Little Golden sped across the green lawn, her young heart full of pain
and anger at the cruel words her cousins had spoken to her.
Flying through the long, dark corridor of the old hall, and passing
through several lofty and empty old rooms, she emerged at last in the
sunny bay-window where her grandfather dozed daily, surrounded by pots
of fragrant roses and geraniums.
But with the breathless words of complaint just parting her coral lips,
Golden saw that the old arm-chair was vacant.
She was surprised and a little dismayed; she had been so sure of
finding him there.
She turned round and ran out to the sunny kitchen in the back yard,
where old Dinah stood at a table ironing some simple white garments
for her young mistress, and crooning to herself a fragment of a negro
revival tune.
The only nurse and the best friend that Golden had ever known after her
grandfather, was homely, warm-hearted, black Dinah.
Golden loved the old negress dearly. Ever since she had first lisped
her name, the girl had familiarly called her "black mammy," after the
fashion of most southern children with their nurses.
Now she called out quickly before she had reached the kitchen door.
"Oh, black mammy, where is grandpa?"
Black mammy turned with such a start that she dropped the flat-iron she
was wielding with such consummate skill.
"Oh! honey, chile, how you skeered me," she cried, "an' I've dropped de
flat-iron, and e'enamost burnt my black toes off! What for did ye come
callin' me so suddent?"
"Where is grandpa?" repeated the child.
She came up to the door and looked at Dinah, and the old woman saw how
pale she was, and what a strange light gleamed in the violet eyes under
their long, curling lashes of golden-brown.
"Come, dearie, don't be afeard because de old man ain't a-nid-noddin'
in his arm-cheer as usual. He's out a-walkin' wif his son."
"Uncle John?" asked little Golden, with a wondering look.
"Who else, honey?" said Dinah, as she vigorously rubbed a fresh iron
with salt and beeswax.
"It is so strange," said Golden, momentarily diverted from her
immediate grievance by Dinah's news. "Uncle John comes so seldom. What
did he want, black mammy?"
"Want? De debbil, his best friend, knows better dan your poor ole black
mammy," said Dinah, shaking her head. "All I know is dat he come
looking black as a thunder-cloud, and ax ole massa to take a walk with
him."
"And he went?" said Golden.
"Oh! yes, he went, pore ole soul, a-hobblin' off as sweet as a lamb
with that snake in the grass!"
"Oh! black mammy, grandpa would not like you to speak that way of his
son," cried Golden.
"I axes your pardon, honey. I spoke my mind afore I thought," answered
Dinah.
"There is no offense as far as I am concerned," replied her young
mistress, readily. "There is no love lost between my uncle and me."
Then she added, with a shade of anxiety in her voice:
"Will they be long gone, do you think?"
"I hasn't the leastest idea," said busy Dinah, "but ole massa is too
feeble to walk very fur."
Golden turned away silently, and went to her grandfather's nook in the
bay-window to await his return. She was burning with impatience to tell
him the cruel and unkind things her cousins had said to her, and to ask
if they were true.
She sat down in the old arm-chair, among the blossoming flowers,
herself the fairest flower of all, and leaning her dimpled cheek on her
hand, relapsed into troubled thought.
The strange relations sustained by her grandfather and herself toward
his son's family puzzled her as it had often done before. Living in the
same house, and nearly related as they were, there was little or no
intercourse between the two families and they were barely friendly.
Ever since Golden could remember, it had been so. She had questioned
her grandfather and she had questioned Dinah, but they gave her no
satisfaction on the subject.
It remained a pregnant mystery to the lonely child, living her
thoughtless, girlish life in the ruined rooms of the western wing, and
in the tangled gardens, and the wild, green wood.
A brief time of impatient waiting, then Golden heard the murmur of
voices beneath the window.
She leaned her curly head out, and heard one sentence spoken in the
clear, curt voice of John Glenalvan:
"You understand now, father, how important it is to us that you should
keep Golden's daughter more carefully secluded?"
"The child will fret--she has been so used to an outdoor life, it will
injure her health," feebly objected the old man.
"Her health is the poorest objection you could urge with me," said John
Glenalvan, cruelly. "If she had died long ago it would have been the
very best thing that could have happened for us all."
The father's reply was lost in the distance as they passed on. They
came in at the front door, passed down the long corridor, and separated
to their divided abodes.
Golden's grandfather came heavily into the quiet sitting-room, leaning
on his oaken cane, and sought his favorite chair at the sunny window
where the flowers bloomed and the bright-winged butterflies hovered.
He was not prepared to see Golden start up from the chair with a white
face, and wild, frightened, blue eyes.
She clutched his arms and leaned against him. He felt her frightened
heart-beats plainly.
"Oh, grandpa, grandpa," she wailed, "what is the matter with everyone?
What have I done that some wish me dead and others are sorry that ever
I was born?"
She felt the tremulous lips of the old man pressed fondly on her
drooping head, she heard a sorrowful murmur:
"Poor little Golden's daughter," then he said aloud:
"My darling, who has been saying such cruel things to you?"
"It is Clare and Elinor, and Uncle John," she sobbed. "They--the girls,
I mean, now--said the worst thing I could have done was to be born; and
that my mother was the first to disgrace the name of Glenalvan. And,
grandpa, I heard what Uncle John said when he passed under the window.
He said if I had died long ago it must have been better for all."
Old Hugh Glenalvan's kindly blue eyes were flashing fire. He held the
quivering little form against his breast with loving arms, and his
outraged old heart beat fast against the girl's.
But he could not answer her. Indignant pain and grief kept him dumb.
"Grandpa, tell me what I have done to be hated by my kind," she sobbed.
"Am I deformed? Am I repulsive to look at?"
"My darling, you are as perfect and as beautiful as an angel," he
answered, fondly kissing the fair, innocent brow.
"Why do they hate me, then?" she wailed. "I would love them all if they
would let me."
"They are cruel and heartless. If they were not, they could not help
but love you, my Golden," said the old man, bitterly. Then he sat down
and drew her to a seat upon his knee.
"Think no more of them, my darling," he said, brushing away the shining
pearls of grief that hung trembling on her thick lashes. "They are
cruel and unjust to you. Keep away from their presence and forget that
the same strain of blood flows in your veins. Look upon them as aliens
and strangers. Give all your love to me."
She hid her sweet face against his shoulder, her breast heaving with
the sobs that she could not repress.
"I have a heart full of love," she sighed, "and it is all your own,
dear grandpa. But tell me, oh, tell me of my mother! Can it be true?
She did not, oh, she could not disgrace our proud old name."
"Hush, Golden, you torture me," the old man said, hoarsely. "There
is a mystery surrounding you, my little one. Your history is a sad
one. But you shall never know it if I can keep the blighting secret
from your knowledge. Ask me no more, my darling. Dismiss it from your
thoughts. You have always been happy heretofore. Be happy still. You
are innocent, pure and beautiful. There is no reason why you should not
have a quiet, happy life if you will keep away from those who wound
you with their cruel words, and cling closely to your simple, peaceful
home."
Her wild sobs had ceased. She was looking earnestly into his face,
while long, low sighs quivered over her lips.
"Now, listen to me, Golden," he said. "Your uncle has made a hard
request of me, darling, but I have promised that it shall be done.
Golden, will you trust me, and help me to keep my word?"
"Is it about me?" she said.
"Yes, dear. You know the three upper chambers which foolish people
believe to be haunted, Golden?"
"Yes," she said, and he saw a slight quiver pass over the delicate
lips, and her face grew pale.
"Of course you know that is all nonsense, little one," he said,
reassuringly. "There are no ghosts in Glenalvan Hall. It is only
foolish and superstitious people who believe that silly tale. Golden,
would you be willing to remain secluded in those haunted rooms for one
week, or for whatever number of days John Glenalvan's expected guest
shall remain?"
The breath came a little faster over the beautiful, parted lips.
"I am almost afraid," she sighed. "Oh, grandpa, why should they wish to
hide me away like a criminal? I have done nothing."
"I know that, dear. It is a heartless whim of those heartless people.
They do not wish their guest to see you, or even to know of your
existence. Do not mind them, pet. Perhaps they are jealous and fear
that he might fall in love with you. That would never do, because
they mean to marry him to Elinor and prop the fallen fortunes of the
Glenalvans. You will humor their fancy, won't you, Golden?"
The pansy-blue eyes flashed with resentful fire.
"Why should I humor them?" she cried. "They are hard and cold to me.
Why should I shut myself up in prison, away from the sunshine, and the
flowers and the birds in those gloomy, haunted chambers for their sake?"
"It is for _my_ sake, darling," he replied. "I have promised them that
you will do it for me. Will you not do so, Golden?"
"I am afraid of the haunted rooms, grandpa," said the child, with a
shiver.
"Not in the daylight I hope," he said.
"No, not in the daytime," she replied.
"Old Dinah could sleep in your room at night, Golden. So, you see,
there could be nothing to fear. My little darling, I have loved you and
cared for you all your life, and I have never asked you for a sacrifice
before. Will you make this concession for my sake?"
The beautiful girl clasped her white arms round his neck, and kissed
his withered cheek.
"I cannot refuse if it is for your sake, grandpa," she said. "You have
been father, mother, friends and home to me all my life! I have had no
one but you, grandpa, and I love you too dearly to grieve you. I will
do as you wish me."
He kissed her and thanked her many times.
"You must believe that it hurts me as much as it does you, my pet," he
said, "but it will not be for long--and John is so violent, I had to
promise for the sake of peace. I hope you will never regret this sweet
yielding to my will."
"I am sure I shall not," said the child-like girl, but she gave an
unconscious shudder.
His hands rested, as if in blessing, on her hair. He whispered,
inaudibly:
"God bless my hapless daughter's child."