CHAPTER VI.—SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THE MASTER’S SECOND ABSENCE.
Of the heavy sickness which declared itself next morning I can think withequanimity, as of the last unmingled trouble that befell my master; andeven that was perhaps a mercy in disguise; for what pains of the bodycould equal the miseries of his mind? Mrs. Henry and I had the watchingby the bed. My old lord called from time to time to take the news, butwould not usually pass the door. Once, I remember, when hope was nighgone, he stepped to the bedside, looked awhile in his son’s face, andturned away with a gesture of the head and hand thrown up, that remainsupon my mind as something tragic; such grief and such a scorn ofsublunary things were there expressed. But the most of the time Mrs.Henry and I had the room to ourselves, taking turns by night, and bearingeach other company by day, for it was dreary watching. Mr. Henry, hisshaven head bound in a napkin, tossed fro without remission, beating thebed with his hands. His tongue never lay; his voice ran continuouslylike a river, so that my heart was weary with the sound of it. It wasnotable, and to me inexpressibly mortifying, that he spoke all the whileon matters of no import: comings and goings, horses—which he was evercalling to have saddled, thinking perhaps (the poor soul!) that he mightride away from his discomfort—matters of the garden, the salmon nets, and(what I particularly raged to hear) continually of his affairs, cypheringfigures 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—“Oh! Jamie will be drowned—Oh, 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, and tellingmyself that he fell lower every day. I was the one person on the surfaceof the globe that comprehended him, and I was bound there should be yetanother. Whether he was to die there and his virtues perish: or whetherhe should save his days and come back to that inheritance of sorrows, hisright memory: I was bound he should be heartily lamented in the one case,and unaffectedly welcomed in the other, by the person he loved the most,his wife.
Finding no occasion of free speech, I bethought me at last of a kind 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 my lady—almostmore than I had fortitude to overtake. Several days I went about with mypapers under my arm, spying for some juncture of talk to serve asintroduction. I will not deny but that some offered; only when they didmy tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; and I think I might have beencarrying about my packet till this day, had not a fortunate accidentdelivered me from all my hesitations. This was at night, when I was oncemore leaving the room, the thing not yet done, and myself in despair atmy 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 recklessly inquestion.
“Durrisdeer. “1757.
“HONOURED MADAM,
“I trust I would not step out of my place without occasion; but I see how much evil has flowed in the past to all of your noble house from that unhappy and secretive fault of reticency, and the papers on which I venture to call your attention are family papers, and all highly worthy your acquaintance.
“I append a schedule with some necessary observations,
“And am, “Honoured Madam, “Your ladyship’s obliged, obedient servant, “EPHRAIM MACKELLAR.
“Schedule of Papers.
“A. Scroll of ten letters from Ephraim Mackellar to the Hon. James Durie, Esq., by courtesy Master of Ballantrae during the latter’s residence in Paris: under dates . . . ” (follow the dates) . . . “Nota: to be read in connection with B. and C.
“B. Seven original letters from the said Mr of Ballantrae to the said E. Mackellar, under dates . . . ” (follow the dates.)
“C. Three original letters from the Mr of Ballantrae to the Hon. Henry Durie, Esq., under dates . . . ” (follow the dates) . . . “Nota: given me by Mr. Henry to answer: copies of my answers A 4, A 5, and A 9 of these productions. The purport of Mr. Henry’s communications, of which I can find no scroll, may be gathered from those of his unnatural brother.
“D. A correspondence, original and scroll, extending over a period of three years till January of the current year, between the said Mr of Ballantrae and — —, Under Secretary of State; twenty-seven in all. Nota: found among the Master’s papers.”
Weary as I was with watching and distress of mind, it was impossible forme to sleep. All night long I walked in my chamber, revolving whatshould be the issue, and sometimes repenting the temerity of my immixturein affairs so private; and with the first peep of the morning I was atthe sick-room door. Mrs. Henry had thrown open the shutters and even thewindow, for the temperature was mild. She looked steadfastly before her;where was nothing to see, or only the blue of the morning creeping amongwoods. Upon the stir of my entrance she did not so much as turn abouther face: a circumstance from which I augured very ill.
“Madam,” I began; and then again, “Madam;” but could make no more of it.Nor yet did Mrs. Henry come to my assistance with a word. In this pass 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, “GoodGod, 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 am drivendesperate. You have stricken the sword out of my hands; you have left usall defenceless. I had always these letters I could shake over his head;and now—What is to do? We are so falsely situate we dare not show theman the door; the country would fly on fire against us; and I had thisone hold upon him—and now it is gone—now he may come back to-morrow, andwe must all
sit down with him to dinner, go for a stroll with him on theterrace, or take a hand at cards, of all things, to divert his leisure!No, madam! God forgive you, if He can find it in His heart; for I cannotfind 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 any remnantof propriety, would have been but a sword of paper against him. He wouldsmile in your face at such a threat. He stands upon his degradation, hemakes that his strength; it is in vain to struggle with such characters.”She cried out this last a little desperately, and then with more quiet:“No, Mr. Mackellar; I have thought upon this matter all night, and thereis no way out of it. Papers or no papers, the door of this house standsopen for him; he is the rightful heir, forsooth! If we sought to excludehim, all would redound against poor Henry, and I should see him stonedagain upon the streets. Ah! if Henry dies, it is a different matter!They have broke the entail for their own good purposes; the estate goesto my daughter; and I shall see who sets a foot upon it. But if Henrylives, my poor Mr. Mackellar, and that man returns, we must suffer: onlythis 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 advanced aboutthe 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 bedfoot; but it did not appear that he observed her. And indeed (thefever being gone) he was so weak that he made but the one effort and sankagain into lethargy. The course of his restoration was now slow butequal; every day his appetite improved; every week we were able to remarkan increase both of strength and flesh; and before the end of the monthhe was out of bed and had even begun to be carried in his chair upon theterrace.
It was perhaps at this time that Mrs. Henry and I were the most uneasy inmind. 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 of subjects,his father came and sat with him and went again; and still there was noreference to the late tragedy or to the former troubles which had broughtit on. Did he remember, and conceal his dreadful knowledge? or was thewhole blotted from his mind? This was the problem that kept us watchingand trembling all day when we were in his company and held us awake atnight when we were in our lonely beds. We knew not even whichalternative to hope for, both appearing so unnatural and pointing sodirectly to an unsound brain. Once this fear offered, I observed hisconduct with sedulous particularity. Something of the child heexhibited: a cheerfulness quite foreign to his previous character, aninterest readily aroused, and then very tenacious, in small matters whichhe had heretofore despised. When he was stricken down, I was his onlyconfidant, and I may say his only friend, and he was on terms of divisionwith his wife; upon his recovery, all was changed, the past forgotten,the wife first and even single in his thoughts. He turned to her withall his emotions, like a child to its mother, and seemed secure ofsympathy; called her in all his needs with something of that querulousfamiliarity that marks a certainty of indulgence; and I must say, injustice to the woman, he was never disappointed. To her, indeed, thischanged behaviour was inexpressibly affecting; and I think she felt itsecretly as a reproach; so that I have seen her, in early days, escapeout of the room that she might indulge herself in weeping. But to me thechange appeared not natural; and viewing it along with all the rest, Ibegan to wonder, with many head-shakings, whether his reason wereperfectly erect.
As this doubt stretched over many years, endured indeed until my master’sdeath, and clouded all our subsequent relations, I may well consider ofit more at large. When he was able to resume some charge of his affairs,I had many opportunities to try him with precision. There was no lack ofunderstanding, nor yet of authority; but the old continuous interest hadquite departed; he grew readily fatigued, and fell to yawning; and hecarried into money relations, where it is certainly out of place, afacility that bordered upon slackness. True, since we had no longer theexactions of the Master to contend against, there was the less occasionto raise strictness into principle or do battle for a farthing. True,again, there was nothing excessive in these relaxations, or I would havebeen no party to them. But the whole thing marked a change, very slightyet very perceptible; and though no man could say my master had gone atall out of his mind, no man could deny that he had drifted from hischaracter. It was the same to the end, with his manner and appearance.Some of the heat of the fever lingered in his veins: his movements alittle hurried, his speech notably more voluble, yet neither truly amiss.His whole mind stood open to happy impressions, welcoming these andmaking much of them; but the smallest suggestion of trouble or sorrow hereceived with visible impatience and dismissed again with immediaterelief. It was to this temper that he owed the felicity of his laterdays; and yet here it was, if anywhere, that you could call the maninsane. A great part of this life consists in contemplating what wecannot cure; but Mr. Henry, if he could not dismiss solicitude by aneffort of the mind, must instantly and at whatever cost annihilate thecause of it; so that he played alternately the ostrich and the bull. Itis to this strenuous cowardice of pain that I have to set down all theunfortunate and excessive steps of his subsequent career. Certainly thiswas the reason of his beating McManus, the groom, a thing so much out ofall his former practice, and which awakened so much comment at the time.It is to this, again, that I must lay the total lose of near upon twohundred pounds, more than the half of which I could have saved if hisimpatience would have suffered me. But he preferred loss or anydesperate extreme to a continuance of mental suffering.
All this has led me far from our immediate trouble: whether he rememberedor had forgotten his late dreadful act; and if he remembered, in whatlight he viewed it. The truth burst upon us suddenly, and was indeed oneof the chief surprises of my life. He had been several times abroad, andwas now beginning to walk a little with an arm, when it chanced I shouldbe left alone with him upon the terrace. He turned to me with a singularfurtive smile, such as schoolboys use when in fault; and says he, in aprivate whisper and without the least preface: “Where have you buriedhim?”
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, but wascarried 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, and
cried 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 eternity!” says he, and, sitting down again,fell upon a stubborn silence.
A day or two after, with the same secret smile, and first looking 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.
“Oh yes he will,” said Mr. Henry. “Wherever I am, there will he be.”And again he looked all about him.
“You must not dwell upon this thought, Mr. Henry,” said I.
“No,” said he, “that is a very good advice. We will never think of it,except when you have news. And we do not know yet,” he added; “he may bedead.”
The manner of his saying this convinced me thoroughly of what I hadscarce ventured to suspect: that, so far from suffering any penitence forthe attempt, he did but lament his failure. This was a discovery I keptto 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 change inthe 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 clamber, from which it was often difficult to rouse him;seemed to have losst all count of years, and had several times(particularly on waking) called for his wife and for an old servant whosevery gravestone was now green with moss. If I had been put to my oath, Imust have declared he was incapable of testing; and yet there was never awill drawn more sensible in every trait, or showing a more excellentjudgment both of persons and affairs.
His dissolution, though it took not very long, proceeded by infinitesimalgradations. His faculties decayed together steadily; the power of hislimbs was almost gone, he was extremely deaf, his speech had sunk intomere mumblings; and yet to the end he managed to discover something ofhis former courtesy and kindness, pressing the hand of any that helpedhim, presenting me with one of his Latin books, in which he hadlaboriously traced my name, and in a thousand ways reminding us of thegreatness 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 pratisque, 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 more 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 from theaffection: the father from the strain of his unnatural sorrows—the sonperhaps in the excitation of the fever; each had ruptured a vessel on thebrain, and there was probably (my doctor added) some predisposition inthe family to accidents of that description. The father sank, the sonrecovered all the externals of a healthy man; but it is like there wassome destruction in those delicate tissues where the soul resides anddoes her earthly business; her heavenly, I would fain hope, cannot bethus obstructed by material accidents. And yet, upon a more matureopinion, it matters not one jot; for He who shall pass judgment on therecords of our life is the same that formed us in frailty.
The death of my old lord was the occasion of a fresh surprise to us whowatched the behaviour of his successor. To any considering mind, the twosons had between them slain their father, and he who took the sword mightbe 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 with aregretful cheerfulness, relating old examples of his character, smilingat them with a good conscience; and when the day of the funeral cameround, 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 to wish forit. Indeed, there never was a parent so fond and doting as he showedhimself. He was continually uneasy in his son’s absence. Was the childabroad? the father would be watching the clouds in case it rained. Wasit 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, “Thiswill fall in again handsomely for Alexander’s marriage.” Every day thisabsorption of the man’s nature became more observable, with many touchingand some very blameworthy particulars. Soon the child could walk abroadwith him, at first on the terrace, hand in hand, and afterward at largeabout the policies; and this grew to be my lord’s chief occupation. Thesound of their two voices (audible a great way off, for they spoke loud)became familiar in the neighbourhood; and for my part I found it moreagreeable than the sound of birds. It was pretty to see the pairreturning, full of briars, and the father as flushed and sometimes asbemuddied as the child, for they were equal sharers in all sorts ofboyish entertainment, digging in the beach, damming of streams, and whatnot; and I have seen them gaze through a fence at cattle with the samechildish 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 seven or eight, I had somebusiness on the far side in the morning, and entered the shrubbery, on myhomeward way, about nine of a bright forenoon. It was that time of yearwhen the woods are all in their spring colours, the thorns all in flower,and the birds in the high season of their singing. In contrast to thismerriment, the shrubbery was only the more sad, and I the more oppressedby 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. Th
ey 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, passed measure.But the worst was yet to come; for he added, turning to his son—“You canask Mackellar; he was here and saw it.”
“Is it true, Mr. Mackellar?” asked the child. “And did you really seethe devil?”
“I have not heard the tale,” I replied; “and I am in a press ofbusiness.” So far I said a little sourly, fencing with the embarrassmentof the position; and suddenly the bitterness of the past, and the terrorof that scene by candle-light, rushed in upon my mind. I bethought methat, for a difference of a second’s quickness in parade, the childbefore me might have never seen the day; and the emotion that alwaysfluttered round my heart in that dark shrubbery burst forth in words.“But so much is true,” I cried, “that I have met the devil in thesewoods, and seen him foiled here. Blessed be God that we escaped withlife—blessed be God that one stone yet stands upon another in the wallsof Durrisdeer! And, oh! Mr. Alexander, if ever you come by this spot,though it was a hundred years hence, and you came with the gayest and thehighest in the land, 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, whetherremembered anger choked his utterance, or whether he perceived this was asingular sort of prayer, at least he suddenly came to a full stop; and,after a moment, set back his hat upon his head.
“I think you have forgot a word, my lord,” said I. “‘Forgive us 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 care 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 he,musingly.
“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 laid upon 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.He lost himself in that continual thought: business, friends, and wifebeing all alike forgotten, or only remembered with a painful effort, likethat of one struggling with a posset. It was most notable in the matterof his wife. Since I had known Durrisdeer, she had been the burthen ofhis thought and the loadstone of his eyes; and now she was quite castout. I have seen him come to the door of a room, look round, and pass mylady over as though she were a dog before the fire. It would beAlexander 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 to intervene:the cause would still be the same, that she had in some way thwartedAlexander. Without doubt this was in the nature of a judgment on mylady. 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: the more praise toher that she played it well.
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 her sentimentto my lord, as it had been founded from the first in pity, was thatrather of a mother than a wife; perhaps it pleased her—if I may so say—tobehold her two children so happy in each other; the more as one hadsuffered so unjustly in the past. But, for all that, and though I couldnever trace in her one spark of jealousy, she must fall back for societyon poor neglected Miss Katharine; and I, on my part, came to pass myspare hours more and more with the mother and daughter. It would be easyto make too much of this division, for it was a pleasant family, asfamilies go; still the thing existed; whether my lord knew it or not, Iam in doubt. I do not think he did; he was bound up so entirely in hisson; but the rest of us knew it, and in a manner suffered from theknowledge.
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 seventhLord 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 in agesture 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 wakening must infallibly prove mortal. That he should survive itsdeath was inconceivable; and the fear of its dishonour made me cover myface.
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 had nearforsook my purpose. But I called to mind that I was speaking for hisgood, 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, straying from the direct path.“But do you think he was a wise father?”
There was a pause before he spoke, and then: “I say nothing against him,”he replied. “I had the most cause perhaps; but I say nothing.”
“Why, there it is,” said I. “You had the cause at least. And yet yourfather was a good man; I never knew a better, save on the one point, noryet a wiser. Where he stumbled, it is highly possible another man shouldfail. He had the two sons—”
My lord rapped suddenly and violently on the table.
“What is this?” cried he. “Speak out!”
“I will, then,” said I, my voice almost strangled with the thumping of myheart. “If you continue to indulge Mr. Alexander, you are following inyour father’s footsteps. Beware, my lord, lest (when he grows up) yourson 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 next momenthe fell heavily on the floor. The fit or seizure endured not very long;he came to himself vacantly, put his hand to his head, which I was thensupporting, and says he, in a broken voice: “I have been ill,” and alittle 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 wouldnae 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,” saidhe, 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 a singularthing: “Do you know what you are, Mr. Mackellar? You are an old maid.”
* * * * *
No more incident of any note occurred in the family until the return 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.