Читать книгу The Guinea Stamp: A Tale of Modern Glasgow - Annie S. Swan - Страница 24

t 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.