The Entail

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.’

CHAPTER XLI

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 thoughts subsided, – 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 the Grippy 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.

CHAPTER XLII

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 her to 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 pensively forward, 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.

CHAPTER XLIII

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 the arms, —

‘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 added solemnly, —

‘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 conscience will 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.

CHAPTER XLIV

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.’