Uncle Billy.

Otago Witness, Issue 1476, 28 February 1880, Page 25

Uncle Billy.

"Near a small town, or rather village, about six miles from Glasgow, Billy Shaw, or " Uncle Billy." as he waa generally called, waa born. Hia father was a small farmer, who, though vory poor, managed to raise a largs family. Eight sons and seven daughters arrived at maturity, while two boya had left this earth and joined tho "angel throng" ere stained by the sins of the world. The old man had a hard struggle to bring them up in decency. Nevertheless, he accomplished it without repining j and the only remark he ever macta on the onbjoofc, when anyone alluded to his large family, was-— "Oh, aye, there's a gey lot o' them, J and when seventeen, tatties gang oot o' the dish at a'e time it loaves an unco hole."

Billy was the seoond son, and was remark* able from his infancy for hia dose-minded* noas, extreme carefulness, and quaint an* gwerp, Wfeeq about sixteen, thinking tfcajf

there were plenty of hands on the small farm without him, he sought work at a dyework in Glasgow, where he was employed, and received wages at the rate of 7s per week. From that day Billy began to save money. He gave his father 4s a week for his food and lodgings, allowed himself two for clothes and other necessary expenses, and religiously laid past every Saturday night one shilling. Every morning and evening he trudged those miles to and from his work, and aB he often afterwards told it with pride, he would take off his shoes when once clear of the city and walk the greater part of the way barefooted, only putting them on again ere he passed through the village to reach his father's house. He also related the happiness he felt when he became possessed of five sovereigns, the fruits of his savings. " Though," he would say, " I ha'e had thousands on thousands since syne, they never gied me the same feeling o' pleasure as when I rowed the first five sovereigns in an auld stocking and locked thorn by in my kist. 1 felt then that I wad never be puir again— nor ha'e I." . , 3 Four yearß passed, his wages m the dyework gradually increasing, so that he was enabled to put aside a larger su-n weekly. At the cud of that time he got a tdtuation in a wholesale spirit store in Glasgow, receiving £1 per week, then considered a good salary. He now left off living *ifch his father, and rented a small room at one shilling per week, which he furnished very soantly it must be admitted, and there lived moßt frugally, doing all his household work. Five years afterwards he purohased a public house in Bell Btreet, a busy, but not a very respectable part of the city. Years rolled on and Billy made money fast. This he chiefly invested in city property, making some excellent speculations. Billy, however, was ao miser, and as he grew rich he gradually began to enjoy the good things of this world. Nor w*b this all, Ut ' many calls were made on his generosity, not one of which he ever neglected. For many years before his father's death he paid the rent of the farm, and otherwise assisted the old people, lifting them irom a comparative state of poverty to one of eaße and comfort. About this time one of his brothers died, j leaving nothing behind him Bave a wife and thirteen children. Theße would have had to be supported by the parish had Billy not •at once made provision for them. In fact there was a whole Bwarm of nephews and nieces whioh he had t» assist in some way or other, whioh gave rise to the sobriquet "Uncle Billy " in the neighbourhood where he was born, and where at last he ended his But after all Billy was.human and afflicted with human frailities. When at the respectable age of fifty-five he fell in love. It is true that up till this time he never had any leisure hours to think of such matters. But now finding that he had plenty of this world'B gear to keep a wife, he turned his mind in that direction, or rather it was turned for him. The object of his affection waß one of his own servants, a sweet Scotch lassie named Mary Montgomery, who was as good as Bhe waa pretty. In this, as in all other matters, Uncle Billy went about it in a straightforward manner. Before he even hinted at anything of the kind to Mary, he called on her father and mother and asked their consent. The old people ut once conBented, not only for their daughter's sake, but perhaps for their own. They were poor, and the idea of their only, child becoming Mrs Shaw gave rise to unexpressed hopes of better days. " Will ye break the matter taeheryerser, Mrs Montgomery," said Uncle Billy, "for I feel a wee bishfu' in doing it mysel' ?" " Oh, aye, I'll dae that, Mr Shaw. I diuna ken what objeotion she can ha'e j in fao' I think she'll ba unco proud at the honour ye intend her. . The only difference I can see ia that ye are a wee aulder than her, but then ye ha'e the mair sense tae guide her." "I was thinking o' that mysßl', mother," for Uncle Billy called her mother prospectively ; "there is some five and thirty years between üb, but should sheha'enae objection on that point neither will I, for twa or three years are no worth speaking o'," When Mr aHd Mrs Montgomery broached the matter to their daugnter she did not seem by any means to like it. She declared that although Bhe higlly respected Mr Shaw as a master— for a better never lived— she could not think of him as ahusband. For a time she stood out firmly againotit, but their poverty and muta appeals to her heart, for »he loved her parents with a boundless love, at laßt conquered j and the old story of Robin Gray was, in a measure, to be acted over again. It was arranged that, the wedding was to come off on the lßt of August following. It was also arranged that Mary was to remain in her master's home until that impoitanfc day, only she ceased to do servants' work, being only engaged in making preparations for her marriage. During the few weeks that had to elapse ere the nuptial knot would be tied, Uncle Billy made some rude attempts at courting his future wife. In this undertaking he felt dreadfully awkward. Nor did Bhe in the least assist him. Quietly she would lißten to all bia plans for their future happiness, but Bhe showed no joy at the prospect he pictured. On one occasion he made a faint attempt to kisa her, but, although she did not violently resist him, there was something in her look, when there eyes met, that caused him to relinquish his purpose. Uncle Billy then knew there was something wrong— that she did not love him — and he ft It deeply pained at the thought. "If she wad but say that she disna like me," he remarked to himself, "and that Bhe wad rather no marry me, I'm sure I wadna press her, ' puir lassie ; but it maun come frae her side for 1 canna draw back noo, since I hae gane Bae fir I thocht maybe siller wad pi ease her, but I doobt I was wrang ; still I canna draw back noo, without Bhe wif heß it. I'm sure I casna be happy If she's no."

On the nifeht before the wedding day, Uncle Billy slept but little. Perhaps that was nothing peculiar, considering the step be was about to take. At any rate he W3S very restless, and as soon as the first rftyß of light illumined tho eastern horizoo, he arose, and throw log open the window, gazad out on the ailent street below. Scarcely had he looked out when he observed a cab standing before the eide entran<33 to hia house, Yfho Qould it be waiting for at (hat early

hour ? He had not long tlo wait for an answer. In a moment afterwards he Saw cabby placing a small trunk in the vehicle, and then a young lady steppod in, followed by a young man. In a moment Qnole Billy's heart told him who they were. The s youug m»n was one of his own employees, and the lady, oh fickle woman ! was his intended bride, Mary Montgomery. For a time Uncle Billy stood spellbound— speechless. At last, as the cab was about to move away, he put his head out of the window and shouted as loud as he could —

"Come back, Mary ! Come back lassie, I dinna want tae keep ye it ye dinna want tae stay ; come back, and dinna rin awa in that manner."

The young couple looked up, but though they heard hia voice and saw him waving his hands frantically, they could not make out the nature of his words, but thinking they were commands to return, they waved back au adieu and drove rapidly off. Now some people might think that Unole Billy would naturally fall down upon a soai and burst into tears. But he did nothing of the kind, for he was a philosopher. He simply went to a sideboard, and filling up a glass of brandy, drank it, and then went to bed again. We have said that Uncle Billy was a philo sopher, and this reminds us of a trait in hicharacter to which we have not given due prominence. He held it as a cardinal doctrine that things are never bo bad, but that we should be thankful that they are no woree. If he was told that someone had broken his leg, he would remark—" Its a pity, but let him bo thankfu' his ither ane is no broken tae." If he had heard that a husbond had loßt his wife, he would quietly reply—" It's sad, nae doobt; ; but lee him be glad that naething waur has befallen him." In fact no matter what misfortune happened, Uncle Billy could always see how it might have been infinitely more unfortunate, and drew comfort from the reflection accordingly. And now he had to apply this solace to himself, which he at once did. No sooner did he get comfortable under the blankets again than he thus communed with himself. " Weel, weel, this is no a very nice job but it might hae been waur. Suppose the lasnio had ran awa' the morning after our marriage, in plaoe o' the morning before it, what an awfu' case that wad hae been. Then I wad hae been a husband wi 1 nae wife, and ehe, puir thing — but dinna let me think o' what might hae befallen her. It was a' my am faut. What richt had I tae think that a young lassie' o' twenty could 100 an auld oaril like me at five and fifty ? The thing is against nature, and nature is an auld lady we needna try tae fecht against. We may think tae jouk oot o' her gate, but na, she bad an awfu' lang arm and is sure tae catch us eooner or later. Nae doobt the glitter o' the golden chain that binds a young wife tae an auld man, pleases her for a time, but the lustre soon growb dim in her eyes, and her young heart soon feels that after a' gold alone brings nob happiness. Suppose we had got married, she wad hae been unhappy, and I, atseeing it, wad likely hae got peevish, cross and disappointed. Then boo miserable we wad bae been. Thank guidneos its a' owre noo, and although it will mak' a nine days' talk, that will soon blaw past. At anyrate things are no that bad but they mioht hae been waur." And with that he turned over and fell asleep.

It was somewhat late in the day, for Unole Billy, when he arose. On passing into the parlour he found a note lying on the table, in which his intended bride stated that she had left with one whom sh9 loved, and for whom her heart had, at last, conquered all other feelings. She asked his forgivenes 8 , and mentioned that he would find all the dresses and presents which he had given her in her own room. She thanked him warmly for his past kindness towards her, and ooncluded by saying that as long as she lived Bhe would bless the name of ber good old master. The grateful expressions touched him deeply, and as he folded up the letter and put it carefully past, a tear fell upon it. During the day, Mrs Montgomery called to condole with him. She commenced by abusing her daughter, but Uncle Billy Btopped her at once, by saying, " No a word, no a word maun ye say against the lasne. It was a' my fau't and no hers. It waa silly o' me tae think that she could like me as a husband, and wrang tae propose marriage tae her without thinking o' that. And it was wrang in you to insist that she wad hae me ; sac let us s»y nae mair on that score ; for come what may, naebody will speak lightly in my presence o' Mary Montgomery." He then took the old woman to the room whioh her daughter had lately occupied, aud making her gather up all the dresses and presents ■which she had left behind, told her to take them home with her, and give them to Mary on tb.4 first opportunity. Nor did he dismiss ber without placing in her hand a sealed paper, addressed to her daughter, in whioh, although no words were written, a hand some marriage present, in bank notes, was enclosed.

The old woman departed not altogether satisfied, for although ahe could not h*lp admiring the generosity of Uncle Billy, shecould not forgive her daughter for having deprived her of so good a son-in-law.

The after history of Mary Montgomery is soon told. The young man with whom she left and to whom she got married, named Williams, was worthy of her. For four years they lived a happy life,?but death cime, untimely, and took him away. The widow was left with two children and little to support them, but Heaven had a friend provided for ber. Twice a year — on her birthday, which waa in May, snd on New Year's morning— she received a blank letter enclos ing twenty pounds. Well she knew the sender, but never mentioned his name, save when she knelt by her feed, and gaz'ng on her little ones, breathed if; in blemng to Him who keeps all our secrets. She did not long, however, Burvive her husband, but .the orphans were placed in the Hutcheson Hospital, and well cared for, through the influence of the above-mentioned friend, and that friend was, need wa say it, Unole Billy. A short time after Uncle Billy was crossed in love, he gave up business in Glasgow and retired to the farm on whioh he was brought up, his father and mother having died, a few years before, at an extreme old age. He now set About farming in earnest, making

many and great improvements, and laying out far more money on it than ever he drew in return. However, it kept him busy and pleasod him, and as for money, the rents from his city property brought him moro than sufficient. In this way he spent many years, hia nephewa and nieces growing up around him, some of them getting married and commencing life on their own account ; but still keeping up a close relationship with their rich uucle. But his benevolence extended far beyond the circle of hia friends, which was the greatest fault his friends saw in him. They "considered it very wrong for him to spend his means on mere strangers, while his own kindred would willingly have received all he had to give away. Uncle Billy, however, did not see it in that light, but gave with open hand to all who were in distress. No beggar ever left the farm door unhelped ; that, in hiß eyes, would have been an unpardonable sin. Indeed he seemd most hapy when a number of those unfortunate wanderers, and there were many of thorn fn those days, would be sitting by the largo kitchen fire, supping a bowl of broth and warming themselves. Uncle Billy always said that no matter how many bowls of kail were given to the poor they never made the remainder any leas. We do not believe him in this respect ; but it was a falsehood, we think, that the recording angel only entered with pencil against him, so that the Angel of Mercy will erase it ere the kind-hearted old man stands before the Judgment Seat. Years rolled on and the once well-knit frame of Uncle Billy began to stoop, and hia brown locks became aa white as snow. Still he was the most cheerful one in his household, for the end of life had no dread or alarm for him. His creed waa short, and it was this : " that He who is so good to us in this life will, in our future life, be the same ; and that all our hippiness here we owe to God, and all our misery to ourselves." Uncle Billy now began to prepare for death, but in a manner different to most people. The first thing he did waa to order a coffin, with everything! complete about it save the date of hi* demise. When the msker brought it home all his nephews and rrieceg looked on it with horror. Not so Uncle Billy. On the contrary, he laid down in it and seemed satisfied with the fit, cracking a few quaint jokes concerning it. < Then he caused it to be placed on end in his bedroom where it stood an object of terror to all but he who would take hia last sleep in it. Then he sent for a solicitor and made his will. What was in that will? Aye, tHat waa the question for all his relations. Many hundred times did they make it over again in imagination, each according to his sense of justice, or rather according to his greed. Then wondered who he left such a house to ? Who he left the farm to ? and how he divided the large amount of money which waa lying in the bank? But they were left to wonder away, for the solioitor held his tongue and so did Uncle Billy. One evening, however, Uncle Bill overhead three of his nephews talking about the will. They knew not that he was listening, but he heard all their conversation. After some t»lk they nearly quarrelled over the matter. On one point, and one only, they Beeraed to agree, and that was, that Uncle Billy had lived long enough, and that it waa full time he was dead. For a moment he felt pampd at their ingratitude, but he retired to bed and said nothing. "They will never quarrel ower my will again, or won'er what's in it," he said to himself as he lay thinking over what he had heard. " I mioht ha'e expectd it, and it's a* my am fau't that they wish me deid. Hoe could it be itherwise when I made it their interest tae dae sac ? Though they may hae some respect for me, they hae far mair for the siller they expect tae get when I dee. They see it in the future, and they see me standin' between them and it, and is ! it any won'er that they wMi me oot o' the gate. It's a' my am , fau't, for a man should never mak' it ony body's interest that he should dee.' j

Next day, Ann Scott, his old housekeeper, told his nephews and nieces that their uncle was very ill, and sent one of them off on horseback for a doctor. She also said that he wished not to be disturbed, and that no one was to enter {his voomf until after the doctor came. When that gentleman arrived and had examined and consulted with his patient he stated that Uncle Billy was suffering under a malignant and contagious fever, and gave orders that po one, svve the housekeeper and himself should approach him. His relations, of course, professed to be deeply grieved at the sudden calamity ; but none of them insisted on seeing; the sufferer. This, no doubt, was very wise on their part, for, as they said thems a lve3, they ou'd do him no good, and therefore, it would be folly to run the risk of danger when they could avoid it. The doctor, however, spent a great part of his time in the sick chamber, relieving old Anne from her duty of attending as much »s possible. After thrpa days of anxious waitiag on the part ot bis friends, the doctor made the melancholy announcament that Uncle Billy was dead. It was truly wonderful to behold with what fortitudp|fhey heard the sad news Not a tear was shed, but then deep sorrow drieß up all tears. They were rather surprised, however, when the medical gentleman, also, informed them that thair uncle's will waa to be read that very evening in the room where he had breathed his last, according to instructions left by the deceased. He said that it was dangerous for any one to attend, nevertheless the commands of tho dead must be obeyed. He promised, however, to have the cofßu screwed down, and that disinfectants would be largely used, so as to reduce the danger as much as possible. Still be siid that^ as there was no necessity for them being prpsent, and as he would afterwards tell them aU that waa in the will, be would advise them to stay away.

The professional gentleman then called on his professional friend the solicitor, and requested him to be present to read the will that evening. The man of law at first protested against running any risk of catching the fever, but after a little explanation he at last consented. Then the lawyer produced a bottle, and the two worthies drank to the memory of Uncle Billy. But it Beemed cruel, to say the least, to see how these two professional harpers laughed and talked about the affair, as if death, to them, was a good joke. Bub they bofch knew that

their fees were safe, which no doubt added a little to their enjoyment. It was really remarkable to see the large number of Uncle Billy's friends that waa present that evening, notwithstanding the great risk they ran, to hear his will read. True, most of them kept as far off the bed on which the coffia lay, as possible. The doctor recommended them all to smoke, and as there waa a large supply of pipes and tobacco provided for the purpose, moat of them did, both men and women. Vinegar was also plentifully scittered about the room, and everything rendered as s»fe as could be. Add to this the fact that all the gentlemen present fortified themselves by drinking two good glasses of whisky, while all the ladies took one at least, as a wise precaution. At last the interesting document was read. It was very brief and to the point. After leaving forty pouuds a year to hia old housekeeper and the same buui annually to the poor of the parish, and twenty pounds a year each to five old bachelors then living in the neighbourhood, as a reward for their wiadom ; the remainder was pretty equally divided among the relatives of the deceased. Scarcely had the solicitor finished reading the will when all present gave vent to their disgust and disappointment. " What right had the old fool," exclaimed one, "to leave so much to Anne Scott ? Was Bhe not well enough paid for what services she rendered during his life ? Perhaps there was mere between them than we know of. It is nothing more nor less than robbing his own flesh and b'ood." "Yes, and to think that the old ass should leave one hundred a year to five old fogies like himself, beoause they never married; the thing is disgraceful." "That's true," chimed in one of the ladies j " and the reason was because nobody would take them." "And then," said another, *' to Bee him leaving bo much to the poor of the'parish, as if he had not poor relations of his own. The thing's a damned Bhame, and if the old devil waa living I would tell him so to his face."

How far this conversation might have extended ib would be vain to surmise, but just at that moment a shriek burst from one of the females who was gazing at the coffin, to which all eyes now turned, and there a sight presented itself whioh made all present start to their feet. The lid of the coffin was raised about eight inches, and Uncle Billy's face, not with the pallor of death, but as fresh and jolly as ever, was seen peeping out with a broad grin on it. What a stampede then took place, for all knew that Uncle Billy had caught them gairly, and shame drove them from the apartment. In less than two minutes the room was cleared with the exception of the doctor and lawyer, who sat still. Uncle Billy then shoved the coffin lid to one side, and telling his medical adviser, who had assisted him to carry out the prank, to hand him a bottle of whisky that was on the table, filled up a glass and drank to the heilth of his disinterested relations. His two friends joined in the toast, and Unoie Billy getting out of his shell, they har* another round in honour of his resurrection. His faithful housekeeper now appeared with a nioe warm supper, which she had been preparing in a back kitchen, during the time others were bo deeply engaged reading the will . We nee d hardly say that they en joyedj oyed their supper, and the few drams that followed it ; indeed it might well be said that— " Three blither hearts; that lee-long night, Ye wadna find in Christendie."

On the following morning, Uncle Billy proceeded to Glasgow, where he remained for several days, and a week afterwards all his property, including the farm, stook, &0., was advertised for sale. What could the old man mean Jby |such a procedure ? now became the question of questions among hia relatives. What was be going to do with all the money ? Rumour said that he was going to leave it all to tha poor, while Rumour contradicted herself and said that h« was about to make ithe king— William the Fourth— his heir. One thing at least, was said to be certain, namely, that not one of hia relatives would ever get a farthing. Whether there waa any truth in these statements or not, the sequel will show. The sum realised by the sale of the property a-nouated to many thousands, with whioh Uacle Billy purchased a Government life anuitv. Being now ever five and Bixty, hia annual income came to a large amount. But now the wouder waa what waa he going to do with it ? He could not possibly spent ib. Six month's however, showed that Uacle Billy had not actsd without apian. .

One day at the expiry of the above-men-tioned time, all hia relations who were mentioned in his will, as wdl as the clergymm of tli9 parish and the fivo old bachelors received each a note from Uncle Bil y, inviting them to meet at hid house on a given afternoon. This cause! no little consternation among them, aud although most of them felt ashamed to appear, nevrtheless, all were punctual on the day and hour mentioned. They expected something good at his hands, for no one ever received evil a1;a 1 ; the hands of Uncle Billy, we beg all Good Templar's pardon, except a dram. Ho welcomed them all, as they assembled, with his usual kindly words, making not the leaßt allusion to the past. They all felt that they were forgiven, and lot u 5 ! trust that they also felt more deeply ashamed •of their previous ungrateful conduct.

When all who were expected had put in au appearance, Uncle Billy proceeded to a desk, and brought forth a cash' box, in whioh there was evideatly a large amount of money. Laying the box on a small table before him, he thus addressed the company. "My frien's, Ihaa cad ye tigether the day that I may gie ye a little siller, n th'mg generally welcome. Yo a' ken that I fold a' my property sax months ago, but moybe ye dinna ken that I inveßfced tho proceeds in a Government annuity. Noo aa that brings me in far mair than I hae ony use for, I j'sfc cad ye tigither tae divide it amang ye. That I shall dae in proportion tae a will I once made, which didna seem to please anybody, and which I afterwards destroyed. By this moana, I also save the legacy duty. I hope noo that ye understand me, and that ye will a' ' let the past bury the past ' and that ye will a' come as oft°n as ye used tae dae, and ccc me, and that above a' things" — and here a humorous twinkle kindled up hia eye,— "yell no forget tae come every sax months tae get yer Bhare o' the siller." When I dee ye'U get aaethiog, for the

annuity dees wi* me ; sac let me har the pleasure o' seeing ye spending it wisely. I hae lang thooht that a wise man should dae his best tae mak' his frieu's happy while he is living, and leave them naething tae quarrel about when he's awa'. It is |* sad nicht, but tae often dae we see brithera and sisters wrangling, and sometimes going ts»e law, aboot what is left them. The bequest then becomes an evil, and the memory o' the giver is of ben cursed. In myoasa that canna happen, for the temptation will be oot o' yer gate." A low murmur of applause greeted Uncle Billy's remarks, while he began to divide the money among them. First, he handed Annie Scott her share ; then he paied over to the clergyman, on behalf of the poor, the portioa allotted to that purpose ; and then the five old baohelors received theirs ; and lastly he gave to each of his relatives the amount which fell to them. During the distribution, he had some quiet jokes for each and all, nor was there any one present chat day so happy at receiving as Uncle Billy waa in giving.

For nearly seven years Unole Billy had the pleasure of calling his friends togethe* for the purpose of dividing his fortune am\>ng them ; and it waa truly wonderful to Bee how sincerely loving thoße friends became. Now not one of them wished for his death, but all earnestly prayed that his days might be long in the land. If they heard that he was in the least unwell, they wou'd flock to see him, each bringing something which ho or she hoped might do him good, and when the malady would pass away, jay and hope filled every heart. Their interest now was that he might live, not die. And when, at last, he entered his ooffia, to come forth no more, and when it was lowered into the grave, many eyes were filled with tears, and many a heart give forth an honest Bigh, for never was there a rich man's death more (sincerely and deeply regretted than that of Uncle Billy.