Chapter 34

To this brave man the knight repairs
For counsel in his law affairs;
And found him mounted in his pew.
With books and money placed for show,
Like nest-eggs to make clients lay,
And for his false opinion pay.
_Hudibras._

Our readers may recollect a certain smooth-tongued, lank-haired,
buckram-suited, Scottish scrivener, who, in the earlier part of this
history, appeared in the character of a protege of George Heriot. It
is to his house we are about to remove, but times have changed with
him. The petty booth hath become a chamber of importance--the buckram
suit is changed into black velvet; and although the wearer retains his
puritanical humility and politeness to clients of consequence, he can
now look others broad in the face, and treat them with a full
allowance of superior opulence, and the insolence arising from it. It
was but a short period that had achieved these alterations, nor was
the party himself as yet entirely accustomed to them, but the change
was becoming less embarrassing to him with every day's practice. Among
other acquisitions of wealth, you may see one of Davy Ramsay's best
timepieces on the table, and his eye is frequently observing its
revolutions, while a boy, whom he employs as a scribe, is occasionally
sent out to compare its progress with the clock of Saint Dunstan.

The scrivener himself seemed considerably agitated. He took from a
strong-box a bundle of parchments, and read passages of them with
great attention; then began to soliloquize--"There is no outlet which
law can suggest--no back-door of evasion--none--if the lands of
Glenvarloch are not redeemed before it rings noon, Lord Dalgarno has
them a cheap pennyworth. Strange, that he should have been at last
able to set his patron at defiance, and achieve for himself the fair
estate, with the prospect of which he so long flattered the powerful
Buckingham.--Might not Andrew Skurliewhitter nick him as neatly? He
hath been my patron--true--not more than Buckingham was his; and he
can be so no more, for he departs presently for Scotland. I am glad of
it--I hate him, and I fear him. He knows too many of my secrets--I
know too many of his. But, no--no--no--I need never attempt it, there
are no means of over-reaching him.--Well, Willie, what o'clock?"

"Ele'en hours just chappit, sir."

"Go to your desk without, child," said the scrivener. "What to do
next--I shall lose the old Earl's fair business, and, what is worse,
his son's foul practice. Old Heriot looks too close into business to
permit me more than the paltry and ordinary dues. The Whitefriars
business was profitable, but it has become unsafe ever since--pah!--
what brought that in my head just now? I