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Updated: June 4, 2025
"We might walk back to my rooms and talk in peace. Oh Francey Wilmot? I don't know much. She went abroad finished her course very late she was always a bit of a dilettante. People with money usually are." Cosgrave said no more. He knew all he wanted to know. It saddened him. Somehow he had counted on that half-divined romance, had played with it in his fancy as with a kind of vicarious happiness.
He said good-night, not looking at the limp, quiet figure on the bed, and went out. He knew that he had seemed competent, unhurried and unmoved as befitted a man to whom death was the most salient feature of life. But he knew also that he had fled from her. In the crowd that went with him that night were Francey Wilmot and Connie Edwards and Cosgrave and all the people who had made up his youth.
He seized Rufus by the hand and they shot free of the procession, up and down dim and decorous streets, swerving round corners and past astonished policemen whose "Now then, you young devils" was lost in the clatter of their feet. Cosgrave gasped, but Robert's hold was relentless, compelling. He could have run faster by himself, but somehow he could not let Cosgrave go.
He shook himself free. He stood upright, looking at Robert with a kind of stony dignity. "Where is she?" "Who?" "Connie. She sent you, didn't she?" "Yes. We met " "Where is she?" "I don't know. Gone to the theatre probably." "Isn't she coming back?" "Not now." "Didn't she send a message?" "She said it was finish between you. She's a little rotter, Cosgrave."
Metaphysician, s. of a clergyman, was b. at Cosgrave, Northamptonshire, and ed. at Merchant Taylors' School and Oxf. He took orders, was Reader in Theology at Magdalen Coll. 1855, Bampton Lecturer 1858, Prof. of Ecclesiastical History 1867, and Dean of St. Paul's 1869.
By the time Martin Cosgrave had reached the top of the hill he had concluded that he had not, after all, been a foolish boy to work in far places. "The hand of God was in it," he said reverently with his eyes on the beech trees that made music on the crest of the hill. He made a rapid survey of the place with his keen eyes.
"She made me laugh," Cosgrave said simply. "I don't mind about the exam. or about anything now. I suppose I was bound to fail. But I was so jolly happy. I'd never had a good time like that. It's all over now. She doesn't care. She said she couldn't be tied up with a lot of trouble. That's what I am. A lot of trouble. It was all bunkum make-believe to think I could be anything else."
One little event trod on the heels of another, rubble skirling down the mountain-side, growing to an avalanche. Or, again, Cosgrave might have been the odd, unlikely keystone of their daily life. He had not seemed to matter much, but now that he had been torn out the bridge between them crumbled.
Some indefinable element of emotion had been thrown into the scales, upsetting the delicate balance of his judgment. And his old influence had gone too. It had failed him from that moment in Connie Edwards' room when suddenly Cosgrave had realized the general futility of things. "I'll see him through all the same," Stonehouse thought, with a kind of violence, "I'll pull him through."
Martin Cosgrave stood a little away, tense, drawn, his eyes sweeping down the people. Suddenly something shot through him; an old sensation, an old thrill, made his whole being tingle, his mind exult, and then there was the most exquisite relaxation. How long it was since he felt like this before!
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