University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Chorus.

Scene—Cairn-Cailleach. Doris and Factor Duffus.
Doris.
There, Duffus, never mind: you're not much hurt,
And they shall pay for this.

Factor.
My bones are whole,
But all my joints are aching, and my feelings
Cruelly wounded. Does that count for nothing?

Doris.
Well, well; we'll find a plaster soon to heal
Your wounded feelings: we'll have law on them.
You say Sir Diarmid took their part?

Factor.
He did;
Mocked me, insulted me, called me a rat
For dogs to worry, bade them shake me well
As terriers might. He seemed to save my life,
But I believe 'twas all arranged before.

Doris.
And Ina Lorne was there too?

Factor.
Yes; I saw her
Stand up and wave her hands, as hounding on
Their murderous fury.

Doris.
Enter your complaint then;
Get the ringleaders clapt in jail. The sheriff
Will not be slack in dealing with those “Men”
Who mar our mirth and music.

Factor.
Yes; perhaps
They might be brought before the higher court,
If we went warily about it. Some
Have even been hanged for less.

Doris.
I daresay. Well;
At any rate we'll make them rue this job,
Gentle and simple of them. Now, good-bye;
Drive to the town and get your warrants out.

Factor.
I'll lose no time.

[Exit Factor.
Doris.
A letter from Sir Diarmid,
Formal and stiff, asking an interview.
What does it mean? It cannot be this riot,
And threatening of the factor's life; that is
Too trifling, though I'll make them suffer for it.
It looks like business, and yet our affair
Had never less of promise, as I think.
What can it be. He is too much a man
To beg remission of his debt. What then?
Can he have dreamed that I have given my heart
To that word-monger who would buy my wares
With promises to pay, and no effects
To meet his promise? Well, if that's his game,—
As I half think it is, being so shallow,
And like a man's dull wits—if he will ask me
In the fond hope that I will now refuse,
Being love-pledged to yonder popinjay,—
Oh, the flat fool!—Do I then love him truly?
I hardly know; it might have been so once,
Had he once truly sought my love; but this
I'm sure of, that I hate with all my soul
The girl that robbed me of him. Could I break
Her heart now, though I wrecked my life on it,
Would I not do it? Once I thought to send
That popinjay to her, in hopes that he
Might babble a love tale into her ear,
And make her public by a wicked poem:
Or false or true, it matters not. But that
Had been a bootless errand; for she moves
Like some clear star in the serenities,
So far beyond his reach he could not smirch her
Even by his praise. But there. The hour is near,
And I must smooth the ruffles from my face,
Try to look sweet and innocent, and yet
Keep my head clear. I may need all my wits.

Enter Sir Diarmid.
Sir Diarmid.
Good-morning, Doris! You are looking radiant:
I need not ask, How do you?

Doris.
Well, of course;
That question is a superfluity
Of custom, at a loss what else to say.
But now I think on't, is there aught ails you?
You scarce reflect the radiance you are pleased
To see in me.

Sir Diarmid.
Oh, I am always strong
And healthy as a ploughman. But we men
Have cares of business on us; and, besides,
Our faces never have the light of yours;
They are horn-lanterns, and their light is dim,
Fit only for the stable.

Doris.
Oh! But, Diarmid,
I never knew you were so greatly bent
On business. Yet I'm glad: it's like a man.
Boys only think of shooting, fishing, sport,
And girls of balls and dresses. But a man—
You see how wise I grow—takes up his task
Of duty bravely, or sadly at the worst.
This will delight your mother.

Sir Diarmid.
Nay, I know not
That I'm so fond of work, or that my mother
Has any reason to be proud of me.
But, like or not like, one has work to do,
And trouble with it, and the less you like it
The more it troubles you.

Doris.
Oh, but you ought
To like it, Diarmid. If you only saw
How sharply I look after my affairs,
And knit my brows o'er long accounts, and make
My lips like wafers, doing dreadful sums!
And when they're done I jump right up, and sing,
Or waltz about the room.

Sir Diarmid.
Well; my affairs
Will hardly set me waltzing as I look
Into them closely. It is well that yours
Leave you so light of heart.

Doris.
Why, what is wrong?—
Oh, by the way, my factor has been here;
Poor man! his bones are full of aches and bruises,
And he complains of you that you encouraged
Those rascals of Glenaradale to worry
His life nigh out of him. I hardly thought
That you would aid the rabble in their outbreaks
Against their natural leaders.

Sir Diarmid.
He abused
Your ears in saying this. I saved his life;
And that's his gratitude!

Doris.
Well, I only heard
His side, of course. I hope your case is clear;
He has gone to the Fiscal to complain.

Sir Diarmid.
E'en let him go: he'll not make much of that.
And, Doris, when the truth comes out of this
Same natural leadership which never leads,
And cares not for the flock but for the fleece,
It will provoke sharp comment. In these days,
We live beneath the eye and surveillance
Of all the world, and public sentiment
Is not with us, let Law say what it will,
For we have made it in our interests.

Doris.
Will public sentiment—whate'er that be,
And I suppose it's just newspaper babble—
Back up a threat of murder, and a brutal
Assault on one who simply did his duty?

Sir Diarmid.
No, surely. But was Duffus in the line
Of duty, jeering at the poor folk's worship,
Setting his dogs a-howling to their psalms,
And ordering them to leave the hallowed place,
So linked with their most sacred thoughts and feelings,
Where they had met these hundred years?

Doris.
Of course,
You have been hearing Ina Lorne. She'll find
Herself in trouble some day.

Sir Diarmid.
Be it so:
I'd rather stand with those poor men, and bear
The sentence of the Law, than feel the verdict
O' the general conscience cover me with scorn.—
But it was not my errand to discuss
These matters with you.

Doris.
What then was the business
That brought you?

Sir Diarmid.
It is kind in you to give me
This meeting, though I fear I am too late.

Doris.
Nay, you were punctual to a minute, Diarmid,
I've noticed that you have that excellent habit
Of business.

Sir Diarmid.
What I meant was, that my errand
Might be too late, forestalled perhaps, and useless.

Doris.
What is your errand then? I cannot think
What matter there could be between us two
To make you stammer so, and hesitate.

Sir Diarmid.
Idle enough, if I may judge from all
I see and hear; and I confess my claims
Are weak compared to his, for he can give you
A name among the brilliant company
Of wits and scholars in the capital,
Who rightly could appreciate your rare beauty,
And your fine gifts of mind. Well; must I then
Congratulate you, Doris, or go on?

Doris.
I do not understand you; but go on,
If there be anything to go on to.

Sir Diarmid.
Pardon me. I had heard my friend had won
Your love, as well he merits. He said as much.

Doris.
Who gets his merits? Some folk think themselves
Worth all the world, while all the world thinks them
Too slight to be accounted of. Your friend,
Was he then boasting of a conquest?

Sir Diarmid.
Nay;
Not boasting, only glad, as well he night be,
To win so fair a prize. And my small merit
Is nothing beside his, nor could it gain,
I fear, by my poor telling. It did not
Astonish me that one so brilliant plucked
The fruit from me.

Doris.
Was this your errand, then,
To know if I am plighted to your friend
Whom I'll not name, as you do name him not?
I thought such questions commonly were left
To curious women.

Sir Diarmid.
That was not my errand:
But that, if it were true, would make my errand
A useless one, which need not trouble you.

Doris.
Better to say out what you meant to say
About yourself, than question me of love
Which, till it choose to speak, should scarce be asked
To break its silence.

Sir Diarmid.
Well, I did not come
To speak of love, though love should be the theme
Of such discourse. But truth is more than all;
And that you have a right to get.

Doris.
Please don't;
It sounds so dreadful serious. There is always
Something unpleasant in the wind, when people
Tell you they'll speak the truth. In schoolgirl days
'Twas always the preamble of a scolding,
And sitting in a corner to commit
Irregular French verbs and poetry.
Will it not keep? And could you not for once
Say something nice, even if it were not true?

Sir Diarmid.
Nay; what I have to say must be said now,
Unless your hand is plighted to Tremain.

Doris.
Say on then what you have to say, Sir Diarmid.

Sir Diarmid.
There was some compact, as I understand—
If you knew of it, it was more than I did,
Till some few days ago—between our fathers,
That we two should be wedded. I judge them not:
They thought they had a right to guide our fates;
They thought, at least, that it were well to keep
The lands together; whatsoe'er they thought,
They bound us to each other, and with cords
Hard to be borne or broken.

Doris.
Yes; they put
Our hearts in pawn to ease them of their straits.

Sir Diarmid.
No, Doris, that is what they could not do,
And that's the truth you have the right to know.
No one can bind the heart; it is as free
As air, and laughs at seals and covenants.
Our hearts they could not pledge; yours now is free,
Or given to another, not to me.
I come not then—in this I will be true—
To offer mine to you, or ask for yours,
But I can give my hand, as they would have it,
Knowing it is a poor unworthy gift,
Almost an insult, to be thrown back to me
In very scorn.

Doris.
And maybe you would rather
It were returned so.

Sir Diarmid.
That I did not say;
But if you scorned it, I might feel the less
Scorn of myself, esteeming you the more.

Doris.
Why should I scorn you, that you give me all
You have to give? A man can do no more.

Sir Diarmid.
A man can do no more; and yet I fancy
He hardly could do less

Doris.
I do not know.
But, Diarmid, for your honoured father's sake,—
Or is it for the sake of lands and gear?
We'll say the former; it sounds rather better—
You sacrifice yourself. Then why should I,
Since sacrifice comes natural to woman,
Fall short of your example? Frankly, you
Offer a heartless hand, as frankly I
Accept it; so we both can keep our hearts
Which, as you truly say, they could not pledge,
Or raise a sixpence on them.

Sir Diarmid.
Do you mean
This truly, Doris?

Doris.
Surely; wherefore not?
It's just a family arrangement, with
The pious feeling that the fifth commandment
Is rightly honoured, though the Law is broken,
Which is fulfilled by love. They do these things
In France, and find they answer admirably:
A simple piece of business, and there needs
No more about it.

Sir Diarmid.
Does there need no more?
Think again, Doris.

Doris.
Yes! we might exchange
Rings with each other, since we keep our hearts,
Sealing our hands with that our hands do wear.
Mine is a diamond; yours an opal—is it?
Fickle, they say: but that's mere superstition.
There, now; it's settled.

Sir Diarmid.
Can you then be happy
With such a bargain?

Doris.
Why, Sir Diarmid, what
Has happiness to do with it? It's business;
And business has its profits or its losses,
And if the gain is clear, what would you more?

Sir Diarmid.
It's sin and certain misery.

Doris.
It is
Your own suggestion, and you surely could not
Lure me to sin and misery. Indeed,
We manufacture sins, like yards of cloth,
By these new-fangled consciences of ours,
Framed not by nature, but by novels. Look!
Here are our lands, that lie so close together,
Fast-bound to us and to our progeny;
I am My Lady, or shall be; you, the Laird
Of all; and each has got what each would like
To have: then, as for happiness, our hearts
Are free to seek it where it may be found.
That was your own proposal, was it not?

Sir Diarmid.
It's like a dream.

Doris.
But not an ugly one:
I'm not a dream, and some folk think me pretty.

Sir Diarmid.
I know not what to say.

Doris.
Say nothing, Diarmid.
We can imagine silent love is grand,
Which, speaking, sounds most silly. Do not try
To utter now the feeling that is in you.
Perhaps we might just kiss each other. Yes,
It is the custom, I believe. Now, go.
Good-bye; don't let your mother call to-day;
To-morrow I will see her.
[Exit Sir Diarmid.
Now I'll have
Revenge at least, whatever come of this;
I'll break that proud girl's heart within an hour.

Chorus.
To be outwitted so!
To see your plot which was not very deep,
Nor very noble, tumbled in a heap,
And all your hope laid low
By one who was less noble still,
Yet only took you at your word,
And led you on and on, until
She held you as a snarèd bird,
And while you scorned your mean resource,
And felt you had been mocked by rule,
You wist not whether it were worse
To seem so like a knave, or else so like a fool.
At the strangeness of it all,
At first, a loud hoarse laugh he raised!
And the shaggy big-horned cattle gazed,
Wondering, over the mossy wall:
Then for a little he paused and pondered,
Keenly revolving what to do;
And off through bracken and blaeberries wandered,
Nor slackened his pace till he came in view
Of the low, green, honey-suckled manse
Beside the still salt Loch that lay as in a trance.