saddled for me by two to-morrow at Clackmannan Pool. This done,
and the boat riding by her stone anchor, we lay down to sleep under
the sail.

We were in the Pool the next day long ere two; and there was
nothing left for me but to sit and wait. I felt little alacrity
upon my errand. I would have been glad of any passable excuse to
lay it down; but none being to be found, my uneasiness was no less
great than if I had been running to some desired pleasure. By
shortly after one the horse was at the waterside, and I could see a
man walking it to and fro till I should land, which vastly swelled
my impatience. Andie ran the moment of my liberation very fine,
showing himself a man of his bare word, but scarce serving his
employers with a heaped measure; and by about fifty seconds after
two I was in the saddle and on the full stretch for Stirling. In a
little more than an hour I had passed that town, and was already
mounting Alan Water side, when the weather broke in a small
tempest. The rain blinded me, the wind had nearly beat me from the
saddle, and the first darkness of the night surprised me in a
wilderness still some way east of Balwhidder, not very sure of my
direction and mounted on a horse that began already to be weary.

In the press of my hurry, and to be spared the delay and annoyance
of a guide, I had followed (so far as it was possible for any
horseman) the line of my journey with Alan. This I did with open
eyes, foreseeing a great risk in it, which the tempest had now
brought to a reality. The last that I knew of where I was, I think
it must have been about Uam Var; the hour perhaps six at night. I
must still think it great good fortune that I got about eleven to
my destination, the house of Duncan Dhu. Where I had wandered in
the interval perhaps the horse could tell. I know we were twice
down, and once over the saddle and for a moment carried away in a
roaring burn. Steed and rider were bemired up to the eyes.

From Duncan I had news of the trial. It was followed in all these
Highland regions with religious interest; news of it spread from
Inverary as swift as men could travel; and I was rejoiced to learn
that, up to a late hour that Saturday it was not yet concluded; and
all men began to suppose it must spread over the Monday. Under the
spur of this intelligence I would not sit to eat; but, Duncan
having agreed to be my guide, took the road again on foot, with the
piece in my hand and munching as I went. Duncan brought with him a
flask of usquebaugh and a hand-lantern; which last enlightened us
just so long as we could find houses where to rekindle it, for the
thing leaked outrageously and blew out with every gust. The more
part of the night we walked blindfold among sheets of rain, and day
found us aimless on the mountains. Hard by we struck a hut on a
burn-side, where we got bite and a direction; and, a little before
the end of the sermon, came to the kirk doors of Inverary.

The rain had somewhat washed the upper parts of me, but I was still
bogged as high as to the knees; I streamed water; I was so weary I
could hardly limp, and my face was like a ghost's. I stood
certainly more in need of a change of raiment and a bed to lie on,
than of all the benefits in Christianity. For all which (being
persuaded the chief point for me was to make myself immediately
public) I set the door of the church with the dirty Duncan at my
tails, and finding a vacant place sat down.

"Thirteently, my brethren, and in parenthesis, the law itself must
be regarded as a means of grace," the minister was saying, in the
voice of one delighting to pursue an argument.

The sermon was in English on account of the assize. The judges
were present with their armed attendants, the halberts glittered in
a corner by the door, and the seats were thronged beyond custom
with the array of lawyers. The text was in Romans 5th and 13th—
the minister a skilled hand; and the whole of that able churchful—
from Argyle, and my Lords Elchies and Kilkerran, down to the
halbertmen that came in their attendance—was sunk with gathered
brows in a profound critical attention. The minister himself and a
sprinkling of those about the door observed our entrance at the
moment and immediately forgot the same; the rest either did not
hear or would not hear or would not be heard; and I sat amongst my
friends and enemies unremarked.

The first that I singled out was Prestongrange. He sat well
forward, like an eager horseman in the saddle, his lips moving with
relish, his eyes glued on the minister; the doctrine was clearly to
his mind. Charles Stewart, on the other hand, was half asleep, and
looked harassed and pale. As for Simon Fraser, he appeared like a
blot, and almost a scandal, in the midst of that attentive
congregation, digging his hands in his pockets, shifting his legs,
clearing his throat, and rolling up his bald eyebrows and shooting
out his eyes to right and left, now with a yawn, now with a secret
smile. At times, too, he would take the Bible in front of him, run
it through, seem to read a bit, run it through again, and stop and
yawn prodigiously: the whole as if for exercise.

In the course of this restlessness his eye alighted on myself. He
sat a second stupefied, then tore a half-leaf out of the Bible,
scrawled upon it with a pencil, and passed it with a whispered word
to his next neighbour. The note came to Prestongrange, who gave me
but the one look; thence it voyaged to the hands of Mr. Erskine;
thence again to Argyle, where he sat between the other two lords of
session, and his Grace turned and fixed me with an arrogant eye.
The last of those interested in my presence was Charlie Stewart,
and he too began to pencil and hand about dispatches, none of which
I was able to trace to their destination in the crowd.

But the passage of these notes had aroused notice; all who were in
the secret (or supposed themselves to be so) were whispering
information—the rest questions; and the minister himself seemed
quite discountenanced by the flutter in the church and sudden stir
and whispering. His voice changed, he plainly faltered, nor did he
again recover the easy conviction and full tones of his delivery.
It would be a puzzle to him till his dying day, why a sermon that
had gone with triumph through four parts, should this miscarry in
the fifth.

As for me, I continued to sit there, very wet and weary, and a good
deal anxious as to what should happen next, but greatly exulting in
my success.



CHAPTER XVII—THE MEMORIAL



The last word of the blessing was scarce out of the minister's
mouth before Stewart had me by the arm. We were the first to be
forth of the church, and he made such extraordinary expedition that
we were safe within the four walls of a house before the street had
begun to be thronged with the home-going congregation.

"Am I yet in time?" I asked.

"Ay and no," said he. "The case is over; the jury is enclosed, and
will so kind as let us ken their view of it to-morrow in the
morning, the same as I could have told it my own self three days
ago before the play began. The thing has been public from the
start. The panel kent it, 'YE MAY DO WHAT YE WILL FOR ME,'
whispers he two days ago. 'YE KEN MY FATE BY WHAT THE DUKE OF
ARGYLE HAS JUST SAID TO MR. MACINTOSH.' O, it's been a scandal!


"The great Agyle he gaed before,
He gart the cannons and guns to roar,"


and the very macer cried 'Cruachan!' But now that I have got you
again I'll never despair. The oak shall go over the myrtle yet;
we'll ding the Campbells yet in their own town. Praise God that I
should see the day!"

He was leaping with excitement, emptied out his mails upon the
floor that I might have a change of clothes, and incommoded me with
his assistance as I changed. What remained to be done, or how I
was to do it, was what he never told me nor, I believe, so much as
thought of. "We'll ding the Campbells yet!" that was still his
overcome. And it was forced home upon my mind how this, that had
the externals of a sober process of law, was in its essence a clan
battle between savage clans. I thought my friend the Writer none
of the least savage. Who that had only seen him at a counsel's
back before the Lord Ordinary or following a golf ball and laying
down his clubs on Bruntsfield links, could have recognised for the
same person this voluble and violent clansman?

James Stewart's counsel were four in number—Sheriffs Brown of
Colstoun and Miller, Mr. Robert Macintosh, and Mr. Stewart younger
of Stewart Hall. These were covenanted to dine with the Writer
after sermon, and I was very obligingly included of the party. No
sooner the cloth lifted, and the first bowl very artfully
compounded by Sheriff Miller, than we fell to the subject in hand.
I made a short narration of my seizure and captivity, and was then
examined and re-examined upon the circumstances of the murder. It
will be remembered this was the first time I had had my say out, or
the matter at all handled, among lawyers; and the consequence was
very dispiriting to the others and (I must own) disappointing to
myself.

"To sum up," said Colstoun, "you prove that Alan was on the spot;
you have heard him proffer menaces against Glenure; and though you
assure us he was not the man who fired, you leave a strong
impression that he was in league with him, and consenting, perhaps
immediately assisting, in the act. You show him besides, at the
risk of his own liberty, actively furthering the criminal's escape.
And the rest of your testimony (so far as the least material)
depends on the bare word of Alan or of James, the two accused. In
short, you do not at all break, but only lengthen by one personage,
the chain that binds our client to the murderer; and I need
scarcely say that the introduction of a third accomplice rather
aggravates that appearance of a conspiracy which has been our
stumbling block from the beginning."

"I am of the same opinion," said Sheriff Miller. "I think we may
all be very much obliged to Prestongrange for taking a most
uncomfortable witness out of our way. And chiefly, I think, Mr.
Balfour himself might be obliged. For you talk of a third
accomplice, but Mr. Balfour (in my view) has very much the
appearance of a fourth."

"Allow me, sirs!" interposed Stewart the Writer. "There is another
view. Here we have a witness—never fash whether material or not—
a witness in this cause, kidnapped by that old, lawless, bandit
crew of the Glengyle Macgregors, and sequestered for near upon a
month in a bourock of old ruins on the Bass. Move that and see
what dirt you fling on the proceedings! Sirs, this is a tale to
make the world ring with! It would be strange, with such a grip as
this, if we couldnae squeeze out a pardon for my client."

"And suppose we took up Mr. Balfour's cause to-morrow?" said
Stewart Hall. "I am much deceived or we should find so many
impediments thrown in our path, as that James should have been
hanged before we had found a court to hear us. This is a great
scandal, but I suppose we have none of us forgot a greater still, I
mean the matter of the Lady Grange. The woman was still in
durance; my friend Mr. Hope of Rankeillor did what was humanly
possible; and how did he speed? He never got a warrant! Well,
it'll be the same now; the same weapons will be used. This is a
scene, gentleman, of clan animosity. The hatred of the name which
I have the honour to bear, rages in high quarters. There is
nothing here to be viewed but naked Campbell spite and scurvy
Campbell intrigue."

You may be sure this was to touch a welcome topic, and I sat for
some time in the midst of my learned counsel, almost deaved with
their talk but extremely little the wiser for its purport. The
Writer was led into some hot expressions; Colstoun must take him up
and set him right; the rest joined in on different sides, but all
pretty noisy; the Duke of Argyle was beaten like a blanket; King
George came in for a few digs in the by-going and a great deal of
rather elaborate defence; and there was only one person that seemed
to be forgotten, and that was James of the Glens.

Through all this Mr. Miller sat quiet. He was a slip of an oldish
gentleman, ruddy and twinkling; he spoke in a smooth rich voice,
with an infinite effect of pawkiness, dealing out each word the way
an actor does, to give the most expression possible; and even now,
when he was silent, and sat there with his wig laid aside, his
glass in both hands, his mouth funnily pursed, and his chin out, he
seemed the mere picture of a merry slyness. It was plain he had a
word to say, and waited for the fit occasion.

It came presently. Colstoun had wound up one of his speeches with
some expression of their duty to their client. His brother sheriff
was pleased, I suppose, with the transition. He took the table in
his confidence with a gesture and a look.

"That suggests to me a consideration which seems overlooked," said
he. "The interest of our client goes certainly before all, but the
world does not come to an end with James Stewart." Whereat he
cocked his eye. "I might condescend, exempli gratia, upon a Mr.
George Brown, a Mr. Thomas Miller, and a Mr. David Balfour. Mr.
David Balfour has a very good ground of complaint, and I think,
gentlemen—if his story was properly redd out—I think there would
be a number of wigs on the green."

The whole table turned to him with a common movement.

"Properly handled and carefully redd out, his is a story that could
scarcely fail to have some consequence," he continued. "The whole
administration of justice, from its highest officer downward, would
be totally discredited; and it looks to me as if they would need to
be replaced." He seemed to shine with cunning as he said it. "And
I need not point out to ye that this of Mr. Balfour's would be a
remarkable bonny cause to appear in," he added.

Well, there they all were started on another hare; Mr. Balfour's
cause, and what kind of speeches could be there delivered, and what
officials could be thus turned out, and who would succeed to their
positions. I shall give but the two specimens. It was proposed to
approach Simon Fraser, whose testimony, if it could be obtained,
would prove certainly fatal to Argyle and to Prestongrange. Miller
highly approved of the attempt. "We have here before us a dreeping
roast," said he, "here is cut-and-come-again for all." And
methought all licked their lips. The other was already near the
end. Stewart the Writer was out of the body with delight, smelling
vengeance on his chief enemy, the Duke.

"Gentlemen," cried he, charging his glass, "here is to Sheriff
Miller. His legal abilities are known to all. His culinary, this
bowl in front of us is here to speak for. But when it comes to the
poleetical!"—cries he, and drains the glass.

"Ay, but it will hardly prove politics in your meaning, my friend,"
said the gratified Miller. "A revolution, if you like, and I think
I can promise you that historical writers shall date from Mr.
Balfour's cause. But properly guided, Mr. Stewart, tenderly
guided, it shall prove a peaceful revolution."

"And if the damned Campbells get their ears rubbed, what care I?"
cries Stewart, smiting down his fist.

It will be thought I was not very well pleased with all this,
though I could scarce forbear smiling at a kind of innocency in
these old intriguers. But it was not my view to have undergone so
many sorrows for the advancement of Sheriff Miller or to make a
revolution in the Parliament House: and I interposed accordingly
with as much simplicity of manner as I could assume.

"I have to thank you, gentlemen, for your advice," said I. "And
now I would like, by your leave, to set you two or three questions.
There is one thing that has fallen rather on one aide, for
instance: Will this cause do any good to our friend James of the
Glens?"

They seemed all a hair set back, and gave various answers, but
concurring practically in one point, that James had now no hope but
in the King's mercy.

"To proceed, then," said I, "will it do any good to Scotland? We
have a saying that it is an ill bird that fouls his own nest. I
remember hearing we had a riot in Edinburgh when I was an infant
child, which gave occasion to the late Queen to call this country
barbarous; and I always understood that we had rather lost than
gained by that. Then came the year 'Forty-five, which made
Scotland to be talked of everywhere; but I never heard it said we
had anyway gained by the 'Forty-five. And now we come to this
cause of Mr. Balfour's, as you call it. Sheriff Miller tells us
historical writers are to date from it, and I would not wonder. It
is only my fear they would date from it as a period of calamity and
public reproach."

The nimble-witted Miller had already smelt where I was travelling
to, and made haste to get on the same road. "Forcibly put, Mr.
Balfour," says he. "A weighty observe, sir."

"We have next to ask ourselves if it will be good for King George,"
I pursued. "Sheriff Miller appears pretty easy upon this; but I
doubt you will scarce be able to pull down the house from under
him, without his Majesty coming by a knock or two, one of which
might easily prove fatal."

I have them a chance to answer, but none volunteered.

"Of those for whom the case was to be profitable," I went on,
"Sheriff Miller gave us the names of several, among the which he
was good enough to mention mine. I hope he will pardon me if I
think otherwise. I believe I hung not the least back in this
affair while there was life to be saved; but I own I thought myself
extremely hazarded, and I own I think it would be a pity for a
young man, with some idea of coming to the Bar, to ingrain upon
himself the character of a turbulent, factious fellow before he was
yet twenty. As for James, it seems—at this date of the
proceedings, with the sentence as good as pronounced—he has no
hope but in the King's mercy. May not his Majesty, then, be more
pointedly addressed, the characters of these high officers
sheltered from the public, and myself kept out of a position which
I think spells ruin for me?"

They all sat and gazed into their glasses, and I could see they
found my attitude on the affair unpalatable. But Miller was ready
at all events.

"If I may be allowed to put my young friend's notion in more formal
shape," says he, "I understand him to propose that we should embody
the fact of his sequestration, and perhaps some heads of the
testimony he was prepared to offer, in a memorial to the Crown.
This plan has elements of success. It is as likely as any other
(and perhaps likelier) to help our client. Perhaps his Majesty
would have the goodness to feel a certain gratitude to all
concerned in such a memorial, which might be construed into an
expression of a very delicate loyalty; and I think, in the drafting
of the same, this view might be brought forward."

They all nodded to each other, not without sighs, for the former
alternative was doubtless more after their inclination.

"Paper, then, Mr. Stewart, if you please," pursued Miller; "and I
think it might very fittingly be signed by the five of us here
present, as procurators for the condemned man."'

"It can do none of us any harm, at least," says Colstoun, heaving
another sigh, for he had seen himself Lord Advocate the last ten
minutes.

Thereupon they set themselves, not very enthusiastically, to draft
the memorial—a process in the course of which they soon caught
fire; and I had no more ado but to sit looking on and answer an
occasional question. The paper was very well expressed; beginning
with a recitation of the facts about myself, the reward offered for
my apprehension, my surrender, the pressure brought to bear upon
me; my sequestration; and my arrival at Inverary in time to be too
late; going on to explain the reasons of loyalty and public
interest for which it was agreed to waive any right of action; and
winding up with a forcible appeal to the King's mercy on behalf of
James.

Methought I was a good deal sacrificed, and rather represented in
the light of a firebrand of a fellow whom my cloud of lawyers had
restrained with difficulty from extremes. But I let it pass, and
made but the one suggestion, that I should be described as ready to
deliver my own evidence and adduce that of others before any
commission of inquiry—and the one demand, that I should be
immediately furnished with a copy.

Colstoun hummed and hawed. "This is a very confidential document,"
said he.

"And my position towards Prestongrange is highly peculiar," I
replied. "No question but I must have touched his heart at our
first interview, so that he has since stood my friend consistently.
But for him, gentlemen, I must now be lying dead or awaiting my
sentence alongside poor James. For which reason I choose to
communicate to him the fact of this memorial as soon as it is
copied. You are to consider also that this step will make for my
protection. I have enemies here accustomed to drive hard; his
Grace is in his own country, Lovat by his side; and if there should
hang any ambiguity over our proceedings I think I might very well
awake in gaol."

Not finding any very ready answer to these considerations, my
company of advisers were at the last persuaded to consent, and made
only this condition that I was to lay the paper before
Prestongrange with the express compliments of all concerned.

The Advocate was at the castle dining with his Grace. By the hand
of one of Colstoun's servants I sent him a billet asking for an
interview, and received a summons to meet him at once in a private
house of the town. Here I found him alone in a chamber; from his
face there was nothing to be gleaned; yet I was not so unobservant
but what I spied some halberts in the hall, and not so stupid but
what I could gather he was prepared to arrest me there and then,
should it appear advisable.

"So, Mr. David, this is you?" said he.

"Where I fear I am not overly welcome, my lord," said I. "And I
would like before I go further to express my sense of your
lordship's good offices, even should they now cease."

"I have heard of your gratitude before," he replied drily, "and I
think this can scarce be the matter you called me from my wine to
listen to. I would remember also, if I were you, that you still
stand on a very boggy foundation."

"Not now, my lord, I think," said I; "and if your lordship will but
glance an eye along this, you will perhaps think as I do."

He read it sedulously through, frowning heavily; then turned back
to one part and another which he seemed to weigh and compare the
effect of. His face a little lightened.

"This is not so bad but what it might be worse," said he; "though I
am still likely to pay dear for my acquaintance with Mr. David
Balfour."

"Rather for your indulgence to that unlucky young man, my lord,"
said I.

He still skimmed the paper, and all the while his spirits seemed to
mend.

"And to whom am I indebted for this?" he asked presently. "Other
counsels must have been discussed, I think. Who was it proposed
this private method? Was it Miller?"

"My lord, it was myself," said I. "These gentlemen have shown me
no such consideration, as that I should deny myself any credit I
can fairly claim, or spare them any responsibility they should
properly bear. And the mere truth is, that they were all in favour
of a process which should have remarkable consequences in the
Parliament House, and prove for them (in one of their own
expressions) a dripping roast. Before I intervened, I think they
were on the point of sharing out the different law appointments.
Our friend Mr. Simon was to be taken in upon some composition."

Prestongrange smiled. "These are our friends," said he. "And what
were your reasons for dissenting, Mr. David?"

I told them without concealment, expressing, however, with more
force and volume those which regarded Prestongrange himself.

"You do me no more than justice," said he. "I have fought as hard
in your interest as you have fought against mine. And how came you
here to-day?" he asked. "As the case drew out, I began to grow
uneasy that I had clipped the period so fine, and I was even
expecting you to-morrow. But to-day—I never dreamed of it."

I was not of course, going to betray Andie.

"I suspect there is some very weary cattle by the road," said I

"If I had known you were such a mosstrooper you should have tasted
longer of the Bass," says he.

"Speaking of which, my lord, I return your letter." And I gave him
the enclosure in the counterfeit hand.

"There was the cover also with the seal," said he.

"I have it not," said I. "It bore not even an address, and could
not compromise a cat. The second enclosure I have, and with your
permission, I desire to keep it."

I thought he winced a little, but he said nothing to the point.
"To-morrow," he resumed, "our business here is to be finished, and
I proceed by Glasgow. I would be very glad to have you of my
party, Mr David."

"My lord . . ." I began.

"I do not deny it will be of service to me," he interrupted. "I
desire even that, when we shall come to Edinburgh, you should
alight at my house. You have very warm friends in the Miss Grants,
who will be overjoyed to have you to themselves. If you think I
have been of use to you, you can thus easily repay me, and so far
from losing, may reap some advantage by the way. It is not every
strange young man who is presented in society by the King's
Advocate."

Often enough already (in our brief relations) this gentleman had
caused my head to spin; no doubt but what for a moment he did so
again now. Here was the old fiction still maintained of my
particular favour with his daughters, one of whom had been so good
as to laugh at me, while the other two had scarce deigned to remark
the fact of my existence. And now I was to ride with my lord to
Glasgow; I was to dwell with him in Edinburgh; I was to be brought
into society under his protection! That he should have so much
good-nature as to forgive me was surprising enough; that he could
wish to take me up and serve me seemed impossible; and I began to
seek some ulterior meaning. One was plain. If I became his guest,
repentance was excluded; I could never think better of my present
design and bring any action. And besides, would not my presence in
his house draw out the whole pungency of the memorial? For that
complaint could not be very seriously regarded, if the person
chiefly injured was the guest of the official most incriminated.
As I thought upon this I could not quite refrain from smiling.

"This is in the nature of a countercheck to the memorial?" said I.

"You are cunning, Mr. David," said he, "and you do not wholly guess
wrong the fact will be of use to me in my defence. Perhaps,
however, you underrate friendly sentiments, which are perfectly
genuine. I have a respect for you, David, mingled with awe," says
he, smiling.

"I am more than willing, I am earnestly desirous to meet your
wishes," said I. "It is my design to be called to the Bar, where
your lordship's countenance would be invaluable; and I am besides
sincerely grateful to yourself and family for different marks of
interest and of indulgence. The difficulty is here. There is one
point in which we pull two ways. You are trying to hang James
Stewart, I am trying to save him. In so far as my riding with you
would better your lordship's defence, I am at your lordships
orders; but in so far as it would help to hang James Stewart, you
see me at a stick."

I thought he swore to himself. "You should certainly be called;
the Bar is the true scene for your talents," says he, bitterly, and
then fell a while silent. "I will tell you," he presently resumed,
"there is no question of James Stewart, for or against, James is a
dead man; his life is given and taken—bought (if you like it
better) and sold; no memorial can help—no defalcation of a
faithful Mr. David hurt him. Blow high, blow low, there will be no
pardon for James Stewart: and take that for said! The question is
now of myself: am I to stand or fall? and I do not deny to you
that I am in some danger. But will Mr. David Balfour consider why?
It is not because I pushed the case unduly against James; for that,
I am sure of condonation. And it is not because I have sequestered
Mr. David on a rock, though it will pass under that colour; but
because I did not take the ready and plain path, to which I was
pressed repeatedly, and send Mr. David to his grave or to the
gallows. Hence the scandal—hence this damned memorial," striking
the paper on his leg. "My tenderness for you has brought me in
this difficulty. I wish to know if your tenderness to your own
conscience is too great to let you help me out of it."

No doubt but there was much of the truth in what he said; if James
was past helping, whom was it more natural that I should turn to
help than just the man before me, who had helped myself so often,
and was even now setting me a pattern of patience? I was besides
not only weary, but beginning to be ashamed, of my perpetual
attitude of suspicion and refusal

"If you will name the time and place, I will be punctually ready to
attend your lordship," said I.

He shook hands with me. "And I think my misses have some news for
you," says he, dismissing me.

I came away, vastly pleased to have my peace made, yet a little
concerned in conscience; nor could I help wondering, as I went
back, whether, perhaps, I had not been a scruple too good-natured.
But there was the fact, that this was a man that might have been my
father, an able man, a great dignitary, and one that, in the hour
of my need, had reached a hand to my assistance. I was in the
better humour to enjoy the remainder of that evening, which I
passed with the advocates, in excellent company no doubt, but
perhaps with rather more than a sufficiency of punch: for though I
went early to bed I have no clear mind of how I got there.



CHAPTER XVIII—THE TEE'D BALL



On the morrow, from the justices' private room, where none could
see me, I heard the verdict given in and judgment rendered upon
James. The Duke's words I am quite sure I have correctly; and
since that famous passage has been made a subject of dispute, I may
as well commemorate my version. Having referred to the year '45,
the chief of the Campbells, sitting as Justice-General upon the
bench, thus addressed the unfortunate Stewart before him: "If you
had been successful in that rebellion, you might have been giving
the law where you have now received the judgment of it; we, who are
this day your judges, might have been tried before one of your mock
courts of judicature; and then you might have been satiated with
the blood of any name or clan to which you had an aversion."

"This is to let the cat out of the bag, indeed," thought I. And
that was the general impression. It was extraordinary how the
young advocate lads took hold and made a mock of this speech, and
how scarce a meal passed but what someone would get in the words:
"And then you might have been satiated." Many songs were made in
time for the hour's diversion, and are near all forgot. I remember
one began:


"What do ye want the bluid of, bluid of?
Is it a name, or is it a clan,
Or is it an aefauld Hielandman,
That ye want the bluid of, bluid of?"


Another went to my old favourite air, The House of Airlie, and
began thus:


"It fell on a day when Argyle was on the bench,
That they served him a Stewart for his denner."


And one of the verses ran:


"Then up and spak' the Duke, and flyted on his cook,
I regard it as a sensible aspersion,
That I would sup ava', an' satiate my maw,
With the bluid of ony clan of my aversion."


James was as fairly murdered as though the Duke had got a fowling-
piece and stalked him. So much of course I knew: but others knew
not so much, and were more affected by the items of scandal that
came to light in the progress of the cause. One of the chief was
certainly this sally of the justice's. It was run hard by another
of a juryman, who had struck into the midst of Coulston's speech
for the defence with a "Pray, sir, cut it short, we are quite
weary," which seemed the very excess of impudence and simplicity.
But some of my new lawyer friends were still more staggered with an
innovation that had disgraced and even vitiated the proceedings.
One witness was never called. His name, indeed, was printed, where
it may still be seen on the fourth page of the list: "James
Drummond, alias Macgregor, alias James More, late tenant in
Inveronachile"; and his precognition had been taken, as the manner
is, in writing. He had remembered or invented (God help him)
matter which was lead in James Stewart's shoes, and I saw was like
to prove wings to his own. This testimony it was highly desirable
to bring to the notice of the jury, without exposing the man
himself to the perils of cross-examination; and the way it was
brought about was a matter of surprise to all. For the paper was
handed round (like a curiosity) in court; passed through the jury-
box, where it did its work; and disappeared again (as though by
accident) before it reached the counsel for the prisoner. This was
counted a most insidious device; and that the name of James More
should be mingled up with it filled me with shame for Catriona and
concern for myself.

The following day, Prestongrange and I, with a considerable
company, set out for Glasgow, where (to my impatience) we continued
to linger some time in a mixture of pleasure and affairs. I lodged
with my lord, with whom I was encouraged to familiarity; had my
place at entertainments; was presented to the chief guests; and
altogether made more of than I thought accorded either with my
parts or station; so that, on strangers being present, I would
often blush for Prestongrange. It must be owned the view I had
taken of the world in these last months was fit to cast a gloom
upon my character. I had met many men, some of them leaders in
Israel whether by their birth or talents; and who among them all
had shown clean hands? As for the Browns and Millers, I had seen
their self-seeking, I could never again respect them.
Prestongrange was the best yet; he had saved me, spared me rather,
when others had it in their minds to murder me outright; but the
blood of James lay at his door; and I thought his present
dissimulation with myself a thing below pardon. That he should
affect to find pleasure in my discourse almost surprised me out of
my patience. I would sit and watch him with a kind of a slow fire
of anger in my bowels. "Ah, friend, friend," I would think to
myself, "if you were but through with this affair of the memorial,
would you not kick me in the streets?" Here I did him, as events
have proved, the most grave injustice; and I think he was at once
far more sincere, and a far more artful performer, than I supposed.

But I had some warrant for my incredulity in the behaviour of that
court of young advocates that hung about in the hope of patronage.
The sudden favour of a lad not previously heard of troubled them at
first out of measure; but two days were not gone by before I found
myself surrounded with flattery and attention. I was the same
young man, and neither better nor bonnier, that they had rejected a
month before; and now there was no civility too fine for me! The
same, do I say? It was not so; and the by-name by which I went
behind my back confirmed it. Seeing me so firm with the Advocate,
and persuaded that I was to fly high and far, they had taken a word
from the golfing green, and called me THE TEE'D BALL. {14} I was
told I was now "one of themselves"; I was to taste of their soft
lining, who had already made my own experience of the roughness of
the outer husk; and one, to whom I had been presented in Hope Park,
was so aspired as even to remind me of that meeting. I told him I
had not the pleasure of remembering it.

"Why" says he, "it was Miss Grant herself presented me! My name is
so-and-so."

"It may very well be, sir," said I; "but I have kept no mind of
it."

At which he desisted; and in the midst of the disgust that commonly
overflowed my spirits I had a glisk of pleasure.

But I have not patience to dwell upon that time at length. When I
was in company with these young politics I was borne down with
shame for myself and my own plain ways, and scorn for them and
their duplicity. Of the two evils, I thought Prestongrange to be
the least; and while I was always as stiff as buckram to the young
bloods, I made rather a dissimulation of my hard feelings towards
the Advocate, and was (in old Mr. Campbell's word) "soople to the
laird." Himself commented on the difference, and bid me be more of
my age, and make friends with my young comrades.

I told him I was slow of making friends.

"I will take the word back," said he. "But there is such a thing
as FAIR GUDE S'EN AND FAIR GUDE DAY, Mr. David. These are the same
young men with whom you are to pass your days and get through life:
your backwardness has a look of arrogance; and unless you can
assume a little more lightness of manner, I fear you will meet
difficulties in the path."

"It will be an ill job to make a silk purse of a sow's ear," said
I.

On the morning of October 1st I was awakened by the clattering in
of an express; and getting to my window almost before he had
dismounted, I saw the messenger had ridden hard. Somewhile after I
was called to Prestongrange, where he was sitting in his bedgown
and nightcap, with his letters round him.

"Mr. David," add he, "I have a piece of news for you. It concerns
some friends of yours, of whom I sometimes think you are a little
ashamed, for you have never referred to their existence."

I suppose I blushed.

"See you understand, since you make the answering signal," said he.
"And I must compliment you on your excellent taste in beauty. But
do you know, Mr. David? this seems to me a very enterprising lass.
She crops up from every side. The Government of Scotland appears
unable to proceed for Mistress Katrine Drummond, which was somewhat
the case (no great while back) with a certain Mr. David Balfour.
Should not these make a good match? Her first intromission in
politics—but I must not tell you that story, the authorities have
decided you are to hear it otherwise and from a livelier narrator.
This new example is more serious, however; and I am afraid I must
alarm you with the intelligence that she is now in prison."

I cried out.

"Yes," said he, "the little lady is in prison. But I would not
have you to despair. Unless you (with your friends and memorials)
shall procure my downfall, she is to suffer nothing."

"But what has she done? What is her offence?" I cried.

"It might be almost construed a high treason," he returned, "for
she has broke the king's Castle of Edinburgh."

"The lady is much my friend," I said. "I know you would not mock
me if the thing were serious."

"And yet it is serious in a sense," said he; "for this rogue of a
Katrine—or Cateran, as we may call her—has set adrift again upon
the world that very doubtful character, her papa."

Here was one of my previsions justified: James More was once again
at liberty. He had lent his men to keep me a prisoner; he had
volunteered his testimony in the Appin case, and the same (no
matter by what subterfuge) had been employed to influence the jury.
Now came his reward, and he was free. It might please the
authorities to give to it the colour of an escape; but I knew
better—I knew it must be the fulfilment of a bargain. The same
course of thought relieved me of the least alarm for Catriona. She
might be thought to have broke prison for her father; she might
have believed so herself. But the chief hand in the whole business
was that of Prestongrange; and I was sure, so far from letting her
come to punishment, he would not suffer her to be even tried.
Whereupon thus came out of me the not very politic ejaculation:

"Ah! I was expecting that!"

"You have at times a great deal of discretion, too!" says
Prestongrange.

"And what is my lord pleased to mean by that?" I asked.

"I was just marvelling", he replied, "that being so clever as to
draw these inferences, you should not be clever enough to keep them
to yourself. But I think you would like to hear the details of the
affair. I have received two versions: and the least official is
the more full and far the more entertaining, being from the lively
pen of my eldest daughter. 'Here is all the town bizzing with a
fine piece of work,' she writes, 'and what would make the thing
more noted (if it were only known) the malefactor is a protegee of
his lordship my papa. I am sure your heart is too much in your
duty (if it were nothing else) to have forgotten Grey Eyes. What
does she do, but get a broad hat with the flaps open, a long hairy-
like man's greatcoat, and a big gravatt; kilt her coats up to GUDE
KENS WHAUR, clap two pair of boot-hose upon her legs, take a pair
of CLOUTED BROGUES {15} in her hand, and off to the Castle! Here
she gives herself out to be a soutar {16} in the employ of James
More, and gets admitted to his cell, the lieutenant (who seems to
have been full of pleasantry) making sport among his soldiers of
the soutar's greatcoat. Presently they hear disputation and the
sound of blows inside. Out flies the cobbler, his coat flying, the
flaps of his hat beat about his face, and the lieutenant and his
soldiers mock at him as he runs off. They laughed no so hearty the
next time they had occasion to visit the cell and found nobody but
a tall, pretty, grey-eyed lass in the female habit! As for the
cobbler, he was 'over the hills ayout Dumblane,' and it's thought
that poor Scotland will have to console herself without him. I
drank Catriona's health this night in public.

Indeed, the whole town admires her; and I think the beaux would
wear bits of her garters in their button-holes if they could only
get them. I would have gone to visit her in prison too, only I
remembered in time I was papa's daughter; so I wrote her a billet
instead, which I entrusted to the faithful Doig, and I hope you
will admit I can be political when I please. The same faithful
gomeral is to despatch this letter by the express along with those
of the wiseacres, so that you may hear Tom Fool in company with
Solomon. Talking of GOMERALS, do tell DAUVIT BALFOUR. I would I
could see the face of him at the thought of a long-legged lass in
such a predicament; to say nothing of the levities of your
affectionate daughter, and his respectful friend.' So my rascal
signs herself!" continued Prestongrange. "And you see, Mr. David,
it is quite true what I tell you, that my daughters regard you with
the most affectionate playfulness."

"The gomeral is much obliged," said I.

"And was not this prettily done!" he went on. "Is not this
Highland maid a piece of a heroine?"

"I was always sure she had a great heart," said I. "And I wager
she guessed nothing . . . But I beg your pardon, this is to tread
upon forbidden subjects."

"I will go bail she did not," he returned, quite openly. "I will
go bail she thought she was flying straight into King George's
face."

Remembrance of Catriona and the thought of her lying in captivity,
moved me strangely. I could see that even Prestongrange admired,
and could not withhold his lips from smiling when he considered her
behaviour. As for Miss Grant, for all her ill habit of mockery,
her admiration shone out plain. A kind of a heat came on me.

"I am not your lordship's daughter. . . " I began.

"That I know of!" he put in, smiling.

"I speak like a fool," said I; "or rather I began wrong. It would
doubtless be unwise in Mistress Grant to go to her in prison; but
for me, I think I would look like a half-hearted friend if I did
not fly there instantly."

"So-ho, Mr. David," says he; "I thought that you and I were in a
bargain?"

"My lord," I said, "when I made that bargain I was a good deal
affected by your goodness, but I'll never can deny that I was moved
besides by my own interest. There was self-seeking in my heart,
and I think shame of it now. It may be for your lordship's safety
to say this fashious Davie Balfour is your friend and housemate.
Say it then; I'll never contradict you. But as for your patronage,
I give it all back. I ask but the one thing—let me go, and give
me a pass to see her in her prison."

He looked at me with a hard eye. "You put the cart before the
horse, I think," says he. "That which I had given was a portion of
my liking, which your thankless nature does not seem to have
remarked. But for my patronage, it is not given, nor (to be exact)
is it yet offered." He paused a bit. "And I warn you, you do not
know yourself," he added. "Youth is a hasty season; you will think
better of all this before a year."

"Well, and I would like to be that kind of youth!" I cried. "I
have seen too much of the other party in these young advocates that
fawn upon your lordship and are even at the pains to fawn on me.
And I have seen it in the old ones also. They are all for by-ends,
the whole clan of them! It's this that makes me seem to misdoubt
your lordship's liking. Why would I think that you would like me?
But ye told me yourself ye had an interest!"

I stopped at this, confounded that I had run so far; he was
observing me with an unfathomable face.

"My lord, I ask your pardon," I resumed. "I have nothing in my
chafts but a rough country tongue. I think it would be only
decent-like if I would go to see my friend in her captivity; but
I'm owing you my life—I'll never forget that; and if it's for your
lordship's good, here I'll stay. That's barely gratitude."

"This might have been reached in fewer words," says Prestongrange
grimly. "It is easy, and it is at times gracious, to say a plain
Scots 'ay'."

"Ah, but, my lord, I think ye take me not yet entirely!" cried I.
"For YOUR sake, for my life-safe, and the kindness that ye say ye
bear to me—for these, I'll consent; but not for any good that
might be coming to myself. If I stand aside when this young maid
is in her trial, it's a thing I will be noways advantaged by; I
will lose by it, I will never gain. I would rather make a
shipwreck wholly than to build on that foundation."

He was a minute serious, then smiled. "You mind me of the man with
the long nose," said he; "was you to see the moon by a telescope
you would see David Balfour there! But you shall have your way of
it. I will ask at you one service, and then set you free: My
clerks are overdriven; be so good as copy me these few pages, and
when that is done, I shall bid you God speed! I would never charge
myself with Mr. David's conscience; and if you could cast some part
of it (as you went by) in a moss hag, you would find yourself to
ride much easier without it."

"Perhaps not just entirely in the same direction though, my lord!"
says I.

"And you shall have the last word, too!" cries he gaily.

Indeed, he had some cause for gaiety, having now found the means to
gain his purpose. To lessen the weight of the memorial, or to have
a readier answer at his hand, he desired I should appear publicly
in the character of his intimate. But if I were to appear with the
same publicity as a visitor to Catriona in her prison the world
would scarce stint to draw conclusions, and the true nature of
James More's escape must become evident to all. This was the
little problem I had to set him of a sudden, and to which he had so
briskly found an answer. I was to be tethered in Glasgow by that
job of copying, which in mere outward decency I could not well
refuse; and during these hours of employment Catriona was privately
got rid of. I think shame to write of this man that loaded me with
so many goodnesses. He was kind to me as any father, yet I ever
thought him as false as a cracked bell.



CHAPTER XIX—I AM MUCH IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES



The copying was a weary business, the more so as I perceived very
early there was no sort of urgency in the matters treated, and
began very early to consider my employment a pretext. I had no
sooner finished than I got to horse, used what remained of daylight
to the best purpose, and being at last fairly benighted, slept in a
house by Almond-Water side. I was in the saddle again before the
day, and the Edinburgh booths were just opening when I clattered in
by the West Bow and drew up a smoking horse at my lord Advocate's
door. I had a written word for Doig, my lord's private hand that
was thought to be in all his secrets—a worthy little plain man,
all fat and snuff and self-sufficiency. Him I found already at his
desk and already bedabbled with maccabaw, in the same anteroom
where I rencountered with James More. He read the note
scrupulously through like a chapter in his Bible.

"H'm," says he; "ye come a wee thing ahint-hand, Mr. Balfour. The
bird's flaen—we hae letten her out."

"Miss Drummond is set free?" I cried.

"Achy!" said he. "What would we keep her for, ye ken? To hae made
a steer about the bairn would has pleased naebody."

"And where'll she be now?" says I.

"Gude kens!" says Doig, with a shrug.

"She'll have gone home to Lady Allardyce, I'm thinking," said I.

"That'll be it," said he.

"Then I'll gang there straight," says I.

"But ye'll be for a bite or ye go?" said he.

"Neither bite nor sup," said I. "I had a good wauch of milk in by
Ratho."

"Aweel, aweel," says Doig. "But ye'll can leave your horse here
and your bags, for it seems we're to have your up-put."

"Na, na", said I. "Tamson's mear {17} would never be the thing for
me this day of all days."

Doig speaking somewhat broad, I had been led by imitation into an
accent much more countrified than I was usually careful to affect a
good deal broader, indeed, than I have written it down; and I was
the more ashamed when another voice joined in behind me with a
scrap of a ballad:


"Gae saddle me the bonny black,
Gae saddle sune and mak' him ready
For I will down the Gatehope-slack,
And a' to see my bonny leddy."


The young lady, when I turned to her, stood in a morning gown, and
her hands muffled in the same, as if to hold me at a distance. Yet
I could not but think there was kindness in the eye with which she
saw me.

"My best respects to you, Mistress Grant," said I, bowing.

"The like to yourself, Mr. David," she replied with a deep
courtesy. "And I beg to remind you of an old musty saw, that meat
and mass never hindered man. The mass I cannot afford you, for we
are all good Protestants. But the meat I press on your attention.
And I would not wonder but I could find something for your private
ear that would be worth the stopping for."

"Mistress Grant," said I, "I believe I am already your debtor for
some merry words—and I think they were kind too—on a piece of
unsigned paper."

"Unsigned paper?" says she, and made a droll face, which was
likewise wondrous beautiful, as of one trying to remember.

"Or else I am the more deceived," I went on. "But to be sure, we
shall have the time to speak of these, since your father is so good
as to make me for a while your inmate; and the GOMERAL begs you at
this time only for the favour of his liberty,"

"You give yourself hard names," said she.

"Mr. Doig and I would be blythe to take harder at your clever pen,"
says I.

"Once more I have to admire the discretion of all men-folk," she
replied. "But if you will not eat, off with you at once; you will
be back the sooner, for you go on a fool's errand. Off with you,
Mr. David," she continued, opening the door.


"He has lowpen on his bonny grey,
He rade the richt gate and the ready
I trow he would neither stint nor stay,
For he was seeking his bonny leddy."


I did not wait to be twice bidden, and did justice to Miss Grant's
citation on the way to Dean.

Old Lady Allardyce walked there alone in the garden, in her hat and
mutch, and having a silver-mounted staff of some black wood to lean
upon. As I alighted from my horse, and drew near to her with
CONGEES, I could see the blood come in her face, and her head fling
into the air like what I had conceived of empresses.

"What brings you to my poor door?" she cried, speaking high through
her nose. "I cannot bar it. The males of my house are dead and
buried; I have neither son nor husband to stand in the gate for me;
any beggar can pluck me by the baird {18}—and a baird there is,
and that's the worst of it yet?" she added partly to herself.

I was extremely put out at this reception, and the last remark,
which seemed like a daft wife's, left me near hand speechless.

"I see I have fallen under your displeasure, ma'am," said I. "Yet
I will still be so bold as ask after Mistress Drummond."

She considered me with a burning eye, her lips pressed close
together into twenty creases, her hand shaking on her staff. "This
cows all!" she cried. "Ye come to me to speir for her? Would God
I knew!"

"She is not here?" I cried.

She threw up her chin and made a step and a cry at me, so that I
fell back incontinent.

"Out upon your leeing throat!" she cried. "What! ye come and speir
at me! She's in jyle, whaur ye took her to—that's all there is to
it. And of a' the beings ever I beheld in breeks, to think it
should be to you! Ye timmer scoun'rel, if I had a male left to my
name I would have your jaicket dustit till ye raired."

I thought it not good to delay longer in that place, because I
remarked her passion to be rising. As I turned to the horse-post
she even followed me; and I make no shame to confess that I rode
away with the one stirrup on and scrambling for the other.

As I knew no other quarter where I could push my inquiries, there
was nothing left me but to return to the Advocate's. I was well
received by the four ladies, who were now in company together, and
must give the news of Prestongrange and what word went in the west
country, at the most inordinate length and with great weariness to
myself; while all the time that young lady, with whom I so much
desired to be alone again, observed me quizzically and seemed to
find pleasure in the sight of my impatience. At last, after I had
endured a meal with them, and was come very near the point of
appealing for an interview before her aunt, she went and stood by
the music-case, and picking out a tune, sang to it on a high key—
"He that will not when he may, When he will he shall have nay."
But this was the end of her rigours, and presently, after making
some excuse of which I have no mind, she carried me away in private
to her father's library. I should not fail to say she was dressed
to the nines, and appeared extraordinary handsome.

"Now, Mr. David, sit ye down here and let us have a two-handed
crack," said she. "For I have much to tell you, and it appears
besides that I have been grossly unjust to your good taste."

"In what manner, Mistress Grant?" I asked. "I trust I have never
seemed to fail in due respect."

"I will be your surety, Mr, David," said she. "Your respect,
whether to yourself or your poor neighbours, has been always and
most fortunately beyond imitation. But that is by the question.
You got a note from me?" she asked.

"I was so bold as to suppose so upon inference," said I, "and it
was kindly thought upon."

"It must have prodigiously surprised you," said she. "But let us
begin with the beginning. You have not perhaps forgot a day when
you were so kind as to escort three very tedious misses to Hope
Park? I have the less cause to forget it myself, because you was
so particular obliging as to introduce me to some of the principles
of the Latin grammar, a thing which wrote itself profoundly on my
gratitude."

"I fear I was sadly pedantical," said I, overcome with confusion at
the memory. "You are only to consider I am quite unused with the
society of ladies."

"I will say the less about the grammar then," she replied. "But
how came you to desert your charge? 'He has thrown her out,
overboard, his ain dear Annie!'" she hummed; "and his ain dear
Annie and her two sisters had to taigle home by theirselves like a
string of green geese! It seems you returned to my papa's, where
you showed yourself excessively martial, and then on to realms
unknown, with an eye (it appears) to the Bass Rock; solan geese
being perhaps more to your mind than bonny lasses."

Through all this raillery there was something indulgent in the
lady's eye which made me suppose there might be better coming.

"You take a pleasure to torment me," said I, "and I make a very
feckless plaything; but let me ask you to be more merciful. At
this time there is but the one thing that I care to hear of, and
that will be news of Catriona."

"Do you call her by that name to her face, Mr. Balfour?" she asked.

"In troth, and I am not very sure," I stammered.

"I would not do so in any case to strangers," said Miss Grant.
"And why are you so much immersed in the affairs of this young
lady?"

"I heard she was in prison," said I.

"Well, and now you hear that she is out of it," she replied, "and
what more would you have? She has no need of any further
champion."

"I may have the greater need of her, ma'am," said I.

"Come, this is better!" says Miss Grant. "But look me fairly in
the face; am I not bonnier than she?"

"I would be the last to be denying it," said I. "There is not your
marrow in all Scotland."

"Well, here you have the pick of the two at your hand, and must
needs speak of the other," said she. "This is never the way to
please the ladies, Mr. Balfour."

"But, mistress," said I, "there are surely other things besides
mere beauty."

"By which I am to understand that I am no better than I should be,
perhaps?" she asked.

"By which you will please understand that I am like the cock in the
midden in the fable book," said I. "I see the braw jewel—and I
like fine to see it too—but I have more need of the pickle corn."

"Bravissimo!" she cried. "There is a word well said at last, and I
will reward you for it with my story. That same night of your
desertion I came late from a friend's house—where I was
excessively admired, whatever you may think of it—and what should
I hear but that a lass in a tartan screen desired to speak with me?
She had been there an hour or better, said the servant-lass, and
she grat in to herself as she sat waiting. I went to her direct;
she rose as I came in, and I knew her at a look. 'Grey Eyes!' says
I to myself, but was more wise than to let on. YOU WILL BE MISS
GRANT AT LAST? she says, rising and looking at me hard and pitiful.
AY, IT WAS TRUE HE SAID, YOU ARE BONNY AT ALL EVENTS.—THE WAY GOD
MADE ME, MY DEAR, I said, BUT I WOULD BE GEY AND OBLIGED IF YOU
COULD TELL ME WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE AT SUCH A TIME OF THE NIGHT.—
LADY, she said, WE ARE KINSFOLK, WE ARE BOTH COME OF THE BLOOD OF
THE SONS OF ALPIN.—MY DEAR, I replied, I THINK NO MORE OF ALPIN OR
HIS SONS THAN WHAT I DO OF A KALESTOCK. YOU HAVE A BETTER ARGUMENT
IN THESE TEARS UPON YOUR BONNY FACE. And at that I was so weak-
minded as to kiss her, which is what you would like to do dearly,
and I wager will never find the courage of. I say it was weak-
minded of me, for I knew no more of her than the outside; but it
was the wisest stroke I could have hit upon. She is a very
staunch, brave nature, but I think she has been little used with
tenderness; and at that caress (though to say the truth, it was but
lightly given) her heart went out to me. I will never betray the
secrets of my sex, Mr. Davie; I will never tell you the way she
turned me round her thumb, because it is the same she will use to
twist yourself. Ay, it is a fine lass! She is as clean as hill
well water."

"She is e'en't!" I cried.

"Well, then, she told me her concerns," pursued Miss Grant, "and in
what a swither she was in about her papa, and what a taking about
yourself, with very little cause, and in what a perplexity she had
found herself after you was gone away. AND THEN I MINDED AT LONG
LAST, says she, THAT WE WERE KINSWOMEN, AND THAT MR. DAVID SHOULD
HAVE GIVEN YOU THE NAME OF THE BONNIEST OF THE BONNY, AND I WAS
THINKING TO MYSELF 'IF SHE IS SO BONNY SHE WILL BE GOOD AT ALL
EVENTS'; AND I TOOK UP MY FOOT SOLES OUT OF THAT. That was when I
forgave yourself, Mr. Davie. When you was in my society, you
seemed upon hot iron: by all marks, if ever I saw a young man that
wanted to be gone, it was yourself, and I and my two sisters were
the ladies you were so desirous to be gone from; and now it
appeared you had given me some notice in the by-going, and was so
kind as to comment on my attractions! From that hour you may date
our friendship, and I began to think with tenderness upon the Latin
grammar."

"You will have many hours to rally me in," said I; "and I think
besides you do yourself injustice. I think it was Catriona turned
your heart in my direction. She is too simple to perceive as you
do the stiffness of her friend."

"I would not like to wager upon that, Mr. David," said she. "The
lasses have clear eyes. But at least she is your friend entirely,
as I was to see. I carried her in to his lordship my papa; and his
Advocacy being in a favourable stage of claret, was so good as to
receive the pair of us. HERE IS GREY EYES THAT YOU HAVE BEEN
DEAVED WITH THESE DAYS PAST, said I, SHE IS COME TO PROVE THAT WE
SPOKE TRUE, AND I LAY THE PRETTIEST LASS IN THE THREE LOTHIANS AT
YOUR FEET—making a papistical reservation of myself. She suited
her action to my words: down she went upon her knees to him—I
would not like to swear but he saw two of her, which doubtless made
her appeal the more irresistible, for you are all a pack of
Mahomedans—told him what had passed that night, and how she had
withheld her father's man from following of you, and what a case
she was in about her father, and what a flutter for yourself; and
begged with weeping for the lives of both of you (neither of which
was in the slightest danger), till I vow I was proud of my sex
because it was done so pretty, and ashamed for it because of the
smallness of the occasion. She had not gone far, I assure you,
before the Advocate was wholly sober, to see his inmost politics
ravelled out by a young lass and discovered to the most unruly of
his daughters. But we took him in hand, the pair of us, and
brought that matter straight. Properly managed—and that means
managed by me—there is no one to compare with my papa."

"He has been a good man to me," said I.

"Well, he was a good man to Katrine, and I was there to see to it,"
said she.

"And she pled for me?" say I.

"She did that, and very movingly," said Miss Grant. "I would not
like to tell you what she said—I find you vain enough already."

"God reward her for it!" cried I.

"With Mr. David Balfour, I suppose?" says she.

"You do me too much injustice at the last!" I cried. "I would
tremble to think of her in such hard hands. Do you think I would
presume, because she begged my life? She would do that for a new
whelped puppy! I have had more than that to set me up, if you but
ken'd. She kissed that hand of mine. Ay, but she did. And why?
because she thought I was playing a brave part and might be going
to my death. It was not for my sake—but I need not be telling
that to you, that cannot look at me without laughter. It was for
the love of what she thought was bravery. I believe there is none
but me and poor Prince Charlie had that honour done them. Was this
not to make a god of me? and do you not think my heart would quake
when I remember it?"

"I do laugh at you a good deal, and a good deal more than is quite
civil," said she; "but I will tell you one thing: if you speak to
her like that, you have some glimmerings of a chance."

"Me?" I cried, "I would never dare. I can speak to you, Miss
Grant, because it's a matter of indifference what ye think of me.
But her? no fear!" said I.

"I think you have the largest feet in all broad Scotland," says
she.

"Troth they are no very small," said I, looking down.

"Ah, poor Catriona!" cries Miss Grant.

And I could but stare upon her; for though I now see very well what
she was driving at (and perhaps some justification for the same), I
was never swift at the uptake in such flimsy talk.

"Ah well, Mr. David," she said, "it goes sore against my
conscience, but I see I shall have to be your speaking board. She
shall know you came to her straight upon the news of her
imprisonment; she shall know you would not pause to eat; and of our
conversation she shall hear just so much as I think convenient for
a maid of her age and inexperience. Believe me, you will be in
that way much better served than you could serve yourself, for I
will keep the big feet out of the platter."

"You know where she is, then?" I exclaimed.

"That I do, Mr. David, and will never tell," said she.

"Why that?" I asked.

"Well," she said, "I am a good friend, as you will soon discover;
and the chief of those that I am friend to is my papa. I assure
you, you will never heat nor melt me out of that, so you may spare
me your sheep's eyes; and adieu to your David-Balfourship for the
now."

"But there is yet one thing more," I cried. "There is one thing
that must be stopped, being mere ruin to herself, and to me too."

"Well," she said, "be brief; I have spent half the day on you
already."

"My Lady Allardyce believes," I began—"she supposes—she thinks
that I abducted her."

The colour came into Miss Grant's face, so that at first I was
quite abashed to find her ear so delicate, till I bethought me she
was struggling rather with mirth, a notion in which I was
altogether confirmed by the shaking of her voice as she replied -

"I will take up the defence of your reputation," she said. "You
may leave it in my hands."

And with that she withdrew out of the library.



CHAPTER XX—I CONTINUE TO MOVE IN GOOD SOCIETY



For about exactly two months I remained a guest in Prestongrange's
family, where I bettered my acquaintance with the bench, the bar,
and the flower of Edinburgh company. You are not to suppose my
education was neglected; on the contrary, I was kept extremely
busy. I studied the French, so as to be more prepared to go to
Leyden; I set myself to the fencing, and wrought hard, sometimes
three hours in the day, with notable advancement; at the suggestion
of my cousin, Pilrig, who was an apt musician, I was put to a
singing class; and by the orders of my Miss Grant, to one for the
dancing, at which I must say I proved far from ornamental.
However, all were good enough to say it gave me an address a little
more genteel; and there is no question but I learned to manage my
coat skirts and sword with more dexterity, and to stand in a room
as though the same belonged to me. My clothes themselves were all
earnestly re-ordered; and the most trifling circumstance, such as
where I should tie my hair, or the colour of my ribbon, debated
among the three misses like a thing of weight. One way with
another, no doubt I was a good deal improved to look at, and
acquired a bit of modest air that would have surprised the good
folks at Essendean.

The two younger misses were very willing to discuss a point of my
habiliment, because that was in the line of their chief thoughts.
I cannot say that they appeared any other way conscious of my
presence; and though always more than civil, with a kind of
heartless cordiality, could not hide how much I wearied them. As
for the aunt, she was a wonderful still woman; and I think she gave
me much the same attention as she gave the rest of the family,
which was little enough. The eldest daughter and the Advocate
himself were thus my principal friends, and our familiarity was
much increased by a pleasure that we took in common. Before the
court met we spent a day or two at the house of Grange, living very
nobly with an open table, and here it was that we three began to
ride out together in the fields, a practice afterwards maintained
in Edinburgh, so far as the Advocate's continual affairs permitted.
When we were put in a good frame by the briskness of the exercise,
the difficulties of the way, or the accidents of bad weather, my
shyness wore entirely off; we forgot that we were strangers, and
speech not being required, it flowed the more naturally on. Then
it was that they had my story from me, bit by bit, from the time
that I left Essendean, with my voyage and battle in the Covenant,
wanderings in the heather, etc.; and from the interest they found
in my adventures sprung the circumstance of a jaunt we made a
little later on, on a day when the courts were not sitting, and of
which I will tell a trifle more at length.

We took horse early, and passed first by the house of Shaws, where
it stood smokeless in a great field of white frost, for it was yet
early in the day. Here Prestongrange alighted down, gave me his
horse, an proceeded alone to visit my uncle. My heart, I remember,
swelled up bitter within me at the sight of that bare house and the
thought of the old miser sitting chittering within in the cold
kitchen!

"There is my home," said I; "and my family."

"Poor David Balfour!" said Miss Grant.

What passed during the visit I have never heard; but it would
doubtless not be very agreeable to Ebenezer, for when the Advocate
came forth again his face was dark.

"I think you will soon be the laird indeed, Mr. Davie," says he,
turning half about with the one foot in the stirrup.

"I will never pretend sorrow," said I; and, to say the truth,
during his absence Miss Grant and I had been embellishing the place
in fancy with plantations, parterres, and a terrace—much as I have
since carried out in fact.

Thence we pushed to the Queensferry, where Rankeillor gave us a
good welcome, being indeed out of the body to receive so great a
visitor. Here the Advocate was so unaffectedly good as to go quite
fully over my affairs, sitting perhaps two hours with the Writer in
his study, and expressing (I was told) a great esteem for myself
and concern for my fortunes. To while this time, Miss Grant and I
and young Rankeillor took boat and passed the Hope to Limekilns.
Rankeillor made himself very ridiculous (and, I thought, offensive)
with his admiration for the young lady, and to my wonder (only it
is so common a weakness of her sex) she seemed, if anything, to be
a little gratified. One use it had: for when we were come to the
other side, she laid her commands on him to mind the boat, while
she and I passed a little further to the alehouse. This was her
own thought, for she had been taken with my account of Alison
Hastie, and desired to see the lass herself. We found her once
more alone—indeed, I believe her father wrought all day in the
fields—and she curtsied dutifully to the gentry-folk and the
beautiful young lady in the riding-coat.

"Is this all the welcome I am to get?" said I, holding out my hand.
"And have you no more memory of old friends?"

"Keep me! wha's this of it?" she cried, and then, "God's truth,
it's the tautit {19} laddie!"

"The very same," says

"Mony's the time I've thocht upon you and your freen, and blythe am
I to see in your braws," {20} she cried. "Though I kent ye were
come to your ain folk by the grand present that ye sent me and that
I thank ye for with a' my heart."

"There," said Miss Grant to me, "run out by with ye, like a guid
bairn. I didnae come here to stand and haud a candle; it's her and
me that are to crack."

I suppose she stayed ten minutes in the house, but when she came
forth I observed two things—that her eyes were reddened, and a
silver brooch was gone out of her bosom. This very much affected
me.

"I never saw you so well adorned," said I.

"O Davie man, dinna be a pompous gowk!" said she, and was more than
usually sharp to me the remainder of the day.

About candlelight we came home from this excursion.

For a good while I heard nothing further of Catriona—my Miss Grant
remaining quite impenetrable, and stopping my mouth with
pleasantries. At last, one day that she returned from walking and
found me alone in the parlour over my French, I thought there was
something unusual in her looks; the colour heightened, the eyes
sparkling high, and a bit of a smile continually bitten in as she
regarded me. She seemed indeed like the very spirit of mischief,
and, walking briskly in the room, had soon involved me in a kind of
quarrel over nothing and (at the least) with nothing intended on my
side. I was like Christian in the slough—the more I tried to
clamber out upon the side, the deeper I became involved; until at
last I heard her declare, with a great deal of passion, that she
would take that answer from the hands of none, and I must down upon
my knees for pardon.

The causelessness of all this fuff stirred my own bile. "I have
said nothing you can properly object to," said I, "and as for my
knees, that is an attitude I keep for God."

"And as a goddess I am to be served!" she cried, shaking her brown
locks at me and with a bright colour. "Every man that comes within
waft of my petticoats shall use me so!"

"I will go so far as ask your pardon for the fashion's sake,
although I vow I know not why," I replied. "But for these play-
acting postures, you can go to others."

"O Davie!" she said. "Not if I was to beg you?"

I bethought me I was fighting with a woman, which is the same as to
say a child, and that upon a point entirely formal.

"I think it a bairnly thing," I said, "not worthy in you to ask, or
me to render. Yet I will not refuse you, neither," said I; "and
the stain, if there be any, rests with yourself." And at that I
kneeled fairly down.

"There!" she cried. "There is the proper station, there is where I
have been manoeuvring to bring you." And then, suddenly, "Kep,"
{21} said she, flung me a folded billet, and ran from the apartment
laughing.

The billet had neither place nor date. "Dear Mr. David," it began,
"I get your news continually by my cousin, Miss Grant, and it is a
pleisand hearing. I am very well, in a good place, among good
folk, but necessitated to be quite private, though I am hoping that
at long last we may meet again. All your friendships have been
told me by my loving cousin, who loves us both. She bids me to
send you this writing, and oversees the same. I will be asking you
to do all her commands, and rest your affectionate friend, Catriona
Macgregor-Drummond. P.S.—Will you not see my cousin, Allardyce?"

I think it not the least brave of my campaigns (as the soldiers
say) that I should have done as I was here bidden and gone
forthright to the house by Dean. But the old lady was now entirely
changed and supple as a glove. By what means Miss Grant had
brought this round I could never guess; I am sure, at least, she
dared not to appear openly in the affair, for her papa was
compromised in it pretty deep. It was he, indeed, who had
persuaded Catriona to leave, or rather, not to return, to her
cousin's, placing her instead with a family of Gregorys—decent
people, quite at the Advocate's disposition, and in whom she might
have the more confidence because they were of his own clan and
family. These kept her private till all was ripe, heated and
helped her to attempt her father's rescue, and after she was
discharged from prison received her again into the same secrecy.
Thus Prestongrange obtained and used his instrument; nor did there
leak out the smallest word of his acquaintance with the daughter of
James More. There was some whispering, of course, upon the escape
of that discredited person; but the Government replied by a show of
rigour, one of the cell porters was flogged, the lieutenant of the
guard (my poor friend, Duncansby) was broken of his rank, and as
for Catriona, all men were well enough pleased that her fault
should be passed by in silence.

I could never induce Miss Grant to carry back an answer. "No," she
would say, when I persisted, "I am going to keep the big feet out
of the platter." This was the more hard to bear, as I was aware
she saw my little friend many times in the week, and carried her my
news whenever (as she said) I "had behaved myself." At last she
treated me to what she called an indulgence, and I thought rather
more of a banter. She was certainly a strong, almost a violent,
friend to all she liked, chief among whom was a certain frail old
gentlewoman, very blind and very witty, who dwelt on the top of a
tall land on a strait close, with a nest of linnets in a cage, and
thronged all day with visitors. Miss Grant was very fond to carry
me there and put me to entertain her friend with the narrative of
my misfortunes: and Miss Tibbie Ramsay (that was her name) was
particular kind, and told me a great deal that was worth knowledge
of old folks and past affairs in Scotland. I should say that from
her chamber window, and not three feet away, such is the straitness
of that close, it was possible to look into a barred loophole
lighting the stairway of the opposite house.

Here, upon some pretext, Miss Grant left me one day alone with Miss
Ramsay. I mind I thought that lady inattentive and like one
preoccupied. I was besides very uncomfortable, for the window,
contrary to custom, was left open and the day was cold. All at
once the voice of Miss Grant sounded in my ears as from a distance.

"Here, Shaws!" she cried, "keek out of the window and see what I
have broughten you."

I think it was the prettiest sight that ever I beheld. The well of
the close was all in clear shadow where a man could see distinctly,
the walls very black and dingy; and there from the barred loophole
I saw two faces smiling across at me—Miss Grant's and Catriona's.

"There!" says Miss Grant, "I wanted her to see you in your braws
like the lass of Limekilns. I wanted her to see what I could make
of you, when I buckled to the job in earnest!"

It came in my mind that she had been more than common particular
that day upon my dress; and I think that some of the same care had
been bestowed upon Catriona. For so merry and sensible a lady,
Miss Grant was certainly wonderful taken up with duds.

"Catriona!" was all I could get out.

As for her, she said nothing in the world, but only waved her hand
and smiled to me, and was suddenly carried away again from before
the loophole.

That vision was no sooner lost than I ran to the house door, where
I found I was locked in; thence back to Miss Ramsay, crying for the
key, but might as well have cried upon the castle rock. She had
passed her word, she said, and I must be a good lad. It was
impossible to burst the door, even if it had been mannerly; it was
impossible I should leap from the window, being seven storeys above
ground. All I could do was to crane over the close and watch for
their reappearance from the stair. It was little to see, being no
more than the tops of their two heads each on a ridiculous bobbin
of skirts, like to a pair of pincushions. Nor did Catriona so much
as look up for a farewell; being prevented (as I heard afterwards)
by Miss Grant, who told her folk were never seen to less advantage
than from above downward.

On the way home, as soon as I was set free, I upbraided Miss Grant
with her cruelty.

"I am sorry you was disappointed," says she demurely. "For my part
I was very pleased. You looked better than I dreaded; you looked—
if it will not make you vain—a mighty pretty young man when you
appeared in the window. You are to remember that she could not see
your feet," says she, with the manner of one reassuring me.

"O!" cried I, "leave my feet be—they are no bigger than my
neighbours'."

"They are even smaller than some," said she, "but I speak in
parables like a Hebrew prophet."

"I marvel little they were sometimes stoned!" says I. "But, you
miserable girl, how could you do it? Why should you care to
tantalise me with a moment?"

"Love is like folk," says she; "it needs some kind of vivers." {22}

"Oh, Barbara, let me see her properly!" I pleaded. "YOU can—you
see her when you please; let me have half an hour."

"Who is it that is managing this love affair! You! Or me?" she
asked, and as I continued to press her with my instances, fell back
upon a deadly expedient: that of imitating the tones of my voice
when I called on Catriona by name; with which, indeed, she held me
in subjection for some days to follow.

There was never the least word heard of the memorial, or none by
me. Prestongrange and his grace the Lord President may have heard
of it (for what I know) on the deafest sides of their heads; they
kept it to themselves, at least—the public was none the wiser; and
in course of time, on November 8th, and in the midst of a
prodigious storm of wind and rain, poor James of the Glens was duly
hanged at Lettermore by Ballachulish.

So there was the final upshot of my politics! Innocent men have
perished before James, and are like to keep on perishing (in spite
of all our wisdom) till the end of time. And till the end of time
young folk (who are not yet used with the duplicity of life and
men) will struggle as I did, and make heroical resolves, and take
long risks; and the course of events will push them upon the one
side and go on like a marching army. James was hanged; and here
was I dwelling in the house of Prestongrange, and grateful to him
for his fatherly attention. He was hanged; and behold! when I met
Mr. Simon in the causeway, I was fain to pull off my beaver to him
like a good little boy before his dominie. He had been hanged by
fraud and violence, and the world wagged along, and there was not a
pennyweight of difference; and the villains of that horrid plot
were decent, kind, respectable fathers of families, who went to
kirk and took the sacrament!

But I had had my view of that detestable business they call
politics—I had seen it from behind, when it is all bones and
blackness; and I was cured for life of any temptations to take part
in it again. A plain, quiet, private path was that which I was
ambitious to walk in, when I might keep my head out of the way of
dangers and my conscience out of the road of temptation. For, upon
a retrospect, it appeared I had not done so grandly, after all; but
with the greatest possible amount of big speech and preparation,
had accomplished nothing.

The 25th of the same month a ship was advertised to sail from
Leith; and I was suddenly recommended to make up my mails for
Leyden. To Prestongrange I could, of course, say nothing; for I
had already been a long while sorning on his house and table. But
with his daughter I was more open, bewailing my fate that I should
be sent out of the country, and assuring her, unless she should
bring me to farewell with Catriona, I would refuse at the last
hour.

"Have I not given you my advice?" she asked.

"I know you have," said I, "and I know how much I am beholden to
you already, and that I am bidden to obey your orders. But you
must confess you are something too merry a lass at times to lippen
{23} to entirely."

"I will tell you, then," said she. "Be you on board by nine
o'clock forenoon; the ship does not sail before one; keep your boat
alongside; and if you are not pleased with my farewells when I
shall send them, you can come ashore again and seek Katrine for
yourself."

Since I could make no more of her, I was fain to be content with
this.

The day came round at last when she and I were to separate. We had
been extremely intimate and familiar; I was much in her debt; and
what way we were to part was a thing that put me from my sleep,
like the vails I was to give to the domestic servants. I knew she
considered me too backward, and rather desired to rise in her
opinion on that head. Besides which, after so much affection shown
and (I believe) felt upon both sides, it would have looked cold-
like to be anyways stiff. Accordingly, I got my courage up and my
words ready, and the last chance we were like to be alone, asked
pretty boldly to be allowed to salute her in farewell.

"You forget yourself strangely, Mr. Balfour," said she. "I cannot
call to mind that I have given you any right to presume on our
acquaintancy."

I stood before her like a stopped clock, and knew not what to
think, far less to say, when of a sudden she cast her arms about my
neck and kissed me with the best will in the world.

"You inimitable bairn?" she cried. "Did you think that I would let
us part like strangers? Because I can never keep my gravity at you
five minutes on end, you must not dream I do not love you very
well: I am all love and laughter, every time I cast an eye on you!
And now I will give you an advice to conclude your education, which
you will have need of before it's very long.

Never ASK womenfolk. They're bound to answer 'No'; God never made