Chapter 2

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.”