University of Virginia Library

ACT III.—

SCENE I.

Chorus.

Scene—Boudoir in Cairn-Cailleach. Doris and Mairi.
Doris.
Mairi, you are a fool. If you were quit
Of these poor kinsfolk in Glenaradale,
Think what you might be. You are very pretty,
And lady-like, and have the trick of dressing,
And matching colours—you might wed a lord
Who did not know the root from which you sprang.

Mairi.
I do not wish to wed a lord, Miss Doris,
I do not wish to hide from whence I came;
I am a cottar's daughter, as your father
Rose from a like beginning.

Doris.
There's no need
Reminding me of that; but, never mind,
After this week I'll hear no more of it.

Mairi.
But they will hear in heaven, where poor folks' prayers
Do fill its courts like incense.

Doris.
Then you mean
To pray for vengeance on the friend who tried
To lift you from the mud. Oh, but you are
A proper saint.

Mairi.
Nay, I am not a saint,
But, Doris, we might both be better women.

Doris.
Well, when I pray, for I am more forgiving
Than you, I'll pray for you that you may get
A better husband than that Kenneth Parlane,
Who'll starve you on his rhymes and rebuses,
Rehearsing them to clowns in alehouse parlours,
Inspired of usquebagh,—meanwhile his wife
Will time her poet with a tambourine.

Mairi.
You do not know him, Doris: but no matter;
Why should we part in bitterness? You meant
Friendly by me, although your way of life
Cannot be mine. “The sea hides much,” they say,
And there is much that love will hide away.

Doris.
E'en as you will. But here's another coming;
Adieu!

Exit Mairi. Enter Tremain.
Tremain.
Why, Doris, what a pretty maid
You have! But beauty still should wait on beauty.
You need no foil; twin stars are doubly bright.

Doris.
How have we grown so deep familiar,
Who scarce have known each other for a week?

Tremain.
A week! I seem to have known you all my days;
The years before, like childhood, are a blank.
How did I live then?

Doris.
Oh, like other babies,
Getting your milk-teeth, squalling now and then,
Making a noise with spoons, and being petted
And spoilt by kissing women. What of Diarmid?
Where is he?

Tremain.
Well; he's busy with affairs;
A man of acres he, and beeves and sheep,
With tenants, gillies, keepers, and what not?
To see to.

Doris.
Oh! He did not use to be
Quite so full-handed.

Tremain.
Then, he's not in love;
And no one cares to look on when a game
Is played by others, after he has thrown
His own cards up.

Doris.
He palms me off on you, then,
Having no taste for such poor gear himself,
Or else another market for his wares!
'Tis very well, Sir Poet.

Tremain.
Nay, I said not
Any rude word like that.

Doris.
Did you not tell me
He had thrown up his cards, and did not care
To see you play his game? So you have come
To take his cast-off, and relieve his mind
Of its perplexity! A gracious office!
Sure, gentlemen are most accommodating!
And doubtless I am honoured, could I see it,
And doubtless you are favoured, when you think on't!
People keep poets sometimes—do they not?—
For their own uses, as to praise their wares
In rhyming advertisement quaintly fancied,
Or to relieve the tedium of their greatness.
So I have heard. But 'tis a new vocation
To take their leavings.

Tremain.
Ha! a clever shot,
And yet a miss. How you do drop on one,
As a lithe panther lurking in a tree,
Licking his lips, with slowly wagging tail,
Might leap down from his branch, and bite the nape
Of the stag's neck, while every claw is dug
Into the quivering flanks. I like to watch
Your eyes at such a time, at first so sleepy
With half-closed lids, then flashing out so fierce
With sudden lightnings. You have the perfect art
Of deadly wounding; yet I am not hurt.

Doris.
A pachyderm, perhaps, or armadillo
Wearing his bones outside. Some people have
An armature of vanity as tough
As the thick folds of the rhinoceros' hide,
And wot not when they are shamed.

Tremain.
You miss the mark,
Though you aim low—or just because you aim
So very low. I feel when I am hit
Like other men, and may be hit like them;
But then my feet are not among the dirt
To be hurt there. So you have sped your bolt
Wide of the mark.

Doris.
Oh yes! you are a poet,
And fly, of course. It is among the clouds
That one must speed an arrow after you.
But whether you are singing lark, or gled,
Or mousing-owl, who knows? You bring such strange
Reports.

Tremain.
A lark, be sure, the bird of heaven—
A lark full-throated up in the blue heavens,
That all day singeth to his love below,
And only can be silent by her side.—
But what reports mean you?

Doris.
Something you said,
Self-satisfied, about a laggard wooer,
A gamester who threw up his cards, and left
The play to you who gladly took his place;
I the poor stake.

Tremain.
But not his cards I play,
Nor yet his game, whate'er it may have been;
'Tis my own luck I try, laying my life
Upon that throw.

Doris.
Just so; he casts me over,
And then you take me up; he's done with me,
And therefore I am fit for you. Perhaps
You like the game: I cannot say I take
The humour of it.

Tremain.
Nay, it is not so.
I said he did not love you, which is true;
He said you loved him not, which I believed;
And so, because the way was clear for me,
I said I loved you, which is truest of all:
And I will challenge in the tournament
Of song all poets in the land to match
My Queen of Beauty—or be hushed for ever.

Doris.
Fine words! But that's your trade.

Tremain.
Words! If you knew
The passion burning in the heart of them,
The sense of utter weakness in all words,
In paradox and high superlative,
To speak the thoughts that swell and surge in me!
Listen a moment, Doris. When I came
Hither to gather pictures and sensations
Among the mountains, and beside the sea,
And from dim caves, and from the whish of pines,
And lingering mists, and from the setting suns,
That I might write a book which should entrance
A brain-fagged world, then I was studying words
To trade on them. But having lighted on
My Helena, my Fate, I heed no more
The hills, the lochs, the caves, the forest trees,
Or trailing mists, or glory of the sunsets,
Or curious felicities of speech,
Or swing of rhythmic phrase, or anything
But just to love thee, and to win thy love.

Doris.
There; that's enough; I half believe you, though
I fear I should not even half believe.
I think you love me just a little.

Tremain.
Doris,
A little! I am all, and over all,
Within, without, in heart and brain, afire
With a consuming passion which no sea
Could quench, but it would make its waves to boil
Though they were ribbed with ice.

Doris.
You've studied well
The art, at least, how one should play with hearts.
Yet if I were to prove your love with some
More simple test than boiling seas of ice,
It would not much amaze me though it failed.

Tremain.
Nay, put me to the proof; and if my life—

Doris.
Pray, let your life alone; men wager that
Most freely, when they least intend to pay.
But if you cared to pleasure me, you could,
And I could love the man who pleasured me
As I would have him.

Tremain.
Only tell me how,
And if a heart's devotion, and a will
Resolved, and some small skill of nice invention
To frame such dainty plots as poets use
To work out fates with, can accomplish it,
Count it already done.

Doris.
I hardly know
How I should put it. There's a girl you know,
At least you've seen her—Ina at the manse:
I hate her.

Temain.
Well, then, I will hate her too.

Doris.
Nay, that is not my meaning.

Tremain.
Then I'll love her,
If that is what you will.

Doris.
Oh yes, your love,
Like a small seedling, having little root,
May readily be plucked up from the soil,
And planted elsewhere. Let's to something else:
No more of this. I had forgot she is your
Pallas-Athene.

Tremain.
What, an if she be?
Pallas-Athene is not Aphrodite,
And it is Love and Beauty I adore,
Which I find perfect here. What would you with her?

Doris.
She's in my way, was always in my way,
Balked me when we were children, baffled me
In every purpose that I set my heart on,
And brought out all the worst in me, until
He hated me, who should have loved me best.

Tremain.
Ah! well; 'tis clear why you should like her ill,
But not so clear how I can meddle. Would you
That I should carry off a rival beauty,
And leave you a clear field to win your lover,
Breaking my own heart with a frustrate hope?
That is a test of love's unselfishness
Love never claimed before.

Doris.
And does not now.
The man is nought to me, and never was
Even then before that I had met with you
Who say you love me.

Tremain.
Yet you hint that she
Is in your way.

Doris.
Well; what if I would be
Revenged upon the gamester who has scorned me,
And she comes in between me and my wrath?
May I not spite him where he most would feel
Cut to the quick? But there; no more of this.
You'd give your life for me, of course; but when
I ask a trifle, you are scrupulous.
Let it alone.

Trmain.
What would you have me do?

Doris.
Oh, nothing. I am not so poor in friends
That I must beg of strangers.

Tremain.
Am I then
Become a stranger to you? Say, what would you?
I must not hate her—that is not your meaning;
I must not love her—that is less your drift;
But she is in your way—yet not in love's way:
How may I construe this, and do your will?
Am I to tie the offending Beauty, as
In Stamboul, in a sack, and sink her deep
Some evening in the silence and the darkness
Of the mid loch? Or shall I go in search
Of the lost art of Medicean poison,
And with a kerchief or a pair of gloves,
Subtly envenomed, so assail her life
That straightway she shall pine away and die?
These ways are out of date. Besides they bring
Vulgar detective fellows, worse than slot-hounds,
About one's heels.

Doris.
Prithee, have done with this:
I might have known that you would trifle with me.
She said you were a coxcomb.

Tremain.
By the heavens,
And all the gods of Hellas, never was
A heart more seriously inclined to serve you
Than mine is, if I only knew the way.

Doris.
May I believe you?

Tremain.
Is there any oath
Will carry strong assurance? I will swear it.

Doris.
Oh yes; and break it. Oaths of any kind
Sit easy on the soul that easy takes them:
There is no traitor like your ready swearer
Clothed in the tatters of forgotten vows.

Tremain.
Nay, I will keep it. I am in your toils,
And you shall lead me like a meek, tame creature
Whither you will.

Doris.
I fancied that a woman,
Having a lover faithful and devoted,
Had but to will, and he would find the way,
His the invention, hers but to desire.—
I've heard indeed of men who with fair speech
Have plied a maiden's heart, and mischief came on't,
But hush! there's some one coming.

Enter Factor.
Factor.
Good-evening, lady.
I am not marring better company?
May I come in?

Doris.
Yes, certainly. But what
Brings you again to-day?

Factor.
Well, I have heard
That these Glenara folk will have a grand
Function of their religion there next Sabbath,
A Holy Fair, a big communion-day,
And there will be hot words, they say.

Doris.
Can't you
Prevent them?

Factor.
That's not easy, if they come
In thousands as their custom is, and get
The drink once in their heads.

Doris.
But you can stop
Newspaper men from sending false reports
About the country.

Factor.
Yes, yes; I can do
All the reporting they are like to get,
And more than they would wish. But you might give me
The gillies, and authority from you
To warn them off the ground with threats of law
If they refuse. They do not like the Law,
Nor does the Law like them.

Doris.
By all means do
Whate'er may stop these dangerous gatherings.

Factor.
Thanks; I will see to't. By the way, I met
Your pretty cousin in a pretty plight.

Doris.
How mean you? She was here a little ago,
Handsome as ever.

Factor.
Well, she's on the way now
Across the hills, and Kenneth Parlane with her,
Dressed in the rags she wore when she came here,
Barefoot, bareheaded, with her snooded hair,
And the small bundle in the hand-kerchief
That held her comb, her mother's wedding ring,
Her Bible and Kenneth's letters, prose and verse.

Doris.
Oh! she's a fool; and it was like a fool
To think that I could take her from the byre
Into the drawing-room. But let her go.

Factor.
I have your full authority, then, to act.

Doris.
Surely. But run no risk of rioting.

Factor.
Oh! never fear.

[Exit Factor.
Doris.
And now you would not mind
Walking across the hill, perhaps, on Sunday?
You'll have rare fun, and you could serve me too.
I have been moving some of my poor tenants
From wretched crofts to settle by the sea,
Where they can fish, and better their estate,
And better, too, my rents by foresting
Their ill-tilled, scanty fields. They do not like it,
And I would fain know what is said and done
About it at this preaching. The factor will
Report, of course, but your account would be
More picturesque—perhaps a trifle truer.

Tremain.
Certainly, I will go.

Doris.
Till then, adieu.
You will think over what I said to you?

Chorus.
Cat-like, purring and mewling, and softest rubbing of fur,
With just a pat of the claw, now and then, for a needed spur,
Touching the quick of his vanity, making him keen to go
Whithersoever she would, though whither he did not know,
Seeming to answer love with love, though her heart was cool,
And the clear-working brain was practising as on a fool,
So she played with her victim, who thought he was playing with her,
For there was not a heart between them to master or minister.
Clever he might be, yet would she wind him around her thumb,
Reason soon to be blinded, conscience soon to be dumb;
For when a woman is good, she doth to all good inspire,
But being evil, alas! she burns up the soul like fire.
Rouse thee, man, for an effort; what though her speech be smooth,
What though she smile too upon thee in splendour of beauty and youth,
There is no pity in her; look at her hard, cold eye;
You she will use for her tool now, and mock with her scorn by and by.

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.

SCENE III.

Chorus.

Scene—Corrie-an-Liadh. Throng of people seated on bank: Ina, Morag, Kenneth, and Mairi in front of Factor, Tremain, and others behind the Ministers.
A “Man”
(Passing the Factor).
Is Saul among the prophets?

Factor.
Why not, Dugald?
Saul found them singing in the dance,
And joined the sport, of course.

“Man.”
This is no day for sport.

Factor.
Oh, that depends: I've known some queer folk now
Whose acid looks would sour the cream on Monday,
Yet make rare fun with sermons on the Sunday.

“Man.”
You are a flippant person; but your day
Will not be long, though God may wink awhile.

Factor.
I'll take my chance. The wink may grow a nap
As you pray, Dugald. Few can stand that long.

“Man.”
Blasphemer!

[Passes on to his seat.
Factor.
Hypocrite!

Tremain.
Nay, hold your peace;
I like not these men's looks: they're stern and grim,
And knit their brows in silence, and their knuckles
Are white, see, as they clench their great brown fists.

Factor.
Nay, never fear, sir. Don't I know them well?
The law is powerful; not a man of them
Dare wag his tongue at me.

Tremain.
They're in the mood
For more than wagging tongues. And for the law,
What if they have the right on't?

Factor.
Let them break
The peace, and then they will be in the wrong.
I'll keep safe with the law. Lads, give the dogs
A nip, and set them howling, when you hear
The minister begin to clear his throat.

Tremain.
Why do you that?

Factor.
'Twill be as good a joke
As bumming of an organ in their ears,
Or tuning of a fiddle for the psalm.

Tremain.
I pray you, stop. See you not every man
Grasping his staff? There is a thousand there
For one of us.

Factor.
So be it. They would tell you
“The Lord can work by many or by few.”
You do not fear that rabble?

Tremain.
Yes, I do.
Somehow the big battalions always win,
And one may doubt if God is on our side.
Let them alone.

The people sing, to a Celtic tune,
Tremain.
'Tis a pathetic strain
In a barbaric minor, long drawn out;
So the Greek chorus might be sung, when they
Played a fate-drama in their sacred feasts.
Hush! stop that yelping. There will be cracked crowns
If this go on.—But what proud pallid face
Is that among them? Oh, my stately Beauty,
Pallas-Athene of the waterfall,
And Doris' pet aversion, whom I have
To strangle, drown, or poison—anything
But love. I think I'll throw me at her feet.
It is a face to dream on; safer there
Than here, too, and the seats are not reserved.

[Crosses to Ina, and lies down on the grass.
Factor.
White-livered fool! But let him go. What's this
The minister is after? Make a speech
Without a text! Who ever heard the like?
And what's come of the prayer? Be ready, lads.

Minister.
My friends, this is a day of solemn sadness
With us, for we shall ne'er all meet again
Here where our fathers met these hundred years,
Remembering the love of Him who came,
In power of sorrow, to redeem from sorrow,
And sin which is its fountain. It is not
That sere and withered leaves shall drop in autumn;—
That always will be: nor that tender buds,
Frost-bitten, die untimely in their spring:
Nor that the hale and well may also fall,
Reft by the stormy winds;—all that may be
To any people, and at any time:
To-morrow only knows what it shall bring.
But human law, defying the divine,
Which gave the land for man to dwell therein,
And to replenish and subdue its wildness,
Straining the rights of those who own the soil
By writs and deeds, wherein they gave it over
Who had no property in it to give,
Has torn up by the roots a band of you,
Loyal and dutiful and fearing God
As any in the land; and nevermore
Shall we together sing our psalm of praise here,
Or break the bread, or drink the cup of blessing.
Therefore is this a solemn day with us,
Touched with the sadness of their leave-taking,
And with regretful memories.

Factor.
Take care, sir,
You're on the verge of treasonable speech
Against the law.

Minister.
We do not break the law,
Even when it breaks the hearts that it should bind
Closer to home and country. Neither would I
Pour Mara water now into the cup
Heaven sweetened with the wood of His dear cross,
Who loved us. Men may wreck your happy homes,
But God is building better mansions for you.
They make a desert—He a paradise;
They drive you over sea, but He will bring you
Where there is no more sea. And we should take
The losses and the crosses of our life
As hooks to fasten us to that better world.

Factor.
Ay, that is right. They'll find a better world
In Canada; you hook them on to that.

Minister.
Be silent, sir. I will not speak of her
Whose high imperious order drives you forth,
Homeless—

Factor.
Nor will I hear a generous lady,
Who is too good a landlord for such people,
So shamefully abused. I tell you, sir,
This is mere cant, fanatic and illegal,
Stirring ill blood in those who know no better
By those who should know better.

Minister.
Pray you, sir,
Have patience; I have spoken nought amiss;
Do not disturb our worship.

Factor.
Worship! call ye't?
You preach against the law and call that worship!
Against the landlord, and that's worship too!
I will not hold my peace. You people, hear!
Go to your homes, or to your parish kirks,
Or it will be the worse for you. This place
Is not for people to denounce the law,
Or landlords in their legal rights. The Book
Will have you to obey the Powers that be,
And speak no evil of them. There is clear
Chapter and verse for that. A pretty worship!

Minister.
Take heed, sir, what you do. You have no law
For this.

Factor.
Away! I tell you, or I'll set
The dogs upon you.

A “Man.”
Och! ochone! and is
The Lord, too, banished from Glenaradale
To Canada?

Another “Man.”
Ochone! will it be Baal
Or Moloch that the factor will be having
On the high places to pollute the land?

Another “Man.”
It is a day of darkness and dismay,
A day of wrath for broken covenants,
And for dishonoured Sabbaths.

Minister.
Sir, I warn you
The people now look dangerous. Be quiet,
Or leave us: do not drive them mad.

Factor.
Away!
Ye are trespassers, and I know you well!
I will have writs out on you by to-morrow.

A “Man.”
Now, who will come with me to help the Lord
Against the factor?

A Fisherman.
That will I do, Dugald.

A Crofter.
Yes, and it iss not you will be alone.
Away with him! He tore my shieling down,
And Ailie's babe just born.

Another Crofter.
And he insulted
The minister! Yes, it iss fery well!
There iss the Tod's Hole yonder, and the Loch
Iss deep below it.

Crowd
(rushing forward).
To the Tod's Hole with him!

Minister.
Nay, hear me, O my people, I entreat you;
Do not this crime, for Christ's sake, Will ye not
Listen a moment! O my God, that men
Should do foul murder! On the Sabbath, too!
Stay, stay, I tell you. Heaven have mercy on him,
For they are deaf as adders.

Ina
(rising up).
Morag, this
Is frightful. Kenneth, can you not do aught
To help him? See, they drag the wretched man
Struggling, entreating, cursing, praying, while
They move in stern grim silence to the gap
In the black ragged rock, that looks right down
Into the Otter's Hole. [To Tremain.] Can you look on, sir,
And see your comrade murdered? You came with him
To find your sport, and lo! he finds a death,
Too horrible, instead.

Tremain.
What can I do?
They will not hear the parson plead in Gaelic,
How should they heed me with my English tongue?
Indeed, I tried to stop him, but in vain.
Think you that, if I sung an Orphic song,
Mellifluous, melodious, as e'er
Hushed Philomela, shamed of her sweet strain,
These grim and silent executioners
Of Nature's law would listen? Truly I would
Do anything, fair lady, for your grace.
And yet, to see your pity and your terror
So tragically moved and beautiful,
I'd almost let him fall from cutting ledge
To jutting crag into the hungry loch.

Ina.
Tush!

Morag.
Well, this man is madder than a foumart,
He would kill folk to see how one might look.

Tremain.
Nay, not how you would look; there is no grand
Pathetic grace in you.

Ina.
Now, who is that
Standing upon the sharp edge of the rock
At the Tod's Hole. Ah! Diarmid. All is well.

Sir Diarmid.
Go back, now, lads, and hear the minister;
Vengeance belongs to God. You would not stain
Your hands with blood from such a puddle as this.

A “Man.”
Out of our way, Sir Diarmid; we have no
Quarrel with you, but this man's cup iss full.

Sir Diarmid.
I will not budge an inch, and you must kill me
Before you break a bone of him; and that
You would be loath to do. There; you have given
The scamp a fright he will not soon forget;
That's all you meant, and he deserved it well,
Bully and coward!

Kenneth.
Yes, the Chief is right;
Let him go now. I'll make a ballad of
His teeth that chattered like a castanet.

“A Man.”
He hass been like an iron flail with teeth
To all the folk, sir; but it iss your will.

Sir Diarmid.
Yes; ere he go, then, let him have a shake
Such as your terriers give an ugly rat,
And then have done with him. You would not make
This day a day of horror and reproach
For such a cur as that. So: that is right.
[They let him go.
I do not wonder that your hearts were hot.

Minister.
Now, God be praised, who brought you here, Sir Diarmid,
Ere that was done which never could be undone,
And put the heart in you, and gave you power
Over the people's hearts to move them, like
An instrument of music, at your will.
I marvel not that they were wroth at him;
The man is of an evil nature, hard
And insolent and cruel to the poor,
And servile to the great, and knowing law
Only to strain its power, and make it hateful.

Tremain
(coming up).
There, parson, now your Deus did not come
In a cloud-chariot driven by mighty angels,
But riding on a nag, a simple laird.

Minister.
Be not profane, sir; and for you, my people,
Ye have been saved from doing greater wrong,
But wrong ye have done; and how shall we sing
The Lord's song, with the swell of that late storm
Still rolling in our hearts? Let us go back,
And humble us, confessing all the sin.

[Return to their seats.
Tremain.
Diarmid, the factor now will hate you almost
As much as he will hate this pious mob.
You saved his life, 'tis true, but only saved it
By showing him a thing to scorn and loathe;
You should have had more tact. He'll not forget it.

Sir Diarmid.
What care I for his hatred or his love?
But how came you, of all men, to be here
Of all scenes on this earth?

Tremain.
Why should I not
Enrich my soul with all experiences
Of life and passion, to be moulded duly
Into pure forms of art? I came to see
The Christian superstition where I heard
The thing was really living. Up in town
'Tis but a raree-show of surplices
And albs and copes and silver candlesticks
And droning repetitions; poor survivals
Of the old Pagan cult: or else it is
A small dissenting shop where they retail
Long yards of worn-out logic, or an ounce
Of bitter morals, with a syllabub
Of sentiment. But this is different.
I could have almost fancied I was back
With Cyril in the Alexandrian desert,
And throngs of howling unwashed monks who hunted
A Neo-Platonist: only yon factor
Is no philosopher.

Sir Diarmid.
Came you not with him?

Tremain.
Well, yes; he promised I should have some sport;
And there was Doris' tenantry to see to.

Sir Diarmid.
Are you so close confederates already?

Tremain.
We've but one thought, one aim, one life between us.
And such a life! She is a glorious galley.
Freighted with gold and gems, and silks and spices,
And all the treasures of the fabled East,
And at a word she struck to me.

Sir Diarmid.
That's well;
You poets are the men to win your way
Into a maiden's heart by flattery.
Now, you must go and see the factor home;
His bones are stiff, I fancy.

Tremain.
Nay, there is
A lady in the crowd—Pallas-Athene—
She sought mine aid, and I must go to her.

Sir Diarmid.
Leave her to me; you must see to your friend.
Doris would scarcely care to think you left
Her factor for a stranger damosel.

Tremain.
Doris must learn to put up with a heart
That loves all beauty, and has room for all.
I must go back to her.

Sir Diarmid.
Be off, I tell you,
Unless you'd rather I should hurl you down,
'Stead o'the factor, from the Tod's Hole yonder.
[Exit Tremain.
The jackanapes! Yet, if he speaks the truth,
I am near happiness. Now for Ina.

[Goes towards her.
Ina.
Diarmid!

Sir Diarmid.
Come with me, Ina; let me take you hence;
This scene has been too much for you.

Ina.
Ah! yes;
I know not if your courage, or my fears
Shook me the most. It was a daring thing
To stand up in the breach, and brave their fury.

Sir Diarmid.
Nonsense; I knew they would not harm a hair
Of my head, more than sheep would fly upon
The dog that herds them; and you do not call
The collie quite a hero.

Ina.
Do not leave me,
Diarmid. I know 'tis silly, but I feel
So weak and trembling.

Morag.
Ina, you're not going,
Just when they've got all ready for the work
Of this great day.

Sir Diarmid.
Yes, Morag, she must go.
Do you not see her shaking like a leaf?

Morag.
Black Eachan's giving out a psalm. They'll think
It strange if we should leave now.

Sir Diarmid.
Never mind;
There, Ina, lean on me; my arm is strong,
[Move off.
And my heart lighter than it has been lately,
For there were troubles that did threat our love.

Ina.
Yes, I could see that something was amiss,
Something that made you moody and reserved,
Though you were only gentler, dear, with me.

Sir Diarmid.
And yet you never asked me what was wrong.

Ina.
I knew you would have told me if I ought
To know; and though I longed to share it with you,
I held my peace till you should speak. It is not
For love to be too curious, but to trust.

Sir Diarmid.
And for that trust I thank you. More than once
It was upon my tongue to tell you all,
And leave it to your heart—for it is wise—
To say what I should do. But then I thought
It would be mean to shift my burden off
And lay it upon you. Now it grows clear,
However, and a day or two will end it.
Trust me till then, and then I'll never leave you,
Till life leaves me. But there's the boat all trim,
And a brisk breeze will take us swiftly home.

Chorus.
Oh that sail on the summer sea!
Can she ever forget its gladness?
Yet oh the haunting memory
Of those bright hours, when they came to be
The wistfullest sigh of the day of sadness!