DARKENING DAYS.
In the night Gladys was awakened by her uncle's voice sharply calling
her name, and when she hastened to him she found him in great pain, and
breathing with the utmost difficulty. Her presence of mind did not
desert her. She had often seen her father in a similar state, and knew
exactly what to do. In a few minutes she had a blazing fire, and the
kettle on; then she ran to awaken Walter, so that he might go for the
doctor. The simple remedies experience had taught the girl considerably
eased the old man, and when the doctor came he found him breathing more
freely. But his face was quite grave after his examination was made.
'I suppose my hour's come?' said Abel Graham in a matter-of-fact way. 'I
don't think much of your fraternity,--I've never had many dealings with
you,--but I suppose you can tell a man what he generally knows himself,
that he'll soon be in grips with death?'
The doctor looked at him with an odd smile. He was a young man, fighting
his way up against fierce competition--an honest, straightforward
fellow, who knew and loved his work.
'You don't think highly of us, Mr. Graham, but I daresay we have our
uses. This young lady appears to be an accomplished nurse; she has done
the very best possible under the circumstances.'
He turned to Gladys, not seeking to hide his surprise at finding such a
fair young creature amid such surroundings. Walter Hepburn, standing in
the background, experienced a strange sensation when he saw that look.
Though he knew it not, it was his first jealous pang.
'I had to nurse my father often in such attacks,' Gladys answered, with
her quiet, dignified calm. 'If there is anything more I can do, pray
tell me, and I will follow your instructions faithfully.'
'There is not much we can do in such a case. I never heard anything so
foolhardy as to go off, as you say he did yesterday, driving through the
open country for hours on a March day. I don't think a man who takes
such liberties with himself can expect to escape the penalty, Mr.
Graham.'
'Well, well, it doesn't matter. If my hour's come, it's come, I suppose,
and that's the end of it,' he retorted irritably. 'How long will I
last?'
'Years, perhaps, with care--after this attack is conquered,' replied the
doctor; and the old man answered with a grim, sardonic smile.
'We'll see whether you or I am right,' he replied. 'You needn't stay any
longer just now.'
Gladys took the candle, and herself showed the doctor to the outer door.
'Will he really recover, do you think?' she asked, when they were out of
hearing.
'He may, but only with care. The lungs are much congested, and his
reserve of strength is small. What relation is he to you, may I ask?
Your grandfather?'
'No; my uncle?'
'And do you live here always?'
'Yes, this is my home,' Gladys answered, and she could scarcely forbear
a smile at the expression on the young doctor's face.
'Indeed! and you are contented? You seem so,' he said, lingering at the
door a moment longer than he need have done.
'Oh yes; I have a great deal to be thankful for,' she answered. 'You
will come again to-morrow early, will you not?'
'Certainly. Good-morning. Take care of yourself. You do not look as if
your reserve of strength were very great either.'
'Oh, I am very strong, I assure you,' Gladys answered, with a smile; and
as she looked into his open, honest face, she could not help thinking
what a pleasant face it was.
Then she went back to keep her vigil by the sick-bed, and to exercise
her woman's prerogative to ease and minister to pain. There was so
little any one could do now, however, to help Abel Graham, the issue of
his case being in the hand of God. In obedience to the request of
Gladys, Walter went back to bed, and she sat on by the fire, thoroughly
awake, and watchful to be of the slightest use to her uncle. He did not
talk much, but he appeared to watch Gladys, and to be full of thoughts
concerning her.
'Do you remember that night I came, after your father died?' he asked
once.
'Yes,' she answered in a low voice. 'I remember it well.'
'You felt bitter and hard against me, did you not?'
'If I did, Uncle Abel, it has long passed,' she answered. 'There is no
good to be got recalling what is past.'
'Perhaps not; but, my girl, when a man comes to his dying bed it is the
past he harks back on, trying to get some comfort out of it for the
future he dreads, and failing always.'
'It is not your dying bed, Uncle Abel, I hope; you are not so old yet,'
she said cheerfully.
'No, I'm not old in years--not sixty--but old enough to regret my
youth,' he said. 'Are you still of the same mind about the spending of
money, if you should ever have it to spend?'
'Yes; but it is so unlikely, Uncle Abel, that I shall ever have any
money to spend. It is quite easy saying what we can do in imaginary
circumstances. Reality is always different, and more difficult to deal
with.'
'You are very wise for your years. How many are they?'
'Seventeen and three months.'
'Ay, well, you look your age and more. You'd pass for twenty, but no
wonder; and'--
'I wish you would not talk so much, uncle; it will excite and exhaust
you,' she said, in gentle remonstrance.
'I must talk, if my time is short. Suppose I'm taken, what will you do
with yourself, eh?'
'The way will open up for me, I do not doubt; there must be a corner for
me somewhere,' she said bravely; nevertheless, her young cheek blanched,
and she shivered slightly as she glanced round the place--poor enough,
perhaps, but which at least afforded her a peaceful and comfortable
home. These signs were not unnoticed by the dying man, and a faint,
slow, melancholy smile gathered about his haggard mouth.
'You believe, I suppose, that the Lord will provide for you?' he said
grimly.
'Yes, I do.'
'Does He never fail, eh?'
'Never. He does not always provide just as we expect or desire, but
provision is made all the same,' answered the girl, and her eyes shone
with a steadfast light.
'It's a very comfortable doctrine, but not practicable, nor, to my
thinking, honest. Do you mean to say that it is right to sit down with
folded hands waiting for the Lord to provide, and living off other
people at the same time?'
Gladys smiled.
'No, that is not right, but wrong, very wrong, and punishment always
follows. Heaven helps those who help themselves; don't you remember
that?'
'Ay, well, I don't understand your theology, I confess. But we may as
well think it out. What do you suppose will become of me after I shuffle
off, eh?'
'I don't know, uncle. You best know what your own hope is,' she replied.
'I have no hope, and I don't see myself how anybody can presume to have
any. It's all conjecture about a future life. How does anybody know?
Nobody has ever come back to tell the tale.'
'No; but we know, all the same, that there are many mansions in heaven,
and that God has prepared them for His children.'
'You would not call me one of them, I guess?' said the old man, with a
touch of sarcasm, yet there was something behind--a great wistfulness, a
consuming anxiety, which betrayed itself in his very eye, as he awaited
her reply. It was a curious moment, a curious scene. The old, toilworn,
world-weary man, who had spent his days in the most sordid pursuit of
gold--gold for which he would at one time almost have sold his soul,
hanging on the words of a young, untried maiden, whose purity enabled
her to touch the very gates of heaven. It was a sight to make the
philosopher ponder anew on the mysteries of life, and the strange
anomalies human nature presents.
She turned her sweet face to him, and there was a mixture of pathos and
brightness in her glance.
'Why not, uncle? I may not judge. It is God who knows the heart.'
'Ay, maybe. But what would you think yourself? You have shrewd enough
eyes, though you are so quiet.'
'But I cannot know this, uncle; only if you believe that Christ died for
you, you are one of God's children, though'--she added, with a slight
hesitation--'you may not have served Him very well.'
'Then you think I have not served Him, eh?' he repeated, with strange
persistence.
'Perhaps you might have done more, uncle. If you get better you will do
more for others, I feel sure,' she said. 'But now you must be still and
keep quiet. I shall not talk another word to you, positively not a
word.'
'Ay,' he said dryly, and, turning on his pillow, closed his eyes--not to
sleep, oh no, brain and heart were too full of conflicting and
disturbing thought.
In the dull hours of the early morning Gladys dozed a little in her
chair, imagining the sick man slept. When the light grew broader she
roused herself, and began to move about with swift but noiseless steps,
fearing to awake him. But he did not sleep. Lying there, with his face
turned to the wall, Abel Graham held counsel with himself, reviewing his
life, which lay before him like a tale that is told. None knew better
than he what a poor, mean, sordid, selfish life it had been, how little
it had contributed to the good or the happiness of others, and these
memories tortured him now with the stings of the bitterest regret. It
was not known to any save himself and his Maker what agony his awakened
soul passed through in the still hours of that spring day. Seeing him
lie apparently in such restfulness, the two young creatures spoke to
each other at their breakfast only in whispers, and when Walter went up
to the warehouse, Gladys continued to perform her slight tasks as gently
and noiselessly as possible; but sometimes, when she looked at the face
on the pillow, with its closed eyes and pinched, wan features, she
wished the doctor would come again.
About half-past nine a knock came to the door, and Gladys ran out almost
joyfully, expecting to see the young physician with the honest face and
the pleasant eyes, but a very different-looking personage was presented
to her view when she opened the door. A man in shabby workman's garb,
dirty, greasy, and untidy--a man with a degraded type of countenance, a
heavy, coarse mouth, and small eyes looking out suspiciously from heavy
brows. She shrank away a little, and almost unconsciously began to close
the door, even while she civilly inquired his business.
'Is Wat in? I want to see my son, Walter Hepburn,' he said; and when he
opened his mouth Gladys felt the smell of drink, and it filled her with
both mental and physical repulsion. So this was Walter's father? Poor
Walter! A vast compassion, greater than any misery she had before
experienced, filled the girl's gentle soul.
'Yes, he is in, up-stairs in the warehouse. Will you come in, please?'
she asked; but before the invitation could be accepted, Wat came
bounding down the stairs, having heard and recognised the voice, and
there was no welcoming light in his eye as he gazed on his father's
face.
'Well, what do you want?' he asked abruptly; and Gladys, slipping back
hastily, left them alone.
And after she had returned to the kitchen she heard the hum of their
voices in earnest talk for quite five minutes. Then the door was closed,
and she heard Walter returning to his work. It appeared to her as if his
step sounded very heavy and reluctant as it ascended the stair.
Presently her uncle roused himself up, and asked for something to eat or
drink.
'Are you feeling better?' she asked, as she shook up his pillows, and
did other little things to make him comfortable.
'No; there's a load lying here,' he answered, touching his chest, 'which
presses down to the grave. If they can't do something to remove that,
I'm a dead man. No word of that young upstart doctor yet?'
'Not yet. Shall I send for him, uncle?'
'No, no; he'll come sure enough, and fast enough--oftener than he's
wanted,' he answered. 'Who was that at the door?'
'Walter's father.'
'Eh? Walter's father? What did he want? Is he smelling round too, to see
if he can get anything?' he said querulously. 'When you've given me that
tea, I wish you to take my keys from my coat pocket and go up to the
safe. When you've opened it, you'll find an old pocket-book, tied with a
red string. I want you to bring it down to me.'
'Very well.'
Gladys did exactly as she was bid, and, leaving the old man at his
slender breakfast, ran up to the warehouse. To her surprise, she found
Walter, usually so active and so energetic, sitting on the office stool
with his arms folded, and his face wearing a look of deepest gloom. Some
new trouble had come to him, that was apparent to her at once.
'Why, Walter, how troubled you look! No bad news from home, I hope?'
'Bad enough,' he answered in a kind of savage undertone. 'I knew
something was going to happen. Haven't I been saying it for days?'
'But what has happened? Nothing very bad, I hope?'
'So bad that it couldn't be worse,' he said. 'Liz has run away.'
[Illustration]