Scottish sketches by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr

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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 L5,000 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 L5,000 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 L20,000 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 L17,000. 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 L17,000, 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 L20,000 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."

CHAPTER VI.

David ought to have left then, but he did not; and when his uncle's
health was given, and the glass of steaming whiskey stood before him,
he raised it to his lips and drank. It was easy to drink the second
glass and the third, and so on. The men fell into reminiscence and
song, and no one knew how many glasses were mixed; and even when they
stood at the door they turned back for "a thimbleful o' raw speerit to
keep out the cold," for it had begun to snow, and there was a chill,
wet, east wind.

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