… 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 main entrance it was plainly meant to
be, but never finished; instead of gates of twisted 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. Many of the
windows were unglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-cote.
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!
1886 American edition |
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 covered
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 listened again. By this time my ears had 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 career, when I heard the cough right overhead, and jumping back and
looking up, beheld a man's head in a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of the first-storey
windows.
"It's
loaded," said a voice.
"I have
come here with a letter," I said, "to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of 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 angry.
"Well,"
was the reply, "ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off with
ye."
"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 window-sill;
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 knocking
to my door." Another pause, and then defiantly, "Well, man," he
said, "I'll let ye in;" and he disappeared from the window …
(excerpt from
Kidnapped, Robert Louis Stevenson)
Vocabulary
Hurdles: fences
Drearier: more
terrible
Blunderbuss: A
short musket of wide bore and flaring muzzle
Literary
significance and criticism
Kidnapped was well received and sold well while Stevenson was alive, but after
his death many viewed it with scepticism seeing it as simply a "boys'
novel". By the mid-20th century, however, it had regained critical
approval and study. It presents, however, the Jacobite version of the Appin Murder,
and is not historically accurate.
The sequel Catriona was written in 1893 while Stevenson
was living on Samoa. Its theme is largely romantic and much less adventurous,
and has not achieved the popular appeal of Kidnapped.
Sources
Wikipedia, the
free encyclopedia
Urban dictionary
Farlex, the free
dictionary
Gutenberg
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