A FAITHFUL FRIEND.
The little seamstress was in a quiver of happy excitement, which
betrayed itself in her very step as she returned to the kitchen.
Liz lay back in the old basket-chair with her eyes closed, and the
deadly paleness of her face was very striking.
'Ye arena weel, Liz,' she said brusquely. 'It's the stair; ye never
could gang up a stair, I mind, withoot bein' oot o' breath. Never mind;
the kettle's bilin', an' ye'll hae yer tea in a crack.'
She busied herself about the table with nervous hands, astonished at her
own agitation, which did not appear to have communicated itself to Liz,
her demeanour being perfectly lifeless and uninterested.
Teen's stock of household napery did not include a tablecloth, but,
desirous of doing honour to her guest, she spread a clean towel on the
little table, and set out the cups with a good deal of cheerful clatter.
'What'll ye tak'? I have eggs, Liz--real country eggs. I brocht them up
frae the country mysel',' she said, thinking to rouse the lethargy of
her companion. 'I very near said I saw them laid; onyway, I saw the hens
that laid them. Ye'll hae an egg, eh?'
'Yes, if ye like. I havena tasted since eleeven this morning, an' then
it was only a dram,' said Liz languidly.
Teen stood still on the little strip of rag-carpet before the fender,
and regarded her friend with a mingling of horror and pity. Whatever had
been the tragedy of the past few months, Liz had not thereby bettered
herself. With a little choking sob, Teen made greater haste with her
preparation, and put upon the table a very tempting little meal, chiefly
composed of dainties from Bourhill, a very substantial basket having
been sent up to the little seamstress by order of Miss Graham. Liz threw
off her hat, and, drawing her chair up to the table, took a long draught
from the teacup.
'Eh, that's guid,' she said, with a sigh of satisfaction. Ye're better
aff than me, efter a', Teen, an' I wish I was in yer place.'
'Ye'll bide here noo ye have come, onyhoo,' said the little seamstress
cheerily. 'My ship has come in; but we'll speak upon it efter. I say,
isn't Walter lookin' fine? He wad pass for a lord, jist as you said.'
'His looks are a' richt--he maun be makin' money. I say, where is the
lassie that used to bide there? The auld man's deid, isn't he?'
'Ay,' answered Teen; 'deid lang syne. Oh, she's turned into a graund
leddy, livin' on an estate in the country. He left a fortin. See, eat up
that ither egg, an' there's plenty mair tea. Look at that cream, isn't
it splendid?'
'Fine,' said Liz; and as she ate and enjoyed the generous food her
colour came again, and she looked a little less ghastly and ill, a
little more like the Liz of old. Pen cannot tell the joy it was to the
loyal heart of the little seamstress thus to minister to her friend's
great need, though in the midst of her deep satisfaction was a secret
dread, a vague and vast pity, which made her afraid to ask her a single
question. It needed no very keen perception to gather that all was not
well with the unhappy girl.
'Weel, I've enjoyed that,' she said, pushing back from the table at
last. 'I've eaten ye oot o' hoose and hame, but as yer ship's come in,
it'll no' maitter. Tell me a' aboot it.'
'Oh, there's no' much to tell,' answered Teen, with a touch of her
natural reserve. 'I've made a rich frien', that's a'.'
'A man?' asked Liz, with interest.
'No; a lady,' replied Teen rather proudly. 'But hae ye naething to tell
me aboot yersel'?'
'Oh, I have thoosands to tell, if I like, but I'm no' gaun to tell ye a
thing,' replied Liz flatly; but her candour did not even make Teen
wince. She was used to it in the old days, and expected nothing else.
'Oh, jist as ye like,' she answered serenely. 'But, tell me, did ye ever
gang to London?'
'No,' replied Liz, 'I never went to London. Did ye think I had?'
'Yes. We--that is, some o's thocht--Walter an' me, onyway--that ye had
gane to the theatre in London to be an actress. It was gey shabby, I
thocht, to gang the way ye did, withoot sayin' a cheep to me, efter a'
the plans we had made,' said Teen, with equal candour.
'Maybe it was,' said Liz musingly, and, with her magnificent eyes fixed
on the fire, relapsed into silence again, and Teen saw that her face was
troubled. Her heart yearned over her unspeakably, and she longed for
fuller confidence, which Liz, however, had not the remotest intention of
giving.
'I dinna think, judgin' frae appearances, that ye have bettered
yoursel', said the little seamstress slowly.
'Ye think richt. I made wan mistake, Teen--the biggest mistake o' a','
she replied, and her mouth became very stern and bitter, and a dull
gleam was visible in her eyes.
Teen waited breathlessly, in the hope that Liz would still confide in
her, but having thus delivered herself, she again relapsed into silence.
'What way are ye bidin' at Maryhill?' she asked after a bit, and the
same note of suspicion which had been in Walter's questions sounded
through her voice. It made the colour rise in the sharply-outlined cheek
of Liz, and she replied angrily,--
'It's news ye're wantin', an' ye're no' gaun to get it. Ye brocht me
here again' my wull, but ye'll no' cross-question me. I can gang hame
even yet. It's no' the first time I've gane hame in the mornin',
onyway.'
Teen wisely accepted the inevitable.
'Ye're no' gaun wan fit oot o' this hoose the nicht,' she replied
calmly, 'nor the morn either, unless I ken whaur ye are gaun. I dinna
think, Liz, ye hae dune very weel for yersel' this while; ye'd better
let me look efter ye. Twa heids are aye better than yin.'
'Ye're gaun to be the boss, I see,' said Liz, with a faint smile, and in
her utter weariness she let her head fall back again and closed her
eyes. 'If I wis to bide here the morn, an' Wat comes, he'd better no'
ask me ower mony questions, because I'll no' stand it frae neither you
nor him, mind that.'
'Naebody'll ask you questions, my dear,' said Teen, and, lifting back
the table, she folded down the bed, and shook up the old wool pillows,
wishing for her friend's sake that they were made of down. Then she
knelt down on the old rag-carpet, and began to unlace Liz's boots,
glancing ever and anon with sad eyes up into the white face, with its
haggard mouth and dark closed eyes.
'Ye are a guid sort, Teen, upon my word,' was all the thanks she got. 'I
believe I will gang to my bed, if ye'll let me; maybe, if ye kent a', ye
wad turn me oot to the street.'
'No' me. If the a's waur than I imagine, it's gey bad,' replied the
little seamstress. 'Oh, Liz, I'm that gled to see you, I canna dae
enough.'
'I've been twice up your stair, Teen; once I knockit at the door an'
then flew doon afore you could open't. Ye think ye've a hard time o't,
but there's waur things than sewin' jackets at thirteenpence the dizen.'
Teen's hands were very gentle as she assisted her friend off with her
gown, which was a very handsome affair, all velvet and silk, and gilt
trimmings, which dazzled the eye.
Thus partially undressed, Liz threw herself without another word on the
bed, and in two minutes was asleep. Then, softly laying another bit of
coal on the fire, Teen lifted the table back to the hearth, got out pen,
ink, and paper, and set herself to a most unusual task, the composition
and writing of a letter. I should be afraid to say how long it took her
to perform this great task, nor how very poor an accomplishment it was
in the end, but it served its purpose, which was to acquaint Gladys with
the rescue of Liz. Afraid to disturb the sleeping girl, Teen softly
removed a pillow from the bed, and placing it on the floor before the
fire, laid herself down, with an old plaid over her, though sleep was
far from her eyes. A great disappointment had come to the little
seamstress; for though she had long since given up all hope of welcoming
back Liz in the guise of a great lady, who had risen to eminence by dint
of her own honest striving, she only knew to-night, when the last
vestige of her hope had been wrested from her, how absolute and
unassailable had been her faith in her friend's honour. And now she knew
intuitively the very worst. It needed no sad story from Liz to convince
the little seamstress that she had tried the way of transgressors, and
found it hard. Mingling with her intense sorrow over Liz was another
and, if possible, a more painful fear--lest this deviation from the
paths of rectitude might be fraught with painful consequences to the
gentle girl whom Teen had learned to love with a love which had in it
the elements of worship. These melancholy forebodings banished sleep
from the eyes of the little seamstress, and early in the morning she
rose, sore, stiff, and unrefreshed, from her hard couch, and began to
move about the house again, setting it to rights for Liz's awakening.
She, however, slept on, the heavy sleep of complete exhaustion; and
finally, Teen, not thinking it wise to disturb her, laid herself down on
the front of the bed to rest her tired bones. She too fell asleep, and
it was the sunshine upon her face which awakened her, just as the church
bells began to ring.
With an exclamation which awoke her companion, she leaped up, and ran to
break up the fire, which was smouldering in the grate.
'Mercy me! it's eleeven o'clock; but it's Sunday mornin', so it doesna
matter,' she said almost blithely, for in the morning everything seems
brighter, and even hard places less hard. 'My certy, Liz, ye've sleepit
weel. Hae ye ever wakened?'
'Never; I've no' haen a sleep like that for I canna tell ye hoo lang,'
said Liz quite gratefully, for she felt wonderfully rested and
refreshed.
In an incredibly short space of time the little seamstress had the
kettle singing on the cheery hob, and toasted the bread, while Liz was
washing her face and brushing her red locks at the little looking-glass
hanging at the window.
They were sitting at their cosy breakfast, talking of commonplace
things, when Walter's double knock came to the door. Teen ran to admit
him, and, with a series of nods, indicated to him that his sister was
all right within. There was a strained awkwardness in their meeting. Liz
felt and resented the questioning scrutiny of his eyes, and had not Teen
thrown herself into the breach, it would have been a strange interview.
As it was, she showed herself to be a person of the finest and most
delicate tact, and more than once Walter found himself looking at her
with a kind of grateful admiration, and thinking what an odd mistake he
had made in his estimate of her character.
When the breakfast was over, Teen, under pretence of going to inquire
for a sick neighbour, took herself off, and left the brother and sister
alone. It had to come sooner or later, she knew, and she hoped that Liz,
in her softer mood, would at least meet Walter half-way.
When the door was closed upon the two there was a moment's silence,
which Walter broke quite abruptly; it was not his nature to beat about
the bush.
'Are you going to tell me this morning where you have been all this
time?'
'No,' she answered calmly, 'I'm not.'
This was unpromising, but Walter tried not to notice her defiant manner
and tone.
'Very well; I won't ask you, since you don't want to tell. You haven't
been prospering, anyhow. Now, any one can see that; but we'll let
bygones be bygones. I'm in a good way of doing now, Liz, and if you like
to come along to Colquhoun Street and try your hand at housekeeping, I'm
ready.'
Liz was profoundly amazed, but not a change passed over her face.
'Ye're no' feared,' was her only comment, delivered at last in a
perfectly passionless voice.
'Feared! What for?' he asked, trying to speak pleasantly. 'You're my
sister, and I need a housekeeper. I'm thinking of leaving Colquhoun
Street, and taking a wee house somewhere in the suburbs. We can talk it
over when you come.'
Then Liz sat up and fixed her large, indescribable eyes full on her
brother's face.
'An' will ye tak' me withoot askin' a single question, Wat?'
'I can't do anything else,' he answered good-humouredly.
'But I've lost my character,' she said then, in a perfectly
matter-of-fact voice.
Although he was in a manner prepared for it, this calm announcement made
him wince.
'You can redeem it again,' he said in a slightly unsteady voice. 'I
don't want to be too hard on you, Liz. You never had a chance.'
Liz leaned back in her chair again and closed her eyes. She was, to
outward appearance, indifferent and calm, but her breast once or twice
tumultuously heaved, and her brows were knit, as if she suffered either
physical or mental pain.
'You'll come, won't you, Liz, either to-day or to-morrow? You know the
place,' he said rather anxiously.
'No,' she answered quietly; 'I'm no' comin'.'
'Why? I'm sure I will never cast up anything. I'm in solemn earnest,
Liz. I'll do the best I can for you, and nobody shall cast a stone at
you when I am by. I've lived to myself too long. Come and help me to be
less selfish.'
The girl's breast again tumultuously heaved, and one deep, bursting sob
forced itself from her lips; but all her answer was, to shake her head
wearily, and answer,--
'No.'
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