by G.E.S.
Originally published in The Leisure Hour (Religious Tract Society) vol.1 #1 (01 Jan 1852).
Chapter I.
One gloomy evening in autumn, two young men might have been seen arm-in-arm, and in close conversation, emerging into Cheapside from one of the narrow streets which branch from that great London thoroughfare. The gas-lights, which threw a broad and bright glare upon the pavement, would also have shown to an intelligent and quick observer that the countenance of one of these young men was troubled and expressive of indecision, and ¢hat in the other there were indications of reckless boldness. Had such an observer overheard the subdued but earnest conversation of these passengers, his impressions concerning the character of their minds would probably have been confirmed; and had he followed up his curious observation, and traced their ultimate proceedings, he would, with some justice, have set them down under two distinct heads—the TEMPTED and the TEMPTER.
Observed or not, they threaded their way through the busy and noisy street, until they arrived at a stationer's shop window. There they stopped; the bolder one of the two entered, purchased a bill stamp, then again trod the pavement, and, taking the arm of his friend, passed on.
A little later, and the two young men were seated at an obscure table in a coffee-room, near London Bridge. Coffee was before them, and a writing case and inkstand beside it.
"Now then," said the elder, "as I have to get the needful, I draw upon you, of course; you accept:" and he dipped a pen into the ink, "Will twenty-five do for you?"
"I think, after all, I had rather drop it—not go any further, I mean. I don't much like having to do with such things," said the timid one.
"Nonsense, Wilson; what do you mean? Come, don't back out now; unless, indeed, you know any better way."
"I wish I did, Maxwell," responded Wilson, with a groan; "but there is no other way, and I dare not go home without cash."
"Well then, come; you need not be faint-hearted about it. You will be able to meet this when the time comes round; and if not, we will get it renewed, that's all. The thing is done every day. It is for your good, you know. I shall get nothing by it, only the risk."
Wilson faintly expressed thanks to his friend, who proceeded glibly with his pen to draw upon Wilson for the sum of twenty-five pounds, "Value received," a bill at three months.
"Now, just accept it, and it is done."
"All but turning it into money," replied Wilson, with an attempt to smile, as he wrote across the face of the bill.
"That will soon be done. Wait here half an hour, and I will be with you by that time," said Maxwell, putting the acceptance in his pocket-book, and leaving the table. In another minute Wilson was alone, his face buried in his hands. This was his first attempt to raise money on an accommodation bill. He will get hardened by and by.
The Society of Friends, or the Quakers—as members of that society are popularly and, now at least, without any intended disrespect, called—have reason to congratulate themselves on the morality which governs their transactions at home, or in the wider world, and the prudence with which their domestic and commercial affairs are generally conducted. Turning to a volume of counsels and warnings, published under the sanction of that society, we find the following plain-spoken and emphatic caution.
"We warn all against a most pernicious practice, too much prevailing amongst the trading part of mankind, which hath often issued in the utter ruin of those concerned therein; viz., that of paper credit by what are called Accommodation Bills, with endorsements and acceptances, to give an appearance of value without an intrinsic reality: a practice highly unbecoming that uprightness which ought to appear in every member of our religious society, and of which practice we therefore think it our incumbent duty to declare our disapprobation and disunity with, as absolutely inconsistent with the truth we make profession of."
— "Nonsense!" exclaims a dashing, speculating man of business; "the principle may be good, but it cannot be carried out; we must have recourse to accommodation bills. Business cannot be carried on without them."
The best answer to be given to this is, that business is carried on without them.
Wilson had not the excuse which a trader might urge for occasionally seeking temporary relief in this way. He was not a tradesman; and while he impatiently awaits the return of his friend, we may go back five years in his history, and carry our thoughts with us to a small rural cottage about twenty miles from London.
In that cottage, one bright summer's day, and seated by a work-table strewed with many tokens of female industry, but then unemployed, except in mind, was a fair young girl. Near her sat an aged man; and, still nearer—leaning, indeed, over the back of her chair—was young Wilson.
He was in high spirits. He had just entered upon a situation that promised to be permanent. His salary was a hundred pounds a-year, with an advance in prospect. And he now claimed Mary Linton's hand in marriage. Mary was an orphan, and the aged man was her grandfather.
"I will not oppose it if you both wish it," said Mr. Linton; "but if you take my advice, you will wait a little longer."
Mary blushed, and looked disconcerted; and Wilson seemed, by his gestures, to be impatient and vexed.
"You are yet young, both of you," continued Mr. Linton.
"I am past twenty-three, my dear sir," replied Wilson; "and Mary is within a year of it."
"And to seventy-three," said the aged man, "twenty-three seems young. At any rate, would it not be better to wait one year longer—only one? You would then, my young friend, be settled in your situation, and perhaps have received some advance in salary. A hundred a-year is not much for a married couple with no other resources."
"Oh, we shall live very frugally, sir," replied Wilson: "shall we not, Mary? There are many who begin upon less than a hundred a-year. We will save money, depend upon it, sir."
Mr. Linton shook his head. "You will have to give up many luxuries, my young friend; and Mary must work and plan to make both ends meet. A hundred a-year will not keep a servant, Mary."
"I shall not want one, dear grandfather," the fair young girl whispered.
"A hundred a-year will not afford you many cigars, Albert, nor such fine things as this;" and the old man gently laid his hand upon Wilson's, on the little finger of which a ring glistened.
"I don't mean to smoke after I am married, sir; and one does not buy rings every day."
"Well, please yourselves, dears; and may the blessing which maketh rich, and addeth no sorrow, rest upon your union. I have neither inclination nor ability to control your wishes. Be honest, sober, and industrious, both of you; and with health and strength, and the blessing of God, your hundred a-year may be as good as some men's thousand. But remember, Albert—remember, Mary, that it is but a hundred! and don't go beyond it; live within it, and don't get into debt, and you may be happy."
Two months after this, the young couple were married; and in less than two years Mr. Linton died. He had nothing of value=-of money value—to leave to his granddaughter, for his chief support had been derived from a life annuity.
Meanwhile, the young couple had commenced housekeeping on a scale corresponding with their limited income. Their home was the first-floor of a small house in Walworth, belonging to a grocer, whose shop was beneath. For a time, all had been bright and promising. The hundred pounds a-year was soon advanced to a hundred and twenty; and with this, although not the cleverest of economists, Wilson and his young wife had contrived, during these two years, to keep themselves free from debt, and thus far out of danger. Wilson himself had partially—not entirely—kept his promise of cutting off the superfluous luxuries in which he was rather prone to indulge while single; and Mary had been to him a good, painstaking, and affectionate wife.
But (ah, these buts!) there was one grand deficiency in both Mary and her husband. We might go farther back in their several histories to trace and exemplify this deficiency; but this is a sketch, and not a history. Besides which, this retrograde way of telling a tale is sometimes perplexing to the reader. We have also to bear in mind that we left Wilson very abruptly in a coffee-room near London Bridge.
This deficiency, then, was in religious principle. In name they were Christians; and, inasmuch as they paid a decent regard to the common and outward observances of Christianity, they were supposed to be Christians. But they did not really love Christ; they had not really turned their backs upon "the world lying in the wicked one." One was their master, but that one was not Jesus. A religious education, pious example, parental counsels and prayers, had all given a religious tone to the character of these young people; but the spirit of life was wanting. Ah! how many in the great metropolis—how many in every city, town, and village of Great Britain—are there in this same unsatisfactory and dangerous position!
Then the young wife was deficient in the knowledge and experience which would better have fitted her to be the companion and housekeeper of such a one as her husband. She thought she managed well when, during the first two years of her married life, she kept her expenses within the bounds of her husband's earnings; when, therefore, in the following years; other sources of expense opened upon her, she was driven to her wit's end to manage at all, and she managed badly. This, by degrees, soured her temper a little, and her husband's a good deal.
Wilson himself was deficient in moral firmness; that firmness which enables a man at once to resist temptation, and to deny himself; but it was not until two or three years had passed away that this deficiency was prominently and painfully manifested. At about this period, Wilson became acquainted with Maxwell. And here we might again digress into a history of this young man. But it must suffice to say, that by him, as by a stronger spirit, the weaker-minded Wilson had been drawn into many irregularities and expensive habits, which detached him from home, and had, at length, plunged him into difficulties, from which the means of temporary relief had been presented to him in the form of an accommodation bill. And this brings us to the point from which we just now started.
The half-hour had passed away, and Wilson was still alone. He looked impatiently at the clock. Slowly and heavily every tick fell upon his ear: it had seemed an hour, at least, since Maxwell left him. At length, his companion returned.
"It's all right," said Maxwell, seating himself; "and here is the needful."
He laid the money before his friend. It was considerably short of twenty-five pounds. Wilson counted it with a nervous hand, and recounted it. "This is a heavy discount," he said.
"It is the best I could do for you, my dear fellow; those discounters will make us pay for it. I have known fifty, sixty, and even seventy per cent. taken for discount. This is only twenty-five; so you may think yourself well off."
"Our house only pays five per cent.," said Wilson, gloomily, as he took up the little heap of gold and silver.
"That is a different thing," replied Maxwell; "a regular trade bill is one thing, and an accommodation bill is another. We deal at another sort of shop too; we could not get in with our governors, if we were to try."
Wilson knew this, and in a more cheerful tone he thanked his friend for the assistance he had given; and asked him to name his own remuneration for the trouble he had taken.
"Nonsense, Wilson; I thought you knew me better. You shall do the same for me some day, and then we shall be quits. However, we will have just one glass over it, if you like, and then I must be off."
Half an hour later, and Wilson was on his road homewards, at once excited and depressed. The money in his pocket—a rare thing of late had it been for him to have any money there--would pay off his landlord's pressing demands and a long accumulated baker's bill; but the thoughts of how, in three months' time, the money could be forthcoming, and of the sum which he had sacrificed to obtain this temporary assistance, took off the edge of his satisfaction. In this state of mind he reached his home.
* * * * *
The three months passed rapidly away. "With whom does time gallop?" asks a certain writer. With the man who has put his name to a bill which he is not in a position to honour, we may with truth reply. It was so with Wilson. Night after night he had lain sleepless, and tossing uneasily on his bed. He had this bill to meet, and he did not know how he should meet it. He was in debt besides. He had thought how easy it would be to save money on a hundred a-year; he was sadly involved with a hundred and twenty. A few days more, and the bill would be due. True, there was the hope of renewal; a faint hope, which was soon to be blasted. On his return homewards one evening, he was met by Maxwell.
"Wilson, my good fellow, I am sorry to say, we cannot get that bill renewed. It is balancing time, the old fellow will be rusty, and we shall lose our hold on him for the time to come. You must manage to meet it."
"I cannot," replied Wilson, gloomily: "why did you not tell me this before?"
"Why, really, I thought you would have no difficulty. What is to be done?"
"I can do nothing. Can you help me?"
"Impossible, just now. In a few months' time we can raise the wind again; but now —"
Wilson did not wait to hear more. To drown his despair he entered a public-house. When he reached home, he was half stupified. His poor, pale, anxious wife ventured a remonstrance, and he abused her as the cause of his annoyances:—poor Mary! The next morning, haggard with sleeplessness and remorse, and headache, he made his way to the counting-house of his employers. Two days later and the bill would be due.
That evening, just as Wilson was leaving his desk, one of the partners of his house called him aside. With a beating heart and stricken conscience, the young man followed.
"Mr. Wilson," said his employer, "we have observed of late that you have been far from well. We fear that confinement and application to business have been injurious to you; and we do not wish to draw too heavily upon the health and spirits of our young men. You have not had a holiday lately. If you like—it is now a slack time—you may take a week or two; and if you have any friends in the country whom you would like to visit, I will personally pay your expenses," and he placed a five-pound note in the trembling hands of the young man.
Wilson attempted to thank his considerate employer; but the thanks were choked in utterance by contending feelings.
"And stay, this is not all I have to say. You have a young family, we believe; and it has been our intention, all through the past year, to raise your salary, for the present as well as for the future; you are to receive a hundred and fifty pounds. I see you have drawn the full amount of your last quarter, so that we have nothing to give you so far as that is concerned; but here is the thirty pounds which we have all along meant to give you; and this year (as it was the first of January) we continue your salary on this scale."
Poor Wilson! he could scarcely believe his ears. He was saved—he thought so—and, after pouring out incoherent thanks, he was again about to leave the presence of his benevolent employer, when a word and a look recalled him.
"One word more, Mr. Wilson. We have a great regard for you, and we wish you to have an equal regard for yourself. You have been dabbling, we find, in accommodation bills."
"No, sir, no," exclaimed Wilson, confounded by this discovery; "no, sir, not bills. I have had to do with but one; and I was driven to it, and persuaded to it, to help me out of a difficulty. I should have been turned into the streets, sir, by my landlord, if I had not paid him, and I had no money. What could I do?"
"You should have spoken to us; you might, at least, have spoken to me. I think I deserve your confidence, and would have been your friend. I will be so now, if you will permit me. And on one condition, that you have nothing more to do with those disreputable and dangerous things—accommodation bills, I will personally advance you any further sum you may need to clear off any small debt you may owe."
Once more Wilson stammered out thanks, and pledged himself to the promise. But with the infatuation of a weak mind, he feared to disclose his real circumstances. His debts—he was ashamed to acknowledge them, distrusting the disinterested friendship which was thus unexpectedly offered. He assured his employer, therefore, that a small sum, in addition to that just received, would clear off all his difficulties.
"How much, Mr. Wilson?"
The young man faintly stammered out, "Twenty pounds." He knew that twice twenty would not do it.
"Here is twenty pounds then; but mind, this is a loan, and I shall expect it to be paid by instalments; say five pounds a quarter. And I shall also expect you to keep your promise with regard to bills, Wilson, and to avoid getting into debt. It is not creditable to us, nor safe either, for our young men to be thus involved."
It would be difficult to describe what were Wilson's feelings as he returned homewards that evening. Shame and mortification for the detection, and remorse for his past conduct in many particulars, and displeasure for the wigging he had undergone, struggled with thankfulness for his deliverance from impending disgrace, and admiration of the disinterested kindness and consideration of his employer.
In one thing, he felt himself firm; he would henceforth have nothing to do with accommodation paper. In this determination he hastened the next morning to take up the bill which had been such a heavy weight on his mind; and, with a lighter heart than for months he had known, he retraced his steps to make arrangements with his patient wife—whom, after all, he felt he loved at the bottom of his heart, very dearly—for the week's holiday. Our next paper, however, must tell the sequel.