University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Chorus.
Our fates are linked together, high and low,
Like ravelled, knotted thrums of various thread,
Homespun and silk, yellow and green and red,
And no one is alone, nor do we know
From what mean sources great events may flow:
The tramp that lays him down among the straw,
Despised, perchance shall fill your home with awe,
Plague-stricken, or from him its peace may grow;
The ruined peasant's cot may down-ward draw
The stately hall that neighbours it. We are
All members of one body, and a flaw
Or lesion here, the perfect whole shall mar.
Therefore let justice rule, and love inspire;
Wise for thyself, the weal of all desire.

Scene—The Manse. Ina and Morag.
Morag.
Please, Ina, may I have your leave to go
Away for these two days?

Ina.
Yes, surely, go;
I shall do nicely.

Morag.
That is very well.

Ina.
You do not seem to think so. “Very well”
Sounds e'en like very bad, so drily spoken.

Morag.
If you are happy, it is very well.

Ina.
Indeed I am.

Morag.
But it is sudden—yes!
Yet maybe it will last.

Ina.
Oh, never fear;
'Twill last at any rate till you come back.
I have my books, my music, and to-morrow
There is the church. Of course I'll miss you, yet
I promise to be blithe as any bird.

Morag.
Oh, very well.

Ina.
What ails you, Morag? Would you
Rather that I should sit me down and mope?
You scolded me of late for being sad;
Are you displeased to see me cheerful now,
Blaming alike the sunshine and the cloud?

Morag.
I see the gulls and pellocks in the loch
Busy and merry, and all the boats are out
Letting the nets down, and the wives are watching
Upon the shore, and talking loud with glee:
And why? Because they see the herring come
Poppling the shining water with their fins,
As if a shower were driving up, although
The sky is blue and clear.

Ina.
I'm glad of that;
The poor will now have bread; it is good news.
But what has that to do with us?

Morag.
They have
A reason for their happiness.

Ina.
Oh, that's it;
You want to know the reason now of mine.
But, Morag, girls are not so rational
As gulls and pellocks. Have you never felt
Inexplicable sadness overcome you,
Though earth and heaven and all around you were
Filled full of light and song? Why should not joy too
Come whence you cannot tell, nor for what reason,
But just that wells are springing in your heart,
Whose waters lapse, and ripple as they lapse?

Morag.
Yes, maybe. Only you were changed that day
You visited Isle-Monach and his grave;
And was it there you found the well of gladness?

Ina.
You are too curious, prying into what
Concerns you not. Enough. There; you may go.
I do not ask you why you wish to go,
Or where you mean to go.

Morag.
You ought to ask, then.
A mistress should not let her servants wander
Like hens or ducks at large.

Ina.
Nor servants let
Their mistress go her own way, without giving
Full explanation. Is it not so, Morag?
But whether I am mistress here or you—
Which may be doubtful—I can wholly trust you.

Morag.
Ina, there was a time when you would take
An interest in us all, and all our doings,
Our comings and our goings and our folk,
The crofters and the cottars and the fishers,
For they belonged to you, and you to them,
Parts of a common life, you said.

Ina.
Ay, then
I was a fool, and thought to shape your lives,
Who could not guide my own, like some poor trader
Who, being bankrupt in his own estate,
Is fain to take the helm, and guide affairs
For all his neighbours. Do you wish to tell me
About your journey? I've no right to ask,
Yet less right not to hear you.

Morag.
But you should
Know all your servants' doings, for it spoils them
Unless they have authority on them;
And better a bad mistress in a house
Than let the maids go gadding as they will.—
But for this business calling me away,
Do you not know, Miss, that tomorrow is
The great Communion at Glenaradale,
And all the country will be there, and half
The godly ministers of Ross and Skye?
Oh, it will be a great time.

Ina.
Well, I hope
You will enjoy it, Morag.

Morag.
No, I do not
Know that I will enjoy it. You enjoy
The bread you eat yourself, but not the bread
That others eat, and which is not for you:
The hungry is not happy when he sees
A sumptuous table spread, and he outside.
I do not hope to enjoy; yet I may get
Share of the crumbs that fall for dogs to eat.

Ina.
Oh, I forgot. My father always thought,
Morag, that you were wrong there, keeping back
From that which yet you hungered for.

Morag.
It's likely
That he knows better now, and would not be
So loose, if he came back again from heaven,
As then when he came from the lowland folk
Whose kirk is like a market, free to all.

Ina.
That suits me best; I think I dare not go
Except where all alike are free to go.

Morag.
Well, you are free, and it would do you good
To hear the sound of psalms among the hills
When many thousand voices join, and yet
'Tis like a small child's cry unto the heavens,
Or tinkling of a little brook.

Ina.
I know;
That must be fine indeed.

Morag.
And then the preacher
Tells the glad tidings to the poor; at first,
Just like an auction at a country fair,
Offering his ware so high that none may bid
For that whose price is costlier than rubies;
But in the end the treasure which no wealth
Of man could buy is proffered with-out money
And without price.

Ina.
That's as it ought to be:
But I shall hear the same free gospel here
From him who soon will be our pastor.

Morag.
Him!
It's a thin gospel that you'll get from him.
I bought a pencil one day from the packman,
And I was fain to put a fine point on it,
But ever as I cut, the lead would break,
Just when I had it nearly right; and so
I went on whittling, and it broke and broke,
Till there was nought left but a bit of stick,
And it was sharp enough. Belike, yon lad
Is whittling down his faith too, like my pencil
To make a fine point on it, till it be
Only a stump of wood. Then he must read too
His sermons from a paper! Och! to think
Of having music-notes for collie dogs
To bark at sheep with! But the faithful dog
Can do without a paper. If you heard
Black Eachan of Lochbroom!

Ina.
And what of him?

Morag.
He's called “The Searcher”; he has no fine points;
But well he knows the doubling and deceit
Of hearts that are like foxes for their wiles;
And does not pore upon the paper, fearful
To lose his place, but has his eye on you
Always, and follows up your very thoughts
Into their holes and secret hiding-places,
And hunts you from all coverts, till you lie
Low at his feet, and feel that you are lost.

Ina.
I do not envy him. Why should he drive
Folk to despair?

Morag.
He says that to despair
Is to have one foot on the threshold, truly,
And finger on the latch. 'Tis very good
For sinners to despair a while.

Ina.
My father
Sought to bring hope and comfort to them.

Morag.
Yes!
And there was no great work here in his day.

Ina.
But there was some good work. At any rate
I care not for your “Searcher.”

Morag.
But when he
Has done with you, and you are groaning, maybe,
Over your sins, then Lachlan of the Lews—
“The Trumpet of the Gael”—will take you up,
And like a prophet speak the word of power,
That stirs despairing hearts. He does not water
The gospel with book-learning; he lets God
Speak for Himself in texts and promises,
Like the great word that said to Lazarus,
“Come forth,” and he arose.

Ina.
If there were prophet
Could move one so! But no, it cannot be.
'Tis vain to hope for the old faith again
That shone about our childhood.

Morag.
Do not doubt
But one of them would have a word for you.
For after these comes Neil of Raasay, maybe;
He has a pleasant voice, as if he played
Sweetly upon an instrument, to tell
About the golden streets, and gates of pearl,
And walls of emerald and amethyst
And topaz, and the river and tree of life,
As if the birds of God had left its boughs,
And come to earth to sing about their glory.

Ina.
Why, Morag, you are grown poetical
O'er Neil of Raasay. Yet you did not seem
To care much for him, when he came at times
To help my father here.

Morag.
He never seemed
Himself when he came here. Your father was
Too critical, with commentary books
That suck the marrow from the bones of truth,
And leave them dry. And in a pibroch you
Must have the muster first, and then the fight,
And then the wail, and then the song of triumph:
Nor shall you understand the several parts
Without the others: so it is with him;
You must have Eachan first, and Lachlan next,
And then your heart will glow to Neil of Raasay.

Ina.
May be; and yet I think I'll stay at home.
I am not in the mood for strong excitements:
You'll tell me all about it.

Morag.
Yes, I'll bring
A true account home of the last great Feast
Held in Glenaradale.

Ina.
Nay, not the last.
They have been there a century at least,
And may hold on another, if there's faith
Still in the land, or maybe if there's none:
Such customs linger when the life is gone.

Morag.
Have you not heard? The country's ringing with it.

Ina.
Ringing with what? What is there next to hear?

Morag.
Only that Doris has evicted all
The people from their houses, which even now
Are empty, bare, and roofless. She would crowd them
Upon the strip of shore already thronged
With fishers, and they mean to go away.
They have been used to tend, and handle sheep
And cattle, and they have no skill with boats;
And now they are just waiting for to-morrow,
Housed on the beach, or in the birken wood,
With breaking hearts, before they leave the land.

Ina.
What say you? Doris root them from the soil
Where they have grown like native heath or bracken!
And they her kinsfolk!

Morag.
Ay, but near of kin
May be too near in place for upstart pride.
I've heard some say we are all sprung from apes,
And maybe that's the reason they disgust us
More than a dog or cat. At any rate,
Glenara is a desert now for deer.

Ina.
Cruel and heartless! and yet only like her.
Why told you not this story to me first,
Instead of maundering on about the preachings?
What care I for your “Searchers” and your “Trumpets,”
And old Neil Raasay droning about heaven
After his whisky? But these crofter folk
In green Glenaradale—they touch my heart.
Yes, I will go with you; I will get ready
I' the instant: they shall know they have one friend
Who shares their grief and wrath.

Morag.
But, Ina, think;
It is a twenty miles across the hills
Through moor and moss.

Ina.
And if it be so, think you
I could not do't like other Highland girls
In such a cause? They fought for Charlie once,
Misled by a belated sentiment,
And by their trust in those who should have wisely
Led them, and only brought them into sorrow:
But who will fight for them now? were I only
A man, at least I'd let my voice be heard
For their poor right of living on the land.

Morag.
No, Ina, no; it must not be.

Ina.
What must not?
I may go to the preaching if I will,
But not to visit the oppressed and poor!
That's not it? Oh, it is the twenty miles?
Well, I could do it, for my heart is high,
And on the moors among the springy turf
One does not weary as on dusty roads.
But there's no need of walking. How's the wind?
My boat will bring us cleverly along
To Kinloch-Aradale, within a mile
Of Corrie-an-Liadh. We shall do it nicely.
O Morag, only think of the old men
With their long memories clinging to the soil,
And babes and mothers on that homeless shore!
I would not bear their curses for the wealth
Of all the world.

Morag.
They will not curse. But it
Is true, you say; the wind is fair; the boat
Will bear us bravely to Glenaradale.

Chorus.

Kenneth's Song.