RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'T'
he carriage was at the door, and they stood face to face, the young man and the maiden, in the little office up-stairs, to say farewell.
'I am quite ready, Walter,' Gladys said in a still, quiet voice. 'I am going away.'
'Are you? Well, good-bye.'
He held out his hand. His face was pale, but his mouth was set like iron, and these apparently indifferent words seemed to force themselves from between his teeth. Sign of emotion or sorrow he exhibited none, but the maiden, who understood and who loved him,—yes, who loved him,—was not in the least deceived.
'Have you nothing else to say than that, Walter? It is very little when I am going away,' she said wistfully.
'No,' he replied in the same steady, even tone, 'nothing. You had better not keep them waiting, these grand people, any longer. They are not used to it, and they don't like it.'
'Let them wait, and if they don't like it they can go away,' she answered, with unwonted sharpness. 'I want to say, Walter, that if I could have stayed here,I would. I would rather be here than anywhere. It once seemed very dreadful to me, but now I love it. But though I am going away, I will come to see you very often, very often indeed.'
'Don't come,' he answered sharply. 'Don't come at all.'
A vague terror gathered in her eyes, and her mouth trembled.
'Now you are unkind, Walter, unkind and unreasonable. But men are often unreasonable, so I will forgive you. If I may not come here, will you promise to come to Bellairs Crescent and see me?'
Then Walter flung up his head and laughed, that laugh which always stabbed Gladys.
'To have the door slammed in my face by a footman or a smart servant? No, thank you.'
'Very well. Good-bye. If you cast me off, Walter, I can't help it. Good-bye, and God bless you. I hope I shall see you sometimes, and if not, I shall try to bear it, only it is very hard.'
She was a woman in keenness of feeling, a very child in guilelessness. She could not hide her pain.
Then Walter, feeling it all so keenly, and hating himself with a mortal hatred for his savage candour, condescended to make an explanation.
'In a week,' he began, 'you will view everything in a different light. You are going away to be a great lady, and you'll soon find that you want nothing so badly in this world as to forget that you ever knew this place, or me. It will be far better to understand and make up my mind to it at the very beginning. Perhaps some day it will be different, but in the meantime I know I am right, and you'll soon be convinced of it too, and perhaps thank me for it.'
'If that is what you think of me, Walter, it will indeed be better as you say. Good-bye.'
She scarcely touched his hand or looked at him as she turned away. She was wounded to the heart; and the poor lad, putting a fearful curb upon himself, suffered her to leave him. He did not even go down to the door to see the carriage leave, and in a few minutes the rattle of wheels across the stony street fell upon his ears like a last farewell. Then, there being none to witness his weakness, he laid his head down upon the battered old desk, and wept as he had not wept since his childhood. He had a proud spirit, and circumstances had made him morbidly sensitive. He was very young to indulge in a man's hopes and aspirations; but age is not always determined by years. Already he had dreamed his dreams, had his visions of a glorious future, in which he should build up a home for himself. Yet not for himself alone—it could be no home unless light was given to it by her who had been the day-star of his boyhood. The very loneliness and bitterness of his experience had caused his heart, capable of a strong and passionate affection, to centre with greater tenacity upon the gentle being who had shown to him the lovelier side of nature and life, and had awakened in him strivings after all that was highest and best. But this morbid sensitiveness, which is the curse of every proud spirit, and turns even the sweets of life to ashes in the mouth, had him in bitter bondage. He lashed himself with it, reminding himself constantly of his origin and his environment, and magnifying these into insuperable barriers which would for ever stand blankly in his way. Although common-sense told him that there was no other course open to Gladys than to accept thekindness offered her by the lawyer and his wife, and though in his inmost better heart he did not doubt her, it pleased his harder mood to regard himself as being despised and trampled on; there was a certain luxury in the indulgence which afforded him a melancholy pain. By and by, however, better thoughts came, as they always will if we give them the chance they seek. Out of his fearful dejection arose a manlier, nobler spirit, which betrayed itself in his look and manner. He rose from the stool, walked twice across the narrow office floor out to the warehouse, and finally down-stairs. In a word, he took an inventory of the whole place, and it suddenly came home to him, with a new accession of hope and strength, that it was his—that he was absolutely monarch of all he surveyed, and could make or mar it as he willed. It was not a stupendous heritage, but to one nameless and unknown it was much. Nay, it was his opportunity—the tide in his affairs which might lead him on to fortune. Wandering the length and breadth of his kingdom—only a drysalter's warehouse, but still his kingdom—hope took to herself white wings again, and, fluttering over him, built for him many a castle in the air—castles high enough to reach the skies. Then and there Walter Hepburn took courage and began to face his life—laid his plans, which had for its reward a maiden's smile and a maiden's heart. And for these men have conquered the world before, and will again. Love still rules, and will, thanks be to God, till the world is done.
Meanwhile Gladys, all unconscious alike of his deep dejection and his happier mood, sat quite silently in the corner of the luxurious carriage, her eyes dim with tears. Her kind friend, noticing that she was moved,left her in peace. Her sympathy was true, and could be quiet, and that is much.
'Suppose you sit up and look out, my dear?' she said at last. 'We are crossing Kelvin Bridge. Have you been as far West before?'
Gladys sat up obediently, and looked from the carriage window upon the river tumbling between its banks.
'Is this Glasgow?' she asked, wondering to see the trees waving greenly in the gentle April breeze.
'Yes, my dear, of course; and we are almost home. I am sure you will be glad, you look so tired,' said Mrs. Fordyce kindly. 'Never mind; you shall have a cup of tea immediately, and then you shall lie down and sleep as long as you like.'
'Oh, I never sleep in the day-time, thank you,' said Gladys; and as the carriage swept along a handsome terrace and into Bellairs Crescent, where the gardens were green with all the beauty of earliest summer, her face visibly brightened.
'It is quite like the country,' she said. 'I cannot believe it is Glasgow.'
'Sometimes we feel it dingy enough, my love. We are talking of the Coast already, but perhaps we shall fall in love with the Crescent a second time through you. Eh, my dear?' she said, with a nod. 'Well, here we are.'
The carriage drew up before the steps of a handsome house, the door was opened, and a dainty maid ran down to take the wraps. Gladys looked at her curiously, and thought of Walter. Well, it was a great change. Gladys had an eye for the beautiful, and the arrangement of the hall, with its soft rugs, carved furniture, and green plants, with gleams of statuary here and there, rested and delighted her.
'We'll just go to the drawing-room at once. My girls will be out of all patience for tea,' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'Nay, my dear, don't shrink. I assure you they are happy, kind-hearted girls, just like yourself.'
Gladys long remembered her first introduction to the brighter side of life. She followed Mrs. Fordyce somewhat timidly into a large and handsome room, and saw at the farther end, near the fireplace, a dainty tea-table spread, and a young girl in a blue serge gown cutting a cake into a silver basket. Another knelt at the fire. Gladys was struck by the exceeding grace of her attitude, though she could not see her face.
'My dears,' said Mrs. Fordyce quickly, 'here we are. I hope tea is ready? We are quite ready for it.'
'It has been up an age, mamma; Mina and I were thinking to ring for some fresh tea. Is this Miss Graham?'
It was the one who had been kneeling by the fire who spoke, and she came forward frankly and with a pleasant smile, though her eyes keenly noted every detail of the stranger's appearance and attire.
'This is Clara, my elder daughter, my dear; and this is Mina. Is Leonard not home?'
'Yes, but he won't come up. Leonard is our brother,' Clara explained to Gladys,—'rather a spoiled boy, and he is mortally afraid of new girls, as he calls them. But you will see him at dinner.'
In spite of a natural stateliness of look and manner, Clara had a kind way with her. She took off their guest's cloak, and drew a comfortable chair forward to the tea-table, while her sister made out the tea.
'Where's papa? Did he not come with you?' she asked her mother, leaving Gladys a moment to herself.
'No; he went off at St. Vincent Street. He has been away from business all day, you know.'
'Oh yes. This has been a sad day for you,' said Clara sympathetically, turning to Gladys. 'Mamma has told us how lonely you are, but we shall try to cheer you. Won't we, Mina?'
'Suppose you begin by giving her some tea?' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'Then she must have a little rest. She has very long cared for others, she must have a taste of being cared for now.'
Gladys could not speak a word. She felt at home. A vague, delicious sense of rest stole over her as she listened to these kind words, and felt the subtle, beautiful influences of the place about her. It was only a pleasant family room, which taste and wealth had appointed and adorned, but it seemed like a king's palace to the girl who had long walked in the darker places of the earth. Seeing her thus moved, mother and daughters talked to each other, discussing the pleasant gossip of the day, which always seems to gather round the table at five-o'clock tea.
'Now, Clara, you will take Miss Graham up-stairs. I think you must allow us to call you Gladys, my dear,' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'I am going to leave you in charge of Clara. When you know us better, you will find out that it takes Mina all her time to take charge of herself.'
Mina shook her finger at her mother, and a slight blush rose to her happy face.
'Too bad, mamma, to prejudice Miss Graham against me. The difference between my sister and me,' she added, turning to Gladys, 'is that Clara is always proper and conventional, and I am the reverse. You can never catch her unawares or in an untidy gown,she is always just as immaculate as you see her now; while I am—well, just as the spirit moves me.' She swept a little mocking courtesy to her sister, who only smiled and shook her head, then taking Gladys by the arm, led her from the drawing-room.
'You must not mind Mina. She often speaks without thinking, but she never wishes to hurt any one,' she said. 'We have both been so sorry for you since papa told us about you, and we hope you will feel happy and at home with us here.'
'Oh, I am sure I shall, you are all so kind,' cried Gladys impulsively. It was natural that she should exaggerate any little courtesy or kindness shown to her, she had known so little of it in her life.
'It is such a romance! To think you are an heiress, and that beautiful Bourhill is all your own,' continued Clara.
'Do you know it?' interrupted Gladys, with more interest than she had yet betrayed.
'Yes; I have been there. We have a house at Troon, and of course when we are there we drive a good deal. Papa pointed it out to us one day, and said it was sad to see it going to decay. We had no idea then that we should ever know you. This is your room; it is quite close to Mina's and mine. See, the river is just before the windows. I always think the Kelvin looks so pretty from here, because one cannot see its impurity.'
'It is beautiful—a great change for me,' said Gladys dreamily, as her eyes roamed round the spacious and elegant guest-chamber. 'How pleasant it must be always to live among so many beautiful things! I have loved them all my life, but I have seen so few since I came from the fen country with my uncle.'
'It was very strange that he, so rich, should keep you in that wretched place,' said Clara. 'How much better had he shared it all with you while he lived.'
'Yes; but I think he was happier as it was, and it pleased him at the end, I know, to think that he had given me Bourhill.'
'I am sure it did. Well, I shall go now, dear, and leave you to unpack. You will find the wardrobe and all the drawers empty. Mamma will be coming to you immediately, likely.'
With a nod and a smile, Clara took herself off to the drawing-room again.
'What do you think of Miss Graham of Bourhill?' asked Mina, with her mouth full of cake. 'Quite to the manner born. Don't you think so?'
'Quite. And isn't she lovely? Wait till mamma has taken her to Redfern, and then you and I may retire, my dear; we shall be eclipsed.'
'If so, let us be resigned. One thing I know, you don't believe in presentiments, of course, you matter-of-fact young person, but I feel that she is to be mixed up with us in some mysterious way, and that some day, perhaps, we may wish we had never seen Miss Graham of Bourhill.'
RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'N'
ow Gladys had her opportunity of seeing the beautiful side of life. Her taste being naturally refined and fastidious, found a peculiar satisfaction in the beauty of her surroundings. It was a very real pleasure to her to tread upon soft carpets, breathe a pure air, only sweetened by the breath of flowers, and to rest her eyes with delicate combinations of colour and the treasures of art to be found in the lawyer's sumptuous house. Never had she more strikingly betrayed her special gift, of which Abel Graham had spoken on his death-bed, 'ability to adapt herself to any surroundings;' she seemed, indeed, as Mina Fordyce had said, 'to the manner born.'
She endeared herself at once by her gentleness of manner to every inmate of the house, and very speedily conquered the boy Leonard's aversion to 'new girls.' In less than a week they were chums, and she was a frequent visitor to his den in the attics, where he contrived all sorts of wonderful things, devoting more time to them than to his legitimate lessons, which his soul abhorred. But though she was invariably cheerful, ever ready to share and sympathise with allthe varied interests of the house, there was a stillness of manner, a 'dreamy far-offness,' as Mina expressed it, which indicated that sometimes her thoughts were elsewhere.
The three girls were sitting round the drawing-room fire one wet, boisterous afternoon, chatting cosily, and waiting for tea to come up. Between Clara and Gladys there seemed to be a peculiar understanding, although Mr. Fordyce's elder daughter was not the favourite of the family. Her manner was too stiff, and she had a knack at times of saying rather sharp, disagreeable things. But not to Gladys Graham. In these few days they had become united in the bonds of a love which was to stand all tests. Clara was sitting on a low chair, Gladys kneeling by her side, with her arm on her knee. So sitting, they presented a contrast, each a fine foil to the other. The stately, dark beauty of Clara set off the fairer loveliness of the younger girl; neither suffered by the contrast. These days of peace and restful, luxurious living had robbed Gladys of her wearied listlessness, had given to her delicate cheek a bloom long absent from it. Her simple morning gown, made by a fashionablemodistewho had delighted to study her fair model, seemed part of herself. She was a striking and lovely girl, of a higher type than the two beside her.
'Oh, girls,' cried Mina, with a yawn, and tossing back her brown unruly locks with an impatient gesture, 'isn't it slow? Can't you wake up? You haven't spoken a word for half an hour.'
'Do you never want to be quiet, Mina?' asked Gladys, with the gleam of an amused smile.
'No, never. I'm not one of your pensive maidens. One silent member in a family is enough, or it wouldstagnate. Clara sustains the dignity, I the life, of the house, my dear. Oh, I wish somebody would come in. I guess half a score of idle young women in the other houses of this Crescent are consumed with the same desire. But nobody everdoescome in, by any chance, when you want them. When you don't, then they come in in shoals. I say, Clara, isn't it ages since we saw any of them from Pollokshields?'
'Yes; but you know we ought to have gone to ask for Aunt Margaret long ago.'
'I suppose so. We don't love our aunt, Gladys. It's the misfortune of many not to love their relations. Can you explain that mystery?'
'Perhaps they are not very lovable,' suggested Gladys.
'That's it exactly. Aunt Margaret is—Well, you'll see her some day, and then you'll admit that if she possesses lovable qualities she doesn't wear them every day. They are so rich, so odiously rich, that you never can forget it. She doesn't allow you to. And Julia is about as insufferable.'
'Really, Mina, you should not speak so strongly. You know papa and mamma wouldn't like it,' protested Clara mildly; but Mina only laughed.
'It is such a relief on a day like this to "go for" some one, as Len would say, and why not for one's relations? It's their chief use. And you know Julia Fordyce has more airs than a duchess. George is rather better, and he is so divinely handsome that you can't remember that he has a single fault.'
Was it the firelight, or did the colour heighten rapidly in Clara's cheek?
'Such nonsense you talk, Mina,' she said hastily.
'It isn't nonsense at all. Have we never exhibited the photograph of our Adonis, Gladys?'
'I don't think so,' answered Gladys, with a smile. 'Suppose you let me see it now?'
'Of course. That was an unpardonable oversight, which his lordship would never forgive. He is frightfully conceited, as most handsome men unfortunately are. It isn't their fault, poor fellows; it's the girls who spoil them. Here he is.'
She brought a silver frame from a cabinet, and, with an absurd assumption of devotion, dropped a kiss on it before she gave it to Gladys. Gladys sat up, and, holding the photograph up between the light, looked at it earnestly. It was the portrait of a man in hunting dress, standing by his horse, and certainly no fault could be found with his appearance. His figure was a model of manly grace, and his face remarkably handsome, so far as fine features can render handsome a human face; yet there was a something, it might be only a too-conscious idea of his own attractions, which betrayed itself in his expression, and in the eyes of Gladys detracted from its charm.
'It is a pretty picture,' she said innocently. 'The horse is a lovely creature.'
Then Mina threw herself back in her chair, and laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks—a proceeding which utterly perplexed Gladys.
'Oh, Clara, isn't that lovely? If I don't tell George Fordyce that the first time I see him! It'll do him all the good in the world. Only, Gladys, he will never forgive you.'
'Why? I have not said anything against him.'
'No, you have simply ignored him, and that is an unpardonable offence against my lord. You must let me tell him, Gladys. It is really my duty to tell him, and we should always do our duty by our relations, should we not?'
'I am sure I don't mind in the least if you do tell him,' replied Gladys serenely. 'Do you think I said anything very dreadful, Clara?'
'Not I. Never mind Mina, dear. You should be learning not to mind anything she says.'
'There's the bell. That's mother, I hope. We never miss mother more than at tea-time,' said Mina, jumping up. Love for her mother was the passion of her soul. It shone in her face, and betrayed itself in a hundred little attentions which touched Gladys inexpressibly. Clara was always more reserved, but though her feelings found slower expression they were not less deep and keen; and though Gladys felt at home and happy with every member of that singularly united household, it was to Clara, who was so seldom the favourite outside, that her heart went out in love.
'It is not mother. It's callers, I do believe,' cried Mina, giving her hair a tug before the mirror, and shaking out her skirts, while her face brightened with expectation.
'Mr. and Miss Fordyce.'
Clara rose and went hastily forward to receive her cousins, while the irrepressible Mina strove to hide her laughter, though her eyes danced in the most suspicious manner. It was with rather more than ordinary interest that Gladys regarded the new-comers. They were certainly a handsome pair, and so closely resembling each other that their relationship was at once apparent.
'To what do we owe this unexpected felicity?' inquired Mina banteringly. 'On such a day, too.'
'Yes, indeed; we quite expected to see you in the house we have just left,' said Julia a little stiffly.
'Where, where?'
'Evelyn Stuart's. Have you forgotten this is her first reception day?'
'So it is, and we forgot all about it. Clara, whatever shall we do? Was there a crowd?'
'Yes, an awful crowd.'
While answering Mina, Miss Julia inclined her head in recognition of Gladys, to whom Clara introduced her. The slightest possible surprise betrayed itself in the uplifting of her straight brows, as her keen, flashing eyes took in every detail of the girl's appearance. Needless to say, the new inmate of the lawyer's household had been freely discussed by the Pollokshields Fordyces, and it was in reality curiosity to see her which had brought them to Bellairs Crescent that afternoon.
'I should just say it was a crowd,' added George, giving his immaculate moustache a pull. 'I was sorry for Stuart, poor beggar. Really, though a fellow marries, he should not be subjected to an ordeal like you. I don't see anything to hinder a fellow's wife from receiving folks herself. It's an awful bore on a fellow, you know.'
He spoke languidly, and all the time from under his drooping lids surveyed the slender figure and fair face of Gladys. She was so different from the brilliant and showy young ladies he met in the society they moved in, that he was filled with a secret admiration.
'So the unfortunate young woman who marries you, George, may know what to expect. Do you hear that, girls? Be warned in time,' cried Mina. 'Won't you take off your cloak, Julia, and stay a little? Mother and tea will be here directly.'
'I daresay we have half an hour—have we, George? You are not going back to the mill, are you?'
'Not I; my nose has been pretty much at the grindstone for the last month. And now, girls, what's the best of your news? We're waiting to be entertained. How do you like the West End of Glasgow, Miss Graham?'
'Very much, thank you,' answered Gladys, and somehow she could not help speaking distantly. There was something about the young man she did not like. Had she looked at Clara just then she would have seen her eyes filled with a lovely, wavering light, while a half-trembling consciousness was infused into her whole appearance. These signs to the observant are not difficult to read. Clara loved her handsome cousin, and unfortunately he was not blind to the fact.
'We are going to Troon first week in May, Julia,' she said quickly. 'Has Aunt Margaret thought or spoken of your going yet?'
'She has spoken of it, but we haven't encouraged it,' replied Julia languidly, as she drew off one of her perfectly-fitting gloves, and displayed a long firm white hand, sparkling with diamonds. 'I know she has written to the housekeeper to have Seaview aired, but I suppose it depends on the weather.'
'If you are all going down, it wouldn't be half bad, Julia. We must see what the mater says. Does Miss Graham go with you?'
'Of course,' replied Clara, with a smiling glance at Gladys.
She replied by an answering smile, so swift and lovely that George Fordyce looked at her with a sudden access of admiration. Gladys shrank just a little under the continued persistence of his gaze; and when he saw it, it added a new zest to his interest in her. He was accustomed to find his admiration orattention always acceptable to the young ladies of his acquaintance, and the demeanour of Gladys was at once new and interesting to him. He determined to cultivate her acquaintance, and to awaken that fair, statuesque maiden into life.
Just then tea came up, and, rising lazily, he began to make himself useful to his cousin Clara, murmuring some nonsense to her over the tea-table, which deepened the lovely light in her eyes. He enjoyed seeing the delicate colour deepening in her face, and excused himself for bringing it there on the ground of cousinship. But when he carried her cup to Gladys, he remained by her side, while Julia entertained the other two with a description of the bride's drawing-room and reception gown.
'It's an awful romance, Miss Graham, upon my word it is,' began George, standing with his back to the others, and looking down most impressively into the girl's face,—'your story, I mean, of course. Uncle Tom has told us how you, the heiress of Bourhill, have lived in the slums—positively the slums, wasn't it?'
Now, though his words were not particularly well chosen or in good taste, his manner was so impressively sympathetic that Gladys felt insensibly influenced by it. And hewasvery handsome, and it was quite pleasant to have him standing there, looking as if there was nobody in the world half so interesting to him as herself. For the very first time in her life Gladys felt the subtle charm of flattery steal into her soul.
'I suppose you would call it the slums,' she answered. 'My uncle lived in Colquhoun Street.'
'Don't know it, but I guess it was bad enough, and for you, too, who look fit for a palace. And did you live there all alone with the old miser?'
'Don't call him that, please; he was very kind to me, and I cannot bear to hear him hardly spoken of, she said quickly. 'There were three of us, and we were very happy, though the place was so small and poor.'
'Who was the third?'
He managed to convey into his tone just sufficient aggressiveness as to suggest that he resented the idea of a third person sharing anything with her.
'Walter Hepburn, my uncle's assistant.'
Had she looked at him then, she must have been struck by the strange expression, coupled with a sudden flash, which passed over his face.
'Ah yes, just so. Well, I'm glad the fates have been kind, and brought you at last where there's a chance of being appreciated,' he said carelessly. 'Nice little girls my cousins—awfully good-hearted little souls, though Mina's tongue is a trifle too sharp. Yes, miss, I'm warning Miss Graham against you,' he said when Mina uttered his name in a warning note.
'Now, to punish you, I shall tell you my latest anecdote,' Mina said; and, heedless of the half-laughing, half-eager protest of Gladys, she related the incident of the portrait, with a little embellishment which made him appear in rather a ridiculous light.
In the midst of the laughter which the relation provoked, Mrs. Fordyce entered the room.
RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'T'
he last days of April came, the family in Bellairs Crescent were making preparations for an immediate departure to the Ayrshire coast, and as yet Gladys had not seen or heard anything of Walter. She had a longing to revisit the old home, and yet a curious reluctance held her back. She felt hurt, and even a trifle irritated against Walter; and though she understood, and in a measure sympathised with his feelings, she thought him needlessly morbid and sensitive regarding their new relation towards each other.
'Gladys,' said Clara one day, when she had watched in silence the girl's sweet face, and noticed its half-sad, half-wistful expression, 'what is the matter with you? You are fretting about something. Tell me what it is. Do you not wish to go to Troon with us, or would you rather go to Bourhill? Do tell us what you would like best to do?'
They were quite alone in the little morning-room, which had been given up to the girls of the house to adorn as they liked. It was a pretty corner, dainty, home-like, cosy, with a long window opening out tothe garden, which was as beautiful as it is possible for a city garden to be.
Gladys gave a little start, and coloured slightly under Clara's earnest gaze.
'I am quite happy at the idea of going to Troon; remember I have never seen the sea,' she answered quickly. 'What makes you think I am unhappy?'
'My dear, you look it. You can't hide it from me, and you are going to tell me this very moment what is vexing you.'
Clara knelt down on the rug, and, with her hands folded, looked up in her friend's face. Gladys passed her hand lightly over the smooth braids of Clara's beautiful hair, and did not for a moment speak.
'Did you ever have a great faith in any one who after a time disappointed you?' she asked suddenly.
'No, I don't think so. I am not naturally trusting, Gladys. I have to be very sure before I put absolute faith in any one.'
'I cannot believe that of you, Clara. How kind you have been to me, an utter stranger! You have treated me like a sister since the first happy day I entered the house.'
'Oh, that is different. You know very well, you little fraud, that your very eyes disarm suspicion, as somebody says. You are making conquests everywhere. But now we are away from the point.Whatis vexing you? Shall I make a guess?'
'Oh, if you like,' answered Gladys, with interest.
'Well, you are thinking of past days. You have not forgotten the companions of the old life, and it is grieving you, because it would appear that they have forgotten you.'
'He might have come, only once,' cried Gladys rebelliously, not for a moment seeking to deny or admit in words the truth of Clara's words. 'We were a great deal to each other. It is hard to be forgotten so soon.'
'Gladys dear, listen to me.'
Clara's voice became quite grave, and she folded her hands impressively above her companion's.
'You must not be angry at what I am going to say, because it is true. Has it not occurred to you that this young man, in thus keeping a distance from you, shows himself wiser than you?'
'How?' asked Gladys coldly. 'It can never be wise to wound the feelings of another.'
'My dear, though your simplicity is the loveliest thing about you, it is awfully difficult to deal with,' said Clara perplexedly. 'You must know, must admit, Gladys, that everything is changed, and that while you might be quite courteous, and even friendly after a fashion, with this Mr. Hepburn, anything more is quite out of the question. He must move in his own sphere, you in yours. People are happier in their own sphere. To try and lift them out of it is always a mistake, and ends in disaster and defeat. Would you have liked mamma to invite him here?'
'He would not come,' said Gladys proudly. 'He would never come. He said so again and again.'
'Then it seems to me that it is you who are lacking in proper pride,' said Clara calmly.
'What is proper pride?'
Gladys smiled with the faintest touch of scorn as she asked the question.
'You know what it is just as well as I can tell you, only it pleases you to be perverse this morning,' saidClara good-humouredly, 'and I am not going to say any more.'
'Yes you are. I want to understand this thing. Is it imperative that the mere fact that my uncle has left me money and a house should make me a different person altogether?'
'It affects your position, not necessarily you. Don't be silly and aggravating, Gladys, or I must shake you,' said Clara, with the frank candour of a privileged friend. 'And really I cannot understand why you should be anxious to keep in touch with that old life, which was so awfully mean and miserable.'
'It had compensations,' said Gladys quickly. 'And I do think, that if it is all as you say, there is more sincerity among poor people than among rich. There is no court paid, anyhow, to money and position.'
'My dear, you are not at all complimentary to us,' laughed Clara. 'Your ingenuousness is truly refreshing.'
'I am not speaking about you, and you know it quite well,' answered Gladys. 'But if the world is as fond of outward things as you say, I do not wish to know anything of it. I could not feel at home in it, I am sure.'
'My dear little girl, wait till your place is put in order, and you take up your abode in it, Miss Graham of Bourhill, the envied and the admired of a whole county, and you will change your mind about the world. Just wait till the next Hunt Ball at Ayr, and we'll see what changes it will bring.'
There was no refuting Clara's good-natured worldly wisdom, and Gladys had to be silent. But she pondered many things in her heart.
'When do we go to Troon? Isn't it next week?'
'Yes, on Tuesday.'
'Do you think,' she asked then, with a slight hesitation, 'that Mrs. Fordyce would allow me to pay a little visit to my old home before I go, for the last time?'
There was all the simplicity and wistfulness of a child in her manner, and it touched Clara to the quick.
'Gladys, are you a prisoner here, dear? Don't vex me by saying things like that. Do you not know that you can go out and in just as you like? Of course you shall go. I will take you myself, if mamma cannot, and wait for you outside.'
True to her promise, Clara ordered the brougham on Monday afternoon, and carried Gladys off to Colquhoun Street. Clara was, like most quiet people, singularly observant, and she noted with interest, not unmixed with pity, how nervous Gladys became as they neared their destination. Mingling with her pity was a great curiosity to see the young man whose image seemed to dwell in the constant heart of Gladys. It was a romance, redeemed from vulgarity by the beauty and the sweet individuality of the chief actor in it.
'I shall not knock. Don't let James get down,' cried Gladys, when the carriage stopped at the familiar door. 'I shall just run in. I have a fancy to enter unannounced.'
Clara nodded, and Gladys, springing out, opened and closed the familiar door. Her very limbs shook as she went lightly along the dark passage and pushed open the kitchen door. It was unchanged, yet somehow sadly changed. A desolateness chilled her to the soul as she looked round the wide, gaunt place, saw the feeble fire choking in the grate, and the remains of a poor meal on the uncovered table. The lightstruggling through the barred windows had never looked upon a more cheerless picture. All things, they say, are judged by contrast. Perhaps it was the contrast to what she had just left which made Gladys think she had never seen her old home look more wretched and forlorn.
So lightly had she entered, and so lightly did she steal up the warehouse stair, that the solitary being making out accounts at the desk was not aware of her presence until she spoke. And then, oh how timid her look and tone, just as if she feared greatly her reception.
'Excuse me coming in, Walter. I wanted so much to see you, I could not help coming. I will not hinder you long.'
He leaped up in the greatness of his surprise, in his agitation knocking over the stool on which he had been sitting. His face was dusky red, his firm mouth trembling, as he touched for a moment the outstretched, daintily-gloved hand.
'Oh, it is you? Won't you sit down? It is a battered old chair, but if you wait a moment I'll bring you another,' he said awkwardly.
'No, don't. I have often sat on this box. I can sit on it again,' she said unsteadily. 'I won't sit on ten chairs, Walter, though you should bring them to me this moment.'
She sat down, and her movement sent a faint whiff of perfume about her, dainty as herself. And then there was just a moment's painful silence. The awkwardness of the moment dwelt with them both; it would be hard to say which felt it more.
'I suppose,' said Walter stiffly, 'you are getting on all right?'
'Yes. I thought you would have come to see me before this, Walter,' said Gladys quietly.
'You need not have thought so. I said I wouldn't come, that nothing would induce me to come,' he answered shortly.
'We are going away into Ayrshire, so I thought I must come to say good-bye,' Gladys said then.
'To your estate?'
'No; to Troon, where the sea is.'
'Oh, and will you stay long?'
'Perhaps all the summer. How are you getting on here all alone, Walter? You must tell me that.'
'Oh, well enough.'
'Does Mrs. Macintyre come to work for you?'
'Yes, morning and night she looks in. I'm going to make this thing pay.'
He looked as if he meant it. His square jaw was firmly set, his whole look that of a man determined to succeed.
'I hope you will, Walter. I feel sure of it,' she said brightly.
'It'll be awful drudgery for a while,' he continued, almost in the confidential tones of yore. 'To have so much money, your uncle had the poorest way of doing business. He had the customers all under his thumb, and made them fetch and carry what they wanted themselves; in that way he saved a man's wages. I'm not giving anything on credit, and after they've once freed themselves, and can pay cash for what they get, they'll want it delivered to them, and quite right. Then I'll get a man and a horse and cart, and when I once get that, the thing will grow like a mushroom.'
'How clever you are to think of all that!' said Gladys admiringly. 'I am quite sure you will succeed.'
'I mean to,' he said soberly, but with a quiet determination which convinced Gladys how much in earnest he was.
'But don't let success make you hard, Walter,' she said gently. 'Remember how we used to plan what we should do for the poor if we were rich.'
'Your opportunity is here, then,' he said sharply; 'mine is only to come.'
The tone, more than the words, wounded her afresh. Oh, this was not the Walter of old! She rose from the old box a trifle wearily, and looked round her with slightly saddened air.
'Have you heard anything of your sister?' she asked him.
'No, nothing.'
'She has never written to any one?'
'No. I think she has gone to London to join a theatre. The girl who was her chum thinks so too.'
'Are your father and mother well?'
'As well as they deserve to be. They wanted to come here and live. Had they been decent and respectable, it wouldn't have been a bad arrangement. As they are, I simply wouldn't have it; I'dneverget on. Of course they cast my pride in my teeth, but God knows I have little enough to be proud of.'
His mood cast its dark spell over the girl's sensitive heart, and she turned to go.
'It is all so different,' she said in a low voice, 'but the difference is not in me. Shall we never meet now, Walter?'
'It will be better not. If I ever succeed, and I have sworn to do it, we may then meet on more equal ground,' he said steadily, and not a sign of the unutterable longing in his heart betrayed itself in his set face. His pride was as cruel as the grave.
'Till then it is good-bye, then, I suppose?' she said quietly.
'Yes, till then; the day will come, or I shall know the reason why.'
'But it may be too late then, Walter, for us both.'
With these words, destined to ring their warning changes in his ears for many days, she left him, without touch of the hand or other farewell.
'Well, dear,' said Clara, with a slightly quizzical smile, 'has it made you happier to revive the ghosts of the past?'
'No; you were right, and I wrong,' said Gladys, as she sank into the cushioned seat. 'It was a great mistake.'
But even Clara did not know how dark was the shadow which had settled down on the girl's gentle soul.