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+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75546 ***
+
+
+_Reprinted from “The Dunedin Magazine”_
+
+
+
+
+                           THE REAL MACKAY
+
+                       (_All Rights Reserved_)
+
+                             ONE ACT PLAY
+
+                        BY DONALD A. MACKENZIE
+
+
+
+
+                             _Characters_
+
+     WIDOW MACKAY, _tenant of Balree Croft_.
+     MÀIRI[1] MACKAY, _her daughter, a domestic servant_.
+     “SANDY” SPEEDWELL, _artist and poet, of Edinburgh_.
+     MRS SPEEDWELL, _his mother_.
+
+
+SCENE: _The “best room” in a crofter’s cottage in the Scottish
+Highlands. To the left a small open window, round which honeysuckle
+clings and blooms, affords a glimpse of a blue loch, softly screened
+by the drooping branches of a silver birch, and glistening in bright
+sunshine. Beside the window Màiri Mackay sits knitting a white
+shawl. A folding table, with the leaves down, occupies the centre
+of the room and is covered with a Mackay tartan plaid. Upon it
+stands a dark blue bowl filled with wild roses. Widow Mackay sits
+to the right, at her spinning wheel, between the table and a wide,
+open fire-place. Peat smoulders in the grate. To the left of the
+fire-place is an “easy chair” (a plain arm-chair with a cushion),
+and to the right a nursing chair with short legs; a stool is tilted
+in front on a deerskin rug. Against the wall, between the little
+window and a bedroom door, is a dark mahogany chest of drawers, on
+which lies a bulky family Bible between two gaudy vases. Three chairs
+are ranged against the wall to the left, and the floor is covered
+with flowery waxcloth, brilliantly new. The walls are adorned with
+framed portraits of John Knox, John Bunyan, William Ewart Gladstone,
+and a Free Church minister. On the high mantelpiece squat two white
+porcelain dogs with black noses, and above it is a set of bagpipes. A
+“wag-at-the-wa” clock ticks leisurely to the right of the fireplace._
+
+TIME: _Early afternoon: a sunny day in late June._
+
+
+  WIDOW (_stops spinning and looks towards her daughter over her
+       glasses_). You’ll be sitting in a draught, Màiri. Shut the
+       window or you will maybe catch a cheel[2]--you that looks so
+       delicate.
+
+  MÀIRI. Oh! there’s no fear of me, mother. If you won’t be minding,
+       I would rather have the window open. I love to breathe the
+       fresh air from the loch. (_Takes a deep breath._) It’s so
+       refreshing after being in a stuffy city, and the honeysuckle
+       smells so sweet. How quiet it is here; you can listen to the
+       quietness, so to speak.
+
+  WIDOW. Well, well, my treasure, have your own way with it. Balree
+       is indeed a sweet place, and God’s world is very beautiful.
+       (_Stops spinning._) Màiri, that honeysuckle was planted out
+       there by your dear father, nineteen years ago, on the very day
+       you came into the world. He’ll be at his rest now three years
+       come Martinmas, and every summer his beautiful flower will be
+       growing and spreading and blooming. The smell of it goes to
+       my heart like a sweet thought of him. (_Sighs and resumes her
+       work at the spinning wheel, drawing out a thread and adjusting
+       it._) It’s your own father that would be proud of you, Màiri,
+       if he was still with us, but the Lord appointed otherwise.
+       (_Sighs._) His will be done. (_Goes on spinning._)
+
+  [_Màiri rises from her chair, draws a tendril of honeysuckle
+       through the window and smells it: then she plucks a blossom
+       and puts it in her blouse. Musing, she leans her elbow on the
+       window, chin on hand, gazing towards the loch. Her mother
+       stops spinning, looks up and watches her daughter for a few
+       seconds in silence._]
+
+  WIDOW. You are very quiet, Màiri. How you have changed!
+
+  MÀIRI. I was only thinking to myself--just thinking a little.
+
+  WIDOW. It’s me that sees a great difference in you--you that used
+       to be such a cheery lassie, always laughing and teasing one
+       and making the jokes. Many times, when you’re away, I will be
+       smiling here my lone self, thinking o’ the things you used
+       to be saying and doing. Now, I’ll notice, and I canna’ help
+       noticing it, that you’re changed so much. I suppose it’s the
+       city that does it. You’ll have many things, no doubt, to be
+       thinking over, and maybe, yes, maybe, you’re feeling just a
+       little dull, now, in this quiet place.... You’ll often be
+       sitting thinking to yourself in that way. Surely nosing[3]
+       will be troubling you, m’eudail[4]?
+
+  [_Màiri does not answer. She sits down, hangs her head and resumes
+       knitting. Her mother rises, grasping her chin between her
+       fingers, a look of concern on her face; goes over to the
+       window and sits besides her daughter._]
+
+  WIDOW. And something is troubling you, Màiri, my own. You canna’
+       hide it from me. There will be tears in your eyes, Ochone!
+       what will you be hiding in the deep heart of you? You
+       shouldn’t be hiding anysing at all, at all, from me, your own
+       mother.
+
+  [_Màiri shakes her head, takes out her handkerchief and dries her
+       eyes._]
+
+  WIDOW (_very softly_). You are all I have left in this world--your
+       father dead, your brother killed in the war in a foreign
+       land far away. It would break my heart to think you would
+       be keeping anysing from me. What is it? Tell me (_strokes the
+       girl’s hair_), dove of my heart! my fair love!... Màiri
+       (_entreatingly_).
+
+  MÀIRI (_resuming her knitting_). It was only a foolish thought
+       (_pause_)--a thought about one I shouldn’t maybe be thinking
+       of, now that I’m here.
+
+  WIDOW. Ah! has he--has _he_ ... turned false to you, now?
+
+  MÀIRI (_quickly_). Well, not what you would call false, not that
+       altogether.
+
+  WIDOW. A lovers’ quarrel, no doubt. You’re young, you’re young, but
+       the young heart can feel sore. I mind well. I was once like
+       you, Màiri. Your father and I had once a lover’s quarrel. But
+       it came all right. Lovers’ quarrels are sometimes sweet to
+       remember afterwards.
+
+  MÀIRI. It’s not what you would call a quarrel either. But we’ve
+       parted--parted for ever. But don’t be worrying, mother, I’ll
+       maybe no’ be caring so much as you would think.
+
+  WIDOW. Well, well, it’s the way of the world. Maybe you’ll change
+       your mind yet. Maybe you wass just a little bit to blame
+       yourself, now, eh? I wouldn’t say you wass, Màiri, no, no. But
+       girls--bonnie girls like yourself, my dove, will sometimes
+       be doing things and saying things they’ll no’ quite intend
+       altogether, and then they’ll be thinking afterwards that
+       it’s maybe a pity it wasn’t otherwise.... Is he a good lad,
+       Màiri, steady at his work, no drinking, and always attending
+       the church? Is he what you would call handsome, now,--big and
+       manly like your father?
+
+  MÀIRI (_smiling_). No doubt he would have pleased you. If looks
+       were everything, you’d be quite satisfied. He’s a gentleman in
+       every way.
+
+  WIDOW. A Highland lad, too, maybe, and of a good clan?
+
+  MÀIRI. Well, no’ exactly what you would call Highland; but his
+       grandfather was a Ross and he’s proud of it.
+
+  WIDOW. So well he might be. There were some fine Rosses, although
+       they were never like the Mackays, or my own clan, the great
+       clan Donald. I would like to see your young man, Màiri. You’ll
+       make it up all right with him yet, eh?
+
+  MÀIRI. No, no; it’s all past. He’s fickle, mother--a poppy in the
+       corn--a butterfly--one you would maybe like to look at, but
+       not to depend on--changeable as the wind, and cruel without
+       knowing it--aye! (_Sighs._) But don’t be speaking about him.
+       It’s time I was beginning to forget there’s such a one in the
+       world.
+
+  WIDOW. Aye, so.... (_Looking through the window_). There’s Sandy
+       coming.
+
+  MÀIRI (_rising quickly in alarm_). Who--who?
+
+  WIDOW. It’s only Sandy, oor neighbour. He’s coming to sow the
+       turnips for me. Ah! Màiri, the neighbours will be very good to
+       me since your father’s death. Every one of them comes to do
+       his share o’ work on the croft and keep a roof above my head.
+       I’ll better be speaking to Sandy. (_Exit._)
+
+  MÀIRI. Sandy.... Why should I have thought it was him? He does
+       not know where I live, and, besides, he wouldn’t come if he
+       knew, except maybe to wound my heart deeper without knowing
+       what he was doing.... Why did I tell mother? I can’t explain
+       everything to her. She cannot understand. Did Sandy’s mother
+       not tell me that he is not in my station of life, and that
+       she would be disgraced if he married a servant--a servant in
+       his mother’s house. Oh! it’s her that wounded my pride--her
+       thinking she was better than me! a shopkeeper’s wife (as if
+       that were something great) and me a real Mackay, with lords
+       and bards and great chiefs in my line.... Oh! if I only had
+       the money, she wouldn’t despise me so. But what’s money?
+       Money will not make one a lady.... I must forget, forget what
+       was--forget Sandy and his mother and the rest.
+
+  WIDOW (_enters_). Sandy was asking when you will be going away.
+       (_Sighs._) I said I wasn’t very sure. He’s wondering you
+       haven’t been down to see his wife who was so ill last winter.
+       Haste you, my dear, and be calling on her at once. She has
+       been a good kind friend to me, Màiri.
+
+  MÀIRI. I’ll go down just now, mother. But don’t be speaking about
+       me going away. (_Smiles._) I have made up my mind to stay here
+       with you always after this. You’re getting old and canna’ be
+       left alone.
+
+  WIDOW. I wish you could aye be here, as you say. (_Sighs._) But
+       we’re too poor, Màiri. It canna’ be. We must bear our burdens
+       in this world though our hearts should be breaking.
+
+  MÀIRI. I have a plan, mother, that will bring us money, and I’m
+       going to give you a little surprise.
+
+  WIDOW. How can you make money here, lassie? Now, tell me that.
+
+  MÀIRI. Keeping visitors. Letting the house. I’ve thought of it
+       for a long time, and that’s why I brought you things for the
+       house--the waxcloth, the new blankets, and the rest.
+
+  WIDOW (_amazed_). Keeping veesitors?
+
+  MÀIRI. I saw how it was done last summer when we were holidaying
+       near Oban. Oh! the people in the west are clever at making the
+       money in the summer.
+
+  WIDOW. Don’t tell me they’re cleverer in the west than in the
+       north. Who ever heard of such a thing? They haven’t such land
+       as our land.
+
+  MÀIRI. I know a widow near Oban--a Macdougall she is. Her son has
+       a bicycle and her daughter has a piano. The croft is a poorer
+       croft than our croft, and they have a slated roof, a porch at
+       the door, registered grates, water taps in the kitchen, and a
+       carpet in the best room.
+
+  WIDOW. How did they manage it?
+
+  MÀIRI. The visitors, of course.
+
+  WIDOW. The veesitors!
+
+  MÀIRI. Ailie Macdougall is a nice girl, and she hasn’t to go to
+       service the whole year round like me. You see, they get so
+       much money from the visitors that it keeps them and pays the
+       rent.
+
+  WIDOW. I’m sure it’s very good of the veesitors. But, Màiri, I
+       wouldn’t be beholden to anybody. I wouldn’t take charity
+       money, although I’m a poor widow, from any stranger, man or
+       woman, however grand. No, no I couldn’t think of it.
+
+  MÀIRI. You don’t understand. The money is payment for rent and
+       attendance. We’ll let the house to visitors or take in
+       lodgers, and charge maybe £12 a month with attendance.
+
+  WIDOW. But we canna’ afford to slate the roof and get a piano and
+       all the rest. You couldn’t ask gentry to stay here, Màiri.
+
+  MÀIRI. You’re wrong there, mother. It’s fashionable for the city
+       gentry to be staying now for holidays in “crofters’ cottages,”
+       as they call them. They think houses like this are most
+       artistic. They’re quite right too. This is a finer house than
+       any in a city--not so grand, of course, but more sweet and
+       homely in every way. The gentry are beginning to know that.
+       Oh! mother, you would be surprised to see how they imitate
+       us.... In the house where I was serving they had a spinning
+       wheel and a three-legged pot in the drawing-room, cruisies in
+       the dining-room, horn spoons and wooden ladles, and old plates
+       and bowls here and there and everywhere as ornaments. They
+       will pay a lot of money for things we will just be throwing
+       away.... Maybe they’ll buy the old bagpipes. (_Laughs._)
+
+  WIDOW. My grandfather’s bagpipes--the bagpipes of a Gaelic bard?
+       No, no; I’d sooner starve than part with a thing in this
+       house. Everything is covered with memories of my heart.
+
+  MÀIRI. I spoke to the Postmaster about letting the house. I wanted
+       to give you a surprise.... I’ll better be going to see Sandy’s
+       wife. Now, mother, if the visitors call when I’m out, you’ll
+       keep them speaking till I return. Don’t take the first offer.
+       Ask the highest terms you can. (_Draws a knitted shawl over
+       her head._) Now I’ll be off.
+
+  WIDOW. Will you not be putting on your feather hat and your Sunday
+       costume? The like o’ that hat is no’ to be seen in the glen.
+
+  MÀIRI. The shawl is sweeter. If I put on my best hat, people would
+       think I was getting too proud. (_Exit._)
+
+  WIDOW (_sits at spinning wheel_). It’s a queer notion the lassie
+       will have got into her head. But I must humour her. And so
+       she’s got a lad; and him and her have had a cast out. Poor
+       lass! That’ll no’ last long. Blessings be on the dear heart of
+       her! Any lad _my_ Màiri would keep company with must be a good
+       lad, and any lad that once set his eyes on _my_ Màiri will no’
+       be wanting to lose her. The treasure!... It’s myself would be
+       thankful to see her married decently and well.... I’m getting
+       old, as her dear self would be saying. (_Sighs._) My time will
+       no’ be long now.
+
+  [_Enter Mrs Speedwell, attired in summer costume. Of middle age.
+       Has come from Edinburgh and is staying at the village hotel,
+       a mile distant from Balree Croft. Looks at the widow, who is
+       spinning._]
+
+  MRS S. (_aside_). What a charming picture! How Sandy would love to
+       paint her! This is the very house for Sandy.... (_Aloud_) Good
+       afternoon, Mrs Mackay (_smiles_)--you’re Mrs Mackay?
+
+  WIDOW. Pardon me, mem, I wass busy, and wouldn’t be seeing you.
+       Would you kindly sit down?
+
+  MRS S. Thank you. (_Sits down._)
+
+  WIDOW. Will you be feeling the draught? I’ll--I’ll shut the window.
+
+  MRS S. (_aside_). A charming woman. (_Aloud._) No thank you.
+       The air is so delicately fresh here. This is a delightful
+       district, Mrs Mackay.
+
+  WIDOW. It is very kind of you to be saying that. Balree has been
+       my home for five and twenty years. When my man took me here I
+       thought it the sweetest place on earth, next to my own glen,
+       of course, and I’ll be content to end my days in his house,
+       the Lord willing.
+
+  MRS S. The Postmaster tells me you have rooms to let. My son is
+       anxious to stay in the country, and I think your cottage will
+       suit him. He doesn’t know I am here; the Postmaster wired to
+       him yesterday saying he could get suitable rooms. My son wants
+       to work in the Highlands during the summer and autumn.
+
+  WIDOW. To work here? Well (_pause_), it’s not easy to find work
+       here. What will his business be?
+
+  MRS. S. Oh! he’s a painter.
+
+  WIDOW. Indeet! Well, (_pause_) he will not get very much painting
+       to do in this poor place, unless, maybe, of course, at the
+       shooting lodge, but I’m afraid that it was painted in the
+       spring.
+
+  MRS S. (_laughing_). He’s not a house painter, but an artist. He
+       paints pictures, you understand.
+
+  WIDOW. Oh! yes, yes; I see, I see. I’ll understand.... I’ll be
+       noticing some gentlemen drawing wonderful pictures here about
+       in the summer, and some ladies also. And very clever they are,
+       too. It’s a gift--yes, a great gift, just like making songs
+       and playing the pipes.
+
+  MRS. S. My son makes songs too--he’s a poet, you know; not that I
+       can understand his poetry; it’s all Greek to me, but it amuses
+       him, and that’s everything.
+
+  WIDOW. He must be very clever. My grandfather was a fine poet.
+
+  MRS. S. Oh! really. Sandy will be delighted. He’ll be sure to buy a
+       copy of your grandfather’s book.
+
+  WIDOW. There is no book: his songs were never put in a book, but
+       everybody sings them from Reay to Lochaber.
+
+  MRS. S. How interesting! I’m sure you will be very friendly with
+       my son. Perhaps you will make more of him than I can. His
+       manner is irritating to me, and we’re not very good friends at
+       present.
+
+  WIDOW. I hope he’s no’ taking the drink.
+
+  MRS S. Oh, no! but the poor boy has a temperament.
+
+  WIDOW. A bad temper?
+
+  MRS S. No, he’s not bad tempered, but very moody, inclined to be
+       melancholy at times. And he’s so unconventional. He wants to
+       return to Nature, he says, and in trying to be natural he has
+       grown quite eccentric. He’s not like an ordinary city man at
+       all.
+
+  WIDOW. Gentlemen are often strange in their ways. They have so
+       little to do that they cannot help taking queer notions.
+
+  MRS S. (_smiling_). Perhaps. He’s tiresome at home but he’s
+       absolutely unbearable on a holiday; he won’t even dress
+       himself decently. He makes one climb dreadful hills to see the
+       sun setting or the moon rising, and is continually drawing
+       one’s attention to the light falling here and there. He’s in
+       love with Nature, of course.
+
+  WIDOW. With whom did you say?
+
+  MRS S. He’s in love with the country, the fine scenery, and so on.
+
+  WIDOW. And why for no?... God’s beautiful world.
+
+  MRS S. I admire the country very much in the summer. It’s so
+       restful and sets one up so. But I can’t understand how you
+       exist during the winter season in this solitary place.
+
+  WIDOW. It’s as beautiful in winter as in summer. Many times I will
+       be looking through the window there to see the moon rising
+       over the loch on a winter’s night when the ground is white and
+       sparkling and all the world is at peace. It is like a dream of
+       Heaven.
+
+  MRS S. You have an eye for the beautiful, Mrs Mackay; but you
+       don’t always get moonlight nights and clear days in the
+       winter. (_Shrugging her shoulders._)
+
+  WIDOW. Every day is different and every day has its own beauty, mem.
+
+  MRS S. You will get on splendidly with my son. I’m so glad I have
+       come here. You set my mind at ease. I can quite see you will
+       have a strong influence over him. So I had better let you into
+       my little secret, and perhaps you will help me. My son is in
+       love, Mrs Mackay, terribly in love. At least he thinks he is.
+
+  WIDOW. Indeet!
+
+  MRS S. I shouldn’t mind that so much. But he is in love with a
+       girl far below him in rank. It worries me very much.
+
+  WIDOW. I see.
+
+  MRS S. (_confidentially_). Do you know he actually wanted to marry
+       one of my servants--the tablemaid.
+
+  WIDOW. Surely she must be a very attractive girl.
+
+  MRS S. That’s it. A pretty girl, naturally refined, an excellent
+       servant, but not a suitable wife for a rich husband. A foolish
+       marriage would ruin my son’s social prospects. I could never
+       hold up my head again if such a thing happened. So I had to
+       put my foot down. I sent the girl away and told her my son had
+       asked me to do so, but I told my son the girl had left of her
+       own accord to free herself of his undesired attentions. It was
+       a terrible thing to have to do.
+
+  WIDOW. A very terrible thing, indeet, to be telling what was maybe
+       not true.
+
+  MRS S. Yes, it cost me a pang or two of conscience, but I knew
+       it was for the best. The poor boy has suffered, but, as
+       his sister says, he is recovering slowly. A spell of hard
+       work will do him a lot of good. I hope you will help me by
+       encouraging him to work, Mrs Mackay. Praise his work and keep
+       him at it. Tell him he is improving every day. He likes to be
+       praised. All artists and poets do; they live on praise or the
+       hope of praise. They prefer praise to money, poor fellows.
+
+  WIDOW. There are more desirable things in this world than money;
+       all we require of it is just a little for our daily needs.
+
+  MRS S. Which vary, of course. I hope you’ll do your best to help
+       me, Mrs Mackay. I feel I can trust you.
+
+  WIDOW. If I can do anything to help you, I’ll do it, I’m sure. But
+       it’s little I can talk to him about, I’m afraid.
+
+  MRS S. (_smiling_). Discuss his soul with him. He is great on his
+       soul.
+
+  WIDOW. I’m glad to hear that, mem, yes, I am indeet. I’ll speak to
+       our new minister about him; he’s a very earnest lad.
+
+  MRS S. I don’t quite mean that. When my son speaks about his soul,
+       he means his artistic impulses or his affections, or, perhaps,
+       his affectations. For instance, when he is painting a picture,
+       he talks about painting his soul. He says his poetry is full
+       of soul. And, do you know, he called that servant girl “the
+       companion of his soul.”
+
+  WIDOW (_sighs_). Ochone! It’s a terrible way to be speaking about
+       his eternal soul. (_Rocks herself with clasped hands._)
+
+  MRS S. Yes, rather absurd, isn’t it? We old-fashioned people keep
+       our souls for our religious life, of course; for the church,
+       not for the studio. But do not heed his little ways and his
+       absurd remarks. Humour him and flatter him judiciously. That’s
+       what I always do. (_Rises._) I think I’ll walk to the station
+       to meet him. He’ll get a surprise to see me here. I want to be
+       reconciled to the dear boy before I go on holiday myself. How
+       far is it to the station, Mrs Mackay?
+
+  WIDOW. It’s two miles round by the road, but there’s a short cut
+       across the moor. (_Looking through the window._) If you will
+       ask the postman, who is just coming, to show you the way,
+       he’ll put you right. It’s just a little over half a mile to
+       the station by the short cut.
+
+  MRS S. Thank you so much. Good evening, Mrs Mackay. I’ll see you
+       later on. (_Exit._)
+
+  WIDOW. A nice lady, but one that’s needing to be spoken to very
+       seriously about her own soul. I wonder what sort o’ minister
+       she’ll be sitting under. She’s no’ afraid to be telling lies
+       to her son and her servant for fear they will get married,
+       and maybe they’ll be very fond of one another. It’s doing the
+       devil’s work to come between young people in love; and if
+       they’re meant for one another it’s no’ her or anybody else
+       will keep them apart.... I wonder what Màiri will say when I
+       tell her.... And, oh! dear me, Màiri will not be pleased with
+       me. I never said a word about money. I never thought on such a
+       thing. And worst of all, I never asked the lady her name. Am I
+       no’ the stupid one?
+
+  [_Motor horn sounds in the distance._]
+
+       I wonder who that will be. The doctor, very likely. Somebody
+       must be ill. (_Looking through the window._) It’s no’ the
+       doctor, but a strange gentleman coming this way. It canna’ be
+       the lady’s son, for he’s coming by train. This will be another
+       veesitor, but he’s too late. I wish Màiri was here. I’m no’ fit
+       to be speaking to the veesitors.
+
+ [_Enter Sandy Speedwell._]
+
+  WIDOW. Good day to you, sir, I’m ferry glad to see you, indeet. Will
+       you be taking a chair?
+
+  SANDY. I’m your lodger, Mrs Mackay. I had a wire from the Postmaster
+      and motored here with a friend. This is a beautiful glen.
+
+  WIDOW. I hope there’s no mistake. Will you be the gentleman who is a
+      painter and a poet too?
+
+  SANDY (_astonished_). Really you surprise me, madam. What little
+      bird has been carrying tales about me? I thought I had reached
+      the back of the world.
+
+  WIDOW. A lady called here, sir, and was telling me. But----
+
+  SANDY. A lady? What lady? (_Anxiously._) Your niece, your daughter,
+      your cousin--who is she, what is she? A young lady or an old lady?
+
+  WIDOW (_smiling_). No relation of mine, sir. You’ll soon be seeing
+      her yourself. Maybe I’ll better go and tell her you are here.
+      She’s neither young nor old, but somesing between the two.
+      (_Aside._) I musn’t be telling him it was his own mother.
+
+  SANDY. No, don’t go. I’m in no mood to meet any of my acquaintances.
+      (_Aside._) Those prying gossips! One can’t go a step for them.
+      (_Aloud._) I prefer to talk to yourself, Mrs Mackay, but I must
+      ask you to do me a special favour.
+
+  WIDOW. I’m at your service, sir.
+
+  SANDY. _Don’t_ call me “sir.” My name is Sandy.
+
+  WIDOW. Indeet. A very homely name indeet, _sir_--I beg your
+      pardon--there will be one or two Sandys in this same glen already.
+
+  SANDY. Splendid! I’ll be able to hide myself. If anybody calls here
+      asking for Sandy, you’ll send them to some other Sandy....
+      (_Gazes steadfastly at Mrs Mackay._) Look through the window,
+      Mrs Mackay.
+
+  WIDOW (_alarmed_). What is it?
+
+  SANDY. Sit down, please, don’t move. You make an excellent picture.
+      Just look towards the window. (_Widow looks nervously._) Ah!
+      wonderful; she was Spring, you are late September. (_Sighs._) I
+      must paint you.
+
+  WIDOW (_astonished_). Paint me?
+
+  SANDY. I will paint your portrait and present it to you afterwards.
+
+  WIDOW (_aside_). Màiri said the veesitors were so kind to people.
+      (_Aloud._) That’s very good of you, Mr----
+
+  SANDY. Sandy.
+
+  WIDOW. Mr Sandy.
+
+  SANDY. No, simply Sandy. (_Laughs._) Simple Sandy, if you like, or
+      just Sandy.
+
+  Widow (_aside_). So simple and plain; he must be a born gentleman.
+      (_Aloud._) I’ll be trying to remember. (_Smiles._)
+
+  SANDY (_musingly_). What is there in you Highland people that makes
+      you seem all alike, I wonder? When you smile, you remind me
+      of--of someone I knew. A Highland lady also. (_Aside._) Ah! dear
+      me, can I never get her out of my mind?--Màiri, Màiri, my soul
+      calls you. You haunt me night and day. (_Aloud._) This is a very
+      beautiful little house. What a rare window! And this fire-place!
+      (_Sits down on a stool._)
+
+  WIDOW. Take the easy chair, if you please. I’m sure you’re feeling
+      tired.
+
+  SANDY. Is that your most comfortable chair, Mrs Mackay?
+
+  WIDOW (_stiffly_). Yes, it will be, but maybe by next year----
+
+  SANDY. Then come and sit in it, please, and speak to me. I’m dull,
+      madam. (_Sighs._)
+
+  WIDOW (_pokes up the peat_). It’s a poor fire, indeet, and there’s
+      nothing so cheery as a bright fire. I hope you’ll be excusing
+      the old fire-place, but maybe by next year we’ll have a
+      registered grate. (_Sits down._)
+
+  SANDY. (_standing up_). Heavens! don’t speak about such a thing,
+      never think of changing your grate. It’s perfect, madam.
+      (_Smiles._) I must paint this fire-place, and you must sit
+      beside it at your spinning wheel. (_Glances round the room._) I
+      will give you some pictures to hide those on the wall--those
+      frowning fellows--pah!
+
+  WIDOW (_aside_). I must mind to be humouring him. (_Aloud._) You
+      are too kind, indeet. But first I will give you something to
+      eat. (_Rises._)
+
+  SANDY. Sit down, Mrs Mackay. I’m not hungry. Please do not go away.
+      (_Gazes in her face._) Do sit down. (_Aside._) How like Màiri
+      she is. I seem to see Màiri everywhere, yet I cannot see her.
+
+  WIDOW. I’m afraid you’ll have to be excusing me. I have to go for a
+      little message, but I’ll not be long. I’m sure you will be
+      excusing me, now.
+
+  SANDY. I beg your pardon, Mrs Mackay. It’s selfish of me to detain
+      you.
+
+  WIDOW (_smiling._) I’ll soon be back. (_Aside._) I must hurry after
+      his mother and tell her. The poor lad is eating out his heart
+      because he has quarrelled with her. (_Aloud._) Be amusing
+      yourself till I return, Mr Sandy--I mean Sandy. (_Aside._) I’ll
+      better hurry and get back before Màiri comes. (_Exit._)
+
+  SANDY (_Alone. Sits before the fire on the low stool. Elbows
+      on knees and face between his hands._) I cannot escape Màiri.
+      Everywhere I go I think of Màiri. (_Takes a sheet of notepaper
+      from his pocket and reads_):
+
+              Star of my soul, can I forget?
+              I dreamed not that my star would set.
+              Ah! now my heaven is dim and bare,
+              Thou wert so bright, thou wert so fair--
+              Dwells falsehood in such eyes as thine?
+              Came poison from thy lips divine?
+              My soul is----
+
+       Pah! What mockery--jingling mockery!
+
+ [_Flings his poem in the fire. As the flame leaps up the door opens
+       and Màiri enters. Sandy looks round, utters an exclamation of
+       surprise: stands up, faces Màiri. The lovers gaze at one
+       another, amazed and silent for a few seconds._]
+
+  SANDY. Màiri.... You?
+
+  MÀIRI (_with emotion_). Why--why have you--have you followed
+       me here?
+
+  SANDY. I have been searching for you everywhere, but----
+
+  MÀIRI. Oh! leave me alone. Why, why?--Have you seen my mother?
+       Where is she?
+
+  SANDY. She has just gone out, but will return soon.
+
+  MÀIRI. I’ll go after her.
+
+  SANDY (_strides forward and seizes Màiri’s hand_). Oh! do not
+       leave me like that, Màiri. Will you not speak to me, if not
+       for my own sake, at least for the sake of old times?
+
+  MÀIRI. Why should you want to be speaking to me? Your mother
+       told me what you said. Do you think I can forget so soon? Let
+       me go....
+
+  SANDY. Màiri, what do you mean? What did my mother tell you?
+
+  MÀIRI. Ah! do not be fooling me. You may have fooled me in
+       _your_ mother’s house, but you’ll never fool me in _my_
+       mother’s house.
+
+  SANDY. Fooling you? I don’t understand.... Is this your home,
+       Màiri?
+
+  MÀIRI (_raising herself stiffly_). Well you know whose house
+       you are in. (_Drawing her hand away._) Now, leave it! and
+       never darken our door again. I am not your servant any longer,
+       sir.
+
+  SANDY. If you ask me to go, I certainly will. But before I do,
+       let me tell you this, Màiri: I have never asked my mother to
+       say anything to you about me.
+
+  MÀIRI. Perhaps not. But she told me all.... Are you going now?
+
+  SANDY (_brokenly_). Màiri, do not break my heart. Do not spurn
+       me, as if I were a leper. Oh, Màiri, if you must send me away,
+       once again, let us part as friends.... Why, oh why, did you
+       not tell me yourself that you had grown tired of me? Why did
+       you ask my mother to repeat your cruel words?
+
+  MÀIRI. Your mother? My cruel words? I never gave any message
+       to your mother.
+
+  SANDY. Never gave.... Has my mother lied to me?... When
+       I returned from my holiday and found you had gone, I was
+       broken-hearted, and what I felt most and feel most is that you
+       never even left a letter for me. If only you had, I should
+       have been better able to bear it....
+
+  MÀIRI. I’ll just ask you one question before you go. What did
+       you tell your mother to say to me?
+
+  SANDY. Nothing! I never spoke to her about you after I told
+       her we were engaged, until that black evening when she seared
+       my soul with your message--the message she said you left for
+       me.
+
+  [_Màiri sinks in a chair, covers her eyes with her hand, and
+       sobs._]
+
+  SANDY. Màiri, Màiri, I love you more than ever. Forgive
+       me if I have offended you! Have pity on me! I have never
+       loved another. I will never love another. (_Kneels before
+       her._) If you cannot love me, do not despise me. If you wish
+       me to go away, do not let us part except as old friends.
+       (_Entreatingly._) Màiri, speak to me, Màiri.
+
+  [_Màiri suddenly takes his head in her hands and kisses his
+       forehead._]
+
+  SANDY. My love, I cannot leave you now.
+
+  [_They gaze at one another in silence._]
+
+  MÀIRI. Then it is not true that you wished to leave me?
+
+  SANDY. No, no, Màiri. And it’s not true that you had grown
+       tired of me?
+
+  MÀIRI. Tired of you, Sandy? The heart of me has been hungering
+       for you day and night since last we parted.
+
+       [_Voices are heard outside._]
+
+  SANDY. Your mother is coming. (_Looks through the window._)
+       Heavens! my mother is with her.
+
+  MÀIRI. Your mother?... Oh! let me hide myself.
+
+  SANDY. I don’t wish to see her either. I shall never speak to her
+       again. Where can we go?
+
+  MÀIRI. To the kitchen. We can slip out after they come in here.
+
+  [_Exit Sandy and Màiri. Enter Mrs Mackay supporting Mrs Speedwell,
+       who is limping; she has met with an accident and is slightly
+       hysterical._]
+
+  WIDOW. Be sitting down, mem. Try to compose yourself.
+
+  MRS S. Thank you, Mrs Mackay, you are so kind--oh! dear, dear,
+       where is my son?
+
+  WIDOW. He must have gone out to look at the scenery. He’ll soon be
+       back, I’m sure. Just you settle down nicely now, mem. I’ll
+       bathe your foot for you. I’ll better be putting the big kettle
+       on the kitchen fire. (_Exit. Voices heard within_....) Are
+       _you_ here, Màiri dear? And Mr Sandy, too?
+
+  MRS S. (_starting_). Sandy and Màiri. Can it be?----
+
+  WIDOW (_re-enters_). I’m sorry, mem, but--but (_with agitation_) I
+       cannot understand--your son refuses to come in.
+
+  MRS S. (_rising_). Then I will go to my son.
+
+  [_Limps towards the door, sees her son and Màiri._]
+
+  MRS S. Sandy ... Màiri ... come here--come here at once. Do not go
+       out and leave me in misery. I wish to speak to you both.
+
+  [_Sandy and Màiri enter. Both look stern and defiant._]
+
+  MRS S. Let me sit down. I want to speak to my son and Màiri.
+
+  [_Widow assists her towards the arm-chair._]
+
+  WIDOW (_addressing her daughter_). Is this your young man, Màiri
+       dear?
+
+  MÀIRI (_hiding her face in Sandy’s arm_). Yes, mother (_faintly_).
+
+  WIDOW (_nervously_). I think I will better be putting the big
+       kettle on the kitchen fire. (_Walks towards the door._)
+
+  MRS S. No, no, come back; please sit down, Mrs Mackay. I wish you
+       to hear all I have got to say.
+
+  [_Mrs Mackay sits opposite Mrs Speedwell, who is in the “easy
+       chair.” Sandy and Màiri stand beside the table, arm in arm._]
+
+  MRS S. (_addressing Mrs Mackay_). When you found me lying
+       helplessly on the moor, my sprained ankle sinking into a
+       bog, I thanked you and you said, “It’s not me you should be
+       thanking, but Providence.” You were right there, Mrs Mackay.
+       The hand of Providence arranges all things. Providence brought
+       me here to be punished for my sin; Providence brought these
+       two together (_pointing to Sandy and Màiri_) at the same
+       time.... When I was lying on that dreadful lonely moor,
+       expecting to meet an awful death--to die there alone--the
+       thoughts that were uppermost in my mind were about my sin
+       against your daughter and my own son. Now I am going to ask
+       their forgiveness.
+
+  SANDY (_impulsively, hastening towards her_). No, no. Don’t ask my
+       forgiveness (_kisses her_), but Màiri’s only.
+
+  MRS S. (_turning to Màiri_). Màiri dear (_entreatingly and
+       softly_).
+
+  [_Sandy goes towards Màiri and leads her to his mother._]
+
+  MRS S. Kiss me, my ... daughter.
+
+  [_Sandy grasps Mrs Mackay’s hand. The old woman rises to her feet._]
+
+  SANDY (_gleefully_). My mother has robbed you of your daughter. Let
+       me take her place and be your son.
+
+  WIDOW (_with emotion_). Be you a good man to _my_ Màiri, for _my_
+       Màiri has been a good daughter to me.
+
+  [_Màiri comes forward and kisses her mother._]
+
+  SANDY (_taking Màiri’s arm_). Come on! hurry, hurry! Let us boil
+       the big kettle on the kitchen fire.
+
+  [_Màiri smiles radiantly and Mrs Speedwell laughs. The widow sinks
+       into a chair._]
+
+  MRS S. Dear Mrs Mackay, but for my sore foot I think I would dance
+       to you. (_Màiri and Sandy turn at the door and laugh. The
+       widow smiles._)
+
+
+                              (CURTAIN)
+
+
+     [1] pron. Mah’ri.
+
+     [2] chill.
+
+     [3] nothing.
+
+     [4] pron. mai’tl, _Gael._, my treasure.
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber’s Note:
+
+Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
+hyphenation in the text and were not changed. Jargon, dialect,
+obsolete, and alternative spellings were not changed. Inconsistent
+punctuation after "Mrs" was not changed.
+
+Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
+this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
+end of the book.
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75546 ***
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+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75546 ***</div>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<p class="u unindent"><i>Reprinted from “The Dunedin Magazine”</i></p>
+
+<h1 class="nobreak">THE REAL MACKAY</h1>
+</div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(<i>All Rights Reserved</i>)<br>
+<br>
+<span class="allsmcap">ONE ACT PLAY</span><br>
+<br>
+<span class="smcap muchlarger">By Donald A. Mackenzie</span><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2 center"><i>Characters</i></p>
+<br>
+<p class="hanginglist"><span class="smcap">Widow Mackay</span>, <i>tenant of Balree Croft</i>.</p>
+<p class="hanginglist"><span class="smcap">Màiri<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Mackay</span>, <i>her daughter, a domestic servant</i>.</p>
+<p class="hanginglist"><span class="smcap">“Sandy” Speedwell</span>, <i>artist and poet, of Edinburgh</i>.</p>
+<p class="hanginglist"><span class="smcap">Mrs Speedwell</span>, <i>his mother</i>.</p>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Scene</span>: <i>The “best room” in a crofter’s cottage in the Scottish
+Highlands. To the left a small open window, round which honeysuckle
+clings and blooms, affords a glimpse of a blue loch, softly
+screened by the drooping branches of a silver birch, and glistening
+in bright sunshine. Beside the window Màiri Mackay sits knitting
+a white shawl. A folding table, with the leaves down, occupies the
+centre of the room and is covered with a Mackay tartan plaid. Upon
+it stands a dark blue bowl filled with wild roses. Widow Mackay
+sits to the right, at her spinning wheel, between the table and a wide,
+open fire-place. Peat smoulders in the grate. To the left of the
+fire-place is an “easy chair” (a plain arm-chair with a cushion), and
+to the right a nursing chair with short legs; a stool is tilted in front
+on a deerskin rug. Against the wall, between the little window and
+a bedroom door, is a dark mahogany chest of drawers, on which lies a
+bulky family Bible between two gaudy vases. Three chairs are ranged
+against the wall to the left, and the floor is covered with flowery waxcloth,
+brilliantly new. The walls are adorned with framed portraits
+of John Knox, John Bunyan, William Ewart Gladstone, and a Free
+Church minister. On the high mantelpiece squat two white porcelain
+dogs with black noses, and above it is a set of bagpipes. A “wag-at-the-wa”
+clock ticks leisurely to the right of the fireplace.</i></p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Time</span>: <i>Early afternoon: a sunny day in late June.</i></p>
+
+
+<p class="p2 hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>stops spinning and looks towards her daughter over her
+glasses</i>). You’ll be sitting in a draught, Màiri. Shut the
+window or you will maybe catch a cheel<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>—you that looks so
+delicate.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Oh! there’s no fear of me, mother. If you won’t be
+minding, I would rather have the window open. I love to
+breathe the fresh air from the loch. (<i>Takes a deep breath.</i>)
+It’s so refreshing after being in a stuffy city, and the honeysuckle
+smells so sweet. How quiet it is here; you can listen
+to the quietness, so to speak.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Well, well, my treasure, have your own way with it.
+Balree is indeed a sweet place, and God’s world is very beautiful.
+(<i>Stops spinning.</i>) Màiri, that honeysuckle was planted out
+there by your dear father, nineteen years ago, on the very day
+you came into the world. He’ll be at his rest now three
+years come Martinmas, and every summer his beautiful
+flower will be growing and spreading and blooming. The
+smell of it goes to my heart like a sweet thought of him. (<i>Sighs
+and resumes her work at the spinning wheel, drawing out a thread
+and adjusting it.</i>) It’s your own father that would be proud
+of you, Màiri, if he was still with us, but the Lord appointed
+otherwise. (<i>Sighs.</i>) His will be done. (<i>Goes on spinning.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Màiri rises from her chair, draws a tendril of honeysuckle through
+the window and smells it: then she plucks a blossom and puts
+it in her blouse. Musing, she leans her elbow on the window,
+chin on hand, gazing towards the loch. Her mother stops spinning,
+looks up and watches her daughter for a few seconds in silence.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> You are very quiet, Màiri. How you have changed!</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> I was only thinking to myself—just thinking a little.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> It’s me that sees a great difference in you—you that used
+to be such a cheery lassie, always laughing and teasing one
+and making the jokes. Many times, when you’re away, I
+will be smiling here my lone self, thinking o’ the things you
+used to be saying and doing. Now, I’ll notice, and I canna’
+help noticing it, that you’re changed so much. I suppose it’s
+the city that does it. You’ll have many things, no doubt,
+to be thinking over, and maybe, yes, maybe, you’re feeling
+just a little dull, now, in this quiet place.... You’ll often
+be sitting thinking to yourself in that way. Surely nosing<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a>
+will be troubling you, m’eudail<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Màiri does not answer. She sits down, hangs her head and resumes
+knitting. Her mother rises, grasping her chin between her
+fingers, a look of concern on her face; goes over to the window
+and sits besides her daughter.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> And something is troubling you, Màiri, my own. You
+canna’ hide it from me. There will be tears in your eyes,
+Ochone! what will you be hiding in the deep heart of you?
+You shouldn’t be hiding anysing at all, at all, from me, your
+own mother.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Màiri shakes her head, takes out her handkerchief and dries her
+eyes.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>very softly</i>). You are all I have left in this world—your
+father dead, your brother killed in the war in a foreign
+land far away. It would break my heart to think you would
+be keeping anysing from me. What is it? Tell me (<i>strokes
+the girl’s hair</i>), dove of my heart! my fair love!... Màiri
+(<i>entreatingly</i>).</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri</span> (<i>resuming her knitting</i>). It was only a foolish thought
+(<i>pause</i>)—a thought about one I shouldn’t maybe be thinking
+of, now that I’m here.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Ah! has he—has <i>he</i> ... turned false to you, now?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri</span> (<i>quickly</i>). Well, not what you would call false, not that
+altogether.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> A lovers’ quarrel, no doubt. You’re young, you’re young,
+but the young heart can feel sore. I mind well. I was
+once like you, Màiri. Your father and I had once a lover’s
+quarrel. But it came all right. Lovers’ quarrels are sometimes
+sweet to remember afterwards.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> It’s not what you would call a quarrel either. But we’ve
+parted—parted for ever. But don’t be worrying, mother,
+I’ll maybe no’ be caring so much as you would think.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Well, well, it’s the way of the world. Maybe you’ll
+change your mind yet. Maybe you wass just a little bit to
+blame yourself, now, eh? I wouldn’t say you wass, Màiri,
+no, no. But girls—bonnie girls like yourself, my dove, will
+sometimes be doing things and saying things they’ll no’ quite
+intend altogether, and then they’ll be thinking afterwards
+that it’s maybe a pity it wasn’t otherwise.... Is he a good
+lad, Màiri, steady at his work, no drinking, and always attending
+the church? Is he what you would call handsome, now,—big
+and manly like your father?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri</span> (<i>smiling</i>). No doubt he would have pleased you. If looks
+were everything, you’d be quite satisfied. He’s a gentleman
+in every way.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> A Highland lad, too, maybe, and of a good clan?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Well, no’ exactly what you would call Highland; but
+his grandfather was a Ross and he’s proud of it.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> So well he might be. There were some fine Rosses,
+although they were never like the Mackays, or my own clan,
+the great clan Donald. I would like to see your young man,
+Màiri. You’ll make it up all right with him yet, eh?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> No, no; it’s all past. He’s fickle, mother—a poppy in
+the corn—a butterfly—one you would maybe like to look at,
+but not to depend on—changeable as the wind, and cruel
+without knowing it—aye! (<i>Sighs.</i>) But don’t be speaking
+about him. It’s time I was beginning to forget there’s such
+a one in the world.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Aye, so.... (<i>Looking through the window</i>). There’s
+Sandy coming.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri</span> (<i>rising quickly in alarm</i>). Who—who?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> It’s only Sandy, oor neighbour. He’s coming to sow the
+turnips for me. Ah! Màiri, the neighbours will be very good
+to me since your father’s death. Every one of them comes to
+do his share o’ work on the croft and keep a roof above my
+head. I’ll better be speaking to Sandy. (<i>Exit.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Sandy.... Why should I have thought it was him?
+He does not know where I live, and, besides, he wouldn’t come
+if he knew, except maybe to wound my heart deeper without
+knowing what he was doing.... Why did I tell mother? I
+can’t explain everything to her. She cannot understand.
+Did Sandy’s mother not tell me that he is not in my station
+of life, and that she would be disgraced if he married a servant—a
+servant in his mother’s house. Oh! it’s her that wounded
+my pride—her thinking she was better than me! a shopkeeper’s
+wife (as if that were something great) and me a real
+Mackay, with lords and bards and great chiefs in my line....
+Oh! if I only had the money, she wouldn’t despise me so.
+But what’s money? Money will not make one a lady.... I
+must forget, forget what was—forget Sandy and his mother
+and the rest.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>enters</i>). Sandy was asking when you will be going away.
+(<i>Sighs.</i>) I said I wasn’t very sure. He’s wondering you haven’t
+been down to see his wife who was so ill last winter. Haste
+you, my dear, and be calling on her at once. She has been
+a good kind friend to me, Màiri.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> I’ll go down just now, mother. But don’t be speaking about
+me going away. (<i>Smiles.</i>) I have made up my mind to stay
+here with you always after this. You’re getting old and
+canna’ be left alone.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> I wish you could aye be here, as you say. (<i>Sighs.</i>) But
+we’re too poor, Màiri. It canna’ be. We must bear our
+burdens in this world though our hearts should be breaking.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> I have a plan, mother, that will bring us money, and I’m
+going to give you a little surprise.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> How can you make money here, lassie? Now, tell me
+that.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Keeping visitors. Letting the house. I’ve thought of
+it for a long time, and that’s why I brought you things for the
+house—the waxcloth, the new blankets, and the rest.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>amazed</i>). Keeping veesitors?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> I saw how it was done last summer when we were holidaying
+near Oban. Oh! the people in the west are clever at making
+the money in the summer.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Don’t tell me they’re cleverer in the west than in the north.
+Who ever heard of such a thing? They haven’t such land
+as our land.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> I know a widow near Oban—a Macdougall she is. Her
+son has a bicycle and her daughter has a piano. The croft is
+a poorer croft than our croft, and they have a slated roof,
+a porch at the door, registered grates, water taps in the kitchen,
+and a carpet in the best room.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> How did they manage it?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> The visitors, of course.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> The veesitors!</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Ailie Macdougall is a nice girl, and she hasn’t to go to
+service the whole year round like me. You see, they get so
+much money from the visitors that it keeps them and pays
+the rent.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> I’m sure it’s very good of the veesitors. But, Màiri, I
+wouldn’t be beholden to anybody. I wouldn’t take charity
+money, although I’m a poor widow, from any stranger,
+man or woman, however grand. No, no I couldn’t think
+of it.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> You don’t understand. The money is payment for rent
+and attendance. We’ll let the house to visitors or take in
+lodgers, and charge maybe £12 a month with attendance.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> But we canna’ afford to slate the roof and get a piano and
+all the rest. You couldn’t ask gentry to stay here, Màiri.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> You’re wrong there, mother. It’s fashionable for the city
+gentry to be staying now for holidays in “crofters’ cottages,”
+as they call them. They think houses like this are most
+artistic. They’re quite right too. This is a finer house
+than any in a city—not so grand, of course, but more sweet
+and homely in every way. The gentry are beginning to know
+that. Oh! mother, you would be surprised to see how they
+imitate us.... In the house where I was serving they had
+a spinning wheel and a three-legged pot in the drawing-room,
+cruisies in the dining-room, horn spoons and wooden ladles,
+and old plates and bowls here and there and everywhere as
+ornaments. They will pay a lot of money for things we will
+just be throwing away.... Maybe they’ll buy the old bagpipes.
+(<i>Laughs.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> My grandfather’s bagpipes—the bagpipes of a Gaelic
+bard? No, no; I’d sooner starve than part with a thing in
+this house. Everything is covered with memories of my
+heart.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> I spoke to the Postmaster about letting the house. I
+wanted to give you a surprise.... I’ll better be going to see
+Sandy’s wife. Now, mother, if the visitors call when I’m
+out, you’ll keep them speaking till I return. Don’t take the
+first offer. Ask the highest terms you can. (<i>Draws a knitted
+shawl over her head.</i>) Now I’ll be off.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Will you not be putting on your feather hat and your
+Sunday costume? The like o’ that hat is no’ to be seen in the
+glen.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> The shawl is sweeter. If I put on my best hat, people
+would think I was getting too proud. (<i>Exit.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>sits at spinning wheel</i>). It’s a queer notion the lassie
+will have got into her head. But I must humour her. And
+so she’s got a lad; and him and her have had a cast out.
+Poor lass! That’ll no’ last long. Blessings be on the dear
+heart of her! Any lad <i>my</i> Màiri would keep company with
+must be a good lad, and any lad that once set his eyes on <i>my</i>
+Màiri will no’ be wanting to lose her. The treasure!... It’s
+myself would be thankful to see her married decently and
+well.... I’m getting old, as her dear self would be saying.
+(<i>Sighs.</i>) My time will no’ be long now.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Enter Mrs Speedwell, attired in summer costume. Of middle age.
+Has come from Edinburgh and is staying at the village hotel,
+a mile distant from Balree Croft. Looks at the widow, who is
+spinning.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>aside</i>). What a charming picture! How Sandy would
+love to paint her! This is the very house for Sandy....
+(<i>Aloud</i>) Good afternoon, Mrs Mackay (<i>smiles</i>)—you’re Mrs
+Mackay?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Pardon me, mem, I wass busy, and wouldn’t be seeing you.
+Would you kindly sit down?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Thank you. (<i>Sits down.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Will you be feeling the draught? I’ll—I’ll shut the
+window.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>aside</i>). A charming woman. (<i>Aloud.</i>) No thank you.
+The air is so delicately fresh here. This is a delightful district,
+Mrs Mackay.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> It is very kind of you to be saying that. Balree has
+been my home for five and twenty years. When my man
+took me here I thought it the sweetest place on earth,
+next to my own glen, of course, and I’ll be content to end my
+days in his house, the Lord willing.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> The Postmaster tells me you have rooms to let. My son
+is anxious to stay in the country, and I think your cottage will
+suit him. He doesn’t know I am here; the Postmaster wired
+to him yesterday saying he could get suitable rooms. My son
+wants to work in the Highlands during the summer and
+autumn.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> To work here? Well (<i>pause</i>), it’s not easy to find work
+here. What will his business be?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs. S.</span> Oh! he’s a painter.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Indeet! Well, (<i>pause</i>) he will not get very much
+painting to do in this poor place, unless, maybe, of course,
+at the shooting lodge, but I’m afraid that it was painted in
+the spring.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>laughing</i>). He’s not a house painter, but an artist. He
+paints pictures, you understand.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Oh! yes, yes; I see, I see. I’ll understand.... I’ll be
+noticing some gentlemen drawing wonderful pictures here
+about in the summer, and some ladies also. And very clever
+they are, too. It’s a gift—yes, a great gift, just like making
+songs and playing the pipes.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs. S.</span> My son makes songs too—he’s a poet, you know; not
+that I can understand his poetry; it’s all Greek to me, but it
+amuses him, and that’s everything.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> He must be very clever. My grandfather was a fine poet.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs. S.</span> Oh! really. Sandy will be delighted. He’ll be sure to
+buy a copy of your grandfather’s book.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> There is no book: his songs were never put in a book,
+but everybody sings them from Reay to Lochaber.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs. S.</span> How interesting! I’m sure you will be very friendly
+with my son. Perhaps you will make more of him than I can.
+His manner is irritating to me, and we’re not very good friends
+at present.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> I hope he’s no’ taking the drink.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Oh, no! but the poor boy has a temperament.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> A bad temper?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> No, he’s not bad tempered, but very moody, inclined to be
+melancholy at times. And he’s so unconventional. He wants
+to return to Nature, he says, and in trying to be natural he
+has grown quite eccentric. He’s not like an ordinary city man
+at all.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Gentlemen are often strange in their ways. They have
+so little to do that they cannot help taking queer notions.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>smiling</i>). Perhaps. He’s tiresome at home but he’s
+absolutely unbearable on a holiday; he won’t even dress
+himself decently. He makes one climb dreadful hills to see
+the sun setting or the moon rising, and is continually drawing
+one’s attention to the light falling here and there. He’s in
+love with Nature, of course.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> With whom did you say?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> He’s in love with the country, the fine scenery, and so on.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> And why for no?... God’s beautiful world.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> I admire the country very much in the summer. It’s so
+restful and sets one up so. But I can’t understand how you
+exist during the winter season in this solitary place.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> It’s as beautiful in winter as in summer. Many times I
+will be looking through the window there to see the moon
+rising over the loch on a winter’s night when the ground is
+white and sparkling and all the world is at peace. It is like
+a dream of Heaven.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> You have an eye for the beautiful, Mrs Mackay; but you
+don’t always get moonlight nights and clear days in the winter.
+(<i>Shrugging her shoulders.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Every day is different and every day has its own beauty,
+mem.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> You will get on splendidly with my son. I’m so glad I
+have come here. You set my mind at ease. I can quite see
+you will have a strong influence over him. So I had better
+let you into my little secret, and perhaps you will help me.
+My son is in love, Mrs Mackay, terribly in love. At least
+he thinks he is.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Indeet!</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> I shouldn’t mind that so much. But he is in love with a
+girl far below him in rank. It worries me very much.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> I see.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>confidentially</i>). Do you know he actually wanted to
+marry one of my servants—the tablemaid.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Surely she must be a very attractive girl.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> That’s it. A pretty girl, naturally refined, an excellent
+servant, but not a suitable wife for a rich husband. A foolish
+marriage would ruin my son’s social prospects. I could never
+hold up my head again if such a thing happened. So I had
+to put my foot down. I sent the girl away and told her my
+son had asked me to do so, but I told my son the girl had left
+of her own accord to free herself of his undesired attentions.
+It was a terrible thing to have to do.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> A very terrible thing, indeet, to be telling what was maybe
+not true.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Yes, it cost me a pang or two of conscience, but I knew
+it was for the best. The poor boy has suffered, but, as his
+sister says, he is recovering slowly. A spell of hard work
+will do him a lot of good. I hope you will help me by encouraging
+him to work, Mrs Mackay. Praise his work and keep
+him at it. Tell him he is improving every day. He likes to be
+praised. All artists and poets do; they live on praise or the
+hope of praise. They prefer praise to money, poor fellows.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> There are more desirable things in this world than
+money; all we require of it is just a little for our daily needs.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Which vary, of course. I hope you’ll do your best to help
+me, Mrs Mackay. I feel I can trust you.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> If I can do anything to help you, I’ll do it, I’m sure.
+But it’s little I can talk to him about, I’m afraid.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>smiling</i>). Discuss his soul with him. He is great on his
+soul.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> I’m glad to hear that, mem, yes, I am indeet. I’ll speak
+to our new minister about him; he’s a very earnest lad.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> I don’t quite mean that. When my son speaks about his
+soul, he means his artistic impulses or his affections, or, perhaps,
+his affectations. For instance, when he is painting a picture,
+he talks about painting his soul. He says his poetry is full of
+soul. And, do you know, he called that servant girl “the
+companion of his soul.”</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>sighs</i>). Ochone! It’s a terrible way to be speaking about
+his eternal soul. (<i>Rocks herself with clasped hands.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Yes, rather absurd, isn’t it? We old-fashioned people
+keep our souls for our religious life, of course; for the church,
+not for the studio. But do not heed his little ways and his
+absurd remarks. Humour him and flatter him judiciously.
+That’s what I always do. (<i>Rises.</i>) I think I’ll walk to the station
+to meet him. He’ll get a surprise to see me here. I want to be
+reconciled to the dear boy before I go on holiday myself. How
+far is it to the station, Mrs Mackay?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> It’s two miles round by the road, but there’s a short cut
+across the moor. (<i>Looking through the window.</i>) If you will
+ask the postman, who is just coming, to show you the way,
+he’ll put you right. It’s just a little over half a mile to the
+station by the short cut.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Thank you so much. Good evening, Mrs Mackay. I’ll
+see you later on. (<i>Exit.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> A nice lady, but one that’s needing to be spoken to very
+seriously about her own soul. I wonder what sort o’ minister
+she’ll be sitting under. She’s no’ afraid to be telling lies to
+her son and her servant for fear they will get married, and
+maybe they’ll be very fond of one another. It’s doing the
+devil’s work to come between young people in love; and if
+they’re meant for one another it’s no’ her or anybody else will
+keep them apart.... I wonder what Màiri will say when I
+tell her.... And, oh! dear me, Màiri will not be pleased
+with me. I never said a word about money. I never thought
+on such a thing. And worst of all, I never asked the lady
+her name. Am I no’ the stupid one?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Motor horn sounds in the distance.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="indent3">I wonder who that will be. The doctor, very likely. Somebody
+must be ill. (<i>Looking through the window.</i>) It’s no’ the doctor,
+but a strange gentleman coming this way. It canna’ be the
+lady’s son, for he’s coming by train. This will be another
+veesitor, but he’s too late. I wish Màiri was here. I’m no’
+fit to be speaking to the veesitors.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Enter Sandy Speedwell.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Good day to you, sir, I’m ferry glad to see you, indeet.
+Will you be taking a chair?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> I’m your lodger, Mrs Mackay. I had a wire from the
+Postmaster and motored here with a friend. This is a
+beautiful glen.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> I hope there’s no mistake. Will you be the gentleman
+who is a painter and a poet too?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy</span> (<i>astonished</i>). Really you surprise me, madam. What
+little bird has been carrying tales about me? I thought I
+had reached the back of the world.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> A lady called here, sir, and was telling me. <span class="lock">But——</span></p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> A lady? What lady? (<i>Anxiously.</i>) Your niece, your
+daughter, your cousin—who is she, what is she? A young lady
+or an old lady?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>smiling</i>). No relation of mine, sir. You’ll soon be
+seeing her yourself. Maybe I’ll better go and tell her you
+are here. She’s neither young nor old, but somesing between
+the two. (<i>Aside.</i>) I musn’t be telling him it was his own mother.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> No, don’t go. I’m in no mood to meet any of my acquaintances.
+(<i>Aside.</i>) Those prying gossips! One can’t go a
+step for them. (<i>Aloud.</i>) I prefer to talk to yourself, Mrs
+Mackay, but I must ask you to do me a special favour.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> I’m at your service, sir.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> <i>Don’t</i> call me “sir.” My name is Sandy.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Indeet. A very homely name indeet, <i>sir</i>—I beg your
+pardon—there will be one or two Sandys in this same glen
+already.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Splendid! I’ll be able to hide myself. If anybody calls
+here asking for Sandy, you’ll send them to some other Sandy....
+(<i>Gazes steadfastly at Mrs Mackay.</i>) Look through the
+window, Mrs Mackay.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>alarmed</i>). What is it?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Sit down, please, don’t move. You make an excellent
+picture. Just look towards the window. (<i>Widow looks
+nervously.</i>) Ah! wonderful; she was Spring, you are late
+September. (<i>Sighs.</i>) I must paint you.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>astonished</i>). Paint me?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> I will paint your portrait and present it to you afterwards.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>aside</i>). Màiri said the veesitors were so kind to people.
+(<i>Aloud.</i>) That’s very good of you, <span class="lock">Mr——</span></p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Sandy.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Mr Sandy.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> No, simply Sandy. (<i>Laughs.</i>) Simple Sandy, if you like,
+or just Sandy.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">Widow (<i>aside</i>). So simple and plain; he must be a born gentleman.
+(<i>Aloud.</i>) I’ll be trying to remember. (<i>Smiles.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy</span> (<i>musingly</i>). What is there in you Highland people that
+makes you seem all alike, I wonder? When you smile, you
+remind me of—of someone I knew. A Highland lady also.
+(<i>Aside.</i>) Ah! dear me, can I never get her out of my mind?—Màiri,
+Màiri, my soul calls you. You haunt me night and
+day. (<i>Aloud.</i>) This is a very beautiful little house. What a
+rare window! And this fire-place! (<i>Sits down on a
+stool.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Take the easy chair, if you please. I’m sure you’re
+feeling tired.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Is that your most comfortable chair, Mrs Mackay?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>stiffly</i>). Yes, it will be, but maybe by next <span class="lock">year——</span></p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Then come and sit in it, please, and speak to me. I’m
+dull, madam. (<i>Sighs.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>pokes up the peat</i>). It’s a poor fire, indeet, and there’s
+nothing so cheery as a bright fire. I hope you’ll be excusing
+the old fire-place, but maybe by next year we’ll have a
+registered grate. (<i>Sits down.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> (<i>standing up</i>). Heavens! don’t speak about such a thing,
+never think of changing your grate. It’s perfect, madam.
+(<i>Smiles.</i>) I must paint this fire-place, and you must sit beside
+it at your spinning wheel. (<i>Glances round the room.</i>) I will
+give you some pictures to hide those on the wall—those
+frowning fellows—pah!</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>aside</i>). I must mind to be humouring him. (<i>Aloud.</i>)
+You are too kind, indeet. But first I will give you something
+to eat. (<i>Rises.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Sit down, Mrs Mackay. I’m not hungry. Please do not
+go away. (<i>Gazes in her face.</i>) Do sit down. (<i>Aside.</i>) How
+like Màiri she is. I seem to see Màiri everywhere, yet I
+cannot see her.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> I’m afraid you’ll have to be excusing me. I have to go
+for a little message, but I’ll not be long. I’m sure you will
+be excusing me, now.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> I beg your pardon, Mrs Mackay. It’s selfish of me to
+detain you.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>smiling.</i>) I’ll soon be back. (<i>Aside.</i>) I must hurry after
+his mother and tell her. The poor lad is eating out his heart
+because he has quarrelled with her. (<i>Aloud.</i>) Be amusing
+yourself till I return, Mr Sandy—I mean Sandy. (<i>Aside.</i>) I’ll
+better hurry and get back before Màiri comes. (<i>Exit.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy</span> (<i>Alone. Sits before the fire on the low stool. Elbows on
+knees and face between his hands.</i>) I cannot escape Màiri.
+Everywhere I go I think of Màiri. (<i>Takes a sheet of notepaper
+from his pocket and reads</i>):</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+    <div class="verse indent0">Star of my soul, can I forget?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">I dreamed not that my star would set.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Ah! now my heaven is dim and bare,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Thou wert so bright, thou wert so fair—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Dwells falsehood in such eyes as thine?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">Came poison from thy lips divine?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent0">My soul is——</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="indent3">Pah! What mockery—jingling mockery!</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Flings his poem in the fire. As the flame leaps up the door opens
+and Màiri enters. Sandy looks round, utters an exclamation
+of surprise: stands up, faces Màiri. The lovers gaze at one
+another, amazed and silent for a few seconds.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Màiri.... You?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri</span> (<i>with emotion</i>). Why—why have you—have you followed
+me here?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> I have been searching for you everywhere, <span class="lock">but——</span></p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Oh! leave me alone. Why, why?—Have you seen my
+mother? Where is she?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> She has just gone out, but will return soon.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> I’ll go after her.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy</span> (<i>strides forward and seizes Màiri’s hand</i>). Oh! do not
+leave me like that, Màiri. Will you not speak to me, if not
+for my own sake, at least for the sake of old times?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Why should you want to be speaking to me? Your
+mother told me what you said. Do you think I can forget
+so soon? Let me go....</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Màiri, what do you mean? What did my mother tell you?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Ah! do not be fooling me. You may have fooled me in
+<i>your</i> mother’s house, but you’ll never fool me in <i>my</i> mother’s
+house.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Fooling you? I don’t understand.... Is this your
+home, Màiri?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri</span> (<i>raising herself stiffly</i>). Well you know whose house you
+are in. (<i>Drawing her hand away.</i>) Now, leave it! and never
+darken our door again. I am not your servant any longer, sir.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> If you ask me to go, I certainly will. But before I do,
+let me tell you this, Màiri: I have never asked my mother
+to say anything to you about me.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Perhaps not. But she told me all.... Are you going now?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy</span> (<i>brokenly</i>). Màiri, do not break my heart. Do not spurn
+me, as if I were a leper. Oh, Màiri, if you must send me away,
+once again, let us part as friends.... Why, oh why, did you
+not tell me yourself that you had grown tired of me? Why
+did you ask my mother to repeat your cruel words?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Your mother? My cruel words? I never gave any
+message to your mother.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Never gave.... Has my mother lied to me?...
+When I returned from my holiday and found you had gone,
+I was broken-hearted, and what I felt most and feel most is
+that you never even left a letter for me. If only you had,
+I should have been better able to bear it....</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> I’ll just ask you one question before you go. What did
+you tell your mother to say to me?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Nothing! I never spoke to her about you after I told
+her we were engaged, until that black evening when she seared
+my soul with your message—the message she said you left
+for me.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Màiri sinks in a chair, covers her eyes with her hand, and sobs.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Màiri, Màiri, I love you more than ever. Forgive me if
+I have offended you! Have pity on me! I have never
+loved another. I will never love another. (<i>Kneels before
+her.</i>) If you cannot love me, do not despise me. If you wish
+me to go away, do not let us part except as old friends. (<i>Entreatingly.</i>)
+Màiri, speak to me, Màiri.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Màiri suddenly takes his head in her hands and kisses his forehead.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> My love, I cannot leave you now.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>They gaze at one another in silence.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Then it is not true that you wished to leave me?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> No, no, Màiri. And it’s not true that you had grown
+tired of me?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Tired of you, Sandy? The heart of me has been hungering
+for you day and night since last we parted.</p>
+
+<p class="indent3">[<i>Voices are heard outside.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> Your mother is coming. (<i>Looks through the window.</i>)
+Heavens! my mother is with her.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> Your mother?... Oh! let me hide myself.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy.</span> I don’t wish to see her either. I shall never speak to her
+again. Where can we go?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri.</span> To the kitchen. We can slip out after they come in here.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Exit Sandy and Màiri. Enter Mrs Mackay supporting Mrs
+Speedwell, who is limping; she has met with an accident and is
+slightly hysterical.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> Be sitting down, mem. Try to compose yourself.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Thank you, Mrs Mackay, you are so kind—oh! dear,
+dear, where is my son?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow.</span> He must have gone out to look at the scenery. He’ll
+soon be back, I’m sure. Just you settle down nicely now,
+mem. I’ll bathe your foot for you. I’ll better be putting
+the big kettle on the kitchen fire. (<i>Exit. Voices heard
+within</i>....) Are <i>you</i> here, Màiri dear? And Mr Sandy,
+too?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>starting</i>). Sandy and Màiri. Can it <span class="lock">be?——</span></p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>re-enters</i>). I’m sorry, mem, but—but (<i>with agitation</i>)
+I cannot understand—your son refuses to come in.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>rising</i>). Then I will go to my son.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Limps towards the door, sees her son and Màiri.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Sandy ... Màiri ... come here—come here at once.
+Do not go out and leave me in misery. I wish to speak to
+you both.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Sandy and Màiri enter. Both look stern and defiant.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Let me sit down. I want to speak to my son and Màiri.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Widow assists her towards the arm-chair.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>addressing her daughter</i>). Is this your young man, Màiri
+dear?</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Màiri</span> (<i>hiding her face in Sandy’s arm</i>). Yes, mother (<i>faintly</i>).</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>nervously</i>). I think I will better be putting the big
+kettle on the kitchen fire. (<i>Walks towards the door.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> No, no, come back; please sit down, Mrs Mackay. I
+wish you to hear all I have got to say.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Mrs Mackay sits opposite Mrs Speedwell, who is in the “easy
+chair.” Sandy and Màiri stand beside the table, arm in arm.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>addressing Mrs Mackay</i>). When you found me lying
+helplessly on the moor, my sprained ankle sinking into a
+bog, I thanked you and you said, “It’s not me you should
+be thanking, but Providence.” You were right there, Mrs
+Mackay. The hand of Providence arranges all things.
+Providence brought me here to be punished for my sin; Providence
+brought these two together (<i>pointing to Sandy and
+Màiri</i>) at the same time.... When I was lying on that
+dreadful lonely moor, expecting to meet an awful death—to
+die there alone—the thoughts that were uppermost in
+my mind were about my sin against your daughter and my
+own son. Now I am going to ask their forgiveness.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy</span> (<i>impulsively, hastening towards her</i>). No, no. Don’t
+ask my forgiveness (<i>kisses her</i>), but Màiri’s only.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> (<i>turning to Màiri</i>). Màiri dear (<i>entreatingly and softly</i>).</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Sandy goes towards Màiri and leads her to his mother.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Kiss me, my ... daughter.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Sandy grasps Mrs Mackay’s hand. The old woman rises to her
+feet.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy</span> (<i>gleefully</i>). My mother has robbed you of your daughter.
+Let me take her place and be your son.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Widow</span> (<i>with emotion</i>). Be you a good man to <i>my</i> Màiri, for
+<i>my</i> Màiri has been a good daughter to me.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Màiri comes forward and kisses her mother.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Sandy</span> (<i>taking Màiri’s arm</i>). Come on! hurry, hurry! Let us
+boil the big kettle on the kitchen fire.</p>
+
+<p class="hanging">[<i>Màiri smiles radiantly and Mrs Speedwell laughs. The widow
+sinks into a chair.</i>]</p>
+
+<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Mrs S.</span> Dear Mrs Mackay, but for my sore foot I think I would
+dance to you. (<i>Màiri and Sandy turn at the door and laugh.
+The widow smiles.</i>)</p>
+
+
+<p class="p2 center">
+(<span class="smcap">Curtain</span>)<br>
+</p>
+
+
+<p class="p2 footnote"><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> <abbr title="pronounced">pron.</abbr> Mah’ri.</p>
+
+<p class="footnote"><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> chill.</p>
+
+<p class="footnote"><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> nothing.</p>
+
+<p class="footnote"><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> <abbr title="pronounced">pron.</abbr> mai’tl, <abbr title="Gaelic"><i lang="gd">Gael.</i></abbr>, my treasure.</p>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<h3>Transcriber’s Note:</h3>
+</div>
+
+<p>Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
+hyphenation in the text and were not changed. Jargon, dialect,
+obsolete, and alternative spellings were not changed. Inconsistent
+punctuation after "Mrs" was not changed.</p>
+
+<p>Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
+end of the book.</p>
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75546 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
+
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+eBook #75546 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75546)