The Guinea Stamp Part 29

And they found the fen village as of yore, in no wise changed, except that a few new graves had been added to the little churchyard. The little spinster still abode in her dainty cottage, not much changed, except to look a trifle more aged and careworn. The fastidious eye of the lawyer's accomplished wife could detect no flaw in the demeanour of Miss Peck, and she added her entreaties to those of Gladys. In truth, the poor little careworn woman was not hard to persuade. She had no ties save those of memory to bind her to the fen country, so she gave her promise freely, accepting her new home as a gift from G.o.d.

'I shall come one more time here only,' Gladys said, 'to take papa away.

Mr. Fordyce promised to arrange it for me. He must sleep with his own people; and when he is in the old churchyard I shall feel at home in Bourhill.'

All these things were done before the year was out; and Christmas saw Gladys Graham settled in her new home, ready and eager to take up the charge she believed G.o.d had entrusted to her--the stewards.h.i.+p of wealth, to be used for His glory.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XXII.

A HELPING HAND.

All this time nothing had been heard of Liz. She was no longer known in her old haunts--was almost forgotten, indeed, save by one or two. Among those who remained faithful to her memory was the melancholy Teen, and she thought of her hour by hour as she sat at her monotonous work--thought of her with a great wonder in her soul. Sometimes a little bitterness intermingled, and she felt herself aggrieved at having been so shabbily treated by her old chum. She had in her quiet way inst.i.tuted a very thorough inquiry into all the circ.u.mstances of her flight, and had kept a watchful eye on every channel from which the faintest light was likely to s.h.i.+ne upon the mystery, but at the end of six months it was still unsolved. Liz was as irrevocably lost, apparently, as if the earth had opened and swallowed her.

Teen had come to the conclusion that Liz had veritably emigrated to London, and was there a.s.siduously, and probably successfully, wooing fame and fortune. Sometimes the weary burden of her toil was beguiled by dreams of a bright day on which Liz, grown a great lady, but still true to the old friends.h.i.+p, should come, perhaps, in a coach and pair, up the squalid street and remove the little seamstress to be a sharer in her glory. In one particular Teen was entirely and persistently loyal to her friend. She believed that she had kept herself pure, and when doubts had been thrown on that theory by others who believed in her less, she had closed their tattling mouths with language such as they were not accustomed to hear from her usually reticent lips. These gossip-mongers, who flourish in the quarters of the poor and rich alike, speedily learned that it was just as well not to mention the name of Liz Hepburn to Teen Balfour. One day a visitor, in the shape of a handsomely-dressed young lady, did come to the little seamstress's door. Teen gave a great start when she saw the tall figure, and her face flushed all over. In the semi-twilight which always prevails on the staircases of these great grim 'lands' of houses, she had imagined her dream to come true.

'Oh, it's you, miss?' she said, recognising Gladys Graham at last. 'I thought it was somebody else. Ye can come in, if ye like.'

The bidding was ungracious, the manner of it as repellent as of yore; but Gladys, not easily repulsed, followed the little seamstress across the threshold, and closed the door. The heavy, close smell of the place made a slight faintness come over her, and she was glad to sink into the nearest chair.

'Do you never open your window? It is very close in here.'

'No, I never open it. It takes me a' my time to keep warm as it is.

There's a perfect gale blaws in, onyhoo, at the c.h.i.n.ks. Jist pit yer hand at the windy, an' ye'll see.'

Gladys glanced pitifully round the place, and then fixed her lovely, compa.s.sionate eyes on the figure of the little seamstress, as she took up her position again on the stool by the fire and lifted her work.

'You look just as if you had been sitting there continuously since I saw you last,' Gladys said involuntarily.

'So I have, maistly,' replied Teen dully, 'an' will sit or they cairry me oot.'

'Oh, I hope not; indeed, you will not. Have you had a hard summer?'

'Middlin'; it's been waur. Five weeks in July I had nae wark; but I've been langer than that--in winter, too. In summer it's no' sae bad. When ye're cauld, ye feel the want o' meat waur.'

'Have you really sometimes not had food?' asked Gladys in a shocked voice.

'Whiles. Do _you_ ken onything aboot Liz?' she asked, suddenly breaking off, and lifting her large sunken eyes to the sweet face opposite to her.

'No; that is one of the things I came about to-day. Have you not heard anything of her?'

'No' a cheep. Naebody kens. I gaed up to Colquhoun Street one day to ask Walter, but he didna gie me muckle cuttin'. I say, he's gettin' on thonder.' She flashed a peculiar, sly glance at Gladys, and under it the latter's sensitive colour rose.

'I always knew he would,' she replied quietly. 'And he has not heard anything, either? Do you ever see her father and mother?'

'No; but it's the same auld sang. They're no' carin' a b.u.t.ton whaur Liz is,' said Teen calmly.

'Have you _no_ idea?' asked Gladys.

'Not the least. I may think what I like, but I dinna ken a thing,'

replied the girl candidly.

'What do you think, then? You knew her so intimately. If you would help me, we might do something together,' said Gladys eagerly.

Teen was prevented answering for a moment by a fit of coughing--a dry, hacking cough, which racked her weary frame, and brought a dark, slow colour into her cadaverous cheek.

'Well, I think she's in London,' she replied at length. 'But it's only a guess. She'll turn up some day, nae doot; we maun jist wait till she does.'

'I am very sorry for _you_. Will you let me help you? I am living in my own home now in Ayrs.h.i.+re. It is lovely there just now--almost as mild as summer. Won't you come down and pay me a little visit? It would do you a great deal of good.'

Teen laid down her heavy seam and stared at Gladys in genuine amazement, then gave a short, strange laugh.

'Ye're takin' a len' o' me, surely,' she said. 'What wad ye dae if I took ye at yer word?'

'I mean what I say. I want to speak to you, anyhow, about a great many things. How soon could you come? Have you any more work than this to do?'

'No; I tak' this hame the nicht,' replied Teen. 'I can come when I like.'

'If I stay in town all night, would you go down with me to-morrow?'

'Maybe; but, I say, what do ye mean?'

She leaned her elbows on her knees, and, with her thin face between her hands, peered scrutinisingly into her visitor's face. There was a great contrast between them, the rich girl and the poor, each the representative of a cla.s.s so widely separated that the gulf seems well-nigh impa.s.sable.

'I don't mean anything, except that I want to help working girls. I so wished for Liz, she was so clever and shrewd; she could have told me just what to do. You can help me if you like; you must take her place.

And at Bourhill you will have a rest--nothing to do but eat and sleep, and walk in the country. You will lose that dreadful paleness, which has always haunted me whenever I thought of you.'

A curious tremor was visible on the face of the little seamstress, a movement of every muscle, and her nerveless fingers could not grasp the needle.

'A' richt,' she replied rather huskily. 'I'll come. What time the morn?'

'What time can you be ready? It is quite the same to me when I go. I have nothing to do.'

'Well, I can be ready ony time efter twelve; but, I say, what if, when I come back, they've gi'en my wark to somebody else? That's certain; ye should see the crood waitin' for it--fechtin' for it almost like wild cats.'

Gladys s.h.i.+vered, and heavy tears gathered in her eyes as she rose from her chair.

'Never mind that. It will be my concern--that is, if you are willing to trust me?'

Teen rose also, and for a moment their eyes met in a steady look. 'Yes,'

she said, 'I trust ye, though I dinna, for the life o' me, ken what ye mean.'

There was no demonstration of grat.i.tude on the part of the little seamstress; Gladys even felt a trifle chilled and disheartened thinking of her after she had left the house. But the grat.i.tude was there. That still, cold, self-constrained heart, being awakened to life, never slept again. Both lived to bless that bleak November day when the first compact had been made between them.

From the city Gladys went by car to Kelvinside, and walked up to Bellairs Crescent. Habit is very strong; not yet could the girl, so long used to the strictest and most meagre economies, bear to indulge herself in small luxuries. The need of the world was always with her.