The fourth morning after his arrival in Dublin, Mr. Harold Hayes, of New
York, entered the breakfast-room of the Shelbourne Hotel in a very bad
humour. He was sick of the city, of the people, and of his own company.
Before leaving London he had written to his friend, Jack Connolly, that
he was coming to Ireland, and he had expected to find a reply at the
Shelbourne. For three days he had waited in vain, and it was partly, at
least, on Jack’s account that Mr. Hayes was in Ireland at all. When Jack
sailed from New York he had bound Harold by a solemn promise to spend a
few weeks at Lisnahoe on his next visit to Europe. Miss Connelly, who
had accompanied her brother on his American tour, had echoed and
indorsed the invitation.
Harold had naturally expected to find at the hotel a letter urging him
to take the first train for the south. He had seen a great deal of the
Connellys during their stay in the United States, and Jack and he had
become firm friends. He had crossed at this unusual season mainly on
Jack’s account--on Jack’s account and his sister’s; so it was little
wonder if the young man considered himself ill used. He felt that he had
been lured across the Irish Channel--across the Atlantic Ocean
itself--on false pretences.
But in a moment the cloud lifted from his brow, a quick smile stirred
under his yellow moustache, and his eyes brightened, for a waiter handed
him a letter. It lay, address uppermost, on the salver, and bore the
Ballydoon postmark, and the handwriting was the disjointed scrawl which
he had often ridiculed, but now welcomed as Jack Connolly’s.
This is what Hayes read as he sipped his coffee:
_Lisnahoe_, December 23d.
MY DEAR HAROLD: Home I come from Ballinasloe yesterday, and find
your letter, the best part of a week old, kicking about among the
bills and notices of meets that make the biggest end of my
correspondence. You must be destroyed entirely, my poor fellow, if
you’ve been three days in dear dirty Dublin, and you not knowing a
soul in it. Come down at once, and you’ll find a hearty welcome
here if you won’t find much else. I don’t see why you couldn’t have
come anyhow, without waiting to write; but you were always so
confoundedly ceremonious. We’re rather at sixes and sevens, for the
governor’s got “in howlts” with his tenants and we’re boycotted.
It’s not bad fun when you’re used to it, but a trifle inconvenient
in certain small ways. Let me know what train you take and I’ll
meet you at the station. You must be here for Christmas Day anyhow.
Polly sends her regards, and says she knew the letter was from you,
and she came near opening it. I’m sure I wish she had, and answered
it, for I’m a poor fist at a letter.
Yours truly,