McArdleâs kitchen.
The four sons were arguing with their father and mother for money. These four sons were all over forty but they were treated as babies by their parents. That may have been why when they appeared at Drumnay cross-roads or in the discussions in Maganâs pub they were so aggressive and spoke with airs of such domineering authority.
âI want a shilling for fags and Iâll have to get it,â a powerful lamenting voice could be heard.
A pup screamed and ran under the table.
âAm I made of money? Am I made of money?â the father cried.
The mother was now crying quietly and Tarry hurried along, knowing that a family row is a most unhealthy affair for an outsider.
He had been hoping to run into the youngest of the Dillons. If the truth must be told, he had had his eye on those two younggirls for years and was only waiting for them to get big enough. He didnât suspect that other men had had similar ambitions and even the affair of the earlier evening did not entirely disperse his hopes that they were still safe for him.
Crossing on to the railway line he was treading down the sleepers when Josie Dillon, who had had three children, came down the slope towards a well. She was smoking a cigarette, which she put out on seeing him. Was the girl afraid of him as of a priest? It looked like it, and he did not want to give that impression of himself, which was, in his opinion, a false impression. Yet the girl might have been right, for on taking a second look at her he knew that he just didnât associate with that class of person. She was the type of woman whom he often saw in the slums of the town of a fair day.
To find out about the sisters he would have to speak to her, so he spoke, much to her surprise, for he had often passed her by before with his head in the air. He only said it was a nice evening, and the girl took it for granted that he meant something else.
âAre you coming down the line?â she inquired.
âGood God! no,â he said. âIâm late for the Mission as I am.â
He raced up the slope and out of her range as quickly as he could, praying as he ran that nobody saw him. Bad as he was, if he got the name of being seen with one of the Dillons heâd be ruined. Some men could take life easily. Some could dabble in sin, but it didnât fit into his life. He made a promise to the Sacred Heart that if he hadnât been seen he would go to the Mission every single evening, and to Confession on the next Saturday.
When he found out that nobody had seen him â if they had there would be talk â he was somewhat annoyed with himself for making rash promises â but he would keep them.
The little tillage fields and the struggle for existence broke every dramatic fall. A layer of sticky soil lay between the fires in the heart preventing a general conflagration. The Mission had lifted up the limp body of society in Dargan, but as soon as the pressure was relaxed it fell back again and the grass grew over the penitential sod.
With Tarry it was different. He believed that of all the people in the parish he alone took religion seriously. Too seriously, for being too serious meant that it was not integrated in his ordinary life. When the ordinary man went to Confession he rambled on with a list of harmless sins, ignoring all the ones that would have filled Tarry with remorse. When Tarry went to Confession that Saturday night he had the misfortune, contrary to his own well-thought-out arrangements, to mention unusual sins.
The Confessor was the monk he had met on the road.
âWhat sins do you remember since your last Confession?â the monk asked.
âI read books, father,â Tarry replied before he had time to think. He knew at once that he had made a mistake, for that started the monk off.
âWhat sort of books?â
Tarry did not want to admit that he only read school books and newspapers and it would appear that
The four sons were arguing with their father and mother for money. These four sons were all over forty but they were treated as babies by their parents. That may have been why when they appeared at Drumnay cross-roads or in the discussions in Maganâs pub they were so aggressive and spoke with airs of such domineering authority.
âI want a shilling for fags and Iâll have to get it,â a powerful lamenting voice could be heard.
A pup screamed and ran under the table.
âAm I made of money? Am I made of money?â the father cried.
The mother was now crying quietly and Tarry hurried along, knowing that a family row is a most unhealthy affair for an outsider.
He had been hoping to run into the youngest of the Dillons. If the truth must be told, he had had his eye on those two younggirls for years and was only waiting for them to get big enough. He didnât suspect that other men had had similar ambitions and even the affair of the earlier evening did not entirely disperse his hopes that they were still safe for him.
Crossing on to the railway line he was treading down the sleepers when Josie Dillon, who had had three children, came down the slope towards a well. She was smoking a cigarette, which she put out on seeing him. Was the girl afraid of him as of a priest? It looked like it, and he did not want to give that impression of himself, which was, in his opinion, a false impression. Yet the girl might have been right, for on taking a second look at her he knew that he just didnât associate with that class of person. She was the type of woman whom he often saw in the slums of the town of a fair day.
To find out about the sisters he would have to speak to her, so he spoke, much to her surprise, for he had often passed her by before with his head in the air. He only said it was a nice evening, and the girl took it for granted that he meant something else.
âAre you coming down the line?â she inquired.
âGood God! no,â he said. âIâm late for the Mission as I am.â
He raced up the slope and out of her range as quickly as he could, praying as he ran that nobody saw him. Bad as he was, if he got the name of being seen with one of the Dillons heâd be ruined. Some men could take life easily. Some could dabble in sin, but it didnât fit into his life. He made a promise to the Sacred Heart that if he hadnât been seen he would go to the Mission every single evening, and to Confession on the next Saturday.
When he found out that nobody had seen him â if they had there would be talk â he was somewhat annoyed with himself for making rash promises â but he would keep them.
The little tillage fields and the struggle for existence broke every dramatic fall. A layer of sticky soil lay between the fires in the heart preventing a general conflagration. The Mission had lifted up the limp body of society in Dargan, but as soon as the pressure was relaxed it fell back again and the grass grew over the penitential sod.
With Tarry it was different. He believed that of all the people in the parish he alone took religion seriously. Too seriously, for being too serious meant that it was not integrated in his ordinary life. When the ordinary man went to Confession he rambled on with a list of harmless sins, ignoring all the ones that would have filled Tarry with remorse. When Tarry went to Confession that Saturday night he had the misfortune, contrary to his own well-thought-out arrangements, to mention unusual sins.
The Confessor was the monk he had met on the road.
âWhat sins do you remember since your last Confession?â the monk asked.
âI read books, father,â Tarry replied before he had time to think. He knew at once that he had made a mistake, for that started the monk off.
âWhat sort of books?â
Tarry did not want to admit that he only read school books and newspapers and it would appear that
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