Catriona
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 gave 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?”