Winter Evening Tales | Page 3

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