From the Improvement Era, August 1916 –

The Debt of Honor

By Henry Nicol Adamson

“If you promise on your word of honor,” my uncle Gavin so far relented as to say, “to repay me the loan on October 1st without fail, I will advance you two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I promise faithfully,” I said.

“No excuses, no quibbles?”

“None. On October 1st I promise to repay you the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars.”

He handed me over the money. I remember going home, thrilling. It was just before the birth of our baby, and Ruth, white-faced, was waiting for me hopelessly. Uncle Gavin, though rich, was an eccentric and a miser, and I’d had little hope when I set of! to borrow from him.

I remember our joy, the weight it lifted from our minds and the good it did her.

Don’t think my promise to repay lightly given. True, I had not a cent, and was out of work with little prospect of immediate employment. True, on Ruth’s confinement, on doctors and a nurse, on little luxuries for her, and on past and pressing debts, the two hundred and fifty dollars swiftly vanished.

Still I could repay. From my old home I had brought several pieces of old furniture— antique, of some, though not great, value. I loathed the idea of selling the old stuff, but the memory of its existence made me promise with a light heart.

And surely between then (it was March) and October some thing would turn up.

Nothing did. True, I got work, a poorly-paid clerkship, but almost immediately the firm failed. On September 28th I had not a cent saved towards the $250 repayment. It’s hard for most people to realize the huge fondness some of us can cherish for old furniture.

To me the dresser and the grandfather clock were old friends. It seemed shameful to sell them, as if one sold one’s child into slavery. Still, there was nothing else to be done. I went to Chalk street and brought the dealer, Trust, of number 22.

He offered me $265 down for my three best pieces of furniture. I told him I would think it over. So matters stood when Mrs. Taylor, Uncle Gavin’s housekeeper, telegraphed to me. My uncle had been taken ill. Dr. Prichard, from the corner house, looked grave. I didn’t see Uncle Gavin. We were not and had never been intimate. He lived the life of a recluse and discouraged even mere acquaintanceship. His only orders on being taken ill had been:

“Send for a doctor — cheap but good. Keep my wolves of relatives out.”

On the 29th he was much the same.

On the 30th he was, I heard, perceptibly worse. On the 31st he died.

I had just written to Trust accepting his offer of $265 when the telegram came.

I remember sitting motionless for half an hour or more. Then I went to Black, Barclay & Co., my uncle’s solicitors. I told Mr. Barclay the whole story and exactly how matters stood, and inquired who were my uncle’s executors.

“I am one,” he answered, and took from a drawer at his elbow a heavy-looking document.

“This is Mr. Newman’s will. It was drafted by me two years ago.” He unfolded it.

“Mr. Gavin Newman,” he said, beaming at me through his round spectacles, “you need not worry. Don’t part with your furniture. Under this will you inherit a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, my dear sir.”

I gasped. I can’t describe my feelings. For one thing I was numbed ; for a time I had no feelings ; for another when I did take in the meaning of his words my thoughts and sensations jostled in such a rush that I can’t remember a tithe of them. I just sat there, my hands clenched.

“I congratulate you,” Barclay droned. “Let me see, Mr. Harry Wane is my co-executor. Mr. Wane is —”

“A distant relative,” I put in.

“Exactly, and a solicitor,” said Barclay. “You will be glad to hear that your late uncle’s investments were all of a sound character.”

For fifteen minutes he talked. What he said I don’t know. I was paying him little attention. I stood up to go and asked bluntly:

“Could you lend me some money, Mr. Barclay?”

He went purple and blew out his cheeks.

“I regret it, sir, deeply, sir,” he deplored. “But, no, sir, I fear not. Your late uncle was — pardon me — an eccentric man. Though we had the honor of numbering him amongst our clients for many years, he frequently did legal business through Mr. Harry Wane. I can’t do anything until I have consulted him.”

“I see, I see,” I said hurriedly.

If a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars were going to be mine in a few days or even weeks more, penury mattered not a jot. So I went home and broke the news to Ruth.

All that evening we sat building castles in the air. We were a rich couple. Our little baby, as we hung over his crib, was subtly changed. He would be a rich man — public school and university lay before him. Everything was rose-colored. I lay awake that night — too happy to sleep.

Boom, boom, boom — the town clock was striking twelve.

September the 30th was done. October the 1st was beginning. Under other circumstances my furniture would by now have been sold. Uncle Gavin would be awaiting repayment. I remembered his last words:

“You’ve sworn on your honor to repay me, letting no quibbles, no excuse stand in your way. I’m trusting you, Gavin. Good-morning.”

Well, Barclay was his executor, Barclay was Gavin Newman in a legal sense. Barclay had told me that repayment was unnecessary. Was that a quibble? And, suddenly, for the first time, a cloud drifted over the gay zenith of my thoughts. I’d promised to repay today. I did not mean to repay.

Well, it made no difference to the dead, anyhow, I didn’t harm him. He lost nothing. Still, I’d promised.

Could Barclay set aside the agreement? Could Barclay release me from my word ? I turned over and tried to go to sleep.

But: “He’s dead, your cheating the dead. You’re robbing the dead. You’d not have dared let today pass without paying him had he lived. You’d have known you were dishonored.”

Was I dishonored? All these phrases and many others kept flitting through my wakeful brain. Was I behaving dishonestly? I grew feverish, I could not lie still. I tossed and turned and heard the clock strike one and two and three.

Then I began to see the emptiness of all of my arguments. I’d promised. Nothing but uncle’s absolution could clear me. The promise must be kept.

The resolution came, too, sleep came, too. In the morning I went to Trust’s. Mr. Trust was out. His partner, Wilfred Winter, came back with me to the house. He eyed the furniture disapprovingly. I told him of my arrangement with Mr. Trust.

“Mr. Trust’s away. If he offered you $250 he was a long ways off, if you’ll pardon my saying so.

“You’ll have to await his return — he’ll be home again on the 4th,” he added. “I’d not offer $250 nor anything like it.”

I argued with him.

“Wait for Mr. Trust,” he advised, “unless you’ve some more stuff on offer?”

With me he went round the little house. Most of the furniture was rubbish. He did not hesitate to say so. Down stairs once more in the dining room he consulted his note book.

“If. as you say, it’s inconvenient for you to wait for Mr. Trust,” he observed, “I’ll offer you — though it’s scarcely business, Mr. Newman, and only because I’d like to do you a service — I’ll offer you $250 for the dining table and set of chairs, the dresser, grandfather clock, rosewood piano, ebony book-case —”

“You mean,” I said, “for practically every stick I possess?”

He nodded. “That’s about it.”

“No, thanks,” said I.

I’d done my best to be scrupulously honest, I reflected, as I
watched him shamble away. If Mr. Trust had been home all
would have been well.

It wasn’t my fault. And yet it was my fault. If I hadn’t left everything to the last moment, if I’d all along intended to keep my word —

The struggle began all over again. “Without quibble or excuse.” They were all quibbles and all excuses. What did it matter to Uncle Gavin if the keeping of my word involved the sale of the tinkly piano? It wasn’t till three o’clock that afternoon that I went again to Trust’s. Mr. Winter was morose and surly. But he came at last, and as the last chair was carried out handed me a check.

With it I went to my uncle’s house. Old Mrs. Taylor opened the door. “I want Mr. Wane’s address,” I said.

“He’s here, sir,” said she.

I found him, a fat, jolly-looking old fellow in my uncle’s study. “I’ve seen Mr. Barclay, Mr. Wane,” I said. “He tells me you are his co-executor — “

“I saw Mr. Barclay myself this morning,” he broke in. “Mr. Newman, he is my co-director, but — there is a second will, a later will—”

I drew in a sharp breath and felt suddenly cold.

“It— affects me?”

“It does.”

“I’m— cut out?”

“Sit down, Mr. Newman. At the moment I’m not at liberty
to disclose the contents of your uncle’s will. Perhaps I’ve said too much already. You will respect the wishes of the dead. I know. You wished to see me, Mr. Newman?”

For a moment even then I hesitated. Barclay’s suspicion was well-founded. Probably my coming to borrow money from him had caused him to alter his will. Why not cling on to the $250 which alone stood between me and starvation? I hesitated, I’m ashamed to say, but, thank heaven, not for long. I drew out old Winter’s check.

“I owed my late uncle this sum of money,” I said. “I promised to repay it today.”

“I will give you a receipt,” he said gravely.

Most utterly depressed I walked home. The empty house and Ruth’s red eyes made me momentarily miserable. I remember taking her in my arms in the empty drawing room.

“I’m glad you paid, I’m glad!” she cried, clinging to me. “We’ve done all we could anyhow. No one can reproach us.”

“Thank God, you’re glad!” I muttered. “I’m glad. I — I felt unclean.”

And in the morning came the following note from Harry Wane:

“Dear Mr. Newman : Today, being the second of October, I am at liberty to acquaint you with the contents of your late uncle’s will. It followed in every detail the will previously drafted by Mr. Barclay. The only change was a proviso which I set out in extenso: ‘Provided always that in the event of the said Gavin Newman not repaying me on or before the first day of October in this year the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars lent by me to him, the said Gavin Newman shall forfeit all interest under this my will as though his name had never been mentioned herein.’

“Your late uncle directed me by letter to acquaint you with the existence of this proviso by letter on October 2nd and not before. Allow me to congratulate you on coming into the fortune of one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, and believe me,

“Yours sincerely,

“Harry Wane.”