The Guinea Stamp Part 30

She thought always of the many to whom such small sums meant riches. She was not expected at Bellairs Crescent, and she found her friends entertaining at afternoon tea. Some one was singing when she reached the drawing-room door, and when the song was over, she slipped in, surprised, and a little taken aback, to see so many people in the room.

A number of them were known to her; there had been many pleasant gatherings at Troon in the summer, and, as was natural, Miss Graham of Bourhill, with her interesting personality and her romantic history, had received a great deal of attention from the Fordyces' large circle of friends. The warmth of the greeting accorded to her made the lovely colour flush high in her cheek, and her eyes sparkle with added brilliance.

'Yes, I came up only at noon. I have been in the city since then,' she replied, in answer to many questions. 'Oh, how do you do, Mr. Fordyce? I did not expect to see you.'

'Nor I you,' said George Fordyce impressively. 'I was dragged here by Julia against my will, and this is the reward of fraternal virtue.'

It was a daring speech, and the manner conveyed still more than the words. The colour broke again over her face in a wavering flood, and her eyes down-dropped under his ardent gaze. These things were noted by several present, and conclusions rapidly drawn.

'You must not talk nonsense to me,' she said, recovering herself, and speaking with her quaint, delightful dignity. 'Remember your promise at Paris.'

'What promise? Did I make one?'

'You know you did,' she said reproachfully. 'We agreed to be friendly, and between friends there should never be any foolish compliments.'

'Well, I can't keep faith; it's impossible to see you and remember any such promise. Besides, it's sober truth,' he replied, growing bolder still. 'Let me get you some tea. Isn't it rather lively here? Doesn't it make you regret having buried yourself in the backwoods at the very beginning of the season?'

'No; I don't care anything about the season,' replied Gladys truthfully.

'Yes, you may bring me some tea, if you don't stay talking after you have brought it. How beautiful Clara is looking to-day.'

'Clara--yes; she's a handsome girl,' said George, regarding his cousin with but a languid approval. She looked very handsome and stately in her trained gown of brown velvet, with a touch of yellow at the throat, but her expression was less bright than usual. The two who spoke of her at the moment did not guess that they were responsible for the sudden change from gay to grave in her demeanour.

'Oh, Gladys, we were coming down on Sat.u.r.day, Len and I,' whispered Mina at her elbow; 'but now you will stay, and that will do as well. How are you supporting life down there just now? and how is that sweet little oddity, Miss Caroline Peck?'

'If you call her an oddity, Mina, I cannot talk to you,' said Gladys, with a laugh and a shake of the head. 'I am going home to-morrow. Could Leonard and you not go down with me?'

'Going home to-morrow! Not if we know it. The people are just going away, and we shall have a delightful cosy chat. Here's that tiresome George; but _isn't_ he looking handsome? Really, one is proud to have such a cousin.'

It was now half-past five, and the company began to disperse. In about ten minutes there were no guests left but Gladys and the two cousins from Polloks.h.i.+elds.

'Now I can talk to you, my dear child,' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'Why didn't you let us know you were coming to town, and one of the girls, at least, would have come to meet you?'

'I had something to do in the city, dear Mrs. Fordyce,' replied Gladys.

'There is something troubling me a good deal just now.'

'What is it? Nothing must be allowed to trouble Miss Graham of Bourhill.

Her star should always be in the ascendant,' said Mina banteringly.

'It is a mystery--a lost girl,' said Gladys rather gravely. 'Some one I knew in the old life, who has disappeared, and n.o.body knows where she has gone.'

'How exciting! Has she not gone "ower the border an' awa', wi' Jock o'

Hazeldean"?' asked Mina. 'Do tell us about her. What is her name?'

'Lizzie Hepburn; she is the sister of Walter, who was with my uncle,'

said Gladys gravely. 'It is the strangest thing.'

'George, my dear, look what you are doing. Oh, my beautiful gown!'

It was Mrs. Fordyce who thus turned the conversation. Her nephew, handing the cup of tea she had never found time to drink while her guests were present, had deliberately spilled it on the front of her tea-gown. The incident was laughed over in the end, and the only person present who thought of a.s.sociating his awkwardness with the name Gladys had mentioned was Mina, the shrewdest of them all; but though she had many a strange and anxious thought on the subject, she held her peace.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XXIII.

REAL AND IDEAL.

The little seamstress had never been out of Glasgow in her life. Even the Fair holidays, signal for an almost universal exodus 'doon the water,' brought no emanc.i.p.ation for her. It may be imagined that such a sudden and unexpected invitation to the country filled her with the liveliest antic.i.p.ation. By eight o'clock that night she had finished her pile of work, and immediately made haste with it to the warehouse which employed her. When she had received her meagre payment, and had another bundle rather contemptuously pushed towards her by the hard-visaged forewoman, she experienced quite a little thrill of pride in refusing it.

'No, thank you, Mrs. Galbraith; I dinna need ony mair the day,' she said, and her face flushed under the forewoman's strong, steady stare.

'Oh, what's up?'

'I'm gaun into the country to visit a lady,' said Teen proudly.

'Oh, all right; there's a hundred waiting on the job, but don't expect to be taken on the moment you like to show your face. We can afford to be as independent as you.'

'I don't expect to need it,' said Teen promptly, though in truth her heart sank a little as she heard these words of doom.

If Gladys failed her, she knew of no other place in that great and evil city where she could earn her bread. She even felt a trifle despondent as she retraced her steps to her garret, but, trying to throw it off, she set herself immediately on entering the house to inspect her wardrobe. This was a most interesting occupation, and, after much deliberation, she took her best black skirt to pieces, and proceeded to hang it as nearly as possible in the latest fas.h.i.+on. Then she had her hat to retrim, and a piece of clean lace to sew on her neckband. At four o'clock her last candle expired in its socket, and she had to go to bed.

At the grey dawn she was astir again, and long before the brougham had left Bellairs Crescent with Gladys, Teen was waiting, tin box in hand, on the platform of St. Enoch's Station.

Mrs. Fordyce accompanied Gladys to the station, and when Teen saw them she felt a wild desire to run away. Gladys Graham sitting on a chair in the little attic, talking familiarly of the Hepburns, and Gladys Graham outside, were two very different beings. Gladys glanced sharply round, and, espying her, smiled rea.s.suringly, and advanced with frank outstretched hand.

'Ah, there you are! I am glad to see you. Mrs. Fordyce, this is Teen--Christina Balfour. I must begin to call you Christina; I think it is much prettier. Isn't this a pleasant day? The country will be looking lovely.'

Mrs. Fordyce smiled and bowed graciously to the seamstress, but did not offer her hand. Her manner was kind, but distant; her very smile measured the gulf between them. Teen felt it just as plainly as if she had spoken it in words, and felt also intuitively that her presence there was not quite approved of by the lawyer's wife. That, indeed, was true. There had been a long and rather warm discussion over the little seamstress that morning in Bellairs Crescent, and Mrs. Fordyce had discovered that, with all her gentleness and simplicity, Gladys was not a person to abandon a project on which she had set her heart.

'My dear Gladys,' she took the opportunity of whispering when Teen was out of hearing, 'I am more than ever perplexed. She is not even interesting--nothing could be more hopelessly vulgar and commonplace.'

Gladys never spoke.

'Do tell me what you mean to do with her,' she pursued, with distinct anxiety in her manner.

'Don't let us speak about it, Mrs. Fordyce,' said Gladys rather coldly.

'It is impossible you can understand. I have been like her; I know what her life is. You must let me alone.'

'I am afraid you are going to be eccentric, my dear,' said Mrs. Fordyce.

'I cannot help regretting that Madame Bonnemain was prevented coming to Bourhill. She would have set her foot down on this.'

'Then she would have been mistress of Bourhill,' answered Gladys, with a faint smile, 'and we should certainly have disagreed.'

Mrs. Fordyce looked at her curiously.

'There is a great deal of character about you, Gladys. I am afraid you are rather an imposition. To look at you, one would think you as gentle as a lamb.'

'Dear Mrs. Fordyce, don't make me out such a terrible person,' said Gladys quickly. 'Is it so odd that I should wish to brighten life a little for those whom I know have had so very little brightness?'