RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'A'
ll the eagerness died out of Walter's face, and he turned away immediately as if to leave the room. But Gladys prevented him; her face still red with the hot flush his passionate words had called up, she stood before him, and laid her hand upon his arm.
'You will not go away now, Walter, just when I hope we are beginning to understand each other. Do sit down for a little. There is a great deal left to us,—we can still be friends,—yes, a great deal.'
'It will be better for me to go away,' he said, not bitterly nor resentfully, but with a quiet manliness which made the heart of Gladys glow with pride in him, though it was sore with another feeling she did not quite understand.
'By and by, but not yet,' she said coaxingly. 'Besides, you cannot get a train just now, even if you were at the station this moment. You shall be driven into Mauchline in time for the nine-fifteen, and that is an hour hence. I cannot let you go now, Walter, for I do not know when I shall see you again.'
She spoke with all the frank, child-like simplicity of the old time, and he turned back meekly and took hisseat again, though it seemed for the moment as if all brightness and energy had gone out of him. Her hands trembled very much as they resumed their delicate task among the flowers, and her sweet mouth quivered too, though she tried to speak bravely and brightly as before.
'Do tell me, Walter, what you are thinking of doing now that your business has become so prosperous. Don't you think you have lived quite long enough in that dingy Colquhoun Street?'
'Perhaps so. I had thoughts of leaving it, but it is a great thing for a man to be on the premises. Your uncle would not have approved of my leaving the place so soon. Colquhoun Street was good enough for him all his days,' said Walter, striving to speak naturally, and only partially succeeding.
'Ah, yes, poor man; but just think how much he denied himself to give me all this,' she said, with a glance round the beautiful room. 'How much happier he and I would have been with something a little lower than this, and a little higher than Colquhoun Street. It often makes me sad to think of the poverty of his life and the luxury of mine.'
'But you were made for luxurious living,' was Walter's quick reply. 'You never looked at home in the old place. This suits you down to the ground.'
'Do you think so?' Gladys gave a little melancholy smile. 'Yet so contradictory are we, that sometimes I am not at all happy nor contented here, Walter.'
'You ought to be very happy,' he replied a trifle sharply. 'You have everything a woman needs to make her happy.'
'Perhaps so, and yet'—
She paused, and hummed a little scrap of song which Walter did not catch.
'I am becoming quite an accomplished violinist, Walter,' she said presently. 'I have two lessons every week; once Herr Döller comes down, and once I go up. Would you like to hear me play, or shall we talk?'
'I don't know. It would really be better for me to go away. I can walk to the station; the walk will do me good.'
'I will not allow you to walk nor go away, Walter, even if you are as cross as two sticks; and I must say I feel rather cross myself.'
They were playing with edged tools, and Gladys was keenly conscious of it. Her pulses were throbbing, her heart beating as it had never beat in the presence of the man to whom she had plighted her troth that very day. A very little more, and she must have given way to hysterical sobbing, she felt so overwrought; and yet all the while she kept on her lips that gay little smile, and spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world that they should be together. But when Walter remained silent, she came forward to the hearth quickly, and, forgetting that what was fitting in the old days was not permissible in the new, she slipped on one knee on the rug, and suddenly, laying her head down on his knee, began to cry.
'Gladys, get up! For God's sake, get up, or I can't hold my tongue. This is fearful!'
The word was none too strong. The solitary and absorbing passion of his life, a pure and honest love for that beautiful girl, surged in his soul, and his face betrayed the curb he was putting on himself. He had had but a poor upbringing, and his code of honour had been self-taught, but he was manly enough to be above making love to another man's promised wife.
'Don't make it any harder for me,' he said hoarsely.'I know you are sorry for me. You have been always an angel to me, even when I least deserved it; but this is not the way to treat me to-night. Let me away.'
'Let me be selfish, Walter, just this one night,' she said, in a low, broken voice. 'I don't know why I am crying, for it is a great joy to me that you are here, and that I know now, for ever, that you feel as you used to do before this cruel money parted us; there are not in all the world any friends like the old. Forgive me if I have vexed you.'
She rose up and met his glance, which was one of infinite pity and indescribable pathos. The greatest sorrow, the keenest disappointment which had ever come to Walter, softened him as if with a magic touch, and revealed to her his heart, which was, at least, honest and true in every throb.
'You can never vex me, though I have often vexed you. I need scarcely say I hope you will be happy with the one you have chosen. You deserve the very best in the world, and even the best is not good enough for you.'
A faint smile shone through the tears on the girl's face.
'What has changed you so, Walter? It is as if a whirlwind had swept over you.'
'I have never changed in that particular,' he answered half gloomily. 'I have always thought the same of you since the day I saw you first.'
'Oh, Walter, do you remember our little school in the evenings, with Uncle Abel dozing in the chimney-corner, and your difficulties over the arithmetic? Very often you asked me questions I could not answer, though I am afraid I was not honest enough always to say I did not know. Sometimes I gave you equivocal answers, didn't I?'
'I don't know; all I know is, that I shall neverforget these days, though they can never come again, answered Walter. 'I am learning German this winter, and I like it very much.'
'How delightful! If you go on at this rate, in a very short time I shall be afraid to speak to you, you will have grown such a grand and clever gentleman.'
Walter gave his head a quick shake, which made the waved mass of his dark hair drop farther on his brow. A fine brow it was, square, solid, massive, from beneath which looked out a pair of clear eyes, which had never feared the face of man. He looked older than his years, though his face was bare, except on the upper lip, where the slight moustache appeared to soften somewhat the sterner line of the mouth. Yes, it was a good, true face, suggestive of power and possibility—the face of an honest man. Then his figure had attained its full height, and being clothed in well-made garments, looked very manly, and not ungraceful. Gladys admired him where he stood, and inwardly contrasted him with a certain other youth, who devoted half his attention to his personal appearance and adornment. Nor did Walter suffer by that comparison.
'Must you go away?' she asked wistfully, not conscious how cruel she was in seeking to keep him there when every moment was pointed with a sorrowful regret, a keen anguish of loss which he could scarcely endure. 'And when will you come again?'
'Oh, I don't know. I can't come often, Gladys; it will be better not, now.'
'It is always better not,' she cried, with a strange petulance. 'There is always something in the way. If you knew how often I want to talk to you about all my plans. I always think nobody quite understands us like those whom we have known in our early days,because then there can never be any pretence or concealment. All is open as the day. Is it impossible that we can still be as we were?'
'Quite impossible.' His answer was curt and cold, and he was on his feet again, moving towards the door.
'But why?' she persisted, with all the unreason of a wilful woman. 'May a woman not have a friend, though he should be a man?'
'It would not be possible, andhewould not like it,' he said significantly; and Gladys flushed all over, and flung up her head with a gesture of defiance.
'He shall not dictate to me,' she said proudly. 'Well, if you will go, you will, I suppose, but you shall not walk; on that point I am determined.' She rang the bell, gave her order for the carriage, and looked at him whimsically, as if rejoicing in her own triumph. 'I am afraid I am becoming quite autocratic, Walter, so many people have to do exactly as I tell them. If you will not come, will you write to me occasionally, then? It would be delightful to get letters from you, I think.'
Never was man so subtlely flattered, so tempted. Again he bit his lip, and without answering, he took a handsome frame from the piano, and glanced indifferently at the photograph he held.
'Is this the man?' he asked at hazard, and when Gladys nodded, he looked at it again with keener interest. It was the same picture of George Fordyce in his hunting-dress which Gladys had first seen in the drawing-room at Bellairs Crescent.
'A grand gentleman,' he said, with a faint note of bitterness in his tone. 'Well, I hope you will be happy.'
This stiff, conventional remark appeared to anger Gladys somewhat, and for the first time in her life she cast a reproach at him.
'You needn't look so resigned, Walter. Just cast your memory back, and think of some of the kind things you have said to me when we have met since I have left Colquhoun Street. If you think I can forget, then you are mistaken. They will always rankle in my mind, and it is only natural that I should feel grateful, if nothing else, to those who are a little kinder and more attentive to me. A woman does not like to be ignored.'
At that moment a servant appeared to say the carriage waited, and Walter held out his hand to say good-bye. Hope was for ever quenched in his heart, and something in his eyes went to the heart of Gladys, and for the moment she could not speak. She turned silently, motioned him to follow her from the room, and then stood in the hall, still silently, till he put on his greatcoat. Woman-like, in the midst of her strange agitation she did not fail to notice that every detail of his attire was in keeping, and that pleased well her fastidious taste. When the servant at last opened the door, the cool wind swept in and ruffled the girl's hair upon her white brow.
'Good-bye, then. You will write?' she said quickly, and longing, she did not know why, to order the servant to withdraw.
'If there is anything to write about, perhaps I will,' he answered, gripped her hand like a vice, and dashed out. Then Miss Graham, quite regardless of the watchful eyes upon her, went out to the outer hall, and her sweet voice sounded through the darkness, 'Good-bye, dear Walter,' and, putting her white fingers to her lips, she threw a kiss after him, and ran into the house, all trembling, and when she reached the drawing-room she dropped upon her knees by a couch and fell to weeping, though she did not know why she wept.
RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'I'
t was half-past ten before Walter alighted from the train at St. Enoch's Station. It was a fine dry evening, with a sufficient touch of frost in the air to make walking pleasant. As he made his way out of the station, and went among the busy crowd, he could not help contrasting that hurrying tide of life with the silence and the solitude he had left. The experience of the last few hours seemed like a dream, only he was left with that aching at the heart—that strong sense of personal loss which even a brave man sometimes finds it hard to bear manfully. For till now he had not realised how near and dear a part of his life was the sweet girl now lost to him for ever. Although it had often pleased him, in the bitterness of his mood, to say that an inseparable barrier had arisen between them, he had in his heart of hearts not believed it, but cherished the secret and strong hope that their estrangement was but temporary, and that in the end the old days which in their passing had often been shadowed, but which now to memory looked wholly bright and beautiful, would receive their crown. And now his dream was over, and again hefelt himself alone in the world—more terribly alone than he had yet been. He was not a vain man, though he believed in his own ability, or, looking back, he might have taken no small comfort from the demeanour of Gladys towards him. He had not been untouched by it, her womanly tenderness had sunk into his soul; but he saw in it only the natural outcome of a kind heart, which felt always keenly the sorrow of others. He believed so absolutely in her singleness of heart, her honesty of purpose, that he accepted her decision as final. Since she had plighted her troth to another, it was all over, so far as Walter himself was concerned. He knew so little of women that it never occurred to him that sometimes they give such a promise hastily, accepting what is offered from various motives—very often because what they most desire is withheld. It must not be thought that in having accepted George Fordyce, Gladys was intentionally and wilfully deceiving him. His impassioned pleading had touched her heart. At a time when she was crying out for something to satisfy her need, in an unguarded moment, she had mistaken an awakened, fleeting impression for love, and passed what was now in her eyes an irrevocable word. She was no coquette, who gives a promise the one day to be carelessly withdrawn the next. George Fordyce had been fortunate in gaining the promise of a woman whose word was as her bond. There are circumstances in which even such a bond may become null and void, but Gladys did not dream of the tragedy which was to release her from her vow.
Walter felt in no haste to go home; nay, the very thought of it was intolerable to him. He saw it all before him, in sharp contrast to another home, whichhad shown him how lovely wealth and taste can make human surroundings, and he loathed the humble shelter of the old place, which memory hallowed only to wound, and from which the angel of hope had now flown.
With his hand in one pocket, his hat drawn a little over his brow, he sauntered, with heavy and reluctant step, up Renfield Street, in the direction of Sauchiehall Street. He did not know what tempted him to choose the opposite direction from his home. We are often so led, apparently aimlessly, towards what may change the very current of our lives. The streets, though quieter as he walked farther West, were by no means deserted, and just on the stroke of eleven the people from the theatres and public-houses made the tide of life flow again, apparently in an endless stream. Quite suddenly, under the brilliant light thrown by the illumination of a fashionable tavern, Walter saw standing on the edge of the pavement, talking to another girl, his sister Liz. He could not believe his eyes at first, for he had never credited the assertion of Gladys that she had really seen her, but believed it had been a mistake. But there she was, well dressed, stylish, and beautiful exceedingly. Even in that first startled look he was struck by the exquisite outline, of her face, the absolute purity of her colour, except where it burned a brilliant red on her cheeks.
He stepped back into a doorway, and stood silently waiting till they should separate, or move away. To his relief, they, separated at last, the stranger moving towards him, Liz proceeding westward. He followed her, keeping a few steps behind her, watching her with a detective's eye. Once a man spoke to her, but she gave no answer, and somehow that to Walter was arelief. He felt himself growing quite excited, longing to overtake and speak to her, yet afraid. At the corner of Cambridge Street she stood still, apparently looking for a car; then Walter stepped before her, and laid his hand on her arm.
'Liz,' he said, and in spite of himself his voice shook, 'what are you doing here?'
Liz gave a great start, and her pallor vanished, the red mounting high to her brow.
'I—I don't know. It's you, Wat? Upon my word, I didna ken ye; ye are sic a swell.'
'I heard you were in Glasgow, but I didn't believe it. Where have you been all this time?'
'To Maryhill; I'm bidin' there the noo,' Liz answered defiantly, though she was inwardly trembling.
'Maryhill?' Walter repeated, and his eye, sharp with suspicion, dwelt searchingly on her face. 'What are you doing there?'
'That's my business,' she answered lightly. 'I needna ask for you; I see you are flourishin'. Hoo's the auld folk? I say, here's my car. Guid-nicht.'
She would have darted from him, but he gripped her by the arm.
'You won't go, Liz, till I know where and how you are living. I have the right to ask. Come home with me.'
Liz was surprised, arrested, and the car, with its noisy jingle, swept round the corner.
'Hame wi' you!' she repeated. 'Maybe, if ye kent, ye wadna ask me, wadna speak to me,' she said, with a melancholy bitterness, and then her cough, more hollow and more racking than of yore, prevented further speech.
Walter drew her hand within his arm, and she, feeblyprotesting, allowed him to lead her back the way she had come. And then, as they walked, a strange, constrained silence fell upon them, each finding it difficult, well-nigh impossible, to bridge the gulf of these sad months.
'Are you not going to tell me anything about yourself, Liz?' he asked at length, and the kindness of his tone, unexpected as it was, secretly amazed and touched her.
'Naething,' she answered, without a moment's hesitation. 'An' though I've come back to Glesca, I'm no' seeking onything frae ony o' ye; I can fend for mysel'.'
Walter remained silent for a little. The subject was one of extreme delicacy, and he did not know how to pursue it. He feared that all was not with his sister as it should be, but he feared the result of further questions.
'What's the guid o' me gaun hame wi' you the nicht? I canna bide there,' she said presently, in a sharp, discontented voice. 'An' here ye've gar'd me miss the last car.'
'Where are you staying in Maryhill?'
'I have a place, me an' anither lassie,' she said guardedly. 'If ye are flush, ye micht gie me twa shillin's for a cab. I'm no' able to walk.'
At that moment, and before he could reply, a slim, slight, girlish figure darted across the street, and, with a quick, sobbing breath, laid two hands on the arm of Liz. It was the little seamstress, who had haunted the streets late for many nights, scanning the faces of the wanderers, sustained by the might of the love which was the only passion of her soul. At sight of Teen, Liz Hepburn betrayed more emotion than in meeting with her brother.
'Eh, I've fund ye at last! I said I was bound to find ye if ye were in Glesca,' Teen cried, and her plain face was glorified with the joy of the meeting. 'Oh, Liz, what it's been to me no' kennin' whaur ye were! But, I say, hoo do you twa happen to be thegither?'
'I've twa detectives efter me, it seems,' said Liz, with a touch of sullenness, and she stood still on the edge of the pavement, as if determined not to go another step. 'I say, do you twa hunt in couples?'
She gave a little mirthless laugh, and her eye roamed restlessly up the street, as if contemplating the possibility of escape.
'Come on hame wi' me, Liz,' said Teen coaxingly, and she slipped her hand through her old friend's arm and looked persuasively into her face, noting with the keenness of a loving interest the melancholy change upon it. 'Ye're no' weel, an' ye'll be as cosy an' quate as ye like wi' me.'
'Hasyourship come in?' asked Liz, with faint sarcasm, but still hesitating, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of two pairs of questioning, if quite friendly, eyes.
'Ay, has it,' replied the little seamstress cheerfully. 'Shouldn't she come hame wi' me, Walter? She wad be a' richt there, an' you can come an' see us when ye like.'
Walter stood in silence another full minute. It was a strange situation, strained to the utmost, but his faith in the little seamstress was so great that he almost reverenced her. He felt that it would be better for Liz to be with a friend of her own sex, and he turned to her pleadingly.
'It's true what Teen says, you are not well. Let her take you home. I'll get a cab and go with you tothe door, and I'll come and see you to-morrow. We are thankful to have found you again, my—my dear.'
The last words he uttered with difficulty, for such expressions were not common on his lips; but some impulse, born of a vast pity, in which no shadow of resentment mingled, made him long to be as tender with her as he knew how. The manner of her reception by these two, whom she had wronged by her long silence, affected Liz deeply, though she made no sign.
'I dinna see what better I can dae, if ye'll no' stump up for the cab to Maryhill,' she said ungraciously. 'A' the same, I wish I had never seen ye. Ye had nae business watchin' for me, ony o' ye. I'm my ain mistress, an' I'm no' needin' onything aff ye.'
The little seamstress nodded to Walter, and he hailed a passing cab. All the time, even after they were inside the vehicle, she never relaxed her hold of Liz, but they accomplished the distance to Teen's poor little home in complete silence. Liz felt and looked like a prisoner; Walter's face wore a sad and downcast expression; the little seamstress only appeared jubilant.
It was nearly midnight when they ascended the long stair to the little garret, and Liz had to pause many times in the ascent to recover her breath and to let her cough have vent. She grumbled all the way up; but when Teen broke up the fire and lit the gas she sank into an old basket-chair with a more contented expression on her face.
'Noo, ye'll hae a cup o' tea in a crack,' Teen said blithely. 'I've gotten a new teapot, Liz; the auld yin positively fell to bits. Wull ye no' bide an' drink a cup, Walter?'
'Not to-night; I think you would be better alone.But I'll come to-morrow and see you, Liz. Good-night; I am sure you will be comfortable here.'
'Oh ay, I dinna doot. I say, ye are a toff, an' nae mistake; ye micht pass for a lord,' she said, with a kind of scornful approbation. 'Ye're risin' in the scale while I'm gaun doon; but I've seen something o' life, onyhoo, an' that's aye something.'
She gave him her hand, which was quite white and unsoiled, languidly, and bade him a careless good-night. As Walter went out of the kitchen, she was surprised, but not more so than he was himself, that two tears rolled down his cheeks. He dashed them away quickly, however, and when the little seamstress accompanied him to the door, he was quite calm again.
'You'll take care of her and not let her away, and I'll be eternally obliged to you. I trust you entirely,' he said quickly.
Teen nodded sagaciously.
'If she gangs oot o' this hoose, she tak's me wi' her,' she said, with a determined curve on her thin lips.
'And whatever you need, come to me,' he said, with his hand in his pocket; but Teen stopped him with a quick gesture.
'I have ony amount o' money I got frae Miss Gladys.'
'Keep it for yourself. You must spend my money on Liz, and see that she wants for nothing. It strikes me a doctor is the first thing she needs, but I'll be back to-morrow. Good-night, and thank you, Teen. You are a good little soul.'
'Middlin',' replied Teen, with a jerk, and closed the door.
RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'T'
he little seamstress was in a quiver of happy excitement, which betrayed itself in her very step as she returned to the kitchen.
Liz lay back in the old basket-chair with her eyes closed, and the deadly paleness of her face was very striking.
'Ye arena weel, Liz,' she said brusquely. 'It's the stair; ye never could gang up a stair, I mind, withoot bein' oot o' breath. Never mind; the kettle's bilin', an' ye'll hae yer tea in a crack.'
She busied herself about the table with nervous hands, astonished at her own agitation, which did not appear to have communicated itself to Liz, her demeanour being perfectly lifeless and uninterested.
Teen's stock of household napery did not include a tablecloth, but, desirous of doing honour to her guest, she spread a clean towel on the little table, and set out the cups with a good deal of cheerful clatter.
'What'll ye tak'? I have eggs, Liz—real country eggs. I brocht them up frae the country mysel',' she said, thinking to rouse the lethargy of her companion. 'I very near said I saw them laid; onyway, I saw the hens that laid them. Ye'll hae an egg, eh?'
'Yes, if ye like. I havena tasted since eleeven this morning, an' then it was only a dram,' said Liz languidly.
Teen stood still on the little strip of rag-carpet before the fender, and regarded her friend with a mingling of horror and pity. Whatever had been the tragedy of the past few months, Liz had not thereby bettered herself. With a little choking sob, Teen made greater haste with her preparation, and put upon the table a very tempting little meal, chiefly composed of dainties from Bourhill, a very substantial basket having been sent up to the little seamstress by order of Miss Graham. Liz threw off her hat, and, drawing her chair up to the table, took a long draught from the teacup.
'Eh, that's guid,' she said, with a sigh of satisfaction. Ye're better aff than me, efter a', Teen, an' I wish I was in yer place.'
'Ye'll bide here noo ye have come, onyhoo,' said the little seamstress cheerily. 'My ship has come in; but we'll speak upon it efter. I say, isn't Walter lookin' fine? He wad pass for a lord, jist as you said.'
'His looks are a' richt—he maun be makin' money. I say, where is the lassie that used to bide there? The auld man's deid, isn't he?'
'Ay,' answered Teen; 'deid lang syne. Oh, she's turned into a graund leddy, livin' on an estate in the country. He left a fortin. See, eat up that ither egg, an' there's plenty mair tea. Look at that cream, isn't it splendid?'
'Fine,' said Liz; and as she ate and enjoyed the generous food her colour came again, and she looked a little less ghastly and ill, a little more like the Liz of old. Pen cannot tell the joy it was to the loyal heart of the little seamstress thus to minister to her friend'sgreat need, though in the midst of her deep satisfaction was a secret dread, a vague and vast pity, which made her afraid to ask her a single question. It needed no very keen perception to gather that all was not well with the unhappy girl.
'Weel, I've enjoyed that,' she said, pushing back from the table at last. 'I've eaten ye oot o' hoose and hame, but as yer ship's come in, it'll no' maitter. Tell me a' aboot it.'
'Oh, there's no' much to tell,' answered Teen, with a touch of her natural reserve. 'I've made a rich frien', that's a'.'
'A man?' asked Liz, with interest.
'No; a lady,' replied Teen rather proudly. 'But hae ye naething to tell me aboot yersel'?'
'Oh, I have thoosands to tell, if I like, but I'm no' gaun to tell ye a thing,' replied Liz flatly; but her candour did not even make Teen wince. She was used to it in the old days, and expected nothing else.
'Oh, jist as ye like,' she answered serenely. 'But, tell me, did ye ever gang to London?'
'No,' replied Liz, 'I never went to London. Did ye think I had?'
'Yes. We—that is, some o's thocht—Walter an' me, onyway—that ye had gane to the theatre in London to be an actress. It was gey shabby, I thocht, to gang the way ye did, withoot sayin' a cheep to me, efter a' the plans we had made,' said Teen, with equal candour.
'Maybe it was,' said Liz musingly, and, with her magnificent eyes fixed on the fire, relapsed into silence again, and Teen saw that her face was troubled. Her heart yearned over her unspeakably, and she longed for fuller confidence, which Liz, however, had not the remotest intention of giving.
'I dinna think, judgin' frae appearances, that ye have bettered yoursel', said the little seamstress slowly.
'Ye think richt. I made wan mistake, Teen—the biggest mistake o' a',' she replied, and her mouth became very stern and bitter, and a dull gleam was visible in her eyes.
Teen waited breathlessly, in the hope that Liz would still confide in her, but having thus delivered herself, she again relapsed into silence.
'What way are ye bidin' at Maryhill?' she asked after a bit, and the same note of suspicion which had been in Walter's questions sounded through her voice. It made the colour rise in the sharply-outlined cheek of Liz, and she replied angrily,—
'It's news ye're wantin', an' ye're no' gaun to get it. Ye brocht me here again' my wull, but ye'll no' cross-question me. I can gang hame even yet. It's no' the first time I've gane hame in the mornin', onyway.'
Teen wisely accepted the inevitable.
'Ye're no' gaun wan fit oot o' this hoose the nicht,' she replied calmly, 'nor the morn either, unless I ken whaur ye are gaun. I dinna think, Liz, ye hae dune very weel for yersel' this while; ye'd better let me look efter ye. Twa heids are aye better than yin.'
'Ye're gaun to be the boss, I see,' said Liz, with a faint smile, and in her utter weariness she let her head fall back again and closed her eyes. 'If I wis to bide here the morn, an' Wat comes, he'd better no' ask me ower mony questions, because I'll no' stand it frae neither you nor him, mind that.'
'Naebody'll ask you questions, my dear,' said Teen, and, lifting back the table, she folded down the bed, and shook up the old wool pillows, wishing for herfriend's sake that they were made of down. Then she knelt down on the old rag-carpet, and began to unlace Liz's boots, glancing ever and anon with sad eyes up into the white face, with its haggard mouth and dark closed eyes.
'Ye are a guid sort, Teen, upon my word,' was all the thanks she got. 'I believe I will gang to my bed, if ye'll let me; maybe, if ye kent a', ye wad turn me oot to the street.'
'No' me. If the a's waur than I imagine, it's gey bad,' replied the little seamstress. 'Oh, Liz, I'm that gled to see you, I canna dae enough.'
'I've been twice up your stair, Teen; once I knockit at the door an' then flew doon afore you could open't. Ye think ye've a hard time o't, but there's waur things than sewin' jackets at thirteenpence the dizen.'
Teen's hands were very gentle as she assisted her friend off with her gown, which was a very handsome affair, all velvet and silk, and gilt trimmings, which dazzled the eye.
Thus partially undressed, Liz threw herself without another word on the bed, and in two minutes was asleep. Then, softly laying another bit of coal on the fire, Teen lifted the table back to the hearth, got out pen, ink, and paper, and set herself to a most unusual task, the composition and writing of a letter. I should be afraid to say how long it took her to perform this great task, nor how very poor an accomplishment it was in the end, but it served its purpose, which was to acquaint Gladys with the rescue of Liz. Afraid to disturb the sleeping girl, Teen softly removed a pillow from the bed, and placing it on the floor before the fire, laid herself down, with an old plaid over her, though sleep was far from her eyes. A great disappointment hadcome to the little seamstress; for though she had long since given up all hope of welcoming back Liz in the guise of a great lady, who had risen to eminence by dint of her own honest striving, she only knew to-night, when the last vestige of her hope had been wrested from her, how absolute and unassailable had been her faith in her friend's honour. And now she knew intuitively the very worst. It needed no sad story from Liz to convince the little seamstress that she had tried the way of transgressors, and found it hard. Mingling with her intense sorrow over Liz was another and, if possible, a more painful fear—lest this deviation from the paths of rectitude might be fraught with painful consequences to the gentle girl whom Teen had learned to love with a love which had in it the elements of worship. These melancholy forebodings banished sleep from the eyes of the little seamstress, and early in the morning she rose, sore, stiff, and unrefreshed, from her hard couch, and began to move about the house again, setting it to rights for Liz's awakening. She, however, slept on, the heavy sleep of complete exhaustion; and finally, Teen, not thinking it wise to disturb her, laid herself down on the front of the bed to rest her tired bones. She too fell asleep, and it was the sunshine upon her face which awakened her, just as the church bells began to ring.
With an exclamation which awoke her companion, she leaped up, and ran to break up the fire, which was smouldering in the grate.
'Mercy me! it's eleeven o'clock; but it's Sunday mornin', so it doesna matter,' she said almost blithely, for in the morning everything seems brighter, and even hard places less hard. 'My certy, Liz, ye've sleepit weel. Hae ye ever wakened?'
'Never; I've no' haen a sleep like that for I canna tell ye hoo lang,' said Liz quite gratefully, for she felt wonderfully rested and refreshed.
In an incredibly short space of time the little seamstress had the kettle singing on the cheery hob, and toasted the bread, while Liz was washing her face and brushing her red locks at the little looking-glass hanging at the window.
They were sitting at their cosy breakfast, talking of commonplace things, when Walter's double knock came to the door. Teen ran to admit him, and, with a series of nods, indicated to him that his sister was all right within. There was a strained awkwardness in their meeting. Liz felt and resented the questioning scrutiny of his eyes, and had not Teen thrown herself into the breach, it would have been a strange interview. As it was, she showed herself to be a person of the finest and most delicate tact, and more than once Walter found himself looking at her with a kind of grateful admiration, and thinking what an odd mistake he had made in his estimate of her character.
When the breakfast was over, Teen, under pretence of going to inquire for a sick neighbour, took herself off, and left the brother and sister alone. It had to come sooner or later, she knew, and she hoped that Liz, in her softer mood, would at least meet Walter half-way.
When the door was closed upon the two there was a moment's silence, which Walter broke quite abruptly; it was not his nature to beat about the bush.
'Are you going to tell me this morning where you have been all this time?'
'No,' she answered calmly, 'I'm not.'
This was unpromising, but Walter tried not to notice her defiant manner and tone.
'Very well; I won't ask you, since you don't want to tell. You haven't been prospering, anyhow. Now, any one can see that; but we'll let bygones be bygones. I'm in a good way of doing now, Liz, and if you like to come along to Colquhoun Street and try your hand at housekeeping, I'm ready.'
Liz was profoundly amazed, but not a change passed over her face.
'Ye're no' feared,' was her only comment, delivered at last in a perfectly passionless voice.
'Feared! What for?' he asked, trying to speak pleasantly. 'You're my sister, and I need a housekeeper. I'm thinking of leaving Colquhoun Street, and taking a wee house somewhere in the suburbs. We can talk it over when you come.'
Then Liz sat up and fixed her large, indescribable eyes full on her brother's face.
'An' will ye tak' me withoot askin' a single question, Wat?'
'I can't do anything else,' he answered good-humouredly.
'But I've lost my character,' she said then, in a perfectly matter-of-fact voice.
Although he was in a manner prepared for it, this calm announcement made him wince.
'You can redeem it again,' he said in a slightly unsteady voice. 'I don't want to be too hard on you, Liz. You never had a chance.'
Liz leaned back in her chair again and closed her eyes. She was, to outward appearance, indifferent and calm, but her breast once or twice tumultuously heaved, and her brows were knit, as if she suffered either physical or mental pain.
'You'll come, won't you, Liz, either to-day orto-morrow? You know the place,' he said rather anxiously.
'No,' she answered quietly; 'I'm no' comin'.'
'Why? I'm sure I will never cast up anything. I'm in solemn earnest, Liz. I'll do the best I can for you, and nobody shall cast a stone at you when I am by. I've lived to myself too long. Come and help me to be less selfish.'
The girl's breast again tumultuously heaved, and one deep, bursting sob forced itself from her lips; but all her answer was, to shake her head wearily, and answer,—
'No.'
RURAL SCENE, CHAPTER HEADER.
Ornamental capital 'W'
alter looked at her perplexedly, not knowing what to say.
'Why will you not come?' he asked at length quite gently.
'I've disgraced ye enough,' she answered, a trifle sharply. 'Ye dinna ken what ye are daein', my man, askin' me to come an' bide wi' you. I've mair respect for ye than ye hae for yersel'. I'm much obleeged, a' the same, but I'm no' comin'.'
He perceived that the highest motive prompted her, and it convinced him as nothing else could have done that, if she had erred, she had also repented sincerely.
'What will you do, then?' he asked. 'Will you,' he added hesitatingly—'will you go to the old folk?'
She gave a short, hard laugh.
'No' me. There wad be plenty castin' up there, if ye like. No; I hae nae desire to see them again this side the grave.'
It was a harsh speech; but, knowing what the past had been, Walter could not blame her. As he stood looking through the little window, beyond the forest of roofs to where the sun lay warm and bright on far-off country slopes, he thought of the sore bitterness oflife. He might well be at war with fate; it had not given him much of the good which makes life worth living. It was all very well for Gladys Graham, the spoiled child of a happy fortune, to reprove him for railing at the cruelty of circumstances; her suffering, even when the days were darkest with her, had been of a gentler and less hopeless kind.
'Liz,' he said, turning to his sister again, after what had seemed to her an interminable silence, 'if you won't come to me, promise me you'll stay here. I have not asked any questions about your way of doing, but I can guess at it. Promise me that you will give it all up and stay here.'
'Sponging off Teen, like?' she asked sarcastically.
'No, no; I have plenty of money. You shall want for nothing,' he said, with a touch of irritation. 'She's a good little soul, Teen, and I won't forget her. I'm sure you and she could be quite comfortable here; you have always been good friends.'
'Yes,' answered Liz indifferently, 'that's true.'
'Will you promise, then,' he asked anxiously, 'to stay here in the meantime?'
'No,' she answered, 'I'll promise naething, because, if it comes up my back, I'll rise an' gang oot this very day.'
Walter's face flushed a little with anger. She was very perverse, and would give him no satisfaction whatever. He was at a disadvantage, because he really knew very little of her nature, which was as deep and as keen of feeling as his own.
'Then am I to go away and live in torture about you, Liz? I've a good mind to shut you up where you can't get out.'
'They wad be queer bolts and bars that kept me in,'she said, with a slight smile. 'Ye are very guid to tak' sae muckle thocht aboot me, and if it'll relieve yer mind, ye can believe that whatever I'm aboot, it's honest wark, and that if I need anything, I'll come to you.'
'You mean that, Liz?'
'Yes, I mean it; an' if I div say a thing I dinna gang back frae it,' she said, and again his mind was relieved. It was but natural that he should feel an absorbing desire to know exactly what her experience had been during the time she had been away from them, but since she seemed determined to keep silence regarding it, he could only keep silence too.
Presently Teen returned, and there was a furtive look of anxiety in her eyes as she regarded them, inly wondering what had transpired in her absence.
'Liz will bide with you in the meantime,' said Walter, affecting a cheerfulness he did not feel. 'I have been asking her to come and be my housekeeper, but she won't promise in the meantime.'
'Oh, she'll be fine here the noo,' answered the little seamstress, with a significance which did not convey anything to them, though it meant something to her. She was thinking as she spoke of the probable result of the letter she had just carried to the post, and which would be delivered at Bourhill in the morning. She was not mistaken in her calculations regarding it; for next morning, between eleven and twelve, when the two were sitting by the fire keeping up a rather disjointed conversation, during which Liz had exhibited distinct signs of restlessness, a light, quick knock came to the door.
'That's her!' cried Teen, springing up, her sallow face all aglow. 'I kent she wad come; yes, it's jist her.'
Liz sat up, her whole demeanour defiant, her face wearing its most ungracious look.
She had not the remotest idea who was meant by 'her,' and it is certain that had there been any other means of exit than the door in the building, she would have taken herself off there and then. What was her astonishment to behold presently a lissom, graceful figure and a sweet face, which seemed familiar, though she could not for the moment believe that they really pertained to Gladys Graham. And the face wore such a lovely look of gladness and wonder and sorrow all mingled, that Liz was struck dumb.
'Oh, Lizzie, I am so glad to see you. How could you stay away so long, when you must have known we were all so anxious about you? But we will forgive you quite, now that you have come back.'
She took the unwilling hand of Walter's sister in her firm, warm clasp, and, bending forward, kissed her, as she had done once before, on the brow. Then the face of Liz became a dusky red, and she started back, saying hoarsely,—
'Don't! Never dae that again. Oh, my God, if ye kent, ye wadna let yer eyes licht on me, far less that.'
'I know that we are very glad to see you again, and that you look very ill, dear Lizzie,' said Gladys, her voice tremulous with her deep compassion; 'and I have come to take you away to Bourhill. Here is somebody quite ready, I think, to go.'
She turned with a smile to the little seamstress, whose face still wore that intense, glorified look.
'Bourhill?' repeated Liz. 'Where's that?'
'That's my home now,' said Gladys gleefully. 'See what you have missed, being away so long. Has Teennot told you of all its glories? I thought she was so enthusiastic over it, she could not hold her tongue. Never mind, you shall soon see it for yourself.'
'I'm very much obleeged to ye, but I'm no' comin',' said Liz, with the same firmness which had set aside Walter's scheme concerning her.
'Why not? Nobody ever refuses me anything,' Gladys said.
'It wad be a sin for me to gang,' replied Liz quietly. 'I'm no' fit to speak to the like o' you. At least, that's what them ye belang to wad say.'
'I've nobody belonging to me to dictate to me, Liz, and I'm not afraid to trust you. You may have sinned, I don't know, but you have had many temptations. I want to show you a happier life. Tell her, Teen, how lovely it is at dear Bourhill.'
'I couldna,' answered Teen in a choking voice. 'It's like heaven, Liz.'
'Then it'll be ower guid for me,' said Liz wearily, 'an' I'll better bide whaur I am. But, I say, ye are queerer than ever, an' I thocht ye gey queer last time I saw ye.'
'Never mind what you think of me. Say you will come with me to-day. I came for the very purpose of taking you away,' said Gladys cheerfully. 'Do you remember that absurd story about "Lord Bellew's Bride" you were reading the first time I saw you? My own fortune is very nearly as wonderful as that of "Lord Bellew's Bride."'
Liz faintly smiled.
'Eh, sic lees there is in papers! It shouldna be printed. Things like yon never happen in real life—never, never!' She spoke with passionate emphasis, which indicated that she keenly felt what she said.
'Ye'll be gaun to get mairret next?' she added, looking at Gladys, who smiled and nodded, with slightly heightened colour.
'Well, what is to be done? Are you going down with me to-day?' she asked, looking from one to another, and tapping her dainty foot a trifle impatiently on the floor.
'I canna come the day, for my claes are a' at Maryhill,' said Liz.
'But I'll gang for them, Liz,' put in the little seamstress quickly. 'They can be easy got frae Maryhill afore nicht. It's only twelve o'clock the noo.'
'There need not be any such hurry; I think I shall stay in town all night,' said Gladys, 'and you can arrange it together, either to go with me or alone. Teen can manage it; she knows all about the trains, having been there before. I shall be sure to be home not later than to-morrow night, and if anything should prevent me getting down then, there is Miss Peck, Teen, who, you know, will make you very welcome.'
'Yes, I ken,' nodded Teen. 'If ye only kent what like a place it is, Liz, ye wad be jumpin'.'
'I'm sure I dinna ken what way ye want me doon there,' said Liz, relapsing into her weary, indifferent manner. 'I canna understand it.'
'Can't you?' asked Gladys merrily. 'Well, I want you, that's all. I want to have the pleasure of seeing you grow strong and well again. Nobody shall meddle with you. You shall do just as you like, and you two will be companions to each other.'
Teen looked reproachfully at her friend, wondering to see her so undemonstrative, never even uttering a single word of thanks for the kindness so freely offered. She shook hands with Gladys in silence, and allowed her to depart without further remark.
'You'll make sure that she comes down, Teen?' said Gladys, when they were outside the door. 'Poor thing, she looks dreadfully ill and unhappy. Wheredoyou think she has been?'
Teen mournfully shook her head, and her large eyes filled with tears.
'I'll no' let her away,' she answered firmly. 'If she'll no' come doon to Bourhill, I'll see that she disna gang onywhere else withoot me.'
'You are a faithful friend,' said Gladys quickly. 'Has she—has she seen her brother?'
Teen wondered somewhat at the hesitation with which the question was asked.
'Ay; he was here yesterday.'
'And what did he say, Teen? Oh, I hope he was very gentle with her.'
'I wasna in a' the time, but I'm sure that kinder he couldna hae been. He wanted her to gang to Colquhoun Street an' bide, but she wadna.'
'Well, I hope she will come to Bourhill, and I think she will. Good-bye.'
'Weel, hae ye gotten me weel discussed?' queried Liz sarcastically, when the little seamstress returned to the kitchen. 'I canna understand that lassie by onybody.'
'Nor I a'thegither, but I ken she's guid,' she answered simply. 'Ye will gang to Bourhill, Liz?'
'Maybe; I'll see. I say, do ye ken wha she's gaun to mairry?'
'I have an inklin',' replied Teen, and said no more, though her face became yet more gravely troubled.
'Liz,' she said suddenly, 'will ye tell me wan thing afore we gang doon to Bourhill, if we gang?'
'What is't?'
'Had Fordyce onything to dae wi' you gaun awa' when you did?'
'Mind yer ain business,' replied Liz, with the utmost calmness, not even changing colour. 'I'm no' gaun to tell ye a single thing. My concerns are my ain, an' if ye're no' pleased, weel, I can shift.'
The girl's matter-of-fact, unruffled demeanour somewhat allayed Teen's burning anxiety, and, afraid to try Liz too far, lest she should insist on leaving her, she held her peace.