Читать книгу The Setons - O. Douglas - Страница 7

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"Sir Toby Belch. Does not our life consist of four elements?

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking."

Twelfth Night.

"Poo-or pussy!" murmured Buff, laying his head beside his treasure on the cushion.

"Get up, boy," said Mr. Seton. "You carry kindness to animals too far."

"And he doesn't carry tidiness any way at all," said Elizabeth, who had followed Buff into the study. "He has strewed his garments all over the place in the most shocking way. Come along, Buff, and pick them up. … Father, tell him to come."

"Do as your sister says, Buff."

But Buff clung limpet-like to the chair and expostulated. "What's the good of putting things tidy when I'm putting them on again in a minute?"

"There's something in that," Mr. Seton said, as he put back in the shelves the books he had been using.

"All I have to say," said Elizabeth, "is that if I had been brought up in this lax way I wouldn't be the example of sweetness and light I am now. Do as you are told, Buff. I hear Ellen bringing up luncheon."

Buff stowed the kitten under his arm and stood up. "I'll pick them up," he said in a dignified way, "if Launcelot can have his dinner with me."

"Who?" asked Elizabeth.

"This is him," Buff explained, looking down at the distraught face of the kitten peeping from under his arm.

"What made you call it Launcelot?" asked Elizabeth, as her father went out of the room laughing.

"Thomas said to call him Topsy, and Billy said Bull's Eye was a nice name, but I thought he looked more like a Launcelot."

"Well—I'll take it while you pick up your coat and run and wash your hands. You'll be late if you don't hurry."

"Aw! no sausages!" said Buff, five minutes later, as he wriggled into his place at the luncheon-table.

"Can't have sausages every day, sonny," said his sister; "the butcher man would get tired making them for us."

"Aren't there any sausage-mines?" asked Buff; but his father and sister had begun to talk to each other, so his question remained unanswered.

Unless spoken to, Buff seldom offered a remark, but talked rapidly to himself in muffled tones, to the great bewilderment of strangers, who were apt to think him slightly deranged.

Ellen had brought in the pudding when Elizabeth noticed that her young brother was sitting with a tense face, his hands clenched in front of him and his legs moving rapidly.

She touched his arm to recall him to his surroundings. "Don't touch me," he said through his teeth. "I'm a motor and I've lost control of myself."

He emitted a shrill "Honk Honk," to the delight of his father, who inquired if he were the car or the chauffeur.

"I'm both," said Buff, his legs moving even more rapidly. Ellen, unmoved by such peculiar table-manners, put his plate of pudding before him, and Buff, hearing Elizabeth remark that Thomas and Billy were in all probability even now on their way to school, fell to, said his grace, was helped into his coat, and left the house in almost less time than it takes to tell.

Mr. Seton and Elizabeth were drinking their coffee when Elizabeth said:

"I heard from Aunt Alice this morning."

"Yes? How is she?"

"Very well, I think. She wants me to go with her to Switzerland in December. Of course I've said I can't go."

"Of course," said Mr. Seton placidly.

Elizabeth pushed away her cup.

"Father, I don't mind being noble, but I must say I do hate to have my nobility taken for granted."

"My dear girl! Nobility——"

"Well," said Elizabeth, "isn't it pretty noble to give up Switzerland and go on plodding here? Just look at the rain, and I must go away down to the district and collect for Women's Foreign Missions. There are more amusing pastimes than toiling up flights of stairs and wresting shillings for the heathen from people who can't afford to give. I can hardly bear to take it."

"My dear, would you deny them the privilege?"

It might almost be said that Elizabeth snorted.

"Privilege! Oh, well … If anyone else had said that, but you're a saint, Father, and I believe you honestly think it is a privilege to give. You must, for if it weren't for me I doubt if you would leave yourself anything to live on, but—oh! it's no use arguing. Where are you visiting this afternoon?"

"I really ought to go to Dennistoun to see that poor body, Mrs. Morrison."

"It's such a long way in the rain. Couldn't you wait for a better day?"

James Seton rose from the table and looked at the dismal dripping day, then he smiled down at his daughter. "After twenty years in Glasgow I'm about weather-proof, Lizbeth. If I don't go to-day I can't go till Saturday, and I'm just afraid she may be needing help. I'll see one or two other sick people on my way home."

Elizabeth protested no more, but followed her father into the hall and helped him with his coat, brushed his hat, and ran upstairs for a clean handkerchief for his overcoat pocket.

As they stood together there was a striking resemblance between father and daughter. They had the same tall slim figure and beautifully set head, the same broad brow and humorous mouth. But whereas Elizabeth's eyes were grey, and faced the world mocking and inscrutable, her father's were the blue hopeful eyes of a boy. Sorrow and loss had brought to James Seton's table their "full cup of tears," and the drinking of that cup had bent his shoulders and whitened his hair, but it had not touched his expression of shining serenity.

"Are you sure those boots are strong, Father? And have you lots of car-pennies?"

"Yes. Yes."

Elizabeth went with him to the doorstep and patted his back as a parting salutation.

"Now don't try to save money by walking in the rain; that's poor economy. And oh! have you the money for Mrs. Morrison?"

"No, I have not. That's well-minded. Get me half a sovereign, like a good girl."

Elizabeth brought the money.

"We would need to be made of half-sovereigns. Remember Mrs. Morrison is only one of many. It isn't that I grudge it to the poor dears, but we aren't millionaires exactly. Well, good-bye, and now I'm off on the quest of Women's Foreign Mission funds."

Her father from half-way down the gravel-path turned and smiled, and Elizabeth's heart smote her.

"I'll try and go with jubilant feet, Father," she called.

A few minutes later she too was ready for the road, with a short skirt, a waterproof, and a bundle of missionary papers.

Looking at herself in the hall mirror, she made a disgusted face. "I hate to go ugly to the church-people, but it can't be helped to-day. My feet look anything but jubilant; with these over-shoes I feel like a feather-footed hen."

Ellen came out of the dining-room, and Elizabeth gave her some instructions.

"If Master David is in before I'm back see that he takes off his wet boots at once, will you? And if Miss Christie comes, tell her I'll be in for tea, and ask her to wait. And, Ellen, if Marget hasn't time—I know she has some ironing to do—you might make some buttered toast and see that there's a cheery fire."

"Yes, mum, I will," said Ellen earnestly.

Once out in the rain, Elizabeth began to tell herself that there was really something rather nice about a thoroughly wet November day. It made the thought of tea-time at home so very attractive.

She jumped on a tram-car and squeezed herself in between two stout ladies. The car was very full, and the atmosphere heavy with the smell of damp waterproofs. Dripping umbrellas, held well away from the owners, made rivulets on the floor and caught the feet of the unwary, and an air of profound dejection brooded over everyone. Generally, Elizabeth got the liveliest pleasure from listening to conversation in the car, but to-day everyone was as silent as a canary in a darkened cage.

At Cumberland Street she got off, and went down that broad street of tall grey houses with their air of decayed gentility. Once, what is known as "better-class people" had had their dwellings there, but now the tall houses were divided into tenements, and several families found their home in one house. Soon Elizabeth was in meaner streets—drab, dreary streets which, in spite of witnesses to the contrary in the shape of frequent public-houses and pawnshops, harboured many decent, hard-working people. From these streets, largely, was James Seton's congregation drawn.

She stopped at the mouth of a close and looked up her collecting book.

"146. Mrs. Veitch—1s. Four stairs up, of course."

It was a very bright bell she rang when she reached the top landing, and it was a very tidy woman, with a clean white apron, who answered it.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Veitch," said Elizabeth.

"It's Miss Seton," said Mrs. Veitch. "Come in. I'll tak' yer umbrelly. Wull ye gang into the room? I'm juist washin' the denner-dishes."

"Mayn't I come into the kitchen? It's always so cosy."

"It's faur frae that," said Mrs. Veitch; "but come in, if ye like."

She dusted a chair by the fireside, and Elizabeth sat down. Behind her, fitted into the wall, was the bed with its curtain and valance of warm crimson, and spotless counterpane. On her right was the grate brilliant from a vigorous polishing, and opposite it the dresser. A table with a red cover stood in the middle of the floor, and the sink, where the dinner-dishes were being washed, was placed in the window. Mrs. Veitch could wash her dishes and look down on a main line railway and watch the trains rush past. The trains to Euston with their dining-cars fascinated her, and she had been heard to express a great desire to have her dinner on the train. "Juist for the wance, to see what it's like."

If perfect naturalness be good manners, Mrs. Veitch's manners were excellent. She turned her back on her visitor and went on with her washing-up.

"That's the London train awa' by the noo'," she said, as an express went roaring past. "When Kate's in when it passes she aye says, 'There's yer denner awa then, Mither.' It's a kinda joke wi' us noo. It's queer I've aye hed a notion to traivel, but traivellin's never come ma gait—except traivellin' up and doon thae stairs to the washin'-hoose."

Elizabeth began eagerly to comfort.

"Yes—travelling always seems so delightful, doesn't it? I can't bear to pass through a station and see a London train go away without me. But somehow when one is going a journey it's never so nice. Things go wrong, and one gets cross and tired, and it isn't much fun after all."

"Mebbe no'," said Mrs. Veitch drily, "but a body whiles likes the chance o' finding oot things for theirsel's."

"Of course," said Elizabeth, feeling snubbed.

Mrs. Veitch washed the last dish and set it beside the others to drip, then she turned to her visitor.

"It's money ye're efter, I suppose?"

Elizabeth held out one of the missionary papers and said in an apologetic voice:

"It's the Zenana Mission. I called to see if you cared to give this year?"

Mrs. Veitch dried her hands on a towel that hung behind the door, then reached for her purse (Elizabeth's heart nipped at the leanness of it) from its home in a cracked jug on the dresser-shelf.

"What for wud I no' give?" she asked, and her tone was almost defiant.

"Oh," said Elizabeth, looking rather frightened, "you're like Father, Mrs. Veitch. Father thinks it's a privilege to be allowed to give."

"Ay, an' he's right. There's juist Kate and me, and it's no' verra easy for twae weemen to keep a roof ower their heads, but we'll never be the puirer for the mite we gie to the Lord's treasury. Is't a shillin'?"

"Yes, please. Thank you so much. And how is Kate? Is she very busy just now?"

"Ay. This is juist the busy time, ye ken, pairties and such like. She's workin' late near every nicht, and she's awful bad wi' indisgeestion, puir thing. But Kate's no' yin to complain."

"I'm sure she's not," said Elizabeth heartily. "I wonder—some time when things are slacker—if she would make me a blouse or two? The last were so nice."

"Were they?" asked Mrs. Veitch suspiciously. "Ye aye say they fit perfect, and Kate says to me, 'Mither,' she says, 'I wonder if Miss Seton doesna juist say it to please us?'"

"What!" said Elizabeth, springing to her feet, "Well, as it happens, I am wearing a blouse of Kate's making now——" She quickly undid her waterproof and pulled off the woolly coat she wore underneath. "Now, Mrs. Veitch, will you dare to tell that doubting Kate anything but that her blouse fits perfectly?"

Mrs. Veitch's face softened into a smile.

"Eh, lassie, ye're awfu' like yer faither." she said.

"In height," said Elizabeth, "and perhaps in a feature or two, but not, I greatly fear"—she was buttoning her waterproof as she spoke—"not, Mrs. Veitch, in anything that matters. Well, will you give Kate the message, and tell her not to doubt my word again? I'm frightfully hurt——"

"Ay," said Mrs. Veitch. "Weel, ye see, she's no' used wi' customers that are easy to please. Are ye for aff?"

"Yes, I must go. Oh! may I see the room? It was being papered the last time I was here. Was the paper a success?"

Instead of replying, Mrs. Veitch marched across the passage and threw open the door with an air.

Elizabeth had a way of throwing her whole heart into the subject that interested her for the moment, and it surprised and pleased people to find this large and beautiful person taking such a passionate (if passing) interest in them and their concerns.

Now it was obvious she was thinking of nothing in the world but this little best parlour with its newly papered walls.

After approving the new wall-paper, she proceeded to examine intently the old steel engravings in their deep rose-wood frames. The subjects were varied: "The Murder of Archbishop Sharp" hung above a chest of drawers; "John Knox dispensing the Communion" was skyed above the sideboard; "Burns at the Plough being crowned by the Spirit of Poesy" was partially concealed behind the door; while over the fireplace brooded the face of that great divine, Robert Murray M'Cheyne. These and a fine old bureau filled with china proclaimed their owner as being "better," of having come from people who could bequeath goods and gear to their descendants. Elizabeth admired the bureau and feasted her eyes on the china.

"Just look at these cups—isn't it a brave blue?"

"Ay," said Mrs. Veitch rather uncertainly; "they were ma granny's. I wud raither hev hed rose-buds masel'—an' that wide shape cools the tea awfu' quick." She nodded mysteriously toward the door at the side of the fire which hid the concealed bed. "We've got a lodger," she said.

"What!" cried Elizabeth, startled. "Is she in there now?"

"Now!" said Mrs. Veitch in fine scorn. "What for wud she be in the now? She's at her wark. She's in a shop in Argyle Street."

"Oh!" said Elizabeth. "Is she a nice lodger?"

"Verra quiet; gives no trouble," said Mrs. Veitch.

"And you'll make her so comfortable. Do you bake treacle scones for her? If you do, she'll never leave you."

"I was bakin' this verra day. Could ye—wud it bother ye to carry a scone hame? Mr. Seton's terrible fond o' treacle scone. I made him a cup o' tea wan day he cam' in and he ett yin tae't, he said he hedna tastit onything as guid sin' he was a callant."

"I know," said Elizabeth. "He told me. Of course I can carry the scones, if you can spare them."

In a moment Mrs. Veitch had got several scones pushed into a baker's bag and was thrusting it into Elizabeth's hands.

"I'll keep it dry under my waterproof," Elizabeth promised her. "My umbrella? Did I leave it at the door?"

"It's drippin' in the sink. Here it's. Good-bye, then."

"Good-bye, and very many thanks for everything—the subscription and the scones—and letting me see your room."

At the next house she made no long visitation. It was washing-day, and the mistress of the house was struggling with piles of wet clothes, sorting them out with red, soda-wrinkled hands, and hanging them on pulleys round the kitchen. Having got the subscription, Elizabeth tarried not an unnecessary moment.

"What a nuisance I am!" she said to herself as the door closed behind her. "Me and my old Zenana Mission. It's a wonder she didn't give me a push downstairs, poor worried body!"

The next contributor had evidently gone out for the afternoon, and Elizabeth reflected ruefully that it meant another pilgrimage another day. The number of the next was given in the book as 171, but she paused uncertainly, remembering that there had been some mistake last year, and doubting if she had put it right. At 171 a boy was lounging, whittling a stick.

"Is there anyone called Campbell in this close?" she asked him.

"Wait yo here," said the boy, "an' I'll rin up and see." He returned in a minute.

"Naw—nae Cam'l. There's a Robison an' a M'Intosh an' twa Irish-lukin' names. That's a'. Twa hooses emp'y."

"Thank you very much. It was kind of you to go and look. D'you live near here?"

"Ay." The boy jerked his head backwards to indicate the direction. "Thistle Street."

"I see." Elizabeth was going to move on when a thought came to her. "D'you go to any Sunday school?"

"Me? Naw!" He looked up with an impudent grin. "A'm what ye ca' a Jew."

Elizabeth smiled down at the little snub-nosed face. "No, my son. Whatever you are, you're not that. Listen—d'you know the church just round the corner?"

"Seton's kirk?"

"Yes. Seton's kirk. I have a class there every Sunday afternoon at five o'clock—six boys just about your age. Will you come?"

"A hevna claes nor naething."

"Never mind; neither have the others. What's your name?"

"Bob Scott."

"Well, Bob, I do wish you'd promise. We have such good times."

Bob looked sceptical.

"A whiles gang to Sabbath schules," he said, "juist till the swuree comes aff, and then A leave." His tone suggested that in his opinion Sabbath schools and good times were things far apart.

"I see. Well, we're having a Christmas-tree quite soon. You might try the class till then. You'll come some Sunday? That's good. Now, if I were you I would go home out of the rain."

Bob had resumed his whittling, and he looked carefully at his work as he said:

"I canna gang hame for ma faither: he's drunk, and he'll no' let's in."

"Have you had any dinner?"

"Uch, no. A'm no heedin' for't," with a fine carelessness.

Elizabeth tilted her umbrella over her shoulder the better to survey the situation. There was certainly little prospect of refreshment in this grey street which seemed to contain nothing but rain, but the sharp ting-ting of an electric tram passing in the street above brought her an idea, and she caught the boy's arm.

"Come on, Bob, and we'll see what we can get."

Two minutes brought them to a baker's shop, with very good-looking things in the window and a fat, comfortable woman behind the counter.

"Isn't this a horrible day, Mrs. Russel?" said Elizabeth. "And here's a friend of mine who wants warming up. What could you give him to eat, I wonder?"

Mrs. Russel beamed as if feeding little dirty ragged boys was just the thing she liked best to do.

"It's an awful day, as you say, Miss Seton, an' the boy's wet through. Whit would ye say to a hot tupp'ny pie an' a cup-o'-tea? The kettle's juist on the boil; I've been havin' a cup masel'—a body wants something to cheer them this weather." She laughed cheerily. "He could take it in at the back—there's a rare wee fire."

"That'll be splendid," said Elizabeth; "won't it Bob?"

"Ay," said Bob stolidly, but his little impudent starved face had an eager look.

Elizabeth saw him seated before the "rare wee fire" wolfing "tupp'ny pies," then she gathered up her collecting papers and prepared to go.

"Well! Good-bye, Bob; I shall see you some Sabbath soon. Where's that umbrella? It's a bad day for Zenana Missions, Mrs. Russel."

"Is that whit ye're at the day? I thought ye were doin' a bit o' home mission work."

She followed Elizabeth to the shop-door.

"Poor little chap!" said Elizabeth. "Give him as much as he can eat, will you?"—she slipped some money into her hand—"and put anything that's over into his pocket. I'm most awfully grateful to you, Mrs. Russel. It was too bad to plant him on you, but if people will go about looking so kind they're just asking to be put upon."

The rain was falling as if it would never tire. The street lamps had been lit, and made yellow blobs in the thick foggy atmosphere. The streets were slippery with that particular brand of greasy mud which Glasgow produces. "I believe I'll go straight home," thought Elizabeth.

She wavered for a moment, then: "I'll do Mrs. Martin and get the car at the corner of the street," she decided. "It's four o'clock, but I don't believe the woman will be tidied."

The surmise was only too correct. The door when Elizabeth reached it was opened by Mr. Martin—a gentleman of infinite leisure—who seemed uncertain what to do with her. Elizabeth tried to solve the difficulty by moving towards the kitchen but he gently headed her off until a voice from within cried, "Come in, if ye like, Miss Seton, but A'm strippit."

The situation was not as acute as it sounded. Mrs. Martin had removed her bodice, the better to comb her hair, and Elizabeth shuddered to see her lay the comb down beside a pat of butter, as she cried to her husband, "John, bring ma ither body here."

She was quite unabashed to be found thus in deshabille, and talked volubly the while she twisted up her hair and buttoned her "body." She was a round robin-like woman with, as Elizabeth put it, "the sweetest smile and the dirtiest house in Glasgow."

"An' how's Papa this wet weather?"

"Quite all right, thank you. And how are you?"

"Off and on, juist off and on. Troubled a lot with the boil, of course." (Elizabeth had to think for a minute before she realised this was English for "the bile.") "Many a day, Miss Seton, nothing'll lie." Mrs. Martin made a gesture indicating what happened, and continued: "Mr. Martin often says to me, 'Maggie,' he says 'ye're no' fit to work; let the hoose alane,' he says. Divn't ye, John?" she asked, turning to her husband, who had settled himself by the fire with an evening paper, and receiving a grunt in reply. "But, Miss Seton, there's no' a lazy bone in ma body and I canna see things go. I must be up an' doin': a hoose juist keeps a body at it."

"It does," agreed Elizabeth, trying not to see the unmade bed and the sink full of dirty dishes.

"An' whit are ye collectin' for the day? Women's Foreign Missions? 'Go ye into all the world.' We canna go oorsel's, but we can send oor money. Where's ma purse?"

She went over to the littered dresser and began to turn things over, until she discovered the purse lurking under a bag of buns and a paper containing half a pound of ham. Elizabeth stood up as a hint that the shilling might be forthcoming, but Mrs. Martin liked an audience, so she sat down on a chair and put a hand on each knee. "Mr. Seton said on Sunday we were to give as the Lord had prospered us. Weel, I canna say much aboot that, we're juist aye in the same bit, but as A often tell ma man, Miss Seton, we must a' help each other, for we're a' gaun the same road—mebbe the heathen tae, puir things!"

Mr. Martin grunted over his newspaper, and his wife continued: "There's John there—Mr. Martin, A'm meanin'—gits fair riled whiles aboot poalitics. He canna stand Tories by naething, they fair scunner him, but I juist say to him, 'John, ma man,' I says, 'let the Tories alane, for we're a' Homeward Bound.'"

Elizabeth stifled a desire to laugh, while Mr. Martin said with great conviction and some irrelevance, "Lyd George is the man."

"So he is," said his wife soothingly, "though A whiles think if he wud tak' a bit rest to hissel' it wud be a guid job for us a'."

"Well," said Elizabeth, opening her purse in an expectant way, "I must go, or I shall be late for tea."

"Here's yer shillun," said Mrs. Martin, rather with the air of presenting a not quite deserved tip.

"An' how's wee David? Yon's a rale wee favourite o' mine. Are ye gaun to mak' a minister o' him?"

"Buff? Oh, I don't think we quite know what to make of him."

Mrs. Martin leaned forward. "Hev ye tried a phrenologist?" she asked earnestly.

"No," said Elizabeth, rather startled.

"A sister o' mine hed a boy an' she couldna think what to mak' o' him. He had no—no—whit d'ye ca' it?"

Elizabeth nodded her comprehension.

"Bent?" she suggested.

"Aweel, she tuk him to yin o' thae phrenologists, an' he said he wud be either an auctioneer or a chimist, and," she finished triumphantly, "a chimist he wus!"