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 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?”

“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.