Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (231 page)

The two chance shots that seemed to point at Alan and the daughter of James More struck me hard; and I fled from the eldritch creature, casting her a baubee, which she continued to sit and play with under the moving shadows of the hanged.

My way down the causeway of Leith Walk would have been more pleasant to me but for this encounter.  The old rampart ran among fields, the like of them I had never seen for artfulness of agriculture; I was pleased, besides, to be so far in the still countryside; but the shackles of the gibbet clattered in my head; and the mope and mows of the old witch, and the thought of the dead men, hag-rode my spirits.  To hang on a gallows, that seemed a hard case; and whether a man came to hang there for two shillings Scots, or (as Mr. Stewart had it) from the sense of duty, once he was tarred and shackled and hung up, the difference seemed small.  There might David Balfour hang, and other lads pass on their errands and think light of him; and old daft limmers sit at a leg-foot and spae their fortunes; and the clean genty maids go by, and look to the other aide, and hold a nose.  I saw them plain, and they had grey eyes, and their screens upon their heads were of the Drummed colours.

I was thus in the poorest of spirits, though still pretty resolved, when I came in view of Pilrig, a pleasant gabled house set by the walkside among some brave young woods.  The laird’s horse was standing saddled at the door as I came up, but himself was in the study, where he received me in the midst of learned works and musical instruments, for he was not only a deep philosopher but much of a musician.  He greeted me at first pretty well, and when he had read Rankeillor’s letter, placed himself obligingly at my disposal.

“And what is it, cousin David!” said he - “since it appears that we are cousins - what is this that I can do for you!  A word to Prestongrange!  Doubtless that is easily given.  But what should be the word?”

“Mr. Balfour,” said I, “if I were to tell you my whole story the way it fell out, it’s my opinion (and it was Rankeillor’s before me) that you would be very little made up with it.”

“I am sorry to hear this of you, kinsman,” says he.

“I must not take that at your hands, Mr. Balfour,” said I; “I have nothing to my charge to make me sorry, or you for me, but just the common infirmities of mankind.  ‘The guilt of Adam’s first sin, the want of original righteousness, and the corruption of my whole nature,’ so much I must answer for, and I hope I have been taught where to look for help,” I said; for I judged from the look of the man he would think the better of me if I knew my questions.   “But in the way of worldly honour I have no great stumble to reproach myself with; and my difficulties have befallen me very much against my will and (by all that I can see) without my fault.  My trouble is to have become dipped in a political complication, which it is judged you would be blythe to avoid a knowledge of.”

“Why, very well, Mr. David,” he replied, “I am pleased to see you are all that Rankeillor represented.  And for what you say of political complications, you do me no more than justice.  It is my study to be beyond suspicion, and indeed outside the field of it.  The question is,” says he, “how, if I am to know nothing of the matter, I can very well assist you?”

“Why sir,” said I, “I propose you should write to his lordship, that I am a young man of reasonable good family and of good means: both of which I believe to be the case.”

“I have Rankeillor’s word for it,” said Mr. Balfour, “and I count that a warran-dice against all deadly.”

“To which you might add (if you will take my word for so much) that I am a good churchman, loyal to King George, and so brought up,” I went on.

“None of which will do you any harm,” said Mr. Balfour.

“Then you might go on to say that I sought his lordship on a matter of great moment, connected with His Majesty’s service and the administration of justice,” I suggested.

“As I am not to hear the matter,” says the laird, “I will not take upon myself to qualify its weight.  ‘Great moment’ therefore falls, and ‘moment’ along with it.  For the rest I might express myself much as you propose.”

“And then, sir,” said I, and rubbed my neck a little with my thumb, “then I would be very desirous if you could slip in a word that might perhaps tell for my protection.”

“Protection?” says he, “for your protection!  Here is a phrase that somewhat dampens me.  If the matter be so dangerous, I own I would be a little loath to move in it blindfold.”

“I believe I could indicate in two words where the thing sticks,” said I.

“Perhaps that would be the best,” said he.

“Well, it’s the Appin murder,” said I.

He held up both his hands.  “Sirs! sirs!” cried he.

I thought by the expression of his face and voice that I had lost my helper.

“Let me explain. . .” I began.

“I thank you kindly, I will hear no more of it,” says he.  “I decline in toto to hear more of it.  For your name’s sake and Rankeillor’s, and perhaps a little for your own, I will do what I can to help you; but I will hear no more upon the facts.  And it is my first clear duty to warn you.  These are deep waters, Mr. David, and you are a young man.  Be cautious and think twice.”

“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.”