KEEGAN. What were you doin there, Patsy, listnin? Were you spyin
on me?

PATSY. No, Fadher: on me oath an soul I wasn't: I was waitn to
meet Masther Larry n carry his luggage from the car; n I fell
asleep on the grass; n you woke me talkin to the grasshopper; n I
hard its wicked little voice. Oh, d'ye think I'll die before the
year's out, Fadher?

KEEGAN. For shame, Patsy! Is that your religion, to be afraid of
a little deeshy grasshopper? Suppose it was a divil, what call
have you to fear it? If I could ketch it, I'd make you take it
home widja in your hat for a penance.

PATSY. Sure, if you won't let it harm me, I'm not afraid, your
riverence. [He gets up, a little reassured. He is a callow,
flaxen polled, smoothfaced, downy chinned lad, fully grown but
not yet fully filled out, with blue eyes and an instinctively
acquired air of helplessness and silliness, indicating, not his
real character, but a cunning developed by his constant dread of
a hostile dominance, which he habitually tries to disarm and
tempt into unmasking by pretending to be a much greater fool than
he really is. Englishmen think him half-witted, which is exactly
what he intends them to think. He is clad in corduroy trousers,
unbuttoned waistcoat, and coarse blue striped shirt].

KEEGAN [admonitorily]. Patsy: what did I tell you about callin me
Father Keegan an your reverence? What did Father Dempsey tell you
about it?

PATSY. Yis, Fadher.

KEEGAN. Father!

PATSY [desperately]. Arra, hwat am I to call you? Fadher Dempsey
sez you're not a priest; n we all know you're not a man; n how do
we know what ud happen to us if we showed any disrespect to you?
N sure they say wanse a priest always a priest.

KEEGAN [sternly]. It's not for the like of you, Patsy, to go
behind the instruction of your parish priest and set yourself up
to judge whether your Church is right or wrong.

PATSY. Sure I know that, sir.

KEEGAN. The Church let me be its priest as long as it thought me
fit for its work. When it took away my papers it meant you to
know that I was only a poor madman, unfit and unworthy to take
charge of the souls of the people.

PATSY. But wasn't it only because you knew more Latn than Father
Dempsey that he was jealous of you?

KEEGAN [scolding him to keep himself from smiling]. How dar you,
Patsy Farrell, put your own wicked little spites and
foolishnesses into the heart of your priest? For two pins I'd
tell him what you just said.

PATSY [coaxing] Sure you wouldn't--

KEEGAN. Wouldn't I? God forgive you! You're little better than a
heathen.

PATSY. Deedn I am, Fadher: it's me bruddher the tinsmith in
Dublin you're thinkin of. Sure he had to be a freethinker when he
larnt a thrade and went to live in the town.

KEEGAN. Well, he'll get to Heaven before you if you're not
careful, Patsy. And now you listen to me, once and for all.
You'll talk to me and pray for me by the name of Pether Keegan,
so you will. And when you're angry and tempted to lift your hand
agen the donkey or stamp your foot on the little grasshopper,
remember that the donkey's Pether Keegan's brother, and the
grasshopper Pether Keegan's friend. And when you're tempted to
throw a stone at a sinner or a curse at a beggar, remember that
Pether Keegan is a worse sinner and a worse beggar, and keep the
stone and the curse for him the next time you meet him. Now say
God bless you, Pether, to me before I go, just to practise you a
bit.

PATSY. Sure it wouldn't be right, Fadher. I can't--

KEEGAN. Yes you can. Now out with it; or I'll put this stick into
your hand an make you hit me with it.

PATSY [throwing himself on his knees in an ecstasy of adoration].
Sure it's your blessin I want, Fadher Keegan. I'll have no luck
widhout it.

KEEGAN [shocked]. Get up out o that, man. Don't kneel to me: I'm
not a saint.

PATSY [with intense conviction]. Oh in throth yar, sir. [The
grasshopper chirps. Patsy, terrified, clutches at Keegan's hands]
Don't set it on me, Fadher: I'll do anythin you bid me.

KEEGAN [pulling him up]. You bosthoon, you! Don't you see that it
only whistled to tell me Miss Reilly's comin? There! Look at her
and pull yourself together for shame. Off widja to the road:
you'll be late for the car if you don't make haste [bustling him
down the hill]. I can see the dust of it in the gap already.

PATSY. The Lord save us! [He goes down the hill towards the road
like a haunted man].

Nora Reilly comes down the hill. A slight weak woman in a pretty
muslin print gown [her best], she is a figure commonplace enough
to Irish eyes; but on the inhabitants of fatter-fed, crowded,
hustling and bustling modern countries she makes a very
different impression. The absence of any symptoms of coarseness
or hardness or appetite in her, her comparative delicacy of
manner and sensibility of apprehension, her thin hands and
slender figure, her travel accent, with the caressing plaintive
Irish melody of her speech, give her a charm which is all the
more effective because, being untravelled, she is unconscious of
it, and never dreams of deliberately dramatizing and exploiting
it, as the Irishwoman in England does. For Tom Broadbent
therefore, an attractive woman, whom he would even call ethereal.
To Larry Doyle, an everyday woman fit only for the eighteenth
century, helpless, useless, almost sexless, an invalid without
the excuse of disease, an incarnation of everything in Ireland
that drove him out of it. These judgments have little value and
no finality; but they are the judgments on which her fate hangs
just at present. Keegan touches his hat to her: he does not take
it off.

NORA. Mr Keegan: I want to speak to you a minute if you don't
mind.

KEEGAN [dropping the broad Irish vernacular of his speech to
Patsy]. An hour if you like, Miss Reilly: you're always welcome.
Shall we sit down?

NORA. Thank you. [They sit on the heather. She is shy and
anxious; but she comes to the point promptly because she can
think of nothing else]. They say you did a gradle o travelling at
one time.

KEEGAN. Well you see I'm not a Mnooth man [he means that he was
not a student at Maynooth College]. When I was young I admired
the older generation of priests that had been educated in
Salamanca. So when I felt sure of my vocation I went to
Salamanca. Then I walked from Salamanca to Rome, an sted in a
monastery there for a year. My pilgrimage to Rome taught me that
walking is a better way of travelling than the train; so I walked
from Rome to the Sorbonne in Paris; and I wish I could have
walked from Paris to Oxford; for I was very sick on the sea.
After a year of Oxford I had to walk to Jerusalem to walk the
Oxford feeling off me. From Jerusalem I came back to Patmos, and
spent six months at the monastery of Mount Athos. From that I
came to Ireland and settled down as a parish priest until I went
mad.

NORA [startled]. Oh dons say that.

KEEGAN. Why not? Don't you know the story? how I confessed a
black man and gave him absolution; and how he put a spell on me
and drove me mad.

NORA. How can you talk such nonsense about yourself? For shame!

KEEGAN. It's not nonsense at all: it's true--in a way. But never
mind the black man. Now that you know what a travelled man I am,
what can I do for you? [She hesitates and plucks nervously at the
heather. He stays her hand gently]. Dear Miss Nora: don't pluck
the little flower. If it was a pretty baby you wouldn't want to
pull its head off and stick it in a vawse o water to look at.
[The grasshopper chirps: Keegan turns his head and addresses it
in the vernacular]. Be aisy, me son: she won't spoil the
swing-swong in your little three. [To Nora, resuming his urbane
style] You see I'm quite cracked; but never mind: I'm harmless.
Now what is it?

NORA [embarrassed]. Oh, only idle curiosity. I wanted to know
whether you found Ireland--I mean the country part of Ireland, of
course--very small and backwardlike when you came back to it from
Rome and Oxford and all the great cities.

KEEGAN. When I went to those great cities I saw wonders I had
never seen in Ireland. But when I came back to Ireland I found
all the wonders there waiting for me. You see they had been there
all the time; but my eyes had never been opened to them. I did
not know what my own house was like, because I had never been
outside it.

NORA. D'ye think that's the same with everybody?

KEEGAN. With everybody who has eyes in his soul as well as in his
head.

NORA. But really and truly now, weren't the people rather
disappointing? I should think the girls must have seemed rather
coarse and dowdy after the foreign princesses and people? But I
suppose a priest wouldn't notice that.

KEEGAN. It's a priest's business to notice everything. I won't
tell you all I noticed about women; but I'll tell you this. The
more a man knows, and the farther he travels, the more likely he
is to marry a country girl afterwards.

NORA [blushing with delight]. You're joking, Mr Keegan: I'm sure
yar.

KEEGAN. My way of joking is to tell the truth. It's the funniest
joke in the world.

NORA [incredulous]. Galong with you!

KEEGAN [springing up actively]. Shall we go down to the road and
meet the car? [She gives him her hand and he helps her up]. Patsy
Farrell told me you were expecting young Doyle.

NORA [tossing her chin up at once]. Oh, I'm not expecting him
particularly. It's a wonder he's come back at all. After staying
away eighteen years he can harly expect us to be very anxious to
see him, can he now?

KEEGAN. Well, not anxious perhaps; but you will be curious to see
how much he has changed in all these years.

NORA [with a sudden bitter flush]. I suppose that's all that
brings him back to look at us, just to see how much WE'VE
changed. Well, he can wait and see me be candlelight: I didn't
come out to meet him: I'm going to walk to the Round Tower [going
west across the hill].

KEEGAN. You couldn't do better this fine evening. [Gravely] I'll
tell him where you've gone. [She turns as if to forbid him; but
the deep understanding in his eyes makes that impossible; and she
only looks at him earnestly and goes. He watches her disappear on
the other side of the hill; then says] Aye, he's come to torment
you; and you're driven already to torment him. [He shakes his
head, and goes slowly away across the hill in the opposite
direction, lost in thought].

By this time the car has arrived, and dropped three of its
passengers on the high road at the foot of the hill. It is a
monster jaunting car, black and dilapidated, one of the last
survivors of the public vehicles known to earlier generations as
Beeyankiny cars, the Irish having laid violent tongues on the
name of their projector, one Bianconi, an enterprising Italian.
The three passengers are the parish priest, Father Dempsey;
Cornelius Doyle, Larry's father; and Broadbent, all in overcoats
and as stiff as only an Irish car could make them.

The priest, stout and fatherly, falls far short of that finest
type of countryside pastor which represents the genius of
priesthood; but he is equally far above the base type in which a
strongminded and unscrupulous peasant uses the Church to extort
money, power, and privilege. He is a priest neither by vocation
nor ambition, but because the life suits him. He has boundless
authority over his flock, and taxes them stiffly enough to be a
rich man. The old Protestant ascendency is now too broken to gall
him. On the whole, an easygoing, amiable, even modest man as long
as his dues are paid and his authority and dignity fully
admitted.

Cornelius Doyle is an elder of the small wiry type, with a
hardskinned, rather worried face, clean shaven except for sandy
whiskers blanching into a lustreless pale yellow and quite white
at the roots. His dress is that of a country-town titan of
business: that is, an oldish shooting suit, and elastic sided
boots quite unconnected with shooting. Feeling shy with
Broadbent, he is hasty, which is his way of trying to appear
genial.

Broadbent, for reasons which will appear later, has no luggage
except a field glass and a guide book. The other two have left
theirs to the unfortunate Patsy Farrell, who struggles up the
hill after them, loaded with a sack of potatoes, a hamper, a fat
goose, a colossal salmon, and several paper parcels.

Cornelius leads the way up the hill, with Broadbent at his heels.
The priest follows; and Patsy lags laboriously behind.

CORNELIUS. This is a bit of a climb, Mr. Broadbent; but it's
shorter than goin round be the road.

BROADBENT [stopping to examine the great stone]. Just a moment,
Mr Doyle: I want to look at this stone. It must be Finian's
die-cast.

CORNELIUS [in blank bewilderment]. Hwat?

BROADBENT. Murray describes it. One of your great national
heroes--I can't pronounce the name--Finian Somebody, I think.

FATHER DEMPSEY [also perplexed, and rather scandalized]. Is it
Fin McCool you mean?

BROADBENT. I daresay it is. [Referring to the guide book].
Murray says that a huge stone, probably of Druidic origin, is
still pointed out as the die cast by Fin in his celebrated match
with the devil.

CORNELIUS [dubiously]. Jeuce a word I ever heard of it!

FATHER DEMPSEY [very seriously indeed, and even a little
severely]. Don't believe any such nonsense, sir. There never was
any such thing. When people talk to you about Fin McCool and the
like, take no notice of them. It's all idle stories and
superstition.

BROADBENT [somewhat indignantly; for to be rebuked by an Irish
priest for superstition is more than he can stand]. You don't
suppose I believe it, do you?

FATHER DEMPSEY. Oh, I thought you did. D'ye see the top o the
Roun Tower there? That's an antiquity worth lookin at.

BROADBENT [deeply interested]. Have you any theory as to what the
Round Towers were for?

FATHER DEMPSEY [a little offended]. A theory? Me! [Theories are
connected in his mind with the late Professor Tyndall, and with
scientific scepticism generally: also perhaps with the view that
the Round Towers are phallic symbols].

CORNELIUS [remonstrating]. Father Dempsey is the priest of the
parish, Mr Broadbent. What would he be doing with a theory?

FATHER DEMPSEY [with gentle emphasis]. I have a KNOWLEDGE of what
the Roun Towers were, if that's what you mean. They are the
forefingers of the early Church, pointing us all to God.

Patsy, intolerably overburdened, loses his balance, and sits down
involuntarily. His burdens are scattered over the hillside.
Cornelius and Father Dempsey turn furiously on him, leaving
Broadbent beaming at the stone and the tower with fatuous
interest.

CORNELIUS. Oh, be the hokey, the sammin's broke in two! You
schoopid ass, what d'ye mean?

FATHER DEMPSEY. Are you drunk, Patsy Farrell? Did I tell you to
carry that hamper carefully or did I not?

PATSY [rubbing the back of his head, which has almost dented a
slab of granite] Sure me fut slpt. Howkn I carry three men's
luggage at wanst?

FATHER DEMPSEY. You were told to leave behind what you couldn't
carry, an go back for it.

PATSY. An whose things was I to lave behind? Hwat would your
reverence think if I left your hamper behind in the wet grass; n
hwat would the masther say if I left the sammin and the goose be
the side o the road for annywan to pick up?

CORNELIUS. Oh, you've a dale to say for yourself, you,
butther-fingered omadhaun. Wait'll Ant Judy sees the state o that
sammin: SHE'LL talk to you. Here! gimme that birdn that fish
there; an take Father Dempsey's hamper to his house for him; n
then come back for the rest.

FATHER DEMPSEY. Do, Patsy. And mind you don't fall down again.

PATSY. Sure I--

CORNELIUS [bustling him up the bill] Whisht! heres Ant Judy.
[Patsy goes grumbling in disgrace, with Father Dempsey's hamper].

Aunt Judy comes down the hill, a woman of 50, in no way
remarkable, lively and busy without energy or grip, placid
without tranquillity, kindly without concern for others: indeed
without much concern for herself: a contented product of a
narrow, strainless life. She wears her hair parted in the middle
and quite smooth, with a fattened bun at the back. Her dress is a
plain brown frock, with a woollen pelerine of black and aniline
mauve over her shoulders, all very trim in honor of the occasion.
She looks round for Larry; is puzzled; then stares incredulously
at Broadbent.

AUNT JUDY. Surely to goodness that's not you, Larry!

CORNELIUS. Arra how could he be Larry, woman alive?  Larry's in
no hurry home, it seems. I haven't set eyes on him. This is his
friend, Mr Broadbent. Mr Broadbent, me sister Judy.

AUNT JUDY [hospitably: going to Broadbent and shaking hands
heartily]. Mr. Broadbent! Fancy me takin you for Larry! Sure we
haven't seen a sight of him for eighteen years, n he only a lad
when he left us.

BROADBENT. It's not Larry's fault: he was to have been here
before me. He started in our motor an hour before Mr Doyle
arrived, to meet us at Athenmullet, intending to get here long
before me.

AUNT JUDY. Lord save us! do you think he's had n axidnt?

BROADBENT. No: he's wired to say he's had a breakdown and will
come on as soon as he can. He expects to be here at about ten.

AUNT JUDY. There now! Fancy him trustn himself in a motor and we
all expectn him! Just like him! he'd never do anything like
anybody else. Well, what can't be cured must be injoored. Come on
in, all of you. You must be dyin for your tea, Mr Broadbent.

BROADBENT [with a slight start]. Oh, I'm afraid it's too late for
tea [he looks at his watch].

AUNT JUDY. Not a bit: we never have it airlier than this. I hope
they gave you a good dinner at Athenmullet.

BROADBENT [trying to conceal his consternation as he realizes
that he is not going to get any dinner after his drive] Oh--er--
excellent, excellent. By the way, hadn't I better see about a
room at the hotel? [They stare at him].

CORNELIUS. The hotel!

FATHER DEMPSEY. Hwat hotel?

AUNT JUDY. Indeedn you'e not goin to a hotel. You'll stay with
us. I'd have put you into Larry's room, only the boy's pallyass
is too short for you; but we'll make a comfortable bed for you on
the sofa in the parlor.

BROADBENT. You're very kind, Miss Doyle; but really I'm ashamed
to give you so much trouble unnecessarily. I shan't mind the
hotel in the least.

FATHER DEMPSEY. Man alive! There's no hotel in Rosscullen.

BROADBENT. No hotel! Why, the driver told me there was the finest
hotel in Ireland here. [They regard him joylessly].

AUNT JUDY. Arra would you mind what the like of him would tell
you? Sure he'd say hwatever was the least trouble to himself and
the pleasantest to you, thinkin you might give him a thruppeny
bit for himself or the like.

BROADBENT. Perhaps there's a public house.

FATHER DEMPSEY [grimly.] There's seventeen.

AUNT JUDY. Ah then, how could you stay at a public house? They'd
have no place to put you even if it was a right place for you to
go. Come! is it the sofa you're afraid of? If it is, you can have
me own bed. I can sleep with Nora.

BROADBENT. Not at all, not at all: I should be only too
delighted. But to upset your arrangements in this way--

CORNELIUS [anxious to cut short the discussion, which makes him
ashamed of his house; for he guesses Broadbent's standard of
comfort a little more accurately than his sister does] That's all
right: it'll be no trouble at all. Hweres Nora?

AUNT JUDY. Oh, how do I know? She slipped out a little while ago:
I thought she was goin to meet the car.

CORNELIUS [dissatisfied] It's a queer thing of her to run out o
the way at such a time.

AUNT JUDY. Sure she's a queer girl altogether. Come. Come in,
come in.

FATHER DEMPSEY. I'll say good-night, Mr Broadbent. If there's
anything I can do for you in this parish, let me know. [He shakes
hands with Broadbent].

BROADBENT [effusively cordial]. Thank you, Father Dempsey.
Delighted to have met you, sir.

FATHER DEMPSEY [passing on to Aunt Judy]. Good-night, Miss Doyle.

AUNT JUDY. Won't you stay to tea?

FATHER DEMPSEY. Not to-night, thank you kindly: I have business
to do at home. [He turns to go, and meets Patsy Farrell returning
unloaded]. Have you left that hamper for me?

PATSY. Yis, your reverence.

FATHER DEMPSEY. That's a good lad [going].

PATSY [to Aunt Judy] Fadher Keegan sez--

FATHER DEMPSEY [turning sharply on him]. What's that you say?

PATSY [frightened]. Fadher Keegan--

FATHER DEMPSEY. How often have you heard me bid you call Mister
Keegan in his proper name, the same as I do? Father Keegan
indeed! Can't you tell the difference between your priest and any
ole madman in a black coat?

PATSY. Sure I'm afraid he might put a spell on me.

FATHER DEMPSEY [wrathfully]. You mind what I tell you or I'll put
a spell on you that'll make you lep. D'ye mind that now? [He goes
home].

Patsy goes down the hill to retrieve the fish, the bird, and the
sack.

AUNT JUDY. Ah, hwy can't you hold your tongue, Patsy, before
Father Dempsey?

PATSY. Well, what was I to do? Father Keegan bid me tell you Miss
Nora was gone to the Roun Tower.

AUNT JUDY. An hwy couldn't you wait to tell us until Father
Dempsey was gone?

PATSY. I was afeerd o forgetn it; and then maybe he'd a sent the
grasshopper or the little dark looker into me at night to remind
me of it. [The dark looker is the common grey lizard, which is
supposed to walk down the throats of incautious sleepers and
cause them to perish in a slow decline].

CORNELIUS. Yah, you great gaum, you! Widjer grasshoppers and dark
lookers! Here: take up them things and let me hear no more o your
foolish lip. [Patsy obeys]. You can take the sammin under your
oxther. [He wedges the salmon into Patsy's axilla].

PATSY. I can take the goose too, sir. Put it on me back and gimme
the neck of it in me mouth. [Cornelius is about to comply
thoughtlessly].

AUNT JUDY [feeling that Broadbent's presence demands special
punctiliousness]. For shame, Patsy! to offer to take the goose in
your mouth that we have to eat after you! The master'll bring it
in for you. [Patsy, abashed, yet irritated by this ridiculous
fastidiousness, takes his load up the hill].

CORNELIUS. What the jeuce does Nora want to go to the Roun Tower
for?

AUNT JUDY. Oh, the Lord knows! Romancin, I suppose. Props she
thinks Larry would go there to look for her and see her safe
home.

BROADBENT. I'm afraid it's all the fault of my motor. Miss Reilly
must not be left to wait and walk home alone at night. Shall I go
for her?

AUNT JUDY [contemptuously]. Arra hwat ud happen to her? Hurry in
now, Corny. Come, Mr Broadbent. I left the tea on the hob to
draw; and it'll be black if we don't go in an drink it.

They go up the hill. It is dark by this time.

Broadbent does not fare so badly after all at Aunt Judy's board.
He gets not only tea and bread-and-butter, but more mutton chops
than he has ever conceived it possible to eat at one sitting.
There is also a most filling substance called potato cake. Hardly
have his fears of being starved been replaced by his first
misgiving that he is eating too much and will be sorry for it
tomorrow, when his appetite is revived by the production of a
bottle of illicitly distilled whisky, called pocheen, which he
has read and dreamed of [he calls it pottine] and is now at last
to taste. His good humor rises almost to excitement before
Cornelius shows signs of sleepiness. The contrast between Aunt
Judy's table service and that of the south and east coast hotels
at which he spends his Fridays-to-Tuesdays when he is in London,
seems to him delightfully Irish. The almost total atrophy of any
sense of enjoyment in Cornelius, or even any desire for it or
toleration of the possibility of life being something better than
a round of sordid worries, relieved by tobacco, punch, fine
mornings, and petty successes in buying and selling, passes with
his guest as the whimsical affectation of a shrewd Irish humorist
and incorrigible spendthrift. Aunt Judy seems to him an incarnate
joke. The likelihood that the joke will pall after a month or so,
and is probably not apparent at any time to born Rossculleners,
or that he himself unconsciously entertains Aunt Judy by his
fantastic English personality and English mispronunciations, does
not occur to him for a moment. In the end he is so charmed, and
so loth to go to bed and perhaps dream of prosaic England, that
he insists on going out to smoke a cigar and look for Nora Reilly
at the Round Tower. Not that any special insistence is needed;
for the English inhibitive instinct does not seem to exist in
Rosscullen. Just as Nora's liking to miss a meal and stay out at
the Round Tower is accepted as a sufficient reason for her doing
it, and for the family going to bed and leaving the door open for
her, so Broadbent's whim to go out for a late stroll provokes
neither hospitable remonstrance nor surprise. Indeed Aunt Judy
wants to get rid of him whilst she makes a bed for him on the
sofa. So off he goes, full fed, happy and enthusiastic, to
explore the valley by moonlight.

The Round Tower stands about half an Irish mile from Rosscullen,
some fifty yards south of the road on a knoll with a circle of
wild greensward on it. The road once ran over this knoll; but
modern engineering has tempered the level to the Beeyankiny car
by carrying the road partly round the knoll and partly through a
cutting; so that the way from the road to the tower is a footpath
up the embankment through furze and brambles.

On the edge of this slope, at the top of the path, Nora is
straining her eyes in the moonlight, watching for Larry. At last
she gives it up with a sob of impatience, and retreats to the
hoary foot of the tower, where she sits down discouraged and
cries a little. Then she settles herself resignedly to wait, and
hums a song--not an Irish melody, but a hackneyed English
drawing-room ballad of the season before
last--until some slight noise suggests a footstep, when she
springs up eagerly and runs to the edge of the slope again. Some
moments of silence and suspense follow, broken by unmistakable
footsteps. She gives a little gasp as she sees a man approaching.

NORA. Is that you, Larry? [Frightened a little] Who's that?

[BROADBENT's voice from below on the path]. Don't be alarmed.

NORA. Oh, what an English accent you've got!

BROADBENT [rising into view] I must introduce myself--

NORA [violently startled, retreating]. It's not you! Who are you?
What do you want?

BROADBENT [advancing]. I'm really so sorry to have alarmed you,
Miss Reilly. My name is Broadbent. Larry's friend, you know.

NORA [chilled]. And has Mr Doyle not come with you?

BROADBENT. No. I've come instead. I hope I am not unwelcome.

NORA [deeply mortified]. I'm sorry Mr Doyle should have given you
the trouble, I'm sure.

BROADBENT. You see, as a stranger and an Englishman, I thought it
would be interesting to see the Round Tower by moonlight.

NORA. Oh, you came to see the tower. I thought--[confused, trying
to recover her manners] Oh, of course. I was so startled--It's a
beautiful night, isn't it?

BROADBENT. Lovely. I must explain why Larry has not come himself.

NORA. Why should he come? He's seen the tower often enough: it's
no attraction to him. [Genteelly] An what do you think of
Ireland, Mr Broadbent? Have you ever been here before?

BROADBENT. Never.

NORA. An how do you like it?

BROADBENT [suddenly betraying a condition of extreme
sentimentality]. I can hardly trust myself to say how much I like
it. The magic of this Irish scene, and--I really don't want to be
personal, Miss Reilly; but the charm of your Irish voice--

NORA [quite accustomed to gallantry, and attaching no seriousness
whatever to it]. Oh, get along with you, Mr Broadbent! You're
breaking your heart about me already, I daresay, after seeing me
for two minutes in the dark.

BROADBENT. The voice is just as beautiful in the dark, you know.
Besides, I've heard a great deal about you from Larry.

NORA [with bitter indifference]. Have you now? Well, that's a
great honor, I'm sure.

BROADBENT. I have looked forward to meeting you more than to
anything else in Ireland.

NORA [ironically]. Dear me! did you now?

BROADBENT. I did really. I wish you had taken half as much
interest in me.

NORA. Oh, I was dying to see you, of course. I daresay you can
imagine the sensation an Englishman like you would make among us
poor Irish people.

BROADBENT. Ah, now you're chaffing me, Miss Reilly: you know you
are. You mustn't chaff me. I'm very much in earnest about Ireland
and everything Irish. I'm very much in earnest about you and
about Larry.

NORA. Larry has nothing to do with me, Mr Broadbent.

BROADBENT. If I really thought that, Miss Reilly, I should--well,
I should let myself feel that charm of which I spoke just now
more deeply than I--than I--

NORA. Is it making love to me you are?

BROADBENT [scared and much upset]. On my word I believe I am,
Miss Reilly. If you say that to me again I shan't answer for
myself: all the harps of Ireland are in your voice. [She laughs
at him. He suddenly loses his head and seizes her arms, to her
great indignation]. Stop laughing: do you hear? I am in earnest--
in English earnest. When I say a thing like that to a woman, I
mean it. [Releasing her and trying to recover his ordinary manner
in spite of his bewildering emotion] I beg your pardon.

NORA. How dare you touch me?

BROADBENT. There are not many things I would not dare for you.
That does not sound right perhaps; but I really--[he stops and
passes his hand over his forehead, rather lost].

NORA. I think you ought to be ashamed. I think if you were a
gentleman, and me alone with you in this place at night, you
would die rather than do such a thing.

BROADBENT. You mean that it's an act of treachery to Larry?

NORA. Deed I don't. What has Larry to do with it? It's an act of
disrespect and rudeness to me: it shows what you take me for. You
can go your way now; and I'll go mine. Goodnight, Mr Broadbent.

BROADBENT. No, please, Miss Reilly. One moment. Listen to me. I'm
serious: I'm desperately serious. Tell me that I'm interfering
with Larry; and I'll go straight from this spot back to London
and never see you again. That's on my honor: I will. Am I
interfering with him?

NORA [answering in spite of herself in a sudden spring of
bitterness]. I should think you ought to know better than me
whether you're interfering with him. You've seen him oftener than
I have. You know him better than I do, by this time. You've come
to me quicker than he has, haven't you?

BROADBENT. I'm bound to tell you, Miss Reilly, that Larry has not
arrived in Rosscullen yet. He meant to get here before me; but
his car broke down; and he may not arrive until to-morrow.

NORA [her face lighting up]. Is that the truth?

BROADBENT. Yes: that's the truth. [She gives a sigh of relief].
You're glad of that?

NORA [up in arms at once]. Glad indeed! Why should I be glad? As
we've waited eighteen years for him we can afford to wait a day
longer, I should think.

BROADBENT. If you really feel like that about him, there may be a
chance for another man yet. Eh?

NORA [deeply offended]. I suppose people are different in
England, Mr Broadbent; so perhaps you don't mean any harm. In
Ireland nobody'd mind what a man'd say in fun, nor take advantage
of what a woman might say in answer to it. If a woman couldn't
talk to a man for two minutes at their first meeting without
being treated the way you're treating me, no decent woman would
ever talk to a man at all.

BROADBENT. I don't understand that. I don't admit that. I am
sincere; and my intentions are perfectly honorable. I think you
will accept the fact that I'm an Englishman as a guarantee that I
am not a man to act hastily or romantically, though I confess
that your voice had such an extraordinary effect on me just now
when you asked me so quaintly whether I was making love to you--

NORA [flushing] I never thought--

BROADHHNT [quickly]. Of course you didn't. I'm not so stupid as
that. But I couldn't bear your laughing at the feeling it gave
me. You--[again struggling with a surge of emotion] you don't
know what I-- [he chokes for a moment and then blurts out with
unnatural steadiness] Will you be my wife?

NORA [promptly]. Deed I won't. The idea! [Looking at him more
carefully] Arra, come home, Mr Broadbent; and get your senses
back again. I think you're not accustomed to potcheen punch in
the evening after your tea.

BROADBENT [horrified]. Do you mean to say that I--I--I--my God!
that I appear drunk to you, Miss Reilly?

NORA [compassionately]. How many tumblers had you?

BROADBENT [helplessly]. Two.

NORA. The flavor of the turf prevented you noticing the strength
of it. You'd better come home to bed.

BROADBENT [fearfully agitated]. But this is such a horrible doubt
to put into my mind--to--to--For Heaven's sake, Miss Reilly, am I
really drunk?

NORA [soothingly]. You'll be able to judge better in the morning.
Come on now back with me, an think no more about it. [She takes
his arm with motherly solicitude and urges him gently toward the
path].

BROADBENT [yielding in despair]. I must be drunk--frightfully
drunk; for your voice drove me out of my senses [he stumbles over
a stone]. No: on my word, on my most sacred word of honor, Miss
Reilly, I tripped over that stone. It was an accident; it was
indeed.

NORA. Yes, of course it was. Just take my arm, Mr Broadbent,
while we're goin down the path to the road. You'll be all right
then.

BROADBENT [submissively taking it]. I can't sufficiently
apologize, Miss Reilly, or express my sense of your kindness when
I am in such a disgusting state. How could I be such a bea-- [he
trips again] damn the heather! my foot caught in it.

NORA. Steady now, steady. Come along: come. [He is led down to
the road in the character of a convicted drunkard. To him there
it something divine in the sympathetic indulgence she substitutes
for the angry disgust with which one of his own countrywomen
would resent his supposed condition. And he has no suspicion of
the fact, or of her ignorance of it, that when an Englishman is
sentimental he behaves very much as an Irishman does when he is
drunk].



ACT III

Next morning Broadbent and Larry are sitting at the ends of a
breakfast table in the middle of a small grass plot before
Cornelius Doyle's house. They have finished their meal, and are
buried in newspapers. Most of the crockery is crowded upon a
large square black tray of japanned metal. The teapot is of brown
delft ware. There is no silver; and the butter, on a dinner
plate, is en bloc. The background to this breakfast is the house,
a small white slated building, accessible by a half-glazed door.
A person coming out into the garden by this door would find the
table straight in front of him, and a gate leading to the road
half way down the garden on his right; or, if he turned sharp to
his left, he could pass round the end of the house through an
unkempt shrubbery. The mutilated remnant of a huge planter
statue, nearly dissolved by the rains of a century, and vaguely
resembling a majestic female in Roman draperies, with a wreath in
her hand, stands neglected amid the laurels. Such statues, though
apparently works of art, grow naturally in Irish gardens. Their
germination is a mystery to the oldest inhabitants, to whose
means and taste they are totally foreign.

There is a rustic bench, much roiled by the birds, and
decorticated and split by the weather, near the little gate. At
the opposite side, a basket lies unmolested because it might as
well be there as anywhere else. An empty chair at the table was
lately occupied by Cornelius, who has finished his breakfast and
gone in to the room in which he receives rents and keeps his
books and cash, known in the household as "the office." This
chair, like the two occupied by Larry and Broadbent, has a
mahogany frame and is upholstered in black horsehair.

Larry rises and goes off through the shrubbery with his
newspaper. Hodson comes in through the garden gate, disconsolate.
Broadbent, who sits facing the gate, augurs the worst from his
expression.

BROADBENT. Have you been to the village?

HODSON. No use, sir. We'll have to get everything from London by
parcel post.

BROADBENT. I hope they made you comfortable last night.

HODSON. I was no worse than you were on that sofa, sir. One
expects to rough it here, sir.

BROADBENT. We shall have to look out for some other arrangement.
[Cheering up irrepressibly] Still, it's no end of a joke. How do
you like the Irish, Hodson?

HODSON. Well, sir, they're all right anywhere but in their own
country. I've known lots of em in England, and generally liked
em. But here, sir, I seem simply to hate em. The feeling come
over me the moment we landed at Cork, sir. It's no use my
pretendin, sir: I can't bear em. My mind rises up agin their
ways, somehow: they rub me the wrong way all over.

BROADBENT. Oh, their faults are on the surface: at heart they are
one of the finest races on earth. [Hodson turns away, without
affecting to respond to his enthusiasm]. By the way, Hodson--

HODSON [turning]. Yes, sir.

BROADBENT. Did you notice anything about me last night when I
came in with that lady?

HODSON [surprised]. No, sir.

BROADBENT. Not any--er--? You may speak frankly.

HODSON. I didn't notice nothing, sir. What sort of thing ded you
mean, sir?

BROADBENT. Well--er--er--well, to put it plainly, was I drunk?

HODSON [amazed]. No, sir.

BROADBENT. Quite sure?

HODSON. Well, I should a said rather the opposite, sir. Usually
when you've been enjoying yourself, you're a bit hearty like.
Last night you seemed rather low, if anything.

BROADBENT. I certainly have no headache. Did you try the pottine,
Hodson?

HODSON. I just took a mouthful, sir. It tasted of peat: oh!
something horrid, sir. The people here call peat turf. Potcheen
and strong porter is what they like, sir. I'm sure I don't know
how they can stand it. Give me beer, I say.

BROADBENT. By the way, you told me I couldn't have porridge for
breakfast; but Mr Doyle had some.

HODSON. Yes, sir. Very sorry, sir. They call it stirabout, sir:
that's how it was. They know no better, sir.

BROADBENT. All right: I'll have some tomorrow.

Hodson goes to the house. When he opens the door he finds Nora
and Aunt Judy on the threshold. He stands aside to let them pass,
with the air of a well trained servant oppressed by heavy trials.
Then he goes in. Broadbent rises. Aunt Judy goes to the table and
collects the plates and cups on the tray. Nora goes to the back
of the rustic seat and looks out at the gate with the air of a
woman accustomed to have nothing to do. Larry returns from the
shrubbery.

BROADBENT. Good morning, Miss Doyle.

AUNT JUDY [thinking it absurdly late in the day for such a
salutation]. Oh, good morning. [Before moving his plate] Have you
done?

BROADBENT. Quite, thank you. You must excuse us for not waiting
for you. The country air tempted us to get up early.

AUNT JUDY. N d'ye call this airly, God help you?

LARRY. Aunt Judy probably breakfasted about half past six.

AUNT JUDY. Whisht, you!--draggin the parlor chairs out into the
gardn n givin Mr Broadbent his death over his meals out here in
the cold air. [To Broadbent] Why d'ye put up with his
foolishness, Mr Broadbent?

BROADBENT. I assure you I like the open air.

AUNT JUDY. Ah galong! How can you like what's not natural? I hope
you slept well.

NORA. Did anything wake yup with a thump at three o'clock? I
thought the house was falling. But then I'm a very light sleeper.

LARRY. I seem to recollect that one of the legs of the sofa in
the parlor had a way of coming out unexpectedly eighteen years
ago. Was that it, Tom?

BROADBENT [hastily]. Oh, it doesn't matter: I was not hurt--at
least--er--

AUNT JUDY. Oh now what a shame! An I told Patsy Farrll to put a
nail in it.

BROADBENT. He did, Miss Doyle. There was a nail, certainly.

AUNT JUDY. Dear oh dear!

An oldish peasant farmer, small, leathery, peat faced, with a
deep voice and a surliness that is meant to be aggressive, and is
in effect pathetic--the voice of a man of hard life and many
sorrows--comes in at the gate. He is old enough to have perhaps
worn a long tailed frieze coat and knee breeches in his time; but
now he is dressed respectably in a black frock coat, tall hat,
and pollard colored trousers; and his face is as clean as washing
can make it, though that is not saying much, as the habit is
recently acquired and not yet congenial.

THE NEW-COMER [at the gate]. God save all here! [He comes a
little way into the garden].

LARRY [patronizingly, speaking across the garden to him]. Is that
yourself, Mat Haffigan? Do you remember me?

MATTHEW [intentionally rude and blunt]. No. Who are you?

NORA. Oh, I'm sure you remember him, Mr Haffigan.

MATTHEW [grudgingly admitting it]. I suppose he'll be young Larry
Doyle that was.

LARRY. Yes.

MATTHEW [to Larry]. I hear you done well in America.

LARRY. Fairly well.

MATTHEW. I suppose you saw me brother Andy out dhere.

LARRY. No. It's such a big place that looking for a man there is
like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. They tell me he's a
great man out there.

MATTHEW. So he is, God be praised. Where's your father?

AUNT JUDY. He's inside, in the office, Mr Haffigan, with Barney
Doarn n Father Dempsey.

Matthew, without wasting further words on the company, goes
curtly into the house.

LARRY [staring after him]. Is anything wrong with old Mat?

NORA. No. He's the same as ever. Why?

LARRY. He's not the same to me. He used to be very civil to
Master Larry: a deal too civil, I used to think. Now he's as
surly and stand-off as a bear.

AUNT JUDY. Oh sure he's bought his farm in the Land Purchase.
He's independent now.

NORA. It's made a great change, Larry. You'd harly know the old
tenants now. You'd think it was a liberty to speak t'dhem--some o
dhem. [She goes to the table, and helps to take off the cloth,
which she and Aunt Judy fold up between them].

AUNT JUDY. I wonder what he wants to see Corny for. He hasn't
been here since he paid the last of his old rent; and then he as
good as threw it in Corny's face, I thought.

LARRY. No wonder! Of course they all hated us like the devil.
Ugh! [Moodily] I've seen them in that office, telling my father
what a fine boy I was, and plastering him with compliments, with
your honor here and your honor there, when all the time their
fingers were itching to beat his throat.

AUNT JUDY. Deedn why should they want to hurt poor Corny? It was
he that got Mat the lease of his farm, and stood up for him as an
industrious decent man.

BROADBENT. Was he industrious? That's remarkable, you know, in an
Irishman.

LARRY. Industrious! That man's industry used to make me sick,
even as a boy. I tell you, an Irish peasant's industry is not
human: it's worse than the industry of a coral insect. An
Englishman has some sense about working: he never does more than
he can help--and hard enough to get him to do that without
scamping it; but an Irishman will work as if he'd die the moment
he stopped. That man Matthew Haffigan and his brother Andy made a
farm out of a patch of stones on the hillside--cleared it and dug
it with their own naked hands and bought their first spade out of
their first crop of potatoes. Talk of making two blades of wheat
grow where one grew before! those two men made a whole field of
wheat grow where not even a furze bush had ever got its head up
between the stones.

BROADBENT. That was magnificent, you know. Only a great race is
capable of producing such men.

LARRY. Such fools, you mean! What good was it to them? The moment
they'd done it, the landlord put a rent of 5 pounds a year on
them, and turned them out because they couldn't pay it.

AUNT JUDY. Why couldn't they pay as well as Billy Byrne that took
it after them?

LARRY [angrily]. You know very well that Billy Byrne never paid
it. He only offered it to get possession. He never paid it.

AUNT JUDY. That was because Andy Haffigan hurt him with a brick
so that he was never the same again. Andy had to run away to
America for it.

BROADBENT [glowing with indignation]. Who can blame him, Miss
Doyle? Who can blame him?

LARRY [impatiently]. Oh, rubbish! What's the good of the man
that's starved out of a farm murdering the man that's starved
into it? Would you have done such a thing?

BROADBENT. Yes. I--I--I--I--[stammering with fury] I should have
shot the confounded landlord, and wrung the neck of the damned
agent, and blown the farm up with dynamite, and Dublin Castle
along with it.

LARRY. Oh yes: you'd have done great things; and a fat lot of
good you'd have got out of it, too! That's an Englishman all
over! make bad laws and give away all the land, and then, when
your economic incompetence produces its natural and inevitable
results, get virtuously indignant and kill the people that carry
out your laws.

AUNT JUDY. Sure never mind him, Mr Broadbent. It doesn't matter,
anyhow, because there's harly any landlords left; and ther'll
soon be none at all.

LARRY. On the contrary, ther'll soon be nothing else; and the
Lord help Ireland then!

AUNT JUDY. Ah, you're never satisfied, Larry. [To Nora] Come on,
alanna, an make the paste for the pie. We can leave them to their
talk. They don't want us [she takes up the tray and goes into the
house].

BROADBENT [rising and gallantly protesting] Oh, Miss Doyle!
Really, really--

Nora, following Aunt Judy with the rolled-up cloth in her hands,
looks at him and strikes him dumb. He watches her until she
disappears; then comes to Larry and addresses him with sudden
intensity.

BROADBENT. Larry.

LARRY. What is it?

BROADBENT. I got drunk last night, and proposed to Miss Reilly.

LARRY. You HWAT??? [He screams with laughter in the falsetto
Irish register unused for that purpose in England].

BROADBENT. What are you laughing at?

LARRY [stopping dead]. I don't know. That's the sort of thing an
Irishman laughs at. Has she accepted you?

BROADBENT. I shall never forget that with the chivalry of her
nation, though I was utterly at her mercy, she refused me.

LARRY. That was extremely improvident of her. [Beginning to
reflect] But look here: when were you drunk? You were sober
enough when you came back from the Round Tower with her.

BROADBENT. No, Larry, I was drunk, I am sorry to say. I had two
tumblers of punch. She had to lead me home. You must have noticed
it.

LARRY. I did not.

BROADBENT. She did.

LARRY. May I ask how long it took you to come to business? You
can hardly have known her for more than a couple of hours.

BROADBENT. I am afraid it was hardly a couple of minutes. She was
not here when I arrived; and I saw her for the first time at the
tower.

LARRY. Well, you are a nice infant to be let loose in this
country! Fancy the potcheen going to your head like that!

BROADBENT. Not to my head, I think. I have no headache; and I
could speak distinctly. No: potcheen goes to the heart, not to
the head. What ought I to do?

LARRY. Nothing. What need you do?

BROADBENT. There is rather a delicate moral question involved.
The point is, was I drunk enough not to be morally responsible
for my proposal? Or was I sober enough to be bound to repeat it
now that I am undoubtedly sober?

LARRY. I should see a little more of her before deciding.

BROADBENT. No, no. That would not be right. That would not be
fair. I am either under a moral obligation or I am not. I wish I
knew how drunk I was.

LARRY. Well, you were evidently in a state of blithering
sentimentality, anyhow.

BROADBENT. That is true, Larry: I admit it. Her voice has a most
extraordinary effect on me. That Irish voice!

LARRY [sympathetically]. Yes, I know. When I first went to London
I very nearly proposed to walk out with a waitress in an Aerated
Bread shop because her Whitechapel accent was so distinguished,
so quaintly touching, so pretty--

BROADBENT [angrily]. Miss Reilly is not a waitress, is she?

LARRY. Oh, come! The waitress was a very nice girl.

BROADBENT. You think every Englishwoman an angel. You really have
coarse tastes in that way, Larry. Miss Reilly is one of the finer
types: a type rare in England, except perhaps in the best of the
aristocracy.

LARRY. Aristocracy be blowed! Do you know what Nora eats?

BROADBENT. Eats! what do you mean?

LARRY. Breakfast: tea and bread-and-butter, with an occasional
rasher, and an egg on special occasions: say on her birthday.
Dinner in the middle of the day, one course and nothing else. In
the evening, tea and bread-and-butter again. You compare her with
your Englishwomen who wolf down from three to five meat meals a
day; and naturally you find her a sylph. The difference is not a
difference of type: it's the difference between the woman who
eats not wisely but too well, and the woman who eats not wisely
but too little.

BROADBENT [furious]. Larry: you--you--you disgust me. You are a
damned fool. [He sits down angrily on the rustic seat, which
sustains the shock with difficulty].

LARRY. Steady! stead-eee! [He laughs and seats himself on the
table].

Cornelius Doyle, Father Dempsey, Barney Doran, and Matthew
Haffigan come from the house. Doran is a stout bodied, short
armed, roundheaded, red-haired man on the verge of middle age, of
sanguine temperament, with an enormous capacity for derisive,
obscene, blasphemous, or merely cruel and senseless fun, and a
violent and impetuous intolerance of other temperaments and other
opinions, all this representing energy and capacity wasted and
demoralized by want of sufficient training and social pressure to
force it into beneficent activity and build a character with it;
for Barney is by no means either stupid or weak. He is recklessly
untidy as to his person; but the worst effects of his neglect are
mitigated by a powdering of flour and mill dust; and his
unbrushed clothes, made of a fashionable tailor's sackcloth, were
evidently chosen regardless of expense for the sake of their
appearance.

Matthew Haffigan, ill at ease, coasts the garden shyly on the
shrubbery side until he anchors near the basket, where he feels
least in the way. The priest comes to the table and slaps Larry
on the shoulder. Larry, turning quickly, and recognizing Father
Dempsey, alights from the table and shakes the priest's hand
warmly. Doran comes down the garden between Father Dempsey and
Matt; and Cornelius, on the other side of the table, turns to
Broadbent, who rises genially.