She found the house at last with the help of a ragged laddie upon whose tangled mass of nondescript garments Kirsteen looked with amazement, but who was willing apparently to go to the end of the world for the sixpence which had been saved from the tramp. It was in a large and grimy “land” not far from Glasgow Green, a great block of buildings inhabited by countless families, each of which had some different trace of possession at its special window—clothes hanging to dry, or beds to air, or untidy women and girls lolling out. The common stair, which admitted to all these different apartments, was in a condition which horrified and disgusted the country girl. Her courage almost failed her when she stepped within the black portals, and contemplated the filthy steps upon which children were playing, notwithstanding all its horrors, and down the well of which came sounds of loud talking, calls of women from floor to floor and scraps of conversation maintained at the highest pitch of vigorous lungs. “It’s up at the very top,” said the urchin who was her guide. Kirsteen’s expectations sank lower and lower as she ascended. There were two doors upon each stairhead, and often more than one family inclosed within these subdivisions, all full of curiosity as to the stranger who invaded their grimy world with a clean face and tidy dress. “She’ll be some charity leddy seeking pennies for the puir folk.” “We hae mair need to get pennies than to give them.” “She’ll be gaun to see Allison Wabster, the lass that’s in a decline.” “She’ll be a visitor for Justin Macgregor, the proud Hieland besom, that’s ower grand for the like of us.” These were the pleasant words that accompanied her steps from floor to floor. Kirsteen set it all down to the score of the dreadful town in which every evil thing flourished, and with a sad heart and great discouragement pushed her way to the highest story, which was cleaner than below though all the evil smells rose and poisoned the air which had no outlet. The right-hand door was opened to her hurriedly before she could knock, and an old woman with a large mutch upon her head and a tartan shawl on her shoulders came out to meet her. “Ye’ll be the leddy from Loch Fyne,” she said with a homely curtsey. “Come ben, my bonny leddy, come ben.”
After the purgatory of the stair Kirsteen found herself in a paradise of cleanliness and order, in a little lantern of light and brightness. There were three small rooms—a kitchen, a parlour so called, with a concealed bed which made it fit for the combined purposes of a sleeping and living room, and the bedroom proper into which she was immediately conducted, and which was furnished with a tent-bed, hung with large-patterned chintz, each flower about the size of a warming-pan, and with a clean knitted white quilt which was the pride of Jean Macgregor’s heart. There was a concealed bed in this room too, every contrivance being adopted for the increase of accommodation. Perhaps concealed beds are still to be found in the much-divided “lands” in which poor tenants congregate in the poorer parts of Glasgow. They were formed by a sort of closet completely filled by the spars and fittings of a bed, and closed in by a dismal door, thus securing the exclusion of all air from the hidden sleeping-place.
The decent woman, who was Marg’ret’s old friend, took Kirsteen’s bundle from her hands, and opening it, spread out the contents on the bed.
“I’ll just hang them out before the fire to give them air, and take out the creases. And, mem, I hope you’ll make yoursel’ at home and consider a’ here as your ain.”
“Did ye know I was coming?” said Kirsteen, surprised.
“Only this morning. I got a scart of the pen from Marg’ret Brown, that is my cousin and a great friend, though I have not seen her this twenty years. She said it was one o’ the family, a young leddy that had to travel to London, and no man nor a maid could be spared to gang with her; and I was to see ye into the coach, and take good care of ye; and that I will, my bonny leddy, baith for her sake, and because ye’ve a kind face of your ain that makes a body fain.”
In the relief of this unexpected reception, and after the misery of the approach to it which had sunk Kirsteen’s courage, she sat down and cried a little for pleasure. “I am glad ye think I’ve a kind face, for oh, I have felt just like a reprobate, hating everything I saw,” she cried. “It’s all so different—so different—from home.”
Home had been impossible a few days ago; it looked like heaven—though a heaven parted from her by an entire lifetime—now.
“Weel,” said the old woman, “we canna expect that Glasco, a miserable, black, dirty town as ever was, can be like the Hielands with its bonny hills and its bright sun. But, my honey, if ye let me say sae, there’s good and bad in baith places, and Glasco’s no so ill as it looks. Will ye lie down and take a bit rest, now you’re here—or will I make ye a cup of tea? The broth will not be ready for an hour. If I had kent sooner I would have got ye a chuckie or something mair delicate; but there wasna time.”
Kirsteen protested that she neither wanted rest nor tea, and would like the broth which was the natural everyday food, better than anything. She came into the parlour and sat down looking out from the height of her present elevation upon the green below, covered with white patches in the form of various washings which the people near had the privilege of bleaching on the grass. The abundant sweet air so near the crowded and noisy streets, the freedom of that sudden escape from the dark lands and houses, the unlooked-for quiet and cheerful prospect stirred up her spirit. The lassies going about with bare feet, threading their way among the lines of clothes, sprinkling them with sparkling showers of water which dazzled in the sun, awakened the girl’s envy as she sat with her hands crossed in her lap. A flock of mill-girls were crossing the green to their work at one of the cotton-factories. They were clothed in petticoats and short gowns, or bedgowns as they are called in England, bound round their waists with a trim white apron. Some of them had tartan shawls upon their shoulders. A number of them were barefooted, but one and all had shining and carefully dressed hair done up in elaborate plaits and braids. Kirsteen’s eyes followed them with a sort of envy. They were going to their work, they were carrying on the common tenor of their life, while she sat there arrested in everything. “I wish,” she said, with a sigh, “I had something to do.”