The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 10. Robert Louis Stevenson

of feeling that ran high in Mr. Nicholson’s starched bosom, no outward sign was visible; nor did he delay long to make a choice of conduct. Yet in that interval he had reviewed a great field of possibilities both past and future: whether it was possible he had not been perfectly wise in his treatment of John; whether it was possible that John was innocent; whether, if he turned John out a second time, as his outraged authority suggested, it was possible to avoid a scandal; and whether, if he went to that extremity, it was possible that Alexander might rebel.

      “Hum!” said Mr. Nicholson, and put his hand, limp and dead, into John’s.

      And then, in an embarrassed silence, all took their places; and even the paper – from which it was the old gentleman’s habit to suck mortification daily, as he marked the decline of our institutions – even the paper lay furled by his side.

      But presently Flora came to the rescue. She slid into the silence with a technicality, asking if John still took his old inordinate amount of sugar. Thence it was but a step to the burning question of the day; and in tones a little shaken, she commented on the interval since she had last made tea for the prodigal, and congratulated him on his return. And then addressing Mr. Nicholson, she congratulated him also in a manner that defied his ill-humour; and from that launched into the tale of John’s misadventures, not without some suitable suppressions.

      Gradually Alexander joined; between them, whether he would or no, they forced a word or two from John; and these fell so tremulously, and spoke so eloquently of a mind oppressed with dread, that Mr. Nicholson relented. At length even he contributed a question: and before the meal was at an end all four were talking even freely.

      Prayers followed, with the servants gaping at this newcomer whom no one had admitted; and after prayers there came that moment on the clock which was the signal for Mr. Nicholson’s departure.

      “John,” said he, “of course you will stay here. Be very careful not to excite Maria, if Miss Mackenzie thinks it desirable that you should see her. – Alexander, I wish to speak with you alone.” And then, when they were both in the back-room: “You need not come to the office to-day,” said he; “you can stay and amuse your brother, and I think it would be respectful to call on Uncle Greig. And, by-the-by” (this spoken with a certain – dare we say? – bashfulness), “I agree to concede the principle of an allowance; and I will consult Dr. Durie, who is quite a man of the world and has sons of his own, as to the amount. And, my fine fellow, you may consider yourself in luck!” he added, with a smile.

      “Thank you,” said Alexander.

      Before noon a detective had restored to John his money, and brought news, sad enough in truth, but perhaps the least sad possible. Alan Houston had been found in his own house in Regent Terrace, under care of the terrified butler. He was quite mad, and instead of going to prison, had been taken to Morningside Asylum. The murdered man, it appeared, was an evicted tenant who had for nearly a year pursued his late landlord with threats and insults; and beyond this, the cause and details of the tragedy were lost.

      When Mr. Nicholson returned for dinner they were able to put a despatch into his hands: – “John V. Nicholson, Randolph Crescent, Edinburgh. – Kirkman has disappeared; police looking for him. All understood. Keep mind quite easy. – Austin.” Having had this explained to him, the old gentleman took down the cellar key and departed for two bottles of the 1820 port. Uncle Greig dined there that day, and cousin Robina, and, by an odd chance, Mr. MacEwen; and the presence of these strangers relieved what might have been otherwise a somewhat strained relation. Ere they departed the family was welded once more into a fair semblance of unity.

      In the end of April John led Flora – or, let us say, as more descriptive, Flora led John – to the altar, if altar that may be called which was indeed the drawing-room mantelpiece in Mr. Nicholson’s house, the Reverend Dr. Durie posted on the hearthrug in the guise of Hymen’s priest.

      The last I saw of them, on a recent visit to the north, was at a dinner-party in the house of my old friend Gellatly Macbride; and after we had, in classic phrase, “rejoined the ladies,” I had an opportunity to overhear Flora conversing with another married woman on the much canvassed matter of a husband’s tobacco.

      “O yes!” said she; “I only allow Mr. Nicholson four cigars a day. Three he smokes at fixed times – after a meal, you know, my dear; and the fourth he can take when he likes with any friend.”

      “Bravo!” thought I to myself; “this is the wife for my friend John!”

      KIDNAPPED

BEING MEMOIRS OF THE ADVENTURES OFDAVID BALFOUR

      IN THE YEAR 1751 HOW HE WAS KIDNAPPED AND CAST AWAY: HIS SUFFERINGS IN A DESERT ISLE: HIS JOURNEY IN THE WILD HIGHLANDS: HIS ACQUAINTANCE WITH ALAN BRECK STEWART AND OTHER NOTORIOUS HIGHLAND JACOBITES: WITH ALL THAT HE SUFFERED AT THE HANDS OF HIS UNCLE EBENEZER BALFOUR OF SHAWS, FALSELY SO-CALLED: WRITTEN BY HIMSELF, AND NOW SET FORTH 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 a while 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 mean while 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.

      KIDNAPPED

      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.