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 in the 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 found the 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!"