Kitabı oku: «The Entail», sayfa 14
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.’
The Leddy would have renewed her remonstratory animadversions on his obstinacy, but the Laird again reminded her of the length of the journey in such an evening before her, and after a few half advices and half reproaches, she left the house.
Indisposed as Claud had previously felt himself, or seemed to be, she had not been long away, when he rose from his easy-chair, and walked slowly across the room, with his hands behind, swinging his body heavily as he paced the floor. Walter, who still remained on his seat, appeared for some time not to notice his father’s gestures; but the old man unconsciously began to quicken his steps, and at last walked so rapidly that his son’s attention was roused.
‘Father,’ said he, ‘hae ye been taking epicacco, for that was just the way that I was telt to gang, when I was last no weel?’
‘No, no,’ exclaimed the wretched old man; ‘but I hae drank the bitterest dose o’ life. There’s nae vomit for a sick soul – nae purge for a foul conscience.’
These were, however, confessions that escaped from him unawares, like the sparks that are elicited in violent percussions, – for he soon drew himself firmly and bravely up, as if he prepared himself to defy the worst that was in store for him; but this resolution also as quickly passed away, and he returned to his easy-chair, and sat down, as if he had been abandoned of all hope, and had resigned himself into a dull and sleepy lethargy.
For about half an hour he continued in this slumbering and inaccessible state, at the end of which he called one of the servants, and bade him be ready to go to Glasgow by break of day, and bring Mr. Keelevin before breakfast. ‘Something maun be done,’ said he as the servant, accompanied by Walter, left the room; ‘the curse of God has fallen upon me, my hands are tied, a dreadfu’ chain is fastened about me; I hae cheated mysel, and there’s nae bail – no, not in the Heavens – for the man that has wilfully raffled away his own soul in the guilty game o’ pride.’
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.
