Forty years ago there stood in the lower part of the city of Glasgow a

large, plain building which was to hundreds of very intelligent

Scotchmen almost sacred ground. It stood among warehouses and

factories, and in a very unfashionable quarter; but for all that, it

was Dr. William Morrison's kirk. And Dr. Morrison was in every respect

a remarkable man--a Scotchman with the old Hebrew fervor and

sublimity, who accepted the extremest tenets of his creed with a deep

religious faith, and scorned to trim or moderate them in order to suit

what he called "a sinfu' latitudinarian age."

Such a man readily found among the solid burghers of Glasgow a large

"following" of a very serious kind, douce, dour men, whose

strongly-marked features looked as if they had been chiselled out of

their native granite--men who settled themselves with a grave kind of

enjoyment to listen to a full hour's sermon, and who watched every

point their minister made with a critical acumen that seemed more

fitting to a synod of divines than a congregation of weavers and

traders.

A prominent man in this remarkable church was Deacon John Callendar.

He had been one of its first members, and it was everything to his

heart that Jerusalem is to the Jew, or Mecca to the Mohammedan. He

believed his minister to be the best and wisest of men, though he was

by no means inclined to allow himself a lazy confidence in this

security. It was the special duty of deacons to keep a strict watch

over doctrinal points, and though he had never had occasion to dissent

in thirty years' scrutiny, he still kept the watch.

In the temporal affairs of the church it had been different. There was

no definite creed for guidance in these matters, and eight or ten men

with strong, rugged wills about £, _s_., _d_., each thinking highly of

his own discretion in monetary affairs, and rather indifferently of

the minister's gifts in this direction, were not likely to have always

harmonious sessions.

They had had a decidedly inharmonious one early in January of 184-,

and Deacon Callendar had spoken his mind with his usual blunt

directness. He had been a good deal nettled at the minister's

attitude, for, instead of seconding his propositions, Dr. Morrison had

sat with a faraway, indifferent look, as if the pending discussion was

entirely out of his range of interest. John could have borne

contradiction better. An argument would have gratified him. But to

have the speech and statistics which he had so carefully prepared fall

on the minister's ear without provoking any response was a great trial

of his patience. He was inwardly very angry, though outwardly very

calm; but Dr. Morrison knew well what a tumult was beneath the dour

still face of the deacon as he rose from his chair, put on his plaid,

and pulled his bonnet over his brows.

"John," he said kindly, "you are a wise man, and I aye thought so. It

takes a Christian to lead passion by the bridle. A Turk is a placid

gentleman, John, but he cannot do it."

"Ou, ay! doubtless! There is talk o' the Turk and the Pope, but it is

my neighbors that trouble me the maist, minister. Good-night to ye

all. If ye vote to-night you can e'en count my vote wi' Dr.

Morrison's; it will be as sensible and warld-like as any o' the lave."

With this parting reflection he went out. It had begun to snow, and

the still, white solitude made him ashamed of his temper. He looked up

at the quiet heavens above him, then at the quiet street before him,

and muttered with a spice of satisfaction, "Speaking comes by nature,

and silence by understanding. I am thankfu' now I let Deacon Strang

hae the last word. I'm saying naught against Strang; he may gie good

counsel, but they'll be fools that tak it."

"Uncle!"

"Hout, Davie! Whatna for are you here?"

"It began to snow, and I thought you would be the better of your cloak

and umbrella. You seem vexed, uncle."

"Vexed? Ay. The minister is the maist contrary o' mortals. He kens

naething about church government, and he treats gude siller as if it

wasna worth the counting; but he's a gude man, and a great man, Davie,

and folk canna serve the altar and be money-changers too. I ought to

keep that i' mind. It's Deacon Strang, and no the minister."

"Well, uncle, you must just thole it; you know what the New Testament

says?"

"Ay, ay; I ken it says if a man be struck on one cheek, he must turn

the other; but, Davie, let me tell you that the man who gets the first

blow generally deserves the second. It is gude Christian law no to

permit the first stroke. That is my interpretation o' the matter."

"I never thought of that."

"Young folk don't think o' everything."

There was something in the tone of this last remark which seemed to

fit best into silence, and David Callendar had a particular reason for

not further irritating his uncle. The two men without any other remark

reached the large, handsome house in Blytheswood Square which was

their home. Its warmth and comfort had an immediate effect on the

deacon. He looked pleasantly at the blazing fire and the table on the

hearthrug, with its basket of oaten cakes, its pitcher of cream, and

its whiskey-bottle and toddy glasses. The little brass kettle was

simmering before the fire, his slippers were invitingly warm, his

loose coat lying over the back of his soft, ample chair, and just as

he had put them on, and sank down with a sigh of content, a bright old

lady entered with a spicy dish of kippered salmon.

"I thought I wad bring ye a bit relish wi' your toddy, deacon. Talking

is hungry wark. I think a man might find easier pleasuring than going

to a kirk session through a snowstorm."

"A man might, Jenny. They'd suit women-folk wonderfu'; there's plenty

o' talk and little wark."

"Then I dinna see ony call to mak a change, deacon."

"Now, Jenny, you've had the last word, sae ye can go to bed wi' an

easy mind. And, Jenny, woman, dinna let your quarrel wi' Maggie

Launder come between you and honest sleep. I think that will settle

her," he observed with a pawky smile, as his housekeeper shut the door

with unnecessary haste.

Half an hour afterwards, David, mixing another glass of toddy, drew

his chair closer to the fire, and said, "Uncle John, I want to speak

to you."

"Speak on, laddie;" but David noticed that even with the permission,

cautious curves settled round his uncle's eyes, and his face assumed

that business-like immobility which defied his scrutiny.

"I have had a very serious talk with Robert Leslie; he is thinking of

buying Alexander Hastie out."

"Why not think o' buying out Robert Napier, or Gavin Campbell, or

Clydeside Woolen Works? A body might as weel think o' a thousand

spindles as think o' fifty."

"But he means business. An aunt, who has lately died in Galloway, has

left him £2,000."

"That isna capital enough to run Sandy Hastie's mill."

"He wants me to join him."

"And how will that help matters? Twa thousand pounds added to Davie

Callendar will be just £2,000."

"I felt sure you would lend me £2,000; and in that case it would be a

great chance for me. I am very anxious to be--"

"Your ain maister."

"Not that altogether, uncle, although you know well the Callendars

come of a kind that do not like to serve. I want to have a chance to

make money."

"How much of your salary have you saved?"

"I have never tried to save anything yet, uncle, but I am going to

begin."

The old man sat silent for a few moments, and then said, "I wont do

it, Davie."

"It is only £2,000, Uncle John."

"_Only_ £2,000! Hear the lad! Did ye ever mak £2,000? Did ye ever save

£2,000? When ye hae done that ye'll ne'er put in the adverb, Davie.

_Only £2,000, indeed!_"

"I thought you loved me, uncle."

"I love no human creature better than you. Whatna for should I not

love you? You are the only thing left to me o' the bonnie brave

brother who wrapped his colors round him in the Afghan Pass, the

brave-hearted lad who died fighting twenty to one. And you are whiles

sae like him that I'm tempted--na, na, that is a' byganes. I will not

let you hae the £2,000, that is the business in hand."

"What for?"

"If you will hear the truth, that second glass o' whiskey is reason

plenty. I hae taken my ane glass every night for forty years, and I

hae ne'er made the ane twa, except New Year's tide."

"That is fair nonsense, Uncle John. There are plenty of men whom you

trust for more than £2,000 who can take four glasses for their

nightcap always."

"That may be; I'm no denying it; but what is lawfu' in some men is

sinfu' in others."

"I do not see that at all."

"Do you mind last summer, when we were up in Argyleshire, how your

cousin, Roy Callendar, walked, with ne'er the wink o' an eyelash, on a

mantel-shelf hanging over a three-hundred-feet precipice? Roy had the

trained eyesight and the steady nerve which made it lawfu' for him;

for you or me it had been suicide--naething less sinfu'. Three or four

glasses o' whiskey are safer for some men than twa for you. I hae been

feeling it my duty to tell you this for some time. Never look sae

glum, Davie, or I'll be thinking it is my siller and no mysel' you

were caring for the night when ye thought o' my cloak and umbrella."

The young man rose in a perfect blaze of passion.

"Sit down, sit down," said his uncle. "One would think you were your

grandfather, Evan Callendar, and that some English red-coat had trod

on your tartan. Hout! What's the use o' a temper like that to folk wha

hae taken to the spindle instead o' the claymore?"

"I am a Callendar for all that."

"Sae am I, sae am I, and vera proud o' it fore-bye. We are a' kin,

Davie; blood is thicker than water, and we wont quarrel."

David put down his unfinished glass of toddy. He could not trust

himself to discuss the matter any farther, but as he left the room he

paused, with the open door in his hand, and said,

"If you are afraid I am going to be a drunkard, why did you not care

for the fear before it became a question of £2,000? And if I ever do

become one, remember this, Uncle John--you mixed my first glass for

me!"

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 dépôt. 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."

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.

Then they went; and when their forms were lost in the misty gloom, and

even their voices had died away, David turned back to put out the

lights, and lock the mill-door for the last time. Suddenly it struck

him that he had not seen Robert Leslie for an hour at least, and while

he was wondering about it in a vague, drunken way, Robert came out of

an inner room, white with scornful anger, and in a most quarrelsome

mood.

"You have made a nice fool of yoursel', David Callendar! Flinging awa

so much gude gold for a speech and a glass o' whiskey! Ugh!"

"You may think so, Robert. The Leslies have always been 'rievers and

thievers;' but the Callendars are of another stock."

"The Callendars are like ither folk--good and bad, and mostly bad.

Money, not honor, rules the warld in these days; and when folk have

turned spinners, what is the use o' talking about honor! Profit is a

word more fitting."

"I count mysel' no less a Callendar than my great-grandfather, Evan

Callendar, who led the last hopeless charge on Culloden. If I am a

spinner, I'll never be the first to smirch the roll o' my house with

debt and dishonesty, if I can help it."

"Fair nonsense! The height of nonsense! Your ancestors indeed! Mules

make a great to-do about their ancestors having been horses!"

David retorted with hot sarcasm on the freebooting Leslies, and their

kin the Armstrongs and Kennedys; and to Scotchmen this is the very

sorest side of a quarrel. They can forgive a bitter word against

themselves perhaps, but against their clan, or their dead, it is an

unpardonable offence. And certainly Robert had an unfair advantage; he

was in a cool, wicked temper of envy and covetousness. He could have

struck himself for not having foreseen that old John Callendar would

be sure to clear the name of dishonor, and thus let David and his

£20,000 slip out of his control.

David had drunk enough to excite all the hereditary fight in his

nature, and not enough to dull the anger and remorse he felt for

having drunk anything at all. The dreary, damp atmosphere and the

cold, sloppy turf of Glasgow Green might have brought them back to the

ordinary cares and troubles of every-day life, but it did not. This

grim oasis in the very centre of the hardest and bitterest existences

was now deserted. The dull, heavy swash of the dirty Clyde and the

distant hum of the sorrowful voices of humanity in the adjacent

streets hardly touched the sharp, cutting accents of the two

quarrelling men. No human ears heard them, and no human eyes saw the

uplifted hands and the sway and fall of Robert Leslie upon the smutty

and half melted snow, except David's.

Yes; David saw him fall, and heard with a strange terror the peculiar

thud and the long moan that followed it. It sobered him at once and

completely. The shock was frightful. He stood for a moment looking at

the upturned face, and then with a fearful horror he stooped and

touched it. There was no response to either entreaties or movement,

and David was sure after five minutes' efforts there never would be.

Then his children, his uncle, his own life, pressed upon him like a

surging crowd. His rapid mind took in the situation at once. There was

no proof. Nobody had seen them leave together. Robert had certainly

left the company an hour before it scattered; none of them could know

that he was waiting in that inner room. With a rapid step he took his

way through Kent street into a region where he was quite unknown, and

by a circuitous route reached the foot of Great George street.

He arrived at home about eight o'clock. John had had his dinner, and

the younger children had gone to bed. Little John sat opposite him on

the hearthrug, but the old man and the child were both lost in

thought. David's face at once terrified his uncle.

"Johnnie," he said, with a weary pathos in his voice, "your father

wants to see me alane. You had best say 'Gude-night,' my wee man."

The child kissed his uncle, and after a glance into his father's face

went quietly out. His little heart had divined that he "must not

disturb papa." David's eyes followed him with an almost overmastering

grief and love, but when John said sternly, "Now, David Callendar,

what is it this time?" he answered with a sullen despair,

"It is the last trouble I can bring you. I have killed Robert Leslie!"

The old man uttered a cry of horror, and stood looking at his nephew

as if he doubted his sanity.

"I am not going to excuse mysel', sir. Robert said some aggravating

things, and he struck me first; but that is neither here nor there. I

struck him and he fell. I think he hit his head in falling; but it was

dark and stormy, I could not see. I don't excuse mysel' at all. I am

as wicked and lost as a man can be. Just help me awa, Uncle John, and

I will trouble you no more for ever."

"Where hae you left Robert?"

"Where he fell, about 300 yards above Rutherglen Bridge."

"You are a maist unmerciful man! I ne'er liked Robert, but had he been

my bitterest enemy I would hae got him help if there was a chance for

life, and if not, I would hae sought a shelter for his corpse."

Then he walked to the parlor door, locked it, and put the key in his

pocket.

"As for helping you awa, sir, I'll ne'er do it, ne'er; you hae sinned,

and you'll pay the penalty, as a man should do."

"Uncle, have mercy on me."

"Justice has a voice as weel as mercy. O waly, waly!" cried the

wretched old man, going back to the pathetic Gælic of his childhood,

"O waly, waly! to think o' the sin and the shame o' it. Plenty o'

Callendars hae died before their time, but it has been wi' their faces

to their foes and their claymores in their hands. O Davie, Davie! my

lad, my lad! My Davie!"

His agony shook him as a great wind shakes the tree-tops, and David

stood watching him in a misery still keener and more hopeless. For a

few moments neither spoke. Then John rose wearily and said,

"I'll go with you, David, to the proper place. Justice must be

done--yes, yes, it is just and right."

Then he lifted up his eyes, and clasping his hands, cried out,

"But, O my heavenly Father, be merciful, be merciful, for love is the

fulfilling of the law. Come, David, we hae delayed o'er long."

"Where are you going, uncle?"

"You ken where weel enough."

"Dear uncle, be merciful. At least let us go see Dr. Morrison first.

Whatever he says I will do."

"I'll do that; I'll be glad to do that; maybe he'll find me a road out

o' this sair, sair strait. God help us all, for vain is the help o'

man."

CHAPTER VII.

When they entered Dr. Morrison's house the doctor entered with them.

He was wet through, and his swarthy face was in a glow of excitement.

A stranger was with him, and this stranger he hastily took into a room

behind the parlor, and then he came back to his visitors.

"Well, John, what is the matter?"

"Murder. Murder is the matter, doctor," and with a strange, quiet

precision he went over David's confession, for David had quite broken

down and was sobbing with all the abandon of a little child. During

the recital the minister's face was wonderful in its changes of

expression, but at the last a kind of adoring hopefulness was the most

decided.

"John," he said, "what were you going to do wi' that sorrowfu' lad?"

"I was going to gie him up to justice, minister, as it was right and

just to do; but first we must see about--about the body."

"That has, without doot, been already cared for. On the warst o'

nights there are plenty o' folk passing o'er Glasgow Green after the

tea-hour. It is David we must care for now. Why should we gie him up

to the law? Not but what 'the law is good, if a man use it lawfully.'

But see how the lad is weeping. Dinna mak yoursel' hard to a broken

heart, deacon. God himsel' has promised to listen to it. You must go

back hame and leave him wi' me. And, John," he said, with an air of

triumph, as they stood at the door together, with the snow blowing in

their uplifted faces, "John, my dear old brother John, go hame and

bless God; for, I tell you, this thing shall turn out to be a great

salvation."

So John went home, praying as he went, and conscious of a strange

hopefulness in the midst of his grief. The minister turned back to the

sobbing criminal, and touching him gently, said,

"Davie, my son, come wi' me."

David rose hopelessly and followed him. They went into the room where

they had seen the minister take the stranger who had entered the house

with them. The stranger was still there, and as they entered he came

gently and on tiptoe to meet them.

"Dr. Fleming," said the minister, "this is David Callendar, your

patient's late partner in business; he wishes to be the poor man's

nurse, and indeed, sir, I ken no one fitter for the duty."

So Dr. Fleming took David's hand, and then in a low voice gave him

directions for the night's watch, though David, in the sudden hope and

relief that had come to him, could scarcely comprehend them. Then the

physician went, and the minister and David sat by the bedside alone.

Robert lay in the very similitude and presence of death, unconscious

both of his sufferings and his friends. Congestion of the brain had

set in, and life was only revealed by the faintest pulsations, and by

the appliances for relief which medical skill thought it worth while

to make.

"'And sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death,'" said the

doctor solemnly. "David, there is your work."

"God knows how patiently and willingly I'll do it, minister. Poor

Robert, I never meant to harm him."

"Now listen to me, and wonder at God's merciful ways. Auld Deacon

Galbraith, who lives just beyond Rutherglen Bridge, sent me word this

afternoon that he had gotten a summons from his Lord, and he would

like to see my face ance mair before he went awa for ever. He has been

my right hand in the kirk, and I loved him weel. Sae I went to bid him

a short Gude-by--for we'll meet again in a few years at the maist--and

I found him sae glad and solemnly happy within sight o' the heavenly

shore, that I tarried wi' him a few hours, and we ate and drank his

last sacrament together. He dropped my hand wi' a smile at half-past

six o'clock, and after comforting his wife and children a bit I turned

my face hameward. But I was in that mood that I didna care to sit i' a

crowded omnibus, and I wanted to be moving wi' my thoughts. The

falling snow and the deserted Green seemed good to me, and I walked on

thinking o'er again the deacon's last utterances, for they were wise

and good even beyond the man's nature. That is how I came across

Robert Leslie. I thought he was dead, but I carried him in my arms to

the House o' the Humane Society, which, you ken, isna one hundred

yards from where Robert fell. The officer there said he wasna dead,

sae I brought him here and went for the physician you spoke to. Now,

Davie, it is needless for me to say mair. You ken what I expect o'

you. You'll get no whiskey in this house, not a drop o' it. If the

sick man needs anything o' that kind, I shall gie it wi' my ain hand;

and you wont leave this house, David, until I see whether Robert is to

live or die. You must gie me your word o' honor for that."

"Minister, pray what is my word worth?"

"Everything it promises, David Callendar. I would trust your word

afore I'd trust a couple o' constables, for a' that's come and gane."

"Thank you, thank you, doctor! You shall not trust, and be deceived. I

solemnly promise you to do my best for Robert, and not to leave your

house until I have your permission."

The next morning Dr. Morrison was at John Callendar's before he sat

down to breakfast. He had the morning paper with him, and he pointed

out a paragraph which ran thus: "Robert Leslie, of the late firm of

Callendar & Leslie, was found by the Rev. Dr. Morrison in an

unconscious condition on the Green last night about seven o'clock. It

is supposed the young gentleman slipped and fell, and in the fall

struck his head, as congestion of the brain has taken place. He lies

at Dr. Morrison's house, and is being carefully nursed by his late

partner, though there is but little hope of his recovery."

"Minister, it wasna you surely wha concocted this lie?"

"Nobody has told a lie, John. Don't be overrighteous, man; there is an

unreasonableness o' virtue that savors o' pride. I really thought

Robert had had an accident, until you told me the truth o' the matter.

The people at the Humane Society did the same; sae did Dr. Fleming. I

suppose some reporter got the information from one o' the latter

sources. But if Robert gets well, we may let it stand; and if he

doesna get well, I shall seek counsel o' God before I take a step

farther. In the meantime David is doing his first duty in nursing him;

and David will stay in my house till I see whether it be a case o'

murder or not."

For three weeks there was but the barest possibility of Robert's

recovery. But his youth and fine constitution, aided by the skill of

his physician and the unremitting care of his nurse, were at length,

through God's mercy, permitted to gain a slight advantage. The

discipline of that three weeks was a salutary though a terrible one to

David. Sometimes it became almost intolerable; but always, when it

reached this point, Dr. Morrison seemed, by some fine spiritual

instinct, to discover the danger and hasten to his assistance. Life

has silences more pathetic than death's; and the stillness of that

darkened room, with its white prostrate figure, was a stillness in

which David heard many voices he never would have heard in the crying

out of the noisy world.

What they said to him about his wasted youth and talents, and about

his neglected Saviour, only his own heart knew. But he must have

suffered very much, for, at the end of a month, he looked like a man

who had himself walked through the valley and shadow of death. About

this time Dr. Morrison began to drop in for an hour or two every

evening; sometimes he took his cup of tea with the young men, and then

he always talked with David on passing events in such a way as to

interest without fatiguing the sick man. His first visit of this kind

was marked by a very affecting scene. He stood a moment looking at

Robert and then taking David's hand, he laid it in Robert's. But the

young men had come to a perfect reconciliation one midnight when the

first gleam of consciousness visited the sick man, and Dr. Morrison

was delighted to see them grasp each other with a smile, while David

stooped and lovingly touched his friend's brow.

"Doctor, it was my fault," whispered Robert. "If I die, remember that.

I did my best to anger Davie, and I struck him first. I deserved all I

have had to suffer."

After this, however, Robert recovered rapidly, and in two months he

was quite well.

"David," said the minister to him one morning, "your trial is nearly

over. I have a message from Captain Laird to Robert Leslie. Laird

sails to-night; his ship has dropped down the river a mile, and Robert

must leave when the tide serves; that will be at five o'clock."

For Robert had shrunk from going again into his Glasgow life, and had

determined to sail with his friend Laird at once for New York. There

was no one he loved more dearly than David and Dr. Morrison, and with

them his converse had been constant and very happy and hopeful. He

wished to leave his old life with this conclusion to it unmingled with

any other memories.

CHAPTER VIII.

So that evening the three men went in a coach to the Broomilaw

together. A boat and two watermen were in waiting at the bridge-stair,

and though the evening was wet and chilly they all embarked. No one

spoke. The black waters washed and heaved beneath them, the myriad

lights shone vaguely through the clammy mist and steady drizzle, and

the roar of the city blended with the stroke of the oars and the

patter of the rain. Only when they lay under the hull of a large ship

was the silence broken. But it was broken by a blessing.

"God bless you, Robert! The Lord Jesus, our Redeemer, make you a gude

man," said Dr. Morrison fervently, and David whispered a few broken

words in his friend's ear. Then Captain Laird's voice was heard, and

in a moment or two more they saw by the light of a lifted lantern

Robert's white face in the middle of a group on deck.

"Farewell!" he shouted feebly, and Dr. Morrison answered it with a

lusty, "God speed you, Robert! God speed the good ship and all on

board of her!"

So they went silently back again, and stepped into the muddy,

dreamlike, misty streets, wet through and quite weary with emotion.

"Now gude-night, David. Your uncle is waiting dinner for you. I hae

learned to love you vera much."

"Is there anything I can do, doctor, to show you how much I love and

respect you?"

"You can be a good man, and you can let me see you every Sabbath in

your place at kirk. Heaven's gate stands wide open on the Sabbath day,

David; sae it is a grand time to offer your petitions."

Yes, the good old uncle was waiting, but with that fine instinct which

is born of a true love he had felt that David would like no fuss made

about his return. He met him as if he had only been a few hours away,

and he had so tutored Jenny that she only betrayed her joy by a look

which David and she understood well.

"The little folks," said John, "have a' gane to their beds; the day

has been that wet and wearisome that they were glad to gae to sleep

and forget a' about it."

David sat down in his old place, and the two men talked of the Russian

war and the probable storming of the Alamo. Then John took his usual

after-dinner nap, and David went up stairs with Jenny and kissed his

children, and said a few words to them and to the old woman, which

made them all very happy.

When he returned to the parlor his uncle was still sleeping, and he

could see how weary and worn he had become.

"So patient, so generous, so honorable, so considerate for my

feelings," said the young man to himself. "I should be an ingrate

indeed if I did not, as soon as he wakes, say what I know he is so

anxious to hear."

With the thought John opened his eyes, and David nodded and smiled

back to him. How alert and gladly he roused himself! How cheerily he

said,

"Why, Davie, I hae been sleeping, I doot. Hech, but it is gude to see

you, lad."

"Please God, uncle, it shall always be gude to see me. Can you give me

some advice to-night?" "I'll be mair than glad to do it."

"Tell me frankly, Uncle John, what you think I ought to do. I saw

Robert off to America to-night. Shall I follow him?"

"Davie, mind what I say. In the vera place where a man loses what he

values, there he should look to find it again. You hae lost your good

name in Glasgow; stay in Glasgow and find it again."

"I will stay here then. What shall I do?"

"You'll go back to your old place, and to your old business."

"But I heard that Deacon Strang had bought the looms and the lease."

"He bought them for me, for us, I mean. I will tell you how that came

about. One day when I was cross, and sair put out wi' your affairs,

Davie, Dr. Morrison came into my office. I'm feared I wasna glad to

see him; and though I was ceevil enough, the wise man read me like a

book. 'John,' says he, 'I am not come to ask you for siller to-day,

nor am I come to reprove you for staying awa from the service o' God

twice lately. I am come to tell you that you will hae the grandest

opportunity to-day, to be, not only a man, but a Christ-man. If you

let the opportunity slip by you, I shall feel sairly troubled about

it.'

"Then he was gone before I could say, 'What is it?' and I wondered and

wondered all day what he could hae meant. But just before I was ready

to say, 'Mr. MacFarlane, lock the safe,' in walks Deacon Strang. He

looked vera downcast and shamefaced, and says he, 'Callendar, you can

tak your revenge on me to-morrow, for a' I hae said and done against

you for thirty years. You hold twa notes o' mine, and I canna meet

them. You'll hae to protest and post them to-morrow, and that will

ruin me and break my heart.'

"David, I had to walk to the window and hide my face till I could

master mysel', I was that astonished. Then I called out, 'Mr.

MacFarlane, you hae two notes o' Deacon Strang's, bring them to me.'

When he did sae, I said, 'Well, deacon, we a' o' us hae our ain

fashes. How long time do you want, and we'll renew these bits o'

paper?'

"And the thing was done, Davie, and done that pleasantly that it made

me feel twenty years younger. We shook hands when we parted, and as we

did sae, the deacon said, 'Is there aught I can do to pleasure you or

David?' and a' at once it struck me about the sales o' the looms and

lease. Sae I said, 'Yes, deacon, there is something you can do, and

I'll be vera much obligated to you for the same. Davie is sae tied

down wi' Robert's illness, will you go to the sale o' Callendar &

Leslie's looms and lease, and buy them for me? You'll get them on

better terms than I will.' And he did get them on excellent terms,

Davie; sae your mill is just as you left it--for Bailie Nicol, wha

took it at the accountant's valuation, never opened it at all. And you

hae twenty months' rent paid in advance, and you hae something in the

bank I expect."

"I have £3,600, uncle."

"Now, I'll be your partner this time. I'll put in the business £4,000,

but I'll hae it run on a solid foundation, however small that

foundation may be. I'll hae no risks taken that are dishonest risks;

I'll hae a broad mark made between enterprise and speculation; and

above a', I'll hae the right to examine the books, and see how things

are going on, whenever I wish to do sae. We will start no more looms

than our capital will work, and we'll ask credit from no one."

"Uncle John, there is not another man in the world so generous and

unselfish as you are."

"There are plenty as good men in every congregation o' the Lord; if

there wasna they would scatter in no time. Then you are willing, are

you? Gie me your hand, Davie. I shall look to you to do your best for

baith o' us."

"I have not drunk a drop for two months, uncle. I never intend to

drink again."

"I hae given it up mysel'," said the old man, with an affected

indifference that was pathetic in its self-abnegation. "I thought twa

going a warfare together might do better than ane alone. Ye ken Christ

sent out the disciples by twa and twa. And, Davie, when you are hard

beset, just utter the name of Christ down in your heart, and see how

much harder it is to sin."

CHAPTER IX.

The arrangement had been a very pleasant one, every way, but somehow

John did not feel as if David had as much outside help as he needed.

The young man was not imaginative; an ideal, however high, was a far

less real thing to David than to old John. He pondered during many

sleepless hours the advisability of having David sign the pledge.

David had always refused to do it hitherto. He had a keen sense of

shame in breaking a verbal promise on this subject; but he had an

almost superstitious feeling regarding the obligation of anything he

put his name to; and this very feeling made John hesitate to press the

matter. For, he argued, and not unwisely, "if David should break this

written obligation, his condition would seem to himself irremediable,

and he would become quite reckless."

In the morning this anxiety was solved. When John came down to

breakfast, he found David walking about the room with a newspaper in

his hand, and in a fever heat of martial enthusiasm. "Uncle," he

cried, "O Uncle John, such glorious news! The Alamo is taken. Colin

Campbell and his Highlanders were first at the ramparts, and Roy and

Hector Callendar were with them. Listen?" and he threw the passion and

fervor of all his military instincts into the glowing words which

told, how in a storm of fire and shot, Sir Colin and his Highland

regiment had pushed up the hill; and how when the Life Guards were

struggling to reach their side, the brave old commander turned round

and shouted, "We'll hae nane but Hieland bonnets here!" "O Uncle John,

what would I not have given to have marched with Roy and Hector behind

him? With such a leader I would not turn my back on any foe."

"David, you have a far harder fight before you, and a far grander

Captain."

"Uncle, uncle, if I could see my foe; if I could meet him face to face

in a real fight; but he steals into my heart, even by my nostrils, and

unmans me, before I am aware."

John rang the bell sharply, and when Jenny came, he amazed her by

saying, "Bring me here from the cellar three bottles of whiskey." He

spoke so curt and determined that for once Jenny only wondered, and

obeyed.

"That will do, my woman." Then he turned to David, and putting one

bottle on the table said, "There is your foe! Face your enemy, sir!

Sit down before him morning, noon, and night. Dare him to master you!

Put this bottle on the table in your ain room; carry this in your hand

to your office, and stand it before your eyes upon your desk. If you

want a foe to face and to conquer, a foe that you can see and touch,

here is one mighty enough to stir the bravest soul. And, if you turn

your back on him you are a coward; a mean, poor-hearted coward, sir.

And there ne'er was a coward yet, o' the Callendar blood, nor o' the

Campbell line! Your Captain is nane less than the Son o' God. Hear

what he says to you! 'To him that overcometh! To him that overcometh!'

O Davie, you ken the rest!" and the old man was so lifted out of and

above himself, that his face shone and his keen gray eyes scintillated

with a light that no market-place ever saw in them.

David caught the holy enthusiasm; he seized the idea like a visible

hand of God for his help. The black bottle became to him the

materialization of all his crime and misery. It was a foe he could

see, and touch, and defy. It seemed to mock him, to tempt him, to beg

him just to open the cork, if only to test the strength of his

resolutions.

Thank God he never did it. He faced his enemy the first thing in the

morning and the last thing at night. He kept him in sight through the

temptations of a business day. He faced him most steadily in the

solitude of his own room. There, indeed, his most dangerous struggles

took place, and one night John heard him after two hours of restless

hurried walking up and down, throw open his window, and dash the

bottle upon the pavement beneath it. That was the last of his hard

struggles; the bottle which replaced the one flung beyond his reach

stands to-day where it has stood for nearly a quarter of a century,

and David feels now no more inclination to open it than if it

contained strychnine.

This is no fancy story. It is a fact. It is the true history of a

soul's struggle, and I write it--God knows I do--in the strong hope

that some brave fellow, who is mastered by a foe that steals upon him

in the guise of good fellowship, or pleasure, or hospitality, may

locate his enemy, and then face and conquer him in the name of Him who

delivers his people from their sins. I do not say that all natures

could do this. Some may find safety and final victory in flight, or in

hiding from their foe; but I believe that the majority of souls would

rise to a warfare in which the enemy was confronting them to face and

fight, and would conquer.

I have little more to say of David Callendar. It was the story of his

fall and his redemption I intended to write. But we cannot separate

our spiritual and mortal life; they are the warp and woof which we

weave together for eternity. Therefore David's struggle, though a

palpable one in some respects, was, after all, an intensely spiritual

one; for it was in the constant recognition of Christ as the Captain

of his salvation, and in the constant use of such spiritual aids as

his Bible and his minister gave him, that he was enabled to fight a

good fight and to come off more than conqueror in a contest wherein so

many strive and fail.

David's reformation had also a very sensible influence on his business

prosperity. He has won back again now all, and far more than all, he

lost, and in all good and great works for the welfare of humanity

David Callendar is a willing worker and a noble giver. The new firm of

John and David Callendar acquired a world-wide reputation. It is still

John and David Callendar, for when the dear old deacon died he left

his interest in it to David's eldest son, a pious, steady young fellow

for whom nobody ever mixed a first glass. But God was very kind to

John in allowing him to see the full harvest of his tender love, his

patience, and his unselfishness. Out of his large fortune he left a

noble endowment for a church and college in his native town, making

only two requests concerning its management: first, that no whiskey

should ever go within the college walls: second, that all the children

in the town might have a holiday on the anniversary of his death;

"for," said he, "I have aye loved children, and I would fain connect

the happiness of childhood with the peace o' the dead."

Dr. Morrison lived long enough to assist in filling in the grave of

his old friend and helper, but attained unto the beginning of peace

and glory soon afterwards. And I have often pictured to myself the

meeting of those two upon the hills of God. The minister anticipated

it, though upon his dying bed his great soul forgot all

individualities, and thought only of the church universal, and his

last glowing words were, "For Jerusalem that is above is free, which

is the mother of us all."

Robert Leslie has done well in America, and no man is a more warm and

earnest advocate of "the faith once delivered to the saints." I read a

little speech of his some time ago at the dedication of a church, and

it greatly pleased me.

"Many things," he said, "have doubtless been improved in this age, for

man's works are progressive and require improvement; but who," he

asked, "can improve the sunshine and the flowers, the wheat and the

corn? And who will give us anything worthy to take the place of the

religion of our fathers and mothers? And what teachers have come

comparable to Christ, to David, Isaiah, and Paul?"

Jenny only died a year ago. She brought up David's children admirably,

and saw, to her great delight, the marriage of Flora and young Captain

Callendar. For it had long been her wish to go back to Argyleshire

"among her ain folk and die among the mountains," and this marriage

satisfied all her longings. One evening they found her sitting in her

open door with her face turned towards the cloud-cleaving hills. Her

knitting had fallen upon her lap, her earthly work was done for ever,

and she had put on the garments of the eternal Sabbath. But there was

a wonderful smile on her simple, kindly face. Soul and body had parted

with a smile. Oh, how happy are those whom the Master finds waiting

for him, and who, when he calls, pass gently away!

"Up to the golden citadel they fare,

And as they go their limbs grow full of might;

And One awaits them at the topmost stair,

One whom they had not seen, but knew at sight."

Andrew Cargill's Confession.

ANDREW CARGILL'S CONFESSION.

CHAPTER I.