University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Five years had elapsed since Marian had
fled from Ingleborough Hall, and, as I
have said already, Annabel knew but little
what had passed with the cherished
sister since her flight. She knew, indeed,
that for the first years of her marriage she
was happy; and so joyously did she sympathize
with that happiness, so sincerely
did her letters, whenever she had an opportunity
of writing, express that sympathy,
unmixed with any touch of jealousy
or enviousness, that Marian could not long
resist the growth of the conviction,
strengthened at every renewal of the correspondence,
that Ernest had deceived
her, in the account by which he had prevailed
on her to elope with him It is
not, perhaps, very strange, however—for
we cannot call anything strange with propriety
that is of usual occurrence—that,
so long as Ernest de Vaux continued to be
the rapturous lover, and after that, the
gentle and assiduous husband, she felt no
resentment, nor indeed any inclination
to blame him for the deceit, which had
produced happy results only to herself,
and had resulted in no permanent estrangement
or breach of confidence
between herself and Annabel. What contributed
moreover, in no slight degree to
this placability on Marian's part, was that,
without ever actually confessing that he
had spoken falsely, De Vaux, as soon as
she was once irrevocably his, exerted
himself to palliate the conduct of Annabel,
representing it as a natural result of
galled and wounded feelings, as a lapse
to be pitied rather than blamed severely,
and effectually succeeded in re-establishing
kind thoughts in her heart, and so—
for poor Annabel never knew nor imagined
aught of Marian's causeless suspicion and
dislike—brought the sisters back to their
wonted footing of perfect familiarity and
untrammelled confidence.

Still, in despite of this, thought Marian
had nothing which she desired to conceal
from her sister, except what she believed
to be the solitary instance of deception in
her husband—which, though she excused
it to herself as a sort of pious fraud, necessary
to ensure her happiness, she yet felt
as it were intnitively that Annabel could
neither regard in that light, nor ever pardon
very readily—though Marian, I say,
had nothing except this which she desired
to conceal, and though her sister was the
very soul of frankness and ingenuous
truth, still any correspondence, even the
freest and most unreserved, is but a sorry
substitute for personal intercourse and
conversation, and can at best but convey
very slightly, an idea of the true state of
sentiments, emotions, and events, especially
when they are protracted through
a long course of years.

Events, and the course of the earlier
part of the civil war, which was waged
for the most part in the southern and midland
counties, had prevented the sisters
from meeting, Annabel remaining, during
the lifetime of her beloved mother, assiduously
and earnestly devoted to her
comforts, while Marian, for the most part,
followed the court of the unhappy
Charles, who, still at Oxford or elsewhere,
kept up the semblance, at least, of his
kingly style, and held his parliament of
such peers as remained true to the cause
of their own order, of the church and the
crown.

Among all the bold cavaliers, who
fought and bled so generously for the unhappy
king, the most unhappy and least
vicious of an unhappy vicious race, there
was not one more gallant, one who
achieved more glory than De Vaux.
Among all the fair dames, aristocrats of
nature, as of birth, who graced the halls
of declining royalty, there was not one
more lovely, more admired, or more followed,
than the bright and still happy
Marian. Delighted by the fame and
honors which daily fell more thickly on
her husband, amused, pleased, and
dazzled by the novelty of her position, for
a considerable time Marian believed herself
perfectly happy, as she believed herself
also to be devotedly beloved by her
husband.

The very hurry and turmoil in the midst
of which she necessarily lived, was not
without its wild and half pleasurable excitement—after
custom and experience,
and the seeing him return home victorious
and unwounded, had steeled her against
the terrors and the anguish which assailed
her at first, whenever he rode forth to bat
there was a sort of charm in the short
absences, from which he ever hurried
home, as it appeared more fond and more
enamored than in the first days of her
wedded life. This hurry and turmoil,
moreover, afforded to De Vaux constant
and plausible excuses by which to account
for and mask his irregularities,
which became in truth more and more
frequent, as the fresh character and lovely
person of his wife gradually palled on
him by possession. For in truth he was a
wild, reckless, fickle man—not by any
means all evil, or without many generous
and gentle impulses, although these had
been growing daily weaker and less frequent
through a life of self-indulgence and
voluptuousness, till very little was now
left of his original promise, save courtly
manners, a fair exterior, and—simply to
do him justice—a courage as indomitable,
cool, and sustained, as it was vigorous
and fiery.

He lived in a period of much license—
he was the eldest son of a doating father
—he had lost his mother, while he was
yet a mere boy—all three vast disadvantages—vast
misfortunes to a young man.
Indulged to the utmost of his wild and
fantastic wishes by his father, encouraged
rather than checked in those extravagances
which the cavaliers of the day
affected somewhat, in order to mask their
detestation of the cold-blooded hypocrisy
and ridiculously insincere profession of
those most odious impostors who constituted
the vast majority of the Puritanic
leaders—launched very young into the
world, with handsome person, courtly
manners, high rank, and almost boundless
wealth, his success with the women of
the court, in an age the most licentious
England had then witnessed, was wide
and unbounded.

He had already become the most hardened
being in the world, a cool voluptuary,
a sensual, luxurious, calculating
courtier, when he met Marian at the Sheriff's
ball, at York, and was struck instantly
by her extraordinary beauty.
Having approached her in consequence
of this admiration, tired as he was, and
sick of the hackneyed and artificial characters,
the affectations, and minauderies,
and want of heart of all the women with
whom he had as yet been familiar, he
was soon yet more captivated by the
freshness of her soul, the artlessness of her
manner, the frank, ingennous, off-handed
simplicity of her bright, innocent youth,
fearless of wrong, and unsuspicious of
evil, than he had been by her beauty.
So that before he was compelled by paramount

duty—the only duty which he
owned, military duty namely—to quit
York, he was as much in love as his evil
course of life and acquired habits had left
him the power of being, with the sweet
country maiden. That is to say—he had
determined that the possession of her was
actually necessary to his existence, and a
thing to be acquired on any terms—nay!
he had even thought many times, that
she might be endurable for a much longer
period than any of his former loves, and
begun to fancy, that, when his passion
should have settled down into esteem, he
might be able to tolerate in Maria Hawkwood,
the character he dreaded most in
the world, that of a lawful wife.

There was something in the whole air
and demeanor of Marian Hawkwood, that
told the young debauchee, almost instinctively,
that there was but one name in
which she could be addressed—a purity
and innocence of heart and manner, likewise,
which would have prevented the
most dissolute and daring of mankind
from dreaming even of approaching her
with dishonorable addresses. Now, it
was difficult for a man of De Vaux's character
and principles—if that can be called
principle which is rather a total absence
of all principle—accustomed to doubt and
disbelieve and to sneer at the possibility
of female virtue, to bring himself to the
resolution of deliberately offering his
hand to any woman, how passionately he
might be attached to her soever; and this
difficulty of making up his own mind it
was, and not any timidity or bashfulness
—things utterly strange and unknown to
his hard and worldly nature—which caused
that irresolution which had given offence
so deep to Maria Hawkwood.

It cannot be denied that her manner on
that interview did pique and provoke him
beyond measure—that it threw him into
doubt as to the question whether she did
indeed love him or not, and by awakening
for a moment an idea of the possibility
of his being rejected—an idea which had
never so much as occurred to him before,
even casually, materially increased his
dislike to subsiding into a tranquil and
domestic Benedict.

These were the real reasons for his
seemingly extraordinary conduct towards
Marian in the first place; and not at all
that which he had stated, for he had been
indeed false—false from the beginning.

It was then in a singular state of mind,
vexed with himself and irritated at finding
himself subject to a passion seemingly
hopeless, annoyed that he was unable to
shake off that passion lightly, indignant
with Marian for not appreciating sufficiently
the honor he had done her, in so
much as thinking of making her his wife,
foiled, furious, discontented, and devoured
all the time by the agony of his fierce desire—for
it is mere profanation to call that
which he felt, love—he set forth from York
to visit, as he imagined, the father of his
cruel fair one.

Many wild schemes and projects flitted
through his mind as he journeyed westward,
which it were neither profitable nor
pleasing to follow out; but each and all
of these had reference to winning Marian
in some shape or other, and at some period
not remote.

What occurred when he reached Ingleborough,
is known already to those who
have thus far followed the fortunes of
the sisters; but what in truth passed in
the recesses of his own heart has never
been divulged, nor can be known to any
one. It may be that pique and anger at
Marian's manner when they parted had
really disposed him, as he said, to love
another honestly and truly; it may be
that the exquisite repose and charming
sweetness of Annabel did indeed win upon
his soul, and work for the time a partial
reformation—but what alone is certain is,
that he felt more of that repugnance to
sacrificing what he called his liberty,
which had actuated him with regard to
Marian, when he proposed to Annabel.

It may be, on the other hand—and it
would be by no means inconsistent either
with his past character or after conduct—
that frokle and light as he was, and very
liable to be captivated for the moment by
the charms of women, that, I say, he was
influenced by a twofold motive—twofold
and doubly base—of gratifying a passing
caprice in marrying Annabel, and inflicting
the heaviest punishment he could
imagine on her sister at the same time.
It is probable, even, that he might have had
baser and more infamous projects in view,
with respect to poor Marian; and it is
certain that he looked to the disturbed and
perilous state of the country, as to a favorable
position of things to his purpose,
should he desire to abandon his fair young
wife, after a time—seeing that she had no
influential relations to protect her, and
that if peace should be restored at last, little
inquiry was likely to be made after affairs
of mere personal consideration.

Frustrated in his intentions by the return
of Marian, and by her inability to
conceal the violence of the hopeless love
which she still nourished for her sister's
wooer, although she nourished it without
one thought of evil entering her pure

spirit, having betrayed moreover his own
maddening passion, which returned upon
him with redoubled violence, when he
was thrown again into her society, he
could not endure the scorn, the contempt,
which he felt gathering around him, nor
bear the publicity of his disappointment.

It was the fear of this publicity, then,
and the determination that he would,
under no circumstances, leave Ingleborough
in the character of a rejected and
disappointed suitor, that induced him to
renew his solicitations to poor Marian.
Shrewd and keen sighted, and able judge
of character as he was, he readily perceived
that in the calm and composed
soul of Annabel Hawkwood, there was a
deep settled principle, a firm and resolute
will, a determination capable of calling
forth any powers, whether it were to do
or endure. It required, therefore, little reflection
to show him that with her he had
now no possibility of succeeding—that
once detected, as he felt himself to be, his
whole mind and motives perused and understood
as if they had been written out
in a fair book for her inspection, the very
love which she had entertained for him
in the past, would but the more strongly
arm her against him in the present

Nor was this all—for even his effrontery
was at fault, even his natural audacity
shrank from encountering the tranquil
scorn, the quiet and unutterable loathing
which he saw visible in every glance of
her mild eye. Ere long, between the
sense that he had irreparahly injured her,
and the knowledge that she understood
him thoroughly, he came to hate her with
a vehement and bitter hatred.

In this hatred, too, he found a new instigation
to persevere in his attempts on
Marian, for he was certain that, although
the ordinary sources of annoyance, envy
or jealousy, could never inflict a single
sting on Annabel, he could wreak no
heavier vengeance on her than by making
her beloved sister his wife—the wife of a
man whom she despised so utterly—and
he acknowledged it in his own secret
soul—so worthily.

Unhappily, in the impulsive and impetuous
character of Marian, which he had
studied to its inmost depths, he encountered
no such resistance as he knew he
should encounter from her sister. Falsehoods
which would have been discovered
instantly and rejected with scarce a consideration,
by the quiet thoughtfulness and
innocent penetration of the elder sister,
wakened suspicions in the quicker mind
of the younger, galled her to the very
quick, dwelt in her heart, filling it with
bitterness and gall, and at last ripened into
terrible and dark convictions of the unworthiness
of her who was, in truth, the
best of sisters, and the tenderest of friends.

These were the motives—these the
means of Ernest De Vaux—and we have
seen, alas! how fully they succeeded.

What are the necessary consequences
of a marriage contracted with such views
as these, founded upon a man's caprice
for a woman whom he would have made
his mistress if he could, and only made
his wife because he could by no other
means possess her, cannot be doubted.

Nothing at first could be happier than
Marian Hawkwood — for she mistook,
naturally enough, the fierce and violent
passion of her young husband for genuine
and veritable love; and, indeed, after
saticty and possession had long dulled the
ardor of this passion, circumstances for a
long time conspired to keep up the illusion
in the mind of Marian. The hurried and
changeful life which they led; the very
large portion of their time which was
passed, to a certain degree, in public; the
gratified vanity of her husband at the admiration
which she excited everwhere,
and which delighted his vain and fickle
temperament long after he had ceased
himself to care for her, all tended to delay
the fatal discovery, which it was clear
that she must one day make, that she was
loved no longer.

At first, as she perceived that his attentions
were declining, that he no longer
hurried homeward with eager haste, his
duty in the camp or in the court accomplished,
that the revel or the dice detained
him, she threw the blame on the unsettled
times, on the demoralizing influence of
civil warfare, and wild company, and the
want of a permanent and happy home.
She prayed, and believed that with the
war these things, which were converting
fast her life into one scene of sorrow,
would come to an end, and that shortly.

But neither did the war, nor the sorrows
which she attributed to that war, seem
likely to be brought to any speedy or
even favorable termination.

No children had blessed that ill-fated
union, and Marian, when she did not, in
obedience to the order of her husband, go
into the court gaieties, such as they were
at that time, was almost entirely alone.

Alone she brooded in despondency,
almost in despair, over her hapless present
life, and almost hopeless future. Write to
her sister of her griefs she could not;
where was the use of torturing that worn
heart with other sorrows, when she must
needs have enough sorrow of her own.

Abroad she was subject to the twofold
agony of witnessing the bold and open
faithlessness of her husband, his infamous
addresses to the wild and licentious beauties,
made, perhaps, wild and licentious
by the extravagance of their natural protectors,
and the strange and corrupting
circumstances of the times—and of enduring
the base solicitations and addresses
of the gay friends of her husband—solicitations
and addresses which she could
scarce believe were unknown to him,
who, most of all men, should have resented
and avenged them.

Thus year by year dragged on, until
Marian, thoroughly convinced of her husband's
infidelity and baseness, which,
indeed, he scarce now affected to conceal,
was the most miserable of her sex.

All her high spirits had taken to themselves
wings, and flown away—all her
wild daring elasticity of character—tameless
gaiety, which was so beautiful of old
—her strong impulsive frankness—were
broken, gone, obliterated. She had become
a quiet, sad, heart-broken, meditative
creature Yet she repined not ever—
nor approached him—nor gave way to
sadness in his presence—but strove, poor
wretch, to put on a semblance of the
manners which he had once seemed to
love, and her pale lips still wore a sickly
smile as he drew near, and a wild cheerfulness
would animate her for a moment;
if, by chance, he spoke kindly, a hope
would arise within her that he might still
be reclaimed to the ways of virtue and of
love.

But still the hope was deferred, and her
heart grew sick, and utter gloom took
possession of her; so that she now looked
forward to no other termination of her
sorrows than the grave; and to that she
indeed looked forward, at what time it
should seem good to Him to send it, who
orders all things, and all wisely.