GONE.
Towards the end of the second week Liz began to exhibit certain signs of
restlessness, which ought to have warned those concerned in her welfare
that the quiet and seclusion of Bourhill were beginning to pall upon
her. As she improved in her bodily health her mind became more active,
and she began to pine for something more exciting than country walks and
drives. They were not altogether unobservant of the growing change in
her, of course, but attributed it to a returning and healthful interest
in the simpler pleasures of life. All this time George Fordyce had not
come to Bourhill, nor had any letters passed between him and his
promised wife. It would be too much to say that Gladys was quite
indifferent to this; if her feelings were not very deeply involved, her
pride was touched, and the first advances were not at all likely to
emanate from her. Liz had lived in secret dread, mingled with a kind of
happy anticipation, of meeting George Fordyce at Bourhill, and as the
days went by, and there was no sign or talk of his coming, she began to
wonder very much what it all meant. She was a remarkably shrewd person,
and it did occur to her to connect her visit and the absence of Miss
Graham's lover. One day, however, she put a question to Teen as they
sauntered through the spring woods on the hill behind the house.
'I say, is't true that she is gaun to mairry Fordyce, Teen? It's no'
like it. What way does he never look near?'
Teen looked keenly into her companion's face, to which that fortnight of
complete rest and generous living had restored the bloom of health.
Without planning very much, or artfully seeking to mislead the little
seamstress, Liz had thrown her entirely off the scent. Such careless
mention of her old lover's name, and her apparent indifference as to
whether they should or should not meet at Bourhill, had entirely
convinced Teen that he had no share in that part of Liz's life which she
had elected to keep a sealed book.
'It's quite true that they are engaged,' she replied tranquilly; 'but
maybe he's awa' frae hame. But nane o' them hae been here for a long
time.'
'She disna seem to be much in earnest,' put in Liz flatly. 'I dinna
believe mysel' that she cares a button for ony o' the lot; do you?'
'I dinna ken,' answered Teen truthfully. 'It disna maitter to us,
onyway.'
'Maybe no'. Let's sit doon here a meenit, Teen; the sun's fine an'
warm,' said Liz, and plumped down among the bracken, while Teen stood
still under the jagged branches of an old fir tree, and looked 'her
fill,' as she expressed it, of the lovely world at her feet. It was
still a spring world, clothed in a most delicate and exquisite garb of
green, waiting only for the touch of later summer to give it a deeper
hue. There were many touches of white and pink bloom, showing in
exquisite contrast where the hawthorn and the gean were in flower. Nor
was the ground left with its more sombre hues unrelieved; the blue
hyacinth, the delicate anemone, the cowslip, and the primrose grew
thickly on every bare hillside and in all the little valleys, making the
air heavy with their rich perfume.
And all the fields now made glad the hearts of those who had in faith
dropped their seed into the brown soil, and the whole earth, down to the
sun-kissed edge of the sea, rejoiced with a great joy. Nor was the sea
less lovely, with the silvery sheen of early summertide on its placid
bosom, and the white wings of many boats glistening in the sun.
'It's jist like heaven, Liz,' said the little seamstress, to whom these
things were a great wonder, revealing to her a depth and a meaning in
life of which she had not before dreamed. But to these hidden
lovelinesses of Nature the eyes of Liz were closed; her vision being too
much turned in upon herself, was dimmed to much that would have made her
a happier and a better girl.
'It's bonnie enough, but oh, it gets stale, Teen, efter a wee. If I were
as rich as her I wadna bide here--no' if they paid me to bide!'
'What for no'?'
'Oh, it's that flat. Naething ever happens. Gie me the toon, I say;
there's some life there, onyway.'
'I wadna care if I never saw the toon again,' said Teen gravely, for her
friend's words troubled her.
'Hoo lang d'ye mean to bide here, Teen?' queried Liz presently. 'It'll
be a fortnicht the morn since we cam'.'
Teen did not at once reply. She had not dared to count the days,
grudging their sweet passing, and it jarred upon her to hear Liz state
the exact period, as if it had appeared to her very long.
'This is the nineteenth; it was the twenty-third, wasn't it, that Mrs.
Gordon said she was leavin' Glesca?'
'I've forgotten. Yes, I believe it was the twenty-third,' answered Teen
listlessly, not being interested in the time.
'My, she'll see a lot, gaun to Ireland wi' a regiment. It's a lively
life. I wish I was her.'
Teen turned sharply round, and looked with reproachful eyes into her
companion's face.
'I thocht ye was gled to get away from her, Liz? I dinna ken what ye
mean.'
'Oh, I was doon in the mooth, because I wasna weel,' said Liz lightly.
'Seriously, though, hoo lang are ye gaun to bide doon here, Teen?'
'I wad bide aye if I had the chance, but I suppose we canna bide very
much langer. Maybe we'd better see what Miss Gladys says.'
'Ay, I suppose sae,' said Liz a trifle dryly. 'Whatever you may think, I
dinna think it's fair that she should hae sae much an' you an' me sae
little. We're livin' on her charity, Teen.'
'Yes, but she disna mak' ye feel it,' retorted Teen quickly. 'An' she
disna think it charity, either. She says aye the money's no' hers, she
has jist gotten a len' o't to gie to ither folk.'
'Wad she gie me a thoosand, d'ye think, if I were to speir?' asked Liz;
and Teen looked vexed at these idle words. She did not like the
sarcastic, flippant mood, and she regarded Liz with strong disapproval
and vague uneasiness in her glance.
'I dinna like the way ye speak, Liz,' she said quietly. 'But, I say, if
ye were in Glesca the noo, what wad ye dae?'
'Dae? It's what wad I no' dae,' cried Liz. 'I'm no' the kind to sterve.'
'Ye wasna very weel aff when we got ye,' Teen could not refrain from
saying.
'Oh, ye needna cast up what ye did. I never asked you, onyway. Ye ken
you and Wat hauled me awa' wi' you against my wull,' said Liz rather
angrily, being in a mood to cavil at trifles. 'I kent hoo it wad be, but
I'll tak' jolly guid care ye dinna get anither chance o' castin' up
onything o' the sort to me.'
Teen remained silent, not that she was particularly hurt by that special
remark, but that she was saddened and perplexed by the whole situation.
She had sustained another fearful disappointment, and she saw that
Bourhill had utterly failed to work the charm on Liz which Teen herself
experienced more and more every day. If she were not altogether blind to
its loveliness, at least it did not touch any deeper feeling than mere
eye pleasure; but more serious and disappointing still was the tone in
which she spoke of Gladys. In her weak and weary state of health, she
had at first appeared touched and grateful for the unceasing kindness
and consideration heaped upon her, but that mood had passed apparently
for ever, and now she appeared rather to chafe under obligations which
Teen felt also, though in a different way, love having made them sweet.
For the first time in her life she felt herself shrinking inwardly from
the friend she had always loved since the days when they had played
together, ragged, unkempt little girls, in the city streets. She looked
at the brilliant beauty of her face. She saw it marred by a certain
hardness of expression, a selfish, discontented look, which can rob the
beauty from the loveliest face, and her heart sank within her, because
she seemed dimly to foresee the end. The little seamstress did not know
the meaning of a lost ideal, the probability is that she had never heard
the word, but she felt all of a sudden, standing there in the May
sunshine, that something had gone out of her life for ever. That very
night she spoke to Gladys, seizing a favourable opportunity, when Liz
had gone to enjoy a gossip with that garrulous person, Mrs. Macintyre,
at the lodge.
'I say, Miss Gladys, hae ye noticed onything aboot Liz this day or twa?'
she queried anxiously.
'Nothing,' replied Gladys blithely, 'except that she looks more and more
like a new creature. Have you noticed anything?'
'Naething very particular; but I am feared that she's wearyin' here, an'
that she wants to get away back to Glesca,' said Teen, with a slight
hesitation, it must be told, since such an insinuation appeared to
savour of the deepest ingratitude.
'Oh, do you think so? I thought she was quite happy. She certainly looks
much brighter and better, and feels so, I hope.'
'Oh yes, she's better; that's the reason, I suppose. She was aye active
an' energetic, Liz,' said Teen, feeling impelled to make some kind of
excuse for her old chum. 'We've been here twa weeks; maybe it's time we
left?'
'Oh, nonsense! What is two weeks? Suppose you stayed here all summer,
what would it be? Nothing at all. But what do you think Lizzie has in
her mind? Has she anything in view in Glasgow?'
'They'd be clever that fathomed her mind; it's as deep as the sea,' said
Teen, with an involuntary touch of bitterness, for she could not help
feeling that her faithful love and service had met with but a poor
return.
'She can't think we will allow her to go back to Glasgow without knowing
what she is going to do; we had too much anxiety on her account before,'
said Gladys, with decision. 'There is no doubt her brother's house is
the place for her. I must talk to her myself.'
'Dinna dae't the nicht, Miss Gladys, or she'll think I've been tellin'
on her,' suggested the little seamstress. 'Liz is very touchy aboot a
lot o' things.'
'Well, perhaps a better plan would be to write to Walter to come down
and see her,' said Gladys thoughtfully. 'Yes, I shall just do that. How
pleased he will be to see her looking so well! Perhaps he will be able
to persuade her to go to housekeeping with him now, and in that case,
Teen, you will stay on here. Miss Peck says she can't do without you
anyhow, you are such an invaluable help with sewing and all sorts of
things; perhaps we could make a permanent arrangement, at least which
will last till I get my scheme for the Girls' Club all arranged. I must
say it does not progress very fast,' she added, with a sigh. 'We always
do so much less than we expect and intend, and will, I suppose, fall
short to the very end. If you like to stay here, Teen, as sewing maid or
anything else to Miss Peck, it will make me very happy.'
She regarded the little seamstress with a lovely kindness in her look,
and what could poor Teen do, but burst into happy tears, having no words
wherein to express a tithe of what she felt.
No further allusion was made that night to the question of the girls
leaving, and all retired to rest as usual in the house of Bourhill. In
the night, however, just when the faint streaks of the summer dawn were
visible in the summer sky, Liz Hepburn rose very softly from the side of
the sleeping Teen, and, gathering her things together in an untidy
bundle, stole out of the room and down-stairs.
The Scotch terrier, asleep on his mat at the foot of the stair, only
looked up sleepily and wagged his tail as she stepped over him and stole
softly through the hall. The well-oiled bolts slipped back noiselessly,
and she ran out down the steps, leaving the door wide to the wall.
And so they found it at six o'clock in the morning, just when Liz was
stepping into the first train at a wayside station many miles from
Bourhill.
[Illustration]