University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Another and another day succeeded—a
week slipped away—a second and a third
followed it; and still the ranks of the
royal regiment, though they were filled
rapidly, had many vacancies, and arms
had yet to be provided, and standards and
musicians; messengers went and came
continually between the castle and the
manor, and all was haste and confusion
in the lone glens of Wharfdale. Meantime
a change was wrought in Annabel's
demeanor, and all who saw remarked it—
there was a brighter glow than ever had
been seen before, in her transparent
cheeks; her eyes sparkled almost as brilliantly
as Marian's; her lips were frequently
arrayed in bright and beaming
smiles; her step was light and springy as
a young fawn's on the mountain. Annabel
was in love, and had discovered that
she was so—Annabel was beloved and
knew it—the young lord's declaration and
the old earl's conseut had come together;
and the sweet maiden's heart was given,
and her hand promised, almost before the
asking. Joy! joy! was there not joy in
Ingleborough?

The good old vicar's tranquil air of satisfaction;
the loud and eloquent mirth of
his kind hearted housewife—the merry,
gay congratulations of wild Marian, who
wrote from York, half crazy with excitement
and delight—the evident and lovely
happiness of the young promised bride
—what pen of man may even aspire to
write them. All was decided—all arranged—the
marriage was, so far, at least, to
be held private, that no festivities or public
merriment should bruit it to the world,
until the civil strife should be decided, and
the king's power established; which all
men fancied, at that day, it would by a
single battle—and which, had Rupert
wheeled upon the flank of Essex at Edge-Hill,
instead of chasing the discomfited
and flying horse of the Roundheads,

miles from the field of battle, would probably
have been the case.

The old earl had sent the wedding gifts
to his sou's chosen bride, had promised to
be present at the nuptials, the day of
which was fixed already; but it had been
decided that when De Vaux should be
forced to join the royal armies his young
wife should continue to reside at Ingleborough,
with her bereaved mother and fond
sister, until the wished-for peace should
unite England once again in bonds of
general amity; and the bridegroom find
honorable leisure to lead his wife in state
to his paternal mansions.

Days sped a way—how fast they seemed
to fly to those young happy lovers! How
was the very hour of their first interview
noted, and marked with while in the deep
tablets of their minds—how did they shyly,
half, half fondly recount each to the other
the first impressions of their growing
fondness—how did they bless the cause
that brought them thus together. proh
cœca mens mortalium!—oh! the short-sighted
scope of mortal vision! alas! for one
—for both!

The wedding day was fixed, and now
was fast approaching; and hourly was
Marian, with their good uncle and his
dame, expected at the Hall, and wished
for, and discoursed of by the lovers—
“and oh!”—would Annabel say, half
sportively, and half in earnest—“well
was it for my happiness, De Vaux, that
she was absent when you first came hither,
for had you seen her first, her far superior
beauty, her bright wild radiant face, her
rare arch naivete, her flashing wit, and
beautiful enthusiasm would—must have
captivated you all at once—and what had
then become of your poor Annabel?”

And then would the young lord vow—
that had he met her first in the most glorious
courts of Europe, with all the gorgeous
beauties of the world to rival her, she
would alone have been the choice of his
soul—his soul, first touched by her, of
woman! And then he would ask in
lowered tones, and with a sly simplicity
of manner, whether if he had loved another,
she could have still loved him; to
which, with all the frank and fearless
purity that was so beautiful a trait in Annabel—“Oh
yes—” she would reply, and
gaze with calm reliance, as she did so,
into her lover's eyes—“oh yes, dear
Eruest—and then how miserably wretched
must I have been through my whole life
hereafter. Oh! yes, I loved you—though
then I knew it not, nor indeed thought at
all about it, until you spoke to me—I
loved you dearly!—and I believe it would
almost have killed me to look upon you
afterwards as the wife of another.”

The wedding day was but a fortnight
distant; and strange to say it was the
very day, two months gone, which had
seen their meeting. Wains had arrived
from Gilsland, loaded with arms and uniforms,
standards and ammunitions; two
brothers of young De Vaux, young gallant
cavaliers, had come, partly to officer
the men, partly to do fit honor to their
brother's nuptials.

The day, although the season had now
advanced far into brown October, was
sunny, mild, and beautiful; the regiment
had, for the first time, mustered in arms in
Ingleborough park, and a gay show they
made, with their glittering casques and
corslets, fresh from the armorer's anvil,
and their fluttering scarfs, and dancing
plumes, and bright emblazoned banners.

The sun was in the act of setting—De
Vaux and Annabel were watching his decline
from the same window in the Hall
whence she had first discovered his unexpected
coming; when, as on that all
eventful evening, a little dust was seen
arising on the high road beyond the river;
and, in a moment, a small mounted party
became visible, amidst which might be
readily descried the fluttering of female
garments!

“It is my sister”—exclaimed Annabel,
jumping up on the instant, and clasping
her hands eagerly—“it is my dear, dear
sister—come, Ernest, come, let us go and
meet dear Marian.” No time was lost,
but arm-in-arm the lovers sallied forth,
and met the little train just on this side of
the park-gate.

Marian sprang from her horse, light as
a spirit of the air, and rushed into her
sister's arms, and clung there with a long
and lingering embrace, and as she raised
her head, a bright tear glittered on either
silky eyelash. De Vaux advanced to
greet her, but as he did so, earnestly perusing
the lineaments of his fair future
sister, he was most obviously embarrassed,
his manner was confused, and even
agitated, his words faltered—and she,
whose face had been, a second before,
beaming with the bright crimson of excitement—whose
eye had looked round
eagerly and gladly to mark the chosen of
her sister—she turned as pale as ashes—
brow, cheeks, and lips—pale, almost
livid!—and her eye fell abashed, and did
not rise again till he had finished speaking.
None noticed it but Annabel; for all the
party were engaged in gay congratulations,
and—they recovering themselves
immediately—nothing more passed, that

could create surmise—but she did notice
it, and her heart sauk for a moment, and
all that evening she was unnsually grave
and silent; and, had not her usual demeanor
been so exceedingly calm and
subdued, her strange dejection must have
been seen, and wondered at, by her assembled
kinsfolk.