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CHAPTER XLVI

Between the interview described in the preceding chapter and the funeral, nothing remarkable appeared in the conduct of Claud. On the contrary, those habits of reserve and taciturnity into which he had fallen, from the date of the entail, were apparently renewed, and, to the common observation of the general eye, he moved and acted as if he had undergone no inward change. The domestics, however, began to notice, that, instead of the sharp and contemptuous manner which he usually employed in addressing himself to Walter, his voice was modulated with an accent of compassion, – and that, on the third day after the death of Charles, he, for the first time, caressed and fondled the affectionate natural’s darling, Betty Bodle.

It might have been thought that this simple little incident would have afforded pleasure to her father, who happened to be out of the room, when the old man took her up in his arms; but so far from this being the case, the moment that Walter returned he ran towards him, and snatched the child away.

‘What for do’st t’ou tak the bairn frae me sae frightedly, Watty?’ said Claud in a mild tone of remonstrance, entirely different from anything he had ever before addressed to him.

Walter, however, made no reply, but retiring to a distant part of the room, carefully inspected the child, and frequently inquired where she was hurt, although she was laughing and tickled with his nursery-like proceedings.

‘What gars t’ee think, Watty,’ rejoined his father, ‘that I would hurt the wean?’

‘’Cause I hae heard you wish that the Lord would tak the brat to himsel.’

‘An I did, Watty, it was nae ill wis.’

‘So I ken, or else the minister lies,’ replied Walter; ‘but I would na like, for a’ that, to hae her sent till him; and noo, as they say ye’re ta’en up wi’ Charlie’s bairns, I jealouse ye hae some end o’ your ain for rooketty-cooing wi’ my wee Betty Bodle. I canna understand this new-kythed kindness, – so, gin ye like, father, we’ll just be fair gude e’en and fair gude day, as we were wont.’

This sank deeper into the wounded heart of his father than even the distrust of the orphans; but the old man made no answer. Walter, however, observed him muttering something to himself, as he leant his head back, with his eyes shut, against the shoulder of the easy chair in which he was sitting; and rising softly with the child in his arms, walked cautiously behind the chair, and bent forward to listen. But the words were spoken so inwardly and thickly, that nothing could be overheard. While in this position, the little girl playfully stretched out her hand and seized her grandfather by the ear. Startled from his prayer or his reverie, Claud, yielding to the first impulse of the moment, turned angrily round at being so disturbed, and, under the influence of his old contemptuous regard for Watty, struck him a severe blow on the face, – but almost in the same instant, ashamed of his rashness, he shudderingly exclaimed, throbbing with remorse and vexation, —

‘Forgi’e me, Watty, for I know not what I do;’ and he added, in a wild ejaculation, ‘Lord! Lord! O lighter, lighter lay the hand o’ thy anger upon me! The reed is broken – O, if it may stand wi’ thy pleasure, let it not thus be trampled in the mire! But why should I supplicate for any favour? – Lord of justice and of judgement, let thy will be done!’

Walter was scarcely more confounded by the blow than by these impassioned exclamations; and hastily quitting the room, ran, with the child in his arms, to his mother, who happened at the time, as was her wont, to be in the kitchen on household cares intent, crying, —

‘Mother! mother! my father’s gane by himsel; he’s aff at the head; he’s daft; and ta’en to the praising o’ the Lord at this time o’ day.’

But, excepting this trivial incident, nothing, as we have already stated, occurred between the interview with Leddy Plealands and the funeral to indicate, in any degree, the fierce combustion of distracted thoughts which was raging within the unfathomable caverns of the penitent’s bosom – all without, save but for this little effusion, was calm and stable. His external appearance was as we have sometimes seen Mount Etna in the sullenness of a wintry day, when the chaos and fires of its abyss uttered no sound, and an occasional gasp of vapour was heavily breathed along the grey and gloomy sky. Everything was still and seemingly steadfast. The woods were silent in all their leaves; the convents wore an awful aspect of unsocial solemnity; and the ruins and remains of former ages appeared as if permitted to moulder in unmolested decay. The very sea, as it rolled in a noiseless swell towards the black promontories of lava, suggested strange imageries of universal death, as if it had been the pall of the former world heavily moved by the wind. But that dark and ominous tranquillity boded neither permanence nor safety – the traveller and the inhabitant alike felt it as a syncope in nature, and dreaded an eruption or a hurricane.

Such was the serenity in which Claud passed the time till Saturday, the day appointed for the funeral. On the preceding evening his wife went into Glasgow to direct the preparations, and about noon he followed her, and took his seat, to receive the guests, at the door of the principal room arranged for the company, with James, the orphan, at his knee. Nothing uncommon passed for some time; he went regularly through the ceremonial of assistant chief mourner, and in silence welcomed, by the customary shake of the hand, each of the friends of the deceased as they came in. When Dr. Denholm arrived, it was observed that his limbs trembled, and that he held him a little longer by the hand than any other; but he too was allowed to pass on to his seat. After the venerable minister, Mr. Keelevin made his appearance. His clothes were of an old-fashioned cut, such as even still may occasionally be seen at west-country funerals among those who keep a special suit of black for the purpose of attending the burials of their friends; and the sort of quick eager look of curiosity which he glanced round the room, as he lifted his small cocked hat from off his white, well-powdered, ionic curled tie-wig, which he held firm with his left forefinger, provoked a smile, in despite of the solemnity of the occasion.

Claud grasped him impatiently by the hand, and drew him into a seat beside himself. ‘Hae ye made out the instrument?’ said he.

‘It’s no just finished,’ replied Mr. Keelevin; ‘but I was mindit to ca’ on you the morn, though it’s Sabbath, to let you see, for approbation, what I have thought might be sufficient.’

‘Ye ought to hae had it done by this time,’ said Claud, somewhat chidingly.

‘’Deed should I,’ was the answer, ‘but ye ken the Lords are coming to the town next week, and I hae had to prepare for the defence of several unfortunate creatures.’

‘It’s a judgement time indeed,’ said Claud; and, after a pause of several minutes, he added, ‘I would fain no be disturbed on the Lord’s day, so ye need na come to Grippy, and on Monday morning I’ll be wi’ you betimes; I hope a’ may be finished that day, for, till I hae made atonement, I can expek no peace o’ mind.’

Nothing further was allowed at that time to pass between them, for the betherils employed to carry round the services of bread and wine came in with their trays, and Deacon Gardner, of the wrights, who had charge of the funeral, having nodded to the Reverend Dr. John Hamilton, the minister of the Inner High Church, in the district of which the house was situated, the worthy divine rose, and put an end to all further private whispering, by commencing the prayer.

When the regular in-door rites and ceremonies were performing, and the body had, in the meantime, been removed into the street, and placed on the shoulders of those who were to carry it to the grave, Claud took his grandson by the hand, and followed at the head, with a firmly knotted countenance, but with faltering steps.

In the procession to the church-yard no particular expression of feeling took place; but when the first shovelful of earth rattled hollowly on the coffin, the little boy, who still held his grandfather by the finger, gave a shriek, and ran to stop the grave-digger from covering it up. But the old man softly and composedly drew him back, telling him it was the will of God, and that the same thing must be done to every body in the world.

‘And to me too?’ said the child, inquiringly and fearfully.

‘To a’ that live,’ replied his grandfather; and the earth being, by this time, half filled in, he took off his hat, and looking at the grave for a moment, gave a profound sigh, and again covering his head, led the child home.

CHAPTER XLVII

Immediately after the funeral Claud returned home to Grippy, where he continued during the remainder of the day secluded in his bed-chamber. Next morning, being Sunday, he was up and dressed earlier than usual; and after partaking slightly of breakfast, he walked into Glasgow, and went straight to the house of his daughter-in-law.

The widow was still in her own room, and not in any state or condition to be seen; but the children were dressed for church, and when the bells began to ring, he led them out, each holding him by the hand, innocently proud of their new black clothes.

In all the way up the High Street, and down the pathway from the church-yard gate to the door of the cathedral, he never raised his eyes; and during the sermon he continued in the same apparent state of stupor. In retiring from the church, the little boy drew him gently aside from the path to show his sister the spot where their father was laid; and the old man, absorbed in his own reflections, was unconsciously on the point of stepping on the grave, when James checked him, —

‘It’s papa – dinna tramp on him.’

Aghast and recoiling, as if he had trodden upon an adder, he looked wildly around, and breathed quickly and with great difficulty, but said nothing. In an instant his countenance underwent a remarkable change – his eyes became glittering and glassy, and his lips white. His whole frame shook, and appeared under the influence of some mortal agitation. His presence of mind did not, however, desert him, and he led the children hastily home. On reaching the door, he gave them in to the servant that opened it without speaking, and went immediately to Grippy, where, the moment he had seated himself in his elbow-chair, he ordered one of the servants to go for Mr. Keelevin.

‘What ails you, father?’ said Walter, who was in the room at the time; ‘ye speak unco drumly – hae ye bitten your tongue?’ But scarcely had he uttered these words, when the astonished creature gave a wild and fearful shout, and, clasping his hands above his head, cried, ‘Help! help! something’s riving my father in pieces!’

The cry brought in the servants, who, scarcely less terrified, found the old man smitten with a universal paralysis, his mouth and eyes dreadfully distorted, and his arms powerless.

In the alarm and consternation of the moment, he was almost immediately deserted; every one ran in quest of medical aid. Walter alone remained with him, and continued gazing in his face with a strange horror, which idiocy rendered terrific.

Before any of the servants returned, the violence of the shock seemed to subside, and he appeared to be sensible of his situation. The moment that the first entered the room he made an effort to speak, and the name of Keelevin was two or three times so distinctly articulated, that even Walter understood what he meant, and immediately ran wildly to Glasgow for the lawyer. Another messenger was dispatched for the Leddy, who had, during the forenoon, gone to her daughter-in-law, with the intention of spending the day.

In the meantime a doctor was procured, but he seemed to consider the situation of the patient hopeless; he, however, as in all similar cases, applied the usual stimulants to restore energy, but without any decisive effect.

The weather, which had all day been lowering and hazy, about this time became drizzly, and the wind rose, insomuch that Leddy Grippy, who came flying to the summons, before reaching home was drenched to the skin, and was for some time, both from her agitation and fatigue, incapable of taking any part in the bustle around her husband.

Walter, who had made the utmost speed for Mr. Keelevin, returned soon after his mother; and, on appearing before his father, the old man eagerly spoke to him; but his voice was so thick, that few of his words were intelligible. It was, however, evident that he inquired for the lawyer; for he threw his eyes constantly towards the door, and several times again was able to articulate his name.

At last, Mr. Keelevin arrived on horseback, and came into the room, dressed in his trotcosey; the hood of which, over his cocked hat, was drawn so closely on his face, that but the tip of his sharp aquiline nose was visible. But, forgetful or regardless of his appearance, he stalked with long strides at once to the chair where Claud was sitting; and taking from under the skirt of the trotcosey a bond of provision for the widow and children of Charles, and for Mrs. Milrookit, he knelt down, and began to read it aloud.

‘Sir,’ said the doctor, who was standing at the other side of the patient, ‘Mr. Walkinshaw is in no condition to understand you.’

Still, however, Mr. Keelevin read on; and when he had finished, he called for pen and ink.

‘It is impossible that he can write,’ said the doctor.

‘Ye hae no business to mak ony sic observation,’ exclaimed the benevolent lawyer. ‘Ye shou’d say nothing till we try. In the name of justice and mercy, is there nobody in this house that will fetch me pen and ink?’

It was evident to all present that Claud perfectly understood what his friend said; and his eyes betokened eagerness and satisfaction; but the expression with which his features accompanied the assent in his look was horrible and appalling.

At this juncture Leddy Grippy came rushing, half dressed, into the room, her dishevelled grey hair flying loosely over her shoulders, exclaiming, —

‘What’s wrang noo? – what new judgement has befallen us? – Whatna fearfu’ image is that like a corpse out o’ a tomb, that’s making a’ this rippet for the cheatrie instruments o’ pen and ink, when a dying man is at his last gasp?’

‘Mrs. Walkinshaw, for Heaven’s sake be quiet; – your gudeman,’ replied Mr. Keelevin, opening the hood of his trotcosey, and throwing it back; taking off, at the same time, his cocked hat – ‘Your gudeman kens very weel what I hae read to him. It’s a provision for Mrs. Charles and her orphans.’

‘But is there no likewise a provision in’t for me?’ cried the Leddy.

‘Oh, Mrs. Walkinshaw, we’ll speak o’ that hereafter; but let us get this executed aff-hand,’ replied Mr. Keelevin. ‘Ye see your gudeman kens what we’re saying, and looks wistfully to get it done. I say, in the name of God, get me pen and ink.’

‘Ye’s get neither pen nor ink here, Mr. Keelevin, till my rights are cognost in a record o’ sederunt and session.’

‘Hush!’ exclaimed the doctor – all was silent, and every eye turned on the patient, whose countenance was again hideously convulsed; – a troubled groan struggled and heaved for a moment in his breast, and was followed by short quivering through his whole frame.

‘It is all over!’ said the doctor. At these words the Leddy rushed towards the elbow-chair, and, with frantic cries and gestures, flew on the body, and acted an extravagance of sorrow ten times more outrageous than grief. Mr. Keelevin stood motionless, holding the paper in his hand; and, after contemplating the spectacle before him for about two or three minutes, shook his head disconsolately, and replacing his cocked hat, drew the hood of the trotcosey again over his face, and left the house.

CHAPTER XLVIII

As soon as the nature of the settlement which Claud had made of his property was known, Leddy Plealands removed Mrs. Charles and the children to her own house, and earnestly entreated her daughter the Leddy, who continued to reside at Grippy, managing the household cares there as usual, to exert her influence with Walter to make some provision for his unfortunate relations. Even George, who, engrossed by his business and his own family, cared almost as little as any man for the concerns of others, felt so ashamed of his father’s conduct, that, on the Sunday after the funeral, he went to pay a visit of condolence to his mother, and to join his exhortations to hers, in the hope that something might be done. But Walter was inexorable.

‘If my father,’ said he, ‘did sic a wicked thing to Charlie as ye a’ say, what for would ye hae me to do as ill and as wrang to my bairn? Is na wee Betty Bodle my first-born, and, by course o’ nature and law, she has a right to a’ I hae; what for then would ye hae me to mak away wi’ ony thing that pertains to her? I’ll no be guilty o’ ony sic sin.’

‘But you know, Walter,’ replied George, ‘that our father did intend to make some provision both for Mrs. Charles, her family, and our sister, and it’s really a disgrace to us all if nothing be done for them. It was but a chance that the bond of provision was na signed.’

‘Ye may say sae, Geordie, in your cracks at the Yarn Club, o’er the punch-bowl, but I think it was the will o’ Providence; for, had it been ordain’t that Bell Fatherlans and her weans were to get a part o’ father’s gear, they would hae gotten’t. But ye saw the Lord took him to Abraham’s bosom before the bond was signed, which was a clear proof and testimony to me, that it does na stand wi’ the pleasure o’ Heaven that she should get ony thing. She’ll get nothing frae me.’

‘But,’ again interposed George, ‘if you will do nothing in consideration of our father’s intention, you ought in charity to think of her distress.’

‘Charity begins at hame, Geordie, and wha kens but I may be brought to want if I dinna tak care?’

‘I’m sure,’ replied the merchant, sharply, ‘that many a one has who less deserved it.’

‘How do ye ken what I deserve?’ cried the natural, offended. ‘It’s speaking ill o’ the understanding o’ Providence, to say I dinna deserve what it has gi’en me. I’m thinking, Geordie, Providence kens my deserts muckle better than you.’

Leddy Grippy, who, during this conversation, was sitting at the table, in all the pomp of her new widow’s weeds, with the big Bible before her, in which she was trying to read that edifying chapter, the tenth of Nehemiah, here interposed.

‘Wheesht, wheesht, Watty, and dinna blaspheme,’ said she; ‘and no be overly condumacious. Ye ken your father was a good man, and nothing but the dart o’ death prevented him frae making a handsome provision for a’ his family, forbye you; and no doubt, when ye hae gotten the better o’ the sore stroke o’ the sudden removal of the golden candlestick o’ his life from among us, ye’ll do every thing in a rational and just manner.’

‘’Deed I’ll do nae sic things, mother,’ was the reply; ‘I’m mindit to haud the grip I hae gotten.’

‘But ye’re a Christian, Watty,’ resumed the Leddy, still preserving her well-put-on mourning equanimity, ‘and it behoves you to reflek, that a’ in your power is gi’en to you but as a steward.’

‘Ye need na tell me that; but wha’s steward am I? Is na the matter a trust for my bairn? I’m wee Betty Bodle’s steward, and no man shall upbraid me wi’ being unfaithfu’,’ replied Walter.

‘Aye, aye, Watty, that’s very true in a sense,’ said she, ‘but whosoever giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.’

‘That’s what I canna comprehend; for the Lord has no need to borrow; he can make a world o’ gold for the poor folk, if he likes, and if he keeps them in poortith, he has his ain reasons for’t.’

‘Ah, weel I wat!’ exclaimed the Leddy pathetically; ‘noo I fin’ to my cost, that my cousin, Ringan Gilhaise, the Mauchlin maltster, had the rights o’t when he plea’t my father’s will, on account of thy concos montis; and, but for auld pawky Keelevin, he would hae gotten the property that’s sae ill waur’t on thee.’

All this, however, made no impression; but George, in walking back to Glasgow, several times thought of what had fallen from his mother respecting the attempt which had been made to set aside her father’s settlement, on the score of Walter’s idiocy; and once or twice it occurred to him that the thing was still not impracticable, and that, being next heir of entail, and nearest male relative, it might be of advantage to his own family to get the management of the estate. Thus, by a conversation intended to benefit the disinherited heirs, the seed was sown of new plans and proceedings, worthy of the father’s son. From that period, George took no further interest in the affairs of his sister-in-law, but his visits became unusually frequent to Grippy, and he was generally always attended by some friend, whom he led into conversation with his brother, culated to call forth the least equivocal disclosures of the state of Walter’s mind.

But whatever were his motives for these visits, and this kind of conduct, he kept them close within his own breast. No one suspected him of any sinister design, but many applauded his filial attentions to his mother; for so his visits were construed, and they were deemed the more meritorious on account of the state of his own family, his wife, after the birth of her twin daughters, having fallen into ill health. Indeed, he was in general contemplated with sentiments of compassion and respect. Every body had heard of his anxiety, on the death of his father, to procure some provision for his deceased brother’s family, and sympathised with the regret which he expressed at finding Walter so niggardly and intractable; for not a word was breathed of his incapacity. The increased thoughtfulness and reserve of his manner which began, we may say, from the conversation quoted, was in consequence attributed to the effect of his comfortless domestic situation, and the public sympathy was considerably augmented, when, in the course of the same year in which his father died, he happened to lose one of his daughters.

There were, however, among his friends, as there are always about most men, certain shrewd and invidious characters, and some among them did not give him credit for so much sensibility as their mutual acquaintance in common parlance ascribed to him. On the contrary, they openly condemned his indelicacy, in so often exposing the fooleries of his brother; and those who had detected the well hidden sordid meanness of his disposition, wondered that he had so quietly acquiesced in Walter’s succession. But they had either forgotten, or had never heard of, the circumstance to which his mother alluded with respect to her relation, the Mauchlin maltster’s attempt to invalidate her father’s will, and, of course, were not aware of the address requisite to prove the incapacity of a man whose situation had been already investigated, and who, by a solemn adjudication, was declared in the full possession of all his faculties. Their wonderment was not, however, allowed to continue long, for an event, which took place within a little more than three months after the death of his daughter, ended all debates and controversies on the subject.