CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

She speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up to fit their own thoughts. Hamlet.

Like the digressive poet Ariosto, I find myself under the necessity of connecting the branches of my story, by taking up the adventures of another of the characters, and bringing them down to the point at which we have left those of Jeanie Deans. It is not, perhaps, the most artificial way of telling a story, but it has the advantage of sparing the necessity of resuming what a knitter (if stocking-looms have left such a person in the land) might call our “dropped stitches;” a labour in which the author generally toils much, without getting credit for his pains.

“I could risk a smaí wad,” said the clerk to the magistrate, “that this rascal Ratcliffe, if he were insured of his neckís safety, could do more than ony ten of our police-people and constables to help us to get out of this scrape of Porteousís. He is weel acquent wií aí the smugglers, thieves, and banditti about Edinburgh; and, indeed, he may be called the father of aí the misdoers in Scotland, for he has passed amang them for these twenty years by the name of Daddie Rat.”

“A bonny sort of a scoundrel,” replied the magistrate, “to expect a place under the city!”

“Begging your honourís pardon,” said the cityís procurator-fiscal, upon whom the duties of superintendent of police devolved, “Mr. Fairscrieve is perfectly in the right. It is just sic as Ratcliffe that the town needs in my department; aní if sae be that heís disposed to turn his knowledge to the city service, yell no find a better man.--Yeíll get nae saints to be searchers for uncustomed goods, or for thieves and sic like;--and your decent sort of men, religious professors, and broken tradesmen, that are put into the like oí sic trust, can do nae gude ava. They are feared for this, and they are scrupulous about that, and they arena free to tell a lie, though it may be for the benefit of the city; and they dinna like to be out at irregular hours, and in a dark cauld night, and they like a clout ower the crown far waur; and sae between the fear oí God, and the fear oí man, and the fear oí getting a sair throat, or sair banes, thereís a dozen oí our city-folk, baith waiters, and officers, and constables, that can find out naething but a wee bit skulduddery for the benefit of the Kirk treasurer. Jock Porteous, thatís stiff and stark, puir fallow, was worth a dozen oí them; for he never had ony fears, or scruples, or doubts, or conscience, about onything your honours bade him.”

“He was a gude servant oí the town,” said the Bailie, “though he was an ower free-living man. But if you really think this rascal Ratcliffe could do us ony service in discovering these malefactors, I would insure him life, reward, and promotion. Itís an awsome thing this mischance for the city, Mr. Fairscrieve. It will be very ill taen wií abune stairs. Queen Caroline, God bless her! is a woman--at least I judge sae, and itís nae treason to speak my mind sae far--and ye maybe ken as weel as I do, for ye hae a housekeeper, though ye arena a married man, that women are wilfuí, and downa bide a slight. And it will sound ill in her ears, that sic a confused mistake suld come to pass, and naebody sae muckle as to be put into the Tolbooth about it.”

“If ye thought that, sir,” said the procurator-fiscal, “we could easily clap into the prison a few blackguards upon suspicion. It will have a gude active look, and I hae aye plenty on my list, that wadna be a hair the waur of a week or twaís imprisonment; and if ye thought it no strictly just, ye could be just the easier wií them the neist time they did onything to deserve it; they arena the sort to be lang oí gieing ye an opportunity to clear scores wií them on that account.”

“I doubt that will hardly do in this case, Mr. Sharpitlaw,” returned the town-clerk; “theyíll run their letters,* and be adrift again, before ye ken where ye are.”

* A Scottish form of procedure, answering, in some respects, to the English Habeas Corpus.

“I will speak to the Lord Provost,” said the magistrate, “about Ratcliffeís business. Mr. Sharpitlaw, you will go with me, and receive instructions--something may be made too out of this story of Butlerís and his unknown gentleman--I know no business any man has to swagger about in the Kingís Park, and call himself the devil, to the terror of honest folks, who dinna care to hear mair about the devil than is said from the pulpit on the Sabbath. I cannot think the preacher himsell wad be heading the mob, though the time has been, they hae been as forward in a bruilzie as their neighbours.”

“But these times are lang by,” said Mr. Sharpitlaw. “In my fatherís time, there was mair search for silenced ministers about the Bow-head and the Covenant Close, and all the tents of Kedar, as they caíd the dwellings oí the godly in those days, than thereís now for thieves and vagabonds in the Laigh Calton and the back oí the Canongate. But that timeís weel by, an it bide. And if the Bailie will get me directions and authority from the Provost, Iíll speak wií Daddie Rat mysell; for Iím thinking Iíll make mair out oí him than yeíll do.”

Mr. Sharpitlaw, being necessarily a man of high trust, was accordingly empowered, in the course of the day, to make such arrangements as might seem in the emergency most advantageous for the Good Town. He went to the jail accordingly, and saw Ratcliffe in private.

The relative positions of a police-officer and a professed thief bear a different complexion, according to circumstances. The most obvious simile of a hawk pouncing upon his prey is often least applicable. Sometimes the guardian of justice has the air of a cat watching a mouse, and, while he suspends his purpose of springing upon the pilferer, takes care so to calculate his motions that he shall not get beyond his power. Sometimes, more passive still, he uses the art of fascination ascribed to the rattlesnake, and contents himself with glaring on the victim, through all his devious flutterings; certain that his terror, confusion, and disorder of ideas, will bring him into his jaws at last. The interview between Ratcliffe and Sharpitlaw had an aspect different from all these. They sat for five minutes silent, on opposite sides of a small table, and looked fixedly at each other, with a sharp, knowing, and alert cast of countenance, not unmingled with an inclination to laugh, and resembled more than anything else, two dogs, who, preparing for a game at romps, are seen to couch down, and remain in that posture for a little time, watching each otherís movements, and waiting which shall begin the game.

“So, Mr. Ratcliffe,” said the officer, conceiving it suited his dignity to speak first, “you give up business, I find?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Ratcliffe; “I shall be on that lay nae mair--and I think that will save your folk some trouble, Mr. Sharpitlaw?”

“Which Jock Daigleish” (then finisher of the law* in the Scottish metropolis) “wad save them as easily,” returned the procurator-fiscal.

* [Among the flying leaves of the period, there is one called “Sutherlandís Lament for the loss of his post,--with his advice, to John Daglees his successor.” He was whipped and banished 25th July 1722. There is another, called the Speech and dying words of John Dalgleish, lockman _alias_ hangman of Edinburgh, containing these lines:--

Death, Iíve a Favour for to beg, That ye wad only gie a Fleg, And spare my Life; As I did to ill-hanged Megg, The Websterís Wife.”]

“Ay; if I waited in the Tolbooth here to have him fit my cravat--but thatís an idle way oí speaking, Mr. Sharpitlaw.”

“Why, I suppose you know you are under sentence of death, Mr. Ratcliffe?” replied Mr. Sharpitlaw.

“Aye, so are aí, as that worthy minister said in the Tolbooth Kirk the day Robertson wan off; but naebody kens when it will be executed. Gude faith, he had better reason to say sae than he dreamed off, before the play was played out that morning!”

“This Robertson,” said Sharpitlaw, in a lower and something like a confidential tone, “díye ken, Rat--that is, can ye gie us ony inkling where he is to be heard tell oí?”

“Troth, Mr. Sharpitlaw, Iíll be frank wií ye; Robertson is rather a cut abune me--a wild deevil he was, and mony a daft prank he played; but except the Collectorís job that Wilson led him into, and some tuilzies about run goods wií the gaugers and the waiters, he never did onything that came near our line oí business.”

“Umph! thatís singular, considering the company he kept.”

“Fact, upon my honour and credit,” said Ratcliffe, gravely. “He keepit out oí our little bits of affairs, and thatís mair than Wilson did; I hae dune business wií Wilson afore now. But the lad will come on in time; thereís nae fear oí him; naebody will live the life he has led, but what heíll come to sooner or later.”

“Who or what is he, Ratcliffe? you know, I suppose?” said Sharpitlaw.

“Heís better born, I judge, than he cares to let on; heís been a soldier, and he has been a play-actor, and I watna what he has been or hasna been, for as young as he is, sae that it had daffing and nonsense about it.”

“Pretty pranks he has played in his time, I suppose?”

“Ye may say that,” said Ratcliffe, with a sardonic smile; “and” (touching his nose) “a deevil amang the lasses.”

“Like enough,” said Sharpitlaw. “Weel, Ratcliffe, Iíll no stand niffering wií ye; ye ken the way that favourís gotten in my office; ye maun be usefuí.”

“Certainly, sir, to the best of my power--naething for naething--I ken the rule of the office,” said the ex-depredator.

“Now the principal thing in hand eíen now,” said the official person, “is the job of Porteousís; an ye can gie us a lift--why, the inner turnkeyís office to begin wií, and the captainship in time--ye understand my meaning?”

“Ay, troth do I, sir; a winkís as gude as a nod to a blind horse; but Jock Porteousís job--Lord help ye!--I was under sentence the haill time. God! but I couldna help laughing when I heard Jock skirting for mercy in the ladsí hands. Mony a het skin ye hae gien me, neighbour, thought I, tak ye whatís gaun: time aboutís fair play; yeíll ken now what hangingís gude for.”

“Come, come, this is all nonsense, Rat,” said the procurator. “Ye canna creep out at that hole, lad; you must speak to the point--you understand me--if you want favour; gif-gaf makes gude friends, ye ken.”

“But how can I speak to the point, as your honour caís it,” said Ratcliffe, demurely, and with an air of great simplicity, “when ye ken I was under sentence and in the strong room aí the while the job was going on?”

“And how can we turn ye loose on the public again, Daddie Rat, unless ye do or say something to deserve it?”

“Well, then, d--n it!” answered the criminal, “since it maun be sae, I saw Geordie Robertson among the boys that brake the jail; I suppose that will do me some gude?”

“Thatís speaking to the purpose, indeed,” said the office-bearer; “and now, Rat, where think ye weíll find him?”

“Deil haet oí me kens,” said Ratcliffe; “heíll no likely gang back to ony oí his auld howffs; heíll be off the country by this time. He has gude friends some gate or other, for aí the life heís led; heís been weel educate.”

“Heíll grace the gallows the better,” said Mr. Sharpitlaw; “a desperate dog, to murder an officer of the city for doing his duty! Wha kens whaís turn it might be next?--But you saw him plainly?”

“As plainly as I see you.”

“How was he dressed?” said Sharpitlaw.

“I couldna weel see; something of a womanís bit mutch on his head; but ye never saw sic a caí-throw. Ane couldna hae een to aí thing.”

“But did he speak to no one?” said Sharpitlaw.

“They were aí speaking and gabbling through other,” said Ratcliffe, who was obviously unwilling to carry his evidence farther than he could possibly help.

“This will not do, Ratcliffe,” said the procurator; “you must speak _out--out--out,_” tapping the table emphatically, as he repeated that impressive monosyllable.

“Itís very hard, sir,” said the prisoner; “and but for the under-turnkeyís place--”

“And the reversion of the captaincy--the captaincy of the Tolbooth, man--that is, in case of gude behaviour.”

“Ay, ay,” said Ratcliffe, “gude behaviour!--thereís the deevil. And then itís waiting for dead folkís shoon into the bargain.”

“But Robertsonís head will weigh something,” said Sharpitlaw; “something gey and heavy, Rat; the town maun show cause--thatís right and reason--and then yeíll hae freedom to enjoy your gear honestly.”

“I dinna ken,” said Ratcliffe; “itís a queer way of beginning the trade of honesty--but deil ma care. Weel, then, I heard and saw him speak to the wench Effie Deans, thatís up there for child-murder.”

“The deil ye did? Rat, this is finding a mareís nest wií a witness.--And the man that spoke to Butler in the Park, and that was to meet wií Jeanie Deans at Muschatís Cairn--whew! lay that and that together? As sure as I live heís been the father of the lassieís wean.”

“There hae been waur guesses than that, Iím thinking,” observed Ratcliffe, turning his quid of tobacco in his cheek, and squirting out the juice. “I heard something a while syne about his drawing up wií a bonny quean about the Pleasaunts, and that it was aí Wilson could do to keep him frae marrying her.”

Here a city officer entered, and told Sharpitlaw that they had the woman in custody whom he had directed them to bring before him.

“Itís little matter now,” said he, “the thing is taking another turn; however, George, ye may bring her in.”

The officer retired, and introduced, upon his return, a tall, strapping wench of eighteen or twenty, dressed, fantastically, in a sort of blue riding-jacket, with tarnished lace, her hair clubbed like that of a man, a Highland bonnet, and a bunch of broken feathers, a riding-skirt (or petticoat) of scarlet camlet, embroidered with tarnished flowers. Her features were coarse and masculine, yet at a little distance, by dint of very bright wild-looking black eyes, an aquiline nose, and a commanding profile, appeared rather handsome. She flourished the switch she held in her hand, dropped a courtesy as low as a lady at a birth-night introduction, recovered herself seemingly according to Touchstoneís directions to Audrey, and opened the conversation without waiting till any questions were asked.

“God gie your honour gude-eíen, and mony oí them, bonny Mr. Sharpitlaw!--Gude-eíen to ye, Daddie Ratton--they tauld me ye were hanged, man; or did ye get out oí John Dalgleishís hands like half-hangit Maggie Dickson?”

“Whisht, ye daft jaud,” said Ratcliffe, “and hear whatís said to ye.”

“Wií aí my heart, Ratton. Great preferment for poor Madge to be brought up the street wií a grand man, wií a coat aí passemented wií worset-lace, to speak wií provosts, and bailies, and town-clerks, and prokitors, at this time oí day--and the haill town looking at me too--This is honour on earth for ance!”

“Ay, Madge,” said Mr. Sharpitlaw, in a coaxing tone; “and yeíre dressed out in your braws, I see; these are not your every-daysí claiths ye have on.”

“Deil be in my fingers, then!” said Madge--“Eh, sirs!” (observing Butler come into the apartment), “thereís a minister in the Tolbooth--wha will caí it a graceless place now?--Iíse warrant heís in for the gude auld cause--but itís be nae cause oí mine,” and off she went into a song--

“Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers, Dub a dub, dub a dub, Have at old Beelzebub,-- Oliverís squeaking for fear.”

“Did you ever see that mad woman before?” said Sharpitlaw to Butler.

“Not to my knowledge, sir,” replied Butler.

“I thought as much,” said the procurator-fiscal, looking towards Ratcliffe, who answered his glance with a nod of acquiescence and intelligence.--

“But that is Madge Wildfire, as she calls herself,” said the man of law to Butler.

“Ay, that I am,” said Madge, “and that I have been ever since I was something better--Heigh ho”--(and something like melancholy dwelt on her features for a minute)--“But I canna mind when that was--it was lang syne, at ony rate, and Iíll neíer fash my thumb about it.--

I glance like the wildfire through country and town; Iím seen on the causeway--Iím seen on the down; The lightning that flashes so bright and so free, Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me.”

“Hand your tongue, ye skirling limmer!” said the officer who had acted as master of the ceremonies to this extraordinary performer, and who was rather scandalised at the freedom of her demeanour before a person of Mr. Sharpitlawís importance--“haud your tongue, or Iíse gie ye something to skirl for!”

“Let her alone, George,” said Sharpitlaw, “dinna put her out oí tune; I hae some questions to ask her--But first, Mr. Butler, take another look of her.”

“Do sae, minister--do sae,” cried Madge; “I am as weel worth looking at as ony book in your aught.--And I can say the single carritch, and the double carritch, and justification, and effectual calling, and the assembly of divines at Westminster, that is” (she added in a low tone), “I could say them ance--but itís lang syne--and ane forgets, ye ken.” And poor Madge heaved another deep sigh.

“Weel, sir,” said Mr. Sharpitlaw to Butler, “what think ye now?”

“As I did before,” said Butler; “that I never saw the poor demented creature in my life before.”

“Then she is not the person whom you said the rioters last night described as Madge Wildfire?”

“Certainly not,” said Butler. “They may be near the same height, for they are both tall, but I see little other resemblance.”

“Their dress, then, is not alike?” said Sharpitlaw.

“Not in the least,” said Butler.

“Madge, my bonny woman,” said Sharpitlaw, in the same coaxing manner, “what did ye do wií your ilka-dayís claise yesterday?”

“I dinna mind,” said Madge.

“Where was ye yesterday at eíen, Madge?”

“I dinna mind ony thing about yesterday,” answered Madge; “ae day is eneugh for ony body to wun ower wií at a time, and ower muckle sometimes.”

“But maybe, Madge, ye wad mind something about it, if I was to gie ye this half-crown?” said Sharpitlaw, taking out the piece of money.

“That might gar me laugh, but it couldna gar me mind.”

“But, Madge,” continued Sharpitlaw, “were I to send you to the workhouse in Leith Wynd, and gar Jock Daigleish lay the tawse on your back--”

“That wad gar me greet,” said Madge, sobbing, “but it couldna gar me mind, ye ken.”

“She is ower far past reasonable folksí motives, sir,” said Ratcliffe, “to mind siller, or John Dalgleish, or the cat-and-nine-tails either; but I think I could gar her tell us something.”

“Try her, then, Ratcliffe,” said Sharpitlaw, “for I am tired of her crazy pate, and be d--d to her.”

“Madge,” said Ratcliffe, “hae ye ony joes now?”

“An ony body ask ye, say ye dinna ken.--Set him to be speaking of my joes, auld Daddie Ratton!”

“I dare say, ye hae deil ane?”

“See if I haena then,” said Madge, with the toss of the head of affronted beauty--“thereís Rob the Ranter, and Will Fleming, and then thereís Geordie Robertson, lad--thatís Gentleman Geordie--what think ye oí that?”

Ratcliffe laughed, and, winking to the procurator-fiscal, pursued the inquiry in his own way. “But, Madge, the lads only like ye when ye hae on your braws--they wadna touch you wií a pair oí tangs when you are in your auld ilka-day rags.”

“Yeíre a leeing auld sorrow then,” replied the fair one; “for Gentle Geordie Robertson put my ilka-dayís claise on his ain bonny sell yestreen, and gaed aí through the town wií them; and gawsie and grand he lookit, like ony queen in the land.”

“I dinna believe a word oít,” said Ratcliffe, with another wink to the procurator. “Thae duds were aí oí the colour oí moonshine in the water, Iím thinking, Madge--The gown wad be a sky-blue scarlet, Iíse warrant ye?”

“It was nae sic thing,” said Madge, whose unretentive memory let out, in the eagerness of contradiction, all that she would have most wished to keep concealed, had her judgment been equal to her inclination. “It was neither scarlet nor sky-blue, but my ain auld brown threshie-coat of a short-gown, and my motherís auld mutch, and my red rokelay--and he gied me a croun and a kiss for the use oí them, blessing on his bonny face--though itís been a dear ane to me.”

“And where did he change his clothes again, hinnie?” said Sharpitlaw, in his most conciliatory manner.

“The procuratorís spoiled aí,” observed Ratcliffe, drily. And it was even so; for the question, put in so direct a shape, immediately awakened Madge to the propriety of being reserved upon those very topics on which Ratcliffe had indirectly seduced her to become communicative.

“What wasít ye were speering at us, sir?” she resumed, with an appearance of stolidity so speedily assumed, as showed there was a good deal of knavery mixed with her folly.

“I asked you,” said the procurator, “at what hour, and to what place, Robertson brought back your clothes.”

“Robertson?--Lord hand a care oí us! what Robertson?”

“Why, the fellow we were speaking of, Gentle Geordie, as you call him.”

“Geordie Gentle!” answered Madge, with well-feigned amazement--“I dinna ken naebody they caí Geordie Gentle.”

“Come, my jo,” said Sharpitlaw, “this will not do; you must tell us what you did with these clothes of yours.”

Madge Wildfire made no answer, unless the question may seem connected with the snatch of a song with which she indulged the embarrassed investigator:--

“What did ye wií the bridal ring--bridal ring--bridal ring? What did ye wií your wedding ring, ye little cutty quean, O? I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger, I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love oí mine, O.”

Of all the madwomen who have sung and said, since the days of Hamlet the Dane, if Ophelia be the most affecting, Madge Wildfire was the most provoking.

The procurator-fiscal was in despair. “Iíll take some measures with this d--d Bess of Bedlam,” said he, “that shall make her find her tongue.”

“Wií your favour, sir,” said Ratcliffe, “better let her mind settle a little--Ye have aye made out something.”

“True,” said the official person; “a brown short-gown, mutch, red rokelay--that agrees with your Madge Wildfire, Mr. Butler?” Butler agreed that it did so. “Yes, there was a sufficient motive for taking this crazy creatureís dress and name, while he was about such a job.”

“And I am free to say _now,_” said Ratcliffe

“When you see it has come out without you,” interrupted Sharpitlaw.

“Just sae, sir,” reiterated Ratcliffe. “I am free to say now, since itís come out otherwise, that these were the clothes I saw Robertson wearing last night in the jail, when he was at the head of the rioters.”

“Thatís direct evidence,” said Sharpitlaw; “stick to that, Rat--I will report favourably of you to the provost, for I have business for you to-night. It wears late; I must home and get a snack, and Iíll be back in the evening. Keep Madge with you, Ratcliffe, and try to get her into a good tune again.” So saying he left the prison.