and timidly:
"I do not believe I would like it, madam, but I am willing to try. I must do something to support myself, and I have no choice left me since I do not know how to do anything."
The lady looked at her a little wonderingly.
"My child, if you would tell me something about yourself I might know better how to help you," she said. "It is quite evident that you have met with reverses. You are unaccustomed to labor, and you look like a born lady."
Golden was silent, and a deep blush colored her face. Not for worlds would she have told her sad story to this gentle woman.
She fancied that the sweet pity beaming from her gray eyes now would change to scorn and contempt, if she could know that she was a nameless child seeking a lost and guilty mother.
"Perhaps you have imprudently run away from your friends," she said, questioningly, and striking so near the truth that Golden burst into tears again, and would have left her but that she detained her by a firm yet gentle pressure of the hand.
"Do not go," she said. "I want to help you if I can. Perhaps I could tell you something you are far too young and innocent to know."
"What is that, ma'am?" asked Golden, looking at her questioningly.
"This, my child—that one so pretty and simple as you are should not be alone and friendless in this great city. You are in the greatest danger. Beauty is only a curse to a poor girl who has to earn her own living."
"Yes, madam," Golden answered, with perfect meekness, though she crimsoned painfully.
"So I think," continued her kind friend, "that a home and shelter in even the humblest capacity is better for you than to be wandering alone in the streets homeless and penniless."
"I know that," said Golden, "but I have nowhere to go," and the pathos of the tearful tone touched the kind lady's heart.
"My child, I have been thinking about that," she said. "I have a friend who needs a nurse for her little invalid girl. Should you like to try for the situation?"
"Oh, yes," Golden answered, gratefully.
"The little girl is the petted and only daughter of wealthy people," continued the kind lady. "She is delicate, and has been humored and spoiled injudiciously all her life, until she is, at times, quite overbearing and disagreeable, so much so indeed that her mother can scarcely keep a nurse for her more than a week or two at a time. Are you frightened at my description? Have you a good store of patience?"
"I have been impatient and self-willed all my life," confessed Golden, frankly.
"Yet you have a sweet-tempered face, if there is any truth inphysiognomy," said her new friend. "It seems to me that you could not grow impatient ministering to the needs of that poor, little invalid child. Think how much happiness you could give the poor, ailing little soul if you tried. And when you are as old as I am," she added, with a faint sigh, "you will understand that the greatest pleasure in life is in giving happiness to others."
"I will try to be patient and kind to the child, if you will be so kind as to get the place for me," said little Golden, trembling with eagerness.
"Very well, my dear; I will myself accompany you to my friend's house and speak a kind word in your favor. It is rather a risk to run, this introducing and vouching for a total stranger, but I believe that your gentle, honest face will be a passport to Mrs. Desmond's favor, just as it has been to mine. You will follow me, now, my child."
Golden walked on with the warm-hearted woman some distance through the beautiful green park, when, to her surprise, her benefactress stopped before an elegant, liveried carriage, with quite an imposing-looking driver in a white hat and gloves.
"Drive to Mrs. Desmond's, John," she said, as the footman handed her and her timidprotegeinto the carriage.
Little Golden felt like one in a bewildering dream as she lay back among the luxurious satin cushions and was whirled through the stately streets, past the beautiful buildings and brown-stone palaces until they stopped at last before one more splendid than all the rest, and she found herself gliding up the marble steps, her young heart throbbing fast at the novelty and strangeness of her position.
She was going to be a servant in this splendid house! She, one of the Glenalvans of Glenalvan Hall, a name that had been proud and honored in the past until her girlish mother had stained its haughty prestige with shame.
Her heart beat heavily and slow. The thought came to her mind that these proud and wealthy people would not even permit her to be a servant to their daughter if they knew that she was a nameless child.
Mrs. Markham, little Golden's kind, new friend, was evidently on terms of intimacy with Mrs. Desmond.
Instead of sending her card to the lady and awaiting her appearance in the formal drawing-room, she was at once conducted up stairs to a charmingboudoirhung with rose-colored silk and white lace.
The carpet was white velvet strewn with a pattern of pink moss rosebuds, and the chairs and couches were upholstered in a deeper shade of rose-color.
Everything in the room was costly and tasteful, and vases of freshly-cut flowers diffused delicious fragrance through the air.
Little Golden had never before been in such a costly and tasteful room, and she uttered an involuntary low exclamation of surprise and delight at which Mrs. Markham smiled indulgently.
"Does this pretty room surprise you?" she inquired.
"Yes, madam, I have never seen anything so beautiful and costly before," answered the simple child.
At that moment the heavy draperies that hung between theboudoirand the dressing-room were swept aside by a white, jeweled hand, and the mistress of all this magnificence entered the room.
She was a beautiful young lady, with great, velvety black eyes, dark, waving hair, crimson lips, and rounded cheeks like the sunny side of a peach. Her morning-dress was elegant, costly and becoming.
"Ah, Mrs. Markham, good-morning. I am very glad to see you," she cried, then she looked past her friend inquiringly at the little, shrinking figure of Golden.
"Edith, this is a littleprotegeof mine, Mary Smith by name," Mrs. Markham hastened to say. "If you have not secured a nurse yet, will you try her for little Ruby?"
"I shall be very glad to do so if you think she will suit," returned Mrs. Desmond as they all seated themselves.
Then the handsome brunette looked patronizingly at the new applicant for her favor. The scrutiny did not seem to please her. The slender, arched, black brows met over the bright eyes in a slight frown.
"Child, why do you not put your hair up?" she asked, glancing at the bright wealth of loosely flowing ringlets. "It is not becoming to nurses to wear it in that way."
"I can put it up if you wish me, ma'am," Golden replied in a low voice, her eyelids drooping that the lady might not see the childish resentment that flashed into them at her slightly scornful tone.
"Very well, I shall insist upon that if I engage you," replied Mrs. Desmond. "You will tuck it up and wear a nurse's cap over it. Have you any recommendations to give with her, Mrs. Markham?" she continued, expectantly.
"No, for Mary has never been in service before," replied the kind lady. "She is a young southern girl seeking employment in this city, and I should like to befriend her if possible. I fancied that her gentle, innocent face might recommend her to your favor as it did to mine."
Mrs. Desmond turned to look at Golden again, and met the gaze of the soft blue eyes fixed on her with a kind of puzzled intentness.
"Child, why do you stare at me so curiously?" she inquired.
The deep color rushed into Golden's face, making her more lovely than ever.
"I beg your pardon," she hastened to say, falteringly. "You remind me so much of someone I have known that I could not keep from looking at your face. It was very rude, I know."
"Never mind, I am not angry," answered Mrs. Desmond. "Do you think you would make a good, patient nurse for my little girl, Mary?"
"I will do the best I can," little Golden replied, in her gentle, refined voice.
Mrs. Desmond looked at her friend.
"I am not in the habit of engaging help without recommendation. It is rather a risk to run," she remarked, "but to please you, my friend, and because I really need a maid for Ruby, I will give Mary Smith a trial. When can you come Mary?"
"She can stay now, if you like, Edith," said Mrs. Markham.
"That will suit me very well," said Mrs. Desmond. "I will engage you for one month at least, Mary, and I will pay you ten dollars a month. Will that suit you?"
"Yes, thank you," Golden answered, timidly.
"Very well, you may stay now, and you may go at once to Ruby, for I have been compelled to lend her my own maid, for a week past, and she is so dissatisfied with the position that she threatens to leave me if she is not relieved. I can assure you that you will find your position no sinecure. I hope you will try to find means to amuse the child. You must be very kind and patient with her, Mary. I allow no scolding or fault-finding, for my little girl is very frail and delicate."
Golden rose and stood waiting while the languid, fine lady talked.
When she had ended her little speech, she pointed her white finger at the dressing-room door.
"Go through the drawing-room," she said, "into my bed-chamber. You will find that it has a door connecting with the nursery. You will find my little daughter in there. You may introduce yourself to her. Mrs. Markham and I will look in presently and see how Ruby is pleased with you."
"Try and make a good impression on the little one's mind at first," said Mrs. Markham, kindly. "First impressions are everything with children."
Beautiful Golden thanked her with a grateful look, and silently withdrew to follow Mrs. Desmond's instructions.
"You do not seem as pleased as I had expected, Edith," Mrs. Markham said, in a tone of disappointment, when they were alone.
"To tell the truth, I think the girl is too pretty," Mrs. Desmond replied, with some embarrassment.
"I thought you liked pretty things about you," said her friend.
"So I do, but I do not like pretty servants," was the significant reply. "As a rule they are vain and trifling, and do not attend to their business. They are always looking out to attract admiration to their pretty faces."
"I do not believe that Mary Smith is one of that kind," said Mrs. Markham. "She seems a good, simple, innocent girl. But if she fails to suit you, Edith, you may return her to me, and I will find some other place for her. I imagined that you would be delighted with such a girl for Ruby's attendant."
"And so I am, and I am ever so much obliged to you for thinking of me. I hope that she will please Ruby better than the girls we have had lately, for I feel quite worn out with anxiety over the dear little creature," replied Mrs. Desmond, but so constrained that Mrs. Markham saw that she was only half-hearted in her pleasure, and wondered why it was that Golden's beauty, whichwas so attractive to her own eyes, was distasteful to Mrs. Desmond, who was beautiful herself, and liked to gather beautiful things around her.
It is said that every family has its skeleton. Mrs. Markham did not know that the skeleton in her friend's closet was the lurking fiend of jealousy. Mrs. Desmond was a charming lady, but she secretly disliked every pretty woman she knew.
Little Golden went on through the dressing-room to the bed-chamber, which was a perfect bower of elegance and repose, and timidly opened the nursery door, for the description of little Ruby Desmond had rather intimidated her.
She found herself in a large, airy, sunny chamber, splendidly adapted for a nursery, and luxuriously fitted up for that purpose.
In a low rocking-chair a smart French maid was indolently lounging and yawning over a French novel.
In a corner of the room a little girl of six years, small for her age, and pale and delicate-looking, was sobbing fretfully in a fit of the sulks.
She dashed the tears from her eyes and looked up curiously at the timid intruder.
"Who are you?" she demanded, abruptly.
"I am Mary Smith, your new nurse, little Miss Ruby," said Golden, in a clear, sweet voice, and with a winning smile.
The French maid threw down her novel and stared, and little Ruby came out of her corner.
"So you are my new maid, are you?" she asked, pertly. "Well, I hope you will not be as hateful as Celine here is, for if you do I shall be sure to throw my top at your head. I am very glad you are come, for I am perfectly tired of Celine, and I want her to leave me at once—at once, do you hear me, Celine?"
Celine flounced out of the room in a huff, and the little one continued:
"There is one comfort, you are not as ugly as Celine and the others! I hate ugly people, and so does my papa, but mamma likes them best.Youare the prettiest nurse I ever saw! You look just like my big wax doll, with your blue eyes and long hair. Nurses always wear their hair under a cap, did you not know that?"
Little Golden did not answer one word to the voluble discourse of the spoiled child.
She stood silently in the center of the large apartment, her small hand pressed to her beating heart, her pale lips apart, her blue eyes upraised to a large portrait that hung against the wall in a splendid frame of gold and ebony. The dark, handsome, splendid face that smiled down upon her was the face of her lost lover, Bertram Chesleigh.
Fortunately for Golden, little Ruby Desmond did not observe the preoccupation of her new nurse. She had entered upon avoluble tirade against nurses in general, and when she had ended she remarked with a sudden change of tone:
"But I don't believe I shall hate you as much as I did the rest. You are younger and prettier than any girl I ever had to amuse me. Come, now, Mary, lay off your hat and jacket. I want you to make my doll a new dress. That lazy Celine would not stick a needle in it, for all I stormed and scolded, and threatened to complain to mamma."
Thus adjured, Golden turned her eyes with an effort away from the portrait of Bertram Chesleigh, and proceeded to obey the instructions of her little mistress with what cheerfulness she could, although her heart was beating wildly with the shock she had received on coming suddenly face to face with her lover's portrait in this strange place.
She longed, yet dreaded to ask little Ruby what the original of the portrait was to her.
Looking from the portrait to the child she could plainly discern in Ruby's proud mouth and flashing, dark eyes, a great and striking resemblance to Mr. Chesleigh.
But she was afraid to ask the question that trembled on her lips, so she sat down mutely while Ruby brought a large wax doll and placed it in her lap, together with a large quantity of scraps of silk and muslin and odds and ends of pretty lace.
Then she pulled open the drawer of a child's bureau and brought out a garnet silk dress of her own, elaborately made and trimmed.
"I want Dollie's dress made exactly like this," she said, hanging it open over the back of a chair for Golden's inspection. "It is in the latest fashion, so Celine says. Celine thinks of nothing but French novels and fashions, so she ought to know."
"Your doll is very beautiful. Is it a new one?" asked Golden, trying to say something to please the little creature who was hovering about her, busy and excited with her important preparations for the miniature dressmaking.
"Oh, yes, it is tolerably new! Papa gave it to me last week," replied Ruby. "There was a little trunk of clothes with her, but I do not like any of the dresses. They are quite old-fashioned and shabby, I think. Mamma says herself that they must have been made at least a year ago. So I shall never be satisfied until I have a new-fashioned dress for Dollie."
She was silent a moment, watching Golden's deft finger as they slowly cut and basted, then she resumed:
"I have tried and tried, but I cannot think of a name for her. Can you tell me a pretty name for her, Mary?"
"Would you like to call her Golden?" asked the girl, feeling as if the sound of her own name would be a relief in this new, strange atmosphere.
"Golden! what a pretty name," said the child. "I like that. I will call Dollie by that name. I shall be Golden—Golden Chesleigh," she added, after a minute's thought.
The new nurse started so violently, that the doll's dress fell from her fingers. The lovely crimson color rushed into her face.
"Chesleigh! Why do you call her that?" she asked, falteringly. "Do you know anybody by that name, Miss Ruby?"
The little girl laughed quite happily.
"Well, I should think I did," she said, brightly. "My own uncle is named Chesleigh—Bertram Chesleigh. There is his portrait on the wall. Look at it, Mary, and tell me if he is not me very handsomest man you ever beheld."
Golden looked up into the dark eyes that had gazed into her own so fondly, and at the proud yet tender lips that had kissed her with such passionate love, and she could barely repress the moan of pain that came from her lips.
"Yes, he is very handsome," she said faintly. "Does he ever call here to see you?"
"Oh, yes, often and often, when he is at home," said Ruby. "But he is gone away traveling in the sunny south now. He travels a great deal. Mamma calls him a bird of passage."
"Is he fond of you?" said Golden, seeing that she was expected to say something.
"Oh, yes, very fond," said Ruby, brightening up so much that Golden saw it was a favorite subject with her. "He had that splendid portrait painted expressly for a present to me. Mamma begged me to let it hang in the drawing-room, but I would not. I told her I would have it in the nursery where I could see it every minute."
"Is he—married?" asked Golden, carelessly, to all appearance, and taking up her work again.
"Oh, dear, no! and I hope he never will be! He loves me better than anyone now, but he would like his wife best if he were married," cried the spoiled child.
Golden sighed softly and made no reply, and the entrance of Mrs. Desmond and her visitor interrupted the conversation.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Markham. You see I have a new nurse," said Ruby, looking up with a faint flush of pleasant excitement on her delicate face.
"You have to thank Mrs. Markham for bringing her to you," said Mrs. Desmond, glad to see a smile on the usually sullen or pain-drawn little white face.
Ruby went forward and kissed Mrs. Markham charmingly as if she was always loving and sweet-tempered instead of self-willed and capricious as everyone represented her.
"I thank you very much," she said, "I think I shall like Mary better than the others. She is very kind and obliging. You see she is making a new dress for my doll. Celine was too lazy. She would not dress my doll at all."
Mrs. Markham gave herprotegean encouraging smile, and Golden blushed with pleasure.
"She has given my new doll a name," continued Ruby, vivaciously. "It is Golden. Do you not think it pretty? The name would suit Mary herself I think, as she has such lovely curls, I believe I shall call her goldilocks," she added, laying her small hand caressingly on Golden's hair.
Mrs. Markham smiled indulgently, but her friend looked annoyed.
"Indeed, Ruby, you must not call her by such a silly name," she said. "She must put her hair up, and wear a little cup over it like a Frenchbonne."
"It is a pity to cover it up, it is so thick and long, and shines so bright. Mary is a very pretty girl, don't you think so, mamma? She looks just like my wax doll," said the child.
"Pretty is that pretty does, my child," Mrs. Desmond answered, shortly, and Mrs. Markham, stooping over Golden, put a card with her name and address upon it, in her hand, and said in her kind, patronizing voice:
"If you do not suit Mrs. Desmond, Mary, after she has given you a fair trial, you may come to me, and I will help you to another place."
The quick tears brimmed over in little Golden's eyes. She kissed Mrs. Markham's hand in silent gratitude.
"It is quite likely I shall keep her if she continues to please Ruby as well as she does now. But Ruby is such a capricious little darling there is no telling how soon this new fancy of hers may change. 'New brooms sweep clean,' you know," said Mrs. Desmond, quoting the old adage a little stiffly.
Mrs. Markham made some careless reply and took her departure. She was vaguely conscious of a chill never felt before in Mrs. Desmond's manner, and resented her lack of gratitude for the service she had done her.
"The child is so pleased and interested, it will be quite a pity if she sends Mary Smith away from her," the benevolent woman thought silently to herself.
"I am quite sure that my papa will be pleased with your looks," said little Ruby, artlessly, when her mother had gone out and left them alone to the doll's dressmaking. "He likes pretty faces as well as I do. He hates Celine and the chambermaid both, because, as he says, they are 'so deucedly ugly.'"
"I suppose papa loves his little pet very much," said Golden, smiling sadly at the little one's prattle.
"Yes, indeed," said Ruby. "He gives me oceans of pretty things. But I do not see him much, only an hour after dinner. You see, papa and mamma are both very gay. They always go out in the evening to balls or operas."
Before the dinner hour Celine made her appearance with a large, white bib-apron and neat cap for Golden's use.
"My mistress sent you these," she said, not unkindly. "Shall I show you how to use them, or do you know already?"
"You will please show me," the girl answered, gently.
Celine brought combs and brushes and arranged the bright, shining hair in a thick plait which she wound about the small head and pinned securely with hairpins.
"Ma foi," she said, unable to repress an involuntary tribute of admiration, "you have the most beautiful hair I ever saw."
"Yes, and it's a shame to put a cap on it," cried Ruby. "I thinkmamma is very unkind to me, I did not want Mary Smith's beautiful hair covered!"
"Fie, my little lady, what a funny-looking nurse-maid she would be without her little cap," cried Celine, as she put the last touches to the bib and cap.
"Thank you," said Golden, as she gave a timid glance into the swinging mirror.
Celine noted the little incident with feminine quickness, and smiled.
"Should you know yourself again?" she asked.
"It makes a great difference in my appearance," little Golden replied.
"But it does not make you any less pretty," declared Celine. "When your hair hung down it hid all your neck. Now I see that your ears are as pretty as sea-shells, and your neck as white as snow. You are too good-looking for your place, Miss Smith."
"And you are too ugly for yours!" put in Ruby, sharply.
"Hold your tongue, Miss Pert," said the French maid, with an ugly frown. "It's a deal better to be an ugly servant than a pretty one in this place, and so Miss Smith will find out before long. Not as I says it out of spite for the poor thing. She's to be pitied, beingyournurse," pronounced Mademoiselle Celine as she flitted out of the room, seeing that Golden made her no answer. Indeed the poor girl did not know what to say. She was puzzled and frightened over the maid's pert innuendoes, but she did not in the least comprehend what she meant.
When Celine was gone she looked into the minor again and then at the portrait on the wall. The hot tears came into the great, blue eyes and blinded them.
"Oh, Bert," she whispered inaudibly, "would you know me, would you love me in this strange and altered guise?"
"You must do my hair over before dinner, Mary," said the little girl. "I always dine with mamma and papa when they have no company. You will go with me and stand behind my chair while I am eating, to attend to my wants."
Golden gave a gasp of mingled pride and dread.
"Must I indeed do that?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, all my nurses do that way," said the child. "Now, Mary, I must have my hair curled over, and dress for dinner just as mamma does, you know."
Golden found that she had a most exacting little mistress. Although frail and diseased, the little creature never allowed her active mind and thin, little body one moment's rest.
She was always flying from one thing to another, and kept everyone about her attending to her whims and fancied wants. Yet, in spite of her capricious exactions, Golden could not help being drawn to the child.
The dark eyes, and the proud, sweet mouth so like those of the man she loved, won her in spite of herself.
At dinner, where she stood droopingly behind little Ruby's chair, the master of the house did not even glance toward her, so that she had a fair chance to observe him from under her heavy, curling lashes.
The scrutiny did not satisfy her, although she could not have told how it chanced, for Mr. Desmond was faultlessly handsome.
He had a fair, effeminate face, full of languid passion, and those large, long-lashed gray eyes which can shoot the most killing glances.
His hair was parted in the middle with scrupulous exactness. His dress was elegant to the verge of foppishness, and a magnificent diamond sparkled on his white hand.
His wife and little daughter seemed to regard him with the most admiring affection, which he accepted with a bored and rather patronizing air.
When the long and ceremonious dinner was over, little Ruby sprang down from her chair and caught his hand.
"Come, papa, come, mamma," she cried, "you must go to the nursery now."
They went away with her, and when Golden returned to the nursery later, she found the little girl sitting on her father's knee, and chatting volubly to him, while Mrs. Desmond was nowhere to be seen.
Ruby jumped down from her perch and ran to Golden.
"Papa," she said, evidently referring to some subject they had been discussing. "I will show it to you, and you will say that I am right."
With a quick, deft motion, she pulled the cap from Golden's head, and loosened the braid so that the curling, rippling mass of gold fell in a shower of beauty over the girl's shoulders. Then she cried out in gleeful triumph:
"Isn't it lovely, papa? Did you ever see such a pretty nurse."
Mr. Desmond looked in amazement at the blushing, shrinking girl, and murmured inaudibly:
"Ye gods, what a perfect beauty!"
At that moment the brilliant brunette, Mrs. Desmond, swept into the room with a waft of exquisite perfume, her diamonds glittering, her rich silk and laces rustling majestically, a white satin opera cloak folded gracefully around her white shoulders.
She looked at Golden so wrathfully that it froze the quick murmur of irrepressible admiration on her lips.
"Girl, what does this disordered appearance mean? Why is your hair down after my strict orders?" she demanded, angrily.
"Your daughter pulled it down, madam," Golden answered, with outward dignity and quietness, though she was inwardly chafed and deeply wounded.
Mrs. Desmond turned round in a gust of passion and gave Ruby a ringing slap on the cheek with her white, jeweled hand.
"Take that, and behave yourself better the next time," she cried, sharply.
Ruby ran, screaming, to her father, and Mrs. Desmond cried out impatiently:
"Come, Mr. Desmond, the carriage is waiting. Mary, put the child to bed. Good-night, Ruby."
She bent to kiss the child good-night, but Ruby pushed heraway with an angry scream, and ran to hide her face in Golden's skirts.
Mrs. Desmond turned away, followed by her husband, who said reproachfully as they passed from the room:
"You were needlessly cruel to the poor little thing Edith, my dear."
Mrs. Desmond came into the nursery the next morning with her arms full of new toys as a propitiatory gift to her offended little daughter.
She greeted Golden very kindly, feeling ashamed of her petulance of the evening before, when she saw how patiently she was ministering to the comfort of her little daughter.
Little Ruby was suffering with a headache this morning. She lay on a silken lounge, with her head propped on pillows, and Golden was bathing the hot temples witheau de cologne.
"Are you still pleased with your nurse, my darling?" inquired her mother.
"Oh, yes, mamma. Mary is the kindest nurse I ever had," answered Ruby, lifting her heavy eyes tenderly to Golden's sweet face.
"I am very glad to hear it," said her mother. "Does your head ache too bad for you to take your morning drive with me, dear?"
"Oh, no, I think it will be better when I get out in the air," said Ruby, with a brightening face. "Shall we take my nurse with us?"
"Not this morning, I think, as I shall drive the pony-phaeton, and there is only room for two."
"Will not papa go then?" said the child, disappointed.
"No; he has a business engagement, and cannot accompany us. You see we are going to the seaside next week, and he has a great many things to see to first," Mrs. Desmond answered, with the child's disappointment reflected on her own beautiful face.
She loved her husband with the devotion of a strong, intense nature, and begrudged every moment he spent away from her side.
Her jealousy was as strong as her love, and Mr. Desmond was the type of man best calculated to keep this baleful passion in the fullest play.
He had been noted as a male flirt before he married Edith Chesleigh, and his conduct since their union had not been of a sort to strengthen his wife's faith in his fidelity. Beautiful as she was herself, she soon found that he was by no means blind to the charms of other women.
She turned to the nurse with a suppressed sigh, and said, quietly:
"You may dress Ruby now in a white hat and dress, and cardinal sash, while I am getting ready."
Then she kissed Ruby and went to her dressing-room. Golden hastened to follow her instructions.
"We shall go to the seaside next week and stay two months. Shall you like that, Mary?" asked the child, while Golden was brushing her dark curls over her fingers.
"I dare say I shall like it, if you do," replied the girl.
"Oh, we will have a splendid time. We will go bathing in the sea in the mornings, and afterward we will stroll on the sands, and gather beautiful, rosy shells. At night they have balls and dancing. Sometimes mamma lets me stay up awhile to see them dance. Oh, it is grand fun! I wish I was a grown lady," cried the child, flapping her hands.
Golden listened in silence, and the strange loneliness and quietude of the life in which she had been reared, struck her more and more by its contrast with the bright, bustling world outside and beyond Glenalvan Hall.
When little Ruby had gone away for her drive with her mother, she sat down in the quiet nursery and resigned herself to thought.
Her thought went back to the gray, old hall in the sunny south, and the kind, old man she had deserted. She wondered if he would forgive her, and pray for her that she might find her mother.
"I shall never find her now," she thought. "I have lost my money, and it will be a long time before I can earn enough to resign my situation here, and try to find her. Mrs. Markham was so sweet and kind. I wonder if she would help me. But, no, she would scorn me like all the rest, if she knew the story of my poor, young mother's disgrace."
"Good-morning, little Mary. Where is my daughter this morning?" said a clear, musical voice.
Golden looked up with a start, and saw Mr. Desmond, standing, tall, debonair and handsome, in the center of the lofty apartment. He had entered and closed the door so softly that she had not heard a sound.
"Miss Ruby has gone out driving with her mother," she answered.
"Ah," said Mr. Desmond. "I suppose she will not be gone long, so I will wait here until she returns."
He drew forward a chair quite close to hers. Golden regarded him in surprise.
"Miss Ruby was very anxious that you should go with her, but her mother said you had a business engagement this morning and could not find time to gratify her," she remarked to him, rather pointedly.
He flushed, then laughed carelessly.
"Oh, yes, so I did have," he replied, "I only looked in a minute to bid Ruby good-morning."
"Yes, sir," the nurse replied, constrainedly, and looked out of the window. The way Mr. Desmond regarded her out of his large, bold eyes made her feel slightly nervous. She heartily wished that he would go away and leave her alone.
But Mr. Desmond seemed in no haste to fulfill his business engagement. He sat silently a moment, regarding the delicate profile of the half averted face, then said, carelessly:
"Where do you come from, Mary—New York?"
"I am from the south, Mr. Desmond," said the girl, biting her lips to keep back her resentment at his familiar address.
"Indeed? From what part of the south?" he inquired.
"Excuse me, sir, I do not care to reveal my private affairs to a total stranger," replied Golden, with such sudden spirit and haughtiness that the fine gentleman stared.
"Whew!" he exclaimed, "I did not mean any offense, Miss Smith, I only wished to know the precise spot where such peerless beauties as yourself are reared. I would certainly immigrate instanter to that most precious locality."
Golden rose, crimson with anger, and crossed to the door.
"Where are you going?" he inquired, following her and taking hold of her hand.
"I am going down stairs, Mr. Desmond," she replied coldly, and trying to wrench her hand away.
"Are you offended at my plain speaking?" he inquired, trying to look into her flashing eyes. "Surely you are aware that you are beautiful?"
"If I am, it does not become you to tell me so, sir," she replied, resentfully. "Such compliments belong to your wife."
"My wife is a beautiful woman, but not half so beautiful as you are, little Mary," he replied, still keeping a tight hold on her hand.
"Mr. Desmond, let me go," she pleaded, the angry tears crowding into her soft blue eyes, "I will not listen to such words from you. You are cruel and unkind. What would Mrs. Desmond say if she could see you?"
He started uneasily, then laughed.
"She would say I was only teasing you, as I was," he replied. "Believe me, Mary, I was only joking you. I did not think that you would take it as earnest or become angry. Say that you forgive me, fair one, and I will release you."
"Let go my hand, I forgive you," Golden replied, glad to be released on any terms, and shrinking from him with an utter loathing and horror.
"Thank you for your pardon," he cried, laughingly. "You must seal the sweet pledge with a kiss, my lovely girl."
He threw his arm around her struggling little form, clasping her closely to his breast, and pressed a full, passionate kiss on her loathing lips.
At Golden's loud scream of alarm and anger, the door of Mrs. Desmond's sleeping apartment opened suddenly, and Celine, the maid, stood aghast upon the threshold.
She beheld the pretty, new nurse in the arms of her master, saw his handsome head bent over her as he kissed the beautiful crimson lips. At Celine's startled cry he turned upon her fiercely, at the same time releasing Golden.
"What do you mean by spying upon my actions, Celine?" he demanded angrily.
"Pardon, monsieur, I meant no offense," said the maid, as smooth as silk, "I but thought you were romping with little Miss Ruby, and looked in to behold the little one's delight."
Mr. Desmond saw that it was necessary to conciliate Mademoiselle Celine.
"I did come in to see Ruby," he replied, "but she had gone to ride. So I attempted a bit of harmless gallantry with her nurse, here, such as most pretty girls would have taken with pleasure, but she was timid and frightened at my little joke. Hold your tongue about it, Celine, and here's a trifle to buy you a new cap."
He tossed a gold piece at her feet, and Celine picked it up, curtsying and smiling. Little Golden, standing apart from them, regarded the scene with horror and disgust.
Mr. Desmond, turning suddenly to her, quailed at the look of fiery scorn in the beautiful, spirited young face.
"Are you very angry with me, Mary?" he inquired in a subdued voice.
"No words can do justice to my contempt for you," she replied, in a voice of cutting scorn. "How dared you maltreat and insult me so? Shame on you for your cruelty to a poor and helpless girl!"
She was so beautiful in her anger that he could scarcely remove his gaze from her face. Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes were darkened and dilated with anger, her lovely lips were curled disdainfully. He read the proud purity of her young soul in every haughty movement of her lithe young figure and clenched, white hands.
He regarded her in silence a moment, then exclaimed with apparent frankness:
"Mary, I will tell you the truth, and then you will be able to pardon my conduct. My wife told me that she had engaged you totally without recommendation, and we both were afraid that we had run too great a risk in intrusting our little darling to your care. I determined therefore to test you. I have done so, and I am delighted to find that your principles and your virtue are so steadfast and true. Are you willing to grant me your pardon after this explanation?"
At this specious apology the simple girl looked from the hypocrite's anxious face to that of the maid.
Celine being a woman, she reasoned, would tell her whether to accept this explanation or not.
The artful maid gave her an encouraging smile.
"Monsieur is right," she said. "He did well to test your principles, Miss Smith. Do not be so rude as to withhold your forgiveness after his manly apology."
Golden, with her slight knowledge of the wicked world, thought that Mr. Desmond and Celine had told her the truth. She answered, falteringly, after a moment of silence:
"Then I will forgive you, Mr. Desmond, if you will promise not to molest me again. Otherwise I shall return to Mrs. Markham's protection."
"You must not think of leaving us. Ruby is so pleased with you that it would be a shame to desert her. You need not fearme. I am quite satisfied of your truth and worth, and my wife will be delighted when I tell her how nobly I have proved your virtue," said Mr. Desmond, hastily.
Then he looked at his watch, and muttering something about his business engagement, hurried away.
Celine looked at Golden with an odd, significant smile.
"Now, Miss Smith, you understand what I meant by saying that you were too good-looking for your place," she said.
"But I thoughthesaid, and so did you, Celine, that he was only testing my virtue," said poor Golden, in perplexity.
"Bah! that was only master's blarney," replied Celine, airily. "Of course I had to agree with him, or lose my situation, and I don't choose to do that, for I have a good place and lots of perquisites. But the truth is that monsieur only invented that tale of testing you because he was frightened when he found he had tackled an honest girl, and he did not wish for the madam to get hold of it."
"Then he is a wicked villain, and I shall go away to-day," cried the girl, indignantly, "I love little Ruby, but I will go away, I cannot remain."
"If you takemyadvice you will stay and say nothing about it," replied the maid. "If you go to another place you are just as likely to encounter the same difficulty. You are too pretty to be a servant. I have told you that already."
"But I cannot remain here and encounter the persecutions of Mr. Desmond," replied Golden, decidedly.
"I do not believe he will annoy you again," said Celine, confidently. "He has found out that you are honest, and he will be afraid to pursue you any further. The child is so pleased with you it would be a pity to forsake her. You may take my word for it that monsieur is too much afraid of his wife to bother you again. Why, she is so jealous that if she knew her husband had kissed you, she would want to cut your ears off."
Golden shivered at Celine's vivid words.
"It is better I should go, then," she said, with a sigh. "I would not, for the world, create trouble between husband and wife."
"You had better stay," said Celine. "I shall not tell of you, and you may be pretty sure master won't. So Mrs. Desmond need never know."
"It is better I should go," said Golden, decidedly; and then she threw herself down upon a lounge and burst into tears.
"Oh! why are women so weak, and men so cruel?" she wildly sobbed.
"It's their nature," replied Celine, but Golden made her no answer. She only continued to weep heart-brokenly.
"I am the most miserable girl on earth," she sobbed. "I wish that I had never been born!"
The maid's curiosity was greatly excited by Golden's words. She knelt down by the girl and inquired the cause of her sorrow, and promised her her friendship and advice if she would confide in her.
But in Golden's pure mind there was an instinctive distrust ofCeline. Her ready acceptance of her master's bribe had excited her disgust and dislike. She answered evasively that she had nothing to confide, and only desired to be left in peace.
"Oh, very well, miss," replied the maid, "you can be left alone, I'm sure, but you'll find that it's better to make a friend of Celine Duval than an enemy."
She flounced out of the room as she spoke, and Golden was left alone to the companionship of her own sad thoughts. She lay silently a long while looking at the portrait of Bertram Chesleigh, and weeping bitter tears over her unhappy fate. How beautiful and life-like was the picture!
The blissful hours she had spent with the original rushed over her mind, making the contrast with the gloom of the present more harrowing. She found herself exclaiming: