Kitabı oku: «The Entail», sayfa 6

CHAPTER XVI

On the morning after his marriage, Charles was anxious, doubtful, and diffident. His original intention was to go at once to his father, to state what he had done, and to persuade him, if possible, to overlook a step, that, from its suddenness, might be deemed rash, but, from the source and motives from which it proceeded, could, he thought, be regarded only as praiseworthy. Still, though this was his own opinion, he, nevertheless, had some idea that the old gentleman would not view it exactly in the same light; and the feeling which this doubt awakened made him hesitate at first, and finally to seek a mediator.

He had long remarked, that ‘the leddy,’ his grandmother, sustained a part of great dignity towards his father; and he concluded, from the effect it appeared to produce, that her superiority was fully acknowledged. Under this delusion, after some consideration of the bearings and peculiarities of his case, he determined to try her interference, and, for that purpose, instead of going to Grippy, as he had originally intended, when he left Isabella, he proceeded to the house of the old lady, where he found her at home and alone.

The moment he entered her sitting-room, she perceived that his mind was laden with something which pressed heavily on his feelings; and she said,

‘What has vext you, Charlie? has your father been severe upon you for ony misdemeanour, or hae ye done any thing that ye’re afeared to tell?’

In the expression of these sentiments, she had touched the sensitive cord, that, at the moment, was fastened to his heart.

‘I’m sure,’ was his reply, ‘that I hae done no ill, and dinna ken why I should be frightened in thinking on what every bodie that can feel and reflect will approve.’

‘What is’t?’ said the leddy, thoughtfully: ‘What is’t? If it’s aught good, let me partake the solace wi’ you; and if it’s bad speak it out, that a remedy may be, as soon as possible, applied.’

‘Bell Fatherlans,’ was his answer; but he could only articulate her name.

‘Poor lassie,’ said the venerable gentlewoman, ‘her lot’s hard, and I’m wae both for your sake and hers, Charlie, that your father’s so dure as to stand against your marriage in the way he does. But he was ay a bargainer; alack! the world is made up o’ bargainers; and a heart wi’ a right affection is no an article o’ meikle repute in the common market o’ man and woman. Poor genty Bell! I wish it had been in my power to hae sweetened her lot; for I doubt and fear she’s oure thin-skinned to thole long the needles and prins o’ Miss Mally Trimmings’ short temper; and, what’s far waur, the tawpy taunts of her pridefu’ customers.’

‘She could suffer them no longer, nor would I let her,’ replied the bridegroom, encouraged by these expressions to disclose the whole extent of his imprudence.

Mrs. Hypel did not immediately return any answer, but sat for a few moments thoughtful, we might, indeed, say sorrowful – she then said,

‘Ye should na, Charlie, speak to me. I canna help you, my dear, though I hae the will. Gang to your father and tell him a’, and if he winna do what ye wish, then, my poor bairn, bravely trust to Providence, that gars the heart beat as it should beat, in spite o’ a’ the devices o’ man.’

‘I fear,’ replied Charles, with simplicity, ‘that I hae done that already, for Bell and me were married yesterday. I could na suffer to see her snooled and cast down any longer by every fat-pursed wife that would triumph and glory in a new gown.’

‘Married, Charlie!’ said the old lady with an accent of surprise, mingled with sorrow; ‘Married! weel, that’s a step that canna be untrodden, and your tribulation is proof enough to me that you are awakened to the consequence. But what’s to be done?’

‘Nothing, Mem, but only to speak a kind word for us to my father,’ was the still simple answer of the simple young husband.

‘I’ll speak for you, Charlie, I can do that, and I’ll be happy and proud to gie you a’ the countenance in my power; but your father, Charlie – the gude forgie me because he is your father – I’m darkened and dubious when I think o’ him.’

‘I hae a notion,’ replied Charles, ‘that we need be no cess on him: we’re content to live in a sma’ way; only I would like my wife to be countenanced as becomes her ain family, and mair especially because she is mine, so that, if my father will be pleased to tak her, and regard her as his gude-dochter, I’ll ask nothing for the present, but do my part, as an honest and honourable man, to the very uttermost o’ my ability.’

The kind and venerable old woman was profoundly moved by the earnest and frank spirit in which this was said; and she assured him, that so wise and so discreet a resolution could not fail to make his father look with a compassionate eye on his generous imprudence. ‘So gae your ways home to Bell,’ said she, ‘and counsel and comfort her; the day’s raw, but I’ll even now away to the Grippy to intercede for you, and by the gloaming be you here wi’ your bonny bride, and I trust, as I wish, to hae glad tidings for you baith.’

Charles, with great ardour and energy, expressed the sense which he felt of the old lady’s kindness and partiality, but still he doubted the successful result of the mission she had undertaken. Nevertheless, her words inspired hope, and hope was the charm that spread over the prospects of Isabella and of himself, the light, the verdure, and the colours which enriched and filled the distant and future scenes of their expectations with fairer and brighter promises than they were ever destined to enjoy.

CHAPTER XVII

Claud was sitting at the window when he discovered his mother-in-law coming slowly towards the house, and he said to his wife, —

‘In the name o’ gude, Girzy, what can hae brought your mother frae the town on sic a day as this?’

‘I hope,’ replied the Leddy of Grippy, ‘that nothing’s the matter wi’ Charlie, for he promised to be out on Sabbath to his dinner, and never came.’

In saying these words, she went hastily to the door to meet her mother, the appearance of whose countenance at the moment was not calculated to allay her maternal fears. Indeed, the old lady scarcely spoke to her daughter, but walking straight into the dining-room where Grippy himself was sitting, took a seat on a chair, and then threw off her cloak on the back of it, before she uttered a word.

‘What’s wrang, grannie?’ said Claud, rising from his seat at the window, and coming towards her. – ‘What’s wrang, ye seem fashed?’

‘In truth, Mr. Walkinshaw, I hae cause,’ was the reply – ‘poor Charlie!’ —

‘What’s happen’d to him?’ exclaimed his mother.

‘Has he met wi’ ony misfortunate accident?’ inquired the father.

‘I hope it’s no a misfortune,’ said the old lady, somewhat recovering her self-possession. ‘At the same time, it’s what I jealouse, Grippy, ye’ll no be vera content to hear.’

‘What is’t?’ cried the father sharply, a little tantalized.

‘Has he broken his leg?’ said the mother.

‘Haud that clavering tongue o’ thine, Girzy,’ exclaimed the Laird peevishly; ‘wilt t’ou ne’er devaul’ wi’ sca’ding thy lips in other folks’ kail?’

‘He had amaist met wi’ far waur than a broken leg,’ interposed the grandmother. ‘His heart was amaist broken.’

‘It maun be unco brittle,’ said Claud, with a hem. ‘But what’s the need o’ this summering and wintering anent it? – Tell us what has happened?’

‘Ye’re a parent, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ replied the old lady seriously, ‘and I think ye hae a fatherly regard for Charlie; but I’ll be plain wi’ you. I doubt ye hae na a right consideration for the gentle nature of the poor lad; and it’s that which gars me doubt and fear that what I hae to say will no be agreeable.’

Claud said nothing in answer to this, but sat down in a chair on the right side of his mother-in-law, his wife having in the meantime taken a seat on the other side. – The old lady continued, —

‘At the same time, Mr. Walkinshaw, ye’re a reasonable man, and what I’m come about is a matter that maun just be endured. In short, it’s nothing less than to say, that, considering Fatherlans’ misfortunes, ye ought to hae alloo’t Charlie and Isabella to hae been married, for it’s a sad situation she was placed in – a meek and gentle creature like her was na fit to bide the flyte and flights o’ the Glasgow leddies.’

She paused, in the expectation that Claud would make some answer, but he still remained silent. – Mrs. Walkinshaw, however, spoke, —

‘’Deed, mither, that’s just what I said – for ye ken it’s an awfu’ thing to thwart a true affection. Troth is’t, gudeman; and ye should think what would hae been your ain tender feelings had my father stoppit our wedding after a’ was settled.’

‘There was some difference between the twa cases,’ said the Dowager of Plealands dryly to her daughter; – ‘neither you nor Mr. Walkinshaw were so young as Charlie and Miss Fatherlans – that was something – and maybe there was a difference, too, in the character of the parties. Hows’ever, Mr. Walkinshaw, marriages are made in heaven; and it’s no in the power and faculty of man to controvert the coming to pass o’ what is ordained to be. Charlie Walkinshaw and Bell Fatherlans were a couple marrowed by their Maker, and it’s no right to stand in the way of their happiness.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Claud, now breaking silence, ‘it can ne’er be said that I’m ony bar till’t. I would only fain try a year’s probation in case it’s but calf-love.’

Mrs. Hypel shook her head as she said, – ‘It’s vera prudent o’ you, but ye canna put auld heads on young shouthers. In a word, Mr. Walkinshaw, it’s no reasonable to expek that young folk, so encouraged in their mutual affection as they were, can thole so lang as ye would wish. The days o’ sic courtships as Jacob’s and Rachel’s are lang past.’

‘I but bade them bide a year,’ replied Claud.

‘A year’s an unco time to love; but to make a lang tale short, what might hae been foreseen has come to pass, the fond young things hae gotten themselves married.’

‘No possible!’ exclaimed Claud, starting from his chair, which he instantly resumed. —

‘Weel,’ said Mrs. Walkinshaw, – ‘if e’er I heard the like o’ that! – Our Charlie a married man! the head o’ a family!’

The old lady took no notice of these and other interjections of the same meaning, which her daughter continued to vent, but looking askance and steadily at Claud, who seemed for a minute deeply and moodily agitated, she said, —

‘Ye say nothing, Mr. Walkinshaw.’

‘What can I say?’ was his answer. – ‘I had a better hope for Charlie, – I thought the year would hae cooled him, – and am sure Miss Betty Bodle would hae been a better bargain.’

‘Miss Betty Bodle!’ exclaimed the grandmother, ‘she’s a perfect tawpy.’

‘Weel, weel,’ said Grippy, ‘it mak’s no odds noo what she is, – Charlie has ravelled the skein o’ his own fortune, and maun wind it as he can.’

‘That will be no ill to do, Mr. Walkinshaw, wi’ your helping hand. He’s your first born, and a better-hearted lad never lived.’

‘Nae doubt I maun help him, – there can be nae doubt o’ that; but he canna expek, and the world can ne’er expek, that I’ll do for him what I might hae done had he no been so rash and disobedient.’

‘Very true, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the gratified old lady, happy to find that the reconciliation was so easily effected; and proud to be the messenger of such glad tidings to the young couple, she soon after returned to Glasgow. But scarcely had she left the house, when Claud appeared strangely disturbed, – at one moment he ran hastily towards his scrutoire, and opened it, and greedily seized the title-deeds of his property, – the next he closed it thoughtfully, and retreating to his seat, sat down in silence.

‘What’s the matter wi’ you, gudeman? ye were na sae fashed when my mother was here,’ said his wife.

‘I’ll do nothing rashly – I’ll do nothing rashly,’ was the mysterious reply.

‘Eh, mither, mither,’ cried Walter, bolting into the room, – ‘what would you think, our Charlie’s grown a wife’s gudeman like my father.’

‘Out o’ my sight, ye ranting cuif,’ exclaimed Claud, in a rapture of rage, which so intimidated Walter that he fled in terror.

‘It’s dreadfu’ to be sae tempted, – and a’ the gude to gang to sic a haverel,’ added Claud, in a low troubled accent, as he turned away and walked towards the window.

‘Nae doubt,’ said his wife, ‘it’s an awfu’ thing to hear o’ sic disobedience as Charlie in his rashness has been guilty o’.’

‘It is, it is,’ replied her husband, ‘and many a ane for far less hae disinherited their sons, – cut them off wi’ a shilling.’

‘That’s true,’ rejoined the Leddy of Grippy. ‘Did na Kilmarkeckle gie his only daughter but the legacy o’ his curse, for running away wi’ the Englisher captain, and leave a’ to his niece Betty Bodle?’

‘And a’ she has might hae been in our family but for this misfortune. – When I think o’ the loss, and how pleased her father was when I proposed Charlie for her – It’s enough to gar me tak’ some desperate step to punish the contumacious reprobate. – He’ll break my heart.’

‘Dear keep me, gudeman, but ye’re mair fashed than I could hae thought it was in the power o’ nature for you to be,’ – said Mrs. Walkinshaw, surprised at his agitation.

‘The scoundrel! the scoundrel!’ said Claud, walking quickly across the room – ‘To cause sic a loss! – To tak’ nae advice! – to run sic a ram-race! – I ought, I will, gar him fin’ the weight o’ my displeasure. Betty Bodle’s tocher would hae been better than the Grippy – But he shall suffer for’t – I see na why a father may na tak’ his own course as weel as a son – I’ll no be set at naught in this gait. I’ll gang in to Mr. Keelevin the morn.’

‘Dinna be oure headstrong, my dear, but compose yoursel’,’ – said the lady, perplexed, and in some degree alarmed at the mention of the lawyer’s name. —

‘Compose thysel, Girzy, and no meddle wi’ me,’ was the answer, in a less confident tone than the declaration he had just made, adding, —

‘I never thought he would hae used me in this way. I’m sure I was ay indulgent to him.’

‘Overly sae,’ interrupted Mrs. Walkinshaw, ‘and often I told you that he would gie you a het heart for’t, and noo ye see my words hae come to pass.’

Claud scowled at her with a look of the fiercest aversion, for at that moment the better feelings of his nature yearned towards Charles, and almost overcame the sordid avidity with which he had resolved to cut him off from his birthright, and to entail the estate of Grippy with the Plealands on Walter, – an intention which, as we have before mentioned, he early formed, and had never abandoned, being merely deterred from carrying it into effect by a sense of shame, mingled with affection, and a slight reverence for natural justice; all which, however, were loosened from their hold in his conscience, by the warranty which the imprudence of the marriage seemed to give him in the eyes of the world, for doing what he had so long desired to do. Instead, however, of making her any reply, he walked out into the open air, and continued for about half an hour to traverse the green in front of the house, sometimes with quick short steps, at others with a slow and heavy pace. Gradually, however, his motion became more regular, and ultimately ended in a sedate and firm tread, which indicated that his mind was made up on the question which he had been debating with himself.

CHAPTER XVIII

That abysm of legal dubieties, the office of Mr. Keelevin, the writer, consisted of two obscure apartments on the ground floor of M’Gregor’s Land, in M’Whinnie’s Close, in the Gallowgate. The outer room was appropriated to the clerks, and the inner for the darker mysteries of consultation. To this place Claud repaired on the day following the interesting communication, of which we have recorded the first impressions in the foregoing chapter. He had ordered breakfast to be ready an hour earlier than usual; and as soon as he had finished it, he went to his scrutoire, and taking out his title-deeds, put them in his pocket, and without saying any thing to his wife of what he intended to do, lifted his hat and stick from their accustomed place of repose, in the corner of the dining-room, and proceeded, as we have said, to consult Mr. Keelevin.

It is not the universal opinion of mankind, that the profession of the law is favourable to the preservation of simplicity of character or of benevolence of disposition; but this, no doubt, arises from the malice of disappointed clients, who, to shield themselves from the consequences of their own unfair courses, pretend that the wrongs and injustice of which they are either found guilty, or are frustrated in the attempt to effect, are owing to the faults and roguery of their own or their adversaries’ lawyers. But why need we advocate any revision of the sentence pronounced upon the limbs of the law? for, grasping, as they do, the whole concerns and interests of the rest of the community, we think they are sufficiently armed with claws and talons to defend themselves. All, in fact, that we meant by this apologetic insinuation, was to prepare the reader for the introduction of Mr. Keelevin, on whom the corrosive sublimate of a long and thorough professional insight of all kinds of equivocation and chicanery had in no degree deteriorated from the purity of his own unsuspicious and benevolent nature. Indeed, at the very time that Claud called, he was rebuking his young men on account of the cruelty of a contrivance they had made to catch a thief that was in the nocturnal practice of opening the window of their office, to take away what small change they were so negligent as to leave on or in their desks; and they were not only defending themselves, but remonstrating with him for having rendered their contrivance abortive. For, after they had ingeniously constructed a trap within the window, namely, a footless table, over which the thief must necessarily pass to reach their desks, he had secretly placed a pillow under it, in order that, when it fell down, the robber might not hurt himself in the fall.

‘Gude morning, gude morning, Mr. Keelevin; how’re ye the day?’ said Claud, as he entered.

‘Gaily, gaily, Grippy; how’re ye yoursel, and how’s a’ at hame? Come awa ben to my room,’ was the writer’s answer, turning round and opening the door; for experience had taught him that visits from acquaintances at that hour were not out of mere civility.

Claud stepped in, and seated himself in an old armed chair which stood on the inner side of the table where Mr. Keelevin himself usually wrote; and the lawyer followed him, after saying to the clerks, ‘I redde ye, lads, tak tent to what I hae been telling you, and no encourage yourselves to the practice of evil that good may come o’t. To devise snares and stratagems is most abominable – all that ye should or ought to do, is to take such precautions that the thief may not enter; but to wile him into the trap, by leaving the window unfastened, was nothing less than to be the cause of his sin. So I admonish you no to do the like o’t again.’

In saying this he came in, and, shutting the door, took his own seat at the opposite side of the table, addressing himself to Claud, ‘And so ye hae gotten your auld son married? I hope it’s to your satisfaction.’

‘An he has brewed good yill, Mr. Keelevin, he’ll drink the better,’ was the reply; ‘but I hae come to consult you anent a bit alteration that I would fain make in my testament.’

‘That’s no a matter of great difficulty, Laird; for, sin’ we found out that the deed of entail that was made after your old son was born can never stand, a’ ye have is free to be destined as ye will, both heritable and moveable.’

‘And a lucky discovery that was; – many a troubled thought I hae had in my own breast about it; and now I’m come to confer wi’ you, Mr. Keelevin, for I would na trust the hair o’ a dog to the judgement o’ that tavert bodie, Gibby Omit, that gart me pay nine pounds seven shillings and saxpence too for the parchment; for it ne’er could be called an instrument, as it had na the pith o’ a windlestrae to bind the property; and over and aboon that, the bodie has lang had his back to the wa’, wi’ the ’poplexy; so that I maun put my trust in this affair into your hands, in the hope and confidence that ye’re able to mak something mair sicker.’

‘We’ll do our endeavour, Mr. Walkinshaw; hae ye made ony sort o’ scantling o’ what you would wish done?’

‘No, but I hae brought the teetles o’ the property in my pouch, and ye’ll just conform to them. As for the bit saving of lying money, we’ll no fash wi’ it for the present; I’m only looking to get a solid and right entail o’ the heritable.’

‘Nothing can be easier. Come as ye’re o’ an ancient family, no doubt your intent is to settle the Grippy on the male line; and, failing your sons and their heirs, then on the heirs of the body of your daughter.’

‘Just sae, just sae. I’ll make no change on my original disposition; only, as I would fain hae what cam by the gudewife made part and portion o’ the family heritage, and as her father’s settlement on Watty canna be broken without a great risk, I would like to begin the entail o’ the Grippy wi’ him.’

‘I see nothing to prevent that; ye could gie Charlie, the auld son, his liferent in’t, and as Watty, no to speak disrespectful of his capacity, may ne’er marry, it might be so managed.’

‘Oh, but that’s no what I mean, and what for may na Watty marry? Is na he o’ capacity to execute a deed, and surely that should qualify him to take a wife?’

‘But heavens preserve me, Mr. Walkinshaw, are ye sensible of the ill ye would do to that fine lad, his auld brother, that’s now a married man, and in the way to get heirs? Sic a settlement as ye speak o’ would be cutting him off a’ thegither: it would be most iniquitous!’

‘An it should be sae, the property is my own conquesting, Mr. Keelevin, and surely I may mak a kirk and a mill o’t an I like.’

‘Nobody, it’s true, Mr. Walkinshaw, has ony right to meddle wi’ how ye dispone of your own, but I was thinking ye maybe did na reflect that sic an entail as ye speak o’ would be rank injustice to poor Charlie, that I hae ay thought a most excellent lad.’

‘Excellent here, or excellent there, it was na my fault that he drew up wi’ a tocherless tawpy, when he might hae had Miss Betty Bodle.’

‘I am very sorry to hear he has displeased you; but the Fatherlans family, into whilk he has married, has ay been in great repute and estimation.’

‘Aye, afore the Ayr Bank; but the silly bodie the father was clean broken by that venture.’

‘That should be the greater reason, Mr. Walkinshaw, wi’ you to let your estate go in the natural way to Charlie.’

‘A’ that may be very true, Mr. Keelevin; I did na come here, however, to confer with you anent the like of that, but only of the law. I want you to draw the settlement, as I was saying; first, ye’ll entail it on Walter and his heirs-male, syne on Geordie and his heirs-male, and failing them, ye may gang back, to please yoursel, to the heirs-male o’ Charlie, and failing them, to Meg’s heirs-general.’

‘Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the honest writer, after a pause of about a minute, ‘there’s no Christianity in this.’

‘But there may be law, I hope.’

‘I think, Mr. Walkinshaw, my good and worthy friend, that you should reflect well on this matter, for it is a thing by ordinare to do.’

‘But ye ken, Mr. Keelevin, when Watty dies, the Grippy and the Plealands will be a’ ae heritage, and will na that be a braw thing for my family?’

‘But what for would ye cut off poor Charlie from his rightful inheritance?’

‘Me cut him off frae his inheritance! When my grandfather brake on account o’ the Darien, then it was that he lost his inheritance. He’ll get frae me a’ that I inherited frae our forbears, and may be mair; only, I’ll no alloo he has ony heritable right on me, but what stands with my pleasure to gie him as an almous.’

‘But consider, he’s your own firstborn?’ —

‘Weel, then, what o’ that?’

‘And it stands with nature surely, Mr. Walkinshaw, that he should hae a bairn’s part o’ your gear.’

‘Stands wi’ nature, Mr. Keelevin? A coat o’ feathers or a pair o’ hairy breeks is a’ the bairn’s part o’ gear that I ever heard o’ in nature, as the fowls o’ the air and the beasts o’ the field can very plainly testify. – No, no, Mr. Keelevin, we’re no now in a state o’ nature but a state o’ law, and it would be an unco thing if we did na make the best o’t. In short, ye’ll just get the settlements drawn up as soon as a possibility will alloo, for it does na do to lose time wi’ sic things, as ye ken, and I’ll come in wi’ Watty neest market day and get them implemented.’

‘Watty’s no requisite,’ said Mr. Keelevin, somewhat thoughtfully; ‘it can be done without him. I really wish ye would think better o’t before we spoil any paper.’

‘I’m no fear’t about the paper, in your hands, Mr. Keelevin, – ye’ll do every thing right wi’ sincerity, – and mind, an it should be afterwards found out that there are ony flaws in the new deed, as there were in the auld, which the doited creature Gibby Omit made out, I’ll gar you pay for’t yoursel; so tak tent, for your own sake, and see that baith Watty’s deed and mine are right and proper in every point of law.’

‘Watty’s! what do you mean by Watty’s?’

‘Have na I been telling you that it’s my wis that the Plealands and the Grippy should be made one heritage, and is na Watty concos mancos enough to be conjunct wi’ me in the like o’ that? Ye ken the flaw in his grandfather’s settlement, and that, though the land has come clear and clean to him, yet it’s no sae tethered but he may wise it awa as it likes him to do, for he’s noo past one-and-twenty. Therefore, what I want is, that ye will mak a paper for him, by the whilk he’s to ’gree that the Plealands gang the same gait, by entail, as the Grippy.’

‘As in duty bound, Mr. Walkinshaw, I maun do your will in this business,’ said Mr. Keelevin; ‘but really I ken na when I hae been more troubled about the specialities of any settlement. It’s no right o’ you to exercise your authority oure Watty; the lad’s truly no in a state to be called on to implement ony such agreement as what ye propose. He should na be meddled wi’, but just left to wear out his time in the world, as little observed as possible.’

‘I canna say, Mr. Keelevin, that I like to hear you misliken the lad sae, for did na ye yourself, with an ettling of pains that no other body could hae gane through but yoursel, prove, to the satisfaction of the Fifteen at Edinburgh, that he was a young man of a very creditable intellect, when Plealands’ will was contested by his cousin?’

‘Waes me, Mr. Walkinshaw, that ye should cast up to me the sincerity with which I did but my duty to a client. However, as ye’re bent on this business, I’ll say na mair in objection, but do my best to make a clear and tight entail, according to your instructions – trusting that I shall be accounted hereafter as having been but the innocent agent; and yet I beg you again, before it’s oure late, to reflect on the consequence to that fine lad Charlie, who is now the head of a house, and in the way of having a family – It’s an awfu’ thing ye’re doing to him.’

‘Weel, weel, Mr. Keelevin, as I was saying, dinna ye fash your thumb, but mak out the papers in a sicker manner, – and may be though ye think sae ill o’ me, it winna be the waur for Charlie after a’s come and gane.’

‘It’s in the Lord’s power certainly,’ replied the worthy lawyer piously, ‘to make it all up to him.’

‘And maybe it’s in my power too, for when this is done, I’ll hae to take another cast o’ your slight o’ hand in the way of a bit will for the moveables and lying siller, but I would just like this to be weel done first.’

‘Man, Laird, I’m blithe to hear that, – but ye ken that ye told me last year when you were clearing the wadset that was left on the Grippy, that ye had na meikle mair left – But I’m blithe to hear ye’re in a condition to act the part of a true father to a’ your bairns, though I maun say that I canna approve, as a man and a frien’, of this crotchet of entailing your estate on a haverel, to the prejudice of a braw and gallant lad like Charlie. Hows’ever, sin’ it is sae, we’ll say nae mair about it. The papers will be ready for you by Wednesday come eight days, and I’ll tak care to see they are to your wish.’

‘Na, an ye dinna do that, the cost shall be on your own risk, for the deil a plack or bawbee will I pay for them, till I hae a satisfaction that they are as they ought to be. Howsever, gude day, Mr. Keelevin, and we’ll be wi’ you on Wednesday by ten o’clock.’

In saying this, Claud, who had in the meantime risen from his seat, left the office without turning his head towards the desk where the clerks, as he walked through the outer room, were sitting, winking at one another, as he plodded past them, carrying his staff in his left hand behind him, a habit which he had acquired with his ellwand when he travelled the Borders as a pedlar.