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Updated: June 4, 2025
"What call has a man to be destroying himself like that?" the neighbours asked each other. Martin Cosgrave knew what the neighbours were saying about him. But what did he care? What thought had any of them for the heart of a builder? What did any of them know beyond putting a spade in the clay and waiting for the seasons to send up growing things from the seed they scattered by their hands?
"Well, she could ride, anyhow. I don't know what your long-legged favourite was good for." "She made me laugh," Cosgrave said. He asked after a moment: "Have you ever wanted anything so much as you wanted to go to that Circus, Stonehouse?" "Oh, yes crowds of things!" "I don't believe it somehow. I know I haven't.
There are trees in this little old village, but they aren't real somehow, and I never notice 'em. Well, we'll know on Monday. Please Heaven, it doesn't rain." "I want to get out," Cosgrave muttered; "out of here right away " "I've not had a picnic not since I was a kid. But I haven't forgotten it, though. Heaps to eat and an appetite Oh, my!"
"You might have killed yourself," Robert said angrily. But Cosgrave laughed, his eyes narrowed to blue-grey slits as though he did not want Stonehouse to see all that was in them. "I shouldn't have minded," he panted, "going off on the crest like that I wanted to run I forgot." "Well, for the Lord's sake, don't forget." But for an instant at least he knew what Cosgrave meant.
He reflected that each of these stones had its history, tragic, comic or merely sordid. He let her hand drop. He saw that the affront had not touched her. Perhaps others had begun like that. "Ce cher docteur 'e don't like me," she complained pathetically to Cosgrave. "'E sit opposite to me and glare like a 'ungry tiger. Believe me, I grow quite cold with fear.
Martin Cosgrave spent three days in the town waiting the arrival of Rose Dempsey. The boat was late. He haunted the railway station, with hungry eyes scanned the passengers as each train steamed in. His blood was on fire in his veins for those three days. What peace could a man have who was waiting to get back to his building and to have Rose Dempsey going back with him, his wife?
Beyond were understanding and peace and strange and difficult tears. He loved her, as beneath the fret and heat of passion Cosgrave and all those others had loved her, for what she sincerely was and for the brave, gay thing she had to give. He loved her more simply still as in rare moments of their lives men love one another, saying: "This is my brother this is my sister."
"I will be marrying Rose Dempsey in the town some days after she lands." "Rose would never like the suddenness of that," her aunt protested. "She can be staying with me and marrying from my house. "I saw the priest about it," Martin Cosgrave said impatiently. "I will have my way, Ellen Miscal. Rose Dempsey will come up to Kilbeg my wife.
She rose to go at last. "And you take him with you, Monsieur le docteur. If 'e sit many more nights in ze front row 'e find out, too, I can't dance, and then I break my 'eart. Besides, I 'ave my reputation to think of in this ver' propaire England, hein?" "I'm coming with you," Cosgrave said quietly. She shrugged her shoulder. "Eh bien, what can I do? They are all ze same.
She pretended to shudder, and a moment later seemed to forget him altogether. She pressed her cigarette out on her plate and went over to the piano, touching Cosgrave lightly on the shoulder as she passed him. "Come, my latest best-beloved, we 'ave to amuse ze company. We sing our leetle song together." But first she made a deep low bow to the shadowy theatre.
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