On Monday Claud rose early, and, without waiting for breakfast, or
heeding the remonstrances of his wife on the risk he ran in going
afield fasting, walked to Glasgow, and went directly to the house of
his mother-in-law, the aged Leddy Plealands, now considerably above
fourscore. The natural delicacy of her constitution had received so
great a shock from the death of Charles, that she was unable that
morning to leave her room. Having, however, brought home with her the
two orphans until after the funeral, their grandfather found them
playing in the parlour, and perhaps he was better pleased to meet with
them than had she been there herself.
Although they knew him perfectly, yet the cold and distant intercourse
which arose from his estrangement towards their father, had prevented
them from being on those terms of familiarity which commonly subsist
between children and their grandfathers; and when they saw him enter
the room, they immediately left their toys on the floor, and, retiring
to a corner, stood looking at him timidly, with their hands behind.
The old man, without seeming to notice their innocent reverence,
walked to a chair near the window, and sat down. His demeanour was as
calm, and his features as sedate, as usual, but his eyes glittered
with a slight sprinkling of tears, and twice or thrice he pressed his
elbows into his sides, as if to restrain some inordinate agitation of
the heart. In the course of a few minutes he became quite master of
himself, and, looking for a short time compassionately at the children,
he invited them to come to him. Mary, the girl, who was the youngest,
obeyed at once the summons; but James, the boy, still kept back.
‘What for wilt t’ou no come to me?’ said Claud.
‘I’ll come, if ye’ll no hurt me,’ replied the child.
‘Hurt thee! what for, poor thing, should I hurt thee?’ inquired his
grandfather, somewhat disturbed by the proposed condition.
‘I dinna ken,’ said the boy, still retreating,--‘but I am feart, for ye
hurt papa for naething, and mamma used to greet for’t.’
Claud shuddered, and in the spasmodic effort which he made to suppress
his emotion, he unconsciously squeezed the little hand of the girl so
hardly, as he held her between his knees, that she shrieked with the
pain, and flew towards her brother, who, equally terrified, ran to
shelter himself behind a chair.
For some time the old man was so much affected, that he felt himself
incapable of speaking to them. But he said to himself,--
‘It is fit that I should endure this. I sowed tares, and maunna expek
wheat.’
The children, not finding themselves angrily pursued, began to recover
courage, and again to look at him.
‘I did na mean to hurt thee, Mary,’ said he, after a short interval.
‘Come, and we’ll mak it up;’--and, turning to the boy, he added, ‘I’m
very wae that e’er I did ony wrang to your father, my bonny laddie, but
I’ll do sae nae mair.’
‘That’s ’cause ye canna help it,’ replied James boldly, ‘for he’s
dead--he’s in a soun’ soun’ sleep--nobody but an angel wi’ the last
trumpet at his vera lug is able to waken him--and Mary and me, and
mamma--we’re a’ gaun to lie down and die too, for there’s nobody now in
the world that cares for us.’
‘I care for you, my lambie, and I’ll be kind to you; I’ll be as kind as
your father.’
It would appear that these words had been spoken affectionately, for
the little girl, forgetful of her hurt, returned, and placed herself
between his knees; but her brother still stood aloof.
‘But will ye be kind to mamma?’ said the boy, with an eager and
suspicious look.
‘That I will,’ was the answer. ‘She’ll ne’er again hae to blame me--nor
hae reason to be sorrowful on my account.’
‘But were nae ye ance papa’s papa?’ rejoined the child, still more
suspiciously.
The old man felt the full force of all that was meant by these simple
expressions, and he drew his hand hastily over his eyes to wipe away
the rising tears.
‘And will ye never trust me?’ said he sorrowfully to the child, who,
melted by the tone in which it was uttered, advanced two or three steps
towards him.
‘Aye, if ye’ll say as sure’s death that ye’ll no hurt me.’
‘Then I do say as sure’s death,’ exclaimed Claud fervently, and held
out his hand, which the child, running forward, caught in his, and was
in the same moment folded to his grandfather’s bosom.
Leddy Plealands had, in the meantime, been told who was her visitor,
and being anxious, for many reasons, to see him at this crisis, opened
the door. Feeble, pale, and delicate, the venerable gentlewoman was
startled at seeing a sight she so little expected, and stood several
minutes with the door in her hand before she entered.
‘Come in,’ said Claud to her--‘come in--I hae something to say to you
anent thir bairns--Something maun be done for them and their mother;
and I would fain tak counsel wi’ you concerning ’t. Bell Fatherlans is
o’ oure frush a heart to thole wi’ the dinging and fyke o’ our house,
or I would tak them a’ hame to Grippy; but ye maun devise some method
wi’ her to mak their loss as light in worldly circumstances as my means
will alloo; and whatsoever you and her ’gree upon Mr. Keelevin will see
executed baith by deed and paction.’
‘Is’t possible that ye’re sincere, Mr. Walkinshaw?’ replied the old
lady.
Claud made no answer, but, disconsolately, shook his head.
‘This is a mercy past hope, if ye’re really sincere.’
‘I am sincere,’ said the stern old man, severely; ‘and I speak wi’
humiliation and contrition. I hae borne the rebuke of thir babies, and
their suspicion has spoken sermons of reproaches to my cowed spirit and
broken heart.’
‘What have ye done?’ inquired the Lady, surprised at his
vehemence--‘what have ye done to make you speak in such a way, Mr.
Walkinshaw?’
‘In an evil hour I was beguiled by the Moloch o’ pride and ambition to
disinherit their father, and settle a’ my property on Watty, because he
had the Plealands. But, from that hour, I hae never kent what comfort
is, or amaist what it is to hope for heavenly mercy. But I hae lived
to see my sin, and I yearn to mak atonement. When that’s done, I trust
that I may be permitted to lay down my head, and close my een in peace.’
Mrs. Hypel did not well know what answer to make, the disclosure seemed
to her so extraordinary, that she looked at Claud as if she distrusted
what she heard, or was disposed to question the soundness of his mind.
‘I see,’ he added, ‘that, like the orphans, ye dinna believe me; but,
like them, Mrs. Hypel, ye’ll maybe in time be wrought to hae compassion
on a humbled and contrite heart. A’, therefore, that I can say for the
present is, consult wi’ Bell, and confer wi’ Mr. Keelevin; he has full
power frae me to do whatsoever he may think just and right; and what
ye do, do quickly, for a heavy hand is on my shouther; and there’s one
before me in the shape o’ my braw Charlie, that waves his hand, and
beckons me to follow him.’
The profound despondency with which this was uttered overwhelmed
the feelings of the old Lady; even the children were affected, and,
disengaging themselves from his arms, retired together, and looked at
him with wonder and awe.
‘Will ye go and see their mother?’--said the lady, as he rose, and was
moving towards the door. He halted, and for a few seconds appeared
to reflect; but suddenly looking round, he replied, with a deep and
troubled voice,--
‘No. I hae been enabled to do mair than I ever thought it was in my
power to do; but I canna yet,--no, not this day,--I canna yet venture
there.--I will, however, by and by. It’s a penance I maun dree, and I
will go through it a’.’
And with these words he quitted the house, leaving the old gentlewoman
and the children equally amazed, and incapable of comprehending the
depth and mystery of a grief which, mournful as the immediate cause
certainly was, undoubtedly partook in some degree of religious despair.