CHAPTER XX -- AN EVENING'S MELODY IN THE BOAR'S HEAD INN
The Boar's Head Inn, for all its fine cognomen, was little better thanany of the numerous taverns that kept discreet half-open doors to thewynds and closes of the Duke's burgh town, but custom made it a preserveof the upper class in the community. There it was the writers met theirclients and cozened them into costly law pleas over the genial jugor chopine; the through-going stranger took his pack there and dweltcheaply in the attics that looked upon the bay and upon the littleharbour where traffic dozed upon the swinging tide, waiting the goodwillof mariners in no hurry to leave a port so alluring; in its smoke-grimedpublic-room skippers frequented, full of loud tales of roving, and eventhe retinue of MacCailen was not averse from an evening's merriment in acompany where no restraint of the castle was expected, and his Grace wasmentioned but vaguely as a personal pronoun.
There was in the inn a _sanctum sanctorum_ where only were allowed thebailies of the burgh, a tacksman of position, perhaps, from the landwardpart, or the like of the Duke's Chamberlain, who was no bacchanal, butloved the company of honest men in their hours of manumission. Here thebottle was of the best, and the conversation most genteel--otherwisethere had been no Sim MacTaggart in the company where he reigned theking. It was a state that called for shrewd deportment. One must not betoo free, for an excess of freedom cheapened the affability, and yetone must be hail fellow with magistrate--and even an odd mastermariner--with no touch of condescension for the Highland among them whocould scent the same like _aqua vito_ and resent it like a push of thehand.
He came not often, but ever was he welcome, those nights the moreglorious for his qualities of humour and generosity, his tales thatstirred like the brassy cry of trumpets, his tolerance of the fool andhis folly, his fatalist excuse for any sin except the scurviest. Andthere was the flageolet! You will hear the echo of it yet in that burghtown where he performed; its charm lingers in melodies hummed or pipedby old folks of winter nights, its magic has been made the stuff ofmyth, so that as children we have heard the sound of Simon's instrumentin the spring woods when we went there white-hay-gathering, or forfagots for the schoolhouse fire.
A few nights after that thundering canter from the spider's den whereKate Petullo sat amid her coils, the Chamberlain went to wander careamong easy hearts. It was a season of mild weather though on the eveof winter; even yet the perfume of the stubble-field and of fruitage inforest and plantation breathed all about the country of Mac-CailenMor. Before the windows of the inn the bay lay warm and placid, andDunchuach, wood-mantled, and the hills beyond it vague, remote, andhaunted all by story, seemed to swim in a benign air, and theouter world drew the souls of these men in a tavern into a briefacquaintanceship. The window of the large room they sat in lookedout upon this world new lit by the tender moon that hung on Strome.A magistrate made to shutter it and bring the hour of Bacchus all thefaster.
"Hold there, Bailie!" cried the Chamberlain. "Good God! let us have solong as we can of a night so clean and wholesome."
It needed but a hint of that nature from this creature of romance andcurious destiny to silence their unprofitable discourse over herdsand session discipline, and for a space they sat about the window,surrendered to the beauty of the night. So still that outer world, sovacant of living creature, that it might have been a picture! In themidst of their half circle the Chamberlain lay back in his chair anddrank the vision in by gloating eyes.
"Upon my word," said he at last in a voice that had the rich profound ofpassion--"upon my word, we are the undeserving dogs!" and at an impulsehe took his flageolet and played a Highland air. It had the properspirit of the hour--the rapturous evening pipe of birds in dewythickets, serene yet someway touched by melancholy; there was no manthere among them who did not in his breast repeat its words that havebeen heard for generations in hillside milking-folds where women puttheir ruddy cheeks against the kine and look along the valleys, singingsoftly to the accompaniment of the gushing pail.
He held his audience by a chain of gold: perhaps he knew it, perhaps hejoyed in it, but his half-shut eyes revealed no more than that he stillsaw the beauty and peace of the night and thus rendered an oblation.
His melody ceased as abruptly as it began. Up he got hastily and stampedhis foot and turned to the table where the bottle lay and cried loud outfor lights, as one might do ashamed of a womanly weakness, and it is theHighland heart that his friends should like him all the more for thatdisplay of sentiment and shyness to confess it.
"By the Lord, Factor, and it's you have the skill of it!" said theProvost, in tones of lofty admiration.
"Is't the bit reed?" said the Chamberlain, indifferently. "Your boyDavie could learn to play better than I in a month's lessons."
"It's no' altogether the playing though," said the Provost slowly,ruminating as on a problem; "it's that too, but it's more than that;it's the seizing of the time and tune to play. I'm no great musicianermyself, though I have tried the trump; but there the now--with thenight like that, and us like this, and all the rest of it--that lilt ofyours--oh, damn! pass the bottle; what for should a man be melancholy?"He poured some wine and gulped it hurriedly.
"Never heard the beat of it!" said the others. "Give us a rant, Factor,"and round the table they gathered: the candles were being lit, theambrosial night was to begin.
Simon MacTaggart looked round his company--at some with the maudlin tearof sentiment still on their cheeks, at others eager to escape this softmoment and make the beaker clink.
"My sorrow!" thought he, "what a corps to entertain! Is it the samestuff as myself? Is this the best that Sim MacTaggart that knows andfeels things can be doing? And still they're worthy fellows, still Imust be liking them."
"Rants!" he cried, and stood among them tall and straight and handsome,with lowering dark brows, and his face more pale than they had known itcustomarily,--"a little less rant would be the better for us. Take myword for it, the canty quiet lilt in the evening, and the lights low,and calm and honest thoughts with us, is better than all the rant andchorus, and I've tried them both. But heaven forbid that Sim MacTaggartshould turn to preaching in his middle age."
"Faith! and it's very true what you say, Factor," acquiesced somesycophant.
The Chamberlain looked at him half in pity, half in amusement. "How do_you_ ken, Bailie?" said he; "what are yearlings at Fa'kirk Tryst?" Andthen, waiting no answer to what demanded none, he put the flageolet tohis lips again and began to play a strathspey to which the company inthe true bucolic style beat time with feet below the table. He changedto the tune of a minuet, then essayed at a melody more sweet andhaunting than them all, but broken ere its finish.
"A hole in the ballant," commented the Provost. "Have another skelp atit, Factor."
"Later on perhaps," said Sim MacTaggart. "The end of it aye escapes mymemory. Rather a taking tune, I think--don't you? Just a little--just alittle too much of the psalm in it for common everyday use, but man!it grips me curiously;" and then on a hint from one at his shoulder heplayed "The Devil in the Kitchen," a dance that might have charmed theimps of Hallowe'en.
He was in the midst of it when the door of the room opened and a beggarlooked in--a starven character of the neighbourhood parish, all bedeckedwith cheap brooches and babs of ribbon, leading by the hand the littlechild of his daughter wronged and dead. He said never a word but stoodjust within the door expectant--a reproach to cleanliness, content, goodclothes, the well fed, and all who make believe to love their fellows.
"Go away, Baldy!" cried the Bailies sharply, vexed by this intrusion ontheir moments of carouse; no one of them had a friendly eye for the oldwanderer, in his blue coat, and dumb but for his beggar's badge and thechild that clung to his hand.
It was the child that Sim MacTaggart saw. He thought of many things ashe looked at the little one, white-haired, bare-footed, and large-eyed.
"Come here, my dear!" said he, quite tenderly, smiling upon her.
She would have been afraid but for
the manifest kindness of that darkcommanding stranger; it was only shyness that kept her from obeying.
The Chamberlain rose and went over to the door and cried upon thelandlord. "You will have a chopine of ale, Baldy," said he to the oldwreck; "sometimes it's all the difference between hell-fire and content,and--for God's sake buy the bairn a pair of boots!" As he spoke heslipped, by a motion studiously concealed from the company, some silverinto the beggar's poke.
The ale came in, the beggar drank for a moment, the Chamberlain took thechild upon his knee, his face made fine and noble by some sweet humansentiment, and he kissed her, ere she went, upon the brow.
For a space the _sanctum sanctorum_ of the Boar's Head Inn was ill atease. This sort of thing--so common in Sim MacTaggart,who made friendswith every gangrel he met--was like a week-day sermon, and theyconsidered the Sunday homilies of Dr. Macivor quite enough. They muchpreferred their Simon in his more common mood of wild devilry, andnobody knew it better than the gentleman himself.
"Oh, damn the lousy tribe of them!" cried he, beating his palm upon thetable; "what's Long Davie the dempster thinking of to be letting suchfolk come scorning here?"
"I'll warrant they get more encouragement here than they do in Lorn,"said the Provost, shrewdly, for he had seen the glint of coin and knewhis man. "You beat all, Factor! If I lived a hundred years, you would bemore than I could fathom. Well, well, pass the bottle, and ye might haveanother skelp at yon tune if it's your pleasure."
The Chamberlain most willingly complied: it was the easiest retort tothe Provost's vague allusion.
He played the tune again; once more its conclusion baffled him, and ashe tried a futile repetition Count Victor stood listening in the lobbyof the Boar's Head Inn.