A HELPING HAND.
ll this time nothing had been heard of Liz. She was no longer known in her old haunts—was almost forgotten, indeed, save by one or two. Among those who remained faithful to her memory was the melancholy Teen, and she thought of her hour by hour as she sat at her monotonous work—thought of her with a great wonder in her soul. Sometimes a little bitterness intermingled, and she felt herself aggrieved at having been so shabbily treated by her old chum. She had in her quiet way instituted a very thorough inquiry into all the circumstances of her flight, and had kept a watchful eye on every channel from which the faintest light was likely to shine upon the mystery, but at the end of six months it was still unsolved. Liz was as irrevocably lost, apparently, as if the earth had opened and swallowed her.
Teen had come to the conclusion that Liz had veritably emigrated to London, and was there assiduously, and probably successfully, wooing fame and fortune. Sometimes the weary burden of her toil was beguiled by dreams of a bright day on which Liz, grown a great lady, but still true to the old friendship, should come, perhaps, in a coach and pair, up the squalid street and remove the little seamstress to be a sharer in her glory. In one particular Teen was entirely and persistently loyal to her friend. She believed that she had kept herself pure, and when doubts had been thrown on that theory by others who believed in her less, she had closed their tattling mouths with language such as they were not accustomed to hear from her usually reticent lips. These gossip-mongers, who flourish in the quarters of the poor and rich alike, speedily learned that it was just as well not to mention the name of Liz Hepburn to Teen Balfour. One day a visitor, in the shape of a handsomely-dressed young lady, did come to the little seamstress's door. Teen gave a great start when she saw the tall figure, and her face flushed all over. In the semi-twilight which always prevails on the staircases of these great grim 'lands' of houses, she had imagined her dream to come true.
'Oh, it's you, miss?' she said, recognising Gladys Graham at last. 'I thought it was somebody else. Ye can come in, if ye like.'
The bidding was ungracious, the manner of it as repellent as of yore; but Gladys, not easily repulsed, followed the little seamstress across the threshold, and closed the door. The heavy, close smell of the place made a slight faintness come over her, and she was glad to sink into the nearest chair.
'Do you never open your window? It is very close in here.'
'No, I never open it. It takes me a' my time to keep warm as it is. There's a perfect gale blaws in, onyhoo, at the chinks. Jist pit yer hand at the windy, an' ye'll see.'
Gladys glanced pitifully round the place, and then fixed her lovely, compassionate eyes on the figure of the little seamstress, as she took up her position again on the stool by the fire and lifted her work.
'You look just as if you had been sitting there continuously since I saw you last,' Gladys said involuntarily.
'So I have, maistly,' replied Teen dully, 'an' will sit or they cairry me oot.'
'Oh, I hope not; indeed, you will not. Have you had a hard summer?'
'Middlin'; it's been waur. Five weeks in July I had nae wark; but I've been langer than that—in winter, too. In summer it's no' sae bad. When ye're cauld, ye feel the want o' meat waur.'
'Have you really sometimes not had food?' asked Gladys in a shocked voice.
'Whiles. Do you ken onything aboot Liz?' she asked, suddenly breaking off, and lifting her large sunken eyes to the sweet face opposite to her.
'No; that is one of the things I came about to-day. Have you not heard anything of her?'
'No' a cheep. Naebody kens. I gaed up to Colquhoun Street one day to ask Walter, but he didna gie me muckle cuttin'. I say, he's gettin' on thonder.' She flashed a peculiar, sly glance at Gladys, and under it the latter's sensitive colour rose.
'I always knew he would,' she replied quietly. 'And he has not heard anything, either? Do you ever see her father and mother?'
'No; but it's the same auld sang. They're no' carin' a button whaur Liz is,' said Teen calmly.
'Have you no idea?' asked Gladys.
'Not the least. I may think what I like, but I dinna ken a thing,' replied the girl candidly.
'What do you think, then? You knew her so intimately. If you would help me, we might do something together,' said Gladys eagerly.
Teen was prevented answering for a moment by a fit of coughing—a dry, hacking cough, which racked her weary frame, and brought a dark, slow colour into her cadaverous cheek.
'Well, I think she's in London,' she replied at length. 'But it's only a guess. She'll turn up some day, nae doot; we maun jist wait till she does.'
'I am very sorry for you. Will you let me help you? I am living in my own home now in Ayrshire. It is lovely there just now—almost as mild as summer. Won't you come down and pay me a little visit? It would do you a great deal of good.'
Teen laid down her heavy seam and stared at Gladys in genuine amazement, then gave a short, strange laugh.
'Ye're takin' a len' o' me, surely,' she said. 'What wad ye dae if I took ye at yer word?'
'I mean what I say. I want to speak to you, anyhow, about a great many things. How soon could you come? Have you any more work than this to do?'
'No; I tak' this hame the nicht,' replied Teen. 'I can come when I like.'
'If I stay in town all night, would you go down with me to-morrow?'
'Maybe; but, I say, what do ye mean?'
She leaned her elbows on her knees, and, with her thin face between her hands, peered scrutinisingly into her visitor's face. There was a great contrast between them, the rich girl and the poor, each the representative of a class so widely separated that the gulf seems well-nigh impassable.
'I don't mean anything, except that I want to help working girls. I so wished for Liz, she was so clever and shrewd; she could have told me just what to do. You can help me if you like; you must take her place. And at Bourhill you will have a rest—nothing to do but eat and sleep, and walk in the country. You will lose that dreadful paleness, which has always haunted me whenever I thought of you.'
A curious tremor was visible on the face of the little seamstress, a movement of every muscle, and her nerveless fingers could not grasp the needle.
'A' richt,' she replied rather huskily. 'I'll come. What time the morn?'
'What time can you be ready? It is quite the same to me when I go. I have nothing to do.'
'Well, I can be ready ony time efter twelve; but, I say, what if, when I come back, they've gi'en my wark to somebody else? That's certain; ye should see the crood waitin' for it—fechtin' for it almost like wild cats.'
Gladys shivered, and heavy tears gathered in her eyes as she rose from her chair.
'Never mind that. It will be my concern—that is, if you are willing to trust me?'
Teen rose also, and for a moment their eyes met in a steady look. 'Yes,' she said, 'I trust ye, though I dinna, for the life o' me, ken what ye mean.'
There was no demonstration of gratitude on the part of the little seamstress; Gladys even felt a trifle chilled and disheartened thinking of her after she had left the house. But the gratitude was there. That still, cold, self-constrained heart, being awakened to life, never slept again. Both lived to bless that bleak November day when the first compact had been made between them.
From the city Gladys went by car to Kelvinside, and walked up to Bellairs Crescent. Habit is very strong; not yet could the girl, so long used to the strictest and most meagre economies, bear to indulge herself in small luxuries. The need of the world was always with her. She thought always of the many to whom such small sums meant riches. She was not expected at Bellairs Crescent, and she found her friends entertaining at afternoon tea. Some one was singing when she reached the drawing-room door, and when the song was over, she slipped in, surprised, and a little taken aback, to see so many people in the room. A number of them were known to her; there had been many pleasant gatherings at Troon in the summer, and, as was natural, Miss Graham of Bourhill, with her interesting personality and her romantic history, had received a great deal of attention from the Fordyces' large circle of friends. The warmth of the greeting accorded to her made the lovely colour flush high in her cheek, and her eyes sparkle with added brilliance.
'Yes, I came up only at noon. I have been in the city since then,' she replied, in answer to many questions. 'Oh, how do you do, Mr. Fordyce? I did not expect to see you.'
'Nor I you,' said George Fordyce impressively. 'I was dragged here by Julia against my will, and this is the reward of fraternal virtue.'
It was a daring speech, and the manner conveyed still more than the words. The colour broke again over her face in a wavering flood, and her eyes down-dropped under his ardent gaze. These things were noted by several present, and conclusions rapidly drawn.
'You must not talk nonsense to me,' she said, recovering herself, and speaking with her quaint, delightful dignity. 'Remember your promise at Paris.'
'What promise? Did I make one?'
'You know you did,' she said reproachfully. 'We agreed to be friendly, and between friends there should never be any foolish compliments.'
'Well, I can't keep faith; it's impossible to see you and remember any such promise. Besides, it's sober truth,' he replied, growing bolder still. 'Let me get you some tea. Isn't it rather lively here? Doesn't it make you regret having buried yourself in the backwoods at the very beginning of the season?'
'No; I don't care anything about the season,' replied Gladys truthfully. 'Yes, you may bring me some tea, if you don't stay talking after you have brought it. How beautiful Clara is looking to-day.'
'Clara—yes; she's a handsome girl,' said George, regarding his cousin with but a languid approval. She looked very handsome and stately in her trained gown of brown velvet, with a touch of yellow at the throat, but her expression was less bright than usual. The two who spoke of her at the moment did not guess that they were responsible for the sudden change from gay to grave in her demeanour.
'Oh, Gladys, we were coming down on Saturday, Len and I,' whispered Mina at her elbow; 'but now you will stay, and that will do as well. How are you supporting life down there just now? and how is that sweet little oddity, Miss Caroline Peck?'
'If you call her an oddity, Mina, I cannot talk to you,' said Gladys, with a laugh and a shake of the head. 'I am going home to-morrow. Could Leonard and you not go down with me?'
'Going home to-morrow! Not if we know it. The people are just going away, and we shall have a delightful cosy chat. Here's that tiresome George; but isn't he looking handsome? Really, one is proud to have such a cousin.'
It was now half-past five, and the company began to disperse. In about ten minutes there were no guests left but Gladys and the two cousins from Pollokshields.
'Now I can talk to you, my dear child,' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'Why didn't you let us know you were coming to town, and one of the girls, at least, would have come to meet you?'
'I had something to do in the city, dear Mrs. Fordyce,' replied Gladys. 'There is something troubling me a good deal just now.'
'What is it? Nothing must be allowed to trouble Miss Graham of Bourhill. Her star should always be in the ascendant,' said Mina banteringly.
'It is a mystery—a lost girl,' said Gladys rather gravely. 'Some one I knew in the old life, who has disappeared, and nobody knows where she has gone.'
'How exciting! Has she not gone "ower the border an' awa', wi' Jock o' Hazeldean"?' asked Mina. 'Do tell us about her. What is her name?'
'Lizzie Hepburn; she is the sister of Walter, who was with my uncle,' said Gladys gravely. 'It is the strangest thing.'
'George, my dear, look what you are doing. Oh, my beautiful gown!'
It was Mrs. Fordyce who thus turned the conversation. Her nephew, handing the cup of tea she had never found time to drink while her guests were present, had deliberately spilled it on the front of her tea-gown. The incident was laughed over in the end, and the only person present who thought of associating his awkwardness with the name Gladys had mentioned was Mina, the shrewdest of them all; but though she had many a strange and anxious thought on the subject, she held her peace.
