Gladys entered the kitchen rather hesitatingly,--the young woman with the sullen grey face disconcerted her--but when she looked at Liz she smiled quite brightly, and came forward with a quick, ready step.

'How are you? I am so sorry you are ill. Walter thought I might come to see you. I hope you will soon be better.'

Liz allowed her hand to be shaken, and fixed her very bright blue eyes keenly on the girl's sweet face. Gladys felt that she was being scrutinised, that the measure of her sincerity was gauged by that look, but she did not evade it. With Liz, Gladys was much surprised. She was so different from the picture she had drawn, so different from Walter; there was not the shadow of a resemblance between them. Many would have called Liz Hepburn beautiful. She was certainly handsome after her kind, having straight, clear-cut features, a well-formed if rather coa.r.s.e mouth, brilliant blue eyes, and a ma.s.s of reddish-brown hair, which set off the extreme fairness of her skin. Gladys felt fascinated as she looked, though she felt also that there was something fierce, and even wild, in the depths of these eyes. Evidently they found satisfaction in their survey of the stranger's face, for she laid down the paper, and gave her head a series of little nods.

'Gie her a chair, Teen, and shove the teapat on to the hob,' she said, offering to her guest such hospitality as was in her power.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER VI.

PICTURES OF LIFE.

Gladys sat down, and suddenly became conscious of what she was carrying, a little flower-pot, in which bloomed a handful of Roman hyacinths, their delicate and lovely blossoms nestling among the tender green of their own leaves, and a bit of hardy fern. It was her only treasure, which she had bought for a few pence in the market one morning, and she had nothing else to bring to Liz.

'Will you take this? Is it not very pretty? I love it so much, but I have brought it for you. My father liked a flower when he was ill.'

Liz gave another enigmatical nod, and a faint, slow, melancholy smile gathered about the lips of Teen as she sat down to her work again, after having stirred the fire and pushed the dirty brown teapot on to the coals. In this teapot a black decoction brewed all day, and was partaken of at intervals by the two; sometimes they ate a morsel of bread to it, but other sustenance they had none. Little wonder the face of Teen was as cadaverous as the grave.

Then followed an awkward silence, during which Liz played with the frayed edge of the blanket, and Teen st.i.tched away for dear life at a coa.r.s.e garment, which appeared to be a canvas jacket. A whole pile of the same lay on the unoccupied bed, and Gladys vaguely wondered whether the same fingers must reduce the number, but she did not presume to ask.

She did not feel drawn to the melancholy seamstress, whose thin lips had a hard, cold curve.

'Were you reading when I came in? I'm afraid I have stopped you,' said Gladys at length.

'Ay, I was readin' to Teen "Lord Bellew's Bride; or the Curse of Mountford Abbey." Splendid, isn't it, Teen?' said Liz quite brightly.

'We buy'd atween us every week. I'll len' ye'd, if ye like. It comes oot on Wednesday. Wat could bring'd on the Monday.'

'Thank you very much,' said Gladys. 'I haven't much time; I have a great deal to do in the house.'

'Hae ye? Ay, Wat telt me; an', michty! ye dinna look as if ye could dae onything. The auld sinner, I'd pooshin him!'

Liz looked quite capable of putting her threat into execution, and Gladys shrank a little away from the fierceness of her eyes.

'Ye are ower genty. His kind need somebody that'll fecht. If he was my uncle, and had as muckle money as they say he has, I'd walk oot in silk and velvet in spite o' his face. I'd hing them a' up, an' then he'd need to pay.'

Gladys only vaguely understood, but gathered that she was censuring the old man with the utmost severity.

'Oh, I don't think he is as rich as people say, and he is very kind to me,' said she quickly. 'If he had not taken me when my father died, I don't know what would have become of me.'

'Imphm! The tea's bilin', Teen. Look in my goon pocket for a penny, an'

rin doon for twa cookies.'

The little seamstress obediently rose, pushed back the teapot, and disappeared.

'If I wis you,' said Liz the moment they were alone, and leaning forward to get a better look at Gladys, 'I wadna bide. Ye wad be faur better workin' for yersel'. If ye like, I'll speak for ye whaur I work, at Forsyth's Paper Mill in the Gorbals. I ken Maister George wad dae onything I ask him.'

She flung back her tawny locks with a gesture of pride, and the rich colour deepened in her cheek.

'Oh, you are very kind, but I don't think I could work in a mill. I don't know anything about it, and I am quite happy with my uncle--as happy as I can be anywhere, away from papa.'

Liz regarded her with a look, in which contempt and a vague wonder were oddly mingled.

'Weel, if you are pleased, it's nae business o' mine, of course. But I think ye are a fule. Ye wad hae yer liberty, onyway, and I could show ye a lot o' fun. There's the dancin'-schule on Sat.u.r.day nichts. It's grand; an' we're to hae a ball on Hogmanay. I'm gettin' a new frock, white book muslin, trimmed wi' green leaves an' a green sash. Teen's gaun to mak'

it. That's what for I'll no' gang to service, as my mither's aye wantin'. No me, to be ordered aboot like a beast! I'll hae my liberty, an' maybe some day I'll hae servants o' my ain. Naebody kens. Lord Bellew's bride in the story was only the gatekeeper's dochter, an'

that's her on the horse, look, after she was my Lady Bellew. Here's Teen.'

Breathless and panting, the little seamstress returned with the cookies, and made a little spread on the bare table. Gladys was not hungry, but she accepted the proffered hospitality frankly as it was given, though the tea tasted like a decoction of bitter aloes. She was horrified to behold the little seamstress swallowing it in great mouthfuls without sugar or cream. Gladys had sometimes been hungry, but she knew nothing of that painful physical sinking, the result of exhausting work and continued insufficiency of food, which the poisonous brew for the time being overcame. Over the tea the trio waxed quite talkative, and 'Lord Bellew's Bride' was discussed to its minutest detail. Gladys wondered at the familiarity of the two girls with dukes and d.u.c.h.esses, and other persons of high degree, of whom they spoke familiarly, as if they were next-door neighbours. Although she was very young, and knew nothing of their life, she gathered that its monotony was very irksome to them, and that they were compelled to seek something, if only in the pages of an unwholesome and unreal story, to lift them out of it. It was evident that Liz, at least, chafed intolerably under her present lot, and that her head was full of dreams and imaginings regarding the splendours so vividly described in the story. All this time Gladys also wondered more than once what had become of the parents, of whom there was no sign visible, and at last she ventured to put the question--

'Is your mother not at home to-day?'

This question sent the little seamstress off into a fit of silent laughter, which brought a dull touch of colour into her cheeks, and very much improved her appearance. Liz also gave a little short laugh, which had no mirth in it.

'No, she's no' at hame; she's payin' a visit at Duke Street.' And the little grave nod with which Gladys received this information further intensified the amus.e.m.e.nt of the two.

'Ye dinna see through it,' said Liz, 'so I'll gie ye'd flat. My faither and mither are in the gaol for fechtin'. They were nailed on Sat.u.r.day nicht.'

'Oh!'

Gladys looked genuinely distressed, and perhaps for the first time Liz thought of another side such degradation might have. She had often been angry, had felt it keenly in her own pa.s.sionate way, but it was always a selfish anger, which had not in it a single touch of compa.s.sion for the miserable pair who had so far forgotten their duty to each other and to G.o.d.

'Gey bad, ye think, I see,' said Liz soberly. 'We're used to it, and dinna fash oor thoombs. She'll be hame the nicht; but he's gotten thirty days, an' we'll hae a wee peace or he comes oot.'

Gladys looked at the indifferent face of Liz with a vague wonder in her own. That straight, direct glance, which had such sorrow in it, disconcerted Liz considerably, and she again turned to the pages of 'Lord Bellew.'

'Don't you get rather tired of that work?' asked Gladys, looking with extreme compa.s.sion on the little seamstress, who was again hard at work.

'Tired! Oh ay. We maun tire an' begin again,' she answered dully. 'It's sair on the fingers.'

She paused a moment to stretch out one of her scraggy hands, which was worn and thin at the fingertips, and p.r.i.c.ked with the sharp points of many needles.

'It's dreadful; the stuff looks so hard. What do you make?'

'Men's canvas jackets, number five, thirteenpence the dizen,' quoted the little seamstress mechanically, 'an' find yer ain threed.'

'What does that mean?' asked Gladys.

'I get a penny each for them, an' a penny ower.'

'For making these great things?'

'Oh, I dinna mak' them a'. The seams are run up wi' the machine afore I get them. I pit in the sleeves, the neckbands, an' mak' the b.u.t.tonholes.

There's mair wark at them than ye wad think.'

'Is the money not very little?'