The Entail

The impassioned gestures and the suppressed energy with which this was said, gave an awful and mysterious effect to expressions that were in themselves simple, in so much that the astonished man of the world regarded her, for some time, with a mingled sentiment of wonder and awe. At last he said, with a sneer, —

‘Upon my word, Mrs. Eadie, the minister himself could hardly preach with more eloquence. It is a long time since I have been so lectured; and I should like to know by what authority I am so brought to book?’

The sarcastic tone in which this was said provoked the pride and Highland blood of the lady, who, stepping back, and raising her right arm with a towering grandeur, shook it over him as she said, —

‘I have no more to say; – the fate of the blood of Glengael is twined and twisted with the destiny of Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw’s family; but at your dying hour you will remember what I have said, and, trembling, think of this place – of these tombs, these doors that lead into the judgement-chamber of Heaven, and of yon sun, that is the eye of the Almighty’s chief sentinel over man.’

She then dropped her hand, and, walking slowly past him, went straight towards the manse, the door of which she had almost reached before he recovered himself from the amazement and apprehension with which he followed her with his eye. His feelings, however, he soon so far mastered in outward appearance, that he even assumed an air of ineffable contempt; but, nevertheless, an impression had been so stamped by her mystery and menace, that, in returning towards the dwelling of Mrs. Charles, he gradually fell into a moody state of thoughtfulness and abstraction.

CHAPTER LXXVI

Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw had been a good deal surprised by the abrupt manner in which Mrs. Eadie had intercepted her brother-in-law. Her son, not a little pleased of an opportunity to avoid his uncle, no sooner saw them pass the window than he made his escape from the house. Observing that they did not go to the manse, but turned off towards the churchyard, he hastened to take refuge with his old preceptor, the minister, possibly to see Ellen Frazer. The relation, however, of what passed in the manse does not fall within the scope of our narrative, particularly as it will be easily comprehended and understood by its effects. We have, therefore, only at present to mention, that Mrs. Charles, in the meantime, sat in wonder and expectation, observing to her daughter, a mild and unobtrusive girl, who seldom spoke many sentences at a time, that she thought of late Mrs. Eadie seemed unusually attentive to her Highland superstitions. ‘She has been, I think, not so well of late, – her nerves are evidently in a high state of excitement. It is much to be regretted that she is so indisposed at this time, when we stand so much in need of her advice.’

Mary replied that she had noticed with sorrow a very great change indeed in their friend, – and she added, —

‘Ellen says that she often walks out at night to the churchyard, and sits moaning over the graves of her children. It is strange after they have been so long dead, that her grief should have so unexpectedly broken out afresh. The minister, I am sure, is very uneasy – for I have noticed that he looks paler than he used to do, and with a degree of sadness that is really very affecting.’

While they were thus speaking Mr. Walkinshaw came in, and the first words he said, before taking a seat, were, —

‘Is the minister’s wife in her right mind? She seems to me a little touched. I could with difficulty preserve my gravity at her fantastical nonsense.’

Mrs. Charles, out of respect for her friend, did not choose to make any reply to this observation, so that her brother-in-law found himself obliged to revert to the business which had brought him to Camrachle.

‘I thought James was here,’ said he; ‘what has become of him?’

‘He has just stepped out. – I suspect he was not exactly prepared to meet you.’

‘He is hot and hasty,’ rejoined the uncle; ‘we had rather an unpleasant conversation last night. I hope, since he has had time to reflect on what I said, he sees things differently.’

‘I am grieved,’ replied Mrs. Charles with a sigh, ‘that anything should have arisen to mar the prospects that your kindness had opened to him. But young men will be headstrong; their feelings often run away with their judgement.’

‘But,’ said Kittlestonheugh, ‘I can forgive him. I never looked for any conduct in him different from that of others of his own age. Folly is the superfluous blossoms of youth: they drop off as the fruit forms. I hope he is not resolute in adhering to his declaration about leaving Glasgow.’

‘He seems at present quite resolved,’ replied his mother, with a deep and slow sigh, which told how heavily that determination lay upon her heart.

‘Perhaps, then,’ said his uncle, ‘it may just be as well to leave him to himself for a few days; and I had better say nothing more to him on the subject.’

‘I think,’ replied Mrs. Charles, timidly, as if afraid that she might offend, – ‘it is needless at present to speak to him about Robina: he must have time to reflect.’ – She would have added, ‘on the great advantages of the match to him;’ but knowing, as she did, the decided sentiments of her son, she paused in the unfinished sentence, and felt vexed with herself for having said so much.

‘But,’ inquired her brother-in-law, in some degree solaced by the manner in which she had expressed herself – ‘But, surely, the boy will not be so ridiculous as to absent himself from the counting-house?’

‘He speaks of going abroad,’ was the soft and diffident answer.

‘Impossible! he has not the means.’

She then told him what he had been considering with respect to his father’s old acquaintance, who had the vessel going to America.

‘In that case,’ said his uncle, with an off-hand freedom that seemed much like generosity, – ‘I must undertake the expense of his outfit. He will be none the worse of seeing a little of the world; and he will return to us in the course of a year or two a wiser and a better man.’

‘Your kindness, sir, is truly extraordinary, and I shall be most happy if he can be persuaded to avail himself of it; but his mind lies towards the army, and, if he could get a cadetcy to India, I am sure he would prefer it above all things.’

‘A cadetcy to India!’ exclaimed the astonished uncle. – ‘By what chance or interest could he hope for such an appointment?’

‘Mrs. Eadie’s cousin, who bought back her father’s estate, she says, has some Parliamentary interest, and she intends to write him to beg his good offices for James.’

Kittlestonheugh was thunderstruck: – this was a turn in the affair that he had never once imagined within the scope and range of possibility. ‘Do you think,’ said he, ‘that he had any view to this in his ungrateful insolence to me last night? If I thought so, every desire I had to serve him should be henceforth suppressed and extinguished.’

At this crisis the door was opened, and Mr. Eadie, the minister, came in, by which occurrence the conversation was interrupted, and the vehemence of Mr. Walkinshaw was allowed to subside during the interchange of the common reciprocities of the morning.

‘I am much grieved, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the worthy clergyman, after a short pause, ‘to hear of this unfortunate difference with your nephew. I hope the young man will soon come to a more considerate way of thinking.’

Mr. Walkinshaw thought Mr. Eadie a most sensible man, and could not but express his confidence, that, when the boy came to see how much all his best friends condemned his conduct, and were so solicitous for his compliance, he would repent his precipitation. ‘We must, however,’ said he, ‘give him time. His mother tells me that he has resolved to go to America. I shall do all in my power to assist his views in that direction, not doubting in the end to reap the happiest effects.’

‘But before taking any step in that scheme,’ said the minister, ‘he has resolved to wait the issue of a letter which I have left my wife writing to her relation – for he would prefer a military life to any other.’

‘From all that I can understand,’ replied the uncle, ‘Mr. Frazer, your friend, will not be slack in using his interests to get him to India; for he cannot but be aware of the penniless condition of my nephew, and must be glad to get him out of his daughter’s way.’

There was something in this that grated the heart of the mother, and jarred on the feelings of the minister.

‘No,’ said the latter; ‘on the contrary, the affection which Glengael bears to his daughter would act with him as a motive to lessen any obstacles that might oppose her happiness. Were Mrs. Eadie to say – but, for many reasons, she will not yet – that she believes her young friend is attached to Ellen, I am sure Mr. Frazer would exert himself, in every possible way, to advance his fortune.’

‘In that he would but do as I am doing,’ replied the merchant with a smile of self-gratulation; and he added briskly, addressing himself to his sister-in-law, ‘Will James accept favours from a stranger, with a view to promote a union with that stranger’s daughter, and yet scorn the kindness of his uncle?’

The distressed mother had an answer ready; but long dependence on her cool and wary brother-in-law, together with her natural gentleness, made her bury it in her heart. The minister, however, who owed him no similar obligations, and was of a more courageous nature, did more than supply what she would have said.

‘The cases, Mr. Walkinshaw, are not similar. The affection between your nephew and Ellen is mutual; but your favour is to get him to agree to a union at which his heart revolts.’

‘Revolts! you use strong language unnecessarily,’ was the indignant retort.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the worthy presbyter, disturbed at the thought of being so unceremonious; ‘I am much interested in your nephew – I feel greatly for his present unhappy situation. I need not remind you that he has been to me, and with me, as my own son; and therefore you ought not to be surprised that I should take his part, particularly as, in so doing, I but defend the generous principles of a very noble youth.’

‘Well, well,’ exclaimed the Laird peevishly, ‘I need not at present trouble myself any further – I am as willing as ever to befriend him as I ought; but, from the humour he is in, it would serve no good purpose for me at present to interfere. I shall therefore return to Glasgow; and, when Mrs. Eadie receives her answer, his mother will have the goodness to let me know.’

With these words he hastily bade his sister-in-law good morning, and hurried into his carriage.

‘His conduct is very extraordinary,’ said the minister as he drove off. ‘There is something more than the mere regard and anxiety of an uncle in all this, especially when he knows that the proposed match is so obnoxious to his daughter. I cannot understand it; but come, Mrs. Walkinshaw, let us go over to the manse – James is to dine with me to-day, and we shall be the better of all being together; for Mrs. Eadie seems much out of spirits, and her health of late has not been good. Go, Mary, get your bonnet too, and come with us.’

So ended the pursuit to Camrachle; and we shall now beg the courteous reader to return with us to Glasgow, where we left the Leddy in high spirits, in the act of sending for the Reverend Dr. De’ilfear to marry her grandchildren.

CHAPTER LXXVII

Long before Kittlestonheugh returned to Glasgow, the indissoluble knot was tied between his daughter and her cousin, Walkinshaw Milrookit. The Laird of Dirdumwhamle was secretly enjoying this happy consummation of a scheme which he considered as securing to his son the probable reversion of an affluent fortune, and a flourishing estate. Occasional flakes of fear floated, however, in the sunshine of his bosom, and fell cold for a moment on his heart. His wife was less satisfied. She knew the ardour with which her brother had pursued another object; she respected the consideration that was due to him as a parent in the disposal of his daughter; and she justly dreaded his indignation and reproaches. She was, therefore, anxious that Mr. Milrookit should return with her to the country before he came back from Camrachle. But her mother, the Leddy, was in high glee, and triumphant at having so cleverly, as she thought, accomplished a most meritorious stratagem, she would not for a moment listen to the idea of their going away before dinner.

‘Na; ye’ll just bide where ye are,’ said she. ‘It will be an unco-like thing no to partake o’ the marriage feast, though ye hae come without a wedding garment, after I hae been at the cost and outlay o’ a jigot o’ mutton, a fine young poney cock, and a Florentine pie; dainties that the like o’ hae na been in my house since Geordie, wi’ his quirks o’ law, wheedled me to connive wi’ him to deprive uncle Watty o’ his seven lawful senses, forbye the property. But I trow I hae now gotten the blin’ side o’ him at last: he’ll no daur to say a word to me about a huggery-muggery matrimonial, take my word for’t; for he kens the black craw I hae to pluck wi’ him anent the prank he played me in the deevelry o’ the concos mentos, whilk ought in course o’ justice to have entitled me to a full half of the income o’ the lands; and a blithe thing, Dirdumwhamle, that would hae been to you and your wife, could we hae wrought it into a come-to-pass; for sure am I, that, in my experience and throughgality, I would na hae tied my talent in a napkin, nor hid it in a stroopless tea-pot, in the corner o’ the press, but laid it out to usury wi’ Robin Carrick. Howsever, maybe, for a’ that, Meg, when I’m dead and gone, ye’ll find, in the bonny pocket-book ye sewed lang syne at the boarding-school for your father, a testimony o’ the advantage it was to hae had a mother. But, Sirs, a wedding-day is no a time for molloncholious moralizing; so I’ll mak a skip and a passover o’ a matter and things pertaining to sic Death, and the Leddy’s confabbles as legacies, and kittle up your notions wi’ a wee bit spree and sprose o’ jocosity, afore the old man comes; for so, in course o’ nature, it behoves us to ca’ the bride’s father, as he’s now, by the benison o’ Dr. De’ilfear, on the lawfu’ toll-road to become, in due season, an ancestor. Nae doubt, he would hae liked better had it been to one of his ain Walkinshaws o’ Kittlestonheugh; but, when folk canna get the gouden goun, they should be thankful when they get the sleeve.’

While the Leddy was thus holding forth to the Laird and his wife, the carriage with George stopped at the door. Dirdumwhamle, notwithstanding all his inward pleasure, changed colour. Mrs. Milrookit fled to another room, to which the happy pair had retired after the ceremony, that they might not be visible to any accidental visitors; and even the Leddy was for a time smitten with consternation. She, however, was the first who recovered her self-possession; and, before Mr. Walkinshaw was announced, she was seated in her accustomed elbow chair with a volume of Mathew Henry’s Commentary on her lap, and her spectacles on her nose, as if she had been piously reading. Dirdumwhamle sat opposite to her, and was apparently in a profound sleep, from which he was not roused until some time after the entrance of his brother-in-law.

‘So, Geordie,’ said the Leddy, taking off her spectacles, and shutting the book, as her son entered; ‘what’s come o’ Jamie? – hae ye no brought the Douglas-tragedy-like mountebank back wi’ you?’

‘Let him go to the devil,’ was the answer.

‘That’s an ill wis, Geordie. – And so ye hae been a gouk’s errant? But how are they a’ at Camrachle?’ replied the Leddy; ‘and, to be sober, what’s the callan gaun to do? And what did he say for himsel, the kick-at-the-benweed foal that he is? If his mother had laid on the taws better, he would nae hae been sae skeigh. But, sit down, Geordie, and tell me a’ about it. – First and foremost, howsever, gie that sleepy bodie, Dirdumwhamle, a shoogle out o’ his dreams. What’s set the man a snoring like the bars o’ Ayr, at this time o’ day, I won’er?’

But Dirdumwhamle did not require to be so shaken; for, at this juncture, he began to yawn and stretch his arms, till, suddenly seeing his brother-in-law, he started wide awake.

‘I am really sorry to say, mother,’ resumed Kittlestonheugh, ‘that my jaunt to Camrachle has been of no avail. The minister’s wife, who, by the way, is certainly not in her right mind, has already written to her relation, Glengael, to beg his interest to procure a cadetship to India for James; and, until she receives an answer, I will let the fellow tak his own way.’

‘Vera right, Geordie, vera right; ye could na act a more prudential and Solomon-like part,’ replied his mother. ‘But, since he will to Cupar, let him gang, and a’ sorrow till him; and just compose your mind to approve o’ Beenie’s marriage wi’ Walky, who is a lad of a methodical nature, and no a hurly-burly ramstam, like yon flea-luggit thing, Jamie.’

Dirdumwhamle would fain have said amen, but it stuck in his throat. Nor had he any inducement to make any effort further by the decisive manner in which his brother-in-law declared, that he would almost as soon carry his daughter’s head to the churchyard as see that match.

‘Weel, weel; but I dare say, Geordie, ye need na mair waste your bir about it,’ exclaimed the Leddy; ‘for, frae something I hae heard the lad himsel say, this very day, it’s no a marriage that ever noo is likely to happen in this warld;’ and she winked significantly to the bridegroom’s father. – ‘But, Geordie,’ she continued, ‘there is a because that I would like to understand. How is’t that ye’re sae doure against Walky Milrookit? I’m sure he’s a very personable lad – come o’ a gude family – sib to us a’; and, failing you and yours, heir o’ entail to the Kittlestonheugh. Howsever, no to fash you wi’ the like o’ that, as I see ye’re kindling, I would, just by way o’ diversion, be blithe to learn how it would gang wi’ you, if Beenie, after a’ this straemash, was to loup the window under cloud o’ night wi’ some gaberlunzie o’ a crookit and blin’ soldier-officer, or, wha kens, maybe a drunken drammatical divor frae the play-house, wi’ ill-colour’t darnt silk stockings; his coat out at the elbows, and his hat on ajee? How would you like that, Geordie? – Sic misfortunes are no uncos noo-a-days.’

Her son, notwithstanding the chagrin he suffered, was obliged to smile, saying, ‘I have really a better opinion, both of Beenie’s taste and her sense, than to suppose any such adventure possible.’

‘So hae I,’ replied the Leddy. ‘But ye ken, if her character were to get sic a claut by a fox paw, ye would be obligated to tak her hame, and mak a genteel settlement befitting your only dochter.’

‘I think,’ said George, ‘in such a case as you suppose, a genteel settlement would be a little more than could in reason be expected.’

‘So think I, Geordie – I am sure I would ne’er counsel you into ony conformity; but, though we hae nae dread nor fear o’ soldier-officers or drammaticals, it’s o’ the nature o’ a possibility that she will draw up wi’ some young lad o’ very creditable connexions and conduct; but wha, for some thraw o’ your ain, ye would na let her marry. – What would ye do then, Geordie? Ye would hae to settle, or ye would be a most horridable parent.’

‘My father, for so doing, disinherited Charles,’ said George gravely, and the words froze the very spirit of Dirdumwhamle.

‘That’s vera true, Geordie,’ resumed the Leddy; ‘a bitter business it was to us a’, and was the because o’ your worthy father’s sore latter end. But ye ken the property’s entail’t; and, when it pleases the Maker to take you to Himsel, by consequence Beenie will get the estate.’

‘That’s not so certain,’ replied George, jocularly looking at Dirdumwhamle; – ‘my wife has of late been more infirm than usual, and were I to marry again, and had male heirs – ’

‘Hoot, wi’ your male heirs, and your snuffies; I hate the very name o’ sic things – they hae been the pests o’ my life. – It would hae been a better world without them,’ exclaimed the Leddy, and then she added – ‘But we need na cast out about sic unborn babes o’ Chevy Chase. Beenie’s a decent lassie, and will, nae doubt, make a prudent conjugality; so a’ I hae for the present is to say that I expek ye’ll tak your dinner wi’ us. Indeed, considering what has happened, it would na be pleasant to you to be seen on the plane-stanes the day, – for I’m really sorry to see, Geordie, that ye’re no just in your right jocularity. Howsever, as we’re to hae a bit ploy, I request and hope ye’ll bide wi’ us, and help to carve the bubbly-jock, whilk is a beast, as I hae heard your father often say, that requir’t the skill o’ a doctor, the strength o’ a butcher, and the practical hand o’ a Glasgow Magistrate to diject.’

Nothing more particular passed before dinner, the hour of which was drawing near; but a wedding-feast is, at any time, worthy of a chapter.

CHAPTER LXXVIII

The conversation which the Leddy, to do her justice, had, considering her peculiar humour and character, so adroitly managed with the bride’s father, did not tend to produce the happiest feelings among the conscious wedding-guests. Both the Laird of Dirdumwhamle and his wife were uneasy, and out of countenance, and the happy pair were as miserable as ever a couple of clandestine lovers, in the full possession of all their wishes, could possibly be. But their reverend grandmother, neither daunted nor dismayed, was in the full enjoyment of a triumph, and, eager in the anticipation of accomplishing, by her dexterous address, the felicitous work which, in her own opinion, she had so well begun. Accordingly, dinner was served, with an air of glee and pride, so marked, that Kittlestonheugh was struck with it, but said nothing; and, during the whole of the dijection of the dinner, as his mother persisted in calling the carving, he felt himself frequently on the point of inquiring what had put her into such uncommon good humour. But she did not deem the time yet come for a disclosure, and went on in the most jocund spirits possible, praising the dishes, and cajoling her guests to partake.

‘It’s extraordinar to me, Beenie,’ said she to the bride, ‘to lo and behold you sitting as mim as a May puddock, when you see us a’ here met for a blithesome occasion – and, Walky, what’s come o’er thee, that thou’s no a bit mair brisk than the statute o’ marble-stane, that I ance saw in that sink o’ deceitfulness, the Parliament House o’ Embrough? As for our Meg, thy mother, she was ay one of your Moll-on-the-coals, a sigher o’ sadness, and I’m none surprised to see her in the hypocondoricals; but for Dirdumwhamle, your respectit father, a man o’ property, family, and connexions – the three cardinal points o’ gentileety – to be as one in doleful dumps, is sic a doolie doomster, that uncle Geordie, there whar he sits, like a sow playing on a trump, is a perfect beautiful Absalom in a sense o’ comparison. Howsever, no to let us just fa’ knickitty-knock, frae side to side, till our harns are splattered at the bottom o’ the well o’ despair – I’ll gie you a toast, a thing which, but at an occasion, I ne’er think o’ minting, and this toast ye maun a’ mak a lippy – Geordie, my son and bairn, ye ken as weel as I ken, what a happy matrimonial your sister has had wi’ Dirdumwhamle – and, Dirdumwhamle, I need na say to you, ye hae found her a winsome helpmate; and surely, Meg, Mr. Milrookit has been to you a most cordial husband. Noo, what I would propose for a propine, Geordie, is, Health and happiness to Mr. and Mrs. Milrookit, and may they long enjoy many happy returns o’ this day.’

The toast was drank with great glee; but, without entering into any particular exposition of the respective feelings of the party, we shall just simply notice, as we proceed, that the Leddy gave a significant nod and a wink both to the bride and bridegroom, while the bride’s father was seized with a most immoderate fit of laughing at, what he supposed, the ludicrous eccentricity of his mother.

‘Noo, Geordie, my man,’ continued the Leddy, ‘seeing ye’re in sic a state o’ mirth and jocundity, and knowing, as we a’ know, that life is but a weaver’s shuttle, and Time a wabster, that works for Death, Eternity, and Co., great wholesale merchants; but for a’ that, I am creditably informed they’ll be obligated, some day, to mak a sequester – Howsever, that’s nane o’ our concern just now, – but, Geordie, as I was saying, I would fain tell you o’ an exploit.’