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diff --git a/864-h/864-h.htm b/864-h/864-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f76858 --- /dev/null +++ b/864-h/864-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11483 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Master of Ballantrae, by Robert Louis Stevenson</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Master of Ballantrae, by Robert Louis Stevenson</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Master of Ballantrae<br /> +A Winter’s Tale</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Robert Louis Stevenson</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 26, 1997 [eBook #864]<br /> +[Most recently updated: August 24, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>The Master of Ballantrae<br /> +A Winter’s Tale</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Robert Louis Stevenson</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#pref01">PREFACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THIS MASTER’S WANDERINGS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. SUMMARY OF EVENTS (<i>continued</i>)</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. THE MASTER’S WANDERINGS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. PERSECUTIONS ENDURED BY MR. HENRY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. ACCOUNT OF ALL THAT PASSED ON THE NIGHT ON FEBRUARY 27TH, 1757</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THE MASTER’S SECOND ABSENCE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. ADVENTURE OF CHEVALIER BURKE IN INDIA</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. MR. MACKELLAR’S JOURNEY WITH THE MASTER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. PASSAGES AT NEW YORK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. THE JOURNEY IN THE WILDERNESS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11b"><i>Narrative of the Trader, Mountain</i></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. THE JOURNEY IN THE WILDERNESS (<i>continued</i>)</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>To Sir Percy Florence and Lady Shelley</h2> + +<p> +Here is a tale which extends over many years and travels into many countries. +By a peculiar fitness of circumstance the writer began, continued it, and +concluded it among distant and diverse scenes. Above all, he was much upon the +sea. The character and fortune of the fraternal enemies, the hall and shrubbery +of Durrisdeer, the problem of Mackellar’s homespun and how to shape it +for superior flights; these were his company on deck in many star-reflecting +harbours, ran often in his mind at sea to the tune of slatting canvas, and were +dismissed (something of the suddenest) on the approach of squalls. It is my +hope that these surroundings of its manufacture may to some degree find favour +for my story with seafarers and sea-lovers like yourselves. +</p> + +<p> +And at least here is a dedication from a great way off: written by the loud +shores of a subtropical island near upon ten thousand miles from Boscombe Chine +and Manor: scenes which rise before me as I write, along with the faces and +voices of my friends. +</p> + +<p> +Well, I am for the sea once more; no doubt Sir Percy also. Let us make the +signal B. R. D.! +</p> + +<p class="right"> +R. L. S. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Waikiki</span>, <i>May</i> 17, 1889 +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="pref01"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p> +Although an old, consistent exile, the editor of the following pages revisits +now and again the city of which he exults to be a native; and there are few +things more strange, more painful, or more salutary, than such revisitations. +Outside, in foreign spots, he comes by surprise and awakens more attention than +he had expected; in his own city, the relation is reversed, and he stands +amazed to be so little recollected. Elsewhere he is refreshed to see attractive +faces, to remark possible friends; there he scouts the long streets, with a +pang at heart, for the faces and friends that are no more. Elsewhere he is +delighted with the presence of what is new, there tormented by the absence of +what is old. Elsewhere he is content to be his present self; there he is +smitten with an equal regret for what he once was and for what he once hoped to +be. +</p> + +<p> +He was feeling all this dimly, as he drove from the station, on his last visit; +he was feeling it still as he alighted at the door of his friend Mr. Johnstone +Thomson, W.S., with whom he was to stay. A hearty welcome, a face not +altogether changed, a few words that sounded of old days, a laugh provoked and +shared, a glimpse in passing of the snowy cloth and bright decanters and the +Piranesis on the dining-room wall, brought him to his bed-room with a somewhat +lightened cheer, and when he and Mr. Thomson sat down a few minutes later, +cheek by jowl, and pledged the past in a preliminary bumper, he was already +almost consoled, he had already almost forgiven himself his two unpardonable +errors, that he should ever have left his native city, or ever returned to it. +</p> + +<p> +“I have something quite in your way,” said Mr. Thomson. “I +wished to do honour to your arrival; because, my dear fellow, it is my own +youth that comes back along with you; in a very tattered and withered state, to +be sure, but—well!—all that’s left of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“A great deal better than nothing,” said the editor. “But +what is this which is quite in my way?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was coming to that,” said Mr. Thomson: “Fate has put it in +my power to honour your arrival with something really original by way of +dessert. A mystery.” +</p> + +<p> +“A mystery?” I repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said his friend, “a mystery. It may prove to be +nothing, and it may prove to be a great deal. But in the meanwhile it is truly +mysterious, no eye having looked on it for near a hundred years; it is highly +genteel, for it treats of a titled family; and it ought to be melodramatic, for +(according to the superscription) it is concerned with death.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I rarely heard a more obscure or a more promising +annunciation,” the other remarked. “But what is It?” +</p> + +<p> +“You remember my predecessor’s, old Peter M’Brair’s +business?” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember him acutely; he could not look at me without a pang of +reprobation, and he could not feel the pang without betraying it. He was to me +a man of a great historical interest, but the interest was not returned.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah well, we go beyond him,” said Mr. Thomson. “I daresay old +Peter knew as little about this as I do. You see, I succeeded to a prodigious +accumulation of old law-papers and old tin boxes, some of them of Peter’s +hoarding, some of his father’s, John, first of the dynasty, a great man +in his day. Among other collections, were all the papers of the +Durrisdeers.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Durrisdeers!” cried I. “My dear fellow, these may be of +the greatest interest. One of them was out in the ’45; one had some +strange passages with the devil—you will find a note of it in Law’s +<i>Memorials</i>, I think; and there was an unexplained tragedy, I know not +what, much later, about a hundred years ago—” +</p> + +<p> +“More than a hundred years ago,” said Mr. Thomson. “In +1783.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that? I mean some death.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the lamentable deaths of my Lord Durrisdeer and his brother, the +Master of Ballantrae (attainted in the troubles),” said Mr. Thomson with +something the tone of a man quoting. “Is that it?” +</p> + +<p> +“To say truth,” said I, “I have only seen some dim reference +to the things in memoirs; and heard some traditions dimmer still, through my +uncle (whom I think you knew). My uncle lived when he was a boy in the +neighbourhood of St. Bride’s; he has often told me of the avenue closed +up and grown over with grass, the great gates never opened, the last lord and +his old maid sister who lived in the back parts of the house, a quiet, plain, +poor, hum-drum couple it would seem—but pathetic too, as the last of that +stirring and brave house—and, to the country folk, faintly terrible from +some deformed traditions.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr. Thomson. “Henry Graeme Durie, the last lord, +died in 1820; his sister, the honourable Miss Katherine Durie, in ’27; so +much I know; and by what I have been going over the last few days, they were +what you say, decent, quiet people and not rich. To say truth, it was a letter +of my lord’s that put me on the search for the packet we are going to +open this evening. Some papers could not be found; and he wrote to Jack +M’Brair suggesting they might be among those sealed up by a Mr. +Mackellar. M’Brair answered, that the papers in question were all in +Mackellar’s own hand, all (as the writer understood) of a purely +narrative character; and besides, said he, ‘I am bound not to open them +before the year 1889.’ You may fancy if these words struck me: I +instituted a hunt through all the M’Brair repositories; and at last hit +upon that packet which (if you have had enough wine) I propose to show you at +once.” +</p> + +<p> +In the smoking-room, to which my host now led me, was a packet, fastened with +many seals and enclosed in a single sheet of strong paper thus endorsed: +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +Papers relating to the lives and lamentable deaths of the late Lord Durisdeer, +and his elder brother James, commonly called Master of Ballantrae, attainted in +the troubles: entrusted into the hands of John M’Brair in the Lawnmarket +of Edinburgh, W.S.; this 20th day of September Anno Domini 1789; by him to be +kept secret until the revolution of one hundred years complete, or until the +20th day of September 1889: the same compiled and written by me, <span +class="smcap">Ephraim Mackellar</span>, +</p> + +<p> +For near forty years Land Steward on the estates of his Lordship. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +As Mr. Thomson is a married man, I will not say what hour had struck when we +laid down the last of the following pages; but I will give a few words of what +ensued. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” said Mr. Thomson, “is a novel ready to your hand: all +you have to do is to work up the scenery, develop the characters, and improve +the style.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear fellow,” said I, “they are just the three things +that I would rather die than set my hand to. It shall be published as it +stands.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s so bald,” objected Mr. Thomson. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe there is nothing so noble as baldness,” replied I, +“and I am sure there is nothing so interesting. I would have all +literature bald, and all authors (if you like) but one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” add Mr. Thomson, “we shall see.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /> +SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THIS MASTER’S WANDERINGS.</h2> + +<p> +The full truth of this odd matter is what the world has long been looking for, +and public curiosity is sure to welcome. It so befell that I was intimately +mingled with the last years and history of the house; and there does not live +one man so able as myself to make these matters plain, or so desirous to +narrate them faithfully. I knew the Master; on many secret steps of his career +I have an authentic memoir in my hand; I sailed with him on his last voyage +almost alone; I made one upon that winter’s journey of which so many +tales have gone abroad; and I was there at the man’s death. As for my +late Lord Durrisdeer, I served him and loved him near twenty years; and thought +more of him the more I knew of him. Altogether, I think it not fit that so much +evidence should perish; the truth is a debt I owe my lord’s memory; and I +think my old years will flow more smoothly, and my white hair lie quieter on +the pillow, when the debt is paid. +</p> + +<p> +The Duries of Durrisdeer and Ballantrae were a strong family in the south-west +from the days of David First. A rhyme still current in the countryside— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Kittle folk are the Durrisdeers,<br /> +They ride wi’ over mony spears— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +bears the mark of its antiquity; and the name appears in another, which common +report attributes to Thomas of Ercildoune himself—I cannot say how truly, +and which some have applied—I dare not say with how much justice—to +the events of this narration: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Twa Duries in Durrisdeer,<br /> + Ane to tie and ane to ride,<br /> +An ill day for the groom<br /> + And a waur day for the bride. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Authentic history besides is filled with their exploits which (to our modern +eyes) seem not very commendable: and the family suffered its full share of +those ups and downs to which the great houses of Scotland have been ever +liable. But all these I pass over, to come to that memorable year 1745, when +the foundations of this tragedy were laid. +</p> + +<p> +At that time there dwelt a family of four persons in the house of Durrisdeer, +near St. Bride’s, on the Solway shore; a chief hold of their race since +the Reformation. My old lord, eighth of the name, was not old in years, but he +suffered prematurely from the disabilities of age; his place was at the chimney +side; there he sat reading, in a lined gown, with few words for any man, and +wry words for none: the model of an old retired housekeeper; and yet his mind +very well nourished with study, and reputed in the country to be more cunning +than he seemed. The master of Ballantrae, James in baptism, took from his +father the love of serious reading; some of his tact perhaps as well, but that +which was only policy in the father became black dissimulation in the son. The +face of his behaviour was merely popular and wild: he sat late at wine, later +at the cards; had the name in the country of “an unco man for the +lasses;” and was ever in the front of broils. But for all he was the +first to go in, yet it was observed he was invariably the best to come off; and +his partners in mischief were usually alone to pay the piper. This luck or +dexterity got him several ill-wishers, but with the rest of the country, +enhanced his reputation; so that great things were looked for in his future, +when he should have gained more gravity. One very black mark he had to his +name; but the matter was hushed up at the time, and so defaced by legends +before I came into those parts, that I scruple to set it down. If it was true, +it was a horrid fact in one so young; and if false, it was a horrid calumny. I +think it notable that he had always vaunted himself quite implacable, and was +taken at his word; so that he had the addition among his neighbours of +“an ill man to cross.” Here was altogether a young nobleman (not +yet twenty-four in the year ’45) who had made a figure in the country +beyond his time of life. The less marvel if there were little heard of the +second son, Mr. Henry (my late Lord Durrisdeer), who was neither very bad nor +yet very able, but an honest, solid sort of lad like many of his neighbours. +Little heard, I say; but indeed it was a case of little spoken. He was known +among the salmon fishers in the firth, for that was a sport that he assiduously +followed; he was an excellent good horse-doctor besides; and took a chief hand, +almost from a boy, in the management of the estates. How hard a part that was, +in the situation of that family, none knows better than myself; nor yet with +how little colour of justice a man may there acquire the reputation of a tyrant +and a miser. The fourth person in the house was Miss Alison Graeme, a near +kinswoman, an orphan, and the heir to a considerable fortune which her father +had acquired in trade. This money was loudly called for by my lord’s +necessities; indeed the land was deeply mortgaged; and Miss Alison was designed +accordingly to be the Master’s wife, gladly enough on her side; with how +much good-will on his, is another matter. She was a comely girl, and in those +days very spirited and self-willed; for the old lord having no daughter of his +own, and my lady being long dead, she had grown up as best she might. +</p> + +<p> +To these four came the news of Prince Charlie’s landing, and set them +presently by the ears. My lord, like the chimney-keeper that he was, was all +for temporising. Miss Alison held the other side, because it appeared +romantical; and the Master (though I have heard they did not agree often) was +for this once of her opinion. The adventure tempted him, as I conceive; he was +tempted by the opportunity to raise the fortunes of the house, and not less by +the hope of paying off his private liabilities, which were heavy beyond all +opinion. As for Mr. Henry, it appears he said little enough at first; his part +came later on. It took the three a whole day’s disputation, before they +agreed to steer a middle course, one son going forth to strike a blow for King +James, my lord and the other staying at home to keep in favour with King +George. Doubtless this was my lord’s decision; and, as is well known, it +was the part played by many considerable families. But the one dispute settled, +another opened. For my lord, Miss Alison, and Mr. Henry all held the one view: +that it was the cadet’s part to go out; and the Master, what with +restlessness and vanity, would at no rate consent to stay at home. My lord +pleaded, Miss Alison wept, Mr. Henry was very plain spoken: all was of no +avail. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the direct heir of Durrisdeer that should ride by his King’s +bridle,” says the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“If we were playing a manly part,” says Mr. Henry, “there +might be sense in such talk. But what are we doing? Cheating at cards!” +</p> + +<p> +“We are saving the house of Durrisdeer, Henry,” his father said. +</p> + +<p> +“And see, James,” said Mr. Henry, “if I go, and the Prince +has the upper hand, it will be easy to make your peace with King James. But if +you go, and the expedition fails, we divide the right and the title. And what +shall I be then?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will be Lord Durrisdeer,” said the Master. “I put all I +have upon the table.” +</p> + +<p> +“I play at no such game,” cries Mr. Henry. “I shall be left +in such a situation as no man of sense and honour could endure. I shall be +neither fish nor flesh!” he cried. And a little after he had another +expression, plainer perhaps than he intended. “It is your duty to be here +with my father,” said he. “You know well enough you are the +favourite.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay?” said the Master. “And there spoke Envy! Would you trip +up my heels—Jacob?” said he, and dwelled upon the name maliciously. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry went and walked at the low end of the hall without reply; for he had +an excellent gift of silence. Presently he came back. +</p> + +<p> +“I am the cadet and I <i>should</i> go,” said he. “And my +lord here is the master, and he says I <i>shall</i> go. What say ye to that, my +brother?” +</p> + +<p> +“I say this, Harry,” returned the Master, “that when very +obstinate folk are met, there are only two ways out: Blows—and I think +none of us could care to go so far; or the arbitrament of chance—and here +is a guinea piece. Will you stand by the toss of the coin?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will stand and fall by it,” said Mr. Henry. “Heads, I go; +shield, I stay.” +</p> + +<p> +The coin was spun, and it fell shield. “So there is a lesson for +Jacob,” says the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall live to repent of this,” says Mr. Henry, and flung out of +the hall. +</p> + +<p> +As for Miss Alison, she caught up that piece of gold which had just sent her +lover to the wars, and flung it clean through the family shield in the great +painted window. +</p> + +<p> +“If you loved me as well as I love you, you would have stayed,” +cried she. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I could not love you, dear, so well, loved I not honour +more,’” sang the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried, “you have no heart—I hope you may be +killed!” and she ran from the room, and in tears, to her own chamber. +</p> + +<p> +It seems the Master turned to my lord with his most comical manner, and says +he, “This looks like a devil of a wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you are a devil of a son to me,” cried his father, +“you that have always been the favourite, to my shame be it spoken. Never +a good hour have I gotten of you, since you were born; no, never one good +hour,” and repeated it again the third time. Whether it was the +Master’s levity, or his insubordination, or Mr. Henry’s word about +the favourite son, that had so much disturbed my lord, I do not know; but I +incline to think it was the last, for I have it by all accounts that Mr. Henry +was more made up to from that hour. +</p> + +<p> +Altogether it was in pretty ill blood with his family that the Master rode to +the North; which was the more sorrowful for others to remember when it seemed +too late. By fear and favour he had scraped together near upon a dozen men, +principally tenants’ sons; they were all pretty full when they set forth, +and rode up the hill by the old abbey, roaring and singing, the white cockade +in every hat. It was a desperate venture for so small a company to cross the +most of Scotland unsupported; and (what made folk think so the more) even as +that poor dozen was clattering up the hill, a great ship of the king’s +navy, that could have brought them under with a single boat, lay with her broad +ensign streaming in the bay. The next afternoon, having given the Master a fair +start, it was Mr. Henry’s turn; and he rode off, all by himself, to offer +his sword and carry letters from his father to King George’s Government. +Miss Alison was shut in her room, and did little but weep, till both were gone; +only she stitched the cockade upon the Master’s hat, and (as John Paul +told me) it was wetted with tears when he carried it down to him. +</p> + +<p> +In all that followed, Mr. Henry and my old lord were true to their bargain. +That ever they accomplished anything is more than I could learn; and that they +were anyway strong on the king’s side, more than believe. But they kept +the letter of loyalty, corresponded with my Lord President, sat still at home, +and had little or no commerce with the Master while that business lasted. Nor +was he, on his side, more communicative. Miss Alison, indeed, was always +sending him expresses, but I do not know if she had many answers. Macconochie +rode for her once, and found the highlanders before Carlisle, and the Master +riding by the Prince’s side in high favour; he took the letter (so +Macconochie tells), opened it, glanced it through with a mouth like a man +whistling, and stuck it in his belt, whence, on his horse passageing, it fell +unregarded to the ground. It was Macconochie who picked it up; and he still +kept it, and indeed I have seen it in his hands. News came to Durrisdeer of +course, by the common report, as it goes travelling through a country, a thing +always wonderful to me. By that means the family learned more of the +Master’s favour with the Prince, and the ground it was said to stand on: +for by a strange condescension in a man so proud—only that he was a man +still more ambitious—he was said to have crept into notability by +truckling to the Irish. Sir Thomas Sullivan, Colonel Burke and the rest, were +his daily comrades, by which course he withdrew himself from his own +country-folk. All the small intrigues he had a hand in fomenting; thwarted my +Lord George upon a thousand points; was always for the advice that seemed +palatable to the Prince, no matter if it was good or bad; and seems upon the +whole (like the gambler he was all through life) to have had less regard to the +chances of the campaign than to the greatness of favour he might aspire to, if, +by any luck, it should succeed. For the rest, he did very well in the field; no +one questioned that; for he was no coward. +</p> + +<p> +The next was the news of Culloden, which was brought to Durrisdeer by one of +the tenants’ sons—the only survivor, he declared, of all those that +had gone singing up the hill. By an unfortunate chance John Paul and +Macconochie had that very morning found the guinea piece—which was the +root of all the evil—sticking in a holly bush; they had been “up +the gait,” as the servants say at Durrisdeer, to the change-house; and if +they had little left of the guinea, they had less of their wits. What must John +Paul do but burst into the hall where the family sat at dinner, and cry the +news to them that “Tam Macmorland was but new lichtit at the door, +and—wirra, wirra—there were nane to come behind him”? +</p> + +<p> +They took the word in silence like folk condemned; only Mr. Henry carrying his +palm to his face, and Miss Alison laying her head outright upon her hands. As +for my lord, he was like ashes. +</p> + +<p> +“I have still one son,” says he. “And, Henry, I will do you +this justice—it is the kinder that is left.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a strange thing to say in such a moment; but my lord had never forgotten +Mr. Henry’s speech, and he had years of injustice on his conscience. +Still it was a strange thing, and more than Miss Alison could let pass. She +broke out and blamed my lord for his unnatural words, and Mr. Henry because he +was sitting there in safety when his brother lay dead, and herself because she +had given her sweetheart ill words at his departure, calling him the flower of +the flock, wringing her hands, protesting her love, and crying on him by his +name—so that the servants stood astonished. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry got to his feet, and stood holding his chair. It was he that was like +ashes now. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he burst out suddenly, “I know you loved him.” +</p> + +<p> +“The world knows that, glory be to God!” cries she; and then to Mr. +Henry: “There is none but me to know one thing—that you were a +traitor to him in your heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“God knows,” groans he, “it was lost love on both +sides.” +</p> + +<p> +Time went by in the house after that without much change; only they were now +three instead of four, which was a perpetual reminder of their loss. Miss +Alison’s money, you are to bear in mind, was highly needful for the +estates; and the one brother being dead, my old lord soon set his heart upon +her marrying the other. Day in, day out, he would work upon her, sitting by the +chimney-side with his finger in his Latin book, and his eyes set upon her face +with a kind of pleasant intentness that became the old gentleman very well. If +she wept, he would condole with her like an ancient man that has seen worse +times and begins to think lightly even of sorrow; if she raged, he would fall +to reading again in his Latin book, but always with some civil excuse; if she +offered, as she often did, to let them have her money in a gift, he would show +her how little it consisted with his honour, and remind her, even if he should +consent, that Mr. Henry would certainly refuse. <i>Non vi sed sæpe cadendo</i> +was a favourite word of his; and no doubt this quiet persecution wore away much +of her resolve; no doubt, besides, he had a great influence on the girl, having +stood in the place of both her parents; and, for that matter, she was herself +filled with the spirit of the Duries, and would have gone a great way for the +glory of Durrisdeer; but not so far, I think, as to marry my poor patron, had +it not been—strangely enough—for the circumstance of his extreme +unpopularity. +</p> + +<p> +This was the work of Tam Macmorland. There was not much harm in Tam; but he had +that grievous weakness, a long tongue; and as the only man in that country who +had been out—or, rather, who had come in again—he was sure of +listeners. Those that have the underhand in any fighting, I have observed, are +ever anxious to persuade themselves they were betrayed. By Tam’s account +of it, the rebels had been betrayed at every turn and by every officer they +had; they had been betrayed at Derby, and betrayed at Falkirk; the night march +was a step of treachery of my Lord George’s; and Culloden was lost by the +treachery of the Macdonalds. This habit of imputing treason grew upon the fool, +till at last he must have in Mr. Henry also. Mr. Henry (by his account) had +betrayed the lads of Durrisdeer; he had promised to follow with more men, and +instead of that he had ridden to King George. “Ay, and the next +day!” Tam would cry. “The puir bonnie Master, and the puir, kind +lads that rade wi’ him, were hardly ower the scaur, or he was +aff—the Judis! Ay, weel—he has his way o’t: he’s to be +my lord, nae less, and there’s mony a cold corp amang the Hieland +heather!” And at this, if Tam had been drinking, he would begin to weep. +</p> + +<p> +Let anyone speak long enough, he will get believers. This view of Mr. +Henry’s behaviour crept about the country by little and little; it was +talked upon by folk that knew the contrary, but were short of topics; and it +was heard and believed and given out for gospel by the ignorant and the +ill-willing. Mr. Henry began to be shunned; yet awhile, and the commons began +to murmur as he went by, and the women (who are always the most bold because +they are the most safe) to cry out their reproaches to his face. The Master was +cried up for a saint. It was remembered how he had never any hand in pressing +the tenants; as, indeed, no more he had, except to spend the money. He was a +little wild perhaps, the folk said; but how much better was a natural, wild lad +that would soon have settled down, than a skinflint and a sneckdraw, sitting, +with his nose in an account book, to persecute poor tenants! One trollop, who +had had a child to the Master, and by all accounts been very badly used, yet +made herself a kind of champion of his memory. She flung a stone one day at Mr. +Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“Whaur’s the bonnie lad that trustit ye?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry reined in his horse and looked upon her, the blood flowing from his +lip. “Ay, Jess?” says he. “You too? And yet ye should ken me +better.” For it was he who had helped her with money. +</p> + +<p> +The woman had another stone ready, which she made as if she would cast; and he, +to ward himself, threw up the hand that held his riding-rod. +</p> + +<p> +“What, would ye beat a lassie, ye ugly—?” cries she, and ran +away screaming as though he had struck her. +</p> + +<p> +Next day word went about the country like wildfire that Mr. Henry had beaten +Jessie Broun within an inch of her life. I give it as one instance of how this +snowball grew, and one calumny brought another; until my poor patron was so +perished in reputation that he began to keep the house like my lord. All this +while, you may be very sure, he uttered no complaints at home; the very ground +of the scandal was too sore a matter to be handled; and Mr. Henry was very +proud and strangely obstinate in silence. My old lord must have heard of it, by +John Paul, if by no one else; and he must at least have remarked the altered +habits of his son. Yet even he, it is probable, knew not how high the feeling +ran; and as for Miss Alison, she was ever the last person to hear news, and the +least interested when she heard them. +</p> + +<p> +In the height of the ill-feeling (for it died away as it came, no man could say +why) there was an election forward in the town of St. Bride’s, which is +the next to Durrisdeer, standing on the Water of Swift; some grievance was +fermenting, I forget what, if ever I heard; and it was currently said there +would be broken heads ere night, and that the sheriff had sent as far as +Dumfries for soldiers. My lord moved that Mr. Henry should be present, assuring +him it was necessary to appear, for the credit of the house. “It will +soon be reported,” said he, “that we do not take the lead in our +own country.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a strange lead that I can take,” said Mr. Henry; and when +they had pushed him further, “I tell you the plain truth,” he said, +“I dare not show my face.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are the first of the house that ever said so,” cries Miss +Alison. +</p> + +<p> +“We will go all three,” said my lord; and sure enough he got into +his boots (the first time in four years—a sore business John Paul had to +get them on), and Miss Alison into her riding-coat, and all three rode together +to St. Bride’s. +</p> + +<p> +The streets were full of the riff-raff of all the countryside, who had no +sooner clapped eyes on Mr. Henry than the hissing began, and the hooting, and +the cries of “Judas!” and “Where was the Master?” and +“Where were the poor lads that rode with him?” Even a stone was +cast; but the more part cried shame at that, for my old lord’s sake, and +Miss Alison’s. It took not ten minutes to persuade my lord that Mr. Henry +had been right. He said never a word, but turned his horse about, and home +again, with his chin upon his bosom. Never a word said Miss Alison; no doubt +she thought the more; no doubt her pride was stung, for she was a bone-bred +Durie; and no doubt her heart was touched to see her cousin so unjustly used. +That night she was never in bed; I have often blamed my lady—when I call +to mind that night, I readily forgive her all; and the first thing in the +morning she came to the old lord in his usual seat. +</p> + +<p> +“If Henry still wants me,” said she, “he can have me +now.” To himself she had a different speech: “I bring you no love, +Henry; but God knows, all the pity in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +June the 1st, 1748, was the day of their marriage. It was December of the same +year that first saw me alighting at the doors of the great house; and from +there I take up the history of events as they befell under my own observation, +like a witness in a court. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /> +SUMMARY OF EVENTS (<i>continued</i>)</h2> + +<p> +I made the last of my journey in the cold end of December, in a mighty dry day +of frost, and who should be my guide but Patey Macmorland, brother of Tam! For +a tow-headed, bare-legged brat of ten, he had more ill tales upon his tongue +than ever I heard the match of; having drunken betimes in his brother’s +cup. I was still not so old myself; pride had not yet the upper hand of +curiosity; and indeed it would have taken any man, that cold morning, to hear +all the old clashes of the country, and be shown all the places by the way +where strange things had fallen out. I had tales of Claverhouse as we came +through the bogs, and tales of the devil, as we came over the top of the scaur. +As we came in by the abbey I heard somewhat of the old monks, and more of the +freetraders, who use its ruins for a magazine, landing for that cause within a +cannon-shot of Durrisdeer; and along all the road the Duries and poor Mr. Henry +were in the first rank of slander. My mind was thus highly prejudiced against +the family I was about to serve, so that I was half surprised when I beheld +Durrisdeer itself, lying in a pretty, sheltered bay, under the Abbey Hill; the +house most commodiously built in the French fashion, or perhaps Italianate, for +I have no skill in these arts; and the place the most beautified with gardens, +lawns, shrubberies, and trees I had ever seen. The money sunk here +unproductively would have quite restored the family; but as it was, it cost a +revenue to keep it up. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry came himself to the door to welcome me: a tall dark young gentleman +(the Duries are all black men) of a plain and not cheerful face, very strong in +body, but not so strong in health: taking me by the hand without any pride, and +putting me at home with plain kind speeches. He led me into the hall, booted as +I was, to present me to my lord. It was still daylight; and the first thing I +observed was a lozenge of clear glass in the midst of the shield in the painted +window, which I remember thinking a blemish on a room otherwise so handsome, +with its family portraits, and the pargeted ceiling with pendants, and the +carved chimney, in one corner of which my old lord sat reading in his Livy. He +was like Mr. Henry, with much the same plain countenance, only more subtle and +pleasant, and his talk a thousand times more entertaining. He had many +questions to ask me, I remember, of Edinburgh College, where I had just +received my mastership of arts, and of the various professors, with whom and +their proficiency he seemed well acquainted; and thus, talking of things that I +knew, I soon got liberty of speech in my new home. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of this came Mrs. Henry into the room; she was very far gone, Miss +Katharine being due in about six weeks, which made me think less of her beauty +at the first sight; and she used me with more of condescension than the rest; +so that, upon all accounts, I kept her in the third place of my esteem. +</p> + +<p> +It did not take long before all Patey Macmorland’s tales were blotted out +of my belief, and I was become, what I have ever since remained, a loving +servant of the house of Durrisdeer. Mr. Henry had the chief part of my +affection. It was with him I worked; and I found him an exacting master, +keeping all his kindness for those hours in which we were unemployed, and in +the steward’s office not only loading me with work, but viewing me with a +shrewd supervision. At length one day he looked up from his paper with a kind +of timidness, and says he, “Mr. Mackellar, I think I ought to tell you +that you do very well.” That was my first word of commendation; and from +that day his jealousy of my performance was relaxed; soon it was “Mr. +Mackellar” here, and “Mr. Mackellar” there, with the whole +family; and for much of my service at Durrisdeer, I have transacted everything +at my own time, and to my own fancy, and never a farthing challenged. Even +while he was driving me, I had begun to find my heart go out to Mr. Henry; no +doubt, partly in pity, he was a man so palpably unhappy. He would fall into a +deep muse over our accounts, staring at the page or out of the window; and at +those times the look of his face, and the sigh that would break from him, awoke +in me strong feelings of curiosity and commiseration. One day, I remember, we +were late upon some business in the steward’s room. +</p> + +<p> +This room is in the top of the house, and has a view upon the bay, and over a +little wooded cape, on the long sands; and there, right over against the sun, +which was then dipping, we saw the freetraders, with a great force of men and +horses, scouring on the beach. Mr. Henry had been staring straight west, so +that I marvelled he was not blinded by the sun; suddenly he frowns, rubs his +hand upon his brow, and turns to me with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You would not guess what I was thinking,” says he. “I was +thinking I would be a happier man if I could ride and run the danger of my +life, with these lawless companions.” +</p> + +<p> +I told him I had observed he did not enjoy good spirits; and that it was a +common fancy to envy others and think we should be the better of some change; +quoting Horace to the point, like a young man fresh from college. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, just so,” said he. “And with that we may get back to +our accounts.” +</p> + +<p> +It was not long before I began to get wind of the causes that so much depressed +him. Indeed a blind man must have soon discovered there was a shadow on that +house, the shadow of the Master of Ballantrae. Dead or alive (and he was then +supposed to be dead) that man was his brother’s rival: his rival abroad, +where there was never a good word for Mr. Henry, and nothing but regret and +praise for the Master; and his rival at home, not only with his father and his +wife, but with the very servants. +</p> + +<p> +They were two old serving-men that were the leaders. John Paul, a little, bald, +solemn, stomachy man, a great professor of piety and (take him for all in all) +a pretty faithful servant, was the chief of the Master’s faction. None +durst go so far as John. He took a pleasure in disregarding Mr. Henry publicly, +often with a slighting comparison. My lord and Mrs. Henry took him up, to be +sure, but never so resolutely as they should; and he had only to pull his +weeping face and begin his lamentations for the Master—“his +laddie,” as he called him—to have the whole condoned. As for Henry, +he let these things pass in silence, sometimes with a sad and sometimes with a +black look. There was no rivalling the dead, he knew that; and how to censure +an old serving-man for a fault of loyalty, was more than he could see. His was +not the tongue to do it. +</p> + +<p> +Macconochie was chief upon the other side; an old, ill-spoken, swearing, +ranting, drunken dog; and I have often thought it an odd circumstance in human +nature that these two serving-men should each have been the champion of his +contrary, and blackened their own faults and made light of their own virtues +when they beheld them in a master. Macconochie had soon smelled out my secret +inclination, took me much into his confidence, and would rant against the +Master by the hour, so that even my work suffered. “They’re +a’ daft here,” he would cry, “and be damned to them! The +Master—the deil’s in their thrapples that should call him sae! +it’s Mr. Henry should be master now! They were nane sae fond o’ the +Master when they had him, I’ll can tell ye that. Sorrow on his name! +Never a guid word did I hear on his lips, nor naebody else, but just fleering +and flyting and profane cursing—deil hae him! There’s nane kent his +wickedness: him a gentleman! Did ever ye hear tell, Mr. Mackellar, o’ +Wully White the wabster? No? Aweel, Wully was an unco praying kind o’ +man; a dreigh body, nane o’ my kind, I never could abide the sight +o’ him; onyway he was a great hand by his way of it, and he up and +rebukit the Master for some of his on-goings. It was a grand thing for the +Master o’ Ball’ntrae to tak up a feud wi’ a’ wabster, +wasnae’t?” Macconochie would sneer; indeed, he never took the full +name upon his lips but with a sort of a whine of hatred. “But he did! A +fine employ it was: chapping at the man’s door, and crying +‘boo’ in his lum, and puttin’ poother in his fire, and +pee-oys <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1" class="citation">[1]</a> +in his window; till the man thocht it was auld Hornie was come seekin’ +him. Weel, to mak a lang story short, Wully gaed gyte. At the hinder end, they +couldnae get him frae his knees, but he just roared and prayed and grat +straucht on, till he got his release. It was fair murder, a’body said +that. Ask John Paul—he was brawly ashamed o’ that game, him +that’s sic a Christian man! Grand doin’s for the Master o’ +Ball’ntrae!” I asked him what the Master had thought of it himself. +“How would I ken?” says he. “He never said naething.” +And on again in his usual manner of banning and swearing, with every now and +again a “Master of Ballantrae” sneered through his nose. It was in +one of these confidences that he showed me the Carlisle letter, the print of +the horse-shoe still stamped in the paper. Indeed, that was our last +confidence; for he then expressed himself so ill-naturedly of Mrs. Henry that I +had to reprimand him sharply, and must thenceforth hold him at a distance. +</p> + +<p> +My old lord was uniformly kind to Mr. Henry; he had even pretty ways of +gratitude, and would sometimes clap him on the shoulder and say, as if to the +world at large: “This is a very good son to me.” And grateful he +was, no doubt, being a man of sense and justice. But I think that was all, and +I am sure Mr. Henry thought so. The love was all for the dead son. Not that +this was often given breath to; indeed, with me but once. My lord had asked me +one day how I got on with Mr. Henry, and I had told him the truth. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said he, looking sideways on the burning fire, “Henry +is a good lad, a very good lad,” said he. “You have heard, Mr. +Mackellar, that I had another son? I am afraid he was not so virtuous a lad as +Mr. Henry; but dear me, he’s dead, Mr. Mackellar! and while he lived we +were all very proud of him, all very proud. If he was not all he should have +been in some ways, well, perhaps we loved him better!” This last he said +looking musingly in the fire; and then to me, with a great deal of briskness, +“But I am rejoiced you do so well with Mr. Henry. You will find him a +good master.” And with that he opened his book, which was the customary +signal of dismission. But it would be little that he read, and less that he +understood; Culloden field and the Master, these would be the burthen of his +thought; and the burthen of mine was an unnatural jealousy of the dead man for +Mr. Henry’s sake, that had even then begun to grow on me. +</p> + +<p> +I am keeping Mrs. Henry for the last, so that this expression of my sentiment +may seem unwarrantably strong: the reader shall judge for himself when I have +done. But I must first tell of another matter, which was the means of bringing +me more intimate. I had not yet been six months at Durrisdeer when it chanced +that John Paul fell sick and must keep his bed; drink was the root of his +malady, in my poor thought; but he was tended, and indeed carried himself, like +an afflicted saint; and the very minister, who came to visit him, professed +himself edified when he went away. The third morning of his sickness, Mr. Henry +comes to me with something of a hang-dog look. +</p> + +<p> +“Mackellar,” says he, “I wish I could trouble you upon a +little service. There is a pension we pay; it is John’s part to carry it, +and now that he is sick I know not to whom I should look unless it was +yourself. The matter is very delicate; I could not carry it with my own hand +for a sufficient reason; I dare not send Macconochie, who is a talker, and I +am—I have—I am desirous this should not come to Mrs. Henry’s +ears,” says he, and flushed to his neck as he said it. +</p> + +<p> +To say truth, when I found I was to carry money to one Jessie Broun, who was no +better than she should be, I supposed it was some trip of his own that Mr. +Henry was dissembling. I was the more impressed when the truth came out. +</p> + +<p> +It was up a wynd off a side street in St. Bride’s that Jessie had her +lodging. The place was very ill inhabited, mostly by the freetrading sort. +There was a man with a broken head at the entry; half-way up, in a tavern, +fellows were roaring and singing, though it was not yet nine in the day. +Altogether, I had never seen a worse neighbourhood, even in the great city of +Edinburgh, and I was in two minds to go back. Jessie’s room was of a +piece with her surroundings, and herself no better. She would not give me the +receipt (which Mr. Henry had told me to demand, for he was very methodical) +until she had sent out for spirits, and I had pledged her in a glass; and all +the time she carried on in a light-headed, reckless way—now aping the +manners of a lady, now breaking into unseemly mirth, now making coquettish +advances that oppressed me to the ground. Of the money she spoke more +tragically. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s blood money!” said she; “I take it for that: +blood money for the betrayed! See what I’m brought down to! Ah, if the +bonnie lad were back again, it would be changed days. But he’s +deid—he’s lyin’ deid amang the Hieland hills—the bonnie +lad, the bonnie lad!” +</p> + +<p> +She had a rapt manner of crying on the bonnie lad, clasping her hands and +casting up her eyes, that I think she must have learned of strolling players; +and I thought her sorrow very much of an affectation, and that she dwelled upon +the business because her shame was now all she had to be proud of. I will not +say I did not pity her, but it was a loathing pity at the best; and her last +change of manner wiped it out. This was when she had had enough of me for an +audience, and had set her name at last to the receipt. “There!” +says she, and taking the most unwomanly oaths upon her tongue, bade me begone +and carry it to the Judas who had sent me. It was the first time I had heard +the name applied to Mr. Henry; I was staggered besides at her sudden vehemence +of word and manner, and got forth from the room, under this shower of curses, +like a beaten dog. But even then I was not quit, for the vixen threw up her +window, and, leaning forth, continued to revile me as I went up the wynd; the +freetraders, coming to the tavern door, joined in the mockery, and one had even +the inhumanity to set upon me a very savage small dog, which bit me in the +ankle. This was a strong lesson, had I required one, to avoid ill company; and +I rode home in much pain from the bite and considerable indignation of mind. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry was in the steward’s room, affecting employment, but I could +see he was only impatient to hear of my errand. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” says he, as soon as I came in; and when I had told him +something of what passed, and that Jessie seemed an undeserving woman and far +from grateful: “She is no friend to me,” said he; “but, +indeed, Mackellar, I have few friends to boast of, and Jessie has some cause to +be unjust. I need not dissemble what all the country knows: she was not very +well used by one of our family.” This was the first time I had heard him +refer to the Master even distantly; and I think he found his tongue rebellious +even for that much, but presently he resumed—“This is why I would +have nothing said. It would give pain to Mrs. Henry . . . and to my +father,” he added, with another flush. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Henry,” said I, “if you will take a freedom at my hands, +I would tell you to let that woman be. What service is your money to the like +of her? She has no sobriety and no economy—as for gratitude, you will as +soon get milk from a whinstone; and if you will pretermit your bounty, it will +make no change at all but just to save the ankles of your messengers.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry smiled. “But I am grieved about your ankle,” said he, the +next moment, with a proper gravity. +</p> + +<p> +“And observe,” I continued, “I give you this advice upon +consideration; and yet my heart was touched for the woman in the +beginning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, there it is, you see!” said Mr. Henry. “And you are to +remember that I knew her once a very decent lass. Besides which, although I +speak little of my family, I think much of its repute.” +</p> + +<p> +And with that he broke up the talk, which was the first we had together in such +confidence. But the same afternoon I had the proof that his father was +perfectly acquainted with the business, and that it was only from his wife that +Mr. Henry kept it secret. +</p> + +<p> +“I fear you had a painful errand to-day,” says my lord to me, +“for which, as it enters in no way among your duties, I wish to thank +you, and to remind you at the same time (in case Mr. Henry should have +neglected) how very desirable it is that no word of it should reach my +daughter. Reflections on the dead, Mr. Mackellar, are doubly painful.” +</p> + +<p> +Anger glowed in my heart; and I could have told my lord to his face how little +he had to do, bolstering up the image of the dead in Mrs. Henry’s heart, +and how much better he were employed to shatter that false idol; for by this +time I saw very well how the land lay between my patron and his wife. +</p> + +<p> +My pen is clear enough to tell a plain tale; but to render the effect of an +infinity of small things, not one great enough in itself to be narrated; and to +translate the story of looks, and the message of voices when they are saying no +great matter; and to put in half a page the essence of near eighteen +months—this is what I despair to accomplish. The fault, to be very blunt, +lay all in Mrs. Henry. She felt it a merit to have consented to the marriage, +and she took it like a martyrdom; in which my old lord, whether he knew it or +not, fomented her. She made a merit, besides, of her constancy to the dead, +though its name, to a nicer conscience, should have seemed rather disloyalty to +the living; and here also my lord gave her his countenance. I suppose he was +glad to talk of his loss, and ashamed to dwell on it with Mr. Henry. Certainly, +at least, he made a little coterie apart in that family of three, and it was +the husband who was shut out. It seems it was an old custom when the family +were alone in Durrisdeer, that my lord should take his wine to the +chimney-side, and Miss Alison, instead of withdrawing, should bring a stool to +his knee, and chatter to him privately; and after she had become my +patron’s wife the same manner of doing was continued. It should have been +pleasant to behold this ancient gentleman so loving with his daughter, but I +was too much a partisan of Mr. Henry’s to be anything but wroth at his +exclusion. Many’s the time I have seen him make an obvious resolve, quit +the table, and go and join himself to his wife and my Lord Durrisdeer; and on +their part, they were never backward to make him welcome, turned to him +smilingly as to an intruding child, and took him into their talk with an effort +so ill-concealed that he was soon back again beside me at the table, whence (so +great is the hall of Durrisdeer) we could but hear the murmur of voices at the +chimney. There he would sit and watch, and I along with him; and sometimes by +my lord’s head sorrowfully shaken, or his hand laid on Mrs. Henry’s +head, or hers upon his knee as if in consolation, or sometimes by an exchange +of tearful looks, we would draw our conclusion that the talk had gone to the +old subject and the shadow of the dead was in the hall. +</p> + +<p> +I have hours when I blame Mr. Henry for taking all too patiently; yet we are to +remember he was married in pity, and accepted his wife upon that term. And, +indeed, he had small encouragement to make a stand. Once, I remember, he +announced he had found a man to replace the pane of the stained window, which, +as it was he that managed all the business, was a thing clearly within his +attributions. But to the Master’s fancies, that pane was like a relic; +and on the first word of any change, the blood flew to Mrs. Henry’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder at you!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder at myself,” says Mr. Henry, with more of bitterness than +I had ever heard him to express. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon my old lord stepped in with his smooth talk, so that before the meal +was at an end all seemed forgotten; only that, after dinner, when the pair had +withdrawn as usual to the chimney-side, we could see her weeping with her head +upon his knee. Mr. Henry kept up the talk with me upon some topic of the +estates—he could speak of little else but business, and was never the +best of company; but he kept it up that day with more continuity, his eye +straying ever and again to the chimney, and his voice changing to another key, +but without check of delivery. The pane, however, was not replaced; and I +believe he counted it a great defeat. +</p> + +<p> +Whether he was stout enough or no, God knows he was kind enough. Mrs. Henry had +a manner of condescension with him, such as (in a wife) would have pricked my +vanity into an ulcer; he took it like a favour. She held him at the +staff’s end; forgot and then remembered and unbent to him, as we do to +children; burthened him with cold kindness; reproved him with a change of +colour and a bitten lip, like one shamed by his disgrace: ordered him with a +look of the eye, when she was off her guard; when she was on the watch, pleaded +with him for the most natural attentions, as though they were unheard-of +favours. And to all this he replied with the most unwearied service, loving, as +folk say, the very ground she trod on, and carrying that love in his eyes as +bright as a lamp. When Miss Katharine was to be born, nothing would serve but +he must stay in the room behind the head of the bed. There he sat, as white +(they tell me) as a sheet, and the sweat dropping from his brow; and the +handkerchief he had in his hand was crushed into a little ball no bigger than a +musket-bullet. Nor could he bear the sight of Miss Katharine for many a day; +indeed, I doubt if he was ever what he should have been to my young lady; for +the which want of natural feeling he was loudly blamed. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the state of this family down to the 7th April, 1749, when there +befell the first of that series of events which were to break so many hearts +and lose so many lives. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> On that day I was sitting in my room a little before supper, +when John Paul burst open the door with no civility of knocking, and told me +there was one below that wished to speak with the steward; sneering at the name +of my office. +</p> + +<p> +I asked what manner of man, and what his name was; and this disclosed the cause +of John’s ill-humour; for it appeared the visitor refused to name himself +except to me, a sore affront to the major-domo’s consequence. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, smiling a little, “I will see what he +wants.” +</p> + +<p> +I found in the entrance hall a big man, very plainly habited, and wrapped in a +sea-cloak, like one new landed, as indeed he was. Not, far off Macconochie was +standing, with his tongue out of his mouth and his hand upon his chin, like a +dull fellow thinking hard; and the stranger, who had brought his cloak about +his face, appeared uneasy. He had no sooner seen me coming than he went to meet +me with an effusive manner. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear man,” said he, “a thousand apologies for disturbing +you, but I’m in the most awkward position. And there’s a son of a +ramrod there that I should know the looks of, and more betoken I believe that +he knows mine. Being in this family, sir, and in a place of some responsibility +(which was the cause I took the liberty to send for you), you are doubtless of +the honest party?” +</p> + +<p> +“You may be sure at least,” says I, “that all of that party +are quite safe in Durrisdeer.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear man, it is my very thought,” says he. “You see, I +have just been set on shore here by a very honest man, whose name I cannot +remember, and who is to stand off and on for me till morning, at some danger to +himself; and, to be clear with you, I am a little concerned lest it should be +at some to me. I have saved my life so often, Mr. —, I forget your name, +which is a very good one—that, faith, I would be very loath to lose it +after all. And the son of a ramrod, whom I believe I saw before Carlisle . . . +” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir,” said I, “you can trust Macconochie until +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and it’s a delight to hear you say so,” says the +stranger. “The truth is that my name is not a very suitable one in this +country of Scotland. With a gentleman like you, my dear man, I would have no +concealments of course; and by your leave I’ll just breathe it in your +ear. They call me Francis Burke—Colonel Francis Burke; and I am here, at +a most damnable risk to myself, to see your masters—if you’ll +excuse me, my good man, for giving them the name, for I’m sure it’s +a circumstance I would never have guessed from your appearance. And if you +would just be so very obliging as to take my name to them, you might say that I +come bearing letters which I am sure they will be very rejoiced to have the +reading of.” +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Francis Burke was one of the Prince’s Irishmen, that did his +cause such an infinity of hurt, and were so much distasted of the Scots at the +time of the rebellion; and it came at once into my mind, how the Master of +Ballantrae had astonished all men by going with that party. In the same moment +a strong foreboding of the truth possessed my soul. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will step in here,” said I, opening a chamber door, +“I will let my lord know.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am sure it’s very good of you, Mr. What-is-your-name,” +says the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +Up to the hall I went, slow-footed. There they were, all three—my old +lord in his place, Mrs. Henry at work by the window, Mr. Henry (as was much his +custom) pacing the low end. In the midst was the table laid for supper. I told +them briefly what I had to say. My old lord lay back in his seat. Mrs. Henry +sprang up standing with a mechanical motion, and she and her husband stared at +each other’s eyes across the room; it was the strangest, challenging look +these two exchanged, and as they looked, the colour faded in their faces. Then +Mr. Henry turned to me; not to speak, only to sign with his finger; but that +was enough, and I went down again for the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +When we returned, these three were in much the same position I same left them +in; I believe no word had passed. +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord Durrisdeer, no doubt?” says the Colonel, bowing, and my +lord bowed in answer. “And this,” continues the Colonel, +“should be the Master of Ballantrae?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have never taken that name,” said Mr. Henry; “but I am +Henry Durie, at your service.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the Colonel turns to Mrs. Henry, bowing with his hat upon his heart and +the most killing airs of gallantry. “There can be no mistake about so +fine a figure of a lady,” says he. “I address the seductive Miss +Alison, of whom I have so often heard?” +</p> + +<p> +Once more husband and wife exchanged a look. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Mrs. Henry Durie,” said she; “but before my marriage my +name was Alison Graeme.” +</p> + +<p> +Then my lord spoke up. “I am an old man, Colonel Burke,” said he, +“and a frail one. It will be mercy on your part to be expeditious. Do you +bring me news of—” he hesitated, and then the words broke from him +with a singular change of voice—“my son?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear lord, I will be round with you like a soldier,” said the +Colonel. “I do.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord held out a wavering hand; he seemed to wave a signal, but whether it +was to give him time or to speak on, was more than we could guess. At length he +got out the one word, “Good?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the very best in the creation!” cries the Colonel. “For +my good friend and admired comrade is at this hour in the fine city of Paris, +and as like as not, if I know anything of his habits, he will be drawing in his +chair to a piece of dinner.—Bedad, I believe the lady’s +fainting.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henry was indeed the colour of death, and drooped against the +window-frame. But when Mr. Henry made a movement as if to run to her, she +straightened with a sort of shiver. “I am well,” she said, with her +white lips. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry stopped, and his face had a strong twitch of anger. The next moment +he had turned to the Colonel. “You must not blame yourself,” says +he, “for this effect on Mrs. Durie. It is only natural; we were all +brought up like brother and sister.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henry looked at her husband with something like relief or even gratitude. +In my way of thinking, that speech was the first step he made in her good +graces. +</p> + +<p> +“You must try to forgive me, Mrs. Durie, for indeed and I am just an +Irish savage,” said the Colonel; “and I deserve to be shot for not +breaking the matter more artistically to a lady. But here are the +Master’s own letters; one for each of the three of you; and to be sure +(if I know anything of my friend’s genius) he will tell his own story +with a better grace.” +</p> + +<p> +He brought the three letters forth as he spoke, arranged them by their +superscriptions, presented the first to my lord, who took it greedily, and +advanced towards Mrs. Henry holding out the second. +</p> + +<p> +But the lady waved it back. “To my husband,” says she, with a +choked voice. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel was a quick man, but at this he was somewhat nonplussed. “To +be sure!” says he; “how very dull of me! To be sure!” But he +still held the letter. +</p> + +<p> +At last Mr. Henry reached forth his hand, and there was nothing to be done but +give it up. Mr. Henry took the letters (both hers and his own), and looked upon +their outside, with his brows knit hard, as if he were thinking. He had +surprised me all through by his excellent behaviour; but he was to excel +himself now. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me give you a hand to your room,” said he to his wife. +“This has come something of the suddenest; and, at any rate, you will +wish to read your letter by yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Again she looked upon him with the same thought of wonder; but he gave her no +time, coming straight to where she stood. “It will be better so, believe +me,” said he; “and Colonel Burke is too considerate not to excuse +you.” And with that he took her hand by the fingers, and led her from the +hall. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henry returned no more that night; and when Mr. Henry went to visit her +next morning, as I heard long afterwards, she gave him the letter again, still +unopened. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, read it and be done!” he had cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Spare me that,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +And by these two speeches, to my way of thinking, each undid a great part of +what they had previously done well. But the letter, sure enough, came into my +hands, and by me was burned, unopened. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> To be very exact as to the adventures of the Master after +Culloden, I wrote not long ago to Colonel Burke, now a Chevalier of the Order +of St. Louis, begging him for some notes in writing, since I could scarce +depend upon my memory at so great an interval. To confess the truth, I have +been somewhat embarrassed by his response; for he sent me the complete memoirs +of his life, touching only in places on the Master; running to a much greater +length than my whole story, and not everywhere (as it seems to me) designed for +edification. He begged in his letter, dated from Ettenheim, that I would find a +publisher for the whole, after I had made what use of it I required; and I +think I shall best answer my own purpose and fulfil his wishes by printing +certain parts of it in full. In this way my readers will have a detailed, and, +I believe, a very genuine account of some essential matters; and if any +publisher should take a fancy to the Chevalier’s manner of narration, he +knows where to apply for the rest, of which there is plenty at his service. I +put in my first extract here, so that it may stand in the place of what the +Chevalier told us over our wine in the hall of Durrisdeer; but you are to +suppose it was not the brutal fact, but a very varnished version that he +offered to my lord. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /> +THE MASTER’S WANDERINGS.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>From the Memoirs of the Chevalier de Burke</i>. +</p> + +<p> +. . . I left Ruthven (it’s hardly necessary to remark) with much greater +satisfaction than I had come to it; but whether I missed my way in the deserts, +or whether my companions failed me, I soon found myself alone. This was a +predicament very disagreeable; for I never understood this horrid country or +savage people, and the last stroke of the Prince’s withdrawal had made us +of the Irish more unpopular than ever. I was reflecting on my poor chances, +when I saw another horseman on the hill, whom I supposed at first to have been +a phantom, the news of his death in the very front at Culloden being current in +the army generally. This was the Master of Ballantrae, my Lord +Durrisdeer’s son, a young nobleman of the rarest gallantry and parts, and +equally designed by nature to adorn a Court and to reap laurels in the field. +Our meeting was the more welcome to both, as he was one of the few Scots who +had used the Irish with consideration, and as he might now be of very high +utility in aiding my escape. Yet what founded our particular friendship was a +circumstance, by itself as romantic as any fable of King Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +This was on the second day of our flight, after we had slept one night in the +rain upon the inclination of a mountain. There was an Appin man, Alan Black +Stewart (or some such name, <a name="citation2"></a><a href="#footnote2" +class="citation">[2]</a> but I have seen him since in France) who chanced to be +passing the same way, and had a jealousy of my companion. Very uncivil +expressions were exchanged; and Stewart calls upon the Master to alight and +have it out. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Stewart,” says the Master, “I think at the present +time I would prefer to run a race with you.” And with the word claps +spurs to his horse. +</p> + +<p> +Stewart ran after us, a childish thing to do, for more than a mile; and I could +not help laughing, as I looked back at last and saw him on a hill, holding his +hand to his side, and nearly burst with running. +</p> + +<p> +“But, all the same,” I could not help saying to my companion, +“I would let no man run after me for any such proper purpose, and not +give him his desire. It was a good jest, but it smells a trifle +cowardly.” +</p> + +<p> +He bent his brows at me. “I do pretty well,” says he, “when I +saddle myself with the most unpopular man in Scotland, and let that suffice for +courage.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, bedad,” says I, “I could show you a more unpopular with +the naked eye. And if you like not my company, you can ‘saddle’ +yourself on some one else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Colonel Burke,” says he, “do not let us quarrel; and, to +that effect, let me assure you I am the least patient man in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am as little patient as yourself,” said I. “I care not who +knows that.” +</p> + +<p> +“At this rate,” says he, reining in, “we shall not go very +far. And I propose we do one of two things upon the instant: either quarrel and +be done; or make a sure bargain to bear everything at each other’s +hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Like a pair of brothers?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I said no such foolishness,” he replied. “I have a brother +of my own, and I think no more of him than of a colewort. But if we are to have +our noses rubbed together in this course of flight, let us each dare to be +ourselves like savages, and each swear that he will neither resent nor +deprecate the other. I am a pretty bad fellow at bottom, and I find the +pretence of virtues very irksome.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I am as bad as yourself,” said I. “There is no skim milk +in Francis Burke. But which is it to be? Fight or make friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” says he, “I think it will be the best manner to spin a +coin for it.” +</p> + +<p> +This proposition was too highly chivalrous not to take my fancy; and, strange +as it may seem of two well-born gentlemen of to-day, we span a half-crown (like +a pair of ancient paladins) whether we were to cut each other’s throats +or be sworn friends. A more romantic circumstance can rarely have occurred; and +it is one of those points in my memoirs, by which we may see the old tales of +Homer and the poets are equally true to-day—at least, of the noble and +genteel. The coin fell for peace, and we shook hands upon our bargain. And then +it was that my companion explained to me his thought in running away from Mr. +Stewart, which was certainly worthy of his political intellect. The report of +his death, he said, was a great guard to him; Mr. Stewart having recognised +him, had become a danger; and he had taken the briefest road to that +gentleman’s silence. “For,” says he, “Alan Black is too +vain a man to narrate any such story of himself.” +</p> + +<p> +Towards afternoon we came down to the shores of that loch for which we were +heading; and there was the ship, but newly come to anchor. She was the +<i>Sainte-Marie-des-Anges</i>, out of the port of Havre-de-Grace. The Master, +after we had signalled for a boat, asked me if I knew the captain. I told him +he was a countryman of mine, of the most unblemished integrity, but, I was +afraid, a rather timorous man. +</p> + +<p> +“No matter,” says he. “For all that, he should certainly hear +the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +I asked him if he meant about the battle? for if the captain once knew the +standard was down, he would certainly put to sea again at once. +</p> + +<p> +“And even then!” said he; “the arms are now of no sort of +utility.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear man,” said I, “who thinks of the arms? But, to be +sure, we must remember our friends. They will be close upon our heels, perhaps +the Prince himself, and if the ship be gone, a great number of valuable lives +may be imperilled.” +</p> + +<p> +“The captain and the crew have lives also, if you come to that,” +says Ballantrae. +</p> + +<p> +This I declared was but a quibble, and that I would not hear of the captain +being told; and then it was that Ballantrae made me a witty answer, for the +sake of which (and also because I have been blamed myself in this business of +the <i>Sainte-Marie-des-Anges</i>) I have related the whole conversation as it +passed. +</p> + +<p> +“Frank,” says he, “remember our bargain. I must not object to +your holding your tongue, which I hereby even encourage you to do; but, by the +same terms, you are not to resent my telling.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not help laughing at this; though I still forewarned him what would +come of it. +</p> + +<p> +“The devil may come of it for what I care,” says the reckless +fellow. “I have always done exactly as I felt inclined.” +</p> + +<p> +As is well known, my prediction came true. The captain had no sooner heard the +news than he cut his cable and to sea again; and before morning broke, we were +in the Great Minch. +</p> + +<p> +The ship was very old; and the skipper, although the most honest of men (and +Irish too), was one of the least capable. The wind blew very boisterous, and +the sea raged extremely. All that day we had little heart whether to eat or +drink; went early to rest in some concern of mind; and (as if to give us a +lesson) in the night the wind chopped suddenly into the north-east, and blew a +hurricane. We were awaked by the dreadful thunder of the tempest and the +stamping of the mariners on deck; so that I supposed our last hour was +certainly come; and the terror of my mind was increased out of all measure by +Ballantrae, who mocked at my devotions. It is in hours like these that a man of +any piety appears in his true light, and we find (what we are taught as babes) +the small trust that can be set in worldly friends. I would be unworthy of my +religion if I let this pass without particular remark. For three days we lay in +the dark in the cabin, and had but a biscuit to nibble. On the fourth the wind +fell, leaving the ship dismasted and heaving on vast billows. The captain had +not a guess of whither we were blown; he was stark ignorant of his trade, and +could do naught but bless the Holy Virgin; a very good thing, too, but scarce +the whole of seamanship. It seemed, our one hope was to be picked up by another +vessel; and if that should prove to be an English ship, it might be no great +blessing to the Master and myself. +</p> + +<p> +The fifth and sixth days we tossed there helpless. The seventh some sail was +got on her, but she was an unwieldy vessel at the best, and we made little but +leeway. All the time, indeed, we had been drifting to the south and west, and +during the tempest must have driven in that direction with unheard-of violence. +The ninth dawn was cold and black, with a great sea running, and every mark of +foul weather. In this situation we were overjoyed to sight a small ship on the +horizon, and to perceive her go about and head for the <i>Sainte-Marie</i>. But +our gratification did not very long endure; for when she had laid to and +lowered a boat, it was immediately filled with disorderly fellows, who sang and +shouted as they pulled across to us, and swarmed in on our deck with bare +cutlasses, cursing loudly. Their leader was a horrible villain, with his face +blacked and his whiskers curled in ringlets; Teach, his name; a most notorious +pirate. He stamped about the deck, raving and crying out that his name was +Satan, and his ship was called Hell. There was something about him like a +wicked child or a half-witted person, that daunted me beyond expression. I +whispered in the ear of Ballantrae that I would not be the last to volunteer, +and only prayed God they might be short of hands; he approved my purpose with a +nod. +</p> + +<p> +“Bedad,” said I to Master Teach, “if you are Satan, here is a +devil for ye.” +</p> + +<p> +The word pleased him; and (not to dwell upon these shocking incidents) +Ballantrae and I and two others were taken for recruits, while the skipper and +all the rest were cast into the sea by the method of walking the plank. It was +the first time I had seen this done; my heart died within me at the spectacle; +and Master Teach or one of his acolytes (for my head was too much lost to be +precise) remarked upon my pale face in a very alarming manner. I had the +strength to cut a step or two of a jig, and cry out some ribaldry, which saved +me for that time; but my legs were like water when I must get down into the +skiff among these miscreants; and what with my horror of my company and fear of +the monstrous billows, it was all I could do to keep an Irish tongue and break +a jest or two as we were pulled aboard. By the blessing of God, there was a +fiddle in the pirate ship, which I had no sooner seen than I fell upon; and in +my quality of crowder I had the heavenly good luck to get favour in their eyes. +<i>Crowding Pat</i> was the name they dubbed me with; and it was little I cared +for a name so long as my skin was whole. +</p> + +<p> +What kind of a pandemonium that vessel was, I cannot describe, but she was +commanded by a lunatic, and might be called a floating Bedlam. Drinking, +roaring, singing, quarrelling, dancing, they were never all sober at one time; +and there were days together when, if a squall had supervened, it must have +sent us to the bottom; or if a king’s ship had come along, it would have +found us quite helpless for defence. Once or twice we sighted a sail, and, if +we were sober enough, overhauled it, God forgive us! and if we were all too +drunk, she got away, and I would bless the saints under my breath. Teach ruled, +if you can call that rule which brought no order, by the terror he created; and +I observed the man was very vain of his position. I have known marshals of +France—ay, and even Highland chieftains—that were less openly +puffed up; which throws a singular light on the pursuit of honour and glory. +Indeed, the longer we live, the more we perceive the sagacity of Aristotle and +the other old philosophers; and though I have all my life been eager for +legitimate distinctions, I can lay my hand upon my heart, at the end of my +career, and declare there is not one—no, nor yet life itself—which +is worth acquiring or preserving at the slightest cost of dignity. +</p> + +<p> +It was long before I got private speech of Ballantrae; but at length one night +we crept out upon the boltsprit, when the rest were better employed, and +commiserated our position. +</p> + +<p> +“None can deliver us but the saints,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“My mind is very different,” said Ballantrae; “for I am going +to deliver myself. This Teach is the poorest creature possible; we make no +profit of him, and lie continually open to capture; and,” says he, +“I am not going to be a tarry pirate for nothing, nor yet to hang in +chains if I can help it.” And he told me what was in his mind to better +the state of the ship in the way of discipline, which would give us safety for +the present, and a sooner hope of deliverance when they should have gained +enough and should break up their company. +</p> + +<p> +I confessed to him ingenuously that my nerve was quite shook amid these +horrible surroundings, and I durst scarce tell him to count upon me. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not very easy frightened,” said he, “nor very easy +beat.” +</p> + +<p> +A few days after, there befell an accident which had nearly hanged us all; and +offers the most extraordinary picture of the folly that ruled in our concerns. +We were all pretty drunk: and some bedlamite spying a sail, Teach put the ship +about in chase without a glance, and we began to bustle up the arms and boast +of the horrors that should follow. I observed Ballantrae stood quiet in the +bows, looking under the shade of his hand; but for my part, true to my policy +among these savages, I was at work with the busiest and passing Irish jests for +their diversion. +</p> + +<p> +“Run up the colours,” cries Teach. “Show the —s the +Jolly Roger!” +</p> + +<p> +It was the merest drunken braggadocio at such a stage, and might have lost us a +valuable prize; but I thought it no part of mine to reason, and I ran up the +black flag with my own hand. +</p> + +<p> +Ballantrae steps presently aft with a smile upon his face. +</p> + +<p> +“You may perhaps like to know, you drunken dog,” says he, +“that you are chasing a king’s ship.” +</p> + +<p> +Teach roared him the lie; but he ran at the same time to the bulwarks, and so +did they all. I have never seen so many drunken men struck suddenly sober. The +cruiser had gone about, upon our impudent display of colours; she was just then +filling on the new tack; her ensign blew out quite plain to see; and even as we +stared, there came a puff of smoke, and then a report, and a shot plunged in +the waves a good way short of us. Some ran to the ropes, and got the +<i>Sarah</i> round with an incredible swiftness. One fellow fell on the rum +barrel, which stood broached upon the deck, and rolled it promptly overboard. +On my part, I made for the Jolly Roger, struck it, tossed it in the sea; and +could have flung myself after, so vexed was I with our mismanagement. As for +Teach, he grew as pale as death, and incontinently went down to his cabin. Only +twice he came on deck that afternoon; went to the taffrail; took a long look at +the king’s ship, which was still on the horizon heading after us; and +then, without speech, back to his cabin. You may say he deserted us; and if it +had not been for one very capable sailor we had on board, and for the lightness +of the airs that blew all day, we must certainly have gone to the yard-arm. +</p> + +<p> +It is to be supposed Teach was humiliated, and perhaps alarmed for his position +with the crew; and the way in which he set about regaining what he had lost, +was highly characteristic of the man. Early next day we smelled him burning +sulphur in his cabin and crying out of “Hell, hell!” which was well +understood among the crew, and filled their minds with apprehension. Presently +he comes on deck, a perfect figure of fun, his face blacked, his hair and +whiskers curled, his belt stuck full of pistols; chewing bits of glass so that +the blood ran down his chin, and brandishing a dirk. I do not know if he had +taken these manners from the Indians of America, where he was a native; but +such was his way, and he would always thus announce that he was wound up to +horrid deeds. The first that came near him was the fellow who had sent the rum +overboard the day before; him he stabbed to the heart, damning him for a +mutineer; and then capered about the body, raving and swearing and daring us to +come on. It was the silliest exhibition; and yet dangerous too, for the +cowardly fellow was plainly working himself up to another murder. +</p> + +<p> +All of a sudden Ballantrae stepped forth. “Have done with this +play-acting,” says he. “Do you think to frighten us with making +faces? We saw nothing of you yesterday, when you were wanted; and we did well +without you, let me tell you that.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a murmur and a movement in the crew, of pleasure and alarm, I +thought, in nearly equal parts. As for Teach, he gave a barbarous howl, and +swung his dirk to fling it, an art in which (like many seamen) he was very +expert. +</p> + +<p> +“Knock that out of his hand!” says Ballantrae, so sudden and sharp +that my arm obeyed him before my mind had understood. +</p> + +<p> +Teach stood like one stupid, never thinking on his pistols. +</p> + +<p> +“Go down to your cabin,” cries Ballantrae, “and come on deck +again when you are sober. Do you think we are going to hang for you, you +black-faced, half-witted, drunken brute and butcher? Go down!” And he +stamped his foot at him with such a sudden smartness that Teach fairly ran for +it to the companion. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, mates,” says Ballantrae, “a word with you. I +don’t know if you are gentlemen of fortune for the fun of the thing, but +I am not. I want to make money, and get ashore again, and spend it like a man. +And on one thing my mind is made up: I will not hang if I can help it. Come: +give me a hint; I’m only a beginner! Is there no way to get a little +discipline and common sense about this business?” +</p> + +<p> +One of the men spoke up: he said by rights they should have a quartermaster; +and no sooner was the word out of his mouth than they were all of that opinion. +The thing went by acclamation, Ballantrae was made quartermaster, the rum was +put in his charge, laws were passed in imitation of those of a pirate by the +name of Roberts, and the last proposal was to make an end of Teach. But +Ballantrae was afraid of a more efficient captain, who might be a counterweight +to himself, and he opposed this stoutly. Teach, he said, was good enough to +board ships and frighten fools with his blacked face and swearing; we could +scarce get a better man than Teach for that; and besides, as the man was now +disconsidered and as good as deposed, we might reduce his proportion of the +plunder. This carried it; Teach’s share was cut down to a mere derision, +being actually less than mine; and there remained only two points: whether he +would consent, and who was to announce to him this resolution. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not let that stick you,” says Ballantrae, “I will do +that.” +</p> + +<p> +And he stepped to the companion and down alone into the cabin to face that +drunken savage. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the man for us,” cries one of the hands. “Three +cheers for the quartermaster!” which were given with a will, my own voice +among the loudest, and I dare say these plaudits had their effect on Master +Teach in the cabin, as we have seen of late days how shouting in the streets +may trouble even the minds of legislators. +</p> + +<p> +What passed precisely was never known, though some of the heads of it came to +the surface later on; and we were all amazed, as well as gratified, when +Ballantrae came on deck with Teach upon his arm, and announced that all had +been consented. +</p> + +<p> +I pass swiftly over those twelve or fifteen months in which we continued to +keep the sea in the North Atlantic, getting our food and water from the ships +we over-hauled, and doing on the whole a pretty fortunate business. Sure, no +one could wish to read anything so ungenteel as the memoirs of a pirate, even +an unwilling one like me! Things went extremely better with our designs, and +Ballantrae kept his lead, to my admiration, from that day forth. I would be +tempted to suppose that a gentleman must everywhere be first, even aboard a +rover: but my birth is every whit as good as any Scottish lord’s, and I +am not ashamed to confess that I stayed Crowding Pat until the end, and was not +much better than the crew’s buffoon. Indeed, it was no scene to bring out +my merits. My health suffered from a variety of reasons; I was more at home to +the last on a horse’s back than a ship’s deck; and, to be +ingenuous, the fear of the sea was constantly in my mind, battling with the +fear of my companions. I need not cry myself up for courage; I have done well +on many fields under the eyes of famous generals, and earned my late +advancement by an act of the most distinguished valour before many witnesses. +But when we must proceed on one of our abordages, the heart of Francis Burke +was in his boots; the little eggshell skiff in which we must set forth, the +horrible heaving of the vast billows, the height of the ship that we must +scale, the thought of how many might be there in garrison upon their legitimate +defence, the scowling heavens which (in that climate) so often looked darkly +down upon our exploits, and the mere crying of the wind in my ears, were all +considerations most unpalatable to my valour. Besides which, as I was always a +creature of the nicest sensibility, the scenes that must follow on our success +tempted me as little as the chances of defeat. Twice we found women on board; +and though I have seen towns sacked, and of late days in France some very +horrid public tumults, there was something in the smallness of the numbers +engaged, and the bleak dangerous sea-surroundings, that made these acts of +piracy far the most revolting. I confess ingenuously I could never proceed +unless I was three parts drunk; it was the same even with the crew; Teach +himself was fit for no enterprise till he was full of rum; and it was one of +the most difficult parts of Ballantrae’s performance, to serve us with +liquor in the proper quantities. Even this he did to admiration; being upon the +whole the most capable man I ever met with, and the one of the most natural +genius. He did not even scrape favour with the crew, as I did, by continual +buffoonery made upon a very anxious heart; but preserved on most occasions a +great deal of gravity and distance; so that he was like a parent among a family +of young children, or a schoolmaster with his boys. What made his part the +harder to perform, the men were most inveterate grumblers; Ballantrae’s +discipline, little as it was, was yet irksome to their love of licence; and +what was worse, being kept sober they had time to think. Some of them +accordingly would fall to repenting their abominable crimes; one in particular, +who was a good Catholic, and with whom I would sometimes steal apart for +prayer; above all in bad weather, fogs, lashing rain and the like, when we +would be the less observed; and I am sure no two criminals in the cart have +ever performed their devotions with more anxious sincerity. But the rest, +having no such grounds of hope, fell to another pastime, that of computation. +All day long they would be telling up their shares or grooming over the result. +I have said we were pretty fortunate. But an observation fails to be made: that +in this world, in no business that I have tried, do the profits rise to a +man’s expectations. We found many ships and took many; yet few of them +contained much money, their goods were usually nothing to our +purpose—what did we want with a cargo of ploughs, or even of +tobacco?—and it is quite a painful reflection how many whole crews we +have made to walk the plank for no more than a stock of biscuit or an anker or +two of spirit. +</p> + +<p> +In the meanwhile our ship was growing very foul, and it was high time we should +make for our <i>port de carrénage</i>, which was in the estuary of a +river among swamps. It was openly understood that we should then break up and +go and squander our proportions of the spoil; and this made every man greedy of +a little more, so that our decision was delayed from day to day. What finally +decided matters, was a trifling accident, such as an ignorant person might +suppose incidental to our way of life. But here I must explain: on only one of +all the ships we boarded, the first on which we found women, did we meet with +any genuine resistance. On that occasion we had two men killed and several +injured, and if it had not been for the gallantry of Ballantrae we had surely +been beat back at last. Everywhere else the defence (where there was any at +all) was what the worst troops in Europe would have laughed at; so that the +most dangerous part of our employment was to clamber up the side of the ship; +and I have even known the poor souls on board to cast us a line, so eager were +they to volunteer instead of walking the plank. This constant immunity had made +our fellows very soft, so that I understood how Teach had made so deep a mark +upon their minds; for indeed the company of that lunatic was the chief danger +in our way of life. The accident to which I have referred was this:—We +had sighted a little full-rigged ship very close under our board in a haze; she +sailed near as well as we did—I should be nearer truth if I said, near as +ill; and we cleared the bow-chaser to see if we could bring a spar or two about +their ears. The swell was exceeding great; the motion of the ship beyond +description; it was little wonder if our gunners should fire thrice and be +still quite broad of what they aimed at. But in the meanwhile the chase had +cleared a stern gun, the thickness of the air concealing them; and being better +marksmen, their first shot struck us in the bows, knocked our two gunners into +mince-meat, so that we were all sprinkled with the blood, and plunged through +the deck into the forecastle, where we slept. Ballantrae would have held on; +indeed, there was nothing in this <i>contretemps</i> to affect the mind of any +soldier; but he had a quick perception of the men’s wishes, and it was +plain this lucky shot had given them a sickener of their trade. In a moment +they were all of one mind: the chase was drawing away from us, it was needless +to hold on, the <i>Sarah</i> was too foul to overhaul a bottle, it was mere +foolery to keep the sea with her; and on these pretended grounds her head was +incontinently put about and the course laid for the river. It was strange to +see what merriment fell on that ship’s company, and how they stamped +about the deck jesting, and each computing what increase had come to his share +by the death of the two gunners. +</p> + +<p> +We were nine days making our port, so light were the airs we had to sail on, so +foul the ship’s bottom; but early on the tenth, before dawn, and in a +light lifting haze, we passed the head. A little after, the haze lifted, and +fell again, showing us a cruiser very close. This was a sore blow, happening so +near our refuge. There was a great debate of whether she had seen us, and if so +whether it was likely they had recognised the <i>Sarah</i>. We were very +careful, by destroying every member of those crews we overhauled, to leave no +evidence as to our own persons; but the appearance of the <i>Sarah</i> herself +we could not keep so private; and above all of late, since she had been foul, +and we had pursued many ships without success, it was plain that her +description had been often published. I supposed this alert would have made us +separate upon the instant. But here again that original genius of +Ballantrae’s had a surprise in store for me. He and Teach (and it was the +most remarkable step of his success) had gone hand in hand since the first day +of his appointment. I often questioned him upon the fact, and never got an +answer but once, when he told me he and Teach had an understanding “which +would very much surprise the crew if they should hear of it, and would surprise +himself a good deal if it was carried out.” Well, here again he and Teach +were of a mind; and by their joint procurement the anchor was no sooner down +than the whole crew went off upon a scene of drunkenness indescribable. By +afternoon we were a mere shipful of lunatical persons, throwing of things +overboard, howling of different songs at the same time, quarrelling and falling +together, and then forgetting our quarrels to embrace. Ballantrae had bidden me +drink nothing, and feign drunkenness, as I valued my life; and I have never +passed a day so wearisomely, lying the best part of the time upon the +forecastle and watching the swamps and thickets by which our little basin was +entirely surrounded for the eye. A little after dusk Ballantrae stumbled up to +my side, feigned to fall, with a drunken laugh, and before he got his feet +again, whispered me to “reel down into the cabin and seem to fall asleep +upon a locker, for there would be need of me soon.” I did as I was told, +and coming into the cabin, where it was quite dark, let myself fall on the +first locker. There was a man there already; by the way he stirred and threw me +off, I could not think he was much in liquor; and yet when I had found another +place, he seemed to continue to sleep on. My heart now beat very hard, for I +saw some desperate matter was in act. Presently down came Ballantrae, lit the +lamp, looked about the cabin, nodded as if pleased, and on deck again without a +word. I peered out from between my fingers, and saw there were three of us +slumbering, or feigning to slumber, on the lockers: myself, one Dutton and one +Grady, both resolute men. On deck the rest were got to a pitch of revelry quite +beyond the bounds of what is human; so that no reasonable name can describe the +sounds they were now making. I have heard many a drunken bout in my time, many +on board that very <i>Sarah</i>, but never anything the least like this, which +made me early suppose the liquor had been tampered with. It was a long while +before these yells and howls died out into a sort of miserable moaning, and +then to silence; and it seemed a long while after that before Ballantrae came +down again, this time with Teach upon his heels. The latter cursed at the sight +of us three upon the lockers. +</p> + +<p> +“Tut,” says Ballantrae, “you might fire a pistol at their +ears. You know what stuff they have been swallowing.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a hatch in the cabin floor, and under that the richest part of the +booty was stored against the day of division. It fastened with a ring and three +padlocks, the keys (for greater security) being divided; one to Teach, one to +Ballantrae, and one to the mate, a man called Hammond. Yet I was amazed to see +they were now all in the one hand; and yet more amazed (still looking through +my fingers) to observe Ballantrae and Teach bring up several packets, four of +them in all, very carefully made up and with a loop for carriage. +</p> + +<p> +“And now,” says Teach, “let us be going.” +</p> + +<p> +“One word,” says Ballantrae. “I have discovered there is +another man besides yourself who knows a private path across the swamp; and it +seems it is shorter than yours.” +</p> + +<p> +Teach cried out, in that case, they were undone. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know for that,” says Ballantrae. “For there are +several other circumstances with which I must acquaint you. First of all, there +is no bullet in your pistols, which (if you remember) I was kind enough to load +for both of us this morning. Secondly, as there is someone else who knows a +passage, you must think it highly improbable I should saddle myself with a +lunatic like you. Thirdly, these gentlemen (who need no longer pretend to be +asleep) are those of my party, and will now proceed to gag and bind you to the +mast; and when your men awaken (if they ever do awake after the drugs we have +mingled in their liquor), I am sure they will be so obliging as to deliver you, +and you will have no difficulty, I daresay, to explain the business of the +keys.” +</p> + +<p> +Not a word said Teach, but looked at us like a frightened baby as we gagged and +bound him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now you see, you moon-calf,” says Ballantrae, “why we made +four packets. Heretofore you have been called Captain Teach, but I think you +are now rather Captain Learn.” +</p> + +<p> +That was our last word on board the <i>Sarah</i>. We four, with our four +packets, lowered ourselves softly into a skiff, and left that ship behind us as +silent as the grave, only for the moaning of some of the drunkards. There was a +fog about breast-high on the waters; so that Dutton, who knew the passage, must +stand on his feet to direct our rowing; and this, as it forced us to row +gently, was the means of our deliverance. We were yet but a little way from the +ship, when it began to come grey, and the birds to fly abroad upon the water. +All of a sudden Dutton clapped down upon his hams, and whispered us to be +silent for our lives, and hearken. Sure enough, we heard a little faint creak +of oars upon one hand, and then again, and further off, a creak of oars upon +the other. It was clear we had been sighted yesterday in the morning; here were +the cruiser’s boats to cut us out; here were we defenceless in their very +midst. Sure, never were poor souls more perilously placed; and as we lay there +on our oars, praying God the mist might hold, the sweat poured from my brow. +Presently we heard one of the boats where we might have thrown a biscuit in +her. “Softly, men,” we heard an officer whisper; and I marvelled +they could not hear the drumming of my heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind the path,” says Ballantrae; “we must get shelter +anyhow; let us pull straight ahead for the sides of the basin.” +</p> + +<p> +This we did with the most anxious precaution, rowing, as best we could, upon +our hands, and steering at a venture in the fog, which was (for all that) our +only safety. But Heaven guided us; we touched ground at a thicket; scrambled +ashore with our treasure; and having no other way of concealment, and the mist +beginning already to lighten, hove down the skiff and let her sink. We were +still but new under cover when the sun rose; and at the same time, from the +midst of the basin, a great shouting of seamen sprang up, and we knew the +<i>Sarah</i> was being boarded. I heard afterwards the officer that took her +got great honour; and it’s true the approach was creditably managed, but +I think he had an easy capture when he came to board. <a +name="citation3"></a><a href="#footnote3" class="citation">[3]</a> +</p> + +<p> +I was still blessing the saints for my escape, when I became aware we were in +trouble of another kind. We were here landed at random in a vast and dangerous +swamp; and how to come at the path was a concern of doubt, fatigue, and peril. +Dutton, indeed, was of opinion we should wait until the ship was gone, and fish +up the skiff; for any delay would be more wise than to go blindly ahead in that +morass. One went back accordingly to the basin-side and (peering through the +thicket) saw the fog already quite drunk up, and English colours flying on the +<i>Sarah</i>, but no movement made to get her under way. Our situation was now +very doubtful. The swamp was an unhealthful place to linger in; we had been so +greedy to bring treasures that we had brought but little food; it was highly +desirable, besides, that we should get clear of the neighbourhood and into the +settlements before the news of the capture went abroad; and against all these +considerations, there was only the peril of the passage on the other side. I +think it not wonderful we decided on the active part. +</p> + +<p> +It was already blistering hot when we set forth to pass the marsh, or rather to +strike the path, by compass. Dutton took the compass, and one or other of us +three carried his proportion of the treasure. I promise you he kept a sharp eye +to his rear, for it was like the man’s soul that he must trust us with. +The thicket was as close as a bush; the ground very treacherous, so that we +often sank in the most terrifying manner, and must go round about; the heat, +besides, was stifling, the air singularly heavy, and the stinging insects +abounded in such myriads that each of us walked under his own cloud. It has +often been commented on, how much better gentlemen of birth endure fatigue than +persons of the rabble; so that walking officers who must tramp in the dirt +beside their men, shame them by their constancy. This was well to be observed +in the present instance; for here were Ballantrae and I, two gentlemen of the +highest breeding, on the one hand; and on the other, Grady, a common mariner, +and a man nearly a giant in physical strength. The case of Dutton is not in +point, for I confess he did as well as any of us. <a name="citation4"></a><a +href="#footnote4" class="citation">[4]</a> But as for Grady, he began early to +lament his case, tailed in the rear, refused to carry Dutton’s packet +when it came his turn, clamoured continually for rum (of which we had too +little), and at last even threatened us from behind with a cocked pistol, +unless we should allow him rest. Ballantrae would have fought it out, I +believe; but I prevailed with him the other way; and we made a stop and ate a +meal. It seemed to benefit Grady little; he was in the rear again at once, +growling and bemoaning his lot; and at last, by some carelessness, not having +followed properly in our tracks, stumbled into a deep part of the slough where +it was mostly water, gave some very dreadful screams, and before we could come +to his aid had sunk along with his booty. His fate, and above all these screams +of his, appalled us to the soul; yet it was on the whole a fortunate +circumstance and the means of our deliverance, for it moved Dutton to mount +into a tree, whence he was able to perceive and to show me, who had climbed +after him, a high piece of the wood, which was a landmark for the path. He went +forward the more carelessly, I must suppose; for presently we saw him sink a +little down, draw up his feet and sink again, and so twice. Then he turned his +face to us, pretty white. +</p> + +<p> +“Lend a hand,” said he, “I am in a bad place.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know about that,” says Ballantrae, standing still. +</p> + +<p> +Dutton broke out into the most violent oaths, sinking a little lower as he did, +so that the mud was nearly to his waist, and plucking a pistol from his belt, +“Help me,” he cries, “or die and be damned to you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” says Ballantrae, “I did but jest. I am coming.” +And he set down his own packet and Dutton’s, which he was then carrying. +“Do not venture near till we see if you are needed,” said he to me, +and went forward alone to where the man was bogged. He was quiet now, though he +still held the pistol; and the marks of terror in his countenance were very +moving to behold. +</p> + +<p> +“For the Lord’s sake,” says he, “look sharp.” +</p> + +<p> +Ballantrae was now got close up. “Keep still,” says he, and seemed +to consider; and then, “Reach out both your hands!” +</p> + +<p> +Dutton laid down his pistol, and so watery was the top surface that it went +clear out of sight; with an oath he stooped to snatch it; and as he did so, +Ballantrae leaned forth and stabbed him between the shoulders. Up went his +hands over his head—I know not whether with the pain or to ward himself; +and the next moment he doubled forward in the mud. +</p> + +<p> +Ballantrae was already over the ankles; but he plucked himself out, and came +back to me, where I stood with my knees smiting one another. “The devil +take you, Francis!” says he. “I believe you are a half-hearted +fellow, after all. I have only done justice on a pirate. And here we are quite +clear of the <i>Sarah</i>! Who shall now say that we have dipped our hands in +any irregularities?” +</p> + +<p> +I assured him he did me injustice; but my sense of humanity was so much +affected by the horridness of the fact that I could scarce find breath to +answer with. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said he, “you must be more resolved. The need for +this fellow ceased when he had shown you where the path ran; and you cannot +deny I would have been daft to let slip so fair an opportunity.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not deny but he was right in principle; nor yet could I refrain from +shedding tears, of which I think no man of valour need have been ashamed; and +it was not until I had a share of the rum that I was able to proceed. I repeat, +I am far from ashamed of my generous emotion; mercy is honourable in the +warrior; and yet I cannot altogether censure Ballantrae, whose step was really +fortunate, as we struck the path without further misadventure, and the same +night, about sundown, came to the edge of the morass. +</p> + +<p> +We were too weary to seek far; on some dry sands, still warm with the +day’s sun, and close under a wood of pines, we lay down and were +instantly plunged in sleep. +</p> + +<p> +We awaked the next morning very early, and began with a sullen spirit a +conversation that came near to end in blows. We were now cast on shore in the +southern provinces, thousands of miles from any French settlement; a dreadful +journey and a thousand perils lay in front of us; and sure, if there was ever +need for amity, it was in such an hour. I must suppose that Ballantrae had +suffered in his sense of what is truly polite; indeed, and there is nothing +strange in the idea, after the sea-wolves we had consorted with so long; and as +for myself, he fubbed me off unhandsomely, and any gentleman would have +resented his behaviour. +</p> + +<p> +I told him in what light I saw his conduct; he walked a little off, I following +to upbraid him; and at last he stopped me with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Frank,” says he, “you know what we swore; and yet there is +no oath invented would induce me to swallow such expressions, if I did not +regard you with sincere affection. It is impossible you should doubt me there: +I have given proofs. Dutton I had to take, because he knew the pass, and Grady +because Dutton would not move without him; but what call was there to carry you +along? You are a perpetual danger to me with your cursed Irish tongue. By +rights you should now be in irons in the cruiser. And you quarrel with me like +a baby for some trinkets!” +</p> + +<p> +I considered this one of the most unhandsome speeches ever made; and indeed to +this day I can scarce reconcile it to my notion of a gentleman that was my +friend. I retorted upon him with his Scotch accent, of which he had not so much +as some, but enough to be very barbarous and disgusting, as I told him plainly; +and the affair would have gone to a great length, but for an alarming +intervention. +</p> + +<p> +We had got some way off upon the sand. The place where we had slept, with the +packets lying undone and the money scattered openly, was now between us and the +pines; and it was out of these the stranger must have come. There he was at +least, a great hulking fellow of the country, with a broad axe on his shoulder, +looking open-mouthed, now at the treasure, which was just at his feet, and now +at our disputation, in which we had gone far enough to have weapons in our +hands. We had no sooner observed him than he found his legs and made off again +among the pines. +</p> + +<p> +This was no scene to put our minds at rest: a couple of armed men in +sea-clothes found quarrelling over a treasure, not many miles from where a +pirate had been captured—here was enough to bring the whole country about +our ears. The quarrel was not even made up; it was blotted from our minds; and +we got our packets together in the twinkling of an eye, and made off, running +with the best will in the world. But the trouble was, we did not know in what +direction, and must continually return upon our steps. Ballantrae had indeed +collected what he could from Dutton; but it’s hard to travel upon +hearsay; and the estuary, which spreads into a vast irregular harbour, turned +us off upon every side with a new stretch of water. +</p> + +<p> +We were near beside ourselves, and already quite spent with running, when, +coming to the top of a dune, we saw we were again cut off by another +ramification of the bay. This was a creek, however, very different from those +that had arrested us before; being set in rocks, and so precipitously deep that +a small vessel was able to lie alongside, made fast with a hawser; and her crew +had laid a plank to the shore. Here they had lighted a fire, and were sitting +at their meal. As for the vessel herself, she was one of those they build in +the Bermudas. +</p> + +<p> +The love of gold and the great hatred that everybody has to pirates were +motives of the most influential, and would certainly raise the country in our +pursuit. Besides, it was now plain we were on some sort of straggling +peninsula, like the fingers of a hand; and the wrist, or passage to the +mainland, which we should have taken at the first, was by this time not +improbably secured. These considerations put us on a bolder counsel. For as +long as we dared, looking every moment to hear sounds of the chase, we lay +among some bushes on the top of the dune; and having by this means secured a +little breath and recomposed our appearance, we strolled down at last, with a +great affectation of carelessness, to the party by the fire. +</p> + +<p> +It was a trader and his negroes, belonging to Albany, in the province of New +York, and now on the way home from the Indies with a cargo; his name I cannot +recall. We were amazed to learn he had put in here from terror of the +<i>Sarah</i>; for we had no thought our exploits had been so notorious. As soon +as the Albanian heard she had been taken the day before, he jumped to his feet, +gave us a cup of spirits for our good news, and sent big negroes to get sail on +the Bermudan. On our side, we profited by the dram to become more confidential, +and at last offered ourselves as passengers. He looked askance at our tarry +clothes and pistols, and replied civilly enough that he had scarce +accommodation for himself; nor could either our prayers or our offers of money, +in which we advanced pretty far, avail to shake him. +</p> + +<p> +“I see, you think ill of us,” says Ballantrae, “but I will +show you how well we think of you by telling you the truth. We are Jacobite +fugitives, and there is a price upon our heads.” +</p> + +<p> +At this, the Albanian was plainly moved a little. He asked us many questions as +to the Scotch war, which Ballantrae very patiently answered. And then, with a +wink, in a vulgar manner, “I guess you and your Prince Charlie got more +than you cared about,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Bedad, and that we did,” said I. “And, my dear man, I wish +you would set a new example and give us just that much.” +</p> + +<p> +This I said in the Irish way, about which there is allowed to be something very +engaging. It’s a remarkable thing, and a testimony to the love with which +our nation is regarded, that this address scarce ever fails in a handsome +fellow. I cannot tell how often I have seen a private soldier escape the horse, +or a beggar wheedle out a good alms by a touch of the brogue. And, indeed, as +soon as the Albanian had laughed at me I was pretty much at rest. Even then, +however, he made many conditions, and—for one thing—took away our +arms, before he suffered us aboard; which was the signal to cast off; so that +in a moment after, we were gliding down the bay with a good breeze, and +blessing the name of God for our deliverance. Almost in the mouth of the +estuary, we passed the cruiser, and a little after the poor <i>Sarah</i> with +her prize crew; and these were both sights to make us tremble. The Bermudan +seemed a very safe place to be in, and our bold stroke to have been fortunately +played, when we were thus reminded of the case of our companions. For all that, +we had only exchanged traps, jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire, ran +from the yard-arm to the block, and escaped the open hostility of the +man-of-war to lie at the mercy of the doubtful faith of our Albanian merchant. +</p> + +<p> +From many circumstances, it chanced we were safer than we could have dared to +hope. The town of Albany was at that time much concerned in contraband trade +across the desert with the Indians and the French. This, as it was highly +illegal, relaxed their loyalty, and as it brought them in relation with the +politest people on the earth, divided even their sympathies. In short, they +were like all the smugglers in the world, spies and agents ready-made for +either party. Our Albanian, besides, was a very honest man indeed, and very +greedy; and, to crown our luck, he conceived a great delight in our society. +Before we had reached the town of New York we had come to a full agreement, +that he should carry us as far as Albany upon his ship, and thence put us on a +way to pass the boundaries and join the French. For all this we were to pay at +a high rate; but beggars cannot be choosers, nor outlaws bargainers. +</p> + +<p> +We sailed, then, up the Hudson River, which, I protest, is a very fine stream, +and put up at the “King’s Arms” in Albany. The town was full +of the militia of the province, breathing slaughter against the French. +Governor Clinton was there himself, a very busy man, and, by what I could +learn, very near distracted by the factiousness of his Assembly. The Indians on +both sides were on the war-path; we saw parties of them bringing in prisoners +and (what was much worse) scalps, both male and female, for which they were +paid at a fixed rate; and I assure you the sight was not encouraging. +Altogether, we could scarce have come at a period more unsuitable for our +designs; our position in the chief inn was dreadfully conspicuous; our Albanian +fubbed us off with a thousand delays, and seemed upon the point of a retreat +from his engagements; nothing but peril appeared to environ the poor fugitives, +and for some time we drowned our concern in a very irregular course of living. +</p> + +<p> +This, too, proved to be fortunate; and it’s one of the remarks that fall +to be made upon our escape, how providentially our steps were conducted to the +very end. What a humiliation to the dignity of man! My philosophy, the +extraordinary genius of Ballantrae, our valour, in which I grant that we were +equal—all these might have proved insufficient without the Divine +blessing on our efforts. And how true it is, as the Church tells us, that the +Truths of Religion are, after all, quite applicable even to daily affairs! At +least, it was in the course of our revelry that we made the acquaintance of a +spirited youth by the name of Chew. He was one of the most daring of the Indian +traders, very well acquainted with the secret paths of the wilderness, needy, +dissolute, and, by a last good fortune, in some disgrace with his family. Him +we persuaded to come to our relief; he privately provided what was needful for +our flight, and one day we slipped out of Albany, without a word to our former +friend, and embarked, a little above, in a canoe. +</p> + +<p> +To the toils and perils of this journey, it would require a pen more elegant +than mine to do full justice. The reader must conceive for himself the dreadful +wilderness which we had now to thread; its thickets, swamps, precipitous rocks, +impetuous rivers, and amazing waterfalls. Among these barbarous scenes we must +toil all day, now paddling, now carrying our canoe upon our shoulders; and at +night we slept about a fire, surrounded by the howling of wolves and other +savage animals. It was our design to mount the headwaters of the Hudson, to the +neighbourhood of Crown Point, where the French had a strong place in the woods, +upon Lake Champlain. But to have done this directly were too perilous; and it +was accordingly gone upon by such a labyrinth of rivers, lakes, and portages as +makes my head giddy to remember. These paths were in ordinary times entirely +desert; but the country was now up, the tribes on the war-path, the woods full +of Indian scouts. Again and again we came upon these parties when we least +expected them; and one day, in particular, I shall never forget, how, as dawn +was coming in, we were suddenly surrounded by five or six of these painted +devils, uttering a very dreary sort of cry, and brandishing their hatchets. It +passed off harmlessly, indeed, as did the rest of our encounters; for Chew was +well known and highly valued among the different tribes. Indeed, he was a very +gallant, respectable young man; but even with the advantage of his +companionship, you must not think these meetings were without sensible peril. +To prove friendship on our part, it was needful to draw upon our stock of +rum—indeed, under whatever disguise, that is the true business of the +Indian trader, to keep a travelling public-house in the forest; and when once +the braves had got their bottle of <i>scaura</i> (as they call this beastly +liquor), it behoved us to set forth and paddle for our scalps. Once they were a +little drunk, goodbye to any sense or decency; they had but the one thought, to +get more <i>scaura</i>. They might easily take it in their heads to give us +chase, and had we been overtaken, I had never written these memoirs. +</p> + +<p> +We were come to the most critical portion of our course, where we might equally +expect to fall into the hands of French or English, when a terrible calamity +befell us. Chew was taken suddenly sick with symptoms like those of poison, and +in the course of a few hours expired in the bottom of the canoe. We thus lost +at once our guide, our interpreter, our boatman, and our passport, for he was +all these in one; and found ourselves reduced, at a blow, to the most desperate +and irremediable distress. Chew, who took a great pride in his knowledge, had +indeed often lectured us on the geography; and Ballantrae, I believe, would +listen. But for my part I have always found such information highly tedious; +and beyond the fact that we were now in the country of the Adirondack Indians, +and not so distant from our destination, could we but have found the way, I was +entirely ignorant. The wisdom of my course was soon the more apparent; for with +all his pains, Ballantrae was no further advanced than myself. He knew we must +continue to go up one stream; then, by way of a portage, down another; and then +up a third. But you are to consider, in a mountain country, how many streams +come rolling in from every hand. And how is a gentleman, who is a perfect +stranger in that part of the world, to tell any one of them from any other? Nor +was this our only trouble. We were great novices, besides, in handling a canoe; +the portages were almost beyond our strength, so that I have seen us sit down +in despair for half an hour at a time without one word; and the appearance of a +single Indian, since we had now no means of speaking to them, would have been +in all probability the means of our destruction. There is altogether some +excuse if Ballantrae showed something of a grooming disposition; his habit of +imputing blame to others, quite as capable as himself, was less tolerable, and +his language it was not always easy to accept. Indeed, he had contracted on +board the pirate ship a manner of address which was in a high degree unusual +between gentlemen; and now, when you might say he was in a fever, it increased +upon him hugely. +</p> + +<p> +The third day of these wanderings, as we were carrying the canoe upon a rocky +portage, she fell, and was entirely bilged. The portage was between two lakes, +both pretty extensive; the track, such as it was, opened at both ends upon the +water, and on both hands was enclosed by the unbroken woods; and the sides of +the lakes were quite impassable with bog: so that we beheld ourselves not only +condemned to go without our boat and the greater part of our provisions, but to +plunge at once into impenetrable thickets and to desert what little guidance we +still had—the course of the river. Each stuck his pistols in his belt, +shouldered an axe, made a pack of his treasure and as much food as he could +stagger under; and deserting the rest of our possessions, even to our swords, +which would have much embarrassed us among the woods, we set forth on this +deplorable adventure. The labours of Hercules, so finely described by Homer, +were a trifle to what we now underwent. Some parts of the forest were perfectly +dense down to the ground, so that we must cut our way like mites in a cheese. +In some the bottom was full of deep swamp, and the whole wood entirely rotten. +I have leaped on a great fallen log and sunk to the knees in touchwood; I have +sought to stay myself, in falling, against what looked to be a solid trunk, and +the whole thing has whiffed away at my touch like a sheet of paper. Stumbling, +falling, bogging to the knees, hewing our way, our eyes almost put out with +twigs and branches, our clothes plucked from our bodies, we laboured all day, +and it is doubtful if we made two miles. What was worse, as we could rarely get +a view of the country, and were perpetually justled from our path by obstacles, +it was impossible even to have a guess in what direction we were moving. +</p> + +<p> +A little before sundown, in an open place with a stream, and set about with +barbarous mountains, Ballantrae threw down his pack. “I will go no +further,” said he, and bade me light the fire, damning my blood in terms +not proper for a chairman. +</p> + +<p> +I told him to try to forget he had ever been a pirate, and to remember he had +been a gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you mad?” he cried. “Don’t cross me here!” +And then, shaking his fist at the hills, “To think,” cries he, +“that I must leave my bones in this miserable wilderness! Would God I had +died upon the scaffold like a gentleman!” This he said ranting like an +actor; and then sat biting his fingers and staring on the ground, a most +unchristian object. +</p> + +<p> +I took a certain horror of the man, for I thought a soldier and a gentleman +should confront his end with more philosophy. I made him no reply, therefore, +in words; and presently the evening fell so chill that I was glad, for my own +sake, to kindle a fire. And yet God knows, in such an open spot, and the +country alive with savages, the act was little short of lunacy. Ballantrae +seemed never to observe me; but at last, as I was about parching a little corn, +he looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you ever a brother?” said be. +</p> + +<p> +“By the blessing of Heaven,” said I, “not less than +five.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have the one,” said he, with a strange voice; and then +presently, “He shall pay me for all this,” he added. And when I +asked him what was his brother’s part in our distress, +“What!” he cried, “he sits in my place, he bears my name, he +courts my wife; and I am here alone with a damned Irishman in this +tooth-chattering desert! Oh, I have been a common gull!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +The explosion was in all ways so foreign to my friend’s nature that I was +daunted out of all my just susceptibility. Sure, an offensive expression, +however vivacious, appears a wonderfully small affair in circumstances so +extreme! But here there is a strange thing to be noted. He had only once before +referred to the lady with whom he was contracted. That was when we came in view +of the town of New York, when he had told me, if all had their rights, he was +now in sight of his own property, for Miss Graeme enjoyed a large estate in the +province. And this was certainly a natural occasion; but now here she was named +a second time; and what is surely fit to be observed, in this very month, which +was November, ’47, and <i>I believe upon that very day as we sat among +these barbarous mountains</i>, his brother and Miss Graeme were married. I am +the least superstitious of men; but the hand of Providence is here displayed +too openly not to be remarked. <a name="citation5"></a><a href="#footnote5" +class="citation">[5]</a> +</p> + +<p> +The next day, and the next, were passed in similar labours; Ballantrae often +deciding on our course by the spinning of a coin; and once, when I expostulated +on this childishness, he had an odd remark that I have never forgotten. +“I know no better way,” said he, “to express my scorn of +human reason.” I think it was the third day that we found the body of a +Christian, scalped and most abominably mangled, and lying in a pudder of his +blood; the birds of the desert screaming over him, as thick as flies. I cannot +describe how dreadfully this sight affected us; but it robbed me of all +strength and all hope for this world. The same day, and only a little after, we +were scrambling over a part of the forest that had been burned, when +Ballantrae, who was a little ahead, ducked suddenly behind a fallen trunk. I +joined him in this shelter, whence we could look abroad without being seen +ourselves; and in the bottom of the next vale, beheld a large war party of the +savages going by across our line. There might be the value of a weak battalion +present; all naked to the waist, blacked with grease and soot, and painted with +white lead and vermilion, according to their beastly habits. They went one +behind another like a string of geese, and at a quickish trot; so that they +took but a little while to rattle by, and disappear again among the woods. Yet +I suppose we endured a greater agony of hesitation and suspense in these few +minutes than goes usually to a man’s whole life. Whether they were French +or English Indians, whether they desired scalps or prisoners, whether we should +declare ourselves upon the chance, or lie quiet and continue the heart-breaking +business of our journey: sure, I think these were questions to have puzzled the +brains of Aristotle himself. Ballantrae turned to me with a face all wrinkled +up and his teeth showing in his mouth, like what I have read of people +starving; he said no word, but his whole appearance was a kind of dreadful +question. +</p> + +<p> +“They may be of the English side,” I whispered; “and think! +the best we could then hope, is to begin this over again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know—I know,” he said. “Yet it must come to a plunge +at last.” And he suddenly plucked out his coin, shook it in his closed +hands, looked at it, and then lay down with his face in the dust. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Addition by Mr. Mackellar</i>.—I drop the Chevalier’s narration +at this point because the couple quarrelled and separated the same day; and the +Chevalier’s account of the quarrel seems to me (I must confess) quite +incompatible with the nature of either of the men. Henceforth they wandered +alone, undergoing extraordinary sufferings; until first one and then the other +was picked up by a party from Fort St. Frederick. Only two things are to be +noted. And first (as most important for my purpose) that the Master, in the +course of his miseries buried his treasure, at a point never since discovered, +but of which he took a drawing in his own blood on the lining of his hat. And +second, that on his coming thus penniless to the Fort, he was welcomed like a +brother by the Chevalier, who thence paid his way to France. The simplicity of +Mr. Burke’s character leads him at this point to praise the Master +exceedingly; to an eye more worldly wise, it would seem it was the Chevalier +alone that was to be commended. I have the more pleasure in pointing to this +really very noble trait of my esteemed correspondent, as I fear I may have +wounded him immediately before. I have refrained from comments on any of his +extraordinary and (in my eyes) immoral opinions, for I know him to be jealous +of respect. But his version of the quarrel is really more than I can reproduce; +for I knew the Master myself, and a man more insusceptible of fear is not +conceivable. I regret this oversight of the Chevalier’s, and all the more +because the tenor of his narrative (set aside a few flourishes) strikes me as +highly ingenuous. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /> +PERSECUTIONS ENDURED BY MR. HENRY.</h2> + +<p> +You can guess on what part of his adventures the Colonel principally dwelled. +Indeed, if we had heard it all, it is to be thought the current of this +business had been wholly altered; but the pirate ship was very gently touched +upon. Nor did I hear the Colonel to an end even of that which he was willing to +disclose; for Mr. Henry, having for some while been plunged in a brown study, +rose at last from his seat and (reminding the Colonel there were matters that +he must attend to) bade me follow him immediately to the office. +</p> + +<p> +Once there, he sought no longer to dissemble his concern, walking to and fro in +the room with a contorted face, and passing his hand repeatedly upon his brow. +</p> + +<p> +“We have some business,” he began at last; and there broke off, +declared we must have wine, and sent for a magnum of the best. This was +extremely foreign to his habitudes; and what was still more so, when the wine +had come, he gulped down one glass upon another like a man careless of +appearances. But the drink steadied him. +</p> + +<p> +“You will scarce be surprised, Mackellar,” says he, “when I +tell you that my brother—whose safety we are all rejoiced to +learn—stands in some need of money.” +</p> + +<p> +I told him I had misdoubted as much; but the time was not very fortunate, as +the stock was low. +</p> + +<p> +“Not mine,” said he. “There is the money for the +mortgage.” +</p> + +<p> +I reminded him it was Mrs. Henry’s. +</p> + +<p> +“I will be answerable to my wife,” he cried violently. +</p> + +<p> +“And then,” said I, “there is the mortgage.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” said he; “it is on that I would consult you.” +</p> + +<p> +I showed him how unfortunate a time it was to divert this money from its +destination; and how, by so doing, we must lose the profit of our past +economies, and plunge back the estate into the mire. I even took the liberty to +plead with him; and when he still opposed me with a shake of the head and a +bitter dogged smile, my zeal quite carried me beyond my place. “This is +midsummer madness,” cried I; “and I for one will be no party to +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You speak as though I did it for my pleasure,” says he. “But +I have a child now; and, besides, I love order; and to say the honest truth, +Mackellar, I had begun to take a pride in the estates.” He gloomed for a +moment. “But what would you have?” he went on. “Nothing is +mine, nothing. This day’s news has knocked the bottom out of my life. I +have only the name and the shadow of things—only the shadow; there is no +substance in my rights.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will prove substantial enough before a court,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me with a burning eye, and seemed to repress the word upon his +lips; and I repented what I had said, for I saw that while he spoke of the +estate he had still a side-thought to his marriage. And then, of a sudden, he +twitched the letter from his pocket, where it lay all crumpled, smoothed it +violently on the table, and read these words to me with a trembling tongue: +“‘My dear Jacob’—This is how he begins!” cries +he—“‘My dear Jacob, I once called you so, you may remember; +and you have now done the business, and flung my heels as high as +Criffel.’ What do you think of that, Mackellar,” says he, +“from an only brother? I declare to God I liked him very well; I was +always staunch to him; and this is how he writes! But I will not sit down under +the imputation”—walking to and fro—“I am as good as he; +I am a better man than he, I call on God to prove it! I cannot give him all the +monstrous sum he asks; he knows the estate to be incompetent; but I will give +him what I have, and it is more than he expects. I have borne all this too +long. See what he writes further on; read it for yourself: ‘I know you +are a niggardly dog.’ A niggardly dog! I niggardly? Is that true, +Mackellar? You think it is?” I really thought he would have struck me at +that. “Oh, you all think so! Well, you shall see, and he shall see, and +God shall see. If I ruin the estate and go barefoot, I shall stuff this +bloodsucker. Let him ask all—all, and he shall have it! It is all his by +rights. Ah!” he cried, “and I foresaw all this, and worse, when he +would not let me go.” He poured out another glass of wine, and was about +to carry it to his lips, when I made so bold as to lay a finger on his arm. He +stopped a moment. “You are right,” said he, and flung glass and all +in the fireplace. “Come, let us count the money.” +</p> + +<p> +I durst no longer oppose him; indeed, I was very much affected by the sight of +so much disorder in a man usually so controlled; and we sat down together, +counted the money, and made it up in packets for the greater ease of Colonel +Burke, who was to be the bearer. This done, Mr. Henry returned to the hall, +where he and my old lord sat all night through with their guest. +</p> + +<p> +A little before dawn I was called and set out with the Colonel. He would scarce +have liked a less responsible convoy, for he was a man who valued himself; nor +could we afford him one more dignified, for Mr. Henry must not appear with the +freetraders. It was a very bitter morning of wind, and as we went down through +the long shrubbery the Colonel held himself muffled in his cloak. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said I, “this is a great sum of money that your friend +requires. I must suppose his necessities to be very great.” +</p> + +<p> +“We must suppose so,” says he, I thought drily; but perhaps it was +the cloak about his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“I am only a servant of the family,” said I. “You may deal +openly with me. I think we are likely to get little good by him?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear man,” said the Colonel, “Ballantrae is a gentleman +of the most eminent natural abilities, and a man that I admire, and that I +revere, to the very ground he treads on.” And then he seemed to me to +pause like one in a difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“But for all that,” said I, “we are likely to get little good +by him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure, and you can have it your own way, my dear man,” says the +Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +By this time we had come to the side of the creek, where the boat awaited him. +“Well,” said be, “I am sure I am very much your debtor for +all your civility, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is; and just as a last word, and +since you show so much intelligent interest, I will mention a small +circumstance that may be of use to the family. For I believe my friend omitted +to mention that he has the largest pension on the Scots Fund of any refugee in +Paris; and it’s the more disgraceful, sir,” cries the Colonel, +warming, “because there’s not one dirty penny for myself.” +</p> + +<p> +He cocked his hat at me, as if I had been to blame for this partiality; then +changed again into his usual swaggering civility, shook me by the hand, and set +off down to the boat, with the money under his arms, and whistling as he went +the pathetic air of <i>Shule Aroon</i>. It was the first time I had heard that +tune; I was to hear it again, words and all, as you shall learn, but I remember +how that little stave of it ran in my head after the freetraders had bade him +“Wheesht, in the deil’s name,” and the grating of the oars +had taken its place, and I stood and watched the dawn creeping on the sea, and +the boat drawing away, and the lugger lying with her foresail backed awaiting +it. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> The gap made in our money was a sore embarrassment, and, among +other consequences, it had this: that I must ride to Edinburgh, and there raise +a new loan on very questionable terms to keep the old afloat; and was thus, for +close upon three weeks, absent from the house of Durrisdeer. +</p> + +<p> +What passed in the interval I had none to tell me, but I found Mrs. Henry, upon +my return, much changed in her demeanour. The old talks with my lord for the +most part pretermitted; a certain deprecation visible towards her husband, to +whom I thought she addressed herself more often; and, for one thing, she was +now greatly wrapped up in Miss Katharine. You would think the change was +agreeable to Mr. Henry; no such matter! To the contrary, every circumstance of +alteration was a stab to him; he read in each the avowal of her truant fancies. +That constancy to the Master of which she was proud while she supposed him +dead, she had to blush for now she knew he was alive, and these blushes were +the hated spring of her new conduct. I am to conceal no truth; and I will here +say plainly, I think this was the period in which Mr. Henry showed the worst. +He contained himself, indeed, in public; but there was a deep-seated irritation +visible underneath. With me, from whom he had less concealment, he was often +grossly unjust, and even for his wife he would sometimes have a sharp retort: +perhaps when she had ruffled him with some unwonted kindness; perhaps upon no +tangible occasion, the mere habitual tenor of the man’s annoyance +bursting spontaneously forth. When he would thus forget himself (a thing so +strangely out of keeping with the terms of their relation), there went a shook +through the whole company, and the pair would look upon each other in a kind of +pained amazement. +</p> + +<p> +All the time, too, while he was injuring himself by this defect of temper, he +was hurting his position by a silence, of which I scarce know whether to say it +was the child of generosity or pride. The freetraders came again and again, +bringing messengers from the Master, and none departed empty-handed. I never +durst reason with Mr. Henry; he gave what was asked of him in a kind of noble +rage. Perhaps because he knew he was by nature inclining to the parsimonious, +he took a backforemost pleasure in the recklessness with which he supplied his +brother’s exigence. Perhaps the falsity of the position would have +spurred a humbler man into the same excess. But the estate (if I may say so) +groaned under it; our daily expenses were shorn lower and lower; the stables +were emptied, all but four roadsters; servants were discharged, which raised a +dreadful murmuring in the country, and heated up the old disfavour upon Mr. +Henry; and at last the yearly visit to Edinburgh must be discontinued. +</p> + +<p> +This was in 1756. You are to suppose that for seven years this bloodsucker had +been drawing the life’s blood from Durrisdeer, and that all this time my +patron had held his peace. It was an effect of devilish malice in the Master +that he addressed Mr. Henry alone upon the matter of his demands, and there was +never a word to my lord. The family had looked on, wondering at our economies. +They had lamented, I have no doubt, that my patron had become so great a +miser—a fault always despicable, but in the young abhorrent, and Mr. +Henry was not yet thirty years of age. Still, he had managed the business of +Durrisdeer almost from a boy; and they bore with these changes in a silence as +proud and bitter as his own, until the coping-stone of the Edinburgh visit. +</p> + +<p> +At this time I believe my patron and his wife were rarely together, save at +meals. Immediately on the back of Colonel Burke’s announcement Mrs. Henry +made palpable advances; you might say she had laid a sort of timid court to her +husband, different, indeed, from her former manner of unconcern and distance. I +never had the heart to blame Mr. Henry because he recoiled from these advances; +nor yet to censure the wife, when she was cut to the quick by their rejection. +But the result was an entire estrangement, so that (as I say) they rarely +spoke, except at meals. Even the matter of the Edinburgh visit was first +broached at table, and it chanced that Mrs. Henry was that day ailing and +querulous. She had no sooner understood her husband’s meaning than the +red flew in her face. +</p> + +<p> +“At last,” she cried, “this is too much! Heaven knows what +pleasure I have in my life, that I should be denied my only consolation. These +shameful proclivities must be trod down; we are already a mark and an eyesore +in the neighbourhood. I will not endure this fresh insanity.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot afford it,” says Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“Afford?” she cried. “For shame! But I have money of my +own.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is all mine, madam, by marriage,” he snarled, and instantly +left the room. +</p> + +<p> +My old lord threw up his hands to Heaven, and he and his daughter, withdrawing +to the chimney, gave me a broad hint to be gone. I found Mr. Henry in his usual +retreat, the steward’s room, perched on the end of the table, and +plunging his penknife in it with a very ugly countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Henry,” said I, “you do yourself too much injustice, and +it is time this should cease.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” cries he, “nobody minds here. They think it only +natural. I have shameful proclivities. I am a niggardly dog,” and he +drove his knife up to the hilt. “But I will show that fellow,” he +cried with an oath, “I will show him which is the more generous.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is no generosity,” said I; “this is only pride.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think I want morality?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +I thought he wanted help, and I should give it him, willy-nilly; and no sooner +was Mrs. Henry gone to her room than I presented myself at her door and sought +admittance. +</p> + +<p> +She openly showed her wonder. “What do you want with me, Mr. +Mackellar?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord knows, madam,” says I, “I have never troubled you +before with any freedoms; but this thing lies too hard upon my conscience, and +it will out. Is it possible that two people can be so blind as you and my lord? +and have lived all these years with a noble gentleman like Mr. Henry, and +understand so little of his nature?” +</p> + +<p> +“What does this mean?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you not know where his money goes to? his—and yours—and +the money for the very wine he does not drink at table?” I went on. +“To Paris—to that man! Eight thousand pounds has he had of us in +seven years, and my patron fool enough to keep it secret!” +</p> + +<p> +“Eight thousand pounds!” she repeated. “It in impossible; the +estate is not sufficient.” +</p> + +<p> +“God knows how we have sweated farthings to produce it,” said I. +“But eight thousand and sixty is the sum, beside odd shillings. And if +you can think my patron miserly after that, this shall be my last +interference.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need say no more, Mr. Mackellar,” said she. “You have +done most properly in what you too modestly call your interference. I am much +to blame; you must think me indeed a very unobservant wife” (looking upon +me with a strange smile), “but I shall put this right at once. The Master +was always of a very thoughtless nature; but his heart is excellent; he is the +soul of generosity. I shall write to him myself. You cannot think how you have +pained me by this communication.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, madam, I had hoped to have pleased you,” said I, for I +raged to see her still thinking of the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“And pleased,” said she, “and pleased me of course.” +</p> + +<p> +That same day (I will not say but what I watched) I had the satisfaction to see +Mr. Henry come from his wife’s room in a state most unlike himself; for +his face was all bloated with weeping, and yet he seemed to me to walk upon the +air. By this, I was sure his wife had made him full amends for once. +“Ah,” thought I to myself, “I have done a brave stroke this +day.” +</p> + +<p> +On the morrow, as I was seated at my books, Mr. Henry came in softly behind me, +took me by the shoulders, and shook me in a manner of playfulness. “I +find you are a faithless fellow after all,” says he, which was his only +reference to my part; but the tone he spoke in was more to me than any +eloquence of protestation. Nor was this all I had effected; for when the next +messenger came (as he did not long afterwards) from the Master, he got nothing +away with him but a letter. For some while back it had been I myself who had +conducted these affairs; Mr. Henry not setting pen to paper, and I only in the +dryest and most formal terms. But this letter I did not even see; it would +scarce be pleasant reading, for Mr. Henry felt he had his wife behind him for +once, and I observed, on the day it was despatched, he had a very gratified +expression. +</p> + +<p> +Things went better now in the family, though it could scarce be pretended they +went well. There was now at least no misconception; there was kindness upon all +sides; and I believe my patron and his wife might again have drawn together if +he could but have pocketed his pride, and she forgot (what was the ground of +all) her brooding on another man. It is wonderful how a private thought leaks +out; it is wonderful to me now how we should all have followed the current of +her sentiments; and though she bore herself quietly, and had a very even +disposition, yet we should have known whenever her fancy ran to Paris. And +would not any one have thought that my disclosure must have rooted up that +idol? I think there is the devil in women: all these years passed, never a +sight of the man, little enough kindness to remember (by all accounts) even +while she had him, the notion of his death intervening, his heartless rapacity +laid bare to her; that all should not do, and she must still keep the best +place in her heart for this accursed fellow, is a thing to make a plain man +rage. I had never much natural sympathy for the passion of love; but this +unreason in my patron’s wife disgusted me outright with the whole matter. +I remember checking a maid because she sang some bairnly kickshaw while my mind +was thus engaged; and my asperity brought about my ears the enmity of all the +petticoats about the house; of which I reeked very little, but it amused Mr. +Henry, who rallied me much upon our joint unpopularity. It is strange enough +(for my own mother was certainly one of the salt of the earth, and my Aunt +Dickson, who paid my fees at the University, a very notable woman), but I have +never had much toleration for the female sex, possibly not much understanding; +and being far from a bold man, I have ever shunned their company. Not only do I +see no cause to regret this diffidence in myself, but have invariably remarked +the most unhappy consequences follow those who were less wise. So much I +thought proper to set down, lest I show myself unjust to Mrs. Henry. And, +besides, the remark arose naturally, on a re-perusal of the letter which was +the next step in these affairs, and reached me, to my sincere astonishment, by +a private hand, some week or so after the departure of the last messenger. +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="right"> +<i>Letter from Colonel</i> <span class="smcap">Burke</span> (<i>afterwards +Chevalier</i>) <i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. Mackellar</span>.<br /> +<span class="smcap">Troyes in Champagne</span>,<br /> +<i>July</i> 12, 1756 +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">My Dear Sir</span>,—You will doubtless be surprised +to receive a communication from one so little known to you; but on the occasion +I had the good fortune to rencounter you at Durrisdeer, I remarked you for a +young man of a solid gravity of character: a qualification which I profess I +admire and revere next to natural genius or the bold chivalrous spirit of the +soldier. I was, besides, interested in the noble family which you have the +honour to serve, or (to speak more by the book) to be the humble and respected +friend of; and a conversation I had the pleasure to have with you very early in +the morning has remained much upon my mind. +</p> + +<p> +Being the other day in Paris, on a visit from this famous city, where I am in +garrison, I took occasion to inquire your name (which I profess I had forgot) +at my friend, the Master of B.; and a fair opportunity occurring, I write to +inform you of what’s new. +</p> + +<p> +The Master of B. (when we had last some talk of him together) was in receipt, +as I think I then told you, of a highly advantageous pension on the Scots Fund. +He next received a company, and was soon after advanced to a regiment of his +own. My dear sir, I do not offer to explain this circumstance; any more than +why I myself, who have rid at the right hand of Princes, should be fubbed off +with a pair of colours and sent to rot in a hole at the bottom of the province. +Accustomed as I am to Courts, I cannot but feel it is no atmosphere for a plain +soldier; and I could never hope to advance by similar means, even could I stoop +to the endeavour. But our friend has a particular aptitude to succeed by the +means of ladies; and if all be true that I have heard, he enjoyed a remarkable +protection. It is like this turned against him; for when I had the honour to +shake him by the hand, he was but newly released from the Bastille, where he +had been cast on a sealed letter; and, though now released, has both lost his +regiment and his pension. My dear sir, the loyalty of a plain Irishman will +ultimately succeed in the place of craft; as I am sure a gentleman of your +probity will agree. +</p> + +<p> +Now, sir, the Master is a man whose genius I admire beyond expression, and, +besides, he is my friend; but I thought a little word of this revolution in his +fortunes would not come amiss, for, in my opinion, the man’s desperate. +He spoke, when I saw him, of a trip to India (whither I am myself in some hope +of accompanying my illustrious countryman, Mr. Lally); but for this he would +require (as I understood) more money than was readily at his command. You may +have heard a military proverb: that it is a good thing to make a bridge of gold +to a flying enemy? I trust you will take my meaning and I subscribe myself, +with proper respects to my Lord Durrisdeer, to his son, and to the beauteous +Mrs. Durie, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +My dear Sir,<br /> +Your obedient humble servant,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Francis Burke</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +This missive I carried at once to Mr. Henry; and I think there was but the one +thought between the two of us: that it had come a week too late. I made haste +to send an answer to Colonel Burke, in which I begged him, if he should see the +Master, to assure him his next messenger would be attended to. But with all my +haste I was not in time to avert what was impending; the arrow had been drawn, +it must now fly. I could almost doubt the power of Providence (and certainly +His will) to stay the issue of events; and it is a strange thought, how many of +us had been storing up the elements of this catastrophe, for how long a time, +and with how blind an ignorance of what we did. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> From the coming of the Colonel’s letter, I had a spyglass +in my room, began to drop questions to the tenant folk, and as there was no +great secrecy observed, and the freetrade (in our part) went by force as much +as stealth, I had soon got together a knowledge of the signals in use, and knew +pretty well to an hour when any messenger might be expected. I say, I +questioned the tenants; for with the traders themselves, desperate blades that +went habitually armed, I could never bring myself to meddle willingly. Indeed, +by what proved in the sequel an unhappy chance, I was an object of scorn to +some of these braggadocios; who had not only gratified me with a nickname, but +catching me one night upon a by-path, and being all (as they would have said) +somewhat merry, had caused me to dance for their diversion. The method employed +was that of cruelly chipping at my toes with naked cutlasses, shouting at the +same time “Square-Toes”; and though they did me no bodily mischief, +I was none the less deplorably affected, and was indeed for several days +confined to my bed: a scandal on the state of Scotland on which no comment is +required. +</p> + +<p> +It happened on the afternoon of November 7th, in this same unfortunate year, +that I espied, during my walk, the smoke of a beacon fire upon the Muckleross. +It was drawing near time for my return; but the uneasiness upon my spirits was +that day so great that I must burst through the thickets to the edge of what +they call the Craig Head. The sun was already down, but there was still a broad +light in the west, which showed me some of the smugglers treading out their +signal fire upon the Ross, and in the bay the lugger lying with her sails +brailed up. She was plainly but new come to anchor, and yet the skiff was +already lowered and pulling for the landing-place at the end of the long +shrubbery. And this I knew could signify but one thing, the coming of a +messenger for Durrisdeer. +</p> + +<p> +I laid aside the remainder of my terrors, clambered down the brae—a place +I had never ventured through before, and was hid among the shore-side thickets +in time to see the boat touch. Captain Crail himself was steering, a thing not +usual; by his side there sat a passenger; and the men gave way with difficulty, +being hampered with near upon half a dozen portmanteaus, great and small. But +the business of landing was briskly carried through; and presently the baggage +was all tumbled on shore, the boat on its return voyage to the lugger, and the +passenger standing alone upon the point of rock, a tall slender figure of a +gentleman, habited in black, with a sword by his side and a walking-cane upon +his wrist. As he so stood, he waved the cane to Captain Crail by way of +salutation, with something both of grace and mockery that wrote the gesture +deeply on my mind. +</p> + +<p> +No sooner was the boat away with my sworn enemies than I took a sort of half +courage, came forth to the margin of the thicket, and there halted again, my +mind being greatly pulled about between natural diffidence and a dark +foreboding of the truth. Indeed, I might have stood there swithering all night, +had not the stranger turned, spied me through the mists, which were beginning +to fall, and waved and cried on me to draw near. I did so with a heart like +lead. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, my good man,” said he, in the English accent, “there +are some things for Durrisdeer.” +</p> + +<p> +I was now near enough to see him, a very handsome figure and countenance, +swarthy, lean, long, with a quick, alert, black look, as of one who was a +fighter, and accustomed to command; upon one cheek he had a mole, not +unbecoming; a large diamond sparkled on his hand; his clothes, although of the +one hue, were of a French and foppish design; his ruffles, which he wore longer +than common, of exquisite lace; and I wondered the more to see him in such a +guise when he was but newly landed from a dirty smuggling lugger. At the same +time he had a better look at me, toised me a second time sharply, and then +smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I wager, my friend,” says he, “that I know both your name +and your nickname. I divined these very clothes upon your hand of writing, Mr. +Mackellar.” +</p> + +<p> +At these words I fell to shaking. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” says he, “you need not be afraid of me. I bear no +malice for your tedious letters; and it is my purpose to employ you a good +deal. You may call me Mr. Bally: it is the name I have assumed; or rather +(since I am addressing so great a precision) it is so I have curtailed my own. +Come now, pick up that and that”—indicating two of the +portmanteaus. “That will be as much as you are fit to bear, and the rest +can very well wait. Come, lose no more time, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +His tone was so cutting that I managed to do as he bid by a sort of instinct, +my mind being all the time quite lost. No sooner had I picked up the +portmanteaus than he turned his back and marched off through the long +shrubbery, where it began already to be dusk, for the wood is thick and +evergreen. I followed behind, loaded almost to the dust, though I profess I was +not conscious of the burthen; being swallowed up in the monstrosity of this +return, and my mind flying like a weaver’s shuttle. +</p> + +<p> +On a sudden I set the portmanteaus to the ground and halted. He turned and +looked back at me. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“You are the Master of Ballantrae?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will do me the justice to observe,” says he, “I have +made no secret with the astute Mackellar.” +</p> + +<p> +“And in the name of God,” cries I, “what brings you here? Go +back, while it is yet time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you,” said he. “Your master has chosen this way, and +not I; but since he has made the choice, he (and you also) must abide by the +result. And now pick up these things of mine, which you have set down in a very +boggy place, and attend to that which I have made your business.” +</p> + +<p> +But I had no thought now of obedience; I came straight up to him. “If +nothing will move you to go back,” said I; “though, sure, under all +the circumstances, any Christian or even any gentleman would scruple to go +forward . . . ” +</p> + +<p> +“These are gratifying expressions,” he threw in. +</p> + +<p> +“If nothing will move you to go back,” I continued, “there +are still some decencies to be observed. Wait here with your baggage, and I +will go forward and prepare your family. Your father is an old man; and . . . +” I stumbled . . . “there are decencies to be observed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Truly,” said he, “this Mackellar improves upon acquaintance. +But look you here, my man, and understand it once for all—you waste your +breath upon me, and I go my own way with inevitable motion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” says I. “Is that so? We shall see then!” +</p> + +<p> +And I turned and took to my heels for Durrisdeer. He clutched at me and cried +out angrily, and then I believe I heard him laugh, and then I am certain he +pursued me for a step or two, and (I suppose) desisted. One thing at least is +sure, that I came but a few minutes later to the door of the great house, +nearly strangled for the lack of breath, but quite alone. Straight up the stair +I ran, and burst into the hall, and stopped before the family without the power +of speech; but I must have carried my story in my looks, for they rose out of +their places and stared on me like changelings. +</p> + +<p> +“He has come,” I panted out at last. +</p> + +<p> +“He?” said Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“Himself,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“My son?” cried my lord. “Imprudent, imprudent boy! Oh, could +he not stay where he was safe!” +</p> + +<p> +Never a word says Mrs. Henry; nor did I look at her, I scarce knew why. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Henry, with a very deep breath, “and where +is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“I left him in the long shrubbery,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Take me to him,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +So we went out together, he and I, without another word from any one; and in +the midst of the gravelled plot encountered the Master strolling up, whistling +as he came, and beating the air with his cane. There was still light enough +overhead to recognise, though not to read, a countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Jacob,” says the Master. “So here is Esau back.” +</p> + +<p> +“James,” says Mr. Henry, “for God’s sake, call me by my +name. I will not pretend that I am glad to see you; but I would fain make you +as welcome as I can in the house of our fathers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or in <i>my</i> house? or <i>yours</i>?” says the Master. +“Which were you about to say? But this is an old sore, and we need not +rub it. If you would not share with me in Paris, I hope you will yet scarce +deny your elder brother a corner of the fire at Durrisdeer?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very idle speech,” replied Mr. Henry. “And you +understand the power of your position excellently well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I believe I do,” said the other with a little laugh. And +this, though they had never touched hands, was (as we may say) the end of the +brothers’ meeting; for at this the Master turned to me and bade me fetch +his baggage. +</p> + +<p> +I, on my side, turned to Mr. Henry for a confirmation; perhaps with some +defiance. +</p> + +<p> +“As long as the Master is here, Mr. Mackellar, you will very much oblige +me by regarding his wishes as you would my own,” says Mr. Henry. +“We are constantly troubling you: will you be so good as send one of the +servants?”—with an accent on the word. +</p> + +<p> +If this speech were anything at all, it was surely a well-deserved reproof upon +the stranger; and yet, so devilish was his impudence, he twisted it the other +way. +</p> + +<p> +“And shall we be common enough to say ‘Sneck up’?” +inquires he softly, looking upon me sideways. +</p> + +<p> +Had a kingdom depended on the act, I could not have trusted myself in words; +even to call a servant was beyond me; I had rather serve the man myself than +speak; and I turned away in silence and went into the long shrubbery, with a +heart full of anger and despair. It was dark under the trees, and I walked +before me and forgot what business I was come upon, till I near broke my shin +on the portmanteaus. Then it was that I remarked a strange particular; for +whereas I had before carried both and scarce observed it, it was now as much as +I could do to manage one. And this, as it forced me to make two journeys, kept +me the longer from the hall. +</p> + +<p> +When I got there, the business of welcome was over long ago; the company was +already at supper; and by an oversight that cut me to the quick, my place had +been forgotten. I had seen one side of the Master’s return; now I was to +see the other. It was he who first remarked my coming in and standing back (as +I did) in some annoyance. He jumped from his seat. +</p> + +<p> +“And if I have not got the good Mackellar’s place!” cries he. +“John, lay another for Mr. Bally; I protest he will disturb no one, and +your table is big enough for all.” +</p> + +<p> +I could scarce credit my ears, nor yet my senses, when he took me by the +shoulders and thrust me, laughing, into my own place—such an affectionate +playfulness was in his voice. And while John laid the fresh place for him (a +thing on which he still insisted), he went and leaned on his father’s +chair and looked down upon him, and the old man turned about and looked upwards +on his son, with such a pleasant mutual tenderness that I could have carried my +hand to my head in mere amazement. +</p> + +<p> +Yet all was of a piece. Never a harsh word fell from him, never a sneer showed +upon his lip. He had laid aside even his cutting English accent, and spoke with +the kindly Scots’ tongue, that set a value on affectionate words; and +though his manners had a graceful elegance mighty foreign to our ways in +Durrisdeer, it was still a homely courtliness, that did not shame but flattered +us. All that, he did throughout the meal, indeed, drinking wine with me with a +notable respect, turning about for a pleasant word with John, fondling his +father’s hand, breaking into little merry tales of his adventures, +calling up the past with happy reference—all he did was so becoming, and +himself so handsome, that I could scarce wonder if my lord and Mrs. Henry sat +about the board with radiant faces, or if John waited behind with dropping +tears. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as supper was over, Mrs. Henry rose to withdraw. +</p> + +<p> +“This was never your way, Alison,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my way now,” she replied: which was notoriously false, +“and I will give you a good-night, James, and a welcome—from the +dead,” said she, and her voice dropped and trembled. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Mr. Henry, who had made rather a heavy figure through the meal, was more +concerned than ever; pleased to see his wife withdraw, and yet half displeased, +as he thought upon the cause of it; and the next moment altogether dashed by +the fervour of her speech. +</p> + +<p> +On my part, I thought I was now one too many; and was stealing after Mrs. +Henry, when the Master saw me. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Mackellar,” says he, “I take this near on an +unfriendliness. I cannot have you go: this is to make a stranger of the +prodigal son; and let me remind you where—in his own father’s +house! Come, sit ye down, and drink another glass with Mr. Bally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, Mr. Mackellar,” says my lord, “we must not make a +stranger either of him or you. I have been telling my son,” he added, his +voice brightening as usual on the word, “how much we valued all your +friendly service.” +</p> + +<p> +So I sat there, silent, till my usual hour; and might have been almost deceived +in the man’s nature but for one passage, in which his perfidy appeared +too plain. Here was the passage; of which, after what he knows of the +brothers’ meeting, the reader shall consider for himself. Mr. Henry +sitting somewhat dully, in spite of his best endeavours to carry things before +my lord, up jumps the Master, passes about the board, and claps his brother on +the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, <i>Hairry lad</i>,” says he, with a broad accent such +as they must have used together when they were boys, “you must not be +downcast because your brother has come home. All’s yours, that’s +sure enough, and little I grudge it you. Neither must you grudge me my place +beside my father’s fire.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is too true, Henry,” says my old lord with a little +frown, a thing rare with him. “You have been the elder brother of the +parable in the good sense; you must be careful of the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am easily put in the wrong,” said Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“Who puts you in the wrong?” cried my lord, I thought very tartly +for so mild a man. “You have earned my gratitude and your brother’s +many thousand times: you may count on its endurance; and let that +suffice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, Harry, that you may,” said the Master; and I thought Mr. Henry +looked at him with a kind of wildness in his eye. +</p> + +<p> +On all the miserable business that now followed, I have four questions that I +asked myself often at the time and ask myself still:—Was the man moved by +a particular sentiment against Mr. Henry? or by what he thought to be his +interest? or by a mere delight in cruelty such as cats display and theologians +tell us of the devil? or by what he would have called love? My common opinion +halts among the three first; but perhaps there lay at the spring of his +behaviour an element of all. As thus:—Animosity to Mr. Henry would +explain his hateful usage of him when they were alone; the interests he came to +serve would explain his very different attitude before my lord; that and some +spice of a design of gallantry, his care to stand well with Mrs. Henry; and the +pleasure of malice for itself, the pains he was continually at to mingle and +oppose these lines of conduct. +</p> + +<p> +Partly because I was a very open friend to my patron, partly because in my +letters to Paris I had often given myself some freedom of remonstrance, I was +included in his diabolical amusement. When I was alone with him, he pursued me +with sneers; before the family he used me with the extreme of friendly +condescension. This was not only painful in itself; not only did it put me +continually in the wrong; but there was in it an element of insult +indescribable. That he should thus leave me out in his dissimulation, as though +even my testimony were too despicable to be considered, galled me to the blood. +But what it was to me is not worth notice. I make but memorandum of it here; +and chiefly for this reason, that it had one good result, and gave me the +quicker sense of Mr. Henry’s martyrdom. +</p> + +<p> +It was on him the burthen fell. How was he to respond to the public advances of +one who never lost a chance of gibing him in private? How was he to smile back +on the deceiver and the insulter? He was condemned to seem ungracious. He was +condemned to silence. Had he been less proud, had he spoken, who would have +credited the truth? The acted calumny had done its work; my lord and Mrs. Henry +were the daily witnesses of what went on; they could have sworn in court that +the Master was a model of long-suffering good-nature, and Mr. Henry a pattern +of jealousy and thanklessness. And ugly enough as these must have appeared in +any one, they seemed tenfold uglier in Mr. Henry; for who could forget that the +Master lay in peril of his life, and that he had already lost his mistress, his +title, and his fortune? +</p> + +<p> +“Henry, will you ride with me?” asks the Master one day. +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Henry, who had been goaded by the man all morning, raps out: “I +will not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I sometimes wish you would be kinder, Henry,” says the other, +wistfully. +</p> + +<p> +I give this for a specimen; but such scenes befell continually. Small wonder if +Mr. Henry was blamed; small wonder if I fretted myself into something near upon +a bilious fever; nay, and at the mere recollection feel a bitterness in my +blood. +</p> + +<p> +Sure, never in this world was a more diabolical contrivance: so perfidious, so +simple, so impossible to combat. And yet I think again, and I think always, +Mrs. Henry might have read between the lines; she might have had more knowledge +of her husband’s nature; after all these years of marriage she might have +commanded or captured his confidence. And my old lord, too—that very +watchful gentleman—where was all his observation? But, for one thing, the +deceit was practised by a master hand, and might have gulled an angel. For +another (in the case of Mrs. Henry), I have observed there are no persons so +far away as those who are both married and estranged, so that they seem out of +ear-shot or to have no common tongue. For a third (in the case of both of these +spectators), they were blinded by old ingrained predilection. And for a fourth, +the risk the Master was supposed to stand in (supposed, I say—you will +soon hear why) made it seem the more ungenerous to criticise; and, keeping them +in a perpetual tender solicitude about his life, blinded them the more +effectually to his faults. +</p> + +<p> +It was during this time that I perceived most clearly the effect of manner, and +was led to lament most deeply the plainness of my own. Mr. Henry had the +essence of a gentleman; when he was moved, when there was any call of +circumstance, he could play his part with dignity and spirit; but in the +day’s commerce (it is idle to deny it) he fell short of the ornamental. +The Master (on the other hand) had never a movement but it commanded him. So it +befell that when the one appeared gracious and the other ungracious, every +trick of their bodies seemed to call out confirmation. Not that alone: but the +more deeply Mr. Henry floundered in his brother’s toils, the more +clownish he grew; and the more the Master enjoyed his spiteful entertainment, +the more engagingly, the more smilingly, he went! So that the plot, by its own +scope and progress, furthered and confirmed itself. +</p> + +<p> +It was one of the man’s arts to use the peril in which (as I say) he was +supposed to stand. He spoke of it to those who loved him with a gentle +pleasantry, which made it the more touching. To Mr. Henry he used it as a cruel +weapon of offence. I remember his laying his finger on the clean lozenge of the +painted window one day when we three were alone together in the hall. +“Here went your lucky guinea, Jacob,” said he. And when Mr. Henry +only looked upon him darkly, “Oh!” he added, “you need not +look such impotent malice, my good fly. You can be rid of your spider when you +please. How long, O Lord? When are you to be wrought to the point of a +denunciation, scrupulous brother? It is one of my interests in this dreary +hole. I ever loved experiment.” Still Mr. Henry only stared upon him with +a grooming brow, and a changed colour; and at last the Master broke out in a +laugh and clapped him on the shoulder, calling him a sulky dog. At this my +patron leaped back with a gesture I thought very dangerous; and I must suppose +the Master thought so too, for he looked the least in the world discountenance, +and I do not remember him again to have laid hands on Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +But though he had his peril always on his lips in the one way or the other, I +thought his conduct strangely incautious, and began to fancy the +Government—who had set a price upon his head—was gone sound asleep. +I will not deny I was tempted with the wish to denounce him; but two thoughts +withheld me: one, that if he were thus to end his life upon an honourable +scaffold, the man would be canonised for good in the minds of his father and my +patron’s wife; the other, that if I was anyway mingled in the matter, Mr. +Henry himself would scarce escape some glancings of suspicion. And in the +meanwhile our enemy went in and out more than I could have thought possible, +the fact that he was home again was buzzed about all the country-side, and yet +he was never stirred. Of all these so-many and so-different persons who were +acquainted with his presence, none had the least greed—as I used to say +in my annoyance—or the least loyalty; and the man rode here and +there—fully more welcome, considering the lees of old unpopularity, than +Mr. Henry—and considering the freetraders, far safer than myself. +</p> + +<p> +Not but what he had a trouble of his own; and this, as it brought about the +gravest consequences, I must now relate. The reader will scarce have forgotten +Jessie Broun; her way of life was much among the smuggling party; Captain Crail +himself was of her intimates; and she had early word of Mr. Bally’s +presence at the house. In my opinion, she had long ceased to care two straws +for the Master’s person; but it was become her habit to connect herself +continually with the Master’s name; that was the ground of all her +play-acting; and so now, when he was back, she thought she owed it to herself +to grow a haunter of the neighbourhood of Durrisdeer. The Master could scarce +go abroad but she was there in wait for him; a scandalous figure of a woman, +not often sober; hailing him wildly as “her bonny laddie,” quoting +pedlar’s poetry, and, as I receive the story, even seeking to weep upon +his neck. I own I rubbed my hands over this persecution; but the Master, who +laid so much upon others, was himself the least patient of men. There were +strange scenes enacted in the policies. Some say he took his cane to her, and +Jessie fell back upon her former weapons—stones. It is certain at least +that he made a motion to Captain Crail to have the woman trepanned, and that +the Captain refused the proposition with uncommon vehemence. And the end of the +matter was victory for Jessie. Money was got together; an interview took place, +in which my proud gentleman must consent to be kissed and wept upon; and the +woman was set up in a public of her own, somewhere on Solway side (but I forget +where), and, by the only news I ever had of it, extremely ill-frequented. +</p> + +<p> +This is to look forward. After Jessie had been but a little while upon his +heels, the Master comes to me one day in the steward’s office, and with +more civility than usual, “Mackellar,” says he, “there is a +damned crazy wench comes about here. I cannot well move in the matter myself, +which brings me to you. Be so good as to see to it: the men must have a strict +injunction to drive the wench away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said I, trembling a little, “you can do your own dirty +errands for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He said not a word to that, and left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Presently came Mr. Henry. “Here is news!” cried he. “It seems +all is not enough, and you must add to my wretchedness. It seems you have +insulted Mr. Bally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Under your kind favour, Mr. Henry,” said I, “it was he that +insulted me, and, as I think, grossly. But I may have been careless of your +position when I spoke; and if you think so when you know all, my dear patron, +you have but to say the word. For you I would obey in any point whatever, even +to sin, God pardon me!” And thereupon I told him what had passed. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry smiled to himself; a grimmer smile I never witnessed. “You did +exactly well,” said he. “He shall drink his Jessie Broun to the +dregs.” And then, spying the Master outside, he opened the window, and +crying to him by the name of Mr. Bally, asked him to step up and have a word. +</p> + +<p> +“James,” said he, when our persecutor had come in and closed the +door behind him, looking at me with a smile, as if he thought I was to be +humbled, “you brought me a complaint against Mr. Mackellar, into which I +have inquired. I need not tell you I would always take his word against yours; +for we are alone, and I am going to use something of your own freedom. Mr. +Mackellar is a gentleman I value; and you must contrive, so long as you are +under this roof, to bring yourself into no more collisions with one whom I will +support at any possible cost to me or mine. As for the errand upon which you +came to him, you must deliver yourself from the consequences of your own +cruelty, and, none of my servants shall be at all employed in such a +case.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father’s servants, I believe,” says the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“Go to him with this tale,” said Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +The Master grew very white. He pointed at me with his finger. “I want +that man discharged,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“He shall not be,” said Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall pay pretty dear for this,” says the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“I have paid so dear already for a wicked brother,” said Mr. Henry, +“that I am bankrupt even of fears. You have no place left where you can +strike me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will show you about that,” says the Master, and went softly +away. +</p> + +<p> +“What will he do next, Mackellar?” cries Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go away,” said I. “My dear patron, let me go away; I +am but the beginning of fresh sorrows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you leave me quite alone?” said he. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> We were not long in suspense as to the nature of the new +assault. Up to that hour the Master had played a very close game with Mrs. +Henry; avoiding pointedly to be alone with her, which I took at the time for an +effect of decency, but now think to be a most insidious art; meeting her, you +may say, at meal-time only; and behaving, when he did so, like an affectionate +brother. Up to that hour, you may say he had scarce directly interfered between +Mr. Henry and his wife; except in so far as he had manoeuvred the one quite +forth from the good graces of the other. Now all that was to be changed; but +whether really in revenge, or because he was wearying of Durrisdeer and looked +about for some diversion, who but the devil shall decide? +</p> + +<p> +From that hour, at least, began the siege of Mrs. Henry; a thing so deftly +carried on that I scarce know if she was aware of it herself, and that her +husband must look on in silence. The first parallel was opened (as was made to +appear) by accident. The talk fell, as it did often, on the exiles in France; +so it glided to the matter of their songs. +</p> + +<p> +“There is one,” says the Master, “if you are curious in these +matters, that has always seemed to me very moving. The poetry is harsh; and +yet, perhaps because of my situation, it has always found the way to my heart. +It is supposed to be sung, I should tell you, by an exile’s sweetheart; +and represents perhaps, not so much the truth of what she is thinking, as the +truth of what he hopes of her, poor soul! in these far lands.” And here +the Master sighed, “I protest it is a pathetic sight when a score of +rough Irish, all common sentinels, get to this song; and you may see, by their +falling tears, how it strikes home to them. It goes thus, father,” says +he, very adroitly taking my lord for his listener, “and if I cannot get +to the end of it, you must think it is a common case with us exiles.” And +thereupon he struck up the same air as I had heard the Colonel whistle; but now +to words, rustic indeed, yet most pathetically setting forth a poor +girl’s aspirations for an exiled lover; of which one verse indeed (or +something like it) still sticks by me:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +O, I will dye my petticoat red,<br /> +With my dear boy I’ll beg my bread,<br /> +Though all my friends should wish me dead,<br /> + For Willie among the rushes, O! +</p> + +<p> +He sang it well, even as a song; but he did better yet a performer. I have +heard famous actors, when there was not a dry eye in the Edinburgh theatre; a +great wonder to behold; but no more wonderful than how the Master played upon +that little ballad, and on those who heard him, like an instrument, and seemed +now upon the point of failing, and now to conquer his distress, so that words +and music seemed to pour out of his own heart and his own past, and to be aimed +directly at Mrs. Henry. And his art went further yet; for all was so delicately +touched, it seemed impossible to suspect him of the least design; and so far +from making a parade of emotion, you would have sworn he was striving to be +calm. When it came to an end, we all sat silent for a time; he had chosen the +dusk of the afternoon, so that none could see his neighbour’s face; but +it seemed as if we held our breathing; only my old lord cleared his throat. The +first to move was the singer, who got to his feet suddenly and softly, and went +and walked softly to and fro in the low end of the hall, Mr. Henry’s +customary place. We were to suppose that he there struggled down the last of +his emotion; for he presently returned and launched into a disquisition on the +nature of the Irish (always so much miscalled, and whom he defended) in his +natural voice; so that, before the lights were brought, we were in the usual +course of talk. But even then, methought Mrs. Henry’s face was a shade +pale; and, for another thing, she withdrew almost at once. +</p> + +<p> +The next sign was a friendship this insidious devil struck up with innocent +Miss Katharine; so that they were always together, hand in hand, or she +climbing on his knee, like a pair of children. Like all his diabolical acts, +this cut in several ways. It was the last stroke to Mr. Henry, to see his own +babe debauched against him; it made him harsh with the poor innocent, which +brought him still a peg lower in his wife’s esteem; and (to conclude) it +was a bond of union between the lady and the Master. Under this influence, +their old reserve melted by daily stages. Presently there came walks in the +long shrubbery, talks in the Belvedere, and I know not what tender familiarity. +I am sure Mrs. Henry was like many a good woman; she had a whole conscience but +perhaps by the means of a little winking. For even to so dull an observer as +myself, it was plain her kindness was of a more moving nature than the +sisterly. The tones of her voice appeared more numerous; she had a light and +softness in her eye; she was more gentle with all of us, even with Mr. Henry, +even with myself; methought she breathed of some quiet melancholy happiness. +</p> + +<p> +To look on at this, what a torment it was for Mr. Henry! And yet it brought our +ultimate deliverance, as I am soon to tell. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> The purport of the Master’s stay was no more noble (gild +it as they might) than to wring money out. He had some design of a fortune in +the French Indies, as the Chevalier wrote me; and it was the sum required for +this that he came seeking. For the rest of the family it spelled ruin; but my +lord, in his incredible partiality, pushed ever for the granting. The family +was now so narrowed down (indeed, there were no more of them than just the +father and the two sons) that it was possible to break the entail and alienate +a piece of land. And to this, at first by hints, and then by open pressure, Mr. +Henry was brought to consent. He never would have done so, I am very well +assured, but for the weight of the distress under which he laboured. But for +his passionate eagerness to see his brother gone, he would not thus have broken +with his own sentiment and the traditions of his house. And even so, he sold +them his consent at a dear rate, speaking for once openly, and holding the +business up in its own shameful colours. +</p> + +<p> +“You will observe,” he said, “this is an injustice to my son, +if ever I have one.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that you are not likely to have,” said my lord. +</p> + +<p> +“God knows!” says Mr. Henry. “And considering the cruel +falseness of the position in which I stand to my brother, and that you, my +lord, are my father, and have the right to command me, I set my hand to this +paper. But one thing I will say first: I have been ungenerously pushed, and +when next, my lord, you are tempted to compare your sons, I call on you to +remember what I have done and what he has done. Acts are the fair test.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord was the most uneasy man I ever saw; even in his old face the blood came +up. “I think this is not a very wisely chosen moment, Henry, for +complaints,” said he. “This takes away from the merit of your +generosity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not deceive yourself, my lord,” said Mr. Henry. “This +injustice is not done from generosity to him, but in obedience to +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before strangers . . . ” begins my lord, still more unhappily +affected. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no one but Mackellar here,” said Mr. Henry; “he is +my friend. And, my lord, as you make him no stranger to your frequent blame, it +were hard if I must keep him one to a thing so rare as my defence.” +</p> + +<p> +Almost I believe my lord would have rescinded his decision; but the Master was +on the watch. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Henry, Henry,” says he, “you are the best of us still. +Rugged and true! Ah! man, I wish I was as good.” +</p> + +<p> +And at that instance of his favourite’s generosity my lord desisted from +his hesitation, and the deed was signed. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as it could he brought about, the land of Ochterhall was sold for much +below its value, and the money paid over to our leech and sent by some private +carriage into France. Or so he said; though I have suspected since it did not +go so far. And now here was all the man’s business brought to a +successful head, and his pockets once more bulging with our gold; and yet the +point for which we had consented to this sacrifice was still denied us, and the +visitor still lingered on at Durrisdeer. Whether in malice, or because the time +was not yet come for his adventure to the Indies, or because he had hopes of +his design on Mrs. Henry, or from the orders of the Government, who shall say? +but linger he did, and that for weeks. +</p> + +<p> +You will observe I say: from the orders of Government; for about this time the +man’s disreputable secret trickled out. +</p> + +<p> +The first hint I had was from a tenant, who commented on the Master’s +stay, and yet more on his security; for this tenant was a Jacobitish +sympathiser, and had lost a son at Culloden, which gave him the more critical +eye. “There is one thing,” said he, “that I cannot but think +strange; and that is how he got to Cockermouth.” +</p> + +<p> +“To Cockermouth?” said I, with a sudden memory of my first wonder +on beholding the man disembark so point-de-vice after so long a voyage. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes,” says the tenant, “it was there he was picked up +by Captain Crail. You thought he had come from France by sea? And so we all +did.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned this news a little in my head, and then carried it to Mr. Henry. +“Here is an odd circumstance,” said I, and told him. +</p> + +<p> +“What matters how he came, Mackellar, so long as he is here?” +groans Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said I, “but think again! Does not this smack a +little of some Government connivance? You know how much we have wondered +already at the man’s security.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop,” said Mr. Henry. “Let me think of this.” And as +he thought, there came that grim smile upon his face that was a little like the +Master’s. “Give me paper,” said he. And he sat without +another word and wrote to a gentleman of his acquaintance—I will name no +unnecessary names, but he was one in a high place. This letter I despatched by +the only hand I could depend upon in such a case—Macconochie’s; and +the old man rode hard, for he was back with the reply before even my eagerness +had ventured to expect him. Again, as he read it, Mr. Henry had the same grim +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the best you have done for me yet, Mackellar,” says he. +“With this in my hand I will give him a shog. Watch for us at +dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +At dinner accordingly Mr. Henry proposed some very public appearance for the +Master; and my lord, as he had hoped, objected to the danger of the course. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” says Mr. Henry, very easily, “you need no longer keep +this up with me. I am as much in the secret as yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the secret?” says my lord. “What do you mean, Henry? I +give you my word, I am in no secret from which you are excluded.” +</p> + +<p> +The Master had changed countenance, and I saw he was struck in a joint of his +harness. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” says Mr. Henry, turning to him with a huge appearance of +surprise. “I see you serve your masters very faithfully; but I had +thought you would have been humane enough to set your father’s mind at +rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you talking of? I refuse to have my business publicly +discussed. I order this to cease,” cries the Master very foolishly and +passionately, and indeed more like a child than a man. +</p> + +<p> +“So much discretion was not looked for at your hands, I can assure +you,” continued Mr. Henry. “For see what my correspondent +writes”—unfolding the paper—“‘It is, of course, +in the interests both of the Government and the gentleman whom we may perhaps +best continue to call Mr. Bally, to keep this understanding secret; but it was +never meant his own family should continue to endure the suspense you paint so +feelingly; and I am pleased mine should be the hand to set these fears at rest. +Mr. Bally is as safe in Great Britain as yourself.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this possible?” cries my lord, looking at his son, with a great +deal of wonder and still more of suspicion in his face. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear father,” says the Master, already much recovered. “I +am overjoyed that this may be disclosed. My own instructions, direct from +London, bore a very contrary sense, and I was charged to keep the indulgence +secret from every one, yourself not excepted, and indeed yourself expressly +named—as I can show in black and white unless I have destroyed the +letter. They must have changed their mind very swiftly, for the whole matter is +still quite fresh; or rather, Henry’s correspondent must have +misconceived that part, as he seems to have misconceived the rest. To tell you +the truth, sir,” he continued, getting visibly more easy, “I had +supposed this unexplained favour to a rebel was the effect of some application +from yourself; and the injunction to secrecy among my family the result of a +desire on your part to conceal your kindness. Hence I was the more careful to +obey orders. It remains now to guess by what other channel indulgence can have +flowed on so notorious an offender as myself; for I do not think your son need +defend himself from what seems hinted at in Henry’s letter. I have never +yet heard of a Durrisdeer who was a turncoat or a spy,” says he, proudly. +</p> + +<p> +And so it seemed he had swum out of this danger unharmed; but this was to +reckon without a blunder he had made, and without the pertinacity of Mr. Henry, +who was now to show he had something of his brother’s spirit. +</p> + +<p> +“You say the matter is still fresh,” says Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“It is recent,” says the Master, with a fair show of stoutness and +yet not without a quaver. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it so recent as that?” asks Mr. Henry, like a man a little +puzzled, and spreading his letter forth again. +</p> + +<p> +In all the letter there was no word as to the date; but how was the Master to +know that? +</p> + +<p> +“It seemed to come late enough for me,” says he, with a laugh. And +at the sound of that laugh, which rang false, like a cracked bell, my lord +looked at him again across the table, and I saw his old lips draw together +close. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mr. Henry, still glancing on his letter, “but I +remember your expression. You said it was very fresh.” +</p> + +<p> +And here we had a proof of our victory, and the strongest instance yet of my +lord’s incredible indulgence; for what must he do but interfere to save +his favourite from exposure! +</p> + +<p> +“I think, Henry,” says he, with a kind of pitiful eagerness, +“I think we need dispute no more. We are all rejoiced at last to find +your brother safe; we are all at one on that; and, as grateful subjects, we can +do no less than drink to the king’s health and bounty.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus was the Master extricated; but at least he had been put to his defence, he +had come lamely out, and the attraction of his personal danger was now publicly +plucked away from him. My lord, in his heart of hearts, now knew his favourite +to be a Government spy; and Mrs. Henry (however she explained the tale) was +notably cold in her behaviour to the discredited hero of romance. Thus in the +best fabric of duplicity, there is some weak point, if you can strike it, which +will loosen all; and if, by this fortunate stroke, we had not shaken the idol, +who can say how it might have gone with us at the catastrophe? +</p> + +<p> +And yet at the time we seemed to have accomplished nothing. Before a day or two +he had wiped off the ill-results of his discomfiture, and, to all appearance, +stood as high as ever. As for my Lord Durrisdeer, he was sunk in parental +partiality; it was not so much love, which should be an active quality, as an +apathy and torpor of his other powers; and forgiveness (so to mis-apply a noble +word) flowed from him in sheer weakness, like the tears of senility. Mrs. +Henry’s was a different case; and Heaven alone knows what he found to say +to her, or how he persuaded her from her contempt. It is one of the worst +things of sentiment, that the voice grows to be more important than the words, +and the speaker than that which is spoken. But some excuse the Master must have +found, or perhaps he had even struck upon some art to wrest this exposure to +his own advantage; for after a time of coldness, it seemed as if things went +worse than ever between him and Mrs. Henry. They were then constantly together. +I would not be thought to cut one shadow of blame, beyond what is due to a +half-wilful blindness, on that unfortunate lady; but I do think, in these last +days, she was playing very near the fire; and whether I be wrong or not in +that, one thing is sure and quite sufficient: Mr. Henry thought so. The poor +gentleman sat for days in my room, so great a picture of distress that I could +never venture to address him; yet it is to be thought he found some comfort +even in my presence and the knowledge of my sympathy. There were times, too, +when we talked, and a strange manner of talk it was; there was never a person +named, nor an individual circumstance referred to; yet we had the same matter +in our minds, and we were each aware of it. It is a strange art that can thus +be practised; to talk for hours of a thing, and never name nor yet so much as +hint at it. And I remember I wondered if it was by some such natural skill that +the Master made love to Mrs. Henry all day long (as he manifestly did), yet +never startled her into reserve. +</p> + +<p> +To show how far affairs had gone with Mr. Henry, I will give some words of his, +uttered (as I have cause not to forget) upon the 26th of February, 1757. It was +unseasonable weather, a cast back into Winter: windless, bitter cold, the world +all white with rime, the sky low and gray: the sea black and silent like a +quarry-hole. Mr. Henry sat close by the fire, and debated (as was now common +with him) whether “a man” should “do things,” whether +“interference was wise,” and the like general propositions, which +each of us particularly applied. I was by the window, looking out, when there +passed below me the Master, Mrs. Henry, and Miss Katharine, that now constant +trio. The child was running to and fro, delighted with the frost; the Master +spoke close in the lady’s ear with what seemed (even from so far) a +devilish grace of insinuation; and she on her part looked on the ground like a +person lost in listening. I broke out of my reserve. +</p> + +<p> +“If I were you, Mr. Henry,” said I, “I would deal openly with +my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mackellar, Mackellar,” said he, “you do not see the weakness +of my ground. I can carry no such base thoughts to any one—to my father +least of all; that would be to fall into the bottom of his scorn. The weakness +of my ground,” he continued, “lies in myself, that I am not one who +engages love. I have their gratitude, they all tell me that; I have a rich +estate of it! But I am not present in their minds; they are moved neither to +think with me nor to think for me. There is my loss!” He got to his feet, +and trod down the fire. “But some method must be found, Mackellar,” +said he, looking at me suddenly over his shoulder; “some way must be +found. I am a man of a great deal of patience—far too much—far too +much. I begin to despise myself. And yet, sure, never was a man involved in +such a toil!” He fell back to his brooding. +</p> + +<p> +“Cheer up,” said I. “It will burst of itself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am far past anger now,” says he, which had so little coherency +with my own observation that I let both fall. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /> +ACCOUNT OF ALL THAT PASSED ON THE NIGHT ON FEBRUARY 27TH, 1757.</h2> + +<p> +On the evening of the interview referred to, the Master went abroad; he was +abroad a great deal of the next day also, that fatal 27th; but where he went, +or what he did, we never concerned ourselves to ask until next day. If we had +done so, and by any chance found out, it might have changed all. But as all we +did was done in ignorance, and should be so judged, I shall so narrate these +passages as they appeared to us in the moment of their birth, and reserve all +that I since discovered for the time of its discovery. For I have now come to +one of the dark parts of my narrative, and must engage the reader’s +indulgence for my patron. +</p> + +<p> +All the 27th that rigorous weather endured: a stifling cold; the folk passing +about like smoking chimneys; the wide hearth in the hall piled high with fuel; +some of the spring birds that had already blundered north into our +neighbourhood, besieging the windows of the house or trotting on the frozen +turf like things distracted. About noon there came a blink of sunshine, showing +a very pretty, wintry, frosty landscape of white hills and woods, with +Crail’s lugger waiting for a wind under the Craig Head, and the smoke +mounting straight into the air from every farm and cottage. With the coming of +night, the haze closed in overhead; it fell dark and still and starless, and +exceeding cold: a night the most unseasonable, fit for strange events. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henry withdrew, as was now her custom, very early. We had set ourselves of +late to pass the evening with a game of cards; another mark that our visitor +was wearying mightily of the life at Durrisdeer; and we had not been long at +this when my old lord slipped from his place beside the fire, and was off +without a word to seek the warmth of bed. The three thus left together had +neither love nor courtesy to share; not one of us would have sat up one instant +to oblige another; yet from the influence of custom, and as the cards had just +been dealt, we continued the form of playing out the round. I should say we +were late sitters; and though my lord had departed earlier than was his custom, +twelve was already gone some time upon the clock, and the servants long ago in +bed. Another thing I should say, that although I never saw the Master anyway +affected with liquor, he had been drinking freely, and was perhaps (although he +showed it not) a trifle heated. +</p> + +<p> +Anyway, he now practised one of his transitions; and so soon as the door closed +behind my lord, and without the smallest change of voice, shifted from ordinary +civil talk into a stream of insult. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Henry, it is yours to play,” he had been saying, and now +continued: “It is a very strange thing how, even in so small a matter as +a game of cards, you display your rusticity. You play, Jacob, like a bonnet +laird, or a sailor in a tavern. The same dulness, the same petty greed, +<i>cette lenteur d’hebété qui me fait rager</i>; it is +strange I should have such a brother. Even Square-toes has a certain vivacity +when his stake is imperilled; but the dreariness of a game with you I +positively lack language to depict.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry continued to look at his cards, as though very maturely considering +some play; but his mind was elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear God, will this never be done?” cries the Master. +“<i>Quel lourdeau</i>! But why do I trouble you with French expressions, +which are lost on such an ignoramus? A <i>lourdeau</i>, my dear brother, is as +we might say a bumpkin, a clown, a clodpole: a fellow without grace, lightness, +quickness; any gift of pleasing, any natural brilliancy: such a one as you +shall see, when you desire, by looking in the mirror. I tell you these things +for your good, I assure you; and besides, Square-toes” (looking at me and +stifling a yawn), “it is one of my diversions in this very dreary spot to +toast you and your master at the fire like chestnuts. I have great pleasure in +your case, for I observe the nickname (rustic as it is) has always the power to +make you writhe. But sometimes I have more trouble with this dear fellow here, +who seems to have gone to sleep upon his cards. Do you not see the +applicability of the epithet I have just explained, dear Henry? Let me show +you. For instance, with all those solid qualities which I delight to recognise +in you, I never knew a woman who did not prefer me—nor, I think,” +he continued, with the most silken deliberation, “I think—who did +not continue to prefer me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henry laid down his cards. He rose to his feet very softly, and seemed all +the while like a person in deep thought. “You coward!” he said +gently, as if to himself. And then, with neither hurry nor any particular +violence, he struck the Master in the mouth. +</p> + +<p> +The Master sprang to his feet like one transfigured; I had never seen the man +so beautiful. “A blow!” he cried. “I would not take a blow +from God Almighty!” +</p> + +<p> +“Lower your voice,” said Mr. Henry. “Do you wish my father to +interfere for you again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” I cried, and sought to come between them. +</p> + +<p> +The Master caught me by the shoulder, held me at arm’s length, and still +addressing his brother: “Do you know what this means?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“It was the most deliberate act of my life,” says Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“I must have blood, I must have blood for this,” says the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“Please God it shall be yours,” said Mr. Henry; and he went to the +wall and took down a pair of swords that hung there with others, naked. These +he presented to the Master by the points. “Mackellar shall see us play +fair,” said Mr. Henry. “I think it very needful.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need insult me no more,” said the Master, taking one of the +swords at random. “I have hated you all my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father is but newly gone to bed,” said Mr. Henry. “We +must go somewhere forth of the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is an excellent place in the long shrubbery,” said the +Master. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” said I, “shame upon you both! Sons of the same +mother, would you turn against the life she gave you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Even so, Mackellar,” said Mr. Henry, with the same perfect +quietude of manner he had shown throughout. +</p> + +<p> +“It is what I will prevent,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +And now here is a blot upon my life. At these words of mine the Master turned +his blade against my bosom; I saw the light run along the steel; and I threw up +my arms and fell to my knees before him on the floor. “No, no,” I +cried, like a baby. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall have no more trouble with him,” said the Master. +“It is a good thing to have a coward in the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“We must have light,” said Mr. Henry, as though there had been no +interruption. +</p> + +<p> +“This trembler can bring a pair of candles,” said the Master. +</p> + +<p> +To my shame be it said, I was still so blinded with the flashing of that bare +sword that I volunteered to bring a lantern. +</p> + +<p> +“We do not need a l-l-lantern,” says the Master, mocking me. +“There is no breath of air. Come, get to your feet, take a pair of +lights, and go before. I am close behind with this—” making. the +blade glitter as he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +I took up the candlesticks and went before them, steps that I would give my +hand to recall; but a coward is a slave at the best; and even as I went, my +teeth smote each other in my mouth. It was as he had said: there was no breath +stirring; a windless stricture of frost had bound the air; and as we went forth +in the shine of the candles, the blackness was like a roof over our heads. +Never a word was said; there was never a sound but the creaking of our steps +along the frozen path. The cold of the night fell about me like a bucket of +water; I shook as I went with more than terror; but my companions, bare-headed +like myself, and fresh from the warm ball, appeared not even conscious of the +change. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is the place,” said the Master. “Set down the +candles.” +</p> + +<p> +I did as he bid me, and presently the flames went up, as steady as in a +chamber, in the midst of the frosted trees, and I beheld these two brothers +take their places. +</p> + +<p> +“The light is something in my eyes,” said the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“I will give you every advantage,” replied Mr. Henry, shifting his +ground, “for I think you are about to die.” He spoke rather sadly +than otherwise, yet there was a ring in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Henry Durie,” said the Master, “two words before I begin. +You are a fencer, you can hold a foil; you little know what a change it makes +to hold a sword! And by that I know you are to fall. But see how strong is my +situation! If you fall, I shift out of this country to where my money is before +me. If I fall, where are you? My father, your wife—who is in love with +me, as you very well know—your child even, who prefers me to +yourself:—how will these avenge me! Had you thought of that, dear +Henry?” He looked at his brother with a smile; then made a fencing-room +salute. +</p> + +<p> +Never a word said Mr. Henry, but saluted too, and the swords rang together. +</p> + +<p> +I am no judge of the play; my head, besides, was gone with cold and fear and +horror; but it seems that Mr. Henry took and kept the upper hand from the +engagement, crowding in upon his foe with a contained and glowing fury. Nearer +and nearer he crept upon the man, till of a sudden the Master leaped back with +a little sobbing oath; and I believe the movement brought the light once more +against his eyes. To it they went again, on the fresh ground; but now methought +closer, Mr. Henry pressing more outrageously, the Master beyond doubt with +shaken confidence. For it is beyond doubt he now recognised himself for lost, +and had some taste of the cold agony of fear; or he had never attempted the +foul stroke. I cannot say I followed it, my untrained eye was never quick +enough to seize details, but it appears he caught his brother’s blade +with his left hand, a practice not permitted. Certainly Mr. Henry only saved +himself by leaping on one side; as certainly the Master, lunging in the air, +stumbled on his knee, and before he could move the sword was through his body. +</p> + +<p> +I cried out with a stifled scream, and ran in; but the body was already fallen +to the ground, where it writhed a moment like a trodden worm, and then lay +motionless. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at his left hand,” said Mr. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all bloody,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“On the inside?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“It is cut on the inside,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought so,” said he, and turned his back. +</p> + +<p> +I opened the man’s clothes; the heart was quite still, it gave not a +flutter. +</p> + +<p> +“God forgive us, Mr. Henry!” said I. “He is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead?” he repeated, a little stupidly; and then with a rising +tone, “Dead? dead?” says he, and suddenly cast his bloody sword +upon the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“What must we do?” said I. “Be yourself, sir. It is too late +now: you must be yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned and stared at me. “Oh, Mackellar!” says he, and put his +face in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +I plucked him by the coat. “For God’s sake, for all our sakes, be +more courageous!” said I. “What must we do?” +</p> + +<p> +He showed me his face with the same stupid stare. +</p> + +<p> +“Do?” says he. And with that his eye fell on the body, and +“Oh!” he cries out, with his hand to his brow, as if he had never +remembered; and, turning from me, made off towards the house of Durrisdeer at a +strange stumbling run. +</p> + +<p> +I stood a moment mused; then it seemed to me my duty lay most plain on the side +of the living; and I ran after him, leaving the candles on the frosty ground +and the body lying in their light under the trees. But run as I pleased, he had +the start of me, and was got into the house, and up to the hall, where I found +him standing before the fire with his face once more in his hands, and as he so +stood he visibly shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Henry, Mr. Henry,” I said, “this will be the ruin of us +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is this that I have done?” cries he, and then looking upon me +with a countenance that I shall never forget, “Who is to tell the old +man?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The word knocked at my heart; but it was no time for weakness. I went and +poured him out a glass of brandy. “Drink that,” said I, +“drink it down.” I forced him to swallow it like a child; and, +being still perished with the cold of the night, I followed his example. +</p> + +<p> +“It has to be told, Mackellar,” said he. “It must be +told.” And he fell suddenly in a seat—my old lord’s seat by +the chimney-side—and was shaken with dry sobs. +</p> + +<p> +Dismay came upon my soul; it was plain there was no help in Mr. Henry. +“Well,” said I, “sit there, and leave all to me.” And +taking a candle in my hand, I set forth out of the room in the dark house. +There was no movement; I must suppose that all had gone unobserved; and I was +now to consider how to smuggle through the rest with the like secrecy. It was +no hour for scruples; and I opened my lady’s door without so much as a +knock, and passed boldly in. +</p> + +<p> +“There is some calamity happened,” she cried, sitting up in bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said I, “I will go forth again into the passage; and +do you get as quickly as you can into your clothes. There is much to be +done.” +</p> + +<p> +She troubled me with no questions, nor did she keep me waiting. Ere I had time +to prepare a word of that which I must say to her, she was on the threshold +signing me to enter. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said I, “if you cannot be very brave, I must go +elsewhere; for if no one helps me to-night, there is an end of the house of +Durrisdeer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very courageous,” said she; and she looked at me with a sort +of smile, very painful to see, but very brave too. +</p> + +<p> +“It has come to a duel,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“A duel?” she repeated. “A duel! Henry and—” +</p> + +<p> +“And the Master,” said I. “Things have been borne so long, +things of which you know nothing, which you would not believe if I should tell. +But to-night it went too far, and when he insulted you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop,” said she. “He? Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! madam,” cried I, my bitterness breaking forth, “do you +ask me such a question? Indeed, then, I may go elsewhere for help; there is +none here!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know in what I have offended you,” said she. +“Forgive me; put me out of this suspense.” +</p> + +<p> +But I dared not tell her yet; I felt not sure of her; and at the doubt, and +under the sense of impotence it brought with it, I turned on the poor woman +with something near to anger. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said I, “we are speaking of two men: one of them +insulted you, and you ask me which. I will help you to the answer. With one of +these men you have spent all your hours: has the other reproached you? To one +you have been always kind; to the other, as God sees me and judges between us +two, I think not always: has his love ever failed you? To-night one of these +two men told the other, in my hearing—the hearing of a hired +stranger,—that you were in love with him. Before I say one word, you +shall answer your own question: Which was it? Nay, madam, you shall answer me +another: If it has come to this dreadful end, whose fault is it?” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at me like one dazzled. “Good God!” she said once, in a +kind of bursting exclamation; and then a second time in a whisper to herself: +“Great God!—In the name of mercy, Mackellar, what is wrong?” +she cried. “I am made up; I can hear all.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not fit to hear,” said I. “Whatever it was, you +shall say first it was your fault.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried, with a gesture of wringing her hands, “this +man will drive me mad! Can you not put me out of your thoughts?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not once of you,” I cried. “I think of none but my +dear unhappy master.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she cried, with her hand to her heart, “is Henry +dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lower your voice,” said I. “The other.” +</p> + +<p> +I saw her sway like something stricken by the wind; and I know not whether in +cowardice or misery, turned aside and looked upon the floor. “These are +dreadful tidings,” said I at length, when her silence began to put me in +some fear; “and you and I behove to be the more bold if the house is to +be saved.” Still she answered nothing. “There is Miss Katharine, +besides,” I added: “unless we bring this matter through, her +inheritance is like to be of shame.” +</p> + +<p> +I do not know if it was the thought of her child or the naked word shame, that +gave her deliverance; at least, I had no sooner spoken than a sound passed her +lips, the like of it I never heard; it was as though she had lain buried under +a hill and sought to move that burthen. And the next moment she had found a +sort of voice. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a fight,” she whispered. “It was not—” +and she paused upon the word. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a fair fight on my dear master’s part,” said I. +“As for the other, he was slain in the very act of a foul stroke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not now!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said I, “hatred of that man glows in my bosom like a +burning fire; ay, even now he is dead. God knows, I would have stopped the +fighting, had I dared. It is my shame I did not. But when I saw him fall, if I +could have spared one thought from pitying of my master, it had been to exult +in that deliverance.” +</p> + +<p> +I do not know if she marked; but her next words were, “My lord?” +</p> + +<p> +“That shall be my part,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“You will not speak to him as you have to me?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said I, “have you not some one else to think of? +Leave my lord to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Some one else?” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband,” said I. She looked at me with a countenance +illegible. “Are you going to turn your back on him?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +Still she looked at me; then her hand went to her heart again. +“No,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you for that word!” I said. “Go to him now, where +he sits in the hall; speak to him—it matters not what you say; give him +your hand; say, ‘I know all;’—if God gives you grace enough, +say, ‘Forgive me.’” +</p> + +<p> +“God strengthen you, and make you merciful,” said she. “I +will go to my husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me light you there,” said I, taking up the candle. +</p> + +<p> +“I will find my way in the dark,” she said, with a shudder, and I +think the shudder was at me. +</p> + +<p> +So we separated—she down stairs to where a little light glimmered in the +hall-door, I along the passage to my lord’s room. It seems hard to say +why, but I could not burst in on the old man as I could on the young woman; +with whatever reluctance, I must knock. But his old slumbers were light, or +perhaps he slept not; and at the first summons I was bidden enter. +</p> + +<p> +He, too, sat up in bed; very aged and bloodless he looked; and whereas he had a +certain largeness of appearance when dressed for daylight, he now seemed frail +and little, and his face (the wig being laid aside) not bigger than a +child’s. This daunted me; nor less, the haggard surmise of misfortune in +his eye. Yet his voice was even peaceful as he inquired my errand. I set my +candle down upon a chair, leaned on the bed-foot, and looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Durrisdeer,” said I, “it is very well known to you that +I am a partisan in your family.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope we are none of us partisans,” said he. “That you love +my son sincerely, I have always been glad to recognise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! my lord, we are past the hour of these civilities,” I replied. +“If we are to save anything out of the fire, we must look the fact in its +bare countenance. A partisan I am; partisans we have all been; it is as a +partisan that I am here in the middle of the night to plead before you. Hear +me; before I go, I will tell you why.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would always hear you, Mr. Mackellar,” said he, “and that +at any hour, whether of the day or night, for I would be always sure you had a +reason. You spoke once before to very proper purpose; I have not forgotten +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here to plead the cause of my master,” I said. “I need +not tell you how he acts. You know how he is placed. You know with what +generosity, he has always met your other—met your wishes,” I +corrected myself, stumbling at that name of son. “You know—you must +know—what he has suffered—what he has suffered about his +wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Mackellar!” cried my lord, rising in bed like a bearded lion. +</p> + +<p> +“You said you would hear me,” I continued. “What you do not +know, what you should know, one of the things I am here to speak of, is the +persecution he must bear in private. Your back is not turned before one whom I +dare not name to you falls upon him with the most unfeeling taunts; twits +him—pardon me, my lord—twits him with your partiality, calls him +Jacob, calls him clown, pursues him with ungenerous raillery, not to be borne +by man. And let but one of you appear, instantly he changes; and my master must +smile and courtesy to the man who has been feeding him with insults; I know, +for I have shared in some of it, and I tell you the life is insupportable. All +these months it has endured; it began with the man’s landing; it was by +the name of Jacob that my master was greeted the first night.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord made a movement as if to throw aside the clothes and rise. “If +there be any truth in this—” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Do I look like a man lying?” I interrupted, checking him with my +hand. +</p> + +<p> +“You should have told me at first,” he odd. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my lord! indeed I should, and you may well hate the face of this +unfaithful servant!” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I will take order,” said he, “at once.” And again made +the movement to rise. +</p> + +<p> +Again I checked him. “I have not done,” said I. “Would God I +had! All this my dear, unfortunate patron has endured without help or +countenance. Your own best word, my lord, was only gratitude. Oh, but he was +your son, too! He had no other father. He was hated in the country, God knows +how unjustly. He had a loveless marriage. He stood on all hands without +affection or support—dear, generous, ill-fated, noble heart!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your tears do you much honour and me much shame,” says my lord, +with a palsied trembling. “But you do me some injustice. Henry has been +ever dear to me, very dear. James (I do not deny it, Mr. Mackellar), James is +perhaps dearer; you have not seen my James in quite a favourable light; he has +suffered under his misfortunes; and we can only remember how great and how +unmerited these were. And even now his is the more affectionate nature. But I +will not speak of him. All that you say of Henry is most true; I do not wonder, +I know him to be very magnanimous; you will say I trade upon the knowledge? It +is possible; there are dangerous virtues: virtues that tempt the encroacher. +Mr. Mackellar, I will make it up to him; I will take order with all this. I +have been weak; and, what is worse, I have been dull!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must not hear you blame yourself, my lord, with that which I have yet +to tell upon my conscience,” I replied. “You have not been weak; +you have been abused by a devilish dissembler. You saw yourself how he had +deceived you in the matter of his danger; he has deceived you throughout in +every step of his career. I wish to pluck him from your heart; I wish to force +your eyes upon your other son; ah, you have a son there!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said he, “two sons—I have two sons.” +</p> + +<p> +I made some gesture of despair that struck him; he looked at me with a changed +face. “There is much worse behind?” he asked, his voice dying as it +rose upon the question. +</p> + +<p> +“Much worse,” I answered. “This night he said these words to +Mr. Henry: ‘I have never known a woman who did not prefer me to you, and +I think who did not continue to prefer me.’” +</p> + +<p> +“I will hear nothing against my daughter,” he cried; and from his +readiness to stop me in this direction, I conclude his eyes were not so dull as +I had fancied, and he had looked not without anxiety upon the siege of Mrs. +Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“I think not of blaming her,” cried I. “It is not that. These +words were said in my hearing to Mr. Henry; and if you find them not yet plain +enough, these others but a little after: Your wife, who is in love with +me!’” +</p> + +<p> +“They have quarrelled?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +I nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“I must fly to them,” he said, beginning once again to leave his +bed. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” I cried, holding forth my hands. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not know,” said he. “These are dangerous +words.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will nothing make you understand, my lord?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +His eyes besought me for the truth. +</p> + +<p> +I flung myself on my knees by the bedside. “Oh, my lord,” cried I, +“think on him you have left; think of this poor sinner whom you begot, +whom your wife bore to you, whom we have none of us strengthened as we could; +think of him, not of yourself; he is the other sufferer—think of him! +That is the door for sorrow—Christ’s door, God’s door: oh! it +stands open. Think of him, even as he thought of you. ‘<i>Who is to tell +the old man</i>?’—these were his words. It was for that I came; +that is why I am here pleading at your feet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me get up,” he cried, thrusting me aside, and was on his feet +before myself. His voice shook like a sail in the wind, yet he spoke with a +good loudness; his face was like the snow, but his eyes were steady and dry. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is too much speech,” said he. “Where was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the shrubbery,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And Mr. Henry?” he asked. And when I had told him he knotted his +old face in thought. +</p> + +<p> +“And Mr. James?” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“I have left him lying,” said I, “beside the candles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Candles?” he cried. And with that he ran to the window, opened it, +and looked abroad. “It might be spied from the road.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where none goes by at such an hour,” I objected. +</p> + +<p> +“It makes no matter,” he said. “One might. Hark!” cries +he. “What is that?” +</p> + +<p> +It was the sound of men very guardedly rowing in the bay; and I told him so. +</p> + +<p> +“The freetraders,” said my lord. “Run at once, Mackellar; put +these candles out. I will dress in the meanwhile; and when you return we can +debate on what is wisest.” +</p> + +<p> +I groped my way downstairs, and out at the door. From quite a far way off a +sheen was visible, making points of brightness in the shrubbery; in so black a +night it might have been remarked for miles; and I blamed myself bitterly for +my incaution. How much more sharply when I reached the place! One of the +candlesticks was overthrown, and that taper quenched. The other burned steadily +by itself, and made a broad space of light upon the frosted ground. All within +that circle seemed, by the force of contrast and the overhanging blackness, +brighter than by day. And there was the bloodstain in the midst; and a little +farther off Mr. Henry’s sword, the pommel of which was of silver; but of +the body, not a trace. My heart thumped upon my ribs, the hair stirred upon my +scalp, as I stood there staring—so strange was the sight, so dire the +fears it wakened. I looked right and left; the ground was so hard, it told no +story. I stood and listened till my ears ached, but the night was hollow about +me like an empty church; not even a ripple stirred upon the shore; it seemed +you might have heard a pin drop in the county. +</p> + +<p> +I put the candle out, and the blackness fell about me groping dark; it was like +a crowd surrounding me; and I went back to the house of Durrisdeer, with my +chin upon my shoulder, startling, as I went, with craven suppositions. In the +door a figure moved to meet me, and I had near screamed with terror ere I +recognised Mrs. Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you told him?” says she. +</p> + +<p> +“It was he who sent me,” said I. “It is gone. But why are you +here?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is gone!” she repeated. “What is gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“The body,” said I. “Why are you not with your +husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone!” said she. “You cannot have looked. Come back.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no light now,” said I. “I dare not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can see in the dark. I have been standing here so long—so +long,” said she. “Come, give me your hand.” +</p> + +<p> +We returned to the shrubbery hand in hand, and to the fatal place. +</p> + +<p> +“Take care of the blood,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Blood?” she cried, and started violently back. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it will be,” said I. “I am like a blind +man.” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said she, “nothing! Have you not dreamed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, would to God we had!” cried I. +</p> + +<p> +She spied the sword, picked it up, and seeing the blood, let it fall again with +her hands thrown wide. “Ah!” she cried. And then, with an instant +courage, handled it the second time, and thrust it to the hilt into the frozen +ground. “I will take it back and clean it properly,” says she, and +again looked about her on all sides. “It cannot be that he was +dead?” she added. +</p> + +<p> +“There was no flutter of his heart,” said I, and then remembering: +“Why are you not with your husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no use,” said she; “he will not speak to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not speak to you?” I repeated. “Oh! you have not +tried.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have a right to doubt me,” she replied, with a gentle dignity. +</p> + +<p> +At this, for the first time, I was seized with sorrow for her. “God +knows, madam,” I cried, “God knows I am not so hard as I appear; on +this dreadful night who can veneer his words? But I am a friend to all who are +not Henry Durie’s enemies.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is hard, then, you should hesitate about his wife,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +I saw all at once, like the rending of a veil, how nobly she had borne this +unnatural calamity, and how generously my reproaches. +</p> + +<p> +“We must go back and tell this to my lord,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Him I cannot face,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“You will find him the least moved of all of us,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet I cannot face him,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, “you can return to Mr. Henry; I will see my +lord.” +</p> + +<p> +As we walked back, I bearing the candlesticks, she the sword—a strange +burthen for that woman—she had another thought. “Should we tell +Henry?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Let my lord decide,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +My lord was nearly dressed when I came to his chamber. He heard me with a +frown. “The freetraders,” said he. “But whether dead or +alive?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought him—” said I, and paused, ashamed of the word. +</p> + +<p> +“I know; but you may very well have been in error. Why should they remove +him if not living?” he asked. “Oh! here is a great door of hope. It +must be given out that he departed—as he came—without any note of +preparation. We must save all scandal.” +</p> + +<p> +I saw he had fallen, like the rest of us, to think mainly of the house. Now +that all the living members of the family were plunged in irremediable sorrow, +it was strange how we turned to that conjoint abstraction of the family itself, +and sought to bolster up the airy nothing of its reputation: not the Duries +only, but the hired steward himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we to tell Mr. Henry?” I asked him. +</p> + +<p> +“I will see,” said he. “I am going first to visit him; then I +go forth with you to view the shrubbery and consider.” +</p> + +<p> +We went downstairs into the hall. Mr. Henry sat by the table with his head upon +his hand, like a man of stone. His wife stood a little back from him, her hand +at her mouth; it was plain she could not move him. My old lord walked very +steadily to where his son was sitting; he had a steady countenance, too, but +methought a little cold. When he was come quite up, he held out both his hands +and said, “My son!” +</p> + +<p> +With a broken, strangled cry, Mr. Henry leaped up and fell on his +father’s neck, crying and weeping, the most pitiful sight that ever a man +witnessed. “Oh! father,” he cried, “you know I loved him; you +know I loved him in the beginning; I could have died for him—you know +that! I would have given my life for him and you. Oh! say you know that. Oh! +say you can forgive me. O father, father, what have I done—what have I +done? And we used to be bairns together!” and wept and sobbed, and +fondled the old man, and clutched him about the neck, with the passion of a +child in terror. +</p> + +<p> +And then he caught sight of his wife (you would have thought for the first +time), where she stood weeping to hear him, and in a moment had fallen at her +knees. “And O my lass,” he cried, “you must forgive me, too! +Not your husband—I have only been the ruin of your life. But you knew me +when I was a lad; there was no harm in Henry Durie then; he meant aye to be a +friend to you. It’s him—it’s the old bairn that played with +you—oh, can ye never, never forgive him?” +</p> + +<p> +Throughout all this my lord was like a cold, kind spectator with his wits about +him. At the first cry, which was indeed enough to call the house about us, he +had said to me over his shoulder, “Close the door.” And now he +nodded to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“We may leave him to his wife now,” says he. “Bring a light, +Mr. Mackellar.” +</p> + +<p> +Upon my going forth again with my lord, I was aware of a strange phenomenon; +for though it was quite dark, and the night not yet old, methought I smelt the +morning. At the same time there went a tossing through the branches of the +evergreens, so that they sounded like a quiet sea, and the air pulled at times +against our faces, and the flame of the candle shook. We made the more speed, I +believe, being surrounded by this bustle; visited the scene of the duel, where +my lord looked upon the blood with stoicism; and passing farther on toward the +landing-place, came at last upon some evidences of the truth. For, first of +all, where there was a pool across the path, the ice had been trodden in, +plainly by more than one man’s weight; next, and but a little farther, a +young tree was broken, and down by the landing-place, where the traders’ +boats were usually beached, another stain of blood marked where the body must +have been infallibly set down to rest the bearers. +</p> + +<p> +This stain we set ourselves to wash away with the sea-water, carrying it in my +lord’s hat; and as we were thus engaged there came up a sudden moaning +gust and left us instantly benighted. +</p> + +<p> +“It will come to snow,” says my lord; “and the best thing +that we could hope. Let us go back now; we can do nothing in the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +As we went houseward, the wind being again subsided, we were aware of a strong +pattering noise about us in the night; and when we issued from the shelter of +the trees, we found it raining smartly. +</p> + +<p> +Throughout the whole of this, my lord’s clearness of mind, no less than +his activity of body, had not ceased to minister to my amazement. He set the +crown upon it in the council we held on our return. The freetraders had +certainly secured the Master, though whether dead or alive we were still left +to our conjectures; the rain would, long before day, wipe out all marks of the +transaction; by this we must profit. The Master had unexpectedly come after the +fall of night; it must now be given out he had as suddenly departed before the +break of day; and, to make all this plausible, it now only remained for me to +mount into the man’s chamber, and pack and conceal his baggage. True, we +still lay at the discretion of the traders; but that was the incurable weakness +of our guilt. +</p> + +<p> +I heard him, as I said, with wonder, and hastened to obey. Mr. and Mrs. Henry +were gone from the hall; my lord, for warmth’s sake, hurried to his bed; +there was still no sign of stir among the servants, and as I went up the tower +stair, and entered the dead man’s room, a horror of solitude weighed upon +my mind. To my extreme surprise, it was all in the disorder of departure. Of +his three portmanteaux, two were already locked; the third lay open and near +full. At once there flashed upon me some suspicion of the truth. The man had +been going, after all; he had but waited upon Crail, as Crail waited upon the +wind; early in the night the seamen had perceived the weather changing; the +boat had come to give notice of the change and call the passenger aboard, and +the boat’s crew had stumbled on him dying in his blood. Nay, and there +was more behind. This pre-arranged departure shed some light upon his +inconceivable insult of the night before; it was a parting shot, hatred being +no longer checked by policy. And, for another thing, the nature of that insult, +and the conduct of Mrs. Henry, pointed to one conclusion, which I have never +verified, and can now never verify until the great assize—the conclusion +that he had at last forgotten himself, had gone too far in his advances, and +had been rebuffed. It can never be verified, as I say; but as I thought of it +that morning among his baggage, the thought was sweet to me like honey. +</p> + +<p> +Into the open portmanteau I dipped a little ere I closed it. The most beautiful +lace and linen, many suits of those fine plain clothes in which he loved to +appear; a book or two, and those of the best, Cæsar’s +“Commentaries,” a volume of Mr. Hobbes, the “Henriade” +of M. de Voltaire, a book upon the Indies, one on the mathematics, far beyond +where I have studied: these were what I observed with very mingled feelings. +But in the open portmanteau, no papers of any description. This set me musing. +It was possible the man was dead; but, since the traders had carried him away, +not likely. It was possible he might still die of his wound; but it was also +possible he might not. And in this latter case I was determined to have the +means of some defence. +</p> + +<p> +One after another I carried his portmanteaux to a loft in the top of the house +which we kept locked; went to my own room for my keys, and, returning to the +loft, had the gratification to find two that fitted pretty well. In one of the +portmanteaux there was a shagreen letter-case, which I cut open with my knife; +and thenceforth (so far as any credit went) the man was at my mercy. Here was a +vast deal of gallant correspondence, chiefly of his Paris days; and, what was +more to the purpose, here were the copies of his own reports to the English +Secretary, and the originals of the Secretary’s answers: a most damning +series: such as to publish would be to wreck the Master’s honour and to +set a price upon his life. I chuckled to myself as I ran through the documents; +I rubbed my hands, I sang aloud in my glee. Day found me at the pleasing task; +nor did I then remit my diligence, except in so far as I went to the +window—looked out for a moment, to see the frost quite gone, the world +turned black again, and the rain and the wind driving in the bay—and to +assure myself that the lugger was gone from its anchorage, and the Master +(whether dead or alive) now tumbling on the Irish Sea. +</p> + +<p> +It is proper I should add in this place the very little I have subsequently +angled out upon the doings of that night. It took me a long while to gather it; +for we dared not openly ask, and the freetraders regarded me with enmity, if +not with scorn. It was near six months before we even knew for certain that the +man survived; and it was years before I learned from one of Crail’s men, +turned publican on his ill-gotten gain, some particulars which smack to me of +truth. It seems the traders found the Master struggled on one elbow, and now +staring round him, and now gazing at the candle or at his hand which was all +bloodied, like a man stupid. Upon their coming, he would seem to have found his +mind, bade them carry him aboard, and hold their tongues; and on the captain +asking how he had come in such a pickle, replied with a burst of passionate +swearing, and incontinently fainted. They held some debate, but they were +momently looking for a wind, they were highly paid to smuggle him to France, +and did not care to delay. Besides which, he was well enough liked by these +abominable wretches: they supposed him under capital sentence, knew not in what +mischief he might have got his wound, and judged it a piece of good nature to +remove him out of the way of danger. So he was taken aboard, recovered on the +passage over, and was set ashore a convalescent at the Havre de Grace. What is +truly notable: he said not a word to anyone of the duel, and not a trader knows +to this day in what quarrel, or by the hand of what adversary, he fell. With +any other man I should have set this down to natural decency; with him, to +pride. He could not bear to avow, perhaps even to himself, that he had been +vanquished by one whom he had so much insulted whom he so cruelly despised. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /> +SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THE MASTER’S SECOND ABSENCE.</h2> + +<p> +Of the heavy sickness which declared itself next morning I can think with +equanimity, as of the last unmingled trouble that befell my master; and even +that was perhaps a mercy in disguise; for what pains of the body could equal +the miseries of his mind? Mrs. Henry and I had the watching by the bed. My old +lord called from time to time to take the news, but would not usually pass the +door. Once, I remember, when hope was nigh gone, he stepped to the bedside, +looked awhile in his son’s face, and turned away with a gesture of the +head and hand thrown up, that remains upon my mind as something tragic; such +grief and such a scorn of sublunary things were there expressed. But the most +of the time Mrs. Henry and I had the room to ourselves, taking turns by night, +and bearing each other company by day, for it was dreary watching. Mr. Henry, +his shaven head bound in a napkin, tossed fro without remission, beating the +bed with his hands. His tongue never lay; his voice ran continuously like a +river, so that my heart was weary with the sound of it. It was notable, and to +me inexpressibly mortifying, that he spoke all the while on matters of no +import: comings and goings, horses—which he was ever calling to have +saddled, thinking perhaps (the poor soul!) that he might ride away from his +discomfort—matters of the garden, the salmon nets, and (what I +particularly raged to hear) continually of his affairs, cyphering figures and +holding disputation with the tenantry. Never a word of his father or his wife, +nor of the Master, save only for a day or two, when his mind dwelled entirely +in the past, and he supposed himself a boy again and upon some innocent +child’s play with his brother. What made this the more affecting: it +appeared the Master had then run some peril of his life, for there was a +cry—“Oh! Jamie will be drowned—Oh, save Jamie!” which +he came over and over with a great deal of passion. +</p> + +<p> +This, I say, was affecting, both to Mrs. Henry and myself; but the balance of +my master’s wanderings did him little justice. It seemed he had set out +to justify his brother’s calumnies; as though he was bent to prove +himself a man of a dry nature, immersed in money-getting. Had I been there +alone, I would not have troubled my thumb; but all the while, as I listened, I +was estimating the effect on the man’s wife, and telling myself that he +fell lower every day. I was the one person on the surface of the globe that +comprehended him, and I was bound there should be yet another. Whether he was +to die there and his virtues perish: or whether he should save his days and +come back to that inheritance of sorrows, his right memory: I was bound he +should be heartily lamented in the one case, and unaffectedly welcomed in the +other, by the person he loved the most, his wife. +</p> + +<p> +Finding no occasion of free speech, I bethought me at last of a kind of +documentary disclosure; and for some nights, when I was off duty and should +have been asleep, I gave my time to the preparation of that which I may call my +budget. But this I found to be the easiest portion of my task, and that which +remained—namely, the presentation to my lady—almost more than I had +fortitude to overtake. Several days I went about with my papers under my arm, +spying for some juncture of talk to serve as introduction. I will not deny but +that some offered; only when they did my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; +and I think I might have been carrying about my packet till this day, had not a +fortunate accident delivered me from all my hesitations. This was at night, +when I was once more leaving the room, the thing not yet done, and myself in +despair at my own cowardice. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you carry about with you, Mr. Mackellar?” she asked. +“These last days, I see you always coming in and out with the same +armful.” +</p> + +<p> +I returned upon my steps without a word, laid the papers before her on the +table, and left her to her reading. Of what that was, I am now to give you some +idea; and the best will be to reproduce a letter of my own which came first in +the budget and of which (according to an excellent habitude) I have preserved +the scroll. It will show, too, the moderation of my part in these affairs, a +thing which some have called recklessly in question. +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="right"> +“Durrisdeer.<br /> +“1757. +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="smcap">Honoured Madam</span>, +</p> + +<p> +“I trust I would not step out of my place without occasion; but I see how +much evil has flowed in the past to all of your noble house from that unhappy +and secretive fault of reticency, and the papers on which I venture to call +your attention are family papers, and all highly worthy your acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +“I append a schedule with some necessary observations, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“And am,<br /> +“Honoured Madam,<br /> +“Your ladyship’s obliged, obedient servant,<br /> +“<span class="smcap">Ephraim Mackellar</span>. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“Schedule of Papers. +</p> + +<p> +“A. Scroll of ten letters from Ephraim Mackellar to the Hon. James Durie, +Esq., by courtesy Master of Ballantrae during the latter’s residence in +Paris: under dates . . . ” (follow the dates) . . . “Nota: to be +read in connection with B. and C. +</p> + +<p> +“B. Seven original letters from the said Mr of Ballantrae to the said E. +Mackellar, under dates . . . ” (follow the dates.) +</p> + +<p> +“C. Three original letters from the Mr of Ballantrae to the Hon. Henry +Durie, Esq., under dates . . . ” (follow the dates) . . . “Nota: +given me by Mr. Henry to answer: copies of my answers A 4, A 5, and A 9 of +these productions. The purport of Mr. Henry’s communications, of which I +can find no scroll, may be gathered from those of his unnatural brother. +</p> + +<p> +“D. A correspondence, original and scroll, extending over a period of +three years till January of the current year, between the said Mr of Ballantrae +and — —, Under Secretary of State; twenty-seven in all. Nota: found +among the Master’s papers.” +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +Weary as I was with watching and distress of mind, it was impossible for me to +sleep. All night long I walked in my chamber, revolving what should be the +issue, and sometimes repenting the temerity of my immixture in affairs so +private; and with the first peep of the morning I was at the sick-room door. +Mrs. Henry had thrown open the shutters and even the window, for the +temperature was mild. She looked steadfastly before her; where was nothing to +see, or only the blue of the morning creeping among woods. Upon the stir of my +entrance she did not so much as turn about her face: a circumstance from which +I augured very ill. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” I began; and then again, “Madam;” but could +make no more of it. Nor yet did Mrs. Henry come to my assistance with a word. +In this pass I began gathering up the papers where they lay scattered on the +table; and the first thing that struck me, their bulk appeared to have +diminished. Once I ran them through, and twice; but the correspondence with the +Secretary of State, on which I had reckoned so much against the future, was +nowhere to be found. I looked in the chimney; amid the smouldering embers, +black ashes of paper fluttered in the draught; and at that my timidity +vanished. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God, madam,” cried I, in a voice not fitting for a sick-room, +“Good God, madam, what have you done with my papers?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have burned them,” said Mrs. Henry, turning about. “It is +enough, it is too much, that you and I have seen them.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is a fine night’s work that you have done!” cried I. +“And all to save the reputation of a man that ate bread by the shedding +of his comrades’ blood, as I do by the shedding of ink.” +</p> + +<p> +“To save the reputation of that family in which you are a servant, Mr. +Mackellar,” she returned, “and for which you have already done so +much.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a family I will not serve much longer,” I cried, “for +I am driven desperate. You have stricken the sword out of my hands; you have +left us all defenceless. I had always these letters I could shake over his +head; and now—What is to do? We are so falsely situate we dare not show +the man the door; the country would fly on fire against us; and I had this one +hold upon him—and now it is gone—now he may come back to-morrow, +and we must all sit down with him to dinner, go for a stroll with him on the +terrace, or take a hand at cards, of all things, to divert his leisure! No, +madam! God forgive you, if He can find it in His heart; for I cannot find it in +mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder to find you so simple, Mr. Mackellar,” said Mrs. Henry. +“What does this man value reputation? But he knows how high we prize it; +he knows we would rather die than make these letters public; and do you suppose +he would not trade upon the knowledge? What you call your sword, Mr. Mackellar, +and which had been one indeed against a man of any remnant of propriety, would +have been but a sword of paper against him. He would smile in your face at such +a threat. He stands upon his degradation, he makes that his strength; it is in +vain to struggle with such characters.” She cried out this last a little +desperately, and then with more quiet: “No, Mr. Mackellar; I have thought +upon this matter all night, and there is no way out of it. Papers or no papers, +the door of this house stands open for him; he is the rightful heir, forsooth! +If we sought to exclude him, all would redound against poor Henry, and I should +see him stoned again upon the streets. Ah! if Henry dies, it is a different +matter! They have broke the entail for their own good purposes; the estate goes +to my daughter; and I shall see who sets a foot upon it. But if Henry lives, my +poor Mr. Mackellar, and that man returns, we must suffer: only this time it +will be together.” +</p> + +<p> +On the whole I was well pleased with Mrs. Henry’s attitude of mind; nor +could I even deny there was some cogency in that which she advanced about the +papers. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us say no more about it,” said I. “I can only be sorry I +trusted a lady with the originals, which was an unbusinesslike proceeding at +the best. As for what I said of leaving the service of the family, it was +spoken with the tongue only; and you may set your mind at rest. I belong to +Durrisdeer, Mrs. Henry, as if I had been born there.” +</p> + +<p> +I must do her the justice to say she seemed perfectly relieved; so that we +began this morning, as we were to continue for so many years, on a proper +ground of mutual indulgence and respect. +</p> + +<p> +The same day, which was certainly prededicate to joy, we observed the first +signal of recovery in Mr. Henry; and about three of the following afternoon he +found his mind again, recognising me by name with the strongest evidences of +affection. Mrs. Henry was also in the room, at the bedfoot; but it did not +appear that he observed her. And indeed (the fever being gone) he was so weak +that he made but the one effort and sank again into lethargy. The course of his +restoration was now slow but equal; every day his appetite improved; every week +we were able to remark an increase both of strength and flesh; and before the +end of the month he was out of bed and had even begun to be carried in his +chair upon the terrace. +</p> + +<p> +It was perhaps at this time that Mrs. Henry and I were the most uneasy in mind. +Apprehension for his days was at an end; and a worse fear succeeded. Every day +we drew consciously nearer to a day of reckoning; and the days passed on, and +still there was nothing. Mr. Henry bettered in strength, he held long talks +with us on a great diversity of subjects, his father came and sat with him and +went again; and still there was no reference to the late tragedy or to the +former troubles which had brought it on. Did he remember, and conceal his +dreadful knowledge? or was the whole blotted from his mind? This was the +problem that kept us watching and trembling all day when we were in his company +and held us awake at night when we were in our lonely beds. We knew not even +which alternative to hope for, both appearing so unnatural and pointing so +directly to an unsound brain. Once this fear offered, I observed his conduct +with sedulous particularity. Something of the child he exhibited: a +cheerfulness quite foreign to his previous character, an interest readily +aroused, and then very tenacious, in small matters which he had heretofore +despised. When he was stricken down, I was his only confidant, and I may say +his only friend, and he was on terms of division with his wife; upon his +recovery, all was changed, the past forgotten, the wife first and even single +in his thoughts. He turned to her with all his emotions, like a child to its +mother, and seemed secure of sympathy; called her in all his needs with +something of that querulous familiarity that marks a certainty of indulgence; +and I must say, in justice to the woman, he was never disappointed. To her, +indeed, this changed behaviour was inexpressibly affecting; and I think she +felt it secretly as a reproach; so that I have seen her, in early days, escape +out of the room that she might indulge herself in weeping. But to me the change +appeared not natural; and viewing it along with all the rest, I began to +wonder, with many head-shakings, whether his reason were perfectly erect. +</p> + +<p> +As this doubt stretched over many years, endured indeed until my master’s +death, and clouded all our subsequent relations, I may well consider of it more +at large. When he was able to resume some charge of his affairs, I had many +opportunities to try him with precision. There was no lack of understanding, +nor yet of authority; but the old continuous interest had quite departed; he +grew readily fatigued, and fell to yawning; and he carried into money +relations, where it is certainly out of place, a facility that bordered upon +slackness. True, since we had no longer the exactions of the Master to contend +against, there was the less occasion to raise strictness into principle or do +battle for a farthing. True, again, there was nothing excessive in these +relaxations, or I would have been no party to them. But the whole thing marked +a change, very slight yet very perceptible; and though no man could say my +master had gone at all out of his mind, no man could deny that he had drifted +from his character. It was the same to the end, with his manner and appearance. +Some of the heat of the fever lingered in his veins: his movements a little +hurried, his speech notably more voluble, yet neither truly amiss. His whole +mind stood open to happy impressions, welcoming these and making much of them; +but the smallest suggestion of trouble or sorrow he received with visible +impatience and dismissed again with immediate relief. It was to this temper +that he owed the felicity of his later days; and yet here it was, if anywhere, +that you could call the man insane. A great part of this life consists in +contemplating what we cannot cure; but Mr. Henry, if he could not dismiss +solicitude by an effort of the mind, must instantly and at whatever cost +annihilate the cause of it; so that he played alternately the ostrich and the +bull. It is to this strenuous cowardice of pain that I have to set down all the +unfortunate and excessive steps of his subsequent career. Certainly this was +the reason of his beating McManus, the groom, a thing so much out of all his +former practice, and which awakened so much comment at the time. It is to this, +again, that I must lay the total loss of near upon two hundred pounds, more +than the half of which I could have saved if his impatience would have suffered +me. But he preferred loss or any desperate extreme to a continuance of mental +suffering. +</p> + +<p> +All this has led me far from our immediate trouble: whether he remembered or +had forgotten his late dreadful act; and if he remembered, in what light he +viewed it. The truth burst upon us suddenly, and was indeed one of the chief +surprises of my life. He had been several times abroad, and was now beginning +to walk a little with an arm, when it chanced I should be left alone with him +upon the terrace. He turned to me with a singular furtive smile, such as +schoolboys use when in fault; and says he, in a private whisper and without the +least preface: “Where have you buried him?” +</p> + +<p> +I could not make one sound in answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you buried him?” he repeated. “I want to see his +grave.” +</p> + +<p> +I conceived I had best take the bull by the horns. “Mr. Henry,” +said I, “I have news to give that will rejoice you exceedingly. In all +human likelihood, your hands are clear of blood. I reason from certain indices; +and by these it should appear your brother was not dead, but was carried in a +swound on board the lugger. But now he may be perfectly recovered.” +</p> + +<p> +What there was in his countenance I could not read. “James?” he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Your brother James,” I answered. “I would not raise a hope +that may be found deceptive, but in my heart I think it very probable he is +alive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” says Mr. Henry; and suddenly rising from his seat with more +alacrity than he had yet discovered, set one finger on my breast, and cried at +me in a kind of screaming whisper, “Mackellar”—these were his +words—“nothing can kill that man. He is not mortal. He is bound +upon my back to all eternity—to all eternity!” says he, and, +sitting down again, fell upon a stubborn silence. +</p> + +<p> +A day or two after, with the same secret smile, and first looking about as if +to be sure we were alone, “Mackellar,” said he, “when you +have any intelligence, be sure and let me know. We must keep an eye upon him, +or he will take us when we least expect.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will not show face here again,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes he will,” said Mr. Henry. “Wherever I am, there will +he be.” And again he looked all about him. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not dwell upon this thought, Mr. Henry,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said he, “that is a very good advice. We will never +think of it, except when you have news. And we do not know yet,” he +added; “he may be dead.” +</p> + +<p> +The manner of his saying this convinced me thoroughly of what I had scarce +ventured to suspect: that, so far from suffering any penitence for the attempt, +he did but lament his failure. This was a discovery I kept to myself, fearing +it might do him a prejudice with his wife. But I might have saved myself the +trouble; she had divined it for herself, and found the sentiment quite natural. +Indeed, I could not but say that there were three of us, all of the same mind; +nor could any news have reached Durrisdeer more generally welcome than tidings +of the Master’s death. +</p> + +<p> +This brings me to speak of the exception, my old lord. As soon as my anxiety +for my own master began to be relaxed, I was aware of a change in the old +gentleman, his father, that seemed to threaten mortal consequences. +</p> + +<p> +His face was pale and swollen; as he sat in the chimney-side with his Latin, he +would drop off sleeping and the book roll in the ashes; some days he would drag +his foot, others stumble in speaking. The amenity of his behaviour appeared +more extreme; full of excuses for the least trouble, very thoughtful for all; +to myself, of a most flattering civility. One day, that he had sent for his +lawyer and remained a long while private, he met me as he was crossing the hall +with painful footsteps, and took me kindly by the hand. “Mr. +Mackellar,” said he, “I have had many occasions to set a proper +value on your services; and to-day, when I re-cast my will, I have taken the +freedom to name you for one of my executors. I believe you bear love enough to +our house to render me this service.” At that very time he passed the +greater portion of his days in slumber, from which it was often difficult to +rouse him; seemed to have lost all count of years, and had several times +(particularly on waking) called for his wife and for an old servant whose very +gravestone was now green with moss. If I had been put to my oath, I must have +declared he was incapable of testing; and yet there was never a will drawn more +sensible in every trait, or showing a more excellent judgment both of persons +and affairs. +</p> + +<p> +His dissolution, though it took not very long, proceeded by infinitesimal +gradations. His faculties decayed together steadily; the power of his limbs was +almost gone, he was extremely deaf, his speech had sunk into mere mumblings; +and yet to the end he managed to discover something of his former courtesy and +kindness, pressing the hand of any that helped him, presenting me with one of +his Latin books, in which he had laboriously traced my name, and in a thousand +ways reminding us of the greatness of that loss which it might almost be said +we had already suffered. To the end, the power of articulation returned to him +in flashes; it seemed he had only forgotten the art of speech as a child +forgets his lesson, and at times he would call some part of it to mind. On the +last night of his life he suddenly broke silence with these words from Virgil: +“Gnatique pratisque, alma, precor, miserere,” perfectly uttered, +and with a fitting accent. At the sudden clear sound of it we started from our +several occupations; but it was in vain we turned to him; he sat there silent, +and, to all appearance, fatuous. A little later he was had to bed with more +difficulty than ever before; and some time in the night, without any more +violence, his spirit fled. +</p> + +<p> +At a far later period I chanced to speak of these particulars with a doctor of +medicine, a man of so high a reputation that I scruple to adduce his name. By +his view of it father and son both suffered from the affection: the father from +the strain of his unnatural sorrows—the son perhaps in the excitation of +the fever; each had ruptured a vessel on the brain, and there was probably (my +doctor added) some predisposition in the family to accidents of that +description. The father sank, the son recovered all the externals of a healthy +man; but it is like there was some destruction in those delicate tissues where +the soul resides and does her earthly business; her heavenly, I would fain +hope, cannot be thus obstructed by material accidents. And yet, upon a more +mature opinion, it matters not one jot; for He who shall pass judgment on the +records of our life is the same that formed us in frailty. +</p> + +<p> +The death of my old lord was the occasion of a fresh surprise to us who watched +the behaviour of his successor. To any considering mind, the two sons had +between them slain their father, and he who took the sword might be even said +to have slain him with his hand, but no such thought appeared to trouble my new +lord. He was becomingly grave; I could scarce say sorrowful, or only with a +pleasant sorrow; talking of the dead with a regretful cheerfulness, relating +old examples of his character, smiling at them with a good conscience; and when +the day of the funeral came round, doing the honours with exact propriety. I +could perceive, besides, that he found a solid gratification in his accession +to the title; the which he was punctilious in exacting. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> And now there came upon the scene a new character, and one that +played his part, too, in the story; I mean the present lord, Alexander, whose +birth (17th July, 1757) filled the cup of my poor master’s happiness. +There was nothing then left him to wish for; nor yet leisure to wish for it. +Indeed, there never was a parent so fond and doting as he showed himself. He +was continually uneasy in his son’s absence. Was the child abroad? the +father would be watching the clouds in case it rained. Was it night? he would +rise out of his bed to observe its slumbers. His conversation grew even +wearyful to strangers, since he talked of little but his son. In matters +relating to the estate, all was designed with a particular eye to Alexander; +and it would be:—“Let us put it in hand at once, that the wood may +be grown against Alexander’s majority;” or, “This will fall +in again handsomely for Alexander’s marriage.” Every day this +absorption of the man’s nature became more observable, with many touching +and some very blameworthy particulars. Soon the child could walk abroad with +him, at first on the terrace, hand in hand, and afterward at large about the +policies; and this grew to be my lord’s chief occupation. The sound of +their two voices (audible a great way off, for they spoke loud) became familiar +in the neighbourhood; and for my part I found it more agreeable than the sound +of birds. It was pretty to see the pair returning, full of briars, and the +father as flushed and sometimes as bemuddied as the child, for they were equal +sharers in all sorts of boyish entertainment, digging in the beach, damming of +streams, and what not; and I have seen them gaze through a fence at cattle with +the same childish contemplation. +</p> + +<p> +The mention of these rambles brings me to a strange scene of which I was a +witness. There was one walk I never followed myself without emotion, so often +had I gone there upon miserable errands, so much had there befallen against the +house of Durrisdeer. But the path lay handy from all points beyond the Muckle +Ross; and I was driven, although much against my will, to take my use of it +perhaps once in the two months. It befell when Mr. Alexander was of the age of +seven or eight, I had some business on the far side in the morning, and entered +the shrubbery, on my homeward way, about nine of a bright forenoon. It was that +time of year when the woods are all in their spring colours, the thorns all in +flower, and the birds in the high season of their singing. In contrast to this +merriment, the shrubbery was only the more sad, and I the more oppressed by its +associations. In this situation of spirit it struck me disagreeably to hear +voices a little way in front, and to recognise the tones of my lord and Mr. +Alexander. I pushed ahead, and came presently into their view. They stood +together in the open space where the duel was, my lord with his hand on his +son’s shoulder, and speaking with some gravity. At least, as he raised +his head upon my coming, I thought I could perceive his countenance to lighten. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” says he, “here comes the good Mackellar. I have just +been telling Sandie the story of this place, and how there was a man whom the +devil tried to kill, and how near he came to kill the devil instead.” +</p> + +<p> +I had thought it strange enough he should bring the child into that scene; that +he should actually be discoursing of his act, passed measure. But the worst was +yet to come; for he added, turning to his son—“You can ask +Mackellar; he was here and saw it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it true, Mr. Mackellar?” asked the child. “And did you +really see the devil?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not heard the tale,” I replied; “and I am in a press +of business.” So far I said a little sourly, fencing with the +embarrassment of the position; and suddenly the bitterness of the past, and the +terror of that scene by candle-light, rushed in upon my mind. I bethought me +that, for a difference of a second’s quickness in parade, the child +before me might have never seen the day; and the emotion that always fluttered +round my heart in that dark shrubbery burst forth in words. “But so much +is true,” I cried, “that I have met the devil in these woods, and +seen him foiled here. Blessed be God that we escaped with life—blessed be +God that one stone yet stands upon another in the walls of Durrisdeer! And, oh! +Mr. Alexander, if ever you come by this spot, though it was a hundred years +hence, and you came with the gayest and the highest in the land, I would step +aside and remember a bit prayer.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord bowed his head gravely. “Ah!” says he, “Mackellar is +always in the right. Come, Alexander, take your bonnet off.” And with +that he uncovered, and held out his hand. “O Lord,” said he, +“I thank Thee, and my son thanks Thee, for Thy manifold great mercies. +Let us have peace for a little; defend us from the evil man. Smite him, O Lord, +upon the lying mouth!” The last broke out of him like a cry; and at that, +whether remembered anger choked his utterance, or whether he perceived this was +a singular sort of prayer, at least he suddenly came to a full stop; and, after +a moment, set back his hat upon his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you have forgot a word, my lord,” said I. +“‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass +against us. For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever +and ever. Amen.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that is easy saying,” said my lord. “That is very easy +saying, Mackellar. But for me to forgive!—I think I would cut a very +silly figure if I had the affectation to pretend it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The bairn, my lord!” said I, with some severity, for I thought his +expressions little fitted for the care of children. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, very true,” said he. “This is dull work for a bairn. +Let’s go nesting.” +</p> + +<p> +I forget if it was the same day, but it was soon after, my lord, finding me +alone, opened himself a little more on the same head. +</p> + +<p> +“Mackellar,” he said, “I am now a very happy man.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so indeed, my lord,” said I, “and the sight of it +gives me a light heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is an obligation in happiness—do you not think so?” +says he, musingly. +</p> + +<p> +“I think so indeed,” says I, “and one in sorrow, too. If we +are not here to try to do the best, in my humble opinion the sooner we are away +the better for all parties.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but if you were in my shoes, would you forgive him?” asks my +lord. +</p> + +<p> +The suddenness of the attack a little gravelled me. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a duty laid upon us strictly,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Hut!” said he. “These are expressions! Do you forgive the +man yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—no!” said I. “God forgive me, I do not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shake hands upon that!” cries my lord, with a kind of joviality. +</p> + +<p> +“It is an ill sentiment to shake hands upon,” said I, “for +Christian people. I think I will give you mine on some more evangelical +occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +This I said, smiling a little; but as for my lord, he went from the room +laughing aloud. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> For my lord’s slavery to the child, I can find no +expression adequate. He lost himself in that continual thought: business, +friends, and wife being all alike forgotten, or only remembered with a painful +effort, like that of one struggling with a posset. It was most notable in the +matter of his wife. Since I had known Durrisdeer, she had been the burthen of +his thought and the loadstone of his eyes; and now she was quite cast out. I +have seen him come to the door of a room, look round, and pass my lady over as +though she were a dog before the fire. It would be Alexander he was seeking, +and my lady knew it well. I have heard him speak to her so ruggedly that I +nearly found it in my heart to intervene: the cause would still be the same, +that she had in some way thwarted Alexander. Without doubt this was in the +nature of a judgment on my lady. Without doubt she had the tables turned upon +her, as only Providence can do it; she who had been cold so many years to every +mark of tenderness, it was her part now to be neglected: the more praise to her +that she played it well. +</p> + +<p> +An odd situation resulted: that we had once more two parties in the house, and +that now I was of my lady’s. Not that ever I lost the love I bore my +master. But, for one thing, he had the less use for my society. For another, I +could not but compare the case of Mr. Alexander with that of Miss Katharine; +for whom my lord had never found the least attention. And for a third, I was +wounded by the change he discovered to his wife, which struck me in the nature +of an infidelity. I could not but admire, besides, the constancy and kindness +she displayed. Perhaps her sentiment to my lord, as it had been founded from +the first in pity, was that rather of a mother than a wife; perhaps it pleased +her—if I may so say—to behold her two children so happy in each +other; the more as one had suffered so unjustly in the past. But, for all that, +and though I could never trace in her one spark of jealousy, she must fall back +for society on poor neglected Miss Katharine; and I, on my part, came to pass +my spare hours more and more with the mother and daughter. It would be easy to +make too much of this division, for it was a pleasant family, as families go; +still the thing existed; whether my lord knew it or not, I am in doubt. I do +not think he did; he was bound up so entirely in his son; but the rest of us +knew it, and in a manner suffered from the knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +What troubled us most, however, was the great and growing danger to the child. +My lord was his father over again; it was to be feared the son would prove a +second Master. Time has proved these fears to have been quite exaggerate. +Certainly there is no more worthy gentleman to-day in Scotland than the seventh +Lord Durrisdeer. Of my own exodus from his employment it does not become me to +speak, above all in a memorandum written only to justify his father. . . . +</p> + +<p> +[<i>Editor’s Note</i>. <i>Five pages of Mr. Mackellar’s MS. are +here omitted</i>. <i>I have gathered from their perusal an impression that Mr. +Mackellar</i>, <i>in his old age</i>, <i>was rather an exacting servant</i>. +<i>Against the seventh Lord Durrisdeer</i> (<i>with whom</i>, <i>at any +rate</i>, <i>we have no concern</i>) <i>nothing material is +alleged</i>.—R. L. S.] +</p> + +<p> +. . . But our fear at the time was lest he should turn out, in the person of +his son, a second edition of his brother. My lady had tried to interject some +wholesome discipline; she had been glad to give that up, and now looked on with +secret dismay; sometimes she even spoke of it by hints; and sometimes, when +there was brought to her knowledge some monstrous instance of my lord’s +indulgence, she would betray herself in a gesture or perhaps an exclamation. As +for myself, I was haunted by the thought both day and night: not so much for +the child’s sake as for the father’s. The man had gone to sleep, he +was dreaming a dream, and any rough wakening must infallibly prove mortal. That +he should survive its death was inconceivable; and the fear of its dishonour +made me cover my face. +</p> + +<p> +It was this continual preoccupation that screwed me up at last to a +remonstrance: a matter worthy to be narrated in detail. My lord and I sat one +day at the same table upon some tedious business of detail; I have said that he +had lost his former interest in such occupations; he was plainly itching to be +gone, and he looked fretful, weary, and methought older than I had ever +previously observed. I suppose it was the haggard face that put me suddenly +upon my enterprise. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said I, with my head down, and feigning to continue my +occupation—“or, rather, let me call you again by the name of Mr. +Henry, for I fear your anger and want you to think upon old times—” +</p> + +<p> +“My good Mackellar!” said he; and that in tones so kindly that I +had near forsook my purpose. But I called to mind that I was speaking for his +good, and stuck to my colours. +</p> + +<p> +“Has it never come in upon your mind what you are doing?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“What I am doing?” he repeated; “I was never good at guessing +riddles.” +</p> + +<p> +“What you are doing with your son?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said he, with some defiance in his tone, “and what am +I doing with my son?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your father was a very good man,” says I, straying from the direct +path. “But do you think he was a wise father?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause before he spoke, and then: “I say nothing against +him,” he replied. “I had the most cause perhaps; but I say +nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, there it is,” said I. “You had the cause at least. And +yet your father was a good man; I never knew a better, save on the one point, +nor yet a wiser. Where he stumbled, it is highly possible another man should +fail. He had the two sons—” +</p> + +<p> +My lord rapped suddenly and violently on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“What is this?” cried he. “Speak out!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, then,” said I, my voice almost strangled with the thumping +of my heart. “If you continue to indulge Mr. Alexander, you are following +in your father’s footsteps. Beware, my lord, lest (when he grows up) your +son should follow in the Master’s.” +</p> + +<p> +I had never meant to put the thing so crudely; but in the extreme of fear, +there comes a brutal kind of courage, the most brutal indeed of all; and I +burnt my ships with that plain word. I never had the answer. When I lifted my +head, my lord had risen to his feet, and the next moment he fell heavily on the +floor. The fit or seizure endured not very long; he came to himself vacantly, +put his hand to his head, which I was then supporting, and says he, in a broken +voice: “I have been ill,” and a little after: “Help +me.” I got him to his feet, and he stood pretty well, though he kept hold +of the table. “I have been ill, Mackellar,” he said again. +“Something broke, Mackellar—or was going to break, and then all +swam away. I think I was very angry. Never you mind, Mackellar; never you mind, +my man. I wouldnae hurt a hair upon your head. Too much has come and gone. +It’s a certain thing between us two. But I think, Mackellar, I will go to +Mrs. Henry—I think I will go to Mrs. Henry,” said he, and got +pretty steadily from the room, leaving me overcome with penitence. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the door flew open, and my lady swept in with flashing eyes. +“What is all this?” she cried. “What have you done to my +husband? Will nothing teach you your position in this house? Will you never +cease from making and meddling?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady,” said I, “since I have been in this house I have +had plenty of hard words. For a while they were my daily diet, and I swallowed +them all. As for to-day, you may call me what you please; you will never find +the name hard enough for such a blunder. And yet I meant it for the +best.” +</p> + +<p> +I told her all with ingenuity, even as it is written here; and when she had +heard me out, she pondered, and I could see her animosity fall. +“Yes,” she said, “you meant well indeed. I have had the same +thought myself, or the same temptation rather, which makes me pardon you. But, +dear God, can you not understand that he can bear no more? He can bear no +more!” she cried. “The cord is stretched to snapping. What matters +the future if he have one or two good days?” +</p> + +<p> +“Amen,” said I. “I will meddle no more. I am pleased enough +that you should recognise the kindness of my meaning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said my lady; “but when it came to the point, I have +to suppose your courage failed you; for what you said was said cruelly.” +She paused, looking at me; then suddenly smiled a little, and said a singular +thing: “Do you know what you are, Mr. Mackellar? You are an old +maid.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> No more incident of any note occurred in the family until the +return of that ill-starred man the Master. But I have to place here a second +extract from the memoirs of Chevalier Burke, interesting in itself, and highly +necessary for my purpose. It is our only sight of the Master on his Indian +travels; and the first word in these pages of Secundra Dass. One fact, it is to +observe, appears here very clearly, which if we had known some twenty years +ago, how many calamities and sorrows had been spared!—that Secundra Dass +spoke English. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /> +ADVENTURE OF CHEVALIER BURKE IN INDIA.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Extracted from his Memoirs</i>. +</p> + +<p> +. . . Here was I, therefore, on the streets of that city, the name of which I +cannot call to mind, while even then I was so ill-acquainted with its situation +that I knew not whether to go south or north. The alert being sudden, I had run +forth without shoes or stockings; my hat had been struck from my head in the +mellay; my kit was in the hands of the English; I had no companion but the +cipaye, no weapon but my sword, and the devil a coin in my pocket. In short, I +was for all the world like one of those calendars with whom Mr. Galland has +made us acquainted in his elegant tales. These gentlemen, you will remember, +were for ever falling in with extraordinary incidents; and I was myself upon +the brink of one so astonishing that I protest I cannot explain it to this day. +</p> + +<p> +The cipaye was a very honest man; he had served many years with the French +colours, and would have let himself be cut to pieces for any of the brave +countrymen of Mr. Lally. It is the same fellow (his name has quite escaped me) +of whom I have narrated already a surprising instance of generosity of +mind—when he found Mr. de Fessac and myself upon the ramparts, entirely +overcome with liquor, and covered us with straw while the commandant was +passing by. I consulted him, therefore, with perfect freedom. It was a fine +question what to do; but we decided at last to escalade a garden wall, where we +could certainly sleep in the shadow of the trees, and might perhaps find an +occasion to get hold of a pair of slippers and a turban. In that part of the +city we had only the difficulty of the choice, for it was a quarter consisting +entirely of walled gardens, and the lanes which divided them were at that hour +of the night deserted. I gave the cipaye a back, and we had soon dropped into a +large enclosure full of trees. The place was soaking with the dew, which, in +that country, is exceedingly unwholesome, above all to whites; yet my fatigue +was so extreme that I was already half asleep, when the cipaye recalled me to +my senses. In the far end of the enclosure a bright light had suddenly shone +out, and continued to burn steadily among the leaves. It was a circumstance +highly unusual in such a place and hour; and, in our situation, it behoved us +to proceed with some timidity. The cipaye was sent to reconnoitre, and pretty +soon returned with the intelligence that we had fallen extremely amiss, for the +house belonged to a white man, who was in all likelihood English. +</p> + +<p> +“Faith,” says I, “if there is a white man to be seen, I will +have a look at him; for, the Lord be praised! there are more sorts than the +one!” +</p> + +<p> +The cipaye led me forward accordingly to a place from which I had a clear view +upon the house. It was surrounded with a wide verandah; a lamp, very well +trimmed, stood upon the floor of it, and on either side of the lamp there sat a +man, cross-legged, after the Oriental manner. Both, besides, were bundled up in +muslin like two natives; and yet one of them was not only a white man, but a +man very well known to me and the reader, being indeed that very Master of +Ballantrae of whose gallantry and genius I have had to speak so often. Word had +reached me that he was come to the Indies, though we had never met at least, +and I heard little of his occupations. But, sure, I had no sooner recognised +him, and found myself in the arms of so old a comrade, than I supposed my +tribulations were quite done. I stepped plainly forth into the light of the +moon, which shone exceeding strong, and hailing Ballantrae by name, made him in +a few words master of my grievous situation. He turned, started the least thing +in the world, looked me fair in the face while I was speaking, and when I had +done addressed himself to his companion in the barbarous native dialect. The +second person, who was of an extraordinary delicate appearance, with legs like +walking canes and fingers like the stalk of a tobacco pipe, <a +name="citation6"></a><a href="#footnote6" class="citation">[6]</a> now rose to +his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“The Sahib,” says he, “understands no English language. I +understand it myself, and I see you make some small mistake—oh! which may +happen very often. But the Sahib would be glad to know how you come in a +garden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ballantrae!” I cried, “have you the damned impudence to deny +me to my face?” +</p> + +<p> +Ballantrae never moved a muscle, staring at me like an image in a pagoda. +</p> + +<p> +“The Sahib understands no English language,” says the native, as +glib as before. “He be glad to know how you come in a garden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! the divil fetch him,” says I. “He would be glad to know +how I come in a garden, would he? Well, now, my dear man, just have the +civility to tell the Sahib, with my kind love, that we are two soldiers here +whom he never met and never heard of, but the cipaye is a broth of a boy, and I +am a broth of a boy myself; and if we don’t get a full meal of meat, and +a turban, and slippers, and the value of a gold mohur in small change as a +matter of convenience, bedad, my friend, I could lay my finger on a garden +where there is going to be trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +They carried their comedy so far as to converse awhile in Hindustanee; and then +says the Hindu, with the same smile, but sighing as if he were tired of the +repetition, “The Sahib would be glad to know how you come in a +garden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that the way of it?” says I, and laying my hand on my +sword-hilt I bade the cipaye draw. +</p> + +<p> +Ballantrae’s Hindu, still smiling, pulled out a pistol from his bosom, +and though Ballantrae himself never moved a muscle I knew him well enough to be +sure he was prepared. +</p> + +<p> +“The Sahib thinks you better go away,” says the Hindu. +</p> + +<p> +Well, to be plain, it was what I was thinking myself; for the report of a +pistol would have been, under Providence, the means of hanging the pair of us. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell the Sahib I consider him no gentleman,” says I, and turned +away with a gesture of contempt. +</p> + +<p> +I was not gone three steps when the voice of the Hindu called me back. +“The Sahib would be glad to know if you are a dam low Irishman,” +says he; and at the words Ballantrae smiled and bowed very low. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“The Sahib say you ask your friend Mackellar,” says the Hindu. +“The Sahib he cry quits.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell the Sahib I will give him a cure for the Scots fiddle when next we +meet,” cried I. +</p> + +<p> +The pair were still smiling as I left. +</p> + +<p> +There is little doubt some flaws may be picked in my own behaviour; and when a +man, however gallant, appeals to posterity with an account of his exploits, he +must almost certainly expect to share the fate of Cæsar and Alexander, +and to meet with some detractors. But there is one thing that can never be laid +at the door of Francis Burke: he never turned his back on a friend. . . . +</p> + +<p> +(Here follows a passage which the Chevalier Burke has been at the pains to +delete before sending me his manuscript. Doubtless it was some very natural +complaint of what he supposed to be an indiscretion on my part; though, indeed, +I can call none to mind. Perhaps Mr. Henry was less guarded; or it is just +possible the Master found the means to examine my correspondence, and himself +read the letter from Troyes: in revenge for which this cruel jest was +perpetrated on Mr. Burke in his extreme necessity. The Master, for all his +wickedness, was not without some natural affection; I believe he was sincerely +attached to Mr. Burke in the beginning; but the thought of treachery dried up +the springs of his very shallow friendship, and his detestable nature appeared +naked.—E. McK.) +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /> +THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSE.</h2> + +<p> +It is a strange thing that I should be at a stick for a date—the date, +besides, of an incident that changed the very nature of my life, and sent us +all into foreign lands. But the truth is, I was stricken out of all my +habitudes, and find my journals very ill redd-up, <a name="citation7"></a><a +href="#footnote7" class="citation">[7]</a> the day not indicated sometimes for +a week or two together, and the whole fashion of the thing like that of a man +near desperate. It was late in March at least, or early in April, 1764. I had +slept heavily, and wakened with a premonition of some evil to befall. So strong +was this upon my spirit that I hurried downstairs in my shirt and breeches, and +my hand (I remember) shook upon the rail. It was a cold, sunny morning, with a +thick white frost; the blackbirds sang exceeding sweet and loud about the house +of Durrisdeer, and there was a noise of the sea in all the chambers. As I came +by the doors of the hall, another sound arrested me—of voices talking. I +drew nearer, and stood like a man dreaming. Here was certainly a human voice, +and that in my own master’s house, and yet I knew it not; certainly human +speech, and that in my native land; and yet, listen as I pleased, I could not +catch one syllable. An old tale started up in my mind of a fairy wife (or +perhaps only a wandering stranger), that came to the place of my fathers some +generations back, and stayed the matter of a week, talking often in a tongue +that signified nothing to the hearers; and went again, as she had come, under +cloud of night, leaving not so much as a name behind her. A little fear I had, +but more curiosity; and I opened the hall-door, and entered. +</p> + +<p> +The supper-things still lay upon the table; the shutters were still closed, +although day peeped in the divisions; and the great room was lighted only with +a single taper and some lurching reverberation of the fire. Close in the +chimney sat two men. The one that was wrapped in a cloak and wore boots, I knew +at once: it was the bird of ill omen back again. Of the other, who was set +close to the red embers, and made up into a bundle like a mummy, I could but +see that he was an alien, of a darker hue than any man of Europe, very frailly +built, with a singular tall forehead, and a secret eye. Several bundles and a +small valise were on the floor; and to judge by the smallness of this luggage, +and by the condition of the Master’s boots, grossly patched by some +unscrupulous country cobbler, evil had not prospered. +</p> + +<p> +He rose upon my entrance; our eyes crossed; and I know not why it should have +been, but my courage rose like a lark on a May morning. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” said I, “is this you?”—and I was pleased +with the unconcern of my own voice. +</p> + +<p> +“It is even myself, worthy Mackellar,” says the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“This time you have brought the black dog visibly upon your back,” +I continued. +</p> + +<p> +“Referring to Secundra Dass?” asked the Master. “Let me +present you. He is a native gentleman of India.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hum!” said I. “I am no great lover either of you or your +friends, Mr. Bally. But I will let a little daylight in, and have a look at +you.” And so saying, I undid the shutters of the eastern window. +</p> + +<p> +By the light of the morning I could perceive the man was changed. Later, when +we were all together, I was more struck to see how lightly time had dealt with +him; but the first glance was otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +“You are getting an old man,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +A shade came upon his face. “If you could see yourself,” said he, +“you would perhaps not dwell upon the topic.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hut!” I returned, “old age is nothing to me. I think I have +been always old; and I am now, I thank God, better known and more respected. It +is not every one that can say that, Mr. Bally! The lines in your brow are +calamities; your life begins to close in upon you like a prison; death will +soon be rapping at the door; and I see not from what source you are to draw +your consolations.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the Master addressed himself to Secundra Dass in Hindustanee, from which I +gathered (I freely confess, with a high degree of pleasure) that my remarks +annoyed him. All this while, you may be sure, my mind had been busy upon other +matters, even while I rallied my enemy; and chiefly as to how I should +communicate secretly and quickly with my lord. To this, in the breathing-space +now given me, I turned all the forces of my mind; when, suddenly shifting my +eyes, I was aware of the man himself standing in the doorway, and, to all +appearance, quite composed. He had no sooner met my looks than he stepped +across the threshold. The Master heard him coming, and advanced upon the other +side; about four feet apart, these brothers came to a full pause, and stood +exchanging steady looks, and then my lord smiled, bowed a little forward, and +turned briskly away. +</p> + +<p> +“Mackellar,” says he, “we must see to breakfast for these +travellers.” +</p> + +<p> +It was plain the Master was a trifle disconcerted; but he assumed the more +impudence of speech and manner. “I am as hungry as a hawk,” says +he. “Let it be something good, Henry.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord turned to him with the same hard smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Durrisdeer,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! never in the family,” returned the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“Every one in this house renders me my proper title,” says my lord. +“If it please you to make an exception, I will leave you to consider what +appearance it will bear to strangers, and whether it may not be translated as +an effect of impotent jealousy.” +</p> + +<p> +I could have clapped my hands together with delight: the more so as my lord +left no time for any answer, but, bidding me with a sign to follow him, went +straight out of the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“Come quick,” says he; “we have to sweep vermin from the +house.” And he sped through the passages, with so swift a step that I +could scarce keep up with him, straight to the door of John Paul, the which he +opened without summons and walked in. John was, to all appearance, sound +asleep, but my lord made no pretence of waking him. +</p> + +<p> +“John Paul,” said he, speaking as quietly as ever I heard him, +“you served my father long, or I would pack you from the house like a +dog. If in half an hour’s time I find you gone, you shall continue to +receive your wages in Edinburgh. If you linger here or in St. +Bride’s—old man, old servant, and altogether—I shall find +some very astonishing way to make you smart for your disloyalty. Up and begone. +The door you let them in by will serve for your departure. I do not choose my +son shall see your face again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am rejoiced to find you bear the thing so quietly,” said I, when +we were forth again by ourselves. +</p> + +<p> +“Quietly!” cries he, and put my hand suddenly against his heart, +which struck upon his bosom like a sledge. +</p> + +<p> +At this revelation I was filled with wonder and fear. There was no constitution +could bear so violent a strain—his least of all, that was unhinged +already; and I decided in my mind that we must bring this monstrous situation +to an end. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be well, I think, if I took word to my lady,” said I. +Indeed, he should have gone himself, but I counted—not in vain—on +his indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” says he, “do. I will hurry breakfast: we must all +appear at the table, even Alexander; it must appear we are untroubled.” +</p> + +<p> +I ran to my lady’s room, and with no preparatory cruelty, disclosed my +news. +</p> + +<p> +“My mind was long ago made up,” said she. “We must make our +packets secretly to-day, and leave secretly to-night. Thank Heaven, we have +another house! The first ship that sails shall bear us to New York.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what of him?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“We leave him Durrisdeer,” she cried. “Let him work his +pleasure upon that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so, by your leave,” said I. “There shall be a dog at his +heels that can hold fast. Bed he shall have, and board, and a horse to ride +upon, if he behave himself; but the keys—if you think well of it, my +lady—shall be left in the hands of one Mackellar. There will be good care +taken; trust him for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Mackellar,” she cried, “I thank you for that thought. +All shall be left in your hands. If we must go into a savage country, I +bequeath it to you to take our vengeance. Send Macconochie to St. +Bride’s, to arrange privately for horses and to call the lawyer. My lord +must leave procuration.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment my lord came to the door, and we opened our plan to him. +</p> + +<p> +“I will never hear of it,” he cried; “he would think I feared +him. I will stay in my own house, please God, until I die. There lives not the +man can beard me out of it. Once and for all, here I am, and here I stay in +spite of all the devils in hell.” I can give no idea of the vehemency of +his words and utterance; but we both stood aghast, and I in particular, who had +been a witness of his former self-restraint. +</p> + +<p> +My lady looked at me with an appeal that went to my heart and recalled me to my +wits. I made her a private sign to go, and when my lord and I were alone, went +up to him where he was racing to and fro in one end of the room like a +half-lunatic, and set my hand firmly on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” says I, “I am going to be the plain-dealer once +more; if for the last time, so much the better, for I am grown weary of the +part.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing will change me,” he answered. “God forbid I should +refuse to hear you; but nothing will change me.” This he said firmly, +with no signal of the former violence, which already raised my hopes. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said I “I can afford to waste my breath.” +I pointed to a chair, and he sat down and looked at me. “I can remember a +time when my lady very much neglected you,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I never spoke of it while it lasted,” returned my lord, with a +high flush of colour; “and it is all changed now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know how much?” I said. “Do you know how much it is +all changed? The tables are turned, my lord! It is my lady that now courts you +for a word, a look—ay, and courts you in vain. Do you know with whom she +passes her days while you are out gallivanting in the policies? My lord, she is +glad to pass them with a certain dry old grieve <a name="citation8"></a><a +href="#footnote8" class="citation">[8]</a> of the name of Ephraim Mackellar; +and I think you may be able to remember what that means, for I am the more in a +mistake or you were once driven to the same company yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mackellar!” cries my lord, getting to his feet. “O my God, +Mackellar!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is neither the name of Mackellar nor the name of God that can change +the truth,” said I; “and I am telling you the fact. Now for you, +that suffered so much, to deal out the same suffering to another, is that the +part of any Christian? But you are so swallowed up in your new friend that the +old are all forgotten. They are all clean vanished from your memory. And yet +they stood by you at the darkest; my lady not the least. And does my lady ever +cross your mind? Does it ever cross your mind what she went through that +night?—or what manner of a wife she has been to you +thenceforward?—or in what kind of a position she finds herself to-day? +Never. It is your pride to stay and face him out, and she must stay along with +you. Oh! my lord’s pride—that’s the great affair! And yet she +is the woman, and you are a great hulking man! She is the woman that you swore +to protect; and, more betoken, the own mother of that son of yours!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are speaking very bitterly, Mackellar,” said he; “but, +the Lord knows, I fear you are speaking very true. I have not proved worthy of +my happiness. Bring my lady back.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady was waiting near at hand to learn the issue. When I brought her in, my +lord took a hand of each of us, and laid them both upon his bosom. “I +have had two friends in my life,” said he. “All the comfort ever I +had, it came from one or other. When you two are in a mind, I think I would be +an ungrateful dog—” He shut his mouth very hard, and looked on us +with swimming eyes. “Do what ye like with me,” says he, “only +don’t think—” He stopped again. “Do what ye please with +me: God knows I love and honour you.” And dropping our two hands, he +turned his back and went and gazed out of the window. But my lady ran after, +calling his name, and threw herself upon his neck in a passion of weeping. +</p> + +<p> +I went out and shut the door behind me, and stood and thanked God from the +bottom of my heart. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> At the breakfast board, according to my lord’s design, we +were all met. The Master had by that time plucked off his patched boots and +made a toilet suitable to the hour; Secundra Dass was no longer bundled up in +wrappers, but wore a decent plain black suit, which misbecame him strangely; +and the pair were at the great window, looking forth, when the family entered. +They turned; and the black man (as they had already named him in the house) +bowed almost to his knees, but the Master was for running forward like one of +the family. My lady stopped him, curtseying low from the far end of the hall, +and keeping her children at her back. My lord was a little in front: so there +were the three cousins of Durrisdeer face to face. The hand of time was very +legible on all; I seemed to read in their changed faces a <i>memento mori</i>; +and what affected me still more, it was the wicked man that bore his years the +handsomest. My lady was quite transfigured into the matron, a becoming woman +for the head of a great tableful of children and dependents. My lord was grown +slack in his limbs; he stooped; he walked with a running motion, as though he +had learned again from Mr. Alexander; his face was drawn; it seemed a trifle +longer than of old; and it wore at times a smile very singularly mingled, and +which (in my eyes) appeared both bitter and pathetic. But the Master still bore +himself erect, although perhaps with effort; his brow barred about the centre +with imperious lines, his mouth set as for command. He had all the gravity and +something of the splendour of Satan in the “Paradise Lost.” I could +not help but see the man with admiration, and was only surprised that I saw him +with so little fear. +</p> + +<p> +But indeed (as long as we were at the table) it seemed as if his authority were +quite vanished and his teeth all drawn. We had known him a magician that +controlled the elements; and here he was, transformed into an ordinary +gentleman, chatting like his neighbours at the breakfast-board. For now the +father was dead, and my lord and lady reconciled, in what ear was he to pour +his calumnies? It came upon me in a kind of vision how hugely I had overrated +the man’s subtlety. He had his malice still; he was false as ever; and, +the occasion being gone that made his strength, he sat there impotent; he was +still the viper, but now spent his venom on a file. Two more thoughts occurred +to me while yet we sat at breakfast: the first, that he was abashed—I had +almost said, distressed—to find his wickedness quite unavailing; the +second, that perhaps my lord was in the right, and we did amiss to fly from our +dismasted enemy. But my poor man’s leaping heart came in my mind, and I +remembered it was for his life we played the coward. +</p> + +<p> +When the meal was over, the Master followed me to my room, and, taking a chair +(which I had never offered him), asked me what was to be done with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Bally,” said I, “the house will still be open to +you for a time.” +</p> + +<p> +“For a time?” says he. “I do not know if I quite take your +meaning.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is plain enough,” said I. “We keep you for our +reputation; as soon as you shall have publicly disgraced yourself by some of +your misconduct, we shall pack you forth again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are become an impudent rogue,” said the Master, bending his +brows at me dangerously. +</p> + +<p> +“I learned in a good school,” I returned. “And you must have +perceived yourself that with my old lord’s death your power is quite +departed. I do not fear you now, Mr. Bally; I think even—God forgive +me—that I take a certain pleasure in your company.” +</p> + +<p> +He broke out in a burst of laughter, which I clearly saw to be assumed. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come with empty pockets,” says he, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think there will be any money going,” I replied. “I +would advise you not to build on that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall have something to say on the point,” he returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” said I. “I have not a guess what it will be, +then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! you affect confidence,” said the Master. “I have still +one strong position—that you people fear a scandal, and I enjoy +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, Mr. Bally,” says I. “We do not in the least fear +a scandal against you.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed again. “You have been studying repartee,” he said. +“But speech is very easy, and sometimes very deceptive. I warn you +fairly: you will find me vitriol in the house. You would do wiser to pay money +down and see my back.” And with that he waved his hand to me and left the +room. +</p> + +<p> +A little after, my lord came with the lawyer, Mr. Carlyle; a bottle of old wine +was brought, and we all had a glass before we fell to business. The necessary +deeds were then prepared and executed, and the Scotch estates made over in +trust to Mr. Carlyle and myself. +</p> + +<p> +“There is one point, Mr. Carlyle,” said my lord, when these affairs +had been adjusted, “on which I wish that you would do us justice. This +sudden departure coinciding with my brother’s return will be certainly +commented on. I wish you would discourage any conjunction of the two.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will make a point of it, my lord,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The +Mas— Bally does not, then, accompany you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a point I must approach,” said my lord. “Mr. Bally +remains at Durrisdeer, under the care of Mr. Mackellar; and I do not mean that +he shall even know our destination.” +</p> + +<p> +“Common report, however—” began the lawyer. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! but, Mr. Carlyle, this is to be a secret quite among +ourselves,” interrupted my lord. “None but you and Mackellar are to +be made acquainted with my movements.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Mr. Bally stays here? Quite so,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The +powers you leave—” Then he broke off again. “Mr. Mackellar, +we have a rather heavy weight upon us.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt,” said he. “Mr. Bally will have no voice?” +</p> + +<p> +“He will have no voice,” said my lord; “and, I hope, no +influence. Mr. Bally is not a good adviser.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” said the lawyer. “By the way, has Mr. Bally +means?” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand him to have nothing,” replied my lord. “I give +him table, fire, and candle in this house.” +</p> + +<p> +“And in the matter of an allowance? If I am to share the responsibility, +you will see how highly desirable it is that I should understand your +views,” said the lawyer. “On the question of an allowance?” +</p> + +<p> +“There will be no allowance,” said my lord. “I wish Mr. Bally +to live very private. We have not always been gratified with his +behaviour.” +</p> + +<p> +“And in the matter of money,” I added, “he has shown himself +an infamous bad husband. Glance your eye upon that docket, Mr. Carlyle, where I +have brought together the different sums the man has drawn from the estate in +the last fifteen or twenty years. The total is pretty.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Carlyle made the motion of whistling. “I had no guess of this,” +said he. “Excuse me once more, my lord, if I appear to push you; but it +is really desirable I should penetrate your intentions. Mr. Mackellar might +die, when I should find myself alone upon this trust. Would it not be rather +your lordship’s preference that Mr. Bally should—ahem—should +leave the country?” +</p> + +<p> +My lord looked at Mr. Carlyle. “Why do you ask that?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“I gather, my lord, that Mr. Bally is not a comfort to his family,” +says the lawyer with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +My lord’s face became suddenly knotted. “I wish he was in +hell!” cried he, and filled himself a glass of wine, but with a hand so +tottering that he spilled the half into his bosom. This was the second time +that, in the midst of the most regular and wise behaviour, his animosity had +spirted out. It startled Mr. Carlyle, who observed my lord thenceforth with +covert curiosity; and to me it restored the certainty that we were acting for +the best in view of my lord’s health and reason. +</p> + +<p> +Except for this explosion the interview was very successfully conducted. No +doubt Mr. Carlyle would talk, as lawyers do, little by little. We could thus +feel we had laid the foundations of a better feeling in the country, and the +man’s own misconduct would certainly complete what we had begun. Indeed, +before his departure, the lawyer showed us there had already gone abroad some +glimmerings of the truth. +</p> + +<p> +“I should perhaps explain to you, my lord,” said he, pausing, with +his hat in his hand, “that I have not been altogether surprised with your +lordship’s dispositions in the case of Mr. Bally. Something of this +nature oozed out when he was last in Durrisdeer. There was some talk of a woman +at St. Bride’s, to whom you had behaved extremely handsome, and Mr. Bally +with no small degree of cruelty. There was the entail, again, which was much +controverted. In short, there was no want of talk, back and forward; and some +of our wise-acres took up a strong opinion. I remained in suspense, as became +one of my cloth; but Mr. Mackellar’s docket here has finally opened my +eyes. I do not think, Mr. Mackellar, that you and I will give him that much +rope.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> The rest of that important day passed prosperously through. It +was our policy to keep the enemy in view, and I took my turn to be his watchman +with the rest. I think his spirits rose as he perceived us to be so attentive, +and I know that mine insensibly declined. What chiefly daunted me was the +man’s singular dexterity to worm himself into our troubles. You may have +felt (after a horse accident) the hand of a bone-setter artfully divide and +interrogate the muscles, and settle strongly on the injured place? It was so +with the Master’s tongue, that was so cunning to question; and his eyes, +that were so quick to observe. I seemed to have said nothing, and yet to have +let all out. Before I knew where I was the man was condoling with me on my +lord’s neglect of my lady and myself, and his hurtful indulgence to his +son. On this last point I perceived him (with panic fear) to return repeatedly. +The boy had displayed a certain shrinking from his uncle; it was strong in my +mind his father had been fool enough to indoctrinate the same, which was no +wise beginning: and when I looked upon the man before me, still so handsome, so +apt a speaker, with so great a variety of fortunes to relate, I saw he was the +very personage to captivate a boyish fancy. John Paul had left only that +morning; it was not to be supposed he had been altogether dumb upon his +favourite subject: so that here would be Mr. Alexander in the part of Dido, +with a curiosity inflamed to hear; and there would be the Master, like a +diabolical Æneas, full of matter the most pleasing in the world to any +youthful ear, such as battles, sea-disasters, flights, the forests of the West, +and (since his later voyage) the ancient cities of the Indies. How cunningly +these baits might be employed, and what an empire might be so founded, little +by little, in the mind of any boy, stood obviously clear to me. There was no +inhibition, so long as the man was in the house, that would be strong enough to +hold these two apart; for if it be hard to charm serpents, it is no very +difficult thing to cast a glamour on a little chip of manhood not very long in +breeches. I recalled an ancient sailor-man who dwelt in a lone house beyond the +Figgate Whins (I believe, he called it after Portobello), and how the boys +would troop out of Leith on a Saturday, and sit and listen to his swearing +tales, as thick as crows about a carrion: a thing I often remarked as I went +by, a young student, on my own more meditative holiday diversion. Many of these +boys went, no doubt, in the face of an express command; many feared and even +hated the old brute of whom they made their hero; and I have seen them flee +from him when he was tipsy, and stone him when he was drunk. And yet there they +came each Saturday! How much more easily would a boy like Mr. Alexander fall +under the influence of a high-looking, high-spoken gentleman-adventurer, who +should conceive the fancy to entrap him; and, the influence gained, how easy to +employ it for the child’s perversion! +</p> + +<p> +I doubt if our enemy had named Mr. Alexander three times before I perceived +which way his mind was aiming—all this train of thought and memory passed +in one pulsation through my own—and you may say I started back as though +an open hole had gaped across a pathway. Mr. Alexander: there was the weak +point, there was the Eve in our perishable paradise; and the serpent was +already hissing on the trail. +</p> + +<p> +I promise you, I went the more heartily about the preparations; my last scruple +gone, the danger of delay written before me in huge characters. From that +moment forth I seem not to have sat down or breathed. Now I would be at my post +with the Master and his Indian; now in the garret, buckling a valise; now +sending forth Macconochie by the side postern and the wood-path to bear it to +the trysting-place; and, again, snatching some words of counsel with my lady. +This was the <i>verso</i> of our life in Durrisdeer that day; but on the +<i>recto</i> all appeared quite settled, as of a family at home in its paternal +seat; and what perturbation may have been observable, the Master would set down +to the blow of his unlooked-for coming, and the fear he was accustomed to +inspire. +</p> + +<p> +Supper went creditably off, cold salutations passed and the company trooped to +their respective chambers. I attended the Master to the last. We had put him +next door to his Indian, in the north wing; because that was the most distant +and could be severed from the body of the house with doors. I saw he was a kind +friend or a good master (whichever it was) to his Secundra Dass—seeing to +his comfort; mending the fire with his own hand, for the Indian complained of +cold; inquiring as to the rice on which the stranger made his diet; talking +with him pleasantly in the Hindustanee, while I stood by, my candle in my hand, +and affected to be overcome with slumber. At length the Master observed my +signals of distress. “I perceive,” says he, “that you have +all your ancient habits: early to bed and early to rise. Yawn yourself +away!” +</p> + +<p> +Once in my own room, I made the customary motions of undressing, so that I +might time myself; and when the cycle was complete, set my tinder-box ready, +and blew out my taper. The matter of an hour afterward I made a light again, +put on my shoes of list that I had worn by my lord’s sick-bed, and set +forth into the house to call the voyagers. All were dressed and +waiting—my lord, my lady, Miss Katharine, Mr. Alexander, my lady’s +woman Christie; and I observed the effect of secrecy even upon quite innocent +persons, that one after another showed in the chink of the door a face as white +as paper. We slipped out of the side postern into a night of darkness, scarce +broken by a star or two; so that at first we groped and stumbled and fell among +the bushes. A few hundred yards up the wood-path Macconochie was waiting us +with a great lantern; so the rest of the way we went easy enough, but still in +a kind of guilty silence. A little beyond the abbey the path debauched on the +main road and some quarter of a mile farther, at the place called Eagles, where +the moors begin, we saw the lights of the two carriages stand shining by the +wayside. Scarce a word or two was uttered at our parting, and these regarded +business: a silent grasping of hands, a turning of faces aside, and the thing +was over; the horses broke into a trot, the lamplight sped like +Will-o’-the-Wisp upon the broken moorland, it dipped beyond Stony Brae; +and there were Macconochie and I alone with our lantern on the road. There was +one thing more to wait for, and that was the reappearance of the coach upon +Cartmore. It seems they must have pulled up upon the summit, looked back for a +last time, and seen our lantern not yet moved away from the place of +separation. For a lamp was taken from a carriage, and waved three times up and +down by way of a farewell. And then they were gone indeed, having looked their +last on the kind roof of Durrisdeer, their faces toward a barbarous country. I +never knew before, the greatness of that vault of night in which we two poor +serving-men—the one old, and the one elderly—stood for the first +time deserted; I had never felt before my own dependency upon the countenance +of others. The sense of isolation burned in my bowels like a fire. It seemed +that we who remained at home were the true exiles, and that Durrisdeer and +Solwayside, and all that made my country native, its air good to me, and its +language welcome, had gone forth and was far over the sea with my old masters. +</p> + +<p> +The remainder of that night I paced to and fro on the smooth highway, +reflecting on the future and the past. My thoughts, which at first dwelled +tenderly on those who were just gone, took a more manly temper as I considered +what remained for me to do. Day came upon the inland mountain-tops, and the +fowls began to cry, and the smoke of homesteads to arise in the brown bosom of +the moors, before I turned my face homeward, and went down the path to where +the roof of Durrisdeer shone in the morning by the sea. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> At the customary hour I had the Master called, and awaited his +coming in the hall with a quiet mind. He looked about him at the empty room and +the three covers set. +</p> + +<p> +“We are a small party,” said he. “How comes?” +</p> + +<p> +“This is the party to which we must grow accustomed,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me with a sudden sharpness. “What is all this?” said +he. +</p> + +<p> +“You and I and your friend Mr. Dass are now all the company,” I +replied. “My lord, my lady, and the children, are gone upon a +voyage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word!” said he. “Can this be possible? I have indeed +fluttered your Volscians in Corioli! But this is no reason why our breakfast +should go cold. Sit down, Mr. Mackellar, if you please”—taking, as +he spoke, the head of the table, which I had designed to occupy +myself—“and as we eat, you can give me the details of this +evasion.” +</p> + +<p> +I could see he was more affected than his language carried, and I determined to +equal him in coolness. “I was about to ask you to take the head of the +table,” said I; “for though I am now thrust into the position of +your host, I could never forget that you were, after all, a member of the +family.” +</p> + +<p> +For a while he played the part of entertainer, giving directions to +Macconochie, who received them with an evil grace, and attending specially upon +Secundra. “And where has my good family withdrawn to?” he asked +carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Mr. Bally, that is another point,” said I. “I have no +orders to communicate their destination.” +</p> + +<p> +“To me,” he corrected. +</p> + +<p> +“To any one,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the less pointed,” said the master; “<i>c’est de +bon ton</i>: my brother improves as he continues. And I, dear Mr. +Mackellar?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will have bed and board, Mr. Bally,” said I. “I am +permitted to give you the run of the cellar, which is pretty reasonably +stocked. You have only to keep well with me, which is no very difficult matter, +and you shall want neither for wine nor a saddle-horse.” +</p> + +<p> +He made an excuse to send Macconochie from the room. +</p> + +<p> +“And for money?” he inquired. “Have I to keep well with my +good friend Mackellar for my pocket-money also? This is a pleasing return to +the principles of boyhood.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was no allowance made,” said I; “but I will take it on +myself to see you are supplied in moderation.” +</p> + +<p> +“In moderation?” he repeated. “And you will take it on +yourself?” He drew himself up, and looked about the hall at the dark rows +of portraits. “In the name of my ancestors, I thank you,” says he; +and then, with a return to irony, “But there must certainly be an +allowance for Secundra Dass?” he said. “It in not possible they +have omitted that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will make a note of it, and ask instructions when I write,” said +I. +</p> + +<p> +And he, with a sudden change of manner, and leaning forward with an elbow on +the table—“Do you think this entirely wise?” +</p> + +<p> +“I execute my orders, Mr. Bally,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Profoundly modest,” said the Master; “perhaps not equally +ingenuous. You told me yesterday my power was fallen with my father’s +death. How comes it, then, that a peer of the realm flees under cloud of night +out of a house in which his fathers have stood several sieges? that he conceals +his address, which must be a matter of concern to his Gracious Majesty and to +the whole republic? and that he should leave me in possession, and under the +paternal charge of his invaluable Mackellar? This smacks to me of a very +considerable and genuine apprehension.” +</p> + +<p> +I sought to interrupt him with some not very truthful denegation; but he waved +me down, and pursued his speech. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, it smacks of it,” he said; “but I will go beyond +that, for I think the apprehension grounded. I came to this house with some +reluctancy. In view of the manner of my last departure, nothing but necessity +could have induced me to return. Money, however, is that which I must have. You +will not give with a good grace; well, I have the power to force it from you. +Inside of a week, without leaving Durrisdeer, I will find out where these fools +are fled to. I will follow; and when I have run my quarry down, I will drive a +wedge into that family that shall once more burst it into shivers. I shall see +then whether my Lord Durrisdeer” (said with indescribable scorn and rage) +“will choose to buy my absence; and you will all see whether, by that +time, I decide for profit or revenge.” +</p> + +<p> +I was amazed to hear the man so open. The truth is, he was consumed with anger +at my lord’s successful flight, felt himself to figure as a dupe, and was +in no humour to weigh language. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you consider <i>this</i> entirely wise?” said I, copying his +words. +</p> + +<p> +“These twenty years I have lived by my poor wisdom,” he answered +with a smile that seemed almost foolish in its vanity. +</p> + +<p> +“And come out a beggar in the end,” said I, “if beggar be a +strong enough word for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would have you to observe, Mr. Mackellar,” cried he, with a +sudden imperious heat, in which I could not but admire him, “that I am +scrupulously civil: copy me in that, and we shall be the better friends.” +</p> + +<p> +Throughout this dialogue I had been incommoded by the observation of Secundra +Dass. Not one of us, since the first word, had made a feint of eating: our eyes +were in each other’s faces—you might say, in each other’s +bosoms; and those of the Indian troubled me with a certain changing brightness, +as of comprehension. But I brushed the fancy aside, telling myself once more he +understood no English; only, from the gravity of both voices, and the +occasional scorn and anger in the Master’s, smelled out there was +something of import in the wind. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> For the matter of three weeks we continued to live together in +the house of Durrisdeer: the beginning of that most singular chapter of my +life—what I must call my intimacy with the Master. At first he was +somewhat changeable in his behaviour: now civil, now returning to his old +manner of flouting me to my face; and in both I met him half-way. Thanks be to +Providence, I had now no measure to keep with the man; and I was never afraid +of black brows, only of naked swords. So that I found a certain entertainment +in these bouts of incivility, and was not always ill-inspired in my rejoinders. +At last (it was at supper) I had a droll expression that entirely vanquished +him. He laughed again and again; and “Who would have guessed,” he +cried, “that this old wife had any wit under his petticoats?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no wit, Mr. Bally,” said I: “a dry Scot’s +humour, and something of the driest.” And, indeed, I never had the least +pretension to be thought a wit. +</p> + +<p> +From that hour he was never rude with me, but all passed between us in a manner +of pleasantry. One of our chief times of daffing <a name="citation9"></a><a +href="#footnote9" class="citation">[9]</a> was when he required a horse, +another bottle, or some money. He would approach me then after the manner of a +schoolboy, and I would carry it on by way of being his father: on both sides, +with an infinity of mirth. I could not but perceive that he thought more of me, +which tickled that poor part of mankind, the vanity. He dropped, besides (I +must suppose unconsciously), into a manner that was not only familiar, but even +friendly; and this, on the part of one who had so long detested me, I found the +more insidious. He went little abroad; sometimes even refusing invitations. +“No,” he would say, “what do I care for these thick-headed +bonnet-lairds? I will stay at home, Mackellar; and we shall share a bottle +quietly, and have one of our good talks.” And, indeed, meal-time at +Durrisdeer must have been a delight to any one, by reason of the brilliancy of +the discourse. He would often express wonder at his former indifference to my +society. “But, you see,” he would add, “we were upon opposite +sides. And so we are to-day; but let us never speak of that. I would think much +less of you if you were not staunch to your employer.” You are to +consider he seemed to me quite impotent for any evil; and how it is a most +engaging form of flattery when (after many years) tardy justice is done to a +man’s character and parts. But I have no thought to excuse myself. I was +to blame; I let him cajole me, and, in short, I think the watch-dog was going +sound asleep, when he was suddenly aroused. +</p> + +<p> +I should say the Indian was continually travelling to and fro in the house. He +never spoke, save in his own dialect and with the Master; walked without sound; +and was always turning up where you would least expect him, fallen into a deep +abstraction, from which he would start (upon your coming) to mock you with one +of his grovelling obeisances. He seemed so quiet, so frail, and so wrapped in +his own fancies, that I came to pass him over without much regard, or even to +pity him for a harmless exile from his country. And yet without doubt the +creature was still eavesdropping; and without doubt it was through his stealth +and my security that our secret reached the Master. +</p> + +<p> +It was one very wild night, after supper, and when we had been making more than +usually merry, that the blow fell on me. +</p> + +<p> +“This is all very fine,” says the Master, “but we should do +better to be buckling our valise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why so?” I cried. “Are you leaving?” +</p> + +<p> +“We are all leaving to-morrow in the morning,” said he. “For +the port of Glascow first, thence for the province of New York.” +</p> + +<p> +I suppose I must have groaned aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he continued, “I boasted; I said a week, and it has +taken me near twenty days. But never mind; I shall make it up; I will go the +faster.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you the money for this voyage?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear and ingenuous personage, I have,” said he. “Blame me, +if you choose, for my duplicity; but while I have been wringing shillings from +my daddy, I had a stock of my own put by against a rainy day. You will pay for +your own passage, if you choose to accompany us on our flank march; I have +enough for Secundra and myself, but not more—enough to be dangerous, not +enough to be generous. There is, however, an outside seat upon the chaise which +I will let you have upon a moderate commutation; so that the whole menagerie +can go together—the house-dog, the monkey, and the tiger.” +</p> + +<p> +“I go with you,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I count upon it,” said the Master. “You have seen me foiled; +I mean you shall see me victorious. To gain that I will risk wetting you like a +sop in this wild weather.” +</p> + +<p> +“And at least,” I added, “you know very well you could not +throw me off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not easily,” said he. “You put your finger on the point with +your usual excellent good sense. I never fight with the inevitable.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is useless to appeal to you?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Believe me, perfectly,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet, if you would give me time, I could write—” I began. +</p> + +<p> +“And what would be my Lord Durrisdeer’s answer?” asks he. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said I, “that is the rub.” +</p> + +<p> +“And, at any rate, how much more expeditious that I should go +myself!” says he. “But all this is quite a waste of breath. At +seven to-morrow the chaise will be at the door. For I start from the door, +Mackellar; I do not skulk through woods and take my chaise upon the +wayside—shall we say, at Eagles?” +</p> + +<p> +My mind was now thoroughly made up. “Can you spare me quarter of an hour +at St. Bride’s?” said I. “I have a little necessary business +with Carlyle.” +</p> + +<p> +“An hour, if you prefer,” said he. “I do not seek to deny +that the money for your seat is an object to me; and you could always get the +first to Glascow with saddle-horses.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, “I never thought to leave old +Scotland.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will brisken you up,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“This will be an ill journey for some one,” I said. “I think, +sir, for you. Something speaks in my bosom; and so much it says +plain—that this is an ill-omened journey.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you take to prophecy,” says he, “listen to that.” +</p> + +<p> +There came up a violent squall off the open Solway, and the rain was dashed on +the great windows. +</p> + +<p> +“Do ye ken what that bodes, warlock?” said he, in a broad accent: +“that there’ll be a man Mackellar unco’ sick at sea.” +</p> + +<p> +When I got to my chamber, I sat there under a painful excitation, hearkening to +the turmoil of the gale, which struck full upon that gable of the house. What +with the pressure on my spirits, the eldritch cries of the wind among the +turret-tops, and the perpetual trepidation of the masoned house, sleep fled my +eyelids utterly. I sat by my taper, looking on the black panes of the window, +where the storm appeared continually on the point of bursting in its entrance; +and upon that empty field I beheld a perspective of consequences that made the +hair to rise upon my scalp. The child corrupted, the home broken up, my master +dead or worse than dead, my mistress plunged in desolation—all these I +saw before me painted brightly on the darkness; and the outcry of the wind +appeared to mock at my inaction. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /> +MR. MACKELLAR’S JOURNEY WITH THE MASTER.</h2> + +<p> +The chaise came to the door in a strong drenching mist. We took our leave in +silence: the house of Durrisdeer standing with dropping gutters and windows +closed, like a place dedicate to melancholy. I observed the Master kept his +head out, looking back on these splashed walls and glimmering roofs, till they +were suddenly swallowed in the mist; and I must suppose some natural sadness +fell upon the man at this departure; or was it some provision of the end? At +least, upon our mounting the long brae from Durrisdeer, as we walked side by +side in the wet, he began first to whistle and then to sing the saddest of our +country tunes, which sets folk weeping in a tavern, <i>Wandering Willie</i>. +The set of words he used with it I have not heard elsewhere, and could never +come by any copy; but some of them which were the most appropriate to our +departure linger in my memory. One verse began— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,<br /> +Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And ended somewhat thus— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,<br /> + Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.<br /> +Lone let it stand, now the folks are all departed,<br /> + The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +I could never be a judge of the merit of these verses; they were so hallowed by +the melancholy of the air, and were sung (or rather “soothed”) to +me by a master-singer at a time so fitting. He looked in my face when he had +done, and saw that my eyes watered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Mackellar,” said he, “do you think I have never a +regret?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think you could be so bad a man,” said I, “if you +had not all the machinery to be a good one.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not all,” says he: “not all. You are there in error. The +malady of not wanting, my evangelist.” But methought he sighed as he +mounted again into the chaise. +</p> + +<p> +All day long we journeyed in the same miserable weather: the mist besetting us +closely, the heavens incessantly weeping on my head. The road lay over moorish +hills, where was no sound but the crying of moor-fowl in the wet heather and +the pouring of the swollen burns. Sometimes I would doze off in slumber, when I +would find myself plunged at once in some foul and ominous nightmare, from the +which I would awake strangling. Sometimes, if the way was steep and the wheels +turning slowly, I would overhear the voices from within, talking in that +tropical tongue which was to me as inarticulate as the piping of the fowls. +Sometimes, at a longer ascent, the Master would set foot to ground and walk by +my side, mostly without speech. And all the time, sleeping or waking, I beheld +the same black perspective of approaching ruin; and the same pictures rose in +my view, only they were now painted upon hillside mist. One, I remember, stood +before me with the colours of a true illusion. It showed me my lord seated at a +table in a small room; his head, which was at first buried in his hands, he +slowly raised, and turned upon me a countenance from which hope had fled. I saw +it first on the black window-panes, my last night in Durrisdeer; it haunted and +returned upon me half the voyage through; and yet it was no effect of lunacy, +for I have come to a ripe old age with no decay of my intelligence; nor yet (as +I was then tempted to suppose) a heaven-sent warning of the future, for all +manner of calamities befell, not that calamity—and I saw many pitiful +sights, but never that one. +</p> + +<p> +It was decided we should travel on all night; and it was singular, once the +dusk had fallen, my spirits somewhat rose. The bright lamps, shining forth into +the mist and on the smoking horses and the hodding post-boy, gave me perhaps an +outlook intrinsically more cheerful than what day had shown; or perhaps my mind +had become wearied of its melancholy. At least, I spent some waking hours, not +without satisfaction in my thoughts, although wet and weary in my body; and +fell at last into a natural slumber without dreams. Yet I must have been at +work even in the deepest of my sleep; and at work with at least a measure of +intelligence. For I started broad awake, in the very act of crying out to +myself +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +stricken to find in it an appropriateness, which I had not yesterday observed, +to the Master’s detestable purpose in the present journey. +</p> + +<p> +We were then close upon the city of Glascow, where we were soon breakfasting +together at an inn, and where (as the devil would have it) we found a ship in +the very article of sailing. We took our places in the cabin; and, two days +after, carried our effects on board. Her name was the <i>Nonesuch</i>, a very +ancient ship and very happily named. By all accounts this should be her last +voyage; people shook their heads upon the quays, and I had several warnings +offered me by strangers in the street to the effect that she was rotten as a +cheese, too deeply loaden, and must infallibly founder if we met a gale. From +this it fell out we were the only passengers; the Captain, McMurtrie, was a +silent, absorbed man, with the Glascow or Gaelic accent; the mates ignorant +rough seafarers, come in through the hawsehole; and the Master and I were cast +upon each other’s company. +</p> + +<p> +<i>The Nonesuch</i> carried a fair wind out of the Clyde, and for near upon a +week we enjoyed bright weather and a sense of progress. I found myself (to my +wonder) a born seaman, in so far at least as I was never sick; yet I was far +from tasting the usual serenity of my health. Whether it was the motion of the +ship on the billows, the confinement, the salted food, or all of these +together, I suffered from a blackness of spirit and a painful strain upon my +temper. The nature of my errand on that ship perhaps contributed; I think it +did no more; the malady (whatever it was) sprang from my environment; and if +the ship were not to blame, then it was the Master. Hatred and fear are ill +bedfellows; but (to my shame be it spoken) I have tasted those in other places, +lain down and got up with them, and eaten and drunk with them, and yet never +before, nor after, have I been so poisoned through and through, in soul and +body, as I was on board the <i>Nonesuch</i>. I freely confess my enemy set me a +fair example of forbearance; in our worst days displayed the most patient +geniality, holding me in conversation as long as I would suffer, and when I had +rebuffed his civility, stretching himself on deck to read. The book he had on +board with him was Mr. Richardson’s famous <i>Clarissa</i>! and among +other small attentions he would read me passages aloud; nor could any +elocutionist have given with greater potency the pathetic portions of that +work. I would retort upon him with passages out of the Bible, which was all my +library—and very fresh to me, my religious duties (I grieve to say it) +being always and even to this day extremely neglected. He tasted the merits of +the word like the connoisseur he was; and would sometimes take it from my hand, +turn the leaves over like a man that knew his way, and give me, with his fine +declamation, a Roland for my Oliver. But it was singular how little he applied +his reading to himself; it passed high above his head like summer thunder: +Lovelace and Clarissa, the tales of David’s generosity, the psalms of his +penitence, the solemn questions of the book of Job, the touching poetry of +Isaiah—they were to him a source of entertainment only, like the scraping +of a fiddle in a change-house. This outer sensibility and inner toughness set +me against him; it seemed of a piece with that impudent grossness which I knew +to underlie the veneer of his fine manners; and sometimes my gorge rose against +him as though he were deformed—and sometimes I would draw away as though +from something partly spectral. I had moments when I thought of him as of a man +of pasteboard—as though, if one should strike smartly through the buckram +of his countenance, there would be found a mere vacuity within. This horror +(not merely fanciful, I think) vastly increased my detestation of his +neighbourhood; I began to feel something shiver within me on his drawing near; +I had at times a longing to cry out; there were days when I thought I could +have struck him. This frame of mind was doubtless helped by shame, because I +had dropped during our last days at Durrisdeer into a certain toleration of the +man; and if any one had then told me I should drop into it again, I must have +laughed in his face. It is possible he remained unconscious of this extreme +fever of my resentment; yet I think he was too quick; and rather that he had +fallen, in a long life of idleness, into a positive need of company, which +obliged him to confront and tolerate my unconcealed aversion. Certain, at +least, that he loved the note of his own tongue, as, indeed, he entirely loved +all the parts and properties of himself; a sort of imbecility which almost +necessarily attends on wickedness. I have seen him driven, when I proved +recalcitrant, to long discourses with the skipper; and this, although the man +plainly testified his weariness, fiddling miserably with both hand and foot, +and replying only with a grunt. +</p> + +<p> +After the first week out we fell in with foul winds and heavy weather. The sea +was high. The <i>Nonesuch</i>, being an old-fashioned ship and badly loaden, +rolled beyond belief; so that the skipper trembled for his masts, and I for my +life. We made no progress on our course. An unbearable ill-humour settled on +the ship: men, mates, and master, girding at one another all day long. A saucy +word on the one hand, and a blow on the other, made a daily incident. There +were times when the whole crew refused their duty; and we of the afterguard +were twice got under arms—being the first time that ever I bore +weapons—in the fear of mutiny. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of our evil season sprang up a hurricane of wind; so that all +supposed she must go down. I was shut in the cabin from noon of one day till +sundown of the next; the Master was somewhere lashed on deck. Secundra had +eaten of some drug and lay insensible; so you may say I passed these hours in +an unbroken solitude. At first I was terrified beyond motion, and almost beyond +thought, my mind appearing to be frozen. Presently there stole in on me a ray +of comfort. If the <i>Nonesuch</i> foundered, she would carry down with her +into the deeps of that unsounded sea the creature whom we all so feared and +hated; there would be no more Master of Ballantrae, the fish would sport among +his ribs; his schemes all brought to nothing, his harmless enemies at peace. At +first, I have said, it was but a ray of comfort; but it had soon grown to be +broad sunshine. The thought of the man’s death, of his deletion from this +world, which he embittered for so many, took possession of my mind. I hugged +it, I found it sweet in my belly. I conceived the ship’s last plunge, the +sea bursting upon all sides into the cabin, the brief mortal conflict there, +all by myself, in that closed place; I numbered the horrors, I had almost said +with satisfaction; I felt I could bear all and more, if the <i>Nonesuch</i> +carried down with her, overtook by the same ruin, the enemy of my poor +master’s house. Towards noon of the second day the screaming of the wind +abated; the ship lay not so perilously over, and it began to be clear to me +that we were past the height of the tempest. As I hope for mercy, I was singly +disappointed. In the selfishness of that vile, absorbing passion of hatred, I +forgot the case of our innocent shipmates, and thought but of myself and my +enemy. For myself, I was already old; I had never been young, I was not formed +for the world’s pleasures, I had few affections; it mattered not the toss +of a silver tester whether I was drowned there and then in the Atlantic, or +dribbled out a few more years, to die, perhaps no less terribly, in a deserted +sick-bed. Down I went upon my knees—holding on by the locker, or else I +had been instantly dashed across the tossing cabin—and, lifting up my +voice in the midst of that clamour of the abating hurricane, impiously prayed +for my own death. “O God!” I cried, “I would be liker a man +if I rose and struck this creature down; but Thou madest me a coward from my +mother’s womb. O Lord, Thou madest me so, Thou knowest my weakness, Thou +knowest that any face of death will set me shaking in my shoes. But, lo! here +is Thy servant ready, his mortal weakness laid aside. Let me give my life for +this creature’s; take the two of them, Lord! take the two, and have mercy +on the innocent!” In some such words as these, only yet more irreverent +and with more sacred adjurations, I continued to pour forth my spirit. God +heard me not, I must suppose in mercy; and I was still absorbed in my agony of +supplication when some one, removing the tarpaulin cover, let the light of the +sunset pour into the cabin. I stumbled to my feet ashamed, and was seized with +surprise to find myself totter and ache like one that had been stretched upon +the rack. Secundra Dass, who had slept off the effects of his drug, stood in a +corner not far off, gazing at me with wild eyes; and from the open skylight the +captain thanked me for my supplications. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s you that saved the ship, Mr. Mackellar,” says he. +“There is no craft of seamanship that could have kept her floating: well +may we say, ‘Except the Lord the city keep, the watchmen watch in +vain!’” +</p> + +<p> +I was abashed by the captain’s error; abashed, also, by the surprise and +fear with which the Indian regarded me at first, and the obsequious civilities +with which he soon began to cumber me. I know now that he must have overheard +and comprehended the peculiar nature of my prayers. It is certain, of course, +that he at once disclosed the matter to his patron; and looking back with +greater knowledge, I can now understand what so much puzzled me at the moment, +those singular and (so to speak) approving smiles with which the Master +honoured me. Similarly, I can understand a word that I remember to have fallen +from him in conversation that same night; when, holding up his hand and +smiling, “Ah! Mackellar,” said he, “not every man is so great +a coward as he thinks he is—nor yet so good a Christian.” He did +not guess how true he spoke! For the fact is, the thoughts which had come to me +in the violence of the storm retained their hold upon my spirit; and the words +that rose to my lips unbidden in the instancy of prayer continued to sound in +my ears: with what shameful consequences, it is fitting I should honestly +relate; for I could not support a part of such disloyalty as to describe the +sins of others and conceal my own. +</p> + +<p> +The wind fell, but the sea hove ever the higher. All night the <i>Nonesuch</i> +rolled outrageously; the next day dawned, and the next, and brought no change. +To cross the cabin was scarce possible; old experienced seamen were cast down +upon the deck, and one cruelly mauled in the concussion; every board and block +in the old ship cried out aloud; and the great bell by the anchor-bitts +continually and dolefully rang. One of these days the Master and I sate alone +together at the break of the poop. I should say the <i>Nonesuch</i> carried a +high, raised poop. About the top of it ran considerable bulwarks, which made +the ship unweatherly; and these, as they approached the front on each side, ran +down in a fine, old-fashioned, carven scroll to join the bulwarks of the waist. +From this disposition, which seems designed rather for ornament than use, it +followed there was a discontinuance of protection: and that, besides, at the +very margin of the elevated part where (in certain movements of the ship) it +might be the most needful. It was here we were sitting: our feet hanging down, +the Master betwixt me and the side, and I holding on with both hands to the +grating of the cabin skylight; for it struck me it was a dangerous position, +the more so as I had continually before my eyes a measure of our evolutions in +the person of the Master, which stood out in the break of the bulwarks against +the sun. Now his head would be in the zenith and his shadow fall quite beyond +the <i>Nonesuch</i> on the farther side; and now he would swing down till he +was underneath my feet, and the line of the sea leaped high above him like the +ceiling of a room. I looked on upon this with a growing fascination, as birds +are said to look on snakes. My mind, besides, was troubled with an astonishing +diversity of noises; for now that we had all sails spread in the vain hope to +bring her to the sea, the ship sounded like a factory with their +reverberations. We spoke first of the mutiny with which we had been threatened; +this led us on to the topic of assassination; and that offered a temptation to +the Master more strong than he was able to resist. He must tell me a tale, and +show me at the same time how clever he was and how wicked. It was a thing he +did always with affectation and display; generally with a good effect. But this +tale, told in a high key in the midst of so great a tumult, and by a narrator +who was one moment looking down at me from the skies and the next up from under +the soles of my feet—this particular tale, I say, took hold upon me in a +degree quite singular. +</p> + +<p> +“My friend the count,” it was thus that he began his story, +“had for an enemy a certain German baron, a stranger in Rome. It matters +not what was the ground of the count’s enmity; but as he had a firm +design to be revenged, and that with safety to himself, he kept it secret even +from the baron. Indeed, that is the first principle of vengeance; and hatred +betrayed is hatred impotent. The count was a man of a curious, searching mind; +he had something of the artist; if anything fell for him to do, it must always +be done with an exact perfection, not only as to the result, but in the very +means and instruments, or he thought the thing miscarried. It chanced he was +one day riding in the outer suburbs, when he came to a disused by-road +branching off into the moor which lies about Rome. On the one hand was an +ancient Roman tomb; on the other a deserted house in a garden of evergreen +trees. This road brought him presently into a field of ruins, in the midst of +which, in the side of a hill, he saw an open door, and, not far off, a single +stunted pine no greater than a currant-bush. The place was desert and very +secret; a voice spoke in the count’s bosom that there was something here +to his advantage. He tied his horse to the pine-tree, took his flint and steel +in his hand to make a light, and entered into the hill. The doorway opened on a +passage of old Roman masonry, which shortly after branched in two. The count +took the turning to the right, and followed it, groping forward in the dark, +till he was brought up by a kind of fence, about elbow-high, which extended +quite across the passage. Sounding forward with his foot, he found an edge of +polished stone, and then vacancy. All his curiosity was now awakened, and, +getting some rotten sticks that lay about the floor, he made a fire. In front +of him was a profound well; doubtless some neighbouring peasant had once used +it for his water, and it was he that had set up the fence. A long while the +count stood leaning on the rail and looking down into the pit. It was of Roman +foundation, and, like all that nation set their hands to, built as for +eternity; the sides were still straight, and the joints smooth; to a man who +should fall in, no escape was possible. ‘Now,’ the count was +thinking, ‘a strong impulsion brought me to this place. What for? what +have I gained? why should I be sent to gaze into this well?’ when the +rail of the fence gave suddenly under his weight, and he came within an ace of +falling headlong in. Leaping back to save himself, he trod out the last flicker +of his fire, which gave him thenceforward no more light, only an incommoding +smoke. ‘Was I sent here to my death?’ says he, and shook from head +to foot. And then a thought flashed in his mind. He crept forth on hands and +knees to the brink of the pit, and felt above him in the air. The rail had been +fast to a pair of uprights; it had only broken from the one, and still depended +from the other. The count set it back again as he had found it, so that the +place meant death to the first comer, and groped out of the catacomb like a +sick man. The next day, riding in the Corso with the baron, he purposely +betrayed a strong preoccupation. The other (as he had designed) inquired into +the cause; and he, after some fencing, admitted that his spirits had been +dashed by an unusual dream. This was calculated to draw on the baron—a +superstitious man, who affected the scorn of superstition. Some rallying +followed, and then the count, as if suddenly carried away, called on his friend +to beware, for it was of him that he had dreamed. You know enough of human +nature, my excellent Mackellar, to be certain of one thing: I mean that the +baron did not rest till he had heard the dream. The count, sure that he would +never desist, kept him in play till his curiosity was highly inflamed, and then +suffered himself, with seeming reluctance, to be overborne. ‘I warn +you,’ says he, ‘evil will come of it; something tells me so. But +since there is to be no peace either for you or me except on this condition, +the blame be on your own head! This was the dream:—I beheld you riding, I +know not where, yet I think it must have been near Rome, for on your one hand +was an ancient tomb, and on the other a garden of evergreen trees. Methought I +cried and cried upon you to come back in a very agony of terror; whether you +heard me I know not, but you went doggedly on. The road brought you to a desert +place among ruins, where was a door in a hillside, and hard by the door a +misbegotten pine. Here you dismounted (I still crying on you to beware), tied +your horse to the pine-tree, and entered resolutely in by the door. Within, it +was dark; but in my dream I could still see you, and still besought you to hold +back. You felt your way along the right-hand wall, took a branching passage to +the right, and came to a little chamber, where was a well with a railing. At +this—I know not why—my alarm for you increased a thousandfold, so +that I seemed to scream myself hoarse with warnings, crying it was still time, +and bidding you begone at once from that vestibule. Such was the word I used in +my dream, and it seemed then to have a clear significancy; but to-day, and +awake, I profess I know not what it means. To all my outcry you rendered not +the least attention, leaning the while upon the rail and looking down intently +in the water. And then there was made to you a communication; I do not think I +even gathered what it was, but the fear of it plucked me clean out of my +slumber, and I awoke shaking and sobbing. And now,’ continues the count, +‘I thank you from my heart for your insistency. This dream lay on me like +a load; and now I have told it in plain words and in the broad daylight, it +seems no great matter.’—‘I do not know,’ says the +baron. ‘It is in some points strange. A communication, did you say? Oh! +it is an odd dream. It will make a story to amuse our +friends.’—‘I am not so sure,’ says the count. ‘I +am sensible of some reluctancy. Let us rather forget it.’—‘By +all means,’ says the baron. And (in fact) the dream was not again +referred to. Some days after, the count proposed a ride in the fields, which +the baron (since they were daily growing faster friends) very readily accepted. +On the way back to Rome, the count led them insensibly by a particular route. +Presently he reined in his horse, clapped his hand before his eyes, and cried +out aloud. Then he showed his face again (which was now quite white, for he was +a consummate actor), and stared upon the baron. ‘What ails you?’ +cries the baron. ‘What is wrong with +you?’—‘Nothing,’ cries the count. ‘It is nothing. +A seizure, I know not what. Let us hurry back to Rome.’ But in the +meanwhile the baron had looked about him; and there, on the left-hand side of +the way as they went back to Rome, he saw a dusty by-road with a tomb upon the +one hand and a garden of evergreen trees upon the +other.—‘Yes,’ says he, with a changed voice. ‘Let us by +all means hurry back to Rome. I fear you are not well in +health.’—‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ cries the count, +shuddering, ‘back to Rome and let me get to bed.’ They made their +return with scarce a word; and the count, who should by rights have gone into +society, took to his bed and gave out he had a touch of country fever. The next +day the baron’s horse was found tied to the pine, but himself was never +heard of from that hour.—And, now, was that a murder?” says the +Master, breaking sharply off. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure he was a count?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not certain of the title,” said he, “but he was a +gentleman of family: and the Lord deliver you, Mackellar, from an enemy so +subtile!” +</p> + +<p> +These last words he spoke down at me, smiling, from high above; the next, he +was under my feet. I continued to follow his evolutions with a childish fixity; +they made me giddy and vacant, and I spoke as in a dream. +</p> + +<p> +“He hated the baron with a great hatred?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“His belly moved when the man came near him,” said the Master. +</p> + +<p> +“I have felt that same,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Verily!” cries the Master. “Here is news indeed! I +wonder—do I flatter myself? or am I the cause of these ventral +perturbations?” +</p> + +<p> +He was quite capable of choosing out a graceful posture, even with no one to +behold him but myself, and all the more if there were any element of peril. He +sat now with one knee flung across the other, his arms on his bosom, fitting +the swing of the ship with an exquisite balance, such as a featherweight might +overthrow. All at once I had the vision of my lord at the table, with his head +upon his hands; only now, when he showed me his countenance, it was heavy with +reproach. The words of my own prayer—<i>I were liker a man if I struck +this creature down</i>—shot at the same time into my memory. I called my +energies together, and (the ship then heeling downward toward my enemy) thrust +at him swiftly with my foot. It was written I should have the guilt of this +attempt without the profit. Whether from my own uncertainty or his incredible +quickness, he escaped the thrust, leaping to his feet and catching hold at the +same moment of a stay. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know how long a time passed by. I lying where I was upon the deck, +overcome with terror and remorse and shame: he standing with the stay in his +hand, backed against the bulwarks, and regarding me with an expression +singularly mingled. At last he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Mackellar,” said he, “I make no reproaches, but I offer you +a bargain. On your side, I do not suppose you desire to have this exploit made +public; on mine, I own to you freely I do not care to draw my breath in a +perpetual terror of assassination by the man I sit at meat with. Promise +me—but no,” says he, breaking off, “you are not yet in the +quiet possession of your mind; you might think I had extorted the promise from +your weakness; and I would leave no door open for casuistry to come +in—that dishonesty of the conscientious. Take time to meditate.” +</p> + +<p> +With that he made off up the sliding deck like a squirrel, and plunged into the +cabin. About half an hour later he returned—I still lying as he had left +me. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” says he, “will you give me your troth as a Christian, +and a faithful servant of my brother’s, that I shall have no more to fear +from your attempts?” +</p> + +<p> +“I give it you,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall require your hand upon it,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“You have the right to make conditions,” I replied, and we shook +hands. +</p> + +<p> +He sat down at once in the same place and the old perilous attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold on!” cried I, covering my eyes. “I cannot bear to see +you in that posture. The least irregularity of the sea might plunge you +overboard.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are highly inconsistent,” he replied, smiling, but doing as I +asked. “For all that, Mackellar, I would have you to know you have risen +forty feet in my esteem. You think I cannot set a price upon fidelity? But why +do you suppose I carry that Secundra Dass about the world with me? Because he +would die or do murder for me to-morrow; and I love him for it. Well, you may +think it odd, but I like you the better for this afternoon’s performance. +I thought you were magnetised with the Ten Commandments; but no—God damn +my soul!”—he cries, “the old wife has blood in his body after +all! Which does not change the fact,” he continued, smiling again, +“that you have done well to give your promise; for I doubt if you would +ever shine in your new trade.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” said I, “I should ask your pardon and +God’s for my attempt. At any rate, I have passed my word, which I will +keep faithfully. But when I think of those you persecute—” I +paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Life is a singular thing,” said he, “and mankind a very +singular people. You suppose yourself to love my brother. I assure you, it is +merely custom. Interrogate your memory; and when first you came to Durrisdeer, +you will find you considered him a dull, ordinary youth. He is as dull and +ordinary now, though not so young. Had you instead fallen in with me, you would +to-day be as strong upon my side.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would never say you were ordinary, Mr. Bally,” I returned; +“but here you prove yourself dull. You have just shown your reliance on +my word. In other terms, that is my conscience—the same which starts +instinctively back from you, like the eye from a strong light.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” says he, “but I mean otherwise. I mean, had I met you +in my youth. You are to consider I was not always as I am to-day; nor (had I +met in with a friend of your description) should I have ever been so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hut, Mr. Bally,” says I, “you would have made a mock of me; +you would never have spent ten civil words on such a Square-toes.” +</p> + +<p> +But he was now fairly started on his new course of justification, with which he +wearied me throughout the remainder of the passage. No doubt in the past he had +taken pleasure to paint himself unnecessarily black, and made a vaunt of his +wickedness, bearing it for a coat-of-arms. Nor was he so illogical as to abate +one item of his old confessions. “But now that I know you are a human +being,” he would say, “I can take the trouble to explain myself. +For I assure you I am human, too, and have my virtues, like my +neighbours.” I say, he wearied me, for I had only the one word to say in +answer: twenty times I must have said it: “Give up your present purpose +and return with me to Durrisdeer; then I will believe you.” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon he would shake his head at me. “Ah! Mackellar, you might live a +thousand years and never understand my nature,” he would say. “This +battle is now committed, the hour of reflection quite past, the hour for mercy +not yet come. It began between us when we span a coin in the hall of +Durrisdeer, now twenty years ago; we have had our ups and downs, but never +either of us dreamed of giving in; and as for me, when my glove is cast, life +and honour go with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“A fig for your honour!” I would say. “And by your leave, +these warlike similitudes are something too high-sounding for the matter in +hand. You want some dirty money; there is the bottom of your contention; and as +for your means, what are they? to stir up sorrow in a family that never harmed +you, to debauch (if you can) your own nephew, and to wring the heart of your +born brother! A footpad that kills an old granny in a woollen mutch with a +dirty bludgeon, and that for a shilling-piece and a paper of snuff—there +is all the warrior that you are.” +</p> + +<p> +When I would attack him thus (or somewhat thus) he would smile, and sigh like a +man misunderstood. Once, I remember, he defended himself more at large, and had +some curious sophistries, worth repeating, for a light upon his character. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very like a civilian to think war consists in drums and +banners,” said he. “War (as the ancients said very wisely) is +<i>ultima ratio</i>. When we take our advantage unrelentingly, then we make +war. Ah! Mackellar, you are a devil of a soldier in the steward’s room at +Durrisdeer, or the tenants do you sad injustice!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think little of what war is or is not,” I replied. “But +you weary me with claiming my respect. Your brother is a good man, and you are +a bad one—neither more nor less.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had I been Alexander—” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“It is so we all dupe ourselves,” I cried. “Had I been St. +Paul, it would have been all one; I would have made the same hash of that +career that you now see me making of my own.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you,” he cried, bearing down my interruption, “had I +been the least petty chieftain in the Highlands, had I been the least king of +naked negroes in the African desert, my people would have adored me. A bad man, +am I? Ah! but I was born for a good tyrant! Ask Secundra Dass; he will tell you +I treat him like a son. Cast in your lot with me to-morrow, become my slave, my +chattel, a thing I can command as I command the powers of my own limbs and +spirit—you will see no more that dark side that I turn upon the world in +anger. I must have all or none. But where all is given, I give it back with +usury. I have a kingly nature: there is my loss!” +</p> + +<p> +“It has been hitherto rather the loss of others,” I remarked, +“which seems a little on the hither side of royalty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tilly-vally!” cried he. “Even now, I tell you, I would spare +that family in which you take so great an interest: yes, even +now—to-morrow I would leave them to their petty welfare, and disappear in +that forest of cut-throats and thimble-riggers that we call the world. I would +do it to-morrow!” says he. “Only—only—” +</p> + +<p> +“Only what?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Only they must beg it on their bended knees. I think in public, +too,” he added, smiling. “Indeed, Mackellar, I doubt if there be a +hall big enough to serve my purpose for that act of reparation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Vanity, vanity!” I moralised. “To think that this great +force for evil should be swayed by the same sentiment that sets a lassie +mincing to her glass!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! there are double words for everything: the word that swells, the +word that belittles; you cannot fight me with a word!” said he. +“You said the other day that I relied on your conscience: were I in your +humour of detraction, I might say I built upon your vanity. It is your +pretension to be <i>un homme de parole</i>; ‘tis mine not to accept +defeat. Call it vanity, call it virtue, call it greatness of soul—what +signifies the expression? But recognise in each of us a common strain: that we +both live for an idea.” +</p> + +<p> +It will be gathered from so much familiar talk, and so much patience on both +sides, that we now lived together upon excellent terms. Such was again the +fact, and this time more seriously than before. Apart from disputations such as +that which I have tried to reproduce, not only consideration reigned, but, I am +tempted to say, even kindness. When I fell sick (as I did shortly after our +great storm), he sat by my berth to entertain me with his conversation, and +treated me with excellent remedies, which I accepted with security. Himself +commented on the circumstance. “You see,” says he, “you begin +to know me better. A very little while ago, upon this lonely ship, where no one +but myself has any smattering of science, you would have made sure I had +designs upon your life. And, observe, it is since I found you had designs upon +my own, that I have shown you most respect. You will tell me if this speaks of +a small mind.” I found little to reply. In so far as regarded myself, I +believed him to mean well; I am, perhaps, the more a dupe of his dissimulation, +but I believed (and I still believe) that he regarded me with genuine kindness. +Singular and sad fact! so soon as this change began, my animosity abated, and +these haunting visions of my master passed utterly away. So that, perhaps, +there was truth in the man’s last vaunting word to me, uttered on the +second day of July, when our long voyage was at last brought almost to an end, +and we lay becalmed at the sea end of the vast harbour of New York, in a +gasping heat, which was presently exchanged for a surprising waterfall of rain. +I stood on the poop, regarding the green shores near at hand, and now and then +the light smoke of the little town, our destination. And as I was even then +devising how to steal a march on my familiar enemy, I was conscious of a shade +of embarrassment when he approached me with his hand extended. +</p> + +<p> +“I am now to bid you farewell,” said he, “and that for ever. +For now you go among my enemies, where all your former prejudices will revive. +I never yet failed to charm a person when I wanted; even you, my good +friend—to call you so for once—even you have now a very different +portrait of me in your memory, and one that you will never quite forget. The +voyage has not lasted long enough, or I should have wrote the impression +deeper. But now all is at an end, and we are again at war. Judge by this little +interlude how dangerous I am; and tell those fools”—pointing with +his finger to the town—“to think twice and thrice before they set +me at defiance.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /> +PASSAGES AT NEW YORK.</h2> + +<p> +I have mentioned I was resolved to steal a march upon the Master; and this, +with the complicity of Captain McMurtrie, was mighty easily effected: a boat +being partly loaded on the one side of our ship and the Master placed on board +of it, the while a skiff put off from the other, carrying me alone. I had no +more trouble in finding a direction to my lord’s house, whither I went at +top speed, and which I found to be on the outskirts of the place, a very +suitable mansion, in a fine garden, with an extraordinary large barn, byre, and +stable, all in one. It was here my lord was walking when I arrived; indeed, it +had become his chief place of frequentation, and his mind was now filled with +farming. I burst in upon him breathless, and gave him my news: which was indeed +no news at all, several ships having outsailed the <i>Nonesuch</i> in the +interval. +</p> + +<p> +“We have been expecting you long,” said my lord; “and indeed, +of late days, ceased to expect you any more. I am glad to take your hand again, +Mackellar. I thought you had been at the bottom of the sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my lord, would God I had!” cried I. “Things would have +been better for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least,” says he, grimly. “I could not ask better. +There is a long score to pay, and now—at last—I can begin to pay +it.” +</p> + +<p> +I cried out against his security. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” says he, “this is not Durrisdeer, and I have taken my +precautions. His reputation awaits him; I have prepared a welcome for my +brother. Indeed, fortune has served me; for I found here a merchant of Albany +who knew him after the ’45 and had mighty convenient suspicions of a +murder: some one of the name of Chew it was, another Albanian. No one here will +be surprised if I deny him my door; he will not be suffered to address my +children, nor even to salute my wife: as for myself, I make so much exception +for a brother that he may speak to me. I should lose my pleasure else,” +says my lord, rubbing his palms. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he bethought himself, and set men off running, with billets, to +summon the magnates of the province. I cannot recall what pretext he employed; +at least, it was successful; and when our ancient enemy appeared upon the +scene, he found my lord pacing in front of his house under some trees of shade, +with the Governor upon one hand and various notables upon the other. My lady, +who was seated in the verandah, rose with a very pinched expression and carried +her children into the house. +</p> + +<p> +The Master, well dressed and with an elegant walking-sword, bowed to the +company in a handsome manner and nodded to my lord with familiarity. My lord +did not accept the salutation, but looked upon his brother with bended brows. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” says he, at last, “what ill wind brings you +hither of all places, where (to our common disgrace) your reputation has +preceded you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your lordship is pleased to be civil,” said the Master, with a +fine start. +</p> + +<p> +“I am pleased to be very plain,” returned my lord; “because +it is needful you should clearly understand your situation. At home, where you +were so little known, it was still possible to keep appearances; that would be +quite vain in this province; and I have to tell you that I am quite resolved to +wash my hands of you. You have already ruined me almost to the door, as you +ruined my father before me;—whose heart you also broke. Your crimes +escape the law; but my friend the Governor has promised protection to my +family. Have a care, sir!” cries my lord, shaking his cane at him: +“if you are observed to utter two words to any of my innocent household, +the law shall be stretched to make you smart for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” says the Master, very slowly. “And so this is the +advantage of a foreign land! These gentlemen are unacquainted with our story, I +perceive. They do not know that I am the Lord Durrisdeer; they do not know you +are my younger brother, sitting in my place under a sworn family compact; they +do not know (or they would not be seen with you in familiar correspondence) +that every acre is mine before God Almighty—and every doit of the money +you withhold from me, you do it as a thief, a perjurer, and a disloyal +brother!” +</p> + +<p> +“General Clinton,” I cried, “do not listen to his lies. I am +the steward of the estate, and there is not one word of truth in it. The man is +a forfeited rebel turned into a hired spy: there is his story in two +words.” +</p> + +<p> +It was thus that (in the heat of the moment) I let slip his infamy. +</p> + +<p> +“Fellow,” said the Governor, turning his face sternly on the +Master, “I know more of you than you think for. We have some broken ends +of your adventures in the provinces, which you will do very well not to drive +me to investigate. There is the disappearance of Mr. Jacob Chew with all his +merchandise; there is the matter of where you came ashore from with so much +money and jewels, when you were picked up by a Bermudan out of Albany. Believe +me, if I let these matters lie, it is in commiseration for your family and out +of respect for my valued friend, Lord Durrisdeer.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a murmur of applause from the provincials. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have remembered how a title would shine out in such a hole as +this,” says the Master, white as a sheet: “no matter how unjustly +come by. It remains for me, then, to die at my lord’s door, where my dead +body will form a very cheerful ornament.” +</p> + +<p> +“Away with your affectations!” cries my lord. “You know very +well I have no such meaning; only to protect myself from calumny, and my home +from your intrusion. I offer you a choice. Either I shall pay your passage home +on the first ship, when you may perhaps be able to resume your occupations +under Government, although God knows I would rather see you on the highway! Or, +if that likes you not, stay here and welcome! I have inquired the least sum on +which body and soul can be decently kept together in New York; so much you +shall have, paid weekly; and if you cannot labour with your hands to better it, +high time you should betake yourself to learn. The condition is—that you +speak with no member of my family except myself,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +I do not think I have ever seen any man so pale as was the Master; but he was +erect and his mouth firm. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been met here with some very unmerited insults,” said he, +“from which I have certainly no idea to take refuge by flight. Give me +your pittance; I take it without shame, for it is mine already—like the +shirt upon your back; and I choose to stay until these gentlemen shall +understand me better. Already they must spy the cloven hoof, since with all +your pretended eagerness for the family honour, you take a pleasure to degrade +it in my person.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is all very fine,” says my lord; “but to us who know +you of old, you must be sure it signifies nothing. You take that alternative +out of which you think that you can make the most. Take it, if you can, in +silence; it will serve you better in the long run, you may believe me, than +this ostentation of ingratitude.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, gratitude, my lord!” cries the Master, with a mounting +intonation and his forefinger very conspicuously lifted up. “Be at rest: +it will not fail you. It now remains that I should salute these gentlemen whom +we have wearied with our family affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +And he bowed to each in succession, settled his walking-sword, and took himself +off, leaving every one amazed at his behaviour, and me not less so at my +lord’s. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> We were now to enter on a changed phase of this family division. +The Master was by no manner of means so helpless as my lord supposed, having at +his hand, and entirely devoted to his service, an excellent artist in all sorts +of goldsmith work. With my lord’s allowance, which was not so scanty as +he had described it, the pair could support life; and all the earnings of +Secundra Dass might be laid upon one side for any future purpose. That this was +done, I have no doubt. It was in all likelihood the Master’s design to +gather a sufficiency, and then proceed in quest of that treasure which he had +buried long before among the mountains; to which, if he had confined himself, +he would have been more happily inspired. But unfortunately for himself and all +of us, he took counsel of his anger. The public disgrace of his +arrival—which I sometimes wonder he could manage to survive—rankled +in his bones; he was in that humour when a man—in the words of the old +adage—will cut off his nose to spite his face; and he must make himself a +public spectacle in the hopes that some of the disgrace might spatter on my +lord. +</p> + +<p> +He chose, in a poor quarter of the town, a lonely, small house of boards, +overhung with some acacias. It was furnished in front with a sort of hutch +opening, like that of a dog’s kennel, but about as high as a table from +the ground, in which the poor man that built it had formerly displayed some +wares; and it was this which took the Master’s fancy and possibly +suggested his proceedings. It appears, on board the pirate ship he had acquired +some quickness with the needle—enough, at least, to play the part of +tailor in the public eye; which was all that was required by the nature of his +vengeance. A placard was hung above the hutch, bearing these words in something +of the following disposition: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +<span class="smcap">James Durie</span>,<br /> +<span class="smcap">formerly</span> MASTER <span class="smcap">of</span> +BALLANTRAE.<br /> +<span class="smcap">Clothes Neatly Clouted</span>. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center"> +SECUNDRA DASS,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Decayed Gentleman of India</span>.<br /> +<span class="smcap">Fine Goldsmith Work</span>. +</p> + +<p> +Underneath this, when he had a job, my gentleman sat withinside tailor-wise and +busily stitching. I say, when he had a job; but such customers as came were +rather for Secundra, and the Master’s sewing would be more in the manner +of Penelope’s. He could never have designed to gain even butter to his +bread by such a means of livelihood: enough for him that there was the name of +Durie dragged in the dirt on the placard, and the sometime heir of that proud +family set up cross-legged in public for a reproach upon his brother’s +meanness. And in so far his device succeeded that there was murmuring in the +town and a party formed highly inimical to my lord. My lord’s favour with +the Governor laid him more open on the other side; my lady (who was never so +well received in the colony) met with painful innuendoes; in a party of women, +where it would be the topic most natural to introduce, she was almost debarred +from the naming of needle-work; and I have seen her return with a flushed +countenance and vow that she would go abroad no more. +</p> + +<p> +In the meanwhile my lord dwelled in his decent mansion, immersed in farming; a +popular man with his intimates, and careless or unconscious of the rest. He +laid on flesh; had a bright, busy face; even the heat seemed to prosper with +him; and my lady—in despite of her own annoyances—daily blessed +Heaven her father should have left her such a paradise. She had looked on from +a window upon the Master’s humiliation; and from that hour appeared to +feel at ease. I was not so sure myself; as time went on, there seemed to me a +something not quite wholesome in my lord’s condition. Happy he was, +beyond a doubt, but the grounds of this felicity were wont; even in the bosom +of his family he brooded with manifest delight upon some private thought; and I +conceived at last the suspicion (quite unworthy of us both) that he kept a +mistress somewhere in the town. Yet he went little abroad, and his day was very +fully occupied; indeed, there was but a single period, and that pretty early in +the morning, while Mr. Alexander was at his lesson-book, of which I was not +certain of the disposition. It should be borne in mind, in the defence of that +which I now did, that I was always in some fear my lord was not quite justly in +his reason; and with our enemy sitting so still in the same town with us, I did +well to be upon my guard. Accordingly I made a pretext, had the hour changed at +which I taught Mr. Alexander the foundation of cyphering and the mathematic, +and set myself instead to dog my master’s footsteps. +</p> + +<p> +Every morning, fair or foul, he took his gold-headed cane, set his hat on the +back of his head—a recent habitude, which I thought to indicate a burning +brow—and betook himself to make a certain circuit. At the first his way +was among pleasant trees and beside a graveyard, where he would sit awhile, if +the day were fine, in meditation. Presently the path turned down to the +waterside, and came back along the harbour-front and past the Master’s +booth. As he approached this second part of his circuit, my Lord Durrisdeer +began to pace more leisurely, like a man delighted with the air and scene; and +before the booth, half-way between that and the water’s edge, would pause +a little, leaning on his staff. It was the hour when the Master sate within +upon his board and plied his needle. So these two brothers would gaze upon each +other with hard faces; and then my lord move on again, smiling to himself. +</p> + +<p> +It was but twice that I must stoop to that ungrateful necessity of playing spy. +I was then certain of my lord’s purpose in his rambles and of the secret +source of his delight. Here was his mistress: it was hatred and not love that +gave him healthful colours. Some moralists might have been relieved by the +discovery; I confess that I was dismayed. I found this situation of two +brethren not only odious in itself, but big with possibilities of further evil; +and I made it my practice, in so far as many occupations would allow, to go by +a shorter path and be secretly present at their meeting. Coming down one day a +little late, after I had been near a week prevented, I was struck with surprise +to find a new development. I should say there was a bench against the +Master’s house, where customers might sit to parley with the shopman; and +here I found my lord seated, nursing his cane and looking pleasantly forth upon +the bay. Not three feet from him sate the Master, stitching. Neither spoke; nor +(in this new situation) did my lord so much as cut a glance upon his enemy. He +tasted his neighbourhood, I must suppose, less indirectly in the bare proximity +of person; and, without doubt, drank deep of hateful pleasures. +</p> + +<p> +He had no sooner come away than I openly joined him. “My lord, my +lord,” said I, “this is no manner of behaviour.” +</p> + +<p> +“I grow fat upon it,” he replied; and not merely the words, which +were strange enough, but the whole character of his expression, shocked me. +</p> + +<p> +“I warn you, my lord, against this indulgency of evil feeling,” +said I. “I know not to which it is more perilous, the soul or the reason; +but you go the way to murder both.” +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot understand,” said he. “You had never such +mountains of bitterness upon your heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if it were no more,” I added, “you will surely goad the +man to some extremity.” +</p> + +<p> +“To the contrary; I am breaking his spirit,” says my lord. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> Every morning for hard upon a week my lord took his same place +upon the bench. It was a pleasant place, under the green acacias, with a sight +upon the bay and shipping, and a sound (from some way off) of marines singing +at their employ. Here the two sate without speech or any external movement, +beyond that of the needle or the Master biting off a thread, for he still clung +to his pretence of industry; and here I made a point to join them, wondering at +myself and my companions. If any of my lord’s friends went by, he would +hail them cheerfully, and cry out he was there to give some good advice to his +brother, who was now (to his delight) grown quite industrious. And even this +the Master accepted with a steady countenance; what was in his mind, God knows, +or perhaps Satan only. +</p> + +<p> +All of a sudden, on a still day of what they call the Indian Summer, when the +woods were changed into gold and pink and scarlet, the Master laid down his +needle and burst into a fit of merriment. I think he must have been preparing +it a long while in silence, for the note in itself was pretty naturally +pitched; but breaking suddenly from so extreme a silence, and in circumstances +so averse from mirth, it sounded ominously on my ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Henry,” said he, “I have for once made a false step, and for +once you have had the wit to profit by it. The farce of the cobbler ends +to-day; and I confess to you (with my compliments) that you have had the best +of it. Blood will out; and you have certainly a choice idea of how to make +yourself unpleasant.” +</p> + +<p> +Never a word said my lord; it was just as though the Master had not broken +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” resumed the Master, “do not be sulky; it will spoil +your attitude. You can now afford (believe me) to be a little gracious; for I +have not merely a defeat to accept. I had meant to continue this performance +till I had gathered enough money for a certain purpose; I confess ingenuously, +I have not the courage. You naturally desire my absence from this town; I have +come round by another way to the same idea. And I have a proposition to make; +or, if your lordship prefers, a favour to ask.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask it,” says my lord. +</p> + +<p> +“You may have heard that I had once in this country a considerable +treasure,” returned the Master; “it matters not whether or +no—such is the fact; and I was obliged to bury it in a spot of which I +have sufficient indications. To the recovery of this, has my ambition now come +down; and, as it is my own, you will not grudge it me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go and get it,” says my lord. “I make no opposition.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the Master; “but to do so, I must find men and +carriage. The way is long and rough, and the country infested with wild +Indians. Advance me only so much as shall be needful: either as a lump sum, in +lieu of my allowance; or, if you prefer it, as a loan, which I shall repay on +my return. And then, if you so decide, you may have seen the last of me.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord stared him steadily in the eyes; there was a hard smile upon his face, +but he uttered nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Henry,” said the Master, with a formidable quietness, and drawing +at the same time somewhat back—“Henry, I had the honour to address +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us be stepping homeward,” says my lord to me, who was plucking +at his sleeve; and with that he rose, stretched himself, settled his hat, and +still without a syllable of response, began to walk steadily along the shore. +</p> + +<p> +I hesitated awhile between the two brothers, so serious a climax did we seem to +have reached. But the Master had resumed his occupation, his eyes lowered, his +hand seemingly as deft as ever; and I decided to pursue my lord. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you mad?” I cried, so soon as I had overtook him. “Would +you cast away so fair an opportunity?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it possible you should still believe in him?” inquired my lord, +almost with a sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish him forth of this town!” I cried. “I wish him +anywhere and anyhow but as he is.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have said my say,” returned my lord, “and you have said +yours. There let it rest.” +</p> + +<p> +But I was bent on dislodging the Master. That sight of him patiently returning +to his needlework was more than my imagination could digest. There was never a +man made, and the Master the least of any, that could accept so long a series +of insults. The air smelt blood to me. And I vowed there should be no neglect +of mine if, through any chink of possibility, crime could be yet turned aside. +That same day, therefore, I came to my lord in his business room, where he sat +upon some trivial occupation. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said I, “I have found a suitable investment for my +small economies. But these are unhappily in Scotland; it will take some time to +lift them, and the affair presses. Could your lordship see his way to advance +me the amount against my note?” +</p> + +<p> +He read me awhile with keen eyes. “I have never inquired into the state +of your affairs, Mackellar,” says he. “Beyond the amount of your +caution, you may not be worth a farthing, for what I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been a long while in your service, and never told a lie, nor yet +asked a favour for myself,” said I, “until to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“A favour for the Master,” he returned, quietly. “Do you take +me for a fool, Mackellar? Understand it once and for all, I treat this beast in +my own way; fear nor favour shall not move me; and before I am hoodwinked, it +will require a trickster less transparent than yourself. I ask service, loyal +service; not that you should make and mar behind my back, and steal my own +money to defeat me.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said I, “these are very unpardonable +expressions.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think once more, Mackellar,” he replied; “and you will see +they fit the fact. It is your own subterfuge that is unpardonable. Deny (if you +can) that you designed this money to evade my orders with, and I will ask your +pardon freely. If you cannot, you must have the resolution to hear your conduct +go by its own name.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you think I had any design but to save you—” I began. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! my old friend,” said he, “you know very well what I +think! Here is my hand to you with all my heart; but of money, not one +rap.” +</p> + +<p> +Defeated upon this side, I went straight to my room, wrote a letter, ran with +it to the harbour, for I knew a ship was on the point of sailing; and came to +the Master’s door a little before dusk. Entering without the form of any +knock, I found him sitting with his Indian at a simple meal of maize porridge +with some milk. The house within was clean and poor; only a few books upon a +shelf distinguished it, and (in one corner) Secundra’s little bench. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Bally,” said I, “I have near five hundred pounds laid by +in Scotland, the economies of a hard life. A letter goes by yon ship to have it +lifted. Have so much patience till the return ship comes in, and it is all +yours, upon the same condition you offered to my lord this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose from the table, came forward, took me by the shoulders, and looked me +in the face, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you are very fond of money!” said he. “And yet you +love money beyond all things else, except my brother!” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear old age and poverty,” said I, “which is another +matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will never quarrel for a name. Call it so,” he replied. +“Ah! Mackellar, Mackellar, if this were done from any love to me, how +gladly would I close upon your offer!” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet,” I eagerly answered—“I say it to my shame, +but I cannot see you in this poor place without compunction. It is not my +single thought, nor my first; and yet it’s there! I would gladly see you +delivered. I do not offer it in love, and far from that; but, as God judges +me—and I wonder at it too!—quite without enmity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” says he, still holding my shoulders, and now gently shaking +me, “you think of me more than you suppose. ‘And I wonder at it +too,’” he added, repeating my expression and, I suppose, something +of my voice. “You are an honest man, and for that cause I spare +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Spare me?” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Spare you,” he repeated, letting me go and turning away. And then, +fronting me once more. “You little know what I would do with it, +Mackellar! Did you think I had swallowed my defeat indeed? Listen: my life has +been a series of unmerited cast-backs. That fool, Prince Charlie, mismanaged a +most promising affair: there fell my first fortune. In Paris I had my foot once +more high upon the ladder: that time it was an accident; a letter came to the +wrong hand, and I was bare again. A third time, I found my opportunity; I built +up a place for myself in India with an infinite patience; and then Clive came, +my rajah was swallowed up, and I escaped out of the convulsion, like another +Æneas, with Secundra Dass upon my back. Three times I have had my hand +upon the highest station: and I am not yet three-and-forty. I know the world as +few men know it when they come to die—Court and camp, the East and the +West; I know where to go, I see a thousand openings. I am now at the height of +my resources, sound of health, of inordinate ambition. Well, all this I resign; +I care not if I die, and the world never hear of me; I care only for one thing, +and that I will have. Mind yourself; lest, when the roof falls, you, too, +should be crushed under the ruins.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> As I came out of his house, all hope of intervention quite +destroyed, I was aware of a stir on the harbour-side, and, raising my eyes, +there was a great ship newly come to anchor. It seems strange I could have +looked upon her with so much indifference, for she brought death to the +brothers of Durrisdeer. After all the desperate episodes of this contention, +the insults, the opposing interests, the fraternal duel in the shrubbery, it +was reserved for some poor devil in Grub Street, scribbling for his dinner, and +not caring what he scribbled, to cast a spell across four thousand miles of the +salt sea, and send forth both these brothers into savage and wintry deserts, +there to die. But such a thought was distant from my mind; and while all the +provincials were fluttered about me by the unusual animation of their port, I +passed throughout their midst on my return homeward, quite absorbed in the +recollection of my visit and the Master’s speech. +</p> + +<p> +The same night there was brought to us from the ship a little packet of +pamphlets. The next day my lord was under engagement to go with the Governor +upon some party of pleasure; the time was nearly due, and I left him for a +moment alone in his room and skimming through the pamphlets. When I returned, +his head had fallen upon the table, his arms lying abroad amongst the crumpled +papers. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, my lord!” I cried as I ran forward, for I supposed he was +in some fit. +</p> + +<p> +He sprang up like a figure upon wires, his countenance deformed with fury, so +that in a strange place I should scarce have known him. His hand at the same +time flew above his head, as though to strike me down. “Leave me +alone!” he screeched, and I fled, as fast as my shaking legs would bear +me, for my lady. She, too, lost no time; but when we returned, he had the door +locked within, and only cried to us from the other side to leave him be. We +looked in each other’s faces, very white—each supposing the blow +had come at last. +</p> + +<p> +“I will write to the Governor to excuse him,” says she. “We +must keep our strong friends.” But when she took up the pen, it flew out +of her fingers. “I cannot write,” said she. “Can you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will make a shift, my lady,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +She looked over me as I wrote. “That will do,” she said, when I had +done. “Thank God, Mackellar, I have you to lean upon! But what can it be +now? What, what can it be?” +</p> + +<p> +In my own mind, I believed there was no explanation possible, and none +required; it was my fear that the man’s madness had now simply burst +forth its way, like the long-smothered flames of a volcano; but to this (in +mere mercy to my lady) I durst not give expression. +</p> + +<p> +“It is more to the purpose to consider our own behaviour,” said I. +“Must we leave him there alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not dare disturb him,” she replied. “Nature may know +best; it may be Nature that cries to be alone; and we grope in the dark. Oh +yes, I would leave him as he is.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, then, despatch this letter, my lady, and return here, if you +please, to sit with you,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray do,” cries my lady. +</p> + +<p> +All afternoon we sat together, mostly in silence, watching my lord’s +door. My own mind was busy with the scene that had just passed, and its +singular resemblance to my vision. I must say a word upon this, for the story +has gone abroad with great exaggeration, and I have even seen it printed, and +my own name referred to for particulars. So much was the same: here was my lord +in a room, with his head upon the table, and when he raised his face, it wore +such an expression as distressed me to the soul. But the room was different, my +lord’s attitude at the table not at all the same, and his face, when he +disclosed it, expressed a painful degree of fury instead of that haunting +despair which had always (except once, already referred to) characterised it in +the vision. There is the whole truth at last before the public; and if the +differences be great, the coincidence was yet enough to fill me with +uneasiness. All afternoon, as I say, I sat and pondered upon this quite to +myself; for my lady had trouble of her own, and it was my last thought to vex +her with fancies. About the midst of our time of waiting, she conceived an +ingenious scheme, had Mr. Alexander fetched, and bid him knock at his +father’s door. My lord sent the boy about his business, but without the +least violence, whether of manner or expression; so that I began to entertain a +hope the fit was over. +</p> + +<p> +At last, as the night fell and I was lighting a lamp that stood there trimmed, +the door opened and my lord stood within upon the threshold. The light was not +so strong that we could read his countenance; when he spoke, methought his +voice a little altered but yet perfectly steady. +</p> + +<p> +“Mackellar,” said he, “carry this note to its destination +with your own hand. It is highly private. Find the person alone when you +deliver it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Henry,” says my lady, “you are not ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” says he, querulously, “I am occupied. Not at all; I +am only occupied. It is a singular thing a man must be supposed to be ill when +he has any business! Send me supper to this room, and a basket of wine: I +expect the visit of a friend. Otherwise I am not to be disturbed.” +</p> + +<p> +And with that he once more shut himself in. +</p> + +<p> +The note was addressed to one Captain Harris, at a tavern on the portside. I +knew Harris (by reputation) for a dangerous adventurer, highly suspected of +piracy in the past, and now following the rude business of an Indian trader. +What my lord should have to say to him, or he to my lord, it passed my +imagination to conceive: or yet how my lord had heard of him, unless by a +disgraceful trial from which the man was recently escaped. Altogether I went +upon the errand with reluctance, and from the little I saw of the captain, +returned from it with sorrow. I found him in a foul-smelling chamber, sitting +by a guttering candle and an empty bottle; he had the remains of a military +carriage, or rather perhaps it was an affectation, for his manners were low. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell my lord, with my service, that I will wait upon his lordship in the +inside of half an hour,” says he, when he had read the note; and then had +the servility, pointing to his empty bottle, to propose that I should buy him +liquor. +</p> + +<p> +Although I returned with my best speed, the Captain followed close upon my +heels, and he stayed late into the night. The cock was crowing a second time +when I saw (from my chamber window) my lord lighting him to the gate, both men +very much affected with their potations, and sometimes leaning one upon the +other to confabulate. Yet the next morning my lord was abroad again early with +a hundred pounds of money in his pocket. I never supposed that he returned with +it; and yet I was quite sure it did not find its way to the Master, for I +lingered all morning within view of the booth. That was the last time my Lord +Durrisdeer passed his own enclosure till we left New York; he walked in his +barn, or sat and talked with his family, all much as usual; but the town saw +nothing of him, and his daily visits to the Master seemed forgotten. Nor yet +did Harris reappear; or not until the end. +</p> + +<p> +I was now much oppressed with a sense of the mysteries in which we had begun to +move. It was plain, if only from his change of habitude, my lord had something +on his mind of a grave nature; but what it was, whence it sprang, or why he +should now keep the house and garden, I could make no guess at. It was clear, +even to probation, the pamphlets had some share in this revolution; I read all +I could find, and they were all extremely insignificant, and of the usual kind +of party scurrility; even to a high politician, I could spy out no particular +matter of offence, and my lord was a man rather indifferent on public +questions. The truth is, the pamphlet which was the spring of this affair, lay +all the time on my lord’s bosom. There it was that I found it at last, +after he was dead, in the midst of the north wilderness: in such a place, in +such dismal circumstances, I was to read for the first time these idle, lying +words of a Whig pamphleteer declaiming against indulgency to +Jacobites:—“Another notorious Rebel, the M—r of B—e, is +to have his Title restored,” the passage ran. “This Business has +been long in hand, since he rendered some very disgraceful Services in Scotland +and France. His Brother, <i>L—d D—r</i>, is known to be no better +than himself in Inclination; and the supposed Heir, who is now to be set aside, +was bred up in the most detestable Principles. In the old Phrase, it is <i>six +of the one and half a dozen of the other</i>; but the Favour of such a +Reposition is too extreme to be passed over.” A man in his right wits +could not have cared two straws for a tale so manifestly false; that Government +should ever entertain the notion, was inconceivable to any reasoning creature, +unless possibly the fool that penned it; and my lord, though never brilliant, +was ever remarkable for sense. That he should credit such a rodomontade, and +carry the pamphlet on his bosom and the words in his heart, is the clear proof +of the man’s lunacy. Doubtless the mere mention of Mr. Alexander, and the +threat directly held out against the child’s succession, precipitated +that which had so long impended. Or else my master had been truly mad for a +long time, and we were too dull or too much used to him, and did not perceive +the extent of his infirmity. +</p> + +<p> +About a week after the day of the pamphlets I was late upon the harbour-side, +and took a turn towards the Master’s, as I often did. The door opened, a +flood of light came forth upon the road, and I beheld a man taking his +departure with friendly salutations. I cannot say how singularly I was shaken +to recognise the adventurer Harris. I could not but conclude it was the hand of +my lord that had brought him there; and prolonged my walk in very serious and +apprehensive thought. It was late when I came home, and there was my lord +making up his portmanteau for a voyage. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you come so late?” he cried. “We leave to-morrow for +Albany, you and I together; and it is high time you were about your +preparations.” +</p> + +<p> +“For Albany, my lord?” I cried. “And for what earthly +purpose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Change of scene,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +And my lady, who appeared to have been weeping, gave me the signal to obey +without more parley. She told me a little later (when we found occasion to +exchange some words) that he had suddenly announced his intention after a visit +from Captain Harris, and her best endeavours, whether to dissuade him from the +journey, or to elicit some explanation of its purpose, had alike proved +unavailing. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /> +THE JOURNEY IN THE WILDERNESS.</h2> + +<p> +We made a prosperous voyage up that fine river of the Hudson, the weather +grateful, the hills singularly beautified with the colours of the autumn. At +Albany we had our residence at an inn, where I was not so blind and my lord not +so cunning but what I could see he had some design to hold me prisoner. The +work he found for me to do was not so pressing that we should transact it apart +from necessary papers in the chamber of an inn; nor was it of such importance +that I should be set upon as many as four or five scrolls of the same document. +I submitted in appearance; but I took private measures on my own side, and had +the news of the town communicated to me daily by the politeness of our host. In +this way I received at last a piece of intelligence for which, I may say, I had +been waiting. Captain Harris (I was told) with “Mr. Mountain, the +trader,” had gone by up the river in a boat. I would have feared the +landlord’s eye, so strong the sense of some complicity upon my +master’s part oppressed me. But I made out to say I had some knowledge of +the Captain, although none of Mr. Mountain, and to inquire who else was of the +party. My informant knew not; Mr. Mountain had come ashore upon some needful +purchases; had gone round the town buying, drinking, and prating; and it seemed +the party went upon some likely venture, for he had spoken much of great things +he would do when he returned. No more was known, for none of the rest had come +ashore, and it seemed they were pressed for time to reach a certain spot before +the snow should fall. +</p> + +<p> +And sure enough, the next day, there fell a sprinkle even in Albany; but it +passed as it came, and was but a reminder of what lay before us. I thought of +it lightly then, knowing so little as I did of that inclement province: the +retrospect is different; and I wonder at times if some of the horror of these +events which I must now rehearse flowed not from the foul skies and savage +winds to which we were exposed, and the agony of cold that we must suffer. +</p> + +<p> +The boat having passed by, I thought at first we should have left the town. But +no such matter. My lord continued his stay in Albany where he had no ostensible +affairs, and kept me by him, far from my due employment, and making a pretence +of occupation. It is upon this passage I expect, and perhaps deserve, censure. +I was not so dull but what I had my own thoughts. I could not see the Master +entrust himself into the hands of Harris, and not suspect some underhand +contrivance. Harris bore a villainous reputation, and he had been tampered with +in private by my lord; Mountain, the trader, proved, upon inquiry, to be +another of the same kidney; the errand they were all gone upon being the +recovery of ill-gotten treasures, offered in itself a very strong incentive to +foul play; and the character of the country where they journeyed promised +impunity to deeds of blood. Well: it is true I had all these thoughts and +fears, and guesses of the Master’s fate. But you are to consider I was +the same man that sought to dash him from the bulwarks of a ship in the +mid-sea; the same that, a little before, very impiously but sincerely offered +God a bargain, seeking to hire God to be my bravo. It is true again that I had +a good deal melted towards our enemy. But this I always thought of as a +weakness of the flesh and even culpable; my mind remaining steady and quite +bent against him. True, yet again, that it was one thing to assume on my own +shoulders the guilt and danger of a criminal attempt, and another to stand by +and see my lord imperil and besmirch himself. But this was the very ground of +my inaction. For (should I anyway stir in the business) I might fail indeed to +save the Master, but I could not miss to make a byword of my lord. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it was that I did nothing; and upon the same reasons, I am still strong to +justify my course. We lived meanwhile in Albany, but though alone together in a +strange place, had little traffic beyond formal salutations. My lord had +carried with him several introductions to chief people of the town and +neighbourhood; others he had before encountered in New York: with this +consequence, that he went much abroad, and I am sorry to say was altogether too +convivial in his habits. I was often in bed, but never asleep, when he +returned; and there was scarce a night when he did not betray the influence of +liquor. By day he would still lay upon me endless tasks, which he showed +considerable ingenuity to fish up and renew, in the manner of Penelope’s +web. I never refused, as I say, for I was hired to do his bidding; but I took +no pains to keep my penetration under a bushel, and would sometimes smile in +his face. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I must be the devil and you Michael Scott,” I said to him +one day. “I have bridged Tweed and split the Eildons; and now you set me +to the rope of sand.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me with shining eyes, and looked away again, his jaw chewing, but +without words. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, my lord,” said I, “your will is my pleasure. I +will do this thing for the fourth time; but I would beg of you to invent +another task against to-morrow, for by my troth, I am weary of this one.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not know what you are saying,” returned my lord, putting on +his hat and turning his back to me. “It is a strange thing you should +take a pleasure to annoy me. A friend—but that is a different affair. It +is a strange thing. I am a man that has had ill-fortune all my life through. I +am still surrounded by contrivances. I am always treading in plots,” he +burst out. “The whole world is banded against me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would not talk wicked nonsense if I were you,” said I; +“but I will tell you what I <i>would</i> do—I would put my head in +cold water, for you had more last night than you could carry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do ye think that?” said he, with a manner of interest highly +awakened. “Would that be good for me? It’s a thing I never +tried.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mind the days when you had no call to try, and I wish, my lord, that +they were back again,” said I. “But the plain truth is, if you +continue to exceed, you will do yourself a mischief.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t appear to carry drink the way I used to,” said my +lord. “I get overtaken, Mackellar. But I will be more upon my +guard.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what I would ask of you,” I replied. “You are to +bear in mind that you are Mr. Alexander’s father: give the bairn a chance +to carry his name with some responsibility.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay,” said he. “Ye’re a very sensible man, +Mackellar, and have been long in my employ. But I think, if you have nothing +more to say to me I will be stepping. If you have nothing more to say?” +he added, with that burning, childish eagerness that was now so common with the +man. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord, I have nothing more,” said I, dryly enough. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I think I will be stepping,” says my lord, and stood and +looked at me fidgeting with his hat, which he had taken off again. “I +suppose you will have no errands? No? I am to meet Sir William Johnson, but I +will be more upon my guard.” He was silent for a time, and then, smiling: +“Do you call to mind a place, Mackellar—it’s a little below +Engles—where the burn runs very deep under a wood of rowans. I mind being +there when I was a lad—dear, it comes over me like an old song!—I +was after the fishing, and I made a bonny cast. Eh, but I was happy. I wonder, +Mackellar, why I am never happy now?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said I, “if you would drink with more moderation +you would have the better chance. It is an old byword that the bottle is a +false consoler.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt,” said he, “no doubt. Well, I think I will be +going.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, my lord,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, good-morning,” said he, and so got himself at last +from the apartment. +</p> + +<p> +I give that for a fair specimen of my lord in the morning; and I must have +described my patron very ill if the reader does not perceive a notable falling +off. To behold the man thus fallen: to know him accepted among his companions +for a poor, muddled toper, welcome (if he were welcome at all) for the bare +consideration of his title; and to recall the virtues he had once displayed +against such odds of fortune; was not this a thing at once to rage and to be +humbled at? +</p> + +<p> +In his cups, he was more excessive. I will give but the one scene, close upon +the end, which is strongly marked upon my memory to this day, and at the time +affected me almost with horror. +</p> + +<p> +I was in bed, lying there awake, when I heard him stumbling on the stair and +singing. My lord had no gift of music, his brother had all the graces of the +family, so that when I say singing, you are to understand a manner of high, +carolling utterance, which was truly neither speech nor song. Something not +unlike is to be heard upon the lips of children, ere they learn shame; from +those of a man grown elderly, it had a strange effect. He opened the door with +noisy precaution; peered in, shading his candle; conceived me to slumber; +entered, set his light upon the table, and took off his hat. I saw him very +plain; a high, feverish exultation appeared to boil in his veins, and he stood +and smiled and smirked upon the candle. Presently he lifted up his arm, snapped +his fingers, and fell to undress. As he did so, having once more forgot my +presence, he took back to his singing; and now I could hear the words, which +were those from the old song of the <i>Twa Corbies</i> endlessly repeated: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And over his banes when they are bare<br /> +The wind sall blaw for evermair!” +</p> + +<p> +I have said there was no music in the man. His strains had no logical +succession except in so far as they inclined a little to the minor mode; but +they exercised a rude potency upon the feelings, and followed the words, and +signified the feelings of the singer with barbaric fitness. He took it first in +the time and manner of a rant; presently this ill-favoured gleefulness abated, +he began to dwell upon the notes more feelingly, and sank at last into a degree +of maudlin pathos that was to me scarce bearable. By equal steps, the original +briskness of his acts declined; and when he was stripped to his breeches, he +sat on the bedside and fell to whimpering. I know nothing less respectable than +the tears of drunkenness, and turned my back impatiently on this poor sight. +</p> + +<p> +But he had started himself (I am to suppose) on that slippery descent of +self-pity; on the which, to a man unstrung by old sorrows and recent potations +there is no arrest except exhaustion. His tears continued to flow, and the man +to sit there, three parts naked, in the cold air of the chamber. I twitted +myself alternately with inhumanity and sentimental weakness, now half rising in +my bed to interfere, now reading myself lessons of indifference and courting +slumber, until, upon a sudden, the <i>quantum mutatus ab illo</i> shot into my +mind; and calling to remembrance his old wisdom, constancy, and patience, I was +overborne with a pity almost approaching the passionate, not for my master +alone but for the sons of man. +</p> + +<p> +At this I leaped from my place, went over to his side and laid a hand on his +bare shoulder, which was cold as stone. He uncovered his face and showed it me +all swollen and begrutten <a name="citation10"></a><a href="#footnote10" +class="citation">[10]</a> like a child’s; and at the sight my impatience +partially revived. +</p> + +<p> +“Think shame to yourself,” said I. “This is bairnly conduct. +I might have been snivelling myself, if I had cared to swill my belly with +wine. But I went to my bed sober like a man. Come: get into yours, and have +done with this pitiable exhibition.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mackellar,” said he, “my heart is wae!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wae?” cried I. “For a good cause, I think. What words were +these you sang as you came in? Show pity to others, we then can talk of pity to +yourself. You can be the one thing or the other, but I will be no party to +half-way houses. If you’re a striker, strike, and if you’re a +bleater, bleat!” +</p> + +<p> +“Cry!” cries he, with a burst, “that’s it—strike! +that’s talking! Man, I’ve stood it all too long. But when they laid +a hand upon the child, when the child’s threatened”—his +momentary vigour whimpering off—“my child, my +Alexander!”—and he was at his tears again. +</p> + +<p> +I took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Alexander!” said I. +“Do you even think of him? Not you! Look yourself in the face like a +brave man, and you’ll find you’re but a self-deceiver. The wife, +the friend, the child, they’re all equally forgot, and you sunk in a mere +log of selfishness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mackellar,” said he, with a wonderful return to his old manner and +appearance, “you may say what you will of me, but one thing I never +was—I was never selfish.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will open your eyes in your despite,” said I. “How long +have we been here? and how often have you written to your family? I think this +is the first time you were ever separate: have you written at all? Do they know +if you are dead or living?” +</p> + +<p> +I had caught him here too openly; it braced his better nature; there was no +more weeping, he thanked me very penitently, got to bed and was soon fast +asleep; and the first thing he did the next morning was to sit down and begin a +letter to my lady: a very tender letter it was too, though it was never +finished. Indeed all communication with New York was transacted by myself; and +it will be judged I had a thankless task of it. What to tell my lady and in +what words, and how far to be false and how far cruel, was a thing that kept me +often from my slumber. +</p> + +<p> +All this while, no doubt, my lord waited with growing impatiency for news of +his accomplices. Harris, it is to be thought, had promised a high degree of +expedition; the time was already overpast when word was to be looked for; and +suspense was a very evil counsellor to a man of an impaired intelligence. My +lord’s mind throughout this interval dwelled almost wholly in the +Wilderness, following that party with whose deeds he had so much concern. He +continually conjured up their camps and progresses, the fashion of the country, +the perpetration in a thousand different manners of the same horrid fact, and +that consequent spectacle of the Master’s bones lying scattered in the +wind. These private, guilty considerations I would continually observe to peep +forth in the man’s talk, like rabbits from a hill. And it is the less +wonder if the scene of his meditations began to draw him bodily. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> It is well known what pretext he took. Sir William Johnson had a +diplomatic errand in these parts; and my lord and I (from curiosity, as was +given out) went in his company. Sir William was well attended and liberally +supplied. Hunters brought us venison, fish was taken for us daily in the +streams, and brandy ran like water. We proceeded by day and encamped by night +in the military style; sentinels were set and changed; every man had his named +duty; and Sir William was the spring of all. There was much in this that might +at times have entertained me; but for our misfortune, the weather was extremely +harsh, the days were in the beginning open, but the nights frosty from the +first. A painful keen wind blew most of the time, so that we sat in the boat +with blue fingers, and at night, as we scorched our faces at the fire, the +clothes upon our back appeared to be of paper. A dreadful solitude surrounded +our steps; the land was quite dispeopled, there was no smoke of fires, and save +for a single boat of merchants on the second day, we met no travellers. The +season was indeed late, but this desertion of the waterways impressed Sir +William himself; and I have heard him more than once express a sense of +intimidation. “I have come too late, I fear; they must have dug up the +hatchet;” he said; and the future proved how justly he had reasoned. +</p> + +<p> +I could never depict the blackness of my soul upon this journey. I have none of +those minds that are in love with the unusual: to see the winter coming and to +lie in the field so far from any house, oppressed me like a nightmare; it +seemed, indeed, a kind of awful braving of God’s power; and this thought, +which I daresay only writes me down a coward, was greatly exaggerated by my +private knowledge of the errand we were come upon. I was besides encumbered by +my duties to Sir William, whom it fell upon me to entertain; for my lord was +quite sunk into a state bordering on <i>pervigilium</i>, watching the woods +with a rapt eye, sleeping scarce at all, and speaking sometimes not twenty +words in a whole day. That which he said was still coherent; but it turned +almost invariably upon the party for whom he kept his crazy lookout. He would +tell Sir William often, and always as if it were a new communication, that he +had “a brother somewhere in the woods,” and beg that the sentinels +should be directed “to inquire for him.” “I am anxious for +news of my brother,” he would say. And sometimes, when we were under way, +he would fancy he spied a canoe far off upon the water or a camp on the shore, +and exhibit painful agitation. It was impossible but Sir William should be +struck with these singularities; and at last he led me aside, and hinted his +uneasiness. I touched my head and shook it; quite rejoiced to prepare a little +testimony against possible disclosures. +</p> + +<p> +“But in that case,” cries Sir William, “is it wise to let him +go at large?” +</p> + +<p> +“Those that know him best,” said I, “are persuaded that he +should be humoured.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” replied Sir William, “it is none of my affairs. +But if I had understood, you would never have been here.” +</p> + +<p> +Our advance into this savage country had thus uneventfully proceeded for about +a week, when we encamped for a night at a place where the river ran among +considerable mountains clothed in wood. The fires were lighted on a level space +at the water’s edge; and we supped and lay down to sleep in the customary +fashion. It chanced the night fell murderously cold; the stringency of the +frost seized and bit me through my coverings so that pain kept me wakeful; and +I was afoot again before the peep of day, crouching by the fires or trotting to +and fro at the stream’s edge, to combat the aching of my limbs. At last +dawn began to break upon hoar woods and mountains, the sleepers rolled in their +robes, and the boisterous river dashing among spears of ice. I stood looking +about me, swaddled in my stiff coat of a bull’s fur, and the breath +smoking from my scorched nostrils, when, upon a sudden, a singular, eager cry +rang from the borders of the wood. The sentries answered it, the sleepers +sprang to their feet; one pointed, the rest followed his direction with their +eyes, and there, upon the edge of the forest and betwixt two trees, we beheld +the figure of a man reaching forth his hands like one in ecstasy. The next +moment he ran forward, fell on his knees at the side of the camp, and burst in +tears. +</p> + +<p> +This was John Mountain, the trader, escaped from the most horrid perils; and +his first word, when he got speech, was to ask if we had seen Secundra Dass. +</p> + +<p> +“Seen what?” cries Sir William. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said I, “we have seen nothing of him. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing?” says Mountain. “Then I was right after all.” +With that he struck his palm upon his brow. “But what takes him +back?” he cried. “What takes the man back among dead bodies. There +is some damned mystery here.” +</p> + +<p> +This was a word which highly aroused our curiosity, but I shall be more +perspicacious, if I narrate these incidents in their true order. Here follows a +narrative which I have compiled out of three sources, not very consistent in +all points: +</p> + +<p> +<i>First</i>, a written statement by Mountain, in which everything criminal is +cleverly smuggled out of view; +</p> + +<p> +<i>Second</i>, two conversations with Secundra Dass; and +</p> + +<p> +<i>Third</i>, many conversations with Mountain himself, in which he was pleased +to be entirely plain; for the truth is he regarded me as an accomplice. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3><a name="chap11b"></a>NARRATIVE OF THE TRADER, MOUNTAIN.</h3> + +<p> +The crew that went up the river under the joint command of Captain Harris and +the Master numbered in all nine persons, of whom (if I except Secundra Dass) +there was not one that had not merited the gallows. From Harris downward the +voyagers were notorious in that colony for desperate, bloody-minded miscreants; +some were reputed pirates, the most hawkers of rum; all ranters and drinkers; +all fit associates, embarking together without remorse, upon this treacherous +and murderous design. I could not hear there was much discipline or any set +captain in the gang; but Harris and four others, Mountain himself, two +Scotchmen—Pinkerton and Hastie—and a man of the name of Hicks, a +drunken shoemaker, put their heads together and agreed upon the course. In a +material sense, they were well enough provided; and the Master in particular +brought with him a tent where he might enjoy some privacy and shelter. +</p> + +<p> +Even this small indulgence told against him in the minds of his companions. But +indeed he was in a position so entirely false (and even ridiculous) that all +his habit of command and arts of pleasing were here thrown away. In the eyes of +all, except Secundra Dass, he figured as a common gull and designated victim; +going unconsciously to death; yet he could not but suppose himself the +contriver and the leader of the expedition; he could scarce help but so conduct +himself and at the least hint of authority or condescension, his deceivers +would be laughing in their sleeves. I was so used to see and to conceive him in +a high, authoritative attitude, that when I had conceived his position on this +journey, I was pained and could have blushed. How soon he may have entertained +a first surmise, we cannot know; but it was long, and the party had advanced +into the Wilderness beyond the reach of any help, ere he was fully awakened to +the truth. +</p> + +<p> +It fell thus. Harris and some others had drawn apart into the woods for +consultation, when they were startled by a rustling in the brush. They were all +accustomed to the arts of Indian warfare, and Mountain had not only lived and +hunted, but fought and earned some reputation, with the savages. He could move +in the woods without noise, and follow a trail like a hound; and upon the +emergence of this alert, he was deputed by the rest to plunge into the thicket +for intelligence. He was soon convinced there was a man in his close +neighbourhood, moving with precaution but without art among the leaves and +branches; and coming shortly to a place of advantage, he was able to observe +Secundra Dass crawling briskly off with many backward glances. At this he knew +not whether to laugh or cry; and his accomplices, when he had returned and +reported, were in much the same dubiety. There was now no danger of an Indian +onslaught; but on the other hand, since Secundra Dass was at the pains to spy +upon them, it was highly probable he knew English, and if he knew English it +was certain the whole of their design was in the Master’s knowledge. +There was one singularity in the position. If Secundra Dass knew and concealed +his knowledge of English, Harris was a proficient in several of the tongues of +India, and as his career in that part of the world had been a great deal worse +than profligate, he had not thought proper to remark upon the circumstance. +Each side had thus a spy-hole on the counsels of the other. The plotters, so +soon as this advantage was explained, returned to camp; Harris, hearing the +Hindustani was once more closeted with his master, crept to the side of the +tent; and the rest, sitting about the fire with their tobacco, awaited his +report with impatience. When he came at last, his face was very black. He had +overheard enough to confirm the worst of his suspicions. Secundra Dass was a +good English scholar; he had been some days creeping and listening, the Master +was now fully informed of the conspiracy, and the pair proposed on the morrow +to fall out of line at a carrying place and plunge at a venture in the woods: +preferring the full risk of famine, savage beasts, and savage men to their +position in the midst of traitors. +</p> + +<p> +What, then, was to be done? Some were for killing the Master on the spot; but +Harris assured them that would be a crime without profit, since the secret of +the treasure must die along with him that buried it. Others were for desisting +at once from the whole enterprise and making for New York; but the appetising +name of treasure, and the thought of the long way they had already travelled +dissuaded the majority. I imagine they were dull fellows for the most part. +Harris, indeed, had some acquirements, Mountain was no fool, Hastie was an +educated man; but even these had manifestly failed in life, and the rest were +the dregs of colonial rascality. The conclusion they reached, at least, was +more the offspring of greed and hope, than reason. It was to temporise, to be +wary and watch the Master, to be silent and supply no further aliment to his +suspicions, and to depend entirely (as well as I make out) on the chance that +their victim was as greedy, hopeful, and irrational as themselves, and might, +after all, betray his life and treasure. +</p> + +<p> +Twice in the course of the next day Secundra and the Master must have appeared +to themselves to have escaped; and twice they were circumvented. The Master, +save that the second time he grew a little pale, displayed no sign of +disappointment, apologised for the stupidity with which he had fallen aside, +thanked his recapturers as for a service, and rejoined the caravan with all his +usual gallantry and cheerfulness of mien and bearing. But it is certain he had +smelled a rat; for from thenceforth he and Secundra spoke only in each +other’s ear, and Harris listened and shivered by the tent in vain. The +same night it was announced they were to leave the boats and proceed by foot, a +circumstance which (as it put an end to the confusion of the portages) greatly +lessened the chances of escape. +</p> + +<p> +And now there began between the two sides a silent contest, for life on the one +hand, for riches on the other. They were now near that quarter of the desert in +which the Master himself must begin to play the part of guide; and using this +for a pretext of persecution, Harris and his men sat with him every night about +the fire, and laboured to entrap him into some admission. If he let slip his +secret, he knew well it was the warrant for his death; on the other hand, he +durst not refuse their questions, and must appear to help them to the best of +his capacity, or he practically published his mistrust. And yet Mountain +assures me the man’s brow was never ruffled. He sat in the midst of these +jackals, his life depending by a thread, like some easy, witty householder at +home by his own fire; an answer he had for everything—as often as not, a +jesting answer; avoided threats, evaded insults; talked, laughed, and listened +with an open countenance; and, in short, conducted himself in such a manner as +must have disarmed suspicion, and went near to stagger knowledge. Indeed, +Mountain confessed to me they would soon have disbelieved the Captain’s +story, and supposed their designated victim still quite innocent of their +designs; but for the fact that he continued (however ingeniously) to give the +slip to questions, and the yet stronger confirmation of his repeated efforts to +escape. The last of these, which brought things to a head, I am now to relate. +And first I should say that by this time the temper of Harris’s +companions was utterly worn out; civility was scarce pretended; and for one +very significant circumstance, the Master and Secundra had been (on some +pretext) deprived of weapons. On their side, however, the threatened pair kept +up the parade of friendship handsomely; Secundra was all bows, the Master all +smiles; and on the last night of the truce he had even gone so far as to sing +for the diversion of the company. It was observed that he had also eaten with +unusual heartiness, and drank deep, doubtless from design. +</p> + +<p> +At least, about three in the morning, he came out of the tent into the open +air, audibly mourning and complaining, with all the manner of a sufferer from +surfeit. For some while, Secundra publicly attended on his patron, who at last +became more easy, and fell asleep on the frosty ground behind the tent, the +Indian returning within. Some time after, the sentry was changed; had the +Master pointed out to him, where he lay in what is called a robe of buffalo: +and thenceforth kept an eye upon him (he declared) without remission. With the +first of the dawn, a draught of wind came suddenly and blew open one side the +corner of the robe; and with the same puff, the Master’s hat whirled in +the air and fell some yards away. The sentry thinking it remarkable the sleeper +should not awaken, thereupon drew near; and the next moment, with a great +shout, informed the camp their prisoner was escaped. He had left behind his +Indian, who (in the first vivacity of the surprise) came near to pay the +forfeit of his life, and was, in fact, inhumanly mishandled; but Secundra, in +the midst of threats and cruelties, stuck to it with extraordinary loyalty, +that he was quite ignorant of his master’s plans, which might indeed be +true, and of the manner of his escape, which was demonstrably false. Nothing +was therefore left to the conspirators but to rely entirely on the skill of +Mountain. The night had been frosty, the ground quite hard; and the sun was no +sooner up than a strong thaw set in. It was Mountain’s boast that few men +could have followed that trail, and still fewer (even of the native Indians) +found it. The Master had thus a long start before his pursuers had the scent, +and he must have travelled with surprising energy for a pedestrian so unused, +since it was near noon before Mountain had a view of him. At this conjuncture +the trader was alone, all his companions following, at his own request, several +hundred yards in the rear; he knew the Master was unarmed; his heart was +besides heated with the exercise and lust of hunting; and seeing the quarry so +close, so defenceless, and seeming so fatigued, he vain-gloriously determined +to effect the capture with his single hand. A step or two farther brought him +to one margin of a little clearing; on the other, with his arms folded and his +back to a huge stone, the Master sat. It is possible Mountain may have made a +rustle, it is certain, at least, the Master raised his head and gazed directly +at that quarter of the thicket where his hunter lay; “I could not be sure +he saw me,” Mountain said; “he just looked my way like a man with +his mind made up, and all the courage ran out of me like rum out of a +bottle.” And presently, when the Master looked away again, and appeared +to resume those meditations in which he had sat immersed before the +trader’s coming, Mountain slunk stealthily back and returned to seek the +help of his companions. +</p> + +<p> +And now began the chapter of surprises, for the scout had scarce informed the +others of his discovery, and they were yet preparing their weapons for a rush +upon the fugitive, when the man himself appeared in their midst, walking openly +and quietly, with his hands behind his back. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, men!” says he, on his beholding them. “Here is a +fortunate encounter. Let us get back to camp.” +</p> + +<p> +Mountain had not mentioned his own weakness or the Master’s disconcerting +gaze upon the thicket, so that (with all the rest) his return appeared +spontaneous. For all that, a hubbub arose; oaths flew, fists were shaken, and +guns pointed. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us get back to camp,” said the Master. “I have an +explanation to make, but it must be laid before you all. And in the meanwhile I +would put up these weapons, one of which might very easily go off and blow away +your hopes of treasure. I would not kill,” says he, smiling, “the +goose with the golden eggs.” +</p> + +<p> +The charm of his superiority once more triumphed; and the party, in no +particular order, set off on their return. By the way, he found occasion to get +a word or two apart with Mountain. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a clever fellow and a bold,” says he, “but I am not +so sure that you are doing yourself justice. I would have you to consider +whether you would not do better, ay, and safer, to serve me instead of serving +so commonplace a rascal as Mr. Harris. Consider of it,” he concluded, +dealing the man a gentle tap upon the shoulder, “and don’t be in +haste. Dead or alive, you will find me an ill man to quarrel with.” +</p> + +<p> +When they were come back to the camp, where Harris and Pinkerton stood guard +over Secundra, these two ran upon the Master like viragoes, and were amazed out +of measure when they were bidden by their comrades to “stand back and +hear what the gentleman had to say.” The Master had not flinched before +their onslaught; nor, at this proof of the ground he had gained, did he betray +the least sufficiency. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not let us be in haste,” says he. “Meat first and public +speaking after.” +</p> + +<p> +With that they made a hasty meal: and as soon as it was done, the Master, +leaning on one elbow, began his speech. He spoke long, addressing himself to +each except Harris, finding for each (with the same exception) some particular +flattery. He called them “bold, honest blades,” declared he had +never seen a more jovial company, work better done, or pains more merrily +supported. “Well, then,” says he, “some one asks me, Why the +devil I ran away? But that is scarce worth answer, for I think you all know +pretty well. But you know only pretty well: that is a point I shall arrive at +presently, and be you ready to remark it when it comes. There is a traitor +here: a double traitor: I will give you his name before I am done; and let that +suffice for now. But here comes some other gentleman and asks me, ‘Why, +in the devil, I came back?’ Well, before I answer that question, I have +one to put to you. It was this cur here, this Harris, that speaks +Hindustani?” cries he, rising on one knee and pointing fair at the +man’s face, with a gesture indescribably menacing; and when he had been +answered in the affirmative, “Ah!” says he, “then are all my +suspicions verified, and I did rightly to come back. Now, men, hear the truth +for the first time.” Thereupon he launched forth in a long story, told +with extraordinary skill, how he had all along suspected Harris, how he had +found the confirmation of his fears, and how Harris must have misrepresented +what passed between Secundra and himself. At this point he made a bold stroke +with excellent effect. “I suppose,” says he, “you think you +are going shares with Harris; I suppose you think you will see to that +yourselves; you would naturally not think so flat a rogue could cozen you. But +have a care! These half idiots have a sort of cunning, as the skunk has its +stench; and it may be news to you that Harris has taken care of himself +already. Yes, for him the treasure is all money in the bargain. You must find +it or go starve. But he has been paid beforehand; my brother paid him to +destroy me; look at him, if you doubt—look at him, grinning and gulping, +a detected thief!” Thence, having made this happy impression, he +explained how he had escaped, and thought better of it, and at last concluded +to come back, lay the truth before the company, and take his chance with them +once more: persuaded as he was, they would instantly depose Harris and elect +some other leader. “There is the whole truth,” said he: “and +with one exception, I put myself entirely in your hands. What is the exception? +There he sits,” he cried, pointing once more to Harris; “a man that +has to die! Weapons and conditions are all one to me; put me face to face with +him, and if you give me nothing but a stick, in five minutes I will show you a +sop of broken carrion, fit for dogs to roll in.” +</p> + +<p> +It was dark night when he made an end; they had listened in almost perfect +silence; but the firelight scarce permitted any one to judge, from the look of +his neighbours, with what result of persuasion or conviction. Indeed, the +Master had set himself in the brightest place, and kept his face there, to be +the centre of men’s eyes: doubtless on a profound calculation. Silence +followed for awhile, and presently the whole party became involved in +disputation: the Master lying on his back, with his hands knit under his head +and one knee flung across the other, like a person unconcerned in the result. +And here, I daresay, his bravado carried him too far and prejudiced his case. +At least, after a cast or two back and forward, opinion settled finally against +him. It’s possible he hoped to repeat the business of the pirate ship, +and be himself, perhaps, on hard enough conditions, elected leader; and things +went so far that way, that Mountain actually threw out the proposition. But the +rock he split upon was Hastie. This fellow was not well liked, being sour and +slow, with an ugly, glowering disposition, but he had studied some time for the +church at Edinburgh College, before ill conduct had destroyed his prospects, +and he now remembered and applied what he had learned. Indeed he had not +proceeded very far, when the Master rolled carelessly upon one side, which was +done (in Mountain’s opinion) to conceal the beginnings of despair upon +his countenance. Hastie dismissed the most of what they had heard as nothing to +the matter: what they wanted was the treasure. All that was said of Harris +might be true, and they would have to see to that in time. But what had that to +do with the treasure? They had heard a vast of words; but the truth was just +this, that Mr. Durie was damnably frightened and had several times run off. +Here he was—whether caught or come back was all one to Hastie: the point +was to make an end of the business. As for the talk of deposing and electing +captains, he hoped they were all free men and could attend their own affairs. +That was dust flung in their eyes, and so was the proposal to fight Harris. +“He shall fight no one in this camp, I can tell him that,” said +Hastie. “We had trouble enough to get his arms away from him, and we +should look pretty fools to give them back again. But if it’s excitement +the gentleman is after, I can supply him with more than perhaps he cares about. +For I have no intention to spend the remainder of my life in these mountains; +already I have been too long; and I propose that he should immediately tell us +where that treasure is, or else immediately be shot. And there,” says he, +producing his weapon, “there is the pistol that I mean to use.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, I call you a man,” cries the Master, sitting up and looking +at the speaker with an air of admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t ask you to call me anything,” returned Hastie; +“which is it to be?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s an idle question,” said the Master. “Needs must +when the devil drives. The truth is we are within easy walk of the place, and I +will show it you to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +With that, as if all were quite settled, and settled exactly to his mind, he +walked off to his tent, whither Secundra had preceded him. +</p> + +<p> +I cannot think of these last turns and wriggles of my old enemy except with +admiration; scarce even pity is mingled with the sentiment, so strongly the man +supported, so boldly resisted his misfortunes. Even at that hour, when he +perceived himself quite lost, when he saw he had but effected an exchange of +enemies, and overthrown Harris to set Hastie up, no sign of weakness appeared +in his behaviour, and he withdrew to his tent, already determined (I must +suppose) upon affronting the incredible hazard of his last expedient, with the +same easy, assured, genteel expression and demeanour as he might have left a +theatre withal to join a supper of the wits. But doubtless within, if we could +see there, his soul trembled. +</p> + +<p> +Early in the night, word went about the camp that he was sick; and the first +thing the next morning he called Hastie to his side, and inquired most +anxiously if he had any skill in medicine. As a matter of fact, this was a +vanity of that fallen divinity student’s, to which he had cunningly +addressed himself. Hastie examined him; and being flattered, ignorant, and +highly auspicious, knew not in the least whether the man was sick or +malingering. In this state he went forth again to his companions; and (as the +thing which would give himself most consequence either way) announced that the +patient was in a fair way to die. +</p> + +<p> +“For all that,” he added with an oath, “and if he bursts by +the wayside, he must bring us this morning to the treasure.” +</p> + +<p> +But there were several in the camp (Mountain among the number) whom this +brutality revolted. They would have seen the Master pistolled, or pistolled him +themselves, without the smallest sentiment of pity; but they seemed to have +been touched by his gallant fight and unequivocal defeat the night before; +perhaps, too, they were even already beginning to oppose themselves to their +new leader: at least, they now declared that (if the man was sick) he should +have a day’s rest in spite of Hastie’s teeth. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning he was manifestly worse, and Hastie himself began to display +something of humane concern, so easily does even the pretence of doctoring +awaken sympathy. The third the Master called Mountain and Hastie to the tent, +announced himself to be dying, gave them full particulars as to the position of +the cache, and begged them to set out incontinently on the quest, so that they +might see if he deceived them, and (if they were at first unsuccessful) he +should be able to correct their error. +</p> + +<p> +But here arose a difficulty on which he doubtless counted. None of these men +would trust another, none would consent to stay behind. On the other hand, +although the Master seemed extremely low, spoke scarce above a whisper, and lay +much of the time insensible, it was still possible it was a fraudulent +sickness; and if all went treasure-hunting, it might prove they had gone upon a +wild-goose chase, and return to find their prisoner flown. They concluded, +therefore, to hang idling round the camp, alleging sympathy to their reason; +and certainly, so mingled are our dispositions, several were sincerely (if not +very deeply) affected by the natural peril of the man whom they callously +designed to murder. In the afternoon, Hastie was called to the bedside to pray: +the which (incredible as it must appear) he did with unction; about eight at +night, the wailing of Secundra announced that all was over; and before ten, the +Indian, with a link stuck in the ground, was toiling at the grave. Sunrise of +next day beheld the Master’s burial, all hands attending with great +decency of demeanour; and the body was laid in the earth, wrapped in a fur +robe, with only the face uncovered; which last was of a waxy whiteness, and had +the nostrils plugged according to some Oriental habit of Secundra’s. No +sooner was the grave filled than the lamentations of the Indian once more +struck concern to every heart; and it appears this gang of murderers, so far +from resenting his outcries, although both distressful and (in such a country) +perilous to their own safety, roughly but kindly endeavoured to console him. +</p> + +<p> +But if human nature is even in the worst of men occasionally kind, it is still, +and before all things, greedy; and they soon turned from the mourner to their +own concerns. The cache of the treasure being hard by, although yet +unidentified, it was concluded not to break camp; and the day passed, on the +part of the voyagers, in unavailing exploration of the woods, Secundra the +while lying on his master’s grave. That night they placed no sentinel, +but lay altogether about the fire, in the customary woodman fashion, the heads +outward, like the spokes of a wheel. Morning found them in the same +disposition; only Pinkerton, who lay on Mountain’s right, between him and +Hastie, had (in the hours of darkness) been secretly butchered, and there lay, +still wrapped as to his body in his mantle, but offering above that ungodly and +horrific spectacle of the scalped head. The gang were that morning as pale as a +company of phantoms, for the pertinacity of Indian war (or to speak more +correctly, Indian murder) was well known to all. But they laid the chief blame +on their unsentinelled posture; and fired with the neighbourhood of the +treasure, determined to continue where they were. Pinkerton was buried hard by +the Master; the survivors again passed the day in exploration, and returned in +a mingled humour of anxiety and hope, being partly certain they were now close +on the discovery of what they sought, and on the other hand (with the return of +darkness) were infected with the fear of Indians. Mountain was the first +sentry; he declares he neither slept nor yet sat down, but kept his watch with +a perpetual and straining vigilance, and it was even with unconcern that (when +he saw by the stars his time was up) he drew near the fire to awaken his +successor. This man (it was Hicks the shoemaker) slept on the lee side of the +circle, something farther off in consequence than those to windward, and in a +place darkened by the blowing smoke. Mountain stooped and took him by the +shoulder; his hand was at once smeared by some adhesive wetness; and (the wind +at the moment veering) the firelight shone upon the sleeper, and showed him, +like Pinkerton, dead and scalped. +</p> + +<p> +It was clear they had fallen in the hands of one of those matchless Indian +bravos, that will sometimes follow a party for days, and in spite of +indefatigable travel, and unsleeping watch, continue to keep up with their +advance, and steal a scalp at every resting-place. Upon this discovery, the +treasure-seekers, already reduced to a poor half dozen, fell into mere dismay, +seized a few necessaries, and deserting the remainder of their goods, fled +outright into the forest. Their fire they left still burning, and their dead +comrade unburied. All day they ceased not to flee, eating by the way, from hand +to mouth; and since they feared to sleep, continued to advance at random even +in the hours of darkness. But the limit of man’s endurance is soon +reached; when they rested at last it was to sleep profoundly; and when they +woke, it was to find that the enemy was still upon their heels, and death and +mutilation had once more lessened and deformed their company. +</p> + +<p> +By this they had become light-headed, they had quite missed their path in the +wilderness, their stores were already running low. With the further horrors, it +is superfluous that I should swell this narrative, already too prolonged. +Suffice it to say that when at length a night passed by innocuous, and they +might breathe again in the hope that the murderer had at last desisted from +pursuit, Mountain and Secundra were alone. The trader is firmly persuaded their +unseen enemy was some warrior of his own acquaintance, and that he himself was +spared by favour. The mercy extended to Secundra he explains on the ground that +the East Indian was thought to be insane; partly from the fact that, through +all the horrors of the flight and while others were casting away their very +food and weapons, Secundra continued to stagger forward with a mattock on his +shoulder, and partly because, in the last days and with a great degree of heat +and fluency, he perpetually spoke with himself in his own language. But he was +sane enough when it came to English. +</p> + +<p> +“You think he will be gone quite away?” he asked, upon their blest +awakening in safety. +</p> + +<p> +“I pray God so, I believe so, I dare to believe so,” Mountain had +replied almost with incoherence, as he described the scene to me. +</p> + +<p> +And indeed he was so much distempered that until he met us, the next morning, +he could scarce be certain whether he had dreamed, or whether it was a fact, +that Secundra had thereupon turned directly about and returned without a word +upon their footprints, setting his face for these wintry and hungry solitudes, +along a path whose every stage was mile-stoned with a mutilated corpse. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /> +THE JOURNEY IN THE WILDERNESS (<i>continued</i>).</h2> + +<p> +Mountain’s story, as it was laid before Sir William Johnson and my lord, +was shorn, of course, of all the earlier particulars, and the expedition +described to have proceeded uneventfully, until the Master sickened. But the +latter part was very forcibly related, the speaker visibly thrilling to his +recollections; and our then situation, on the fringe of the same desert, and +the private interests of each, gave him an audience prepared to share in his +emotions. For Mountain’s intelligence not only changed the world for my +Lord Durrisdeer, but materially affected the designs of Sir William Johnson. +</p> + +<p> +These I find I must lay more at length before the reader. Word had reached +Albany of dubious import; it had been rumoured some hostility was to be put in +act; and the Indian diplomatist had, thereupon, sped into the wilderness, even +at the approach of winter, to nip that mischief in the bud. Here, on the +borders, he learned that he was come too late; and a difficult choice was thus +presented to a man (upon the whole) not any more bold than prudent. His +standing with the painted braves may be compared to that of my Lord President +Culloden among the chiefs of our own Highlanders at the ’forty-five; that +is as much as to say, he was, to these men, reason’s only speaking +trumpet, and counsels of peace and moderation, if they were to prevail at all, +must prevail singly through his influence. If, then, he should return, the +province must lie open to all the abominable tragedies of Indian war—the +houses blaze, the wayfarer be cut off, and the men of the woods collect their +usual disgusting spoil of human scalps. On the other side, to go farther forth, +to risk so small a party deeper in the desert, to carry words of peace among +warlike savages already rejoicing to return to war: here was an extremity from +which it was easy to perceive his mind revolted. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come too late,” he said more than once, and would fall into +a deep consideration, his head bowed in his hands, his foot patting the ground. +</p> + +<p> +At length he raised his face and looked upon us, that is to say upon my lord, +Mountain, and myself, sitting close round a small fire, which had been made for +privacy in one corner of the camp. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, to be quite frank with you, I find myself in two minds,” +said he. “I think it very needful I should go on, but not at all proper I +should any longer enjoy the pleasure of your company. We are here still upon +the water side; and I think the risk to southward no great matter. Will not +yourself and Mr. Mackellar take a single boat’s crew and return to +Albany?” +</p> + +<p> +My lord, I should say, had listened to Mountain’s narrative, regarding +him throughout with a painful intensity of gaze; and since the tale concluded, +had sat as in a dream. There was something very daunting in his look; something +to my eyes not rightly human; the face, lean, and dark, and aged, the mouth +painful, the teeth disclosed in a perpetual rictus; the eyeball swimming clear +of the lids upon a field of blood-shot white. I could not behold him myself +without a jarring irritation, such as, I believe, is too frequently the +uppermost feeling on the sickness of those dear to us. Others, I could not but +remark. were scarce able to support his neighbourhood—Sir William eviting +to be near him, Mountain dodging his eye, and, when he met it, blenching and +halting in his story. At this appeal, however, my lord appeared to recover his +command upon himself. +</p> + +<p> +“To Albany?” said he, with a good voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Not short of it, at least,” replied Sir William. “There is +no safety nearer hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would be very sweir <a name="citation11"></a><a href="#footnote11" +class="citation">[11]</a> to return,” says my lord. “I am not +afraid—of Indians,” he added, with a jerk. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish that I could say so much,” returned Sir William, smiling; +“although, if any man durst say it, it should be myself. But you are to +keep in view my responsibility, and that as the voyage has now become highly +dangerous, and your business—if you ever had any,” says he, +“brought quite to a conclusion by the distressing family intelligence you +have received, I should be hardly justified if I even suffered you to proceed, +and run the risk of some obloquy if anything regrettable should follow.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord turned to Mountain. “What did he pretend he died of?” he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I understand your honour,” said the trader, +pausing like a man very much affected, in the dressing of some cruel +frost-bites. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment my lord seemed at a full stop; and then, with some irritation, +“I ask you what he died of. Surely that’s a plain question,” +said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I don’t know,” said Mountain. “Hastie even never +knew. He seemed to sicken natural, and just pass away.” +</p> + +<p> +“There it is, you see!” concluded my lord, turning to Sir William. +</p> + +<p> +“Your lordship is too deep for me,” replied Sir William. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” says my lord, “this in a matter of succession; my +son’s title may be called in doubt; and the man being supposed to be dead +of nobody can tell what, a great deal of suspicion would be naturally +roused.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, God damn me, the man’s buried!” cried Sir William. +</p> + +<p> +“I will never believe that,” returned my lord, painfully trembling. +“I’ll never believe it!” he cried again, and jumped to his +feet. “Did he <i>look</i> dead?” he asked of Mountain. +</p> + +<p> +“Look dead?” repeated the trader. “He looked white. Why, what +would he be at? I tell you, I put the sods upon him.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord caught Sir William by the coat with a hooked hand. “This man has +the name of my brother,” says he, “but it’s well understood +that he was never canny.” +</p> + +<p> +“Canny?” says Sir William. “What is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s not of this world,” whispered my lord, “neither +him nor the black deil that serves him. I have struck my sword throughout his +vitals,” he cried; “I have felt the hilt dirl <a +name="citation12"></a><a href="#footnote12" class="citation">[12]</a> on his +breastbone, and the hot blood spirt in my very face, time and again, time and +again!” he repeated, with a gesture indescribable. “But he was +never dead for that,” said he, and I sighed aloud. “Why should I +think he was dead now? No, not till I see him rotting,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +Sir William looked across at me with a long face. Mountain forgot his wounds, +staring and gaping. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said I, “I wish you would collect your +spirits.” But my throat was so dry, and my own wits so scattered, I could +add no more. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” says my lord, “it’s not to be supposed that he +would understand me. Mackellar does, for he kens all, and has seen him buried +before now. This is a very good servant to me, Sir William, this man Mackellar; +he buried him with his own hands—he and my father—by the light of +two siller candlesticks. The other man is a familiar spirit; he brought him +from Coromandel. I would have told ye this long syne, Sir William, only it was +in the family.” These last remarks he made with a kind of a melancholy +composure, and his time of aberration seemed to pass away. “You can ask +yourself what it all means,” he proceeded. “My brother falls sick, +and dies, and is buried, as so they say; and all seems very plain. But why did +the familiar go back? I think ye must see for yourself it’s a point that +wants some clearing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will be at your service, my lord, in half a minute,” said Sir +William, rising. “Mr. Mackellar, two words with you;” and he led me +without the camp, the frost crunching in our steps, the trees standing at our +elbow, hoar with frost, even as on that night in the Long Shrubbery. “Of +course, this is midsummer madness,” said Sir William, as soon as we were +gotten out of bearing. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, certainly,” said I. “The man is mad. I think that +manifest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I seize and bind him?” asked Sir William. “I will upon +your authority. If these are all ravings, that should certainly be done.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked down upon the ground, back at the camp, with its bright fires and the +folk watching us, and about me on the woods and mountains; there was just the +one way that I could not look, and that was in Sir William’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir William,” said I at last, “I think my lord not sane, and +have long thought him so. But there are degrees in madness; and whether he +should be brought under restraint—Sir William, I am no fit judge,” +I concluded. +</p> + +<p> +“I will be the judge,” said he. “I ask for facts. Was there, +in all that jargon, any word of truth or sanity? Do you hesitate?” he +asked. “Am I to understand you have buried this gentleman before?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not buried,” said I; and then, taking up courage at last, +“Sir William,” said I, “unless I were to tell you a long +story, which much concerns a noble family (and myself not in the least), it +would be impossible to make this matter clear to you. Say the word, and I will +do it, right or wrong. And, at any rate, I will say so much, that my lord is +not so crazy as he seems. This is a strange matter, into the tail of which you +are unhappily drifted.” +</p> + +<p> +“I desire none of your secrets,” replied Sir William; “but I +will be plain, at the risk of incivility, and confess that I take little +pleasure in my present company.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would be the last to blame you,” said I, “for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not asked either for your censure or your praise, sir,” +returned Sir William. “I desire simply to be quit of you; and to that +effect, I put a boat and complement of men at your disposal.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is fairly offered,” said I, after reflection. “But you +must suffer me to say a word upon the other side. We have a natural curiosity +to learn the truth of this affair; I have some of it myself; my lord (it is +very plain) has but too much. The matter of the Indian’s return is +enigmatical.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so myself,” Sir William interrupted, “and I propose +(since I go in that direction) to probe it to the bottom. Whether or not the +man has gone like a dog to die upon his master’s grave, his life, at +least, is in great danger, and I propose, if I can, to save it. There is +nothing against his character?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, Sir William,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“And the other?” he said. “I have heard my lord, of course; +but, from the circumstances of his servant’s loyalty, I must suppose he +had some noble qualities.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not ask me that!” I cried. “Hell may have noble +flames. I have known him a score of years, and always hated, and always +admired, and always slavishly feared him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I appear to intrude again upon your secrets,” said Sir William, +“believe me, inadvertently. Enough that I will see the grave, and (if +possible) rescue the Indian. Upon these terms, can you persuade your master to +return to Albany?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir William,” said I, “I will tell you how it is. You do not +see my lord to advantage; it will seem even strange to you that I should love +him; but I do, and I am not alone. If he goes back to Albany, it must be by +force, and it will be the death-warrant of his reason, and perhaps his life. +That is my sincere belief; but I am in your hands, and ready to obey, if you +will assume so much responsibility as to command.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will have no shred of responsibility; it is my single endeavour to +avoid the same,” cried Sir William. “You insist upon following this +journey up; and be it so! I wash my hands of the whole matter.” +</p> + +<p> +With which word, he turned upon his heel and gave the order to break camp; and +my lord, who had been hovering near by, came instantly to my side. +</p> + +<p> +“Which is it to be?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“You are to have your way,” I answered. “You shall see the +grave.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> The situation of the Master’s grave was, between guides, +easily described; it lay, indeed, beside a chief landmark of the wilderness, a +certain range of peaks, conspicuous by their design and altitude, and the +source of many brawling tributaries to that inland sea, Lake Champlain. It was +therefore possible to strike for it direct, instead of following back the +blood-stained trail of the fugitives, and to cover, in some sixteen hours of +march, a distance which their perturbed wanderings had extended over more than +sixty. Our boats we left under a guard upon the river; it was, indeed, probable +we should return to find them frozen fast; and the small equipment with which +we set forth upon the expedition, included not only an infinity of furs to +protect us from the cold, but an arsenal of snow-shoes to render travel +possible, when the inevitable snow should fall. Considerable alarm was +manifested at our departure; the march was conducted with soldierly precaution, +the camp at night sedulously chosen and patrolled; and it was a consideration +of this sort that arrested us, the second day, within not many hundred yards of +our destination—the night being already imminent, the spot in which we +stood well qualified to be a strong camp for a party of our numbers; and Sir +William, therefore, on a sudden thought, arresting our advance. +</p> + +<p> +Before us was the high range of mountains toward which we had been all day +deviously drawing near. From the first light of the dawn, their silver peaks +had been the goal of our advance across a tumbled lowland forest, thrid with +rough streams, and strewn with monstrous boulders; the peaks (as I say) silver, +for already at the higher altitudes the snow fell nightly; but the woods and +the low ground only breathed upon with frost. All day heaven had been charged +with ugly vapours, in the which the sun swam and glimmered like a shilling +piece; all day the wind blew on our left cheek barbarous cold, but very pure to +breathe. With the end of the afternoon, however, the wind fell; the clouds, +being no longer reinforced, were scattered or drunk up; the sun set behind us +with some wintry splendour, and the white brow of the mountains shared its +dying glow. +</p> + +<p> +It was dark ere we had supper; we ate in silence, and the meal was scarce +despatched before my lord slunk from the fireside to the margin of the camp; +whither I made haste to follow him. The camp was on high ground, overlooking a +frozen lake, perhaps a mile in its longest measurement; all about us, the +forest lay in heights and hollows; above rose the white mountains; and higher +yet, the moon rode in a fair sky. There was no breath of air; nowhere a twig +creaked; and the sounds of our own camp were hushed and swallowed up in the +surrounding stillness. Now that the sun and the wind were both gone down, it +appeared almost warm, like a night of July: a singular illusion of the sense, +when earth, air, and water were strained to bursting with the extremity of +frost. +</p> + +<p> +My lord (or what I still continued to call by his loved name) stood with his +elbow in one hand, and his chin sunk in the other, gazing before him on the +surface of the wood. My eyes followed his, and rested almost pleasantly upon +the frosted contexture of the pines, rising in moonlit hillocks, or sinking in +the shadow of small glens. Hard by, I told myself, was the grave of our enemy, +now gone where the wicked cease from troubling, the earth heaped for ever on +his once so active limbs. I could not but think of him as somehow fortunate to +be thus done with man’s anxiety and weariness, the daily expense of +spirit, and that daily river of circumstance to be swum through, at any hazard, +under the penalty of shame or death. I could not but think how good was the end +of that long travel; and with that, my mind swung at a tangent to my lord. For +was not my lord dead also? a maimed soldier, looking vainly for discharge, +lingering derided in the line of battle? A kind man, I remembered him; wise, +with a decent pride, a son perhaps too dutiful, a husband only too loving, one +that could suffer and be silent, one whose hand I loved to press. Of a sudden, +pity caught in my windpipe with a sob; I could have wept aloud to remember and +behold him; and standing thus by his elbow, under the broad moon, I prayed +fervently either that he should be released, or I strengthened to persist in my +affection. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh God,” said I, “this was the best man to me and to +himself, and now I shrink from him. He did no wrong, or not till he was broke +with sorrows; these are but his honourable wounds that we begin to shrink from. +Oh, cover them up, oh, take him away, before we hate him!” +</p> + +<p> +I was still so engaged in my own bosom, when a sound broke suddenly upon the +night. It was neither very loud, nor very near; yet, bursting as it did from so +profound and so prolonged a silence, it startled the camp like an alarm of +trumpets. Ere I had taken breath, Sir William was beside me, the main part of +the voyagers clustered at his back, intently giving ear. Methought, as I +glanced at them across my shoulder, there was a whiteness, other than +moonlight, on their cheeks; and the rays of the moon reflected with a sparkle +on the eyes of some, and the shadows lying black under the brows of others +(according as they raised or bowed the head to listen) gave to the group a +strange air of animation and anxiety. My lord was to the front, crouching a +little forth, his hand raised as for silence: a man turned to stone. And still +the sounds continued, breathlessly renewed with a precipitate rhythm. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Mountain spoke in a loud, broken whisper, as of a man relieved. +“I have it now,” he said; and, as we all turned to hear him, +“the Indian must have known the cache,” he added. “That is +he—he is digging out the treasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Sir William. “We were geese not +to have supposed so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“The only thing is,” Mountain resumed, “the sound is very +close to our old camp. And, again, I do not see how he is there before us, +unless the man had wings!” +</p> + +<p> +“Greed and fear are wings,” remarked Sir William. “But this +rogue has given us an alert, and I have a notion to return the compliment. What +say you, gentlemen, shall we have a moonlight hunt?” +</p> + +<p> +It was so agreed; dispositions were made to surround Secundra at his task; some +of Sir William’s Indians hastened in advance; and a strong guard being +left at our headquarters, we set forth along the uneven bottom of the forest; +frost crackling, ice sometimes loudly splitting under foot; and overhead the +blackness of pine-woods, and the broken brightness of the moon. Our way led +down into a hollow of the land; and as we descended, the sounds diminished and +had almost died away. Upon the other slope it was more open, only dotted with a +few pines, and several vast and scattered rocks that made inky shadows in the +moonlight. Here the sounds began to reach us more distinctly; we could now +perceive the ring of iron, and more exactly estimate the furious degree of +haste with which the digger plied his instrument. As we neared the top of the +ascent, a bird or two winged aloft and hovered darkly in the moonlight; and the +next moment we were gazing through a fringe of trees upon a singular picture. +</p> + +<p> +A narrow plateau, overlooked by the white mountains, and encompassed nearer +hand by woods, lay bare to the strong radiance of the moon. Rough goods, such +as make the wealth of foresters, were sprinkled here and there upon the ground +in meaningless disarray. About the midst, a tent stood, silvered with frost: +the door open, gaping on the black interior. At the one end of this small stage +lay what seemed the tattered remnants of a man. Without doubt we had arrived +upon the scene of Harris’s encampment; there were the goods scattered in +the panic of flight; it was in yon tent the Master breathed his last; and the +frozen carrion that lay before us was the body of the drunken shoemaker. It was +always moving to come upon the theatre of any tragic incident; to come upon it +after so many days, and to find it (in the seclusion of a desert) still +unchanged, must have impressed the mind of the most careless. And yet it was +not that which struck us into pillars of stone; but the sight (which yet we had +been half expecting) of Secundra ankle deep in the grave of his late master. He +had cast the main part of his raiment by, yet his frail arms and shoulders +glistered in the moonlight with a copious sweat; his face was contracted with +anxiety and expectation; his blows resounded on the grave, as thick as sobs; +and behind him, strangely deformed and ink-black upon the frosty ground, the +creature’s shadow repeated and parodied his swift gesticulations. Some +night birds arose from the boughs upon our coming, and then settled back; but +Secundra, absorbed in his toil; heard or heeded not at all. +</p> + +<p> +I heard Mountain whisper to Sir William, “Good God! it’s the grave! +He’s digging him up!” It was what we had all guessed, and yet to +hear it put in language thrilled me. Sir William violently started. +</p> + +<p> +“You damned sacrilegious hound!” he cried. “What’s +this?” +</p> + +<p> +Secundra leaped in the air, a little breathless cry escaped him, the tool flew +from his grasp, and he stood one instant staring at the speaker. The next, +swift as an arrow, he sped for the woods upon the farther side; and the next +again, throwing up his hands with a violent gesture of resolution, he had begun +already to retrace his steps. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, you come, you help—” he was saying. But by now +my lord had stepped beside Sir William; the moon shone fair upon his face, and +the words were still upon Secundra’s lips, when he beheld and recognised +his master’s enemy. “Him!” he screamed, clasping his hands, +and shrinking on himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come!” said Sir William. “There is none here to do you +harm, if you be innocent; and if you be guilty, your escape is quite cut off. +Speak, what do you here among the graves of the dead and the remains of the +unburied?” +</p> + +<p> +“You no murderer?” inquired Secundra. “You true man? you see +me safe?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will see you safe, if you be innocent,” returned Sir William. +“I have said the thing, and I see not wherefore you should doubt +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“There all murderers,” cried Secundra, “that is why! He +kill—murderer,” pointing to Mountain; “there two +hire-murderers,” pointing to my lord and myself—“all +gallows—murderers! Ah! I see you all swing in a rope. Now I go save the +sahib; he see you swing in a rope. The sahib,” he continued, pointing to +the grave, “he not dead. He bury, he not dead.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord uttered a little noise, moved nearer to the grave, and stood and stared +in it. +</p> + +<p> +“Buried and not dead?” exclaimed Sir William. “What kind of +rant is this?” +</p> + +<p> +“See, sahib,” said Secundra. “The sahib and I alone with +murderers; try all way to escape, no way good. Then try this way: good way in +warm climate, good way in India; here, in this dam cold place, who can tell? I +tell you pretty good hurry: you help, you light a fire, help rub.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the creature talking of?” cried Sir William. “My +head goes round.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you I bury him alive,” said Secundra. “I teach him +swallow his tongue. Now dig him up pretty good hurry, and he not much worse. +You light a fire.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir William turned to the nearest of his men. “Light a fire,” said +he. “My lot seems to be cast with the insane.” +</p> + +<p> +“You good man,” returned Secundra. “Now I go dig the sahib +up.” +</p> + +<p> +He returned as he spoke to the grave, and resumed his former toil. My lord +stood rooted, and I at my lord’s side, fearing I knew not what. +</p> + +<p> +The frost was not yet very deep, and presently the Indian threw aside his tool, +and began to scoop the dirt by handfuls. Then he disengaged a corner of a +buffalo robe; and then I saw hair catch among his fingers: yet, a moment more, +and the moon shone on something white. Awhile Secundra crouched upon his knees, +scraping with delicate fingers, breathing with puffed lips; and when he moved +aside, I beheld the face of the Master wholly disengaged. It was deadly white, +the eyes closed, the ears and nostrils plugged, the cheeks fallen, the nose +sharp as if in death; but for all he had lain so many days under the sod, +corruption had not approached him, and (what strangely affected all of us) his +lips and chin were mantled with a swarthy beard. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” cried Mountain, “he was as smooth as a baby when we +laid him there!” +</p> + +<p> +“They say hair grows upon the dead,” observed Sir William; but his +voice was thick and weak. +</p> + +<p> +Secundra paid no heed to our remarks, digging swift as a terrier in the loose +earth. Every moment the form of the Master, swathed in his buffalo robe, grew +more distinct in the bottom of that shallow trough; the moon shining strong, +and the shadows of the standers-by, as they drew forward and back, falling and +flitting over his emergent countenance. The sight held us with a horror not +before experienced. I dared not look my lord in the face; but for as long as it +lasted, I never observed him to draw breath; and a little in the background one +of the men (I know not whom) burst into a kind of sobbing. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said Secundra, “you help me lift him out.” +</p> + +<p> +Of the flight of time, I have no idea; it may have been three hours, and it may +have been five, that the Indian laboured to reanimate his master’s body. +One thing only I know, that it was still night, and the moon was not yet set, +although it had sunk low, and now barred the plateau with long shadows, when +Secundra uttered a small cry of satisfaction; and, leaning swiftly forth, I +thought I could myself perceive a change upon that icy countenance of the +unburied. The next moment I beheld his eyelids flutter; the next they rose +entirely, and the week-old corpse looked me for a moment in the face. +</p> + +<p> +So much display of life I can myself swear to. I have heard from others that he +visibly strove to speak, that his teeth showed in his beard, and that his brow +was contorted as with an agony of pain and effort. And this may have been; I +know not, I was otherwise engaged. For at that first disclosure of the dead +man’s eyes, my Lord Durrisdeer fell to the ground, and when I raised him +up, he was a corpse. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> Day came, and still Secundra could not be persuaded to desist +from his unavailing efforts. Sir William, leaving a small party under my +command, proceeded on his embassy with the first light; and still the Indian +rubbed the limbs and breathed in the mouth of the dead body. You would think +such labours might have vitalised a stone; but, except for that one moment +(which was my lord’s death), the black spirit of the Master held aloof +from its discarded clay; and by about the hour of noon, even the faithful +servant was at length convinced. He took it with unshaken quietude. +</p> + +<p> +“Too cold,” said he, “good way in India, no good here.” +And, asking for some food, which he ravenously devoured as soon as it was set +before him, he drew near to the fire and took his place at my elbow. In the +same spot, as soon as he had eaten, he stretched himself out, and fell into a +childlike slumber, from which I must arouse him, some hours afterwards, to take +his part as one of the mourners at the double funeral. It was the same +throughout; he seemed to have outlived at once and with the same effort, his +grief for his master and his terror of myself and Mountain. +</p> + +<p> +One of the men left with me was skilled in stone-cutting; and before Sir +William returned to pick us up, I had chiselled on a boulder this inscription, +with a copy of which I may fitly bring my narrative to a close:## +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="center"> +J. D., +</p> + +<p class="center"> +HEIR TO A SCOTTISH TITLE, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +A MASTER OF THE ARTS AND GRACES, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +ADMIRED IN EUROPE, ASIA, AMERICA, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +IN WAR AND PEACE, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +IN THE TENTS OF SAVAGE HUNTERS AND THE +</p> + +<p class="center"> +CITADELS OF KINGS, AFTER SO MUCH +</p> + +<p class="center"> +ACQUIRED, ACCOMPLISHED, AND +</p> + +<p class="center"> +ENDURED, LIES HERE FORGOTTEN. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center"> +H. D., +</p> + +<p class="center"> +HIS BROTHER, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +AFTER A LIFE OF UNMERITED DISTRESS, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +BRAVELY SUPPORTED, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +DIED ALMOST IN THE SAME HOUR, +</p> + +<p class="center"> +AND SLEEPS IN THE SAME GRAVE +</p> + +<p class="center"> +WITH HIS FRATERNAL ENEMY. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center"> +THE PIETY OF HIS WIFE AND ONE OLD +</p> + +<p class="center"> +SERVANT RAISED THIS STONE +</p> + +<p class="center"> +TO BOTH. +</p> +</blockquote> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Footnotes.</h2> + +<p> +<a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1" class="footnote">[1]</a> A kind of +firework made with damp powder. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote2"></a><a href="#citation2" class="footnote">[2]</a> <i>Note +by Mr. Mackellar</i>. Should not this be Alan <i>Breck</i> Stewart, afterwards +notorious as the Appin murderer? The Chevalier is sometimes very weak on names. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote3"></a><a href="#citation3" class="footnote">[3]</a> <i>Note +by Mr. Mackellar</i>. This Teach of the <i>Sarah</i> must not be confused with +the celebrated Blackbeard. The dates and facts by no means tally. It is +possible the second Teach may have at once borrowed the name and imitated the +more excessive part of his manners from the first. Even the Master of +Ballantrae could make admirers. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote4"></a><a href="#citation4" class="footnote">[4]</a> <i>Note +by Mr. Mackellar</i>. And is not this the whole explanation? since this Dutton, +exactly like the officers, enjoyed the stimulus of some responsibility. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote5"></a><a href="#citation5" class="footnote">[5]</a> <i>Note +by Mr. Mackellar</i>: A complete blunder: there was at this date no word of the +marriage: see above in my own narration. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote6"></a><a href="#citation6" class="footnote">[6]</a> Note by +Mr. Mackellar.—Plainly Secundra Dass.—E. McK. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote7"></a><a href="#citation7" class="footnote">[7]</a> Ordered. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote8"></a><a href="#citation8" class="footnote">[8]</a> Land +steward. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote9"></a><a href="#citation9" class="footnote">[9]</a> Fooling. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote10"></a><a href="#citation10" class="footnote">[10]</a> +Tear-marked. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote11"></a><a href="#citation11" class="footnote">[11]</a> +Unwilling. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote12"></a><a href="#citation12" class="footnote">[12]</a> Ring. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 864-h.htm or 864-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/8/6/864/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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