/" E R K 1 1 E Y~X LIBRARY I 1 UNIVERSITY OF I VsCALIFORNIA/ KILDROSTAN. 'BY THE AUTHOR OF " OLRIG GRAKGE," "HILDA, " NORTH COUNTRY FOLK," &c. PUBLISHED BY JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW to the MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON AND NEW YORK. London, . . . Hamilton, Adams and Co. Cambridge, . . Macntillan and Bowes. Edinburgh, . . Douglas and Fonlis . MDCCCLXXXIV. KILDROSTAN A DRAMATIC POEM BY WALTER C. SMITH JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS PUBLISHERS TO THE UNIVERSITY 1884 A II rights reserved INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND, IN MEMORY OF HAPPY DAYS AND HELPFUL SERVICES. 539 glramatis SIR DlARMID MACALPINE, TREMAIN, DR. LORNF, BENNETT, DUFFUS, - KENNETH, CHUNDRA, Highland Chief. A Modern Poet. Uncle to In a. Lawyer. Factor. A Poor Student. Servant to Dr. Lome. MINISTERS, "MEN," CROFTERS, ETC. LADY MACALPINE, - INA LORNE, DORIS CATTANACH, MAIRI CATTANACH, MORAG, MRS. SLIT, Mother of Sir Diarmid. Minister s Daughter. A Highland Proprietress, Her Cousin. /no's Old Nurse. Post-mistress. FlSHERWOMEN, ETC. KILDROSTAN. ACT FIRSTSCENE FIRST. CHORUS. Poor fishers on the wild west shore Where slow mists trail along the hills, And from the mist comes evermore The sound of rushing brooks and rills, Are plodding, grave, with lingering feet, About the high hot noon of day, Along the circle of the street That straggles round the circling bay. Why are the long-oared boats afloat? Why tolls the bell from the steepled kirk? It is not the hour to launch the boat, And it is not the Sabbath of rest from work ; And why are they all in best array, As it were for some high holiday? KILDROSTAN. ACT 'Neath crags and hills the long loch winds, Through rocky isles where sea-birds flock; Along the slopes the grey birch finds Frail footing on the slaty rock ; On every ledge there grows a pine, With roots that cling as the branches toss, And the oaks along the low sea-line Are greenly feathered with fern and moss. Behind the cliffs are mountains steep By foaming torrents scored and scarred, And up their gullies the alders creep, But the peaks are ragged and jagged and barred : Cloud-capped often their stormy tops, While ridge and corrie and crag are bare, Or a girdle of mist will ring the slopes, While the heights rise clear in the upper air. A desolate land of fern and moss, Of brackened braes and craggy hills, And shores where fickle waters toss, And birch-and-hazel-fringed rills And foaming cataracts like snow That in the gorges leap and run, And rocks, ice-polished long ago, That gleam like waters in the sun, And rainbows arching high in heaven KILDROSTAN. And down in still lochs doubly bowed, While broken prismic lights are woven On the thin veils of wavering cloud, And gorgeous sunsets that enfold The mountains with a purple robe, And dash the crimson and the gold In billowy spray about the globe : A land of wayside cairns the place Of resting for the biers of death And tokens of a fading race, And relics of forgotten faith Legend and rhyme and mystic rite, The worship of a God unknown, Stealthily done at dead of night By sacred well or standing stone. O marvel not they love the land Who watch its changeful hills and skies, For in its desolation grand A charm of 'wildering beauty lies. A meagre life they have, and still Not stiller almost is the grave Those villagers beneath the hill That looks down on the encircling wave; Rude are the huts of stone and turf That straggle round the circling street, KILDROSTAN. ACT The thatched roofs soaked with rain or surf, And blackened with the smoking, peat. No ploughshare tears the scanty soil, Enough for them are spade and hoe ; 'Tis on the waters that they toil, And in the seas their harvests grow. The moors are for the hare and grouse, The corries for the antlered stag, . But shaggy big-horned cattle browse On the fringe of bracken and rush and flag. And now and then comes like a dream A white-sailed yacht into the bay, And now and then the snort of steam Sounds from the headland far away; But never shows the world's proud strife, Its strain of power, and rush of thought : Time counts for nothing in their life, But comes and goes, and changes nought. Yet men have grown there, true and brave, Bronzed with weather, and horny of hand, Who wrestled with the problems grave That at the porch of Wisdom stand ; And you shall find in low, thatched cot, Round-angled, and with smoke begrimed, Love that can sweeten every lot, And Faith that hath all fates sublimed. I. KILDROSTAN. / 5 But why are the long-oared boats afloat? Why tolls the bell from the steepled kirk? It is not the hour to launch the boat, And it is not the Sabbath of rest from work ; And why are the children sad and grave, With no ripple of mirth by the rippling wave? And whither away do the strong men walk, While the women gather in groups and talk ? SCENE Village Street of Kinloch-Thorar. Group of Women at the Post Office Door. First Fisherwoman. Ochone ! but this iss a sad day on Loch Thorar, Mrs. Slit. Mrs. Slit. You may say that, 'Lizbeth, and in Glen Shelloch too, and Glen Turret, which iss more. First Fisherwoman. He wass a good man, and a faithful minister. He wass not a dumb dog that will be gnawing the bones, and will not bark when he should. Mrs. Slit. Och, yes ! he wass all that, though he might not preach like Black Rory of Skye, or big John of Strathnaver. But he would not be passing my shop door without getting pickles of snuff for the old men, and sweeties too for the greeting bairns. Yes, yes ! it will not be the same shop now that he does not come here any more. 6 KILDROSTAN. ACT Second Fisherwoman. But what iss this, Mrs. Slit? She will not be for burying him in the kirk- yard, but in Isle-Monach, where my Donald would be seeing their ghosts at Yule and Pasch. Mrs. Slit. It iss your Donald that would be having the whisky, then. For they will be quiet men, the monks, when they are living, and they will not be frisky now that they are in their graves. Second Fisherwoman. But they are in Purga- tory, whatever; and our minister had no faith in Purgatory or organs or saints or good works. Why would she be for burying him among them? Iss it papist she will be turning? First Fisherwoman. Or Pagan, Mrs. Slit? For our May wass saying she would read more about heathen gods and goddesses than about Abraham or Moses; and May wass maid in the manse till Candlemas last. Mrs. Slit May will not know what young ladies have to know. And which iss more, she might do better than to be talking about her betters. As for Purgatory, it iss not any more, since the laird's great grandfather forbade it, or it will only be for the poor cottars at Glen Chroan. And whether or no, our minister will have nothing to do with it, you may be sure. But it iss true i. KILDROSTAN. j Miss Ina never wass just like other maids. But her heart iss good, whatever, yes ! and which iss more, it iss soft and warm as a linnet's nest, and sweeter as the bog-myrtle. Third Fisherwoman. Och yes ! it will be warm and sweet, but not good, Mrs. Slit. None of our hearts iss good, as he would often say, who will never say it any more. But many a time, when the lads wass out fishing, it iss Miss Ina that would hail them from her bit boatie, and she would have the kind word for each of them ; yes ! and she would call at our doors too on her way home, and tell us about Dugald or Donald or Alisthair and the herrings. Och yes ! she hass the kind heart, what- ever, and it will be a sorry one this day. First Fisherwoman. Yes ! she hass the kind heart, Miss Ina; and if she would have the making of the law, it would be the better for us, though it iss true she iss for making the men carry the peats, and wade out to the boats too, which it would be a shame for women to see. Second Fisherwoman. But whose boat will she be having, now? For it iss a rhyme I heard long ago- Coffined corpse in fisher's boat ; Make ready a shroud when it's next afloat. 8 KILDROSTAN. ACT Mrs. Slit. The de'il an ye were in your shroud, woman, to speak of such a thing ! Do you know that it iss Sir Diarmid himself that will bring his gig and his gillies and his piper too, all in the brave tartan, with plaid and sporran, as if the minister would be a chief, for he was not more than third cousin to the laird's grandfather. And it iss the chief that you would be singing your carline rhymes about, and making a shroud for him too ! Second Fisherwoman. But he iss not a fisher. Mrs. Slit. He will fish more than your Donald, whatever : for when he iss in the humour, the loch iss never in trim; and when the loch iss in the humour, he hass no inclination. But it iss not for you, woman, to be speaking of the laird and a shroud in one breath, and him a brave young gentleman, and which iss more, just growing the beautiful beard too. Yes ! First Fisherwoman. But why will she be for burying him among the monks, when there iss a Christian kirkyard at her door, Mrs. Slit? Mrs. Slit. Who hass a better right to lie there? For he comes of the old stock that built the Abbey Kirk; and all their graves are there, and there iss nobody else but chiefs and monks and ministers and superior persons, which iss proper. There has I. KILDROSTAN. 9 not been a burial there since old Sir Kenneth's, the day of the great storm, when half our boats were wrecked, and the poor lads were bobbing about the loch, like pellocks in a gale of wind. Third Fisherwoman. Ochone ! yes ; and it is my- self will mind it, if I am spared to my dying day. My Alisthair, that wass to be married just the week after, drifted ashore among the tangles before his Mysie's door, and she will never be herself again since that fery hour. And it wass Miss Ina that would have the bodies carried to the kirk, and the funeral there ; for they will preach to us, said she, better than the minister, or an angel from heaven. First Fisherwoman. Sure, and she wass right there, for there would not be a profane swearer or a Sabbath-breaker in the parish for six months after, though the whisky wass wanted for the sore heart sometimes, maybe. Mrs. Slit. Yes ! it wass a great sermon, the lads lying in a row, and just the day before they had talked to us, and which iss more, they had laughed with us; and now they looked at us, and would not know us any more. Och yes ! it wass a great sermon, and it wass God himself that preached it. But there, now; they are leaving the manse. io KILDROSTAN. ACT It iss our own lads that will be carrying the coffin with its white wreaths and ferns. Och ! and Sir Diarmid and Miss Ina make the handsome pair, like the brown pine and the bonnie birch tree. She iss liker him than that Doris, with her mouth that iss always smiling, and her eyes that never do. First Fisherwoman. But they will be saying he must marry Doris, whatever. Mrs. Slit. Maybe yes, maybe no. It iss not every fish you hook that comes to the creel; and the stag iss not on the spit because Donald has loaded his gun. And that will be her uncle, the Doctor, that wass the ne'er-do-well, and nearly broke his brother's heart, and which is more, emptied his purse too. But he iss come home now, they say, as rich as the English lord at Loch Eylert. Sure they will rest the coffin somewhere or his cairn, and for the drop whisky. There and now Eachan Macrimmon is playing a coronach as it were for a chief. " Peace to his soul, and a stone to his cairn." CHORUS. Slowly the muffled oars dip in the tide, Slowly the silent boats shadow-like glide Past the grey, steepled kirk, past the low manse, I. KILDROSTAN. 1 1 Now in the ripples that glimmer and glance Where the sun flashes, and now in the shade The birch-feathered rocks and the great hills have made; Slowly and silently onward they pass Over the calm spaces shining like glass, While wild wailing strains of the coronach swell, And fall with the breeze and the slow-tolling belL Long, low and dark is the first of the train, With six bending oars keeping time to the strain; In it a coffin, and by it a maiden Who to the moaning sea moans sorrow-laden, As they drop down to the dim abbey pile Lying half-hid in a cleft of the isle, Ruined and roofless, 'mid tangle of trees That dip their low boughs in the wave, but the breeze Rustles their higher leaves over a tower Green with massed ivy, and crown'd with wall-flower. There, with his forefathers, peaceful to sleep By the white surf of the unresting deep, Where once the Culdee monk toiled, prayed, and died, Where once the galleys oared out in their pride, Where still the clansmen their high chiefs bewail, Silent they laid the good priest of the Gael. 12 KILDROSTAN. ACT No cross was reared above his head, No requiem was sung or said, No hope was spoken of the just In glory rising from the dust : In silent awe they did their part, Yet the good hope was in every heart. ACT FIRST. SCENE SECOND. CHORUS. A little wiry man, with grizzled hair, And withered face that wrinkled was and bare, And clear keen eyes that had no look of care, Sat with a maid All robed in black, herself a lily white, Beautiful as the moon in starless night Whose silent depths alternate wondrous light And mystic shade. Blunt in his speech, a careless nature his, A wanderer driven by restless impulses, Nor many years had toned his heedlessness, Nor loss nor gain : And nothing awed him that the world reveres, I. KILDROSTAN. ! 5 Yet was he awed before a maiden's tears, And stumbled in his talk with doubts and fears Of giving pain. He would be gentle, if he but knew how, And helpful, if his gold could help her now, But wist not of the deeper life, I trow, Patient and meek; And woman's ways had long been strange to him, And eyes, unused to weeping, now grew dim Seeing her eyes in shining waters swim, And tear-stained cheek. SCENE The Manse Parlour. INA and DR. LORNE searching books and papers. Dr. Lome. This clean bewilders me : it is like being Lost in a mist, and wandering round "and round, To end where you began, only more puzzled, Weary and hopeless. What can he have done With it, I wonder. Ina. Uncle, what is wrong? Dr. Lome. Oh ! nothing's wrong of course. It's only I Am growing old and stupid, I suppose. I'm puzzled, that is all. I 4 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. But what about? And can I help you ? Yet if it is dark To you, I fear that my poor head to-day Can bring but little light. Dr. Lome. O never mind ; I should not speak of it: it does not matter Not in the least. Ina. What matters anything, In this blank desolation? Dr. Lome. Don't now, Ina; I sha'n't know what to do if you break down ; And people die, but still the world goes on, And those who live must eat, and pay their bills, And think of things. Ina. Ay ! that's the pity of it To come straight from the shadows and the lights, The awe and mystery and sacred sorrow About the grave, to life's poor commonplace Not yet, at least, I cannot do it yet I. KILDROSTAN. ! 5 Dr. Lome. Well, no; but then I've seen so many drop Comrades and friends and had to carry on The battle or be beaten : one has hardly Time here for feelings. Ina. May one come to that? Were it not better not to be than live To find no time for what is best in us, What purifies and elevates and makes A larger world than our small round of tasks ? Ah me ! a dreary outlook. Dr. Lome. Not at all: But for this business, now, no doubt it will Be cleared up some day. Ina. What is there to clear? Dr. Lome. Oh, nothing. You must not be troubled yet With business. But your father now, he never Went in for iron " rings " or " corners," did he ? And no sharp fellows ever talked him over, And blew him up with hopes of boundless wealth, Which by and by collapsed and left him broken? 1 6 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. I do not understand. Dr. Lome. Of course, you don't : No more did he. You never heard him speak Of mines, I daresay copper mines in Spain, Or silver in Peru, and how they paid Fine dividends ? No, no ; you never did. Yet parsons burn their fingers sometimes there. Ina. I have known papers come to him, which he Flung in the fire, saying that it was well He had no gold to gamble with. Dr. Lome. Quite right; One needs to know the game to play with these Sharp fellows. Well; no doubt, he never printed A learned Book now one that would not sell, Was never meant to sell, but just to be A splendid monument of erudition, With costly illustrations, setting forth Highland antiquities, and early arts Now lost in their descendants, which he sent To all the letters of the alphabet I. KILDROSTAN. 17 Who voted him their thanks ? He might have done it; But no, he didn't? I'm at my wit's end now. And after all, he could not drop that way More than a thousand or so. Ina. What do you mean ? Dr. Lome. Oh, nothing ; never mind ; I'm only stupid, Let's talk of something else. We're rich enough. There ; dry your eyes. I don't suppose you could Smile on me now to say I have not vexed you. Ina. Indeed you have not, uncle ; but I wish That I could clear up your perplexity, Whate'er it be. Dr. Lome. No matter. By the way, Was not the Chief most kind to do him honour, Bearing him to his grave with kilted men And pipers, though I hate both kilts and pipes. Ina. Indeed he is a noble gentleman, And held my father high in his esteem. He was his pupil once 1 8 KILDROSTAN. ACT Dr. Lome. O ! and you learnt Lessons together? Latin and Greek and Hebrew? 'Twas all the old chap knew. Ina. There you are wrong, sir; he knew many things, and taught me much 1 now remember only to regret I did not learn it better. Dr. Lome. That's the way With me too. What a deal I have forgotten Since he and I were boys, and went to school ! Well; I must see the chief, of course, and thank him: It is worth thanks, although that strutting piper Looked like a turkey-cock, and yelled as mad As e'er a wild cat. After that we'll go Off to Glen Chroan, and my house shall have At last its mistress. Never wind blew yet But it brought luck to some one, though 'tis sad My house is filled by emptying of his. Ina. You are most kind, good uncle. But indeed I have not thought yet what I ought to do. It seems as if I could not think, for when KILDROSTAN. 19 I try to knit my mind to any end, My head goes swimming round, and all is blank. Dr. Lome. Yes, yes ! I understand. But there's no hurry, Nor need of thinking either. You may leave All that to me. You shall have pretty rooms, And nestle like a dainty lady-bird In a blush rose. Ina. That never was my dream Of life ; I'd prove a restless lady-bird. I have my work to do. Death sets one thinking What to make of one's life how best to use it. Dr. Lome. Work ! O your mother's meetings, Sunday schools, Sick-visitings, and mending poor folk's ways I wish they'd take a turn at mending ours ; We need it. Well ; our clachan is as like A Sontal village in the jungle lands As one muck heap is like another ; filled With lazy, hulking men, hard-featured women Who slave for them, and ragged dirty children Brimful of mischief, and original sin. Work enough there to keep your hands full, Ina, And see no end to it. 20 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. That's very bad, Have they no minister? Dr. Lome. You women, now, Think that a minister is everything, That if you plant a parson on a moor, He'll make an Eden of it just by dropping His texts and preachments to the right and left Well, yes, there is a minister, but he Is twenty miles away, and might as well Be twenty thousand. They are mostly of The old Roman way. Ina. But there will be a priest then ? Dr. Lome. Ay, he comes now and then, and gives their souls A hasty wipe that leaves them as they were, Ere a week's over. Ina. And can you do nothing? Dr. Lome. Me, Ina ! It is hardly in my line To cast out Devils. They'd turn and preach at me. I give the priest his dinner, and the children Pennies to wash their faces. r. KILDROSTAN. 21 Ina. Ah ! poor folk, With none to care for them. Dr. Lorne. But now you're coming Home with me, and they'll maybe do for you, What is like sowing corn upon the rocks Among the whelks and limpets, when I try it. Ina, I can't say pretty things to you : I've not a bit of sentiment in me, And never had : I take my stand on facts, And do not blow my feelings into bubbles To see them break, and break my heart for them. But see, my house is nothing but a house, Till you shall make a home of it a nook Where the old dog may curl up in the sun, And sleep away his age. Ina. But I have neither The wealth nor will to lead an idle life. Dr. Lorne. Well, there is ample work in our wild Clachan Souls to be saved, and bodies to be healed, And dirt enough to cleanse. And as for wealth, We'll ruffle it with the best, if that will please you. 22 K1LDROSTAN. ACT Ina. That is not what I mean. We Highland maidens Like independence, uncle. Dr. Lome. O you'd rather A trifle of your own than hang on me ? And so you should have had, and that is just What puzzles me. Your father made a will, Only there was not anything to will Except a squash of sermons. Ina. How could he Have aught to leave, with only this poor parish ? You know his hand was open. Dr. Lome. If his head Had been but half as open to ideas ! But that was always shut, and his hand never. Ina. He was a good man, uncle. Dr. Lome. Far too good. There should have been a world made just for him, Where no rogues grew, for never idle tramp Whined at his door, I wager, but he fingered Some of his coppers. He was never wise. I. KILDROSTAN. 23 Ina. Yet goodness has a wisdom of its own, And oft sees deeper than a shrewder wit. And since I saw him lying cold and dead, The idea of his life, which my poor breath Had sometimes clouded, seems to come out clear, And pure, and shining with a saintly beauty. Dr. Lome. Yes, yes, a saint ; but saints, you know, are not For earth, but heaven. I pray you, do not set The pretty fountains of these eyes a-playing, Or you shall quite unman me. I'm at sea About that will of his that you should be Left penniless, and even more, that I Should somehow have been cheated. Did you never Hear of my being dead in India ? Ina. Yes, years ago, and O how bitterly He mourned for you. Dr. Lome. And yet I dare be sworn He never said a prayer for my poor soul, Although he feared 'twas in an evil case. He might have risked the heresy upon The chance of giving me a lift somehow. 2 4 KILDROSTAN. ACT No matter. Was there nothing came to him From India then? Ina. No. nothing : but some debts Of yours they were not much he had to pay, Which pinched us for a while. Dr. Lorne. The Devil, it did ! Some debts of mine, and no memorial else Of his dead brother ! Ina. But you were not dead. Dr. Lome. True; but you see I was the prodigal O' the family, and had eaten my swines' husks ; And though I did not pine for fatted calves, I thought of him, old fellow. the elder brother, Who was not a curmudgeon. At that time It suited my convenience to be dead, Or to be thought so for a while at least. I'll tell you more some day. Old uncles, Ina, Are mostly useful when they're dead ; and I, Living, had been a sorrow to my folk, A vagabond that had no touch of grace, And now, it seems, my dying did no better. Well ; I must see to this ; there's plainly some I. KILDROSTAN. 25 Rogue-work to ferret out, and I will do it. No money ! and even debts of mine to pay ! Ina. Nay, do not think of them ; they were but trifles, And cheerfully he paid them for the honour Of your good name, and would have done far more To know that you were living. Dr. Lome. But it looks As if I had shammed death to get my bills Settled for me ; and that is bad. Moreover, 'Tis plain I have been tricked and overreached, And that I can't abide, and never could. They'll need their wits who play that game with me. I daresay now you did without a frock, Until those debts were paid, and turned and trimmed Old hats with faded ribbons. My poor Ina, You shall be dressed the handsomer for that, There's plenty for us both, lass, at Glen Chroan Big empty rooms that will have ghosts betimes If you come not to lay them, and a waste Of meat and drink for lack of house-keeping. Tis somewhat lonely too ; old faces flit About i' the gloaming, that I'd rather not Be seeing there ; and if you do not come, I'll sell it, and be off again. I'd rather 26 KILDROSTAN. ACT Squat by a jungle fire, and hear the tigers Growl in the nullah than sit there alone, With gnawing mice and memories. Ina. No, Uncle, You must not go off wandering again, Although a life of indolence and ease Fits not my humour. Dr. Lome. Busy idleness Is just a woman's work. Ina. Nay, I hope not. [Exeunt. CHORUS. Did she speak wholly Truth? Was it solely Work that she wanted ? Ah ! life was tame there, Change never came there, And who shall blame her If she was haunted With the young craving For doing and braving In the world's battle, And weary of mountains, KILDROSTAN. 27 Lakes, woods, and fountains, And slow sleepy cattle ? But why should she linger There, if this hunger Gnawed so within her? Was there another, More than a brother, Hoping to win her? Ah, who shall blame her? Life was so tame there Until he came there. ACT FIRST. SCENE THIRD. CHORUS. Ah me ! but Death is cruel to the living Left to dim outlooks, and to past remorse; Cruel and cold is Death, and unforgiving The silent corse. In the old home, now still and sorrow-stricken, She sits alone, and passions her sharp pain, 28 KILDROSTAN. ACT Fain to put from her aught that yet might quicken Her hope again. Sweet scents are wafted from the clover blossom, Sweet songs are ringing from the earth and sky, Sweet lights are lingering on the Loch's calm bosom, Far off and nigh ; The swifts and swallows, from the roofs and gables, Twitter their gossip in the evening light; And the brooks, rippling o'er their glossy pebbles, Croon out of sight ; Flaming through curtain-clouds, the sun is shining, In gold and crimson wrapping sea and shore; While she a subtle sorrow sits refining In her heart's core. O empty home ! O dim and dismal chamber ! O vacant chair, and book he left half-read ! O all the tender past, she can remember, Seared now and dead. And from that dead past points a warning finger Bidding her 'ware of that which she loves most, And on its silent lips the words yet linger Love and be lost! KILDROSTAN. 29 SCENE The Manse Library. INA (alone). Ina. What could it be ? what could he mean ? Ah me I That half-told tale, just broken off where all The mystery was deepest, and the secret Now left to mere conjecture ! All that night My love did comfort me ; that was not wrong; God dropt it in my cup to sweeten it, And I was grateful for it, and I thought That it would comfort him too : so I told him. But he said, " No ; you must not love him, child ; Evil will come of it ; I should have told you " But when he would have told me, I could hear Only a whispered " Doris," and some sounds But half-articulate; and then the awe Of the dread change, the veil impalpable, Inscrutable, came over him, and he Carried the secret with him to the grave, And I may ask, but can no answer have. They talk of spiritual forms that float, unseen, Around our lives, and hands that feel" about us, And write on tables messages that mean Nothing or anything just as we wish. But these are bubbles which the stream of thought, Fretting against its limits and obstructions, 3 o KILDROSTAN. ACT Throws up in its dark eddies. There's nought in them. What though my father haunted this old room Where he kept company with other spirits, Wise in their day, embodied in these books So fondly read? Yet if he spoke to me I should not know if it were he that spoke, Or my own fancy : and what were I the better Of such a presence, if it only hovered Silently in the unresponsive air, And knowing all, could give no help at all, Or speaking out, could work no faith at all? Better for him "the better mansions" he So loved to speak of, and not worse for me. The misery is the silence; and the silence Is never broken. Death can hold its peace, Let life go wailing onward as it may. Ah me ! the mystery of it ! all is dark ; Our little thoughts fly forth like gleaming sparks, Hammered from our hot hearts, and straightway die In the blank dark. What meant that half-told tale, And whispered " Doris " ? Enter MORAG. Morag. Ina, shall I bring The lamp now ? In the gathering dusk of gloaming Our thoughts grow eerie, for their shadows look Even bigger than themselves. i. KILDROSTAN. 3 [ Ina. Nay, this is best; Fittest the sombre light for sombre thought The glimmer of a day that is no more To brood upon the loved that are no more. No lamp yet, Morag. Morag. Ina, you are wrong To nurse this sad and melancholy mood, To dream all day in settled loneliness, To pass, untasted, dishes from the table, To see no callers coming in all kindness, To sit with folded hands and do no work, To look with blank fixed gaze at these old books, Yet reading ne'er a word, nor reading right God's providence, but hardly judging Him Because He does the best for us He can; And that's not much. The very stags that sicken Casting their horns, yet make their profit of them, Eating them up to make their bones the starker, As we should with our troubles. Ina. Leave me then To feed upon my sorrows, and in truth They are hard eating. 32 KILDROSTAN. ACT Morag. And you'll find it easier To pity yourself than to find out God's meaning, Who throws His letters down, that we may put This one to that, and turn them into words. Ina. Indeed, I am not pitying myself; But the brisk current of my life is fallen A-slushing among reeds and rushes. Morag. What, then, Has come of all your schemes for righting wrong Among the Crofters and the Fisher folk? Ina. Dreams, idle dreams ! vain dreams of fond conceit, As fruitless as the dew-drops that are strung On gossamer threads o' chill October mornings. I am an idle and a useless maid That heard the far-off rumour of the world Beyond these hills, and hoped to plant its thoughts Among the heather, where they will not grow. Morag. There's to be no more school, then, for the women, To train them for their house-work, and to keep them From bearing burdens women should not bear, And dragging harrows too, like horses? I. KILDROSTAN. 33 Inct. Truly They would not heed me, neither men nor women : It was the way their fathers did; why should the}' Change the old customs ? Morag. And the new stone-pier That was to make safe harbourage for the boats ? - Ina. Waits till the lads are drowned, for they would rather The people went away. They told me girls Should mind their seams, and practise at their scales, Not meddle with men's matters. Morag. But the chief? Will he do nothing? Ina. That I do not know : They say he is not rich, save in a kind And generous heart. And O, the heart can do So little, except wish. Morag. You give up hope then ? 34 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. Morag, you've seen the Loch, on some still evening, Mirror each stone, and twig, and tuft of fern, And orange lichen on the rock, so clear That which was substance, which was only shadow You scarce could tell, till suddenly a breeze Would blur it all, and there was nothing left But dim confusion. So it is with me now. Once every thing looked plain to me, and truly I did not well distinguish what was fact And what was only fancy, and now all Is like those shadows gone. My heart misgives me Since he has left me. Morag, But why should it fail you? Ina. I did neglect plain duties here at home, And therefore met but failure out of doors, And now I have no duties, and no home. Morag. Ina, your heart is low, as one will be Who sits down in a mist instead of stirring To keep the blood warm. Were you up and doing You would be brisk and hopeful. Are you meaning To live now with your uncle? I. KILDROSTAN. 35 Ina. Wherefore not? Morag. They say there is no Sabbath in his house. Ina. Well; we could bring it with us. Morag. But they tell me It's like a devil's Sabbath, or a Fair With guzzling, clinking glasses, barking dogs, And cursing drovers. Ina. Nay, he is not strict, As we are here; but that can hardly be. Morag. And no one thinks of God but the black man Who keeps an idol cross-legged, like a tailor, Sitting upon a cow. Ina. Mere gossip, Morag; But truly I am not enamoured of My uncle's house, and sometimes I have thought 'Twere best if you and I could ran away, And find some simple home, and have a roof For Kenneth till his student days are past. 36 K1LDROSTAN. ACT Perhaps a woman has no fitter task Than just to help a man to do his work. Morag. Ina, I have dreaded you would go To that old heathen, and I could not do it, And yet I could not leave you. But to live With you and the boy Kenneth ! I will haste, And write my cousin to look out for us A house beside the college. Ina. Nay, there is No hurry, Morag; nothing yet is clear. Morag. Pity that Lochs and Hills and Maids should be So fickle ! It would be a happier world If they could know their own minds half-an-hour. But that they never do. Ina. Enough of me : There is no armour but it has its joints, And where the joints are there the arrow sticks, And you who know me best know where to seek My weakest points : and maybe I am fickle. You cannot think more poorly of me than 1 think myself. KILDROSTAN. 37 Morag. I don't think poorly of you, Although I see your faults. Why will you shut The door to every caller, and sit here As lonely as a seal in some sea-cave, Or heron dreaming by a moorland burn ? Ina. You would not have me lay aside my grief, Which has its healing virtue, for the set Phrases of cold condolence? Who has called? Morag. Well; first there was Miss Doris. Ina. Do not speak Of Doris. When the heart is at its best, And all its finer feelings tremulous With some emotion it is bliss to feel, There are some people mostly women too Who touch the spring of what is worst in you, As when you dream a happy dream, and lo ! A hideous face leers on you. Morag. Well; I say not That you lost much by sending her away ; She's like a wasp whose drone has little sense, 38 KILDROSTAN. ACT But its striped tail can sting. But then My Lady Was with her. Ina. Ay ! they always are together ; The more's the pity. Can she have some hold On Lady Margaret? I've marked of late A change in her a kind of frightened look And pleading way, and hesitating speech, As if she would, but dared not. Could I think Of aught but my own troubles, she would be A care to me. Morag. But, Ina, you should think Of other things ; for thinking of yourself Is hardly thought at all: and when your head Gives over puzzling, you will surely be Just like the larch that, when it dies a-top, Begins to die all through, and we may dig A new grave in Isle-Monach. After them, We had a call too from the English ladies At Corrie-Eylert. Ina. O, they came to note My way, my looks, and specially my dress, And to retail the gossip as they went Their round among the neighbours. i. KTLDROSTAN. 39 Morag. Let me tell you Folks' hearts are often better than their habits : They're sorry for you, but that's not enough, Because you are so sorry for yourself. Jna. That's a hard saying, Morag. Can you think My grief is for myself, and not for him Whom I have lost? Morag. Why should you grieve for him, Because he is in heaven, and has no care Of writing sermons now, and is not so Dead-weary of himself as when he sat There at his table, scratching with a quill To make words do what only thoughts can do. Ina. Hush, Morag; 'tis not meet that you should speak, Or I should hear such words. He was my father. You do not understand you never did; And O I am so lonely. Morag. You were nearly As lonely while he lived as you are now. If he had ever, like a father, watched 40 KILDROSTAN. ACT What books you read, what thoughts they bred in you, What hours you kept, what friends you had, if any, What schemes were shaping in your busy head, Or even how you dressed ! But you might go With any one, and anywhere, in rags, And he would never notice. And yourself Have told me that he scarcely heeded aught But Firstly, except Secondly and Lastly; Write, writing, every day and all day long. Ina. I will not hear you, Morag, this is cruel, At such a time. If I was malapert, 'Twere fitter to rebuke than second me. Moreover, when I said that, 'twas not he I blamed, for he was good O so much better Than I and still with conscience made his life A sacrifice to duty, offering up The sweetness and the gladness of it all To what his office claimed of him. It was The exigency of mistaken work, The rigour of a wrong idea planted In a true heart that never spared itself, Made me so speak. But yet I spake amiss, And rightly now am humbled. Pardon me, Dear father, that I judged you wantonly In petulance of youth. I had no mother. KILDROSTAN. 41 Scold me well, Ina; it will do you good. I thought to rouse, and I have only crushed you Nay, spare me not, an old conceited fool ! Only you are my bairn. Jna. There ; go away. I daresay you meant well, but there are sores May not be touched but with a skilful hand, Not with rough loving even. You think I pity Myself! I hate myself, when I remember The failure of my duty and my love To him : and yet the burden of my sorrow Is bound on me by what is best in me, And when I part from it my good departs, Therefore I clasp it to my heart of hearts. CHORUS. Ah me ! but it is hard to hear The echo of your own wrong thought Which you were fain had been forgot, Come jarring back upon your ear, Come jarring back upon your heart, And smite it with a keen remorse, When you would shape a better course, And hope to play a nobler part. 4 2 KILDROSTAN. ACT There, day by day, his hand would write New sermons, but the thought was old Fresh-minting the same brass or gold, And careful but to coin it right; For with unshaken confidence He stood upon the old safe ground, And turned the problem round and round, And still brought out the same old sense, And hoped the world to overcome By rounding periods; and she said That it would be by sleep instead O better that she had been dumb ! For now it all came back again, The scratching of the patient quill, The paper that he needs must fill, All changed into a choking pain. ACT FIRST. SCENE FOURTH CHORUS. All from the many-moulded door On to the three-cusped window high, I. KILDROSTAN. 43 Every stone on the pavement floor Marks where the chiefs and their kinsmen lie- Dark slabs carved with the great Cross-sword, And the fish, and the galley, with scrolls all round, And dim-lettered texts from the Holy Word; But all in the damp moss swathed and bound. One sidewall long had in ruins lain, And O but the carved work mouldered fast 'Neath the suns, and the frosts, and the driving rain, And the tread of time as it hastens past, And the seeds of life, and the wrath of man Casting down that which is fair to see, Some day to -grieve that he never can Bring back the glory that wont to be. There at the head of the late filled grave Sadly a youth and a maiden stood, And only the lap of the rippling wave Broke on the hush of their solitude; Beautiful she, but as marble white, And looked like a monument planted there, Till a broad beam of the garish light Smote with a glory her golden hair. 44 KILDROSTAN. ACT SCENE Isle-Monach. INA and KENNETH. Ina. Thanks, Kenneth. Now, I want to be alone. Come back for me an hour hence. Kenneth. Yes, Miss Ina; It is good to be here; yes, for there are Good thoughts among the graves, and in the Islands ; Better than in the towns. Ina. What kind of thoughts ? Kenneth. Well ; dreams of peace, and memories of gladness ; And dreams and memories are all we have To live on in the Highlands. Ina. You are sad ; What ails you, Kenneth? Kenneth. O these thoughts will come When nothing ails you, as the clouds do when The sun is brightest. You will not stay long? Ina. No : but an hour is not too long to mourn For a dead Father. KILDROSTAN. 45 Kenneth. Yet it may be, Miss, Too long to be alone here. For these isles Are hollowed by sea-caves, and when you sit Musing alone, and hear the water rushing Around you, and beneath, it makes your breath Come quick with fancies. I had once a cousin Passed but a night on such an isle, and he Nigh lost his wits ere morning, for he thought That every streak of mist, and gleam of moonshine Pointed and mowed and mocked and laughed at him, So weird-like was the feeling of the place. Ina. nonsense, Kenneth. Are you superstitious Like all the rest and you a scholar too? But I am not like you a poet, born To see the unseen, and feel a pulse of life Beating in brooks and rocks and sandy shores. You lost a friend in him who now sleeps here. Kenneth. 1 lost my hope in life. Ina. Nay, say not so : We've not so many here among our hills With the rare gift of genius, and the love Of letters, and of all things beautiful, 46 KILDROSTAN. ACT That we should let them pine away for lack Of needful culture. I am almost sure My uncle will do as my father did, And send you still to College. How is Mairi? Kenneth. Mairi is gone to Doris Cattanach, And lost to me. Ina. Ah ! that explains your gloom ; You have fallen out, and hence your thoughts are sad. But how should she be lost to you because She's with her cousin? Kenneth. Can a maiden be With Doris, and remain what I have dreamed? Can the thaw come, and footsteps tread the snow, And broad wheels grind it down, and leave it still As when the white flakes trembled down from heaven ? Ina. Kenneth, I fear that we are hard on her, We judge a stranger by our home-bred ways. Who, maybe, walks by other rule of right. I blame myself at times. Kenneth. And so did I, I. KILDROSTAN. 47 Miss Ina, when I heard that she had taken Mairi to be with her. I said like you Perhaps 'tis we that have not understood her. And she has ta'en my little maid to make A lady of her, as you take a wild-flower, And plant it in a garden to enrich Its life and beauty. So I went to thank her. Ina. And found your Mairi still your pretty wild-flower. Only with brighter hues. Kenneth. I found her not At all. She is too grand to see me now ; And Doris only mocked me. Ina. Nay, in that You surely are mistaken. She's a lady. Kenneth. And I am but a fisher lad. But you Shall judge yourself. There w r as a little song A trifle like the shelfa's short bright note Which I had writ for Mairi once to sing, And loved it, for my very soul was in it. Mairi had sung it in the great house there, And Doris made a comic rhyme of it, And said it over to me very clever, 48 KILDROSTAN. ACT And funny, but there was no heart in it; Yet it was like my own O very like; Only the soul was gone. Ina. Ah ! that was cruel ; But Mairi did not know of it, be sure. Kenneth. Do you think so ? Ina. Nay, I am certain of it. She is a girl whom neither wealth nor arts will Turn from the bent of truth. KcnnctJi. Thank you for that. Ina. Let nothing shake your trust in her. Be sure Suspicion murders love, and from its death Come anguish and remorse. Kenneth. I will remember. Ina. And, Kenneth, when you make yourself a name, As I am sure you will do, for your songs Are like the murmur of the running brooks. Or like the wind that breathes upon the woods. And from each tree evokes a separate note i. KILDROSTAN. 49 To make the woodland harmony, and all So simple and true that they must touch men's hearts Then you will do this, Kenneth : you will make These fisher's homes, which you do know so well, Dear to the world by your recital of The patience and the pathos of their lives, The tragedies enacted on the sea, And hunger of the body and soul alike Where bread and books are scarce. Kenneth. That I will, Miss; But you, we looked to you to help us? Ina. Nay, That is all past and gone. Kenneth. Why is it gone? Ina. This is a man's work ; I have been a failure ; And made his last days lonely whom I loved, And did no good to any one, and now My way of life must needs be far from these Gray rocks and lochs and isles. Ah ! Enter SIR DIARMID. Sir Diarmid. How now, Kenneth? 5 o KILDROSTAN. ACT I thought you never left your books except To trim the boat, and set the lines. Kenneth. To-day, sir, I had to row Miss Ina to Isle-Monach. Was it an hour you said, Miss? Sir Diarmid. Going now? Well, do not trouble to bring back the boat; I'll see Miss Ina home. Kenneth. Yes, sir. Sir Diarmid. Good-bye ! [Exit KENNETH. Ina, forgive me that I followed you Into your still retreat. I saw the boat Making the cove behind the mussel-crag, And could not help it. What a wealth of beauty Gathers around these mouldering abbey walls, Draped with pale lichens, and with graceful tufts Of small-leaved ferns, and lovingly embraced By the ivy, which they once upheld, that now With reverence dutiful sustains and brightens Their sad and tottering age. What cunning hand Carved these dark tombstones with their pregnant symbols KILDROSTAN. 5.1 That speak a braver faith than skulls and cross-bones And Time with scythe and hour-glass? You were right ; Our fathers had an Art and a Religion, A sense of beauty and a hope in God, Nobler than ours. Do you come often here? Ina. Sometimes. O yes, the isle is very lovely; And yet I love it more for what it hides Than for the grace that hides it. Sir Diarmid. Ah ! I know. Forgive me. You would rather be alone. Ina. Nay, it is I should beg to be forgiven : The place is yours; but yet it holds my dead Along with yours. Sir ftiarmid* And living as well as dead, Our races soon shall mingle once again; Shall they not, Ina? It is not so long Since the two streams were parted. Ina. Yes; I know. Sir Diarmid. Yes ! may I take that for my answer then ? 52 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. Nay, do not wrest my words. I only meant That we were once of the same stock, and still, After our kindly Highland way, the river Scorns not the stream that left to turn the mill And grind the meal. Sir Diarmid. But gladly welcomes back The mill-race to its bosom, having been A shallow and a stony brook without it. Ina, you will make an empty life Once more a flowing river full and glad. Ina. This is no time or place for thoughts like these; 1 blame myself for listening, standing here Where I should know but sorrow. Sir Diarmid. Why should you Know only sorrow here or anywhere, Who bring such joy to others? When a wave, Broken and spent, ebbs back, what should it do But mingle with the new wave flowing in, And swell its volume? Should not love for him, then, Whom you have lost now blend with other love. And make an undivided absolute bliss, To fill and glad our life? Yet it is true, i. KILDROSTAN. This place is all too sombre; let us hence, And get the sunshine round us as within. Ina. But there's no sunshine in me. I am truly A most unhappy maid; and what was said Must be as if it never had been said. Sir Diarmid. You cannot mean it. Ina. What is wrong? Do you not love me still? Ina, Do I not love you? Sir Diarmid. Yet you can speak thus calmly of unsaying All we have said. Ina. If it is best for you : I cannot cease to love you while I live ; Yet I can live, and have no hope in love. Sir Diarmid. If it is best for me ! But it's not best ; It is the worst and bitterest could befall me. What is it, Ina? Something troubles you. You used to be a leal, true-hearted girl, And frank and brave and not fantastical. Have I done aught to vex you ? 53 54 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. No, indeed; You have not changed to me nor I to you ; I never trusted you as now I do; Nor felt before how desolate life will be Without you. Yet I came here now to make. Over his grave, a vow that we must part, Which well may be the breaking of one heart. Sir Diannid. Nay, but of two hearts if it come to that. Yet why should any hearts be broken, Ina? Ina. Listen : we had not told him of our Love Sir Diarmid. It was his sudden illness, not my will That kept me silent. Ina. Yes, indeed, I know : But when he lay a-dying, I bethought me, Not witting that the end could be so near, That it might comfort him to know our bliss; And it is bliss, whatever come of it. But O ! instead of comforting, it made A stormy bar across the river-mouth Of life to him, and trouble and alarm. I. KILDROSTAN. 55 Sir Diarmid. But why? Ina. He muttered, meaning to explain, Something but it was half-articulate And all I heard was " Doris." Sir Diarmid. Doris, said you? Well, now my heart is light again, and I Could laugh like children at a pantomime. Why, how could Doris come between us two? Ina. I cannot tell; only he named her name. Sir Diarmid. But what has Doris Cattanach to do With us and with our love? And do you mean, Ina, that you could give me up to her? Ina. That would be hard. Sir Diarmid. I'd sooner mate me with A cloud, cram-full of lightning, hail, and thunder, Or wed a polar bear, and sail away Upon an ice-berg. Think no more of this : Perhaps he did not hear you right, or else The mind was wandering, as it often does On the dim verge of life. 56 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. Nay, he said plainly, " It must not be ; you must not love him." Sir Diarmid. Well; But that's past helping, Ina. Ina. Yes, I know. But yet his broken words left this whole thought Clear in my mind, it would work harm to you, And that through Doris somehow. I am sure That was his meaning. Sir Diarmid. Well, it is a riddle That puzzles me to solve. Shall we then shape Our lives by their hard puzzles ? Ina. No indeed; But yet it would be selfish if I shrank From a plain duty for the pain it costs, Or clung to that which would bring hurt to you. Sir Diarmid. But what would hurt me most were losing you. Ina. Ah ! life is very hard. i. KILDROSTAN. 57 Sir Diarmid. Nay, life with love Is just the very best thing that I know. Now think no more of this. Ina. If I were only More worthy of you ! Sir Diarmid. Let me judge of that : You rate yourself too humbly : it is I Should have my doubts of being meet for you ; And yet I think Fate meant us for each other. Ina. But if I were to be a burden to you. Sir Diarmid. I want that very burden, cannot rise Without it to the heights where I would soar, More than the kite without its load of tail. Come, Ina, cast these fears away, and speak As on that happiest day of life to me When first our lips were framed to tell our love, And you did paint for us a restful home Amid a busy life, like this old house, What time the monks lived in it, and the folk Learnt of them letters, arts, and piety. 5 8 KILDROSTAN. ACT You have a dainty fancy, and it made A pretty picture. Ina. But it was not fancy. O Diarmid, you may do a great work here Where work is greatly needed. Sir Diarmid. Could I take To work as much as sport, and had your help, Perhaps I might. Ina. Nay, do not .think of me ; You need no help but what their love provides. The people live in memories of the past, And all their happiest memories cluster round Those of your name and you. They may be stiff To men of alien blood, at times even false ; But you have but to say, and they will do, For all their hearts are yours. O if you knew them, And their pathetic faithfulness of love, Rooted in ages past. Sir Diarmid. There, now; 'tis good To hear you speaking once more like yourself, A Highland maiden for her clan and chief. I. KILDROSTAN. 59 I love the people, and at first, I think, I loved you for the love you bore to them. But yet the task is hard. Ina. That I know well, For I have failed. And yet the hindrances To good and noble action mostly lie In our own bosoms. Sir Diarmid. May be. But the clergy, They hold the place which once the chieftain held, And what have they made of it? Ina. They have made A patient, orderly, and pious people, According to their light. But they have not The place of eminence and influence, Which love has kept for you. Besides, our age, The more its spirit is religious, cleaves The more to secular forms, and will not take Its shape from priests. Sir Diarmid. But you will help me, Ina? Will be my inspiration if I try it? 60 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. What other inspiration can you need Than to redress old wrongs, and help the growth Of civil polity, and self-control, And homes made glad by fruitful industry, And to be compassed round by all men's love? Sir Diarmid. There ; every word you say but shows me more How much I need you. I am not a hero; Only a Highland laird, as indolent As all men are whose life is passed in sport. Ina. And I but a weak woman; I can do So little. And their life is an old growth Of time a heritage of history, Not shaped by their intention, nor to be Fashioned, at once, by our new modes of thinking. Sir Diarmid. Now, say not you are weak. There's nought so strong As a clear-sighted woman. You shall even Do with me as you will, when I may hold This little hand in mine, and call it mine. Ina. O Diarmid, are we right? My father's words His last words, mind I. KILDROSTAN. 61 Sir Diarmid. Were something about Doris : And would you give me up to her? Ina. No, truly. [Exeunt. CHORUS. What has come over the sunshine? It is like a dream of bliss. What has come over the pine-woods? Was ever a day like this? O white-throat swallow flicking The loch with long wing-tips, Hear you the low sweet laughter Comes rippling from its lips? What has come over the waters? What has come over the trees? Never were rills and fountains So merrily voiced as these. throstle softly piping High on the topmost bough, 1 hear a new song singing, Is it my heart, or thou? 62 KILDROSTAN. ACT ACT SECOND. SCENE FIRST. CHORUS. Fond of shooting, fishing, hunting, Sound of bagpipe, drum, or fife, Yacht and sail and flying bunting All the ways of savage life ; Sick of clubs and jolly fellows, Play and pantomime and clown, Novels bound in blues and yellows- All the idle ways of town ; Tired of all the strife of Parties. Solemn dinners, routs, and drums, Public meetings where no heart is, And a chairman haws and hums ; What shall youth do when the river Has no pools where salmon lie, II. KILDROSTAN. And the sun is shining ever, And the trouting streams are dry, And the grouse-cock gaily crowing Fears not either dog or gun, And the partridge broods are growing, While the com grows in the sun? Weary he of fly and feather, Weapon shining on the shelf, Weary of unchanging weather, Weary maybe of himself; For he was not meant for daily Bringing basket full or bag, Shooting grouse or capercailzie, Stalking of the timid stag. What shall he do, weary-laden, If in such a vacant hour He shall happen on a maiden Lovely as a sweet wild-flower, With a noble nature truly, Pointing him to noble deeds, Plucking up the thoughts unruly Growing in his mind like weeds, Opening to his soul a grander Life than he has lived before, As among the hills they wander, Or beside the grey sea-shore? .63 64 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ah ! the passion, all-constraining, That now lifts his heart above Vacant mood and vain complaining, Lapt in bliss of early love ! SCENE KUdrostan. SIR DIARMID and LADY MACALPINE. Sir Diarmid (singing). "To Norroway, to Norroway, To Norroway owre the faem." Lady MacAlpine. Why do you sing that ballad ? My old heart Goes pit-a-pat to hear it; like the merle That sees a gled o'erhead. Surely you are not Tired of me yet. Sir Diarmid. Nay, mother, not of you ; You're always pleasant company but somewhat A-weary of the weather which is bad, Being so good, and of myself a little, And of the world in general. Lady MacAlpiue. Don't be silly. ii. KILDROSTAN. 65 Sir Diarmid. I think I never was more sensible, But to be sensible is to be dull ; All sensible folk are tiresome. Have you heard That ever any of our ancestors Mingled their blue blood with a gipsy witch's? Lady Mac Alpine. What do you mean, goose? Sir Diarmid. Only this, that I Am rather of their roving disposition, And with the first crisp bursting of the leaf, Or even while buds are only reddening yet On the bare boughs, and primrose banks are bare, Begin to feel a stirring in my veins, As if I must be off into the woods, And hang a kettle on a tripod o'er A fire of sticks, and steal my own young hares. Yet here is half the summer past, and still I'm at the chimney nook. Had I not been A baronet, I should have been a poacher In shabby velveteen, and had a lurcher Close at my heels, and half my days in jail, And half i' the moors and woods. I wonder we Can hate them so, they are so like ourselves. 66 KILDROSTAN. ACT Lady Mac Alpine. Don't talk so idly, boy; you let your tongue Run off with what small sense you have. Sir Diarmid. But how About that gipsy, mother? I am sure There must have been one in our family tree. Was she dropt from it as a rotten branch, Or christened Lady Margaret Merrilees, Or Honourable Gertrude Jenny Faa Of Hedgerow Elms, in Thieveshire ? Lady MacAtpine. Hold your peace. Your ancestors were noble and high-born, And mated with the best blood of the land. Sir Diarmid. Well, mother, do not frown at me; I do But jest, and yet it was a foolish jest, The birth of vacant brains. Having nought to do, I've seen you bring old rubbish from your drawers Scraps of brown lace, housewifes, and baby linen, Buttons, old dingy letters, battered thimbles And litter all the room with them ; and I ii. KILDROSTAN. 67 Being idle, throw the rubbish of my mind About me too, and sorry stuff it is. Lady Mac Alpine. Well, well ; you might find matter for your jests Fitter than those to whom you owe your being. But now you'll stay at home. 'Tis weary waiting Alone in my old age. Sir Diarmid. Old age ! why, you Are younger in my eyes and handsomer Than half the girls I meet. My little mother, You never can grow old, your heart's so young, While they are old i' their teens. Yet I must come, Only I would not leave you quite alone. Lady MacAlpine. But wherefore must you go? Sir Diarmid. A promise, mother ; Far rather would I be at home with you, And after this I mean to spend my days In sheer respectability, and go Duly to Church, and play the justice too, And lecture rogues and vagabonds, and sit On Boards, and manage every one's affairs, 68 KILDROSTAN. ACT Like a true Chief. But there's a College friend Who worships Thor and Odin, when he tires Of Zeus and Aphrodite and Apollo ; And I had promised he should see the land Of Vikings and Berserkars, and the Fiords From which their galleys oared to seek adventures. So now he writes me he is coming here To-day, and I must get the old yawl in trim, And see if she will float to Norroway. Lady MacAlpine. A friend who worships Odin ! Why, the man Must be a pagan. Sir Diarmid. Well ; he rather is A something of a pagan and a poet, Yet no bad fellow, either, in his way. He will not sacrifice the sheep or kids Or horses; being aesthetic, he will be Content with fruits and flowers and wine-libations. Lady MacAlpine. What do you mean ? Is that what young men learn At College now? Sir Diarmid. Yes ; some of them prefer Boating or boxing, cricketing or hunting, II. KILDROSTAN. 69 Lawn-tennis, or to drive a four-in-hand. But the more studious mostly spend their terms Seeking for a religion. Lady MacAlpine. Now you jest; I know it by your look : As if young men Could leave their parent's homes without religion ! Why let this mocking fiend ironical Cover your better thought? Sir Diarmid. I do not mock. It may be that they bring up from their homes Their cradle-faiths, but they are stript quite bare Ere many months pass. And besides, a man May wish new clothes, who is not wholly naked, May feel he has outgrown his baby robes, May be ashamed too of his rustic fit, And fain to dress his soul in the last fashion, And wear it jauntily. So we are grown To be a sort of dandies in religion, Affecting the last mode. At present, we Incline to Pagan cults, but are not sure Whether is best the Greek or the Barbarian : While some prefer pure Atheism to both, And will have neither soul, nor other life, 70 KTLDROSTAN. ACT Nor anything but organized dust Which lives its day, and on the morrow is Moral manure enriching other lives. Lady MacAlpine. Diarmid, you have not lost your faith? Sir Diarmid. Well, no; I have not found a better than my mother Sung o'er my cradle. Lady MacAlpine. That is well. Pray heaven You hold to that. I hear such dreadful things About our young men now; and even the girls Chatter half-atheism with as brisk an air As if it were new ribbons they discussed. There's Ina Lome reads books would make my hair To stand on end. Sir Diarmid. No fear of Ina, mother; Her heart's all right. And that reminds me now, It was of her I meant to speak. She is Alone in that dull house, and for a while You too will be alone : why should you not Have her with you to cheer your solitude? II. KILDROSTAN. 7 1 We are her kinsfolk, and I've heard you say She makes a good day in a drizzling rain. Lady MacAlpine. She sees no visitors, keeps her room, and claims The privilege of sorrow to be rude. Sir Diarmid. Nay, mother, rude she cannot be, and least Of all to you. Lady MacAlpine. Well, no : but what means this This new-born care for cousins who would scarce Count kin save in the Highlands ? You're not wont To speak so warmly of them. Sir Diarmid. That is true; For some are bores, and some are gossips born, And some are butterflies, and some are wasps, And some are geese. But Ina's not like them. Lady MacAlpine. No ; but she's somewhat flighty, is she not ? Sir Diarmid. How mean you ? 7 2 KILDROSTAN. ACT Lady Mac Alpine. Well, she always has some new Enthusiasm some pet scheme or other, To remedy the lot of our poor folk, Which yet is ne'er the better for it. Sir Diarmid. Yes! Maybe ; and yet one likes her all the more ; For if it be a fault, at least it's not A common fault among our Highlanders. We're not enthusiasts for the people's rights ; More shame to us that she is so alone ! Lady MacAlpine. But, Diarmid, what will Doris say to it? They have not taken kindly to each other. Sir Diarmid. Why, what has she to do with it? Lady MacAlpine. She'll think It is her place to keep me company, And will resent to see another here. Sir Diarmid. Why should it be her place? and why should she Resent your choice of Ina? And indeed That girl is too much with you. ii. KILDROSTAN. 73 Lady Mac Alpine. But the time Draws near ; and you must first arrange with her Before you go. Sir Diarmid. What time ? what do you mean ? What is there to arrange with her ? O yes ! About her shootings I will see to that. Lady Mac Alpine. Her shootings ! nonsense : 'tis about herself. Sir Diarmid. Now, mother, you are many fathoms deeper Than my line goes. Lady MacAlpine. Did not your father tell you, As he lay dying, how things stood between Doris and you ? Sir Diarmid. Well; he was very fain That I should wed her some day, and I promised For that I saw his heart was set on it That I would try to love her if I could, And wed her if I loved her, which I cannot. 74 KILDROSTAN. ACT Lady Mac Alpine. And was that all? was there no sterner hint Of hard necessity? Sir Diarmid. There was no more. Lady MacAlpine. this is cruel, laying it on me To blur a father's memory. But you promised To love her, and you'll keep your promise. Sir Diarmid. What Troubles you, mother? You are strangely moved. 1 said that I would love her if I could, And I tried hard, but she would never let me. Even as a girl she always spited me, Threw stones into the pool where I was angling, Tore down the nests I watched with tender care, And rode my pony till she foundered him, Cruel as well as spiteful. Lady MacAlpine. A spoilt child With that hot Indian blood in her untamed ; But unripe fruit is bitter oft i' the mouth, Yet mellows with the months. ii. KILDROSTAN. 75 Sir Diarmid. But has she mellowed? I could not bear to leave you here with her ; And Ina too so lonely. Lady Mac Alpine. Never fear ; We shall do nicely. And for Ina, when You make your nest here in the old family tree, 'Twere well to feather it softly, not to plant A thorn there for your mate. Sir Diarmid. But Ina's not A thorn. She's never sharp, and never stings Like Doris. Lady MacAlpine. Dear, I do not understand Why you should harp on Ina. Let her be. Her uncle's house, of course, will be her home \ He's rich and solitary. If you have nothing Against poor Doris but her childish freaks, Would you for them neglect your dying father's So earnest wish? Sir Diarmid. Nay, not for them alone. Mother, no man, that is a man, would care 7 6 KILDROSTAN. ACT To catalogue a lady's blemishes; To say, I cannot love her for her pride, Yet love her less in her humility; When she is bitter, I cannot abide her, And yet I loathe her more, when she is sweet. Ask me no more ; indeed, I tried and failed : Besides, I cannot offer to a market That does not want my wares. Lady Mac Alpine. There I am sure You are mistaken, for she likes you, Diarmid. Sir Diarmid. Then 'tis a liking that I do not like, And never shall. Were Doris the one Eve In all the world, I'd rather, for my share, The thorns and briars outside, and leave her Eden All to herself, than company with her. Have I not seen you frown with mingled shame And anger at her reckless speech? for still Her thoughts go naked, and are not ashamed ; Yet not from innocence. You love her not, And would not like, I think, to sit on nettles What time my wife opened her mouth to speak. Lady MacAlpine. I know she has her faults so have we all : ii. KILDROSTAN. 77 But you might help to mend them. And O Diarmid, It must be. Sir Diarmid. What must be? And also why Must it so be? You speak in riddles to me. Lady MacAlpine. Diarmid, you love your father's memory; Would you not rather suffer any loss Than part with that? Sir Diarmid. Indeed I would. But who Can take from me the picture of his goodness, Hung in the inmost chamber of my heart, As men set up a holy altar-piece For worship. That he was mistaken about This girl, harms not his memory to me. Lady MacAlpine. Ah me ! I wot not what to do. This task Should never have been left to me. I tell you You have no choice but marry Doris now. Sir JDiarmid. I have no choice, for I have made my choice, And would not have her, mother, if she brought A kingdom for her dower. 7 8 KILDROSTAN. ACT Lady MacAlpine. Nay, hear me; let Me tell the sorry tale. Your father, Diarmid, 'Tis hard to unveil the faults of those we love, When death has hallowed love in his hot youth Had wasted his estate with cards and dice ; But when he won my hand, which brought much wealth, He promised ne'er to gamble while he lived. Happy our life was while he kept his word ! Nor did he break the letter of it ever, Only the spirit, cheating conscience so With words depleted of their natural sense. Then came this Malcolm Cattanach from India, A widower, with one child, and very rich : He had been born a crofter in Glenara, Was a contractor and a money-lender, And there were strange things whispered about him I know not with what truth, of course, but men Were shy of him who had been in the East, As many here had been. But 'tis too much ; I cannot go on with it. Sir Diarmid. Quite right, mother; Let Doris and her dubious father drop Out of your mind; they only give you pain. ii. K1LDROSTAN. 79 Lady Mac Alpine. Would that were possible ! I must tell you all, Howe'er it wring my heart. He settled near us In the next glen, and lived a sumptuous life, Costly, luxurious, though his ways were coarse, And with a splendour of colour hardly fitting The sober grey of our dim Highland glens. Your father took to him, although he laughed At the peach-coloured liveries, praised his talent, Quoted his sayings, hankered to be rich, And live like him; and they were closeted Often for hours together. Until then, He never had a secret thought from me ; But now he kept me in the dark, and that Wounded and wronged my love. It soon appeared This clever, scheming man had led him on Who knew no more than I to speculate In foreign loans, and mines, and for the rise And fall of markets ; and he, all unskilled To watch the turns o' the tide, bought in too soon, And sold too late, and gambled all away. Ah me ! the weary days ! the anxious looks ! The fretful temper ! and the settled gloom With the fell crash at last! 8o KILDROSTAN. ACT Sir Diarmid. But why recall This story now, since, after all, we have Enough for all our wants ? What need to, cry O'er our spilt milk, when all our pails are full, And the cow yields as ever? Lady MacAlpine. Wait a bit; One day he told me that my all was gone, And I, like you, said lightly, Never mind; We have the old home still, and our old love, Which none can rob us of. But therewithal, He only looked the gloomier, and cursed Himself, his friend, and all the ravenous crew Of jobbers and promoters. Then I said, Now, let us have no secrets ; that has been The worst of all our losses, the decay Of that full trust that made us one indeed. Perhaps a woman's wit may find a way To mend things, or to bear them. I was sore At his concealment, sorer than I said, For empty heart is worse than empty purse, And mine had been made vacant by neglect. But when I found that Malcolm Cattanach Had led him on and on, till every acre ir. KILDROSTAN. Sx And every stone o' the house, and every right Of fishing, shooting, mining, were in bond To him for moneys lent and lost, my heart Utterly failed me. Sir Diarmid. Are we beggars, then, On Doris' charity? Lady MacAlpine. Scarcely yet. I have My jointure, and I got a legacy After your father's death. Not otherwise Could you have gone to College. Sir Diarmid. Had I known this, I would not so have wasted all these years In idleness, that might have yielded fruit For wintry days. Lady MacAlpine. I thought your father told you. But that's not all. There is another bond, 82 KILDROSTAN. ACT That if you claim her hand ere you have passed Your four and twenty years, then she and all Her gathered wealth are yours. Sir Diarmid. How, if I fail ? Lady Mac Alpine. That will be very ruin. Sir Diarmid. One word more. What, if I ask, and she refuse my hand ? Lady Mac Alpine. To punish her he gives you back the land. But she will not refuse. Sir Diarmid. I daresay not. 'Tis a hard case. Has Doris known all this? Lady MacAlpine. Yes, years ago. Sir Diarmid. Ah I that accounts for much. I must have time to think. ii. KILDROSTAN. 83 Lady MacAlpine. There is your friend Just driven to the door; a handsome youth, But yet a bit effeminate. I'll see him At dinner time. Sir Diarmid. It is unfortunate His coming at this moment But I must Be civil, though my head is in a whirl. [Exeunt. CHORUS. Vain for a man to think that he Can hide what a woman is fain to know ! Vain to dream that she does not see, Because her seeing she does not show ! He cannot lie with a guileless look Of innocence pure that falters not, And she will read like a printed book The riddle of his most secret thought. Well she saw where his love was given, Saw that her tidings had quenched his light, Saw that he grasped, as if for heaven, A hope that would leave him in sorry plight. 84 KILDROSTAN. ACT And O that Ina might be her daughter ! O the dread of his fated wife ! O the hopes that were writ on water ! O her boy, and his shipwrecked life ! ACT SECOND. SCENE SECOND. CHORUS. Ah ! what to do if one should get A tawny lion for a pet ! Or some volcano as a boon To show the fireworks of the moon ! O terror of his playful moods ! O horror of its lava-floods ! So troubled and amazed were they, So feared what he might do or say, That youth fantastical whose wit With the old Pagan cult was smit, And stormed, in words that swing and swell, Like changeful peal of a tripping bell, Against the love that is divine, And for the love inflamed with wine. II. KILDROSTAN. 85 Daily their simple souls were shocked With fleering scornful words that mocked At Faith and Unfaith, nothing loth, At God and Science, lightlying both; But what the shallow heart believed Of all it praised, and all it grieved, Although he did his rating well, 'Twould need a wiser man to tell. Still Zeus to him was Great and Mighty, Still reigned the foam-born Aphrodite, Still bright Apollo's arrows flew, Still Dian brushed the evening dew, Still Naiads haunted fount and brook, And life was like a fairy-book: Or Odin stern came back again, And Thor, and noble Balder slain By Loke's dark counsel, and the Tree, Great Ygdrassil, of Mystery, And all the Myths of ancient Night, Myths of the dawn and growing light, Myths of the earth, the cloud, the star, And life and its eternal war. 86 KILDROSTAN. ACT SCENE Kildrostan Park. SIR DIARMID and TREMAIN. Sir Diarmid. So we give up our cruise, then, after all? 'Tis well; for, as it happens, it would scarce Have suited me to go. You'll not regret it? Trtmain. Why should I? 'Twas a sudden fancy struck me, And just as sudden left. Sir Diarmid. No other reason > Tremain. What other would you have ? Must one have reasons To knock down fancies with a club to beat The vapour off, that passes with a puff? I choose to have my whims, and let them go E'en as I list. It is a folly, man, A superstition of these modern times, To be in bonds to reason. Sir Diarmid. As you like. But there's a nice breeze tripping on the Loch, Tipping the waves with foam. Have you no fancy To ride the white steeds in a merry gale? ii. KILDROSTAtf. 87 Tremain. Nay, that's all past. I hate a boisterous life. Give me the calm of Tempe where no wind Blows on the vine-stocks roughly, and where love Pants in the sunshine dreamily among The lotus' leaves and asphodels. Sir Diarmid. What then? Are all those pictures of the bounding sea, And billowy roll of life there, and your skill With sail and rope and rudder in a storm But so much moonshine? Tremain. Moonshine ! surely no ; But poetry of course. O you dull fellows, Tied down to facts, you lose the half of life, Missing its fancied part. I sit and dream Of lying in a pinnace with my love, On a pard's skin, or carpet Eastern-dyed Of gorgeous colours, with a cloudless sun Inflaming every sense, as we look down, And watch the pulsing globe, and tangled arms Of myriad Medusae. Then I see Ideal storms loom darkly, and the waves Lashed into madness, which I master so 88 KILDROSTAN. ACT That by the sense of power we relish more The soft delights of love. But your wet ropes And clumsy oars faugh ! they give blisters first And then a horny hand; and life is lost, By so much, when you lose a perfect sense. 'Tis needful for my Art that I should have Nice touch and taste and smell and sight and hearing, That through all gates may fine sensations pass, Into my being, and enrich my life. Sir Diarmid. Tush ! man ; you are not so effeminate As you affect. Tremain. I never handled rope, Nor held a tiller, nor yet mean to do : A harp, even, blunts the finger-tips. You think To be effeminate is to be weak : I hold that manhood only then is perfect, When it has all a woman's delicate sense, And absolute refinement, and will answer, Like the wind-harp, in tremulous response To every breath of fancy. Sir Diarmid. How then shall you ii. KILDROSTAN. 89 Employ your holiday? Our ways are rough, Nor do we fear to blunt a sense by use. Tremain. If I might just go on as now we do, Bound to no method, held to no set plans, Floating as Fancy wills, or Fate decrees ! Those hills are beautiful in the purple lights Of evening, glassed upon the quiet Loch; And weird-like are the wavering morning mists, Tinted with rainbow fragments, like the glories Which hover in the cloudland of old times ; And pleasant is the swaying of the boat, And lapping of the waters; and I think I could write something smacking of the life Of the young world, while yet the gods were in it, As I look round, and see the fisherwomen Wade through the surf i' the twilight to the boats, Each with her husband, or her sweetheart, maybe, Borne pick-a-back. Sir Diarmid. A barbarous custom ! I Have tried to shame the men out of these ways, And do not wonder that you mock at them. Tremain. I do not mock at them. I never felt 9 o KILDROSTAN. ACT More tenderly to any ancient relic Than to this fond survival. Let it be. Why drive your modern ploughshare over all The fields of primitive custom, making them As flat and commonplace as turnip fields. Let it alone. It is the antique symbol Of woman's loyalty to love a link Uniting us with a more touching life Of loyal service. Had I but such a Naiad- Only not quite so freckled and uncombed To plash her large limbs in the waves for me ! Sir Diarmid. Never was such a plea for barbarism Pleaded before. Tremain. And yet as good a one As you shall find for worshipping a maid, Until she is a wife to worship you. Why is it barbarous? Was the Greek a savage, When the fair princess, with her laughing maidens, Washed the white linens in the sparkling brook, And lovers lay upon the grass, and noted The dainty feet that splashed the shining spray? Sir Diarmid. Well, you may play the lawyer for the nonce, ii. KILDROSTAN. 91 And draw me out from murky heathen times Precedents of authority to bar The way of progress. But you'll not persuade me The custom's not degrading. Trcmain. Ay, in vain We hope to master prejudice by reason. But how about this Doris you should wed, And will not, though her acres are so handy? What ails you at her? Sir Diarmid. This; she loves me not, As shrewdly I suspect; nor love I her, As certainly I know. And when we speak Of marriage, that's a point at least. Tremain. I know not; I'm not a marrying man, though all my life Is love and poetry, which mostly lose Their glory at the touch o' th' wedding ring. It is a quakerish thing connubial bliss, Tame and slow-blooded, dressed in browns and greys, And with no flash of passion in the eye, Or flush o' the cheek. Is she not beautiful? 92 KILDROSTAN. ACT Sir Diarmid. Truly; yet with a dangerous kind of beauty, Beauty as of a panther or a snake, Lustrous and lithe; or so at least she shows To me who love her not. Her father wedded In the far East a Hindoo girl, and so The daughter is not, like our Highland maids Ruddy and large with amber in their hair, But slight and supple, and the sun has dyed Her cheek with olive. Yet she is most fair. Tremain. Ah ! now you interest me. 'Tis just the kind Of beauty that I worship. Helena's Was dangerous, and the grand Egyptian Queen's Who conquered the world's conquerors, and the sun Had softly dusked the snow of cheek and bosom, That chills our northern women. There's no joy Without the sense of danger; therefore men Climb the precipitous mountains with a sense Of tingling perilous gladness : and I hate Your meek and milky girls that dare not kiss A burning passion, clinging to your lips. Sir Diannid. Doris is not a Cleopatra, nor Helen of Troy she's just a Highland lady ii. KILDROSTAN. 93 Touched with an Eastern strain. You must not liken her To your wild-eyed Aspasias. Tremain. But you said Hers was a dangerous beauty like the serpent's, And that is what I like above all things. Serpents twine round you, clasp you in their folds, And charm you with a gaze that does not flinch; Firing you as the many-husbanded Helen was wont to do, till men would lose The world for one brief rapture of her kiss. Sir Diarmid. I spoke too loosely : you misconstrue me, So fancying her. Tremain. There's nothing else against her, Except that dangerous beauty, which is only The prejudice of people commonplace. I like to play with adders. I had one I loved once as you love your dog, and had Subtler communion with it, richer thoughts From its uprearings and its wondrous eyes Than you shall get from any noisy hound With its rough shows of liking. 94 KILDROSTAN. ACT Sir Diarmid. Well, I'd rather My dog should jump on me, and wheel about Barking for joy, than have an adder twine Slow folds about me. But tastes differ. Tremain. Ay, They differ ; yet there is a worse and better, For taste is the true test of character : The crown of culture is a perfect taste, Which lacking, men are blind and cannot see The higher wisdom. 'Tis the want of it That floods the world with stale stupidities, And hangs a vulgar arras round the mind Of misbegotten fallacies. Tastes differ ! And so do faiths and policies, but yet Their differences are not indifferent. Sir Diarmid. You need not rave about it, man. I used A common phrase, as one does current coin, Not caring to ring copper half-pennies Upon the counter. Tremain. Oh ! Yet I take leave To doubt the taste that shrinks from such a girl IT. KILDROSTAN. 95 As you describe your Doris : that is all. The kind of woman, bred of Christian cult, Whom you call womanly, to me is watery A Ghost, a mist that chills you with its touch. How changed from the grand creature Nature made For joy, and music, and the giddy dance, And glorious passion ! There's a story of Pelagia, leader of the mimes at Antioch On the Orontes; how she came one day Up from the silvern baths with her fair troop Of girls, all glowing with the flush of life, And bounding with light mirth, and lures of love, Like the young hinds what time the year reveals The antlered stag freed from the down of his horns ; And as she came, arrayed in purple skirt Of Tyrian, golden bracelets on her wrists, And tinkling anklets, and the flash of gems Upon her bosom, on her brow of flowers Lo ! then an anchorite, dried up and baked With dirt of some dim cave where he had burrowed With bats and owls, looked wistfully on her, And craftily assailed her with regrets That she brought not her beauty and her joy Another Magdalene! to serve his Lord: Wherewith being touched, she turns a penitent, And comes next day, and lays aside her robes 96 KILDROSTAN. ACT Of splendour, and her bright and joyous ways So winsome, and in squalid garb arrayed Of sackcloth, visits graves and lazar houses, Pale as a lily a shadow called a saint. What think you now of such a work as that To pleasure heaven with ? While the old gods lived, A woman was the glory of our glad And fruitful earth. But now you make of her Sir Diarmid. I prithee, peace, man. If I did not know This is but spinning moonshine for the love Of phantasy, and framing paradox To seem original, I could be wroth With such trash-speaking. Interrupt me not. What, if your leader of the mimes had been A chaste pure maiden, daughter of a home Where mother-love enfolded her in customs As sweet as lavender, and that she met Some gay apostle of the flesh, and as His penitent, became what you have known? The world is bad enough, and false enough Without such gloss to prove its darkness light. The devil is up to that; and does not need That you should make fine clothes for him to wear When he goes masking. Let this stuff alone; ii. KILDROSTAN. 97 Or weave it into verses, if you will, For fools to read, although I used to think- But that was in my youth's fond innocence That poetry should stir the best in us, And give fit utterance also to our best In rhythmic music. Tremain. That was not your thought : 'Twas but an echo you and others tossed From mouth to mouth, and thought that you had thought. Sir Diarmid. Echo or living voice, the thought is true; God gives us song to make us nobler men And purer women. Treniain. Nay, for art is not The slave of virtue, turning songs to sermons ; But it is free, and is its own excuse, And finds its purpose in its exercise. Sir Diarmid. What do you mean? Tremain. This. Picturing truly all Ideals good or evil, as you call them gS K1LDROSTAN. ACT Art doth fulfil her office, but comes short Of her vocation when she aims at aught But perfect form and colour and harmony. Sir Diarmid. Enough : I did not count on getting such Art lectures from you. Keep them for the freshmen. Tremain. You make a pedant and a pedagogue Of that which is the sovranest thing in nature, The freest and the gayest. Out upon The tyranny of small moralities, Shop-keeping ethics, Pharisee respects ! As if high Art must minister to them, Like a fair tablemaid who must not speak, But let them prose and prose ! I hate it all. For evil and good, yea sense and nonsense, Art, Soaring above them in her own bright realm, Yet lifts them up, and blends them in her charm Of light and music and divinest vision. But you are still in bonds to commonplace, And cannot bear this yet. Sir Diarmid. Nor ever shall, Nor ever wish to. One might land in Bedlam For less conceit of wisdom. IT. KILDROSTAN. 99 Tremain. By the way, There's one thing more I wish to know. Last night, Or rather in the gloaming, as you have it, Upon the heights, beside the waterfall That wavers like a tremulous white veil Of bridal lace to hide the moss-clad rock, I had a vision of beauty. Sir Diarmid. O belike, The purple glow was on the hills. Tremain. Nay, but A maiden passed me tall and beautiful, Robed all in black. Her step was like a queen's, Pallas -Athene had no statelier mien, Broad-browed, large-eyed, and with the confidence Of strength and courage in her. Who is she? Sir Diannid. How should I know? No matter. Tremain. Girls like that Can't walk about the shores incognito : You surely know her ; think of it again. ioo KILDROSTAN. ACT I did but pass some pretty compliment Thrown at her, to be picked up if she chose, Not spoken to her an impromptu verse That sprang up to my lips at such a vision Of might and beauty delicately mixed, When she, just pausing, gave me such a look, As if she could have tossed me o'er the crag Into the pool, then leisurely swept on. Who is she? All the fisher folk would say Was, It will be Miss Ina. Sir Diarmid. Ay, that was Ever her favourite walk. Now, if you chance To meet her there again, best let her pass Without impromptu verses. You might find They breed unpleasant consequences. Tremain. But Who is she? Sir Diarmid. Well; no matter: my kinswoman. Her father was our pastor, lately dead No more of her. When shall we visit Doris ? She's far more to your taste. II. KILDROSTAN. 101 Tremain. O when you will. But that dark-robed Pallas- Athene your Kinswoman, said you? Sir Diarmid. Surely you would not Intrude upon the sacredness of sorrow Like hers. Tremain. The parson's daughter Sir Diarmid. Sir, I tell you She shall not be molested. Tremain. So: I see Why Doris' beauty is so dangerous. Pallas- Athene broad-browed, shining-eyed, That is your style, is't? {Exit. Sir Diarmid. Pshaw ! why should I care For that fool's babble? for a fool he is With all his genius, which is but a trick Of stringing words together musically. How could I ever bring him to the home Of pious, pure-souled women. Yet he'll serve 102 KILDROSTAN. ACT My purpose, if he only take to Doris, And she to him she is not over-nice. But is it fair that I should plot and scheme To save myself from a detested fate By luring her into as dark a snare? Nay, but I only bring these two together, And by the mutual attraction of Their kindred natures let them coalesce, If so they will and surely so they will : Only the time is short. Yet such folk jump Into their loves ; and if it so befell, My path were clear, and all should yet be well. CHORUS. O cunning schemer ! O idle dreamer ! With crafty head, And heart elate, Spinning a thread To baffle Fate ! Twirl the spindle ever so fast, Let the thread be ever so fine, Fate will rend thy web at last, Fruitless labour surely thine. Sore against thee are the odds Wrestling with the immortal gods. li. KILDROSTAN. 103 ACT SECOND. SCENE THIRD. CHORUS. Once more, with a heart undivided, And vexed by no discords of thought. But calm in the hope she had got, In a great peace she abided. Not that the grief was forgot, Or self-reproaches were ended, But that the sorrow was blended With love, and the bliss which it brought. Once more, like a dainty bird preening Its feathers, she cared for her looks, And pondered her favourite books, And read with clear sense of their meaning ; And the fishermen, plying their hooks, Would hear in the dusk of the gloaming A full-throated song that was coming From the Manse 'mong the trees and the rooks. Once more, from her Dante and Goethe She came into clachan and cot, And still it was sunshine she brought, 104 KILDROSTAN. ACT Though her speech was of patience and duty ; For O but she never forgot The grace that is due to all human, Or the low soft voice of a woman Perfect in feeling and thought. SCENE Street : Post Office Door. INA, MRS. SLIT, DORIS (in the distance], Mrs. Slit. Goodbye, then, Miss Ina ; and it iss a light there will be in the shop this day, because you have been in it again. Ina. Goodbye. You will be sure to remember the warm things for old Elspet's rheumatism. Mrs. Slit. Och ! yes, I will remember them. Ina. And Dugald's snuff, and Alisthair's tea. Mrs. Slit. And the snuff and the tea, though it iss the por- ridge that iss good enough for him, and more than he deserves, for it would be the whisky that brought him to this. II. KILDROSTAN. I0 5 Ina. Maybe. But who of us get just what we deserve ? Mrs. Slit. That iss true. Yes ! Some get more, and some get less ; some have a penny's worth for their halfpenny, and some only a farthing's worth for their penny ; and it iss the scales of Providence that would not do for a shop, whatever. But I will mind, Miss Ina. Ina. That is right. But there is Sir Diarmid's yacht in the Loch. Is he going a trip anywhere? Mrs. Slit. Och ! it iss that Poet-man that gets the letters and the printed papers every day. He will not be for leaving the Loch, I think. They are saying he iss a great bard or Seannachie, though I never heard him sing, or even whistle, as our lad Kenneth will do. Ina. But Poets make songs, and other people sing them now. However, I must bid you goodbye now. Mrs. Slit. Goodbye ; but it iss Miss Doris that will be coming along the street now; and which iss more, she will 106 KILDROSTAN. ACT be picking her steps, and sniffing as if her father would be a chief instead of a cottar's son. Maybe you will not be caring to see her. Ina. Why should I not wish to see Doris? But even if I did not, I cannot help it now, for she has seen me. Mrs. Slit. Fare you well, Miss. And take care of that one. It will be easier dealing with Elspet's rheumatics than with her smiles, which only show her teeth. Itia. Good morning, Doris. You are early astir. Doris. Well, this is pleasant, Ina, seeing you Abroad, and like yourself again. They told me Your eyes were red with weeping ; but they're not. Indeed, I think they never were so bright. That's right. What is the good of injuring The very feature of one's face that men Chiefly admire ? One ought to think of that. Ina. Ought one? I don't know that I did think of it. But never mind : my eyes are all right, Doris. ii. KILDROSTAN. 107 Doris. That's plain enough to see ; you look quite brilliant. But how did you get through the time of mourning? Is it not horrible the blinds, the silence, The people whispering, the dismal looks? I was so sorry for you, and I called A score of times, I'm sure. Ina. I'm vexed at that ; The servant only told me about once. Doris. twice, at least. But then I meant to come So often, and you would not let me in; Indeed, I thought of you from morn till night, And could not keep you from my sleeping dreams, 1 was so grieved. How did you pass the time? You don't read novels; yet they're such a help At such a season. Why, I lay all day, And got through half of Mudie when my daddy Dropt from his perch. I can't think how you did. It's dreadful to be shut up with the Bible, And Pilgrim's Progress, just like prisoners Upon the silent system. io8 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. Well, I was not Condemned to that quite, though I might have had Worse company. Doris. You did not think of cards, I daresay; yet you've no idea how They get you through the evenings, when your heart Is like to break. Ina. No, certainly I did not. Doris. Well, it's a pity now; for they just give you The kind of mild excitement which you need When you are low not staking much, you know, Only what will give interest to the game. And when I called that day I meant to try them, In case you had been very bad. Ina. O, thanks; I daresay you meant kindly, but you do not Quite understand me. ii. KILDROSTAN. 109 Doris. Yes, indeed I do. I hear folk say they cannot comprehend you, But that is their stupidity, and I Tell them I see you through and through like glass ; You are so simple. Jna. Oh! Doris. And when you shut Your door, and would not see a visitor, I said it was the proper thing to do, And when the proper time came you'd appear Splendid as ever ; and there you are, my dear, A miracle of beauty. That dress, now ; You cannot think how perfect you are in it. Where was it made? But all your dresses fit you. Was this what smote Tremain? Ina. What do you mean? Who is Tremain ? Doris. Not know Tremain ! and he Raving about you as a heathen goddess Not Venus, but another quite as handsome, no KILDROSTAN. ACT And cleverer far, though I forget her name. Why, what can Diarmid mean, that he has never Brought him to see you? Ina. O, I am not seeing Strangers at present Doris. But he's quite a genius, And one should see them when they come one's way, Which is not often ; then he is so handsome, And knows so many people, and is so Charmingly wicked but you'll not like that Of course, because you've grown up in a Manse Where every one is bound to be good, of course. Tremain is quite a pagan, but his gods Are all dead long ago; and he knows that, And does not worship Zeus and Aphrodite, As he would like to do; only he rages Ever so eloquent and beautiful ! At those who overthrew their shrines and altars. Ina. Doris, you surely do not lend an ear To one who, for the living God, would thrall you To these poor bodiless shadows. He must be A shallow fool, I think ; for there are some ii. KILDROSTAN. I r ! Whose genius, like a marsh-light, flickers where There is no footing for a man to go. Doris. But you know, Ina, I am only half A Christian, half a Brahmin, and a daughter Goes with the mother mostly, and I like The folk you call poor heathens. What he says, Besides, is that it does not matter much About our gods, whether they are or are not, Or what they are. The one thing that concerns us, Is the idea of life which they call forth, And ours is now all wrong. The Church, he says, Has consecrated grief instead of gladness, Has cast the shadow of the cross where heaven Poured down the laughing sunshine; even science, That scorning miracle is full of wonders, Potters o'er facts and numbers, and makes man No more than a machine for grinding meal. But the old gods of Greece made joyous life With song and dance and flowers and wine and love you should hear him, just. Ina. Do you think so? 1 fancy that a cross which tells of hope Through sorrow, is better than remorseless fate Chaining the soul to rocks and piercing ice. Ti2 K2LDROSTAN. ACT I wish folk had more pleasure in their lives, More flowers and sunshine, though I'd rather not More foxglove, hellebore, and deadly nightshade. What does he say of conscience? Doris. Conscience ! O He thinks it is a blister that has made The soul so sensitive it cannot bear The touch that nature meant us to enjoy. He's very scornful of it. Ina. So I fancied The trifler would despise its inspirations. Zeus never had much conscience. Doris. Then he brings you Just to the verge of shocking things, and when You're bridling up in anger, 'tis such fun To watch him sailing off, as if he had not Seen the improper thoughts which made you blush. Ina. And does Sir Diarmid like a man like that? I cannot think it. Doris. They're inseparable. 'Tis strange he has not brought him to the Manse. ii. KILDROSTAN. 113 Ina. Nay, it were stranger to have brought him there ; Its air would not agree with him. Doris. Indeed, He's quite a revelation something new Entirely in these parts. Ina. Yes, I should hope so. A revelation only of the darkness, Not of the light. I think I saw the man Once, and I took him for a coxcomb truly. Doris. O, but he raves of you. Ina. That's likely enough: His words are mostly ravings. Doris. No, indeed; He has the daintiest fancies, beautiful, Poetic; and he makes you gasp for fear Of what he may say next, which is so nice. Ina. Is it? I'd rather walk where footing is sure II 4 KILDROSTAN. ACT Than on the thin and perilous bending ice. But as you will : he does not interest me. Doris. That's odd; I think I never met a man So interesting, so fresh, and so mysterious. Don't you like mystery in a man? Ina. I like Truth, Doris, first, and reverence, and manhood; And the true man is reverent to all women. But now adieu. I am not given to preach, And young men, they do say, are not like us, Though why they should not be, I do not know. But Doris, were I you, I'd hold aloof From one who grazes improprieties, And does not blush to make a woman blush. Farewell. Doris. Where are you going, Ina dear? O, to Isle-Monach ? Yes ! 'tis natural You should go often there, and Diarmid too Visits, of course, the graves of all his fathers. Ina. I have been once there, Doris, since I laid ii. KILDROSTAN. 115 My dead in it; and if Sir Diarmid goes Often, I cannot tell. Doris. I fancied you Might have met, now and then, by chance of course, Where there is so much to attract you both A common feeling for your common kin. But then he is so busy with his friend Whom he admires so warmly, dear. Adieu. [Exeunt CHORUS. Not for a moment distrustful Was she at all of her lover; Yet, as she listened, a shiver, As from a cloud passing over, Chilled her, and darkened the glory, Radiant, shining above her. Doris she knew to be cunning, False too, and deft in her malice, Clever at brewing of poisons, Secret, to drop in the chalice; And she had masques, like a player's, Carefully stowed in her valise. u6 KILDROSTAN. ACT n. No, no, she did not believe her Yet was the sting there remaining : O no ! her lover was noble And yet it was rankling and paining: Who could abide in such friendship, And keep from the taint of its staining? ACT in. KILDROSTAN. 117 ACT THIRD. SCENE FIRST. CHORUS. Where the ancient sacred Ganges Slowly eats its crumbling bank, Where the brindled tiger ranges Nightly through the jungle rank, Where the hooded cobra sleepeth Dreaming of its victim's pang, And its deadly venom keepeth 'Neath the folded hollow fang, In a city many-towered Was a garden gorgeous-flowered, And a marble-builded mansion Stood upon a terrace high, Overlooking the expansion Of the garden's greenery. n 8 KILDROSTAN, ACT There the Eastern sun, combining With the Northern snow, entwining Subtle brain and passion hot With the will that bendeth not, Made a woman strongly daring, Reckless in her self-reliance, Wanton in her world-defiance, Little loving, and all unsparing. Far away now from the sacred stream, And the land that was growing to her like a dream, Beneath the stars of a moon-filled night, The lady sat in a chamber bright, Scented with odours and flooded with light. A cloth of gold for her seat was spread, A leopard's skin at her feet was laid, A jewelled fan was in her hand, And golden filagree in her hair, And all about her was rich and grand, Of ebon and ivory, carved with care, And gorgeous feathers and carpets rare. Ah ! the smiling sacred river Carries death upon its wave, And the slumbrous cobra ever Wiles like the devouring wave, in. KILDROSTAN. 119 And the brindled tiger ranges Through the darkness for a prey Tiger, cobra, corpse-laden Ganges, What do ye with a lady gay? 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 sprung. 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. 120 KILDROSTAN. ACT MairL 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. O 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. in. KILDROSTAN. Doris. E'en as you will. But here's another coming; Adieu ! Exit MAIRI. wfcr TREMAIN. 121 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. O, 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, 122 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 ! in. KILDROSTAN. 123. Sure, gentlemen are most accommodating ! And doubtless I am honoured, could I see it, And doubtless you are favoured, when you think on't f 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 124 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. O 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? in. KILDROSTAN. 125 Dons. 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 stake. Doris. Just so; he throws 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 126 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. in. KILDRQSTAN, 127 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. I2 8 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. Tremain. 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. O 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 : HI. KILDROSTAN. 129 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. I 3 o KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. Tremain. 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? in. KILDR OSTAN. j 3 1 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. 132 KILDROSTAN. ACT Doris. O, 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 ? Hi. KILDROSTAN. 133 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. I34 KILDROSTAN* ACT 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 handkerchief 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. in. KILDROSTAN. 135 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? 136 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 the fool 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. ill. KILDROSTAN. 137 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. ACT THIRD. SCENE SECOND. 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 downward 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. 138 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. in. KILDROSTAN, 139 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 it? Morag. They have A reason for their happiness. 140 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. O 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. m. KILDROSTAN. I4T 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 the country. Do you wish to tell me About your journey? I've no right to ask, Yet less right not to hear you. I42 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 to-morrow is The great Communion at Glenaradale, And all the country will be there, and half The godly ministers of Ross and Skye? 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. 1 do not hope to enjoy; yet I may get Share of the crumbs that fall for dogs to eat. in. K1LDROSTAN. 143 Ina. O 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 tiding to the poor; at first, Just like an auction at a country fair, 144 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 without money And without price. Jna. 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 ! in. KILDROSTAN. 145 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 a 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, and Your 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. K 146 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 the desperate heart. 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. in. KILDROSTAN. 147 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. 148 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. ill. KILDROSTAN. 149 They have been used to delve, 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 " Trum- pets," And old Neil Raasay droning about heaven After his whisky? But these crofter folk In green Glenaradale they touch my heart. 1 5 o KILDR OSTA A T . ACT 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? O, it is the twenty miles? in. KILDROSTAN. ! 5r 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. Morag, only think of the old men With their long memories clinging to the soil, And babes and mothers on that homeless shore 1 1 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. Trimly speeds the dainty boat Swinging o'er the foam-tipped billow, Where the keen-eyed sea-mews float Sleeping on their watery pillow, Past the low black Cormorant's Rock, Where they crowd in hungry numbers ; There a great grey heron woke, Sudden, from its noon-day slumbers, KILDROSTAN. ACT And beyond, the thrashers rose High above where the whale had sickened, Well could you hear their crashing blows, As its labouring breath was quickened : Till rounding the red headland now, The boat leapt out in the open sea, With a ripple of laughter at her prow, And a rush of bubbles upon her lea. The wind fell low as the sun went down, And every cloud had a golden crown, A jewelled belt, and a crimson gown ; And every corrie, and rock, and hill, Was veiled in pink or in purple, till The glory was quenched in the gloaming still. It was the dusk of a sultry night When Kinloch-Aradale rose in sight, And on the beach there were fires alight Fires alight, and to and fro Forms among them moving slow, And on the breeze was a wailing low. in. KILDROSTAN. 153 KENNETH'S SONG. There is no fire of the crackling boughs On the hearth of our fathers, There is no lowing of brown-eyed cows On the green meadows, Nor do the maidens whisper vows In the still gloaming, Glenaradale. There is no bleating of sheep on the hill Where the mists linger, There is no sound of the low hand-mill Ground by the women, And the smith's hammer is lying still, By the brown anvil, Glenaradale. Ah ! we must leave thee, and go away Far from Ben Luibh, Far from the graves where we hoped to lay Our bones with our fathers, Far from the kirk where we used to pray Lowly together, Glenaradale. 154 KILDROSTAN. We are not going for hunger of wealth, For the gold and silver, We are not going to seek for health On the flat prairies, Nor yet for the lack of fruitful tilth On thy green pastures, Glenaradale. Content with the croft and the hill were we, As all our fathers, Content with the fish in the lake to be Carefully netted, And garments spun of the wool from thee, O black-faced wether Of Glenaradale. No father here but would give a son For the old country, And his mother the sword would have girded on To fight her battles; Many's the battle that has been won By the brave tartans, Glenaradale. III. KILDROSTAN. 155 But the big-horned stag and his hinds, we know. In the high corries, And the salmon that swirls the pool below Where the stream rushes, Are more than the hearts of men, and so We leave thy green valley, Glenaradale. ACT THIRD. SCENE THIRD. CHORUS. Near to the stormy loch, behind The ridge of the Badger's Rock, there lay A high green corrie ; and there the wind Was hardly felt on a wild March day, It was so girdled with hill and rock That rarely a storm on its stillness broke. Only the wild deer make their lair Among the moss and the bracken there, Or the stealthy fox, or the gled and kite, Or blue hare and ptarmigan on the height. Slowly the mountain shadows creep Across the hollow, across the brook ; 156 KILDROSTAN. ACT And to the right in the rugged steep Is a narrow gap where you can look Right down on the glimmering loch that clings To the roots of The Hill of a Hundred Springs. But it is not the red deer that haunt to-day Corrie-an-Liadh, and crowd the brae, Here in groups, and there in tiers, Till hardly a patch of stone or heather, Hardly a green bracken leaf like a feather, Through the close-packed ranks of the throng appears. It is men and women, the young and the old, Some with their snowy locks, some their gold, Matron or maiden, with cap or snood, And stalwart sire with his strong-limbed brood Men of Glenara with heads bowed low, Men of Loch Thorar with hearts aglow, Men of Glen Turret, Glen Shelloch, Glen Shiel, And lads from the Isles which the mists conceal. Right at the mouth of that mountain bay There is a mound of swelling green Whereon the golden sunbeams play, And daisy and pansy flowers are seen, And close beside it a trickling spring Circled with moss and draped with ling. III. KILDROSTAN. '57 There once they offered sacrifice, Bringing their sick to the healing well, And the kid of a goat for a ransom price To the Spirit that bound and loosed the spell ; There now a table is seemly spread With homely linen, but clean and white, And a chalice and platter with wheaten bread, And the Book that giveth the blind their sight; And the sun shines down, who had seen before Far other rites in the days of yore. Pastors four on the swelling mound Sit, rapt, as if upon holy ground One with a great black shock of hair, One with a smiling face and fair, One that was pale, and lean, and young, With a fire in his heart and a flame on his tongue, One the old pastor of the Gael Driven out of green Glenaradale, With grey locks streaming around a face That beamed with a light of tender grace. Another group behind them lay Stretched, careless, out on the short hill grass ; They were not there to praise or pray, But jest and gibe they were fain to pass, And kept apart from all the rest, 158 KILDROSTAN. ACT And not in Sabbath raiment drest; The factor, with gillies, and dogs, and whips, And the poet with heathendom on his lips. They came from walking to and fro Upon the earth, as long ago One came with the sons of God, we know. 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. O, that depends : I've known some queer folk now Whose acid looks would sour the cream on Monday, Yet make some fun for you with texts on Sunday. in. KILDROSTAN. 159 "Mwi" 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 scat. 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? 160 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. in. KILDROS7AN. 161 The people sing, to a Celtic tune, " I to the hills will lift mine eyes, From whence doth come mine aid. My safety cometh from the Lord, Who heav'n and earth hath made." 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? O, 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 IN A, and lies down on 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. L !6 2 KILDROSTAX. ACT 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, in. KILDROSTAN. 163 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 164 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 ! in. KILDROSTAN. 165 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 rnad. 1 66 K1LDROSTAN. ACT 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 ! III. KILDROSTAN. 167 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 rugged 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 rny 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. 1 68 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. Out of our way, Sir Diarmid; we have no Quarrel with you, but this man's cup iss full. in. KILDROSTAN. 169 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 as cur as that. So : that is right. [They let him go, I do not wonder that your hearts were hot. iyo KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. in. KILDROSTAN. 17 ! 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 1 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. 172 K1LDROSTAN. ACT 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. in. KILDROSTAN. 173 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. 174 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. in. K1LDROSTAN. 175 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. Itia. 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 ! 7 6 KILDR OSTA N. ACT 11 1 . 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. O that sail on the summer sea ! Can she ever forget its gladness? Yet O the haunting memory Of those bright hours, when they came to be The wistfullest sigh of the day of sadness ! ACT iv. KILDROSTAN. 177 ACT FOURTH. SCENE FIRST. 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. M 1 78 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. Chimdra. The Begum, sahib ! I have seen her. Dr. Lome. Tush! We have no Begums here. Chundra. I saw her her ! Dr. Lome. 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? iv. KILDROSTAN. 179 Dr. Lome. 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 grave 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. Lome. 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. l8o KILDROSTAN. ACT Dr. Lome. 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. Lome. There ; how you lawyers grumble ! If you knew The roads I've gone by dak ! 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. Lome. 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. iv. KILDROSTAN. i& Bennett. I can recruit me at the sideboard there, If you abuse your privilege. Dr. Lome. All right. And so now to my tale. You knew 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 dose 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 Natures medicatrix, and the mors That beats with equal foot at every door. 1 82 KILDROSTAN. ACT Bennett. Quite right; what other could you do? Dr. Lome. 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 hap-hazard; And I must go but where it showed the way And O, 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. iv. KILDROSTAN. 183 Dr. Lome, 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. Lome. Some have doubts of it. Bennett. Ay, but they're laymen. Dr. Lome. Lucky you that can Doubt every thing, except that law is right, 1 84 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. Lome. 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. iv, KILDROSTAN. 185 Bennett. Then you came home To your snug place here. Dr. Lome. 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. Lome. 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. 1 86 KILDROSTAN. ACT Bennett. I see. But how Avoid that, if he would not take your gift? Dr. Lome. That's what I had to settle. Well, there was A crofter fellow from Glenaradale, Who had gone partners with me in some ventures, Railway-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. Lome. 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. iv. KILDROSTAN. 187 Bennett. Drowned yourself! Well, you take your drowning kindly. Dr. Lome. 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. Lome. 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. 1 88 KILDROSTAN. ACT Bennett. Well, well; you're a mad fellow. But the money Dr. Lome. 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. Lome. O 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. iv. KILDROSTAN. 189 Bennett. The papers now? But did you never write Your brother? Dr. Lome. 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. Lome. 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. 190 KILDROSTAN. ACT Dr. Lome. 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 A yellow 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. Lome. 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. Lome. 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, iv. KILDROSTAN. 191 But it will take a many Highland acres Of hill and moor to clear it; and there's nothing Will clear his character. Dr. Lome. 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. Lome. 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. I 9 2 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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, O 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? ACT FOURTH. SCENE SECOND. CHORUS. When frank, straight-forward hearts defile Their ways with some unwonted wile And crafty stroke, In their own gin they are ensnared, iv. KILDROSTAN. 193 And better they had onward fared With simple folk: The choicest and wisest Of all the world is he Who talks still, and walks still In clear sincerity. Let moles work underground, and mine, Let adders creep with supple spine Through grass and ling, Let pee-wits lure you from their nest With wailing cry, and drooping crest, And broken wing: But you, man, be true, man, And, artless, jog along The highways; for byeways Will surely lead you wrong. 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? I 9 4 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 Lome 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, iv. KILDROSTAN. 195 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, 196 KILDROSTAN. ACT * 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, the flat fool ! Do I then love him truly ? 1 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? IV . KILDR OS TAN. 1 97 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. O, 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. I9 8 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. O, 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? O, by the way, my factor has been here ; Poor man ! his bones are full of aches and bruises, iv. KILDROSTAN. 1 99 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. 2OO KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 Lome. She'll find Herself in trouble some day. Sir Diarmid. Be it so : Fd 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. iv. KILDROSTAN. 2OI 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, 202 KILDROSTAh. ACT 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 might 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. iv. .KILDROSTAN. 205 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 204 KILDROSTAN. ACT Something unpleasant in the wind, when people Tell you they'll speak the truth. In school-girl 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. iv. KILDROSTAN. 305 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. 206 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 : iv. KILDROSTAN. 207 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. 2 o8 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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, H 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 iv. KILDROSTAN. 209 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. Goodbye ; 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 snared 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 ! o 210 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. ACT FOURTH. SCENE THIRD. CHORUS. With a heart unquiet To and fro she went, Feeding on a diet Of vague presentiment From shadows without form, that across her soul were sent. So the daisied meadows Close their petals white When the brooding shadows Make the day like night, For shadows may be burdens to us, when we live on light. iv. KILDROSTAN. 2 1 T And she went on, pleading He is fond and true; In a love-light reading All that he might do Pleading, but the boding fear came ever back anew. Is it not a treason To her love, to doubt, And in search of reason Thus to cast about, The which, if she had loved aright, she well might do without? 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; 212 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. O, 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, TV. KILDROSTAN. 213 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 brain-sick dream Of mere 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 ? 2T4 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. O ! 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? iv. KILDROSTAN. 215 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. 216 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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. ! I am humbled and ashamed, as well 1 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. O, 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, iv. KILDROSTAN. 217 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 O so happy 1 Now will you not congratulate me? 2 1 8 KILDR OS TAN. ACT 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 iv. KILDROSTAN. 219 Unless I many 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; , 220 KILDROSTAN. ACT Frankly I do accept the poverty My father has bequeathed me, and I came, Ina, to you to tell you this resolve. Doris (singing). " The king says to the beggar maid, I'll clothe me too in duds, And we'll go mending pots and pans, And camping in the woods." 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 ; s Take or refuse, it matters not to me : iv. KILDROSTAN. 221 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. O 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. 222 KILDROSTAN. ACT Doris. O, 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 role! Cast to the wind Houses and lands and honours all for love ! And yet I even dreamt you would have thanked me, That I could 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 iv. KILDROSTAN. 223 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. 224 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 ! iv. KILDROSTAN. 22$ 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 on silently, Girding a maiden's modesty about , A broken heart, that none may find it out. 1 blame him not ; he has been weak, not false ; At least, it was for truth that he played false ; But O, it is too hard. God pity me, For my glad life is turned to misery. [Exit: CHORUS. What if your Dagon, falling down, is broken, Dagon, to whom your daily prayer was spoken, And the sweet incense offered to betoken Faith that ne'er falters? Pick up the fragments, piece them well together, Tenderly fit them each into the other, Raise now the Fish-god, Lord of war and weather,, High o'er his altars. p 226 KILDROSTAN. ACT iv. Ah ! but your heart sank, shattered as he lay there Peace you had none then, wailing all the day there, Yet as you look now, can you go and pray there As you once wended? Once he was glorious, your gilded Dagon, Throned on his altar, or borne upon his waggon ; But he was broken, and how are you to brag on What you've just mended? Here were the fractures, though they're patched up riicely, And he looks once more as he did precisely ; Yet he can no more be so paradisely Perfect to you now. Varnish the joinings, veil the sunshine garish, Dim light is fittest, when the soul would cherish As a thing sacred that which so can perish, Patched up anew now. Broken her dream is, faded all the glory, All the cloud-castle fallen a ruin hoary. Lost too the thread, and interest of the story Late so entrancing. No more may he come to her maiden vision Robed in the splendour of a Power Elysian ; Only a man, he, feeble of decision, Foolishly chancing. ACTV. KILDROSTAN. 227 ACT FIFTH. SCENE FIRST. CHORUS. Bears still the faithful servant on her heart The household joys and griefs, whate'er they be: The well-trained hireling deftly plays her part, But clumsy service, fairer far thou art, Love moving thee. "O 'tis our bargain so much work and wage; No more is in the bond," as you shall find : Ay ! but the unwrit bonds of God engage More than is set down in the formal page, Or Law can bind. " Yes ! but they are a plague, and it is wrong To let them be too free it spoils them quite " 228 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ay, love takes liberties, but you may long For one true heart amid a heartless throng On some dark night. No love can spoil ; it perfects with its touch : And being free hath a familiar grace, And like a babe even sacred things will clutch; Yet life were dull and dismal without such Lights on its face. 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. v. KILDR OS TAN. 229 Mrs. Slit. Yes, yes ! We are all born to troubles and tem- pers, 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 what- ever; 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. 230 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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, v. KILDROSTAN. 231 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 to be 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. I do not know if we will ever be going, and I do not want 232 KILDROSTAN. ACT to go near a house which is no better than a heathen's, if it be not even a papist'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 fery 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 fault 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 v. KILDROSTAN. 233 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 ? 234 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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 after the midges ! 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 v. KILDROSTAN. 235 gamekeeper to the factor they would be, for drown- ing 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 iss 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 is no part- ing them. And he will speak sense to her maybe, but it iss just heathenish gibberish he will be talk- ing 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. 236 KILDROSTAN. ACT 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, a great deal 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. v. KILDROSTAN. 237 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. ACT FIFTH. SCENE SECOND. CHORUS. Shall not a woman insulted have her revenge on the man, Mock at him, laugh at his anguish, smite with what weapon she can, Cut where the wound shall be quickest, smile as he writhes in the dust, Mirthful when he comes a-begging an obolus now y or a crust? Does not the feeling of injury strike out seeking redress ? 238 KILDROSTAN. ACT And why should the gods plant in her a passion she is to repress? They know their business, and did not fashion our nature to be A soft-hearted, soft-headed, milk-and-water philan- thropy ; There's a hard grit in it, meant for use at the fitting time, That rogues and villains may know the bitter bad taste of crime. O be gentle and meek, and kiss the hand hot from the blow, And stint your soul of the pleasure, the keenest of all that we know ! Drive the winds over the ocean, yet say to the mad waves, Peace ! Why should you lift up your heads now? there, let your murmurings cease ! Easy to say, Forgive, and lay up your wrath on the shelf: But how, if you take it so tamely, shall you re- spect yourself? If you're a worm to be trod on, trod on you shall be again ; Never a woman insipid found chivalrous spirit in men. v. KILDROSTAN. 239 So did the wild heart brood now, passioning so in her wrath, And plotted to sweep her victim ruthlessly out of her path. SCENE Room in Cairn-Cailleach. TREMAIN and DORIS. Doris. Well, sir, what think you of this gear ? Tremain. Think, Doris ! I am past thinking: there's a social earthquake Shaking my world, and toppling all things down, While darkness reigns, and mystery, and silence. What does it mean ? There's Diarmid, on a sudden. Off like the swallows, with no fare-you-well, And leaving no more trace than flight of bird Through the impassive air; his mother packing To follow him, and not a word to explain, But Celtic exclamations all day long. Doris. So he is gone already. 240 KILDROSTAN. ACT Tremain. Ay, he's gone; But why and whither has he gone, and left His guest to seek for other quarters, just When one was taking to the place, and felt Its strangeness, which at first was like a dream, Growing familiar, with a taste of life Fresh as the salt sea breezes ? Doris. Gone already ! I did not count on that. And she's off too, After him, doubtless. Much help I have got From your fine phrases, sir. At every point Baffled and mocked ! I'm weary of you all, But I will have revenge at least. Tremain. What's all This rage about? It is a pretty play, And it becomes you rarely, as indeed All that you do becomes you; yet I like My Doris tender more than Doris fierce, Although the softness is more beautiful By reason of the wrath restrained. Doris. Pshaw! give me Deeds and not words: I've had enough of them! You were to get that girl out of my way. v. KILDROSTAN. 241 Tremain. And out of it she is : well for herself I daresay. Doris. But not well for you, that she Should drive off like a princess followed by The prayers and tears of all her subjects here The cripples, the rheumatics, and the idiots, Who burden this poor land. Tremain. Why ill for me? She has not left a legacy of these Impotent folk to me. Doris. That's as you will. But he who should have humbled, broken her, And cast her from him as a thing of naught Well, him I could have loved; I hate her so. Tremain. And yet you went to see her lately. Dons. Yes; I went because I had no man to go, And do mine errand, and to smite her with Q KILDROSTAN. ACT A word should blight her life, and break her heart, As I had hoped it would. But with the look Of a grand tragedy-queen she bade me be A dutiful wife, forsooth, to my affianced, And wear with grace what I had won by guile. Tremain. Affianced, Doris ! am I then to take This ring from your fair finger, and put mine Here in its room? Doris. You take my ring from me ! Sir Diarmid's ring ! yes, his engagement ring ! I'd sooner part with life than part with it. Tremain. What do you mean? Doris. O, I forgot. You know not The pretty silly farce we have been playing, Which is to end in fateful tragedy. Diarmid came here one day, insulting me With offer of his hand, but not his heart A mere wired flower to wither on my bosom Hoping to be refused, and keep his lands And sweetheart too, because he heard I loved you. v. KILDROSTAN. 243 As if I could not see through such a thin Shallow device, which he did hardly colour With any show of likelihood : Tremain. Of course You did refuse him? Doris. No; but at a word Frankly accepted him on his own terms ; Hands without hearts, vows that were lies avowed. Would you have had me do the very thing He hoped that I would do, and strip myself Of all my rights that he might wed that girl? Tremain. Well ; you accepted only as a ruse My clever Doris meaning by and by To wreck his hope more wholly. Doris. Not at all. You poets, O how little do you know The women, after all, you're fain to paint! You see their eyes and hair, and hear their words: But for their minds they are too fine for you. 244 KILDROSTAN. ACT Men's brains, I think, can have no convolutions, They go at things so straight and stupid, like A gaze-hound at a doubling hare. Tremain. Nay, Doris, You could not surely throw away my love. Doris. Why should I throw away your love, because I take an offer offering no love? Should I not need, and prize it all the more, That it would give me what my fate denied? I've heard you say that love is poetry, And marriage languid prose, that never stirs The pulse of high imagination, having No passionate music in it. I must have Some poetry in my life, and you could give it. Tremain. Yes ! So ! Like verses in a magazine, I might come in to fill a space, a blank, Between the story and the criticism; Not even like the Chorus in the Greek Drama, to fill the passion up, and cry To the stern fates for pity. Thank you, Doris, But love like mine will hardly serve for padding. V. KILDROSTAN. Dons. What ails you now? A badly written book May have its very essence and its life In the appendix. And my life without you Were dull enough with him. Tremain. You did not mean, then, To marry him really. Doris. Indeed I did, and would I should have made his life a misery Perhaps, and seen him bitterly repent His dirty bargain ; bat we both agreed To join our hands, and keep our hearts apart. And really I did mean it. Tremain. Beautiful tigress ! Doris. Tigress, if you will ; but who has lost Her spring, and turns more savage on her prey. Look here. I will not hide a thing from you : We sealed our bargain by exchange of rings, And other pretty customary forms Of kindness and affiance ; and straightway 245 246 KILDROSTAN. ACT He hurried to that girl who set him on To break his plighted troth : contented she To take him in the shame of such dishonour. Tremain. How know you that? Doris. How do I know it ? Why, I found them closeted together, heard His own false lips renounce the vow he made An hour before. O, he was most polite My gentleman ! and did his villain-work Like preaching ; for of course he had been schooled, How best to lay the moral varnish on, And spout fine sentiment. I hate sentiment ; It is the flimsiest lie that walks the earth, The mere thin ghost of truth. He must admit With shame, forsooth, his offer was an insult, And as an insult humbly he withdrew it : He would not mock a lady with the boon, If boon it could be called, of loveless marriage : But frankly he had hoped I would reject it, Which now he was ashamed of like the rest. The moral prig ! as if I did not know Where he had learnt his lesson ! v. KILDROSTAN. 247 Tremain. So he parted With house and lands and honours all for love. Doris. And you too ! You take up the tragic style To glorify a fool ! Tremain. Yes, for I could Give all the world, too, just to win your love. Doris. Not long ago you said I was a tigress, Tremain. Even so ; a grand and proud and terrible beauty,. A matchless strength of passion good or evil, Like a volcano, having on its slopes Fair vineyards here, there burning lava-floods. And howsoe'er you show, you do transfix My soul with admiration. Doris. Oh! Perhaps You think my fires have burnt up Diarmid's share And now the sunny slopes are for your vines. 248 KILDROSTAN. ACT Tremain. Why not? You know that poets always were Alike the favourites of the gods and demons ; And he is gone whom you did never love, While I am here whom you have said you loved. What then will you do next ? Doris. I will pull down Each stone of that old house, and scatter all The gatherings of ages pictures, tapestries, Arms, chinas, books, and nick-nacks, every heirloom And symbol of their greatness, sending them Where never can he hope by any chance To pick them up again : and then I'll make A forest of the place, and stalk the deer Over his threshold. Tremain. You are thorough, Doris. Doris. Ay ! he shall find that, who has flouted me. Tremain. Where is he now ? Doris. Nay, you should know that best. v. KILDROSTAN. 249 Tremain. I know not. There is only Celtic wailing All through the house, and I have found a shelter Down in the village. Doris. He is gone at least ; And she, too, is away perhaps with him. Tremain. Nay, she went with her uncle yester eve ; I saw her go, and thought her looking pale. Dons. yes ! you take a mighty interest, Like others, in her movements and her looks ! Perhaps, too, you are fain to sacrifice If you have any such to offer up Houses and lands and honour for her love. By all means do : you have my full consent To play the fool as he did. Tremain. I could play The fool indeed like him, but not for her : 1 think I am even more a fool than he, Clinging as for dear life to one who bids me 250 KILDROSTAN. ACT Go seek another love. You know well, Doris, Tis easy saying to the captive, Go, When he is bound and fettered. Doris. My poor boy, Are you so deep enthralled ? But what was that You said about an uncle? She has none. Her father had a brother once in India Was something to my father Agent, Factor What not? a scant-o'-grace and ne'er-do-well. But he is dead, O, years and years ago. Tremain. I tell but what I heard. Some one at least Carried her off last night. I saw them go ; They said he was her uncle. Enough of her. I know not why you should so hate her, Doris, Or so hate anything. 'Tis so much better To love, which sweetens all things like a flower, Doris. Ay ! better truly for your sluggish souls, Which, like your English rivers, creep along Oily and dull and muddy. But for me My love is hotter than can boil in your Slow veins, and yet I hate more heartily Than I can love. v. KILDROSTAN. 251 Tremain. When shall I call you mine, Doris? Then you shall see how I can love. Doris. Why, that you call me twenty times a day. Tremain. Nay, do not trifle. Let us fix the time, Since there is nought to come between us now. Doris. O, fixing times is stupid. I should hate The day I fixed, and change it in a week. Or, when it came, should keep my bed, and sleep Its hours away, unnoted. But I thought You were content to love, and held that marriage Was like the lump of ice in the champagne, Cooling and weakening passion. Tremain. Then I knew not The agony and ecstasy of love, The rapture and the misery of hope, The jealous watching through the troubled nights, And sinking of the heart Say when. 252 KILDROS TAN. ACT Doris. I cannot. Maybe a year hence I may settle in The dull jog-trot of marriage maybe never. Who knows what is to happen? I'm content Meanwhile that things should go on as they do. Tremain. You cannot love like me, then. Doris. Go away ! I cannot babble sentiment, and coin My heart into a ballad to be sold To publishers, and sung by silly maids. And if you are not satisfied with that Which I can give you, there are lots of girls Will lend their ears to hear your dainty speeches, And even to believe them they're such fools. {.Exit. CHORUS. So she let him go, Puffing him away, Like a flimsy bubble, Never more to trouble Her upon her way. v. K1LDROSTAN. 253 So she let him go, Back to his old gods, Jove and Aphrodite, Thor and Odin mighty, And his songs and odes. So she let him go To fulfil his bent In his pagan ethic And his fond aesthetic, And his self-content. So she let him go With a mocking smile ; Yet no heart was broken When her words were spoken, Though he moped a while. ACT FIFTH. SCENE THIRD. CHORUS. Ai me ! ai me ! Fate sits upon the steed Behind the soul whose passion holds the reins ; Ai me ! ai me ! Better the bending reed, 2 54 KILDROSTAN. ACT When the gods thunder, than the oaks and planes. The reed remains, when their proud strength is shattered. Ai me ! ai me ! There's madness in the cup Which jealous wrath mingles in hellish spite ; Ai me ! ai me ! And when we hold it up It laughs and lightens gaily to the sight, Yet in its might the might of man shall perish. SCENK Room in Cairn- Cailleach. DORIS, DR. LORNE, and BENNETT. Doris. What would you, gentlemen ? My time is brief. You ask an interview, and fix the time, Nor wait to know my poor convenience. No matter. Only let us to the point Without preliminary phrasing. My Mare yonder waits for me, and grows impatient. Bennett. We have a little business v. KILDROSTAN. 255 Doris. Business ! O ! Here is my factor coming, and he does All business for me. Enter FACTOR. Let me introduce you. Bennett. Happy to know the gentleman; but we Crave audience of yourself for this affair, Which he can scarcely order, not at least Till you shall give him your authority Express. Yet it is well he should be here To counsel you. Dr. Lome. Miss Cattanach, of course You got the papers which I forwarded, And so far are prepared for us. Doris. And pray Who is this peremptory gentleman ? Dr. Lome. My name is Lome a friend once of your father's. 256 KILDROSTAN. ACT Doris. I've heard of such a person but he died ; Was drowned, or drowned himself I forget which; But people said it would be a relief To all his kinsfolk. Any friend of his ? Dr. Lome. Only himself, come back to plague his friends Who hoped he had relieved them of his presence, And who will welcome him like other ghosts That can't lie quiet in their graves. And now About those papers, Miss? Doris. What papers ? O ! That trumped-up story of his being alive, And claiming monies trusted to my father Years ago. Yes, I think the papers came. I did not read them ; they are too absurd, And you may have them back now if you like. They're somewhere i' the waste-basket. I'm advised To prosecute you for conspiracy, If you are he that sent them ; but the writer Is fitter sure for bedlam. Dr. Lome. You are well Acquainted with their purport, for a person v. KILDROSTAN. 257 Who never read them. As I never doubt A lady's word, I must conclude you knew The facts already. That will shorten matters. Bennett. Listen, Miss Cattanach ; these are grave affairs ; And with a kindly purpose we are here To choke a painful scandal in the birth, If so we may. You could not overlook Those documents. Doris. Well, no ; I told a lie, A stupid one too. Yes, I read the trash With laughter as it merited. It seems You'd rob my father of his honest- name Who, you say, was your friend when he is dead, And cannot answer for himself; and next You would rob me, and being but a woman Weak-nerved of course, you point your pistol at me, Shotted with stuff incredible, demanding My money or my life brave highway-man ! Pray you now, pull the trigger, sir, and see If I shall wince. Dr. Lome. So that's your line. And now Your factor here, does he approve of it? 2 5 8 KILDROSTAN. Doris. Sir, I can manage my affairs as yet ; I am of age, and not quite fatuous ; But you can ask him. Factor. Yes, I do endorse All that my lady says. Dr. Lome. So be it, then; There's no more to be said, I apprehend. Come, Bennett, let us go. Bennett. Nay, not so fast. Do not by haste or wrangling further snarl A knot already hard to disentangle. My fair young lady, you can hardly know The chances or the certainties of Law; But if I had a little while alone Now with your agent, I could make it plain He gives you ill advice. Doris. No doubt, you two Being closeted together for an hour ACT v. KILDROSTAN. 259 Would order all my life. But I prefer To shape it for myself. Factor. And I would leave The Law to give to every one his due. Doris. As your friend says, I think there needs no more. This gentleman who went and drowned himself To benefit his family, that did not Profit much by his living, turns up now Modestly asking eighty thousand pounds, With interest and compound interest For ten or twelve years past. But since the payment Of all these monies would go far indeed To beggar me, he is content if I Will give up to Sir Diarmid house and lands Now forfeited to me. Dr. Lome. Ay, so I wrote In that same paper which you did not read, And have so clearly understood. Doris. O yes! I understand it better than you think : 2 6o KILDROSTAN. ACT As thus : I read between the lines that you Have made a covenant to wed your niece, Miss Lome, with Diarmid, who is my betrothed, But by her counsel falsely breaks his word. Now hear me. I will fight it to the last, And will not stint my vengeance, though I starve My life to feed it. I believe your stories Are lies from first to last about my father, From first to last inventions to entrap Poor Diarmid in your snares. But were they all As true as they are false, as credible As they are clean impossible, it would not Matter to me. That girl shall never sit My lady in his house, and smile and fawn Upon the man whose plighted troth I wear, See, on my finger. There; you have my answer. Our business now is ended. [Exit. Dr. Lome. A high-stepping Filly, that now. But though her tongue is sharp. And she has touched me somewhat on the raw, I bear no grudge, if she had only left Ina alone. I like a clever girl With pluck and talent. V. KILDROSTAN. 261 Bennett. Was there ever creature So reckless and unreasonable as An angry woman? Dr. Lome. Well, I do not know. She means to get from life the thing she wants, Cost what it may, as your philosopher Will burn his diamond just to prove 'tis nought But charcoal, and we call him wise. It all Comes to the same at last. One toils for fame, And from his garret where he gnaws a crust Scorns your respectable folk; another swings I've seen them on a hook whose iron digs Into the flesh, and he too laughs at us Who live by reason ; she is fain to have Revenge for love insulted; and perhaps Each gets as much from life i' the end as we Who gather wealth, and think that they are mad. Only the pursuit pleases; the possession Is empty or bitter always. But these aims Have most intense delight, and in their failure A kind of tragic grandeur. That girl now Has lived, within this hour, as much at least As three good years of our lives. 262 KILDROSTAN. ACT Bennett. Fiddlesticks ! She is a fool, sir, and her sentiments Are heathenish or even devilish. {Looks out of windmv. Look at her; She'll drive that horse mad if she curb him so, And lash him in her tantrums. Dr. Lome. Ah ! that's bad. Now, if she were a friend of mine, she should not Ride off alone, for horse and rider have A wild eye in their heads. She cannot mean To take the old hill-road on such a brute. Yes ! there she gallops up the rocky path, Past the old mill, at every hoof a brush Of fiery sparks ; she's near the ash-tree now That sends a low branch right across the way. By Jove ! she's taken it like a fence, and crashed Right through the twigs and leaves. Well ridden, girl! Now, could I but throw off some forty years, I'd risk a ride through life with such a mate. She's out of sight now. There's an ugly bit Of road along the crags, above Loch Dhu. What's that? I could be sworn it was a scream; v. KILDROSTAN. 263 And there's no tramp of hoofs now : it is fallen Terribly silent. Bennett. Let us go and see. CHORUS. Up the steep path on the hill, Past the wild race of the mill, Leaping o'er branch and boulder-stone Madly the rider galloped on. And up to the heights of that rocky road, Mad as her rider, the sorrel strode, While her sharp ears were forward turned, And the quick smoke from her nostrils burned, And the evil white from her eye had fled, But it was blood-shot now instead, As she swept past a twisted, grey, Ghostly root where a young lamb lay, Picked till each several rib was bare By hungry ravens that haunted there. There were two lovers whispering low Among the bracken beside the brook, Where the juniper bush, and the ragged sloe Made for lovers a sheltered nook : 264 KILDROSTAN. A There were two ravens that did croak Over the lamb's ribs picked so bare; Was there ho weakling of the flock To make them another supper there? Clatter, clatter upon the rock, They heard the hoofs of the Sorrel ring, Only a muffled thud they woke Now and then on the moss or ling. Lovers and ravens then upsprung, As nearer and nearer it came with speed, And a wild shriek 'mong the echoes rung, But it was not the woman, it was the steed. What had happened? All now was still, Only the raven, hopping slow To a giddy ledge of the rocky hill, Kept peering down on the depths below. ACT FIFTH. SCENE FOURTH. CHORUS. A low-arched bridge, All tufted green with moss and maiden-hair, Spanned a slow stream That lapsed as in a dream v. KILDROSTAN. 265 Through sedge and willow and meadow flat and fair; And all around were great hills, shadowy, sharp, and bare. On many a knoll, Silent the golden plovers kept their seat, And in the stream That lapsed as in a dream The heron slumbered, cooling breast and feet, And you could see the air all tremulous with heat. Ah ! our unrest More restless grows when all around is peace ; For life doth seem To lapse as in a dream Which hath not any fruit or due increase, And ^we do fret the more that the calm doth not cease. O low-arched bridge With tinted moss and dainty fern o'ergrown, And thou slow stream, Lapsing as in a dream, More hateful ye than perilous stepping stone And turbid river, since peace from her heart has flown. 266 KILDROSTAN. ACT SCENE Bridge near Glen Chroan Lodge. INA and MORAG. Ina. This is the land of sleep ; here no man works Or thinks. Morag. The women work. Ina. O yes, they toil 'Neath heavy burdens, while their lords, forsooth, Lie in the sun and watch them sweltering. I could not live here, Morag; it is like A life in death, oblivious listlessness That nothing cares for, and remembers nought. See, the slow brook creeps sleepily along, The trout are slumbering yonder in the pools. The cows lie on the grass with closed eyelids, Languidly chewing, and the yellow bees Wheel drowsily about. These inland lakes Are not like our sea-lochs ; there's life in them, Motion and waves and pulsing of the tide, And on their shores we know that we are near The world's great highway thronged with busy life. Morag. You used to call Loch Thorar sleepy too. v. KILDR OSTAN. 267 Ina. Ay, so it is, compared with busy| streets Where eager industries do push and drive, And hurrying throngs answer the ringing bells, And huge unwearying machineries Are waited on by patient servitors, Like gods that must be tended morn and eve. There men and women work, and life is lived At the full pitch, for there each man is kept Strict to his task at book or saw or yardstick, Or whatsoe'er his tool be, by the vast Machine of civilization. Morag. I am thinking That no one wants to be just where he is; We're fain to kick our shadows from our feet, As we might do our slippers. Ina. Maybe so ; And yet I willingly would lose myself In work which is not wholly for myself, And thought which is not all about myself. Yes, I am weary of that. Morag. But there's your uncle : Might you not work, and think a bit for him? 268 KILDROSTAN. Ina. He will not let me. He is all for wrapping A girl in cotton-wadding to be kept Like a wax-doll. He is my slave to fetch And carry for me : I am his morning thought, His daily task too, and his evening care. I must not let the sun freckle my skin, Nor yet the night lamp weary my poor eyes, Toiling at book or needlework or music. 'Tis always Me that must be thought about, And I am sick of Me. Where did he learn His notions about women? In the East Among Zenanas? They are worse, I think, Than our rough crofters' ways. Morag. He's very good; You should be grateful, Ina. Ina. Grateful, yes ! But then to live is more than to be nursed And tended like a baby. What am I, To get all this observance and respect? I want to be at work. This idleness Is like the waste of water-power among V. KILDROSTAN. 269 Our hills, which might have brought the people bread. Morag. You're weary of being an idol to be worshipped ; And they do say a woman's soul was meant Rather to worship man, and maybe guide him To make him worshipful. Are you sure, Ina, It is the worship or the guiding of him That you have dreamt of? Ina. O, all that is past. There was a time of fond idolatry When I did shrine an image in my heart, And never wearied burning incense to it, And offering sacrifice, and singing lauds, And building temples of imagination For other votaries. That time is gone. The glory and the beauty and the dream Are vanished; and the fire is burnt to ashes That choke when they are stirred. I have no wish Either to guide or worship, since the stream That sang along my path amid the flowers Is all gone dry and muddy and common-place. God help me ! 270 KILDROSTAN. ACT Morag. Ina, one day I was sailing By misty Morven in the early morning, And as I looked I saw upon the mist My shadow, and the shadows of all the rest, And they were only shadows flitting dim, But on my head there seemed a golden crown Flashing with diamonds. So it was with all ; Each saw a halo circling his own head, And all his neighbours only common shadows; So is the vanity of youthful dreams. Ina. Nay, Morag, but the halo and the crown, In my case, did not rest upon my brow, Where vanity would put it, but on his; And now there is no glory anywhere, But work might bring forgetfulness. Morag. But, Ina, Where can you go that trouble will not come ? You stand upon the beach, and there the waves Tumble and foam, and, looking seaward, you Are sure that all is bright and calm and sunny, Till you are there. v. KILDROSTAN. 271 Jna. But there, at least, you find Ropes to be hauled, and sails to reef, and waves To battle with ; and I would, like the sailor, Rather a gale of wind than lie becalmed. But there; enough of me and my affairs. Have you heard aught of Kenneth lately? Morag. Ay! Kenneth, poor lad, will never sing again; His pipe is like the blackbird's hoarse and rusty, Just as the summer comes. Ina. How do you mean ? Morag. You know that he and Mairi were together Sitting among the bracken on the height When Doris took her last mad ride along The old hill road. 'Twas they that brought the tidings How her horse shied there at a sudden turn Upon the ridge, seeing a raven leap From a dead lamb that he had picked all bare. They said the boy looked scared. 272 KILDROSTAN. ACT Ina. I do not wonder. It was a scene of horror. Morag. Yes ; but now He says that, hearing that wild tramp of hoofs Along the rocky path where never horse Was known to gallop yet, he started up Just as she reached the perilous turn o } the road ; And he will have it that his sudden rising, And not the raven, scared the frantic brute, Whose labouring flanks were white with creamy foam, And its eyes red with blood, so that it made The fatal step, and stumbled o'er the brink Of dark Craig-dhu. Ina. It might be so, and yet No blame to him. Morag. But he will blame himself. And then his Mairi is the heir of all Her cousin's wealth, and she, he says, could never Wed him that murdered Doris, nor can he Touch gold that is so stained with blood. v. KILDROSTAN. 273 Ina. Poor lad ! And what does Mairi say? Morag. She sits by him, E'en like a patient dove beside its mate That lies a-bleeding, croodling softly to him, And glad to put her heritage away, If he will smile again; and that he cannot. Ina. Ah me ! what threads of sorrow everywhere Run through this tangled life ! But go now, Morag. Here comes my uncle. [Exit MORAG and enter DR. LORNE. Dr. Lome. Ina, it is done, The job you wished, and as you wished it done ; Yet a bad job, I fear. Ina. Nay, I am sure 'Tis the right thing, and the right way to do it. No other way was possible. Does he know? 274 KILDROSTAN. ACT Dr. Lome. He knows that, when a search was duly made, No deed was found such as he had supposed, And so there is no burden on his land, Or claimant for it. It has touched his heart With some remorseful thoughts about that girl. Ina. That's as it should be. It is best for us, And keeps our hearts the sweeter, that the lights, Lingering about the grave, are soft and tender. But he suspects no more nothing behind. Dr. Lome. Nothing. I wish he did. It is not right This virtue unrewarded, lavishing Wealth on a man who writes in melting mood Of her that wronged him, with no recognition Of her who set all right. It is too fine For my taste. 'Tis as God had done his work, And let the devil take all the credit of it, Which God himself objects to. Ina. Yet it could not Be otherwise, for he's a gentleman, And could not take a gift like this from me. v. KILDROSTAN. 275 There was no way except to burn her claim And yours in the same fire, so blotting out That chapter, as it never had been writ. Dr. Lome. I don't know that. He could have taken you, And the rest with you. Men are not so nice And dainty about marrying money, when It is a handsome girl that's freighted with it. There was no need to tell him his good fortune Till the day after. Ina. That is past for ever. Dr. Lome. For ever's not a word for woman's lips, Nor a man's either. I have sworn it oft, And every time I swore I had to break My oath. For Ever Never, that belongs To God alone, who does not change His mind. Ina. Does he return here soon? Dr. Lome. Yes, I suppose so. He says that he has found that he can work, But that he has not found his proper work : 276 K1LDROSTAN. ACT That's here among his people not in London. I don't know what he means. There's nothing here For man to do but shoot and fish and grumble. Ina. O, he will find his task in life, and now, Uncle, you'll take me hence. For me at least, There is no work here. Dr. Lome. Whither would you, Ina? Ina. Anywhere, anywhere ; but away from this. Dr. Lome. What say you, then, to Italy? Ina. Italy ! I never thought of that. Yes ! let us go, And see the picture-galleries and statues, The Temples of the gods, the Colosseum, The towns perched on the hills among the olives, The castles, and the ancient civic grandeur Of merchants who were princes ruling states- All that you oft have told me about Rome v. KILDROSTAN. 27 7 And Venice and Verona and fair Florence. I am so useless, and I wish to learn, And Italy's a book with many a page Wondrously written, and illuminate With golden letters. Yes, we will go there. CHORUS. At fair Ravenna, one day, she was taking Rest near the wharves where once rose many a mast, But now the goats their pasture there are making, And the grey sea-waves miles away are breaking, As her life too had ebbed far from its past. Sadly she gazed on palace, cot, and tower, And mused upon the Empire's fading days, And on Theodoric and the Lombard power, The rush of barbarous peoples, and the dower Of beauty that transformed their rude old ways. But ever with the thought of these old ages Thoughts of a nearer past would mingle still, Thoughts of her fruitless work and empty wages, And yesterday would write upon the pages Of History, and all their margin fill. 278 KILDROSTAN. ACT v. And as the yellow bee was drowsy humming, And drowsily the convent bells would ring, And at a neighbouring lattice one was strumming A poor guitar, she knew that he was coming, And a new future surely opening. Nought had she heard of him or of his doing, Yet she was sure that he was near at hand, That he came swift as one who goes a-wooing, And trembling as an eager soul pursuing The quest of something he deemed pure and grand. " Ina," he whispered, at her feet low kneeling, Nor did she startle, only answered low : "I knew that you had come. I had the feeling; And past is past." And then their lips were sealing, Forever now, the love of long ago. THE END. GLASGOW: ROBERT MACLEHOSE, Printer to the University p tlte snme Author. OLRIG GRANGE : a Poem in Six Books. Third Edition. Ex. fcap. 8vo. 6s. 6d. " This remarkable poem will at once give its anonymous author a high place among contemporary English poets. Examiner. "The most sickening phase of our civilization has scarcely been exposed with a surer and quieter point, even by Thackeray himself, than in this advice of a fashionable and religious mother to her daughter." Pall Mall. "The story is told in powerful and suggestive verse." 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" For rich variety alike in substance and form, for scathing exposure of all that is mean and base, and for the effective presentation of the loftiest ideals, for mingled humour and pathos, we do not know a volume in the whole range of Scottish verse that can be said to surpass ' North Country Folk'." Christian Leader. POEMS BY THE SAME AUTHOR Contd. HILDA ; AMONG THE BROKEN GODS : a Poem. By the Author of " Olrig Grange/' Third Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. 75. 6d. "That it is characterized by vigorous thinking, delicate fancy, and happy terms of expression, is admitted on all hands." Times. "A poem of remarkable power. It contains much fine thought, and shows throughout the deepest penetration into present-day tendencies in belief or no-belief." British Quarterly Review. " It is to ' Hilda,' however, that we must turn for the most tragic concep- tion of actual life that has hitherto been fashioned into verse. No modern poet, it may safely be said, has plunged so deeply into the innermost heart of living men and women, and none has used such remarkable materials for his drama." Scottish Review. "This is a noble poem, very tragic and full of beauties. The rhythm throughout is exquisite, and the colouring delicious. The humour is peculiar the sarcasm grim and cutting." Metropolitan. " This remarkable poem. ... To use the words of Milton, the tale of 'Hilda' is told in language which is at once simple, sensuous, and passionate. We have not read for some considerable time a poem which is more rivetting in interest." Spectator. "The author understands how to tell a story in rhyme and tell it in musical verse. He knows how to portray the humours and follies of the hour." Pall Mall Gazette. " ' Hilda ' could only have been produced by a writer of great intellectual gifts. ' ' Scotsman. BORLAND HALL : a Poem. By the Author of " Olrig Grange." [Third Edition in preparation. RABAN ; OR, LIFE SPLINTERS : a Poem. By the Author of " Olrig Grange." {Second Edition in preparation. JAMES MACLEHOSE & SONS, GLASGOW. Catalogue of Boofcs PUBLISHED BY JAMES MACLEHOSE & SONS, $ttbli0her0 to the Untbersttg ot GLASGOW: 61 ST. VINCENT STREET. 1884. PUBLISHED BY JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW^ publishers to the MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON AND NEW YORK. London, .... Hamilton, Adams and Co. Cambridge^ . . . Macmillan and Bowes. Edinburgh, . . . Douglas and Faults. AUGUST, MDCCCLXXXIV. PUBLISHERS TO THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW. Messrs. MACLEHOSE'S Catalogue of Books. ALEXANDER, Patrick, M.A. CARLYLE REDIVIVUS. Being an Occasional Discourse on Sauerteig. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. is. "Exceedingly witty." Saturday Review, " A cleverer parody has not appeared since the ' Rejected Addresses.' " Manchester Courier. ANDERSON ON THE CURABILITY OF ATTACKS OF TUBER- CULAR PERITONITIS AND ACUTE PHTHISIS. By T. 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MACLEHOSE AND SONS. \\ GRANT CATALOGUE OF 6415 STARS FOR THE EPOCH 1870, deduced from Observations made at the Glasgow Univer- sity Observatory 1860-1881. By ROBERT GRANT, M.A., F.R.S., F.R.A.S., Professor of Astronomy in the University of Glasgow. 4to. [Immediately. This volume has been printed at the expense of Her Majesty's Govern- ment as advised by the Council of the Royal Society. GRANT THE LORD'S SUPPER EXPLAINED. By the REV. WILLIAM GRANT, Ayr. Ninth Edition. i6mo. 4d. GRANT CHRISTIAN BAPTISM EXPLAINED. i6mo. is. 6d. GRAY, David THE POETICAL WORKS OF DAVID GRAY. New and enlarged Edition, extra Fcap. 8vo. 6s. " Gems of poetry, exquisitely set." Glasgow News. HAMILTON, Janet POEMS, ESSAYS, AND SKETCHES. By JANET HAMILTON. [New Edition Immediately. "It is a book containing the Memoirs, Poems, and other Composi- tions of, to my mind, the most remarkable old woman I have ever heard of. . . . 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MACLEHOSE AND SONS. 15 NICHOL THE DEATH OF THEMISTOCLES, and other Poems, Extra fcap. 8vo. 73. 6d. "Dignified, careful, conscientious work throughout." Saturday Review. '' A hymn more solemnly beautiful than ' Donna Vera ' was never chanted to Pallas herself by the most inspired of her ancient votaries." Glasgow Herald. " Professor Nichol is a master of the English epic metre." Scotsman. OLRIG GRANGE. See SMITH. PORTER, S. T. CHRISTIAN PROPHECY. Post SVo. 75. 6d. PULSFORD -SERMONS PREACHED IN TRINITY CHURCH, GLASGOW. By the REV. WILLIAM PULSFORD, D.D. Crown 8vo. Cloth, Red Edges. Cheap Edition. 43. 6d. " The sermons have much of the brilliancy of thought and style by which Robertson fascinated his Brighton hearers." Daily Review. " He is a preacher, because he has been first a thinker." Spectator. RAN KINE SONGS AND FABLES. By W. J. MACQUORN RANKINE, late Professor of Engineering in the University of Glasgow. With Portrait, and with Ten Illustrations by J. B. Second Edition. 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It is nothing short of masterly. The style is full, nervous, perspi- cuous, vitalized by an enthusiasm always kept on the safe side by humour and good sense. In the warmth of his patriotic and moral enthusiasm, in his thorough mastery of details, as well as in the glowing energy of his style, he reminds us of Mr. Green." Academy. 1 6 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ROSS, W. T. POEMS. New Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. ROSS, W. T. WAIFS. Essays and Sketches. Ex. fcap. 8vo. 55. SCHLOMKA. A GERMAN GRAMMAR. By CLEMENS SCHLOMKA, M.A., Ph.D. {Immediately. b|> tlte JUthor of "dDIrig Grange." SMITH KiLDROSTAN : a Dramatic Poem. By the Author of " Olrig Grange." Ex. fcap. 8vo. 75. 6d. [This Day. " 'Kildrostan' has all the interest and excitement of a novel, combined with the charm of dignified verse, and enhanced by the stimulus of manly thought. . . . The poem is one of unquestionable power. Scattered all through the five acts there are gems of thought which are enhanced in literary value by their brilliant setting. Dr. Smith's power of passionate utterance reaches its highest point in the scene, in the third act, in which Tremain's intense declarations of love are received by Doris with scoffs and jeers. It is like the play of lightning on an iceberg, brilliant but harmless. Scotsman. " Since the death of Scott hardly any man has so nearly approached the Wizard of the North in the art of telling a story in graphic and musical verse. ... On Doris Cattanach Mr. Smith has extended his full strength, and not even the worldly-wise mother in ' Olrig Grange ' nor Hilda Dalguise, nor even Winifred Urquhart is so powerfully drawn. On Tremain, the aesthetic poet, equal care has been bestowed. The aesthetic school has never been so fully explained or exposed. The prophet of culture is not encountered by parody or by satire, but by what we may term psychological anatomy, and the effect is irresistible." Echo. " 'Kildrostan' is one of the very finest dramatic poems of the day."- Fifeshire Journal. SMITH OLRIG GRANGE : a Poem n Six Books. By WALTER C. SMITH. Third Edition. Ex. fcap. 8vo. 6s. 6d. " This remarkable poem will at once give its anonymous author a high place among contemporary English poets. Examiner. " The most sickening phase of our civilization has scarcely been exposed with a surer and quieter point, even by Thackeray himself, than in this advice of a fashionable and religious mother to her daughter." Pall Mall. "The story is told in powerful and suggestive verse." Spectator. "The pious self-pity of the worldly mother, and the despair of the worldly daughter are really brilliantly put. The story is worked out with quite uncommon power." Academy. MESSRS. MACLEHOSE AND SONS. 17 SMITH HILDA ; AMONG THE BROKEN GODS : a Poem. By the Author of " Olrig Grange." Third Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. 75. 6d. "That it is characterized by vigorous thinking, delicate fancy, and happy terms of expression, is admitted on all hands." Times. "A poem of remarkable power." British Quarterly Review. " It is to ' Hilda,' however, that we must turn for the most tragic concep- tion of actual life that has hitherto been fashioned into verse. No modern poet, it may safely be said, has plunged so deeply into the innermost heart of living men and women, and none has used such remarkable materials for his drama." Scottish Review. SMITH NORTH COUNTRY FOLK. Poems by Author of "Olrig Grange." Ex. fcap. 8vo. 75. 6d. "These poems are really dramatic, genuinely pathetic, and will bear reading over and over again." Westminster Review. " The follies and pettiness of suburban life provoke Dr. Smith's scorn. The race for wealth, the desire for position, and other kindred themes, are treated in a straightforward, outspoken fashion." Dundee Advertiser. " ' Wee Curly Pow ' is full of exquisite pathos and tenderness, and ' Dick Dalgleish ' is rich in genuine humour. We recommend all who are fond of genuine poetry to get Dr. Smith's poems at once. The book is full of music. " Sheffield Independent. " For rich variety alike in substance and form, for scathing exposure of all that is mean and base, and for the effective presentation of the loftiest ideals, for mingled humour and pathos, we do not know a volume in the whole range of Scottish verse that can be said to surpass ' North Country Folk'." Christian Leader. SMITH BORLAND HALL : a Poem. By the Author of " Olrig Grange." [ Third Edition in preparation. SMITH RABAN ; OR, LIFE SPLINTERS : a Poem. By the Author of" Olrig Grange." {Second Edition in preparation. SMITH BISHOP'S WALK ; and Other Poems. Extra fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. SPREULL WRITINGS OF JOHN SPREULL (commonly called Bass John) 1646-1722. Edited by J. W. BURNS, of Kilma- hew. Extra fcap. 4to. With Facsimiles and Portrait. 125. 6d. STANLEY, Dean THE BURNING BUSH. A Sermon. 8vo. is. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY STEWART THE PLAN OF ST. LUKE'S GOSPEL. By WILLIAM STEWART, M.A., D.D., Professor of Biblical Criticism in the University of Glasgow. 8vo. 35. 6d. STODDART VILLAGE LIFE: A Poem. By JAMES H. STOD- DART, Editor of the Glasgow Herald. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 6d. 1 ' A remarkable volume of poetry, which will be read by all who have any keen interest in the progress of English literature." Standard. STORY CREED AND CONDUCT : Sermons preached in Ros- neath Church. By ROBERT HERBERT STORY, D.D., Minister of the Parish. Crown 8vo. Cheap Edition. 35. 6d. " In all respects this volume is worthy to be. placed alongside of those of Caird and Guthrie, Tulloch and Service." Glasgow Herald. " These are excellent sermons. They are sensible, manly, scholarly, and religious." Edinburgh Courant. " Characterized throughout by profound earnestness and spirituality, and written in a style at once graceful, clear, and nervous." Scotsman. "We heartily commend the book to our readers." Dundee Advertiser. VEITCH THE HISTORY AND POETRY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER, THEIR MAIN FEATURES AND RELATIONS. By JOHN VEITCH, LL.D., Professor of Logic and Rhetoric in the University of Glasgow. Crown 8vo. IDS. 6d. " This is a genuine book. We heartily recommend it." Contemporary Review. " We feel as if we were hearing the stories, or listening to the snatches of song among the breezes of the mountains or the moorland, under the sun-broken mists of the wild glens, or the wooded banks of the Yarrow or the Tweed." Times, " The fullest, most thorough, and most deeply critical work on Border history and poetry that we have." British Quarterly Review. VEITCH HILLSIDE RHYMES. Extra fcap. 8vo. 55. VEITCH THE TWEED, AND OTHER POEMS. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 6d. VEITCH LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. MESSRS. MACLEHOSE AND SONS. 19 WADDELL OSSIAN AND THE CLYDE ; or, Ossian Historical and Authentic. By P. HATELY WADDELL, LL.D. 4to. i2s. 6d. WATSON KANT AND HIS ENGLISH CRITICS, a Comparison of Critical and Empirical Philosophy. By JOHN WATSON, M.A., LL.D., Professor of Moral Philosophy in Queen's LJniversity, Kingston, Canada. 8vo. 125. 6d. "Decidedly the best exposition of Kant which we have seen in Eng- lish. We cannot too strongly commend it." Saturday Review. " C'est 1'oeuvre d'un penseur et d'un maltre. . . . Nous avons lu le livre de M. Watson avec un vif inte'ret et une grande sympathie." Revue Phil- osophique, "This book is written with clearness and precision, and the author is thoroughly impregnated with the doctrine which he expounds, and makes it as plain as it can be made without becoming other than it is." Professor T. H. GREEN, in the Academy. "All students of Kant will recognize his thorough mastery of the system he expounds." Scotsman. New Books and New Editions In Preparation. PROFESSOR CAIRDlw PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. By EDWARD CAIRD, M.A., LL.D., late Fellow and Tutor of Merton College, Oxford ; Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Glasgow. Demy 8vo. MONS. GORECKI& FRENCH GRAMMAR. By A. L. GORECKI, Lecturer in the Church of Scotland Training College, Glasgow. 20 MESSXS. MACLEHOSES PUBLICATIONS. New Books in Preparation. Continued. PROFESSOR G'RANT CATALOGUE OF 6415 STARS for the Epoch 1870, deduced from Observations made at the Glasgow University Observatory. By ROBERT GRANT, M.A., F.R.S., F.R.A.S., Director of the Observatory, and Professor of Astronomy in the University of Glasgow. Demy 4to, 800 pp. JANET HAMILTON POEMS, ESSAYS, AND SKETCHES. Crown 8vo. [New Edition immediately. PROFESSOR JEBBT-RK ANABASIS OF XENOPHON. Books III. and IV., with the Modern Greek Version of Constantine Bardalachos, and with an Introduction by R. C. JEBB, M.A. Professor of Greek in the University of Glasgow. [ New Editioit in preparation. PROFESSOR JEBB& NEW SELECTION OF GREEK EX- TRACTS. By R. C. JEBB, M.A., Professor of Greek in the University of Glasgow. PROFESSOR NICHOL ESSAYS ON ENGLISH LITERATURE. By JOHN NICHOL, M.A. Balliol, Oxon, LL.D., Professor of English Language and Literature in the University of Glasgow. g the JUthflr of "(Dlrig (grange." BORLAND HALL : a Poem. By WALTER C. SMITH, M.A., Author of " Olrig Grange." \_Third Edition in preparation. RABAN : a Poem. By the Author of " Olrig Grange." [Second Edition in preparation. MR. ^OSSTux FINE ARTS AND OTHER ESSAYS. DR. SCHLOMKA- A GERMAN GRAMMAR. By CLEMENS SCHLOMKA, M.A., Ph.D., German Master in the Glasgow High School. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. KtNEVVALS ONLY - AUG1419R8 No. 642-3405 LD2lA-45m-9,'67 (H5067slO)476B General Library University of California Berkeley Y.r i ! 206;