The Greatest Adventure Books - Robert Louis Stevenson Edition (Illustrated). Robert Louis Stevenson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ called me “Whig.” I stopped.

      “Mr. Stewart,” said I, in a voice that quivered like a fiddle-string, “you are older than I am, and should know your manners. Do you think it either very wise or very witty to cast my politics in my teeth? I thought, where folk differed, it was the part of gentlemen to differ civilly; and if I did not, I may tell you I could find a better taunt than some of yours.”

      Alan had stopped opposite to me, his hat cocked, his hands in his breeches pockets, his head a little on one side. He listened, smiling evilly, as I could see by the starlight; and when I had done he began to whistle a Jacobite air. It was the air made in mockery of General Cope’s defeat at Preston Pans:

      “Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin’ yet?

      And are your drums a-beatin’ yet?”

      And it came in my mind that Alan, on the day of that battle, had been engaged upon the royal side.

      “Why do ye take that air, Mr. Stewart?” said I. “Is that to remind me you have been beaten on both sides?”

      The air stopped on Alan’s lips. “David!” said he.

      “But it’s time these manners ceased,” I continued; “and I mean you shall henceforth speak civilly of my King and my good friends the Campbells.”

      “I am a Stewart—” began Alan.

      “O!” says I, “I ken ye bear a king’s name. But you are to remember, since I have been in the Highlands, I have seen a good many of those that bear it; and the best I can say of them is this, that they would be none the worse of washing.”

      “Do you know that you insult me?” said Alan, very low.

“I am sorry for that,” said I, “for I am not done; and if you distaste the sermon, I doubt the pirliecue* will please you as little. You have been chased in the field by the grown men of my party; it seems a poor kind of pleasure to outface a boy. Both the Campbells and the Whigs have beaten you; you have run before them like a hare. It behoves you to speak of them as of your betters.”

* A second sermon.

      Alan stood quite still, the tails of his greatcoat clapping behind him in the wind.

      “This is a pity” he said at last. “There are things said that cannot be passed over.”

      “I never asked you to,” said I. “I am as ready as yourself.”

      “Ready?” said he.

      “Ready,” I repeated. “I am no blower and boaster like some that I could name. Come on!” And drawing my sword, I fell on guard as Alan himself had taught me.

      “David!” he cried. “Are ye daft? I cannae draw upon ye, David. It’s fair murder.”

      “That was your lookout when you insulted me,” said I.

      “It’s the truth!” cried Alan, and he stood for a moment, wringing his mouth in his hand like a man in sore perplexity. “It’s the bare truth,” he said, and drew his sword. But before I could touch his blade with mine, he had thrown it from him and fallen to the ground. “Na, na,” he kept saying, “na, na — I cannae, I cannae.”

      At this the last of my anger oozed all out of me; and I found myself only sick, and sorry, and blank, and wondering at myself. I would have given the world to take back what I had said; but a word once spoken, who can recapture it? I minded me of all Alan’s kindness and courage in the past, how he had helped and cheered and borne with me in our evil days; and then recalled my own insults, and saw that I had lost for ever that doughty friend. At the same time, the sickness that hung upon me seemed to redouble, and the pang in my side was like a sword for sharpness. I thought I must have swooned where I stood.

      This it was that gave me a thought. No apology could blot out what I had said; it was needless to think of one, none could cover the offence; but where an apology was vain, a mere cry for help might bring Alan back to my side. I put my pride away from me. “Alan!” I said; “if ye cannae help me, I must just die here.”

      He started up sitting, and looked at me.

      “It’s true,” said I. “I’m by with it. O, let me get into the bield of a house — I’ll can die there easier.” I had no need to pretend; whether I chose or not, I spoke in a weeping voice that would have melted a heart of stone.

      “Can ye walk?” asked Alan.

      “No,” said I, “not without help. This last hour my legs have been fainting under me; I’ve a stitch in my side like a red-hot iron; I cannae breathe right. If I die, ye’ll can forgive me, Alan? In my heart, I liked ye fine — even when I was the angriest.”

      “Wheesht, wheesht!” cried Alan. “Dinna say that! David man, ye ken—” He shut his mouth upon a sob. “Let me get my arm about ye,” he continued; “that’s the way! Now lean upon me hard. Gude kens where there’s a house! We’re in Balwhidder, too; there should be no want of houses, no, nor friends’ houses here. Do ye gang easier so, Davie?”

      “Ay” said I, “I can be doing this way;” and I pressed his arm with my hand.

      Again he came near sobbing. “Davie,” said he, “I’m no a right man at all; I have neither sense nor kindness; I could nae remember ye were just a bairn, I couldnae see ye were dying on your feet; Davie, ye’ll have to try and forgive me.”

      “O man, let’s say no more about it!” said I. “We’re neither one of us to mend the other — that’s the truth! We must just bear and forbear, man Alan. O, but my stitch is sore! Is there nae house?”

      “I’ll find a house to ye, David,” he said, stoutly. “We’ll follow down the burn, where there’s bound to be houses. My poor man, will ye no be better on my back?”

      “O, Alan,” says I, “and me a good twelve inches taller?”

      “Ye’re no such a thing,” cried Alan, with a start. “There may be a trifling matter of an inch or two; I’m no saying I’m just exactly what ye would call a tall man, whatever; and I dare say,” he added, his voice tailing off in a laughable manner, “now when I come to think of it, I dare say ye’ll be just about right. Ay, it’ll be a foot, or near hand; or may be even mair!”

      It was sweet and laughable to hear Alan eat his words up in the fear of some fresh quarrel. I could have laughed, had not my stitch caught me so hard; but if I had laughed, I think I must have wept too.

      “Alan,” cried I, “what makes ye so good to me? What makes ye care for such a thankless fellow?”

      “‘Deed, and I don’t, know” said Alan. “For just precisely what I thought I liked about ye, was that ye never quarrelled: — and now I like ye better!”

СКАЧАТЬ