Buch lesen: «Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)», Seite 28

“Good blood always does,” said Linton. “Your men of birth have a lively sense of how little they have done for their estates, and therefore part with them with a proportionate degree of indifference. Where is he?”

“Writing letters in the boudoir off the drawing-room. You must see him, and ask when the necessary papers can be signed and exchanged.”

Linton walked on, and passing through the play-room, around which in every attitude of slumber the gamblers lay, entered the boudoir, before a table in which the Duke de Marsac was busy writing.

“Fortune has still been obdurate, my Lord Duke, I hear,” said he, entering softly.

The Duke looked up, and his pale features were totally devoid of all emotion as he said, —

“I have lost heavily, sir.”

“I am sincerely grieved to hear it; as an old sufferer in the same field, I can feel for others.” A very slight movement of impatience on the Duke’s part showed that he regarded the sympathy as obtrusive. Linton saw this, and went on: “I would not have invaded your privacy to say as much, my Lord Duke, but I thought it might be satisfactory to you to learn that your ancient dukedom – the château of your proud ancestors – is not destined to fall into plebeian hands, nor suffer the indignity of their profanation. I mean to purchase the property from Rica myself.”

“Indeed!” said the Duke, carelessly, as though the announcement had no interest for him.

“I had fancied, my Lord, this information would have given you pleasure,” said Linton, with evident irritation of manner.

“No, sir,” said the other, languidly, “I am ashamed to say I cannot appreciate the value of these tidings.”

“Can the contract and transfer be speedily made out?” said Linton, abruptly.

“Of course; there shall be no delay in the matter. I will give orders to my ‘notaire’ at once.”

“And where shall you be found to-morrow, my Lord Duke, in case we desire to confer with you?”

The Duke grew lividly pale, and he arose slowly from his chair, and, taking Linton’s arm, drew him towards a window in silence. Linton saw well that some new train of thought had suddenly sprung up, and wondered what could so instantaneously have wrought this change in his manner.

“You ask me, sir,” said the Duke, with a slow emphasis on every word, “where am I to be found to-morrow? Is not Mr. Linton’s knowledge of Paris sufficient to suggest the answer to that question?” There was a fierce boldness in the way these words were uttered Linton could not comprehend, any more than he understood what they might mean.

“I must plead ignorance, my Lord Duke. I really discredit the eulogium you have pronounced upon my information.”

“Then I will tell you, sir,” said the Duke, speaking in a low thick whisper, while his dark eyes glared with the fire of intense excitement. “You will find me in the Seine!”

Linton staggered back as if he had been struck, and a pallor spread over his features, making the very lips bloodless. “How do you mean, sir? Why do you dare to say this to me?” said he, in a voice broken and guttural.

“Since none should better know how to appreciate the news,” was the cold answer.

Linton trembled from head to foot, and, casting a wary look around on every side to see that they were alone, he said, “These words may mean much, or they may mean nothing, – at least nothing that has concern for me. Now, sir, be explicit; in what sense am I to read them?”

The Duke looked astonished at the emotion which all the other’s self-command could not repress; he saw, too, that he had touched a secret spring of conscience, and with a calm reserve he said, “Take what I have said in the sense your own heart now suggests, and I venture to affirm it will be the least pleasing interpretation you can put upon it!”

“You shall give me satisfaction for this, sir,” said Linton, whose passion now boiled over. “I will not endure the tyranny of insinuations from any man. Here, before you quit the house, – if ever you quit it, – I will have full satisfaction for your insolence.”

“Insolence!” cried the Duke.

“Yes, insolence. I repeat the word, and these gentlemen shall hear a still stronger word addressed to you, if that will not suffice to arouse your courage.”

This speech was now directed to the crowd of gamblers, who, suddenly awakened by the loud talking, rushed in a body into the room.

Questions, and demands for explanation, pressed on every hand, their countrymen gathering round the antagonists on either side, both of whom maintained for some minutes a perfect silence. The Duke was the first to speak. “Gentlemen,” said he, “you have heard an expression addressed to me which no Frenchman listens to without inflicting chastisement on the speaker – I do not ask – I do not care in the least – who this person may be – what his rank and position in life; I am ready to admit him to the fullest equality with myself. It only remains that I should satisfy myself of certain doubts, which his own manner has originated. It may be that he cannot call me, or any other gentleman, to account for his words.”

Linton’s face twitched with short convulsive jerks as he listened, and then, crossing the room to where the Duke stood, he struck him with his glove across the face, while, with a very shout of passion, he uttered the one word, “Coward!” The scene became now one of the wildest confusion. The partisanship of country surrounded either with a group, who in loud tones expressed their opinions, and asked for explanations of what had occurred. That some gross insult had been put upon Linton was the prevailing impression; but how originating, or of what nature, none knew, nor did the principals seem disposed to afford the information.

“I tell you, Frobisher,” said Linton, angrily, “it is a matter does not admit of explanation.”

“Parbleu, sir! you have placed it out of the reach of such,” said an old French officer, “and I trust you will feel the consequences.”

The chaos of tongues, loud in altercation and dispute, now burst forth again, some asserting that the cause of quarrel should be openly declared at once, others averring that the opprobrious epithet applied by Linton to the Duke effectually debarred negotiation, and left no other arbitrament than the pistol. In the midst of this tumult, where angry passions were already enlisted, and insolent rejoinders passed from mouth to mouth, a still louder uproar was now heard in the direction of the salon, and the crash of a breaking door, and the splintering noise of the shattered wood, overtopped the other sounds.

“The commissaire de police!” cried some one, and the words were electric. The hours of play were illegal, – the habits of the house such as to implicate all in charges more or less disgraceful; and immediately a general rush was made for escape, – some seeking the well-known private issues from the apartment, others preparing for a bold attempt to force their passage through the armed followers of the commissary.

Every avenue of escape had been already occupied by the gendarmes; and the discomfited gamblers were seen returning into the room crestfallen and ashamed, when the commissary, followed by a knot of others in plain clothes, advancing into the middle of the chamber, pronounced the legal form of arrest on all present.

“I am a peer of France,” said the Duc de Marsac, haughtily. “I yield to no authority that does not carry the signature of my sovereign.”

“You are free, Monsieur le Duc,” said the commissary, bowing respectfully.

“I am an English gentleman,” said Linton, stepping forward. “I demand by what right you presume to detain me in custody?”

“What is your name, sir?” asked the commissary.

“Linton!” was the brief reply.

“That’s the man,” whispered a voice from behind the commissary; and, at the same instant, that functionary approached, and laying his hand on the other’s shoulder, said, —

“I arrest you, sir, on the charge of murder.”

“Murder!” repeated Linton, with a sneer that he could not merge into a laugh. “This is a sorry jest, sir.”

“You will find it sad earnest!” said a deep voice.

Linton turned round, and straight in front of him stood Roland Cashel, who, with bent brows and compressed lips, seemed struggling to repress the passion that worked within him.

“I say, Frobisher, are you omitted in the indictment?” cried Linton, with a sickly attempt to laugh; “or has our buccaneering friend forgotten to stigmatize you for the folly of having known him?”

“He is in my custody,” said a gruff English voice, in reply to some observation of the commissary; and a short, stout-built man made a gesture to another in the crowd to advance.

“What! is this indignity to be put upon me?” said Linton, as he saw the handcuffs produced, and prepared to be adjusted to his wrists. “Is the false accusation of a pirate and a slaver to expose me to the treatment of a convicted felon?”

“I will do my duty, sir,” said the police officer, steadily. “If I do more, my superiors can hear of it. Tom, put on the irons.”

“Is this your vengeance, sir?” said Linton, as he cast a look of ineffable hate towards Cashel; but Roland made no reply, as he stood regarding the scene with an air of saddest meaning.

“You knew him better than I did, Charley,” said Linton, sneeringly, “when you black-balled him at the yacht club; but the world shall know him better yet than either of us, – mean-spirited scoundrel that he is.”

“Come away, sir,” said the officer, as he placed himself on one side of his prisoner, his fellow doing the same at the other.

“Not till I see your warrant,” said Linton, resolutely.

“There it is, sir, all reg’lar,” said the man; “signed by the secretary of state, and attested by the witness.”

“The rascality is well got up,” said Linton, trying to laugh, “but by Heaven they shall pay for it!” These words were directed to where Roland stood, and uttered with a concentrated hate that thrilled through every heart around.

As Linton was led forth, the commissary proceeded to arrest the different individuals present on the charge of gambling in secret. In the midst of the group was Rica, standing pale with terror, and overcome by the revelations he had listened to.

“I will be responsible for this gentleman’s appearance,” said Cashel, addressing the commissary. “There is no need to subject him to the insult of an arrest.”

“He can only be liberated by a bail bond in the presence of the judge, sir. You can accompany me to the court, and enter into the recognizances, if you will.”

“Be it so,” said Cashel, bowing.

Rica made a sign for Roland to approach him. He tried to speak, but his voice was inarticulate from faint-ness, and the only audible sound was the one word “Maritaña.”

“Where?” said Cashel, eagerly.

Rica nodded in the direction of a small door that led from the chamber, and Cashel made a gesture of assent in answer.

With headlong speed Roland traversed the corridor, and entered the antechamber at the end of it. One glance showed him that the room was empty, and he passed on into the chamber where so lately Linton had spoken with Maritaña. This, too, was deserted, as was the bedroom which opened into it. Hastening from place to place, he called her name aloud, but no answer came. Terrified by a hundred fears, for he well knew the rash, impetuous nature of the girl, Roland entreated, in tones of wildest passion, “that she might come forth, – that her friends were all around her, and nothing more to fear.” But no voice replied, and when the sound of his own died away, all was silent. The window of the dressing-room was open, and as Roland looked from it into the street beneath, his eye caught the fragment of a dress adhering to the hook of the “jalousie.” It was plain now she had made her escape in this manner, and that she was gone.

Too true! Overcome by terror – her mind distracted by fears of Linton – without one to succor or protect her, she had yielded to the impulse of her dread, and leaped from the window! That small rag of fluttering gauze was all that remained of Maritaña.

Rica was to hear these sad tidings as he was led away by the commissary, but he listened to them like one whose mind was stunned by calamity. A few low murmuring words alone escaped him, and they indicated that he felt everything which was happening as a judgment upon him for his own crimes.

Even in his examination before the judge, these half-uttered self-accusings broke forth, and he seemed utterly indifferent as to what fate awaited him. By Cashel’s intervention, and the deposit of a large sum as bail for Rica’s future appearance, his liberation was effected, and he was led away from the spot unconscious of all around him.

As Cashel assisted the weak and tottering man through the crowded passages of the court, he felt his arm gently touched by a hand, at the same instant that his name was uttered. He turned hastily, and saw at his side a woman, who, youthful and still handsome, bore in her appearance the signs of deep poverty and still deeper sorrow. Her dress had once been rich, but now, from time and neglect, was disfigured and shabby; her veil, partly drawn across her face, was torn and ragged, and her very shoes were in tatters. A more sad-looking object it were difficult to conceive, and in the hurried glance Roland bestowed upon her, at a moment when all his thoughts were intent upon other cares, he believed she was one entreating charity. Hastily drawing forth his purse, he offered her some money, but she drew proudly up, saying, “This is insult, sir, and I have not deserved it.”

Cashel started with amazement, and drawing closer, stared eagerly at her.

“Great Heaven!” cried he, “is this possible? Is this – ”

“Hush!” cried she. “Let me not hear my name – or what was once my name – spoken aloud. I see now – you did not know me, nor would I have brought myself to the shame of being recognized but for his sake. He is now before the tribunal, and will be sent to prison for want of bail.”

Cashel motioned her not to leave the spot; and having safely placed Rica in his carriage, returned to the court.

By the guarantee of his name, and the offer of any moneyed security which might be required, Cashel obtained permission for Lord Charles Frobisher to go free; and then hurrying outside, communicated the tidings to her who stood trembling with fear and anxiety.

With tearful eyes, and in a voice broken by sobs, she was uttering her thanks as Lord Charles joined them.

“This, then, was your doing?” said he, staring coldly at her.

“Say, rather, it was your own, my Lord,” said Cashel, sternly.

“Oh, Charles! thank him – thank him,” cried she, hysterically. “Friends have not been so plenty with us, that we can treat them thus!”

“Lady Charles is most grateful, sir,” said Frobisher, with a cold sneer. “I am sure the show of feeling she evinces must repay all your generosity.” And, with, this base speech, he drew her arm within his, and moved hastily away. One look towards Cashel, as she turned to go, told more forcibly than words the agony of her broken heart.

And this was the once gay, light-hearted girl, – the wild and daring romp, whose buoyant spirit seemed above every reverse of fortune. Poor Jemima Meek! she had run away from her father’s home to link her lot with a gambler! Some play transaction, in which his name was involved, compelled him to quit the service, and at last the country. Now depending for support upon his family, now hazarding his miserable means at play, he had lived a life of recklessness and privation, – nothing left to him of his former condition save the name that he had brought down to infamy!

CHAPTER XXXVII. ALL MYSTERY CEASES – MARRIAGE AND GENERAL JOY

“The end of all.”

What a contrast did Roland Cashel’s life now present to the purposeless vacuity of his late existence! Every hour was occupied; even to a late period of each night was he engaged by cares which seemed to thicken around him as he advanced.

We should but weary our reader were we to follow him in the ceaseless round of duties which hard necessity imposed. Each morning his first visit was to the hospital of St. Louis, where Keane still lay, weakly struggling against a malady whose fatal termination was beyond a doubt; and although Roland could not wish for the prolongation of a life which the law would demand in expiation, he felt a craving desire that the testimony of the dying man should be full and explicit on every point, and that every dubious circumstance should be explained ere the grave closed over him.

To seek for Maritaña, to endeavor to recover this poor forlorn girl, was his next care, and to this end he spared nothing. Whatever money could purchase, or skill and unwearied enterprise suggest, were all employed in the search. Rica, whose nature seemed totally changed by the terrible shock of Linton’s culpability, gave himself up implicitly to Cashel’s guidance, and was unceasing in his efforts to discover his missing child. But with all the practised acuteness of the police at their command, and all the endeavors which their zeal could practise, the search was fruitless, and not a trace of her could be detected.

Through the Neapolitan Embassy, orders were transmitted to Naples to inquire into the case of Enrique, whose innocence the testimony of Keane went far to establish. The result was, as Cashel ardently hoped, his complete vindication, and a telegraphic despatch brought tidings that he was already liberated, and on his way to Paris. While both Roland and Rica waited impatiently for the arrival of one whose assistance in their search would be so valuable, the most perfect good understanding grew up between them, and Cashel began to perceive how, beneath the vices which a life of reckless debauchery had created, there lay – inactive and unused for many a day – kindly feelings and warm affections for which he had never given him credit. As this confidence grew stronger, Rica became more frank and open in all his intercourse, and at last revealed to Cashel the whole story of his life, – a strange, eventful history, whose vicissitudes were the changing fortunes of a gambler’s existence. For such was he, – without a passion, a pursuit of any kind but play, he had passed his life in that one baneful vice. For it he had toiled and labored: to indulge that passion he had engaged in deadly duels, and perilled his life by acts of forgery.

His marriage with Corrigan’s daughter was brought about solely to procure the means of play; nor was there an energy of his mind or an impulse of his nature had any other direction. Linton’s skill as a gambler, the unceasing resources he seemed to possess, the stratagems and devices he could deploy, created for him, in Rica’s mind, a species of admiration that soon degenerated into a blind submission to all his dictates. Such an ally as this, so deeply versed in all the weak points of his fellow-men, – so thoroughly master of every impulse that moves, of every hope and fear that sways the gambler’s nature, – had been the cherished desire of his heart for many a year, and now fortune bad at last given him such an associate. Their sudden success seemed to warrant the justice of the hope. Everything prospered with them since their new league. If he did not gain an equal ascendancy over the daughter’s mind as he had acquired over the father’s, still the ambitious future he often pictured before her, dazzled and delighted her, and thus, erelong, he contrived to obtain a degree of power, although of different kinds, over both. From such an associate as Linton concealment was impossible; and Rica soon saw himself completely at the mercy of a man who had sifted every motive of his heart, and weighed every action of his life, and at last became his pitiless, tyrannical master.

Rica’s connection with Corrigan suggested to Linton’s inventive mind the possibility of succeeding to that estate for which already he had perilled so much. His plan was to obtain from Corrigan a full renunciation of his claim to the property, and then to take the necessary steps to investigate the long dormant title. All their efforts to discover the old man’s residence were, however, vain; for although they once obtained a clew to the fact, some information seemed to have apprised the others of their danger, and their abode was immediately changed.

It was with a strange thrill of mingled pain and pleasure Cashel heard Rica speak of his daughter Mary, – of her he had deserted for so many a year, and yet now yearned towards with an affection that sprang from his self-accusings. The terrible chastisement his own vices had inflicted on his lonely and deserted lot seemed never absent from his thoughts; and he would sit for hours silently, while the heavy tears rolled along his furrowed cheeks, and his strong, heaving bosom showed his agony.

The fruitlessness of their search after Maritaña in Paris, and the death of Tom Keane in the hospital, removed the only obstacles to their departure from that city; and Rica and Cashel, who now felt their fortunes bound up together, prepared to take their leave of Paris. The trial of Linton was to take place in Limerick, and thither Roland was summoned by the law-officers of the Crown. This sad duty accomplished, he was to accompany Rica to Columbia, whither some slight hope of recovering Maritaña induced him to proceed. As for Cashel, once in the old haunts of childhood, he had resolved never to quit them more.

Roland’s arrangements for departure were soon made, and he repaired to the Embassy, where he had been invited to breakfast on the last morning of his stay. There was a certain bustle and movement in the courtyard which attracted his attention; and he saw two travelling-carriages, with an attendant “fourgon,” surrounded by servants, and loaded with all the preparations for a long journey.

“You have come in time, Mr. Cashel,” said the ambassador, as he shook hands with him, “to see our new minister at Florence, who is now on his way thither; and what will have more interest in your eyes, a very pretty girl, who has become the great literary character of our circles here. I regret much that she is about to leave us.”

Cashel bowed politely, but with the cold indifference of one for whom the tidings had no peculiar interest, and accompanied the ambassador into a salon, crowded with company.

“I have a young countryman to present to you, my Lord,” said his excellency, leading Cashel forward, “who I trust will wear a less sombre face in the sunny south than he has done in our northern latitudes. Mr. Roland Cashel – Lord Kilgoff.”

A sudden start of surprise was made by both, and Roland stood mute and thunderstruck as Lord Kilgoff advanced towards him with extended hand, and said, —

“Yes, Mr. Cashel, your old friend in better health and spirits than when last you saw him; and better able to thank you for much hospitality, and apologize for much injustice.”

“Let me have my share in both acknowledgments,” said Lady Kilgoff, rising, and taking Cashel’s hand with much cordiality.

Roland tried to mutter a few words, but he could not succeed; and his eyes ranged about the chamber till they fell upon one who, pale and motionless, regarded him with a look of most expressive sadness.

“Miss Leicester, too, here?” said he, at last.

“Yes, Mr. Cashel,” said Lady Kilgoff; “chance is about to do for us what all our skill would have failed in. Here are two worthy people who will not hear your name mentioned, and who now must consent, not alone to hear, but see you in person. I am quite convinced you never did or could have injured them. Stand forward, Mr. Corrigan, and make your charge.”

“I will save that gentleman the pain of accusing me,” said Roland, with deep emotion. “I have injured him deeply, but yet unwittingly. I have long desired this meeting, to place in his hands a document I have never ceased to carry about me, – the title to a property of which I was not the rightful owner, and which is his – and his only.”

“I will not, I cannot accept of it, sir,” said Corrigan, proudly. “I will never see that cottage more.”

“I do not speak of ‘the Cottage,’” said Cashel, “but of the whole estate of Tubbermore, the ancient possession of your house – still yours. There is the proof.” And, as he spoke, he drew forth the pardon, and handed it to Corrigan.

The old man trembled in every limb as he perused the paper, which he now read over for the third time.

“A royal pardon to Miles Corrigan, my grandfather?” exclaimed he, gasping for breath; “and how came you by this, sir?”

“The story is soon told,” said Cashel, relating in a few words the singular steps of the discovery.

“And you have travelled throughout Europe for upwards of three years to disencumber yourself of £16,000 a year?” said the ambassador, smiling good-naturedly.

“I have done so to disencumber myself of the weight of an injustice.”

“And this is the youth you would accuse of deception?” said Lady Kilgoff, haughtily.

“Forgive me, Lady; forgive one who has suffered too heavily from the world not to fall into the error of thinking once unjustly of a benefactor.”

“I have no title to the name, sir,” said Cashel. “Nay, more. I am your debtor for wealth which I squandered, believing it my own.”

“I knew him better than any of you,” cried old Dr. Tiernay, rushing forward and grasping Cashel by both hands. “My own generous, high-hearted boy. Come here, Mary; tell him candidly that you, too, were always of my opinion. This is no time for coyness. Let us have a little honesty after all this deception.” He drew Cashel to one side, and, in a deep whisper, said, “What of that Spanish girl? – Are you married or not?”

Roland smiled at the eagerness of the old man’s manner, and, in half-sadness, said, “Poor Maritaña is now a fugitive – we know not where.”

A sudden commotion at the door, and a tumult of voices, interrupted the scene, and Rica rushed in, crying in ecstasy, “She is found – my child is found!”

The travellers of the diligence passing through the wood of Versailles had discovered the form of a sleeping girl at the foot of a tree, and carried her back with them to Paris. Enrique himself, being among them, recognized her at once, and soon succeeded in finding out Rica, into whose arms he restored her.

While Rica hurriedly poured forth this explanation, old Corrigan stood tremulous with agitation, and at last, advancing towards him, said, “Leicester, I am no longer afraid to meet you. Fortune has, at last, favored me. I am rich now, and can make you rich also.”

Rica started back: a sudden sickness came over him, and he fell powerless at the old man’s feet.

What a scene of heartfelt emotion followed, as Mary recognized her long-lost father; and the careworn, sorrow-struck man saw the warm affections of those whom, in a life long, he had injured.

“The end of this will be,” said Lady Kilgoff, laughing through tears, “that I shall have to proceed on my journey alone. I foresee that we shall not share in all the general joy at these discoveries.”

“I have a sister, too,” exclaimed Mary, with enthusiasm, “whom I am burning with impatience to see. Where is she? when are we to meet?”

“She is below – she is in my carriage at the door,” said Rica.

The ambassador heard the words and left the room, returning in a moment with Maritaña on his arm. Wearied and exhausted as she was, there was that in her native grace and beauty that caused a thrill of admiration as she entered.

“Here is your sister, Maritaña,” said Rica, leading her to where Mary stood, gazing with wistful eyes at the Spanish beauty. Maritaña looked steadily at the fair loveliness before her, where timidity and gentleness seemed impressed; and then, as if yielding to some sudden impulse, she sprang forward, and, clasping her hand, covered it with kisses, exclaiming with rapture, —

“Non! non la sua hermana, ma la sua esclava! – Not her sister, but her slave.”

Among the group who with admiring eyes gazed upon this little scene, there stood a dark, sombre-looking man, whose mean attire and travel-worn look could not conceal a certain dignity of air and manner. Cashel’s quick glance soon discovered him, and in a moment they were locked in a fast embrace. “My old, true-hearted comrade!” cried Roland.

“Yes, señora!” said Maritaña, as if answering the look of astonishment of Mary; “and for all that he seems now, he is a well-born caballero, and noble to boot.”

“Everything looks worse and worse for my prospects of companionship,” said Lady Kilgoff, poutingly. “Mr. Corrigan – Mary – are you both bent on desertion?”

“We are bound for Ireland, fair Lady; the little remnant of my life is a debt I owe my country.”

“Señor Rica and your lovely daughter, will you be our companions?”

“Our road lies westward, Lady. The New World must teach us to forget the Old one.”

“Mr. Cashel, am I to guess whither your steps will lead you?”

“It would save me the pain of deciding if you did,” said Roland, sadly.

“You come with us, Roland,” said Mr. Corrigan; “you once told me that you felt Tubber-beg a home. Let us see if time has not erased the impression.”

“And Maritaña, too!” cried Mary.

“And Enrique!” said Maritaña.

“Then I must be of the party,” said Dr. Tiernay. “I was never intended by nature for an embassy physician, but as a village doctor I still feel that I shall hold up my head with dignity.”

Rica, who meanwhile was in earnest conversation with Cashel, now advanced into the middle of the group, and said, “Mr. Cashel once contracted a solemn pledge to me, from which I feel no inclination to release him. I ask him before this assemblage if it be true he promised to marry my daughter?”

Roland grew deadly pale, but in a faint voice replied, “It is true.”

“Are you willing to keep your pledge?” said Rica, firmly.

Cashel made no answer but a slight motion of the bead.

“Then she is yours,” said Rica, placing Mary Leicester’s hand in his; while Maritaña, in a transport of feeling, fell into her father’s arms and sobbed aloud.

“Then we are all bound at once for Ireland,” cried Mr. Corrigan; “and I trust never to leave it more.”