Stories by English Authors: Ireland | Page 9

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,