Scottish sketches Part 18

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 a.s.sumed 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 s.e.x. It was all Isabel's fault, and from the very first day of the return of the new couple she a.s.sumed 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 pa.s.s 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 embarra.s.sed circ.u.mstances 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 wa.r.s.e 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 G.o.d 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! G.o.d forgive me!"

"Nae, nae, la.s.sie; I am far from innocent mysel';" and with these mournful accusations they parted for ever.

For Isabel's sickness suddenly a.s.sumed 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 gla.s.ses 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 acc.u.mulating 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 pa.s.sionately, "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 gla.s.s for him."