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Scene.—Garden of a humble but picturesque cottage, near Gretna, on the border between England and Scotland. The whole scene is suggestive of rustic prosperity and content. Maggie Macfarlane, a pretty country girl, is discovered spinning at a wheel, and singing as she spins. Angus Macalister, a good-looking peasant lad, appears on at back, and creeps softly down to Maggie as she sings and spins, and places his hands over her eyes.

Ang. Wha is it?

Mag. Oh, Angus, ye frightened me sae! (He releases her.) And see there—the flax is a’ knotted and scribbled—and I’ll do naething wi’ it!

Ang. Meg! My Meg! My ain bonnie Meg!

Mag. Angus, why, lad, what’s wrang wi’ e’e? Thou hast tear-drops in thy bonnie blue een.

Ang. Dinna heed them, Meg. It comes fra glowerin’ at thy bright beauty. Glowerin’ at thee is like glowerin’ at the noonday sun!

Mag. Angus, thou’rt talking fulishly. I’m but a puir brown hill-side lassie. I dinna like to hear sic things from a straight honest lad like thee. It’s the way the dandy toun-folk speak to me, and it does na come rightly from the lips of a simple man.

Ang. Forgive me, Meg, for I speak honestly to ye. Angus Macalister is not the man to deal in squeaming compliments. Meg, I love thee dearly, as thou well knowest. I’m but a puir lad, and I’ve little but twa braw arms and a straight hairt to live by, but I’ve saved a wee bit siller—I’ve a braw housie and a scrappie of gude garden-land—and it’s a’ for thee, lassie, if thou’ll gie me thy true and tender little hairt!

Mag. Angus, I’ll be fair and straight wi’ ee. Thou askest me for my hairt. Why, Angus, thou’rt tall, and fair, and brave. Thou’st a gude, honest face, and a gude, honest hairt, which is mair precious than a’ the gold on earth! No man has a word to say against Angus Macalister—no, nor any woman neither. Thou hast strong arms to work wi’, and a strong hairt to help thee work. And wha am I that I should say that a’ these blessings are not enough for me? If thou, gude, brave, honest man, will be troubled wi’ sic a puir little, humble mousie as Maggie Macfarlane, why, she’ll just be the proudest and happiest lassie in a’ Dumfries!

Ang. My ain darling! (They embrace.)

Enter Mrs. Macfarlane from cottage.

Mrs. Mac. Why, Angus—Maggie, what’s a’ this!

Ang. Mistress Macfarlane, dinna be fasht wi’ me; dinna think worse o’ me than I deserve. I’ve loved your lass honestly these fifteen years, but I never plucked up the hairt to tell her so until noo; and when she answered fairly, it wasna in human nature to do aught else but hold her to my hairt and place one kiss on her bonnie cheek.

Mrs. Mac. Angus, say nae mair. My hairt is sair at losing my only bairn; but I’m nae fasht wi’ ee. Thou’rt a gude lad, and it’s been the hope of my widowed auld heart to see you twain one. Thou’lt treat her kindly—I ken that weel. Thou’rt a prosperous, kirk-going man, and my Mag should be a happy lass indeed. Bless thee, Angus; bless thee!

Ang. (wiping his eyes). Dinna heed the water in my ee—it will come when I’m ower glad. Yes, I’m a fairly prosperous man. What wi’ farmin’ a bit land, and gillieing odd times, and a bit o’ poachin’ now and again; and what wi’ my illicit whusky still—and throwin’ trains off the line, that the poor distracted passengers may come to my cot, I’ve mair ways than one of making an honest living—and I’ll work them a’ nicht and day for my bonnie Meg!

Mrs. Mac. D’ye ken, Angus, I sometimes think that thou’rt losing some o’ thine auld skill at upsetting railway trains. Thou hast not done sic a thing these sax weeks, and the cottage stands sairly in need of sic chance custom as the poor delayed passengers may bring.

Mag. Nay, mither, thou wrangest him. Even noo, this very day, has he not placed twa bonnie braw sleepers across the up-line, ready for the express from Glaisgie, which is due in twa minutes or so?

Mrs. Mac. Gude lad! Gude thoughtfu’ lad! But I hope the unfortunate passengers will na’ be much hurt, puir unconscious bodies!

Ang. Fear nought, mither. Lang experience has taught me to do my work deftly. The train will run off the line, and the traffic will just be blocked for half a day, but I’ll warrant ye that, wi’ a’ this, nae mon, woman, or child amang them will get sae much as a bruised head or a broken nose.

Mag. My ain tender-hearted Angus! He wadna hurt sae much as a blatherin’ buzzin’ bluebottle flee!

Ang. Nae, Meg, not if takin’ care and thought could help the poor dumb thing! (Wiping his eyes.) There, see, lass (looking off), the train’s at a standstill, and there’s nae harm done. I’ll just go and tell the puir distraught passengers that they may rest them here, in thy cot, gin they will, till the line is cleared again. Mither, get thy rooms ready, and put brose i’ the pot, for mebbe they’ll be hungry, puir souls. Farewell, Meg; I’ll be back ere lang, and if I don’t bring ’ee a full half-dozen o’ well-paying passengers, thou may’st just wed the red-headed exciseman!

[Exit Angus.

Mag. Oh, mither, mither, I’m ower happy! I’ve nae deserved sic a good fortune as to be the wife o’ yon brave and honest lad!

Mrs. Mac. Meg, thine auld mither’s hairt is sair at the thought o’ losin’ ye, for hitherto she’s just been a’ the world to ’ee; but now thou’lt cleave to thine Angus, and thou’lt learn to love him better than thy puir auld mither! But it mun be—it mun be!

Mag. Nay, mither, say not that. A gude girl loves her husband wi’ one love and her mither wi’ anither. They are not alike, but neither is greater nor less than the ither, and they dwell together in peace and unity. That is how a gude girl loves.

Mrs. Mac. And thou art a gude girl, Meg?

Mag. I am a varra gude girl indeed, mither—a varra, varra gude girl!

Mrs. Mac. I’m richt sure o’ that. Well, the puir belated passengers will be here directly, and it is our duty to provide for them sic puir hospitality as our humble roof will afford. It shall never be said o’ Janie Macfarlane that she ever turned the weary traveller fainting from her door.

Mac. My ain gentle-hearted mither!

[Exeunt together into cottage.

Enter Angus with Belvawney and Miss Treherne. She is in travelling costume, and both are much agitated and alarmed.

Ang. Step in, sir—step in, and sit ye doun for a wee. I’ll just send Mistress Macfarlane to ye. She’s a gude auld bodie, and will see to your comforts as if she was your ain mither.

Bel. Thank you, my worthy lad, for your kindness at this trying moment. I assure you we shall not forget it.

Ang. Ah, sir, wadna any mon do as muckle? A dry shelter, a bannock and a pan o’ parritch is a’ we can offer ye, but sic as it is ye’re hairtily welcome.

Bel. It is well—we thank you.

Ang. For wha wadna help the unfortunate?

Bel. (occupied with Miss Treherne). Exactly—every one would.

Ang. Or feed the hungry?

Bel. No doubt.

Ang. It just brings the tear drop to my ee’ to think——

Bel. (leading him off). My friend, we would be alone, this maiden and I. Farewell! (Exit Angus, into cottage.) Belinda—my own—my life! Compose yourself. It was in truth a weird and gruesome accident. The line is blocked—your parasol is broken, and your butterscotch trampled in the dust, but no serious harm is done. Come, be cheerful. We are safe—quite safe.

Miss T. Safe! Ah, Belvawney, my own own Belvawney—there is, I fear, no safety for us so long as we are liable to be overtaken by that fearful Major to whom I was to have been married this morning!

Bel. Major McGillicuddy? I confess I do not feel comfortable when I think of Major McGillicuddy.

Miss T. You know his barbaric nature, and how madly jealous he is. If he should find that I have eloped with you he will most surely shoot us both!

Bel. It is an uneasy prospect. (Suddenly.) Belinda, do you love me?

Miss T. With an impetuous passion that I shall carry with me to the tomb!

Bel. Then be mine to-morrow! We are not far from Gretna, and the thing can be done without delay. Once married, the arm of the law will protect us from this fearful man, and we can defy him to do his worst.

Miss T. Belvawney, all this is quite true. I love you madly, passionately; I care to live but in your heart, I breathe but for your love; yet, before I actually consent to take the irrevocable step that will place me on the pinnacle of my fondest hopes, you must give me some definite idea of your pecuniary position. I am not mercenary, Heaven knows; but business is business, and I confess I should like a little definite information about the settlements.

Bel. I often think that it is deeply to be deplored that these grovelling questions of money should alloy the tenderest and most hallowed sentiments that inspire our imperfect natures.

Miss T. It is unfortunate, no doubt, but at the same time it is absolutely necessary.

Bel. Belinda, I will be frank with you. My income is £1000 a year, which I hold on certain conditions. You know my friend Cheviot Hill, who is travelling to London in the same train with us, but in the third class?

Miss T. I believe I know the man you mean.

Bel. Cheviot, who is a young man of large property, but extremely close-fisted, is cursed with a strangely amatory disposition, as you will admit when I tell you that he has contracted a habit of proposing marriage, as a matter of course, to every woman he meets. His haughty father (who comes of a very old family—the Cheviot Hills had settled in this part of the world centuries before the Conquest) is compelled by his health to reside in Madeira. Knowing that I exercise an all but supernatural influence over his son, and fearing that his affectionate disposition would lead him to contract an undesirable marriage, the old gentleman allows me £1000 a year so long as Cheviot shall live single, but at his death or marriage the money goes over to Cheviot’s uncle Symperson, who is now travelling to town with him.

Miss T. Then so long as your influence over him lasts, so long only will you retain your income?

Bel. That is, I am sorry to say, the state of the case.

Miss T. (after a pause). Belvawney, I love you with an imperishable ardour which mocks the power of words. If I were to begin to tell you now of the force of my indomitable passion for you, the tomb would close over me before I could exhaust the entrancing subject. But, as I said before, business is business, and unless I can see some distinct probability that your income will be permanent, I shall have no alternative but to weep my heart out in all the anguish of maiden solitude—uncared for, unloved, and alone!

[Exit Miss Treherne into cottage.

Bel. There goes a noble-hearted girl, indeed! Oh, for the gift of Cheviot’s airy badinage—oh, for his skill in weaving a net about the hearts of women! If I could but induce her to marry me at once before the dreadful Major learns our flight! Why not? We are in Scotland. Methinks I’ve heard two loving hearts can wed, in this strange country, by merely making declaration to that effect. I will think out some cunning scheme to lure her into marriage unawares.

Enter Maggie, from cottage.

Mag. Will ye walk in and rest a wee, Maister Belvawney? There’s a room ready for ye, kind sir, and ye’re heartily welcome to it.

Bel. It is well. Stop! Come hither, maiden.

Mag. Oh, sir! you do not mean any harm towards a puir, innocent, unprotected cottage lassie?

Bel. Harm! No: of course, I don’t. What do you mean?

Mag. I’m but a puir, humble mountain girl; but let me tell you, sir, that my character’s just as dear to me as the richest and proudest lady’s in the land. Before I consent to approach ye, swear to me that you mean me no harm.

Bel. Harm? Of course, I don’t. Don’t be a little fool! Come here.

Mag. There is something in his manner that reassures me. It is not that of the airy trifler with innocent hairts. (Aloud.) What wad ye wi’ puir, harmless Maggie Macfarlane, gude sir?

Bel. Can you tell me what constitutes a Scotch marriage?

Mag. Oh, sir, it’s nae use asking me that; for my hairt is not my ain to give. I’m betrothed to the best and noblest lad in a’ the bonnie Borderland. Oh, sir, I canna be your bride!

Bel. My girl, you mistake. I do not want you for my bride. Can’t you answer a simple question? What constitutes a Scotch marriage?

Mag. Ye’ve just to say before twa witnesses, “Maggie Macfarlane is my wife;” and I’ve just to say, “Maister Belvawney is my husband,” and nae mon can set us asunder. But, sir, I canna be your bride; for I am betrothed to the best and noblest——

Bel. I congratulate you. You can go.

Mag. Yes, sir.

[Exit Maggie into cottage.

Bel. It is a simple process; simple, but yet how beautiful! One thing is certain—Cheviot may marry any day, despite my precautions, and then I shall be penniless. He may die, and equally I shall be penniless. Belinda has £500 a year; it is not much, but it would, at least, save me from starvation.

[Exit Belvawney.

Enter Symperson and Cheviot Hill over bridge. They both show signs of damage—their hats are beaten in and their clothes disordered through the accident.

Sym. Well, here we are at last——

Ch. Yes; here we are at last, and a pretty state I’m in, to be sure.

Sym. My dear nephew, you would travel third class, and this is the consequence. After all, there’s not much harm done.

Ch. Not much harm? What d’ye call that? (Showing his hat.) Ten and ninepence at one operation! My gloves split—one and four! My coat ruined—eighteen and six! It’s a coarse and brutal nature that recognizes no harm that don’t involve loss of blood. I’m reduced by this accident from a thinking, feeling, reflecting human being, to a moral pulp—a mash—a poultice. Damme, sir, that’s what I am! I’m a poultice!

Sym. Cheviot, my dear boy, at the moment of the accident you were speaking to me on a very interesting subject.

Ch. Was I? I forget what it was. The accident has knocked it clean out of my head.

Sym. You were saying that you were a man of good position and fortune; that you derived £2000 a year from your bank; that you thought it was time you settled. You then reminded me that I should come into Belvawney’s £1000 a year on your marriage, and I’m not sure, but I rather think you mentioned, casually, that my daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light.

Ch. True, and just then we went off the line. To resume—Uncle Symperson, your daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light, a perfect being, as innocent as a new-laid egg.

Sym. Minnie is, indeed, all that you have described her.

Ch. Uncle, I’m a man of few words. I feel and I speak. I love that girl, madly, passionately, irresistibly. She is my whole life, my whole soul and body, my Past, my Present, and my To Come. I have thought for none but her; she fills my mind, sleeping and waking; she is the essence of every hope—the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my own To Come!

Sym. (who has sunk overpowered on to stool during this speech). Cheviot, my dear boy, excuse a father’s tears. I won’t beat about the bush. You have anticipated my devoutest wish. Cheviot, my dear boy, take her, she is yours!

Ch. I have often heard of rapture, but I never knew what it was till now. Uncle Symperson, bearing in mind the fact that your income will date from the day of the wedding, when may this be?

Sym. My boy, the sooner the better! Delicacy would prompt me to give Belvawney a reasonable notice of the impending loss of his income, but should I, for such a mere selfish reason as that, rob my child of one hour of the happiness that you are about to confer upon her? No! Duty to my child is paramount!

Ch. On one condition, however, I must insist. This must be kept from Belvawney’s knowledge. You know the strange, mysterious influence that his dreadful eyes exercise over me.

Sym. I have remarked it with astonishment.

Ch. They are much inflamed just now, and he has to wear green spectacles. While this lasts I am a free agent, but under treatment they may recover. In that case, if he knew that I contemplated matrimony, he would use them to prevent my doing so—and I cannot resist them—I cannot resist them! Therefore, I say, until I am safely and securely tied up, Belvawney must know nothing about it.

Sym. Trust me, Cheviot, he shall know nothing about it from me. (Aside.) A thousand a year! I have endeavoured, but in vain, to woo Fortune for fifty-six years, but she smiles upon me at last!—she smiles upon me at last!

[Exit Symperson into cottage.

Ch. At length my hopes are to be crowned! Oh, my own—my own—the hope of my heart—my love—my life!

Enter Belvawney, who has overheard these words.

Bel. Cheviot! Whom are you apostrophizing in those terms? You’ve been at it again, I see!

Ch. Belvawney, that apostrophe was private; I decline to admit you to my confidence.

Bel. Cheviot, what is the reason of this strange tone of defiance? A week ago I had but to express a wish, to have it obeyed as a matter of course.

Ch. Belvawney, it may not be denied that there was a time when, owing to the remarkable influence exercised over me by your extraordinary eyes, you could do with me as you would. It would be affectation to deny it; your eyes withered my will; they paralyzed my volition. They were strange and lurid eyes, and I bowed to them. Those eyes were my Fate—my Destiny—my unerring Must—my inevitable Shall. That time has gone—for ever!

Bel. Alas for the days that are past and the good that came and went with them!

Ch. Weep for them if you will. I cannot weep with you, for I loved them not. But, as you say, they are past. The light that lit up those eyes is extinct—their fire has died out—their soul has fled. They are no longer eyes, they are poached eggs. I have not yet sunk so low as to be the slave of two poached eggs.

Bel. Have mercy. If any girl has succeeded in enslaving you—and I know how easily you are enslaved—dismiss her from your thoughts; have no more to say to her; and I will—yes, I will bless you with my latest breath!

Ch. Whether a blessing conferred with one’s latest breath is a superior article to one conferred in robust health we need not stop to inquire. I decline, as I said before, to admit you to my confidence on any terms whatever. Begone! (Exit Belvawney.) Dismiss from my thoughts the only woman I ever loved! Have no more to say to the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing! No, Belvawney, I cannot cut off my tree as if it were gas or water. I do not treat women like that. Some men do, but I don’t. I am not that sort of man. I respect women; I love women. They are good; they are pure; they are beautiful; at least, many of them are.

Enter Maggie from cottage: he is much fascinated.

This one, for example, is very beautiful indeed!

Mag. If ye’ll just walk in, sir, ye’ll find a bannock and a pan o’ parritch waitin’ for ye on the table.

Ch. This is one of the loveliest women I ever met in the whole course of my life!

Mag. (aside). What’s he glowerin’ at? (Aloud.) Oh, sir, ye mean no harm to the poor Lowland lassie?

Ch. Pardon me; it’s very foolish. I can’t account for it—but I am arrested, fascinated.

Mag. Oh, gude sir, what’s fascinated ye?

Ch. I don’t know; there is something about you that exercises a most remarkable influence over me; it seems to weave a kind of enchantment around me. I can’t think what it is. You are a good girl, I am sure. None but a good girl could so powerfully affect me. You are a good girl, are you not?

Mag. I am a varra gude girl indeed, sir.

Ch. I was quite sure of it. (Gets his arm round her waist.)

Mag. I am a much better girl than nineteen out of twenty in these pairts. And they are all gude girls too.

Ch. My darling! (Kisses her.)

Mag. Oh, kind sir, what’s that for?

Ch. It is your reward for being a good girl.

Mag. Oh, sir, I did na look for sic a recompense; you are varra varra kind to puir little Maggie Macfarlane.

Ch. I cannot think what it is about you that fascinates me so remarkably.

Mag. Maybe it’s my beauty.

Ch. Maybe it is. It is quite possible that it may be, as you say, your beauty.

Mag. I am remarkably pretty, and I’ve a varra neat figure.

Ch. There is a natural modesty in this guileless appreciation of your own perfection that is, to me, infinitely more charming than the affected ignorance of an artificial town-bred beauty.

Mag. Oh, sir, can I close my een to the picture that my looking-glass holds up to me twenty times a day? We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair; we see the silver moon sailing in the braw blue heavens, and we say that she is bright; we see the brawling stream purling over the smooth stanes i’ the burn, and we say that it is beautiful; and shall we close our een to the fairest of nature’s works—a pure and beautiful woman? Why, sir, it wad just be base ingratitude! No, it’s best to tell the truth about a’ things: I am a varra, varra, beautiful girl!

Ch. Maggie Macfarlane, I’m a plain, blunt, straightforward man, and I come quickly to the point. I see more to love in you than I ever saw in any woman in all my life before. I have a large income, which I do not spend recklessly. I love you passionately; you are the essence of every hope; you are the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my Past, my Present, my Future—you are my own To Come. Tell me, will you be mine—will you join your life with mine?

Enter Angus, who listens.

Mag. Ah, kind sir, I’m sairly grieved to wound sae true and tender a love as yours, but ye’re ower late, my love is nae my ain to give ye, it’s given ower to the best and bravest lad in a’ the bonnie Borderland!

Ch. Give me his address that I may go and curse him!

Mag. (kneels to Hill). Ah, ye must not curse him. Oh, spare him, spare him, for he is good and brave, and he loves me, oh, sae dearly, and I love him, oh, sae dearly too. Oh, sir, kind sir, have mercy on him, and do not—do not curse him, or I shall die! (Throwing herself at his feet.)

Ch. Will you, or will you not, oblige me by telling me where he is, that I may at once go and curse him?

Ang. (coming forward). He is here, sir, but dinna waste your curses on me. Maggie, my bairn (raising her), I heard the answer ye gave to this man, my true and gentle lassie! Ye spake well and bravely, Meg—well and bravely! Dinna heed the water in my e’e—it’s a tear of joy and gratitude, Meg—a tear of joy and gratitude!

Ch. (touched). Poor fellow! I will not curse him! (Aloud.) Young man, I respect your honest emotion. I don’t want to distress you, but I cannot help loving this most charming girl. Come, is it reasonable to quarrel with a man because he’s of the same way of thinking as yourself?

Ang. Nay, sir, I’m nae fasht, but it just seems to drive a’ the bluid back into my hairt when I think that my Meg is loved by anither! Oh, sir, she’s a fair and winsome lassie, and I micht as justly be angry wi’ ye for loving the blue heavens! She’s just as far above us as they are! (Wiping his eyes and kissing her.)

Ch. (with decision). Pardon me, I cannot allow that.

Ang. Eh?

Ch. I love that girl madly—passionately—and I cannot possibly allow you to do that—not before my eyes, I beg. You simply torture me.

Mag. (to Ang.). Leave, off, dear, till the puir gentleman’s gone, and then ye can begin again.

Ch. Angus, listen to me. You love this girl?

Ang. I love her, sir, a’most as weel as I love mysel’!

Ch. Then reflect how you are standing in the way of her prosperity. I am a rich man. I have money, position, and education. I am a much more intellectual and generally agreeable companion for her than you can ever hope to be. I am full of anecdote, and all my anecdotes are in the best possible taste. I will tell you some of them some of these days, and you can judge for yourself. Maggie, if she married me, would live in a nice house in a good square. She would have wine—occasionally. She would be kept beautifully clean. Now, if you really love this girl almost as well as you love yourself, are you doing wisely or kindly in standing in the way of her getting all these good things? As to compensation—why, I’ve had heavy expenses of late—but if—yes, if thirty shillings——

Ang. (hotly). Sir, I’m puir in pocket, but I’ve a rich hairt. It is rich in a pure and overflowing love, and he that hath love hath all. You canna ken what true love is, or you wadna dare to insult a puir but honest lad by offering to buy his treasure for money. (Cheviot retires up.)

Mag. My ain true darling! (They embrace.)

Ch. Now, I’ll not have it! Understand me, I’ll not have it. It’s simple agony to me. Angus, I respect your indignation, but you are too hasty. I do not offer to buy your treasure for money. You love her; it will naturally cause you pain to part with her, and I prescribe thirty shillings, not as a cure, but as a temporary solace. If thirty shillings is not enough, why, I don’t mind making it two pounds.

Ang. Nae, sir, it’s useless, and we ken it weel, do we not, my brave lassie? Our hearts are one as our bodies will be some day; and the man is na born, and the gold is na coined, that can set us twain asunder!

Mag. Angus, dear, I’m varra proud o’ sae staunch and true a love; it’s like your ain true self, an’ I can say nae more for it than that. But dinna act wi’out prudence and forethought, dear. In these hard times twa pound is twa pound, and I’m nae sure that ye’re acting richtly in refusing sae large a sum. I love you varra dearly—ye ken that right weel—an’ if ye’ll be troubled wi’ sic a poor little mousie I’ll mak’ ye a true an’ loving wife, but I doubt whether, wi’ a’ my love, I’ll ever be worth as much to ye as twa pound. Dinna act in haste, dear; tak’ time to think before ye refuse this kind gentleman’s offer.

Ang. Oh, sir, is not this rare modesty? Could ye match it amang your toun-bred fine ladies? I think not! Meg, it shall be as you say. I’ll tak’ the siller, but it’ll be wi’ a sair and broken hairt! (Cheviot gives Angus money.) Fare thee weel, my love—my childhood’s—boyhood’s—manhood’s love! Ye’re ganging fra my hairt to anither, who’ll gie thee mair o’ the gude things o’ this world than I could ever gie ’ee, except love, an’ o’ that my hairt is full indeed! But it’s a’ for the best; ye’ll be happier wi’ him—and twa pound is twa pound. Meg, mak’ him a gude wife, be true to him, and love him as ye loved me. Oh, Meg, my poor bruised hairt is well nigh like to break!

[Exit into cottage, in great agony.

Mag. (looking wistfully after him). Puir laddie, puir laddie! Oh, I did na ken till noo how weel he loved me!

Ch. Maggie, I’m almost sorry I—poor lad, poor fellow! He has a generous heart. I am glad I did not curse him. (Aside.) This is weakness! (Aloud.) Maggie my own—ever and for always my own, we will be very happy, will we not?

Mag. Oh, sir, I dinna ken, but in truth I hope so. Oh, sir, my happiness is in your hands noo; be kind to the puir cottage lassie who loves ye sae weel; my hairt is a’ your ain, and if ye forsake me my lot will be a sair one indeed!

[Exit, weeping, into cottage.

Ch. Poor little Lowland lassie! That’s my idea of a wife. No ridiculous extravagance; no expensive tastes. Knows how to dress like a lady on £5 a year; ah, and does it too! No pretence there of being blind to her own beauties; she knows that she is beautiful, and scorns to lie about it. In that respect she resembles Symperson’s dear daughter, Minnie. My darling Minnie. (Looks at miniature.) My own darling Minnie. Minnie is fair, Maggie is dark. Maggie loves me! That excellent and perfect country creature loves me! She is to be the light of my life, my own to come! In some respects she is even prettier than Minnie—my darling Minnie, Symperson’s dear daughter, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing; my Past, my Present, and my Future, my own To Come! But this tendency to reverie is growing on me; I must shake it off.

Enter Miss Treherne.

Heaven and earth, what a singularly lovely girl!

Miss T. A stranger! Pardon me, I will withdraw!—

Ch. A stranger indeed, in one sense, inasmuch as he never had the happiness of meeting you before—but, in that he has a heart that can sympathize with another’s misfortune, he trusts he may claim to be regarded almost as a friend.

Miss T. May I ask, sir, to what misfortunes you allude?

Ch. I—a—do not know their precise nature, but that perception would indeed be dull, and that heart would be indeed flinty, that did not at once perceive that you are very very unhappy. Accept, madam, my deepest and most respectful sympathy.

Miss T. You have guessed rightly, sir! I am indeed a most unhappy woman.

Ch. I am delighted to hear it—a—I mean I feel a pleasure, a melancholy and chastened pleasure, in reflecting that, if your distress is not of a pecuniary nature, it may perchance lay in my power to alleviate your sorrow.

Miss T. Impossible, sir, though I thank you for your respectful sympathy.

Ch. How many women would forego twenty years of their lives to be as beautiful as yourself, little dreaming that extraordinary loveliness can co-exist with the most poignant anguish of mind! But so, too often, we find it, do we not, dear lady?

Miss T. Sir! this tone of address, from a complete stranger!

Ch. Nay, be not unreasonably severe upon an impassionable and impulsive man, whose tongue is but the too faithful herald of his heart. We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair, we see the bonnie brooks purling over the smooth stanes—I should say stones—in the burn, and we say that it is beautiful, and shall we close our eyes to the fairest of nature’s works, a pure and beautiful woman? Why, it would be base ingratitude, indeed!

Miss T. I cannot deny that there is much truth in the sentiments you so beautifully express, but I am, unhappily, too well aware that, whatever advantages I may possess, personal beauty is not among their number.

Ch. How exquisitely modest is this chaste insensibility to your own singular loveliness! How infinitely more winning than the bold-faced self-appreciation of under-bred country girls!

Miss T. I am glad, sir, that you are pleased with my modesty. It has often been admired.

Ch. Pleased! I am more than pleased—that’s a very weak word. I am enchanted. Madam, I am a man of quick impulse and energetic action. I feel and I speak—I cannot help it. Madam, be not surprised when I tell you that I cannot resist the conviction that you are the light of my future life, the essence of every hope, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my Past, my Present, my Future, my own To Come! Do not extinguish that light, do not disperse that essence, do not blight that tree! I am well off; I’m a bachelor; I’m thirty-two; and I love you, madam, humbly, truly, trustfully, patiently. Paralyzed with admiration, I wait anxiously, and yet hopefully, for your reply.

Miss T. Sir, that heart would indeed be cold that did not feel grateful for so much earnest, single-hearted devotion. I am deeply grieved to have to say one word to cause pain to one who expresses himself in such well-chosen terms of respectful esteem; but, alas! I have already yielded up my heart to one who, if I mistake not, is a dear personal friend of your own.

Ch. Am I to understand that you are the young lady of property whom Belvawney hopes to marry?

Miss T. I am! indeed, that unhappy woman!

Ch. And is it possible that you love him?

Miss T. With a rapture that thrills every fibre of my heart—with a devotion that enthralls my very soul! But there’s some difficulty about his settlements.

Ch. A difficulty! I should think there was. Why, on my marrying, his entire income goes over to Symperson! I could reduce him to penury to-morrow. As it happens, I am engaged, I recollect, to Symperson’s daughter; and if Belvawney dares to interpose between you and me, by George, I’ll do it!

Miss T. Oh, spare him, sir! You say that you love me? Then, for my sake, remain single for ever—it is all I ask, it is not much. Promise me that you will never, never marry, and we will both bless you with our latest breath!

Ch. There seems to be a special importance attached to a blessing conferred with one’s latest breath that I entirely fail to grasp. It seems to me to convey no definite advantage of any kind whatever.

Miss T. Cruel, cruel man!

Enter Belvawney, in great alarm.

Bel. We are lost!—we are lost!

Miss T. What do you mean?

Ch. Who has lost you?

Bel. Major McGillicuddy discovered your flight, and followed in the next train. The line is blocked through our accident, and his train has pulled up within a few yards of our own. He is now making his way to this very cottage! What do you say to that?

Miss T. I agree with you, we are lost!

Ch. I disagree with you; I should say you are found.

Bel. This man is a reckless fire-eater; he is jealous of me. He will assuredly shoot us both if he sees us here together. I am no coward—but—I confess I am uneasy.

Miss T. (to Cheviot). Oh, sir, you have a ready wit; help us out of this difficulty, and we will both bless you——

Bel. With our latest breath!

Ch. That decides me. Madam, remain here with me. Belvawney, withdraw. (Belvawney retires.) I will deal with this maniac alone. All I ask is, that if I find it necessary to make a statement that is not consistent with strict truth, you, madam, will unhesitatingly endorse it?

Miss T. I will stake my very existence on its veracity, whatever it may be.

Ch. Good. He is at hand. Belvawney, go. [Exit Belvawney.

Now, madam, repose upon my shoulders, place your arms around me so—is that comfortable?

Miss T. It is luxurious.

Ch. Good.

Miss T. You are sure it does not inconvenience you?

Ch. Not at all. Go back, I like it. Now we are ready for him.

Enter McGillicuddy with two friends dressed as for a wedding, with white favours. McGillicuddy has pistols. All greatly excited.

McG. Where is the villain? I’ll swear he is concealed somewhere. Search every tree, every bush, every geranium. Ha! they are here. Perjured woman! I’ve found you at last.

Miss T. (to Cheviot). Save me!

[Belvawney appears at back, listening.

McG. Who is the unsightly scoundrel with whom you have flown—the unpleasant-looking scamp whom you have dared to prefer to me? Uncurl yourself from around the plain villain at once, unless you would share his fate.

[Maggie and Angus appear from cottage.

Miss T. Major, spare him!

Ch. Now, sir, perhaps you will be so good as to explain who the deuce you are, and what you want with this lady?

McG. I don’t know who you may be, but I’m McGillicuddy. I am betrothed to this lady; we were to have been married this morning. I waited for her at the church from ten till four, then I began to get impatient.

Ch. I really think you must be labouring under some delusion.

McG. Delusion? Ha! ha! (Two friends produce large wedding cake.) Here’s the cake!

Ch. Still I think there’s a mistake somewhere. This lady is my wife.

McG. What! Belinda! oh, Belinda! Tell me that this unattractive man lies; tell me that you are mine and only mine, now and for ever!

Miss T. I cannot say that. This gentleman is my husband!

[McGillicuddy falls sobbing on seat; Belvawney tears his hair in despair; Maggie sobs on Angus’s shoulder.