AN IMPENDING CHANGE.
It 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 a nod 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 the good 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?'
'_Is_ there 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. No woman 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.
[Illustration]