"Oh, that those lips had language—life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard them last."
"Oh, that those lips had language—life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard them last."
But no sound came from the lips of the false-hearted lover, who had given her a few hours of happiness only to leave her to the darkness of despair.
Golden had quite decided in her mind that she would rather leave Mrs. Desmond at once, than risk a renewal of her husband's distasteful attentions, but little Ruby's first words on returning from her drive, dispelled the idea for the present at least from her thoughts.
"Oh, Mary!" the little one had cried, with childish directness, as soon as she entered the room. "Oh, Mary! I have heard bad news!"
"I am very sorry for you, dear," said Golden, gently.
Ruby looked up into the face of her uncle, where it hung against the wall.
"Oh, poor Uncle Bertie!" she sighed.
"Was it about Mr. Chesleigh, Ruby?" she inquired.
"Yes," said the child. "Mamma has had a telegram from some people about him. He is very sick, and he is away down south at a place called Glenalvan Hall."
Golden drew her breath heavily, and sank into a chair. It seemed as if an arrow had pierced her heart. She could not speak, but stared at Ruby with a dumb misery in her eyes, that the little one could in nowise understand.
"Some of us will have to go to him—mamma and papa, I suppose," continued Ruby. "I asked mamma to let me go, but she says it would be too warm for me at this time of the year in the south, because I am so delicate."
"Is he very sick? Will he die?" inquired Golden, speaking in a strange, unnatural voice.
"They hope not, but he is very sick," said Ruby; and at that moment Mrs. Desmond swept into the room.
Her bright eyes looked dim and heavy as though she might have been weeping.
"I am very sorry you have had bad news, madam," said Golden, trying to appear quiet and natural, though her pulse was beating at fever-heat, and her eyes were heavy and dim beneath their drooping lashes.
"Ruby has told you of my brother's illness, then," said Mrs. Desmond, more gently than she usually spoke to her dependents.
"Yes, madam," said Golden, faintly, unable to utter another word.
"He has brain fever," said Mrs. Desmond, despondently. "Mr. Desmond will leave for the south to-night, and if he is no better when he arrives, he will telegraph for me to go to him. He is unwilling for me to go if it can be prevented, as it is so warm down there at this time of year. Besides, I am unwilling to leave Ruby, and I could not run the risk of taking her."
She threw herself into a chair, and wept a few genuine tears.
Little Golden, watching her with dry eyes and pale, mute lips, wondered if the sister's heart ached half so heavily and painfully as her own did.
"Yet why should I grieve for him?" the poor child asked herself. "I should rather rejoice. He has forsaken and deserted me."
She could find no answer to that question in her heart, save that she loved him. Loved him in despite of her cruel wrongs.
Before night another telegram was received, saying that Bertram Chesleigh had asked repeatedly for his sister. So it was decided that Mrs. Desmond should accompany her husband.
"Mary, do you think that you and the housekeeper can take care of my little Ruby while I am gone?" inquired Mrs. Desmond, tearfully.
Golden promised so earnestly to give her whole care and attention to the little one that Mrs. Desmond could not help confiding in her promise.
The child herself, though half-distracted with grief at the parting with her parents, promised bravely to be a good and patient girl for Uncle Bertie's sake.
Celine was to accompany her mistress, and was in a bustle of pleasant preparation. The hours passed swiftly, and the time for the farewells soon came and passed.
Little Ruby sobbed herself to sleep dismally, with her arms around Golden's neck, unconscious that the girl shed sadder tears than her own, when her little charge was peacefully dreaming.
"The slow, sad hours that bring us all things ill," waned slowly, while Golden and Ruby waited impatiently for news of the travelers.
Ruby was very restless and capricious, besides her daily headaches grew worse as the heat of the summer season advanced. She fretted very much over her postponed trip to the seaside.
At length a telegram came from the travelers to say that they had reached Glenalvan Hall, and Mr. Chesleigh was no better.After this these bulletins came almost daily, but with no encouraging words. Very ill, and no prospect of improvement yet, was their daily burden.
In about two weeks Mr. Desmond returned unexpectedly.
Ruby was overjoyed. She laughed and wept together, as she hung around his neck.
"Uncle Bertie must be better, or you would not have returned," she cried.
But her father shook his head gravely.
"No, dear, I am sorry to say he is not improving at all. Indeed the case is so critical that it may be weeks before your mother can return. That is why I have come."
"Shall you go back, then?" inquired Ruby.
"Yes, in about a week. Have you fretted for us very much, Ruby?"
"A great deal," she replied. "Oh, papa," clapping her little hands, "now I know why you have come back. You are going to take me to mamma and Uncle Bert."
"Nothing is further from my intentions," replied Mr. Desmond. "I have come to take you to the seashore."
"The seashore—while my uncle is so ill?" cried the child, a little surprised.
"Yes, Ruby. You must remember your own health is very frail. Your mother is very anxious about you. You will go to the seashore in the care of Mrs. Markham. Will that arrangement please you?"
"Very much," smiled Ruby. "I love Mrs. Markham. Of course I shall take my nurse?"
"Yes, of course," he replied, then inquired, carelessly: "Are you still satisfied with Mary Smith?"
"Oh, yes, Mary is a splendid girl—I do not intend ever to part from her," replied the child, enthusiastically, "I am quite getting over my sulky spells since she came. Mary does not tease and cross me as the others did."
Golden, who had sat sewing quietly by the window, without ever lifting her eyes from her work since Mr. Desmond entered, crimsoned painfully at thus having his attention drawn upon her.
But he took no notice of her except to say patronizingly:
"I am glad you have found such a treasure, Ruby. I hope she will remain with you. Are you willing to accompany Ruby to the seaside, Mary?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, quietly.
"Very well, I will go and see Mrs. Markham now. If she can go by the last of the week I will accompany the party and see you all safely settled before I return south."
Golden made him no answer, thinking that none was necessary, and he went out to call on Mrs. Markham.
It was all carried out as Mr. Desmond wished. In the latter part of the week he accompanied the party to the seashore, saw them installed in comfortable quarters, and after staying two days took leave again.
During his short stay, he enjoyed himself according to his flirting tastes with the lively seaside belles.
In her capacity of Ruby's nurse Golden was compelled to see him a great deal, but he treated her at all times with such subdued respect and delicate attention that the girl grew less afraid of him, and began to think that Celine was right when she said he would abandon his pursuit of her now that he had found out she was an honest girl. She did not know that Mr. Desmond's quiet respect and delicate courtesy was more dangerous than his former open advances had been. Still she was relieved when he was gone, and she was left alone with little Ruby and Mrs. Markham, who was very kind to the lonely girl though in a decidedly patronizing fashion.
When Golden and Ruby had been at the seaside a month with Mrs. Markham, the glad tidings that Mr. Chesleigh was beginning to improve, were conveyed to little Ruby in a short but affectionate letter from her mother.
"Your dear uncle has had a great fight for his life, but the doctor now says that he is likely to get well," Mrs. Desmond wrote. "If he continues to improve, we shall be able to start home with him in about two weeks, journeying slowly. We will join you then at the seaside, as the physician thinks that a month by the sea will quite restore Bertram's health."
"Your dear uncle has had a great fight for his life, but the doctor now says that he is likely to get well," Mrs. Desmond wrote. "If he continues to improve, we shall be able to start home with him in about two weeks, journeying slowly. We will join you then at the seaside, as the physician thinks that a month by the sea will quite restore Bertram's health."
It was Golden's task to read this letter to the little six-year-old, whose education, owing to her extreme frailty of constitution, had not yet commenced.
The child cried out noisily for joy at the welcome news, but Golden said not a word. Yet her thoughts were very busy.
"I shall see him again very soon," she said to herself. "Will he recognize, in his sister's servant, the girl that loved him so dearly?"
Then the thought came to her that he would not wish to see her again; she had no part nor lot in his life henceforth, by his own desire.
Musing sadly by the great, moaning sea, while little Ruby gathered the rosy-tinted shells along the sands, she murmured to herself those sweet, pathetic lines of Owen Meredith:
"Oh, being of beauty and bliss! Seen and knownIn the depths of my heart, and possessed there alone,My days know thee not, and my lips name thee never,Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever;We have met, we have parted,No name is recordedIn my annals on earth."
"Oh, being of beauty and bliss! Seen and knownIn the depths of my heart, and possessed there alone,My days know thee not, and my lips name thee never,Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever;We have met, we have parted,No name is recordedIn my annals on earth."
In few more days Mrs. Markham received a letter from Mrs. Desmond. Her brother was so much better that she had quite recovered the tone of her spirits, and wrote, cheerfully:
"If nothing more happens, I shall be with you the first of September. Bertram will be with me, and I shall also bring a verycharming young lady whom I have invited to spend the winter months with me in New York. She is the daughter of our host, and has been Bert's unwearied attendant throughout his illness. Between you and me, dear friend, she is so desperately in love with my brother, that she has neither eyes nor ears for anyone else. She has a younger sister whom I have not invited. I do not like her. She is the most abominable flirt I ever saw, and has done nothing but make eyes at Mr. Desmond since we came to Glenalvan Hall."
"If nothing more happens, I shall be with you the first of September. Bertram will be with me, and I shall also bring a verycharming young lady whom I have invited to spend the winter months with me in New York. She is the daughter of our host, and has been Bert's unwearied attendant throughout his illness. Between you and me, dear friend, she is so desperately in love with my brother, that she has neither eyes nor ears for anyone else. She has a younger sister whom I have not invited. I do not like her. She is the most abominable flirt I ever saw, and has done nothing but make eyes at Mr. Desmond since we came to Glenalvan Hall."
"Glenalvan Hall," mused Mrs. Markham, holding the letter in her hand, and drawing her eyebrows thoughtfully together. "How familiar the word sounds! Where have I heard it?"
She puzzled over it awhile, then gave it up. In the gay whirl of fashionable society, she had forgotten the pretty name of the poor girl she had befriended.
But she carried her letter into Ruby's room and read it aloud to her, and Golden's cheeks that had grown very pale and delicate of late, grew paler still.
"Elinor is coming," she said to herself, in dismay. "What shall I do?"
She thought at first that she would go away quietly before they came.
She could not stay and face her proud cousin, Elinor, and the man who had loved her, and then despised her for the stain upon her.
But the thought came into her mind, where would she go? She had never received any of her wages from Mrs. Desmond yet. If she went away she would be utterly friendless and penniless.
She clung to little Ruby because the child loved her very dearly, and without her love she was utterly alone.
And underlying all was a fierce, passionate longing she could not still, to see Bertram Chesleigh's face once more, to hear again that musical, luring voice, whose accents she had hung upon so fondly.
A few days before the first of September, she turned timidly to Mrs. Markham, who was amusing herself with little Ruby down on the sands.
"Mrs. Markham," she said, "will you tell me this, please? Are not green glasses good for weak eyes?"
"I have heard so," replied the lady. "Are your eyes weak, Mary?"
She looked into the girl's face as she spoke, and saw that the sweet, blue eyes were dull and heavy.
How was she to guess that sleepless nights and bitter tears had dimmed their sapphire sparkle.
"Are your eyes weak, Mary?" she repeated, seeing that the girl hesitated.
A blush tinged the pearly cheek, and Golden glanced out at the foam-crested waves rolling in toward the shore.
"I think that the glare of the sun on the sands, and on the water, is very weakening to the sight," she replied, evasively.
"So it is. I have heard others complain of the same thing. Ifthe light affects your eyes I would advise you, by all means, to wear the glasses."
"Thank you. I believe I will try a pair," returned Golden.
"Oh, Mary, you will be a perfect fright, if you do!" cried out little Ruby, in childish disapproval. "You have covered up all your long, gold hair under that ugly cap, and now, if you cover up your pretty, blue eyes, you will be as horrid-looking as—as—I don't know what!"
"Never mind the looks, my dear," said Mrs. Markham, in her gentle way. "If Mary is kind and loving at heart her looks will not signify."
"But I do so love pretty things," said the child, "and I love to look at Mary. She looks like a picture at night when she combs out her shining hair over her shoulders. There is not a lady at the seaside this summer as pretty as my nurse!"
"Fie, my dear; you must not make Mary vain," cried the lady, half smiling.
"I want to ask you a favor, Mrs. Markham," said Golden, blushing very much.
"A favor! What is it, Mary?" asked Mrs. Markham, encouragingly.
Golden glanced down at her blue cashmere dress, which had grown very shabby and worn during the two months she had been in little Ruby's service.
"You see I had lost all my money when I went into Mrs. Desmond's service," she said falteringly, "and I have not received any of my wages yet, and—and I am getting too shabby to be respectable-looking."
That was little Golden's plea, but the truth was that she did not wish her Cousin Elinor and Bertram Chesleigh to recognize her, and so wished to lay aside the blue cashmere which had been her best dress at Glenalvan Hall.
"Oh, you poor child!" burst out Mrs. Markham, "why did you never tell me that before? I see, now; you want me to lend you the money to buy a new dress."
"If you will be so very, very kind," faltered Golden, gratefully.
"I will do it with the greatest pleasure," answered Mrs. Markham, whose purse was ever open to the needy and distressed.
So on the first of September little Golden appeared in quite an altered guise. The pretty, blue cashmere that was so becoming to her rose-leaf complexion was laid aside, and she wore a sober, dark-gray dress, so long and plain that she looked a great deal taller and older. She had pinned a dark silk handkerchief high up around her white throat, thus concealing its fairness and graceful contour. She had fashioned herself a huge, abominable cap that hid every wave of her golden hair. Dark-green spectacles were fastened before the bright, blue eyes, and with her long, tucked, white apron, little Golden made the primmest-looking nurse-maid that could have been imagined. She looked in the mirror and decided that no one who had known her at Glenalvan Hall would recognize her now.
But little Ruby exclaimed dolorously at her strange appearance:
"Oh, Mary, you have made yourself quite ugly!" she cried,"and I had been thinking how I would show Uncle Bert my pretty nurse."
"Oh, Ruby, you must not!" cried Golden, in terror. "Promise me you will not."
"Will not—what?" asked the little one, surprised.
"Will not show me to Mr. Chesleigh, nor tell him that you think I am pretty," said Golden, in alarm.
"Very well, I won't," said the little one, disappointed, "but I am very sorry, for I am sure Uncle Bertie would be glad to know that I have a good and pretty nurse. He used to laugh at the ugly ones, and he said their faces were so horrid it was not strange they were bad tempered."
"There is another thing I want you to promise me, please, darling," said Golden, who was on the best of terms with her little charge.
"What is it, Mary?" inquired the child.
"When your uncle comes to sit and talk with you, Ruby, you must let me run away and stay until he leaves you."
"Why should you do that?" asked Ruby.
"I have some sewing to do," replied Golden, evasively.
"I know, but you always do your sewing with me," said Ruby.
"You see it would be quite different with a man in the way."
"Uncle Bert would not bother you one bit. I cannot see why you are afraid of him," rejoined the child.
"But I do not like men, Ruby. I do not like to be where a man is. Now, dear, will you excuse me?" pleaded Golden.
"Yes, I will, since you insist on it," answered Ruby. "But I can't see what makes you hate men! Now I like them. I like papa, I like Uncle Bert, and I shall like my husband when I grow big enough to have one. Do you ever intend to have a husband, Mary?" said the child, with a child's thoughtlessness.
The beautiful color surged hotly into Golden's cheeks at Ruby's artless question. She turned her head away to hide the pain that made her sweet lips quiver.
"Mary, do you ever intend to have a husband?" repeated the child.
"Hush, Ruby. You are too young to talk about husbands," answered Golden.
"Dear me, is my daughter contemplating marriage?" cried a gay, sweet voice, and, looking up, they saw Mrs. Desmond in her traveling wraps, dusty and weary, but looking very glad and eager at seeing her child again.
Ruby sprang to her arms, and Golden looked on with sympathetic tears in her eyes at the happy reunion of the mother and child. Mrs. Desmond did not seem to see her until she had fairly smothered Ruby in kisses, when she looked up and said, approvingly:
"How do you do, Mary? That is a very nice new dress—quite suitable to you."
After a minute she said, suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to her:
"By the way, you have never yet received any of your wages from me. Here are twenty dollars for two months. I am very glad you have taken such good care of Ruby."
Golden thanked her and took the money, but the gold seemed to burn the delicate palm. It was hard to be receiving a servant's wages from Bertram Chesleigh's sister.
"Where is papa and Uncle Bert?" asked Ruby.
"Papa will be here directly. Bert is very tired—he has gone to his room to rest. You must not go to him yet."
"And the young lady, mamma—she came?"
"Oh, yes."
"Is she pretty, mamma? Has she blue eyes, or black?"
"She is decidedly handsome, and her eyes are black."
"Do you like her, mamma?"
"Quite well, dear. She is very charming. I will tell you a secret. Perhaps she will be your auntie some day."
"Is she going to marry Uncle Bert?" inquired Ruby, wide-eyed.
"Nothing is settled yet, dear. But it seems probable. Bert could not find a more brilliant Mrs. Chesleigh."
"I do not wish for Uncle Bert to marry. I shall tell him so!" cried Ruby.
"Fie, little selfishness, you will do no such thing! He ought to marry and settle down at home. We should not then have to be running after him in every out-of-the-way place where he chooses to fall sick. Here I have been by his sick-bed all summer, ruining my health and missing the whole season by the sea!"
"How gladly I would have exchanged places with you," moaned little Golden, to herself.
"Mamma, did you like Glenalvan Hall?" inquired Ruby.
"Oh, very much, though it is little better than a ruin. It must have been quite a grand place once. It is beautiful still in its decay. The owners were ruined by the late war."
Oh, how anxiously beautiful Golden longed to hear one word from her old grandfather and her black mammy. She listened with a beating heart to the lady's words, but she never named the two that little Golden loved so dearly, and after awhile she rose and said that Celine was waiting for her, and she must go.
Little Ruby clung to her dress.
"Mayn't I go?" she pleaded, and Mrs. Desmond yielding a smiling assent, they went away together, and left Golden alone in the room.
Alone, with her young heart full of strange, troubled joy. Bertram Chesleigh was here, under the same roof with her.
She should see him, she should hear him once again. There was a bitter, troubled pleasure in the thought.
She could not bear the tumult of oppressive thoughts that rushed over her mind. To escape them she went in quest of Mrs. Markham, and paid her the money she had borrowed from her a few days before.
Then she went back to the room to wait for little Ruby, but thechild was so preoccupied with her friends that she did not return to her room during the day.
At twilight she came flitting in joyously as a little fairy.
"Oh, Mary, I have had such a charming day! And you must dress me now in my white lace dress over the pink satin slip, and my white satin slippers, and embroidered rose-silk stockings. I am going to stay up for the ball to-night. Won't that be splendid?"
Golden looked a little anxiously at the moist, flushed face and shining, dark eyes.
"Darling, let me persuade you to lie down on the sofa and rest awhile," she urged. "You have had such a busy, exciting day, that you need rest. To-morrow you will have one of your bad headaches."
"Oh, no I am not tired one bit. And mamma and Miss Glenalvan are gone to dress now. I must be ready when they call for me," urged Ruby.
"I suppose Miss Glenalvan is very pretty, is she not, Ruby?" said Golden, as she combed and brushed the little girl's long, shining, black ringlets.
"Oh, yes, she is very pretty—she has large, black eyes, and rosy cheeks, and splendid hair, but she is not beautiful like you, Mary," was the prompt reply.
"You must not let Miss Glenalvan hear you say that," said Golden. "She would be displeased."
"Hump!" said Ruby, carelessly, then she flew to another subject, while Golden trembled nervously. "Uncle Bert is looking wretchedly ill. Ouch, Mary, whatdidmake you jerk that curl so? His eyes are as big as saucers. Are you almost done? You pull my hair dreadfully. I asked him if he was going to marry Miss Glenalvan. He said that was a silly question. Mary, what has come over you? You were never so rough with my head before."
"There, it is finished now. I did not mean to hurt you; excuse me, dear," faltered Golden, as she laid out the white lace dress and satin slippers for the eager child.
"All right, I am not angry," said Ruby. "I told Uncle Bert what a kind girl you were, and he was delighted to hear it. I wanted to tell him you were pretty, too, but I didn't, as you didn't want him to knowthat. But I can tell you one thing, Mary, if he ever sees you, he will find out for himself."
"What! in this great cap and glasses?" cried Golden, alarmed.
"Yes, indeed; you can't hide your round cheeks, and your red mouth, and your dimpled chin!" cried the child, in pretty triumph.
"I can keep out of Mr. Chesleigh's way, anyhow," Golden replied, as she buttoned the pretty dress and clasped a slight gold chain around the white neck of the child.
"Now you are quite finished," she said. "You look very sweet, and I hope you will enjoy yourself very much."
"Thank you," said the little girl, impulsively kissing her; then she added, a little pityingly: "It is a pityyoucannot bedressed in white, and go to the ball, too, Mary. Do you never wish to?"
"Sometimes," admitted Golden, with her sweet frankness, and a soft, little sigh.
Ruby studied her attentively a moment, her dark head perched daintily like a bird's.
"I should like to see you in a ball-dress," she said. "It should be a white lace over blue satin, and looped with violets. You should have large, white pearls around your neck, and your hair hanging down and abandeauof pearls to bind it. It is a great pity you are not rich, Mary. People say that you are too pretty to be a servant."
Something like a sob rose in Golden's throat and was hardly repressed. They had told her this so often.
She was beautiful, but it had only brought her sorrow. To her, as her mother, had been given—
"The fatal gift of beauty which becameA funeral dower of present woes and past."
"The fatal gift of beauty which becameA funeral dower of present woes and past."
"I am very sorry I am so pretty, Ruby," she said, sorrowfully, and the child answered, quickly:
"I would not be sorry if I were you, Mary. Some good man will fall in love with your pretty face some day and marry you."
Golden made no reply to this well-meant solace, for the door opened to admit Mrs. Desmond, followed by her young lady guest.
Golden retreated shyly to the furthest corner of the room. She was face to face at last with her haughty cousin Elinor. She drooped her head a moment sadly, while a flood of memories rushed over her, then bravely lifted it again and looked at the young lady through her disfiguring green glasses.
Elinor Glenalvan only glanced with careless indifference at the prim-looking figure of the nurse, then her large, black eyes turned away again, so that Golden had time to observe her with impunity.
The Glenalvans had exerted themselves to the utmost to secure an outfit for Elinor. The result did credit to their efforts. The girl was certainly dazzling.
She wore cream-coloredmoire, trimmed with rich Spanish lace and cardinal satin. Great clusters of Jaqueminot roses burned on her bosom and in her shining, raven hair.
The costly pearl necklace that John Glenalvan had taken from Golden was clasped around her white throat.
A throb of resentment stirred the young girl's breast as she observed it.
Mrs. Desmond wore white lace looped with diminutive and richly-colored sunflowers. Her jewels were diamonds, and she was as usual brilliantly beautiful and graceful. Golden caught her breath in awed admiration of the two beautiful women.
"Are you ready, Ruby?" inquired Mrs. Desmond.
"Yes, mamma," said the child, blithely.
All three went out then, and Golden threw a dark shawl over her head and went out upon the seashore.
It was a moonlight night, calm and still, with that slight chill in the air that comes with September.
She sat down, a quiet, forlorn little figure on the lonely sands, and watched the great foam-capped waves rolling in to her feet.
Something in the immensity and solemnity of the great ocean seemed to calm the turbulence of the fevered young heart and whisper a gentle "peace, be still," to the passions that racked her wronged and outraged spirit.
As Golden had feared, little Ruby's day and night of excitement proved too much for her. She was unable to rise from her bed the next morning, being prostrated by one of her nervous headaches.
To add to her ill-feeling, damp, rainy weather set in during the night, spoiling all the pleasant plans of the newly-arrived party for the day.
Golden darkened the room, lighted a fire on the hearth, and carefully tended the little patient who dozed fitfully until mid-day, when she awakened and declared herself better.
"Has no one been in to see me, Mary?" she inquired, and Golden answered:
"Yes, your mamma came to the door while you were sleeping, but went away again, saying that she would not disturb your rest."
"You may go and tell her to come now, Mary."
"I think she is with your uncle just now, dear. Cannot you wait a little while?" said Golden. "She said she would go to him a little while, as you were asleep.
"No, I cannot wait," replied Ruby fretfully. "Tell mamma to bring Uncle Bert with her."
"If you have too much company your head will ache again, Ruby."
"No, it will not. It is ever so much better. Why don't you do as I ask you, Mary?" cried the spoiled child.
Golden went out without any further objection. She asked Celine, whom she met in the hall, to deliver Ruby's message to her mother and her uncle.
Celine looked into the sick-room a minute later to say that they were engaged just at present, but would come in about fifteen minutes.
"Oh, dear," fretted the ailing little one, "that is a long time to wait. Give me my dolls, Mary. I'll try to amuse myself with them."
Golden brought the miscellaneous family of dolls and ranged them around Ruby on the bed, chatting pleasantly to her the while in the hope of lessening the weariness of waiting.
"You must keep your promise and let me go out when they come," she said, presently, feeling that she was growing so nervous she could not possibly remain in the same room with Bertram Chesleigh.
"Very well; you may go into the next room," replied the child.
"You may leave the door just a little ajar that I may call you when I want you."
"I hope you will not want me until they are gone out again," replied Golden.
When the expected rap came on the door, the girl opened it with a trembling hand. She did not look up as Mrs. Desmond and her brother entered, but softly closing the door after them, glided precipitately from the room.
Bertram Chesleigh saw the little, retreating figure in the huge cap and gray gown, and laughed as he kissed his little niece.
"I suppose that was Mary Smith, the prodigy?" he said.
"Yes, and you must not laugh at her," said Ruby, a little resentfully. "She is very good and sweet, and I love her dearly."
There was an element of teasing in Bertram Chesleigh's nature, and Ruby's words roused it into activity.
"She looked very prim and starched," he observed. "She must be an old maid—is she not, Ruby?"
He expected that the little girl would grow indignant at this comment on her favorite, but instead of this she puckered her little brows thoughtfully.
"I don't quite know what you mean by an old maid," she replied.
"You are caught in the trap, Bert. You will have to define yourself," said Mrs. Desmond, laughingly.
"I don't know whether I can," he replied as gayly. "But I think, Ruby, that an old maid is a person who—who doesn't like men, and grows old and never marries."
"Then my nurse is an old maid. You guessed right, Uncle Bert," said the child, with perfect soberness.
"Why do you think so, my dear?" inquired her mother, very much amused at the child's notion.
"Because I know it, mamma. Mary Smith hates men. She told me she did. She does not like to be where men are. That is why she went out just now. She says she will always stay out of the room when Uncle Bert is with me."
"That is very sensible indeed in Mary," said Mrs. Desmond, with decided approval, while Bertram Chesleigh only laughed and said that men were not ogres, and he would not have eaten Miss Smith even if she had remained in the room.
Meanwhile Golden had retreated to the sitting-room, leaving the door ajar as Ruby had bidden her.
Every word of the conversation which had so strangely turned upon herself was distinctly audible.
She listened in fear and trembling to Ruby's disclosures regarding her antipathy to men, dreading to hear some further revelation that would draw suspicion upon her, but the child had no idea of imparting anything she had promised to keep a secret, and the conversation gradually turned upon indifferent subjects, so that Golden, whose heart was beating wildly at the sound of her lover's voice, ventured at last on a sly peep at him through the open door.
The breath came thick and fast over the sweet parted lips as she gazed—hardly as he had used her, the ineffable love and pityof a woman's heart came up to the beautiful blue eyes, and shone out upon the unconscious ingrate who dreamed not whose eyes were yearning over him with all the pain and pathos of a loving, yet outraged heart.
"Oh, how pale and ill he looks," cried the poor child to herself. "He looks sad and altered, too. He has suffered almost as much as I have. Was it that which made him ill, I wonder? After all, he loved me dearly. But if he had overlooked the shame of my birth and brought me here, his sister would have scorned me. Ought I to blame him so very, very much?"
As she asked herself the piteous question, the memory of some words rose into her mind—solemn words not to be lightly forgotten.
"Will you, forsaking all others, cleave only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"
By the light of those words, Golden answered her own question. With a tearless sob she turned her eyes away from the too dear face of the false one.
But though she would not look at him, she could not help hearing his voice as he answered little Ruby's voluble chatter.
Presently the child showed him her great, wax doll, and when he had admired it sufficiently to please her, she said with an air of mystery:
"You could not guess dollie's name if you tried all day, Uncle Bertie."
"It is something high-flown, no doubt," he laughed. "It is Queen Victoria, or Princess Louise, or something like that."
"You are quite wrong," she replied, with sparkling eyes.
"Am I? Well, I have it now. You have called her Mary Smith, after your old-maid nurse."
"No, I have not," said the little one, merrily. "I have called her Golden—Golden Chesleigh."
In the next breath she added, quickly:
"Oh, Uncle Bert, what made you start just as if someone had shot you?"
"Did I start?" he inquired. "It must have been because I am very nervous since my illness. Well, and what did you say your elegant doll was named?"
"Did you not understand me before? It is Golden Chesleigh—Chesleigh after you, Uncle Bert. Is it not a pretty name?"
"Very!" he rejoined, pale to the lips. "Did you think of it yourself, Ruby?"
"Not at all; I asked Mary for a name, and she said Golden. Then I added Chesleigh."
Some curiosity came over him to see the good nurse who loved Ruby and was kind to her, but who hated men, and who had chosen for the pretty wax doll, the sweet and unusual name of Golden.
There came a light tap on the outer door. Mrs. Desmond rose to open it. Golden peeped again and saw her cousin Elinor coming in.
"May I come in and see the invalid?" she asked, brightly, and Bertram Chesleigh answered:
"Yes, do, Miss Glenalvan. Ruby is better and is holding a levee of her humble subjects."
Elinor kissed the child and sat down as near as she dared to Mr. Chesleigh.
She looked very bright and blooming, and her dress was as usual fashionable and becoming.
Golden could see that Mrs. Desmond regarded her with a real fondness. Elinor had found out the lady's weakness and played upon it skillfully.
She saw that she was jealous of her husband, and immediately affected an indifference to, and an utter obliviousness of the fascinations of the handsome Mr. Desmond, that delighted his wife and drew her heart to Elinor.
Clare, on the contrary, had an uncontrollable propensity for flirting, and took a malicious pleasure in witnessing the grand lady's silent rage at her walks and talks, and careless enjoyment of her flippant husband's society.
The result was that Elinor received a charmingly worded invitation to return to the north with Mrs. Desmond, while Clare was silently and chillingly ignored.
She was bitterly angry at missing the trip, and sorely repented her weakness, but too late for the repentance to avail, while Elinor was transported with delight.
Surely, she thought, a whole winter in New York, with beautiful Golden out of the way, would be sufficient for the accomplishment of her designs upon Bertram Chesleigh's heart.
Sweet Golden read her cousin's purpose plainly in the tender glances she gave Mr. Chesleigh now and then, from beneath her black-fringed lashes, and the heart of the innocent girl sank heavily.
"She will win him from me," she said, drearily to herself. "Elinor is so beautiful, and graceful, and brilliant, it is a wonder that he ever liked me better than he did her. It was but a light fancy after all, perhaps. He will forget it and turn to her."
The thought gave her inexpressible pain.
She sank upon the floor and hid her face in her hands, weeping silent and bitter tears while the hum of gay talk and laughter flowed on unheeded in the next room.
So it is ever in the busy, jostling world. Sorrow and joy go side by side.
The bridal train meets the funeral procession. Life is mingled sunshine and shadow.
Ah, if Bertram Chesleigh could only have known what true and faithful little heart was breaking so near him.
After awhile the brightness died from Ruby's eyes, the little face looked tired and wan. She said, almost petulantly:
"Now I shall send you all away. Miss Glenalvan laughs so much she makes my head ache."
"Fie, my darling," cried her mother.
"It is the truth, mamma," cried the willful little girl. "Iwant you all to go now and Mary shall bathe my head until I get better."
"Who is Mary? I feel quite jealous of her," said Elinor, sweetly, but inwardly raging at the spoiled child's "whims" as she termed them to herself.
"Mary is my nurse," said the child, and her uncle laughingly added:
"A person with antipathy to me, Miss Glenalvan. You should cultivate her. She must be arara avis."
"Do you suppose that all women admire your sex, sir?" retorted the young lady, spiritedly, and they left the room exchanging livelybadinage, while Mrs. Desmond looked inside the other door for Golden.
She saw her sitting quietly, her sweet face bent over some sewing, no trace apparent of the heartache she was silently enduring.
"Mary, you may come to your charge now," she said with so much more than her usual kindness of tone that Golden's delicate lip quivered. Mrs. Desmond had been pleased to hear that Ruby's beautiful nurse disliked men and was not willing to remain in the room with one.
She laid aside her sewing and went in to Ruby. Mrs. Desmond bent to kiss her pet, and said, fondly:
"Shall I stay and bathe your head, love?"
"No, mamma, I would rather have Mary," she replied.
"I shall be jealous of Mary. You are so fond of her," the mother rejoined as she left the room.
Golden put the dolls away and bathed the brow of the little sufferer until she fell into a deep and quiet sleep.
Then she sat near the window and watched the gloomy September rain pattering drearily down, and the white mist rising from the sea.
The door opened and Celine came in softly, and sat down.
"I want to talk to you a little, Mary," she said, in her low voice. "Shall I disturb the child?"
"Not if you talk softly," replied Golden, hoping that Celine would tell her something about Glenalvan Hall.
She was not disappointed, for the maid said at once:
"I want to tell you about a queer old black woman I saw at that place where Mr. Chesleigh was ill—Glenalvan Hall," watching her narrowly.
Golden started and looked up eagerly.
"Yes, tell me about her, Celine," she said, with repressed excitement.
"Well, to begin with," said Celine, "she was a most ridiculous-looking old creature, full of grumblings and complaints. This old creature when she found I was from New York, came to me secretly, and asked me the oddest question."
Golden, chancing to look up at that moment, met Celine's eyes fixed upon her with such a strange expression that her heart gave a frightened bound. It was evident that the maid had some suspicions of her.
She forced a calmness she did not feel, and replied carelessly:
"The blacks, you know, Celine, are very ignorant. Theirquestions appear quite ridiculous sometimes to intelligent and well-informed people."
Celine looked cunningly at Golden, as she made her confused explanation.
"You seem to be well acquainted with the character of the negroes," she said. "Perhaps you have been in the south."
"I have," replied Golden, with sudden, pretty defiance. "It was my birth-place."
"Where? Glenalvan Hall?" asked Celine, thinking to catch her.
"I did not say that," replied Golden, coolly.
"No? Well, I will tell you what that old woman—Dinah, she was called, asked me about a young lady."
Golden lifted her eyes and regarded her bravely.
"Well?" she said.
"She asked me," continued Celine, "if I had seen a young girl in New York of about sixteen, with large, blue eyes, and long, golden curls, dressed in a blue cashmere dress, and hat and jacket, I told her yes, for her description of the lady's appearance corresponded exactly with yours."
Golden remained perfectly silent, her eyes turned resolutely from Celine.
"She asked me," the maid continued, "if the young girl had found her mother."
Golden could not repress a sudden, violent start.
"Aha," cried Celine, quickly. "You see I am acquainted with your whole history!"
"You know nothing about me whatever, Celine," replied Golden, warmly, "and I cannot see by what right you pry into my affairs."
"Oh, well, if we are so hoity-toity, we can keep our secret," returned Celine, scornfully, "but somebody will find that it was better to have made a friend than an enemy of Celine Duval!"
With these ambiguous words, Celine bounced out of the room, leaving poor little Golden terribly frightened and distressed.
She silently resolved that she would leave Mrs. Desmond the next day, proceed to New York, and make an effort to find her mother.
Meanwhile the irate maid had gone to Elinor's room. Mrs. Desmond had kindly promised to allow Celine to superintend her toilet while they remained at the seaside, and she was waiting now for the Frenchwoman to arrange her hair.
Celine had become possessed of Golden's secret, and she was determined to make capital out of it for herself.
Elinor was quite chatty and confidential with the skillful French maid. In a very few moments while she was braiding the young lady's hair she had dropped a few artful hints and innuendoes that made Elinor start up half wild with fear and terror.
"Oh, no, Celine, you must have imagined it. It is too incredible to believe!"
"I do not ask you to believemysimple word, Miss Glenalvan," replied Celine. "Look at the girl yourself, ma'am, and then you can tell me if my suspicions are well founded."
Elinor looked at her blankly for a moment. The maid returned her gaze with unruffled serenity.
"Only take a good look at her yourself, miss," she repeated.
"How am I to do so without exciting her suspicions?" demanded Elinor.
"Easily enough," replied the wily French maid. "Go back to the room and pretend to have lost some trifle. Get her to go down on her knees to find it and you can obtain a good look into her face."
Elinor Glenalvan waited for no more. Clenching her small hands vindictively, and with an evil look on her handsome face, she hurried out into the corridor and made her way to Ruby's room.
She turned the handle softly and looked in. The child lay on the bed sleeping peacefully, and Golden remained at the window peering out through the half-open blind at the dismal prospect, her red lips quivering grievously, her sweet blue eyes dim with unshed tears.
She started up nervously as her cousin came in abruptly and closed the door.
Elinor looked into her face and her heart grave a great, frightened bound. She recognized the beautiful face instantly in spite of the disfiguring cap and glasses.
Controlling her rage by a violent effort, she observed with comparative calmness:
"I have lost a gold cuff-button, Mary, and thought perhaps I had dropped it in here. Have you seen it?"
Golden answered her with a shrinking negative, and Elinor continued:
"I am almost certain that I dropped it in this room. Perhaps it has rolled beneath the bed. Will you get down and look under it, Mary?"
Golden complied without a word, and Elinor had the desired opportunity of looking at the girl's face.
In another moment, half beside herself with jealous rage, she caught the cap and glasses from Golden's head and face, and cried out in low, hoarse accents of intense passion:
"Golden Glenalvan, you shameless creature, what are you doing here?"
Golden sprang to her feet and looked at her heartless cousin in momentary terrified silence.
"What are you doing here?" Elinor repeated, in a voice of raging scorn. "Did you wish to advertise your disgrace to Bertram Chesleigh's sister?"
"Disgrace?" faltered the poor, heart-broken child.
"Yes, your disgrace. It is plain enough to be seen!" cried Elinor, pointing a scornful finger at her cousin, who had dropped into a chair and hid her blushing face in her small hands. "Did you come here that Mrs. Desmond might learn the full measure of her brother's sin?"
Golden looked up with tear-wet, blue eyes into the blazing orbs of the angry girl.
"Elinor, I did not know she was his sister until after I came," she murmured, pleadingly.
"But when you found it out, why did you not go away?" Elinor demanded, sharply.
"I had nowhere to go—I was friendless and penniless. What could I do but stay?" moaned Golden.
"You should have drowned yourself. You are not fit to live, you wicked, deceitful girl. So you were Mr. Chesleigh's mistress after all, although you swore that you were pure and innocent!" blazed Elinor.
"I am innocent! I was never Bertram Chesleigh's mistress!" Golden cried. "I am his own true——" she stopped with a moan of anguish. "Go, I must not tell—I must keep my promise! Oh, Elinor, you are my cousin. Do not be so hard and cruel!"
"How dare you claim me as your cousin?" cried Elinor, angrily, "Get up from the floor and stop making a simpleton of yourself. You have got to go away from here. Do you understand me?"
Golden rose to her feet and looked steadily into Elinor's face with flashing blue eyes.
A spirit was roused within her that quite equaled her cousin's.
"Elinor," she answered, "I understand you, but let me tell you here and now, that I defy your commands. You have no authority over me, and I am the mistress of my own actions. I shall remain in Mrs. Desmond's service as long as I choose to do so. Your whole treatment of me has been such as to merit no consideration at my hands, and it shall receive none."
If angry looks could have killed, little Golden would never have survived her defiant speech, for Elinor's dark eyes glared upon her with the deadly fury of an enraged tigress.
"You will not go," she hissed. "Perhaps you think to stay here and resume your old sinful relations with Bertram Chesleigh."
Before Golden could reply to the cruel taunt, there was an unthought-of interruption.
Little Ruby, awakened by Elinor's angry tones, sprang upright in the bed, and cried out in the utmost surprise and resentment.
"What is the matter? Why are you scolding my nurse, Miss Glenalvan?"
Elinor turned to Ruby with an instantaneous change of manner.
"Why, you little darling," she cried, with honeyed sweetness, "what an absurd idea! You must have dreamed it all. I was only asking Mary about a gold cuff-button I had dropped on the floor. I am very sorry I disturbed you in your refreshing sleep."
She left the room before the child could challenge her plausible excuse, and returned to Celine.
"I was right, ma'am," the maid cried, triumphantly. "I see it in your face."
Elinor dropped into a chair, and the change in her face was quite striking enough to have excited the woman's exclamation.
She was as white as death, her black eyes gleamed with vindictive rage, her thin lips were set in a cruel line.
"Yes, you were right," she said, in a low, intense voice, "Celine, that girl must go away from here."
"Did you tell her so?" asked the woman.
"Yes, and," helplessly, "she defied me. Oh, what am I to do?"
"She would not go for you?"
"No she is determined to stay. But," passionately, "she must go, and go this very day. If she remains, and Mr. Chesleigh sees her, all is lost. He will recognize her instantly."
"I expect you would give a great deal to get the girl out of your way," said the maid, artfully.
Elinor lifted her flashing eyes, and looked at the maid, struck by her significantly-uttered words.
"Yes," she answered, boldly, "I would give anything I possess to anyone who would remove her from my path without my agency being known in the matter."
"You would not care by what means?" asked Celine.
"No," declared the young lady.
Celine turned the key in the lock, and coming nearer to Elinor, whispered softly:
"What will you give me, Miss Glenalvan, if I will have the girl driven out under a disgraceful ban this very night?"
"Can you do it?" inquired Elinor, eagerly.
"Easily," was the confident reply, "if you will make it worth my while to do so."
Elinor revolved the words a moment in her mind. She saw that Celine's services would have to be amply requited, otherwise the selfish creature would not trouble herself to help her out of her difficulty.
"You know I am not well off, Celine," she said, "but father has promised to send me some money this month to buy my winter outfit. To tell the truth I shall need every cent of it, for I've scarcely a decent thing to wear this winter, but if you will get the girl away before Mr. Chesleigh sees her, I will divide my allowance with you."
"How much money has your father agreed to send you?" inquired the rapacious woman.
"Three hundred dollars," replied Elinor, "and I will give you one-half of it if you will do me this service."
She felt as if she making a very liberal offer, and was surprised when the Frenchwoman shook her head.
"A hundred and fifty would not pay me for the trouble," she said, conclusively.
Elinor looked at her a little blankly.
"But don't you understand. Celine, that I cannot spare anymore?" she said. "I must keep enough to buy a decent dress and hat and cloak for the winter."
"That matters not to me," replied Celine, with the utmost indifference. "You must either give me the whole three hundred or I will not help you."
Elinor was angered and amazed at the woman's shameless rapacity.
"I will not do it!" she exclaimed, "I dare say Golden will go away of herself; anyhow, I do not intend to be fleeced so shamelessly."
"As you please, miss," replied the maid coolly. She had the game in her own hands, and was insolently aware of the fact. "I'm not anxious to accommodate you, I dare say I could make more by selling my secret. Don't you think Mr. Chesleigh would give me a thousand dollars for telling him where to find his missing sweetheart?"
Elinor grew frightened and acquiescent all in a moment at Celine's baleful threat.
"Oh, Celine, don't do that," she cried, "I was only joking when I said I would not do it. You shall have every dollar of the money if you will get Golden away to-night as you said you would."
"I thought I should bring you to your senses," muttered Celine, then she added aloud:
"Thank you, miss. Are you sure that your father will send the money?"
"He promised to do so without fail," replied Elinor.
"And you will really hand it over to me as soon as received?"
"Yes."
"Then you may consider the little marplot gone. In less than an hour you will see her leaving this hotel followed by Mrs. Desmond's curse," replied Celine, with perfect confidence in her power of executing the task she had undertaken.
"What do you mean? How will you accomplish it?" inquired Elinor.
"Never mind about that, I will do as I said, never fear. Are you done with me now, Miss Glenalvan? If you are I will go to Mrs. Desmond. She will need me to do her hair."
"You may go, Celine," replied the young lady. "Now be sure," a little nervously, "that you do not implicatemein the affair."
"Trust me for managing everything all right," was the airy reply.
She went out and made her way to the dressing-room of her mistress.
Mrs. Desmond was sitting before the dressing-table with a small jewel-casket open in her lap.
She was turning over some pretty rings with her white fingers.
Celine went up to the table and began to get out the combs and brushes.
"Are you ready for me to do your hair?" she inquired.
"In a moment," replied Mrs. Desmond. "I am looking overmy rings now. I want to select one of the neatest and plainest for a present to someone."
Celine simpered and coughed. She fully expected to become the fortunate recipient.
"I must confess that I have been mistaken for once," continued Mrs. Desmond, half to herself. "When the girl came here first, I was prejudiced against her, partly because she was so pretty and childish-looking, and again because we had had so many hateful nurses, I thought she must necessarily be like them. But I was for once happily mistaken. She has been so humble and unobtrusive, and endeared herself so much to my little girl, that I must really reward her for her good care of my darling during my absence."
"Of whom are you speaking, ma'am?" inquired Celine, green with envy, as the lady paused, having selected a plain, gold band, set with a single, shining, white pearl.
"Of Mary Smith," Mrs. Desmond replied, "and I am going to give her this ring in token of my respect for her good character, and my gratitude for the really motherly care which she has taken of my dear, frail, little Ruby."