"Sir, the merriment of parsons is very offensive." Dr. Johnson.
When Mr. Seton had gone, and taken Stewart Stevenson with him, Elizabeth and Arthur sat on by the fire lazily talking. Arthur asked some question about the departed visitor.
"He is an artist," Elizabeth told him. "Some day soon, I hope, we shall allude to him as Mr. Stewart Stevenson the artist. He is really frightfully good at his job, and he never makes a song about himself. Perhaps he will go to London soon and set the Thames on fire, and become a fashionable artist with a Botticelli wife."
"I hope not," Arthur said. "He seems much too good a fellow for such a fate."
"Yes, he is. Besides, he will never need to think of the money side of his art—the Butter and Ham business will see to that—but will be able to work for the joy of working. Dear me! how satisfactory it all seems, to be sure. My good sir, you look very comfortable. I hope you remember that you are going to a party to-night."
"What! My second last evening, too. What a waste! Can't we send a telephone message, or wire that something has happened? I say, do let's do that."
Elizabeth assured him that that sort of thing was not done in Glasgow. She added that it was very kind of the Christies to invite them, and having thus thrown a sop to hospitality she proceeded to prophesy the certain dulness of the evening and to deplore the necessity of going.
"Why people give parties is always a puzzle to me," Arthur said. "I don't suppose they enjoy their own parties, and as a guest I can assure them that I don't. Who and what and why are the Christies?"
"Don't speak in that superior tone. The Christies are minister's folk like ourselves. One of the daughters, Kirsty, is a great friend of mine, and there is a dear funny little mother who lies a lot on the sofa. Mr. Johnston Christie—he is very particular about the Johnston—I find quite insupportable; and Archie, the son, is worse. But I believe they are really good and well-meaning—and, remember, you are not to laugh at them."
"My dear Elizabeth! This Hamlet-like advice——"
"Oh, I know you don't need lessons in manners from me. It will be a blessing, though, if you can laugh at Mr. Christie, for he believes himself to be a humorist of a high order. The sight of him takes away any sense of humour that I possess, and reduces me to a state of utter depression."
"It sounds like being an entertaining evening. When do we go?"
"About eight o'clock, and we ought to get away about ten with any luck."
Mr. Townshend sighed. "It will pass," he said, "but it's the horrid waste that I grudge. Promise that we shan't go anywhere to-morrow night—not even to a picture house."
"Have I ever taken you to a picture house? Say another word and I shall insist on your going with me to the Band of Hope. Now behave nicely to-night, for Mr. Christie, his own origin being obscure, is very keen on what he calls 'purfect gentlemen.' Oh! and don't change. The Christies think it side. That suit you have on will do very nicely."
Mr. Townshend got up from his chair and stood smiling down at Elizabeth.
"I promise you I shan't knock the furniture about or do anything obstreperous. You are an absurd creature, Elizabeth, as your father often says. Your tone to me just now was exactly your tone to Buff. I rather liked it."
* * * * *
At ten minutes past eight they presented themselves at the Christies' house. The door was opened by a servant, but Kirsty met them in the hall and took them upstairs. She looked very nice, Elizabeth thought, and was more demonstrative than usual, holding her friend's hand till they entered the drawing-room.
It seemed to the new-comers that the room was quite full of people, all standing up and all shouting, but the commotion resolved itself into Mr. Johnston Christie telling one of his stories to two clerical friends. He came forward to greet them. He was a tall man and walked with a rolling gait; he had a stupid but shrewd face and a bald head. His greeting was facetious, and he said every sentence as if it were an elocution lesson.
"Honoured, Miss Seton, that you should visit our humble home. How are you, sir? Take a chair. Take two chairs!!"
"Thank you very much," Elizabeth said gravely, "but may I speak to Mrs. Christie first?"
She introduced Mr. Townshend to his hostess, and then, casting him adrift on this clerical sea, she sat down by the little woman and inquired carefully about her ailments. The bronchitis had been very bad, she was told. Elizabeth would notice that she was wearing a shawl? That was because she wasn't a bit sure that she was wise in coming up to the drawing-room, which was draughty. (The Christies as a general rule sat in their dining-room, which between meals boasted of a crimson tablecover with an aspidistra in a pot in the middle of the table.) Besides, gas fires never did agree with her—nasty, headachy things, that burned your face and left your feet cold. (Mrs. Christie glared vindictively as she spoke at the two imitation yule logs that burned drearily on the hearth.) But on the whole she was fairly well, but feeling a bit upset to-night. Well, not upset exactly, but flustered, for she had a great bit of news. Could Elizabeth guess?
Elizabeth said she could not.
"Look at Kirsty," Mrs. Christie said.
Elizabeth looked across to where Kirsty sat beside a thin little clergyman, and noticed she looked rather unusually nice. She was not only more carefully dressed, but her face looked different; not so sallow, almost as though it had been lit up from inside.
"Kirsty looks very well," she said, "very happy. Has anything specially nice happened?"
"She's just got engaged to the minister beside her," Mrs. Christie whispered hoarsely.
The whisper penetrated through the room, and Kirsty and her fiancé blushed deeply.
"Kirsty! Engaged!" gasped Elizabeth.
"Well," said her mother, "I don't wonder you're surprised. I was myself. Somehow I never thought Kirsty would marry, but you never know; and he's a nice wee man, and asks very kindly after my bronchitis—he's inclined to be asthmatic himself, and that makes a difference. He hasn't got a church yet; that's a pity, for he's been out a long time, but Mr. Christie'll do his best for him. He's mebbe not a very good preacher." Again she whispered, to her companion's profound discomfort.
"I am sure he is," Elizabeth said firmly.
"He's nothing to look at, and appearances go a long way."
"Oh! please don't; he hears you," Elizabeth implored, holding Mrs. Christie's hand to make her stop. "He looks very nice. What is his name?"
"Haven't I told you? Andrew Hamilton, and he's three years younger than Kirsty."
"That doesn't matter at all. I do hope they will be very happy. Dear old Kirsty!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Christie, "but we can't look forward. We know not what a day may bring forth—nor an hour either, for that matter. Just last night I got up to ring the bell in the dining-room—I wanted Janet to bring me a hot-water bottle for my feet—and before I knew I had fallen over the coal-scuttle, and Janet had to carry me back to the sofa. I felt quite solemnised to think how quickly trouble would come. No, no, we can't look forward——Well, well, here's Mr. M'Cann. Don't go away, Elizabeth; I can't bear the man!" Again that fell whisper, which, however, was drowned in the noise that Mr. Christie and the new-comer made in greeting each other. Mr. M'Cann was a large man with thick hands. He was an ardent politician and the idol of a certain class of people. He boasted that he was a self-made man, though to a casual observer the result hardly seemed a subject for pride.
He came up to his hostess and began to address her as if she were a large (and possibly hostile) audience. Mrs. Christie shrank farther into her shawl and looked appealingly at Elizabeth, who would fain have fled to the other side of the room, where Arthur Townshend, with his monocle screwed tightly