CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

Then she stretched out her lily hand, And for to do her best; “Hae back thy faith and troth, Willie, God gie thy soul good rest!” Old Ballad.

“Come in,” answered the low and sweet-toned voice he loved best to hear, as Butler tapped at the door of the cottage. He lifted the latch, and found himself under the roof of affliction. Jeanie was unable to trust herself with more than one glance towards her lover, whom she now met under circumstances so agonising to her feelings, and at the same time so humbling to her honest pride. It is well known, that much, both of what is good and bad in the Scottish national character, arises out of the intimacy of their family connections. “To be come of honest folk,” that is, of people who have borne a fair and unstained reputation, is an advantage as highly prized among the lower Scotch, as the emphatic counterpart, “to be of a good family,” is valued among their gentry. The worth and respectability of one member of a peasantís family is always accounted by themselves and others, not only a matter of honest pride, but a guarantee for the good conduct of the whole. On the contrary, such a melancholy stain as was now flung on one of the children of Deans, extended its disgrace to all connected with him, and Jeanie felt herself lowered at once, in her own eyes, and in those of her lover. It was in vain that she repressed this feeling, as far subordinate and too selfish to be mingled with her sorrow for her sisterís calamity. Nature prevailed; and while she shed tears for her sisterís distress and danger, there mingled with them bitter drops of grief for her own degradation.

As Butler entered, the old man was seated by the fire with his well-worn pocket Bible in his hands, the companion of the wanderings and dangers of his youth, and bequeathed to him on the scaffold by one of those, who, in the year 1686, sealed their enthusiastic principles with their blood. The sun sent its rays through a small window at the old manís back, and, “shining motty through the reek,” to use the expression of a bard of that time and country, illumined the grey hairs of the old man, and the sacred page which he studied. His features, far from handsome, and rather harsh and severe, had yet from their expression of habitual gravity, and contempt for earthly things, an expression of stoical dignity amidst their sternness. He boasted, in no small degree, the attributes which Southey ascribes to the ancient Scandinavians, whom he terms “firm to inflict, and stubborn to endure.” The whole formed a picture, of which the lights might have been given by Rembrandt, but the outline would have required the force and vigour of Michael Angelo.

Deans lifted his eye as Butler entered, and instantly withdrew it, as from an object which gave him at once surprise and sudden pain. He had assumed such high ground with this carnal-witted scholar, as he had in his pride termed Butler, that to meet him, of all men, under feelings of humiliation, aggravated his misfortune, and was a consummation like that of the dying chief in the old ballad--“Earl Percy sees my fall!”

Deans raised the Bible with his left hand, so as partly to screen his face, and putting back his right as far as he could, held it towards Butler in that position, at the same time turning his body from, him, as if to prevent his seeing the working of his countenance. Butler clasped the extended hand which had supported his orphan infancy, wept over it, and in vain endeavoured to say more than the words--“God comfort you--God comfort you!”

“He will--he doth, my friend,” said Deans, assuming firmness as he discovered the agitation of his guest; “he doth now, and he will yet more in his own gude time. I have been ower proud of my sufferings in a gude cause, Reuben, and now I am to be tried with those whilk will turn my pride and glory into a reproach and a hissing. How muckle better I hae thought mysell than them that lay saft, fed sweet, and drank deep, when I was in the moss-haggs and moors, wií precious Donald Cameron, and worthy Mr. Blackadder, called Guess-again; and how proud I was oí being made a spectacle to men and angels, having stood on their pillory at the Canongate afore I was fifteen years old, for the cause of a National Covenant! To think, Reuben, that I, wha hae been sae honoured and exalted in my youth, nay, when I was but a hafflins callant, and that hae borne testimony again the defections oí the times yearly, monthly, daily, hourly, minutely, striving and testifying with uplifted hand and voice, crying aloud, and sparing not, against all great national snares, as the nation-wasting and church-sinking abomination of union, toleration, and patronage, imposed by the last woman of that unhappy race of Stuarts; also against the infringements and invasions of the just powers of eldership, whereanent, I uttered my paper, called a ëCry of an Howl in the Desert,í printed at the Bow-head, and sold by all flying stationers in town and country--and _now_--”

Here he paused. It may well be supposed that Butler, though not absolutely coinciding in all the good old manís ideas about church government, had too much consideration and humanity to interrupt him, while he reckoned up with conscious pride his sufferings, and the constancy of his testimony. On the contrary, when he paused under the influence of the bitter recollections of the moment, Butler instantly threw in his mite of encouragement.

“You have been well known, my old and revered friend, a true and tried follower of the Cross; one who, as Saint Jerome hath it, ë_per infamiam et bonam famam grassari ad immortalitatem,_í which may be freely rendered, ëwho rusheth on to immortal life, through bad report and good report.í You have been one of those to whom the tender and fearful souls cry during the midnight solitude--ëWatchman, what of the night?--Watchman, what of the night?í--And, assuredly, this heavy dispensation, as it comes not without divine permission, so it comes not without its special commission and use.”

“I do receive it as such,” said poor Deans, returning the grasp of Butlerís hand; “and if I have not been taught to read the Scripture in any other tongue but my native Scottish” (even in his distress Butlerís Latin quotation had not escaped his notice), “I have nevertheless so learned them, that I trust to bear even this crook in my lot with submission. But, oh! Reuben Butler, the kirk, of whilk, though unworthy, I have yet been thought a polished shaft, and meet to be a pillar, holding, from my youth upward, the place of ruling elder--what will the lightsome and profane think of the guide that cannot keep his own family from stumbling? How will they take up their song and their reproach, when they see that the children of professors are liable to as foul backsliding as the offspring of Belial! But I will bear my cross with the comfort, that whatever showed like goodness in me or mine, was but like the light that shines frae creeping insects, on the brae-side, in a dark night--it kythes bright to the ee, because all is dark around it; but when the morn comes on the mountains, it is, but a puir crawling kail-worm after aí. And sae it shows, wií ony rag of human righteousness, or formal law-work, that we may pit round us to cover our shame.”

As he pronounced these words, the door again opened, and Mr. Bartoline Saddletree entered, his three-pointed hat set far back on his head, with a silk handkerchief beneath it to keep it in that cool position, his gold-headed cane in his hand, and his whole deportment that of a wealthy burgher, who might one day look to have a share in the magistracy, if not actually to hold the curule chair itself.

Rochefoucault, who has torn the veil from so many foul gangrenes of the human heart, says, we find something not altogether unpleasant to us in the misfortunes of our best friends. Mr. Saddletree would have been very angry had any one told him that he felt pleasure in the disaster of poor Effie Deans, and the disgrace of her family; and yet there is great question whether the gratification of playing the person of importance, inquiring, investigating, and laying down the law on the whole affair, did not offer, to say the least, full consolation for the pain which pure sympathy gave him on account of his wifeís kinswoman. He had now got a piece of real judicial business by the end, instead of being obliged, as was his common case, to intrude his opinion where it was neither wished nor wanted; and felt as happy in the exchange as a boy when he gets his first new watch, which actually goes when wound up, and has real hands and a true dial-plate. But besides this subject for legal disquisition, Bartolineís brains were also overloaded with the affair of Porteous, his violent death, and all its probable consequences to the city and community. It was what the French call _líembarras des richesses,_ the confusion arising from too much mental wealth. He walked in with a consciousness of double importance, full fraught with the superiority of one who possesses more information than the company into which he enters, and who feels a right to discharge his learning on them without mercy. “Good morning, Mr. Deans,--good-morrow to you, Mr. Butler,--I was not aware that you were acquainted with Mr. Deans.”

Butler made some slight answer; his reasons may be readily imagined for not making his connection with the family, which, in his eyes, had something of tender mystery, a frequent subject of conversation with indifferent persons, such as Saddletree.

The worthy burgher, in the plenitude of self-importance, now sate down upon a chair, wiped his brow, collected his breath, and made the first experiment of the resolved pith of his lungs, in a deep and dignified sigh, resembling a groan in sound and intonation--“Awfuí times these, neighbour Deans, awfuí times!”

“Sinfuí, shamefuí, heaven-daring times!” answered Deans, in a lower and more subdued tone.

“For my part,” continued Saddletree, swelling with importance, “what between the distress of my friends, and my poor auld country, ony wit that ever I had may be said to have abandoned me, sae that I sometimes think myself as ignorant as if I were _inter rusticos._ Here when I arise in the morning, wií my mind just arranged touching whatís to be done in puir Effieís misfortune, and hae gotten the haill statute at my finger-ends, the mob maun get up and string Jock Porteous to a dyesterís beam, and ding aí thing out of my head again.”

Deeply as he was distressed with his own domestic calamity, Deans could not help expressing some interest in the news. Saddletree immediately entered on details of the insurrection and its consequences, while Butler took the occasion to seek some private conversation with Jeanie Deans. She gave him the opportunity he sought, by leaving the room, as if in prosecution of some part of her morning labour. Butler followed her in a few minutes, leaving Deans so closely engaged by his busy visitor, that there was little chance of his observing their absence.

The scene of their interview was an outer apartment, where Jeanie was used to busy herself in arranging the productions of her dairy. When Butler found an opportunity of stealing after her into this place, he found her silent, dejected, and ready to burst into tears. Instead of the active industry with which she had been accustomed, even while in the act of speaking, to employ her hands in some useful branch of household business, she was seated listless in a corner, sinking apparently under the weight of her own thoughts. Yet the instant he entered, she dried her eyes, and, with the simplicity and openness of her character, immediately entered on conversation.

“I am glad you have come in, Mr. Butler,” said she, “for--for--for I wished to tell ye, that all maun be ended between you and me--itís best for baith our sakes.”

“Ended!” said Butler, in surprise; “and for what should it be ended?--I grant this is a heavy dispensation, but it lies neither at your door nor mine--itís an evil of Godís sending, and it must be borne; but it cannot break plighted troth, Jeanie, while they that plighted their word wish to keep it.”

“But, Reuben,” said the young woman, looking at him affectionately, “I ken weel that ye think mair of me than yourself; and, Reuben, I can only in requital think mair of your weal than of my ain. Ye are a man of spotless name, bred to Godís ministry, and aí men say that ye will some day rise high in the kirk, though poverty keep ye doun eíen now. Poverty is a bad back-friend, Reuben, and that ye ken ower weel; but ill-fame is a waur ane, and that is a truth ye sall never learn through my means.”

“What do you mean?” said Butler, eagerly and impatiently; “or how do you connect your sisterís guilt, if guilt there be, which, I trust in God, may yet be disproved, with our engagement?--how can that affect you or me?”

“How can you ask me that, Mr. Butler? Will this stain, díye think, ever be forgotten, as lang as our heads are abune the grund? Will it not stick to us, and to our bairns, and to their very bairnsí bairns? To hae been the child of an honest man, might hae been saying something for me and mine; but to be the sister of a--O my God!”--With this exclamation her resolution failed, and she burst into a passionate fit of tears.

The lover used every effort to induce her to compose herself, and at length succeeded; but she only resumed her composure to express herself with the same positiveness as before. “No, Reuben, Iíll bring disgrace hame to nae manís hearth; my ain distresses I can bear, and I maun bear, but there is nae occasion for buckling them on other folkís shouthers. I will bear my load alone--the back is made for the burden.”

A lover is by charter wayward and suspicious; and Jeanieís readiness to renounce their engagement, under pretence of zeal for his peace of mind and respectability of character, seemed to poor Butler to form a portentous combination with the commission of the stranger he had met with that morning. His voice faltered as he asked, “whether nothing but a sense of her sisterís present distress occasioned her to talk in that manner?”

“And what else can do sae?” she replied with simplicity. “Is it not ten long years since we spoke together in this way?”

“Ten years!” said Butler. “Itís a long time--sufficient perhaps for a woman to weary.”

“To weary of her auld gown,” said Jeanie, “and to wish for a new ane if she likes to be brave, but not long enough to weary of a friend--The eye may wish change, but the heart never.”

“Never!” said Reuben,--“thatís a bold promise.”

“But not more bauld than true,” said Jeanie, with the same quiet simplicity which attended her manner in joy and grief in ordinary affairs, and in those which most interested her feelings.

Butler paused, and looking at her fixedly--“I am charged,” he said, “with a message to you, Jeanie.”

“Indeed! From whom? Or what can ony ane have to say to me?”

“It is from a stranger,” said Butler, affecting to speak with an indifference which his voice belied--“A young man whom I met this morning in the Park.”

“Mercy!” said Jeanie, eagerly; “and what did he say?”

“That he did not see you at the hour he expected, but required you should meet him alone at Muschatís Cairn this night, so soon as the moon rises.”

“Tell him,” said Jeanie, hastily, “I shall certainly come.”

“May I ask,” said Butler, his suspicions increasing at the ready alacrity of the answer, “who this man is to whom you are so willing to give the meeting at a place and hour so uncommon?”

“Folk maun do muckle they have little will to do, in this world,” replied Jeanie.

“Granted,” said her lover; “but what compels you to this?--who is this person? What I saw of him was not very favourable--who, or what is he?”

“I do not know,” replied Jeanie, composedly.

“You do not know!” said Butler, stepping impatiently through the apartment--“You purpose to meet a young man whom you do not know, at such a time, and in a place so lonely--you say you are compelled to do this--and yet you say you do not know the person who exercises such an influence over you!--Jeanie, what am I to think of this?”

“Think only, Reuben, that I speak truth, as if I were to answer at the last day.--I do not ken this man--I do not even ken that I ever saw him; and yet I must give him the meeting he asks--thereís life and death upon it.”

“Will you not tell your father, or take him with you?” said Butler.

“I cannot,” said Jeanie; “I have no permission.”

“Will you let _me_ go with you? I will wait in the Park till nightfall, and join you when you set out.”

“It is impossible,” said Jeanie; “there maunna be mortal creature within hearing of our conference.”

“Have you considered well the nature of what you are going to do?--the time--the place--an unknown and suspicious character?--Why, if he had asked to see you in this house, your father sitting in the next room, and within call, at such an hour, you should have refused to see him.”

“My weird maun be fulfilled, Mr. Butler; my life and my safety are in Godís hands, but Iíll not spare to risk either of them on the errand I am gaun to do.”

“Then, Jeanie,” said Butler, much displeased, “we must indeed break short off, and bid farewell. When there can be no confidence betwixt a man and his plighted wife on such a momentous topic, it is a sign that she has no longer the regard for him that makes their engagement safe and suitable.”

Jeanie looked at him and sighed. “I thought,” she said, “that I had brought myself to bear this parting--but--but--I did not ken that we were to part in unkindness. But I am a woman and you are a man--it may be different wií you--if your mind is made easier by thinking sae hardly of me, I would not ask you to think otherwise.”

“You are,” said Butler, “what you have always been--wiser, better, and less selfish in your native feelings, than I can be, with all the helps philosophy can give to a Christian--But why--why will you persevere in an undertaking so desperate? Why will you not let me be your assistant--your protector, or at least your adviser?”

“Just because I cannot, and I dare not,” answered Jeanie.--“But hark, whatís that? Surely my father is no weel?”

In fact, the voices in the next room became obstreperously loud of a sudden, the cause of which vociferation it is necessary to explain before we go farther.

When Jeanie and Butler retired, Mr. Saddletree entered upon the business which chiefly interested the family. In the commencement of their conversation he found old Deans, who in his usual state of mind, was no granter of propositions, so much subdued by a deep sense of his daughterís danger and disgrace, that he heard without replying to, or perhaps without understanding, one or two learned disquisitions on the nature of the crime imputed to her charge, and on the steps which ought to be taken in consequence. His only answer at each pause was, “I am no misdoubting that you wuss us weel--your wifeís our far-awa cousin.”

Encouraged by these symptoms of acquiescence, Saddletree, who, as an amateur of the law, had a supreme deference for all constituted authorities, again recurred to his other topic of interest, the murder, namely, of Porteous, and pronounced a severe censure on the parties concerned.

“These are kittle times--kittle times, Mr. Deans, when the people take the power of life and death out of the hands of the rightful magistrate into their ain rough grip. I am of opinion, and so I believe will Mr. Crossmyloof and the Privy Council, that this rising in effeir of war, to take away the life of a reprieved man, will prove little better than perduellion.”

“If I hadna that on my mind whilk is ill to bear, Mr. Saddletree,” said Deans, “I wad make bold to dispute that point wií you.”

“How could you dispute whatís plain law, man?” said Saddletree, somewhat contemptuously; “thereís no a callant that eíer carried a pock wií a process inít, but will tell you that perduellion is the warst and maist virulent kind of treason, being an open convocating of the kingís lieges against his authority (mair especially in arms, and by touk of drum, to baith whilk accessories my een and lugs bore witness), and muckle worse than lese-majesty, or the concealment of a treasonable purpose--It winna bear a dispute, neighbour.”

“But it will, though,” retorted Douce Davie Deans; “I tell ye it will bear a disputer never like your cauld, legal, formal doctrines, neighbour Saddletree. I haud unco little by the Parliament House, since the awfuí downfall of the hopes of honest folk that followed the Revolution.”

“But what wad ye hae had, Mr. Deans?” said Saddletree, impatiently; “didna ye get baith liberty and conscience made fast, and settled by tailzie on you and your heirs for ever?”

“Mr. Saddletree,” retorted Deans, “I ken ye are one of those that are wise after the manner of this world, and that ye hand your part, and cast in your portion, wií the lang heads and lang gowns, and keep with the smart witty-pated lawyers of this our land--Weary on the dark and dolefuí cast that they hae gien this unhappy kingdom, when their black hands of defection were clasped in the red hands of our sworn murtherers: when those who had numbered the towers of our Zion, and marked the bulwarks of Reformation, saw their hope turn into a snare, and their rejoicing into weeping.”

“I canna understand this, neighbour,” answered Saddletree. “I am an honest Presbyterian of the Kirk of Scotland, and stand by her and the General Assembly, and the due administration of justice by the fifteen Lords oí Session and the five Lords oí Justiciary.”

“Out upon ye, Mr. Saddletree!” exclaimed David, who, in an opportunity of giving his testimony on the offences and backslidings of the land, forgot for a moment his own domestic calamity--“out upon your General Assembly, and the back of my hand to your Court oí Session!--What is the tane but a waefuí bunch oí cauldrife professors and ministers, that sate bien and warm when the persecuted remnant were warstling wií hunger, and cauld, and fear of death, and danger of fire and sword upon wet brae-sides, peat-haggs, and flow-mosses, and that now creep out of their holes, like bluebottle flees in a blink of sunshine, to take the puípits and places of better folk--of them that witnessed, and testified, and fought, and endured pit, prison-house, and transportation beyond seas?--A bonny bike thereís oí them!--And for your Court oí Session--”

“Ye may say what ye will oí the General Assembly,” said Saddletree, interrupting him, “and let them clear them that kens them; but as for the Lords oí Session, forby that they are my next-door neighbours, I would have ye ken, for your ain regulation, that to raise scandal anent them, whilk is termed to _murmur_ again them, is a crime _sui generis,_--_sui generis,_ Mr. Deans--ken ye what that amounts to?”

“I ken little oí the language of Antichrist,” said Deans; “and I care less than little what carnal courts may call the speeches of honest men. And as to murmur again them, itís what aí the folk that loses their pleas, and nine-tenths oí them that win them, will be gey sure to be guilty in. Sae I wad hae ye ken that I hand aí your gleg-tongued advocates, that sell their knowledge for pieces of silver--and your worldly-wise judges, that will gie three days of hearing in presence to a debate about the peeling of an ingan, and no ae half-hour to the gospel testimony--as legalists and formalists, countenancing by sentences, and quirks, and cunning terms of law, the late begun courses of national defections--union, toleration, patronages, and Yerastian prelatic oaths. As for the soul and body-killing Court oí Justiciary--”

The habit of considering his life as dedicated to bear testimony in behalf of what he deemed the suffering and deserted cause of true religion, had swept honest David along with it thus far; but with the mention of the criminal court, the recollection of the disastrous condition of his daughter rushed at once on his mind; he stopped short in the midst of his triumphant declamation, pressed his hands against his forehead, and remained silent.

Saddletree was somewhat moved, but apparently not so much so as to induce him to relinquish the privilege of prosing in his turn afforded him by Davidís sudden silence. “Nae doubt, neighbour,” he said, “itís a sair thing to hae to do wií courts of law, unless it be to improve aneís knowledge and practique, by waiting on as a hearer; and touching this unhappy affair of Effie--yeíll hae seen the dittay, doubtless?” He dragged out of his pocket a bundle of papers, and began to turn them over. “This is no it--this is the information of Mungo Marsport, of that ilk, against Captain Lackland, for coming on his lands of Marsport with hawks, hounds, lying-dogs, nets, guns, cross-bows, hagbuts of found, or other engines more or less for destruction of game, sic as red-deer, fallow-deer, cappercailzies, grey-fowl, moor-fowl, paitricks, herons, and sic like; he, the said defender not being ane qualified person, in terms of the statute sixteen hundred and twenty-ane; that is, not having ane plough-gate of land. Now, the defences proponed say, that _non constat_ at this present what is a plough-gate of land, whilk uncertainty is sufficient to elide the conclusions of the libel. But then the answers to the defences (they are signed by Mr. Crossmyloof, but Mr. Younglad drew them), they propone, that it signifies naething, _in hoc statu,_ what or how muckle a plough-gate of land may be, in respect the defender has nae lands whatsoever, less or mair. ëSae grant a plough-gateí” (here Saddletree read from the paper in his hand) “ëto be less than the nineteenth part of a guseís grassí--(I trow Mr. Crossmyloof put in that--I ken his style),--ëof a guseís grass, what the better will the defender be, seeing he hasna a divot-cast of land in Scotland?--_Advocatus_ for Lackland duplies, that _nihil interest de possessione,_ the pursuer must put his case under the statuteí--(now, this is worth your notice, neighbour),--ëand must show, _formaliter et specialiter,_ as well as _generaliter,_ what is the qualification that defender Lackland does _not_ possess--let him tell me what a plough-gate of land is, and Iíll tell him if I have one or no. Surely the pursuer is bound to understand his own libel, and his own statute that he founds upon. _Titius_ pursues _Maevius_ for recovery of ane _black_ horse lent to Maevius--surely he shall have judgment; but if Titius pursue Maevius for ane _scarlet_ or _crimson_ horse, doubtless he shall be bound to show that there is sic ane animal _in rerum natura._ No man can be bound to plead to nonsense--that is to say, to a charge which cannot be explained or understoodí--(heís wrang there--the better the pleadings the fewer understand them),--ëand so the reference unto this undefined and unintelligible measure of land is, as if a penalty was inflicted by statute for any man who suld hunt or hawk, or use lying-dogs, and wearing a sky-blue pair of breeches, without having--ëBut I am wearying you, Mr. Deans,--weíll pass to your ain business,--though this cue of Marsport against Lackland has made an unco din in the Outer House. Weel, hereís the dittay against puir Effie: ëWhereas it is humbly meant and shown to us,í etc. (they are words of mere style), ëthat whereas, by the laws of this and every other well-regulated realm, the murder of any one, more especially of an infant child, is a crime of ane high nature, and severely punishable: And whereas, without prejudice to the foresaid generality, it was, by ane act made in the second session of the First Parliament of our most High and Dread Sovereigns William and Mary, especially enacted, that ane woman who shall have concealed her condition, and shall not be able to show that she hath called for help at the birth in case that the child shall be found dead or amissing, shall be deemed and held guilty of the murder thereof; and the said facts of concealment and pregnancy being found proven or confessed, shall sustain the pains of law accordingly; yet, nevertheless, you, Effie, or Euphemia Deans--í”

“Read no farther!” said Deans, raising his head up; “I would rather ye thrust a sword into my heart than read a word farther!”

“Weel, neighbour,” said Saddletree, “I thought it wad hae comforted ye to ken the best and the warst oít. But the question is, whatís to be dune?”

“Nothing,” answered Deans firmly, “but to abide the dispensation that the Lord sees meet to send us. Oh, if it had been His will to take the grey head to rest before this awful visitation on my house and name! But His will be done. I can say that yet, though I can say little mair.”

“But, neighbour,” said Saddletree, “yeíll retain advocates for the puir lassie? itís a thing maun needs be thought of.”

“If there was ae man of them,” answered Deans, “that held fast his integrity--but I ken them weel, they are aí carnal, crafty, and warld-hunting self-seekers, Yerastians, and Arminians, every ane oí them.”

“Hout tout, neighbour, ye mauna take the warld at its word,” said Saddletree; “the very deil is no sae ill as heís caíd; and I ken mair than ae advocate that may be said to hae some integrity as weel as their neighbours; that is, after a sort oí fashioní oí their ain.”

“It is indeed but a fashion of integrity that ye will find amang them,” replied David Deans, “and a fashion of wisdom, and fashion of carnal learning--gazing, glancing-glasses they are, fit only to fling the glaiks in folkís een, wií their pawky policy, and earthly ingine, their flights and refinements, and periods of eloquence, frae heathen emperors and popish canons. They canna, in that daft trash ye were reading to me, sae muckle as caí men that are sae ill-starred as to be amang their hands, by ony name oí the dispensation oí grace, but maun new baptize them by the names of the accursed Titus, wha was made the instrument of burning the holy Temple, and other sic like heathens!”

“Itís Tishius,” interrupted Saddletree, “and no Titus. Mr. Crossmyloof cares as little about Titus or the Latin as ye do.--But itís a case of necessity--she maun hae counsel. Now, I could speak to Mr. Crossmyloof--heís weel keníd for a round-spun Presbyterian, and a ruling elder to boot.”

“Heís a rank Yerastian,” replied Deans; “one of the public and polititious warldly-wise men that stude up to prevent ane general owning of the cause in the day of power!”

“What say ye to the auld Laird of Cuffabout?” said Saddletree; “he whiles thumps the dust out of a case gey and well.”

“He? the fause loon!” answered Deans--“he was in his bandaliers to hae joined the ungracious Highlanders in 1715, an they had ever had the luck to cross the Firth.”

“Weel, Arniston? thereís a clever chield for ye!” said Bartoline, triumphantly.

“Ay, to bring popish medals in till their very library from that schismatic woman in the north, the Duchess of Gordon.” *

* [James Dundas younger of Arniston was tried in the year 1711 upon charge of leasing-making, in having presented, from the Duchess of Gordon, medal of the Pretender, for the purpose, it was said, of affronting Queen Anne.]

“Weel, weel, but somebody ye maun hae--What think ye oí Kittlepunt?”

“Heís an Arminian.”

“Woodsetter?”

“Heís, I doubt, a Cocceian.”

“Auld Whilliewhaw?”

“Heís ony thing ye like.”

“Young Naemmo?”

“Heís naething at aí.”

“Yeíre ill to please, neighbour,” said Saddletree: “I hae run ower the pick oí them for you, ye maun eíen choose for yoursell; but bethink ye that in the multitude of counsellors thereís safety--What say ye to try young Mackenyie? he has aí his uncleís Practiques at the tongueís end.”

“What, sir, wad ye speak to me,” exclaimed the sturdy Presbyterian in excessive wrath, “about a man that has the blood of the saints at his fingersí ends? Did na his eme [Uncle] die and gang to his place wií the name of the Bluidy Mackenyie? and winna he be kend by that name sae lang as thereís a Scots tongue to speak the word? If the life of the dear bairn thatís under a suffering dispensation, and Jeanieís, and my ain, and aí mankindís, depended on my asking sic a slave oí Satan to speak a word for me or them, they should aí gae doun the water thegither for Davie Deans!”

It was the exalted tone in which he spoke this last sentence that broke up the conversation between Butler and Jeanie, and brought them both “ben the house,” to use the language of the country. Here they found the poor old man half frantic between grief and zealous ire against Saddletreeís proposed measures, his cheek inflamed, his hand clenched, and his voice raised, while the tear in his eye, and the occasional quiver of his accents, showed that his utmost efforts were inadequate to shaking off the consciousness of his misery. Butler, apprehensive of the consequences of his agitation to an aged and feeble frame, ventured to utter to him a recommendation to patience.

“I _am_ patient,” returned the old man sternly,--“more patient than any one who is alive to the woeful backslidings of a miserable time can be patient; and in so much, that I need neither sectarians, nor sons nor grandsons of sectarians, to instruct my grey hairs how to bear my cross.”

“But, sir,” continued Butler, taking no offence at the slur cast on his grandfatherís faith, “we must use human means. When you call in a physician, you would not, I suppose, question him on the nature of his religious principles!”

“Wad I _no?_” answered David--“but I wad, though; and if he didna satisfy me that he had a right sense of the right hand and left hand defections of the day, not a goutte of his physic should gang through my fatherís son.”

It is a dangerous thing to trust to an illustration. Butler had done so and miscarried; but, like a gallant soldier when his musket misses fire, he stood his ground, and charged with the bayonet.--“This is too rigid an interpretation of your duty, sir. The sun shines, and the rain descends, on the just and unjust, and they are placed together in life in circumstances which frequently render intercourse between them indispensable, perhaps that the evil may have an opportunity of being converted by the good, and perhaps, also, that the righteous might, among other trials, be subjected to that of occasional converse with the profane.”

“Yeíre a silly callant, Reuben,” answered Deans, “with your bits of argument. Can a man touch pitch and not be defiled? Or what think ye of the brave and worthy champions of the Covenant, that wadna sae muckle as hear a minister speak, be his gifts and graces as they would, that hadna witnessed against the enormities of the day? Nae lawyer shall ever speak for me and mine that hasna concurred in the testimony of the scattered, yet lovely remnant, which abode in the clifts of the rocks.”

So saying, and as if fatigued, both with the arguments and presence of his guests, the old man arose, and seeming to bid them adieu with a motion of his head and hand, went to shut himself up in his sleeping apartment.

“Itís thrawing his daughterís life awa,” said Saddletree to Butler, “to hear him speak in that daft gate. Where will he ever get a Cameronian advocate? Or wha ever heard of a lawyerís suffering either for ae religion or another? The lassieís life is clean flung awa.”

During the latter part of this debate, Dumbiedikes had arrived at the door, dismounted, hung the ponyís bridle on the usual hook, and sunk down on his ordinary settle. His eyes, with more than their usual animation, followed first one speaker then another, till he caught the melancholy sense of the whole from Saddletreeís last words. He rose from his seat, stumped slowly across the room, and, coming close up to Saddletreeís ear, said in a tremulous anxious voice, “Will--will siller do naething for them, Mr. Saddletree?”

“Umph!” said Saddletree, looking grave,--“siller will certainly do it in the Parliament House, if ony thing _can_ do it; but whereís the siller to come frae? Mr. Deans, ye see, will do naething; and though Mrs. Saddletreeís their far-awa friend, and right good weel-wisher, and is weel disposed to assist, yet she wadna like to stand to be bound _singuli in solidum_ to such an expensive wark. An ilka friend wad bear a share oí the burden, something might be dune--ilka ane to be liable for their ain input--I wadna like to see the case faí through without being pled--it wadna be creditable, for aí that daft whig body says.”

“Iíll--I will--yes” (assuming fortitude), “I will be answerable,” said Dumbiedikes, “for a score of punds sterling.”--And he was silent, staring in astonishment at finding himself capable of such unwonted resolution and excessive generosity.

“God Almighty bless ye, Laird!” said Jeanie, in a transport of gratitude.

“Ye may caí the twenty punds thretty,” said Dumbiedikes, looking bashfully away from her, and towards Saddletree.

“That will do bravely,” said Saddletree, rubbing his hands; “and ye sall hae aí my skill and knowledge to gar the siller gang far--Iíll tape it out weel--I ken how to gar the birkies tak short fees, and be glad oí them too--itís only garring them trow ye hae twa or three cases of importance coming on, and theyíll work cheap to get custom. Let me alane for whilly-whaing an advocate:--itís nae sin to get as muckle flue them for our siller as we can--after aí, itís but the wind oí their mouth--it costs them naething; whereas, in my wretched occupation of a saddler, horse milliner, and harness maker, we are out unconscionable sums just for barkened hides and leather.”

“Can I be of no use?” said Butler. “My means, alas! are only worth the black coat I wear; but I am young--I owe much to the family--Can I do nothing?”

“Ye can help to collect evidence, sir,” said Saddletree; “if we could but find ony ane to say she had gien the least hint oí her condition, she wad be brought aft wií a wat finger--Mr. Crossmyloof tellíd me sae. The crown, says he, canna be craved to prove a positive--wasít a positive or a negative they couldna be caíd to prove?--it was the tane or the tither oí them, I am sure, and it maksna muckle matter whilk. Wherefore, says he, the libel maun be redargued by the panel proving her defences. And it canna be done otherwise.”

“But the fact, sir,” argued Butler, “the fact that this poor girl has borne a child; surely the crown lawyers must prove that?” said Butler.

Saddletree paused a moment, while the visage of Dumbiedikes, which traversed, as if it had been placed on a pivot, from the one spokesman to the other, assumed a more blithe expression.

“Ye--ye--ye--es,” said Saddletree, after some grave hesitation; “unquestionably that is a thing to be proved, as the court will more fully declare by an interlocutor of relevancy in common form; but I fancy that jobís done already, for she has confessed her guilt.”

“Confessed the murder?” exclaimed Jeanie, with a scream that made them all start.

“No, I didna say that,” replied Bartoline. “But she confessed bearing the babe.”

“And what became of it, then?” said Jeanie, “for not a word could I get from her but bitter sighs and tears.”

“She says it was taken away from her by the woman in whose house it was born, and who assisted her at the time.”

“And who was that woman?” said Butler. “Surely by her means the truth might be discovered.--Who was she? I will fly to her directly.”

“I wish,” said Dumbiedikes, “I were as young and as supple as you, and had the gift of the gab as weel.”

“Who is she?” again reiterated Butler impatiently.--“Who could that woman be?”

“Ay, wha kens that but herself?” said Saddletree; “she deponed farther, and declined to answer that interrogatory.”

“Then to herself will I instantly go,” said Butler; “farewell, Jeanie;” then coming close up to her--“Take no _rash steps_ till you hear from me. Farewell!” and he immediately left the cottage.

“I wad gang too,” said the landed proprietor, in an anxious, jealous, and repining tone, “but my powny winna for the life oí me gang ony other road than just frae Dumbiedikes to this house-end, and sae straight back again.”

“Yell do better for them,” said Saddletree, as they left the house together, “by sending me the thretty punds.”

“Thretty punds!” hesitated Dumbiedikes, who was now out of the reach of those eyes which had inflamed his generosity; “I only said _twenty_ punds.”

“Ay; but,” said Saddletree, “that was under protestation to add and eik; and so ye craved leave to amend your libel, and made it thretty.”

“Did I? I dinna mind that I did,” answered Dumbiedikes. “But whatever I said Iíll stand to.” Then bestriding his steed with some difficulty, he added, “Dinna ye think poor Jeanieís een wií the tears in them glanced like lamour beads, Mr. Saddletree?”

“I kenna muckle about womenís een, Laird,” replied the insensible Bartoline; “and I care just as little. I wuss I were as weel free oí their tongues; though few wives,” he added, recollecting the necessity of keeping up his character for domestic rule, “are under better command than mine, Laird. I allow neither perduellion nor lese-majesty against my sovereign authority.”

The Laird saw nothing so important in this observation as to call for a rejoinder, and when they had exchanged a mute salutation, they parted in peace upon their different errands.

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

Iíll warrant that fellow from drowning, were the ship no stronger than a nut-shell.

The Tempest.

Butler felt neither fatigue nor want of refreshment, although, from the mode in which he had spent the night, he might well have been overcome with either. But in the earnestness with which he hastened to the assistance of the sister of Jeanie Deans, he forgot both.

In his first progress he walked with so rapid a pace as almost approached to running, when he was surprised to hear behind him a call upon his name, contending with an asthmatic cough, and half-drowned amid the resounding trot of a Highland pony. He looked behind, and saw the Laird of Dumbiedikes making after him with what speed he might, for it happened, fortunately for the Lairdís purpose of conversing with Butler, that his own road homeward was for about two hundred yards the same with that which led by the nearest way to the city. Butler stopped when he heard himself thus summoned, internally wishing no good to the panting equestrian who thus retarded his journey.

“Uh! uh! uh!” ejaculated Dumbiedikes, as he checked the hobbling pace of the pony by our friend Butler. “Uh! uh! itís a hard-set willyard beast this oí mine.” He had in fact just overtaken the object of his chase at the very point beyond which it would have been absolutely impossible for him to have continued the pursuit, since there Butlerís road parted from that leading to Dumbiedikes, and no means of influence or compulsion which the rider could possibly have used towards his Bucephalus could have induced the Celtic obstinacy of Rory Bean (such was the ponyís name) to have diverged a yard from the path that conducted him to his own paddock.

Even when he had recovered from the shortness of breath occasioned by a trot much more rapid than Rory or he were accustomed to, the high purpose of Dumbiedikes seemed to stick as it were in his throat, and impede his utterance, so that Butler stood for nearly three minutes ere he could utter a syllable; and when he did find voice, it was only to say, after one or two efforts, “Uh! uh! uhm! I say, Mr.--Mr. Butler, itís a braw day for the haríst.”

“Fine day, indeed,” said Butler. “I wish you good morning, sir.”

“Stay--stay a bit,” rejoined Dumbiedikes; “that was no what I had gotten to say.”

“Then, pray be quick, and let me have your commands,” rejoined Butler; “I crave your pardon, but I am in haste, and _Tempus nemini_--you know the proverb.”

Dumbiedikes did not know the proverb, nor did he even take the trouble to endeavour to look as if he did, as others in his place might have done. He was concentrating all his intellects for one grand proposition, and could not afford any detachment to defend outposts. “I say, Mr. Butler,” said he, “ken ye if Mr. Saddletreeís a great lawyer?”

“I have no personís word for it but his own,” answered Butler, drily; “but undoubtedly he best understands his own qualities.”

“Umph!” replied the taciturn Dumbiedikes, in a tone which seemed to say, “Mr. Butler, I take your meaning.” “In that case,” he pursued, “Iíll employ my ain man oí business, Nichil Novit (auld Nichilís son, and amaist as gleg as his father), to agent Effieís plea.”

And having thus displayed more sagacity than Butler expected from him, he courteously touched his gold-laced cocked hat, and by a punch on the ribs, conveyed to Rory Bean, it was his riderís pleasure that he should forthwith proceed homewards; a hint which the quadruped obeyed with that degree of alacrity with which men and animals interpret and obey suggestions that entirely correspond with their own inclinations.

Butler resumed his pace, not without a momentary revival of that jealousy which the honest Lairdís attention to the family of Deans had at different times excited in his bosom. But he was too generous long to nurse any feeling which was allied to selfishness. “He is,” said Butler to himself, “rich in what I want; why should I feel vexed that he has the heart to dedicate some of his pelf to render them services, which I can only form the empty wish of executing? In Godís name, let us each do what we can. May she be but happy!--saved from the misery and disgrace that seems impending--Let me but find the means of preventing the fearful experiment of this evening, and farewell to other thoughts, though my heart-strings break in parting with them!”

He redoubled his pace, and soon stood before the door of the Tolbooth, or rather before the entrance where the door had formerly been placed. His interview with the mysterious stranger, the message to Jeanie, his agitating conversation with her on the subject of breaking off their mutual engagements, and the interesting scene with old Deans, had so entirely occupied his mind as to drown even recollection of the tragical event which he had witnessed the preceding evening. His attention was not recalled to it by the groups who stood scattered on the street in conversation, which they hushed when strangers approached, or by the bustling search of the agents of the city police, supported by small parties of the military, or by the appearance of the Guard-House, before which were treble sentinels, or, finally, by the subdued and intimidated looks of the lower orders of society, who, conscious that they were liable to suspicion, if they were not guilty of accession to a riot likely to be strictly inquired into, glided about with an humble and dismayed aspect, like men whose spirits being exhausted in the revel and the dangers of a desperate debauch over-night, are nerve-shaken, timorous, and unenterprising on the succeeding day.

None of these symptoms of alarm and trepidation struck Butler, whose mind was occupied with a different, and to him still more interesting subject, until he stood before the entrance to the prison, and saw it defended by a double file of grenadiers, instead of bolts and bars. Their “Stand, stand!” the blackened appearance of the doorless gateway, and the winding staircase and apartments of the Tolbooth, now open to the public eye, recalled the whole proceedings of the eventful night. Upon his requesting to speak with Effie Deans, the same tall, thin, silver-haired turnkey, whom he had seen on the preceding evening, made his appearance,

“I think,” he replied to Butlerís request of admission, with true Scottish indirectness, “ye will be the same lad that was for in to see her yestreen?”

Butler admitted he was the same person.

“And I am thinking,” pursued the turnkey, “that ye speered at me when we locked up, and if we locked up earlier on account of Porteous?”

“Very likely I might make some such observation,” said Butler; “but the question now is, can I see Effie Deans?”

“I dinna ken--gang in by, and up the turnpike stair, and turn till the ward on the left hand.”

The old man followed close behind him, with his keys in his hand, not forgetting even that huge one which had once opened and shut the outward gate of his dominions, though at present it was but an idle and useless burden. No sooner had Butler entered the room to which he was directed, than the experienced hand of the warder selected the proper key, and locked it on the outside. At first Butler conceived this manoeuvre was only an effect of the manís habitual and official caution and jealousy. But when he heard the hoarse command, “Turn out the guard!” and immediately afterwards heard the clash of a sentinelís arms, as he was posted at the door of his apartment, he again called out to the turnkey, “My good friend, I have business of some consequence with Effie Deans, and I beg to see her as soon as possible.” No answer was returned. “If it be against your rules to admit me,” repeated Butler, in a still louder tone, “to see the prisoner, I beg you will tell me so, and let me go about my business.--_Fugit irrevocabile tempus!_” muttered he to himself.

“If ye had business to do, ye suld hae dune it before ye cam here,” replied the man of keys from the outside; “yell find itís easier wunnin in than wunnin out here--thereís smaí likelihood oí another Porteous mob coming to rabble us again--the law will haud her ain now, neighbour, and that yell find to your cost.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” retorted Butler. “You must mistake me for some other person. My name is Reuben Butler, preacher of the gospel.”

“I ken that weel eneugh,” said the turnkey.

“Well, then, if you know me, I have a right to know from you in return, what warrant you have for detaining me; that, I know, is the right of every British subject.”

“Warrant!” said the jailor,--“the warrantís awa to Libberton wií twa sheriff officers seeking ye. If ye had staid at hame, as honest men should do, ye wad hae seen the warrant; but if ye come to be incarcerated of your ain accord, wha can help it, my jo?”

“ëSo I cannot see Effie Deans, then,” said Butler; “and you are determined not to let me out?”

“Troth will I no, neighbour,” answered the old man, doggedly; “as for Effie Deans, yeíll hae eneuch ado to mind your ain business, and let her mind hers; and for letting you out, that maun be as the magistrate will determine. And fare ye weel for a bit, for I maun see Deacon Sawyers put on ane or twa oí the doors that your quiet folk broke down yesternight, Mr. Butler.”

There was something in this exquisitely provoking, but there was also something darkly alarming. To be imprisoned, even on a false accusation, has something in it disagreeable and menacing even to men of more constitutional courage than Butler had to boast; for although he had much of that resolution which arises from a sense of duty and an honourable desire to discharge it, yet, as his imagination was lively, and his frame of body delicate, he was far from possessing that cool insensibility to danger which is the happy portion of men of stronger health, more firm nerves, and less acute sensibility. An indistinct idea of peril, which he could neither understand nor ward off, seemed to float before his eyes. He tried to think over the events of the preceding night, in hopes of discovering some means of explaining or vindicating his conduct for appearing among the mob, since it immediately occurred to him that his detention must be founded on that circumstance. And it was with anxiety that he found he could not recollect to have been under the observation of any disinterested witness in the attempts that he made from time to time to expostulate with the rioters, and to prevail on them to release him. The distress of Deansís family, the dangerous rendezvous which Jeanie had formed, and which he could not now hope to interrupt, had also their share in his unpleasant reflections. Yet, impatient as he was to receive an _eíclaircissement_ upon the cause of his confinement, and if possible to obtain his liberty, he was affected with a trepidation which seemed no good omen; when, after remaining an hour in this solitary apartment, he received a summons to attend the sitting magistrate. He was conducted from prison strongly guarded by a party of soldiers, with a parade of precaution, that, however ill-timed and unnecessary, is generally displayed _after_ an event, which such precaution, if used in time, might have prevented.

He was introduced into the Council Chamber, as the place is called where the magistrates hold their sittings, and which was then at a little distance from the prison. One or two of the senators of the city were present, and seemed about to engage in the examination of an individual who was brought forward to the foot of the long green-covered table round which the council usually assembled. “Is that the preacher?” said one of the magistrates, as the city officer in attendance introduced Butler. The man answered in the affirmative. “Let him sit down there for an instant; we will finish this manís business very briefly.”

“Shall we remove Mr. Butler?” queried the assistant.

“It is not necessary--Let him remain where he is.”

Butler accordingly sate down on a bench at the bottom of the apartment, attended by one of his keepers.

It was a large room, partially and imperfectly lighted; but by chance, or the skill of the architect, who might happen to remember the advantage which might occasionally be derived from such an arrangement, one window was so placed as to throw a strong light at the foot of the table at which prisoners were usually posted for examination, while the upper end, where the examinants sate, was thrown into shadow. Butlerís eyes were instantly fixed on the person whose examination was at present proceeding, in the idea that he might recognise some one of the conspirators of the former night. But though the features of this man were sufficiently marked and striking, he could not recollect that he had ever seen them before.

The complexion of this person was dark, and his age somewhat advanced. He wore his own hair, combed smooth down, and cut very short. It was jet black, slightly curled by nature, and already mottled with grey. The manís face expressed rather knavery than vice, and a disposition to sharpness, cunning, and roguery, more than the traces of stormy and indulged passions. His sharp quick black eyes, acute features, ready sardonic smile, promptitude and effrontery, gave him altogether what is called among the vulgar a _knowing_ look, which generally implies a tendency to knavery. At a fair or market, you could not for a moment have doubted that he was a horse-jockey, intimate with all the tricks of his trade; yet, had you met him on a moor, you would not have apprehended any violence from him. His dress was also that of a horse-dealer--a close-buttoned jockey-coat, or wrap-rascal, as it was then termed, with huge metal buttons, coarse blue upper stockings, called boot-hose because supplying the place of boots, and a slouched hat. He only wanted a loaded whip under his arm and a spur upon one heel, to complete the dress of the character he seemed to represent.

“Your name is James Ratcliffe?” said the magistrate.

“Ay--always wií your honourís leave.”

“That is to say, you could find me another name if I did not like that one?”

“Twenty to pick and choose upon, always with your honourís leave,” resumed the respondent.

“But James Ratcliffe is your present name?--what is your trade?”

“I canna just say, distinctly, that I have what ye wad caí preceesely a trade.”

“But,” repeated the magistrate, “what are your means of living--your occupation?”

“Hout tout--your honour, wií your leave, kens that as weel as I do,” replied the examined.

“No matter, I want to hear you describe it,” said the examinant.

“Me describe!--and to your honour!--far be it from Jemmie Ratcliffe,” responded the prisoner.

“Come, sir, no trifling--I insist on an answer.”

“Weel, sir,” replied the declarant, “I maun make a clean breast, for ye see, wií your leave, I am looking for favour--Describe my occupation, quoí ye?--troth it will be ill to do that, in a feasible way, in a place like this--but what isít again that the aught command says?”

“Thou shalt not steal,” answered the magistrate.

“Are you sure oí that?” replied the accused.--“Troth, then, my occupation, and that command, are sair at odds, for I read it, thou _shalt_ steal; and that makes an unco difference, though thereís but a wee bit word left out.”

“To cut the matter short, Ratcliffe, you have been a most notorious thief,” said the examinant.

“I believe Highlands and Lowlands ken that, sir, forby England and Holland,” replied Ratcliffe, with the greatest composure and effrontery.

“And what díye think the end of your calling will be?” said the magistrate.

“I could have gien a braw guess yesterday--but I dinna ken sae weel the day,” answered the prisoner.

“And what would you have said would have been your end, had you been asked the question yesterday?”

“Just the gallows,” replied Ratcliffe, with the same composure.

“You are a daring rascal, sir,” said the magistrate; “and how dare you hope times are mended with you to-day?”

“Dear, your honour,” answered Ratcliffe, “thereís muckle difference between lying in prison under sentence of death, and staying there of aneís ain proper accord, when it would have cost a man naething to get up and rin awa--what was to hinder me from stepping out quietly, when the rabble walked awa wií Jock Porteous yestreen?--and does your honour really think I staid on purpose to be hanged?”

“I do not know what you may have proposed to yourself; but I know,” said the magistrate, “what the law proposes for you, and that is, to hang you next Wednesday eight days.”

“Na, na, your honour,” said Ratcliffe firmly, “craving your honourís pardon, Iíll neíer believe that till I see it. I have kend the law this mony a year, and mony a thrawart job I hae had wií her first and last; but the auld jaud is no sae ill as that comes to--I aye fand her bark waur than her bite.”

“And if you do not expect the gallows, to which you are condemned (for the fourth time to my knowledge), may I beg the favour to know,” said the magistrate, “what it is you _do_ expect, in consideration of your not having taken your flight with the rest of the jail-birds, which I will admit was a line of conduct little to have been expected?”

“I would never have thought for a moment of staying in that auld gousty toom house,” answered Ratcliffe, “but that use and wont had just gien me a fancy to the place, and Iím just expecting a bit post inít.”

“A post!” exclaimed the magistrate; “a whipping-post, I suppose, you mean?”

“Na, na, sir, I had nae thoughts oí a whuppin-post. After having been four times doomed to hang by the neck till I was dead, I think I am far beyond being whuppit.”

“Then, in Heavenís name, what _did_ you expect?”

“Just the post of under-turnkey, for I understand thereís a vacancy,” said the prisoner; “I wadna think of asking the lockmanís* place ower his head; it wadna suit me sae weel as ither folk, for I never could put a beast out oí the way, much less deal wií a man.”

* Note H. Hangman, or Lockman.

“Thatís something in your favour,” said the magistrate, making exactly the inference to which Ratcliffe was desirous to lead him, though he mantled his art with an affectation of oddity.

“But,” continued the magistrate, “how do you think you can be trusted with a charge in the prison, when you have broken at your own hand half the jails in Scotland?”

“Wií your honourís leave,” said Ratcliffe, “if I kend sae weel how to wun out mysell, itís like I wad be aí the better a hand to keep other folk in. I think they wad ken their business weel that held me in when I wanted to be out, or wan out when I wanted to hand them in.”

The remark seemed to strike the magistrate, but he made no further immediate observation, only desired Ratcliffe to be removed.

When this daring and yet sly freebooter was out of hearing, the magistrate asked the city clerk, “what he thought of the fellowís assurance?”

“Itís no for me to say, sir,” replied the clerk; “but if James Ratcliffe be inclined to turn to good, there is not a man eíer came within the ports of the burgh could be of sae muckle use to the Good Town in the thief and lock-up line of business. Iíll speak to Mr. Sharpitlaw about him.”

Upon Ratcliffeís retreat, Butler was placed at the table for examination. The magistrate conducted his inquiry civilly, but yet in a manner which gave him to understand that he laboured under strong suspicion. With a frankness which at once became his calling and character, Butler avowed his involuntary presence at the murder of Porteous, and, at the request of the magistrate, entered into a minute detail of the circumstances which attended that unhappy affair. All the particulars, such as we have narrated, were taken minutely down by the clerk from Butlerís dictation.

When the narrative was concluded, the cross-examination commenced, which it is a painful task even for the most candid witness to undergo, since a story, especially if connected with agitating and alarming incidents, can scarce be so clearly and distinctly told, but that some ambiguity and doubt may be thrown upon it by a string of successive and minute interrogatories.

The magistrate commenced by observing, that Butler had said his object was to return to the village of Libberton, but that he was interrupted by the mob at the West Port. “Is the West Port your usual way of leaving town when you go to Libberton?” said the magistrate, with a sneer.

“No, certainly,” answered Butler, with the haste of a man anxious to vindicate the accuracy of his evidence; “but I chanced to be nearer that port than any other, and the hour of shutting the gates was on the point of striking.”

“That was unlucky,” said the magistrate, drily. “Pray, being, as you say, under coercion and fear of the lawless multitude, and compelled to accompany them through scenes disagreeable to all men of humanity, and more especially irreconcilable to the profession of a minister, did you not attempt to struggle, resist, or escape from their violence?”

Butler replied, “that their numbers prevented him from attempting resistance, and their vigilance from effecting his escape.”

“That was unlucky,” again repeated the magistrate, in the same dry inacquiescent tone of voice and manner. He proceeded with decency and politeness, but with a stiffness which argued his continued suspicion, to ask many questions concerning the behaviour of the mob, the manners and dress of the ringleaders; and when he conceived that the caution of Butler, if he was deceiving him, must be lulled asleep, the magistrate suddenly and artfully returned to former parts of his declaration, and required a new recapitulation of the circumstances, to the minutest and most trivial point, which attended each part of the melancholy scene. No confusion or contradiction, however, occurred, that could countenance the suspicion which he seemed to have adopted against Butler. At length the train of his interrogatories reached Madge Wildfire, at whose name the magistrate and town-clerk exchanged significant glances. If the fate of the Good Town had depended on her careful magistrateís knowing the features and dress of this personage, his inquiries could not have been more particular. But Butler could say almost nothing of this personís features, which were disguised apparently with red paint and soot, like an Indian going to battle, besides the projecting shade of a curch, or coif, which muffled the hair of the supposed female. He declared that he thought he could not know this Madge Wildfire, if placed before him in a different dress, but that he believed he might recognise her voice.

The magistrate requested him again to state by what gate he left the city.

“By the Cowgate Port,” replied Butler.

“Was that the nearest road to Libberton?”

“No,” answered Butler, with embarrassment; “but it was the nearest way to extricate myself from the mob.”

The clerk and magistrate again exchanged glances.

“Is the Cowgate Port a nearer way to Libberton from the Grassmarket than Bristo Port?”

“No,” replied Butler; “but I had to visit a friend.”

“Indeed!” said the interrogator--“You were in a hurry to tell the sight you had witnessed, I suppose?”

“Indeed I was not,” replied Butler; “nor did I speak on the subject the whole time I was at St. Leonardís Crags.”

“Which road did you take to St. Leonardís Crags?”

“By the foot of Salisbury Crags,” was the reply.

“Indeed? you seem partial to circuitous routes,” again said the magistrate. “Whom did you see after you left the city?”

One by one he obtained a description of every one of the groups who had passed Butler, as already noticed, their number, demeanour, and appearance; and, at length, came to the circumstance of the mysterious stranger in the Kingís Park. On this subject Butler would fain have remained silent, But the magistrate had no sooner got a slight hint concerning the incident, than he seemed bent to possess himself of the most minute particulars.

“Look ye, Mr. Butler,” said he, “you are a young man, and bear an excellent character; so much I will myself testify in your favour. But we are aware there has been, at times, a sort of bastard and fiery zeal in some of your order, and those, men irreproachable in other points, which has led them into doing and countenancing great irregularities, by which the peace of the country is liable to be shaken.--I will deal plainly with you. I am not at all satisfied with this story, of your setting out again and again to seek your dwelling by two several roads, which were both circuitous. And, to be frank, no one whom we have examined on this unhappy affair could trace in your appearance any thing like your acting under compulsion. Moreover, the waiters at the Cowgate Port observed something like the trepidation of guilt in your conduct, and declare that you were the first to command them to open the gate, in a tone of authority, as if still presiding over the guards and out-posts of the rabble, who had besieged them the whole night.”

“God forgive them!” said Butler; “I only asked free passage for myself; they must have much misunderstood, if they did not wilfully misrepresent me.”

“Well, Mr. Butler,” resumed the magistrate, “I am inclined to judge the best and hope the best, as I am sure I wish the best; but you must be frank with me, if you wish to secure my good opinion, and lessen the risk of inconvenience to yourself. You have allowed you saw another individual in your passage through the Kingís Park to Saint Leonardís Crags--I must know every word which passed betwixt you.”

Thus closely pressed, Butler, who had no reason for concealing what passed at that meeting, unless because Jeanie Deans was concerned in it, thought it best to tell the whole truth from beginning to end.

“Do you suppose,” said the magistrate, pausing, “that the young woman will accept an invitation so mysterious?”

“I fear she will,” replied Butler.

“Why do you use the word _fear_ it?” said the magistrate.

“Because I am apprehensive for her safety, in meeting at such a time and place, one who had something of the manner of a desperado, and whose message was of a character so inexplicable.”

“Her safety shall be cared for,” said the magistrate. “Mr. Butler, I am concerned I cannot immediately discharge you from confinement, but I hope you will not be long detained.--Remove Mr. Butler, and let him be provided with decent accommodation in all respects.”

He was conducted back to the prison accordingly; but, in the food offered to him, as well as in the apartment in which he was lodged, the recommendation of the magistrate was strictly attended to.