Kidnapped. Robert Louis StevensonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      “‘That is the house of Shaws!’ she cried.” Young Folks Paper, May 1,1886.

      And the woman whose voice had risen to a kind of eldritch sing-song, turned with a skip, and was gone. I stood where she left me, with my hair on end. In these days, folk still believed in witches and trembled at a curse; and this one, falling so pat, like a wayside omen, to arrest me ere I carried out my purpose, took the pith out of my legs.

      I sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. The more I looked, the pleasanter that countryside appeared; being all set with hawthorn bushes full of flowers; the fields dotted with sheep; a fine flight of rooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil and climate. And yet the barrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy.

      Country folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the ditch, but I lacked the spirit to give them a good-e’en. At last the sun went down, and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of smoke go mounting; not much thicker, as it seemed to me, than the smoke of a candle; but still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and cookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it; and this comforted my heart wonderfully, more, I feel sure, than a whole flask of the lily of the valley water, that Mrs Campbell set so great a store by.

      So I set forward by a little, faint track in the grass that led in my direction. It was very faint indeed to be the only way to a place of habitation; yet I saw no other, Presently it brought me to stone uprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms upon the top. A brave entrance, it was plainly meant to be; but never finished; instead of gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across with a straw rope; and as there were no park walls, nor any sign of avenue, the track that I was following passed on the right hand of the pillars and went wandering on toward the house.

      The nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. It seemed like the one wing of a house that had never been finished; what should have been the inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed against the sky with steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry; and many of the windows were unglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dovecote.

      The night had begun to fall, as I got close; and in three of the lower windows, which were very high up, and narrow, and well barred, the changing light of a little fire began to glimmer.

      Was this the palace I had been coming to? was it within these walls that I was to seek new friends and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father’s house on Essen-waterside, the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away; and the door open to a beggar’s knock.

      I came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came, heard some one rattling with dishes; and a little, dry, eager cough, that came in fits; but there was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked.

      The door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece of wood all studded with nails; and I lifted my hand, with a faint heart under my jacket, and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. The house had fallen into a dead silence; a whole minute passed away, and nothing stirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again; and hearkened again. By this time my ears were grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I could hear the ticking of the clock inside, as it slowly counted out the seconds; but whoever was in that house, kept deadly still and must have held his breath.

      I was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand; and I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout out aloud for Mr Balfour. I was in full carreer, when I heard the cough right overhead, and, jumping back and looking up, beheld a man’s head in a tall night-cap and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss at one of the first story windows.

      “It’s loaded,” said a voice.

      “I have come here with a letter,” I said, “to Mr Ebenezer Balfour of the 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 you.”

      “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 windowsill; 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 you in!” and he disappeared from the window.