Long before Kittlestonheugh returned to Glasgow, the indissoluble knot was tied between his daughter and her cousin, Walkinshaw Milrookit. The Laird of Dirdumwhamle was secretly enjoying this happy consummation of a scheme which he considered as securing to his son the probable reversion of an affluent fortune, and a flourishing estate. Occasional flakes of fear floated, however, in the sunshine of his bosom, and fell cold for a moment on his heart. His wife was less satisfied. She knew the ardour with which her brother had pursued another object; she respected the consideration that was due to him as a parent in the disposal of his daughter; and she justly dreaded his indignation and reproaches. She was, therefore,anxious that Mr. Milrookit should return with her to the country before he came back from Camrachle. But her mother, the Leddy, was in high glee, and triumphant at having so cleverly, as she thought, accomplished a most meritorious stratagem, she would not for a moment listen to the idea of their going away before dinner.
‘Na; ye’ll just bide where ye are,’ said she. ‘It will be an unco-like thing no to partake o’ the marriage feast, though ye hae come without a wedding garment, after I hae been at the cost and outlay o’ a jigot o’ mutton, a fine young poney cock, and a Florentine pie; dainties that the like o’ hae na been in my house since Geordie, wi’ his quirks o’ law, wheedled me to connive wi’ him to deprive uncle Watty o’ his seven lawful senses, forbye the property. But I trow I hae now gotten the blin’ side o’ him at last: he’ll no daur to say a word to me about a huggery-muggery matrimonial, take my word for’t; for he kens the black craw I hae to pluck wi’ him anent the prank he played me in the deevelry o’ the concos mentos, whilk ought in course o’ justice to have entitled me to a full half of the income o’ the lands; and a blithe thing, Dirdumwhamle, that would hae been to you and your wife, could we hae wrought it into a come-to-pass; for sure am I, that, in my experience and throughgality, I would na hae tied my talent in a napkin, nor hid it in a stroopless tea-pot, in the corner o’ the press, but laid it out to usury wi’ Robin Carrick. Howsever, maybe, for a’ that, Meg, when I’m dead and gone, ye’ll find, in the bonny pocket-book ye sewed lang syne at the boarding-school for your father, a testimony o’ the advantage it was to hae had a mother. But, Sirs, a wedding-day is no a time for molloncholious moralizing; so I’ll mak a skip and a passover o’ a matter and things pertaining to sic Death, and the Leddy’s confabbles as legacies, and kittle up your notions wi’ a wee bit spree and sprose o’ jocosity, afore the old man comes; for so, in course o’ nature, it behoves us to ca’ the bride’s father, as he’s now, by the benisono’ Dr. De’ilfear, on the lawfu’ toll-road to become, in due season, an ancestor. Nae doubt, he would hae liked better had it been to one of his ain Walkinshaws o’ Kittlestonheugh; but, when folk canna get the gouden goun, they should be thankful when they get the sleeve.’
While the Leddy was thus holding forth to the Laird and his wife, the carriage with George stopped at the door. Dirdumwhamle, notwithstanding all his inward pleasure, changed colour. Mrs. Milrookit fled to another room, to which the happy pair had retired after the ceremony, that they might not be visible to any accidental visitors; and even the Leddy was for a time smitten with consternation. She, however, was the first who recovered her self-possession; and, before Mr. Walkinshaw was announced, she was seated in her accustomed elbow chair with a volume of Mathew Henry’sCommentaryon her lap, and her spectacles on her nose, as if she had been piously reading. Dirdumwhamle sat opposite to her, and was apparently in a profound sleep, from which he was not roused until some time after the entrance of his brother-in-law.
‘So, Geordie,’ said the Leddy, taking off her spectacles, and shutting the book, as her son entered; ‘what’s come o’ Jamie?—hae ye no brought the Douglas-tragedy-like mountebank back wi’ you?’
‘Let him go to the devil,’ was the answer.
‘That’s an ill wis, Geordie.—And so ye hae been a gouk’s errant? But how are they a’ at Camrachle?’ replied the Leddy; ‘and, to be sober, what’s the callan gaun to do? And what did he say for himsel, the kick-at-the-benweed foal that he is? If his mother had laid on the taws better, he would nae hae been sae skeigh. But, sit down, Geordie, and tell me a’ about it.—First and foremost, howsever, gie that sleepy bodie, Dirdumwhamle, a shoogle out o’ his dreams. What’s set the man a snoring like the bars o’ Ayr, at this time o’ day, I won’er?’
But Dirdumwhamle did not require to be so shaken; for, at this juncture, he began to yawn and stretchhis arms, till, suddenly seeing his brother-in-law, he started wide awake.
‘I am really sorry to say, mother,’ resumed Kittlestonheugh, ‘that my jaunt to Camrachle has been of no avail. The minister’s wife, who, by the way, is certainly not in her right mind, has already written to her relation, Glengael, to beg his interest to procure a cadetship to India for James; and, until she receives an answer, I will let the fellow tak his own way.’
‘Vera right, Geordie, vera right; ye could na act a more prudential and Solomon-like part,’ replied his mother. ‘But, since he will to Cupar, let him gang, and a’ sorrow till him; and just compose your mind to approve o’ Beenie’s marriage wi’ Walky, who is a lad of a methodical nature, and no a hurly-burly ramstam, like yon flea-luggit thing, Jamie.’
Dirdumwhamle would fain have said amen, but it stuck in his throat. Nor had he any inducement to make any effort further by the decisive manner in which his brother-in-law declared, that he would almost as soon carry his daughter’s head to the churchyard as see that match.
‘Weel, weel; but I dare say, Geordie, ye need na mair waste your bir about it,’ exclaimed the Leddy; ‘for, frae something I hae heard the lad himsel say, this very day, it’s no a marriage that ever noo is likely to happen in this warld;’ and she winked significantly to the bridegroom’s father.—‘But, Geordie,’ she continued, ‘there is a because that I would like to understand. How is’t that ye’re sae doure against Walky Milrookit? I’m sure he’s a very personable lad—come o’ a gude family—sib to us a’; and, failing you and yours, heir o’ entail to the Kittlestonheugh. Howsever, no to fash you wi’ the like o’ that, as I see ye’re kindling, I would, just by way o’ diversion, be blithe to learn how it would gang wi’ you, if Beenie, after a’ this straemash, was to loup the window under cloud o’ night wi’ some gaberlunzie o’ a crookit and blin’ soldier-officer, or, wha kens, maybe a drunken drammatical divor frae the play-house, wi’ ill-colour’t darntsilk stockings; his coat out at the elbows, and his hat on ajee? How would you like that, Geordie?—Sic misfortunes are no uncos noo-a-days.’
Her son, notwithstanding the chagrin he suffered, was obliged to smile, saying, ‘I have really a better opinion, both of Beenie’s taste and her sense, than to suppose any such adventure possible.’
‘So hae I,’ replied the Leddy. ‘But ye ken, if her character were to get sic a claut by a fox paw, ye would be obligated to tak her hame, and mak a genteel settlement befitting your only dochter.’
‘I think,’ said George, ‘in such a case as you suppose, a genteel settlement would be a little more than could in reason be expected.’
‘So think I, Geordie—I am sure I would ne’er counsel you into ony conformity; but, though we hae nae dread nor fear o’ soldier-officers or drammaticals, it’s o’ the nature o’ a possibility that she will draw up wi’ some young lad o’ very creditable connexions and conduct; but wha, for some thraw o’ your ain, ye would na let her marry.—What would ye do then, Geordie? Ye would hae to settle, or ye would be a most horridable parent.’
‘My father, for so doing, disinherited Charles,’ said George gravely, and the words froze the very spirit of Dirdumwhamle.
‘That’s vera true, Geordie,’ resumed the Leddy; ‘a bitter business it was to us a’, and was the because o’ your worthy father’s sore latter end. But ye ken the property’s entail’t; and, when it pleases the Maker to take you to Himsel, by consequence Beenie will get the estate.’
‘That’s not so certain,’ replied George, jocularly looking at Dirdumwhamle;—‘my wife has of late been more infirm than usual, and were I to marry again, and had male heirs—’
‘Hoot, wi’ your male heirs, and your snuffies; I hate the very name o’ sic things—they hae been the pests o’ my life.—It would hae been a better world without them,’ exclaimed the Leddy, and then she added—‘Butwe need na cast out about sic unborn babes o’ Chevy Chase. Beenie’s a decent lassie, and will, nae doubt, make a prudent conjugality; so a’ I hae for the present is to say that I expek ye’ll tak your dinner wi’ us. Indeed, considering what has happened, it would na be pleasant to you to be seen on the plane-stanes the day,—for I’m really sorry to see, Geordie, that ye’re no just in your right jocularity. Howsever, as we’re to hae a bit ploy, I request and hope ye’ll bide wi’ us, and help to carve the bubbly-jock, whilk is a beast, as I hae heard your father often say, that requir’t the skill o’ a doctor, the strength o’ a butcher, and the practical hand o’ a Glasgow Magistrate to diject.’
Nothing more particular passed before dinner, the hour of which was drawing near; but a wedding-feast is, at any time, worthy of a chapter.
The conversation which the Leddy, to do her justice, had, considering her peculiar humour and character, so adroitly managed with the bride’s father, did not tend to produce the happiest feelings among the conscious wedding-guests. Both the Laird of Dirdumwhamle and his wife were uneasy, and out of countenance, and the happy pair were as miserable as ever a couple of clandestine lovers, in the full possession of all their wishes, could possibly be. But their reverend grandmother, neither daunted nor dismayed, was in the full enjoyment of a triumph, and, eager in the anticipation of accomplishing, by her dexterous address, the felicitous work which, in her own opinion, she had so well begun. Accordingly, dinner was served, with an air of glee and pride, so marked, that Kittlestonheugh was struck with it, but said nothing; and, during the whole of the dijection of the dinner, as his mother persisted in calling the carving, he felt himself frequently on the point of inquiring what had put her into such uncommon good humour. But she did notdeem the time yet come for a disclosure, and went on in the most jocund spirits possible, praising the dishes, and cajoling her guests to partake.
‘It’s extraordinar to me, Beenie,’ said she to the bride, ‘to lo and behold you sitting as mim as a May puddock, when you see us a’ here met for a blithesome occasion—and, Walky, what’s come o’er thee, that thou’s no a bit mair brisk than the statute o’ marble-stane, that I ance saw in that sink o’ deceitfulness, the Parliament House o’ Embrough? As for our Meg, thy mother, she was ay one of your Moll-on-the-coals, a sigher o’ sadness, and I’m none surprised to see her in the hypocondoricals; but for Dirdumwhamle, your respectit father, a man o’ property, family, and connexions—the three cardinal points o’ gentileety—to be as one in doleful dumps, is sic a doolie doomster, that uncle Geordie, there whar he sits, like a sow playing on a trump, is a perfect beautiful Absalom in a sense o’ comparison. Howsever, no to let us just fa’ knickitty-knock, frae side to side, till our harns are splattered at the bottom o’ the well o’ despair—I’ll gie you a toast, a thing which, but at an occasion, I ne’er think o’ minting, and this toast ye maun a’ mak a lippy—Geordie, my son and bairn, ye ken as weel as I ken, what a happy matrimonial your sister has had wi’ Dirdumwhamle—and, Dirdumwhamle, I need na say to you, ye hae found her a winsome helpmate; and surely, Meg, Mr. Milrookit has been to you a most cordial husband. Noo, what I would propose for a propine, Geordie, is, Health and happiness to Mr. and Mrs. Milrookit, and may they long enjoy many happy returns o’ this day.’
The toast was drank with great glee; but, without entering into any particular exposition of the respective feelings of the party, we shall just simply notice, as we proceed, that the Leddy gave a significant nod and a wink both to the bride and bridegroom, while the bride’s father was seized with a most immoderate fit of laughing at, what he supposed, the ludicrous eccentricity of his mother.
‘Noo, Geordie, my man,’ continued the Leddy, ‘seeing ye’re in sic a state o’ mirth and jocundity, and knowing, as we a’ know, that life is but a weaver’s shuttle, and Time a wabster, that works for Death, Eternity, and Co., great wholesale merchants; but for a’ that, I am creditably informed they’ll be obligated, some day, to mak a sequester—Howsever, that’s nane o’ our concern just now,—but, Geordie, as I was saying, I would fain tell you o’ an exploit.’
‘I am sure,’ said he laughing, ‘you never appeared to me so capable to tell it well,—what is it?’
The Leddy did not immediately reply, but looking significantly round the table, she made a short pause, and thensaid,—
‘Do you know that ever since Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit, the life o’ man has been growing shorter and shorter? To me—noo sax-and-seventy year auld—the monthly moon’s but as a glaik on the wall—the spring but as a butterflee that taks the wings o’ the morning—and a’ the summer only as the tinkling o’ a cymbal—as for hairst and winter, they’re the shadows o’ death; the whilk is an admonishment, that I should not be overly gair anent the world, but mak mysel and others happy, by taking the san’tified use o’ what I hae—so, Geordie and sirs, ye’ll fill another glass.’
Another glass was filled, and the Leddy resumed, all her guests, save her son, sitting with the solemn aspects of expectation. The countenance of Kittlestonheugh alone was bright with admiration at the extraordinary spirits and garrulity of his mother.
‘Noo, Geordie,’ she resumed, ‘as life is but a vapour, a puff out o’ the stroop o’ the tea-kettle o’ Time—let us a’ consent to mak one another happy—and there being nae likelihood that ever Jamie Walkinshaw will colleague wi’ Beenie, your dochter, I would fain hope ye’ll gie her and Walky there baith your benison and an aliment to mak them happy.’
George pushed back his chair, and looked as fiercely and as proudly as any angry and indignant gentleman could well do; but he said nothing.
‘Na,’ said the Leddy, ‘if that’s the gait o’t, ye shall hae’t as ye will hae’t.—It’s no in your power to mak them unhappy.’
‘Mother, what do you mean?’ was his exclamation.
‘Just that I hae a because for what I mean; but, unless ye compose yoursel, I’ll no tell you the night—and, in trouth, for that matter, if ye dinna behave wi’ mair reverence to your aged parent, and no bring my grey hairs wi’ sorrow to the grave, I’ll no tell you at a’.’
‘This is inexplicable,’ cried her son. ‘In the name of goodness, to what do you allude?—of what do you complain?’
‘Muckle, muckle hae I to complain o’,’ was the pathetic reply. ‘If your worthy father had been to the fore, ye would na daur’t to hae spoken wi’ sic unreverence to me. But what hae I to expek in this world noo?—when the Laird lights the Leddy, so does a’ the kitchen boys; and your behaviour, Geordie, is an unco warrandice to every one to lift the hoof against me in my auld days.’
‘Good Heavens!’ cried he, ‘what have I done?’
‘What hae ye no done?’ exclaimed his mother.—‘Was na my heart set on a match atween Beenie and Walky there—my ain grandchilder, and weel worthy o’ ane anither; and hae na ye sworn, for aught I ken, a triple vow that ye would ne’er gie your consent?’
‘And if I have done so—she is my daughter, and I have my own reasons for doing what I have done,’ was his very dignified reply.
‘Reasons here, or reasons there,’ said his mother, ‘I hae gude reason to know that it’s no in your power to prevent it.—Noo, Beenie, and noo, Walky, down on your knees baith o’ you, and mak a novelle confession that ye were married the day; and beg your father’s pardon, who has been so jocose at your wedding feast that for shame he canna refuse to conciliate, and mak a handsome aliment down on the nail.’
The youthful pair did as they were desired—George looked at them for about a minute, and was unableto speak. He then threw a wild and resentful glance round the table, and started from his seat.
‘Never mind him,’ said the Leddy, with the most perfect equanimity; ‘rise, my bairns, and tak your chairs—he’ll soon come to himsel.’
‘He’ll never come to himself—he is distracted—he is ruined—his life is blasted, and his fortune destroyed,’ were the first words that burst from the astonished father; and he subjoined impatiently, ‘This cannot be true—it is impossible!—Do you trifle with me, mother?—Robina, can you have done this?’
‘’Deed, Geordie, I doubt it’s o’er true,’ replied his mother; ‘and it cannot be helped noo.’
‘But it may be punished!’ was his furious exclamation.—‘I will never speak to one of you again! To defraud me of my dearest purpose—to deceive my hopes—Oh you have made me miserable!’
‘Ye’ll be muckle the better o’ your glass o’ wine, Geordie—tak it, and compose yoursel like a decent and sedate forethinking man, as ye hae been ay reputed.’
He seized the glass, and dashed it into a thousand shivers on the table. All by this time had risen but the Leddy—she alone kept her seat and her coolness.
‘The man’s gaen by himsel,’ said she with the most matronly tranquillity.—‘He has scartit and dintit my gude mahogany table past a’ the power o’ bees-wax and elbow grease to smooth. But, sirs, sit down—I expekit far waur than a’ this—I did na hope for ony thing like sic composity and discretion. Really, Geordie, it’s heart salve to my sorrows to see that ye’re a man o’ a Christian meekness and resignation.’
The look with which he answered this was, however, so dark, so troubled, and so lowering, that it struck terror and alarm even into his mother’s bosom, and instantly silenced her vain and vexatious attempt to ridicule the tempest of his feelings.—She threw herself back in her chair, at once overawed and alarmed; and he suddenly turned round and left the house.
The shock which the delicate frame of Mrs. Walkinshaw of Kittlestonheugh received on hearing of her daughter’s precipitate marriage, and the distress which it seemed to give her husband, acted as a stimulus to the malady which had so long undermined her health, and the same night she was suddenly seized with alarming symptoms. Next day the disease evidently made such rapid progress, that even the Doctors ventured to express their apprehensions of a speedy and fatal issue.
In the meantime, the Leddy was doing all in her power to keep up the spirits of the young couple, by the reiterated declaration, that, as soon as her son ‘had come to himsel’’, as she said, ‘he would come down with a most genteel settlement;’ but day after day passed, and there was no indication of any relenting on his part; and Robina, as we still must continue to call her, was not only depressed with the thought of her rashness, but grieved for the effect it had produced on her mother.
None of the party, however, suffered more than the Laird of Dirdumwhamle. He heard of the acceleration with which the indisposition of Mrs. Walkinshaw was proceeding to a crisis, and, knowing the sentiments of his brother-in-law with respect to male heirs, he could not disguise to himself the hazard that he ran of seeing his son cut out from the succession to the Kittlestonheugh estate; and the pang of this thought was sharpened and barbed by the reflection, that he had himself contributed and administered to an event which, but for the marriage, would probably have been procrastinated for years, during which it was impossible to say what might have happened.
At Camrachle, the news of the marriage diffused unmingled satisfaction. Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw saw in it the happy escape of her son from a connexion that might have embittered his life; and cherished the hopethat her brother-in-law would still continue his friendship and kindness.
Walkinshaw himself was still more delighted with the event than his mother. He laughed at the dexterity with which his grandmother had brought it about; and, exulting in the feeling of liberty which it gave to himself, he exclaimed, ‘We shall now see whether, indeed, my uncle was actuated towards me by the affection he professed, or by some motive of which the springs are not yet discovered.’
The minister, who was present at this sally, said little; but he agreed with his young friend, that the event would soon put his uncle’s affections to the test. ‘I cannot explain to myself,’ was his only observation, ‘why we should all so unaccountably distrust the professions of your uncle, and suppose, with so little reason, in truth against the evidence of facts, that he is not actuated by the purest and kindest motives.’
‘That very suspicion,’ said Mrs. Eadie mysteriously, ‘is to me a sufficient proof that he is not so sincere in his professions as he gets the credit of being. But I know not how it is, that, in this marriage, and in the sudden illness of his wife, I perceive the tokens of great good to our friends.’
‘In the marriage,’ replied the minister, ‘I certainly do see something which gives me reason to rejoice; but I confess that the illness of Mrs. Walkinshaw does not appear to me to bode any good. On the contrary, I have no doubt, were she dying, that her husband will not be long without a young wife.’
‘Did not I tell you,’ said Mrs. Eadie, turning to Mrs. Charles, ‘that there would be a death before the good to come by Glengael, to you or yours, would be gathered? Mrs. Walkinshaw of Kittlestonheugh is doomed to die soon; when this event comes to pass, let us watch the issues and births of Time.’
‘You grow more and more mystical every day,’ said her husband pensively. ‘I am sorry to observe how much you indulge yourself in superstitious anticipations; you ought to struggle against them.’
‘I cannot,’ replied the majestic Leddy, with solemnity—‘The mortal dwelling of my spirit is shattered, and lights and glimpses of hereafter are breaking in upon me. It has been ever so with all my mother’s race. The gift is an ancient inheritance of our blood; but it comes not to us till earthly things begin to lose their hold on our affections. The sense of it is to me an assurance that the bark of life has borne me to the river’s mouth. I shall now soon pass that headland, beyond which lies the open sea:—from the islands therein no one ever returns.’
Mr. Eadie sighed; and all present regarded her with compassion, for her benign countenance was strangely pale; her brilliant eyes shone with a supernatural lustre; and there was a wild and incommunicable air in her look, mysteriously in unison with the oracular enthusiasm of her melancholy.
At this juncture a letter was handed in. It was the answer from Glengael to Mrs. Eadie’s application respecting Walkinshaw; and it had the effect of changing the painful tenor of the conversation.
The contents were in the highest degree satisfactory. Mr. Frazer not only promised his influence, declaring that he considered himself as the agent of the family interests, but said, that he had no doubt of procuring at once the cadetcy, stating, at the same time, that the progress and complexion of the French Revolution rendered it probable that Government would find it expedient to augment the army; in which case, a commission for young Walkinshaw would be readily obtained; and he concluded with expressions of his sorrow at hearing his kinswoman had of late been so unwell, urging her to visit him at Glengael Castle, to which the family was on the point of removing for the summer, and where her native air might, perhaps, essentially contribute to her recovery.
‘Yes,’ said she, after having read the letter aloud, and congratulated Walkinshaw on the prospect which had opened.—‘Yes; I will visit Glengael. The spirits of my fathers hover in the silence of those mountains,and dwell in the loneliness of the heath. A voice within has long told me, that my home is there, and I have been an exile since I left it.’
‘My dear Gertrude,’ said Mr. Eadie,—‘you distress me exceedingly this morning. To hear you say so pains me to the heart. It seems to imply that you have not been happy with me.’
‘I was happy with you,’ was her impressive answer. ‘I was happy; but then I thought the hopes of my youth had perished.—The woeful discovery that rose like a ghost upon me withered my spirit; and the death of my children has since extinguished the love of life. Still, while the corporeal tenement remained in some degree entire, I felt not as I now feel; but the door is thrown open for my departure. I feel the airs of the world of spirits blowing in upon me; and as I look round to see if I have set my house in order, all the past of life appears in a thousand pictures; and the most vivid in the series are the sunny landscapes of my early years.’
Mr. Eadie saw that it was in vain to reason with his wife in such a mood; and the Walkinshaws sympathized with the tenderness that dictated his forbearance, while James turned the conversation, by proposing to his sister and Ellen, that they should walk into Glasgow next day, to pay their respects to the young couple.
Doubtless there was a little waggery at the bottom of this proposition; but there was also something of a graver feeling.—He was desirous to ascertain what effect the marriage of Robina had produced on his uncle with respect to himself, and also to communicate, through the medium of his grandmother, the favourable result of the application to Glengael, in the hope, that, if there was any sincerity in the professions of partiality with which he had been flattered, that his uncle would assist him in his outfit either for India or the army. Accordingly, the walk was arranged as he proposed; but the roads in the morning were so deep and sloughy, that the ladies did not accompany him; a disappointment which, however acute it might be to him, was hailed as a God-send by the Leddy, whose troubles and vexations of spirit had, from the wedding-day, continued to increase, and still no hope of alleviation appeared.
‘Really,’ said the Leddy, after Walkinshaw had told her the news, and that only the wetness of the road had prevented his sister and Ellen from coming with him to town,—‘Really, Jamie, to tell you the gude’s truth, though I would hae been blithe to see Mary, and that weel-bred lassie, your joe Nell Frizel—I’m very thankful they hae na come—for, unless I soon get some relief, I’ll be herrit out o’ house and hall wi’ Beenie and Walky,—twa thoughtless wantons,—set them up wi’ a clandestine marriage in their teens! it’s enough to put marriages out of fashion.’
‘I thought,’ replied Walkinshaw, playing with her humours, ‘that the marriage was all your own doing.’
‘My doing, Jamie Walkinshaw! wha daurs to say the like o’ that? I’m as clear o’t as the child unborn—to be sure they were married here, but that was no fault o’ mine—my twa grandchildren, it could ne’er be expected that I would let them be married on the crown-o’-the-causey—But, wasna baith his mother and father present, and is that no gospel evidence, that I was but an innocent onlooker?—No, no, Jamie, whomsoever ye hear giving me the wyte o’ ony sic Gretna Green job, I redde ye put your foot on the spark, and no let it singe my character.—I’m abundantly and overmuch punished already, for the harmless jocosity, in the cost and cumbering o’ their keeping.’
‘Well, but unless you had sanctioned their marriage, and approved o’t beforehand, they would never have thought of taking up their residence with you.’
‘Ye’re no far wrang there, Jamie; I’ll no deny that I gied my approbation, and I would hae done as muckle for your happiness, had ye been o’ a right conformingspirit and married Beenie, by the whilk a’ this hobbleshaw would hae been spare’t; but there’s a awful difference between approving o’ a match, and providing a living and house-room, bed, board, and washing, for two married persons—and so, although it may be said in a sense, that I had a finger in the pye, yet every body who kens me, kens vera weel that I would ne’er hae meddled wi’ ony sic gunpowder plot, had there been the least likelihood that it would bring upon me sic a heavy handful. In short, nobody, Jamie, has been more imposed upon than I hae been—I’m the only sufferer. De’il-be-lickit has it cost Dirdumwhamle, but an auld Muscovy duck, that he got sent him frae ane o’ your uncle’s Jamaica skippers two years ago, and it was then past laying—we smoor’t it wi’ ingons the day afore yesterday, but ye might as soon hae tried to mak a dinner o’ a hesp o’ seven heere yarn, for it was as teugh as the grannie of the cock that craw’t to Peter.’
‘But surely,’ said Walkinshaw, affecting to condole with her, ‘surely my uncle, when he has had time to cool, will come forward with something handsome.’
‘Surely—Na, an he dinna do that, what’s to become o’ me?—Oh! Jamie, your uncle’s no a man like your worthy grandfather,—he was a saint o’ a Christian disposition—when your father married against both his will and mine, he did na gar the house dirl wi’ his stamp to the quaking foundation; but on the Lord’s day thereafter, took me by the arm—oh! he was o’ a kindly nature—and we gaed o’er thegither, and wis’d your father and mother joy, wi’ a hunder pound in our hand—that was acting the parent’s part!’
‘But, notwithstanding all that kindness, you know he disinherited my father,’ replied Walkinshaw seriously, ‘and I am still suffering the consequences.’
‘The best o’ men, Jamie,’ said the Leddy, sympathisingly, ‘are no perfect, and your grandfather, I’ll ne’er maintain, was na a no mere man—so anent the disinheritance, there was ay something I could na weel understand; for, although I had got an inkling o’the law frae my father, who was a deacon at a plea—as a’ the Lords in Embro’ could testificate, still there was a because in that act of sederunt and session, the whilk, in my opinion, required an interlocutor frae the Lord Ordinary to expiscate and expone, and, no doubt, had your grandfather been spare’t, there would hae been a rectification.—But, waes me, the Lord took him to himsel; in the very hour when Mr. Keelevin, the lawyer, was doun on his knees reading a scantling o’ a new last will and settlement.—Eh! Jamie, that was a moving sight,—before I could get a pen, to put in your dying grandfather’s hand, to sign the paper, he took his departal to a better world, where, we are taught to hope, there are neither lawyers nor laws.’
‘But if my uncle will not make a settlement on Robina, what will you do?’ said Walkinshaw, laughing.
‘Haud your tongue, and dinna terrify folk wi’ ony sic impossibility!’ exclaimed the Leddy—‘Poor man, he has something else to think o’ at present. Is na your aunty brought nigh unto the gates o’ death? Would ye expek him to be thinking o’ marriage settlements and wedding banquets, when death’s so busy in his dwelling? Ye’re an unfeeling creature, Jamie—But the army’s the best place for sic graceless getts. Whan do ye begin to spend your half-crown out o’ saxpence a day? And is Nell Frizel to carry your knapsack? Weel, I ay thought she was a cannonading character, and I’ll be none surprised o’ her fighting the French or the Yanky Doodles belyve, wi’ a stone in the foot of a stocking, for I am most creditably informed, that that’s the conduct o’ the soldier’s wives in the field o’ battle.’
It was never very easy to follow the Leddy, when she was on what the sailors call one of her jawing tacks; and Walkinshaw, who always enjoyed her company most when she was in that humour, felt little disposed to interrupt her. In order, however, to set her off in a new direction, he said,—‘But, when I get my appointment, I hope you’ll give me something to buy a sword, which is the true bride o’ a soldier.’
‘And a poor tocher he gets wi’ her,’ said the Leddy;—‘wounds and bruises, and putrefying sores, to make up a pack for beggary. No doubt, howsever, but I maun break the back o’ a guinea for you.’
‘Nay, I expect you’ll give your old friend, Robin Carrick, a forenoon’s call. I’ll not be satisfied if you don’t.’
‘Well, if e’er I heard sic a stand-and-deliver-like speech since ever I was born,’—exclaimed his grandmother. ‘Did I think, when I used to send the impudent smytcher, wi’ my haining o’ twa-three pounds to the bank, that he was contriving to commit sic a highway robbery on me at last?’
‘But,’ said Walkinshaw, ‘I have always heard you say, that there should be no stepbairns in families. Now, as you are so kind to Robina and Walky, it can never be held fair if you tie up your purse to me.’
‘Thou’s a wheedling creature, Jamie,’ replied the Leddy, ‘and nae doubt I maun do my duty, as every body knows I hae ay done, to a’ my family; but I’ll soon hae little to do’t wi’, if the twa new married eating moths are ordain’t to devour a’ my substance. But there’s ae thing I’ll do for thee, the whilk may be far better than making noughts in Robin Carrick’s books. I’ll gang out to the Kittlestonheugh, and speer for thy aunty; and though thy uncle, like a bull of Bashan, said he would not speak to me, I’ll gar him fin’ the weight o’ a mother’s tongue, and maybe, through my persuadgeon, he may be wrought to pay for thy sword and pistols, and other sinews o’ war. For, to speak the truth, I’m wearying to mak a clean breast wi’ him, and to tell him o’ his unnaturality to his own dochter; and what’s far waur, the sin, sorrow, and iniquity, of allooing me, his aged parent, to be rookit o’ plack and bawbee by twa glaikit jocklandys that dinna care what they burn, e’en though it were themselves.’
But, before the Leddy got this laudable intention carried into effect, her daughter-in-law, to the infinite consternation of Dirdumwhamle, died; and, forsome time after that event, no opportunity presented itself, either for her to be delivered of her grudge, or for any mutual friend to pave the way to a reconciliation. Young Mrs. Milrookit saw her mother, and received her last blessing; but it was by stealth, and unknown to her father. So that, altogether, it would not have been easy, about the period of the funeral, to have named in all the royal city a more constipated family, as the Leddy assured all her acquaintance, the Walkinshaws and Milrookits, were, baith in root and branch, herself being the wizent and forlorn trunk o’ the tree.
On the day immediately after the funeral of her sister-in-law, Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw was surprised by a visit from the widower.
‘I am come,’ said he, ‘partly to relieve my mind from the weight that oppresses it, arising from an occurrence to which I need not more particularly allude, and partly to vindicate myself from the harsh insinuations of James. He will find that I have not been so sordid in my views as he so unaccountably and so unreasonably supposed, and that I am still disposed to act towards him in the same liberal spirit I have ever done. What is the result of the application to Mrs. Eadie’s friend? And is there any way by which I can be rendered useful in the business?’
This was said in an off-hand man-of-the-world way. It was perfectly explicit. It left no room for hesitation; but still it was not said in such a manner as to bring with it the comfort it might have done to the meek and sensitive bosom of the anxious mother.
‘I know not in what terms to thank you,’ was her answer, diffidently and doubtingly expressed. ‘Your assistance certainly would be most essential to James, for, now that he has received a commission in the King’s army, I shall be reduced to much difficulty.’
‘In the King’s army! I thought he was going to India?’ exclaimed her brother-in-law, evidently surprised.
‘So it was originally intended; but,’ said the mother, ‘Mr. Frazer thought, in the present state of Europe, that it would be of more advantage for him to take his chance in the regular army; and has in consequence obtained a commission in a regiment that is to be immediately increased. He has, indeed, proved a most valuable friend; for, as the recruiting is to be in the Highlands, he has invited James to Glengael, and is to afford him his countenance to recruit among his dependants, assuring Mrs. Eadie that, from the attachment of the adherents of the family, he has no doubt that, in the course of the summer, James may be able to entitle himself to a Company, and then’——
This is very extraordinary friendship, thought the Glasgow merchant to himself. These Highlanders have curious ideas about friendship and kindred; but, nevertheless, when things are reduced to their money price, they are just like other people. ‘But,’ said he aloud, ‘what do you mean is to take place when James has obtained a Company?’
‘I suppose,’ replied the gentle widow timidly, she knew not wherefore, ‘that he will then not object to the marriage of James and Ellen.’
‘I think,’ said her brother-in-law, ‘he ought to have gone to India. Were he still disposed to go there, my purse shall be open to him.’
‘He could not hope for such rapid promotion as he may obtain through the means of Glengael,’ replied Mrs. Charles somewhat firmly; so steadily, indeed, that it disconcerted the Laird; still he preserved his external equanimity, andsaid,—
‘Nevertheless, I am willing to assist his views in whichever way they lie. What has become of him?’
Mrs. Charles then told him that, in consequence of the very encouraging letter from Mr. Frazer, Walkinshaw had gone to mention to his father’s old friend, who had the vessel fitting out for New York, the changethat had taken place in his destination, and to solicit a loan to help his outfit.
Her brother-in-law bit his lips at this information. He had obtained no little reputation among his friends for the friendship which he had shown to his unfortunate brother’s family; and all those who knew his wish to accomplish a match between James and his daughter, sympathised in sincerity with his disappointment. But something, it would not be easy to say what, troubled him when he heard this, and hesaid,—
‘I think James carries his resentment too far. I had certainly done him no ill, and he might have applied to me before going to a stranger.’
‘Favours,’ replied the widow, ‘owe all their grace and gratitude to the way in which they are conferred. James has peculiar notions, and perhaps he has felt more from the manner in which you spoke to him than from the matter you said.’
‘Let us not revert to that subject—it recalls mortifying reflections, and the event cannot be undone. But do you then think Mr. Frazer will consent to allow his daughter to marry James? She is an uncommonly fine girl, and, considering the family connexions, surely might do better.’
This was said in an easy disengaged style, but it was more assumed than sincere; indeed, there was something in it implying an estimate of considerations, independent of affections, which struck so disagreeably on the feelings, that his delicate auditor did not very well know what to say; but sheadded,—
‘James intends, as soon as we are able to make the necessary arrangements, to set out for Glengael Castle, where, being in a neighbourhood where there are many old officers, he will be able to procure some information with respect to the best mode of proceeding with his recruiting; and Mr. Frazer has kindly said that it will be for his advantage to start from the castle.’
‘I suppose Miss Frazer will accompany him?’ replied the widower dryly.
‘No,’ said his sister-in-law, ‘she does not go tillshe accompanies Mrs. Eadie, who intends to pass the summer at Glengael.’
‘I am glad of that; her presence might interfere with his duty.’
‘Whom do you mean?’ inquired Mrs. Charles, surprised at the remark; ‘whose presence?’ and she subjoined smilingly, ‘You are thinking of Ellen; and you will hardly guess that we are all of opinion here that both she and Mrs. Eadie might be of great use to him on the spot. Mrs. Eadie is so persuaded of it, that the very circumstance of their marriage being dependent on his raising a sufficient number of men to entitle him to a company, would, she says, were it known, make the sons of her father’s clansmen flock around him.’
‘It is to be deplored that a woman, who still retains so many claims, both on her own account, and the high respectability of her birth, should have fallen into such a decay of mind,’ said the merchant, at a loss for a more appropriate comment on his sister-in-law’s intimation.—‘But,’ continued he, ‘do not let James apply to any other person. I am ready and willing to advance all he may require; and, since it is determined that he ought immediately to avail himself of Mr. Frazer’s invitation, let him lose no time in setting off for Glengael. This, I trust,’ said he in a gayer humour, which but ill suited with his deep mourning, ‘will assure both him and Miss Frazer that I am not so much their enemy as perhaps they have been led to imagine.’
Soon after this promise the widower took his leave; but, although his whole behaviour during the visit was unexpectedly kind and considerate, and although it was impossible to withhold the epithet of liberality—nay more, even of generosity—from his offer, still it did not carry that gladness to the widow’s heart which the words and the assurance were calculated to convey. On the contrary, Mrs. Charles sat for some time ruminating on what had passed; and when, in the course of about an hour after, Ellen Frazer, who hadbeen walking on the brow of the hazel bank with Mary, came into the parlour, she looked at her for some time without speaking.
The walk had lent to the complexion of Ellen a lively rosy glow. The conversation which she had held with her companion related to her lover’s hopes of renown, and it had excited emotions that at once sparkled in her eyes and fluctuated on her cheek. Her lips were vivid and smiling; her look was full of intelligence and naïveté—simple at once and elegant—gay, buoyant, and almost as sly as artless, and a wreath, if the expression may be allowed, of those nameless graces in which the charms of beauty are mingled with the allurements of air and manners, garlanded her tall and blooming form.
She seemed to the mother of her lover a creature so adorned with loveliness and nobility, that it was impossible to imagine she was not destined for some higher sphere than the humble fortunes of Walkinshaw. But in that moment the mother herself forgot the auspices of her own youth, and how seldom it is that even beauty, the most palpable of all human excellence, obtains its proper place, or the homage of the manly heart that Nature meant it should enjoy.
Mr. Walkinshaw had not left Camrachle many minutes when his nephew appeared. James had in fact returned from Glasgow, while his uncle was in the house, but, seeing the carriage at the door, he purposely kept out of the way till it drove off.
His excursion had not been successful. He found his father’s old acquaintance sufficiently cordial in the way of inquiries, and even disposed to sympathise with him, when informed of his determination to go abroad; but when the army was mentioned the merchant’s heart froze; and after a short pause, and the expression of some frigiverous observations withrespect to the licentiousness of the military life, it was suggested that his uncle was the proper quarter to apply to. In this crisis, their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a third party, when Walkinshaw retired.
During his walk back to Camrachle, his heart was alternately sick and saucy, depressed and proud.
He could not conceive how he had been so deluded, as to suppose that he had any right to expect friendship from the gentleman he had applied to. He felt that in so doing he acted with the greenness of a boy, and he was mortified at his own softness. Had there been any reciprocity of obligations between his father and the gentleman, the case would have been different. ‘Had they been for forty or fifty years,’ thought he, ‘in the mutual interchange of mercantile dependence, then perhaps I might have had some claim, and, no doubt, it would have been answered, but I was a fool to mistake civilities for friendship.’ Perhaps, however, had the case been even as strong as he put it, he might still have found himself quite as much deceived.
‘As to making any appeal to my uncle, that was none of his business,’ said he to himself. ‘I did not ask the fellow for advice, I solicited but a small favour. There is no such heart-scalding insolence as in refusing a solicitation, to refer the suppliant to others, and with prudential admonitions too—curse him who would beg, were it not to avoid doing worse.’
This brave humour lasted for the length of more than a mile’s walk, during which the young soldier marched briskly along, whistling courageous tunes, and flourishing his stick with all the cuts of the broadsword, lopping the boughs of the hedges, as if they had been the limbs of Frenchmen, and switching away the heads of the thistles and benweeds in his path, as if they had been Parisian carmagnols, against whom, at that period, the loyalty of the British bosom was beginning to grow fretful and testy.
But the greater part of the next mile was less animated—occasionally, cowardly thoughts glimmeredpalely through the glorious turbulence of youthful heroism, and once or twice he paused and looked back towards Glasgow, wondering if there was any other in all that great city, who might be disposed to lend him the hundred pounds he had begged for his outfit.
‘There is not one,’ said he, and he sighed, but in a moment after he exclaimed, ‘and who the devil cares? It does not do for soldiers to think much; let them do their duty at the moment; that’s all they have to think of; I will go on in the track I have chosen, and trust to Fortune for a windfall;’ again ‘In the Garb of Old Gaul’ was gallantly whistled, and again the hedges and thistles felt the weight of his stick.
But as he approached Camrachle, his mood shifted into the minor key, and when the hazel bank and the ash-trees, with the nests of the magpies in them, appeared in sight, the sonorous bravery of the Highland march became gradually modulated into a low and querulous version of ‘Lochaber no more’, and when he discovered the carriage at his mother’s door, his valour so subsided into boyish bashfulness, that he shrank away, as we have already mentioned, and did not venture to go home, till he saw that his uncle had left the house.
On his entrance, however, he received a slight sensation of pleasure at seeing both his mother and sister with more comfort in their looks than he had expected, and he was, in consequence, able to tell them, with comparative indifference, the failure of his mission. His mother then related what had passed with his uncle.
The news perplexed Walkinshaw; they contradicted the opinion he had so warmly felt and expressed of his uncle; they made him feel he had acted rashly and ungratefully—but still such strange kindness occasioned a degree of dubiety, which lessened the self-reproaches of his contrition.
‘However,’ said he, with a light and joyous heart, ‘I shall not again trouble either myself or him, as I have done; but in this instance, at least, he has acted disinterestedly, and I shall cheerfully availmyself of his offer, because it is generous—I accept it also as encouragement—after my disappointment, it is a happy omen; I will take it as a brave fellow does his bounty-money—a pledge from Fortune of some famous “all hail hereafterâ€.’
What his sentiments would have been, had he known the tenor of his uncle’s mind at that moment,—could he even but have suspected that the motive which dictated such seeming generosity, so like an honourable continuance of his former partiality, was prompted by a wish to remove him as soon as possible from the company of Ellen Frazer, in order to supplant him in her affections, we need not attempt to imagine how he would have felt. It is happy for mankind, that they know so little of the ill said of them behind their backs, by one another, and of the evil that is often meditated in satire and in malice, and still oftener undertaken from motives of interest and envy. Walkinshaw rejoicing in the good fortune that had so soon restored the alacrity of his spirits—so soon wiped away the corrosive damp of disappointment from its brightness—did not remain long with his mother and sister, but hastened to communicate the inspiring tidings to Ellen Frazer.
She was standing on the green in front of the manse, when she saw him coming bounding towards her, waving his hat in triumph and exultation, and she put on a grave face, and looked so rebukingly, that he halted abruptly, and said—‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s very ridiculous to see any body behaving so absurdly,’ was her cool and solemn answer.
‘But I have glorious news to tell you; my uncle has come forward in the handsomest manner, and all’s clear for action.’
This was said in an animated manner, and intended to upset her gravity, which, from his knowledge of her disposition, he suspected, was a sinless hypocrisy, put on only to teaze him. But she was either serious or more resolute in her purpose than he expected; for she replied with the most chastisingcoolness,—
‘I thought you were never to have any thing to say again to your uncle?’
Walkinshaw felt this pierce deeper than it was intended to do, and he reddened exceedingly, as he said,awkwardly,—
‘True! but I have done him injustice; and had he not been one of the best dispositioned men, he would never have continued his kindness to me as he has done; for I treated him harshly.’
‘It says but little for you, that, after enjoying his good-will so long, you should have thrown his favours at him, and so soon after be obliged to confess you have done him wrong.’
Walkinshaw hung his head, still more and more confused. There was too much truth in the remark not to be felt as a just reproach; and, moreover, he thought it somewhat hard, as his folly had been on her account, that she should so taunt him. But Ellen, perceiving she had carried the joke a little too far, threw off her disguise, and, with one of her most captivating looks and smiles, said,—‘Now that I have tamed you into rational sobriety, let’s hear what you have got to say. Men should never be spoken to when they are huzzaing. Remember the lesson when you are with your regiment.’
What further followed befits not our desultory pen to rehearse; but, during this recital of what had taken place at Glasgow, and the other incidents of the day, the lovers unconsciously strayed into the minister’s garden, where a most touching and beautiful dialogue ensued, of which having lost our notes, we regret, on account of our fair readers, and all his Majesty’s subalterns, who have not yet joined, that we cannot furnish a transcript.—The result, however, was, that, when Ellen returned into the manse, after parting from Walkinshaw, her beautiful eyes looked red and watery, and two huge tears tumbled out of them when she told her aunt that he intended to set off for Glengael in the course of two or three days.
Next day Walkinshaw found himself constrained, by many motives, to go into Glasgow, in order to thank his uncle for the liberality of his offer, and, in accepting it, to ask pardon for the rudeness of his behaviour.
His reception in the counting-house was all he could have wished; it was even more cordial than the occasion required, and the cheque given, as the realization of the promise, considerably exceeded the necessary amount. Emboldened by so much kindness, Walkinshaw, who felt for his cousins, and really sympathised with the Leddy under the burden of expense which she had brought upon herself, ventured to intercede in their behalf, and he was gratified with his uncle’s answer.
‘I am pleased, James,’ said he, ‘that you take so great an interest in them; but make your mind easy, for, although I have been shamefully used, and cannot but long resent it, still, as a man, I ought not to indulge my anger too far. I, therefore, give you liberty to go and tell them, that, although I do not mean to hold any intercourse with Robina and her husband, I have, nevertheless, ordered my man of business to prepare a deed of settlement on her, such as I ought to make on my daughter.’
Walkinshaw believed, when he heard this, that he possessed no faculty whatever to penetrate the depths of character, so bright and shining did all the virtues of his uncle at that moment appear;—virtues of which, a month before, he did not conceive he possessed a single spark. It may, therefore, be easily imagined, that he hastened with light steps and long strides towards his grandmother’s house, to communicate the generous tidings. But, on reaching the door, he met the old lady, wrapped up, as it seemed, for a journey, with her maid, coming out, carrying a small trunk under her arm. On seeing him, she made a movement to return; but, suddenly recollecting herself, she said,—‘Jamie,I hae nae time, for I’m gaun to catch the Greenock flying coach at the Black Bull, and ye can come wi’ me.’
‘But, what has become o’ Robina?’ cried he, surprised at this intelligence and sudden movement.
His grandmother took hold of him by the arm, and giving it an indescribable squeeze of exultation, said,—‘I’ll tell you, it’s just a sport. They would need long spoons that sup parridge wi’ the de’il, or the like o’ me, ye maun ken. I was just like to be devour’t into beggary by them. Ae frien’ after another calling, glasses o’ wine ne’er devauling; the corks playing clunk in the kitchen frae morning to night, as if they had been in a change-house on a fair-day. I could stand it no longer. So yesterday, when that nabal, Dirdumwhamle, sent us a pair o’ his hunger’t hens, I told baith Beenie and Walky, that they were obligated to go and thank their parents, and to pay them a marriage visit for a day or twa, although we’re a’ in black for your aunty, her mother; and so this morning I got them off, Lord be praised; and I am noo on my way to pay a visit to Miss Jenny Purdie, my cousin, at Greenock.’
‘Goodness! and is this to throw poor Beenie and Walky adrift?’ exclaimed Walkinshaw.
‘Charity, Jamie, my bairn, begins at hame, and they hae a nearer claim on Dirdumwhamle, who is Walky’s lawful father, than on me; so e’en let them live upon him till I invite them back again.’
Walkinshaw, though really shocked, he could not tell why, was yet so tickled by the Leddy’s adroitness, that he laughed most immoderately, and was unable for some time in consequence to communicate the message, of which he was the joyous bearer; but when he told her, sheexclaimed,—
‘Na, if that’s the turn things hae ta’en, I’ll defer my visit to Miss Jenny for the present; so we’ll return back. For surely, baith Beenie and Walky will no be destitute of a’ consideration, when they come to their kingdom, for the dreadfu’ cost and outlay that I haebeen at the last five weeks. But, if they’re guilty o’ sic niggerality, I’ll mak out a count—bed, board, and washing, at five and twenty shillings a-week, Mrs. Scrimpit, the minister’s widow of Toomgarnels, tells me, would be a charge o’ great moderation;—and if they pay’t, as pay’t they shall, or I’ll hae them for an affront to the Clerk’s Chambers; ye’s get the whole half o’t, Jamie, to buy yoursel a braw Andrew Ferrara. But I marvel, wi’ an exceeding great joy, at this cast o’ grace that’s come on your uncle. For, frae the hour he saw the light, he was o’ a most voracious nature for himsel; and while the fit lasts, I hope ye’ll get him to do something for you.’
Walkinshaw then told her not only what his uncle had done, but with the ardour in which the free heart of youth delights to speak of favours, he recapitulated all the kind and friendly things that had been said to him.
‘Jamie, Jamie, I ken your uncle Geordie better than you,—for I hae been his mother. It’s no for a courtesy o’ causey clash that he’s birling his mouldy pennies in sic firlots,—tak my word for’t.’
‘There is no possible advantage can arise to him from his kindness to me.’
‘That’s to say, my bairn, that ye hae na a discerning spirit to see’t; but if ye had the second sight o’ experience as I hae, ye would fin’ a whaup in the nest, or I am no a Christian sister, bapteesed Girzel.’
By this time they had returned to the house, and the maid having unlocked the door, and carried in the trunk, Walkinshaw followed his grandmother into the parlour, with the view of enjoying what she herself called, the observes of her phlosification; but the moment she had taken her seat, instead of resuming the wonted strain of her jocular garrulity, she began to sigh deeply, and weep bitterly, a thing which he never saw her do before but in a way that seldom failed to amuse him; on this occasion, however, her emotion was unaffected, and it moved him to pity her. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ said he, kindly;—she didnot, however, make any answer for some time, but at last shesaid,—
‘Thou’s gaun awa to face thy faes,—as the sang sings, “far far frae me and Logan braes,â€â€”and I am an aged person, and may ne’er see thee again; and I am wae to let thee gang, for though thou was ay o’ a nature that had nae right reverence for me, a deevil’s buckie, my heart has ay warm’t to thee mair than to a’ the lave o’ my grandchildren; but it’s no in my power to do for thee as thy uncle has done, though it’s well known to every one that kens me, that I hae a most generous heart,—far mair than e’er he had,—and I would na part wi’ thee without hanselling thy knapsack. Hegh, Sirs! little did I think whan the pawky laddie spoke o’ my bit gathering wi’ Robin Carrick, that it was in a sincerity; but thou’s get a part. I’ll no let thee gang without a solid benison, so tak the key, and gang into the scrutoire and bring out the pocket-book.’
Walkinshaw was petrified, but did as he was desired; and, having given her the pocket-book, sewed by his aunt, Mrs. Milrookit, at the boarding-school, she took several of Robin’s promissory-notes out, and looking them over, presented him with one for fifty pounds.
‘Now, Jamie Walkinshaw,’ said she, ‘if ye spend ae plack o’ that like a prodigal son,—it’s no to seek what I will say whan ye come back,—but I doot, I doot, lang before that day I’ll be deep and dumb aneath the yird, and naither to see nor hear o’ thy weel or thy woe.’
So extraordinary and unlooked-for an instance of liberality on the part of his grandmother, together with the unfeigned feeling by which she was actuated, quite overwhelmed Walkinshaw, and he stood holding the bill in his hand, unable to speak. In the meantime, she was putting up her other bills, and, in turning them over, seeing one for forty-nine pounds, she said, ‘Jamie, forty-nine pounds is a’ the same as fifty to ane that pays his debts by the roll of a drum, so tak this, and gie me that back.’