University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Chorus.

Scene—Street: Post Office Door. Ina, Mrs. Slit, Doris (in the distance).
Mrs. Slit.

Good-bye, then, Miss Ina; and it iss a light there will be in the shop this day, because you have been in it again.

Ina.

Good-bye. You will be sure to remember the warm things for old Elspet's rheumatism.

Mrs. Slit.

Och! yes, I will remember them.

Ina.

And Dugald's snuff, and Alisthair's tea.

Mrs. Slit.

And the snuff and the tea, though it iss the porridge that iss good enough for him, and more than he deserves, for it would be the whisky that brought him to this.

Ina.

Maybe. But who of us get just what we deserve?

Mrs. Slit.

That iss true. Yes! Some get more, and some get less; some have a penny's-worth for their halfpenny, and some only a farthing's-worth for their penny; and it iss the scales of Providence that would not do for a shop, whatever. But I will mind, Miss Ina.

Ina.

That is right. But there is Sir Diarmid's yacht in the Loch. Is he going a trip anywhere?

Mrs. Slit.

Och! it iss that Poet-man that gets the letters and the printed papers every day. He will not be for leaving the Loch, I think. They are saying he iss a great bard or Seannachie, though I never heard him sing, or even whistle, as our lad Kenneth will do.

Ina.

But Poets make songs, and other people sing them now. However, I must bid you good-bye.

Mrs. Slit.

Good-bye; but it iss Miss Doris that will be coming along the street now; and which iss more, she will be picking her steps, and sniffing as if her father would be a Chief instead of a cottar's son. Maybe you will not be caring to see her.

Ina.

Why should I not wish to see Doris? But even if I did not, I cannot help it now, for she has seen me.

Mrs. Slit.

Fare you well, Miss. And take care of that one. It will he easier dealing with Elspet's rheumatics than with her smiles, which only show her teeth.

Ina.
Good-morning, Doris. You are early astir.

Doris.
Well, this is pleasant, Ina, seeing you
Abroad, and like yourself again. They told me
Your eyes were red with weeping; but they're not.
Indeed, I think they never were so bright.
That's right. What is the good of injuring
The very feature of one's face that men
Chiefly admire? One ought to think of that.

Ina.
Ought one? I don't know that I did think of it.
But never mind: my eyes are all right, Doris.

Doris.
That's plain enough to see; you look quite brilliant.
But how did you get through the time of mourning?
Is it not horrible—the blinds, the silence,
The people whispering, the dismal looks?
I was so sorry for you, and I called
A score of times, I'm sure.

Ina.
I'm vexed at that;
The servant only told me about once.

Doris.
Oh, twice, at least. But then I meant to come
So often, and you would not let me in;
Indeed, I thought of you from morn till night,
And could not keep you from my sleeping dreams,
I was so grieved. How did you pass the time?
You don't read novels; yet they're such a help
At such a season. Why, I lay all day,
And got through half of Mudie when my daddy
Dropt from his perch. I can't think how you did.
It's dreadful to be shut up with the Bible,
And Pilgrim's Progress, just like prisoners
Upon the silent system.

Ina.
Well, I was not
Condemned to that quite, though I might have had
Worse company.

Doris.
You did not think of cards,
I daresay; yet you've no idea how
They get you through the evenings, when your heart
Is like to break.

Ina.
No, certainly I did not.

Doris.
Well, it's a pity now; for they just give you
The kind of mild excitement which you need
When you are low—not staking much, you know,
Only what will give interest to the game.
And when I called that day I meant to try them,
In case you had been very bad.

Ina.
Oh, thanks;
I daresay you meant kindly, but you do not
Quite understand me.

Doris.
Yes, indeed I do.
I hear folk say they cannot comprehend you,
But that is their stupidity, and I
Tell them I see you through and through like glass;
You are so simple.

Ina.
Oh!

Doris.
And when you shut
Your door, and would not see a visitor,
I said it was a proper thing to do,
And when the proper time came you'd appear
Splendid as ever; and there you are, my dear,
A miracle of beauty. That dress, now;
You cannot think how perfect you are in it.
Where was it made? But all your dresses fit you.
Was this what smote Tremain?

Ina.
What do you mean?
Who is Tremain?

Doris.
Not know Tremain! and he
Raving about you as a heathen goddess—
Not Venus, but another quite as handsome,
And cleverer far, though I forget her name.
Why, what can Diarmid mean, that he has never
Brought him to see you?

Ina.
Oh, I am not seeing
Strangers at present.

Doris.
But he's quite a genius,
And one should see them when they come one's way,
Which is not often; then he is so handsome,
And knows so many people, and is so
Charmingly wicked—but you'll not like that
Of course, because you've grown up in a Manse
Where every one is bound to be good, of course.
Tremain is quite a pagan, but his gods
Are all dead long ago; and he knows that,
And does not worship Zeus and Aphrodite,
As he would like to do; only he rages—
Ever so eloquent and beautiful!—
At those who overthrow their shrines and altars.

Ina.
Doris, you surely do not lend an ear
To one who, for the living God, would thrall you
To these poor bodiless shadows. He must be
A shallow fool, I think; for there are some
Whose genius, like a marsh-light, flickers where
There is no footing for a man to go.

Doris.
But you know, Ina, I am only half
A Christian, half a Brahmin, and a daughter
Goes with the mother mostly, and I like
The folks you call poor heathens. What he says,
Besides, is that it does not matter much
About our gods, whether they are or are not,
Or what they are. The one thing that concerns us,
Is the idea of life which they call forth,
And ours is now all wrong. The Church, he says,
Has consecrated grief instead of gladness,
Has cast the shadow of the cross where heaven
Poured down the laughing sunshine; even science,
That scorning miracle is full of wonders,
Potters o'er facts and numbers, and makes man
Just a machine for grinding out these facts.
But the old gods of Greece made joyous life
With song and dance and flowers and wine and love—
Oh, you should hear him, just.

Ina.
Do you think so?
I fancy that a cross which tells of hope
Through sorrow, is better than remorseless Fate
Chaining the soul to rocks and piercing ice.
I wish folk had more pleasure in their lives,
More flowers and sunshine, though I'd rather not
More foxglove, hellebore, and deadly nightshade.
What does he say of conscience?

Doris.
Conscience! Oh,
He thinks it is a blister that has made
The soul so sensitive it cannot bear
The touch that nature meant us to enjoy.
He's very scornful of it.

Ina.
So I fancied
The trifler would despies its inspirations.
Zeus neveer had much conscience.

Doris.
Then he brings you
Just to the verge of shocking things, and when
You're bridling up in anger, 'tis such fun
To watch him sailing off, as if he had not
Seen the improper thoughts which made you pause.

Ina.
And does Sir Diarmid like a man like that?
I cannot think it.

Doris.
They're inseparable.
'Tis strange he has not brought him to the Manse.

Ina.
Nay, it were stranger to have brought him there;
Its air would not agree with him.

Doris.
Indeed,
He's quite a revelation—something new
Entirely in these parts.

Ina.
Yes, I should hope so.
A revelation—only of the darkness,
Not of the light. I think I saw the man
Once, and I took him for a coxcomb truly.

Doris.
Oh, but he raves of you.

Ina.
That's likely enough:
His words are mostly ravings.

Doris.
No, indeed;
He has the daintiest fancies, beautiful,
Poetic; and he makes you gasp for fear
Of what he may say next, which is so nice.

Ina.
Is it? I'd rather walk where footing is sure
Than on the thin and perilous bending ice.
But as you will: he does not interest me.

Doris.
That's odd; I think I never met a man
So interesting, so fresh, and so mysterious.
Don't you like mystery in a man?

Ina.
I like
Truth, Doris, first, and reverence and manhood;
And the true man is reverent to all women.
But now, adieu. I am not given to preach,
And young men, they do say, are not like us,
Though why they should not be, I do not know.
But Doris, were I you, I'd hold aloof
From one who grazes improprieties,
And does not blush to make a woman blush.
Farewell.

Doris.
Where are you going, Ina dear?
Oh, to Isle-Monach? Yes! 'tis natural
You should go often there, and Diarmid too
Visits, of course, the graves of all his fathers.

Ina.
I have been once there, Doris, since I laid
My dead in it; and if Sir Diarmid goes
Often, I cannot tell.

Doris.
I fancied you
Might have met, now and then, by chance of course,
Where there is so much to attract you both—
A common feeling of your common kin.
But then he is so busy with his friend
Whom he admires so warmly, dear. Adieu.

[Exeunt.
Chorus.