From Kelly Cross to Allenwater, the road passes through mountains
which, rough and craggy, exhibit a terrific grandeur. The inhabitants
in this part of the country are uncivilized and ferocious. Their
appearance strongly betokens oppression, poverty, and neglect. A herd
of goats may be seen browzing upon the tops of the broken cliffs; but
no other cattle, nor green herbage. A desolate cabin here and there;
inactivity, silence, and despondency, every where prevail. The night
was sultry, and the tired horse of Lord Avondale hung back to the
village he had left, and slowly ascended the craggy steep. When he
had attained the summit of the mountain, he paused to rest, exhausted
by the burning pain of his wound.
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.”