When Charles and Isabella were informed that his brother and Betty Bodle were to be bookit on Saturday, that is, their names recorded, for the publication of the banns, in the books of the kirk-session,—something like a gleam of light seemed to be thrown on the obscurity which invested the motives of the old man’s conduct. They were perfectly aware of Walter’s true character, and concluded, as all the world did at the time, that the match was entirely of his father’s contrivance; and they expected, when Walter’s marriage settlement came to be divulged, that they would then learn what provision had been made for themselves. In the meantime, Charles made out the balance-sheet, as he had been desired, and carried it in his pocket when he went on Saturday with his wife to dine at Grippy.

The weather that day was mild for the season, but a thin grey vapour filled the whole air, and saddened every feature of the landscape. The birds sat mute and ourie, and the Clyde, increased by recent upland rains, grumbled with the hoarseness of his wintry voice. The solemnity of external nature awakened a sympathetic melancholy in the minds of the young couple, as they walked towards their father’s, and Charles once or twice said that he felt a degree of depression which he had never experienced before.

‘I wish, Isabella,’ said he, ‘that this business of ours were well settled, for I begin, on your account, to grow anxious. I am not superstitious; but I kenna what’s in’t—every now and then a thought comes over me that I am no to be a long liver—I feel, as it were, that I have na a firm grip of the world—a sma’ shock, I doubt, would easily shake me off.’

‘I must own,’ replied his wife with softness, ‘that we have both some reason to regret our rashness. I ought not to have been so weak as to feel the little hardships of my condition so acutely; but, since it is done, we must do our best to bear up against the anxiety that I really think you indulge too much. My advice is, that we should give up speaking about your father’s intents, and strive, as well as we can, to make your income, whatever it is, serve us.’

‘That’s kindly said, my dear Bell, but you know that my father’s no a man that can be persuaded to feel as we feel, and I would not be surprised were he to break up his partnership with me, and what should we then do?’

In this sort of anxious and domestic conversation, they approached towards Grippy House, where they were met on the green in front by Margaret and George, who had not seen them since their marriage. Miss Meg, as she was commonly called, being at the time on a visit in Argyleshire with a family to whom their mother was related, the Campbells of Glengrowlmaghallochan, and George was also absent on a shooting excursion with some of his acquaintance at the Plealands, the mansion-house of which happened to be then untenanted. Their reception by their brother and sister, especially by Miss Meg, was kind and sisterly, for although in many points she resembled her mother, she yet possessed much more warmth of heart.

The gratulations and welcomings being over, she gave a description of the preparations which had already commenced for Walter’s wedding.

‘Na, what would ye think,’ said she, laughing, ‘my father gied him ten pounds to gang intil Glasgow the day to buy a present for the bride, and ye’ll hardly guess what he sent her,—a cradle,—a mahogany cradle, shod wi’ roynes, that it may na waken the baby when it’s rocking.’

‘But that would na tak all the ten pounds?’ said Charles, diverted by the circumstance; ‘what has he done wi’ the rest?’

‘He could na see any other thing to please him, so he tied it in the corner of his napkin, but as he was coming home flourishing it round his head, it happened to strike the crookit tree at the water-side, and the whole tot o’ the siller, eight guineas, three half-crowns, and eighteenpence, played whir to the very middle o’ the Clyde. He has na got the grief o’ the loss greetten out yet.’

Before there was time for any observation to be made on this misfortune, the bridegroom came out to the door, seemingly in high glee, crying, ‘See what I hae gotten,’ showing another note for ten pounds, which his father had given to pacify him, before Kilmarkeckle and the bride arrived; they being also expected to dinner.

It happened that Isabella, dressed in her gayest apparel for this occasion, had brought in her hand, wrapt in paper, a pair of red morocco shoes, which, at that period, were much worn among lairds’ daughters; for the roads, being deep and sloughy, she had, according to the fashion of the age, walked in others of a coarser kind; and Walter’s eye accidentally lighting on the shoes, he went up, without preface, to his sister-in-law, and, taking the parcel gently out of her hand, opened it, and contemplating the shoes, holding one in each hand at arm’s length, said, ‘Bell Fatherlans, what will ye tak to sell thir bonny red cheeket shoon?—I would fain buy them for Betty Bodle.’

Several minutes elapsed before it was possible to return any answer; but when composure was in some degree regained, Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw said,—

‘Ye surely would never buy old shoes for your bride? I have worn them often. It would be an ill omen to give her a second-hand present, Mr. Walter; besides, I don’t think they would fit.’

This little incident had the effect of tuning the spirits of Charles and his wife into some degree of unison with the main business of the day; and the whole party entered the house bantering and laughing with Walter. But scarcely had they been seated, when their father said,—

‘Charlie, has t’ou brought the balance-sheet, as I bade thee?’

This at once silenced both his mirth and Isabella’s, and the old man expressed his satisfaction on receiving it, and also that the profits were not less than he expected.

Having read it over carefully, he then folded it slowly up, and put it into his pocket, and, rising from his seat, walked three or four times across the room, followed by the eyes of his beating-hearted son and daughter-in-law—at last he halted.

‘Weel, Charlie,’ said he, ‘I’ll no be waur than my word to thee—t’ou sall hae a’ the profit made between us since we came thegither in the shop; that will help to get some bits o’ plenishing for a house—and I’ll mak, for time coming, an eke to thy share. But, Charlie and Bell, ca’ canny; bairns will rise among you, and ye maun bear in mind that I hae baith Geordie and Meg to provide for yet.’

This was said in a fatherly manner, and the intelligence was in so many respects agreeable, that it afforded the anxious young couple great pleasure. Walter was not, however, satisfied at hearing no allusion to him, and he said,—

‘And are ye no gaun to do any thing for me, father?’

These words, like the cut of a scourge, tingled to the very soul of the old man, and he looked with a fierce and devouring eye at the idiot;—but said nothing. Walter was not, however, to be daunted; setting up a cry, something between a wail and a howl, he brought his mother flying from the kitchen, where she was busy assisting the maids in preparing dinner—to inquire what had befallen the bridegroom.

‘My father’s making a step-bairn o’ me, mother, and has gi’en Charlie a’ the outcome frae the till, and says he’s gaun to hain but for Geordie and Meg.’

‘Surely, gudeman,’ said the Leddy o’ Grippy, addressing her husband, who for a moment stood confounded at this obstreperous accusation—‘Surely ye’ll hae mair naturality than no to gi’e Watty a bairn’s part o’ gear? Has na he a right to share and share alike wi’ the rest, over and aboon what he got by my father? If there’s law, justice, or gospel in the land, ye’ll be obligated to let him hae his right, an I should sell my coat to pay the cost.’

The old man made no answer; and his children sat in wonder, for they inferred from his silence that he actually did intend to make a step-bairn of Watty.

‘Weel!’ said the Leddy emphatically, ‘but I jealoused something o’ this;—I kent there could be nae good at the bottom o’ that huggermuggering wi’ Keelevin. Howsever, I’ll see til’t, Watty, and I’ll gar him tell what he has put intil that abomination o’ a paper that ye were deluded to sign.’

Claud, at these words, started from his seat, with the dark face, and pale quivering lips of guilt and vengeance; and, giving a stamp with his foot that shook the whole house, cried,—

‘If ye daur to mak or meddle wi’ what I hae done!’

He paused for about the space of half a minute, and then he added, in his wonted calm and sober voice,—‘Watty, t’ou has been provided more—I hae done mair for thee than I can weel excuse to mysel—and I charge baith thee and thy mother never, on pain of my curse and everlasting ill-will, to speak ony sic things again.’

‘What hae ye done? canna ye tell us, and gie a bodie a satisfaction?’ exclaimed the Leddy.

But the wrath again mustered and lowered in his visage, and he said, in a voice so deep and dreadful, so hollow and so troubled, from the very innermost caverns of his spirit, that it made all present tremble,—

‘Silence, woman, silence.’

‘Eh! there’s Betty Bodle and her father,’ exclaimed Watty, casting his eyes, at that moment, towards the window, and rushing from his seat, with an extravagant flutter, to meet them, thus happily terminating a scene which threatened to banish the anticipated festivity and revels of the day.