Part 71 (1/2)

”Useless?” interrupted Lorimer archly. ”I say, Mac, take care! A minister of the Lord, _useless_!”

”I'm thinkin' there are unco few meen-isters o' the Lord in this warld,”

said Macfarlane musingly. ”Maist o' them meen-ister to themselves, an'

care na a wheen mair for Christ than Buddha. I tell ye, I was an altered man after we'd been to Norway--the auld pagan set me thinkin' mony an'

mony a time--for, ma certes! he's better worthy respect than mony a so-called Christian. And as for his daughter--the twa great blue eyes o' that la.s.sie made me fair ashamed o' mysel'. Why? Because I felt that as a meen-ister o' the Established Kirk, I was bound to be a sort o'

heep-ocrite,--ony thinkin', reasonable man wi' a conscience canna be otherwise wi' they folk,--and ye ken, Errington, there's something in your wife's look that maks a body hesitate before tellin' a lee.

Weel--what wi' her face an' the auld _bonde's_ talk, I reflect.i.t that I couldna be a meen-ister as meen-isters go,--an' that I must e'en follow oot the Testament's teachings according to ma own way of thinkin'.

First, I fancied I'd rough it abroad as a meesionary--then I remembered the savages at hame, an' decided to attend to them before onything else.

Then my aunt's siller came in handy--in short, I'm just gaun to live on as wee a handfu' o' the filthy lucre as I can, an' lay oot the rest on the heathens o' London. An' it's as well to do't while I'm alive to see to't mysel'--for I've often observed that if ye leave your warld's gear to the poor when ye're deed, just for the gude reason that ye canna tak it to the grave wi' ye,--it'll melt in a wonderfu' way through the hands o' the 'secretaries' an' 'distributors' o' the fund, till there's naething left for those ye meant to benefit. Ye maunna think I'm gaun to do ony preachin' business down at East-end,--there's too much o' that an' tract-givin' already. The puir soul whose wee hoosie I've rented hadna tasted bit nor sup for three days--till I came an' startled her into a greetin' fit by takin' her rooms an' payin' her in advance--eh!

mon, ye'd have thought I was a saint frae heaven if ye'd heard her blessin' me,--an' a gude curate had called on her just before and had given her a tract to dine on. Ye see, I maun mak mysel' a _friend_ to the folk first, before I can do them gude--I maun get to the heart o'

their troubles--an' troubles are plentiful in that quarter,--I maun live among them, an' be ane o' them. I wad mind ye that Christ Himsel' gave sympathy to begin with,--he did the preachin' afterwards.”

”What a good fellow you are, Mac!” said Errington, suddenly seeing his raw Scotch friend with the perverse accent, in quite a new and heroic light.

Macfarlane actually blushed. ”Nonsense, not a bit o't!” he declared quite nervously. ”It's just pure selfishness, after a'--for I'm simply enjoyin' mysel' the hale day long. Last nicht, I found a wee cripple o'

a laddie sittin' by himsel' in the gutter, munchin' a potato skin. I just took him,--he starin' an' blinkin' like an owl at me,--and carried him into my room. There I gave him a plate o' barley broth, an' finished him up wi' a hunk o' gingerbread. Ma certes! Ye should ha' seen the rascal laugh. 'Twas better than lookin' at a play from a ten-guinea box on the grand tier!”

”By Jove, Sandy, you're a brick!” cried Lorimer, laughing to hide a very different emotion--”I had no idea you were that sort of chap.”

”Nor had I,” said Macfarlane quite simply--”I never fashed mysel' wi'

thinkin' o' ither folks troubles at a'--I never even took into conseederation the meanin' o' the Testament teachings till--I saw your leddy wife, Errington.” He paused a moment, then added gravely--”Yes--and I've aften fancied she maun be a real live angel,--an' I've sought always to turn my hand to something useful and worth the doin',--ever since I met her.”

”I'll tell her so,” said poor Philip, his heart aching for his lost love as he spoke, though he smiled. ”It will give her pleasure to hear it.”

Macfarlane blushed again like any awkward schoolboy.

”Oh, I dinna ken aboot that!” he said hurriedly. ”She's just a grand woman anyway.” Then, bethinking himself of another subject, he asked, ”Have you heard o' the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy lately?”

Errington and Lorimer replied in the negative.

Macfarlane laughed--his eyes twinkled. ”It's evident ye never read police reports,” he said--”Talk o' misters,--he's a pretty specimen!

He's been hunted out o' his place in Yorks.h.i.+re for carryin' on love-affairs wi' the women o' his congregation. One day he locked himsel' in the vestry wi' the new-married wife o' one o' his preenc.i.p.al supporters--an' he had a grand time of it--till the husband came an'

dragged him oot an' thrashed him soundly. Then he left the neighborhood--an' just th' ither day--he turned up in Glasgie.”

Macfarlane paused and laughed again.

”Well?” said Lorimer, with some interest--”Did you meet him there?”

”That did I--but no to speak to him--he was for too weel lookit after to need my services,” and Macfarlane rubbed his great hands together with an irrepressible chuckle. ”There was a crowd o' hootin' laddies round him, an' he was callin' on the heavens to bear witness to his purity.

His hat was off--an' he had a black eye--an' a' his coat was covered wi'

mud, an' a policeman was embracin' him vera affectionately by th' arm.

He was in charge for drunken, disorderly, an' indecent conduct--an' the magistrate cam' down pretty hard on him. The case proved to be exceptionally outrageous--so he's sentenced to a month's imprisonment an' hard labor. Hard labor! Eh, mon! but that's fine! Fancy him at work--at real work for the first time in a' his days! Gude Lord! I can see him at it!”

”So he's come to that!” and Errington shrugged his shoulders with weary contempt. ”I thought he would. His career as a minister is ended, that's one comfort!”