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