'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 n.o.body 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.'

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

WHAT WILL SHE DO?

Walter 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 of life. 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 circ.u.mstances; 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 hoa.r.s.ely,--

'Don't! Never dae that again. Oh, my G.o.d, 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 compa.s.sion; '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 Teen not 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? n.o.body 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.sionate emphasis, which indicated that she keenly felt what she said.