Part 19 (1/2)
”Vera weel. Somebody aye mixes the first gla.s.s. Somebody mixed your first gla.s.s. 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 h.e.l.l.
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 s.h.i.+ning 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 G.o.d-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 wa.r.s.e 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sionate 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.