The Entail

The scene and the day were in unison with the tempest which shook his frame and shivered his mind. The sky was darkly overcast. The clouds were rolling in black and lowering masses, through which an occasional gleam of sunshine flickered for a moment on the towers and pinnacles of the cathedral, and glimmered in its rapid transit on the monuments and graves in the church-yard. A gloomy shadow succeeded; and then a white and ghastly light hovered along the ruins of the bishop’s castle, and darted with a strong and steady ray on a gibbet which stood on the rising ground beyond. The gusty wind howled like a death-dog among the firs, which waved their dark boughs like hearse plumes over him, and the voice of the raging waters encouraged his despair.

He felt as if he had been betrayed into a situation which compelled him to surrender all the honourable intents of his life, and that he must spend the comfortless remainder of his days in a conflict with poverty, a prey to all its temptations, expedients, and crimes. At one moment, he clenched his grasp, and gnashed his teeth, and smote his forehead, abandoning himself to the wild and headlong energies and instincts of a rage that was almost revenge; at another, the image of Isabella, so gentle and so defenceless, rose in a burst of tenderness and sorrow, and subdued him with inexpressible grief. But the thought of his children in the heedless days of their innocence, condemned to beggary by a fraud against nature, again scattered these subsiding feelings like the blast that brushes the waves of the ocean into spindrift.

This vehemence of feeling could not last long without producing some visible effect. When the storm had in some degree spent itself, he left the wild and solitary spot where he had given himself so entirely up to his passion, and returned towards his home; but his limbs trembled, his knees faltered, and a cold shivering vibrated through his whole frame. An intense pain was kindled in his forehead; every object reeled and shuddered to him as he passed; and, before he reached the house, he was so unwell that he immediately retired to bed. In the course of the afternoon he became delirious, and a rapid and raging fever terrified his ill-fated wife.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Mr. Keelevin, when Charles had left him, sat for some time with his cheek resting on his hand, reflecting on what had passed; and in the afternoon, he ordered his horse, and rode over to Grippy, where he found the Laird sitting sullenly by himself in the easy-chair by the fire-side, with a white night-cap on his head, and grey worsted stockings drawn over his knees.

‘I’m wae, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the honest lawyer, as he entered the room, ‘to see you in sic an ailing condition; what’s the matter wi’ you, and how lang hae ye been sae indisposed?’

Claud had not observed his entrance; for, supposing the noise in opening the door had been made by the Leddy in her manifold household cares, or by some one of the servants, he never moved his head, but kept his eyes ruminatingly fixed on a peeling of soot that was ominously fluttering on one of the ribs of the grate, betokening, according to the most credible oracles of Scottish superstition, the arrival of a stranger, or the occurrence of some remarkable event. But, on hearing the voice of his legal friend, he turned briskly round.

‘Sit ye doun, Mr. Keelevin, sit ye doun forenent me. What’s brought you here the day? Man, this is sore weather for ane at your time o’ life to come so far afield,’ was the salutation with which he received him.

‘Aye,’ replied Mr. Keelevin, ‘baith you and me, Grippy, are beginning to be the waur o’ the wear; but I didna expek to find you in sic a condition as this. I hope it’s no the gout or the rheumatism.’

Claud, who had the natural horror of death as strong as most country gentlemen of a certain age, if not of all ages, did not much relish either the observation or the inquiries. He, however, said, with affected indifference, —

‘No! be thankit, it’s neither the t’ane nor the t’ither, but just a waff o’ cauld that I got twa nights ago; – a bit towt that’s no worth the talking o’.’

‘I’m extraordinar glad to hear’t; for, seeing you in sic a frail and feckless state, I was fear’t that ye were na in a way to converse on any concern o’ business. No that I hae muckle to say, but ye ken a’ sma’ things are a great fasherie to a weakly person, and I would na discompose you, Mr. Walkinshaw, unless you just felt yoursel in your right ordinar, for, at your time o’ life, ony disturbance’ —

‘My time o’ life?’ interrupted the old man tartly. ‘Surely I’m no sae auld that ye need to be speaking o’ my time o’ life? But what’s your will, Mr. Keelevin, wi’ me?’

Whether all this sympathetic condolence, on the part of the lawyer, was said in sincerity, or with any ulterior view, we need not pause to discuss, for the abrupt question of the invalid brought it at once to a conclusion.

‘In truth, Laird,’ replied Mr. Keelevin, ‘I canna say that I hae ony thing o’ a particular speciality to trouble you anent, for I came hither more in the way o’ friendship than o’ business, – having had this morning a visit frae your son Charles, a fine weel-doing young man as can be.’

‘He’s weel enough,’ said the old man gruffly, and the lawyer continued, —

‘’Deed, Mr. Walkinshaw, he’s mair than weel enough. He’s by common, and it was with great concern I heard that you and him are no on sic a footing of cordiality as I had thought ye were.’

‘Has he been making a complaint o’ me?’ said Claud looking sharply, and with a grim and knotted brow as if he was, at the same time, apprehensive and indignant.

‘He has mair sense and discretion,’ replied Mr. Keelevin; ‘but he was speaking to me on a piece of business, and I was surprised he did na rather confer wi’ you; till, in course of conversation, it fell out, as it were unawares, that he did na like to speak to you anent it; the which dislike, I jealouse, could only proceed o’ some lack o’ confidence between you, mair than should ever be between a father and a well-behaved son like Mr. Charles.’

‘And what was’t?’ said Grippy drily.

‘I doubt that his income is scant to his want, Mr. Walkinshaw.’

‘He’s an extravagant fool; and ne’er had a hand to thraw a key in a lock; – when I began the world I had na’ —

‘Surely,’ interrupted Mr. Keelevin, ‘ye could ne’er think the son o’ a man in your circumstances should hain and hamper as ye were necessitated to do in your younger years. But no to mak a hearing or an argument concerning the same – Mr. Charles requires a sma’ sum to get him free o’ a wee bit difficulty, for, ye ken, there are some folk, Mr. Walkinshaw, that a flea-bite molests like the lash o’ a whip.’

The old man made no answer to this; but sat for some time silent, drawing down his brows and twirling his thumbs. Mr. Keelevin waited in patience till he should digest the reply he so evidently meditated.

‘I hae ay thought Charlie honest, at least,’ said Grippy; ‘but I maun say that this fashes me, for if he’s in sic straits, there’s no telling what liberties he may be led to tak wi’ my property in the shop.’

Mr. Keelevin, who, in the first part of this reply, had bent eagerly forward, was so thunderstruck by the conclusion, that he threw himself back in his chair with his arms extended; but in a moment recovering from his consternation, he said, with fervour, —

‘Mr. Walkinshaw, I mind weel the reproof ye gave me when I remonstrated wi’ you against the injustice ye were doing the poor lad in the entail, but there’s no consideration on this earth will let me alloo you to gang on in a course of error and prejudice. Your son is an honest young man. I wish I could say his father kent his worth, or was worthy o’ him – and I’ll no see him wrangeously driven to the door, without taking his part, and letting the world ken wha’s to blame. I’ll no say ye hae defrauded him o’ his birthright, for the property was your ain – but if ye drive him forth the shop, and cast him wi’ his sma’ family on the scrimp mercy of mankind, I would be wanting to human nature in general, if I did na say it was most abominable, and that you yoursel, wi’ a’ your trumpery o’ Walkinshaws and Kittlestonheughs, ought to be scourged by the hands o’ the hangman. So do as ye like, Mr. Walkinshaw, ride to the deevil at the full gallop for aught I care, but ye’s no get out o’ this world without hearing the hue-and-cry that every Christian soul canna but raise after you.’

Claud was completely cowed both by the anger and menace of the honest lawyer, but still more by the upbraidings of his own startled conscience – and he said, in a humiliated tone, that almost provoked contempt, —

‘Ye’re oure hasty, Mr. Keelevin. I did na mint a word about driving him forth the shop. Did he tell you how muckle his defect was?’

‘Twa miserable hundred pounds,’ replied Mr. Keelevin, somewhat subsiding into his wonted equanimity.

‘Twa hundred pound o’ debt!’ exclaimed Claud.

‘Aye,’ said Mr. Keelevin, ‘and I marvel it’s no mair, when I consider the stinting and the sterile father o’ him.’

‘If I had the siller, Mr. Keelevin,’ replied Claud, ‘to convince baith you and him that I’m no the niggar ye tak me for, I would gi’e you’t wi’ hearty gude will; but the advance I made to get Geordie into his partnership has for the present rookit me o’ a’ I had at command.’

‘No possible!’ exclaimed Mr. Keelevin, subdued from his indignation; adding, ‘and heavens preserve us, Mr. Walkinshaw, an ony thing were happening on a sudden to carry you aff, ye hae made na provision for Charlie nor your dochter.’

There was something in this observation which made the old man shrink up into himself, and vibrate from head to heel. In the course, however, of less than a minute, he regained his self-possession, and said, —

‘’Deed, your observe, Mr. Keelevin, is very just, and I ought to do something to provide for what may come to pass. I maun try and get Watty to concur wi’ me in some bit settlement that may lighten the disappointment to Charlie and Meg, should it please the Lord to tak me to himsel without a reasonable warning. Can sic a paper be made out?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied the worthy lawyer, delighted with so successful an issue to his voluntary mission; ‘ye hae twa ways o’ doing the business; either by getting Watty to agree to an aliment, or by making a bond of provision to Charles and Mrs. Milrookit.’

Claud said he would prefer the former mode; observing, with respect to the latter, that he thought it would be a cheating o’ the law to take the other course.

‘As for cheating the law,’ said the lawyer, ‘ye need gie yoursel no uneasiness about it, provided ye do honestly by your ain bairns, and the rest o’ the community.’

And it was in consequence agreed, that, in the course of a day or two, Claud should take Walter to Glasgow, to execute a deed, by which, in the event of surviving his father, he would undertake to pay a certain annuity for the behoof of Charles’s family, and that of his sister, Mrs. Milrookit.

CHAPTER XXXIX

In furtherance of the arrangement agreed upon, as we have described in the foregoing chapter, as soon as Mr. Keelevin had retired, Claud summoned Walter into the parlour. It happened, that the Leddy, during the period of the lawyer’s visit, had been so engaged in another part of the house, that she was not aware of the conference, till, by chance, she saw him riding down the avenue. We need not, therefore, say that she experienced some degree of alarm, at the idea of a lawyer having been with her husband, unknown to her; and particularly, when, so immediately after his departure, her darling was requested to attend his father.

The mother and son entered the room together. Walter came from the nursery, where he had been dandling his child, and his appearance was not of the most prepossessing kind. From the death of his wife, in whose time, under her dictation, he was brushed up into something of a gentlemanly exterior, he had become gradually more and more slovenly. He only shaved on Saturday night, and buttoned his breeches knees on Sunday morning. Nor was the dress of Leddy Grippy at all out of keeping with that of her hopeful favourite. Her time-out-of-mind red quilted silk petticoat was broken into many holes; – her thrice dyed double tabinet gown, of bottle-green, with large ruffle cuffs, was in need of another dip; for, in her various culinary inspections, it had received many stains, and the superstructure of lawn and catgut, ornamented with ribbons, dyed blae in ink, surmounting her ill-toiletted toupee, had every appearance of having been smoked into yellow, beyond all power of blanching in the bleacher’s art.

‘And so, gudeman,’ said she, on entering the room, ‘ye hae had that auld sneck-drawer, Keelevin, wi’ you? I won’er what you and him can hae to say in sic a clandestine manner, that the door maun be ay steekit when ye’re thegither at your confabbles. Surely there’s nae honesty that a man can hae, whilk his wife ought na to come in for a share of.’

‘Sit down, Girzy Hypel, and haud thy tongue,’ was the peevish command which this speech provoked.

‘What for will I haud my tongue? a fool posture that would be, and no very commodious at this time; for ye see my fingers are coomy.’

‘Woman, t’ou’s past bearing!’ exclaimed her disconcerted husband.

‘An it’s nae shame to me, gudeman; for every body kens I’m a grannie.’

The Laird smote his right thigh, and shook his left hand, with vexation; presently, however, he said, —

‘Weel, weel; but sit ye down, and Watty, tak t’ou a chair beside her; for I want to consult you anent a paper that I’m mindit to hae drawn out for a satisfaction to you a’; for nane can tell when their time may come.’

‘Ye ne’er made a mair sensible observe, gudeman, in a’ your days,’ replied the Leddy, sitting down; ‘and it’s vera right to make your will and testament; for ye ken what a straemash happened in the Glengowlmahallaghan family, by reason o’ the Laird holographing his codicil; whilk, to be sure, was a dreadfu’ omission, as my cousin, his wife, fand in her widowhood; for a’ the moveables thereby gaed wi’ the heritage to his auld son by the first wife – even the vera silver pourie that I gied her mysel wi’ my own hands, in a gift at her marriage – a’ gaed to the heir.’

‘T’ou kens,’ said Claud, interrupting her oration, ‘that I hae provided thee wi’ the liferent o’ a house o’ fifteen pounds a-year, furniture, and a jointure of a hundred and twenty over and aboon the outcoming o’ thy father’s gathering. So t’ou canna expek, Girzy, that I would wrang our bairns wi’ ony mair overlay on thy account.’

‘Ye’re grown richer, gudeman, than when we came thegither,’ replied the Leddy; ‘and ne’er a man made siller without his wife’s leave. So it would be a most hard thing, after a’ my toiling and moiling, to make me nae better o’t than the stricts o’ the law in my marriage articles and my father’s will; whilk was a gratus amous, that made me nane behauden to you. – No, an ye mean to do justice, gudeman, I’ll get my thirds o’ the conquest ye hae gotten sin the time o’ our marriage; and I’ll be content wi’ nae less.’

‘Weel, weel, Girzy, we’ll no cast out about a settlement for thee.’

‘It would be a fearful thing to hear tell o’ an we did,’ replied the Leddy: ‘Living as we hae lived, a comfort to ane anither for thirty years, and bringing up sic a braw family, wi’ so meikle credit. No, gudeman, I hae mair confidence in you than to misdoot your love and kindness, noo that ye’re drawing so near your latter end as to be seriously thinking o’ making a will. But, for a’ that, I would like to ken what I’m to hae.’

‘Very right, Girzy; very right,’ said Claud; ‘but, before we can come to a clear understanding, me and Watty maun conform in a bit paper by oursels, just that there may be nae debate hereafter about his right to the excambio we made for the Plealands.’

‘I’ll no put hand to ony drumhead paper again,’ said Watty, ‘for fear it wrang my wee Betty Bodle.’

Although this was said in a vacant heedless manner, it yet disturbed the mind of his father exceedingly, for the strange obstinacy with which the natural had persisted in his refusal to attend the funeral of his wife, had shown that there was something deeper and more intractable in his character than any one had previously imagined. But opposition had only the effect of making Claud more pertinacious, while it induced him to change his mode of operation. Perceiving, or at least being afraid that he might again call his obduracy into action, he accordingly shifted his ground, and, instead of his wonted method of treating Walter with commands and menaces, he dexterously availed himself of the Leddy’s auxiliary assistance.

‘Far be it, Watty, frae me, thy father,’ said he, ‘to think or wis wrang to thee or thine; but t’ou kens that in family settlements, where there’s a patch’t property like ours, we maun hae conjunk proceedings. Noo, as I’m fain to do something satisfactory to thy mother, t’ou’ll surely never objek to join me in the needfu’ instruments to gie effek to my intentions.’

‘I’ll do every thing to serve my mother,’ replied Walter, ‘but I’ll no sign ony papers.’

‘Surely, Watty Walkinshaw,’ exclaimed the old Leddy, surprised at this repetition of his refusal, ‘ye would na see me in want, and driven to a needcessity to gang frae door to door, wi’ a meal-pock round my neck, and an oaken rung in my hand?’

‘I would rather gie you my twa dollars, and the auld French half-a-crown, that I got long syne, on my birthday, frae grannie,’ said Watty.

‘Then what for will ye no let your father make a rightfu’ settlement?’ cried his mother.

‘I’m sure I dinna hinder him. He may mak fifty settlements for me; I’ll ne’er fin’ fau’t wi’ him.’

‘Then,’ said the Leddy, ‘ye canna objek to his reasonable request.’

‘I objek to no reasonable request; I only say, mother, that I’ll no sign ony paper whatsomever, wheresomever, howsomever, nor ever and ever – so ye need na try to fleetch me.’

‘Ye’re an outstrapolous ne’er-do-well,’ cried the Leddy, in a rage, knocking her neives smartly together, ‘to speak to thy mother in that way; t’ou sall sign the paper, an te life be in thy body.’

‘I’ll no wrang my ain bairn for father nor mother; I’ll gang to Jock Harrigals, the flesher, and pay him to hag aff my right hand, afore I put pen to law-paper again.’

‘This is a’ I get for my love and affection,’ exclaimed the Leddy, bursting into tears; while her husband, scarcely less agitated by the firmness with which his purpose was resisted, sat in a state of gloomy abstraction, seemingly unconscious of the altercation. ‘But,’ added Mrs. Walkinshaw, ‘I’m no in thy reverence, t’ou unnatural Absalom, to rebel sae against thy parents. I hae maybe a hoggar, and I ken whan I die, wha s’all get the gouden guts o’t – Wilt t’ou sign the paper?’

‘I’ll burn aff my right hand in the lowing fire, that I may ne’er be able to write the scrape o’ a pen;’ and with these emphatic words, said in a soft and simple manner, he rose from his seat, and was actually proceeding towards the fire-place, when a loud knocking at the door disturbed, and put an end to, the conversation. It was a messenger sent from old Lady Plealands, to inform her daughter of Charles’s malady, and to say that the doctor, who had been called in, was greatly alarmed at the rapid progress of the disease.

CHAPTER XL

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, she said, —

‘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 earth as 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.’