‘Time is passing,’ he said, ’and I must decide whether I go to America to write newspaper articles, or stay at home to say Mass—­a simple matter, surely.’

The ordinary newspaper article he thought he could do as well as another—­in fact, he knew he could.  But could he hope that in time his mind would widen and deepen sufficiently to enable him to write something worth writing, something that might win her admiration?  Perhaps, when he had shed all his opinions.  Many had gone already, more would follow, and one day he would be as free as she was.  She had been a great intellectual stimulus, and soon he began to wonder how it was that all the paraphernalia of religion interested him no longer, how he seemed to have suddenly outgrown the things belonging to the ages of faith, and the subtle question, if passion were essential to the growth of the mind, arose.  For it seemed to him that his mind had grown, though he had not read the Scriptures, and he doubted if the reading of the Scriptures would have taught him as much as Nora’s beauty.  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘woman’s beauty is more important to the world than a scroll.’  He had begun to love and to put his trust in what was natural, spontaneous, instinctive, and might succeed in New York better than he expected.  But he would not like to think that it was hope of literary success that tempted him from Garranard.  He would like to think that in leaving his poor people he was serving their best interests, and this was surely the case.  For hadn’t he begun to feel that what they needed was a really efficient priest, one who would look after their temporal interests?  In Ireland the priest is a temporal as well as a spiritual need.  Who else would take an interest in this forlorn Garranard and its people, the reeds and rushes of existence?

He had striven to get the Government to build a bridge, but had lost patience; he had wearied of the task.  Certain priests he knew would not have wearied of it; they would have gone on heckling the Government and the different Boards until the building of the bridge could no longer be resisted.  His failure to get this bridge was typical, and it proved beyond doubt that he was right in thinking he had no aptitude for the temporal direction of his parish.

But a curate had once lived in Bridget Clery’s cottage who had served his people excellently well, had intrigued successfully, and forced the Government to build houses and advance money for drainage and other useful works.  And this curate had served his people in many capacities—­as scrivener, land-valuer, surveyor, and engineer.  It was not till he came to Garranard that he seemed to get out of touch with practical affairs, and he began to wonder if it was the comfortable house he lived in, if it were the wine he drank, the cigars he smoked, that had produced this degeneracy, if it were degeneracy.  Or was it that he had worn out a certain side of his nature in Bridget Clery’s cottage?  It might well be that.  Many a man has mistaken a passing tendency for a vocation.  We all write poetry in the beginning of our lives; but most of us leave off writing poetry after some years, unless the instinct is very deep or one is a fool.  It might well be that his philanthropic instincts were exhausted; and it might well be that this was not the case, for one never gets at the root of one’s nature.