The Setons. O. Douglas
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."