The woman's face lit up with a malignant anger."That is the house of Shaws!"she cried."Blood built it;blood stopped the building of it;blood shall bring it down.See here!"she cried again --"I spit upon the ground,and crack my thumb at it!Black be its fall!If ye see the laird,tell him what ye hear;tell him this makes the twelve hunner and nineteen time that Jennet Clouston has called down the curse on him and his house,byre and stable,man,guest,and master,wife,miss,or bairn --black,black be their fall!"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 those 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 Ilooked,the pleasanter that country-side 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.
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 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.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!
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.Iknocked again,and hearkened 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 wroth.
"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 chapping to my door."Another pause,and then defiantly,"Well,man,"he said,"I'll let ye in;"and he disappeared from the window.
