'Because I came off all in a hurry this morning,' answered Gladys, with a smile; for the warm welcome glowing in the large eyes of the little seamstress did her good. 'And how have you been--you and Miss Peck, and all the people?'

'Fine; but, my, it's grand to see ye back,' said Teen, with a boundless satisfaction. 'It's no' like the same place when ye are away. An' hoo's Glesca lookin'--as dreich as ever?'

'Quite. And oh, Teen, I have found Liz at last. I saw her last night in Berkeley Street.'

'Saw Liz in Berkeley Street? Surely, never!' repeated Teen, aghast.

'It is quite true. I think she cannot have been away from Glasgow at all. We must try and find her, you and I, and get her down here.'

'I'll get her, if she's in Glesca!' cried Teen excitedly. 'Did ye speak to her? What did she look like?'

'Very ill, I thought, and strange,' answered Gladys slowly. 'She only peeped into our carriage window as we drove away from the concert hall.'

'It's queer,' said Teen musingly,--'very queer. I feel as if I wad like to gang back to Glesca this very day, and see her.'

'You might go to-morrow, if you like,' said Gladys. 'I daresay you will find her much quicker than I should; she would not be so shy of you.'

Teen turned her head and gave Gladys a strange, intent look, which seemed to ask a question. The girl was indeed asking herself whether it might not be better to let the whole matter rest. She suspected that there might be in this case wheels within wheels which might seriously involve the happiness of her who deserved above all others the highest happiness the world can give. The little seamstress was perplexed, saddened, half-afraid, torn between two loves and two desires. She wished she knew how much or how little George Fordyce was to Gladys Graham, yet dared not to ask the question.

But so great was the absorbing desire of Gladys to find means of communication with Liz that she would not let the matter rest. Next day the visit of the little seamstress to Bourhill was brought apparently to a very sudden end and she returned to town--not, however, to sue for work at the hands of the stony-visaged forewoman, but to carry out the behest of the young lady of Bourhill.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XXIX.

AN AWAKENING.

The interview with Gladys upset Walter for the day. When she was gone, he found it impossible to fix his attention on his books or any of the details of his business. He could not even sit still, but wandered restlessly up and down his domain, trying to unravel his own thoughts.

The subtle fragrance of her presence, like some rare perfume, seemed to pervade the place, and her words continued to haunt him, till he felt angry and impatient with her, with himself, with all the world. He had now two persons in his employment--a man who delivered goods on a hand-barrow, and a lad who filled a position similar to that which had been Walter's own in Abel Graham's days.

When this lad returned after the dinner hour, Walter left him in charge, and took himself into the streets, pursued by that vague restlessness he could neither understand nor shake off. Looking in at the mirrored window of a great shop in St. Vincent Street, he saw the image of himself reflected, a tall, lean figure, shabbily clad--an image which filled him with a sudden loathing and contempt. He stood quite still, and calmly appraised himself, taking in every meagre detail of his appearance, noting the grimy hue of the collar he had worn three days, the glazed front of the frayed black tie, the soft, greasy rim of the old hat. Yes, he told himself, he was a most disreputable-looking object, with nothing in his appearance to suggest prosperity, or even decent comfort. A grim humour smote him suddenly, and thrusting his hand into his pocket, he brought it out full of money, and rapidly counted it. Then he opened the door of the fashionable tailor's, and walked in.

He was regarded, as was to be expected, a trifle superciliously by the immaculately-attired young gentlemen therein.

'I want a suit of clothes,' he said in his straight, abrupt fashion,--'a good suit; the best you have in your shop.'

The young gentlemen regarded him and each other with such significance in their glances that their shabby-looking customer turned on his heel.

'I can be served elsewhere, I guess, without so much hesitation,' he said, and in an instant he was intercepted with profuse apologies, and patterns of the best materials in the shop laid before him.

'I'll take this,' said Walter, after refusing several.

'It is very expensive, sir--beautiful material, but a suit made to measure will be five guineas,' said the young gentleman suggestively.

'I'll take it,' said Walter calmly. 'And I want an overcoat, and a hat, and some other things. Show me what you have.'

The fascination of choosing new garments for personal wear was upon Walter Hepburn, and he spent a whole hour in the shop, selecting an outfit which did credit to his taste and discernment. Before that hour was over he had risen very considerably in the opinion of those who served him--his choice invariably falling on what was not only most expensive, but in the best taste.

'Now, how much is to pay? I'll pay ready money to-day, and send for the things when they are ready, which I hope will be soon.'

'Very well, sir; but there is no hurry, I a.s.sure you,' said the young gentleman suavely. 'Payment on delivery is always quite satisfactory.'

'I'll pay to-day,' Walter replied, with his hand in his pocket; and when the bill was presented he ran his eye over it without a change of face.

'Twelve pounds eight shillings and twopence,' he said slowly, and counted out the bank notes carelessly, as if the handling of them was his daily work. Then, having made arrangements for fitting, he went his way, leaving a very odd impression on the minds of the shop people. Had he heard their surmises and comments, he would have felt at once amused and chagrined.

From St. Vincent Street he sauntered back to Argyle Street, and took a Bridgeton car. Thoughts of Liz were crowding thick and fast upon him, and he found himself scanning the faces of the people in the crowded streets, and even looking up expectantly each time the car stopped, a.s.suring himself he would not be in the least surprised were his sister to appear suddenly before him. He was ill at ease concerning her. If it were true that she was in Glasgow, then his first fears concerning her were likely to have some foundation. It was curious that all resentment seemed to have died out of his mind, and that he felt nothing but an indescribable longing to see her again. Strange and unnatural as it may seem, he had not for a very long time felt any such kindly affection towards his parents. He did his duty by them so far as the giving of money was concerned, but they lay upon his heart like a heavy weight, and he lived in dread of some calamity happening, for they were seldom sober. He could not help asking himself sometimes whether he was justified in giving them so liberal an allowance, since relief from all pecuniary anxiety seemed to have only made them more dissipated and abandoned. It was very seldom indeed that his father now wrought a day's work. These were heavy burdens for the young man to bear, and he may be forgiven his morbid pride, his apparent hardness of heart. It is a common saying that living sorrows are worse than death--they eat like a canker into the soul. It was his anxiety about Liz which took Walter to the dreary house in Bridgeton at that unusual hour of the day. He thought it quite likely that if she were in Glasgow they would have seen or heard something of her. He made a point of visiting them once a week, and his step was never buoyant as he ascended that weary stair, nor when he descended it on his homeward way, for he was either saddened and oppressed anew with their melancholy state, or wearied with reproaches, or disgusted with petty grumblings and unsavoury details of the neighbours' shortcomings and domestic affairs. It is a tragedy we see daily in our midst, this gradual estrangement of those bound by ties of blood, and who ought, but cannot possibly be bound by ties of love. Love must be cherished; it is only in the rarest instances it can survive the frost of indifference and neglect. The drink fiend has no respect of persons; the sanct.i.ty of home and G.o.d-given affections is ruthlessly destroyed, high and holy ambitions sacrificed, hearts remorselessly broken, graves dug above the heavenliest hopes.

Walter Hepburn was always grave, oftentimes sorrowful, because with the years had come fuller knowledge, keener perception, clearer visions that the sorrows of his youth were sorrows which could darken his young manhood and shadow all his future. It was a profound relief to him that day to find his mother tidier than usual, busy with preparations for the mid-day meal. He never knew how he should find them; too often a visit to that home made him sick at heart.

'Ye are an early visitor, my man,' his mother said, in surprise. 'What's brocht ye here at sic a time?'

'Is Liz here?' he inquired, with a quick glance round the kitchen.

'Liz! No.'

In her surprise at this unexpected question, Mrs. Hepburn paused, with the lid of the broth-pot in her hand, looking wonderingly into her son's face.

'What gars ye ask that?'

'I heard she was in Glasgow, that's why,' Walter answered cautiously.

'Where's the old man? Not working, surely?'

'Ay; he's turned over a new leaf for three days, workin' orra at Stevenson's; they're short o' men the noo. He'll be in to his denner the noo. Wull ye tak' a bite wi' us? It's lang since ye broke breid in this hoose.'

'I don't mind if I do,' replied Walter, laying off his hat and drawing the arm-chair up to the fire. 'So you have never seen Liz? The person that saw her must have made a mistake.'

'Wha was't?'

'A lady. You don't know her. Have you never heard anything about her at all, then?'

'No' a cheep. She's in London, they say--the folk that pretend to ken a'thing. I'm sure I'm no' carin'.'

'And my father's really working this week? Oh, mother, if only he would keep steady, it would make all the difference. You look better yourself, too. Are you not far better without drink?'

'Maybe. We've made a paction, onyway, for a week, till we see,' said Mrs. Hepburn, with a slow smile. 'The way o't was this. We fell oot wan day, an' he cuist up to me that I couldna keep frae't, an' I jist says, says I, "Ye canna keep frae't yersel'," an' it's for spite we're no'

touchin't. I dinna think mysel' he'll staun' oot past Seterday.'

Walter could not forbear a melancholy smile.

'It's not a very high motive, but better spite than no motive at all,'

he answered. 'D'ye think, mother, that Liz can be in Glasgow?'

'Hoo should I ken? There's yer faither's fit on the stair, an' the tatties no' ready, but they'll be saft in a jiffy. He canna wait a meenit for his meat. As I say, he thinks it should be walkin' doon the stair to meet him. Ay, my man, it's you I'm on.'

She made a great clatter with knives and spoons on the table, and then made a rush to pour the water off the potatoes.