The Guinea Stamp Part 23

'It's an awful romance, Miss Graham, upon my word it is,' began George, standing with his back to the others, and looking down most impressively into the girl's face,--'your story, I mean, of course. Uncle Tom has told us how you, the heiress of Bourhill, have lived in the slums--positively the slums, wasn't it?'

Now, though his words were not particularly well chosen or in good taste, his manner was so impressively sympathetic that Gladys felt insensibly influenced by it. And he _was_ very handsome, and it was quite pleasant to have him standing there, looking as if there was n.o.body in the world half so interesting to him as herself. For the very first time in her life Gladys felt the subtle charm of flattery steal into her soul.

'I suppose you would call it the slums,' she answered. 'My uncle lived in Colquhoun Street.'

'Don't know it, but I guess it was bad enough, and for you, too, who look fit for a palace. And did you live there all alone with the old miser?'

'Don't call him that, please; he was very kind to me, and I cannot bear to hear him hardly spoken of, she said quickly. 'There were three of us, and we were very happy, though the place was so small and poor.'

'Who was the third?'

He managed to convey into his tone just sufficient aggressiveness as to suggest that he resented the idea of a third person sharing anything with her.

'Walter Hepburn, my uncle's a.s.sistant.'

Had she looked at him then, she must have been struck by the strange expression, coupled with a sudden flash, which pa.s.sed over his face.

'Ah yes, just so. Well, I'm glad the fates have been kind, and brought you at last where there's a chance of being appreciated,' he said carelessly. 'Nice little girls my cousins--awfully good-hearted little souls, though Mina's tongue is a trifle too sharp. Yes, miss, I'm warning Miss Graham against you,' he said when Mina uttered his name in a warning note.

'Now, to punish you, I shall tell you my latest anecdote,' Mina said; and, heedless of the half-laughing, half-eager protest of Gladys, she related the incident of the portrait, with a little embellishment which made him appear in rather a ridiculous light.

In the midst of the laughter which the relation provoked, Mrs. Fordyce entered the room.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XVIII.

'THE DAYS THAT ARE NOT.'

The last days of April came, the family in Bellairs Crescent were making preparations for an immediate departure to the Ayrshire coast, and as yet Gladys had not seen or heard anything of Walter. She had a longing to revisit the old home, and yet a curious reluctance held her back. She felt hurt, and even a trifle irritated against Walter; and though she understood, and in a measure sympathised with his feelings, she thought him needlessly morbid and sensitive regarding their new relation towards each other.

'Gladys,' said Clara one day, when she had watched in silence the girl's sweet face, and noticed its half-sad, half-wistful expression, 'what is the matter with you? You are fretting about something. Tell me what it is. Do you not wish to go to Troon with us, or would you rather go to Bourhill? Do tell us what you would like best to do?'

They were quite alone in the little morning-room, which had been given up to the girls of the house to adorn as they liked. It was a pretty corner, dainty, home-like, cosy, with a long window opening out to the garden, which was as beautiful as it is possible for a city garden to be.

Gladys gave a little start, and coloured slightly under Clara's earnest gaze.

'I am quite happy at the idea of going to Troon; remember I have never seen the sea,' she answered quickly. 'What makes you think I am unhappy?'

'My dear, you look it. You can't hide it from me, and you are going to tell me this very moment what is vexing you.'

Clara knelt down on the rug, and, with her hands folded, looked up in her friend's face. Gladys pa.s.sed her hand lightly over the smooth braids of Clara's beautiful hair, and did not for a moment speak.

'Did you ever have a great faith in any one who after a time disappointed you?' she asked suddenly.

'No, I don't think so. I am not naturally trusting, Gladys. I have to be very sure before I put absolute faith in any one.'

'I cannot believe that of you, Clara. How kind you have been to me, an utter stranger! You have treated me like a sister since the first happy day I entered the house.'

'Oh, that is different. You know very well, you little fraud, that your very eyes disarm suspicion, as somebody says. You are making conquests everywhere. But now we are away from the point. _What_ is vexing you?

Shall I make a guess?'

'Oh, if you like,' answered Gladys, with interest.

'Well, you are thinking of past days. You have not forgotten the companions of the old life, and it is grieving you, because it would appear that they have forgotten you.'

'He might have come, only once,' cried Gladys rebelliously, not for a moment seeking to deny or admit in words the truth of Clara's words. 'We were a great deal to each other. It is hard to be forgotten so soon.'

'Gladys dear, listen to me.'

Clara's voice became quite grave, and she folded her hands impressively above her companion's.

'You must not be angry at what I am going to say, because it is true.

Has it not occurred to you that this young man, in thus keeping a distance from you, shows himself wiser than you?'

'How?' asked Gladys coldly. 'It can never be wise to wound the feelings of another.'

'My dear, though your simplicity is the loveliest thing about you, it is awfully difficult to deal with,' said Clara perplexedly. 'You must know, must admit, Gladys, that everything is changed, and that while you might be quite courteous, and even friendly after a fashion, with this Mr.

Hepburn, anything more is quite out of the question. He must move in his own sphere, you in yours. People are happier in their own sphere. To try and lift them out of it is always a mistake, and ends in disaster and defeat. Would you have liked mamma to invite him here?'

'He would not come,' said Gladys proudly. 'He would never come. He said so again and again.'

'Then it seems to me that it is you who are lacking in proper pride,'

said Clara calmly.

'What is proper pride?'

Gladys smiled with the faintest touch of scorn as she asked the question.

'You know what it is just as well as I can tell you, only it pleases you to be perverse this morning,' said Clara good-humouredly, 'and I am not going to say any more.'

'Yes you are. I want to understand this thing. Is it imperative that the mere fact that my uncle has left me money and a house should make me a different person altogether?'

'It affects your position, not necessarily you. Don't be silly and aggravating, Gladys, or I must shake you,' said Clara, with the frank candour of a privileged friend. 'And really I cannot understand why you should be anxious to keep in touch with that old life, which was so awfully mean and miserable.'

'It had compensations,' said Gladys quickly. 'And I do think, that if it is all as you say, there is more sincerity among poor people than among rich. There is no court paid, anyhow, to money and position.'

'My dear, you are not at all complimentary to us,' laughed Clara. 'Your ingenuousness is truly refreshing.'

'I am not speaking about you, and you know it quite well,' answered Gladys. 'But if the world is as fond of outward things as you say, I do not wish to know anything of it. I could not feel at home in it, I am sure.'

'My dear little girl, wait till your place is put in order, and you take up your abode in it, Miss Graham of Bourhill, the envied and the admired of a whole county, and you will change your mind about the world. Just wait till the next Hunt Ball at Ayr, and we'll see what changes it will bring.'

There was no refuting Clara's good-natured worldly wisdom, and Gladys had to be silent. But she pondered many things in her heart.