It was during the second year of Hyacinth’s residence in Ballymoy that
the station-master at Clogher died. The poor man caught a cold one
February night while waiting for a train which had broken down three
miles outside his station. From the cold came first pneumonia, and then
the end. Now, far to the east of Clogher, on a different branch of the
railway-line, is a town with which the people of Mayo have no connection
whatever. In it is a very flourishing Masonic lodge. Almost every male
Protestant in the town and the neighbourhood belongs to it, and the
Rector of the parish is its chaplain. Among its members at that time was
an intelligent young man who occupied the position of goods clerk on the
railway. The Masonic brethren, as in duty bound, used their influence to
secure his promotion, and brought considerable pressure to bear on the
directors of the company to have him made station-master at Clogher.
It is said with some appearance of truth that no appointment in Ireland
is ever made on account of the fitness of the candidate for the post
to be filled. Whether the Lord Lieutenant has to nominate a Local
Government Board Inspector, or an Urban Council has to select a street
scavenger, the principle acted on is the same. No investigation is made
about the ability or character of a candidate. Questions may be asked
about his political opinions, his religious creed, and sometimes about
the social position of his wife, but no one cares in the least about his
ability. The matter really turns upon the amount of influence which
he can bring to bear. So it happened that John Crawford, Freemason and
Protestant, was appointed station-master at Clogher. Of course, nobody
really cared who got the post except a few seniors of John Crawford’s,
who wanted it for themselves. Probably even they would have stopped
grumbling after a month or two if it had not happened that a leading
weekly newspaper, then at the height of its popularity and influence,
was just inaugurating a crusade against Protestants and Freemasons.
The case of John Crawford became the subject of a series of bitter and
vehement articles. It was pointed out that although Roman Catholics were
beyond all question more intelligent, better educated, and more upright
than Protestants, they were condemned by the intolerance of highly-paid
officials to remain hewers of wood and drawers of water. It was shown by
figures which admitted of no controversy that Irish railways, banks, and
trading companies were, without exception, on the verge of bankruptcy,
entirely owing to the apathy of shareholders who allowed their interests
to be sacrificed to the bigotry of directors. It was urged that a
public meeting should be held at Clogher to protest against the new
appointment.
The meeting was convened, and Father Fahey consented to occupy the
chair. He was supported by a dispensary doctor, anxious to propitiate
the Board of Guardians with a view to obtaining a summer holiday; a
leading publican, who had a son at Maynooth; a grazier, who dreaded the
possible partition of his ranch by the Congested Districts Board; and
Mr. O’Reilly, who saw a hope of drawing custom from the counter of his
rival draper, the Scotchman.
Father Fahey opened the proceedings with a speech. He assured his
audience that he was not actuated by any spirit of religious bigotry
or intolerance. He wished well to his Protestant fellow-countrymen,
and hoped that in the bright future which lay before Ireland men of all
creeds would be united in working for the common good of their country.
These sentiments were not received with vociferous applause. The
audience was perfectly well aware that something much more to the point
was coming, and reserved their cheers. Father Fahey did not
disappoint them. He proceeded to show that the appointment of the new
station-master was a deliberate insult to the faith of the inhabitants
of Clogher.
‘Are we,’ he asked, ‘to submit tamely to having the worst evils of the
old ascendancy revived in our midst?’
He was followed by the dispensary doctor, who also began by declaring
his freedom from bigotry. He confused the issue slightly by complaining
that the new station-master was entirely ignorant of the Irish language.
It was perfectly well known that in private life the doctor was in the
habit of expressing the greatest contempt for the Gaelic League, and
that he could not, if his life depended on it, have translated even Mr.
O’Reilly’s advertisements; but his speech was greeted with tumultuous
cheers. He proceeded to harrow the feelings of his audience by
describing what he had heard at the railway-station one evening while
waiting for the train. As he paced the platform his attention was
attracted by the sound of a piano in the station-master’s house. He
listened, and, to his amazement and disgust, heard the tune of a popular
song, ‘a song’--he brought down his fist on the table as he uttered the
awful indictment--‘imported from England.’
‘I ask,’ he went on--‘I ask our venerated and beloved parish priest;
I ask you, fathers of innocent families; I ask every right-thinking
patriot in this room, are our ears to be insulted, our morals corrupted,
our intellects depraved, by sounds like these?’
He closed his speech by proposing a resolution requiring the railway
company to withdraw the obnoxious official from their midst.
The oratory of the grazier, who seconded the resolution, was not
inferior. It filled his heart with a sense of shame, so he said, to
think of his cattle, poor, innocent beasts of the field, being
handled by a Protestant. They had been bred, these bullocks of his,
by Catholics, fed by Catholics, were owned by a Catholic, bought with
Catholic money at the fairs, and yet they were told that in all Ireland
no Catholic could be discovered fit to put them into a train.
Neither the resolution itself nor the heart-rending appeal of the
grazier produced the slightest effect on the railway company. John
Crawford continued to sell tickets, even to Father Fahey himself, and
appeared entirely unconcerned by the fuss.
About a fortnight after the meeting Hyacinth spent a night in Clogher.
Mr. Holywell, the cigarette man, happened to be in the hotel, and, as
usual, got through a good deal of desultory conversation while he drank
his whisky-and-water. Quite unexpectedly, and apropos of nothing that
had been said, he plumped out the question:
‘What religion are you, Conneally?’
The inquiry was such an unusual one, and came so strangely from Mr.
Holywell, who had always seemed a Gallio in matters spiritual, that
Hyacinth hesitated.
‘I’m a Baptist myself,’ he went on, apparently with a view to palliating
his inquisitiveness by a show of candour. ‘I find it a very convenient
sort of religion in Connaught. There isn’t a single place of worship
belonging to my denomination in the whole province, so I’m always able
to get my Sundays to myself. I don’t want to convert you to anything or
to argue with you, but I have a fancy that you are a Church of Ireland
Protestant.’
Hyacinth admitted the correctness of the guess, and wondered what was
coming next.
‘Ever spend a Sunday here?’
‘Never,’ said Hyacinth; ‘I always get back home for the end of the week
if I can.’
‘Ah! Well, do you know, if I were you, I should spend next Sunday here,
and go to Mass.’
‘I shall not do anything of the sort.’
‘Well, it’s your own affair, of course; only I just think I should do it
if I were you. Good-night.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Hyacinth. ‘I want to know what you mean.’
Mr. Holywell sat down again heavily.
‘Been round your customers here lately?’
‘No. I only arrived this evening, and have done nothing yet. I mean to
go round them to-morrow.’
‘You may just as well go home by the early train for all the good you’ll
do.’
Hyacinth restrained himself with an effort. He reflected that he was
more likely to get at the meaning of these mysterious warnings if he
refrained from direct questioning. After a minute of two of silence Mr.
Hollywell went on:
‘They had a meeting here a little while ago about the appointment of
a Protestant station-master. They didn’t take much by it so far as the
railway company is concerned, but I happen to know that word has gone
round that every shopkeeper in the town is to order his goods as far as
possible from Catholics. Now, everybody knows your boss is a Protestant,
but the people are a little uncertain about you. They’ve never seen you
at Mass, which is suspicious, but, on the other hand, the way you gas on
about Irish manufactures makes them think you can’t be a Protestant.
The proper thing for you to do is to lie low till you’ve put in an
appearance at Mass, and then go round and try for orders.’
‘That’s the kind of thing,’ said Hyacinth, ‘that I couldn’t do if I had
no religion at all; but it happens that I have convictions of a sort,
and I don’t mean to go against them.’
‘Oh, well, as I said before, it’s your own affair; only better
Protestants than you have done as much. Why, I do it myself constantly,
and everyone knows that a Baptist is the strongest kind of Protestant
there is.’
This reasoning, curiously enough, proved unconvincing.
‘I can’t believe,’ said Hyacinth, ‘that a religious boycott of the kind
is possible. People won’t be such fools as to act clean against their
own interests. Considering that nine-tenths of the drapery goods in the
country come from England and are sold by Protestant travellers, I don’t
see how the shopkeepers could act as you say.’
‘Oh, of course they won’t act against their own interests. I’ve never
come across a religion yet that made men do that. They won’t attempt to
boycott the English firms, because, as you say, they couldn’t; but they
can boycott you. Everything your boss makes is turned out just as well
and just as cheap, or cheaper, by the nuns at Robeen. Perhaps you didn’t
know that these holy ladies have hired a traveller. Well, they have, and
he’s a middling smart man, too--quite smart enough to play the trumps
that are put into his hand; and he’s got a fine flush of them now. What
with the way that wretched rag of a paper, which started all the fuss,
goes on rampaging, and the amount of feeling that’s got up over the
station-master, the peaceablest people in the place would be afraid to
deal with a Protestant at the present moment. The Robeen man has the
game in his own hands, and I’m bound to say he’d be a fool if he didn’t
play it for all it’s worth. I’d do it myself if I was in his shoes.’
Hyacinth discovered next day that Mr. Holywell had summed up the
situation very accurately. No point-blank questions were asked about his
religion, but he could by no means persuade his customers to give him
even a small order. Every shop-window was filled with goods placarded
ostentatiously as ‘made in Robeen.’ Every counter had tweeds, blankets,
and flannels from the same factory. No one was in the least uncivil to
him, and no one assigned any plausible reason for refusing to deal with
him. He was simply bowed out as quickly as possible from every shop he
entered.
He returned home disgusted and irritated, and told his tale to his
employer. Mr. Quinn recognised the danger that threatened him. For the
first time, he admitted that his business was being seriously injured
by the competition of Robeen. He took Hyacinth into his confidence more
fully than he had ever done before, and explained what seemed to be a
hopeful plan.
‘I may tell you, Conneally, that I have very little capital to fall back
upon in my business. Years ago when things were better than they are
now, I had a few thousands put by, but most of it went on buying my
brother Albert’s share of the mill. Lately I have not been able to save,
and at the present moment I can lay hands on very little money. Still, I
have something, and what I mean to do is this: I shall give up all idea
of making a profit for the present. I shall even sell my goods at a
slight loss, and try to beat the nunnery out of the market. I think
this religious animosity will weaken after a while, and if we offer the
cheapest goods we must in the end get back our customers.’
Hyacinth was not so sanguine.
‘You forget,’ he said, ‘that these people have Government money at their
backs, and are likely to get more of it. If you sell at a loss they will
do so, too, and ask for a new grant from the Congested Districts Board
to make good their deficiency.’
Mr. Quinn sighed.
‘That is quite possible,’ he said. ‘But what can I do? I must make a
fight for my business.’
Hyacinth hesitated.
‘Perhaps I have no right to make the suggestion, but it seems to me that
you are bound to be beaten. Would it not be better to give in at once?
Don’t risk the money you have safe. Keep it, and try to sell the mill
and the business.’
‘I shall hold on,’ said Mr. Quinn.
‘Ought you not to think of your wife? Remember what it will mean to
her if you are beaten in the end, when your savings are gone and your
business unsaleable.’
For a moment there were signs of wavering in Mr. Quinn’s face. The
fingers of his hands twisted in and out of each other, and a pitiable
look of great distress came into his eyes. Then he unclasped his hands
and placed them flat on the table before him.
‘I shall hold on,’ he said. ‘I shall not close my mill while I have a
shilling left to pay my workers with.’
‘Well,’ said Hyacinth, ‘it is for you to decide. At least, you can count
on my doing my best, my very best.’