Owen. It’s bashfulness only, mother. Don’t you know what that is?
Widow. I do, dear. It’s a woman should know that best. And it is not Mabel, nor a daughter of mine, nor a sister of yours, Owen, should be more forward to understand than the man is to speak—was the man a prince.
Owen. Mother, you are right; but I’m not wrong neither. And since I’m to say no more, I’m gone, mother.
{Exit OWEN.
Widow. (alone) Now who could blame that boy, whatever he does or says? It’s all heart he is, and wouldn’t hurt a fly, except from want of thought. But, stay now, I’m thinking of them soldiers that is in town. (Sighs) Then I didn’t sleep since ever they come; but whenever I’d be sinking to rest, starting, and fancying I heard the drum for Owen to go. (A deep groaning sigh.) Och! and then the apparition of Owen in regimentals was afore me!
Enter OWEN, dancing and singing,
“Success to my brains, and success to my tongue!
Success to myself, that never was wrong!”
Widow. What is it? What ails the boy? Are ye mad, Owen?
Owen. (capering, and snapping his fingers) Ay, mad! mad with joy I am. And it’s joy I give you, and joy you’ll give me, mother darling. The new inn’s yours, and no other’s, and Gilbert is your own too, and no other’s—but Mabel’s for life. And is not there joy enough for you, mother?
Widow. Joy!—Oh, too much! (She sinks on a seat.)