Kidnapped. Роберт Стивенсон

windows.

      “It’s loaded,” said a voice.

      “I have come here with a letter,” I said, “to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws. Is he here?”

      “From whom is it?” asked the man with the blunderbuss.

      “That is neither here nor there,” said I, for I was growing very wroth.

      “Well,” was the reply, “ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off with ye.”

      “I will do no such thing,” I cried. “I will deliver it into Mr. Balfour’s hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of introduction.”

      “A what?” cried the voice, sharply.

      I repeated what I had said.

      “Who are ye, yourself?” was the next question, after a considerable pause.

      “I am not ashamed of my name,” said I. “They call me David Balfour.”

      At that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle on the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a curious change of voice, that the next question followed:

      “Is your father dead?”

      I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer, but stood staring.

      “Ay,” the man resumed, “he’ll be dead, no doubt; and that’ll be what brings ye chapping to my door.” Another pause, and then defiantly, “Well, man,” he said, “I’ll let ye in;” and he disappeared from the window.

      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.

      The fire had burned up fairly bright, and showed me the barest room I think I ever put my eyes on. Half-a-dozen dishes stood upon the shelves; the table was laid for supper with a bowl of porridge, a horn spoon, and a cup of small beer. Besides what I have named, there was not another thing in that great, stone-vaulted, empty chamber but lockfast chests arranged along the wall and a corner cupboard with a padlock.

      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 (moistens) 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.”

      If I had been some years younger, what with shame, weariness, and disappointment, I believe I had burst into tears. As it was, I could find no words, neither black nor white, but handed him the letter, and 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.” He murmured a little grace to himself and fell to. “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 took a pull at the small beer, which probably reminded him of hospitable duties, for his next speech ran thus: “If ye’re dry ye’ll find water behind the door.”

      To this I returned no answer, standing stiffly on my two feet, and looking down upon my uncle with a mighty angry heart. He, on his part, 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, groped his way, breathing deeply, up a flight of steps, and paused before a door, which he unlocked. I was close upon his heels, having stumbled after him as best I might; and then 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,”1 said I. “I cannae see the bed.”

      “Hoot-toot,

1

Dark as the pit.