Only This Once

Over the solemn mountains and the misty moorlands the chill spring night
was falling. David Scott, master shepherd for MacAllister, of Allister,
thought of his ewes and lambs, pulled his Scotch bonnet over his brows,
and taking his staff in his hand, turned his face to the hills.
David Scott was a mystic in his own way; the mountains were to him
"temples not made with hands," and in them he had seen and heard
wonderful things. Years of silent communion with nature had made him
love her in all her moods, and he passionately believed in God.
The fold was far up the mountains, but the sheep knew the shepherd's
voice, and the peculiar bark of his dog; they answered them gladly, and
were soon safely and warmly housed. Then David and Keeper slowly took
their way homeward, for the steep, rocky hills were not easy walking for
an old man in the late gloaming.
Passing a wild cairn of immense stones, Keeper suddenly began to bark
furiously, and a tall, slight figure leaped from their shelter, raised a
stick, and would have struck the dog if David had not called out,
"Never strie a sheep-dog, mon! The bestie willna harm ye."
The stranger then came forward; asked David if there was any cottage
near where he could rest all night, said that he had come out for a
day's fishing, had got separated from his companions, lost his way and
was hungry and worn out.
David looked him steadily in the face and read aright the nervous manner
and assumed indifference. However, hospitality is a sacred tradition
among Scotch mountaineers, whoever, or whatever the young man was, David
acknowledged his weariness and hunger as sufficient claim upon his oaten
cake and his embers.
It was evident in a few moments that Mr. Semple was not used to the
hills. David's long, firm walk was beyond the young man's efforts; he
stumbled frequently in the descent, the springy step necessary when they
came to the heather distressed him; he was almost afraid of the gullies
David took without a thought. These things the old man noted, and they
weighed far more with him than all the boastful tongue could say.
The cottage was soon reached--a very humble one--only "a but and a ben,"
with small windows, and a thatched roof; but Scotland has reared great
men in such cottages, and no one could say that it was not clean and
cheerful. The fire burnt brightly upon the white hearthstone, and a
little round deal table stood before it. Upon this table were oaten
cakes and Ayreshire cheese and new milk, and by its side sat a young man
reading.
"Archie, here is a strange _gentleman_ I found up at Donald's cairn."
The two youths exchanged looks and disliked each other. Yet Archie Scott
rose, laid aside his book, and courteously offered his seat by the fire.
The stranger took it, eat heartily of the simple meal, joined decently
in their solemn worship, and was soon fast asleep in Archie's bed. Then
the old man and his son sat down and curtly exchanged their opinions.
"I don't like yon lad, fayther, and I more than distrust his being aught
o' a gentleman."
David smoked steadily a few minutes ere he replied:
"He's eat and drank and knelt wi' us, Archie, and it's nane o' our duty
to judge him."
When Archie spoke again it was of other matters.
"Fayther, I'm sore troubled wi' MacAllister's accounts; what wi' the
sheep bills and the timber and the kelp, things look in a mess like.
There is a right way and a wrong way to keep tally of them and I can't
find it out."
"The right way is to keep the facts all correct and honest to a straw's
worth--then the figures are bound to come right, I should say."
It was an old trouble that Archie complained about. He was MacAllister's
steward, appointed by virtue of his sterling character and known worth;
but struggling constantly with ignorance of the methods by which even
the most honest business can alone satisfactorily prove its honest
condition.
When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, Archie had disappeared, and David
was standing in the door, smoking. David liked his guest less in the
morning than he had done at night.
"Ye dinna seem to relish your parritch, sir," said David rather grimly.
Mr. Semple said he really had never been accustomed to anything but
strong tea and hot rolls, with a little kippered salmon or marmalade; he
had never tasted porridge before.
"More's the pity, my lad. Maybe if you had been brought up on decent
oatmeal you would hae thankit God for your food;" for Mr. Semple's
omission of grace, either before or after his meat, greatly displeased
the old man.
The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, and looked out. There was a
fresh wind, bringing with it flying showers and damp, chilling
mists--wet heather under foot, and no sunshine above. David saw
something in the anxious, wretched face that aroused keen suspicion. He
looked steadily into Mr. Semple's pale, blue eyes, and said:
"Wha are you rinnin awa from, my lad?"
"Sir!"
There was a moment's angry silence. Suddenly David raised his hand,
shaded his eyes and peered keenly down the hills. Mr. Semple followed
this movement with great interest.
"What are you looking at, Mr. Scott? Oh! I see. Two men coming up this
way. Do you know who they are?"
"They may be gangers or they may be strangers, or they may be
policemen--I dinna ken them mysel'."
"Mr. Scott! For God's sake, Mr. Scott! Don't give me up, and I will tell
you the whole truth."
"I thought so!" said David, sternly. "Well, come up the hills wi' me;
yon men will be here in ten minutes, whoever they are."
There were numerous places of partial shelter known to the shepherd, and
he soon led the way to a kind of cave, pretty well concealed by
overhanging rocks and trailing, briery stems.
The two sat down on a rude granite bowlder, and the elder having waited
until his companion had regained his breath, said:
"You'll fare best wi' me, lad, if you tell the truth in as few words as
may be; I dinna like fine speeches."
"Mr. Scott, I am Duncan Nevin's bookkeeper and cashier. He's a tea
dealer in the Gallowgate of Glasgow. I'm short in my cash, and he's a
hard man, so I run away."
"Sortie, lad! Your cash dinna gang wrang o' itself. If you werna ashamed
to steal it, ye needna be ashamed to confess it. Begin at the
beginning."
The young man told his shameful story. He had got into gay, dissipated
ways, and to meet a sudden demand had taken three pounds from his
employer _for just once_. But the three pounds had swollen into sixteen,
and finding it impossible to replace it, he had taken ten more and fled,
hoping to hide in the hills till he could get rowed off to some passing
ship and escape to America. He had no friends, and neither father nor
mother. At mention of this fact, David's face relaxed.
"Puir lad!" he muttered. "Nae father, and nae mother, 'specially; that's
a awfu' drawback."
"You may give me up if you like, Mr. Scott. I don't care much; I've
been a wretched fellow for many a week; I am most broken-hearted
to-day."
"It's not David Scott that will make himself hard to a broken heart,
when God in heaven has promised to listen to it. I'll tell you what I
will do. You shall gie me all the money you have, every shilling; it's
nane o' yours, ye ken that weel; and I'll take it to your master, and
get him to pass by the ither till you can earn it. I've got a son, a
decent, hard-working lad, who's daft to learn your trade--bookkeeping.
Ye sail stay wi' me till he kens a' the ins and outs o' it, then I'll
gie ye twenty pounds. I ken weel this is a big sum, and it will make a
big hole in my little book at the Ayr Bank, but it will set Archie up.
"Then when ye have earned it, ye can pay back all you have stolen,
forbye having four pounds left for a nest-egg to start again wi'. I
dinna often treat mysel' to such a bit o' charity as this, and, 'deed,
if I get na mair thanks fra heaven, than I seem like to get fra you,
there 'ud be meikle use in it," for Alexander Semple had heard the
proposal with a dour and thankless face, far from encouraging to the
good man who made it. It did not suit that youth to work all summer in
order to pay back what he had come to regard as "off his mind;" to
denude himself of every shilling, and be entirely dependent on the
sternly just man before him. Yet what could he do? He was fully in
David's power; so he signified his assent, and sullenly enough gave up
the £9 14s. 2d. in his possession.
"I'm a good bookkeeper, Mr. Scott," he said; "the bargain is fair enough
for you."
"I ken Donald Nevin; he's a Campletown man, and I ken you wouldna hae
keepit his books if you hadna had your business at your finger-ends."
The next day David went to Glasgow, and saw Mr. Semple's master. The £9
odd was lost money found, and predisposed him to the arrangement
proposed. David got little encouragement from Mr. Nevin, however; he
acknowledged the clerk's skill in accounts, but he was conceited of his
appearance, ambitious of being a fashionable man, had weak principles
and was intensely selfish. David almost repented him of his kindness,
and counted grudgingly the shillings that the journey and the carriage
of Mr. Semple's trunks cost him.
Indeed it was a week or two before things settled pleasantly in the hill
cottage; the plain living, pious habits and early hours of the shepherd
and his son did not at all suit the city youth. But Archie, though
ignorant of the reasons which kept such a dandy in their humble home,
soon perceived clearly the benefit he could derive from him. And once
Archie got an inkling of the meaning of "double entry" he was never
weary of applying it to his own particular business; so that in a few
weeks Alexander Semple was perfectly familiar with MacAllister's
affairs.
Still, Archie cordially disliked his teacher, and about the middle of
summer it became evident that a very serious cause of quarrel was
complicating the offence. Coming up from MacAllister's one lovely summer
gloaming Archie met Semple with Katie Morrison, the little girl whom he
had loved and courted since ever he carried her dinner and slate to
school for her. How they had come to know each other he could not tell;
he had exercised all his tact and prudence to prevent it, evidently
without avail. He passed the couple with ill-concealed anger; Katie
looked down, Semple nodded in what Archie believed to be an insolent
manner.
That night David Scott heard from his son such an outburst of anger as
the lad had never before exhibited. In a few days Mr. Semple went to
Greenock for a day or two. Soon it was discovered that Katie had been in
Greenock two days at her married sister's. Then they heard that the
couple had married and were to sail for America. They then discovered
that Archie's desk had been opened and £46 in notes and gold taken.
Neither of the men had any doubt as to the thief; and therefore Archie
was angry and astonished to find his father doubt and waver and seem
averse to pursue him. At last he acknowledged all, told Archie that if
he made known his loss, _he also_ must confess that he had knowingly
harbored an acknowledged thief, and tacitly given him the opportunity of
wronging his employer. He doubted very much whether anyone would give
him credit for the better feelings which had led him to this course of
conduct.
Archie's anger cooled at once; he saw the dilemma; to these simple
people a good name was better than gold. It took nearly half the savings
of a long life, but the old man went to Ayr and drew sufficient to
replace the stolen money. He needed to make no inquiries about Semple.
On Tuesday it was known by everyone in the village that Katie Morrison
and Alexander Semple had been married the previous Friday, and sailed
for America the next day. After this certainty father and son never
named the subject but once more. It was on one calm, spring evening,
some ten years after, and David lay within an hour of the grave.
"Archie!" he said, suddenly, "I don't regret to-night what I did ten
years ago. Virtuous actions sometimes fail, but virtuous lives--never!
Perhaps I had a thought o' self in my good intent, and that spoiled all.
If thou hast ever a chance, do better than I did."
"I will, father."
During these ten years there had been occasional news from the exiles.
Mrs. Morrison stopped Archie at intervals, as he passed her door, and
said there had been a letter from Katie. At first they came frequently,
and were tinged with brightest hopes. Alexander had a fine place, and
their baby was the most beautiful in the world. The next news was that
Alexander was in business for himself and making money rapidly. Handsome
presents, that were the wonder of the village, then came occasionally,
and also remittances of money that made the poor mother hold her head
proudly about "our Katie" and her "splendid house and carriage."
But suddenly all letters stopped, and the mother thought for long they
must be coming to see her, but this hope and many another faded, and the
fair morning of Katie's marriage was shrouded in impenetrable gloom and
mystery.
Archie got bravely over his trouble, and a while after his father's
death married a good little woman, not quite without "the bit of
siller." Soon after he took his savings to Edinburgh and joined his
wife's brother in business there. Things prospered with him, slowly but
surely, and he became known for a steady, prosperous merchant, and a
douce pious householder, the father of a fine lot of sons and daughters.
One night, twenty years after the beginning of my story, he was passing
through the old town of Edinburgh, when a wild cry of "Fire! Fire!
Fire!" arose on every side of him.
"Where?" he asked of the shrieking women pouring from all the filthy,
narrow wynds around.
"In Gordon's Wynd."
He was there almost the first of any efficient aid, striving to make his
way up the smoke-filled stairs, but this was impossible. The house was
one of those ancient ones, piled story upon story; so old that it was
almost tinder. But those on the opposite side were so close that not
unfrequently a plank or two flung across from opposite windows made a
bridge for the benefit of those seeking to elude justice.
By means of such a bridge all the inhabitants of the burning house were
removed, and no one was more energetic in carrying the women and
children across the dangerous planks than Archie Scott; for his mountain
training had made such a feat one of no extraordinary danger to him.
Satisfied at length that all life was out of risk, he was turning to go
home, when a white, terrible face looked out of the top-most floor,
showing itself amid the gusts of smoke like the dream of a corpse, and
screaming for help in agonizing tones. Archie knew that face only too
well. But he remembered, in the same instant, what his father had said
in dying, and, swift as a mountain deer, he was quickly on the top floor
of the opposite house again.
In a few moments the planks bridged the distance between death and
safety; but no entreaties could make the man risk the dangerous passage.
Setting tight his lips, Archie went for the shrieking coward, and
carried him into the opposite house. Then the saved man recognized his
preserver.
"Oh, Mr. Scott!" he said, "for God's sake, my wife and my child! The
last of seven!"
"You scoundrel! Do you mean to say you saved yourself before Katie and
your child!"
Archie did not wait for the answer; again he was at the window of the
burning room. Too late! The flames were already devouring what the smoke
had smothered; their wretched pallet was a funeral pyre. He had hardly
time to save his own life.
"They are dead, Semple!"
Then the poor creature burst into a paroxysm of grief, moaned and
cried, and begged a few shillings, and vowed he was the most miserable
creature on earth.
After this Archie Scott strove for two years to do without taint of
selfishness what his father had begun twenty years before. But there was
not much now left to work upon--health, honor, self-respect were all
gone. Poor Semple was content to eat the bread of dependence, and then
make boastful speeches of his former wealth and position. To tell of his
wonderful schemes, and to abuse his luck and his false friends, and
everything and everybody, but the real cause of his misfortune.
Archie gave him some trifling post, with a salary sufficient for every
decent want, and never heeded, though he knew Semple constantly spoke
ill of him behind his back.
However the trial of Archie's patience and promise did not last very
long. It was a cold, snowy night in mid-winter that Archie was called
upon to exercise for the last time his charity and forbearance toward
him; and the parting scene paid for all. For, in the shadow of the
grave, the poor, struggling soul dropped all pretences, acknowledged all
its shortcomings, thanked the forbearance and charity which had been
extended so many years, and humbly repented of its lost and wasted
opportunities.
"Draw close to me, Archie Scott," he said, "and tell your four brave
boys what my dying words to them were: Never to yield to temptation for
_only this once_. To be quite sure that all the gear and gold that
_comes with sin_ will _go with sorrow_. And never to doubt that to every
_evil doer_ will certainly come his _evil day_."