University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XIV.

Dressing herself in haste she sought, as
usual, her mother's chamber and found
her happy—oh! how supremely happy in
her benighted state, since she knew not,
nor understood at all, the sorrows of those
whom she once had loved so tenderly—
found her in a deep calm slumber—kissed
her brow silently, and breathed a fond
prayer over her, then hurried thence to
Marian's chamber. The door stood open,
it was vacant! Down the stairs to the
garden—the door that led to that sweet
spot was barred and bolted—the front
door stood upon the latch, and by that
Annabel passed out into the fresh young
morning. How fair, how peaceable, how
calm, was all around her—how utterly
unlike the strife, the trials, the cares, the
sorrows, the hot hatreds of the animated
world—how utterly unlike the auxious
pains which were then gnawing at that
fair creature's heart strings!

She stood awhile, and gazed around,
and listened, but no sound met her ear.
except the oft-heard music of the wind
and water—except the well-known points
of that familiar scene; she walked—she
ran—a fresh fear struck her, a fear of she
knew not what—she flew to the garden—
“Marian! Marian!”—but no Marian
came! no voice made answer to her shrill
outcries—back! back! she hurried to the
house, but in her way she crossed the
road feading to the stables—there were
fresh horse—tracks—several fresh horse-tracks—one
which looked like the print of
Marian's palfrey!

Without a moment's hesitation, she
rushed into the stable court; no groom was
there, nor stable boy, nor helper—and yet
the door stood open, and a loud tremulous
neighing, Annabel knew it instantly to be
the call of her own jennet, was awakening
unanswered echoes. She stood a moment
like a statue before she could command
herself to cross the threshold.

She crossed it, and the stall where Marian's
palfrey should have stood, next her
own, was vacant.

The chargers of De Vaux were gone;
the horses of his followers—all—all gone!
She shrieked alond—she shrieked, till
every pinnacle and turret of the old hall,
till every dell and headland of the hills,
sent back a yelling echo. It scarcely
seemed a second before the court-yard,
which, a moment since, was so silent and
deserted, was full of hurrying men and
frightened women—the news was instantly
abroad that Mistress Marian had
been spirited away by the false lord.
Horses were saddled instautly and broad-swords
girded on, and men were mounting
in hot haste, ere Aunabel had in so
much recovered from the shock as to
know what to order or advise—evil and
hasty counsels had been taken, but the
good vicar and the prebendary came
down in time to hinder them.

A hurried consultation was held in the
honse, and it was speedily determined,
that the two clergymen should set forth on
the instant, with a sufficient escort to
pursue, and if it should be possible, bring
back the fugitive—and although Annabel
at the first was in despair, fancying that
there could be no hope of her being overtaken,
yet was she some what reassured
on learning that De Vaux could not quit
his regiment, and that the slow route of
the troopers on a long march could easily
be caught up even by aged travellers.

The sun was scarce three hours high
when the pursuers started—all that day
long it lagged across the sky—it set, and
was succeeded by night, longer still, and
still more dreary—another day! and yet
another! Oh the slow agony of waiting!
the torture of enumerating minutes!—
each minute seemingly an age—the dull,
heart-sickening suspense of awaiting
tidings—tidings which the heart tells us—
the heart, too faithful prophet of the future—cannot,
by possibility, be good!
While reason interposes her vain veto to
the heart's decision, and hope uplifts her
false and siren song!

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41

The third night was at hand, and Annabel
was sitting at the same window—how
often it occurs, that one spot witnesses the
dozen scenes most interesting, most
eventful to the same individual.

Is it, that consciousness of what has
passed, leads man to the spot marked by
one event, when he expects another? or
can it be indeed a destiny?

The third night was at hand, and Annabel
was sitting at that same window,
when on the distant highway she heheld
her friends returning, but they rode heavily
and sadly onward; nor was there any
flutter of female garbs among them. Marian
was not among them! They came
—the story was soon told!—they had
succeeded in overtaking the regiment,
they had seen Ernest, and Marian was his
wife!

The register of her marriage, duly attested,
had been shown to her uncle in the
church at Ripon, and though she had refused
to see them, she had sent word that
she was well and happy, with many messages
of love and cordiality to Annabel,
and promises that she would write at
short and frequent intervals.

No more was to be done—nothing was
to be said at all. Men marvelled at De
Vaux, and envied him! Women blamed
Marian Hawkwood, and they, too, envied!
But Annabel said nothing—but
went about her daily duties, tending her
helpless mother, and answering her endless
queries concerning Marian's absence,
and visiting her pensioners among the
village poor, seemingly cheerful and contented.
But her cheek constantly grew
paler, and her form thinner and less round.
The sword was hourly wearing out the
scabbard! The spirit was too mighty for
the vessel that contained it.

Five years passed thus—five wearisome
long years—years of domestic strife and
civil war, of bloodshed, conflagration, and
despair throughout all England. The
party of the king, superior at the first, was
waxing daily weaker, and was almost
lost. For the first years Marian did write,
and that, too, frequently and fondly, to
her sister; never alluding to the past, and
seldom to De Vaux, except to say that he
was all she wished him, and she more
happy than she hoped, or deserved to be
But gradually did the letters become less
frequent and more formal; communications
were obstructed, and posts were intercepted,
and scarce, at last, did Annabel
hear twice in twelve months of her sister's
welfare. And when she did hear, the
correspondence had become cold and lifeless;
the tone of Marian, too, was altered,
the bnoyancy was gone—the mirth—the
soul—and, though she complained not,
nor hinted that she was unhappy, yet
Annabel saw plainly that it was so. Saw
it, and sorrowed, and said nothing.

Thus time passed on, with all its tides
and chances, and the old paralytic invalid
was gathered to her fathers, and slept beside
her husband in the yard of the same
humble church which had beheld their
union, and Annabel was more alone than
ever.