The Master of Ballantrae

My lady stopped him, curtsying low from the far end of the hall, and keeping her children at her back. My lord was a little in front: so there were the three cousins of Durrisdeer face to face. The hand of time was very legible on all; I seemed to read in their changed faces a memento mori; and what affected me still more, it was the wicked man that bore his years the handsomest. My lady was quite transfigured into the matron, a becoming woman for the head of a great tableful of children and dependants. My lord was grown slack in his limbs; he stooped; he walked with a running motion, as though he had learned again from Mr. Alexander; his face was drawn; it seemed a trifle longer than of old; and it wore at times a smile very singularly mingled, and which (in my eyes) appeared both bitter and pathetic. But the Master still bore himself erect, although perhaps with effort; his brow barred about the centre with imperious lines, his mouth set as for command. He had all the gravity and something of the splendour of Satan in the Paradise Lost. I could not help but see the man with admiration, and was only surprised that I saw him with so little fear.

But indeed (as long as we were at the table) it seemed as if his authority were quite vanished and his teeth all drawn. We had known him a magician that controlled the elements; and here he was, transformed into an ordinary gentleman, chatting like his neighbours at the breakfast-board. For now the father was dead, and my lord and lady reconciled, in what ear was he to pour his calumnies? It came upon me in a kind of vision how hugely I had overrated the man’s subtlety. He had his malice still; he was false as ever; and, the occasion being gone that made his strength, he sat there impotent; he was still the viper, but now spent his venom on a file. Two more thoughts occurred to me while yet we sat at breakfast: the first, that he was abashed⁠—I had almost said, distressed⁠—to find his wickedness quite unavailing; the second, that perhaps my lord was in the right, and we did amiss to fly from our dismasted enemy. But my poor master’s leaping heart came in my mind, and I remembered it was for his life we played the coward.

When the meal was over, the Master followed me to my room, and, taking a chair (which I had never offered him), asked me what was to be done with him.

“Why, Mr. Bally,” said I, “the house will still be open to you for a time.”

“For a time?” says he. “I do not know if I quite take your meaning.”

“It is plain enough,” said I. “We keep you for our reputation; as soon as you shall have publicly disgraced yourself by some of your misconduct, we shall pack you forth again.”

“You are become an impudent rogue,” said the Master, bending his brows at me dangerously.

“I learned in a good school,” I returned. “And you must have perceived yourself that with my old lord’s death your power is quite departed. I do not fear you now, Mr. Bally; I think even⁠—God forgive me⁠—that I take a certain pleasure in your company.”

He broke out in a burst of laughter, which I clearly saw to be assumed.

“I have come with empty pockets,” says he, after a pause.

“I do not think there will be any money going,” I replied. “I would advise you not to build on that.”

“I shall have something to say on the point,” he returned.

“Indeed?” said I. “I have not a guess what it will be, then.”

“O! you affect confidence,” said the Master. “I have still one strong position⁠—that you people fear a scandal, and I enjoy it.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Bally,” says I. “We do not in the least fear a scandal against you.”

He laughed again. “You have been studying repartee,” he said. “But speech is very easy, and sometimes very deceptive. I warn you fairly: you will find me vitriol in the house. You would do wiser to pay money down and see my back.” And with that he waved his hand to me and left the room.

A little after, my lord came with the lawyer, Mr. Carlyle; a bottle of old wine was brought, and we all had a glass before we fell to business. The necessary deeds were then prepared and executed, and the Scots estates made over in trust to Mr. Carlyle and myself.

“There is one point, Mr. Carlyle,” said my lord, when these affairs had been adjusted, “on which I wish that you would do us justice. This sudden departure coinciding with my brother’s return will be certainly commented on. I wish you would discourage any conjunction of the two.”

“I will make a point of it, my lord,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The Mas⁠—Mr. Bally does not, then, accompany you?”

“It is a point I must approach,” said my lord. “Mr. Bally remains at Durrisdeer, under the care of Mr. Mackellar; and I do not mean that he shall even know our destination.”

“Common report, however⁠—” began the lawyer.

“Ah! but, Mr. Carlyle, this is to be a secret quite among ourselves,” interrupted my lord. “None but you and Mackellar are to be made acquainted with my movements.”

“And Mr. Bally stays here? Quite so,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The powers you leave⁠—” Then he broke off again. “Mr. Mackellar, we have a rather heavy weight upon us.”

“No doubt, sir,” said I.

“No doubt,” said he. “Mr. Bally will have no voice?”

“He will have no voice,” said my lord; “and, I hope, no influence. Mr. Bally is not a good adviser.”

“I see,” said the lawyer.⁠—“By the way, has Mr. Bally means?”

“I understand him to have nothing,” replied my lord. “I give him table, fire, and candle in this house.”

“And in the matter of an allowance? If I am to share the responsibility, you