‘Has he been making a complaint o’ me?’ said Claud looking sharply, and with a grim and knotted brow as if he was, at the same time, apprehensive and indignant.
‘He has mair sense and discretion,’ replied Mr. Keelevin; ‘but he was speaking to me on a piece of business, and I was surprised he did na rather confer wi’ you; till, in course of conversation, it fell out, as it were unawares, that he did na like to speak to you anent it; the which dislike, I jealouse, could only proceed o’ some lack o’ confidence between you, mair than should ever be between a father and a well-behaved son like Mr. Charles.’
‘And what was’t?’ said Grippy drily.
‘I doubt that his income is scant to his want, Mr. Walkinshaw.’
‘He’s an extravagant fool; and ne’er had a hand to thraw a key in a lock;—when I began the world I had na’——
‘Surely,’ interrupted Mr. Keelevin, ‘ye could ne’er think the son o’ a man in your circumstances should hain and hamper as ye were necessitated to do in your younger years. But no to mak a hearing or an argument concerning the same—Mr. Charles requires a sma’ sum to get him free o’ a wee bit difficulty, for, ye ken, there are some folk, Mr. Walkinshaw, that a flea-bite molests like the lash o’ a whip.’
The old man made no answer to this; but sat for some time silent, drawing down his brows and twirling his thumbs. Mr. Keelevin waited in patience till he should digest the reply he so evidently meditated.
‘I hae ay thought Charlie honest, at least,’ said Grippy; ‘but I maun say that this fashes me, for if he’s in sic straits, there’s no telling what liberties he may be led to tak wi’ my property in the shop.’
Mr. Keelevin, who, in the first part of this reply, had bent eagerly forward, was so thunderstruck by the conclusion, that he threw himself back in his chair with his arms extended; but in a moment recovering from his consternation, he said, with fervour,—
‘Mr. Walkinshaw, I mind weel the reproof ye gave me when I remonstrated wi’ you against the injustice ye were doing the poor lad in the entail, but there’s no consideration on this earth will let me alloo you to gang on in a course of error and prejudice. Your son is an honest young man. I wish I could say his father kent his worth, or was worthy o’ him—and I’ll no see him wrangeously driven to the door, without taking his part, and letting the world ken wha’s to blame. I’ll no say ye hae defrauded him o’ his birthright, for the property was your ain—but if ye drive him forth the shop, and cast him wi’ his sma’ family on the scrimp mercy of mankind, I would be wanting to human nature in general, if I did na say it was most abominable, and that you yoursel, wi’ a’ your trumpery o’ Walkinshaws and Kittlestonheughs, ought to be scourged by the hands o’ the hangman. So do as ye like, Mr. Walkinshaw, ride to the deevil at the full gallop for aught I care, but ye’s no get out o’ this world without hearing the hue-and-cry that every Christian soul canna but raise after you.’