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diff --git a/864-0.txt b/864-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7b39d2e --- /dev/null +++ b/864-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9073 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Master of Ballantrae, by Robert Louis Stevenson + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: The Master of Ballantrae + A Winter’s Tale + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Release Date: March 26, 1997 [eBook #864] +[Most recently updated: August 24, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Master of Ballantrae + +A Winter’s Tale + +by Robert Louis Stevenson + + +Contents + + PREFACE + CHAPTER I. SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THIS MASTER’S WANDERINGS + CHAPTER II. SUMMARY OF EVENTS (_continued_) + CHAPTER III. THE MASTER’S WANDERINGS + CHAPTER IV. PERSECUTIONS ENDURED BY MR. HENRY + CHAPTER V. ACCOUNT OF ALL THAT PASSED ON THE NIGHT ON FEBRUARY 27TH, 1757 + CHAPTER VI. SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THE MASTER’S SECOND ABSENCE + CHAPTER VII. ADVENTURE OF CHEVALIER BURKE IN INDIA + CHAPTER VIII. THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSE + CHAPTER IX. MR. MACKELLAR’S JOURNEY WITH THE MASTER + CHAPTER X. PASSAGES AT NEW YORK + CHAPTER XI. THE JOURNEY IN THE WILDERNESS + _Narrative of the Trader, Mountain_ + CHAPTER XII. THE JOURNEY IN THE WILDERNESS (_continued_) + + + + +To Sir Percy Florence and Lady Shelley + + +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. + +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. + +Well, I am for the sea once more; no doubt Sir Percy also. Let us make +the signal B. R. D.! + +R. L. S. + +Waikiki, _May_ 17, 1889 + + + + +PREFACE + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“A great deal better than nothing,” said the editor. “But what is this +which is quite in my way?” + +“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.” + +“A mystery?” I repeated. + +“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.” + +“I think I rarely heard a more obscure or a more promising +annunciation,” the other remarked. “But what is It?” + +“You remember my predecessor’s, old Peter M’Brair’s business?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 +_Memorials_, I think; and there was an unexplained tragedy, I know not +what, much later, about a hundred years ago—” + +“More than a hundred years ago,” said Mr. Thomson. “In 1783.” + +“How do you know that? I mean some death.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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: + + +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, Ephraim Mackellar, + +For near forty years Land Steward on the estates of his Lordship. + + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“But it’s so bald,” objected Mr. Thomson. + +“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.” + +“Well, well,” add Mr. Thomson, “we shall see.” + + + + +CHAPTER I. +SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THIS MASTER’S WANDERINGS. + + +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. + +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— + +Kittle folk are the Durrisdeers, +They ride wi’ over mony spears— + + +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: + +Twa Duries in Durrisdeer, + Ane to tie and ane to ride, +An ill day for the groom + And a waur day for the bride. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“It is the direct heir of Durrisdeer that should ride by his King’s +bridle,” says the Master. + +“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!” + +“We are saving the house of Durrisdeer, Henry,” his father said. + +“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?” + +“You will be Lord Durrisdeer,” said the Master. “I put all I have upon +the table.” + +“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.” + +“Ay?” said the Master. “And there spoke Envy! Would you trip up my +heels—Jacob?” said he, and dwelled upon the name maliciously. + +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. + +“I am the cadet and I _should_ go,” said he. “And my lord here is the +master, and he says I _shall_ go. What say ye to that, my brother?” + +“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?” + +“I will stand and fall by it,” said Mr. Henry. “Heads, I go; shield, I +stay.” + +The coin was spun, and it fell shield. “So there is a lesson for +Jacob,” says the Master. + +“We shall live to repent of this,” says Mr. Henry, and flung out of the +hall. + +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. + +“If you loved me as well as I love you, you would have stayed,” cried +she. + +“‘I could not love you, dear, so well, loved I not honour more,’” sang +the Master. + +“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. + +It seems the Master turned to my lord with his most comical manner, and +says he, “This looks like a devil of a wife.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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”? + +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. + +“I have still one son,” says he. “And, Henry, I will do you this +justice—it is the kinder that is left.” + +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. + +Mr. Henry got to his feet, and stood holding his chair. It was he that +was like ashes now. + +“Oh!” he burst out suddenly, “I know you loved him.” + +“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.” + +“God knows,” groans he, “it was lost love on both sides.” + +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. _Non +vi sed sæpe cadendo_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +“Whaur’s the bonnie lad that trustit ye?” she cried. + +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. + +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. + +“What, would ye beat a lassie, ye ugly—?” cries she, and ran away +screaming as though he had struck her. + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“You are the first of the house that ever said so,” cries Miss Alison. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER II. +SUMMARY OF EVENTS (_continued_) + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Why, just so,” said he. “And with that we may get back to our +accounts.” + +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. + +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. + +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 [1] 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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +Mr. Henry was in the steward’s room, affecting employment, but I could +see he was only impatient to hear of my errand. + +“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. + +“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.” + +Mr. Henry smiled. “But I am grieved about your ankle,” said he, the +next moment, with a proper gravity. + +“And observe,” I continued, “I give you this advice upon consideration; +and yet my heart was touched for the woman in the beginning.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I wonder at you!” she cried. + +“I wonder at myself,” says Mr. Henry, with more of bitterness than I +had ever heard him to express. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + 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. + +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. + +“Well,” said I, smiling a little, “I will see what he wants.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“You may be sure at least,” says I, “that all of that party are quite +safe in Durrisdeer.” + +“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 . . . ” + +“Oh, sir,” said I, “you can trust Macconochie until to-morrow.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“If you will step in here,” said I, opening a chamber door, “I will let +my lord know.” + +“And I am sure it’s very good of you, Mr. What-is-your-name,” says the +Colonel. + +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. + +When we returned, these three were in much the same position I same +left them in; I believe no word had passed. + +“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?” + +“I have never taken that name,” said Mr. Henry; “but I am Henry Durie, +at your service.” + +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?” + +Once more husband and wife exchanged a look. + +“I am Mrs. Henry Durie,” said she; “but before my marriage my name was +Alison Graeme.” + +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?” + +“My dear lord, I will be round with you like a soldier,” said the +Colonel. “I do.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +But the lady waved it back. “To my husband,” says she, with a choked +voice. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Oh, read it and be done!” he had cried. + +“Spare me that,” said she. + +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. + + 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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +THE MASTER’S WANDERINGS. + + +_From the Memoirs of the Chevalier de Burke_. + + +. . . 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. + +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, [2] 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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I am as little patient as yourself,” said I. “I care not who knows +that.” + +“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.” + +“Like a pair of brothers?” said I. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Why,” says he, “I think it will be the best manner to spin a coin for +it.” + +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.” + +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 _Sainte-Marie-des-Anges_, 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. + +“No matter,” says he. “For all that, he should certainly hear the +truth.” + +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. + +“And even then!” said he; “the arms are now of no sort of utility.” + +“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.” + +“The captain and the crew have lives also, if you come to that,” says +Ballantrae. + +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 _Sainte-Marie-des-Anges_) I have related +the whole conversation as it passed. + +“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.” + +I could not help laughing at this; though I still forewarned him what +would come of it. + +“The devil may come of it for what I care,” says the reckless fellow. +“I have always done exactly as I felt inclined.” + +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. + +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. + +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 _Sainte-Marie_. 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. + +“Bedad,” said I to Master Teach, “if you are Satan, here is a devil for +ye.” + +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. _Crowding Pat_ was the name they +dubbed me with; and it was little I cared for a name so long as my skin +was whole. + +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. + +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. + +“None can deliver us but the saints,” said I. + +“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. + +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. + +“I am not very easy frightened,” said he, “nor very easy beat.” + +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. + +“Run up the colours,” cries Teach. “Show the —s the Jolly Roger!” + +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. + +Ballantrae steps presently aft with a smile upon his face. + +“You may perhaps like to know, you drunken dog,” says he, “that you are +chasing a king’s ship.” + +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 _Sarah_ 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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“Knock that out of his hand!” says Ballantrae, so sudden and sharp that +my arm obeyed him before my mind had understood. + +Teach stood like one stupid, never thinking on his pistols. + +“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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“Do not let that stick you,” says Ballantrae, “I will do that.” + +And he stepped to the companion and down alone into the cabin to face +that drunken savage. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +In the meanwhile our ship was growing very foul, and it was high time +we should make for our _port de carrénage_, 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 _contretemps_ 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 _Sarah_ 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. + +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 _Sarah_. 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 _Sarah_ 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 _Sarah_, 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. + +“Tut,” says Ballantrae, “you might fire a pistol at their ears. You +know what stuff they have been swallowing.” + +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. + +“And now,” says Teach, “let us be going.” + +“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.” + +Teach cried out, in that case, they were undone. + +“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.” + +Not a word said Teach, but looked at us like a frightened baby as we +gagged and bound him. + +“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.” + +That was our last word on board the _Sarah_. 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. + +“Never mind the path,” says Ballantrae; “we must get shelter anyhow; +let us pull straight ahead for the sides of the basin.” + +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 _Sarah_ 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. [3] + +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 +_Sarah_, 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. + +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. +[4] 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. + +“Lend a hand,” said he, “I am in a bad place.” + +“I don’t know about that,” says Ballantrae, standing still. + +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!” + +“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. + +“For the Lord’s sake,” says he, “look sharp.” + +Ballantrae was now got close up. “Keep still,” says he, and seemed to +consider; and then, “Reach out both your hands!” + +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. + +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 _Sarah_! Who shall now say that we have dipped +our hands in any irregularities?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Sarah_; 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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 _Sarah_ +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _scaura_ (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 _scaura_. They might easily +take it in their heads to give us chase, and had we been overtaken, I +had never written these memoirs. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I told him to try to forget he had ever been a pirate, and to remember +he had been a gentleman. + +“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. + +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. + +“Have you ever a brother?” said be. + +“By the blessing of Heaven,” said I, “not less than five.” + +“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. + +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 believe upon that very day as we sat +among these barbarous mountains_, 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. [5] + +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. + +“They may be of the English side,” I whispered; “and think! the best we +could then hope, is to begin this over again.” + +“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. + +_Addition by Mr. Mackellar_.—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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +PERSECUTIONS ENDURED BY MR. HENRY. + + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +I told him I had misdoubted as much; but the time was not very +fortunate, as the stock was low. + +“Not mine,” said he. “There is the money for the mortgage.” + +I reminded him it was Mrs. Henry’s. + +“I will be answerable to my wife,” he cried violently. + +“And then,” said I, “there is the mortgage.” + +“I know,” said he; “it is on that I would consult you.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“They will prove substantial enough before a court,” said I. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Sir,” said I, “this is a great sum of money that your friend requires. +I must suppose his necessities to be very great.” + +“We must suppose so,” says he, I thought drily; but perhaps it was the +cloak about his mouth. + +“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?” + +“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. + +“But for all that,” said I, “we are likely to get little good by him?” + +“Sure, and you can have it your own way, my dear man,” says the +Colonel. + +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.” + +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 _Shule Aroon_. 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. + + 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I cannot afford it,” says Mr. Henry. + +“Afford?” she cried. “For shame! But I have money of my own.” + +“That is all mine, madam, by marriage,” he snarled, and instantly left +the room. + +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. + +“Mr. Henry,” said I, “you do yourself too much injustice, and it is +time this should cease.” + +“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.” + +“This is no generosity,” said I; “this is only pride.” + +“Do you think I want morality?” he asked. + +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. + +She openly showed her wonder. “What do you want with me, Mr. +Mackellar?” said she. + +“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?” + +“What does this mean?” she cried. + +“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!” + +“Eight thousand pounds!” she repeated. “It in impossible; the estate is +not sufficient.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Indeed, madam, I had hoped to have pleased you,” said I, for I raged +to see her still thinking of the Master. + +“And pleased,” said she, “and pleased me of course.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + + +_Letter from Colonel_ Burke (_afterwards Chevalier_) _to_ Mr. +Mackellar. +Troyes in Champagne, +_July_ 12, 1756 + + +My Dear Sir,—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. + +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. + +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. + +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, + +My dear Sir, +Your obedient humble servant, +Francis Burke. + + +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. + + 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Here, my good man,” said he, in the English accent, “there are some +things for Durrisdeer.” + +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. + +“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.” + +At these words I fell to shaking. + +“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.” + +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. + +On a sudden I set the portmanteaus to the ground and halted. He turned +and looked back at me. + +“Well?” said he. + +“You are the Master of Ballantrae?” + +“You will do me the justice to observe,” says he, “I have made no +secret with the astute Mackellar.” + +“And in the name of God,” cries I, “what brings you here? Go back, +while it is yet time.” + +“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.” + +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 . . . ” + +“These are gratifying expressions,” he threw in. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Ah!” says I. “Is that so? We shall see then!” + +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. + +“He has come,” I panted out at last. + +“He?” said Mr. Henry. + +“Himself,” said I. + +“My son?” cried my lord. “Imprudent, imprudent boy! Oh, could he not +stay where he was safe!” + +Never a word says Mrs. Henry; nor did I look at her, I scarce knew why. + +“Well,” said Mr. Henry, with a very deep breath, “and where is he?” + +“I left him in the long shrubbery,” said I. + +“Take me to him,” said he. + +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. + +“Ah! Jacob,” says the Master. “So here is Esau back.” + +“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.” + +“Or in _my_ house? or _yours_?” 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?” + +“That is very idle speech,” replied Mr. Henry. “And you understand the +power of your position excellently well.” + +“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. + +I, on my side, turned to Mr. Henry for a confirmation; perhaps with +some defiance. + +“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. + +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. + +“And shall we be common enough to say ‘Sneck up’?” inquires he softly, +looking upon me sideways. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +As soon as supper was over, Mrs. Henry rose to withdraw. + +“This was never your way, Alison,” said he. + +“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. + +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. + +On my part, I thought I was now one too many; and was stealing after +Mrs. Henry, when the Master saw me. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Come, come, _Hairry lad_,” 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.” + +“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.” + +“I am easily put in the wrong,” said Mr. Henry. + +“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.” + +“Ay, Harry, that you may,” said the Master; and I thought Mr. Henry +looked at him with a kind of wildness in his eye. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +“Henry, will you ride with me?” asks the Master one day. + +And Mr. Henry, who had been goaded by the man all morning, raps out: “I +will not.” + +“I sometimes wish you would be kinder, Henry,” says the other, +wistfully. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Sir,” said I, trembling a little, “you can do your own dirty errands +for yourself.” + +He said not a word to that, and left the room. + +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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“My father’s servants, I believe,” says the Master. + +“Go to him with this tale,” said Mr. Henry. + +The Master grew very white. He pointed at me with his finger. “I want +that man discharged,” he said. + +“He shall not be,” said Mr. Henry. + +“You shall pay pretty dear for this,” says the Master. + +“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.” + +“I will show you about that,” says the Master, and went softly away. + +“What will he do next, Mackellar?” cries Mr. Henry. + +“Let me go away,” said I. “My dear patron, let me go away; I am but the +beginning of fresh sorrows.” + +“Would you leave me quite alone?” said he. + + 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? + +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. + +“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:— + +O, I will dye my petticoat red, +With my dear boy I’ll beg my bread, +Though all my friends should wish me dead, + For Willie among the rushes, O! + + +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. + +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. + +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. + + 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. + +“You will observe,” he said, “this is an injustice to my son, if ever I +have one.” + +“But that you are not likely to have,” said my lord. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Do not deceive yourself, my lord,” said Mr. Henry. “This injustice is +not done from generosity to him, but in obedience to yourself.” + +“Before strangers . . . ” begins my lord, still more unhappily +affected. + +“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.” + +Almost I believe my lord would have rescinded his decision; but the +Master was on the watch. + +“Ah! Henry, Henry,” says he, “you are the best of us still. Rugged and +true! Ah! man, I wish I was as good.” + +And at that instance of his favourite’s generosity my lord desisted +from his hesitation, and the deed was signed. + +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. + +You will observe I say: from the orders of Government; for about this +time the man’s disreputable secret trickled out. + +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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“What matters how he came, Mackellar, so long as he is here?” groans +Mr. Henry. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Oh!” says Mr. Henry, very easily, “you need no longer keep this up +with me. I am as much in the secret as yourself.” + +“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.” + +The Master had changed countenance, and I saw he was struck in a joint +of his harness. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.’” + +“Is this possible?” cries my lord, looking at his son, with a great +deal of wonder and still more of suspicion in his face. + +“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. + +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. + +“You say the matter is still fresh,” says Mr. Henry. + +“It is recent,” says the Master, with a fair show of stoutness and yet +not without a quaver. + +“Is it so recent as that?” asks Mr. Henry, like a man a little puzzled, +and spreading his letter forth again. + +In all the letter there was no word as to the date; but how was the +Master to know that? + +“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. + +“No,” said Mr. Henry, still glancing on his letter, “but I remember +your expression. You said it was very fresh.” + +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! + +“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.” + +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? + +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. + +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. + +“If I were you, Mr. Henry,” said I, “I would deal openly with my lord.” + +“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. + +“Cheer up,” said I. “It will burst of itself.” + +“I am far past anger now,” says he, which had so little coherency with +my own observation that I let both fall. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +ACCOUNT OF ALL THAT PASSED ON THE NIGHT ON FEBRUARY 27TH, 1757. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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, _cette lenteur d’hebété qui me fait rager_; 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.” + +Mr. Henry continued to look at his cards, as though very maturely +considering some play; but his mind was elsewhere. + +“Dear God, will this never be done?” cries the Master. “_Quel +lourdeau_! But why do I trouble you with French expressions, which are +lost on such an ignoramus? A _lourdeau_, 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.” + +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. + +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!” + +“Lower your voice,” said Mr. Henry. “Do you wish my father to interfere +for you again?” + +“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” I cried, and sought to come between them. + +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. + +“It was the most deliberate act of my life,” says Mr. Henry. + +“I must have blood, I must have blood for this,” says the Master. + +“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.” + +“You need insult me no more,” said the Master, taking one of the swords +at random. “I have hated you all my life.” + +“My father is but newly gone to bed,” said Mr. Henry. “We must go +somewhere forth of the house.” + +“There is an excellent place in the long shrubbery,” said the Master. + +“Gentlemen,” said I, “shame upon you both! Sons of the same mother, +would you turn against the life she gave you?” + +“Even so, Mackellar,” said Mr. Henry, with the same perfect quietude of +manner he had shown throughout. + +“It is what I will prevent,” said I. + +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. + +“We shall have no more trouble with him,” said the Master. “It is a +good thing to have a coward in the house.” + +“We must have light,” said Mr. Henry, as though there had been no +interruption. + +“This trembler can bring a pair of candles,” said the Master. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“Here is the place,” said the Master. “Set down the candles.” + +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. + +“The light is something in my eyes,” said the Master. + +“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. + +“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. + +Never a word said Mr. Henry, but saluted too, and the swords rang +together. + +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. + +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. + +“Look at his left hand,” said Mr. Henry. + +“It is all bloody,” said I. + +“On the inside?” said he. + +“It is cut on the inside,” said I. + +“I thought so,” said he, and turned his back. + +I opened the man’s clothes; the heart was quite still, it gave not a +flutter. + +“God forgive us, Mr. Henry!” said I. “He is dead.” + +“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. + +“What must we do?” said I. “Be yourself, sir. It is too late now: you +must be yourself.” + +He turned and stared at me. “Oh, Mackellar!” says he, and put his face +in his hands. + +I plucked him by the coat. “For God’s sake, for all our sakes, be more +courageous!” said I. “What must we do?” + +He showed me his face with the same stupid stare. + +“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. + +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. + +“Mr. Henry, Mr. Henry,” I said, “this will be the ruin of us all.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“There is some calamity happened,” she cried, sitting up in bed. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I am very courageous,” said she; and she looked at me with a sort of +smile, very painful to see, but very brave too. + +“It has come to a duel,” said I. + +“A duel?” she repeated. “A duel! Henry and—” + +“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—” + +“Stop,” said she. “He? Who?” + +“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!” + +“I do not know in what I have offended you,” said she. “Forgive me; put +me out of this suspense.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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.” + +“You are not fit to hear,” said I. “Whatever it was, you shall say +first it was your fault.” + +“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?” + +“I think not once of you,” I cried. “I think of none but my dear +unhappy master.” + +“Ah!” she cried, with her hand to her heart, “is Henry dead?” + +“Lower your voice,” said I. “The other.” + +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.” + +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. + +“It was a fight,” she whispered. “It was not—” and she paused upon the +word. + +“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.” + +“Not now!” she cried. + +“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.” + +I do not know if she marked; but her next words were, “My lord?” + +“That shall be my part,” said I. + +“You will not speak to him as you have to me?” she asked. + +“Madam,” said I, “have you not some one else to think of? Leave my lord +to me.” + +“Some one else?” she repeated. + +“Your husband,” said I. She looked at me with a countenance illegible. +“Are you going to turn your back on him?” I asked. + +Still she looked at me; then her hand went to her heart again. “No,” +said she. + +“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.’” + +“God strengthen you, and make you merciful,” said she. “I will go to my +husband.” + +“Let me light you there,” said I, taking up the candle. + +“I will find my way in the dark,” she said, with a shudder, and I think +the shudder was at me. + +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. + +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. + +“Lord Durrisdeer,” said I, “it is very well known to you that I am a +partisan in your family.” + +“I hope we are none of us partisans,” said he. “That you love my son +sincerely, I have always been glad to recognise.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Mr. Mackellar!” cried my lord, rising in bed like a bearded lion. + +“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.” + +My lord made a movement as if to throw aside the clothes and rise. “If +there be any truth in this—” said he. + +“Do I look like a man lying?” I interrupted, checking him with my hand. + +“You should have told me at first,” he odd. + +“Ah, my lord! indeed I should, and you may well hate the face of this +unfaithful servant!” I cried. + +“I will take order,” said he, “at once.” And again made the movement to +rise. + +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!” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“No, no,” said he, “two sons—I have two sons.” + +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. + +“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.’” + +“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. + +“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!’” + +“They have quarrelled?” he said. + +I nodded. + +“I must fly to them,” he said, beginning once again to leave his bed. + +“No, no!” I cried, holding forth my hands. + +“You do not know,” said he. “These are dangerous words.” + +“Will nothing make you understand, my lord?” said I. + +His eyes besought me for the truth. + +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. ‘_Who is to tell +the old man_?’—these were his words. It was for that I came; that is +why I am here pleading at your feet.” + +“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. + +“Here is too much speech,” said he. “Where was it?” + +“In the shrubbery,” said I. + +“And Mr. Henry?” he asked. And when I had told him he knotted his old +face in thought. + +“And Mr. James?” says he. + +“I have left him lying,” said I, “beside the candles.” + +“Candles?” he cried. And with that he ran to the window, opened it, and +looked abroad. “It might be spied from the road.” + +“Where none goes by at such an hour,” I objected. + +“It makes no matter,” he said. “One might. Hark!” cries he. “What is +that?” + +It was the sound of men very guardedly rowing in the bay; and I told +him so. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Have you told him?” says she. + +“It was he who sent me,” said I. “It is gone. But why are you here?” + +“It is gone!” she repeated. “What is gone?” + +“The body,” said I. “Why are you not with your husband?” + +“Gone!” said she. “You cannot have looked. Come back.” + +“There is no light now,” said I. “I dare not.” + +“I can see in the dark. I have been standing here so long—so long,” +said she. “Come, give me your hand.” + +We returned to the shrubbery hand in hand, and to the fatal place. + +“Take care of the blood,” said I. + +“Blood?” she cried, and started violently back. + +“I suppose it will be,” said I. “I am like a blind man.” + +“No!” said she, “nothing! Have you not dreamed?” + +“Ah, would to God we had!” cried I. + +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. + +“There was no flutter of his heart,” said I, and then remembering: “Why +are you not with your husband?” + +“It is no use,” said she; “he will not speak to me.” + +“Not speak to you?” I repeated. “Oh! you have not tried.” + +“You have a right to doubt me,” she replied, with a gentle dignity. + +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.” + +“It is hard, then, you should hesitate about his wife,” said she. + +I saw all at once, like the rending of a veil, how nobly she had borne +this unnatural calamity, and how generously my reproaches. + +“We must go back and tell this to my lord,” said I. + +“Him I cannot face,” she cried. + +“You will find him the least moved of all of us,” said I. + +“And yet I cannot face him,” said she. + +“Well,” said I, “you can return to Mr. Henry; I will see my lord.” + +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. + +“Let my lord decide,” said I. + +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?” + +“I thought him—” said I, and paused, ashamed of the word. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Are we to tell Mr. Henry?” I asked him. + +“I will see,” said he. “I am going first to visit him; then I go forth +with you to view the shrubbery and consider.” + +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!” + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +“We may leave him to his wife now,” says he. “Bring a light, Mr. +Mackellar.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THE MASTER’S SECOND ABSENCE. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + + +“Durrisdeer. +“1757. + + +“Honoured Madam, + +“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. + +“I append a schedule with some necessary observations, + +“And am, +“Honoured Madam, +“Your ladyship’s obliged, obedient servant, +“Ephraim Mackellar. + + +“Schedule of Papers. + + +“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. + +“B. Seven original letters from the said Mr of Ballantrae to the said +E. Mackellar, under dates . . . ” (follow the dates.) + +“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. + +“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.” + + +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. + +“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. + +“Good God, madam,” cried I, in a voice not fitting for a sick-room, +“Good God, madam, what have you done with my papers?” + +“I have burned them,” said Mrs. Henry, turning about. “It is enough, it +is too much, that you and I have seen them.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +I could not make one sound in answer. + +“Where have you buried him?” he repeated. “I want to see his grave.” + +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.” + +What there was in his countenance I could not read. “James?” he asked. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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.” + +“He will not show face here again,” said I. + +“Oh yes he will,” said Mr. Henry. “Wherever I am, there will he be.” +And again he looked all about him. + +“You must not dwell upon this thought, Mr. Henry,” said I. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Is it true, Mr. Mackellar?” asked the child. “And did you really see +the devil?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.’” + +“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.” + +“The bairn, my lord!” said I, with some severity, for I thought his +expressions little fitted for the care of children. + +“Why, very true,” said he. “This is dull work for a bairn. Let’s go +nesting.” + +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. + +“Mackellar,” he said, “I am now a very happy man.” + +“I think so indeed, my lord,” said I, “and the sight of it gives me a +light heart.” + +“There is an obligation in happiness—do you not think so?” says he, +musingly. + +“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.” + +“Ay, but if you were in my shoes, would you forgive him?” asks my lord. + +The suddenness of the attack a little gravelled me. + +“It is a duty laid upon us strictly,” said I. + +“Hut!” said he. “These are expressions! Do you forgive the man +yourself?” + +“Well—no!” said I. “God forgive me, I do not.” + +“Shake hands upon that!” cries my lord, with a kind of joviality. + +“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.” + +This I said, smiling a little; but as for my lord, he went from the +room laughing aloud. + + 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. + +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. + +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. . . . + +[_Editor’s Note_. _Five pages of Mr. Mackellar’s MS. are here omitted_. +_I have gathered from their perusal an impression that Mr. Mackellar_, +_in his old age_, _was rather an exacting servant_. _Against the +seventh Lord Durrisdeer_ (_with whom_, _at any rate_, _we have no +concern_) _nothing material is alleged_.—R. L. S.] + +. . . 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. + +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. + +“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—” + +“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. + +“Has it never come in upon your mind what you are doing?” I asked. + +“What I am doing?” he repeated; “I was never good at guessing riddles.” + +“What you are doing with your son?” said I. + +“Well,” said he, with some defiance in his tone, “and what am I doing +with my son?” + +“Your father was a very good man,” says I, straying from the direct +path. “But do you think he was a wise father?” + +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.” + +“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—” + +My lord rapped suddenly and violently on the table. + +“What is this?” cried he. “Speak out!” + +“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.” + +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. + +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?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“Amen,” said I. “I will meddle no more. I am pleased enough that you +should recognise the kindness of my meaning.” + +“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.” + + 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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +ADVENTURE OF CHEVALIER BURKE IN INDIA. + + +_Extracted from his Memoirs_. + + +. . . 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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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, [6] now rose to his feet. + +“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.” + +“Ballantrae!” I cried, “have you the damned impudence to deny me to my +face?” + +Ballantrae never moved a muscle, staring at me like an image in a +pagoda. + +“The Sahib understands no English language,” says the native, as glib +as before. “He be glad to know how you come in a garden.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Is that the way of it?” says I, and laying my hand on my sword-hilt I +bade the cipaye draw. + +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. + +“The Sahib thinks you better go away,” says the Hindu. + +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. + +“Tell the Sahib I consider him no gentleman,” says I, and turned away +with a gesture of contempt. + +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. + +“What is that?” says I. + +“The Sahib say you ask your friend Mackellar,” says the Hindu. “The +Sahib he cry quits.” + +“Tell the Sahib I will give him a cure for the Scots fiddle when next +we meet,” cried I. + +The pair were still smiling as I left. + +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. . . . + +(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.) + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSE. + + +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, [7] 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. + +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. + +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. + +“Ha!” said I, “is this you?”—and I was pleased with the unconcern of my +own voice. + +“It is even myself, worthy Mackellar,” says the Master. + +“This time you have brought the black dog visibly upon your back,” I +continued. + +“Referring to Secundra Dass?” asked the Master. “Let me present you. He +is a native gentleman of India.” + +“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. + +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. + +“You are getting an old man,” said I. + +A shade came upon his face. “If you could see yourself,” said he, “you +would perhaps not dwell upon the topic.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Mackellar,” says he, “we must see to breakfast for these travellers.” + +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.” + +My lord turned to him with the same hard smile. + +“Lord Durrisdeer,” says he. + +“Oh! never in the family,” returned the Master. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“I am rejoiced to find you bear the thing so quietly,” said I, when we +were forth again by ourselves. + +“Quietly!” cries he, and put my hand suddenly against his heart, which +struck upon his bosom like a sledge. + +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. + +“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. + +“Aye,” says he, “do. I will hurry breakfast: we must all appear at the +table, even Alexander; it must appear we are untroubled.” + +I ran to my lady’s room, and with no preparatory cruelty, disclosed my +news. + +“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.” + +“And what of him?” I asked. + +“We leave him Durrisdeer,” she cried. “Let him work his pleasure upon +that.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +At that moment my lord came to the door, and we opened our plan to him. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“I never spoke of it while it lasted,” returned my lord, with a high +flush of colour; “and it is all changed now.” + +“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 [8] 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.” + +“Mackellar!” cries my lord, getting to his feet. “O my God, Mackellar!” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +I went out and shut the door behind me, and stood and thanked God from +the bottom of my heart. + + 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 _memento mori_; 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. + +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. + +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. + +“Why, Mr. Bally,” said I, “the house will still be open to you for a +time.” + +“For a time?” says he. “I do not know if I quite take your meaning.” + +“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.” + +“You are become an impudent rogue,” said the Master, bending his brows +at me dangerously. + +“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.” + +He broke out in a burst of laughter, which I clearly saw to be assumed. + +“I have come with empty pockets,” says he, after a pause. + +“I do not think there will be any money going,” I replied. “I would +advise you not to build on that.” + +“I shall have something to say on the point,” he returned. + +“Indeed?” said I. “I have not a guess what it will be, then.” + +“Oh! you affect confidence,” said the Master. “I have still one strong +position—that you people fear a scandal, and I enjoy it.” + +“Pardon me, Mr. Bally,” says I. “We do not in the least fear a scandal +against you.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I will make a point of it, my lord,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The Mas— Bally +does not, then, accompany you?” + +“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.” + +“Common report, however—” began the lawyer. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No doubt,” said I. + +“No doubt,” said he. “Mr. Bally will have no voice?” + +“He will have no voice,” said my lord; “and, I hope, no influence. Mr. +Bally is not a good adviser.” + +“I see,” said the lawyer. “By the way, has Mr. Bally means?” + +“I understand him to have nothing,” replied my lord. “I give him table, +fire, and candle in this house.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +My lord looked at Mr. Carlyle. “Why do you ask that?” said he. + +“I gather, my lord, that Mr. Bally is not a comfort to his family,” +says the lawyer with a smile. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + + 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! + +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. + +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 _verso_ of +our life in Durrisdeer that day; but on the _recto_ 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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + + 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. + +“We are a small party,” said he. “How comes?” + +“This is the party to which we must grow accustomed,” I replied. + +He looked at me with a sudden sharpness. “What is all this?” said he. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“Ah! Mr. Bally, that is another point,” said I. “I have no orders to +communicate their destination.” + +“To me,” he corrected. + +“To any one,” said I. + +“It is the less pointed,” said the master; “_c’est de bon ton_: my +brother improves as he continues. And I, dear Mr. Mackellar?” + +“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.” + +He made an excuse to send Macconochie from the room. + +“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.” + +“There was no allowance made,” said I; “but I will take it on myself to +see you are supplied in moderation.” + +“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?” + +“I will make a note of it, and ask instructions when I write,” said I. + +And he, with a sudden change of manner, and leaning forward with an +elbow on the table—“Do you think this entirely wise?” + +“I execute my orders, Mr. Bally,” said I. + +“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.” + +I sought to interrupt him with some not very truthful denegation; but +he waved me down, and pursued his speech. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Do you consider _this_ entirely wise?” said I, copying his words. + +“These twenty years I have lived by my poor wisdom,” he answered with a +smile that seemed almost foolish in its vanity. + +“And come out a beggar in the end,” said I, “if beggar be a strong +enough word for it.” + +“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.” + +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. + + 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?” + +“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. + +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 [9] 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. + +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. + +It was one very wild night, after supper, and when we had been making +more than usually merry, that the blow fell on me. + +“This is all very fine,” says the Master, “but we should do better to +be buckling our valise.” + +“Why so?” I cried. “Are you leaving?” + +“We are all leaving to-morrow in the morning,” said he. “For the port +of Glascow first, thence for the province of New York.” + +I suppose I must have groaned aloud. + +“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.” + +“Have you the money for this voyage?” I asked. + +“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.” + +“I go with you,” said I. + +“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.” + +“And at least,” I added, “you know very well you could not throw me +off.” + +“Not easily,” said he. “You put your finger on the point with your +usual excellent good sense. I never fight with the inevitable.” + +“I suppose it is useless to appeal to you?” said I. + +“Believe me, perfectly,” said he. + +“And yet, if you would give me time, I could write—” I began. + +“And what would be my Lord Durrisdeer’s answer?” asks he. + +“Aye,” said I, “that is the rub.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Well,” said I, “I never thought to leave old Scotland.” + +“It will brisken you up,” says he. + +“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.” + +“If you take to prophecy,” says he, “listen to that.” + +There came up a violent squall off the open Solway, and the rain was +dashed on the great windows. + +“Do ye ken what that bodes, warlock?” said he, in a broad accent: “that +there’ll be a man Mackellar unco’ sick at sea.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +MR. MACKELLAR’S JOURNEY WITH THE MASTER. + + +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, _Wandering Willie_. +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— + +Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces, +Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child. + + +And ended somewhat thus— + +Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland, + Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold. +Lone let it stand, now the folks are all departed, + The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old. + + +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. + +“Ah! Mackellar,” said he, “do you think I have never a regret?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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 + +Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child, + + +stricken to find in it an appropriateness, which I had not yesterday +observed, to the Master’s detestable purpose in the present journey. + +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 _Nonesuch_, 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. + +_The Nonesuch_ 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 _Nonesuch_. 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 _Clarissa_! 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. + +After the first week out we fell in with foul winds and heavy weather. +The sea was high. The _Nonesuch_, 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. + +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 +_Nonesuch_ 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 _Nonesuch_ +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. + +“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!’” + +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. + +The wind fell, but the sea hove ever the higher. All night the +_Nonesuch_ 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 _Nonesuch_ 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 _Nonesuch_ 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. + +“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. + +“Are you sure he was a count?” I asked. + +“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!” + +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. + +“He hated the baron with a great hatred?” I asked. + +“His belly moved when the man came near him,” said the Master. + +“I have felt that same,” said I. + +“Verily!” cries the Master. “Here is news indeed! I wonder—do I flatter +myself? or am I the cause of these ventral perturbations?” + +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 were liker a man if I struck this creature +down_—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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“I give it you,” said I. + +“I shall require your hand upon it,” says he. + +“You have the right to make conditions,” I replied, and we shook hands. + +He sat down at once in the same place and the old perilous attitude. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“You are very like a civilian to think war consists in drums and +banners,” said he. “War (as the ancients said very wisely) is _ultima +ratio_. 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!” + +“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.” + +“Had I been Alexander—” he began. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“It has been hitherto rather the loss of others,” I remarked, “which +seems a little on the hither side of royalty.” + +“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—” + +“Only what?” I asked. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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 _un homme de parole_; ‘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.” + +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. + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER X. +PASSAGES AT NEW YORK. + + +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 +_Nonesuch_ in the interval. + +“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.” + +“Ah! my lord, would God I had!” cried I. “Things would have been better +for yourself.” + +“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.” + +I cried out against his security. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Your lordship is pleased to be civil,” said the Master, with a fine +start. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +It was thus that (in the heat of the moment) I let slip his infamy. + +“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.” + +There was a murmur of applause from the provincials. + +“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.” + +“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. + +I do not think I have ever seen any man so pale as was the Master; but +he was erect and his mouth firm. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + 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. + +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: + +James Durie, +formerly MASTER of BALLANTRAE. +Clothes Neatly Clouted. + +SECUNDRA DASS, +Decayed Gentleman of India. +Fine Goldsmith Work. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He had no sooner come away than I openly joined him. “My lord, my +lord,” said I, “this is no manner of behaviour.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“You cannot understand,” said he. “You had never such mountains of +bitterness upon your heart.” + +“And if it were no more,” I added, “you will surely goad the man to +some extremity.” + +“To the contrary; I am breaking his spirit,” says my lord. + + 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +Never a word said my lord; it was just as though the Master had not +broken silence. + +“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.” + +“Ask it,” says my lord. + +“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.” + +“Go and get it,” says my lord. “I make no opposition.” + +“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.” + +My lord stared him steadily in the eyes; there was a hard smile upon +his face, but he uttered nothing. + +“Henry,” said the Master, with a formidable quietness, and drawing at +the same time somewhat back—“Henry, I had the honour to address you.” + +“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. + +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. + +“Are you mad?” I cried, so soon as I had overtook him. “Would you cast +away so fair an opportunity?” + +“Is it possible you should still believe in him?” inquired my lord, +almost with a sneer. + +“I wish him forth of this town!” I cried. “I wish him anywhere and +anyhow but as he is.” + +“I have said my say,” returned my lord, “and you have said yours. There +let it rest.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“My lord,” said I, “these are very unpardonable expressions.” + +“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.” + +“If you think I had any design but to save you—” I began. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +He rose from the table, came forward, took me by the shoulders, and +looked me in the face, smiling. + +“And yet you are very fond of money!” said he. “And yet you love money +beyond all things else, except my brother!” + +“I fear old age and poverty,” said I, “which is another matter.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Spare me?” I cried. + +“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.” + + 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. + +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. + +“My lord, my lord!” I cried as I ran forward, for I supposed he was in +some fit. + +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. + +“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?” + +“I will make a shift, my lady,” said I. + +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?” + +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. + +“It is more to the purpose to consider our own behaviour,” said I. +“Must we leave him there alone?” + +“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.” + +“I will, then, despatch this letter, my lady, and return here, if you +please, to sit with you,” said I. + +“Pray do,” cries my lady. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Henry,” says my lady, “you are not ill?” + +“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.” + +And with that he once more shut himself in. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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, _L—d D—r_, 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 _six of the one and half a dozen of the other_; 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“For Albany, my lord?” I cried. “And for what earthly purpose?” + +“Change of scene,” said he. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +THE JOURNEY IN THE WILDERNESS. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +He looked at me with shining eyes, and looked away again, his jaw +chewing, but without words. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I would not talk wicked nonsense if I were you,” said I; “but I will +tell you what I _would_ do—I would put my head in cold water, for you +had more last night than you could carry.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“No, my lord, I have nothing more,” said I, dryly enough. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“No doubt,” said he, “no doubt. Well, I think I will be going.” + +“Good-morning, my lord,” said I. + +“Good-morning, good-morning,” said he, and so got himself at last from +the apartment. + +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? + +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. + +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 _Twa Corbies_ endlessly repeated: + +“And over his banes when they are bare +The wind sall blaw for evermair!” + + +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. + +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 _quantum mutatus ab illo_ 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. + +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 [10] like a child’s; and at +the sight my impatience partially revived. + +“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.” + +“Oh, Mackellar,” said he, “my heart is wae!” + +“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!” + +“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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + + 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. + +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 _pervigilium_, 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. + +“But in that case,” cries Sir William, “is it wise to let him go at +large?” + +“Those that know him best,” said I, “are persuaded that he should be +humoured.” + +“Well, well,” replied Sir William, “it is none of my affairs. But if I +had understood, you would never have been here.” + +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. + +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. + +“Seen what?” cries Sir William. + +“No,” said I, “we have seen nothing of him. Why?” + +“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.” + +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: + +_First_, a written statement by Mountain, in which everything criminal +is cleverly smuggled out of view; + +_Second_, two conversations with Secundra Dass; and + +_Third_, many conversations with Mountain himself, in which he was +pleased to be entirely plain; for the truth is he regarded me as an +accomplice. + + + + +NARRATIVE OF THE TRADER, MOUNTAIN. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Ah, men!” says he, on his beholding them. “Here is a fortunate +encounter. Let us get back to camp.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Do not let us be in haste,” says he. “Meat first and public speaking +after.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“Come, I call you a man,” cries the Master, sitting up and looking at +the speaker with an air of admiration. + +“I didn’t ask you to call me anything,” returned Hastie; “which is it +to be?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“For all that,” he added with an oath, “and if he bursts by the +wayside, he must bring us this morning to the treasure.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You think he will be gone quite away?” he asked, upon their blest +awakening in safety. + +“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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +THE JOURNEY IN THE WILDERNESS (_continued_). + + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“To Albany?” said he, with a good voice. + +“Not short of it, at least,” replied Sir William. “There is no safety +nearer hand.” + +“I would be very sweir [11] to return,” says my lord. “I am not +afraid—of Indians,” he added, with a jerk. + +“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.” + +My lord turned to Mountain. “What did he pretend he died of?” he asked. + +“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. + +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. + +“Oh! I don’t know,” said Mountain. “Hastie even never knew. He seemed +to sicken natural, and just pass away.” + +“There it is, you see!” concluded my lord, turning to Sir William. + +“Your lordship is too deep for me,” replied Sir William. + +“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.” + +“But, God damn me, the man’s buried!” cried Sir William. + +“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 _look_ dead?” he asked of Mountain. + +“Look dead?” repeated the trader. “He looked white. Why, what would he +be at? I tell you, I put the sods upon him.” + +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.” + +“Canny?” says Sir William. “What is that?” + +“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 [12] 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. + +Sir William looked across at me with a long face. Mountain forgot his +wounds, staring and gaping. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Why, certainly,” said I. “The man is mad. I think that manifest.” + +“Shall I seize and bind him?” asked Sir William. “I will upon your +authority. If these are all ravings, that should certainly be done.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I would be the last to blame you,” said I, “for that.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Nothing, Sir William,” I replied. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Which is it to be?” said he. + +“You are to have your way,” I answered. “You shall see the grave.” + + 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +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.” + +“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Sir William. “We were geese not to have +supposed so much.” + +“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!” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You damned sacrilegious hound!” he cried. “What’s this?” + +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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“You no murderer?” inquired Secundra. “You true man? you see me safe?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +My lord uttered a little noise, moved nearer to the grave, and stood +and stared in it. + +“Buried and not dead?” exclaimed Sir William. “What kind of rant is +this?” + +“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.” + +“What is the creature talking of?” cried Sir William. “My head goes +round.” + +“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.” + +Sir William turned to the nearest of his men. “Light a fire,” said he. +“My lot seems to be cast with the insane.” + +“You good man,” returned Secundra. “Now I go dig the sahib up.” + +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. + +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. + +“My God!” cried Mountain, “he was as smooth as a baby when we laid him +there!” + +“They say hair grows upon the dead,” observed Sir William; but his +voice was thick and weak. + +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. + +“Now,” said Secundra, “you help me lift him out.” + +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. + +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. + + 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. + +“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. + +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:## + + +J. D., + +HEIR TO A SCOTTISH TITLE, + +A MASTER OF THE ARTS AND GRACES, + +ADMIRED IN EUROPE, ASIA, AMERICA, + +IN WAR AND PEACE, + +IN THE TENTS OF SAVAGE HUNTERS AND THE + +CITADELS OF KINGS, AFTER SO MUCH + +ACQUIRED, ACCOMPLISHED, AND + +ENDURED, LIES HERE FORGOTTEN. + + + +H. D., + +HIS BROTHER, + +AFTER A LIFE OF UNMERITED DISTRESS, + +BRAVELY SUPPORTED, + +DIED ALMOST IN THE SAME HOUR, + +AND SLEEPS IN THE SAME GRAVE + +WITH HIS FRATERNAL ENEMY. + + + +THE PIETY OF HIS WIFE AND ONE OLD + +SERVANT RAISED THIS STONE + +TO BOTH. + + + + +Footnotes. + + +[1] A kind of firework made with damp powder. + +[2] _Note by Mr. Mackellar_. Should not this be Alan _Breck_ Stewart, +afterwards notorious as the Appin murderer? The Chevalier is sometimes +very weak on names. + +[3] _Note by Mr. Mackellar_. This Teach of the _Sarah_ 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. + +[4] _Note by Mr. Mackellar_. And is not this the whole explanation? +since this Dutton, exactly like the officers, enjoyed the stimulus of +some responsibility. + +[5] _Note by Mr. Mackellar_: A complete blunder: there was at this date +no word of the marriage: see above in my own narration. + +[6] Note by Mr. Mackellar.—Plainly Secundra Dass.—E. McK. + +[7] Ordered. + +[8] Land steward. + +[9] Fooling. + +[10] Tear-marked. + +[11] Unwilling. + +[12] Ring. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE *** + +***** This file should be named 864-0.txt or 864-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/8/6/864/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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