Bodle of Kilmarkeckle, like all the lairds of that time, was come of an ancient family, in some degree related to the universal stock of Adam, but how much more ancient, no historian has yet undertaken to show. Like his contemporaries of the same station, he was, of course, proud of his lineage; but he valued himself more on his own accomplishments than even on the superior purity of his blood. We are, however, in doubt, whether he ought to be described as an artist or a philosopher, for he had equal claims to the honour of being both, and certainly without question, in the art of delineating hieroglyphical resemblances of birds and beasts on the walls of his parlour with snuff, he had evinced, if not talent or genius, at least considerable industry. In the course of more than twenty years, he had not only covered the walls with many a curious and grotesque form, but invented,—and therein lay the principle of his philosophy—a particular classification, as original and descriptive as that of Linnaeus.
At an early age he had acquired the habit of taking snuff, and in process of time became, as all regular snuff-takers are, acute in discriminating the shades and inflexions of flavour in the kind to which he was addicted. This was at once the cause and the principle of his science. For the nature of each of the birds and beasts which he modelled resembled, as he averred,some peculiarity in the tobacco of which the snuff that they severally represented had been made; and really, to do him justice, it was quite wonderful to hear with what ingenuity he could explain the discriminative qualities in which the resemblance of attributes and character consisted. But it must be confessed, that he sometimes fell into that bad custom remarkable among philosophers, of talking a great deal too much to every body, and on every occasion, of his favourite study. Saving this, however, the Laird of Kilmarkeckle was in other respects a harmless easy-tempered man, of a nature so kind and indulgent, that he allowed all about him to grow to rankness. The number of cats of every size and age which frisked in his parlour, or basked at the sunny side of the house, exceeded all reasonable credibility, and yet it was a common saying among the neighbours, that Kilmarkeckle’s mice kittled twice as often as his cats.
In nothing was his easy and indulgent nature more shown than in his daughter, Miss Betty, who having, at an early age, lost her mother, he had permitted to run unbridled among the servants, till the habits which she had acquired in consequence rendered every subsequent attempt to reduce her into the requisite subjection of the sex totally unavailing.
She had turned her twentieth year, and was not without beauty, but of such a sturdy and athletic kind, that, with her open ruddy countenance, laughing eyes, white well-set teeth, and free and joyous step and air, justly entitled her to the nickname of Fun, bestowed by Charles Walkinshaw. She was fond of dogs and horses, and was a better shot than the Duke of Douglas’s gamekeeper. Bold, boisterous, and frank, she made no scruple of employing her whip when rudely treated either by master or man; for she frequently laid herself open to freedoms from both, and she neither felt nor pretended to any of her sex’s gentleness nor delicacy. Still she was not without a conciliatory portion of feminine virtues, and perhaps, had she been fated to become the wife of a sportsman or a soldier, she mightpossibly have appeared on the turf or in the tent to considerable advantage.
Such a woman, it may be supposed, could not but look with the most thorough contempt on Walter Walkinshaw; and yet, from the accidental circumstance of being often his playmate in childhood, and making him, in the frolic of their juvenile amusements, her butt and toy, she had contracted something like an habitual affection for the creature; in so much, that, when her father, after Claud’s visit, proposed Walter for her husband, she made no serious objection to the match; on the contrary, she laughed, and amused herself with the idea of making him fetch and carry as whimsically as of old, and do her hests and biddings as implicitly as when they were children. Every thing thus seemed auspicious to a speedy and happy union of the properties of Kilmarkeckle and Grippy,—indeed, so far beyond the most sanguine expectations of Claud, that, when he saw the philosophical Laird coming next morning, with a canister of snuff in his hand, to tell him the result of his communication to Miss Betty, his mind was prepared to hear a most decided, and even a menacing refusal, for having ventured to make the proposal.
‘Come away, Kilmarkeckle,’ said he, meeting him at the door; ‘come in by—what’s the best o’ your news this morning? I hope nothing’s wrang at hame, to gar you look sae as ye were fasht?’
‘Troth,’ replied Kilmarkeckle, ‘I hae got a thing this morning that’s very vexatious. Last year, at Beltane, ye should ken, I coft frae Donald M’Sneeshen, the tobacconist aboon the Cross of Glasgow, a canister of a kind that I ca’d the Linty. It was sae brisk in the smeddum, so pleasant to the smell, garring ye trow in the sniffling that ye were sitting on a bonny green knowe in hay time, by the side of a blooming whin-bush, hearkening to the blithe wee birdies singing sangs, as it were, to pleasure the summer’s sun; and what would ye think, Mr. Walkinshaw, here is another canister of a sort that I’ll defy ony ordinarynose to tell the difference, and yet, for the life o’ me, I canna gie’t in conscience anither name than the Hippopotamus.’
‘But hae ye spoken to your dochter?’ said Grippy, interrupting him, and apprehensive of a dissertation.
‘O aye, atweel I hae done that.’
‘And what did Miss Betty say?’
‘Na, an ye had but seen and heard her, ye would just hae dee’t, Mr. Walkinshaw. I’m sure I wonder wha the lassie taks her light-hearted merriment frae, for her mother was a sober and sedate sensible woman; I never heard her jocose but ance, in a’ the time we were thegither, and that was when I expounded to her how Maccaba is like a nightingale, the whilk, as I hae seen and read in print, is a feathert fowl that has a great notion o’ roses.’
‘I was fear’t for that,’ rejoined Claud, suspecting that Miss Betty had ridiculed the proposal.
‘But to gae back to the Linty and the Hippopotamus,’ resumed Kilmarkeckle. ‘The snuff that I hae here in this canister—tak a pree o’t, Mr. Walkinshaw—it was sent me in a present frae Mr. Glassford, made out of the primest hogget in his last cargo—what think ye o’t? Noo, I would just speer gin ye could tell wherein it may be likened to a hippopotamus, the which is a creature living in the rivers of Afrikaw, and has twa ivory teeth, bigger, as I am creditably informed, than the blade o’ a scythe.’
Claud, believing that his proposal had been rejected, and not desirous of reverting to the subject, encouraged the philosopher to talk, by saying, that he could not possibly imagine how snuff could be said to resemble any such creature.
‘That’s a’ that ye ken!’ said Kilmarkeckle, chuckling with pleasure, and inhaling a pinch with the most cordial satisfaction. ‘This snuff is just as like a hippopotamus as the other sort that was sae like it was like a linty; and nothing could be plainer; for even now when I hae’t in my nostril, I think I see the creature wallowing and wantoning in some wide riverin a lown sunny day, wi’ its muckle glad e’en, wamling wi’ delight in its black head, as it lies lapping in the clear caller water, wi’ its red tongue, twirling and twining round its ivory teeth, and every now and then giving another lick.’
‘But I dinna see any likeness in that to snuff, Mr. Bodle,’ said Claud.
‘That’s most extraordinary, Mr. Walkinshaw; for surely there is a likeness somewhere in every thing that brings another thing to mind; and although as yet I’ll no point out to you the vera particularity in a hippopotamus by which this snuff gars me think o’ the beast, ye must, nevertheless, allow past a’ dispute, that there is a particularity.’
Claud replied with ironical gravity, that he thought the snuff much more like a meadow, for it had the smell and flavour of new hay.
‘Ye’re no far frae the mark, Grippy; and now I’ll tell you wherein the likeness lies. The hay, ye ken, is cut down by scythes in meadows; meadows lie by water-sides: the teeth of the hippopotamus is as big as scythes; and he slumbers and sleeps in the rivers of Afrikaw; so the snuff, smelling like hay, brings a’ thae things to mind; and therefore it is like a hippopotamus.’
After enjoying a hearty laugh at this triumph of his reasoning, the philosopher alighted from his hobby, and proceeded to tell Claud that he had spoken to his daughter, and that she had made no objection to the match.
‘Heavens preserve us, Mr. Bodle!’ exclaimed Grippy; ‘what were ye havering sae about a brute beast, and had sic blithsome news to tell me?’
They then conversed somewhat circumstantially regarding the requisite settlements, Kilmarkeckle agreeing entirely with every thing that the sordid and cunning bargainer proposed, until the whole business was arranged, except the small particular of ascertaining how the appointed bridegroom stood affected. This, however, his father undertook to manage, andalso that Walter should go in the evening to Kilmarkeckle, and in person make a tender of his heart and hand to the blooming, boisterous, and bouncing Miss Betty.
‘Watty,’ said the Laird o’ Grippy to his hopeful heir, calling him into the room, after Kilmarkeckle hadretired,—
‘Watty, come ben and sit down; I want to hae some solid converse wi’ thee. Dist t’ou hearken to what I’m saying?—Kilmarkeckle has just been wi’ me—Hear’st t’ou me?—deevil an I saw the like o’ thee—what’s t’ou looking at? As I was saying, Kilmarkeckle has been here, and he was thinking that you and his dochter’—
‘Weel,’ interrupted Watty, ‘if ever I saw the like o’ that. There was a Jenny Langlegs bumming at the corner o’ the window, when down came a spider wabster as big as a puddock, and claught it in his arms; and he’s off and awa wi’ her intil his nest;—I ne’er saw the like o’t.’
‘It’s most extraordinar, Watty Walkinshaw,’ exclaimed his father peevishly, ‘that I canna get a mouthful o’ common sense out o’ thee, although I was just telling thee o’ the greatest advantage that t’ou’s ever likely to meet wi’ in this world. How would ye like Miss Betty Bodle for a wife?’
‘O father!’
‘I’m saying, would na she make a capital Leddy o’ the Plealands?’
Walter made no reply, but laughed, and chucklingly rubbed his hands, and then delightedly patted the sides of his thighs with them.
‘I’m sure ye canna fin’ ony fau’t wi’ her; there’s no a brawer nor a better tocher’d lass in the three shires.—What think’st t’ou?’
Walter suddenly suspended his ecstasy; andgrasping his knees firmly, he bent forward, and, looking his father seriously in the face,said,—
‘But will she no thump me? Ye mind how she made my back baith black and blue.—I’m frightit.’
‘Haud thy tongue wi’ sic nonsense; that happened when ye were but bairns. I’m sure there’s no a blither, bonnier quean in a’ the kintra side.’
‘I’ll no deny that she has red cheeks, and e’en like blobs o’ honey-dew in a kail-blade; but father—Lord, father! she has a neive like a beer mell.’
‘But for a’ that, a sightly lad like you might put up wi’ her, Watty. I’m sure ye’ll gang far, baith east and west, before ye’ll meet wi’ her marrow; and ye should reflek on her tocher, the whilk is a wull-ease that’s no to be found at ilka dykeside.’
‘Aye, so they say; her uncle ’frauded his ain only dochter, and left her a stocking-fu’ o’ guineas for a legacy.—But will she let me go halver?’
‘Ye need na misdoubt that; na, an ye fleech her weel, I would na be surprised if she would gi’e you the whole tot; and I’m sure ye ne’er hae seen ony woman that ye can like better.’
‘Aye, but I hae though,’ replied Watty confidently.
‘Wha is’t?’ exclaimed his father, surprised and terrified.
‘My mother.’
The old man, sordid as he was, and driving thus earnestly his greedy purpose, was forced to laugh at the solemn simplicity of this answer; but he added, resuming hisperseverance,—
‘True! I did na think o’ thy mother, Watty—but an t’ou was ance marriet to Betty Bodle, t’ou would soon like her far better than thy mother.’
‘The fifth command says, “Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land;” and there’s no ae word about liking a wife in a’ the rest.’
‘Weel, weel, but what I hae to say is, that me and Kilmarkeckle hae made a paction for thee to marry his dochter, and t’ou maun just gang o’er the night and court Miss Betty.’
‘But I dinna ken the way o’t, father; I ne’er did sic a thing a’ my days; odd, I’m unco blate to try’t.’
‘Gude forgi’e me,’ said Claud to himself, ‘but the creature grows sillier and sillier every day—I tell thee, Watty Walkinshaw, to pluck up the spirit o’ manhood, and gang o’er this night to Kilmarkeckle, and speak to Miss Betty by yoursel about the wedding.’
‘Atweel, I can do that, and help her to buy her parapharnauls.—We will hae a prime apple-pye that night, wi’ raisins in’t.’
The old man was petrified.—It seemed to him that it was utterly impossible the marriage could ever take place, and he sat for some time stricken, as it were, with a palsy of the mind. But these intervals of feeling and emotion were not of long duration; his inflexible character, and the ardour with which his whole spirit was devoted to the attainment of one object, soon settled and silenced all doubt, contrition, and hesitation; and considering, so far as Walter was concerned, the business decided, he summoned his wife to communicate to her thenews,—
‘Girzy Hypel,’ said he as she entered the room, holding by the neck a chicken, which she was assisting the maids in the kitchen to pluck for dinner, and the feathers of which were sticking thickly on the blue worsted apron which she had put on to protect her old red quilted silk petticoat.
‘Girzy Hypel, be nane surprised to hear of a purpose of marriage soon between Watty and Betty Bodle.’
‘No possible!’ exclaimed the Leddy, sitting down with vehemence in her astonishment, and flinging, at the same time, the chicken across her lap, with a certain degree of instinctive or habitual dexterity.
‘What for is’t no possible?’ said the Laird angrily through his teeth, apprehensive that she was going to raise some foolish objection.
‘Na, gudeman, an that’s to be a come-to-pass—let nobody talk o’ miracles to me. For although it’s a thing just to the nines o’ my wishes, I hae ay jealoused that Betty Bodle would na tak him, for she’s o’ arampant nature, and he’s a sober weel-disposed lad. My word, Watty, t’ou has thy ain luck—first thy grandfather’s property o’ the Plealands, and syne’—She was going to add, ‘sic a bonny braw-tochered lass as Betty Bodle’—but her observation struck jarringly on the most discordant string in her husband’s bosom, and he interrupted her sharply,saying,—
‘Every thing that’s ordained will come to pass; and a’ that I hae for the present to observe to you, Girzy, is, to tak tent that the lad gangs over wiselike, at the gloaming, to Kilmarkeckle, in order to see Miss Betty anent the wedding.’
‘I’m sure,’ retorted the Leddy, ‘I hae no need to green for weddings in my family, for, instead o’ any pleasance to me, the deil-be-licket’s my part and portion o’ the pastime but girns and gowls. Gudeman, ye should learn to keep your temper, and be of a composed spirit, and talk wi’ me in a sedate manner, when our bairns are changing their life. Watty, my lad, mind what your mother says—“Marriage is a creel, where ye maun catch,” as the auld byword runs, “an adder or an eel.” But, as I was rehearsing, I could na hae thought that Betty Bodle would hae fa’en just at ance into your grip; for I had a notion that she was oure souple in the tail to be easily catched. But it’s the Lord’s will, Watty; and I hope ye’ll enjoy a’ manner o’ happiness wi’ her, and be a comfort to ane anither, like your father and me,—bringing up your bairns in the fear o’ God, as we hae done you, setting them, in your walk and conversation, a pattern of sobriety and honesty, till they come to years of discretion, when, if it’s ordained for them, nae doubt they’ll look, as ye hae done, for a settlement in the world, and ye maun part wi’ them, as we are obligated, by course of nature, to part with you.’
At the conclusion of which pathetic address, the old lady lifted her apron to wipe the gathered drops from her eyes, when Wattyexclaimed,—
‘Eh! mother, ane o’ the hen’s feathers is playing at whirley wi’ the breath o’ your nostril!’
Thus ended the annunciation of the conjugal felicity of which Grippy was the architect.
After dinner, Walter, dressed and set off to the best advantage by the assistance of his mother, walked, accompanied by his father, to Kilmarkeckle; and we should do him injustice if we did not state, that, whatever might be his intellectual deficiencies, undoubtedly in personal appearance, saving, perhaps, some little lack of mental light in his countenance, he was cast in a mould to find favour in any lady’s eye. Perhaps he did not carry himself quite as firmly as if he had been broken in by a serjeant of dragoons, and in his air and gait we shall not undertake to affirm that there was nothing lax nor slovenly, but still, upon the whole, he was, as his mother said, looking after him as he left the house, ‘a braw bargain of manhood, get him wha would.’
After Kilmarkeckle had welcomed Grippy and Walter, he began to talk of the hippopotamus, by showing them the outlines of a figure which he intended to fill up with the snuff on the wall. Claud, however, cut him short, by proposing, in a whisper, that Miss Betty should be called in, and that she and Walter should be left together, while they took a walk to discuss the merits of the hippopotamus. This was done quickly, and, accordingly, the young lady made her appearance, entering the room with a blushing giggle, perusing her Titan of a suitor from head to heel with the beam of her eye.
‘We’ll leave you to yoursels,’ said her father jocularly, ‘and, Watty, be brisk wi’ her, lad; she can thole a touzle, I’se warrant.’
This exhortation had, however, no immediate effect, for Walter, from the moment she made her appearance, looked awkward and shamefaced, swinging his hat between his legs, with his eyes fixed on the brazen headof the tongs, which were placed upright astraddle in front of the grate; but every now and then he peeped at her from the corner of his eye with a queer and luscious glance, which, while it amused, deterred her for some time from addressing him. Diffidence, however, had nothing to do with the character of Miss Betty Bodle, and a feeling of conscious superiority soon overcame the slight embarrassment which arose from the novelty of her situation.
Observing the perplexity of her lover, she suddenly started from her seat, and advancing briskly towards him, touched him on the shoulder,saying,—
‘Watty,—I say, Watty, what’s your will wi’ me?’
‘Nothing,’ was the reply, while he looked up knowingly in her face.
‘What are ye fear’t for? I ken what ye’re come about,’ said she; ‘my father has telt me.’
At these encouraging words, he leaped from his chair with an alacrity unusual to his character, and attempted to take her in his arms; but she nimbly escaped from his clasp, giving him, at the same time, a smart slap on the cheek.
‘That’s no fair, Betty Bodle,’ cried the lover, rubbing his cheek, and looking somewhat offended and afraid.
‘Then what gart you meddle wi’ me?’ replied the bouncing girl, with a laughing bravery that soon reinvigorated his love.
‘I’m sure I was na gaun to do you ony harm,’ was the reply;—‘no, as sure’s death, Betty, I would rather cut my finger than do you ony scaith, for I like you so weel—I canna tell you how weel; but, if ye’ll tak me, I’ll mak you the Leddy o’ the Plealands in a jiffy, and my mother says that my father will gie me a hundred pound to buy you parapharnauls and new plenishing.’
The young lady was probably conciliated by the manner in which this was said; for she approached towards him, and while still affecting to laugh, it was manifest even to Walter himself that she was not displeased by the alacrity with which he had come to the point. Emboldened by her freedom, he took herby the hand, looking, however, away from her, as if he was not aware of what he had done; and in this situation they stood for the space of two or three minutes without speaking. Miss Betty was the first to break silence:—
‘Weel, Watty,’ said she, ‘what are ye going to say to me?’
‘Na,’ replied he, becoming almost gallant; ‘it’s your turn to speak noo. I hae spoken my mind, Betty Bodle—Eh! this is a bonny hand; and what a sonsy arm ye hae—I could amaist bite your cheek, Betty Bodle—I could.’
‘Gude preserve me, Watty! ye’re like a wud dog.’
‘An I were sae, I would worry you,’ was his animated answer, while he turned round, and devoured her with kisses; a liberty which she instantaneously resented, by vigorously pushing him from her, and driving him down into her father’s easy chair; his arm in the fall rubbing off half a score of the old gentleman’s snuffy representatives.
But, notwithstanding this masculine effort of maiden modesty, Miss Betty really rejoiced in the ardent intrepidity of her lover, and said, merrily,
‘I redde you, Watty, keep your distance; man and wife’s man and wife; but I’m only Betty Bodle, and ye’re but Watty Walkinshaw.’
‘Od, Betty,’ replied Watty, not more than half-pleased, as he rubbed his right elbow, which was hurt in the fall, ‘ye’re desperate strong, woman; and what were ye the waur o’ a bit slaik o’ a kiss? Howsever, my bonny dawty, we’ll no cast out for a’ that; for if ye’ll just marry me, and I’m sure ye’ll no get any body that can like you half so weel, I’ll do anything ye bid me, as sure’s death I will—there’s my hand, Betty Bodle, I will; and I’ll buy you the bravest satin gown in a’ Glasgow, wi’ far bigger flowers on’t than on any ane in a’ Mrs. Bailie Nicol Jarvie’s aught. And we’ll live in the Plealands House, and do nothing frae dawn to dark but shoo ane another on a swing between the twa trees on the green; and I’ll be as kind to you,Betty Bodle, as I can be, and buy you likewise a side-saddle, and a pony to ride on; and when the winter comes, sowing the land wi’ hailstones to grow frost and snaw, we’ll sit cosily at the chumley-lug, and I’ll read you a chapter o’ the Bible, or aiblins ‘Patie and Rodger’,—as sure’s death I will, Betty Bodle.’
It would seem, indeed, that there is something exalting and inspiring in the tender passion; for the earnest and emphatic manner in which this was said gave a degree of energy to the countenance of Watty, that made him appear in the eyes of his sweetheart, to whom moral vigour was not an object of primary admiration, really a clever and effectual fellow.
‘I’ll be free wi’ you, Watty,’ was her answer; ‘I dinna objek to tak you, but,’—and she hesitated.
‘But what?’ said Watty, still exalted above his wont.
‘Ye maunna hurry the wedding oure soon.’
‘Ye’ll get your ain time, Betty Bodle, I’ll promise you that,’ was his soft answer; ‘but when a bargain’s struck, the sooner payment’s made the better; for, as the copy-line at the school says, “Delays are dangerous.”—So, if ye like, Betty, we can be bookit on Saturday, and cried, for the first time, on Sabbath, and syne, a second time next Lord’s day, and the third time on the Sunday after, and marriet on the Tuesday following.’
‘I dinna think, Watty,’ said she, laying her hand on his shoulder, ‘that we need sic a fasherie o’ crying.’
‘Then, if ye dinna like it, Betty Bodle, I’m sure neither do I, so we can be cried a’ out on ae day, and married on Monday, like my brother and Bell Fatherlans.’
What more might have passed, as the lovers had now come to a perfect understanding with each other, it is needless to conjecture, as the return of the old gentlemen interrupted their conversation; so that, not to consume the precious time of our readers with any unnecessary disquisition, we shall only say, that some objection being stated by Grippy to the firstMonday as a day too early for the requisite settlements to be prepared, it was agreed that the booking should take place, as Walter had proposed, on the approaching Saturday, and that the banns should be published, once on the first Sunday, and twice on the next, and that the wedding should be held on the Tuesday following.
When Charles and Isabella were informed that his brother and Betty Bodle were to be bookit on Saturday, that is, their names recorded, for the publication of the banns, in the books of the kirk-session,—something like a gleam of light seemed to be thrown on the obscurity which invested the motives of the old man’s conduct. They were perfectly aware of Walter’s true character, and concluded, as all the world did at the time, that the match was entirely of his father’s contrivance; and they expected, when Walter’s marriage settlement came to be divulged, that they would then learn what provision had been made for themselves. In the meantime, Charles made out the balance-sheet, as he had been desired, and carried it in his pocket when he went on Saturday with his wife to dine at Grippy.
The weather that day was mild for the season, but a thin grey vapour filled the whole air, and saddened every feature of the landscape. The birds sat mute and ourie, and the Clyde, increased by recent upland rains, grumbled with the hoarseness of his wintry voice. The solemnity of external nature awakened a sympathetic melancholy in the minds of the young couple, as they walked towards their father’s, and Charles once or twice said that he felt a degree of depression which he had never experienced before.
‘I wish, Isabella,’ said he, ‘that this business of ours were well settled, for I begin, on your account, to growanxious. I am not superstitious; but I kenna what’s in’t—every now and then a thought comes over me that I am no to be a long liver—I feel, as it were, that I have na a firm grip of the world—a sma’ shock, I doubt, would easily shake me off.’
‘I must own,’ replied his wife with softness, ‘that we have both some reason to regret our rashness. I ought not to have been so weak as to feel the little hardships of my condition so acutely; but, since it is done, we must do our best to bear up against the anxiety that I really think you indulge too much. My advice is, that we should give up speaking about your father’s intents, and strive, as well as we can, to make your income, whatever it is, serve us.’
‘That’s kindly said, my dear Bell, but you know that my father’s no a man that can be persuaded to feel as we feel, and I would not be surprised were he to break up his partnership with me, and what should we then do?’
In this sort of anxious and domestic conversation, they approached towards Grippy House, where they were met on the green in front by Margaret and George, who had not seen them since their marriage. Miss Meg, as she was commonly called, being at the time on a visit in Argyleshire with a family to whom their mother was related, the Campbells of Glengrowlmaghallochan, and George was also absent on a shooting excursion with some of his acquaintance at the Plealands, the mansion-house of which happened to be then untenanted. Their reception by their brother and sister, especially by Miss Meg, was kind and sisterly, for although in many points she resembled her mother, she yet possessed much more warmth of heart.
The gratulations and welcomings being over, she gave a description of the preparations which had already commenced for Walter’s wedding.
‘Na, what would ye think,’ said she, laughing, ‘my father gied him ten pounds to gang intil Glasgow the day to buy a present for the bride, and ye’ll hardlyguess what he sent her,—a cradle,—a mahogany cradle, shod wi’ roynes, that it may na waken the baby when it’s rocking.’
‘But that would na tak all the ten pounds?’ said Charles, diverted by the circumstance; ‘what has he done wi’ the rest?’
‘He could na see any other thing to please him, so he tied it in the corner of his napkin, but as he was coming home flourishing it round his head, it happened to strike the crookit tree at the water-side, and the whole tot o’ the siller, eight guineas, three half-crowns, and eighteenpence, played whir to the very middle o’ the Clyde. He has na got the grief o’ the loss greetten out yet.’
Before there was time for any observation to be made on this misfortune, the bridegroom came out to the door, seemingly in high glee, crying, ‘See what I hae gotten,’ showing another note for ten pounds, which his father had given to pacify him, before Kilmarkeckle and the bride arrived; they being also expected to dinner.
It happened that Isabella, dressed in her gayest apparel for this occasion, had brought in her hand, wrapt in paper, a pair of red morocco shoes, which, at that period, were much worn among lairds’ daughters; for the roads, being deep and sloughy, she had, according to the fashion of the age, walked in others of a coarser kind; and Walter’s eye accidentally lighting on the shoes, he went up, without preface, to his sister-in-law, and, taking the parcel gently out of her hand, opened it, and contemplating the shoes, holding one in each hand at arm’s length, said, ‘Bell Fatherlans, what will ye tak to sell thir bonny red cheeket shoon?—I would fain buy them for Betty Bodle.’
Several minutes elapsed before it was possible to return any answer; but when composure was in some degree regained, Mrs. Charles Walkinshawsaid,—
‘Ye surely would never buy old shoes for your bride? I have worn them often. It would be an ill omen togive her a second-hand present, Mr. Walter; besides, I don’t think they would fit.’
This little incident had the effect of tuning the spirits of Charles and his wife into some degree of unison with the main business of the day; and the whole party entered the house bantering and laughing with Walter. But scarcely had they been seated, when their fathersaid,—
‘Charlie, has t’ou brought the balance-sheet, as I bade thee?’
This at once silenced both his mirth and Isabella’s, and the old man expressed his satisfaction on receiving it, and also that the profits were not less than he expected.
Having read it over carefully, he then folded it slowly up, and put it into his pocket, and, rising from his seat, walked three or four times across the room, followed by the eyes of his beating-hearted son and daughter-in-law—at last he halted.
‘Weel, Charlie,’ said he, ‘I’ll no be waur than my word to thee—t’ou sall hae a’ the profit made between us since we came thegither in the shop; that will help to get some bits o’ plenishing for a house—and I’ll mak, for time coming, an eke to thy share. But, Charlie and Bell, ca’ canny; bairns will rise among you, and ye maun bear in mind that I hae baith Geordie and Meg to provide for yet.’
This was said in a fatherly manner, and the intelligence was in so many respects agreeable, that it afforded the anxious young couple great pleasure. Walter was not, however, satisfied at hearing no allusion to him, and hesaid,—
‘And are ye no gaun to do any thing for me, father?’
These words, like the cut of a scourge, tingled to the very soul of the old man, and he looked with a fierce and devouring eye at the idiot;—but said nothing. Walter was not, however, to be daunted; setting up a cry, something between a wail and a howl, he brought his mother flying from the kitchen, where she was busyassisting the maids in preparing dinner—to inquire what had befallen the bridegroom.
‘My father’s making a step-bairn o’ me, mother, and has gi’en Charlie a’ the outcome frae the till, and says he’s gaun to hain but for Geordie and Meg.’
‘Surely, gudeman,’ said the Leddy o’ Grippy, addressing her husband, who for a moment stood confounded at this obstreperous accusation—‘Surely ye’ll hae mair naturality than no to gi’e Watty a bairn’s part o’ gear? Has na he a right to share and share alike wi’ the rest, over and aboon what he got by my father? If there’s law, justice, or gospel in the land, ye’ll be obligated to let him hae his right, an I should sell my coat to pay the cost.’
The old man made no answer; and his children sat in wonder, for they inferred from his silence that he actually did intend to make a step-bairn of Watty.
‘Weel!’ said the Leddy emphatically, ‘but I jealoused something o’ this;—I kent there could be nae good at the bottom o’ that huggermuggering wi’ Keelevin. Howsever, I’ll see til’t, Watty, and I’ll gar him tell what he has put intil that abomination o’ a paper that ye were deluded to sign.’
Claud, at these words, started from his seat, with the dark face, and pale quivering lips of guilt and vengeance; and, giving a stamp with his foot that shook the whole house,cried,—
‘If ye daur to mak or meddle wi’ what I hae done!’
He paused for about the space of half a minute, and then he added, in his wonted calm and sober voice,—‘Watty, t’ou has been provided more—I hae done mair for thee than I can weel excuse to mysel—and I charge baith thee and thy mother never, on pain of my curse and everlasting ill-will, to speak ony sic things again.’
‘What hae ye done? canna ye tell us, and gie a bodie a satisfaction?’ exclaimed the Leddy.
But the wrath again mustered and lowered in his visage, and he said, in a voice so deep and dreadful, so hollow and so troubled, from the very innermostcaverns of his spirit, that it made all presenttremble,—
‘Silence, woman, silence.’
‘Eh! there’s Betty Bodle and her father,’ exclaimed Watty, casting his eyes, at that moment, towards the window, and rushing from his seat, with an extravagant flutter, to meet them, thus happily terminating a scene which threatened to banish the anticipated festivity and revels of the day.
Leddy Grippy having been, as she herself observed, ‘cheated baith o’ bridal and infare by Charlie’s moonlight marriage,’ was resolved to have all made up to her, and every jovial and auspicious rite performed at Walter’s wedding.—Accordingly, the interval between the booking and the day appointed for the ceremony was with her all bustle and business. Nor were the preparations at Kilmarkeckle to send forth the bride in proper trim, in any degree less active or liberal. Among other things, it had been agreed that each of the two families should kill a cow for the occasion, but an accident rendered this unnecessary at Grippy.
At this time, Kilmarkeckle and Grippy kept two bulls who cherished the most deadly hatred of each other, insomuch that their respective herds had the greatest trouble to prevent them from constantly fighting. And on the Thursday preceding the wedding-day, Leddy Grippy, in the multitude of her cares and concerns, having occasion to send a message to Glasgow, and, unable to spare any of the other servants, called the cow-boy from the field, and dispatched him on the errand. Bausy, as their bull was called, taking advantage of his keeper’s absence, went muttering and growling for some time round the enclosure, till at last discovering a gap in the hedge, he leapt through, and, flourishing his tail, and grumbling as hoarse as an earthquake, he ran, breathing wrath and defiance, straight on towards a field beyond where Gurl, Kilmarkeckle’sbull, was pasturing in the most conjugal manner with his sultanas.
Gurl knew the voice of his foe, and, raising his head from the grass, bellowed a hoarse and sonorous answer to the challenger, and, in the same moment, scampered to the hedge, on the outside of which Bausy was roaring his threats of vengeance and slaughter. The two adversaries glared for a moment at each other, and then galloped along the sides of the hedge in quest of an opening through which they might rush to satisfy their rage.
In the meantime, Kilmarkeckle’s herd-boy had flown to the house for assistance, and Miss Betty, heading all the servants, and armed with a flail, came, at double quick time, to the scene of action. But, before she could bring up her forces, Bausy burst headlong through the hedge, like a hurricane. Gurl, however, received him with such a thundering batter on the ribs, that he fell reeling from the shock. A repetition of the blow laid him on the ground, gasping and struggling with rage, agony, and death, so that, before the bride and her allies were able to drive Gurl from his fallen antagonist, he had gored and fractured him in almost every bone with the force and strength of the beam of a steam-engine. Thus was Leddy Grippy prevented from killing the cow which she had allotted for the wedding-feast, the carcase of Bausy being so unexpectedly substituted.
But, saving this accident, nothing went amiss in the preparations for the wedding either at Grippy or Kilmarkeckle. All the neighbours were invited, and the most joyous anticipations universally prevailed; even Claud himself seemed to be softened from the habitual austerity which had for years gradually encrusted his character, and he partook of the hilarity of his family, and joked with the Leddy in a manner so facetious, that her spirits mounted, and, as she said herself, ‘were flichtering in the very air.’
The bridegroom alone, of all those who took any interest in the proceedings, appeared thoughtful andmoody; but it was impossible that any lover could be more devoted to his mistress: from morning to night he hovered round the skirts of her father’s mansion, and as often as he got a peep of her, he laughed, and then hastily retired, wistfully looking behind, as if he hoped that she would follow. Sometimes this manœuvre proved successful, and Miss Betty permitted him to encircle her waist with his arm, as they ranged the fields in amatory communion together.
This, although perfectly agreeable to their happy situation, was not at all times satisfactory to his mother; and she frequently chided Watty for neglecting the dinner hour, and ‘curdooing,’ as she said, ‘under cloud o’ night.’ However, at last every preparatory rite but the feet-washing was performed; and that it also might be accomplished according to the most mirthful observance of the ceremony at that period, Charles and George brought out from Glasgow, on the evening prior to the wedding-day, a score of their acquaintance to assist in the operation on the bridegroom; while Miss Meg, and all the maiden friends of the bride, assembled at Kilmarkeckle to officiate there. But when the hour arrived, Watty was absent. During the mixing of a large bowl of punch, at which Charles presided, he had slily escaped, and not answering to their summons, they were for some time surprised, till it was suggested that possibly he might have gone to the bride, whither they agreed to follow him.
Meanwhile the young ladies had commenced their operations with Miss Betty. The tub, the hot water, and the ring, were all in readiness; her stockings were pulled off, and loud laughter and merry scuffling, and many a freak of girlish gambol was played, as they rubbed her legs, and winded their fingers through the water to find the ring of Fortune, till a loud exulting neigh of gladness at the window at once silenced their mirth.
The bride raised her eyes; her maidens turning round from the tub, looked towards the window, where they beheld Watty standing, his white teeth and largedelighted eyes glittering in the light of the room. It is impossible to describe the consternation of the ladies at this profane intrusion on their peculiar mysteries. The bride was the first that recovered her self-possession: leaping from her seat, and oversetting the tub in her fury, she bounded to the door, and, seizing Watty by the cuff of the neck, shook him as a tigress would a buffalo.
‘The deevil ride a-hunting on you, Watty Walkinshaw, I’ll gar you glower in at windows,’ was her endearing salutation, seconded by the whole vigour of her hand in a smack on the face, so impressive, that it made him yell till the very echoes yelled again. ‘Gang hame wi’ you, ye roaring bull o’ Bashen, or I’ll take a rung to your back,’ then followed; and the terrified bridegroom instantly fled coweringly, as if she actually was pursuing him with a staff.
‘I trow,’ said she, addressing herself to the young ladies who had come to the door after her, ‘I’ll learn him better manners, before he’s long in my aught.’
‘I would be none surprised were he to draw back,’ said Miss Jenny Shortridge, a soft and diffident girl, who, instead of joining in the irresistible laughter of her companions, had continued silent, and seemed almost petrified.
‘Poo!’ exclaimed the bride; ‘he draw back! Watty Walkinshaw prove false to me! He dare na, woman, for his very life; but, come, let us gang in and finish the fun.’
But the fun had suffered a material abatement by the breach which had thus been made in it. Miss Meg Walkinshaw, however, had the good luck to find the ring, a certain token that she would be the next married.
In the meantime, the chastised bridegroom, in running homeward, was met by his brothers and their companions, to whose merriment he contributed quite as much as he had subtracted from that of the ladies, by the sincerity with which he related what had happened,—declaring, that he would rather stand in the kirk than tak Betty Bodle; which determinationCharles, in the heedlessness and mirth of the moment, so fortified and encouraged, that, before they had returned back to the punch-bowl, Walter was swearing that neither father nor mother would force him to marry such a dragoon. The old man seemed more disturbed than might have been expected from his knowledge of the pliancy of Walter’s disposition at hearing him in this humour, while the Leddy said, with all the solemnity suitable to her sense of the indignity which her favourite hadsuffered,—
‘Biting and scarting may be Scotch folks’ wooing; but if that’s the gait Betty Bodle means to use you, Watty, my dear, I would see her, and a’ the Kilmarkeckles that ever were cleckit, doon the water, or strung in a wooddie, before I would hae ony thing to say to ane come o’ their seed or breed. To lift her hands to her bridegroom!—The like o’t was never heard tell o’ in a Christian land—Na, gudeman, nane o’ your winks and glooms to me,—I will speak out. She’s a perfect drum-major,—the randy cutty—deevil-do-me-good o’ her—it’s no to seek what I’ll gie her the morn.’
‘Dinna grow angry, mother,’ interposed Walter, thawing, in some degree, from the sternness of his resentment. ‘It was na a very sair knock after a’.’
‘T’ou’s a fool and a sumph to say any thing about it, Watty,’ said Grippy himself; ‘many a brawer lad has met wi’ far waur; and, if t’ou had na been egget on by Charlie to mak a complaint, it would just hae passed like a pat for true love.’
‘Eh na, father, it was na a pat, but a scud like the clap o’ a fir deal,’ said the bridegroom.
‘Weel, weel, Watty,’ exclaimed Charlie, ‘you must just put up wi’t, ye’re no a penny the waur o’t.’ By this sort of conversation Walter was in the end pacified, and reconciled to his destiny.
Never did Nature show herself better pleased on any festival than on Walter’s wedding-day. The sun shone out as if his very rays were as much made up of gladness as of light. The dew-drops twinkled as if instinct with pleasure. The birds lilted—the waters and the windows sparkled; cocks crowed as if they were themselves bridegrooms, and the sounds of laughing girls, and cackling hens, made the riant banks of the Clyde joyful for many a mile.
It was originally intended that the minister should breakfast at Kilmarkeckle, to perform the ceremony there; but this, though in accordance with newer and genteeler fashions, was overruled by the young friends of the bride and bridegroom insisting that the wedding should be celebrated with a ranting dance and supper worthy of the olden, and, as they told Leddy Grippy, better times. Hence the liberality of the preparations, as intimated in the preceding chapter.
In furtherance of this plan, the minister, and all his family, were invited, and it was arranged, that the ceremony should not take place till the evening, when the whole friends of the parties, with the bride and bridegroom at their head, should walk in procession after the ceremony from the manse to Grippy, where the barn, by the fair hands of Miss Meg and her companions, was garnished and garlanded for the ball and banquet. Accordingly, as the marriage hour drew near, and as it had been previously concerted by ‘the best men’ on both sides, a numerous assemblage of the guests took place, both at Grippy and Kilmarkeckle—and, at the time appointed, the two parties, respectively carrying with them the bride and bridegroom, headed by a piper playing ‘Hey let us a’ to the bridal,’ proceeded to the manse, where they were met by their worthy parish pastor at the door.
The Reverend Doctor Denholm was one of those old estimable stock characters of the best days of thepresbytery, who, to great learning and sincere piety, evinced an inexhaustible fund of couthy jocularity. He was far advanced in life, an aged man, but withal hale and hearty, and as fond of an innocent ploy, such as a wedding or a christening, as the blithest spirit in its teens of any lad or lass in the parish. But he was not quite prepared to receive so numerous a company; nor, indeed, could any room in the manse have accommodated half the party. He, therefore, proposed to perform the ceremony under the great tree, which sheltered the house from the south-west wind in winter, and afforded shade and shelter to all the birds of summer that ventured to trust themselves beneath its hospitable boughs. To this, however, Walter, the bridegroom, seemed disposed to make some objection, alleging that it might be a very good place for field-preaching, or for a tent on sacramental occasions, ‘but it was an unco-like thing to think of marrying folk under the canopy of the heavens;’ adding, ‘that he did na think it was canny to be married under a tree.’
The Doctor soon, however, obviated this objection, by assuring him that Adam and Eve had been married under a tree.
‘Gude keep us a’ frae sic a wedding as they had,’ replied Watty; ‘where the deil was best-man? Howsever, Doctor, sin it’s no an apple-tree, I’ll mak a conformity.’ At which the pipes again struck up, and, led by the worthy Doctor bare-headed, the whole assemblage proceeded to the spot.
‘Noo, Doctor,’ said the bridegroom, as all present were composing themselves to listen to the religious part of the ceremony—‘Noo, Doctor, dinna scrimp the prayer, but tie a sicker knot; I hae nae broo o’ the carnality o’ five minute marriages, like the Glasgowers, and ye can weel afford to gie us half an hour, ’cause ye’re weel payt for the wind o’ your mouth: the hat and gloves I sent you cost me four-and-twenty shillings, clean countit out to my brother Charlie, that would na in his niggerality faik me a saxpence on a’ the liveries I bought frae him.’
This address occasioned a little delay, but order being again restored, the Reverend Doctor, folding his hands together, and lowering his eyelids, and assuming his pulpit voice, began the prayer.
It was a calm and beautiful evening, the sun at the time appeared to be resting on the flaky amber that adorned his western throne, to look back on the world, as if pleased to see the corn and the fruits gathered, with which he had assisted to fill the wide lap of the matronly earth. We happened at the time to be walking alone towards Blantyre, enjoying the universal air of contentment with which all things at the golden sunsets of autumn invite the anxious spirit of man to serenity and repose. As we approached the little gate that opened to the footpath across the glebe by which the road to the village was abridged to visitors on foot, our attention was first drawn towards the wedding party, by the kindly, pleasing, deep-toned voice of the venerable pastor, whose solemn murmurs rose softly into the balmy air, diffusing all around an odour of holiness that sweetened the very sense of life.
We paused, and uncovering, walked gently and quietly towards the spot, which we reached just as the worthy Doctor had bestowed the benediction. The bride looked blushing and expectant, but Walter, instead of saluting her in the customary manner, held her by the hand at arm’s length, and said to the Doctor, ‘Be served.’
‘Ye should kiss her, bridegroom,’ said the minister.
‘I ken that,’ replied Watty, ‘but no till my betters be served. Help yoursel, Doctor.’
Upon which the Doctor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, enjoyed himself as he was requested.
‘It’s the last buss,’ added Walter, ‘it’s the last buss, Betty Bodle, ye’ll e’er gie to mortal man while am your gudeman.’
‘I did na think,’ said the Reverend Doctor aside to us, ‘that the creature had sic a knowledge o’ the vows.’
The pipes at this crisis being again filled, the guests,hand in hand, following the bridegroom and bride, then marched to the ornamented barn at Grippy, to which we were invited to follow; but what then ensued deserves a new chapter.
Having accepted the invitation to come with the minister’s family to the wedding, we stopped and took tea at the manse with the Reverend Doctor and Mrs. Denholm,—the young ladies and their brother having joined the procession. For all our days we have been naturally of a most sedate turn of mind; and although then but in our twenty-third year, we preferred the temperate good humour of the Doctor’s conversation, and the householdry topics of his wife, to the boisterous blair of the bagpipes. As soon, however, as tea was over, with Mrs. Denholm dressed in her best, and the pastor in his newest suit, we proceeded towards Grippy.
By this time the sun was set, but the speckless topaz of the western skies diffused a golden twilight, that tinged every object with a pleasing mellow softness. Like the wedding-ring of a bashful bride, the new moon just showed her silver rim, and the evening star was kindling her lamp, as we approached the foot of the avenue which led to the house, the windows of which sparkled with festivity; while from the barn the merry yelps of two delighted fiddles, and the good-humoured grumbling of a well-pleased bass, mingling with laughter and squeaks, and the thudding of bounding feet, made every pulse in our young blood circle as briskly as the dancers in their reeling.
When we reached the door, the moment that the venerable minister made his appearance, the music stopped, and the dancing was suspended, by which we were enabled to survey the assembly for a few minutes, in its most composed and ceremonious form.At the upper end of the barn stood two arm-chairs, one of which, appropriated to the bridegroom, was empty; in the other sat the bride, panting from the vigorous efforts she had made in the reel that was interrupted by our entrance. The bridegroom himself was standing near a table close to the musicians, stirring a large punch-bowl, and filling from time to time the glasses. His father sat in a corner by himself, with his hands leaning on his staff, and his lips firmly drawn together, contemplating the scene before him with a sharp but thoughtful eye. Old Kilmarkeckle, with an ivory snuff-box, mounted with gold, in his hand, was sitting with Mr. Keelevin on the left hand of Claud, evidently explaining some remarkable property in the flavour of the snuff, to which the honest lawyer was paying the utmost attention, looking at the philosophical Laird, however, every now and then, with a countenance at once expressive of admiration, curiosity, and laughter. Leddy Grippy sat on the left of the bride, apparelled in a crimson satin gown, made for the occasion, with a stupendous fabric of gauze and catgut, adorned with vast convolutions of broad red ribbons for a head-dress, and a costly French shawl, primly pinned open, to show her embroidered stomacher. At her side sat the meek and beautiful Isabella, like a primrose within the shadow of a peony; and on Isabella’s left the aged Lady Plealands, neatly dressed in white silk, with a close cap of black lace, black silk mittens, and a rich black apron. But we must not attempt thus to describe all the guests, who, to the number of nearly a hundred, young and old, were seated in various groups around the sides of the barn; for our attention was drawn to Milrookit, the Laird of Dirdumwhamle, a hearty widower for the second time, about forty-five—he might be older—who, cozily in a corner, was engaged in serious courtship with Miss Meg.
When the formalities of respect, with which Doctor Denholm was so properly received, had been duly performed, the bridegroom bade the fiddlers again playup, and, going towards the minister, said, ‘Do ye smell ony thing gude, Sir?’
‘No doubt, bridegroom,’ replied the Doctor, ‘I canna be insensible to the pleasant savour of the supper.’
‘Come here, then,’ rejoined Watty, ‘and I’ll show you a sight would do a hungry body good—weel I wat my mother has na spared her skill and spice.’—In saying which, he lifted aside a carpet that had been drawn across the barn like a curtain behind the seats at the upper end of the ball-room, and showed him the supper table, on which about a dozen men and maid-servants were in the act of piling joints and pies that would have done credit to the Michaelmas dinner of the Glasgow magistrates—‘Is na that a gallant banquet?’ said Watty. ‘Look at yon braw pastry pie wi’ the King’s crown on’t.’
The Reverend Pastor declared that it was a very edificial structure, and he had no doubt it was as good as it looked—‘Would ye like to pree’t, Doctor? I’ll just nip off ane o’ the pearlies on the crown to let you taste how good it is. It’ll never be missed.’
The bride, who overheard part of this dialogue, started up at these words, and as Walter was in the act of stretching forth his hand to plunder the crown, she pulled him by the coat-tail, and drew him into the chair appropriated for him, sitting down, at the same time, in her own on his left, saying, in an angry whisper,—‘Are ye fou’ already, Watty Walkinshaw? If ye mudge out o’ that seat again this night, I’ll mak you as sick o’ pies and puddings as ever a dog was o’ het kail.’
Nothing more particular happened before supper; and every thing went off at the banquet as mirthfully as on any similar occasion. The dancing was then resumed, and during the bustle and whirl of the reels, the bride and bridegroom were conducted quietly to the house to be bedded.
When they were undressed, but before the stocking was thrown, we got a hint from Charles to look at the bridal chamber, and accordingly ran with him to thehouse, and bolting into the room, beheld the happy pair sitting up in bed, with white napkins drawn over their heads like two shrouds, and each holding one of their hands, so as to conceal entirely their modest and downcast faces. But, before we had time to say a word, the minister, followed by the two pipers, and the best-men and bridesmaids, bringing posset and cake, came in,—and while the distribution, with the customary benedictions, was going forward, dancing was recommenced in the bedroom.
How it happened, or what was the cause, we know not; but the dancing continued so long, and was kept up with so much glee, that somehow, by the crowded state of the apartment, the young pair in bed were altogether forgotten, till the bridegroom, tired with sitting so long like a mummy, lost all patience, and, in a voice of rage and thunder, ordered every man and mother’s son instantly to quit the room,—a command which he as vehemently repeated with a menace of immediate punishment,—putting, at the same time, one of his legs out of bed, and clenching his fist, in the act of rising. The bride cowered in giggling beneath the coverlet, and all the other ladies, followed by the men and the pipers, fled pell-mell, and hurly-burly, glad to make their escape.
When Claud first proposed the marriage to Kilmarkeckle, it was intended that the young couple should reside at Plealands; but an opportunity had occurred, in the meantime, for Mr. Keelevin to intimate to Mr. Auchincloss, the gentleman who possessed the two farms, which, with the Grippy, constituted the ancient estate of Kittlestonheugh, that Mr. Walkinshaw would be glad to make an excambio with him, and not only give Plealands, but even a considerable inducement in money. This proposal, particularly the latter part of it, was agreeable to Mr. Auchincloss, who, at the time,stood in want of ready money to establish one of his sons in the Virginian trade; and, in consequence, the negotiation was soon speedily brought to a satisfactory termination.
But, in this affair, Grippy did not think fit to confer with any of his sons. He was averse to speak to Charles on the subject, possibly from some feeling connected with the deed of entail; and, it is unnecessary to say, that, although Walter was really principal in the business, he had no regard for what his opinion might be. The consequence of which was, that the bridegroom was not a little amazed to find, next day, on proposing to ride the Brous to his own house at Plealands, and to hold the infare there, that it was intended to be assigned to Mr. Auchincloss, and that, as soon as his family were removed thither, the house of Divethill, one of the exchanged farms, would be set in order for him in its stead.
The moment that this explanation was given to Walter, he remembered the parchments which he had signed, and the agitation of his father on the way home, and he made no scruple of loudly and bitterly declaring, with many a lusty sob, that he was cheated out of his inheritance by his father and Charles. The old man was confounded at this view which the natural plausibly enough took of the arrangement; but yet, anxious to conceal from his first-born the injustice with which he had used him in the entail, he at first attempted to silence Walter by threats, and then to cajole him with promises, but without effect; at last, so high did the conflict rise between them, that Leddy Grippy and Walter’s wife came into the room to inquire what had happened.
‘O Betty Bodle!’ exclaimed Walter, the moment he saw them; ‘what are we to do? My father has beguiled me o’ the Plealands, and I hae neither house nor ha’ to tak you to. He has gart me wise it awa to Charlie, and we’ll hae nathing as lang as Kilmarkeckle lives, but scant and want and beggary. It’s no my fau’t, Betty Bodle, that ye’ll hae to work for yourdaily bread, the sin o’t a’ is my father’s. But I’ll help you a’ I can, Betty, and if ye turn a washerwoman on the Green of Glasgow, I’ll carry your boynes, and water your claes, and watch them, that ye may sleep when ye’re weary’t, Betty Bodle,—for though he’s a false father, I’ll be a true gudeman.’
Betty Bodle sat down in a chair, with her back to the window, and Walter, going to her, hung over her with an air of kindness, which his simplicity rendered at once affecting and tender; while Leddy Grippy, petrified by what she heard, also sat down, and, leaning herself back in her seat, with a look of amazement, held her arms streaked down by her side, with all her fingers stretched and spread to the utmost. Claud himself was for a moment overawed, and had almost lost his wonted self-possession, at the just accusation of being a false father; but, exerting all his firmness and fortitude, he saidcalmly,—
‘I canna bear this at thy hand, Watty. I hae secured for thee far mair than the Plealands; and is the satisfaction that I thought to hae had this day, noo when I hae made a conquest of the lands o’ my forefathers, to be turned into sadness and bitterness o’ heart?’
‘What hae ye secur’d?’ exclaimed Leddy Grippy. ‘Is na it ordaint that Charlie, by his birthright, will get your lands? How is’t then that ye hae wrang’t Watty of his ain? the braw property that my worthy father left him both by will and testament. An he had been to the fore, ye durst na, gudeman, hae played at sic jookery-pookery; for he had a skill o’ law, and kent the kittle points in a manner that ye can never fathom; weel wat I, that your ellwand would hae been a jimp measure to the sauvendie o’ his books and Latin taliations. But, gudeman, ye’s no get a’ your ain way. I’ll put on my cloak, and, Betty Bodle, put on yours, and Watty, my ill-used bairn, get your hat. We’ll oure for Kilmarkeckle, and gang a’ to Mr. Keelevin together to make an interlocutor about this most dreadful extortioning.’
The old man absolutely shuddered; his face became yellow, and his lips white with anger and vexation at this speech.
‘Girzy Hypel,’ said he, with a troubled and broken voice, ‘were t’ou a woman o’ understanding, or had t’at haverel get o’ thine the gumtion o’ a sucking turkey, I could speak, and confound your injustice, were I no restrained by a sense of my own shame.’
‘But what’s a’ this stoor about?’ said the young wife, addressing herself to her father-in-law. ‘Surely ye’ll no objek to mak me the wiser?’
‘No, my dear,’ replied Claud, ‘I hope I can speak and be understood by thee. I hae gotten Mr. Auchincloss to mak an excambio of the Divethill for the Plealands, by the whilk the whole of the Kittlestonheugh patrimony will be redeemed to the family; and I intend and wis you and Watty to live at the Divethill, our neighbours here, and your father’s neighbours; that, my bairn, is the whole straemash.’
‘But,’ said she, ‘when ye’re dead, will we still hae the Divethill?’
‘No doubt o’ that, my dawty,’ said the old man delighted; ‘and even far mair.’
‘Then, Watty Walkinshaw, ye gaumeril,’ said she, addressing her husband, ‘what would ye be at?—Your father’s a most just man, and will do you and a’ his weans justice.’
‘But, for a’ that,’ said Leddy Grippy to her husband, somewhat bamboozled by the view which her daughter-in-law seemed to take of the subject, ‘when will we hear o’ you giving hundreds o’ pounds to Watty, as ye did to Charlie, for a matrimonial hansel?’
‘I’m sure,’ replied the Laird, ‘were the like o’ that to quiet thy unruly member, Girzy, and be any satisfaction to thee, that I hae done my full duty to Walter, a five score pound should na be wanting to stap up the gap.’
‘I’ll tell you what it is, father,’ interrupted Walter, ‘if ye’ll gie the whole soom o’ a hunder pound, I care na gin ye mak drammock o’ the Plealands.’
‘A bargain be’t,’ said Claud, happy to be relieved from their importunity; but he added, with particular emphasis, to Watty’swife,—
‘Dinna ye tak ony care about what’s passed; the Divethill’s a good excambio for the Plealands, and it sall be bound as stiffly as law and statute can tether to you and your heirs by Walter.’
Thus so far Grippy continued to sail before the wind, and, perhaps, in the steady pursuit of his object, he met with as few serious obstacles as most adventurers. What sacrifice of internal feeling he may have made, may be known hereafter. In the meantime, the secrets and mysteries of his bosom were never divulged; but all his thoughts and anxieties as carefully hidden from the world as if the disclosure of them would have brought shame on himself. Events, however, press; and we must proceed with the current of our history.