Chapter V: Act I

A ruined abbey in a green valley among mountains covered with layers of grey rock. At back a little removed is a cairn overgrown with grass. Gray limestones belonging to the ruin are strewn about the ground. At the left in the surrounding pasture of pale green, great leafless ash trees stand among boulders spotted with white and orange lichen. It is a sunny evening in the month of March.

MAEVE O’HEYNES--a girl of about three and twenty with a fair complexion, gold hair, and a certain boyish beauty in the lines and movement of her slim figure, rests thoughtful and attentive on one of the fallen stones. She wears a red frieze dress with a black jacket and folding linen collar, and has on her head a sailor’s cap of black wool.

FINOLA O’HEYNES--a dark rather submissive-looking girl somewhat younger, dressed simply in an ordinary gown, sits near on another stone.

FINOLA (_reading from an old book_).--

“Every hill which is at this Oenach
Hath under it heroes and queens,
And poets and distributors,
And fair fierce women.”

MAEVE (_rises and gazes before her as if in a dream_). And fair fierce women!

FIN. (_closing the book, goes to her_). Maeve--what are you thinking of so earnestly?

MA. (_recalled to herself_). Visions--visions.--That is all.

FIN. Has this old West Connacht poem brought you visions?

MA. Ah, the bard Dorban, who wrote it, was a poet! (_She sighs and covers her face with her hands._)

FIN. (_turning away_). I am sorry I thought of reading it to you.

MA. Why, sister?

FIN. Because it seems to have called you back to your old self.

MA. (_smiling sadly_). My old self. As if I could ever have left my old self.

FIN. Oh yes, you were peaceful and contented a little while ago.

MA. It seems so long ago, Finola.

FIN. Something strange has come over you now.

MA. (_with restlessness_). No, it is nothing. It is only the look of the evening.

FIN. But this is such a peaceful evening with that saffron sunlight over the ruins. Why should it make you anything else but peaceful?

MA. Oh, Finola, when I see the ruins like that, I know the visions are near me.

FIN. Then, after all, it was not because I read that poem?

MA. Yes--that, and the evening.

FIN. (_looking at her anxiously_). Why should the visions make you so sad, Maeve?

MA. (_wistfully_). Such beautiful dead people! They used to walk in the oldest of these ruins before it was a ruin; they watched Goban, the great architect, building that round tower (_pointing to the right_), building his master-work. I see them now, and I see others who lived long before them (_turns and looks to the back_), and are buried in that green cairn. Oh, I am dying because I am exiled from such beauty.

FIN. (_with great gentleness_). Darling, you must not think of these things. You know to-morrow----

MA. (_with a sudden chillness_). To-morrow,--why do you speak of to-morrow while it is still to-day, and I can still think of my love?

FIN. _To_-morrow when you are married, Maeve, it will be your husband who will be entitled to that love.

MA. (_significantly_). He has not yet returned.

FIN. Hugh will certainly return before night.

MA. But he has not yet returned, Finola.

FIN. Do you really think he will not return?

MA. (_with a baffled look_). Oh, I don’t know: but somehow I cannot believe that I am to be married to-morrow. (_Looks around_) To leave all this for an English home--

FIN. (_with increased anxiety_). Maeve--

MA. The very stones, as I wander among them, seem to forbid it.

[_Exit among the ruins at back._

FIN. (_walking about in agitation_). Oh, why does not Hugh return? (_Then suddenly stopping_) Here is father again. Poor father.

_THE O’HEYNES enters from the left, leaning heavily on a
stick. He is an old man, with thin, white dishevelled
hair almost falling to his shoulders, wears a tall hat
and clothes of a somewhat bygone fashion; while about
his whole appearance there is just a suggestion of the
peasant._

THE O’H. (_restlessly_). Finola, I wonder will Hugh come after all?

FIN. Of course he will, father. Why have you been asking me this question all day?

THE O’H. Because he has been promising to come for ever so long, and he has not come.

FIN. Well--you know the reason.

THE O’H. (_peevishly_). Yes--yes--legal business--always the same excuse.

FIN. You surely must understand that he had to consult the lawyers about many matters before his marriage with Maeve.

THE O’H. When he left here for England he said it would only be for a little time, and here he has been away more than two months.

FIN. The delay was very unfortunate, but necessary, I suppose. You see every sort of legal business is so tedious.

THE O’H. I don’t know--I don’t know. I distrust his excuses. He said he would certainly return to-day, and there, he hasn’t after all.

FIN. But to-day is not yet over. Oh, you needn’t fear. He will return before to-morrow.

THE O’H. Ah, this is the way you are perpetually making excuses for him, Finola.

FIN. (_a little confused_). Father, why do you say so?

THE O’H. I understand it all. Another girl would not be so forgiving as you are, Finola.

FIN. I have nothing to forgive.

THE O’H. That is well, child. But, believe me, I had far rather he had married you than Maeve.

FIN. Oh, no. He always liked Maeve from the first, and no one else. I never at any time doubted that, father.

THE O’H. Well, this is certainly a queer way of showing his affection for her.

FIN. I suppose it would be, if there were no reasons for it.

THE O’H. (_indignantly_). To think he should have put off coming until his very wedding morning. He deserves to lose her after leaving her all this time. Oh the persistent ill-luck that has pursued me all through life.

FIN. I’m sure I can’t think how you consider it ill-luck to be on the eve of having all your wishes fulfilled.

THE O’H. Ah, that is just it, child. I have so often been on the eve of having my wishes fulfilled: and then somehow the unforeseen has come about: and all my hopes have gone from me. I am surely the most unfortunate of men.

FIN. Father, dear, you must not despond in this way.

THE O’H. To think of all the anxiety your sister has caused me, Finola, and the trouble she put me to before she would accept this rich young Englishman. She must have been mad. As if the coming into this place of such a suitor was an everyday event to her.

FIN. (_pensively_). He never for a moment interested her somehow. It was very strange, his coming--wasn’t it?

THE O’H. Was there ever such good fortune? I advertise the fishing of my river in the papers. He arrives here last summer, and takes it at once. To be sure it is splendid salmon fishing--but that it should have brought such a tenant as Hugh Fitz Walter--and that he should have fallen in love with Maeve--well--

FIN. (_with a sigh_). Well, father, you ought to be content with such good fortune.

THE O’H. (_despondingly_). Ah, I am afraid it is too good to come to anything. But just think that after all _he_ should be the one to wreck this good fortune--Oh, I am distracted. (_He begins to work his hands and tear his hair._)

FIN. (_alarmed_). Father, don’t fret in this way. It is bad for your health. And you know there is no reason for it.

THE O’H. (_feebly_). Oh child, if you could only realise how I have waited and waited for this--for the time when fortune would enable our family to resume its fitting position in the county! Hugh has at last promised me this fortune. Is it surprising that I should be anxious, when I see the danger of his failing me?

FIN. (_inadvertently_). He is not the one who will fail you, father.

THE O’H. (_with a quick suspicion_). You think Maeve is more likely to--eh? Where is she?

FIN. Oh don’t trouble about her. She is safe.

THE O’H. I noticed she was taking to her old habits lately. I had again to forbid her to wander through the country at night.

FIN. (_as if laughing the matter off_). You must not mind these wanderings of hers. They are very harmless, father.

THE O’H. (_anxiously_). Does she still talk of this strange one she is in love with?

FIN. Oh that is nothing. Don’t trouble about it.

THE O’H. I am not so sure of what you say, Finola. I’ll take my oath she is thinking about some good for nothing fellow after all.

FIN. No--no, nothing of the kind. You don’t understand her.

THE O’H. Indeed I don’t, child.

FIN. It is not often easy to do so. She seems to live by the brain as we live by the heart.

THE O’H. She seems to me quite regardless of realities.

FIN. Those feelings and impulses which are in our hearts and which govern our affections, with her are all in the head. This sounds strange: but it is the only way I can account for her nature.

THE O’H. (_surprised_). In the head?

FIN. Yes--that is why she appears so cold, and, as you say, regardless of realities. I even think if this one she loves were to become a reality, he would cease to fascinate her.

THE O’H. (_curiously_). Have you ever found out who he is?

FIN. No--not altogether.

THE O’H. I wonder what put such an extravagant idea in her head.

FIN. I think I know.

THE O’H. Well, what is it?

FIN. Would you believe it, father, I think it is those books that belonged to Uncle Bryan.

THE O’H. You mean those books up in the top room. They are mostly about ancient Greece, aren’t they?

FIN. Yes. She is always poring over them and looking at their pictures--white statues and beautiful wall ornaments which she told me were in Greece. And then she showed me other books too, with pictures of pillars and arches--all ornamented like those in the abbey here. Then I have seen her take the writings of Uncle Bryan and study them with all these pictures before her.

THE O’H. Poor Bryan’s writings, do you say? I didn’t think there were any here. I thought the Society he belonged to, took them all. (_With plaintive regret_) My poor brother Bryan; he was a great scholar. They used to talk of him in Dublin. They said if he had lived to complete his book, it would have made him famous.

FIN. What was he writing about when he died, father?

THE O’H. Let me see--I think his work was to be called “The Influence of Greek Art on Celtic Ornament” or something of the sort.

FIN. That must have been it; for Maeve is always talking of that, and of the brotherhood of the Greek and Celtic races, and of a curious unreal beauty besides, which she says the Greeks invented. She thinks she has discovered something similar in the Celt.

THE O’H. Is that what you say she is in love with?

FIN. (_with earnest conviction_). I verily believe so, father. (_Then after a moment’s consideration_) Still it often seems to me she must have some individual in her mind besides.

THE O’H. I thought that was the case.

FIN. Oh--not what you think.

THE O’H. What then, child?

FIN. I don’t know;--she speaks of his beauty as if it had some sort of likeness to the Celtic ornament she is so much in love with.

THE O’H. Ah, she must have discovered this in the writings of Bryan.--He had all sorts of odd theories about everything, poor fellow.

FIN. Yes, and she is as full of theories. She says that, because Celtic ornament is as rare and delicate as the Greek, so her pattern of Celtic youth must, in the same way, equal the perfection of Greek youth.

THE O’H. (_astonished_). My goodness, is the whole of life like this to her?

FIN. Ah, now you understand what I meant when I told you that everything with her seemed to be only in the head.

THE O’H. (_seriously_). Yes, Finola, and nothing in the heart. She has no warm feelings of the heart. She was always cold and distant from her earliest childhood.

FIN. No, I would not say so much. I think it is only her imagination that has absorbed all the warmth of her nature.

THE O’H. What you say is the same thing, my dear. Whatever may be the cause, depend upon it, she has no feeling.

FIN. Oh, don’t say that, father.

THE O’H. Oh no, she hasn’t, Finola; and I don’t wonder that this young man’s affection should at last weary of her apathy.

FIN. It is not any want of affection that has delayed him, father.

THE O’H. I cannot believe any more in his affection. (_Querulously_) Why is he not here? Why is he not here?

FIN. You will surely see him very soon. For goodness sake, do not fret so. Go in, and try and rest.

THE O’H. Rest--I cannot rest. How can I rest with this anxiety gnawing at me?

FIN. Oh, this miserable pride and position. They are ruining your health and peace.

THE O’H. (_with a sudden reviving of energy_). Not they, my girl, indeed--why do you say so? Why should what are good for every other man be bad for old Colman O’Heynes?

FIN. Yes, yes, father dear, I know. But somehow we have been so happy and united in our seclusion here. We are going to be divided.

THE O’H. How divided?

FIN. Maeve will soon leave us.

THE O’H. Ah--yes, of course.

FIN. Let that be sufficient. Let us at least not try to go out into the world.

THE O’H. Why not, Finola?

FIN. The world is such a great lonely place.

THE O’H. But my lost position--the lost dignity of our family. I have that to reassert. When my rich son-in-law comes there will be an end of our poverty.

FIN. You are the Prince of Burren.--Is not the royalty of our race acknowledged? What place can _we_ find in a grotesque world of plutocrats and shop-keeper peers? This change in our life seems unnatural to me. And then that wicked old Peg Inerny is always talking.

THE O’H. (_sharply_). Eh--what does she say?

FIN. Oh, nothing definite--nothing but insinuations and mystery, till I feel quite terrified.

THE O’H. She has been the curse of our house; and now the infernal witch has bewitched your sister.

FIN. I don’t think that--I hope not. Maeve is only fascinated by her strange tales--the past, always the past.

THE O’H. Ay, it was the same way with your poor mother and this Peg Inerny who was a servant here long ago, and put it into her head to call your sister by the name of Maeve. Peg Inerny, I know, had some sinister object for this.

FIN. Oh, no, no.

THE O’H. Ah--wait a while.

FIN. (_with a scared look_). Father, don’t forebode evil. Try and be contented--try and check this restlessness that is urging you to change your life. Let us go in. (_As they move to the left_) Look at our old castle. How spectral those giant ash trees rise up around it from the pale March grass. How peaceful they all live in the sunset. Would it not be misery to leave that peace for a world where there is at least no peace.

_HUGH FITZ WALTER--a good-looking young Englishman of about
five and twenty, dressed in a tweed suit--enters at the
right._

HUGH (_eagerly_). So I have arrived, you see, at last.

THE O’H. (_turning_). Who is that?--what, Hugh?

HUGH. It is I.

THE O’H. And so it is.--Heaven be praised. I thought you were never coming, Hugh. (_He shakes him by the hand._)

FIN. (_also shaking him by the hand_). I am so glad you have come--at last.

HUGH. But I wrote to you my reason for not getting here sooner.

THE O’H. Yes, I know, of course. But why should you have put off coming like this till the very last?

HUGH. Haven’t I explained to you again and again how my affairs delayed me?

THE O’H. (_peevishly_). Yes--yes--explanations. You have caused me, Hugh, the greatest anxiety for all that.

HUGH. I assure you, O’Heynes, this delay was sorely against my will: and I am sorry you have had any anxiety on my account. Why you have, indeed, I cannot understand.

THE O’H. My mind has been a prey to all sorts of doubts and forebodings.

HUGH (_alarmed_). Good gracious. What is this for? Isn’t Maeve well? How is she?

THE O’H. (_impatiently_). Oh, she is well--well enough.

HUGH. You are hiding something from me, O’Heynes.

THE O’H. No--not at all.

HUGH. I, too, was anxious. That is why I hurried here at once after my arrival in the village.

THE O’H. (_suspiciously_). Eh--why were you anxious?

HUGH. I had not heard about her from Finola for some days.

THE O’H. There is nothing the matter with her except what has come by your protracted absence.

HUGH (_frightened_). What has come to her? You alarm me.

THE O’H. Only a return of her strange ways that used to trouble me before her engagement to you. That is all.

HUGH (_with visible relief_). Oh--that is all.

THE O’H. (_involuntarily_). She frightens me sometimes.

HUGH. In what way?

THE O’H. (_hesitates and looks confused_).

FIN. Oh, don’t worry her about such things. Hush, here she comes.

_MAEVE O’HEYNES enters from the back._

HUGH. Oh, Maeve, what is it--?

MA. (_starts when she perceives him_).

HUGH (_goes eagerly to her, but is checked by the chillness of her manner, then taking her hand which she gives apathetically_). I hope you are not angry, Maeve. I came as soon as it was possible for me.

MA. (_with some recovered composure_). Oh--for that--I am not angry in the least--I am not angry at all.

HUGH. You looked as if something disturbed you.

FIN. Hugh, it is only her surprise at suddenly seeing you.

THE O’H. Yes, indeed, when you have disappointed her so often. But, thank heaven, you have arrived safe at last. Come, Finola, come, now I can rest. I feel I want rest after all this suspense. Come, let us go indoors.

[_Exeunt THE O’HEYNES and FINOLA O’HEYNES at left._

HUGH (_to MAEVE_). Well, I am back at last; and you--you are so silent and forgetful there among those old stones.

MA. (_as if recalled to herself_). No. I am in reality thinking of this very thing.

HUGH. Of my coming?

MA. Yes.

HUGH. It has no interest for you one way or the other?

MA. Oh yes. But I can not understand father’s reason for being so troubled about it.

HUGH. Of course not. As if I wouldn’t return on the first opportunity to you. Why do you seem annoyed that I should tell you this?

MA. (_restlessly_). Somehow there seem such cross purposes in this world of ours.

HUGH. Cross purposes--how so?

MA. Oh I don’t know--persons seem to give others what those others don’t want from them, but want from someone else.

HUGH. That is indeed a world of cross purposes.

MA. (_sadly_). Don’t you see that it is just so with us here?

HUGH. (_dejectedly_). You mean that I give what is not wanted.

MA. Yes, and that another would give you what you want from some one else.

HUGH. Who is that other?

MA. The one whom you once appeared to like best.

HUGH. You are the one I always liked best in the world.

MA. The world did not think so.

HUGH. Indeed?--You puzzle me. Explain what you are saying?

MA. (_with a certain embarrassment_). I thought you liked my sister better than me.

HUGH. Than you? Oh no--impossible. I know you don’t believe what you are saying.

MA. But you appeared to be so much more intimate with her than you have been with me.

HUGH. Ah, that is just it. I have the greatest affection for Finola. I admire her goodness and unselfishness. She has indeed the disposition of an angel.

MA. And yet you could leave her for one so less worthy, as I am.

HUGH. You shall not say you are less worthy; I can see no fault in you.

MA. Oh, why did you ever leave Finola?

HUGH. You forget we were never more than friends. She is one of my very dearest friends.

MA. And you were never engaged to her?

HUGH. Never. It was only when I despaired of your consent that I thought for a while of Finola. But it was no use. Your image always rose up between us. I soon understood that for me you were the only one in the world. (_Pause._)

MA. (_absently_). The only one in the world. What happiness it must be to find the one who is so much as that.

HUGH. It may also be misery--that is, in a certain sense.

MA. (_a little surprised_). Really? How can it be misery?

HUGH. When we know that nothing of what we feel is returned.

MA. (_abstractedly_). I should not have thought that much mattered.

HUGH. Do you say this because I persist in loving you through all your contempt of my love?

MA. Oh no--I was not thinking of you at all.

HUGH. What was your reason then for saying it?

MA. (_with a pensive deliberation_). I should have imagined that if one really loved, one would shrink from a return of love.

HUGH. (_surprised_). You wouldn’t like your love returned?

MA. Ah no, for I think if it were, the beauty of love would come to an end in the lover.

HUGH. How very strange. But why should I think so? Yours is the reasoning of one who has never known love.

MA. So you think I have never known love?

HUGH. Certainly. (_Pause._) Have you?

MA. Well, I can tell you truly that I have.

HUGH (_in a serious tone_). Is that really so?

MA. Yes.

HUGH (_with a sudden suspicion_). Do you love some one now?

MA. (_quietly_). Yes.

HUGH (_growing excited_). Who is he?

MA. (_wearily_). Oh, what is the use of telling you?

HUGH. Who is he, I say? For pity’s sake speak.

MA. You would never understand.

HUGH (_bitterly_). I should understand only too well.

MA. Look around you, then.

HUGH (_puzzled, looking around him_). Well? I see no one.

MA. (_scornfully_). I knew you would not understand.

HUGH (_wondering_). I see nothing but these ruins--that mysterious round tower--the stony mountains--and your gray castle through the leafless boughs of great ash trees.

MA. (_with a visionary look in her eyes_). And you see nothing but these?

HUGH. Oh, what is this mystery? Will you tell me?

MA. (_smiling ecstatically_). Among all these that you see--listen to what Gráinne says in the old poem--

“There lives a one
On whom I would love to gaze long,
For whom I would give the whole world,
All, all, though it is a delusion.”

HUGH (_downcast_). You are mocking me.

MA. (_gently_). Oh, no.--How can you think so? Are not all things beautiful that remind us of our love?

HUGH (_after looking at her calmly for some time_). Yes, you are right. How strange you are. I do not understand you. Among us simple men you seem like one of your golden fairies. What is the name you call them?

MA. Tûatha dê Danann, those tall beautiful children of the Dagda Môr. It is said they were the old people of Erin and were afterwards worshipped as gods.

HUGH. But you do not believe they are really gods?

MA. Oh, no--only a race whose great beauty still haunts our land. (_Sadly_) They were too beautiful to compare with me.

HUGH. They could not be more beautiful than you are. You don’t know how beautiful you are to me. No--if you knew, you would not be so indifferent. Ah, I realise but too well how little you care for me. You would never have consented to be my wife but for your father: you are doing it all for your father--not for me.

MA. Oh, why do you go back to all that? Have I not consented? And is not that the main thing?

HUGH (_resignedly_). Yes,--I suppose I must be satisfied. I must only trust to time for winning you completely.

MA. (_with mysterious significance_). Let us all trust to time.

HUGH (_brightening_). May I put my trust in time?

MA. You must ask that question of Time himself.

HUGH. Oh, I am confident of his answer.

MA. And I too, am confident in Time.

[_Exeunt leisurely at the left._

_As they are going, PEG INERNY--a little old woman in a
ragged red frieze petticoat, a black frieze cloak raised
up to partially cover her head, and with dark woollen
stockings worn away at the bare soles of her
feet--enters stealthily from among the ruins at back.
Muttering indistinctly she follows the two for a while,
then squats down on a stone and gazes fixedly at the
cairn._

_After a pause MAEVE and FINOLA O’HEYNES enter at the left._

FIN. Oh, Maeve, why do you come out here again?

MA. (_joyfully_). He is gone. Until to-morrow, at least I shall be free.

FIN. Poor Hugh.

MA. He is gone; and I will make the most of my little liberty. I have to say good-bye to beauty. How this moonlit night--this Irish night comes like a fawn!

FIN. (_perceives PEG INERNY and stands as if transfixed_).

MA. What’s the matter, Finola? (_Turns and looks_) Oh, it is only Peg Inerny.

FIN. Come away, Maeve, for heavens’ sake come. I have left father sleeping in the hall; and if he awakes he is sure to call me, and ask where you are.

MA. (_not heeding FINOLA_). Peg, Peg, I have not seen you for many days. What has brought you here to-night?

PEG (_rousing herself slowly and looking steadily at MAEVE_). I come to take a last farewell of my Princess on the night before her wedding day.

MA. (_with a rigid melancholy_). Yes, I shall never return here, Peg.

PEG. Do you think you will ever leave, Princess?

FIN. Oh, what is that she says? I am terrified.

MA. (_carelessly_). You are always alarmed at one thing or another, Finola.

FIN. (_uneasily_). No--no--but didn’t you hear her?

PEG. (_to FINOLA_). Princess, do not fear a poor old woman.

FIN. Why will you always call us princesses?

PEG. Isn’t your father a prince? The Prince of Burren?

MA. (_impatiently_). A prince indeed. It is a mockery now to call him that.

PEG. The O’Heynes is none the less a prince whatever he may have done to put shame on his race.

MA. (_helplessly_). Oh, what a misfortune it was.

FIN. (_expostulating_). Maeve--darling.

PEG (_slyly_). They told me my Princess Maeve was content to marry her young Englishman.

MA. (_with suppressed scorn_). Ha--no one ever troubled before to consider whether she was or not.

PEG. He is so rich--so rich with his grand English house and possessions.

MA. Yes indeed--and that is how the whole tragedy has come about.

PEG. I was sure you cared not, Princess, for this world’s riches.

MA. (_sadly_). Heaven knows I never had any greed of them.

FIN. Oh Maeve, I thought you had done with these complaints once and for all.

MA. (_pained and irresolute_). So I, too, thought--once perhaps. But to-day in the abbey--it was so beautiful. Something seemed to come back to me.

PEG. It was haunting you, Princess? The day-ghost, eh?

MA. (_with a wan look_). The day-ghost. Oh the wistful pleading of a day-ghost!

FIN. (_frightened_). Why do you say that, Maeve?

MA. Ah--if you saw him--but you never have, Finola.

FIN. Saw him--good heavens, where?

MA. (_pointing to the round tower_). In the master-work of Goban--in the mountains too.

PEG. Your love is dreaming among the rocks of these mountains, Princess.

MA. (_with a sort of ecstacy_). Oh, how I have grown to love these stony mountains.

PEG. They are the pleasure haunts of many a beautiful ghost.

MA. The many beautiful buried in that cairn.

PEG. Oh what a world there is underneath that cairn.

MA. (_pensively_). Yes, the great beautiful Queen Maeve who reigned over Connacht hundreds of years ago--she is buried in that cairn you say?

PEG. Haven’t I often told you so, Princess?

FIN. But I have always understood that Queen Maeve was buried at Rathcroghan in County Roscommon.

PEG. No, Princess, she is here.

FIN. (_inquiringly_). Can you know that?

PEG. Can I know? I can know many things. (_With a low laugh_) Indeed I ought to know where Queen Maeve is.

MA. Why you especially, Peg?

PEG. Haven’t I dwelt in her palace, child?

FIN. (_timidly approaching MAEVE_). That is a strange thing to say.

PEG. (_continuing with a sort of inward satisfaction_). Yes, I have dwelt in her palace. Ha--ha--does anyone think that I could bear my miserable outcast life in the world if I could not live the other life also? Oh, my sweet ladies, you don’t know the grandeur of that other life.

MA. (_eagerly_). Tell me, do tell me of that other life.

FIN. Maeve--take care--don’t ask such a thing.

MA. (_impatiently_). Oh Finola, you mustn’t prevent me in this way. (_To PEG INERNY_) Tell me.

PEG. A life among the people with beautiful looks.

MA. (_suddenly delighted_). With beautiful looks!

PEG. Yes, Princess--Oh, just so graceful and clean as you are yourself. I often think you must be one of them.

MA. Tell me more about those people.

PEG. They are now ruled over by the great Queen Maeve.

MA. (_puzzled_). But--she is dead, isn’t she? Didn’t you say she was buried in the cairn?

PEG. (_with an enigmatical grimace_). Yes, yes, Princess--but not dead--Oh, I never said that she was dead.

MA. What new and wonderful tale are you now telling me?

PEG. Haven’t I told you before that Queen Maeve has ever been watchful of you?

MA. (_surprised_). No--you have not. What does this mean?

PEG. Just fancy, Princess, it was she who had you called after herself.

FIN. (_excitedly_). Maeve, don’t believe her. How is this possible?

PEG. Ah, Princess Finola, didn’t you ever know that I was once a servant in the Castle?

FIN. (_restraining herself_). Yes, I believe you were. It was a very long time ago, was it not?

PEG. When your beautiful sister here was born.

FIN. Well then, supposing you were, what has that to do with Queen Maeve naming my sister?

PEG. (_slyly_). Oh--only ’twas I made them think of calling her Maeve.

FIN. But you said Queen Maeve did so?

PEG. (_with veiled significance_). Haven’t I told you of the other life I lead, sweet Princess Finola?

FIN. (_starts, then looking awed and mystified at PEG INERNY, says in a trembling voice_) Maeve, she is a wicked woman. It is not right to hold any intercourse with her.

MA. (_who has been listening with a troubled expression_). Ah me, I am the most miserable one in the world.

FIN. (_terrified_). Dearest, for pity’s sake don’t--don’t give way to such a feeling.

MA. (_despairingly_). My father--oh, my father.

PEG. I know it was for his sake alone that you promised to marry this Hugh Fitz Walter.

MA. Yes, father will become rich and great--but my heart will break.

FIN. (_anxiously_). No--no, Maeve, you must remember how good and kind Hugh is. He will surely never cause you unhappiness.

MA. How could he be anything but unhappiness to me, when I can only think of my beloved?

PEG (_insidiously_). That one who haunts the mountains and the beautiful old buildings, Princess--

MA. My beloved whom I am leaving for ever!

FIN. (_throwing her arms around her sister_). Hush--you must not think of him any more, Maeve.

PEG. Ah--you cling to her like ivy, my Lady Finola. You were the one made for clinging. You were the wife that would have been best for the Englishman.

MA. Oh, if he could but understand that this is so.

PEG. They never can, Princess. Dwellers in the valley are always looking at the heights above them.

MA. (_sadly_). I am no longer on those heights. I have fallen from them miserably, and have become (_looking at FINOLA_) like the ivy in the valley.

PEG. Not yet--you are still on the heights. No, you are still like the tall smooth larch on the top of the mountain.

MA. (_dejectedly_). Ah, no, not any longer.

PEG. Come then, to the mountains, Princess--there you will believe it.

FIN. (_restraining her_). Maeve, Maeve, do not go. It will kill father if he hears you have wandered away to-night.

PEG. See how bright it is. The night is lit for your visit. (_MAEVE appears to hesitate._) Beware of the ivy clinging around the larch, Princess Maeve. It will kill the fairy growth of the larch.

MA. (_restlessly_). Let me go, Finola, let me go.

FIN. I will not, Maeve.

MA. Let me go to the mountains for this last time; I promise to return soon.

FIN. Oh, sister, do not go there to-night.

MA. How white the moon rays dance upon the mountains.

PEG. It is the mountains, Princess, that are white with the dancing feet of the fairies.

MA. (_desperately_). I must go there to-night.

FIN. You shall not, Maeve.

MA. (_gazing fondly on the mountains_). Oh beauty of my day-dreams come forth from the mountains.

PEG. Princess, what is it that you see?

MA. (_with transport_). My love, like an exhalation from the earth to the stars!

PEG (_moving towards the back_). Come, Princess, come.

MA. I am coming.

FIN. (_with a sudden determination_). Then I shall go too. I could not bear the suspense of your absence. (_Distant voice of THE O’HEYNES is heard several times calling “FINOLA.”_) Good heavens, there is father calling (_runs to the left and listens in great agitation while the calling is repeated_). Yes, father, yes, father.

[_Exeunt MAEVE O’HEYNES and PEG INERNY quickly at the back._

FIN. If he finds she has gone he will be so distressed. I must not tell him. Oh, Maeve, why, why have you gone? Yes, father--coming--coming.

[_Exit at left._