University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene.—The Convent of St Catherine. An apartment overlooking at back, through open window, a terrace practicable, and garden doors on each side.
Lilian, dressed in slight mourning, and working at embroidery, is seated; she pauses in her work, and sits awhile abstracted. Margery, who stands by her side, draws skeins from a work-bag.
Mar.
Surely the hand of imp or fay has ravell'd
The skeins here, red, gold, blue; one tangled knot!
[To Lilian.]
Did you say blue next? was it blue or gold?
You have not heard me, madam! Gold or blue?

Lil.
Oh, either. [Correcting herself.]
Gold; then blue.

Mar.
There's gold, then. [Laying gold skein on table.]
Yes,
'Tis true—that which I told you—all is stir
And preparation. The young knight departs—
Madam, there's blue. [Laying blue skein on table.]
That he departs at all
Is due to you who healed him.

Lil.
[Mildly.]
Margery,
You've said that oft.

Mar.
Well, I shall scarcely miss
The good knight or his followers. All kind powers
Be praised, we quit this convent! Not a word,
Or even a look, allowed 'twixt us Macronalds
And those who serve Sir Oscar! True, they're French,
And, had we met, we scarce by words had guessed
Each other's thoughts. But then one's eyes can speak,
Though one's tongue fail.

Lil.
Thy tongue, dear Margery,
Will scarce break down. I love to hear thee talk;
But now my task needs pains, and I must fix
My thoughts on it. Leave me, good Margery.

Mar.
[Laying down work-bag, and glancing at Lilian's work.]
You must work hard to end it ere 'tis Lammas.

[Margery goes out by one of the side doors.
Lil.
To-day! He goes at noon—an hour and all
Will be as though it had not been. Not so;
Things we call past live on in their effects.

Enter Roderick and Kenelm from garden. Kenelm wears no plaid or tartan of any kind, nor badge in his bonnet (which is a different one, as should be seen, from that of 1st Act), but a blue scarf. He is nearly a year older than in 1st Act.
Ken.
[Who carries a foil rebated at the point.]
Now, Roderick, to't again; up with thy staff!

[Menacing him in sport with foil
Rod.
Give breathing-time; remember that my joints
Are rusty. Now then!

Ken.
[Who, attacking, is parried by Roderick's staff.]
By St David, thou
Hast eye and arm yet! What! thy joints want oil?
They're lithe as mine. Again! [Kenelm again attacks, and is again parried.]
Once more; have at thee!

[He again attacks, and this time touches Roderick with foil.
Rod.
So,
Well planted! there you hit.

Ken.
[Laughing.]
You let me do it.
But I am now fifteen. Come three years more,
I'll hit without your letting.

Rod.
Whipster!

[Laughs, and pats him on the head.
Lil.
[Looking up.]
Roderick!

Rod.
I came for your commands. Do you still propose
To quit St Catherine's and your friend the abbess
So soon—to-morrow?

Lil.
Yes; my cousin Malcolm
Sends, as you know, to urge my swift return.
'Tis thought the Camerons will soon break forth
In open strife.

Rod.
Ay, now their chief unmasks
And shows a threatening front, both to our clan
And the Mackanes.

Lil.
Did I not tell thee once
'Twas Cameron's art to thrive on other's loss?

Rod.
As the wolf bears the prey from two spent lions.

Ken.
Does Cameron threat my clan?

Rod.
Not less than ours.
[Kenelm sits moodily.
'Tis fixed, then; at what hour do you set forth,
To-morrow?

[To Lilian.
Lil.
At an hour past dawn. Sit, Roderick.
[Roderick sits. Lilian aside, falling into reverie.
He goes at noon. Were his brief words last night
Meant for a farewell? Shall we meet no more?

Rod.
[To Lilian.]
I' faith, I shall be glad to see once more
Our castle walls. [In a louder tone, observing that she does not reply.]
I say these few weeks spent
'Neath Abbess Hilda's roof will stay my hunger
For convent life.

Lil.
[Who has roused herself.]
To me they have seemed brief.
You know that I was bred here, and the abbess
Was loved of my aunt Ursula.

Rod.
A lady,
Most mourned and honoured, who too early joined
Your father in the grave.

Lil.
Ay, aunt and father
Lost in one year. This month it counts a year
Since my brave father fell. Then Ursula,
To others stern, to me most gentle, followed.
Thus pass the friends of old; and new friends! They, too,
Come but to vanish!

[Again in reverie.
Ken.
[Impetuously to Roderick.]
Dost thou say the Cameron
Threatens my father. Hence, toy! [Throwing down the foil.]
Vain to learn
The sword's use, if I draw it not for him!

Rod.
Wouldst thou be safe, forget him.

Ken.
At that price
I'd not be safe. Mark, Roderick; dog my steps
And mesh me as you will, I'll some day 'scape,
For I will see my father.

Rod.
Peace! such words
Might risk your life. Those in your lady's train
Assigned to guard you have quick eyes and ears.

Ken.
[Again impetuously.]
Would I were free!

Lil.
What, wouldst thou leave me, Kenelm?

Ken.
Lilian, you know I love you. I would make
You and my father friends. I'd tell my tale;
And then, if stern to all Macronalds else,
He'd let me call you sister. I'd return
Of my free will. Free! How I envy all things
That no chain binds—birds lessening up the sky,
And winds that sweep on shouting! Would I were hawk,
Or horse, or hound. Ah! would I were the knight—
The stranger knight Sir Oscar! I had borne
His wounds and sickness if, like him restored,
I might to-day ride forth.

Rod.
He goes to-day?

Ken.
Knew you not that?

Rod.
And he goes sound and whole,
Thanks, lady, to your skill; though scarce a month since
Borne to this convent, faint with wounds, he lay
In sorest peril. To your healing hand
And patient care this stranger owes a gift
No less than life.

Ken.
[To Lilian.]
Sets he not forth at noon?
Was't not at noon?
[Aloud to her, with mischievous significance.
But say, what keeps you thus so grave and brooding?

Lil.
Brooding! I, Kenelm?

Ken.
You.

Rod.
The lad is right.
[Scrutinising her.
Methinks you should be blithe and proud to know
Your patient leaves you cured.

Ken.
Ay, there's the riddle.
When the knight lay in danger, Lilian's step
Was quick, her eye was bright; but as he grew
In strength, so she in gloom. Her hands are idle
Even as her tongue; see how she plies her needle!
[Glancing at her work.]
On Monday she began the Greek chief's helmet.
'Tis Thursday now, and there the needle rests
At Monday's point. For some good cause, I trow,
The knight was cured too soon: that chafes her.

Lil.
[Vexed.]
Kenelm!

Ken.
Nay, you're not angry, Lilian?

Lil.
No, not angry.

Ken.
[To Roderick.]
I'll prove it further. Yesterday I asked her,
How fares Sir Oscar? Is he well? Whereto
She answered, Well; yes, well; but with a sigh
And look and tone so doleful, you had thought
The man's last hour had come, and not his cure.
[Laughing.
Now say, is't not a riddle?

Lil.
[Displeased.]
You forget
Yourself, to speak so.

Ken.
[Penitent.]
Lilian!

Lil.
[Giving him her hand.]
There, all's well.

Rod.
[Aside, regarding Lilian earnestly.]
So! is it thus?
Come, Kenelm, find your bow, I'll see you shoot.

Ken.
Not now! Mark you yon cloud; there'll be a storm.

Sir Oscar and Page pass by window.
Rod.
The knight, Sir Oscar, passes down the walk.
[To Lilian]
If he should enter, child, still heed my warning—
Let him not know your name or birth.

Lil.
Why not?
He'd not betray me?

Rod.
No; not by intent,
He might by chance. Our foes still threat the district;
Wherefore the abbess from the knight has hid
Your name and true estate, and lodged his train
Beyond her walls.

Ken.
Now speaks he to the page;
Now to the window looks. He will come in.

Rod.
Then come thou forth with me!

Ken.
Good faith, not I! [With a mischievous glance at Lilian.]
I'd see this knight more closely.

Rod.
[Rather impatiently.]
Dost thou heed?
Thou'lt anger me!

Lil.
Roderick, what wait you for?

Ken.
To see this wondrous knight, for he's a wizard.
And deals in spells. [To Roderick.]
Look you, his health restored
Hath wrought her sickness. But I'll stay and foil
His evil charm.

Lil.
[Displeased.]
Go, Kenelm: heed commands;
I'm not in tune for this. [Kenelm hurt, and a little indignant, takes up his cap.]
Nay, I spoke harshly;
[Winding her arm round him.
But thou know'st, Kenelm, there are times with all
When no jests please—when one would be alone.
When thou dost bend thy bow, another's shadow
Would spoil thine aim. When thou dost hold thy wrist
For the falcon's perch, another voice would fright
The bird from settling.

Ken.
[Archly.]
Oh, I guessed not that;
If that you mean to draw your bow and aim,
Or lure your falcon down, I'll go; I had gone
Before if I had dreamed thou'dst have me go.

Lil.
[Kissing his forehead.]
I do not love thee less.

Ken.
[Taking up his foil.]
Now, Roderick!
[At side door.
Dear Lilian! mind your aim. Allow for wind;
And shoot not towards the sun. Adieu!

Rod.
[Playfully shaking his hand at him.]
Thou mischief!

[They go out by side door.
Lil.
[Looking after them.]
Ah, light of heart! Sinks into a chair.]
He comes to say farewell.
What should he else? Strange how one little day
Can change our world! The sun will rise for years
And we wake, toil, feed, sleep, and nothing miss,
Till one day dawns that with it brings a sense
As of a life new-born! No hours gone by
Have known that thrill; no hours to come—nor grief,
Nor joy, nor change—can wake that thrill again!

Shortly before this speech concludes Sir Oscar reappears at window, ushered by an elderly man, attired as a servant of the Convent. This attendant, by a gesture, indicates to Sir Oscar to enter the room. Attendant passes on, and disappears.

Sir Oscar enters. He wears the dress of a knight of the period, with the exception of the helmet, and wears no plaid, tartan, or any Scottish badge.

Sir O.
[Whose face shows some slight traces of recent illness, advancing to Lilian.]
Deign, dear lady, pardon
For this intrusion. 'Tis a sweet, sad duty
To bid you farewell.

Lil.
You too much presume
On your new strength; pray sit.

Sir O.
[Sitting.]
Nay, I'm once more
Myself, ready for tourney or campaign;
And yet, methinks, I'm half ungrateful.

Lil.
You?

Sir O.
Yes, since the health you gave me back I scarce
Prize at its worth. I think of the dim chamber
In which the sick man lay; of the bright presence
That lit its gloom, and of the gentle hand
Whose touch was balm. At first, in fever's dream,
I thought some heavenly form that stooped to earth
Bent o'er my pillow; and I said with joy
That Heaven was kind; then soon your look and voice
Proclaimed you human, and, with deeper joy,
I said, She lives! she lives! she's of our world!
Then all our world grew fairer.

Lil.
[After a short pause.]
I beseech you,
You speak not thus of one so little worthy;
Or I may deem my cure but half complete,
And say his fever talks so!

Sir O.

Nay, delirium
Fashions no shape of perfectness like that
I gaze on now. As day by day I grew
In strength, and in the sense of all that's fair,
The more you fill'd that sense. Whene'er you spoke
Or sung, or with your harp beguiled my hours,
Each act revealed your nature. Pardon, therefore,
If less I prize the strength regained that parts us
Than those blest days of weakness when I learned
To know her whom I now must but remember.

Lil.
[Aside.]
To hear such words, yet ne'er again to hear them!
[Aloud, with suppressed feeling.]
I lack skill
To make due answer and to tell my thoughts;
But wish you may be happy.

[She extends her hand to him, which he kisses. The sky grows gradually darker.
Sir O.
[Retaining her hand.]
So, farewell!
Farewells must come. Forgive me that, being loth
To say the word, I linger; for the eyes
That look their last on joy may well look long.
[Lilian turns aside, gently withdraws her hand, and betrays emotion.
[Aside.]
Did she in anger turn? not so. [Aloud.]
Sweet lady,
You chide not with your lips that I remain;
Does your heart chide me? Would it chide me, dared I
To linger still?

[A pause.
Lil.
[Glancing at window.]
You have good cause to linger;
The sky grows black with storm.

Sir O.
And is it for that—
For that alone you'd wish me tarry? Ah!
If in an hour hence, in a day, a month,
You could say farewell with no more regret
Than your sweet courtesy gives to all at parting,
Bid me go now; but if the thought presumptuous
That, yet in bud, dares scarce unfold itself
Into a hope, might live; then would I say
This strength you have given back, this frame, this heart—
All that I am is yours; in every pulse,
And nerve, and thought, is yours; and at your feet
Would cast the life which you preserved in vain,
Save your love crown it too!

[Throws himself at her feet.
Lil.
I pray you, rise.

Sir O.
Have I too far presumed? Dost bid me go?

Lil.
I bade thee rise; I did not bid thee go.

Sir O.
And dost not now?

Lil.
Not if you wish to stay.

Sir O.
Do I but dream of joy? Is it thy will
I stay? Speak! Nay, I ask not words; but reach
Thy hand for sign. [She gives him her hand.]
Thou dost! Oh! half I doubt
That Heaven to this harsh world can be so kind
And remake paradise. [Rising.]
Quick to my heart,
And seal this true! [They embrace.]
Thou'rt mine!

Lil.
Ay, thine—thine ever!

[Pauses.
Sir O.
And we but late were strangers!

Lil.
[Sits.]
Ah! to me
Thou wast no stranger. I had seen thee oft
Ere my eyes met thee.

Sir O.
Seen me!

Lil.
Know'st thou not
How oft our minds, when earth seems fairest, shape
Some being fit to tread it? Thus at sunset,
When in the lake's pure floor the circling peaks
Beheld their jewelled image, and entranced,
I asked if heaven above or heaven below
Did ravish more with beauty; or in autumn,
When through the woods, sighing with tremulous leaves
Of gold or crimson, like a conscious life
The brook pulsed on, then would I cry, O earth!
How fair thou art! Give me a man to match thee!
In mien let him be noble, brave of heart,
To rule so bright a realm; in war, his voice
Dread as the sea's; in peace, as soft as winds
That roam in summer 'mid the pines, and teach
The dim green twilight tunes. Be such my lord!
And when I met and knew thee first, I felt
That what my heart imagined Heaven had clothed
In mortal form, and that I saw my prayer!

Sir O.
Thy love shames my deserving; yet 'tis true
We loved as in a dream—no thought of self,
No thought of state or fortune. To this hour
I know thee but as lady and as Lilian;
And thou too know'st me but as knight and Oscar.

Lil.
Yet since the very raiment that love wears
Pleases the eye, tell me in what apparel
Has Fortune dressed thee? What's thy name? thy birth?
Thy serving-men are French, and yet thou speak'st
Our tongue.

Sir O.
[Sitting.]
My native tongue; I never lost it.
My father, dwelling some brief while in France,
Did choose his bride there, and with her returned
Unto the Scottish glen, where I was born.
I, still a child, my mother's health grew frail,
And, pining much to see her land again,
With me, her youngest born, did she repair
To France, and there amid her kinsmen died.
Those kinsmen loved her child, and one—a noble
Of the French Court—prevailing with my father,
Made me his page. At length, high tales of war
And soldier's fame, recounted by the hearth,
Woke martial longings in me, and I joined
The French king's service; in the which till now
My life has passed. Years since I, sorrowing, learned
My father's death. Now, during war's brief lull,
To Scotland am I come to seek my brother
And mine own people.

[Thunder and lightning faintly heard and seen.
Lil.
Well, thy race? thy name?

Sir O.
Knowing what feuds my clansmen wage, and loth
To peril my few followers, I concealed
A name that oft wakes strife. Thou know'st the rest—
That a marauding band, in hope of plunder,
Assailed us; that with spur and sword we forced
Our passage and rode on, till, near this spot,
Faint with my wounds, I reeled, and here was borne,
Blest in what seemed disaster.

Lil.
Yet not finding
More blessing than you brought.

Sir O.
[Taking her hand.]
Thou mak'st my joy
Too full. For this one hour I'll pardon fate
All frowns hereafter. Lov'st thou, what can rob
Oscar Mackane of thee?

Lil.
[Agitated.]
Mackane! Of whom
Speak'st thou? Oscar Mackane!

Sir O.
My name, which thou
May'st proudly bear. The son of Fergus I.,
Brother of Murdoch, chief of the Mackanes.

Lil.
[Withdrawing her hand, and recoiling.]
Thou Murdoch's brother!

Sir O.
He still lives?

Lil.
He lives.
[Thunder and lightning somewhat more vivid and audible than before.
Would that he ne'er had lived, or thou not sprung
From the same stock!

Sir O.
Wherefore?

Lil.
In me thou see'st
The child of Angus, late Macronald's chief.

[Both rise.
Sir O.
[Recoiling.]
Macronald! our hereditary foe!

Lil.
In fight with the fierce tribe thy brother led
My father fell.

Sir O.
[With horror.]
Not by my brother's hand?

Lil.
Not by his hand,
But by his followers; and, beside the hate
Instinctive towards thy name, that with the stream
Of life we draw even from our mother's breasts,
Know that, where'er I turn, our gaping ranks
Show the fell shafts of thine. My uncles perished
Stemming their onset; my young kinsman David
They snared and slew; that I stand here an orphan
Is due to them, thy kin. Away! a gulf
Between us yawns, and every wave is blood!

Sir O.
Not more thou shrink'st than I. Upon thy breast
That tartan, [Pointing to her plaid]
unbeheld since childhood, grows
Familiar to me—the abhorreèd emblem
Of a loathed race! [A short pause, during which he gazes at her, as if bewildered.]
Loathed, did I say; and thou
Sprung from that race! [Thunder and lightning still more vivid and audible.]
By heaven, two natures strive
Within my breast! One for my kinsmen's wrongs
Prompts me to hate, the other pleads, Forget
All wrongs for her!

Lil.
Obey the sterner voice;
For I could deem my father's spirit rose
Frowning that still I listen. [Softening.]
Oscar, go!
I may not love thee, and I cannot hate.

Sir O.
Thou canst not hate! Nor I. If enemy's blood
Flow in thy veins, it flows not in thy soul,
Which has its kin in heaven.

Lil.
[Sadly, with a gesture of rejection.]
Hence!

Sir O.
Look on me,
As I on thee; I love the thing thou art,
And ask not whence it sprang.

[Thunder loud, and lightning vivid.
Lil.
Oh, thou dost strain
My being to its root. I might for thee
Brave living kindred's wrath; but the mute frown
Of the dead who cannot plead, who sleep in trust,
Their child will ne'er be traitor to their blood—
This, this appals me. [A loud and long crash of thunder and vivid lightning.]
Hark! 'tis heaven's own voice
Uttering its prohibition! If thou seest
The fierceness of her struggle whom love tempts
And duty warns; if thou wouldst have me 'scape
My people's curse; by thine own love for me,
Help me; save, save me from myself, and go!

Sir O.
Harsh doom! but I obey thee even in this.

[Sir Oscar bends his head low in acquiescence, then slowly retires, and goes out by door opposite to that by which Roderick and Kenelm went out.
Lil.
'Tis well. I have been true to name and clan.
I have slain my happy youth, and made its grave
An altar to my race. To-morrow's sun
Will fall where we two stood; on us together
Will fall no more. And he, alas! will not
My doom be his? Duty! Had I no duty
To him who taught me first what life might be,
With love's strong arm broke for my sake the chain
Of deadliest hate? No more to hear the voice
That woke my heart to life, to bear within
This ceaseless yearning widowhood of soul
For him who lives, but lives no more for me!
[The sound of a horn is heard.
That horn! his train set forth! [The Squire and Page and other followers of Sir Oscar pass at back.]
They pass! Even now
The gates are opening! [Sir Oscar is slowly passing.]
Oscar, Oscar, stay!
[He approaches some steps towards her.
By all I bear, I know what thou must bear.
I might have doomed myself to appease my race,
Not thee, not thee! Oscar, canst thou forgive,
Canst thou accept this heart, which, for thy sake,
Bursts all the chains of hate, tradition, clan?

Sir O.
[Advancing, and extending his arms towards her.]
Thou art my clan, my fate, my all in all!

[She throws herself into his arms.