“Sure what a stormy night it is! Lard help us, Mr. Mac Allain,”
said the nurse, as she wrapped her thick cloth mantle over the sweet
slumberer that fondled in her bosom, and got into a post-chaise and
four with much trepidation and difficulty. “I never saw the like!
there’s wind enough to blow us into the sea, and sea enough to deluge
the land. The Holy Virgin, and all the saints protect us!” Gerald Mac
Allain having with some trouble secured the reluctant and loquacious
matron, now returned for another and a dearer charge, who, trembling
and penitent, followed him to the carriage. “Farewell, my kind
preserver,” said Calantha, her voice scarcely audible. “God bless,
God protect you, dear lady,” said the old man in bitter grief. “Take
care of Henry. Tell my father that I have been led to this step by
utter despair. Let no one suspect your friendly aid. Lord Avondale,
though he may refuse to see me, will not be offended with the kind
hearts that had pity on my misfortunes.” “God bless you, dear lady,”
again reiterated the old man, as the carriage drove swiftly from the
gates.
But the blessing of God was not with Lady Avondale; she had renounced
his favour and protection in the hour of prosperity; and she durst
not even implore his mercy or his pardon in her present affliction.
Thoughts of bitterness crowded together: she could no longer weep—the
pressure upon her heart and brain would not permit it.
“Eh! dear heart, how the carriage rowls!” was the first exclamation
which awoke her to a remembrance of her situation. “We are ascending
the mountain. Fear not, good nurse. Your kindness in accompanying me
shall never be forgotten.” “Och musha, what a piteous night it is!—I
did not reckon upon it.” “You shall be rewarded and doubly rewarded
for your goodness. I shall never forget it. Lord Avondale will reward
you,” “Hey sure you make me weep to hear you; but I wish you’d tell
the cattle not to drive so uncommon brisk up the precipice. Lord have
mercy, if there ain’t shrouds flying over the mountains!” “It is only
the flakes of snow driven by the tempest.”
“Do not fret yourself thus,” continued Lady Avondale. “I will take
care of you, good nurse.” “I have heard say, and sure I hope it’s
no sin to mention it again, my lady, that the wind’s nothing more
than the souls of bad christians, who can’t get into Heaven, driven
onward, alacks the pity! and shrieking as they pass.” “I have heard the
same,” replied Calantha mournfully. “Och lard! my lady, I hope not:
I’m sure it’s a horrid thought. I hope, my lady, you don’t believe
it. But how terrible your dear ladyship looks, by the light of the
moon. I trust in all the saints, the robbers have not heard of our
journey.—Hark what a shriek!” “It is nothing but the wind rushing
over the vast body of the sea. You must not give way to terror. See
how the child sleeps: they say one may go in safety the world over,
with such a cherub: Heaven protects it. Sing it to rest, nurse, or
tell it some merry tale.”
The carriage proceeded over the rocky path, for it could scarce be
termed a road; the wind whistled in at the windows; and the snow
drifting, covered every object. “There it comes again,” said the
affrighted nurse. “What comes?” “The shroud with the death’s head
peeping out of it. It was just such a night as this, last Friday night
as ever came, when the doctor’s brother, the prophet Camioli, on his
death-bed, sent for his ungrateful daughter, and she would not come.
I never shall forget that night. Well, if I did not hear the shriek
of the dear departed two full hours after he gave up the ghost. The
lord help us in life, as in death, and defend us from wicked children.
I hope your dear ladyship doesn’t remember that it was just on this
very spot at the crossing, that Drax O’Morven was murdered by his
son: and isn’t there the cross, as I live, just placed right over
against the road to warn passengers of their danger.—Oh!”...
“What is the matter, nurse? For God sake speak.” “Oh!”... “Stop the
carriage. In the name of his Grace the Duke of Altamonte, I desire you
to stop,” cried a voice from behind. “Drive on, boys, for your life.
Drive on in mercy. We are just at Baron’s Down:—I see the lights of
the village, at the bottom of the hill. Drive for your life: a guinea
for every mile you go.” The nurse shrieked; the carriage flew; jolts,
ruts, and rocks, were unheeded by Calantha. “We are pursued. Rush
on:—reach Baron’s Down:—gallop your horses. Fear not. I value not
life, if you but reach the inn—if you but save me from this pursuit.”
“Stop,” cried a voice of thunder. “Fear not.” “Drive Johnny Carl,”
screamed the nurse. “Drive Johnny Carl,” repeated the servant.
The horses flew; the post boys clashed their whips; the carriage wheels
scarce appeared to touch the ground. A yell from behind seemed only
to redouble their exertions. They arrive: Baron’s Down appears in
sight: lights are seen at the windows of the inn. The post boys ring
and call: the doors are open: Lady Avondale flew from the carriage:—a
servant of the duke’s arrested her progress. “I am sorry to make so
bold; but I come with letters from his grace your father. Your Ladyship
may remain at Baron’s Down to-night; but to-morrow I must see you
safe to the castle. Pardon my apparent boldness: it is unwillingly
that I presume to address you thus. My commands are positive.”
“Sure there’s not the laist room at all for the ladies; nor any baists
to be had, all the way round Baron’s Down; nor ever so much as a boy
to be fetched, as can take care of the cattle over the mountain,”
said the master of the inn, now joining in the conversation. “What
will become of us?” cried the nurse. “Dear, dear lady, be prevailed
on: give up your wild enterprise: return to your father. Lady Anabel
will be quite kilt with the fatigue. Be prevailed upon: give up this
hopeless journey.” “_You_ may return, if it is your pleasure: I never
will.” “Your ladyship will excuse me,” said the servant, producing
some letters; “but I must entreat your perusal of these, before you
attempt to proceed.”
“You had better give my lady your best accommodations,” said the nurse
in confidence to the landlord: “she is a near connexion of the Duke of
Altamonte’s. You may repent any neglect you may shew to a traveller
of such high rank.” “There’s nae rank will make room,” retorted the
landlord. “Were she the late duchess herself, I could only give her
my bed, and go without one. But indeed couldn’t a trifle prevail
with the baists as brought you, to step over the mountains as far
as Killy Cross?” “There’s nae trifle,” said a man, much wrapped up,
who had been watching Lady Avondale—“there’s nae trifle shall get ye
to Killy Cross, make ye what haste ye can, but what we’ll be there
before ye.” Calantha shuddered at the meaning of this threat, which
she did not understand; but the nurse informed her it was a servant
of Sir Richard Mowbrey’s.