University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Chorus.

Scene—Post Office. Morag and Mrs. Slit.
Mrs. Slit.

Och! and it iss yourself, Mrs. Morag, that will be a sight for sore eyes, which it wass the loch said to the hill when it came out of a month's mist.

Morag.

Your eyes do not need salve, Mrs. Slit; they can do without me, and without the spectacles too, for they are as keen as a hawk's, though you are not so much younger than myself either. But I have been very busy, and I have had my troubles and my tempers too.

Mrs. Slit.

Yes, yes! We are all born to troubles and tempers, as the sparks fly upward.

Morag.

It is just like the seal I am. I get my head above the water maybe for a minute, and turn this way and that to see about me, and then I'm down to the depths again among the crabs and the tangles—that's the troubles and tempers.

Mrs. Slit.

But Miss Ina will not have her tempers, though.

Morag.

Will she not? But she brings out mine whatever; and it is all the same.

Mrs. Slit.

But an angel might do that, Morag.

Morag.

Girls are not angels, Mrs. Slit, as you would know if you had any. Angels will know their own minds, at least, and we have four and twenty minds in the four and twenty hours.

Mrs. Slit.

Yes, I know. It iss a great change to be left all alone.

Morag.

But she is not more alone now than ever she was before. For he would be always at his books and his sermons, as close as a limpet to a rock.

Mrs. Slit.

That iss true, but then he wass always there, Mrs. Morag, which it just makes the difference. My Eachan would be a useless body sitting there by the fire for years, cramped and twisted with the rheumatics. But he wass always there to be seen to, and to be wanting this and that; and it wass not like the same house after his arm-chair would be empty. Poor thing! it iss myself that can be sorry for her.

Morag.

But it is not for you, Mrs. Slit, to be calling her a poor thing, like any fisher-lass in the clachan; and her a lady, and a minister's daughter too!

Mrs. Slit.

Surely she iss to be pitied, Morag, for she iss in trouble, and which iss more, she iss an orphan, and which iss more, she will have no one to look to, but that ne'er-do-well uncle who iss here to-day, and nobody knows where to-morrow, away among heathens or tinklers. Och! yes, she iss to be pitied.

Morag.

No, she is not to be pitied, but to be roused up, and told her duty, and to be respected, Mrs. Slit. And for her uncle, he will be giving her a house and a down-sitting like a duchess, when she will go to him; and he is not to leave Glen Chroan any more.

Mrs. Slit.

It iss yourself that will be going with her then, Morag.

Morag.

She would as ill do without me, Mrs. Slit, as the gull without the water.

Mrs. Slit.

Yes, that iss true, you have been with her all her days. And it iss riding in your coach you will be, and living like the princes and rulers of the earth maybe. When will you be going, now?

Morag.

I do not know when we will be going, or if we will ever be going, and I do not want to go near a house which is no better than a heathen's.

Mrs. Slit.

But she will have to go somewhere soon, for we will be having the new minister, and he will need the manse, no doubt, but I hear there iss no wife to come with him, whatever.

Morag.

Minister! Is it the lad you would be having two Sabbaths ago you call a minister? To think she must leave her father's house for the like of him!

Mrs. Slit.

What iss wrong with him, Mrs. Morag? He iss a very pretty man, and, which iss more, he hass the beautiful Gaelic.

Morag.

Maybe he has: but has he the Gospel, Mrs. Slit? We used to blame the old man because he was more dainty about his words than his doctrine. But this one, he will have no doctrine at all either about God or devil. For I heard him tell Miss Ina at her own fireside that the devil was a myth of the Middle Age. As if he was not as busy with young folk as he is with the like of you and me, Mrs. Slit!

Mrs. Slit.

Och! yes, that iss true, whatever. But what iss a myth, Mrs. Morag? You should know that have lived in a minister's house so long.

Morag.

Do you think that I swallow dictionaries then, because I live in a minister's house? I do not know what it is. But it will be something bad, no doubt, or it would not be spoken about him, middle age or not middle age.

Mrs. Slit.

Yes, it will be something bad. But he hass the good Gaelic.

Morag.

And the devil has the Gaelic and the English too, Mrs. Slit.

Mrs. Slit.

That iss true too; but he will have more English, Morag.

Morag.

Maybe, I do not know. He has plenty Gaelic for his purpose. But is there no letter for us to-day?

Mrs. Slit.

Och! yes, there will be one for Miss Ina. I am thinking it iss from the laird himself. What will be taking him to London now, when we wass all hoping he would be come to settle among his own folk?

Morag.

How should I know what would take him to London? Maybe to bring an English wife to turn up her nose at us. But why did you not tell me of the letter before? and me wasting my time here that never gets out of doors till the bats are out!

Mrs. Slit.

But it wass yourself never asked till this fery minute, Mrs. Morag.

Morag.

And what else would I be here for at this time of day?

Mrs. Slit
(examining letters).

That iss for my lady. It iss thin, and wafered, and blue paper, and will be an account, no doubt; they are not fery welcome at the castle, I fear. There iss no hurry about that. This iss from the gamekeeper to the factor they would be for drowning in the loch. It can wait; he will not be caring for letters yet, I'm thinking. And there iss half a dozen for the long-haired poet-man that will be courting Miss Doris. It iss a bold man he iss, or maybe a blind one, whatever.

Morag.

Who is he, Mrs. Slit?

Mrs. Slit.

I do not know. But he will be

getting many letters and printed papers, and they say he is a great poet in the Sassenach. But, to be sure, that iss not like the Gaelic.

Morag.

Is he often with Doris then?

Mrs. Slit.

Och! they are like clam-shells; there iss no parting them. And he will speak sense to her maybe, but it iss just heathenish gibberish he will be talking in my shop.

Morag.

That will do now. There is Ina's letter. I have been too long away from her. But I was to be sure to ask about your Oe that had the fever.

Mrs. Slit.

Yes, she iss a kind lady, and thinks of everyone. Allisthair iss better now, and will be at the fishing again soon.

Morag.

And how is the fishing and the whisky?

Mrs. Slit.

Not more than usual, Morag, but always too much of the whisky, whatever.

Morag.

Yes! They will be like Donald Levach who was drowned in a ditch; and his last words would be—You are changing the drink, and there is too much water in it, Jenny, too much water.

[Exit Morag.
Chorus.
Truly she did not know it,
Dreamed not of humour or mirth,
Made not an effort to show it,
Travailed no whit in its birth:
Just it came to her easy,
The quaint, odd satire and fun,
Without any purpose to please ye,
Or pleasure in its being done.
Hard and grave were her features,
Though lit up with love now and then,
For laughter was not for such creatures
As sinful women and men.
It was simply the way that she reasoned,
The natural shape of her thought,
While it looked as if cleverly seasoned
With a sharp biting wit she had got.
O ye that strive to be witty,
And hunt through your brains for a quip,
When ye have caught one, in pity
Silence it straight on your lip.