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 in
physiognomy," 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 timid _protege_ into 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.