CHAPTER V
When Claud was duly equipped by Cornelius Luke, in the best fashion of that period, for a bien cloth-merchant of the discreet age of forty-seven, a message was sent by his shop lad, Jock Gleg, to Rob Wallace, the horse-couper in the Gallowgate, to have his beast in readiness next morning by seven o’clock, the intending lover having, several days before, bespoke it for the occasion.
Accordingly, at seven o’clock on Saturday morning, Rob was with the horse himself, at the entry to Cochran’s Land, in the Candleriggs, where Claud then lodged, and the wooer, in the sprucest cut of his tailor, with a long silver-headed whip in his hand, borrowed from his friend and customer, Bailie Murdoch, attended by Jock Gleg, carrying a stool, came to the close mouth.
‘I’m thinking, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said Rob, the horse-couper, ‘that ye would na be the waur of a spur, an it were only on the ae heel.’
‘We maun do our best without that commodity, Rob,’ replied Claud, trying to crack his whip in a gallant style, but unfortunately cutting his own leg through the dark blue rig-and-fur gamashins; for he judiciously considered, that, for so short a journey, and that, too, on speculation, it was not worth his while to get a pair of boots.
Rob drew up the horse, and Jock having placed the stool, Claud put his right foot in the stirrup, at which Rob and some of the students of the college, who happened to be attracted to the spot, with diverse others then and there present, set up a loud shout of laughter, much to his molestation. But surely no man is expected to know by instinct the proper way of mounting a horse; and this was the first time that Claud had ever ascended the back of any quadruped.
When he had clambered into the saddle, Rob led the horse into the middle of the street, and the beast, of its own accord, walked soberly across the Trongate towards the Stockwell. The conduct of the horse, for some time, was indeed most considerate, and, in consequence, although Claud hung heavily over his neck, and held him as fast as possible with his knees, he passed the bridge, and cleared the buildings beyond, without attracting, in any particular degree, the admiration of the public towards his rider. But, in an unguarded moment, the infatuated Claud rashly thought it necessary to employ the Bailie’s whip, and the horse, so admonished, quickened his pace to a trot. ‘Heavens, ca’ they this riding?’ exclaimed Claud, and almost bit his tongue through in the utterance. However, by the time they reached Cathcart, it was quite surprising to see how well he worked in the saddle; and, notwithstanding the continued jolting, how nobly he preserved his balance. But, on entering that village, all the dogs, in the most terrifying manner, came rushing out from the cottage doors, and pursued the trotting horse with such bark and bay, that the poor animal saw no other for’t, but to trot from them faster and faster. The noise of the dogs, and of a passenger on horseback, drew forth the inhabitants, and at every door might be seen beldams with flannel caps, and mothers with babies in their arms, and clusters of children around them. It was the general opinion among all the spectators, on seeing the spruce new clothes of Claud, and his vaulting horsemanship, that he could be no less a personage than the Lord Provost of Glasgow.
Among them were a few country lads, who, perceiving how little the rider’s seat of honour was accustomed to a saddle, had the wickedness to encourage and egg on the dogs to attack the horse still more furiously; but, notwithstanding their malice, Claud still kept his seat, until all the dogs but one devil of a terrier had retired from the pursuit: nothing could equal the spirit and pertinacity with which that implacable cur hung upon the rear, and snapped at the heels of the horse. Claud, who durst not venture to look behind, lest he should lose his balance, several times damned the dog with great sincerity, and tried to lash him away with Bailie Murdoch’s silver-headed whip, but the terrier would not desist.
How long the attack might have continued, there is certainly no telling, as it was quickly determined by one of those lucky hits of fortune which are so desirable in life. The long lash of the Bailie’s whip, in one of Claud’s blind attempts, happily knotted itself round the neck of the dog. The horse, at the same moment, started forward into that pleasant speed at which the pilgrims of yore were wont to pass from London to the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket at Canterbury (which, for brevity, is in vulgar parlance called, in consequence, a canter); and Claud dragged the terrier at his whip-string end, like an angler who has hooked a salmon that he cannot raise out of the water, until he met with Johnny Drizen, the Ayr carrier, coming on his weekly journey to Glasgow.
‘Lordsake, Mr. Walkinshaw!’ exclaimed the carrier, as he drew his horse aside – ‘in the name of the Lord, whare are ye gaun, and what’s that ye’re hauling ahint you?’
‘For the love of Heaven, Johnny,’ replied the distressed cloth-merchant, pale with apprehension, and perspiring at every pore, – ‘for the love of Heaven, stop this desperate beast!’
The tone of terror and accent of anguish in which this invocation was uttered, had such an effect on the humanity and feelings of the Ayr carrier, that he ran towards Claud with the ardour of a philanthropist, and seized the horse by the bridle rings. Claud, in the same moment, threw down the whip, with the strangled dog at the lash; and, making an endeavour to vault out of the saddle, fell into the mire, and materially damaged the lustre and beauty of his new coat. However, he soon regained his legs, but they so shook and trembled, that he could scarcely stand, as he bent forward with his feet widely asunder, being utterly unable for some time to endure in any other position the pain of that experience of St. Sebastian’s martyrdom which he had locally suffered.
His first words to the carrier were, ‘Man, Johnny, this is the roughest brute that ever was created. Twa dyers wi’ their beetles could na hae done me mair detriment. I dinna think I’ll e’er be able to sit down again.’
This colloquy was, however, speedily put an end to, by the appearance of a covered cart, in which three ministers were returning from the synod to their respective parishes in Ayrshire; for at that time neither post-chaise nor stage-coach was numbered among the luxuries of Glasgow. One of them happened to be the identical Mr. Kilfuddy of Braehill, who had lectured so learnedly about the Temple of Diana on the preceding Sunday in the Tron Church; and he, being acquainted with Claud, said, as he looked out and bade the driver to stop, —
‘Dear me, Mr. Walkinshaw, but ye hae gotten an unco cowp. I hope nae banes are broken?’
‘No,’ replied Claud a little pawkily, ‘no; thanks be and praise – the banes, I believe, are a’ to the fore; but it’s no to be expressed what I hae suffer’t in the flesh.’
Some further conversation then ensued, and the result was most satisfactory, for Claud was invited to take a seat in the cart with the ministers, and induced to send his horse back to Rob Wallace by Johnny Drizen the carrier. Thus, without any material augmentation of his calamity, was he conveyed to the gate which led to Plealands. The Laird, who had all the morning been anxiously looking out for him, on seeing the cart approaching, left the house, and was standing ready at the yett to give him welcome.
CHAPTER VI
Plealands House stood on the bleak brow of a hill. It was not of great antiquity, having been raised by the father of Malachi; but it occupied the site of an ancient fortalice, the materials of which were employed in its construction; and as no great skill of the sculptor had been exerted to change the original form of the lintels and their ornaments, it had an air of antiquity much greater than properly belonged to its years.
About as much as the habitation had been altered from its primitive character, the master too had been modernized. But, in whatever degree he may have been supposed to have declined from the heroic bearing of his ancestors, he still inherited, in unabated vigour, the animosity of their spirit; and if the coercive influence of national improvement prevented him from being distinguished in the feud and foray, the books of sederunt, both of the Glasgow Circuit and of the Court of Session, bore ample testimony to his constancy before them in asserting supposed rights, and in vindicating supposed wrongs.
In his personal appearance, Malachi Hypel had but few pretensions to the gallant air and grace of the gentlemen of that time. He was a coarse hard-favoured fresh-coloured carl, with a few white hairs thinly scattered over a round bald head. His eyes were small and grey, quick in the glance, and sharp in the expression. He spoke thickly and hurriedly, and although his words were all very cogently strung together, there was still an unaccountable obscurity in the precise meaning of what he said. In his usual style of dress he was rude and careless, and he commonly wore a large flat-brimmed blue bonnet; but on the occasion when he came to the gate to receive Claud, he had on his Sunday suit and hat.
After the first salutations were over, he said to Claud, on seeing him walking lamely and uneasily, ‘What’s the matter, Grippy, that ye seem sae stiff and sair?’
‘I met wi’ a bit accident,’ was Claud’s reply: ‘Rob Wallace, the horse-couper, gied me sic a deevil to ride as, I believe, never man before mounted. I would na wish my sworn enemy a greater ill than a day’s journey on that beast’s back, especially an he was as little used to riding as me.’
The latter clause of the sentence was muttered inwardly, for the Laird did not hear it; otherwise he would probably have indulged his humour a little at the expense of his guest, as he had a sort of taste for caustic jocularity, which the hirpling manner of Claud was, at the moment, well calculated to provoke.
On reaching the brow of the rising ground where the house stood, the leddy, as Mrs. Hypel was emphatically called by the neighbouring cottars, with Miss Girzy, came out to be introduced to their relative.
Whether the leddy, a pale, pensive, delicate woman, had been informed by the Laird of the object of Claud’s visit, we do not thoroughly know, but she received him with a polite and friendly respectfulness. Miss Girzy certainly was in total ignorance of the whole business, and was, therefore, not embarrassed with any virgin palpitations, nor blushing anxieties; on the contrary, she met him with the ease and freedom of an old acquaintance.
It might here be naturally expected that we should describe the charms of Miss Girzy’s person, and the graces of her mind; but, in whatever degree she possessed either, she had been allowed to reach the discreet years of a Dumbarton youth in unsolicited maidenhood; indeed, with the aid of all the prospective interest of the inheritance around her, she did not make quite so tender an impression on the heart of her resolved lover as he himself could have wished. But why should we expatiate on such particulars? Let the manners and virtues of the family speak for themselves, while we proceed to relate what ensued.
CHAPTER VII
‘Girzy,’ said the Laird to his daughter, as they entered the dining-room, ‘gae to thy bed and bring a cod for Mr. Walkinshaw, for he’ll no can thole to sit down on our hard chairs.’
Miss Girzy laughed as she retired to execute the order, while her mother continued, as she had done from the first introduction, to inspect Claud from head to foot, with a curious and something of a suspicious eye; there was even an occasional flush that gleamed through the habitual paleness of her thoughtful countenance, redder and warmer than the hectic glow of mere corporeal indisposition. Her attention, however, was soon drawn to the spacious round table, in the middle of the room, by one of the maids entering with a large pewter tureen, John Drappie, the manservant, having been that morning sent on some caption and horning business of the Laird’s to Gabriel Beagle, the Kilmarnock lawyer. But, as the critics hold it indelicate to describe the details of any refectionary supply, however elegant, we must not presume to enumerate the series and succession of Scottish fare, which soon crowned the board, all served on pewter as bright as plate. Our readers must endeavour, by the aid of their own fancies, to form some idea of the various forms in which the head and harigals of the sheep, that had been put to death for the occasion, were served up, not forgetting the sonsy, savoury, sappy haggis, together with the gude fat hen, the float whey, which, in a large china punch-bowl, graced the centre of the table, and supplied the place of jellies, tarts, tartlets, and puddings.
By the time the table was burdened, Miss Girzy had returned with the pillow, which she herself placed in one of the armchairs, shaking and patting it into plumpness, as she said, —
‘Come round here, Mr. Walkinshaw, – I trow ye’ll fin’ this a saft easy seat, – well do I ken what it is to be saddle-sick mysel’. Lordsake, when I gaed in ahint my father to see the robber hanged at Ayr, I was for mair than three days just as if I had sat doun on a heckle.’
When the cloth was removed, and the ladies had retired, the Laird opened his mind by stretching his arm across the table towards his guest, and, shaking him again heartily by the hand, —
‘Weel, Grippy,’ said he, ‘but am blithe to see you here; and, if am no mistaen, Girzy will no be ill to woo. – Is na she a coothy and kind creature? – She’ll make you a capital wife. – There’s no another in the parish that kens better how to manage a house. – Man, it would do your heart gude to hear how she rants among the servan’ lasses, lazy sluts, that would like nothing better than to live at heck and manger, and bring their master to a morsel; but I trow Girzy gars them keep a trig house and a birring wheel.’
‘No doubt, Laird,’ replied Claud, ‘but it’s a comfort to hae a frugal woman for a helpmate; but ye ken nowadays it’s no the fashion for bare legs to come thegither. – The wife maun hae something to put in the pot as well as the man. – And, although Miss Girzy may na be a’thegither objectionable, yet it would still be a pleasant thing baith to hersel’ and the man that gets her, an ye would just gi’e a bit inkling o’ what she’ll hae.’
‘Is na she my only dochter? That’s a proof and test that she’ll get a’, – naebody needs to be teld mair.’
‘Vera true, Laird,’ rejoined the suitor, ‘but the leddy’s life’s in her lip, and if ony thing were happening to her, ye’re a hale man, and wha kens what would be the upshot o’ a second marriage?’
‘That’s looking far ben,’ replied the Laird, and he presently added, more briskly, ‘My wife, to be sure, is a frail woman, but she’s no the gear that ’ill traike.’
In this delicate and considerate way, the overture to a purpose of marriage was opened; and, not to dwell on particulars, it is sufficient to say, that, in the course of little more than a month thereafter, Miss Girzy was translated into the Leddy of Grippy; and in due season presented her husband with a son and heir, who was baptized by the name of Charles.
When the birth was communicated to the Laird, he rode expressly to Grippy to congratulate his son-in-law on the occasion; and, when they were sitting together, in the afternoon, according to the fashion of the age, enjoying the contents of the gardevin entire, Claud warily began to sound him on a subject that lay very near his heart.
‘Laird,’ said he, ‘ye ken the Walkinshaws of Kittlestonheugh are o’ a vera ancient blood, and but for the doited prank o’ my grandfather, in sending my father on that gouk’s errand to the Darien, the hills are green and the land broad that should this day hae been mine; and, therefore, to put it out o’ the power of posterity to play at any sic wastrie again, I mean to entail the property of the Grippy.’
‘That’s a very good conceit,’ replied the Laird, ‘and I hae mysel’ had a notion of entailing the Plealands likewise.’
‘So I hae heard you say,’ rejoined Claud, ‘and now that the bairn’s born, and a laddie too, we may make ae work o’t.’
‘Wi’ a’ my heart,’ replied the Laird, ‘nothing can be more agreeable to me; but as I wish to preserve the name of my family, than whilk there’s no a more respectit in Scotland, I’ll only covenant that when Charlie succeeds me, that he’ll take the name o’ Hypel.’
‘Ye surely, Laird, would ne’er be so unreasonable,’ replied Grippy, a little hastily; ‘ye can ne’er be sae unreasonable as to expect that the lad would gie up his father’s name, the name o’ Walkinshaw, and take only that of Hypel.’
‘’Deed would I,’ said the Laird, ‘for no haeing a son o’ my own to come after me, it’s surely very natural that I would like the Hypels to kittle again in my oe through my only dochter.’
‘The Walkinshaws, I doubt,’ replied Claud emphatically, ‘will ne’er consent to sic an eclipse as that.’
‘The lands of Plealands,’ retorted the Laird, ‘are worth something.’
‘So it was thought, or I doubt the heir o’t would nae hae been a Walkinshaw,’ replied Claud, still more pertinaciously.
‘Weel, weel,’ said the Laird, ‘dinna let us argol bargol about it; entail your own property as ye will, mine shall be on the second son; ye can ne’er object to that.’
‘Second son, and the first scarce sax days auld! I tell you what it is, an ye’ll no make the entail on the first, that is, on Charlie Walkinshaw, to be Walkinshaw, mind that, I’ll no say what may happen in the way o’ second sons.’
‘The Plealands’ my ain, and though I canna weel will it awa’, and ne’er will sell’t, yet get it wha will, he maun tak the name o’ Hypel. The thing’s sae settled, Grippy, and it’s no for you and me to cast out about it.’
Claud made several attempts to revive the subject, and to persuade the Laird to change his mind, but he was inflexible. Still, however, being resolved, as far as in him lay, to anticipate the indiscretion of his heirs, he executed a deed of entail on Charles; and for a considerable time after the Laird was not a little confirmed in his determination not to execute any deed in favour of Charles, but to reserve his lands for the second son, by the very reason that might have led another sort of person to act differently, namely, that he understood there was no prospect of any such appearing.
Towards the end, however, of the third year after the birth of Charles, Claud communicated to the Laird, that, by some unaccountable dispensation, Mrs. Walkinshaw was again in the way to be a mother, adding, ‘Noo, Laird, ye’ll hae your ain way o’t;’ and, accordingly, as soon as Walter, the second son, was born, and baptized, the lands of Plealands were entailed on him, on condition, as his grandfather intended, that he should assume the name of Hypel.
CHAPTER VIII
For several years after the birth of Walter, no event of any consequence happened in the affairs of Claud. He continued to persevere in the parsimonious system which had so far advanced his fortune. His wife was no less industrious on her part, for, in the meantime, she presented him with a daughter and another son, and had reared calves and grumphies innumerable, the profit of which, as she often said, was as good as the meal and malt o’ the family. By their united care and endeavours, Grippy thus became one of the wealthiest men of that age in Glasgow; but although different desirable opportunities presented themselves for investing his money in other and more valuable land, he kept it ever ready to redeem any portion of his ancestral estate that might be offered for sale.
The satisfaction which he enjoyed from his accumulative prospects was not, however, without a mixture of that anxiety with which the cup of human prosperity, whether really full, or only foaming, is always embittered. The Laird, his father-in-law, in the deed of entail which he executed of the Plealands, had reserved to himself a power of revocation, in the event of his wife dying before him, in the first instance, and of Walter and George, the two younger sons of Grippy, either dying under age, or refusing to take the name of Hypel, in the second. This power, both under the circumstances, and in itself, was perfectly reasonable; and perhaps it was the more vexatious to the meditations of Claud, that it happened to be so. For he often said to his wife, as they sat of an evening by the fire-side in the dark, for as the leddy was no seamstress, and he had as little taste for literature, of course, they burned no candles when by themselves, and that was almost every night, – ‘I marvel, Girzy, what could gar your father put that most unsafe claw in his entail. I would na be surprised if out o’ it were to come a mean of taking the property entirely frae us. For ye see, if your mither was dead, and, poor woman, she has lang been in a feckless way, there’s no doubt but your father would marry again, – and married again, there can be as little doubt that he would hae childer, – so what then would become o’ ours – ’
To this the worthy leddy of Grippy would as feelingly reply, —
‘I’m thinking, gudeman, that ye need na tak the anxieties sae muckle to heart; for, although my mither has been, past the memory o’ man, in a complaining condition, I ken nae odds o’ her this many a year; her ail’s like water to leather; it makes her life the tougher; and I would put mair confidence in the durability of her complaint than in my father’s health; so we need na fash ourselves wi’ controverting anent what may come o’ the death o’ either the t’ane or the t’ither.’
‘But then,’ replied Claud, ‘ye forget the other claw about Watty and Geordie. Supposing, noo, that they were baith dead and gone, which, when we think o’ the frush green kail-custock-like nature of bairns, is no an impossibility in the hands of their Maker. Will it no be the most hardest thing that ever was seen in the world for Charlie no to inherit the breadth o’ the blade of a cabaudge o’ a’ his father’s matrimonial conquest? But even should it please the Lord to spare Watty, is’t no an afflicting thing, to see sic a braw property as the Plealands destined to a creature that I am sure his brother Geordie, if he lives to come to years o’ discretion, will no fail to tak the law o’ for a haverel?’
‘I won’er to hear you, gudeman,’ exclaimed the leddy, ‘ay mislikening Watty at that gait. I’m sure he’s as muckle your ain as ony o’ the ither bairns; and he’s a weel-tempered laddie, lilting like a linty at the door-cheek frae morning to night, when Charlie’s rampaging about the farm, riving his claes on bush and brier a’ the summer, tormenting the birds and mawkins out o’ their vera life.’
‘Singing, Girzy, I’m really distressed to hear you,’ replied the father; ‘to ca’ yon singing; it’s nothing but lal, lal, lal, lal, wi’ a bow and a bend, backwards and forwards, as if the creature had na the gumpshion o’ the cuckoo, the whilk has a note mair in its sang, although it has but twa.’
‘It’s an innocent sang for a’ that; and I wish his brothers may ne’er do waur than sing the like o’t. But ye just hae a spite at the bairn, gudeman, ’cause my father has made him the heir to the Plealands. That’s the gospel truth o’ your being so fain to gar folk trow that my Watty’s daft.’
‘Ye’re daft, gudewife – are na we speaking here in a rational manner anent the concerns o’ our family? It would be a sair heart to me to think that Watty, or any o’ my bairns, were na like the lave o’ the warld; but ye ken there are degrees o’ capacity, Girzy, and Watty’s, poor callan, we maun alloo, between oursels, has been meted by a sma’ measure.’
‘Weel, if ever I heard the like o’ that – if the Lord has dealt the brains o’ our family in mutchkins and chapins, it’s my opinion, that Watty got his in the biggest stoup; for he’s farther on in every sort of education than Charlie, and can say his questions without missing a word, as far as “What is forbidden in the tenth commandment?” And I ne’er hae been able to get his brother beyond “What is effectual calling?” Though, I’ll no deny, he’s better at the Mother’s Carritches; but that a’ comes o’ the questions and answers being so vera short.’
‘That’s the vera thing, Girzy, that disturbs me,’ replied the father, ‘for the callan can get ony thing by heart, but, after all, he’s just like a book, for every thing he learns is dead within him, and he’s ne’er a prin’s worth the wiser o’t. But it’s some satisfaction to me, that, since your father would be so unreasonably obstinate as to make away the Plealands past Charlie, he’ll be punished in the gouk he’s chosen for heir.’
‘Gude guide us; is na that gouk your ain bairn?’ exclaimed the indignant mother. ‘Surely the man’s fey about his entails and his properties, to speak o’ the illess laddie, as if it were no better than a stirk or a stot. – Ye’ll no hae the power to wrang my wean, while the breath o’ life’s in my body; so, I redde ye, tak tent to what ye try.’
‘Girzy, t’ou has a head, and so has a nail.’
‘Gudeman, ye hae a tongue, and so has a bell.’
‘Weel, weel, but what I was saying a’ concerns the benefit and advantage o’ our family,’ said Claud, ‘and ye ken as it is our duty to live for one another, and to draw a’ thegither, it behoves us twa, as parents, to see that ilk is properly yocket, sin’ it would surely be a great misfortune, if, after a’ our frugality and gathering, the cart were cowpit in the dirt at last by ony neglek on our part.’
‘That’s ay what ye say,’ replied the lady, – ‘a’s for the family, and nothing for the dividual bairns – noo that’s what I can never understand, for is na our family, Charlie, Watty, Geordie, and Meg?’ —
‘My family,’ said Claud emphatically, ‘was the Walkinshaws of Kittlestonheugh, and let me tell you, Girzy Hypel, if it had na been on their account, there would ne’er hae been a Charlie nor a Watty either between you and me to plea about.’
‘I’m no denying your parentage – I ne’er said a light word about it, but I canna comprehend how it is, that ye would mak step-bairns o’ your ain blithesome childer on account o’ a wheen auld dead patriarchs that hae been rotten, for aught I ken to the contrary, since before Abraham begat Isaac.’
‘Haud thy tongue, woman, haud thy tongue. It’s a thrashing o’ the water, and a raising o’ bells, to speak to ane o’ thy capacity on things so far aboon thy understanding. Gae but the house, and see gin the supper’s ready.’
In this manner, the conversations between Grippy and his leddy were usually conducted to their natural issue, a quarrel, which ended in a rupture that was only healed by a peremptory command, which sent her on some household mission, during the performance of which the bickering was forgotten.