University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Stealthily as Marian had descended the
staircase, to keep that fatal rendezvous,
more stealthily yet did she return. At
Annabel's door she again paused for a
moment; but she paused only now to
mark if she slept soundly; to hear if any

breath or movement betokened that she
was a wake to interrupt her. At first she
heard nothing, but by and by, as her ear
became more and more accustomed to the
silence of the house, and as the quick
beating of her own fluttering heart subsided
into stillness, which for a time had
filled her ears with its tumultuous murmur,
she could distinguish, without difficulty,
the deep and regular breathing of
her slumbering sister as it became distinctly
andible; and she was satisfied that
from her at least she was in no danger of
any interruption. Thence the unhappy
girl crept into her mother's chamber;
which, though it communicated with Annabel's
by an open door, and though she
knew that the slightest noise in that cherished
chamber was wont to arouse her
sister, she felt that she must visit, ere she
could quit the home of her fathers, as she
believed, for ever.

Oh! there is something indeed holy in
the atmosphere of a mother's chamber;
and that holiness fell, not like a soft and
gentle balm, but like a keen and acrid
irritant upon the wounded spirit of the excited
maiden. There was something in
the whole aspect of the room unaltered
from her earliest childhood—in the immovable
old-fashioned furniture, which
had survived in its quaint old age so many
owners, which had looked on so many
changes and chances; in the grim cornices
and heavy scnlptured posts of the
huge canopied bedstead; in the strange
carvings of the vast oak mantelpiece, in
the rich dark hnes of the broacaded hangings;
in the tall cabinets of lacquered Indian
ware; in the fantastic images embossed
in gold upon their doors, at which
her childhood was used to shudder; in the
very ticking, slumberous and monotonous,
of the old eight day clock, by which she
was wont years ago to study her small
tasks—there was something in all this, I
say, that operated strangely, and very
painfully upon the mind of Marian Hawkwood.

She was embittered, angry, jealous—
and yet more indignant—heart-sick at
what she believed to be Anuabel's cruel
treachery—than angry, or jealous either
Her soul had drunk in, and received as
truth, all the base falsehoods of that false
and fickle lover. It was perhaps impossible,
after she had taken the first false
step of meeting him at all, that it should
be otherwise—and resolved as she was
that she would not permit the whole bliss
of her life to be frustrated by the premeditated
baseness of another, she yet felt
and appreciated to the utmost, the whole
bitterness and agony of her position.

Her very heart was wrung by the idea
of quitting that loved home, that cherished
mother, those dear memories at all—and
then to quite them, as she must, clandestinely,
in shame and darkness, and dis
honor—oh! it was anguish! anguish unspeakable!

For a considerable time, Marian stood
motionless beside the bed of the paralytic
woman, happy for once, at least, in the
very thing which rendered her an object
of compassion—happy that she was ignorant
of the sufferings and the trials, the
sins and the sorrows of her beloved daughter.

Wonderful, terrible contrast! the lovely
face of the young girl, in its wonted aspect
so bright, so radiantly beautiful, now
pale alternately and flushed, harassed
and agitated, nay, almost distorted, and
showing in every line, every feature, the
prevalence of fierce and overmastering
passiou! And the calm, composed, vacant—nay!
almost infantile expression of
the old woman's countenance! The one
in the very spring time of life, when all
should be innocence and peaceful mirth,
so full of unnatural and stormy tumults of
the soul! The other in extreme old age,
when the traces of long cares and many
sorrows are expected to be stamped visibly
on the lineaments, so perfectly, so
deadly tranquil!

For many moments she stood there,
wistfully gazing on her mother's face, as
it showed paler even, and more wan and
death-like than its wont, in the faint
moonbeans; and, as she gazed, a milder
and less painful expression came over her
excited features; and her sweet, blue
eyes filled with tears—not the fierce
scorching tears of passion, which seem
to sear rather than soothe the brain,
but the soft, gentle drops of penitence
and moderated sorrow. She fell
upon her knees beside the bed, and burying
her head in her hands, remained there
half reclined, her whole frame shuddering
from time to time, with a sharp and convulsive
tremor, and the tears flowing so
abundantly that all the bed linen was
moistened by her weeping.

Whether she prayed, I know not—probably
not in words, nor in any fixed and
determined mood of humble supplication
—but it would seem that she communed
with herself deeply, and called on heaven
to gaide and prosper her deliherations.
For she uprose after a little while with a
serener look and a quieter eye, and as she

rose, she said, in a whisper—“No! I will
not—I will not,” and had already turned
to leave the chamber, when from the inner
room, wherein Annabel was sleeping,
there came a rustle, a short, sudden sound,
which caused Marian to stop short and
listen, fearful that her sister was awakening,
All was still for two or three seconds,
and then the noise was repeated
more fondly than before, and simultaneously
with the noise, several words were
uttered, with that peculiar intonation
which always characterizes the speech of
somhambulists. Marian listened as though
her soul was suspended on her sense of
hearing, yet, at first, she could distinguish
nothing. Annabel, however, ere long
spoke again, and the second time, unhappily,
her lips syllabled, but too distinetly,
the fatal name of Ernest.

The blood rushed to the brow of Marian
in a hot burning torrent, her eyes lightened
with fiery anger—she stamped her
small foot passionately upon the carpet,
and clinched her hand so tightly that
every nail left its visible point in the palm.
She ground her teeth together, and muttered
through them—

“Ah! is it then so—never—no! never
shall she have him—never! never!
never!”

So slight a thing will at times suffice to
change our whole souls within us—to set
our blood boiling—to alter the whole tenor
of our actions, our lives—to decide our
destinies in this world, perchance in the
world to come!

One moment, Marian stood resolved to
bear her sorrows boldly and nobly—to
combat with the tempter, and be strong
—to do her duty, let what might come of
it! The next, and the good resolve was
swept from her heart by the wild rush of
a thousand evil and bitter thoughts—anger—resentment—jealousy—ambition—

pride! And what—what was the puissant
spelt that had evoked these baneful
spirits—baneful indeed—for fatal was
their cousequence to her, and to all those
that loved her—these chance words spoken
by a disturbed and feverish sleeper!

Alas! she paused no more, nor looked
again on her scarce living mother, nor
gave heed to the memories which had
but now so nearly won her; but rushed
away with fleet and noiseless steps to her
own chamber, and then busily applied
herself to her brief preparations.

Brief indeed were the preparations
which she had the time or the disposition
to make, on that night!—she dressed herself
repidly, and almost mechanically, in a
dark riding dress and velvet cap, hurriedly
thrust a single change of raiment, and the
small casket which contained her few
simple jewels, into a light travelling bag
of scented cordovan leather, which had by
chance been left in her room when the
rest of her baggage was removed on her
return from York; and was, within a
quarter of an hour, prepared to set off on
fier untimely journey, whither she knew
not, nor when to return again!

While she was thus engaged, a little incident
occurred, perhaps scarce worth recording;
yet so much wisdom may be
deduced oftentimes from observation of
the smallest and most seemingly trivial
incident, and so strongly did this, I think,
denote the extreme perturbation of her
mind, that I will not, trifling although be
it, leave it unmentioned.

While she was on her knees, busily
packing up her case, a beautiful tortoiseshell
cat, a soft glossy creature, which
she had reared up from a little kitten, and
taught to follow her about like a dog,
jumped down out of a large arm-chair in
which it had been dozing and trotted
towards her with its tail erect, uttering a
small note of pleasure and affectionate recognition.
In a moment seeing itself unnoticed
it laid its velvet paw upon the
arm of its young mistress with an impatient
mew—but she, pre-occupied with
quick and burning thoughts, repulsed her
with so rude a hand, that she was thrown
off to a yard's distance, and stood gazing
as if in astonishment at so unkindly treatment
from one who had always fondled
her and fed her. The very moment after
she had done this, as if repenting the action,
she caught up the little animal in her
arms, and burst into tears, as she kissed
and addressed it, as if it had been a human
creature.

“Good bye,” said she, “good bye, poor
Pussy; I shall never see you any more;
you will be fed by other hands, you will
forget your poor mistress, Pussy. Yet
happier will you be than I—for you
will not be driven from your pleasant
home—you are not betrayed or deserted
by your friends—you are not wronged by
those you love—for you love no one—
happy creature! love no one but her only
to whom you look for food—happy, happy
creature! and when she quits you, will
love equally the next hand that shall
fondle you!—for you, thrice happy that
you are! you are not cursed with memory,
nor with affection, nor with passion—
those agonies to which we are subject.”

Then, for some minutes, she wept very
bitterly, still holding the cat in her arms,
purring with pleasure, and patting its fair

mistress's cheek with its velvet paws—
until the distant sound of a horse's foot
upon the gravel road smote on her ear, a
summons to quit the home of her youth,
the friends of her childhood—and for
what? When she heard it, she raised her
head, and gazed about her wildly, as if to
collect her thoughts, lifted her eyes to
heaven, while her lips moved very rapidly
as if in inward prayer.

“May God forgive me!” she said, rising,
“if this thing which I do is evil; and oh!
may he guard and guide my steps aright
—and may he pardon those who have
driven me to this!”

And then, without another word, she
laid her little favorite gently down on the
bed, and snatching up the leathern case
which she had made ready, she hurried
out of the room, not once casting her eyes
behind her, for she felt that if she did so
her resolution was at an end at once, and
stole down stairs, silent and trembling between
fear and apprehension, and something
near akin to remorse.

No sound this time came to appal her;
no obstacle occurred to interrupt her progress,
yet she shuddered as she stood on
the threshold of that once happy home,
and a quick ehillv spasm ran over her
whole frame, as if it were an ague fit.
Her fate, however—or at least that which
men call fate, the stnbborn and determined
energy of her own erring passion—cried
out within her, and nerved her body to do
that which she knew to be imprudent,
and almost knew to be wrong likewise.

She raised the latch of the front door,
and issued forth, closing it carefully behind
her, and stood upon the stone steps,
gazing with a wistful eye over the calm
and tranquil scenery of that fair valley.
The antumn mora was already breaking
in the east, ere yet the moonlight had faded
altogether from the sky—the heavens
were pure and cloudless, and colorless as
a huge vault of crystal, except where on
the horizon a faint yellowish hue was visible,
first harbinger of the approaching
sun. There was not a breath of wind
astir; even on the topmost branches of
the tall trees about the hall, the sere
leaves, ready to flutter down at the
slightest breath, hung motiouless—here
and there a grey mist wreath soared up
ghostlike, in a straight column, from some
small pond or lakelet, and a light smoky
haze marked the whole course of the
Wharfe througt the lowlands; the frosted
dew lay silvery while over the lawn and
meadows—and not a sound or tone of
any kind except the continuous murmur
of the neighboring rivulet, swelling the
louder for the cessation of all other noises,
was to be heard through the sleeping
country. The earliest bird had not yet
left its roost, the very dogs were in their
heaviest slumber. And Marian, oppressed
as she was by sad thoughts and heavy
memories, felt that the silence was yet
more oppressive—spoke more reproachfully
to her conscience than the loudest
and most vehement rebukes. Those might
have called forth anger and awakened in
her heart the spirit of resistance; this, on
the contrary, appealed to her better reason,
and voiceless in its wholesome admonition,
led her to self-blame and self-accusation.

Had she stood many minutes there
aloue, with no other comrade than her
own restless and tormenting thoughts, it
is probable that she would have found
their burden intolerable, and have taken
refuge from them in a return to her duty;
but, alas! ere the re-action came, the
voice of the tempter again sounded in her
ear; and he, she loved so madly, stood beside
her.

“Sweet Marian,” he murmured, gently
passing his arm round her slender waist,
“why did you tarry so long? I almost
feared that something had occurred to detain
you—I fancied that your sister might
have awakened, and perhaps, have even
used force to prevent you. Come, dearest,
come, the horses are prepared and
await us by the hawthorn bush under the
hillock.”

Was it chance—was it accursed and
premeditated art, that led De Vaux to utter
the one word that thrilled every chord of
her soul, that instantly attuned her to his
purpose, banishing every soft and tender
memory, and kindling jealousy and distrust,
and almost hatred, in that impulsive
soul, from which they had been gradually
fading, under the better influence of quiet
thought, aided by the tranquillizing and
harmonious sympathies of nature?

I know not—but she started as if a serpeut
stung her, when the word sister fell
upon her ear; and though she had almost
shrunk from De Vaux as he first approached,
with something more than the
mere timidity of maiden bashfulness, she
now gave him her hand quickly, and said,
in an eager, apprehensive voice—“Come!
come!”

He led her down the gentle slope to the
spot, where a single groom, an old,
grave-featured, grey-haired man, was
holding two horses, and her favorite palfrey.
He lifted her to her saddle, sprang
to his own, and, without another word,
they rode away, gently and heedfully,

till they had left the precincts of the park
behind them; but when they had once
gained the road, they fled at a rate that
would have almost defied pursuit, had
there been any to pursue them.

But there were none—nor was her flight
discovered until she had been gone above
two hours.

The morning broke, like that which had
preceded it, serene, and bright, and lovely;
the grent sun rushed up the blie vault
in triumphant splendor, all nature laughed
out in his glory—but at a later hour far
later than usual, no smoke was seen curling
from the precinets of the hall, or sigu
of man or beast was visible about its precincts.
The passionate scenes, the wild
excitement of the preceding day, had
brought about, as usual, a deep re-action;
and sleep sat heavily on the eyelids, or
the souls of the inmates. The first who
awoke was Annabel—Annabel, the bereaved
and almost widowed bride.