Stories by English Authors: Ireland | Page 5

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,
JACK CONNOLLY.
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