A DISCOVERY.
It was some days before Gladys could summon courage to write to Walter
about his sister. Had she known the consequences of that delay she would
have been profoundly unhappy; it gave Liz the chance, which she took
advantage of, to get clear away from the city.
Through these bright days of the early summer Walter kept plodding on at
his business, but life had lost its charm. He was, indeed, utterly sick
at heart; all incentive to push on seemed to be taken from him, and the
daily round was gone through mechanically, simply because it waited his
attention on every hand. As is often the case when success becomes no
longer an object of concern, it became an assured matter. Everything he
touched seemed to pay him, and he saw himself, while yet in his young
manhood, rapidly becoming rich. But this did not make him happy--ah, how
utterly inadequate is wealth to the making of happiness how many have
bitterly proved!--on the contrary, it made him yet more restless, moody,
and discontented. Looking ahead, he saw nothing bright--a long stretch
of grey years, which held nothing beautiful or satisfying or worthy of
attainment--a melancholy condition of mind, truly, for a young,
prosperous, and healthy man. In the midst of this deep depression came
the letter from Gladys conveying the news of Liz's sudden and strange
flight from Bourhill. He smiled grimly when he read it, and, putting it
in his pocket, returned to his work as if it concerned him not at all.
Nevertheless, in the course of the afternoon, he left his place of
business and took the car to Maryhill. Gladys had given him the address
of Mrs. Gordon, with whom Liz had formerly lodged, and he felt himself
impelled to make some listless inquiries there regarding her. The result
was quite unsatisfactory. The landlady regarded him with considerable
suspicion, and did not appear disposed to give him any information. But
after repeated questioning, Walter elicited from her the fact that Mrs.
Gordon had gone to Dublin with the Eighty-Fifth Regiment, and she
believed Miss Hepburn was with her. Walter thanked the woman and went
his way, scarcely affected one way or the other, at least to outward
seeming. Liz was lost. Well, it fitted in with the rest of his dreary
destiny; her ultimate fate, which could not be far off, weaved only some
darker threads into the grey web of life.
Next morning Gladys received an answer to her letter, and it made her
feel very strange when she read it. It ran thus:--
'COLQUHOUN STREET, _Thursday Night_.
'DEAR MISS GRAHAM,--I received your kind letter this morning, and I
thank you for acquainting me with my sister's departure from
Bourhill. The news did not surprise me at all. I was only astonished
that she stayed so long. This afternoon I called at the address
you gave me, and the landlady informed me that Mrs. Gordon has gone
to Dublin with the Eighty-Fifth Regiment, taking my sister with
her. After this there is nothing we can do. Poor Liz is lost, and
we need not blame her too hardly. You reproved me once for calling
myself the victim of circumstances, but I ask you to think of her
as such with what kindness you can. Of one thing we may be sure,
her punishment will far exceed her sin.--Thanking you for all your
past kindness, and wishing you in the future every good thing, I
am, yours sincerely, WALTER HEPBURN.'
It was a sad letter, conveying a great deal more than was actually
expressed. Gladys threw it from her, and, laying her head on her hands,
sobbed bitterly.
'My dear,' cried the little spinster, in sympathetic concern, 'don't
break your heart. You have done a great deal--far more, I assure you,
than almost any one else would have done. You cannot help the poor girl
having chosen the way of transgressors.'
'It is not Liz I am crying for at present, Miss Peck,' said Gladys
mournfully; 'it is for Walter. It is a heartbreaking letter. I cannot,
dare not, comfort him. I must take it to Christina to read.'
She picked it up, and ran to the stillroom, where the happy and placid
Teen sat by the open window with some sewing in her hand, love making
the needle fly in and out with a wondrous speed. Her resentment against
Liz for her ingratitude had taken the edge off her grief, and she was
disposed to be as hard upon her as the rest of the world.
'Oh, Teen, I have had a letter from Walter. I shall read it to you. It
is dreadful!' Gladys cried; and, with trembling voice, she read the
epistle to the little seamstress. '_Isn't_ it dreadful? Away to Dublin!
What will she do there?'
Teen laid down her sewing and looked at Gladys with the simplest wonder
in her large eyes. She could scarcely believe that a human being could
be so entirely innocent and unsuspecting as Gladys Graham, for it was
quite evident she did not really know what Walter meant by saying Liz
was lost.
'He says her punishment will be greater than her sin, whatever he means.
Do you know what he means?'
'Ay, fine,' was Teen's reply, and her mouth trembled.
'Tell me, then. I want to understand it,' cried Gladys, with a touch of
impatience. 'There have been things kept from me; and if I had known
everything I could have done more for her, and perhaps she would not
have run away.'
'There was naething kept frae ye; if ye hadna been a perfect bairn in
a'thing, ye wad hae seen through a'thing. That was why a' the folks--yer
grand freen's, I mean--were sae angry because ye had Liz here. But I
believed in her mysel' up till she ran awa'. Although a lassie's led
awa' she's no' aye lost; but I doot, I doot--an' noo Liz is waur than we
thocht.'
Gladys stood as if turned to stone. Slowly a dim comprehension seemed to
dawn upon her; and it is no exaggeration to say that it was a shock of
agony.
'Do you mean to say that the poor girl is really bad, that she has
deliberately chosen a wicked life?' she asked in a still, strained
voice.
Teen gravely nodded, and her lips trembled still more.
'And what will be the end of it? What will become of her, Teen?'
'The streets; an' she'll dee in a cellar, or an hospital, maybe, if
she's fortunate enough to get into wan; an' it'll no' be lang either,'
said Teen, in a quite matter-of-fact way, as if it were the merest
commonplace detail. 'She has nae strength; wan winter will finish her.'
Here the composure of the little seamstress gave way, and, dropping her
heavy head on the sunny window-sill, she too wept passionately over the
ruin of the girl she had loved. But Gladys wept no more. Standing there
in the long yellow shaft cast by the sunshine, memory took her back to a
never-to-be-forgotten night, when an old man and a maiden child had
toiled through the streets of Glasgow after midnight, and how the throng
of the streets had bewildered the wondering child, and had made her ask
questions which never till this time had been satisfactorily answered.
'I begin to understand, Teen,' she said slowly, with a shiver, as if a
cold wind had passed over her. 'Life is even sadder than I thought. I
wonder how God can bear to have it so. I cannot bear it even in
thought.'
She went out into the sunny garden, and, casting herself on the soft
green sward, wept her heart out over the new revelation which had come
to her. Never had life seemed so bitter, so mysterious, so unjust. What
matter that she was surrounded by all that was lovely and of good
report, when outside, in the great dark world, such things could be? For
the first time Gladys questioned the goodness of God. Looking up into
the cloudless blue of the summer sky, she wondered that it could smile
so benignly upon a world so cursed by sin. Little Miss Peck, growing
anxious about her, at last came out, and bade her get up and attend to
the concerns of the day waiting for her.
'You know, my dear, we can't stand still though another perverse soul
has chosen the broad road,' she said, trying to speak with a great deal
of worldly wisdom. 'I see it is very hard upon you, because you have
never been brought into contact with such things, but as you grow older,
and gain more experience, you will learn to regard them philosophically.
It is the only way.'
'Philosophically?' repeated Gladys slowly. 'What does that mean, Miss
Peck? If it means that we are to think lightly of them, then I pray I
may be spared acquiring such philosophy. Is there nothing we can do for
Lizzie even yet, Miss Peck?'
She broke off suddenly, with a pathetic wistfulness which brought the
tears to the little spinster's eyes.
'Is there no way we can save her? Teen says she will die in a cellar or
an hospital. Can you bear to think of it, and not try to do something?'
Miss Peck hesitated a moment. It was an extremely delicate subject, and
she feared to touch upon it; but there was no evading the clear,
straight, questioning gaze of Gladys.
'I fear it is quite useless, my dear. It is almost impossible to reform
such girls. I had a cousin who was matron of a home for them in
Lancashire, and she gave me often rather a discouraging account of the
work among them. You see, when a woman once loses her character she has
no chance, the whole world is against her, and everybody regards her
with suspicion. Sometimes, my love, I have felt quite wicked thinking of
the inequality of the punishment meted out to men and women in this
world. Women are the burden-bearers and the scapegoats always.'
Gladys rose up, weary and perplexed, her face looking worn and grey in
the brilliant sunshine.
Her heart re-echoed the words of the little spinster; for the moment the
loveliness of the earth seemed a mockery and a shame.
'Why is it so?' was the only question she asked.
Miss Peck shook her head. That great question, which has perplexed so
many millions of God's creatures, was beyond her power of solution. But
from that day it was seldom out of the mind of Gladys, robbing all the
sweetness and the interest from her life.
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