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.
CHAPTER IX