One morning near the end of September the _Irish Times_ published a list
of Irish graduates ordained in England on the previous Sunday. Among
other names appeared:
‘Hyacinth Conneally, B.A., T.C.D., deacon, by the Bishop of Ripon, for
the curacy of Kirby-Stowell.’
Shortly afterwards the _Croppy_ printed the following verses, signed
‘M.O’D.’:
‘EIRE TO H. C.
‘Bight across the low, flat curragh from the sea,
Drifting, driving sweeps the rain,
Where the bogborn, bent, brown rushes grow for me,
Barren grass instead of grain.
‘Out across the sad, soaked curragh towards the sea,
Striding, striving go the men,
With their spades and forks and barrows toil for me
That my corn may grow again
‘Ah! but safe from blast of wind and bitter sea,
You who loved me---Tusa féin--
Live and feel and work for others, not for me,
Never coming back again.
‘Yes, while all across the curragh from the West
Drifts the sea-rain off the sea,
You have chosen. Have you chosen what is best
For yourself, O son, and me?’
Hyacinth read the verses, cut them out of the _Croppy_, and locked them
in the box in which he stored the few papers of interest he possessed.
The sorrowful judgment pronounced on his conduct affected him, but only
in a dull way, like an additional blow upon a limb already bruised to
numbness. He accepted his new duties and performed them without any
feeling of enthusiasm, and after a little while without any definite
hope of doing any good. He got no further in understanding the people he
had to deal with, and he was aware that even those of them who came most
frequently into contact with him regarded him as a stranger. A young
doctor whose wife took a fancy to Marion tried to make friends with him.
The result was unsatisfactory, owing to Hyacinth’s irresponsiveness. He
could not, without yawning piteously, spend an evening discussing the
performances of the local cricket club; nor did his conduct improve when
the two ladies suspended their talk and sacrificed an hour to playing
four-handed halma with their husbands. An unmarried solicitor, attracted
by Marion’s beauty and friendliness, adopted the habit of calling at
Hyacinth’s little house about nine or ten o’clock in the evening. He
was a man full of anecdote and simple mirth, and he often stayed, quite
happily, till midnight. Every week he brought an illustrated paper as
an offering to Marion, and recommended the short stories in it to
her notice. He often asked Hyacinth’s advice and help in solving the
conundrums set by the prize editor. He took a mild interest in politics,
and retailed gossip picked up at the Conservative Club. After a while he
gave up coming to the house. Hyacinth blamed himself for being cold and
unfriendly to the man.
Mr. Austin treated Hyacinth with kindness and some consideration, much
as a wise master treats an upper servant. He was anxious that his curate
should perform many and complicated ceremonies in church, was seriously
intent on the wearing of correctly-coloured stoles, and ‘ran,’ as he
expressed it himself, a very large number of different organizations, of
each of which the objective appeared to be a tea-party in the parochial
hall. Hyacinth accepted his tuition, bowed low at the times when Mr.
Austin liked to bow, watched for the seasons when stoles bloomed white
and gold, changed to green, or faded down to violet. He tried to
make himself agreeable to the ‘united mothers’ and the rest when they
assembled for tea-drinking. Mr. Austin asserted that these were the
methods by which the English people were being taught the Catholic
faith. Hyacinth did not doubt it, nor did he permit himself to wonder
whether it was worth while teaching them.
To Marion the new life was full of many delights. The surpliced
choir-boys gratified her aesthetic sense, and she entered herself as one
of a band of volunteers who scrubbed the chancel tiles and polished a
brass cross. She smiled, kissed, and petted Hyacinth out of the fits of
depression which came on him, managed his small income with wonderful
skill, and wrote immensely long letters home to Ballymoy.