‘Truly,’ said I, ‘I cannot very well join that notion with my uncle.’
‘But your uncle, Mr David, was not always old,’ replied the lawyer, ‘and what may perhaps surprise you more, not always ugly. He had a fine, gallant air; people stood in their doors to look after him, as he went by upon a mettle horse. I have seen it with these eyes, and I ingenuously confess, not altogether without envy; for I was a plain lad myself and a plain man’s son; and in those days, it was a case of Odi te, qui bellus es, Sabelle.’
‘It sounds like a dream,’ said I.
‘Ay, ay,’ said the lawyer, ‘that is how it is with youth and age. Nor was that all, but he had a spirit of his own that seemed to promise great things in the future. In 1715, what must he do but run away to join the rebels? It was your father that pursued him, found him in a ditch, and brought him back multum gementem; to the mirth of the whole country. However, majora canamus – the two lads fell in love, and that with the same lady. Mr Ebenezer, who was the admired and the beloved, and the spoiled one, made, no doubt, mighty certain of the victory; and when he found he had deceived himself, screamed like a peacock. The whole county heard of it; now he lay sick at home, with his silly family standing round the bed in tears; now he rode from public house to public house, and shouted his sorrows into the lug of Tom, Dick, and Harry. Your father, Mr David, was a kind gentleman; but he was weak, dolefully weak; took all this folly with a long countenance; and one day – by your leave – resigned the lady. She was no such fool, however; it’s from her you must inherit your excellent good sense; and she refused to be bandied from one to another. Both got upon their knees to her; and the upshot of the matter for that while, was that she showed both of them the door. That was in August; dear me! the same year I came from college. The scene must have been highly farcical.’
I thought myself it was a silly business, but I could not forget my father had a hand in it. ‘Surely, sir, it had some note of tragedy,’ said I.
‘Why, no, sir, not at all,’ returned the lawyer. ‘For tragedy implies some ponderable matter in dispute, some dignus vindice nodus; and this piece of work was all about the petulance of a young ass that had been spoiled, and wanted nothing so much as to be tied up and soundly belted. However, that was not your father’s view; and the end of it was, that from concession to concession on your father’s part, and from one height to another of squalling, sentimental selfishness upon your uncle’s, they came at last to drive a sort of bargain, from whose ill-results you have recently been smarting. The one man took the lady, the other the estate. Now, Mr David, they talk a great deal of charity and generosity; but in this disputable state of life, I often think the happiest consequences seem to flow when a gentleman consults his lawyers and takes all the law allows him. Anyhow, this piece of quixotry upon your father’s part, as it was unjust in itself, has brought forth a monstrous family of injustices. Your father and mother lived and died poor folk; you were poorly reared; and in the meanwhile, what a time it has been for the tenants on the estate of Shaws! And I might add (if it was a matter I cared much about) what a time for Mr Ebenezer!’
‘And yet that is certainly the strangest part of all,’ said I, ‘that a man’s nature should thus change.’
‘True,’ said Mr Rankeillor. ‘And yet I imagine it was natural enough. He could not think that he had played a handsome part. Those who knew the story gave him the cold shoulder; those who knew it not, seeing one brother disappear, and the other succeed in the estate, raised a cry of murder; so that upon all sides, he found himself evited. Money was all he got by his bargain; well, he came to think the more of money. He was selfish when he was young, he is selfish now that he is old; and the latter end of all these pretty manners and fine feelings, you have seen for yourself.’
‘Well, sir,’ said I, ‘and in all this, what is my position?’
‘The estate is yours beyond a doubt,’ replied the lawyer. ‘It matters nothing what your father signed, you are the heir of entail. But your uncle is a man to fight the indefensible; and it would be likely your identity that he would call in question. A lawsuit is always expensive, and a family lawsuit always scandalous; besides which, if any of your doings with your friend Mr Thomson were to come out, we might find that we had burned our fingers. The kidnapping, to be sure, would be a court card upon our side, if we could only prove it. But it may be difficult to prove; and my advice (upon the whole) is to make a very easy bargain with your uncle, perhaps even leaving him at Shaws where he has taken root for a quarter of a century, and contenting yourself in the meanwhile with a fair provision.’
I told him I was very willing to be easy, and that to carry family concerns before the public was a step from which I was naturally much averse. In the meantime (thinking to myself) I began to see the outlines of that scheme on which we afterwards acted.
‘The great affair,’ I asked ‘is to bring home to him the kidnapping?’
‘Surely,’ said Mr Rankeillor, ‘and if possible, out of court. For mark you here, Mr David; we could no doubt find some men of the Covenant who would swear to your reclusion; but once they were in the box, we could no longer check their testimony, and some word of your friend Mr Thomson must certainly crop out. Which (from what you have let fall) I cannot think to be desirable.’
‘Well, sir,’ said I, ‘here is my way of it.’ And I opened my plot to him.
‘But this would seem to involve my meeting the man Thomson?’ says he, when I had done.
‘I think so, indeed, sir,’ said I.
‘Dear doctor!’ cries he, rubbing his brow. ‘Dear doctor! No, Mr David, I am afraid your scheme is inadmissible. I say nothing against your friend Mr Thomson; I know nothing against him; and if I did – mark this, Mr David! – it would be my duty to lay hands on him. Now I put it to you: is it wise to meet? He may have matters to his charge. He may not have told you all. His name may not be even Thomson!’ cries the lawyer, twinkling; ‘for some of these fellows will pick up names by the roadside as another would gather haws.’
‘You must be the judge, sir,’ said I.
But it was clear my plan had taken hold upon his fancy, for he kept musing to himself till we were called to dinner and the company of Mrs Rankeillor; and that lady had scarce left us again to ourselves and a bottle of wine, ere he was back harping on my proposal. When and where was I to meet my friend Mr Thomson; was I sure of Mr T’s discretion; supposing we could catch the old fox tripping, would I consent to such and such a term of an agreement – these and the like questions he kept asking at long intervals, while he thoughtfully rolled his wine upon his tongue. When I had answered all of them, seemingly to his contentment, he fell into a still deeper muse, even the claret being now forgotten. Then he got a sheet of paper and a pencil, and set to work writing and weighing every word; and at last touched a bell and had his clerk into the chamber.
‘Torrance,’ said he, ‘I must have this written out fair against tonight; and when it is done, you will be so kind as to put on your hat and be ready to come along with this gentleman and me, for you will probably be wanted as a witness.’
‘What, sir,’ cried I, as soon as the clerk was gone, ‘are you to venture it?’
‘Why, so it would appear,’ says he, filling his glass. ‘But let us speak no more of business. The very sight of Torrance brings in my head a little, droll matter of some years ago, when I had made a tryst with the poor oaf at the cross of Edinburgh. Each had gone his proper errand; and when it came four o’clock, Torrance had been taking a glass and did not know his master, and I, who had forgot my spectacles, was so blind without them, that I give you my word I did not know my own clerk.’ And thereupon he laughed heartily.
I said it was an odd chance, and smiled out of politeness; but what held me all the afternoon in wonder, he kept returning and dwelling on this story, and telling it again with fresh details and laughter; so that I began at last to be quite put out of countenance and feel ashamed for my friend’s folly.
Towards the time I had appointed with Alan, we set out from the house, Mr Rankeillor and I arm in arm, and Torrance following behind with the deed in his pocket and a covered basket in his hand. All through the town, the lawyer was bowing right and left, and continually being button-holed by gentlemen on matters of burgh or private business; and I could see he was greatly looked up to in the county. At last we were clear of the houses, and began to go along the side of the haven and towards the Hawes Inn and the ferry pier, the scene of my misfortune. I could not look upon the place without emotion, recalling how many that had been there with me that day were now no more: Ransome taken, I could hope, from the evil to come; Shuan passed where I dared not follow him; and the poor souls that had gone down with the brig in her last plunge. All these, and the brig herself, I had out-lived; and come through these hardships and fearful perils without scathe. My only thought should have been of gratitude; and yet I could not behold the place without sorrow for others and a chill of recollected fear.
I was so thinking when, upon a sudden, Mr Rankeillor cried out, clapped his hand to his pockets, and began to laugh.
‘Why,’ he cries, ‘if this be not a farcical adventure! After all that I said, I have forgotten my glasses!’
At that, of course, I understood the purpose of his anecdote, and knew that if he had left his spectacles at home, it had been done on purpose, so that he might have the benefit of Alan’s help without the awkwardness of recognizing him. And indeed it was well thought upon; for now (suppose things to go the very worst) how could Rankeillor swear to my friend’s identity, or how be made to bear damaging evidence against myself? For all that, he had been a long while of finding out his want, and had spoken to and recognized a good few persons as we came through the town; and I had little doubt myself that he saw reasonably well.
As soon as we were past the Hawes (where I recognized the landlord smoking his pipe in the door, and was amazed to see him look no older) Mr Rankeillor changed the order of march, walking behind with Torrance and sending me forward in the manner of a scout. I went up the hill, whistling from time to time my Gaelic air; and at length I had the pleasure to hear it answered and to see Alan rise from behind a bush. He was somewhat dashed in spirits, having passed a long day alone skulking in the country, and made but a poor meal in an alehouse near Dundas. But at the mere sight of my clothes, he began to brighten up; and as soon as I had told him in what a forward state our matters were, and the part I looked to him to play in what remained, he sprang into a new man.
‘And that is a very good notion of yours,’ says he; ‘and I dare say that you could lay your hands upon no better man to put it through, than Alan Breck. It is not a thing (mark ye) that anyone could do, but takes a gentleman of penetration. But it sticks in my head your lawyer-man will be somewhat wearying to see me,’ says Alan.
Accordingly I cried and waved on Mr Rankeillor, who came up alone and was presented to my friend, Mr Thomson.
‘Mr Thomson, I am pleased to meet you,’ said he. ‘But I have forgotten my glasses; and our friend, Mr David here’ (clapping me on the shoulder) ‘will tell you that I am little better than blind, and that you must not be surprised if I pass you by tomorrow.’
This he said, thinking that Alan would be pleased; but the Highlandman’s vanity was ready to startle at a less matter than that.
‘Why, sir,’ said he, stiffly, ‘I would say it mattered the less as we are met here for a particular end, to see justice done to Mr Balfour; and by what I can see, not very likely to have much else in common. But I accept your apology, which was a very proper one to make.’
‘And that is more than I could look for, Mr Thomson,’ said Rankeillor, heartily. ‘And now as you and I are the chief actors in this enterprise, I think we should come into a nice agreement; to which end, I propose that you should lend me your arm, for (what with the dusk and the want of my glasses) I am not very clear as to the path; and as for you, Mr David, you will find Torrance a pleasant kind of body to speak with. Only let me remind you, it’s quite needless he should hear more of your adventures or those of – ahem – Mr Thomson.’
Accordingly these two went on ahead in very close talk, and Torrance and I brought up the rear.
Night was quite come when we came in view of the house of Shaws. Ten had been gone some time; it was dark and mild, with a pleasant, rustling wind in the south-west that covered the sound of our approach; and as we drew near we saw no glimmer of light in any portion of the building. It seemed my uncle was already in bed, which was indeed the best thing for our arrangements. We made our last whispered consultations some fifty yards away; and then the lawyer and Torrance and I crept quietly up and crouched down beside the corner of the house; and as soon as we were in our places, Alan strode to the door without concealment and began to knock.
29
I come into my Kingdom
For some time Alan volleyed upon the door, and his knocking only roused the echoes of the house and neighbourhood. At last, however, I could hear the noise of a window gently thrust up, and knew that my uncle had come to his observatory. By what light there was he would see Alan standing, like a dark shadow, on the steps; the three witnesses were hidden quite out of his view; so that there was nothing to alarm an honest man in his own house. For all that, he studied his visitor awhile in silence, and when he spoke his voice had a quaver of misgiving.
‘What’s this?’ says he. ‘This is nae kind of time of night for decent folk; and I hae nae trokings* wi’ nighthawks. What brings ye here? I have a blunderbush.’
‘Is that yoursel’, Mr Balfour?’ returned Alan, stepping back and looking up into the darkness. ‘Have a care of that blunderbuss; they’re nasty things to burst.’
‘What brings ye here? and whae are ye?’ says my uncle, angrily.
‘I have no manner of inclination to rowt out my name to the countryside,’ said Alan; ‘but what brings me here is another story, being more of your affairs than mine; and if ye’re sure it’s what ye would like, I’ll set it to a tune and sing it to you.’
‘And what is’t?’ asked my uncle.
‘David,’ says Alan.
‘What was that?’ cried my uncle, in a mighty changed voice.
‘Shall I give ye the rest of the name, then?’ said Alan.
There was a pause; and then, ‘I’m thinking I’ll better let ye in,’ says my uncle, doubtfully.
‘I dare say that,’ said Alan; ‘but the point is, would I go? Now I will tell you what I am thinking. I am thinking that it is here upon this doorstep that we must confer upon this business; and it shall be here or nowhere at all whatever; for I would have you to understand that I am as stiff-necked as yoursel’, and a gentleman of better family.’
This change of note disconcerted Ebenezer; he was a little while digesting it; and then says he, ‘Weel, weel, what must be must,’ and shut the window. But it took him a long time to get downstairs, and a still longer to undo the fastenings, repenting (I dare say) and taken with fresh claps of fear at every second step and every bolt and bar. At last, however, we heard the creak of the hinges, and it seems my uncle slipped gingerly out and (seeing that Alan had stepped back a pace or two) sate him down on the top doorstep with the blunderbuss ready in his hands.
‘And now,’ says he, ‘mind I have my blunderbush, and if ye take a step nearer y’re as good as deid.’
‘And a very civil speech,’ said Alan, ‘to be sure.’
‘Na,’ says my uncle, ‘but this is no a very chancy kind of a proceeding, and I’m bound to be prepared. And now that we understand each other, ye’ll can name your business.’
‘Why,’ says Alan, ‘you that are a man of so much understanding, will doubtless have perceived that I am a Hieland gentleman. My name has nae business in my story; but the county of my friends is no very far from the Isle of Mull, of which ye will have heard. It seems there was a ship lost in those parts; and the next day a gentleman of my family was seeking wreckwood for his fire among the sands, w
hen he came upon a lad that was half drowned. Well, he brought him to; and he and some other gentlemen took and clapped him in an auld, ruined castle, where from that day to this he has been a great expense to my friends. My friends are a wee wild-like, and not so particular about the law as some that I could name; and finding that the lad owned some decent folk, and was your born nephew, Mr Balfour, they asked me to give ye a bit call and to confer upon the matter. And I may tell ye at the off-go, unless we can agree upon some terms, ye are little likely to set eyes upon him. For my friends,’ added Alan, simply, ‘are no very well off.’
My uncle cleared his throat. ‘I’m no very caring,’ says he. ‘He wasnae a good lad at the best of it, and I’ve nae call to interfere.’
‘Ay, ay,’ said Alan, ‘I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don’t care, to make the ransom smaller.’
‘Na,’ said my uncle, ‘it’s the mere truth. I take nae manner of interest in the lad, and I’ll pay nae ransom, and ye can make a kirk and a mill of him for what I care.’
‘Hoot, sir,’ says Alan, ‘blood’s thicker than water, in the deil’s name! Ye cannae desert your brother’s son for the fair shame of it; and if ye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in your countryside, or I’m the more deceived.’
‘I’m no just very popular the way it is,’ returned Ebenezer; ‘and I dinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor by you or your friends. So that’s idle talk, my buckie,’ says he.
‘Then it’ll have to be David that tells it,’ said Alan.
‘How that?’ says my uncle, sharply.
‘Ou, just this way,’ says Alan. ‘My friends would doubtless keep your nephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it, but if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gang where he pleased, and be damned to him.’
Kidnapped (Puffin Classics Relaunch) Page 22