Rensselaer Republican, Volume 25, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 February 1893 — The Master of Ballantrae [ARTICLE]

The Master of Ballantrae

By Robert Louis Stevenson.

p ’ GHAPTER XV— Continued. It is proper T should add in this place thp very little I have subsequently angled out upon the doings of that nMK. It took me a long whtte it; for we dared not ■openly the free-traders regarded enimity, if not with •sewn, near six months before we flip knew for certain that the and it was years before 1 learned from c.ne of Grail’s men, turned publican on his illgotten gain, some particulars which smack to me of truth. It seems the traders found the master struggled on one elbow, and nflxv staring round him, ■and now gazing at the canjrle or at the hand which was all bloodied, like a man stupid. Upon their coming, be would seem to have found his mind, bade them carry him aboard ■and bold their tongues; and on the captain asking how he had come in such a pickle, replied with a burst of passionate swearing, and incontinently fainted They held some debate, but they were momently looking for a wind, they were highly paid to smuggle him to Prance, and .did not care to delay. Besides which, he was well enough i iked by these abominable wretches; they supposed him under capital sentence, knew not In what mischief he might have got his wound, and judged it a piece of good nature to remove him out of the way of danger. So he was taken aboard, recovered on the passage ox er, and xvas set ashore a convalescent at Havre de Grace. What, is truly notable; he said not a xvord to any one of the duel, and not a trader knows to this day in what quarrel, or by the hand of what adversary, he fell. With any other man I should have set this down to natural decency; with him, to pride. He could not bear to a\ r ow, perhaps •even to himself, that lie had been vanquished by one whom he had so much insulted and whom he- so cruelly despised. CHAPTER XVI. SUMMARY OF EVENTS DURING THE master’s second absence. Of the heavy sickness which de•c’.ared itself next morning, I can think xvith equanimity as of the last immingled trouble that, befell my master; and even that xvas perhaps a mercy in disguise; for what pains •of the body could equal the miseries of his mind? Mrs. Henry and I had the watching by the bed. My old lord called from- time to time to take the news, but would not usually pass the door. Once, I remember, when hope was nigh gone, hestepped to the bedside, looked awhile in his son’s face, and turned away with a singular gesture of the head and hand thrown up, that remains upon my mind as something tragic; such grief and such a scorn of sublunary things were there expressed. But the most of the time, Mrs. Henry and I had the room to ourselves taking tarns by night and bearing each other company by day, for it was dreary watching. Mr. Henry, his shaven head bound in a napkin, tossed to and fro without remission, beating the bed with his hands. His tongue never lay; his voice ran continuously like a river, so that my heart was weary with the sound of it. It was notable, and to me expressi- .. bly mortifying, that he spoke ail the while on matters of no import; comings and goings, horses—which he xvas ever calling to have saddled, thinking, perhaps (the poor soul!) that he might ride away from his discomfort—matters of the garden, the salmon nets, and (what I particularly raged to hear) continually of his affaii*s, ciphering figures and holding disputation with the tenantry. Never a word of his father or his wife, nor of the master, save only for a da)' or two, when his mind dwelt entirely in the past and he supposed himself a boy again and upon some innocent child’s play xvith ins brother. What made this the more affecting: it appeared the master had then run some peril of his life, for there was a cry —‘Oh, Jamie will be drowned —oh, save Jamie!” which he came over xvith a great deal ■of passion. This, 1 say, was affecting, both to Mrs. Henry and myself; blit the balance of my master's wanderings did him lilt!.- justice. It seemed he had set out to justify his brother’s calumnies; as’ though he xvas bent to prove himself a man of a dry nature,-immersed-in money-get-ting. Had I been there alone, I would not have troubled my thumb; but all the while, as I listened, I xvas estimating the effect on the man’s wife, and telling myself that he fell lower every day. I xvas the one person on the surface of the globe that comprehended him, and I xvas bound there should be another. Whether he xvas to die there and his virtues perish; or whether he should save his days and come back to that inheritance of sorrows, his right memory, 1 was bound he should be heartily lamented in the one case and unaffectedly welcomed in the other, by the person ho loved the most, his wife. Finding no occasion of free speech, I bethought me at last of a kind of documentary disclosure; and for nights, when 1 was off duty and should have been asleep, I gave my time to the preparat ion of that which I may call my budget. But this I found to be the easiest portion of my task, and that xvhich remained, namely, the presentation my lady, almost more than I had fortitude to undertake.

days I went about with my papers under my arm, spying for some juncture of talk to serve as introduction, J w»U not deny but that some offered; only when they did, my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; and I think I might have been carrying about my packet till this day, had not a fortunate accident delivered me from all my hesitations. This was at night, when I was ohee more leaving the room, the thing not yet done, and myself in despair at my own cowardice. “What do you carry about with you, Mr. Mackellar?,’ she asked. “These last 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 on the table, and left her to her reading. Of what that was, lam now to give you some idea; and the best of all to reproduce a letter of my own which came first in the budget, and of which (according to an excellent habitude) I have preserved the scroll. It will shoxv, too, the moderation on my part in these affairs, a thing which some have called recklessly in question. “Durrisdeer. “1775. “Honored Madam: —l trust, I would not step out of my place Without occasion; but I see how much evil has flowed in the past to all your noble house from that unhappy and secretive fault of reticency, and the papers on xvhich 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, honored madam, your ladyship’s obliged, obedient servant, “Ephraim Mackellar. “schedule of papers. “A. Scroll of ten letters from Ephraim Mackellar to the Honorable James Curie, Esq., by courtesy Master,of Ballantrae, during the latter’s residence in Paris: under dates: —” (follow thedat.es) —“Nota: to be read in connection xvith B and C. “B. Seven original letters from the said M. of Ballantrae to the said E. Mackellar, under dates —’’(follow the dates.) C. Three original letters from said Mr of Ballantrae to the Honorable Henry Durie, Esq., under dates —” (follow the dates) — “Nota: given me by Mr. Henry to answer: copies of answers A4,A. 5, and A. 9of 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 for me to sleep. All night long as I walked in my chamber, revolving what should be the issue and sometimes repenting the termerity of my inmixture in affairs so private; and with the first peep of the morning I was at the sick room door. Mrs. Henry had thrown open the shutters and even the window, for the temperature xvas mild. She looked steadfastly before her, where was nothing to see, or only the blue of the mornwoods. Upon the stir of my entrance, she did not so much as turn about her face: a circumstances 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 eome to my assistance with a word. In thfi- r: pass~ —i —TSigan gathering up the papers where they lay scattered on the table; and "the first thing that struck me, their bulk appeared to have diminished. Once I ran them through, and twice; but the correspondence xvith the secretary of state, on which I had reckoned so much against the future, was nowhere to be found. I looked in the chimney; amid the smouldering embers, black ashes- of paper fluttered in the draught; and at that my timidity \ r anishod. “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, it is too much, that you and I have seen them.” “This is a fine rtigiit’s xx’ork that you have done!” cried I. “And all to save the reputation of a man that eats bread by the shedding of his comrades’ blood, as I do by the shedding of ink." “To save the reputation of that family in which you are a serx-ant, 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 driven desperate. You have stricken the sword out of my hands; you have left us defenseless. I had always these letters I could shake over his head; and now —what is to do? We aro so falsely situate, we dare not show this man the door; the country would fly on arms against us; and I had this one hold upon him —and now it is gone —now ho may eome back to-morrow, and wc must all Sit down with him to dinner, go for a stroll with him on the terrace, or take a hand at cards, of all things to divert his leisure! No, madam; God forgive you, if he PailNfind it in his heart; for I can not find it in mine." “I wonder to find you so simple, Mr. Mackellar,” said Mrs., Henry. “What does this man value reputation? But he knows how high we ‘ e it; he knows we would rather

die than make these letters public; and do you suppose he would not trade upon the knowledge? What you call your sxvord, Mr. Mackellar. and which had been one indeed against a man. of any remnant of propriety, would have been but a sword of paper against him. He would smile in your face at sucK- a threat. He stands upon bis degradation, he makes 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: i “No, Mr. Mackellar, I have thought upon this matter all night, and there is no way out of it. Papers or no papers, the door of this house stands open for him; he is the rightful heir, forsooth! If we sought to exclude him, all would redound against poor Henry, and I should see him stoned again upon the streets. Ah! if Henry dies, it is a different . .matter! The}' have broke the entail for their own good purposes, the estate goes to my daughter; and I shall see who sets a foot upon it. But if Henry lives, my poor Mackellar, and that man returns, we must suffer; only this time it will be together ” On the whole, I was well pleased with Mrs. Heney’s attitude pf mind; nor could I even deny there was some cogency In that which she advanced about the papers. “Let us say no more about it,’’said I. “I can only be sorry I trusted a lady with the originals, which was an unbusiness-like proceeding at the best. As for xvhat I said of leaving the service of the family, it was spoken with the tongue only; and you may set your mind at rest. I belong to Durrisdeer, Mrs. Henry, as if I had been born there.” I must do her the justice to say she seemed perfectly relieved; so that we began this morning, as we were to continue for so many years, on a proper ground of mutual indulgence and respect. The same day, which was certainly predicate to joy, we observed the first signal of reeo\ r ery in Mr. Henry; and about three of the following afternoon, he founcHbtis mind again, recognizing me bv name with the strongest evidences of affection. Mrs. Henry was also in the ropm r at the 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 effort and sunk again into a lethargy. The course of his restoration was now slow but equal; every day his appetite improved: every week we were able to remark an increase’both of strength and flesh: and before the end of the month, he was out of bed and had even begun to be carried in his chair upon the terrace. It was perhaps at this time that Mrs. Henry and I were the most uneasy in mind. Apprehension for his days was at an end; and a worse fear succeeded. Every day we drew consciously nearer to a day of reckoning; and the days passed on, and still there was nothing. Mr. Henry bettered in strength, he held long talks with us on a great diversity of subjects, his father came and set with him and went again; and still there was no reference to the late tragedy or to the former troubles which had brought it on. Did he rerriember, and conceal his dreadful knowledge? or was the whole blotted from his mind? this was the problem that 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 not even which alternative. to hope for, both appearing so unnatural and pointing so directly to an unsound brain. Once this fear offered, I observed his conduct with sedulous particularity. Something of the child he exhibited; a cheerfulness quite foreign to his previous character, an interest readily aroused, and then very tenacious, in small matters which he had heretofore desFised. When he xvas stricken down, was his only confidant, and I may say his only friend, and he was on terms of division with his wife; upon his recovery, all was changed, the past forgotten, the wife first and even single in his thoughts. He turned to her with all his emotions like a child to its mother, and seemed secure of sympathy; called her in all his needs with something of that querulous familiarity that marks a certainty of indulgence; and I must say, in justice to the woman, he was never disappointed. To her, indeed, this changed behavior was inexpressibly affecting; and I thing she felt it 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 to me the-change appeared not natural; and viewing it along with all the rest, l began to wonder, with many head-shakings, whether his reason xvere perfectly erect. As this doubt stretched over many years, endured indeefl until my master’s death, and clouded all our subsequent relations, I may well consider of it more at large. When he was able to resume some charge of his affairs, I had many opportunities to try with him precision. There xvas no lack of understanding, nor yet of authority; but the old continuous interest had quite departed; he grew readily fatigued and fell to yawnipg; and he carried into money relations, where it is certainly out of place, a facility that bordered upon slackness. True, since xve had no longer the exactions of the master to contend against, there xvas the less occasion to raise strictness i into principle or do battle for farthing. True again, there was nothing excessive in these relaxations, or I would have been no party to them. But the whole thing marked a change, very slight yet

very perceptible; aS though no man could say my master had gone at all out of his mind, no man could deny that he had drifted from his character. It was the same to the end, with his manner and appearance. Some of the heat of the feyer lingered in his veins; his movements a little hurried, bis speech notably more voluble, vet neither truly amiss. His whole mind stood open to happy impressions, welcoming these and making much of them; but.the smallest suggestion of trouble or sorrow he received with visible impatience and dismissed £gain with immediate relief. It was to this temper that he owed the felicity of his later days; and yet here it was, if anywhere, that you could call the man insane. A great part of tfiis life consists in contemplating xvhat we can not cure; but Mr. Henry, if he could not dismiss solicitude by an effort of the mind, must instantly and at xvhat ever cost annihilate the cause of it; so he played alternately the ostrich and the bull, " It is to this strenuous cowardice of pain that I have to set down all the unfortunate and excessive steps of his subsequent career. Certainly this was the reason of his..beating McManus,: the groom, a thing so much out of all his former practice and which awakened so much comment at the time. It is to this again that I must lay the total loss of near upon two hundred pounds, more than the half of which I could have saved if his impatience would have suffered me. But he preferred loss or any desperate extreme to a continuance of mental suffering. AH this has led me far from our immediate trouble; xvhether he remembered or had forgotten his late dreadful act: and if he remembered, in what light he viewed it. The truth burst upon us suddenly, and was indeed one of the chief surprises of my life. He had been se\ r eral times abroad, and was now beginning to walk a little with an arm, when it chanced I should be left alone-with him upon the terrace. He turned to me with a singular furtive smile, such a school-boys use when in fault; apd says he, in a private whisper and without the least preface: “Where have you buried him?” I could not make one sound in answer. “Where have you buried him?” he repeated. “I xvant 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 human likelihood your hands are clear of blood. I reason from certain indices; and by these it should appear your brother was not dead, but was carried in a swound on board the lugger. By now he may be perfectly recovered. ” What there was m his countenance I could not read, “James?” he asked. “Your brother James.” I would not raise a hope that may be found deceptive; but in my heart I think it very probable heis alive.” “Ah!” says Mr. H&nry; and suddenly rising from his seat with more alacrity than he had yet discovered, set one finger on my breast, and cried at me in a kind of screaming whisper, “Mackellar” —these were were his words —“nothing can kill that man. He is not mortal. He is bound upon my back to all eternity —to all God’s 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 about us as if to be sure, we were alone, “Mackellar," said he, “when you haveanyintelligence be sure and let me know. We must keep an eye upon him, or he will take us when we least expect.” “He will not show face here again.” “Oh, yes, he will," said Mr. Henry. “Wherever I am, there will he be.” And again he looked about him. “You must not dwell upon this thought, Mr. Henry,” said I. “No,” said he, “that is very good advice. We will never think of it, - except when you have news. And we do not know yet,” he added, “hemay be dead.” The manner of his saying this convinced me thoroughly of what I had scarce ventured to suspect; that so far froni suffering any penitence for the attempt, he did but lament his failure. This was a discovery I kept to myself, fearing it might do him a Erejudice with his xvife. But I might ave saved myself the trouble; she had divined it for herself, and found the sentiment quite natural. Indeed, I could not but say that there xvere three of us all of the same mind; nor could any news have reached Durrisdeer more generally welcome than tidings of the master’s death. This brings me to speak of the exception, my old lord. As soon as my anxiety for my old master began to be relaxed, I xvas aware of a change in the old gentleman, his father, that seemed to threaten mortal consequences. His face xvas pale and swollen; as he sat in the chimney-side with his Latin, he xvould drop off sleeping and the book roll in the ashes; some days he would drag his foot, others stumble in speaking. The amenity of his behavior appeared more extreme; full of excuses for the least trouble, very thoughtful for all; to myself of a most flattering civility. One day, that he had sent for his lawyer and remained a long while firivate, he met me as he was crossng the hall with painful footsteps, 'and took me kindly by the hand. • (TO BE CONTINUED.) The Stupendous Conglomeration of Calithumpian and Pandemonium Consternation Serenaders in a musical organization of Greene, Me.