Little Golden's Daughter; or, The Dream of a Life Time. Alex. McVeigh MillerЧитать онлайн книгу.
The dim, flaring light fell on the gray head of the old man, drooping forlornly on his breast, and on the lovely, upturned face of the girl, with its tender blue eyes and falling golden hair.
"Grandpa," she whispered, "do not be angry with your little girl. Put your hand on my head and say you forgive me for my fault."
He could not resist the coaxing voice and the asking blue eyes. He laid his hand on the golden head and said, solemnly and kindly:
"I forgive you, my little Golden, and I pray Heaven that no evil may come of this affair!"
She kissed his wrinkled, tremulous, old hand, where it hung over the arm of the chair.
"Thank you," she said, gratefully. "I am so glad you are not angry with me. And now, dear grandpa, I am going to kneel right here and listen while you tell me my mother's story."
In the momentary silence the wind outside seemed to sigh more sadly through the trees; the dim light flared and flickered, casting weird, fantastic shadows in the corners of the room. Deep, heavy sighs quivered over the old man's lips as the beautiful, child-like girl knelt there, with her blue eyes lifted so eagerly to his face.
CHAPTER XII
"You are the image of your mother, my child," said Golden's grandfather. "She had a white skin, pink cheeks, blue eyes, and shining hair. You inherit her happy, light-hearted disposition. You bear the same name also—Golden Glenalvan."
"Why was I never called by my father's name?" asked innocent Golden.
"My child, you anticipate my story," he answered, "but I will tell you. You have no right to your father's name."
A cry of terror came from the parted lips of the girl.
"Oh, grandpa, you do not mean that—you could not be so cruel!"
"You must remember that it is not my fault," he answered.
She sprang up and stood before him, with a look of white despair on her lovely young face.
"Now I understand it all," she said. "I know why my life is so unlike that of other girls. Oh, grandpa, grandpa, tell me where to find my mother that I may curse her for my ruined life!"
His only answer was a low and heart-wrung groan.
"Grandpa, tell me where to find her," repeated little Golden, wildly. "She must be living, for I remember now that no one has ever told me plainly that she was dead. I will go to her—I will reproach her for her sin! I will tell her what a life mine has been—how I have been hated and despised for my mother's fault, even by my kindred."
Sighs, long and bitter, heaved the old man's breast, but he answered her not. She flung herself weeping at his feet.
"You do not speak!" she cried. "Oh, grandpa, tell me where to find my cruel mother!"
"She is with your father," said Hugh Glenalvan, in a deep and bitter voice that showed what agony he endured in the revelation of his daughter's disgrace and infamy.
Golden threw up her little hands in convulsive agony.
"Oh, not that!" she cried. "Tell me it is not true!"
Again he had no answer for her, and Golden cried out reproachfully:
"Grandpa, grandpa, why did you suffer her to be so wicked?"
"It was through no fault of mine," he answered heavily.
She looked at him in silent anguish a moment, then she asked him:
"Where is she? Tell me where to find her, if you know."
"John told me she was in New York the last time he heard of her; but that was years ago. I pray God that she may be dead ere this."
And then he wrung his hands, and the tears rolled down his withered cheeks.
"Oh, my lost little daughter, my precious little Golden," he moaned in agony. "How little I dreamed in your innocent babyhood that you were reserved for such a fate!"
Golden was regarding him attentively.
"Uncle John told you she was in New York," she said. "What did Uncle John know? Did he hate my mother as he hates me?"
He looked at her, startled.
"Hate your mother," he cried. "His own sister! No—of course not—that is, not until she fell!"
"He hated her then?" asked Golden, musingly.
"Yes, he hated her then. I believe he could have killed her."
"He should have killed her betrayer," said Golden, who seemed suddenly to have acquired the gravity and thoughtfulness of a woman.
"I would have killed him myself if I could have laid hands on the villain," said her grandfather, with sudden, irrepressible passion.
The bitter grief and impatient wrath of the girl had sobered down into quietness more grievous than tears.
Her face showed deathly white in the dim light; her lips were set in a line of intense pain; her pansy-blue eyes had grown black with feeling.
She brought a low stool and sat down at her grandfather's feet, folding her white hands meekly in her lap, and drooping her fair head heavily.
"Grandpa, I will not interrupt you again," she said. "I will sit here quite still, and listen. Now tell me all my mother's story."
She kept her word.
After he had told her all he had to tell, and she knew the whole tragic story of her mother's disgrace, she still sat there silently, with her dark eyes bent on her clasped hands.
The cloud of shame and disgrace seemed to lower upon her head with the weight of the whole world.
"You understand all I have told, my child?" he said to her, after waiting vainly for her to speak.
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