THE NEW HOME.
Next day at noon that strangely-assorted pair, the sordid old man and
the gentle child, set out in a peasant's waggon, which he had hired for
a few pence, to ride across the meadows to Boston. The morning was very
fair. In the night the mist had flown, and now the sun shone out warm
and cheerful, giving the necessary brightness to the scene. It lay
tenderly on the quaint fen village, and the little gilt vane on the
church steeple glittered proudly, almost as if it were real gold.
Gladys sat with her back to the old horse, quite silent, never allowing
her eyes for a moment to wander from that picture until distance made it
dim. She had no tears, though she was leaving behind all that love had
hallowed. She wondered vaguely once or twice whether it would be her
last farewell, or whether, in other and happier years, she might come
again to kneel by that nameless grave. Abel Graham paid small attention
to her. He tried to engage in a conversation with the peasant who sat on
the front of the waggon, holding the reins loosely in his sunburnt
hands; but that individual was stolid, and when he did vouchsafe a
remark, Abel did not understand him, not being familiar with fen
vernacular. They reached Boston in ample time for the train, even
leaving half an hour to spare. This half hour the old man improved by
hunting up the dealer in whose hands were two of his brother's pictures,
leaving Gladys at the station to watch their meagre luggage. He drove a
much better bargain than the artist himself could have done, and
returned to the station inwardly elated, with four pounds in his pocket;
but he carefully concealed from his niece the success of his
transaction--not that it would have greatly concerned her, she was too
listless to take interest in anything. At one o'clock the dreary railway
journey began, and after many stoppages and changes, late at night
Gladys was informed that their destination was reached. She stepped from
the carriage in a half-dazed manner, and perceived that they were in a
large, brilliantly-lighted, but deserted, city station. All her worldly
goods were in one large, shabby portmanteau, which the old man weighed,
first in one hand and then in the other.
'I think we can manage it between us. It isn't far, and if I leave it,
it will cost tuppence, besides taking Wat Hepburn from his work
to-morrow to fetch it.'
'Can't we have a cab?' asked Gladys innocently.
'No, we can't; you ought to know, if you don't, that a cab is double
fare after midnight,' said the old man severely. Just look in the
carriage to make sure nothing is left.'
Gladys did so, then the melancholy pair trudged off out from the station
into the quiet streets. Happily the night was fine, though cold, with a
clear, star-begemmed sky, and a winter moon on the wane above the roofs
and spires. A great city it seemed to Gladys, with miles and miles of
streets; tall, heavy houses set in monotonous rows, but no green
thing--nothing to remind her of heaven but the stars. She had the soul
of the poet-artist, therefore her destiny was doubly hard. But the time
came when she recognised its uses, and thanked God for it all, even for
its moments of despair, its bitterest tears, because through it alone
she touched the great suffering heart of humanity which beats in the
dark places of the earth. In the streets after midnight there is always
life--the life which dare not show itself by day, because it stalks in
the image of sin. Gladys was surprised, as they slowly wended their way
along a wide and handsome thoroughfare, past the closed windows of great
shops, to meet many ladies finely dressed, some of them beautiful, with
a strange, wild beauty, which half-fascinated, half-terrified her.
'Who are these ladies, Uncle Abel?' she asked at length. 'Why are so
many people in the streets so late? I thought everybody would be in bed
but us.'
'They are the night-birds, child. Don't ask any more questions, but shut
your eyes and hold fast by me. We'll be home in no time,' said the old
man harshly, because his conscience smote him for what he was doing.
Gladys again became silent, but she could not shut her eyes. Soon they
turned into another street, in which were even more people, though
evidently of a different order. The women were less showily dressed, and
many of them had their heads bare, and wore little shawls about their
shoulders. As they walked, the crowd became greater, and the din
increased. Some children Gladys also saw, poorly clad and with hungry
faces, running barefoot on the stony street. But she kept silence still,
though growing every moment more frightened and more sad.
'Surely this is a terrible place, Uncle Abel,' she said at last. 'I have
never seen anything like it in my life.'
'It isn't savoury, I admit; but I warned you. This is Argyle Street on a
Saturday night; other nights it is quieter, of course. Oh, he won't harm
you.' A lumbering carter in a wild state of intoxication had pushed
himself against the frightened girl, and looked down into her face with
an idiotic leer.
Gladys gave a faint scream, and clung to her uncle's arm; but the next
moment the man was taken in charge by the policeman, and went to swell
the number of the drunkards at Monday's court.
'Here we are. This is Craig's Wynd, or The Wynd, as they say. We have
only to go through here, and then we are in Colquhoun Street, where I
live. It isn't far.'
In the Wynd it was, of course, rather quieter, but in the dark doorways
strange figures were huddled, and sometimes the feeble wail of a child,
or a smothered oath, reminded one that more was hidden behind the
scenes. Gladys was now in a state of extreme mental excitement. She had
never been in a town larger than Boston, and there only on bright days
with her father. It seemed to her that this resembled the place of which
the Bible speaks, where there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of
teeth. To the child, country born and gently reared, whom no unclean or
wicked thing had ever touched, it was a revelation which took away from
her childhood for ever. She never forgot it. When years had passed, and
these dark days seemed almost like a shadow, that one memory remained
vivid and most painful, like a troubled dream.
'Now, here we are. We must let ourselves in. Wat Hepburn will be away
long ago. He goes home on Saturday night,' said the old man, groping in
his pocket for a key. It was some minutes before he found it, and Gladys
had time to look about her, which she did with fearful, wondering eyes.
It was a very narrow street, with tall houses on each side, which seemed
almost to touch the sky. Gladys wondered, not knowing that they were all
warehouses, how people lived and breathed in such places. She did not
know yet that this place, in comparison with others not many streets
removed, was paradise. It was quiet--quite deserted; but through the
Wynd came the faint echo of the tide of life still rolling on through
the early hours of the Sabbath day.
'Here now. Perhaps you had better stay here till I bring a light,' said
the old man at length.
'Oh no, I can't; I am terrified. I will come in, cried Gladys, in
affright.
'Very well. But there's a stair; you must stand there a moment. I know
where the matches are.'
Gladys stood still, holding in to the wall in silent terror. The
atmosphere of the place depressed her--it smelt close and heavy, of some
disagreeable oily odour. She felt glad to turn her face to the door,
where the cool night air--a trifle fresher--could touch her face. Her
uncle's footsteps grew fainter and fainter, then became louder again as
he began to return. Presently the gleam of a candle appeared at the
farther end of a long passage, and he came back to the door, which he
carefully closed and locked. Then Gladys saw that a straight, steep
stair led to the upper floor, but the place Abel Graham called his home
was on the ground floor, at the far end of a long wide passage, on
either side of which bales of goods were piled. He led the way, and soon
Gladys found herself in a large, low-ceiled room, quite cheerless, and
poorly furnished like a kitchen, though a bed stood in one corner. The
fireplace was very old and quaint, having a little grate set quite
unattached into the open space, leaving room enough for a stool on
either side. It was, however, choked with dead ashes, and presented a
melancholy spectacle.
'Now,' said the old man, as he set the portmanteau down, 'here we are.
One o'clock in the morning--Sunday morning, too. Are you hungry?'
'No,' said Gladys, 'not very.'
'Or cold, no? That's impossible, we've walked so fast. Just take off
your things, and I'll see if there's anything in the press. There should
be a bit of bread and a morsel of cheese, if that rascal hasn't gobbled
them up.'
Gladys sat down, and her eyes wandered over all the great wide room into
its shadowy corners, and it was as if the frost of winter settled on her
young heart. The old man hung up his coat and hat behind the door, and,
opening the press, brought therefrom the half of a stale loaf, a plate
on which reposed a microscopic portion of highly-coloured butter, and a
scrap of cheese wrapped in paper. These he laid on the bare table, where
the dust lay white.
'Eat a mouthful, child, and then we'll get to bed,' he said. 'You'll
need to sleep here in my bed to-night, and I'll go to the back room,
where there's an old sofa. On Monday I'll get some things, and you can
have that room for yourself. Tired, eh?'
Uncle Abel's spirits rose to find himself at home, and the child's sank
lower at the prospect stretching out before her.
'No--that is, not very. It seems very long since morning.'
'Ay, it's been a longish day. Never mind; tomorrow's Sunday, and we
needn't get up before ten or eleven.'
'Don't you go to church, Uncle Abel?'
'Sometimes in the afternoon, or at night. Oh, there are plenty of
churches; they grow as thick as mushrooms, and do about as much good.
Won't you eat?'
The fare was not inviting; nevertheless, Gladys did her best to swallow
a few morsels, because she really felt faint and weak. It did not occur
to the miser that he might kindle a cheerful spark of fire to give her a
welcome, and to make her a cup of tea. He was not less cold and hungry
himself, it may be believed, but he had long inured himself to such
privation, and bore it with an outward semblance of content.
When they had eaten, he busied himself getting an old rug and a pillow
from the chest standing across one of the windows, and carried them into
the other room, then he bade Gladys get quickly to bed, and not burn the
candle too long. He went in the dark himself, and when Gladys heard his
footsteps growing fainter in the long passage a great terror took
possession of her, the place was so strange, so cold, so unknown. For
some time she was even afraid to move, but at last she rose and crossed
the floor to the windows, to see whether from them anything friendly or
familiar could be seen. But they looked into the street, and had thick
iron bars across them, exactly like the windows of a gaol. It was the
last straw added to the burden of the unhappy child. Her imagination did
not lack in vividness, and a thousand unknown terrors rose up before her
terrified eyes. If only from the window she might have looked up to the
eyes of the pitying stars, she had been less desolate, less forlorn. A
sharp sense of physical cold was the first thing to arouse her, and she
took the candle and approached the bed. Now, though they had ever been
poor, the artist and his child had kept their surroundings clean and
wholesome. In her personal tastes Gladys was as fastidious as the
highest lady in the land. She turned down the covering, and when she saw
the hue of the linen her lip curled, and she hastily covered it up from
sight. In the end, she laid herself down without undressing above the
bed, spreading a clean handkerchief for her head to rest upon; and so,
worn-out, she slept at last an untroubled and dreamless sleep, in which
she forgot for many hours her forlorn and friendless state.
[Illustration]