The party at the castle had postponed their visit to St. Alvin Priory
till the feast of St. Kathereen and St. Mary, which in that neighbourhood
was always celebrated with much observance. A fair was held upon the
downs, in honour of these two martyrs. The rocks near which the ruins
of the convent stood, were called the Black Sisters, and it was there,
and in the Wizzard’s Glen, which stretched from the top to the foot of
the mountain, that the meetings of the discontented had been held. The
day proved fair; and at an early hour the carriages and horses were in
attendance. Mrs. Seymour and many others declined being of the party;
but Lady Margaret took Gondimar’s arm with a smile of good humour, which
she could at times put on. Buchanan drove Calantha in his barouch. Sir
Everard rode by Calantha’s side on a lowly white palfrey, as if to protect
her. Lady Mandeville was with her; and Lady Trelawney took Sophia and
Lady Augusta Selwyn in her carriage. The rest of the gentlemen were some
on horseback and some in curricles.
The whole country smiled around. There were ringers, and pipers, and
hurlers upon the down. The cliff, towards the sea, was covered with
booths and tents. Flocks, herds and horses had been brought from far
for sale, ornamented with ribbands; green being the favourite colour.
Scarcely ever was witnessed a scene more gay. This, and the vessels
laden with fish, crowding into the harbour below, and the high mountains
beyond, struck even the Italian, whose eyes had been accustomed to all
that nature can produce of picturesque and majestic. The beauty of the
girls, with their long blue mantles thrown aside from their shoulders,
their dark hair fastened behind with a knot of ribband, was the subject
of discussion. Comparisons of the difference of form between one nation
and another arose. All descended from their carriages and horses. Lady
Mandeville repeated poetry; Gondimar became sentimental; Buchanan looked
at the horses, enquired their prices, and soon joined the hurlers, in
whose combat he grew so much interested, that no one could draw him from
thence until the moment when they left the fair, where they had remained
till they were all much fatigued.
“What are you laughing at so immensely?” cried Lady Augusta Selwyn,
approaching Lord Trelawney, who was nearly enclosed in a circle of some
hundreds. The moment Lady Augusta approached, with a courtesy seldom seen
but in Ireland, the crowd made way for her. “I am listening,” said he, “to
a preacher—a most capital preacher, whom they call Cowdel O’Kelly. Only
observe him: what a rogue it is, with that hypocrite mildness of manner,
that straight black hair, that presbyterian stiffness and simplicity.”
“But what is he saying?” enquired Lady Augusta. The preacher, standing
upon a cart, was delivering an exhortation in a very emphatic manner, to
a vast concourse of attentive hearers. The presence of the party from the
Castle had no effect upon him: he was inveighing against the insolence
of his superiors in rank, and pleading in favour of the rights of man.
When he had concluded his discourse, the crowd dispersed, some laughing
at him, and some much edified by his discourse. O’Kelly looked after
them:—“That is the way of the world,” he said: “it gets all it can
from a man, and then it leaves him; but all that is, is for the best;
therefore, amen, your honours; so be it.” Lord Trelawney laughed to an
excess. “Your name,” said he, “I take it, it is Cowdel O’Kelly.” “If you
take it to be my name, your honour can’t be any ways wrong in calling
me by it; but I call myself citizen Wailman.” “And why the devil, my
honest friend, do you call yourself so?” “To please myself, and trick
my master.” “And pray who is your master?” “When I know that, I’ll let
you know.” “What! not know your master?” “Why what master knows his
servant? There’s nothing extraordinary in that, my Lord.” “But pray,
my good citizen Wailman, where do you live, and where does your master
live?”—“I live where I can, your honour; and as to my master, every one
knows he lives under ground, in the family vault.”
“Is he dead then, or what can he be doing under ground?” said Lady
Trelawney. “Looking for friends, Miss, I believe; for he has none, that
I see, above board.” “I am sure this is a rebel in disguise,” whispered
Lady Trelawney. Her Lord laughed.
A beautiful little boy now pushing his way through the crowd, plainly
pronounced the words, “O’Kelly come home; I am very tired.” The man,
hastily descending from the cart, called him his young prince—his
treasure; and lifted him up in his arms. “He is about the same age as
Henry Mowbray,” said Calantha, “and very like him. What is your name,
my pretty child?” “Clare of Costally,” said the boy; “and it should by
rights be Lord Clare—should it not, O’Kelly?” As he spoke, he smiled
and put his little rosy hands to O’Kelly’s mouth, who kissed them, and
making a slight bow, would have retired. “What, are you going? will you
not stay a moment?” “I fear I intrude too much on your honour’s time.”
“Not in the least—not in the least, good Mister Wailman; pray stay a
little longer.” “Why, fair and honest, if I don’t intrude too much on
your time, my lord, you do on mine; and so your servant.”
“I really believe he belongs to the abbey,” said Lady Trelawney, who
had re-entered her barouche, and was driving with the rest of the party,
towards St. Alvin Priory. “See how he steals along by the cliff, in the
same direction we are going.” “It was a lovely child,” said Lady Augusta;
“but to be sure no more like Harry; only Lady Avondale is always in the
seventh heaven of romance.” “Look, pray look,” interrupted Frances:
“I assure you that is Sir Everard St. Clare’s wife, and Lauriana and
Jessica are with her. I am certain of it,” she continued, throwing
herself nearly out of the carriage to gaze upon them. Lord Trelawney was
extremely diverted. “And there is the recruiting serjeant: only observe
the manner in which they are habited.” The two unhappy girls, drest
in the most flaunting attire, singing in chorus the song of liberty,
covered with green ribbands, were walking in company with a vast number
of young men, most of them intoxicated, and all talking and laughing
loudly. Calantha begged Buchanan to stop the carriage, that she also
might see them pass; which they did, marching to the sound of the drum
and fife: but her heart sickened when she saw the beautiful recluse of
Glenaa amongst them. Elinor came near: she raised her full black eye,
and gazed with fearless effrontery upon Calantha.
It was the same face she had seen a few years back at the convent: but
alas, how changed;—the rich and vivid crimson of her cheek, the deep dark
brown of the wild ringlets which waved above her brow, the bold masculine
manners and dress she had assumed, contrasting with the slender beauty
of her upright form. She was drest in uniform, and walked by the side
of a young man, whose pale, thoughtful countenance struck every one.
Elinor appeared desperate and utterly hardened: her presence inspired
Calantha with a mixed feeling of horror and commiseration, which Lady
St. Clare’s ludicrous figure, and Jessica and Lauriana’s huge and clumsy
personages turned into disgust.
“Oh did you behold her?—did you see my poor deluded Elinor?” cried Sir
Everard, riding up to Calantha, as she still gazed from the open carriage
upon the procession: “did you see my unfortunate girls?” “I did, indeed,”
said Lady Avondale, the tears springing into her eyes: “I saw them and
stopped; for it occurred to me, that, perhaps, I might speak to them—might
yet save them.” “And would you have condescended so much? Oh! this is
more than I dared ask or hope.” Saying which, the Doctor wept, as was
his custom, and Buchanan laughed. “You are so good,” continued he: “you
were in tears when you saw your former playmates disgracing themselves,
and their sex, but in the rest of the carriages I heard nothing but
jesting, and loud laughter. And oh! would you credit it, can you believe
it, Lady St. Clare had the audacity to drop me a courtesy as she passed.”
“Was the tall young man, who was walking by the side of Elinor, Cyrel
Linden?” “It was the same,” cried the Doctor—“gone mad like the rest,
though they tell me it is all for the love of Miss Alice; and that since
her loss, he is grown desperate, and cares not what becomes of him.
They’ll be hanged, however; that is one consolation—Lady St. Clare,
as well as the rest. Indeed,” cried he, drawing closer, “I am credibly
informed that the officers of justice have an eye upon them, and wait
only to obtain further evidence of their treasonable practices, to take
them up.” During this discourse, the carriage drove slowly up the hill;
but soon proceeding at a brisker pace, the doctor was obliged to draw
in his steed and retire. The party now entered the park.