University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Chorus.
Close by a lake, beneath a long-backed hill
A lodge stood new and bare;
Larch and spruce had been planted there,
But they were still
Only like tufts of grass upon the long-backed hill.
There, by no care oppressed,
The wanderer now found rest
Who had seen many cities, many men,
And many perils known,
And many a die had thrown
With risk of all his living now and then.
Skimming the surface lightly and alone
Gaily he took what pleasure might be got;
No higher life the stirring West had shown,
The brooding East called forth no deeper thought.
Yet could he shrewdly use his wits,
And had his cautious, prudent fits,
His memories also and regrets
That touched his heart with lights from heaven,
Though he sat easy under debts
Of duty, that had surely driven
To their wits' end respectable good folk
Who went to church, and no commandment broke.

Scene—Glen Chroan Lodge. Dr. Lorne and Chundra, his servant.
Chundra.
The Begum, sahib! I have seen her.

Dr. Lorne.
Tush!
We have no Begums here.

Chundra.
I saw her—her!

Dr. Lorne.
Why, man, she has been dead these ten years past,
And more.

Chundra.
Yes, sahib, dead ten years; and yet
I saw her, and she smiled; and then I said
What devilry is brewing?

Dr. Lorne.
I never knew
Of any ghost that had been ten years dead,
And yet came smiling back. They lose their smile,
Chundra, exactly in the seventh year,
And it returns no more, because they have not
Lips, cheeks, or eyes to smile with, though the teeth
Grin horribly. But, now, I'm rather busy;
I'll hear you by and by. I am expecting
A visitor on matters of great moment:
You'll show him in, and see that no one enters
While he is here. Have tiffin ready, too,
On the instant notice, mind.

Chundra.
Yes, Doctor sahib.

[Exit Servant.
Dr. Lorne.
I partly guess what Begum he has seen;
She's like her mother, doubtless. Well, I've got
A pill to purge her devilry, if she
Is at the old one's tricks.

Chundra.
Sir Bennett, sahib.

Enter Bennett.
Dr. Lorne.
Good-morning, Bennett. Had a pleasant journey?

Bennett.
So so; your nags are good enough, but then
Your roads are something perpendicular,
And what with ruts and rocks they make hard driving.

Dr. Lorne.
There; how you lawyers grumble! If you knew
The roads I've gone by dâk! And for your climb,
You got the better view of scenery
Thought to be well worth seeing. But now, Bennett,
Our Highland air is reckoned hungry air;
Shall you bait first, or work?

Bennett.
Let us to business;
It spoils alike the dinner and digestion
To have work hanging o'er you, like the skull
At the old feasts.

Dr. Lorne.
So be it, then; and yet
I fear your patience may be tried beyond
Endurance of your appetite. You know
Old travellers claim the right to be long-winded.

Bennett.
I can recruit me at the sideboard there,
If you abuse your privilege.

Dr. Lorne.
All right.
And so now to my tale. You know my brother,
The Parson, Ronald; we were twins, alike
In form and feature, but in mind—Ah! well;
He was the family saint, and I the pickle
From childhood. So he took to healing souls,
And I to doctoring people's pains and aches
And indigestions—he for love of souls,
And I for love of fees. I did my work,
As others did, by rule; went feeling pulses,
Looking at tongues, and writing out prescriptions
With a good conscience, and a look of wisdom.
I knew the does was dropt into the dark,
But it was what our high tradition ordered.
Sometimes it cured, but how, I could not tell;
Sometimes it failed, and why I did not know:
God orders all; except He build the house
They labour in vain that build it. So I took
My fee, and silently allowed the vis
Naturæ medicatrix, and the mors
That beats with equal foot at every door.

Bennett.
Quite right; what other could you do?

Dr. Lorne.
Even so
It seemed. And yet, if Nature worked the cure,
Nature should have the fee too; and besides
My conscience got entangled with new science
That would have no empiric, no haphazard;
And I must go but where it showed the way—
And oh, it had so little way to show:
So I lost faith in all our Therapeutic.

Bennett.
Queer, now: I had a parson with me lately
Wanting to strip his gown off. He had dropt,
Bit by bit, all old formulas of faith,
And buried all his gods, he said, and saw
No difference in his flock who came to church,
And said their prayers, and hardly pricked their ears
At any fresh negation; traded, feasted,
And gossipped as before—nor worse nor better,
A moral class of pure respectables.
But he opined his life would be a lie
If he went on.

Dr. Lorne.
And surely so it had been.
What counsel gave you him?

Bennett.
Bade him go home,
And write his sermon, said I envied him
Having so clear a case, so plain a brief,
Authority so full, and absolute law
To preach the gospel. But the fellow went
And took to writing novels—he is lost.
Yet it is odd that ministers and doctors
Should be so sceptic in their own affairs:
You'll never find a lawyer acting so.
I have my doubts, like other folk, but keep them
Clear of my business.

Dr. Lorne.
Some have doubts of it.

Bennett.
Ay, but they're laymen.

Dr. Lorne.
Lucky you that can
Doubt every thing, except that law is right,
And bide unmoved when all around is shifting.—
But to my story: like your parson, I
Flung up my craft, but did not take to writing,
Having no knack that way; and though I had—
No faith in physic, I had faith enough
In my own luck. Therefore I went abroad,
And drifted round the world, now up, now down,
Making a fortune one day, losing it
Another, now in rags among the miners,
Then swaggering from a “hell” where the croupiers
Hated the sight of me. A pretty game
Life is now, if you only have the pluck
To brave the worst it can do.

Bennett.
Maybe so;
But how about your conscience now, that scrupled
At physic? Could it swallow dice and cards?

Dr. Lorne.
Quite readily: I take it that a conscience
Is like an Arab horse that frets and fidgets
In the strait streets where people congregate;
But let it free i' the wilds, and it obeys
The lightest touch. At last I found myself—
After a run of luck in India—
Up in a native state—netting one day
Some hundred thousand, odds.

Bennett.
Then you came home
To your snug place here.

Dr. Lorne.
Not a bit of it.
I said, “Now, if I keep this, ten to one
'Twill vanish at the next turn o' the wheel;
And yet I cannot give the game up yet,
Or settle down, respectable, to grow
Fungi and mosses on my brains at home.
But there's my brother, dear old fellow, starving
In the old manse, where we all starved in youth,
I'll send it him, and he will use it well.”

Bennett.
The whole of it?

Dr. Lorne.
Well, pretty nearly so.
I kept a nest-egg, or I scarce had been
Where I am now. But listen; I am coming
Straight to the point at last. I knew poor Ronald
Would never take it as a gift from me,
Would only bank it in my name—he had
No notion of investing even—and so
If things went wrong, as they had often done,
Why, it would go, as other gains had gone,
To hungry creditors.

Bennett.
I see. But how
Avoid that, if he would not take your gift?

Dr. Lorne.
That's what I had to settle. Well, there was
A crofter fellow from Glenaradale,
Who had gone partners with me in some ventures,—
Rail way-contracting, money-lending, what not?
I took him for my friend, for I had done him
A good turn more than once. This man I made
My banker; giving it in charge to him
To send the money to my brother here,
When he next heard of me, which should be soon.

Bennett.
But you took vouchers?

Dr. Lorne.
Surely; here they are;
And that is why I sent for you, to know
If they be valid, as I think they are.
He dealt in money, managed our exchanges,
Contracted, too, for railways; a smart fellow,
Jobbing at everything, and everything
Brought money to him—so they said at least.
But to my plot. Having set all this right,
As I supposed, I went and drowned myself.

Bennett.
Drowned yourself! Well, you take your drowning kindly.

Dr. Lorne.
Next day there was a body—a white man's
From the up-country somewhere—floated down
The river with a pocket-book of mine
Found on him, where they did not know my face.
I read the notices of my decease
In the newspapers, one day, in Japan,
Months afterwards. They gave me on the whole
A character for enterprise and honour,
My brother read at home with grateful tears,
And I in Tokyo with mirth and laughter.

Bennett.
What could you mean by such a foolish trick?
How could this drowning help you?

Dr. Lorne.
Don't you see?
To take a gift of eighty thousand pounds
Was one thing to a kind of thin-skinned conscience,
And quite another thing a legacy
From his dead brother lying in his grave.

Bennett.
Well, well; you're a mad fellow. But the money—

Dr. Lorne.
Was never heard of more. My clever friend
Had married in the native state a woman
We used to call the Begum—a volcano
Incarnate, an embodied thunder-bolt,
Fat, greedy, false, and cunning as a serpent,
And yet a fierce tornado. I've no doubt
She set him on to write that I had died
In debt, and hunted up some old accounts
Which the poor parson paid. They were but trifles,
Yet he would wear a shabbier coat for them.
I almost could forgive the theft, but not
That dirty trick on him, the scurvy rogue!

Bennett.
Ah! your too clever schemes miscarry always.
But what came of your Begum?

Dr. Lorne.
Oh, she died
Ten years ago; and Cattanach came home
With a fine half-breed daughter, and my money,
Which bought Glenaradale; and then he died.

Bennett.
The papers now? But did you never write
Your brother?

Dr. Lorne.
No; he thought that I was dead;
And I thought oft, when things were tight with me,
What plenty there would be in the old manse,
And that somehow contented me.

Bennett.
The vouchers?

Dr. Lorne.
Well, here they are; it was a native lawyer
Drew them up for me, but I think they're right.

Bennett.
Leave me alone a while;—at least be quiet,
Unless I ask a question. 'Tis a case
Needs an old lawyer's skill. Of course he held
That you were dead indeed, and the temptation
Was too much for him. Opportunity
Makes rogues as heat breeds worms in carrion;
You gave him just the chance to turn a rascal.
A most mad business! Had you but consulted
A lawyer, now, you might have had your will,
And he might have been honest to this day.

Dr. Lorne.
Nay, but he was a rogue in grain, I fear,
And never took the straight road, when a crooked
Came handy to him.

Bennett
(reading).
Right, right; clear as day.
Not a flaw in them. Who could have believed
That a brown Hindoo could have made a case
So tight as this? There's only one thing now.
How about that same drowning in the river?

Dr. Lorne.
Read on.

Bennett.
I see. Compeared before the Judge;
Witnesses certify that you are you,
And that the dead man was not you. All right.
And now, sir, we may dine with easy minds.

Dr. Lorne.
Then we can do it?

Bennett.
Do it! we can wring
Both principal and interest from his heirs
To the last mite. I have not time to sum it,
But it will take a many Highland acres
Of hill and moor to clear it; and there's nothing
Will clear his character.

Dr. Lorne.
He had none to lose.
Then you will take the case in hand for me?

Bennett.
Will I consent to eat your venison,
Pick well-kept grouse, and drink your dry champagne,
Or orderly draw up a long account
For a good client? Will I consent, quotha?
Why, if the case were only half a case,
Instead of what it is, a certainty,
There is no lawyer could refuse so neat,
Compact a job. It's really beautiful.

Dr. Lorne.
Then we shall go and dine.

Bennett.
By all means dine.
I never felt both appetite and conscience
So sweetly go together. If you have
A bottle of old port, you're safe to draw it;
'Twill not be wasted on me.

Chorus.
So they sit there and drink
Port, crusted, that mellows
Even crusty old fellows
That are well on the brink
Of the threescore and ten
Appointed for men
To labour and think,
And to eat here and drink.
Oh the night that they spent!
And the stories they told!
And the bottles that went
Like shorn sheep to the fold!
What did the ordered household say?
And what could the old men think next day?

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.

SCENE III.

Chorus.

Scene—The Manse Study. Ina (alone).
Ina.
Down, wicked doubts that leap on me like hounds,
And soil me with your pawing. Well I know,
He is the truest gentleman on earth,
Tender and brave; and now he is my own,
And, honouring all women, loves but me.
And I—I love him as a woman may,
Whose love is all her life. Why comes he not?
This day was to deliver him, he said,
From all his cares, and make me all his care,
Who would not be a care, but comfort to him—
But hush! I hear his step upon the gravel,
Yet hurried and uncertain. What is wrong?
Now let me gird my soul to share his burden,
Or take it all myself, if so I may.

Enter Sir Diarmid.
Sir Diarmid.
O Ina, shall you ever look on me
So lovingly again?

Ina.
Ay! every day,
And all day long, I hope, if love of mine
Can aught delight you. But what ails you now?

Sir Diarmid.
Oh, I have been a fool, and properly
Have been befooled! for I conceited me,
I was the cleverest schemer, though an ass.
Can you forgive me, Ina?

Ina.
I shall hardly
Take you at your own value, nor am I
So very wise that your unwisdom needs
My pardon.

Sir Diarmid.
But it does. And what is more,
Until I have your pardon—and a blank one,
To be filled up by utter idiocy
Of mine—I cannot even tell you, Ina,
The thing you have forgiven.

Ina.
Well; I think
My heart could anything forgive to you,
Except a change in yours.

Sir Diarmid.
And that is still
The same, has never wavered, nor yet shall,
Though I have wandered in a brainsick dream
Of self-delusion. One thing more, and then
You shall know all my madness. Can you dare
To be a poor man's wife?

Ina.
Dare to be poor!
Nay, I have feared to be a rich man's wife,
Being a poor man's daughter. Wooden quaichs
Come handier to my use than silver goblets,
And sometimes I have trembled when I thought
My homely ways might shame you. But what mean you?

Sir Diarmid.
No matter now; I'll tell you by and by.

Ina.
Nay, but if you do hint that for my sake
This lot must come to you, I could not be
A wife to make you poor.

Sir Diarmid.
Oh, with your love
I shall be rich, and never shall regret.

Ina.
It is not your regret I fear to meet—
You are too noble—but it is my own.
The thought that I had lowered him I loved,
Or that I was a burden to his life,
Or that he might have held a higher place
And played a greater part but for my sake,
That would quite crush me. To be poor, I heed not,
But to cause poverty—I dare not do it.

Sir Diarmid.
Yet what if, lacking you, my life were poorer
And meaner than the meanest, having you,
Replenished with the only wealth I care for?

Ina.
You glorify the thing you're fain to have,
As poets glorify their favourite flowers,
Although but common daffodils. Yet one
Can know one's self as none else can, and judge
With less imagination. Let that pass.
But what is this you speak of? How should you
Be poorer for your choice, but that the choice
Is a poor one enough?

Sir Diarmid.
It is not that
Will make me poor. You are my only wealth
Now, and because you are my all, I cling
The more to you. For had I never seen
The face I deem the fairest on this earth,
Nor known the heart I prize above all treasures,
This fate had still been mine. It must be mine,
Whether you share and sweeten it to me,
Or let me bear my burden all alone.
The thing that I must do to keep my place
I could not do, except with self-contempt,
And open-eyed dishonour, and the loss
Of all in life that makes it worth the living;
And yet I have been fooled into a promise
To do this very thing.

Ina.
You frighten me.
I do not understand. What have you done?
'Tis sin to break a promise; yet it may be
A greater sin to keep it; and between
The choice of sins, 'tis hard to pick one's way.

Sir Diarmid.
Ay, truly it is but a choice of wrongs.
I made a promise that was false to love,
And break it that I may be true again:
Caught in the snare which I myself had laid,
I must break from it, though I break my troth,
For only being false, can I be true.
Oh, I am humbled and ashamed, as well
I may be. But you do forgive me, Ina?

Ina.
Yes, I forgive you. But I am perplexed,
What is it all about?

Enter Doris.
Doris.
Oh, Ina dear,
Why do you keep a dragon like that Morag,
Who cannot even nicely tell a lie
To visitors, but sends them from your door,
Gruff as a bear?(Starting.)
Ah! You here, Diarmid, are you?
Well, you are favoured, Ina. Only think;
That both of us should turn at once to you
To be the first to hear the happy news!
Of course, he has been telling you.

Ina.
I know not
What you mean, Doris.

Doris.
Diarmid has not told you!
Well, that was kind to let me be the bearer
Myself of my good tidings. Can't you guess
Why I am here so happy?

Ina.
Truly no;
I am not good at riddles.

Doris.
But this is not
A riddle; and I wished you so to hear it
From my own lips, and not from any stranger,
Not even from Diarmid, who of course would be
Clumsy at telling it. Yes, yes, I see
You know his ring; he put it on my finger
An hour ago, and made me, oh so happy!
Now will you not congratulate me?

Sir Diarmid.
Ina,
Hear me. Nay, do not think I wish to clear
Myself.

Ina.
Sir Diarmid, what you wish to do
Or not to do; and whether you are right
Or wrong in doing that which you have done,
'Tis not for me to say. Why should you bring—
You, either of you—these affairs to me,
Settled between you? Doris, I am sure
You came not here to give me any joy,
And if you wished to pain me, you have failed,
And lost your errand. Now, I pray you leave me;
I have much work to do in briefest time.
I hope that you will be a loving wife
And loyal; but these things concern not me.
Adieu!

Sir Diarmid.
No, Ina, you must hear me out.
You should have heard the story from myself
Ere now, but that I shrank from my own shame,
And from your pain to hear it. Listen then.
This lady has a right to all my land—
An honourable right by bond of law—
Unless I marry her; and I, who had
No right to use such mean diplomacy,
Plotted to make her love another man,
And get refusal of my own request,
Not for her love, for that I never asked,
But for her hand, the which I did not want.
Yet she accepted that which was in truth
An offered insult—marriage without love
Frankly avowed. I thought—nay, if you will,
I hoped that she would cast it back with scorn,
As it deserved. O the blind fool I am!
But she picked up the gage, even so conditioned
As any woman with a woman's heart
Would have despised to touch it. No, I do not
Accuse her to you, or defend myself.
I have done that a man will scorn himself
All his life long for doing.

Doris.
Handsome terms
For one who, unsolicited, besought
My hand an hour ago! You shall not mend
Matters in this way, sir.

Sir Diarmid.
I do not hope
To mend them, but to end them. Hear me out;
Frankly I do accept the poverty
My father has bequeathed me, and I came,
Ina, to you to tell you this resolve.

Doris
(singing).
O rare idyllic love in tattered rags!

Sir Diarmid.
Ina, I was a fool, and dealt in craft,
Only to be the greater fool, the more
Crafty I seemed; there is an end of that
Doris, there is the ring you put on me,
Unasked.

Doris.
We made exchange, and for myself
I'll keep what I have got. I am not one
To throw away a lover or his lands,
While I have wits to hold them.

Sir Diarmid.
Be it so;
Take or refuse, it matters not to me:
My choice is made. From henceforth I will be
Honest, however poor. And—pardon me—
I had no right to insult you with an offer
Which you, perhaps in mockery, accepted,
Which I, at any rate, in simple manhood
Ought never to have made. Take all my rights, then;
They're justly yours—my house and lands and all
My fathers did enjoy; but understand
You have no right in me for evermore.

Ina.
Ah! that is right, whatever else was wrong.

Doris.
Oh, yes, of course he'll give up all for you.

Ina.
'Tis nought to me. I have no interest
In any of these doings. Only I
Would grieve to think of one I reckoned true
And noble above many, falling from
The ideal of a better life, to be
A scorn unto himself. But fare you well.

Doris.
Oh, it is all the high heroics here:
The very air is tragical: we stalk
And strut, when other folk would only walk.
Moral-sublime's the rôle! Cast to the wind
Houses and lands and honours all for love!
And yet I even dreamt you would have thanked me,
That I would be content to take his hand,
And leave his heart—to you. Good-morning, Ina;
Good-morning, you, Sir Landless; we shall scarce
Meet again soon.

[Exit Doris.
Sir Diarmid.
Is this the end then, Ina?
You promised to forgive.

Ina.
I have forgiven;
Though this was not, I think, within the scope
Of possible thought then. But can you forgive
Yourself as readily?

Sir Diarmid.
Have I fallen so low
In your esteem, that you should think this shame,
Like a boy's blush, shall vanish, and he scarcely
Know it was there? I have done wrong, but from
That wrong I trust to shape a better life,
Which else had been as the poor gambler's luck
Fooling him to his ruin.

Ina.
May it be so:
And if it be, there's no one will rejoice
More than I shall, to know that this has been
Only a passing cloud, which we remember
Not as a cloud, but as a freshening shower
Redeeming the scorched land.

Sir Diarmid.
Redeemed it shall be,
If shame can work repentance; but resolve,
Knitting its brows, and girding for the battle,
May yet lose heart, seeing no gleam of hope
To brighten patience.

Ina.
There is hope of mending,
Of being once more what one failed to be.

Sir Diarmid.
But none of Love? That is a broken cistern
That keeps no water for the broken heart,
Being once cracked?

Ina.
I pray you let me go:
Perhaps the broken cistern truly is
The only broken heart. Farewell!

Sir Diarmid.
Farewell!
I will do right though this be hope's sad knell.

[Exit Sir Diarmid.
Ina
(alone).
Ah me! and I have lived through this, and may
Have many years of such a life to live!
No warning of it—the volcano smokes
Before it bursts in flame, but here the fire
Broke suddenly beneath me, and my world
Is blackened, scorched, and burning under foot,
And not a blade of all its former beauty,
And not a little well of all its gladness
Remains, and no horizon to its darkness
Except a far-off grave! O weary life!
O Love, there is no joy like that thou bringest,
Nor any grief like that thou leav'st behind,
Being gone. God pity me! I was so happy;
And while my heart was singing in the light
Of its great bliss, the arrow pierced it through,
And I fell prone to—this. What must I do?
What can I do? No, there is nought to do,
But only try to look as if the wound
Hurt me not, and to bleed so silently,
Girding a maiden's modesty about
A broken heart, that none may find it out.
I blame him not; he has been weak, not false;
At least, it was for truth that he played false;
But oh, it is too hard. God pity me,
For my glad life is turned to misery.

[Exit.
Chorus.