CHAPTER IV.—PERSECUTIONS ENDURED BY MR. HENRY.
You can guess on what part of his adventures the Colonel principallydwelled. Indeed, if we had heard it all, it is to be thought the currentof this business had been wholly altered; but the pirate ship was verygently touched upon. Nor did I hear the Colonel to an end even of thatwhich he was willing to disclose; for Mr. Henry, having for some whilebeen plunged in a brown study, rose at last from his seat and (remindingthe Colonel there were matters that he must attend to) bade me follow himimmediately to the office.
Once there, he sought no longer to dissemble his concern, walking to andfro in the room with a contorted face, and passing his hand repeatedlyupon his brow.
“We have some business,” he began at last; and there broke off, declaredwe must have wine, and sent for a magnum of the best. This was extremelyforeign to his habitudes; and what was still more so, when the wine hadcome, he gulped down one glass upon another like a man careless ofappearances. But the drink steadied him.
“You will scarce be surprised, Mackellar,” says he, “when I tell you thatmy brother—whose safety we are all rejoiced to learn—stands in some needof 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 itsdestination; and how, by so doing, we must lose the profit of our pasteconomies, and plunge back the estate into the mire. I even took theliberty to plead with him; and when he still opposed me with a shake ofthe head and a bitter dogged smile, my zeal quite carried me beyond myplace. “This is midsummer madness,” cried I; “and I for one will be noparty to it.”
“You speak as though I did it for my pleasure,” says he. “But I have achild 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 amoment. “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 haveonly the name and the shadow of things—only the shadow; there is nosubstance 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 uponhis lips; and I repented what I had said, for I saw that while he spokeof the estate he had still a side-thought to his marriage. And then, ofa sudden, he twitched the letter from his pocket, where it lay allcrumpled, smoothed it violently on the table, and read these words to mewith a trembling tongue: “‘My dear Jacob’—This is how he begins!” crieshe—“‘My dear Jacob, I once called you so, you may remember; and you havenow done the business, and flung my heels as high as Criffel.’ What doyou think of that, Mackellar,” says he, “from an only brother? I declareto God I liked him very well; I was always staunch to him; and this ishow he writes! But I will not sit down under the imputation”—walking toand fro—“I am as good as he; I am a better man than he, I call on God toprove it! I cannot give him all the monstrous sum he asks; he knows theestate to be incompetent; but I will give him what I have, and it in morethan he expects. I have borne all this too long. See what he writesfurther on; read it for yourself: ‘I know you are a niggardly dog.’ Aniggardly 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 theestate and go barefoot, I shall stuff this bloodsucker. Let him askall—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.” Hepoured 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 thesight of so much disorder in a man usually so controlled; and we sat downtogether, counted the money, and made it up in packets for the greaterease of Colonel Burke, who was to be the bearer. This done, Mr. Henryreturned to the hall, where he and my old lord sat all night through withtheir guest.
A little before dawn I was called and set out with the Colonel. He wouldscarce have liked a less responsible convoy, for he was a man who valuedhimself; nor could we afford him one more dignified, for Mr. Henry mustnot appear with the freetraders. It was a very bitter morning of wind,and as we went down through the long shrubbery the Colonel held himselfmuffled 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 thecloak about his mouth.
“I am only a servant of the family,” said I. “You may deal openly withme. I think we are likely to get little good by him?”
“My dear man,” said the Colonel, “Ballantrae is a gentleman of the mosteminent natural abilities, and a man that I admire, and that I revere, tothe very ground he treads on.” And then he seemed to me to pause likeone 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 awaitedhim. “Well,” said be, “I am sure I am very much your debtor for all yourcivility, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is; and just as a last word, and sinceyou show so much intelligent interest, I will mention a smallcircumstance that may be of use to the family. For I believe my friendomitted to mention that he has the largest pension on the Scots Fund ofany refugee in Paris; and it’s the more disgraceful, sir,” cries theColonel, 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 thehand, and set off down to the boat, with the money under his arms, andwhistling as he went the pathetic air of _Shule Aroon_. It was the firsttime I had heard that tune; I was to hear it again, words and all, as youshall learn, but I remember how that little stave of it ran in my headafter the freetraders had bade him “Wheesht, in the deil’s name,” and thegrating of the oars had taken its place, and I stood and watched the dawncreeping on the sea, and the boat drawing away, and the lugger lying withher foresail backed awaiting it.
* * * * *
The gap made in our money was a sore embarrassment, and, among otherconsequences, it had this: that I must ride to Edinburgh, and there raisea new loan on very questionable terms to keep the old afloat; and wasthus, 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 withmy lord for the most part pretermitted; a certain deprecation visibletowards 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; heread in each the avowal of her truant fancies. That constancy to theMaster of which she was proud while she supposed him dead, she had toblush for now she knew he was alive, and these blushes were the hatedspring of her new conduct. I am to conceal no truth; and I will here sayplainly, I think this was the period in which Mr. Henry showed the worst.He contained himself, indeed, in public; but there was a deep-seatedirritation visible underneath. W
ith me, from whom he had lessconcealment, he was often grossly unjust, and even for his wife he wouldsometimes have a sharp retort: perhaps when she had ruffled him with someunwonted kindness; perhaps upon no tangible occasion, the mere habitualtenor of the man’s annoyance bursting spontaneously forth. When he wouldthus forget himself (a thing so strangely out of keeping with the termsof their relation), there went a shook through the whole company, and thepair would look upon each other in a kind of pained amazement.
All the time, too, while he was injuring himself by this defect oftemper, he was hurting his position by a silence, of which I scarce knowwhether to say it was the child of generosity or pride. The freetraderscame again and again, bringing messengers from the Master, and nonedeparted empty-handed. I never durst reason with Mr. Henry; he gave whatwas asked of him in a kind of noble rage. Perhaps because he knew he wasby nature inclining to the parsimonious, he took a backforemost pleasurein the recklessness with which he supplied his brother’s exigence.Perhaps the falsity of the position would have spurred a humbler man intothe same excess. But the estate (if I may say so) groaned under it; ourdaily expenses were shorn lower and lower; the stables were emptied, allbut four roadsters; servants were discharged, which raised a dreadfulmurmuring 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 thisbloodsucker had been drawing the life’s blood from Durrisdeer, and thatall this time my patron had held his peace. It was an effect of devilishmalice in the Master that he addressed Mr. Henry alone upon the matter ofhis demands, and there was never a word to my lord. The family hadlooked on, wondering at our economies. They had lamented, I have nodoubt, that my patron had become so great a miser—a fault alwaysdespicable, but in the young abhorrent, and Mr. Henry was not yet thirtyyears of age. Still, he had managed the business of Durrisdeer almostfrom a boy; and they bore with these changes in a silence as proud andbitter as his own, until the coping-stone of the Edinburgh visit.
At this time I believe my patron and his wife were rarely together, saveat meals. Immediately on the back of Colonel Burke’s announcement Mrs.Henry made palpable advances; you might say she had laid a sort of timidcourt to her husband, different, indeed, from her former manner ofunconcern and distance. I never had the heart to blame Mr. Henry becausehe recoiled from these advances; nor yet to censure the wife, when shewas cut to the quick by their rejection. But the result was an entireestrangement, so that (as I say) they rarely spoke, except at meals.Even the matter of the Edinburgh visit was first broached at table, andit chanced that Mrs. Henry was that day ailing and querulous. She had nosooner understood her husband’s meaning than the red flew in her face.
“At last,” she cried, “this is too much! Heaven knows what pleasure Ihave in my life, that I should be denied my only consolation. Theseshameful proclivities must be trod down; we are already a mark and aneyesore 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 leftthe 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 thetable, and plunging his penknife in it with a very ugly countenance.
“Mr. Henry,” said I, “you do yourself too much injustice, and it is timethis should cease.”
“Oh!” cries he, “nobody minds here. They think it only natural. I haveshameful proclivities. I am a niggardly dog,” and he drove his knife upto the hilt. “But I will show that fellow,” he cried with an oath, “Iwill 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 nosooner was Mrs. Henry gone to her room than I presented myself at herdoor 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 withany freedoms; but this thing lies too hard upon my conscience, and itwill out. Is it possible that two people can be so blind as you and mylord? 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 forthe very wine he does not drink at table?” I went on. “To Paris—to thatman! Eight thousand pounds has he had of us in seven years, and mypatron fool enough to keep it secret!”
“Eight thousand pounds!” she repeated. “It in impossible; the estate isnot sufficient.”
“God knows how we have sweated farthings to produce it,” said I. “Buteight thousand and sixty is the sum, beside odd shillings. And if youcan think my patron miserly after that, this shall be my lastinterference.”
“You need say no more, Mr. Mackellar,” said she. “You have done mostproperly in what you too modestly call your interference. I am much toblame; you must think me indeed a very unobservant wife” (looking upon mewith a strange smile), “but I shall put this right at once. The Masterwas always of a very thoughtless nature; but his heart is excellent; heis the soul of generosity. I shall write to him myself. You cannotthink how you have pained me by this communication.”
“Indeed, madam, I had hoped to have pleased you,” said I, for I raged tosee 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 satisfactionto see Mr. Henry come from his wife’s room in a state most unlikehimself; for his face was all bloated with weeping, and yet he seemed tome to walk upon the air. By this, I was sure his wife had made him fullamends for once. “Ah,” thought I to myself, “I have done a brave strokethis day.”
On the morrow, as I was seated at my books, Mr. Henry came in softlybehind me, took me by the shoulders, and shook me in a manner ofplayfulness. “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 wasmore to me than any eloquence of protestation. Nor was this all I hadeffected; for when the next messenger came (as he did not longafterwards) 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 mostformal terms. But this letter I did not even see; it would scarce bepleasant 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 gratifiedexpression.
Things went better now in the family, though it could scarce be pretendedthey went well. There was now at least no misconception; there waskindness upon all sides; and I believe my patron and his wife might againhave drawn together if he could but have pocketed his pride, and sheforgot (what was the ground of all) her brooding on another man. It iswonderful how a private thought leaks out; it is wonderful to me now howwe should all have followed the current of her sentiments; and though shebore herself quietly, and had a very even disposition, yet we should haveknown whenever her fancy ran to Paris. And would not any one havethought that my disclosure must have rooted up that idol? I think thereis 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 hadhim, the notion of his death intervening, his heartless rapacity laidbare to her; that all should not do, and she must still keep the bestplace in her heart for this accursed fellow, is a thing to make a plainman rage. I had never much natural sympathy for the passion of love
; butthis unreason in my patron’s wife disgusted me outright with the wholematter. I remember checking a maid because she sang some bairnlykickshaw while my mind was thus engaged; and my asperity brought about myears the enmity of all the petticoats about the house; of which I reekedvery little, but it amused Mr. Henry, who rallied me much upon our jointunpopularity. It is strange enough (for my own mother was certainly oneof the salt of the earth, and my Aunt Dickson, who paid my fees at theUniversity, a very notable woman), but I have never had much tolerationfor the female sex, possibly not much understanding; and being far from abold man, I have ever shunned their company. Not only do I see no causeto regret this diffidence in myself, but have invariably remarked themost unhappy consequences follow those who were less wise. So much Ithought proper to set down, lest I show myself unjust to Mrs. Henry.And, besides, the remark arose naturally, on a re-perusal of the letterwhich was the next step in these affairs, and reached me, to my sincereastonishment, by a private hand, some week or so after the departure ofthe 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 butthe 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 beattended to. But with all my haste I was not in time to avert what wasimpending; the arrow had been drawn, it must now fly. I could almostdoubt the power of Providence (and certainly His will) to stay the issueof events; and it is a strange thought, how many of us had been storingup the elements of this catastrophe, for how long a time, and with howblind 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 greatsecrecy observed, and the freetrade (in our part) went by force as muchas 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. Isay, I questioned the tenants; for with the traders themselves, desperateblades that went habitually armed, I could never bring myself to meddlewillingly. Indeed, by what proved in the sequel an unhappy chance, I wasan object of scorn to some of these braggadocios; who had not onlygratified 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 todance for their diversion. The method employed was that of cruellychipping at my toes with naked cutlasses, shouting at the same time“Square-Toes”; and though they did me no bodily mischief, I was none theless deplorably affected, and was indeed for several days confined to mybed: a scandal on the state of Scotland on which no comment is required.
It happened on the afternoon of November 7th, in this same unfortunateyear, that I espied, during my walk, the smoke of a beacon fire upon theMuckleross. It was drawing near time for my return; but the uneasinessupon my spirits was that day so great that I must burst through thethickets to the edge of what they call the Craig Head. The sun wasalready down, but there was still a broad light in the west, which showedme 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 wasplainly but new come to anchor, and yet the skiff was already lowered andpulling for the landing-place at the end of the long shrubbery. And thisI knew could signify but one thing, the coming of a messenger forDurrisdeer.
I laid aside the remainder of my terrors, clambered down the brae—a placeI had never ventured through before, and was hid among the shore-sidethickets in time to see the boat touch. Captain Crail himself wassteering, a thing not usual; by his side there sat a passenger; and themen gave way with difficulty, being hampered with near upon half a dozenportmanteaus, great and small. But the business of landing was brisklycarried through; and presently the baggage was all tumbled on shore, theboat on its return voyage to the lugger, and the passenger standing aloneupon the point of rock, a tall slender figure of a gentleman, habited inblack, with a sword by his side and a walking-cane upon his wrist. As heso stood, he waved the cane to Captain Crail by way of salutation, withsomething both of grace and mockery that wrote the gesture deeply on mymind.
No sooner was the boat away with my sworn enemies than I took a sort ofhalf courage, came forth to the margin of the thicket, and there haltedagain, my mind being greatly pulled about between natural diffidence anda dark foreboding of the truth. Indeed, I might have stood thereswithering all night, had not the stranger turned, spied me through themists, which were beginning to fall, and waved and cried on me to drawnear. I did so with a heart like lead.
“Here, my good man,” said he, in the English accent, “there are somethings for Durrisdeer.”
I was now near enough to see him, a very handsome figure and countenanc
e,swarthy, lean, long, with a quick, alert, black look, as of one who was afighter, and accustomed to command; upon one cheek he had a mole, notunbecoming; a large diamond sparkled on his hand; his clothes, althoughof the one hue, were of a French and foppish design; his ruffles, whichhe wore longer than common, of exquisite lace; and I wondered the more tosee him in such a guise when he was but newly landed from a dirtysmuggling lugger. At the same time he had a better look at me, toised mea second time sharply, and then smiled.
“I wager, my friend,” says he, “that I know both your name and yournickname. 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 yourtedious letters; and it is my purpose to employ you a good deal. You maycall me Mr. Bally: it is the name I have assumed; or rather (since I amaddressing so great a precision) it is so I have curtailed my own. Comenow, pick up that and that”—indicating two of the portmanteaus. “Thatwill 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 ofinstinct, my mind being all the time quite lost. No sooner had I pickedup the portmanteaus than he turned his back and marched off through thelong shrubbery, where it began already to be dusk, for the wood is thickand evergreen. I followed behind, loaded almost to the dust, though Iprofess I was not conscious of the burthen; being swallowed up in themonstrosity 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 turnedand 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 secretwith the astute Mackellar.”
“And in the name of God,” cries I, “what brings you here? Go back, whileit is yet time.”
“I thank you,” said he. “Your master has chosen this way, and not I; butsince 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 veryboggy 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. “Ifnothing will move you to go back,” said I; “though, sure, under all thecircumstances, any Christian or even any gentleman would scruple to goforward . . . ”
“These are gratifying expressions,” he threw in.
“If nothing will move you to go back,” I continued, “there are still somedecencies to be observed. Wait here with your baggage, and I will goforward 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 lookyou here, my man, and understand it once for all—you waste your breathupon 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 andcried out angrily, and then I believe I heard him laugh, and then I amcertain he pursued me for a step or two, and (I suppose) desisted. Onething at least is sure, that I came but a few minutes later to the doorof the great house, nearly strangled for the lack of breath, but quitealone. Straight up the stair I ran, and burst into the hall, and stoppedbefore the family without the power of speech; but I must have carried mystory in my looks, for they rose out of their places and stared on melike 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 notstay 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; andin the midst of the gravelled plot encountered the Master strolling up,whistling as he came, and beating the air with his cane. There was stilllight 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 notpretend that I am glad to see you; but I would fain make you as welcomeas I can in the house of our fathers.”
“Or in _my_ house? or _yours_?” says the Master. “Which were you aboutto say? But this is an old sore, and we need not rub it. If you wouldnot share with me in Paris, I hope you will yet scarce deny your elderbrother a corner of the fire at Durrisdeer?”
“That is very idle speech,” replied Mr. Henry. “And you understand thepower 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 thebrothers’ meeting; for at this the Master turned to me and bade me fetchhis baggage.
I, on my side, turned to Mr. Henry for a confirmation; perhaps with somedefiance.
“As long as the Master is here, Mr. Mackellar, you will very much obligeme by regarding his wishes as you would my own,” says Mr. Henry. “We areconstantly troubling you: will you be so good as send one of theservants?”—with an accent on the word.
If this speech were anything at all, it was surely a well-deservedreproof upon the stranger; and yet, so devilish was his impudence, hetwisted 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 inwords; even to call a servant was beyond me; I had rather serve the manmyself than speak; and I turned away in silence and went into the longshrubbery, with a heart full of anger and despair. It was dark under thetrees, 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 Iremarked a strange particular; for whereas I had before carried both andscarce observed it, it was now as much as I could do to manage one. Andthis, as it forced me to make two journeys, kept me the longer from thehall.
When I got there, the business of welcome was over long ago; the companywas already at supper; and by an oversight that cut me to the quick, myplace 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 inand 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, layanother for Mr. Bally; I protest he will disturb no one, and your tableis big enough for all.”
I could scarce credit my ears, nor yet my senses, when he took me by theshoulders and thrust me, laughing, into my own place—such an affectionateplayfulness was in his voice. And while John laid the fresh place forhim (a thing on which he still insisted), he went and leaned on hisfather’s chair and looked down upon him, and the old man turned about andlooked upwards on his son, with such a pleasant mutual tenderness that Icould 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 sneershowed upon his lip. He had laid aside even his cutting English accent,and spoke with the kindly Scots’ tongue, that set a value on affectionatewords; and though his manners had a graceful elegance mighty foreign toour ways in Durrisdeer, it was still a homely courtliness, that did notshame but flattered us. All that, he did throughout the meal, indeed,drinking wine with me with a notable respect, turning about for apleasant word with John, fondling his father’s hand, breaking into littlemerry tales of his adventures, calling up the past with ha
ppyreference—all he did was so becoming, and himself so handsome, that Icould scarce wonder if my lord and Mrs. Henry sat about the board withradiant 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 willgive you a good-night, James, and a welcome—from the dead,” said she, andher voice dropped and trembled.
Poor Mr. Henry, who had made rather a heavy figure through the meal, wasmore concerned than ever; pleased to see his wife withdraw, and yet halfdispleased, as he thought upon the cause of it; and the next momentaltogether 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. Icannot have you go: this is to make a stranger of the prodigal son; andlet 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 strangereither of him or you. I have been telling my son,” he added, his voicebrightening as usual on the word, “how much we valued all your friendlyservice.”
So I sat there, silent, till my usual hour; and might have been almostdeceived in the man’s nature but for one passage, in which his perfidyappeared too plain. Here was the passage; of which, after what he knowsof the brothers’ meeting, the reader shall consider for himself. Mr.Henry sitting somewhat dully, in spite of his best endeavours to carrythings before my lord, up jumps the Master, passes about the board, andclaps his brother on the shoulder.
“Come, come, _Hairry lad_,” says he, with a broad accent such as theymust have used together when they were boys, “you must not be downcastbecause your brother has come home. All’s yours, that’s sure enough, andlittle I grudge it you. Neither must you grudge me my place beside myfather’s fire.”
“And that is too true, Henry,” says my old lord with a little frown, athing rare with him. “You have been the elder brother of the parable inthe 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 somild a man. “You have earned my gratitude and your brother’s manythousand times: you may count on its endurance; and let that suffice.”
“Ay, Harry, that you may,” said the Master; and I thought Mr. Henrylooked at him with a kind of wildness in his eye.
On all the miserable business that now followed, I have four questionsthat I asked myself often at the time and ask myself still:—Was the manmoved by a particular sentiment against Mr. Henry? or by what he thoughtto be his interest? or by a mere delight in cruelty such as cats displayand theologians tell us of the devil? or by what he would have calledlove? My common opinion halts among the three first; but perhaps therelay at the spring of his behaviour an element of all. As thus:—Animosityto Mr. Henry would explain his hateful usage of him when they were alone;the interests he came to serve would explain his very different attitudebefore my lord; that and some spice of a design of gallantry, his care tostand well with Mrs. Henry; and the pleasure of malice for itself, thepains 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 inmy letters to Paris I had often given myself some freedom ofremonstrance, I was included in his diabolical amusement. When I wasalone with him, he pursued me with sneers; before the family he used mewith the extreme of friendly condescension. This was not only painful initself; not only did it put me continually in the wrong; but there was init an element of insult indescribable. That he should thus leave me outin his dissimulation, as though even my testimony were too despicable tobe considered, galled me to the blood. But what it was to me is notworth notice. I make but memorandum of it here; and chiefly for thisreason, 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 publicadvances of one who never lost a chance of gibing him in private? Howwas he to smile back on the deceiver and the insulter? He was condemnedto seem ungracious. He was condemned to silence. Had he been lessproud, had he spoken, who would have credited the truth? The actedcalumny had done its work; my lord and Mrs. Henry were the dailywitnesses of what went on; they could have sworn in court that the Masterwas a model of long-suffering good-nature, and Mr. Henry a pattern ofjealousy and thanklessness. And ugly enough as these must have appearedin any one, they seemed tenfold uglier in Mr. Henry; for who could forgetthat the Master lay in peril of his life, and that he had already losthis 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: “Iwill not.”
“I sometimes wish you would be kinder, Henry,” says the other, wistfully.
I give this for a specimen; but such scenes befell continually. Smallwonder if Mr. Henry was blamed; small wonder if I fretted myself intosomething near upon a bilious fever; nay, and at the mere recollectionfeel a bitterness in my blood.
Sure, never in this world was a more diabolical contrivance: soperfidious, so simple, so impossible to combat. And yet I think again,and I think always, Mrs. Henry might have road between the lines; shemight have had more knowledge of her husband’s nature; after all theseyears of marriage she might have commanded or captured his confidence.And my old lord, too—that very watchful gentleman—where was all hisobservation? But, for one thing, the deceit was practised by a masterhand, 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 areboth married and estranged, so that they seem out of ear-shot or to haveno common tongue. For a third (in the case of both of these spectators),they were blinded by old ingrained predilection. And for a fourth, therisk the Master was supposed to stand in (supposed, I say—you will soonhear why) made it seem the more ungenerous to criticise; and, keepingthem in a perpetual tender solicitude about his life, blinded them themore effectually to his faults.
It was during this time that I perceived most clearly the effect ofmanner, 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 wasany 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 theornamental. The Master (on the other hand) had never a movement but itcommanded him. So it befell that when the one appeared gracious and theother ungracious, every trick of their bodies seemed to call outconfirmation. Not that alone: but the more deeply Mr. Henry flounderedin his brother’s toils, the more clownish he grew; and the more theMaster enjoyed his spiteful entertainment, the more engagingly, the moresmilingly, 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 wassupposed to stand. He spoke of it to those who loved him with a gentlepleasantry, which made it the more touching. To Mr. Henry he used it asa cruel weapon of offence. I remember his laying his finger on the cleanlozenge of the painted window one day when we three were alone togetherin the hall. “Here went your lucky guinea, Jacob,” said he. And whenMr. Henry only looked upon him darkly, “Oh!” he added, “you need not looksuch impotent malice, my good fly. You can be rid of your spider whenyou please. How long, O Lord? When are you to be wrought to the pointof a denunciation, scrupulous brother? It is one of my interests in thisdreary hole. I ever loved experiment.” Still Mr. Henry only stared uponhim with a grooming brow, and a changed colour; and at last the Masterbroke out in a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder, calling him a sulkyd
og. At this my patron leaped back with a gesture I thought verydangerous; and I must suppose the Master thought so too, for he lookedthe least in the world discountenance, and I do not remember him again tohave laid hands on Mr. Henry.
But though he had his peril always on his lips in the one way or theother, I thought his conduct strangely incautious, and began to fancy theGovernment—who had set a price upon his head—was gone sound asleep. Iwill not deny I was tempted with the wish to denounce him; but twothoughts withheld me: one, that if he were thus to end his life upon anhonourable scaffold, the man would be canonised for good in the minds ofhis father and my patron’s wife; the other, that if I was anyway mingledin the matter, Mr. Henry himself would scarce escape some glancings ofsuspicion. And in the meanwhile our enemy went in and out more than Icould have thought possible, the fact that he was home again was buzzedabout all the country-side, and yet he was never stirred. Of all theseso-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 leastloyalty; and the man rode here and there—fully more welcome, consideringthe lees of old unpopularity, than Mr. Henry—and considering thefreetraders, far safer than myself.
Not but what he had a trouble of his own; and this, as it brought aboutthe gravest consequences, I must now relate. The reader will scarce haveforgotten Jessie Broun; her way of life was much among the smugglingparty; Captain Crail himself was of her intimates; and she had early wordof Mr. Bally’s presence at the house. In my opinion, she had long ceasedto care two straws for the Master’s person; but it was become her habitto connect herself continually with the Master’s name; that was theground of all her play-acting; and so now, when he was back, she thoughtshe owed it to herself to grow a haunter of the neighbourhood ofDurrisdeer. The Master could scarce go abroad but she was there in waitfor him; a scandalous figure of a woman, not often sober; hailing himwildly as “her bonny laddie,” quoting pedlar’s poetry, and, as I receivethe story, even seeking to weep upon his neck. I own I rubbed my handsover this persecution; but the Master, who laid so much upon others, washimself the least patient of men. There were strange scenes enacted inthe policies. Some say he took his cane to her, and Jessie fell backupon her former weapons—stones. It is certain at least that he made amotion to Captain Crail to have the woman trepanned, and that the Captainrefused the proposition with uncommon vehemence. And the end of thematter was victory for Jessie. Money was got together; an interview tookplace, in which my proud gentleman must consent to be kissed and weptupon; and the woman was set up in a public of her own, somewhere onSolway 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 uponhis heels, the Master comes to me one day in the steward’s office, andwith more civility than usual, “Mackellar,” says he, “there is a damnedcrazy 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 astrict injunction to drive the wench away.”
“Sir,” said I, trembling a little, “you can do your own dirty errands foryourself.”
He said not a word to that, and left the room.
Presently came Mr. Henry. “Here is news!” cried he. “It seems all isnot enough, and you must add to my wretchedness. It seems you haveinsulted 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 positionwhen I spoke; and if you think so when you know all, my dear patron, youhave 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 didexactly well,” said he. “He shall drink his Jessie Broun to the dregs.”And then, spying the Master outside, he opened the window, and crying tohim 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 doorbehind him, looking at me with a smile, as if he thought I was to behumbled, “you brought me a complaint against Mr. Mackellar, into which Ihave inquired. I need not tell you I would always take his word againstyours; for we are alone, and I am going to use something of your ownfreedom. Mr. Mackellar is a gentleman I value; and you must contrive, solong as you are under this roof, to bring yourself into no morecollisions with one whom I will support at any possible cost to me ormine. As for the errand upon which you came to him, you must deliveryourself from the consequences of your own cruelty, and, none of myservants 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 wantthat 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, “thatI am bankrupt even of fears. You have no place left where you can strikeme.”
“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 thebeginning 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 tothat 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 aneffect 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 anaffectionate brother. Up to that hour, you may say he had scarcedirectly interfered between Mr. Henry and his wife; except in so far ashe 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 becausehe was wearying of Durrisdeer and looked about for some diversion, whobut the devil shall decide?
From that hour, at least, began the siege of Mrs. Henry; a thing sodeftly carried on that I scarce know if she was aware of it herself, andthat 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, onthe 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, asthe truth of what he hopes of her, poor soul! in these far lands.” Andhere the Master sighed, “I protest it is a pathetic sight when a score ofrough Irish, all common sentinels, get to this song; and you may see, bytheir 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 cannotget 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 Colonelwhistle; but now to words, rustic indeed, yet most pathetically settingforth a poor girl’s aspirations for an exiled lover; of which one verseindeed (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. Ihave heard famous actors, when there was not a dry eye in the Edinburghtheatre; a great wonder to behold; but no more wonderful than how theMaster played upon that little ballad, and on those who heard him, likean instrumen
t, and seemed now upon the point of failing, and now toconquer his distress, so that words and music seemed to pour out of hisown heart and his own past, and to be aimed directly at Mrs. Henry. Andhis art went further yet; for all was so delicately touched, it seemedimpossible to suspect him of the least design; and so far from making aparade of emotion, you would have sworn he was striving to be calm. Whenit came to an end, we all sat silent for a time; he had chosen the duskof the afternoon, so that none could see his neighbour’s face; but itseemed 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 andsoftly, 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 struggleddown the last of his emotion; for he presently returned and launched intoa disquisition on the nature of the Irish (always so much miscalled, andwhom he defended) in his natural voice; so that, before the lights werebrought, we were in the usual course of talk. But even then, methoughtMrs. Henry’s face was a shade pale; and, for another thing, she withdrewalmost at once.
The next sign was a friendship this insidious devil struck up withinnocent Miss Katharine; so that they were always together, hand in hand,or she climbing on his knee, like a pair of children. Like all hisdiabolical 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 withthe poor innocent, which brought him still a peg lower in his wife’sesteem; and (to conclude) it was a bond of union between the lady and theMaster. 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 likemany a good woman; she had a whole conscience but perhaps by the means ofa little winking. For even to so dull an observer as myself, it wasplain her kindness was of a more moving nature than the sisterly. Thetones of her voice appeared more numerous; she had a light and softnessin her eye; she was more gentle with all of us, even with Mr. Henry, evenwith myself; methought she breathed of some quiet melancholy happiness.
To look on at this, what a torment it was for Mr. Henry! And yet itbrought our ultimate deliverance, as I am soon to tell.
* * * * *
The purport of the Master’s stay was no more noble (gild it as theymight) than to wring money out. He had some design of a fortune in theFrench Indies, as the Chevalier wrote me; and it was the sum required forthis 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 themthan just the father and the two sons) that it was possible to break theentail and alienate a piece of land. And to this, at first by hints, andthen by open pressure, Mr. Henry was brought to consent. He never wouldhave done so, I am very well assured, but for the weight of the distressunder which he laboured. But for his passionate eagerness to see hisbrother gone, he would not thus have broken with his own sentiment andthe traditions of his house. And even so, he sold them his consent at adear rate, speaking for once openly, and holding the business up in itsown shameful colours.
“You will observe,” he said, “this is an injustice to my son, if ever Ihave one.”
“But that you are not likely to have,” said my lord.
“God knows!” says Mr. Henry. “And considering the cruel falseness of theposition in which I stand to my brother, and that you, my lord, are myfather, 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 whennext, my lord, you are tempted to compare your sons, I call on you toremember 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 theblood came up. “I think this is not a very wisely chosen moment, Henry,for complaints,” said he. “This takes away from the merit of yourgenerosity.”
“Do not deceive yourself, my lord,” said Mr. Henry. “This injustice isnot 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 werehard 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 theMaster was on the watch.
“Ah! Henry, Henry,” says he, “you are the best of us still. Rugged andtrue! Ah! man, I wish I was as good.”
And at that instance of his favourite’s generosity my lord desisted fromhis hesitation, and the deed was signed.
As soon as it could he brought about, the land of Ochterhall was sold formuch below its value, and the money paid over to our leech and sent bysome private carriage into France. Or so he said; though I havesuspected since it did not go so far. And now here was all the man’sbusiness brought to a successful head, and his pockets once more bulgingwith our gold; and yet the point for which we had consented to thissacrifice was still denied us, and the visitor still lingered on atDurrisdeer. Whether in malice, or because the time was not yet come forhis adventure to the Indies, or because he had hopes of his design onMrs. Henry, or from the orders of the Government, who shall say? butlinger he did, and that for weeks.
You will observe I say: from the orders of Government; for about thistime the man’s disreputable secret trickled out.
The first hint I had was from a tenant, who commented on the Master’sstay, and yet more on his security; for this tenant was a Jacobitishsympathiser, and had lost a son at Culloden, which gave him the morecritical eye. “There is one thing,” said he, “that I cannot but thinkstrange; and that is how he got to Cockermouth.”
“To Cockermouth?” said I, with a sudden memory of my first wonder onbeholding 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 CaptainCrail. 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 ofsome Government connivance? You know how much we have wondered alreadyat 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 theMaster’s. “Give me paper,” said he. And he sat without another word andwrote to a gentleman of his acquaintance—I will name no unnecessarynames, but he was one in a high place. This letter I despatched by theonly hand I could depend upon in such a case—Macconochie’s; and the oldman rode hard, for he was back with the reply before even my eagernesshad ventured to expect him. Again, as he read it, Mr. Henry had the samegrim smile.
“This is the best you have done for me yet, Mackellar,” says he. “Withthis in my hand I will give him a shog. Watch for us at dinner.”
At dinner accordingly Mr. Henry proposed some very public appearance forthe Master; and my lord, as he had hoped, objected to the danger of thecourse.
“Oh!” says Mr. Henry, very easily, “you need no longer keep this up withme. I am as much in the secret as yourself.”
“In the secret?” says my lord. “What do you mean, Henry? I give you myword, I am in no secret from which you are excluded.”
The Master had changed countenance, and I saw he was struck in a joint ofhis 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 youwould have been humane enough to set your father’s mind at rest.”
“What
are you talking of? I refuse to have my business publiclydiscussed. I order this to cease,” cries the Master very foolishly andpassionately, 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”—unfoldingthe paper—“‘It is, of course, in the interests both of the Government andthe gentleman whom we may perhaps best continue to call Mr. Bally, tokeep this understanding secret; but it was never meant his own familyshould continue to endure the suspense you paint so feelingly; and I ampleased mine should be the hand to set these fears at rest. Mr. Bally isas safe in Great Britain as yourself.’”
“Is this possible?” cries my lord, looking at his son, with a great dealof wonder and still more of suspicion in his face.
“My dear father,” says the Master, already much recovered. “I amoverjoyed that this may be disclosed. My own instructions, direct fromLondon, bore a very contrary sense, and I was charged to keep theindulgence secret from every one, yourself not excepted, and indeedyourself expressly named—as I can show in black and white unless I havedestroyed the letter. They must have changed their mind very swiftly,for the whole matter is still quite fresh; or rather, Henry’scorrespondent must have misconceived that part, as he seems to havemisconceived the rest. To tell you the truth, sir,” he continued,getting visibly more easy, “I had supposed this unexplained favour to arebel was the effect of some application from yourself; and theinjunction to secrecy among my family the result of a desire on your partto conceal your kindness. Hence I was the more careful to obey orders.It remains now to guess by what other channel indulgence can have flowedon so notorious an offender as myself; for I do not think your son needdefend himself from what seems hinted at in Henry’s letter. I have neveryet 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 toreckon 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 yetnot 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 theMaster to know that?
“It seemed to come late enough for me,” says he, with a laugh. And atthe sound of that laugh, which rang false, like a cracked bell, my lordlooked at him again across the table, and I saw his old lips drawtogether close.
“No,” said Mr. Henry, still glancing on his letter, “but I remember yourexpression. You said it was very fresh.”
And here we had a proof of our victory, and the strongest instance yet ofmy lord’s incredible indulgence; for what must he do but interfere tosave his favourite from exposure!
“I think, Henry,” says he, with a kind of pitiful eagerness, “I think weneed dispute no more. We are all rejoiced at last to find your brothersafe; we are all at one on that; and, as grateful subjects, we can do noless than drink to the king’s health and bounty.”
Thus was the Master extricated; but at least he had been put to hisdefence, he had come lamely out, and the attraction of his personaldanger was now publicly plucked away from him. My lord, in his heart ofhearts, now knew his favourite to be a Government spy; and Mrs. Henry(however she explained the tale) was notably cold in her behaviour to thediscredited hero of romance. Thus in the best fabric of duplicity, thereis 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 itmight have gone with us at the catastrophe?
And yet at the time we seemed to have accomplished nothing. Before a dayor two he had wiped off the ill-results of his discomfiture, and, to allappearance, stood as high as ever. As for my Lord Durrisdeer, he wassunk in parental partiality; it was not so much love, which should be anactive quality, as an apathy and torpor of his other powers; andforgiveness (so to mis-apply a noble word) flowed from him in sheerweakness, 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 persuadedher from her contempt. It is one of the worst things of sentiment, thatthe voice grows to be more important than the words, and the speaker thanthat which is spoken. But some excuse the Master must have found, orperhaps he had even struck upon some art to wrest this exposure to hisown advantage; for after a time of coldness, it seemed as if things wentworse than ever between him and Mrs. Henry. They were then constantlytogether. I would not be thought to cut one shadow of blame, beyond whatis due to a half-wilful blindness, on that unfortunate lady; but I dothink, in these last days, she was playing very near the fire; andwhether I be wrong or not in that, one thing is sure and quitesufficient: Mr. Henry thought so. The poor gentleman sat for days in myroom, so great a picture of distress that I could never venture toaddress him; yet it is to be thought he found some comfort even in mypresence and the knowledge of my sympathy. There were times, too, whenwe talked, and a strange manner of talk it was; there was never a personnamed, nor an individual circumstance referred to; yet we had the samematter in our minds, and we were each aware of it. It is a strange artthat can thus be practised; to talk for hours of a thing, and never namenor yet so much as hint at it. And I remember I wondered if it was bysome such natural skill that the Master made love to Mrs. Henry all daylong (as he manifestly did), yet never startled her into reserve.
To show how far affairs had gone with Mr. Henry, I will give some wordsof his, uttered (as I have cause not to forget) upon the 26th ofFebruary, 1757. It was unseasonable weather, a cast back into Winter:windless, bitter cold, the world all white with rime, the sky low andgray: the sea black and silent like a quarry-hole. Mr. Henry sat closeby the fire, and debated (as was now common with him) whether “a man”should “do things,” whether “interference was wise,” and the like generalpropositions, which each of us particularly applied. I was by thewindow, looking out, when there passed below me the Master, Mrs. Henry,and Miss Katharine, that now constant trio. The child was running to andfro, delighted with the frost; the Master spoke close in the lady’s earwith what seemed (even from so far) a devilish grace of insinuation; andshe on her part looked on the ground like a person lost in listening. Ibroke 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 myground. I can carry no such base thoughts to any one—to my father leastof all; that would be to fall into the bottom of his scorn. The weaknessof my ground,” he continued, “lies in myself, that I am not one whoengages love. I have their gratitude, they all tell me that; I have arich estate of it! But I am not present in their minds; they are movedneither to think with me nor to think for me. There is my loss!” He gotto his feet, and trod down the fire. “But some method must be found,Mackellar,” said he, looking at me suddenly over his shoulder; “some waymust be found. I am a man of a great deal of patience—far too much—fartoo much. I begin to despise myself. And yet, sure, never was a maninvolved 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 myown observation that I let both fall.
The Master of Ballantrae: A Winter's Tale Page 5
