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. By what light there was, he would see Alan
standing, like a dark shadow, on the steps; the three witnesses were
hidden quite out of his view; so that there was nothing to alarm an
honest man in his own house. For all that, 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' night-hawks. What brings ye here? I
have a blunderbush."

     * Dealings.

"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; and it shall be here or
nowhere at all whatever; for I would have you to understand that I am as
stiffnecked 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, and a
still longer to undo the fastenings, repenting (I dare say) and taken
with fresh claps of fear at every second step and every bolt and bar. 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."

My uncle cleared his throat. "I'm no very caring," says he. "He wasnae a
good lad at the best of it, and I've nae call to interfere."

"Ay, ay," said Alan, "I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don't
care, to make the ransom smaller."

"Na," said my uncle, "it's the mere truth. 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."

"Hoot, sir," says Alan. "Blood's thicker than water, in the deil's name!
Ye cannae desert your brother's son for the fair shame of it; and if
ye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in your
country-side, or I'm the more deceived."

"I'm no just very popular the way it is," returned Ebenezer; "and I
dinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet by
you or your friends. So that's idle talk, my buckie," says he.

"Then it'll have to be David that tells it," said Alan.

"How that?" says my uncle, sharply.

"Ou, just this, way" says Alan. "My friends would doubtless keep your
nephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it,
but if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gang
where he pleased, and be damned to him!"

"Ay, but I'm no very caring about that either," said my uncle. "I
wouldnae be muckle made up with that."

"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. As for that wild
talk, it's fair disrepitable. Vitals, says you! And where would I be
with my blunderbush?" he snarled.

"Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow against
the bright steel in the hands of Alan," said the other. "Before your
jottering finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on your
breast-bane."

"Eh, man, whae's denying it?" said my uncle. "Pit it as ye please, hae't
your ain way; 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."

     * Troublesome.

"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. "He was never kidnapped.
He leed in his throat that tauld ye that. Kidnapped? He never was!"

"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 Hoseason tell ye?"

"Why, ye donnered auld runt, how else would I ken?" cried Alan.
"Hoseason and me are partners; we gang shares; so ye can see for
yoursel' what good ye can do leeing. And I must plainly say ye drove a
fool's bargain when ye let a man like the sailor-man so far forward in
your private matters. But that's past praying for; and ye must lie on
your bed the way ye made it. And the point in hand is just this: what
did ye pay him?"

"Has he tauld ye himsel'?" asked my uncle.

"That's my concern," said Alan.

"Weel," said my uncle, "I dinnae care what he said, he leed, and 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, plucked him up from the doorstep, led him into the kitchen,
whither we all followed, and set him down in a chair beside the hearth,
where the fire was out and only a rush-light burning.

There we all looked upon him for a while, exulting greatly in our
success, but yet with a sort of pity for the man's shame.

"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; but in one point you somewhat outran my
comprehension. Do I understand your name to be James? or Charles? or is
it George, perhaps?"

"And why should it be any of the three, sir?" quoth Alan, drawing
himself up, like one who smelt an offence.

"Only, sir, that you mentioned a king's name," replied Rankeillor; "and
as there has never yet been a King Thomson, or his fame at least has
never come my way, I judged you must refer to that you had in baptism."

This was just the stab that Alan would feel keenest, and I am free to
confess he took it very ill. Not a word would he answer, but stepped off
to the far end of the kitchen, and sat down and sulked; and it was not
till I stepped after him, and gave him my hand, and thanked him by title
as the chief spring of my success, that he began to smile a bit, and was
at last prevailed upon to join our party.

By that time 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. Alan and Torrance and Rankeillor slept and snored on their hard
beds; but for me who had lain out under heaven and upon dirt and stones,
so many days and nights, and often with an empty belly, and in fear
of death, this good change in my case unmanned me more than any of the
former evil ones; and 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, walking to and
fro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothing
in view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors' and were
now mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take a
glad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride.

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, timeo qui nocuere deos.
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. Thomson'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."

     * The Duke of Argyle.

Now I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good reply
to them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. "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. I trust you will be a good
husband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thompson,
I would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way
than that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer
testimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, and
will turn on the D. of A. 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. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when you
deal with the Advocate, be discreet; and 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.