CHAPTER III.

I GO TO PILRIG

The next morning, I was no sooner awake in my new lodging than I was up

and into my new clothes; and no sooner the breakfast swallowed, than I

was forth on my adventurers. Alan, I could hope, was fended for; James

was like to be a more difficult affair, and I could not but think that

enterprise might cost me dear, even as everybody said to whom I had

opened my opinion. It seemed I was come to the top of the mountain only

to cast myself down; that I had clambered up, through so many and hard

trials, to be rich, to be recognised, to wear city clothes and a sword

to my side, all to commit mere suicide at the last end of it, and the

worst kind of suicide, besides, which is to get hanged at the King’s

charges.

What was I doing it for? I asked, as I went down the high Street and

out north by Leith Wynd. First I said it was to save James Stewart; and

no doubt the memory of his distress, and his wife’s cries, and a word

or so I had let drop on that occasion worked upon me strongly. At the

same time I reflected that it was (or ought to be) the most indifferent

matter to my father’s son, whether James died in his bed or from a

scaffold. He was Alan’s cousin, to be sure; but so far as regarded

Alan, the best thing would be to lie low, and let the King, and his

Grace of Argyll, and the corbie crows, pick the bones of his kinsman

their own way. Nor could I forget that, while we were all in the pot

together, James had shown no such particular anxiety whether for Alan

or me.

Next it came upon me I was acting for the sake of justice: and I

thought that a fine word, and reasoned it out that (since we dwelt in

polities, at some discomfort to each one of us) the main thing of all

must still be justice, and the death of any innocent man a wound upon

the whole community. Next, again, it was the Accuser of the Brethren

that gave me a turn of his argument; bade me think shame for pretending

myself concerned in these high matters, and told me I was but a prating

vain child, who had spoken big words to Rankeillor and to Stewart, and

held myself bound upon my vanity to make good that boastfulness. Nay,

and he hit me with the other end of the stick; for he accused me of a

kind of artful cowardice, going about at the expense of a little risk

to purchase greater safety. No doubt, until I had declared and cleared

myself, I might any day encounter Mungo Campbell or the sheriff’s

officer, and be recognised, and dragged into the Appin murder by the

heels; and, no doubt, in case I could manage my declaration with

success, I should breathe more free for ever after. But when I looked

this argument full in the face I could see nothing to be ashamed of. As

for the rest, “Here are the two roads,” I thought, “and both go to the

same place. It’s unjust that James should hang if I can save him; and

it would be ridiculous in me to have talked so much and then do

nothing. It’s lucky for James of the Glens that I have boasted

beforehand; and none so unlucky for myself, because now I’m committed

to do right. I have the name of a gentleman and the means of one; it

would be a poor duty that I was wanting in the essence.” And then I

thought this was a Pagan spirit, and said a prayer in to myself, asking

for what courage I might lack, and that I might go straight to my duty

like a soldier to battle, and come off again scatheless, as so many do.

This train of reasoning brought me to a more resolved complexion;

though it was far from closing up my sense of the dangers that

surrounded me, nor of how very apt I was (if I went on) to stumble on

the ladder of the gallows. It was a plain, fair morning, but the wind

in the east. The little chill of it sang in my blood, and gave me a

feeling of the autumn, and the dead leaves, and dead folks’ bodies in

their graves. It seemed the devil was in it, if I was to die in that

tide of my fortunes and for other folks’ affairs. On the top of the

Calton Hill, though it was not the customary time of year for that

diversion, some children were crying and running with their kites.

These toys appeared very plain against the sky; I remarked a great one

soar on the wind to a high altitude and then plump among the whins; and

I thought to myself at sight of it, “There goes Davie.”

My way lay over Mouter’s Hill, and through an end of a clachan on the

braeside among fields. There was a whirr of looms in it went from house

to house; bees bummed in the gardens; the neighbours that I saw at the

doorsteps talked in a strange tongue; and I found out later that this

was Picardy, a village where the French weavers wrought for the Linen

Company. Here I got a fresh direction for Pilrig, my destination; and a

little beyond, on the wayside, came by a gibbet and two men hanged in

chains. They were dipped in tar, as the manner is; the wind span them,

the chains clattered, and the birds hung about the uncanny

jumping-jacks and cried. The sight coming on me suddenly, like an

illustration of my fears, I could scarce be done with examining it and

drinking in discomfort. And, as I thus turned and turned about the

gibbet, what should I strike on, but a weird old wife, that sat behind

a leg of it, and nodded, and talked aloud to herself with becks and

courtesies.

“Who are these two, mother?” I asked, and pointed to the corpses.

“A blessing on your precious face!” she cried. “Twa joes [7] o’mine:

just two o’ my old joes, my hinny dear.”

“What did they suffer for?” I asked.

“Ou, just for the guid cause,” said she. “Aften I spaed to them the way

that it would end. Twa shillin’ Scots: no pickle mair; and there are

twa bonny callants hingin’ for ’t! They took it frae a wean [8]

belanged to Brouchton.”

“Ay!” said I to myself, and not to the daft limmer, “and did they come

to such a figure for so poor a business? This is to lose all indeed.”

“Gie’s your loof, [9] hinny,” says she, “and let me spae your weird to

ye.”

“No, mother,” said I, “I see far enough the way I am. It’s an unco

thing to see too far in front.”

“I read it in your bree,” she said. “There’s a bonnie lassie that has

bricht een, and there’s a wee man in a braw coat, and a big man in a

pouthered wig, and there’s the shadow of the wuddy, [10] joe, that lies

braid across your path. Gie’s your loof, hinny, and let Auld Merren

spae it to ye bonny.”

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. [11] “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.”