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?