University of Virginia Library

ACT I.—

SCENE I

Chorus.

Scene—Village Street of Kinloch-Thorar. Group of Women at the Post Office Door.
First Fisherwoman.

—Ochone! but this iss a sad day on Loch Thorar, Mrs. Slit.

Mrs. Slit.

—You may say that, 'Lizbeth, and in Glen Shelloch too, and Glen Turret, which iss more.

First Fisherwoman.

—He wass a good man, and a faithful minister. He wass not a dumb dog that will be gnawing the bones, and will not bark when he should.

Mrs. Slit.

—Och yes! he wass all that, though he might not preach like Black Rory of Skye, or big John of Strathnaver. But he would not be passing my shop door without getting pickles of snuff for the old men, and sweeties too for the bairns. Yes, yes! it will not be the same shop now that he does not come here any more.

Second Fisherwoman.

—But what iss this, Mrs. Slit; Miss Ina will not be for burying him in the kirkyard, but in Isle-Monach, where my Donald would be seeing ghosts at Yule and Pasch.

Mrs. Slit.

—It iss your Donald that would be having the whisky, then. For they are quiet men, the monks, when they are living, and they will not be frisky now that they are in their graves.

Second Fisherwoman.

—But they are in Purgatory, whatever; and our minister had no faith in Purgatory, or organs or saints or good works. Why would she be for burying him among them? Iss it Papist she will be turning?

First Fisherwoman.

—Or Pagan, Mrs. Slit? For our May wass saying she would read more about heathen gods and goddesses than about Abraham or Moses; and May wass maid in the manse till Candlemas last.

Mrs. Slit.

—May will not know what young ladies have to know. And which iss more, she might do better than to be talking about her betters. As for Purgatory, it iss not any more, since the laird's great grandfather forbade it, or it will only be for the poor cottars at Glen Chroan. And whether or no, our minister's daughter will have nothing to do with it, you may be sure.

But it iss true Miss Ina never wass just like other maids. But her heart iss good, whatever, yes! and which iss more, it iss soft and warm as a lintie's nest, and sweeter as the bog-myrtle.

Third Fisherwoman.

—Och yes! it will be warm and sweet, but not good, Mrs. Slit. None of our hearts iss good, as he would often say, who will never say it any more. But many a time, when the lads wass out fishing, it iss Miss Ina that would hail them from her bit boatie, and she would have the kind word for each of them; yes! and she would call at our doors too on her way home, and tell us about Dugald or Donald or Alisthair and the herrings. Och yes! she hass the kind heart, whatever, and it will be a sorry one this day.

First Fisherwoman.

—Yes! she hass the kind heart, Miss Ina; and if she would have the making of the law, it would be the better for us, though it iss true she iss for making the men carry the peats, and wade out to the boats too, which it would be a shame for women to see.

Second Fisherwoman.

—But whose boat will she be having, now? For it iss a rhyme I heard long ago—

Mrs. Slit.

—The de'il an ye were in your shroud, woman, to speak of such a thing! Do you know that it iss Sir Diarmid himself that will bring his gig, and his gillies, and his piper too, all in the brave tartan, with plaid and sporran, as if the minister would be a chief, for he was not more than third cousin to the laird's grandfather. And it iss the chief that you would be singing your carline rhymes about, and making a shroud for him too!

Second Fisherwoman.

—But he iss not a fisher.

Mrs. Slit.

—He will fish more than your Donald, whatever: for when Donald iss in the humour, the loch iss never in trim; and when the loch iss in the humour, he hass no inclination. But it iss not for you, woman, to be speaking of the laird and a shroud in one breath, and him a brave young gentleman, and which iss more, just growing the beautiful beard too. Yes!

First Fisherwoman.

—But why will she be for burying him among the monks, when there iss a Christian kirkyard at her door, Mrs. Slit?

Mrs. Slit.

—Who hass a better right to lie there? For he comes of the old stock that built the Abbey Kirk; and all their graves are there, and there iss nobody else but chiefs and monks and ministers and superior persons, which iss proper. There has not been a burial there since old Sir Kenneth's, the day of the great storm, when half our boats wass wrecked, and the poor lads were bobbing about the loch, like pellocks in a gale of wind.

Third Fisherwoman.

—O chone! yes; and it is myself will mind it, if I am spared to my dying day. My Alisthair, that wass to be married just the week after, drifted ashore among the tangles before his Mysie's door, and she will never be herself again since that fery hour. And it wass Miss Ina that would have the bodies carried to the kirk, and the funeral there; for they will preach to us, said she, better than the minister, or an angel from heaven.

First Fisherwoman.

—Sure, and she wass right there, for there would not be a profane swearer or a Sabbath-breaker in the parish for six months after, though the whisky wass wanted for the sore heart sometimes, maybe.

Mrs. Slit.

—Yes! it wass a great sermon, the lads lying in a row, and just the day before they had talked to us, and which iss more, they had laughed with us; and now they looked at us, and would not know us any more. Och yes! it wass a great sermon, and it wass God himself that preached it. But there, now; they are leaving the manse. It iss our own lads that will be carrying the coffin, with its white wreaths and ferns. Och! and Sir Diarmid and Miss Ina make the handsome pair, like the brown pine and the bonnie birch tree. She iss liker him than that Doris, with her mouth that is always smiling, and her eyes that never do.

First Fisherwoman.

—But they will be saying he must marry Doris, whatever.

Mrs. Slit.

—Maybe yes, maybe no. It iss not every fish you hook that comes to the creel; and the stag iss not on the spit because Donald has loaded his gun. And that will be her uncle, the Doctor, that wass the ne'er-do-well, and nearly broke his brother's heart, and which is more, emptied his purse too. But he iss come home now, they say, as rich as the English lord at Loch Eylert. Sure they will rest the coffin somewhere for his cairn, and for the drop whisky there. And now Eachan Macrimmon is playing a coronach as it were for a chief: “Peace to his soul, and a stone to his cairn.”

Chorus.
Slowly the muffled oars dip in the tide,
Slowly the silent boats shadow-like glide
Past the grey, steepled kirk, past the low manse,
Now in the ripples that glimmer and glance
Where the sun flashes, and now in the shade
The birch-feathered rocks and the great hills have made;
Slowly and silently onward they pass
Over the calm spaces shining like glass,
While the wild wailing strains of the coronach swell,
And fall with the breeze and the slow-tolling bell.
Long, low and dark is the first of the train,
With six bending oars keeping time to the strain;
In it a coffin, and by it a maiden
Who to the moaning sea moans sorrow-laden,
As they drop down to the dim abbey pile
Lying half-hid in a cleft of the isle,
Ruined and roofless, 'mid tangle of trees
That dip their low boughs in the wave, but the breeze
Rustles their higher leaves over a tower
Green with massed ivy, and crown'd with wall-flower.
There, with his forefathers, peaceful to sleep
By the white surf of the unresting deep,
Where once the Culdee monk toiled, prayed, and died,
Where once the galleys oared out in their pride,
Where still the clansmen their high chiefs bewail,
Silent they laid the good priest of the Gael.

No cross was reared above his head,
No requiem was sung or said,
No hope was spoken of the just
In glory rising from the dust:
In silent awe they did their part,
Yet the good hope was in every heart.

SCENE II.

Chorus.

Scene—The Manse Parlour. Ina and Dr. Lorne searching books and papers.
Dr. Lorne.
This clean bewilders me: it is like being
Lost in a mist, and wandering round and round,
To end where you began, only more puzzled,
Weary and hopeless. What can he have done
With it, I wonder.

Ina.
Uncle, what is wrong?

Dr. Lorne.
Oh, nothing's wrong of course. It's only I
Am growing old and stupid, I suppose.
I'm puzzled, that is all.

Ina.
But what about?
And can I help you? Yet if it is dark
To you, I fear that my poor head to-day
Can bring but little light.

Dr. Lorne.
Oh, never mind;
I should not speak of it: it does not matter—
Not in the least.

Ina.
What matters anything,
In this blank desolation?

Dr. Lorne.
Don't now, Ina;
I shan't know what to do if you break down;
And people die, but still the world goes on,
And those who live must eat, and pay their bills,
And think of things.

Ina.
Ay! that's the pity of it—
To come straight from the shadows and the lights,
The awe and mystery and sacred sorrow
About the grave, to life's poor commonplace—
Not yet, at least, I cannot do it yet.

Dr. Lorne.
Well, no; but then I've seen so many drop—
Comrades and friends—and had to carry on
The battle, or be beaten: one has hardly
Time here for feelings.

Ina.
May one come to that?
Were it not better not to be than live
To find no time for what is best in us,
What purifies and elevates and makes
A larger world than our small round of tasks?
Ah me! a dreary outlook.

Dr. Lorne.
Not at all:
But for this business, now, no doubt it will
Be cleared up some day.

Ina.
What is there to clear?

Dr. Lorne.
Oh, nothing. You must not be troubled yet
With business. But your father now, he never
Went in for iron “rings” or “corners,” did he, Ina?
And no sharp fellows ever talked him over,
And blew him up with hopes of boundless wealth,
Which by and by collapsed, and left him broken?

Ina.
I do not understand.

Dr. Lorne.
Of course, you don't:
No more did he. You never heard him speak
Of mines, I daresay—copper mines in Spain,
Or silver in Peru, and how they paid
Fine dividends? No, no; you never did.
Yet parsons burn their fingers sometimes there.

Ina.
I have known papers come to him, which he
Flung in the fire, saying that it was well
He had no gold to gamble with.

Dr. Lorne.
Quite right;
One needs to know the game to play with these
Sharp fellows. Well; no doubt, he never printed
A learned Book now—one that would not sell,
Was never meant to sell, but just to be
A splendid monument of erudition,
With costly illustrations, setting forth
Highland antiquities, and early arts
Now lost in their descendants, which he sent
To all the letters of the alphabet,
Who voted him their thanks? He might have done it;
But no, he didn't? I'm at my wit's end now.
And after all, he could not drop that way
More than a thousand or so.

Ina.
What do you mean?

Dr. Lorne.
Oh, nothing; never mind; I'm only stupid,
Let's talk of something else. We're rich enough.
There; dry your eyes. I don't suppose you could
Smile on me now to say I have not vexed you.

Ina.
Indeed you have not, uncle; but I wish
That I could clear up your perplexity,
Whate'er it be.

Dr. Lorne.
No matter. By the way,
Was not the Chief most kind to do him honour,
Bearing him to his grave with kilted men
And pipers, though I hate both kilts and pipes.

Ina.
Indeed, he is a noble gentleman,
And held my father high in his esteem.
He was his pupil once—

Dr. Lorne.
Oh, and you learnt
Lessons together?—Latin and Greek and Hebrew?
'Twas all the old chap knew.

Ina.
There you are wrong, sir;
Oh, he knew many things, and taught me much
I now remember only to regret
I did not learn it better.

Dr. Lorne.
That's the way
With me too. What a deal I have forgotten
Since he and I were boys, and went to school!
Well; I must see the Chief, of course, and thank him:
It is worth thanks, although that strutting piper
Looked like a turkey-cock, and yelled as mad
As e'er a wild cat. After that we'll go
Off to Glen Chroan, and my house shall have
At last its mistress. Never wind blew yet
But it brought luck to some one, though 'tis sad
My house is filled by emptying of his.

Ina.
You are most kind, good uncle. But indeed
I have not thought yet what I ought to do.
It seems as if I could not think, for when
I try to knit my mind to any end,
My head goes swimming round, and all is blank.

Dr. Lorne.
Yes, yes! I understand. But there's no hurry,
Nor need of thinking either. You may leave
All that to me. You shall have pretty rooms,
And nestle like a dainty lady-bird
In a blush rose.

Ina.
That never was my dream
Of life; I'd prove a restless lady-bird.
I have my work to do. Death sets one thinking
What to make of one's life—how best to use it.

Dr. Lorne.
Work! Oh, your mothers' meetings, Sunday schools,
Sick-visitings, and mending poor folk's ways—
I wish they'd take a turn at mending ours;
We need it. Well; our clachan is as like
A Sontal village in the jungle lands
As one muck-heap is like another; filled
With lazy hulking men, hard-featured women
Who slave for them, and ragged dirty children
Brimful of mischief and original sin.
Work enough there to keep your hands full, Ina,
And see no end to it.

Ina.
That's very bad,
Have they no minister?

Dr. Lorne.
You women, now,
Think that a minister is everything,
That if you plant a parson on a moor,
He'll make an Eden of it, just by dropping
His texts and preachments to the right and left—
Well, yes, there is a minister, but he
Is twenty miles away, and might as well
Be twenty thousand. They are mostly there
Of the old Roman way.

Ina.
But there will be a priest then?

Dr. Lorne.
Ay, he comes now and then, and gives their souls
A hasty wipe that leaves them as they were
Ere a week's over.

Ina.
And can you do nothing?

Dr. Lorne.
Me, Ina! It is hardly in my line
To cast out devils. They'd turn and preach at me.
I give the priest his dinner, and the children
Pennies to wash their faces.

Ina.
Ah, poor folk,
With none to care for them.

Dr. Lorne.
But now you're coming
Home with me, and they'll maybe do for you
What is like sowing corn upon the rocks
Among the whelks and limpets, when I try it.
Ina, I can't say pretty things to you:
I've not a bit of sentiment in me,
And never had: I take my stand on facts,
And do not blow my feelings into bubbles
To see them break, and break my heart for them.
But see, my house is nothing but a house,
Till you shall make a home of it—a nook
Where the old dog may curl up in the sun,
And sleep away his age.

Ina.
But I have neither
The wealth nor will to lead an idle life.

Dr. Lorne.
Well, there is ample work in our wild Clachan—
Souls to be saved, and bodies to be healed,
And dirt enough to cleanse. And as for wealth,
We'll ruffle it with the best, if that will please you.

Ina.
That is not what I mean. We Highland maidens
Like independence, uncle.

Dr. Lorne.
Oh, you'd rather
A trifle of your own than hang on me?
And so you should have had, and that is just
What puzzles me. Your father made a will,
Only there was not anything to will
Except a squash of sermons.

Ina.
How could he
Have aught to leave, with only this poor parish?
You know his hand was open.

Dr. Lorne.
If his head
Had been but half as open to ideas!
But that was always shut, and his hand never.

Ina.
He was a good man, uncle.

Dr. Lorne.
Far too good.
There should have been a world made just for him,
Where no rogues grew, for never idle tramp
Whined at his door, I wager, but he fingered
Some of his coppers. He was never wise.

Ina.
Yet goodness has a wisdom of its own,
And oft sees deeper than a shrewder wit.
And since I saw him lying cold and dead,
The idea of his life, which my poor breath
Had sometimes clouded, seems to come out clear,
And pure, and shining with a saintly beauty.

Dr. Lorne.
Yes, yes, a saint; but saints, you know, are not
For earth, but heaven. I pray you, do not set
The pretty fountains of these eyes a-playing,
Or you shall quite unman me. I'm at sea
About that will of his—that you should be
Left penniless, and even more, that I
Should somehow have been cheated. Did you never
Hear of my being dead in India?

Ina.
Yes, years ago, and oh, how bitterly
He mourned for you.

Dr. Lorne.
And yet I dare be sworn
He never said a prayer for my poor soul,
Although he feared 'twas in an evil case.
He might have risked the heresy upon
The chance of giving me a lift somehow.
No matter. Was there nothing came to him
From India then?

Ina.
No, nothing; but some debts
Of yours—they were not much—he had to pay,
Which pinched us for a while.

Dr. Lorne.
The devil it did!
Some debts of mine, and no memorial else
Of his dead brother!

Ina.
But you were not dead.

Dr. Lorne.
True; but you see I was the prodigal
O' the family, and had eaten my swine's husks;
And though I did not pine for fatted calves,
I thought of him, old fellow,—the elder brother,
Who was not a curmudgeon. At that time
It suited my convenience to be dead,
Or to be thought so for a while at least,
I'll tell you more some day. Old uncles, Ina,
Are mostly useful when they're dead; and I,
Living, had been a sorrow to my folk,
A vagabond that had no touch of grace,
And now, it seems, my dying did no better.
Well; I must see to this; there's plainly some
Rogue-work to ferret out, and I will do it.
No money! and even debts of mine to pay!

Ina.
Nay, do not think of them; they were but trifles,
And cheerfully he paid them for the honour
Of your good name, and would have done far more
To know that you were living.

Dr. Lorne.
But it looks
As if I had shammed death to get my bills
Settled for me; and that is bad. Moreover,
'Tis plain I have been tricked and overreached,
And that I can't abide, and never could.
They'll need their wits who play that game with me.—
I daresay now you did without a frock,
Until those debts were paid, and turned and trimmed
Old hats with faded ribbons. My poor Ina,
You shall be dressed the handsomer for that,
There's plenty for us both, lass, at Glen Chroan—
Big empty rooms that will have ghosts betimes
If you come not to lay them, and a waste
Of meat and drink for lack of house-keeping.
'Tis somewhat lonely too; old faces flit
About i' the gloaming, that I'd rather not
Be seeing there; and if you do not come,
I'll sell it, and be off again. I'd rather
Squat by a jungle fire, and hear the tigers
Growl in the nullah than sit there alone,
With gnawing mice and memories.

Ina.
No, Uncle,
You must not go off wandering again,
Although a life of indolence and ease
Fits not my humour.

Dr. Lorne.
Busy idleness
Is just a woman's work.

Ina.
Nay, I hope not.

[Exeunt.
Chorus.

SCENE III.

Chorus.

Scene—The Manse Library. Ina (alone).
Ina.
What could it be? what could he mean? Ah me!
That half-told tale, just broken off where all
The mystery was deepest, and the secret
Now left to mere conjecture! All that night
My love did comfort me; that was not wrong;
God dropt it in my cup to sweeten it,
And I was grateful for it, and I thought
That it would comfort him too: so I told him.
But he said, “No; you must not love him, child;
Evil will come of it; I should have told you”—
But when he would have told me, I could hear
Only a whispered “Doris,” and some sounds
But half-articulate; and then the awe
Of the dread change, the veil impalpable,
Inscrutable, came over him, and he
Carried the secret with him to the grave,
And I may ask, but can no answer have.—
They talk of spiritual forms that float, unseen,
Around our lives, and hands that feel about us,
And write on tables messages that mean
Nothing or anything—just as we wish.
But these are bubbles which the stream of thought,
Fretting against its limits and obstructions,
Throws up in its dark eddies. There's nought in them.
What though my father haunted this old room
Where he kept company with other spirits,
Wise in their day, embodied in these books
So fondly read? Yet if he spoke to me
I should not know if it were he that spoke,
Or my own fancy: and what were I the better
Of such a presence, if it only hovered
Silently in the unresponsive air,
And knowing all, could give no help at all,
Or speaking out, could work no faith at all?
Better for him “the better mansions” he
So loved to speak of, and not worse for me.
The misery is the silence; and the silence
Is never broken. Death can hold its peace,
Let life go wailing onward as it may.
Ah me! the mystery of it! all is dark;
Our little thoughts fly forth like gleaming sparks,
Hammered from our hot hearts, and straightway die
In the blank dark. What meant that half-told tale,
And whispered “Doris”?

Enter Morag.
Morag.
Ina, shall I bring
The lamp now? In the gathering dusk of gloaming
Our thoughts grow eerie, for their shadows look
Even bigger than themselves.

Ina.
Nay, this is best;
Fittest the sombre light for sombre thought—
The glimmer of a day that is no more
To brood upon the loved that are no more.
No lamp yet, Morag.

Morag.
Ina, you are wrong
To nurse this sad and melancholy mood,
To dream all day in settled loneliness,
To pass, untasted, dishes from the table,
To see no callers coming in all kindness,
To sit with folded hands and do no work,
To look with blank fixed gaze at these old books,
Yet reading ne'er a word, nor reading right
God's providence, but hardly judging Him
Because He does the best for us He can;
And that's not much. The very stags that sicken
Casting their horns, yet make their profit of them,
Eating them up to make their bones the starker,
As we should with our troubles.

Ina.
Leave me then
To feed upon my sorrows, and in truth
They are hard eating.

Morag.
And you'll find it easier
To pity yourself than to find out God's meaning,
Who throws His letters down, that we may put
This one to that, and turn them into words.

Ina.
Indeed, I am not pitying myself;
But the brisk current of my life is fallen
A-slushing among reeds and rushes.

Morag.
What, then,
Has come of all your schemes for righting wrong
Among the crofters, and the fisher folk?

Ina.
Dreams, idle dreams! vain dreams of fond conceit,
As fruitless as the dewdrops that are strung
On gossamer threads o' chill October mornings.
I am an idle and a useless maid
That heard the far-off rumour of the world
Beyond these hills, and hoped to plant its thoughts
Among the heather, where they will not grow.

Morag.
There's to be no more school, then, for the women,
To train them for their housework, and to keep them
From bearing burdens women should not bear,
And dragging harrows too, like horses?

Ina.
Truly
They would not heed me, neither men nor women:
It was the way their fathers did; why should they
Change the old customs?

Morag.
And the new stone-pier
That was to make safe harbourage for the boats?—

Ina.
Waits till the lads are drowned, for some would rather
The people went away. They told me girls
Should mind their seams, and practise at their scales,
Not meddle with men's matters.

Morag.
But the Chief?
Will he do nothing?

Ina.
That I do not know:
They say he is not rich, save in a kind
And generous heart. And oh, the heart can do
So little, except—wish.

Morag.
You give up hope then?

Ina.
Morag, you've seen the Loch, on some still evening,
Mirror each stone, and twig, and tuft of fern,
And orange lichen on the rock, so clear
That which was substance, which was only shadow
You scarce could tell, till suddenly a breeze
Would blur it all, and there was nothing left
But dim confusion. So it is with me now.
Once every thing looked plain to me, and truly
I did not well distinguish what was fact
And what was only fancy, and now all
Is like those shadows gone. My heart misgives me
Since he has left me.

Morag.
But why should it fail you?

Ina.
I did neglect plain duties here at home,
And therefore met but failure out of doors,
And now I have no duties, and no home.

Morag.
Ina, your heart is low, as one will be
Who sits down in a mist instead of stirring
To keep the blood warm. Were you up and doing
You would be brisk and hopeful. Are you meaning
To live now with your uncle?

Ina.
Wherefore not?

Morag.
They say there is no Sabbath in his house.

Ina.
Well; we could bring it with us.

Morag.
But they tell me
It's like a devil's Sabbath, or a Fair
With guzzling, clinking glasses, barking dogs,
And cursing drovers.

Ina.
Nay, he is not strict,
As we are here; but that can hardly be.

Morag.
And no one thinks of God but the black man
Who keeps an idol cross-legged, like a tailor,
Sitting upon a cow.

Ina.
Mere gossip, Morag;
But truly I am not enamoured of
My uncle's house, and sometimes I have thought
'Twere best if you and I could run away,
And find some simple home, and have a roof
For Kenneth till his student days are past.
Perhaps a woman has no fitter task
Than just to help a man to do his work.

Morag.
O Ina, I have dreaded you would go
To that old heathen, and I could not do it,
And yet I could not leave you. But to live
With you and the boy Kenneth! I will haste,
And write my cousin to look out for us
A house beside the college.

Ina.
Nay, there is
No hurry, Morag; nothing yet is clear.

Morag.
Pity that lochs and hills and maids should be
So fickle! It would be a happier world
If they could know their own minds half an hour.
But that they never do.

Ina.
Enough of me:
There is no armour but it has its joints,
And where the joints are there the arrow sticks,
And you who know me best know where to seek
My weakest points: and maybe I am fickle.
You cannot think more poorly of me than
I think myself.

Morag.
I don't think poorly of you,
Although I see your faults. Why will you shut
The door to every caller, and sit here
As lonely as a seal in some sea-cave,
Or heron dreaming by a moorland burn?

Ina.
You would not have me lay aside my grief,
Which has its healing virtue, for the set
Phrases of cold condolence? Who has called?

Morag.
Well; first there was Miss Doris.

Ina.
Do not speak
Of Doris. When the heart is at its best,
And all its finer feelings tremulous
With some emotion it is bliss to feel,
There are some people — mostly women too—
Who touch the spring of what is worst in you,
As when you dream a happy dream, and lo!
A hideous face leers on you.

Morag.
Well; I say not
That you lost much by sending her away;
She's like a wasp whose drone has little sense,
But its striped tail can sting. But then My Lady
Was with her.

Ina.
Ay! they always are together;
The more's the pity. Can she have some hold
On Lady Margaret? I've marked of late
A change in her—a kind of frightened look
And pleading way, and hesitating speech,
As if she would, but dared not. Could I think
Of aught but my own troubles, she would be
A care to me.

Morag.
But, Ina, you should think
Of other things; for thinking of yourself
Is hardly thought at all: and when your head
Gives over puzzling, you will surely be
Just like the larch that, when it dies a-top,
Begins to die all through, and we may dig
A new grave in Isle-Monach. After them,
We had a call too from the English ladies
At Corrie-Eylert.

Ina.
Oh, they came to note
My way, my looks, and specially my dress,
And to retail the gossip, as they went
Their round among the neighbours.

Morag.
Let me tell you
Folk's hearts are often better than their habits:
They're sorry for you, but that's not enough,
Because you are so sorry for yourself.

Ina.
That's a hard saying, Morag. Can you think
My grief is for myself, and not for him
Whom I have lost?

Morag.
Why should you grieve for him,
Because he is in heaven, and has no care
Of writing sermons now, and is not so
Dead-weary of himself, as when he sat
There at his table, scratching with a quill
To make words do what only deeds can do.

Ina.
Hush, Morag; 'tis not meet that you should speak,
Or I should hear such words. He was my father,
You do not understand—you never did;
And oh, I am so lonely.

Morag.
You were nearly
As lonely while he lived as you are now.
If he had ever, like a father, watched
What books you read, what thoughts they bred in you,
What hours you kept, what friends you had, if any,
What schemes were shaping in your busy head,
Or even how you dressed! But you might go
With any one, and anywhere, in rags,
And he would never notice. And yourself
Have told me that he scarcely heeded aught
But Firstly, except Secondly and Lastly;
Write, writing, every day and all day long.

Ina.
I will not hear you, Morag, this is cruel,
At such a time. If I was a malapert,
'Twere fitter to rebuke than second me.
Moreover, when I said that, 'twas not he
I blamed, for he was good—oh, so much better
Than I—and still with conscience made his life
A sacrifice to duty, offering up
The sweetness and the gladness of it all
To what his office claimed of him. It was
The exigency of mistaken work,
The rigour of a wrong idea planted
In a true heart that never spared itself,
Made me so speak. But yet I spake amiss,
And rightly now am humbled. Pardon me,
Dear father, that I judged you wantonly
In petulance of youth. I had no mother.

Morag.
Scold me well, Ina; it will do you good.
I thought to rouse, and I have only crushed you.
Nay, spare me not, an old conceited fool!
Only, you are my bairn.

Ina.
There; go away.
I daresay you meant well, but there are sores
May not be touched but with a skilful hand,
Not with rough loving even. You think I pity
Myself! I hate myself, when I remember
The failure of my duty and my love
To him: and yet the burden of my sorrow
Is bound on me by what is best in me,
And when I part from it my good departs,
Therefore I clasp it to my heart of hearts.

Chorus.

SCENE IV.

Chorus.

Scene—Isle-Monach. Ina and Kenneth.
Ina.
Thanks, Kenneth. Now, I want to be alone.
Come back for me an hour hence.

Kenneth.
Yes, Miss Ina;
It is good to be here; yes, for there are
Good thoughts among the graves, and in the Islands;
Better than in the towns.

Ina.
What kind of thoughts?

Kenneth.
Well; dreams of peace, and memories of gladness;
And dreams and memories are all we have
To live on in the Highlands.

Ina.
You are sad;
What ails you, Kenneth?

Kenneth.
Oh, these thoughts will come
When nothing ails you, as the clouds do when
The sun is brightest. You will not stay long?

Ina.
No: but an hour is not too long to mourn
For a dead Father.

Kenneth.
Yet it may be, Miss,
Too long to be alone here. For these isles
Are hollowed by sea-caves, and when you sit
Musing alone, and hear the water rushing
Around you, and beneath, it makes your breath
Come quick with fancies. I had once a cousin
Passed but a night on such an isle, and he
Nigh lost his wits ere morning, for he thought
That every streak of mist, and gleam of moonshine
Pointed and mowed and mocked and laughed at him,
So weird-like was the feeling of the place.

Ina.
Oh, nonsense, Kenneth. Are you superstitious
Like all the rest—and you a scholar too?
But I am not like you a poet, born
To see the unseen, and feel a pulse of life
Beating in brooks and rocks and sandy shores.—
You lost a friend in him who now sleeps here.

Kenneth.
I lost my hope in life.

Ina.
Nay, say not so:
We've not so many here among our hills
With the rare gift of genius, and the love
Of letters, and of all things beautiful,
That we should let them pine away for lack
Of needful culture. I am very sure
My uncle will do as my father did,
And send you still to College. How is Mairi?

Kenneth.
Mairi is gone to Doris Cattanach,
And lost to me.

Ina.
Ah! that explains your gloom;
You have fallen out, and hence your thoughts are sad.
But how should she be lost to you because
She's with her cousin?

Kenneth.
Can a maiden be
With Doris, and remain what I have dreamed?
Can the thaw come, and footsteps tread the snow,
And broad wheels grind it down, and leave it still
As when the white flakes trembled down from heaven?

Ina.
Kenneth, I fear that we are hard on Doris,
We judge a stranger by our home-bred ways,
Who, maybe, walks by other rule of right.
I blame myself at times.

Kenneth.
And so did I,
Miss Ina, when I heard that she had taken
Mairi to be with her. I said like you,
Perhaps 'tis we that have not understood her,
And she has ta'en my little maid to make
A lady of her, as you take a wild-flower,
And plant it in a garden to enrich
Its life and beauty. So I went to thank her.

Ina.
And found your Mairi still your pretty wild-flower,
Only with brighter hues.

Kenneth.
I found her not
At all. She is too grand to see me now;
And Doris only mocked me.

Ina.
Nay, in that
You surely are mistaken. She's a lady.

Kenneth.
And I am but a fisher lad. But you
Shall judge yourself. There was a little song—
A trifle like the shilfa's short bright note—
Which I had writ for Mairi once to sing,
And loved it, for my very soul was in it.
Mairi had sung it in the great house there,
And Doris made a comic rhyme of it,
And said it over to me—very clever,
And funny, but there was no heart in it;
Yet it was like my own—oh, very like;
Only the soul was gone.

Ina.
Ah! that was cruel;
But Mairi did not know of it, be sure.

Kenneth.
Do you think so?

Ina.
Nay, I am certain of it.
She is a girl whom neither wealth, nor arts
Will turn from the bent of truth.

Kenneth.
Thank you for that.

Ina.
Let nothing shake your trust in her. Be sure
Suspicion murders love, and from its death
Come anguish and remorse.

Kenneth.
I will remember.

Ina.
And, Kenneth, when you make yourself a name,
As I am sure you will do, for your songs
Are like the murmur of the running brooks,
Or like the wind that breathes upon the woods,
And from each tree evokes a separate note
To make the woodland harmony, and all
So simple and true that they must touch men's hearts—
Then you will do this, Kenneth: you will make
These fishers' homes, which you do know so well,
Dear to the world by your recital of
The patience and the pathos of their lives,
The tragedies enacted on the sea,
And hunger of the body and soul alike
Where bread and books are scarce.

Kenneth.
That I will, Miss;
But you, we looked to you to help us?

Ina.
Nay,
That is all past and gone.

Kenneth.
Why is it gone?

Ina.
This is a man's work; I have been a failure;
And made his last days lonely whom I loved,
And did no good to any one, and now
My way of life must needs be far from these
Grey rocks and lochs and isles.—Ah!

Enter Sir Diarmid.
Sir Diarmid.
How now, Kenneth?
I thought you never left your books, except
To trim the boat, and set the lines.

Kenneth.
To-day, sir,
I had to row Miss Ina to Isle-Monach.—
Was it an hour you said, Miss?

Sir Diarmid.
Going now?
Well, do not trouble to bring back the boat;
I'll see Miss Ina home.

Kenneth.
Yes, sir.

Sir Diarmid.
Good-bye!
[Exit Kenneth.
Ina, forgive me that I followed you
Into your still retreat. I saw the boat
Making the cove behind the musselcrag,
And could not help it. What a wealth of beauty
Gathers around these mouldering abbey walls,
Draped with pale lichens, and with graceful tufts
Of small-leaved ferns, and lovingly embraced
By the ivy, which they once upheld, that now,
With reverence dutiful, sustains and brightens
Their sad and tottering age. What cunning hand
Carved these dark tombstones with their pregnant symbols
That speak a braver faith than skulls and cross-bones
And Time with scythe and hour-glass? You were right;
Our fathers had an Art and a Religion,
A sense of beauty and a hope in God,
Nobler than ours. Do you come often here?

Ina.
Sometimes. Oh yes, the isle is very lovely;
And yet I love it more for what it hides
Than for the grace that hides it.

Sir Diarmid.
Ah! I know.
Forgive me. You would rather be alone.

Ina.
Nay, it is I should beg to be forgiven:
The place is yours; but yet it holds my dead
Along with yours.

Sir Diarmid.
And living as well as dead,
Our races soon shall mingle once again;
Shall they not, Ina? It is not so long
Since the two streams were parted.

Ina.
Yes; I know.

Sir Diarmid.
Yes! may I take that for my answer, then?

Ina.
Nay, do not wrest my words. I only meant
That we were once of the same stock, and still,
After our kindly Highland way, the river
Scorns not the stream that left to turn the mill,
And grind the meal.

Sir Diarmid.
But gladly welcomes back
The mill-race to its bosom, having been
A shallow and a stony brook without it.
O Ina, you will make an empty life
Once more a flowing river full and glad.

Ina.
This is no time or place for thoughts like these;
I blame myself for listening, standing here
Where I should know but sorrow.

Sir Diarmid.
Why should you
Know only sorrow here or anywhere,
Who bring such joy to others! When a wave,
Broken and spent, ebbs back, what should it do
But mingle with the new wave flowing in,
And swell its volume? Should not love for him, then,
Whom you have lost now blend with other love,
And make an undivided absolute bliss,
To fill and glad our life? Yet it is true,
This place is all too sombre; let us hence,
And get the sunshine round us as within.

Ina.
But there's no sunshine in me. I am truly
A most unhappy maid; and what was said
Must be as if it never had been said.

Sir Diarmid.
You cannot mean it. Ina. What is wrong?
Do you not love me still?

Ina.
Do I not love you?

Sir Diarmid.
Yet you can speak thus calmly of unsaying
All you have said.

Ina.
If it is best for you:—
I cannot cease to love you while I live;
Yet I can live, and have no hope in love.

Sir Diarmid.
If it is best for me! But it's not best;
It is the worst and bitterest could befall me.
What is it, Ina? Something troubles you.
You used to be a leal, true-hearted girl,
And frank and brave and not fantastical.
Have I done aught to vex you?

Ina.
No, indeed;
You have not changed to me nor I to you;
I never trusted you as now I do;
Nor felt before how desolate life will be
Without you. Yet I came here now to make,
Over his grave, a vow that we must part,
Which well may be the breaking of one heart.

Sir Diarmid.
Nay, but of two hearts if it come to that.
Yet why should any hearts be broken, Ina?

Ina.
Listen: we had not told him of our Love—

Sir Diarmid.
It was his sudden illness, not my will
That kept me silent.

Ina.
Yes, indeed, I know:
But when he lay a-dying, I bethought me,
Not witting that the end could be so near,
That it might comfort him to know our bliss;—
And it is bliss, whatever come of it.
But oh, instead of comforting, it made
A stormy bar across the river-mouth
Of life to him, and trouble and alarm.

Sir Diarmid.
But why?

Ina.
He muttered, meaning to explain,
Something—but it was half-articulate—
And all I heard was “Doris.”

Sir Diarmid.
Doris, said you?
Well, now my heart is light again, and I
Could laugh like children at a pantomime.
Why, how could Doris come between us two?

Ina.
I cannot tell; only he named her name.

Sir Diarmid.
But what has Doris Cattanach to do
With us, and with our love? And do you mean,
Ina, that you could give me up to her?

Ina.
That would be hard.

Sir Diarmid.
I'd sooner mate me with
A cloud, cram-full of lightning, hail, and thunder,
Or wed a polar bear, and sail away
Upon an iceberg. Think no more of this:
Perhaps he did not hear you right, or else
The mind was wandering, as it often does
On the dim verge of life.

Ina.
Nay, he said plainly,
“It must not be; you must not love him.”

Sir Diarmid.
Well;
But that's past helping, Ina.

Ina.
Yes, I know.
But yet his broken words left this whole thought
Clear in my mind, it would work harm to you,
And that through Doris somehow. I am sure
That was his meaning.

Sir Diarmid.
Well, it is a riddle
That puzzles me to solve. Shall we then shape
Our lives by their hard puzzles?

Ina.
No, indeed;
But yet it would be selfish if I shrank
From a plain duty for the pain it costs,
Or clung to that which would bring hurt to you.

Sir Diarmid.
But what would hurt me most were losing you.

Ina.
Ah, life is very hard.

Sir Diarmid.
Nay, life with love
Is just the very best thing that I know.
Now think no more of this.

Ina.
If I were only
More worthy of you!

Sir Diarmid.
Let me judge of that:
You rate yourself too humbly: it is I
Should have my doubts of being meet for you;
And yet I think Fate meant us for each other.

Ina.
But if I were to be a burden to you.

Sir Diarmid.
I want that very burden, cannot rise
Without it to the heights where I would soar,
More than the kite without its loaded tail.
Come, Ina, cast these fears away, and speak,
As on that happiest day of life to me
When first our lips were framed to tell our love,
And you did paint for us a restful home
Amid a busy life, like this old house,
What time the monks lived in it, and the folk
Learnt of them letters, arts, and piety.
You have a dainty fancy, and it made
A pretty picture.

Ina.
But it was not fancy.
O Diarmid, you may do a great work here
Where work is greatly needed.

Sir Diarmid.
Could I take
To work as much as sport, and had your help,
Perhaps I might.

Ina.
Nay, do not think of me;
You need no help but what their love provides.
The people live in memories of the past,
And all their happiest memories cluster round
Those of your name and you. They may be stiff
To men of alien blood, at times even false;
But you have but to say, and they will do,
For all their hearts are yours. Oh, if you knew them,
And their pathetic faithfulness of love,
Rooted in ages past.

Sir Diarmid.
There, now; 'tis good
To hear you speaking once more like yourself,
A Highland maiden for her clan and Chief.
I love the people, and at first, I think,
I loved you for the love you bore to them.
But yet the task is hard.

Ina.
That I know well,
For I have failed. And yet the hindrances
To good and noble action mostly lie
In our own bosoms.

Sir Diarmid.
May be. But the clergy,
They hold the place which once the Chieftain held,
And what have they made of it?

Ina.
They have made
A patient, orderly, and pious people,
According to their light. But they have not
The place of eminence and influence,
Which love has kept for you. Besides, our age,
The more its spirit is religious, cleaves
The more to secular forms, and will not take
Its shape from priests.

Sir Diarmid.
But you will help me, Ina?
Will be my inspiration if I try it?

Ina.
What other inspiration can you need
Than to redress old wrongs, and help the growth
Of civil polity, and self-control,
And homes made glad by fruitful industry,
And to be compassed round by all men's love?

Sir Diarmid.
There; every word you say but shows me more
How much I need you. I am not a hero;
Only a Highland laird, as indolent
As all men are whose life is passed in sport.

Ina.
And I but a weak woman; I can do
So little. And their life is an old growth
Of time—a heritage of history,
Not shaped by their intention, nor to be
Fashioned, at once, by our new modes of thinking.

Sir Diarmid.
Now, say not you are weak. There's nought so strong
As a clear-sighted woman. You shall even
Do with me as you will, when I may hold
This little hand in mine, and call it mine.

Ina.
O Diarmid, are we right? My father's words—
His last words, mind—

Sir Diarmid.
Were something about Doris:
And would you give me up to her?

Ina.
No truly.

[Exeunt.
Chorus.