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And yet you dare to open the books, to listen to beautiful music, to learn to love beautiful paintings, to speak good English, to think thoughts that none of your own kind thinks, to tear yourself away from the oxen and the Lizzie Connollys and to love a pale spirit of a woman who is a million miles beyond you and who lives in the stars! Who are you? and what are you? damn you!
A slave, he had read, had risen to the Roman purple. That being so, then he could rise to Ruth. Under her purity, and saintliness, and culture, and ethereal beauty of soul, she was, in things fundamentally human, just like Lizzie Connolly and all Lizzie Connollys. All that was possible of them was possible of her.
And this time she said it out of a woman's knowledge of what life was to mean. They went in, to find that the Connollys had retired. Jean slept in a great feather-bed. And all the night the chimes in the College tower struck the hours In the morning, Jean went over to the church with Mrs. Connolly. It was Saturday, and things must be made ready for the services the next day.
It was evident that the girl had stolen out unobserved to reproduce perhaps for the visitor's benefit the legendary notes of the phantom huntsman. This was a favorite joke among the young Connollys, and scarcely a New-Year's night passed that it was not practised by one or other of the large family; but what had occurred to-night?
He had observed that there had been no attempt on the Connollys to appeal to neighbours for sympathy in this time of trouble, and he had asked Jack the reason. Jack's answer had been brief and pregnant. "Where's the good? We're boycotted." And that dead man lying on the table outside was only an example of boycotting carried to its logical conclusion.
There were also a fat house dog, and a brace of plump pussies, for the Connollys were a plump and comfortable couple who wanted everything about them comfortable, and who had had little to worry them until the coming of the war. Yet even the war could not shake Mrs. Connolly's faith in the rightness of things. "I was glad to have our country get into it, and to have my sons go.
Most of the summers of her little girlhood had been spent there, with now and then a Christmas holiday. The house did not boast a heating plant, but there were roaring open fires in all the rooms, except in the Connollys' sitting room, which was warmed by a great black stove. The Connollys were the caretakers. They occupied the left wing of the house, and worked the farm.
Connolly, of Lisnahoe, could boast of a full quiver. There was a general chorus of laughter as Harold related his experience at the railway-station. The Connollys had rested for several days under the ban of the most rigid boycott, and had become used to small discomforts.
Old Peter Dwyer, the last remaining retainer, had never attended at table, so he confined himself to kitchen duties, while the young Connollys waited on themselves and on each other. A certain little maid, whom Harold by this time had identified as Bella, devoted herself to the stranger, and took care that neither his glass nor his plate should be empty.
But two months' pay wouldn't buy a gown like this," he lifted a fold with his forefinger "to say nothing of your little shoes." He dropped his light tone. "Oh, my dear, can't you see?" "No. I can't see. Daddy would let us have this house, and I have a little money of my own from my mother, and and the Connollys would take care of everything, and we should see the spring come, and the summer."
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