Barres attempted to stem the flow of volubility, but it instantly became a torrent.
Nobody knew the sorrows of Ireland or of the Irish. Tyranny had marked them for its own. As for himself—once a broth of a boy—he had been torn from the sacred precincts of his native shanty and consigned to a loveless, unhappy marriage.
Then Barres listened without interrupting. But the woes of Soane became vague at that point. Veiled references to being “thrampled on,” to “th’ big house,” to “thim that was high an’ shtiff-necked,” abounded in an unconnected way. There was something about being a servant at the fireside of his own wife—a footstool 247 on the hearth of his own home—other incomprehensible plaints and mutterings, many scalding tears, a blub or two, and a sort of whining silence.
Then Barres said:
“Who is Dulcie, Soane?”
The man, seated now on his bed, lifted a congested and stupid visage as though he had not comprehended.
“Is Dulcie your daughter?” demanded Barres.
Soane’s blue eyes wandered wildly in an agony of recollection:
“Did I say she was not, sorr?” he faltered. “Av I told ye that, may the saints forgive me——”
“Is it true?”