Cash: A Problem of Profit and Loss

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.

PART II.
"God's work is soon done."
It is a weary day when the youth first discovers that after all he will
only become a man; and this discovery came with a depressing weight one
morning to David, after he had been counting bank notes for three hours.
It was noon, but the gas was lit, and in the heavy air a dozen men sat
silent as statues, adding up figures and making entries. He thought of
the college courts, and the college green, of the crowded halls, and the
symposia, where both mind and body had equal refection. There had been
days when he had a part in these things, and when to "strive with things
impossible," or "to pluck honor from the pale-faced moon," had not been
unreasonable or rash; but now it almost seemed as if Mr. Buckle's dreary
gospel was a reality, and men were machines, and life was an affair to
be tabulated in averages.
He had just had a letter from Willie Caird, too, and it had irritated
him. The wounds of a friend may be faithful, but they are not always
welcome. David determined to drop the correspondence. Willie was going
one way and he another. They might never see each other again; and--
          If they should meet one day,
          If _both_ should not forget
    They could clasp hands the accustomed way.
For by simply going with the current in which in great measure, subject
yet to early influences, he found himself, David Lockerby had drifted in
one twelve months far enough away from the traditions and feelings of
his home and native land. Not that he had broken loose into any flagrant
sin, or in any manner cast a shadow on the perfect respectability of his
name. The set in which Alexander Gordon and his nephew lived sanctioned
nothing of the kind. They belonged to the best society, and were of
those well-dressed, well-behaved people whom Canon Kingsley described as
"the sitters in pews."
In their very proper company David had gone to ball and party, to opera
and theatre. On wet Sundays they sat together in St. George's Church; on
fine Sundays they had sailed quietly down the Thames, and eaten their
dinner at Richmond. Now, sin is sin beyond all controversy, but there
were none of David's companions to whom these things were sins in the
same degree as they were to David.
To none of them had the holy Sabbath ever been the day it had been to
him; to none of them was it so richly freighted with memories of
wonderful sermons and solemn sacraments that were foretastes of heaven.
Coming with a party of gentlemanly fellows slowly rowing up the Thames
and humming some passionate recitative from an opera, he alone could
recall the charmful stillness of a Scotch Sabbath, the worshiping
crowds, and the evening psalm ascending from so many thousand
hearthstones:
    O God of Bethel, by whose hand
      Thy people still are led.
He alone, as the oars kept time to "aria" or "chorus," heard above the
witching melody the solemn minor of "St. Mary's," or the tearful
tenderness of "Communion."
To most of his companions opera and theatre had come as a matter of
course, as a part of their daily life and education. David had been
obliged to stifle conscience, to disobey his father's counsels and his
mother's pleadings, before he could enjoy them. He had had, in fact, to
cultivate a taste for the sin before the sin was pleasant to him; and he
frankly told himself that night, in thinking it all over, that it was
harder work getting to hell than to heaven.
But then in another year he would become a partner, marry Mary, and
begin a new life. Suddenly it struck him with a new force that he had
not heard from Mary for nearly three weeks. A fear seized him that
while he had been dancing and making merry Mary had been ill and
suffering. He was amazed at his own heartlessness, for surely nothing
but sickness would have made Mary forget him.
The next morning as he went to the bank he posted a long letter to her,
full of affection and contrition and rose-colored pictures of their
future life. He had risen an hour earlier to write it, and he did not
fail to notice what a healthy natural pleasure even this small effort of
self-denial gave him. He determined that he would that very night write
long letters to his mother and Janet, and even to his father. "There was
a good deal he wanted to say to him about money matters, and his
marriage, and fore-talk always saved after-talk, besides it would keep
the influence of the old and better life around him to be in closer
communion with it."
Thus thinking, he opened the door of his uncle's private room, and said
cheerily, "Good morning, uncle."
"Good morning, Davie. Your father is here."
Then Andrew Lockerby came forward, and his son met him with outstretched
hands and paling cheeks. "What is it, father? Mother? Mary? Is she
dead?"
"'Deed, no, my lad. There's naething wrang but will turn to right. Mary
Moir was married three days syne, and I thocht you wad rather hear the
news from are that loved you. That's a', Davie; and indeed it's a loss
that's a great gain."
"Who did she marry?"
"Just a bit wizened body frae the East Indies, a'most as yellow as his
gold, an' as auld as her father. But the Deacon is greatly set up wi'
the match--or the settlements--and Mary comes o' a gripping kind.
There's her brother Gavin, he'd sell the ears aff his head, an' they
werena fastened on."
Then David went away with his father, and after half-an-hour's talk on
the subject together it was never mentioned more between them. But it
was a blow that killed effectually all David's eager yearnings for a
loftier and purer life. And it not only did this, but it also caused to
spring up into active existence a passion which was to rule him
absolutely--a passion for gold. Love had failed him, friendship had
proved an annoyance, company, music, feasting, amusements of all kinds
were a weariness now to think of. There seemed nothing better for him
than to become a rich man.
"I'll buy so many acres of old Scotland and call them by the Lockerby's
name; and I'll have nobles and great men come bowing and becking to
David Lockerby as they do to Alexander Gordon. Love is refused, and
wisdom is scorned, but everybody is glad to take money; then money is
best of all things."
Thus David reasoned, and his father said nothing against his arguments.
Indeed, they had never understood one another so well. David, for the
first time, asked all about the lands of Ellenmount, and pledged
himself, if he lived and prospered, to fulfill his father's hope.
Indeed, Andrew was altogether so pleased with his son that he told his
brother-in-law that the £20,000 would be forthcoming as soon as ever he
choose to advance David in the firm.
"I was only waiting, Lockerby, till Davie got through wi' his playtime.
The lad's myself o'er again, an' I ken weel he'll ne'er be contented
until he settles cannily doon to his interest tables."
So before Andrew Lockerby went back to Glasgow David was one of the firm
of Gordon & Co., sat in the directors' room, and began to feel some of
the pleasant power of having money to lend. After this he was rarely
seen among men of his own age--women he never mingled with. He removed
to his uncle's stately house in Baker street, and assimilated his life
very much to that of the older money maker. Occasionally he took a run
northward to Glasgow, or a month's vacation on the Continent, but
nearly all such journeys were associated with some profitable loan or
investment. People began to speak of him as a most admirable young man,
and indeed in some respects he merited the praise. No son ever more
affectionately honored his father and mother, and Janet had been made an
independent woman by his grateful consideration.
He was so admirable that he ceased to interest people, and every time he
visited Glasgow fewer and fewer of his old acquaintances came to see
him. A little more than ten years after his admission to the firm of
Gordon & Co. he came home at the new year, and presented his father with
the title-deeds of Ellenmount and Netherby. The next day old Andrew was
welcomed on the City Exchange as "Lockerby of Ellenmount, gentleman." "I
hae lived lang enough to hae seen this day," he said, with happy tears;
and David felt a joy in his father's joy that he did not know again for
many years. For while a man works for another there is an ennobling
element in his labor, but when he works simply for himself he has become
the greatest of all slaves. This slavery David now willingly assumed;
the accumulation of money became his business, his pleasure, the sum of
his daily life.
Ten years later both his uncle and father were dead, and both had left
David every shilling they possessed. Then he went on working more
eagerly than ever, turning his tens of thousands into hundreds of
thousands and adding acre to acre, and farm to farm, until Lockerby was
the richest estate in Annandale. When he was forty-five years of age
fortune seemed to have given him every good gift except wife and
children, and his mother, who had nothing else to fret about, worried
Janet continually on this subject.
"Wife an' bairns, indeed!" said Janet; "vera uncertain comforts, ma'am,
an' vera certain cares. Our Master Davie likes aye to be sure o' his
bargains."
"Weel, Janet, it's a great cross to me--an' him sae honored, an' guid
an' rich, wi' no a shilling ill-saved to shame him."
"Tut, tut, ma'am! The river doesna' swell wi' clean water. Naebody's
charged him wi' wrangdoing--that's enough. There's nae need to set him
up for a saint."
"An' you wanted him to be a minister, Janet."
"I was that blind--ance."
"We are blind creatures, Janet."
"Wi' _excepts_, ma'am; but they'll ne'er be found amang mithers."
This conversation took place one lovely Sabbath evening, and just at the
same time David was standing thoughtfully on Princes street, Edinburgh,
wondering to which church he had better turn his steps. For a sudden
crisis in the affairs of a bank in that city had brought him hurriedly
to Scotland, and he was not only a prudent man who considered public
opinion, but was also in a mood to conciliate that opinion so long as
the outward conditions were favorable. Whatever he might do in London,
in Scotland he always went to morning and evening service.
He was also one of those self-dependent men who dislike to ask questions
or advice from anyone. Though a comparative stranger he would not have
allowed himself to think that anyone could direct him better than he
could choose for himself. He looked up and down the street, and finally
followed a company which increased continually until they entered an old
church in the Canongate.
Its plain wooden pews and old-fashioned elevated pulpit rather pleased
than offended David, and the air of antiquity about the place
consecrated it in his eyes. Men like whatever reminds them of their
purest and best days, and David had been once in the old Relief Church
on the Doo Hill in Glasgow--just such a large, bare, solemn-looking
house of worship. The still, earnest men and women, the droning of the
precentor, the antiquated singing pleased and soothed him. He did not
notice much the thin little fair man who conducted the services; for he
was holding a session with his own soul.
A peculiar movement among the congregation announced that the sermon was
beginning, and David, looking up, saw that the officiating minister had
been changed. This man was swarthy and tall, and looked like some old
Jewish prophet, as he lifted his rapt face and cried, like one crying in
the wilderness, "Friends! I have a question to ask you to-night: '_What
shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own
soul_?'"
For twenty-three years David had silenced that voice, but it had found
him out again--it was Willie Caird's. At first interested and curious,
David soon became profoundly moved as Willie, in clear, solemn,
thrilling sentences, reasoned of life and death and judgment to come.
Not that he followed his arguments, or was more than dimly conscious of
the moving eloquence that stirred the crowd as a mighty wind stirs the
trees in the forest: for that dreadful question smote, and smote, and
smote upon his heart as if determined to have an answer.
_What shall it profit? What shall it profit? What shall it profit_?
David was quick enough at counting material loss and profit, but here
was a question beyond his computation. He went silently out of the
church, and wandered away by Holyrood Palace and St. Anthony's Chapel to
the pathless, lonely beauty of Salisbury Crags. There was no answer in
nature for him. The stars were silent above, the earth silent beneath.
Weariness brought him no rest; if he slept, he woke with the start of a
hunted soul, and found him asking that same dreadful question. When he
looked in the mirror his own face queried of him, "What profit?" and he
was compelled to make a decided effort to prevent his tongue uttering
the ever present thought.
But at noon he would meet the defaulting bank committee, "and doubtless
his lawful business would take its proper share of his thought!" He told
himself that it was the voice and face of his old friend that had
affected him so vividly, and that if he went and chatted over old times
with Willie, he would get rid of the disagreeable influence.
The influence, however, went with him into the creditors' committee
room. The embarrassed officials had dreaded greatly the interview. No
one hoped for more than bare justice from David Lockerby. "Clemency,
help, sympathy! You'll get blood out o' a stane first, gentlemen," said
the old cashier, with a dour, hopeless face.
And yet that morning David Lockerby amazed no one so much as himself.
He went to the meeting quite determined to have his own--only his
own--but something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gave up
his lawful increase and even offered help. He went determined to speak
his mind very plainly about mismanagement and the folly of having
losses; and something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gave
such sympathy with his help that the money came with a blessing in its
hand.
The feeling of satisfaction was so new to him that it embarrassed and
almost made him ashamed. He slipped ungraciously away from the thanks
that ought to have been pleasant, and found himself, almost
unconsciously, looking up Willie's name in the clerical directory, "Dr.
William Caird, 22 Moray place." David knew enough of Edinburgh to know
that Moray place contained the handsomest residences in the city, and
therefore he was not astonished at the richness and splendor of Willie's
library; but he was astonished to see him surrounded by five beautiful
boys and girls, and evidently as much interested in their lessons and
sports as if he was one of them.
"Ech! Davie man! but I'm glad to see you!" That was all of Willie's
greeting, but his eyes filled, and as the friends held each other's
hands Davie came very near touching for a moment a David Lockerby no one
had seen for many long years. But he said nothing during his visit of
Willie's sermon, nor indeed in several subsequent ones. Scotsmen are
reticent on all matters, and especially reticent about spiritual
experience; and though Davie lingered in Edinburgh a week, he was
neither able to speak to Willie about his soul, nor yet in all their
conversations get rid of that haunting, uncomfortable influence Willie
had raised.
But as they stood before the Queen's Hotel at midnight bidding each
other an affectionate farewell, David suddenly turned Willie round and
opened up his whole heart to him. And as he talked he found himself able
to define what had been only hitherto a vague, restless sense of want.
"I am the poorest rich man and the most miserable failure, Willie Caird,
that ever you asked yon fearsome question of--and I know it. I have
achieved millions, and I am a conscious bankrupt to my own soul. I have
wasted my youth, neglected my talents and opportunities, and whatever
the world may call me I am a wretched breakdown. I have made
money--plenty of it--and it does not pay me. What am I to do?"
"You ken, Davie, my dear, dear lad, what advice the Lord Jesus gave to
the rich man--'distribute unto the poor--and come, follow me!'"
Then up and down Princes street, and away under the shadow of the Castle
Hill, Willie and David walked and talked, till the first sunbeams
touched St. Leonard's Crags. If it was a long walk a grand work was laid
out in it.
"You shall be more blessed than your namesake," said Willie, "for though
David gathered the gold, and the wood, and the stone, Solomon builded
therewith. Now, an' it please God, you shall do your ain work, and see
the topstone brought on with rejoicing."
Then at David's command, workmen gathered in companies, and some of the
worst "vennels" in old Glasgow were torn down; and the sunshine flooded
"wynds" it had scarcely touched for centuries, and a noble building
arose that was to be a home for children that had no home. And the farms
of Ellenmount fed them, and the fleeces of Lockerby clothed them, and
into every young hand was put a trade that would win it honest bread.
In a short time even this undertaking began to be too small for David's
energies and resources, and he joined hands with Willie in many other
good works, and gave not only freely of his gold, but also of his time
and labor. The old eloquence that stirred his classmates in St. Andrew's
Hall, "till they would have followed him to the equator" began to stir
the cautious Glasgow traders to the bottom of their hearts, and their
pocketbooks; and men who didn't want to help in a crusade against
drunkenness, or in a crusade for the spread of the Gospel, stopped away
from Glasgow City Hall when David Lockerby filled the chair at a public
meeting and started a subscription list with £1000 down on the table.
But there were two old ladies that never stopped away, though one of
them always declared "Master Davie had fleeched her last bawbee out o'
her pouch;" and the other generally had her little whimper about Davie
"waring his substance upon ither folks' bairns."
"There's bonnie Bessie Lament, Janet; an' he would marry her we might
live to see his ain sons and daughters in the old house."
"'Deed, then, ma'am, our Davie has gotten him a name better than that o'
sons an' dochters; and though I am sair disappointed in him--"
"You shouldn't say that, Janet; he made a gran' speech the day."
"A speech isna' a sermon, ma'am; though I'll ne'er belittle a speech wi'
a £1000 argument."
"And there was Deacon Moir, Janet, who didna approve o' the scheme, and
who would therefore gie nothing at a'."
"The Deacon is sae godly that God doesna get a chance to improve his
condition, ma'am. But for a' o' Deacon Moir's disapproval I'se count on
the good work going on."
"'Deed yes, Janet, and though our Davie should ne'er marry at a'--"
"There'll be generations o' lads an' lasses, ma'am, that will rise up in
auld Scotland an' go up an' down through a' the warld a' ca' David
Lockerby 'blessed.'"