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Title: The real Mackay
Author: Donald A. Mackenzie
Release date: March 6, 2025 [eBook #75546]
Language: English
Original publication: GB:
Credits: Carol Brown, Mairi and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (National Library of Scotland)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REAL MACKAY ***
_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.
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