Adventure and adventurers -- Fiction; Historical fiction; Kidnapping -- Fiction; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
“Ay?” said Mr. Campbell. “Very well, Davie. Then it behoves me to tell
your fortune; or so far as I may. When your mother was gone, and your
father (the worthy, Christian man) began to sicken for his end, he gave
me in charge a certain letter, which he said was your inheritance. ‘So
soon,’ says he, ‘as I am gone, and the house is redd up and the gear
disposed of’ (all which, Davie, hath been done), ‘give my boy this
letter into his hand, and start him off to the house of Shaws, not far
from Cramond. That is the place I came from,’ he said, ‘and it’s where
it befits that my boy should return. He is a steady lad,’ your father
said, ‘and a canny goer; and I doubt not he will come safe, and be well
liked where he goes.’”
“The house of Shaws!” I cried. “What had my poor father to do with the
house of Shaws?”
“Nay,” said Mr. Campbell, “who can tell that for a surety? But the name
of that family, Davie, boy, is the name you bear--Balfours of Shaws:
an ancient, honest, reputable house, peradventure in these latter
days decayed. Your father, too, was a man of learning as befitted his
position; no man more plausibly conducted school; nor had he the manner
or the speech of a common dominie; but (as ye will yourself remember)
I took aye a pleasure to have him to the manse to meet the gentry; and
those of my own house, Campbell of Kilrennet, Campbell of Dunswire,
Campbell of Minch, and others, all well-kenned gentlemen, had pleasure
in his society. Lastly, to put all the elements of this affair before
you, here is the testamentary letter itself, superscrived by the own
hand of our departed brother.”
He gave me the letter, which was addressed in these words: “To the hands
of Ebenezer Balfour, Esquire, of Shaws, in his house of Shaws, these
will be delivered by my son, David Balfour.” My heart was beating hard
at this great prospect now suddenly opening before a lad of seventeen
years of age, the son of a poor country dominie in the Forest of
Ettrick.
“Mr. Campbell,” I stammered, “and if you were in my shoes, would you
go?”
“Of a surety,” said the minister, “that would I, and without pause.
A pretty lad like you should get to Cramond (which is near in by
Edinburgh) in two days of walk. If the worst came to the worst, and
your high relations (as I cannot but suppose them to be somewhat of your
blood) should put you to the door, ye can but walk the two days back
again and risp at the manse door. But I would rather hope that ye shall
be well received, as your poor father forecast for you, and for anything
that I ken come to be a great man in time. And here, Davie, laddie,” he
resumed, “it lies near upon my conscience to improve this parting, and
set you on the right guard against the dangers of the world.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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