LIZ.
Abel Graham's business was really that of a wholesale drysalter in a
very small way. His customers were chiefly found among the small
shopkeepers who abounded in the neighbourhood, and as he gave credit for
a satisfactory time, he was much patronised. To give credit to a certain
amount was the miser's policy. When he once got the unhappy debtors in
his toils it was hopeless to extricate themselves, and so they continued
paying, as they were able, high prices and exorbitant interest, which
left them no chance of making any profit in their own humble sphere. He
had also lent a great deal of money, his income from that source alone
being more than sufficient to keep himself and his niece in modest
comfort, had he so willed. But the lust of gold possessed him. It was
nothing short of physical pain for him to part with it, and he had no
intention of changing his way of life for her. He was known in the
district under the elegant _sobriquet_ of Skinny Graham; and when Gladys
heard it for the first time, she laughed silently to herself, thinking
of its fitness. The simple-hearted child quickly accommodated herself to
her surroundings, accepting her meagre lot with a serenity a more
experienced mind might have envied. She even managed to make a little
atmosphere of brightness about her, which at once communicated itself to
the two who shared it with her. They viewed this exquisite change, it
may be believed, from an entirely different standpoint. The old man
liked the comfort and the cleanliness which the girl's busy hands made
in their humble home; the boy looked on with deep eyes, wonderingly,
catching glimpses of her white soul, and knowing that it was far above
and beyond the sordid air it breathed. She went out a great deal,
wandering alone and fearlessly in the streets--always in the streets,
because as yet she did not know that even in that great city, where the
roar and the din of life are never still, and the air but seldom clear
from the smoke of its bustle, are to be found quiet resting-places,
where the green things of God grow in hope and beauty, giving their
message of perpetual promise to the heart open to receive it. Gladys
would have welcomed that message gladly, ear and heart having been early
taught to wait and listen for it, but as yet she believed Glasgow to be
but a city of streets, of dull and dreadful stones, against which the
tide of life beat remorselessly for ever. And such life! For very pity
the child's heart grew heavy within her often as she looked upon the
stream of humanity in these poor streets, on the degraded, hopeless
faces, the dull eyes, the languid bearing of those who appeared to have
lost interest in, and respect for, themselves. She believed it wholly
sad. Standing on the outside, she knew nothing of the homely joys, the
gleams of mirth, the draughts of happiness possible to the very poor.
She thought their laughter, when it fell sometimes upon her ears, more
dreadful than their tears. So she slipped silently about among them,
quite unnoticed, looking on with large sad eyes, and almost as an angel
might. Sometimes looking to the heavens, which even walls and roofs of
stone could not shut out, she wondered how God, who loved all with such
a tender love, could bear to have it so. It vexed her soul with doubts,
and made her so unhappy that even in her dreams she wept. Of these
things she did not speak to those about her yet, though very soon it
became a habit with her and Walter to discuss the gravest problems of
existence.
The old man offered no objections to the lessons, only stipulating that
no unnecessary candles should be consumed. He allowed but one to lighten
the gloom of the large kitchen; and every evening after tea the same
picture might have been seen--the old man dozing in the chimney-corner,
and the two young creatures at the little table with books and slates,
the unsteady light of the solitary candle flickering on their earnest
faces. Teacher and taught! Very often in the full after years they
looked back upon it, and talked of it with smiles which were not far off
from tears. It is not too much to say that the companionship of Walter
was the only thing which saved Gladys from despair; but for the bright
kinship of his presence she must have sunk under the burden of a life so
hard, a life for which she was so unfitted; but they comforted each
other, and kept warm and true in their young hearts faith in humankind
and in the mercy of Heaven.
As the days went by, Walter dreaded yet more the coming of Saturday, and
Sunday to be spent in his own house in Bridgeton, but as yet he had not
spoken of his great sorrow to Gladys, only she was quick to notice how,
as the week went by and Saturday came, the shadow deepened on his face.
She felt for him keenly, but her perception was so delicate, so quick,
she knew it was a sorrow with which she must not intermeddle. There were
very many things in life, Gladys was learning day by day, more to be
dreaded than death, which is so often, indeed, the gentlest friend.
One Monday morning Walter appeared quite downcast, so unusual with him
that Gladys could not forbear asking what troubled him.
'It's Liz,' he said, relieved to be asked, though diffident in
volunteering information. 'She's ill,--very badly, too,--and she is not
looked after. I wish I knew what to do.'
Gladys was sympathetic at once.
'What is it?--the matter, I mean. Have they had a doctor?'
'Yes; it's inflammation of the lungs. She's so much in the streets at
night, I think, when it's wet; that's where she's got it.'
'I am very sorry. Perhaps I could do something for her. My father was
often ill; he was not strong, and sometimes caught dreadful chills
painting outside. I always knew what to do for him. I'll go, if you
like.'
The lad's face flushed all over. He was divided between his anxiety for
his sister, whom he really loved, and his reluctance for Gladys to see
his home. But the first prevailed.
'If it wouldn't be an awful trouble to you,' he said; and Gladys smiled
as she gave her head a quick shake.
'No trouble; I shall be so glad. Tell me where to find the place, and
I'll go after dinner, before it is dark. Uncle Abel says I must not go
out after dark, you know.'
'It's a long way from here, and you'll have to take two cars.'
'I know the Bridgeton car; but may I not walk?'
'No; please take these pennies. When you are going to see my sister, I
should pay. Yes, take them; I want you to.'
Gladys took the coppers, and put them in her pocket. She knew very well
they would reduce the hoard he was gathering for the purchase of a
coveted book, but she felt that in accepting them she was conferring a
rare pleasure on him. And it was so. Never was subject prouder of a gift
accepted by a sovereign than Walter Hepburn of the fact that that day
Gladys should ride in comfort through the wet streets at his expense. It
was another memory for the after years.
In the afternoon, accordingly, Gladys dressed and went out. Her uncle
had provided her with a warm winter cloak, which enveloped her from head
to foot. It was not new. Had Gladys known where it came from, and who
had worn it before her, she might not have enjoyed so much solid
satisfaction in wearing it, but though she had been told that it was an
unredeemed pledge she would not have known what it meant.
It was a dry afternoon, though cloudy and cold. It was so near Christmas
that the shops were gay with Christmas goods; but in those who have no
money to spend in such luxuries, the Christmas display can only awaken a
dull feeling of envy and discontent. By dint of much asking, after
leaving the car, Gladys found the street where the Hepburns lived. It
was not so squalid as the immediate neighbourhood of her own home, but
it was inexpressibly dreary--one of these narrow long streets, with high
'lands' on either side, entered by common stairs, and divided into very
small houses. Outwardly it looked even respectable, and was largely
occupied by the poorer labouring class, who often divided their abodes
by letting them out to lodgers. It was one of the streets, indeed, where
the overcrowding had attracted the serious consideration of the
authorities.
A bitter wind, laden with the promise of snow, swept through it from end
to end, and caught Gladys in the teeth as she entered it. It was not a
very cheerful welcome, and Gladys looked with compassion upon the
children playing on the pavement and about the doorways, but scantily
clad, though their blue fingers and pinched faces did not seem to damp
their merriment. The child-heart, full of glee and ready for laughter,
always will assert itself, even in the most unfavourable circumstances.
Round the door which Gladys desired to enter, a little band of boys and
girls were engaged playing the interesting game of 'Here's the Robbers
passing by,' and Gladys stood still, watching them with a kind of quiet,
tender interest, trying to understand the words, to which they gave many
strange meanings. They grew shy of the scrutiny by and by, and the spell
was broken by an oath which fell glibly from the lips of a small boy,
showing that it was no stranger to them. Gladys looked inexpressibly
shocked, and hastened into the stair, which was very dirty, and odorous
of many evil smells. The steps seemed endless, but she was glad as she
mounted to find the light growing broader, until at last she reached the
topmost landing, where the big skylight revealed a long row of doors,
each giving entrance to a separate dwelling. The girl looked confusedly
at them for a moment, and then, recalling sundry directions Walter had
given, proceeded to knock at the middle one. It was opened at once by a
young woman wearing a rusty old black frock and a large checked apron, a
little shawl pinned about her head quite tightly, and making her face
look very small and pinched. It was a very pale face,--quite ghastly,
in fact,--the very lips white, and her eyes surrounded by large black
circles, which made Gladys think she must be very ill.
'Well, miss?' she said coolly and curtly, holding the door open only
about three inches.
'Does Mrs. Hepburn live here?' asked Gladys, thinking she had made a
mistake.
'Yes, but she's no' at hame. Come back the morn. Eh, Liz, will yer
mither be oot the morn?'
'Ay; ask her what she wants,' a somewhat husky voice announced from the
interior, followed by a fit of coughing quite distressing to hear.
'Oh, is that Walter's sister, who is ill?' said Gladys eagerly. 'Please,
may I come in? Ask her. Tell her that I have come from Colquhoun Street
to see her. I am Gladys Graham.'
The young woman disappeared into the interior; a whispered consultation
followed, and a general hurrying movement of things being put straight,
then Gladys was bidden come in.
She stepped into the little narrow dark passage, closed the door, and
entered the kitchen where the two girls were. It was quite a comfortable
place, clean and warm, though the air was close, and not wholesome. It
had a few articles of kitchen furniture, and two beds, one in each
corner, which rather crowded the space. On one of the beds, half-lying,
half-sitting, was Liz, Walter's sister, with a blanket pinned round her
shoulders, and a copy of the _Family Reader_ in her hand, open at a
thrilling picture of a young lady with an impossible figure being
rescued from a runaway horse by a youth of extraordinary proportions.
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 coarse
mouth, brilliant blue eyes, and a mass 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.
[Illustration]