Kidnapped

I cannot sufficiently describe the blow this dealt to my illusions. The more indistinct the accusations were, the less I liked them, for they left the wider field to fancy. What kind of a great house was this that all the parish should start and stare to be asked the way to it? Or what sort of a gentleman should his ill-fame be thus current on the wayside? If an hour’s walking would have brought me back to Essendon, I would have left my adventure then and there and returned to Mr. Campbell’s.

But when I had come so far away already, mere shame would not suffer me to desist till I had put the matter to the touch of proof; I was bound, out of mere self-respect, to carry it through and trim as I liked the sound of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel, I still kept asking my way and still kept advancing. It was drawing on to sundown when I met a stout, dark, sour-looking woman coming trudging down a hill. She, when I had put my usual question, turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the summit she had just left and pointed to a great bulk of buildings standing very bare upon a green in the bottom of the next valley.

The country was pleasant roundabout, running in low hills, pleasantly watered and wooded, and the crops, to my eyes, wonderfully good, but the house itself appeared to be a kind of ruin; no road led up to it; no smoke arose from any of the chimneys; nor was there any semblance of a garden. My heart sank. “That!” I cried. The woman’s face lit up with 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 runners and nineteen times 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!”