“It is no wit, Mr. Bally,” said I: “a dry Scots humour, and something of the driest.” And, indeed, I never had the least pretension to be thought a wit.
From that hour he was never rude with me, but all passed between us in a manner of pleasantry. One of our chief times of daffing9 was when he required a horse, another bottle, or some money. He would approach me then after the manner of a schoolboy, and I would carry it on by way of being his father: on both sides, with an infinity of mirth. I could not but perceive that he thought more of me, which tickled that poor part of mankind, the vanity. He dropped, besides (I must suppose unconsciously), into a manner that was not only familiar, but even friendly; and this, on the part of one who had so long detested me, I found the more insidious. He went little abroad; sometimes even refusing invitations. “No,” he would say, “what do I care for these thickheaded bonnet-lairds? I will stay at home, Mackellar; and we shall share a bottle quietly, and have one of our good talks.” And, indeed, mealtime at Durrisdeer must have been a delight to anyone, by reason of the brilliancy of the discourse. He would often express wonder at his former indifference to my society. “But, you see,” he would add, “we were upon opposite sides. And so we are today; but let us never speak of that. I would think much less of you if you were not staunch to your employer.” You are to consider he seemed to me quite impotent for any evil; and how it is a most engaging form of flattery when (after many years) tardy justice is done to a man’s character and parts. But I have no thought to excuse myself. I was to blame; I let him cajole me, and, in short, I think the watchdog was gone sound asleep, when he was suddenly aroused.
I should say the Indian was continually travelling to and fro in the house. He never spoke, save in his own dialect and with the Master; walked without sound; and was always turning up where you would least expect him, fallen into a deep abstraction, from which he would start (upon your coming) to mock you with one of his grovelling obeisances. He seemed so quiet, so frail, and so wrapped in his own fancies, that I came to pass him over without much regard, or even to pity him for a harmless exile from his country. And yet without doubt the creature was still eavesdropping; and without doubt it was through his stealth and my security that our secret reached the Master.
It was one very wild night, after supper, and when we had been making more than usually merry, that the blow fell on me.
“This is all very fine,” says the Master, “but we should do better to be buckling our valise.”
“Why so?” I cried. “Are you leaving?”
“We are all leaving tomorrow in the morning,” said he. “For the port of Glascow first, thence for the province of New York.”
I suppose I must have groaned aloud.
“Yes,” he continued, “I boasted; I said a week, and it has taken me near twenty days. But never mind; I shall make it up; I will go the faster.”
“Have you the money for this voyage?” I asked.
“Dear and ingenuous personage, I have,” said he. “Blame me, if you choose, for my duplicity; but while I have been wringing shillings from my daddy, I had a stock of my own put by against a rainy day. You will pay for your own passage, if you choose to accompany us on our flank march; I have enough for Secundra and myself, but not more—enough to be dangerous, not enough to be generous. There is, however, an outside seat upon the chaise which I will let you have upon a moderate commutation; so that the whole menagerie can go together—the house-dog, the monkey, and the tiger.”
“I go with you,” said I.
“I count upon it,” said the Master. “You have seen me foiled; I mean you shall see me victorious. To gain that I will risk wetting you like a sop in this wild weather.”
“And at least,” I added, “you know very well you could not throw me off.”
“Not easily,” said he. “You put your finger on the point with your usual excellent good sense. I never fight with the inevitable.”
“I suppose it is useless to appeal to you?” said I.
“Believe me, perfectly,” said he.
“And yet, if you would give me time, I could write—” I began.
“And what would be my Lord Durrisdeer’s answer?” asks he.
“Ay,” said I, “that is the rub.”
“And, at any rate, how much more expeditious that I should go myself!” says he. “But all this is quite a waste of breath. At seven tomorrow the chaise will be at the door. For I start from the door, Mackellar; I do not skulk through woods and take my chaise upon the wayside—shall we say, at Eagles?”
My mind was now thoroughly made up. “Can you spare me quarter of an hour at St. Bride’s?” said I. “I have a little necessary business with Carlyle.”
“An hour, if you prefer,” said he. “I do not seek to deny that the money for your seat is an object to me; and you could
