WHAT TO DO WITH HER.
'Your own living? I am glad to hear you put it so sensibly. I must say I
hardly expected it,' said the old man, with engaging frankness. 'Well,
but tell me first what your name is. I don't know what to call you.'
'Gladys,' she answered; and her uncle received the information in
evident disapproval.
'Gladys! Now, what on earth is the meaning of such a name? Your father
and mother ought to be ashamed of themselves! Why can't people name
their children so that people won't stare when they hear it? Jane,
Susan, Margaret, Christina,--I'm sure there are hundreds of decent names
they might have given you. I think a law should be passed that no child
shall be named until he is old enough to choose for himself. Mine is bad
enough,--they might as well have christened me Cain when they were at
it,--but Gladys, it beats all!'
'I have another name, Uncle Abel. I was baptized Gladys Mary.'
'Ah, that's better. Well, I'll call you Mary; it's not so heathenish.
And tell me what you have thought of doing for yourself?'
'I have thought of it a great deal, but I have not been able to come to
any decision,' answered Gladys. 'Both papa and Mr. Courtney thought I
had better wait until you came.'
'Your father expected me to come, then?'
'Yes, to the last he hoped you would. He had something to say to you, he
said. And the last morning, when his mind began to wander, he talked of
you a great deal.'
These details Gladys gave in a dry, even voice, which betrayed a keen
effort. She spoke almost as if she had set herself a task.
'I came as soon as I could. The parson wrote urgently, but I know how
parsons draw the long bow, so I didn't hurry. Business must be attended
to, whatever happens. You don't know what it was your father wished to
say? He never asked you to write it, or anything?'
'No, but in his wandering he talked of money a great deal, and he seemed
to think,' she added, with a slight hesitation, 'that you had taken some
from him. Of course it was only his fancy. Sick people often think such
things.'
'He could not possibly in his senses have thought so, for I never had
any money, or he either. We could not rob each other when there was
nothing to rob,' said the old man, but he avoided slightly his niece's
clear gaze. 'Well, Mary, I am willing to do what I can for you, as you
are my brother's only child, so you had better prepare to return to
Scotland with me.'
Gladys tried to veil her shrinking from the prospect, but her sweet face
grew even graver as she listened.
'I am a very poor man,' he repeated, with an emphasis which left no
doubt that he wished it to be impressed firmly on her mind,--'very poor;
but I trust I know my duty. I don't suppose, now, that you have been
taught to work with your hands--in the house, I mean--the woman's
kingdom?'
This sentimental phrase fell rather oddly from the old man's lips. He
looked the very last man to entertain any high and chivalrous ideal of
womanhood. Gladys could not forbear a smile as she answered,--
'I am afraid I am rather ignorant, Uncle Abel. I have never had occasion
to do it.'
'Never had occasion; hear her!' repeated the old man, quite as if
addressing an audience. 'She has never had any occasion. She has been
born and cradled in the lap of luxury, and I was a born fool to ask the
question.'
The desolate child felt the keenness of the sarcasm, and her eyes filled
with hot tears. 'You don't understand, Uncle Abel, you never can
understand, and there is no use trying to make you,' she said curiously.
'I think I had better call Miss Peck to get tea for us.'
'Not yet; we must settle everything, then we needn't talk any more. I am
your only relation in the world, and as I have been summoned, perhaps
unnecessarily, on this occasion, I must, and will, do my duty. I have
not taken the long and expensive journey from Scotland for nothing,
remember that. So sit down, Mary, and tell me exactly how matters stand.
How much money have you?'
The colour mounted high to the girl's white brow, and her proud mouth
quivered. Never had she so felt the degradation of her poverty! Now it
seemed more than she could bear. But she looked straight into her
uncle's unlovely countenance, and made answer, with a calmness which
surprised herself,--
'There is no money, none at all--not even enough to pay all that must be
paid.'
Abel Graham almost gasped.
'All that must be paid! And, in Heaven's name, how much is that? Try to
be practical and clear-headed, and remember I am a poor man, though
willing to do my duty.'
'Mr. Courtney and I talked of it this morning, when we arranged that the
funeral should be to-morrow,' Gladys answered in a calm, straight, even
voice, 'and we thought that there might be five pounds to pay when all
was over. Papa has some pictures at the dealers'--two in Boston, and
three, I think, in London. Perhaps there might be enough from these to
pay.'
'You have the addresses of these dealers, I hope?' said the old man,
with undisguised eagerness.
'Yes, I have the addresses.'
'Well, I shall apply to them, and put on the screw, if possible. Will
you tell me, if you please, how long you have lived in this place?'
'Oh, not long,--in this village, I mean,--only since summer. We have
been all over the fens, I think; but we have liked this place most of
all.'
'Heathens, wandering Jews, vagabonds on the face of the earth,' said the
old man to himself. 'So you have arranged that it will be to-morrow--you
and the parson? I hope he understands that he can get nothing for his
pains?'
'I don't know what you are talking about,' said Gladys, and her mouth
grew very stern--her whole face during the last hour seemed to have
taken on the stamp and seal of age.
'And what hour have you arranged it for?'
'Eleven, I think--yes, eleven,' answered Gladys, and gave a quick,
sobbing breath, which the old man elected not to notice.
'Eleven?' He said it over slowly, and took a penny time-table from his
pocket, and studied it thoughtfully. 'We can get away from Boston at
one. It's the worst kind of place this to get at, and I don't know why
on earth your father should have chosen it'--'to die in,' he had almost
added; but he restrained these words. 'We can't get to Glasgow before
midnight, I think. I hope you won't object to travelling in the
night-time? I must do it. I can't be away any longer from business; it
must be attended to. I hope you can be ready?'
'I don't mind it at all,' answered Gladys in a still, quiet voice. Her
heart cried out against her unhappy destiny; but one so desolate, so
helpless and forlorn, may not choose. 'Yes, I shall be ready.'
'Well, see that you are. Punctuality is a virtue--one not commonly
found, I am told, in your sex. You will remember, then, Mary, that I am
a very poor man, struggling to get the necessaries of life. You have no
false and extravagant ideas of life, I hope? Your father, surely, has
taught you that it is a desperate struggle, in which men trample each
other remorselessly under foot. Heaven knows he has had experience of
it, so far as I can hear and see.'
'He never told me anything, Uncle Abel. We were happy always, he and I
together, because we loved each other. But I know that life is always
hard, and that the good suffer most,' said Gladys simply.
A strange and unwonted thrill touched the selfish heart of the old man
at these words, as they fell gravely from the young lips, formed in
their perfect sweetness for the happy curves of joy and hope.
'Well, well, if these are your views, you are less likely to be
disappointed,' he said, in gruff haste. 'Well, to go on. I am a poor
man, and I have a poor little home; I hope, when you come to share it,
you will be a help, and not altogether a burden on it?'
'I shall try. I can learn to work. I must learn now,' Gladys answered,
with exemplary meekness.
'There is an old woman who comes to do my little turn of a morning.
There is no reason why now I should not dispense with her services. She
is dear at the money, anyhow. I have often grudged it.'
'I wonder to hear that you are so poor,' said Gladys, looking straight
into his face with her young, fearless eyes. 'Papa told me once that you
were quite rich, and that you had a splendid business.'
Abel Graham looked distinctly annoyed at this unexpected statement
regarding his worldly affairs.
'Your father, Mary, was as ignorant of the practical affairs of life as
an unborn babe. He never showed his ignorance more than when he told you
that fabrication--a pure fabrication of his fancy. I have a little trade
in the oil and tallow line. No, not a shop, only a little warehouse in a
back street in Glasgow. When you see it you will wonder how it has ever
kept body and soul together. A splendid business! Ha! ha! That is good!'
'And do you live near it, Uncle Abel?'
'I live at it--in it, in fact; my house is in the warehouse. It's not a
very genteel locality, nor a fine house, it is good enough for me; but I
warn you not to expect anything great, and I can't alter my way of life
for you.'
'I hope I should never expect it,' answered Gladys quietly. 'And you
live there quite alone?'
'Not quite. There is Walter Hepburn.'
'Who is Walter Hepburn?' asked Gladys, and the Scotch name fell most
musically from her lips for the first time, the name which was one day
to be the dearest to her on earth.
'He's the office boy--an imp of the devil he is; but he is sharp and
clever as a needle; and then he is cheap.'
'Are cheap things always good, Uncle Abel?' Gladys asked. 'I have heard
papa say that cheap things are so often nasty, and he has spoken to me
more than once of the sin of cheapness. Even genius must be bought and
sold cheaply. Oh, he felt it all so bitterly.'
'Mary Graham, your foolish father was his own worst enemy, and I doubt
he will prove yours too, if that is all he has taught you. You had
better get tea at once.'
Thus rebuked, Gladys retired to the kitchen, and, to the no small
concern of the little landlady, she sat down on the low window-seat,
folded her hands on the table, and began helplessly to weep.
'My dear, my dear, don't cry! He hasn't been good to you, I know he
hasn't. But never mind; better times will soon dawn for you, and he will
not stay. I hope he will go away this very night,' she said very
sympathetically.
'No, he will stay till to-morrow, then I must go with him. He has
offered me a home, and I must go. There is nothing else I can do just
now,' said Gladys. 'I can't believe, Miss Peck, that he is papa's
brother. It is impossible.'
'Dear Miss Gladys, there is often the greatest difference in families. I
have seen it myself,' said Miss Peck meditatively. 'But now you must
have something to eat, and I suppose he must be hungry too'--
'If you would get tea, please, we should be much obliged; and oh, Miss
Peck, do you think you could give him a bed?'
'There is nothing but the little attic, but I daresay it will do him
very well. He doesn't look as if he were accustomed to anything much
better,' said Miss Peck, with frank candour. So it was arranged, and
Gladys, drying her eyes, offered to help the little woman as best she
could.
Abel Graham looked keenly and critically at his niece when she returned
to the room and laid the cloth for tea. His eye was not trained to the
admiration or appreciation of beauty, but he was struck by a singular
grace in her every movement, by a certain still and winning loveliness
of feature and expression. It was not the beauty sought for or beloved
by the vulgar eye, to which it would seem but a colourless and lifeless
thing; but a pure soul, to which all things seemed lovely and of good
report, looked out from her grave eyes, and gave an expression of gentle
sweetness to her lips. With such a fair and delicate creature, what
should he do? The question suggested itself to him naturally, as a
picture of his home rose up before his vision. When he thought of its
meagre comfort, its ugly environment, he confessed that in it she would
be quite out of place. The house in which he had found her, though only
a hired shelter, was neat and comfortable and home-like. He felt
irritated, perplexed; and this irritation and perplexity made him quite
silent during the meal. They ate, indeed, without exchanging a single
word, though the old man enjoyed the fragrant tea, the sweet, home-made
bread, and firm, wholesome butter, and ate of it without stint. He was
not, indeed, accustomed to such dainty fare. Gladys attended quietly to
his wants, and he did not notice that she scarcely broke bread. When the
meal was over, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and rose
from the table.
'Now, if you don't mind,' he said almost cheerfully, the good food
having soothed his troubled mind, 'I would like to take a last look at
my brother. I hope they have not screwed down the coffin?'
Gladys gave a violent start. The word was hideous; how hideous, she had
never realised till it fell from her uncle's lips. But she controlled
herself; nothing was to be gained by exhibitions of feeling in his
presence.
'No, they will come, I think, to-morrow, quite early. I did not wish it
done sooner,' she answered quietly. 'If you come now, I can show you the
door.' She took the lamp from the table, and, with a gesture of dignity,
motioned him to follow her. At the door of the little room where the
artist had suffered and died she gave him the lamp, and herself
disappeared into the studio. Not to sit down and helplessly weep. That
must be over now; there were things to be thought of, things to do, on
the threshold of her new life, and she was ready for action. She found
the matches, struck a light, and began at once to gather together the
few things she must now sacredly cherish as mementoes of her father.
First she took up with tender hand the little canvas from the easel,
looked at it a moment, and then touched the face with her lips. It was
her mother's face, which she remembered not, but had been taught to love
by her father, who cherished its memory with a most passionate devotion.
She wrapped it in an old silk handkerchief, and then began a trifle
dreamily to gather together the old brushes with which John Graham had
done so much good, if unappreciated, work. Meanwhile the old man was
alone in the chamber of death. He had no nerves, no fine sensibilities,
and little natural affection to make the moment trying to him. He
entered the room in a perfectly matter-of-fact manner, set the lamp on
the washhand-stand, and approached the bed. As he stood there, looking
on the face, calm, restful, beautiful in its last sleep, a wave of
memory, unbidden and unwelcome, swept over his selfish and hardened
heart. The years rolled back, and he saw two boys kneeling together in
childish love at their mother's knee, lisping their evening prayer,
unconscious of the bitter years to come. Almost the white, still outline
of the dead face seemed to reproach him; he could have anticipated the
sudden lifting of the folded eyelids. He shivered slightly, took an
impatient step back to the table for the lamp, and made haste from the
room.
[Illustration]