With shoulders rounded and head bowed, Mr. Curran trotted back to Strogue. Feeling that he was no longer able to fight as he used to do, it was a wonderful relief to think that Robert was gone away. Time was when it was exhilarating to break a lance with my Lord Clare. But the sturdy advocate had received his passport for the undiscovered country, and, but for Sara's sake, was little inclined to murmur if he were required to use it soon. It was clear to him that there must be an exodus--to America--anywhere. He and Sara should be the first to go; and perhaps he might be permitted to linger on until her future was in some way assured.
He trotted along the road, absorbed in sorrowful considerations, until, just as he passed under the hedge which belonged to the Little House, he was rudely roused from reverie. Madam Gillin was gesticulating like a madwoman.
'Hist!' she whispered. 'The boy's not gone! Whillaloo! 'Twas the baker that escaped! It's at Strogue he is this cursed minute. The candle's there, the moth is booming round it! Maybe there's time still. Bid him be off, jewel, do; and I'll keep watch lest any come. Jug's looking out on the back road.'
'Murther!' ejaculated Curran, wide awake now. 'They're scouring the country for him. Oh, the silly lad!' And beating his pony with unwonted vehemence, the lawyer galloped through the park-gates, along the short turn of avenue which led to the Abbey, and, leaving the astonished animal to recover how he could, hurried up the steps into the hall.
The door was idly swinging, but no one was visible in the vestibule nor in the dining-room, nor in Miss Wolfe's boudoir. Hark! Subdued voices, murmuring further on, in the tapestry-saloon. He moved quickly thither, and, standing on the threshold, stamped his feet in the impotent fury of his wrath. There was Robert--haggard and unkempt--still in the pinchbeck uniform, torn and bespattered now, with a peasant's frieze-coat thrown over it--a ridiculous disguise. He was kneeling by a couch whereon lay Sara, her face turned towards him, her eyes fixed full on his with a wild unreasoning longing, while he chafed her hands and kissed them. The tall and graceful figure of Doreen leaned against the sculptured garlands of the mantelpiece, as she gave the homage of silent sympathy to the voiceless parting of this pair, while her mind wandered in the cypressed graveyard of her own sorrow. That heap of black satin, prone under the carriage-wheels, would never leave her memory so long as life should last. Stroke had succeeded stroke, and she winced no more.