The Collected Novels. Anna Buchan
the only sister of Elizabeth's dead mother. A widow and childless, she would have liked to adopt the whole Seton family, Mr. Seton included, had it been possible. She lived most of the year in London in her house in Portland Place, and in summer she joined the Setons in the South of Scotland.
Arthur Townshend was her husband's nephew. As he had lived much abroad, none of the Setons had met him; but now he was home, and Mrs. Beauchamp having failed in her attempt to persuade Elizabeth to join them in Switzerland, suggested he should pay a visit to Glasgow.
Elizabeth was seriously perturbed. Arthur Townshend had always been a sort of veiled prophet to her, an awe-inspiring person for whom people put their best foot foremost, so to speak. Unconsciously her aunt had given her the impression of a young man particular about trifles—"ill to saddle," as Marget would put it. And she had heard so much about his looks, his abilities, his brilliant prospects, that she had always felt a vague antipathy to the youth.
To meet this paragon at Portland Place would have been ordeal enough, but to have him thrust upon her as a guest, to have to feed him and entertain him for a week, her imagination boggled at it.
"It's like the mountain coming to Mahomet," she reflected. "Mahomet must have felt it rather a crushing honour too."
The question was, Should she try to entertain him? Should she tell people he was coming, and so have him invited out to dinner, invite interesting people to meet him, attempt elaborate meals, and thoroughly upset the household?
She decided she would not. For, she argued with herself, if he's the sort of creature I have a feeling he is, my most lofty efforts will only bore him, and I shall have bored myself to no purpose; if, on the other hand, he is a good fellow, he will like us best au naturel. She broke the news to Marget, who remained unmoved.
"What was guid eneuch for oor ain laddies'll surely be guid eneuch for him," she said.
Elizabeth explained that this was no ordinary visitor, but a young man of fashion.
"Set him up!" said Marget; and there the matter rested.
Everything went wrong that day, Elizabeth thought, and for all the untoward events she blamed the prospective visitor. Her father lost his address-book—that was no new thing, for it happened at least twice a week, but what was new was Elizabeth's cross answer when he asked her to find it for him. She wrangled with sharp-tongued Marget (where she got distinctly the worse of the encounter), and even snapped at the devoted Ellen. She broke a Spode dish that her mother had prized, and she forgot to remind her father of a funeral till half an hour after the hour fixed.
Nor did the day ring to evensong without a passage-at-arms with Buff.
In the drawing-room she found, precariously perched on the top of one of the white book-cases, a large unwashed earthy pot.
"What on earth——" she began, when Buff came running to explain. The flower-pot was his, his and Thomas's; and it contained an orange-pip which, if cherished, would eventually become a lovely orange-tree.
"Nonsense," said Elizabeth sharply. "Look how it's marking the enamel;" and she lifted the clumsy pot. Buff caught her arm, and between them the flower-pot smashed on the floor, spattering damp earth around. Then Elizabeth, sorely exasperated, boxed her young brother's ears.
Buff, grieved to the heart at the loss of his orange-tree, and almost speechless with wrath at the affront offered him, glared at his sister with eyes of hate, but "You—you puddock!" was all he managed to say.
Elizabeth, her brief anger gone, sat down and laughed helplessly.
Thomas grubbed in the earth for the pip. "By rights," he said gloomily, "we would have had oranges growing mebbe in a month!"
CHAPTER VIII
"I do desire it with all my heart: I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world."
As You Like It.
There are many well-kept houses in Glasgow, but I think Jeanieville was one of the cleanest. Every room had its "thorough" day once a fortnight and was turned pitilessly "out." Every "press" in the house was a model of neatness; the very coal-cellar did not escape. The coals were piled in a neat heap; the dross was swept tidily into a corner; the briquettes were built in an accurate pile.
"I must say," Mrs. Thomson often remarked, "I like a tidy coal-cellar;" and Jessie, who felt this was rather a low taste, would reply, "You're awful eccentric, Mamma."
On the first and fourth Thursdays of the month Mrs. Thomson was "at home"; then, indeed, she trod the measure high and disposedly.
On these auspicious days Annie the servant, willing but "hashy," made the front-door shine, and even "sanded" the pillars of the gate to create a good impression. The white steps of the stairs were washed, and the linoleum in the lobby was polished until it became a danger to the unwary walker. Dinner set agoing, Mrs. Thomson tied a large white apron round her ample person and spent a couple of hours in the kitchen baking scones and pancakes and jam-sandwiches, while Jessie, her share of the polishing done, took the car into town and bought various small cakes, also shortbread and a slab of rich sultana cake.
By half past two all was ready.
Mrs. Thomson in her second best dress, and Jessie in a smart silk blouse and skirt, sat waiting. Mrs. Thomson had her knitting, and Jessie some "fancy work." The tea-table with its lace-trimmed cloth and silver tray with the rosy cups ("ma wedding china and only one saucer broken") stood at one side of the fireplace, with a laden cake-rack beside it, while a small table in the offing was also covered with plates of eatables.
There never was any lack of callers at Jeanieville. It was such a vastly comfortable house to call at. The fire burned so brightly, the tea was so hot and fresh, the scones so delicious, and the shortbread so new and crimpy; and when Mrs. Thomson with genuine welcome in her voice said, "Well, this is real nice," no matter how inclement the weather outside each visitor felt the world a warm and kindly place.
Mrs. Thomson enjoyed her house and her handsome furniture, and desired—and hoped it was no dishonest desire—to be a social success; but her kindest smile and heartiest handshake were not for the sealskin-coated ladies of Pollokshields but for such of her old friends as ventured to visit her on her Thursdays, and often poor Jessie's cheeks burned as she heard her mother explain to some elegant suburban lady, as she introduced a friend:
"Mrs. Nicol and me are old friends. We lived for years on the same stair-head."
Except in rare cases, there was no stiffness about the sealskin-ladies, and conversation flowed like a river.
On this particular Thursday four females sat drinking tea with Mrs. Thomson and her daughter out of the rosy cups with the gilt garlands—Mrs. Forsyth and Mrs. Macbean from neighbouring villas, and the Misses Hendry whom we have already met. Mrs. Forsyth was a typical Glasgow woman, large, healthy, prosperous, her face beaming with contentment. She was a thoroughly satisfactory person to look at, for everything about her bore inspection, from her abundant hair and her fresh pink face, which looked as if it were rubbed at least once a day with a nice soapy flannel, to her well-made boots and handsome clothes. Her accent, like Mrs. Thomson's, was Glasgow unabashed.
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Thomson, two lumps. Did you notice in the papers that my daughter—Mrs. Mason, you know—had had her fourth? Ucha, a fine wee boy, and her only eight-and-twenty! I said to her to-day, 'Mercy, Maggie,' I said, 'who asked you to populate the earth?' I just said it like that, and she laughed. Oh ay, but it's far nicer—just like Papa and me. I don't believe in these wee families."
Mrs. Macbean, a little blurred-looking woman with beautiful sables, gave it as her opinion that a woman was never happier than when surrounded by half a dozen "wee ones."
Mrs. Forsyth helped herself to a scone.
"Home-made, Mrs. Thomson? I thought