诱拐.docx

诱拐.docx

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诱拐

1Davidmeetshisuncle

ItwasearlyinthemonthofJune，1751，whenIshutthedoorofourhousebehindmeforthelasttime．AllmylifeIhadlivedinthequietlittlevillageofEssendean，intheLowlandsofScotland，wheremyfatherhadbeenthedominie，orschoolteacher．Butnowthatheandmymotherwerebothdead，Ihadtoleavethehouse．Thenewdominiewouldsoonarrive，andhewouldteachattheschoolandliveinthedominie'shouse．So，althoughIwasonlyseventeen，therewasnowhereformetolive，andnoreasonformetostayinEssendean．

ButmyheartwasbeatingwithexcitementasIwalkeddowntheroad，becauseinmyhandIcarriedtheletterthatmyfatherhadgivenmejustbeforehedied．‘Davie，’hehadsaid，‘whenIamdead，takethistothehouseofShaws，nearCramond．That'swhereIcamefrom，andthat'swhereyoumustgo．PutthisletterintothehandsofEbenezerBalfour．’

Balfour！

Thesamenameasmyown！

ItwasthefirsttimeIhadheardofanyofourfamilyoutsideEssendean．

SoIdecidedtowalktoCramond，hopingthatperhapsthisMrBalfour，inhisfinebighouse，wouldreceivemekindly，andhelpmetobecomearichmanoneday．Withmyplaidovermyshoulder，Iwalkedfastupthehillawayfromthevillage．Whatanadventure，toleavethatsleepyplace，wherenothingeverhappened，andgotoagreat，busyhouse，tobewithrichandimportantpeopleofmyownnameandblood！

ButwhenIreachedthetopofthehill，Iturnedalittlesadly，totakemylastlookatthedominie'shouse，andEssendeanchurchyard，wheremyfatherandmotherlay．

Myjourneynorthwardstookalmosttwodays．BymiddayontheseconddayIcouldseethesmokingchimneysofEdinburghinfrontofme，andsoonIarrivedinCramond．

NowIbegantoaskpeopleontheroadforthehouseofShaws．Theiranswersworriedmealittle．Somepeopleseemedsurprised，someafraid，andsomeangry，whenIspokethenameofEbenezerBalfour．Icouldnotunderstandthis，butitwastoofartogobacktoEssendeanthatday，andIwantedtofindtherestoftheBalfourfamilyverymuchSoIcontinuedonmyway，andwhenImetadark，wild-lookingwomancomingtowardsme，IaskedherwherethehouseofShawswasShetookmetothetopofthenexthill，andshowedmealargebuildingstandingaloneinthebottomofthenextvalley．Althoughthefieldsaroundweregreen，andthefarmlandwasexcellent，thehouseitselflookedunfinishedandempty．Partofitsroofwasmissing．Therewasnoroadtoit，andnosmokecomingfromanyofitschimneys，norwasthereanygarden．‘That！

’Icried．‘No，itcan'tbe！

’‘Itis！

’criedthewomanangrily．‘ThatisthehouseofShaws！

Bloodbuiltit，bloodstoppedthebuildingofif，andbloodshallbringitdown！

BlackistheheartofEbenezerBalfour！

YecantellhimfrommethatIhopetoseehimdie，andhishousefalldownaroundhim！

’Thewomanturnedanddisappeared．Istoodwheresheleftme，shakinglikealeaf，andlookingdownatthehouseforalongtime．Butwhenitbegantogetdark，Inoticedsomesmokecomingoutofthechimney，andfeltalittlemorehopeful．‘Theremustbeafire，andcooking，andpeopleinthehouse，’Ithought．SoIwalkeduptothefrontdoor．Thehouseseemedlockedupandunwelcoming，buttherewasfirelightshiningthroughthekitchenwindow，andIcouldhearsomeonetalkingquietlytohimself．Bravely，Iliftedmyhandandknockedloudlyonthestrongwoodendoor．Thehousewassuddenlysilent，andtherewasnoreply．Iknockedandknocked，andshoutedasloudlyasIcould．Finally，thewindowopened，andamanholdingagunputhisheadout．

‘Whatdoyewant？

’heasked．

‘I'vecomeherewithaletterforMrEbenezerBalfourofShaws．Ishehere？

’

‘Whoisitfrom？

’askedthemanwiththegun．

‘That'snoneofyourbusiness，’Ireplied，gettingangry．

‘Well，puttheletterdownbythedoor，andleave．’

‘Iwillnot！

’Iansweredsharply．‘I'mgoingtogiveittoMrBalfourhimself．Theletterintroducesmetohim．’

‘Whoareyethen？

’wasthenextquestion．

‘I'mnotashamedofmyname．It'sDavidBalfour．’

Themanalmostdroppedhisgun．Afteralongwhile，heaskedinachangedvoice，‘Isyourfatherdead？

’Iwastoosurprisedtoanswer，buthecontinued，‘Aye，hemustbedead，andthat'swhyyehavecome．Well，man，I'llletyein，’andhedisappearedfromthewindow．

Nowthedoorwasunlocked，andavoicefromthedarknesssaid，‘Gointothekitchenandtouchnothing．’Iobeyed，whilethemanlockedtheheavydoorcarefullyagain．IfoundmyselfintheemptiestkitchenthatIhadeverseen．Therewasafire，butnootherlight．Onthetablewasabowlofporridgeandaglassofwater，infrontoftheonlychair．Aroundthewallswereseverallockedchests．Therewasnootherfurniture．Themanwhonowappearedinthekitchenwassmall，mean-lookingandwhite-faced，betweenfiftyandseventyyearsold，andwearingadirtyoldnightshirt．Theworstthingabouthimwasthathecouldneithertakehiseyesawayfromme，norlookstraightintomyface．

‘Ifye'rehungry，’hesaid，‘yecaneatthatporridge．It'sgrandfood，porridge！

Letmeseetheletter！

’

‘It'sforMrBalfour，notyou，’Ireplied．

‘AndwhodoyethinkIam？

GivemeAlexander'sletter！

Yemaynotlikemeormyhouseormyporridge，butI'myourbornuncle，Davie，myman！

’

Thiswastheendofallmyhopes．Iwastootiredandmiserabletospeak，soIsilentlygavehimtheletter，andsatdowntoeattheporridge．

‘Yourfather'sbeendeadalongtime？

’heasked，givingmeaquicklookfromhissharpeyes．

‘Threeweeks，sir，’Isaid．

‘Hewasasecretiveman，Alexanderwas．Perhapshedidn'ttalkmuchaboutme？

OraboutthehouseofShaws？

’

‘Ineverknewhehadabrother，sir，oreverheardthenameofShaws．’

‘Tothinkofthat！

’hereplied．‘Astrangeman！

’Butheseemedverypleased，andbegantolookatmewithmoreinterest．Soonhejumpedupandsaid，‘We'regoingtogetonwell，Davie！

What'smineisyours，man，andwhat'syoursismine．Blood'sthickerthanwater，andthere'sonlyyeandmeofthenameofBalfour．NowI'llshowyetoyourbed．’

Hetookmeupsomedarkstairsandshowedmeintoaroom．Icouldnotseeanything．‘CanIhavealight，sir？

’Iasked．‘No，yecan't．Nolightsinthishouse！

I'mafraidoffires，yesee．Goodnighttoye，Davie，myman．’AndbeforeIhadtimetoreply，hepulledthedoorshutandlockeditfromtheoutside．Theroomwasverycold，butluckilyIhadmyplaidwithme，soIcoveredmyselfwithitlikeablanket，andsoonfellasleep．

ThenextdaymyuncleandIhadasmallbowlofporridgeandaglassofwaterforbreakfast，lunchandsupper．Hedidnotspeakmuchtome，butwasclearlythinkinghard．Ioftennoticedhimlookingatme，whilepretendingtodosomethingdifferent，andheneverleftmealoneinthekitchenwiththelockedchests，inwhich，Isupposed，hekepthismoney．Ididnotlikethewayhelookedatme，andbegantowonderifhewasalittlecrazy，andperhapsdangerous．

Aftersupperhesaidsuddenly，‘Davie，I'vebeenthinking．Ipromisedyourfatherabitofmoneyforyebeforeyewereborn．Apromiseisapromise—andsoI'mgoingtogiveye…fortypounds！

’Theselastwordsseemedverypainfultohim．Headded，inakindofscream，‘Scots！

’

AScottishpoundwasthesameasanEnglishshilling．Icouldseethathisstorywasalie，soIlaughedathim，saying，‘Oh，thinkagain，sir！

Englishpounds，surely！

’

‘That'swhatIsaid，'repliedmyunclequickly．‘Gooutsideforamoment，andI'llgetthemoneyforye．’

IwassmilingasIwentout，surethathewouldgivemenothingatall．Itwasadarknight，andIcouldhearwindinthehills．‘Theremaybethunderlater，’Ithought，notknowinghowimportanttheweatherwouldbetomethatnight．

Butwhenmyunclecalledmeinagain，hecountedthirtyeightEnglishpoundsingoldintomyhands．Itclearlyhurthimtodoit，andhekeptbackthelasttwopounds，butIdidnotmindthat．Surprisedandpleased，Ithankedhimwarmly．

‘Now，’hesaid，lookingcleverlyatme，‘yecangivemesomething，Davie．I'mgettingoldnow，andIneedhelp．’

‘Ofcourse，sir，’Ianswered．‘WhatcanIdo？

’

‘Well，gooutsideandclimbthestairsattheotherendofthehouse，wherethebuildingisn'tfinishedyet．Gouptotheroomatthetop，andbringdownthechestthatye'llfindthere．It'sgotvaluablepapersinit．’

‘CanIhavealight，sir？

’Iasked．

‘No，’hesaidsharply．‘Nolightsinmyhouse！

’‘Verywell，sir．Arethestairsgood？

’

‘They'regrand，’saidhe．‘Thestairsaregrand．OutIwentintothenight．AsIwasfeelingmywayalongtheoutsidewall，therewasasuddenflashoflightning，thendarknessagain．Ifoundthestairsandstartedclimbing．Iwasaboutfifteenmetresabovetheground，whentherewasanotherflashoflightning．Thatwasluckyforme，becauseitshowedmethatthestepswereuneven，andthatIcouldeasilyfalltomydeath．‘Thesearethegrandstairs！

’Ithought．‘Perhapsmyunclewantsmetodie！

’NowIwasverycareful，andIfelteachstepwithmyhandsbeforeIputmyfootonit．Afewstepslatermyhandfeltcoldstone，andthennothingmore．Thestairsendedthere，twentymetresabovetheground．Ifeltcoldwithfear，whenIthoughtofthedangerthatIhadbeenin．Sendingastrangerupthosestairsinthedarkwassendinghimstraighttohisdeath．

Angrily，Iturnedandfeltmywaydown．Therewasacrashofthunder，andsuddenlytheraincamedown．AtthebottomofthestairsIlookedtowardsthekitchen，andcouldsee，inthenextflashoflightning，afigurestandingstillinthedoorway，listening．Whenthethundersoundedagain，louderthanbefore，heranbackinside，andIfollowedassoftlyasIcould．Ifoundhimsittinginthekitchen，drinkingwhiskystraightfromthebottle，andshakingwithfear．QuietlyIcameupbehindhim，and，puttingmyhandssuddenlyonhisshoulders，cried，‘Ah！

’

Myunclegaveakindofbrokencry，andfelltothefloorlikeadeadman．Hisfacewasastrangebluecolour，andIbegantothinkthathereallywasdead．Atlasthiseyesopened，andhelooked