As performed at the Royal New Adelphi Theatre (under the Management of Mr. Benjamin Webster), on Monday, September 10th, 1860, THE COLLEN BAWN Or, The Brides of Garryowen.
ENTIRELY NEW MUSIC, INCLUDING AN OVERTURE, Composed and Arranged expressly to illustrate this Drama by. Mr. Thomas Baker. New Scenery by Messrs. T. Pitt and Thompson. Dresses by Mr. Taylor and Miss Raynor. The Extensive Machinery and Properties by Mr. T. Ireland, Mr. Powell, and Assistants.
Original Cast, at Miss Laura Keene’s Theatre, New York, March 27th, 1860.
In consequence of the production of this Drama, and others by the same Author, in the United States of America, with which there is no existing International Treaty of Copyright, Vice-Chancellor Wood decreed that no Property could exist in their representation in this Country; therefore the Assignees of the Author, in whom his property was vested at his bankruptcy, have no title whatever in or to them, and
Is it yourself, Masther Hardress?
Is the boat ready?
Snug under the blue rock, sir.
Does Eily expect me to-night?
Expict is it? Here is a lether she bade me give yuz; sure the young thing is never aisy when you are away. Look, masther, dear, do ye see that light, no bigger than a star beyant on Muckross Head?
Yes, it is the signal which my dear Eily leaves burning in our chamber.
All night long she sits beside that light, wid her face fixed on that lamp in your windy above.
Dear, dear Eily! after all here’s asleep, I will leap from my window, and we’ll cross the lake.
That fellow is like your shadow.
Arrah! whist aroon! wouldn’t I die for yez? didn’t the same mother foster us? Why, wouldn’t ye break my back if it plazed ye, and welkim! Oh, Masther Kyrle, if ye’d seen him nursin’ me for months, and cryin’ over me, and keenin’! Sin’ that time, sir, my body’s been crimpin’ up smaller and smaller every year, but my heart is gettin’ bigger for him every day.
Go along, Danny.
Long life t’ye, sir! I’m off.
Hardress, a word with you. Be honest with me—do you love Anne Chute?
Why do you ask?
Because we have been fellow-collegians and friends through life, and the five years that I
have passed at sea have strengthened, but have not cooled, my feelings towards you.
Look at him! I’m sure no girl could do that and doubt it.
But I’m not a girl, ma’am; and sure, if you are mistaken—
My belief is that Anne does not care a token for me, and likes Kyrle better.
Stop, mother, I know this: I would not wed my cousin if she did not love me, not if she carried the whole county Kerry in her pocket, and the barony of Kenmare in the crown of her hat.
Do you hear the proud blood of the Cregans?
Woo her, Kyrle, if you like, and win her if you can. I’ll back you.
Hush!
I’d like to have bet on Kyrle.
Well, Anne, I’ll tell you what it was.
I’m free-trade—coppleens, mules and biddys.
How can you trifle with a heart like Kyrle’s?
Trifle! his heart can be no trifle, if he’s all in proportion.
Squire Corrigan, ma’am, begs to see you.
At this hour, what can the fellow want? Show Mr. Corrigan here.
I know—a potatoe on a silver plate: I’ll leave you to peel him. Come, Mr. Daly, take me for a moonlight walk, and be funny.
Funny, ma’am, I’m afraid I am—
You are heavy, you mean; you roll through the world like a hogshead of whisky; but you only
want tapping for pure spirits to flow out spontaneously. Give me your arm.
I’m Connaught to the core of my heart.
To the roots of your hair, you mean. I bought a horse at Ballinasloe fair that deceived me; I hope you won’t turn out to belong to the same family.
Oh! like you, he looked well enough—deep in the chest as a pool—a-dhiol, and broad in the back as the Gap of Dunloe—but after two days’ warm work he came all to pieces, and Larry, my groom, said he’d been stuck together with glue.
Well, sir?
And I wouldn’t throuble ye—
Trouble me, sir?
Iss, ma’am—ye’d be forgettin’ now that mortgage I have on this property. It ran out last May, and by rights—
It will be paid next month.
Are you reckonin’ on the marriage of Mister Hardress and Miss Anne Chute?
Leave us, Hardress, a while.
Mrs. Cregan, ma’am, you depend on Miss Anne Chute’s fortune to pay me the money, but your son does not love the lady, or, if he does, he has a mighty quare way of showing it. He has another girl on hand, and betune the two he’ll come to the ground, and so bedad will I.
That is false—it is a calumny, sir!
I wish it was, ma’am. D’ye see that light over the lake? your son’s eyes are fixed on it. What would Anne Chute say if she knew that her husband, that is to be, had a mistress beyant—that he slips out every night after you’re all in bed, and like Leandher, barrin’ the wettin’, he sails across to his sweetheart?
Is this the secret of his aversion to the marriage? Fool! fool! what madness, and at such a moment.
That’s what I say, and no lie in it.
He shall give up this girl—he must!
I would like to have some security for that. I want, by to-morrow, Anne Chute’s written promise to marry him, or my £8,000.
It is impossible, sir; you hold ruin over our heads.
Madam, it’s got to hang over your head or mine.
Stay; you know that what you ask is out of our power—you know it—therefore this demand only covers the true object of your visit.
’Pon my honor! and you are as ’cute, ma’am, as you are beautiful!
Go on, sir.
Mrs. Cregan, I’m goin’ to do a foolish thing—now, by gorra I am! I’m richer than ye think,
maybe, and if you’ll give me your
What do you mean?
I meant that I’ll take a lien for life on you, instead of the mortgage I hold on the Cregan
property.
Are you mad?
I am—mad in love with yourself, and that’s what I’ve been these fifteen years.
Insolent wretch! my son shall answer and chastise you.
Miss Chute!
Well, mother?
Well, sir?
Your obedient.
Oh!
You are in my power, ma’am. See, now, not a sowl but myself knows of this secret love of Hardress Cregan, and I’ll keep it as snug as a bug in a rug, if you’ll only say the word.
Contemptible hound, I loathe and despise you!
I’ve known that fifteen years, but it hasn’t cured my heart ache.
And you would buy my aversion and disgust!
Just as Anne Chute buys your son, if she knew but all. Can he love his girl beyant, widout haten this heiress he’s obliged to swallow?—ain’t you sthriven to sell him? But you didn’t feel the hardship of being sold till you tried it on yourself.
I beg you, sir, to leave me.
That’s right, ma’am—think over it, sleep on it. To-morrow, I’ll call for your answer. Good evenin’ kindly.
Hardress.
What did he want?
He came to tell me the meaning of yonder light upon Muckross Head.
Ah! has it been discovered? Well, mother, now you know the cause of my coldness, my indifference for Anne.
Are you in your senses, Hardress? Who is this girl?
She is known at every fair and pattern in Munster as the Colleen Bawn—her name is Eily O’Connor.
A peasant girl—a vulgar, barefooted beggar!
Whatever she is, love has made her my equal, and when you set your foot upon her you tread upon my heart.
’Tis well, Hardress. I feel that perhaps I have no right to dispose of your life and your happiness—no, my dear son—I would not wound you—heaven knows how well I love my darling boy, and you shall feel it. Corrigan has made me an offer by which you may regain the estate, and without selling yourself to Anne Chute.
What is it? Of course you accepted it?
No, but I will accept, yes, for your sake—I—I will. He offers to cancel this mortgage if—if—I will consent to—become his wife.
You—you, mother? Has he dared—
Hush! he is right. A sacrifice must be made—either you or I must suffer. Life is before you—my days are well nigh past—and for your sake, Hardress—for yours; my pride, my only one.—Oh! I would give you more than my life.
Never—never! I will not—cannot accept it. I’ll tear that dog’s tongue from his throat that dared insult you with the offer.
Foolish boy, before to-morrow night we shall be beggars—outcasts from this estate. Humiliation and poverty stand like spectres at yonder door—to-morrow they will be realities. Can you tear out the tongues that will wag over our fallen fortunes? You are a child, you cannot see beyond your happiness.
Oh, mother, mother! what can be done? My marriage with Anne is impossible.
Has this fellow overheard us?
If he has, he is mine, body and soul. I’d rather trust him with a secret than keep it myself.
Hush! what fiend prompts you to thrust that act of folly in my face?
Thrue for ye, masther! I’m a dirty mane scut to remind ye of it.
What will my haughty, noble mother say, when she learns the truth! how can I ask her to receive Eily as a daughter?—Eily, with her awkward manners, her Kerry brogue, her ignorance of the usages of society. Oh, what have I done?
Oh! vo—vo, has the ould family come to this! Is it the daughter of Mihil-na-Thradrucha, the old rope-maker of Garryowen, that ’ud take the flure as your wife?
Be silent, scoundrel! How dare you speak thus of my love!—wretch that I am to blame her!—poor, beautiful, angel-hearted Eily.
Beautiful is it! Och—wurra—wurra, deelish! The looking-glass was never made that could do her justice; and if St. Patrick wanted a wife, where would he find an angel that ’ud compare with the Colleen Bawn. As I row her on the lake, the little fishes come up to look at her; and the wind from heaven lifts up her hair to see what the divil brings her down here at all—at all.
The fault is mine—mine alone—I alone will suffer!
Why isn’t it mine? Why can’t I suffer for yez, masther dear? Wouldn’t I swally every tear in your body, every bit of bad luck in your life, and then wid a stone round my neck, sink myself and your sorrows in the bottom of the lower lake.
Never fear, sir. Oh! it isn’t that spalpeen, Corrigan, that shall bring ruin on that ould
place. Lave Danny alone. Danny, the fox, will lade yez round and about, and cross the scint.
Before we go in, I insist on knowing who is this girl that possesses your heart. You confess that you are in love—deeply in love.
I do confess it—but not even your power can extract that secret from me—do not ask me, for
I could not be false, yet dare not be true.
Who is that?
I’m the boatman below, an’ I’m waitin for the gintleman.
What gentleman?
Him that’s jist left me, ma’am—I’m waitin’ on him.
Does Mr. Kyrle Daly go out boating at this hour?
It’s not for me to say, ma’am, but every night at twelve o’clock I’m here wid my boat under
the blue rock below, to put him across the lake to Muckross Head. I beg your pardon, ma’am,
but here’s a paper ye dropped on the walk beyant—if it’s no vally I’d like to light my pipe
wid it.
A paper I dropped!
A love-letter from some peasant girl to Kyrle Daly! Can this be the love of which he spoke? have I deceived myself?
I must be off, ma’am; here comes the signal.
The signal?
D’ye see yonder light upon Muckross Head? It is in a cottage windy; that light goes in and
out three times winkin’ that way, as much as to say, “Are ye comin’?” Then if the light in
that room there
Stay, here’s money; do not tell Mr. Daly that I know of this.
Divil a word—long life t’ye.
I was not deceived; he meant me to understand that he loved me! Hark! I hear the sound of
some one who leaped heavily on the garden walk.
From the rock above I saw the boat leave Torc Cregan. It is now crossing the lake to the
cottage. Who is
Who’s that?—’Tis that poaching scoundrel—that horse stealer, Myles na Coppaleen. Here he
comes with a keg of illicit whisky, as bould as Nebuckadezzar.
No! it’s my brother.
I know ye, my man.
Then why the divil did ye ax?
You may as well answer me kindly—civility costs nothing.
What’s that to you?
I am a magistrate, and can oblige you to answer.
Well! it’s a boulster, belongin’ to my mother’s feather bed.
Stuff’d with whisky!
Bedad! how would I know what it’s stuff’d wid? I’m not an upholsterer.
Come, Myles, I’m not so bad a fellow as ye may think.
To think of that now!
I am not the mane creature you imagine!
Ain’t ye now, sir? You keep up appearances mighty well, indeed.
No, Myles! I am not that blackguard I’ve been represented.
You shall find me a gentleman—liberal, ready to protect you.
Long life t’ye sir.
Myles, you have come down in the world lately; a year ago you were a thriving horse-dealer, now you are a lazy, ragged fellow.
Ah, it’s the bad luck, sir, that’s in it.
No, it’s the love of Eily O’Connor that’s in it—it’s the pride of Garryowen that took your heart away, and made ye what ye are—a smuggler and a poacher.
Thim’s hard words.
But they are true. You live like a wild beast in some cave or hole in the rocks above; by night your gun is heard shootin’ the otter as they lie out on the stones, or you snare the salmon in your nets; on a cloudy night your whisky-still is going—you see, I know your life.
Better than the priest, and devil a lie in it.
Now, if I put ye in a snug farm—stock ye with pigs and cattle, and rowl you up comfortable—d’ye think the Colleen Bawn wouldn’t jump at ye?
Bedad, she’d make a lape, I b’lieve—and what would I do for all this luck?
Find out for me who it is that lives at the cottage on Muckross Head.
That’s asy—it’s Danny Mann—no less and his ould mother Sheelah.
Yes, Myles, but there’s another—a girl who is hid there.
Ah, now!
She only goes out at night.
Like the owls.
She’s the misthress of Hardress Cregan.
Oh, lor! Myles—Myles—what’s the matter—are you mad?
No—that is—why—why did ye raise your hand at me in that way?
I didn’t.
I thought ye did—I’m mighty quick at takin’ thim hints, bein’ on me keepin’ agin the gaugers—go on—I didn’t hurt ye.
Not much.
You want to find out who this girl is?
I’ll give £20 for the information—there’s ten on account.
Long life t’ye; that’s the first money I iver got from a lawyer, and bad luck to me, but there’s a cure for the evil eye in thim pieces.
You will watch to-night?
In five minutes I’ll be inside the cottage itself.
That’s the lad.
And to-morrow you will step down to my office with the particulars?
To-morrow you shall breakfast on them.
Good night, entirely.
I’ll give ye a cowstail to swally, and make ye think it’s a chapter in St. Patrick, ye
spalpeen? When he called Eily the misthress of Hardress Cregan, I nearly sthretched
I must reach the cottage before the masther arrives; Father Tom is there waitin’ for this
keg o’ starlight—it’s my tithe; I call every tenth keg “his riverince.” It’s worth money to
see the way it does the old man good, and brings the wather in his eyes, the only place I
ever see any about him—heaven bless him!
Has he come?
No; his boat is half a mile off yet.
Half a mile! I’ll choke before he’s here.
Do you mean Hardress?
No, dear! Myles na Coppaleen—cum spiritu Hiberneuse—which manes in Irish, wid a keg of poteen.
Here I am, your riverince, never fear. I tould Sheelah to hurry up with the materials, knowin’ ye be dhry and hasty.
Here’s the hot water.
Lave it there till I brew Father Tom a pint of mother’s milk.
Well thin, ye’ll do your share of the work, an not a ha’porth more.
Didn’t I bring the sperrits from two miles and more? and I deserve to have pref’rence to make the punch for his riverince.
And didn’t I watch the kettle all night, not to let it off the boil?—there now.
No, no; I’ll make it, and nobody else.
Aisy now, ye bocauns, and whist; Myles shall put in the whisky, Sheelah shall put in the
hot water, and Eily, my Colleen, shall put the sugar in the cruiskeen. A blessin’ on ye all
three that loves the ould man.
And it’s complate, ye see, for it’s a woman that gets into hot wather all the while.
Myles, if I hadn’t the kettle, I’d bate ye.
Then, why didn’t ye let me make the punch? There’s a guinea for your riverince that’s come
t’ye—one in ten I got a while ago—it’s your tithe—put a hole in it, and hang it on your watch
chain, for it’s a mighty great charm entirely.
Eily, look at that boy, and tell me, haven’t ye a dale to answer for?
He isn’t as bad about me as he used to be; he’s getting over it.
Yes, darlin’, the storm has passed over, and I’ve got into settled bad weather.
Maybe, afther all, ye’d have done better to have married Myles there, than be the wife of a man that’s ashamed to own ye.
He isn’t—he’s proud of me. It’s only when I spake like the poor people, and say or do anything wrong, that he’s hurt; but I’m gettin’ clane of the brogue, and learnin’ to do nothing—I’m to be changed entirely.
Oh! if he’d lave me yer own self, and only take away wid him his improvements. Oh! murder—Eily, aroon, why wasn’t ye twins, an’ I could have one of ye, only nature couldn’t make two like ye—it would be onreasonable to ax it.
Poor Myles, do you love me still so much?
Didn’t I lave the world to folley ye, and since then there’s been neither night nor day in my life—I lay down on Glenna Point above, where I see this cottage, and I lived on the sight of it. Oh! Eily, if tears were pison to the grass there wouldn’t be a green blade on Glenna Hill this day.
But you knew I was married, Myles.
Not thin, aroon—Father Tom found me that way, and sat beside, and lifted up my soul. Then I
confessed to him, and, sez he, “Myles, go to Eily, she has something to say to you—say I sent
you.” I came, and ye tould me ye were Hardress Cregan’s wife, and that was a great comfort
entirely. Since I knew that
See the beauty of the priest, my darlin’—videte et admirate—see and admire it. It was at
confession that Eily tould me she loved Cregan, and what did I do?—sez I, “Where did you meet
your sweetheart?” “At Garryowen,” sez she. “Well,” says I; “that’s not the place.” “Thrue,
your riverince, it’s too public entirely,” sez she. “Ye’ll mate him only in one place,” sez
I; “and that’s the stile that’s behind my chapel,” for, d’ye see, her mother’s grave was
forenint the spot, and there’s a sperrit round the place,
Come now, Eily, couldn’t ye cheer up his riverince wid the tail of a song?
Hardress bid me not sing any ould Irish songs, he says the words are vulgar.
Father Tom will give ye absolution.
Put your lips to that jug; there’s only the strippens left. Drink! and while that thrue
Irish liquor
Come, Eily, it’s my liquor—haven’t ye a word to say for it?
Hurry now, or we’ll get Eily in throuble.
Sheelah, I say!
Comin’, Sir, I’m puttin’ on my petticoat.
Am I, mavou—no I mean—is it tremblin’ I am, dear?
What a dreadful smell of tobacco there is here, and
There was Father Tom, an’ Myles dhropped in.
Nice company for my wife—a vagabond.
Ah! who made him so but me, dear? Before I saw you, Hardress, Myles coorted me, and I was kindly to the boy.
Damn it, Eily, why will you remind me that my wife was ever in such a position?
I won’t see him again—if yer angry, dear, I’ll tell him to go away, and he will, because the poor boy loves me.
Yes, better than I do you mean?
No, I don’t—oh! why do you spake so to your poor Eily!
Spake so! Can’t you say speak?
I’ll thry, aroon—I’m sthrivin’—’tis mighty hard, but what wouldn’t I undert-tee-ta—undergo for your sa-se—for your seek.
Sake—sake!
Sake—seek—oh, it is to bother people entirely they mixed ’em up! Why didn’t they make them all one way?
Hardress, you are pale—what has happened?
Nothing—that is, nothing but what you will rejoice at.
What d’ye mane?
What do I mane! Mean—mean!
I beg your pardon, dear.
Well; I mean that after to-morrow there will be no necessity to hide our marriage, for I shall be a beggar, my mother will be an outcast, and amidst all the shame, who will care what wife a Cregan takes?
And d’ye think I’d like to see you dhragged down to my side—ye don’t know me—see now—never call me wife again—don’t let on to mortal that we’re married—I’ll go as a servant in your mother’s house—I’ll work for the smile ye’ll give me in passing, and I’ll be happy, if ye’ll only let me stand outside and hear your voice.
You’re a fool. I told you that I was bethrothed to the richest heiress in Kerry; her fortune alone can save us from ruin. To-night my mother discovered my visits here, and I told her who you were.
Oh! what did she say?
It broke her heart.
Hardress! is there no hope?
None. That is none—that—that I can name.
There is one—I see it.
There is. We were children when we were married,
Eily! if you doubt my eternal love, keep that security; it gives you the right to the shelter of my roof; but oh! if you would be content with the shelter of my heart.
And will it save ye, Hardress? And will your mother forgive me?
She will bless you—she will take you to her breast.
But you—another will take you to her breast.
Oh, Eily, darling, d’ye think I could forget you, machree—forget the sacrifice more than blood you give me?
Oh! when you talk that way to me, ye might take my life, and heart, and all. Oh! Hardress,
I love you—take the paper and tare it.
No. I’ll be damned if he shall.
Scoundrel! you have been listening?
To every word. I saw Danny, wid his ear agin that dure, so as there was only one kay-hole, I adopted the windy. Eily, aroon, Mr. Cregan will giv’ ye back that paper; you can’t tare up an oath; will ye help him then to cheat this other girl, and to make her his mistress, for that’s what she’ll be if ye are his wife. An’ after all, what is there agin’ the crature? Only the money she’s got. Will you stop lovin’ him when his love belongs to another? No! I know it by myself; but if ye jine their hands together your love will be an adultery.
Oh, no!
Vagabond! outcast! jail bird! dare you prate of honor to me?
Be it so, Eily, farewell! until my house is clear of these vermin—
Hardress—Hardress!
He’s gone—he’s gone!
Give me that paper, Myles.
Put your hand upon it now.
Oh, my heart—my heart!
Be thee hush, and spake after me—by my mother that’s in heaven.
By my mother that’s in heaven.
By the light and the word.
By the light and the word.
Sleepin’ or wakin’.
Sleepin’ or wakin’.
This proof of my truth.
This proof of my truth.
Shall never again quit my breast.
Shall never again quit my breast.
Danny, I am troubled. I was a fool when I refused to listen to you at the chapel of Castle Island.
When I warned ye to have no call to Eily O’Connor?
I was mad to marry her.
I knew she was no wife for you. A poor thing widout any manners, or money, or book larnin’, or a ha’porth o’ fortin’. Oh, worra! I told ye that, but ye bate me off, and here now is the way of it.
Well, it’s done, and can’t be undone.
Bedad, I dun know that. Wouldn’t she untie the knot herself—couldn’t ye coax her?
No.
Is that her love for you? You that give up the divil an’ all for her. What’s
She would have yielded, but—
Asy now, an’ I’ll tell ye. Pay her passage out to Quaybeck and put her aboord a three-master, widout sayin’ a word. Lave it to me. Danny will clear the road foreninst ye.
Fool, if she still possesses that certificate—the proof of my first marriage—how can I dare to wed another? Commit bigamy—disgrace my wife—bastardize my children?
Den by the powers, I’d do by Eily as wid the glove there on yer hand; make it come off as it came on—an’ if it fits too tight, take the knife to it.
Only gi’ me the word, an’ I’ll engage that the Colleen Bawn will never trouble ye any more; don’t ax me any questions at all. Only—if you’re agreeable, take off that glove from yer hand an’ give it to me for a token—that’s enough.
Oh, murder! may I never die in sin, if—
Begone! away, at once, and quit my sight. I have chosen my doom! I must learn to endure it—but blood!—and hers! Shall I make cold and still that heart that beats alone for me?—quench those eyes that look so tenderly in mine? Monster! am I so vile that you dare to whisper such a thought?
Oh, masther! divil burn me if I meant any harm.
Mark me well, now. Respect my wife as you would the queen of the land—whisper a word such
as those you uttered to me, and it will be your last. I warn ye—remember and obey.
That fellow runs in my head.
I slept like a top.
Get back! I’ve not been out.
Was it?
You were up late, I think?
I was. I watched by my window for hours, thinking of her I loved—slumber overtook me, and I dreamed of a happiness I never can hope for.
Look me straight in the face.
Oh! if some fairy could strike us into stone now—and leave us looking forever into each other’s faces, like the blue lake below and the sky above it!
Kyrle Daly! What would you say to a man who had two loves, one to whom he escaped at night, and the other to whom he devoted himself during the day—what would you say?
I’d say he had no chance.
Oh, Captain Cautious! Well answered. Isn’t he fit to take care of anybody! his cradle was cut out of a witness-box.
There is a bar between us which you should have known before, but I could not bring myself
to confess. Forgive me, Anne—you deserve a better man than I am.
A bar between us! What does he mean?
He means that he is on the verge of ruin: he did not know how bad things were till last night. His generous noble heart recoils from receiving anything from you but love.
And does he think I’d let him be ruined any way? Does he think I wouldn’t sell the last
rood of land—the gown off my back, and the hair off my head, before that boy that protected
and loved me, the child, years ago, should come to a hap’orth of harrum?
Miss Chute!
Well, I can’t help it. When I am angry the brogue comes out, and my Irish heart will burst
through manners, and graces, and twenty stay-laces.
You can’t—you’ve got a guardian who cannot consent to such a sacrifice.
Have I? then I’ll find a husband that will.
Do you think me capable of contaminating your image by admitting a meaner passion into my breast?
Yes, I do.
Then you wrong me.
I’ll prove that in one word. Take care, now; it’s coming.
Go on.
What’s that?
“Shule, shule, agrah!”
Where to?
Three winks, as much as to say, “Are you coming?” and an extinguisher above here means “Yes.” Now you see I know all about it.
You have the advantage of me.
Confess now, and I’ll forgive you.
I will; tell me what to confess, and I’ll confess it—I don’t care what it is.
That was a little excursion into my past life—a sudden descent on my antecedents, to see if you could not surprise an infidelity—but I defy you.
You do? I accept that defiance; and, mind me, Kyrle, if I find you true as I once thought,
there’s my hand; but if you are false in this, Anne Chute will never change her name for
yours.
Oh, the lightness you have given to my heart! The number of pipes I’ll smoke this afternoon
will make them think we’ve got a haystack on fire.
And this is the end of all our pride!
Repining is useless—thought and contrivance are of no avail—the die is cast.
Hardress, I speak not for myself, but for you—and I would rather see you in your coffin than married to this poor, lowborn, silly, vulgar creature. I know you, my son; you will be miserable when the infatuation of first love is past; when you turn from her and face the world, as one day you must do, you will blush to say, “This is my wife.” Every word from her mouth will be a pang to your pride. You will follow her movements with terror—the contempt and derision she excites will rouse you first to remorse, and then to hatred—and from the bed to which you go with a blessing, you will rise with a curse.
Mother! mother!
To Anne you have acted a heartless and dishonorable part—her name is already coupled with yours at every fireside in Kerry.
Mr. Corrigan, ma’am.
He comes for his answer. Show him in.
Refuse him—let him do his worst.
And face beggary! On what shall we live? I tell you the prison for debt is open before us. Can you work? No! Will you enlist as a soldier, and send your wife into service? We are ruined—d’ye hear?—ruined! I must accept this man only to give you and yours a shelter, and under Corrigan’s roof I may not be ashamed, perhaps, to receive your wife.
Mrs. Cregan, I’m proud, ma’am, to take your hand.
Squire! Sir! Mr. Hardress!
Must I hurl you from the house?
Hardress, my darling boy, restrain yourself.
Good morning, ma’am. I have my answer.
No, sir; she’s just galloped out of the stable yard.
Say I called to see her. I will wait upon her at this hour to-morrow.
To-morrow will see us in Limerick Jail, and this house in the hands of the sheriff.
Mother, heaven guide and defend me! let me rest for a while—you don’t know all yet, and I
have not the heart to tell you.
With you, Hardress, I can bear anything—anything—but your humiliation and your unhappiness—
I know it, mother, I know it.
Whisht—missiz—whisht.
It’s me, sure, Danny—that is—I know the throuble that’s in it. I’ve been through it all wid him.
You know, then?
Everything, ma’am; and, sure, I shtruv hard and long to impache him from doing it.
Is he, indeed, so involved with this girl that he will not give her up?
No; he’s got over the worst of it, but she holds him tight, and he feels kindly and soft-hearted for her, and daren’t do what another would.
Dare not?
Sure she might be packed off across the wather to Ameriky, or them parts beyant? Who’d ever ax a word afther her?—barrin’ the masther, who’d murdher me if he knew I whispered such a thing.
But would she go?
Ow, ma’am, wid a taste of persuasion, we’d mulvather her aboord. But there’s another way again, and if ye’d only coax the masther to send me his glove, he’d know the manin’ of that token, and so would I.
His glove?
Sorra a ha’porth else. If he’ll do that, I’ll take my oath ye’ll hear no more of the Colleen Bawn.
I’ll see my son.
Tare an’ ’ouns, that lively girl, Miss Chute, has gone the road to Muckross Head; I’ve
watched her—I’ve got my eye on all of them. If she sees Eily—ow, ow, she’ll get the ring
itself in that helpin’ maybe, of kale-canon. By the piper, I’ll run across the lake, and get
there first; she’s got a long round to go, and the wind rising—a purty blast entirely.
Did ye ax him, ma’am?
I did—and here is the reply.
He has changed his mind, then?
He has entirely.
And—and—I am—to—do it?
That is the token.
I know it—I’ll keep my promise. I’m to make away with her?
Yes, yes—take her away—away with her!
Never fear, ma’am.
Is it lave his own wife?
I’ve sent him a letther by Myles, and Myles has never come back—I’ve got no answer—he won’t spake to me—I am standin’ betune him and fortune—I’m in the way of his happiness. I wish I was dead!
Whisht! be thee husht! what talk is that? when I’m tuk sad that way, I go down to the chapel and pray a turn—it lifts the cloud off my heart.
I can’t pray; I’ve tried, but unless I pray for him, I can’t bring my mind to it.
I never saw a colleen that loved as you love; sorra come to me, but I b’lieve you’ve got enough to supply all Munster, and more left over than would choke ye if you wern’t azed of it.
He’ll come back—I’m sure he will; I was wicked to doubt. Oh! Sheelah! what becomes of the girls he doesn’t love? Is there anything goin’ on in the world where he isn’t?
There now—you’re smilin’ again.
I’m like the first mornin’ when he met me—there was dew on the young day’s eye—a smile on
the lips o’ the lake. Hardress will come back—oh! yes; he’ll never leave his poor Eily all
alone by herself in this place. Whisht, now, an’ I’ll tell you.
Ah, the birds sit still on the boughs to listen to her, and the trees stop whisperin’; she
leaves a mighty big silence behind her voice, that nothin’ in nature wants to break. My
blessin’ on the path before her—there’s an angel at the other end of it.
There she is.
My name is Anne Chute.
I am Eily O’Connor.
You are the Colleen Bawn—the pretty girl.
And you are the Colleen Ruaidh.
We are rivals.
I am sorry for it.
So am I, for I feel that I could have loved you.
That’s always the way of it; everybody wants to love me, but there’s something spoils them off.
I do, ma’am, well, though I don’t know how you came by it.
I saw your signals last night—I saw his departure, and I have come here to convince myself of his falsehood to me. But now that I have seen you, you have no longer a rival in his love, for I despise him with all my heart, who could bring one so beautiful and simple as you are to ruin and shame!
He didn’t—no—I am his wife! Oh, what have I said!
What?
Oh, I didn’t mane to confess it—no, I didn’t! but you wrung it from me in defense of him.
You his wife?
I cannot believe this—show me your certificate.
Here it is.
Oh! you’re the boatman.
Iss, ma’am!
Eily, forgive me for doubting your goodness, and your purity. I believe you. Let me take
your hand.
Long life t’ye.
Why did she ask me never to spake to Mr. Daly of her visit here? Sure I don’t know any Mr. Daly.
Didn’t she spake of him before, dear?
Never!
Nor didn’t she name Master Hardress?
Well, I don’t know; she spoke of him and of the letter I wrote to him, but I b’lieve she never named him intirely.
What brings you back, Danny?
Nothing! but a word I have from the masther for the Colleen here.
Is it the answer to the letter I sent by Myles?
That’s it, jewel, he sent me wid a message.
May be I have.
You thrimble, and can’t spake straight to me. Oh! Danny, what is it, avick?
Go on now, an’ stop yer keenin’.
Faith, it isn’t yourself that’s in it, Danny; sure there’s nothing happened to Hardress?
Divil a word, good or bad, I’ll say while the mother’s there.
I’m goin’.
Sorro’ and ruin has come on the Cregans; they’re broke intirely.
Oh, Danny.
Whisht, now! You are to meet Masther Hardress this evenin’, at a place on the Divil’s Island, beyant. Ye’ll niver breathe a word to a mortal where yer goin’, d’ye mind, now; but slip down, unbeknown, to the landin’ below, where I’ll have the boat waitin’ for yez.
At what hour?
Just after dark; there’s no moon to-night, an’ no one will see us crossin’ the water. (music till end of scene)
I will be there; I’ll go down only to the little chapel by the shore, and pray there ’till
ye come.
I’m wake and cowld! What’s this come over me? Mother, mother, acushla.
What is it, Danny?
Married! the wretch is married! and with that crime already on his conscience he was ready for another and similar piece of villainy. It’s the Navy that does it. It’s my belief those sailors have a wife in every place they stop at.
Here’s a gentleman who has got my complaint—his love is all crost, like a bud in the frost.
My good friend, since you can’t catch your love, d’ye think you could catch my horse?
Is it a black mare wid a white stockin on the fore off leg?
I dismounted to unhook a gate—a peal of thunder frightened her, and she broke away.
She’s at Torc Cregan stables by this time—it was an admiration to watch her stride across the Phil Dolan’s bit of plough.
And how am I to get home?
If I had four legs, I wouldn’t ax betther than to carry ye, and a proud baste I’d be.
The storm is coming down to the mountain—is there no shelter near?
There may be a corner in this ould chapel.
What will you do? You’ll catch your death of cold.
Here’s the place where Danny was to meet me with the boat. Oh! here he is.
The thunder makes me sick.
Shall we not wait till the storm is over?
If it comes on bad we can put into the Divil’s Island Cave.
I feel so happy that I am going to see him, yet there is a weight about my heart that I can’t account for.
I can.
Yes; come—come.
Sheelah gave you a bottle.
I forgot—it’s in the boat.
Here comes the rain—we shall get wet.
There’s the masther’s boat cloak below.
Come, Danny, lean on me. I’m afraid you are not sober enough to sail the skiff.
Sober! The dhrunker I am, the better I can do the work I’ve got to do.
Come, Danny, come—come.
It was only a shower, I b’lieve—are ye wet, ma’am?
Dry as a biscuit.
Ah! then it’s yerself is the brave and beautiful lady—as bould an’ proud as a ship before
the blast.
Why, there is my mare, and who comes with—
It’s Mr. Hardress Cregan himself.
Hardress here?
Eily gave me a letter for him this morning.
Anne, what has happened? Your horse galloped wildly into the stable—we thought you had been thrown.
Here is a lether Eily tould me to give him.
Thanks, my good fellow, for your assistance.
Not at all, ma’am. Sure, there isn’t a boy in the County Kerry that would not give two
thumbs off his hands to do a service to the Colleen Ruaidh, as you are called among us—iss
indeed, ma’am.
Hardress! I have been very blind and very foolish, but today I have learned to know my own heart. There’s my hand; I wish to seal my fate at once. I know the delicacy which prompted you to release me from my engagement to you. I don’t accept that release; I am yours.
Anne, you don’t know all.
I know more than I wanted, that’s enough. I forbid you ever to speak on this subject.
You don’t know my past life.
And I don’t want to know. I’ve had enough of looking into past lives; don’t tell me anything you wish to forget.
Oh, Anne—my dear cousin; if I could forget—if silence could be oblivion.
Now I’ll go down to my whisky-still. It is under my feet this minute, bein’ in a hole in
the rocks they call O’Donoghue’s stables, a sort of water cave; the people around here think
that the cave is haunted with bad spirits, and they say that of a dark stormy night strange
unearthly noises is heard comin’ out of it—it is me singing, “The night before Larry was
stretched.” Now I’ll go down to that cave, and wid a sod of live turf under a kettle of
worty, I’ll invoke them sperrits—and what’s more, they’ll come.
And this is a purty night for my work! The smoke of my whisky-still will not be seen;
there’s my distillery beyant in a snug hole up there,
What place is this you have brought me to?
Never fear—I know where I’m goin’—step out on that rock—mind yer footin’; ’tis wet there.
I don’t like this place—it’s like a tomb.
Step out, I say; the boat is laking.
Why do you spake to me so rough and cruel?
Eily, I have a word to say t’ye; listen now, and don’t thrimble that way.
I won’t, Danny—I won’t.
Wonst, Eily, I was a fine brave boy, the pride of my ould mother, her white haired-darlin’—you wouldn’t think it to look at me now. D’ye know how I got changed to this?
Yes, Hardress told me.
He done it—but I loved him before it, an’ I loved him after it—not a dhrop of blood I have, but I’d pour out like wather for the masther.
I know what you mean—as he has deformed your body—ruined your life—made ye what ye are.
Have you, a woman, less love for him than I, that you wouldn’t give him what he wants of you, even if he broke your heart as he broke my back, both in a moment of passion? Did I ax him to ruin himself and his ould family, and all to mend my bones? No! I loved him, and I forgave him that.
Danny, what do you want me to do?
Give me that paper in your breast?
I can’t—I’ve sworn never to part with it! You know I have!
Eily, that paper stands between Hardress Cregan and his fortune; that paper is the ruin of him. Give it, I tell yez.
Take me to the priest; let him lift the oath off me. Oh, Danny, I swore a blessed oath on my two knees, and would ye ax me to break that?
I swore by my mother’s grave, Danny. Oh! Danny
Then you’ve lived too long. Take your marriage lines wid ye to the bottom of the lake.
No! save me! Don’t kill me! Don’t, Danny, I’ll do anything—only let me live.
He wants ye dead.
Oh, heaven! help me! Danny—Dan—
I hit one of them bastes that time. I could see well, though it was so dark. But there was
somethin’ moving on that stone.
Gi’ me a dhrop of wather—it’s the thirst that’s a killin’ me.
Ten days this night.
Ten days dis night! Have I been all that time out of my mind?
Iss, Danny. Ten days ago, that stormy night, ye crawled in at that dure, wake an’ like a ghost.
I remind me now.
Ye tould me that ye’d been poachin’ salmon, and had been shot by the keepers.
Who said I hadn’t?
Divil a one! Why did ye make me promise not to say a word about it? Didn’t ye refuse even to see a doctor itself?
Has any one axed after me?
No one but Mr. Hardress.
Heaven bless him!
I told him I hadn’t seen ye, and here ye are this day groanin’ when there’s great doin’s up at Castle Chute. To-morrow the masther will be married to Miss Anne.
Married! but—the—his—
Poor Eily, ye mane?
Hide the candle from my eyes—it’s painin’ me; shade it off. Go on, mother.
The poor Colleen! Oh, vo, Danny, I knew she’d die of the love that was chokin’ her. He
didn’t know how tindher she was when he gave her the hard word. What was that message the
masther sent to her, that he wouldn’t let me hear? It was cruel, Danny, for it broke her
heart entirely; she went away that night, and, two days after, a cloak was found floatin’ in
the reeds, under Brikeen Bridge; nobody knew it but me. I turned away, and never said—. The
creature is drowned, Danny, and woe to them as dhruv her to it. She has no father, no mother
to put a curse on him, but the Father above that niver spakes till the last day, and then—
Who said that? Ye lie! I never killed her—sure he sent me the glove—where is it?
He’s ravin’ again.
The glove—he sent it to me full of blood. Oh, master, dear, there’s your token. I told ye I would clear the path foreninst ye.
Danny, what d’ye mane?
I’ll tell ye how I did it, masther; ’twas dis way—but don’t smile like dat—don’t, sir! She
wouldn’t give me de marriage lines, so I sunk her and her proofs wid her. She’s gone! she
came up wonst, but I put her down agin. Never fear—she’ll never throuble yer
again—never—never!
’Twas he! he!—my own son—he’s murdered her, and he’s dyin’ now—dyin’, wid blood on his hands! Danny! Danny! spake to me!
A docther! will they let me die like a baste, and never a docther?
I’ll run for one that’ll cure ye. Oh, weerasthrue, Danny! Is it for this I’ve loved ye? No,
forgive, acushla, it isn’t your own mother that ’ud add to yer heart-breakin’ and pain. I’ll
fetch the docther, avick.
Sheelah! Sheelah! Nobody here? I’m bothered entirely. The cottage on Muckross Head is
empty—not a sowl in it but a cat. Myles has disappeared, and Danny gone—vanished, bedad, like
a fog—Sheelah is the only one remaining. I called to see Miss Chute; I was kicked out. I sent
her a letter; it was returned to me, unopened. Her lawyer has paid off the mortgage, and
taxed my bill of costs—the spalpeen!
A docther!—gi’ me a docther!
Danny here—concealed, too! Oh, there’s something going on that’s worth peepin’ into. Whist!
there’s footsteps comin’. If I could hide a bit. I’m a magistrate, an’ I ought to know what’s
goin’ on—here’s a turf-hole, wid a windy in it.
Is that you, mother?
I’ve brought the docther, asthore.
The priest!
Danny, my son—
And so good a son he was to his ould mother.
Don’t say that—don’t!
I will say it—my blessin’ on ye—see that, now, he’s cryin’.
Danny, the hand of death is on ye. Will ye lave your sins behind ye here below, or will ye take them with ye above, to show them on ye? Is there anything ye can do that’ll mend a wrong? leave that legacy to your friend, and he’ll do it. Do ye want pardon of any one down here? tell me, avick; I’ll get it for ye and send it after you—may be ye’ll want it.
What harrum had ye agin the poor Colleen Bawn?
She stud in
Hardress?
Hisself! I said I’d do it for him, if he’d give me the token.
Did Hardress employ you to kill the girl?
He sent me the glove; that was to be the token that I was to put her away, and I did—I—in the Pool a Dhiol. She would not gi’ me the marriage lines; I threw her in and then I was kilt.
Killed! by whose hand?
I don’t know, unless it was the hand of heaven.
I fell in the wather; the current carried me to a rock; how long I was there half drowned I don’t know, but on wakin’ I found my boat floatin’ close by, an’ it was still dark; I got in and crawled here.
Won’t yer riverince say a word of comfort to the poor boy? He’s in great pain entirely.
Keep him quiet, Sheelah.
Inform Mrs. Cregan that I am waiting upon her.
I am glad to see you, Kyrle.
I want you to see Hardress. For ten days past he shuns the society of his bride. By night he creeps out alone in his boat on the lake—by day he wanders round the neighborhood, pale as death. He is heart-broken.
Has ye asked to see me?
Yesterday he asked where you were.
Did he forget that I left your house when Miss Chute, without a word of explanation, behaved so unkindly to me?
She is not the same girl since she accepted Hardress. She quarrels—weeps—complains, and has lost her spirits.
She feels the neglect of Hardress.
Do you hear? she is rating one of the servants.
Is that the vail and wreath I ordered? How dare you tell me that?
Anne!
You are surprised to see me in your house, Miss Chute?
You are welcome, sir.
I’ll try to find Hardress.
I hope you don’t think I intrude—that is—I came to see Mrs. Cregan.
Anne, I am sorry I offended you; I don’t know what I did, but no matter.
Not the slightest.
I released your neighborhood of my presence.
Yes, and you released the neighborhood of the presence of somebody else—she and you disappeared together.
She!
Never mind.
But I do mind. I love Hardress Cregan as a
Do you? I don’t.
I don’t want the dislike of my friend’s wife to part my friend and me.
Why should it? I’m nobody.
If you were my wife, and asked me to hate any one, I’d do it—I couldn’t help it.
I believed words like that once when you spoke them, but I have been taught how basely you can deceive.
Who taught you?
Who?—your wife.
My what?
Your wife—the girl you concealed in the cottage on Muckross Head. Stop, now—don’t speak—save a falsehood, however many ye may have to spare. I saw the girl—she confessed.
Confessed that she was my wife?
Made a clean breast of it in a minute, which is more than you could do with a sixteen-foot wagon and a team of ten, in a week.
Anne, hear me; this is a frightful error—the girl will not repeat it.
Bring her before me and let her speak.
How do I know where she is?
Well, bring your boatman then, who told me the same.
I tell you it is false; I never saw—never knew the girl.
You did not?
Hardress! (turns aside)
Oh!
’Twas he.
You look distressed, Kyrle. Anne, what is the matter?
Nothing, Hardress. I was about to ask Miss Chute to forget a subject which was painful to her, and to beg of her never to mention it again—not even to you, Hardress.
I am sure she will deny you nothing.
I will forget, sir.
And this is my wedding day. There goes the only man I ever loved. When he’s here near by
me, I could give him the worst treatment a man could desire, and when he goes away he takes
the heart and all of me off with him, and I feel like an unfurnished house. This is pretty
feelings for a girl to have, and she in her regimentals. Oh! if he wasn’t married—but he is,
and he’d have married me as well—the malignant! Oh! if he had, how I’d have made him swing
for it—it would have afforded me the happiest moment of my life.
Here’s Myle’s shanty. I’m nearly killed with climbin’ the hill. I wonder is he at home?
Yes, the door is locked inside.
Let us go inside, Myles—I’ve a word to say t’ye.
I—I’ve lost the key.
Sure it’s stickin’ inside.
I always lock the dure inside and lave it there when I go out, for fear on losin’ it.
Myles, come here to me. It’s lyin’ ye are. Look me in the face. What’s come to ye these tin days past—three times I’ve been to your door and it was locked, but I heard ye stirrin’ inside.
It was the pig, yer riverince.
Myles, why did yer shoot Danny Mann?
Oh, murther, who tould you that?
Himself.
Oh, Father Tom! have ye’ seen him?
I’ve just left him.
Is it down there ye’ve been?
Down where?
Below, where he’s gone to—where would he be, afther murthering a poor crature?
How d’ye know that?
How! how did I!—whist, Father Tom, it was his ghost.
He is not dead, but dyin’ fast, from the wound ye gave him.
I never knew ’twas himself ’till I was tould.
Who tould you?
Is it who?
Who? who?—not Danny, for he doesn’t know who killed him.
Wait, an’ I’ll tell you. It was nigh twelve that night, I was comin’ home—I know the time, betoken Murty Dwyer made me step in his shebeen, bein’ the wake of the ould Callaghan, his wife’s uncle—and a dacent man he was. “Murty,” sez I—
Myles, you’re desavin’ me.
Is it afther desavin’ yer riverence I’d be?
I see the lie in yer mouth. Who tould ye it was Danny Mann ye killed?
You said so a while ago.
Who tould ye it was Danny Mann?
I’m comin’ to it. While I was at Murty’s, yer riverince, as I was a-tellin’ you—Dan Dayley
was there—he had just kim’d in. “Good morrow,—good day”—ses he. “Good morrow, good Dan, ses
I,”—jest that ways entirely—“it’s an opening to the heart to see you.” Well, yer riverence,
as I ware sayin’,—“long life an’ good wife to ye, Masther Dan,” ses I. “Thank ye, ses he, and
the likes to ye, anyway.” The moment I speck them words, Dan got heart, an’ up an’ tould
Murty about his love for Murty’s darter—the Colleen Rue. The moment he heard that, he puts
elbows in himself, an’ stood lookin’ at him out on the flure. “You flog Europe, for
boldness,” ses he—“get out of my sight,” ses he,—“this moment,” ses he,—“or I’ll give yer a
kick that will rise you from poverty to the highest pitch of affluence,” ses he—“away out ’o
that, you notorious delinquent; single your freedom, and double your distance,” ses he. Well,
Dan was forced to cut an’ run. Poor boy! I was sorry for his trouble; there isn’t a better
son nor brother this moment goin’ the road than what he is—said—said—there was’nt better,
an’, an’—oh! Father Tom, don’t ax me; I’ve got an oath on my lips.
I lift the oath from ye. Tell me, avich, oh! tell me. Did ye search for the poor thing—the darlin’ soft-eyed Colleen? Oh, Myles! could ye lave her to lie in the cowld lake all alone?
No, I couldn’t.
Oh, father, father! won’t ye take me far, far away from this place?
Why did ye hide yourself this way?
For fear he’d see me.
Hardress? You knew then that he instigated Danny to get rid of ye?
Why didn’t I die—why am I alive now for him to hate me?
D’ye know that in a few hours he is going to marry another?
I know it. Myles tould me—that’s why I’m hiding myself.
What does she mean?
Love the wretch who sought your life!
Isn’t it his own? It isn’t his fault if his love couldn’t last as long as mine. I was a poor, mane creature—not up to him any way; but if he’d only said, “Eily, put the grave between us and make me happy,” sure I’d lain down, wid a big heart, in the loch.
And you are willing to pass a life of seclusion that he may live in his guilty joy?
If I was alive wouldn’t I be a shame to him an’ a ruin—ain’t I in his way? Heaven help me—why would I trouble him? Oh! he was in great pain o’ mind entirely when he let them put a hand on me—the poor darlin’.
And you mean to let him believe you dead?
Dead an’ gone: then, perhaps, his love for me will come back, and the thought of his poor, foolish little Eily that worshiped the ground he stood on, will fill his heart a while.
And where will you go?
I don’t know. Anywhere. What matters?
I am alone in the world now.
The villain—the monster! He sent her to heaven because he wanted her there to blot out with her tears the record of his iniquity. Eily, ye have but one home, and that’s my poor house. You are not alone in the world—there’s one beside ye, your father, and that’s myself.
Two—bad luck to me, two. I am her mother; sure I brought her into the world a second time.
In with you, an’ keep close a while; I’ll go down to the castle and see what’s the matter.
Promise me that you’ll not betray me—that none but your self and Myles shall ever know I’m livin; promise me that before you go.
I do, Eily; I’ll never breathe a word of it—it is as sacred as an oath.
Quietly, boys; sthrew yourselves round the wood—some of ye at the gate beyant—two more this way—watch the windies; if he’s there to escape at all, he’ll jump from a windy. The house is surrounded.
Oh, oh! they’re dancin’—dancin’ and merry-making, while the net is closin’ around ’em. Now Masther Hardress Cregan—I was kicked out, was I; but I’ll come this time wid a call that ye’ll answer wid your head instead of your foot. My letters were returned unopened; but here’s a bit of writin’ that ye’ll not be able to hand back so easy.
All right, sir.
Did you find the woman, as I told ye?
Here she is, sir.
You are wanted a while—it’s your testimony we require. Bring her this way. Follow me!
Ducie, they are dancing the Boulanger, and they can’t see the figure unless you lend them the light of your eyes.
We have danced enough; it is nearly seven o’clock.
Mr. O’Moore; when is the ceremony to commence?
The execution is fixed for seven—here’s the scaffold, I presume.
Hardress looks like a criminal. I’ve seen him fight three duels, and he never showed such a pale face as he exhibits to-night.
He looks as if he was frightened at being so happy.
And Kyrle Daly wears as gay an appearance.
Hush! here he is.
That need not stop your speech, Hyland. I don’t hide my love for Anne Chute, and it is my pride, and no fault of mine if she has found a better man.
He is not a better man.
He is—she thinks so—what she says becomes the truth.
Who says the days of chivalry are over? Come, gentlemen, the bridesmaids must attend the bride. The guests will assemble in the hall.
Mr. Bertie O’Moore, if you plase. A gentlemen below asked me to hand you this card.
A gentleman! what can he want?
What’s the matter?
A murder has been committed.
A murder?
The perpetrator of the deed has been discovered, and the warrant for his arrest requires my signature.
Hang the rascal.
A magistrate, like a doctor, is called on at all hours.
We can excuse you for such a duty, Mr. O’Moore.
Shew me to him.
Corrigan here! What brings that man to this house?
Hardress! what is the matter with you?
Was my wife!
Your wife?
Hush! Maddened with the miseries this act brought upon me, I treated her with cruelty—she committed suicide.
Merciful powers!
She wrote to me bidding me farewell forever, and the next day her cloak was found floating
in the lake.
Heaven defend our hearts, what is that?
Hardress! my child!
Mother!
Mother, he is here. Look on him—speak to him—do not gasp and stare on your son in that horrid way. Oh, mother! speak, or you will break my heart.
Fly—fly!
Of what is he accused!
Of murder. I see it in her face.
Hush! they come—begone! Your boat is below that window. Don’t speak! when oceans are
between you and danger—write! Till then not a word.
Accused of murder! He is innocent!
Go to your room! Go quickly to your room, you will betray him—you can’t command your features.
Dear mother, I will.
Away, I say—you will drive me frantic, girl. My brain is stretched to cracking! Ha!
There is a tumult in the drawing-room.
They come! You tremble! Go—take away your puny love; hide it where it will not injure him—leave me to face this danger!
He is not guilty.
What’s that to me, woman? I am his mother—the hunters are after my blood! Sit there—look away from this door. They come!
Gentlemen, put up your swords; the house is surrounded by a military force, and we are here in the king’s name.
Clear them out!
Mrs. Cregan, a fearful charge is made against your son; I know—I believe he is innocent; I suggest, then, that the matter be investigated here at once, amongst his friends, so that this scandal may be crushed in its birth.
Where is Hardress?
Where?—why, he’s escaping while we are jabbering here. Search the house.
I regret Mrs. Cregan, but as a form—
Go on, sir!
That is my sleeping chamber.
My duty compels me—
He has escaped by this time.
Anne!
Hold
Hark! I hear—I hear his voice. It cannot be.
The prisoner is here!
Oh, madam! for heaven’s sake!
Mother! mother!
What! shall it be for nothing he has stung the mother’s heart, and set her brain on fire?
I thank you, gentlemen; your hands acquit me. Mother, be calm—sit there.
Come here, Hardress; your place is here by me.
But not witnessed.
Read the confession, sir.
I hope I am.
We may have to call your evidence.
“Deposed and said, that he, deponent, killed Eily O’Connor; that said Eily was the wife of Hardress Cregan, and stood in the way of his marriage with Miss Anne Chute; deponent offered to put away the girl, and his master employed him to do so.”
Sheelah, did Danny confess this crime?
Am I? Oh, oh! Father Tom will scarcely say as much?
I decline to answer that question!
Aha! you must—the law will compel you!
I’d like to see the law that can unseal the lips of the priest, and make him reveal the secrets of heaven.
So much for your two witnesses. Ladies, stand close. Gentlemen, give us room here.
We have abundant proof, your worship—enough to hang a whole country. Danny isn’t dead yet. Deponent agreed with Cregan that if the deed was to be done, that he, Cregan, should give his glove as a token.
Ah!
Hold! I confess that what he has read is true. Danny did make the offer, and I repelled his horrible proposition.
Aha! but you gave him the glove.
Never, by my immortal soul—never!
’Tis false, mother, you did not know his purpose—you could not know it.
I will not say anything that takes the welcome guilt from off me.
Won’t ye, ma’am? Well, if ye won’t, I will.
Myles!
Save all here. If you plaze, I’d like to say a word; there’s been a murder done, and I done it.
You!
Myself. Danny was killed by my hand.
What does he mean?
I mane, that if you found one witness to Eily O’Connor’s death, I found another that knows a little more about it, and here she is.
Eily!
The Colleen Bawn herself!
Hardress!
My wife—my own Eily.
Here, darlin’, take the paper, and tear it if you like.
Eily, I could not live without you.
If ever he blamed you, it was my foolish pride spoke in his hard words—he loves you with all his heart. Forgive me, Eily.
Forgive!
Forgive your mother, Eily.
But what’s to become of me? is all my emotion to be
Take me.
Take me.
Don’t all speak at once! Where’s Mr. Daly?
Oh!
Behave yourself now. If you’ll ask me, I’ll have you.
What’s that?
They’ll drown him.
Niver fear, he wasn’t born to be drowned—he won’t sink—he’ll rise out of the world, and divil a fut nearer heaven he’ll get than the top o’ the gallows.
I’ll be ashamed of him if he does.
And when I spake—no—speak—
Spake is the right sound. Kyrle Daly, pronounce that word.
That’s right; if you ever spake it any other way I’ll divorce ye—mind that.
Eily, darlin’, in the middle of your joy, sure you would not forget one who never forsook you in your sorrow.
Oh, Father Tom!
Oh, it’s not myself I mane.
No, it’s that marauder there, that lent me his top coat in the thunder storm.
Bedad, ma’am, your beauty left a linin’ in it that has kept me warm ever since.
Myles, you saved my life—it belongs to you. There’s my hand—what will you do with it?
I’m only a poor simple girl, and it’s frightened I am to be surrounded by so many—
Friends, Eily, friends.
Oh, if I could think so—if I could hope that I had established myself in a little corner of their hearts, there wouldn’t be a happier girl alive than THE COLLEEN BAWN.
.—Green broad-skirted body coat of the time; double-breasted light silk waistcoat, leather pantaloons, top boots, hair rather long, steeple-crowned gold-laced hat, and white muslin cravat.: Blue body coat, white waistcoat, white kerseymere breeches, silk stockings, and shoes.
Brown coat, etc., same fashion as above.
Evening dress.
Broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, faded black suit, black riding boots, and white cravat.
(a hunchback.] Blue frieze jacket, corduroy breeches, yellow waistcoat, gray
stockings, shoes and buckles, and old seal-skin cap.
Drab great coat, with cape, red cloth waistcoat, old velveteen breeches, darned gray stockings, and shoes.
Black suit, top boots, and brown wig.
—Puce silk dress of the time, white muslin neckerchief and
powdered hair.
Gold-laced riding habit, hat and vail. 2nd Dress: White
embroidered muslin dress, and colored sash.
Blue merino petticoat, chintz tuck-up body and skirts, short sleeves, blue stockings, hair plain, with neat comb, red cloak, and hood.