BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE LITTLE CHAPEL AT MONAMULLIN,” “THE ROMANCE OF A PORTMANTEAU,” ETC., ETC.
CHAPTER I.
A NEW IRELANDER.
“I’m afraid your shooting party is spoiled,” said my mother, handing me a letter across the breakfast-table in the well-known hieroglyphics of my Uncle Jimmy.
“I should hope not,” I retorted, as the expedition in question had been looked forward to with considerable pleasure, on account of Harry Welstone, my old chum at the Catholic University, having announced his intention of “turning the head of his dromedary to the desert of Kilkenley,” the name of my ancestral seat, in the snug morning-room of which my mother and myself were discussing cream, tea, new-laid eggs, and crisp rashers.
My Uncle Jimmy’s note, addressed to my mother, his only sister, ran thus:
“United Service Club,
“London, Sept. 10.
“My dear Susey: My old and valued friend, Mr. Fribscombe Hawthorne, the member for Doodleshire, is most anxious to treat Ireland fairly on the Home-Rule question. He is well disposed towards the Green Isle, and the country cannot afford to lose an ally in this crisis. Freddy [myself], although no politician, manages his tenants exceedingly well, and I should like Hawthorne to learn that at least one Irish landlord can live upon his estate without fear of bullet or bludgeon. Hawthorne leaves to-night, and will stop at the Shelborne Hotel, Dublin. Tell Freddy to drop him a line, asking him to put up at Kilkenley, and to give him some of that Sneyd and Barton claret which I love, not wisely but too well. My enemy is at work on my big toe, but I hope to be with you as usual at Christmas. The grouse were capital, fat and large, and I am on the look-out for partridge. Your affectionate brother,
“Jimmy L’Estrange.”