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WINTER EVENING TALES
by
AMELIA E. BARR
Author of "A Bow of Orange Ribbon," "Jan Vedder's Wife,"
"Friend Olivia," etc., etc.
Published by
The Christian Herald
Louis Klopsch, Proprietor,
Bible House, New York.
1896
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
In these "Winter Evening Tales," Mrs. Barr has spread before her readers
a feast that will afford the rarest enjoyment for many a leisure hour.
There are few writers of the present day whose genius has such a
luminous quality, and the spell of whose fancy carries us along so
delightfully on its magic current. In these "Tales"--each a perfect gem
of romance, in an artistic setting--the author has touched many phases
of human nature. Some of the stories in the collection sparkle with the
spirit of mirth; others give glimpses of the sadder side of life.
Throughout all, there are found that broad sympathy and intense humanity
that characterize every page that comes from her pen. Her men and women
are creatures of real flesh and blood, not deftly-handled puppets; they
move, act and speak spontaneously, with the full vigor of life and the
strong purpose of persons who are participating in a real drama, and not
a make-believe.
Mrs. Barr has the rare gift of writing from heart to heart. She
unconsciously infuses into her readers a liberal share of the enthusiasm
that moves the people of her creative imagination. One cannot read any
of her books without feeling more than a spectator's interest; we are,
for the moment, actual sharers in the joys and the sorrows, the
misfortunes and the triumphs of the men and women to whom she introduces
us. Our sympathy, our love, our admiration, are kindled by their noble
and attractive qualities; our mirth is excited by the absurd and
incongruous aspects of some characters, and our hearts are thrilled by
the frequent revelation of such goodness and true human feeling as can
only come from pure and noble souls.
In these "Tales," as in many of her other works, humble life has held a
strong attraction for Mrs. Barr's pen. Her mind and heart naturally turn
in this direction; and although her wonderful talent, within its wide
range, deals with all stations and conditions of life, she has but
little relish for the gilded artificialities of society, and a strong
love for those whose condition makes life for them something real and
earnest and definite of purpose. For this reason, among many others, the
Christian people of America have a hearty admiration for Mrs. Barr and
her work, knowing it to be not only of surpassing human interest, but
spiritually helpful and inspiring, with an influence that makes for
morality and good living, in the highest sense in which a Christian
understands the term.
G.H. SANDISON.
_New York, 1896._
CONTENTS.
"Cash;" a Problem of Profit and Loss
Franz Müller's Wife
The Voice at Midnight
Six and Half-a-Dozen
The Story of David Morrison
Tom Duffan's Daughter
The Harvest of the Wind
The Seven Wise Men of Preston
Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money
Just What He Deserved
An Only Offer
Two Fair Deceivers
The Two Mr. Smiths
The Story of Mary Neil
The Heiress of Kurston Chace
Only This Once
Petralto's Love Story
Winter Evening Tales.
CASH.
A PROBLEM OF PROFIT AND LOSS, WORKED BY DAVID LOCKERBY.
PART I.
"Gold may be dear bought."
A narrow street with dreadful "wynds" and "vennels" running back from it
was the High street of Glasgow at the time my story opens. And yet,
though dirty, noisy and overcrowded with sin and suffering, a flavor of
old time royalty and romance lingered amid its vulgar surroundings; and
midway of its squalid length a quaint brown frontage kept behind it
noble halls of learning, and pleasant old courts full of the "air of
still delightful studies."
From this building came out two young men in academic costume. One of
them set his face dourly against the clammy fog and drizzling rain,
breathing it boldly, as if it was the balmiest oxygen; the other,
shuddering, drew his scarlet toga around him and said, mournfully,
"Ech, Davie, the High street is an ill furlong on the de'il's road! I
never tread it, but I think o' the weary, weary miles atween it and
Eden."
"There is no road without its bad league, Willie, and the High street
has its compensations; its prison for ill-doers, its learned college,
and its holy High Kirk. I am one of St. Mungo's bairns, and I'm not
above preaching for my saint."
"And St. Mungo will be proud of your birthday yet, Davie. With such a
head and such a tongue, with knowledge behind, and wit to the fore,
there is a broad road and an open door for David Lockerby. You may come
even to be the Lord Rector o' Glasgow College yet."
"Wisdom is praised and starves; I am thinking it would set me better to
be Lord Provost of Glasgow city."
"The man who buried his one talent did not go scatheless, Davie; and
what now if he had had ten?"
"You are aye preaching, Willie, and whiles it is very untimeous. Are you
going to Mary Moir's to-night?"
"Why should I? The only victory over love is through running away."
David looked sharply at his companion but as they were at the Trongate
there was no time for further remark. Willie Caird turned eastward
toward Glasgow Green, David hailed a passing omnibus and was soon set
down before a handsome house on the Sauchiehall Road. He went in by the
back door, winning from old Janet, in spite of herself, the grimmest
shadow of a smile.
"Are my father and mother at home, Janet?"
"Deed are they, the mair by token that they hae been quarreling anent
you till the peacefu' folks like mysel' could hae wished them mair
sense, or further away."
"Why should they quarrel about me?"
"Why, indeed, since they'll no win past your ain makin' or marring? But
the mistress is some kin to Zebedee's wife, I'm thinking, and she wad
fain set you up in a pu'pit and gie you the keys o' St. Peter; while
maister is for haeing you it a bank or twa in your pouch, and add
Ellenmount to Lockerby, and--"
"And if I could, Janet?"
"Tut, tut, lad! If it werna for 'if' you might put auld Scotland in a
bottle."
"But what was the upshot, Janet?"
"I canna tell. God alone understan's quarreling folk."
Then David went upstairs to his own room, and when he came down again
his face was set as dourly against the coming interview as it had been
against the mist and rain. The point at issue was quite familiar to
him; his mother wished him to continue his studies and prepare for the
ministry. In her opinion the greatest of all men were the servants of
the King, and a part of the spiritual power and social influence which
they enjoyed in St. Mungo's ancient city she earnestly coveted for her
son. "Didn't the Bailies and the Lord Provost wait for them? And were
not even the landed gentry and nobles obligated to walk behind a
minister in his gown and bands?"
Old Andrew Lockerby thought the honor good enough, but money was better.
All the twenty years that his wife had been dreaming of David ruling his
flock from the very throne of a pulpit, Andrew had been dreaming of him
becoming a great merchant or banker, and winning back the fair lands of
Ellenmount, once the patrimonial estate of the house of Lockerby. During
these twenty years both husband and wife had clung tenaciously to their
several intentions.
Now David's teachers--without any knowledge of these diverse
influences--had urged on him the duty of cultivating the unusual talents
confided to him, and of consecrating them to some noble service of God
and humanity. But David was ruled by many opposite feelings, and had
with all his book-learning the very smallest intimate acquaintance with
himself. He knew neither his strong points nor his weak ones, and had
not even a suspicion of the mighty potency of that mysterious love for
gold which really was the ruling passion in his breast.
The argument so long pending he knew was now to be finally settled, and
he was by no means unprepared for the discussion. He came slowly down
stairs, counting the points he wished to make on his fingers, and quite
resolved neither to be coaxed nor bullied out of his own individual
opinion. He was a handsome, stalwart fellow, as Scotchmen of
two-and-twenty go, for it takes about thirty-five years to fill up and
perfect the massive frames of "the men of old Gaul." About his
thirty-fifth year David would doubtless be a man of noble presence; but
even now there was a sense of youth and power about him that was very
attractive, as with a grave smile he lifted a book, and comfortably
disposed himself in an easy chair by the window. For David knew better
than begin the conversation; any advantages the defendant might have he
determined to retain.
After a few minutes' silence his father said, "What are you reading,
Davie? It ought to be a guid book that puts guid company in the
background."
David leisurely turned to the title page. "'Selections from the Latin
Poets,' father."
"A fool is never a great fool until he kens Latin. Adam Smith or some
book o' commercial economics wad set ye better, Davie."
"Adam Smith is good company for them that are going his way, father: but
there is no way a man may take and not find the humanities good
road-fellows."
"Dinna beat around the bush, guidman; tell Davie at once that you want
him to go 'prentice to Mammon. He kens well enough whether he can serve
him or no."
"I want Davie to go 'prentice to your ain brither, guid wife--it's nane
o' my doing if you ca' your ain kin ill names--and, Davie, your uncle
maks you a fair offer, an' you'll just be a born fool to refuse it."
"What is it, father?"
"Twa years you are to serve him for £200 a year; and at the end, if both
are satisfied, he will gie you sich a share in the business as I can buy
you--and, Davie, I'se no be scrimping for such an end. It's the auldest
bank in Soho, an' there's nane atween you and the head o' it. Dinna
fling awa' good fortune--dinna do it, Davie, my dear lad. I hae look it
to you for twenty years to finish what I hae begun--for twenty years I
hae been telling mysel' 'my Davie will win again the bonnie braes o'
Ellenmount.'"
There were tears in old Andrew's eyes, and David's heart thrilled and
warmed to the old man's words; in that one flash of sympathy they came
nearer to each other than they had ever done before.
And then spoke his mother: "Davie, my son, you'll no listen to ony sich
temptation. My brither is my brither, and there are few folk o' the
Gordon line a'thegither wrang, but Alexander Gordon is a dour man, and I
trow weel you'll serve hard for ony share in his money bags. You'll just
gang your ways back to college and tak' up your Greek and Hebrew and
serve in the Lord's temple instead of Alexander Gordon's Soho Bank; and,
Davie, if you'll do right in this matter you'll win my blessing and
every plack and bawbee o' my money." Then, seeing no change in David's
face, she made her last, great concession--"And, Davie, you may marry
Mary Moir, an' it please you, and I'll like the lassie as weel as may
be."
"Your mither, like a' women, has sought you wi' a bribe in her hand,
Davie. You ken whether she has bid your price or not. When you hae
served your twa years I'se buy you a £20,000 share in the Gordon Bank,
and a man wi' £20,000 can pick and choose the wife he likes best. But
I'm aboon bribing you--a fair offer isna a bribe."
The concession as to Mary Moir was the one which Davie had resolved to
make his turning point, and now both father and mother had virtually
granted it. He had told himself that no lot in life would be worth
having without Mary, and that with her any lot would be happy. Now that
he had been left free in this matter he knew his own mind as little as
ever.
"The first step binds to the next," he answered, thoughtfully. "Mary may
have something to say. Night brings counsel. I will e'en think over
things until the morn."
A little later he was talking both offers over with Mary Moir, and
though it took four hours to discuss them they did not find the subject
tedious. It was very late when he returned home, but he knew by the
light in the house-place that Janet was waiting up for him. Coming out
of the wet, dark night, it was pleasant to see the blazing ingle, the
white-sanded floor, and the little round table holding some cold
moor-cock and the pastry that he particularly liked.
"Love is but cauldrife cheer, my lad," said Janet, "an' the breast o' a
bird an' a raspberry tartlet will be nane out o' the way." David was of
the same opinion. He was very willing to enjoy Janet's good things and
the pleasant light and warmth. Besides, Janet was his oldest confidant
and friend--a friend that had never failed him in any of his boyish
troubles or youthful scrapes.
It gave her pleasure enough for a while to watch him eat, but when he
pushed aside the bird and stretched out his hand for the raspberry
dainties, she said, "Now talk a bit, my lad. If others hae wared money
on you, I hae wared love, an' I want to ken whether you are going to
college, or whether you are going to Lunnon amang the proud, fause
Englishers?"
"I am going to London, Janet."
"Whatna for?"
"I am not sure that I have any call to be a minister, Janet--it is a
solemn charge."
"Then why not ask for a sure call? There is nae key to God's council
chamber that I ken of."
"Mary wants me to go to London."
"Ech, sirs! Sets Deacon Moir's dochter to send a lad a wrang road. I
wouldna hae thocht wi' her bringing up she could hae swithered for a
moment--but it's the auld, auld story; where the deil canna go by
himsel' he sends a woman. And David Lockerby will tyne his inheritance
for a pair o' blue e'en and a handfu' o' gowden curls. Waly! waly! but
the children o' Esau live for ever."
"Mary said,"--
"I dinna want to hear what Mary said. It would hae been nae loss if
she'd ne'er spoken on the matter; but if you think makin' money, an'
hoarding money is the measure o' your capacity you ken yousel', sir,
dootless. Howsomever you'll go to your ain room now; I'm no going to
keep my auld e'en waking just for a common business body."
Thus in spite of his father's support, David did not find his road to
London as fair and straight as he could have wished. Janet was deeply
offended at him, and she made him feel it in a score of little ways very
annoying to a man fond of creature comforts and human sympathy. His
mother went about the necessary preparations in a tearful mood that was
a constant reproach, and his friend Willie did not scruple to tell him
that "he was clean out o' the way o' duty."
"God has given you a measure o' St. Paul's power o' argument, Davie, and
the verra tongue o' Apollos--weapons wherewith to reason against all
unrighteousness and to win the souls o' men."
"Special pleading, Willie."
"Not at all. Every man's life bears its inscription if he will take the
trouble to read it. There was James Grahame, born, as you may say, wi' a
sword in his hand, and Bauldy Strang wi' a spade, and Andrew Semple took
to the balances and the 'rithmetic as a duck takes to the water. Do you
not mind the day you spoke anent the African missions to the young men
in St. Andrews' Ha'? Your words flew like arrows--every ane o' them to
its mark; and your heart burned and your e'en glowed, till we were a' on
fire with you, and there wasna a lad there that wouldna hae followed you
to the vera Equator. I wouldna dare to bury such a power for good,
Davie, no, not though I buried it fathoms deep in gold."
From such interviews as these Davie went home very miserable. If it had
not been for Mary Moir he would certainly have gone back to his old seat
by Willie Caird in the Theological Hall. But Mary had such splendid
dreams of their life in London, and she looked in her hope and beauty so
bewitching, that he could not bear to hint a disappointment to her.
Besides, he doubted whether she was really fit for a minister's wife,
even if he should take up the cross laid down before him--and as for
giving up Mary, he would not admit to himself that there could be a
possible duty in such a contingency.
But that even his father had doubts and hesitations was proven to David
by the contradictory nature of his advice and charges. Thus on the
morning he left Glasgow, and as they were riding together to the
Caledonian station, the old man said, "Your uncle has given you a seat
in his bank, Davie, and you'll mak' room for yoursel' to lie down, I'se
warrant. But you'll no forget that when a guid man thrives a' should
thrive i' him; and giving for God's sake never lessens the purse."
"I am but one in a world full, father. I hope I shall never forget to
give according to my prosperings."
"Tak the world as it is, my lad, and no' as it ought to be; and never
forget that money is money's brither--an' you put two pennies in a purse
they'll creep thegither.
"But then Davie, I am free to say gold won't buy everything, and though
rich men hae long hands, they won't reach to heaven. So, though you'll
tak guid care o' yoursel', you will also gie to God the things that are
God's."
"I have been brought up in the fear of God and the love of mankind,
father. It would be an ill thing for me to slink out of life and leave
the world no better for my living."
"God bless you, lad; and the £20,000 will be to the fore when it is
called for, and you shall make it £60,000, and I'll see again Ellenmount
in the Lockerby's keeping. But you'll walk in the ways o' your fathers,
and gie without grudging of your increase."
David nodded rather impatiently. He could hardly understand the
struggle going on in his father's heart--the wish to say something that
might quiet his own conscience, and yet not make David's unnecessarily
tender. It is hard serving God and Mammon, and Andrew Lockerby was
miserable and ashamed that morning in the service.
And yet he was not selfish in the matter--that much in his favor must be
admitted. He would rather have had the fine, handsome lad he loved so
dearly going in and out his own house. He could have taken great
interest in all his further studies, and very great pride in seeing him
a successful "placed minister;" but there are few Scotsmen in whom pride
of lineage and the good of the family does not strike deeper than
individual pleasure. Andrew really believed that David's first duty was
to the house of Lockerby.
He had sacrificed a great deal toward this end all his own life, nor
were his sacrifices complete with the resignation of his only child to
the same purpose. To a man of more than sixty years of age it is a great
trial to have an unusual and unhappy atmosphere in his home; and though
Mrs. Lockerby was now tearful and patient under her disappointment,
everyone knows that tears and patience may be a miserable kind of
comfort. Then, though Janet had as yet preserved a dour and angry
silence, he knew that sooner or later she would begin a guerilla warfare
of sharp words, which he feared he would have mainly to bear, for Janet,
though his housekeeper, was also "a far-awa cousin," had been forty
years in his house, and was not accustomed to withhold her opinions on
any subject.
Fortunately for Andrew Lockerby, Janet finally selected Mary Moir as the
Eve specially to blame in this transgression. "A proud up-head lassie,"
she asserted, "that cam o' a family wha would sell their share o' the
sunshine for pounds sterling!"
From such texts as this the two women in the Lockerby house preached
little daily sermons to each other, until comfort grew out of the very
stem of their sorrow, and they began to congratulate each other that
"puir Davie was at ony rate outside the glamour o' Mary Moir's
temptations."
"For she just bewitched the laddie," said Janet, angrily; and,
doubtless, if the old laws regarding witches had been in Janet's
administration it would have gone hardly with pretty Mary Moir.