Читать книгу: «Jaunty Jock and Other Stories», страница 9
“You have not told me yet if I may hope,” said the Pompadour to her in a tender undertone, “and we disperse in less than twenty minutes.”
“Hush!” she interrupted, with an impetuous jewelled hand upon his knee; “your friend has his eye on us! That man makes me afraid – he looks so cold, so supercilious! I hate to have a man regard me so who is convulsed with inside laughter, as you say; he looks – more like a conscience than a human secretary!”
Le Pompadour cast a glance across the room to the chair from which his secretary was at the moment summoned by a whispered message from the manager of the restaurant.
“He is a student of life and men,” said he. “It is his humour to put the follies of fashion underneath the microscope of a mind as searchingly analytical as a lens.”
“I’m glad all Scots are not like that,” said the lady fervently. “Now, you have the real French temperament, and the means to entertain it; your secretary, were he as rich as you, I’m sure would be a skinflint.”
“There, I can swear, you misjudge him,” said the Pompadour, – “a man born unhappy, and spoiled for any useful purpose, I am sorry for him.”
“Get rid of him – get rid of him!” said the lady, with a cleverly simulated shudder.
“What!” said the Pompadour, regarding her with surprise, seeing for the first time cruelty in the mild Madonna eyes. “Upon the secretary’s stipend there depend, you know, the comforts of a poor old Scottish lady – ”
“There are so many openings for a perambulating conscience! Those canaille! I am sure his frigid countenance spoils your appetite; it would spoil mine – and you eat like a Trappist monk. Is that Scots too?”
“Gluttony is the one aristocratic vice to which I could never become accustomed,” he replied. “I was – I was once, as many here to-night would think, quite poor!”
She started slightly, looked incredulous. “How provoking it must have been!” she said.
“No,” he reflected soberly. “Happiness – to speak platitude – has wonderfully little to do with a bank account. You look so good and wise I thought you had discovered that.”
She answered with deliberate acidity —
“I quite disagree. I, at all events, could never contemplate poverty with equanimity.”
“Not poverty,” he protested eagerly – “not poverty! The young, the earnest, and the hopeful know no poverty; they are not poor – where there is love,” and he searched her eyes as if his very life depended on discovering there a sign of her agreement with his sentiment.
She glanced about her at the indications of the speaker’s wealth and prodigality, smiled cynically, tapped him with her fan. “Farceur!” said she, “now you are romantic, and to talk romance in seriousness is ridiculous.”
Of a sudden he saw her what she really was – vain, cruel, calculating, parched in soul, despite her saintly face. He stared at her, almost stunned by disillusion, seeing the corruption of her nature rise like a scum upon the purple eyes.
To the left of his chair the door of the reception salon opened at the moment, and a voice beyond it plucked him from the depths of his despondency. He rose, incredulous, and rushed into the room, where a little old woman, simple and abashed at her surroundings, stood beside the secretary.
“Mother!” he exclaimed, with his arms around her, almost doubtful of her actual presence. “I thought it was your wraith.”
“I fear I come at an awkward time,” she said pathetically; “but all alone in this strange city, what was I to do?”
“You come at the very time I want you,” he replied. “I had – I had forgotten things. I have been play-acting, and the play is done! Was this” – and he turned to the pseudo-secretary – “was this a part of your entertainment, Lord Balgowie?”
“It is a most effective curtain,” said the other, smiling kindly on the little woman; “but it was not, strictly speaking, in the manuscript. I am glad the play, as you say, is over; for I had begun to think you took the part, in one respect, too seriously. I am honoured to meet you, madam; you must be wearied after such a journey. Both of you go at once to the rue Adolphe Yvon, and I shall make the requisite apologies to the company.”
He saw them to the street, and returned to join the guests. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, with a manner they had never seen in him before, “Le Pompadour has taken his leave à l’anglais, and my little joke has terminated in the most dramatic fashion. I have long had a desire to see, as a spectator, what for a dozen years I was under the absurd impression was a life of pleasure; and, at the cost of paying the bills myself and lending my worthy young compatriot my name for a few months, I have had the most delicious and instructive entertainment. In many respects he filled the part of Lord Balgowie better than ever I could do; but two things rather spoiled his admirable presentation – a homely taste in viands, and his honest heart!”
THE TALE OF THE BOON COMPANION
“EVERY man his boon companion, every man his maid,” they say in Argyll. Somewhere in the wide world are both the man and the maid, but not always do they come to your door. You may pass the maid at the market, never thinking she was meant to mother your bairns, and her lot thereafter may be over many hills, baking bannocks of oaten meal on another man’s hearth – that’s your ill-fortune; the boon companion may wander by the change-house where you sit drinking late – drinking late and waiting to learn the very songs he knows, and he may never come that road again; but whether that is good for you or ill is the most cunning of God’s secrets. I could tell nine hundred tales and nine of boon companions who met the friend they were meant for, but I have still to learn the art of seeing the end from the beginning of any comradeship.
This particular and ancient history that I am telling is a story that is to be heard on winter nights in the fir-wood bothies of Upper Loch Finne. It is the story of an affair that happened in the wild year before the beginning of the little wars of Lorn.
Colkitto Macdonald and his Irishry and the Athol clans came, as the world knows, to Argyll, and carried the flambeau and the sword through every glen in the country-side. Into our peaceable neighbourhood, so harmless, so thriving and content, they marched on a winter’s end – wild bearded fellows, ravenous at the eyes, lean as starved roebucks, cruel as the Badenoch wolves. They put mother and child to the pike; the best men of all our Gaelic people found the hero’s death when standing up against these caterans, but uselessly. Carnus, Cladich, and Knapdale are thick with green spots where Clan Diarmaid’s massacred people fell in the troubles.
To that rich and beautiful country the spring of the year comes always with vigour for the young heart. One feels the fumes of myrtle and fir in the head like a strong wine. It is the season of longing and exploits, and, if adventure is not in the way, the healthy young blood will be stirred to love or manly comradeship. Then the eye is keenest for the right girl, or (it may happen) the boon companion comes by the right chance, and leads the one waiting for him into the highroads where magic is at every corner, and old care is a carle to snap a finger at. There are no meats so sappy, no drink so generous and hearty, no sleep so sound as in that age and time.
It was in that season that the two men of my story met at a ceilidh, as we call a night gossiping, in a tacksman’s house in Maam.
There had been singing of the true Gaelic songs and telling of Gaelic stories. A fellow, Alan, sat in a dusky corner of the room with a girl, Ealasaid, and they had little heed of song or story, but whispered the sweet foolishnesses of their kind in a world of their own, till a man new over from Cowal – Red John, by the byname – stood to his feet and sang a Carrick ditty.
“I never heard better,” said Alan in the girl’s ear, for the new man and his new song had cried them back to the company.
“Good enough, I’m not denying,” said she, “but he looks slack; you never saw a man with a low lip so full and a laugh so round and ready who was not given to wandering.”
“Where from?” asked young Alan, his eyes roving between the girl and the man singing.
“From – oh! from good guidance,” said she, flushing; “from the plain ways of his more common and orderly neighbours – from the day’s work.”
“The day’s work,” said Alan, “had no great hold on my fancy, and still and on I’m not what one would call lazy. I wish, do you know, I could sing yon jovial gentleman’s songs, and think life so humoursome as I’ll warrant a man with that laugh finds it.”
He learned Red John’s best songs before summer-time, for Red John was his boon companion.
They wandered, the pair of them, day after day and dusk after dusk, in the way of good-fellowship, coming on many jovial adventures, gathering curious songs, meeting free-handed folk and bits of good fortune. They went many a time on the carouse of true comradery, and Alan, who should be loving a girl, sat with this merry Cowal man in wayside ale-houses, drinking starlight and the drug of the easy heart from earthen jars.
“Could you come to meet me to-morrow?” once asked Ealasaid, finding her lover alone on his way to a new folly. She put a hand on his arm and leaned up against his side.
“Where would we go?” he asked, tucking a loose lock of her hair behind her ear, less for his love of trimness than to get some occupation for his eyes.
“It used to be enough that it was with me when I asked before,” said Ealasaid, staying his fingers; “but my cousin-german in Coillebhraid asks us up to curds and cream.”
“John and I are promised at a wrestling in the town,” he said; “would the next day – ”
The girl drew her screen about her like one smitten by a cold wind.
“Alan, Alan! your worst friend!” said she.
“The decentest lad in the world; he quarrels with none.”
“For cowardice.”
“He understands me in every key.”
“So much the readier can he make you the fool.”
“He has taught me the finest songs.”
“To sing in the ale-house – a poor schooling, my dear!”
“I never before saw the jollity of living.”
“It’s no flattery to one Ealasaid; has he said aught of the seriousness of death?”
Alan hummed the end of a verse and then laughed slyly.
“Lass,” said he, “does it make much differ that he thinks you the handsomest girl in the parish?”
“I would sooner you yourself thought me the plainest, and yet had some pleasure in my company.”
“Yesterday (on a glass), he said your eyes were the fullest, your hair the yellowest, your step the lightest, your face the sweetest in all real Argyll.”
“Then he’s the man who should be doing your courting,” said the girl, with a bitterness; and she went home sore-hearted.
The days passed on birds’ feathers; the brackens coarsened in the gloomy places of the forest; the young of bird and beast lost themselves in the tangled richness of the field and wood. No rains came for many days, and the sun, a gallant horseman, rode from hill to hill, feasting his eye on the glens he saw too seldom.
In those hours the winds dozed upon the slimmest stem of heather; the burns, that for ordinary tear down our braes, bragging loud to the lip, hung back in friendly hollows under saugh-branch, rowan, and darach leaf; “but a little sleep,” said they – “a little sleep, that we may finish a dream we woke in the middle of,” and the grasshopper’s chirrup drowned their prayer.
In their old fashion the glensfolk shifted for the time their homes to the shielings high up on the hills, in the breasts of the corries where are sappy levels that the heifers come to from the cropped glens like misers to a gentleman’s table. While their cattle on the long day ends tugged the crisp grasses, the people would come out of their bothies and huts and sit in a company, above them the openings between the hills, the silver dusk that never grew dark, and the prickle of stars. Then Red John carried himself among the company like a chief, full of bardachd,1 of wit, of the most fairy music, so that even the girl whose lover he borrowed gave him credit for a warlock’s charm.
It was not the genius of him, but the affable conduct and his gentleman’s parts. A scamp, with duty near tugging at the cuff of his doublet, he went dancing through life, regardless as a bird. Had you a grievance against him? – he forgave you with a laugh, and took you by the elbow, telling some gaiety in your ear. Your most sober mood fell before his rallying like mist from the hillside in sun and breeze. Honest, true to his word as to his friend, fond of a glass, fond of a lass: they called him the boon friend of the shielings.
And wherever he went, this light-head, in humour and carelessness, Alan walked faithful at his heels, nearer his heart than any foster-brother, more and more learning his ways of idleness and diversion.
Ealasaid at last went to this Cowal fellow once complaining, with some shame, for a Highland girl has small heed to speak of the heart’s business to any man but one.
“I’m sorry, my dear, I’m sorry,” he said, with no pretence in the vexation of his brow. “I tempt no one to folly, and surely I’m not to blame for friendship to a lad so fine a woman can have the heart to think the best of.”
“You are his blackest foe,” she said stormily.
“I’m foe to none, woman,” he cried, “except perhaps to a man they call Red John, and the worst enemy ever I had was welcome to share the last penny in my sporran. I have my weakness, I’ll allow, but my worst is that my promise is better than my performance, and my most ill-judged acts are well intended.”
“Blame yourself,” said Ealasaid.
“I blame nobody,” said he, laughing. “If other folk get such contentment out of their good deeds as I get out of my good intentions, it’s no bad world to spend a while in.”
“You’re like the weak man in the ceilidh story,” pressed the girl.
“How?” quo’ he.
“Because you botch life,” said she. “Let a girl tell it you. And the pity of it is you’ll do it to the end.”
At the worst of Ealasaid’s heart-break and the folly of Alan and his boon companion, the men of Antrim and Athol came scouring over from Lorn into the glens of MacCailein Mor. They found a country far from ready to meet them, the leader himself from home, the sentinels sleeping, the forts without tenants. It was a bitter winter, and those gentlemen of Antrim and Athol kept their hides warm by chasing new-made orphans on to the frozen rivers. When the bairns ran on the ice crying, and went through it to a cold death, the good gentry laughed at the merriment of the spectacle. Down Aora glen went the bulk of them, and round the Gearran road to Shira glen, behind them smoking thatch and plundered folds.
Death struck with an iron hand at the doors of Maam, Elrigmore and Elrigbeg, Kilblane and Stuckgoy, and at Stuckgoy lived the girl of my story. She would have been butchered like her two brothers, by the fringe of Athol’s army, but for her lover and his friend, who came when the need was the sorest for them, and led her out behind the spoiled township in the smoke of the burning byres.
There had been a break in the frost. It was a day of rain and mist, so the men who chased them lost them early.
“If we can reach the head of the glen first,” said Alan, “there’s safety in the Ben Bhuidhe cave.” So the cave they ran for.
The cave is more on Ben Shean than Ben Bhuidhe, for all its name; a cunning hiding-place on the face of Sgornoch-mor rock, hanging over the deer wallows where the waters of Shira and Stacan sunder, seeking Lochow and Loch Finne. It was the home of the reiver when reiving was in vogue, a hold snug and easy for sleep, and deep enough for plunder. Fires might flash at night far ben in the heart of it, or songs might shake its roof, but never the wiser was the world outbye.
The way to the cave was off Shira side at the head of the glen, among whin bush and hazel, bending to the left over the elbow of Tomgorm, and a haw-tree hung above the face of Sgornoch-mor. The cave itself lay half-way down the rock, among a cluster of wild berry bushes that clung finger and claw to a ledge so narrow that a man with a dirk could keep it against a score of clans. To reach it there was but one way all Glenshira folk knew, and none beside them – by a knotted rope that always lay at the root of the haw-tree for that purpose. Once in, and the rope with you, and your way to the foot of the rock was easy; but once in, and the rope awanting, and the place was your grave, for you might starve in the face of the birds that flapped on black feathers to their nests that were lower still on the rock.
The girl and her friends reached the head of the glen well before the band that followed them on the beaten road. There the mist fell off, and the bare hills closed in on a gullet the wind belched through. Before them was Tomgorm, and they took to the left and the climbing, Ealasaid and Alan in front and Red John behind them, checking the whistling of pibrochs at his lips.
“Poor girl, poor girl!” said he to himself, “I was wrong to have come between you in the long summer day, for here’s in truth the black winter and the short day, homelessness and hunger, and the foe on our heels.”
They got on the front of Sgornoch-mor, and all the north Highlands free of mist were in broken peaks before them, cut with glens, full of roads to liberty and safety, but too far off for a quarry before the hounds.
At the foot of the haw-tree was the rope in coils.
“There’s little time to waste,” said Red John, “for though I said nothing of it at the braefoot, I heard a corps of our followers too close on our heels for comfort. It would be leading them to our den below, and us to some trouble, if they saw the way we went. Will you go first, mistress, and Alan and I will follow?”
“I could die sweetly where I stand,” said Ealasaid, shrunk in weariness and grieving, “but for Alan here,” she added, looking at the lad beside her.
“Dying here, dying there,” said Red John, “I’ll dance a reel at your wedding.”
He was fastening the rope round Ealasaid’s waist as he spoke.
“There’s one thing in my mind,” he said, in some confusion of voice.
“What is that?” she asked, with small interest written in her swimming eyes.
“It’s about Alan,” said he (and busy about the rope): “I am your debtor for many hours I robbed you of, unthinking – my old weakness, as I told you.”
“That’s all bye,” she said; “that’s all bye and done with. Do you fancy I’m thinking now of such small sorrows? If you borrowed my lover, you pay for the loan with my life saved; I owe you that.”
“I’m all the better pleased to hear you say it,” said Red John, “because your taunt about my botched life rankled.”
“I did you less than justice; one should never judge a life till the end of it.”
Down the rock face the two men lowered her to the cave, where she let herself free of the rope, with a shake of it for her signal.
“Hurry, lad,” said Red John, looking into the glen; and Alan went over the edge, and down, foot and hand, eager enough to join Ealasaid.
The torn mists blew farther down the glen, the wind took a curve round Sgornoch-mor, and eye and ear told Red John that a band of the Athol men were close on him. He saw their bonnets on the slope, and heard them roar when they saw him beside the haw-tree.
“My sorrow!” said he, “here’s Red John at the end of his tether! The pair below need be none the worse nor the wiser, for who’s to get at them with the rope gone?”
He lifted the rope a little to make sure that Alan was off it, then slashed at it with his dirk till he cut it from the tree.
“Here’s a cunning and notable end to the botched life,” said the boon companion to himself, turning, with the dagger still in his hand, to face the Athol men.
And the rope in heavy coils fell past the cave mouth to the deep below.
