CHAPTER VI
SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THE MASTER'S SECOND ABSENCE
Of the heavy sickness which declared itself next morning I can thinkwith equanimity, as of the last unmingled trouble that befell my master;and even that was perhaps a mercy in disguise; for what pains of thebody could equal the miseries of his mind? Mrs. Henry and I had thewatching by the bed. My old lord called from time to time to take thenews, but would not usually pass the door. Once, I remember, when hopewas nigh gone, he stepped to the bedside, looked a while in his son'sface, and turned away with a singular gesture of the head and handthrown up, that remains upon my mind as something tragic; such grief andsuch a scorn of sublunary things were there expressed. But the most ofthe time Mrs. Henry and I had the room to ourselves, taking turns bynight, and bearing each other company by day, for it was drearywatching. Mr. Henry, his shaven head bound in a napkin, tossed to andfro without remission, beating the bed with his hands. His tongue neverlay; his voice ran continuously like a river, so that my heart was wearywith the sound of it. It was notable, and to me inexpressiblymortifying, that he spoke all the while on matters of no import: comingsand goings, horses--which he was ever calling to have saddled, thinkingperhaps (the poor soul!) that he might ride away from hisdiscomfort--matters of the garden, the salmon nets, and (what Iparticularly raged to hear) continually of his affairs, cipheringfigures and holding disputation with the tenantry. Never a word of hisfather or his wife, nor of the Master, save only for a day or two, whenhis mind dwelled entirely in the past, and he supposed himself a boyagain and upon some innocent child's play with his brother. What madethis the more affecting: it appeared the Master had then run some perilof his life, for there was a cry--"O! Jamie will be drowned--O, saveJamie!" which he came over and over with a great deal of passion.
This, I say, was affecting, both to Mrs. Henry and myself; but thebalance of my master's wanderings did him little justice. It seemed hehad set out to justify his brother's calumnies; as though he was bent toprove himself a man of a dry nature, immersed in money-getting. Had Ibeen 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, andtelling myself that he fell lower every day. I was the one person on thesurface of the globe that comprehended him, and I was bound there shouldbe yet another. Whether he was to die there and his virtues perish: orwhether he should save his days and come back to that inheritance ofsorrows, his right memory: I was bound he should be heartily lamented inthe one case, and unaffectedly welcomed in the other, by the person heloved the most, his wife.
Finding no occasion of free speech, I bethought me at last of a kind ofdocumentary disclosure; and for some nights, when I was off duty, andshould have been asleep, I gave my time to the preparation of that whichI may call my budget. But this I found to be the easiest portion of mytask, and that which remained--namely, the presentation to mylady--almost more than I had fortitude to overtake. Several days I wentabout with my papers under my arm, spying for some juncture of talk toserve as introduction. I will not deny but that some offered; only whenthey did my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; and I think I mighthave been carrying about my packet till this day, had not a fortunateaccident delivered me from all my hesitations. This was at night, whenI was once more leaving the room, the thing not yet done, and myself indespair at my own cowardice.
"What do you carry about with you, Mr. Mackellar?" she asked. "Theselast 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 onthe table, and left her to her reading. Of what that was, I am now togive you some idea; and the best will be to reproduce a letter of my ownwhich came first in the budget, and of which (according to an excellenthabitude) I have preserved the scroll. It will show, too, the moderationof my part in these affairs, a thing which some have called recklesslyin question.
Durrisdeer, 1757.
HONOURED MADAM,
I trust I would not step out of my place without occasion; but I see how much evil has flowed in the past to all of your noble house from that unhappy and secretive fault of reticency, and the papers on which I venture to call your attention are family papers, and all highly worthy your acquaintance.
I append a schedule with some necessary observations,
And am, Honoured Madam,
Your ladyship's obliged, obedient servant, EPHRAIM MACKELLAR.
_Schedule of Papers_.
A. Scroll of ten letters from Ephraim Mackellar to the Hon. James Durie, Esq., by courtesy Master of Ballantrae, during the latter's residence in Paris: under dates ... (_follow the dates_) ... _Nota_: to be read in connection with B and C.
B. Seven original letters from the said M^r of Ballantrae to the said E. Mackellar, under dates ... (_follow the dates_).
C. Three original letters from the said M^r of Ballantrae to the Hon. Henry Durie, Esq., under dates ... (_follow the dates_).... _Nota_: given me by Mr. Henry to answer: copies of my answers A 4, A 5, and A 9 of these productions. The purport of Mr. Henry's communications, of which I can find no scroll, may be gathered from those of his unnatural brother.
D. A correspondence, original and scroll, extending over a period of three years till January of the current year, between the said M^r of Ballantrae and ---- ----, Under Secretary of State; twenty-seven in all. _Nota_: found among the Master's papers.
Weary as I was with watching and distress of mind, it was impossible forme to sleep. All night long I walked in my chamber, revolving whatshould be the issue, and sometimes repenting the temerity of myimmixture in affairs so private; and with the first peep of the morningI was at the sick-room door. Mrs. Henry had thrown open the shutters,and even the window, for the temperature was mild. She lookedsteadfastly before her; where was nothing to see, or only the blue ofthe morning creeping among woods. Upon the stir of my entrance she didnot so much as turn about her face: a circumstance from which I auguredvery 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 Ibegan gathering up the papers where they lay scattered on the table; andthe first thing that struck me, their bulk appeared to have diminished.Once I ran them through, and twice; but the correspondence with theSecretary of State, on which I had reckoned so much against the future,was nowhere to be found. I looked in the chimney; amid the smoulderingembers, black ashes of paper fluttered in the draught; and at that mytimidity 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, itis too much, that you and I have seen them."
"This is a fine night's work that you have done!" cried I. "And all tosave the reputation of a man that ate bread by the shedding of hiscomrades' 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 amdriven desperate. You have stricken the sword out of my hands; you haveleft us all defenceless. I had always these letters I could shake overhis head; and now--what is to do? We are so falsely situate we dare notshow the man the door; the country would fly on fire against us; and Ihad this one hold upon him--and now it is gone--now he may come backto-morrow, and we must all sit down with him to dinner, go for a strollwith him on the terrace, or take a hand at cards, of all things, todivert his leisure! No, madam! God forgive you, if He can find it in Hisheart; for I cannot find it in mine."
"I wonder to find you so simple, Mr. Mackellar," said Mrs. Henry. "Whatdoes this man value reputation? But he knows how high we prize it; heknows we would rather die than make these letters public; and do yousuppose he would not trade upon the
knowledge? What you call your sword,Mr. Mackellar, and which had been one indeed against a man of anyremnant 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 hisdegradation, he makes that his strength; it is in vain to struggle withsuch characters." She cried out this last a little desperately, and thenwith more quiet: "No, Mr. Mackellar; I have thought upon this matter allnight, and there is no way out of it. Papers or no papers, the door ofthis house stands open for him; he is the rightful heir, forsooth! If wesought to exclude him, all would redound against poor Henry, and Ishould see him stoned again upon the streets. Ah! if Henry dies, it is adifferent matter! They have broke the entail for their own goodpurposes; the estate goes to my daughter; and I shall see who sets afoot upon it. But if Henry lives, my poor Mr. Mackellar, and that manreturns, we must suffer: only this time it will be together."
On the whole I was well pleased with Mrs. Henry's attitude of mind; norcould I even deny there was some cogency in that which she advancedabout the papers.
"Let us say no more about it," said I. "I can only be sorry I trusted alady with the originals, which was an unbusinesslike proceeding at thebest. As for what I said of leaving the service of the family, it wasspoken with the tongue only; and you may set your mind at rest. I belongto Durrisdeer, Mrs. Henry, as if I had been born there."
I must do her the justice to say she seemed perfectly relieved; so thatwe began this morning, as we were to continue for so many years, on aproper ground of mutual indulgence and respect.
The same day, which was certainly prededicate to joy, we observed thefirst signal of recovery in Mr. Henry; and about three of the followingafternoon he found his mind again, recognising me by name with thestrongest evidences of affection. Mrs. Henry was also in the room, atthe bed-foot; but it did not appear that he observed her. And indeed(the fever being gone) he was so weak that he made but the one effortand sank again into a lethargy. The course of his restoration was nowslow, but equal; every day his appetite improved; every week we wereable to remark an increase both of strength and flesh; and before theend of the month he was out of bed and had even begun to be carried inhis chair upon the terrace.
It was perhaps at this time that Mrs. Henry and I were the most uneasyin mind. Apprehension for his days was at an end; and a worse fearsucceeded. Every day we drew consciously nearer to a day of reckoning;and the days passed on, and still there was nothing. Mr. Henry betteredin strength, he held long talks with us on a great diversity ofsubjects, his father came and sat with him and went again; and stillthere was no reference to the late tragedy or to the former troubleswhich had brought it on. Did he remember, and conceal his dreadfulknowledge? or was the whole blotted from his mind? This was the problemthat 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 noteven which alternative to hope for, both appearing so unnatural, andpointing so directly to an unsound brain. Once this fear offered, Iobserved his conduct with sedulous particularity. Something of the childhe exhibited: a cheerfulness quite foreign to his previous character, aninterest readily aroused, and then very tenacious, in small matterswhich he had heretofore despised. When he was stricken down, I was hisonly confidant, and I may say his only friend, and he was on terms ofdivision with his wife; upon his recovery, all was changed, the pastforgotten, the wife first and even single in his thoughts. He turned toher with all his emotions, like a child to its mother, and seemed secureof sympathy; called her in all his needs with something of thatquerulous familiarity that marks a certainty of indulgence and I mustsay, in justice to the woman, he was never disappointed. To her, indeed,this changed behaviour was inexpressibly affecting; and I think she feltit 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 tome the change appeared not natural; and viewing it along with all therest, I began to wonder, with many head-shakings, whether his reasonwere perfectly erect.
As this doubt stretched over many years, endured indeed until mymaster's death, and clouded all our subsequent relations, I may wellconsider of it more at large. When he was able to resume some charge ofhis affairs, I had many opportunities to try him with precision. Therewas no lack of understanding, nor yet of authority; but the oldcontinuous interest had quite departed; he grew readily fatigued, andfell to yawning; and he carried into money relations, where it iscertainly 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 dobattle for a farthing. True, again, there was nothing excessive in theserelaxations, or I would have been no party to them. But the whole thingmarked a change, very slight yet very perceptible; and though no mancould say my master had gone at all out of his mind, no man could denythat he had drifted from his character. It was the same to the end, withhis manner and appearance. Some of the heat of the fever lingered in hisveins: 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 oftrouble or sorrow he received with visible impatience, and dismissedagain with immediate relief. It was to this temper that he owed thefelicity of his later days; and yet here it was, if anywhere, that youcould call the man insane. A great part of this life consists incontemplating what we cannot cure; but Mr. Henry, if he could notdismiss solicitude by an effort of the mind, must instantly and atwhatever cost annihilate the cause of it; so that he played alternatelythe ostrich and the bull. It is to this strenuous cowardice of pain thatI have to set down all the unfortunate and excessive steps of hissubsequent career. Certainly this was the reason of his beating M'Manus,the groom, a thing so much out of all his former practice, and whichawakened so much comment at the time. It is to this, again, that I mustlay the total loss of near upon two hundred pounds, more than the halfof which I could have saved if his impatience would have suffered me.But he preferred loss or any desperate extreme to a continuance ofmental suffering.
All this has led me far from our immediate trouble: whether heremembered or had forgotten his late dreadful act; and if he remembered,in what light he viewed it. The truth burst upon us suddenly, and wasindeed one of the chief surprises of my life. He had been several timesabroad, and was now beginning to walk a little with, an arm, when itchanced I should be left alone with him upon the terrace. He turned tome with a singular furtive smile, such as schoolboys use when in fault;and says he, in a private whisper, and without the least preface: "Wherehave 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 humanlikelihood, your hands are clear of blood. I reason from certainindices; and by these it should appear your brother was not dead, butwas carried in a swound on board the lugger. But now he may be perfectlyrecovered."
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 befound deceptive, but in my heart I think it very probable he is alive."
"Ah!" says Mr. Henry; and suddenly rising from his seat with morealacrity than he had yet discovered, set one finger on my breast, andcried at me in a kind of screaming whisper, "Mackellar"--these were hiswords--"nothing can kill that man. He is not mortal. He is bound upon myback to all eternity--to all God's eternity!" says he, and, sitting downagain, fell upon a stubborn silence.
A day or two after, with the same secret smile, and first looking aboutas if to be sure we were alone, "Mackellar," said he, "when you have anyintelligence, be sure and let me know. We must keep an eye upon him, orhe will take us when we least expect."
"He will not show face here again," said I.
"O yes, he will," said Mr. Henry. "Wherever I am, there will he be." Andagain 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 bedead."
The manner of his saying this convinced me thoroughly of what I hadscarce ventured to suspect: that, so far from suffering any penitencefor the attempt, he did but lament his failure. This was a discovery Ikept to myself, fearing it might do him a prejudice with his wife. But Imight have saved myself the trouble; she had divined it for herself, andfound the sentiment quite natural. Indeed, I could not but say thatthere were three of us, all of the same mind; nor could any news havereached Durrisdeer more generally welcome than tidings of the Master'sdeath.
This brings me to speak of the exception, my old lord. As soon as myanxiety for my own master began to be relaxed, I was aware of a changein the old gentleman, his father, that seemed to threaten mortalconsequences.
His face was pale and swollen; as he sat in the chimney-side with hisLatin, he would drop off sleeping and the book roll in the ashes; somedays he would drag his foot, others stumble in speaking. The amenity ofhis behaviour appeared more extreme; full of excuses for the leasttrouble, very thoughtful for all; to myself, of a most flatteringcivility. One day, that he had sent for his lawyer, and remained a longwhile private, he met me as he was crossing the hall with painfulfootsteps, and took me kindly by the hand. "Mr. Mackellar," said he, "Ihave had many occasions to set a proper value on your services; andto-day, when I re-cast my will, I have taken the freedom to name you forone of my executors. I believe you bear love enough to our house torender me this service." At that very time he passed the greater portionof 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 servantwhose very gravestone was now green with moss. If I had been put to myoath, I must have declared he was incapable of testing; and yet therewas never a will drawn more sensible in every trait, or showing a moreexcellent judgment both of persons and affairs.
His dissolution, though it took not very long, proceeded byinfinitesimal gradations. His faculties decayed together steadily; thepower of his limbs was almost gone, he was extremely deaf, his speechhad sunk into mere mumblings; and yet to the end he managed to discoversomething of his former courtesy and kindness, pressing the hand of anythat helped him, presenting me with one of his Latin books, in which hehad laboriously traced my name, and in a thousand ways reminding us ofthe greatness of that loss which it might almost be said we had alreadysuffered. To the end, the power of articulation returned to him inflashes; it seemed he had only forgotten the art of speech as a childforgets 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 wordsfrom Virgil: "_Gnatique patrisque, alma, precor, miserere_," perfectlyuttered, and with a fitting accent. At the sudden clear sound of it westarted from our several occupations; but it was in vain we turned tohim; he sat there silent, and, to all appearance, fatuous. A littlelater he was had to bed with more difficulty than ever before; and sometime in the night, without any mortal violence, his spirit fled.
At a far later period I chanced to speak of these particulars with adoctor of medicine, a man of so high a reputation that I scruple toadduce his name. By his view of it, father and son both suffered fromthe same affection: the father from the strain of his unnaturalsorrows--the son, perhaps in the excitation of the fever; each hadruptured a vessel in the brain, and there was probably (my doctor added)some predisposition in the family to accidents of that description. Thefather sank, the son recovered all the externals of a healthy man; butit is like there was some destruction in those delicate tissues wherethe soul resides and does her earthly business; her heavenly, I wouldfain hope, cannot be thus obstructed by material accidents. And yet,upon a more mature opinion, it matters not one jot; for He who shallpass judgment on the records of our life is the same that formed us infrailty.
The death of my old lord was the occasion of a fresh surprise to us whowatched the behaviour of his successor. To any considering mind, the twosons had between them slain their father, and he who took the swordmight be even said to have slain him with his hand; but no such thoughtappeared to trouble my new lord. He was becomingly grave; I could scarcesay sorrowful, or only with a pleasant sorrow; talking of the dead witha regretful cheerfulness, relating old examples of his character,smiling at them with a good conscience; and when the day of the funeralcame round, doing the honours with exact propriety. I could perceive,besides, that he found a solid gratification in his accession to thetitle; the which he was punctilious in exacting.
* * * * *
And now there came upon the scene a new character, and one that playedhis part, too, in the story; I mean the present lord, Alexander, whosebirth (17th July 1757) filled the cup of my poor master's happiness.There was nothing then left him to wish for; nor yet leisure for him towish for it. Indeed, there never was a parent so fond and doting as heshowed himself. He was continually uneasy in his son's absence. Was thechild 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. Hisconversation grew even wearyful to strangers, since he talked of littlebut his son. In matters relating to the estate, all was designed with aparticular eye to Alexander; and it would be:--"Let us put it in hand atonce, that the wood may be grown against Alexander's majority"; or,"This will fall in again handsomely for Alexander's marriage." Every daythis absorption of the man's nature became more observable, with manytouching and some very blameworthy particulars. Soon the child couldwalk abroad with him, at first on the terrace, hand in hand, andafterward at large about the policies; and this grew to be my lord'schief occupation. The sound of their two voices (audible a great wayoff, for they spoke loud) became familiar in the neighbourhood; and formy part I found it more agreeable than the sound of birds. It was prettyto see the pair returning full of briers, and the father as flushed andsometimes as bemuddied as the child, for they were equal sharers in allsorts of boyish entertainment, digging in the beach, damming of streams,and what not; and I have seen them gaze through a fence at cattle withthe same childish contemplation.
The mention of these rambles brings me to a strange scene of which I wasa witness. There was one walk I never followed myself without emotion,so often had I gone there upon miserable errands, so much had therebefallen against the house of Durrisdeer. But the path lay handy fromall points beyond the Muckle Ross; and I was driven, although muchagainst my will, to take my use of it perhaps once in the two months. Itbefell when Mr. Alexander was of the age of six or seven, I had somebusiness on the far side in the morning, and entered the shrubbery, onmy homeward way, about nine of a bright forenoon. It was that time ofyear when the woods are all in their spring colours, the thorns all inflower, and the birds in the high season of their singing. In contrastto this merriment, the shrubbery was only the more sad, and I the moreoppressed by its associations. In this situation of spirit it struck medisagreeably to hear voices a little way in front, and to recognise thetones of my lord and Mr. Alexander. I pushed ahead, and came presentlyinto their view. They stood together in the open space where the duelwas, my lord with his hand on his son's shoulder, and speaking with somegravity. At least, as he raised his head upon my coming, I thought Icould perceive his countenance to lighten.
"Ah!" says he, "here comes the good Mackellar. I have just been tellingSandie the story of this place, and how there was a man whom the deviltried to kill, and how near he came to kill the devil instead."
I had thought it strange enough he should bring the child into thatscene; that he should actually be discoursing of his act, passedmeasure. But the worst was yet to come: for he added, turning to hisson--"You can ask Mack
ellar; he was here and saw it."
"Did you really see the devil?" asked the child.
"I have not heard the tale," I replied; "and I am in a press ofbusiness." So far I said, sourly, fencing with the embarrassment of theposition; and suddenly the bitterness of the past, and the terror ofthat 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 memight have never seen the day; and the emotion that always flutteredround my heart in that dark shrubbery burst forth in words. "But so muchis true," I cried, "that I have met the devil in these woods, and seenhim foiled here. Blessed be God that we escaped with life--blessed beGod that one stone yet stands upon another in the walls of Durrisdeer!And, O! Mr. Alexander, if ever you come by this spot, though it was ahundred years hence, and you came with the gayest and the highest in theland, I would step aside and remember a bit prayer."
My lord bowed his head gravely. "Ah!" says he, "Mackellar is always inthe right. Come, Alexander, take your bonnet off." And with that heuncovered, and held out his hand. "O Lord," said he, "I thank Thee andmy son thanks Thee, for Thy manifold great mercies. Let us have peacefor a little; defend us from the evil man. Smite him, O Lord, upon thelying mouth!" The last broke out of him like a cry; and at that,whether remembered anger choked his utterance, or whether he perceivedthis was a singular sort of prayer, at least he suddenly came to a fullstop; and, after a moment, set back his hat upon his head.
"I think you have forgot a word, my lord," said I. "'Forgive us ourtrespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. For Thine isthe 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 sillyfigure if I had the affectation to pretend it."
"The bairn, my lord!" said I, with some severity, for I thought hisexpressions little fitted for the ears of children.
"Why, very true," said he. "This is dull work for a bairn. Let's gonesting."
I forget if it was the same day, but it was soon after, my lord, findingme 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 alight heart."
"There is an obligation in happiness--do you not think so?" says hemusingly.
"I think so indeed," says I, "and one in sorrow too. If we are not hereto try to do the best, in my humble opinion the sooner we are away thebetter 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 laidupon us strictly," said I.
"Hut!" said he. "These are expressions! Do you forgive the manyourself?"
"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 Christianpeople. 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 roomlaughing aloud.
* * * * *
For my lord's slavery to the child I can find no expression adequate. Helost himself in that continual thought: business, friends, and wifebeing all alike forgotten, or only remembered with a painful effort,like that of one struggling with a posset. It was most notable in thematter of his wife. Since I had known Durrisdeer, she had been theburthen of his thought and the loadstone of his eyes; and now she wasquite 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 wouldbe Alexander he was seeking, and my lady knew it well. I have heard himspeak to her so ruggedly that I nearly found it in my heart tointervene: the cause would still be the same, that she had in some waythwarted Alexander. Without doubt this was in the nature of a judgmenton my lady. Without doubt she had the tables turned upon her, as onlyProvidence can do it; she who had been cold so many years to every markof tenderness, it was her part now to be neglected.
An odd situation resulted: that we had once more two parties in thehouse, and that now I was of my lady's. Not that ever I lost the love Ibore 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 thatof 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 hersentiment 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 Imay say so--to behold her two children so happy in each other; the moreas one had suffered so unjustly in the past. But, for all that, andthough I could never trace in her one spark of jealousy, she must fallback 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 apleasant family, as families go; still the thing existed; whether mylord knew it or not, I am in doubt. I do not think he did; he was boundup so entirely in his son; but the rest of us knew it, and in a mannersuffered from the knowledge.
What troubled us most, however, was the great and growing danger to thechild. My lord was his father over again; it was to be feared the sonwould prove a second Master. Time has proved these fears to have beenquite exaggerate. Certainly there is no more worthy gentleman to-day inScotland than the seventh Lord Durrisdeer. Of my own exodus from hisemployment it does not become me to speak, above all in a memorandumwritten 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 personof his son, a second edition of his brother. My lady had tried tointerject some wholesome discipline; she had been glad to give that up,and now looked on with secret dismay; sometimes she even spoke of it byhints; and sometimes, when there was brought to her knowledge somemonstrous instance of my lord's indulgence, she would betray herself ina gesture or perhaps an exclamation. As for myself, I was haunted by thethought both day and night: not so much for the child's sake as for thefather's. The man had gone to sleep, he was dreaming a dream, and anyrough awakening must infallibly prove mortal. That he should survive thechild's death was inconceivable; and the fear of its dishonour made mecover my face.
It was this continual preoccupation that screwed me up at last to aremonstrance: a matter worthy to be narrated in detail. My lord and Isat one day at the same table upon some tedious business of detail; Ihave said that he had lost his former interest in such occupations; hewas plainly itching to be gone, and he looked fretful, weary, andmethought older than I had ever previously observed. I suppose it wasthe haggard face that put me suddenly upon my enterprise.
"My lord," said I, with my head down, and feigning to continue myoccupation--"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 hadnear forsook my purpose. But I called to mind that I was speaking forhis 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 doingwith my son?"
"Your father was a very good man," says I, strayi
ng from the directpath. "But do you think he was a wise father?"
There was a pause before he spoke, and then: "I say nothing againsthim," 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 yourfather 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 manshould fall. He had the two sons----"
My lord rapped suddenly and violently on the table.
"What is this?" cried he. "Speak out!"
"I will, then," said I, my voice almost strangled with the thumping ofmy heart. "If you continue to indulge Mr. Alexander, you are followingin 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 offear there comes a brutal kind of courage, the most brutal indeed ofall; 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 nextmoment he fell heavily on the floor. The fit or seizure endured not verylong; he came to himself vacantly, put his hand to his head, which I wasthen supporting, and says he, in a broken voice: "I have been ill," anda little after: "Help me." I got him to his feet, and he stood prettywell, though he kept hold of the table. "I have been ill, Mackellar," hesaid again. "Something broke, Mackellar--or was going to break, and thenall swam away. I think I was very angry. Never you mind, Mackellar;never you mind, my man. I wouldna hurt a hair upon your head. Too muchhas 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 withpenitence.
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? Willnothing teach you your position in this house? Will you never cease frommaking and meddling?"
"My lady," said I, "since I have been in this house I have had plenty ofhard words. For a while they were my daily diet, and I swallowed themall. As for to-day, you may call me what you please; you will never findthe name hard enough for such a blunder. And yet I meant it for thebest."
I told her all with ingenuity, even as it is written here; and when shehad heard me out, she pondered, and I could see her animosity fall."Yes," she said, "you meant well indeed. I have had the same thoughtmyself, 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 bearno more!" she cried. "The cord is stretched to snapping. What mattersthe future if he have one or two good days?"
"Amen," said I. "I will meddle no more. I am pleased enough that youshould recognise the kindness of my meaning."
"Yes," said my lady; "but when it came to the point, I have to supposeyour courage failed you; for what you said was said cruelly." Shepaused, looking at me; then suddenly smiled a little, and said asingular thing: "Do you know what you are, Mr. Mackellar? You are an oldmaid."
* * * * *
No more incident of any note occurred in the family until the return ofthat ill-starred man, the Master. But I have to place here a secondextract from the memoirs of Chevalier Burke, interesting in itself, andhighly necessary for my purpose. It is our only sight of the Master onhis 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 hadknown some twenty years ago, how many calamities and sorrows had beenspared!--that Secundra Dass spoke English.
The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 12 Page 8