University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

Chorus.

Scene—Bridge near Glen Chroan Lodge. Ina and Morag.
Ina.
This is the land of sleep; here no man works,
Or thinks.

Morag.
The women work.

Ina.
Oh yes, they toil
'Neath heavy burdens, while their lords, forsooth,
Lie in the sun and watch them sweltering.
I could not live here, Morag; it is like
A life in death, oblivious listlessness
That nothing cares for, and remembers nought.
See, the slow brook creeps sleepily along,
The trout are slumbering yonder in the pools,
The cows lie on the grass with closed eyelids,
Languidly chewing, and the yellow bees
Wheel drowsily about. These inland lakes
Are not like our sea-lochs; there's life in them,
Motion and waves and pulsing of the tide,
And on their shores we know that we are near
The world's great highway thronged with busy life.

Morag.
You used to call Loch Thorar sleepy too.

Ina.
Ay, so it is, compared with busy streets
Where eager industries do push and drive,
And hurrying throngs answer the ringing bells,
And huge unwearying machineries
Are waited on by patient servitors,
Like gods that must be tended morn and eve.
There men and women work, and life is lived
At the full pitch, for there each man is kept
Strict to his task at book or saw or yardstick,
Or whatsoe'er his tool be, by the vast
Machine of civilisation.

Morag.
I am thinking
That no one wants to be just where he is;
We're fain to kick our shadows from our feet,
As we might do our slippers.

Ina.
Maybe so;
And yet I willingly would lose myself
In work which is not wholly for myself,
And thought which is not all about myself.
Yes, I am weary of that.

Morag.
But there's your uncle:
Might you not work, and think a bit for him?

Ina.
He will not let me. He is all for wrapping
A girl in cotton-wadding to be kept
Like a wax-doll. He is my slave to fetch
And carry for me: I am his morning thought,
His daily task too, and his evening care.
I must not let the sun freckle my skin,
Nor yet the night lamp weary my poor eyes,
Toiling at book or needlework or music.
'Tis always Me that must be thought about,
And I am sick of Me. Where did he learn
His notions about women? In the East
Among zenanas? They are worse, I think,
Than our rough crofters' ways.

Morag.
He's very good;
You should be grateful, Ina.

Ina.
Grateful, yes!
But then to live is more than to be nursed
And tended like a baby. What am I,
To get all this observance and respect?
I want to be at work. This idleness
Is like the waste of water-power among
Our hills, which might have brought the people bread.

Morag.
You're weary of being an idol to be worshipped;
And they do say a woman's soul was meant
Rather to worship man, and maybe guide him
To make him worshipful. Are you sure, Ina,
It is the worship, or the guiding of him
That you have dreamt of?

Ina.
Oh, all that is past.
There was a time of fond idolatry
When I did shrine an image in my heart,
And never wearied burning incense to it,
And offering sacrifice, and singing lauds,
And building temples of imagination
For other votaries. That time is gone.
The glory and the beauty and the dream
Are vanished; and the fire is burnt to ashes
That choke when they are stirred. I have no wish
Either to guide or worship, since the stream
That sang along my path amid the flowers
Is all gone dry and muddy and common-place.
God help me!

Morag.
Ina, one day I was sailing
By misty Morven in the early morning,
And as I looked I saw upon the mist
My shadow, and the shadows of all the rest,
And they were only shadows flitting dim,
But on my head there seemed a golden crown
Flashing with diamonds. So it was with all;
Each saw a halo circling his own head,
And all his neighbours only common shadows;
So is the vanity of youthful dreams.

Ina.
Nay, Morag, but the halo and the crown,
In my case, did not rest upon my brow,
Where vanity would put it, but on his;
And now there is no glory anywhere.
But work might bring forgetfulness.

Morag.
But, Ina,
Where can you go that trouble will not come?
You stand upon the beach, and there the waves
Tumble and foam, and, looking seaward, you
Are sure that all is bright and calm and sunny,
Till you are there.

Ina.
But there, at least, you find
Ropes to be hauled, and sails to reef, and waves
To battle with; and I would, like the sailor,
Rather a gale of wind than lie beclamed.
But there; enough of me and my affairs.
Have you heard aught of Kenneth lately?

Morag.
Ay!
Kenneth, poor lad, will never sing again;
His pipe is like the blackbird's, hoarse and rusty,
Just as the summer comes.

Ina.
How do you mean?

Morag.
You know that he and Mairi were together
Sitting among the bracken on the height
When Doris took her last mad ride along
The old hill road. 'Twas they that brought the tidings
How her horse shied there at a sudden turn
Upon the ridge, seeing a raven leap
From a dead lamb that he had picked all bare.
They said the boy looked scared.

Ina.
I do not wonder.
It was a scene of horror.

Morag.
Yes; but now
He says that, hearing that wild tramp of hoofs
Along the rocky path where never horse
Was known to gallop yet, he started up
Just as she reached the perilous turn o' the road;
And he will have it that his sudden rising,
And not the raven, scared the frantic brute,
Whose labouring flanks were white with creamy foam,
And its eyes red with blood, so that it made
The fatal step, and stumbled o'er the brink
Of dark Craig-dhu.

Ina.
It might be so, and yet
No blame to him.

Morag.
But he will blame himself.
And then his Mairi is the heir of all
Her cousin's wealth, and she, he says, could never
Wed him that murdered Doris, nor can he
Touch gold that is so stained with blood.

Ina.
Poor lad!
And what does Mairi say?

Morag.
She sits by him,
E'en like a patient dove beside its mate
That lies a-bleeding, croodling softly to him,
And glad to put her heritage away,
If he will smile again; and that he cannot.

Ina.
Ah me! what threads of sorrow everywhere
Run through this tangled life! But go now, Morag.
Here comes my uncle.

[Exit Morag and enter Dr. Lorne.
Dr. Lorne.
Ina, it is done,
The job you wished, and as you wished it done;
Yet a bad job, I fear.

Ina.
Nay, I am sure
'Tis the right thing, and the right way to do it.
No other way was possible. Does he know?

Dr. Lorne.
He knows that, when a search was duly made,
No deed was found such as he had supposed,
And so there is no burden on his land,
Or claimant for it. It has touched his heart
With some remorseful thoughts about that girl.

Ina.
That's as it should be. It is best for us,
And keeps our hearts the sweeter, that the lights,
Lingering about the grave, are soft and tender.
But he suspects no more—nothing behind.

Dr. Lorne.
Nothing. I wish he did. It is not right
This virtue unrewarded, lavishing
Wealth on a man who writes in melting mood
Of her that wronged him, with no recognition
Of her who set all right. It is too fine
For my taste. 'Tis as God had done his work,
And let the devil take all the credit of it,
Which God Himself objects to.

Ina.
Yet it could not
Be otherwise, for he's a gentleman,
And could not take a gift like this from me.
There was no way except to burn her claim
And yours in the same fire, so blotting out
That chapter, as it never had been writ.

Dr. Lorne.
I don't know that. He could have taken you,
And the rest with you. Men are not so nice
And dainty about marrying money, when
It is a handsome girl that's freighted with it.
There was no need to tell him his good fortune
Till the day after.

Ina.
That is past for ever.

Dr. Lorne.
For ever's not a word for woman's lips,
Nor a man's either. I have sworn it oft,
And every time I swore I had to break
My oath. For Ever—Never, that belongs
To God alone, who does not change His mind.

Ina.
Does he return here soon?

Dr. Lorne.
Yes, I suppose so.
He says that he has found that he can work,
But that he has not found his proper work:
That's here among his people—not in London.
I don't know what he means. There's nothing here
For man to do but shoot and fish and grumble.

Ina.
Oh, he will find his task in life, and now,
Uncle, you'll take me hence. For me at least,
There is no work here.

Dr. Lorne.
Whither would you, Ina?

Ina.
Anywhere, anywhere; but away from this.

Dr. Lorne.
What say you, then, to Italy?

Ina.
Italy!
I never thought of that. Yes! let us go,
And see the picture-galleries and statues,
The Temples of the gods, the Colosseum,
The towns perched on the hills among the olives,
The castles, and the ancient civic grandeur
Of merchants who were princes ruling states—
All that you oft have told me about Rome
And Venice and Verona and fair Florence.
I am so useless, and I wish to learn,
And Italy's a book with many a page
Wondrously written, and illuminate
With golden letters. Yes, we will go there.

Chorus.