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.

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 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.’

I 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. 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 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 up a flight of steps, and paused before a door, which he unlocked. 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.

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 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; 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.

When we had made an end of our meal, my uncle 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! 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.

‘I’ll aff and see the session clerk,’ uncle said in the end. He 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.’

Uncle Ebenezer turned very pale, and sucked his mouth in. He 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. Why do you seek to keep me, then? 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; and for the honour of the house I couldnae let you leave the way ye came. 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.’