Three Plays | Page 2

takes his coat, and puts it on him)_ Come over to our house to-night,
Anne. I'll be watching the girls coming in, and thinking on yourself;
there's none of them your match for grace and favour. My father
wanted me to see a girl in Arvach. She has three hundred pounds,
besides what the priest, her uncle, will leave her. "Father," says I,
"listen to me now. Haven't I always worked for you like a steady,
useful boy?" "You have," says he. "Did I ever ask you for anything
unreasonable?" says I. "No," says he. "Well then," says I, "don't ask me
to do unreasonable things. I'm fond of Anne Hourican, and not another
girl will I marry. What's money, after all?" says I, "there's gold on the
whin-bushes if you only knew it." And he had to leave it at that.
ANNE You always bring people around.
JAMES The quiet, reasonable way is the way that people like.
ANNE Still, with all, I'm shy of going into your house.

JAMES Don't doubt but there'll be a welcome before you; come round
with Maire.
Anne rises, and comes to him. She has graceful, bird-like movements.
ANNE (putting her hands on James' shoulders) Maybe we won't have
a chance of seeing each other after all.
James Moynihan kisses her reverently
JAMES Sit down now, Anne, because there's something I want to show
you. Do you ever see "The Shamrock"?
ANNE Very seldom.
James and Anne go to the settle; they sit down.
JAMES There be good pieces in it sometimes. There's a poem of mine
in it this week.
ANNE Of yours, James? Printed, do you mean?
JAMES Ay, printed. (He takes a paper out of his pocket, and opens it)
It's a poem to yourself, though your name doesn't come into it. (Gives
paper) Let no one see it, Anne, at least not for the present. And now,
good-bye.
_Goes to the door. Anne continues reading the verse eagerly. At the
door James turns and recites_:--
When lights are failing, and skies are paling, And leaves are sailing
a-down the air, O, it's then that love lifts my heart above My roving
thoughts and my petty care; And though the gloom be like the tomb,
Where there's no room for my love and me, O, still I'll find you, and
still I'll bind you, My wild sweet rose of Aughnalee!
That's the first stanza. Good-bye.
_James goes out. Anne continues reading, then she leaves the paper

down with a sigh_.
ANNE O, it's lovely! _(She takes the paper up again, rises and goes to
the door. She remains looking out. Some one speaks to her)_ No, Brian,
Maire's not back yet. Ay, I'll engage she'll give you a call when she
does come back. _(Anne turns back. She opens drawer in the dresser
and puts paper in. She begins to clear table, putting the delpht back on
dresser. To herself, anxiously)_ I hope Maire won't forget to call at the
mill. _(Room door right opens, and Conn Hourican comes down. Conn
Hourican is a man of about fifty, with clear-cut, powerful features, his
face is clean-shaven, his expression vehement. His dress is
old-fashioned. He wears knee-breeches, a frieze coat rather long, a
linen shirt with a little linen collar and a black string for bow. He
carries a slick and moves about restlessly)_
ANNE Had Maire any talk of going to the mill, father?
CONN I heard nothing of it.
ANNE I hope she'll mind of it. We must get the meal there, and not be
going to the shop so often.
CONN I suppose we must.
He moves about restlessly.
ANNE And I was just thinking that one of us ought to go to Arvach on
Tuesday, and get the things there.
CONN The mean, odious creatures!
Anne is startled. She turns from dresser.
ANNE What are you thinking of, father?
CONN That den of robbers. Well, well, I'm finished with them now;
but I'm a proud man, and a passionate man, and I'll be even with them
yet.

ANNE There's no comfort in going into rough places.
CONN You know nothing at all about it. Were the men in yet?
ANNE James Moynihan was here, because he had to go away early;
but Brian MacConnell is outside still. Father, you were home late two
nights this week.
CONN And is a man to have no life to himself? But sure you know
nothing at all about it. I'm going out now to give Brian MacConnell a
hand.
ANNE It's hardly worth while going out now.
CONN There's still light enough to do a bit of mowing, and you ought
to know that it isn't right to neglect the boy that's come to do a day's
work with you. (Going to the