"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 sister's 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 sister's
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 sister's 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 sister's 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."

"Woe's 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 mother's 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."

"Woe's 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 e'en 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 glede's in the blue cloud,
                        The lavrock lies still;
                  When the hound's in' 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;
                There's twenty men, wi' 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
sister's 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 sma' wad," said the clerk to the magistrate, "that this
rascal Ratcliffe, if he were insured of his neck's safety, could do more
than ony ten of our police-people and constables to help us to get out of
this scrape of Porteous's. He is weel acquent wi' a' the smugglers,
thieves, and banditti about Edinburgh; and, indeed, he may be called the
father of a' 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 honour's pardon," said the city's 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; an' if sae be that he's disposed to turn his knowledge
to the city service, yell no find a better man.--Ye'll 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 o' 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 o' God, and the
fear o' man, and the fear o' getting a sair throat, or sair banes,
there's a dozen o' 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, that's stiff and stark,
puir fallow, was worth a dozen o' them; for he never had ony fears, or
scruples, or doubts, or conscience, about onything your honours bade
him."

"He was a gude servant o' 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. It's an awsome thing this mischance for the
city, Mr. Fairscrieve. It will be very ill taen wi' abune stairs. Queen
Caroline, God bless her! is a woman--at least I judge sae, and it's 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
wilfu', 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 twa's imprisonment; and if ye thought it no
strictly just, ye could be just the easier wi' them the neist time they
did onything to deserve it; they arena the sort to be lang o' gieing ye
an opportunity to clear scores wi' them on that account."

"I doubt that will hardly do in this case, Mr. Sharpitlaw," returned the
town-clerk; "they'll 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
Ratcliffe's business. Mr. Sharpitlaw, you will go with me, and receive
instructions--something may be made too out of this story of Butler's and
his unknown gentleman--I know no business any man has to swagger about in
the King's 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 father's time,
there was mair search for silenced ministers about the Bow-head and the
Covenant Close, and all the tents of Kedar, as they ca'd the dwellings o'
the godly in those days, than there's now for thieves and vagabonds in
the Laigh Calton and the back o' the Canongate. But that time's weel by,
an it bide. And if the Bailie will get me directions and authority from
the Provost, I'll speak wi' Daddie Rat mysell; for I'm thinking I'll make
mair out o' him than ye'll 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 other's 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
"Sutherland's 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, I've a Favour for to beg,
                      That ye wad only gie a Fleg,
                           And spare my Life;
                      As I did to ill-hanged Megg,
                               The Webster's Wife."]

"Ay; if I waited in the Tolbooth here to have him fit my cravat--but
that's an idle way o' speaking, Mr. Sharpitlaw."

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

"Aye, so are a', 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, "d'ye ken, Rat--that is, can ye gie us ony inkling
where he is to be heard tell o'?"

"Troth, Mr. Sharpitlaw, I'll be frank wi' ye; Robertson is rather a cut
abune me--a wild deevil he was, and mony a daft prank he played; but
except the Collector's job that Wilson led him into, and some tuilzies
about run goods wi' the gaugers and the waiters, he never did onything
that came near our line o' business."

"Umph! that's singular, considering the company he kept."

"Fact, upon my honour and credit," said Ratcliffe, gravely. "He keepit
out o' our little bits of affairs, and that's mair than Wilson did; I hae
dune business wi' Wilson afore now. But the lad will come on in time;
there's nae fear o' him; naebody will live the life he has led, but what
he'll come to sooner or later."

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

"He's better born, I judge, than he cares to let on; he's 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, I'll no stand niffering
wi' ye; ye ken the way that favour's gotten in my office; ye maun be
usefu'."

"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 e'en now," said the official person, "is
the job of Porteous's; an ye can gie us a lift--why, the inner turnkey's
office to begin wi', and the captainship in time--ye understand my
meaning?"

"Ay, troth do I, sir; a wink's as gude as a nod to a blind horse; but
Jock Porteous's 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 lads' hands. Mony a het skin ye hae gien me, neighbour, thought I,
tak ye what's gaun: time about's fair play; ye'll ken now what hanging's
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 ca's it," said
Ratcliffe, demurely, and with an air of great simplicity, "when ye ken I
was under sentence and in the strong room a' 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?"

"That's speaking to the purpose, indeed," said the office-bearer; "and
now, Rat, where think ye we'll find him?"

"Deil haet o' me kens," said Ratcliffe; "he'll no likely gang back to ony
o' his auld howffs; he'll be off the country by this time. He has gude
friends some gate or other, for a' the life he's led; he's been weel
educate."

"He'll grace the gallows the better," said Mr. Sharpitlaw; "a desperate
dog, to murder an officer of the city for doing his duty! Wha kens wha's
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 woman's bit mutch on his head; but ye
never saw sic a ca'-throw. Ane couldna hae een to a' thing."

"But did he speak to no one?" said Sharpitlaw.

"They were a' 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.

"It's very hard, sir," said the prisoner; "and but for the
under-turnkey's 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!--there's the deevil. And then
it's waiting for dead folk's shoon into the bargain."

"But Robertson's head will weigh something," said Sharpitlaw; "something
gey and heavy, Rat; the town maun show cause--that's right and
reason--and then ye'll hae freedom to enjoy your gear honestly."

"I dinna ken," said Ratcliffe; "it's 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, that's up there for child-murder."

"The deil ye did? Rat, this is finding a mare's nest wi' a witness.--And
the man that spoke to Butler in the Park, and that was to meet wi' Jeanie
Deans at Muschat's Cairn--whew! lay that and that together? As sure as I
live he's been the father of the lassie's wean."

"There hae been waur guesses than that, I'm 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 wi' a
bonny quean about the Pleasaunts, and that it was a' 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.

"It's 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 Touchstone's
directions to Audrey, and opened the conversation without waiting till
any questions were asked.

"God gie your honour gude-e'en, and mony o' them, bonny Mr.
Sharpitlaw!--Gude-e'en to ye, Daddie Ratton--they tauld me ye were
hanged, man; or did ye get out o' John Dalgleish's hands like
half-hangit Maggie Dickson?"

"Whisht, ye daft jaud," said Ratcliffe, "and hear what's said to ye."

"Wi' a' my heart, Ratton. Great preferment for poor Madge to be brought
up the street wi' a grand man, wi' a coat a' passemented wi' worset-lace,
to speak wi' provosts, and bailies, and town-clerks, and prokitors, at
this time o' 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 ye're dressed
out in your braws, I see; these are not your every-days' claiths ye have
on."

"Deil be in my fingers, then!" said Madge--"Eh, sirs!" (observing Butler
come into the apartment), "there's a minister in the Tolbooth--wha will
ca' it a graceless place now?--I'se warrant he's in for the gude auld
cause--but it's be nae cause o' mine," and off she went into a song--


"Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers,
Dub a dub, dub a dub,
Have at old Beelzebub,--
Oliver's 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 I'll ne'er fash my thumb about it.--

           I glance like the wildfire through country and town;
               I'm seen on the causeway--I'm 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.
Sharpitlaw's importance--"haud your tongue, or I'se gie ye something to
skirl for!"

"Let her alone, George," said Sharpitlaw, "dinna put her out o' 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 it's 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 wi' your ilka-day's claise yesterday?"

"I dinna mind," said Madge.

"Where was ye yesterday at e'en, Madge?"

"I dinna mind ony thing about yesterday," answered Madge; "ae day is
eneugh for ony body to wun ower wi' 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 Dalgleish 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 folks' 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--"there's Rob the Ranter, and Will Fleming, and then there's
Geordie Robertson, lad--that's Gentleman Geordie--what think ye o' 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 wi' a pair o' tangs when you are in your
auld ilka-day rags."

"Ye're a leeing auld sorrow then," replied the fair one; "for Gentle
Geordie Robertson put my ilka-day's claise on his ain bonny sell
yestreen, and gaed a' through the town wi' them; and gawsie and grand he
lookit, like ony queen in the land."

"I dinna believe a word o't," said Ratcliffe, with another wink to the
procurator. "Thae duds were a' o' the colour o' moonshine in the water,
I'm thinking, Madge--The gown wad be a sky-blue scarlet, I'se 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 mother's auld mutch, and my red rokelay--and he gied
me a croun and a kiss for the use o' them, blessing on his bonny
face--though it's been a dear ane to me."

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

"The procurator's spoiled a'," 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 was't 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 o' 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 ca' 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 wi' the bridal ring--bridal ring--bridal ring?
      What did ye wi' 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 o' 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. "I'll take some measures with this
d--d Bess of Bedlam," said he, "that shall make her find her tongue."

"Wi' 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
creature's 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 it's
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."

"That's 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 I'll 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 Barnard's 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
Robertson's haunts--till her, Rat--till her without delay."

"Craving your pardon, Mr. Sharpitlaw," said the turnkey elect, "that's
what I am not free to do."

"Free to do, man? what the deil ails ye now?--I thought we had settled a'
that?"

"I dinna ken, sir," said Ratcliffe; "I hae spoken to this Effie--she's
strange to this place and to its ways, and to a' our ways, Mr.
Sharpitlaw; and she greets, the silly tawpie, and she's breaking her
heart already about this wild chield; and were she the mean's o' taking
him, she wad break it outright."

"She wunna hae time, lad," said Sharpitlaw; "the woodie will hae it's ain
o' her before that--a woman's heart takes a lang time o' breaking."

"That's according to the stuff they are made o' 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; a'body has
a conscience, though it may be ill wunnin at it. I think mine's as weel
out o' the gate as maist folk's are; and yet it's just like the noop of
my elbow, it whiles gets a bit dirl on a corner."

"Weel, Rat," replied Sharpitlaw, "since ye are nice, I'll 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 t'other, 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.

"How's a' wi' ye, Effie?--How d'ye find yoursell, hinny?"

A deep sigh was the only answer.

"Are the folk civil to ye, Effie?--it's 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?"

"It's a' 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.
Leonard's!--"it's a' 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 o' 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 a' 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 ne'er seen Wilson's
face."

"That's very true that you are saying, Effie," said Sharpitlaw. "Where
was't 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. Sharpitlaw's
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 ca' 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 misca' him, sir, that never misca'd you!--Robertson?--I am sure
I had naething to say against ony man o' 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, that's sairest to bide of a'! O, sir, if you hae ony
kindness--if ye hae ony touch of compassion--for a' the folk I see here
are as hard as the wa'-stanes--If ye wad but bid them let my sister
Jeanie in the next time she ca's! 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, it's like to pit me out o' 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 you'll 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;
there's 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 that's to meet wi' Jeanie Deans this night at
Muschat's Cairn, and there we'll 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
King's Park to be the same person wi' him in Madge Wildfire's claise,
that headed the mob."

"That makes nae difference, man," replied Sharpitlaw--"the dress, the
light, the confusion, and maybe a touch o' a blackit cork, or a slake o'
paint-hout, Ratton, I have seen ye dress your ainsell, that the deevil ye
belang to durstna hae made oath t'ye."

"And that's 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."

"It's 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 wi' him."

"I seena muckle use I can be o' 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 o' 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 he's 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 Muschat's 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."

"What's the meaning o' 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, "that's a thing no easily put out o' memory;
and if my presence be judged necessary, nae doubt I maun gang wi' your
honour. But I was gaun to tell your honour of ane that has mair skeel o'
the gate than me, and that's e'en 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."

"It's 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, try't
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.

The rising moon saw the whole party free from the walls of the city, and
entering upon the open ground. Arthur's Seat, like a couchant lion of
immense size--Salisbury Crags, like a huge belt or girdle of granite,
were dimly visible. Holding their path along the southern side of the
Canongate, they gained the Abbey of Holyrood House, and from thence found
their way by step and stile into the King's Park. They were at first four
in number--an officer of justice and Sharpitlaw, who were well armed with
pistols and cutlasses; Ratcliffe, who was not trusted with weapons, lest,
he might, peradventure, have used them on the wrong side; and the female.
But at the last stile, when they entered the Chase, they were joined by
other two officers, whom Sharpitlaw, desirous to secure sufficient force
for his purpose, and at the same time to avoid observation, had directed
to wait for him at this place. Ratcliffe saw this accession of strength
with some disquietude, for he had hitherto thought it likely that
Robertson, who was a bold, stout, and active young fellow, might have
made his escape from Sharpitlaw and the single officer, by force or
agility, without his being implicated in the matter. But the present
strength of the followers of justice was overpowering, and the only mode
of saving Robertson (which the old sinner was well disposed to do,
providing always he could accomplish his purpose without compromising his
own safety), must be by contriving that he should have some signal of
their approach. It was probably with this view that Ratcliffe had
requested the addition of Madge to the party, having considerable
confidence in her propensity to exert her lungs. Indeed, she had already
given them so many specimens of her clamorous loquacity, that Sharpitlaw
half determined to send her back with one of the officers, rather than
carry forward in his company a person so extremely ill qualified to be a
guide in a secret expedition. It seemed, too, as if the open air, the
approach to the hills, and the ascent of the moon, supposed to be so
portentous over those whose brain is infirm, made her spirits rise in a
degree tenfold more loquacious than she had hitherto exhibited. To
silence her by fair means seemed impossible; authoritative commands and
coaxing entreaties she set alike at defiance, and threats only made her
sulky and altogether intractable.

"Is there no one of you," said Sharpitlaw, impatiently, "that knows the
way to this accursed place--this Nichol Muschat's Cairn--excepting this
mad clavering idiot?"

"Deil ane o' them kens it except mysell," exclaimed Madge; "how suld
they, the puir fule cowards! But I hae sat on the grave frae batfleeing
time till cook-crow, and had mony a fine crack wi' Muschat and Ailie
Muschat, that are lying sleeping below."