L I B R.AR.Y OF THL UN IVLRSITY or ILLINOIS 823 HSGTs /. SHE SHALL BE MINE! VOL. I. SHE SHALL BE MINE! 31 llooci BY FRANK HUDSON AUTHOR OF "the LA3T HURDLE," ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I WARD AND DOWNEY, Ld. 12 YORK STREET CO VENT GARDEN 1894 [All rights reserved] Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay, • TO ROBERT BUCHANAN, ^ POET, NOVELIST, DRAMATIST. /vi J a? IP :^ CONTENTS OF VOLUME I, CHAP. PAGE I. THE TOLKA MILL ... ... ... 1 II. SOME ONE IS COMING ... ... 16 III. THE NEW GUEST ... ... ... 25 IV. MK. WATTS IS WAKEFUL ... ... 33 V. A SUKPRISE ... ... ... 43 VI. VERY STRANGE NEWS ... ... 51 VIL AN IRISH EDITOR ... ... ... 62 VIII. A MOST MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE ... ... 79 IX. LIZ AND SHAUN ... ... ... 93 X. THE CHRISTENING ... ... ... 103 XL THE RESULTS OF NIGHT SHOOTING ... 116 XIL LANGTON ARRIVES ... ... ... 128 XIII. laxgton's fate ... ... ... 138 XIV. MY FATE ... ... ... ... 147 XV. CAPTAIN TEMPEST ... ... ... 158 VIU CONTENTS. CHAP. XVI. AT THE RACES XVII. I SCORE AGAINST THE CAPTAIN XVIII. GRANGE FOYLE XIX. LANGTON IS LANDED XX. BY Ethel's side XXI. captain tempest retires ... XXII. LIZ leaves us xxin. ONCE more beside her PAOE 167 182 192 204 213 229 238 247 SHE SHALL BE MINE. CHAPTER I. THE TOLKA MILL. As I step from tlie train on to the platform of Ballyboyle station, I am grati- fied by the welcome, sweet, healthy odour of pine trees ; right from the back of the platform do these pines climb up the " Station Hill," until they form a feathery cloud against the evening sky. Crossing the footbridge, I reach the other side of the station, and there, down at my feet, lies Ballyboyle. Ballyboyle, let me whisper, is only a VOL. I. B 2 SHE SHALL BE MINE. village, but it is not tlie acme of diplomacy to call it so — within five miles of its site. Within that radius it is always referred to as the "Town." It is built on the elon- gated plan, and consists of one long, wide High Street, and several short and narrow lo^^ ones — the latter being in fact mere lanes. Its staple manufactures are semi- nude gossoons, and a species of long-bodied dog, celebrated for the marvellous dexterity which it exhibits in scratching any portion of its body with its hind -leg. The public buildings consist of a police-barrack — a modest, unassuming structure, of the pure, early Victorian period, with its whitewashed frontao'e, and its cabbag;e-o;arden ; a red- brick post-office and general emporium — you can get anything in it, from a stamp to a ton of coals, from a trout-fly to the last edition of Tennyson, from a patent coffin to half-a-pound of tea. Duffi3y's THE TOLKA MILL. 3 public-house, which completes the "lions," is locally known as Mr. Duffey's Hotel. It is very small and very dark, and its bar is only big enough to hold Mrs. Duffey, a canary in a square cage, two or three dozen tumblers and pewter pints, and Duflfey's cat, who sits purring at the canary, or catching flies in the window, on the rare occasions in which she is not eng^asfed in having kittens. The little square space through which Mrs. DufFey dispenses re- freshments is only wide enough for two of her customers to look throug^h tos^ether, so the residue are forced to spread them- selves into the tap-room and talk politics. Mrs. Duffey is square-figured, red-faced, and black-eyed. She "got her schoolin' " in Dublin, and consequently would not say " tay " for the world ! Her husband is a grey-haired, dapper old chap, who devotes his time to buying; and selliuo- horses. 4 SHE SHALL BE MINE. leaving the entire management of the Hotel to his wife. But all this time I am bowling along per car to the Tolka Mill — distant some fom- miles from Ballyboyle — with my modest luggage, a portmanteau, trout-rod, and landinof-net, for the Tolka is famous for its fat brown trout, and season after season have I spent in tempting them. The mill is tenanted by one Bartle McBride, whose wife believes strongly in the business of money-making, and has had a portion of the old rambling mill-house furnished for the accommodation of anglers. The driver of my car is a little old chap, with a face like a dried apple. The major portion of liis coat consists of holes, and his antique beaver hat has evidently descended from his grandfather. " Well, Tim, how have things been going on since I was here last '? " I presently ask. THE TOLKA MILL. 5 " Oh, rightly, Mr. Dolan, rightly, sur — only Mrs. McBride herself isn't out iv her bed since Friday." '' Indeed ! " I say. '' So she is ill. I hope it is nothing serious, Tim ? " '' No, Mr. Dolan, sur, it's no thin' sarious," Tim answers slowly — " no thin' sarious, be no manner iv manes," " I am very gkd to hear that, Tim. Is it a slight cold ? " " No, indeed thin, it is not, sur." '' No ? An accident, perhaps ? " " No, sur, nor an accident nayther." And then, after a pause — " Shure, she had a young son a Thursday night." " What ! " I exclaim in astonishment. *•' The divil a word iv a lie in it ! " continues Tim with a grin. '^ An' afther tin year ! Doesn't it bait all ? But she was always a wonderful woman, sur — always a wonderful woman. The divil a 6 SHE SHALL BE MINE. « know you'd iver know ivhat she was up to !" *^ I presume that Bartle was somewhat surprised, Tim ? " ''Surprised, sur ! He was fairly mis- merized, that's what he was. Av coorse he had to stand thrate to all the boys, you may be shure ! " " I suppose Bartle has engaged a servant to look after myself and other anglers,'' I say. " Sorra a know I know, sur," replies Tim. '' I was jist thinkin to meself how you war goin' to git on, wid herself not there to attind upon you." " By Jove, Tim, that's a very serious question ! " " It is, sur — most sarious." And so saying Tim drives me up to the mill- house. Bartle, highly floured from head to THE TOLKA MILL. 7 foot, meets me at the door with a bashful grin. *^Av coorse you have heerd the news, Mr. Dolan," he says, lifting my portmanteau. " Oh, indeed I have, Bartle — allow me to congratulate you. I hope both mother and son are progressing favourably ? ''* " Oh, yis, sur, thank you kindly ; herself is goin on fine. The babby is doin rightly too ; but Lord save me sowl, it cries a power ! But they do cry, thim babbies, you know% sur. Some iv them, I'm towld, is divils at it." And after giving me this item of inform- ation, Bartle disappears with my traps, while I enter the sitting-room. I can see that it has been newly dusted and " set to rights." Moreover, the few ornaments which it boasts on side- table and chimney- piece are more artistically arranged than ever they were before. Bartle is evi- 8 SHE SHALL BE MIKE. dently a finislied parlour-maid. Here lie comes. '' What will you have for your dinner, sur, an' whin will you have it ? " he wants to know. '• What can you give me ? " I ask. *' Would you like some fried trouts, sur, wid a roast fowl to folia ? " "The very thing!" I declare, wonder- ing the while where the cook is to come from. " Very good, sur — it will be ready be siven." " That's the style ! " " Yis, sur," acquiesces Bar tie. " But won't yon go np an' see if your bedroom is to your likin' 'i " Thus appealed to, I proceed up-stairs to my room. If I was surprised at the taste displayed in the arrangement of the sitting- room, I am doubly so here. Bunches of THE TOLKA MILL. J) sweet spring flowers on either side of the dressing-table ; pens, ink, and paper on the side- table ; every fold in blind and curtains arranged for artistic effect. Bartle is a wonderful man ! Presently I sally out for a stroll round the old place. The mill-building starts from behind the dwelling-house, and straggles along for about sixty yards. Its brown fat wheel is fed by a " race " from the high level of the Tolka, and the water, after doing its duty, escapes by a gully back again to its parent in the lower level. This lower level is the chosen play-ground and feeding-ground of the trout, ay, and of silver-sided salmon to boot, not to mention an odd pike or two lying perdu among the flags and lilies down there by the bridge. By and by I return to the house. When I enter the sitting-room (and dining-room) 10 SHE SHALL BE MINE. it is to find my dinner-table arranged in a manner which would do credit to a Carlton Club waiter. A bright turf fire burns in the grate, for the evenings are still cold. Presently I hear the welcome sound of the dinner-tray, followed by the entrance of such a waiting-maid ! Tall, golden- haired, blue-eyed, and with a complexion like a fresh peach. Young she is too — not more than seventeen. She is dressed in black, relieved by a little white apron. Deftly she takes the dish of trout from the tray, places it on the table, arranges my plate, draws a chair, and then turning to me, says — " Would you kindly ring when you require the fowl, sir ? " '' Yes," I answer, and she retires. Her accent, I noticed, was refined and decidedly English. Probably she has been THE TOLKA MILL. 11 in service in some Belgravian mansion. But then, how came she to this out-of-the- way phice ? I have it ! She is a profes- sional nurse sent by the doctor to attend upon Mrs. McBride. No, on second thoughts that idea is not feasible. Anyhow, wherever she came from, she knows how to cook trout. In due time I ring for the fowl, and the fair unknown enters with it. When she has placed it before me, and is leaving with the tray, she turns and says — " I hope you liked the trout, sir." '' Yes, my dear, very much," I declare. "Never tasted better in my life." " I am glad to hear you say so, sir," and away she goes. And by and by, when she comes to clear the table, I notice that she keeps her eyes downcast, nor does she seem to be aware of my presence, as I sit by the fire pipe in 12 SHE SHALL BE MINE. mouth. But when she is leaving with the crowded tray I rise and opbn the door for her, and make her smile at last. "Thank you, sir," she says, displaying a white flash of teeth. " Will you require coffee ? " " No, but I shall want some hot w^ater for punch — say in fifteen minutes." As she retires I go up-stairs to my room for the whisky, and ^^resently return with a flask filled with real *' J. J." from Mooney's — w^arranted ten years old. When the fair unknown brings the hot water and tumbler — not forgetting the sugnr and lemon — I proceed to mix a glass of punch, " Now, I don't think 111 have to trouble you any more to-night," I say. " Very well, sir," she answers, and ere she goes takes up the snuffers and attempts to snuff" the old-fashioned candles. The THE TOLKA MILL. 13 first one she manages to snuff all right, but the other one she extinguishes altogether. " Ah, you are not accustomed to old- fashioned candles," I observe. '' West End candles require no snuffers." " Do you mean the West End of London, sir ? " she asks, relighting the candle. **Yes." '' I have never been there, sir," and she cautiously proceeds to snuff the other candle. '' No ! well, really, I was under the impression that you had just come from there." " Why, sir 1 " she wants to know, while the faint glimmer of a smile Hits round her lips. " "Why ? Well, your appearance — your — your general bearing gave me the impres- sion." She busies herself for a moment, setting 14 SHE SHALL BE MINE. the fire-irons in their proper places, and then with a " Good-night, sir," leaves me. Curious sort of girl — very. There are no newspapers to be had here, in fact, such things are quite unknown, which accounts for the heavenly peace and salubrity of the place. At the same time, I wish I had something to read just now. I read through the family library here during my last visit, when it rained with- out ceasing for three weeks. Said library consists of eight works in various states of preservation. They are as follows — Collier the Rohber, Irish Songs and Ballads, llie Battle of Aughrim, Complete Farrier, Trojan Wars and Troys Destruction, Life and Adventures of James Ferney, Bona- parte^s Oraculam, Hocus Focus, or the Whole Art of Legerdemain. I think I will have another dip into James Ferney ; it is one of THE TOLKA MILL. 15 Knock at the door, followed by the entrance of the fair unknown, to ask me concerning breakfast-hour. " Nine o'clock, my dear." She does not like being called " my dear," I can divine. Very well, I shall not call her so again. 16 CHAPTER 11. SOME ONE IS COMING. While at breakfast this morning I asked the fair unknown what her name was. ".Alice," she answered quickly. " Well, Alice, how is Mrs. McBride this morning ? " " She is progressing most favourably, the doctor asserts, sir." " And the baby ? " " Oh, he is quite well," she declared, with a smile. " I hope he did not disturb you, sir ? His lungs are particularly strong." " No," I answered, laughing, " he did not disturb me in the least. He has a nurse, I presume ? " SOME ONE IS COMING. 17 " Oil, yes, sir ; Mrs. McBride's nurse also waits on him,''' And so saying Alice left me to myself. I have had a good time of it with the trout, and am on my way back to the mill, when I meet Bartle McBride. " Morrah, Mr. Dolan ! " he exclaims. " Begorra, I see you have cotcli a few good wans th' day." " Yes, Bartle, I have had fair sport." " I hope you are comfortable, an' plaised wid your room an' all," he continues. " Indeed I am, Bartle," I say. *' By the way, that is a capital servant-maid you have got. Her cooking and attendance are perfect." " Fm right glad to hear you say that, sur," answers the miller. " Where did she come from ? " I ask. ''Why — from Dublin, iv coorse," he VOL. I. c 18 SHE SHALL BE MTXE. answers, after a pause — "from Dublin, iv coorse, sur. Yarragli, but tliim is mortyal fine trouts you have ! They are so, an' no mistake ! " And Bartle appears greatly interested in the contents of my creel. '' But shure your lunch must be waitin' for you, Mr. Dolan, so hurry in," and away he trudges without waiting to hear another word. After luncheon I am strolling about the mill, pipe in mouth, when I come upon Mick O'Brien. Mick is Bartle's right-hand man, and is quite as much disguised in flour as his master is. During my last visit here Mick regaled me with numerous anecdotes concerning his son Patsey, who, according to all accounts, is a regular genius. " Well, Mick, how is your sou getting on at school ? " *' Oh, begorra, sur, he's goin' on fine ! '' SOME ONE IS COMING. . 19 Mick affirms proudly. " Yarragh, but it's himself that 'ill be the knowleclg;able man whin he grows big ! " "And what ao-e is he now, ^lick ? " " Thirteen come next St. Patrick's day, sur. An', me dear, but it's himself that has the book-larnin'." "Do you tell me so, Mick?" " Faith, I do, Mr. Dolan, sur ! An' shure wait till I tell you. Dother day the master towld all the scolards in the school to write down on paper all they knew consarnin' cats." " Write down ? Oh, I understand — they were to write an essay on cats." "Yis, sur, I bleeve that's what they call it. . Well, wait till I show you what our Patsey writ ; begorra, you'll die wid sur- prise ! Shure it's good enough for prent, that's what it is." And Mick fumbles in his pocket, and at 20 SHE SHALL BE MINE. length produces a large sheet of foolscap, which he unfolds and hands to me, saying with pride beaming from his old grey eyes — " There you are, Mr. Dolan, sur — jist read that, an' it '11 show you what our Patsey can do." The essay is written in a big fat hand. I leave the orthography as it stands in all its native originality. The syntactic beauty of the construction of several sentences I also shrink from tampering with. All I conventionalize is the puuctuation. " Cats. " Cats has 4 claws, an wan hed an tale, also a body cuverd wid hair. Cats is iv too kinds — yalla, an black-an- white. They also has whiskers. Cats aits ivery thing they can lay there hands on, sich as rats an mise, an all thim Soort iv Thinofs, also flis an bakon an mate. Most extronry i SOME ONE IS COMING. 21 thing, cats likes fisliis, the they hates wather. So, iv coorse, you may be shure they dont git much fishis to ait, excep thim which is coch an put on a dish in your mudder's pantry. Som Cats is all ways havin kitins, excep Tom Cats, which niver has eny. Tom Cats is the clivils for fitin, and ken See better be nite nor day. Cats wont tuch you if you ony lave thim alone, an dont stand on there Tales. But, iv coorse, if you stand on there Tales they will turn round an scrob you, and the divil skewr to you ! Cats has 9 lifes, but ony wan at a time. If Cats had more thin wan life at a time they wood not kno what to do wid thim all. Wan life at a time is enuf for eny baste, same as men and wimin. Bad boys thros stones at Cats, for which they will go to liel an burn for iver an iver, Amen ! There was wanst in the sweet town iv Kilkiny 2 Cats, an 2 bad boys tide there 22 SHE SHALL BE MINE. tales together an slung thim acros a line for divarsliion, an they ett aich other up, an left notliin ony there Tales, for which thim 2 bad boys aut to have got 6 monts, but they didn't. We wanst had a cat in our house, an it bet all ! It wood sleep no where ony on me mudder's chest. Me mudder didn't mind it a bit, becaze she w^as ust to it, but me fathr woodn't stand it at all, an ust to ketch it be the tale an sling it ut iv the bed 20 times a nite. That's all I kno about Cats. Patsey O'Brien." " Very good, very good indeed, Mick," I say, handing him back the paper. '' Your son bids Mr to become a great humourist." ^' x4n' what soort iv a thing is that, sur ? " asks IMick, carefully folding the paper and replacing it in his pocket. "Oh, a humourist is one who takes an original view of anything." SOME ONE IS COMING. 23 " Ay, sur," says Mick, " that's jist what our Patsey does. Shore, didn't he up an tell rae dother day tliat the moon wasn't a moon at all, at all ! 'Clare to faith he did, sur! Said the moon was a worrld jist like this, on'y all life was distinct upon it." " Distinct ? " " Yis, sur, that's what he towld me." " He was probably quite right, Mick." *' Is that so, sur ? " and Mick looks at me ofravely. " Beo;orra, I scarce could believe him, on'y I didn't like to tell him so." Leaving Mick to ponder over his son's astronomical knowledge, I w^ander into the garden, and presently come upon Alice, who is gathering a bunch of flowers. Prettier than ever does she look in a natty little hat trimmed wdth pink ribbons. '' You remind me of the goddess Flora," I say, stopping in my walk. 24 SHE SHALL BE MINE. " I am endeavouring to collect enough blossoms for our new guest's room, sir," she answers. '' New guest ? " "Yes, sir; Mr. McBride has just received a letter from Dublin. Some gentleman is coming down for a couple of weeks, and will arrive to-night." " I'm glad to hear that," I say. " I suppose you are, sir ; T dare say you begin to feel lonely." " Xo, I don't feel exactly lonely, but still, I am glad to hear that some fellow is coming. By the way, iVlice, how do you like being here ? " "Oh, I like the place very well, sir," she murmurs, after a moment spent in arranging some of the flowers in the bunch. The next moment she is walking down the path towards the gate. 25 CHAPTER III. THE NEW GUEST. The old clock in the hall is striking ten o'clock when the new guest arrives, accompanied by a trout-rod, landing-net, and travelling-bag. He is a jovial-looking, smooth-faced man, and speaks with a strong North Dublin brogue. But for his unclerical suit of Blarney tweed, I would take him to be a priest. I notice that be is slightly lame, and uses a stick as he walks towards the fire. " Good-night, sir," he says, beaming upon me with good humour. "Isn't it lovely weather we're havin ? " And he sinks into the chair with a happy smile. 26 SHE SHALL BE MINE. He has evidently received a fortnight's vacation from his employers, and feels all the pleasure of a school-boy just home for the holidays. " Yes, we are having splendid weather just now," I say, ''though the nights are still cold." " Ah, what matter for that V he asks. " What matter for that, me dear sur ? Better have the cold nights now, and have done with them before the real summer comes. ' How is the river ? — that's the main question." " The river is in spkndid form," I tell him. " I landed six beauties to-day." His eyes sparkle on hearing this — he is evidently an enthusiast. •''I love fishing!" he declares. "Love it ! Even when I was a boy, I many a time mitched from school to ketch eels in the Grand Canal in Dublin." And he THE NEW GUEST. 27 laughs at the remembrance. " Many's the thrashin I got for my pains." " Have you ever been down here before ? " I ask. " Oh, yes, about five years ago — before I went to me present employment. I don't get a chance of much fishmg now, but last month I fell and hurt me leg, and was confined to bed for three weeks. Then I thought I'd go back to work again, but soon discovered that I wasn't quite cured, so they gave me a fortnight's holiday, and here I am." ''Well, I hope you will return all sound and well," I say. " Oh, I'm full sure of that," he rej)lies — "full sure. But I wish they would bring me the tea." And he looks wistfully towards the door. " It's rather late for tea, sur, but somehow it's the only thing I feel a wish for after my journey." 28 SHE SHALL BE MINE. " Will you not find it rather sleep- dispelling ? " I ask. *' Ah, not at all, sur," he answers, smiling. "Nothing keeps me from me natural rest, thank God ! I will be up and after the trout long before breakfast." Presently Alice enters with the tea ; as she arranges the tray the stranger casu- ally turns to look at her. Perhaps it is imagination on my part, but I could almost swear that he gives a slight start on seeing her. However, he turns towards the fire again, saying to me — " What sort of a fly did they take to-day, sur ? " I tell him ; and then Alice, drawing a chair to the table, says — " Your tea is now ready, sir." " Thanks," he answers, rising and taking his place at the table. " Will you know your room, sir ?" she asks. THE NEW GUEST. 29 ''Oh, indeed I will," he answers, as he pours out the tea. " The first on the right of the landing — Mr. McBride told me. Sure, I had the same room when I was here before." *'You will find the candle and matches on the hall table, sir," Alice tells him. " Thanks," says the stranger, now busy with the loaf. '' Good-night." " Kather a nice-looking girl," I venture to remark, when Alice has gone. ''Yes, indeed," he replies. "Seems a high cut above a mill servant, — don't you think so ? " " Yes ; have you noticed how refined her accent is ? " " I have, sur ; and I have also noticed that she is an English girl." " Oh, yes, there is no mistaking her nationality." 30 SHE SHALL BE MINE. " I suppose you don't know how she comes to be here ? " he asks. "Not iu the least." "No, I suppose not," he continues. " That, of course, is her own business." And so saying he devotes his entire attention to his tea. When he. has finished he returns to the chair by the fire, and lights his pipe. "Ah," he exclaims, " I feel much better now." "Yes, tea is a famous reviver," I say. "It is that, sur — it is that." He smokes with a look of joyous con- tent for a few minutes, and then asks — " I suppose you never see a newspaper here "? " " No, thank goodness," I answer. " I doa't believe I would open one if I saw it lying before me." He laughs at this, and then plunges THE NEW GUEST. 31 into politics. I find him to be an out- and-out Nationalist. How lie inveighs against the poor English Government ! Not being a politician, I gently play him back to the gentle art. He is a willing captive, and is soon deep in piscatorial data. " Do you ever fish for salmon ? " he suddenly asks. " Sometimes." " Well, look here, me dear sur, I'll just give you a wrinkle. If ever you w^ant to ketch salmon in an Irish river, no matter the divil where it runs, use a live collien- fasough." " A live what ? " I exclaim. *'A live collien-fasough, sur. It is an Irish word, and means ' old woman in the ditch.' It is a little fish like a small gudgeon, and is found in most ditches and streams in Ireland. It's a dead bait for 32 SHE SHALL BE MINE. salmon and pike. A trout in the flood- time will take it too — but it must be a big one that does." "Ah, I must try it/' I say. " Take my advice, and do, sur," he con- tinues. " Take my advice, and do." Here he looks at his watch, and stating that it is time for all good people to be in bed, rises and wishes me good-night. It is not long ere I follow his example, and get between the sheets. 33 CHAPTER IV. MR. WATTS IS WAKEFUL. The morniDg suu shines ^Yarm and bright, and the hall clock is striking the hour of nine in its old-fashioned, slow, solemn, vibrating way, as I enter the sitting-room. Presently Alice appears with the tray. " Good-morning, Alice — you are looking even more lovely than ever this morning." She does not hear me, of course, and I add — " Where is our new lodger ? Oh, I forgot — he said he would go a-fishing before breakfast. Some one oug;ht to g-o down to the river and remind him of breakfast, for he is such an enthusiast he will forget all VOL. r. D 34 SHE SHALL BE MI>sE. about the matter. By the way, Alice, what is the gentleman's name ? " " Mr. Watts," Alice answers ; " but he is not fishing this morniDg, sir." '' No ! " I say in surprise. '' Then what the deuce is he cloinor — still slumberino^ ? " "Xo, sir ; he drove into Ballyboyle early this morning." " Drove into Ballyboyle ! Why^ what on earth did he do that for ? " '* I believe he lost a portion of his luggage," she answers, pouring out my tea — " a hat-box or something of the sort, and thought it best to report the matter at once. He said he would be back by breakfast-time." And sure enough, at this moment the sound of wheels is heard, and in another minute or so Mr. Watts limps into the sitting-room, beaming with good-humour. " Back in time, you see ! " he exclaims to Alice. " And as hungry as a pike." MR. WATTS IS WAKEFUL. 35 Alice leaves to prepare his breakfast, and I say— " I thought yoii told me you were going to have a whip at the river before breakfast this morning ? '^ " Ah, shure, so I was — so I was, sur," he answers, as he draws a chair to the table. *' But when I went to me room last night, I discovered that one of me trajDS were miss- ing, so I thought it best to drive over to the station at once, and report the matter." " Well, had they got it there ? " " No, but they will make inquiries about it. And now, tell me, what part of the river are you going to take ? " " Beyond the bridge," I answer. " Very well ; I'll take the near side. There is no use in us both sticking too close together — no use at all ; though it would be more pleasant, of course." " You are quite right," I say. 36 SHE SHALL BE MINE. Here Alice brings in Lis breakfast, and presently, mine being finished, I start alone for the river. #4L, M. M. -it, ' W Tf- W Tf We do not meet again until dinner-time, when, on comparing our creels, I discover that Mr. Watts has beaten me by three. How he does enjoy it ! " Ah, I'm the boy for them, lame and all as I am ! " he cries. *' They know me / " During dinner he dilates on the various dodges for luring trout, and gives me some really valuable hints. From fish he wanders to birds and bird-trapping. " Ireland has always been the divil's own place for birds," he declares. " And every boy in the country is an expert trapper." " Oh, indeed, I know that," I say. '' When I was a boy it was my favourite hobby." '' Ah, it's rare fun ! " he continues. " Did you ever eat a sparrow pie ? " MR. WATTS IS WAKEFUL. 37 ''No, I don't tbiuk I ever did." " Faith, then, I can tell you what it is, SLir, it's gallopshish — that's what it is ! But what me and the other young chaps used to do, was roll them in mud, and then throw them into the centre of a bright turf fire. When we saw the mud cracking we knew the sparrow was cooked to a turn, and used to take them out one by one with a tongs. Then when we took the caked mud oflp, there was the sparrow, white as snow and soft as butter." " I suppose you used to have regular banquets ? " I say. " Kather ! " and Mr. Watts's eyes sparkle at the remembrance of boyhood's happy days. And so we continue on topics of birds, beasts, and fishes until dinner is over. Then we draw chairs to the fire, and light our pipes. 38 SHE SHALL BE MINE. Comins on towards ten o'clock Mr. Watts became rather silent, and once or twice I fancy lie seems to be listening for some sound. Presently he casually asks — " I suppose the last post from Dublin would have time to reach here by this ? " '* The last post from Dublin reach here ! " I exclaim in astonishment. " No, no, I don't mean that," he says quickly — " I don't mean that. Of course no letter would be forwarded here to- night." " Certainly not — unless you left instruc- tions at the post-office to have it forwarded by special car, which would be rather an expensive way of receiving a letter." '' You are right, sur," says Mr. Watts. " And even if a man did do that, he wouldn't get the letter much before now." While he speaks, the noise of wheels dis- turbs the dogs and geese in the mill-yard, ME. WATTS IS WAKEFUL. 39 and in a few moments Alice enters the room bearing a long official-looking envelope. "For you, sir," she says, handing it to Mr. Watts. " The carman says that there is five shillings to pay." " Oh, yes," answers Mr. Watts, producing the money and handing it to her. " There you are." She takes the money and leaves. " So you were expecting a letter," I say. " Well, yes," he answers, '* I was, but I was not sure of its coming to-night." " Kather expensive — fiv^e shillings, eh ? " " It is indeed," he replies — ''it is indeed, but it is rather important. Now I'm off to bed ; good-night, sur." And away he goes, without having opened that important letter. I have another pipe, and then, feeling lonely, rise and go towards my room. As I 40 SHE SHALL BE MINE. reach the landing I catch sight of Mr. Watts walking quickly towards his room. Alice is standing at her room door. She turns towards me for a moment ere she retires and shuts the door ; her face is as white as snow. When I enter my room that white face seems to haunt me. Can it be that the work here is too heavy for her ? No, I don't think so ; neither Mr. Watts nor myself require very much attention. There, I have left my keys on the table in the sitting-room ! No help for it but to go down and get them. Down -stairs I steal in my slippers, candle in hand. Just as I reach the bottom step some one rushes forth from the sitting-room and confronts me. It is Mr. Watts ! '' Oh, it's you, sur ! " he exclaims. " Yes, it is I,'' I say in surprise, as I follow him into the room. MR. WATTS IS WAKEFUL. 41 " I thought it was some burglar," he continues. *' Burglar ! " I echo. " Why, who ever heard of a burglar in an Irish mill-house ? But what the deuce has brought you down here ? " " I might as well ask what brought you," he answers, smiling, as he sits down on a chair beside the door. "Ah, you have me there, I confess; I have come to find my keys — see, here they are !" " Well, my reason for coming down is because I don't feel sleepy," he says. " Why, I thought you told me you always slept well." " Oh, yes, so I do as a rule," he answers, [)reparing to light his pipe. " So I do as a rule, sur, but to-night I somehow or another feel wakeful. It must be the corned-beef — I knew I was eatinor too much of it, but Vm so fond of it." 42 SHE SHALL BE MINE. '' All, that may account for it," I say. " But why don't you sit over here, and rouse up the fire ? " "Oh, the room is so close — the room is so close, sur ; that's why I'm sitting here." " Well, Fm ofF," I say ; '' good-night/' " Good-night, sur — good-night ! " answers Mr. Watts. " Pleasant dreams to you." And so I leave him. 43 CHAPTER y. A SURPRISE. When I enter the sitting-room this morn- ing, I immediately notice that the breakfast - table is arranged in a very rough-and-ready fashion. Is Alice getting careless ? I ring the bell, and presently the breakfast tray arrives, carried by Bartle McBride ! " What, you, Bartle ! " I exclaim in sur- prise. "Why, where is Alice?" *' She's gone, sur," he answers, laying down the tray, and gazing at me in a hopeless, bewildered way. " Gone ? " ''Yes, sur— her and Mr. AVatts." " And Mr. Watts ? " I echo in astonish- ment. "How and when did they go?" 44 SHE SHALL BE MINE. And the remembrance of tlie girl's white face and Watts's watchfulness comes back upon me. " Explain, Bartle." " The divil a word I can explain at all, at all, Mr. Dolan, only this : at six this mornin' I was goin' on me way to the mill, an' was just passin' Alice's room, whin she opens the door, an' her fully dressed, wid hat an' all on. Av coorse I was surprised to see her, you may be sure, sur." "Yes, go on." "Well, sur, she sez, *Mr. McBride, I'm sorry to have to lave you so sudd in ; would you mind takin' me trunk down to the hall ? ' I stood lookin' at her for a minit, an' sez, ' Arrah, what's the mainin' iv this, Alice ? ' An' she sez, ' Oh, plaze don't ask me any questions, Mr. McBride ; I must go.' So wid that, sur, I ups an' carries her box down-stairs to the hall." "And where was Mr. Watts?" I ask. A SURPRISE. 45 ** Stan din' waitin* in the hall, wid all his traps ; an' whin he sees me he sez, ' Mr. McBride, I want your car at wanst, as me an' Alice has to ketch the half-a-past siven tbrain for Dublin/ Well, Mr. Dolan, you could have knocked me down wid a feather, as I wint an roused up Mick, an' he yoked the mare in a brace iv minits, an' druve the car round to the door. Thin Alice goes an' bids good-bye to Mrs. McBride, an' kisses the babby. Thin she comes an' shakes hands wid me. . ' Good-bye, Mr. McBride/ she sez; 'an' remimber me to Mr. Dolan/ Thin Mr. Watts helped her on to the car, got up himself, an I put her trunk up behind her, an thin away they drove." " Why, what does it all mean ? " I ask. " The divil a know / know, sur," answers Bartle, scratching the back of his floury head. ** It's most mystarious, that's what it is. As purty a girl as iver the sun shone 46 SHE SHALL BE MINE. on. An' do you know what Mrs. McBriclc was say in', sur ? " '' What ? " " Why, she sez that Alice was only lettin' on, an' was no sarvint at all, but wan iv the quality. You know, Mr. Dolan, women can see through aich other like anything." "I have an idea that Mrs. McBride is quite right," I say. '' Did Mr. Watts pay his bill?" '* Oh, yis, sur, he did, an said he might be back agin. But shure, ait your break- fast, Mr. Dolan, before it gets cold. Molly the nurse cooked it, so I don't think it will be too bad. But it took Alice to do things right. Yarrah, but she was the darlint." Here Bartle retires and leaves me to myself. What can all this mean ? Who was that man Watts, and what power had he over Alice ? Who was she ? Could it A SURPRISE. 4.7 be a love affair between them ? Why, the man was old enough to be her father. With these thoughts chasing each other through my brain, I finish breakfast, and then go for a stroll. I am not in humour for angling to-day, so the trout in the Tolka can disport themselves in peace and safety. How I hate the mysterious ! I would give a good round sum to know the solution of the Alice and Watts episode. Talk of Lytton's Alice, or the Mysteries, indeed ! Here we have Alice and Watts, or the Mystery. Why, there are the germs of a whole novel in the verji title. In an hour's time I w^ander back to the house again, and sinking into a chair by the window, sit gazing on the geese as they persist, out of sheer eccentricity, in stand- ing on one leg. If they had any mystery to bother their heads it might make them a trifle less eccentric. Ah, down goes the second leg all round ! The noise of \vheels 48 SHE SHALL BE MINE. is heard — louder, louder, louder, until the geese scatter in all directions as a car drives up to tlie door. It is driven by old Tim, and carries, besides his venerable self, two strangers, who both jump down almost before the car stops. I rise, go to the hall door, and open it. " Beg pardon," one of the strangers sa3^s in an unmistakable London accent, " is the miller at home ? " At this moment Bartle appears on the scene. " Are you the miller ? " asks the stranger, turning to him. " I am, sur," answers Bartle. "You have a lady stopping here — this lady," and he shows Bartle a photograph. " Why, that's Alice I " exclaims Bartle. "Yes," both the strangers exclaim to- gether. " Why, she's gone," continues the miller. " Gone ! " cry both strangers. "Yis, wint off in a hurry this mornin'. A SURPKISE. 49' be the half-a-past siven thrain. Wint wid a jintleman by the name iv Mr. AVatts." " Done ! " cries stranger number one to his companion. '' Thank you — sorry for troubling you," he continues to Bartle. " Don't mintion it, sur," answers the latter, and both the strangers quickly re- mount the car. *' Back to the station as quick as you can," one of them exclaims to Tim, who immediately starts at full speed, leaving Bartle and myself staring at each other in silent astonishment. '' Come in here," I say to him, after a pause, and he follows me into the sitting- room. "Now, Bartle, tell me truly, how did Alice come here to the mill-house ? " " Well, sir," begins Bartle, '' she med Mrs. McBride and me promise to say nothin' to eny one at all consarnin' her ; but shure, it's all wan now, so it is. She cum here as a lodger furst." VOL. I. F. 50 SHE SHALL BE MIXP:. " A lodger ? " "Yis, sur. Av coorse, as you know, we iidvertise our fishin' accommodation ivery beginnin' iv the sayson in the Field, an' likewise the Irish Times. Well, sur, she seen our advertisement, an' so she cum here. But afther a while, sur, her money run short, poor thing, an' jist at the same time Mrs. McBride presinted me wid the babby. An so Alice says, ' Mrs. McBride, I liave no more money for a while, but if yon like I'll stop here an' attind to the house affairs till sich times as you are able to do so yourself.' Av coorse, sur, Mrs. McBride was very glad iv the offer, an' now you know the whole story. But who the divil war them two that cum on the car ? That bates all ! I must go an' tell herself at wanst. I niver seen such goin's on before." And away he goes to tell his wife all about the mysterious strano-ers. 51 CHAPTEK YI. VEEY STRANGE NEWS. Three weeks have gone by, and the summer has come. Mrs. McBricIe is once more visible, and bustles about the house with an energy which, I presume, is calcu- lated to make up for any amount of lost time. She " looks after Mr. Dolan " with the greatest care and attention, though I wish the good lady would cease from continually questioning me on the Alice mystery. " Lord save me sowl, Mr. Dolan, wliat's got the poor crayture ? '^ is a query she puts to me at least ten times a day. ''I really don't know, Mrs. McBride," is my invariable answer. 52 SHE SHALL BE MINE. " Well, I do wish some wan knew. The poor crayture ! " ** Yes, it's very curious/' I say, and then get out of her way. I have been luring the trout ever since lunch time, and now the sun is thinking of setting, which suggests a rest and a pipe. Down I lie my length under a spreading beech by the running river. There is music in the air — the kind of music that Shakespeare loved. The drowsy hum of the mill, the melancholy mooing of distant kine, the chatter of the rooks up there on the tall elms which cap the hill, " the murmurino's of innumerable bees," and the tristful coo of the wood-pigeon. There goes a kino- fisher, like a flash of blue lightning up the water. A vole down by the flags on the opposite bank sits combing his whiskers. A thrush, after stopping his song to have a good look at me from the VERY STRANGE NEWS. 53 topmost branch of yonder chestnut, and assuring himself that I am not watching him, begins his glorious melody again. A big, fat, black-and- yellow hee comes buzzing across my face, almost hitting my pipe ; the tobacco-smoke drives him away, but he returns again, and after making a tour round my feet, settles on a cowslip. Three white butterflies, on pleasure bent, flutter erratically round the tree trunk ; and out there, hovering over a raft of water- lilies, his wings glistening like minute jewels, is a mighty dragon-fly, the merci- less foe of all the hapless children of the sun who chance to come within his view. And A man comes slowly along, pipe in mouth and rod over shoulder — a merry- faced, curly-headed young fellow, with twinkling eyes and humorous mouth. His advent disturbs Mr. Vole from his toilet, 54 SHE SHALL BE MINE. that little gentleman disappearing like magic. Of course the thrush stops his song:, and with head cocked on one side eyes the new-comer. The latter pauses, and looking up at the bird, exclaims — " Now then. Speckles, don't stop your lilt on my account ! Is there a hole in the ballad ? " Then turning to me he continues — " The little chap is terribly shy — the divil a sing he'll sing if he sees any one watching him." "They all have that trait," I say. ''If you sit down here quietly, and appear not to notice him, he will soon begin again." " Ah, sure I know that," answers the stranger, sitting down beside me. " What a lovely evening it: is ! Did you ketch much ? " " A few," and I show him the contents of my creel. " Ah, not too bad at all," he remarks. VERY STKANGE KEWS. 55 "Better than me — I only landed three. What fly are you using ? " I show him my link, which he examines with much interest. " Those are London made, sur," he says, " Yes, I got them at Gold's, in Fleet Street/' " A good place, I'm told — a very good place, though I never saw it. Would you believe it, sur, when I tell you that I have never been out of Ireland in my life, except once, when I went as far as New York with the captain of a schooner I knew ? " " i\.nd you have never been in London ? '' " Never in my life, sur, — and you'll think it strange that such is the case, when I tell you that I am a real live editor. They say that London is the Mecca of all Irish journalists." " Yes," I say, " there are a vast number of L-ishmen on the English press, and indeed 56 SHE SHALL BE MINE. tliey swarm in all the professions there — more especially in literature, music, and the drama. Are you a local editor, if I may ask the question ? " ** Oh, indeed then, I am ! " he answers, laughing; "1 am Tom O'Hara, editor and proprietor of the Ballyhoyle Examiner^ at your service. I suppose you have come from London straight ? " " Yes, to enjoy some fishing — I am staying at the mill." He is silent for a moment, and then he inquires — *' And have you been stopping long at the mill?" "^ For about a month." He is silent for another space ; suddenly he says — "Then I suppose you know all about that girl ? " '' Do you mean Alice ? " I ask. VERY STRANGE NEWS. 57 " I don't know what her name was," he answers, "but she was a lovely creature ! I never saw such eyes and hair." And then pausing for a minute, he adds, " I wonder what it was she did." ''Did?" ''Yes — what crime could such a young and beautiful creature have committed ? " " Crime ! " I gasp. "Yes," continued Mr. O'Hara, his look changing to one of surprise. " Why, didn't you know that she was arrested ? " " Arrested ! " I cry, looking at him in amazement. " For heaven's sake tell me where you heard that ! " " Oh, faith, I can do that without much trouble," he answers. " I happened to be waiting for the first train to Dublin at the Ballyboyle station, and noticed a very lovely young lady with a lame gentleman. I was wondering who they 58 SHE SHALL BE MINE. could be, when Sargeant Boyle, who was on duty at the time, came up to me and whispered, ' I wonder what that girl has been up to ? ' I asked him what he meant, and he answered — ' Don't you see she is under arrest — that man with her is a celebrated Dublin detective.' I was sur- prised, you may be sure." ■ " Good heavens ! " I cry. ''They both travelled to Dublin first- class," Mr. O'Hara continues. " I went by the same train, but travelled second-class." " Did you see them again when you arrived in Dublin ? " " Just for a moment ; they entered a cab, but I don't know where it drove to." I sit silent, and completely astounded. Alice a criminal ! Watts a detective ! The thought makes me actually shudder. Mr. O'Hara breaks the silence. " By the way, sur, as 1 understand VERY STRANGE NEWS. 59 from what you tell me, Bartle knows nothincj about the skirl's arrest." ''Nothmg whatever," I say; "he is as ignorant on the matter as I was ere you enlightened me." " Well then, don't say anything to him upon the matter — it would only worry him and his wdfe. That was my reason for not having anything about it in the Examiner — though it would have sold a few extra copies. But I withstood the temptation, because Bartle is a good sort of chap, and gives me liberty to fish here whenever I like.'' " Never fear — they will hear nothing from me," I assure him. "But the whole affair is very sad." " So it is — so it is, indeed," he answers. " I wonder what she could have been up to ? " " Heaven knows ! " GO SHE SHALL BE MINE. " I wonder now, could she have been what they call an advcDturess, or a member of the Swell Mob ? " " Oh, no — I do not believe such a thing for a moment." "No, sur, I don't suppose you do — neither do I," continues Mr. O'Hara. " But it is a curious fact in nature, that you can never tell whether those very fair women are good or bad. A man can tell well enough, by the expression of a bru- nette's eyes, what sort of a woman she is, but a fair-haired, blue-eyed beauty may be either an angel or a devil, and you won't know it until you are married to her — the divil a know." Here that thrush ventures to besfin his song once again, and somehow his singing makes me feel anything but cheerful, so I rise to return to the house. "Are you off?" asks Mr. O'Hara. VERY STRANGE NEWS. 61 " Yes, I have had enough of fishing for to-day." '' Well, Mr. " "Dolan." '' Well, Mr. Dolan, if you feel that way inclined, you might drop over to Bally- boyle some day and have a bit of dinner at my humble abode. You can meet me at my ofiice in the High Street — anybody will show it to you. Will you come ? — you might as well." " Well, then, you come and have dinner with me now," I answer, glad of having some one to keep me in countenance. " Eight you are ! " he exclaims, jumping up and shouldering his rod. And in another moment we are crossing the meadow towards the mill-house, Mr. O'Hara the while humming, " Do not forget me, do not forget me, Do not forget me, the Maid of the Mill." f)2 CHAiTliR VII. AN IRISH EDITOR. Mrs. McBride meets us at the door. " All, thin, an' how are you th' clay, Mr. O'lIaraT' she asks. " Oh, faith, I'm in prime condition, Mrs. McBride," he replied — ^' fit as a three-year- old. I suppose Bartle is as proud as a ten-shilling teapot at the son-and-heir ? How goes the little chap ? " " Begorra, he's finely, sur, — but shure, why didn't you drop in on 3^our way to the river ? " ''Faith, I don't know why I didn't," is Mr. O'Hara's very truthful reply. ''Now, Mrs. McBride," I say; "Mr. O'llara is going to dine with me, and we AN IRISH EDITOR. 63 are both as hungry as hawks, so let us have dinner as soon as you like." " That I will, sur," and away she bustles. " She is one of the best wives in the county," declares the editor — " one of the very best. I put the birth of the son at the top of a column, and had a five-line par in the Local Gossip into the bargain." ^' That was very good," I say, and then go in search of the whisky-bottle. Return- ing with it I give it into Mr. O'Hara's care, while I go and fish for tw^o tumblers and the water-bottle. These items being secured, we sit on the rustic seat outside the window^s, and enjoy a pipe and a glass — an Irish pre-prandial dio;estive. ''I don't suppose you have many ex- citing events to chronicle in your paper as a rule ? " I say. "No, indeed," answers the editor, in a 64 SHE SHALL BE MINE. tone of deep regretful ness. " The country about here is far too quiet — that's what it is ! Not like the good old times ! Why, Mr. Dolan, about ten years ago there was a fierce agrarian war in full swing in this county, and it nearly made my fortune." "Indeed!" " Yes, sur, that's a fact ; there were at least two or three agents peppered with great regularity every week, and sometimes an odd landlord was popped at, besides kishloads of threatening letters. I tell you, our machines were kept busy, and no mis- take. In fact, everything in our town was kept busy ; for what with the extra police, and, above all, the dragoons, why, business was brisk all round. But now everything and everybody in Ballyboyle appears to be asleep." " The dragoons ? " I query. '' I was not aware of any barracks in Ballyboyle." AN IRISH EDITOR. 65 " No, there is no real military barracks, but they fitted up the old market-house for the men, and the horses were stabled in Duffy's. Ah, those were the times ! " and Mr. O'Hara heaves a sigh. " I suppose you do not go in for the new journalism ? " I casually ask. ^^ What's that?" ** Why, the Interview System." " Ah, no," says Mr. O'Hara ; " it wouldn't answer. You see, Mr. Dolan, there is no- body about these parts who knows any- thing worth interviewing him about. Every man in the place knows his neighbour's business ; and as for the women — why, they know more about each other than they do themselves." I do not quite follow the intricate mean- ing of the last sentence, but refrain from mentioning the fact to Mr. O'Hara, who presently continues — VOL. I. F 66 SHE SHALL BE MINE. ''But I myself was interviewed not long since." " Indeed ! On what subject, may I ask?" *' Well, I'll tell you liow it was." And Mr. O'Hara finishes his grog. " A man in Killbeg — I found out afterwards that he was an Irish-American home on a visit — kept writing and writing to me, stating that he was the sole survivor from some deadly district, and wanted to tell me all about it, if I would only just grant him one single interview, just to ease his mind of the terrible burthen, which, he wrote, was slowly dragging him to an early grave. Well, Mr. Dolan, I never encourage strag- glers at my office, because I want to get through my work as fast as I possibly can, but this man kept pestering me so much, and thinking that there might be half a column got out of him, I at length wrote AN lEISH EDITOR. 67 inviting him to call at the office on a certain day, and at a certain hour. Well, sur, the hour came, and the man came with it — a tall, thin, consumptive-looking man he was, and fairly respectable in dress and manner. I motioned him to a chair, which he sank into with a weary sigh. " ' Now, sur,' I said briskly, ' you wish to give me some information regarding an extremely pestiferous district, from which, I have gathered through your numerous letters, you are the solitary survivor.' " * Yes,' he answered, in a slow, shy voice. * I thought that if the matter was venti- lated through the medium of your powerful organ, something might perhaps be done.' " * Done ? ' " ' Yes,' continued the stranger — ' some meetings organized in the market-place, with a band and fireworks, just to entice the populace. This might lead to several 68 SHE SHALL BE MINE. questions being put to the Speaker in the House of Commons.' " ' Yes, yes/ I said impatiently ; * but to your story. Where is this deadly district ? ' *' ' Not more than within a few dozen miles of Tipper ary — a place called Bally- mulgullian.' " ' And what brought you there ? ' I asked the man. " ^ Ordered there by my doctor/ he answered. ' I'll tell you all about it. I had been for long years suffering from a complication of complaints, and this gradu- ally brought on insomnious nights, loss of appetite, sudden blushing, shivering down the back, sense of fullness in the region of the stomach after meals, and so on. So the doctor ordered me to winter in Bally mulgullian, where he counted on the drowsy atmosphere and quietude of the AN IRISH EDITOR. 69 locality wooing sleep to my weary eyes. Down I went, accompanied by a box of sleeping-draughts, which proved of the utmost value to my system, for the land- lady came and woke me three times a night to take one. She was a treasure ! But this is a digression. When I arrived in Ballvmulofullian, it w^as to find it filled wdth a large draft of soldiers. When I quitted it, two months afterwards, half those soldiers were defunct, and the residue under marching orders for some less deadly locality.' '* 'Half of them dead ! ' I exclaimed, pre- paring to take notes. ' Go on — tell me all about it.' *' ' I am coming to it,' he answered. ' First the gallant colonel succumbed ; then the major; then the noble captain; then the sergeant ; next to shuffle off this mortal coil wefe the drum-major and two lance- 70 SHE SHALL BE MINE. corporals ; then half the full privates followed their superior officers to the cold and silent grave.' " ' Good heavens ! ' 1 cried. ' What was the fell pestilence which carried them off in such appalling numbers ? Was it typhoid ? ' " * No,' said the man, beginning to weep. " ' Was it influenza ? ' "^No.' " ' Small-pox ? ' " ' No ; all the regiment had been only recently vaccinated.' " ' Well, what was the name of this awful plague ? ' I asked, pencil and book ready. *' * Delirium tremens,' sobbed the stranger." As Mr. O'Hara repeats the last line he seizes the bottle, mixes himself some grog, drinks it, and then says — AN IRISH EDITOR. 71 " I declare to goodness, Mr. Dolan, I allowed that ruffian to leave my presence without kicking him down- stairs ! " '' I don't wonder at your forbearance," I answer after having a good laugh. " That man was a humourist of the deepest dye." "That he was," Mr. O'Hara acknow- ledges ; " but I wish he had gone some- where else to exhibit his gift. I never felt so sore at being done in my life. I never saw the chap since — he is long since gone back to America. But if ever I drop on him, I'll give him Ta-ra-ra- boom-de-ay." ^ ^ ^ ^ tP During dinner Mr. O'Hara asks — '' Are you fond of racing, Mr. Dolan ? " " Oh, yes — what Irishman is not ? " "Then if you are here in another 72 SHE SHALL BE MINE. montli, you'll see some of the best hurdle- racino- in Ireland." o " Indeed ! " I say in surprise. " Where ? " "Why between here and Ballyboyle — just half-way — lies the racecourse. Have you never heard tell of the Mullinbeg Hurdle Eaces ? " " Oh, yes, to be sure ! " I exclaim. " I remember now. And so they come off in a month's time ? " '' Yes," says Mr. O'Hara. " I suppose you are not an owner ? " " No, though one of my best friends owns a fair string of horses." "Is that so, Mr Dolan ? Now, I'll tell you what you ought to do. Get your friend to bring over a couple of his horses, and enter them for one or two of our races." '* Ah, my dear boy, that's easier said than done," I tell him. '' My friend is AN IRISH EDITOR. 73 one of tliose rabidly anti-Irisli men, and I don't believe the wealth of India would tempt him across St. George's Channel. And besides, you forget that his horses are flat-racers." " AY el], and what matter for that ? " asks Mr. O'Hara. " There are two flat-races on the card each day, and if your friend's horses are any good at all, they could beat our lot without much trouble. We are not great in the flat-racing line in Ireland, as you know. The jumping sport is our crack game." " Yes, Ireland was always a famous jumping country." " Of course it was," says Mr. O'Hara, " of course it was. So, Mr. Dolan, take my advice, and write to your friend. Sure, wouldn't it be an act of charity to bring him here, and to let him see Ireland with his own eyes ? I'll bet a new shilling he 74 SHE SHALL BE MINE. wouldn't return to England so anti- Irish as when he left it." " I'm quite sure of that," I say. " Of course you are," continues Mr. O'Hara. *' And by the same token, he would not be the only English owner on the course. The chief event — called The County Cup — is bringing over one of the crack jumpers from the other side, and the Liverpool contingent always musters strong. They can cross by boat to Killbeg for seven shillings return, and the fare from there to Ballyboyle is only one-and- sixpence second class." Mr. O'Hara apparently considers that nobody would think of travelling from Killbeg to Ballyboyle by any other than second-class. "Well, I'll consider the matter," I say. " Though I fear it is useless writing to my friend." AN IRISH EDITOR. 75 " Never mind — ^just try him," is Mr. O'Hara's advice. Coming on to nine o'clock he prepares to depart. Bartle wants him to drive back, but he will not hear of such a proposal. *' The nig^ht is far too fine and briojht to waste on a car, Bartle," he says. " I'll walk it back to Ballyboyle. Will you come a bit of the way with me, Mr. Dolan ? " " By all means," I answer, putting on my hat. The moon lights us along the straight white road, and the air is so still that the ghostly trees which stand sentinel along our route give never a whisper. Now and again the distant bay of a farm- house dog, the sharp bark of the fox at play, or the melancholy moo of a lovesick cow, strikes on our ears, but no other sound disturbs night's reign. " This is what we call a fairy's night 76 SHE SHALL BE MINE. hereabouts," Mr. O'Hara presently informs me. " Bright and silent, and with never a breath of air. It appears that the ' good people ' don't like windy nights — it being only witches that take delight in storms." " I suppose, according to local belief, there are plenty of fairies about here ? " '' Fairies ! " echoes Mr. O'Hara. '' Why, man dear, we could supply all the panto- mimes in London next Christmas, and then have enough left to go on with. It's the divil's own place for fairies, and no mistake." And here Mr. O'Hara lights his pipe, and begins a long tale concerning the doings of some of the local '' good people," which tale lasts until we reach the mile- stone. ''Hold!" I cry. "I go no further." " Very well, Mr. Dolan ; now, won't you drop over on Friday to dinner ? " AN IRISH EDITOR. 11 '' I shall." " That's the style — come to the office — say about four." " All right ; good-uight." " Goocl-nio'lit, Mr. Dolan — mind the fairies on your way back." As I walk slowly homeward, my thoughts revert to the Alice mystery. What could the poor girl have been arrested for ? How did Watts discover her ? Was it by chance ? I incline to the belief that it was, for I remember his start on first seeing her. This fact only makes the mystery deeper still. I wonder shall I ever come to know all about the business ? Who knows ? With these thoughts wandering through my brain I reach the mill, and enter the narrow path between two thorn hedges, which leads from the bridge to the mill- house door. I am half-way through it 78 SHE SHALL BE MINE. when a man passes me, giving me a sharp, scrutinizing glance. Even in the moonlight I notice his fierce dark eyes and sallow cheeks. He passes swiftly on, and is soon lost to view. One of the peasantry, I could tell ; but what fierce eyes the fellow had ! 79 CHAPTER VIII. A MOST MYSTERIOUS OUTEAGE. Friday evening finds me seated in the office of the Ballyhoyle Examiner^ a copy of which powerful organ I glance over, while its efficient and trenchant Editor — with a big E — corrects some proofs. That business being over, he hands the slips to an inky-faced, curly-headed " devil," and then turning to me, says — '^ Now, Mr. Dolan, I am at your service." Leaving the office, we walk for some length down the High Street, then turn to the left up a narrow road, and in a few minutes come to a trim little cottage, with its front garden enclosed by green palings and a rustic gate. Three Irish terriers greet their master with alternate wriggles 80 SHE SHALL BE MINE. and barks ; then they each in turn have a sniff at my ankles, and on assuring them- selves that I am not here for purposes of petty larceny, allow me to pass into the hall unmolested. The sitting-room is neatly furnished, and boasts a cottage piano. The table is " laid " for dinner, and has for a centre-piece a big, suspicious-looking black bottle. This my host grasps, and pouring some of its contents into a tumbler, adds some water, and hands the mixture to me, preparatory to mixing some for himself. '' You'll find it all right," he says. " It's some of the rale Home Eule." I have a drink, and then exclaim — " Why, this is poteen ! " '' Eight you are, Mr. Dolan. Never paid duty in its natural life ! " " Where did you get it ? " And Mr. O'Hara, with a merry twinkle in his eye, answers — " You must ask me another. Every A MOST MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE. 81 Christmas morning and St. Patrick's eve, Pat — my head, cook and bottle-washer — finds a little keg of this stufif laid nice and easy outside the back door. How the divil it comes there no one knows." " And I don't suppose any one wants to know." '^The divil a one." Here Pat enters with a tray containing a good homely dinner of boiled mutton and turnips, augmented by " lashins iv praties." Pat is a study. His hair is red, his face is red, and his eyes are of a reddish-brown. He is in his shirt-sleeves, and wears a white apron. After drawing two chairs to the table, he asks — " Do you want anything else, sur ? " " No, Pat," answers his master, " except some hot potatoes when you think we require them." *' Eight, sur," and Pat walks to the door. VOL. I. ' G 82 SHE SHALL BE MINE. Here he stops short. " Oh, I forgot to mintion, sur, that Mrs. Mulligan called to know if you would be so kind as for to put the funeral in the paper. I towld her I'd mintion the matther to you at me earliest convanience, sur." " Oh, yes, tell her I have done so — she will find it in to-morrow's issue," says my host, helping me to some mutton. *^She towld me to ax what you'd charge, sur," continues Pat. " Nothing at all, tell her ; sure, isn't it news 1 But if she ever thinks of getting married again, tell her 111 put the wedding in for five shillings, and give a list of the guests. And look here, Pat, be sure and tell her how inexpressibly sorry I was on hearing of her poor husband's death. Tell her I fairly broke down when penning the obituary notice — don't forget that word — obituary." A MOST MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE. 83 " Arrah, shure lie was no loss ! " exclaims Pat. " Sliure he ust to dhrink like a fish, so he ust, an' bet her black an' blue many a time. Faith, she ought to offer up a prayer to the Blessed Vargin for riddin' her iv such a baste ! " " Oh, for the Lord's sake, don't mention that to her ! " cries Mr. O'Hara. " She's a yearly subscriber, and pays in advance." " But shure every wan in the parish knows about him batin' her," persists Pat. " Yes, yes, but that's no reason why we should remind her of the occurrence. Now, Pat," — here Mr. O'Hara smiles sweetly upon his man, — '' when Mrs. Mulligan calls again, tell her what 1 have told you, and add, in your own inimitable way, that should she ever deign to enter the holy state of matrimony again, I will give a glowing account of the nuptial ceremony. And now you may go." 84 SHE SHALL BE MINE. " Yis, sur," and Pat vanishes. " And so your paper comes out to- morrow ? " I say. " Yes, at ten o'clock — a large edition." " Larger than usual ? " " Yes, sur — almost double as large." " Then I suppose there will be some extra news in it ? " *' Kather," and Mr. O'Hara winks ]iis eye. *' My dear Mr. Dolan, I'm as glad as any- thing you are here this evening. Do you know why ? " ''No— tell me." " Well, I intend showing you some fun to-night — some real fun. But you must hold your whisht.'^ "All right." ** As I told you, our town is in the divil's own bad w^ay, and wants a stir." *' Yes, I dare say it does." " It does indeed, sur ; a little excitement A MOST MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE. 85 — help yourself to another murphy — a little excitemeDt would do it all the good in the world. Hand me your plate, shure there's nothing on it, man dear ! Well, as I was saying, the soldiers are the boys to make things lively all round, and wake up trade, so we are going to try and have them with us again." " And how are you going to do it ? " I ask. " You will see to-night, my dear sur." After dinner Mr. O'Hara sits at the piano and plays some rattling Irish reels and jigs, finishing up with ' Let Erin Eemember.' Then after a tumbler of punch he warbles ' Purty Molly Brannigan ' and * The Night before Larry was stretched.' About ten o'clock we stroll leisurely towards the printing-office. The shops are all closed, and the absence of lamp-light makes the place look like a deserted village. 86 SHE SHALL BE MINE. But there is light in the printing-office, and I wait outside while Mr. O'Hara goes in to correct a couple of proofs. When he rejoins me I ask — " Are you gone to press yet ? " "No," he answers, "a column remains open." " What for ? " " You'll know presently — but remember, you must hear, see, and say nothing." " Make your mind easy on that score," I assure him. Presently we turn up a narrow passage of Cimmerian darkness, at the top of which we emerge on to a field bounded on the right by a wall, which encloses the back gardens of some of the High Street houses. Along by this wall we walk, Mr. O'Hara leading the way. Suddenly some one comes forth from the o-loom of the field o and confronts us. It is Pat. A MOST MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE. 87 " Have you got it all right ? " whispers Mr. O'Hara to him. " Yis, sur — safe as a chapel," Pat whispers back, as he produces a large tin canister. " How long is the fuse ? " asks his master. " Jist long enough to give us five minits' start, sur." ''All right — don't make a noise with the match." " Niver fear, sur — I've got thim silent waus." Here Mr. O'Hara takes the canister and places it by the corner of a large door in the wall. " Now, Pat," he whispers, " the instant you light the fuse run like a redshank across the field and home by Murphy's Lane." '•' Eight you are, sur," answers his man. " Now, follow me quick, Mr. Dolan ! " And close behind my host do I walk back to the Hioh Street. 88 SHE SHALL BE MIXE. '^ What door was that ? " I ask him, when we have gained the street. '' Whisht ! It is the door leading to the back garden of the police barracks." " The devil it is ! " I exclaim. At this moment a loud explosion startles the slumbering inhabitants, and sets every dog barking for miles round. '' God bless my soul ! " cries Mr. O'Hara. " What can that be ? Something is blown up. Oh, the cursed wretches ! Follow me to the barracks ! " Along the street he runs, I of course running behind him. By this time windows are all open, and white figures peer from them out into the startled night. Doors are thrown back, and men half-dressed, and wholly scared, rush forth, invoking the pro- tection of all the saints in the calendar. When we reach the police barrack it is to find it deserted. A MOST MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE. 89 "Follow me!" cries Mr. O'Hara for tlie second time, as he makes his way round to the back garden, at the further end of which stands the entire " force," lamps in hand. A smell of powder pervades the damp night air ; and there, lying on the ground, is the wooden door, very much shattered. " Good heavens ! what's this ? " exclaims Mr. O'Hara, taking out his note-book. " Tell me all about it, sergeant." " It's a terrible business, Mr. O'Hara," answers the sergeant ; " an' it's the marcy iv Providence that we warrent all blew up ! " *' Hold your lamp here, sergeant," says Mr. O'Hara. *' Now go on while I write." The worthy sergeant holds the lamp close to Mr. O'Hara, and begins his tale in very measured, official tones. "At about half-a-past-tin, me an' Con- stable O'Reilly was thinkin' iv goin' to bed. 90 SHE SHALL BE MlisE. all the rest iv us bein' there already, barrin' wan on duty " " The name of the man on duty ? " asks Mr. O'Hara, busy writing. " Constable Dunn," continues the ser- geant. " Well, just as we wor in the act iv puttin' out the lights in the barrack-room, we wor both knocked out iv our standin be a triminjus ixplosion proceedin' from the ind iv our back gardin. We both rushed to the spot at wanst, and wor horrified to discover the door in the wall blew com- plately off iv its hinges be some powerful ixplosive substince. I immadiatly sum- moused all the min from their beds, an' we proceeded to invistigate the affair, an' wor continuin' to do so whin you cum up." '' Have you got a clue 1 " asks Mr. O'Hara. " You can state, sur, that the poliss is very reticent consarnin' the probable perpetrators iv the outrage," answers the sergeant. A MOST MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE. 91 "Very good," says Mr. O'Hara, closing his book. '' I must hurry back to the office now, and stop the press while I write a leader on this diabolical affair. I hope and trust, for the honour and good name of our town, that the foul fiends may be tracked to their hiding-place and dragged forth to justice." " Amen ! " says the sergeant. Back again to the High Street do we make our way, to find it crowded with excited men and women, who besiege the " Edithor " with questions anent the mys- terious outrage. " Don't ask me — don't ask me ! " he cries to alL " I am composing the article in my mind. You will see a full account in to- morrow's Examiner.'' When we at last get inside the office, my friend leans against the wall and indulges in a half-minute's quiet laugh. ** Isn't this immense ? " he cries. 92 SHE SHALL BE MINE. " But what if they should suspect Pat ? " " Oh, the divil a suspect, Mr. Dolan ! Now I must set to at a rousing article." "Very well," I say, 'Til start for home." " Home ! " he echoes. " Won't you stop the night with me ? I'll make a shake- down for you — or rather for myself, and you can have my bed " *' Nonsense ! " I cry ; " I would not dream of allowing you to do such a thing. No, the w^alk back w^ill do me good." " Well, if you must go, you must ! " he declares ; " only Td rather you stopped. Anyhow, I'll send you a copy of the paper to-morrow, giving my indignant sentiments on the late outrage." '' Yes, do." And with a mutual " Good-night " and grasp of the hand we part. 93 CHAPTER IX. LIZ AND SHAUN. Whex I reached the mill-house last night I found Bartle waiting up for me. " Lord save me sowl, Mr. Dolan ! " he cried, " I thought you wor lost." " No, Bartle ; the fact is, an explosion occurred at the police barracks." " An ixplosion, sur ! The Lord have marcy on us ! Was there any one hurted ? " And Bartle looked positively frightened. *' No, thank goodness, no one was injured, but the police had a narrow escape." '' Oh dear, oh dear ! " he cried ; " I must go and tell herself." And away he went to tell his wife all 94 SHE SHALL BE MINE. about it. I was not lonoj ere I o^ot between the sheets, and slept like the proverbial top until eio'ht o'clock this morninp;. About three o'clock I stroll into the kitchen, which boasts a regular five-barred grate, a yellow-faced Dutch clock, a really valuable collection of old china on the dresser, and actually four dififerent sized pots, not to mention two distinct kettles. Here, for the first time, I have the honour of beholding the " babby " — I have heard him often enough. He is a very small mite, so small, indeed, that I feel a sort of con- viction stealing upon me that his internal arrangements must be all lungs. His head is covered with white down — very white ; but then, his father is a miller. But my eyes quickly wander from Master McBride to his nurse. She is a perfect specimen of an Irish beauty — tall, billowy- bosomed, with large deep, dark-blue eyes, LIZ AND SHAUN. 95 and wavy hair with the well-known Irish purple gloss. She blushes and smiles on seeing my eyes fixed upon her, and turns to the door leading to the mill-yard. This door is open, and as she stands outside it, I can see through the window that a man has come up and is speaking to her. It is the man who passed me with such a fierce look the other night. It does not require the sound of his voice to tell me where he hails from. Those dark eyes, sallow cheeks, and raven locks proclaim the Galway man'. Those eyes lose all their fierceness, and become beautifully soft and tender as he looks at the girl. Those sallow cheeks assume a warmer tino;e when she looks at him. "An' I suppose I can cum an' see you most ivery day, acushla ? " he is saying. '* Arrah, I don't know at all, Shaun," the girl answers. " Shure, mebbe Mrs. McBride 96 SHE SHALL BE MINE. wouldn't like me to be always talkin' wid you." " An' why not — eh ? " he asks, with a momentary return of the old fierce look. " Why not, Liz i " " Shure, she might be thinkin I wasn't mindin' me work." " Arrah, what work ? " he demands. *' Shure you don't call mindin a babby work ? " " Oh, begorra I do ! " and Liz laughs at him. " Musha, an what do you know about the matther, Shaun ? " "The divil a much, agrah ! " and Shaun smiles grimly. " Howsomdever, she can't mind me cummin wanst or twiste a week, so she can't." " Musha, an I don't know at all, Shaun." At this point Mrs. McBride bustles into the kitchen, duster and besom in hand. "An is it here you are, sur ! " she ex- LIZ AND SHAUN. 97 claims. " Shure the kitchen is terribly dirty, so it is ! Won't you sit down, siir ? " And she dusts a chair for me. " 1 hope you don't mind my smoking here, Mrs. McBride ? " " Oh, the sorra a mind, sur ; but, Lord save me, Mr. Dolan, you smoke a power ! Shure it's not good for a young man, so it's not. Mind you, sur, I noticed for the last few days you're not yourself at all, at all." " Nonsense, Mrs. McBride, I'm fit as a fiddle." Here she goes to the door leading to the yard, and beholds Shaun and Liz, who have been silent since her advent to the kitchen. " Now thin, Shaun Burk, what brings you gosterin' round my door ? " she demands. " Jist take yourself on out iv this, an' don't be takin' up Liz's time. You lazy, idle shooler, why don't you go an' work ? " VOL. I. n 98 SHE SHALL BE MINE. Here Liz turns back into the kitchen with downcast eyes, and stands with her back to me " buzzing " the baby. '^ Answer me tJiatj Shaun ! " continues Mrs. McBride. "Arrah, shure Tm goin' to," says Shaun, trying to stop frowning. ''You're goin to!" echoes Mrs. McBri