Doyle’s satisfaction did not last long. Major Kent drove into the town in his pony trap and pulled up opposite the statue. He called to Father McCormack, who had satisfied himself about Mary Ellen’s appearance, and was prowling round the statue, making mild jokes about its ghostly appearance. Doyle detected a note of urgency in the Major’s voice, and hurried across the square, reaching the pony trap just as Father McCormack did.
“So I hear,” said the Major, “that the Lord-Lieutenant’s not coming after all.”
For a moment neither Father McCormack nor Doyle spoke at all. The rumour—it could be no more than a rumour—to which the Major referred was too terrible for immediate digestion.
“I shan’t be sorry myself,” said the Major, “if he doesn’t come. I’ve always thought we were making fools of ourselves.”
Then Doyle regained his power of speech.
“It’s a lie,” he said, “and whoever told it to you is a liar. The Lord-Lieutenant can’t not come.”
“It’ll be a curious thing, so it will,” said Father McCormack, “if he doesn’t, but I can’t believe it. Who was it told you, Major, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“It was Mr. Ford,” said the Major. “He was standing at his door as I drove past and he stopped me to say that he’d just had a telegram from Dublin Castle——”
“I don’t believe it,” said Doyle. “I don’t believe a word of it. That fellow Ford was against us all the time, and he’s just saying this now to annoy us.”
“He seemed to believe it himself,” said the Major.