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CHAPTER XLIII

The benevolent lawyer found the old man in his accustomed seat by the fireside. Walter was in the room with him, dressed for church, and dandling his child. At first Mr. Keelevin felt a little embarrassment, not being exactly aware in what manner the news he had to communicate might be received; but seeing how Walter was engaged, he took occasion to commend his parental affection.

‘That’s acting like a father, Mr. Walter,’ said he; ‘for a kind parent innocently pleasuring his bairn is a sight that the very angels are proud to look on. Mak muckle o’ the poor wee thing, for nobody can tell how long she may be spared to you. I dare say, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ he added, addressing himself to Claud, ‘ye hae mony a time been happy in the same manner wi’ your own children?’

‘I had something else to tak up my mind,’ replied the old man gruffly, not altogether pleased to see the lawyer, and apprehensive of some new animadversions.

‘Nae doubt, yours has been an eydent and industrious life,’ said Mr. Keelevin, ‘and hitherto it has na been without a large share o’ comfort. Ye canna, however, expek a greater constancy in fortune and the favour o’ Providence than falls to the common lot of man; and ye maun lay your account to meet wi’ troubles and sorrows as weel as your neighbours.’

This was intended by the speaker as a prelude to the tidings he had brought, and was said in a mild and sympathetic manner; but the heart of Claud, galled and skinless by the corrosion of his own thoughts, felt it as a reproach, and he interrupted him sharply.

‘What ken ye, Mr. Keelevin, either o’ my trumps or my troubles?’ And he subjoined, in his austerest and most emphatic manner, ‘The inner man alone knows, whether, in the gifts o’ fortune, he has gotten gude, or but only gowd. Mr. Keelevin, I hae lived long eneugh to mak an observe on prosperity, – the whilk is, that the doited and heedless world is very ready to mistak the smothering growth of the ivy, on a doddered stem, for the green boughs o’ a sound and nourishing tree.’

To which Walter added singingly, as he swung his child by the arms, —

 
‘Near planted by a river,
Which in his season yields his fruit,
And his leaf fadeth never.’
 

‘But no to enter upon any controversy, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said Mr. Keelevin, – ‘ye’ll no hae heard the day how your son Charles is?’

‘No,’ replied Claud, with a peculiarly impressive accent; ‘but, at the latest last night, the gudewife sent word he was very ill.’

‘I’m greatly concerned about him,’ resumed the lawyer, scarcely aware of the address with which, in his simplicity, he was moving on towards the fatal communication; ‘I am greatly concerned about him, but mair for his young children – they’ll be very helpless orphans, Mr. Walkinshaw.’

‘I ken that,’ was the stern answer, uttered with such a dark and troubled look, that it quite daunted Mr. Keelevin at the moment from proceeding.

‘Ye ken that!’ cried Walter, pausing, and setting down the child on the floor, and seating himself beside it; ‘how do ye ken that, father?’

The old man eyed him for a moment with a fierce and strong aversion, and, turning to Mr. Keelevin, shook his head, but said nothing.

‘What’s done, is done, and canna be helped,’ resumed the lawyer; ‘but reparation may yet, by some sma cost and cooking, be made; and I hope Mr. Walkinshaw, considering what has happened, ye’ll do your duty.’

‘I’ll sign nae papers,’ interposed Walter; ‘I’ll do nothing to wrang my wee Betty Bodle,’ – and he fondly kissed the child.

Mr. Keelevin looked compassionately at the natural, and then, turning to his father, said, —

‘I hae been this morning to see Mr. Charles.’

‘Weel, and how is he?’ exclaimed the father eagerly.

The lawyer, for about the term of a minute, made no reply, but looked at him steadily in the face, and then added solemnly, —

‘He’s no more!’

At first the news seemed to produce scarcely any effect; the iron countenance of the old man underwent no immediate change – he only remained immoveable in the position in which he had received the shock; but presently Mr. Keelevin saw that he did not fetch his breath, and that his lips began to contract asunder, and to expose his yellow teeth with the grin almost of a skull.

‘Heavens preserve us, Mr. Walkinshaw!’ cried Mr. Keelevin, rising to his assistance; but, in the same moment, the old man uttered a groan so deep and dreadful, so strange and superhuman, that Walter snatched up his child, and rushed in terror out of the room. After this earthquake-struggle, he in some degree recovered himself, and the lawyer returned to his chair, where he remained some time silent.

‘I had a fear o’t, but I was na prepar’t, Mr. Keelevin, for this,’ said the miserable father; ‘and noo I’ll kick against the pricks nae langer. Wonderful God! I bend my aged grey head at thy footstool. O lay not thy hand heavier upon me than I am able to bear. Mr. Keelevin, ye ance said the entail cou’d be broken if I were to die insolvent – mak me sae in the name of the God I have dared so long to fight against. An Charlie’s dead – murdered by my devices! Weel do I mind, when he was a playing bairn, that I first kent the blessing of what it is to hae something to be kind to; – aften and aften did his glad and bright young face thaw the frost that had bound up my heart, but ay something new o’ the world’s pride and trash cam in between, and hardent it mair and mair. – But a’s done noo, Mr. Keelevin – the fight’s done and the battle won, and the avenging God of righteousness and judgement is victorious.’

Mr. Keelevin sat in silent astonishment at this violence of sorrow. He had no previous conception of that vast abyss of sensibility which lay hidden and unknown within the impenetrable granite of the old man’s pride and avarice; and he was amazed and overawed when he beheld it burst forth, as when the fountains of the great deep were broken up, and the deluge swept away the earliest and the oldest iniquities of man.

The immediate effect, when he began to recover from his wonder, was a sentiment of profound reverence.

‘Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said he, ‘I have long done you great injustice;’ and he was proceeding to say something more as an apology, but Claud interrupted him.

‘You hae ne’er done me any manner of wrong, Mr. Keelevin; but I hae sinned greatly and lang against my ain nature, and it’s time I sou’d repent. In a few sorrowful days I maun follow the lamb I hae sacrificed on the altars o’ pride; speed a’ ye dow to mak the little way I hae to gang to the grave easy to one that travels wi’ a broken heart. I gie you nae further instructions – your skill and honest conscience will tell you what is needful to be done; and when the paper’s made out, come to me. For the present leave me, and in your way hame bid Dr. Denholm come hither in the afternoon.’

‘I think, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ replied Mr. Keelevin, falling into his professional manner on receiving these orders, ‘that it would be as weel for me to come back the morn, when ye’re more composed, to get the particulars of what ye wish done.’

‘O man!’ exclaimed the hoary penitent, ‘ye ken little o’ me. Frae the very dawn o’ life I hae done nothing but big and build an idolatrous image; and when it was finished, ye saw how I laid my first-born on its burning and brazen altar. But ye never saw what I saw – the face of an angry God looking constantly from behind a cloud that darkened a’ the world like the shadow of death to me; and ye canna feel what I feel now, when His dreadful right hand has smashed my idol into dust. I hae nae langer part, interest nor portion in the concerns of this life; but only to sign ony paper that ye can devise, to restore their rights to the twa babies that my idolatry has made fatherless.’

‘I hope, in mercy, Mr. Walkinshaw, that ye’ll be comforted,’ said the worthy lawyer, deeply affected by his vehemence.

‘I hope so too, but I see na whar at present it’s to come frae,’ replied Claud, bursting into tears, and weeping bitterly. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I would fain, Mr. Keelevin, be left to mysel – alack! alack! I hae been oure lang left to mysel. Howsever, gang away the day, and remember Dr. Denholm as ye pass; – but I’ll ne’er hae peace o’ mind till the paper’s made and signed; so, as a Christian, I beg you to make haste, for it will be a Samaritan’s act of charity.’

Mr. Keelevin perceived that it was of no use at that time to offer any further consolation, and he accordingly withdrew.

CHAPTER XLIV

During the remainder of the day, after Mr. Keelevin had left him, Claud continued to sit alone, and took no heed of any thing that occurred around him. – Dinner was placed on the table at the usual hour; but he did not join Walter.

‘I won’er, father,’ said the natural, as he was hewing at the joint, ‘that ye’re no for ony dinner the day; for ye ken if a’ the folk in the world were to die but only ae man, it would behove that man to hae his dinner.’

To this sage observation the grey-haired penitent made no reply; and Walter finished his meal without attempting to draw him again into conversation.

In the afternoon Claud left his elbow-chair, and walked slowly and heavily up the path which led to the bench he had constructed on the rising ground, where he was so often in the practice of contemplating the lands of his forefathers; and on gaining the brow of the hill, he halted, and once more surveyed the scene. For a moment it would seem that a glow of satisfaction passed over his heart; but it was only a hectical flush, instantly succeeded by the nausea of moral disgust; and he turned abruptly round, and seated himself with his back towards the view which had afforded him so much pleasure. In this situation he continued some time, resting his forehead on his ivory-headed staff, and with his eyes fixed on the ground.

In the meantime, Mr. Keelevin having called on the Reverend Dr. Denholm, according to Claud’s wish, to request he would visit him in the afternoon, the venerable minister was on his way to Grippy. On reaching the house, he was informed by one of the maid-servants, that her master had walked to his summer-seat on the hill, whither he immediately proceeded, and found the old man still rapt in his moody and mournful meditations.

Claud had looked up, as he heard him approach, and pointing to the bench, beckoned him to be seated. For some time they sat together without speaking; the minister appearing to wait in expectation that the penitent would address him first; but observing him still disposed to continue silent, he at last said, —

‘Mr. Keelevin told me, Mr. Walkinshaw, that ye wished to see me under this dispensation with which the hand o’ a righteous Providence has visited your family.’

‘I’m greatly obligated to Mr. Keelevin,’ replied Claud, thoughtfully; ‘he’s a frien’ly and a very honest man. It would hae been happy wi’ me the day, Dr. Denholm, had I put mair confidence in him; but I doobt, I doobt, I hae been a’ my life a sore hypocrite.’

‘I was ay o’ that notion,’ said the Reverend Doctor, not quite sure whether the contrition so humbly expressed was sincere or affected, but the meek look of resignation with which the desolate old man replied to the cutting sarcasm, moved the very heart of the chastiser with strong emotions of sympathy and grief; and he added, in his kindliest manner, —

‘But I hope, Mr. Walkinshaw, I may say to you, “Brother, be of good cheer;” for if this stroke, by which your first-born is cut off from the inheritance of the years that were in the promise of his winsome youth, is ta’en and borne as the admonition of the vanity of setting your heart on the things of carnal life, it will prove to you a great blessing for evermore.’

There was something in the words in which this was couched, that, still more painfully than the taunt, affected the disconsolate penitent, and he burst into tears, taking hold of the minister’s right hand graspingly with his left, saying, ‘Spare me, doctor! O spare me, an it be possible – for the worm that never dieth hath coiled itsel within my bosom, and the fire that’s never quenched is kindled around me – What an it be for ever?’

‘Ye should na, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ replied the clergyman, awed by the energy and solemnity of his manner – ‘Ye should na entertain such desperate thoughts, but hope for better things; for it’s a blithe thing for your precious soul to be at last sensible o’ your own unworthiness.’

‘Aye, doctor, but, alack for me! I was ay sensible o’ that. I hae sinned wi’ my e’en open, and I thought to mak up for’t by a strict observance o’ church ordinances.’

‘’Deed, Mr. Walkinshaw, there are few shorter roads to the pit than through the kirk-door; and many a Christian has been brought nigh to the death, thinking himsel cheered and guided by the sound o’ gospel preaching, when, a’ the time, his ear was turned to the sough o’ perdition.’

‘What shall I do to be saved?’ said the old man, reverentially and timidly.

‘Ye can do naething yoursel, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ replied the minister; and he proceeded, with the fearlessness of a champion and the energy of an apostle, to make manifest to his understanding the corruption of the human heart, and its utter unworthiness in the pure eyes of Him that alone can wash away the Ethiopian hue of original sin, and eradicate the leopard spots of personal guilt.

While he spoke the bosom of Claud was convulsed – he breathed deeply and fearfully – his eyes glared – and the manner in which he held his hands, trembling and slightly raised, showed that his whole inward being was transfixed, as it were, with a horrible sense of some tremendous apocalypse.

‘I fear, I fear, Doctor Denholm,’ he exclaimed, ‘that I can hae no hope.’

The venerable pastor was struck with the despair of the expression, and, after a short pause, said, ‘Dinna let yoursel despond; tak comfort in the mercy of God; surely your life has na been blacken’t wi’ ony great crime?’

‘It has been one continued crime,’ cried the penitent – ‘frae the first hour that my remembrance can look back to, down to the vera last minute, there has been no break nor interruption in the constancy of my iniquity. I sold my soul to the Evil One in my childhood, that I might recover the inheritance of my forebears. O the pride of that mystery! and a’ the time there was a voice within me that would na be pacified wi’ the vain promises I made to become another man, as soon as ever my conquest was complete.’

‘I see but in that,’ said the pious Doctor, in a kind and consoling manner, ‘I see but in a’ that, Mr. Walkinshaw, an inordinate love of the world; and noo that ye’re awakened to a sense of your danger, the Comforter will soon come. Ye hae ay been reputed an honest man, and no deficient in your moral duties, as a husband, a parent, a master, and a friend.’

Claud clasped his hands fervently together, exclaiming, ‘O God! thou hast ever seen my hypocrisy! – Dr. Denholm,’ and he took him firmly by the hand; – ‘when I was but a bairn, I kent na what it was to hae the innocence o’ a young heart. I used to hide the sma’ presents of siller I got frae my frien’s, even when Maudge Dobbie, the auld kind creature that brought me up, could na earn a sufficiency for our scrimpit meals; I did na gang near her when I kent she was in poortith and bedrid, for fear my heart would relent, and gar me gie her something out o’ the gathering I was making for the redemption o’ this vile yird that is mair grateful than me, for it repays with its fruits the care o’ the tiller. I stifled the very sense o’ loving kindness within me; and in furtherance of my wicked avarice, I married a woman – Heaven may forgie the aversion I had to her; but my own nature never can.’

Dr. Denholm held up his hands, and contemplated in silence the humbled and prostrate spirit that was thus proceeding with the frightful confession of its own baseness and depravity.

‘But,’ cried the penitent, ‘I canna hope that ye’re able to thole the sight that I would lay open in the inner sepulchre of my guilty conscience – for in a’ my reprobation I had ever the right before me, when I deliberately preferred the wrang. The angel of the Lord ceased not, by night nor by day, to warsle for me; but I clung to Baal, and spurned and kicked whenever the messenger of brightness and grace tried to tak me away.’

The old man paused, and then looking towards the minister, who still continued silent, regarding him with compassionate amazement, said, —

‘Doctor, what can I expek?’

‘O! Mr. Walkinshaw, but ye hae been a doure sinner,’ was the simple and emphatic reply; ‘and I hope that this sense o’ the evil of your way is an admonition to a repentance that may lead you into the right road at last. Be ye, therefore, thankful for the warning ye hae now gotten of the power and the displeasure of God.’

‘Many a warning,’ said Claud, ‘in tokens sairer than the plagues o’ Egypt, which but grieved the flesh, hae I had in the spirit; but still my heart was harden’t till the destroying angel slew my first-born.’

‘Still I say, be thankful, Mr. Walkinshaw! ye hae received a singular manifestation of the goodness of God. Your son, we’re to hope, is removed into a better world. He’s exposed no more to the temptations of this life – a’ care wi’ him is past – a’ sorrow is taken from him. It’s no misfortune to die, but a great risk to be born; and nae Christian should sorrow, like unto those who are without hope, when Death, frae ahint the black yett, puts forth his ancient hand, and pulls in a brother or a sister by the skirts of the garment of flesh. The like o’ that, Mr. Walkinshaw, is naething; but when, by the removal of a friend, we are taught to see the error of our way, it’s a great thing for us – it’s a blithe thing; and, therefore, I say unto you again, brother, be of good cheer, for in this temporal death of your son, maybe the Lord has been pleased to bring about your own salvation.’

‘And what may be the token whereby I may venture to take comfort frae the hope?’

‘There’s nae surer sign gi’en to man than that token – when ye see this life but as a pilgrimage, then ye may set forward in your way rejoicing – when ye behold nothing in your goods and gear but trash and splendid dirt, then may ye be sure that ye hae gotten better than silver or gold – when ye see in your herds and flocks but fodder for a carnal creature like the beasts that perish, then shall ye eat of the heavenly manna – when ye thirst to do good, then shall the rock be smitten, and the waters of life, flowing forth, will follow you wheresoever you travel in the wilderness of this world.’

The venerable pastor suddenly paused, for at that moment Claud laid aside his hat, and, falling on his knees, clasped his hands together, and looking towards the skies, his long grey hair flowing over his back, he said with awful solemnity, ‘Father, thy will be done! – in the devastation of my earthly heart, I accept the erles of thy service.’

He then rose with a serene countenance, as if his rigid features had undergone some benignant transformation. At that moment a distant strain of wild and holy music, rising from a hundred voices, drew their attention towards a shaggy bank of natural birch and hazel, where, on the sloping ground in front, they saw a number of Cameronians from Glasgow, and the neighbouring villages, assembled to commemorate in worship the persecutions which their forefathers had suffered there for righteousness sake.

After listening till the psalm was finished, Claud and Dr. Denholm returned towards the house, where they found Leddy Grippy had arrived. The old man, in order to avoid any unnecessary conversation, proposed that the servants should be called in, and that the Doctor should pray – which he did accordingly, and at the conclusion retired.

CHAPTER XLV

On Monday Claud rose early, and, without waiting for breakfast, or heeding the remonstrances of his wife on the risk he ran in going afield fasting, walked to Glasgow, and went directly to the house of his mother-in-law, the aged Leddy Plealands, now considerably above fourscore. The natural delicacy of her constitution had received so great a shock from the death of Charles, that she was unable that morning to leave her room. Having, however, brought home with her the two orphans until after the funeral, their grandfather found them playing in the parlour, and perhaps he was better pleased to meet with them than had she been there herself.

Although they knew him perfectly, yet the cold and distant intercourse which arose from his estrangement towards their father, had prevented them from being on those terms of familiarity which commonly subsist between children and their grandfathers; and when they saw him enter the room, they immediately left their toys on the floor, and, retiring to a corner, stood looking at him timidly, with their hands behind.

The old man, without seeming to notice their innocent reverence, walked to a chair near the window, and sat down. His demeanour was as calm, and his features as sedate, as usual, but his eyes glittered with a slight sprinkling of tears, and twice or thrice he pressed his elbows into his sides, as if to restrain some inordinate agitation of the heart. In the course of a few minutes he became quite master of himself, and, looking for a short time compassionately at the children, he invited them to come to him. Mary, the girl, who was the youngest, obeyed at once the summons; but James, the boy, still kept back.

‘What for wilt t’ou no come to me?’ said Claud.

‘I’ll come, if ye’ll no hurt me,’ replied the child.

‘Hurt thee! what for, poor thing, should I hurt thee?’ inquired his grandfather, somewhat disturbed by the proposed condition.

‘I dinna ken,’ said the boy, still retreating, – ‘but I am feart, for ye hurt papa for naething, and mamma used to greet for’t.’

Claud shuddered, and in the spasmodic effort which he made to suppress his emotion, he unconsciously squeezed the little hand of the girl so hardly, as he held her between his knees, that she shrieked with the pain, and flew towards her brother, who, equally terrified, ran to shelter himself behind a chair.

For some time the old man was so much affected, that he felt himself incapable of speaking to them. But he said to himself, —

‘It is fit that I should endure this. I sowed tares, and maunna expek wheat.’

The children, not finding themselves angrily pursued, began to recover courage, and again to look at him.

‘I did na mean to hurt thee, Mary,’ said he, after a short interval. ‘Come, and we’ll mak it up;’ – and, turning to the boy, he added, ‘I’m very wae that e’er I did ony wrang to your father, my bonny laddie, but I’ll do sae nae mair.’

‘That’s ’cause ye canna help it,’ replied James boldly, ‘for he’s dead – he’s in a soun’ soun’ sleep – nobody but an angel wi’ the last trumpet at his vera lug is able to waken him – and Mary and me, and mamma – we’re a’ gaun to lie down and die too, for there’s nobody now in the world that cares for us.’

‘I care for you, my lambie, and I’ll be kind to you; I’ll be as kind as your father.’

It would appear that these words had been spoken affectionately, for the little girl, forgetful of her hurt, returned, and placed herself between his knees; but her brother still stood aloof.

‘But will ye be kind to mamma?’ said the boy, with an eager and suspicious look.

‘That I will,’ was the answer. ‘She’ll ne’er again hae to blame me – nor hae reason to be sorrowful on my account.’

‘But were nae ye ance papa’s papa?’ rejoined the child, still more suspiciously.

The old man felt the full force of all that was meant by these simple expressions, and he drew his hand hastily over his eyes to wipe away the rising tears.

‘And will ye never trust me?’ said he sorrowfully to the child, who, melted by the tone in which it was uttered, advanced two or three steps towards him.

‘Aye, if ye’ll say as sure’s death that ye’ll no hurt me.’

‘Then I do say as sure’s death,’ exclaimed Claud fervently, and held out his hand, which the child, running forward, caught in his, and was in the same moment folded to his grandfather’s bosom.

Leddy Plealands had, in the meantime, been told who was her visitor, and being anxious, for many reasons, to see him at this crisis, opened the door. Feeble, pale, and delicate, the venerable gentlewoman was startled at seeing a sight she so little expected, and stood several minutes with the door in her hand before she entered.

‘Come in,’ said Claud to her – ‘come in – I hae something to say to you anent thir bairns – Something maun be done for them and their mother; and I would fain tak counsel wi’ you concerning ’t. Bell Fatherlans is o’ oure frush a heart to thole wi’ the dinging and fyke o’ our house, or I would tak them a’ hame to Grippy; but ye maun devise some method wi’ her to mak their loss as light in worldly circumstances as my means will alloo; and whatsoever you and her ’gree upon Mr. Keelevin will see executed baith by deed and paction.’

‘Is’t possible that ye’re sincere, Mr. Walkinshaw?’ replied the old lady.

Claud made no answer, but, disconsolately, shook his head.

‘This is a mercy past hope, if ye’re really sincere.’

‘I am sincere,’ said the stern old man, severely; ‘and I speak wi’ humiliation and contrition. I hae borne the rebuke of thir babies, and their suspicion has spoken sermons of reproaches to my cowed spirit and broken heart.’

‘What have ye done?’ inquired the Lady, surprised at his vehemence – ‘what have ye done to make you speak in such a way, Mr. Walkinshaw?’

‘In an evil hour I was beguiled by the Moloch o’ pride and ambition to disinherit their father, and settle a’ my property on Watty, because he had the Plealands. But, from that hour, I hae never kent what comfort is, or amaist what it is to hope for heavenly mercy. But I hae lived to see my sin, and I yearn to mak atonement. When that’s done, I trust that I may be permitted to lay down my head, and close my een in peace.’

Mrs. Hypel did not well know what answer to make, the disclosure seemed to her so extraordinary, that she looked at Claud as if she distrusted what she heard, or was disposed to question the soundness of his mind.

‘I see,’ he added, ‘that, like the orphans, ye dinna believe me; but, like them, Mrs. Hypel, ye’ll maybe in time be wrought to hae compassion on a humbled and contrite heart. A’, therefore, that I can say for the present is, consult wi’ Bell, and confer wi’ Mr. Keelevin; he has full power frae me to do whatsoever he may think just and right; and what ye do, do quickly, for a heavy hand is on my shouther; and there’s one before me in the shape o’ my braw Charlie, that waves his hand, and beckons me to follow him.’

The profound despondency with which this was uttered overwhelmed the feelings of the old Lady; even the children were affected, and, disengaging themselves from his arms, retired together, and looked at him with wonder and awe.

‘Will ye go and see their mother?’ – said the lady, as he rose, and was moving towards the door. He halted, and for a few seconds appeared to reflect; but suddenly looking round, he replied, with a deep and troubled voice, —

‘No. I hae been enabled to do mair than I ever thought it was in my power to do; but I canna yet, – no, not this day, – I canna yet venture there. – I will, however, by and by. It’s a penance I maun dree, and I will go through it a’.’

And with these words he quitted the house, leaving the old gentlewoman and the children equally amazed, and incapable of comprehending the depth and mystery of a grief which, mournful as the immediate cause certainly was, undoubtedly partook in some degree of religious despair.