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 very charming
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. If the
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.