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.