I think it is very likely that many New Yorkers were familiar with the
face of David Morrison. It was a peculiarly guileless, kind face for a
man of sixty years of age; a face that looked into the world's face with
something of the confidence of a child. It had round it a little fringe
of soft, light hair, and above that a big blue Scotch bonnet of the Rob
Roryson fashion.
The bonnet had come with him from the little Highland clachan, where he
and his brother Sandy had scrambled through a hard, happy boyhood
together. It had sometimes been laid aside for a more pretentious
headgear, but it had never been lost; and in his old age and poverty had
been cheerfully--almost affectionately--resumed.
"Sandy had one just like it," he would say. "We bought them thegither in
Aberdeen. Twa braw lads were we then. I'm wonderin' where poor Sandy is
the day!"
So, if anybody remembers the little spare man, with the child-like,
candid face and the big blue bonnet, let them recall him kindly. It is
his true history I am telling to-day.
Davie had, as I said before, a hard boyhood. He knew what cold, hunger
and long hours meant as soon as he knew anything; but it was glorified
in his memory by the two central figures in it--a good mother, for whom
he toiled and suffered cheerfully, and a big brother who helped him
bravely over all the bits of life that were too hard for his young feet.
When the mother died, the lads sailed together for America. They had a
"far-awa'" cousin in New York, who, report said, had done well in the
plastering business, and Sandy never doubted but that one Morrison would
help another Morrison the wide world over. With this faith in their
hearts and a few shillings in their pockets, the two lads landed. The
American Morrison had not degenerated. He took kindly to his kith and
kin, and offered to teach them his own craft.
For some time the brothers were well content; but Sandy was of an
ambitious, adventurous temper, and was really only waiting until he felt
sure that wee Davie could take care of himself. Nothing but the Great
West could satisfy Sandy's hopes; but he never dreamt of exposing his
brother to its dangers and privations.
"You're nothing stronger than a bit lassie, Davie," he said, "and you're
no to fret if I don't take you wi' me. I'm going to make a big fortune,
and when I have gotten the gold safe, I'se come back to you, and we'll
spend it thegither dollar for dollar, my wee lad."
"Sure as death! You'll come back to me?"
"Sure as death, I'll come back to you, Davie!" and Sandy thought it no
shame to cry on his little brother's neck, and to look back, with a
loving, hopeful smile at Davie's sad, wistful face, just as long as he
could see it.
It was Davie's nature to believe and to trust. With a pitiful confidence
and constancy he looked for the redemption of his brother's promise.
After twenty years of absolute silence, he used to sit in the evenings
after his work was over, and wonder "how Sandy and he had lost each
other." For the possibility of Sandy forgetting him never once entered
his loyal heart.
He could find plenty of excuses for Sandy's silence. In the long years
of their separation many changes had occurred even in a life so humble
as Davie's. First, his cousin Morrison died, and the old business was
scattered and forgotten. Then Davie had to move his residence very
frequently; had even to follow lengthy jobs into various country places,
so that his old address soon became a very blind clew to him.
Then seven years after Sandy's departure the very house in which they
had dwelt was pulled down; an iron factory was built on its site, and
probably a few months afterward no one in the neighborhood could have
told anything at all about Davie Morrison. Thus, unless Sandy should
come himself to find his brother, every year made the probability of a
letter reaching him less and less likely.
Perhaps, as the years went by, the prospect of a reunion became more of
a dream than an expectation. Davie had married very happily, a simple
little body, not unlike himself, both in person and disposition. They
had one son, who, of course, had been called Alexander, and in whom
Davie fondly insisted, the lost Sandy's beauty and merits were
faithfully reproduced.
It is needless to say the boy was extravagantly loved and spoiled.
Whatever Davie's youth had missed, he strove to procure for "Little
Sandy." Many an extra hour he worked for this unselfish end. Life itself
became to him only an implement with which to toil for his boy's
pleasure and advantage. It was a common-place existence enough, and yet
through it ran one golden thread of romance.
In the summer evenings, when they walked together on the Battery, and in
winter nights, when they sat together by the stove, Davie talked to his
wife and child of that wonderful brother, who had gone to look for
fortune in the great West. The simplicity of the elder two and the
enthusiasm of the youth equally accepted the tale.
Somehow, through many a year, a belief in his return invested life with
a glorious possibility. Any night they might come home and find Uncle
Sandy sitting by the fire, with his pockets full of gold eagles, and no
end of them in some safe bank, besides.
But when the youth had finished his schooldays, had learned a trade and
began to go sweethearting, more tangible hopes and dreams agitated all
their hearts; for young Sandy Morrison opened a carpenter's shop in his
own name, and began to talk of taking a wife and furnishing a home.
He did not take just the wife that pleased his father and mother. There
was nothing, indeed, about Sallie Barker of which they could complain.
She was bright and capable, but they _felt_ a want they were not able to
analyze; the want was that pure unselfishness which was the ruling
spirit of their own lives.
This want never could be supplied in Sallie's nature. She did right
because it was her duty to do right, not because it gave her pleasure to
do it. When they had been married three years the war broke out, and
soon afterward Alexander Morrison was drafted for the army. Sallie, who
was daily expecting her second child, refused all consolation; and,
indeed, their case looked hard enough.
At first the possibility of a substitute had suggested itself; but a
family consultation soon showed that this was impossible without
hopelessly straitening both houses. Everyone knows that dreary silence
which follows a long discussion, that has only confirmed the fear of an
irremediable misfortune. Davie broke it in this case in a very
unexpected manner.
"Let me go in your place, Sandy. I'd like to do it, my lad. Maybe I'd
find your uncle. Who knows? What do you say, old wife? We've had more
than twenty years together. It is pretty hard for Sandy and Sallie, now,
isn't it?"
He spoke with a bright face and in a cheerful voice, as if he really was
asking a favor for himself; and, though he did not try to put his offer
into fine, heroic words, nothing could have been finer or more heroic
than the perfect self-abnegation of his manner.
The poor old wife shed a few bitter tears; but she also had been
practicing self-denial for a lifetime, and the end of it was that Davie
went to weary marches and lonely watches, and Sandy staid at home.
This was the break-up of Davie's life. His wife went to live with Sandy
and Sallie, and the furniture was mostly sold.
Few people could have taken these events as Davie did. He even affected
to be rather smitten with the military fever, and, when the parting
came, left wife and son and home with a cheerful bravery that was sad
enough to the one old heart who had counted its cost.
In Davie's loving, simple nature there was doubtless a strong vein of
romance. He was really in hopes that he might come across his long-lost
brother. He had no very clear idea as to localities and distances, and
he had read so many marvelous war stories that all things seemed
possible in its atmosphere. But reality and romance are wide enough
apart.
Davie's military experience was a very dull and weary one. He grew
poorer and poorer, lost heart and hope, and could only find comfort for
all his sacrifices in the thought that "at least he had spared poor
Sandy."
Neither was his home-coming what he had pictured it in many a reverie.
There was no wife to meet him--she had been three months in the grave
when he got back to New York--and going to his daughter-in-law's home
was not--well, it was not like going to his own house.
Sallie was not cross or cruel, and she was grateful to Davie, but she
did not _love_ the old man.
He soon found that the attempt to take up again his trade was hopeless.
He had grown very old with three years' exposure and hard duty. Other
men could do twice the work he could, and do it better. He must step out
from the ranks of skilled mechanics and take such humble positions as
his failing strength permitted him to fill.
Sandy objected strongly to this at first. "He could work for both," he
said, "and he thought father had deserved his rest."
But Davie shook his head--"he must earn his own loaf, and he must earn
it now, just as he could. Any honest way was honorable enough." He was
still cheerful and hopeful, but it was noticeable that he never spoke of
his brother Sandy now; he had buried that golden expectation with many
others. Then began for Davie Morrison the darkest period of his life. I
am not going to write its history.
It is not pleasant to tell of a family sinking lower and lower in spite
of its brave and almost desperate efforts to keep its place--not
pleasant to tell of the steps that gradually brought it to that pass,
when the struggle was despairingly abandoned, and the conflict narrowed
down to a fight with actual cold and hunger.
It is not pleasant, mainly, because in such a struggle many a lonely
claim is pitilessly set aside. In the daily shifts of bare life, the
tender words that bring tender acts are forgotten. Gaunt looks,
threadbare clothes, hard day-labor, sharp endurance of their children's
wants, made Sandy and Sallie Morrison often very hard to those to whom
they once were very tender.
David had noticed it for many months. He could see that Sallie counted
grudgingly the few pennies he occasionally required. His little
newspaper business had been declining for some years; people took fewer
papers, and some did not pay for those they did take. He made little
losses that were great ones to him, and Sallie had long been saying it
would "be far better for father to give up the business to Jamie; he is
now sixteen and bright enough to look after his own."
This alternative David could not bear to think of; and yet all through
the summer the fear had constantly been before him. He knew how Sallie's
plans always ended; Sandy was sure to give into them sooner or later,
and he wondered if into their minds had ever come the terrible thought
which haunted his own--_would they commit him, then, to the care of
public charities?_
"We have no time to love each other," he muttered, sadly, "and my bite
and sup is hard to spare when there is not enough to go round. I'll
speak to Sandy myself about it--poor lad! It will come hard on him to
say the first word."
The thought once realized began to take shape in his mind, and that
night, contrary to his usual custom, he could not go to sleep. Sandy
came in early, and the children went wearily off to bed. Then Sallie
began to talk on the very subject which lay so heavy on his own heart,
and he could tell from the tone of the conversation that it was one that
had been discussed many times before.
"He only made bare expenses last week and there's a loss of seventy
cents this week already. Oh, Sandy, Sandy! there is no use putting off
what is sure to come. Little Davie had to do without a drink of coffee
to-night, and _his_ bread, you know, comes off theirs at every meal. It
is very hard on us all!"
"I don't think the children mind it, Sallie. Every one of them loves the
old man--God bless him! He was a good father to me."
"I would love him, too, Sandy, if I did not see him eating my children's
bread. And neither he nor they get enough. Sandy, do take him down
to-morrow, and tell him as you go the strait we are in. He will be
better off; he will get better food and every other comfort. You must do
it, Sandy; I can bear this no longer."
"It's getting near Christmas, Sallie. Maybe he'll get New Year's
presents enough to put things straight. Last year they were nearly
eighteen dollars, you know."
"Don't you see that Jamie could get that just as well? Jamie can take
the business and make something of it. Father is letting it get worse
and worse every week. We should have one less to feed, and Jamie's
earnings besides. Sandy, _it has got to be_! Do it while we can make
something by the step."
"It is a mean, dastardly step, Sallie. God will never forgive me if I
take it," and David could hear that his son's voice trembled.
In fact, great tears were silently dropping from Sandy's eyes, and his
father knew it, and pitied him, and thanked God that the lad's heart was
yet so tender. And after this he felt strangely calm, and dropped into a
happy sleep.
In the morning he remembered all. He had not heard the end of the
argument, but he knew that Sallie would succeed; and he was neither
astonished nor dismayed when Sandy came home in the middle of the day
and asked him to "go down the avenue a bit."
He had determined to speak first and spare Sandy the shame and the
sorrow of it; but something would not let him do it. In the first
place, a singular lightness of heart came over him; he noticed all the
gay preparations for Christmas, and the cries and bustle of the streets
gave him a new sense of exhilaration. Sandy fell almost unconsciously
into his humor. He had a few cents in his pocket, and he suddenly
determined to go into a cheap restaurant and have a good warm meal with
his father.
Davie was delighted at the proposal and gay as a child; old memories of
days long past crowded into both men's minds, and they ate and drank,
and then wandered on almost happily. Davie knew very well where they
were going, but he determined now to put off saying a word until the
last moment. He had Sandy all to himself for this hour; they might never
have such another; Davie was determined to take all the sweetness of it.
As they got lower down the avenue, Sandy became more and more silent;
his eyes looked straight before him, but they were brimful of tears, and
the smile with which he answered Davie's pleasant prattle was almost
more pitiful than tears.
At length they came in sight of a certain building, and Sandy gave a
start and shook himself like a man waking out of a sleep. His words were
sharp, his voice almost like that of a man in mortal danger, as he
turned Davie quickly round, and said:
"We must go back now, father. I will not go another step this road--no,
by heaven! though I die for it!"
"Just a little further, Sandy."
And Davie's thin, childlike face had an inquiry in it that Sandy very
well understood.
"No, no, father, no further on this road, please God!"
Then he hailed a passing car, and put the old man tenderly in it, and
resolutely turned his back upon the hated point to which he had been
going.
Of course he thought of Sallie as they rode home, and the children and
the trouble there was likely to be. But somehow it seemed a light thing
to him. He could not helping nodding cheerfully now and then to the
father whom he had so nearly lost; and, perhaps, never in all their
lives had they been so precious to each other as when, hand-in-hand,
they climbed the dark tenement stair together.
Before thy reached the door they heard Sallie push a chair aside
hastily, and come to meet them. She had been crying, too, and her very
first words were, "Oh, father!' I am so glad!--so glad!"
She did not say what for, but Davie took her words very gratefully, and
he made no remark, though he knew she went into debt at the grocery for
the little extras with which she celebrated his return at supper. He
understood, however, that the danger was passed, and he went to sleep
that night thanking God for the love that had stood so hard a trial and
come out conqueror.
The next day life took up its dreary tasks again, but in Davie's heart
there was a strange presentiment of change, and it almost angered the
poor, troubled, taxed wife to see him so thoughtlessly playing with the
children. But the memory of the wrong she had nursed against him still
softened and humbled her, and when he came home after carrying round his
papers, she made room for him at the stove, and brought him a cup of
coffee and a bit of bread and bacon.
Davie's eyes filled, and Sallie went away to avoid seeing them. So then
he took out a paper that he had left and began to read it as he ate and
drank.
In a few minutes a sudden sharp cry escaped him. He put the paper in his
pocket, and, hastily resuming his old army cloak and Scotch bonnet, went
out without a word to anyone.
The truth was that he had read a personal notice which greatly disturbed
him. It was to the effect that, "If David Morrison, who left Aberdeen in
18--, was still alive, and would apply to Messrs. Morgan & Black, Wall
street, he would hear of something to his advantage."
His long-lost brother was the one thought in his heart. He was going
now to hear something about Sandy.
"He said 'sure as death,' and he would mind that promise at the last
hour, if he forgot it before; so, if he could not come, he'd doubtless
send, and this will be his message. Poor Sandy! there was never a lad
like him!"
When he reached Messrs. Morgan & Black's, he was allowed to stand
unnoticed by the stove a few minutes, and during them his spirits sank
to their usual placid level. At length some one said:
"Well, old man, what do _you_ want?"
"I am David Morrison, and I just came to see what _you_ wanted."
"Oh, you are David Morrison! Good! Go forward--I think you will find
out, then, what we want."
He was not frightened, but the man's manner displeased him, and, without
answering, he walked toward the door indicated, and quietly opened it.
An old gentleman was standing with his back to the door, looking into
the fire, and one rather younger, was writing steadily away at a desk.
The former never moved; the latter simply raised his head with an
annoyed look, and motioned to Davie to close the door.
"I am David Morrison, sir."
"Oh, Davie! Davie! And the old blue bonnet, too! Oh, Davie! Davie,
lad!"
As for Davie, he was quite overcome. With a cry of joy so keen that it
was like a sob of pain, he fell fainting to the floor. When he became
conscious again he knew that he had been very ill, for there were two
physicians by his side, and Sandy's face was full of anguish and
anxiety.
"He will do now, sir. It was only the effect of a severe shock on a
system too impoverished to bear it. Give him a good meal and a glass of
wine."
Sandy was not long in following out this prescription, and during it
what a confiding session these two hearts held! Davie told his sad
history in his own unselfish way, making little of all his sacrifices,
and saying a great deal about his son Sandy, and Sandy's girls and boys.
But the light in his brother's eyes, and the tender glow of admiration
with which he regarded the unconscious hero, showed that he understood
pretty clearly the part that Davie had always taken.
"However, I am o'erpaid for every grief I ever had, Sandy," said Davie,
in conclusion, "since I have seen your face again, and you're just
handsomer than ever, and you eight years older than me, too."
Yes, it was undeniable that Alexander Morrison was still a very
handsome, hale old gentleman; but yet there was many a trace of labor
and sorrow on his face; and he had known both.
For many years after he had left Davie, life had been a very hard battle
to him. During the first twenty years of their separation, indeed, Davie
had perhaps been the better off, and the happier of the two.
When the war broke out, Sandy had enlisted early, and, like Davie,
carried through all its chances and changes the hope of finding his
brother. Both of them had returned to their homes after the struggle
equally hopeless and poor.
But during the last eleven years fortune had smiled on Sandy. Some call
of friendship for a dead comrade led him to a little Pennsylvania
village, and while there he made a small speculation in oil, which was
successful. He resolved to stay there, rented his little Western farm,
and went into the oil business.
"And I have saved thirty thousand dollars, hard cash, Davie. Half of it
is yours, and half mine. See! Fifteen thousand has been entered from
time to time in your name. I told you, Davie, that when I came back we
would share dollar for dollar, and I would not touch a cent of your
share no more than I would rob the United States Treasury."
It was a part of Davie's simple nature that he accepted it without any
further protestation. Instinctively he felt that it was the highest
compliment he could pay his brother. It was as if he said: "I firmly
believed the promise you made me more than forty years ago, and I firmly
believe in the love and sincerity which this day redeems it." So Davie
looked with a curious joyfulness at the vouchers which testified to
fifteen thousand dollars lying in the Chemical Bank, New York, to the
credit of David Morrison; and then he said, with almost the delight of a
schoolboy:
"And what will you do wi' yours, Sandy?"
"I am going to buy a farm in New Jersey, Davie. I was talking with Mr.
Black about it this morning. It will cost twelve thousand dollars, but
the gentleman says it will be worth double that in a very few years. I
think that myself, Davie, for I went yesterday to take a good look at
it. It is never well to trust to other folks' eyes, you know."
"Then, Sandy, I'll go shares wi' you. We'll buy the farm together and
we'll live together--that is, if you would like it."
"What would I like better?"
"Maybe you have a wife, and then--"
"No, I have no wife, Davie. She died nearly thirty years ago. I have no
one but you."
"And we will grow small fruits, and raise chickens and have the finest
dairy in the State, Sandy."
"That is just my idea, Davie."
Thus they talked until the winter evening began to close in upon them,
and then Davie recollected that his boy, Sandy, would be more than
uneasy about him.
"I'll not ask you there to-night, brother; I want them all to myself
to-night. 'Deed, I've been selfish enough to keep this good news from
them so long."
So, with a hand-shake that said what no words could say, the brothers
parted, and Davie made haste to catch the next up-town car. He thought
they never had traveled so slowly; he was half inclined several times to
get out and run home.
When he arrived there the little kitchen was dark, but there was a fire
in the stove and wee Davie--his namesake--was sitting, half crying,
before it.
The child lifted his little sorrowful face to his grandfather's, and
tried to smile as he made room for him in the warmest place.
"What's the matter, Davie?"
"I have had a bad day, grandfather. I did not sell my papers, and Jack
Dacey gave me a beating besides; and--and I really do think my toes are
frozen off."
Then Davie pulled the lad on to his knee, and whispered
"Oh, my wee man, you shall sell no more papers. You shall have braw new
clothes, and go to school every day of your life. Whist! yonder comes
mammy."
Sallie came in with a worried look, which changed to one of reproach
when she saw Davie.
"Oh, father, how could you stay abroad this way? Sandy is fair daft
about you, and is gone to the police stations, and I don't know where--"
Then she stopped, for Davie had come toward her, and there was such a
new, strange look on his face that it terrified her, and she could only
say: "Father! father! what is it?"
"It is good news, Sallie. My brother Sandy is come, and he has just
given me fifteen thousand dollars; and there is a ten-dollar bill, dear
lass, for we'll have a grand supper to-night, please God."
By and by they heard poor Sandy's weary footsteps on the stair, and
Sallie said:
"Not a word, children. Let grandfather tell your father."
Davie went to meet him, and, before he spoke, Sandy saw, as Sallie had
seen, that his father's countenance was changed, and that something
wonderful had happened.
"What is the matter, father?"
"Fifteen thousand dollars is the matter, my boy; and peace and comfort
and plenty, and decent clothes and school for the children, and a happy
home for us all in some nice country place."
When Sandy heard this he kissed his father, and then covering his face
with his hands, sobbed out:
"Thank God! thank God!"
It was late that night before either the children or the elders could go
to sleep. Davie told them first of the farm that Sandy and he were going
to buy together, and then he said to his son:
"Now, my dear lad, what think you is best for Sallie and the children?"
"You say, father, that the village where you are going is likely to grow
fast."
"It is sure to grow. Two lines of railroad will pass through it in a
month."
"Then I would like to open a carpenter's shop there. There will soon be
work enough; and we will rent some nice little cottage, and the children
can go to school, and it will be a new life for us all. I have often
dreamed of such a chance, but I never believed it would come true."
But the dream came more than true. In a few weeks Davie and his brother
were settled in their new home, and in the adjoining village Alexander
Morrison, junior, had opened a good carpenter and builder's shop, and
had begun to do very well.
Not far from it was the coziest of old stone houses, and over it Sallie
presided. It stood among great trees, and was surrounded by a fine fruit
garden, and was prettily furnished throughout; besides which, and best
of all, _it was their own_--a New Year's gift from the kindest of
grandfathers and uncles. People now have got well used to seeing the
Brothers Morrison.
They are rarely met apart. They go to market and to the city together.
What they buy they buy in unison, and every bill of sale they give bears
both their names. Sandy is the ruling spirit, but Davie never suspects,
for Sandy invariably says to all propositions, "If my brother David
agrees, I do," or, "If brother David is satisfied, I have no more to
say," etc.
Some of the villagers have tried to persuade them that they must be
lonely, but they know better than that. Old men love a great deal of
quiet and of gentle meandering retrospection; and David and Sandy have
each of them forty years' history to tell the other. Then they are both
very fond of young Sandy and the children.
Sandy's projects and plans and building contracts are always well talked
over at the farm before they are signed, and the children's lessons and
holidays, and even their new clothes, interest the two old men almost as
much as they do Sallie.
As for Sallie, you would scarcely know her. She is no longer cross with
care and quarrelsome with hunger. I always did believe that prosperity
was good for the human soul, and Sallie Morrison proves the theory. She
has grown sweet tempered in its sunshine, is gentle and forbearing to
her children, loving and grateful to her father-in-law, and her
husband's heart trusts in her.
Therefore let all those fortunate ones who are in prosperity give
cheerfully to those who ask of them. It will bring a ten-fold blessing
on what remains, and the piece of silver sent out on its pleasant errand
may happily touch the hand that shall bring the giver good fortune
through all the years of life.