CHAPTER II.
A positive blow could hardly have stunned John Callendar as this accusation did. He could not have answered it, even if he had had an opportunity, and the shock was the greater that it brought with it a sudden sense of responsibility, yea, even guilt. At first the feeling was one of anger at this sudden charge of conscience. He began to excuse himself; he was not to blame if other people could not do but they must o'erdo; then to assure himself that, being God's child, there could be no condemnation in the matter to him. But his heart was too tender and honest to find rest in such apologies, and close upon his anger at the lad crowded a host of loving memories that would not be put away.
David's father had been very dear to him. He recalled his younger brother in a score of tender situations: the schoolhouse in which they had studied cheek to cheek over one book; the little stream in which they had paddled and fished on holidays, the fir-wood, the misty corries, and the heathery mountains of Argyle; above all, he remembered the last time that he had ever seen the bright young face marching at the head of his company down Buchanan street on his way to India. David's mother was a still tenderer memory, and John Callendar's eyes grew misty as his heart forced him to recall that dark, wintry afternoon when she had brought David to him, and he had solemnly promised to be a father to the lad. It was the last promise between them; three weeks afterwards he stood at her grave's side. Time is said to dim such memories as these. It never does. After many years some sudden event recalls the great crises of any life with all the vividness of their first occurrence.
Confused as these memories were, they blended with an equal confusion of feelings. Love, anger, regret, fear, perplexity, condemnation, excuse, followed close on each other, and John's mind, though remarkably clear and acute, was one trained rather to the consideration of things point by point than to the catching of the proper clew in a mental labyrinth. After an hour's miserable uncertainty he was still in doubt what to do. The one point of comfort he had been able to reach was the hope that David had gone straight to Jenny with his grievance. "And though women-folk arena much as counsellors," thought John, "they are wonderfu' comforters; and Jenny will ne'er hear tell o' his leaving the house; sae there will be time to put right what is wrong."
But though David had always hitherto, when lessons were hard or lassies scornful, gone with his troubles to the faithful Jenny, he did not do so at this time. He did not even bid her "Good-night," and there was such a look on his face that she considered it prudent not to challenge the omission.
"It will be either money or marriage," she thought. "If it be money, the deacon has mair than is good for him to hae; if it be marriage, it will be Isabel Strang, and that the deacon wont like. But it is his ain wife Davie is choosing, and I am for letting the lad hae the lass he likes best."
Jenny had come to these conclusions in ten minutes, but she waited patiently for an hour before she interrupted her master. Then the clock struck midnight, and she felt herself aggrieved. "Deacon," she said sharply, "ye should mak the day day and the night night, and ye would if ye had a three weeks' ironing to do the morn. It has chappit twelve, sir."
"Jenny, I'm not sleeplike to-night. There hae been ill words between David and me."
"And I am mair than astonished at ye, deacon. Ye are auld enough to ken that ill words canna be wiped out wi' a sponge. Our Davie isna an ordinar lad; he can be trusted where the lave would need a watcher. Ye ken that, deacon, for he is your ain bringing up."
"But, Jenny, #2,000 for his share o' Hastie's mill! Surely ye didna encourage the lad in such an idea?"
"Oh, sae it's money," thought Jenny. "What is #2,000 to you, deacon? Why should you be sparing and saving money to die wi'? The lad isna a fool."
"I dinna approve o' the partner that is seeking him, Jenny. I hae heard things anent Robert Leslie that I dinna approve of; far from it."
"Hae ye seen anything wrong?"
"I canna say I hae."
"Trust to your eyes, deacon; they believe themselves, and your ears believe other people; ye ken which is best. His father was a decent body."
"Ay, ay; but Alexander Leslie was different from his son Robert. He was a canny, cautious man, who could ding for his ain side, and who always stood by the kirk. Robert left Dr. Morrison's soon after his father died. The doctor was too narrow for Robert Leslie. Robert Leslie has wonderfu' broad ideas about religion now. Jenny, I dinna like the men who are their ain Bibles and ministers."
"But there are good folk outside Dr. Morrison's kirk, deacon, surely."
"We'll trust so, surely, we'll trust so, Jenny; but a man wi' broad notions about religion soon gets broad notions about business and all other things. Why, Jenny, I hae heard that Robert Leslie once spoke o' the house o' John Callendar & Co. as 'old fogyish!'"
"That's no hanging matter, deacon, and ye must see that the world is moving."
"Maybe, maybe; but I'se never help it to move except in the safe, narrow road. Ye ken the Garloch mill-stream? It is narrow enough for a good rider to leap, but it is deep, and it does its wark weel summer and winter. They can break down the banks, woman, and let it spread all over the meadow; bonnie enough it will look, but the mill-clapper would soon stop. Now there's just sae much power, spiritual or temporal, in any man; spread it out, and it is shallow and no to be depended on for any purpose whatever. But narrow the channel, Jenny, narrow the channel, and it is a driving force."
"Ye are getting awa from the main subject, deacon. It is the #2,000, and ye had best mak up your mind to gie it to Davie. Then ye can gang awa to your bed and tak your rest."
"You talk like a—like a woman. It is easy to gie other folks' siller awa. I hae worked for my siller."
"Your siller, deacon? Ye hae naught but a life use o' it. Ye canna take it awa wi' ye. Ye can leave it to the ane you like best, but that vera person may scatter it to the four corners o' the earth. And why not? Money was made round that it might roll. It is little good yours is doing lying in the Clyde Trust."
"Jenny Callendar, you are my ain cousin four times removed, and you hae a kind o' right to speak your mind in my house; but you hae said enough, woman. It isna a question of money only; there are ither things troubling me mair than that. But women are but one-sided arguers. Good-night to you."
He turned to the fire and sat down, but after a few moments of the same restless, confused deliberation, he rose and went to his Bible. It lay open upon its stand, and John put his hand lovingly, reverently upon the pages. He had no glasses on, and he could not see a letter, but he did not need to.
"It is my Father's word," he whispered; and, standing humbly before it, he recalled passage after passage, until a great calm fell upon him. Then he said,
"I will lay me down and sleep now; maybe I'll see clearer in the morning light."
Almost as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning there was a tap at his door, and the gay, strong voice he loved so dearly asked,
"Can I come in, Uncle John?"
"Come in, Davie."
"Uncle, I was wrong last night, and I cannot be happy with any shadow between us two."
Scotchmen are not demonstrative, and John only winked his eyes and straightened out his mouth; but the grip of the old and young hand said what no words could have said half so eloquently. Then the old man remarked in a business-like way,
"I hae been thinking, Davie, I would go and look o'er Hastie's affairs, and if I like the look o' them I'll buy the whole concern out for you. Partners are kittle cattle. Ye will hae to bear their shortcomings as well as your ain. Tak my advice, Davie; rule your youth well, and your age will rule itsel'."
"Uncle, you forget that Robert Leslie is in treaty with Hastie. It would be the height of dishonor to interfere with his bargain. You have always told me never to put my finger in another man's bargain. Let us say no more on the subject. I have another plan now. If it succeeds, well and good; if not, there are chances behind this one."
John fervently hoped there would be no more to say on this subject, and when day after day went by without any reference to Hastie or Robert Leslie, John Callendar felt much relieved. David also had limited himself to one glass of toddy at night, and this unspoken confession and reformation was a great consolation to the old man. He said to himself that the evil he dreaded had gone by his door, and he was rather complacent over the bold stand he had taken.
That day, as he was slowly walking through the Exchange, pondering a proposal for Virginia goods, Deacon Strang accosted him. "Callendar, a good day to ye; I congratulate ye on the new firm o' Callendar & Leslie. They are brave lads, and like enough—if a' goes weel—to do weel."
John did not allow an eyelash to betray his surprise and chagrin. "Ah, Strang!" he answered, "the Callendars are a big clan, and we are a' kin; sae, if you tak to congratulating me on every Callendar whose name ye see aboon a doorstep, you'll hae mair business on hand than you'll ken how to manage. A good day to you!" But Deacon Callendar went up Great George street that day with a heavy, angry heart. His nephew opened the door for him. "Uncle John, I have been looking all over for you. I have something to tell you."
"Fiddler's news, Davie. I hae heard it already. Sae you hae struck hands wi' Robert Leslie after a', eh?"
"He had my promise, uncle, before I spoke to you. I could not break it."
"H'm! Where did you get the #2,000?"
"I borrowed it."
"Then I hope 'the party' looked weel into the business."
"They did not. It was loaned to me on my simple representation."
"'Simple representation!' Vera simple! It was some woman, dootless."
"It was my mother's aunt, Lady Brith."
"Ou, ay! I kent it. Weel, when a bargain is made, wish it good luck; sae, Jenny, put a partridge before the fire, and bring up a bottle O' Madeira."
It was not however a lively meal. John was too proud and hurt to ask for information, and David too much chilled by his reserve to volunteer it. The wine, being an unusual beverage to John, made him sleepy; and when David said he had to meet Robert Leslie at nine o'clock, John made no objection and no remark. But when Jenny came in to cover up the fire for the night, she found him sitting before it, rubbing his hands in a very unhappy manner.
"Cousin," he said fretfully, "there is a new firm in Glasgo' to-day."
"I hae heard tell o' it. God send it prosperity."
"It isna likely, Jenny; auld Lady Brith's money to start it! The godless auld woman! If Davie taks her advice, he's a gane lad."
"Then, deacon, it's your ain fault. Whatna for did ye not gie him the #2,000?"
"Just hear the woman! It taks women and lads to talk o' #2,000 as if it were picked up on the planestanes."
"If ye had loaned it, deacon, ye would hae had the right to spier into things, and gie the lad advice. He maun tak his advice where he taks his money. Ye flung that chance o' guiding Davie to the four winds. And let me tell ye, Cousin Callendar, ye hae far too tight a grip on this warld's goods. The money is only loaned to you to put out at interest for the Master. It ought to be building kirks and schoolhouses, and sending Bibles to the far ends o' the earth. When you are asked what ye did wi' it, how will you like to answer, 'I hid it safely awa, Lord, in the Clyde Trust and in Andrew Fleming's bank!'"
"That will do, woman. Now you hae made me dissatisfied wi' my guiding o' Davie, and meeserable anent my bank account, ye may gang to your bed; you'll doobtless sleep weel on the thought."
CHAPTER III.
However, sometimes things are not so ill as they look. The new firm obtained favor, and even old, cautious men began to do a little business with it. For Robert introduced some new machinery, and the work it did was allowed, after considerable suspicion, to be "vera satisfactory." A sudden emergency had also discovered to David that he possessed singularly original ideas in designing patterns; and he set himself with enthusiasm to that part of the business. Two years afterwards came the Great Fair of 1851, and Callendar & Leslie took a first prize for their rugs, both design and workmanship being honorably mentioned.
Their success seemed now assured. Orders came in so fast that the mill worked day and night to fill them; and David was so gay and happy that John could hardly help rejoicing with him. Indeed, he was very proud of his nephew, and even inclined to give Robert a little cautious kindness. The winter of 1851 was a very prosperous one, but the spring brought an unlooked-for change.
One evening David came home to dinner in a mood which Jenny characterized as "thrawart." He barely answered her greeting, and shut his room-door with a bang. He did not want any dinner, and he wanted to be let alone. John looked troubled at this behavior. Jenny said, "It is some lass in the matter; naething else could mak a sensible lad like Davie act sae child-like and silly." And Jennie was right. Towards nine o'clock David came to the parlor and sat down beside his uncle. He said he had been "greatly annoyed."
"Annoyances are as certain as the multiplication table," John remarked quietly, "and ye ought to expect them—all the mair after a long run o' prosperity."
"But no man likes to be refused by the girl he loves."
"Eh? Refused, say ye? Wha has refused you?"
"Isabel Strang. I have loved her, as you and Jenny know, since we went to school together, and I was sure that she loved me. Two days ago I had some business with Deacon Strang, and when it was finished I spoke to him anent Isabel. He made me no answer then, one way or the other, but told me he would have a talk with Isabel, and I might call on him this afternoon. When I did so he said he felt obligated to refuse my offer."
"Weel?"
"That is all."
"Nonsense! Hae you seen Isabel hersel'?"
"She went to Edinburgh last night."
"And if you were your uncle, lad, you would hae been in Edinburgh too by this time. Your uncle would not stay refused twenty-four hours, if he thought the lass loved him. Tut, tut, you ought to hae left at once; that would hae been mair like a Callendar than ganging to your ain room to sit out a scorning. There is a train at ten o'clock to-night; you hae time to catch it if ye dinna lose a minute, and if you come back wi' Mrs. David Callendar, I'll gie her a warm welcome for your sake."
The old man's face was aglow, and in his excitement he had risen to his feet with the very air of one whom no circumstances could depress or embarrass. David caught his mood and his suggestion, and in five minutes he was on his way to the railway diptt. The thing was done so quickly that reflection had formed no part of it. But when Jenny heard the front-door clash impatiently after David, she surmised some imprudence, and hastened to see what was the matter. John told her the "affront" David had received, and looked eagerly into the strong, kindly face for an assurance that he had acted with becoming promptitude and sympathy. Jenny shook her head gravely, and regarded the deacon with a look of pitying disapproval. "To think," she said, "of twa men trying to sort a love affair, when there was a woman within call to seek counsel o'."
"But we couldna hae done better, Jenny."
"Ye couldna hae done warse, deacon. Once the lad asked ye for money, and ye wouldna trust him wi' it; and now ye are in sic a hurry to send him after a wife that he maun neither eat nor sleep. Ye ken which is the maist dangerous. And you, wi' a' your years, to play into auld Strang's hand sae glibly! Deacon, ye hae made a nice mess o' it. Dinna ye see that Strang knew you twa fiery Hielandmen would never tak 'No,' and he sent Isabel awa on purpose for our Davie to run after her. He kens weel they will be sure to marry, but he'll say now that his daughter disobeyed him; sae he'll get off giving her a bawbee o' her fortune, and he'll save a' the plenishing and the wedding expenses. Deacon, I'm ashamed o' you. Sending a love-sick lad on sic a fool's errand. And mair, I'm not going to hae Isabel Strang, or Isabel Callendar here. A young woman wi' bridish ways dawdling about the house, I canna, and I willna stand. You'll hae to choose atween Deacon Strang's daughter and your auld cousin, Jenny Callendar."
John had no answer ready, and indeed Jenny gave him no time to make one: she went off with a sob in her voice, and left the impulsive old matchmaker very unhappy indeed. For he had an unmitigated sense of having acted most imprudently, and moreover, a shrewd suspicion that Jenny's analysis of Deacon Strang's tactics was a correct one. For the first time in many a year, a great tide of hot, passionate anger swept away every other feeling. He longed to meet Strang face to face, and with an hereditary and quite involuntary instinct he put his hand to the place where his forefathers had always carried their dirks. The action terrified and partly calmed him. "My God!" he exclaimed, "forgive thy servant. I hae been guilty in my heart o' murder."
He was very penitent, but still, as he mused the fire burned; and he gave vent to his feelings in odd, disjointed sentences thrown up from the very bottom of his heart, as lava is thrown up by the irrepressible eruption: "Wha shall deliver a man from his ancestors? Black Evan Callendar was never much nearer murder than I hae been this night, only for the grace of God, which put the temptation and the opportunity sae far apart. I'll hae Strang under my thumb yet. God forgie me! what hae I got to do wi' sorting my ain wrongs? What for couldna Davie like some other lass? It's as easy to graft on a good stock as an ill one. I doobt I hae done wrong. I am in a sair swither. The righteous dinna always see the right way. I maun e'en to my Psalms again. It is a wonderfu' comfort that King David was just a weak, sinfu' mortal like mysel'." So he went again to those pathetic, self-accusing laments of the royal singer, and found in them, as he always had done, words for all the great depths of his sin and fear, his hopes and his faith.
In the morning one thing was clear to him; David must have his own house now—David must leave him. He could not help but acknowledge that he helped on this consummation, and it was with something of the feeling of a man doing a just penance that he went to look at a furnished house, whose owner was going to the south of France with a sick daughter. The place was pretty, and handsomely furnished, and John paid down the year's rent. So when David returned with his young bride, he assumed at once the dignity and the cares of a householder.
Jenny was much offended at the marriage of David. She had looked forward to this event as desirable and probable, but she supposed it would have come with solemn religious rites and domestic feasting, and with a great gathering in Blytheswood Square of all the Callendar clan. That it had been "a wedding in a corner," as she contemptuously called it, was a great disappointment to her. But, woman-like, she visited it on her own sex. It was all Isabel's fault, and from the very first day of the return of the new couple she assumed an air of commiseration for the young husband, and always spoke of him as "poor Davie."
This annoyed John, and after his visits to David's house he was perhaps unnecessarily eloquent concerning the happiness of the young people. Jenny received all such information with a dissenting silence. She always spoke of Isabel as "Mistress David," and when John reminded her that David's wife was "Mistress Callendar," she said, "It was weel kent that there were plenty o' folk called Callendar that werna Callendars for a' that." And it soon became evident to her womanly keen-sightedness that John did not always return from his visits to David and Isabel in the most happy of humors. He was frequently too silent and thoughtful for a perfectly satisfied man; but whatever his fears were, he kept them in his own bosom. They were evidently as yet so light that hope frequently banished them altogether; and when at length David had a son and called it after his uncle, the old man enjoyed a real springtime of renewed youth and pleasure. Jenny was partly reconciled also, for the happy parents treated her with special attention, and she began to feel that perhaps David's marriage might turn out better than she had looked for.
Two years after this event Deacon Strang became reconciled to his daughter, and as a proof of it gave her a large mansion situated in the rapidly-growing "West End." It had come into his possession at a bargain in some of the mysterious ways of his trade; but it was, by the very reason of its great size, quite unsuitable for a young manufacturer like David. Indeed, it proved to be a most unfortunate gift in many ways.
"It will cost #5,000 to furnish it," said John fretfully, "and that Davie can ill afford—few men could; but Isabel has set her heart on it."
"And she'll hae her will, deacon. Ye could put #5,000 in the business though, or ye could furnish for them."
"My way o' furnishing wouldna suit them; and as for putting back money that David is set on wasting, I'll no do it. It is a poor well, Jenny, into which you must put water. If David's business wont stand his drafts on it, the sooner he finds it out the better."
So the fine house was finely furnished; but that was only the beginning of expenses. Isabel now wanted dress to suit her new surroundings, and servants to keep the numerous rooms clean. Then she wanted all her friends and acquaintances to see her splendid belongings, so that erelong David found his home turned into a fashionable gathering-place. Lunches, dinners, and balls followed each other quickly, and the result of all this visiting was that Isabel had long lists of calls to make every day, and that she finally persuaded David that it would be cheaper to buy their own carriage than to pay so much hire to livery-stables.
These changes did not take place all at once, nor without much disputing. John Callendar opposed every one of them step by step till opposition was useless. David only submitted to them in order to purchase for himself a delusive peace during the few hours he could afford to be in his fine home; for his increased expenditure was not a thing he could bear lightly. Every extra hundred pounds involved extra planning and work and risks. He gradually lost all the cheerful buoyancy of manner and the brightness of countenance that had been always part and parcel of David Callendar. A look of care and weariness was on his face, and his habits and hours lost all their former regularity. It had once been possible to tell the time of day by the return home of the two Callendars. Now no one could have done that with David. He stayed out late at night; he stayed out all night long. He told Isabel the mill needed him, and she either believed him or pretended to do so.
So that after the first winter of her fashionable existence she generally "entertained" alone. "Mr. Callendar had gone to Stirling, or up to the Highlands to buy wool," or, "he was so busy money-making she could not get him to recognize the claims of society." And society cared not a pin's point whether he presided or not at the expensive entertainments given in his name.
CHAPTER IV.
But things did not come to this pass all at once; few men take the steps towards ruin so rapidly as to be themselves alarmed by it. It was nearly seven years after his marriage when the fact that he was in dangerously embarrassed circumstances forced itself suddenly on David's mind. I say "suddenly" here, because the consummation of evil that has been long preparing comes at last in a moment; a string holding a picture gets weaker and weaker through weeks of tension, and then breaks. A calamity through nights and days moves slowly towards us step by step, and then some hour it has come. So it was with David's business. It had often lately been in tight places, but something had always happened to relieve him. One day, however, there was absolutely no relief but in borrowing money, and David went to his uncle again.
It was a painful thing for him to do; not that they had any quarrel, though sometimes David thought a quarrel would be better than the scant and almost sad intercourse their once tender love had fallen into. By some strange mental sympathy, hardly sufficiently recognized by us, John was thinking of his nephew when he entered. He greeted him kindly, and pulled a chair close, so that David might sit beside him. He listened sympathizingly to his cares, and looked mournfully into the unhappy face so dear to him; then he took his bank-book and wrote out a check for double the amount asked.
The young man was astonished; the tears sprang to his eyes, and he said, "Uncle, this is very good of you. I wish I could tell you how grateful I am."
"Davie, sit a moment, you dear lad. I hae a word to say to ye. I hear tell that my lad is drinking far mair than is good either for himsel' or his business. My lad, I care little for the business; let it go, if its anxieties are driving thee to whiskey. David, remember what thou accused me of, yonder night, when this weary mill was first spoken of; and then think how I suffer every time I hear tell o' thee being the warse o' liquor. And Jenny is greeting her heart out about thee. And there is thy sick wife, and three bonnie bit bairns."
"Did Isabel tell you this?"
"How can she help complaining? She is vera ill, and she sees little o' thee, David, she says."
"Yes, she is ill. She took cold at Provost Allison's ball, and she has dwined away ever since. That is true. And the house is neglected and the servants do their own will both with it and the poor children. I have been very wretched, Uncle John, lately, and I am afraid I have drunk more than I ought to have done. Robert and I do not hit together as we used to; he is always fault-finding, and ever since that visit from his cousin who is settled in America he has been dissatisfied and heartless. His cousin has made himself a rich man in ten years there; and Robert says we shall ne'er make money here till we are too old to enjoy it."
"I heard tell, too, that Robert has been speculating in railway stock. Such reports, true or false, hurt you, David. Prudent men dinna like to trust speculators."
"I think the report is true; but then it is out of his private savings he speculates."
"Davie, gie me your word that you wont touch a drop o' whiskey for a week—just for a week."
"I cannot do it, uncle. I should be sure to break it. I don't want to tell you a lie."
"O Davie, Davie! Will you try, then?"
"I'll try, uncle. Ask Jenny to go and see the children."
"'Deed she shall go; she'll be fain to do it. Let them come and stay wi' me till their mother is mair able to look after them."
Jenny heard the story that night with a dour face. She could have said some very bitter things about Deacon Strang's daughter, but in consideration of her sickness she forbore. The next morning she went to David's house and had a talk with Isabel. The poor woman was so ill that Jenny had no heart to scold her; she only gave the house "a good sorting," did what she could for Isabel's comfort, and took back with her the children and their nurse. It was at her suggestion John saw David the next day, and offered to send Isabel to the mild climate of Devonshire. "She'll die if she stays in Glasgo' through the winter," he urged, and David consented. Then, as David could not leave his business, John himself took the poor woman to Torbay, and no one but she and God ever knew how tenderly he cared for her, and how solemnly he tried to prepare her for the great change he saw approaching. She had not thought of death before, but when they parted he knew she had understood him, for weeping bitterly, she said, "You will take care of the children, Uncle John? I fear I shall see them no more."
"I will, Isabel. While I live I will."
"And, O uncle, poor David! I have not been a good wife to him. Whatever happens, think of that and judge him mercifully. It is my fault, uncle, my fault, my fault! God forgive me!"
"Nae, nae, lassie; I am far from innocent mysel';" and with these mournful accusations they parted for ever.
For Isabel's sickness suddenly assumed an alarming character, and her dissolution was so rapid that John had scarcely got back to Glasgow ere David was sent for to see his wife die. He came back a bereaved and very wretched man; the great house was dismantled and sold, and he went home once more to Blytheswood Square.
But he could not go back to his old innocent life and self; and the change only revealed to John how terribly far astray his nephew had gone. And even Isabel's death had no reforming influence on him; it only roused regrets and self-reproaches, which made liquor all the more necessary to him. Then the breaking up of the house entailed much bargain-making, all of which was unfortunately cemented with glasses of whiskey toddy. Still his uncle had some new element of hope on which to work. David's home was now near enough to his place of business to afford no excuse for remaining away all night. The children were not to be hid away in some upper room; John was determined they should be at the table and on the hearthstone; and surely their father would respect their innocence and keep himself sober for their sakes.
"It is the highest earthly motive I can gie him," argued the anxious old man, "and he has aye had grace enough to keep out o' my sight when he wasna himsel'; he'll ne'er let wee John and Flora and Davie see him when the whiskey is aboon the will and the wit—that's no to be believed."
And for a time it seemed as if John's tactics would prevail. There were many evenings when they were very happy. The children made so gay the quiet old parlor, and David learning to know his own boys and girl, was astonished at their childish beauty and intelligence. Often John could not bear to break up the pleasant evening time, and David and he would sit softly talking in the firelight, with little John musing quietly between them, and Flora asleep on her uncle's lap. Then Jenny would come gently in and out and say tenderly, "Hadna the bairns better come awa to their beds?" and the old man would answer, "Bide a bit, Jenny, woman," for he thought every such hour was building up a counter influence against the snare of strong drink.
But there is no voice in human nature that can say authoritatively, "Return!" David felt all the sweet influences with which he was surrounded, but, it must be admitted, they were sometimes an irritation to him. His business troubles, and his disagreements with his partner, were increasing rapidly; for Robert—whose hopes were set on America—was urging him to close the mill before their liabilities were any larger. He refused to believe longer in the future making good what they had lost; and certainly it was uphill work for David to struggle against accumulating bills, and a partner whose heart was not with him.
One night at the close of the year, David did not come home to dinner, and John and the children ate it alone. He was very anxious, and he had not much heart to talk; but he kept the two eldest with him until little Flora's head dropped, heavy with sleep, on his breast. Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he sent them, almost hurriedly, away. He had scarcely done so when there was a shuffling noise in the hall, the parlor-door was flung open with a jar, and David staggered towards him—drunk!
In a moment, John's natural temper conquered him; he jumped to his feet, and said passionately, "How daur ye, sir? Get out o' my house, you sinfu' lad!" Then, with a great cry he smote his hands together and bowed his head upon them, weeping slow, heavy drops, that came each with a separate pang. His agony touched David, though he scarcely comprehended it. Not all at once is the tender conscience seared, and the tender heart hardened.
"Uncle," he said in a maudlin, hesitating way, which it would be a sin to imitate—"Uncle John, I'm not drunk, I'm in trouble; I'm in trouble, Uncle John. Don't cry about me. I'm not worth it."
Then he sank down upon the sofa, and, after a few more incoherent apologies, dropped into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER V.
John sat and looked at his fallen idol with a vacant, tear-stained face. He tried to pray a few words at intervals, but he was not yet able to gird up his soul and wrestle with this grief. When Jenny came in she was shocked at the gray, wretched look with which her master pointed to the shameful figure on the sofa. Nevertheless, she went gently to it, raised the fallen head to the pillow, and then went and got a blanket to cover the sleeper, muttering,
"Poor fellow! There's nae need to let him get a pleurisy, ony gate. Whatna for did ye no tell me, deacon? Then I could hae made him a cup o' warm tea."
She spoke as if she was angry, not at David, but at John; and, though it was only the natural instinct of a woman defending what she dearly loved, John gave it a different meaning, and it added to his suffering.
"You are right, Jenny, woman," he said humbly, "it is my fault. I mixed his first glass for him."
"Vera weel. Somebody aye mixes the first glass. Somebody mixed your first glass. That is a bygane, and there is nae use at a' speiring after it. How is the lad to be saved? That is the question now."
"O Jenny, then you dare to hope for his salvation?"
"I would think it far mair sinfu' to despair o' it. The Father has twa kinds o' sons, deacon. Ye are ane like the elder brother; ye hae 'served him many years and transgressed not at any time his commandment;' but this dear lad is his younger son—still his son, mind ye—and he'll win hame again to his Father's house. What for not? He's the bairn o' many prayers. Gae awa to your ain room, deacon; I'll keep the watch wi' him. He'd rather see me nor you when he comes to himsel'."
Alas! the watch begun that night was one Jenny had very often to keep afterwards. David's troubles gathered closer and closer round him, and the more trouble he had the deeper he drank. Within a month after that first shameful homecoming the firm of Callendar & Leslie went into sequestration. John felt the humiliation of this downcome in a far keener way than David did. His own business record was a stainless one; his word was as good as gold on Glasgow Exchange; the house of John Callendar & Co. was synonymous with commercial integrity. The prudent burghers who were his nephew's creditors were far from satisfied with the risks David and Robert Leslie had taken, and they did not scruple to call them by words which hurt John Callendar's honor like a sword-thrust. He did not doubt that many blamed him for not interfering in his nephew's extravagant business methods; and he could not explain to these people how peculiarly he was situated with regard to David's affairs; nor, indeed, would many of them have understood the fine delicacy which had dictated John's course.
It was a wretched summer every way. The accountant who had charge of David's affairs was in no hurry to close up a profitable engagement, and the creditors, having once accepted the probable loss, did not think it worth while to deny themselves their seaside or Highland trips to attend meetings relating to Callendar & Leslie. So there was little progress made in the settlement of affairs all summer, and David was literally out of employment. His uncle's and his children's presence was a reproach to him, and Robert and he only irritated each other with mutual reproaches. Before autumn brought back manufacturers and merchants to their factories and offices David had sunk still lower. He did not come home any more when he felt that he had drunk too much. He had found out houses where such a condition was the natural and the most acceptable one—houses whose doors are near to the gates of hell.
This knowledge shocked John inexpressibly, and in the depth of his horror and grief he craved some human sympathy.
"I must go and see Dr. Morrison," he said one night to Jenny.
"And you'll do right, deacon; the grip o' his hand and the shining o' his eyes in yours will do you good; forbye, you ken weel you arena fit to guide yoursel', let alane Davie. You are too angry, and angry men tell many a lie to themsel's."
There is often something luminous in the face of a good man, and Dr. Morrison had this peculiarity in a remarkable degree. His face seemed to radiate light; moreover, he was a man anointed with the oil of gladness above his fellows, and John no sooner felt the glow of that radiant countenance on him than his heart leaped up to welcome it.
"Doctor," he said, choking back his sorrow, "doctor, I'm fain to see you."
"John, sit down. What is it, John?"
"It's David, minister."
And then John slowly, and weighing every word so as to be sure he neither over-stated nor under-stated the case, opened up his whole heart's sorrow.
"I hae suffered deeply, minister; I didna think life could be such a tragedy."
"A tragedy indeed, John, but a tragedy with an angel audience. Think of that. Paul says 'we are a spectacle unto men and angels.' Mind how you play your part. What is David doing now?"
"Nothing. His affairs are still unsettled."
"But that wont do, John. Men learn to do ill by doing what is next to it—nothing. Without some duty life cannot hold itself erect. If a man has no regular calling he is an unhappy man and a cross man, and I think prayers should be offered up for his wife and children and a' who have to live with him. Take David into your own employ at once."
"O minister, that I canna do! My office has aye had God-fearing, steady men in it, and I canna, and—"
"'And that day Jesus was guest in the house of a man that was a sinner.' John, can't you take a sinner as a servant into your office?"
"I'll try it, minister."
"And, John, it will be a hard thing to do, but you must watch David constantly. You must follow him to his drinking-haunts and take him home; if need be, you must follow him to warse places and take him home. You must watch him as if all depended on your vigilance, and you must pray for him as if nothing depended on it. You hae to conquer on your knees before you go into the world to fight your battle, John. But think, man, what a warfare is set before you—the saving of an immortal soul! And I'm your friend and helper in the matter; the lad is one o' my stray lambs; he belongs to my fold. Go your ways in God's strength, John, for this grief o' yours shall be crowned with consolation."
It is impossible to say how this conference strengthened John Callendar. Naturally a very choleric man, he controlled himself into a great patience with his erring nephew. He watched for him like a father; nay, more like a mother's was the thoughtful tenderness of his care. And David was often so touched by the love and forbearance shown him, that he made passionate acknowledgments of his sin and earnest efforts to conquer it. Sometimes for a week together he abstained entirely, though during these intervals of reason he was very trying. His remorse, his shame, his physical suffering, were so great that he needed the most patient tenderness; and yet he frequently resented this tenderness in a moody, sullen way that was a shocking contrast to his once bright and affectionate manner.
So things went on until the close of the year. By that time the affairs of the broken firm had been thoroughly investigated, and it was found that its liabilities were nearly #20,000 above its assets. Suddenly, however, bundle wools took an enormous rise, and as the stock of "Callendar & Leslie" was mainly of this kind, they were pushed on the market, and sold at a rate which reduced the firm's debts to about #17,000. This piece of good fortune only irritated David; he was sure now that if Robert had continued the fight they would have been in a position to clear themselves. Still, whatever credit was due the transaction was frankly given to David. It was his commercial instinct that had divined the opportunity and seized it, and a short item in the "Glasgow Herald" spoke in a cautiously flattering way of the affair.
Both John and David were greatly pleased at the circumstance. David also had been perfectly sober during the few days he had this stroke of business in hand, and the public acknowledgment of his service to the firm's creditors was particularly flattering to him. He came down to breakfast that morning as he had not come for months. It was a glimpse of the old Davie back again, and John was as happy as a child in the vision. Into his heart came at once Dr. Morrison's assertion that David must have some regular duty to keep his life erect. It was evident that the obligation of a trust had a controlling influence over him.
"David," he said cheerfully, "you must hae nearly done wi' that first venture o' yours. The next will hae to redeem it; that is all about it. Everything is possible to a man under forty years auld."
"We have our final meeting this afternoon, uncle. I shall lock the doors for ever to-night."
"And your debts are na as much as you expected."
"They will not be over #17,000, and they may be considerably less. I hope to make another sale this morning. There are yet three thousand bundles in the stock."
"David, I shall put #20,000 in your ain name and for your ain use, whatever that use may be, in the Western Bank this morning. I think you'll do the best thing you can do to set your name clear again. If you are my boy you will."
"Uncle John, you cannot really mean that I may pay every shilling I owe, and go back on the Exchange with a white name? O uncle, if you should mean this, what a man you would make of me!"
"It is just what I mean to do, Davie. Is na all that I have yours and your children's? But oh, I thank God that you hae still a heart that counts honor more than gold. David, after this I wont let go one o' the hopes I have ever had for you."
"You need not, uncle. Please God, and with his help, I will make every one of them good."
And he meant to do it. He never had felt more certain of himself or more hopeful for the future than when he went out that morning. He touched nothing all day, and as the short, dark afternoon closed in, he went cheerfully towards the mill, with his new check-book in his pocket and the assurance in his heart that in a few hours he could stand up among his fellow-citizens free from the stain of debt.
His short speech at the final meeting was so frank and manly, and so just and honorable to his uncle, that it roused a quiet but deep enthusiasm. Many of the older men had to wipe the mist from their glasses, and the heaviest creditor stood up and took David's hand, saying, "Gentlemen, I hae made money, and I hae saved money, and I hae had money left me; but I never made, nor saved, nor got money that gave me such honest pleasure as this siller I hae found in twa honest men's hearts. Let's hae in the toddy and drink to the twa Callendars."
Alas! alas! how often is it our friends from whom we ought to pray to be preserved. The man meant kindly; he was a good man, he was a God-fearing man, and even while he was setting temptation before his poor, weak brother, he was thinking "that money so clean and fair and unexpected should be given to some holy purpose." But the best of us are the slaves of habit and chronic thoughtlessness. All his life he had signalled every happy event by a libation of toddy; everybody else did the same; and although he knew David's weakness, he did not think of it in connection with that wisest of all prayers, "Lead us not into temptation."