‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the worthy presbyter, disturbed at the thought of being so unceremonious; ‘I am much interested in your nephew—I feel greatly for his present unhappy situation. I need not remind you that he has been to me, and with me, as my own son; and therefore you ought not to be surprised that I should take his part, particularly as, in so doing, I but defend the generous principles of a very noble youth.’
‘Well, well,’ exclaimed the Laird peevishly, ‘I need not at present trouble myself any further—I am as willing as ever to befriend him as I ought; but, from the humour he is in, it would serve no good purpose for me at present to interfere. I shall therefore return to Glasgow; and, when Mrs. Eadie receives her answer, his mother will have the goodness to let me know.’
With these words he hastily bade his sister-in-law good morning, and hurried into his carriage.
‘His conduct is very extraordinary,’ said the minister as he drove off. ‘There is something more than the mere regard and anxiety of an uncle in all this, especially when he knows that the proposed match is so obnoxious to his daughter. I cannot understand it; but come, Mrs. Walkinshaw, let us go over to the manse—James is to dine with me to-day, and we shall be the better of all being together; for Mrs. Eadie seems much out of spirits, and her health of late has not been good. Go, Mary, get your bonnet too, and come with us.’
So ended the pursuit to Camrachle; and we shall now beg the courteous reader to return with us to Glasgow, where we left the Leddy in high spirits, in the act of sending for the Reverend Dr. De’ilfear to marry her grandchildren.
CHAPTER LXXVII
Long before Kittlestonheugh returned to Glasgow, the indissoluble knot was tied between his daughter and her cousin, Walkinshaw Milrookit. The Laird of Dirdumwhamle was secretly enjoying this happy consummation of a scheme which he considered as securing to his son the probable reversion of an affluent fortune, and a flourishing estate. Occasional flakes of fear floated, however, in the sunshine of his bosom, and fell cold for a moment on his heart. His wife was less satisfied. She knew the ardour with which her brother had pursued another object; she respected the consideration that was due to him as a parent in the disposal of his daughter; and she justly dreaded his indignation and reproaches. She was, therefore, anxious that Mr. Milrookit should return with her to the country before he came back from Camrachle. But her mother, the Leddy, was in high glee, and triumphant at having so cleverly, as she thought, accomplished a most meritorious stratagem, she would not for a moment listen to the idea of their going away before dinner.
‘Na; ye’ll just bide where ye are,’ said she. ‘It will be an unco-like thing no to partake o’ the marriage feast, though ye hae come without a wedding garment, after I hae been at the cost and outlay o’ a jigot o’ mutton, a fine young poney cock, and a Florentine pie; dainties that the like o’ hae na been in my house since Geordie, wi’ his quirks o’ law, wheedled me to connive wi’ him to deprive uncle Watty o’ his seven lawful senses, forbye the property. But I trow I hae now gotten the blin’ side o’ him at last: he’ll no daur to say a word to me about a huggery-muggery matrimonial, take my word for’t; for he kens the black craw I hae to pluck wi’ him anent the prank he played me in the deevelry o’ the concos mentos, whilk ought in course o’ justice to have entitled me to a full half of the income o’ the lands; and a blithe thing, Dirdumwhamle, that would hae been to you and your wife, could we hae wrought it into a come-to-pass; for sure am I, that, in my experience and throughgality, I would na hae tied my talent in a napkin, nor hid it in a stroopless tea-pot, in the corner o’ the press, but laid it out to usury wi’ Robin Carrick. Howsever, maybe, for a’ that, Meg, when I’m dead and gone, ye’ll find, in the bonny pocket-book ye sewed lang syne at the boarding-school for your father, a testimony o’ the advantage it was to hae had a mother. But, Sirs, a wedding-day is no a time for molloncholious moralizing; so I’ll mak a skip and a passover o’ a matter and things pertaining to sic Death, and the Leddy’s confabbles as legacies, and kittle up your notions wi’ a wee bit spree and sprose o’ jocosity, afore the old man comes; for so, in course o’ nature, it behoves us to ca’ the bride’s father, as he’s now, by the benison o’ Dr. De’ilfear, on the lawfu’ toll-road to become, in due season, an ancestor. Nae doubt, he would hae liked better had it been to one of his ain Walkinshaws o’ Kittlestonheugh; but, when folk canna get the gouden goun, they should be thankful when they get the sleeve.’
While the Leddy was thus holding forth to the Laird and his wife, the carriage with George stopped at the door. Dirdumwhamle, notwithstanding all his inward pleasure, changed colour. Mrs. Milrookit fled to another room, to which the happy pair had retired after the ceremony, that they might not be visible to any accidental visitors; and even the Leddy was for a time smitten with consternation. She, however, was the first who recovered her self-possession; and, before Mr. Walkinshaw was announced, she was seated in her accustomed elbow chair with a volume of Mathew Henry’s Commentary on her lap, and her spectacles on her nose, as if she had been piously reading. Dirdumwhamle sat opposite to her, and was apparently in a profound sleep, from which he was not roused until some time after the entrance of his brother-in-law.
‘So, Geordie,’ said the Leddy, taking off her spectacles, and shutting the book, as her son entered; ‘what’s come o’ Jamie?—hae ye no brought the Douglas-tragedy-like mountebank back wi’ you?’