Chapter 2

SCENE: _A Village roadside after nightfall. A fire of sticks is burning near the ditch a little to the right. Michael is working beside it. In the background, on the left, a sort of tent and ragged clothes drying on the hedge. On the right a chapel-gate._

SARAH CASEY _coming in on right, eagerly._—We’ll see his reverence this place, Michael Byrne, and he passing backward to his house to-night.

MICHAEL _grimly._—That’ll be a sacred and a sainted joy!

SARAH _sharply._—It’ll be small joy for yourself if you aren’t ready with my wedding ring. _(She goes over to him.)_ Is it near done this time, or what way is it at all?

MICHAEL A poor way only, Sarah Casey, for it’s the divil’s job making a ring, and you’ll be having my hands destroyed in a short while the way I’ll not be able to make a tin can at all maybe at the dawn of day.

SARAH _sitting down beside him and throwing sticks on the fire._—If it’s the divil’s job, let you mind it, and leave your speeches that would choke a fool.

MICHAEL _slowly and glumly._—And it’s you’ll go talking of fools, Sarah Casey, when no man did ever hear a lying story even of your like unto this mortal day. You to be going beside me a great while, and rearing a lot of them, and then to be setting off with your talk of getting married, and your driving me to it, and I not asking it at all.

[_Sarah turns her back to him and arranges something in the ditch._

MICHAEL _angrily._—Can’t you speak a word when I’m asking what is it ails you since the moon did change?

SARAH _musingly._—I’m thinking there isn’t anything ails me, Michael Byrne; but the spring-time is a queer time, and it’s queer thoughts maybe I do think at whiles.

MICHAEL It’s hard set you’d be to think queerer than welcome, Sarah Casey; but what will you gain dragging me to the priest this night, I’m saying, when it’s new thoughts you’ll be thinking at the dawn of day?

SARAH _teasingly._—It’s at the dawn of day I do be thinking I’d have a right to be going off to the rich tinkers do be travelling from Tibradden to the Tara Hill; for it’d be a fine life to be driving with young Jaunting Jim, where there wouldn’t be any big hills to break the back of you, with walking up and walking down.

MICHAEL _with dismay._—It’s the like of that you do be thinking!

SARAH The like of that, Michael Byrne, when there is a bit of sun in it, and a kind air, and a great smell coming from the thorn-trees is above your head.

MICHAEL _looks at her for a moment with horror, and then hands her the ring._—Will that fit you now?

SARAH _trying it on._—It’s making it tight you are, and the edges sharp on the tin.

MICHAEL _looking at it carefully._—It’s the fat of your own finger, Sarah Casey; and isn’t it a mad thing I’m saying again that you’d be asking marriage of me, or making a talk of going away from me, and you thriving and getting your good health by the grace of the Almighty God?

SARAH _giving it back to him._—Fix it now, and it’ll do, if you’re wary you don’t squeeze it again.

MICHAEL _moodily, working again._—It’s easy saying be wary; there’s many things easy said, Sarah Casey, you’d wonder a fool even would be saying at all. _(He starts violently.)_ The divil mend you, I’m scalded again!

SARAH _scornfully._—If you are, it’s a clumsy man you are this night, Michael Byrne _(raising her voice)_; and let you make haste now, or herself will be coming with the porter.

MICHAEL _defiantly, raising his voice._—Let me make haste? I’ll be making haste maybe to hit you a great clout; for I’m thinking on the day I got you above at Rathvanna, and the way you began crying out and saying, “I’ll go back to my ma,” and I’m thinking on the way I came behind you that time, and hit you a great clout in the lug, and how quiet and easy it was you came along with me from that hour to this present day.

SARAH _standing up and throwing all her sticks into the fire._—And a big fool I was too, maybe; but we’ll be seeing Jaunting Jim to-morrow in Ballinaclash, and he after getting a great price for his white foal in the horse-fair of Wicklow, the way it’ll be a great sight to see him squandering his share of gold, and he with a grand eye for a fine horse, and a grand eye for a woman.

MICHAEL _working again with impatience._—The divil do him good with the two of them.

SARAH _kicking up the ashes with her foot._—Ah, he’s a great lad, I’m telling you, and it’s proud and happy I’ll be to see him, and he the first one called me the Beauty of Ballinacree, a fine name for a woman.

MICHAEL _with contempt._—It’s the like of that name they do be putting on the horses they have below racing in Arklow. It’s easy pleased you are, Sarah Casey, easy pleased with a big word, or the liar speaks it.

SARAH Liar!

MICHAEL Liar, surely.

SARAH _indignantly._—Liar, is it? Didn’t you ever hear tell of the peelers followed me ten miles along the Glen Malure, and they talking love to me in the dark night, or of the children you’ll meet coming from school and they saying one to the other, “It’s this day we seen Sarah Casey, the Beauty of Ballinacree, a great sight surely.”

MICHAEL God help the lot of them!

SARAH It’s yourself you’ll be calling God to help, in two weeks or three, when you’ll be waking up in the dark night and thinking you see me coming with the sun on me, and I driving a high cart with Jaunting Jim going behind. It’s lonesome and cold you’ll be feeling the ditch where you’ll be lying down that night, I’m telling you, and you hearing the old woman making a great noise in her sleep, and the bats squeaking in the trees.

MICHAEL Whist. I hear some one coming the road.

SARAH _looking out right._—It’s some one coming forward from the doctor’s door.

MICHAEL It’s often his reverence does be in there playing cards, or drinking a sup, or singing songs, until the dawn of day.

SARAH It’s a big boast of a man with a long step on him and a trumpeting voice. It’s his reverence surely; and if you have the ring done, it’s a great bargain we’ll make now and he after drinking his glass.

MICHAEL _going to her and giving her the ring._—There’s your ring, Sarah Casey; but I’m thinking he’ll walk by and not stop to speak with the like of us at all.

SARAH _tidying herself, in great excitement._—Let you be sitting here and keeping a great blaze, the way he can look on my face; and let you seem to be working, for it’s great love the like of him have to talk of work.

MICHAEL _moodily, sitting down and_ _beginning to work at a tin can._—Great love surely.

SARAH _eagerly._—Make a great blaze now, Michael Byrne.

[_The priest comes in on right; she comes forward in front of him._

SARAH _in a very plausible voice._—Good evening, your reverence. It’s a grand fine night, by the grace of God.

PRIEST The Lord have mercy on us! What kind of a living woman is it that you are at all?

SARAH It’s Sarah Casey I am, your reverence, the Beauty of Ballinacree, and it’s Michael Byrne is below in the ditch.

PRIEST A holy pair, surely! Let you get out of my way.

[_He tries to pass by._

SARAH _keeping in front of him._—We are wanting a little word with your reverence.

PRIEST I haven’t a halfpenny at all. Leave the road I’m saying.

SARAH It isn’t a halfpenny we’re asking, holy father; but we were thinking maybe we’d have a right to be getting married; and we were thinking it’s yourself would marry us for not a halfpenny at all; for you’re a kind man, your reverence, a kind man with the poor.

PRIEST _with astonishment._—Is it marry you for nothing at all?

SARAH It is, your reverence; and we were thinking maybe you’d give us a little small bit of silver to pay for the ring.

PRIEST _loudly._—Let you hold your tongue; let you be quiet, Sarah Casey. I’ve no silver at all for the like of you; and if you want to be married, let you pay your pound. I’d do it for a pound only, and that’s making it a sight cheaper than I’d make it for one of my own pairs is living here in the place.

SARAH Where would the like of us get a pound, your reverence?

PRIEST Wouldn’t you easy get it with your selling asses, and making cans, and your stealing east and west in Wicklow and Wexford and the county Meath? _(He tries to pass her.)_ Let you leave the road, and not be plaguing me more.

SARAH _pleadingly, taking money from her pocket._—Wouldn’t you have a little mercy on us, your reverence? _(Holding out money.)_ Wouldn’t you marry us for a half a sovereign, and it a nice shiny one with a view on it of the living king’s mamma?

PRIEST If it’s ten shillings you have, let you get ten more the same way, and I’ll marry you then.

SARAH _whining._—It’s two years we are getting that bit, your reverence, with our pence and our halfpence and an odd three-penny bit; and if you don’t marry us now, himself and the old woman, who has a great drouth, will be drinking it to-morrow in the fair _(she puts her apron to her eyes, half sobbing)_, and then I won’t be married any time, and I’ll be saying till I’m an old woman: “It’s a cruel and a wicked thing to be bred poor.”

PRIEST _turning up towards the fire._—Let you not be crying, Sarah Casey. It’s a queer woman you are to be crying at the like of that, and you your whole life walking the roads.

SARAH _sobbing._—It’s two years we are getting the gold, your reverence, and now you won’t marry us for that bit, and we hard-working poor people do be making cans in the dark night, and blinding our eyes with the black smoke from the bits of twigs we do be burning.

[_An old woman is heard singing tipsily on the left._

PRIEST _looking at the can Michael is making._—When will you have that can done, Michael Byrne?

MICHAEL In a short space only, your reverence, for I’m putting the last dab of solder on the rim.

PRIEST Let you get a crown along with the ten shillings and the gallon can, Sarah Casey, and I will wed you so.

MARY _suddenly shouting behind, tipsily._—Larry was a fine lad, I’m saying; Larry was a fine lad, Sarah Casey—

MICHAEL Whist, now, the two of you. There’s my mother coming, and she’d have us destroyed if she heard the like of that talk the time she’s been drinking her fill.

MARY _comes in singing_

And when we asked him what way he’d die, And he hanging unrepented, “Begob,” says Larry, “that’s all in my eye, By the clergy first invented.”

SARAH Give me the jug now, or you’ll have it spilt in the ditch.

MARY _holding the jug with both her hands, in a stilted voice._—Let you leave me easy, Sarah Casey. I won’t spill it, I’m saying. God help you; are you thinking it’s frothing full to the brim it is at this hour of the night, and I after carrying it in my two hands a long step from Jemmy Neill’s?

MICHAEL _anxiously._—Is there a sup left at all?

SARAH _looking into the jug._—A little small sup only I’m thinking.

MARY _sees the priest, and holds out jug towards him._—God save your reverence. I’m after bringing down a smart drop; and let you drink it up now, for it’s a middling drouthy man you are at all times, God forgive you, and this night is cruel dry.

[_She tries to go towards him. Sarah holds her back._

PRIEST _waving her away._—Let you not be falling to the flames. Keep off, I’m saying.

MARY _persuasively._—Let you not be shy of us, your reverence. Aren’t we all sinners, God help us! Drink a sup now, I’m telling you; and we won’t let on a word about it till the Judgment Day.

[_She takes up a tin mug, pours some porter into it, and gives it to him._

MARY _singing, and holding the jug in her hand._

A lonesome ditch in Ballygan The day you’re beating a tenpenny can; A lonesome bank in Ballyduff The time . . .

[_She breaks off._ It’s a bad, wicked song, Sarah Casey; and let you put me down now in the ditch, and I won’t sing it till himself will be gone; for it’s bad enough he is, I’m thinking, without ourselves making him worse.

SARAH _putting her down, to the priest, half laughing._—Don’t mind her at all, your reverence. She’s no shame the time she’s a drop taken; and if it was the Holy Father from Rome was in it, she’d give him a little sup out of her mug, and say the same as she’d say to yourself.

MARY _to the priest._—Let you drink it up, holy father. Let you drink it up, I’m saying, and not be letting on you wouldn’t do the like of it, and you with a stack of pint bottles above, reaching the sky.

PRIEST _with resignation._—Well, here’s to your good health, and God forgive us all.

[_He drinks._

MARY That’s right now, your reverence, and the blessing of God be on you. Isn’t it a grand thing to see you sitting down, with no pride in you, and drinking a sup with the like of us, and we the poorest, wretched, starving creatures you’d see any place on the earth?

PRIEST If it’s starving you are itself, I’m thinking it’s well for the like of you that do be drinking when there’s drouth on you, and lying down to sleep when your legs are stiff. _(He sighs gloomily.)_ What would you do if it was the like of myself you were, saying Mass with your mouth dry, and running east and west for a sick call maybe, and hearing the rural people again and they saying their sins?

MARY _with compassion._—It’s destroyed you must be hearing the sins of the rural people on a fine spring.

PRIEST _with despondency._—It’s a hard life, I’m telling you, a hard life, Mary Byrne; and there’s the bishop coming in the morning, and he an old man, would have you destroyed if he seen a thing at all.

MARY _with great sympathy._—It’d break my heart to hear you talking and sighing the like of that, your reverence. _(She pats him on the knee.)_ Let you rouse up, now, if it’s a poor, single man you are itself, and I’ll be singing you songs unto the dawn of day.

PRIEST _interrupting her._—What is it I want with your songs when it’d be better for the like of you, that’ll soon die, to be down on your two knees saying prayers to the Almighty God?

MARY If it’s prayers I want, you’d have a right to say one yourself, holy father; for we don’t have them at all, and I’ve heard tell a power of times it’s that you’re for. Say one now, your reverence, for I’ve heard a power of queer things and I walking the world, but there’s one thing I never heard any time, and that’s a real priest saying a prayer.

PRIEST The Lord protect us!

MARY It’s no lie, holy father. I often heard the rural people making a queer noise and they going to rest; but who’d mind the like of them? And I’m thinking it should be great game to hear a scholar, the like of you, speaking Latin to the saints above.

PRIEST _scandalized._—Stop your talking, Mary Byrne; you’re an old flagrant heathen, and I’ll stay no more with the lot of you.

[_He rises._

MARY _catching hold of him._—Stop till you say a prayer, your reverence; stop till you say a little prayer, I’m telling you, and I’ll give you my blessing and the last sup from the jug.

PRIEST _breaking away._—Leave me go, Mary Byrne; for I have never met your like for hard abominations the score and two years I’m living in the place.

MARY _innocently._—Is that the truth?

PRIEST —It is, then, and God have mercy on your soul.

[_The priest goes towards the left, and Sarah follows him._

SARAH _in a low voice._—And what time will you do the thing I’m asking, holy father? for I’m thinking you’ll do it surely, and not have me growing into an old wicked heathen like herself.

MARY _calling out shrilly._—Let you be walking back here, Sarah Casey, and not be talking whisper-talk with the like of him in the face of the Almighty God.

SARAH _to the priest._—Do you hear her now, your reverence? Isn’t it true, surely, she’s an old, flagrant heathen, would destroy the world?

PRIEST _to Sarah, moving off._—Well, I’ll be coming down early to the chapel, and let you come to me a while after you see me passing, and bring the bit of gold along with you, and the tin can. I’ll marry you for them two, though it’s a pitiful small sum; for I wouldn’t be easy in my soul if I left you growing into an old, wicked heathen the like of her.

SARAH _following him out._—The blessing of the Almighty God be on you, holy father, and that He may reward and watch you from this present day.

MARY _nudging Michael._—Did you see that, Michael Byrne? Didn’t you hear me telling you she’s flighty a while back since the change of the moon? With her fussing for marriage, and she making whisper-talk with one man or another man along by the road.

MICHAEL —Whist now, or she’ll knock the head of you the time she comes back.

MARY —Ah, it’s a bad, wicked way the world is this night, if there’s a fine air in it itself. You’d never have seen me, and I a young woman, making whisper-talk with the like of him, and he the fearfullest old fellow you’d see any place walking the world.

[_Sarah comes back quickly._

MARY _calling out to her._—What is it you’re after whispering above with himself?

SARAH _exultingly._—Lie down, and leave us in peace. _She whispers with Michael._

MARY _poking out her pipe with a straw, sings_—

She’d whisper with one, and she’d whisper with two—

_She breaks off coughing._—My singing voice is gone for this night, Sarah Casey. _(She lights her pipe.)_ But if it’s flighty you are itself, you’re a grand handsome woman, the glory of tinkers, the pride of Wicklow, the Beauty of Ballinacree. I wouldn’t have you lying down and you lonesome to sleep this night in a dark ditch when the spring is coming in the trees; so let you sit down there by the big bough, and I’ll be telling you the finest story you’d hear any place from Dundalk to Ballinacree, with great queens in it, making themselves matches from the start to the end, and they with shiny silks on them the length of the day, and white shifts for the night.

MICHAEL _standing up with the tin can in his hand._—Let you go asleep, and not have us destroyed.

MARY _lying back sleepily._—Don’t mind him, Sarah Casey. Sit down now, and I’ll be telling you a story would be fit to tell a woman the like of you in the springtime of the year.

SARAH _taking the can from Michael, and tying it up in a piece of sacking._—That’ll not be rusting now in the dews of night. I’ll put it up in the ditch the way it will be handy in the morning; and now we’ve that done, Michael Byrne, I’ll go along with you and welcome for Tim Flaherty’s hens.

_[She puts the can in the ditch._

MARY _sleepily._—I’ve a grand story of the great queens of Ireland with white necks on them the like of Sarah Casey, and fine arms would hit you a slap the way Sarah Casey would hit you.

SARAH _beckoning on the left._—Come along now, Michael, while she’s falling asleep.

[_He goes towards left. Mary sees that they are going, starts up suddenly, and turns over on her hands and knees._

MARY _piteously._—Where is it you’re going? Let you walk back here, and not be leaving me lonesome when the night is fine.

SARAH Don’t be waking the world with your talk when we’re going up through the back wood to get two of Tim Flaherty’s hens are roosting in the ash-tree above at the well.

MARY And it’s leaving me lone you are? Come back here, Sarah Casey. Come back here, I’m saying; or if it’s off you must go, leave me the two little coppers you have, the way I can walk up in a short while, and get another pint for my sleep.

SARAH It’s too much you have taken. Let you stretch yourself out and take a long sleep; for isn’t that the best thing any woman can do, and she an old drinking heathen like yourself.

[_She and Michael go out left._

MARY _standing up slowly._—It’s gone they are, and I with my feet that weak under me you’d knock me down with a rush, and my head with a noise in it the like of what you’d hear in a stream and it running between two rocks and rain falling. _(She goes over to the ditch where the can is tied in sacking, and takes it down.)_ What good am I this night, God help me? What good are the grand stories I have when it’s few would listen to an old woman, few but a girl maybe would be in great fear the time her hour was come, or a little child wouldn’t be sleeping with the hunger on a cold night? _(She takes the can from the sacking and fits in three empty bottles and straw in its place, and ties them up.)_ Maybe the two of them have a good right to be walking out the little short while they’d be young; but if they have itself, they’ll not keep Mary Byrne from her full pint when the night’s fine, and there’s a dry moon in the sky. _(She takes up the can, and puts the package back in the ditch.)_ Jemmy Neill’s a decent lad; and he’ll give me a good drop for the can; and maybe if I keep near the peelers to-morrow for the first bit of the fair, herself won’t strike me at all; and if she does itself, what’s a little stroke on your head beside sitting lonesome on a fine night, hearing the dogs barking, and the bats squeaking, and you saying over, it’s a short while only till you die.

[_She goes out singing “The night before Larry was stretched.”_

CURTAIN