The Guinea Stamp Part 11

'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? n.o.body 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER X.

IN AYRs.h.i.+RE.

The old man pa.s.sed a quiet night, and was so much better in the morning that he insisted on getting up.

'What kind of a morning is it?' was the first question he put to Gladys when she entered the kitchen soon after six o'clock.

'A lovely morning, uncle, so balmy and soft. You can't think what a difference from yesterday, and there's a bird singing a spring song in my tree.'

Often yet she said such things. The grey monotony of her life had not quite destroyed the poetic vein, nor the love of all things beautiful.

'Warm, is it? Have you been out?'

'Not yet; but I opened my window and put my head out, and the air was quite mild. A spring morning, Uncle Abel, the first we have had this year.'

'Any sun?'

'Not yet, but he will be up by and by. How have you slept?'

'Pretty well. I am better this morning--quite well, in fact, and directly you have the fire on I'll get up.'

'Don't be rash, uncle, I really think you ought to stay in bed to-day.'

'No; I have something to do. How soon can you be ready--finished with your work, I mean? Have you anything you can leave ready for Wat's dinner?'

'Why, Uncle Abel?' asked Gladys, in surprise.

'Because I want you to go somewhere with me.'

'You are not going out of this house one foot to-day,' she answered quickly. 'It would be very dangerous.'

The old man smiled, slightly amused, but not displeased, by the decision with which she spoke. 'We'll see, if it keeps fine, and the sun comes out. I'm going to-day, whatever the consequences, and you with me. It's been put off too long.'

Gladys asked no more questions, but made haste to build up the fire and get him a cup of tea before he rose.

'Put on your warm clothes, and make ready for a journey in the train, Gladys,' he said after breakfast.

She looked at him doubtfully, almost wondering if his mind did not wander a little.

'Uncle Abel, what are you thinking of? You never go journeys in trains.

It will not be safe for you to go to-day, with such a cold,' she exclaimed.

'I am going, my dear, as I said, and so are you, whatever the consequences, so get ready as fast as you like, so that we may have the best of the day.'

'Is it a far journey?'

'You'll see when you get there,' he replied rather shortly; and Gladys, still wondering much, made haste with her work, and began to dress for this unexpected outing. But she felt uneasy, and, stealing a moment, ran up to Walter, who was busy in the warehouse, and revelling in the unaccustomed luxury of a blazing fire.

'How nice it is, and what a difference a fire can make, to be sure,' she said quickly. 'I say, Walter, such a thing! Uncle Abel is going a journey,--a railway journey, actually,--and I am going with him. Has he said anything to you? Have you any idea what it means?'

'Not I. He's a queer old chap. Not off his head, I hope?'

'Oh no, and he says he is quite well. I don't know what to think.

Perhaps I shall understand it when I come back. You will find your dinner in the oven, Walter; and be sure to keep up a good fire all day down-stairs, in case uncle should come back very cold and tired. I am afraid he will, but it is no use saying anything.'

Walter leaned his elbows on the soap-boxes, and looked into the girl's face with a curious soberness.

'Something's going to happen, I feel it--something I don't like. I'm oppressed with an awful queer feeling. I hope they're not worse than usual at home.'

'Oh no, you are letting your imagination run away with you,' she said brightly. 'I hope you will have such a busy day you won't have time to think of such things;' and, bidding him good-morning, she ran down again to her uncle.

Then, for the first time since that memorable and dreary journey from the fen country, these two, the old man and the maiden, went forth together. Both thought of that journey, though it was not spoken of. She could not fail to see that there was a certain excitement in the old man; it betrayed itself in his restless movements and in the gleam of his piercing eye. Gladys no longer feared the glance of his eye nor the sound of his voice. A quiet confidence had established itself between them, and she really loved him. It was impossible for her to dwell beside a human being, not absolutely repulsive, without pouring some of the riches of her affection upon him. As for him, Gladys herself had not the remotest idea how he regarded her, did not dream that she had awakened in his withered heart a slow and all-absorbing affection, the strength of which surprised himself. He bade her stand back while he went to the booking-office for the tickets, and they were in the train before she repeated her question regarding their destination.