Chapter Chapter 3 · I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

. 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[1] 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.

[1] moistens

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,”[2] said I. “I cannae see

the bed.”

[2] Dark as the pit.

“Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!” said he. “Lights in a house is a thing I dinnae

agree with. I’m unco feared of fires. Good-night to ye, Davie, my man.”

And before I had time to add a further protest, he pulled the door to,

and I heard him lock me in from the outside.

I did not know whether to laugh or cry. The room was as cold as a well,

and the bed, when I had found my way to it, as damp as a peat-hag; but

by good fortune I had caught up my bundle and my plaid, and rolling

myself in the latter, I lay down upon the floor under lee of the big

bedstead, and fell speedily asleep.

With the first peep of day I opened my eyes, to find myself in a great

chamber, hung with stamped leather, furnished with fine embroidered

furniture, and lit by three fair windows. Ten years ago, or perhaps

twenty, it must have been as pleasant a room to lie down or to awake in

as a man could wish; but damp, dirt, disuse, and the mice and spiders

had done their worst since then. Many of the window-panes, besides, were

broken; and indeed this was so common a feature in that house, that I

believe my uncle must at some time have stood a siege from his indignant

neighbours--perhaps with Jennet Clouston at their head.

Meanwhile the sun was shining outside; and being very cold in that

miserable room, I knocked and shouted till my gaoler came and let me

out. He carried me to the back of the house, where was a draw-well, and

told me to “wash my face there, if I wanted;” and when that was done,

I made the best of my own way back to the kitchen, where he had lit the

fire and was making the porridge. The table was laid with two bowls and

two horn spoons, but the same single measure of small beer. Perhaps my

eye rested on this particular with some surprise, and perhaps my uncle

observed it; for he spoke up as if in answer to my thought, asking me if

I would like to drink ale--for so he called it.

I told him such was my habit, but not to put himself about.

“Na, na,” said he; “I’ll deny you nothing in reason.”

He fetched another cup from the shelf; and then, to my great surprise,

instead of drawing more beer, he poured an accurate half 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 dare say) 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 didnae 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 rowpit![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.”

[3] Sold up.

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 any way, and taking a staff from

the cupboard, locked 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 awhile. 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 awhile. 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.”