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
