Between the interview described in the preceding chapter and the
funeral, nothing remarkable appeared in the conduct of Claud. On the
contrary, those habits of reserve and taciturnity into which he had
fallen, from the date of the entail, were apparently renewed, and,
to the common observation of the general eye, he moved and acted as
if he had undergone no inward change. The domestics, however, began
to notice, that, instead of the sharp and contemptuous manner which
he usually employed in addressing himself to Walter, his voice was
modulated with an accent of compassion,--and that, on the third day
after the death of Charles, he, for the first time, caressed and
fondled the affectionate natural’s darling, Betty Bodle.
It might have been thought that this simple little incident would have
afforded pleasure to her father, who happened to be out of the room,
when the old man took her up in his arms; but so far from this being
the case, the moment that Walter returned he ran towards him, and
snatched the child away.
‘What for do’st t’ou tak the bairn frae me sae frightedly, Watty?’ said
Claud in a mild tone of remonstrance, entirely different from anything
he had ever before addressed to him.
Walter, however, made no reply, but retiring to a distant part of the
room, carefully inspected the child, and frequently inquired where she
was hurt, although she was laughing and tickled with his nursery-like
proceedings.
‘What gars t’ee think, Watty,’ rejoined his father, ‘that I would hurt
the wean?’
‘’Cause I hae heard you wish that the Lord would tak the brat to
himsel.’
‘An I did, Watty, it was nae ill wis.’
‘So I ken, or else the minister lies,’ replied Walter; ‘but I would na
like, for a’ that, to hae her sent till him; and noo, as they say ye’re
ta’en up wi’ Charlie’s bairns, I jealouse ye hae some end o’ your ain
for rooketty-cooing wi’ my wee Betty Bodle. I canna understand this
new-kythed kindness,--so, gin ye like, father, we’ll just be fair gude
e’en and fair gude day, as we were wont.’
This sank deeper into the wounded heart of his father than even the
distrust of the orphans; but the old man made no answer. Walter,
however, observed him muttering something to himself, as he leant his
head back, with his eyes shut, against the shoulder of the easy chair
in which he was sitting; and rising softly with the child in his arms,
walked cautiously behind the chair, and bent forward to listen. But
the words were spoken so inwardly and thickly, that nothing could be
overheard. While in this position, the little girl playfully stretched
out her hand and seized her grandfather by the ear. Startled from
his prayer or his reverie, Claud, yielding to the first impulse of
the moment, turned angrily round at being so disturbed, and, under
the influence of his old contemptuous regard for Watty, struck him a
severe blow on the face,--but almost in the same instant, ashamed of
his rashness, he shudderingly exclaimed, throbbing with remorse and
vexation,--
‘Forgi’e me, Watty, for I know not what I do;’ and he added, in a wild
ejaculation, ‘Lord! Lord! O lighter, lighter lay the hand o’ thy anger
upon me! The reed is broken--O, if it may stand wi’ thy pleasure, let
it not thus be trampled in the mire! But why should I supplicate for
any favour?--Lord of justice and of judgement, let thy will be done!’
Walter was scarcely more confounded by the blow than by these
impassioned exclamations; and hastily quitting the room, ran, with the
child in his arms, to his mother, who happened at the time, as was her
wont, to be in the kitchen on household cares intent, crying,--
‘Mother! mother! my father’s gane by himsel; he’s aff at the head; he’s
daft; and ta’en to the praising o’ the Lord at this time o’ day.’
But, excepting this trivial incident, nothing, as we have already
stated, occurred between the interview with Leddy Plealands and the
funeral to indicate, in any degree, the fierce combustion of distracted
thoughts which was raging within the unfathomable caverns of the
penitent’s bosom--all without, save but for this little effusion, was
calm and stable. His external appearance was as we have sometimes seen
Mount Etna in the sullenness of a wintry day, when the chaos and fires
of its abyss uttered no sound, and an occasional gasp of vapour was
heavily breathed along the grey and gloomy sky. Everything was still
and seemingly steadfast. The woods were silent in all their leaves;
the convents wore an awful aspect of unsocial solemnity; and the
ruins and remains of former ages appeared as if permitted to moulder
in unmolested decay. The very sea, as it rolled in a noiseless swell
towards the black promontories of lava, suggested strange imageries of
universal death, as if it had been the pall of the former world heavily
moved by the wind. But that dark and ominous tranquillity boded neither
permanence nor safety--the traveller and the inhabitant alike felt it
as a syncope in nature, and dreaded an eruption or a hurricane.
Such was the serenity in which Claud passed the time till Saturday, the
day appointed for the funeral. On the preceding evening his wife went
into Glasgow to direct the preparations, and about noon he followed
her, and took his seat, to receive the guests, at the door of the
principal room arranged for the company, with James, the orphan, at his
knee. Nothing uncommon passed for some time; he went regularly through
the ceremonial of assistant chief mourner, and in silence welcomed, by
the customary shake of the hand, each of the friends of the deceased
as they came in. When Dr. Denholm arrived, it was observed that his
limbs trembled, and that he held him a little longer by the hand than
any other; but he too was allowed to pass on to his seat. After the
venerable minister, Mr. Keelevin made his appearance. His clothes were
of an old-fashioned cut, such as even still may occasionally be seen at
west-country funerals among those who keep a special suit of black for
the purpose of attending the burials of their friends; and the sort of
quick eager look of curiosity which he glanced round the room, as he
lifted his small cocked hat from off his white, well-powdered, ionic
curled tie-wig, which he held firm with his left forefinger, provoked a
smile, in despite of the solemnity of the occasion.
Claud grasped him impatiently by the hand, and drew him into a seat
beside himself. ‘Hae ye made out the instrument?’ said he.
‘It’s no just finished,’ replied Mr. Keelevin; ‘but I was mindit to ca’
on you the morn, though it’s Sabbath, to let you see, for approbation,
what I have thought might be sufficient.’
‘Ye ought to hae had it done by this time,’ said Claud, somewhat
chidingly.
‘’Deed should I,’ was the answer, ‘but ye ken the Lords are coming to
the town next week, and I hae had to prepare for the defence of several
unfortunate creatures.’
‘It’s a judgement time indeed,’ said Claud; and, after a pause of
several minutes, he added, ‘I would fain no be disturbed on the Lord’s
day, so ye need na come to Grippy, and on Monday morning I’ll be wi’
you betimes; I hope a’ may be finished that day, for, till I hae made
atonement, I can expek no peace o’ mind.’
Nothing further was allowed at that time to pass between them, for the
betherils employed to carry round the services of bread and wine came
in with their trays, and Deacon Gardner, of the wrights, who had charge
of the funeral, having nodded to the Reverend Dr. John Hamilton, the
minister of the Inner High Church, in the district of which the house
was situated, the worthy divine rose, and put an end to all further
private whispering, by commencing the prayer.
When the regular in-door rites and ceremonies were performing, and the
body had, in the meantime, been removed into the street, and placed
on the shoulders of those who were to carry it to the grave, Claud
took his grandson by the hand, and followed at the head, with a firmly
knotted countenance, but with faltering steps.
In the procession to the church-yard no particular expression of
feeling took place; but when the first shovelful of earth rattled
hollowly on the coffin, the little boy, who still held his grandfather
by the finger, gave a shriek, and ran to stop the grave-digger from
covering it up. But the old man softly and composedly drew him back,
telling him it was the will of God, and that the same thing must be
done to every body in the world.
‘And to me too?’ said the child, inquiringly and fearfully.
‘To a’ that live,’ replied his grandfather; and the earth being, by
this time, half filled in, he took off his hat, and looking at the
grave for a moment, gave a profound sigh, and again covering his head,
led the child home.