Part 9

There was no "instrument" in "Seton's kirk," not even a harmonium. They were an old-fashioned people and liked to worship as their fathers had done. True, some of the young men, yearning like the Athenians after new things, had started a movement towards a more modern service, but nothing had come of it. At one time psalms alone had been sung, not even a paraphrase being allowed, and when "human" hymns were introduced it well-nigh broke the hearts of some of the old people. One old man, in the seat before the Setons, delighted Elizabeth's heart by chanting the words of a psalm when a hymn was given out, his efforts to make the words fit the tune being truly heroic.

Mr. Seton gave out his text:

"The kingdom of heaven is like unto a certain king who made a marriage for his son, and he sent forth his servants, saying, Tell them which are bidden, and they would not come. Again he sent forth other servants, saying, Behold, I have prepared my dinner; my oxen and fatlings are killed, and all things are ready. _But they made light of it._"

To Arthur Townshend Mr. Seton's preaching came as a revelation. He had been charmed with him as a gentle saint, a saint kept human by a sense of humour, a tall daughter, and a small, wicked son. But this man in the pulpit, his face stern and sad as he spoke of the unwilling guest, was no gentle saint, but a "sword-blade man."

He preached without a note, leaning over the pulpit, pouring out his soul in argument, beseeching his hearers not to make light of so great a salvation. He seemed utterly filled by the urgency of his message. He told no foolish anecdotes, he had few quotations, it was simple what he said: one felt that nothing mattered to the preacher but his message.

The sermon only lasted a matter of twenty minutes (even the restless Buff sat quietly through it), then a hymn was sung. "Before singing this hymn, I will make the following intimations," Mr. Seton announced. After the hymn, the benediction, and the service was over.

To reach the vestry, instead of going round by the big door, the Manse party went through the choir-seat and out of the side-door. The boys, glad to be once again in motion, rushed down the passage and collided with Mr. Seton before they reached the vestry.

"Gently, boys," he said. "Try to be a little quieter in your ways"; and he retired into his own room to take off his gown and bands.

Luncheon had been laid by Ellen, and Marget was pouring the master's beef-tea into a bowl.

"I've brocht as much as'll dae him tae," she whispered to Elizabeth, as she departed from the small hall, where tea and sandwiches were provided for people from a distance. The "him" referred to by Marget was standing with his monocle in his eye watching Buff and Billy who, clasped in each other's arms, were rolling on the sofa like two young bears, while Thomas hung absorbed over the cocoa-tin.

"Mr. Townshend, will you have some beef-tea, or cocoa? And do find a chair. The boys can all sit on the sofa, if we push the table nearer them."

"I don't want any hot water in my cup," said Thomas, who was stirring cocoa, milk, and sugar into a rich brown paste. "Try a lick," he said to Buff; "it's like chocolate."

Mr. Townshend found a chair, and said he would like some beef-tea, but refused a sausage roll, to the astonishment of the boys.

"The sausage-rolls are because of you," said Elizabeth reproachfully. "They are Marget's speciality, and she made them as a great favour. However, have a sandwich. Thomas"--to that youth, who was taking a sip of chocolate and a bite of sausage-roll turn about--"Thomas, you'll be a very sick man before long."

"Aw, well," said Thomas, "if I'm sick I'll no can go to school, and I'm happy just now, anyway."

"Thomas is a philosopher," said Arthur Townshend.

Mr. Seton had put his bowl of beef-tea on the mantelpiece to cool (it was rather like the Mad Tea-party, the Setons' lunch), and he turned round to ask which (if any) of the boys remembered the text.

"Not me," said Thomas, always honest.

"Something about oxes," said Buff vaguely, "and a party," he added.

Billy looked completely blank.

"Mrs. Nicol wasn't in church," said Thomas, who took a great interest in the congregation, and especially in this lady, who frequently gave him peppermints, "and none of the Clarks were there. Alick Thomson winked at me in the prayer."

"If your eyes had been closed, you wouldn't have seen him," said Elizabeth, making the retort obvious. "Come in," she added in response to a knock at the door. "Oh! Mr. M'Auslin, how are you? Let me introduce--Mr. Townshend, Mr. M'Auslin."

Arthur Townshend found himself shaking hands with the president of the Fellowship Meeting, who said "Pleased to meet you," in the most friendly way, and proceeded to go round the room shaking hands warmly with everyone.

"Sit down and have some lunch," said Mr. Seton.

"Thank you, Mr. Seton, no. I just brought in Miss Seton's tracts." He did not go away, however, nor did he sit down, and Arthur Townshend found it very difficult to go on with his luncheon with this gentleman standing close beside him; no one else seemed to mind, but went on eating calmly.

"A good meeting this morning," said Mr. Seton.

"Very nice, Mr. Seton. Pleasant to see the younger members coming forward as, I think, you observed in your remarks."

"Quite so," said Mr. Seton.

"How is your aunt?" Elizabeth asked him.

"Poorly, Miss Seton; indeed I may say very poorly. She has been greatly tried by neuralgia these last few days."

"I'm so sorry. I hope to look in to see her one day this week."

"Do so, Miss Seton; a visit from you will cheer Aunt Isa, I know. By the way, Miss Seton, I would like to discuss our coming Social Evening with you, if I may."

"Yes. Would Thursday evening suit you?"

"No, Miss Seton. I'm invited to a cup of tea on the Temperance Question on Thursday."

"I see. Well, Saturday?"

"That would do nicely. What hour is most convenient, Miss Seton?"

"Eight--eight-thirty; just whenever you can come."

"Thank you, Miss Seton. Good morning. Good morning, Mr. Seton." He again went round the room, shaking hands with everyone, and withdrew.

"Did you recognize the chairman of the Fellowship Meeting?" Elizabeth asked Arthur Townshend. "Isn't he a genteel young man?"

"He has very courtly manners," said Arthur.

"Yes; and his accent is wonderful, too. He hardly ever falls through it. I only once remember him forgetting himself. He was addressing the Young Women's Bible Class on Jezebel, and he got so worked up he cried, 'Oh, girrls, girrls, Jezebel was a bad yin, girrls.' I wonder why he didn't talk about the Social here and now? He will come trailing up to the house on Saturday and put off quite two hours."

"My dear," said her father, "don't grudge the time, if it gives him any pleasure. Remember what a narrow life he has, and be thankful little things count for so much to him. To my mind, Hugh M'Auslin is doing a very big thing, and the fine thing about him is that he doesn't see it."

"But, Father, what is he doing?"

"Is it a small thing, Lizbeth, for a young man to give up the best years of his life to a helpless invalid? Mr. M'Auslin," Mr. Seton explained to Arthur Townshend, "supports an old aunt who cared for him in his boyhood. She is quite an invalid and very cantankerous, though, I believe, a good woman. And--remember this, you mocking people, when you talk of courtly manners--his manners are just as 'courtly' when his old aunt upbraids him for not spending every minute of his sparse spare time at her bedside."

"I never said that Mr. M'Auslin wasn't the best of men," said Elizabeth, "only I wish he wouldn't be so coy. Well, my district awaits me, I must go. I wonder what you would like to do, Mr. Townshend? I can lend you something to read--_The Newcomes_ is in the cupboard--and show you a quiet cubby-hole to read it in, if you would like that."

"That will be delightful, but--is it permitted to ask what you are going to do?"

"I? Going with my tracts. That's what we do between services. I have two 'closes,' with about ten doors to each close. Come with me, if you like, but it's a most unsavoury locality."

Thomas and Billy were getting into their overcoats preparatory to going away. Buff asked if he might go part of the way with them and, permission being given, they set off together.

Elizabeth looked into the little square looking-glass on the mantelpiece to see if her hat was straight, then she threw on her fur, and went out with Arthur Townshend into the street.

The frost of the morning had brought a slight fog, but the pavements were dry and it was pleasant walking. "It's only a few steps," said Elizabeth--"not much of a task after all. One Sunday I sent Ellen, and Buff went with her. She had a formula which he thought very neat. At every door she said, 'This is a tract. Chilly, isn't it?'"

Arthur Townshend laughed. "What do you say?" he asked.

"At first I said nothing, simply poked the tract at them. When Father prayed for the 'silent messengers'--meaning, of course, the tracts--I took it to mean the tract distributors! I have plucked up courage now to venture a few remarks, but they generally fall on stony ground."

At a close-mouth blocked by two women and several children Elizabeth stopped and announced that this was her district. It was very dirty and almost quite dark, but as they ascended the light got better.

Elizabeth knocked in a very deprecating way at each door. Sometimes a woman opened the door and seemed pleased to have the tract, and in one house there was a sick child for whom Elizabeth had brought a trifle. On the top landing she paused. "Here," she said, "we stop and ponder for a moment. These two houses are occupied respectively by Mrs. Conolly and Mrs. O'Rafferty. I keep on forgetting who lives in which."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, a lot. You see, Mrs. Conolly is a nice woman and Mrs. O'Rafferty is the reverse. Mrs. Conolly takes the tract and thanks me kindly; Mrs. O'Rafferty, always gruff, told me on my last visit that if I knocked again at her door she would come at me with a fender. So you see it is rather a problem. Would you like to try and see what sort of 'dusty answer' you get? Perhaps, who knows, the sight of you may soothe the savage breast of the O'Rafferty. I'll stand out of sight."

Arthur Townshend took the proffered tract from Elizabeth's hand, smiling at the mischief that danced in her eyes, and was about to knock, when one of the doors suddenly opened. Both of the tract distributors started visibly; then Elizabeth sprang forward, with a relieved smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Conolly. I was just going to knock. I hope you are all well."

Mrs. Conolly was understood to say that things were moderately bright with her, and that close being finished, Elizabeth led the way downstairs.

"What quite is the object of giving out these things?" asked Arthur Townshend, as they emerged into the street. "D'you think it does good?"

"Ah! 'that I cannot tell, said he,'" returned Elizabeth. "I expect the men light their pipes with them, but that isn't any business of mine. My job is to give out the tracts and leave the results in Higher Hands, as Father would say."

* * * * *

The afternoon service began at two and lasted an hour. Mr. Seton never made the mistake of wearying his people with long services. One member was heard to say of him: "He needs neither specs nor paper, an' he's oot on the chap o' the hour."

The attendance was larger in the afternoons, and the sun struggled through the fog and made things more cheerful. Mr. Seton preached on Paul. It was a subject after his own heart, and his face shone as he spoke of that bond-slave of Jesus Christ--of all he gave up, of all he gained. At the church door, the service ended, people stood in groups and talked. Elizabeth was constantly stopped by somebody. One stolid youth thrust himself upon her notice, and when she said pleasantly, "How are you all, Mr...?" (she had forgotten his name), he replied, "Fine, thanks. Of coorse ma faither's deid and buried since last I saw ye."

"Why 'of course'?" Elizabeth asked Arthur. "And there is another odd thing--the use of the word 'annoyed.' When I went to condole with a poor body whose son had been killed in an explosion, she said, 'Ay, I'm beginnin' to get over it now, but I was real annoyed at first.' It sounds so _inadequate_."

"It reminds me of a Hindu jailer," said Arthur, "in charge of a criminal about to be hung. Commenting on his downcast look, the jailer said, 'He says he is innocent, and he will be hung to-morrow, therefore he is somewhat peevish.'"

Arthur Townshend found himself introduced to many people who wrung his hand and said "V'ry pleased to meet you." Little Mr. Taylor, hopping by the side of his tall wife, asked him if he had ever heard Mr. Seton preach before, and being told "No," said, "Then ye've had a treat the day. Isn't he great on Paul?"

The Taylors accompanied them part of the way home. Mr. Taylor's humour was at its brightest, and with many sly glances at Mr. Townshend he adjured Elizabeth to be a "good wee miss" and not think of leaving "Papa." Finding the response to his witticisms somewhat disappointing, he changed the subject, and laying a hand on Buff's shoulder said, "Ye'll be glad to hear, Mr. Townshend, that this boy is going to follow his Papa and be a minister."

Buff had been "stotting" along the road, very far away from Glasgow and Mr. Taylor and the Sabbath Day. He had been Cyrano de Bergerac, and was wiping his trusty blade after having accounted for his eighty-second man, when he was brought rudely back to the common earth.

He turned a dazed eye on the speaker. What was he saying? "This boy is going to be a minister."

And he had been Cyrano! The descent was too rapid.

"Me?" cried Buff. "Not likely! I'm going to fight, and kill _hundreds of people_."

"Oh, my, my," said Mrs. Taylor. "That's not a nice way for a Christian little boy to speak. That's like a wee savage!"

Buff pulled his sister's sleeve.

"Was Cyrano a savage?" he whispered.

Elizabeth shook her head.

"Well," said Buff, looking defiantly at Mrs. Taylor, "Cyrano fought a hundred men one after another and _he_ wasn't a savage."

Mrs. Taylor shook her head sadly. "Yer Papa would be sorry to think ye read about sich people."

"Haw!" cried Buff, "it was Father read it to me himself--didn't he Lizbeth?--and he laughed--he _laughed_ about him fighting the hundred men."

They had come to the end of the street where the Taylors lived, and they all stopped for a minute, Buff flushed and triumphant, Mrs. Taylor making the bugles of her Sabbath bonnet shake with disapproval, and Mr. Taylor still brimful of humour.

"It's as well we're leavin' this bloodthirsty young man, Mrs. Taylor," he said. "It's as well we're near home. He might feel he wanted to kill us." (Buff's expression was certainly anything but benign.)

Elizabeth shook hands with her friends, and said:

"It would be so nice if you would spend an evening with us. Not this week--perhaps Tuesday of next week?"

The Taylors accepted with effusion. There was nothing they enjoyed so much as spending an evening, and this Elizabeth knew.

"That'll be something to look forward to," Mr. Taylor said; and his wife added, "Ay, if we're here and able, but ye niver can tell."

As they walked on Elizabeth looked at her companion's face and laughed.

"Mr. Taylor is a queer little man," she said. "He used to worry me dreadfully. I simply couldn't stand his jokes--and then I found out that he wasn't the little fool I had been thinking him, and I was ashamed. He is rather a splendid person."

Mr. Townshend and Buff both looked at her.

"Yes; Father told me. It seems that years ago he had a brother who was a grief to him, and who did something pretty bad, and went off to America, leaving a wife and three children. Mr. Taylor wasn't a bit well-off, but he set himself to the task of paying off the debts his brother had left, and helping to keep the family. For years he denied himself everything but the barest necessities--no pipe, no morning paper, no car-pennies--and he told no one what he was doing. And his wife helped him in every way, and never said it was hard on her. The worst is over now, and he told Father. But I think it must have been in those hard days that he learned the joking habit, to keep himself going, you know, and so I don't find them so silly as I did, but brave, and rather pathetic somehow."

Arthur Townshend nodded. "'To know all,'" he quoted. "It seems a pity that there aren't always interpreters at hand."

"And what do you think of the Scots Kirk?" Elizabeth asked him presently.

"In the Church of England a man who could preach like your father would be a bishop."

"I dare say. We have no bishops in our Church, but we have a fairly high standard of preaching. Do you mean that you think Father is rather thrown away in that church, preaching to the few?"

"It sounds impertinent--but I think I did mean that."

"Yes. Oh! I don't wonder. I looked round this morning and wondered how it would strike you. A small congregation of dull-looking, shabby people! But as Father looks at them they aren't dull or shabby. They are the souls given him to shepherd into the Fold. He has a charge to keep. He simply wouldn't understand you if you talked to him of a larger sphere, more repaying work, and so on. People often say to me, 'Your father is thrown away in that district.' They don't see...."

"You must think me a blundering sort of idiot----" Arthur began.

"Oh no! I confess I have a leaning towards your point of view. I know how splendid Father is, and I rather want everyone else to know it too. I want recognition for him. But he doesn't for himself. 'Fame i' the sun' never vexes his thoughts. I expect, if you have set your face steadfastly to go to Jerusalem, these things seem very small. And I am quite sure Father could never be a really popular minister. At times he fails lamentably. Yes; he simply can't be vulgar, poor dear, not even at a social meeting. He sees in marriage no subject for jesting. Even twins leave him cold. Where another man would scintillate with brilliant jokes on the subject Father merely says, 'Dear me!' Sometimes I feel rather sorry for the people--the happy bridegroom and the proud father, I mean. They are standing expecting to be, so to speak, dug in the ribs--and they aren't. I could do it quite well--it is no trouble to me to be all things to all men--but Father can't."

Arthur Townshend laughed. "No, I can't see your father being jocose. I was thinking when I listened to him what a tremendous thing for people to have a padre like that. His very face is an inspiration. His eyes seem to see things beyond. He makes me think of--who was it in _The Pilgrim's Progress_ who had 'a wonderful innocent smile'?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"I know. Isn't it wonderful, after sixty odd years in this world? There is something so oddly joyous about him. And it isn't that sort of provoking fixed brightness that some Christian people have--people who have read Robert Louis and don't mean to falter in their task of happiness. When you ask them how they are, they say _'Splendid'_; and when you remark, conversationally, that the weather is ghastly beyond words, they pretend to find pleasure in it, until, like Pet Marjorie, you feel your birse rise at them. Father knows just how bad the world is, the cruelty, the toil, the treason; he knows how bitter sorrow is, and what it means to lay hopes in the grave, but he looks beyond and sees something so ineffably lovely--such an exceeding and eternal weight of glory--that he can go on with his day's work joyfully."

"Yes," said Arthur, "the other world seems extraordinarily real to him."

"Oh! Real! Heaven is much the realest place there is to Father. I do believe that when he is toiling away in the Gorbals he never sees the squalor for thinking of the streets of gold."

Elizabeth's grey eyes grew soft for a moment with unshed tears, but she blinked them away and laughed.

"The nicest thing about my father is that he is full of contradictions. So gentle and with such an uncompromising creed! The Way is the Way to Father, narrow and hard and comfortless. And he is so good, so purely good, and yet never righteous over much. There is a sort of ingrained humility and lovableness in him that attracts the sinners as well as the saints. He never thinks that because he is virtuous there should be no more cakes and ale. And then, though with him he carries gentle peace, he is by no means a pacific sort of person. He loves to fight; and he hates to be in the majority. Minorities have been right, he says, since the days of Noah. When he speaks in the Presbytery it is always on the unpopular side. D'you remember what a fuss they made about Chinese labour in South Africa? Father made a speech defending it! Someone said to me that he must have an interest in the Mines! Dear heart! He doesn't even know what his income is. The lilies of the field are wily financiers compared to him."

Half an hour later, at four o'clock to be precise, the Setons and their guest sat down to dinner.

"I often wonder," said Mr. Seton, as he meditatively carved slices of cold meat, "why on Sabbath we have dinner at four o'clock and tea at seven. Wouldn't it be just as easy to have tea at four and dinner at seven?"

"'Sir,'" said Elizabeth, "in the words of Dr. Johnson, 'you may wonder!' All my life this has been the order of meals on the Sabbath Day, and who am I that I should change them? Besides, it's a change and makes the Sabbath a little different. Mr. Townshend, I hope you don't mind us galumphing through the meal? Father and I have to be back at the church at five o'clock."

"You don't mean," protested Arthur Townshend, "that you are going back to church again?"

"Alas! yes--Have some toast, won't you?--Father has his Bible class, and I teach a class in the Sabbath school. Buff, pass Mr. Townshend the butter."

"Thank you. But, tell me, do you walk all the way again?"

"Every step," said Elizabeth firmly. "We could get an electric car, but we prefer to trudge it."

"But why?"

"Oh! just to make it more difficult."

Elizabeth smiled benignly on the puzzled guest. "You see," she explained, "Father is on the Sabbath Observance Committee, and it wouldn't look well if his daughter ruffled it on Sabbath-breaking cars. Isn't that so, Father?"

Mr. Seton shook his head at his daughter, but did not trouble to reply; and Elizabeth went on:

"It's more difficult than you would think to be a minister's family. The main point is that you must never do anything that will hurt your father's 'usefulness,' and it is astonishing how many things tend to do that--dressing too well, going to the play, laughing when a sober face would be more suitable, making flippant remarks--their name is legion. Besides, try as one may, it is impossible always to avoid being a stumbling-block. There are little ones so prone to stumble that they would take a toss over anything."

"That will do, Elizabeth," said Mr. Seton.

"Sorry, Father." She turned in explanation to Mr. Townshend. "When Father thinks I am flippant and silly he says 'Elizabeth!' and his eyes twinkle; but when I become irreverent--I am apt to be often--he says 'That will do,' and I stop. So now you will understand. To change the subject--perhaps the most terrible experience I have had, as yet, in my ministerial career was being invited to a christening party and having to sit down in a small kitchen to a supper of tripe and kola. Alan says the outside edge was reached with him when a man who picked his ears with a pencil asked him if he were saved."

"Elizabeth," said her father, "you talk a great deal of nonsense."