The Guinea Stamp | Page 8

When the meal was over, he wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand, and rose from the table.
'Now, if you don't mind,' he said almost cheerfully, the good food
having soothed his troubled mind, 'I would like to take a last look at my
brother. I hope they have not screwed down the coffin?'
Gladys gave a violent start. The word was hideous; how hideous, she
had never realised till it fell from her uncle's lips. But she controlled
herself; nothing was to be gained by exhibitions of feeling in his
presence.
'No, they will come, I think, to-morrow, quite early. I did not wish it

done sooner,' she answered quietly. 'If you come now, I can show you
the door.' She took the lamp from the table, and, with a gesture of
dignity, motioned him to follow her. At the door of the little room
where the artist had suffered and died she gave him the lamp, and
herself disappeared into the studio. Not to sit down and helplessly weep.
That must be over now; there were things to be thought of, things to do,
on the threshold of her new life, and she was ready for action. She
found the matches, struck a light, and began at once to gather together
the few things she must now sacredly cherish as mementoes of her
father. First she took up with tender hand the little canvas from the
easel, looked at it a moment, and then touched the face with her lips. It
was her mother's face, which she remembered not, but had been taught
to love by her father, who cherished its memory with a most passionate
devotion. She wrapped it in an old silk handkerchief, and then began a
trifle dreamily to gather together the old brushes with which John
Graham had done so much good, if unappreciated, work. Meanwhile
the old man was alone in the chamber of death. He had no nerves, no
fine sensibilities, and little natural affection to make the moment trying
to him. He entered the room in a perfectly matter-of-fact manner, set
the lamp on the washhand-stand, and approached the bed. As he stood
there, looking on the face, calm, restful, beautiful in its last sleep, a
wave of memory, unbidden and unwelcome, swept over his selfish and
hardened heart. The years rolled back, and he saw two boys kneeling
together in childish love at their mother's knee, lisping their evening
prayer, unconscious of the bitter years to come. Almost the white, still
outline of the dead face seemed to reproach him; he could have
anticipated the sudden lifting of the folded eyelids. He shivered slightly,
took an impatient step back to the table for the lamp, and made haste
from the room.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III
THE NEW HOME.
Next day at noon that strangely-assorted pair, the sordid old man and

the gentle child, set out in a peasant's waggon, which he had hired for a
few pence, to ride across the meadows to Boston. The morning was
very fair. In the night the mist had flown, and now the sun shone out
warm and cheerful, giving the necessary brightness to the scene. It lay
tenderly on the quaint fen village, and the little gilt vane on the church
steeple glittered proudly, almost as if it were real gold.
Gladys sat with her back to the old horse, quite silent, never allowing
her eyes for a moment to wander from that picture until distance made
it dim. She had no tears, though she was leaving behind all that love
had hallowed. She wondered vaguely once or twice whether it would
be her last farewell, or whether, in other and happier years, she might
come again to kneel by that nameless grave. Abel Graham paid small
attention to her. He tried to engage in a conversation with the peasant
who sat on the front of the waggon, holding the reins loosely in his
sunburnt hands; but that individual was stolid, and when he did
vouchsafe a remark, Abel did not understand him, not being familiar
with fen vernacular. They reached Boston in ample time for the train,
even leaving half an hour to spare. This half hour the old man improved
by hunting up the dealer in whose hands were two of his brother's
pictures, leaving Gladys at the station to watch their meagre luggage.
He drove a much better bargain than the artist himself could have done,
and returned to the station inwardly elated, with four pounds in his
pocket; but he carefully concealed from his niece the success of his
transaction--not that it would have greatly concerned her, she was too
listless to take interest in anything. At one o'clock the dreary railway
journey began, and after many stoppages and