The Guinea Stamp | Page 9

changes, late at night
Gladys was informed that their destination was reached. She stepped
from the carriage in a half-dazed manner, and perceived that they were
in a large, brilliantly-lighted, but deserted, city station. All her worldly
goods were in one large, shabby portmanteau, which the old man
weighed, first in one hand and then in the other.
'I think we can manage it between us. It isn't far, and if I leave it, it will
cost tuppence, besides taking Wat Hepburn from his work to-morrow
to fetch it.'

'Can't we have a cab?' asked Gladys innocently.
'No, we can't; you ought to know, if you don't, that a cab is double fare
after midnight,' said the old man severely. Just look in the carriage to
make sure nothing is left.'
Gladys did so, then the melancholy pair trudged off out from the station
into the quiet streets. Happily the night was fine, though cold, with a
clear, star-begemmed sky, and a winter moon on the wane above the
roofs and spires. A great city it seemed to Gladys, with miles and miles
of streets; tall, heavy houses set in monotonous rows, but no green
thing--nothing to remind her of heaven but the stars. She had the soul
of the poet-artist, therefore her destiny was doubly hard. But the time
came when she recognised its uses, and thanked God for it all, even for
its moments of despair, its bitterest tears, because through it alone she
touched the great suffering heart of humanity which beats in the dark
places of the earth. In the streets after midnight there is always life--the
life which dare not show itself by day, because it stalks in the image of
sin. Gladys was surprised, as they slowly wended their way along a
wide and handsome thoroughfare, past the closed windows of great
shops, to meet many ladies finely dressed, some of them beautiful, with
a strange, wild beauty, which half-fascinated, half-terrified her.
'Who are these ladies, Uncle Abel?' she asked at length. 'Why are so
many people in the streets so late? I thought everybody would be in bed
but us.'
'They are the night-birds, child. Don't ask any more questions, but shut
your eyes and hold fast by me. We'll be home in no time,' said the old
man harshly, because his conscience smote him for what he was doing.
Gladys again became silent, but she could not shut her eyes. Soon they
turned into another street, in which were even more people, though
evidently of a different order. The women were less showily dressed,
and many of them had their heads bare, and wore little shawls about
their shoulders. As they walked, the crowd became greater, and the din
increased. Some children Gladys also saw, poorly clad and with hungry
faces, running barefoot on the stony street. But she kept silence still,

though growing every moment more frightened and more sad.
'Surely this is a terrible place, Uncle Abel,' she said at last. 'I have never
seen anything like it in my life.'
'It isn't savoury, I admit; but I warned you. This is Argyle Street on a
Saturday night; other nights it is quieter, of course. Oh, he won't harm
you.' A lumbering carter in a wild state of intoxication had pushed
himself against the frightened girl, and looked down into her face with
an idiotic leer.
Gladys gave a faint scream, and clung to her uncle's arm; but the next
moment the man was taken in charge by the policeman, and went to
swell the number of the drunkards at Monday's court.
'Here we are. This is Craig's Wynd, or The Wynd, as they say. We have
only to go through here, and then we are in Colquhoun Street, where I
live. It isn't far.'
In the Wynd it was, of course, rather quieter, but in the dark doorways
strange figures were huddled, and sometimes the feeble wail of a child,
or a smothered oath, reminded one that more was hidden behind the
scenes. Gladys was now in a state of extreme mental excitement. She
had never been in a town larger than Boston, and there only on bright
days with her father. It seemed to her that this resembled the place of
which the Bible speaks, where there is weeping and wailing and
gnashing of teeth. To the child, country born and gently reared, whom
no unclean or wicked thing had ever touched, it was a revelation which
took away from her childhood for ever. She never forgot it. When years
had passed, and these dark days seemed almost like a shadow, that one
memory remained vivid and most painful, like a troubled dream.
'Now, here we are. We must let ourselves in. Wat Hepburn will be
away long ago. He