Chapter XXIX

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. 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 country-side,’ said Alan; ‘but what brings me here is another story, being more of your affair 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; 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 down-stairs. 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 ye’re as good as deid.’

‘And a very civil speech,’ says Alan, ‘to be sure.’

‘Na,’ says my uncle, ‘but this is no a very chanty 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 wreck-wood for his fire along the sands, when he came upon a lad that was half-drowned. Well, he brought him to; and he and some other gentleman 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 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.’

‘Na,’ said my uncle, ‘I take nae manner of interest in the lad, and I’ll pay nae ransome, and ye can make a kirk and a mill of him for what I care.’

‘I was thinking that,’ said Alan.

‘And what for why?’ asked Ebenezer.

‘Why, Mr. Balfour,’ replied Alan, ‘by all that I could hear, there were two ways of it: either ye liked David and would pay to get him back; or else ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, and would pay for us to keep him. It seems it’s not the first; well then, it’s the second; and blythe am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my pocket and the pockets of my friends.’

‘I dinnae follow ye there,’ said my uncle.

‘No?’ said Alan. ‘Well, see here: you dinnae want the lad back; well, what do ye want done with him, and how much will ye pay?’ My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on his seat.

‘Come, sir,’ cried Alan. ‘I would have you to ken that I am a gentleman; I bear a king’s name; I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your hall door. Either give me an answer in civility, and that out of hand; or by the top of Glencoe, I will ram three feet of iron through your vitals.’

‘Eh, man,’ cried my uncle, scrambling to his feet, ‘give me a meenit! What’s like wrong with ye? I’m just a plain man and nae dancing master; and I’m tryin to be as ceevil as it’s morally possible. I’ll do naething to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye’ll be wanting, and ye’ll see that we’ll can agree fine.’

‘Troth, sir,’ said Alan, ‘I ask for nothing but plain dealing. In two words: do ye want the lad killed or kept?’

‘O sirs!’ cried Ebenezer. ‘O sirs, me! that’s no kind of language!’

‘Killed or kept!’ repeated Alan.

‘O, keepit, keepit!’ wailed my uncle. ‘We’ll have nae bloodshed, if you please.’

‘Well,’ says Alan, ‘as ye please; that’ll be the dearer.’

‘The dearer?’ cries Ebenezer. ‘Would ye fyle your hands wi’ crime?’

‘Hoot!’ said Alan, ‘they’re baith crime, whatever! And the killing’s easier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad’ll be a fashious job, a fashious, kittle business.’

‘I’ll have him keepit, though,’ returned my uncle. ‘I never had naething to do with onything morally wrong; and I’m no gaun to begin to pleasure a wild Hielandman.’

‘Ye’re unco scrupulous,’ sneered Alan.

‘I’m a man o’ principle,’ said Ebenezer, simply; ‘and if I have to pay for it, I’ll have to pay for it. And besides,’ says he, ‘ye forget the lad’s my brother’s son.’

‘Well, well,’ said Alan, ‘and now about the price. It’s no very easy for me to set a name upon it; I would first have to ken some small matters. I would have to ken, for instance, what ye gave Hoseason at the first off-go?’

‘Hoseason!’ cries my uncle, struck aback. ‘What for?’

‘For kidnapping David,’ says Alan.

‘It’s a lee, it’s a black lee!’ cried my uncle.

‘That’s no fault of mine nor yet of yours,’ said Alan; ‘nor yet of Hoseason’s, if he’s a man that can be trusted.’

‘What do ye mean?’ cried Ebenezer. ‘Did Ho-season tell ye?’

‘Hoseason and me are partners; we gang shares; so ye can see for yoursel’ what good ye can do leeing. And the point in hand is just this: what did ye pay him?’

‘Weel,’ said my uncle, ‘I dinnae care what he said, the solemn God’s truth is this, that I gave him twenty pound. But I’ll be perfec’ly honest with ye: forby that, he was to have the selling of the lad in Caroliny, whilk would be as muckle mair, but no from my pocket, ye see.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Thomson. That will do excellently well,’ said the lawyer, stepping forward; and then mighty civilly, ‘Good-evening, Mr. Balfour,’ said he.

And, ‘Good-evening, Uncle Ebenezer,’ said I.

And, ‘It’s a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour,’ added Torrance.

Never a word said my uncle, neither black nor white; but just sat where he was on the top door-step and stared upon us like a man turned to stone. Alan filched away his blunderbuss; and the lawyer, taking him by the arm, led him into the kitchen, whither we all followed, and set him down in a chair beside the hearth.

‘Come, come, Mr. Ebenezer,’ said the lawyer, ‘you must not be down-hearted, for I promise you we shall make easy terms. In the meanwhile give us the cellar key, and Torrance shall draw us a bottle of your father’s wine in honour of the event.’ Then, turning to me and taking me by the hand, ‘Mr. David,’ says he, ‘I wish you all joy in your good fortune, which I believe to be deserved.’ And then to Alan, with a spice of drollery, ‘Mr. Thomson, I pay you my compliment; it was most artfully conducted.’

We had the fire lighted, and a bottle of wine uncorked; a good supper came out of the basket, to which Torrance and I and Alan set ourselves down; while the lawyer and my uncle passed into the next chamber to consult. They stayed there closeted about an hour; at the end of which period they had come to a good understanding, and my uncle and I set our hands to the agreement in a formal manner. By the terms of this, my uncle bound himself to satisfy Rankeillor as to his intromissions, and to pay me two clear thirds of the yearly income of Shaws.

So the beggar in the ballad had come home; and when I lay down that night on the kitchen chests, I was a man of means and had a name in the country. I lay till dawn, looking at the fire on the roof and planning the future.

Chapter XXX

Good-bye

So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had still Alan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a heavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On both these heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning. About my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must help him out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was of a different mind.

‘Mr. Thomson,’ says he, ‘is one thing, Mr. Thomson’s kinsman quite another. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble (whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.) has some concern and is even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. is doubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, if you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember there is one way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in the dock. There, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thom-son’s kinsman. You will object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And to be tried for your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel and with a Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition to the gallows.’

‘In that case, sir,’ said I, ‘I would just have to be hanged – would I not?’

‘My dear boy,’ cries he, ‘go in God’s name, and do what you think is right. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advising you to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology. Go and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There are worse things in the world than to be hanged.’

‘Not many, sir,’ said I, smiling.

‘Why, yes, sir,’ he cried, ‘very many. And it would be ten times better for your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decently upon a gibbet.’

Thereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind, so that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me two letters, making his comments on them as he wrote.

‘This,’ says he, ‘is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing a credit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; and you, with this credit, can supply the means. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way than that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer testimony. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate well-recommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, the learned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look better that you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird of Pilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with Lord Advocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with any particulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer to Mr. Thomson. In all these matters, may the Lord guide you, Mr. David!’

Thereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry, while Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went by the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, we kept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare and great and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top windows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and back and forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had little welcome when I came and less kindness while I stayed; but at least I was watched as I went away.

Alan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart either to walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we were near the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone days sate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and it was resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, now there, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might be able to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger. In the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart, and a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part to find a ship and to arrange for Alan’s safe embarkation. No sooner was this business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though I would seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he with me on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that we were nearer tears than laughter.

We came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got near to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on Corstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we both stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to where our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had been agreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour at which Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by any that came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two of Rankeillor’s) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then we stood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence.

‘Well, good-bye,’ said Alan, and held out his left hand.

‘Good-bye,’ said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off down hill.

Neither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was in my view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But as I went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I could have found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep like any baby.

It was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the Grassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the buildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched entries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants in their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the fine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention, struck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd carry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was Alan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would think I would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties) there was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something wrong.

The hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors of the British Linen Company’s bank.