In the small hours of the next morning I was awoke by a most unearthly sound.It was as if all the cats on all the roofs of Santa Chiara were sharpening their claws and wailing their battle-cries.Presently out of the noise came a kind of music--very slow, solemn, and melancholy.The notes ran up in great flights of ecstasy, and sunk anon to the tragic deeps.In spite of my sleepiness I was held spellbound and the musician had concluded with certain barbaric grunts before I had the curiosity to rise.It came from somewhere in the gallery of the inn, and as I stuck my head out of my door I had a glimpse of Oliphant, nightcap on head and a great bagpipe below his arm, stalking down the corridor.
The incident, for all the gravity of the music, seemed to give a touch of farce to my interview of the past evening.I had gone to bed with my mind full of sad stories of the deaths of kings.
Magnificence in tatters has always affected my pity more deeply than tatters with no such antecedent, and a monarch out at elbows stood for me as the last irony of our mortal life.Here was a king whose misfortunes could find no parallel.He had been in his youth the hero of a high adventure, and his middle age had been spent in fleeting among the courts of Europe, and waiting as pensioner on the whims of his foolish but regnant brethren.Ihad heard tales of a growing sottishness, a decline in spirit, a squalid taste in pleasures.Small blame, I had always thought, to so ill-fated a princeling.And now I had chanced upon the gentleman in his dotage, travelling with a barren effort at mystery, attended by a sad-faced daughter and two ancient domestics.It was a lesson in the vanity of human wishes which the shallowest moralist would have noted.Nay, I felt more than the moral.Something human and kindly in the old fellow had caught my fancy.The decadence was too tragic to prose about, the decadent too human to moralise on.I had left the chamber of the--shall I say de jure King of England?--a sentimental adherent of the cause.But this business of the bagpipes touched the comic.To harry an old valet out of bed and set him droning on pipes in the small hours smacked of a theatrical taste, or at least of an undignified fancy.Kings in exile, if they wish to keep the tragic air, should not indulge in such fantastic serenades.
My mind changed again when after breakfast I fell in with Madame on the stair.She drew aside to let me pass, and then made as if she would speak to me.I gave her good-morning, and, my mind being full of her story, addressed her as "Excellency.""I see, sir," she said, " hat you know the truth.I have to ask your forbearance for the concealment I practised yesterday.It was a poor requital for your generosity, but is it one of the shifts of our sad fortune.An uncrowned king must go in disguise or risk the laughter of every stable-boy.Besides, we are too poor to travel in state, even if we desired it."Honestly, I knew not what to say.I was not asked to sympathise, having already revealed my politics, and yet the case cried out for sympathy.You remember, my dear aunt, the good Lady Culham, who was our Dorsetshire neighbour, and tried hard to mend my ways at Carteron? This poor Duchess--for so she called herself--was just such another.A woman made for comfort, housewifery, and motherhood, and by no means for racing about Europe in charge of a disreputable parent.I could picture her settled equably on a garden seat with a lapdog and needlework, blinking happily over green lawns and mildly rating an errant gardener.I could fancy her sitting in a summer parlour, very orderly and dainty, writing lengthy epistles to a tribe of nieces.I could see her marshalling a household in the family pew, or riding serenely in the family coach behind fat bay horses.But here, on an inn staircase, with a false name and a sad air of mystery, she was woefully out of place.I noted little wrinkles forming in the corners of her eyes, and the ravages of care beginning in the plump rosiness of her face.Be sure there was nothing appealing in her mien.She spoke with the air of a great lady, to whom the world is matter only for an afterthought.It was the facts that appealed and grew poignant from her courage.
"There is another claim upon your good nature," she said.
"Doubtless you were awoke last night by Oliphant's playing upon the pipes.I rebuked the landlord for his insolence in protesting, but to you, a gentleman and a friend, an explanation is due.My father sleeps ill, and your conversation seems to have cast him into a train of sad memories.It has been his habit on such occasions to have the pipes played to him, since they remind him of friends and happier days.It is a small privilege for an old man, and he does not claim it often."I declared that the music had only pleased, and that I would welcome its repetition.Where upon she left me with a little bow and an invitation to join them that day at dinner, while Ideparted into the town on my own errands.I returned before midday, and was seated at an arbour in the garden, busy with letters, when there hove in sight the gaunt figure of Oliphant.
He hovered around me, if such a figure can be said to hover, with the obvious intention of addressing me.The fellow had caught my fancy, and I was willing to see more of him.His face might have been hacked out of grey granite, his clothes hung loosely on his spare bones, and his stockined shanks would have done no discredit to Don Quixote.There was no dignity in his air, only a steady and enduring sadness.Here, thought I, is the one of the establishment who most commonly meets the shock of the world's buffets.I called him by name and asked him his desires.
It appeared that he took me for a Jacobite, for he began a rigmarole about loyalty and hard fortune.I hastened to correct him, and he took the correction with the same patient despair with which he took all things.'Twas but another of the blows of Fate.
