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.”
Cormac O’Leary, and Carter, and Tyrone, now come down, and assisted
in persuading her to alight. “Sing to us,” they cried. “What hand can
strike the harp like thine? What master taught thee this heavenly
harmony?” “Oh, had you heard his song who taught me, then had you
wept in pity for my loss. What does life present that’s worth even
a prayer? What can Heaven offer, having taken from me all that my
soul adored? Why name Glenarvon? It is like raising a spirit from
the grave; or giving life again to the heart that is dead: it is as
if a ray of the sun’s glorious light shone upon these cold senseless
rocks; or as if a garden of paradise were raised in the midst of a
desert: birds of prey and sea-fowl alone inhabit here. They should
be something like Glenarvon who dare to name him.” “Was he all this
indeed?” said Niel Carter incredulously.
“When he spoke, it was like the soft sound of music. The wild
impassioned strains of his lyre awakened in the soul every emotion:
it was with a master-hand that he struck the chords; and all the
fire of genius and poetry accompanied the sound. When Heaven itself
has shed its glory upon the favourite of his creation, shall mortal
beings turn insensible from the splendid ray? You have maddened
me: you have pronounced a name I consider sacred.” “This prodigy of
Heaven, however,” said Cormac O’Leary, “behaves but scurvily to man.
Glenarvon it seems has left his followers, as he has his mistress.
Have you heard, that in consequence of his services, he is reinstated
in his father’s possessions, a ship is given to him, and a fair and
lovely lady has accepted his hand? Even now, he sails with the English
admiral and Sir Richard Mowbrey.”
The rich crimson glow faded from Elinor’s cheek. She smiled, but it
was to conceal the bitterness of her heart. She knew the tale was
true; but she cared not to repeat it. She mounted her horse, and
desiring Cormac O’Leary, Niel Carter, and others, to meet her that
night at Inis Tara, she rode away, with more appearance of gaiety
than many a lighter heart.