University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The hall in the tower of Dunarden.
Enter Dunarden and Marian.
Dun.
(speaking as they enter).
In sooth, she well may grace a noble mansion,
Or chieftain's hall, or palace of a prince,
Albeit her veins swell not with ancient blood.
If so much grace and sweetness cannot please him,
He must be ill to win. And by my faith!
Perhaps she is this same mysterious lady,
To whom, as thou suspectest, his late visits,
So frequent and so long, have been devoted.

Marian.
Ah, no! I fear another has his heart,—
His constant heart, whom he, at least, will think
Fairer than this sweet maid, or all besides.

Dun.
And if it should be so, will nothing please him
But the top-flower of beauty and perfection?
The second best, methinks, ay, or the third,
Where fortune gilds the prize, might suit him well.
Why dost thou shake thy head?

Marian.
What might be, and what is, stand far apart,
When age and youth on the same objects look.

Dun.
Was I not young, when, of thy grandsire's daughters,
I chose the fairest, and was plainly told
Her heart and hand were promised to another?
But did I then perversely mope and pine?
No, I trow not: I clear'd my cloudy brow,
And woo'd the second fairest, thy poor mother.

Marian.
So will not he.

Dun.
Why so: belike he will not,
If thou abet his folly, as, methinks,
Thou art inclined to do.

Marian.
No, father; not inclined: I shall regret
As much as you, if any prepossession
Prevent him from approving this fair maid,
Who is, indeed, most gentle and engaging.

Dun.
Out on thy prepossessions! Younger sons,
Who may be soldiers, sailors, drovers, ay,
Or tinkers if they will, may choose a mate
With whom, o'er sea or land, through burgh or city,
To scour the world. But for the elder born,
Who must uphold the honours of the race,—
His ancient race,—he is not thus at liberty
To please a youthful fancy.

Marian.
But yet, dear sir, you may be ignorant—

Dun.
What! am I ignorant? Do I not know
The world sufficiently to guide and counsel
Those through whose body my own blood is flowing?
Not many men have had more opportunity
To know men and their ways, and I have turn'd it
To some account; at least I fain would think so.
I have been thrice in Edinburgh, as thou knowest,
In London once, in Glasgow many times;
And I, forsooth, am ignorant!

Marian.
Dear father!
You would not hear me out: I did not mean
That you were ignorant of aught belonging
To worldly wisdom; but his secret heart,
As I have said before, his prepossessions—

Dun.
And what has he to do with prepossessions?
He is, of all men, bound to wed for wealth,
Since he, with his unceasing liberalities,
Would bare me to the quick. No tacksman dies,
But he must have appointed for his widow
A house, with right of browsing for her goats,
And pasture for a cow, all free of charge.
The bedrid carlines, too, and orphan brats,
Come all on me, through his petitioning;
And I, God help me! have been weak enough
To grant such suits too often.

Marian.
You will not say so on your dying day.

Dun.
For that, indeed, it may be well enough;
But for our living days, I needs must say,
It doth not suit at all.—If he were frugal,
And would with care lay up what is our own,
Having some hoarded store, he might more reasonably
Indulge his prepossessions, as you phrase it.

Marian.
Nay, be not angry with him.

Dun.
Angry with him!
Such want of reason would provoke a saint!
Is he to spend the rents with open hand,
Stretch'd out to all who need, or all who ask;
And please himself besides, by an alliance
With some slight May, who brings but smiles and bloom
To pay the yearly charges of her state?

Marian.
We do not know her yet, and cannot say
That she is poor.

Dun.
But we may shrewdly guess.
Else why those stealthy visits,—this concealment?
Oh, 'tis provoking! This, our Provost's daughter,
Is just the match that would have suited us,—
That would support our house, and clear our lands,
And he, forsooth!—I'll cast him from my favour!

Marian.
I know you will not.

Dun.
Lady Achinmore,
If he persist, I'll say and do it too.
His prepossessions truly! mighty plea!
Supported, too, by Lady Achinmore.

[Walking in wrath to the other end of the hall.
Marian
(aside).
I'll hold my tongue, and let the storm subside;
For when he calls me Lady Achinmore,
Reply is worse than useless.

Dun.
(returning).
Methinks the lady tarries in her chamber.

Marian.
To lay aside her travelling attire,
And put her robe or fashion'd mantua on,
Requires some time.

Dun.
And where is Malcolm? Surely he should be
In readiness, for very decency,
To bid a stranger lady welcome here.

Marian.
He will appear ere long, and is, perhaps,
Attending on her brother.

Dun.
No, he is not.
I saw young Denison walk forth alone,
As if to look for him.

Marian.
Here comes the lady.

Enter Alice.
Dun.
Ah, gentle lady! were I half the man That once I was how many years gone by We shall not say), you should to this poor hold,—
To these old walls which your fair presence brightens,
A rousing welcome have. But times are changed,
And fashion now makes all things dull and spiritless.

Alice.
My welcome, as it is, gives me such pleasure,
I will not think of what it might have been.
Your daughter has received me with a kindness
That has already freed me from restraint,
And given me courage to express my pleasure.

Marian
(to her).
Thanks to thee, gentle friend!
so may I call thee,
Knowing so well thy worth. Might we retain thee
Some weeks beneath our roof, then we might boast
That our poor welcome had not miss'd its aim.

Dun.
Some weeks! We'll try to turn those weeks to months,
And then, who knows but that our mountain soil
May e'en prove warm enough for Lowland flow'r
Therein to flourish sweetly.

Alice.
Thanks, noble sir; but we must go tomorrow.

Dun.
So soon! the daughter of my early friend
Beneath my roof, seen like a Will o' th' wisp,
Glancing and vanishing! It must not be.
Were I but half the man that once I was,
I'd fight thy stubborn brother hand to hand,
And glaive to glaive, but he should tarry longer,
Or leave his charge behind him.

Alice.
Nay, blame him not: it was his own good will
That made him from our nearest homeward route,
Though press'd for time, start these long miles aside,
To pay his father's friend a passing visit;
For Malcolm, he believed, was still in Glasgow,
So rumour said.

Dun.
I thank his courtesy;
But, if my name be Fergus of Dunarden,
Neither the morrow, nor next morrow's morrow
Shall see thee quit my tow'r. I'll go and find him,
And tell him thou thyself art captive here,
Though others be in thraldom of thy beauty,
And shalt not be released.

[Exit.
Marian.
Thou seest how gallantly old hearts will warm
At sight of winning youth. He almost woos thee:
And yet I would not pay a stepdame's duty,
Where I would rather yield a sister's love.

Alice.
These words of kindness! Oh, you will undo me
With so much kindness!

[Bursts into tears.
Marian.
Dear, gentle creature! Have I given thee pain?
I have unwittingly—

Alice.
Done nought amiss.
I have a silly weakness in my nature:
I can bear frowning coldness or neglect,
But kindness makes me weep.

Marian.
And can it be that coldness or neglect
Should e'er be thine to bear?

Alice.
Better than I have borne it.

Marian.
Better than thou! In all your stately city,
Is there a lady fairer than thyself?

Alice.
Yes, Lady Achinmore, there is a creature
Whose beauty changes every other face
To an unnoticed blank; whose native grace
Turns dames of courtly guise to household damsels;
Whose voice of winning sweetness makes the tones
Of every other voice intruding harshness.

Marian.
And if there be, conceit will mar it all;
For too much homage, like the mid-day sun,
Withers the flower it brightens.

Alice.
It may be so with others, not with her.

Marian.
Thou lovest her, then?

Alice.
O, yes! I love her dearly;
And if I did not, I should hate myself.
Heed not these tears, nor think, because I weep
In saying that I love her, aught lurks here,
Begrudging her felicity. O, no!

Marian
(taking her hands affectionately).
Sweet Alice! why so moved?

Alice.
'Tis my infirmity: I am a fool,
And should not go from home, so to expose
A mind bereft of all becoming firmness.

Marian
(embracing her).
Come to my bosom; thou hast but exposed
That which the more endears thee to my heart;
And, wert thou firmer, I should love thee less.
But, hush! let me kiss off those falling tears
From thy soft cheek. I hear thy brother coming.

Alice.
Thy brother?

Marian.
No; thine own,—thy brother Claude.
Ha! Malcolm, too, is with him! this is well.

Enter Malcolm and Claude, whilst Alice composes herself, and endeavours to look cheerful.
Mal.
Fair Alice, welcome to our Highland mountains!
Which, as your brother tells me, you admire,
In spite of all their lone and silent barrenness.

Alice.
He tells you true: our fertile Lowland dales,
With all their crofts and woodlands richly chequer'd,
Have less variety than their bare sides.

Mal.
Yes, when fleet shadows of the summer clouds,
Like stag-hounds on the chase, each other follow
Along their purple slopes; or when soft haze
Spreads o'er them its light veil of pearly grey,
Through the slight rents of which the sunshine steals,
Showing bright colour'd moss and mottled stones,
Like spots of polish'd beauty,—they appear
Objects of varied vision most attractive.

Alice.
Then, to behold them in their winter guise,
As I have never done!

Mal.
You might then see their forms enlarged and dark,
Through the dim drapery of drifted rain,
Like grim gigantic chieftains in array,
Bidding defiance to approaching host;
Or lifting their black shoulders o'er the mass
Of volumed vapour gather'd round their base,
Which seem like islands raised above the earth
In purer regions of the firmament.

Alice.
And then how sweet the bushy glens between them,
Where waterfalls shoot from the rocks, and streams
Course on their wimpled way with brawling din!

Mal.
Where low-roof'd cots, with curling smoke are seen,
Each with its little stack of winter fuel,
And scanty lot of furrow'd corn-land near;
And groups of hardy imps, who range at will,
Or paddle in the brook, while bearded goats
Browse on the rocky knolls, and kids are sporting
Among the yellow broom.

Claude.
Pray thee have done, good Malcolm; thou wilt fill
This girl's fancy with romantic visions,
Which may, perhaps, make the rich, fertile fields
Of her own country seem insipid things.

Marian
(to Claude).
One thing, you would observe, he hasomitted
In the description of his bonnie glen,—
The cottage matron, with her cumbrous spade,
Digging the stubborn soil; and lazy husband
Stretch'd on the ground, or seated by the door,
Or on his bagpipe droning some dull dirge.

Mal.
Well, freely I confess our mountain matrons
In useful virtues do excel their mates;
And in what earthly region is it otherwise?

Claude.
I dare not contradict thee, and be deem'd
Ungallant for my pains.

Enter a Servant, who delivers a packet to Claude.
Alice.
Is it from Glasgow?
Is there within the cover aught for me?

Claude.
There is a letter with thy name upon it.

[Malcolm withdraws some paces from her.
Alice.
Which, ne'ertheless, thou keepest to thyself,
With eyes intently fix'd upon the writing.
Is it a stranger's hand to thee unknown?

Claude
(giving the letter).
No, not unknown.

Alice.
It is from Emma Graham (to Marian)
, and with your leave,
I'll read it by this window.

[Turns round, and starts upon finding Malcolm close to her.
Marian.
Why do you start?

Alice.
I knew not he was near me.

Mal.
(in confusion).
I crave your pardon: 'twas unwittingly;
I scarcely know myself why I return'd.

[Alice opens the letter, whilst Claude and Malcolm stand gazing anxiously on her as she reads it to herself.
Mal.
(to Alice, who seems to have come to the conclusion).
Your friends are well, I hope; all's well in Glasgow?

Alice.
She says a deadly fever rages there,
And nought is seen along their dismal streets
But funeral processions; nothing heard
But death-bells tolling, and the hammer's sound
Nailing in haste the corse's narrow house.

Mal.
(agitated).
And she herself amidst this wreck of life!

Alice.
She is, ere this, removed from the contagion;
For these concluding lines inform me plainly,
That she and all her family were prepared
To leave the town upon the following day
To that on which her letter has its date.

Mal.
(eagerly).
I thank thee, Alice.

Claude
(peevishly).
Wherefore dost thou thank her?

Mal.
(haughtily).
Whate'er thou hast a right to ask of me
Shall have its answer.

Marian
(to Claude).
When Highland pride is touch'd, some lack of courtesy
Must be excused. You have not from this window
Admired the falling of our mountain stream.

[Leads him to the bottom of the hall, and detains him there in apparent conversation.
Mal.
(in a softened voice).
So, gentle Alice, thou'rt in friendship knit
With Emma Graham! and meet companions are ye!
[Looking closer to the letter, which she still holds open in her hand.
Forgive me; Lowland ladies far surpass,
As fair and ready scribes, our mountain maids:
I ne'er before saw lines by her indited.

Alice
(putting it up hastily; then hesitating, then recovering herself.)
No; why should I withhold it from thine eye;
For still the sweet expressions from her pen
Excel the beauty of its characters.
[Gives it to him.
Peruse it then (aside, as she turns from him)
while I peruse myself.

Mal.
(returning the letter, after having read it).
Thou art in tears, sweet Alice; has thy mind
Some boding apprehensions for her safety?

Alice.
No, God forbid! I have a feeble body,
The worn-out case of a more feeble mind,
And oft will weep for nothing. Heed me not

Mal.
No, say not so: thy mind and body both
Are lovely yoke-fellows, and will together—
God grant it be so!—hold their prosp'rous course
For many years.
(Seeing her endeavours to speak.)
Strive not to answer me;
This wish, though most sincere, deserves no thanks.

Enter Dunarden, followed by Servants, carrying dishes of meat, &c.
Dun.
Come, honour'd guests, the first dish of our meal,
Poor though it be, is passing to the board;
Shall we not follow it? Although, in verity,
I am ashamed that such a poor reception
Is offer'd to such friends.

Marian.
Dear sir, they will forgive what things are lacking,
The heart's kind cheer not being of the number.

Dun.
(to Alice).
Had I had timely notice of your coming,
I had sent messengers for thirty miles,
Cross moor and mountain, to invite our neighbours;
And tables had been cover'd in this hall,
Round which we should have held a merry feast.
And this same wedding, too, detains the clan:
So that our wings are clipt on every side.

Alice.
Your courtesy is great: but surely, sir,
A merry wedding well may make amends
For a lost feast, e'en in Dunarden hall.

Dun.
And so it shall, fair Alice.—Pardon me
That I should be so bold to name you thus!
At fall of eve we'll join their merriment;
And thou shalt be my partner in the dance.
[Taking her hand gallantly.
I'll have thee all and solely to myself;
Unless, perhaps, if these old legs should fail,
Thou wilt accept of this young Highlander
[Pointing to Malcolm.
To be my substitute.—Come, gentles all!
By this soft lily hand let me conduct
The daughter of my old and honour'd friend;
My trysted partner too. Aha! aha! [Leading off Alice gaily with a strathspey step.
[Exeunt.