THOSE LEFT BEHIND.
hat was a sad night for Gladys Graham and for Walter. Feeling that she required the help and presence of a woman, Walter ran up for the kind-hearted Mrs. Macintyre, whom Gladys had occasionally seen and spoken with since she took up her abode in Colquhoun Street. It is among the very poor we find the rarest instances of disinterested and sympathetic kindness—deeds of true neighbourliness, performed without thought or expectation of reward. Mrs. Macintyre required no second bidding. In five minutes she was with the stricken girl, ready, in her rough way, to do all that was necessary, and to take the burden off the young shoulders so early inured to care. When their work was done, and Abel Graham lay placidly upon the pure linen of his last bed, Mrs. Macintyre suggested that Gladys should go home with her for the night.
'It's no' for ye bidin' here yersel', my doo,' she said, with homely but sincere sympathy. 'My place is sma', but it's clean, an' ye're welcome to it.'
Gladys shook her head.
'I don't mind staying here, I assure you. I have seen death before. It is not dreadful to me,' she said, glancing at the calm, reposeful face of her uncle, and being most tenderly struck by the resemblance to her own father. Death is always kind, and will give us, when we least expect it, some sudden compensation for what he takes from us. That faint resemblance composed Gladys, and gave her yet more loving thoughts of the old man. He had been kind when, in his own rugged way, the first harshness of his bearing towards her had swiftly been mellowed by her own sweet, subtle influence. We must not too harshly blame Abel Graham; his environment had been of a kind to foster the least beautiful attributes of his nature.
The only being Gladys could think of to help her with the other arrangements was Mr. Fordyce. She seemed to turn naturally to him in her time of need. A message sent to St. Vincent Street in the morning brought him speedily, and he greeted her with a mixture of fatherly compassion and sympathy which broke her down.
'You see it has not been long,' she said, with a quiver of the lips. 'I do not know what to do, or how to act. I thought you would know everything.'
'I know what is necessary here, at least, my dear, and it shall be done,' he said kindly. 'The first thing I would suggest is that you should come home with me just now.'
Gladys looked at him wonderingly, and shook her head.
'You are very kind, but that is quite impossible,' she said quickly. 'I shall not leave here until all is over, and then I do not know what I shall do. God will show me.'
The lawyer was deeply moved.
'My dear young lady, has it never occurred to you that there might be something left for you, a substantial provision, which will place you at once above the need of considering what you are to do, so far as providing for yourself is concerned?'
'I have not thought about it. Is it so?' she asked quickly, yet not with the eager elation of the expectant heir.
'You are very well left indeed,' he answered. 'If you like, I can explain it to you now.'
But Gladys shrank a little as she glanced towards the bed.
'Not now. Let it be after it is all over. It does not matter now. I know it will be all right.'
'Just as you will; but I cannot bear to go and leave you here, Miss Graham. Will you not think better of it? My wife and daughters will be glad to see you, and they will be very kind and sympathetic, I can assure you of that. Let me take you away.'
But Gladys, though grateful, still shook her head.
'I promised your uncle to take care of you,' he urged. 'If I go and leave you in such sad circumstances here, so alone, I should feel that I am not redeeming my promise.'
'I thank you, and I shall come, perhaps, after, if you are so kind as to wish me to come, but not now. And I am not quite alone here. I have Walter.'
Mr. Fordyce did not know what to say. It was impossible for him to suggest that Walter's very presence in the house was one reason why she should quit it. She knew nothing of conventionalities or proprieties, and this was not the time to suggest them to her mind. He could only leave the whole matter at rest.
'Can I see this Walter?' he asked then. 'I have papers in my hand concerning him also. I may as well see him now.'
'He is up-stairs. Shall I call him down?'
'No. I shall go up,' answered the lawyer; and Gladys pointed him to the stairs leading up to the warehouse. Walter rose from his stool at the desk and stood at the door of the little office.
'Good-morning,' both said, and then they looked at each other quite steadily for a moment. Mr. Fordyce was astonished at the lad's youth, still more at his manly and independent bearing, and he told himself that this strange client had exhibited considerable shrewdness in the disposal of his worldly goods.
'This is a very sad affair,' said the lawyer,—'sad and sudden. Mr. Graham was an old man, but he has always been so robust, he appeared to have the prospect of still longer life. It will make a great change here.'
'It will, sir.' Walter placed a chair for him, and a look of genuine relief was visible on his face. 'I am very glad you have come up. I was sitting here thinking over things. It is a very strange case.'
'You know something, I presume, of this business, whether it was a paying concern or not?' said the lawyer keenly.
'It is a large business done in a small way, sir,—a worrying, unsatisfactory kind of business, I know that much; but my master always kept his books himself, and I had no means of knowing whether it really paid or not. I know there were bad debts—a lot of them; but I am quite ignorant of the state of affairs. I have only one hope, sir, which I trust will not be disappointed'—
'Well?' inquired the lawyer steadily, when the young man stopped hesitatingly.
'That there will be something left for Miss Gladys. That has troubled me ever since the master took ill.'
'You may set your mind at rest, then. Miss Graham will be a rich woman.'
Walter looked incredulous at these words.
'A rich woman?' he repeated,—'a rich woman? Oh, I am glad of it!'
His face flushed, his eye shone, with the intensity of his emotion. He was very young, but these signs betrayed an interest in the fate of Gladys Graham which stirred a vague pity in the lawyer's heart.
'Yes, a rich woman; and you are not forgotten. There is a will, which, however, Miss Graham desires shall not be read till after the funeral; but there is no harm in telling you a part of its contents which concerns you. Mr. Graham had the very highest opinion of your character and ability, and though he may not have seemed very appreciative in life, he has not forgotten to mark substantially his approval. You are left absolutely in control of this business, with the power to make of it what you will, and there is a legacy of five hundred pounds to enable you to carry it on.'
Walter became quite pale, and began to tremble, though he was not given to such exhibitions of nervousness.
'Oh, sir, there must be some mistake, surely,' he said quickly. 'It cannot be true.'
'It is quite true, and I congratulate you, and wish you every success. There are very few young men in similar circumstances who have such an opportunity given them. I hope you will be guided to use both means and opportunity for the best possible end. I shall be glad to be of any service to you at any time. Do not scruple to ask me. I mean what I say.'
They were commonplace words, but spoken with an earnest sincerity which indicated a deeper feeling.
Mr. Fordyce looked round the large dingy warehouse with a slightly puzzled air.
'Who would think that there was so much money in this affair?' he said musingly. 'But I suppose it was carried on at very little expense. Well, the poor old man had little pleasure in life. It was a great mistake. He might have blessed himself and others with his means in his lifetime. It is strange that the young lady should appear to mourn so sincerely for him; it was an awful life for her here.'
'He was never unkind to her,' answered Walter; 'and latterly he could not do enough for her. She won him completely, and made a different man of him.'
'I quite believe it. One of the weak things of the world,' he said more to himself than to his listener. 'There's a different life opening up for her; it will be a great change to her. Well, good-morning. I wish you well, and you'll remember my desire to be a friend to you should you ever need me.'
'I won't forget,' replied Walter, with beaming eye. 'Miss Gladys said you would make all the arrangements for the funeral.'
'I will. They are easily made, because Mr. Graham left the most explicit directions. He desires to be buried by his own folk in the churchyard of Mauchline. I am going out this afternoon.'
Then the lawyer went away, but before proceeding to the station he wrote a note to his wife, and sent it by a messenger to his house at Kelvinside.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, as Gladys was putting a black ribbon in her hat, a cab rattled over the rough causeway, and a knock came to the house door; and when Gladys went to open it, what was her surprise to behold on the threshold a lady, richly dressed, but wearing on her sweet, motherly face a look so truly kind that the girl's heart warmed to her at once.
'I am Mrs. Fordyce,' the lady said. 'You, I think, are Miss Graham? May I come in?'
'Certainly, madam.'
Gladys held open the door wide, and Mrs. Fordyce entered the dark and gloomy passage.
'We have a very small, poor place,' said Gladys, as she led the way. 'I ought to tell you that I have no room to show you into, except where my poor uncle lies.'
'My dear, I quite know. Mr. Fordyce has told me. It is you I have come to see.'
When they entered the kitchen, she laid her two kind hands on the girl's shoulders, and turned her face to the light. Then, with a sudden impulse, she bent down and kissed her brow. Gladys burst into tears. It was the first kiss she had received since she came to Glasgow, and that simple caress, with its accompanying tenderness of look and manner, opened the floodgates of her pent heart, and taught her her own loneliness and need.
'I cannot leave you here, my dear child. My carriage is at the door. You must come home with me. I shall bring you back quite early to-morrow, but I must insist on taking you away to-night. It is not possible you can stay here.'
'I must, I will. You are truly kind, but I shall not leave my home till I must. I have my own little room, and I am not quite alone. Walter is up-stairs.'
Mrs. Fordyce saw that she was firm. She looked at her in wonder, noting with practised eyes the neat refinement of her poor dress, her sweet grace and delicate beauty. To find a creature so fair in such a place was like coming suddenly on a pure flower blooming in a stony street.
'Your position is very lonely, but you will not find yourself without friends. We must respect your wish to remain here, though the thought will make me unhappy to-night,' said the kind woman. 'You will promise to come to us immediately all is over?'
'If you still wish it; only there is poor Walter. It will be so dreadful for me to leave him quite alone.'
Mrs. Fordyce could not restrain a smile. The child-heart still dwelt in Gladys, though she was almost a woman grown.
'Ah, my dear, you know nothing of the world. It is like reading a fairy story to look at you and hear you speak. I hope—I hope the world will not spoil you.'
'Why should it spoil me? I can never know it except from you,' she said simply.
Mrs. Fordyce looked round the large, dimly-lighted place with eyes in which a wonder of pity lay.
'My child, is it possible that you have lived here almost two years, as my husband tells me, with no companion but an old man and a working lad?'
'I have been quite happy,' Gladys replied, with a slight touch of dignity not lost upon the lawyer's wife.
'Perhaps because you knew nothing else. We will show you what life can hold for such as you,' she answered kindly; and there came a day when Gladys reminded her of these words in the bitterness of a wounded heart.
When her visitor left, Gladys ran up-stairs to Walter. They had so long depended on each other for solace and sympathy, that it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to share this new experience with him.
'You heard the lady speaking, did you not, Walter?' she asked breathlessly. 'It was Mr. Fordyce's wife; she is so beautiful and so kind. Just think, she would have taken me away with her in her carriage.'
'And why didn't you go?' asked Walter in a dull, even voice, and without appearing in the least interested.
'Oh because I could not leave just now,' she said slowly, quite conscious of a change in his voice and look.
'But you will go, I suppose, after?'
'I suppose so. They seem to wish it very much.'
'And you want to go, of course. They are very grand West End swells. I know their house—a big mansion looking over the Kelvin,' he said, not bitterly, but in the same even, indifferent voice.
'I don't know anything about them. If that is true, it is still kinder of them to think of such a poor girl as I.'
To the astonishment of Gladys, Walter broke into a laugh, not a particularly pleasant one.
'Six months after this you'll maybe take a different view,' he said shortly.
'Why, Walter, what has come to you? You have so many moods now I never know quite how to talk to you.'
'That's true,' he answered brusquely. 'I'm a fool, and nobody knows it better than I.'
