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.