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THE GUINEA STAMP

by

ANNIE S. SWAN

* * * * *

FIVE SHILLING SERIES.

_THE GATES OF EDEN._

A Story of Endeavour. By ANNIE S. SWAN. Large crown 8vo, cloth,
with Portrait of the Authoress.

_BRIAR AND PALM._

A Study of Circumstance and Influence. By ANNIE S. SWAN. Large
crown 8vo, cloth extra, Illustrated.

_ONE FALSE STEP._

By ANDREW STEWART. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra, Illustrated.

_NOEL CHETWYND'S FALL._

By Mrs. J. H. NEEDELL. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra,
Illustrated.

_SIR JOHN'S WARD._

By JANE H. JAMIESON. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra,
Frontispiece.

_ST. VEDA'S; or, The Pearl of Orr's Haven._

By ANNIE S. SWAN. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra, with
Frontispiece by ROBERT M'GREGOR.

_KILGARVIE._

By ROBINA F. HARDY. With Frontispiece by ROBERT
M'GREGOR, R. S. A. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra.

_MADELINE POWER._

By ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra.

_AFTER TOUCH OF WEDDED HANDS._

By HANNAH B. MACKENZIE. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra.

_THE GUINEA STAMP._

A Tale of Modern Glasgow. By ANNIE S. SWAN. Large crown 8vo,
cloth extra.

Edinburgh & London:
Oliphant Anderson & Ferrier.

* * * * *

THE GUINEA STAMP

A Tale of Modern Glasgow

by

ANNIE S. SWAN
(Mrs. Burnett-Smith)

Author of
'Aldersyde,' 'Across Her Path,' 'The Gates of Eden,' 'The Ayres of
Studleigh,' 'Who Shall Serve?'

'_The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a that._'

Edinburgh and London
Oliphant Anderson & Ferrier
1892

Books By Annie S. Swan.

6s.

_Sheila._ With Frontispiece.
_Maitland of Laurieston._

5s.

_The Gates of Eden._ With Portrait of the Authoress.
_Briar and Palm._ With Six Chalk Drawings.
_St. Veda's._ With Frontispiece by Robert M'Gregor.
_The Guinea Stamp. A Tale of Modern Glasgow._

3s. 6d.

_Aldersyde._ With Six Original Illustrations by Tom Scott.
_Carlowrie._ With Six Original Illustrations by Tom Scott.
_Doris Cheyne._ With Illustrations of the English Lake District.
_Who Shall Serve? A Story for the Times._

2s. 6d.

_Aldersyde._
_Carlowrie._
_Hazell & Sons._ Illustrated.
_A Divided House._ Illustrated.
_Ursula Vivian._ Illustrated.
_The Ayres of Studleigh._ Illustrated.

2s. In Paper Boards.

_Aldersyde._
_Carlowrie._
_The Ayres of Studleigh._ Illustrated.

Cloth, 1s. 6d.; Paper Covers, 1s. Illustrated.

_Across Her Path._
_A Divided House._ Cheap Edition.
_Sundered Hearts._
_Robert Martin's Lesson._
_Mistaken, and Marion Forsyth._
_Shadowed Lives._
_Ursula Vivian._ Cheap Edition.
_Dorothea Kirke._
_Vita Vinctis._ By Robina F. Hardy, Annie S. Swan, and
Jessie M. E. Saxby.
_Wrongs Righted._
_The Secret Panel._
_Thomas Dryburgh's Dream, and Miss Baxter's Bequest._
_Twice Tried._
_A Vexed Inheritance._
_Hazell & Sons._ Cheap Edition.
_A Bachelor in Search of a Wife._

Cloth, 9d.

_Mistaken._
_Marion Forsyth._
_Thomas Dryburgh's Dream._
_Miss Baxter's Bequest._

6d.

_Douglas Roy._
_Katie's Christmas Lesson._
_Tom's Memorable Christmas._
_Bess: The Story of a Waif._
_The Bonnie Jean._

Edinburgh and London
OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER.
MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

[Illustration]

CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAGE

I. FATHERLESS, 7

II. WHAT TO DO WITH HER, 16

III. THE NEW HOME, 26

IV. A RAY OF LIGHT, 34

V. LIZ, 43

VI. PICTURES OF LIFE, 51

VII. LIZ SPEAKS HER MIND, 60

VIII. EDGED TOOLS, 68

IX. AN IMPENDING CHANGE, 77

X. IN AYRSHIRE, 86

XI. DARKENING DAYS, 95

XII. SETTING HIS HOUSE IN ORDER, 104

XIII. THE LAST SUMMONS, 113

XIV. THOSE LEFT BEHIND, 122

XV. HER INHERITANCE, 131

XVI. FAREWELL, 139

XVII. THE WEST END, 148

XVIII. 'THE DAYS THAT ARE NOT,' 157

XIX. THE SWEETS OF LIFE, 166

XX. PLANS, 174

XXI. ACROSS THE CHANNEL, 182

XXII. A HELPING HAND, 190

XXIII. REAL AND IDEAL, 198

XXIV. THE UNEXPECTED, 206

XXV. THE FIRST WOOER, 214

XXVI. UNDER DISCUSSION, 222

XXVII. GLADYS AND WALTER, 229

XXVIII. A TROUBLED HEART, 236

XXIX. AN AWAKENING, 243

XXX. TOO LATE! 250

XXXI. 'WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN,' 259

XXXII. THE WANDERER, 266

XXXIII. A FAITHFUL FRIEND, 274

XXXIV. WHAT WILL SHE DO? 283

XXXV. A REVELATION, 291

XXXVI. TETE-A-TETE, 299

XXXVII. CHUMS, 307

XXXVIII. IN VAIN, 315

XXXIX. GONE, 323

XL. THE MATRONS ADVISE, 331

XLI. A GREAT RELIEF, 338

XLII. A DISCOVERY, 345

XLIII. A WOMAN'S HEART, 352

XLIV. THE MAGDALENE, 361

XLV. THE BOLT FALLS, 369

XLVI. THE WORLD WELL LOST, 377

[Illustration]

THE GUINEA STAMP

CHAPTER I.

FATHERLESS.

It was an artist's studio, a poor, shabby little place, with a latticed
window facing the north. There was nothing in the furnishing or
arrangement of the room to suggest successful work, or even artistic
taste. A few tarnished gold frames leaned against the gaudily-papered
wall, and the only picture stood on the dilapidated easel in the middle
of the floor, a small canvas of a woman's head, a gentle Madonna face,
with large supplicating eyes, and a sensitive, sad mouth, which seemed
to mourn over the desolation of the place. The palette and a few worn
brushes were scattered on the floor, where the artist had laid them down
for ever. There was one living creature in the room, a young girl, not
more than sixteen, sitting on a stool by the open window, looking out
listlessly on the stretch of dreary fenland, shrouded in the cold and
heavy mist. It was a day on which the scenery of the fen country looked
desolate, cheerless, and chill. These green meadows and flat stretches
have need of the sunshine to warm them always. Sitting there in the soft
grey light, Gladys Graham looked more of a woman than a child, though
her gown did not reach her ankles, and her hair hung in a thick golden
plait down her back. Her face was very careworn and very sad, her eyes
red and dim with long weeping. There was not on the face of the earth a
more desolate creature than the gentle, slender girl, the orphan of a
day. At an age when life should be a joyous and lovely thing to the
maiden child, Gladys Graham found herself face to face with its grimmest
reality, certain of only one thing, that somewhere and somehow she must
earn her bread. She was thinking of it at that moment, with her white
brows perplexedly knitted, her mouth made stern by doubt and
apprehension and despair; conning in her mind her few meagre
accomplishments, asking herself how much they were likely to bring in
the world's great mart. She could read and write and add a simple sum,
finger the keys of the piano and the violin strings with a musicianly
touch, draw a little, and dream a great deal. That was the sum total of
her acquirements, and she knew very well that the value of such things
was _nil_. What, then, must become of her? The question had become a
problem, and she was very far away yet from its solution.

The house was a plain and primitive cottage in the narrow street of a
little Lincolnshire village--a village which was a relic of the old
days, before the drainage system was introduced, transforming the fens
into a fertile garden, which seems to bloom and blossom summer and
winter through. Its old houses reminded one of a Dutch picture, which
the quaint bridges across the waterways served to enhance. There are
many such in the fen country, dear to the artist's soul.

John Graham was not alone in his love for the wide reaches, level as the
sea, across which every village spire could be seen for many a mile. Not
very far away, in clear weather, the great tower of Boston, not
ungraceful, stood out in awe-inspiring grandeur against the sky, and was
pointed out with pride and pleasure by all who loved the fens and
rejoiced in the revived prosperity of their ancient capital. For ten
years John Graham had been painting pictures of these level and
monotonous plains, and of the bits to be found at every village corner,
but somehow, whether people had tired of them, or hesitated to give
their money for an unknown artist's work, the fortune he had dreamed of
never came. The most of the pictures found their way to the second-hand
dealers, and were there sold often for the merest trifle. He had somehow
missed his mark,--had proved himself a failure,--and the world has not
much patience or sympathy with failures. A great calamity, such as a
colossal bankruptcy, which proves the bankrupt to be more rogue than
fool, arouses in it a touch of admiration, and even a curious kind of
respect; but with the man out at elbows, who has striven vainly against
fearful odds, though he may have kept his integrity throughout, it will
have nothing to do; he will not be forgiven for having failed.

And now, when he lay dead, the victim of an ague contracted in his
endeavour to catch a winter effect in a marshy hollow, there was nobody
to mourn him but his motherless child. It was very pitiful, and surely
in the wide world there must have been found some compassionate heart
who would have taken the child by the hand and ministered unto her for
Christ's sake. If any such there were, Gladys had never heard of them,
and did not believe they lived. She was very old in knowledge of the
world, that bitterest of all knowledge, which poverty had taught. She
had even known what it was, that gentle child, to be hungry and have
nothing to eat--a misery enhanced by the proud, sensitive spirit which
was the only heritage John Graham had left the daughter for whom, most
cheerfully, he would have laid down his life. The village people had
been kind after their homely way; but they, working hard all day with
their hands, and eating at eventide the substantial bread of their
honest toil, were possessed of a great contempt for the worn and haggard
man who tramped their meadow-ways with his sketch-books under his arm,
his daughter always with him, preserving still the look and manners of
the gently born, though they wore the shabbiest of shabby garments, and
could scarcely pay for the simple food they ate. It was a great mystery
to them, and they regarded the spectacle with the impatience of those
who did not understand.

It was the month of November, and very early that grey day the chilly
darkness fell. When she could no longer see across the narrow street,
Gladys let her head fall on her hands, and so sat very still. She had
eaten nothing for many hours, and though feeling faint and weak, it did
not occur to her to seek something to strengthen her. She had something
more important than such trifling matters to engross her thoughts. She
was so sitting, hopeless, melancholy, half-dazed, when she heard the
voice of an arrival down-stairs, and the unaccustomed tones of a man's
voice mingling with the shriller notes of Miss Peck, their little
landlady. It was not the curate's voice, with which Gladys had grown
quite familiar during her father's illness. He had been very kind; and
in his desperation, when his end approached, Graham had implored him to
look after Gladys. It was a curious charge to lay upon a young man's
shoulders, but Clement Courtney had accepted it cheerfully, and had even
written to his widowed mother, who lived alone in a Dorsetshire village,
asking her advice about the girl. Gladys was disturbed in her solitude
by Miss Peck, who came to the door in rather an excited and officious
manner. She was a little, wiry spinster, past middle life, eccentric,
but kind-hearted. She had bestowed a great deal of gratuitous and
genuine kindness on her lodgers, though knowing very well that she would
not likely get any return but gratitude for it; but times were hard with
her likewise, and she could not help thinking regretfully at times of
the money, only her due, which she would not likely touch now that the
poor artist was gone. She had a little lamp in her hand, and she held it
up so that the light fell full on the child's pale face.

'Miss Gladys, my dear, it is a gentleman for you. He says he is your
uncle,' she said, and her thin voice quite trembled with her great
excitement.

'My uncle?' repeated Gladys wistfully. 'Oh yes; it will be Uncle Abel
from Scotland. Mr. Courtney said he had written to him.'

She rose from her stool and turned to follow Miss Peck down-stairs.

'In the sitting-room, my dear, he waits for you,' said Miss Peck, and a
look of extreme pity softened her pinched features into tenderness. 'I
hope--I hope, my dear, he will be good to you.' She did not add what she
thought, that the chances were against it; and, still holding the lamp
aloft, she guided Gladys down-stairs. There was no hesitation, but
neither was there elation or pleasant anticipation in the girl's manner
as she entered the room. She had ceased to expect anything good or
bright to come to her any more, and perhaps it was as well just then
that her outlook in life was so gloomy; it lessened the certainty of
disappointment. A little lamp also burned on the round table in the
middle of the narrow sitting-room, and the fire feebly blinked behind
Miss Peck's carefully-polished bars, as if impressed by the subdued
atmosphere without and within. Close by the table stood a very little
man, enveloped in a long loosely-fitting overcoat, his hat in one hand
and a large damp umbrella in the other. He had an abnormally large head,
and a soft, flabby, uninteresting face, which, however, was redeemed
from vacancy by the gleam and glitter of his remarkably keen and
piercing black eyes. His hair was grey, and a straggling beard, grey
also, adorned his heavy chin. Gladys was conscious of a strong sense of
repulsion as she looked at him, but she tried not to show it, and feebly
smiled as she extended her hand.

'Are you Uncle Abel, papa's brother?' she asked--a perfectly unnecessary
question, of course, but it fell from her involuntarily, the contrast
was so great; almost she could have called him an impostor on the spot.

'Yes,' said Uncle Abel in a harsh undertone; 'and you, I suppose, are my
niece?'

'Yes. Can I take your overcoat or your umbrella?' asked Gladys; 'and
would you like some tea? I can ask Miss Peck to get it. I have not had
any myself--now I come to think of it.'

'I'll take off my coat. Yes, you can take it away, but don't order tea
yet. We had better talk first--talking always makes one hungry; then we
can have tea, and we won't require any supper. These are the economics
poor people have to study. I guess you are no stranger to them?'

Gladys again faintly smiled. She was not in the least surprised. Poverty
had long been her companion, she expected nothing but to have it for her
companion still. She took her uncle's hat and overcoat, hung them in the
little hall, and returned to the room, closing the door.

'Perhaps you are cold, uncle?' she said, and, grasping the poker, was
about to stir up the fire, when he hastily took it from her, with an
expression of positive pain on his face.

'Don't; it is quite warm. We can't afford to be extravagant; and I
daresay,' he added, with a backward jerk of his thumb towards the door,
'like the rest of her tribe, she'll know how to charge. Sit down there,
and let us talk.'

Gladys sat down, feeling a trifle hurt and abashed. They had always been
very poor, she and her father, but they had never obtruded it on their
own notice, but had tried cheerfully always to accept what they had with
a thankful heart. But Love dwelt with them always, and she can make
divine her humblest fare.

Mr. Abel Graham fumbled in the inner pocket of his very shabby coat, and
at last brought out a square envelope, from which he took the curate's
letter.

'I have come,' he said quite slowly, 'in answer to this. I suppose you
knew it had been written?'

'If it is Mr. Courtney's letter, yes,' answered Gladys, unconsciously
adopting her uncle's business-like tone and manner. 'Of course he told
me he had written.'

'And you expected me to come, of course?'

'I don't think I thought about it much,' Gladys answered, with
frankness. 'It is very good of you to come so soon.'

'I came because it was my duty. Not many people do their duty in this
world, but though I'm a very poor man, I won't shirk it--no, I won't
shirk it.' He rubbed his hands together slowly, and nodded across the
hearth to his niece. Instead of being pleased, as she ought to have
been, with this announcement, she gave a quick little shiver. 'My
brother John--your father, I mean--and I have not met for a good number
of years, not since we had the misfortune to disagree about a trifle,'
continued the old man, keeping his eyes fixed on the girl's face till
she found herself made nervous by them. 'Time has proved that I was
right, quite right; but my brother John was always, if you will excuse
me saying it, rather pigheaded, and'--

'Don't let us speak about him if you do not feel kindly to him!' cried
the girl, her great eyes flashing, her slender frame trembling with
indignation. 'I will not listen, I will go away and leave you, Uncle
Abel, if you speak harshly of papa.'

'So'--Abel Graham slapped his knee as he uttered this meditative
monosyllable, and continued to regard his niece with keener scrutiny, if
that were possible, than before. 'It is John's temper--a very firebrand.
My dear, you are very young, and you should not be above taking advice.
Let me advise you to control that fiery passion. Temper doesn't pay--it
is one of the things which nothing can ever make pay in this world.
Well, will you be so kind as to give me a little insight into the state
of your affairs? A poor enough state they appear to be in, if this
parson writes truly--only parsons are accustomed to draw the long bow,
for the purpose of ferreting money out of people's pockets. Well, my
dear, have you nothing to tell me?'

Gladys continued to look at him with dislike and distrust she made no
attempt to disguise. If only he would not call her 'my dear.' She
resented the familiarity. He had no right to presume on such a short
acquaintance.

'I have nothing to tell you, I think,' she said very coldly, 'except
that papa is dead, and I have to earn my own living.'

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

WHAT TO DO WITH HER.

'Your own living? I am glad to hear you put it so sensibly. I must say I
hardly expected it,' said the old man, with engaging frankness. 'Well,
but tell me first what your name is. I don't know what to call you.'

'Gladys,' she answered; and her uncle received the information in
evident disapproval.

'Gladys! Now, what on earth is the meaning of such a name? Your father
and mother ought to be ashamed of themselves! Why can't people name
their children so that people won't stare when they hear it? Jane,
Susan, Margaret, Christina,--I'm sure there are hundreds of decent names
they might have given you. I think a law should be passed that no child
shall be named until he is old enough to choose for himself. Mine is bad
enough,--they might as well have christened me Cain when they were at
it,--but Gladys, it beats all!'

'I have another name, Uncle Abel. I was baptized Gladys Mary.'

'Ah, that's better. Well, I'll call you Mary; it's not so heathenish.
And tell me what you have thought of doing for yourself?'

'I have thought of it a great deal, but I have not been able to come to
any decision,' answered Gladys. 'Both papa and Mr. Courtney thought I
had better wait until you came.'

'Your father expected me to come, then?'

'Yes, to the last he hoped you would. He had something to say to you, he
said. And the last morning, when his mind began to wander, he talked of
you a great deal.'

These details Gladys gave in a dry, even voice, which betrayed a keen
effort. She spoke almost as if she had set herself a task.

'I came as soon as I could. The parson wrote urgently, but I know how
parsons draw the long bow, so I didn't hurry. Business must be attended
to, whatever happens. You don't know what it was your father wished to
say? He never asked you to write it, or anything?'

'No, but in his wandering he talked of money a great deal, and he seemed
to think,' she added, with a slight hesitation, 'that you had taken some
from him. Of course it was only his fancy. Sick people often think such
things.'

'He could not possibly in his senses have thought so, for I never had
any money, or he either. We could not rob each other when there was
nothing to rob,' said the old man, but he avoided slightly his niece's
clear gaze. 'Well, Mary, I am willing to do what I can for you, as you
are my brother's only child, so you had better prepare to return to
Scotland with me.'

Gladys tried to veil her shrinking from the prospect, but her sweet face
grew even graver as she listened.

'I am a very poor man,' he repeated, with an emphasis which left no
doubt that he wished it to be impressed firmly on her mind,--'very poor;
but I trust I know my duty. I don't suppose, now, that you have been
taught to work with your hands--in the house, I mean--the woman's
kingdom?'

This sentimental phrase fell rather oddly from the old man's lips. He
looked the very last man to entertain any high and chivalrous ideal of
womanhood. Gladys could not forbear a smile as she answered,--

'I am afraid I am rather ignorant, Uncle Abel. I have never had occasion
to do it.'

'Never had occasion; hear her!' repeated the old man, quite as if
addressing an audience. 'She has never had any occasion. She has been
born and cradled in the lap of luxury, and I was a born fool to ask the
question.'

The desolate child felt the keenness of the sarcasm, and her eyes filled
with hot tears. 'You don't understand, Uncle Abel, you never can
understand, and there is no use trying to make you,' she said curiously.
'I think I had better call Miss Peck to get tea for us.'

'Not yet; we must settle everything, then we needn't talk any more. I am
your only relation in the world, and as I have been summoned, perhaps
unnecessarily, on this occasion, I must, and will, do my duty. I have
not taken the long and expensive journey from Scotland for nothing,
remember that. So sit down, Mary, and tell me exactly how matters stand.
How much money have you?'

The colour mounted high to the girl's white brow, and her proud mouth
quivered. Never had she so felt the degradation of her poverty! Now it
seemed more than she could bear. But she looked straight into her
uncle's unlovely countenance, and made answer, with a calmness which
surprised herself,--

'There is no money, none at all--not even enough to pay all that must be
paid.'

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