The Entail

CHAPTER LXI

On the same evening on which George and his family visited Mrs. Charles at Camrachle, and while she was sitting in the manse parlour, Mrs. Eadie received a letter by the post. It was from her cousin Frazer, who, as heir-male of Frazer of Glengael, her father’s house, would, but for the forfeiture, have been his successor, and it was written to inform her, that, among other forfeited properties, the Glengael estate was to be soon publicly sold, and that he was making interest, according to the custom of the time, and the bearing in the minds of the Scottish gentry in general towards the unfortunate adherents of the Stuarts, to obtain a private preference at the sale; also begging that she would come to Edinburgh and assist him in the business, some of their mutual friends and relations having thought that, perhaps, she might herself think of concerting the means to make the purchase.

At one time, undoubtedly, the hereditary affections of Mrs. Eadie would have prompted her to have made the attempt; but the loss of her children extinguished all the desire she had ever cherished on the subject, and left her only the wish that her kinsman might succeed. Nevertheless, she was too deeply under the influence of the clannish sentiments peculiar to the Highlanders, not to feel that a compliance with Frazer’s request was a duty. Accordingly, as soon as she read the letter, she handed it to her husband, at the same time saying, —

‘I am glad that this has happened when we are about to lose for a time the society of Mrs. Walkinshaw. We shall set out for Edinburgh on Monday, the day she leaves this, and perhaps we may be able to return about the time she expects to be back. For I feel,’ she added, turning towards her, ‘that your company has become an essential ingredient to our happiness.’

Mr. Eadie was so much surprised at the decision with which his wife spoke, and the firmness with which she proposed going to Edinburgh, without reference to what he might be inclined to do, that instead of reading the letter, he looked at her anxiously for a moment, perhaps recollecting the unpleasant incident of their former visit to the metropolis, and said, ‘What has occurred?’

‘Glengael is to be sold,’ she replied, ‘and my cousin, Frazer, is using all the influence he can to prevent any one from bidding against him. Kindness towards me deters some of our mutual friends from giving him their assistance; and he wishes my presence in Edinburgh to remove their scruples, and otherwise to help him.’

‘You can do that as well by letter as in person,’ said the minister, opening the letter; ‘for, indeed, this year we cannot so well afford the expences of such a journey.’

‘The honour of my father’s house is concerned in this business,’ replied the lady, calmly but proudly; ‘and there is no immediate duty to interfere with what I owe to my family as the daughter of Glengael.’

Mrs. Walkinshaw had, from her first interview, admired the august presence and lofty sentiments of Mrs. Eadie; but nothing had before occurred to afford her even a glimpse of her dormant pride and sleeping energies, the sinews of a spirit capable of heroic and masculine effort; and she felt for a moment awed by the incidental disclosure of a power and resolution, that she had never once imagined to exist beneath the calm and equable sensibility which constituted the general tenor of her friend’s character.

When the minister had read the letter, he again expressed his opinion that it was unnecessary to go to Edinburgh; but Mrs. Eadie, without entering into any observation on his argument, said, —

‘On second thoughts, it may not be necessary for you to go – but I must. I am summoned by my kinsman; and it is not for me to question the propriety of what he asks, but only to obey. It is the cause of my father’s house.’

The minister smiled at her determination, and said, ‘I suppose there is nothing else for me but also to obey. I do not, however, recollect who this Frazer is – Was he out with your father in the Forty-five?’

‘No; but his father was,’ replied Mrs. Eadie, ‘and was likewise executed at Carlisle. He, himself, was bred to the bar, and is an advocate in Edinburgh.’ And, turning suddenly round to Mrs. Walkinshaw, she added solemnly, ‘There is something in this – There is some mysterious link between the fortunes of your family and mine. It has brought your brother-in-law here to-day, as if a new era were begun to you, and also this letter of auspicious omen to the blood of Glengael.’

Mr. Eadie laughingly remarked, ‘That he had not for a long time heard from her such a burst of Highland lore.’

But Mrs. Walkinshaw was so affected by the solemnity with which it had been expressed, that she inadvertently said, ‘I hope in Heaven it may be so.’

‘I am persuaded it is,’ rejoined Mrs. Eadie, still serious; and emphatically taking her by the hand, she said, ‘The minister dislikes what he calls my Highland freats, and believes they have their source in some dark remnants of pagan superstition; on that account, I abstain from speaking of many things that I see, the signs and forecoming shadows of events – nevertheless, my faith in them is none shaken, for the spirit has more faculties than the five senses, by which, among other things, the heart is taught to love or hate, it knows not wherefore – Mark, therefore, my words, and bear them in remembrance – for this day the fortunes of Glengael are mingled with those of your house. – The lights of both have been long set; but the time is coming, when they shall again shine in their brightness.’

‘I should be incredulous no more,’ replied the minister, ‘if you could persuade her brother-in-law, Mr. George Walkinshaw, to help Frazer with a loan towards the sum required for the purchase of Glengael.’

Perceiving, however, that he was treading too closely on a tender point, he turned the conversation, and nothing more particular occurred that evening. The interval between then and Monday was occupied by the two families in little preparations for their respective journeys; Mr. Eadie, notwithstanding the pecuniary inconvenience, having agreed to accompany his wife.

In the meantime, George, for some reason best known to himself, it would appear, had resolved to make the visit of so many connexions a festival; for, on the day after he had been at Camrachle, he wrote to his brother-in-law, the Laird of Dirdumwhamle, to join the party with Mrs. Milrookit, and to bring their son with them, – a circumstance which, when he mentioned it to his mother, only served to make her suspect that more was meant than met either the eye or ear in such extraordinary kindness; and the consequence was, that she secretly resolved to take the advice of Mr. Keelevin, as to how she ought to conduct herself; for, from the time of his warsle, as she called it, with Pitwinnoch for the aliment, he had regained her good opinion. She had also another motive for being desirous of conferring with him, no less than a laudable wish to have her will made, especially as the worthy lawyer, now far declined into the vale of years, had been for some time in ill health, and unable to give regular attendance to his clients at the office: ‘symptoms,’ as the Leddy said when she heard it ‘that he felt the cauld hand o’ Death muddling about the root o’ life, and a warning to a’ that wanted to profit by his skill, no to slumber and sleep like the foolish virgins, that aloo’t their cruises to burn out, and were wakened to desperation, when the shout got up that the bridegroom and the musickers were coming.’

But the worthy lawyer, when she called, was in no condition to attend any longer to worldly concerns, – a circumstance which she greatly deplored, as she mentioned it to her son George, who, however, was far from sympathizing with her anxiety; on the contrary, the news, perhaps, afforded him particular satisfaction. For he was desirous that the world should continue to believe his elder brother had been entirely disinherited, and Mr. Keelevin was the only person that he thought likely to set the heirs in that respect right.

CHAPTER LXII

On the day appointed, the different members of the Grippy family assembled at Kittlestonheugh. Mrs. Charles and her two children were the last that arrived; and during the drive from Camrachle, both James and Mary repeated many little instances of Walter’s kindness, so lasting are the impressions of affection received in the artless and heedless hours of childhood; and they again anticipated, from the recollection of his good nature, a long summer day with him of frolic and mirth.

But they were now several years older, and they had undergone that unconscious change, by which, though the stores of memory are unaltered, the moral being becomes another creature, and can no longer feel towards the same object as it once felt. On alighting from the carriage, they bounded with light steps and jocund hearts in quest of their uncle; but, when they saw him sitting by himself in the garden, they paused, and were disappointed.

They recognised in him the same person whom they formerly knew, but they had heard he was daft; and they beheld him stooping forward, with his hands sillily hanging between his knees; and he appeared melancholy and helpless.

‘Uncle Watty,’ said James, compassionately, ‘what for are ye sitting there alone?’

Watty looked up, and gazing at him vacantly for a few seconds, said, ‘’Cause naebody will sit wi’ me, for I’m a daft man.’ He then drooped his head, and sank into the same listless posture in which they had found him.

‘Do ye no ken me?’ said Mary.

He again raised his eyes, and alternately looked at them both, eagerly and suspiciously. Mary appeared to have outgrown his recollection, for he turned from her; but, after some time, he began to discover James; and a smile of curious wonder gradually illuminated his countenance, and developed itself into a broad grin of delight, as he said, —

‘What a heap o’ meat, Jamie Walkinshaw, ye maun hae eaten to mak you sic a muckle laddie;’ and he drew the boy towards him to caress him as he had formerly done; but the child, escaping from his hands, retired several paces backward, and eyed him with pity, mingled with disgust.

Walter appeared struck with his look and movement; and again folding his hands, dropped them between his knees, and hung his head, saying to himself, – ‘But I’m daft; naebody cares for me noo; I’m a cumberer o’ the ground, and a’ my Betty Bodles are ta’en away.’

The accent in which this was expressed touched the natural tenderness of the little girl; and she went up to him, and said, – ‘Uncle, I’m your wee Betty Bodle; what for will ye no speak to me?’

His attention was again roused, and he took her by the hand, and, gently stroking her head, said, ‘Ye’re a bonny flower, a lily-like leddy, and leil in the heart and kindly in the e’e; but ye’re no my Betty Bodle.’ Suddenly, however, something in the cast of her countenance reminded him so strongly of her more childish appearance, that he caught her in his arms, and attempted to dandle her; but the action was so violent that it frightened the child, and she screamed, and struggling out of his hands, ran away. James followed her; and their attention being soon drawn to other objects, poor Walter was left neglected by all during the remainder of the forenoon.

At dinner he was brought in and placed at the table, with one of the children on each side; but he paid them no attention.

‘What’s come o’er thee, Watty?’ said his mother. ‘I thought ye would hae been out o’ the body wi’ your Betty Bodle; but ye ne’er let on ye see her.’

‘’Cause she’s like a’ the rest,’ said he sorrowfully. ‘She canna abide me; for ye ken I’m daft – It’s surely an awfu’ leprosy this daftness, that it gars every body flee me; but I canna help it – It’s no my fau’t, but the Maker’s that made me, and the laws that found me guilty. But, Geordie,’ he added, turning to his brother, ‘what’s the use o’ letting me live in this world, doing nothing, and gude for naething?’

Mrs. Charles felt her heart melt within her at the despondency with which this was said, and endeavoured to console him; he, however, took no notice of her attentions, but sat seemingly absorbed in melancholy, and heedless to the endeavours which even the compassionate children made to induce him to eat.

‘No,’ said he; ‘I’ll no eat ony mair – it’s even down wastrie for sic a useless set-by thing as the like o’ me to consume the fruits o’ the earth. The cost o’ my keep would be a braw thing to Bell Fatherlans, so I hope, Geordie, ye’ll mak it o’er to her; for when I gae hame I’ll lie doun and die.’

‘Haud thy tongue, and no fright folk wi’ sic blethers,’ exclaimed his mother; ‘but eat your dinner, and gang out to the green and play wi’ the weans.’

‘An I were na a daft creature, naebody would bid me play wi’ weans – and the weans ken that I am sae, and mak a fool o’ me for’t – I dinna like to be every body’s fool. I’m sure the law, when it found me guilty, might hae alloot me a mair merciful punishment. Meg Wilcat, that stealt Provost Murdoch’s cocket-hat, and was whippit for’t at the Cross, was pitied wi’ many a watery e’e; but every body dauds and dings the daft Laird o’ Grippy.’

‘Na! as I’m to be trusted,’ exclaimed the Leddy, ‘if I dinna think, Geordie, that the creature’s coming to its senses again;’ and she added laughing, ‘and what will come o’ your braw policy, and your planting and plenishing? for ye’ll hae to gie’t back, and count in the Court to the last bawbee for a’ the rental besides.’

George was never more at a loss than for an answer to parry this thrust; but, fortunately for him, Walter rose and left the room, and, as he had taken no dinner, his mother followed to remonstrate with him against the folly of his conduct. Her exhortations and her menaces were, however, equally ineffectual; the poor natural was not to be moved; he felt his own despised and humiliated state; and the expectation which he had formed of the pleasure he was to enjoy, in again being permitted to caress and fondle his Betty Bodle, was so bitterly disappointed, that it cut him to the heart. No persuasion, no promise, could entice him to return to the dining-room; but a settled and rivetted resolution to go back to Glasgow obliged his mother to desist, and allow him to take his own way. He accordingly quitted the house, and immediately on arriving at home went to bed. Overpowered by the calls of hunger, he was next day allured to take some food; and from day to day after, for several years, he was in the same manner tempted to eat; but all power of volition, from the period of the visit, appeared to have become extinct within him. His features suffered a melancholy change, and he never spoke – nor did he seem to recognize any one; but gradually, as it were, the whole of his mind and intellect ebbed away, leaving scarcely the merest instincts of life. But the woeful form which Nature assumes in the death-bed of fatuity admonishes us to draw the curtain over the last scene of poor Watty.

CHAPTER LXIII

In the foregoing chapter we were led, by our regard for the simple affections and harmless character of the second Laird, to overstep a period of several years. We must now, in consequence, return, and resume the narrative from the time that Walter retired from the company; but, without entering too minutely into the other occurrences of the day, we may be allowed to observe, in the sage words of the Leddy, that the party enjoyed themselves with as much insipidity as is commonly found at the formal feasts of near relations.

Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw, put on her guard by the conjectures of the minister of Camrachle, soon perceived an evident partiality on the part of her brother-in-law towards her son, and that he took particular pains to make the boy attentive to Robina, as his daughter was called. Indeed, the design of George was so obvious, and the whole proceedings of the day so peculiarly marked, that even the Leddy could not but observe them.

‘I’m thinking,’ said she, ‘that the seeds of a matrimony are sown among us this day, for Geordie’s a far-before looking soothsayer, and a Chaldee excellence like his father; and a bodie does na need an e’e in the neck to discern that he’s just wising and wiling for a purpose of marriage hereafter between Jamie and Beenie. Gude speed the wark! for really we hae had but little luck among us since the spirit o’ disinheritance got the upper hand; and it would be a great comfort if a’ sores could be salved and healed in the fulness of time, when the weans can be married according to law.’

‘I do assure you, mother,’ replied her dutiful son, ‘that nothing would give me greater pleasure; and I hope, that, by the frequent renewal of these little cordial and friendly meetings, we may help forward so desirable an event.’

‘But,’ replied the old Leddy piously, ‘marriages are made in Heaven; and, unless there has been a booking among the angels above, a’ that can be done by man below, even to the crying, for the third and last time, in the kirk, will be only a thrashing the water and a raising of bells. Howsever, the prayers of the righteous availeth much; and we should a’ endeavour, by our walk and conversation, to compass a work so meet for repentance until it’s brought to a come-to-pass. So I hope, Bell Fatherlans, that ye’ll up and be doing in this good work, watching and praying, like those who stand on the tower of Siloam looking towards Lebanon.’

‘I think,’ said Mrs. Charles smiling, ‘that you are looking far forward. The children are still but mere weans, and many a day must pass over their green heads before such a project ought even to be thought of.’

‘It’s weel kent, Bell,’ replied her mother-in-law, ‘that ye were ne’er a queen of Sheba, either for wisdom or forethought; but I hae heard my friend that’s awa – your worthy father, Geordie – often say, that as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined, which is a fine sentiment, and should teach us to set about our undertakings with a knowledge of better things than of silver and gold, in order that we may be enabled to work the work o’ Providence.’

But just as the Leddy was thus expatiating away in high solemnity, a dreadful cry arose among the pre-ordained lovers. The children had quarrelled; and, notwithstanding all the admonitions which they had received to be kind to one another, Miss Robina had given James a slap on the face, which he repaid with such instantaneous energy, that, during the remainder of the visit, they were never properly reconciled.

Other causes were also in operation destined to frustrate the long-forecasting prudence of her father. Mr. and Mrs. Eadie, on their arrival at Edinburgh, took up their abode with her relation Mr. Frazer, the intending purchaser of Glengael; and they had not been many days in his house, till they came to the determination to adopt Ellen, his eldest daughter, who was then about the age of James. Accordingly, after having promoted the object of their journey, when they returned to the manse of Camrachle, they were allowed to take Ellen with them; and the intimacy which arose among the children in the progress of time ripened into love between her and James. For although his uncle, in the prosecution of his own purpose, often invited the boy to spend several days together with his cousin at Kittlestonheugh, and did everything in his power during those visits to inspire the children with a mutual affection, their distaste for each other seemed only to increase.

Robina was sly and demure, observant, quiet, and spiteful. Ellen, on the contrary, was full of buoyancy and glee, playful and generous, qualities which assimilated much more with the dispositions of James than those of his cousin, so that, long before her beauty had awakened passion, she was to him a more interesting and delightful companion.

The amusements, also, at Camrachle, were more propitious to the growth of affection than those at Kittlestonheugh, where every thing was methodized into system, and where, if the expression may be allowed, the genius of design and purpose controlled and repressed nature. The lawn was preserved in a state of neatness too trim for the gambols of childhood; and the walks were too winding for the straight-forward impulses of its freedom and joy. At Camrachle the fields were open, and their expanse unbounded. The sun, James often thought, shone brighter there than at Kittlestonheugh; the birds sang sweeter in the wild broom than in his uncle’s shrubbery, and the moonlight glittered like gladness in the burns; but on the wide water of the Clyde it was always dull and silent.

There are few situations more congenial to the diffusion of tenderness and sensibility – the elements of affection – than the sunny hills and clear waters of a rural neighbourhood, and few of all the beautiful scenes of Scotland excel the environs of Camrachle. The village stands on the slope of a gentle swelling ground, and consists of a single row of scattered thatched cottages, behind which a considerable stream carries its tributary waters to the Cart. On the east end stands the little church, in the centre of a small cemetery, and close to it the modest mansion of the minister. The house which Mrs. Walkinshaw occupied was a slated cottage near the manse. It was erected by a native of the village, who had made a moderate competency as a tradesman in Glasgow; and, both in point of external appearance and internal accommodation, it was much superior to any other of the same magnitude in the parish. A few ash-trees rose among the gardens, and several of them were tufted with the nests of magpies, the birds belonging to which had been so long in the practice of resorting there, that they were familiar to all the children of the village.

But the chief beauty in the situation of Camrachle is a picturesque and extensive bank, shaggy with hazel, along the foot of which runs the stream already mentioned. The green and gowany brow of this romantic terrace commands a wide and splendid view of all the champaign district of Renfrewshire. And it was often observed, by the oldest inhabitants, that whenever any of the natives of the clachan had been long absent, the first spot they visited on their return was the crown of this bank, where they had spent the sunny days of their childhood. Here the young Walkinshaws and Ellen Frazer also instinctively resorted, and their regard for each other was not only ever after endeared by the remembrance of their early pastimes there, but associated with delightful recollections of glorious summer sunshine, the fresh green mornings of spring, and the golden evenings of autumn.