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 abbeyI heard somewhat of the old monks, and more of the freetraders, 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 of clearglass in the midst of the shield in the painted window, which I rememberthinking a blemish on a room otherwise so handsome, with its familyportraits, 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 blotted outof my belief, and I was become, what I have ever since remained, a lovingservant of the house of Durrisdeer. Mr. Henry had the chief part of myaffection. It was with him I worked; and I found him an exacting master,keeping all his kindness for those hours in which we were unemployed, andin the steward’s office not only loading me with work, but viewing mewith a shrewd supervision. At length one day he looked up from his paperwith a kind of timidness, and says he, “Mr. Mackellar, I think I ought totell you that you do very well.” That was my first word of commendation;and from that day his jealousy of my performance was relaxed; soon it was“Mr. Mackellar” here, and “Mr. Mackellar” there, with the whole family;and for much of my service at Durrisdeer, I have transacted everything atmy own time, and to my own fancy, and never a farthing challenged. Evenwhile he was driving me, I had begun to find my heart go out to Mr.Henry; no doubt, partly in pity, he was a man so palpably unhappy. Hewould fall into a deep muse over our accounts, staring at the page or outof the window; and at those times the look of his face, and the sigh thatwould break from him, awoke in me strong feelings of curiosity andcommiseration. One day, I remember, we were late upon some business inthe steward’s room.
This room is in the top of the house, and has a view upon the bay, andover a little wooded cape, on the long sands; and there, right overagainst the sun, which was then dipping, we saw the freetraders, with agreat force of men and horses, scouring on the beach. Mr. Henry had beenstaring straight west, so that I marvelled he was not blinded by the sun;suddenly he frowns, rubs his hand upon his brow, and turns to me with 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 life,with 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 from college.
“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 rival at home,not only with his father and his wife, but with the very servants.
They were two old serving-men that were the leaders. John Paul, 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 his confidence,and would rant against the Master by the hour, so that even my worksuffered. “They’re a’ daft here,” he would cry, “and be damned to them!The Master—the deil’s in their thrapples that should call him sae! it’sMr. Henry should be master now! They were nane sae fond o’ the Masterwhen they had him, I’ll can tell ye that. Sorrow on his name! Never aguid word did I hear on his lips, nor naebody else, but just fleering andflyting and profane cursing—deil hae him! There’s nane kent hiswickedness: him a gentleman! Did ever ye hear tell, Mr. Mackellar, o’Wully White the wabster? No? Aweel, Wully was an unco praying kind o’man; a dreigh body, nane o’ my kind, I never could abide the sight o’him; onyway he was a great hand by his way of it, and he up and rebukitthe Master for some of his on-goings. It was a grand thing for theMaster o’ Ball’ntrae to tak up a feud wi’ a’ wabster, wasnae’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 employit was: 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 manthocht it was auld Hornie was come seekin’ him. Weel, to mak a langstory short, Wully gaed gyte. At the hinder end, they couldnae 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 Christian man!Grand doin’s for the Master o’ Ball’ntrae!” I asked him what the Masterhad thought of it himself. “How would I ken?” says he. “He n
ever saidnaething.” And on again in his usual manner of banning and swearing,with every now and again a “Master of Ballantrae” sneered through hisnose. It was in one of these confidences that he showed me the Carlisleletter, the print of the horse-shoe still stamped in the paper. Indeed,that was our last confidence; for he then expressed himself soill-naturedly of Mrs. Henry that I had to reprimand him sharply, and mustthenceforth 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 if tothe 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 that heis 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,” sayshe, 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 freetradingsort. 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, forhe was very methodical) until she had sent out for spirits, and I hadpledged her in a glass; and all the time she carried on in alight-headed, reckless way—now aping the manners of a lady, now breakinginto unseemly mirth, now making coquettish advances that oppressed me tothe 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 bonnie lad were backagain, it would be changed days. But he’s deid—he’s lyin’ deid amang theHieland hills—the bonnie lad, the bonnie lad!”
She had a rapt manner of crying on the bonnie 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 to beproud of. I will not say I did not pity her, but it was a loathing pityat the best; and her last change of manner wiped it out. This was whenshe had had enough of me for an audience, and had set her name at last tothe receipt. “There!” says she, and taking the most unwomanly oaths uponher tongue, bade me begone and carry it to the Judas who had sent me. Itwas the first time I had heard the name applied to Mr. Henry; I wasstaggered besides at her sudden vehemence of word and manner, and gotforth from the room, under this shower of curses, like a beaten dog. Buteven then I was not quit, for the vixen threw up her window, and, leaningforth, continued to revile me as I went up the wynd; the freetraders,coming to the tavern door, joined in the mockery, and one had even theinhumanity to set upon me a very savage small dog, which bit me in theankle. This was a strong lesson, had I required one, to avoid illcompany; and I rode home in much pain from the bite and considerableindignation 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 far fromgrateful: “She is no friend to me,” said he; “but, indeed, Mackellar, Ihave few friends to boast of, and Jessie has some cause to be unjust. Ineed not dissemble what all the country knows: she was not very well usedby one of our family.” This was the first time I had heard him refer tothe Master even distantly; and I think he found his tongue rebelliouseven for that much, but presently he resumed—“This is why I would havenothing said. It would give pain to Mrs. Henry . . . and to my father,”he added, with another flush.
“Mr. Henry,” said I, “if you will take a freedom at my hands, I 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, itwill 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, “for which,as it enters in no way among your duties, I wish to thank you, and toremind you at the same time (in case Mr. Henry should have neglected) howvery desirable it is that no word of it should reach my daughter.Reflections on the dead, Mr. Mackellar, are doubly painful.”
Anger glowed in my heart; and I could have told my lord to his face 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 acc
omplish.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 a nicerconscience, should have seemed rather disloyalty to the living; and herealso my lord gave her his countenance. I suppose he was glad to talk ofhis loss, and ashamed to dwell on it with Mr. Henry. Certainly, atleast, he made a little coterie apart in that family of three, and it wasthe 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 to thechimney-side, and Miss Alison, instead of withdrawing, should bring astool to his knee, and chatter to him privately; and after she had becomemy patron’s wife the same manner of doing was continued. It should havebeen pleasant to behold this ancient gentleman so loving with hisdaughter, but I was too much a partisan of Mr. Henry’s to be anything butwroth at his exclusion. Many’s the time I have seen him make an obviousresolve, quit the table, and go and join himself to his wife and my LordDurrisdeer; and on their part, they were never backward to make himwelcome, turned to him smilingly as to an intruding child, and took himinto their talk with an effort so ill-concealed that he was soon backagain beside me at the table, whence (so great is the hall of Durrisdeer)we could but hear the murmur of voices at the chimney. There he wouldsit and watch, and I along with him; and sometimes by my lord’s headsorrowfully shaken, or his hand laid on Mrs. Henry’s head, or hers uponhis knee as if in consolation, or sometimes by an exchange of tearfullooks, we would draw our conclusion that the talk had gone to the oldsubject 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 fancies, 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 before themeal was at an end all seemed forgotten; only that, after dinner, whenthe pair had withdrawn as usual to the chimney-side, we could see herweeping with her head upon his knee. Mr. Henry kept up the talk with meupon 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, andhis voice changing to another key, but without check of delivery. Thepane, 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 trod on,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 handkerchief hehad 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 the nameof my office.
I asked what manner of man, and what his name was; and this disclosed thecause of John’s ill-humour; for it appeared the visitor refused to namehimself except to me, a sore affront to the major-domo’s consequence.
“Well,” said I, smiling a little, “I will see what he wants.”
I found in the entrance hall a big man, very plainly habited, and wrappedin a sea-cloak, like one new landed, as indeed he was. Not, far offMacconochie was standing, with his tongue out of his mouth and his handupon his chin, like a dull fellow thinking hard; and the stranger, whohad brought his cloak about his face, appeared uneasy. He had no soonerseen me coming than he went to meet me with an effusive manner.
“My dear man,” said he, “a thousand apologies for disturbing you, but I’min the most awkward position. And there’s a son of a ramrod there that Ishould know the looks of, and more betoken I believe that he knows mine.Being in this family, sir, and in a place of some responsibility (whichwas the cause I took the liberty to send for you), you are doubtless ofthe 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. —, Iforget your name, which is a very good one—that, faith, I would be veryloath to lose it after all. And the son of a ramrod, whom I believe Isaw before Carlisle . . . ”
“Oh, sir,” said I, “you can trust Macconochie until to-morrow.”
“Well, and it’s a delight to hear you say so,” says the stranger. “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, ata most damnable risk to myself, to see your masters—if you’ll excuse me,my good man, for giving them the name, for I’m sure it’s a circumstance Iwould never have guessed from your appearance. And if you would just beso very obliging as to take my name to them, you might say that I comebearing letters which I am sure they will be very rejoiced to have thereading 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-is-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
went downagain for the Colonel.
When we returned, these three were in much the same position I same 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, atyour service.”
Then the Colonel turns to Mrs. Henry, bowing 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 him with asingular 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, but whetherit was to give him time or to speak on, was more than we could guess. Atlength 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, andas like as not, if I know anything of his habits, he will be drawing inhis chair to a piece of dinner.—Bedad, I believe the lady’s fainting.”
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 to excuseyou.” And with that he took her hand by the fingers, and led her fromthe 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.
“Oh, read it and be done!” he had cried.
“Spare me that,” said she.
And by these two speeches, to my way of thinking, each undid a great partof what they had previously done well. But the letter, sure enough, cameinto 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 scarce dependupon my memory at so great an interval. To confess the truth, I havebeen somewhat embarrassed by his response; for he sent me the completememoirs of his life, touching only in places on the Master; running to amuch greater length than my whole story, and not everywhere (as it seemsto me) designed for edification. He begged in his letter, dated fromEttenheim, that I would find a publisher for the whole, after I had madewhat use of it I required; and I think I shall best answer my own purposeand fulfil his wishes by printing certain parts of it in full. In thisway my readers will have a detailed, and, I believe, a very genuineaccount of some essential matters; and if any publisher should take afancy to the Chevalier’s manner of narration, he knows where to apply forthe rest, of which there is plenty at his service. I put in my firstextract here, so that it may stand in the place of what the Chevaliertold us over our wine in the hall of Durrisdeer; but you are to supposeit was not the brutal fact, but a very varnished version that he offeredto my lord.
The Master of Ballantrae: A Winter's Tale Page 3