Danny When I warned ye to have no call to Eily O’Connor?
Hard I was mad to marry her.
Danny 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.
Hard Well, it’s done, and can’t be undone.
Danny Bedad, I dun know that. Wouldn’t she untie the knot herself—couldn’t ye coax her?
Hard No.
Danny Is that her love for you? You that give up the divil an’ all for her. What’s her ruin to yours? Ruin—goredoutha—ruin is it? Don’t I pluck a shamrock and wear it a day for the glory of St. Patrick, and then throw it away when it’s gone by my likin’s. What is she to be ruined by a gentleman? Whoo! Mighty good for the likes o’ her.
Hard She would have yielded, but—
Danny 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.
Hard 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?