SETTING HIS HOUSE IN ORDER.
Gladys opened her eyes.
'Run away! How? Where? I don't understand.'
'All the better if you don't,' he answered harshly. 'She's run away,
anyhow, and it's their blame. Then they come to me, after the mischief's
done, thinking I can make it right. I'm not going to stir a foot in the
matter. They can all go to Land's End for me.'
He spoke bitterly--more bitterly than Gladys had ever heard him speak
before. She stood there, with the keys on her forefinger, the picture of
perplexity and concern. She did not understand the situation, and was
filled with curiosity to know where Liz had run to.
'Have they quarrelled, or what?' she asked.
'No; I don't suppose there's been any more than the usual amount of
scrimmaging,' he said, with a hard smile. 'I don't blame Liz; she's only
what they've made her. I'll tell you what it is,' he said, suddenly
clenching his right hand, his young face set with the bitterness of his
grief and shame, 'if there's no punishment for those that bring children
into the world and then let them go to ruin, there's no justice in
heaven, and I don't believe in it.'
Gladys shrank back, paling slightly under this torrent of passionate
words. Never had she seen Walter so bitterly, so fearfully moved. He got
up from his stool, and paced up and down the narrow space between the
boxes in a very storm of indignation; and it seemed to Gladys that a few
minutes had changed him from a boy into a man.
'Dear Walter,' she said gently, 'try to be brave. Perhaps it will not be
so bad as you think.'
'It's so bad for Liz, poor thing, that it won't be any worse. She's
lost, and she was the only one of them I cared for. If she'd had a
chance, she'd have been a splendid woman. She has a good heart, only she
never had anybody to guide her.'
Gladys could not speak. She had only the vaguest idea what he meant, but
she knew that something terrible had happened to Liz. A curious
reticence seemed to bind her tongue. She could not ask a single
question.
'Just when a fellow was beginning to get on!' cried Walter rebelliously,
'this has to happen to throw him back. It was a fearful mistake trying
to better myself. I wish I had sunk down into the mud with the rest. If
I do it yet, it will be the best thing for me.'
Then Gladys intervened. Though she did not quite comprehend the nature
of this new trouble which appeared so powerfully to move him, she could
not listen to such words without remonstrance.
'It is not right to speak so, Walter, and I will not listen to it.
Whatever others may do, though it may grieve and cut you to the heart,
it cannot take away your honour or integrity, always remember that.'
'Yes, it can,' he said impetuously. 'That kind of disgrace hangs on a
man all his days. He has to bear the sins of others. That is where the
injustice comes in. The innocent must suffer for and with the guilty
always. There is no escape.'
Gladys sighed, and her face became pale and weary-looking. Never had
life appeared so hard, so full of pain and care. Looking at the face of
Walter, which she had always thought so noble and so good,--the index to
a soul striving, though sometimes but feebly, yet striving always after
what was highest and best,--looking at his face then, and seeing it so
shadowed by the bitterness of his lot, her own simple faith for the
moment seemed to fail.
'You saw him, then, this morning, and I hope you admired him,' said
Walter, with harsh scorn. 'Reeking with drink, speaking thick through it
at ten o'clock in the morning! What chance has a fellow with a father
like that? Ten to one, I go over to drink myself one of these days.
Well, I might do worse. It drowns care, they say, and I know it destroys
feelings, which, from my experience, seem only given for our torture.'
Gladys gave a sob, and turned aside to the safe. That sound recalled
Walter to himself, and in a moment his mood changed. His eyes melted
into tenderness as he looked upon the pale, slight girl, whom his words
in some sad way had wounded.
'Forgive me. I don't know what I am saying; but I had no right to vex
you, the only angel I know in this whole city of Glasgow.'
His extravagant speech provoked a smile on her face, and she turned her
head from where she knelt before the safe, and lifted her large earnest
eyes to his.
'How you talk! You must learn to control yourself a little more. It is
self-control that makes a man,' she said quietly. 'I do not know how to
comfort you, Walter, in this trouble, which seems so much heavier than
even I think; but in the end it will be for good. Everything is, you
know, to them that love God.'
She was so familiar with Scripture, and depended so entirely on it for
comfort and strength, that her words carried conviction with them. They
fell on the riven heart of Walter like balm, and restored a measure of
peace to it. Before he could make any answer, a quick knocking, and the
uplifting of the feeble voice from below, indicated that the old man was
impatient of the girl's delay. She hastily lifted the pocket-book,
relocked the safe door, and, with a nod to Walter, ran down-stairs.
'What kept you so long chattering up-stairs?' queried the old man, with
all the peevishness of a sick person. 'You don't care a penny-piece,
either of you, though I died this very moment.'
'Oh, Uncle Abel, hold your tongue; you know that is not true,' she said
quickly. 'Walter is in great trouble this morning. Something has
happened to his sister.'
'Ay, what is it, eh?'
'I don't know exactly, but she has left home.'
'Ay, ay, I'm not surprised; she was a bold hussy, and had no respect for
anything in this world. And is Walter taking on badly?'
'Very badly. I never saw him so distressed.'
'Well, it's hard on a chap trying to do well. It's a hopeless case
trying to fly out of an ill nest.'
'Uncle Abel, you must not say that. Nothing is hopeless, if only we are
on the right side,' said Gladys stoutly, though inwardly her heart
re-echoed sadly that dark creed.
'Well, well, you're young, and nothing seems impossible,' he said
good-naturedly. 'Here, take off this string. My fingers are as feckless
as a thread.'
Gladys opened the pocket-book, which was stuffed full of old papers. The
old man fingered them lovingly and with careful touch, until he found
the one he sought. It was a somewhat long document, written on blue,
official-looking paper, and attested by several seals. He read it from
beginning to end with close attention, and gave a grunt of satisfaction
when he laid it down.
'Is Wat busy?' he asked then.
'He has not much heart for his work to-day, uncle,'
'Cry him down; I've a message for him. Or, stop, you'd better go
yourself, in case anybody comes to the warehouse. Do you know St.
Vincent Street?'
'Yes, uncle.'
'You don't know Fordyce & Fordyce, the lawyers' office, do you?'
'No, but I can find it.'
'Very well; go just now and ask for old Mr. Fordyce. If he isn't in,
just come back.'
'And what am I to say to him?'
'Tell him to come here just as soon as ever he can. I want to see him,
and there is not any time to lose.'
The girl's lip quivered. A strange feeling of approaching desolation was
with her, and her outlook was of the dreariest. If it were true, as the
old man evidently believed, that his hour had come, she would again be
friendless and solitary on the face of the earth. Abel Graham saw these
signs of grief, and a curious softness visited his heart, though he
could scarce believe one so fair and sweet could really care for him.
Gladys made the utmost haste to do her errand, and to her great
satisfaction was told when she reached the large and well-appointed
chambers of that influential firm, that Mr. Fordyce senior would attend
to her in a moment. She stood in the outer office waiting, unconscious
that she was the subject of remark and speculation among the clerks at
their desks, still more unconscious that one day her name would be as
familiar and respected among them as that of the governor himself. After
the lapse of a few minutes the office boy ushered her into the private
room of Mr. Fordyce senior. He was a fine, benevolent-looking, elderly
gentleman, with a rosy, happy face, silver hair and whiskers, and a keen
but kindly blue eye. He appeared to be a very grand gentleman indeed in
the eyes of Gladys.
'Well, my dear miss, what can I do for you, eh?' he asked, beaming at
her over the gold rims of his double eyeglass in a very reassuring way.
'Please, my uncle has sent me to ask you to come and see him at once, as
he is very ill.'
'And who is your uncle, my dear? It will be necessary for you to tell me
that,' he said, with the slightest suggestion of a twinkle in his eye.
'My uncle, Mr. Graham, who lives in Colquhoun Street.'
'Abel Graham? Oh yes. Is he ill? And, bless me, are _you_ his niece?'
Never was surprise so genuinely felt or expressed as at that moment by
Mr. Fordyce.
'Yes, I am his niece; and, please, could you come as soon as possible?
He is very ill. I am afraid he thinks he is dying.'
The girl's voice trembled, and a tear fell like a dew-drop from her long
eyelashes. These things still more amazed the soul of Mr. Fordyce. That
anybody should shed a tear for a being so sordid and unsociable as Abel
Graham struck him as one of the extraordinary things he had met with in
his career; and to see this fair young creature, fitted by nature for a
sphere and for companionship so different, sincerely grieving for the
old man's distress, seemed the most extraordinary thing of all. Mr.
Fordyce rose, and, calling the boy, bade him bring a cab to the door,
then he began to get into his greatcoat.
'I'll drive you back, if you have nowhere else to go. So _you_ are his
niece? Well, there's more sense and shrewdness in the old man than I
gave him credit for.'
These remarks were, of course, quite enigmatical to Gladys; but she felt
cheered and comforted by the strong, kindly presence of the genial old
lawyer. As for him, he regarded her with a mixture of lively interest,
real compassion, and profound surprise. Perhaps the latter predominated.
He had, in the course of a long professional career, encountered many
strange experiences, become familiar with many curious and tragic life
stories, but, he told himself, he had never met a more interesting case
than this.
'It's a romance,' he said loud out in the cab; and Gladys looked at him
in mild surprise, but though she did not stand in awe of him at all, she
did not presume to ask what he meant.
'Now tell me, my dear, have you been happy in this--this place?' he
inquired significantly, as the cab rumbled over the rough causeway of
the Wynd into Colquhoun Street.
'Yes, I have been happy. I only know now, when I think it may not be my
shelter very long.'
Mr. Fordyce looked at her keenly.
'Poor girl, she knows nothing, absolutely nothing,' he said to himself.
'What a revelation it will be to her! Yes, it's a thrilling romance.'
The greeting between the well-known lawyer and his strange client was
not ceremonious. It consisted of a couple of nods and a brief
good-morning. Then Gladys was requested to leave them alone. Nothing
loath, she ran up-stairs to Walter, whose sorrow lay heavy on her heart.
'Your niece has surprised me, Mr. Graham,' said the lawyer. 'Yes, very
much indeed.'
'Why? What did you expect to see? Eh?'
'Not a refined and lovely young woman in a place like this, certainly,'
he said frankly, and looking round with an expression of extreme
disgust. 'Has it never occurred to you what poor preparation Miss Graham
has had for the position you intend her to fill?'
'That's none of your business,' retorted the old man sharply. '_She_
doesn't need any preparation, I tell you. Cottage or palace are the same
to her; she'll be a queen in either.'
This strange speech made the lawyer look at the old man intently. He
perceived that underneath his brusque, forbidding exterior there burned
the steady light of a great love for his brother's child, and here,
surely, was the greatest marvel of all.
'I did not bring you here to make remarks on my niece,' he said
peevishly. 'Read that over, see, and tell me if it's all right, if
there's anything to be added or taken away. There's a clause I want
added about the boy, Walter Hepburn. He's been with me a long time, and
though he's a very firebrand, he's faithful and honest. He won't rue
it.'
Mr. Fordyce adjusted his eyeglass and spread out the will before him.
Up-stairs the two young beings, drawn close together by a common sorrow
and a common need, tried to look into the future with hopeful eyes, not
knowing that, in the room below, that very future was being assured for
them in a way they knew not.
[Illustration]