Rensselaer Republican, Volume 25, Number 26, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 February 1893 — The Master of Ballantrae [ARTICLE]

The Master of Ballantrae

By Robert Louis Stevenson.

CHAPTER "Mr, Mackellar,” said he; “I have. . had many occasions to set a proper value on your services, and to-day, - recast my will, I have taken the freedom to name you Tor one of my executors. I believe you bear love,@nough to our house to render me tjiis service.” At that very time, he passed the greater portion of his time in slumber, From which it was of toil difficult to rouse him, seemed to have lost all count of years, and had! several times (particularly on waking) called for his wife and for an old servant whose' very gravestone was now green with moss. If Uad been put to my oath, I must Iwe declared that he was incapable oMfesting; ahd yet there was never a will drawn more sensible in every v trait, or showing a more excellent judgment both of persons andaffairs. Bis dissolution, though it took not very long, proceeded by infinitesimal gradations. Ilis faculties decayed together steadily; the power of his limbs was almost gone, he was extremely deaf, his speech had sunk intthmtere mumblings, and yet to the end he managed to discover something of his former courtesy and Idpdness, pressing the hand of any that helped him, presenting me one of his Latin books in which he had laboriously traced my name, and in a thousand ways reminding us of the 'greatness of that loss, which it might almost be said we had already suffered. To the end the power of articulation returned to him in flashes; it seemed he had only forgotten the art of speech as a child forgets his ledson, 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 words from Virgil: “Gnatique pratisque, alma, precor, miserere,” perfectly uttered and with a fitting accent. At the sudden clear sound of it we started from oar several occupations; but it was h» vain we turned to him; he sat there silent and to all appearance fatuous. A little later he was had to bed with more difficulty than ever before, and some time, in the night, without any mortal violence, his spirit fled. At a far later period I chanced tb speak of these particulars with a doctor of medicine, a man of so high a reputation that I scruple to adduce his name. By his view of it, father and son b th suffered from the same affection; the father from the strain •of his unnatural sorrows, the son Srhaps in the excitation of the ccr, each had ruptured a vessel on toe brain; and there was probably (my doctor added) some predisposition in the family to accidents of toat description. The father sunk, the son recovered all the externals of A healthy many but it is like there was some destruction in those deli-

cate tissues where the soul resides wid does her earthly business; her lieavenly, I would fain hope, cannot be thus obstructed by material acei- * dents. And yet upon a more mature opinion, it matters not one jot; for He who ’shall pass judgment oh the records of our life is the same that formed us in frailty. The death of my old lord was the eeeaston of a fresh surprise to us who watched the behavior of his successor. To any considering mind, the two sons had between them slain their father; and he who took the sword might be even said to have slain him with his hand. But uo such thought appeared to trouble ray new lord.. He was becomingly grave; l could scarce say sorrowful, only with a pleasant sorrow; talking of the dead with a re gretful cheerfulness, relating old examples of his character, smiling at them with a good conscience; and when the day of the funeral came round, doing the honors with exact propriety. I could perceive besides, that he found a solid gratification in his accession to the title; the which he was punctilious in exacting.

CHAPTER XVII.

And now there came upon the scene a new character, and one that played his part, too, in the story; I m-'-an the present lord, Alexander, whose birth (17th July, 1757) filled the cup of my poor master’s happiness. There is nothing then left him to wish for; nor yet leisure to wish for it. Indeed, there never was a parent so fond and doting as he showed himself. He was continually uneasy in his son's absence. Was the child abroad? the father would be watching the clouds in case it rained. Was it night? he would rise out. of his bed to observe? its slumbers. His conversation grew even wearyful to strangers, since he talked of little but his son. In matters relating to the estate, all was designed with a particular eye to Alexander; and it would be: “Let us put in hand at once, that the wood may be grown against Alexder's majority;" or “this will fall in again handsomely for Alexander’s marriage. ” Every day this absorption of the man’s nature became more observable, with many touching and some very blameworthy particulars. Soon the child could walk Abroad with him, at first on the terrace hand in.hand, and afterward at targe about the policies; and this grew to bo my load’s chief occupation. The sound of their two voices (audible a great way off, for they spoke,loud) became, familiar in the neighborhood; and for my part I found it more agreeable than ,the aound of birds. It was pretty to •ee the pair returning, full of briers, and the father as flushed and sometimes as bemuddled as the child; for

they were equal sharers in all sorts the beach, damming of streams, and what not; and I have seen them gaze through a fence at cattle with the same childish contemplation. • . The mention of these rambles brings me to a strange scene of which I was a witness. There was one walk I never followed myself

without emotion, so often had I gone there upon miserable errands, so much had there befallen against the house of Durrisdeer. But the path lay handy from fall points beyond the Muckle Ross; and I was driven, although much against my will to take my use of it perhaps once in the two months. It befell when Mr. Alexander was of the age of seven or eight, had some business on the far side in the morning, and entered the shrubbery on my homeward way, about nine of a bright forenoon. It was that time of year when the woods are all in their spring colors, the thorns all in flower; and the birds in the high season of "their singing. Tn contrast to this merriment, the shrubbery was only the more sad and I the more oppressed by its associations. In this situation of spirit, it struck me disagreeably to hear voices a little way in front, and to recognize the tones of my lord and Mr. Alexander. I pushed ahead, and came presently into their view. They stood together in the open Space where the duel was, my lord with his hand on his son’s shoulder and speaking with some gravity. At least, as he raised his head upon my coming, I thought I could perceive his countenance to lighten. “Ah,” says he, “here comes the good Mackellar. I have just been telling Sandie the story of this place, and how there was a man whom the devil tried to kill, and how near he came to kill the devil instead.” I had thought it strange enough he should bring the child into that scene; 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 can ask Mackellar; he was here and saw it.”

“Is it true, Mr. Mackellar?” asked the child.. “And did you really see the devil?” “I have not heard the tale;” I replied; “and lam in a press of business.” So far I said a little sourly. fencing with the embarrassment of the position; and" suddenly the bitterness of the past and the terror of that scene by candle-light rushed in upon my mind. I bethought me that, for a difference of a second’s quickness in parade, the child before me might have never seen the day; and the emotion that always fluttered 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 these woods and seen him foiled here; blessed be God that we escaped with lifeblessed be God that one stone yet stands upon another in the walls of Durrisdeer! and O Mr. (Alexander, if ever you come by this spot, though it was a hundred years hence and you came with the gayest and the highest in the land, and I would step aside and remember a bit prayer. ”

My lord bowed his head gravely. “Ah,” says he, “Mackellar is always in the right, Come Alexander, take your bonnet-off.” 4Riuiiwith that he uncovered and held out his hand. “O Lord.” said he, “I thank thee, and my son thanks thee, for thy manifold great mercies. Let us have peace for a little; defend us from the evil man. Smite him, O Lord, upon the lying mouth!" The last broke out of him like a cry; and at that, whether remembered anger choked his utterance, or whether he perceived this was a singular sort of prayer, at least he came suddenly 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 our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us. For thine is the 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 T would exit: a very silly figure, if I had the affectation to pretend it." “The bairn, my lord,” said I, with some severity, fort thought his expressions little fitted for the ears of children.

“Why, very true,” said he. 1 ‘This is dull work for a bairn. Let’s go nesting.” T forget if it was the same day, but it was soon after, my, lord, finding me alone, opened himself a little more on the same head. “Maclcellar,” he said, “I am now a very happy man.” “I think so, indeed, mv lord,” said I, “and the sight of it gives me a light 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 here to try to do the best, in my humble opinion, the sooner we are away the better for all parties;" “Ay, but if you were in my shoes, would you forgive him?" asked my lord. The suddenness of the attack a little graveled me. “It is a duty laid upon us strictly,” said t. “Hut!” said he. “These are expressions! Do you forgive the man yourself?” “Well—no!” *aid I. “God forgive me, I do not.” “Shake hands upon that!" cries my lord, with a kind of jovialty. “It is an ill sentiment to shake hands upon," said I, “for Christian

people. I think I will give you min© -on some more evangelical occasion.” This I said, smiling a little; b at as for my lord, he went from the room laughing aloud. * # * * * «; » For my lord’s slavery to tne child, lean find no expression adequate. He lost himself in that continual thought, business, friends, and w ifebeing all alike forgotten or only remembered with a painful effort, like that of one struggling with a posset. It was most notable in the matter of his wife. Since I had known Durrisdeer, she had been the burden of his thought and the loadstone of his eyes; and now, she was quite cast out. I have seen him come to the door of a room, look round, and pass my lady as though she were a dog before the fire; it would be Alexander he was seeking, and mv lady knew it well. I have heard him speak to her so ruggedly, that I nearly Found it in my heart to intervene; the cause would still be the sauie, that she had in some way thwarted Alexander. Without doubt she had the tables turned upon her as only Providence can do it; she who had been cold so many years to every mark of tenderness, it Was her part now to be neglected; the more praise to her that she played it well. An old situation resulted; that we had once more two parties in the house, and that now I was of my lady’s. Not that ever I lost the

love I bore 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 that of 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 sentiment to my lord, as it had been founded from the fh’st in pity, was that rather of a mother than a wife; perhaps it pleased her (if I may so say) to behold her two'children so happy in each other; the more as one had suffered so unjustly in the past. But for all-that, and though I could never trace in her one spark of jealousy, she must fall back for society on poor, neglected Miss Katharine; and I. on my part, came to pass my spare hours more and more with the mother and daughter. It would. be easy to make too much of this division, for it was a pleasant family as families go; still the thing existed: Whether ray lord knew it or not, I am in doubt, I do not think he did, he was bound up so entirely in his son; but the rest of us knew it and (in a manner) suffered from the knowledge.

What troubled us most, however, was the great and growing danger to the child. My lord was his father over again; it was to be feared the son would prove a second master. Time has proved these fears to hav been quite exaggerated. Certainly there is no more worthy gentleman to-day in Scotland than the seventh Lord Durrisdeer. Of my own exodus from lifs employment it does not become me to speak, above all in a memorandum written only to justify his father. But our fear at the time was lest he should turn out, in the person of his son, a second edition of his brother. Mv laidy had tried to interject some wholesome discipline; she. had been glad to give that up, and now looked on with secret disci \y. Sometimes she even spoke of it by hints, and sometimes when there was brought to her knowledge some monstrous instance of my lord’s indulgence, she would betray herself in a gesture or perhaps an exclamation. • As for myself, I was haunted by the thought both day and night; not $o much for the child's sake as for the father’s. The man had gone to sleep, he was dreaming a dream, and any rough wakening must infallibly prove mortal. That he should survive its death was inconceivable; and the fear of its dishonor made me cover my face. It was this continual preoccupation that screwed me up at last to a remonstrance; a matter worthy to be narrated in detail. My lord and I sat one day at the sama table upon some tedious business of detail; I have said that he had lost his former interest in such occupations; he was plainly itching to be gone, and he looked fretful, weary, and, raethought, older than I had ever before observed. I suppose it “was the haggard face that put me suddenly upon my enterprise. “My lord,” said I, with my head down, and feigning to continue my occupation —“or rather let me call you again by the name of Mr. Henry, for I fear your anger, and want A J 1 • 1 111' II

you to think upon old times—” “My good Mackellar!” said he, and that in tones so kindly that I near forsook my purpose. But I called to mind that I was speaking for his good, and stuck to my colors. ___ “Has it never come in upon your mind what you are doing?” I asked. “What I am doing?” he repeated, “f was never good at guessing rid* dies.” “What are you doing with your son?” said I. “Well," said he, with some defiance in his tone, “and what am I doing with my son?” “Your father Was a very good man,” said I, straying from the direct path. “But do you thiuk 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 sav nothing.” “Why, .there it is,” said I. “You had the cause, at least. And yet your father was a good man; I never knew a better, save on the one point,

nor yet a wiser. Where he stuha* bled, it is highly passible another man Should fall He had the two sons —” My lord rapped suddenly and violently upon the table. “What is this?" cried he. “Speak out!” “I will, then," said I, my voice al- < most strangled with the thumping of my heart. “If you continue to indulge Mr. Alexander you are following in your father’s footsteps. Be ware, my lord, lest (when he grown up) your son should follow in the master’s.” I had never meant to put the thing so crudely; but in the extreme of fear there comes a brutal kind of courage, the most brutal indeed of all; and I burned 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 moment he fell heavily to the floor. The fit or seizure endured not very long, he came to himself vacantly, put hi*; hand to his head, which I was then supporting, and says he, in a broken voice: “I have been ill,” and a little later, “Help me.” I got him to his feet and he stood pretty well, though he kept hold of the table. “I have been ill, Mackellar,” he said again. “Something broke, Mackellar —or was going to break, and then all swam away. I think I was very angry. Never you mind, Mackellar; never you mind, my man. I wouldnae hurt a hair of your head. Too much has come and gone. It’s a certain thing between us two. But I think, Mackellar, I will go to Mrs. Henry—l think I will go to Mrs. Henry,” said he, and got pretty steadily from the room, leaving me overcome with penitence. Presently the door flew open, and my lady swept in with flashing eyes. “What isall this?” she cried. “What have you done to my husband? Will nothing teach you your position in this house? Will you never cease from making and meddling?” “My lady,” Said I, “since I have been in this house I have had plenty of hard words. For awhile they were my daily diet, and I swallowed them all. As for to-day, you may call me what you please; you will never find the name hard enough for such a blunder, And yet I meant it for the best. ” I told her all with ingenuity, even as it is written here; and when she had heard me out, she pondered, and I could see her animosity fall. “Yes,” she said, “you meant well indeed. I have had the same thought myself, or the same temptation rather, which makes me pardon you. But, dear God, can you understand that he can bear no more? He can bear no more!” she cried. “The cord is

stretched to snapping. What matters the future, if he have one or two good days?” “Amen," said I. “I will meddle no more. lam pleased enough that you should recognize the kindness of my meaning.” “Yes,” said my lady, “but when it came to the point, I have to suppose your courage failed you; for what you said was said cruelly.” She f>aused, looking at me; then suddeny smiled a little, and said a singular thing: “Do you know what you are, Mr. Mackellar? Your are an old maid.” ~ rzn :rm No more incident of any note occurred in the family until the return of that ill-starred man, the master. But 1 have to place here a second extract from the memoirs of Chevalier Burke, interesting in itself and highly necessary for my purpose. It is our only sight of the master on his 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 had known some twenty years ago, how many calamities and sorrows had been spared!—that Secundra Dass spoke English. CHAPTER XVIII. ADVENTURE OP CHEVALIER BURKE IN " INDIA. (Extracted from his Memoirs.)

~. .Here was I, therefore, on the streets of that city, the name of which T cannot call to mind, while even then I was so ill acquainted with its situation that I knew not whether to go south or north. The alert being sudden, I had rujn forth without shoes or stockings; my hat had been struck from my head in the mellay; my kit was in the hands of the English; I had no companion but the cipaye, no weapon but my sword and the devil a coin in my pocket, In short I was for all the world like one of thoso calendars with whom Mr Galland has made us acquainted in his elegant tales. These gentlemen, von will remember, were forever falling in with extraordinary incidents; and I was myself upon the brink of one so astonishing that I protest I can not explain it to this day. The cipaye was a very honest man, he had served many years with the French colors, and would have let himself be cut to pieces for any of the brave countrymen of Mr. Lally. It is the same fellow (his name has quite escaped me) of whom I have narratep already a surprising instance of generosity of mind: when he found Mr. da Fessac and myself upon the ramparts; entirely overcome-with liquor, and covered us with straw while the commandant was’ passing by. I consulted him therefore with perfect freedom. It was a fine question what to do; but we decided at last to escalade a garden wall, where we could certainly sleep in --the shadow of the trees, and might perhaps find an occasion to get hold of a pair of slippers and a turban. (to be continued.) PoUiitiblo scandals are biles on thf boddy pollitick.—Josh BillingSr