CHAPTER VI.

UMQUILE THE MASTER OF LOVAT

There was a man waiting us in Prestongrange’s study, whom I distasted

at the first look, as we distaste a ferret or an earwig. He was bitter

ugly, but seemed very much of a gentleman; had still manners, but

capable of sudden leaps and violences; and a small voice, which could

ring out shrill and dangerous when he so desired.

The Advocate presented us in a familiar, friendly way.

“Here, Fraser,” said he, “here is Mr. Balfour whom we talked about. Mr.

David, this is Mr. Simon Fraser, whom we used to call by another title,

but that is an old song. Mr. Fraser has an errand to you.”

With that he stepped aside to his book-shelves, and made believe to

consult a quarto volume in the far end.

I was thus left (in a sense) alone with perhaps the last person in the

world I had expected. There was no doubt upon the terms of

introduction; this could be no other than the forfeited Master of Lovat

and chief of the great clan Fraser. I knew he had led his men in the

Rebellion; I knew his father’s head—my old lord’s, that grey fox of the

mountains—to have fallen on the block for that offence, the lands of

the family to have been seized, and their nobility attainted. I could

not conceive what he should be doing in Grant’s house; I could not

conceive that he had been called to the bar, had eaten all his

principles, and was now currying favour with the Government even to the

extent of acting Advocate-Depute in the Appin murder.

“Well, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “what is all this I hear of ye?”

“It would not become me to prejudge,” said I, “but if the Advocate was

your authority he is fully possessed of my opinions.”

“I may tell you I am engaged in the Appin case,” he went on; “I am to

appear under Prestongrange; and from my study of the precognitions I

can assure you your opinions are erroneous. The guilt of Breck is

manifest; and your testimony, in which you admit you saw him on the

hill at the very moment, will certify his hanging.”

“It will be rather ill to hang him till you catch him,” I observed.

“And for other matters I very willingly leave you to your own

impressions.”

“The Duke has been informed,” he went on. “I have just come from his

Grace, and he expressed himself before me with an honest freedom like

the great nobleman he is. He spoke of you by name, Mr. Balfour, and

declared his gratitude beforehand in case you would be led by those who

understand your own interests and those of the country so much better

than yourself. Gratitude is no empty expression in that mouth:

_experto-crede_. I daresay you know something of my name and clan, and

the damnable example and lamented end of my late father, to say nothing

of my own errata. Well, I have made my peace with that good Duke; he

has intervened for me with our friend Prestongrange; and here I am with

my foot in the stirrup again and some of the responsibility shared into

my hand of prosecuting King George’s enemies and avenging the late

daring and barefaced insult to his Majesty.”

“Doubtless a proud position for your father’s son,” says I.

He wagged his bald eyebrows at me. “You are pleased to make experiments

in the ironical, I think,” said he. “But I am here upon duty, I am here

to discharge my errand in good faith, it is in vain you think to divert

me. And let me tell you, for a young fellow of spirit and ambition like

yourself, a good shove in the beginning will do more than ten years’

drudgery. The shove is now at your command; choose what you will to be

advanced in, the Duke will watch upon you with the affectionate

disposition of a father.”

“I am thinking that I lack the docility of the son,” says I.

“And do you really suppose, sir, that the whole policy of this country

is to be suffered to trip up and tumble down for an ill-mannered colt

of a boy?” he cried. “This has been made a test case, all who would

prosper in the future must put a shoulder to the wheel. Look at me! Do

you suppose it is for my pleasure that I put myself in the highly

invidious position of persecuting a man that I have drawn the sword

alongside of? The choice is not left me.”

“But I think, sir, that you forfeited your choice when you mixed in

with that unnatural rebellion,” I remarked. “My case is happily

otherwise; I am a true man, and can look either the Duke or King George

in the face without concern.”

“Is it so the wind sits?” says he. “I protest you are fallen in the

worst sort of error. Prestongrange has been hitherto so civil (he tells

me) as not to combat your allegations; but you must not think they are

not looked upon with strong suspicion. You say you are innocent. My

dear sir, the facts declare you guilty.”

“I was waiting for you there,” said I.

“The evidence of Mungo Campbell; your flight after the completion of

the murder; your long course of secresy—my good young man!” said Mr.

Simon, “here is enough evidence to hang a bullock, let be a David

Balfour! I shall be upon that trial; my voice shall be raised; I shall

then speak much otherwise from what I do to-day, and far less to your

gratification, little as you like it now! Ah, you look white!” cries

he. “I have found the key of your impudent heart. You look pale, your

eyes waver, Mr. David! You see the grave and the gallows nearer by than

you had fancied.”

“I own to a natural weakness,” said I. “I think no shame for that.

Shame. . .” I was going on.

“Shame waits for you on the gibbet,” he broke in.

“Where I shall but be even’d with my lord your father,” said I.

“Aha, but not so!” he cried, “and you do not yet see to the bottom of

this business. My father suffered in a great cause, and for dealing in

the affairs of kings. You are to hang for a dirty murder about

boddle-pieces. Your personal part in it, the treacherous one of holding

the poor wretch in talk, your accomplices a pack of ragged Highland

gillies. And it can be shown, my great Mr. Balfour—it can be shown, and

it _will_ be shown, trust _me_ that has a finger in the pie—it can be

shown, and shall be shown, that you were paid to do it. I think I can

see the looks go round the court when I adduce my evidence, and it

shall appear that you, a young man of education, let yourself be

corrupted to this shocking act for a suit of cast clothes, a bottle of

Highland spirits, and three-and-fivepence-halfpenny in copper money.”

There was a touch of the truth in these words that knocked me like a

blow: clothes, a bottle of _usquebaugh_, and

three-and-fivepence-halfpenny in change made up, indeed, the most of

what Alan and I had carried from Auchurn; and I saw that some of

James’s people had been blabbing in their dungeons.

“You see I know more than you fancied,” he resumed in triumph. “And as

for giving it this turn, great Mr. David, you must not suppose the

Government of Great Britain and Ireland will ever be stuck for want of

evidence. We have men here in prison who will swear out their lives as

we direct them; as I direct, if you prefer the phrase. So now you are

to guess your part of glory if you choose to die. On the one hand,

life, wine, women, and a duke to be your handgun: on the other, a rope

to your craig, and a gibbet to clatter your bones on, and the lousiest,

lowest story to hand down to your namesakes in the future that was ever

told about a hired assassin. And see here!” he cried, with a formidable

shrill voice, “see this paper that I pull out of my pocket. Look at the

name there: it is the name of the great David, I believe, the ink

scarce dry yet. Can you guess its nature? It is the warrant for your

arrest, which I have but to touch this bell beside me to have executed

on the spot. Once in the Tolbooth upon this paper, may God help you,

for the die is cast!”

I must never deny that I was greatly horrified by so much baseness, and

much unmanned by the immediacy and ugliness of my danger. Mr. Simon had

already gloried in the changes of my hue; I make no doubt I was now no

ruddier than my shirt; my speech besides trembled.

“There is a gentleman in this room,” cried I. “I appeal to him. I put

my life and credit in his hands.”

Prestongrange shut his book with a snap. “I told you so, Simon,” said

he; “you have played your hand for all it was worth, and you have lost.

Mr. David,” he went on, “I wish you to believe it was by no choice of

mine you were subjected to this proof. I wish you could understand how

glad I am you should come forth from it with so much credit. You may

not quite see how, but it is a little of a service to myself. For had

our friend here been more successful than I was last night, it might

have appeared that he was a better judge of men than I; it might have

appeared we were altogether in the wrong situations, Mr. Simon and

myself. And I know our friend Simon to be ambitious,” says he, striking

lightly on Fraser’s shoulder. “As for this stage play, it is over; my

sentiments are very much engaged in your behalf; and whatever issue we

can find to this unfortunate affair, I shall make it my business to see

it is adopted with tenderness to you.”

These were very good words, and I could see besides that there was

little love, and perhaps a spice of genuine ill-will, between these two

who were opposed to me. For all that, it was unmistakable this

interview had been designed, perhaps rehearsed, with the consent of

both; it was plain my adversaries were in earnest to try me by all

methods; and now (persuasion, flattery, and menaces having been tried

in vain) I could not but wonder what would be their next expedient. My

eyes besides were still troubled, and my knees loose under me, with the

distress of the late ordeal; and I could do no more than stammer the

same form of words: “I put my life and credit in your hands.”

“Well, well,” said he, “we must try to save them. And in the meanwhile

let us return to gentler methods. You must not bear any grudge upon my

friend, Mr. Simon, who did but speak by his brief. And even if you did

conceive some malice against myself, who stood by and seemed rather to

hold a candle, I must not let that extend to innocent members of my

family. These are greatly engaged to see more of you, and I cannot

consent to have my young womenfolk disappointed. To-morrow they will be

going to Hope Park, where I think it very proper you should make your

bow. Call for me first, when I may possibly have something for your

private hearing; then you shall be turned abroad again under the

conduct of my misses; and until that time repeat to me your promise of

secrecy.”

I had done better to have instantly refused, but in truth I was beside

the power of reasoning; did as I was bid; took my leave I know not how;

and when I was forth again in the close, and the door had shut behind

me, was glad to lean on a house wall and wipe my face. That horrid

apparition (as I may call it) of Mr. Simon rang in my memory, as a

sudden noise rings after it is over in the ear. Tales of the man’s

father, of his falseness, of his manifold perpetual treacheries, rose

before me from all that I had heard and read, and joined on with what I

had just experienced of himself. Each time it occurred to me, the

ingenious foulness of that calumny he had proposed to nail upon my

character startled me afresh. The case of the man upon the gibbet by

Leith Walk appeared scarce distinguishable from that I was now to

consider as my own. To rob a child of so little more than nothing was

certainly a paltry enterprise for two grown men; but my own tale, as it

was to be represented in a court by Simon Fraser, appeared a fair

second in every possible point of view of sordidness and cowardice.

The voices of two of Prestongrange’s liveried men upon his doorstep

recalled me to myself.

“Ha’e,” said the one, “this billet as fast as ye can link to the

captain.”

“Is that for the cateran back again?” asked the other.

“It would seem sae,” returned the first. “Him and Simon are seeking

him.”

“I think Prestongrange is gane gyte,” says the second. “He’ll have

James More in bed with him next.”

“Weel, it’s neither your affair nor mine’s,” said the first.

And they parted, the one upon his errand, and the other back into the

house.

This looked as ill as possible. I was scarce gone and they were sending

already for James More, to whom I thought Mr. Simon must have pointed

when he spoke of men in prison and ready to redeem their lives by all

extremities. My scalp curdled among my hair, and the next moment the

blood leaped in me to remember Catriona. Poor lass! her father stood to

be hanged for pretty indefensible misconduct. What was yet more

unpalatable, it now seemed he was prepared to save his four quarters by

the worst of shame and the most foul of cowardly murders—murder by the

false oath; and to complete our misfortunes, it seemed myself was

picked out to be the victim.

I began to walk swiftly and at random, conscious only of a desire for

movement, air, and the open country.