"I do desire it with all my heart: I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world."As You Like It.
There are many well-kept houses in Glasgow, but I think Jeanieville was one of the cleanest. Every room had its "thorough" day once a fortnight and was turned pitilessly "out." Every "press" in the house was a model of neatness; the very coal-cellar did not escape. The coals were piled in a neat heap; the dross was swept tidily into a corner; the briquettes were built in an accurate pile.
"I must say," Mrs. Thomson often remarked, "I like a tidy coal-cellar;" and Jessie, who felt this was rather a low taste, would reply, "You're awful eccentric, Mamma."
On the first and fourth Thursdays of the month Mrs. Thomson was "at home"; then, indeed, she trod the measure high and disposedly.
On these auspicious days Annie the servant, willing but "hashy," made the front-door shine, and even "sanded" the pillars of the gate to create a good impression. The white steps of the stairs were washed, and the linoleum in the lobby was polished until it became a danger to the unwary walker. Dinner set agoing, Mrs. Thomson tied a large white apron round her ample person and spent a couple of hours in the kitchen baking scones and pancakes and jam-sandwiches, while Jessie, her share of the polishing done, took the car into town and bought various small cakes, also shortbread and a slab of rich sultana cake.
By half past two all was ready.
Mrs. Thomson in her second best dress, and Jessie in a smart silk blouse and skirt, sat waiting. Mrs. Thomson had her knitting, and Jessie some "fancy work." The tea-table with its lace-trimmed cloth and silver tray with the rosy cups ("ma wedding china and only one saucer broken") stood at one side of the fireplace, with a laden cake-rack beside it, while a small table in the offing was also covered with plates of eatables.
There never was any lack of callers at Jeanieville. It was such a vastly comfortable house to call at. The fire burned so brightly, the tea was so hot and fresh, the scones so delicious, and the shortbread so new and crimpy; and when Mrs. Thomson with genuine welcome in her voice said, "Well, this is real nice," no matter how inclement the weather outside each visitor felt the world a warm and kindly place.
Mrs. Thomson enjoyed her house and her handsome furniture, and desired—and hoped it was no dishonest desire—to be a social success; but her kindest smile and heartiest handshake were not for the sealskin-coated ladies of Pollokshields but for such of her old friends as ventured to visit her on her Thursdays, and often poor Jessie's cheeks burned as she heard her mother explain to some elegant suburban lady, as she introduced a friend:
"Mrs. Nicol and me are old friends. We lived for years on the same stair-head."
Except in rare cases, there was no stiffness about the sealskin-ladies, and conversation flowed like a river.
On this particular Thursday four females sat drinking tea with Mrs. Thomson and her daughter out of the rosy cups with the gilt garlands—Mrs. Forsyth and Mrs. Macbean from neighbouring villas, and the Misses Hendry whom we have already met. Mrs. Forsyth was a typical Glasgow woman, large, healthy, prosperous, her face beaming with contentment. She was a thoroughly satisfactory person to look at, for everything about her bore inspection, from her abundant hair and her fresh pink face, which looked as if it were rubbed at least once a day with a nice soapy flannel, to her well-made boots and handsome clothes. Her accent, like Mrs. Thomson's, was Glasgow unabashed.
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Thomson, two lumps. Did you notice in the papers that my daughter—Mrs. Mason, you know—had had her fourth? Ucha, a fine wee boy, and her only eight-and-twenty! I said to her to-day, 'Mercy, Maggie,' I said, 'who asked you to populate the earth?' I just said it like that, and shelaughed. Oh ay, but it's far nicer—just like Papa and me. I don't believe in these wee families."
Mrs. Macbean, a little blurred-looking woman with beautiful sables, gave it as her opinion that a woman was never happier than when surrounded by half a dozen "wee ones."
Mrs. Forsyth helped herself to a scone.
"Home-made, Mrs. Thomson? I thought so. They're lovely. Speaking about families, I was just saying to Mr. Forsyth the other night that I thought this was mebbe the happiest time of all our married life. It's awful nice to marry young and to be able to enjoy your children. I was twenty and Mr. Forsyth was four years older when we started."
"Well, well," said Mrs. Thomson. "You began young, but you've a great reason for thankfulness. How's Dr. Hugh?"
"Hugh!" said his mother, with a great sigh of pride; "Hugh's well, thanks."
"He's a cliver young man," said Mrs. Thomson. "It's wonderful how he's got on."
"Mrs. Thomson, his father just said to me this morning, 'Whita career the boy's had!' At school he got every prize he could have got, and at college he lifted the Buchanan Prize and the Bailie Medal; then he got the Dixon Scholarship, and—it sounds like boasting, but ye know what I mean—the Professors fair fought to have him for an assistant, and now at his age—at his age, mind you—he's a specialist on—excuse me mentioning it—the stomach and bowels."
Everyone in the room murmured their wonder at Dr. Hugh's meteoric career, and Mrs. Macbean said generously, "You should be a proud woman, Mrs. Forsyth."
"Oh! I don't know about that. How are your girls? Is Phemie better?"
"I didn't know she was ill," said Mrs. Thomson.
Mrs. Macbean's face wore an important look, as she said with a sort of melancholy satisfaction, "Yes, she's ill, Mrs. Thomson, and likely to be ill for a long time. And you wouldn't believe how simply it began. She was in at Pettigrew & Stephens', or it might have been Copland & Lye's; anyway, it was one of the Sauchiehall Street shops, and she was coming down the stairs quite quietly—Maggie was with her—when one of the young gentlemen shop-walkers came up the stairs in a kinda hurry, and whether he pushed against Phemie, I don't know, and Maggie can't be sure; anyway, she slipped. She didn't fall, you know, or anything like that, but in saving herself she must have given herself a twist—for I'll tell you what happened."
There was something strangely appetising in Mrs. Macbean as a talker: she somehow managed to make her listeners hungry for more.
"Well, she didn't say much about it at the time. Just when she came in she said, joky-like, 'I nearly fell down the stairs in a shop to-day, Mother, and I gave myself quite a twist.' That was all she said, and Maggie passed some remark about the gentleman in the shop being in a hurry, and I thought no more about it. But about a week later Phemie says to me, 'D'ye know,' she says, 'I've got a sort of pain, nothing much, but it keeps there.' You may be sure I got the doctor quick, for I'm niver one that would lichtly a pain, as ye might say, but he couldn't find anything wrong. But the girl was niver well, and he said perhaps it would be as well to see a specialist. And I said, 'Certainly, doctor, you find out the best man and Mr. Macbean won't grudge the money, for he thinks the world of his girls.' So Dr. Rankine made arrangements, and we went to see Sir Angus Johnston, a real swell, but such a nice homely man. I could have saidanythingto him—ye know what I mean. And he said to me undoubtedly the trouble arose from the twist she had given herself that day."
"And whit was like the matter?" asked Miss Hendry, who had listened breathless to the recital.
"Well," said Mrs. Macbean, "it was like this. When she slipped she had put something out of its place and it had put something else out of its place. I really can't tell you right what, but anyway Sir Angus Johnston said to me, 'Mrs. Macbean,' he said, 'your daughter's liver'—well, I wouldn't just be sure that it was her liver—but anyway he said it was as big as a tea-kettle."
"Mercy!" ejaculated the awed Miss Hendry, who had no idea what was the proper size of any internal organ.
"Keep us!" said Mrs. Thomson, who was in a similar state of ignorance. "A tea-kettle, Mrs. Macbean!"
"A tea-kettle," said Mrs. Macbean firmly.
"Oh, I say!" said Jessie. "That's awful!"
Mrs. Macbean nodded her head several times, well pleased at the sensation she had made.
"You can imagine what a turn it gave me. Maggie was with me in the room, and she said afterwards she really thought I was going to faint. I just kinda looked at the man—I'm meaning Sir Angus—but I could not say a word. I was speechless. But Maggie—Maggie's real bright—she spoke up and she says, 'Will she recover?' she says, just like that. And he was nice, I must say he was awful nice, very reassuring. 'Time,' he says, 'time and treatment and patience'—I think that was the three things, and my! the patience is the worst thing."
"But she's improving, Mrs. Macbean?" asked Mrs. Forsyth.
"Slowly, Mrs. Forsyth, slowly. But a thing like that takes a long time."
"Our Hugh says that the less a body knows about their inside the better," said healthy Mrs. Forsyth.
"That's true, I'm sure," agreed Mrs. Thomson. "Mrs. Forsyth, is your cup out? Try a bit of this cake."
"Thanks. I always eat an extra big tea here, Mrs. Thomson, everything's that good. Have you a nurse for Phemie, Mrs. Macbean?"
Mrs. Macbean laid down her cup, motioning Jessie away as she tried to take it to refill it, and said solemnly:
"A nurse, Mrs. Forsyth? Nurses have walked in a procession through our house this last month. And, mind you, I haven't a thing to say against one of them. They were all nice women, but somehow they just didn't suit. The first one had an awful memory. No, she didn't forget things, it was the other way. She was a good careful nurse, but she could say pages of poetry off by heart, and she did it through the night to soothe Phemie like. She would get Phemie all comfortable, and then she'd turn out the light, and sit down by the fire with her knitting, and begin something about 'The stag at eve had drunk its fill,' and so on and on and on. She meant well, but who would put up with that? D'you know, that stag was fair getting on Phemie's nerves, so we had to make an excuse and get her away. Then the next was a strong-minded kind of a woman, and the day after she came I found Phemie near in hysterics, and it turned out the nurse had told her she had patented a shroud, and it had given the girl quite a turn. I don't wonder! It's not a nice subject even for a well body. Mr. Macbean was angry, I can tell you, soshewent. The next one—a nice wee fair-haired girl—she took appendicitis. Wasn't it awful? Oh! we've been unfortunate right enough. However, the one we've got now is all right, and she considers the servants, and that's the main thing—not, mind you, that I ever have much trouble with servants. I niver had what you would call a real bad one. Mine have all been nice enough girls, only we didn't always happen to agree. Ye know what I mean?"
"Ucha," said Mrs. Thomson. "Are you well suited just now, Mrs. Macbean?"
"Fair, Mrs. Thomson, but that's all I'll say. My cook's is a Cockney! A real English wee body. I take many a laugh to myself at her accent. I'm quite good at speakin' like her. Mr. Macbean often says to me, 'Come on, Mamma, and give us a turn at the Cockney.' Oh! she's a great divert, but—wasteful!It's not, ye know what I mean, that we grudge the things, but I always say that having had a good mother is a great disadvantage these days. My mother brought me up to hate waste and to hate dirt, and it keeps me fair miserable with the kind of servants that are now."
Mrs. Thomson nodded her head in profound agreement; but Mrs. Forsyth said:
"But my! Mrs. Macbean, I wouldna let myself be made miserable by any servant. I just keep the one—not that Mr. Forsyth couldn't give me two if I wanted them, but you can keep more control over one. She gets everything we get ourselves, but she knows better than waste so much as a potato peel. I've had Maggie five years now, and it took me near a year to get her to hang the dishcloths on their nails; but now I have her real well into my ways, and the way she keeps her range is a treat."
Presently Mrs. Forsyth and Mrs. Macbean went away to make other calls, and Mrs. Thomson and her two old friends drew near the fire for a cosy talk.
"Sit well in front and warm your feet, Miss Hendry. Miss Flora, try this chair, and turn back your skirt in case it gets scorched. Now, you'll just stay and have a proper tea and see Papa. Yes, yes," as the Miss Hendrys expostulated, "you just will. Ye got no tea to speak of, and there's a nice bit of Finnan haddie——My! these 'at home' days are tiring."
"They're awful enjoyable," said Miss Flora rather wistfully. "Ye've come on, Mrs. Thomson, since we were neighbours, but I must say you don't forget old friends."
"Eh, and I hope I never will. The new friends are all very well, they're kind and all that, but a body clings to the old friends. It was you I ran to when Rubbert took the croup and I thought we were to lose him; and d'ye mind how you took night about with me when Papa near slipped away wi' pneumonia? Eh, my, my! ... Jessie's awful keen to be grand; she's young, and young folk havena much sense. She tells me I'm eccentric because I like to see that every corner of the house is clean. She thinks Mrs. Simpson's a real lady because she keeps three servants and a dirty house. Well, Papa's always at me to get another girl, for of course this is a big house—we have the nine rooms—but I'll not agree. Jessie's far better helping me to keep the house clean than trailing in and out of picture houses like the Simpsons. The Simpsons! Mercy me, did I not know the Simpsons when they kept a wee shop in the Paisley Road? And now they're afraid to mention the word shop in case it puts anybody in mind. As I tell Jessie, there's nothing wrong in keepin' a shop, but there's something far wrong in being ashamed of it."
"Bless me," said Miss Hendry, who could not conceive of anyone being ashamed of a shop. "A shop's a fine thing—real interesting, I would think. You werena at the prayer-meeting last night?"
"No. I was real sorry, but there was a touch of fog, if you remember, and Papa's throat was troublesome, so I got him persuaded to stay in. Was Mr. Seton good?"
"Fine," said Miss Hendry,—"fair excelled himself."
"Papa often says that Mr. Seton's at his best at the prayer-meeting."
"You're a long way from the church now, Mrs. Thomson," said Miss Hendry. "You'll be speakin' about leaving one o' these days."
"Miss Hendry," said Mrs. Thomson solemnly, "that is one thing we niver will do, leave that church as long as Mr. Seton's the minister. Even if I had notions about a Pollokshields church and Society, as Jessie talks about, d'ye think Mr. Thomson would listen to me? I can do a lot with my man, but I could niver move him on that point—and I would niver seek to."
"Well," said Miss Hendry in a satisfied tone, "I'm glad to hear you say it. Of course we think there's not the like of our minister anywhere. He has his faults. He niver sees ye on the street, and it hurts people; it used to hurt me too, but now I just think he's seeing other things than our streets.... And he has a kinda cold manner until ye get used to it. He came in one day when a neighbour was in—a Mrs. Steel, she goes to Robertsons' kirk—and she said to me afterwards, 'My! I wudna like a dry character like that for a minister.' I said to her, 'I dare say no' after the kind ye're used to, but I like ma minister to be a gentleman.' Robertson's one o' these joky kind o' ministers."
"Well," said Miss Flora, who seldom got a word in when her sister was present, "I'm proud of ma minister, and I'm proud of ma minister's family."
"Yes," agreed her sister, "Elizabeth's a fine-lookin' girl, and awful bright and entertainin'; it's a pity she canna get a man."
"I'm sure," said Mrs. Thomson, "she could get a man any day if she wanted one. I wouldn't wonder if she made a fine marriage—mebbe an M.P. But what would her father do wanting her? and wee David? She really keeps that housewell. I've thought an awful lot of her since one day I was there at my tea, and she said to me so innerly-like, 'Would you like to see over the house, Mrs. Thomson?' and she took me into every room and opened every press—and there wasn't a thing I would have changed."
"Well," said Miss Hendry, "they talk about folk being too sweet to be wholesome, like a frosted tattie, and mebbe Elizabeth Seton just puts it on, but there's no doubt she's got a taking way with her. I niver get a new thing either for myself or the house but I wonder what she'll think about it. And she aye notices it, ye niver have to point it out."
"Yes," said Mrs. Thomson. "She's a grand praiser. Some folk fair make you lose conceit of your things, but she's the other way. Did I tell you Papa and me are going away next week for a wee holiday? Just the two of us. Jessie'll manage the house and look after the boys. Papa says I look tired. I'm sure that it's no' that I work as hard as I used to work; but there, years tell, and I'm no' the Mrs. Thomson I once was. We're going to the Kyles Hydro—it's real homely and nice."
"I niver stopped in a Hydro in my life," Miss Hendry said. "It must be a grand rest. Nothing to do but take your meat."
"That's so," Mrs. Thomson admitted. "It gives you a kind of rested feeling to see white paint everywhere and know that it's no business of yours if it gets marked, and to sit and look at a fine fire blazing itself away without thinkin' you should be getting on a shovel of dross; and it's a real holiday-feeling to put on your rings and your afternoon dress for breakfast."
Voices were heard in the lobby. Mrs. Thomson started up to welcome home her husband, while Jessie announced to the visitors that tea was ready in the parlour.
"I have great comfort from this fellow."The Tempest.
On the afternoon of the Saturday that brought Arthur Townshend to Glasgow Elizabeth sat counselling her young brother about his behaviour to the expected guest. She drew a lurid picture of his everyday manners, and pointed out where they might be improved, so that Mr. Arthur Townshend might not get too great a shock. Buff remained quite calm, merely remarking that he had never seen anyone called Townshend quite close before. Elizabeth went on to remind him that any remarks reflecting on the English as a race, or on the actions in history, would be in extreme bad taste. This warning she felt to be necessary, remembering how, when Buff was younger, some English cousins had come to stay, and he had refused to enter the room to greet them, contenting himself with shouting through the keyhole, "Who killed William Wallace?"
Since then, some of his fierce animosity to the "English" had died down, though he still felt that Queen Mary's death needed a lot of explaining.
As his sister continued the lecture, and went into details about clean nails and ears, Buff grew frankly bored, and remarking that he wished visitors would remain at home, went off to find Thomas and Billy.
Mr. Seton, sitting with his sermon, unabatedly cheerful in spite of the fact that a strange young man—a youth "tried and tutored in the world"—was about to descend on his home, looked up and laughed at his daughter.
"Let the boy alone, Lizbeth," he advised. "I see nothing wrong with his manners."
"Love is blind," said Elizabeth. "But it's not only his manners; the boy has a perfect genius for saying the wrong thing. Dear old Mrs. Morton was calling yesterday, and you know what a horror she has of theatres and all things theatrical. Well, when she asked Buff what he was going to be, expecting no doubt to hear that he had yearnings after the ministry, he replied quite frankly, 'An actor-man.' I had to run him out of the room. Then he told Mrs. Orr there was nothing he liked so much as fighting, so he meant to be a soldier. She said in her sweet old voice, 'You will fight with the Bible, darling—the sword of the Spirit.' 'Huh!' said Buff, 'queer dumpy little sword that would be.'"
Mr. Seton seemed more amused than depressed by the tale of his son's misdeeds, and Elizabeth continued: "After all, what does it matter what Mr. Arthur Townshend thinks of any of us? I've done my best for him, and I hope the meals will be decent; but of course the thought of him has upset Marget's temper. It is odd that when she is cross shewillquote hymns. I must say it is discouraging to make some harmless remark about vegetables and receive nothing in reply but a muttered
'Teach me to live that I may dreadThe grave as little as my bed.'"
"Elizabeth, you're an absurd creature," said her father. "Why you and Marget should allow yourselves to be upset by a visit from an ordinary young man I don't know. Dear me,I'lllook after him."
"And how do you propose to entertain him, Father?"
"Well, I might take him one day to see the glass-houses in the Park; there is a beautiful show of chrysanthemums just now. I greatly enjoyed it as I passed through yesterday. Then one morning we could go to the Cathedral—and the Art Gallery and Municipal Buildings are very interesting in their way."
"DearFather," said Elizabeth.
*****
Mr. Arthur Townshend was expected about seven o'clock, and Elizabeth had planned everything for his reception. Buff would be in bed, and Thomas and Billy under the shelter of their own roof-tree. The house would be tidy and quiet, the fires at their best. She herself would be dressed early and ready to receive him.
But it happened otherwise.
Elizabeth, a book in hand, was sunk in a large arm-chair, a boy on each of the chair-arms and one on the rug. It was getting dark, but the tale was too breathless to stop for lights; besides, the fire was bright and she held the book so that the fire-light fell on the page.
"Over the rock with them!" cried the Brigand Chief; and the men stepped forward to obey his orders.
"Oow!" squealed Billy in his excitement.
"Mr. Townshend," announced Ellen.
No one had heard the sounds of his arrival. Elizabeth rose hastily, sending Buff and Billy to the floor, her eyes dazed with fire-light, her mind still in the Robbers' Cave.
"But the train isn't in yet," was her none too hospitable greeting.
"I must apologise," said the new-comer. "I came North last night to catch a man in Edinburgh—his ship was just leaving the Forth. I ought to have let you know, but I forgot to wire until it was too late. I'm afraid I'm frightfully casual. I hope you don't mind me walking in like this?"
"Oh no," said Elizabeth, vainly trying to smooth her rumpled hair. "Get up, boys, and let Mr. Townshend near the fire; and we'll get some fresh tea."
"Please don't. I lunched very late. I suppose one of these young men is Buff?"
Ellen, meanwhile, had drawn the curtains and lighted the gas, and the company regarded one another.
"A monocle!" said Elizabeth to herself, feeling her worst fears were being realised, "andbeautifullycreased trousers." (HadEllen remembered to light his bedroom fire?) But, certainly, she had to admit to herself a few minutes later, he knew how to make friends with children. He had got out his notebook and was drawing them a battleship, as absorbed in his work as the boys, who leaned on him, breathing heavily down his neck and watching intently.
"A modern battleship's an ugly thing," he said as he worked.
"Yes," Billy agreed, "that's an ugly thing you're making. I thought a battleship had lovely masts, and lots of little windows, and was all curly."
"He's thinking," said Thomas, "of pictures of ships in poetry-books."
"I know," said Arthur Townshend. "Ballad ships that sailed to Norroway ower the faem. This is our poor modern substitute."
"Now a submarine," Buff begged.
Arthur Townshend drew a periscope, and remarked that of course the rest of the submarine was under water.
"Aw!" cried Buff; and the three sprang upon their new friend, demanding further amusements.
But Elizabeth intervened, saying Thomas and Billy must go home, as it was Saturday night. Thomas pointed out that Saturday night made no real difference to him or Billy, and gave several excellent reasons for remaining where he was; but, Elizabeth proving adamant, they went, promising Mr. Townshend that he would see them early the next morning. Buff was told to show the guest to his room (where, finding himself well entertained, he remained till nearly dinner-time, when he was fetched by Ellen and sent, bitterly protesting, to seek his couch), and Elizabeth was left to tidy away the story-books and try to realize her impressions.
Dinner went off quite well. The food, if simple, was well cooked; for Marget, in spite of her temper, had done her best, and Ellen made an efficient if almost morbidly painstaking waitress.
Elizabeth smiled to herself, but made no remark, as she watched her pour water firmly into the guest's glass; and her father, leaning forward, said kindly, "I think you will find Glasgow water particularly good, Mr. Townshend; it comes from Loch Katrine."
Mr. Townshend replied very suitably that water was a great treat to one who had been for so long a dweller in the East. Elizabeth found that with this guest there was going to be no need of small talk—no aimless, irrelevant remarks uttered at random to fill up awkward silences. He was a good talker and a good listener.
Mr. Seton was greatly interested in his travellers' tales, and as Elizabeth watched them honesty compelled her to confess to herself that this was not the guest she had pictured. She liked his manner to her father, and she liked his frank laugh. After all, it would not be difficult to amuse him when he was so willing to laugh.
"I wonder," said Mr. Seton, as he pared an apple, "if you have ever visited my dream-place?" He gave his shy boy's smile. "I don't know why, but the very name spells romance to me—Bokhara."
"Yes—'that outpost of the infinitive.' I know it well; or rather I don't, of course, for no stray Englishman can know a place like that well, but I have been there several times.... I'm just wondering if it would disappoint you."
"I dare say it might," said Mr. Seton. "But I'm afraid there is no likelihood of my ever journeying across the desert to find my 'dream-moon-city' either a delight or a disappointment. But I keep my vision—and I have a Bokhara rug that is a great comfort to me."
"When you retire, Father," broke in Elizabeth, "when we're done with kirks and deacons'-courts for ever and a day, we shall go to Bokhara, you and I. It will be such a nice change."
"Well, well," said her father, "perhaps we shall; but in the meantime I must go to my sermon."
In the drawing-room Elizabeth settled herself in an arm-chair with some needlework, and pointed out the cigarettes and matches to her guest.
"Don't you smoke?" he asked.
"No. Father would hate it: he doesn't ever smoke himself."
"I see. I say, you have got a lot of jolly prints. May I look at them?"
He proved very knowledgeable about the prints, and from prints they passed to books, and Elizabeth found him so full of honest enthusiasm, and with so nice a taste in book-people, that the last shreds of distrust and reserve vanished, and she cried in her Elizabethan way: "And actually I wondered what in the world I would talk to you about!"
Arthur Townshend laughed.
"Tell me," he said, "what subjects you had thought of?"
"Well," said she, sitting up very straight and counting on her fingers, "first I thought I would start you on Persia and keep you there as long as possible; then intelligent questions about politics, something really long-drawn-out, like Home Rule or Women's Suffrage; then—then—Ihadthought of Ellen Wheeler Wilcox!"
Arthur Townshend groaned.
"Whatsort of an idea had Aunt Alice given you of me?"
"Quite unintentionally," Elizabeth said, "she made you sound rather a worm. Not a crawling worm, you understand, but a worm that reared an insolent head, that would think it a horrid bore to visit a manse in Glasgow—a side-y worm."
"Good Lord," said Mr. Townshend, stooping to pick up Elizabeth's needlework which in her excitement had fallen on the rug, "this is not Aunt Alice——"
"No," said Elizabeth, "it's my own wickedness. The fact is, I was jealous—Aunt Alice seemed so devoted to you, and quoted you, and admired everything about you so much, and I thought that in praising you she was 'lychtlying' my brothers, so of course I didn't like you. Yes, that's the kind of jealous creature I am."
The door opened, and Ellen came in with a tray on which stood glasses, a jug of milk, a syphon, and a biscuit-box. She laid it on a table beside her mistress and asked if anything else was needed and on being told "No," said good-night and made her demure exit.
"Pretend you've known me seven years, and put a log on the fire," Elizabeth asked her guest.
He did as he was bid, and remained standing at the mantelpiece looking at the picture which hung above it.
"Your mother, isn't it?" he asked. "She was beautiful; Aunt Alice has often told me of her."
He looked in silence for a minute, and then went back to his chair and lit another cigarette.
"I never knew my mother, and I only remember my father dimly. I was only her husband's nephew, but Aunt Alice has had to stand for all my home-people, and no one knows except myself how successful she has been."
"She is the most golden-hearted person," said Elizabeth. "I don't believe she ever has a thought that isn't kind and gentle and sincere. I am so glad you had her—and that she had you. One can't help seeing what you have meant to her...." Then a spark of laughter lit in Elizabeth's grey eyes.
"Don't you love the way her sentences never end? just trail deliciously away ... and her descriptions of people?—'such charming people,suchstaunch Conservatives and he plays the violin so beautifully.'"
Arthur Townshend laughed in the way that one laughs at something that, though funny, is almost too dear to be laughed at.
"That is exactly like her," he said. "Was your mother at all like her sister?"
"Only in heart," said Elizabeth. "Mother was much more definite. People always said she was a 'sweet woman,' but that doesn't describe her in the least. She was gentle, but she could be caustic at times: she hated shams. That picture was painted before her marriage, but she never altered much, and she never got a bit less lovely. I remember once we were all round her as she stood dressed to go to some wedding, and Alan said, 'Areyoumarried, Mums?' and when she said she was, he cried consolingly, 'But you would do again.'... I sometimes wonder now how Mother liked the work of a minister's wife in Glasgow. I remember she used to laugh and say that with her journeys ended in Mothers' Meetings. I know she did very well, and the people loved her. I can see her now coming in from visiting in the district, crying out on the drabness of the lives there, and she would catch up Buff and dance and sing with him and say little French nursery-songs to him, like a happy school-girl. Poor little Buff! He doesn't know what a dreadful lot he is missing. Sometimes I think I spoil him, and then I remember 'his mother who was patient being dead.'"
The fire had fallen into a hot red glow, and they sat in silence looking into it.
Presently the door opened, and Mr. Seton came in. He came to the fire and warmed his hands, remarking, "There's a distinct touch of frost in the air to-night, and the glass is going up. I hope it means that you are going to have good weather, Mr. Townshend."
He helped himself to a glass of milk and a biscuit.
"Elizabeth, do you know what that brother of yours has done? I happened to take downThe Pilgrim's Progressjust now, and found that the wretched little fellow had utterly ruined those fine prints by drawing whiskers on the faces of the most unlikely people."
Mr. Seton's mouth twitched.
"The effect," he added, "is ludicrous in the extreme."
His listeners laughed in the most unfeeling way, and Elizabeth explained to Mr. Townshend that when Buff was in fault he was alluded to as "your brother," as if hers was the sole responsibility.
"Well, you know," said Mr. Seton, as he made the window secure, "you spoil the boy terribly."
Elizabeth looked at Arthur Townshend, and they smiled to each other.
"If ever you have looked on better days,If ever been where bells have knolled to church."As You Like It.
Mr. Seton's church was half an hour's walk from his house, and the first service began at nine-forty-five, so Sabbath morning brought no "long lie" for the Seton household. They left the house at a quarter-past nine, and remained at church till after the afternoon service, luncheon being eaten in the "interval."
Thomas and Billy generally accompanied them to church, not so much from love of the sanctuary as from love of the luncheon, which was a picnic-like affair. Leaving immediately after it, they were home in time for their two-o'clock Sunday dinner with "Papa."
Elizabeth had looked forward with horror to the prospect of a Sunday shut in with the Arthur Townshend of her imagination, but the actual being so much less black than her fancy had painted she could view the prospect with equanimity, hoping only that such a spate of services might not prove too chastening an experience for a worldly guest.
Sabbath morning was always rather a worried time for Elizabeth. For one thing, the Sabbath seemed to make Buff's brain more than usually fertile in devising schemes of wickedness, and then, her fatherwouldnot hurry. There he sat, calmly contemplative, in the study while his daughter implored him to remember the "intimations," and to be sure to put in that there was a Retiring Collection for the Aged and Infirm Ministers' Fund.
Mr. Seton disliked a plethora of intimations, and protested that he had already six items.
"Oh, Father," cried his exasperated daughter, "whatisthe use of saying that when they've all to be made?"
"Quite true, Lizbeth," said her father meekly.
Mr. Seton always went off to church walking alone, Elizabeth following, and the boys straggling behind.
"I'm afraid," said Elizabeth to Mr. Townshend, as they walked down the quiet suburban road with its decorous villa-residences—"I'm afraid you will find this rather a strenuous day. I don't suppose in Persia—and elsewhere—you were accustomed to give the Sabbath up wholly to 'the public and private exercises of God's worship'?"
Mr. Townshend confessed that he certainly had not.
"Oh, well," said Elizabeth cheeringly, "it will be a new experience. We generally do five services on Sunday. My brother Walter used to say that though he never entered a church again, his average would still be higher than most people's. What king was it who said he was a 'sair saunt for the Kirk'? I can sympathise with him."
They drifted into talk, and became so engrossed that they had left the suburbs and had nearly reached the church before Elizabeth remembered the boys and stopped and looked round for them.
"I don't see the boys. They must have come another way. D'you mind going back with me to see if they're coming down Cumberland Street?"
It was a wide street, deserted save for a small child carrying milk-pitchers, and a young man with a bowler hat hurrying churchwards; but, as they watched, three figures appeared at the upper end. Thomas came first, wearing with pride a new overcoat and carrying a Bible with an elastic band. (He had begged it from the housemaid, who, thankful for some sign of grace in such an abandoned character, had lent it gladly.) Several yards behind Billy marched along, beaming on the world as was his wont; and last of all came Buff, deep in a story, walking in a dream. When the story became very exciting he jumped rapidly several times backwards and forwards from the pavement to the gutter. He was quite oblivious of his surroundings till a starved-looking cat crept through the area railings and mewed at him. He stopped and stroked it gently. Then he got something out of his trouser-pocket which he laid before the creature, and stood watching it anxiously.
Elizabeth's eyes grew soft as she watched him.
"Buff has the tenderest heart for all ill-used things," she said, "especially cats and dogs." She went forward to meet her young brother. "What were you giving the poor cat, sonny?" she asked.
"A bit of milk-chocolate. It's the nearest I had to milk, but it didn't like it. Couldn't I carry it to the vestry and give it to John for a pet?"
"I'm afraid John wouldn't receive it with any enthusiasm," said his sister. ("John's the beadle," she explained to Mr. Townshend.) "But I expect, Buff, it really has a home of its home—quite a nice one—and has only come out for a stroll; anyway, we must hurry. We're late as it is."
The cavalcade moved again, and as they walked Elizabeth gave Mr. Townshend a description of the meeting he was about to attend.
"It's called the Fellowship Meeting," she told him, "and it is a joint meeting of the Young Men's and the Young Women's Christian Association. Someone reads a paper, and the rest of us discuss it—or don't discuss it, as the case may be. Some of the papers are distinctly good, for we have young men with ideas. Today I'm afraid it's a wee young laddie reading his first paper. The president this winter is a most estimable person, but he has a perfect genius for choosing inappropriate hymns. At ten a.m. he gives out 'Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,' or again, we find ourselves singing
'The sun that bids us rest is wakingOur brethren 'neath the Western sky,'
—such an obvious untruth! And he chooses the prizes for the Band of Hope children, and last year, when I was distributing them, a mite of four toddled up in response to her name, and I handed her a cheerful-looking volume. I just happened to glance at the title, and it wasThe Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I suppose he must have bought it because it had a nice bright cover! Don't look at me if he does anything funny to-day! I am so given to giggle."
The Fellowship Meeting was held in the hall, so Elizabeth led the way past the front of the church and down a side-street to the hall door.
First, they all marched into the vestry, where coats could be left, and various treasures, such as books to read in "the interval," deposited in the cupboard. The vestry contained a table, a sofa, several chairs, two cupboards, and a good fire; Mr. Seton's own room opened out of it.
Billy sat down on the sofa and said languidly that if the others would go to the meeting he would wait to help Ellen lay the cloth for luncheon, but his suggestion not meeting with approval he was herded upstairs. As it was, they were late. The first hymn and the prayer were over, and the president was announcing that he had much pleasure in asking Mr. Daniel Ross to read them his paper on Joshua when they trooped in and sat down on a vacant form near the door.
Mr. Daniel Ross, a red-headed boy, rose unwillingly from his seat on the front bench and, taking a doubled-up exercise book from his pocket, gave a despairing glance at the ceiling, and began. It was at once evident that he had gone to some old divine for inspiration, for the language was distinctly archaic. Now and again a statement, boyish, abrupt, and evidently original, obtruded itself oddly among the flowery sentences, but most of it had been copied painfully from some ancient tome. He read very rapidly, swallowing audibly at intervals, and his audience was settling down to listen to him when, quite suddenly, the essay came to an end. The essayist turned a page of the exercise-book in an expectant way, but there was nothing more, so he sat down with a surprised smile.
Elizabeth suppressed an inclination to laugh, and the president, conscious of a full thirty minutes on his hands, gazed appealingly at the minister. Mr. Seton rose and said how pleasant it was to hear one of the younger members, and that the paper had pleased him greatly. (This was strictly true, for James Seton loved all things old—even the works of ancient divines.) He then went on to talk of Joshua that mighty man of valour, and became so enthralled with his subject he had to stop abruptly, look at his watch, and leave the meeting in order to commune with the precentor about the tunes.
The president asked for more remarks, but none were forthcoming till John Jamieson rose, and leaning on his stick, spoke. An old man, he said, was shy of speaking in a young people's meeting, but this morning he felt he had a right, for the essayist was one of his own boys. Very kindly he spoke of the boy who had come Sabbath after Sabbath to his class: "And now I've been sitting at my scholar's feet and heard him read a paper. It's Daniel Ross's first attempt at a paper, and I think you'll agree with me that he did very well. He couldn't have had a finer subject, and the paper showed that he had read it up." (At this praise the ears of Daniel Ross sitting on the front bench glowed rosily.) "Now, I'm not going to take up any more time, but there's just one thing about Joshua that I wonder if you've noticed.He rose up early in the morning.Sometimes a young man tells me he hasn't time to read. Well, Joshua when he had anything to do rose up early in the morning. Another man hasn't time to pray. There are quiet hours before the work of the day begins. The minister and the essayist have spoken of Joshua's great deeds, deeds that inspire; let me ask you to learn this homely lesson from the great man, to rise up early in the morning."
The president, on rising, said he had nothing to add to the remarks already made but to thank the essayist in the name of the meeting for his "v'ry able paper," and they would close by singing Hymn 493:
"Summer suns are glowingOver land and sea;Happy light is flowingBountiful and free."