The Master of Ballantrae: A Winter's Tale by Robert Louis Stevenson (electric book reader .TXT) 📕

to that hour the Master had played a very close game with Mrs. Henry; avoiding pointedly to be alone with her, which I took at the time for an effect of decency, but now think to be a most insidious art; meeting her, you may say, at meal-time only; and behaving, when he did so, like an affectionate brother. Up to that hour, you may say he had scarce directly interfered between Mr. Henry and his wife; except in so far as he had manoeuvred the one quite forth from the good graces of the other. Now all that was to be changed; but whether really in revenge, or because he was wearying of Durrisdeer and looked about for some diversion, who but the devil shall decide?

From that hour, at least, began the siege of Mrs. Henry; a thing so deftly carried on that I scarce know if she was aware of it herself, and that her husband must look on in silence. The first parallel was opened (as was made to appear) by accident. The talk fell, as it did often, on the exiles in France; so it glided to the matter of their songs.

“There is one,” says the Master, “if you are curious in these matters, that has always seemed to me very moving. The poetry is harsh; and yet, perhaps because of my situation, it has always found the way to my heart. It is supposed to be sung, I should tell you, by an exile’s sweetheart; and represents perhaps, not so much the truth of what she is thinking, as the truth of what he hopes of her, poor soul! in these far lands.” And here the Master sighed, “I protest it is a pathetic sight when a score of rough Irish, all common sentinels, get to this song; and you may see, by their falling tears, how it strikes home to them. It goes thus, father,” says he, very adroitly taking my lord for his listener, “and if I cannot get to the end of it, you must think it is a common case with us exiles.” And thereupon he struck up the same air as I had heard the Colonel whistle; but now to words, rustic indeed, yet most pathetically setting forth a poor girl’s aspirations for an exiled lover; of which one verse indeed (or something like it) still sticks by me:—

O, I will dye my petticoat red,
With my dear boy I’ll beg my bread,
Though all my friends should wish me dead,
        For Willie among the rushes, O!

He sang it well, even as a song; but he did better yet a performer. I have heard famous actors, when there was not a dry eye in the Edinburgh theatre; a great wonder to behold; but no more wonderful than how the Master played upon that little ballad, and on those who heard him, like an instrument, and seemed now upon the point of failing, and now to conquer his distress, so that words and music seemed to pour out of his own heart and his own past, and to be aimed directly at Mrs. Henry. And his art went further yet; for all was so delicately touched, it seemed impossible to suspect him of the least design; and so far from making a parade of emotion, you would have sworn he was striving to be calm. When it came to an end, we all sat silent for a time; he had chosen the dusk of the afternoon, so that none could see his neighbour’s face; but it seemed as if we held our breathing; only my old lord cleared his throat. The first to move was the singer, who got to his feet suddenly and softly, and went and walked softly to and fro in the low end of the hall, Mr. Henry’s customary place. We were to suppose that he there struggled down the last of his emotion; for he presently returned and launched into a disquisition on the nature of the Irish (always so much miscalled, and whom he defended) in his natural voice; so that, before the lights were brought, we were in the usual course of talk. But even then, methought Mrs. Henry’s face was a shade pale; and, for another thing, she withdrew almost at once.

The next sign was a friendship this insidious devil struck up with innocent Miss Katharine; so that they were always together, hand in hand, or she climbing on his knee, like a pair of children. Like all his diabolical acts, this cut in several ways. It was the last stroke to Mr. Henry, to see his own babe debauched against him; it made him harsh with the poor innocent, which brought him still a peg lower in his wife’s esteem; and (to conclude) it was a bond of union between the lady and the Master. Under this influence, their old reserve melted by daily stages. Presently there came walks in the long shrubbery, talks in the Belvedere, and I know not what tender familiarity. I am sure Mrs. Henry was like many a good woman; she had a whole conscience but perhaps by the means of a little winking. For even to so dull an observer as myself, it was plain her kindness was of a more moving nature than the sisterly. The tones of her voice appeared more numerous; she had a light and softness in her eye; she was more gentle with all of us, even with Mr. Henry, even with myself; methought she breathed of some quiet melancholy happiness.

To look on at this, what a torment it was for Mr. Henry! And yet it brought our ultimate deliverance, as I am soon to tell.

The purport of the Master’s stay was no more noble (gild it as they might) than to wring money out. He had some design of a fortune in the French Indies, as the Chevalier wrote me; and it was the sum required for this that he came seeking. For the rest of the family it spelled ruin; but my lord, in his incredible partiality, pushed ever for the granting. The family was now so narrowed down (indeed, there were no more of them than just the father and the two sons) that it was possible to break the entail and alienate a piece of land. And to this, at first by hints, and then by open pressure, Mr. Henry was brought to consent. He never would have done so, I am very well assured, but for the weight of the distress under which he laboured. But for his passionate eagerness to see his brother gone, he would not thus have broken with his own sentiment and the traditions of his house. And even so, he sold them his consent at a dear rate, speaking for once openly, and holding the business up in its own shameful colours.

“You will observe,” he said, “this is an injustice to my son, if ever I have one.”

“But that you are not likely to have,” said my lord.

“God knows!” says Mr. Henry. “And considering the cruel falseness of the position in which I stand to my brother, and that you, my lord, are my father, and have the right to command me, I set my hand to this paper. But one thing I will say first: I have been ungenerously pushed, and when next, my lord, you are tempted to compare your sons, I call on you to remember what I have done and what he has done. Acts are the fair test.”

My lord was the most uneasy man I ever saw; even in his old face the blood came up. “I think this is not a very wisely chosen moment, Henry, for complaints,” said he. “This takes away from the merit of your generosity.”

“Do not deceive yourself, my lord,” said Mr. Henry. “This injustice is not done from generosity to him, but in obedience to yourself.”

“Before strangers . . . ” begins my lord, still more unhappily affected.

“There is no one but Mackellar here,” said Mr. Henry; “he is my friend. And, my lord, as you make him no stranger to your frequent blame, it were hard if I must keep him one to a thing so rare as my defence.”

Almost I believe my lord would have rescinded his decision; but the Master was on the watch.

“Ah! Henry, Henry,” says he, “you are the best of us still. Rugged and true! Ah! man, I wish I was as good.”

And at that instance of his favourite’s generosity my lord desisted from his hesitation, and the deed was signed.

As soon as it could he brought about, the land of Ochterhall was sold for much below its value, and the money paid over to our leech and sent by some private carriage into France. Or so he said; though I have suspected since it did not go so far. And now here was all the man’s business brought to a successful head, and his pockets once more bulging with our gold; and yet the point for which we had consented to this sacrifice was still denied us, and the visitor still lingered on at Durrisdeer. Whether in malice, or because the time was not yet come for his adventure to the Indies, or because he had hopes of his design on Mrs. Henry, or from the orders of the Government, who shall say? but linger he did, and that for weeks.

You will observe I say: from the orders of Government; for about this time the man’s disreputable secret trickled out.

The first hint I had was from a tenant, who commented on the Master’s stay, and yet more on his security; for this tenant was a Jacobitish sympathiser, and had lost a son at Culloden, which gave him the more critical eye. “There is one thing,” said he, “that I cannot but think strange; and that is how he got to Cockermouth.”

“To Cockermouth?” said I, with a sudden memory of my first wonder on beholding the man disembark so point-de-vice after so long a voyage.

“Why, yes,” says the tenant, “it was there he was picked up by Captain Crail. You thought he had come from France by sea? And so we all did.”

I turned this news a little in my head, and then carried it to Mr. Henry. “Here is an odd circumstance,” said I, and told him.

“What matters how he came, Mackellar, so long as he is here?” groans Mr. Henry.

“No, sir,” said I, “but think again! Does not this smack a little of some Government connivance? You know how much we have wondered already at the man’s security.”

“Stop,” said Mr. Henry. “Let me think of this.” And as he thought, there came that grim smile upon his face that was a little like the Master’s. “Give me paper,” said he. And he sat without another word and wrote to a gentleman of his acquaintance—I will name no unnecessary names, but he was one in a high place. This letter I despatched by the only hand I could depend upon in such a case—Macconochie’s; and the old man rode hard, for he was back with the reply before even my eagerness had ventured to expect him. Again, as he read it, Mr. Henry had the same grim smile.

“This is the best you have done for me yet, Mackellar,” says he. “With this in my hand I will give him a shog. Watch for us at dinner.”

At dinner accordingly Mr. Henry proposed some very public appearance for the Master; and my lord, as he had hoped, objected to the danger of the course.

“Oh!” says Mr. Henry, very easily, “you need no longer keep this up with me. I am as much in the secret as yourself.”

“In the secret?” says my lord. “What do you mean, Henry? I give you my word, I am in no secret from which you are excluded.”

The Master had changed countenance, and I saw he was struck in a joint of his harness.

“How?” says Mr. Henry, turning to him with a huge appearance of surprise. “I see you serve your masters very faithfully; but I had thought you would have been humane enough to set your father’s mind at rest.”

“What are you talking of? I refuse to have my business publicly discussed. I order this to cease,” cries the Master very foolishly and passionately, and indeed more like a child than a man.

“So much discretion was not looked for at your hands, I can assure you,” continued Mr. Henry. “For see what my correspondent writes”—unfolding the paper—“‘It is, of course, in the interests both of the Government and the gentleman whom we may perhaps best continue to call Mr. Bally, to keep this understanding secret; but it was never meant his own