IN VAIN.
iss 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 anticipate 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 protégée 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 passages 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.
The lover's tiff seemed to be rather a serious affair, for a week passed away and no letter came from George; nor did Gladys write any. She felt secretly wounded over it, and though she often recalled that hour spent in the library at Bellairs Crescent, she could not remember anything which seemed to justify such a complete estrangement. Never since she came to Bourhill had so long a time elapsed without communicating with one or other of the Fordyce family, but as the days went by and they made no sign, the girl's pride rose, and she told herself that if they pleased to take offence because she reserved to herself the right to ask whom she willed to her own house, they should receive no advances from her. But she was secretly unhappy. Her nature craved sunshine and peace, and the conduct of her lover she could not possibly understand. In all her imaginings how far was she always from the truth! She did not dream that he believed his death-knell had been rung, and that he attributed her silence to her righteous and inexorable indignation over the story she had heard from the lips of Liz Hepburn. He never for one moment doubted that she had told, and between conscience and disappointed love he had a very lively week of it. All this time none could have been more discreet and reticent than the girl who was the cause of all this heart-burning. Her behaviour was exemplary. She was docile, courteous, gentle in demeanour and speech, grateful for everything, but enthusiastic over nothing, differing in this respect from Teen, who appeared to walk on air, and carried her exaltation of spirit in her look and tone. But Liz was dull and silent, content to walk and drive, and breathe that heavenly air which ought to have been the very elixir of life to her, but otherwise appearing lifeless and uninterested. Gladys was very kind and even tender with her, but just a little disappointed. She watched her keenly, not knowing that all the while Liz was in turn watching her, and at last she breathed a hint of her disappointment into the ear of the little seamstress.
'Do you think Lizzie is enjoying Bourhill, Teen? She looks so spiritless; but perhaps it is her health, though I think her looking a little better than when she came.'
'It's no' her body, it's her mind,' said Teen slowly. 'She has something on her mind.'
'Has she never said anything yet to you about where she was, or what she was doing, all the time she was lost?' asked Gladys anxiously.
'Naething,' answered Teen, with a melancholy shake of her head. 'But I think it's on that she's thinkin', an' whiles I dinna like her look.'
'I'm going to speak to her myself about it, Teen. Perhaps it is something it would do her good to tell. Like you, I am often struck by her look, it is so dreadfully sad. Yes, I shall speak to her.'
The little seamstress looked hesitatingly at the bright, radiant face of Gladys, and it was upon her lips to say it might be better to let the matter rest. But, with her old philosophical reflections that anything she might say could not possibly avert the march of fate, she held her peace.
Just after lunch that afternoon, as Gladys was writing some letters in her favourite window, she saw Liz sitting by herself in the drowsy sunshine on the lawn, and her face wore such a dejected, melancholy look that it was evident some hidden sorrow was eating into her heart. Closing her desk, Gladys ran down-stairs, caught up a garden hat from the hall, and crossed the green lawn to Liz.
'Dear me, how doleful you look!' she cried gaily. 'How can you look so dreadfully doleful on such a bright day? Now tell me every simple, solitary thing you are thinking.'
A swift, rather startled glance crossed Liz's face, and she gave rather a forced laugh.
'That wadna be easy. I don't think I was thinking onything, except a meenit syne, when I lookit up an' wished I was that laverock in the lift.'
'But why? It is much nicer to be a girl, I think. Tell me, Lizzie, don't you feel stronger since you came here? I think you look it.'
'I'm weel enough,' responded Liz dully; 'an' it's a lovely place—a lovely place. I'll never forget it, never as long as I live.'
It was the first note of enthusiasm Gladys had heard regarding Bourhill, and it pleased her well.
'I hope you won't, and that you'll come often to see it.'
'I dinna think I'll ever come again; it's no' likely. Hoo lang are we to bide?'
'As long as you like,' answered Gladys frankly,—'till you are quite strong, anyhow. Teen is in no hurry to go back to Glasgow; are you?'
'Sometimes it's very quiet,' said Liz candidly.
'But what are you going to do when you return?'
Liz shook her head, but her lips gave forth no answer.
'I hope you will go to your brother, as he wished,' said Gladys, and she could not for the life of her help a curious restraint creeping into her voice. 'It would be so very nice for him to have you; it is dreadful for him to live quite alone, as he does. Why won't you go?'
'He kens what way,' replied Liz quietly.
Gladys was perplexed. There was nothing particularly encouraging in the girl's look or manner, but she thought the time had come to put the question which had so often trembled on her lips. It was a proof of Gladys Graham's fine and delicate nature that she had not ere this sought to probe into Liz Hepburn's secret, if she had one.
'Lizzie,' she said gently, 'I hope you won't be angry at what I say; but often, looking at you, I see that you are unhappy. I have never sought to pry into your concerns, but perhaps, if you were to tell me something about yourself, you would feel more at rest.'
'D'ye think sae?' she asked, with a faint, ironical smile, which Gladys did not like. 'If it eased me, it micht keep you frae sleepin'. I'm very much obleeged to you for no' haein' pestered me wi' questions. I dinna ken anither in the world but Teen that wad hae treated me as you have. But my life's my ain, an' if I suffer, I'm no' askin' pity. I can bear the brunt o' what I've brocht on mysel.'
It was a flat repulse, but it was gently spoken, and did not vex the sensitive soul of Gladys.
'Very well, Liz,' she said kindly, 'I'll never ask any more; but remember that if I can help you at any time, I am ready, always ready, for your sake and for Walter's.'
'He worships the very ground you walk on,' said Liz calmly. 'I wonder what way him an' me was born? Is't true ye are gaun to be married to Fordyce o' Gorbals Mill?' As she asked this direct question, she flashed her brilliant eyes full on the girl's sweet face.
'I suppose I am, sometime,' Gladys answered rather confusedly. 'At least, I have promised.'
'Ay,' said Liz, 'but there's mony a slip atween the cup an' the lip; and in time, they say, a'body gets their deserts, even here.'
With this enigmatical speech Liz got up and crossed the lawn, with averted face, Gladys looking after her with a puzzled wonder in her eyes, thinking she was certainly a very strange girl, and that it was hopeless to try to make anything out of her.
