CHAPTER XIII.
It was a lovely afternoon in October; all the brilliant colouring of autumn burned upon the wide wandering uplands of Slieve-na-goil. There was the profuse purple of blossoming heather, the tawny gold of fading gorse, the rich, rusty hues of bracken. Tall gray crags at the summit looked less stern in the westering sunbeams, and hollows lower down assumed an indigo shade as the light sank toward the sea.
“’Deed, then, the days are growin’ mighty short in theirselves,” observed Mrs. Purcell, returning into the farm-house kitchen after a glance up and down the Glashen-glora valley. “Father Peter will have enough to do to put the station over him before dark.”
“O, but he’s a very smart hand at it,” rejoined Shane Cutty, the tailor, who was perched in the customary attitude of his profession upon the large kitchen table nearest the window, as he stitched away at a suit of frieze for the eldest son. His apprentice, equally busy on a similar suit for the boy Jemmy, squatted on the floor; and the “goose” was heating, as it had all day been heating at intervals, in a large turf fire, before which swung a goose of another species, giving off an appetizing odor as it slowly roasted and browned.
These preparations had a purpose. For Mr. Devenish had given out on the preceeding Sunday that it was his intention to hold a station at Denis Purcell’s house on the Thursday next ensuing, the announcement of which honor Denis had received (according to custom) with an audible answer from his end of the chapel. “We’ll be ready for your reverence, an’ yer heartily welcome.”
Thenceforward the family was all in a flutter how they could best show their appreciation of this social distinction by an adequate entertainment. Suddenly they all wanted new clothes, so a message was sent for Shane Cutty, the jobbing-tailor, to come and set to work upon a home-made web of gray frieze; and the girls, having coaxed some cash from their father, went off to the great general shop at Roonard to buy calico for gowns; while comely Mrs. Denis herself, waiving all questions of personal adornment as subsidiary to greater cares, was untiring about the house. The chimney was swept by Mike Rafferty, from the roof, who dropped a furze-bush, tied to a rope, through the orifice, and drew it up and down till every vestige of soot was brushed out of the shaft as thorough as by any patent machine. The dresser, tables, and chairs, were scoured into snowy whiteness with sand from the shore, and a very remarkable display of crockery set forth upon the first-named article of furniture—the pride of an Irish cabin. Once an unfortunate ship, going ashore in a cove some miles away, had proved to be partially laden with earthenware, and the underwriter’s auction had dispersed through the district many a cheap lot, more for ornament than use. Mrs. Denis arranged her damaged articles best faced outward, and tureens, salad-bowls, sauce-boats, and the mysterious vessels presented an imposing appearance which gladdened her heart.
As to preparations for the feast, had not the best lamb of the autumn stock, and the pick and choice of her poultry, and the finest of her bacon-flitches, been deliberately chosen? Had not a churn been made expressly this evening, from the newest cream, to provide the most delicious butter? There was a great fire of turf built up, ready for kindling, in an outhouse for the cookery next day. The pot and pans were brilliant as scouring could make them; the kitchen floor was plastered in any hollows with stiff clay from a loamy ditch in the meadows; the walls had been whitewashed, which caused rafters supporting the thatch to shine like polished ebony. And the temper of Mrs. Denis, which had been so uncertain for the past week as to cause her family to keep out of her way, became sweetly composed as she beheld her preparations drawing to a successful close. Shane Cutty himself had regarded her energy with some timid doubts from his professional elevation on the broadest table, but was now reassured.
“Yes, ma’am, it’s thrue for you, ma’am, about the shortening days,” he added, obsequiously; “but as I was sayin’, Father Peter is twice as quick as Father Euseby, though he hasn’t half the practice.”
This criticism to the priest’s relative performance at the confessional; for the grand business of a “station” at a farmer’s house was not only a sort of pastoral visitation, but to induce all the people of the neighbourhood to come and confess their sins.
Father Devenish had his own reasons for announcing a station at Denis Purcell’s; his active parish-clerk had ferreted out certain items of information which seemed to connect this house with the Biblical movement he suspected was going on. It was of much less consequence that he might also by this means attract to the “tribunal” a gang of illicit distillers which he knew to exist on the mountains near by.
Bright and early in the morning the people began to assemble, almost before the shadow of Slieve-na-goil was wiped off the valley by the sun rising over his shoulder. There was a motley gathering, for the news had spread far and wide; and not only the dwellers in the district came, but also the loose population that floats about in country parishes, all sorts of beggars, tramps, and wandering dealers. The remnants of two profuse meals were certain to the former, and many a sly bit of business would be done by the latter; and the greater the crowd, the greater the honor to Denis.
Shane Cutty, his labours with the needle over, and his perfomances visible upon the persons of his customers, lent a hand to the indoor arrangements. Fresh moss and heather from the hills were spread on the earthen floor; while one of the rooms off the kitchen was emptied of its sleeping accomodations, and carpeted centrally with a drugget quilt, on the midst of which set a straw arm-chair for the priest, and a little table for his book. Presently Jemmy, who had been dispatched on the look-out in his new clothes, came rushing back to say that Father Peter was in sight, “comin’ round the corner of the big rock,” mounted on the switch-tailed mare, and reading his breviary as he jogged along.
“Stand back, ye oncivililized cratures, and make a lane for his reverence,” shouted Devlin, the mass-server, who had come overnight to the farm with a box of vestments, and other paraphernalia of the service to be held by his master. So the priest held up his triad of fingers to bless right and left as he approached, no face or figure in the assemblage escaping his keen eyes; and portly Denis came outside the threshold, hat in hand, bowing deeply.
“A beautiful day for your reverence; couldn’t be finer if it was bespoke,” he said, holding the mare’s head as her rider dismounted. “There, take her round to the stable, Mike, rub her down an’ give her the best of thratement; if a hair’s turned on her, my boy, you’ll have to reckon with me.”
Inside was Mrs. Denis, in her best woolsey gown and dressiest cap with pink ribons, courtseying to the ground, and her daughters following her example. The kitchen was lined with a selection from the crowd, the elite of the neighbourhood, so to speak; the door and window were filled with faces closing in from the exterior. Father Eusebius would have had a word for each and all, but Father Peter stood more upon the dignity of his office. And Denis Purcell fancied an incipient cloud upon his brow.
“I hope the present congregation is all ready in a proper frame of mind for the two blessed sacraments of Penance and the Eucharist,” said Mr. Devenish, with a general glance, after he had answered inquiries as to the health of the elder priest, and made others about the old bed-ridden grandmother. A universal murmur and obeisance came in response.
“First to the tribunal yerself, ma’am; it’s your turn, by right, before any body else, Mrs. Purcell.”
No breakfast could be eaten till mass had been celebrated, as of course the sacrament must be taken fasting, and confession previously was the rule. Devlin, the parish-clerk, continued his morning’s work of preparing the people, by hearing them repeat certain prayers and bits of the catechism, and receiving from them the small fee of fourpence each, or a shilling from the wealthiest penitents; for which they got a slip of paper, as a ticket of admission to that closed inner chamber.
“It’s no good for ye to be squeezing up to that door, Molly Cassidy,” he paused in his labours to say, for the kitchen was filling rapidly by pressure from those without, and first come first served was a sort of law; “the family’s took fust always, missus, an’ masther an’ young ladies, an’ it don’t become you to be so forward, Molly Cassidy.”
The woman addressed slunk back behind another muttering that she meant no harm.
“All in good time—all in good time,” said Mr. Devlin, who was in the hour of his power. “Who’s prayin’ so loud outside, and disturbin’ me at the catechiz!” Way was made for him to the threshold, and he discovered a stalwart vagrant “votheen” kneeling on a flat stone brought for the purpose, and beating his breast heartily, while he was “gettin’ through a decade” of beads. “Asy, asy, my good man,” pleaded the parish-clerk, with the more authority in that here was a gratuitous penitent. ‘Av you makes a noise, it’ll be another sin on yer head. Good mornin’ to ye, Mrs. Clare; and couldn’t himself get up so early? Come inside, ma’am; an’ you, Miss Maureen.”
She made some excuse for the absence of the Manuscript Man, and forthwith began upon her beads. Her daughter preferred sitting without, on the low wall beside the alder-bushes, watching the crowd, and occasionally talking to some acquaintance.
“Why, Maureen, yer takin’ the tribunal mighty asy,” remarked a young girl, coming up beside her, for she had pulled some knitting from her pocket. “One wud think yer job was over instead of before ye.”
“I’m not goin’ to confess to-day,” answered the Manuscript Man’s daughter, quietly.
“’Deed, then, I wish it was the same wid me; but sure this is the first time of all wid me, an’ I’m fairly frightened. If ‘twas Father Euseby, I wouldn’t mind half so much, some way.”
“Ye’ll soon get used to it,” observed Maureen.
“But to remember all the sins ever I did is so hard!”
“His reverence will draw ‘em all out of you wid questions,” was the rejoinder.
“O! I don’t know how I’ll ever face him.” She was not much more than a child. “I’m sure I’ll forget every word of the ‘confiteor.’ Hear it over to me, Maureen, like a darlin’. I learned the fruits of a Christian, an’ the nine ways of bein’ guilty of another sin besides,” said she, when the confiteor was ended.
“Never mind; may be he wouldn’t ask you thim,” said Maureen, resuming her knitting. And then, while the girl went off to secure a good place in the front rank, and “put it over her,” as she phrased it, Maureen’s mind turned into a line of thought which made her heart throb and her face burn guiltily—how she and her father had searched the New Testament for the sacrament of penance and found none. Nay, even the letters of St. Peter himself, none.
When the principle persons assembled at the station had confessed, and indeed as many others as could be crowded into a couple of hours the clerk proceeded to make arrangements for the saying of mass; he covered the principal table with a cloth, lit a pair of candles, and laid out the silver-clasped service-book, crucifix, and chalice. The cloud on Father Peter’s brow was certainly not lessened when he came forth in alb and cope; and it had communicated itself to Mrs. Denis and her husband mysteriously.
The mass-server fulfilled his office by repeating Latin answers, of which he understood nothing; and the canon being ended, except one or two closing prayers, Mr. Devenish paused and turned to the audience.
Slowly to Denis Purcell’s forehead mounted the crimson as the priest began to speak in Irish. People were absent from the station who ought to be there, and their absence told tales of guilt. (Poor Mrs. Clare felt inclined to fall on her knees in deprecation* .) It was not for him to speak of what had been revealed to him in confession, the seal of the Church shut it up forever; but heavy penance must follow a heavy sin. And the heaviest of all sins, the sin to be visited with most condign punishment both in this world and the next, was heresy—disobedience to the Church and her ministers. He would not mention names now, but he knew that the Biblicals were trying to work in the parish, and perhaps he would soon be obliged to speak out: and whenever he did so it would be to some purpose. They all knew what the curse of the Church meant. It meant that a man’s crops would fail, and his cows die, ay, even his children die; his own health fail, till the eyes sank in his head and the marrow hardened in his bones, and he became a miserable object, to be shunned by friend and neighbour, to have no refuge but the grave! And much more followed to the like effect.
The women were visibly moved, some even uttered a suppressed shriek as the possible anathema was dilated upon in a thundering voice. Maureen stood near the door, pale as death, every word sharpened in her imaginings by the application to her father, which she could not help making. Mrs. Clare was long ago on her knees, praying loudly, with some other of the most impressible old women, rocking themselve to and fro.
Scarcely could the profuse and luxurious breakfast which followed restore the tone of the assemblage after such a warning of sacerdotal wrath; not even though Mr. Devenish unbent considerably, and seemed quite to forget the storm. But this was merely during the meal: his priestly character closed about him immediately that he rose up, like a suit of armor.
Confessions went on till dinner-time, an hour beyond noon. Among the penitents was Mickey Malt himself, who came forth looking furtive and confused.
“Ha, yer afther catchin’ it about the little still up in Slieve-na-goil,” remarked an acquaintance, jogging his elbow.
“That!” exclaimed Mickey. “Troth, no’ it’s quite another thing altogether!”
“Well, ye look as if ye saw a ghost, anyhow; I s’pose the penance is out of measure hard.”
“May be,” rejoined Mickey, laconically, edging his way out.
“The dinner’s just comin’ on the table,” said Mrs. Purcell by way of invitation; but he went.
On this repast she had lavished all her culinary skill, and spared no cost, for the honor of his reverence and the house. The plum-pudding, made from a receipt given by the cook at Rienvella Lodge, was worthy of Christmas itself. Yet somehow every thing went off heavily.
“Denis, asthore, can’t you clear yer face, an’ look pleasant, somehow?” she whispered, just before. “Can’t ye say a jokin’ word, or somethin’ lively?”
“Woman, I can’t!” was the farmer’s answer, hissed between his teeth. The iron of priestly despotism was entering his soul.
“Arrah, whist, or the people’ll hear ye. I’ll have to purtend ye aren’t well in yer health today.”
Big Denis, a collosus of strength since childhood, half laughed; but it was not agreeable mirth. “Nobody’ll believe you,” said he. “But sure that white lie will do as well as anything else to begin the score of sins for yer next confession.”
On the whole, however, there was considerably more hilarity at the dinner than at the breakfast; all over whom Father Devenish had pronounced his Latin absolution believed they had got rid of their sins, and could commence the world anew with clean conscience.
Performing all the duties of host to the letter, Denis, bareheaded, held the priest’s stirrup for him to mount, and then walked off with great strides in an opposite direction among the hills, where he had some cattle on a upland pasture, and did not return to his own house for hours.
Meanwhile, by his wife’s direction, a spotless white cross was painted on the front door, in record of the fact that here had been “a station.”
*
To express great disapproval of.
