The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 12. Robert Louis Stevenson
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dear man,” said he, “a thousand apologies for disturbing you, but I’m in the most awkward position. And there’s a son of a ramrod there that I should know the looks of, and more, betoken, I believe that he knows mine. Being in this family, sir, and in a place of some responsibility (which was the cause I took the liberty to send for you), you are doubtless of the honest party?”
“You may be sure at least,” says I, “that all of that party are quite safe in Durrisdeer.”
“My dear man, it is my very thought,” says he. “You see, I have just been set on shore here by a very honest man, whose name I cannot remember, and who is to stand off and on for me till morning, at some danger to himself; and, to be clear with you, I am a little concerned lest it should be at some to me. I have saved my life so often, Mr. – , I forget your name, which is a very good one – that, faith, I would be very loth to lose it after all. And the son of a ramrod, whom I believe I saw before Carlisle…”
“O, sir,” said I, “you can trust Macconochie until to-morrow.”
“Well, and it’s a delight to hear you say so,” says the stranger. “The truth is, that my name is not a very suitable one in this country of Scotland. With a gentleman like you, my dear man, I would have no concealments of course; and by your leave I’ll just breathe it in your ear. They call me Francis Burke – Colonel Francis Burke; and I am here, at a most damnable risk to myself, to see your masters – if you’ll excuse me, my good man, for giving them the name, for I’m sure it’s a circumstance I would never have guessed from your appearance. And if you would just be so very obliging as to take my name to them, you might say that I come bearing letters which I am sure they will be very rejoiced to have the reading of.”
Colonel Francis Burke was one of the Prince’s Irishmen, that did his cause such an infinity of hurt, and were so much distasted of the Scots at the time of the rebellion; and it came at once into my mind how the Master of Ballantrae had astonished all men by going with that party. In the same moment a strong foreboding of the truth possessed my soul.
“If you will step in here,” said I, opening a chamber door, “I will let my lord know.”
“And I am sure it’s very good of you, Mr. What’s-your-name,” says the Colonel.
Up to the hall I went, slow-footed. There they were, all three – my old lord in his place, Mrs. Henry at work by the window, Mr. Henry (as was much his custom) pacing the low end. In the midst was the table laid for supper. I told them briefly what I had to say. My old lord lay back in his seat. Mrs. Henry sprang up standing with a mechanical motion, and she and her husband stared at each other’s eyes across the room; it was the strangest, challenging look these two exchanged, and as they looked, the colour faded in their faces. Then Mr. Henry turned to me; not to speak, only to sign with his finger; but that was enough, and I went down again for the Colonel.
When we returned, these three were in much the same position I had left them in; I believe no word had passed.
“My Lord Durrisdeer, no doubt?” says the Colonel, bowing, and my lord bowed in answer. “And this,” continues the Colonel, “should be the Master of Ballantrae?”
“I have never taken that name,” said Mr. Henry; “but I am Henry Durie, at your service.”
Then the Colonel turns to Mrs. Henry, bowing with his hat upon his heart and the most killing airs of gallantry. “There can be no mistake about so fine a figure of a lady,” says he. “I address the seductive Miss Alison, of whom I have so often heard?”
Once more husband and wife exchanged a look.
“I am Mrs. Henry Durie,” said she; “but before my marriage my name was Alison Graeme.”
Then my lord spoke up. “I am an old man, Colonel Burke,” said he, “and a frail one. It will be mercy on your part to be expeditious. Do you bring me news of – ” he hesitated, and then the words broke from him with a singular change of voice – “my son?”
“My dear lord, I will be round with you like a soldier,” said the Colonel. “I do.”
My lord held out a wavering hand; he seemed to wave a signal, but whether it was to give him time or to speak on, was more than we could guess. At length he got out the one word, “Good?”
“Why, the very best in the creation!” cries the Colonel. “For my good friend and admired comrade is at this hour in the fine city of Paris, and as like as not, if I know anything of his habits, he will be drawing in his chair to a piece of dinner. – Bedad, I believe the lady’s fainting.”
Mrs. Henry was indeed the colour of death, and drooped against the window-frame. But when Mr. Henry made a movement as if to run to her, she straightened with a sort of shiver. “I am well,” she said, with her white lips.
Mr. Henry stopped, and his face had a strong twitch of anger. The next moment he had turned to the Colonel. “You must not blame yourself,” says he, “for this effect on Mrs. Durie. It is only natural; we were all brought up like brother and sister.”
Mrs. Henry looked at her husband with something like relief, or even gratitude. In my way of thinking, that speech was the first step he made in her good graces.
“You must try to forgive me, Mrs. Durie, for indeed and I am just an Irish savage,” said the Colonel; “and I deserve to be shot, for not breaking the matter more artistically to a lady. – But here are the Master’s own letters; one for each of the three of you; and to be sure (if I know anything of my friend’s genius) he will tell his own story with a better grace.”
He brought the three letters forth as he spoke, arranged them by their superscriptions, presented the first to my lord, who took it greedily, and advanced towards Mrs. Henry holding out the second.
But the lady waved it back. “To my husband,” says she, with a choked voice.
The Colonel was a quick man, but at this he was somewhat nonplussed. “To be sure!” says he; “how very dull of me! To be sure!” But he still held the letter.
At last Mr. Henry reached forth his hand, and there was nothing to be done but give it up. Mr. Henry took the letters (both hers and his own), and looked upon their outside, with his brows knit hard, as if he were thinking. He had surprised me all through by his excellent behaviour: but he was to excel himself now.
“Let me give you a hand to your room,” said he to his wife. “This has come something of the suddenest; and, at any rate, you will wish to read your letter by yourself.”
Again she looked upon him with the same thought of wonder; but he gave her no time, coming straight to where she stood. “It will be better so, believe me,” said he; “and Colonel Burke is too considerate not to excuse you.” And with that he took her hand by the fingers, and led her from the hall.
Mrs. Henry returned no more that night; and when Mr. Henry went to visit her next morning, as I heard long afterwards, she gave him the letter again, still unopened.
“O, read it and be done!” he had cried.
“Spare me that,” said she.
And by these two speeches, to my way of thinking, each undid a great part of what they had previously done well. But the letter, sure enough, came into my hands, and by me was burned, unopened.
To be very exact as to the adventures of the Master after Culloden, I wrote not long ago to Colonel Burke, now a Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis, begging him for some notes in writing, since I could scarce depend upon my memory at so great an interval. To confess the truth, I have been somewhat embarrassed by his response; for he sent me the complete memoirs of his life, touching only in places on the Master; running to a much greater length than my whole story, and not everywhere (as it seems to me) designed for edification. He begged in his letter, dated from Ettenheim, that I would find a publisher for the whole, after I had made what use of it I required; and I think I shall best answer my own purpose and fulfil his wishes by giving certain parts of it in full. In this way my readers will have a detailed, and, I believe, a very genuine account of some essential matters; and if any publisher should take