Master of Ballantrae | Page 4

it for near a hundred years; it is
highly genteel, for it treats of a titled family; and it ought to be
melodramatic, for (according to the superscription) it is concerned with
death."
"I think I rarely heard a more obscure or a more promising
annunciation," the other remarked. "But what is It?"
"You remember my predecessor's, old Peter M'Brair's business?"
"I remember him acutely; he could not look at me without a pang of
reprobation, and he could not feel the pang without betraying it. He was
to me a man of a great historical interest, but the interest was not
returned."
"Ah well, we go beyond him," said Mr. Thomson. "I daresay old Peter
knew as little about this as I do. You see, I succeeded to a prodigious
accumulation of old law-papers and old tin boxes, some of them of
Peter's hoarding, some of his father's, John, first of the dynasty, a great
man in his day. Among other collections, were all the papers of the
Durrisdeers."
"The Durrisdeers!" cried I. "My dear fellow, these may be of the
greatest interest. One of them was out in the '45; one had some strange
passages with the devil - you will find a note of it in Law's
MEMORIALS, I think; and there was an unexplained tragedy, I know
not what, much later, about a hundred years ago - "
"More than a hundred years ago," said Mr. Thomson. "In 1783."
"How do you know that? I mean some death."
"Yes, the lamentable deaths of my Lord Durrisdeer and his brother, the
Master of Ballantrae (attainted in the troubles)," said Mr. Thomson
with something the tone of a man quoting. "Is that it?"
"To say truth," said I, "I have only seen some dim reference to the
things in memoirs; and heard some traditions dimmer still, through my
uncle (whom I think you knew). My uncle lived when he was a boy in
the neighbourhood of St. Bride's; he has often told me of the avenue
closed up and grown over with grass, the great gates never opened, the
last lord and his old maid sister who lived in the back parts of the house,
a quiet, plain, poor, hum-drum couple it would seem - but pathetic too,

as the last of that stirring and brave house - and, to the country folk,
faintly terrible from some deformed traditions."
"Yes," said Mr. Thomson. "Henry Graeme Durie, the last lord, died in
1820; his sister, the honourable Miss Katherine Durie, in '27; so much I
know; and by what I have been going over the last few days, they were
what you say, decent, quiet people and not rich. To say truth, it was a
letter of my lord's that put me on the search for the packet we are going
to open this evening. Some papers could not be found; and he wrote to
Jack M'Brair suggesting they might be among those sealed up by a Mr.
Mackellar. M'Brair answered, that the papers in question were all in
Mackellar's own hand, all (as the writer understood) of a purely
narrative character; and besides, said he, 'I am bound not to open them
before the year 1889.' You may fancy if these words struck me: I
instituted a hunt through all the M'Brair repositories; and at last hit
upon that packet which (if you have had enough wine) I propose to
show you at once."
In the smoking-room, to which my host now led me, was a packet,
fastened with many seals and enclosed in a single sheet of strong paper
thus endorsed:
Papers relating to the lives and lamentable deaths of the late Lord
Durisdeer, and his elder brother James, commonly called Master of
Ballantrae, attainted in the troubles: entrusted into the hands of John
M'Brair in the Lawnmarket of Edinburgh, W.S.; this 20th day of
September Anno Domini 1789; by him to be kept secret until the
revolution of one hundred years complete, or until the 20th day of
September 1889: the same compiled and written by me, EPHRAIM
MACKELLAR,
For near forty years Land Steward on the estates of his Lordship.
As Mr. Thomson is a married man, I will not say what hour had struck
when we laid down the last of the following pages; but I will give a few
words of what ensued.
"Here," said Mr. Thomson, "is a novel ready to your hand: all you have
to do is to work up the scenery, develop the characters, and improve the
style."
"My dear fellow," said I, "they are just the three things that I would
rather die than set my hand to. It shall be published as it stands."
"But it's so bald," objected Mr. Thomson.

"I believe there is nothing so noble as