WHAT WILL SHE DO?
Walter looked at her perplexedly, not knowing what to say.
'Why will you not come?' he asked at length quite gently.
'I've disgraced ye enough,' she answered, a trifle sharply. 'Ye dinna
ken what ye are daein', my man, askin' me to come an' bide wi' you. I've
mair respect for ye than ye hae for yersel'. I'm much obleeged, a' the
same, but I'm no' comin'.'
He perceived that the highest motive prompted her, and it convinced him
as nothing else could have done that, if she had erred, she had also
repented sincerely.
'What will you do, then?' he asked. 'Will you,' he added
hesitatingly--'will you go to the old folk?'
She gave a short, hard laugh.
'No' me. There wad be plenty castin' up there, if ye like. No; I hae nae
desire to see them again this side the grave.'
It was a harsh speech; but, knowing what the past had been, Walter could
not blame her. As he stood looking through the little window, beyond the
forest of roofs to where the sun lay warm and bright on far-off country
slopes, he thought of the sore bitterness of life. He might well be at
war with fate; it had not given him much of the good which makes life
worth living. It was all very well for Gladys Graham, the spoiled child
of a happy fortune, to reprove him for railing at the cruelty of
circumstances; her suffering, even when the days were darkest with her,
had been of a gentler and less hopeless kind.
'Liz,' he said, turning to his sister again, after what had seemed to
her an interminable silence, 'if you won't come to me, promise me you'll
stay here. I have not asked any questions about your way of doing, but I
can guess at it. Promise me that you will give it all up and stay here.'
'Sponging off Teen, like?' she asked sarcastically.
'No, no; I have plenty of money. You shall want for nothing,' he said,
with a touch of irritation. 'She's a good little soul, Teen, and I won't
forget her. I'm sure you and she could be quite comfortable here; you
have always been good friends.'
'Yes,' answered Liz indifferently, 'that's true.'
'Will you promise, then,' he asked anxiously, 'to stay here in the
meantime?'
'No,' she answered, 'I'll promise naething, because, if it comes up my
back, I'll rise an' gang oot this very day.'
Walter's face flushed a little with anger. She was very perverse, and
would give him no satisfaction whatever. He was at a disadvantage,
because he really knew very little of her nature, which was as deep and
as keen of feeling as his own.
'Then am I to go away and live in torture about you, Liz? I've a good
mind to shut you up where you can't get out.'
'They wad be queer bolts and bars that kept me in,' she said, with a
slight smile. 'Ye are very guid to tak' sae muckle thocht aboot me, and
if it'll relieve yer mind, ye can believe that whatever I'm aboot, it's
honest wark, and that if I need anything, I'll come to you.'
'You mean that, Liz?'
'Yes, I mean it; an' if I div say a thing I dinna gang back frae it,'
she said, and again his mind was relieved. It was but natural that he
should feel an absorbing desire to know exactly what her experience had
been during the time she had been away from them, but since she seemed
determined to keep silence regarding it, he could only keep silence too.
Presently Teen returned, and there was a furtive look of anxiety in her
eyes as she regarded them, inly wondering what had transpired in her
absence.
'Liz will bide with you in the meantime,' said Walter, affecting a
cheerfulness he did not feel. 'I have been asking her to come and be my
housekeeper, but she won't promise in the meantime.'
'Oh, she'll be fine here the noo,' answered the little seamstress, with
a significance which did not convey anything to them, though it meant
something to her. She was thinking as she spoke of the probable result
of the letter she had just carried to the post, and which would be
delivered at Bourhill in the morning. She was not mistaken in her
calculations regarding it; for next morning, between eleven and twelve,
when the two were sitting by the fire keeping up a rather disjointed
conversation, during which Liz had exhibited distinct signs of
restlessness, a light, quick knock came to the door.
'That's her!' cried Teen, springing up, her sallow face all aglow. 'I
kent she wad come; yes, it's jist her.'
Liz sat up, her whole demeanour defiant, her face wearing its most
ungracious look.
She had not the remotest idea who was meant by 'her,' and it is certain
that had there been any other means of exit than the door in the
building, she would have taken herself off there and then. What was her
astonishment to behold presently a lissom, graceful figure and a sweet
face, which seemed familiar, though she could not for the moment believe
that they really pertained to Gladys Graham. And the face wore such a
lovely look of gladness and wonder and sorrow all mingled, that Liz was
struck dumb.
'Oh, Lizzie, I am so glad to see you. How could you stay away so long,
when you must have known we were all so anxious about you? But we will
forgive you quite, now that you have come back.'
She took the unwilling hand of Walter's sister in her firm, warm clasp,
and, bending forward, kissed her, as she had done once before, on the
brow. Then the face of Liz became a dusky red, and she started back,
saying hoarsely,--
'Don't! Never dae that again. Oh, my God, if ye kent, ye wadna let yer
eyes licht on me, far less that.'
'I know that we are very glad to see you again, and that you look very
ill, dear Lizzie,' said Gladys, her voice tremulous with her deep
compassion; 'and I have come to take you away to Bourhill. Here is
somebody quite ready, I think, to go.'
She turned with a smile to the little seamstress, whose face still wore
that intense, glorified look.
'Bourhill?' repeated Liz. 'Where's that?'
'That's my home now,' said Gladys gleefully. 'See what you have missed,
being away so long. Has Teen not told you of all its glories? I thought
she was so enthusiastic over it, she could not hold her tongue. Never
mind, you shall soon see it for yourself.'
'I'm very much obleeged to ye, but I'm no' comin',' said Liz, with the
same firmness which had set aside Walter's scheme concerning her.
'Why not? Nobody ever refuses me anything,' Gladys said.
'It wad be a sin for me to gang,' replied Liz quietly. 'I'm no' fit to
speak to the like o' you. At least, that's what them ye belang to wad
say.'
'I've nobody belonging to me to dictate to me, Liz, and I'm not afraid
to trust you. You may have sinned, I don't know, but you have had many
temptations. I want to show you a happier life. Tell her, Teen, how
lovely it is at dear Bourhill.'
'I couldna,' answered Teen in a choking voice. 'It's like heaven, Liz.'
'Then it'll be ower guid for me,' said Liz wearily, 'an' I'll better
bide whaur I am. But, I say, ye are queerer than ever, an' I thocht ye
gey queer last time I saw ye.'
'Never mind what you think of me. Say you will come with me to-day. I
came for the very purpose of taking you away,' said Gladys cheerfully.
'Do you remember that absurd story about "Lord Bellew's Bride" you were
reading the first time I saw you? My own fortune is very nearly as
wonderful as that of "Lord Bellew's Bride."'
Liz faintly smiled.
'Eh, sic lees there is in papers! It shouldna be printed. Things like
yon never happen in real life--never, never!' She spoke with passionate
emphasis, which indicated that she keenly felt what she said.
'Ye'll be gaun to get mairret next?' she added, looking at Gladys, who
smiled and nodded, with slightly heightened colour.
'Well, what is to be done? Are you going down with me to-day?' she
asked, looking from one to another, and tapping her dainty foot a trifle
impatiently on the floor.
'I canna come the day, for my claes are a' at Maryhill,' said Liz.
'But I'll gang for them, Liz,' put in the little seamstress quickly.
'They can be easy got frae Maryhill afore nicht. It's only twelve
o'clock the noo.'
'There need not be any such hurry; I think I shall stay in town all
night,' said Gladys, 'and you can arrange it together, either to go with
me or alone. Teen can manage it; she knows all about the trains, having
been there before. I shall be sure to be home not later than to-morrow
night, and if anything should prevent me getting down then, there is
Miss Peck, Teen, who, you know, will make you very welcome.'
'Yes, I ken,' nodded Teen. 'If ye only kent what like a place it is,
Liz, ye wad be jumpin'.'
'I'm sure I dinna ken what way ye want me doon there,' said Liz,
relapsing into her weary, indifferent manner. 'I canna understand it.'
'Can't you?' asked Gladys merrily. 'Well, I want you, that's all. I want
to have the pleasure of seeing you grow strong and well again. Nobody
shall meddle with you. You shall do just as you like, and you two will
be companions to each other.'
Teen looked reproachfully at her friend, wondering to see her so
undemonstrative, never even uttering a single word of thanks for the
kindness so freely offered. She shook hands with Gladys in silence, and
allowed her to depart without further remark.
'You'll make sure that she comes down, Teen?' said Gladys, when they
were outside the door. 'Poor thing, she looks dreadfully ill and
unhappy. Where _do_ you think she has been?'
Teen mournfully shook her head, and her large eyes filled with tears.
'I'll no' let her away,' she answered firmly. 'If she'll no' come doon
to Bourhill, I'll see that she disna gang onywhere else withoot me.'
'You are a faithful friend,' said Gladys quickly. 'Has she--has she seen
her brother?'
Teen wondered somewhat at the hesitation with which the question was
asked.
'Ay; he was here yesterday.'
'And what did he say, Teen? Oh, I hope he was very gentle with her.'
'I wasna in a' the time, but I'm sure that kinder he couldna hae been.
He wanted her to gang to Colquhoun Street an' bide, but she wadna.'
'Well, I hope she will come to Bourhill, and I think she will.
Good-bye.'
'Weel, hae ye gotten me weel discussed?' queried Liz sarcastically, when
the little seamstress returned to the kitchen. 'I canna understand that
lassie by onybody.'
'Nor I a'thegither, but I ken she's guid,' she answered simply. 'Ye will
gang to Bourhill, Liz?'
'Maybe; I'll see. I say, do ye ken wha she's gaun to mairry?'
'I have an inklin',' replied Teen, and said no more, though her face
became yet more gravely troubled.
'Liz,' she said suddenly, 'will ye tell me wan thing afore we gang doon
to Bourhill, if we gang?'
'What is't?'
'Had Fordyce onything to dae wi' you gaun awa' when you did?'
'Mind yer ain business,' replied Liz, with the utmost calmness, not even
changing colour. 'I'm no' gaun to tell ye a single thing. My concerns
are my ain, an' if ye're no' pleased, weel, I can shift.'
The girl's matter-of-fact, unruffled demeanour somewhat allayed Teen's
burning anxiety, and, afraid to try Liz too far, lest she should insist
on leaving her, she held her peace.
[Illustration]