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Updated: June 4, 2025
"I I suppose you think I was an awful beast about the tea, don't you?" "No, I didn't I don't." "I was much firmer than I would have been, but I wanted you to stay. So I couldn't give in." "If it had been just Cosgrave and Miss Edwards?" "It wouldn't have mattered not so much." "I wasn't hurt. It was tactless of me. But I wanted the tea. I forgot. And I wanted to stay, too.
It was as though for a long time past he too had been indefinitely ill, and now at an exasperating touch the poisoned blood rushed to a head of pain. He felt Cosgrave plucking at his sleeve, fretfully like a sick child, raised to a sudden interest. "I say, Stonehouse, don't you remember?" "The Circus? Yes, I was just thinking about it. It's not likely to be the same though." "Why not?
But even if a man were to juggle with his own integrity, turn charlatan, there was no faith-serum which you could inject into a patient's veins. Cosgrave sat limply in his stall, and by the reflected light from the stage Stonehouse could see his look of wan indifference. He was no better.
"But I understand that she's been able to drown quite a number of people better able to look after themselves than you are. As far as you're concerned, it seems rather a pity." Cosgrave shook his head. A certain quiet obstinacy, not altogether that of intoxication, came into his flushed face. And yet he looked sorry and almost ashamed. "I'm not going to drown.
It was while Martin Cosgrave walked through the building that Ellen Miscal came to him with the second letter from America. The carpenter was hammering at something below. The letter said that Rose Dempsey and her sister, Sheela, would be home in the late harvest. "With all I saw since I left Kilbeg," Rose Dempsey wrote, "I never saw one that I thought as much of as Martin Cosgrave."
A stag showing itself for an instant against the sky-line called up all the stubborn purpose in him; then he would not turn back until either his quarry had fallen to him, or night had swallowed them both. And Cosgrave, half forgotten, tagged docilely at his heels, or lay in the wet heather on the crest of a hill overlooking the world, and watched and waited with strange, wide-open eyes.
"A house he is going to put up on the hill," they would say, lost in wonder. The spring came, and with it all the strenuous work on the land. But Martin Cosgrave went on with the building.
Cosgrave, blindly absorbed, never looked towards him, but twice she met his eyes, still with a faintly puzzled amusement, as though every moment she expected to penetrate a mask of crude enmity to a no less crude admiration and desire.
One day a stranger was driving by on his car, and when he saw the building he got down, walked up the hill, and made a long study of it. On his way down he met Martin Cosgrave. "Who built the house on the hill?" he asked. "A simple man in the neighbourhood," Martin Cosgrave made answer, after a little pause. "A simple man!" the stranger exclaimed, looking at Martin Cosgrave with some disapproval.
And his own two hands! He ran his fingers along the muscles of his arms. Then he walked up the hill. Martin Cosgrave, as he walked up the hill, felt himself wondering for the first time in his life if he had really been foolish to have run away from his father's cabin when he had been young.
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