University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Chorus.
Fond of shooting, fishing, hunting,
Sound of bagpipe, drum, or fife,
Yacht and sail and flying bunting—
All the ways of savage life;
Sick of clubs and jolly fellows,
Play and pantomime and clown,
Novels bound in blues and yellows—
All the idle ways of town;
Tired of all the strife of Parties,
Solemn dinners, routs, and drums,
Public meetings where no heart is,
And a chairman haws and hums;
What shall youth do when the river
Has no pools where salmon lie,
And the sun is shining ever,
And the trouting streams are dry,
And the grouse-cock gaily crowing
Fears not either dog or gun,
And the partridge broods are growing,
While the corn grows in the sun?
Weary he of fly and feather,
Weapon shining on the shelf,
Weary of unchanging weather,
Weary maybe of himself;
For he was not meant for daily
Bringing basket full, or bag,
Shooting grouse or capercailzie,
Stalking of the timid stag.
What shall he do, weary-laden,
If in such a vacant hour
He shall happen on a maiden
Lovely as a sweet wild-flower,
With a noble nature truly,
Pointing him to noble deeds,
Plucking up the thoughts unruly
Growing in his mind like weeds,
Opening to his soul a grander
Life than he has lived before,
As among the hills they wander,
Or beside the grey sea-shore?
Ah! the passion, all-constraining,
That now lifts his heart above
Vacant mood and vain complaining,
Lapt in bliss of early love!

Scene—Kildrostan. Sir Diarmid and Lady MacAlpine.
Sir Diarmid
(singing)
“To Norroway, to Norroway,
To Norroway owre the faem.”

Lady MacAlpine.
Why do you sing that ballad? My old heart
Goes pit-a-pat to hear it; like the merle
That sees a gled o'erhead. Surely you are not
Tired of me yet.

Sir Diarmid.
Nay, mother, not of you;—
You're always pleasant company—but somewhat
A-weary of the weather which is bad,
Being so good, and of myself a little,
And of the world in general.

Lady MacAlpine.
Don't be silly.

Sir Diarmid.
I think I never was more sensible,
But to be sensible is to be dull;
All sensible folk are tiresome. Have you heard
That ever any of our ancestors
Mingled their blue blood with a gipsy witch's?

Lady MacAlpine.
What do you mean, boy?

Sir Diarmid.
Only this, that I
Am rather of their roving disposition,
And with the first crisp bursting of the leaf,
Or even while buds are only reddening yet
On the bare boughs, and primrose banks are bare,
Begin to feel a stirring in my veins,
As if I must be off into the woods,
And hang a kettle on a tripod o'er
A fire of sticks, and steal my own young hares.
Yet here is half the summer past, and still
I'm at the chimney nook. Had I not been
A baronet, I should have been a poacher
In shabby velveteen, and had a lurcher
Close at my heels, and half my days in jail,
And half i' the moors and woods. I wonder we
Can hate them so, they are so like ourselves.

Lady MacAlpine.
Don't talk so idly, you do let your tongue
Run off with what small sense you have.

Sir Diarmid.
But how
About that gipsy, mother? I am sure
There must have been one in our family tree.
Was she dropt from it as a rotten branch,
Or christened Lady Margaret Merrilees,
Or Honourable Gertrude Jenny Faa
Of Hedgerow Elms, in Thieveshire?

Lady MacAlpine.
Hold your peace.
Your ancestors were noble and highborn,
And mated with the best blood of the land.

Sir Diarmid.
Well, mother, do not frown at me; I do
But jest, and yet it was a foolish jest,
The birth of vacant brains. Having nought to do,
I've seen you bring old rubbish from your drawers—
Scraps of brown lace, housewifes, and baby linen,
Buttons, old dingy letters, battered thimbles—
And litter all the room with them; and I
Being idle, throw the rubbish of my mind
About me too, and sorry stuff it is.

Lady MacAlpine.
Well, well; you might find matter for your jests
Fitter than those to whom you owe your being.
But now you'll stay at home. 'Tis weary waiting
Alone in my old age.

Sir Diarmid.
Old age! why, you
Are younger in my eyes, and handsomer
Than half the girls I meet. My little mother,
You never can grow old, your heart's so young,
While they are old i' their teens. Yet I must go,
Only I would not leave you quite alone.

Lady MacAlpine.
But wherefore must you go?

Sir Diarmid.
A promise, mother;
Far rather would I be at home with you.
And after this I mean to spend my days
In sheer respectability, and go
Duly to church, and play the justice too,
And lecture rogues and vagabonds, and sit
On Boards, and manage every one's affairs,
Like a true Chief. But there's a College friend
Who worships Thor and Odin, when he tires
Of Zeus and Aphrodite and Apollo;
And I had promised he should see the land
Of Vikings and Berserkers, and the Fiords
From which their galleys oared to seek adventures.
So now he writes me he is coming here
To-day, and I must get the old yawl in trim,
And see if she will float to Norroway.

Lady MacAlpine.
A friend who worships Odin! Why, the man
Must be a pagan.

Sir Diarmid.
Well; he rather is
A something of a pagan and a poet,
Yet no bad fellow, either, in his way.
He will not sacrifice the sheep, or kids,
Or horses; being æsthetic, he will be
Content with fruits and flowers and wine libations.

Lady MacAlpine.
What do you mean? Is that what young men learn
At College now?

Sir Diarmid.
Yes; some of them prefer
Boating or boxing, cricketing or hunting,
Lawn-tennis, or to drive a four-in-hand;
But the more studious mostly spend their terms
Seeking for a religion.

Lady MacAlpine.
Now you jest;
I know it by your look:—As if young men
Could leave their parents' homes without religion!
Why let this mocking fiend ironical
Cover your better thought?

Sir Diarmid.
I do not mock.
It may be that they bring up from their homes
Their cradle-faiths, but they are stript quite bare
Ere many months pass. And besides, a man
May wish new clothes, who is not wholly naked,
May feel he has outgrown his baby robes,
May be ashamed too of his rustic fit,
And fain to dress his soul in the last fashion,
And wear it jauntily. So we are grown
To be a sort of dandies in religion,
Affecting the last mode. At present, we
Incline to Pagan cults, but are not sure
Whether is best the Greek or the Barbarian:
While some prefer pure Atheism to both,
And will have neither soul, nor other life,
Nor anything but organisèd dust
Which lives its day, and on the morrow is
Moral manure enriching other lives.

Lady MacAlpine.
Diarmid, you have not lost your faith?

Sir Diarmid.
Well, no;
I have not found a better than my mother
Sung o'er my cradle.

Lady MacAlpine.
That is well. Pray heaven
You hold to that. I hear such dreadful things
About our young men now; and even the girls
Chatter half-atheism with as brisk an air
As if it were new ribbons they discussed.
There's Ina Lorne reads books would make my hair
To stand on end.

Sir Diarmid.
No fear of Ina, mother;
Her heart's all right. And that reminds me now,
It was of her I meant to speak. She is
Alone in that dull house, and for a while
You too will be alone: why should you not
Have her with you to cheer your solitude?
We are her kinsfolk, and I've heard you say
She makes a good day in a drizzling rain.

Lady MacAlpine.
She sees no visitors, keeps her room, and claims
The privilege of sorrow to be rude.

Sir Diarmid.
Nay, mother, rude she cannot be, and least
Of all to you.

Lady MacAlpine.
Well, no: but what means this—
This new-born care for cousins who would scarce
Count kin save in the Highlands? You're not wont
To speak so warmly of them.

Sir Diarmid.
That is true;
For some are bores, and some are gossips born,
And some are butterflies, and some are wasps,
And some are geese. But Ina's not like them.

Lady MacAlpine.
No; but she's somewhat flighty, is she not?

Sir Diarmid.
How mean you?

Lady MacAlpine.
Well, she always has some new
Enthusiasm—some pet scheme or other,
To remedy the lot of our poor folk,
Which yet is ne'er the better for it.

Sir Diarmid.
Yes!
Maybe; and yet one likes her all the more;
For if it be a fault, at least it's not
A common fault among our Highlanders.
We're not enthusiasts for the people's rights;
More shame to us that she is so alone!

Lady MacAlpine.
But, Diarmid, what will Doris say to it?
They have not taken kindly to each other.

Sir Diarmid.
Why, what has she to do with it?

Lady MacAlpine.
She'll think
It is her place to keep me company,
And will resent to see another here.

Sir Diarmid.
Why should it be her place? and why should she
Resent your choice of Ina? And indeed
That girl is too much with you.

Lady MacAlpine.
But the time
Draws near; and you must first arrange with her
Before you go.

Sir Diarmid.
What time? what do you mean?
What is there to arrange with her? Oh yes!
About her shootings—I will see to that.

Lady MacAlpine.
Her shootings! nonsense: 'tis about herself.

Sir Diarmid.
Now, mother, you are many fathoms deeper
Than my line goes.

Lady MacAlpine.
Did not your father tell you,
As he lay dying, how things stood between
Doris and you?

Sir Diarmid.
Well; he was very fain
That I should wed her some day, and I promised—
For that I saw his heart was set on it—
That I would try to love her if I could,
And wed her if I loved her, which I cannot.

Lady MacAlpine.
And was that all? was there no sterner hint
Of hard necessity?

Sir Diarmid.
There was no more.

Lady MacAlpine.
Oh this is cruel, laying it on me
To blur a father's memory. But you promised
To love her, and you'll keep your promise.

Sir Diarmid.
What
Troubles you, mother? You are strangely moved.
I said that I would love her if I could,
And I tried hard, but she would never let me.
Even as a girl she always spited me,
Threw stones into the pool where I was angling,
Tore down the nests I watched with tender care,
And rode my pony till she foundered him,—
Cruel as well as spiteful.

Lady MacAlpine.
A spoilt child
With that hot Indian blood in her, untamed;
But unripe fruit is bitter oft i' the mouth,
Yet mellows with the months.

Sir Diarmid.
But has she mellowed?
I could not bear to leave you here with her;
And Ina too so lonely.

Lady MacAlpine.
Never fear;
We shall do nicely. And for Ina, when
You make your nest here in the old family tree,
'Twere well to feather it softly, not to plant
A thorn there for your mate.

Sir Diarmid.
But Ina's not
A thorn. She's never sharp, and never stings
Like Doris.

Lady MacAlpine.
Dear, I do not understand
Why you should harp on Ina. Let her be.
Her uncle's house, of course, will be her home;
He's rich and solitary. If you have nothing
Against poor Doris but her childish freaks,
Would you for them neglect your dying father's
So earnest wish?

Sir Diarmid.
Nay, not for them alone.
Mother, no man, that is a man, would care
To catalogue a lady's blemishes;
To say, I cannot love her for her pride,
Yet love her less in her humility;
When she is bitter, I cannot abide her,
And yet I loathe her more, when she is sweet.
Ask me no more; indeed, I tried and failed:
Besides, I cannot offer to a market
That does not want my wares.

Lady MacAlpine.
There I am sure
You are mistaken, for she likes you, Diarmid.

Sir Diarmid.
Then 'tis a liking that I do not like,
And never shall. Were Doris the one Eve
In all the world, I'd rather, for my share,
The thorns and briars outside, and leave her Eden
All to herself, than company with her.
Have I not seen you frown, with mingled shame
And anger, at her reckless speech? for still
Her thoughts go naked, and are not ashamed;
Yet not from innocence. You love her not,
And would not like, I think, to sit on nettles
What time my wife opened her mouth to speak.

Lady MacAlpine.
I know she has her faults—so have we all:
But you might help to mend them. And oh, Diarmid,
It must be.

Sir Diarmid.
What must be? And also why
Must it so be? You speak in riddles to me.

Lady MacAlpine.
Diarmid, you love your father's memory;
Would you not rather suffer any loss
Than part with that?

Sir Diarmid.
Indeed I would. But who
Can take from me the picture of his goodness,
Hung in the inmost chamber of my heart,
As men set up a holy altar-piece
For worship. That he was mistaken about
This girl, harms not his memory to me.

Lady MacAlpine.
Ah me! I wot not what to do. This task
Should never have been left to me. I tell you
You have no choice but marry Doris now.

Sir Diarmid.
I have no choice, for I have made my choice,
And would not have her, mother, if she brought
A kingdom for her dower.

Lady MacAlpine.
Nay, hear me; let
Me tell the sorry tale. Your father, Diarmid,—
'Tis hard to unveil the faults of those we love,
When death has hallowed love—in his hot youth
Had wasted his estate with cards and dice;
But when he won my hand, which brought much wealth,
He promised ne'er to gamble while he lived.
Happy our life was while he kept his word!
Nor did he break the letter of it ever,
Only the spirit, cheating conscience so
With words depleted of their natural sense.
Then came this Malcolm Cattanach from India,
A widower, with one child, and very rich:
He had been born a crofter in Glenara,
Was a contractor and a money-lender,
And there were strange things whispered about him—
I know not with what truth, of course, but men
Were shy of him who had been in the East,
As many here had been.—But 'tis too much;
I cannot go on with it.

Sir Diarmid.
Quite right, mother;
Let Doris and her dubious father drop
Out of your mind; they only give you pain.

Lady MacAlpine.
Would that were possible! I must tell you all,
Howe'er it wring my heart. He settled near us
In the next glen, and lived a sumptuous life,
Costly, luxurious, though his ways were coarse,
And with a splendour of colour, hardly fitting
The sober grey of our dim Highland glens.
Your father took to him, although he laughed
At the peach-coloured liveries; praised his talent,
Quoted his sayings; hankered to berich,
And live like him; and they were closeted
Often for hours together. Until then
He never had a secret thought from me;
But now he kept me in the dark, and that
Wounded and wronged my love. It soon appeared
This clever, scheming man had led him on—
Who knew no more than I—to speculate
In foreign loans, and mines, and for the rise
And fall of markets; and he, all unskilled
To watch the turns o' the tide, bought in too soon,
And sold too late, and gambled all away.
Ah me! the weary days! the anxious looks!
The fretful temper! and the settled gloom,
With the fell crash at last!

Sir Diarmid.
But why recall
This story now, since, after all, we have
Enough for all our wants? What need to cry
O'er our spilt milk, when all our pails are full,
And the cow yields as ever?

Lady MacAlpine.
Wait a bit;
One day he told me that my all was gone,
And I, like you, said lightly, Never mind;
We have the old home still, and our old love,
Which none can rob us of. But therewithal,
He only looked the gloomier, and cursed
Himself, his friend, and all the ravenous crew
Of jobbers and promoters. Then I said,
Now, let us have no secrets; that has been
The worst of all our losses, the decay
Of that full trust that made us one indeed.
Perhaps a woman's wit may find a way
To mend things, or to bear them. I was sore
At his concealment, sorer than I said,
For empty heart is worse than empty purse,
And mine had been made vacant by neglect.
But when I found that Malcolm Cattanach
Had led him on and on, till every acre
And every stone o' the house, and every right
Of fishing, shooting, mining, were in bond
To him for moneys lent and lost, my heart
Utterly failed me.

Sir Diarmid.
Are we beggars, then,
On Doris' charity?

Lady MacAlpine.
Scarcely yet. I have
My jointure, and I got a legacy
After your father's death. Not otherwise
Could you have gone to College.

Sir Diarmid.
Had I known this,
I would not so have wasted all these years
In idleness, that might have yielded fruit
For wintry days.

Lady MacAlpine.
I thought your father told you.
But that's not all. There is another bond,
That if you claim her hand ere you have passed
Your four and twenty years, then she and all
Her gathered wealth are yours.

Sir Diarmid.
How, if I fail?

Lady MacAlpine.
That will be very ruin.

Sir Diarmid.
One word more.
What, if I ask, and she refuse my hand?

Lady MacAlpine.
To punish her, he gives you back the land.
But she will not refuse.

Sir Diarmid.
I daresay not.
'Tis a hard case. Has Doris known all this?

Lady MacAlpine.
Yes, years ago.

Sir Diarmid.
Ah! that accounts for much.
I must have time to think.

Lady MacAlpine.
There is your friend
Just driven to the door; a handsome youth,
But yet a bit effeminate. I'll see him
At dinner time.

Sir Diarmid.
It is unfortunate
His coming at this moment. But I must
Be civil, though my head is in a whirl.

[Exeunt.
Chorus.
Vain for a man to think that he
Can hide what a woman is fain to know!
Vain to dream that she does not see,
Because her seeing she does not show
He cannot lie with a guileless look
Of innocence pure that falters not,
And she will read like a printed book
The riddle of his most secret thought.
Well she saw where his love was given,
Saw that her tidings had quenched his light,
Saw that he grasped, as if for heaven,
A hope that would leave him in sorry plight.
And oh that Ina might be her daughter!
Oh the dread of his fated wife!
Oh the hopes that were writ on water!
Oh her boy, and his shipwrecked life!