so beautiful; such a face without guile you have, Miss Lucy.
(She quivers.)
It was no bargain for an honourable man.
LUCY. Without guile. Ah, if only — (She turns away.)
PROFESSOR. I see everything clearly now, why I was so light-hearted in the field to-day, why I jumped those corn-stooks. It was my youth come to me at last. I had no youth at the age when I should have had it. I passed it by in my eagerness for science; I was engrossed in science when I should have been jumping the stooks. The things we have missed come not back to man nor woman. Very sad. Now I see that every man must love once, for it is his birthright, but if we do not seize it at the right age, we can only love, we cannot make others love us — we have forgotten the way.
LUCY. You hurt my heart.
PROFESSOR. I must not do that. I have been presumptuous, but I am not going to whine because I cannot pluck the stars. And when the great glory that I have missed comes into your life there is no one who will rejoice more heartily than the old Professor. It has not come yet?
(She can’t answer.)
Ah! I believe it has! Has it, Miss Lucy?
LUCY. Yes.
PROFESSOR. And he loves you? How could he help it.
LUCY. He loves me because he does not know me as I am.
PROFESSOR. Because he does know, you mean. Am I not to be told his name?
LUCY. No!
PROFESSOR. Ah, but I can picture him, and he is not ungainly and absent-minded, and he does not wear a faded velvet coat. Miss Lucy, do not weep for me; see how glad your news has made me, and when the wedding-bells are ringing I shall be there to give you away, and with a face so happy in your happiness that I — that I —
LUCY. Goodbye.
PROFESSOR (taking her hand). You see, I am not — not breaking down. Goodbye, Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy!
(He tries to smile, LUCY goes. He waves to her, then sits on seat sadly, MISS GOODWILLIE comes out, wearing bonnet.)
Miss goodwillie. I thought you were in the house, Tom.
PROFESSOR. You are not going to see Miss Lucy, Agnes?
MISS GOODWILLIE. Yes, I am.
PROFESSOR. Then you are going the wrong way.
(She turns.)
She is leaving us, Agnes.
MISS GOODWILLIE. No, she is not.
PROFESSOR. She has gone.
MISS GOODWILLIE. Passed!
PROFESSOR. She is going to London.
(cosens enters room.)
MISS GOODWILLIE (looking at watch). I have just time.
PROFESSOR. You are going to the station to say goodbye to her?
MISS GOODWILLIE. I am going — to the station.
COSENS (appearing at window). Are you coming in, Tom?
PROFESSOR. Yes. (Enters house.)
MISS GOODWILLIE. Doctor Cosens, tell him what I have been telling you — about my treatment of Lucy.
COSENS. Good! (Closes window and pulls down blind and moves lamp.)
(henders comes on, wheeling empty barrow.)
MISS GOODWILLIE. You have been to the station with Miss White’s luggage?
HENDERS. Ay!
MISS GOODWILLIE. Then go to the station again and bring it back.
(She goes. Enter pete.)
HENDERS. Did you hear that, Pete — first take the luggage to the station. Second, bring it back. Dagont, women is a mysterious sex. They are the most mysterious sex I ken.
PETE. They ‘re terrible dangerous. They have no pity.
HENDERS. There’s one has had pity on you. It’s queer to think you’ll soon be Pete Maclean, the married man.
PETE. Woe is me, Henders.
(pete offers his snuff-mill.)
HENDERS. Have you been singing love songs to Effie at her window, Pete?
PETE. Far frae it.
HENDERS. YOU are looking the very picture of a proud and happy lover.
PETE. I dinna feel like that. Henders, I have come to offer her my eight-day clock to let me off.
HENDERS. Marriage scares you?
PETE. The thought o’t puts me in a sweat o’ terror.
HENDERS. And no wonder. But she’ll no let you off, Pete — unless.
PETE. Unless? If you could see any way out?
HENDERS. Unless you can get another man to take your place.
PETE. Oh, Henders, if you would only — will you, Henders?
HENDERS. Me tak’ her?
PETE. Henders, I always thought she was made for you.
HENDERS. Did you now?
PETE. She’s a noble critter, Henders — what a neat waist she has. There’s scarcely her equal at baking or washing, and she’s a wonder wi’ her needles. To have a canty bit stocky o’ a wifey at your own fireside, man — to see her smiling at the door — to hear her singing about the hoose! Take her, Henders! Take her, man!
HENDERS. Pete, rather than see you suffer, I am willing to mike this sacrifice.
PETE. Henders! I’ll be your best man!
HENDERS. But, of course, this arrangement will cost you something.
PETE. My eight-day clock for a marriage present.
HENDERS. Ay, to Effie. But what will your marriage present to me be?
PETE. TO you?
HENDERS. That butter dish o’ yours is a bonny thing — I’ll take the butter dish. Also your picture o’ Bobby Burns sitting on a tree playing the concertina, also six knives and forks, also a spade, also three sackfuls o’ potatoes.
PETE. Onything else?
HENDERS. Ay, that new china spittoon o’ yours takes my fancy. Now, as a single man, you have no need for a spittoon, so I’ll take it.
PETE. I’ll rather marry her mysel’.
HENDERS. Very well, good night to you, Pete. (Murmurs)
Pete Maclean, the married man.
PETE. Henders!
HENDERS. What!
PETE. I — I — oh, Henders man, you can have them.
HENDERS. That’s richt. It’s a bargain, then?
PETE. It’s a bargain.
(They snuff, HENDERS giving his snuffbox this time.)
HENDERS. Good nicht to ye, Pete.
PETE. Good nicht to you, Henders.
(Exit henders pete looks after him, then calls to effie, who comes out.)
PETE. Effie!
EFFIE. Quick, Pete, tell me, am I yours or his?
PETE. His.
(effie’s face? beams, HENDERS is heard whistling.)
Listen to the boldness of him!
(EFFIE is going.)
Whaur are you going, Effie?
EFFIE. I have just time to give Henders something before the nine o’clock