This, I say, was affecting, both to Mrs. Henry and myself; but the balance of my master’s wanderings did him little justice. It seemed he had set out to justify11 his brother’s calumnies12; as though he was bent13 to prove himself a man of a dry nature, immersed in money-getting. Had I been there alone, I would not have troubled my thumb; but all the while, as I listened, I was estimating the effect on the man’s wife, and telling myself that he fell lower every day. I was the one person on the surface of the globe that comprehended him, and I was bound there should be yet another. Whether he was to die there and his virtues14 perish: or whether he should save his days and come back to that inheritance of sorrows, his right memory: I was bound he should be heartily15 lamented17 in the one case, and unaffectedly welcomed in the other, by the person he loved the most, his wife.
Finding no occasion of free speech, I bethought me at last of a kind of documentary disclosure; and for some nights, when I was off duty and should have been asleep, I gave my time to the preparation of that which I may call my budget. But this I found to be the easiest portion of my task, and that which remained—namely, the presentation to my lady—almost more than I had fortitude18 to overtake. Several days I went about with my papers under my arm, spying for some juncture19 of talk to serve as introduction. I will not deny but that some offered; only when they did my tongue clove20 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 hesitations21. This was at night, when I was once more leaving the room, the thing not yet done, and myself in despair at my own cowardice22.
“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, I am now to give you some idea; and the best will be 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 scroll23. It will show, too, the moderation of my part in these affairs, a thing which some have called recklessly in question.
“Durrisdeer.
“1757.
“Honoured Madam,
“I trust I would not step out of my place without occasion; but I see how much evil has flowed in the past to all of your noble house from that unhappy and secretive fault of reticency, and the papers on which I venture to call your attention are family papers, and all highly worthy24 your acquaintance.
“I append a schedule with some necessary observations,
“And am,
“Honoured Madam,
“Your ladyship’s obliged, obedient servant,
“Ephraim Mackellar.
“Schedule of Papers.
“A. Scroll of ten letters from Ephraim Mackellar to the Hon. James Durie, Esq., by courtesy Master of Ballantrae during the latter’s residence in Paris: under dates . . . ” (follow the dates) . . . “Nota: to be read in connection with B. and C.
“B. Seven original letters from the said Mr of Ballantrae to the said E. Mackellar, under dates . . . ” (follow the dates.)
“C. Three original letters from the Mr of Ballantrae to the Hon. Henry Durie, Esq., under dates . . . ” (follow the dates) . . . “Nota: given me by Mr. Henry to answer: copies of my answers A 4, A 5, and A 9 of these productions. The purport25 of Mr. Henry’s communications, of which I can find no scroll, may be gathered from those of his unnatural26 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 distress27 of mind, it was impossible for me to sleep. All night long I walked in my chamber28, revolving29 what should be the issue, and sometimes repenting30 the temerity31 of my immixture 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 shutters32 and even the window, for the temperature was mild. She looked steadfastly33 before her; where was nothing to see, or only the blue of the morning creeping among woods. Upon the stir of my entrance she did not so much as turn about her face: a circumstance from which I augured34 very ill.
“Madam,” I began; and then again, “Madam;” but could make no more of it. Nor yet did Mrs. Henry come to my assistance with a word. In this pass I began gathering35 up the papers where they lay scattered36 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 with 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 draught37; and at that my timidity vanished.
“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 night’s work that you have done!” cried I. “And all to save the reputation of a man that ate 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 servant, 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 all defenceless. I had always these letters I could shake over his head; and now—What is to do? We are so falsely situate we dare not show the man the door; the country would fly on fire against us; and I had this one hold upon him—and now it is gone—now he may come back to-morrow, and we 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 can find it in His heart; for I cannot 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 prize 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 sword, Mr. Mackellar, and which had been one indeed against a man of any remnant of propriety38, would have been but a sword of paper against him. He would smile in your face at such a threat. He stands upon his degradation39, he makes that his strength; it is in vain to struggle with such characters.” She cried out this last a little desperately40, and then with more quiet: “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 redound41 against poor Henry, and I should see him stoned again upon the streets. Ah! if Henry dies, it is a different matter! They have broke the entail42 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 Mr. Mackellar, and that man returns, we must suffer: only this time it will be together.”
On the whole I was well pleased with Mrs. Henry’s attitude of mind; nor could I even deny there was some cogency43 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 unbusinesslike proceeding44 at the best. As for what 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 perfectly45 relieved; so that we began this morning, as we were to continue for so many years, on a proper ground of mutual46 indulgence and respect.
The same day, which was certainly prededicate to joy, we observed the first signal of recovery in Mr. Henry; and about three of the following afternoon he found his mind again, recognising me by name with the strongest evidences of affection. Mrs. Henry was also in the room, at the bedfoot; 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 sank again into 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. Apprehension47 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 sat 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 remember, and conceal48 his dreadful knowledge? or was the whole blotted49 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 sedulous50 particularity. Something of the child he exhibited: a cheerfulness quite foreign to his previous character, an interest readily aroused, and then very tenacious51, in small matters which he had heretofore despised. When he was stricken down, I 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 behaviour was inexpressibly affecting; and I think 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, I began to wonder, with many head-shakings, whether his reason were perfectly erect52.
As this doubt stretched over many years, endured indeed 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 him with precision. There was no lack of understanding, nor yet of authority; but the old continuous interest had quite departed; he grew readily fatigued53, and fell to yawning; and he carried into money relations, where it is certainly out of place, a facility that bordered upon slackness. True, since we had no longer the exactions of the Master to contend against, there was the less occasion to raise strictness into principle or do battle for a farthing. True, again, there was nothing excessive in these relaxations54, or I would have been no party to them. But the whole thing marked a change, very slight yet very perceptible; and 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 fever lingered in his veins55: his movements a little hurried, his speech notably56 more voluble, yet 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 impatience57 and dismissed again with immediate58 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 this life consists in contemplating59 what we cannot cure; but Mr. Henry, if he could not dismiss solicitude60 by an effort of the mind, must instantly and at whatever cost annihilate61 the cause of it; so that he played alternately the ostrich62 and the bull. It is to this strenuous63 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 groom64, a thing so much out of all his former practice, and which awakened65 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.
All this has led me far from our immediate trouble: whether 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 several 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 furtive66 smile, such as schoolboys use when in fault; and 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 want 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. But now he may be perfectly recovered.”
What there was in his countenance67 I could not read. “James?” he asked.
“Your brother James,” I answered. “I would not raise a hope that may be found deceptive68, but in my heart I think it very probable he is alive.”
“Ah!” says Mr. Henry; and suddenly rising from his seat with more alacrity69 than he had yet discovered, set one finger on my breast, and cried at me in a kind of screaming whisper, “Mackellar”—these were his words—“nothing can kill that man. He is not mortal. He is bound upon my back to all eternity70—to all 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 as if to be sure we were alone, “Mackellar,” said he, “when you have any intelligence, 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,” said I.
“Oh yes he will,” said Mr. Henry. “Wherever I am, there will he be.” And again he looked all about him.
“You must not dwell upon this thought, Mr. Henry,” said I.
“No,” said he, “that is a very good advice. We will never think of it, except when you have news. And we do not know yet,” he added; “he may be dead.”
The manner of his saying this convinced me thoroughly71 of what I had scarce ventured to suspect: that, so far from suffering any penitence72 for the attempt, he did but lament16 his failure. This was a discovery I kept to myself, fearing it might do him a prejudice with his wife. But I might have saved myself the trouble; she had divined it for herself, and found the sentiment quite natural. Indeed, I could not but say that there were 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 own master began to be relaxed, I was aware of a change in the old gentleman, his father, that seemed to threaten mortal consequences.
His face was pale and swollen73; as he sat in the chimney-side with his Latin, he would drop off sleeping and the book roll in the ashes; some days he would drag his foot, others stumble in speaking. The amenity74 of his behaviour 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 private, he met me as he was crossing the hall with painful footsteps, and took me kindly75 by the hand. “Mr. Mackellar,” said he, “I have had many occasions to set a proper value on your services; and to-day, when I re-cast my will, I have taken the freedom to name you for one of my executors. I believe you bear love enough to our house to render me this service.” At that very time he passed the greater portion of his days in slumber76, from which it was often 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 moss77. If I had been put to my oath, I must have declared he was incapable78 of testing; and yet there was never a will drawn79 more sensible in every trait, or showing a more excellent judgment80 both of persons and affairs.
His dissolution, though it took not very long, proceeded by infinitesimal gradations. His faculties81 decayed together steadily82; the power of his limbs was almost gone, he was extremely deaf, his speech had sunk into mere83 mumblings; and yet to the end he managed to discover something of his former courtesy and kindness, pressing the hand of any that helped him, presenting me with one of his Latin books, in which he had laboriously84 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 articulation85 returned to him in flashes; it seemed he had only forgotten the art of speech as a child forgets his lesson, 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 our several occupations; but it was in vain we turned to him; he sat there silent, and, to all appearance, fatuous86. A little later he was had to bed with more difficulty than ever before; and some time in the night, without any more violence, his spirit fled.
At a far later period I chanced to speak of these particulars with a doctor of medicine, a man of so high a reputation that I scruple87 to adduce his name. By his view of it father and son both suffered from the affection: the father from the strain of his unnatural sorrows—the son perhaps in the excitation of the fever; each had ruptured88 a vessel89 on the brain, and there was probably (my doctor added) some predisposition in the family to accidents of that description. The father sank, the son recovered all the externals of a healthy man; but it is like there was some destruction in those delicate tissues where the soul resides and does her earthly business; her heavenly, I would fain hope, cannot be thus obstructed90 by material accidents. And yet, upon a more mature opinion, it matters not one jot91; for He who shall pass judgment on the records of our life is the same that formed us in frailty92.
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 slain93 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 punctilious94 in exacting95.
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 doting96 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 slumbers97. 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 touching98 and some very blameworthy particulars. Soon the child could walk abroad with him, at first on the terrace, hand in hand, and afterward99 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 rambles100 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 miserable101 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 duel102 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 discoursing103 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 embarrassment104 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 forth105 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 bonnet106 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. Smite107 him, O Lord, upon the lying mouth!” The last broke out of him like a cry; and at that, whether remembered anger choked his utterance108, 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 trespasses109, as we forgive them that trespass110 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.”
“I think so indeed,” says I, “and one in sorrow, too. If we are not here to try to do the best, in my humble112 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.”
“It is an ill sentiment to shake hands upon,” said I, “for Christian114 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 ruggedly115 that I nearly found it in my heart to intervene: the cause would still be the same, that she had in some way thwarted116 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 Providence117 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 behold118 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 jealousy119, 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 exodus120 from his employment it does not become me to speak, above all in a memorandum121 written only to justify his father. . . .
[Editor’s Note. Five pages of Mr. Mackellar’s MS. are here omitted. I have gathered from their perusal122 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 alleged123.—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 wholesome124 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 monstrous125 instance of my lord’s indulgence, she would betray herself in a gesture or perhaps an exclamation126. 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 dishonour127 made me cover my face.
It was this continual preoccupation that screwed me up at last to a remonstrance128: a matter worthy to be narrated129 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 itching130 to be gone, and he looked fretful, weary, and methought older than I had ever previously131 observed. I suppose it was the haggard face that put me suddenly upon my enterprise.
“My lord,” said I, with my head down, and feigning132 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 forsook133 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 you are doing with your son?” said I.
“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 thumping136 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 brutal137 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 seizure138 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 meddling139?”
“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 ingenuity140, 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 meddle141 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 memoirs142 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 calamities143 and sorrows had been spared!—that Secundra Dass spoke English.
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1
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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2
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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7
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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8
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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12
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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20
clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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21
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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24
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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35
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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37
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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38
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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39
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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40
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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41
redound
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| v.有助于；提；报应 | |
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42
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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43
cogency
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| n.说服力；adj.有说服力的 | |
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44
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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45
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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46
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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47
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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48
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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49
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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50
sedulous
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| adj.勤勉的，努力的 | |
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51
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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52
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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53
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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54
relaxations
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| n.消遣( relaxation的名词复数 )；松懈；松弛；放松 | |
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55
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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56
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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57
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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58
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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59
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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60
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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61
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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62
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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63
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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64
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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66
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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67
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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68
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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69
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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70
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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71
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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72
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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73
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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74
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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75
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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76
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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77
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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78
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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80
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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81
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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82
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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83
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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84
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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85
articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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86
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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87
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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88
ruptured
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| v.（使）破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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89
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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90
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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91
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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92
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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93
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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94
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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95
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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96
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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98
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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100
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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101
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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102
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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103
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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104
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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105
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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106
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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107
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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108
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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109
trespasses
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| 罪过( trespass的名词复数 )； 非法进入 | |
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110
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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111
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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112
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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113
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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114
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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115
ruggedly
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| 险峻地； 粗暴地； （面容）多皱纹地； 粗线条地 | |
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116
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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117
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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118
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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119
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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120
exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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121
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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122
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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123
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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124
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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125
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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126
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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127
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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128
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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129
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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131
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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132
feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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133
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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134
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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135
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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136
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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137
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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138
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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139
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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140
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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141
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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142
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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143
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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