FICTION.

New Zealand Times, Volume LIV, Issue 9867, 25 March 1893, Page 2 (Supplement)

FICTION.

DAVID BALFOUR. HIS ADVENTURES BY SEA AND BY LAND. BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. (all RIGHTS RESERVE!.,) PART I. THE LORD ADVOCATE. CHAPTER 111. I Go To PILRIG. The next morning I was no sooner awake in my now lodging than I was up and into my new clothes; and no sooner the breakfast swallowed than I was forth on my adventures. Alan, I could hope, was tended for; James was like to be a more difficult affair, and I could not but think that enterprise might cost mo dear, even as everybody •said to whom I had opened my opinion. It seemed I was come to the top of the mountain'only to cast myself down; that I had clambered up, through so many and hard trials, to be rich, to be recognised, to wear city clothes and a sword to my side, all to commit mere suicide at the last end of it; and the worst kind of suicide beside, which is to get hanged at the King’s charges. What was I doing it for ? I asked, as I went down the High Street and out north by Leith Wynd. First, I said it was to save James Stewart; and no doubt the memory of his distress, and his wife’s cries, and a word or so I had let drop on that occasion worked upon me strongly. At the same time I reflected that it was (or ought 1 to ha) the most indifferent matter to my 1 father’s son, whether James died in his bed i or from a scaffold. He was Alan’s cousin, i to bo sure ; but so far as regarded Alan, the 1 best thing would be to lie low, and let the ( King and his Grace of Argyll, and the corbie . crows pick the bones of his kinsman their owh way. Nor could I forget that, while we e wore all in the pot together, James had ] Shown no such particular anxiety whether for \ Alan or me.-

Next it came upon me I was acting for the sake of justice, and I thought that a fine Word and reasoned it out that (since we dwelt in politics) at some discomfort to each one of ns, the main thing of all must still be justice, and* the death of any innocent man a wound upon the whole community. Next, again, it was the Accuser of the Brethren that gave me a turn to this argument; bid me think shame for pretending myself concerned in these matters, and told me I was but a prating vain child, who had spoken big words to Rankeillor and Stewart, and held myself bound upon my vanity to make good that boastfulness. Nay, and he hit me with the other end of the stick, for he accused me of a kind of artful cowardice, going about at the expense of a little risk to purchase greater safety. No doubt, until I had declared and cleared myself, I might any day encounter Mungo Campbell or the sheriff's officer, and be recognised, and dragged into the Appin murder by the heels; and, no doubt, in case I could manage my declaration with success, I should breathe more free for ever after. But when I looked this argument full in the face, I could see nothing to be ashamed of. As for the rest, ‘ Here are the two roads,’ I thought, ‘ and both go to the same place. It’s unjust that James should hang if I can save him; and it would be ridiculous in me to have talked do much and then do nothing. It’s lucky for James of the Glens that I have boasted beforehand; and none so unlucky for myself, .because now I’m committed to do right. I have the name of a gentleman and the means of one; it would be a poor discovery that I was wanting in the essence.’ And I thought this was a Pagan spirit, and said a praver in to myself, asking for what courage! might lack, and that I might go straight to my duty like a soldier to battle, and come off again scatheless as so many do. This train of reasoning brought me to a more resolved complexion; though it was far from closing up ray sense of the dangers that surrounded me, nor of how very apt I was (if I went on) to stumble on the ladder of the gallows. It was a plain, fair morning, but the wind in the east. The little chill of it sang in my blood, and gave me a feeling of the autumn and the dead leaves, and dead folks’ bodies in their graves. It seemed the devil was in it, if I was to die in that tide of my fortune, and of other folks’ affairs. On the top of the Gallon Hill, though it was not the customary time of the year for that diversion, some children were crying and running their kites. These toys appeared very plain against the sky; I remarked a great one soar on the wind to a high altitude and then plump among the whins ; and I thought- to myself at sight of it, * There goes Davie.’ My way lay over Monster’s Hill, and through an end of a clachan on the braeside among fields. There was a'whirr of looms In it from house to house ; bees hummed in the gardens ; the neighbours that I saw at the doorsteps talked in a strange tongue; and I found out later that this was Picardy, a village where the French weavers wrought lor the Linen Company. Here I got a fresh direction for Pilrig, my destination; and a little beyond, on the wayside, came by a gibbet, and two men hanged in chains. They were dipped in tar, as the manner is; the wind span them, the chains clattered, and the birds hung about the uncanny jump-ing-jacks and cried. The sight coming on me suddenly, like an illustration of ray fears, I could scarce be done with examining it and drinking in discomfort. And as I thus turned and turned about the gibbet, what should I strike on, but a weird old wife that sat behind a leg of : it, and nodded and talked aloud to herself with becks and courtesies.

‘Who are those two, mother?’ I asked, and pointed to the corpses. ‘ A blessing on your precious face !’ she • cried. ‘ Twa joes* o’ mine; just twa o’ ray old joes, my hinny dear.’ ‘What did they suffer for?’ I asked. ‘ Oh, just for the guid cause, 5 said she. ‘ After I spaed to them the way that it would end. Twa shillin’ Scots; no pickle mair; and there are twa bonny collants hingin’ for ’t! They took it frae a weanj belanged to Broughton.’ ‘ Ay !’ said I to myself, and not to the daft limmer, ‘ and did they come to such a figure for so poor a business ? This is to lose all indeed. 5 ‘ Gie’s your loofj, hinny,’ says she, ‘and let me spae your weird to ye.’ ‘ No, mother,’ said I, ‘ 1 see far enough the way I am. It’s an unco thing to see, to see too far in front.’ ‘ I read it in your bree,’ she said. ‘ There’s a bonnie lassie that has bricht een, and there’s a wee man in a braw coat, and a big man in a pouthered wig, and there’s a shadow of the wuddy§ joe, that lies braid across your path. Gie’s your loof, hinny, and let Auld Merren spac it to ye bonny.’ The two chance shots that seemed to point at Alan and the daughter of Janies More, struck me hard, and I lied from the eldrich creature, casting her a bawbee, which she continued to sit and play with under the moving shadows of the hanged. My day down the causeway of Leith Walk would have been more pleasant to me,

[ but for this encounter. The old rampart ran . among fields, the like of them I have never ► seen for artfulness of agriculture; 1 was , pleased, besides to be so far in the still . countryside; but the shackles of the gibbet clattered in my head, and the mops and mows of the old witch, and the thought of the dead men, hag-road my spirits. To hang on a gallows, that seemed a hard case, and whether a man came to hang there for two shillings, Scots or (as Mr Stewart had it) from the sense of duty, once he was tarred and shackled, and hung up, the -difference seemed small. There might David Balfour hang, and other lads pass on their errands, and think light of him; and old daft limmers sit at legfoot, and spae their fortunes, and the clean, genty maids go by and look to the other side aud hold a nose. I saw them plain, and they had grey eyes, and their screens upon their heads were of the Drummond colours. I was thus in the poorest of spirits, though still pretty resolved, when I came in view of Pilrig, a pleasant gabled house set by the walkside among some brave young woods. The laird’s horses were standing saddled at the door as I came up, but himself was in the / study, where he received me in the midst of learned works and musical instruments, for he was not only a deep philosopher, but much of a musician. He greeted Rankeillor’s letter, and placed himself obligingly at my disposal. ‘And what is it, cousin David,’ said he—- ‘ since it appears we are cousins—what is this that I can do for you? A word to Prestongrange? Doubtless that is easily given ; but what should be the word ?

‘ Mr Balfour,’ said I, ‘if I were to tell yon my whole story the way it fell out, it’s my opinion (and it was Bankeillor’s before me) that you would be very little made up with ii. ‘ I am sorry to hear this of you, kinsman,’ says he. ‘ I must not take that at your hands, Mr Balfour,’ said I, ‘ I have nothing to my charge to make me sorry, or you for me, but just the common Infirmities of mankind, “ The quilt of Adam’s first sin, the want of original righteousness,” and the corruption of my whole nature, so much must I answer for, and I hope I have been taught .where to look for help,’ I said, for I judged from the look of the man he would think the better of me if I knew my questions!). ‘But in the way of worldly honour I have no great stumble to reproach myself with, and my difficulties have befallen me very much against my will, and (by all that I can see) without my fault. My trouble is to have become dipped in a political complication which it is judged you would be blythe to avoid a knowledge of.’ ‘ Why, very well, Mr David, 1 he replied. ‘ I am pleased to see you are all that Rankeillor represented. Aud for what you say of political complications you do me no more than justice, It is my duty to be beyond suspicion, and, indeed, outside the field of it, The question is,’ says he, ‘ how, if lam to know nothing of the matter, I can very well assist you ? ’ ‘ Why, sir,’ said I, ‘ I propose you should write to his Lordship that I am a young man of reasonable good family, and of good means, both of which I believe to be the case.’ ‘ I have Rankeillor’s word for it,’ said Mr Balfour, ‘ and I count that a warrandice against all deadly.’ ‘ To which you might add, if you will take my word for so much, that I am a good churchman, loyal to King George, and so brought up,’ I went on. ‘ None of which will do you any harm,’ said Mr Balfour. ‘ Then you might go on to say that I sought his lordship on a matter of great moment connected with His Majesty’s service and the administration of justice, 1 I suggested. 1 ‘As I am not to hear the matter,’ says the laird, 4 1 will not take upon myself to qualify its weight. * Great moment ’ therefore falls, and 4 moment 1 along with it. For the rest, I might express myself much as you propose.’ ‘ And then, sir, 1 said I rubbing my neck a little with ray thumb, ‘then I would be very desirous if you could slip in a word that might, perhaps, tell for my protection. 5 ‘Protection?’ says he, ‘for your protection ? Here is a phrase that somewhat dampens me. If the matter be so dangerous I own I would be a little loathe to move in it blindfold.’ ‘I believe I could indicate in two words where the thing sticks,’ said I. 4 Perhaps that would be the best,’ said be. * Well, it’s the Appin murder,’ said J. He held up both his hands. 4 Sirs 1 sirs! ’ cried he. *3weethearta, fChild, J Palm, gGallowa. II My catechism

, I thought by the expression of his face and voice that I had lost my helper. ‘ Let me explain,’ I began. ‘ I thank you kindly, I will hear no more of it,’says he. ‘I decline in toto to hear more of it. For your name’s sake and llunkeillor’s, and perhaps a little for your own, I will do what I can to help you; but I will hear no more upon the facts. And it is my first clear duty to warn you. These are deep waters, Mr David, and you are a young man. Be cautious, and think twice.’ ‘ It is supposed I will have thought oftener than that, Mr Balfour, 5 said I, ‘and I will direct your attention again to Bankeillor’s letter, where, I hope and believe, he has registered his approval of that which I design.’ ‘ Well, well,’ said he; and then again, ‘well, well, I will do what I can for you.’ Therewith ho took a pen and paper, sat a while in thought, and began to write with much consideration. ‘ I understand that Bankeillor approves of what you have in mind? ’ he asked presently. ‘ After some discussion, sir, lie bade me to go forward in God’s name,’ said I. ‘ That is the name to go in,’ said Mr Balfour, and resuming his writing. Presently, he signed, reread what he had written, and addressed me again. ‘ Now, here, Mr David,’ said he, ‘is a letter of introduction, which I will seal without closing, and give into your hands open, as the form requires. But since I am acting in the dark I will read it to you, so that you my see if it will secure your end—

Pilkig, August 26,1751. ‘My Loud.— This is to bring to your notice my namesake anti cousin, David Balfour, Esquire, of Shaw, a young gentleman of unblemished descent and good estate. He has enjoyed besides the more valuable advantages of a goodly training, and his political principles are all that your lordship can desire. lam not in Mr Balfour’s confidence, bnt I understand him to have a matter to declare touching His Majesty’s service and the and the administration of justice: purposes for which your lordship’s zeal is known. I should add that the young gentleman’s intention is known to and approved by some of his friends, who will watch with hopeful anxiety the event of his success or failure. ‘Whereupon, 1 continued Mr Balfour, ‘I have subscribed myself with the usual compliments. You observe I have said “ some of your friends,” 1 hope you can justify my plural ?’ ‘Perfectly, sir; my purpose is known and approved by more than one, 1 said I. ‘And your letter, of which I take a pleasure to thank you for, is all I could have hoped.’ ‘lt was all I could squeeze out, 1 said he, ‘ and from what I know of the matter you design to meddle in, I can only pray God that it may prove sullicient.’

CHAPTER IV. Lord Advocate Prestongrange. My kinsman kept me to a meal, ‘ for the honour of the roof, 1 he said; and I believe I made the better speed on my return. I had no thought but to be done with the next stage, and have mvself fully committed ; to a person circumstanced as I was, the appearance of closing a door on hesitation and temptation was itself extremely tempting, and I was the more disappointed when I came to Prestongrange’s house to be informed he was abroad. I believe it was true at the moment, and for some hours after, and then I have no doubt the Advocate came home again, and enjoyed himself in a neighbouring chamber among friends, while perhaps the very fact of my arrival was forgotten. I would have gone away a dozen times, only for this strong drawing to have done with my declaration out of hand, and to be able to lay me down to sleep with a free conscience. At first I read, for the little cabinet where I was left contained a variety of books. But I fear I read with little profit, and the weather falling cloudy, the dusk coming up earlier than usual, and my cabinet being lighted with but a loophole of a window, I was at last obliged to desist from this diversion (such as it was), and pass the rest of my time of waiting in a very burdensome cacuity. The sound of people talking in a near chamber, the pleasant note of a harpsichord, and once the voice of a lady singing, bore me a kind of company. I do not know the hour, but the darkness was long come when the door of the cabinet opened, and I was aware, by the light behind me, of a tall figure of a man upon the thres- 1 hold. I rose at once. ‘ Is anybody there ? 1 he asked. ‘ Who is that ? ’ ‘ I am bearer of a letter from the laird of Pilrig to the Lord Advocate,’ said I. ‘Have you been here long? ’ he asked. ‘ I would not like to hazard an estimate of how many hours, 1 said I, ‘ It is the first I bear of it, 1 he replied with with a chuckle. ‘ The lads must have forgotten you, but you are in the Bit at last, for I am Prestongrange. 1 So saying, he passed before me into the next room, whither (upon his sign) I followed him, and where he lit a candle and took his place before a business table. It was a long room, of a good proportion, wholly lined with books. The small spark of light in a corner struck out the man's handsome person and strong face. He was flushed, his eye watered and sparkled, and before he sat down I observed him to sway back and forth. No doubt he had been supping liberally, but his mind and tongue were under perfect control. ♦ Well, sir, sit ye down,’ said he, ‘and let us see Pilrig’s letter.’ He glanced it through in the beginning carelessly, looking up and bowing when he came to my name, but at the last words I thought I observed his attention to redouble, and I made sure he read them twice. AH this while you are to suppose my heart was beating, for I had now crossed my Rubicon and was come fairly on the field of battle. 4 1 am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Balfour, 1 he said, when he had done, ‘ Let me offer you a glass of claret. 1 ‘Under, your favour, my lord, I think it would scarce be fair on me, 1 said I. ‘I have come here, as the letter will have mentioned, on a business of some gravity to myself; and as I am little used to wine, I might be the sooner affected.’ ‘ You shall be the judge,’ said he. ‘ Bnt if 1

you will permit, I believe I will even have the bottle in myself.’ He touched a bell, and a footman came as at a signal, bringing wine and glasses. ‘You are sure you will not join me?’ asked the Advocate. * Well, here is to our better acquaintance. In what way can I serve you. ‘ I should perhaps begin by telling you, my lord, that I am here at your own pressing invitation,’ said I. ‘ You have the advantage of me somewhere,’ he said, ‘for I profess I think I never heard of you before this evening.’ ‘ Right, my lord, the name is indeed new to you,’ said I. ‘And yet you have been for some time extremely wishful to make my acquaintance, and have declared the same in public.

‘I wish you would afford me some clue,’ says he. ‘lam no Daniel.’ I ‘lt will perhaps serve for such,’ said I, ‘ that if I was in a jesting humor—which is far from the case—l believe I might lay a claim on your lordship for two hundred pounds.’ ‘ln what sense?’ he inquired. ‘ln the sense of rewards offered for my f person,’ said I. He thrust away his glass once and for all, and sat straight up in the chair where he had been previously lolling. ‘What am 1 to understand?’ said he. ‘ A tall strong lad of about eighteen,’ I quoted, ‘ speaks like a Lowlander, and has no beard.’ ‘I recognise those words,said he, ‘which if you have come here with any ill-judged intention of amusing yourself, are likely to prove extremely prejudicial to your safety.’ , ‘My purpose is this,’ I replied, ‘is just entirely serious as life and death, and you have understood me perfectly. 1 am the boy who was speaking with Glenure when he was shot.’

‘ I can only suppose, seeing you here, that you claim to be innocent, 1 said he. ‘ The inference is clear, 1 I said. ‘lam a very loyal subject to King George, but if I had anything to reproach myself with, I would have had more discretion than to walk into your den.’ ‘ I am glad of that, said he. ‘ This horrid crime Mr Balfour is of a dye which cannot permit any clemency. Blood has been barbarously shed. It has been shed in direct opposition to His Majesty and our whole frame of laws by those who are their known and public oppugnants, I take a very high sense of this, I will not deny what I consider the crime as directly personal to His Majesty.’ * And unfortunately, my lord,’ I added a little dryly, ‘ directly personal to another great personage who may be nameless.’ ‘lf you mean anything by those words, I must tell you I consider them unfit fora good subject; and were they spoke publicly I should make it my business to take note of them,’ said he. ‘ You do not appear to me to recognise the gravity of your situation, or you would be more careful not to pejorate the same by words which glance upon the pnrity of justice. Justice in this country, and in my poor hands, is no respecter of persons.’ ‘ You give me too great a share in my own speech, my lord,’ said I. ‘I did but repeat the common talk of the country, which I have heard everywhere, and from mien of all opinions as I came along.’ ‘ When you are come to my discretion you will understand such talk is not to be listened to, how much less repeated,’ says the Advocate, ‘ but I quit you of an ill intention. That nobleman whom we all honour, and who has indeed been wounded in a near place by the late barbarity, sits too high to be reached by these aspersions. The Duke of Argyle—you see that I deal plainly with you —takes it to heart as I do, and as we are both bound to do our official functions, • and the service of His Majesty; and I could wish that all hands in this ill age were equally clean of family rancour. But from the accident that this is a Campbell who has fallen martyr to his duty—as who else but the Campbell’s have ever put themselves foremost on that path ?—I may say it, whom am no Campbell, and that the chief of that great house happens (for all our advantages) to be present head of the College of Justice, small minds and disaffected tongues are set agog in every change house in the country ; and I find a young gentleman like Mr Balfour so ill-advised as to make himself their echo,’ So much he spoke with a very oratorical delivery, as if in Court, and then declined again upon the manner of a gentleman. ‘ All this apart,’ said he, ‘lt now remains that I should learn what I am to do with you.’

‘ I had thought it was rather that I should learn the same from your lordship,’ said I. 4 Ay, true,’says the Advocate. ‘But, you see, you come to me well recommended. There is a good honest Whig name to this letter,’ says he, picking it up a moment from the table. ‘ And—extra-judicial, Mr Balfour —there is always the possibility of some arrangement. I tell you, and I tell you beforehand, that you may be the more upon your guard, your fate lies with me singly. In such a matter (be it said with reverence), I am more powerful than the King’s Majesty ; and should you please me—and of course satisfy my conscience in what remains to be held of your interview, I tell you it may remain between ourselves. 1 ‘ Meaning how? 1 I asked. * Why, I mein it thus, Mr Balfour,’ said he, ‘ that if you give satisfaction, no soul need know so much as that you visited my house; and you may observe that I do not even call my clerk,’ I saw what way he was driving. ‘ I suppose it is needless anyone should be informed upon my visit, 1 said I, ‘ though the precise nature of my gains by that I cannot see. I am not at all ashamed of coming here. 1 4 And I have no cause to be,’ says he, encouragingly. 4 Nor yet (if you are careful) to fear the consequences.’ 4 My lord, 1 said I, 4 speaking under your correction, I am not very easy to be frightened. 1 4 And I am sure I do not seek to frighten you, 1 says he. ‘But to the interrogation; and let me warn you to volunteer nothing beyond the questions I shall ask you. It may consist very immediately with your safety. ,

I have a great discretion, it is true, but there are bounds to it. 1 ‘ I shall try to follow your lordship's advice,’ said I. He spread a sheet of paper on the table and wrote a heading. ‘lt appears you were present, by the way, in the wood of Lettermere at the moment of the fatal shot,’ he began. ‘Was this by accident V ‘By accident,’ said I. ‘How came you in speech with Colin Campbell V he asked. ‘ 1 was inquiring my way of hiinto Ancharn,’ 1 replied. I observed he did not write this down. ‘ H’m true,’ said he, ‘1 had forgotten that. And do you know, Mr Balfour, I would dwell if I were you, as little as might be on your relations with these Stewarts? It might be found to complicate our business. lam not yet inclined to regard these matters as essential.’

i ‘ 1 had thought, my lord, that all points of fact wore equally material in such a case,’ said 1. *iour forget we are now trying these Stewarts,’ he replied, with great significance. ‘ If we should ever come to be trying you it will be very different, and I shall press these very questions that I am now willing to glide upon. But to resume; I have it here in Mr Campbell’s precognition that you ran immediately up the brae. How came that ?* ‘ Not immediately, my lord, and the cause was my seeing of tlae murderer.’ ‘ You saw him, then ?* ‘ As plain as I see your lordship, though not so near hand.’ ‘ You know him ?’ ‘ I should know him again.’ ‘ In your pursuit you were not so fortunate, then, as to overtake him ?’ ‘ I was not.’ ‘ Was he alone ?’ ‘ He was alone.’ ‘ There was no one else in that neighbourhood ?’ ‘Alan Breek Stewart was not far off, in a piece of wood.* The Advocate laid his pen down. ‘I think we are playing at cross-purposes,’ said he, ‘ which you will find to prove a very ill amusement for yourself.* ‘ I content myself with following your lordship’s advice, and answering what I am asked,’ said I. ‘Be so wise as to bethink yourself in time,’ said ho, ‘ I use you with the.- most anxious tenderness, which you scarce seem to appreciate, and which (unless you be more careful), may prove to be in vain.’ ‘ I dp appreciate your tenderness, but conceive it to be mistaken,’ I replied, with something of a falter, for I saw we were coming to grips at last. ‘ I am here to lay before you certain information, by which I shall convince you Alan had no hand whatever in the killing of Glenure.’ The Advocate appeared for a moment at a stick, sitting with pursed lips, and blinking his eyes upon me like an angry cat. ‘Mr Balfour, 1 said he at last, ‘I tell you pointedly you go an ill way for your own interests.’ ‘My lord,’ I said, * I am as free of the charge of considering my own interests in this matter as your lordship. As God judges me, I have but the one design, and that is to see justice executed and the innocent go clear. If in pursuit of that I come to fall under your lordship’s displeasure, I must bear it as I may.’ (To be continued.)