The Setons Part 20

"And how do you propose to entertain him, Father?"

"Well, I might take him one day to see the gla.s.s-houses in the Park; there is a beautiful show of chrysanthemums just now. I greatly enjoyed it as I pa.s.sed through yesterday. Then one morning we could go to the Cathedral--and the Art Gallery and Munic.i.p.al Buildings are very interesting in their way."

"_Dear_ Father," 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, "and _beautifully_ creased trousers." (_Had_ Ellen 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 subst.i.tute."

"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 amus.e.m.e.nts.

But Elizabeth intervened, saying Thomas and Billy must go home, as it was Sat.u.r.day night. Thomas pointed out that Sat.u.r.day 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 gla.s.s; 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 pa.s.sed 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--I _had_ thought of Ellen Wheeler Wilc.o.x!"

Arthur Townshend groaned.

"_What_ sort 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 gla.s.ses, 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,"