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 _protégée_ 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.