Kidnapped E-Book

Robert Louis Stevenson

• Herausgeber: Infilaindiana Edizioni
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Published in 1886, first in the magazine Young Folks and then as a novel in the same year, Kidnapped is an adventure and historical romance set around real 18th century Scottish events. In its themes are discribed the concept of justice and the imperfections of justice system.

Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson (1850 - 1894) was a Scottish writer. He was a celebrity during his own time. His most famouse works are Treasure Islande and Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

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Introduction

Published in 1886, first in the magazine Young Folks and then as a novel in the same year, Kidnapped is an adventure and historical romance set around real 18th century Scottish events. In its themes are discribed the concept of justice and the imperfections of justice system.

Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson (1850 - 1894) was a Scottish writer. He was a celebrity during his own time. His most famouse works are Treasure Islande and Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

Kidnapped

By

Robert Louis Stevenson

DEDICATION

MY DEAR CHARLES BAXTER:

If you ever read this tale, you will likely ask yourself more questions

than I should care to answer: as for instance how the Appin murder has

come to fall in the year 1751, how the Torran rocks have crept so near

to Earraid, or why the printed trial is silent as to all that touches

David Balfour. These are nuts beyond my ability to crack. But if you

tried me on the point of Alan’s guilt or innocence, I think I could

defend the reading of the text. To this day you will find the tradition

of Appin clear in Alan’s favour. If you inquire, you may even hear that

the descendants of “the other man” who fired the shot are in the country

to this day. But that other man’s name, inquire as you please, you shall

not hear; for the Highlander values a secret for itself and for the

congenial exercise of keeping it. I might go on for long to justify one

point and own another indefensible; it is more honest to confess at once

how little I am touched by the desire of accuracy. This is no furniture

for the scholar’s library, but a book for the winter evening school-room

when the tasks are over and the hour for bed draws near; and honest

Alan, who was a grim old fire-eater in his day has in this new avatar

no more desperate purpose than to steal some young gentleman’s attention

from his Ovid, carry him awhile into the Highlands and the last century,

and pack him to bed with some engaging images to mingle with his dreams.

As for you, my dear Charles, I do not even ask you to like this tale.

But perhaps when he is older, your son will; he may then be pleased to

find his father’s name on the fly-leaf; and in the meanwhile it pleases

me to set it there, in memory of many days that were happy and some (now

perhaps as pleasant to remember) that were sad. If it is strange for

me to look back from a distance both in time and space on these bygone

adventures of our youth, it must be stranger for you who tread the same

streets – who may to-morrow open the door of the old Speculative,

where we begin to rank with Scott and Robert Emmet and the beloved and

inglorious Macbean – or may pass the corner of the close where that great

society, the L. J. R., held its meetings and drank its beer, sitting in

the seats of Burns and his companions. I think I see you, moving there

by plain daylight, beholding with your natural eyes those places that

have now become for your companion a part of the scenery of dreams. How,

in the intervals of present business, the past must echo in your memory!

Let it not echo often without some kind thoughts of your friend,

R.L.S.

Skerryvore, Bournemouth

CHAPTER I

I SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

I will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in

the month of June, the year of grace 1751, when I took the key for the

last time out of the door of my father’s house. The sun began to shine

upon the summit of the hills as I went down the road; and by the time

I had come as far as the manse, the blackbirds were whistling in the

garden lilacs, and the mist that hung around the valley in the time of

the dawn was beginning to arise and die away.

Mr. Campbell, the minister of Essendean, was waiting for me by the

garden gate, good man! He asked me if I had breakfasted; and hearing

that I lacked for nothing, he took my hand in both of his and clapped it

kindly under his arm.

“Well, Davie, lad,” said he, “I will go with you as far as the ford, to

set you on the way.” And we began to walk forward in silence.

“Are ye sorry to leave Essendean?” said he, after awhile.

“Why, sir,” said I, “if I knew where I was going, or what was likely

to become of me, I would tell you candidly. Essendean is a good place

indeed, and I have been very happy there; but then I have never been

anywhere else. My father and mother, since they are both dead, I shall

be no nearer to in Essendean than in the Kingdom of Hungary, and, to

speak truth, if I thought I had a chance to better myself where I was

going I would go with a good will.”

“Ay?” said Mr. Campbell. “Very well, Davie. Then it behoves me to tell

your fortune; or so far as I may. When your mother was gone, and your

father (the worthy, Christian man) began to sicken for his end, he gave

me in charge a certain letter, which he said was your inheritance. ‘So

soon,’ says he, ‘as I am gone, and the house is redd up and the gear

disposed of’ (all which, Davie, hath been done), ‘give my boy this

letter into his hand, and start him off to the house of Shaws, not far

from Cramond. That is the place I came from,’ he said, ‘and it’s where

it befits that my boy should return. He is a steady lad,’ your father

said, ‘and a canny goer; and I doubt not he will come safe, and be well

lived where he goes.’”

“The house of Shaws!” I cried. “What had my poor father to do with the

house of Shaws?”

“Nay,” said Mr. Campbell, “who can tell that for a surety? But the name

of that family, Davie, boy, is the name you bear – Balfours of Shaws:

an ancient, honest, reputable house, peradventure in these latter

days decayed. Your father, too, was a man of learning as befitted his

position; no man more plausibly conducted school; nor had he the manner

or the speech of a common dominie; but (as ye will yourself remember)

I took aye a pleasure to have him to the manse to meet the gentry; and

those of my own house, Campbell of Kilrennet, Campbell of Dunswire,

Campbell of Minch, and others, all well-kenned gentlemen, had pleasure

in his society. Lastly, to put all the elements of this affair before

you, here is the testamentary letter itself, superscrived by the own

hand of our departed brother.”

He gave me the letter, which was addressed in these words: “To the hands

of Ebenezer Balfour, Esquire, of Shaws, in his house of Shaws, these

will be delivered by my son, David Balfour.” My heart was beating hard

at this great prospect now suddenly opening before a lad of seventeen

years of age, the son of a poor country dominie in the Forest of

Ettrick.

“Mr. Campbell,” I stammered, “and if you were in my shoes, would you

go?”

“Of a surety,” said the minister, “that would I, and without pause.

A pretty lad like you should get to Cramond (which is near in by

Edinburgh) in two days of walk. If the worst came to the worst, and

your high relations (as I cannot but suppose them to be somewhat of your

blood) should put you to the door, ye can but walk the two days back

again and risp at the manse door. But I would rather hope that ye shall

be well received, as your poor father forecast for you, and for anything

that I ken come to be a great man in time. And here, Davie, laddie,” he

resumed, “it lies near upon my conscience to improve this parting, and

set you on the right guard against the dangers of the world.”

Here he cast about for a comfortable seat, lighted on a big boulder

under a birch by the trackside, sate down upon it with a very long,

serious upper lip, and the sun now shining in upon us between two peaks,

put his pocket-handkerchief over his cocked hat to shelter him. There,

then, with uplifted forefinger, he first put me on my guard against a

considerable number of heresies, to which I had no temptation, and urged

upon me to be instant in my prayers and reading of the Bible. That done,

he drew a picture of the great house that I was bound to, and how I

should conduct myself with its inhabitants.

“Be soople, Davie, in things immaterial,” said he. “Bear ye this in

mind, that, though gentle born, ye have had a country rearing. Dinnae

shame us, Davie, dinnae shame us! In yon great, muckle house, with all

these domestics, upper and under, show yourself as nice, as circumspect,

as quick at the conception, and as slow of speech as any. As for the

laird – remember he’s the laird; I say no more: honour to whom honour.

It’s a pleasure to obey a laird; or should be, to the young.”

“Well, sir,” said I, “it may be; and I’ll promise you I’ll try to make

it so.”

“Why, very well said,” replied Mr. Campbell, heartily. “And now to come

to the material, or (to make a quibble) to the immaterial. I have here

a little packet which contains four things.” He tugged it, as he spoke,

and with some great difficulty, from the skirt pocket of his coat. “Of

these four things, the first is your legal due: the little pickle money

for your father’s books and plenishing, which I have bought (as I have

explained from the first) in the design of re-selling at a profit to

the incoming dominie. The other three are gifties that Mrs. Campbell and

myself would be blithe of your acceptance. The first, which is round,

will likely please ye best at the first off-go; but, O Davie, laddie,

it’s but a drop of water in the sea; it’ll help you but a step, and

vanish like the morning. The second, which is flat and square and

written upon, will stand by you through life, like a good staff for the

road, and a good pillow to your head in sickness. And as for the last,

which is cubical, that’ll see you, it’s my prayerful wish, into a better

land.”

With that he got upon his feet, took off his hat, and prayed a little

while aloud, and in affecting terms, for a young man setting out into

the world; then suddenly took me in his arms and embraced me very hard;

then held me at arm’s length, looking at me with his face all working

with sorrow; and then whipped about, and crying good-bye to me, set off

backward by the way that we had come at a sort of jogging run. It might

have been laughable to another; but I was in no mind to laugh. I watched

him as long as he was in sight; and he never stopped hurrying, nor once

looked back. Then it came in upon my mind that this was all his sorrow

at my departure; and my conscience smote me hard and fast, because I,

for my part, was overjoyed to get away out of that quiet country-side,

and go to a great, busy house, among rich and respected gentlefolk of my

own name and blood.

“Davie, Davie,” I thought, “was ever seen such black ingratitude? Can

you forget old favours and old friends at the mere whistle of a name?

Fie, fie; think shame.”

And I sat down on the boulder the good man had just left, and opened the

parcel to see the nature of my gifts. That which he had called cubical,

I had never had much doubt of; sure enough it was a little Bible, to

carry in a plaid-neuk. That which he had called round, I found to be a

shilling piece; and the third, which was to help me so wonderfully both

in health and sickness all the days of my life, was a little piece of

coarse yellow paper, written upon thus in red ink:

“TO MAKE LILLY OF THE VALLEY WATER. – Take the flowers of lilly of the

valley and distil them in sack, and drink a spooneful or two as there is

occasion. It restores speech to those that have the dumb palsey. It is

good against the Gout; it comforts the heart and strengthens the memory;

and the flowers, put into a Glasse, close stopt, and set into ane hill

of ants for a month, then take it out, and you will find a liquor which

comes from the flowers, which keep in a vial; it is good, ill or well,

and whether man or woman.”

And then, in the minister’s own hand, was added:

“Likewise for sprains, rub it in; and for the cholic, a great spooneful

in the hour.”

To be sure, I laughed over this; but it was rather tremulous laughter;

and I was glad to get my bundle on my staff’s end and set out over the

ford and up the hill upon the farther side; till, just as I came on the

green drove-road running wide through the heather, I took my last look

of Kirk Essendean, the trees about the manse, and the big rowans in the

kirkyard where my father and my mother lay.

CHAPTER II

I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END

On the forenoon of the second day, coming to the top of a hill, I saw

all the country fall away before me down to the sea; and in the midst

of this descent, on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like

a kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships moving or lying

anchored in the firth; both of which, for as far away as they were, I

could distinguish clearly; and both brought my country heart into my

mouth.

Presently after, I came by a house where a shepherd lived, and got a

rough direction for the neighbourhood of Cramond; and so, from one to

another, worked my way to the westward of the capital by Colinton, till

I came out upon the Glasgow road. And there, to my great pleasure and

wonder, I beheld a regiment marching to the fifes, every foot in time;

an old red-faced general on a grey horse at the one end, and at the

other the company of Grenadiers, with their Pope’s-hats. The pride of

life seemed to mount into my brain at the sight of the red coats and the

hearing of that merry music.

A little farther on, and I was told I was in Cramond parish, and began

to substitute in my inquiries the name of the house of Shaws. It was a

word that seemed to surprise those of whom I sought my way. At first I

thought the plainness of my appearance, in my country habit, and that

all dusty from the road, consorted ill with the greatness of the place

to which I was bound. But after two, or maybe three, had given me the

same look and the same answer, I began to take it in my head there was

something strange about the Shaws itself.

The better to set this fear at rest, I changed the form of my inquiries;

and spying an honest fellow coming along a lane on the shaft of his

cart, I asked him if he had ever heard tell of a house they called the

house of Shaws.

He stopped his cart and looked at me, like the others.

“Ay” said he. “What for?”

“It’s a great house?” I asked.

“Doubtless,” says he. “The house is a big, muckle house.”

“Ay,” said I, “but the folk that are in it?”

“Folk?” cried he. “Are ye daft? There’s nae folk there – to call folk.”

“What?” say I; “not Mr. Ebenezer?”

“Ou, ay” says the man; “there’s the laird, to be sure, if it’s him

you’re wanting. What’ll like be your business, mannie?”

“I was led to think that I would get a situation,” I said, looking as

modest as I could.

“What?” cries the carter, in so sharp a note that his very horse

started; and then, “Well, mannie,” he added, “it’s nane of my affairs;

but ye seem a decent-spoken lad; and if ye’ll take a word from me, ye’ll

keep clear of the Shaws.”

The next person I came across was a dapper little man in a beautiful

white wig, whom I saw to be a barber on his rounds; and knowing well

that barbers were great gossips, I asked him plainly what sort of a man

was Mr. Balfour of the Shaws.

“Hoot, hoot, hoot,” said the barber, “nae kind of a man, nae kind of a

man at all;” and began to ask me very shrewdly what my business was;

but I was more than a match for him at that, and he went on to his next

customer no wiser than he came.

I cannot well describe the blow this dealt to my illusions. The more

indistinct the accusations were, the less I liked them, for they left

the wider field to fancy. What kind of a great house was this, that all

the parish should start and stare to be asked the way to it? or what

sort of a gentleman, that his ill-fame should be thus current on the

wayside? If an hour’s walking would have brought me back to Essendean, I

had left my adventure then and there, and returned to Mr. Campbell’s.

But when I had come so far a way already, mere shame would not suffer me

to desist till I had put the matter to the touch of proof; I was bound,

out of mere self-respect, to carry it through; and little as I liked

the sound of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel, I still kept

asking my way and still kept advancing.

It was drawing on to sundown when I met a stout, dark, sour-looking

woman coming trudging down a hill; and she, when I had put my usual

question, turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the summit she had

just left, and pointed to a great bulk of building standing very bare

upon a green in the bottom of the next valley. The country was pleasant

round about, running in low hills, pleasantly watered and wooded, and

the crops, to my eyes, wonderfully good; but the house itself appeared

to be a kind of ruin; no road led up to it; no smoke arose from any of

the chimneys; nor was there any semblance of a garden. My heart sank.

“That!” I cried.

The woman’s face lit up with a malignant anger. “That is the house of

Shaws!” she cried. “Blood built it; blood stopped the building of it;

blood shall bring it down. See here!” she cried again – ”I spit upon

the ground, and crack my thumb at it! Black be its fall! If ye see the

laird, tell him what ye hear; tell him this makes the twelve hunner and

nineteen time that Jennet Clouston has called down the curse on him

and his house, byre and stable, man, guest, and master, wife, miss, or

bairn – black, black be their fall!”

And the woman, whose voice had risen to a kind of eldritch sing-song,

turned with a skip, and was gone. I stood where she left me, with my

hair on end. In those days folk still believed in witches and trembled

at a curse; and this one, falling so pat, like a wayside omen, to arrest

me ere I carried out my purpose, took the pith out of my legs.

I sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. The more I looked,

the pleasanter that country-side appeared; being all set with hawthorn

bushes full of flowers; the fields dotted with sheep; a fine flight of

rooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil and climate; and yet the

barrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy.

Country folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the

ditch, but I lacked the spirit to give them a good-e’en. At last the sun

went down, and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of

smoke go mounting, not much thicker, as it seemed to me, than the smoke

of a candle; but still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and

cookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it; and this

comforted my heart.

So I set forward by a little faint track in the grass that led in my

direction. It was very faint indeed to be the only way to a place

of habitation; yet I saw no other. Presently it brought me to stone

uprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms upon

the top. A main entrance it was plainly meant to be, but never finished;

instead of gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across

with a straw rope; and as there were no park walls, nor any sign of

avenue, the track that I was following passed on the right hand of the

pillars, and went wandering on toward the house.

The nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. It seemed like the

one wing of a house that had never been finished. What should have been

the inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed against the sky

with steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry. Many of the windows were

unglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-cote.

The night had begun to fall as I got close; and in three of the lower

windows, which were very high up and narrow, and well barred, the

changing light of a little fire began to glimmer. Was this the palace

I had been coming to? Was it within these walls that I was to seek

new friends and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father’s house on

Essen-Waterside, the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away,

and the door open to a beggar’s knock!

I came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came, heard some one

rattling with dishes, and a little dry, eager cough that came in fits;

but there was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked.

The door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece

of wood all studded with nails; and I lifted my hand with a faint heart

under my jacket, and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. The house

had fallen into a dead silence; a whole minute passed away, and nothing

stirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again.

By this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I

could hear the ticking of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the

seconds; but whoever was in that house kept deadly still, and must have

held his breath.

I was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand,

and I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout

out aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when I heard the cough

right overhead, and jumping back and looking up, beheld a man’s head

in a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of the

first-storey windows.

“It’s loaded,” said a voice.

“I have come here with a letter,” I said, “to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of

Shaws. Is he here?”

“From whom is it?” asked the man with the blunderbuss.

“That is neither here nor there,” said I, for I was growing very wroth.

“Well,” was the reply, “ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off

with ye.”

“I will do no such thing,” I cried. “I will deliver it into Mr.

Balfour’s hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of

introduction.”

“A what?” cried the voice, sharply.

I repeated what I had said.

“Who are ye, yourself?” was the next question, after a considerable

pause.

“I am not ashamed of my name,” said I. “They call me David Balfour.”

At that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle

on the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a

curious change of voice, that the next question followed:

“Is your father dead?”

I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer,

but stood staring.

“Ay,” the man resumed, “he’ll be dead, no doubt; and that’ll be what

brings ye chapping to my door.” Another pause, and then defiantly,

“Well, man,” he said, “I’ll let ye in;” and he disappeared from the

window.

CHAPTER III

I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

Presently there came a great rattling of chains and bolts, and the

door was cautiously opened and shut to again behind me as soon as I had

passed.

“Go into the kitchen and touch naething,” said the voice; and while the

person of the house set himself to replacing the defences of the door, I

groped my way forward and entered the kitchen.

The fire had burned up fairly bright, and showed me the barest room I

think I ever put my eyes on. Half-a-dozen dishes stood upon the shelves;

the table was laid for supper with a bowl of porridge, a horn spoon, and

a cup of small beer. Besides what I have named, there was not another

thing in that great, stone-vaulted, empty chamber but lockfast chests

arranged along the wall and a corner cupboard with a padlock.

As soon as the last chain was up, the man rejoined me. He was a mean,

stooping, narrow-shouldered, clay-faced creature; and his age might have

been anything between fifty and seventy. His nightcap was of flannel,

and so was the nightgown that he wore, instead of coat and waistcoat,

over his ragged shirt. He was long unshaved; but what most distressed

and even daunted me, he would neither take his eyes away from me nor

look me fairly in the face. What he was, whether by trade or birth, was

more than I could fathom; but he seemed most like an old, unprofitable

serving-man, who should have been left in charge of that big house upon

board wages.

“Are ye sharp-set?” he asked, glancing at about the level of my knee.

“Ye can eat that drop parritch?”

I said I feared it was his own supper.

“O,” said he, “I can do fine wanting it. I’ll take the ale, though, for

it slockens (moistens) my cough.” He drank the cup about half out, still

keeping an eye upon me as he drank; and then suddenly held out his hand.

“Let’s see the letter,” said he.

I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for him.

“And who do ye think I am?” says he. “Give me Alexander’s letter.”

“You know my father’s name?”

“It would be strange if I didnae,” he returned, “for he was my born

brother; and little as ye seem to like either me or my house, or my good

parritch, I’m your born uncle, Davie, my man, and you my born nephew. So

give us the letter, and sit down and fill your kyte.”

If I had been some years younger, what with shame, weariness, and

disappointment, I believe I had burst into tears. As it was, I could

find no words, neither black nor white, but handed him the letter, and

sat down to the porridge with as little appetite for meat as ever a

young man had.

Meanwhile, my uncle, stooping over the fire, turned the letter over and

over in his hands.

“Do ye ken what’s in it?” he asked, suddenly.

“You see for yourself, sir,” said I, “that the seal has not been

broken.”

“Ay,” said he, “but what brought you here?”

“To give the letter,” said I.

“No,” says he, cunningly, “but ye’ll have had some hopes, nae doubt?”

“I confess, sir,” said I, “when I was told that I had kinsfolk

well-to-do, I did indeed indulge the hope that they might help me in

my life. But I am no beggar; I look for no favours at your hands, and

I want none that are not freely given. For as poor as I appear, I have

friends of my own that will be blithe to help me.”

“Hoot-toot!” said Uncle Ebenezer, “dinnae fly up in the snuff at me.

We’ll agree fine yet. And, Davie, my man, if you’re done with that bit

parritch, I could just take a sup of it myself. Ay,” he continued,

as soon as he had ousted me from the stool and spoon, “they’re fine,

halesome food – they’re grand food, parritch.” He murmured a little grace

to himself and fell to. “Your father was very fond of his meat, I mind;

he was a hearty, if not a great eater; but as for me, I could never

do mair than pyke at food.” He took a pull at the small beer, which

probably reminded him of hospitable duties, for his next speech ran

thus: “If ye’re dry ye’ll find water behind the door.”

To this I returned no answer, standing stiffly on my two feet, and

looking down upon my uncle with a mighty angry heart. He, on his part,

continued to eat like a man under some pressure of time, and to throw

out little darting glances now at my shoes and now at my home-spun

stockings. Once only, when he had ventured to look a little higher, our

eyes met; and no thief taken with a hand in a man’s pocket could have

shown more lively signals of distress. This set me in a muse, whether

his timidity arose from too long a disuse of any human company; and

whether perhaps, upon a little trial, it might pass off, and my uncle

change into an altogether different man. From this I was awakened by his

sharp voice.

“Your father’s been long dead?” he asked.

“Three weeks, sir,” said I.

“He was a secret man, Alexander – a secret, silent man,” he continued.

“He never said muckle when he was young. He’ll never have spoken muckle

of me?”

“I never knew, sir, till you told it me yourself, that he had any

brother.”

“Dear me, dear me!” said Ebenezer. “Nor yet of Shaws, I dare say?”

“Not so much as the name, sir,” said I.

“To think o’ that!” said he. “A strange nature of a man!” For all that,

he seemed singularly satisfied, but whether with himself, or me, or

with this conduct of my father’s, was more than I could read. Certainly,

however, he seemed to be outgrowing that distaste, or ill-will, that he

had conceived at first against my person; for presently he jumped up,

came across the room behind me, and hit me a smack upon the shoulder.

“We’ll agree fine yet!” he cried. “I’m just as glad I let you in. And

now come awa’ to your bed.”

To my surprise, he lit no lamp or candle, but set forth into the dark

passage, groped his way, breathing deeply, up a flight of steps, and

paused before a door, which he unlocked. I was close upon his heels,

having stumbled after him as best I might; and then he bade me go in,

for that was my chamber. I did as he bid, but paused after a few steps,

and begged a light to go to bed with.

“Hoot-toot!” said Uncle Ebenezer, “there’s a fine moon.”

“Neither moon nor star, sir, and pit-mirk,” said I. “I cannae see the

bed.”

“Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!” said he. “Lights in a house is a thing I dinnae

agree with. I’m unco feared of fires. Good-night to ye, Davie, my man.”

And before I had time to add a further protest, he pulled the door to,

and I heard him lock me in from the outside.

I did not know whether to laugh or cry. The room was as cold as a well,

and the bed, when I had found my way to it, as damp as a peat-hag; but

by good fortune I had caught up my bundle and my plaid, and rolling

myself in the latter, I lay down upon the floor under lee of the big

bedstead, and fell speedily asleep.

With the first peep of day I opened my eyes, to find myself in a great

chamber, hung with stamped leather, furnished with fine embroidered

furniture, and lit by three fair windows. Ten years ago, or perhaps

twenty, it must have been as pleasant a room to lie down or to awake in

as a man could wish; but damp, dirt, disuse, and the mice and spiders

had done their worst since then. Many of the window-panes, besides, were

broken; and indeed this was so common a feature in that house, that I

believe my uncle must at some time have stood a siege from his indignant

neighbours – perhaps with Jennet Clouston at their head.

Meanwhile the sun was shining outside; and being very cold in that

miserable room, I knocked and shouted till my gaoler came and let me

out. He carried me to the back of the house, where was a draw-well, and

told me to “wash my face there, if I wanted;” and when that was done,

I made the best of my own way back to the kitchen, where he had lit the

fire and was making the porridge. The table was laid with two bowls and

two horn spoons, but the same single measure of small beer. Perhaps my

eye rested on this particular with some surprise, and perhaps my uncle

observed it; for he spoke up as if in answer to my thought, asking me if

I would like to drink ale – for so he called it.

I told him such was my habit, but not to put himself about.

“Na, na,” said he; “I’ll deny you nothing in reason.”

He fetched another cup from the shelf; and then, to my great surprise,

instead of drawing more beer, he poured an accurate half from one cup

to the other. There was a kind of nobleness in this that took my breath

away; if my uncle was certainly a miser, he was one of that thorough

breed that goes near to make the vice respectable.

When we had made an end of our meal, my uncle Ebenezer unlocked a

drawer, and drew out of it a clay pipe and a lump of tobacco, from which

he cut one fill before he locked it up again. Then he sat down in the

sun at one of the windows and silently smoked. From time to time his

eyes came coasting round to me, and he shot out one of his questions.

Once it was, “And your mother?” and when I had told him that she, too,

was dead, “Ay, she was a bonnie lassie!” Then, after another long pause,

“Whae were these friends o’ yours?”

I told him they were different gentlemen of the name of Campbell;

though, indeed, there was only one, and that the minister, that had ever

taken the least note of me; but I began to think my uncle made too light

of my position, and finding myself all alone with him, I did not wish

him to suppose me helpless.

He seemed to turn this over in his mind; and then, “Davie, my man,” said

he, “ye’ve come to the right bit when ye came to your uncle Ebenezer.

I’ve a great notion of the family, and I mean to do the right by you;

but while I’m taking a bit think to mysel’ of what’s the best thing to

put you to – whether the law, or the meenistry, or maybe the army, whilk

is what boys are fondest of – I wouldnae like the Balfours to be humbled

before a wheen Hieland Campbells, and I’ll ask you to keep your tongue

within your teeth. Nae letters; nae messages; no kind of word to

onybody; or else – there’s my door.”

“Uncle Ebenezer,” said I, “I’ve no manner of reason to suppose you mean

anything but well by me. For all that, I would have you to know that I

have a pride of my own. It was by no will of mine that I came seeking

you; and if you show me your door again, I’ll take you at the word.”

He seemed grievously put out. “Hoots-toots,” said he, “ca’ cannie,

man – ca’ cannie! Bide a day or two. I’m nae warlock, to find a fortune

for you in the bottom of a parritch bowl; but just you give me a day or

two, and say naething to naebody, and as sure as sure, I’ll do the right

by you.”

“Very well,” said I, “enough said. If you want to help me, there’s no

doubt but I’ll be glad of it, and none but I’ll be grateful.”

It seemed to me (too soon, I dare say) that I was getting the upper

hand of my uncle; and I began next to say that I must have the bed and

bedclothes aired and put to sun-dry; for nothing would make me sleep in

such a pickle.

“Is this my house or yours?” said he, in his keen voice, and then all of

a sudden broke off. “Na, na,” said he, “I didnae mean that. What’s mine

is yours, Davie, my man, and what’s yours is mine. Blood’s thicker than

water; and there’s naebody but you and me that ought the name.” And

then on he rambled about the family, and its ancient greatness, and his

father that began to enlarge the house, and himself that stopped the

building as a sinful waste; and this put it in my head to give him

Jennet Clouston’s message.

“The limmer!” he cried. “Twelve hunner and fifteen – that’s every day

since I had the limmer rowpit! Dod, David, I’ll have her roasted on red

peats before I’m by with it! A witch – a proclaimed witch! I’ll aff and

see the session clerk.”

And with that he opened a chest, and got out a very old and

well-preserved blue coat and waistcoat, and a good enough beaver hat,

both without lace. These he threw on any way, and taking a staff from

the cupboard, locked all up again, and was for setting out, when a

thought arrested him.

“I cannae leave you by yoursel’ in the house,” said he. “I’ll have to

lock you out.”

The blood came to my face. “If you lock me out,” I said, “it’ll be the

last you’ll see of me in friendship.”

He turned very pale, and sucked his mouth in.

“This is no the way,” he said, looking wickedly at a corner of the

floor – ”this is no the way to win my favour, David.”

“Sir,” says I, “with a proper reverence for your age and our common

blood, I do not value your favour at a boddle’s purchase. I was brought

up to have a good conceit of myself; and if you were all the uncle, and

all the family, I had in the world ten times over, I wouldn’t buy your

liking at such prices.”

Uncle Ebenezer went and looked out of the window for awhile. I could

see him all trembling and twitching, like a man with palsy. But when he

turned round, he had a smile upon his face.

“Well, well,” said he, “we must bear and forbear. I’ll no go; that’s all

that’s to be said of it.”

“Uncle Ebenezer,” I said, “I can make nothing out of this. You use me

like a thief; you hate to have me in this house; you let me see it,

every word and every minute: it’s not possible that you can like me; and

as for me, I’ve spoken to you as I never thought to speak to any man.

Why do you seek to keep me, then? Let me gang back – let me gang back to

the friends I have, and that like me!”

“Na, na; na, na,” he said, very earnestly. “I like you fine; we’ll agree

fine yet; and for the honour of the house I couldnae let you leave the

way ye came. Bide here quiet, there’s a good lad; just you bide here

quiet a bittie, and ye’ll find that we agree.”

“Well, sir,” said I, after I had thought the matter out in silence,

“I’ll stay awhile. It’s more just I should be helped by my own blood

than strangers; and if we don’t agree, I’ll do my best it shall be

through no fault of mine.”

CHAPTER IV

I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

For a day that was begun so ill, the day passed fairly well. We had the

porridge cold again at noon, and hot porridge at night; porridge and

small beer was my uncle’s diet. He spoke but little, and that in the

same way as before, shooting a question at me after a long silence; and

when I sought to lead him to talk about my future, slipped out of it

again. In a room next door to the kitchen, where he suffered me to go,

I found a great number of books, both Latin and English, in which I took

great pleasure all the afternoon. Indeed, the time passed so lightly in

this good company, that I began to be almost reconciled to my residence

at Shaws; and nothing but the sight of my uncle, and his eyes playing

hide and seek with mine, revived the force of my distrust.

One thing I discovered, which put me in some doubt. This was an entry on

the fly-leaf of a chap-book (one of Patrick Walker’s) plainly written

by my father’s hand and thus conceived: “To my brother Ebenezer on his

fifth birthday.” Now, what puzzled me was this: That, as my father was of

course the younger brother, he must either have made some strange error,

or he must have written, before he was yet five, an excellent, clear

manly hand of writing.

I tried to get this out of my head; but though I took down many

interesting authors, old and new, history, poetry, and story-book, this

notion of my father’s hand of writing stuck to me; and when at length I

went back into the kitchen, and sat down once more to porridge and small

beer, the first thing I said to Uncle Ebenezer was to ask him if my

father had not been very quick at his book.

“Alexander? No him!” was the reply. “I was far quicker mysel’; I was a

clever chappie when I was young. Why, I could read as soon as he could.”

This puzzled me yet more; and a thought coming into my head, I asked if

he and my father had been twins.

He jumped upon his stool, and the horn spoon fell out of his hand upon

the floor. “What gars ye ask that?” he said, and he caught me by the

breast of the jacket, and looked this time straight into my eyes:

his own were little and light, and bright like a bird’s, blinking and

winking strangely.

“What do you mean?” I asked, very calmly, for I was far stronger than

he, and not easily frightened. “Take your hand from my jacket. This is

no way to behave.”

My uncle seemed to make a great effort upon himself. “Dod man, David,”

he said, “ye should-nae speak to me about your father. That’s where the

mistake is.” He sat awhile and shook, blinking in his plate: “He was all

the brother that ever I had,” he added, but with no heart in his voice;

and then he caught up his spoon and fell to supper again, but still

shaking.

Now this last passage, this laying of hands upon my person and

sudden profession of love for my dead father, went so clean beyond my

comprehension that it put me into both fear and hope. On the one hand,

I began to think my uncle was perhaps insane and might be dangerous;

on the other, there came up into my mind (quite unbidden by me and even

discouraged) a story like some ballad I had heard folk singing, of a

poor lad that was a rightful heir and a wicked kinsman that tried

to keep him from his own. For why should my uncle play a part with a

relative that came, almost a beggar, to his door, unless in his heart he

had some cause to fear him?

With this notion, all unacknowledged, but nevertheless getting firmly

settled in my head, I now began to imitate his covert looks; so that

we sat at table like a cat and a mouse, each stealthily observing the

other. Not another word had he to say to me, black or white, but was

busy turning something secretly over in his mind; and the longer we

sat and the more I looked at him, the more certain I became that the

something was unfriendly to myself.

When he had cleared the platter, he got out a single pipeful of tobacco,

just as in the morning, turned round a stool into the chimney corner,

and sat awhile smoking, with his back to me.

“Davie,” he said, at length, “I’ve been thinking;” then he paused, and

said it again. “There’s a wee bit siller that I half promised ye before