University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

When next she opened her eyes, she
lay on her own bed, in her own well-known
chamber, and the old nurse with
the good vicar's wife, was watching over
her. As her lids rose and she looked about
her, all her intelligence returned upon the
moment; and she was perfectly aware of
all that had already passed, of all that she
had still to undergo. “Well,” she replied,
to the eager and repeated inquiries after
the state of her bodily and mental sensations,
which were poured out from the
lips of her assiduous watchers—“Oh! I
feel quite well, I do assure you—I was
not hurt at all—not in the least—only I
was so foolish as to faint from terror.
But Marian, how is Marian?”

“Not injured in the least—but very anxious
about you, sweet Annabel,” replied
mistress Summers, “so much so, that I
was obliged to force her from the chamber,
so terrible was her grief—so violent
her terror and excitement. Lord De Vaux
snatched her from her horse, and saved
her before he even saw your danger; he,
too, is in a fearful state of mind; he has
been at the door twenty times, I believe,
within the hour; hark, that is his foot now,
will you see him, dearest?”

A quick and chilly shudder ran through
the whole frame of the lovely girl, and a
faint hue glowed once again in her pale
cheek; but mastering her feelings, she
made answer in her own notes of sweet
calm music.

“Not yet, dear mistress Summers, not
yet; but tell him, I beseech you, that I am
better—well, indeed! and will receive his
visit by and by; and in the meantime,
my good friend, I must see Marian—must
see her directly, and alone. No! no! you
must not hinder me of my desire, you
know,” she went on, with a faint and very
melancholy smile, “you know of old, I
am a wilful stubborn girl when I make up
my mind, and it is quite made up now,

my good friend! so, I pray you let me
see her, I am quite strong, I do assure you,
so do, I beseech you, go and console my
Lord De Vaux, and let nurse bring me
Marian hither.”

So firmly did she speak, and so resolved
was the expression of her soft gentle features,
that they no longer hesitated to
comply with her request; and both retired
with soft steps from the chamber.

Then Annabel half uprose from the pillows,
which had propped her, and clasped
her hands in attitude of prayer, and turned
her beautiful eyes upward—her lips
moved visibly, not in irregular impulsive
starts, but with a smooth and ordered motion,
as she prayed fervently, indeed, but
tranquilly, for strength to do, and patience
to endure, and grace to do, and to endure,
alike with Christian love and Christian
fortitude.

While she was thus engaged, a quick
uncertain footstep, now light and almost
tripping, now heavy and half faltering, approached
the threshold; a gentle hand
raised the latch once, and again let it fall,
as if the comer was fluctuating between
the wish to enter, and some vague apprehension
which for the moment conquered
the desire.

“Is it you, Marian?” asked the lovely
sufferer, “oh come in, come in, sister!”
and she did come in, that bright lovely
sufferer, her naturally high complexion
almost unnaturally brilliant now, from the
intensity of her hot blushes: her eyes
were downcast, and she could not so
much as look up into the sad sweet face
of Annabel. Her whole frame trembled
visibly, as she approached the bed, and
her foot faltered very much, yet she drew
near, and sitting down beside the pillow,
took Annabel's hand tenderly between her
own, and raised it to her warm lips, and
kissed it eagerly and often.

Never, for a moment's space, did the
eyes of Annabel swerve from her sister's
features, from the moment she entered the
door until she sat down by her side; but
rested on them, as if through them they
would peruse the secret soul with a soft,
gentle scrutiny, that savored not at all of
sternness or reproach. At last, as if she
was fully satisfied, she dropped her eyelids,
and for a little space, kept them
close shut; while again her lips moved silently,
and then pressing her sister's hand
fondly, she said in a quiet soothing voice,
as if she were alluding to an admitted
fact rather than asking a question,

“So you have met him before, Marian?”

A violent convulsion shook every limb
of her whom she addressed, and the
blood rushed in torrents to her brow; she
bowed her head upon her sister's hand,
and burst into a paroxysm of hysterical
tears and sobbing, but answered not a word.

“Nay! nay! dear sister,” exclaimed
Annabel, bending down over her, and kissing
her neck, which, like her brow and
cheeks, was absolutely crimson, “Nay!
nay! sweet Marian, weep not thus, I beseech
you, there is no wrong done—none
at all—there was no wrong in your seeing
him, when you did so—it was at York, I
must believe—nor in your loving him either,
when you did so; for I had not then
seen him, and of course could not love
him. But it was not right, sweetest Marian,
to let me be in ignorance of all this;
only think, dearest, only think what
would have been my agony, when I had
come to know, after I was a wife, that in
myself becoming happy, I had brought
misery on my second self, my own sweet
sister! nay, do not answer me yet, Marian;
for I can understand it all, that—almost all,
that is—and I quite appreciate your motives,
I am sure that you did not know that
he loved you, for he does love you, Marian!—
but fancied that he loved me only, and so
resolved to control yourself, and crush
down your young affections, and sacrifice
yourself for me; thank God! oh! thank God,
that your strength was not equal to the task,
for had it been so, we had been wretched,
oh! most wretched. But you must tell me
all about it; for there is much I cannot
comprehend—when did you see him
first, and where?—why did he never so
much as hint to me, that he had known
you?—why, when I wrote you word that
he was here, and afterward, that I liked,
loved, was about to marry him—why did
you never write back that you knew him?
and why, above all, when you came and
found him here—here in your mother's
house, why did you meet him as a stranger?
I know it will be painful to you,
dear one; but you must bear the pain;
for it is necessary now, that there shall be
no more mistakes. Be sure of one thing,
dearest Marian, that I will never wed him;
oh! not for worlds! I could not sleep
one night, not one hour, in the thought
that my bliss was your bane; but if he
loves you as he ought, and as you love
him, sister, for I can read your soul, he
shall be yours at once; and I shall be
more happy so—more happy ten-fold,
than pillowing my head upon a heart which
beats for another—but he must explain all
this, for I much fear me, he has dealt very
basely by us both—I fear me much he is a
bold, base man!”

“No! no!” cried Marian, eagerly raising

her clear eyes to her sister's, full of ingenuous
truth and zealous fire. “No! no!
he is all good, and true, and noble! I, it
is I only, who have for once been false
and wicked; not altogether wicked, Annabel,
perhaps more foolish than to blame,
at least in my intentions; but you shall hear
all; you shall hear all, Annabel, and then
judge for yourself,” and then, still looking
her sister quite steadily and truthfully in
the face, she told her how at a ball in York,
she had met the young nobleman, who
had seemed pleased with her; had danced
with her many times, and visited her, but
never once named love, nor led her in the
least to fancy he esteemed her, beyond a
chance acquaintance, “but I loved him,
oh! how I loved him, Annabel; almost
from the first time I saw him, and I feared
ever—ever and only—that by my bold,
frank rashness, he might discover his power,
and believe me forward and unmaidenly;
weeks passed, and our intimacy
ripened, and I became each hour more
fondly, more devotedly, more madly—
for it was madness all!—enamored of him.

“He met me ever as a friend, no more!
The time came, when he was to leave
York, and as he took leave of me he told me
that he had just received despatches from
his father, directing him to visit mine; and
I, shocked by the coolness of his parting
tone, and seeing indeed he had no love for
me, scarcely noting what he said, told him
not that I had no father, but I did tell him
that I had one sweet sister, and suddenly
extorted from him, unawares, a promise
that he would never tell you he had known
me; my manner, I am sure, was strange
and wild; and I have no doubt my words
were so likewise, for his demeanor altered
on the instant; his air, which had been
that of quiet friendship, became cool,
chilling, and almost disdainful, and within
a few minutes he took his leave, and we
never met again till yester even.

“You will I doubt not, ask me wherefore
I did all this! I was mad—mad with
love and disappointment. And the very
instant he said that he was coming hither, I
knew as certainly that he would love you
and you him, Annabel, as though it had
been palpably revealed to me. I could
not write of him to you—I could not, Annabel,
and when your letters came, and
we learned that he was here, I confessed
all this to our aunt; and though she blamed
me much, for wild and thoughtless folly,
she thought it best to keep the matter secret.
This is the whole truth, Annabel—
the whole truth! I fancied that the absence—the
knowledge that I should see
him next my sister's husband—the stern
resolve with which I bound my soul, had
made me strong enough to bear his presence—I
tried it, and I found myself, how
weak—this is all, Annabel; can you forgive
me, sister?”

“Sweet, innocent Marian,” exclaimed
the elder sister through her tears, for she
had wept constantly through the whole
sad narration, “there is not anything for
me to forgive—you have wronged yourself
only, my sister! But yet—but yet!—I cannot
understand it—he must have seen—no
man could fail to see that one, so frank and
artless as you are, Marian, was in love with
him—he must, if not before, have known
it certainly, when you extorted from him,
as you call it, that strange promise. Besides
he loves you, Marian; he loves you—
then wherefore, in God's name! did he
woo me—for woo he did, and fervently,
and long, before he won me to confession?
oh! he is base!—base, base, and bad at
heart, my sister!—answer me nothing,
dear one, for I will prove him very shortly
—send Margaret hither to array me. I will
go down and speak with him forth with—
if he be honest, Marian, he is yours—and
think not that I sacrifice myself, when I
say this, for all the love I ever felt for him
has vanished utterly away—if he is honest,
he is yours—but be not over confident,
dear child, for I believe he is not—and if
not, why then, sweet Marian can we not
comfort one another, and live together as
we used, dear, innocent, united, happy
sisters? Do not reply now, Marian—your
heart is too full—haste and do as I tell
you; before supper time to-night, all shall
be ended; whether for good or for evil.
HE only knows, to whom the secrets of
the heart are visible, even as the features
of the face. Farewell, be of good cheer,
and yet not over-cheerful.”