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 passed 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 attitude 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 God, 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 God 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 God. 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 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