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 awake 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
audible; 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
sculptured posts of the huge canopied bedstead; in the strange
carvings of the vast oak mantelpiece, in the rich dark hues of
the brocaded hangings; in the tall cabinets of lacquered Indian
ware; in the fantastic images embossed in gold upon their
doors, at which her childhood 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 — yet more indignant,
heartsick, at what she believed to be Annabel'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 quit them, as she must, clandestinely, in shame and
darkness, and dishonor — 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 passion! And in 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 deathlike
than its wont, in the faint moonbeams; 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 guide and prosper her deliberations.
For the 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 loudly than before, and simultaneously with
the noise, several words were uttered, with that peculiar intonation
which always characterizes the speech of somnambulists.
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 distinctly, 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 clenched 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 spell that
had evoked these baneful spirits; baneful indeed, for fatal was
their consequence 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
rapidly, 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 her 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 tortoise-shell 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 toward 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,
preoccupied 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-by,” said she, “good-by, 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, chilly 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 stubborn 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 autumn morn 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 motionless
— here and there a gray 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 through
the lowlands; the frosted dew lay silvery white 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 rebuke. 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 alone, 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 reaction 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 serpent 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, gray-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 great sun rushed up the blue 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 precincts of the hall, or sign 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 reaction; 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.