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diff --git a/75546-0.txt b/75546-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cdf4fc5 --- /dev/null +++ b/75546-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,878 @@ + +*** 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 *** |