The Setons Part 22

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 cla.s.s: "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 glowing Over land and sea; Happy light is flowing Bountiful and free."

As they filed out Elizabeth spoke to one and another, asking about ailing relations, hearing of any happenings in families. One boy, with an eager, clever face, came forward to tell her that he had finished Blake's _Songs of Innocence and Experience_, and they were fine; might he lend the book to another chap in the warehouse? Elizabeth willingly gave permission, and they went downstairs together talking poetry.

In the vestry Elizabeth paraded the boys for inspection. "Billy, you're to _sit_ on the seat to-day, remember, not get underneath it."

"Buff, take that sweetie out of your mouth. It's most unseemly to go into church sucking a toffee-ball."

"_Thomas!_ What is that in the strap of your Bible?"

"It's a story I'm reading," said Thomas.

"But surely you don't mean to read it in church?"

"It pa.s.ses the time," said Thomas, who was always perfectly frank.

Mr. Seton caught Arthur Townshend's eye, and they laughed aloud; while Elizabeth hastily asked the boys if they had their collection ready.

"The 'plate' is at the church door," she explained to Mr. Townshend.

"As Buff used to say, 'We pay as we go in.' Thomas, put that book in the cupboard till we come out of church. Good boy: now we'd better go in. You've got your intimations, Father?"

"Seton's kirk," as it was called in the district, was a dignified building, finely proportioned, and plain to austerity. Once it had been the fashionable church in a good district. Old members still liked to tell of its glorious days, when "braw folk" came in their carriages and rustled into their cushioned pews, and the congregation was so large that people sat on the pulpit steps.

These days were long past. No one sat on the pulpit steps to hear James Seton preach, there was room and to spare in the pews. Indeed, "Seton's kirk" was now something of a forlorn hope in a neighbourhood almost entirely given over to Jews and Roman Catholics. A dreary and disheartening sphere to work in, one would have thought, but neither Mr. Seton nor his flock were dreary or disheartened. For some reason, it was a church that seemed difficult to leave. Members "flitted" to the suburbs and went for a Sabbath or two to a suburban church, then they appeared again in "Seton's kirk," remarking that the other seemed "awful unhomely somehow."

Mr. Seton would not have exchanged his congregation for any in the land. It was so full of character, he said; his old men dreamed dreams, his young men saw visions. That they had very little money troubled him not at all. Money was not one of the things that mattered to James Seton.

Arthur Townshend sat beside Elizabeth in the Manse seat. Elizabeth had pushed a Bible and Hymnary in his direction and, never having taken part in a Presbyterian service, he awaited further developments with interest, keeping an eye the while on Billy, who had tied a bent pin to a string and was only waiting for the first prayer to angle in the next pew. As the clock struck eleven the beadle carried the big Bible up to the pulpit, and descending, stood at the foot of the stairs until the minister had pa.s.sed up. Behind came the precentor, distributing before he sat down slips with the psalms and hymns of the morning service, round the choir.

Mr. Seton entered the pulpit. A hush fell over the church. "Let us pray," he said.

A stranger hearing James Seton pray was always struck by two things--the beauty of his voice, or rather the curious arresting quality of it which gave an extraordinary value to every word he said, and the stateliness of his language. There was no complacent camaraderie in his att.i.tude towards his Maker. It is true he spoke confidently as to a Father, but he never forgot that he was in the presence of the King of kings.

"Almighty and merciful G.o.d, who hast begotten us again unto a living hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, we approach Thy presence that we may offer to Thee our homage in the name of our risen and exalted Saviour. Holy, holy, holy art Thou, Lord G.o.d Almighty. The whole earth is full of Thy glory. Thou art more than all created things, and Thou givest us Thyself to be our portion. Like as the hart pants after the water-brooks, so make our souls to thirst for Thee, O G.o.d. Though Abraham acknowledge us not and Israel be ignorant of us, we are Thy offspring...."

Mr. Seton had a litany of his own, and used phrases Sabbath after Sabbath which the people looked for and loved. The Jews were prayed for with great earnestness--"Israel beloved for the Father's sake"; the sick and the sorrowing were "the widespread family of the afflicted."

Again, for those kept at home by necessity he asked, "May they who tarry by the brook Bezor divide the spoil"; and always he finished, "And now, O Lord, what wait we for? Our hope is in Thy word."

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 pa.s.sage 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.