The Master of Ballantrae. Robert Louis Stevenson

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 a fancy to the Chevalier’s manner of narration, he knows where to apply for the rest, of which there is plenty at his service. I put in my first extract here, so that it may stand in the place of what the Chevalier told us over our wine in the hall of Durrisdeer; but you are to suppose it was not the brutal fact, but a very varnished version that he offered to my lord.