Great Irish Short Stories (6 page)

“I dunna, Anthony, but you an’ I ought to curse that sargint; only for him we mightn’t be as we are, sore in our conscience, an’ afeard of every fut we hear passin’,” observed Denis.

“Spake for your own cowardly heart, man alive,” replied Anthony; “for my part, I’m afeared o’ nothin’. Put round the glass, and don’t be nursin’ it there all night. Sure, we’re not so bad as the rot among the sheep, nor the black leg among the bullocks, nor the staggers among the horses, anyhow; an’ yet they’d hang us up only for bein’ fond of a bit o’ mate—ha, ha, ha!”

“Thrue enough,” said the Big Mower, philosophizing. “God made the beef and the mutton, and the grass to feed it; but it was man made the ditches. Now we’re only bringin’ things back to the right away that Providence made them in, when ould times were in it, manin’ before ditches war invinted—ha, ha, ha!”

“ ’Tis a good argument,” observed Kenny, “only that judge and jury would be a little delicate in actin’ up to it; an’ the more’s the pity. Howsomever, as Providence made the mutton, sure it’s no harm for us to take what He sends.”

“Ay, but,” said Denis—

Let nobody say there’s not a hell; isn’t it there plain from Scripthur?”

“I wish you had Scripthur tied about your neck!” replied Anthony. “How fond of it one o’ the greatest thieves that ever missed the rope is! Why, the fellow could plan a roguery with any man that ever danced the hangman’s hornpipe, an’ yit he be’s repatin’ bits an’ scraps of ould prayers, an’ charms, an’ stuff. Ay, indeed! Sure, he has a varse out o’ the Bible that he thinks can prevint a man from bein’ hung up any day!”

While Denny, the Big Mower, and the two Meehans were thus engaged in giving expression to their peculiar opinions, the pedlar held a conversation of a different kind with Anne.

With the secrets of the family in his keeping, he commenced a rather penitent review of his own life, and expressed his intention of abandoning so dangerous a mode of accumulating wealth. He said he thanked Heaven that he had already laid up sufficient for the wants of a reasonable man; that he understood farming and the management of sheep particularly well; that it was his intention to remove to a different part of the kingdom and take a farm; and that nothing prevented him from having done this before but the want of a helpmate to take care of his establishment. He added that his present wife was of an intolerable temper and a greater villain by fifty degrees than himself. He concluded by saying that his conscience twitched him night and day for living with her, and that, by abandoning her immediately, becoming truly religious, and taking Anne in her place, he hoped, he said, to atone in some measure for his few errors.

Anthony, however, having noticed the earnestness which marked the pedlar’s manner, suspected him of attempting to corrupt the principles of his daughter, having forgotten the influence which his own opinions were calculated to produce upon her heart.

“Martin,” said he, “’twould be as well you ped attintion to what we’re sayin’ in regard o’ the trial tomorrow, as to be palaverin’ talk into the girl’s ear that can’t be good comin’ from your lips. Quit it, I say, quit it!
Corp an duowol
⁶
—I won’t allow such proceedings!”

“Swear till you blister your lips, Anthony,” replied Martin; “as for me, bein’ no residenthur, I’m not bound to it; an’ what’s more, I’m not suspected. ’Tis settin’ some other bit o’ work for yees I’ll be, while you’re all clearin’ yourselves from stealin’ honest Cassidy’s horse. I wish we had him safely disposed of in the manetime, an’ the money for him an’ the other beasts in our pockets.”

Much more conversation of a similar kind passed between them upon various topics connected with their profligacy and crimes. At length they separated for the night, after having concerted their plan of action for the ensuing scrutiny.

The next morning, before the hour appointed arrived, the parish, particularly the neighborhood of Carnmore, was struck with deep consternation. Labor became suspended, mirth disappeared, and every face was marked with paleness, anxiety, and apprehension. If two men met, one shook his head mysteriously, and inquired from the other, “Did you hear the news?”

“Ay! ay! the Lord be about us all! I did; an’ I pray God it may lave the counthry as it came to it!”

“Oh, an’ that it may, I humbly make supplication this day!”

If two women met, it was with similar mystery and fear. “Vread, do you know what’s at the Cassidys’?”

“Whisht,
ahagur!
I do; but let what will happen, sure it’s best for us to say nothin’.”

“Say!—the blessed Virgin forbid! I’d cut my hand off o’ me afore I’d spake a word about it; only that—”

“Whisht, woman!—for mercy’s sake—don’t—”

And so they would separate, each crossing herself devoutly.

The meeting at Cassidy’s was to take place that day at twelve o’clock; but about two hours before the appointed time, Anne, who had been in some of the other houses, came into her father’s, quite pale, breathless, and trembling.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, with clasped hands, whilst the tears fell fast from her eyes, “we’ll be lost—ruined! Did yees hear what’s in the neighborhood wid the Cassidys?”

“Girl,” said the father, with more severity than he had ever manifested to her before, “I never yit ris my hand to you, but
ma corp an duowol,
if you open your lips, I’ll fell you where you stand. Do you want that cowardly uncle o’ yours to be the manes o’ hangin’ your father? Maybe that was one o’ the lessons Martin gave you last night?” And as he spoke he knit his brows at her with that murderous scowl which was habitual to him. The girl trembled, and began to think that since her father’s temper deepened in domestic outrage and violence as his crimes multiplied, the sooner she left the family the better. Every day indeed diminished that species of instinctive affection which she had entertained towards him, and this in proportion as her reason ripened into a capacity for comprehending the dark materials of which his character was composed.

“What’s the matter now?” inquired Denis, with alarm. “Is it anything about us, Anthony?”

“No, ’tisn’t,” replied the other, “anything about us! What ud it be about us for? ’Tis a lyin’ report that some cunnin’ knave spread, hopin’ to find out the guilty. But hear me, Denis, once for all: we’re going to clear ourselves—now listen, an’ let my words sink deep into your heart—if you refuse to swear this day, no matther what’s put into your hand, you’ll do harm—that’s all—have courage, man; but should you cow, you’re coorse will be short; an’ mark, even if
you
escape me, your sons won’t. I have it all planned; an’
corp an duowol!
thim you won’t know from Adam will revinge me if I’m taken up through your unmanliness.”

“Twould be betther for us to lave the counthry,” said Anne. “We might slip away as it is.”

“Ay,” said the father, “an’ be taken by the neck afore we’d get two miles from the place! No, no,
girsha
⁷
; it’s the safest way to brazen thim out. Did you hear me, Denis?”

Denis started, for he had been evidently pondering on the mysterious words of Anne, to which his brother’s anxiety to conceal them gave additional mystery. The coffin, too, recurred to him; and he feared that the death shadowed out by it would in some manner or other occur in the family. He was, in fact, one of those miserable villains with but half a conscience—that is to say, as much as makes them the slaves of the fear which results from crime, without being the slightest impediment to their committing it. It was no wonder he started at the deep, pervading tones of his brother’s voice, for the question was put with ferocious energy.

On starting, he looked with vague terror on his brother, fearing, but not comprehending, his question.

“What is it, Anthony?” he inquired.

“Oh, for that matther,” replied the other, “nothin’ at all. Think of what I said to you, anyhow: swear through thick an’ thin, if you have a regard for your own health or for your childher. Maybe I had betther repate it agin for you,” he continued, eyeing him with mingled hatred and suspicion. “Denis, as a friend I bid you mind yourself this day, an’ see you don’t bring aither of us into throuble.”

There lay before the Cassidys’ houses a small flat of common, trodden into rings by the young horses they were in the habit of training. On this level space were assembled those who came, either to clear their own character from suspicion, or to witness the ceremony. The day was dark and lowering, and heavy clouds rolled slowly across the peaks of the surrounding mountains; scarcely a breath of air could be felt; and as the country people silently approached, such was the closeness of the day, their haste to arrive in time, and their general anxiety, either for themselves or their friends, that almost every man on reaching the spot might be seen taking up the skirts of his
cothamore,
or “big coat” (the peasant’s handkerchief), to wipe the sweat from his brow; and as he took off his dingy woollen hat, or
caubeen,
the perspiration rose in strong exhalations from his head.

“Michael, am I in time?” might be heard from such persons as they arrived. “Did this business begin yit?”

“Full time, Larry; myself ’s here an hour ago, but no appearance of anything as yit. Father Farrell an’ Squire Nicholson are both in Cassidy’s, waitin’ till they’re all gother, whin they’ll begin to put thim through their facins. You hard about what they’ve got?”

“No; for I’m only on my way home from the berril of a
cleaveen
⁸
of mine, that we put down this morning’ in Tullyard. What is it?”

“Why, man alive, it’s through the whole parish inready!” He then went on, lowering his voice to a whisper, and speaking in a tone bordering on dismay.

The other crossed himself, and betrayed symptoms of awe and astonishment, not unmingled with fear.

“Well,” he replied, “I dunna whether I’d come here if I’d known that; for, innocent or guilty, I wouldn’t wish to be near it. Och, may God pity thim that’s to come acrass it, espishly if they dare to do it in a lie!”

“They needn’t, I can tell yees both,” observed a third person, “be a hair afeard of it, for the best rason livin’, that there’s no thruth at all in the report, nor the Cassidys never thought of sindin’ for anything o’ the kind. I have it from Larry Cassidy’s own lips, an’ he ought to know best.”

The truth is that two reports were current among the crowd: one, that the oath was to be simply on the Bible; and the other, that a more awful means of expurgation was to be resorted to by the Cassidys. The people, consequently, not knowing which to credit, felt the most painful of all sensations—uncertainty.

During the period which intervened between their assembling and the commencement of the ceremony, a spectator, interested in contemplating the workings of human nature in circumstances of deep interest, would have had ample scope for observation. The occasion was to them a solemn one. There was little conversation among them; for when a man is wound up to a pitch of great interest, he is seldom disposed to relish discourse. Every brow was anxious, every cheek blanched, and every arm folded: they scarcely stirred, or when they did, only with slow, abstracted movements, rather mechanical than voluntary. If an individual made his appearance about Cassidy’s door, a sluggish stir among them was visible, and a low murmur of a peculiar character might be heard; but on perceiving that it was only some ordinary person, all subsided again into a brooding stillness that was equally singular and impressive.

Under this peculiar feeling was the multitude when Meehan and his brother were seen approaching it from their own house. The elder, with folded arms, and hat pulled over his brows, stalked grimly forward, having that remarkable scowl upon his face which had contributed to establish for him so diabolical a character. Denis walked by his side, with his countenance strained to inflation—a miserable parody of that sullen effrontery which marked the unshrinking miscreant beside him. He had not heard of the ordeal, owing to the caution of Anthony, but notwithstanding his effort at indifference, a keen eye might have observed the latent anxiety of a man who was habitually villainous and naturally timid.

When this pair entered the crowd, a few secret glances, too rapid to be noticed by the people, passed between them and their accomplices. Denis, on seeing them present, took fresh courage, and looked with the heroism of a blusterer upon those who stood about him, especially whenever he found himself under the scrutinizing eye of his brother. Such was the horror and detestation in which they were held, that on advancing into the assembly the persons on each side turned away and openly avoided them; eyes full of fierce hatred were bent on them vindictively; and “curses, not loud, but deep,” were muttered with an indignation which nothing but a divided state of feeling could repress within due limits. Every glance, however, was paid back by Anthony with interest from eyes and black shaggy brows tremendously ferocious; and his curses, as they rolled up half-smothered from his huge chest, were deeper and more diabolical by far than their own. He even jeered at them; but there was something truly appalling in the dark gleam of his scoff which threw them at an immeasurable distance behind him in the power of displaying on the countenance the worst of human passions.

At length Mr. Nicholson, Father Farrell, and his curate, attended by the Cassidys and their friends, issued from the house; two or three servants preceded them, bearing a table and chairs for the magistrate and priests, who, however, stood during the ceremony. When they entered one of the rings before alluded to, the table and chairs were placed in the center of it, and Father Farrell, as possessing most influence over the people, addressed them very impressively.

“There are,” said he, in conclusion, “persons in this crowd whom we know to be guilty; but we will have an opportunity of now witnessing the lengths to which crime, long indulged in, can carry them. To such people I would say, beware! for they know not the situation in which they are placed.”