University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Hall of Halbert's Tower.
Time—Daybreak.
Enter Lady Macdonald with a Letter, followed by Drummond, in the uniform of the Earl of Argyle's Regiment.
LADY MACDONALD.
Thanks for your pains. Let me devour again
The precious characters. (Reads.)
“I come, dear mother,
Raised to high favour and command, to take
My quarters in your vale.” The morn's faint light
Had scarce enabled eyes less glad than mine
To read;—they are dazzled now. [To the Soldier.]
Pray you go in:
We have poor entertainment to bestow,
But our best cheer is yours.

DRUMMOND.
I must return
Upon the instant; shall I bear your answer?

LADY MACDONALD.
There is no need; he speeds; his eager wish,
If I may judge it by my own, will add
Wings to his swiftness. Yet a moment stay;
Know you the writer of these lines, my son,—
Is he of gallant port?

SOLDIER.
Our regiment's pride,
And first in favour of Glenlyon.

LADY MACDONALD.
Take
A happy mother's thanks.
[Exit Soldier.
I shall behold
A hero whom I parted from a child;
Trace in his lineaments the hints which gave
Sweet promise of his manhood; shall enjoy
In one rich hour the pleasures which are spread
Through years to her who watches the degrees
Of youth's expanding brightness. Where is Halbert?
Where Helen? She will laugh with wildest glee
To find her little playmate a plumed soldier,
And share his mirth. No gaiety like his
Has cheer'd her since he left us. She is here.

Enter Helen Campbell.
HELEN.
So early raised to meet the morning's chill?

LADY MACDONALD.
I feel no chill; the ecstacy within me
Clothes all without with summer; you shall share
In joy which seldom visits these old walls.

HELEN.
O say not so;—there's not a day but bears
Its blessing on its light. If Nature doles
Her gifts with sparing hand, their rareness sheds
Endearments her most bounteous mood withholds
From greenest valleys. The pure rill which casts
Its thread of snow-like lustre o'er the rock,
Which seems to pierce the azure sky, connects
The thoughts of earth with heaven, while mightier floods
Roar of dark passions. The rare sunbeam wins
For a most slight existence human care,
While it invests some marble heap with gleams
Of palaced visions. If the tufts of broom
Whence Fancy weaves a chain of gold, appear,
On nearer visitation, thinly strewn,
Each looks a separate bower, and offers shade
To its own group of fairies. The prized harebell
Wastes not its dawning azure on a bank
Rough and confused with loveliness, but wears
The modest story of its gentle life
On leaves that love has tended; nay, the heath,
Which, slowly from a stinted root, unfolds
Pale lilac blossoms,—image of a maid
Rear'd in a solitude like this,—is bless'd,
Instead of sharing with a million flowers
One radiant flush,—in offering its faint bloom
To fondest eyes. Say not again, dear lady,
That joy but seldom visits these old walls.

LADY MACDONALD.
Not while they shelter you, my lovely child;
But new joy waits us; you have not forgotten
Our careless Henry?

HELEN.
No!—forgotten Henry!
But he has long forgotten us; no message
Has told us of his welfare, since he found us
Too sad for his companions.

LADY MACDONALD.
Pardon in him,
As I do, young ambition's upward gaze,
Which, fix'd upon the future, cannot turn
To glance upon the distant and the past.

HELEN.
Is it indeed so, madam?

LADY MACDONALD.
You are grave now—
You who are joyous in our weariest days
Be glad; for Henry will this day return
To charm us with his merriment.

HELEN.
To-day?
Henry return to-day! Speak once again
That blessed news.

LADY MACDONALD.
He comes to-day, upraised
In Argyle's regiment to command, and graced
With favour of Glenlyon.

HELEN.
Of my uncle?
I think of him unseen, as a stern soldier
Who, living to obey and to command,
Allows no impulses but these which guide
Along the rocky, strait, untinted channel,
That discipline has hewn. If Henry wins
Favour from him, he'll win the hearts of all.
Comes he alone?

LADY MACDONALD.
His troop is quarter'd with us,
To taste in peace our simple Highland fare,
And feel our Highland welcome. But I long
For Halbert's presence; though he does not love
The clansmen of Argyle, he must rejoice
In Henry's fortune.

HELEN.
He has not return'd
Since, yestere'en, he left us to inquire
The issue of Mac Ian's journey.

LADY MACDONALD.
You
Alarm me;—not return'd?

HELEN.
Fear not for Halbert;
You know he loves to wander at all hours,
And, ever present to himself, will rule
His course in safety. Is that he? The step
Is hurried; yet it should be his.

Enter Halbert greatly agitated;—throws himself into a seat.
LADY MACDONALD.
My son,
What ails you? Speak!

HALBERT.
I will—soon—presently;
Ha! Mother! Helen! safe;—thank Heaven! Has nothing
To-night appall'd you?

LADY MACDONALD.
Nothing.

HALBERT.
That is strange.

LADY MACDONALD.
What has befall'n us? Is Mac Ian dead?

HALBERT.
No; he survives; he has only lost the thing
Which makes life precious!—Ruin yawns for all—
Poor fated clansmen! I have heard again
Old Moina's voice.

LADY MACDONALD.
Her voice who spake when death—

HALBERT
(laying his hand on her arm).
Mother!

LADY MACDONALD.
He shivers as with ague. Speak, my son!

HALBERT.
Yes—it is over now.—I'll tell you all,
As far as words can tell it. As I left
Mac Ian's door, and walk'd in mist, which clung
Around me like a shroud, that voice shriek'd forth
Close at mine ear, “The Hour is nigh!”—Each cliff,
Pillar, and cavern, echo'd back the words,
Till they appear'd to fill the glen with sound,
As floods from thousand streams might deluge it.
'Twas no delusion; surely as you hear
My voice, I heard them.

LADY MACDONALD.
You have mused, my son,
In dismal solitudes on our old tales
Till each wild pass is haunted, and the wind,
Struggling within a mountain gully, moans
Or shrieks with prophecy.

HALBERT.
No!—It transfix'd me
As with an arrow,—when it sunk, still night
Held its breath, waiting terrors! 'Neath the moon
Our three huge mountain bulwarks stood in light,
Strange, solemn, spectral;—not as if they tower'd
Majestic into heaven, but hoar and bow'd
Beneath the weight of centuries; and each
Sent forth a sound as of a giant's sigh:
Then, from their feet the mists arising, grew
To shapes resembling human, till I saw,
Dimly reveal'd among the ghastly train,
Familiar forms of living clansmen, dress'd
In vestments of the tomb;—they glided on,
While strains of martial music from afar
Mock'd their sad flight.—
[A distant band heard playing “The Campbells are coming.”
I hear that music now,—
The same—the same—Do you not hear it, Helen?
Mother?

HELEN.
I hear a lively strain which speaks,
Approaching soldiers, who'll make winter bright
And fill our vale with gladness.

HALBERT.
There is death
In those blithe sounds;—I know them now;—the tune
Which wakes the shallow heart of false Argyle,
Hollow and cruel ever.

HELEN.
Sure there's one
Who owns that clan you would not spurn!

HALBERT.
Sweet girl!
Your beauty, early sever'd from its stem,
And planted in an honest soil, retains
No vestige of its origin.
[The music is heard approaching.
Yet nearer!
Look not on me with those beseeching eyes;
[To Helen.
I will enjoy it;—'tis a gallant strain:
See, Helen, how you mould me;—I can smile now.

HELEN.
And you shall smile; while you have been enthrall'd
By dismal fancies, we have heard sweet news
Of our long-sigh'd-for Henry.

HALBERT.
Of my brother?
Shall we embrace him soon?

HELEN.
We hope to-day.

HALBERT.
Then I will cast all sadness from my thoughts,
And own these portents idle;—my fair brother,
Who in staid manhood made me feel a child,
While I instructed him with tiny arm
To brave the torrent to its whirling pool
O'er rocky ledge descending! I am a boy
Again in thinking of it.

[Enter Henry Macdonald in the dress of an officer of the Earl of Argyle's Regiment; Halbert starts and stands apart; Lady Macdonald eagerly embraces Henry.
LADY MACDONALD.
O, most welcome!

HALBERT
(apart).
A soldier of Argyle! a purchased slave
To his poor country's foes! Would he had lain,
In all the glory of his youth, a corpse,
Or I had died first!

HELEN
(laying her hand imploringly on Halbert's).
Halbert, speak to him.

HALBERT.
Yes;—I'll not dash that bonnet from his brow;
Right, right—I'll speak to him. My brother!

[Henry embraces Halbert, who receives him coldly.
HENRY.
Stiff
And melancholy grown! These rugged walls
Have shed their sullen gloom into your nature,
And made my welcome cold.

HALBERT.
These walls are sacred—
Fit home for honest poverty; 'twere well
If you had never left them.

HENRY
(approaching Helen).
They contain
One form of radiant loveliness;—is this
My some-time playmate Helen? You are silent;
You do not bid me welcome.

HELEN.
Welcome, Henry?
It is because my heart's too full of welcome
To vent its joy in words.

HALBERT
(apart).
So fond! so free!
This stripling will engage the care of all
Within my little world;—for shame! the thought
Is selfish and most base; I must suppress it.—
[Aloud.
You'll spend some time, I hope, in these poor walls,
And teach us to be gay.

HENRY.
Our regiment mean
To teach your clan the finest of all lessons—
The art of spending life. We hope to raise
Strange echoes of delight among your mountains.
Let your old men prepare their choicest tales
Of ancient chiefs; your lads their sinews brace
For noontide games and midnight dances; bid
Your maidens' hearts be stout, for we shall lay
Fair siege to some of them. Your mansion, brother,
Will not be colder, if you'll deign to share
A soldier's purse.

[Henry offers a purse to Halbert, who is about to dash it on the ground, but restrains his passion; pauses and returns it. They speak apart from Lady Macdonald and Helen.
HALBERT.
Remove it from my sight,
Lest it provoke my curse upon the gold,
Which, having tempted Scotland's peers to sell
Their country, pass'd through treacherous hands to yours.

HENRY.
Through treacherous hands! I will not hear that said:
Expend your spleen on me; but speak a word
Disgraceful to the officers I serve,
And though my brother, you shall answer it.

HALBERT.
You make me smile now. I will answer it.
I must have speedy speech with you, where none
Shall break upon us.

HENRY.
At my earliest leisure.
[To Lady Macdonald.
Mother, my duty calls me hence awhile,
To hear my captain's orders. Helen, soon
I shall reclaim old friendship.
[Apart to Halbert.]
In an hour,
Upon Loch Leven's margin, 'neath the shade
Of the first rock, expect me.

HALBERT.
Do not fail.

[Exit Henry.
LADY MACDONALD.
Come, Helen, let us see the tower prepared
To feast our noble soldier and his friends.
Is he not all a mother's hope could image?

HELEN.
He is indeed;—at first he scarcely knew me;
Changed as he is, I had not mistaken him
Among a host of heroes!

[Exeunt Helen and Lady Macdonald.
HALBERT
(alone).
Down, wild rage!
These rebel passions ought to fright me more
Than night's grim phantoms. I had deem'd my temper
Proof 'gainst all griefs, all injuries, all scorns;
But this—my brother self-sold to our foes!—
I must be conqueror still.
(Looks out.)
O, blessed star
Of morning, do you wait upon that cone
Whose whiteness mocks our marble, to renew
The calm cerulean distance can impart
To thoughts of earth's brief struggles? Linger yet!
It sinks; 'tis gone; its peace is in my soul.
[Exit Halbert.

SCENE II.

A Room in a Highland House.
Sentinels seen pacing before the Windows.—Glenlyon, Lindsay, and other Officers of Argyle's Regiment.
GLENLYON.
These are rough quarters for the winter, friends;
But let us make them jocund—find the huts
Which yield the warmest shelter from the snow,
And let our stores of wine and brandy pay
The courtesies we win. 'Tis easy service.

LINDSAY.
Is nothing more intended here than feasting?

GLENLYON.
Lindsay, I fain would hope not; we shall wait
For final orders. Now, our duty's plain—
To win the favour of our hosts;—if more
Should be commanded, 'twill be ours to do it.

Enter Henry Macdonald.
GLENLYON.
You know this glen, Macdonald: to your charge
I leave disposal of the soldiers; place them
Where frankest entertainment will be given.

HENRY.
The entertainment may be coarse, but given
With heartiest welcome. I shall grant a boon
To every clansmen in whose hut I place
One of my gallant comrades.

GLENLYON.
See all lodged,
And then report to me. This hut be mine.

HENRY.
May I retire? I must redeem a pledge
Within this hour.

GLENLYON.
An old acquaintance found?
You have my leave, sir.
[Exit Henry.
Some one knocks; attend;
Who waits?

Enter Drummond.
DRUMMOND.
Mac Ian's sons are at the door,
And ask to see you.

GLENLYON.
Ha!—of course admit them.
[Exit Drummond.
The children of the stubborn chief who dared
Accuse our loftiest nobles that they filch'd
The money sent to buy the peace of Scotland!
I'd thank him for a brawl. Your pleasure with me?

Enter John and Alaster.
JOHN.
We bear Mac Ian's greeting to Glenlyon;
He trusts you come in friendship, now his oath
To William is recorded.

GLENLYON.
How! recorded?

ALASTER.
Yes; by the Sheriff of Argyle. We tell
The fact, not boast it.

GLENLYON.
You speak boldly, sir;
A spirited young Highlander, i'faith:
Let me enlist you in our troop; we teach
Some manners that you lack.

ALASTER.
And let me lack them,
Ere I endure your teaching.

JOHN.
Alaster!
Forbear.

GLENLYON.
O, let him speak. The oath is taken?

JOHN.
It is: though the appointed day had pass'd,
Yet, as mere error and the storm produced
The slight delay, it was forgiven.

GLENLYON.
Well!
Your father acted prudently at last:
Within you'll taste some wine, and tell me how
His journey prosper'd.

JOHN.
Sir, you have not made
Reply to my sole question;—do you come
To visit us in friendship?

GLENLYON.
Friendship? Surely—
Fort-William's garrison, too small to hold
Our regiment, sends us beggars to request
Your hospitable greetings.

JOHN.
They are yours,
And all our glen can offer shall attend them.

GLENLYON.
Your hand. [To Alaster]
And yours;—you'll be a soldier yet.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Banks of Loch Leven.
Enter Henry.
HENRY.
First at the place!—the morning's chill;—I wish
The quarrel were with other than the man
I wait for; but of all the useless things
Which form the business of the world, regret
Is the most idle. Yet, I wish 'twere past.—
He's here.

Enter Halbert.
HENRY.
I have but little time to spend,
And the air freezes. Let's to work at once.
Select your ground, sir.

HALBERT.
Do you mock me, Henry,
With this vain show of courage?

HENRY.
I came hither
Upon your summons, as I thought, to end
A soldier's quarrel with a soldier's sword;
But if you can restrain the bitter speech
To which I must not listen, I prefer
To take your hand in kindness. As you will.

HALBERT.
Did I not feel that I have words to pierce
Through that cold bravery to the heart within it,
I might relieve you of some frolic blood
Which makes the front of your rebellion proud.

HENRY.
Rebellion!

HALBERT.
Have you not rebell'd at once
Against your clan, your country, and the tomb
Of a brave father who embraced in you
The darling of his age? Behold his sword
You now defy,—your plaything while he talk'd
Of noble daring, till you paused in sport
To hear and weep. Its sight should wound you now
More than its edge could. What would be his grief
Could he behold you in that hated dress,
Link'd to the foes of Scotland! O, my brother,
Why did you this?

HENRY.
If you intend to ask
What urged me to take service with Argyle,
I answer you at once.—My eagle spirit,
Which wanted air to soar in; frank disdain
Of dull existence, which had faintly gleam'd,
Like yonder Serpent-river, through dark rocks
Which bury it; ambition for a lot
Which places life and death upon a cast,
And makes the loser glorious. Not for me
The sullen pride of mouldering battlements,
Or rites of tottering chapel.

HALBERT.
Is it so?
Is ancient sanctity, which sheds its grace
Upon the infant's sportiveness, and cleaves
To the old warrior when he falls, a thing
To mock at? But I wrong you there: I know
Your heart then spoke not. I could cherish pride
In your gay valour, if a generous cause
Had won its aid;—nay, deeming Scotland lost,
If you had sought your fortune at the court
Of England, I had borne it;—but to join
With these domestic traitors—men who know
The rights they sell; who understand the ties
Which, through the wastes of centuries, cement
Our clans, and give the sacred cord one life
Of reverential love; for whom these hills
On the clear mirror of their childhood cast
Great shadows; who have caught their martial rage
From deeds of Wallace and of Bruce, and learn'd
To temper and enrage it with the sense
Of suffering beauty, which from Mary's fate
Gleams through dim years; and who conspire to crush
These memories in men's souls, and call the void
They make there, freedom—is a deed to weep for!

HENRY.
I may not hear the comrades whom I love
Thus slander'd.

HALBERT.
You shall hear me while I speak
Of that which nearly touches you, as one
Of a small—branded—poor—illustrious race;
Who boast no fertile pastures; no broad lake
Studded with island woods, which make the soul
Effeminate with richness, like the scenes
In which the baffled Campbells hid their shame,
And scorn'd their distant foes. Our boasts are few,
Yet great:—a stream which thunders from its throne,
As when its roar was mingled with the voice
Of eldest song, from age to age retain'd
In human hearts;—wild myrtles which preserve
Their hoard of perfume for the dying hour
When rudeness crushes them;—rocks which no flowers
Of earth adorn, but, in themselves austere,
Receive The Beautiful direct from Heaven,
Which forces them to wear it,—shows their tops
Refined with air; compels their darkest steeps
Reluctant to reflect the noontide sun
In sheeted splendour—wreathes around them clouds
In glorious retinue, which, while they float
Slowly, or rest beneath the sable heights,
In their brief fleecy loveliness grow proud
To wait upon The Lasting.—And the right
To walk this glen with head erect, you sold
For bounties which Argyle could offer!

HENRY.
No—
Not for base lucre!—for a soldier's life,
Whose virtue's careless valour, unperplex'd
With aught beyond the watchword. If your cause
Were vital, I would freely draw my sword
To serve it; but where lives it?

HALBERT.
In the soul
Which, ruffled by no hope to see it tower
Again in this world, cherishes it still
In its own deathless and unsullied home;—
That soul which, swelling from the mould of one
Obscure as I, can grasp the stubborn forms
Of this great vale, and bend them to its use,
Until their stateliest attributes invest
With pillar'd majesty the freeborn thoughts
Which shall survive them. Even these rocks confess
Change and decay; show where the ancient storm
Rent their grey sides, and, from their iron hearts,
Unriveted huge masses for its sport,
And left their splinters to attest a power
Greater than they;—but mighty truths like those
On which our slighted cause was based, shall hold
Their seat in the clear spirit which disdains
To sully or resign them, undisturb'd
By change or death:—they are eternal, Henry!

HENRY.
If we were now the lords of this domain
You love so well, I might have own'd a tie
To bind me to your wishes; you resign'd them;
What can these mountains yield to one who owns
Mac Ian as their lord?

HALBERT.
The power to bear
That bitter taunt—which yet I feel!—O Henry!
Was that well said?

HENRY.
You should not have provoked it
By slanders on my officers and friends.

HALBERT.
Your friends! Poor youth! companionship in mirth,
Ungraced by thought, makes shallow friends; and yours
Are worse than shallow—they are false.

HENRY.
Nay, this
I will not bear; draw, sir!

[Henry draws his sword, and rushes on Halbert, who dashes it from his hand.
HALBERT.
Take up your sword;
See how a bad cause makes a brave arm weak!
Blush not; 'twas but in pastime.

HENRY.
Kill me now,
And walk the hills in pride!

HALBERT.
Too plain I see
Our paths diverge;—but let us not forget
That we have trod life's early way together,
Hand clasp'd in hand. How proud was I to watch
Your youngest darings, when I saw you dive
To the deep bottom of the lake beneath us,
Nor draw one breath till in delight you rose
To laugh above it; when I traced the crags
By which with lightest footstep you approach'd
The eaglets' bed; and when you slipp'd, yet knew
No paleness, bore you in my trembling arms
To yon black ridge, from which in the cold thaw
The snow wreath melts, as infancy's pure thoughts
Have vanish'd from your soul.

HENRY.
No—Halbert—no!
Graceless I shook them from it, but they crowd
Here at your voice.

HALBERT.
And you will not forget us?
Go, then, where fortune calls you, loved and praised—
Let not the ribald licence of a camp
Insult the griefs of Scotland. 'Mid the brave
Be bravest; and when honours wait your grasp,
Allow a moment's absence to your heart
While it recals one lonely tower, whose doors
Would open to you were you beggar'd, shamed,
Forsaken;—and beside whose once-loved hearth
Your praises shall awaken joy more fervent
Than nobler friends can guess at. Ah! you weep—
My own true brother still!

HENRY.
I am! I am!

[They embrace.
Enter Helen.
HELEN.
Forgive me that I follow'd you. I saw
Both ruffled at your parting; but my fears
Never suggested an event so sad,
As that two brothers, from whose swords alone
We hope protection, should direct their points
Against each other's lives.

HENRY.
You must not leave
This spot with the belief that Halbert shares
The blame of this encounter; mine the fault,
Be mine the shame.

HALBERT.
I will not let you pour
On Helen's ear one word of self-reproach;
You'll not believe him shamed?

HELEN.
Indeed I will not;
I feel that shame and Henry are disjoin'd
As yonder summits.
[To Henry.
I must teach your steps
The pleasant pathways which we used to tread
In old sweet times.

[Takes his hand.
HALBERT
(apart).
It cannot be she means
Other than sisterly regard in this;
'Tis but the frankness of a courteous heart.
No more—no more.

HELEN
(to Halbert).
Will you not walk with us?
I have a hand for you too.

HALBERT.
Nothing else?

HELEN.
Yes; and a heart—a grateful one. So solemn!
Nay, you must smile; this is a day of joy,
And shall be cloudless. Hark! the music calls us.

[Martial music at a distance.
HALBERT.
Those strains again! Forgive me. Let us home.

[Exeunt.