The Master of Ballantrae

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The death of my old lord was the occasion of a fresh surprise to us
who watched the behaviour 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 no such thought appeared to trouble my new lord. He was
becomingly grave; I could scarce say sorrowful, or only with a
pleasant sorrow; talking of the dead with a regretful 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
honours 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.

And now there came upon the scene a new character, and one that
played his part, too, in the story; I mean the present lord,
Alexander, whose birth (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 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 it in hand at once,
that the wood may be grown against Alexander'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 large about the policies; and this grew to
be my lord's chief occupation. The sound 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 more agreeable than
the sound of birds. It was pretty to see the pair returning, full
of briars, and the father as flushed and sometimes as bemuddied as
the child, for they were equal sharers in all sorts of boyish
entertainment, digging in 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 all 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, I 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 colours, the thorns all in flower,
and the birds in the high season of their singing. In 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
recognise 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 I am 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 life - blessed be
God that one stone yet stands upon another in the walls of
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 the highest in the land, 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." And
with 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 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
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 I would cut a
very silly figure if I had the affectation to pretend it."

"The bairn, my lord!" said I, with some severity, for I thought his
expressions little fitted for the care of children.

"Why, very true," said he. "This is dull work for a bairn. Let's
go nesting."

I 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.

"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
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?" 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 man
yourself?"

"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
Christian people. 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
room laughing 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 wife being 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 burthen 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 over
as though she were a dog before the fire. It would be Alexander he
was seeking, and my 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 same, that she had in some way
thwarted Alexander. Without doubt this was in the nature of a
judgment on my lady. 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 odd 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 first 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 my 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 have been quite exaggerate. Certainly there is no more worthy
gentleman to-day in Scotland than the seventh Lord Durrisdeer. Of
my own exodus from his employment it does not become me to speak,
above all in a memorandum written 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 seventh Lord 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
person of his son, a second edition of his brother. My lady had
tried to interject some wholesome discipline; she had been glad to
give that up, and now looked on with secret dismay; 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
so 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 dishonour 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 same 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 methought older than I had ever previously
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 you to think upon old times -
"

"My good Mackellar!" said he; and that in tones so kindly that I
had near forsook my purpose. But I called to mind that I was
speaking for his good, 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
doing with 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
your father was a good man; I never knew a better, save on the one
point, nor yet a wiser. Where he stumbled, it is highly possible
another man should fail. 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 my heart. "If you continue to indulge Mr. Alexander, you are
following in your father's footsteps. Beware, my lord, lest (when
he grows 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 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 moment he 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 then supporting, and says he, in a
broken voice: "I have been ill," and a little after: "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 upon 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 - I 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 is all 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 a while 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 not 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. I am pleased enough that
you should recognise 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 paused, looking at me; then suddenly smiled a
little, and said a singular thing: "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 of that ill-starred man the Master. But I 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 VII. - ADVENTURE OF CHEVALIER BURKE IN INDIA.

Extracted from his Memoirs.

. . . Here was I, therefore, on the streets of that city, the name
of which I 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 run 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 those calendars with
whom Mr. Galland has made us acquainted in his elegant tales.
These gentlemen, you will remember, were for ever falling in with
extraordinary incidents; and I was myself upon the brink of one so
astonishing that I protest I cannot explain it to this day.

The cipaye was a very honest man; he had served many years with the
French colours, 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 narrated already a
surprising instance of generosity of mind - when he found Mr. de
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. In that part of the city we had only the
difficulty of the choice, for it was a quarter consisting entirely
of walled gardens, and the lanes which divided them were at that
hour of the night deserted. I gave the cipaye a back, and we had
soon dropped into a large enclosure full of trees. The place was
soaking with the dew, which, in that country, is exceedingly
unwholesome, above all to whites; yet my fatigue was so extreme
that I was already half asleep, when the cipaye recalled me to my
senses. In the far end of the enclosure a bright light had
suddenly shone out, and continued to burn steadily among the
leaves. It was a circumstance highly unusual in such a place and
hour; and, in our situation, it behoved us to proceed with some
timidity. The cipaye was sent to reconnoitre, and pretty soon
returned with the intelligence that we had fallen extremely amiss,
for the house belonged to a white man, who was in all likelihood
English.

"Faith," says I, "if there is a white man to be seen, I will have a
look at him; for, the Lord be praised! there are more sorts than
the one!"

The cipaye led me forward accordingly to a place from which I had a
clear view upon the house. It was surrounded with a wide verandah;
a lamp, very well trimmed, stood upon the floor of it, and on
either side of the lamp there sat a man, cross-legged, after the
Oriental manner. Both, besides, were bundled up in muslin like two
natives; and yet one of them was not only a white man, but a man
very well known to me and the reader, being indeed that very Master
of Ballantrae of whose gallantry and genius I have had to speak so
often. Word had reached me that he was come to the Indies, though
we had never met at least, and I heard little of his occupations.
But, sure, I had no sooner recognised him, and found myself in the
arms of so old a comrade, than I supposed my tribulations were
quite done. I stepped plainly forth into the light of the moon,
which shone exceeding strong, and hailing Ballantrae by name, made
him in a few words master of my grievous situation. He turned,
started the least thing in the world, looked me fair in the face
while I was speaking, and when I had done addressed himself to his
companion in the barbarous native dialect. The second person, who
was of an extraordinary delicate appearance, with legs like walking
canes and fingers like the stalk of a tobacco pipe, (6) now rose to
his feet.

"The Sahib," says he, "understands no English language. I
understand it myself, and I see you make some small mistake - oh!
which may happen very often. But the Sahib would be glad to know
how you come in a garden."

"Ballantrae!" I cried, "have you the damned impudence to deny me to
my face?"

Ballantrae never moved a muscle, staring at me like an image in a
pagoda.

"The Sahib understands no English language," says the native, as
glib as before. "He be glad to know how you come in a garden."

"Oh! the divil fetch him," says I. "He would be glad to know how I
come in a garden, would he? Well, now, my dear man, just have the
civility to tell the Sahib, with my kind love, that we are two
soldiers here whom he never met and never heard of, but the cipaye
is a broth of a boy, and I am a broth of a boy myself; and if we
don't get a full meal of meat, and a turban, and slippers, and the
value of a gold mohur in small change as a matter of convenience,
bedad, my friend, I could lay my finger on a garden where there is
going to be trouble."

They carried their comedy so far as to converse awhile in
Hindustanee; and then says the Hindu, with the same smile, but
sighing as if he were tired of the repetition, "The Sahib would be
glad to know how you come in a garden."

"Is that the way of it?" says I, and laying my hand on my sword-
hilt I bade the cipaye draw.

Ballantrae's Hindu, still smiling, pulled out a pistol from his
bosom, and though Ballantrae himself never moved a muscle I knew
him well enough to be sure he was prepared.

"The Sahib thinks you better go away," says the Hindu.

Well, to be plain, it was what I was thinking myself; for the
report of a pistol would have been, under Providence, the means of
hanging the pair of us.

"Tell the Sahib I consider him no gentleman," says I, and turned
away with a gesture of contempt.

I was not gone three steps when the voice of the Hindu called me
back. "The Sahib would be glad to know if you are a dam low
Irishman," says he; and at the words Ballantrae smiled and bowed
very low.

"What is that?" says I.

"The Sahib say you ask your friend Mackellar," says the Hindu.
"The Sahib he cry quits."

"Tell the Sahib I will give him a cure for the Scots fiddle when
next we meet," cried I.

The pair were still smiling as I left.

There is little doubt some flaws may be picked in my own behaviour;
and when a man, however gallant, appeals to posterity with an
account of his exploits, he must almost certainly expect to share
the fate of Caesar and Alexander, and to meet with some detractors.
But there is one thing that can never be laid at the door of
Francis Burke: he never turned his back on a friend. . . .

(Here follows a passage which the Chevalier Burke has been at the
pains to delete before sending me his manuscript. Doubtless it was
some very natural complaint of what he supposed to be an
indiscretion on my part; though, indeed, I can call none to mind.
Perhaps Mr. Henry was less guarded; or it is just possible the
Master found the means to examine my correspondence, and himself
read the letter from Troyes: in revenge for which this cruel jest
was perpetrated on Mr. Burke in his extreme necessity. The Master,
for all his wickedness, was not without some natural affection; I
believe he was sincerely attached to Mr. Burke in the beginning;
but the thought of treachery dried up the springs of his very
shallow friendship, and his detestable nature appeared naked. - E.
McK.)

CHAPTER VIII. - THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSE.

It is a strange thing that I should be at a stick for a date - the
date, besides, of an incident that changed the very nature of my
life, and sent us all into foreign lands. But the truth is, I was
stricken out of all my habitudes, and find my journals very ill
redd-up, (7) the day not indicated sometimes for a week or two
together, and the whole fashion of the thing like that of a man
near desperate. It was late in March at least, or early in April,
1764. I had slept heavily, and wakened with a premonition of some
evil to befall. So strong was this upon my spirit that I hurried
downstairs in my shirt and breeches, and my hand (I remember) shook
upon the rail. It was a cold, sunny morning, with a thick white
frost; the blackbirds sang exceeding sweet and loud about the house
of Durrisdeer, and there was a noise of the sea in all the
chambers. As I came by the doors of the hall, another sound
arrested me - of voices talking. I drew nearer, and stood like a
man dreaming. Here was certainly a human voice, and that in my own
master's house, and yet I knew it not; certainly human speech, and
that in my native land; and yet, listen as I pleased, I could not
catch one syllable. An old tale started up in my mind of a fairy
wife (or perhaps only a wandering stranger), that came to the place
of my fathers some generations back, and stayed the matter of a
week, talking often in a tongue that signified nothing to the
hearers; and went again, as she had come, under cloud of night,
leaving not so much as a name behind her. A little fear I had, but
more curiosity; and I opened the hall-door, and entered.

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