CHAPTER V.—ACCOUNT OF ALL THAT PASSED ON THE NIGHT ON FEBRUARY 27TH,1757.
On the evening of the interview referred to, the Master went abroad; hewas abroad a great deal of the next day also, that fatal 27th; but wherehe went, or what he did, we never concerned ourselves to ask until nextday. If we had done so, and by any chance found out, it might havechanged all. But as all we did was done in ignorance, and should be sojudged, I shall so narrate these passages as they appeared to us in themoment of their birth, and reserve all that I since discovered for thetime of its discovery. For I have now come to one of the dark parts ofmy narrative, and must engage the reader’s indulgence for my patron.
All the 27th that rigorous weather endured: a stifling cold; the folkpassing about like smoking chimneys; the wide hearth in the hall piledhigh with fuel; some of the spring birds that had already blundered northinto our neighbourhood, besieging the windows of the house or trotting onthe frozen turf like things distracted. About noon there came a blink ofsunshine, showing a very pretty, wintry, frosty landscape of white hillsand woods, with Crail’s lugger waiting for a wind under the Craig Head,and the smoke mounting straight into the air from every farm and cottage.With the coming of night, the haze closed in overhead; it fell dark andstill and starless, and exceeding cold: a night the most unseasonable,fit for strange events.
Mrs. Henry withdrew, as was now her custom, very early. We had setourselves of late to pass the evening with a game of cards; another markthat our visitor was wearying mightily of the life at Durrisdeer; and wehad not been long at this when my old lord slipped from his place besidethe fire, and was off without a word to seek the warmth of bed. Thethree thus left together had neither love nor courtesy to share; not oneof us would have sat up one instant to oblige another; yet from theinfluence of custom, and as the cards had just been dealt, we continuedthe form of playing out the round. I should say we were late sitters;and though my lord had departed earlier than was his custom, twelve wasalready gone some time upon the clock, and the servants long ago in bed.Another thing I should say, that although I never saw the Master anywayaffected with liquor, he had been drinking freely, and was perhaps(although he showed it not) a trifle heated.
Anyway, he now practised one of his transitions; and so soon as the doorclosed behind my lord, and without the smallest change of voice, shiftedfrom ordinary civil talk into a stream of insult.
“My dear Henry, it is yours to play,” he had been saying, and nowcontinued: “It is a very strange thing how, even in so small a matter asa game of cards, you display your rusticity. You play, Jacob, like abonnet laird, or a sailor in a tavern. The same dulness, the same pettygreed, _cette lenteur d’hebété qui me fait rager_; it is strange I shouldhave such a brother. Even Square-toes has a certain vivacity when hisstake is imperilled; but the dreariness of a game with you I positivelylack language to depict.”
Mr. Henry continued to look at his cards, as though very maturelyconsidering some play; but his mind was elsewhere.
“Dear God, will this never be done?” cries the Master. “_Quel lourdeau_!But why do I trouble you with French expressions, which are lost on suchan ignoramus? A _lourdeau_, my dear brother, is as we might say abumpkin, a clown, a clodpole: a fellow without grace, lightness,quickness; any gift of pleasing, any natural brilliancy: such a one asyou shall see, when you desire, by looking in the mirror. I tell youthese things for your good, I assure you; and besides, Square-toes”(looking at me and stifling a yawn), “it is one of my diversions in thisvery dreary spot to toast you and your master at the fire like chestnuts.I have great pleasure in your case, for I observe the nickname (rustic asit is) has always the power to make you writhe. But sometimes I havemore trouble with this dear fellow here, who seems to have gone to sleepupon his cards. Do you not see the applicability of the epithet I havejust explained, dear Henry? Let me show you. For instance, with allthose solid qualities which I delight to recognise in you, I never knew awoman who did not prefer me—nor, I think,” he continued, with the mostsilken deliberation, “I think—who did not continue to prefer me.”
Mr. Henry laid down his cards. He rose to his feet very softly, andseemed all the while like a person in deep thought. “You coward!” hesaid gently, as if to himself. And then, with neither hurry nor anyparticular violence, he struck the Master in the mouth.
The Master sprang to his feet like one transfigured; I had never seen theman so beautiful. “A blow!” he cried. “I would not take a blow from GodAlmighty!”
“Lower your voice,” said Mr. Henry. “Do you wish my father to interferefor you again?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” I cried, and sought to come between them.
The Master caught me by the shoulder, held me at arm’s length, and stilladdressing his brother: “Do you know what this means?” said he.
“It was the most deliberate act of my life,” says Mr. Henry.
“I must have blood, I must have blood for this,” says the Master.
“Please God it shall be yours,” said Mr. Henry; and he went to the walland took down a pair of swords that hung there with others, naked. Thesehe presented to the Master by the points. “Mackellar shall see us playfair,” said Mr. Henry. “I think it very needful.”
“You need insult me no more,” said the Master, taking one of the swordsat random. “I have hated you all my life.”
“My father is but newly gone to bed,” said Mr. Henry. “We must gosomewhere forth of the house.”
“There is an excellent place in the long shrubbery,” said the Master.
“Gentlemen,” said I, “shame upon you both! Sons of the same mother,would you turn against the life she gave you?”
“Even so, Mackellar,” said Mr. Henry, with the same perfect quietude ofmanner he had shown throughout.
“It is what I will prevent,” said I.
And now here is a blot upon my life. At these words of mine the Masterturned his blade against my bosom; I saw the light run along the steel;and I threw up my arms and fell to my knees before him on the floor.“No, no,” I cried, like a baby.
“We shall have no more trouble with him,” said the Master. “It is a goodthing to have a coward in the house.”
“We must have light,” said Mr. Henry, as though there had been nointerruption.
“This trembler can bring a pair of candles,” said the Master.
To my shame be it said, I was still so blinded with the flashing of thatbare sword that I volunteered to bring a lantern.
“We do not need a l-l-lantern,” says the Master, mocking me. “There isno breath of air. Come, get to your feet, take a pair of lights, and gobefore. I am close behind with this—” making. the blade glitter as hespoke.
I took up the candlesticks and went before them, steps that I would givemy hand to recall; but a coward is a slave at the best; and even as Iwent, my teeth smote each other in my mouth. It was as he had said:there was no breath stirring; a windless stricture of frost had bound theair; and as we went forth in the shine of the candles, the blackness waslike a roof over our heads. Never a word was said; there was never asound but the creaking of our steps along the frozen path. The cold ofthe night fell about me like a bucket of water; I shook as I went withmore than terror; but my companions, bare-headed like myself, and freshfrom the warm ball, appeared not even conscious of the change.
“Here is the place,” said the Master. “Set down the candles.”
I did as he bid me, and presently the flames went up, as steady as in achamber, in the midst of the frosted trees, and I beheld these twobrothers take their places.
“The light is something in my eyes,” said the Master.
“I will give you every advantage,” replied Mr. Henry, shifting hisground, “for I think you are about to die.” He spoke rather sadly thanotherwise, yet there was a ring in his voice.
“Henry Durie,” said the Master, “two words before I begin. You are afencer, you can hold a foil; you little know wha
t a change it makes tohold a sword! And by that I know you are to fall. But see how strong ismy situation! If you fall, I shift out of this country to where my moneyis before me. If I fall, where are you? My father, your wife—who is inlove with me, as you very well know—your child even, who prefers me toyourself:—how will these avenge me! Had you thought of that, dearHenry?” He looked at his brother with a smile; then made a fencing-roomsalute.
Never a word said Mr. Henry, but saluted too, and the swords rangtogether.
I am no judge of the play; my head, besides, was gone with cold and fearand horror; but it seems that Mr. Henry took and kept the upper hand fromthe engagement, crowding in upon his foe with a contained and glowingfury. Nearer and nearer he crept upon the man, till of a sudden theMaster leaped back with a little sobbing oath; and I believe the movementbrought the light once more against his eyes. To it they went again, onthe fresh ground; but now methought closer, Mr. Henry pressing moreoutrageously, the Master beyond doubt with shaken confidence. For it isbeyond doubt he now recognised himself for lost, and had some taste ofthe cold agony of fear; or he had never attempted the foul stroke. Icannot say I followed it, my untrained eye was never quick enough toseize details, but it appears he caught his brother’s blade with his lefthand, a practice not permitted. Certainly Mr. Henry only saved himselfby leaping on one side; as certainly the Master, lunging in the air,stumbled on his knee, and before he could move the sword was through hisbody.
I cried out with a stifled scream, and ran in; but the body was alreadyfallen to the ground, where it writhed a moment like a trodden worm, andthen lay motionless.
“Look at his left hand,” said Mr. Henry.
“It is all bloody,” said I.
“On the inside?” said he.
“It is cut on the inside,” said I.
“I thought so,” said he, and turned his back.
I opened the man’s clothes; the heart was quite still, it gave not aflutter.
“God forgive us, Mr. Henry!” said I. “He is dead.”
“Dead?” he repeated, a little stupidly; and then with a rising tone,“Dead? dead?” says he, and suddenly cast his bloody sword upon theground.
“What must we do?” said I. “Be yourself, sir. It is too late now: youmust be yourself.”
He turned and stared at me. “Oh, Mackellar!” says he, and put his facein his hands.
I plucked him by the coat. “For God’s sake, for all our sakes, be morecourageous!” said I. “What must we do?”
He showed me his face with the same stupid stare.
“Do?” says he. And with that his eye fell on the body, and “Oh!” hecries out, with his hand to his brow, as if he had never remembered; and,turning from me, made off towards the house of Durrisdeer at a strangestumbling run.
I stood a moment mused; then it seemed to me my duty lay most plain onthe side of the living; and I ran after him, leaving the candles on thefrosty ground and the body lying in their light under the trees. But runas I pleased, he had the start of me, and was got into the house, and upto the hall, where I found him standing before the fire with his faceonce more in his hands, and as he so stood he visibly shuddered.
“Mr. Henry, Mr. Henry,” I said, “this will be the ruin of us all.”
“What is this that I have done?” cries he, and then looking upon me witha countenance that I shall never forget, “Who is to tell the old man?” hesaid.
The word knocked at my heart; but it was no time for weakness. I wentand poured him out a glass of brandy. “Drink that,” said I, “drink itdown.” I forced him to swallow it like a child; and, being stillperished with the cold of the night, I followed his example.
“It has to be told, Mackellar,” said he. “It must be told.” And he fellsuddenly in a seat—my old lord’s seat by the chimney-side—and was shakenwith dry sobs.
Dismay came upon my soul; it was plain there was no help in Mr. Henry.“Well,” said I, “sit there, and leave all to me.” And taking a candle inmy hand, I set forth out of the room in the dark house. There was nomovement; I must suppose that all had gone unobserved; and I was now toconsider how to smuggle through the rest with the like secrecy. It wasno hour for scruples; and I opened my lady’s door without so much as aknock, and passed boldly in.
“There is some calamity happened,” she cried, sitting up in bed.
“Madam,” said I, “I will go forth again into the passage; and do you getas quickly as you can into your clothes. There is much to be done.”
She troubled me with no questions, nor did she keep me waiting. Ere Ihad time to prepare a word of that which I must say to her, she was onthe threshold signing me to enter.
“Madam,” said I, “if you cannot be very brave, I must go elsewhere; forif no one helps me to-night, there is an end of the house of Durrisdeer.”
“I am very courageous,” said she; and she looked at me with a sort ofsmile, very painful to see, but very brave too.
“It has come to a duel,” said I.
“A duel?” she repeated. “A duel! Henry and—”
“And the Master,” said I. “Things have been borne so long, things ofwhich you know nothing, which you would not believe if I should tell.But to-night it went too far, and when he insulted you—”
“Stop,” said she. “He? Who?”
“Oh! madam,” cried I, my bitterness breaking forth, “do you ask me such aquestion? Indeed, then, I may go elsewhere for help; there is nonehere!”
“I do not know in what I have offended you,” said she. “Forgive me; putme out of this suspense.”
But I dared not tell her yet; I felt not sure of her; and at the doubt,and under the sense of impotence it brought with it, I turned on the poorwoman with something near to anger.
“Madam,” said I, “we are speaking of two men: one of them insulted you,and you ask me which. I will help you to the answer. With one of thesemen you have spent all your hours: has the other reproached you? To oneyou have been always kind; to the other, as God sees me and judgesbetween us two, I think not always: has his love ever failed you?To-night one of these two men told the other, in my hearing—the hearingof a hired stranger,—that you were in love with him. Before I say oneword, you shall answer your own question: Which was it? Nay, madam, youshall answer me another: If it has come to this dreadful end, whose faultis it?”
She stared at me like one dazzled. “Good God!” she said once, in a kindof bursting exclamation; and then a second time in a whisper to herself:“Great God!—In the name of mercy, Mackellar, what is wrong?” she cried.“I am made up; I can hear all.”
“You are not fit to hear,” said I. “Whatever it was, you shall say firstit was your fault.”
“Oh!” she cried, with a gesture of wringing her hands, “this man willdrive me mad! Can you not put me out of your thoughts?”
“I think not once of you,” I cried. “I think of none but my dear unhappymaster.”
“Ah!” she cried, with her hand to her heart, “is Henry dead?”
“Lower your voice,” said I. “The other.”
I saw her sway like something stricken by the wind; and I know notwhether in cowardice or misery, turned aside and looked upon the floor.“These are dreadful tidings,” said I at length, when her silence began toput me in some fear; “and you and I behove to be the more bold if thehouse is to be saved.” Still she answered nothing. “There is MissKatharine, besides,” I added: “unless we bring this matter through, herinheritance is like to be of shame.”
I do not know if it was the thought of her child or the naked word shame,that gave her deliverance; at least, I had no sooner spoken than a soundpassed her lips, the like of it I never heard; it was as though she hadlain buried under a hill and sought to move that burthen. And the nextmoment she had found a sort of voice.
“It was a fight,” she whispered. “It was not—” and she paused upon theword.
“It was a fair fight on my dear master’s pa
rt,” said I. “As for theother, he was slain in the very act of a foul stroke.”
“Not now!” she cried.
“Madam,” said I, “hatred of that man glows in my bosom like a burningfire; ay, even now he is dead. God knows, I would have stopped thefighting, had I dared. It is my shame I did not. But when I saw himfall, if I could have spared one thought from pitying of my master, ithad been to exult in that deliverance.”
I do not know if she marked; but her next words were, “My lord?”
“That shall be my part,” said I.
“You will not speak to him as you have to me?” she asked.
“Madam,” said I, “have you not some one else to think of? Leave my lordto me.”
“Some one else?” she repeated.
“Your husband,” said I. She looked at me with a countenance illegible.“Are you going to turn your back on him?” I asked.
Still she looked at me; then her hand went to her heart again. “No,”said she.
“God bless you for that word!” I said. “Go to him now, where he sits inthe hall; speak to him—it matters not what you say; give him your hand;say, ‘I know all;’—if God gives you grace enough, say, ‘Forgive me.’”
“God strengthen you, and make you merciful,” said she. “I will go to myhusband.”
“Let me light you there,” said I, taking up the candle.
“I will find my way in the dark,” she said, with a shudder, and I thinkthe shudder was at me.
So we separated—she down stairs to where a little light glimmered in thehall-door, I along the passage to my lord’s room. It seems hard to saywhy, but I could not burst in on the old man as I could on the youngwoman; with whatever reluctance, I must knock. But his old slumbers werelight, or perhaps he slept not; and at the first summons I was biddenenter.
He, too, sat up in bed; very aged and bloodless he looked; and whereas hehad a certain largeness of appearance when dressed for daylight, he nowseemed frail and little, and his face (the wig being laid aside) notbigger than a child’s. This daunted me; nor less, the haggard surmise ofmisfortune in his eye. Yet his voice was even peaceful as he inquired myerrand. I set my candle down upon a chair, leaned on the bed-foot, andlooked at him.
“Lord Durrisdeer,” said I, “it is very well known to you that I am apartisan in your family.”
“I hope we are none of us partisans,” said he. “That you love my sonsincerely, I have always been glad to recognise.”
“Oh! my lord, we are past the hour of these civilities,” I replied. “Ifwe are to save anything out of the fire, we must look the fact in itsbare countenance. A partisan I am; partisans we have all been; it is asa partisan that I am here in the middle of the night to plead before you.Hear me; before I go, I will tell you why.”
“I would always hear you, Mr. Mackellar,” said he, “and that at any hour,whether of the day or night, for I would be always sure you had a reason.You spoke once before to very proper purpose; I have not forgotten that.”
“I am here to plead the cause of my master,” I said. “I need not tellyou how he acts. You know how he is placed. You know with whatgenerosity, he has always met your other—met your wishes,” I correctedmyself, stumbling at that name of son. “You know—you must know—what hehas suffered—what he has suffered about his wife.”
“Mr. Mackellar!” cried my lord, rising in bed like a bearded lion.
“You said you would hear me,” I continued. “What you do not know, whatyou should know, one of the things I am here to speak of, is thepersecution he must bear in private. Your back is not turned before onewhom I dare not name to you falls upon him with the most unfeelingtaunts; twits him—pardon me, my lord—twits him with your partiality,calls him Jacob, calls him clown, pursues him with ungenerous raillery,not to be borne by man. And let but one of you appear, instantly hechanges; and my master must smile and courtesy to the man who has beenfeeding him with insults; I know, for I have shared in some of it, and Itell you the life is insupportable. All these months it has endured; itbegan with the man’s landing; it was by the name of Jacob that my masterwas greeted the first night.”
My lord made a movement as if to throw aside the clothes and rise. “Ifthere be any truth in this—” said he.
“Do I look like a man lying?” I interrupted, checking him with my hand.
“You should have told me at first,” he odd.
“Ah, my lord! indeed I should, and you may well hate the face of thisunfaithful servant!” I cried.
“I will take order,” said he, “at once.” And again made the movement torise.
Again I checked him. “I have not done,” said I. “Would God I had! Allthis my dear, unfortunate patron has endured without help or countenance.Your own best word, my lord, was only gratitude. Oh, but he was yourson, too! He had no other father. He was hated in the country, Godknows how unjustly. He had a loveless marriage. He stood on all handswithout affection or support—dear, generous, ill-fated, noble heart!”
“Your tears do you much honour and me much shame,” says my lord, with apalsied trembling. “But you do me some injustice. Henry has been everdear to me, very dear. James (I do not deny it, Mr. Mackellar), James isperhaps dearer; you have not seen my James in quite a favourable light;he has suffered under his misfortunes; and we can only remember how greatand how unmerited these were. And even now his is the more affectionatenature. But I will not speak of him. All that you say of Henry is mosttrue; I do not wonder, I know him to be very magnanimous; you will say Itrade upon the knowledge? It is possible; there are dangerous virtues:virtues that tempt the encroacher. Mr. Mackellar, I will make it up tohim; I will take order with all this. I have been weak; and, what isworse, I have been dull!”
“I must not hear you blame yourself, my lord, with that which I have yetto tell upon my conscience,” I replied. “You have not been weak; youhave been abused by a devilish dissembler. You saw yourself how he haddeceived you in the matter of his danger; he has deceived you throughoutin every step of his career. I wish to pluck him from your heart; I wishto force your eyes upon your other son; ah, you have a son there!”
“No, no,” said he, “two sons—I have two sons.”
I made some gesture of despair that struck him; he looked at me with achanged face. “There is much worse behind?” he asked, his voice dying asit rose upon the question.
“Much worse,” I answered. “This night he said these words to Mr. Henry:‘I have never known a woman who did not prefer me to you, and I think whodid not continue to prefer me.’”
“I will hear nothing against my daughter,” he cried; and from hisreadiness to stop me in this direction, I conclude his eyes were not sodull as I had fancied, and he had looked not without anxiety upon thesiege of Mrs. Henry.
“I think not of blaming her,” cried I. “It is not that. These wordswere said in my hearing to Mr. Henry; and if you find them not yet plainenough, these others but a little after: Your wife, who is in love withme!’”
“They have quarrelled?” he said.
I nodded.
“I must fly to them,” he said, beginning once again to leave his bed.
“No, no!” I cried, holding forth my hands.
“You do not know,” said he. “These are dangerous words.”
“Will nothing make you understand, my lord?” said I.
His eyes besought me for the truth.
I flung myself on my knees by the bedside. “Oh, my lord,” cried I,“think on him you have left; think of this poor sinner whom you begot,whom your wife bore to you, whom we have none of us strengthened as wecould; think of him, not of yourself; he is the other sufferer—think ofhim! That is the door for sorrow—Christ’s door, God’s door: oh! itstands open. Think of him, even as he thought of you. ‘_Who is to tellthe old man_?’—these were his words. It was for that I came; that is whyI am here pleading at your feet.”
“Let me get up,” he cried, thrusting me asi
de, and was on his feet beforemyself. His voice shook like a sail in the wind, yet he spoke with agood loudness; his face was like the snow, but his eyes were steady anddry.
“Here is too much speech,” said he. “Where was it?”
“In the shrubbery,” said I.
“And Mr. Henry?” he asked. And when I had told him he knotted his oldface in thought.
“And Mr. James?” says he.
“I have left him lying,” said I, “beside the candles.”
“Candles?” he cried. And with that he ran to the window, opened it, andlooked abroad. “It might be spied from the road.”
“Where none goes by at such an hour,” I objected.
“It makes no matter,” he said. “One might. Hark!” cries he. “What isthat?”
It was the sound of men very guardedly rowing in the bay; and I told himso.
“The freetraders,” said my lord. “Run at once, Mackellar; put thesecandles out. I will dress in the meanwhile; and when you return we candebate on what is wisest.”
I groped my way downstairs, and out at the door. From quite a far wayoff a sheen was visible, making points of brightness in the shrubbery; inso black a night it might have been remarked for miles; and I blamedmyself bitterly for my incaution. How much more sharply when I reachedthe place! One of the candlesticks was overthrown, and that taperquenched. The other burned steadily by itself, and made a broad space oflight upon the frosted ground. All within that circle seemed, by theforce of contrast and the overhanging blackness, brighter than by day.And there was the bloodstain in the midst; and a little farther off Mr.Henry’s sword, the pommel of which was of silver; but of the body, not atrace. My heart thumped upon my ribs, the hair stirred upon my scalp, asI stood there staring—so strange was the sight, so dire the fears itwakened. I looked right and left; the ground was so hard, it told nostory. I stood and listened till my ears ached, but the night was hollowabout me like an empty church; not even a ripple stirred upon the shore;it seemed you might have heard a pin drop in the county.
I put the candle out, and the blackness fell about me groping dark; itwas like a crowd surrounding me; and I went back to the house ofDurrisdeer, with my chin upon my shoulder, startling, as I went, withcraven suppositions. In the door a figure moved to meet me, and I hadnear screamed with terror ere I recognised Mrs. Henry.
“Have you told him?” says she.
“It was he who sent me,” said I. “It is gone. But why are you here?”
“It is gone!” she repeated. “What is gone?”
“The body,” said I. “Why are you not with your husband?”
“Gone!” said she. “You cannot have looked. Come back.”
“There is no light now,” said I. “I dare not.”
“I can see in the dark. I have been standing here so long—so long,” saidshe. “Come, give me your hand.”
We returned to the shrubbery hand in hand, and to the fatal place.
“Take care of the blood,” said I.
“Blood?” she cried, and started violently back.
“I suppose it will be,” said I. “I am like a blind man.”
“No!” said she, “nothing! Have you not dreamed?”
“Ah, would to God we had!” cried I.
She spied the sword, picked it up, and seeing the blood, let it fallagain with her hands thrown wide. “Ah!” she cried. And then, with aninstant courage, handled it the second time, and thrust it to the hiltinto the frozen ground. “I will take it back and clean it properly,”says she, and again looked about her on all sides. “It cannot be that hewas dead?” she added.
“There was no flutter of his heart,” said I, and then remembering: “Whyare you not with your husband?”
“It is no use,” said she; “he will not speak to me.”
“Not speak to you?” I repeated. “Oh! you have not tried.”
“You have a right to doubt me,” she replied, with a gentle dignity.
At this, for the first time, I was seized with sorrow for her. “Godknows, madam,” I cried, “God knows I am not so hard as I appear; on thisdreadful night who can veneer his words? But I am a friend to all whoare not Henry Durie’s enemies.”
“It is hard, then, you should hesitate about his wife,” said she.
I saw all at once, like the rending of a veil, how nobly she had bornethis unnatural calamity, and how generously my reproaches.
“We must go back and tell this to my lord,” said I.
“Him I cannot face,” she cried.
“You will find him the least moved of all of us,” said I.
“And yet I cannot face him,” said she.
“Well,” said I, “you can return to Mr. Henry; I will see my lord.”
As we walked back, I bearing the candlesticks, she the sword—a strangeburthen for that woman—she had another thought. “Should we tell Henry?”she asked.
“Let my lord decide,” said I.
My lord was nearly dressed when I came to his chamber. He heard me witha frown. “The freetraders,” said he. “But whether dead or alive?”
“I thought him—” said I, and paused, ashamed of the word.
“I know; but you may very well have been in error. Why should theyremove him if not living?” he asked. “Oh! here is a great door of hope.It must be given out that he departed—as he came—without any note ofpreparation. We must save all scandal.”
I saw he had fallen, like the rest of us, to think mainly of the house.Now that all the living members of the family were plunged inirremediable sorrow, it was strange how we turned to that conjointabstraction of the family itself, and sought to bolster up the airynothing of its reputation: not the Duries only, but the hired stewardhimself.
“Are we to tell Mr. Henry?” I asked him.
“I will see,” said he. “I am going first to visit him; then I go forthwith you to view the shrubbery and consider.”
We went downstairs into the hall. Mr. Henry sat by the table with hishead upon his hand, like a man of stone. His wife stood a little backfrom him, her hand at her mouth; it was plain she could not move him. Myold lord walked very steadily to where his son was sitting; he had asteady countenance, too, but methought a little cold. When he was comequite up, he held out both his hands and said, “My son!”
With a broken, strangled cry, Mr. Henry leaped up and fell on hisfather’s neck, crying and weeping, the most pitiful sight that ever a manwitnessed. “Oh! father,” he cried, “you know I loved him; you know Iloved him in the beginning; I could have died for him—you know that! Iwould have given my life for him and you. Oh! say you know that. Oh!say you can forgive me. O father, father, what have I done—what have Idone? And we used to be bairns together!” and wept and sobbed, andfondled the old man, and clutched him about the neck, with the passion ofa child in terror.
And then he caught sight of his wife (you would have thought for thefirst time), where she stood weeping to hear him, and in a moment hadfallen at her knees. “And O my lass,” he cried, “you must forgive me,too! Not your husband—I have only been the ruin of your life. But youknew me when I was a lad; there was no harm in Henry Durie then; he meantaye to be a friend to you. It’s him—it’s the old bairn that played withyou—oh, can ye never, never forgive him?”
Throughout all this my lord was like a cold, kind spectator with his witsabout him. At the first cry, which was indeed enough to call the houseabout us, he had said to me over his shoulder, “Close the door.” And nowhe nodded to himself.
“We may leave him to his wife now,” says he. “Bring a light, Mr.Mackellar.”
Upon my going forth again with my lord, I was aware of a strangephenomenon; for though it was quite dark, and the night not yet old,methought I smelt the morning. At the same time there went a tossingthrough the branches of the evergreens, so that they sounded like a quietsea, and the air pulled at times against our faces, and the flame of thecandle shook. We made the more speed
, I believe, being surrounded bythis bustle; visited the scene of the duel, where my lord looked upon theblood with stoicism; and passing farther on toward the landing-place,came at last upon some evidences of the truth. For, first of all, wherethere was a pool across the path, the ice had been trodden in, plainly bymore than one man’s weight; next, and but a little farther, a young treewas broken, and down by the landing-place, where the traders’ boats wereusually beached, another stain of blood marked where the body must havebeen infallibly set down to rest the bearers.
This stain we set ourselves to wash away with the sea-water, carrying itin my lord’s hat; and as we were thus engaged there came up a suddenmoaning gust and left us instantly benighted.
“It will come to snow,” says my lord; “and the best thing that we couldhope. Let us go back now; we can do nothing in the dark.”
As we went houseward, the wind being again subsided, we were aware of astrong pattering noise about us in the night; and when we issued from theshelter of the trees, we found it raining smartly.
Throughout the whole of this, my lord’s clearness of mind, no less thanhis activity of body, had not ceased to minister to my amazement. He setthe crown upon it in the council we held on our return. The freetradershad certainly secured the Master, though whether dead or alive we werestill left to our conjectures; the rain would, long before day, wipe outall marks of the transaction; by this we must profit. The Master hadunexpectedly come after the fall of night; it must now he given out hehad as suddenly departed before the break of day; and, to make all thisplausible, it now only remained for me to mount into the man’s chamber,and pack and conceal his baggage. True, we still lay at the discretionof the traders; but that was the incurable weakness of our guilt.
I heard him, as I said, with wonder, and hastened to obey. Mr. and Mrs.Henry were gone from the hall; my lord, for warmth’s sake, hurried to hisbed; there was still no sign of stir among the servants, and as I went upthe tower stair, and entered the dead man’s room, a horror of solitudeweighed upon my mind. To my extreme surprise, it was all in the disorderof departure. Of his three portmanteaux, two were already locked; thethird lay open and near full. At once there flashed upon me somesuspicion of the truth. The man had been going, after all; he had butwaited upon Crail, as Crail waited upon the wind; early in the night theseamen had perceived the weather changing; the boat had come to givenotice of the change and call the passenger aboard, and the boat’s crewhad stumbled on him dying in his blood. Nay, and there was more behind.This pre-arranged departure shed some light upon his inconceivable insultof the night before; it was a parting shot, hatred being no longerchecked by policy. And, for another thing, the nature of that insult,and the conduct of Mrs. Henry, pointed to one conclusion, which I havenever verified, and can now never verify until the great assize—theconclusion that he had at last forgotten himself, had gone too far in hisadvances, and had been rebuffed. It can never be verified, as I say; butas I thought of it that morning among his baggage, the thought was sweetto me like honey.
Into the open portmanteau I dipped a little ere I closed it. The mostbeautiful lace and linen, many suits of those fine plain clothes in whichhe loved to appear; a book or two, and those of the best, Cæsar’s“Commentaries,” a volume of Mr. Hobbes, the “Henriade” of M. de Voltaire,a book upon the Indies, one on the mathematics, far beyond where I havestudied: these were what I observed with very mingled feelings. But inthe open portmanteau, no papers of any description. This set me musing.It was possible the man was dead; but, since the traders had carried himaway, not likely. It was possible he might still die of his wound; butit was also possible he might not. And in this latter case I wasdetermined to have the means of some defence.
One after another I carried his portmanteaux to a loft in the top of thehouse which we kept locked; went to my own room for my keys, and,returning to the loft, had the gratification to find two that fittedpretty well. In one of the portmanteaux there was a shagreenletter-case, which I cut open with my knife; and thenceforth (so far asany credit went) the man was at my mercy. Here was a vast deal ofgallant correspondence, chiefly of his Paris days; and, what was more tothe purpose, here were the copies of his own reports to the EnglishSecretary, and the originals of the Secretary’s answers: a most damningseries: such as to publish would be to wreck the Master’s honour and toset a price upon his life. I chuckled to myself as I ran through thedocuments; I rubbed my hands, I sang aloud in my glee. Day found me atthe pleasing task; nor did I then remit my diligence, except in so far asI went to the window—looked out for a moment, to see the frost quitegone, the world turned black again, and the rain and the wind driving inthe bay—and to assure myself that the lugger was gone from its anchorage,and the Master (whether dead or alive) now tumbling on the Irish Sea.
It is proper I should add in this place the very little I havesubsequently angled out upon the doings of that night. It took me a longwhile to gather it; for we dared not openly ask, and the freetradersregarded me with enmity, if not with scorn. It was near six monthsbefore we even knew for certain that the man survived; and it was yearsbefore I learned from one of Crail’s men, turned publican on hisill-gotten gain, some particulars which smack to me of truth. It seemsthe traders found the Master struggled on one elbow, and now staringround him, and now gazing at the candle or at his hand which was allbloodied, like a man stupid. Upon their coming, he would seem to havefound his mind, bade them carry him aboard, and hold their tongues; andon the captain asking how he had come in such a pickle, replied with aburst of passionate swearing, and incontinently fainted. They held somedebate, but they were momently looking for a wind, they were highly paidto smuggle him to France, and did not care to delay. Besides which, hewas well enough liked by these abominable wretches: they supposed himunder capital sentence, knew not in what mischief he might have got hiswound, and judged it a piece of good nature to remove him out of the wayof danger. So he was taken aboard, recovered on the passage over, andwas set ashore a convalescent at the Havre de Grace. What is trulynotable: he said not a word to anyone of the duel, and not a trader knowsto this day in what quarrel, or by the hand of what adversary, he fell.With any other man I should have set this down to natural decency; withhim, to pride. He could not bear to avow, perhaps even to himself, thathe had been vanquished by one whom he had so much insulted whom he socruelly despised.
The Master of Ballantrae: A Winter's Tale Page 6