The Unjust Steward or The Minister's Debt

Frank went out that evening to meet some of his daily companions with a great deal in his mind, but not any panic or dismay. He would not believe that the “Scotch property” could have been all frittered away by the loans which his old uncle had made, however imprudent or foolish the old man might have been in that way. He had, indeed, so just and calm a mind, that he did not harshly condemn Mr. Anderson for making these loans as his mother did; he was even willing to allow that a man had a right to do what he liked with his own, even if he had a grand-nephew to provide for, especially one who was not entirely dependent upon him, but had already a comfortable provision of his own. As he went out into the evening air, and strolled towards the club of which he was a member, and where, as I have said, the young men, who were not yet members, had a way of meeting outside, and under the verandah, arranging their matches for next day, and talking out their gossip like their elders within—he turned over the matter in his mind, and reconciled himself to it. It is foolish, he said to himself, to lend your money without interest, and without a proper certainty of one day getting it back—but still the old gentleman had no doubt his reasons for doing this, and might have had his equivalent or even been paid back without anybody knowing, as nobody knew who the borrowers were: and at the worst, if the money was lost, it was lost, and there was an end of it, and no need to upbraid poor old uncle, who probably thought himself quite entitled to do what he liked with his own. He did not believe that the estate could have been seriously impoverished in any such manner; but he thought that he might perhaps make inquiries in his own way, and even consult Mr. Buchanan, who probably would be willing enough to help him, though he might not perhaps feel disposed to respond to Mrs. Mowbray’s more urgent appeals. Frank, of course, knew his mother’s weak points, as all our children do, with an unerring certainty produced by the long unconscious study of childhood of all we say and do. His affection for her was quite unimpaired, but he knew exactly how she would address herself to the minister, with a vehemence and an indignation against Uncle Anderson, which Frank was impartial enough to feel, was not deserved. He would approach him quite differently—as a man to a man, Frank said to himself—and if there was really anything to be done in that way, any bloated debtor, as his mother supposed, who had grown fat on Uncle Anderson’s bounty, and was not honourable enough to pay back what had been the origin of his fortune—why, the minister would probably tell him, and that would be so much gained.

When he thought, however, of thus meeting the minister in private session, Frank’s orderly and steady heart beat a little higher. Before all questions of Uncle Anderson’s debtors, there was one of much more importance—and that was the question of Elsie, which meant far more to Frank than money, or even the whole of the Scotch property—at least he thought so for the moment: but things were by no means so far advanced as to justify him in asking an interview with Mr. Buchanan on that subject. Alas! no, Elsie was never in the same mind (he thought) for any two meetings. Sometimes she was delightful to him, accepting his attentions; which, however, were no more than were paid to her by several other admirers as if she liked them, and giving him dances, almost as many as he asked, and allowing him to walk by her side in the weekly promenade on the Links, and talking to him sweetly, whatever his company might be: but next time they met, Elsie would be engaged for every dance, she would be flanked by other competitors on each side, and if she gave Frank a bow and a smile in passing, that would be all he obtained from her—so that if he were sometimes high in hope, he was at others almost in despair. Should he ever be allowed to see Mr. Buchanan on the subject, to ask his daughter from him? Ah, that depended! not upon Frank, but upon Elsie, who was no longer a little girl, but at the height of her simple sway, one of the prettiest girls in St. Rule’s, and enjoying the position, and with no intention of cutting it short. Frank breathed a sigh, that almost blew out the lamps in the High Street, lamps already lighted, and shining in the lingering daylight, like strange little jewelled points, half green, half yellow. The electric light shines white in that street now, and makes the whole world look dead, and all the moving people like ghosts. But the lamps then were like jewels, with movement and consciousness in them, trembling in the colourless radiance of the long evening: for it was now summer weather, and already the days were long.

When the assembly outside the club dispersed, it happened to be Frank’s luck to walk up the town with Rodie Buchanan, whose way was the same as his own. They went round by the West Port, though it was out of their way, to convoy Johnny Wemyss to his lodgings. Johnnie did not make matches for next day, except at rare intervals, for he was busy, either “coaching” his pupils (but that word had not then been invented), or working (as he called it) on the sands with his net and his “wee spy-glass,” playing himself, the natives called it: or else he was reading theology for the next examination; but he allowed himself to walk down to the club in the evening, where all the young men met.

Johnny was not much younger than Frank, but he was paternal to the others, having the airs and aims of a man, and having put, chiefly by necessity, but a little also by inclination, boyish things from him; he was as much in advance of Frank as he was of Rodie, who had not yet attained his twentieth year.

The night was lovely, clear, and mild, and they made the round by the West Port very pleasantly together, and stood for a long time at the stairfoot of Johnny’s humble lodging, which was in one of the old-fashioned square two-storied houses at that end of the town, which still retained the picturesque distinction of an outside stair. It was not thought picturesque then, but only old-fashioned, and a mark of poverty, everybody’s ambition being to have a more modern and convenient house. The young men continued to discuss the matches past and present, and how Alick Seaton was off his game, and Bob Sinclair driving like fire, and the Beatons in force playing up to each other, so that they were awfully hard to beat in a foursome. Johnny took the interest of a born golfer in these particulars, though he himself played so little; and Frank, on ordinary occasions, had all the technicality of a neophyte, and outdid his more learned companions in all the terms of the game.

But when they had left Johnny at his stairfoot, and, looking back, had seen the light of his candles leap into the darkness of the window, and wondered for a moment how he could sit down to work at this hour, they proceeded along the long line of the High Street for a minute or two in silence. Rodie was taller, stronger, and heavier than Frank, though so much younger, and had a little compassionate sympathy for the fellow, who, at his antiquated age, four-and-twenty, was still only a beginner at golf.

The big youth was considering how to break down certain well considered advices for future play into terms adapted for the intellect of his elder, when Frank suddenly took the word, and began thus:

“I say, Rodie! do you remember my old Uncle Anderson, and do you know anything about him? he must have been a queer old chap, if what my mother has been telling me is true about him.”

“Ten to one–” said Rodie: but paused in time—he was about to say “ten to one it isn’t true”—for he heard of Mrs. Mowbray’s paint and powder (which at the worst was only powder), and knew her over-civility and affectations, and therefore concluded frankly, as became his age, that nothing about her could be true. But he remembered in time that this could not fitly be said to her son. “Ten to one it’s just stories,” Rodie said; “there’s stories about everybody; it is an awful town for stories, St. Rule’s.”

“I daresay that is true enough,” said Frank; “but it seems that this is more than stories. They say he lent money to everybody, and never took any note or acknowledgment: and the people have never paid. They certainly should have paid; especially as, having no acknowledgment, it became, don’t you see, a debt of honour. There is something which I don’t quite understand about some Statute of Limitations that makes it impossible to recover money after a certain number of years. I don’t know much about the law myself; but my mother’s a great hand. Do you know anything about the Statute of Limitations, you that are going to be a W. S.?”

“Who said I was going to be a W. S.?” cried Rodie, red with indignation. “Nothing of the sort: I’m going into the army. It’s John that is the W. S.; but I think I’ve heard of it,” he added sulkily, after a moment, “sometimes he tells us about his cases. If you’re not asked for the money for so many years, it’s considered that you have been forgiven: but on the other hand if they asked for it, you’re still bound; I’ve heard something like that from John.”

“Oh, then I suppose,” cried Frank, “it is rather urgent, and we ought to ask for it to preserve our claim.”

There is a universal sentiment in the human heart against a creditor wishing to recover, and in favour of the debtor who is instinctively understood not to be able to pay. Especially strong is this sentiment in the bosom of the young; to lend is a fine thing, but to ask back again is always a mean proceeding. Rodie instinctively hardened himself against the legal rights of his friend.

“There’s men,” he said, “I’ve heard, that are constantly dunning you to pay them. I would rather never borrow a penny if it was to be like that.”

“I would rather never borrow a penny whether it was like that or not,” said the virtuous Frank.

“Oh, it’s easy speaking for you, that have more money than you know what to do with; but if you think of my commission, and where the money is to come from.”

“Most likely,” said Frank, without any special meaning, merely as a conjecture, “if my Uncle Anderson had been living, your father would have got it from him.”

Rodie grew redder than ever under this suggestion. “It might be so,” he said; “but I hope you are not meaning that my father would not have paid the money back, whoever it came from: for if that is what you are meaning, you’re a–”

“I was meaning nothing of the kind,” cried Frank in a hurry; for to have the word leear, even though it is a mild version of liar, flung in his face by Rodie Buchanan, the brother of Elsie, was a thing he did not at all desire. “I hope I know better: but I wish I could speak to your father about my affairs, for I know that he was Uncle Anderson’s great friend, and he is sure to know.”

“To know what?” said Rodie.

“Oh, to know the people that borrowed from my uncle, and did not pay. I hope you don’t think I ought to let them off when they have behaved like that.”

“Behaved like what?” Rodie asked again.

“What is the matter with you, Rodie? I am saying nothing that is wrong. If my uncle lent them money, they ought to pay.”

“And do you think,” cried Rodie, in high indignation, “that my father would betray to you the names of the poor bodies that got a little money from Mr. Anderson to set them up in their shops, or to buy them a boat? Do you think if you were to talk to him till doomsday, that my father would do that?”

“Why shouldn’t he?” said Frank, whose intellect was not of a subtle kind. “People should pay back the money when they have borrowed it. It is not as if it had been given to them as a present; Mr. Buchanan has been very kind to me, and I shouldn’t ask him to do anything that was not right, neither would I be hard on any poor man. I was not told they were very poor men who had got my old uncle’s money; and surely they had not so good a right to it as I have. I don’t want to do anything that is cruel; but I will have my money if I can get it, for I have a right to it,” Frank said, whose temper was gradually rising; yet not so much his temper as a sensation of justice and confidence in his own cause.

“You had better send in the sheriff’s officers,” said Rodie, contemptuously, “and take their plenishing, or the stock in the shop, or the boat. But if you do, Frank Mowbray, mind you this, there is not one of us will ever speak to you again.”

“One of you!” cried Frank, “I don’t want to quarrel with you, Rodie; but you are all a great deal younger than I am, and I am not going to be driven by you. I’ll see your father, and ask his advice, and I shall do what he says; but if you think I am going to be driven by you, from anything that is right in itself, you’re mistaken: and that’s all I have got to say.”

“You are a prig, and a beast, and a cruel creditor,” cried Rodie. “Not the kind for us in St. Rule’s: and good-night to you, and if you find nobody to play with to-morrow, you will just mind that you’ve chosen to put yourself against us, and it’s your own fault.”

Saying which, Rodie made a stride against the little garden gate which led to the Buchanan’s front door, flung it inwards with a clang, and disappeared under the shadow of the dark elder-tree which overshadowed the entrance.

It was not until that moment that Frank realised what the consequence might be of quarrelling with Elsie’s brother. He called after him, but Rodie was remorseless, and would not hear; and then the young man went home very sadly. Everybody knew that Rodie was Elsie’s favourite brother; she liked him better than all the rest. If Rodie asked anything of her, Elsie was sure to grant almost everything to his request: and Frank had been such a fool as to offend him! He could not think how he could have been so foolish as to do it. It was the act of a madman, he said to himself. What was a few hundreds, or even thousands in comparison with Elsie, even if he recovered his money? It would be no good to him if he had to sacrifice his love.

Frank was not a young man who despised either hundreds or thousands, and probably, later, if all went well with him, he might think himself a fool to sacrificing good money for any other consideration; but he certainly was not in this state of feeling now. Elsie and Rodie, and the Statute of Limitations, and the money that Uncle Anderson had strewed about broadcast, jumbled each other in his mind. What did it matter to him if he lost the favour of his love? and on the other hand the pity it would be to lose the money for want of asking for it, and knowing who the man was who had got it, and had not had the honesty to pay. He grew angrier and angrier at these people as he went along, seeing that in addition to this fundamental sin against him, they were also the cause of his quarrel with Rodie, and terrible dismissal by Elsie. The cads! to hold their tongues and conceal who they were, when it was a debt of honour; and to trust in such a poor defence as a Statute of Limitations, and to part him from the girl he loved. He had been more curious than eager before, thinking besides the natural feeling one has not to be robbed, and to recover at all hazard that which is one’s own, however wicked people should endeavour to cheat one out of it—that it would be fun to break through the secret pretences of those people, and force them to disgorge the money they had unlawfully obtained; but now Frank began to have a personal animosity against those defaulters, as his mother called them, who not only had cheated him of his money, but had made him to quarrel with Rodie, and perhaps with Rodie’s sister. Confound them! they should not be let off now. He would find them, though all the world united in concealing them. He would teach them to take away his inheritance, and interfere between him and his love! It was with these sentiments hot in his heart that he hastened home.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE UNJUST STEWARD ONCE MORE

Rodie Buchanan plunged into the partial darkness of his father’s house, with a heart still more hot and flaming than that of Frank. He could not have told anyone why he took this so much to heart. It was not that he was unusually tender of his neighbours, or charitable beyond the ordinary rule of kindness, which was current in St. Rule’s. He was one of those who would never have refused a penny to a beggar, or a bawbee to a weeping child, provided he had either the penny or the bawbee in his ill-furnished pockets, which sometimes was not the case; but, having done that by habit and natural impulse, there was no necessity in Rodie’s mind to do more, or to make himself the champion of the poor, so that he really was not aware what the reason was which made him turn so hotly against Frank, in his equally natural determination to get back what was his own. The hall and staircase of Mr. Buchanan’s house lay almost completely in the dark. There was one candle burning on a little table at the foot of the stair, which made the darkness visible, but above there was no light at all. Gas was not general in those days, nor were there lamps in common use, such as those which illuminate every part of our dwellings now. The dark passages and dreadful black corners of stair or corridor, which are so familiar in the stories of the period, those dreadful passages, through which the children flew with their hearts beating, not knowing what hand might grip them in the dark, or terrible thing come after them, must perplex the children of to-day, who know nothing about them, and never have any dark passages to go through. But, in those days, to get from the nursery to the drawing-room by night, unless you were preceded by the nursery-maid with a candle, was more alarming than anything a child’s imagination could grasp nowadays. You thought of it for a minute or two before you undertook it; and then, with a rush, you dared the perils of the darkness, flinging yourself against the door to which you were bound, all breathless and trembling, like one escaped from nameless dangers. Rodie, nearly twenty, big and strong, and fearing nothing, had got over all those tremors. He strode up the dark stairs, three at a time, and flung open the drawing-room door, groping for it in the wall. He knew what, at that hour, he would be likely to find there. It was the hour when Mrs. Buchanan invariably went to the study “to see what papa was doing,” to make sure that his fire was mended, if he meant to sit up over his sermon, or that things were comfortable for him in other ways when fires were not necessary. The summer was not far advanced, and fires were still thought necessary in the evenings at St. Rule’s. Between the fire and the table was seated Elsie, with a large piece of “whiteseam,” that is, plain sewing, on her knee, and two candles burning beside her. Another pair of candlesticks was on the mantelpiece, repeated in the low mirror which hung over it, but these candles were not lighted, neither were those on the writing-table at the other end of the room. When there was company, or, indeed, any visitor, in the evening they were lighted. The pair on the mantelpiece only when the visitor was unimportant, but the whole six when anybody of consequence was there, and then, you may suppose, how bright the room was, lighted al giorus, so to speak. But the household, and Elsie’s little friends, when they came rushing in with some commission from their mothers, were very well contented with the two on the table. They wanted snuffing often, but still they gave, what was then supposed to be, a very good light.

Elsie looked up, pleased to see her brother, and let her work fall on her knee. Her needlework was one of the chief occupations of her life, and she considered the long hours she spent over it to be entirely a matter of course; but, by this hour of the night, she had naturally become a little tired of it, and was pleased to let it drop on her knee, and have a talk with Rodie over the fire. It was considered rather ill-bred to go on working, with your head bent over your sewing, when anyone came in. To be sure, it was only her brother, but Elsie was so glad to see him a little earlier than usual, that, though the task she had given herself for the evening was not quite completed, she was glad to let her seam drop upon her knees. “Oh, Rodie, is that you?” she said.

“Of course it’s me,” said Rodie. “I suppose you were not looking for anybody else at this hour?”

“I am glad you are in so soon,” said Elsie. “And who was that that came with you to the door? Not Johnny Wemyss. I could tell by his foot.”

“What have you to do with men’s feet?” said Rodie, glad to find something to spend a little of his wrath upon. “Lassies must have tremendously little to think of. I am sure I would never think if it was one person’s foot, or another, if I were sitting at home like you.”

“Well,” said Elsie, “you never do sit at home, so you cannot tell. I just notice them because I cannot help it. One foot is so different from another, almost as much as their voices. But what is the matter with you, Rodie? Have you been quarrelling with somebody? You look as if you were in a very ill key.”

“I wonder who wouldn’t be in an ill key? There is that feckless gomeril, Frank Mowbray–” (“Oh, it was Frank Mowbray?” Elsie interjected in an undertone)—“going on about debts and nonsense, and folk in the town that owe him money, and that he’s coming to my father to ask him who they are; as if my father would go and split upon poor bodies that borrowed from old Anderson. I had it in my heart,” cried Rodie, striking with his heel a piece of coal that was smouldering in the grate, and breaking it up into a hundred blazing fragments—“I had it in my heart to take him by the two shoulders, and fling him out like potato peelings into the road.”

“Oh, Rodie, my mother’s gathering coal!” cried Elsie, hastening to extinguish the fiery sparks that had fallen upon the large fur rug before the fire. “Well,” she said, serenely, in a tone which would have disposed summarily, had he heard it, of poor Frank’s hopes, “you are big enough to have done it: but I would not lift my hands, if I were you, on one that was not as big as myself. And what has Frank done? for he never was, that I could see, a quarrelling boy.”

“Oh, not that you could see!” said Rodie, with a snort. “He’s sure to keep a good face before the lassies, and especially you that he’s courting, or trying to court, if he knew the way.”

“He’s not courting me,” cried Elsie, with a blush and a laugh, giving Rodie a sisterly push, “and I wonder you will say such things to me.”

“It’s only because he doesna know the way then,” said Rodie, picking up the pieces of blazing coal from the white hearth. “Will you let me alone, when you see I have the tongs in my hand?”

“Was it for that you quarrelled with Frank?” said Elsie, letting a little careless scorn appear in her tone, as who should say, you might quarrel with many besides Frank if that was the cause. The girls in St. Rule’s, in those days, were not so disproportionate in number as they seem to be now, and she was unpopular, indeed, who had not one or two, at least, competing for her smiles.

“It was not for that!” cried Rodie, expressing, on his side, a scornful conviction that anything so unimportant was not worth quarrelling about. And then he added, “Do ye mind, Elsie, yon day in the turret-room?”

“Oh, I mind it very well,” cried Elsie, with a little start; “I have always minded it. I think of it sometimes in the middle of the night when I wake up and cannot get to sleep.”

“I cannot see what good it can do thinking of it then,” said Rodie, always contemptuous of the ways of lassies. “But you mind how my father went on about the unjust steward. It was awfully funny the way he went on.”

“It was for his sermon,” said Elsie, with a little trouble in her eyes.

“It was not for his sermon. I heard him preach that sermon after, and I just listened, minding yon afternoon. But there was not a word in it about taking your bill, and writing fourscore.”

“Oh, Rodie, you couldn’t remember it as well as all that!”

“Why shouldn’t I remember? I was a big laddie. I remember heaps of things. I mind going to Kinghorn, and crossing in the smack to Leith, years and years before.”

“That was different from hearing a sermon,” said Elsie, with the superiority to sermons which a minister’s daughter naturally possessed.

“I did mind it, however,” said Rodie, “and I knew it was not in the sermon—then where was it? and what was it for? I mind, as if it were yesterday, about taking the bill, and writing fourscore. Now, the question is,” said the young man, laying down the tongs, and gazing unwinking into the glowing abyss of the fire, “what did my father mean by yon? He did not mean just nothing at all. You would not say that.”