The Leddy was then called,—and the advocate, with a solemn voice and pauses of lengthened sadness and commiseration,said,—
‘Madam, the Court and the jury do not expect you to enter into any particular description of the state of your unfortunate son. They only desire to know if you think he is capable of conducting his affairs like other men.’
‘Him capable!’ exclaimed the Leddy. ‘He’s no o’ a capacity to be advised.’
She would have proceeded further,—but Mr. Threeper interposed, saying, ‘Madam, we shall not distress you further; the Court and the jury must be satisfied.’
Not so was Mr. Keelevin, who nodded to Mr. Queerie, the counsel for Walter; and he immediately rose.
‘I wish,’ said he, ‘just to put one question to the witness. How long is it since your son has been so incapable of acting for himself?’
‘I canna gie you day nor date,’ replied the Leddy; ‘but he has been in a state of condumacity ever since his dochter died.’
‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Queerie; ‘then he was not always incapable?’
‘O no,’ cried the Leddy; ‘he was a most tractable creature, and the kindliest son,’ she added, with a sigh; ‘but since that time he’s been neither to bind nor to haud, threatening to send me, his mother, a-garsing—garing me lay out my own lawful jointure on the house, and using me in the most horridable manner—wastring his income in the most thoughtless way.’
Mr. Threeper began to whisper to our friend Gabriel, and occasionally to look, with an afflicted glance, towards the Leddy.
Mr. Queerieresumed,—
‘Your situation, I perceive, has been for some time very unhappy—but, I suppose, were Mr. Walkinshaw to make you a reasonable compensation for the trouble you take in managing his house, you would have no objections still to continue with him.’
‘Oh! to be surely,’ said the Leddy;—‘only it would need to be something worth while; and my gude-dochter and her family would require to be obligated to gang hame.’
‘Certainly, what you say, Madam, is very reasonable,’ rejoined Mr. Queerie;—‘and I have no doubt that the Court perceives that a great part of your distress, from the idiotry of your son, arises from his having brought in the lady alluded to and her family.’
‘It has come a’ frae that,’ replied the witness, unconscious of the force of what she was saying;—‘for, ’cepting his unnaturality to me about them, his idiocety is very harmless.’
‘Perhaps not worse than formerly?’
A look from George at this crisis put her on herguard; and she instantly replied, as if eager to redeem the effects of what she had justsaid,—
‘’Deed, Sir, it’s no right to let him continue in the rule and power o’ the property; for nobody can tell what he may commit.’
At this juncture, Mr. Queerie, perceiving her wariness, sat down; and the Reverend Dr. Denholm being called by Mr. Threeper, stated, in answer to the usualquestion,—
‘I acknowledge, that I do not think Mr. Walkinshaw entirely of a sound mind; but he has glaiks and gleams o’ sense about him, that mak me very dootful if I could judicially swear, that he canna deport himsel wi’ sufficient sagacity.’
‘But,’ said the advocate, ‘did not you yourself advise Mr. George Walkinshaw to institute these proceedings.’
‘I’ll no disown that,’ replied the Doctor; ‘but Mr. Walter has since then done such a humane and a Christian duty to his brother’s widow, and her two defenceless and portionless bairns, that I canna, in my conscience, think now so lightly of him as I once did.’
Here the jury consulted together; and, after a short conference, the foreman inquired if Mr. Walkinshaw was in Court. On being answered in the negative, the Sheriff suggested an adjournment till next day, that he might be brought forward.
When the Leddy returned from the Court to Grippy, Walter, who had in the meantime been somehow informed of the nature of the proceedings instituted against him, said to hismother,—
‘Weel, mother, so ye hae been trying to mak me daft? but I’m just as wise as ever.’
‘Thou’s ordaint to bring disgrace on us a’,’ was her answer, dictated under a feeling of vague apprehension, arising from the uncertainty which seemed tolower upon the issue of the process by the evidence of Dr. Denholm.
‘I’m sure I hae nae hand in’t,’ said Walter; ‘an ye had na meddlet wi’ me, I would ne’er hae spoken to Keelevin, to vex you. But I suppose, mother, that you and that wily headcadab Geordie hae made naething o’ your fause witnessing.’
‘Haud thy fool tongue, and insult na me,’ exclaimed the Leddy in a rage at the simpleton’s insinuation, which was uttered without the slightest sentiment of reproach. ‘But,’ she added, ‘ye’ll see what it is to stand wi’ a het face afore the Court the morn.’
‘I’ll no gang,’ replied Walter; ‘I hae nae broo o’ Courts and law-pleas.’
‘But ye shall gang, if the life be in your body.’
‘I’ll do nothing but what Mr. Keelevin bids me.’
‘Mr. Keelevin,’ exclaimed the Leddy, ‘ought to be drum’t out o’ the town for bringing sic trebalation intil my family.—What business had he, wi’ his controversies, to gumle law and justice in the manner he has done the day?’ And while she was thus speaking, George and Mr. Pitwinnoch made their appearance.
‘Hegh man, Geordie!’ said Watty,—‘I’m thinking, instead o’ making me daft, ye hae demented my mother, poor bodie; for she’s come hame wi’ a flyte proceeding out of her mouth like a two-edged sword.’
‘If you were not worse than ye are,’ said his brother, ‘you would have compassion on your mother’s feelings.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Watty, ‘I hae every compassion for her; but there was nae need o’ her to wis to mak me daft. It’s a foul bird that files its ain nest; and really, to speak my mind, I think, Geordie, that you and her were na wise, but far left to yoursels, to put your heads intil the hangman’s halter o’ a law-plea anent my intellectuals.’
Gabriel Pitwinnoch, who began to distrust the effect of the evidence, was troubled not a little at this observation; for he thought, if Walter spoke as well to the point before the Court, the cause must be abandoned.As for George, he was scarcely in a state to think of any thing, so much was he confounded and vexed by the impression of Dr. Denholm’s evidence, the tenor of which was so decidedly at variance with all he had flattered himself it would be. He, however,said,—
‘Ye’re to be examined to-morrow, and what will you say for yourself?’
‘I hae mair modesty,’ replied Walter, ‘than to be my ain trumpeter—I’ll say naething but what Mr. Keelevin bids me.’
Gabriel smiled encouragingly to George at this, whocontinued,—
‘You had better tak care what ye say.’
‘Na,’ cried Watty, ‘an that’s the gait o’t, I’ll keep a calm sough—least said’s soonest mendit—I’ll haud my tongue.’
‘But you must answer every question.’
‘Is’t in the Shorter or the Larger Catechism?’ said Walter. ‘I can say till the third petition o’ the t’ane, and frae end to end o’ the t’ither.’
‘That’s quite enough,’ replied Gabriel, ‘and more than will be required of you.’
But the satisfaction which such an agreeable exposure of the innocency of the simpleton was calculated to afford to all present, was disturbed at this juncture by the entrance of Mr. Keelevin.
‘I’m glad, gentlemen,’ said he, the moment he came in, ‘that I have found you here. I think you must all be convinced that the investigation should na gang further. I’m sure Mr. Walter will be willing to grant a reasonable consideration to his mother for her care and trouble in the house, and even to assign a moitie o’ his income to you, Mr. George. Be counselled by me:—let us settle the matter in that manner quietly.’
Pitwinnoch winked to his client,—and Wattiesaid,—
‘What for should I gie my mother ony more? Has na she bed, board, and washing, house-room and chattels, a’ clear aboon her jointure? and I’m sure Geordie has nae lawful claim on me for ony aliment.—Od, Mr. Keelevin, it would be a terrible wastrie o’ meto do the like o’ that. They might weel mak me daft if I did sae.’
‘But it will be far decenter and better for a’ parties to enter into some agreement of that sort. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Walkinshaw, rather than to go on with this harsh business of proving your son an idiot?’
‘I’m no an idiot, Mr. Keelevin,’ exclaimed Walter—‘though it seems to me that there’s a thraw in the judgement o’ the family, or my mother and brother would ne’er hae raised this stramash about my capacity to take care o’ the property. Did na I keep the cows frae the corn a’ the last Ruglen fair-day, when Jock, the herd, got leave to gang in to try his luck and fortune at the roley-poleys?’
Honest Mr. Keelevin wrung his hands at this.
‘I’m sure, sir,’ said George, in his sleekest manner, ‘that you must yourself, Mr. Keelevin, be quite sensible that the inquiry ought to proceed to a verdict.’
‘I’m sensible o’ nae sic things, Mr. George,’ was the indignant answer. ‘Your brother is in as full possession of all his faculties as when your father executed the cursed entail, or when he was married to Kilmarkeckle’s dochter.’
‘’Deed, Mr. Keelevin,’ replied Walter, ‘ye’re mista’en there; for I hae had twa teeth tuggit out for the toothache since syne; and I hae grown deaf in the left lug.’
‘Did na I tell you,’ said the worthy man, angrily, ‘that ye were na to open your mouth?’
‘Really, Mr. Keelevin, I won’er to hear you,’ replied the natural, with great sincerity; ‘the mouth’s the only trance-door that I ken to the belly.’
‘Weel, weel,’ again exclaimed his friend; ‘mak a kirk and a mill o’t; but be ruled by me, and let us draw up a reasonable agreement.’
‘I’m thinking, Mr. Keelevin, that ye dinna ken that I hae made a paction with mysel to sign nae law-papers, for fear it be to the injury of Betty Bodle.’
‘Betty Bodle!’ said Gabriel Pitwinnoch, eagerly; ‘she has been long dead.’
‘Ah!’ said Walter, ‘that’s a’ ye ken about it. She’s baith living and life-like.’
Mr. Keelevin was startled and alarmed at this; but abstained from saying any thing. Gabriel also said nothing; but looked significantly to his client, who interposed, and put an end to the conversation.
‘Having gone so far,’ said he, ‘I could, with no respect for my own character, allow the proceedings to be now arrested. It is, therefore, unnecessary either to consider your suggestion, or to hold any further debate here on the subject.’
Mr. Keelevin made no reply to this; but said, as he had something to communicate in private to his client, he would carry him to Glasgow for that night. To so reasonable and so professional a proposal no objection was made. Walter himself also at once acquiesced, on the express condition, that he was not to be obliged to sign any law-papers.
Next day, when the Court again assembled, Walter was there, seated beside his agent, and dressed in his best. Every eye was directed towards him; and the simple expression of wonder, mingled with anxiety, which the scene around him occasioned, gave an air of so much intelligence to his features, which were regular, and, indeed, handsome, that he excited almost universal sympathy; even Mr. Threeper was perplexed, when he saw him, at the proper time, rise from beside his friend, and, approaching the bottom of the table, make a slow and profound bow, first to the Sheriff and then to the jury.
‘You are Mr. Walkinshaw, I believe?’ said Mr. Threeper.
‘I believe I am,’ replied Walter, timidly.
‘What are you, Mr. Walkinshaw?’
‘A man, sir.—My mother and brother want to mak me a daft ane.’
‘How do you suspect them of any such intention?’
‘Because ye see I’m here—I would na hae been here but for that.’
The countenance of honest Keelevin began to brighten, while that of George was clouded and overcast.
‘Then you do not think you are a daft man?’ said the advocate.
‘Nobody thinks himsel daft. I dare say ye think ye’re just as wise as me.’
A roar of laughter shook the Court, and Threeper blushed and was disconcerted; but he soon resumed,tartly,—
‘Upon my word, Mr. Walkinshaw, you have a good opinion of yourself. I should like to know for what reason?’
‘That’s a droll question to speer at a man,’ replied Walter. ‘A poll parrot thinks weel o’ itsel, which is but a feathered creature, and short o’ the capacity of a man by twa hands.’
Mr. Keelevin trembled and grew pale; and the advocate, recovering full possession of his assurance,proceeded,—
‘And so ye think, Mr. Walkinshaw, that the two hands make all the difference between a man and a parrot?’
‘No, no, sir,’ replied Walter, ‘I dinna think that,—for ye ken the beast has feathers.’
‘And why have not men feathers?’
‘That’s no a right question, sir, to put to the like o’ me, a weak human creature;—ye should ask their Maker,’ said Walter gravely.
The advocate was again repulsed; Pitwinnoch sat doubting the intelligence of his ears, and George shivering from head to foot: a buzz of satisfaction pervaded the whole Court.
‘Well, but not to meddle with such mysteries,’ said Mr. Threeper, assuming a jocular tone, ‘I suppose you think yourself a very clever fellow?’
‘At some things,’ replied Walter modestly; ‘but I dinna like to make a roos o’ mysel.’
‘And pray now, Mr. Walkinshaw, may I ask what do you think you do best?’
‘Man! an ye could see how I can sup curds and ream—there’s no ane in a’ the house can ding me.’
The sincerity and exultation with which this was expressed convulsed the Court, and threw the advocate completely on his beam-ends. However, he soon righted, andproceeded,—
‘I don’t doubt your ability in that way, Mr. Walkinshaw; and I dare say you can play a capital knife and fork.’
‘I’m better at the spoon,’ replied Walter laughing.
‘Well, I must confess you are a devilish clever fellow.’
‘Mair sae, I’m thinking, than ye thought, sir.—But noo, since,’ continued Walter, ‘ye hae speer’t so many questions at me, will ye answer one yoursel?’
‘Oh, I can have no possible objection to do that, Mr. Walkinshaw.’
‘Then,’ said Walter, ‘how muckle are ye to get frae my brother for this job?’
Again the Court was convulsed, and the questioner again disconcerted.
‘I suspect, brother Threeper,’ said the Sheriff, ‘that you are in the wrong box.’
‘I suspect so too,’ replied the advocate laughing; but, addressing himself again to Walter, hesaid,—
‘You have been married, Mr. Walkinshaw?’
‘Aye, auld Doctor Denholm married me to Betty Bodle.’
‘And pray where is she?’
‘Her mortal remains, as the headstone says, lie in the kirkyard.’
The countenance of Mr. Keelevin became pale and anxious—George and Pitwinnoch exchanged smiles of gratulation.
‘You had a daughter?’ said the advocate, looking knowingly to the jury, who sat listening with greedy ears.
‘I had,’ said Walter, and glanced anxiously towards his trembling agent.
‘And what became of your daughter?’
No answer was immediately given—Walter hung his head, and seemed troubled; he sighed deeply, and again turned his eye inquiringly to Mr. Keelevin. Almost every one present sympathized with his emotion, and ascribed it to parental sorrow.
‘I say,’ resumed the advocate, ‘what became of your daughter?’
‘I canna answer that question.’
The simple accent in which this was uttered interested all in his favour still more and more.
‘Is she dead?’ said the pertinacious Mr. Threeper.
‘Folk said sae; and what every body says maun be true.’
‘Then you don’t, of your own knowledge, know the fact?’
‘Before I can answer that, I would like to ken what a fact is?’
The counsel shifted his ground, without noticing the question; andsaid,—
‘But I understand, Mr. Walkinshaw, you have still a child that you call your Betty Bodle?’
‘And what business hae ye wi’ that?’ said the natural, offended. ‘I never saw sic a stock o’ impudence as ye hae in my life.’
‘I did not mean to offend you, Mr. Walkinshaw; I was only anxious, for the ends of justice, to know if you consider the child you call Betty Bodle as your daughter?’
‘I’m sure,’ replied Walter, ‘that the ends o’ justice would be meikle better served an ye would hae done wi’ your speering.’
‘It is, I must confess, strange that I cannot get a direct answer from you, Mr. Walkinshaw. Surely, as a parent, you should know your child!’ exclaimed the advocate, peevishly.
‘An I was a mother ye might say sae.’
Mr. Threeper began to feel, that, hitherto, he had made no impression; and forming an opinion of Walter’s shrewdness far beyond what he was led toexpect, he stooped, and conferred a short time with Mr. Pitwinnoch. On resuming his wonted posture, hesaid,—
‘I do not wish, Mr. Walkinshaw, to harass your feelings; but I am not satisfied with the answer you have given respecting your child; and I beg you will be a little more explicit. Is the little girl that lives with you your daughter?’
‘I dinna like to gie you any satisfaction on that head; for Mr. Keelevin said, ye would bother me if I did.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the triumphant advocate, ‘have I caught you at last?’
A murmur of disappointment ran through all the Court; and Walter looked around coweringly and afraid.
‘So Mr. Keelevin has primed you, has he? He has instructed you what to say?’
‘No,’ said the poor natural; ‘he instructed me to say nothing.’
‘Then why did he tell you that I would bother you?’
‘I dinna ken, speer at himsel; there he sits.’
‘No, sir! I ask you,’ said the advocate, grandly.
‘I’m wearied, Mr. Keelevin,’ said Walter, helplessly, as he looked towards his disconsolate agent. ‘May I no come away?’
The honest lawyer gave a deep sigh; to which all the spectators sympathizingly responded.
‘Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the Sheriff, ‘don’t be alarmed—we are all friendly disposed towards you; but it is necessary, for the satisfaction of the jury, that you should tell us what you think respecting the child that lives with you.’
Walter smiled and said, ‘I hae nae objection to converse wi’ a weel-bred gentleman like you; but that barking terrier in the wig, I can thole him no longer.’
‘Well, then,’ resumed the judge, ‘is the little girl your daughter?’
‘’Deed is she—my ain dochter.’
‘How can that be, when, as you acknowledged, every body said your dochter was dead?’
‘But I kent better mysel—my bairn and dochter, ye see, sir, was lang a weakly baby, ay bleating like a lambie that has lost its mother; and she dwin’t and dwinlet, and moan’t and grew sleepy sleepy, and then she clos’d her wee bonny een, and lay still; and I sat beside her three days and three nights, watching her a’ the time, never lifting my een frae her face, that was as sweet to look on as a gowan in a lown May morning. But I ken na how it came to pass—I thought, as I look’t at her, that she was changet, and there began to come a kirkyard smell frae the bed, that was just as if the hand o’ Nature was wising me to gae away; and then I saw, wi’ the eye o’ my heart, that my brother’s wee Mary was grown my wee Betty Bodle, and so I gaed and brought her hame in my arms, and she is noo my dochter. But my mother has gaen on like a randy at me ever sin syne, and wants me to put away my ain bairn, which I will never, never do—No, sir, I’ll stand by her, and guard her, though fifty mothers, and fifty times fifty brother Geordies, were to flyte at me frae morning to night.’
One of the jury here interposed, and asked several questions relative to the management of the estate; by the answers to which it appeared, not only that Walter had never taken any charge whatever, but that he was totally ignorant of business, and even of the most ordinary money transactions.
The jury then turned round and laid their heads together; the legal gentlemen spoke across the table, and Walter was evidently alarmed at the bustle.—In the course of two or three minutes, the foreman returned a verdict of Fatuity.
The poor Laird shuddered, and, looking at the Sheriff, said, in an accent of simplicity that melted every heart, ‘Am I found guilty?—Oh surely, sir, ye’ll no hang me, for I cou’dna help it?’
The scene in the parlour of Grippy, after the inquiry, was of the most solemn and lugubrious description.—The Leddy sat in the great chair, at the fireside, in all the pomp of woe, wiping her eyes, and, ever and anon, giving vent to the deepest soughs of sorrow. Mrs. Charles, with her son leaning on her knee, occupied another chair, pensive and anxious. George and Mr. Pitwinnoch sat at the table, taking an inventory of the papers in the scrutoire, and Walter was playfully tickling his adopted daughter on the green before the window, when Mrs. Milrookit, with her husband, the Laird of Dirdumwhamle, came to sympathize and condole with their friends, and to ascertain what would be the pecuniary consequences of the decision to them.
‘Come awa, my dear,’ said the Leddy to her daughter, as she entered the room;—‘Come awa and tak a seat beside me. Your poor brother, Watty, has been weighed in the balance o’ the Sheriff, and found wanting; and his vessels o’ gold and silver, as I may say in the words o’ Scripture, are carried away into captivity; for I understand that George gets no proper right to them, as I expeckit, but is obligated to keep them in custody, in case Watty should hereafter come to years o’ discretion. Hegh Meg! but this is a sair day for us a’—and for nane mair sae than your afflicted gude-sister there and her twa bairns. She’ll be under a needcessity to gang back and live again wi’ my mother, now in her ninety-third year, and by course o’ nature drawing near to her latter end.’
‘And what’s to become of you?’ replied Mrs. Milrookit.
‘O I’ll hae to bide here, to tak care o’ every thing; and an aliment will be alloot to me for keeping poor Watty. Hegh Sirs! Wha would hae thought it, that sic a fine lad as he ance was, and preferred by his honest father as the best able to keep the propertyright, would thus hae been, by decreet o’ court, proven a born idiot?’
‘But,’ interrupted Mrs. Milrookit, glancing compassionately towards her sister-in-law, ‘I think, since so little change is to be made, that ye might just as weel let Bell and her bairns bide wi’ you—for my grandmother’s income is little enough for her ain wants, now that she’s in a manner bedrid.’
‘It’s easy for you, Meg, to speak,’ replied her mother;—‘but if ye had an experiment o’ the heavy handfu’ they hae been to me, ye would hae mair compassion for your mother. It’s surely a dispensation sair enough, to hae the grief and heart-breaking sight before my eyes of a demented lad, that was so long a comfort to me in my widowhood. But it’s the Lord’s will, and I maun bend the knee o’ resignation.’
‘Is’t your intent, Mr. George,’ said the Laird o’ Dirdumwhamle, ‘to mak any division o’ what lying money there may hae been saved since your father’s death?’
‘I suspect there will not be enough to defray the costs of the process,’ replied George; ‘and if any balance should remain, the house really stands so much in need of repair, that I am persuaded there will not be a farthing left.’
‘’Deed,’ said the Leddy, ‘what he says, Mr. Milrookit, is oure true; the house is in a frail condition, for it was like pu’ing the teeth out o’ the head o’ Watty to get him to do what was needful.’
‘I think,’ replied the Laird o’ Dirdumwhamle, ‘that since ye hae so soon come to the property, Mr. George, and no likelihood o’ any molestation in the possession, that ye might let us a’ share and share alike o’ the gethering, and be at the outlay o’ the repairs frae the rental.’
To this suggestion Mr. George, however, replied, ‘It will be time enough to consider that, when the law expenses are paid.’
‘They’ll be a heavy soom, Mr. Milrookit,’ said the Leddy; ‘weel do I ken frae my father’s pleas what itis to pay law expenses. The like o’ Mr. Pitwinnoch there, and Mr. Keelevin, are men o’ moderation and commonality in their charges—but yon awfu’ folk wi’ the cloaks o’ darkness and the wigs o’ wisdom frae Edinbro’—they are costly commodities.—But now that we’re a’ met here, I think it would be just as weel an we war to settle at ance what I’m to hae, as the judicious curator o’ Watty—for, by course o’ law and nature, the aliment will begin frae this day.’
‘Yes,’ replied George, ‘I think it will be just as well; and I’m glad, mother, that you have mentioned it. What is your opinion, Mr. Milrookit, as to the amount that she should have?’
‘All things considered,’ replied the Laird of Dirdumwhamle, prospectively contemplating some chance of a reversionary interest to his wife in the Leddy’s savings, ‘I think you ought not to make it less than a hundred pounds a year.’
‘A hundred pounds a year!’ exclaimed the Leddy, ‘that’ll no buy saut to his kail. I hope and expek no less than the whole half o’ the rents; and they were last year weel on to four hunder.’
‘I think,’ said George to Mr. Pitwinnoch, ‘I would not be justified to the Court were I to give any thing like that; but if you think I may, I can have no objection to comply with my mother’s expectations.’
‘Oh, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ replied Gabriel, ‘you are no at a’ aware o’ your responsibility,—you can do no such things. Your brother has been found afatuus, and, of course, entitled but to the plainest maintenance. I think that you will hardly be permitted to allow his mother more than fifty pounds; if, indeed, so much.’
‘Fifty pounds! fifty placks,’ cried the indignant Leddy. ‘I’ll let baith you and the Sheriff ken I’m no to be frauded o’ my rights in that gait. I’ll no faik a farthing o’ a hundred and fifty.’
‘In that case, I fear,’ said Gabriel, ‘Mr. George will be obliged to seek another custodier for thefatuus, as assuredly, Mem, he’ll ne’er be sanctioned to allow you any thing like that.’
‘If ye think sae,’ interposed Mrs. Milrookit, compassionating the forlorn estate of her sister-in-law,—‘I dare say Mrs. Charles will be content to take him at a very moderate rate.’
‘Megsty me!’ exclaimed the Leddy. ‘Hae I been buying a pig in a pock like that? Is’t a possibility that he can be ta’en out o’ my hands, and no reasonable allowance made to me at a’? Surely, Mr. Pitwinnoch, surely, Geordie, this can never stand either by the laws of God or man.’
‘I can assure you, Mrs. Walkinshaw,’ replied the lawyer, ‘that fifty pounds a-year is as much as I could venture to advise Mr. George to give; and seeing it is sae, you had as well agree to it at once.’
‘I’ll never agree to ony such thing. I’ll gang intil Embro’ mysel, and hae justice done me frae the Fifteen. I’ll this very night consult Mr. Keelevin, who is a most just man, and o’ a right partiality.’
‘I hope, mother,’ said George, ‘that you and I will not cast out about this; and to end all debates, if ye like, we’ll leave the aliment to be settled by Mr. Pitwinnoch and Mr. Keelevin.’
‘Nothing can be fairer,’ observed the Laird of Dirdumwhamle, in the hope Mr. Keelevin might be so wrought on as to insist that at least a hundred should be allowed; and after some further altercation, the Leddy grudgingly assented to this proposal.
‘But,’ said Mrs. Milrookit, ‘considering now the altered state of Watty’s circumstances, I dinna discern how it is possible for my mother to uphold this house and the farm.’
The Leddy looked a little aghast at this fearful intimation, while Georgereplied,—
‘I have reflected on that, Margaret, and I am quite of your opinion; and, indeed, it is my intention, after the requisite repairs are done to the house, to flit my family; for I am in hopes the change of air will be advantageous to my wife’s health.’
The Leddy was thunderstruck, and unable to speak; but her eyes were eloquent with indignation.
‘Perhaps, after all, it would be as well for our mother,’ continued George, ‘to take up house at once in Glasgow; and as I mean to settle an annuity of fifty pounds on Mrs. Charles, they could not do better than all live together.’
All present but his mother applauded the liberality of George. To the young widow the intelligence of such a settlement was as fresh air to the captive; but before she could express her thankfulness, Leddy Grippy started up, and gave a tremendous stamp with her foot. She then resumed her seat, and appeared all at once calm and smiling; but it was a calm betokening no tranquillity, and a smile expressive of as little pleasure. In the course of a few seconds the hurricane burst forth, and alternately, with sobs and supplications, menaces, and knocking of nieves, and drumming with her feet, the hapless Leddy Grippy divulged and expatiated on the plots and devices of George. But all was of no avail—her destiny was sealed; and long before Messrs. Keelevin and Pitwinnoch adjusted the amount of the allowance, which, after a great struggle on the part of the former, was settled at seventy-five pounds, she found herself under the painful necessity of taking a flat up a turnpike stair in Glasgow, for herself and thefatuus.
For some time after the decision of Walter’s fatuity, nothing important occurred in the history of the Grippy family. George pacified his own conscience, and gained the approbation of the world, by fulfilling the promise of settling fifty pounds per annum on his sister-in-law. The house was enlarged and adorned, and the whole estate, under the ancient name of Kittlestonheugh, began to partake of that general spirit of improvement which was then gradually diffusing itself over the face of the west country.
In the meantime, Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw, who hadreturned with her children to reside with their grandmother, found her situation comparatively comfortable; but an acute anxiety for the consequences that would ensue by the daily expected death of that gentlewoman, continued to thrill through her bosom, and chequer the sickly gleam of the uncertain sunshine that glimmered in her path. At last the old lady died, and she was reduced, as she had long foreseen, with her children, to the parsimonious annuity. As it was impossible for her to live in Glasgow, and educate her children, on so small a stipend, there, she retired to one of the neighbouring villages, where, in the family of the Reverend Mr. Eadie, the minister, she found that kind of quiet intelligent society which her feelings and her misfortunes required.
Mrs. Eadie was a Highland lady, and, according to the living chronicles of the region of clans and traditions, she was of scarcely less than illustrious birth. But for the last attempt to restore the royal line of the Stuarts, she would, in all probability, have moved in a sphere more spacious and suitable to the splendour of her pedigree than the humble and narrow orbit of a country clergyman’s wife. Nor in her appearance did it seem that Nature and Fortune were agreed about her destiny; for the former had adorned her youth with the beauty, the virtues, and the dignity, which command admiration in the palace,—endowments but little consonant to the lowly duties of the rural manse.
At the epoch of which we are now speaking she was supposed to have passed her fiftieth year; but something in her air and manner gave her the appearance of being older—a slight shade of melancholy, the pale cast of thought, lent sweetness to the benign composure of her countenance; and she was seldom seen without inspiring interest, and awakening sentiments of profound and reverential respect. She had lost her only daughter about a year before; and a son, her remaining child, a boy about ten years of age, was supposed to have inherited the malady which carried off his sister. Theanxiety which Mrs. Eadie, in consequence, felt as a mother, partly occasioned that mild sadness of complexion to which we have alluded; but there was still a deeper and more affecting cause.
Before the ruin of her father’s fortune, by the part he took in the Rebellion, she was betrothed to a youth who united many of the best Lowland virtues with the gallantry and enthusiasm peculiar to the Highlanders of that period. It was believed that he had fallen in the fatal field of Culloden; and, after a long period of virgin widowhood on his account, she was induced, by the amiable manners and gentle virtues of Mr. Eadie, to consent to change her life. He was then tutor in the family of a relation, with whom, on her father’s forfeiture and death, she had found an asylum,—and when he was presented to the parish of Camrachle, they were married.
The first seven years, from the date of their union, were spent in that temperate state of enjoyment which is the nearest to perfect happiness; during the course of which their two children were born. In that time no symptom of the latent poison of the daughter’s constitution appeared; but all around them, and in their prospects, was calm, and green, and mild, and prosperous.
In the course of the summer of the eighth year, in consequence of an often repeated invitation, they went, at the meeting of the General Assembly, to which Mr. Eadie was returned a member, to spend a short time with a relation in Edinburgh, and among the strangers with whom they happened to meet at the houses of their friends were several from France, children and relations of some of those who had been out in the Forty-five.
A young gentleman belonging to these expatrioted visitors, one evening interested Mrs. Eadie, to so great a degree, that she requested to be particularly introduced to him, and, in the course of conversation, she learnt that he was the son of her former lover, and that his father was still alive, and married to a Frenchwoman, his mother. The shock which this discovery produced was so violent that she was obliged to leave the room, and falling afterwards into bad health, her singular beauty began to fade with premature decay.
Her husband, to whom she disclosed her grief, endeavoured to soften it by all the means and blandishments in his power; but it continued so long inveterate, that he yielded himself to the common weakness of our nature, and growing peevish at her sorrow, chided her melancholy till their domestic felicity was mournfully impaired.
Such was the state in which Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw found Mrs. Eadie at their first acquaintance; and the disappointments and shadows which had fallen on the hopes of her own youth, soon led to an intimate and sympathetic friendship between them, the influence of which contributed at once to alleviate their reciprocal griefs, and to have the effect of reviving, in some degree, the withered affections of the minister. The gradual and irremediable progress of the consumption which preyed on his son, soon, however, claimed from that gentle and excellent man efforts of higher fortitude than he had before exerted, and from that inward exercise, and the sympathy which he felt for his wife’s maternal solicitude, Mrs. Walkinshaw had the satisfaction, in the course of a year, to see their mutual confidence and cordiality restored. But in the same period the boy died; and though the long foreseen event deeply affected his parents, it proved a fortunate occurrence to the widow. For the minister, to withdraw his reflections from the contemplation of his childless state, undertook the education of James, and Mrs. Eadie, partly from the same motives, but chiefly to enjoy the society of her friend, proposed to unite with her in the education of Mary. ‘We cannot tell,’ said she to Mrs. Walkinshaw, ‘what her lot may be; but let us do our best to prepare her for the world, and leave her fortunes, as they ever must be, in the hands of Providence. The penury and obscurity of her present condition ought to be no objection tobestowing on her all the accomplishments we have it in our power to give. How little likely was it, in my father’s time, that I should have been in this comparative poverty, and yet, but for those acquirements, which were studied for brighter prospects, how dark and sad would often have been my residence in this sequestered village!’
In the meantime, the fortunes of George, whom we now regard as the third Laird of Grippy, continued to flourish. The estate rose in value, and his mercantile circumstances improved; but still the infirmities of his wife’s health remained the same, and the want of a male heir was a craving void in his bosom, that no prosperity could supply.
The reflections, connected with this subject, were rendered the more afflicting, by the consideration, that, in the event of dying without a son, the estate would pass from his daughter to James, the son of his brother Charles—and the only consolation that he had to balance this was a hope that, perhaps, in time he might be able to bring to pass a marriage between them. Accordingly, after a suspension of intercourse for several years, actuated by a perspective design of this kind, he, one afternoon, made his appearance in his own carriage, with his lady and daughter, at the door of Mrs. Charles’ humble dwelling, in the village of Camrachle.
‘I am afraid,’ said he, after they were all seated in her little parlour, the window of which was curtained without with honeysuckle and jessamine—and the grate filled with flowers;—‘I am afraid, my dear sister, unless we occasionally renew our intercourse, that the intimacy will be lost between our families, which it ought to be the interest of friends to preserve. Mrs. Walkinshaw and I have, therefore, come to request that you and the children will spend a few days with us at Kittlestonheugh, and if you do not object, we shall invite our mother and Walter to join you—you would be surprised to hear how much the poor fellow still dotes on the recollection of your Mary, as Betty Bodle, and bewails, because the law, as he says, has found him guilty of being daft, that he should not be allowed to see her.’
This visit and invitation were so unexpected, that even Mrs. Charles, who was of the most gentle and confiding nature, could not avoid suspecting they were dictated by some unexplained purpose; but adversity had long taught her that she was only as a reed in the world, and must stoop as the wind blew. She, therefore, readily agreed to spend a few days at the mansion-house, and the children, who were present, eagerly expressing a desire to see their uncle Walter, of whose indulgence and good nature they retained the liveliest recollection, it was arranged that, on the Monday following, the carriage should be sent for her and them, and that the Leddy and Walter should also be at Kittlestonheugh to meet them.
In the evening after this occurrence, Mrs. Charles went to the manse, and communicated to the minister and Mrs. Eadie what had happened. They knew her story, and were partly acquainted with the history of the strange and infatuated Entail. Like her, they believed that her family had been entirely cut off from the succession, and, like her too, they respected the liberality of George, in granting her the annuity, small as it was. His character, indeed, stood fair and honourable with the world; he was a partner in one of the most eminent concerns in the royal city; his birth and the family estate placed him in the first class of her sons and daughters, that stately class who, though entirely devoted to the pursuit of lucre, still held their heads high as ancestral gentry. But after a suspension of intercourse for so long a period, so sudden a renewal of intimacy, and with a degree of cordiality never before evinced, naturally excited their wonder, and awakened their conjectures. Mrs. Eadie,superior and high-minded herself, ascribed it to the best intentions. ‘Your brother-in-law,’ said she, ‘is feeling the generous influence of prosperity, and is sensible that it must redound to his personal advantage with the world to continue towards you, on an enlarged scale, that friendship which you have already experienced.’
But the minister, who, from his humbler birth, and the necessity which it imposed on him to contemplate the movements of society from below, together with that acquired insight of the hidden workings of the heart, occasionally laid open in the confessional moments of contrition, when his assistance was required at the death-beds of his parishioners, appeared to entertain a different opinion.
‘I hope his kindness proceeds,’ said he, ‘from so good a source; but I should have been better satisfied had it run in a constant stream, and not, after such an entire occultation, burst forth so suddenly. It is either the result of considerations with respect to things already past, recently impressed upon him in some new manner, or springs from some sinister purpose that he has in view; and therefore, Mrs. Walkinshaw, though it may seem harsh in me to suggest so ill a return for such a demonstration of brotherly regard, I would advise you, on account of your children, to observe to what it tends.’
In the meantime, George, with his lady and daughter, had proceeded to his mother’s residence in Virginia Street, to invite her and Walter to join Mrs. Charles and the children.
His intercourse with her, after her domiciliation in the town had been established, was restored to the freest footing; for although, in the first instance, and in the most vehement manner, she declared, ‘He had cheated her, and deprived Walter of his lawful senses; and that she ne’er would open her lips to him again,’ he had, nevertheless, contrived to make his peace, by sending her presents, and paying her the most marked deference and respect; lamenting that thehard conditions of his situation as a trustee did not allow him to be in other respects more liberal. But still the embers of suspicion were not extinguished; and when, on this occasion, he told her where he had been, and the immediate object of his visit, she could not refrain from observing, that it was a very wonderful thing.
‘Dear keep me, Geordie!’ said she, ‘what’s in the wind noo, that ye hae been galloping awa in your new carriage to invite Bell Fatherlans and her weans to Grippy?’
George, eager to prevent her observations, interrupted her,saying,—
‘I am surprised, mother, that you still continue to call the place Grippy. You know it is properly Kittlestonheugh.’
‘To be sure,’ replied the Leddy, ‘since my time and your worthy father’s time, it has undergone a great transmogrification; what wi’ your dining-rooms, and what wi’ your drawing-rooms, and your new back jams and your wings.’
‘Why, mother, I have but as yet built only one of the wings,’ said he.
‘And enough too,’ exclaimed the Leddy. ‘Geordie, tak my word for’t, it’ill a’ flee fast enough away wi’ ae wing. Howsever, I’ll no objek to the visitation, for I hae had a sort o’ wis to see my grandchilder, which is very natural I shou’d hae. Nae doot, by this time they are grown braw bairns; and their mother was ay a genty bodie, though, in a sense, mair for ornament than use.’
Walter, who, during this conversation, was sitting in his father’s easy chair, that had, among other chattels, been removed from Grippy,—swinging backward and forwards, and occasionally throwing glances towards the visitors,said,—
‘And is my Betty Bodle to be there?’
‘O yes,’ replied George, glad to escape from his mother’s remarks; ‘and you’ll be quite delighted to see her. She is uncommonly tall for her age.’
‘I dinna like that,’ said Walter; ‘she should na hae grown ony bigger,—for I dinna like big folk.’
‘And why not?’
‘’Cause ye ken, Geordie, the law’s made only for them; and if you and me had ay been twa wee brotherly laddies, playing on the gowany brae, as we used to do, ye would ne’er hae thought o’ bringing yon Cluty’s claw frae Enbro’ to prove me guilty o’ daftness.’
‘I’m sure, Watty,’ said George, under the twinge which he suffered from the observation, ‘that I could not do otherwise. It was required from me equally by what was due to the world and to my mother.’
‘It may be sae,’ replied Walter; ‘but, as I’m daft, ye ken I dinna understand it;’ and he again resumed his oscillations.
After some further conversation on the subject of the proposed visit, in which George arranged that he should call on Monday for his mother and Walter in the carriage, and take them out to the country with him, he took his leave.
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 havingthought 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 timesaying,—
‘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 inthis 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.
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 hesaid,—
‘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’ mykeep 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 samemanner 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.