Catriona
“It is to be supposed I will have thought oftener than that, Mr.
Balfour,” said I, “and I will direct your attention again to
Rankeillor’s letter, where (I hope and believe) he has registered his
approval of that which I design.”
“Well, well,” said he; and then again, “Well, well! I will do what I
can for you.” There with he took a pen and paper, sat a while in
thought, and began to write with much consideration. “I understand that
Rankeillor approved of what you have in mind?” he asked presently.
“After some discussion, sir, he bade me to go forward in God’s name,”
said I.
“That is the name to go in,” said Mr. Balfour, and resumed his writing.
Presently, he signed, re-read what he had written, and addressed me
again. “Now here, Mr. David,” said he, “is a letter of introduction,
which I will seal without closing, and give into your hands open, as
the form requires. But, since I am acting in the dark, I will just read
it to you, so that you may see if it will secure your end—
“Pilrig, _August_ 26th, 1751.
“My Lord,—This is to bring to your notice my namesake and cousin, David
Balfour Esquire of Shaws, a young gentleman of unblemished descent and
good estate. He has enjoyed, besides, the more valuable advantages of a
godly training, and his political principles are all that your lordship
can desire. I am not in Mr. Balfour’s confidence, but I understand him
to have a matter to declare, touching His Majesty’s service and the
administration of justice; purposes for which your Lordship’s zeal is
known. I should add that the young gentleman’s intention is known to
and approved by some of his friends, who will watch with hopeful
anxiety the event of his success or failure.
“Whereupon,” continued Mr. Balfour, “I have subscribed myself with the
usual compliments. You observe I have said ‘some of your friends’; I
hope you can justify my plural?”
“Perfectly, sir; my purpose is known and approved by more than one,”
said I. “And your letter, which I take a pleasure to thank you for, is
all I could have hoped.”
“It was all I could squeeze out,” said he; “and from what I know of the
matter you design to meddle in, I can only pray God that it may prove
sufficient.”
CHAPTER IV.
LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE
My kinsman kept me to a meal, “for the honour of the roof,” he said;
and I believe I made the better speed on my return. I had no thought
but to be done with the next stage, and have myself fully committed; to
a person circumstanced as I was, the appearance of closing a door on
hesitation and temptation was itself extremely tempting; and I was the
more disappointed, when I came to Prestongrange’s house, to be informed
he was abroad. I believe it was true at the moment, and for some hours
after; and then I have no doubt the Advocate came home again, and
enjoyed himself in a neighbouring chamber among friends, while perhaps
the very fact of my arrival was forgotten. I would have gone away a
dozen times, only for this strong drawing to have done with my
declaration out of hand and be able to lay me down to sleep with a free
conscience. At first I read, for the little cabinet where I was left
contained a variety of books. But I fear I read with little profit; and
the weather falling cloudy, the dusk coming up earlier than usual, and
my cabinet being lighted with but a loophole of a window, I was at last
obliged to desist from this diversion (such as it was), and pass the
rest of my time of waiting in a very burthensome vacuity. The sound of
people talking in a near chamber, the pleasant note of a harpsichord,
and once the voice of a lady singing, bore me a kind of company.
I do not know the hour, but the darkness was long come, when the door
of the cabinet opened, and I was aware, by the light behind him, of a
tall figure of a man upon the threshold. I rose at once.
“Is anybody there?” he asked. “Who in that?”
“I am bearer of a letter from the laird of Pilrig to the Lord
Advocate,” said I.
“Have you been here long?” he asked.
“I would not like to hazard an estimate of how many hours,” said I.
“It is the first I hear of it,” he replied, with a chuckle. “The lads
must have forgotten you. But you are in the bit at last, for I am
Prestongrange.”
So saying, he passed before me into the next room, whither (upon his
sign) I followed him, and where he lit a candle and took his place
before a business-table. It was a long room, of a good proportion,
wholly lined with books. That small spark of light in a corner struck
out the man’s handsome person and strong face. He was flushed, his eye
watered and sparkled, and before he sat down I observed him to sway
back and forth. No doubt, he had been supping liberally; but his mind
and tongue were under full control.
“Well, sir, sit ye down,” said he, “and let us see Pilrig’s letter.”
He glanced it through in the beginning carelessly, looking up and
bowing when he came to my name; but at the last words I thought I
observed his attention to redouble, and I made sure he read them twice.
All this while you are to suppose my heart was beating, for I had now
crossed my Rubicon and was come fairly on the field of battle.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Balfour,” he said, when he
had done. “Let me offer you a glass of claret.”
“Under your favour, my lord, I think it would scarce be fair on me,”
said I. “I have come here, as the letter will have mentioned, on a
business of some gravity to myself; and, as I am little used with wine,
I might be the sooner affected.”
“You shall be the judge,” said he. “But if you will permit, I believe I
will even have the bottle in myself.”
He touched a bell, and a footman came, as at a signal, bringing wine
and glasses.
“You are sure you will not join me?” asked the Advocate. “Well, here is
to our better acquaintance! In what way can I serve you?”
“I should, perhaps, begin by telling you, my lord, that I am here at
your own pressing invitation,” said I.
“You have the advantage of me somewhere,” said he, “for I profess I
think I never heard of you before this evening.”
“Right, my lord; the name is, indeed, new to you,” said I. “And yet you
have been for some time extremely wishful to make my acquaintance, and
have declared the same in public.”
“I wish you would afford me a clue,” says he. “I am no Daniel.”
“It will perhaps serve for such,” said I, “that if I was in a jesting
humour—which is far from the case—I believe I might lay a claim on your
lordship for two hundred pounds.”
“In what sense?” he inquired.
“In the sense of rewards offered for my person,” said I.
He thrust away his glass once and for all, and sat straight up in the
chair where he had been previously lolling. “What am I to understand?”
said he.
“_A tall strong lad of about eighteen_,” I quoted, “_speaks like a
Lowlander and has no beard_.”
“I recognise those words,” said he, “which, if you have come here with
any ill-judged intention of amusing yourself, are like to prove
extremely prejudicial to your safety.”
“My purpose in this,” I replied, “is just entirely as serious as life
and death, and you have understood me perfectly. I am the boy who was
speaking with Glenure when he was shot.”
“I can only suppose (seeing you here) that you claim to be innocent,”
said he.
“The inference is clear,” I said. “I am a very loyal subject to King
George, but if I had anything to reproach myself with, I would have had
more discretion than to walk into your den.”
“I am glad of that,” said he. “This horrid crime, Mr. Balfour, is of a
dye which cannot permit any clemency. Blood has been barbarously shed.
It has been shed in direct opposition to his Majesty and our whole
frame of laws, by those who are their known and public oppugnants. I
take a very high sense of this. I will not deny that I consider the
crime as directly personal to his Majesty.”
“And unfortunately, my lord,” I added, a little drily, “directly
personal to another great personage who may be nameless.”
“If you mean anything by those words, I must tell you I consider them
unfit for a good subject; and were they spoke publicly I should make it
my business to take note of them,” said he. “You do not appear to me to
recognise the gravity of your situation, or you would be more careful
not to pejorate the same by words which glance upon the purity of
justice. Justice, in this country, and in my poor hands, is no
respecter of persons.”
“You give me too great a share in my own speech, my lord,” said I. “I
did but repeat the common talk of the country, which I have heard
everywhere, and from men of all opinions as I came along.”
“When you are come to more discretion you will understand such talk in
not to be listened to, how much less repeated,” says the Advocate. “But
I acquit you of an ill intention. That nobleman, whom we all honour,
and who has indeed been wounded in a near place by the late barbarity,
sits too high to be reached by these aspersions. The Duke of Argyle—you
see that I deal plainly with you—takes it to heart as I do, and as we
are both bound to do by our judicial functions and the service of his
Majesty; and I could wish that all hands, in this ill age, were equally
clean of family rancour. But from the accident that this is a Campbell
who has fallen martyr to his duty—as who else but the Campbells have
ever put themselves foremost on that path?—I may say it, who am no
Campbell—and that the chief of that great house happens (for all our
advantages) to be the present head of the College of Justice, small
minds and disaffected tongues are set agog in every changehouse in the
country; and I find a young gentleman like Mr. Balfour so ill-advised
as to make himself their echo.” So much he spoke with a very oratorical
delivery, as if in court, and then declined again upon the manner of a
gentleman. “All this apart,” said he. “It now remains that I should
learn what I am to do with you.”
“I had thought it was rather I that should learn the same from your
lordship,” said I.
“Ay, true,” says the Advocate. “But, you see, you come to me well
recommended. There is a good honest Whig name to this letter,” says he,
picking it up a moment from the table. “And—extra-judicially, Mr.
Balfour—there is always the possibility of some arrangement, I tell
you, and I tell you beforehand that you may be the more upon your
guard, your fate lies with me singly. In such a matter (be it said with
reverence) I am more powerful than the King’s Majesty; and should you
please me—and of course satisfy my conscience—in what remains to be
held of our interview, I tell you it may remain between ourselves.”
“Meaning how?” I asked.
“Why, I mean it thus, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “that if you give
satisfaction, no soul need know so much as that you visited my house;
and you may observe that I do not even call my clerk.”
I saw what way he was driving. “I suppose it is needless anyone should
be informed upon my visit,” said I, “though the precise nature of my
gains by that I cannot see. I am not at all ashamed of coming here.”
“And have no cause to be,” says he, encouragingly. “Nor yet (if you are
careful) to fear the consequences.”
“My lord,” said I, “speaking under your correction, I am not very easy
to be frightened.”
“And I am sure I do not seek to frighten you,” says he. “But to the
interrogation; and let me warn you to volunteer nothing beyond the
questions I shall ask you. It may consist very immediately with your
safety. I have a great discretion, it is true, but there are bounds to
it.”
“I shall try to follow your lordship’s advice,” said I.
He spread a sheet of paper on the table and wrote a heading. “It
appears you were present, by the way, in the wood of Lettermore at the