She had learned—before Easter, 1916, everybody had learned—to put down all irregularities to the war. Letters got lost in the post. The price of sugar rose. Men married unexpectedly, “on account of the war.”
“But I don’t think they ought to be allowed to shoot in the square,” she added. “It might be dangerous.”
It was dangerous. A bullet—it must have passed very close to Mrs. O’Halloran—buried itself in the wall of the morning room. A moment later another pierced a mirror which hung over Lady Devereux’ writing table. Mrs. O’Halloran came into the room again and shut the window.
“You’d think now,” she said “that them fellows were shooting at the house.”
“I wish you’d go down and tell them to stop,” said Lady Devereux. “Of course I know we ought to do all we can to help the soldiers, such gallant fellows, suffering so much in this terrible war. Still I do think they ought to be more careful where they shoot.”
Mrs. O’Halloran went quietly down the two flights of stairs which led from the morning-room to the ground floor of the house. She had no idea of allowing herself to be hustled into any undignified haste either by rebels or troops engaged in suppressing the rebellion. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she stopped. Her attention was held by two different noises. The Sinn Feiners were battering the door of their prison with the butts of their rifles. Molly, the kitchenmaid and Lady Devereux’ two other servants were shrieking on the kitchen stairs. Mrs. O’Halloran dealt with the rebels first. She opened the baize-covered door and put her mouth to the keyhole of the other.
“Will yous keep quiet or will yous not?” she said. “There’s soldiers outside the house this minute waiting for the chance to shoot you, and they’ll do it, too, if you don’t sit down and behave yourselves. Maybe it’s that you want. If it is you’re going the right way about getting it. But if you’ve any notion of going home to your mothers with your skins whole you’ll stay peaceable where you are. Can you not hear the guns?”
The three rebels stopped battering the door and listened. The rifle fire began to slacken. No more than an occasional shot was to be heard. The fighting had died down. It was too late for the prisoners to take any active part in it. They began to consider the future. They made up their minds to take the advice given them and stay quiet.
Mrs. O’Halloran went to the head of the kitchen stairs. The four maids were huddled together. Mrs. O’Halloran descended on them. She took Molly, who was nearest to her, by the shoulders and shook her violently. The housemaid and Lady Devereux’ maid fled at once to the coal cellar. The kitchenmaid sat down and sobbed.
“If there’s another sound out of any of yous,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “it’ll be the worse for you after. Isn’t it enough for one day to have three young fellows in the house trying to get shot, and soldiers outside trying to shoot them, and every sort of divilment in the way of a row going on, without having a pack of girls bellowing and bawling on the kitchen stairs? It’s mighty fond you are, the whole of you, of dressing yourselves up, in pink blouses and the like” (she looked angrily at the kitchenmaid) “and running round the streets to see if you can find a man to take up with you. And now when there’s men enough outside and in, nothing will do but to be screeching. But sure girls is like that, and where’s the use of talking?”