HELENA: Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us—Oh!—and is all forgot?
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, iii. 2
Butler remained a long while on Salisbury Crags on the morning which succeeded the lynching of Porteous. For this delay he had his own motives. He wished to collect his thoughts, strangely agitated both by the news of Effie Deans’s situation and by the scene he had witnessed. Also, his situation with respect to Jeanie and her father required a fitting time to call upon them. Eight in the morning being then the hour of breakfast, he resolved that it should arrive before his appearance.
Never did hours pass so heavily. Butler shifted his place and widened his walking circle to while away the time. He heard the bell of St Giles Cathedral toll each hour, instantly attested by those of the other steeples. Hearing seven struck, he approached to within a mile of St Leonard’s. He descended from his lofty station to the bottom of the deep, grassy valley dividing Salisbury Crags from those smaller rocks named for Saint Leonard. This sequestered dell, as well as other places in the King’s Park, was at this time the resort of those who had affairs of honour to settle. Duels were then common among Scotland’s haughty gentry. Addicted to intemperance, they both gave provocation and fiercely resented it when given. The sword, then part of every gentleman’s dress, was the weapon used for the settlement of such differences. Thus when Butler observed a young man, skulking among the scattered rocks apparently to avoid observation, he assumed that it was for a duel that he sought this lonely spot. Despite his own distress of mind, his sense of duty as a clergyman meant that he could not ignore this person. A tiny interference, he reasoned, may avert a great calamity. My own griefs shall be lighter if they do not divert me from duty.
He quitted the path and advanced. The man, seeing Butler follow him, adjusted his hat fiercely, turned and came forward.
Butler studied his features as they advanced slowly towards each other. The stranger seemed about twenty-five years old. His dress did not indicate his rank with certainty, but from his air and manner he seemed to be dressed below than above his rank. His carriage was bold and his manner unconstrained. His stature was of the middle size and his features uncommonly handsome.
Butler and the stranger met and surveyed each other. The latter, lightly touching his hat, was about to pass by him when Butler, returning the salutation, observed, ‘A fine morning, sir. You are on the hill early.’
‘I have business here.’
‘I do not doubt it, sir,’ said Butler. ‘Forgive my hoping that it is of a lawful kind?’
‘Sir, I never forgive impertinence, nor have you the right to hope about anything that does not concern you.’
‘I am a soldier, sir,’ said Butler, ‘charged to arrest evil-doers in the name of my Master.’
‘A soldier! Arrest me? Did you reckon with your life before you took the commission?’
‘You mistake me, sir, neither my warfare nor my warrant are of this world. I am a preacher of the Gospel. In my Master’s name I commend good will towards men.’
‘A minister!’ said the stranger scornfully, ‘I know that gentlemen of your cloth in Scotland claim the right of meddling in private affairs. But I have been abroad and know better than to be priest-ridden.’
‘Sir, I condemn any clergyman who interferes in men’s private affairs out of idle curiosity. But I am of a pure motive. Better to incur your contempt for speaking, than the censure of my conscience for silence.’
‘In the name of the Devil!’ said the other impatiently. ‘Say what you have to say.’
‘You,’ said Butler, ‘are about to violate one of your country’s wisest laws. Worse, you are about to violate a law which God himself has implanted in our nature.’
‘And what is this Law?’ said the stranger in a hollow, disturbed tone.
‘Thou shalt do no murder.’
The young man was visibly started. Butler perceived he had made an impression and followed it up. Laying a kindly hand upon the stranger’s shoulder he said,
‘Think of the alternatives; to kill or be killed. Think what it is to rush uncalled into the presence of the Deity, your heart hot with evil passion, your hand hot from the steel you sent into the breast of a fellow creature. Imagine yourself with the guilt of Cain in your heart – and his stamp upon your brow.’
The stranger gradually withdrew himself. Pulling his hat over his brow, he said, ‘Your meaning, sir, I dare say, is excellent, but you are throwing your advice away. I am not here with any violent intention. I am here to save life, not to take it. If you would do good rather than talk about it, I will give you an opportunity. You see that lone house yonder? Go there. Inquire for one Jeanie Deans. Let her know that I remained here from daybreak expecting to see her, but can abide no longer. Tell her she must meet me tonight.’
‘Who or what are you,’ replied Butler, astonished, ‘to charge me with such an errand?’
‘I am the Devil!’ Butler stepped instinctively back. The stranger went on,‘Call me Apollyon, or whatever name you choose. You shall not find one more odious than my own.’
This was spoken with such bitterness of self-upbraiding as to be demoniacal. Butler, though a man brave by principle, was overawed. The stranger now came up boldly, saying in a determined tone,
‘And what is your name?’
‘Reuben Butler.’
The stranger pulled back in agitation. ‘Butler!’ he repeated. ‘Schoolmaster at Liberton?’
‘The same.’
The stranger immediately covered his face with his hand. He turned away but stopped after a few paces. He then called out, ‘Go your way, and do mine errand. Do not look after me; I will not vanish in a flash of fire. Go, and look not behind you. Tell Jeanie Deans, that when the moon rises I shall meet her at Nicol Muschat’s Cairn beneath Saint Anthony’s Chapel.’
Amazed that any living man could send so extraordinary a request to his betrothed, Butler strode towards the cottage. By nature neither jealous nor superstitious, Butler was incensed that a profligate gallant might command his future bride to meet at such an hour. Yet the tone in which the stranger had spoken was not that of a seducer. Bold and imperative, it held less of love than threat. Indeed, the place of rendezvous took its very name from a wretch who had there committed a frightful murder.1
With limbs exhausted with fatigue and a mind harassed with anxiety, Butler ascended from the valley to St Leonard’s Crags and Deans’s cottage.
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1 In October 1720, Nichol Muschat took his wife under cloud of night to the King’s Park, adjacent to what is called the Duke’s Walk near Holyrood Palace and there took her life by cutting her throat. He pleaded guilty to the indictment, for which he suffered death, Scott.