RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'W'
at,' said Liz Hepburn to her brother next time he came home, 'what kind o' a lassie is thon?'
It was a question difficult for Walter to answer, and, Scotch-like, he solved it by putting another.
'What do you think of her?'
'I dinna ken; she's no' like ither folk.'
'But you liked her, Liz?' said Walter, with quite evident anxiety.
'Oh ay; but she's queer. How does she get on wi' Skinny?'
'Well enough. I believe he likes her, Liz, if he would let on.'
Liz made a grimace.
'I daursay, if he can like onything. I telt her my mind on the business plain, an' offered to get her into our mill.'
'Oh, Liz, you might have had more sense! Her work in a mill!' cried Walter, with more energy than elegance.
'An' what for no'?' queried Liz sharply. 'I suppose she's the same flesh and bluid as me.'
'Shut up, you twa,' said a querulous, peevish voice from the ingle-neuk, where the mother, dull-eyed, depressed, and untidy, sat with her elbows on her knees. She was in a poor state of health, and had not recovered from the last week's outburst. It was Saturday night, but there was no pay forthcoming from the head of the house, who was still in Duke Street Prison. Walter looked at his mother fixedly for a moment, and the shadow deepened on his face. She was certainly an unlovely object in her dirty, unkempt gown, her hair half hanging on her neck, her heavy face looking as if it had not seen soap and water for long, her dull eyes unlit by any gleam of intelligence. Of late, since they had grown more dissipated in their habits, Walter had fallen on the plan of keeping back his wages till the beginning of the week—the only way in which to ensure them food. Seldom, indeed, was anything left after Saturday and Sunday's carousal.
'Is there anything the matter the day, mother?' he asked quite kindly and gently, being moved by a sudden feeling of compassion for her.
'No, naething; but I'm clean dune. Wad ye no' bring in a drap, Wat?' she said coaxingly, and her eye momentarily brightened with anticipation.
'It won't do you any good, mother, ye ken that,' he said, striving still to speak gently, though repulsion now mingled with his pity. 'A good dinner or supper would do ye more good. I'll bring in a bit steak, if ye'll cook it.'
'I've nae stammick for meat,' she said, relapsing into her dull state. 'I'm no' lang for this world, an' my wee drap's the only comfort I hae. Ye'll maybe wish ye hadna been as ill to me by an' by.'
'I'm comin' alang some nicht, Wat,' said Liz, whoinvariably treated such remarks with the most profound contempt, ignoring them entirely. 'D'ye think Skinny'll let me in?'
'I daresay,' answered Walter abruptly, and, sitting down on the window-box, he looked through the blindless window upon the masses of roofs and the twinkling lights of the great city. His heart was heavy, his soul sick within him. His home—so poor a home for him, and for all who called it by that sweet name—had never appeared a more miserable and homeless place. It was not the smallness nor the poverty of its furnishing which concerned him, but the human beings it sheltered, who lay a burden upon his heart. Liz was out of bed, crouching over the fire, with an old red shawl wrapped round her—a striking-looking figure in spite of her generaldeshabille, a girl at whom all men and many women would look twice. He wished she were less striking, that her appearance had matched the only destiny she could look for—grey, meagre, commonplace, hopeless as a dull November day.
'Your pecker's no' up, Wat?' she said, looking at him rather keenly. 'What are ye sae doon i' the mooth for?'
Walter made no reply. Truth to tell, he would have found it difficult to give expression to his thoughts.
'He's aye doon i' the mooth when he comes here, Liz,' said the mother, with a passing touch of spirit. 'We're ower puir folk for my lord noo that he's gettin' among the gentry.'
'The gentry of Argyle Street an' the Sautmarket, mother?' asked Walter dryly. 'They'll no' do much for ye.'
'Is Skinny no' gaun to raise yer screw, Wat?' asked Liz. 'It's high time he was thinkin' on't.'
'I'll ask him one o' these days, but he might as well keep the money as me. This is a bottomless pit,' he said, with bitterness. 'It could swallow a pound as quick as five shillings, an' never be kent.'
'Ye're richt, Wat; but I wad advise ye to stick in to Skinny. He has siller, they say, an' maybe ye'll finger it some day.'
One night not long after, Liz presented herself at the house in Colquhoun Street, to return the visit of Gladys. As it happened, Walter was not in, having heard of a night school where the fees were so small as to be within the range of his means. Gladys looked genuinely pleased to see her visitor, though she hardly recognised in the fashionably-dressed young lady the melancholy-looking girl she had seen lying on the kitchen bed in the house of the Hepburns.
'Daur I come in? Would he no' be mad?' asked Liz, when they shook hands at the outer door.
'Do you mean my uncle?' asked Gladys. 'He will be quite pleased to see you. Come in; it is so cold here.'
'For you, ay; but I'm as warm's a pie, see, wi' my new fur cape—four an' elevenpence three-farthings at the Polytechnic. Isn't it a beauty, an' dirt cheap?'
Thus talking glibly about what was more interesting to her than anything else in the world, Liz followed Gladys into the kitchen, where the old man sat, as usual, in his arm-chair by the fireside, looking very old and wizened and frail in the flickering glow of fire and candle light.
'This is Walter's sister, Uncle Abel,' Gladys said, with that unconscious dignity which singled her out at once, and gave her a touch of individuality which Liz felt, though she did not in the least understand it.
The old man gave a little grunt, and bade her sit down; but, though not talkative, he keenly observed the two, and saw that they were cast in a different mould. Liz looked well, flushed with her walk, the dark warm fur setting off the brilliance of her complexion, her clothes fitting her with a certain flaunting style, her manner free from the least touch of embarrassment or restraint. Liz Hepburn feared nothing under the sun.
'And are you quite better, Liz?' asked Gladys gently, with a look of real interest and sympathy in her face.
'Oh ay, I'm fine. Wat's no' in?' she said, glancing inquiringly round the place.
'No; he has heard of a teacher who takes evening pupils for book-keeping and these things, and has gone to make arrangements with him.'
Never had the nicety of her speech and her sweet, refined accent been more marked by Abel Graham. He looked at her as she stood by the table, a slender, pale figure, with a strange touch of both child and maiden about her, and he felt glad that she was not like Liz. Not that he thought ill of Liz, or did not see her beauty, such as it was, only he felt that the maiden whom circumstances had cast into his care and keeping was of a higher type than the red-cheeked, bright-eyed damsel whom so many admired.
'An' when hae ye been oot, micht I ask?' inquired Liz calmly. 'Ye're a jimpy-looking thing.'
'Not since Sunday.'
'Sunday! Mercy me! an' this is Friday. She'll sune be in her grave, Mr. Graham. Folk maun hae fresh air. What way d'ye no' set her oot every day?'
'She is welcome to go if she likes, miss. I don't keep her in,' answered the old man tartly.
'Maybe no', but likely she has that muckle adae shecanna get,' replied Liz fearlessly. 'It's a fine nicht—suppose ye tak' a walk wi' me? The shops is no' shut yet.'
'Shall I go, uncle?' asked Gladys.
'If ye want, certainly; but come in in time of night. Don't be later than nine.'
'Very well,' answered Gladys, and retired into her own room to make ready for her walk.
Then Liz, turning round squarely on her seat, fixed the old man fearlessly with her eyes, and gave him a piece of her mind.
'I saw ye lookin' at her a meenit ago, Maister Graham, an' maybe ye was thinkin' the same as me, that she's no' lang for this world. Is't no' a sin an' a shame for a cratur like that to work in a place like this? but it's waur, if it be true, as folk say, that there's nae need for it.'
So astonished was Abel Graham by this plain speaking on the part of a girl he had never seen in his life, that he could only stare.
'It's true,' added Liz significantly; 'she's yin o' the kind they mak' angels o', and that's no' my kind nor yours. If I were you, I'd see aboot it, or it'll be the waur for ye, maybe, after.'
Happily, just then Gladys returned for her boots, and in her mild excitement over having a companion to walk with, she did not observe the very curious look on her uncle's face. But Liz did, and gave an inward chuckle.
'How's your father and mother?' he asked, making the commonplace question a cover for the start he had got.
'Oh, they're as well as they can expect to be,' Liz replied. 'He cam' oot on Monday. I spiered if they had gi'en him a return ticket available for a week.'
The hard little laugh which accompanied these apparently heartless words did not in the least deceive Gladys, and, looking up from the lacing of her boots, she flashed a glance of quick sympathy upon the girl's face, which expressed more than any words.
'They're surely very ill-kinded,' was Abel Graham's comment, in rather a surprised tone. Liz had given him more information about her people in five minutes than Walter had done in the two years he had been with him. The difference between the two was, that while sharing the bitterness of their home sorrows, the one found a certain relief in telling the worst, the other shut it in his heart, a grief to be brooded over, till all life seemed tinged and poisoned by its degradation.
'Oh, it's drink,' she said carelessly,—'the same auld story. Everything sooms awa' in whisky; they'll soom awa' theirsel's some day wi'd, that's wan comfort. I'm sure that's wan thing Wat an' me's no' likely to meddle wi'. We've seen ower muckle o' the misery o' drink. It'll never be my ruin, onyway. Are ye ready, Gladys?'
'In a minute, just my hat and gloves,' Gladys answered, and again retired.
'I say, sir, d'ye no' think ye should raise Wat's wages? I had twa things to say to ye the nicht, an' I've said them. Ye needna fash to flyte; I'm no' feared. If ye are a rich man, as they say, ye're waur than oor auld yin, for he haunds oot the siller as lang as it lasts.'
'You are a very impudent young woman,' said Abel Graham, 'and not a fit companion for my niece. I can't let her go out with you.'
'Oh, she's gaun the nicht, whether you let her or no',' was the calm answer. 'And as to being impident,some folk ca's the truth impidence, because they're no' accustomed to it. But aboot Wat, ye ken as weel as me, ye micht seek east an' west through Glesca an' no' get sic anither. He's ower honest. You raise his wages, or he'll quit, if I should seek a place for him mysel'.'
The calm self-assertion of Liz, which had something almost queenly in it, compelled the respect of the old man, and he even smiled a little across the table to the chair where she sat quite at her ease, delivering herself of these remarkably plain statements. In his inmost soul he even enjoyed them, and felt a trifle sorry when Gladys appeared, ready to go. Liz sprang up at once, and favoured the old miser with a gracious nod by way of farewell.
'Guid-nicht to ye, then, an' mind what I've said. I was in deid earnest, an' I'm richt, as ye'll maybe live to prove. An' mind that there's ower wee a pickle angels in Glesca for the ither kind, and we'd better tak' care o' what we hae.'
RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'N'
oo, whaur wad ye like to gang?' inquired Liz, as they shut the outer door behind them.
'Anywhere; it is pleasant to be out, only the air is notverygood here. Do you think it is?'
'Maybe no'. We'll look at the shops first, onyhoo, an' then we'll gang an' meet Teen Ba'four. D'ye mind Teen?'
'Oh yes. Is she quite well? She looked so ill that day I saw her. I could not forget her face.'
'Oh, she's well enough, I think. I never asks. Oor kind gangs on till they drap, an' then they maistly dee,' said Liz cheerfully. 'But Teen will hing on a while yet—she's tough. I dinna see her very often. My mither disna like her. She brings me theReaderon Fridays. Eh, wummin, "Lord Bellew's Bride" is finished. Everything was cleared up at the end, an' the young man Lord Bellew was jealous o' turns oot to be only her brither. The last chapter tells aboot the christenin' o' the heir, an' she wears a white brocade goon, trimmed wi' real pearls an' ostrich feathers. Fancy you an' me in a frock like that! Wad it no' mak' a' the difference?'
'I don't know, I'm sure. I never thought of it,' answered Gladys, quietly amused.
'Hae ye no'? I often think o'd. If I lived in a big hoose, rode in a carriage, an' wore a silk dress every day, I wad be happy, an' guid too, maybe. It's easy to be guid when ye are rich.'
'The Bible doesn't say so. Don't you remember how it explains that it is so hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven?'
Liz looked round in a somewhat scared manner into her companion's face.
'D'ye read the Bible?' she asked bluntly. 'I never dae, so I canna mind that. I never thocht onybody read it—or believed it, I mean—except ministers that are paid for it.'
'Oh, that is quite a mistake,' said Gladys warmly. 'A great many people read it, because they love it, and because it helps them in the battle of life. I couldn't live without it. Walter and I read it every night.'
Liz drew herself a little apart doubtfully, and looked yet more scrutinisingly into the face of Gladys.
'Upon my word, ye're less fit than I thocht for this warld. What were ye born for? Ye'll never fecht yer way through,' she said, with a kind of scornful pity.
'Oh yes, I will. Perhaps if it came to the real fight, I should prove stronger than you, just because I have that help. Dear Liz, it is dreadful, if it is true, to live as you do. Are you not afraid?'
'I fear naething, except gaun into consumption, an' haein' naebody to look after me,' responded Liz. 'If it cam' to that, I'dtak'something to pit an end to mysel'. My mind's made up on that lang syne.'
She looked quite determined; her full red lips firmlyset, and her eyes looking straight before her, calm, steadfast, undaunted, in corroboration of her boast that she feared nothing in the world.
'But, Liz, that would be very wicked,' said Gladys, in distress. 'We have never more to bear than we are able; God takes care of that always. But I am sure you are only speaking in haste. I think you have a great deal of courage—too much to do that kind of thing.'
'Dinna preach, or we'll no' 'gree,' said Liz almost rudely. 'Let's look at the hats in this window. I'll hae a new one next pay. Look at that crimson velvet wi' the black wings; it's awfu' neat, an' only six-and-nine. D'ye no' think it wad set me?'
'Very likely. You look very nice always,' answered Gladys truthfully, and the sincere compliment pleased Liz, though she did not say so.
'Well, look, it's ten meenits past aicht. We were to meet Teen in the Trongate at the quarter. We'll need to turn back.'
'And where will we go after that?' inquired Gladys. 'The shops are beginning to shut.'
'You'll see. We've a ploy on. I want to gie ye a treat. Ye dinna get mony o' them.'
She linked her arm with friendly familiarity into that of Gladys, and began to chatter on again, chiefly of dress, which was dear to her soul. Her talk was not interesting to Gladys, who was singularly free from that feminine weakness, love of fine attire. No doubt she owed this to her upbringing, having lived always alone with her father, and knowing very few of her own sex. But she listened patiently to Liz's minute account of the spring clothes she had in view, and even tried to make some suggestions on her own account.
It was with something of a relief, however, that she beheld among the crowd at last the slight figure and pale countenance of Teen.
'Guid-e'enin' to ye,' Teen said in her monotonous voice, and without a smile or brightening of her face. 'Fine dry nicht. We're late, Liz, ten minutes.'
'Oh, it doesna matter. We'll mak' a sensation,' said Liz, with a grim smile. 'A' the same, we'd better hurry up an' get oor sixpenceworth.'
'Where are we going?' asked Gladys rather doubtfully.
'Oh, ye'll see. I promised ye a treat,' answered Liz; and the trio quickened their steps until they came to a narrow entrance, illuminated, however, by a blaze of gas jets, and adorned about the doorway with sundry bills and pictures of music-hallartistes.
Before Gladys could utter the least protest, she was whisked in, paid for at the box, and hurried up-stairs into a brilliantly-lighted hall, the atmosphere of which, however, was reeking with the smoke and the odour of tobacco and cheap cigars. Somebody was singing in a high, shrill, unlovely voice, and when Gladys looked towards the platform behind the footlights, she was horrified at the spectacle of a large, coarse-looking woman, wearing the scantiest possible amount of clothing, her face painted and powdered, her hair adorned with gilt spangles, her arms and neck hung with sham jewellery.
'Who is she? Is it not awful?' whispered Gladys, which questions sent the undemonstrative Teen off into one of her silent fits of laughter.
But Liz looked a trifle annoyed.
'Don't ask such silly questions. That's Mademoiselle Frivol, and she's appearin' in a new character. It's anawful funny song, evidently. See how they're laughin'. Be quiet, an' let's listen.'
Gladys held her peace, and sank into the seat beside Liz, and looked about her in a kind of horrified wonder.
It was a large place, with a gallery opposite the stage. The seats in the body of the hall were not set very closely together, and the audience could move freely about. It was very full; a great many young men, well-dressed, and even gentlemanly-looking in outward appearance at least; the majority were smoking. The women present were mostly young—many of them mere girls, and there was a great deal of talking and bantering going on between them and the young men.
Those in the gallery were evidently of the poorer class, and they accompanied the chorus of the song with a vigorous stamping of feet and whistling accompaniment. When Mademoiselle Frivol had concluded her performance with a little dance which brought down the house, there was a short interval, and presently some young men sauntered up to the three girls, and bade them good-evening in an easy, familiar way, which made the colour leap to the cheek of Gladys, though she did not know why. She knew nothing about young men, and had no experience to enable her to discern the fine shades of their demeanour towards women; but that innate delicacy which is the safeguard and the unfailing monitor of every woman until she wilfully throws it away for ever, told the pure-minded girl that something was amiss, and that it was no place for her.
'Who's your chum, old girl?' asked a gorgeous youth, who wore an imitation diamond breastpin and finger-ring. 'Give us an introduction, Miss Hepburn.'
He did not remove his cigar, but looked down upon the pale face of Gladys with a kind of familiar approval which hurt her, and made her long to flee from the place.
'No; shut up, an' let her a-be,' answered Liz tartly. 'Hae ye a programme?'
'Yes, but you don't deserve it for being so shabby,' said the gorgeous youth, putting on a double eyeglass, and still honouring Gladys with his attention.
'I hope you will enjoy the performance, miss,' he added. 'Did you hear Frivol's song? It was very clever, quite the hit of the evening.'
Gladys never opened her mouth. When she afterwards looked back on that experience, she wondered how she had been able to preserve her calm, cold unconcern, which very soon convinced the youth that his advances were not welcome. Liz looked round at her, and, noting the proud, contemptuous curl of the girl's sweet lips, laughed up in his face.
'It's no go, Mr. Sinclair. Let's see that programme, an' dinna be mean.'
But the discomfited Mr. Sinclair, in no little chagrin, departed as rudely as he came.
'Ye dinna want a gentleman lover, Gladys,' whispered Liz. 'He's struck, onybody can see that, an' he's in business for himsel'. I'm sure he's masher enough for you. Wull I gie him the hint to come back?'
'I'm going home, Liz. This is no place for me, nor for any of us, I know that,' said Gladys, quite hotly for her.
'Oh no, you're no'. We must hae oor sixpenceworth. Bide or nine, onyhoo. That's just twenty meenits. Here's the acrobats; ye'll like that.'
The acrobatic performance fascinated Gladys evenwhile it horrified and almost made her sick. She watched every contortion of the bodies with the most morbid and intense interest, though feeling it to be hideous all the time. It excited her very much, and her cheeks flushed, her eyes shone with unwonted brilliance. When it was over, she rose to her feet.
'I'm going out, Liz. This is a bad place; I know it is. I'm going home.'
Liz looked up, with annoyance, at the clock.
'It's too bad; aichteenpence awa' for naething, but I suppose we maun gang. I've to leave mysel', onyway, at nine. Ye'll bide, Teen, yersel'?'
'No' me. There's no' much the nicht, onyway,' answered Teen; and her weird black eyes wandered restlessly through the hall, as if looking in vain for an absent face. So the three quitted the place in less than half an hour after they had entered it.
One of the audience watched their movements, and left the hall immediately behind them by another door. As they moved along the busy street some one touched Liz on the shoulder, and Gladys felt her hand tremble as it lay on her arm.
'I maun say guid-nicht here, Gladys,' she said hurriedly, and her cheeks were aflame. 'I'm vexed ye didna like the play. I meant it weel. Ye'll see her hame, Teen?'
'Ay,' answered Teen, and next moment Liz was gone.
Gladys, glancing back, saw her cross the street beside a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome-looking man, though she could not see his face.
'That's her bean,' said Teen, with a nod. 'He's a swell; that's what for she has her best claes on. They're awa' for a walk noo. He was in the hall, but I didna see him.'
'Is she going to be married to him?' inquired Gladys, with interest.
'She hopes sae; but—but—I wadna like to sweer by it. He's a slippery customer, an' aye was. I ken a lassie in Dennistoun he carried on as far as Liz, but I'm no' feared for Liz. She can watch hersel'.'
A strange feeling of weariness and vague terror came over Gladys. Day by day more of life was revealed to her, and added to her great perplexity. She did not like the phase with which she had that night made acquaintance. Conversation did not flourish between them, and they were glad to part at the corner of the Lane. Gladys ran up to the house, feeling almost as if somebody pursued her, and she was out of breath when she reached the door. Walter had returned from his first evening lesson, and great had been his disappointment to find Gladys out. He was quick to note, when she entered the kitchen, certain signs of nervous excitement, which made him wonder where she had been.
'It's nearly half-past nine,' said the old man crossly; 'too late for you to be in the streets. Get to bed now, and be up to work in the morning.'
'Yes, uncle,' said Gladys meekly, and retired to her own room thankfully, to lay off her bonnet and cloak.
Walter hung about by the dying fire after the old man went up to take his nightly survey of the premises, and at last Gladys came back.
'Did you have a good lesson, Walter?' she asked, with a slight smile.
'Oh, splendid. What a thing it is to learn! I feel as if I could do anything now I have begun,' he cried enthusiastically. 'Mr. Robertson was so kind. He will give me Euclid as well for the same money. He sayshe sees I am in earnest. Life is a fine thing after all, sometimes.'
'Yes.' Gladys looked upon his face, flushed with the fine enthusiasm of youth, with a slight feeling of envy. She felt very old and tired and sad.
'And you've been out with Liz?' he said then, seeing that for some unexplained reason she was not so interested as usual in his pursuits. 'Where did she take you?'
'To a music hall—not a nice place, Walter,' said Gladys almost shamefacedly.
His colour, the flush of quick anger, leaped in his cheek.
'A music hall! I should just say it isn't a nice place. How dared she? I see Liz needs me to talk to her plainly, and I will next time I see her,' he began hotly; but just then the old man returned, and they kept silence. But the evening's 'ploy' disturbed them both all night, though in a different way.
RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'I'
t was an uneventful year. Spring succeeded the fogs and frosts of winter, sunny skies and warmer airs came again, bringing comfort to those who could buy artificial heat, so making gladness in cities, and a wonder of loveliness in country places, where Nature reigns supreme. The hardy flowers Gladys planted in the little yard grew and blossomed; the solitary tree, in spite of its loneliness, put forth its fresh green buds, and made itself a thing of beauty in the maiden's eyes. In that lonely home the tide of life flowed evenly. The old man made his bargains, cutting them perhaps a trifle less keenly than in former years. The lad, approaching young manhood, did his daily work, and drank yet deeper of the waters of knowledge, becoming day by day more conscious of his power, more full of hope and high ambition for the future. And the child Gladys, approaching womanhood also, contentedly performed her lowly tasks, and dreamed her dreams likewise, sometimes wondering vaguely how long this monotonous, grey stream would flow on, yet not wishing it disturbed, lest greater ills than she knew might beset her way.
Again winter came, and just when spring was gathering up her skirts to spread them benignly over the earth, a great change came, a very great change indeed.
It was a March day—cold, bitter, blustering east winds tearing through the streets, catching the breath with a touch of ice—when the old man, who to the observant eye had become of late decrepit and very frail-looking, came shivering down from his warehouse, and, creeping to the fire, tried to warm his chilled body, saying he felt himself very ill.
'I think you should go to bed, uncle, and Walter will go for the doctor,' said Gladys, in concern. 'Shall I call him now?'
'No; I'll go to bed, and you can give me some toddy. There's my keys; you'll get the bottle on the top shelf of the press in the office. I won't send for the doctor yet. You can't get them out when once they get a foot in, and their fees are scandalous. No, I'll have no doctors here.'
Gladys knew very well that it was useless to dispute his decision, and, taking his keys, ran lightly up-stairs to the warehouse.
'I am afraid Uncle Abel is quite ill, Walter,' she said, as she unlocked the cupboard. 'He shivers very much, and looks so strangely. Do you not think we should have the doctor?'
'Yes; but he won't have him. I think he looks very bad. He's been bad for days, and his cough is awful, but he won't give in.'
'If he is not better to-morrow, you will just go for the doctor yourself, Walter. After he is here, uncle can't say much,' said Gladys thoughtfully. 'I will do what I can for him to-day. I am afraid he looks very like papa. I don't like his eyes.'
She took the bottle down, and retired again, with anod and a smile—the only inspiration known to the soul of Walter. It was not of the old man he thought as he busied himself among the goods, but of the fair girl who had come to him in his desolation as a revelation of everything lovely and of good report.
The hot fumes of the toddy sent the old man off into a heavy sleep, during which he got a respite from his racking cough. It was late afternoon when he awoke, and Gladys was sitting by the fire in the fading light, idle, for a wonder, though her work lay on her lap. It was too dark for her to see, and she feared to move lest she should awaken the sleeper. He was awake, however, some time before she was aware, and he lay looking at her intently, his face betokening thought of the most serious kind. She was startled at length by his utterance of her name.
'Yes, uncle, you have had a fine sleep, so many hours. See, it is almost dark, and Walter will be down presently,' she said brightly. 'Are you ready for tea now?'
She came to his bed-side, and looked down upon him as tenderly as if he had been the dearest being to her on earth.
'You are a good girl, a good girl,' he said quickly,—'the best girl in the whole world.'
Her face flushed with pleasure at this rare praise.
'I am very glad, uncle, if you think so,' she said gently. 'And now, what can the best girl in the world do to keep up her reputation? Is the pain gone?'
'Almost; it is not so bad, anyhow. Do you think I'm dying, Gladys?'
She gave a quick start, and her cheek blanched slightly at this sudden question.
'Oh no. Why do you ask such a thing, uncle?You have only got a very bad cold—a chill caught in that cold place up there. I wonder you have escaped so long.'
'Ay, it is rather cold. I've been often chilled to the bone, and I've seen Walter's fingers blue with cold,' he said. 'You'll run up soon and tell him to haul all the soap-boxes out of the fireplace, and build up a big fire to be ready for the morning, lighted the first thing.'
'Very well, uncle; but I don't think I'll let you up-stairs to-morrow.'
'It's for Walter, not for me. If I'm better, I've something else to do to-morrow.'
'Well, we'll see,' said Gladys briskly. 'Now I must set on the kettle. Wouldn't you like something for tea?'
'No, nothing. I've no hunger,' he answered, and his eyes followed her as she crossed the floor and busied herself with her accustomed skill about the fireplace.
'You're an industrious creature. Nothing comes amiss to you,' he said musingly. 'It's a poor life for a young woman like you. I wonder you've stood it so long?'
'It has been a very good life on the whole, uncle,' Gladys replied cheerfully. 'I have had a great many blessings; I never go out but I feel how many. And I have always tried to be contented.'
'Have you never been very angry with me,' he asked unexpectedly.
'No, never; but'—
'But what?'
'Sorry for you often.'
'Why?'
'Because you did not take all the good of life you might.'
'How could I? A poor man can't revel in thegood things of life,' he said, with a slight touch of irritation.
'No, quite true; but some poor people seem to make more out of small things. That was what I meant,' said Gladys meekly. 'But we must not talk anything disagreeable, uncle; it is not good for you.'
'But I want to talk. I say, were you disappointed because I never took you into Ayrshire in the summer?'
'Yes, uncle, a little, but it soon passed. When summer comes again, you will take me, I am sure.'
'You will go, anyhow, whether I do or not,' he said pointedly. 'Will you tell me, child, what you think of Walter?'
'Of Walter, uncle?' Gladys paused, with her hand on the cupboard door, and looked back at him with a slightly puzzled air.
'Yes. Do you think him a clever chap?'
'I do. I think he can do anything, Uncle Abel,' she replied warmly. 'Yes, Walter is very clever.'
'And good?'
'And good. You and I know that there are few like him,' was her immediate reply.
'And you like him?'
'Of course I do; it would be very strange if I did not,' she replied, without embarrassment.
'Do you think he would be capable of filling a much higher post than he has at present?'
'Of course I do; and if you will not be angry, I will say that I have often thought that you do not pay him enough of money.'
'There's nothing like going through the hards in youth. It won't do him any harm,' said the old man. 'He won't suffer by it, I promise you that.'
'Perhaps not; but when he has educated himself,—which won't be long now, Uncle Abel, he is getting on so fast,—he will not stay here. We could not expect it.'
'Why not, if there's money in it?'
'Isthere money in it?'
A shrewd little smile wreathed her lips, and her whole manner indicated that her sense of humour was touched.
'There's money in most things if they are attended to,' he said, with his usual evasiveness; 'and a young, strong man can work up a small thing into a paying concern if he watches his opportunity.'
'Money is not everything,' Gladys replied, as she began to spread the cloth, 'but it can do a great deal.'
'Ay, you are right, my girl; this is a poor world to live in without it. Suppose you were a rich woman, what would you do with your money?'
'Help people who have none; it is the only use money is for.'
'Now you speak out of ignorance,' said the old man severely. 'Don't you know that there's a kind of people—Walter's parents, for instance—whom it is not only useless, but criminal, to help with money? Just think of the poor lad's case. He has only had a small wage, certainly; but if it had been three times bigger it would have been the same thing.'
Gladys knit her brows perplexedly.
'It is hard, uncle, certainly. The plan would be, to help them in a different way.'
'But how? There are plenty rich and silly women in Glasgow who are systematically fleeced by the undeserving poor—people who have no earthly business to be poor, who have hands and heads which can give them a competence, only they are moral idiots. Nowoman should be allowed full use of large sums of money. She is so soft-hearted, she can't say no, and she's imposed on half the time.'
'You are very hard on women, Uncle Abel,' said Gladys, still amused with his enthusiasm. She had no fear of him. Although there was not much in common between them, there was a kind of quiet understanding, and they had many discussions of the kind. 'I would rather be poor always, Uncle Abel, if I were not allowed to spend as I wished. I should just have to learn to be prudent and careful by experience.'
'Ay, by experience, which would land you in the poorhouse. Have you no desire for the things other women like—fine clothes, trinkets, and such-like?'
'I don't know, uncle, because I have never had any,' said Gladys, with a little laugh. 'I daresay I should like them very well.'
The old man gave a grunt, and turned on his pillow, as if tired of talk.
Gladys busied herself with the evening meal, and when it was ready called Walter down. It was a pretty sight to see her waiting on the old man, attending to his comforts, and coaxing him to eat. In the evening she ran out to get some medicine for him, and when he was left with Walter, busy at his books at the table, he sat up suddenly, as if he had something interesting and important to say.
'How are you getting on with your learning, Wat? You are pretty constant at it. If there's anything in application, you should succeed.'
'It's pretty tough work, though, when a fellow's getting older.'
'Older,' repeated the old man, with a quiet chuckle. 'How old are you?'
'Nineteen.'
'Nineteen, are you? Well, you look it. You've vastly improved of late. I suppose you think yourself rather an ill-used sort of person—ill used by me, I mean?'
'I don't think you pay me enough, if you mean that,' said Walter, with a little laugh; 'but I'm going to ask a rise.'
'Why have you stayed here so long, if that is your mind? Nobody was compelling you.'
'No; but I've got used to the place, and I like it,' returned Walter frankly; but he bent his eyes on his books, as if there was something more behind his words which he did not care should be revealed.
'I see—it's each man for himself in this world, and deil tak' the hindmost, as they say; but I don't think you'll be hindmost. Suppose, now, you were to find yourself the boss of this concern, what would you do?'
'Carry it on as best I could, sir,' answered Walter, in surprise.
'Ay, but how? I suppose you think you'd reorganise it all?' said the old man rather sarcastically.
'Well, I would,' admitted Walter frankly.
'In what way? Just tell me how you'd do it?'
'Well, I'd be off, somehow or other, with all these old debts, sir, and then I'd begin a new business on different principles. I couldn't stand so much carrying over of old scores to new accounts, if I were on my own hook. You never know where you are, and it's cruel to the poor wretches who are always owing; they can't have any independence. Its a poor way of doing business.'
'Oh, indeed! You are not afraid to speak your mind, my young bantam. And pray, where did you pick up all these high and mighty notions?'
'They may be high and mighty, sir, but they're common-sense,' responded Walter, without perturbation. 'You know yourself how you've been worried to death almost, and what a watching these slippery customers need. It is not worth the trouble.'
'Is it not? Pray, how do you know that?' inquired the old man, his eyes glittering as he asked the question. 'I don't know, of course, but you always say you are a poor man,' replied Walter, as he put down the figures of a sum on his slate.
'But you don't believe it, eh? Perhaps that's why you've stuck to me like a leech so long,' he said, with his most disagreeable smile; but Walter never answered. They had been together now for some years, and there was a curious sort of understanding—a liking, even—between them; and of late Walter had taken several opportunities of speaking his mind with a candour which really pleased his strange old master, though he always appeared to be in a state of indignation.
'The only thing I am anxious about is the girl,' he muttered, more to himself than to the lad. 'But she'll find friends—more of them, perhaps, than she'll want, poor thing, poor thing!'
These words gave Walter something of a shock, and he looked round in quick wonderment. But the return of Gladys just then prevented him asking the question trembling on his lips.