Lord Avondale then looked back at the scenes he had left.
Before his eyes appeared in one extensive view the bright silver surface of Glenarvon bay, breaking through the dark shades of distant wood, under the heights of Inis Tara and Heremon, upon whose lofty summits the light of the moonbeam fell. To the right, the Dartland hills arose in majestic grandeur; and far onwards, stretching to the clouds, his own native hills, the black mountains of Morne; while the river Allan, winding its way through limestone rocks and woody glens, rapidly approached towards the sea.
Whilst yet pausing to gaze upon these fair prospects, on a night so clear and serene, that every star shone forth to light him on his way, yells terrible and disorderly broke upon the sacred stillness, and a party of the rebels rushed upon him. He drew his sword, and called loudly to them to desist. Collingwood, an attendant who had waited for him at the inn, and had since accompanied him, exclaimed: “Will you murder your master, will you attack your lord, for that he is returning amongst you?”—“He wears the English uniform,” cried one. “Sure he’s one of the butchers sent to destroy us. We’ll have no masters, no lords: he must give up his commission, and his titles, or not expect to pass.”—“Never,” said Lord Avondale, indignantly: “had I no commission, no title to defend, still as a man, free and independent, I would protect the laws and rights of my insulted country. Attempt not by force to oppose yourselves to my passage. I will pass without asking or receiving your permission.”
“It is Avondale, the lord’s son,” cried one: “I know him by his spirit. Long life to you! and glory, and pleasure attend you”—“Long life to your honour!” exclaimed one and all; and in a moment the enthusiasm in his favour was as great, as general, as had been at first the execration and violence against him. The attachment they bore to their lord was still strong. “Fickle, senseless beings!” he said, with bitter contempt, as he heard their loyal cry. “These are the creatures we would take to govern us: this is the voice of the people: these are the rights of man.”—“Sure but you’ll pity us, and forgive us; and you’ll be our king again, and live amongst us; and the young master’s just gone to the mansion; and didn’t we draw him into his own courts? and ain’t we returning to our cabins after seeing the dear creature safe: and, for all the world, didn’t we indade take ye for one of the murderers in the uniform, come to kill us, and make us slaves? Long life to your honour!”
All the time they thus spoke, they kept running after Lord Avondale, who urged on his horse to escape from their persecution. A thousand pangs at this instant tortured his mind. This was the retreat in which he and Calantha had passed the first, and happiest year of their marriage. The approach to it was agony. The fever on his mind augmented. The sight of his children, whom he had ordered to be conveyed thither, would be terrible:—he dreaded, yet he longed to clasp them once more to his bosom. The people had named but one, and that was Harry Mowbrey. Was Anabel also there? Would she look on him, and remind him of Calantha? These were enquiries he hardly durst suggest to himself.
Lord Avondale hastened on. And now the road passed winding by the banks of the rapid and beautiful Allan, till it led to the glen, where a small villa, adorned with flower gardens, wood and lawn, broke upon his sight. His heart was cheerless, in the midst of joy: he was poor, whilst abundance surrounded him. Collingwood rang at the bell. The crowd had reached the door, and many a heart, and many a voice, welcomed home the brave Lord Avondale. He passed them in gloom and silence. “Are the children arrived?” he said, in a voice of bitterness, to the old steward, whose glistening eyes he wished not to encounter. “They came, God bless them, last night. They are not yet awakened.” “Leave me,” said Lord Avondale. “I too require rest;” and he locked himself into the room prepared for his reception; whilst Collingwood informed the astonished gazers that their lord was ill, and required to be alone. “He was not used,” they said, as they mournfully retired, “to greet us thus. But whatever he thinks of his own people, we would one and all gladly lay down our lives to serve him.”
CHAPTER XCIII.
Upon that night when the meeting between Lord Glenarvon and Lord Avondale had taken place, the great procession in honour of St. Katharine passed through the town of Belfont. Miss St. Clare, having waited during the whole of the day to see it, rode to St. Mary’s church, and returned by the shores of the sea, at a late hour. As she passed and repassed before her uncle’s house, she turned her dark eye upwards, and saw that many visitors and guests were there. They had met together to behold the procession.
Lauriana and Jessica stood in their mother’s bay window. Tyrone, Carter, Grey, and Verny, spoke to them concerning their cousin. “See where she rides by, in defiance,” said one. “Miss St. Clare, fie upon this humour,” cried another: “the very stones cry shame on you, and our modest maidens turn from their windows, that they may not blush to see you.” “Then are there few enough of that quality in Belfont,” said St. Clare smiling; “for when I pass, the windows are thronged, and every eye is fixed upon me.” “What weight has the opinion of others with you?” “None.” “What your own conscience?” “None.” “Do you believe in the religion of your fathers?” “It were presumption to believe: I doubt all things.” “You have read this; and it is folly in you to repeat it; for wherein has Miss Elinor a right to be wiser than the rest of us?” “It is contemptible in fools to affect superior wisdom.” “Better believe that which is false, than dare to differ from the just and the wise: the opinion of ages should be sacred: the religion and laws of our forefathers must be supported.” “Preach to the winds, Jessica: they’ll bear your murmurs far, and my course is ended.”
The evening was still: no breeze was felt; and the swelling billows of the sea were like a smooth sheet of glass, so quiet, so clear. Lauriana played upon the harp, and flatterers told her that she played better than St. Clare. She struck the chords to a warlike air, and a voice, sweet as a seraph angel’s, sung from below. “St. Clare, is it you? Well I know that silver-sounding voice. The day has been hot, and you have ridden far: dismount, and enter here. An aunt and relations yet live to receive and shelter thee. What, though all the world scorn, and censure thee, still this is thy home. Enter here, and you shall be at peace.” “Peace and my heart are at variance. I have ridden far, as you say, and I am weary: yet I must journey to the mountains, before I rest. Let me ride on in haste. My course will soon be o’er.” “By Glenarvon’s name I arrest you,” said Lauriana. “Oh, not that name: all but that I can bear to hear.”