Rensselaer Republican, Volume 25, Number 23, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 February 1893 — The Master of Ballantrae [ARTICLE]

The Master of Ballantrae

By Robert Louis Stevenson.

CHAPTER Xll—Continued. And yet at the time we seemed to have accomplished nothing. Before a day or two he had wiped.off the ill results of his discomfiture, and to all appearance stood us high as ever. As for my Lord Durrisdeer, he was sunk in parental partiality; it was ‘ not so much love, which should be an active quality, as an apathy and torpor of his other powers; and forgiveness (so to misapply a noble word)flowed from him in sheer weak-, ness, like the tears of senility. Mrs., Henry’s was a different, case; and Heaven alone knowswhat. he found to say to her or how he persuaded her from her contempt. It is one of the worst things of sentiment that the voice grows to be more important than the words, and the speaker than that w*hich is spoken. But some excuse the master must have found, or perhaps he had even struck upon some art to wrest this exposure to his own advantage; for after a time of coldness, it seemed as if things went worse than ever between him and Mrs. Henry. They were then constantly together. I would not be thought to cast one shadow of blame, beyond what is due to a half willful blindness, on that unfortunate lady; but I do think, in these last days, she was playing very near the fire; and whether I be wrong or not in that, one thing is sure and quite sufficient; Mr. Henry thought so. The poor gentleman sat for days in my room, so great a picture of distress that I could never venture to address him; yet it is to be thought he found some comfort even in my presence and the knowledge of-my sympathy. There .were times too, when we talked, and a strange manner of talk it was; there was never a person named, nor an individual circumstance referred to; yet we had the same matter in our minds, and we wore each aware of it. It is a strange art that can thus be practiced] to talk for hours of a thing, and never name nor yet so much as hint at it. And I remember I wondered if it was by some such natural skill that the master made love to Mrs; Henry all day* long (as he manifestly did),<yet never startled her into reserve.

To show how far affairs had gone with Mr. Henry, I .will give some words of his, uttered (as I have -cause not to forget) upon the 26 th of February, 1757. It was unseasonable weather, a cast back into winter; windless, bitter cold, the world all white with rime, the sky low and gray; the sea black and silent like a quarry hole. Mr. Henry sat close by the fire and debated (as was now ■common with him) whether “a man” should “do things,” whether’ “interference was wise,” and the like general propositions, which each of us particularly applied. I was by the window looking out, when there passed below me the master, Mrs. Henry and Miss Katharine, that now constant trio. The child was runping to and fro delighted with the frost; the master spoke close in the lady’s ear with what seemed (even from so far) a devilish grace of insinuation; and she on her part looked on the ground like a person lost in listening. I broke out of my reserve. “If I were you, Mr. Henry," said I, “I would deal openly with my lord " “Mackellar, Mackellar,” said he, ‘ ‘you do not see the weakness of my ground. 1 can carry no such base thoughts to any one; to my father least of all; that would be to fall into the bottom of his scorn. The weakness of my ground,” he continued, lies in myself, that I am not one who engages love. I have their gratitude; they all tell me that; I have a rich estate of it! But lam not present in their minds; they are moved neither to think with me nor to think for me. There is my loss!” He got to his feet, and trod down the fire. “But some method must be found, Mackellar/’ said he, looking at me suddenly over his shoulder, “some way must be found. lam a man of a great deal lot patience—far too much —far too much. I begin to despise myself. ’ And yet sure never was a man involved in such a toil!'” He fell back to his brooding. . “Cheer up,” said I. “It will burst of itself.” “I am far past anger now," says he, which had so little coherency with my own observation that I let both fall.

CHAPTER XIII. ACCOUNT OF -AM. THAT PASSED ON THE NIGHT OF FEBRUARY 27, 1757. On the evening of the interview referred to, the master went abroad a great deal of the next day also, that fatal 27th; but where he went or what he did, we never concerned ourselves to ask until next day. If we hud done so, and by any chance found out, it might. have changed all. But as all we did was done in ignorance, and should be so judged, I shall so narrate these passages as they appeared to us in the moment of their birth, and reserve all that I since discovered for the time of its discovery. For I have now come to one of the dark parts of my narrative, and must engage )he reader’s indulgence for my patron. All the 27th that rigorous weather endured; a stifling cold; the folk passing about like smoking chimneys; the wide hearth in the hall piled high with fuel; some of the spring birds that had already blundered north into our neighborhood begieging the windows of the house or trotting on the frozen turf like things distracted. About noon there came a blink of •uoahine, showing a very pretty,

wint-ery, frosty landscape of white hills and woods, with Crail’s lugger waiting for wind under the Craig head, and the smoke mounting up straight into the air from every farm and cottage. With the coming of night the haze closed in overhead; it fell dark and still and starless and exceeding cold; a night the most unseasonable, fit for strange events. Mrs. Henry withdrew, as was now Ter custom, very early. We had set ourselves of late to pass the evening with a game of cards; another mark that our visitor was wearying mightily of the life of Durrisdeer; and we had not ’ been long at this, when my old lord slipped from his place beside the fire and was off without a word to seek the warmth of bed. The three thus left together had neither love nor courtesy to share; not one of us would have sat up one instant to oblige another; yet from the influence of custom and as the cards had just been dealt we continued the 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 was already 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 any way affected with liquor, he had been drinking freely and was perhaps (although he showed it not) a trifle heated. Any way, he now practiced one of his transitions; and so soon as the door closed behind my lord, and without the slightest change of voice, shifted from ordinary civil talk into a stream of insult.

“My dear Henry, it is yours to play/ he had been saying, and now continued: “It is a very strange thing how, even in so small a matter as a game of cards, you display your rusticity. You play, Jacob, like a bonnet laird or a sailor in a tavern. The same dullness, the same petty greed. It is strange I should have such a brother. Even Square toes has a certain vivacity when his stake is imperiled; but the dreariness of a game with you, I positively lack language to describe.” Mr. Henry continued to look at his cards, as though very maturely considering some play: but his mind was elsewhere.

“Dear God, will this never be done?” cries the master. “Quel lordeau! But why do I trouble, you with French expressions, which are lost on such an ignoramus? A lourdeau, my dear brother, is as we might say, a bumpkin, a clown, a clodpole; a fellow without grace, lightness, quickness, any gift of pleasing, any natural brilliancy, such a one as you shall see, when you desire, by looking in the mirror. I tell you these things for your good, I*assure you; and besides, Squaretoes” (looking at me and stifling a yawn), “it is one of my diversions in this very dreary spot to toast you and your master at the fire like chestnuts. I have great pleasure in your case, fori observe the nickname (rustic as it is) has always the power to make you writhe. But sometimes I have more trouble with this dear fellow here, who seems to have gone to sleep upon his cards. Do you not see the applicability of the epithet I have just explained, dear Henry? Let me show you. For instance, with all those solid qualities’ I delight to recognize in you, I never knewr a woman who did not prefer me —nor I think," he continued, with the most silken deliberation, “I think —who did not continue to prefer me.” Mr. Henry laid down his cards. He rose to his fe3t very softly and seemed all the while like a person in deep though t. - /-^ u coW ard!” he said gently, as if to himself. And then, with neither hurry nor any particular violence, he struck the master in the mouth.

The master sprung to his feet like one transfigured. I had never seen the man so beantiful. “A blow!” he cried. “I would not take a blow from God Almighty.” “Lower your voice,” said Mr. Henry. “Do you wish my father to in terfere for 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 still addressing his brother: “Do you know what this means?” said he. “It was the most delibrate 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 wall and took down a pair of swords that hung there with others, naked. These he presented to the master by the points. “Mackellar shall see us fair play," said Mr. Henry. “I think it very needful.” “You need insult me no more,” said the master, taking one of the swords at random. “I have hated you all my life.” “My father has newly gone to his .bed,” said Mr. Henry. Y ‘We must go somewhere forth of the house." “There is an excellent place in the long shrubbery.” said the master, said I, “shame upon you both! Sons of the same mother, would you turn against the life she gave you?” f “Even so, Mackellar,” said Mr. Henry, with the same quietude of manner he had shown throughout “It is what I’will prevent/’ said I. And now here is a blot upon my Jife. At these words of mine the master turned 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 good thing to have a coward in the house." “We must have light," said Mr.

Henry, as though there had been no interruption. ■ •< “This trembler can bring s pair of candles,” said the mas tob. -. To my shame be it said, I was so blinded with the flashing of that bare sword that I volunteered to bring a lantern. “We do not need a 1-1-lahtern,” said the master, mocking me. “There is no breath of air, Come, get to your feet, take a pair of lights and go before. I am close behind with this—” making the blade glitter as he spoke. I took up the candlesticks and went before them, steps that I would give my hand to recall; but a coward is a slave at best, and even as I went my teeth smote each other in my mouth. It was as he had said, there was no breath stirring; a windless structure of frost had bound the air; and as we went forth ,in the shine of the candles the blackness was like a roof oVer our heads. Never a word was said; there was never a sound but the creaking of our s teps along the frozen path. The cold of the night fell upon me like a bucket of water; I shook as I went with more than terror: but my companions, bareheaded like myself, and fresh from the warm hall, appeared not even conscious of the change. “Here is the place, ” said the master. “Set down the candles. ” I did as he bade me, and presently the flames went up as steadily as in a chamber in the midst of the frosted trees, and I beheld these two brothers take their places. “The light is something in iny eyes,” said the master. “I will give you every ad van tage,” said Mr. Henry, shifting his ground, “for I think you are about to die.” He spoke rather sadly than otherwise, yet there was a ring in his voice. “Henry Durie,” said the master, “two words before I begin. You are a fencer, you can bold a foil: you little know what a change it makes to hold a sword! By that I know you are to fall! See how strong is my case! If you fall, I shift out of this country to where my money is b efore me. If I fall, where are you? My father, your wife who is in love with me—as you very well know —your child even who prefers me to yourself; how will these avenge me! Had you thought of that, dear Henry?” He looked at his brother with a smile; then made a fendng-room salute. Never a word said Mr. Henry, but saluted too, and the swords raug together. lam no judge of the play, my head besides was gone with cold and fear and horror; but it seemed that Mr. Henry took and kept the upper hand from the engagement, crowding in upon his foe with a contained and glowing fury. Nearer and nearer he crept upon the man till, of a sudden, the master leaped back with a little sobbing oath; and I believe the movement brought the light once more against his eyes. To it they went again, on the fresh ground; but now methought closer, Mr. Henry pressing more outrageously, the master beyond doubt with shaken confidence. For it is beyond doubt Tyfiow recognized himself for lost, and some taste of the cold agony of fear; or he had never attempted the foul stroke. I cannot say I followed it, my untrained eye was never quick enough to seize details, but it appears he caught his brother’s blade with his left hand, a practice not permitted. Certainly Mr. Henry only saved himself by leaping on one side; as certainly the master, lung-

ing in the air, stumbled on his knee, and before he could move, the sword was through his body, I cried out with a stifled scream, and ran in; but the body was already fallen to the ground, where it writhed a moment like a trodden worm, and then lay motionless. “Look at his left hand,” said Mr. Henry. “It's all bloody,” said I. “On the inside?” said he. “It is cut on the inside,” said I. “I thought so,” said he, and turn ed his back. I opened the man’s clothes; the heart was quite still, it gave not a flutter. “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 suddeniy cast his bloody sword upon the. ground. “What must we do?” said I. “Be yourself, sir. It is too late now: you must be yourself.” He turned and stared at me. “Oh, Mackellar!” says he, and put his face in his hands. I plucked him by the coat. “For God's sake, for all our sakes, be courageous!” said I. “What must we do?”

He showed me his face with the samd stupid stare. “Do?” says he. And with that his eye fell on the body, and ‘ ‘Oh I” he cries out, with his hand to his brow, as if he had never remembered; and turning from me, made off toward the house of Purrisdeer at a strange stumbling run. I stood a moment musbd; then it seemed to me my duty lay most - plain on the side of the living; and I ran after him, leaving the candles on the frosty ground and the body lying in their light under the trees. But run as I pleased, he had the start of me, and was got into the house, and up to.the hall, where I foynd him standing before the fire with his face once more in bis hands, and as he 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

with a countenance that I shall never forget, “Whois to tell the old man?” he said. The word knocked at my heart; but it was ho time for weakness. I went and poured him out a glass of brandy. : ‘Drink that,” said I, “drink it down. ” I forced him to swallow it like a child; and, being still perished with the cold of the night, I followed his example. “Ithas to be told, Maekellar. ’ ’ said he. “It must be told.” And he fell suddenly in a seat —my old lord’s seat by the chimney-side—-and was shaken with 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 in my hand, I set forth out of the room in the dark house. There was no movement; I must suppose that all had gone unobserved; and I was. now to consider how to smuggle through the rest with the like secresy. It was no hour for scruples; and I opened my lady’s door without so much as a knock, and passed boldly in. “There is some calamity happencried, sitting up in bed. “Madame,” said I, “I will go forth again into the passage; and do you get as 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 I had time to prepare a word of that which I must say to her, she was on the threshold signing me to enter. “Madame,” said I, “if you cannot be very brave, I must go elsewhere; for if 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 of smile, 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 of which 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 a question? Indeed, then I may go elsewhere for help; there is none here!” ‘‘l do not know in what I have offended you,” said she. “Forgive me; put me 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 poor woman 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 these men you have spent all of your hours; has the other reproached you? To one, you have been always kind; to the other, as God sees me and judges between 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 hearing of a dire stranger—that you were in love with him. Before I say one word, you shall answer your own question: Which was it? Nay, madam, you shall answer me another: If it has come to this dreadful end, whose fault is it?” She stared at me like one dazzled. “Good God!” she. said once, in a kind of bursting exclamation; and

then a second time, in a whisper to herself, “Great God! In the name of mercy, Mackellar, what is wrong? I am made up; I can hear all.” “You are not fit to hear,” «said I. “Whatever it was, you shall say first it was your fault." “Oh!” she cried, with a gesture of wringing her hands, “this man will drive me mad! Can you not put me out of your thoughts?” ‘ T think not once of you,” I cried. “I think of none but my dear unhappy master." .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 not whether in cowardice or misery, turned aside and looked upon the floor. “These are dreadful tidings,” said I at length, when her silence began to put me in some fear; “and you and I behove to be the more bold if the house is to be saved." Still she answered .nothing. “There is Miss Katharine besides,” I added; ‘ ‘unless we bring this matter through her inheritance 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 sound passed her lips, the like of it I never heard; it was as though she had lain buried under a hill and sought to move that burden. And the next moment she had found a sort of voice. “It was a fight,” she whispered. “It was not —" and she paused upon the word. - ,„ f ........... ....... “It was a fair fight on my dear master’s part," said I. “As for the other, 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 burning fire; ah, even now he is dead. God knows I would have stopped the fighting, had I dared. It is my shame I did not. But when I saw him fall, if I could have spared One thought from pitying of my master, it had bedn to exult in that deliverance.” ' 'LL (to be contixvkd.)