DARKENING DAYS.
n 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.'
