The first available train carried Harold southward. On the way he read
the letter again. The notion of entering a boycotted household amused
and pleased him. He had never been in Ireland before, and he was quite
willing that his first visit should be well spiced with the national
flavour. Of course he had his views on the Irish question. Every
American newspaper reader is cheerfully satisfied with the conviction
that the Celtic race on its native sod has no real faults. A
constitutional antipathy to rent may exist, but that is a national
foible which, owing doubtless to some peculiarity of the climate, is
almost praiseworthy in Ireland, though elsewhere regarded as hardly
respectable. At any rate, with the consciousness that he was about to
come face to face with the much-talked-of boycott, Harold’s spirits
rose, and as he read Polly Connolly’s message they rose still higher. He
was a lively young fellow, and fond of excitement. And at one time, as
he recalled with a smile and a sigh, he had been almost fond of Polly
Connolly.
When he alighted at the station--a small place in Tipperary--the dusk of
the early winter evening was closing in, and Harold recollected that his
prompt departure from Dublin had prevented him from apprising Jack of
his movements. Of course there would be no trap from Lisnahoe to meet
this train, but that mattered little. Half a dozen hack-drivers were
already extolling the merits of their various conveyances, and imploring
his patronage.
Selecting the best-looking car, he swung himself into his seat, while
the “jarvey” hoisted his portmanteau on the other side.
“Where to, yer honour?” inquired the latter, climbing to his place.
“To Lisnahoe House,” answered Hayes.
“Where?”
This question was asked with a vehemence that startled the young
American.
“Lisnahoe. Don’t you know the way?” he replied.
“In troth an’ I do. Is it Connolly’s?”
“Yes,” answered Harold. “Drive on, my good fellow; it’s growing late.”
The man’s only answer was to spring from his seat and seize Harold’s
portmanteau, which he deposited on the road with no gentle hand.
“What do you mean?” cried the young man, indignantly.
“I mane that ye’d betther come down out o’ that afore I make ye.”
Harold was on the ground in a moment and approached the man with
clinched fists and flashing eyes.
“How dare you, you scoundrel! Will you drive me to Lisnahoe or will you
not?”
“The divil a fut,” answered the fellow, sullenly.
Hayes controlled his anger by an effort. There was nothing to be gained
by a row with the man. He turned to another driver.
“Pick up that portmanteau. Drive me out to Mr. Connolly’s. I’ll pay
double fare.”
But they all with one consent, like the guests in the parable, began to
make excuse. One man’s horse was lame, another’s car was broken down;
the services of a third had been “bespoke.” Few were as frank as the man
first engaged, but all were prompt with the obvious lies, scarcely less
aggravating than actual rudeness. The station-master appeared, and
attempted to use his influence in the traveller’s behalf, but he
effected nothing.
“You’ll have to walk, sir,” said the official, civilly. “I’ll keep your
portmanteau here till Mr. Connolly sends for it.” And he carried the
luggage back into the station.
“How far is it to Mr. Connolly’s?” Harold inquired of a ragged urchin
who had strolled up with several companions.
“Fish an’ find out,” answered the youngster, with a grin.
“We’ll tache them to be sendin’ Emergency men down here,” said another.
The New-Yorker was fast losing patience.
“This is Irish hospitality and native courtesy,” he remarked, bitterly.
“Will any one tell me the road I am to follow?”
“Folly yer nose,” a voice shouted; and there was a general laugh, in the
midst of which the station-master reappeared.
He pointed out the way, and Harold trudged off to accomplish, as best he
might, five Irish miles over miry highways and byways through the
darkness of the December evening.
This was the young American’s first practical experience of boycotting.
It was nearly seven o’clock when, tired and mud-bespattered, he reached
Lisnahoe; but the warmth of his reception there went far to banish all
recollection of the discomforts of his solitary tramp. A hearty
hand-clasp from Jack, a frank and smiling greeting from Polly (she
looked handsomer than ever, Harold thought, with her lustrous black hair
and soft, dark-gray eyes), put him at his ease at once. Then came
introductions to the rest of the family. Mr. Connolly, stout and
white-haired, bade him welcome in a voice which owned more than a touch
of Tipperary brogue. Mrs. Connolly, florid and good-humoured, was very
solicitous for his comfort. The children confused him at first. There
were so many of them, of all sizes, that Hayes abandoned for the present
any attempt to distinguish them by name. There was a tall lad of twenty
or thereabouts,--a faithful copy of his elder brother Jack,--who was
addressed as Dick, and a pretty, fair-haired girl of seventeen, whom, as
Polly’s sister, Harold was prepared to like at once. She was Agnes.
After these came a long array,--no less than nine more,--ending with a
sturdy little chap of three, whom Polly presently picked up and carried
off to bed. Mr. Connolly, of Lisnahoe, could boast of a full quiver.
There was a general chorus of laughter as Harold related his experience
at the railway-station. The Connollys had rested for several days under
the ban of the most rigid boycott, and had become used to small
discomforts. They faced the situation bravely, and turned all such petty
troubles into jest; but the American was sorely disquieted to learn that
there was only one servant in the house--an old man who for many years
had blacked boots and cleaned knives for the family, and who had refused
to crouch to heel under the lash of the boycott.
Harold stammered an apology for his unseasonable visit, but Jack cut him
short.
“Nonsense, man; the more the merrier. We’re glad to have you, and if you
can rough it a bit you won’t find it half bad fun.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, I’m sure,” said Harold; “only I’m afraid you’d rather
have your house to yourselves at such a time as this.”
“Not we. Why, we expect some Emergency men down here in a few days.
We’ll treat you as the advance guard; we’ll set you to work and give you
your grub the same as an Emergency man.”
“What is an Emergency man?” inquired Harold. “Those Chesterfieldian
drivers at the station seemed to think it was the worst name they could
call me.”
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.
Harold rose with the intention of moving his chair out of the draught,
but as he did so the sound of whispered words, seemingly at his very
ear, made him pause. The voices came from the shrubbery below the
window, and in one of them he recognised the unmistakable brogue of old
Peter Dwyer.
Had the man been to the police station and returned with the constables
so quickly? This was Harold’s first thought, but he dismissed it as soon
as formed. Peter had been barely half an hour absent, and the station
was several miles off. Where had he been, then, and with whom was he
conversing? Harold bent his head close to the broken pane and listened.
“Are ye sure sartin that the young woman seen us?” inquired a rough
voice--not Peter’s--“because this is goin’ to be an ugly job, an’
there’s no call for us to tackle it widout needcessity?”
“Sartin as stalks,” whispered the old servant. “She was all of a
thrimble, as if she’d met a sperrit an’ all the words she had was ‘I
seen it--I seen it all,’ an’ she yowlin’ like a banshee.”
“It’s quare we didn’t take notice to her, for she must ha’ been powerful
close to see us such a night. I thought I heerd the horn, too, an’ I
lavin’ the yard.”
She wint out to blow it,” whispered Peter. “Most like it was stuck in
the shrubbery she was.”
“Come on thin,” growled the other; “it’s got to be done, an’ the byes is
all here. Ye left the little dure beyant on the latch?”
“I did that,” responded old Peter; and then a low, soft whistle sounded
in the darkness. It was a signal.
Rapidly but cautiously Harold Hayes left the window and stole across the
room. He understood it all. Polly had seen the murder and had recognised
the assassins. Old Dwyer was a traitor. He had slipped out and warned
the ruffians of the peril in which they stood, and now they were here to
seal their own safety by another crime--by the sacrifice of a life far
dearer to Harold than his own.
Swiftly, silently, he sped down the gloomy passage. The lives of all
beneath that roof were hanging on his speed. Breathless he reached the
little door, and flung himself against it with all his weight while his
trembling fingers groped in the darkness for bolt or bar.
A heavy hand was laid on the latch, and the door was tried from without.
“How’s this, Peter?” inquired the rough voice. “I thought ye said it
wasn’t locked.”
“No more it is; it’s only stiff it is, bad cess to it. Push hard, yer
sowl ye.”
But at this moment Harold’s hand encountered the bolt. With a sigh of
relief he shot it into the socket, and then, searching farther, he
supplemented the defences with a massive bar, which, he knew, ought
always to be in place at night.
Then he sped back along the passage, while muttered curses reached his
ears from without, and the door was shaken furiously.
“Jack, Jack,” he panted, as he flung open the door of the room in which
the young men slept--“Jack, come down and--”
He stopped abruptly. Mr. Connolly was kneeling at the bedside, and his
two sons knelt to the right and left of him.
There were no family prayers at Lisnahoe; only the ladies were regular
church-goers; but that it was a religious household no one could have
doubted who knew the events of the night and saw the old man on his
knees between his boys.
They rose at the noise of Harold’s entrance, and the American, who felt
that there were no moments to be wasted on apologies, announced his
errand.
“Old Peter Dwyer is a traitor! He has gone out and brought the murderers
to finish the work they have commenced.”
And then, in eager, breathless words, he told them how he had heard the
conversation in the shrubbery, and how the men, apprehensive that Miss
Connolly could identify them, had returned to stifle her testimony.
“They were right there,” said the old man. “She saw the first blow, and
it was struck by Red Mike Driscoll.”
“Then she is better?” asked Harold, eagerly.
The boys were at the other end of the room, slipping cartridges loaded
with small shot into the fowling-pieces they had snatched from the
walls.
“Oh yes,” replied Mr. Connolly; “she is all right now.”
A sound of heavy blows echoed through the house. The men below had
convinced themselves that the door was firmly fastened, and, desperate
from the conviction that they were identified, and relying on the
loneliness of the place, they were attacking the barrier with a pickaxe.
“I’ll soon put a stop to that,” cried Jack; and cocking his gun, he left
the room.
Dick was about to follow, but his father stopped him.
There’s no one in front of the house yet,” said the old gentleman. “Slip
out quietly, my boy, and make a dash for it to the police station.
You’ve taken the cup for the two-mile race at Trinity. Let’s see how
quick you can be when you are running for all our lives.”
“I’ll go down and fasten the door after him,” volunteered Hayes, and the
old man nodded. Outside, on the landing, they could hear the blows of
the pickaxe more distinctly. Suddenly, above the clangour, rang out
close and sharp the two reports of Jack’s double-barrel. He had selected
a window commanding the attack, and had fired point-blank down into the
group of men.
Shrieks and groans and curses testified to the accuracy of the young
man’s aim, and the sound of blows ceased. Harold and Dick ran rapidly
downstairs. The latter unbarred the front door.
“Don’t you run a fearful risk if you are seen?” inquired the American.
“Of course I do,” returned the brave lad, without a tremor in his voice;
“but somebody’s got to take the chance; we can’t defend the house
forever; and I wouldn’t miss this opportunity of nabbing the whole gang
for a thousand pounds.”
He opened the door and sped out into the night. He was out of sight in a
moment, and, as far as Harold could judge, he had not been observed.
Again the blows of the pickaxe rang out from the rear of the house.
Hayes closed the door and replaced the heavy bar. Then he turned to
remount the stairs, and met Polly, who was standing near the top with a
candle in her hand.
She was quite composed now, but very pale. He tried to ask if she had
recovered, but she cut him short impatiently.
“There is nothing the matter with me. What is the meaning of all this
uproar and--and the firing?”
For at this moment the twin reports of Jack’s breech-loader again echoed
through the house, this time it was answered by a fusilade from below.
There was nothing to be gained by concealment, and Harold told her the
whole story in a few words.
“How prompt and clever of you!” she said; “You have saved all our
lives.”
Her praise was very sweet to him, but there was no time to enjoy it now.
“Where are you going?” she asked, as he turned again to spring up the
stairs.
I am going to my room for my revolver,” he answered. “I may have use for
it before this is over.”
“Do,” she replied. “I will wait for you here.” Haves hurried on.
Jack was in the guest’s room. The young Irishman had selected that
window, as it commanded the little door against which the brunt of the
attack had hitherto been directed. Every pane was shattered, and walls
and ceiling showed the effect of the volley that had been directed
against him, but the young fellow stood his ground uninjured. “Don’t
mind me,” he said, in answer to Harold’s inquiry. “I’m all right, and
can hold this fort til morning if they don’t get ladders. I fancy I’ve
sickened them of trying that door below.”
Harold hastily grasped his revolver and went His idea was to stand in
the passage near the smoking-room, and defend the place should the door
give way; for he did not believe that timber had ever been grown to
withstand such blows.
Mrs. Connolly put her head out of the nursery door as he passed. Her
husband had told her of the position of affairs.
“Is that you, Mr. Hayes?” she whispered. “Is Jack hurt?”
“Jack is quite safe,” answered the young American. “Are the children
very much frightened?”
“Not as long as I am with them,” the old lady answered. “And Dick--what
of him?”
“Dick is all right too,” replied Harold. He could not tell the poor
woman that her boy was out in the open country without a wall between
him and the ruffians.
Mrs. Connolly drew back into the nursery to take the post assigned
her--assuredly not the easiest on that terrible night--to listen to the
doubtful sounds from without, and to support, by her own constancy, the
courage of her children.
Harold found Miss Connolly in the hall where he had left her.
“What do you intend to do?” she asked.
“I was going to stand inside the door they have been hammering at,” he
answered, “in case they should break it in.”
“Papa is there,” said the girl; “perhaps you had better wait here. They
will try the front door next”
“Very good,” he assented; and then added, with a sudden apprehension,
“but the windows. There are so many of them. How can we watch them all?”
“There are bars to all the lower windows,” she replied, “and I do not
think they know where to find ladders. No; their next attempt will be at
the hall door, and it will be harder to repel than anywhere else, for
the portico will protect them from shots from the windows.”
“And now, Miss Connolly,” urged Harold, “you can do no good here. Had
not you better go upstairs out of the way?”
“No, no; I would rather wait here,” she answered. “Don’t be afraid. I
sha’n’t give way again as I did to-night. I don’t know what came over
me, but it was all so horrible--so unexpected--” She broke off with a
little shuddering sigh.
“You saw them attack him?” asked Harold.
She nodded. “I was under that big cedar outside the parlor window. I had
hidden there to blow the horn. Suddenly I saw Fergus with a lantern in
his hand coming full speed toward the house. Just as he got within a few
paces of me, half a dozen men burst out from the laurels. Oh, how
savagely they struck at him! He was down in a moment. It was all so
close to me: I recognised Red Mike by the light of poor Fergus’s
lantern.”
“And then?” asked Hayes.
“I don’t think I remember any more. I must have staggered on to the
house, for they tell me I was found at the foot of the steps, but I
don’t know how I got there. I was terribly frightened, but I sha’n’t do
it again--not if they blow the roof off,” she said, trying to smile.
“I should think they would be afraid to persevere now that they are
discovered,” observed Harold. “This firing must alarm the
neighbourhood.”
“In a lonely place like this!” said the girl. “No, no, Mr. Hayes; there
are not many to hear these shots, and none that would not sooner fight
against us than on our side. We must depend on ourselves. But oh,” she
wailed, her woman’s heart betraying itself through the mechanical calm
she had maintained so long, “oh, I am sorry that your friendship for us
should have brought you into such peril--to think that your visit here
may cost you your life,” and she broke off and covered her streaming
eyes with her hands.
“Indeed, indeed,” said Harold, earnestly, “I think any danger I may run
a small price to pay for the privilege of knowing you, and, and--of
loving you.”
It was out at last; the words that had been so difficult to say came
trippingly from his tongue now, and she did not repulse nor attempt to
licence him.
There, in the dimly lighted, lofty hall, he poured out all that had been
in his heart since he had known her, and won from her in return a
whisper that emboldened him to draw the yielding form toward him and
press his lips to hers.
With a pealing crash the pickaxe bit into the stout oaken door, and the
young lovers sprang apart, terrified at this rude interruption of
dreams. Blow followed blow, and the massive woodwork shivered and
splintered and swayed under the savage impulse from without.
The assailants had abandoned their attempt on the postern; they had
ignored the kitchen door, within which stout Tom Neil with Dick’s
double-barrel stood on guard; they had turned their attention to the
main entrance, where a projecting portico partially sheltered them from
the galling discharges of Jack’s favourite “Rigby.”
They were only partially sheltered, however. The heir of Lisnahoe had
quickly shifted his ground when the attack on the postern was abandoned,
and he now stood in another room, ready, with the quickness of a
practised snipe-shot, to fire on any arm or hand or foot which showed
even for an instant outside the shadow of the portico.
Crash, crash, crash! Again and again the steel fangs of the pick ate
their way through the solid timber. The lock yielded quickly, but,
heavily barred at top and bottom, the good door resisted staunchly.
Polly had glided away from Harold’s side. He fancied that she had sought
a place of safety, and rejoiced thereat; but in a moment she reappeared.
She carried a shot-gun in her hands, and when she reached his side she
rested the butt on the ground and leaned on the weapon.
“I have often fired at things,” she said, simply. “Why shouldn’t I now?”
Mr. Connolly and Jack joined them in the hall, and Neil had come up from
the kitchen door. The main entrance was evidently the weak point, and
the whole garrison must be on hand to defend it. The assailants had
waxed cautious of late, and for some time had allowed the sharp-shooter
no chance. He thought that he would be of more service below; but, as it
proved, when he abandoned his post he committed a fatal error.
Apparently the enemy had discovered that the galling fire from above had
ceased. Perhaps some of their number had ventured out and returned
scatheless. They speedily took advantage of this immunity. While the
attacks with the pickaxe were not relaxed for a moment, a score of men
had brought the trunk of a young larch from the saw-pit at the back of
the house. Poised by forty strong arms, this improvised battering-ram
was hurled against the front door, carrying it clear off its hinges. In
the naked entry a crowd of rough men jostled one another, as they sprang
forward with hoarse imprecations on their prey. The garrison was
vanquished at last.
Not yet. Four shots rang out as one, instantly repeated as the defenders
discharged their second barrels into the very teeth of the advancing
mob. Then Mr. Connolly, Neil, and Jack clubbed the guns they had no time
to reload, and prepared to sell their lives dearly in a hand-to-hand
struggle. Polly, as soon as she had fired, dropped her weapon, and in an
instant Harold had swept her behind him, and stood, revolver in hand,
his breast her bulwark, confronting the mob.
But the mob, withered by the volley, hesitated a moment. The vestibule
was streaming with blood, and shrieking, writhing victims strove in vain
to rise. It was a sickening sight, but there was the electricity of
anger in the air and no one faltered long. On they came again with
undiminished fury.
But again the rush was checked. Sharp and vengeful rang out the close
reports of the American revolver, and at each echo a man fell. Less
noisy, less terrific, but far more deadly, the six-shooter took up the
work where the breech-loaders had left it; and Harold, covering with his
body the girl he loved, fired as steadily as if practising in a pistol
gallery, and made every shot tell.
He had not used his weapon in the first rush; somewhere or other, young
Hayes had heard of the advantages of platoon firing.
The lights had been extinguished and day was just breaking. Firing from
the obscurity into the growing light, the garrison had the best of the
position; but there were firearms among the assailants too, and the
balls whistled through the long hall and buried themselves in the
panelling.
But this could not last. Much as they had suffered in the assault, the
assailants were too numerous to be longer held at bay. With a feeling of
despair, Harold recognised the futile click that followed his pressure
on the trigger and told him that he had fired his last cartridge.
With a wild yell the assailants rushed forward. Not a shot met them;
nothing stood between them and their vengeance but four pale, determined
men, weaponless but unflinching.
A quick trampling as of a body of horse was heard on the gravel without.
A sharp, stern order reached the ears even of those in the house.
“Unsling carbines! Make ready! Present!”
Clubs and blunderbusses dropped from nerveless hands as the advancing
mob paused, faltered, and then surged backward through the doorway. The
lust of vengeance gave way to the instinct of self-preservation, and the
rioters scattered in flight.
Dick’s gallant race against time had not been fruitless. A squadron of
constabulary had reached the ground at the critical moment, and Lisnahoe
was saved.
Few of the assailants escaped--every avenue was guarded by mounted
policemen; and the gang which had long terrorised the
neighbourhood--whose teachings and example had done so much to convert
the sullen discontent of the peasantry into overt violence--was
effectually broken up. From that night the boycott on the Connolly
household was raised.
Red Mike Driscoll expiated on the gallows the murder of the Emergency
man Fergus, and nearly a score of others were sentenced to various terms
of imprisonment for assault and housebreaking.
The attacking party had lost three men killed, besides many wounded,
more or less severely, by the shot-guns. The judicial inquiry into the
casualties brought out details of the defence which struck terror to the
hearts of the country people. It was not likely that Lisnahoe would be
molested again.
Harold Hayes and Polly Connolly were married shortly after Easter. They
are living in New York now, in a pleasant flat overlooking Central Park.
They entertain a good deal, and Irish affairs are sometimes discussed at
Mr. Hayes’s table; but so far he has failed to convince any of his
American friends that there may be more than one side to the agrarian
question in Ireland.
“Nonsense,” remarked one gentleman, who professed to be deeply read in
the subject; “they are an oppressed and suffering people. Let them have
their land.”
“And what is to become of the landlords?” inquired Polly, with a wistful
remembrance of her girlhood’s beautiful home.
But to this question there has been no reply, and none has been offered
yet.