Stories by English Authors: Ireland
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Various >> Stories by English Authors: Ireland
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A hearty laugh went round the circle.
"If they took ye for an Emergency man, it's small wonder they were
none too swate on ye," observed Mr. Connolly.
"But what does it mean?" asked the New-Yorker.
"Well," began the old gentleman, "there's good and bad in this
world of ours. When tenants kick and labourers clare out, an' a
boycott's put on a man, they'd lave yer cattle to die an' yer crops
to rot for all they care. It's what they want. Well, there happens
to be a few dacent people left in Ireland yet, and they have got up
an organization they call the Emergency men; they go to any part
of the country and help out people that have been boycotted through
no fault of their own--plough their fields or reap their oats or
dig their potatoes, an' generally knock the legs out from under the
boycott. It stands to reason that the blackguards in these parts
hate an Emergency man as the divil hates holy water; but ye may
take it as a compliment that ye were mistook for one, for all that."
Here Dick thrust his head into the door of the large library, in
which the party was assembled.
"Dinner is served, my lords and ladies," he cried; and there was
a general movement toward the dining-room.
"No ceremony here, my boy," laughed Jack, as he led Harold across
the hall. "I'll be your cavalier and show you the way. The girls
are in the kitchen, I suppose."
But Miss Connolly and Agnes were already in the dining-room, and
the party gathered round the well-spread board and proceeded to do
full justice to the good things thereon. The meal was more like
a picnic than a set dinner. Old Peter Dwyer, the last remaining
retainer, had never attended at table, so he confined himself to
kitchen duties, while the young Connollys waited on themselves and
on each other. A certain little maid, whom Harold by this time had
identified as Bella, devoted herself to the stranger, and took
care that neither his glass nor his plate should be empty. A glance
of approval, which he intercepted on its way from Miss Connolly to
her little sister, told Harold that Bella had been given a charge
concerning him, and he appreciated the attention none the less on
that account, while he ate his dinner with the agreeable confidence
that it had been prepared by Miss Polly's own fair hands.
Everything at table was abundant and good of its kind, and conversation
was alert and merry, as it is apt to be in a large family party. So
far, the boycott seemed to have anything but a depressing effect,
though Harold could not help smiling as he realised how it would have
crushed to powder more than one estimable family of his acquaintance.
After dinner Jack rose, saying that he must go round to the stables
and bed down the horses for the night. Harold accompanied him, and
acquitted himself very well with a pitchfork, considering that he
had little experience with such an implement. he had gone with a
couple of the younger boys to chop turnips for certain cattle which
were being fattened for the market.
"How did you come to be boycotted?" inquired Harold, with some
curiosity, as soon as he found himself alone with Jack.
"Oh, it doesn't take much talent to accomplish that nowadays,"
answered the young Irishman, with a laugh. "In the first place, the
governor has a habit of asking for his rent, which is an unpopular
proceeding at the best of times. In the second place, I bought half
a dozen bullocks from a boycotted farmer out Limerick way."
"And is that all?" asked Harold, in astonishment. Notwithstanding
his regard for his friend, he had never doubted that there must have
been some appalling piece of persecution to justify this determined
ostracism.
"All!" echoed Jack, laughing. "You don't know much of Ireland, my
boy, or you wouldn't ask that question. We bought cattle that had
been raised by a farmer on land from which a defaulting tenant had
been evicted. Men have been shot in these parts for less than that."
"Pleasant state of affairs," remarked the New-Yorker.
"I don't much care," Jack went on, lightly. "We're promised a
couple of Emergency men from Ulster in a few days, and that will
take the weight of the work off our hands. It isn't as if it were
a busy time. No crops to be saved in winter, you see, and no farm
work except stall-feeding the cattle. That can't wait."
"But your sisters--all the work of that big house--" began Harold,
who was thinking of Polly.
"We expect two Protestant girls down from Belfast to-morrow. That'll
be all right. We get all our grub from Dublin,--they won't sell us
anything in Ballydoon,--and we mean to keep on doing so, boycott or
no boycott. We have been about the best customers to the shopkeepers
round here, and it'll come near ruining the town--and serve them
right," the young man added, with the first touch of bitterness he
had displayed in speaking of the persecution of his family.
By next day the situation had improved. A couple of servant-girls
arrived from the north. They were expected, and accordingly Dick
was on hand with the jaunting-car to meet them and drive them from
the station. The Emergency men had not yet appeared, so Jack and
such of his brothers as were old enough to be of use were kept
pretty busy round the place. Harold had wished to return to England
and postpone his visit till a more convenient time, but to this no
one would listen. He made no trouble; he was not a bit in the way;
in fact, he was a great help. So said they all, and the young
New-Yorker was quite willing to believe them.
He did occasionally offer assistance in stable or farm-yard, but
he much preferred to spend his time rambling over the old place,
admiring the lawns, the woods, the gardens, all strangely silent
and deserted now. Miss Connolly was often his companion. The
importation from Belfast relieved her of some of the pressure of
household cares, and since her brothers were fully occupied, it
devolved upon her to play host as well as hostess, and point out
to the stranger the various charms of Lisnahoe.
This suited Harold exactly. He usually carried a gun and sometimes
shot a rabbit or a wood-pigeon, but generally he was content to
listen to Polly's lively conversation, and gaze into the depths of
her eyes, wondering why they looked darker and softer here under the
shadow of her native woods than they had ever seemed in the glare
and dazzle of a New York ball-room. Harold Hayes was falling in
love--falling consciously, yet without a struggle. He was beginning
to realise that life could have nothing better in store for him
than this tall, graceful girl, in her becoming sealskin cap and
jacket, whose little feet, so stoutly and serviceably shod, kept
pace with his own over so many miles of pleasant rambles.
One day--it was the last of the old year--Miss Connolly and Harold
were strolling along a path on which the wintry sunshine was tracing
fantastic patterns as it streamed through the naked branches of
the giant beech-trees. The young man had a gun on his shoulder,
but he was paying little attention to the nimble rabbits that now
and then frisked across the road. He was thinking, and thinking
deeply.
He could not hope for many more such quiet walks with his fair
companion. She would soon have more efficient chaperons than the
children, who often made a pretence of accompanying them, but invariably
dashed off, disdainful of the sober pace of their elders. Before
long--next day probably--he would be handed over to the tender
mercies of Jack, who had constantly lamented the occupations that
prevented his paying proper attention to his guest. The heir of
Lisnahoe had promised to show the young stranger some "real good
sport" as soon as other duties would permit. That time was close
at hand now. The Emergency men had been at work for several days;
they were thoroughly at home in their duties; besides, the fat
cattle would be finished very shortly and sent off to be sold in
Dublin. Jack had announced his intention of stealing a holiday on
the morrow, and taking Hayes to a certain famous "snipe bottom,"
when the game was, to use Dick's expression, "as thick as plums in
one of Polly's puddings."
It was hard to guess then they might have such another rumble, and
Harold had much to say to the girl at his side; and yet, for the
life of him, he could not utter the words that were trembling on
his lips.
"I don't believe you care much for shooting, Mr. Hayes."
A rabbit loped slowly across die road not twenty yards from the
gun, but Harold had not noticed it. He roused himself with a start,
however, at the sound of his companion's voice.
"Oh yes, I do, sometimes," he answered, glancing alertly to both
sides of the road; but no game was in sight for the moment.
"If this frost should break up, you may have some hunting," pursued
Miss Connolly. "I'm afraid you're having an awfully stupid time."
Harold interposed an eager denial.
"Oh yes, you must be," insisted the young lady; "but Jack will find
more time now, and if we have a thaw you will have a day with the
hounds. Are you fond of hunting?"
"I am very fond of riding, but I have never hunted," answered the
New-Yorker.
"Just like me. I am never so happy as when I am on horseback, but
mamma won't let me ride to hounds. She says she does not approve
of ladies on the field. It is traditional, I suppose, that every
mistress of Lisnahoe should oppose hunting."
"Indeed, why so?" inquired Harold.
"Why, don't you know?" asked the girl. "Has nobody told you our
family ghost-story?"
"No one as yet," answered Hayes.
"Then mine be the pleasing task; and there is a peculiar fitness
in your hearing it just now, for to-morrow will be New-Year's Day."
Harold failed to see the applicability of the date, but he made no
observation, and Miss Connolly went on.
"Ever so many years ago this place belonged to an ancestor of mine
who was devoted to field-sports of all kinds. He lived for nothing
else, people thought, but suddenly he surprised all the world by
getting married."
Harold thought that if her remote grandmother had chanced to
resemble the fair young girl at his side, there was a good excuse
for the sportsman; but he held his tongue.
"The bride was exacting--or perhaps she was only timid. At any
rate, she used her influence to wean her husband from his outdoor
pursuits--especially hunting. He must have been very much in love
with her, for she succeeded, and he promised to give it all up--after
one day more. It seems that he could not get out of this last run.
The meet was on the lawn; the hunt breakfast was to be at Lisnahoe
House. In short, it was an affair that could neither be altered
nor postponed.
"This meet," continued Polly, "was on New-Year's Day. There was
a great gathering, and after breakfast the gentlemen came out and
mounted at the door; the hounds were grouped on the lawn; it must
have been a beautiful sight."
"It must, indeed," assented Harold.
"Well, this old Mr. Connolly--but you must understand that he was
not old at all, only all this happened so long ago--he mounted his
horse, and his wife came out on the step to bid him good-bye, and
to remind him of his promise that this should be his last hunt.
And so it was, poor fellow; for while she was standing talking
to him, a gust of wind came and blew part of her dress right into
the horse's face. Mr. Connolly was riding a very spirited animal.
It reared up and fell back on him, killing him on the spot."
"How horrible!" exclaimed Harold.
"Wait! The shock to the young wife was so great that she died the
next day."
"The poor girl!"
"Don't waste your sympathy. It was all very long ago, and perhaps
it never happened at all. However, the curious part of the story
is to come. Every one that had been present at that meet--men,
dogs, horses--everything died within the year."
"To the ruin of the local insurance companies?" remarked Harold,
with a smile.
"You needn't laugh. They did. And next New-Year's night, between
twelve and one o'clock, the whole hunt passed through the place,
and they have kept on doing it every New-Year's night since."
"A most interesting and elaborate ghost-story," said Harold. "Pray,
Miss Connolly, may I ask if you yourself have seen the phantom
hunt?"
"No one has ever done that," replied Polly, "but when there is
moonlight they say the shadows can be seen passing over the grass,
and any New-Year's night you may hear the huntsman's horn."
"I should like amazingly to hear it," replied the young man. "Have
you ever heard this horn?"
"I have heard A horn," the girl answered, with some reluctance.
"On New-Year's night between twelve and one?" he pursued.
"Of course--but I can't swear it was blown by a ghost. My brothers
or some one may have been playing tricks. You can sit up to-night
and listen for yourself if you want."
"Nothing I should like better," exclaimed Harold. "Will you sit up
too?"
"Oh yes. We always wait to see the Old Year out and the New Year
in. Come, Mr. Hayes, it's almost luncheon-time," she added, glancing
at her watch; and they turned back toward the house, which was just
visible through the leafless trees.
Harold walked at her side in silence. He had heard a ghost-story,
but the words he had hoped to speak that day were still unuttered.
Loud were the pleadings, when the little ones' bedtime came, that
they might be allowed to sit up to see the Old Year die; but Mrs.
Connolly was inexorable. The very young ones were sent off to bed
at their usual hour.
Cards and music passed the time pleasantly till the clock was almost
on the stroke of twelve. Then wine was brought in, and healths
were drunk, and warm, cheerful wishes were uttered, invoking all
the blessings that the New Year might have in store. Hands were
clasped and kisses were exchanged. Harold would willingly have been
included in this last ceremony, but that might not be. However, he
could and did press Polly's hand very warmly, and the earnestness
of the wishes he breathed in her ear called a bright colour to her
cheek. Then came good-night, and the young American's heart grew
strangely soft when he found himself included in Mrs. Connolly's
motherly blessing. He thought he had never seen a happier, a more
united family.
The party was breaking up; some had retired; others were standing,
bedroom candlesticks in their hands, exchanging a last word, when
suddenly, out of the silence of the night, the melodious notes
of a huntsman's horn echoed through the room. Harold recalled the
legend, and paused at the door, mute and wondering.
Jack and his father exchanged glances.
"Now which of you's tryin' to humbug us this year?" asked the old
man, laughing, while Jack looked round and proceeded, as he said,
to "count noses."
This was a useless attempt, for half the party that had sat up to
wait for the New Year had already disappeared.
Dick sprang to the window and threw it open, but the night was
cloudy and dark.
Again came the notes of the horn, floating in through the open
window, and almost at the same moment there was a sound of hoofs
crunching the gravel of the drive as a dozen or more animals swept
past at wild gallop.
"This is past a joke," cried Jack. "I never heard of the old hunt
materializing in any such way as this."
They rushed to the front door--Jack, Mr. Connolly, all of them.
Harold reached it first. Wrenching it open, he stood on the step,
while the others crowded about him and peered out into the night.
Only darkness, rendered mirker by the lights in the hall; and from
the distance, fainter now, came the measured beat of the galloping
hoofs.
No other sound? Yes, a long-drawn, quivering, piteous sigh; and as
their eyes grew more accustomed to the night, out of the darkness
something white shaped itself--something prone and helpless,
lying on the gravel beneath the lowest step. They did not stop to
speculate as to what it might be. With a single impulse, Jack and
Harold sprang down, and between them they carried back into the
hall the inanimate body of Polly Connolly.
Her eyes were closed and her face was as white as the muslin dress
she wore. Clutched in her right hand was a hunting-horn belonging
to Dick. It was evident that the girl had stolen out unobserved to
reproduce--perhaps for the visitor's benefit--the legendary notes
of the phantom huntsman. This was a favorite joke among the young
Connollys, and scarcely a New-Year's night passed that it was not
practised by one or other of the large family; but what had occurred
to-night? Whence came those galloping hoofs, and what was the
explanation of Polly's condition?
The swoon quickly yielded to the usual remedies, but even when she
revived it was some time before the girl could speak intelligibly.
Her voice was broken by hysterical sobs; she trembled in every
limb. It was evident that her nerves had received a severe shock.
While the others were occupied with Polly, Dick had stepped out on
the gravel sweep, where he was endeavouring, by close examination,
to discover some clue to the puzzle. Suddenly he ran back into the
house.
"Something's on fire!" he cried. "I believe it's the yard."
They all pressed to the open door--all except Mrs. Connolly, who
still busied herself with her daughter, and Harold, whose sole
interest was centred in the girl he loved.
Above a fringe of shrubbery which masked the farm-yard, a red glow
lit up the sky. It was evident the buildings were on fire. And
even while they looked a man, half dressed, panting, smoke-stained,
dashed up the steps. It was Tom Neil, one of the Emergency men.
These men slept in the yard, in the quarters vacated by the deserting
coachman. In a few breathless words the big, raw-boned Ulsterman
told the story of the last half-hour.
He and his comrade Fergus had been awakened by suspicious sounds
in the yard. Descending, they had found the cattle-shed in flames.
Neil had forced his way in and had liberated and driven out the
terrified bullocks. The poor animals, wild with terror, had burst
from the yard and galloped off in the direction of the house. This
accounted for the trampling hoofs that had swept across the lawn,
but scarcely for Polly's terrified condition. A country-bred girl
like Miss Connolly would not lose her wits over the spectacle
of a dozen fat oxen broken loose from their stalls. Had the barn
purposely burned, and had the girl fallen in with the retreating
incendiaries?
It seemed likely. No one there doubted the origin of the fire, and
Mr. Connolly expressed the general feeling as he shook his head
and murmered:
"I mistrusted that they wouldn't let us get them cattle out o' the
country without some trouble."
"But where is Fergus?" demanded Jack, suddenly.
"Isn't he here?" asked the Ulsterman. "When we seen the fire he
started up to the big house to give the alarm, while I turned to
to save the bullocks."
"No, he never came to the house," answered Jack, and there was an
added gravity in his manner as he turned to his brother.
"Get a lantern, Dick. This thing must be looked into at once."
While the boy went in search of a light, Mr. Connolly attempted to
obtain from his daughter a connected statement of what had happened
and how much she had seen; but she was in no condition to answer
questions. The poor girl could only sob and moan and cover her face
with her hands, while convulsive tremblings shook her slight figure.
"Oh, don't ask me, papa; don't speak to me about it. It was
dreadful--dreadful. I saw it all."
This was all they could gain from her.
"Don't thrubble the poor young lady," interposed old Peter,
compassionately. "Sure, the heart's put acrass in her wid the
fright. Lave her be till mornin'."
There seemed nothing else to be done, so Polly was left in charge
of her mother and sister, while the men, headed by Dick, who carried
a lantern, set out to examine the grounds.
There was no trace of Fergus between the house and the farm-yard.
The lawn was much cut up by the cattle, for the frost had turned to
rain early in the evening, and a rapid thaw was in progress. The
ground was quite soft on the surface, and it was carefully scrutinised
for traces of footsteps, but nothing could be distinguished among
the hoof-prints of the bullocks.
In the yard all was quiet. The fire had died down; the roof of the
cattle-shed had fallen in and smothered the last embers. The barn
was a ruin, but no other damage had been done, and there were no
signs of the missing man.
They turned back, this time making a wider circle. Almost under the
kitchen window grew a dense thicket of laurel and other evergreen
shrubs. Dick stooped and let the light of the lantern penetrate
beneath the overhanging branches.
There, within three steps of the house, lay Fergus, pale and
blood-stained, with a sickening dent in his temple--a murdered man.
Old Peter Dwyer was the first to break the silence: "The Lord be
good to him! They've done for him this time, an' no mistake."
The lifeless body was lifted gently and borne toward the house.
Harold hastened in advance to make sure that none of the ladies
were astir to be shocked by the grisly sight. The hall was deserted.
Doubtless Polly's condition demanded all their attention.
"The girl saw him murdered," muttered Mr. Connolly. "I thought it
must have been something out of the common to upset her so."
"D' ye think did she, sir?" asked old Peter, eagerly.
"I havnen't a doubt of it," replied the old gentlemen shortly. "Thank
goodness, her evidence will hang the villain, whoever he may be."
"Ah, the poor thing, the poor thing!" murmured the servant, and
then the sad procession entered the house.
The body was laid on a table. It would have been useless to send
for a surgeon. There was not one to be found within several miles,
and it was but too evident that life was extinct. The top of the
man's head was beaten to a pulp. He had been clubbed to death.
"If it costs me every shilling I have in the world, and my life
to the boot of it," said Mr. Connolly, "I'll see the ruffians that
did the deed swing for their night's work."
"Amin," assented Peter, solemnly; and Jack's handsome face darkened
as he mentally recorded an oath of vengeance.
"There'll be little sleep for this house to-night," resumed the
old gentleman after a pause. "I'm goin' to look round and see if
the doors are locked, an' then take a look at Polly. An', Peter."
"Sir!"
"The first light in the mornin'--it's only a few hours off," he
added, with a glance at his watch --"you run over to the police
station, and give notice of what's happened."
"I will, yer honour."
"Come upstairs with me, boys. I want to talk with you. Good-night,
Mr. Hayes. This has been a blackguard business, but there's no
reason you should lose your rest for it."
Mr. Connolly left the room, resting his arms on the shoulders of his
two sons. Harold glanced at the motionless figure of the murdered
man, and followed. He did not seek his bedroom, however; he knew
it would be idle to think of sleep. He entered the smoking-room,
lit a cigar, and threw himself into a chair to wait for morning.
All his ideas as to the Irish question had been changing insensibly
during his visit to Lisnahoe. This night's work had revolutionised
them. He saw the agrarian feud--not as he had been wont to read
of it, glozed over by the New York papers. He saw it as it was--in
all its naked, brutal horror.
He had observed that there had been no attempt on the Connollys to
appeal to neighbours for sympathy in this time of trouble, and he
had asked Jack the reason. Jack's answer had been brief and pregnant.
"Where's the good? We're boycotted."
And that dead man lying on the table outside was only an example
of boycotting carried to its logical conclusion.
The sound of a door closing softly aroused Harold from his reverie.
A little postern leading from the servants' quarters opened close
to the smoking-room window. Harold looked out, and, as the night
had grown clearer, he distinctly saw old Pete Dwyer making his way
with elaborate caution down the shrubery path.
"Going to the police station, I suppose," mused Hayes. "Well, he
has started betimes."
Then he resumed his seat and thought of Polly.
What a shock for her, poor girl, to leave a happy home with her
heart full of innocent mirth, only to encounter murder lurking
red-handed at the very threshold!
"I wish I had spoken to her to-day," he muttered. "Goodness alone
knows when I shall find a chance now. I wonder how she is?"
He realised that he could see nothing of her till breakfast time
at any rate--if, indeed, she would be strong enough to appear at
that meal. He had been sitting in the dark; he now threw aside his
cigar, and, drawing his chair closer to the window, set himself
resolutely to watch for the dawn and solace his vigil with dreams
of Polly.
A raw, chill air blew into the room. He noticed that a pane of
glass was broken. One of the children had thrown a ball through it
a few days before, and in the present situation of the Connolly
household a glazier was an unattainable luxury.
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