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Updated: June 27, 2025
This man was the Right Honourable Viscount Doyne, the renowned Empire Builder and Administrator, around whose solitary and remote life popular imagination had woven many legends. He looked at the world through tired grey eyes, and the heavy, drooping, blonde moustache seemed tired, too, and had dragged down the tired face into deep furrows. He was smoking a long black cigar.
"Good Lord," said he, "it's twelve o'clock." "Christmas morning," said Biggleswade. "A strange Christmas," mused Doyne. McCurdie put up his hand. "There it is again! The beating of wings." And they listened like men spellbound.
This is why an innocent-seeming remark such as, "Well, boys, it's Tuesday this mornin'," has been known to set blackthorns whirling wildly. Something of the sort occurred at Sallenmore fair, one day in last September, when Matt Doyne and Andy Sheridan from Lisconnel fell in with their acquaintances, Larry Sullivan and Felix Morrough, from Laraghmena.
This time a faint prolonged sound like the wailing of a strange sea-creature was heard from within the house. McCurdie turned round, his teeth chattering. "Did ye hear that, Doyne?" "Perhaps it's a dog," said the Professor. Lord Doyne, the man of action, pushed them aside and tried the door-handle.
It is assumed that the descendants of Ratcliffe and Throckmorton worked their way into the vicinity of the future town of Fairfax for their names appear often in the records and newspaper clippings. The Richard Ratcliffe who gave the land for the court house came here from Maryland. He was the son of John Ratcliffe of "Poynton" and "Doyne" Manors, Port Tobacco, Charles County, Maryland.
They stood together humbly, divested of all their greatness, touching one another in the instinctive fashion of children, as if seeking mutual protection, and they looked, with one accord, irresistibly compelled, at the child. At last McCurdie unbent his black brows and said hoarsely: "It was not the Angel of Death, Doyne, but another Messenger that drew us here."
Close by the neck lay the rest of the broken bottle, whose contents had evidently run out into the snow. "Drunk?" asked Biggleswade. Doyne felt the man and laid his hand on his heart. "No," said he, "dead." McCurdie leaped to his full height. "I told you the place was uncanny!" he cried. "It's fey." Then he hammered wildly at the door. There was no response. He hammered again till it rattled.
"A" squadron, under Major Finn, was on the right, next it was "B" squadron, commanded by Major Fowle. On the left of "B" was "D," or the made-up squadron, led by Captain Eadon, and "C" squadron, under Captain Doyne, was on the extreme left.
Doyne scrambled from the confusion of rugs and limbs and, tearing open the side of the Cape-cart hood, jumped out. The chauffeur had also just leaped from his seat. It was pitch dark save for the great shaft of light down the snowy road cast by the acetylene lamps. The snow had ceased falling. "What's gone wrong?" "It sounds like the axle," said the chauffeur ruefully.
Doyne, it's great work the two of us had this day comin' along the road, plannin' a fine name for Mrs. Morrough to have in the Union', for she sez it's none any dacint poor people own she'll be bringin' into it. So we've settled she's to be Mrs. Skeffington Yelverton. That's an iligant soundin' one, isn't it, ma'am?"
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