Kidnapped. Роберт Льюис Стивенсон

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 daresay) 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 dinnae 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 roupit!³ 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 anyway, and taking a staff from the cupboard, locked it 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 a while. 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 a while. 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.”

      ¹ Moistens.

      ² Dark as the pit.

      ³ Sold up

CHAPTER 4 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 in 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 flyleaf of a chapbook (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