"Honey, chile, where did you git 'quainted wid dat ondecent man?"
inquired old Dinah of her nursling, as soon as Mr. Chesleigh had
quitted the room.
"What makes you think I am acquainted with him, mammy?" inquired the
child in surprise.
Dinah shook her woolly head sagely.
"Don't try to deceabe your ole brack mammy, my lamb," she said. "He
called you Missie Glenalvan--do you think I didn't notice that?"
Golden's pretty cheeks grew scarlet with blushes.
"I shall have to 'form your grandpa of what he done, the impident
wilyun!" continued Dinah, emphatically.
"Oh, black mammy, please don't tell," cried the girl impulsively. "You
heard what he said--it was a mere accident, I am quite, quite sure he
meant no harm."
"Ole massa shall be de jedge o' dat," replied Dinah decidedly. "I'll
miss my guess if de ole man don't put a pistol-hole frew my fine,
han'some gentleman!"
"Oh, black mammy! then you shall not tell," cried Golden in terror.
"Indeed, indeed, he is not the wicked man you believe him. He has kept
my secret for me, and I must keep his now. That would only be fair."
"Ah, den you _do_ know him," cried Dinah, horrified. "Tell me all about
it dis minute, if you know what's best for you, chile."
Golden did not resent the old nurse's tone of authority. She knew the
old woman's love for her too well. She dried her eyes and reluctantly
related her escapade two nights before.
"He kept my secret," she concluded, "and it would not be fair for us to
make trouble for him, would it, black mammy?"
Old Dinah had slipped down to the floor, and sat with her long, black
arms clasped around her knees, looking up into her nursling's eager,
fearful face, with a good deal of trouble in her keen, black eyes.
The old woman was shrewd and intelligent in her way. She foresaw
trouble, and perhaps the bitterest sorrow from these two meetings
between the handsome guest of John Glenalvan and the young mistress.
"Black mammy, promise me you will not tell grandpa," Golden pleaded. "I
will do anything you ask me if only you will not tell him."
Thereupon Dinah announced her ultimatum.
"If you will promise me never to speak to the strange gentleman again,
little missie, I will not tell ole massa."
Golden opened wide her blue eyes. She looked very lovely as she leaned
back among the snowy, ruffled pillows, her golden hair straying loosely
about her shoulders, her cheeks tinted with a deep, warm blush, her
little hands nervously clasping and unclasping each other.
"Black mammy, I think you are very cross to-night," she pouted. "Why
should I never speak to the handsome gentleman again?"
"Because it's best for you. Ole brack mammy knows better dan you,
chile."
"But I liked him so much," said Golden, blushing rosy red.
"You had no business to like him," responded Dinah. "He's to marry Miss
Elinor."
"I do not believe it," said Golden, quickly.
"He's not for you, anyway," retorted Dinah. "You'll nebber marry no
one, my dear."
"Why not?" asked the child. "Will nobody ever love me?"
"Nobody'll ever love ye like your grandpa, honey, and 'taint likely dat
ever he will give ye away to anyone."
Golden was silent a moment. She seemed to be thinking intently. After a
moment she said gravely and sadly:
"Grandpa is old, and I am young. Who will take care of me when he is
gone?"
"Your old brack mammy, I guess, honey."
"You are old, too," said Golden. "You may not live as long as I do."
"Bless the chile's heart, how she _do_ talk," said the old negress.
"Ah, my precious lamb, I has outlived dem as was younger and fairer dan
ole black Dinah."
The old black face looked very sad for a moment, then Dinah continued:
"Little missie, it's my clair duty to tell old massa de sarcumstances
of the case to-morrow morning. Leastwise, unless you promise me nebber
to speak to dat man ag'in."
"That is very hard," sighed Golden.
"Hard," said Dinah. "I should think you would be so mad at the wilyun,
a-comin' in and kissin' you so unceremonious, dat you would nebber want
to speak to him any more."
Golden hid her face in the pillows, and a deep sigh fluttered over her
lips.
"Come, dearie, won't you promise?" said Dinah. "I knows what's for your
good better dan you does yourself, chile."
"Must I promise it, indeed?" sighed the innocent child, lifting her
flushed face from the pillow a moment to fix her big, blue, imploring
eyes on the old woman's obdurate face.
"Yes, you must sartainly promise it," was the uncompromising reply.
There was silence for a moment, and Dinah saw the tears come into the
sweet, blue eyes.
"Honey, chile, does you promise me?" she inquired, only confirmed in
the opinion by this demonstration.
"Yes, I promise not to speak to him unless you give me leave, black
mammy," replied Golden, with quivering lips.
"That's right, darling. Mammy can depend on your word. Lie down, and go
to sleep, honey, and I'll fetch my pallet in yere, and sleep on de flo'
by your bedside, so that no one kin 'trude on you ag'in."
The girl laid her fair head silently on the pillow, and Dinah threw
down a quilt on the floor and rolled herself in it. She was soon
snoring profoundly.
Not so with beautiful Golden. It was quite impossible for her to sleep
again. She shut her eyelids resolutely, but the busy, beautiful brain
was too active to admit of her losing consciousness again. She lay
thinking of the splendid, dark-eyed stranger.
"He has kissed me twice," she whispered to her heart, "and yet I do not
even know his name. I wonder if I shall ever see him again. I hope I
shall."
As she remembered how earnestly he had apologized for his presence in
her room, she could not believe him the wicked villain old Dinah had so
loudly represented him.
"He is handsome, and I believe that he is good," the girl said to
herself, "and they tell me Elinor wants to marry him; I would like to
marry him myself, just to spite my cousins."
Poor little Golden! Her spite against her cousins was almost as old as
her years. They had always hated her, and Golden had been quick to find
it out and resent it.
She had a quick and fiery temper, but it did not take her long to
repent of her little fits of passion.
She was a bright, winsome, lovable child. It was a wonder that anyone
could hate her for her beautiful, innocent life.
Yet there were those who did, and it was beginning to dawn vaguely on
the mind of the girl that it was so. She knew that her life was passed
differently from that of the other girls of her age and class.
There were no teachers, no companions, no pleasures for her, and no
promise of any change in the future.
She wondered a little why it was so, but she never complained to her
grandfather. It was, perhaps, only his way, she said to herself, little
dreaming of the dark mystery that lay like a deep, impassible gulf
between her and the dwellers in the outside world of which she knew so
very, very little.