CHAPTER II
SUMMARY OF EVENTS (_continued_)
I made the last of my journey in the cold end of December, in a mightydry 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 moreill tales upon his tongue than ever I heard the match of; having drunkenbetimes in his brother's cup. I was still not so old myself; pride hadnot yet the upper hand of curiosity; and indeed it would have taken anyman, that cold morning, to hear all the old clashes of the country, andbe 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 thedevil as we came over the top of the scaur. As we came in by the abbey Iheard somewhat of the old monks, and more of the free-traders, who useits ruins for a magazine, landing for that cause within a cannon-shot ofDurrisdeer; and along all the road the Duries and poor Mr. Henry were inthe first rank of slander. My mind was thus highly prejudiced againstthe family I was about to serve, so that I was half surprised when Ibeheld Durrisdeer itself, lying in a pretty, sheltered bay, under theAbbey Hill; the house most commodiously built in the French fashion, orperhaps Italianate, for I have no skill in these arts; and the place themost beautified with gardens, lawns, shrubberies, and trees I had everseen. The money sunk here unproductively would have quite restored thefamily; 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 younggentleman (the Duries are all black men) of a plain and not cheerfulface, very strong in body, but not so strong in health; taking me by thehand 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. Itwas still daylight; and the first thing I observed was a lozenge ofclear glass in the midst of the shield in the painted window, which Iremember thinking a blemish on a room otherwise so handsome, with itsfamily portraits, and the pargeted ceiling with pendants, and the carvedchimney, in one corner of which my old lord sat reading in his Livy. Hewas like Mr. Henry, with much the same plain countenance, only moresubtle and pleasant, and his talk a thousand times more entertaining. Hehad many questions to ask me, I remember, of Edinburgh College, where Ihad 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 newhome.
In the midst of this came Mrs. Henry into the room; she was very fargone, Miss Katharine being due in about six weeks, which made me thinkless of her beauty at the first sight; and she used me with more ofcondescension than the rest; so that, upon all accounts, I kept her inthe third place of my esteem.
It did not take long before all Patey Macmorland's tales were blottedout of my belief, and I was become, what I have ever since remained, aloving servant of the house of Durrisdeer. Mr. Henry had the chief partof my affection. It was with him I worked; and I found him an exactingmaster, keeping all his kindness for those hours in which we wereunemployed, 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 upfrom his paper with a kind of timidness, and says he, "Mr. Mackellar, Ithink I ought to tell you that you do very well." That was my firstword of commendation; and from that day his jealousy of my performancewas relaxed; soon it was "Mr. Mackellar" here, and "Mr. Mackellar"there, with the whole family; and for much of my service at Durrisdeer Ihave transacted everything at my own time, and to my own fancy, andnever a farthing challenged. Even while he was driving me, I had begunto find my heart go out to Mr. Henry; no doubt, partly in pity, he was aman so palpably unhappy. He would fall into a deep muse over ouraccounts, staring at the page or out of the window; and at those timesthe look of his face, and the sigh that would break from him, awoke inme strong feelings of curiosity and commiseration. One day, I remember,we were late upon some business in the steward's room. This room is inthe top of the house, and has a view upon the bay, and over a littlewooded cape, on the long sands; and there, right over against the sun,which was then dipping, we saw the free-traders, with a great force ofmen and horses, scouring on the beach. Mr. Henry had been staringstraight 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 asmile.
"You would not guess what I was thinking," says he. "I was thinking Iwould be a happier man if I could ride and run the danger of my lifewith these lawless companions."
I told him I had observed he did not enjoy good spirits; and that it wasa common fancy to envy others and think we should be the better of somechange; quoting Horace to the point, like a young man fresh fromcollege.
"Why, just so," said he. "And with that we may get back to ouraccounts."
It was not long before I began to get wind of the causes that so muchdepressed him. Indeed, a blind man must have soon discovered there was ashadow on that house, the shadow of the Master of Ballantrae. Dead oralive (and he was then supposed to be dead) that man was his brother'srival: his rival abroad, where there was never a good word for Mr.Henry, and nothing but regret and praise for the Master; and his rivalat home, not only with his father and his wife, but with the veryservants.
They were two old serving-men that were the leaders. John Paul, alittle, bald, solemn, stomachy man, a great professor of piety and (takehim for all in all) a pretty faithful servant, was the chief of theMaster's faction. None durst go so far as John. He took a pleasure indisregarding Mr. Henry publicly, often with a slighting comparison. Mylord and Mrs. Henry took him up, to be sure, but never so resolutely asthey should; and he had only to pull his weeping face and begin hislamentations for the Master--"his laddie," as he called him--to have thewhole condoned. As for Henry, he let these things pass in silence,sometimes with a sad and sometimes with a black look. There was norivalling the dead, he knew that; and how to censure an old serving-manfor a fault of loyalty was more than he could see. His was not thetongue 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 inhuman nature that these two serving-men should each have been thechampion of his contrary, and blackened their own faults, and made lightof their own virtues, when they beheld them in a master. Macconochie hadsoon smelled out my secret inclination, took me much into hisconfidence, and would rant against the Master by the hour, so that evenmy work suffered. "They're a' daft here," he would cry, "and be damnedto them! The Master--the deil's in their thrapples that should call himsae! it's Mr. Henry should be master now! They were nane sae fond o' theMaster 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 justfleering and flyting and profane cursing--deil ha'e him! There's nanekennt his wickedness: him a gentleman! Did ever ye hear tell, Mr.Mackellar, o' Wully White the wabster? No? Aweel, Wully was an uncopraying kind o' man; a dreigh body, nane o' my kind, I never could abidethe sight of him; onyway he was a great hand by his way of it, and he upand rebukit the Master for some of his ongoings. It was a grand thingfor the Master o' Ball'ntrae to tak' up a feud wi' a wabster, wasna't?"Macconochie would sneer; indeed, he never took the full name upon hislips but with a sort of a whine of hatred. "But he did! A fine employ itwas: chapping at the man's door, and crying 'boo' in his lum, andputtin' poother in his fire, and pee-oys[1] in his window; till the manthought it was Auld Hornie was come seekin' him. Weel, to mak' a langstory short, Wully gaed gyte. At the hinder end they couldna get himfrae his knees, but he just roared and prayed and grat straucht on, tillhe got his release. It was fair murder, a'body said that. Ask JohnPaul--he was brawly ashamed o' that game, him that's sic a Christianman! Grand doin's for the Master o' Ball'ntrae!" I asked him what theMaster had thought of it himself. "How would I ken?" says he. "He neversaid naething." And on again in his usual manner of banning andswearing, with every now and again a "Master of Ballantrae" sneeredthrough his nose. It was in one of the
se confidences that he showed methe Carlisle letter, the print of the horse-shoe still stamped in thepaper. Indeed, that was our last confidence; for he then expressedhimself so ill-naturedly of Mrs. Henry that I had to reprimand himsharply, and must thenceforth hold him at a distance.
My old lord was uniformly kind to Mr. Henry; he had even pretty ways ofgratitude, and would sometimes clap him on the shoulder and say, as ifto the world at large: "This is a very good son to me." And grateful hewas, no doubt, being a man of sense and justice. But I think that wasall, and I am sure Mr. Henry thought so. The love was all for the deadson. 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 toldhim the truth.
"Ay," said he, looking sideways on the burning fire, "Henry is a goodlad, a very good lad," said he. "You have heard, Mr. Mackellar, that Ihad 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 allvery proud of him, all very proud. If he was not all he should have beenin some ways, well, perhaps we loved him better!" This last he saidlooking musingly in the fire; and then to me, with a great deal ofbriskness, "But I am rejoiced you do so well with Mr. Henry. You willfind him a good master." And with that he opened his book, which was thecustomary signal of dismission. But it would be little that he read, andless that he understood; Culloden field and the Master, these would bethe burthen of his thought; and the burthen of mine was an unnaturaljealousy of the dead man for Mr. Henry's sake, that had even then begunto grow on me.
I am keeping Mrs. Henry for the last, so that this expression of mysentiment may seem unwarrantably strong: the reader shall judge forhimself when I have done. But I must first tell of another matter, whichwas the means of bringing me more intimate. I had not yet been sixmonths at Durrisdeer when it chanced that John Paul fell sick and mustkeep his bed; drink was the root of his malady, in my poor thought; buthe was tended, and indeed carried himself, like an afflicted saint; andthe very minister, who came to visit him, professed himself edified whenhe went away. The third morning of his sickness Mr. Henry comes to mewith 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 thathe is sick I know not to whom I should look, unless it was yourself. Thematter is very delicate; I could not carry it with my own hand for asufficient reason; I dare not send Macconochie, who is a talker, and Iam--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, whowas no better than she should be, I supposed it was some trip of his ownthat Mr. Henry was dissembling. I was the more impressed when the truthcame out.
It was up a wynd off a side street in St. Bride's that Jessie had herlodging. The place was very ill inhabited, mostly by the free-tradingsort. There was a man with a broken head at the entry; half-way up, in atavern, fellows were roaring and singing, though it was not yet nine inthe day. Altogether, I had never seen a worse neighbourhood, even in thegreat city of Edinburgh, and I was in two minds to go back. Jessie'sroom was of a piece with her surroundings, and herself no better. Shewould 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 Ihad pledged her in a glass; and all the time she carried on in alight-headed, reckless way--now aping the manners of a lady, nowbreaking into unseemly mirth, now making coquettish advances thatoppressed 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 thebetrayed! See what I'm brought down to! Ah, if the bonny lad were backagain, it would be changed days. But he's deid--he's lyin' deid amangthe Hieland hills--the bonny lad, the bonny lad!"
She had a rapt manner of crying on the bonny lad, clasping her hands andcasting up her eyes, that I think she must have learned of strollingplayers; and I thought her sorrow very much of an affectation, and thatshe dwelled upon the business because her shame was now all she had tobe proud of. I will not say I did not pity her, but it was a loathingpity at the best; and her last change of manner wiped it out. This waswhen she had had enough of me for an audience, and had set her name atlast to the receipt. "There!" says she, and, taking the most unwomanlyoaths upon her tongue, bade me begone and carry it to the Judas who hadsent 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 andmanner, and got forth from the room, under this shower of curses, like abeaten dog. But even then I was not quit, for the vixen threw up herwindow, and, leaning forth, continued to revile me as I went up thewynd; the free-traders, coming to the tavern door, joined in themockery, and one had even the inhumanity to set upon me a very savagesmall dog, which bit me in the ankle. This was a strong lesson, had Irequired one, to avoid ill company; and I rode home in much pain fromthe bite, and considerable indignation of mind.
Mr. Henry was in the steward's room, affecting employment, but I couldsee he was only impatient to hear of my errand.
"Well?" says he, as soon as I came in; and when I had told him somethingof what passed, and that Jessie seemed an undeserving woman, and farfrom grateful: "She is no friend to me," said he; "but indeed,Mackellar, I have few friends to boast of, and Jessie has some cause tobe unjust. I need not dissemble what all the country knows: she was notvery well used by one of our family." This was the first time I hadheard him refer to the Master, even distantly; and I think he found histongue rebellious even for that much, but presently he resumed--"This iswhy I would have nothing said. It would give pain to Mrs. Henry ... andto my father," he added, with another flush.
"Mr. Henry," said I, "if you will take a freedom at my hands, I wouldtell you to let that woman be. What service is your money to the like ofher? She has no sobriety and no economy--as for gratitude, you will assoon 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 yourmessengers."
Mr. Henry smiled. "But I am grieved about your ankle," said he the nextmoment, 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 rememberthat I knew her once a very decent lass. Besides which, although I speaklittle of my family, I think much of its repute."
And with that he broke up the talk, which was the first we had togetherin such confidence. But the same afternoon I had the proof that hisfather was perfectly acquainted with the business, and that it was onlyfrom his wife that Mr. Henry kept it secret.
"I fear you had a painful errand to-day," says my lord to me, "forwhich, 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 haveneglected) how very desirable it is that no word of it should reach mydaughter. Reflections on the dead, Mr. Mackellar, are doubly painful."
Anger glowed in my heart; and I could have told my lord to his face howlittle he had to do, bolstering up the image of the dead in Mrs. Henry'sheart, 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 andhis wife.
My pen is clear enough to tell a plain tale; but to render the effect ofan infinity of small things, not one great enough in itself to benarrated; and to translate the story of looks, and the message of voiceswhen they are saying no great matter; and to put in half a page theessence 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 meritto have consented to the marriage, and she took it like a martyrdom; inwhich my old lord, whether he knew it or not, fomented her. She made amerit, besides, of her constancy to the dead, though its name, to anicer conscience, should have seemed rather disloyalty to the
living;and here also my lord gave her his countenance. I suppose he was glad totalk 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 itwas the husband who was shut out. It seems it was an old custom when thefamily were alone in Durrisdeer, that my lord should take his wine tothe chimney-side, and Miss Alison, instead of withdrawing, should bringa stool to his knee, and chatter to him privately; and after she hadbecome my patron's wife the same manner of doing was continued. Itshould have been pleasant to behold this ancient gentleman so lovingwith his daughter, but I was too much a partisan of Mr. Henry's to beanything but wroth at his exclusion. Many's the time I have seen himmake an obvious resolve, quit the table, and go and join himself to hiswife and my Lord Durrisdeer; and on their part, they were never backwardto 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 wassoon back again beside me at the table, whence (so great is the hall ofDurrisdeer) we could but hear the murmur of voices at the chimney. Therehe would sit and watch, and I along with him; and sometimes by my lord'shead sorrowfully shaken, or his hand laid on Mrs. Henry's head, or hersupon his knee as if in consolation, or sometimes by an exchange oftearful looks, we would draw our conclusion that the talk had gone tothe 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 weare to remember he was married in pity, and accepted his wife upon thatterm. And, indeed, he had small encouragement to make a stand. Once, Iremember, he announced he had found a man to replace the pane of thestained window, which, as it was he that managed all the business, was athing clearly within his attributions. But to the Master's fanciers thatpane was like a relic; and on the first word of any change the bloodflew to Mrs. Henry's face.
"I wonder at you!" she cried.
"I wonder at myself," says Mr. Henry, with more of bitterness than I hadever heard him to express.
Thereupon my old lord stepped in with his smooth talk, so that beforethe 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 seeher weeping with her head upon his knee. Mr. Henry kept up the talk withme upon some topic of the estates--he could speak of little else butbusiness, and was never the best of company; but he kept it up that daywith 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 greatdefeat.
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) wouldhave pricked my vanity into an ulcer; he took it like a favour. She heldhim at the staff's end; forgot and then remembered and unbent to him, aswe do to children; burthened him with cold kindness; reproved him with achange 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 shewas on the watch, pleaded with him for the most natural attentions, asthough they were unheard-of favours. And to all this he replied with themost unwearied service; loving, as folk say, the very ground she trodon, and carrying that love in his eyes as bright as a lamp. When MissKatharine was to be born, nothing would serve but he must stay in theroom 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 handkerchiefhe had in his hand was crushed into a little ball no bigger than amusket-bullet. Nor could he bear the sight of Miss Katharine for many aday; indeed, I doubt if he was ever what he should have been to my younglady; 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 therebefell the first of that series of events which were to break so manyhearts and lose so many lives.
* * * * *
On that day I was sitting in my room a little before supper, when JohnPaul burst open the door with no civility of knocking, and told me therewas one below that wished to speak with the steward; sneering at thename of my office.
I asked what manner of man, and what his name was; and this disclosedthe cause of John's ill-humour; for it appeared the visitor refused toname himself except to me, a sore affront to the major-domo'sconsequence.
"Well," said I, smiling a little, "I will see what he wants."
I found in the entrance-hall a big man, very plainly habited, andwrapped in a sea-cloak, like one new landed, as indeed he was. Not faroff Macconochie was standing, with his tongue out of his mouth and hishand upon his chin, like a dull fellow thinking hard, and the stranger,who had brought his cloak about his face, appeared uneasy. He had nosooner seen me coming than he went to meet me with an effusive manner.
"My dear man," said he, "a thousand apologies for disturbing you, butI'm in the most awkward position. And there's a son of a ramrod therethat I should know the looks of, and more, betoken, I believe that heknows mine. Being in this family, sir, and in a place of someresponsibility (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 quitesafe in Durrisdeer."
"My dear man, it is my very thought," says he. "You see, I have justbeen set on shore here by a very honest man, whose name I cannotremember, and who is to stand off and on for me till morning, at somedanger to himself; and, to be clear with you, I am a little concernedlest 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 wouldbe very loth to lose it after all. And the son of a ramrod, whom Ibelieve I saw before Carlisle...."
"O, sir," said I, "you can trust Macconochie until to-morrow."
"Well, and it's a delight to hear you say so," says the stranger. "Thetruth is, that my name is not a very suitable one in this country ofScotland. With a gentleman like you, my dear man, I would have noconcealments of course; and by your leave I'll just breathe it in yourear. 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 excuseme, my good man, for giving them the name, for I'm sure it's acircumstance I would never have guessed from your appearance. And if youwould just be so very obliging as to take my name to them, you might saythat I come bearing letters which I am sure they will be very rejoicedto have the reading of."
Colonel Francis Burke was one of the Prince's Irishmen, that did hiscause such an infinity of hurt, and were so much distasted of the Scotsat the time of the rebellion; and it came at once into my mind how theMaster of Ballantrae had astonished all men by going with that party. Inthe 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 letmy lord know."
"And I am sure it's very good of you, Mr. What's-your-name," says theColonel.
Up to the hall I went, slow-footed. There they were, all three--my oldlord in his place, Mrs. Henry at work by the window, Mr. Henry (as wasmuch his custom) pacing the low end. In the midst was the table laid forsupper. I told them briefly what I had to say. My old lord lay back inhis seat. Mrs. Henry sprang up standing with a mechanical motion, andshe and her husband stared at each other's eyes across the room; it wasthe strangest, challenging look these two exchanged, and as they looked,the colour faded in their faces. Then Mr. Henry turned to me; not tospeak, only to sign with his finger; but that was enough, and I wentdown again for the Colonel.
When we returned, these three were in much the same position I had leftthem in; I believe no word had passed.
"My Lord Durrisdeer, no doubt?" says the Colonel, bowing, and my lordbowed in answer. "And this," continues the Colonel, "should be theMaster 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, bowin
g with his hat upon his heartand the most killing airs of gallantry. "There can be no mistake aboutso fine a figure of a lady," says he. "I address the seductive MissAlison, 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 wasAlison Graeme."
Then my lord spoke up. "I am an old man, Colonel Burke," said he, "and afrail one. It will be mercy on your part to be expeditious. Do youbring me news of----" he hesitated, and then the words broke from himwith a singular change of voice--"my son?"
"My dear lord, I will be round with you like a soldier," said theColonel. "I do."
My lord held out a wavering hand; he seemed to wave a signal, butwhether it was to give him time or to speak on, was more than we couldguess. At length he got out the one word, "Good?"
"Why, the very best in the creation!" cries the Colonel. "For my goodfriend 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 drawingin his chair to a piece of dinner.--Bedad, I believe the lady'sfainting."
Mrs. Henry was indeed the colour of death, and drooped against thewindow-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 herwhite lips.
Mr. Henry stopped, and his face had a strong twitch of anger. The nextmoment he had turned to the Colonel. "You must not blame yourself," sayshe, "for this effect on Mrs. Durie. It is only natural; we were allbrought up like brother and sister."
Mrs. Henry looked at her husband with something like relief, or evengratitude. In my way of thinking, that speech was the first step he madein her good graces.
"You must try to forgive me, Mrs. Durie, for indeed and I am just anIrish savage," said the Colonel; "and I deserve to be shot, for notbreaking the matter more artistically to a lady.--But here are theMaster'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 storywith a better grace."
He brought the three letters forth as he spoke, arranged them by theirsuperscriptions, 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 chokedvoice.
The Colonel was a quick man, but at this he was somewhat nonplussed. "Tobe sure!" says he; "how very dull of me! To be sure!" But he still heldthe letter.
At last Mr. Henry reached forth his hand, and there was nothing to bedone 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 werethinking. 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 hascome something of the suddenest; and, at any rate, you will wish to readyour letter by yourself."
Again she looked upon him with the same thought of wonder; but he gaveher no time, coming straight to where she stood. "It will be better so,believe me," said he; "and Colonel Burke is too considerate not toexcuse you." And with that he took her hand by the fingers, and led herfrom the hall.
Mrs. Henry returned no more that night; and when Mr. Henry went to visither next morning, as I heard long afterwards, she gave him the letteragain, still unopened.
"O, 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 greatpart 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, Iwrote 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 scarcedepend upon my memory at so great an interval. To confess the truth, Ihave been somewhat embarrassed by his response; for he sent me thecomplete 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, afterI had made what use of it I required; and I think I shall best answer myown purpose and fulfil his wishes by giving certain parts of it in full.In this way my readers will have a detailed, and, I believe, a verygenuine account of some essential matters; and if any publisher shouldtake a fancy to the Chevalier's manner of narration, he knows where toapply for the rest, of which there is plenty at his service. I put in myfirst extract here, so that it may stand in the place of what theChevalier told us over our wine in the hall of Durrisdeer; but you areto suppose it was not the brutal fact, but a very varnished version thathe offered to my lord.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] A kind of firework made with damp powder.
The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 12 Page 4
