The Guinea Stamp Part 41

Walter drew her hand within his arm, and she, feebly protesting, allowed him to lead her back the way she had come. And then, as they walked, a strange, constrained silence fell upon them, each finding it difficult, well-nigh impossible, to bridge the gulf of these sad months.

'Are you not going to tell me anything about yourself, Liz?' he asked at length, and the kindness of his tone, unexpected as it was, secretly amazed and touched her.

'Naething,' she answered, without a moment's hesitation. 'An' though I've come back to Glesca, I'm no' seeking onything frae ony o' ye; I can fend for mysel'.'

Walter remained silent for a little. The subject was one of extreme delicacy, and he did not know how to pursue it. He feared that all was not with his sister as it should be, but he feared the result of further questions.

'What's the guid o' me gaun hame wi' you the nicht? I canna bide there,'

she said presently, in a sharp, discontented voice. 'An' here ye've gar'd me miss the last car.'

'Where are you staying in Maryhill?'

'I have a place, me an' anither la.s.sie,' she said guardedly. 'If ye are flush, ye micht gie me twa shillin's for a cab. I'm no' able to walk.'

At that moment, and before he could reply, a slim, slight, girlish figure darted across the street, and, with a quick, sobbing breath, laid two hands on the arm of Liz. It was the little seamstress, who had haunted the streets late for many nights, scanning the faces of the wanderers, sustained by the might of the love which was the only pa.s.sion of her soul. At sight of Teen, Liz Hepburn betrayed more emotion than in meeting with her brother.

'Eh, I've fund ye at last! I said I was bound to find ye if ye were in Glesca,' Teen cried, and her plain face was glorified with the joy of the meeting. 'Oh, Liz, what it's been to me no' kennin' whaur ye were!

But, I say, hoo do you twa happen to be thegither?'

'I've twa detectives efter me, it seems,' said Liz, with a touch of sullenness, and she stood still on the edge of the pavement, as if determined not to go another step. 'I say, do you twa hunt in couples?'

She gave a little mirthless laugh, and her eye roamed restlessly up the street, as if contemplating the possibility of escape.

'Come on hame wi' me, Liz,' said Teen coaxingly, and she slipped her hand through her old friend's arm and looked persuasively into her face, noting with the keenness of a loving interest the melancholy change upon it. 'Ye're no' weel, an' ye'll be as cosy an' quate as ye like wi' me.'

'Has _your_ ship come in?' asked Liz, with faint sarcasm, but still hesitating, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of two pairs of questioning, if quite friendly, eyes.

'Ay, has it,' replied the little seamstress cheerfully. 'Shouldn't she come hame wi' me, Walter? She wad be a' richt there, an' you can come an' see us when ye like.'

Walter stood in silence another full minute. It was a strange situation, strained to the utmost, but his faith in the little seamstress was so great that he almost reverenced her. He felt that it would be better for Liz to be with a friend of her own s.e.x, and he turned to her pleadingly.

'It's true what Teen says, you are not well. Let her take you home. I'll get a cab and go with you to the door, and I'll come and see you to-morrow. We are thankful to have found you again, my--my dear.'

The last words he uttered with difficulty, for such expressions were not common on his lips; but some impulse, born of a vast pity, in which no shadow of resentment mingled, made him long to be as tender with her as he knew how. The manner of her reception by these two, whom she had wronged by her long silence, affected Liz deeply, though she made no sign.

'I dinna see what better I can dae, if ye'll no' stump up for the cab to Maryhill,' she said ungraciously. 'A' the same, I wish I had never seen ye. Ye had nae business watchin' for me, ony o' ye. I'm my ain mistress, an' I'm no' needin' onything aff ye.'

The little seamstress nodded to Walter, and he hailed a pa.s.sing cab. All the time, even after they were inside the vehicle, she never relaxed her hold of Liz, but they accomplished the distance to Teen's poor little home in complete silence. Liz felt and looked like a prisoner; Walter's face wore a sad and downcast expression; the little seamstress only appeared jubilant.

It was nearly midnight when they ascended the long stair to the little garret, and Liz had to pause many times in the ascent to recover her breath and to let her cough have vent. She grumbled all the way up; but when Teen broke up the fire and lit the gas she sank into an old basket-chair with a more contented expression on her face.

'Noo, ye'll hae a cup o' tea in a crack,' Teen said blithely. 'I've gotten a new teapot, Liz; the auld yin positively fell to bits. Wull ye no' bide an' drink a cup, Walter?'

'Not to-night; I think you would be better alone. But I'll come to-morrow and see you, Liz. Good-night; I am sure you will be comfortable here.'

'Oh ay, I dinna doot. I say, ye are a toff, an' nae mistake; ye micht pa.s.s for a lord,' she said, with a kind of scornful approbation. 'Ye're risin' in the scale while I'm gaun doon; but I've seen something o'

life, onyhoo, an' that's aye something.'

She gave him her hand, which was quite white and unsoiled, languidly, and bade him a careless good-night. As Walter went out of the kitchen, she was surprised, but not more so than he was himself, that two tears rolled down his cheeks. He dashed them away quickly, however, and when the little seamstress accompanied him to the door, he was quite calm again.

'You'll take care of her and not let her away, and I'll be eternally obliged to you. I trust you entirely,' he said quickly.

Teen nodded sagaciously.

'If she gangs oot o' this hoose, she tak's me wi' her,' she said, with a determined curve on her thin lips.

'And whatever you need, come to me,' he said, with his hand in his pocket; but Teen stopped him with a quick gesture.

'I have ony amount o' money I got frae Miss Gladys.'

'Keep it for yourself. You must spend my money on Liz, and see that she wants for nothing. It strikes me a doctor is the first thing she needs, but I'll be back to-morrow. Good-night, and thank you, Teen. You are a good little soul.'

'Middlin',' replied Teen, with a jerk, and closed the door.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

A FAITHFUL FRIEND.

The little seamstress was in a quiver of happy excitement, which betrayed itself in her very step as she returned to the kitchen.

Liz lay back in the old basket-chair with her eyes closed, and the deadly paleness of her face was very striking.

'Ye arena weel, Liz,' she said brusquely. 'It's the stair; ye never could gang up a stair, I mind, withoot bein' oot o' breath. Never mind; the kettle's bilin', an' ye'll hae yer tea in a crack.'

She busied herself about the table with nervous hands, astonished at her own agitation, which did not appear to have communicated itself to Liz, her demeanour being perfectly lifeless and uninterested.

Teen's stock of household napery did not include a tablecloth, but, desirous of doing honour to her guest, she spread a clean towel on the little table, and set out the cups with a good deal of cheerful clatter.

'What'll ye tak'? I have eggs, Liz--real country eggs. I brocht them up frae the country mysel',' she said, thinking to rouse the lethargy of her companion. 'I very near said I saw them laid; onyway, I saw the hens that laid them. Ye'll hae an egg, eh?'

'Yes, if ye like. I havena tasted since eleeven this morning, an' then it was only a dram,' said Liz languidly.

Teen stood still on the little strip of rag-carpet before the fender, and regarded her friend with a mingling of horror and pity. Whatever had been the tragedy of the past few months, Liz had not thereby bettered herself. With a little choking sob, Teen made greater haste with her preparation, and put upon the table a very tempting little meal, chiefly composed of dainties from Bourhill, a very substantial basket having been sent up to the little seamstress by order of Miss Graham. Liz threw off her hat, and, drawing her chair up to the table, took a long draught from the teacup.

'Eh, that's guid,' she said, with a sigh of satisfaction. Ye're better aff than me, efter a', Teen, an' I wish I was in yer place.'

'Ye'll bide here noo ye have come, onyhoo,' said the little seamstress cheerily. 'My ship has come in; but we'll speak upon it efter. I say, isn't Walter lookin' fine? He wad pa.s.s for a lord, jist as you said.'

'His looks are a' richt--he maun be makin' money. I say, where is the la.s.sie that used to bide there? The auld man's deid, isn't he?'

'Ay,' answered Teen; 'deid lang syne. Oh, she's turned into a graund leddy, livin' on an estate in the country. He left a fortin. See, eat up that ither egg, an' there's plenty mair tea. Look at that cream, isn't it splendid?'

'Fine,' said Liz; and as she ate and enjoyed the generous food her colour came again, and she looked a little less ghastly and ill, a little more like the Liz of old. Pen cannot tell the joy it was to the loyal heart of the little seamstress thus to minister to her friend's great need, though in the midst of her deep satisfaction was a secret dread, a vague and vast pity, which made her afraid to ask her a single question. It needed no very keen perception to gather that all was not well with the unhappy girl.