Rensselaer Republican, Volume 25, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 February 1893 — The Master of Ballantrae [ARTICLE]

The Master of Ballantrae

By Robert Louis Stevenson.

4CHAPTER XlV—Continued. *J do not know if she marked; but her next words were: “My lord?" I‘Thou shall be my part," said I. You will iwt to him as you sYMa<lam,” said I, “have you not smbe one else to think of? Leave my lord to me." '"Some one else?” she repeated. “Your husband," said I. She looked at me with a countenance illegible. “Are you going to turn YQur back on him?" 1 asked. •Still she looked at me; then her hand went to her heart again. “No,” said she. ?13od bless you for that word!” I said. “Go to him now where he sits in - the hall; speak to him —it matters n<>t what you say; give him your hsod; say, H know all;’ if God gives you grace enough, say, ‘Forgive me." 4 “God strengthen you, and make yod•merciful," said she. “I will go to’my husband." •“Let me light you there," said I, taxing up the candle. Twill find my way in the dark," she said, with a shudder, and I think the shudder was at me. CHAPTER XV. So we separated, she downstairs to yvhere a little light glimmered in the hall door, I along the passage to mjr lord’s room. It seems hard to say why, but I could not burst in on thej old man as I could on the young woman; with whatever reluctance I must knock. But his old slumbers were light, or perhaps he slept not; and at the first summons I was bidden, on ter. HO too sat up in bed; very aged and bloodless be looked; and whereas ha had a certain largeness of appearance when dressed for daylight, ne-now seemed frail and little, and his face (the wig being laid aside) not bigger than a child’s. This daunted me; nor less, the haggard surmise of misfortune in his eye. Yet his voice was even peaceful as he inquired my errand. I set my candle down upon a chair, leaned on the bed-foot, and looked at him. “Lord Durrisdeer.” said I, “it is very well known to you that I am a partisan in your family.” “I hope we are none of us partisans, ’’ said he. “That you love my Bon sincerely, I have aiways been glad to recognize." “Oh, my lord, we are past the hour of these civilities," I replied. “If we are to save anything out of the fire, we must look the fact in its bare countenance. A partisan I am; partisans we have all been; it is as a partisan that I am here in the midale of the night to plead before you. Hear me; before I go, I will tell you why." “I would al wavs hear you, Mr. Mackellar," said lie, “and that at uny hour, whether of the day or night, for I would be always sure you had a reason. You spoke once before to very proper purpose; I have not forgotten that." *“I am here to plead the cause of my master,” I said. “I need not tell you how he acts. You know how he is placed. You know with your other —met your wishes, " I corrected rayselt, stumbling at that name of son. “You know —you must know —what he has suffered —what he has suffered about his wife.” “Mr. Mackellarl" cried my lord, rising in bed like a bearded lion. “You said you would hear me,” I continued. “What you do not know, what you should know, one of the things I am here to speak of —is the persecution he must bear in private. Your back is not turned, Before one whom I dare not name to you, falls upon him with the most unfeeling taunts; twits him —pardon me, my lord! —twits him with your partiality, calls him Jacob, calls him clown, pursues him with ungenerous raillery; not to bo borne by man. And let but one of you appear, instantly he changes; and my master must smile and courtesy to the man who has been feeding him with insults; I know —for I-have shared in some of it, and I tell you the life is insupportable. All these months it has endured; it began with the man's landing; it was by the name of Jacob that my master was greeted the first night." My lord made a movement as if to throw aside the clothes and rise. “If there be any truth in this —” said he. “Do I look like a man lying?” I interrupted, checking him with my hand. “You should have told me first.” he said. “Ah, my lord, indeed I should and you may well hate the face of this unfaithful servant!” I cried. “I will take order," said he, “at once." And again made the movement to arise. Again I cheeked him “I have not aone," said I. “Would God I had! All this my dear, unfortunate pat-' ron has endured without help or countenance. Your own best word, my lord was only gratitude. Oh, but he was your son,, too! He had no other father. He was hated in the country, God knows how unjustly. He had a loveless marriage. He stood on all hands without affection or support, dear, generous, illfated, noble heart. “Your tqars do you much honor and me much shame," says my lord, with a palsied trembling. “But you do «e some injustice. Henry has been ever dear to me, very dear. James (I do not deny it, Mr. Mackellar), James is perhaps dearer; you have not seen my James in quite a favorable light; he has suffered under his misfortunes; and we can

only remember how great and how unmerited these were. And even now his is the more affectionate nature. But I will not speak of him. AU that you say of Henry is most true; Ido not wonder, I know him to be very magnanimous; you will say I trade upon the knowledge? It is possible; there are dangerous vir-tues—-virtues that tempt the encroacher. Mr. Mackeller, I will make it up to him; I will take order with all this. I have been weak; and what is worse, I have been dull." “I must not hear you blame yourself, my lord, with that which I have yet to tell upon my conscience,”! replied. “You have not been weak; you have been abused by a devilish dissembler. You saw yourself how he had deceived you in the matter of his danger; he has deceived you throughout in every step of his career. I wish to pluck him from your heart; I wish to force your eves upon your other son; ah, you have a son there? i! - --- >’" “No, no,” said he, “two sons —I have two sons.”

I made some gesture of despair that struck him; he looked at me with a changed face. “There is much worse behind?” he asked, his voice dying as it rose upon the question ‘*Much worse,” I answered. “This night he said these words to Mr. Henry: ‘I have never known a woman who did not prefer me to you, and I think who did not continue to prefer me.’ ”

“I will hear nothing against my daughter!” he cried; and from his readiness to stop me in this direction I conclude his eyes were not so dull as I had fancied, and he had looked on not without anxiety upon the siege of Mrs. Henry. “I think not of blaming her,” cried I. “It is not that. These words were said in my hearing to Mr. Henry; and if you find them not yet plain enough, these others but a little after: ‘your wife who is in love with me.’ ”

“They have quarreled?" he said. I nodded. “I must fly to them,” he said, beginning once again to leave his bed. “No, No!” I cried, holding forth my hands. “You do not know,” said he. “These are dangerous words.” “Will nothing make you understand, my lord?” said I. His eyes besought me for the truth. I flung myself on my knees by the bedside. ‘‘o my lord,” cried I, ‘ ‘think on him you have left, think of this poor sinner whom you begot, whom your wife bore to you, whom we have none of us strengthened as we could; think of him, hot yourself; he is the other sufferer—think of him! That is the door for sorrow, Christ’s door, God’s door; oh, it stands open! Think of him, even as he thought of you. Who is to tell the old man? these were his words. It was for that I came; that is why I am here pleading at your feet.” “Let me get up,” he cried, thrusting me aside, and was on his feet before myself. His voice shook like a sail in the wind, yet he spoke with a good loudness; his face was like the snow, but his eyes were steady and dry. “Here is too much speech!" said he. “Where was it?”

“In the shrubbery,”, said I. “And Mr. Henry?” he asked. And when I had told him he knotted his old face in thought. “And Mr. James?” says he. - “I have left him lying," said I, ~“beside the candles. ” “Candles?” he cried. And with that he ran to the window, opened it and looked abroad. “It might be spied from the road.” “Where none goes by at such an hour,” I objected. “It makes no matter,” he said. “One might. Hark!” cries he. “What is that?" It was the sound of men very guardedly rowing in the bayp and I told him so.

□ “The free-traders,” said my lord. “Run at once, Mackellar; put these candles out. I will dress in the meanwhile; and when you return we an debate on what is wisest." I I groped my way down stairs, and out at the door. From quite a far away off a sheen was visible, making points of brightness in the shrubbery; in soblack a night it might have been remarked for miles; and I blamed myself bitterly for my incaution: how much more sharply when I reached the place! One of the candlesticks was overthrown, and that taper quenched. The other burned steadily by itself, and made a broad space of light upon the frosted ground. All within that circle seemed, by the force of the contrast and the overhanging blackness, brighter than by day. And there was the blood-stain in the midst, and a little farther off Mr. Henry’s sword, the pommel of which was silver; but of the body not a trace. My heart thumped upon my ribs, the hair stirred upon my scalp, as I stood there staring; so strange was the sight, so dire the fears it wakened. I looked right and left; the ground was so hard it told no story. I stood and listened till my ears ached, but the night was hollow about me like an empty church; not even a ripple stirred upon the shore; it seemed you might nave heard a pin drop in the county. I put the candle out, and blackness fell about me groping dark; it was like a crowd surrounding me;and r went back th Durrisdeer, with my chin upon my shoulder, startling, as I went, with craven suppositions. In the door a figure moved to meet me, and I had near screamed with terror ere I recognized Mrs. Henry. “Have you told him?” says she. “It was he who sent me, said I. “It is gone. But why are you hero?"

“It is gone!” she repeated. “What is gone?” “She body," said I. “Why are you not with your husband?" “Gone?" said she. “ You'can not have looked. Comeback.” “There is no light now,” said I. “I dare not.” “I can see in the dark. I have been standing here so long—so long,” said^sfiei” I 'Come; give The your hand.” We returned to the shrubbery hand in hand, and to the fatal place. “Take care of the blood,” said I. “Blood?” she cried and started violently back. “I suppose it will be,” said I. “I am like a blind man.” “No,” said she, “nothing! Have you not dreamed?” “Ah, would to God that we had,” cried I. She spied the sword, picked it up, and, seeing the blood, let it fall again with her hands thrown wide. “AhC' sho criod. Andthen, withan instant courage, handled it the second time and thrust it to the hilt into the frozen ground. “I will take it back and clean it properly,” says she, and then looked about her on all sides. “It cannot be that he was dead,” she added. “There was no flutterof his heart,” said I, and then remembering, “Why are you not with your husband?” “It is no use,” said she, “he will not speak to me.” “Not speak to you?” I repeated. “Oh, you have not tried.” “You have a right to doubt me,” she replied with a gentle dignity. At this, for the first time, I was seized with sorrow for her. “God knows, madame,” I cried, “God knows I am not so hard as I appear; on this dreadful night who can veneer his works? But lam a friend to all who are not Henry Durie’s en-

mies.” “It is hard, then, you should hesitate about his wife,” said she. I saw all at once, like the rending of a veil, how noble she had borne this unnatural calamity, and how generously my reproaches. “We must go back and tell this to my lord,” said I. “Him I cannot face,” she cried. “You will find him the least moved of all of us,” said I. “And yet I cannot face him,” said she. “Well,” said I, “you can return to Mr. Henry, I will see my lord.” As we walked back, I bearing the candlesticks and she the sword — a strange burden for that woman — she had another thought. “Shall we tell Henry?” she asked. “Let my lord decide,” said I. My lord was nearly dressed when I came to his chamber. He heard me with a dark frown. “The freetraders,” said he. “But whether dead or alive.” “I thought him—” said I, and paused, ashamed of the word. “I know, but you may very well have been in error. Why should they remove him if not living?" he asked. “Oh, here is a great door of hope. It must be given out that he departed —as he came—without any note of preparation. We must save all scandal/ I saw he had fallen, like the rest of us, to think mainly of the house. Now that all the living members of the family were plunged in irremediable sorrow, it was strange how we turned to that conjoint abstraction itself and sought to bolster up the airy nothing of its reputation; not the Dories only, but the hired steward himself. “Are we to tell Mr. Henry?” I asked him. “I will see.” said he. “I am going first to visit him, then I go with you to view the shrubbery and consider." We went dowh stairs into the hall, Mr.- Henry sat by the table with his head upon his hand, like a man of stone. His wife stood a little back of him, her hand at her mouth. It was plain she could not move him. My old lord walked very steadily to where his son was sitting. When he was come quite up he held out both his hands and said: “My son!” With a broken cry Mr. Henry leaped up and fell on his father’s neck, crying and weeping, the most pitiable sight that ever a man witnessed. “Oh, father," he cried, “you know I loved him; you know I loved him in the beginning; I could have died for him —you know that! I would have given my life for him and you. Oh, say you can forgive me!” and he wept and sobbed and fondled the old man and clutched him by the neck with the passion of a child in terror.

And then he caught sight of his wife, you would have thought for the first time, where she stood weeping, and in a moment had fallen at her knees. “And oh, my lass,” he cried, “you must forgive me, too! Not your husband —I have only been the ruin of your life. But you knew me when I was a lad; there was no harm in Henry Durie then; he meant aye to be a friend to you. It's him—it’s the old bairn that played with you—oh, can ye never, never forgive nim?" Throughout all this my lord was like a cold, kind spectator with his wits about him. At the first cry, which was indeed enough to call the house about us, he said'to me over his shoulder; “Close the door." And now he nodded to himself. “We mav leave him to his wife now," says ne. “Bring a light, Mr. Mackellar.” Upon my going forth again with my lord, I was aware of a strange Shenomenon; for though it was quite ark, and the night not yet old, methought I smelled the morning. At the same time there was a tossing through the branhoee of the evergreens, so that they sounded like a

quietsea; and the air puffed at times against our faces, and the flame of the candle shook. We made the more speed, I believe being surrounded by this bustler-visited the scene of the duel, where my lord looked upon thq blood with stoicism; and passing further on toward the landing-place, came at last upon evidences of the truth. For first of all, where there was a pool across the path, the ice had been trodden in, plainly by more than one man’s weight; next, and but a little further, a young tree was broken, and down by the landing-place, where the traders’ boats were usually beached, another stain of blood marked where the body must have infallibly set down to rest the bearers. This stain we set ourselves to wash away with seawater, carrying it in my lord’s hat; and as we were thus engaged, there came up a sudden, moaning gust and left us instantly benighted. YTtwill come to snow, ” says my lord; “and the best thing that we could hope. Let us go back now; we can do nothing in the dark.” As we went houseward, the wind being again subsided, we were aware of a strong pattering noise about us in the night; and when we issued from the shelter of the trees, we found it raining smartly. Throughout the whole of this, my lord’s clearness of mind, uo less than his activity of body, had not ceased to minister to my amazement. He set the crown upon it in the council we held on bur return. The freetraders had certainly secured the master, though whether dead or alive we were still left to our conjectures; the rain would, long before day, wipe but all marks of the transaction; by this we must profit: the master had unexpectedly, come after the fall of night, it must now be given out he had as suddenly departed before the break of day; and to make all this plausible, it now only remained for me to mount into the plan’s chamber, and pack and conceal his baggage. True, we still lay at the discretion of the traders; but that was the incurable weakness of our guilt.

Iheard him, as I said, with wonder, and hastened to obey: Mr. and Mrs. Henry were gone from the hall; there was still no sign of stir among the servants, and as I went up to the tower stair, and entered the dead man’s room, a horror of solitude weighed upon my mind. To my extreme surprise, it was all in the disorder of departure. Of his three portmanteaus, two were ready locked, the third lay open and near full. At once there flashed upon me some suspicion of the truth. . The man had been going after all; he had but waited upon Crail, as Grail waited upon the wind; early in the night, the seaman had perceived the weather changing; the boat had come to give notice of the change and call the passenger aboard, and the boat’s crew had stumbled on him lying in his blood. Nay, and there was more behind. This prearranged departure shed some light upon his inconceivable insult of the night before; it was a parting shot; hatred being no longer checked by policy. And for another thing, the nature of that insult, and the conduct of Mrs. Henry, pointed to one conclusion; which I Save never verified, and can now never verify until the great assize; the conclusion that he had at last forgotten himself, had gone too far in his advances, and had been rebuffed. It can never be verified, as I say; but as I thought of it that morning among his baggage, the thought was sweet to me like honey. Into the open portmanteau I dipped a little ere I closed it. The most beautiful lace and linen, many suits of those fine piam clothes in which he loved to appear; a book or two, and those of the best, Caesar’s “Commentaries.” a volume of Mr. Hobbes, the ‘ Henriade” of M. de Voltaire, a book upon the Indies, one on the mathematics, far beyond where I have studied; these were what I observed with very mingled feelings. But in the open portmanteau, no papers of any discription. This set me musing. It was possible the man was dead; but, since the traders had carried him away, not likely. It was possible he might still die Of his wound; but it was also possible he might not. And in this latter case I was determined to have the means of some defense.

One after another I carried his port manteaus to a loft in the top of the house which we kept locked; went to my own room for my keys, and, returning to the loft, had the gratication to find two. that fitted pretty well. In one of the portmanteaus there was a shagreen letter-case, which I cut open with my knife; and thenceforth (so far as my credit went) the man was at my mercy. Here was a vast deal of gallant correspondence, chiefly of his Paris days; and what was more to the purpose, here were the copies of his own reports to the English secretary, and the originals of the secretary's answers: a most damning series: such as to publish would be to wreck the master’s honor and set a price upon his life. I chuckled to myself as I ran through the documents; I rubbed my hands, I sang aloud in my glee. Day found me at the pleasing task; nor did I then remit my diligence, except in so far as I went to the window—looked out for a moment to see the frost quite gone, the world turned black again, and the rain and the wind driving in the bay —and to assure myself that the lugger was gone from its anchorage, and the master (whether dead or alive) now tumbling on the Irish Sea. (TO BK OQJfTIXVBD.)