SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THE MASTER'S SECOND ABSENCE
Of the heavy sickness which declared itself next morning I can think
with equanimity, as of the last unmingled trouble that befell my master;
and even that was perhaps a mercy in disguise; for what pains of the
body could equal the miseries of his mind? Mrs. Henry and I had the
watching by the bed. My old lord called from time to time to take the
news, but would not usually pass the door. Once, I remember, when hope
was nigh gone, he stepped to the bedside, looked a while in his son's
face, and turned away with a singular gesture of the head and hand
thrown up, that remains upon my mind as something tragic; such grief and
such a scorn of sublunary things were there expressed. But the most of
the time Mrs. Henry and I had the room to ourselves, taking turns by
night, and bearing each other company by day, for it was dreary
watching. Mr. Henry, his shaven head bound in a napkin, tossed to and
fro without remission, beating the bed with his hands. His tongue never
lay; his voice ran continuously like a river, so that my heart was weary
with the sound of it. It was notable, and to me inexpressibly
mortifying, that he spoke all the while on matters of no import: comings
and goings, horses--which he was ever calling to have saddled, thinking
perhaps (the poor soul!) that he might ride away from his
discomfort--matters of the garden, the salmon nets, and (what I
particularly raged to hear) continually of his affairs, ciphering
figures and holding disputation with the tenantry. Never a word of his
father or his wife, nor of the Master, save only for a day or two, when
his mind dwelled entirely in the past, and he supposed himself a boy
again and upon some innocent child's play with his brother. What made
this the more affecting: it appeared the Master had then run some peril
of his life, for there was a cry--"O! Jamie will be drowned--O, save
Jamie!" which he came over and over with a great deal of passion.
This, I say, was affecting, both to Mrs. Henry and myself; but the
balance of my master's wanderings did him little justice. It seemed he
had set out to justify his brother's calumnies; as though he was bent to
prove himself a man of a dry nature, immersed in money-getting. Had I
been there alone, I would not have troubled my thumb; but all the while,
as I listened, I was estimating the effect on the man's wife, and
telling myself that he fell lower every day. I was the one person on the
surface of the globe that comprehended him, and I was bound there should
be yet another. Whether he was to die there and his virtues perish: or
whether he should save his days and come back to that inheritance of
sorrows, his right memory: I was bound he should be heartily lamented in
the one case, and unaffectedly welcomed in the other, by the person he
loved the most, his wife.
Finding no occasion of free speech, I bethought me at last of a kind of
documentary disclosure; and for some nights, when I was off duty, and
should have been asleep, I gave my time to the preparation of that which
I may call my budget. But this I found to be the easiest portion of my
task, and that which remained--namely, the presentation to my
lady--almost more than I had fortitude to overtake. Several days I went
about with my papers under my arm, spying for some juncture of talk to
serve as introduction. I will not deny but that some offered; only when
they did my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; and I think I might
have been carrying about my packet till this day, had not a fortunate
accident delivered me from all my hesitations. This was at night, when
I was once more leaving the room, the thing not yet done, and myself in
despair at my own cowardice.
"What do you carry about with you, Mr. Mackellar?" she asked. "These
last days, I see you always coming in and out with the same armful."
I returned upon my steps without a word, laid the papers before her on
the table, and left her to her reading. Of what that was, I am now to
give you some idea; and the best will be to reproduce a letter of my own
which came first in the budget, and of which (according to an excellent
habitude) I have preserved the scroll. It will show, too, the moderation
of my part in these affairs, a thing which some have called recklessly
in question.
Durrisdeer, 1757.
HONOURED MADAM,
I trust I would not step out of my place without occasion; but I see
how much evil has flowed in the past to all of your noble house from
that unhappy and secretive fault of reticency, and the papers on
which I venture to call your attention are family papers, and all
highly worthy your acquaintance.
I append a schedule with some necessary observations,
And am,
Honoured Madam,
Your ladyship's obliged, obedient servant,
EPHRAIM MACKELLAR.
_Schedule of Papers_.
A. Scroll of ten letters from Ephraim Mackellar to the Hon. James
Durie, Esq., by courtesy Master of Ballantrae, during the latter's
residence in Paris: under dates ... (_follow the dates_) ... _Nota_:
to be read in connection with B and C.
B. Seven original letters from the said M^r of Ballantrae to the
said E. Mackellar, under dates ... (_follow the dates_).
C. Three original letters from the said M^r of Ballantrae to the
Hon. Henry Durie, Esq., under dates ... (_follow the dates_)....
_Nota_: given me by Mr. Henry to answer: copies of my answers A 4, A
5, and A 9 of these productions. The purport of Mr. Henry's
communications, of which I can find no scroll, may be gathered from
those of his unnatural brother.
D. A correspondence, original and scroll, extending over a period of
three years till January of the current year, between the said M^r
of Ballantrae and ---- ----, Under Secretary of State; twenty-seven
in all. _Nota_: found among the Master's papers.
Weary as I was with watching and distress of mind, it was impossible for
me to sleep. All night long I walked in my chamber, revolving what
should be the issue, and sometimes repenting the temerity of my
immixture in affairs so private; and with the first peep of the morning
I was at the sick-room door. Mrs. Henry had thrown open the shutters,
and even the window, for the temperature was mild. She looked
steadfastly before her; where was nothing to see, or only the blue of
the morning creeping among woods. Upon the stir of my entrance she did
not so much as turn about her face: a circumstance from which I augured
very ill.
"Madam," I began; and then again, "Madam"; but could make no more of it.
Nor yet did Mrs. Henry come to my assistance with a word. In this pass I
began gathering up the papers where they lay scattered on the table; and
the first thing that struck me, their bulk appeared to have diminished.
Once I ran them through, and twice; but the correspondence with the
Secretary of State, on which I had reckoned so much against the future,
was nowhere to be found. I looked in the chimney; amid the smouldering
embers, black ashes of paper fluttered in the draught; and at that my
timidity vanished.
"Good God, madam," cried I, in a voice not fitting for a sick-room,
"Good God, madam, what have you done with my papers?"
"I have burned them," said Mrs. Henry, turning about. "It is enough, it
is too much, that you and I have seen them."
"This is a fine night's work that you have done!" cried I. "And all to
save the reputation of a man that ate bread by the shedding of his
comrades' blood, as I do by the shedding of ink."
"To save the reputation of that family in which you are a servant, Mr.
Mackellar," she returned, "and for which you have already done so much."
"It is a family I will not serve much longer," I cried, "for I am
driven desperate. You have stricken the sword out of my hands; you have
left us all defenceless. I had always these letters I could shake over
his head; and now--what is to do? We are so falsely situate we dare not
show the man the door; the country would fly on fire against us; and I
had this one hold upon him--and now it is gone--now he may come back
to-morrow, and we must all sit down with him to dinner, go for a stroll
with him on the terrace, or take a hand at cards, of all things, to
divert his leisure! No, madam! God forgive you, if He can find it in His
heart; for I cannot find it in mine."
"I wonder to find you so simple, Mr. Mackellar," said Mrs. Henry. "What
does this man value reputation? But he knows how high we prize it; he
knows we would rather die than make these letters public; and do you
suppose he would not trade upon the knowledge? What you call your sword,
Mr. Mackellar, and which had been one indeed against a man of any
remnant of propriety, would have been but a sword of paper against him.
He would smile in your face at such a threat. He stands upon his
degradation, he makes that his strength; it is in vain to struggle with
such characters." She cried out this last a little desperately, and then
with more quiet: "No, Mr. Mackellar; I have thought upon this matter all
night, and there is no way out of it. Papers or no papers, the door of
this house stands open for him; he is the rightful heir, forsooth! If we
sought to exclude him, all would redound against poor Henry, and I
should see him stoned again upon the streets. Ah! if Henry dies, it is a
different matter! They have broke the entail for their own good
purposes; the estate goes to my daughter; and I shall see who sets a
foot upon it. But if Henry lives, my poor Mr. Mackellar, and that man
returns, we must suffer: only this time it will be together."
On the whole I was well pleased with Mrs. Henry's attitude of mind; nor
could I even deny there was some cogency in that which she advanced
about the papers.
"Let us say no more about it," said I. "I can only be sorry I trusted a
lady with the originals, which was an unbusinesslike proceeding at the
best. As for what I said of leaving the service of the family, it was
spoken with the tongue only; and you may set your mind at rest. I belong
to Durrisdeer, Mrs. Henry, as if I had been born there."
I must do her the justice to say she seemed perfectly relieved; so that
we began this morning, as we were to continue for so many years, on a
proper ground of mutual indulgence and respect.
The same day, which was certainly prededicate to joy, we observed the
first signal of recovery in Mr. Henry; and about three of the following
afternoon he found his mind again, recognising me by name with the
strongest evidences of affection. Mrs. Henry was also in the room, at
the bed-foot; but it did not appear that he observed her. And indeed
(the fever being gone) he was so weak that he made but the one effort
and sank again into a lethargy. The course of his restoration was now
slow, but equal; every day his appetite improved; every week we were
able to remark an increase both of strength and flesh; and before the
end of the month he was out of bed and had even begun to be carried in
his chair upon the terrace.
It was perhaps at this time that Mrs. Henry and I were the most uneasy
in mind. Apprehension for his days was at an end; and a worse fear
succeeded. Every day we drew consciously nearer to a day of reckoning;
and the days passed on, and still there was nothing. Mr. Henry bettered
in strength, he held long talks with us on a great diversity of
subjects, his father came and sat with him and went again; and still
there was no reference to the late tragedy or to the former troubles
which had brought it on. Did he remember, and conceal his dreadful
knowledge? or was the whole blotted from his mind? This was the problem
that kept us watching and trembling all day when we were in his company,
and held us awake at night when we were in our lonely beds. We knew not
even which alternative to hope for, both appearing so unnatural, and
pointing so directly to an unsound brain. Once this fear offered, I
observed his conduct with sedulous particularity. Something of the child
he exhibited: a cheerfulness quite foreign to his previous character, an
interest readily aroused, and then very tenacious, in small matters
which he had heretofore despised. When he was stricken down, I was his
only confidant, and I may say his only friend, and he was on terms of
division with his wife; upon his recovery, all was changed, the past
forgotten, the wife first and even single in his thoughts. He turned to
her with all his emotions, like a child to its mother, and seemed secure
of sympathy; called her in all his needs with something of that
querulous familiarity that marks a certainty of indulgence and I must
say, in justice to the woman, he was never disappointed. To her, indeed,
this changed behaviour was inexpressibly affecting; and I think she felt
it secretly as a reproach; so that I have seen her, in early days,
escape out of the room that she might indulge herself in weeping. But to
me the change appeared not natural; and viewing it along with all the
rest, I began to wonder, with many head-shakings, whether his reason
were perfectly erect.
As this doubt stretched over many years, endured indeed until my
master's death, and clouded all our subsequent relations, I may well
consider of it more at large. When he was able to resume some charge of
his affairs, I had many opportunities to try him with precision. There
was no lack of understanding, nor yet of authority; but the old
continuous interest had quite departed; he grew readily fatigued, and
fell to yawning; and he carried into money relations, where it is
certainly out of place, a facility that bordered upon slackness. True,
since we had no longer the exactions of the Master to contend against,
there was the less occasion to raise strictness into principle or do
battle for a farthing. True, again, there was nothing excessive in these
relaxations, or I would have been no party to them. But the whole thing
marked a change, very slight yet very perceptible; and though no man
could say my master had gone at all out of his mind, no man could deny
that he had drifted from his character. It was the same to the end, with
his manner and appearance. Some of the heat of the fever lingered in his
veins: his movements a little hurried, his speech notably more voluble,
yet neither truly amiss. His whole mind stood open to happy impressions,
welcoming these and making much of them; but the smallest suggestion of
trouble or sorrow he received with visible impatience, and dismissed
again with immediate relief. It was to this temper that he owed the
felicity of his later days; and yet here it was, if anywhere, that you
could call the man insane. A great part of this life consists in
contemplating what we cannot cure; but Mr. Henry, if he could not
dismiss solicitude by an effort of the mind, must instantly and at
whatever cost annihilate the cause of it; so that he played alternately
the ostrich and the bull. It is to this strenuous cowardice of pain that
I have to set down all the unfortunate and excessive steps of his
subsequent career. Certainly this was the reason of his beating M'Manus,
the groom, a thing so much out of all his former practice, and which
awakened so much comment at the time. It is to this, again, that I must
lay the total loss of near upon two hundred pounds, more than the half
of which I could have saved if his impatience would have suffered me.
But he preferred loss or any desperate extreme to a continuance of
mental suffering.
All this has led me far from our immediate trouble: whether he
remembered or had forgotten his late dreadful act; and if he remembered,
in what light he viewed it. The truth burst upon us suddenly, and was
indeed one of the chief surprises of my life. He had been several times
abroad, and was now beginning to walk a little with, an arm, when it
chanced I should be left alone with him upon the terrace. He turned to
me with a singular furtive smile, such as schoolboys use when in fault;
and says he, in a private whisper, and without the least preface: "Where
have you buried him?"
I could not make one sound in answer.
"Where have you buried him?" he repeated. "I want to see his grave."
I conceived I had best take the bull by the horns. "Mr. Henry," said I,
"I have news to give that will rejoice you exceedingly. In all human
likelihood, your hands are clear of blood. I reason from certain
indices; and by these it should appear your brother was not dead, but
was carried in a swound on board the lugger. But now he may be perfectly
recovered."
What there was in his countenance I could not read. "James?" he asked.
"Your brother James," I answered. "I would not raise a hope that may be
found deceptive, but in my heart I think it very probable he is alive."
"Ah!" says Mr. Henry; and suddenly rising from his seat with more
alacrity than he had yet discovered, set one finger on my breast, and
cried at me in a kind of screaming whisper, "Mackellar"--these were his
words--"nothing can kill that man. He is not mortal. He is bound upon my
back to all eternity--to all God's eternity!" says he, and, sitting down
again, fell upon a stubborn silence.
A day or two after, with the same secret smile, and first looking about
as if to be sure we were alone, "Mackellar," said he, "when you have any
intelligence, be sure and let me know. We must keep an eye upon him, or
he will take us when we least expect."
"He will not show face here again," said I.
"O yes, he will," said Mr. Henry. "Wherever I am, there will he be." And
again he looked all about him.
"You must not dwell upon this thought, Mr. Henry," said I.
"No," said he, "that is a very good advice. We will never think of it,
except when you have news. And we do not know yet," he added; "he may be
dead."
The manner of his saying this convinced me thoroughly of what I had
scarce ventured to suspect: that, so far from suffering any penitence
for the attempt, he did but lament his failure. This was a discovery I
kept to myself, fearing it might do him a prejudice with his wife. But I
might have saved myself the trouble; she had divined it for herself, and
found the sentiment quite natural. Indeed, I could not but say that
there were three of us, all of the same mind; nor could any news have
reached Durrisdeer more generally welcome than tidings of the Master's
death.
This brings me to speak of the exception, my old lord. As soon as my
anxiety for my own master began to be relaxed, I was aware of a change
in the old gentleman, his father, that seemed to threaten mortal
consequences.
His face was pale and swollen; as he sat in the chimney-side with his
Latin, he would drop off sleeping and the book roll in the ashes; some
days he would drag his foot, others stumble in speaking. The amenity of
his behaviour appeared more extreme; full of excuses for the least
trouble, very thoughtful for all; to myself, of a most flattering
civility. One day, that he had sent for his lawyer, and remained a long
while private, he met me as he was crossing the hall with painful
footsteps, and took me kindly by the hand. "Mr. Mackellar," said he, "I
have had many occasions to set a proper value on your services; and
to-day, when I re-cast my will, I have taken the freedom to name you for
one of my executors. I believe you bear love enough to our house to
render me this service." At that very time he passed the greater portion
of his days in slumber, from which it was often difficult to rouse him;
seemed to have lost all count of years, and had several times
(particularly on waking) called for his wife and for an old servant
whose very gravestone was now green with moss. If I had been put to my
oath, I must have declared he was incapable of testing; and yet there
was never a will drawn more sensible in every trait, or showing a more
excellent judgment both of persons and affairs.
His dissolution, though it took not very long, proceeded by
infinitesimal gradations. His faculties decayed together steadily; the
power of his limbs was almost gone, he was extremely deaf, his speech
had sunk into mere mumblings; and yet to the end he managed to discover
something of his former courtesy and kindness, pressing the hand of any
that helped him, presenting me with one of his Latin books, in which he
had laboriously traced my name, and in a thousand ways reminding us of
the greatness of that loss which it might almost be said we had already
suffered. To the end, the power of articulation returned to him in
flashes; it seemed he had only forgotten the art of speech as a child
forgets his lesson, and at times he would call some part of it to mind.
On the last night of his life he suddenly broke silence with these words
from Virgil: "_Gnatique patrisque, alma, precor, miserere_," perfectly
uttered, and with a fitting accent. At the sudden clear sound of it we
started from our several occupations; but it was in vain we turned to
him; he sat there silent, and, to all appearance, fatuous. A little
later he was had to bed with more difficulty than ever before; and some
time in the night, without any mortal violence, his spirit fled.
At a far later period I chanced to speak of these particulars with a
doctor of medicine, a man of so high a reputation that I scruple to
adduce his name. By his view of it, father and son both suffered from
the same affection: the father from the strain of his unnatural
sorrows--the son, perhaps in the excitation of the fever; each had
ruptured a vessel in the brain, and there was probably (my doctor added)
some predisposition in the family to accidents of that description. The
father sank, the son recovered all the externals of a healthy man; but
it is like there was some destruction in those delicate tissues where
the soul resides and does her earthly business; her heavenly, I would
fain hope, cannot be thus obstructed by material accidents. And yet,
upon a more mature opinion, it matters not one jot; for He who shall
pass judgment on the records of our life is the same that formed us in
frailty.
The death of my old lord was the occasion of a fresh surprise to us who
watched the behaviour of his successor. To any considering mind, the two
sons had between them slain their father, and he who took the sword
might be even said to have slain him with his hand; but no such thought
appeared to trouble my new lord. He was becomingly grave; I could scarce
say sorrowful, or only with a pleasant sorrow; talking of the dead with
a regretful cheerfulness, relating old examples of his character,
smiling at them with a good conscience; and when the day of the funeral
came round, doing the honours with exact propriety. I could perceive,
besides, that he found a solid gratification in his accession to the
title; the which he was punctilious in exacting.
* * * * *
And now there came upon the scene a new character, and one that played
his part, too, in the story; I mean the present lord, Alexander, whose
birth (17th July 1757) filled the cup of my poor master's happiness.
There was nothing then left him to wish for; nor yet leisure for him to
wish for it. Indeed, there never was a parent so fond and doting as he
showed himself. He was continually uneasy in his son's absence. Was the
child abroad? the father would be watching the clouds in case it rained.
Was it night? he would rise out of his bed to observe its slumbers. His
conversation grew even wearyful to strangers, since he talked of little
but his son. In matters relating to the estate, all was designed with a
particular eye to Alexander; and it would be:--"Let us put it in hand at
once, that the wood may be grown against Alexander's majority"; or,
"This will fall in again handsomely for Alexander's marriage." Every day
this absorption of the man's nature became more observable, with many
touching and some very blameworthy particulars. Soon the child could
walk abroad with him, at first on the terrace, hand in hand, and
afterward at large about the policies; and this grew to be my lord's
chief occupation. The sound of their two voices (audible a great way
off, for they spoke loud) became familiar in the neighbourhood; and for
my part I found it more agreeable than the sound of birds. It was pretty
to see the pair returning full of briers, and the father as flushed and
sometimes as bemuddied as the child, for they were equal sharers in all
sorts of boyish entertainment, digging in the beach, damming of streams,
and what not; and I have seen them gaze through a fence at cattle with
the same childish contemplation.
The mention of these rambles brings me to a strange scene of which I was
a witness. There was one walk I never followed myself without emotion,
so often had I gone there upon miserable errands, so much had there
befallen against the house of Durrisdeer. But the path lay handy from
all points beyond the Muckle Ross; and I was driven, although much
against my will, to take my use of it perhaps once in the two months. It
befell when Mr. Alexander was of the age of six or seven, I had some
business on the far side in the morning, and entered the shrubbery, on
my homeward way, about nine of a bright forenoon. It was that time of
year when the woods are all in their spring colours, the thorns all in
flower, and the birds in the high season of their singing. In contrast
to this merriment, the shrubbery was only the more sad, and I the more
oppressed by its associations. In this situation of spirit it struck me
disagreeably to hear voices a little way in front, and to recognise the
tones of my lord and Mr. Alexander. I pushed ahead, and came presently
into their view. They stood together in the open space where the duel
was, my lord with his hand on his son's shoulder, and speaking with some
gravity. At least, as he raised his head upon my coming, I thought I
could perceive his countenance to lighten.
"Ah!" says he, "here comes the good Mackellar. I have just been telling
Sandie the story of this place, and how there was a man whom the devil
tried to kill, and how near he came to kill the devil instead."
I had thought it strange enough he should bring the child into that
scene; that he should actually be discoursing of his act, passed
measure. But the worst was yet to come: for he added, turning to his
son--"You can ask Mackellar; he was here and saw it."
"Did you really see the devil?" asked the child.
"I have not heard the tale," I replied; "and I am in a press of
business." So far I said, sourly, fencing with the embarrassment of the
position; and suddenly the bitterness of the past, and the terror of
that scene by candle-light, rushed in upon my mind. I bethought me that,
for a difference of a second's quickness in parade, the child before me
might have never seen the day; and the emotion that always fluttered
round my heart in that dark shrubbery burst forth in words. "But so much
is true," I cried, "that I have met the devil in these woods, and seen
him foiled here. Blessed be God that we escaped with life--blessed be
God that one stone yet stands upon another in the walls of Durrisdeer!
And, O! Mr. Alexander, if ever you come by this spot, though it was a
hundred years hence, and you came with the gayest and the highest in the
land, I would step aside and remember a bit prayer."
My lord bowed his head gravely. "Ah!" says he, "Mackellar is always in
the right. Come, Alexander, take your bonnet off." And with that he
uncovered, and held out his hand. "O Lord," said he, "I thank Thee and
my son thanks Thee, for Thy manifold great mercies. Let us have peace
for a little; defend us from the evil man. Smite him, O Lord, upon the
lying mouth!" The last broke out of him like a cry; and at that,
whether remembered anger choked his utterance, or whether he perceived
this was a singular sort of prayer, at least he suddenly came to a full
stop; and, after a moment, set back his hat upon his head.
"I think you have forgot a word, my lord," said I. "'Forgive us our
trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. For Thine is
the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.'"
"Ah! that is easy saying," said my lord. "That is very easy saying,
Mackellar. But for me to forgive!--I think I would cut a very silly
figure if I had the affectation to pretend it."
"The bairn, my lord!" said I, with some severity, for I thought his
expressions little fitted for the ears of children.
"Why, very true," said he. "This is dull work for a bairn. Let's go
nesting."
I forget if it was the same day, but it was soon after, my lord, finding
me alone, opened himself a little more on the same head.
"Mackellar," he said, "I am now a very happy man."
"I think so indeed, my lord," said I, "and the sight of it gives me a
light heart."
"There is an obligation in happiness--do you not think so?" says he
musingly.
"I think so indeed," says I, "and one in sorrow too. If we are not here
to try to do the best, in my humble opinion the sooner we are away the
better for all parties."
"Ay, but if you were in my shoes, would you forgive him?" asks my lord.
The suddenness of the attack a little gravelled me. "It is a duty laid
upon us strictly," said I.
"Hut!" said he. "These are expressions! Do you forgive the man
yourself?"
"Well--no!" said I. "God forgive me, I do not."
"Shake hands upon that!" cries my lord, with a kind of joviality.
"It is an ill sentiment to shake hands upon," said I, "for Christian
people. I think I will give you mine on some more evangelical occasion."
This I said, smiling a little; but as for my lord, he went from the room
laughing aloud.
* * * * *
For my lord's slavery to the child I can find no expression adequate. He
lost himself in that continual thought: business, friends, and wife
being all alike forgotten, or only remembered with a painful effort,
like that of one struggling with a posset. It was most notable in the
matter of his wife. Since I had known Durrisdeer, she had been the
burthen of his thought and the loadstone of his eyes; and now she was
quite cast out. I have seen him come to the door of a room, look round,
and pass my lady over as though she were a dog before the fire. It would
be Alexander he was seeking, and my lady knew it well. I have heard him
speak to her so ruggedly that I nearly found it in my heart to
intervene: the cause would still be the same, that she had in some way
thwarted Alexander. Without doubt this was in the nature of a judgment
on my lady. Without doubt she had the tables turned upon her, as only
Providence can do it; she who had been cold so many years to every mark
of tenderness, it was her part now to be neglected.
An odd situation resulted: that we had once more two parties in the
house, and that now I was of my lady's. Not that ever I lost the love I
bore my master. But, for one thing, he had the less use for my society.
For another, I could not but compare the case of Mr. Alexander with that
of Miss Katharine, for whom my lord had never found the least attention.
And for a third, I was wounded by the change he discovered to his wife,
which struck me in the nature of an infidelity. I could not but admire,
besides, the constancy and kindness she displayed. Perhaps her
sentiment to my lord, as it had been founded from the first in pity,
was that rather of a mother than a wife; perhaps it pleased her--if I
may say so--to behold her two children so happy in each other; the more
as one had suffered so unjustly in the past. But, for all that, and
though I could never trace in her one spark of jealousy, she must fall
back for society on poor neglected Miss Katharine; and I, on my part,
came to pass my spare hours more and more with the mother and daughter.
It would be easy to make too much of this division, for it was a
pleasant family, as families go; still the thing existed; whether my
lord knew it or not, I am in doubt. I do not think he did; he was bound
up so entirely in his son; but the rest of us knew it, and in a manner
suffered from the knowledge.
What troubled us most, however, was the great and growing danger to the
child. My lord was his father over again; it was to be feared the son
would prove a second Master. Time has proved these fears to have been
quite exaggerate. Certainly there is no more worthy gentleman to-day in
Scotland than the seventh Lord Durrisdeer. Of my own exodus from his
employment it does not become me to speak, above all in a memorandum
written only to justify his father....
[EDITOR'S NOTE.--_Five pages of Mr. Mackellar's MS. are here omitted.
I have gathered from their perusal an impression that Mr. Mackellar,
in his old age, was rather an exacting servant. Against the seventh
Lord Durrisdeer (with whom, at any rate, we have no concern) nothing
material is alleged_.--R. L. S.]
... But our fear at the time was lest he should turn out, in the person
of his son, a second edition of his brother. My lady had tried to
interject some wholesome discipline; she had been glad to give that up,
and now looked on with secret dismay; sometimes she even spoke of it by
hints; and sometimes, when there was brought to her knowledge some
monstrous instance of my lord's indulgence, she would betray herself in
a gesture or perhaps an exclamation. As for myself, I was haunted by the
thought both day and night: not so much for the child's sake as for the
father's. The man had gone to sleep, he was dreaming a dream, and any
rough awakening must infallibly prove mortal. That he should survive the
child's death was inconceivable; and the fear of its dishonour made me
cover my face.
It was this continual preoccupation that screwed me up at last to a
remonstrance: a matter worthy to be narrated in detail. My lord and I
sat one day at the same table upon some tedious business of detail; I
have said that he had lost his former interest in such occupations; he
was plainly itching to be gone, and he looked fretful, weary, and
methought older than I had ever previously observed. I suppose it was
the haggard face that put me suddenly upon my enterprise.
"My lord," said I, with my head down, and feigning to continue my
occupation--"or, rather, let me call you again by the name of Mr. Henry,
for I fear your anger, and want you to think upon old times----"
"My good Mackellar!" said he; and that in tones so kindly that I had
near forsook my purpose. But I called to mind that I was speaking for
his good, and stuck to my colours.
"Has it never come in upon your mind what you are doing?" I asked.
"What I am doing?" he repeated; "I was never good at guessing riddles."
"What you are doing with your son?" said I.
"Well," said he, with some defiance in his tone, "and what am I doing
with my son?"
"Your father was a very good man," says I, straying from the direct
path. "But do you think he was a wise father?"
There was a pause before he spoke, and then: "I say nothing against
him," he replied. "I had the most cause perhaps; but I say nothing."
"Why, there it is," said I. "You had the cause at least. And yet your
father was a good man; I never knew a better, save on the one point,
nor yet a wiser. Where he stumbled, it is highly possible another man
should fall. He had the two sons----"
My lord rapped suddenly and violently on the table.
"What is this?" cried he. "Speak out!"
"I will, then," said I, my voice almost strangled with the thumping of
my heart. "If you continue to indulge Mr. Alexander, you are following
in your father's footsteps. Beware, my lord, lest (when he grows up)
your son should follow in the Master's."
I had never meant to put the thing so crudely; but in the extreme of
fear there comes a brutal kind of courage, the most brutal indeed of
all; and I burnt my ships with that plain word. I never had the answer.
When I lifted my head, my lord had risen to his feet, and the next
moment he fell heavily on the floor. The fit or seizure endured not very
long; he came to himself vacantly, put his hand to his head, which I was
then supporting, and says he, in a broken voice: "I have been ill," and
a little after: "Help me." I got him to his feet, and he stood pretty
well, though he kept hold of the table. "I have been ill, Mackellar," he
said again. "Something broke, Mackellar--or was going to break, and then
all swam away. I think I was very angry. Never you mind, Mackellar;
never you mind, my man. I wouldna hurt a hair upon your head. Too much
has come and gone. It's a certain thing between us two. But I think,
Mackellar, I will go to Mrs. Henry--I think I will go to Mrs. Henry,"
said he, and got pretty steadily from the room, leaving me overcome with
penitence.
Presently the door flew open, and my lady swept in with flashing eyes.
"What is all this?" she cried. "What have you done to my husband? Will
nothing teach you your position in this house? Will you never cease from
making and meddling?"
"My lady," said I, "since I have been in this house I have had plenty of
hard words. For a while they were my daily diet, and I swallowed them
all. As for to-day, you may call me what you please; you will never find
the name hard enough for such a blunder. And yet I meant it for the
best."
I told her all with ingenuity, even as it is written here; and when she
had heard me out, she pondered, and I could see her animosity fall.
"Yes," she said, "you meant well indeed. I have had the same thought
myself, or the same temptation rather, which makes me pardon you. But,
dear God, can you not understand that he can bear no more? He can bear
no more!" she cried. "The cord is stretched to snapping. What matters
the future if he have one or two good days?"
"Amen," said I. "I will meddle no more. I am pleased enough that you
should recognise the kindness of my meaning."
"Yes," said my lady; "but when it came to the point, I have to suppose
your courage failed you; for what you said was said cruelly." She
paused, looking at me; then suddenly smiled a little, and said a
singular thing: "Do you know what you are, Mr. Mackellar? You are an old
maid."
* * * * *
No more incident of any note occurred in the family until the return of
that ill-starred man, the Master. But I have to place here a second
extract from the memoirs of Chevalier Burke, interesting in itself, and
highly necessary for my purpose. It is our only sight of the Master on
his Indian travels; and the first word in these pages of Secundra Dass.
One fact, it is to observe, appears here very clearly, which if we had
known some twenty years ago, how many calamities and sorrows had been
spared!--that Secundra Dass spoke English.