Leddy Grippy was one of those worthy gentlewomen who, without the slightest interest or feeling in any object or purpose with which they happen to be engaged, conceive themselves bound to perform all the customary indications of the profoundest sympathy and the deepest sensibility. Accordingly, no sooner did she receive the message of her son’s melancholy condition, than she proceeded forthwith to prepare herself for going immediately to Glasgow.
‘I canna expek, gudeman,’ said she, ‘that wi’ your host ye’ll come wi’ me to Glasgow on this very sorrowful occasion; therefore I hope ye’ll tak gude care o’ yoursel, and see that the servan’ lasses get your water-gruel, wi’ a tamarind in’t, at night, if it should please Charlie’s Maker, by reason o’ the dangerous distemper, no to alloo me to come hame.’
The intelligence, however, had so troubled the old man, that he scarcely heard her observation. The indisposition of his son seemed to be somehow connected with the visit of Mr. Keelevin, which it certainly was; and while his wife busily prepared for her visit, his mind wandered in devious conjectures, without being able to reach any thing calculated either to satisfy his wonder or to appease his apprehension.
‘It’s very right, Girzy, my dear,’ said he, ‘that ye sou’d gang in and see Charlie, poor lad; I’m extraordinar sorry to hear o’ this income, and ye’ll be sure to tak care he wants for nothing. Hear’st t’ou; look into the auld pocket-book in the scrutoire neuk, t’ou’l aiblins fin’ there a five-pound note,—tak it wi’ thee—there’s no sic an extravagant commodity in ony man’s house as a delirious fever.’
‘Ah!’ replied the Leddy, looking at her darling and ungrateful Walter, ‘ye see what it is to hae a kind father; but ill ye deserve ony attention either frae father or mother, for your condumacity is ordained to break our hearts.’
‘Mother,’ said Walter, ‘dinna be in sic a hurry—I hae something that ’ill do Charlie good.’ In saying which, he rose and went to the nursery, whence he immediately returned with a pill-box.
‘There, mother! tak that wi’ you; it’s a box o’ excellent medicaments, either for the cough, or the cauld, or shortness o’ breath; to say naething amang frien’s o’ a constipation. Gie Charlie twa at bedtime and ane in the morning, and ye’ll see an effek sufficient to cure every impediment in man or woman.’
Leddy Grippy, with the utmost contempt for the pills, snatched the box out of his hand, and flung it behind the fire. She then seated herself in the chair opposite her husband, and while she at the same time tied her cloak and placed on her bonnet, shesaid,—
‘I’ll alloo at last, gudeman, that I hae been a’ my days in an error, for I could na hae believed that Watty was sic an idiot o’ a naturalist, had I no lived to see this day. But the will o’ Providence be done on earthas it is in heaven, and let us pray that he may be forgiven the sair heart he has gi’en to us his aged parents, as we forgive our debtors. I won’er, howsever, that my mother did na send word o’ the nature o’ this delirietness o’ Charlie, for to be surely it’s a very sudden come-to-pass, but the things o’ time are no to be lippent to, and life fleeth away like a weaver’s shuttle, and no man knoweth wheresoever it findeth rest for the sole of its foot. But, before I go, ye’ll no neglek to tell Jenny in the morning to tak the three spyniels o’ yarn to Josey Thrums, the weaver, for my Dornick towelling; and ye’ll be sure to put Tam Modiwart in mind that he’s no to harl the plough out o’er the green brae till I get my big washing out o’ hand. As for t’ee, Watty, stay till this calamity’s past, and I’ll let ee ken what it is to treat baith father and mother wi’ sae little reverence. Really, gudeman, I begin to hae a notion, that he’s, as auld Elspeth Freet, the midwife, ance said to me, a ta’enawa, and I would be nane surprised, that whoever lives to see him dee will find in the bed a benweed or a windlestrae, instead o’ a Christian corpse. But sufficient for the day is the evil thereof; and this sore news o’ our auld son should mak us walk humbly, and no repine at the mercies set before us in this our sinfu’ estate.’
The worthy Leddy might have continued her edifying exhortation for some time longer, but her husband grew impatient, and harshly interrupted her eloquence, by reminding her that the day was far advanced, and that the road to Glasgow was both deep and dreigh.
‘I would counsel you, Girzy Hypel,’ said he, ‘no to put off your time wi’ sic havers here, but gang intil the town, and send us out word in the morning, if ye dinna come hame, how Charlie may happen to be; for I canna but say that thir news are no just what I could hae wiss’d to hear at this time. As for what we hae been saying to Watty, we baith ken he’s a kind-hearted chiel, and he’ll think better or the morn o’ what we were speaking about—will na ye, Watty?’
‘I’ll think as muckle’s ye like,’ said the faithful natural; ‘but I’ll sign nae papers; that’s a fact afore divines. What for do ye ay fash me wi’ your deeds and your instruments? I’m sure baith Charlie and Geordie could write better than me, and ye ne’er troublet them. But I jealouse the cause—an my grandfather had na left me his lawful heir to the Plealands, I might hae sat at the chumley-lug whistling on my thumb. We a’ hae frien’s anew when we hae ony thing, and so I see in a’ this flyting and fleetching; but ye’ll flyte and ye’ll fleetch till puddocks grow chucky-stanes before ye’ll get me to wrang my ain bairn, my bonny wee Betty Bodle, that has na ane that cares for her, but only my leafu’ lane.’
The Leddy would have renewed her remonstratory animadversions on his obstinacy, but the Laird again reminded her of the length of the journey in such an evening before her, and after a few half advices and half reproaches, she left the house.
Indisposed as Claud had previously felt himself, or seemed to be, she had not been long away, when he rose from his easy-chair, and walked slowly across the room, with his hands behind, swinging his body heavily as he paced the floor. Walter, who still remained on his seat, appeared for some time not to notice his father’s gestures; but the old man unconsciously began to quicken his steps, and at last walked so rapidly that his son’s attention was roused.
‘Father,’ said he, ‘hae ye been taking epicacco, for that was just the way that I was telt to gang, when I was last no weel?’
‘No, no,’ exclaimed the wretched old man; ‘but I hae drank the bitterest dose o’ life. There’s nae vomit for a sick soul—nae purge for a foul conscience.’
These were, however, confessions that escaped from him unawares, like the sparks that are elicited in violent percussions,—for he soon drew himself firmly and bravely up, as if he prepared himself to defy the worst that was in store for him; but this resolution also as quickly passed away, and he returned to his easy-chair, and sat down, as if he had been abandoned of all hope, and had resigned himself into a dull and sleepy lethargy.
For about half an hour he continued in this slumbering and inaccessible state, at the end of which he called one of the servants, and bade him be ready to go to Glasgow by break of day, and bring Mr. Keelevin before breakfast. ‘Something maun be done,’ said he as the servant, accompanied by Walter, left the room; ‘the curse of God has fallen upon me, my hands are tied, a dreadfu’ chain is fastened about me; I hae cheated mysel, and there’s nae bail—no, not in the Heavens—for the man that has wilfully raffled away his own soul in the guilty game o’ pride.’
Meanwhile, the disease which had laid Charles prostrate was proceeding with a terrific and devastating fury. Before his mother reached the house, he had lost all sense of himself and situation, and his mind was a chaos of the wildest and most extravagant fantasies. Occasionally, however, he would sink into a momentary calm, when a feeble gleam of reason would appear amidst his ravings, like the transient glimmer of a passing light from the shore on the black waves of the stormy ocean, when the cry has arisen at midnight of a vessel on the rocks, and her crew in jeopardy. But these breathing-pauses of the fever’s rage were, perhaps, more dreadful than its violence, for they were accompanied with a return of the moral anguish which had brought on his malady; and as often as his eye caught the meek, but desponding countenance of Isabella, as she sat by his bedside, he would make a convulsive effort to raise himself, and instantly relapse into the tempestuous raptures of the delirium. In this state he passed the night.
Towards morning symptoms of a change began to show themselves,—the turbulence of his thoughtssubsided,—his breathing became more regular; and both Isabella and his mother were persuaded that he was considerably better. Under this impression, the old lady, at day-break, dispatched a messenger to inform his father of the favourable change, who, in the interval, had passed a night, in a state not more calm and far less enviable, than that of his distracted son.
Whatever was the motive which induced Claud, on the preceding evening, to determine on sending for Mr. Keelevin, it would appear that it did not long maintain its influence; for, before going to bed, he countermanded the order. Indeed, his whole behaviour that night indicated a strange and unwonted degree of indecision. It was evident that he meditated some intention, which he hesitated to carry into effect; and the conflict banished sleep from his pillow. When the messenger from Glasgow arrived, he was already dressed, and, as none of the servants were stirring, he opened the door himself. The news certainly gave him pleasure, but they also produced some change in the secret workings of his mind, of no auspicious augury to the fulfilment of the parental intention which he had probably formed; but which he was as probably reluctant to realize, as it could not be carried into effect without material detriment to that one single dominant object to which his whole life, efforts, and errors, had been devoted. At least from the moment he received the agreeable intelligence that Charles was better, his agitation ceased, and he resumed his seat in the elbow-chair, by the parlour fire-side, as composedly as if nothing had occurred, in any degree, to trouble the apparently even tenor of his daily unsocial and solitary reflections. In this situation he fell asleep, from which he was roused by another messenger with still more interesting intelligence to him than even the convalescence, as it was supposed, of his favourite son.
Mrs. George Walkinshaw had, for some time, given a large promise, in her appearance, of adding to the heirs of Kittlestonheugh; but, by her residence in Glasgow, and holding little intercourse with theGrippy family (owing to her own situation, and to her dislike of the members, especially after Walter had been brought back with his child), the Laird and Leddy were less acquainted with her maternal progress than might have been expected, particularly when the anxiety of the old man, with respect to male issue, is considered. Such things, however, are of common occurrence in all families; and it so happened, that, during the course of this interesting night, Mrs. George had been delivered; and that her husband, as in duty bound, in the morning dispatched a maid-servant to inform his father and mother of the joyous event.
The messenger, Jenny Purdie, had several years before been in the servitude of the Laird’s house, from which she translated herself to that of George. Being something forward, at the same time sly and adroit, and having heard how much her old master had been disappointed that Walter’s daughter was not a son, she made no scruple of employing a little address in communicating her news. Accordingly, when the Laird, disturbed in his slumber by her entrance, roused himself, and turned round to see who it was that had come into the room, she presented herself, as she had walked from the royal city muffled up in a dingy red cloak, her dark-blue and white striped petticoat, sorely scanty, and her glowing purple legs, and well spread shoeless feet, bearing liberal proof of the speed with which she had spattered and splashed along the road.
‘I wis you meikle joy, Laird! I hae brought you blithesmeat,’ was her salutation.
‘What is’t, Jenny?’ said the old man.
‘I’ll let you guess that, unless ye promise to gi’e me half-a-crown,’ was her reply.
‘T’ou canna think I would ware less on sic errand as t’ou’s come on. Is’t a laddie?’
‘It’s far better, Laird!’ said Jenny triumphantly.
‘Is’t twins?’ exclaimed the Laird, sympathizing with her exultation.
‘A half-crown, a half-crown, Laird,’ was, however, all the satisfaction he received. ‘Down wi’ the dust.’
‘An t’ou’s sae on thy peremptors, I fancy I maun comply. There, take it, and welcome,’ said he, pulling the money from under the flap of his waistcoat pocket; while Jenny, stretching her arm, as she hoisted it from under the cloak, eagerly bent forward and took the silver out of his hand, instantaneously affecting the greatest gravity of face.
‘Laird,’ said she, ‘ye mauna be angry wi’ me, but I did na like just to dumb-foun’er you a’ at ance wi’ the news; my mistress, it’s very true, has been brought to bed, but it’s no as ye expekit.’
‘Then it’s but a dochter?’ replied the Laird discontentedly.
‘No, Sir, it’s no a dochter.—It’s twa dochters, Sir!’ exclaimed Jenny, scarcely able to repress her risibility, while she endeavoured to assume an accent of condolence.
Claud sank back in his chair, and, drooping his head, gave a deep sigh.
‘But,’ rejoined the adroit Jenny, ‘it’s a gude earnest of a braw family, so keep up your heart, Laird, aiblins the neist birds may be a’ cocks; there ne’er was a goose without a gander.’
‘Gae but the house, and fash na me wi’ thy clishmaclavers. I say gae but the house,’ cried the Laird, in a tone so deep and strong, that Jenny’s disposition to gossip was most effectually daunted, and she immediately retired.
For some time after she had left the room, Claud continued sitting in the same posture with which he had uttered the command, leaning slightly forward, and holding the arms of the easy-chair graspingly by both his hands, as if in the act of raising himself. Gradually, however, he relaxed his hold, and subsided slowly and heavily into the position in which he usually fell asleep. Shutting his eyes, he remained in that state for a considerable time, exhibiting no external indication of the rush of mortified feelings, which, like a subterranean stream of some acrid mineral, struggled through all the abysses of his bosom.
This last stroke—the birth of twin daughters—seemed to perfect the signs and omens of that displeasure with which he had for some time thought the disinheritance of his first-born was regarded; and there was undoubtedly something sublime in the fortitude with which he endured the gnawings of remorse.—It may be impossible to consider the course of his sordid ambition without indignation; but the strength of character which enabled him to contend at once with his paternal partiality, and stand firm in his injustice before what he awfully deemed the frowns and the menaces of Heaven, forms a spectacle of moral bravery that cannot be contemplated without emotions of wonder mingled with dread.
The fallacious symptoms in the progress of Charles’s malady, which had deceived his wife and mother, assumed, on the third day, the most alarming appearance. Mr. Keelevin, who, from the interview, had taken an uncommon interest in his situation, did not, however, hear of his illness till the doctors, from the firmest persuasion that he could not survive, had expressed some doubts of his recovery; but, from that time, the inquiries of the honest lawyer were frequent; and, notwithstanding what had passed on the former occasion, he resolved to make another attempt on the sympathies of the father. For this purpose, on the morning of the fifth day, which happened to be Sunday, he called at Charles’s house, to inquire how he was, previous to the visit which he intended to pay to Grippy. But the servant who attended the door was in tears, and told him that her master was in the last struggles of life.
Any other general acquaintance would, on receiving such intelligence, however deeply he might have felt affected, have retired; but the ardent mind and simplicity of Mr. Keelevin prompted him to act differently; and without replying to the girl, he softly slipped his feet from his shoes, and stepping gently to the sick-chamber, entered it unobserved; so much were those around the death-bed occupied with the scene before them.
Isabella was sitting at the bed-head, holding her dying husband by both the hands, and bending over him almost as insensible as himself. His mother was sitting near the foot of the bed, with a phial in one hand, and a towel, resting on her knee, in the other, looking over her left shoulder towards her son, with an eager countenance, in which curiosity, and alarm, and pity, were, in rapid succession, strangely and vacantly expressed. At the foot of the bed, the curtains of which were drawn aside, the two little children stood wondering in solemn innocence at the mournful mystery which Nature was performing with their father. Mr. Keelevin was more moved by their helpless astonishment than even by the sight of the last and lessening heavings and pantings of his dying friend; and, melted to tears, he withdrew, and wept behind the door.
In the course of three or four minutes, a rustle in the chamber roused him; and on looking round, he saw Isabella standing on the floor, and her mother-in-law, who had dropped the phial, sitting, with a look of horror, holding up her hand, which quivered with agitation. He stepped forward, and giving a momentary glance at the bed, saw that all was over; but, before he could turn round to address himself to the ladies, the children uttered a shrill piercing shriek of terror; and running to their mother, hid their little faces in her dress, and clasped her fearfully in their arms.
For some minutes he was overcome. The young, the beautiful, the defenceless widow, was the first that recovered her self-possession. A flood of tears relieved her heart; and bending down, and folding her arms round her orphans, she knelt, and said, with an upward look of supplication, ‘God will protect you.’
Mr. Keelevin was still unable to trust himself to say a word; but he approached, and gently assisting herto rise, led her, with the children, into the parlour, where old Lady Plealands was sitting alone, with a large psalm-book in her hand. Her spectacles lying on a table in the middle of the room, showed that she had been unable to read.
He then returned to bring Leddy Grippy also away from the body, but met her in the passage. We dare not venture to repeat what she said to him, for she was a mother; but the result was, a request from her that he would undertake to communicate the intelligence to her husband, and to beg him either to come to her in the course of the day, or send her some money: ‘For,’ said she, ‘this is a bare house, Mr. Keelevin; and Heaven only knows what’s to become o’ the wee orphans.’
The kind-hearted lawyer needed, however, no argument to spur him on to do all that he could in such a time, and in such circumstances, to lighten the distress and misery of a family whose necessities he so well knew. On quitting the house, he proceeded immediately towards Grippy, ruminating on the scene he had witnessed, and on the sorrows which he foresaw the desolate widow and her children were destined to suffer.
The weather, for some days before, had been unsettled and boisterous; but it was that morning uncommonly fine for the advanced state of the season. Every thing was calm and in repose, as if Nature herself had hallowed the Sabbath. Mr. Keelevin walked thoughtfully along, the grief of his reflections being gradually subdued by the benevolence of his intentions; but he was a man well stricken in years, and the agitation he had undergone made the way appear to him so long, that he felt himself tired, insomuch that when he came to the bottom of the lane which led to Kilmarkeckle, he sat down to rest himself on the old dike, where Claud himself had sat, on his return from the town, after executing the fatal entail. Absorbed in the reflections to which the event of the morning naturally gave rise, he leaned for some time pensivelyforward, supporting his head on his hand, insensible to every object around, till he was roused by the cooing of a pigeon in the field behind him. The softness and the affectionate sound of its tones comforted his spirits as he thought of his client’s harsh temper, and he raised his eyes and looked on the beautiful tranquillity of the landscape before him, with a sensation of freshness and pleasure, that restored him to confidence in the charity of his intentions. The waters of the river were glancing to the cloudless morning sun,—a clear bright cheerfulness dwelt on the foreheads of the distant hills,—the verdure of the nearer fields seemed to be gladdened by the presence of spring,—and a band of little schoolboys, in their Sunday clothes, playing with a large dog on the opposite bank of the river, was in unison with the general benevolence that smiled and breathed around, but was liveliest in his own heart.
The benevolent lawyer found the old man in his accustomed seat by the fireside. Walter was in the room with him, dressed for church, and dandling his child. At first Mr. Keelevin felt a little embarrassment, not being exactly aware in what manner the news he had to communicate might be received; but seeing how Walter was engaged, he took occasion to commend his parental affection.
‘That’s acting like a father, Mr. Walter,’ said he; ‘for a kind parent innocently pleasuring his bairn is a sight that the very angels are proud to look on. Mak muckle o’ the poor wee thing, for nobody can tell how long she may be spared to you. I dare say, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ he added, addressing himself to Claud, ‘ye hae mony a time been happy in the same manner wi’ your own children?’
‘I had something else to tak up my mind,’ replied the old man gruffly, not altogether pleased to see the lawyer, and apprehensive of some new animadversions.
‘Nae doubt, yours has been an eydent and industrious life,’ said Mr. Keelevin, ‘and hitherto it has na been without a large share o’ comfort. Ye canna, however, expek a greater constancy in fortune and the favour o’ Providence than falls to the common lot of man; and ye maun lay your account to meet wi’ troubles and sorrows as weel as your neighbours.’
This was intended by the speaker as a prelude to the tidings he had brought, and was said in a mild and sympathetic manner; but the heart of Claud, galled and skinless by the corrosion of his own thoughts, felt it as a reproach, and he interrupted him sharply.
‘What ken ye, Mr. Keelevin, either o’ my trumps or my troubles?’ And he subjoined, in his austerest and most emphatic manner, ‘The inner man alone knows, whether, in the gifts o’ fortune, he has gotten gude, or but only gowd. Mr. Keelevin, I hae lived long eneugh to mak an observe on prosperity,—the whilk is, that the doited and heedless world is very ready to mistak the smothering growth of the ivy, on a doddered stem, for the green boughs o’ a sound and nourishing tree.’
To which Walter added singingly, as he swung his child by thearms,—
‘Near planted by a river,Which in his season yields his fruit,And his leaf fadeth never.’
‘Near planted by a river,Which in his season yields his fruit,And his leaf fadeth never.’
‘But no to enter upon any controversy, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said Mr. Keelevin,—‘ye’ll no hae heard the day how your son Charles is?’
‘No,’ replied Claud, with a peculiarly impressive accent; ‘but, at the latest last night, the gudewife sent word he was very ill.’
‘I’m greatly concerned about him,’ resumed the lawyer, scarcely aware of the address with which, in his simplicity, he was moving on towards the fatal communication; ‘I am greatly concerned about him, but mair for his young children—they’ll be very helpless orphans, Mr. Walkinshaw.’
‘I ken that,’ was the stern answer, uttered with such a dark and troubled look, that it quite daunted Mr. Keelevin at the moment from proceeding.
‘Ye ken that!’ cried Walter, pausing, and setting down the child on the floor, and seating himself beside it; ‘how do ye ken that, father?’
The old man eyed him for a moment with a fierce and strong aversion, and, turning to Mr. Keelevin, shook his head, but said nothing.
‘What’s done, is done, and canna be helped,’ resumed the lawyer; ‘but reparation may yet, by some sma cost and cooking, be made; and I hope Mr. Walkinshaw, considering what has happened, ye’ll do your duty.’
‘I’ll sign nae papers,’ interposed Walter; ‘I’ll do nothing to wrang my wee Betty Bodle,’—and he fondly kissed the child.
Mr. Keelevin looked compassionately at the natural, and then, turning to his father,said,—
‘I hae been this morning to see Mr. Charles.’
‘Weel, and how is he?’ exclaimed the father eagerly.
The lawyer, for about the term of a minute, made no reply, but looked at him steadily in the face, and then addedsolemnly,—
‘He’s no more!’
At first the news seemed to produce scarcely any effect; the iron countenance of the old man underwent no immediate change—he only remained immoveable in the position in which he had received the shock; but presently Mr. Keelevin saw that he did not fetch his breath, and that his lips began to contract asunder, and to expose his yellow teeth with the grin almost of a skull.
‘Heavens preserve us, Mr. Walkinshaw!’ cried Mr. Keelevin, rising to his assistance; but, in the same moment, the old man uttered a groan so deep and dreadful, so strange and superhuman, that Walter snatched up his child, and rushed in terror out of the room. After this earthquake-struggle, he in some degree recovered himself, and the lawyer returned to his chair, where he remained some time silent.
‘I had a fear o’t, but I was na prepar’t, Mr. Keelevin, for this,’ said the miserable father; ‘and noo I’ll kick against the pricks nae langer. Wonderful God! I bend my aged grey head at thy footstool. O lay not thy hand heavier upon me than I am able to bear. Mr. Keelevin, ye ance said the entail cou’d be broken if I were to die insolvent—mak me sae in the name of the God I have dared so long to fight against. An Charlie’s dead—murdered by my devices! Weel do I mind, when he was a playing bairn, that I first kent the blessing of what it is to hae something to be kind to;—aften and aften did his glad and bright young face thaw the frost that had bound up my heart, but ay something new o’ the world’s pride and trash cam in between, and hardent it mair and mair.—But a’s done noo, Mr. Keelevin—the fight’s done and the battle won, and the avenging God of righteousness and judgement is victorious.’
Mr. Keelevin sat in silent astonishment at this violence of sorrow. He had no previous conception of that vast abyss of sensibility which lay hidden and unknown within the impenetrable granite of the old man’s pride and avarice; and he was amazed and overawed when he beheld it burst forth, as when the fountains of the great deep were broken up, and the deluge swept away the earliest and the oldest iniquities of man.
The immediate effect, when he began to recover from his wonder, was a sentiment of profound reverence.
‘Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said he, ‘I have long done you great injustice;’ and he was proceeding to say something more as an apology, but Claud interrupted him.
‘You hae ne’er done me any manner of wrong, Mr. Keelevin; but I hae sinned greatly and lang against my ain nature, and it’s time I sou’d repent. In a few sorrowful days I maun follow the lamb I hae sacrificed on the altars o’ pride; speed a’ ye dow to mak the little way I hae to gang to the grave easy to one that travels wi’ a broken heart. I gie you nae further instructions—your skill and honest consciencewill tell you what is needful to be done; and when the paper’s made out, come to me. For the present leave me, and in your way hame bid Dr. Denholm come hither in the afternoon.’
‘I think, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ replied Mr. Keelevin, falling into his professional manner on receiving these orders, ‘that it would be as weel for me to come back the morn, when ye’re more composed, to get the particulars of what ye wish done.’
‘O man!’ exclaimed the hoary penitent, ‘ye ken little o’ me. Frae the very dawn o’ life I hae done nothing but big and build an idolatrous image; and when it was finished, ye saw how I laid my first-born on its burning and brazen altar. But ye never saw what I saw—the face of an angry God looking constantly from behind a cloud that darkened a’ the world like the shadow of death to me; and ye canna feel what I feel now, when His dreadful right hand has smashed my idol into dust. I hae nae langer part, interest nor portion in the concerns of this life; but only to sign ony paper that ye can devise, to restore their rights to the twa babies that my idolatry has made fatherless.’
‘I hope, in mercy, Mr. Walkinshaw, that ye’ll be comforted,’ said the worthy lawyer, deeply affected by his vehemence.
‘I hope so too, but I see na whar at present it’s to come frae,’ replied Claud, bursting into tears, and weeping bitterly. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I would fain, Mr. Keelevin, be left to mysel—alack! alack! I hae been oure lang left to mysel. Howsever, gang away the day, and remember Dr. Denholm as ye pass;—but I’ll ne’er hae peace o’ mind till the paper’s made and signed; so, as a Christian, I beg you to make haste, for it will be a Samaritan’s act of charity.’
Mr. Keelevin perceived that it was of no use at that time to offer any further consolation, and he accordingly withdrew.
During the remainder of the day, after Mr. Keelevin had left him, Claud continued to sit alone, and took no heed of any thing that occurred around him.—Dinner was placed on the table at the usual hour; but he did not join Walter.
‘I won’er, father,’ said the natural, as he was hewing at the joint, ‘that ye’re no for ony dinner the day; for ye ken if a’ the folk in the world were to die but only ae man, it would behove that man to hae his dinner.’
To this sage observation the grey-haired penitent made no reply; and Walter finished his meal without attempting to draw him again into conversation.
In the afternoon Claud left his elbow-chair, and walked slowly and heavily up the path which led to the bench he had constructed on the rising ground, where he was so often in the practice of contemplating the lands of his forefathers; and on gaining the brow of the hill, he halted, and once more surveyed the scene. For a moment it would seem that a glow of satisfaction passed over his heart; but it was only a hectical flush, instantly succeeded by the nausea of moral disgust; and he turned abruptly round, and seated himself with his back towards the view which had afforded him so much pleasure. In this situation he continued some time, resting his forehead on his ivory-headed staff, and with his eyes fixed on the ground.
In the meantime, Mr. Keelevin having called on the Reverend Dr. Denholm, according to Claud’s wish, to request he would visit him in the afternoon, the venerable minister was on his way to Grippy. On reaching the house, he was informed by one of the maid-servants, that her master had walked to his summer-seat on the hill, whither he immediately proceeded, and found the old man still rapt in his moody and mournful meditations.
Claud had looked up, as he heard him approach, and pointing to the bench, beckoned him to be seated.For some time they sat together without speaking; the minister appearing to wait in expectation that the penitent would address him first; but observing him still disposed to continue silent, he at lastsaid,—
‘Mr. Keelevin told me, Mr. Walkinshaw, that ye wished to see me under this dispensation with which the hand o’ a righteous Providence has visited your family.’
‘I’m greatly obligated to Mr. Keelevin,’ replied Claud, thoughtfully; ‘he’s a frien’ly and a very honest man. It would hae been happy wi’ me the day, Dr. Denholm, had I put mair confidence in him; but I doobt, I doobt, I hae been a’ my life a sore hypocrite.’
‘I was ay o’ that notion,’ said the Reverend Doctor, not quite sure whether the contrition so humbly expressed was sincere or affected, but the meek look of resignation with which the desolate old man replied to the cutting sarcasm, moved the very heart of the chastiser with strong emotions of sympathy and grief; and he added, in his kindliestmanner,—
‘But I hope, Mr. Walkinshaw, I may say to you, “Brother, be of good cheer;” for if this stroke, by which your first-born is cut off from the inheritance of the years that were in the promise of his winsome youth, is ta’en and borne as the admonition of the vanity of setting your heart on the things of carnal life, it will prove to you a great blessing for evermore.’
There was something in the words in which this was couched, that, still more painfully than the taunt, affected the disconsolate penitent, and he burst into tears, taking hold of the minister’s right hand graspingly with his left, saying, ‘Spare me, doctor! O spare me, an it be possible—for the worm that never dieth hath coiled itsel within my bosom, and the fire that’s never quenched is kindled around me—What an it be for ever?’
‘Ye should na, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ replied the clergyman, awed by the energy and solemnity of his manner—‘Ye should na entertain such desperate thoughts, but hope for better things; for it’s a blithe thing for yourprecious soul to be at last sensible o’ your own unworthiness.’
‘Aye, doctor, but, alack for me! I was ay sensible o’ that. I hae sinned wi’ my e’en open, and I thought to mak up for’t by a strict observance o’ church ordinances.’
‘’Deed, Mr. Walkinshaw, there are few shorter roads to the pit than through the kirk-door; and many a Christian has been brought nigh to the death, thinking himsel cheered and guided by the sound o’ gospel preaching, when, a’ the time, his ear was turned to the sough o’ perdition.’
‘What shall I do to be saved?’ said the old man, reverentially and timidly.
‘Ye can do naething yoursel, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ replied the minister; and he proceeded, with the fearlessness of a champion and the energy of an apostle, to make manifest to his understanding the corruption of the human heart, and its utter unworthiness in the pure eyes of Him that alone can wash away the Ethiopian hue of original sin, and eradicate the leopard spots of personal guilt.
While he spoke the bosom of Claud was convulsed—he breathed deeply and fearfully—his eyes glared—and the manner in which he held his hands, trembling and slightly raised, showed that his whole inward being was transfixed, as it were, with a horrible sense of some tremendous apocalypse.
‘I fear, I fear, Doctor Denholm,’ he exclaimed, ‘that I can hae no hope.’
The venerable pastor was struck with the despair of the expression, and, after a short pause, said, ‘Dinna let yoursel despond; tak comfort in the mercy of God; surely your life has na been blacken’t wi’ ony great crime?’
‘It has been one continued crime,’ cried the penitent—‘frae the first hour that my remembrance can look back to, down to the vera last minute, there has been no break nor interruption in the constancy of my iniquity. I sold my soul to the Evil One in mychildhood, that I might recover the inheritance of my forebears. O the pride of that mystery! and a’ the time there was a voice within me that would na be pacified wi’ the vain promises I made to become another man, as soon as ever my conquest was complete.’
‘I see but in that,’ said the pious Doctor, in a kind and consoling manner, ‘I see but in a’ that, Mr. Walkinshaw, an inordinate love of the world; and noo that ye’re awakened to a sense of your danger, the Comforter will soon come. Ye hae ay been reputed an honest man, and no deficient in your moral duties, as a husband, a parent, a master, and a friend.’
Claud clasped his hands fervently together, exclaiming, ‘O God! thou hast ever seen my hypocrisy!—Dr. Denholm,’ and he took him firmly by the hand;—‘when I was but a bairn, I kent na what it was to hae the innocence o’ a young heart. I used to hide the sma’ presents of siller I got frae my frien’s, even when Maudge Dobbie, the auld kind creature that brought me up, could na earn a sufficiency for our scrimpit meals; I did na gang near her when I kent she was in poortith and bedrid, for fear my heart would relent, and gar me gie her something out o’ the gathering I was making for the redemption o’ this vile yird that is mair grateful than me, for it repays with its fruits the care o’ the tiller. I stifled the very sense o’ loving kindness within me; and in furtherance of my wicked avarice, I married a woman—Heaven may forgie the aversion I had to her; but my own nature never can.’
Dr. Denholm held up his hands, and contemplated in silence the humbled and prostrate spirit that was thus proceeding with the frightful confession of its own baseness and depravity.
‘But,’ cried the penitent, ‘I canna hope that ye’re able to thole the sight that I would lay open in the inner sepulchre of my guilty conscience—for in a’ my reprobation I had ever the right before me, when I deliberately preferred the wrang. The angel of the Lord ceased not, by night nor by day, to warsle for me;but I clung to Baal, and spurned and kicked whenever the messenger of brightness and grace tried to tak me away.’
The old man paused, and then looking towards the minister, who still continued silent, regarding him with compassionate amazement,said,—
‘Doctor, what can I expek?’
‘O! Mr. Walkinshaw, but ye hae been a doure sinner,’ was the simple and emphatic reply; ‘and I hope that this sense o’ the evil of your way is an admonition to a repentance that may lead you into the right road at last. Be ye, therefore, thankful for the warning ye hae now gotten of the power and the displeasure of God.’
‘Many a warning,’ said Claud, ‘in tokens sairer than the plagues o’ Egypt, which but grieved the flesh, hae I had in the spirit; but still my heart was harden’t till the destroying angel slew my first-born.’
‘Still I say, be thankful, Mr. Walkinshaw! ye hae received a singular manifestation of the goodness of God. Your son, we’re to hope, is removed into a better world. He’s exposed no more to the temptations of this life—a’ care wi’ him is past—a’ sorrow is taken from him. It’s no misfortune to die, but a great risk to be born; and nae Christian should sorrow, like unto those who are without hope, when Death, frae ahint the black yett, puts forth his ancient hand, and pulls in a brother or a sister by the skirts of the garment of flesh. The like o’ that, Mr. Walkinshaw, is naething; but when, by the removal of a friend, we are taught to see the error of our way, it’s a great thing for us—it’s a blithe thing; and, therefore, I say unto you again, brother, be of good cheer, for in this temporal death of your son, maybe the Lord has been pleased to bring about your own salvation.’
‘And what may be the token whereby I may venture to take comfort frae the hope?’
‘There’s nae surer sign gi’en to man than that token—when ye see this life but as a pilgrimage, then ye may set forward in your way rejoicing—when ye beholdnothing in your goods and gear but trash and splendid dirt, then may ye be sure that ye hae gotten better than silver or gold—when ye see in your herds and flocks but fodder for a carnal creature like the beasts that perish, then shall ye eat of the heavenly manna—when ye thirst to do good, then shall the rock be smitten, and the waters of life, flowing forth, will follow you wheresoever you travel in the wilderness of this world.’
The venerable pastor suddenly paused, for at that moment Claud laid aside his hat, and, falling on his knees, clasped his hands together, and looking towards the skies, his long grey hair flowing over his back, he said with awful solemnity, ‘Father, thy will be done!—in the devastation of my earthly heart, I accept the erles of thy service.’
He then rose with a serene countenance, as if his rigid features had undergone some benignant transformation. At that moment a distant strain of wild and holy music, rising from a hundred voices, drew their attention towards a shaggy bank of natural birch and hazel, where, on the sloping ground in front, they saw a number of Cameronians from Glasgow, and the neighbouring villages, assembled to commemorate in worship the persecutions which their forefathers had suffered there for righteousness sake.
After listening till the psalm was finished, Claud and Dr. Denholm returned towards the house, where they found Leddy Grippy had arrived. The old man, in order to avoid any unnecessary conversation, proposed that the servants should be called in, and that the Doctor should pray—which he did accordingly, and at the conclusion retired.
On Monday Claud rose early, and, without waiting for breakfast, or heeding the remonstrances of his wife on the risk he ran in going afield fasting, walked to Glasgow, and went directly to the house of his mother-in-law, the aged Leddy Plealands, now considerably above fourscore. The natural delicacy of her constitution had received so great a shock from the death of Charles, that she was unable that morning to leave her room. Having, however, brought home with her the two orphans until after the funeral, their grandfather found them playing in the parlour, and perhaps he was better pleased to meet with them than had she been there herself.
Although they knew him perfectly, yet the cold and distant intercourse which arose from his estrangement towards their father, had prevented them from being on those terms of familiarity which commonly subsist between children and their grandfathers; and when they saw him enter the room, they immediately left their toys on the floor, and, retiring to a corner, stood looking at him timidly, with their hands behind.
The old man, without seeming to notice their innocent reverence, walked to a chair near the window, and sat down. His demeanour was as calm, and his features as sedate, as usual, but his eyes glittered with a slight sprinkling of tears, and twice or thrice he pressed his elbows into his sides, as if to restrain some inordinate agitation of the heart. In the course of a few minutes he became quite master of himself, and, looking for a short time compassionately at the children, he invited them to come to him. Mary, the girl, who was the youngest, obeyed at once the summons; but James, the boy, still kept back.
‘What for wilt t’ou no come to me?’ said Claud.
‘I’ll come, if ye’ll no hurt me,’ replied the child.
‘Hurt thee! what for, poor thing, should I hurt thee?’ inquired his grandfather, somewhat disturbed by the proposed condition.
‘I dinna ken,’ said the boy, still retreating,—‘but I am feart, for ye hurt papa for naething, and mamma used to greet for’t.’
Claud shuddered, and in the spasmodic effort which he made to suppress his emotion, he unconsciously squeezed the little hand of the girl so hardly, as he held her between his knees, that she shrieked with the pain, and flew towards her brother, who, equally terrified, ran to shelter himself behind a chair.
For some time the old man was so much affected, that he felt himself incapable of speaking to them. But he said tohimself,—
‘It is fit that I should endure this. I sowed tares, and maunna expek wheat.’
The children, not finding themselves angrily pursued, began to recover courage, and again to look at him.
‘I did na mean to hurt thee, Mary,’ said he, after a short interval. ‘Come, and we’ll mak it up;’—and, turning to the boy, he added, ‘I’m very wae that e’er I did ony wrang to your father, my bonny laddie, but I’ll do sae nae mair.’
‘That’s ’cause ye canna help it,’ replied James boldly, ‘for he’s dead—he’s in a soun’ soun’ sleep—nobody but an angel wi’ the last trumpet at his vera lug is able to waken him—and Mary and me, and mamma—we’re a’ gaun to lie down and die too, for there’s nobody now in the world that cares for us.’
‘I care for you, my lambie, and I’ll be kind to you; I’ll be as kind as your father.’
It would appear that these words had been spoken affectionately, for the little girl, forgetful of her hurt, returned, and placed herself between his knees; but her brother still stood aloof.
‘But will ye be kind to mamma?’ said the boy, with an eager and suspicious look.
‘That I will,’ was the answer. ‘She’ll ne’er again hae to blame me—nor hae reason to be sorrowful on my account.’
‘But were nae ye ance papa’s papa?’ rejoined the child, still more suspiciously.
The old man felt the full force of all that was meant by these simple expressions, and he drew his hand hastily over his eyes to wipe away the rising tears.
‘And will ye never trust me?’ said he sorrowfully to the child, who, melted by the tone in which it was uttered, advanced two or three steps towards him.
‘Aye, if ye’ll say as sure’s death that ye’ll no hurt me.’
‘Then I do say as sure’s death,’ exclaimed Claud fervently, and held out his hand, which the child, running forward, caught in his, and was in the same moment folded to his grandfather’s bosom.
Leddy Plealands had, in the meantime, been told who was her visitor, and being anxious, for many reasons, to see him at this crisis, opened the door. Feeble, pale, and delicate, the venerable gentlewoman was startled at seeing a sight she so little expected, and stood several minutes with the door in her hand before she entered.
‘Come in,’ said Claud to her—‘come in—I hae something to say to you anent thir bairns—Something maun be done for them and their mother; and I would fain tak counsel wi’ you concerning ’t. Bell Fatherlans is o’ oure frush a heart to thole wi’ the dinging and fyke o’ our house, or I would tak them a’ hame to Grippy; but ye maun devise some method wi’ her to mak their loss as light in worldly circumstances as my means will alloo; and whatsoever you and her ’gree upon Mr. Keelevin will see executed baith by deed and paction.’
‘Is’t possible that ye’re sincere, Mr. Walkinshaw?’ replied the old lady.
Claud made no answer, but, disconsolately, shook his head.
‘This is a mercy past hope, if ye’re really sincere.’
‘I am sincere,’ said the stern old man, severely; ‘and I speak wi’ humiliation and contrition. I hae borne the rebuke of thir babies, and their suspicion has spoken sermons of reproaches to my cowed spirit and broken heart.’
‘What have ye done?’ inquired the Lady, surprisedat his vehemence—‘what have ye done to make you speak in such a way, Mr. Walkinshaw?’
‘In an evil hour I was beguiled by the Moloch o’ pride and ambition to disinherit their father, and settle a’ my property on Watty, because he had the Plealands. But, from that hour, I hae never kent what comfort is, or amaist what it is to hope for heavenly mercy. But I hae lived to see my sin, and I yearn to mak atonement. When that’s done, I trust that I may be permitted to lay down my head, and close my een in peace.’
Mrs. Hypel did not well know what answer to make, the disclosure seemed to her so extraordinary, that she looked at Claud as if she distrusted what she heard, or was disposed to question the soundness of his mind.
‘I see,’ he added, ‘that, like the orphans, ye dinna believe me; but, like them, Mrs. Hypel, ye’ll maybe in time be wrought to hae compassion on a humbled and contrite heart. A’, therefore, that I can say for the present is, consult wi’ Bell, and confer wi’ Mr. Keelevin; he has full power frae me to do whatsoever he may think just and right; and what ye do, do quickly, for a heavy hand is on my shouther; and there’s one before me in the shape o’ my braw Charlie, that waves his hand, and beckons me to follow him.’
The profound despondency with which this was uttered overwhelmed the feelings of the old Lady; even the children were affected, and, disengaging themselves from his arms, retired together, and looked at him with wonder and awe.
‘Will ye go and see their mother?’—said the lady, as he rose, and was moving towards the door. He halted, and for a few seconds appeared to reflect; but suddenly looking round, he replied, with a deep and troubledvoice,—
‘No. I hae been enabled to do mair than I ever thought it was in my power to do; but I canna yet,—no, not this day,—I canna yet venture there.—I will, however, by and by. It’s a penance I maun dree, and I will go through it a’.’
And with these words he quitted the house, leaving the old gentlewoman and the children equally amazed, and incapable of comprehending the depth and mystery of a grief which, mournful as the immediate cause certainly was, undoubtedly partook in some degree of religious despair.
Between the interview described in the preceding chapter and the funeral, nothing remarkable appeared in the conduct of Claud. On the contrary, those habits of reserve and taciturnity into which he had fallen, from the date of the entail, were apparently renewed, and, to the common observation of the general eye, he moved and acted as if he had undergone no inward change. The domestics, however, began to notice, that, instead of the sharp and contemptuous manner which he usually employed in addressing himself to Walter, his voice was modulated with an accent of compassion,—and that, on the third day after the death of Charles, he, for the first time, caressed and fondled the affectionate natural’s darling, Betty Bodle.
It might have been thought that this simple little incident would have afforded pleasure to her father, who happened to be out of the room, when the old man took her up in his arms; but so far from this being the case, the moment that Walter returned he ran towards him, and snatched the child away.
‘What for do’st t’ou tak the bairn frae me sae frightedly, Watty?’ said Claud in a mild tone of remonstrance, entirely different from anything he had ever before addressed to him.
Walter, however, made no reply, but retiring to a distant part of the room, carefully inspected the child, and frequently inquired where she was hurt, although she was laughing and tickled with his nursery-like proceedings.
‘What gars t’ee think, Watty,’ rejoined his father, ‘that I would hurt the wean?’
‘’Cause I hae heard you wish that the Lord would tak the brat to himsel.’
‘An I did, Watty, it was nae ill wis.’
‘So I ken, or else the minister lies,’ replied Walter; ‘but I would na like, for a’ that, to hae her sent till him; and noo, as they say ye’re ta’en up wi’ Charlie’s bairns, I jealouse ye hae some end o’ your ain for rooketty-cooing wi’ my wee Betty Bodle. I canna understand this new-kythed kindness,—so, gin ye like, father, we’ll just be fair gude e’en and fair gude day, as we were wont.’
This sank deeper into the wounded heart of his father than even the distrust of the orphans; but the old man made no answer. Walter, however, observed him muttering something to himself, as he leant his head back, with his eyes shut, against the shoulder of the easy chair in which he was sitting; and rising softly with the child in his arms, walked cautiously behind the chair, and bent forward to listen. But the words were spoken so inwardly and thickly, that nothing could be overheard. While in this position, the little girl playfully stretched out her hand and seized her grandfather by the ear. Startled from his prayer or his reverie, Claud, yielding to the first impulse of the moment, turned angrily round at being so disturbed, and, under the influence of his old contemptuous regard for Watty, struck him a severe blow on the face,—but almost in the same instant, ashamed of his rashness, he shudderingly exclaimed, throbbing with remorse andvexation,—
‘Forgi’e me, Watty, for I know not what I do;’ and he added, in a wild ejaculation, ‘Lord! Lord! O lighter, lighter lay the hand o’ thy anger upon me! The reed is broken—O, if it may stand wi’ thy pleasure, let it not thus be trampled in the mire! But why should I supplicate for any favour?—Lord of justice and of judgement, let thy will be done!’
Walter was scarcely more confounded by the blow than by these impassioned exclamations; and hastily quitting the room, ran, with the child in his arms, tohis mother, who happened at the time, as was her wont, to be in the kitchen on household cares intent,crying,—
‘Mother! mother! my father’s gane by himsel; he’s aff at the head; he’s daft; and ta’en to the praising o’ the Lord at this time o’ day.’
But, excepting this trivial incident, nothing, as we have already stated, occurred between the interview with Leddy Plealands and the funeral to indicate, in any degree, the fierce combustion of distracted thoughts which was raging within the unfathomable caverns of the penitent’s bosom—all without, save but for this little effusion, was calm and stable. His external appearance was as we have sometimes seen Mount Etna in the sullenness of a wintry day, when the chaos and fires of its abyss uttered no sound, and an occasional gasp of vapour was heavily breathed along the grey and gloomy sky. Everything was still and seemingly steadfast. The woods were silent in all their leaves; the convents wore an awful aspect of unsocial solemnity; and the ruins and remains of former ages appeared as if permitted to moulder in unmolested decay. The very sea, as it rolled in a noiseless swell towards the black promontories of lava, suggested strange imageries of universal death, as if it had been the pall of the former world heavily moved by the wind. But that dark and ominous tranquillity boded neither permanence nor safety—the traveller and the inhabitant alike felt it as a syncope in nature, and dreaded an eruption or a hurricane.
Such was the serenity in which Claud passed the time till Saturday, the day appointed for the funeral. On the preceding evening his wife went into Glasgow to direct the preparations, and about noon he followed her, and took his seat, to receive the guests, at the door of the principal room arranged for the company, with James, the orphan, at his knee. Nothing uncommon passed for some time; he went regularly through the ceremonial of assistant chief mourner, and in silence welcomed, by the customary shake of the hand, each of the friends of the deceased as they came in. WhenDr. Denholm arrived, it was observed that his limbs trembled, and that he held him a little longer by the hand than any other; but he too was allowed to pass on to his seat. After the venerable minister, Mr. Keelevin made his appearance. His clothes were of an old-fashioned cut, such as even still may occasionally be seen at west-country funerals among those who keep a special suit of black for the purpose of attending the burials of their friends; and the sort of quick eager look of curiosity which he glanced round the room, as he lifted his small cocked hat from off his white, well-powdered, ionic curled tie-wig, which he held firm with his left forefinger, provoked a smile, in despite of the solemnity of the occasion.
Claud grasped him impatiently by the hand, and drew him into a seat beside himself. ‘Hae ye made out the instrument?’ said he.
‘It’s no just finished,’ replied Mr. Keelevin; ‘but I was mindit to ca’ on you the morn, though it’s Sabbath, to let you see, for approbation, what I have thought might be sufficient.’
‘Ye ought to hae had it done by this time,’ said Claud, somewhat chidingly.
‘’Deed should I,’ was the answer, ‘but ye ken the Lords are coming to the town next week, and I hae had to prepare for the defence of several unfortunate creatures.’
‘It’s a judgement time indeed,’ said Claud; and, after a pause of several minutes, he added, ‘I would fain no be disturbed on the Lord’s day, so ye need na come to Grippy, and on Monday morning I’ll be wi’ you betimes; I hope a’ may be finished that day, for, till I hae made atonement, I can expek no peace o’ mind.’
Nothing further was allowed at that time to pass between them, for the betherils employed to carry round the services of bread and wine came in with their trays, and Deacon Gardner, of the wrights, who had charge of the funeral, having nodded to the Reverend Dr. John Hamilton, the minister of the Inner High Church, in the district of which the house was situated,the worthy divine rose, and put an end to all further private whispering, by commencing the prayer.
When the regular in-door rites and ceremonies were performing, and the body had, in the meantime, been removed into the street, and placed on the shoulders of those who were to carry it to the grave, Claud took his grandson by the hand, and followed at the head, with a firmly knotted countenance, but with faltering steps.
In the procession to the church-yard no particular expression of feeling took place; but when the first shovelful of earth rattled hollowly on the coffin, the little boy, who still held his grandfather by the finger, gave a shriek, and ran to stop the grave-digger from covering it up. But the old man softly and composedly drew him back, telling him it was the will of God, and that the same thing must be done to every body in the world.
‘And to me too?’ said the child, inquiringly and fearfully.
‘To a’ that live,’ replied his grandfather; and the earth being, by this time, half filled in, he took off his hat, and looking at the grave for a moment, gave a profound sigh, and again covering his head, led the child home.
Immediately after the funeral Claud returned home to Grippy, where he continued during the remainder of the day secluded in his bed-chamber. Next morning, being Sunday, he was up and dressed earlier than usual; and after partaking slightly of breakfast, he walked into Glasgow, and went straight to the house of his daughter-in-law.
The widow was still in her own room, and not in any state or condition to be seen; but the children were dressed for church, and when the bells began to ring, he led them out, each holding him by the hand, innocently proud of their new black clothes.
In all the way up the High Street, and down the pathway from the church-yard gate to the door of the cathedral, he never raised his eyes; and during the sermon he continued in the same apparent state of stupor. In retiring from the church, the little boy drew him gently aside from the path to show his sister the spot where their father was laid; and the old man, absorbed in his own reflections, was unconsciously on the point of stepping on the grave, when James checkedhim,—
‘It’s papa—dinna tramp on him.’
Aghast and recoiling, as if he had trodden upon an adder, he looked wildly around, and breathed quickly and with great difficulty, but said nothing. In an instant his countenance underwent a remarkable change—his eyes became glittering and glassy, and his lips white. His whole frame shook, and appeared under the influence of some mortal agitation. His presence of mind did not, however, desert him, and he led the children hastily home. On reaching the door, he gave them in to the servant that opened it without speaking, and went immediately to Grippy, where, the moment he had seated himself in his elbow-chair, he ordered one of the servants to go for Mr. Keelevin.
‘What ails you, father?’ said Walter, who was in the room at the time; ‘ye speak unco drumly—hae ye bitten your tongue?’ But scarcely had he uttered these words, when the astonished creature gave a wild and fearful shout, and, clasping his hands above his head, cried, ‘Help! help! something’s riving my father in pieces!’
The cry brought in the servants, who, scarcely less terrified, found the old man smitten with a universal paralysis, his mouth and eyes dreadfully distorted, and his arms powerless.
In the alarm and consternation of the moment, he was almost immediately deserted; every one ran in quest of medical aid. Walter alone remained with him, and continued gazing in his face with a strange horror, which idiocy rendered terrific.
Before any of the servants returned, the violence of the shock seemed to subside, and he appeared to be sensible of his situation. The moment that the first entered the room he made an effort to speak, and the name of Keelevin was two or three times so distinctly articulated, that even Walter understood what he meant, and immediately ran wildly to Glasgow for the lawyer. Another messenger was dispatched for the Leddy, who had, during the forenoon, gone to her daughter-in-law, with the intention of spending the day.
In the meantime a doctor was procured, but he seemed to consider the situation of the patient hopeless; he, however, as in all similar cases, applied the usual stimulants to restore energy, but without any decisive effect.
The weather, which had all day been lowering and hazy, about this time became drizzly, and the wind rose, insomuch that Leddy Grippy, who came flying to the summons, before reaching home was drenched to the skin, and was for some time, both from her agitation and fatigue, incapable of taking any part in the bustle around her husband.
Walter, who had made the utmost speed for Mr. Keelevin, returned soon after his mother; and, on appearing before his father, the old man eagerly spoke to him; but his voice was so thick, that few of his words were intelligible. It was, however, evident that he inquired for the lawyer; for he threw his eyes constantly towards the door, and several times again was able to articulate his name.
At last, Mr. Keelevin arrived on horseback, and came into the room, dressed in his trotcosey; the hood of which, over his cocked hat, was drawn so closely on his face, that but the tip of his sharp aquiline nose was visible. But, forgetful or regardless of his appearance, he stalked with long strides at once to the chair where Claud was sitting; and taking from under the skirt of the trotcosey a bond of provision for the widow and children of Charles, and for Mrs. Milrookit, he knelt down, and began to read it aloud.
‘Sir,’ said the doctor, who was standing at the other side of the patient, ‘Mr. Walkinshaw is in no condition to understand you.’
Still, however, Mr. Keelevin read on; and when he had finished, he called for pen and ink.
‘It is impossible that he can write,’ said the doctor.
‘Ye hae no business to mak ony sic observation,’ exclaimed the benevolent lawyer. ‘Ye shou’d say nothing till we try. In the name of justice and mercy, is there nobody in this house that will fetch me pen and ink?’
It was evident to all present that Claud perfectly understood what his friend said; and his eyes betokened eagerness and satisfaction; but the expression with which his features accompanied the assent in his look was horrible and appalling.
At this juncture Leddy Grippy came rushing, half dressed, into the room, her dishevelled grey hair flying loosely over her shoulders,exclaiming,—
‘What’s wrang noo?—what new judgement has befallen us?—Whatna fearfu’ image is that like a corpse out o’ a tomb, that’s making a’ this rippet for the cheatrie instruments o’ pen and ink, when a dying man is at his last gasp?’
‘Mrs. Walkinshaw, for Heaven’s sake be quiet;—your gudeman,’ replied Mr. Keelevin, opening the hood of his trotcosey, and throwing it back; taking off, at the same time, his cocked hat—‘Your gudeman kens very weel what I hae read to him. It’s a provision for Mrs. Charles and her orphans.’
‘But is there no likewise a provision in’t for me?’ cried the Leddy.
‘Oh, Mrs. Walkinshaw, we’ll speak o’ that hereafter; but let us get this executed aff-hand,’ replied Mr. Keelevin. ‘Ye see your gudeman kens what we’re saying, and looks wistfully to get it done. I say, in the name of God, get me pen and ink.’
‘Ye’s get neither pen nor ink here, Mr. Keelevin, till my rights are cognost in a record o’ sederunt and session.’
‘Hush!’ exclaimed the doctor—all was silent, and every eye turned on the patient, whose countenance was again hideously convulsed;—a troubled groan struggled and heaved for a moment in his breast, and was followed by short quivering through his whole frame.
‘It is all over!’ said the doctor. At these words the Leddy rushed towards the elbow-chair, and, with frantic cries and gestures, flew on the body, and acted an extravagance of sorrow ten times more outrageous than grief. Mr. Keelevin stood motionless, holding the paper in his hand; and, after contemplating the spectacle before him for about two or three minutes, shook his head disconsolately, and replacing his cocked hat, drew the hood of the trotcosey again over his face, and left the house.