CHAPTER C
Marriage feasts, we are creditably informed, as the Leddy would have said, are of greater antiquity than funerals; and those with which the weddings of Walkinshaw and his sister were celebrated, lacked nothing of the customary festivities. The dinners which took place in Edinburgh were, of course, served with all the refinements of taste and dissertations on character, which render the entertainments in the metropolis of Mind occasionally so racy and peculiar. But the cut-and-come-again banquets of Glasgow, as the Leddy called them, following on the return of the Laird and his bride to his patrimonial seat, were, in her opinion, far superior, and she enjoyed them with equal glee and zest.
‘Thanks be, and praise,’ said she, after returning home from one of those costly piles of food, ‘I hae lived to see, at last, something like wedding doings in my family. Charlie’s and Bell Fatherlans’s was a cauldrife commodity, boding scant and want, and so cam o’t – Watty’s was a walloping galravitch o’ idiocety, and so cam o’t – Geordie’s was little better than a burial formality trying to gie a smirk, and so cam o’t – as for Meg’s and Dirdumwhamle’s, theirs was a third marriage – a cauld-kail-het-again affair – and Beenie and Walky’s Gretna Green, play-actoring, – Bed, Board, and Washing, bore witness and testimony to whatna kind o’ bridal they had. But thir jocose gavaulings are worthy o’ the occasion. Let naebody tell me, noo, that the three P’s o’ Glasgow mean Packages, Puncheons, and Pigtail, for I have seen and known that they may be read in a marginal note Pomp, Punch, and Plenty. To be sure, the Embroshers are no without a genteelity – that maun be condescended to them. But I jealouse they’re pinched to get gude wine, poor folk – they try sae mony different bottles: naething hae they like a gausie bowl. Therefore, commend me to our ain countryside, – Fatted calves, and feasting Belshazzers, – and let the Embroshers cerimoneez wi’ their Pharaoh’s lean kine and Grants and Frazers.’
But often when the heart exults, when the ‘bosom’s lord sits light upon his throne,’ it is an omen of sorrow. On the very night after this happy revel of the spirits, the Leddy caught a fatal cold, in consequence of standing in the current of a door while the provost’s wife, putting on her pattens, stopped the way, and she was next morning so indisposed that it was found necessary to call in Dr. Sinney to attend her; who was of opinion, considering she was upwards of seventy-six, that it might go hard with her if she did not recover; and, this being communicated to her friends, they began to prepare themselves for the worst.
Her daughter, the Lady of Dirdumwhamle, came in from the country, and paid her every mark of attention. At the suggestion of her husband, she, once or twice, intimated a little anxiety to know if her mother had made a will; but the Leddy cut her short, by saying, —
‘What’s t’at to thee, Meg? I’m sure I’m no dead yet, that t’ou should be groping about my bit gathering.’
Dirdumwhamle himself rode daily into Glasgow in the most dutiful manner; but, receiving no satisfaction from the accounts of his wife respecting the Leddy’s affairs, he was, of course, deeply concerned at her situation; and, on one occasion, when he was sitting in the most sympathising manner at her bedside, he said, with an affectionate and tender voice, —
‘That he hoped she would soon be well again; but, if it was ordain’t to be otherwise, he trusted she would give her daughter some small memorial over and by what she might hae alloo’t her in will.’
‘’Deed,’ replied the Leddy, as she sat supported by pillows, and breathing heavily, ‘I’ll no forget that – for ye may be sure, when I intend to dee, that I’ll mak my ain hands my executioners.’
‘Aye, aye,’ rejoined the pathetic Laird, ‘I was ay o’ that opinion, and that ye would act a mother’s part in your latter end.’
To this the Leddy made no reply; but by accident coughed rather a little too moistly in his face, which made him shift his seat, and soon after retire.
He had not long taken his leave, when Milrookit and Robina came in, both in the most affectionate manner; and, after the kindest inquiries, they too hoped that she had made her departure clear with this world, and that, when she was removed to a better, no disputes would arise among surviving friends.
‘I’m sure,’ said Robina, ‘we shall all greatly miss you; and I would be very glad if you would give me some little keepsake out of your own hands, if it were no more than the silver teapot.’
‘I canna do that yet, Beenie, my Leddy, for ye ken I’m obligated to gie the Laird and Nell Frizel a tea banquet, as soon’s I’m able. But when I’m dead and gone, for we’re a’ lifelike and a’ deathlike, if ye outlive me, ye’ll fin’ that I was a grandmother.’
‘It’s pleasant to hear,’ said Milrookit, ‘that ye hae sic an inward satisfaction of health; but I hope ye’ll no tak it ill at my wishing for a token o’ my grandfather. I would like if ye would gie me from yourself the old-fashioned gold watch, just because it was my grandfather’s, and sae lang in his aught.’
‘Aye, Walky, I won’er thou does na wis for me, for I was longer in his aught. Bairns, bairns, I purpose to outlive my last will and testament, so I redde ye keep a calm sough.’
This they thought implied that she had made some provision for them in her last will and testament; and although disappointed in their immediate object, they retired in as complete peace of mind as any affectionate grandchildren like them could retire from a deathbed.
To them succeeded the mother of Walkinshaw.
‘Come away, Bell Fatherlans,’ said the Leddy – ‘sit down beside me;’ and she took her kindly by the hand. ‘The Milrookits, auld and young, hae been here mair ravenous than the worms and cloks of the tomb, for they but devour the dead body; but yon greedy caterpillars would strip me o’ leaf and branch afore my time. There was Dirdumwhamle sympathising for a something over and aboon what Meg’s to get by the will. Then came Beenie, another of the same, as the Psalmist says, simpering, like a yird tead, for my silver teapot, and syne naething less would serve her gudeman but a solemneesing wheedlie for the auld gold watch. But I’ll sympathise, and I’ll simper, and I’ll wheedle them. – Hae, tak my keys, and gang into the desk-head, and ye’ll fin’ a bonny sewt pocketbook in the doocot hole next the window, bring’t to me.’
Mrs. Charles did as she was desired; and when the pocketbook was brought, the old Leddy opened it, and, taking out one of her Robin Carricks, as she called her bills, she said, —
‘Bring me a pen that can spell, and I’ll indoss this bit hundred pound to thee, Bell, as an over and aboon; and when ye hae gotten’t, gang and bid Jamie and Mary come to see me, and I’ll gie him the auld gold watch, and her the silver teapot, just as a reward to the sympathizing, simpering, and wheedling Milrookits. For between ourselves, Bell, my time is no to be lang noo amang you. I feel the clay-cold fingers o’ Death handling my feet; so when I hae settled my worldly concernments, ye’ll send for Dr. De’ilfear, for I would na like to mount into the chariots o’ glory without the help o’ an orthodox.’
All that the Leddy required was duly performed. She lingered for several days; but, at the end of a week from the commencement of her illness, she closed her eyes, and her death was, after the funeral, according to the Scottish practice, announced in that loyal and well-conducted old paper, the Glasgow Courier, as having taken place, ‘to the great regret of all surviving friends.’
CHAPTER CI
We have often lamented that so many worthy people should be at the expense and trouble of making last wills and testaments, and yet never enjoy what passes at the reading of them. On all the different occasions where we have been present at such affecting ceremonies, it was quite edifying to see how justly the sorrow was apportioned to the legacies; those enjoying the greatest being always the most profoundly distressed; their tears, by some sort of sympathy, flowing exactly in accordance with the amount of the sums of money, or the value of the chattels which they were appointed to receive.
But on no other occasion have we ever been so much struck with the truth of this discovery as on that when, after attending the Leddy’s remains to the family sepulchre, our acquaintance, Dirdumwhamle, invited us to return to the Leddy’s house, in order to be present at the solemnity. Considering the tenderness of our feelings, and how much we respect the professed sincerity of mankind, we ought, perhaps, in justice to ourselves, knowing how incapable we are of withstanding the mournful melancholy of such posthumous rites, to have eschewed the invitation of our sighing and mourning friend.
We were, however, enticed, by a little curiosity, to walk with him arm in arm from the interment, suggesting to him, on the way, every topic of Christian consolation suitable on such occasions, perceiving how much he stood in need of them all.
When we entered the parlour, which had been so often blithened with the jocose spirit of its defunct mistress, we confess that our emotions were almost too great for our fortitude, and that, as we assured the Laird of Dirdumwhamle, our sensibility was so affected that we could, with the utmost difficulty, repress our hysterical sobbings, which he professed with no less sincerity entirely to believe, Alas! such scenes are too common in this transitory scene of things.
Seeing how much we were all in need of a glass of wine, Dirdumwhamle, with that free thought which forms so prominent a feature of his character, suggested to his lady that she should order in the decanters, and, with a bit of the shortbread, enable us to fortify our hearts for the doleful task and duty we had yet to perform.
The decanters were, accordingly, ordered in; the wine poured into the glasses; and all present to each other sighed, as in silence, the reciprocity of good wishes.
After which a pause ensued – a very syncope of sadness – a dwam of woe, as the Leddy herself would have called it, had she been spared, to witness how much we all felt. – But she was gone – she had paid the debt of nature, and done, as Dirdumwhamle said, what we are all in this life ordained to do. It is, therefore, of no consequence to imagine how she could either have acted or felt had she been present at the reading of her last will and testament. In a word, after that hiatus in the essay of mourning, it was proposed, by young Milrookit, that the Leddy’s scrutoire should be opened, and the contents thereof examined.
No objection was made on the part of any of the sorrowful and assembled friends, – quite the contrary. They all evinced the most natural solicitude, that everything proper and lawful should be done. ‘It is but showing our respect to the memory of her that is gone,’ said Dirdumwhamle, ‘to see in what situation she has left her affairs – not that I have any particular interest in the business, but only, considering the near connection between her and my family, it is due to all the relations that the distribution which she has made of her property should be published among them. – It would have been a happy and a comfortable thing to every one who knew her worth had her days been prolonged; but, alas! that was not in her own power. Her time o’ this world was brought, by course of nature, to an end, and no man ought to gainsay the ordinances of Providence. – Gudewife, hae ye the key o’ the desk-head?’
Mrs. Milrookit, his wife, who, during this highly sympathetic conversation, had kept her handkerchief to her eyes, without removing it, put her hand into her pocket, and, bringing forth a bunch of keys, looked for one aside, which, having found, she presented it to her husband, saying, with a sigh, ‘That’s it.’
He took it in his hand, and, approaching the scrutoire, found, to his surprise, that it was sealed.
‘How is this?’ cried Dirdumwhamle, in an accent somewhat discordant with the key in which the performers to the concert of woe were attuned.
‘I thought,’ replied Walkinshaw the Laird, ‘that it was but regular, when my grandmother died, that, until we all met, as we are now met, her desk and drawers should be sealed for fear – ’
‘For fear of what?’ Dirdumwhamle was on the point of saying as we thought; but, suddenly checking himself, and, again striking the note of woe, in perfect harmony, he replied, —
‘Perfectly right, Laird, – when all things are done in order, no one can have any reason to complain.’
Dirdumwhamle then took off the seal, and applying the key to the lock, opened the desk-head, and therein, among other things, found the embroidered pocketbook, so well known to our readers. At the sight of it, the tears of his lady began to flow, and they flowed the faster when, on examining its contents, it was discovered that the hundred pound Robin Carrick was not forthcoming, – she having acquired some previous knowledge of its existence, and had, indeed, with her most dutiful husband, made a dead set at it in their last affectionate conversation with the Leddy, with what success the reader is already informed.
A search was then made for the heritable bond for a thousand pounds, but Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw surprised us all into extreme sorrow, when, on understanding the object of the search, she informed us that the said bond had been most unaccountably given, as the Milrookits thought, to her daughter for a dowry.
An inventory of the contents of the desk being duly and properly made, – indeed we ourselves took down the particulars in the most complete manner, – an inquest was instituted with respect to the contents of drawers, papers, boxes, trunks, and even into the last pouches that the Leddy had worn; but neither the silver teapot nor the old gold watch were forthcoming. Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw, however, again explained, and the explanation was attended by the happiest effects, in so much as to us it seemed to lessen in a great degree the profound sorrow in which all the Milrookits had been plunged.
But yet no will was found, and Dirdumwhamle was on the point of declaring that the deceased having died intestate, his wife, her daughter, succeeded, of course, to all she had left. But while he was speaking, young Mrs. Milrookit happened to cast her eyes into one of the pigeon-holes in the scrutoire-head, where, tied with a red tape in the most business-like manner, a will was found, – we shall not say that Dirdumwhamle had previously seen it, but undoubtedly he appeared surprised that it should have been so near his sight and touch, so long unobserved, – which gave us a hint to suggest, that when people make their wills and testaments, they should always tie them with red tape, that none of their heirs, executors, or assigns, may fall into the mistake of not noticing them at the time of the funeral examination, and afterwards, when by themselves, tear or burn them by mistake.
CHAPTER CII
It appeared by this will that the Leddy had, with the exception of a few inconsiderable legacies to the rest of her family, and a trifling memorial of her affection to our friend Walkinshaw, bequeathed all to her daughter, at which that lady, with the greatest propriety, burst out into the most audible lament for her affectionate mother, and Dirdumwhamle, her husband, became himself so agitated with grief, that he was almost unable to proceed with the reading of the affecting document. Having gradually mastered his feelings, he was soon, however, able to condole with Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw upon the disappointment she had, no doubt, suffered; observing, by way of consolation, that it was, after all, only what was to have been expected; for the Leddy, the most kind of parents, naturally enough considered her own daughter as the nearest and dearest of all her kith and kin.
During this part of the scene we happened inadvertently to look towards Walkinshaw, and were not a little shocked to observe a degree of levity sparkling in his eyes, quite unbecoming such a sorrowful occasion; and still more distressed were we at the irreverence with which, almost in actual and evident laughter, he inquired at Dirdumwhamle the date of the paper.
It was found to have been made several years before, soon after the decease of poor Walter.
‘Indeed!’ said Walkinshaw pawkily; ‘that’s a very important circumstance, for I happen to have another will in my pocket, made at Edinburgh, while the Leddy was there at my marriage, and the contents run somewhat differently.’
The tears of the Lady of Dirdumwhamle were instantaneously dried up, and the most sensitive of Lairds himself appeared very much surprised; while, with some vibrating accent in his voice, he requested that this new last will and testament might be read.
Sorry are we to say it, that, in doing so, Walkinshaw was so little affected, that he even chuckled while he read. This was, no doubt, owing to the little cause he had to grieve, a legacy of five guineas, to buy a ring, being all that the Leddy had bequeathed to him.
This second will, though clearly and distinctly framed, was evidently dictated by the Leddy herself. For it began by declaring, that, having taken it into her most serious consideration, by and with the advice of her private counsel, Mr. Frazer of Glengael, whom she appointed executor, she had resolved to make her last will and testament; and after other formalities, couched somewhat in the same strain, she bequeathed sundry legacies to her different grandchildren, – first, as we have said, five guineas, as a token of her particular love, to Walkinshaw, he standing in no need of any further legacy, and being, over and moreover, indebted to her sagacity for the recovery of his estate. Then followed the enumeration of certain trinkets and Robin Carricks, which were to be delivered over to, and to be held and enjoyed by, Mary, his sister. To this succeeded a declaration, that her daughter Margaret, the wife of Dirdumwhamle, should enjoy the main part of her gathering, in liferent, but not until the Laird, her husband, had paid his debt of nature, and departed out of this world; and if the said legatee did not survive her husband, then the legacy was to go to Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw, the testatrix’s daughter-in-law. ‘As for my two grateful grandchildren, Walkinshaw Milrookit, and Robina his wife,’ continued the spirit of the Leddy to speak in the will, ‘I bequeath to them, and their heirs for ever, all and haill that large sum of money which they still stand indebted to me, for and on account of bed, board, and washing, of which debt only the inconsiderable trifle of one thousand pounds was ever paid.’
The testing clause was all that followed this important provision, but the will was in every respect complete, and so complete also was the effect intended, that young Milrookit and his wife Robina immediately rose and retired, without speaking, and Dirdumwhamle and his lady also prepared to go away, neither of them being seemingly in a condition to make any remark on the subject.
Such is the natural conclusion of our story; but perhaps it is expected that we should say something of the subsequent history of Walkinshaw, especially as his wife has brought him nine sons, – ‘all male heirs,’ as Dirdumwhamle often says with a sigh, when he thinks of his son and Robina having only added daughters to the increasing population of the kingdom. But Walkinshaw’s career as a soldier belongs to a more splendid theme, which, as soon as ever we receive a proper hint to do so, with ten thousand pounds to account, we propose to undertake, for he was present at the most splendid achievements of the late universal war. His early campaigns were not, however, brilliant; but, in common with all his companions in arms during the first years of that mighty contest, he still felt, under the repulses of many disasters, that the indisputable heroism of the British spirit was never impaired, and that they were still destined to vindicate their ancient superiority over France.
These heroic breathings do not, however, belong to our domestic story; and, therefore, all we have to add is, that, as often as he revisited his patrimonial home on leave of absence, he found the dinnering of his friends in the royal city almost as hard work as the dragooning of his foes. Since the peace, now that he is finally settled at Kittlestonheugh with all his blushing honours thick upon him, the Lord Provost and Magistrates have never omitted any opportunity in their power of treating him with all that distinction for which, as a corporation, they are so deservedly celebrated. Indeed, there are few communities where there is less of the spirit of ostracism, or where a man of public merit is more honoured by his fellow-citizens, than in Glasgow. Therefore say we in fine, —