The sorrow of Walter, after he had returned home, assumed the
appearance of a calm and settled melancholy. He sat beside the corpse
with his hands folded and his head drooping. He made no answer to any
question; but as often as he heard the infant’s cry, he looked towards
the bed, and said, with an accent of indescribable sadness, ‘My Betty
Bodle!’
When the coffin arrived, his mother wished him to leave the room,
apprehensive, from the profound grief in which he was plunged, that he
might break out into some extravagance of passion, but he refused; and,
when it was brought in, he assisted with singular tranquillity in the
ceremonial of the coffining. But when the lid was lifted and placed
over the body, and the carpenter was preparing to fasten it down for
ever, he shuddered for a moment from head to foot; and, raising it with
his left hand, he took a last look of the face, removing the veil with
his right, and touching the sunken cheek as if he had hoped still to
feel some ember of life; but it was cold and stiff.
‘She’s clay noo,’ said he.--‘There’s nane o’ my Betty Bodle here.’
And he turned away with a careless air, as if he had no further
interest in the scene. From that moment his artless affections took
another direction; he immediately quitted the death-room, and, going
to the nursery where the infant lay asleep in the nurse’s lap, he
contemplated it for some time, and then, with a cheerful and happy look
and tone, said,--‘It’s a wee Betty Bodle; and it’s my Betty Bodle noo.’
And all his time and thoughts were thenceforth devoted to this darling
object, in so much that, when the hour of the funeral was near, and he
was requested to dress himself to perform the husband’s customary part
in the solemnity, he refused, not only to quit the child, but to have
any thing to do with the burial.
‘I canna understand,’ said he, ‘what for a’ this fykerie’s about a lump
o’ yird? Sho’elt intil a hole, and no fash me.’
‘It’s your wife, my lad,’ replied his mother; ‘ye’ll surely never
refuse to carry her head in a gudemanlike manner to the kirk-yard.’
‘Na, na, mother, Betty Bodle’s my wife, yon clod in the black kist is
but her auld bodice; and when she flang’t off, she put on this bonny
wee new cleiding o’ clay,’ said he, pointing to the baby.
The Leddy, after some further remonstrance, was disconcerted by the
pertinacity with which he continued to adhere to his resolution, and
went to beg her husband to interfere.
‘Ye’ll hae to gang ben, gudeman,’ said she, ‘and speak to Watty.--I
wis the poor thing hasna gane by itsel wi’ a broken heart. He threeps
that the body is no his wife’s, and ca’s it a hateral o’ clay and
stones, and says we may fling’t, Gude guide us, ayont the midden for
him.--We’ll just be affrontit if he’ll no carry the head.’
Claud, who had dressed himself in the morning for the funeral, was
sitting in the elbow-chair, on the right side of the chimney-place,
with his cheek resting on his hand, and his eyelids dropped, but not
entirely shut, and on being thus addressed, he instantly rose, and went
to the nursery.
‘What’s t’ou doing there like a hussy-fellow?’ said he. ‘Rise and get
on thy mournings, and behave wiselike, and leave the bairn to the
women.’
‘It’s my bairn,’ replied Watty, ‘and ye hae naething, father, to do
wi’t.--Will I no tak care o’ my ain baby--my bonny wee Betty Bodle?’
‘Do as I bid thee, or I’ll maybe gar thee fin’ the weight o’ my staff,’
cried the old man sharply, expecting immediate obedience to his
commands, such as he always found, however positively Walter, on other
occasions, at first refused; but in this instance he was disappointed;
for the widower looked him steadily in the face, and said,--
‘I’m a father noo; it would be an awfu’ thing for a decent grey-headed
man like you, father, to strike the head o’ a motherless family.’
Claud was so strangely affected by the look and accent with which this
was expressed, that he stood for some time at a loss what to say,
but soon recovering his self-possession, he replied, in a mild and
persuasive manner,--
‘The frien’s expek, Watty, that ye’ll attend the burial, and carry the
head, as the use and wont is in every weel-doing family.’
‘It’s a thriftless custom, father, and what care I for burial-bread and
services o’ wine? They cost siller, father, and I’ll no wrang Betty
Bodle for ony sic outlay on her auld yirden garment. Ye may gang, for
fashion’s cause, wi’ your weepers and your mourning strings, and lay
the black kist i’ the kirk-yard hole, but I’ll no mudge the ba’ o’ my
muckle tae in ony sic road.’
‘T’ou’s past remede, I fear,’ replied his father thoughtfully; ‘but,
Watty, I hope in this t’ou’ll oblige thy mother and me, and put on thy
new black claes;--t’ou kens they’re in a braw fasson,--and come ben
and receive the guests in a douce and sober manner. The minister, I’m
thinking, will soon be here, and t’ou should be in the way when he
comes.’
‘No,’ said Watty, ‘no, do as ye like, and come wha may, it’s a’ ane to
me: I’m positeeve.’
The old man, losing all self-command at this extraordinary opposition,
exclaimed,--
‘There’s a judgment in this; and, if there’s power in the law o’
Scotland, I’ll gar thee rue sic dourness. Get up, I say, and put on thy
mournings, or I’ll hae thee cognost, and sent to bedlam.’
‘I’m sure I look for nae mair at your hands, father,’ replied Walter
simply; ‘for my mither has often telt me, when ye hae been sitting sour
and sulky in the nook, that ye would na begrudge crowns and pounds to
make me _compos mentis_ for the benefit of Charlie.’
Every pulse in the veins of Claud stood still at this stroke, and he
staggered, overwhelmed with shame, remorse, and indignation, into a
seat.
‘Eh!’ said the Leddy, returning into the room at this juncture, ‘what’s
come o’er you, gudeman? Pity me, will he no do your bidding?’
‘Girzy Hypel,’ was the hoarse and emphatic reply, ‘Girzy Hypel, t’ou’s
the curse o’ my life; the folly in thee has altered to idiotical
depravity in him, and the wrong I did against my ain nature in marrying
thee, I maun noo, in my auld age, reap the fruits o’ in sorrow, and
shame, and sin.’
‘Here’s composity for a burial!’ exclaimed the Leddy. ‘What’s the
matter, Watty Walkinshaw?’
‘My father’s in a passion.’
Claud started from his seat, and, with fury in his eyes, and his hands
clenched, rushed across the room towards the spot where Walter was
sitting, watching the infant in the nurse’s lap. In the same moment,
the affectionate natural also sprang forward, and placed himself in an
attitude to protect the child. The fierce old man was confounded, and
turning round hastily, quitted the room, wringing his hands, unable
any longer to master the conflicting feelings which warred so wildly
in his bosom.
‘This is a pretty-like house o’ mourning,’ said the Leddy; ‘a father
and a son fighting, and a dead body waiting to be ta’en to the
kirk-yard. O Watty Walkinshaw! Watty Walkinshaw! many a sore heart ye
hae gi’en your parents,--will ye ne’er divaul till ye hae brought our
grey hairs wi’ sorrow to the grave? There’s your poor father flown
demented, and a’ the comfort in his cup and mine gane like water spilt
on the ground. Many a happy day we hae had, till this condumacity o’
thine grew to sic a head. But tak your ain way o’t. Do as ye like. Let
strangers carry your wife to the kirk-yard, and see what ye’ll mak o’t.’
But notwithstanding all these, and many more equally persuasive and
commanding arguments, Walter was not to be moved, and the funeral, in
consequence, was obliged to be performed without him. Yet still, though
thus tortured in his feelings, the stern old man inflexibly adhered
to his purpose. The entail which he had executed was still with him
held irrevocable; and, indeed, it had been so framed, that, unless he
rendered himself insolvent, it could not be set aside.