CHUMS.
ever did mother watch more tenderly over a wayward child than the little seamstress over Liz, and though Liz was quite conscious of the espionage she did not resent it. She seemed to have no desire to leave the little house, and when Teen, in the course of that afternoon, offered to go to the house in Maryhill for her clothes, she made no demur, nor did she offer to accompany her.
'If the lassie I'm lodgin' wi' is in, Teen, ye can tell her I'm no' comin' back. I'm very gled to get quit o' her, onyway,' she said, as Teen buttoned on her shabby black jacket.
'What's her name? Had ye better no' write a line, for fear she'll no' gie me the things?'
'Oh, she'll gie ye them withoot ony bother; they wadna bring her abune ten shillin's, onyhoo. An', I say, dinna tell her onything aboot me, mind. She'd think naething o' comin' onywhere efter me.'
'Oh, I'll no' tell. Clashin' was never my sin,' said Teen. 'But her name?—ye havena telt me that yet.'
'Oh, weel, she ca's hersel' Mrs. Gordon, but I dinna believe she's a wife at a'. She's in the ballet at the Olympic the noo.'
'An' what way is she bidin' at Maryhill?'
'Oh, her man's there. She says she's mairret to yin o' the officers, but I've never set een on him.'
'Is she a nice lassie?'
'Oh, weel enough. She's no' mean, onyhoo, but she's gey fast. She was tryin' to get me ta'en on at the Olympic. If she says onything, jist tell her I've changed my mind.'
'An' are ye no' awn onything for the lodgin's?' queried Teen, who had a singular conscientiousness regarding debt, even of a microscopic kind.
'No; I paid up when I had it. I dinna owe her onything.'
Teen was silent as she put her long hat-pin through the heavy masses of her hair and pulled her fringe a little lower on her brow; but she thought a great deal. Bit by bit the story was coming out, and she had no difficulty in filling up for herself the melancholy details.
'Noo I'm ready. Ye'll no' slope when I'm oot, Liz?' she said warningly; and Liz laughed a dreary, mirthless laugh.
'I ken when I'm weel aff. I wish to goodness I had come to you when I was sick o' Brigton, instead o' gaun where I gaed.'
Teen stood still in breathless silence, wondering if full revelation was about to be made. When Liz saw this, the old spirit of contrariness entered into her again, and she said crossly,—
'What are ye waitin' on noo?'
'Naething,' replied Teen meekly. 'Weel, I'm aff. I'll be back afore dark. Ye can hae the kettle bilin', an' I'll bring in a sausage or a red herrin' for oor tea.'
It was not without some faint, excited curiosity that Teen found herself at the door of the house of which Liz had given her the address. It was a one-roomed abode, three stairs up a tall tenement, in one of these dreary and uninteresting streets which are only distinguishable from one another by their names. In answer to her knock, a shrill female voice cried, 'Come in,' an invitation which the little seamstress somewhat hesitatingly obeyed. It was now after sundown, and the freshness of the daylight had faded, leaving a kind of semi-twilight in the room, which was of a fair size, and comfortably, though not luxuriously, furnished. On the end of the fender sat the solitary occupant, in a ragged and dirty old dressing-gown of pink flannel, her feet in dilapidated slippers, and her hair in curl-papers along her forehead. Although she saw that her visitor was quite a stranger to her, she did not offer to rise, but simply raising her pert, faded, but still rather pretty face, said inquiringly,—
'Well?'
'Are you Mrs. Gordon? I've come for Lizzie Hepburn's things. She's no' comin' back here.'
'Oh, all right. Shut the door, and come in. What's up with her? Gone off with a handsomer man, eh?' queried Mrs. Gordon, as she bit her thread through, and held up a newly-trimmed dress bodice for admiration.
'No; she's gaun into the country the morn,' answered Teen, while the ballet-dancer gave several very knowing nods.
'That's a pity, for her luck's turned. You can tell her she'll be taken on if she likes to turn up at the Olympic to-morrow morning at ten sharp. I arranged it for her on Saturday night.'
'She said I was to tell you she had changed her mind aboot the theatre,' said Teen. 'She's no' weel enough for it, onyhoo. She'll be better in the country.'
'Are you her sister?'
'Oh no, only her chum.'
'Well, I say, perhaps you can tell me something about her. She was as close as the grave, though we've been pals for a while; she'd not tell me a single thing. Why is she out on her own hook? Is there a man in the business?'
'I dinna ken ony mair than you,' said Teen, looking rather uncomfortable over this cross-examination. 'An' if ye'll tell me where her box is, I maun be gaun. I promised no' to be long.'
'It's there, at the end of the bed,' said Mrs. Gordon serenely, jerking her thumb in that direction. 'I see you mean to be close too. Not that it matters a cent to me; I've no earthly interest in her affairs. You can tell her, if you like, that Captain Dent was inquiring affectionately for her this morning. I met him on my way back from rehearsal.'
Teen listened in silence, mentally deciding that she would not tell her any such thing.
'And you can tell her, if you like, that I'll be glad to see her any time before the twenty-third. The Eighty-Fifth are ordered to Ireland, and of course my husband will wish me to go with him.'
A slow smile, in which there was the faintest touch of sarcasm, was in Teen's face as she glanced at the tawdry figure sitting on the fender end.
'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 attitude, 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 passionate 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 passion of her life.
'Ye needna fash; that's the way I've heard lassies 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.
