Chapter IX: Introduction: To the Heart of Mid-Lothian--(1830) (8)

It was situated in the depth of the valley behind Salisbury Crags, which has for a background the north-western shoulder of the mountain called Arthurís Seat, on whose descent still remain the ruins of what was once a chapel, or hermitage, dedicated to St. Anthony the Eremite. A better site for such a building could hardly have been selected; for the chapel, situated among the rude and pathless cliffs, lies in a desert, even in the immediate vicinity of a rich, populous, and tumultuous capital: and the hum of the city might mingle with the orisons of the recluses, conveying as little of worldly interest as if it had been the roar of the distant ocean. Beneath the steep ascent on which these ruins are still visible, was, and perhaps is still pointed out, the place where the wretch Nichol Muschat, who has been already mentioned in these pages, had closed a long scene of cruelty towards his unfortunate wife, by murdering her, with circumstances of uncommon barbarity.*

* See Note G. Muschatís Cairn.

The execration in which the manís crime was held extended itself to the place where it was perpetrated, which was marked by a small _cairn,_ or heap of stones, composed of those which each chance passenger had thrown there in testimony of abhorrence, and on the principle, it would seem, of the ancient British malediction, “May you have a cairn for your burial-place!”

As our heroine approached this ominous and unhallowed spot, she paused and looked to the moon, now rising broad in the north-west, and shedding a more distinct light than it had afforded during her walk thither. Eyeing the planet for a moment, she then slowly and fearfully turned her head towards the cairn, from which it was at first averted. She was at first disappointed. Nothing was visible beside the little pile of stones, which shone grey in the moonlight. A multitude of confused suggestions rushed on her mind. Had her correspondent deceived her, and broken his appointment?--was he too tardy at the appointment he had made?--or had some strange turn of fate prevented him from appearing as he proposed?--or, if he were an unearthly being, as her secret apprehensions suggested, was it his object merely to delude her with false hopes, and put her to unnecessary toil and terror, according to the nature, as she had heard, of those wandering demons?--or did he purpose to blast her with the sudden horrors of his presence when she had come close to the place of rendezvous? These anxious reflections did not prevent her approaching to the cairn with a pace that, though slow, was determined.

When she was within two yards of the heap of stones, a figure rose suddenly up from behind it, and Jeanie scarce forbore to scream aloud at what seemed the realisation of the most frightful of her anticipations. She constrained herself to silence, however, and, making a dead pause, suffered the figure to open the conversation, which he did, by asking, in a voice which agitation rendered tremulous and hollow, “Are you the sister of that ill-fated young woman?”

“I am--I am the sister of Effie Deans!” exclaimed Jeanie. “And as ever you hope God will hear you at your need, tell me, if you can tell, what can be done to save her!”

“I do _not_ hope God will hear me at my need,” was the singular answer. “I do not deserve--I do not expect he will.” This desperate language he uttered in a tone calmer than that with which he had at first spoken, probably because the shook of first addressing her was what he felt most difficult to overcome. Jeanie remained mute with horror to hear language expressed so utterly foreign to all which she had ever been acquainted with, that it sounded in her ears rather like that of a fiend than of a human being. The stranger pursued his address to her, without seeming to notice her surprise. “You see before you a wretch, predestined to evil here and hereafter.”

“For the sake of Heaven, that hears and sees us,” said Jeanie, “dinna speak in this desperate fashion! The gospel is sent to the chief of sinners--to the most miserable among the miserable.”

“Then should I have my own share therein,” said the stranger, “if you call it sinful to have been the destruction of the mother that bore me--of the friend that loved me--of the woman that trusted me--of the innocent child that was born to me. If to have done all this is to be a sinner, and survive it is to be miserable, then am I most guilty and most miserable indeed.”

“Then you are the wicked cause of my sisterís ruin?” said Jeanie, with a natural touch of indignation expressed in her tone of voice.

“Curse me for it, if you will,” said the stranger; “I have well deserved it at your hand.”

“It is fitter for me,” said Jeanie, “to pray to God to forgive you.”

“Do as you will, how you will, or what you will,” he replied, with vehemence; “only promise to obey my directions, and save your sisterís life.”

“I must first know,” said Jeanie, “the means you would have me use in her behalf.”

“No!--you must first swear--solemnly swear, that you will employ them when I make them known to you.”

“Surely, it is needless to swear that I will do all that is lawful to a Christian to save the life of my sister?”

“I will have no reservation!” thundered the stranger; “lawful or unlawful, Christian or heathen, you shall swear to do my hest, and act by my counsel, or--you little know whose wrath you provoke!”

“I will think on what you have said,” said Jeanie, who began to get much alarmed at the frantic vehemence of his manner, and disputed in her own mind, whether she spoke to a maniac, or an apostate spirit incarnate--“I will think on what you say, and let you ken to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” exclaimed the man with a laugh of scorn--“And where will I be to-morrow?--or, where will you be to-night, unless you swear to walk by my counsel?--there was one accursed deed done at this spot before now; and there shall be another to match it, unless you yield up to my guidance body and soul.”

As he spoke, he offered a pistol at the unfortunate young woman. She neither fled nor fainted, but sunk on her knees, and asked him to spare her life.

“Is that all you have to say?” said the unmoved ruffian.

“Do not dip your hands in the blood of a defenceless creature that has trusted to you,” said Jeanie, still on her knees.

“Is that all you can say for your life?--Have you no promise to give?--Will you destroy your sister, and compel me to shed more blood?”

“I can promise nothing,” said Jeanie, “which is unlawful for a Christian.”

He cocked the weapon, and held it towards her.

“May God forgive you!” she said, pressing her hands forcibly against her eyes.

“D--n!” muttered the man; and, turning aside from her, he uncocked the pistol, and replaced it in his pocket--“I am a villain,” he said, “steeped in guilt and wretchedness, but not wicked enough to do you any harm! I only wished to terrify you into my measures--She hears me not--she is gone!--Great God! what a wretch am I become!”

As he spoke, she recovered herself from an agony which partook of the bitterness of death; and, in a minute or two, through the strong exertion of her natural sense and courage, collected herself sufficiently to understand he intended her no personal injury.

“No!” he repeated; “I would not add to the murder of your sister, and of her child, that of any one belonging to her!--Mad, frantic, as I am, and unrestrained by either fear or mercy, given up to the possession of an evil being, and forsaken by all that is good, I would not hurt you, were the world offered me for a bribe! But, for the sake of all that is dear to you, swear you will follow my counsel. Take this weapon, shoot me through the head, and with your own hand revenge your sisterís wrong, only follow the course--the only course, by which her life can be saved.”

“Alas! is she innocent or guilty?”

“She is guiltless--guiltless of every thing, but of having trusted a villain!--Yet, had it not been for those that were worse than I am--yes, worse than I am, though I am bad indeed--this misery had not befallen.”

“And my sisterís child--does it live?” said Jeanie.

“No; it was murdered--the new-born infant was barbarously murdered,” he uttered in a low, yet stern and sustained voice.--“but,” he added hastily, “not by her knowledge or consent.”

“Then, why cannot the guilty be brought to justice, and the innocent freed?”

“Torment me not with questions which can serve no purpose,” he sternly replied--“The deed was done by those who are far enough from pursuit, and safe enough from discovery!--No one can save Effie but yourself.”

“Woeís me! how is it in my power?” asked Jeanie, in despondency.

“Hearken to me!--You have sense--you can apprehend my meaning--I will trust you. Your sister is innocent of the crime charged against her.”

“Thank God for that!” said Jeanie.

“Be still and hearken!--The person who assisted her in her illness murdered the child; but it was without the motherís knowledge or consent--She is therefore guiltless, as guiltless as the unhappy innocent, that but gasped a few minutes in this unhappy world--the better was its hap, to be so soon at rest. She is innocent as that infant, and yet she must die--it is impossible to clear her of the law!”

“Cannot the wretches be discovered, and given up to punishment?” said Jeanie.

“Do you think you will persuade those who are hardened in guilt to die to save another?--Is that the reed you would lean to?”

“But you said there was a remedy,” again gasped out the terrified young woman.

“There is,” answered the stranger, “and it is in your own hands. The blow which the law aims cannot be broken by directly encountering it, but it may be turned aside. You saw your sister during the period preceding the birth of her child--what is so natural as that she should have mentioned her condition to you? The doing so would, as their cant goes, take the case from under the statute, for it removes the quality of concealment. I know their jargon, and have had sad cause to know it; and the quality of concealment is essential to this statutory offence.*

* Note K. Child Murder.

Nothing is so natural as that Effie should have mentioned her condition to you--think--reflect--I am positive that she did.”

“Woeís me!” said Jeanie, “she never spoke to me on the subject, but grat sorely when I spoke to her about her altered looks, and the change on her spirits.”

“You asked her questions on the subject?” he said eagerly. “You _must_ remember her answer was, a confession that she had been ruined by a villain--yes, lay a strong emphasis on that--a cruel false villain call it--any other name is unnecessary; and that she bore under her bosom the consequences of his guilt and her folly; and that he had assured her he would provide safely for her approaching illness.--Well he kept his word!” These last words he spoke as if it were to himself, and with a violent gesture of self-accusation, and then calmly proceeded, “You will remember all this?--That is all that is necessary to be said.”

“But I cannot remember,” answered Jeanie, with simplicity, “that which Effie never told me.”

“Are you so dull--so very dull of apprehension?” he exclaimed, suddenly grasping her arm, and holding it firm in his hand. “I tell you” (speaking between his teeth, and under his breath, but with great energy), “you _must_ remember that she told you all this, whether she ever said a syllable of it or no. You must repeat this tale, in which there is no falsehood, except in so far as it was not told to you, before these Justices--Justiciary--whatever they call their bloodthirsty court, and save your sister from being murdered, and them from becoming murderers. Do not hesitate--I pledge life and salvation, that in saying what I have said, you will only speak the simple truth.”

“But,” replied Jeanie, whose judgment was too accurate not to see the sophistry of this argument, “I shall be man-sworn in the very thing in which my testimony is wanted, for it is the concealment for which poor Effie is blamed, and you would make me tell a falsehood anent it.”

“I see,” he said, “my first suspicions of you were right, and that you will let your sister, innocent, fair, and guiltless, except in trusting a villain, die the death of a murderess, rather than bestow the breath of your mouth and the sound of your voice to save her.”

“I wad ware the best blood in my body to keep her skaithless,” said Jeanie, weeping in bitter agony, “but I canna change right into wrang, or make that true which is false.”

“Foolish, hardhearted girl,” said the stranger, “are you afraid of what they may do to you? I tell you, even the retainers of the law, who course life as greyhounds do hares, will rejoice at the escape of a creature so young--so beautiful, that they will not suspect your tale; that, if they did suspect it, they would consider you as deserving, not only of forgiveness, but of praise for your natural affection.”

“It is not man I fear,” said Jeanie, looking upward; “the God, whose name I must call on to witness the truth of what I say, he will know the falsehood.”

“And he will know the motive,” said the stranger, eagerly; “he will know that you are doing this--not for lucre of gain, but to save the life of the innocent, and prevent the commission of a worse crime than that which the law seeks to avenge.”

“He has given us a law,” said Jeanie, “for the lamp of our path; if we stray from it we err against knowledge--I may not do evil, even that good may come out of it. But you--you that ken all this to be true, which I must take on your word--you that, if I understood what you said eíen now, promised her shelter and protection in her travail, why do not _you_ step forward, and bear leal and soothfast evidence in her behalf, as ye may with a clear conscience?”

“To whom do you talk of a clear conscience, woman?” said he, with a sudden fierceness which renewed her terrors,--“to _me?_--I have not known one for many a year. Bear witness in her behalf?--a proper witness, that even to speak these few words to a woman of so little consequence as yourself, must choose such an hour and such a place as this. When you see owls and bats fly abroad, like larks, in the sunshine, you may expect to see such as I am in the assemblies of men.--Hush--listen to that.”

A voice was heard to sing one of those wild and monotonous strains so common in Scotland, and to which the natives of that country chant their old ballads. The sound ceased--then came nearer, and was renewed; the stranger listened attentively, still holding Jeanie by the arm (as she stood by him in motionless terror), as if to prevent her interrupting the strain by speaking or stirring. When the sounds were renewed, the words were distinctly audible:

“When the gledeís in the blue cloud,
The lavrock lies still;
When the houndís iní the green-wood,
The hind keeps the hill.”

The person who sung kept a strained and powerful voice at its highest pitch, so that it could be heard at a very considerable distance. As the song ceased, they might hear a stifled sound, as of steps and whispers of persons approaching them. The song was again raised, but the tune was changed:

“O sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said,
When ye suld rise and ride;
Thereís twenty men, wií bow and blade,
Are seeking where ye hide.”

“I dare stay no longer,” said the stranger; “return home, or remain till they come up--you have nothing to fear--but do not tell you saw me--your sisterís fate is in your hands.” So saying, he turned from her, and with a swift, yet cautiously noiseless step, plunged into the darkness on the side most remote from the sounds which they heard approaching, and was soon lost to her sight. Jeanie remained by the cairn terrified beyond expression, and uncertain whether she ought to fly homeward with all the speed she could exert, or wait the approach of those who were advancing towards her. This uncertainty detained her so long, that she now distinctly saw two or three figures already so near to her, that a precipitate flight would have been equally fruitless and impolitic.

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.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

And some they whistled--and some they sang,
And some did loudly say,
Whenever Lord Barnardís horn it blew,
“Away, Musgrave away!”
Ballad of Little Musgrave.

When the man of office returned to the Heart of Mid-Lothian, he resumed his conference with Ratcliffe, of whose experience and assistance he now held himself secure. “You must speak with this wench, Rat--this Effie Deans--you must sift her a wee bit; for as sure as a tether she will ken Robertsonís haunts--till her, Rat--till her without delay.”

“Craving your pardon, Mr. Sharpitlaw,” said the turnkey elect, “thatís what I am not free to do.”

“Free to do, man? what the deil ails ye now?--I thought we had settled aí that?”

“I dinna ken, sir,” said Ratcliffe; “I hae spoken to this Effie--sheís strange to this place and to its ways, and to aí our ways, Mr. Sharpitlaw; and she greets, the silly tawpie, and sheís breaking her heart already about this wild chield; and were she the meanís oí taking him, she wad break it outright.”

“She wunna hae time, lad,” said Sharpitlaw; “the woodie will hae itís ain oí her before that--a womanís heart takes a lang time oí breaking.”

“Thatís according to the stuff they are made oí sir,” replied Ratcliffe--“But to make a lang tale short, I canna undertake the job. It gangs against my conscience.”

“_Your_ conscience, Rat?” said Sharpitlaw, with a sneer, which the reader will probably think very natural upon the occasion.

“Ou ay, sir,” answered Ratcliffe, calmly, “just my conscience; aíbody has a conscience, though it may be ill wunnin at it. I think mineís as weel out oí the gate as maist folkís are; and yet itís just like the noop of my elbow, it whiles gets a bit dirl on a corner.”

“Weel, Rat,” replied Sharpitlaw, “since ye are nice, Iíll speak to the hussy mysell.”

Sharpitlaw, accordingly, caused himself to be introduced into the little dark apartment tenanted by the unfortunate Effie Deans. The poor girl was seated on her little flock-bed, plunged in a deep reverie. Some food stood on the table, of a quality better than is usually supplied to prisoners, but it was untouched. The person under whose care she was more particularly placed, said, “that sometimes she tasted naething from the tae end of the four-and-twenty hours to the tíother, except a drink of water.”

Sharpitlaw took a chair, and, commanding the turnkey to retire, he opened the conversation, endeavouring to throw into his tone and countenance as much commiseration as they were capable of expressing, for the one was sharp and harsh, the other sly, acute, and selfish.

“Howís aí wií ye, Effie?--How díye find yoursell, hinny?”

A deep sigh was the only answer.

“Are the folk civil to ye, Effie?--itís my duty to inquire.”

“Very civil, sir,” said Effie, compelling herself to answer, yet hardly knowing what she said.

“And your victuals,” continued Sharpitlaw, in the same condoling tone,--“do you get what you like?--or is there onything you would particularly fancy, as your health seems but silly?”

“Itís aí very weel, sir, I thank ye,” said the poor prisoner, in a tone how different from the sportive vivacity of those of the Lily of St. Leonardís!--“itís aí very gude--ower gude for me.”

“He must have been a great villain, Effie, who brought you to this pass,” said Sharpitlaw.

The remark was dictated partly by a natural feeling, of which even he could not divest himself, though accustomed to practise on the passions of others, and keep a most heedful guard over his own, and partly by his wish to introduce the sort of conversation which might, best serve his immediate purpose. Indeed, upon the present occasion, these mixed motives of feeling and cunning harmonised together wonderfully; for, said Sharpitlaw to himself, the greater rogue Robertson is, the more will be the merit of bringing him to justice. “He must have been a great villain, indeed,” he again reiterated; “and I wish I had the skelping oí him.”

“I may blame mysell mair than him,” said Effie; “I was bred up to ken better; but he, poor fellow,”--(she stopped).

“Was a thorough blackguard aí his life, I dare say,” said Sharpitlaw. “A stranger he was in this country, and a companion of that lawless vagabond, Wilson, I think, Effie?”

“It wad hae been dearly telling him that he had neíer seen Wilsonís face.”

“Thatís very true that you are saying, Effie,” said Sharpitlaw. “Where wasít that Robertson and you were used to howff thegither? Somegate about the Laigh Calton, I am thinking.”

The simple and dispirited girl had thus far followed Mr. Sharpitlawís lead, because he had artfully adjusted his observations to the thoughts he was pretty certain must be passing through her own mind, so that her answers became a kind of thinking aloud, a mood into which those who are either constitutionally absent in mind, or are rendered so by the temporary pressure of misfortune, may be easily led by a skilful train of suggestions. But the last observation of the procurator-fiscal was too much of the nature of a direct interrogatory, and it broke the charm accordingly.

“What was it that I was saying?” said Effie, starting up from her reclining posture, seating herself upright, and hastily shading her dishevelled hair back from her wasted but still beautiful countenance. She fixed her eyes boldly and keenly upon Sharpitlaw--“You are too much of a gentleman, sir,--too much of an honest man, to take any notice of what a poor creature like me says, that can hardly caí my senses my ain--God help me!”

“Advantage!--I would be of some advantage to you if I could,” said Sharpitlaw, in a soothing tone; “and I ken naething sae likely to serve ye, Effie, as gripping this rascal, Robertson.”

“O dinna miscaí him, sir, that never miscaíd you!--Robertson?--I am sure I had naething to say against ony man oí the name, and naething will I say.”

“But if you do not heed your own misfortune, Effie, you should mind what distress he has brought on your family,” said the man of law.

“O, Heaven help me!” exclaimed poor Effie--“My poor father--my dear Jeanie--O, thatís sairest to bide of aí! O, sir, if you hae ony kindness--if ye hae ony touch of compassion--for aí the folk I see here are as hard as the waí-stanes--If ye wad but bid them let my sister Jeanie in the next time she caís! for when I hear them put her awa frae the door, and canna climb up to that high window to see sae muckle as her gown-tail, itís like to pit me out oí my judgment.” And she looked on him with a face of entreaty, so earnest, yet so humble, that she fairly shook the steadfast purpose of his mind.

“You shall see your sister,” he began, “if youíll tell me,”--then interrupting himself, he added, in a more hurried tone,--“no, d--n it, you shall see your sister whether you tell me anything or no.” So saying, he rose up and left the apartment.

When he had rejoined Ratcliffe, he observed, “You are right, Ratton; thereís no making much of that lassie. But ae thing I have cleared--that is, that Robertson has been the father of the bairn, and so I will wager a boddle it will be he thatís to meet wií Jeanie Deans this night at Muschatís Cairn, and there weíll nail him, Rat, or my name is not Gideon Sharpitlaw.”

“But,” said Ratcliffe, perhaps because he was in no hurry to see anything which was like to be connected with the discovery and apprehension of Robertson, “an that were the case, Mr. Butler wad hae kend the man in the Kingís Park to be the same person wií him in Madge Wildfireís claise, that headed the mob.”

“That makes nae difference, man,” replied Sharpitlaw--“the dress, the light, the confusion, and maybe a touch oí a blackit cork, or a slake oí paint-hout, Ratton, I have seen ye dress your ainsell, that the deevil ye belang to durstna hae made oath tíye.”

“And thatís true, too,” said Ratcliffe.

“And besides, ye donnard carle,” continued Sharpitlaw, triumphantly, “the minister _did_ say that he thought he knew something of the features of the birkie that spoke to him in the Park, though he could not charge his memory where or when he had seen them.”

“Itís evident, then, your honour will be right,” said Ratcliffe.

“Then, Rat, you and I will go with the party oursells this night, and see him in grips or we are done wií him.”

“I seena muckle use I can be oí to your honour,” said Ratcliffe, reluctantly.

“Use?” answered Sharpitlaw--“You can guide the party--you ken the ground. Besides, I do not intend to quit sight oí you, my good friend, till I have him in hand.”

“Weel, sir,” said Ratcliffe, but in no joyful tone of acquiescence; “Ye maun hae it your ain way--but mind heís a desperate man.”

“We shall have that with us,” answered Sharpitlaw, “that will settle him, if it is necessary.”

“But, sir,” answered Ratcliffe, “I am sure I couldna undertake to guide you to Muschatís Cairn in the night-time; I ken the place as mony does, in fair day-light, but how to find it by moonshine, amang sae mony crags and stanes, as like to each other as the collier to the deil, is mair than I can tell. I might as soon seek moonshine in water.”

“Whatís the meaning oí this, Ratcliffe?” said Sharpitlaw, while he fixed his eye on the recusant, with a fatal and ominous expression,--“Have you forgotten that you are still under sentence of death?”

“No, sir,” said Ratcliffe, “thatís a thing no easily put out oí memory; and if my presence be judged necessary, nae doubt I maun gang wií your honour. But I was gaun to tell your honour of ane that has mair skeel oí the gate than me, and thatís eíen Madge Wildfire.”

“The devil she has!--Do you think me as mad as she, is, to trust to her guidance on such an occasion?”

“Your honour is the best judge,” answered Ratcliffe; “but I ken I can keep her in tune, and garr her haud the straight path--she often sleeps out, or rambles about amang thae hills the haill simmer night, the daft limmer.”

“Weel, Ratcliffe,” replied the procurator-fiscal, “if you think she can guide us the right way--but take heed to what you are about--your life depends on your behaviour.”

“Itís a sair judgment on a man,” said Ratcliffe, “when he has ance gane sae far wrang as I hae done, that deil a bit he can be honest, tryít whilk way he will.”

Such was the reflection of Ratcliffe, when he was left for a few minutes to himself, while the retainer of justice went to procure a proper warrant, and give the necessary directions.