Little Golden's Daughter; or, The Dream of a Life Time

"I am the most miserable girl on earth," she sobbed. "I wish that I had never been born!"

The maid's curiosity was greatly excited by Golden's words. She knelt down by the girl and inquired the cause of her sorrow, and promised her her friendship and advice if she would confide in her.

But in Golden's pure mind there was an instinctive distrust of Celine. Her ready acceptance of her master's bribe had excited her disgust and dislike. She answered evasively that she had nothing to confide, and only desired to be left in peace.

"Oh, very well, miss," replied the maid, "you can be left alone, I'm sure, but you'll find that it's better to make a friend of Celine Duval than an enemy."

She flounced out of the room as she spoke, and Golden was left alone to the companionship of her own sad thoughts. She lay silently a long while looking at the portrait of Bertram Chesleigh, and weeping bitter tears over her unhappy fate. How beautiful and life-like was the picture!

The blissful hours she had spent with the original rushed over her mind, making the contrast with the gloom of the present more harrowing. She found herself exclaiming:

"Oh, that those lips had language—life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard them last."

But no sound came from the lips of the false-hearted lover, who had given her a few hours of happiness only to leave her to the darkness of despair.

CHAPTER XXII

Golden had quite decided in her mind that she would rather leave Mrs. Desmond at once, than risk a renewal of her husband's distasteful attentions, but little Ruby's first words on returning from her drive, dispelled the idea for the present at least from her thoughts.

"Oh, Mary!" the little one had cried, with childish directness, as soon as she entered the room. "Oh, Mary! I have heard bad news!"

"I am very sorry for you, dear," said Golden, gently.

Ruby looked up into the face of her uncle, where it hung against the wall.

"Oh, poor Uncle Bertie!" she sighed.

"Was it about Mr. Chesleigh, Ruby?" she inquired.

"Yes," said the child. "Mamma has had a telegram from some people about him. He is very sick, and he is away down south at a place called Glenalvan Hall."

Golden drew her breath heavily, and sank into a chair. It seemed as if an arrow had pierced her heart. She could not speak, but stared at Ruby with a dumb misery in her eyes, that the little one could in nowise understand.

"Some of us will have to go to him—mamma and papa, I suppose," continued Ruby. "I asked mamma to let me go, but she says it would be too warm for me at this time of the year in the south, because I am so delicate."

"Is he very sick? Will he die?" inquired Golden, speaking in a strange, unnatural voice.

"They hope not, but he is very sick," said Ruby; and at that moment Mrs. Desmond swept into the room.

Her bright eyes looked dim and heavy as though she might have been weeping.

"I am very sorry you have had bad news, madam," said Golden, trying to appear quiet and natural, though her pulse was beating at fever-heat, and her eyes were heavy and dim beneath their drooping lashes.

"Ruby has told you of my brother's illness, then," said Mrs. Desmond, more gently than she usually spoke to her dependents.

"Yes, madam," said Golden, faintly, unable to utter another word.

"He has brain fever," said Mrs. Desmond, despondently. "Mr. Desmond will leave for the south to-night, and if he is no better when he arrives, he will telegraph for me to go to him. He is unwilling for me to go if it can be prevented, as it is so warm down there at this time of year. Besides, I am unwilling to leave Ruby, and I could not run the risk of taking her."

She threw herself into a chair, and wept a few genuine tears.

Little Golden, watching her with dry eyes and pale, mute lips, wondered if the sister's heart ached half so heavily and painfully as her own did.

"Yet why should I grieve for him?" the poor child asked herself. "I should rather rejoice. He has forsaken and deserted me."

She could find no answer to that question in her heart, save that she loved him. Loved him in despite of her cruel wrongs.

Before night another telegram was received, saying that Bertram Chesleigh had asked repeatedly for his sister. So it was decided that Mrs. Desmond should accompany her husband.

"Mary, do you think that you and the housekeeper can take care of my little Ruby while I am gone?" inquired Mrs. Desmond, tearfully.

Golden promised so earnestly to give her whole care and attention to the little one that Mrs. Desmond could not help confiding in her promise.

The child herself, though half-distracted with grief at the parting with her parents, promised bravely to be a good and patient girl for Uncle Bertie's sake.

Celine was to accompany her mistress, and was in a bustle of pleasant preparation. The hours passed swiftly, and the time for the farewells soon came and passed.

Little Ruby sobbed herself to sleep dismally, with her arms around Golden's neck, unconscious that the girl shed sadder tears than her own, when her little charge was peacefully dreaming.

CHAPTER XXIII

"The slow, sad hours that bring us all things ill," waned slowly, while Golden and Ruby waited impatiently for news of the travelers.

Ruby was very restless and capricious, besides her daily headaches grew worse as the heat of the summer season advanced. She fretted very much over her postponed trip to the seaside.

At length a telegram came from the travelers to say that they had reached Glenalvan Hall, and Mr. Chesleigh was no better. After this these bulletins came almost daily, but with no encouraging words. Very ill, and no prospect of improvement yet, was their daily burden.

In about two weeks Mr. Desmond returned unexpectedly.

Ruby was overjoyed. She laughed and wept together, as she hung around his neck.

"Uncle Bertie must be better, or you would not have returned," she cried.

But her father shook his head gravely.

"No, dear, I am sorry to say he is not improving at all. Indeed the case is so critical that it may be weeks before your mother can return. That is why I have come."

"Shall you go back, then?" inquired Ruby.

"Yes, in about a week. Have you fretted for us very much, Ruby?"

"A great deal," she replied. "Oh, papa," clapping her little hands, "now I know why you have come back. You are going to take me to mamma and Uncle Bert."

"Nothing is further from my intentions," replied Mr. Desmond. "I have come to take you to the seashore."

"The seashore—while my uncle is so ill?" cried the child, a little surprised.

"Yes, Ruby. You must remember your own health is very frail. Your mother is very anxious about you. You will go to the seashore in the care of Mrs. Markham. Will that arrangement please you?"