Great Irish Short Stories (7 page)

During all this time there was not the slightest allusion made to the mysterious ordeal which had excited so much awe and apprehension among them—a circumstance which occasioned many a pale, downcast face to clear up, and reassume its usual cheerful expression. The crowd now were assembled around the ring, and every man on whom an imputation had been fastened came forward, when called upon, to the table at which the priests and magistrate stood uncovered. The form of the oath was framed by the two clergymen, who, as they knew the reservations and evasions commonest among such characters, had ingeniously contrived not to leave a single loophole through which the consciences of those who belonged to this worthy fraternity might escape.

To those acquainted with Irish courts of justice there was nothing particularly remarkable in the swearing. Indeed, one who stood among the crowd might hear from those who were stationed at the greatest distance from the table such questions as the following:—

“Is the
thing
in it, Art?”

“No; ’tis nothin’ but the law Bible, the magistrate’s own one.”

To this the querist would reply, with a satisfied nod of the head, “Oh, is that all? I heard they war to have
it.
” On which he would push himself through the crowd until he reached the table, where he took his oath as readily as another.

“Jem Hartigan,” said the magistrate to one of those persons, “are you to swear?”

“Faix, myself doesn’t know, your honor: only that I hard them say that the Cassidys mintioned our names along wid many other honest people; an’ one wouldn’t, in that case, lie under a false report, your honor, from any one, when we’re as clear as them that never saw the light of anything of the kind.”

The magistrate then put the book into his hand, and Jem, in return, fixed his eye, with much apparent innocence, on his face. “Now, Jem Hartigan,” &c., &c., and the oath was accordingly administered. Jem put the book to his mouth, with his thumb raised to an acute angle on the back of it; nor was the smack by any means a silent one which he gave it (his thumb).

The magistrate set his ear with the air of a man who had experience in discriminating such sounds. “Hartigan,” said he, “you’ll condescend to kiss the book, sir, if you please; there’s a hollowness in that smack, my good fellow, that can’t escape me.”

“Not kiss it, your honour? Why, by this staff in my hand, if ever a man kissed—”

“Silence, you impostor,” said the curate;“I watched you closely, and am confident your lips never touched the book.”

“My lips never touched the book! Why, you know I’d be sarry to con-thradict either o’ yees; but I was jist goin’ to observe, wid simmission, that my own lips ought to know best; an’ don’t you hear them tellin’ you that they did kiss it?” and he grinned with confidence in their faces.

“You double-dealing reprobate,” said the parish priest, “I’ll lay my whip across your jaws. I saw you, too, an’ you did not kiss the book.”

“By dad, an’ maybe I did not, sure enough,” he replied. “Any man may make a mistake unknownst to himself; but I’d give my oath, an’ be the five crasses, I kissed it as sure as—however, a good thing’s never the worse o’ bein’ twice done, gintlemen; so here goes, jist to satisfy yees,” and placing the book near his mouth, and altering his position a little, he appeared to comply, though, on the contrary, he touched neither it nor his thumb. “It’s the same thing to me,” he continued, laying down the book with an air of confident assurance—“it’s the same thing to me if I kissed it fifty times over, which I’m ready to do if that doesn’t satisfy yees.”

As every man acquitted himself of the charges brought against him, the curate immediately took down his name. Indeed, before the “clearing” commenced, he requested that such as were to swear would stand together within the ring, that after having sworn, he might hand each of them a certificate of the fact, which they appeared to think might be serviceable to them, should they happen to be subsequently indicted for the same crime in a court of justice. This, however, was only a plan to keep them together for what was soon to take place.

The detections of thumb-kissing were received by those who had already sworn, and by several in the outward crowd, with much mirth. It is but justice, however, to many of those assembled, to state that they appeared to entertain a serious opinion of the nature of the ceremony, and no small degree of abhorrence against those who seemed to trifle with the solemnity of an oath.

Standing on the edge of the circle, in the innermost row, were Meehan and his brother. The former eyed, with all the hardness of a stoic, the successive individuals as they passed up to the table. His accomplices had gone forward, and to the surprise of many who strongly suspected them, in the most indifferent manner “cleared” themselves, in the trying words of the oath, of all knowledge of and participation in the thefts that had taken place.

The grim visage of the elder Meehan was marked by a dark smile, scarcely perceptible; but his brother, whose nerves were not so firm, appeared somewhat confused and distracted by the imperturbable villainy of the perjurers.

At length they were called up. Anthony advanced slowly but collectedly to the table, only turning his eye slightly about to observe if his brother accompanied him. “Denis,” said he, “which of us will swear first? You may.” For as he doubted his brother’s firmness, he was prudent enough, should he fail, to guard against having the sin of perjury to answer for, along with those demands which his country had to make for his other crimes. Denis took the book, and cast a slight glance at his brother, as if for encouragement. Their eyes met, and the darkened brow of Anthony hinted at the danger of flinching in this crisis. The tremor of his hand was not, perhaps, visible to any but Anthony, who, however, did not overlook this circumstance. He held the book, but raised not his eye to meet the looks of either the magistrate or the priests; the color also left his face as with shrinking lips he touched the Word of God in deliberate falsehood. Having then laid it down, Anthony received it with a firm grasp, and whilst his eye turned boldly in contemptuous mockery upon those who presented it, he impressed it with the kiss of a man whose depraved conscience seemed to goad him only to evil. After “clearing” himself he laid the Bible upon the table with the affected air of a person who felt hurt at the imputation of theft, and joined the rest with a frown upon his countenance and a smothered curse upon his lips.

Just at this moment a person from Cassidy’s house laid upon the table a small box covered with black cloth; and our readers will be surprised to hear that if fire had come down visibly from heaven, greater awe and fear could not have been struck into their hearts or depicted upon their countenances. The casual conversation, and the commentaries upon the ceremony they had witnessed, instantly settled into a most profound silence, and every eye was turned towards it with an interest absolutely fearful.

“Let,” said the curate, “none of those who have sworn depart from within the ring until they once more clear themselves upon this,” and as he spoke he held it up. “Behold!” said he, “and tremble—behold THE DONAGH!!!”

A low murmur of awe and astonishment burst from the people in general, whilst those within the ring, who, with few exceptions, were the worst characters in the parish, appeared ready to sink into the earth. Their countenances, for the most part, paled into the condemned hue of guilt; many of them became almost unable to stand; and altogether, the state of trepidation and terror in which they stood was strikingly wild and extraordinary.

The curate proceeded: “Let him now who is guilty depart; or if he wishes, advance and challenge the awful penalty annexed to perjury upon THIS! Who has ever been known to swear falsely upon the Donagh without being visited by a tremendous punishment, either on the spot, or in twenty-four hours after his perjury? If we ourselves have not seen such instances with our own eyes, it is because none liveth who dare incur such a dreadful penalty; but we have heard of those who did, and of their awful punishment afterwards. Sudden death, madness, paralysis, self-destruction, or the murder of someone dear to them, are the marks by which perjury on the Donagh is known and visited. Advance now, ye who are innocent; but let the guilty withdraw, for we do not desire to witness the terrible vengeance which would attend a false oath upon the DONAGH. Pause, therefore, and be cautious! for if this grievous sin be committed, a heavy punishment will fall, not only upon you, but upon the parish in which it occurs!”

The words of the priest sounded to the guilty like the death sentence of a judge. Before he had concluded, all, except Meehan and his brother and a few who were really innocent, had slunk back out of the circle into the crowd. Denis, however, became pale as a corpse, and from time to time wiped the large drops from his haggard brow. Even Anthony’s cheek, despite of his natural callousness, was less red; his eyes became disturbed; but by their influence he contrived to keep Denis in sufficient dread to prevent him from mingling, like the rest, among the people. The few who remained along with them advanced, and notwithstanding their innocence, when the Donagh was presented, and the figure of Christ and the Twelve Apostles displayed in the solemn tracery of its rude carving, they exhibited symptoms of fear. With trembling hands they touched the Donagh, and with trembling lips kissed the crucifix, in attestation of their guiltlessness of the charge of which they had been accused.

“Anthony and Denis Meehan, come forward,” said the curate, “and declare your innocence of the crimes with which you are charged by the Cassidys and others.”

Anthony advanced; but Denis stood rooted to the ground; on perceiving which the former sternly returned a step or two, and catching him by the arm with an admonitory grip that could not easily be misunderstood, compelled him to proceed with himself step by step to the table. Denis, however, could feel the strong man tremble, and perceive that although he strove to lash himself into the energy of despair, and the utter disbelief of all religious sanction, yet the trial before him called every slumbering prejudice and apprehension of his mind into active power. This was a death blow to his own resolution, or, rather, it confirmed him in his previous determination not to swear on the Donagh, except to acknowledge his guilt, which he could scarcely prevent himself from doing, such was the vacillating state of mind to which he felt himself reduced.

When Anthony reached the table, his huge form seemed to dilate by his effort at maintaining the firmness necessary to support him in this awful struggle between conscience and superstition on the one hand, and guilt, habit, and infidelity on the other. He fixed his deep, dilated eyes upon the Donagh in a manner that betokened somewhat of irresolution; his countenance fell; his color came and went, but eventually settled in a flushed red; his powerful hands and arms trembled so much that he folded them to prevent his agitation from being noticed; the grimness of his face ceased to be stern, while it retained the blank expression of guilt; his temples swelled out with the terrible play of their blood vessels; his chest, too, heaved up and down with the united pressure of guilt and the tempest which shook him within. At length he saw Denis’s eye upon him, and his passions took a new direction: he knit his brows at him with more than usual fierceness, ground his teeth, and with a step and action of suppressed fury he placed his foot at the edge of the table, and bowing down under the eye of God and man, took the awful oath on the mysterious Donagh in a falsehood! When it was finished a feeble groan broke from his brother’s lips. Anthony bent his eye on him with a deadly glare; but Denis saw it not. The shock was beyond his courage—he had become insensible.

Those who stood at the outskirts of the crowd, seeing Denis apparently lifeless, thought he must have sworn falsely on the Donagh, and exclaimed, “He’s dead! Gracious God! Denis Meehan’s struck dead by the Donagh! He swore in a lie, and is now a corpse!” Anthony paused, and calmly surveyed him as he lay with his head resting upon the hands of those who supported him. At this moment a silent breeze came over where they stood, and as the Donagh lay upon the table, the black ribbons with which it was ornamented fluttered with a melancholy appearance that deepened the sensations of the people into something peculiarly solemn and preternatural. Denis at length revived, and stared wildly and vacantly about him. When composed sufficiently to distinguish and recognize individual objects, he looked upon the gloomy visage and threatening eye of his brother, and shrunk back with a terror almost epileptical. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “save me!—save me from that man, and I’ll discover all!”

Anthony calmly folded one arm into his bosom, and his lip quivered with the united influence of hatred and despair.

“Hould him!” shrieked a voice, which proceeded from his daughter—“hould my father, or he’ll murdher him! Oh! oh! merciful Heaven!”

Ere the words were uttered she had made an attempt to clasp the arms of her parent, whose motions she understood; but only in time to receive from the pistol, which he had concealed in his breast, the bullet aimed at her uncle! She tottered; and the blood spouted out of her neck upon her father’s brows, who hastily put up his hand and wiped it away, for it had actually blinded him.

The elder Meehan was a tall man, and as he stood elevated nearly a head above the crowd, his grim brows red with his daughter’s blood—which, in attempting to wipe away, he had deeply streaked across his face—his eyes shooting fiery gleams of his late resentment, mingled with the wildness of unexpected horror—as he thus stood, it would be impossible to contemplate a more revolting picture of that state to which the principles that had regulated his life must ultimately lead, even in this world.

On perceiving what he had done, the deep working of his powerful frame was struck into sudden stillness, and he turned his eyes on his bleeding daughter with a fearful perception of her situation. Now was the harvest of his creed and crimes reaped in blood; and he felt that the stroke which had fallen upon him was one of those by which God will sometimes bare His arm and vindicate His justice. The reflection, however, shook him not; the reality of his misery was too intense and pervading, and grappled too strongly with his hardened and unbending spirit, to waste its power upon a nerve or a muscle. It was abstracted, and beyond the reach of bodily suffering. From the moment his daughter fell he moved not; his lips were half open with the conviction produced by the blasting truth of her death, effected prematurely by his own hand.