The Well of the Saints

epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Going towards forge. It’s the devil’s work you’re after doing with your talk of fine looks, and I’d do right, maybe, to step in and wash the blackness from my eyes. He goes into forge. Martin Doul rubs his face furtively with the tail of his coat. Molly Byrne comes on right with a water-can, and begins to fill it at the well. Martin Doul God save you, Molly Byrne. Molly Byrne Indifferently. God save you. Martin Doul That’s a dark, gloomy day, and the Lord have mercy on us all. Molly Byrne Middling dark. Martin Doul It’s a power of dirty days, and dark mornings, and shabby-looking fellows he makes a gesture over his shoulder we do have to be looking on when we have our sight, God help us, but there’s one fine thing we have, to be looking on a grand, white, handsome girl, the like of you⁠ ⁠… and every time I set my eyes on you I do be blessing the saints, and the holy water, and the power of the Lord Almighty in the heavens above. Molly Byrne I’ve heard the priests say it isn’t looking on a young girl would teach many to be saying their prayers. Bailing water into her can with a cup. Martin Doul It isn’t many have been the way I was, hearing your voice speaking, and not seeing you at all. Molly Byrne That should have been a queer time for an old, wicked, coaxing fool to be sitting there with your eyes shut, and not seeing a sight of girl or woman passing the road. Martin Doul If it was a queer time itself it was great joy and pride I had the time I’d hear your voice speaking and you passing to Grianan beginning to speak with plaintive intensity, for it’s of many a fine thing your voice would put a poor dark fellow in mind, and the day I’d hear it it’s of little else at all I would be thinking. Molly Byrne I’ll tell your wife if you talk to me the like of that.⁠ ⁠… You’ve heard, maybe, she’s below picking nettles for the widow O’Flinn, who took great pity on her when she seen the two of you fighting, and yourself putting shame on her at the crossing of the roads. Martin Doul Impatiently. Is there no living person can speak a score of words to me, or say “God speed you,” itself, without putting me in mind of the old woman, or that day either at Grianan? Molly Byrne Maliciously. I was thinking it should be a fine thing to put you in mind of the day you called the grand day of your life. Martin Doul Grand day, is it? Plaintively again, throwing aside his work, and leaning towards her. Or a bad black day when I was roused up and found I was the like of the little children do be listening to the stories of an old woman, and do be dreaming after in the dark night that it’s in grand houses of gold they are, with speckled horses to ride, and do be waking again, in a short while, and they destroyed with the cold, and the thatch dripping, maybe, and the starved ass braying in the yard? Molly Byrne Working indifferently. You’ve great romancing this day, Martin Doul. Was it up at the still you were at the fall of night? Martin Doul Stands up, comes towards her, but stands at far right side of well. It was not, Molly Byrne, but lying down in a little rickety shed.⁠ ⁠… Lying down across a sop of straw, and I thinking I was seeing you walk, and hearing the sound of your step on a dry road, and hearing you again, and you laughing and making great talk in a high room with dry timber lining the roof. For it’s a fine sound your voice has that time, and it’s better I am, I’m thinking, lying down, the way a blind man does be lying, than to be sitting here in the gray light taking hard words of Timmy the smith. Molly Byrne Looking at him with interest. It’s queer talk you have if it’s a little, old, shabby stump of a man you are itself. Martin Doul I’m not so old as you do hear them say. Molly Byrne You’re old, I’m thinking, to be talking that talk with a girl. Martin Doul Despondingly. It’s not a lie you’re telling, maybe, for it’s long years I’m after losing from the world, feeling love and talking love, with the old woman, and I fooled the whole while with the lies of Timmy the smith. Molly Byrne Half invitingly. It’s a fine way you’re wanting to pay Timmy the smith.⁠ ⁠… And it’s not his lies you’re making love to this day, Martin Doul. Martin Doul It is not, Molly, and the Lord forgive us all. He passes behind her and comes near her left. For I’ve heard tell there are lands beyond in Cahir Iveraghig and the Reeks of Cork with warm sun in them, and fine light in the sky. Bending towards her. And light’s a grand thing for a man ever was blind, or a woman, with a fine neck, and a skin on her the like of you, the way we’d have a right to go off this day till we’d have a fine life passing abroad through them towns of the south, and we telling stories, maybe, or singing songs at the fairs. Molly Byrne Turning round half amused, and looking him over from head to foot. Well, isn’t it a queer thing when your own wife’s after leaving you because you’re a pitiful show, you’d talk the like of that to me? Martin Doul Drawing back a little, hurt, but indignant. It’s a queer thing, maybe, for all things is queer in the world. In a low voice with peculiar emphasis. But there’s one thing I’m telling you, if she walked