FAREWELL.
The carriage was at the door, and they stood face to face, the young man
and the maiden, in the little office up-stairs, to say farewell.
'I am quite ready, Walter,' Gladys said in a still, quiet voice. 'I am
going away.'
'Are you? Well, good-bye.'
He held out his hand. His face was pale, but his mouth was set like
iron, and these apparently indifferent words seemed to force themselves
from between his teeth. Sign of emotion or sorrow he exhibited none, but
the maiden, who understood and who loved him,--yes, who loved him,--was
not in the least deceived.
'Have you nothing else to say than that, Walter? It is very little when
I am going away,' she said wistfully.
'No,' he replied in the same steady, even tone, 'nothing. You had better
not keep them waiting, these grand people, any longer. They are not used
to it, and they don't like it.'
'Let them wait, and if they don't like it they can go away,' she
answered, with unwonted sharpness. 'I want to say, Walter, that if I
could have stayed here, I would. I would rather be here than anywhere.
It once seemed very dreadful to me, but now I love it. But though I am
going away, I will come to see you very often, very often indeed.'
'Don't come,' he answered sharply. 'Don't come at all.'
A vague terror gathered in her eyes, and her mouth trembled.
'Now you are unkind, Walter, unkind and unreasonable. But men are often
unreasonable, so I will forgive you. If I may not come here, will you
promise to come to Bellairs Crescent and see me?'
Then Walter flung up his head and laughed, that laugh which always
stabbed Gladys.
'To have the door slammed in my face by a footman or a smart servant?
No, thank you.'
'Very well. Good-bye. If you cast me off, Walter, I can't help it.
Good-bye, and God bless you. I hope I shall see you sometimes, and if
not, I shall try to bear it, only it is very hard.'
She was a woman in keenness of feeling, a very child in guilelessness.
She could not hide her pain.
Then Walter, feeling it all so keenly, and hating himself with a mortal
hatred for his savage candour, condescended to make an explanation.
'In a week,' he began, 'you will view everything in a different light.
You are going away to be a great lady, and you'll soon find that you
want nothing so badly in this world as to forget that you ever knew this
place, or me. It will be far better to understand and make up my mind to
it at the very beginning. Perhaps some day it will be different, but in
the meantime I know I am right, and you'll soon be convinced of it too,
and perhaps thank me for it.'
'If that is what you think of me, Walter, it will indeed be better as
you say. Good-bye.'
She scarcely touched his hand or looked at him as she turned away. She
was wounded to the heart; and the poor lad, putting a fearful curb upon
himself, suffered her to leave him. He did not even go down to the door
to see the carriage leave, and in a few minutes the rattle of wheels
across the stony street fell upon his ears like a last farewell. Then,
there being none to witness his weakness, he laid his head down upon the
battered old desk, and wept as he had not wept since his childhood. He
had a proud spirit, and circumstances had made him morbidly sensitive.
He was very young to indulge in a man's hopes and aspirations; but age
is not always determined by years. Already he had dreamed his dreams,
had his visions of a glorious future, in which he should build up a home
for himself. Yet not for himself alone--it could be no home unless light
was given to it by her who had been the day-star of his boyhood. The
very loneliness and bitterness of his experience had caused his heart,
capable of a strong and passionate affection, to centre with greater
tenacity upon the gentle being who had shown to him the lovelier side of
nature and life, and had awakened in him strivings after all that was
highest and best. But this morbid sensitiveness, which is the curse of
every proud spirit, and turns even the sweets of life to ashes in the
mouth, had him in bitter bondage. He lashed himself with it, reminding
himself constantly of his origin and his environment, and magnifying
these into insuperable barriers which would for ever stand blankly in
his way. Although common-sense told him that there was no other course
open to Gladys than to accept the kindness offered her by the lawyer
and his wife, and though in his inmost better heart he did not doubt
her, it pleased his harder mood to regard himself as being despised and
trampled on; there was a certain luxury in the indulgence which afforded
him a melancholy pain. By and by, however, better thoughts came, as they
always will if we give them the chance they seek. Out of his fearful
dejection arose a manlier, nobler spirit, which betrayed itself in his
look and manner. He rose from the stool, walked twice across the narrow
office floor out to the warehouse, and finally down-stairs. In a word,
he took an inventory of the whole place, and it suddenly came home to
him, with a new accession of hope and strength, that it was his--that he
was absolutely monarch of all he surveyed, and could make or mar it as
he willed. It was not a stupendous heritage, but to one nameless and
unknown it was much. Nay, it was his opportunity--the tide in his
affairs which might lead him on to fortune. Wandering the length and
breadth of his kingdom--only a drysalter's warehouse, but still his
kingdom--hope took to herself white wings again, and, fluttering over
him, built for him many a castle in the air--castles high enough to
reach the skies. Then and there Walter Hepburn took courage and began to
face his life--laid his plans, which had for its reward a maiden's smile
and a maiden's heart. And for these men have conquered the world before,
and will again. Love still rules, and will, thanks be to God, till the
world is done.
Meanwhile Gladys, all unconscious alike of his deep dejection and his
happier mood, sat quite silently in the corner of the luxurious
carriage, her eyes dim with tears. Her kind friend, noticing that she
was moved, left her in peace. Her sympathy was true, and could be
quiet, and that is much.
'Suppose you sit up and look out, my dear?' she said at last. 'We are
crossing Kelvin Bridge. Have you been as far West before?'
Gladys sat up obediently, and looked from the carriage window upon the
river tumbling between its banks.
'Is this Glasgow?' she asked, wondering to see the trees waving greenly
in the gentle April breeze.
'Yes, my dear, of course; and we are almost home. I am sure you will be
glad, you look so tired,' said Mrs. Fordyce kindly. 'Never mind; you
shall have a cup of tea immediately, and then you shall lie down and
sleep as long as you like.'
'Oh, I never sleep in the day-time, thank you,' said Gladys; and as the
carriage swept along a handsome terrace and into Bellairs Crescent,
where the gardens were green with all the beauty of earliest summer, her
face visibly brightened.
'It is quite like the country,' she said. 'I cannot believe it is
Glasgow.'
'Sometimes we feel it dingy enough, my love. We are talking of the Coast
already, but perhaps we shall fall in love with the Crescent a second
time through you. Eh, my dear?' she said, with a nod. 'Well, here we
are.'
The carriage drew up before the steps of a handsome house, the door was
opened, and a dainty maid ran down to take the wraps. Gladys looked at
her curiously, and thought of Walter. Well, it was a great change.
Gladys had an eye for the beautiful, and the arrangement of the hall,
with its soft rugs, carved furniture, and green plants, with gleams of
statuary here and there, rested and delighted her.
'We'll just go to the drawing-room at once. My girls will be out of all
patience for tea,' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'Nay, my dear, don't shrink. I
assure you they are happy, kind-hearted girls, just like yourself.'
Gladys long remembered her first introduction to the brighter side of
life. She followed Mrs. Fordyce somewhat timidly into a large and
handsome room, and saw at the farther end, near the fireplace, a dainty
tea-table spread, and a young girl in a blue serge gown cutting a cake
into a silver basket. Another knelt at the fire. Gladys was struck by
the exceeding grace of her attitude, though she could not see her face.
'My dears,' said Mrs. Fordyce quickly, 'here we are. I hope tea is
ready? We are quite ready for it.'
'It has been up an age, mamma; Mina and I were thinking to ring for some
fresh tea. Is this Miss Graham?'
It was the one who had been kneeling by the fire who spoke, and she came
forward frankly and with a pleasant smile, though her eyes keenly noted
every detail of the stranger's appearance and attire.
'This is Clara, my elder daughter, my dear; and this is Mina. Is Leonard
not home?'
'Yes, but he won't come up. Leonard is our brother,' Clara explained to
Gladys,--'rather a spoiled boy, and he is mortally afraid of new girls,
as he calls them. But you will see him at dinner.'
In spite of a natural stateliness of look and manner, Clara had a kind
way with her. She took off their guest's cloak, and drew a comfortable
chair forward to the tea-table, while her sister made out the tea.
'Where's papa? Did he not come with you?' she asked her mother, leaving
Gladys a moment to herself.
'No; he went off at St. Vincent Street. He has been away from business
all day, you know.'
'Oh yes. This has been a sad day for you,' said Clara sympathetically,
turning to Gladys. 'Mamma has told us how lonely you are, but we shall
try to cheer you. Won't we, Mina?'
'Suppose you begin by giving her some tea?' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'Then she
must have a little rest. She has very long cared for others, she must
have a taste of being cared for now.'
Gladys could not speak a word. She felt at home. A vague, delicious
sense of rest stole over her as she listened to these kind words, and
felt the subtle, beautiful influences of the place about her. It was
only a pleasant family room, which taste and wealth had appointed and
adorned, but it seemed like a king's palace to the girl who had long
walked in the darker places of the earth. Seeing her thus moved, mother
and daughters talked to each other, discussing the pleasant gossip of
the day, which always seems to gather round the table at five-o'clock
tea.
'Now, Clara, you will take Miss Graham up-stairs. I think you must allow
us to call you Gladys, my dear,' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'I am going to leave
you in charge of Clara. When you know us better, you will find out that
it takes Mina all her time to take charge of herself.'
Mina shook her finger at her mother, and a slight blush rose to her
happy face.
'Too bad, mamma, to prejudice Miss Graham against me. The difference
between my sister and me,' she added, turning to Gladys, 'is that Clara
is always proper and conventional, and I am the reverse. You can never
catch her unawares or in an untidy gown, she is always just as
immaculate as you see her now; while I am--well, just as the spirit
moves me.' She swept a little mocking courtesy to her sister, who only
smiled and shook her head, then taking Gladys by the arm, led her from
the drawing-room.
'You must not mind Mina. She often speaks without thinking, but she
never wishes to hurt any one,' she said. 'We have both been so sorry for
you since papa told us about you, and we hope you will feel happy and at
home with us here.'
'Oh, I am sure I shall, you are all so kind,' cried Gladys impulsively.
It was natural that she should exaggerate any little courtesy or
kindness shown to her, she had known so little of it in her life.
'It is such a romance! To think you are an heiress, and that beautiful
Bourhill is all your own,' continued Clara.
'Do you know it?' interrupted Gladys, with more interest than she had
yet betrayed.
'Yes; I have been there. We have a house at Troon, and of course when we
are there we drive a good deal. Papa pointed it out to us one day, and
said it was sad to see it going to decay. We had no idea then that we
should ever know you. This is your room; it is quite close to Mina's and
mine. See, the river is just before the windows. I always think the
Kelvin looks so pretty from here, because one cannot see its impurity.'
'It is beautiful--a great change for me,' said Gladys dreamily, as her
eyes roamed round the spacious and elegant guest-chamber. 'How pleasant
it must be always to live among so many beautiful things! I have loved
them all my life, but I have seen so few since I came from the fen
country with my uncle.'
'It was very strange that he, so rich, should keep you in that wretched
place,' said Clara. 'How much better had he shared it all with you while
he lived.'
'Yes; but I think he was happier as it was, and it pleased him at the
end, I know, to think that he had given me Bourhill.'
'I am sure it did. Well, I shall go now, dear, and leave you to unpack.
You will find the wardrobe and all the drawers empty. Mamma will be
coming to you immediately, likely.'
With a nod and a smile, Clara took herself off to the drawing-room
again.
'What do you think of Miss Graham of Bourhill?' asked Mina, with her
mouth full of cake. 'Quite to the manner born. Don't you think so?'
'Quite. And isn't she lovely? Wait till mamma has taken her to Redfern,
and then you and I may retire, my dear; we shall be eclipsed.'
'If so, let us be resigned. One thing I know, you don't believe in
presentiments, of course, you matter-of-fact young person, but I feel
that she is to be mixed up with us in some mysterious way, and that some
day, perhaps, we may wish we had never seen Miss Graham of Bourhill.'
[Illustration]