'A' richt; I'll tell her. An' guid-nicht to ye; I'm very much obleeged,'

she said, and, taking Liz's tin box in her hand, she left a trifle hastily, as if afraid she should be longer detained.

She found Liz sitting where she had left her, in the same listless att.i.tude, and her eyes were red about the rims, as if she had had a crying fit. The fire was very low, and the kettle standing cold where Teen had left it on the hearthstone.

'I forgot a' aboot the kettle, Teen,' she said apologetically. 'I'm a lazy tyke; but dinna rage. Weel, ye've got the box. Did ye see Emily?'

'Yes, if that's her name. She's a queer yin,' said Teen, as she let the box drop, and grasped the poker to improve the condition of the fire.

'Ye dinna seem to hae telt her much, Liz, ony mair than me.'

'No; it's aye best to keep dark. I dinna mean onything ill, Teen, but naebody shall ever ken frae me whaur I've been or what I've suffered since I gaed awa'. Ay, what I've suffered!'--she repeated these words with a pa.s.sionate intensity, which caused Teen to regard her with a kind of awe. 'But maybe my day'll come, an' if it does, I winna forget,' she said, more to herself than to her companion; then, catching sight of Teen's astonished face, she broke into a laugh, and said, in quite a different tone,--

'Weel, is't the morn we're gaun among the swells? An' hoo d'ye pit in the time in the country?'

'Ye'll see,' replied Teen, with quiet satisfaction. 'The days are ower short, that's the only fault they hae. Efter we get oor supper, what wad ye say to gang roond to Colquhoun Street and see Wat, to tell him we're gaun to Bourhill?'

'No, I'm no' gaun. He micht say we werena to gang. I say, Teen, he's in love wi' her. Onybody can see it in his e'e when he speaks aboot her.'

'I ken that; but it's nae use,' said Teen, 'she's gaun to mairry somebody else.'

'Is she? D'ye ken wha?'

'Ay; your auld flame,' said Teen, apparently at random, but all the while keenly watching her companion's face. She saw Liz become as pale as death, though she smiled a sickly smile, and tried to speak as indifferently as possible.

'Ye dinna mean it? Weel, I'd hae thocht she wad hae waled better. Hoo sune are we gaun the morn?'

She asked the question with eagerness, and from that moment the little seamstress observed that her whole manner changed. She suddenly began to display a new and absorbing interest in the preparations for their departure, and plied Teen with questions regarding the place and her former experiences there. The little seamstress, being a person of a remarkably shrewd and observant turn, saw in this awakened interest only another link in the chain which now appeared to her almost complete. Her former elation over their trip to Bourhill gave place to a painful anxiety lest it should hasten events to a crisis in which the happiness of Gladys might be sadly involved; but it was now too late to help matters, and, with a bit of philosophical calmness, she said within herself, 'What is to be maun be,' and went on with her preparations for the morrow's journey.

They set out, accordingly, about noon next day, carrying their belongings in the inevitable tin box, and arrived at Mauchline Station quite early in the afternoon--a lovely afternoon, when all the spring airs were about, and a voice of gladness over the spring's promise in the note of every bird singing on the bending boughs. With what keenness of interest did the little seamstress watch the effect of country sights and sounds upon Liz, and how it pleased her to see the slow wonder gather in her eyes as they wandered across the wide landscape over the rich breadths of the ploughed fields, in which the sowers were busy, to the sheltering woods glistening greenly in the sun, and the blue hills in the hazy distance seeming to shut in the world. It was her pride and pleasure to point out to her companion, as they walked, each familiar and cherished landmark, and though Liz did not say much, it was evident that she was in a manner lifted out of herself. The pure, fragrant air blowing about her, the wide and wonderful beauty of green fields and sunny slopes, filled the soul of Liz with a vague, yearning wonder which was almost pain. It brought home to her sharply a sense of all she had lost in the great and evil city; it was like a revelation of some boundless good of which she had hitherto lived in ignorance, and it awakened in her a bitter regret, which was in very truth rebellious anger, that the beauty of the earth should have so long been hid from her.

'It's a shame,' she said,--'a horrid shame, that we should never hae kent there was a place like this ootside o' Glesca. Wha is't made for?--the rich, I suppose, as the best things are.'

'Oh no,' said Teen quite gently. 'There are plenty puir folk in the country, an' bad folk tae. Mrs. Galbraith says there's as muckle drink drucken in Poosie Nancie's on Seterday nicht as in Johnnie Shields' in the Wynd, but some way it seems different. Look, see, thonder's the big gate o' Bourhill. Eh, I wonder if Miss Gladys is hame?'

'I say, Teen, ye are very fond o' her, surely?' said Liz curiously.

'Since when? Ye didna like her sae weel that nicht I left ye to tak' her hame frae the Ariel.'

'No, but I didna ken her then. Yes, I'm fond o' her, an' there's naething I wadna dae for her. I wad let her walk abune me if it wad dae her ony guid,' said the little seamstress, her plain face glorified once more by the great love which had grown up within her till it had become the pa.s.sion of her life.

'Ye needna fash; that's the way I've heard la.s.sies speak aboot men, an'

ye get a' yer thanks in ae day,' said Liz bitterly. 'The best thing onybody can dae in this world is to look efter number one. It's the only thing worth livin' for. I wish I had never been born, an' I hope I'll no' live lang, that's mair.'

'Oh, Liz, wheesht!'

'What for should I wheesht? It's no' the first time I've been doon at the Broomielaw takin' a look roon for a likely place to jump in quietly frae. That'll be my end, Teen Ba'four, as sure as I'm here the day; then they'll hae a paragraph in the _News_, an' bury me in the Puirhoose grave. It's a lively prospect.'

Teen said nothing, only made a vow within herself that she would do what she could to avert from the girl she loved such a melancholy fate.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

IN VAIN.

Miss Caroline Peck had received that very morning a letter from Mrs.

Fordyce of Bellairs Crescent--a letter which had put her all in a flutter. It was a letter of warning, counsel, and reproof concerning Miss Peck's duty towards her young charge, and laying a strong injunction upon her to be exceedingly judicious in her treatment of the eccentric guests whom Gladys had again invited to Bourhill. It was not a wise epistle at all, though Mrs. Fordyce had regarded it with complacency as a triumph of diplomatic letter-writing. Instead of stating plainly the whole facts, and pointing out how desirable it was that Gladys should not be thrown too much into the company of the girls from the East End, it threw out certain dark hints, which only mystified and distressed poor little Miss Peck, and made her antic.i.p.ate with apprehension the arrival of the pair. It was a letter which, moreover, could not possibly do the smallest good, seeing Miss Peck, was not only far too fond of her young charge to cross her in the slightest whim, but that she secretly approved of everything she did. Of Mrs. Fordyce, Miss Peck, was mortally afraid and that very kind-hearted person would have been amazed had she known how the little spinster, metaphorically speaking, shrank into herself in her presence. The solemn warning she had received did not, however, prevent her giving the two girls a warm welcome when they presented themselves at the house that afternoon.

'Miss Graham has not come home, Christina,' she said fussily, as she shook hands with them both, 'but I feel sure she will be here to-night.

Meantime I must do what I can to make you comfortable. Come with me to your old room, Christina, and you shall have tea directly.'

Though she had directed all her remarks to Teen, she did not fail at the same time to make the keenest scrutiny of her companion, whose appearance filled the little spinster with wonder. She was certainly a very handsome girl, and there was nothing forward or offensive in her manner--nay, rather, she seemed to feel somewhat shy, and kept herself in the background as much as possible. Acting slightly on Mrs. Fordyce's advice, Miss Peck gave the girls their tea, with its delightful adjuncts of new-laid eggs and spring chicken, in her own sitting-room, and she quite prided herself on her strength of mind as she decided to advise Gladys to give them their meals by themselves, except on a rare occasion, when she might wish to give them a treat. After tea, during which Miss Peck and the little seamstress sustained the conversation entirely between them, Liz apparently being too shy or too reticent to utter a word, the two girls went out for a walk. In their absence, to the great delight of Miss Peck, Gladys arrived home in a dogcart, hired from the Mauchline Hotel.

'You have something to tell me, haven't you?' cried Gladys eagerly, as she kissed her old friend. 'The girls have arrived, I am sure. And what do you think of poor Lizzie? Is she not all I told you?'

'She is certainly a fine-looking girl, but she has said so little that I don't know anything else about her.'

'But you have been very kind to them, I hope? I want you to be specially kind to Lizzie. I am afraid she has had a very hard time of it lately, and she is not strong.'

'My dear,'--Miss Peck laid her little hand, covered with its old-fashioned rings, on the arm of her young charge, and her kind face was full of anxiety,--'tell me why she has had a hard time. I hope she is a good girl, Gladys? You have the kindest heart, my darling, but you must look after your own interests. I hope she has given you quite a satisfactory account of herself?'

'Dear Miss Peck,' said Gladys, with a light laugh, 'she has not given me any account of herself at all, nor have I asked it. But, tell me, do you think she looks like a wicked girl?'

'Well, no, not exactly; but I--I--have had a letter from Mrs. Fordyce this morning,' said the little spinster, with the most unsophisticated candour, 'and really, from it one might think your new _protegee_ quite an objectionable person.'

Gladys looked distinctly annoyed. She had a very sweet disposition, but was a trifle touchy regarding her own independence. Sundry rather sharp pa.s.sages which had occurred between Mrs. Fordyce and herself on this very subject made her now readier to resent this new interference.

'I really wish Mrs. Fordyce would mind her own business,' she said, and that was such a very harsh sentence to fall from the lips of Gladys that Miss Peck looked rather startled. 'She has really no right to be writing letters to you dictating what I shall do in my own house. Do you belong to me, or to her, I wonder?'

The momentary resentment died away as she asked this question with the old whimsical smile.

'I think she means it for your good, dear,' said the little spinster meekly, 'and I think in some particulars she is right. I never dictate to you, and for that very reason you will listen to what I am going to say. I think you should not make too much of these girls when they are here. Be kind to them, of course, and give them every comfort, but let them eat alone and be companions to each other. I am sure, dear, that would make them much happier, and be better for us all.'

'Do you think so?' Gladys asked, with all the docility of a child. 'Very well, dear Guardy, I will do as you think. But where are they now? I must bid them welcome.'

'They have gone for a walk to the birch wood. And how have you been since you went up to town? Have you been very gay, and seen a great deal of a certain gentleman?'

'No, I saw him once only, and we did not agree,' replied Gladys calmly.

'Do you know, dear Miss Peck, I think it was the greatest mistake for us to get engaged? I don't know in the least what made me do it, and I wish I hadn't.'

Miss Peck stood aghast, but presently smiled in a relieved manner.

'Oh, nonsense, my love--only a lover's tiff. When it blows over, you will be happier than ever.'

'I don't like tiffs,' Gladys answered, as she ran up-stairs to take off her wraps.