The Guinea Stamp Part 6

'Maybe; but I'm gled to get it. I'm no' able for the mill, an' I canna sterve. It keeps body an' soul thegither--eh, Liz?'

'Nae mair,' said Liz abstractedly, again absorbed in her paper. 'But maybe oor shot 'll come.'

Gladys rose to her feet, suddenly conscious that she had made a very long visit. Her heart was heavier than when she came. More and more was the terrible realism of city life borne in upon her troubled soul.

'I'm afraid I must go away,' she said very quietly. 'I am very much obliged to you for being so kind to me. May I come again?'

'Oh, if ye like,' said Liz carelessly. 'But ye'll no' see Teen. She lives doon the street. My mither canna bide her, an' winna let her nose within the door, so we haud a jubilee when she's nailed.'

'Oh, please don't speak like that of your mother!'

Liz looked quite thunderstruck.

'What for no'? I've never gotten onything frae her a' my days but ill.

I'll tell ye what--if I had ta'en her advice, I'd hae gane to the bad lang syne. Although she is my mither, I canna say black's white, so ye needna stare; an' if ye are no' pleased ye needna come back, I didna spier ye to come, onyway.'

'Oh no; pray forgive me if I have made a mistake. I am so sorry for it all, only I cannot understand it.'

'Be thankfu' if ye dinna, then,' replied Liz curtly. 'I'm no' very ceevil to ye. I am much obleeged to ye for comin', for the flooers, an'

mair than a', for teachin' Wat to read.'

Her face became quite soft in its outline; the harshness died out of her bright eyes, leaving them lovely beyond expression. Gladys felt drawn to her once more, and, leaning forward, without a moment's hesitation she kissed her on the brow. It was a very simple act, no effort to the child who had learned from her English mother to give outward expression to her feelings; but its effect on Liz was very strange. Her face grew quite red, her eyes brimmed with tears, and she threw the blanket over her head to smother the sob which broke from her lips. Then Gladys bade good-bye to the little seamstress, and slipped away down the weary stair and into the grimy street, where already the lamps were lit. Her mind was full of many new and strange thoughts as she took her way home, and it was with an effort she recovered herself sufficiently to attend to her simple duties for the evening. But when the old man and the boy came down from the warehouse, supper was ready as usual, and there was nothing remarked, except that Gladys was perhaps quieter than usual.

'Yes, I have been, and I saw your sister, Walter,' she said at last, when they had opportunity to talk alone. 'She is much better, she says, and hopes to get out soon.'

'Did you see anybody else?'

'Yes, a friend whom she called Teen; I do not know her other name,'

answered Gladys.

'Teen Balfour--I ken her. An' what do you think of Liz?'

He put the question with a furtive anxiety of look and tone not lost on Gladys.

'I like her. At first I thought her manner strange, but she has a feeling heart too. And she is very beautiful.'

'You think so too?' said the lad, with a strange bitterness; 'then it must be true.'

'Why should it not? It is pleasant to be beautiful, I think,' said Gladys, with a little smile.

'For ladies, for you, perhaps it is, but not for Liz,' said Walter. 'It would be better for her if she looked like Teen.'

Gladys did not ask why.

'I am very sorry for her too. It is so dreadful her life, sewing all day at these coa.r.s.e garments. I have many mercies, more than I thought. And for so little money! It is dreadful--a great sin; do you not think so?'

'Oh yes, it's a sin; but it's the way o' the world,' answered Walter indifferently. 'Very likely, if I were a man and had a big shop, I'd do just the same--screw as much as possible out of folk for little pay.

That's gospel.'

Gladys laid her hand on his arm, and her eyes shone upon him. 'It will not be your gospel, Walter, that I know. Some day you will be a rich man, perhaps, and then you will show the world what a rich man can do.

Isn't there a verse in the Bible which says, "Blessed is he that considereth the poor"? You will consider the poor then, Walter, and I will help you. We shall be able to do it all the better because we have been so poor ourselves.'

It was a new evangel for that proud, restless, bitter young heart, upon which the burden of life already pressed so heavily. Gladys did not know till long after, that these words, spoken out of the fulness of her sympathy, made a man of him from that very day, and awakened in him the highest aspirations which can touch a human soul.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER VII.

LIZ SPEAKS HER MIND.

'Wat,' said Liz Hepburn to her brother next time he came home, 'what kind o' a la.s.sie is thon?'

It was a question difficult for Walter to answer, and, Scotch-like, he solved it by putting another.

'What do you think of her?'

'I dinna ken; she's no' like ither folk.'

'But you liked her, Liz?' said Walter, with quite evident anxiety.

'Oh ay; but she's queer. How does she get on wi' Skinny?'

'Well enough. I believe he likes her, Liz, if he would let on.'

Liz made a grimace.

'I daursay, if he can like onything. I telt her my mind on the business plain, an' offered to get her into our mill.'

'Oh, Liz, you might have had more sense! Her work in a mill!' cried Walter, with more energy than elegance.

'An' what for no'?' queried Liz sharply. 'I suppose she's the same flesh and bluid as me.'

'Shut up, you twa,' said a querulous, peevish voice from the ingle-neuk, where the mother, dull-eyed, depressed, and untidy, sat with her elbows on her knees. She was in a poor state of health, and had not recovered from the last week's outburst. It was Sat.u.r.day night, but there was no pay forthcoming from the head of the house, who was still in Duke Street Prison. Walter looked at his mother fixedly for a moment, and the shadow deepened on his face. She was certainly an unlovely object in her dirty, unkempt gown, her hair half hanging on her neck, her heavy face looking as if it had not seen soap and water for long, her dull eyes unlit by any gleam of intelligence. Of late, since they had grown more dissipated in their habits, Walter had fallen on the plan of keeping back his wages till the beginning of the week--the only way in which to ensure them food. Seldom, indeed, was anything left after Sat.u.r.day and Sunday's carousal.

'Is there anything the matter the day, mother?' he asked quite kindly and gently, being moved by a sudden feeling of compa.s.sion for her.

'No, naething; but I'm clean dune. Wad ye no' bring in a drap, Wat?' she said coaxingly, and her eye momentarily brightened with antic.i.p.ation.

'It won't do you any good, mother, ye ken that,' he said, striving still to speak gently, though repulsion now mingled with his pity. 'A good dinner or supper would do ye more good. I'll bring in a bit steak, if ye'll cook it.'

'I've nae stammick for meat,' she said, relapsing into her dull state.

'I'm no' lang for this world, an' my wee drap's the only comfort I hae.

Ye'll maybe wish ye hadna been as ill to me by an' by.'

'I'm comin' alang some nicht, Wat,' said Liz, who invariably treated such remarks with the most profound contempt, ignoring them entirely.