The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Complete by Walter Scott (best new books to read .TXT) 📖

When he came up to Butler again, he found him with his eyes fixed on the entrance of the Tolbooth, and apparently in deep thought.

“That seems a very strong door,” said Sir George, by way of saying something.

“It is so, sir,” said Butler, turning off and beginning to walk forward, “but it was my misfortune at one time to see it prove greatly too weak.”

At this moment, looking at his companion, he asked him whether he felt himself ill? and Sir George Staunton admitted, that he had been so foolish as to eat ice, which sometimes disagreed with him. With kind officiousness, that would not be gainsaid, and ere he could find out where he was going, Butler hurried Sir George into the friend’s house, near to the prison, in which he himself had lived since he came to town, being, indeed, no other than that of our old friend Bartoline Saddletree, in which Lady Staunton had served a short noviciate as a shop-maid. This recollection rushed on her husband’s mind, and the blush of shame which it excited overpowered the sensation of fear which had produced his former paleness. Good Mrs. Saddletree, however, bustled about to receive the rich English baronet as the friend of Mr. Butler, and requested an elderly female in a black gown to sit still, in a way which seemed to imply a wish, that she would clear the way for her betters. In the meanwhile, understanding the state of the case, she ran to get some cordial waters, sovereign, of course, in all cases of faintishness whatsoever. During her absence, her visitor, the female in black, made some progress out of the room, and might have left it altogether without particular observation, had she not stumbled at the threshold, so near Sir George Staunton, that he, in point of civility, raised her and assisted her to the door.

“Mrs. Porteous is turned very doited now, puir body,” said Mrs. Saddletree, as she returned with her bottle in her hand—“She is no sae auld, but she got a sair back-cast wi’ the slaughter o’ her husband—Ye had some trouble about that job, Mr. Butler.—I think, sir,” to Sir George, “ye had better drink out the haill glass, for to my een ye look waur than when ye came in.”

And, indeed, he grew as pale as a corpse, on recollecting who it was that his arm had so lately supported—the widow whom he had so large a share in making such.

“It is a prescribed job that case of Porteous now,” said old Saddletree, who was confined to his chair by the gout—“clean prescribed and out of date.”

“I am not clear of that, neighbour,” said Plumdamas, “for I have heard them say twenty years should rin, and this is but the fifty-ane— Porteous’s mob was in thretty-seven.”

“Ye’ll no teach me law, I think, neighbour—me that has four gaun pleas, and might hae had fourteen, an it hadna been the gudewife? I tell ye, if the foremost of the Porteous mob were standing there where that gentleman stands, the King’s Advocate wadna meddle wi’ him—it fa’s under the negative prescription.”

“Haud your din, carles,” said Mrs. Saddletree, “and let the gentleman sit down and get a dish of comfortable tea.”

But Sir George had had quite enough of their conversation; and Butler, at his request, made an apology to Mrs. Saddletree, and accompanied him to his lodgings. Here they found another guest waiting Sir George Staunton’s return. This was no other than our reader’s old acquaintance, Ratcliffe.

This man had exercised the office of turnkey with so much vigilance, acuteness, and fidelity, that he gradually rose to be governor, or captain of the Tolbooth. And it is yet to be remembered in tradition, that young men, who rather sought amusing than select society in their merry-meetings, used sometimes to request Ratcliffe’s company, in order that he might regale them with legends of his extraordinary feats in the way of robbery and escape.*

* There seems an anachronism in the history of this person. Ratcliffe, among other escapes from justice, was released by the Porteous mob when under sentence of death; and he was again under the same predicament, when the Highlanders made a similar jail-delivery in 1745. He was too sincere a whig to embrace liberation at the hands of the Jacobites, and in reward was made one of the keepers of the Tolbooth. So at least runs constant tradition.

But he lived and died without resuming his original vocation, otherwise than in his narratives over a bottle.

Under these circumstances, he had been recommended to Sir George Staunton by a man of the law in Edinburgh, as a person likely to answer any questions he might have to ask about Annaple Bailzou, who, according to the colour which Sir George Staunton gave to his cause of inquiry, was supposed to have stolen a child in the west of England, belonging to a family in which he was interested. The gentleman had not mentioned his name, but only his official title; so that Sir George Staunton, when told that the captain of the Tolbooth was waiting for him in his parlour, had no idea of meeting his former acquaintance, Jem Ratcliffe.

This, therefore, was another new and most unpleasant surprise, for he had no difficulty in recollecting this man’s remarkable features. The change, however, from George Robertson to Sir George Staunton, baffled even the penetration of Ratcliffe, and he bowed very low to the baronet and his guest, hoping Mr. Butler would excuse his recollecting that he was an old acquaintance.

“And once rendered my wife a piece of great service,” said Mr. Butler, “for which she sent you a token of grateful acknowledgment, which I hope came safe and was welcome.”

“Deil a doubt on’t,” said Ratcliffe, with a knowing nod; “but ye are muckle changed for the better since I saw ye, Maister Butler.”

“So much so, that I wonder you knew me.”

“Aha, then!—Deil a face I see I ever forget,” said Ratcliffe while Sir George Staunton, tied to the stake, and incapable of escaping, internally cursed the accuracy of his memory. “And yet, sometimes,” continued Ratcliffe, “the sharpest hand will be ta’en in. There is a face in this very room, if I might presume to be sae bauld, that, if I didna ken the honourable person it belangs to, I might think it had some cut of an auld acquaintance.”

“I should not be much flattered,” answered the Baronet, sternly, and roused by the risk in which he saw himself placed, “if it is to me you mean to apply that compliment.”

“By no manner of means, sir,” said Ratcliffe, bowing very low; “I am come to receive your honour’s commands, and no to trouble your honour wi’ my poor observations.”

“Well, sir,” said Sir George, “I am told you understand police matters— So do I.—To convince you of which, here are ten guineas of retaining fee—I make them fifty when you can find me certain notice of a person, living or dead, whom you will find described in that paper. I shall leave town presently—you may send your written answer to me to the care of Mr. ——” (naming his highly respectable agent), “or of his Grace the Lord High Commissioner.” Rateliffe bowed and withdrew.

“I have angered the