The full truth of this odd matter is what the world has long been looking for, and public curiosity is sure to welcome. It so befell that I was intimately with the last years and history of the house; and there does not live one man so able as myself to make these matters plain, or so desirous to them faithfully. I knew the Master; on many secret steps of his career I have an in my hand; I sailed with him on his last voyage almost alone; I made one upon that winter’s journey of which so many tales have gone abroad; and I was there at the man’s death. As for my late Lord Durrisdeer, I served him and loved him near twenty years; and thought more of him the more I knew of him. Altogether, I think it not fit that so much evidence should perish; the truth is a debt I owe my lord’s memory; and I think my old years will flow more , and my white hair lie quieter on the pillow, when the debt is paid.
 
The Duries of Durrisdeer and Ballantrae were a strong family in the south-west from the days of David First. A rhyme still current in the countryside—
 
Kittle folk are the Durrisdeers,
They ride wi’ over mony spears—
 
bears the mark of its ; and the name appears in another, which common report attributes to Thomas of Ercildoune himself—I cannot say how truly, and which some have applied—I dare not say with how much justice—to the events of this :
 
Twa Duries in Durrisdeer,
    Ane to tie and ane to ride,
An ill day for the
    And a waur day for the bride.
 
Authentic history besides is filled with their exploits which (to our modern eyes) seem not very : and the family suffered its full share of those ups and downs to which the great houses of Scotland have been ever liable. But all these I pass over, to come to that year 1745, when the foundations of this tragedy were laid.
 
At that time there dwelt a family of four persons in the house of Durrisdeer, near St. Bride’s, on the Solway shore; a chief hold of their race since the Reformation. My old lord, eighth of the name, was not old in years, but he suffered from the disabilities of age; his place was at the chimney side; there he sat reading, in a lined gown, with few words for any man, and words for none: the model of an old ; and yet his mind very well nourished with study, and reputed in the country to be more cunning than he seemed. The master of Ballantrae, James in baptism, took from his father the love of serious reading; some of his perhaps as well, but that which was only policy in the father became black in the son. The face of his behaviour was merely popular and wild: he sat late at wine, later at the cards; had the name in the country of “an unco man for the lasses;” and was ever in the front of . But for all he was the first to go in, yet it was observed he was invariably the best to come off; and his partners in were usually alone to pay the piper. This luck or got him several ill-wishers, but with the rest of the country, enhanced his reputation; so that great things were looked for in his future, when he should have gained more gravity. One very black mark he had to his name; but the matter was hushed up at the time, and so defaced by legends before I came into those parts, that I to set it down. If it was true, it was a fact in one so young; and if false, it was a horrid . I think it notable that he had always vaunted himself quite implacable, and was taken at his word; so that he had the addition among his neighbours of “an ill man to cross.” Here was altogether a young nobleman (not yet twenty-four in the year ’45) who had made a figure in the country beyond his time of life. The less if there were little heard of the second son, Mr. Henry (my late Lord Durrisdeer), who was neither very bad nor yet very able, but an honest, solid sort of lad like many of his neighbours. Little heard, I say; but indeed it was a case of little spoken. He was known among the fishers in the firth, for that was a sport that he assiduously followed; he was an excellent good horse-doctor besides; and took a chief hand, almost from a boy, in the management of the estates. How hard a part that was, in the situation of that family, none knows better than myself; nor yet with how little colour of justice a man may there acquire the reputation of a and a . The fourth person in the house was Miss Alison Graeme, a near kinswoman, an , and the heir to a considerable fortune which her father had acquired in trade. This money was loudly called for by my lord’s necessities; indeed the land was deeply mortgaged; and Miss Alison was designed accordingly to be the Master’s wife, gladly enough on her side; with how much good-will on his, is another matter. She was a girl, and in those days very spirited and self-willed; for the old lord having no daughter of his own, and my lady being long dead, she had grown up as best she might.
 
To these four came the news of Prince Charlie’s landing, and set them presently by the ears. My lord, like the chimney-keeper that he was, was all for temporising. Miss Alison held the other side, because it appeared romantical; and the Master (though I have heard they did not agree often) was for this once of her opinion. The adventure him, as I conceive; he was tempted by the opportunity to raise the fortunes of the house, and not less by the hope of paying off his private liabilities, which were heavy beyond all opinion. As for Mr. Henry, it appears he said little enough at first; his part came later on. It took the three a whole day’s disputation, before they agreed to a middle course, one son going to strike a blow for King James, my lord and the other staying at home to keep in favour with King George. Doubtless this was my lord’s decision; and, as is well known, it was the part played by many considerable families. But the one dispute settled, another opened. For my lord, Miss Alison, and Mr. Henry all held the one view: that it was the cadet’s part to go out; and the Master, what with restlessness and vanity, would at no rate consent to stay at home. My lord pleaded, Miss Alison wept, Mr. Henry was very plain spoken: all was of no avail.
 
“It is the direct heir of Durrisdeer that should ride by his King’s bridle,” says the Master.
 
“If we were playing a part,” says Mr. Henry, “there might be sense in such talk. But what are we doing? Cheating at cards!”
 
“We are saving the house of Durrisdeer, Henry,” his father said.
 
“And see, James,” said Mr. Henry, “if I go, and the Prince has the upper hand, it will be easy to make your peace with King James. But if you go, and the expedition fails, we divide the right and the title. And what shall I be then?”
 
“You will be Lord Durrisdeer,” said the Master. “I put all I have upon the table.”
 
“I play at no such game,” cries Mr. Henry. “I shall be left in such a situation as no man of sense and honour could endure. I shall be neither fish nor flesh!” he cried. And a little after he had another expression, plainer perhaps than he intended. “It is your duty to be here with my father,” said he. “You know well enough you are the favourite.”
 
“Ay?” said the Master. “And there Envy! Would you trip up my heels—Jacob?” said he, and dwelled upon the name .
 
Mr. Henry went and walked at the low end of the hall without reply; for he had an excellent gift of silence. Presently he came back.
 
“I am the cadet and I should go,” said he. “And my lord here is the master, and he says I shall go. What say ye to that, my brother?”
 
“I say this, Harry,” returned the Master, “that when very folk are met, there are only two ways out: Blows—and I think none of us could care to go so far; or the arbitrament of chance—and here is a guinea piece. Will you stand by the toss of the coin?”
 
“I will stand and fall by it,” said Mr. Henry. “Heads, I go; shield, I stay.”
 
The coin was , and it fell shield. “So there is a lesson for Jacob,” says the Master.
 
“We shall live to of this,” says Mr. Henry, and flung out of the hall.
 
As for Miss Alison, she caught up that piece of gold which had just sent her lover to the wars, and flung it clean through the family shield in the great painted window.
 
“If you loved me as well as I love you, you would have stayed,” cried she.
 
“‘I could not love you, dear, so well, loved I not honour more,’” sang the Master.
 
“Oh!” she cried, “you have no heart—I hope you may be killed!” and she ran from the room, and in tears, to her own .
 
It seems the Master turned to my lord with his most comical manner, and says he, “This looks like a devil of a wife.”
 
“I think you are a devil of a son to me,” cried his father, “you that have always been the favourite, to my shame be it spoken. Never a good hour have I gotten of you, since you were born; no, never one good hour,” and repeated it again the third time. Whether it was the Master’s , or his insubordination, or Mr. Henry’s word about the favourite son, that had so much disturbed my lord, I do not know; but I incline to think it was the last, for I have it by all accounts that Mr. Henry was more made up to from that hour.
 
Altogether it was in pretty ill blood with his family that the Master rode to the North; which was the more sorrowful for others to remember when it seemed too late. By fear and favour he had scraped together near upon a dozen men, principally ’ sons; they were all pretty full when they set forth, and rode up the hill by the old abbey, roaring and singing, the white cockade in every hat. It was a desperate venture for so small a company to cross the most of Scotland unsupported; and (what made folk think so the more) even as that poor dozen was up the hill, a great ship of the king’s navy, that could have brought them under with a single boat, lay with her broad ensign streaming in the bay. The next afternoon, having given the Master a fair start, it was Mr. Henry’s turn; and he rode off, all by himself, to offer his sword and carry letters from his father to King George’s Government. Miss Alison was shut in her room, and did little but weep, till both were gone; only she stitched the cockade upon the Master’s hat, and (as John Paul told me) it was wetted with tears when he carried it down to him.
 
In all that followed, Mr. Henry and my old lord were true to their bargain. That ever they anything is more than I could learn; and that they were anyway strong on the king’s side, more than believe. But they kept the letter of , corresponded with my Lord President, sat still at home, and had little or no commerce with the Master while that business lasted. Nor was he, on his side, more communicative. Miss Alison, indeed, was always sending him expresses, but I do not know if she had many answers. Macconochie rode for her once, and found the highlanders before Carlisle, and the Master riding by the Prince’s side in high favour; he took the letter (so Macconochie tells), opened it, glanced it through with a mouth like a man whistling, and stuck it in his belt, whence, on his horse passageing, it fell unregarded to the ground. It was Macconochie who picked it up; and he still kept it, and indeed I have seen it in his hands. News came to Durrisdeer of course, by the common report, as it goes travelling through a country, a thing always wonderful to me. By that means the family learned more of the Master’s favour with the Prince, and the ground it was said to stand on: for by a strange in a man so proud—only that he was a man still more ambitious—he was said to have crept into notability by truckling to the Irish. Sir Thomas Sullivan, Colonel Burke and the rest, were his daily comrades, by which course he withdrew himself from his own country-folk. All the small he had a hand in ; my Lord George upon a thousand points; was always for the advice that seemed to the Prince, no matter if it was good or bad; and seems upon the whole (like the gambler he was all through life) to have had less regard to the chances of the campaign than to the greatness of favour he might to, if, by any luck, it should succeed. For the rest, he did very well in the field; no one questioned that; for he was no coward.
 
The next was the news of Culloden, which was brought to Durrisdeer by one of the tenants’ sons—the only , he declared, of all those that had gone singing up the hill. By an unfortunate chance John Paul and Macconochie had that very morning found the guinea piece—which was the root of all the evil—sticking in a bush; they had been “up the gait,” as the servants say at Durrisdeer, to the change-house; and if they had little left of the guinea, they had less of their wits. What must John Paul do but burst into the hall where the family sat at dinner, and cry the news to them that “Tam Macmorland was but new lichtit at the door, and—wirra, wirra—there were nane to come behind him”?
 
They took the word in silence like folk ; only Mr. Henry carrying his palm to his face, and Miss Alison laying her head upon her hands. As for my lord, he was like ashes.
 
“I have still one son,” says he. “And, Henry, I will do you this justice—it is the kinder that is left.”
 
It was a strange thing to say in such a moment; but my lord had never forgotten Mr. Henry’s speech, and he had years of on his conscience. Still it was a strange thing, and more than Miss Alison could let pass. She broke out and blamed my lord for his words, and Mr. Henry because he was sitting there in safety when his brother lay dead, and herself because she had given her sweetheart ill words at his departure, calling him the flower of the flock, her hands, protesting her love, and crying on him by his name—so that the servants stood astonished.
 
Mr. Henry got to his feet, and stood holding his chair. It was he that was like ashes now.
 
“Oh!” he burst out suddenly, “I know you loved him.”
 
“The world knows that, glory be to God!” cries she; and then to Mr. Henry: “There is none but me to know one thing—that you were a to him in your heart.”
 
“God knows,” he, “it was lost love on both sides.”
 
Time went by in the house after that without much change; only they were now three instead of four, which was a perpetual of their loss. Miss Alison’s money, you are to bear in mind, was highly needful for the estates; and the one brother being dead, my old lord soon set his heart upon her marrying the other. Day in, day out, he would work upon her, sitting by the chimney-side with his finger in his Latin book, and his eyes set upon her face with a kind of pleasant intentness that became the old gentleman very well. If she wept, he would with her like an ancient man that has seen worse times and begins to think lightly even of sorrow; if she raged, he would fall to reading again in his Latin book, but always with some civil excuse; if she offered, as she often did, to let them have her money in a gift, he would show her how little it consisted with his honour, and remind her, even if he should consent, that Mr. Henry would certainly refuse. Non vi sed sæpe cadendo was a favourite word of his; and no doubt this quiet wore away much of her resolve; no doubt, besides, he had a great influence on the girl, having stood in the place of both her parents; and, for that matter, she was herself filled with the spirit of the Duries, and would have gone a great way for the glory of Durrisdeer; but not so far, I think, as to marry my poor patron, had it not been—strangely enough—for the circumstance of his extreme unpopularity.
 
This was the work of Tam Macmorland. There was not much harm in Tam; but he had that grievous weakness, a long tongue; and as the only man in that country who had been out—or, rather, who had come in again—he was sure of listeners. Those that have the underhand in any fighting, I have observed, are ever anxious to persuade themselves they were betrayed. By Tam’s account of it, the rebels had been betrayed at every turn and by every officer they had; they had been betrayed at Derby, and betrayed at Falkirk; the night march was a step of treachery of my Lord George’s; and Culloden was lost by the treachery of the Macdonalds. This habit of treason grew upon the fool, till at last he must have in Mr. Henry also. Mr. Henry (by his account) had betrayed the lads of Durrisdeer; he had promised to follow with more men, and instead of that he had ridden to King George. “Ay, and the next day!” Tam would cry. “The puir bonnie Master, and the puir, kind lads that rade wi’ him, were hardly ower the scaur, or he was aff—the Judis! Ay, weel—he has his way o’t: he’s to be my lord, nae less, and there’s mony a cold corp amang the Hieland heather!” And at this, if Tam had been drinking, he would begin to weep.
 
Let anyone speak long enough, he will get believers. This view of Mr. Henry’s behaviour crept about the country by little and little; it was talked upon by folk that knew the contrary, but were short of topics; and it was heard and believed and given out for gospel by the ignorant and the ill-willing. Mr. Henry began to be ; yet awhile, and the commons began to as he went by, and the women (who are always the most bold because they are the most safe) to cry out their reproaches to his face. The Master was cried up for a saint. It was remembered how he had never any hand in pressing the tenants; as, indeed, no more he had, except to spend the money. He was a little wild perhaps, the folk said; but how much better was a natural, wild lad that would soon have settled down, than a skinflint and a sneckdraw, sitting, with his nose in an account book, to poor tenants! One trollop, who had had a child to the Master, and by all accounts been very badly used, yet made herself a kind of champion of his memory. She flung a stone one day at Mr. Henry.
 
“Whaur’s the bonnie lad that trustit ye?” she cried.
 
Mr. Henry in his horse and looked upon her, the blood flowing from his lip. “Ay, Jess?” says he. “You too? And yet ye should me better.” For it was he who had helped her with money.
 
The woman had another stone ready, which she made as if she would cast; and he, to himself, threw up the hand that held his riding-rod.
 
“What, would ye beat a lassie, ye ugly—?” cries she, and ran away screaming as though he had struck her.
 
Next day word went about the country like wildfire that Mr. Henry had beaten Jessie Broun within an inch of her life. I give it as one instance of how this snowball grew, and one calumny brought another; until my poor patron was so perished in reputation that he began to keep the house like my lord. All this while, you may be very sure, he uttered no complaints at home; the very ground of the scandal was too sore a matter to be handled; and Mr. Henry was very proud and strangely obstinate in silence. My old lord must have heard of it, by John Paul, if by no one else; and he must at least have remarked the altered habits of his son. Yet even he, it is probable, knew not how high the feeling ran; and as for Miss Alison, she was ever the last person to hear news, and the least interested when she heard them.
 
In the height of the ill-feeling (for it died away as it came, no man could say why) there was an election forward in the town of St. Bride’s, which is the next to Durrisdeer, on the Water of Swift; some was , I forget what, if ever I heard; and it was currently said there would be broken heads ere night, and that the sheriff had sent as far as Dumfries for soldiers. My lord moved that Mr. Henry should be present, assuring him it was necessary to appear, for the credit of the house. “It will soon be reported,” said he, “that we do not take the lead in our own country.”
 
“It is a strange lead that I can take,” said Mr. Henry; and when they had pushed him further, “I tell you the plain truth,” he said, “I dare not show my face.”
 
“You are the first of the house that ever said so,” cries Miss Alison.
 
“We will go all three,” said my lord; and sure enough he got into his boots (the first time in four years—a sore business John Paul had to get them on), and Miss Alison into her riding-coat, and all three rode together to St. Bride’s.
 
The streets were full of the rift-raff of all the countryside, who had no sooner clapped eyes on Mr. Henry than the began, and the , and the cries of “Judas!” and “Where was the Master?” and “Where were the poor lads that rode with him?” Even a stone was cast; but the more part cried shame at that, for my old lord’s sake, and Miss Alison’s. It took not ten minutes to persuade my lord that Mr. Henry had been right. He said never a word, but turned his horse about, and home again, with his chin upon his . Never a word said Miss Alison; no doubt she thought the more; no doubt her pride was stung, for she was a bone-bred Durie; and no doubt her heart was touched to see her cousin so unjustly used. That night she was never in bed; I have often blamed my lady—when I call to mind that night, I readily forgive her all; and the first thing in the morning she came to the old lord in his usual seat.
 
“If Henry still wants me,” said she, “he can have me now.” To himself she had a different speech: “I bring you no love, Henry; but God knows, all the pity in the world.”
 
June the 1st, 1748, was the day of their marriage. It was December of the same year that first saw me alighting at the doors of the great house; and from there I take up the history of events as they befell under my own observation, like a witness in a court.