The Well of the Saints

mend Mary Doul for putting lies on me, and letting on she was grand. The devil mend the old Saint for letting me see it was lies. He sits down near her. The devil mend Timmy the smith for killing me with hard work, and keeping me with an empty, windy stomach in me, in the day and in the night. Ten thousand devils mend the soul of Molly Byrne⁠—Mary Doul nods her head with approval.⁠—and the bad, wicked souls is hidden in all the women of the world. He rocks himself, with his hand over his face. It’s lonesome I’ll be from this day, and if living people is a bad lot, yet Mary Doul, herself, and she a dirty, wrinkled-looking hag, was better maybe to be sitting along with than no one at all. I’ll be getting my death now, I’m thinking, sitting alone in the cold air, hearing the night coming, and the blackbirds flying round in the briars crying to themselves, the time you’ll hear one cart getting off a long way in the east, and another cart getting off a long way in the west, and a dog barking maybe, and a little wind turning the sticks. He listens and sighs heavily. I’ll be destroyed sitting alone and losing my senses this time the way I’m after losing my sight, for it’d make any person afeard to be sitting up hearing the sound of his breath⁠—he moves his feet on the stones⁠—and the noise of his feet, when it’s a power of queer things do be stirring, little sticks breaking, and the grass moving⁠—Mary Doul half sighs, and he turns on her in horror till you’d take your dying oath on sun and moon a thing was breathing on the stones. He listens towards her for a moment, then starts up nervously, and gropes about for his stick. I’ll be going now, I’m thinking, but I’m not sure what place my stick’s in, and I’m destroyed with terror and dread. He touches her face as he is groping about and cries out. There’s a thing with a cold, living face on it sitting up at my side. He turns to run away, but misses his path and stumbles in against the wall. My road is lost on me now! Oh, merciful God, set my foot on the path this day, and I’ll be saying prayers morning and night, and not straining my ear after young girls, or doing any bad thing till I die. Mary Doul Indignantly. Let you not be telling lies to the Almighty God. Martin Doul Mary Doul, is it? Recovering himself with immense relief. Is it Mary Doul, I’m saying? Mary Doul There’s a sweet tone in your voice I’ve not heard for a space. You’re taking me for Molly Byrne, I’m thinking. Martin Doul Coming towards her, wiping sweat from his face. Well, sight’s a queer thing for upsetting a man. It’s a queer thing to think I’d live to this day to be fearing the like of you; but if it’s shaken I am for a short while, I’ll soon be coming to myself. Mary Doul You’ll be grand then, and it’s no lie. Martin Doul Sitting down shyly, some way off. You’ve no call to be talking, for I’ve heard tell you’re as blind as myself. Mary Doul If I am I’m bearing in mind I’m married to a little dark stump of a fellow looks the fool of the world, and I’ll be bearing in mind from this day the great hullabuloo he’s after making from hearing a poor woman breathing quiet in her place. Martin Doul And you’ll be bearing in mind, I’m thinking, what you seen a while back when you looked down into a well, or a clear pool, maybe, when there was no wind stirring and a good light in the sky. Mary Doul I’m minding that surely, for if I’m not the way the liars were saying below I seen a thing in them pools put joy and blessing in my heart. She puts her hand to her hair again. Martin Doul Laughing ironically. Well, they were saying below I was losing my senses, but I never went any day the length of that.⁠ ⁠… God help you, Mary Doul, if you’re not a wonder for looks, you’re the maddest female woman is walking the counties of the east. Mary Doul Scornfully. You were saying all times you’d a great ear for hearing the lies of the world. A great ear, God help you, and you think you’re using it now. Martin Doul If it’s not lies you’re telling would you have me think you’re not a wrinkled poor woman is looking like three scores, or two scores and a half! Mary Doul I would not, Martin. She leans forward earnestly. For when I seen myself in them pools, I seen my hair would be gray or white, maybe, in a short while, and I seen with it that I’d a face would be a great wonder when it’ll have soft white hair falling around it, the way when I’m an old woman there won’t be the like of me surely in the seven counties of the east. Martin Doul With real admiration. You’re a cute thinking woman, Mary Doul, and it’s no lie. Mary Doul Triumphantly. I am, surely, and I’m telling you a beautiful white-haired woman is a grand thing to see, for I’m told when Kitty Bawn was selling poteen below, the young men itself would never tire to be looking in her face. Martin Doul Taking off his hat and feeling his head, speaking with hesitation. Did you think to look, Mary Doul, would there be a whiteness the like of that coming upon me? Mary Doul With extreme contempt. On you, God help you!⁠ ⁠… In a short while you’ll have a head on you as bald as an old turnip you’d see rolling