University of Virginia Library

Ingleborough Hall

1. CHAPTER I.

In one of those sweet glens, half-pastoral,
half-sylvan, which may be found in hundreds
channelling the steep sides of the
moorland hills, and sending down the
tribute of their pure limestone springs to
the broad rivers which fertilize, no less
than they adorn, the lovely vales of Western
Yorkshire, there may be seen to this
day the ruins of an old dwelling-house,
sitnate on a spot so picturesque, so wild,
and yet so soft in its romantic features,
that they would well repay the traveller
for a brief halt, who but too often hurries
onward in search of more remote yet certainly
not greater beauties.

The gorge, within the mouth of which
the venerable pile is seated, opens into
the broader valley of Wharfdale from the
north-eastern side, enjoying the full light
and warmth of the southern sunshine, and
although very narrow at its origin, where
its crystal rivulet springs up from the lonely
well-head, fringed by a few low shrubs
of birch and alder, expands here at its
month into a pretty amphitheatre or basin
of a few acres' circuit.

A wild and feathery coppice of oak and
birch and hazel, with here and there a
mountain ash showing its bright red berries
through the rich foliage, clothes all
the lower part of the surrounding slopes;
while, far above, the seamed and shattered
faces of the grey slaty limestone rise up
like artificial walls, their summits crowned
with the fair purple heather, and every
nook and cranny in their sides crowded
with odorous wild flowers. Within the
circuits of these natural limits, sheltering
it from every wind of Heaven except the
gentle south, the turf lies smooth and
even, as if it were a cultured lawn; while
a few rare exotic shrubs, now all run out
of shape and bare and straggling, indicate
yet the time when it was a fair shrubbery,
tended by gentle hands, and visited by
young and lovely beings, now cold in
their untimely sepulchres.

The streamlet, which comes gushing
down the glen, with its clear copious
flow, boiling and murmuring about the
large grey boulders, which everywhere
obstruct its channel, making a thousand
mimic cataracts, and wakening ever a
wild mirthful music, sweeps here quite
close to the foot of the eastern cliff, the
feathery branches of the oakwood dipping
their foliage in its eddies; and then, just
as it issues forth into the open champaign,
wheels round in a half circle completely
isolating the little amphitheatre above
mentioned, except at one point, hard beneath
the opposite hill-face, where a small
winding horse-track, engrossing the whole
space between the streamlet and the limestone
rock, gives access to the lone demesne.

A small green hillock sloping down
gently to the southward fills the embracing
arms of the bright brook, around the
northern hase of which is scattered a little
grove of the most magnificent and noblest
syeamores that I have ever seen; but on
the other side, which yet retains its pristine
character of a smooth open lawn,
there are no obstacles to the view over
the wide valley, except three old guarled
thorn-bushes, uncommon from their size
and the dense luxuriance of their matted
greenery.

It was upon the summit of this little
knoll that the old homestead stood, whose
massive ruins of red freestone, all over-grown
with briers and tall rank grass and
dock leaves, deface the spot which they
adorned of old; and, when it was erect in
all its fair proportions, the scene which it
overlooked and its own natural attractions
rendered it one of the loveliest residences
in all the north of England.

The wide rich gentle valley, all meadow

land or pasture, without one brown
ploughed field to mar its velvet green, the
tall thick hawthorn hedges with their long
lines of hedgerow timber, oak, ash, and
elm, waking above the smooth enclosures;
the broad clear tranquil river flashing
out like a silver mirror through the
green foliage; the scattered farm-houses,
each nestled as it were among its sheltering
orchards; the village spire shooting
up from the clump of giant elms, which
overshadow the old grave-yard; the steep
long slope on the other side of the vale,
or strath as it would be called in Scotland,
all mapped out to the eye with its green
fences, and wide hanging woods; and far
beyond the rounded summits of the huge
moorland hills, ridge above ridge, purple,
and grand, and massive, but less and less
distinct, as they recede from the eye, and
melt away at last into the far blue distance—such
was the picture, which its
windows overlooked of old, and which
still laughs as gaily as of yore, in the glad
sunshine, around its mouldering walls
and lonely hearth-stone.

But if it is fair now, and lovely, what
was it, as it showed in the good old days
of King Charles, before the iron hand of
civil war had pressed so heavily on England?
The groves of sycamores stood
there, as they stand now in the prime and
luxuriance of their sylvan manhood; for
they are now waxing aged, and somewhat
grey and stag-horned; and the thorn
bushes sheltered as they do now, whole
choirs of thrushes and blackbirds; but all
the turf, beneath the scattered trees, and
on the sunny slope, was shorn, and rolled,
and watered, that it was smooth and even,
and far softer than the most costly carpet
that ever wooed the step of Persian
beauty.

The Hall was a square building, not
very large, and of the old Elizabethan style,
with two irregular additions—wings as
they might be called—of the same architecture,
though of a later period; and its
deep-embayed oriel windows, with their
fantastic millions of carved freestone, its
tall quaint chimneys, and its low porch
with overhanging canopy and clustered
columns, rendered it singularly picturesque
and striking.

The little green within the gorge of the
upper glen, which is so wildly beautiful
in its present situation, left as it is to the
unaided hand of nature, was then a perfeet
paradise; for an exquisite taste had
superintended its conversion into a sort
of untrained garden—an ove, well used
to note effects, had marked its natural capabilities,
and adding artificial beauties,
had never trenched upon the character of
the spot by anything incongruous or
startling.

Rare plants, rich-flowering shrubs, and
scented herbs, were indeed scattered with
a lavish hand about its precincts, but were
so scattered that they seemed the genuine
production of the soil. The Spanish cistus
had been taught to carpet the wild
crags, in conjunction with the native
thyme and heather; the arbutus and laurestinus
had been brought from afar, to
vie with the mountain-ash and holly; the
clematis and the sweet scented vine blended
their tendrils with the rich English
honeysuckle and the luxuriant ivy; rare
lotuses might be seen floating, with their
azure-colored cups, and broad green
leaves, upon the glassy basins, into which
the mountain streamlet had been taught
to expand, among the white wild water-lilies,
and the bright yellow clusters of the
marsh marigolds; roses of every hue and
scent, from the dark crimson of Damascus
to the pale blush of soft Provence, grew
side by side with the wild wood-brier
and eglatine; and many a rustic seat of
mossy stone, or roots and unbarked
branches, invited the loitering visitor in
every shadowy angle.

There was no spot, in all the north of
England, whereon the winter frowned so
lightly as on those sheltered precincts—
there was no spot whereon spring smiled
so early, and with so bright an aspect—
wherein the summer so long lingered,
pouring her gorgeous flowers, rich with
her spicy breath, into the very lap of autumn.
It was indeed a sweet spot, and as
happy as it was sweet and beautiful;
before the curse of civil war was poured
upon the groaning land, with its dread
train of foul and fiendish ministers; and
yet it was not war, nor any of its direct
consequences, that turned that happy
home into a ruin and desolation.

It was not war—unless the struggles of
the human heart—the conflict of the fierce
and turbulent passions—the strife of principles,
of motives, of desires, within the
secret soul, may be called war—as indeed
they might, and that with no figurative
tongue; for they are the hottest, the most
devastating, the most fatal of all that bear
that ominous and cruel appellation.

Such was the aspect then of Ingleborough
Hall, at the period when it was perhaps
the most beautiful, and when, as is
but too often the case, its beauties were
on the very point of being brought to a
close for ever. The family which owned
the manor—for the possessions attached
to the old homestead were large, and the

authority arising from them extended
over a large part of Upper Wharfdale, was
one of those old English races, which,
though not noble, in the literal sense
of the word, are yet so ancient, and so indissolubly
connected with the soil, that
they may justly be comprised among the
aristocracy of the land. The name was
Saxon; and it was generally believed—
and probably with truth—that the date of
the name and of its connexion with that
estate, was at the least coeval with the
Conquest. To what circumstances it was
owing, that the Hawkwoods, for such was
the time-honored appellation of the race,
had retained possession of their fair
demesne, when all the land was allotted
ont to feudal barons and fat priests, can
never now be ascertained; nor does it indeed
signify; yet that it was to some
honorable cause, some service rendered,
or some high exploit, may be fairly presumed
from the fact, that the mitred potentate
of Bolton Abbey, who levied his
tythes fat and near, throughout those fertile
valleys, had no claim on the fruits of
Ingleborough. During the ages that had
passed since the advent of the Norman
William, the Hawkwoods had never
lacked male representatives to sustain
the dignity of their race; and gallantly
had they sustained it; for in full many a
lay and legend, aye! and in grave cold
history itself, the name of Hawkwood
might be found side by side with the more
sonorous appellations of the Norman fendatories,
the Ardens, and Manleverers,
and Vaspasouns, which fill the chronicles
of border warfare.

At the period of which I write, however,
the family had no male scion—the last
heir male, Ralph Hawkwood, had died
some years before, full of years and of domestic
honors—a zealous sportsman, a
loyal subject, a kind laudlord, a good
friend—his lot had fallen in quiet times,
and pleasant places; and he lived happily,
and died in the arms of his family, at
peace with all men. His wife, a calm,
placid dame, who had in her young days
been the beauty of the shire, survived
him; and spent her whole time as she devoted
her whole mind and spirit, in educating
the two daughters, joint heiresses
of the old manor-house, who were left by
their father's death, two bright-eyed fair
haired prattlers, dependent for protection
on the strong love, but frail support, of
their widowed mother.

2. CHAPTER II.

Years passed away, and with their flight
the two fair children were matured into
two sweet and lovely women; yet the
same fleeting suns; which brought to them
complete and perfect youth, were fraught
to others with decay, and all the carking
cares and querulous ailments of old age.
The mother who had watched, with keen
solicitude, over their budding infancy,
over the promise of their lovely childhood,
lived indeed; but lived not to see or understand
the full accomplishment of that
bright promise. Even before the elder
girl had reached the dawn of womanhood,
palsy had shaken the enfeebled
limbs, and its accustomed follower—mental
debility—had in no small degree impaired
the intellect of her surviving parent;
but long before her sister had reached her
maturity, the limbs were helplessly immovable,
the mind was wholly clouded and
estrauged.

It was not now the wandering and uncertain
darkness, that flits across the
veiled horizon of the mind alternately
with vivid gleams, flashes of memory and
intellect, brighter, perhaps, than ever
visited the spirit, until its partial aberration
had jaried its vital principles, it was
that deep and utter torpor, blanker than
sleep, and duller—for no dreams seem to
mingle with its day-long lethargy—that
absolute paralysis of all the faculties of
soul and body, which is so beautifully
painted by the great Roman satirist, as
the

that still, sad, patient, silent suffering,
which sits from day to day in the one
usual chair, unconscious of itself, and almost
so of all around it; easily pleased
by trifles, which it forgets as soon; deriving
its sole real and tangible enjoyment
from the doze in the summer sunshine, or
by the sparkling hearth of winter. Such
was the mother now—so utterly, so hopelessly
dependent on those bright beings,
whose infancy she had nursed so devotedly—and
well was that devotedness now
compensated; for day and night, winter
and summer, did those sweet girls by
turns watch over the frail querulous sexagenarian—never
both leaving her at once,
one sleeping while the other watched, attentive
ever to her ceaseless cravings, patient
and mild to meet her angry and uncalled
for lamentations.

You would have thought a seclusion so
entire, from all society of their equals,
must have prevented their acquiring those
usual accomplishments, those necessary
arts, which every English gentlewoman is
presumed to possess, as things of course
—that they must have grown up mere ignorant,
unpolished country lasses, without
taste or aspiration beyond the small
routine of their dull daily duties—that long
confinement must have broken the higher
and more spiritual parts of their fine
natural minds—that they must have become
mere moping household drudges;
and so to think would be so very natural,
that it is by no means easy to conceive
how it was brought to pass, that the very
opposite of this should have been the result.
The very opposite it was, however,
—for as there were not in the whole West
Riding two girls more beautiful than Annabel
and Marian Hawkwood, so were
there surely none so highly educated, so
happy in themselves, so eminently calculated
to render others happy.

Accomplished as musicians, both,
though Annabel especially, excelled in
instrumental music, while her young sister
was unrivalled in voice and execution
as a songstress; both skilled in painting;
and if not poetesses, in so much as to be
stringers of words and rhymes, certainly
such, and that, too, of no mean order, in
the wider and far higher acceptation of
the word, for their whole souls were attuned
to the very highest key of sensibility;
romantic, not in the weak and ordinary
meaning of the term, but as admirers
of all things high and pure and noble;
worshippers of the beautiful, whether it
were embodied in the scenery of their native
glens, in the rock, the stream, the
forest, the sunshine that clothed all of
them in a rich garb of glory, or the dread
storm that veiled them all in gloom and
terror—or in the master-pieces of the
schools of painting, and of sculpture—or
in the pages of the great, the glorious of
all ages—or in the deeds of men, perils
encountered hardily, sufferings constantly
endured, sorrows assuaged by charitable
generosity. Such were they in the strain
and tenor of their minds; gentle, moreover,
as the gentlest of created things;
humble to their inferiors, but with a proud
and self-respecting and considerate humility;
open and free and frank towards their
equals, but proud, although not wanting
in loyalty and proper reverence for the
great, and almost haughty of demeanor to
their superiors, when they encountered
any such, which was, indeed, of rare and
singular occurrence.

It was a strange thing, indeed, that these
lone girls should have possessed such
characters; so strongly marked, so powerful,
and striking—should have acquired
accomplishments so many, and so various
in their nature. It will appear, perhaps,
even stranger to merely superficial thinkers,
that the formation of these powerful
characters had been for the most part
brought about by the very circumstances
which would at first have appeared most
unpropitious—their solitary habits, namely,
and their seclusion—almost absolute
seclusion—from the gay world of fashion
and of folly! The large and opulent
county in which their patrimony lay, was
indeed then, as now, studded with the estates,
the manors, and the parks of the
richest and the noblest of England's aristocracy;
yet the deep glens and lofty
moorlands among which Ingleborough
Hall was situated, are even to this day a
lonely and sequestered region; no great
post-road winds through their devious
passes, and although in the close vicinity
of large and populous towns, they are,
even in the nineteenth century, but little
visited, and are occupied by a population
singularly primitive and pastoral in all its
thoughts and feelings. Much more then
—in those days when carriages were seen
but rarely beyond the streets of the metropolis,
when roads were wild and rugged,
and intercourse between the nearest
places, unless of more than ordinary magnitude,
difficult and uncertain—was that
wild district to be deemed secluded. So
much so, indeed, was this the case, that
at the time of which I write there was not
within the circle of some twenty miles, two
families of equal rank, or filling the same
station of society with the Hawkwoods.
This, had the family been in such circumstances
of domestic health and happiness
as would have permitted the girls to mingle
in the gaieties of the neighborhood,
would have been a severe and serious
misfortune; as they must, from the continual
intercourse with their inferiors, have
contracted, in a greater or less degree, a
grossness both of mind and manner; and
would, most probably, have fallen into
that most destructive habit—destructive to
the mind, I mean, and to all chance of
progress or advancement—the love of
queening it in low society. It was, therefore,
under their circumstances, including
the loss of one parent, and the entire bereavement
of the other, fortunate in no
small degree that they were compelled to
seek their pleasures and their occupations,
no less than their duties, within the sphere
of the domestic circle.

The mother, who was now so feeble
and so helpless, though never a person of
much intellectual energy, or indeed of
much force of any kind, was yet in the
highest sense of the word, a lady. She
had seen something of the great world
apart from the rural glens which witnessed
her decline; had mingled with the gay and
noble even at the court of England; and
being possessed of more than ordinary
beauty, had been a favorite, and in some
degree, a belle. From her, then, had her
daughters naturally and unconsciously
imbibed that easy, graceful finish, which,
more than all beside, is the true stamp of
gentle birth and bearing. Long before
children can be brought to comprehend
general principles or rules of convention,
they can and do acquire habits, by that
strange tact of observance, which certainly
commences at a stage so early of their
young frail existence, that we cannot by
any effort mark its first dawning—habits,
which thus acquired can hardly be effaced
at all—which will endure unaltered, and
invariable, when tastes and practices, and
modes of thought and action, contracted
long, long afterward, have faded quite
away and been forgotten. Thus was it
then, with these young creatures, while
they were yet mere girls, with all the
pure right impulses of childhood bursting
out fresh and fair, they had been trained
up in the midst of high and honorable and
correct associations—naught low, or mean,
or little; naught selfish, or dishonest, or
corrupt, had ever so much as come near
to them; in the sight of virtue, and in the
practice of politeness, they had shot up
into maturity; and their maturity, of consequence,
was virtuous and polished.

In after years, devoted as they were to
that sick mother, they had no chance of
unlearning anything, and thus from day
to day they went on gaining fresh graces,
as it were, by deduction from the foregone
teaching, and from the fact that purity and
nature when united must be graceful—
until the proudest courts of Europe could
have shown nothing, even in their most
difficult circles, that could surpass, even
if it could vie with, the easy artless frankness,
the soft and finished courtesy, the
unabashed, yet modest grace, of those two
mountain maidens.

At the period when my sad tale commences—for
it is no less sad than true—
the sisters had just reached the young yet
perfect bloom of mature womanhood—
the elder, Annabel, having attained her
twentieth summer, her sister Marian, being
exactly one year younger; and certainly
two sweeter or more lovely girls
could not be pictured or imagined—not
even in the brightest moments of the painter's
or poet's inspiration. They were both
tall and beautifully formed—both had sweet
low-toned voices—that excellent thing in
woman! but here all personal resemblance
ended; for Annabel, the elder, had a complexion
pure and transparent as the snow
of the untrodden glacier before the sun
had kissed it into roseate blushes, and
quite as colorless—her features were of the
finest classic outline, the smooth fair brow,
the perfect Grecian nose, the short curve
of the upper lip, the exquisite arch of the
small mouth, the chiselled lines of the
soft rounded chin, might have served for a
model to a seniptor, whereby to mould a
mountain nymph or Naiad. Her rich luxuriant
hair was of a light and sunny brown,
her eyes of a clear lustrous blue with a
soft languid and half melancholy tenderness,
for their more usual expression;
which suited well with the calm placid air
that was almost habitual to her beautiful
features. To this no contrast more complete
could have been offered, than by the
widely different style of Marian's loveliness.
Though younger than her sister,
her figure was more full and rounded—so
much so, that it reached the very point
where symmetry is combined with voluptnousness;
yet was there nothing in the
least degree voluptuous or sensual in the
expression of her bright artless face. Her
forehead, higher than Annabel's and broader,
was as smooth and as white as polished
marble; her brows were well defined
and black as ebony; as were the long,
long lashes that fringed her laughing eyes
—eyes of the brightest, lightest azure, that
ever glanced with merriment or melted into
love—her nose was small and delicate, but
turned a little upward, so as to add, however,
rather than detract from the tout ensemble
of her arch, roguish beauty; her
mouth was not very small, but exquisitely
formed, with lips redder than anything
in nature, to which lips can be
well compared; and filled with teeth regular,
white, and beautifully even. Fair as
her sister's, and like hers, showing everywhere
the tiny veins of azure meandering
below the milky skin, Marian's complexion
was yet as bright as morning, with
faint rosy tints, and red warm blushes,
succeeding one another, or vanishing
away, and leaving the cheek pearly white,
as one emotion followed and effaced another
in her pure innocent mind.

Her hair, profuse in its luxuriant flow,
was of a deep, dark brown, that might almost
have been called black—but for a
thousand glancing golden lights, and warm

rich shadows, that varied its smooth surface
with the varying sunshine—and was
worn in a thick, massive plait, low down
in the neck behind, while on either side
the brow it was trained off and taught to
cluster in front of either tiny ear, in an
abundant maze of interwoven curls, close
and mysteriously eulaced, as are the tendrils
of the wild vine, which fluttering on
each warm and blushing cheek, fell down
the swan-like neck in heavy natural ringlets.

But to describe the features is to give no
idea, in the least, of Marian's real beauty
—there was a radiant, dazzling lustre,
that leaped out of her every feature, lightening
from her quick speaking eyes, and
playing in the dimples of her bewitching
smile, that so intoxicated the beholder,
that he would dwell upon her face entranced;
and know that it was lovely; and
feel that it was far more lovely, far more
enthralling, than any he had ever looked
upon before, yet, when without the sphere
of that enchantment, he would be all unable
to say wherein consisted its unmatched
attraction.

Between the natural disposition and
temperaments of the two sisters, there
was, perhaps, even a wider difference
than between the characteristics of their
personal beauty, for Anuabel was calm
and mild, and singularly placid; not in
her manners only, but in the whole tenor
of her thoughts, and words, and actions—
there was a sort of gentle melancholy,
that was not altogether melancholy either,
pervading her every tone of voice, her
every change of feature. She was not exactly
grave, or pensive, or subdued; for
she could smile very joyously at times,
could act upon emergencies with readiness,
and quickness, and decision; and was
at all times prompt in the expression of
her confirmed sentiments. But there was
a very remarkable tranquillity in her mode
of doing everything she did; betokening
fully the presence of a decided principle,
directing her at every step, so that she
was rarely agitated, even by accidents of
the most sudden and alarming character,
and never actuated by any rapid impulse.

The very opposite to this was Marian
Hawkwood; for although quite as upright
and pure-minded as her sister—
and what is more, of a temper quite as
amiable and sweet, yet was her mood as
changeful as an April day; although it
was more used to mirth and joyous laughter
than to frowns or tears either, yet
had she tears as ready at any tale of sorrow,
as are the fountains of the spring-shower
in the cloud, and eloquent frowns
and eyes, that lightened their quick indignation.
At any outrage, or oppression, or
high-handed deed, her cheek would crimson
with the tell-tale blood, her flesh
would seem to thrill upon her bones, her
voice would choke, and her eyes swim
with sympathetic drops, whenever she
read, or spoke, or heard of any noble
deed, whether of gallant daring, or of heroic
self-denial. Her tongue was prompt
always as the sword of the knight-errant
to shelter the defenceless, to shield the
innocent, to right the wrouged, and sometimes
to avenge the absent. Artless herself,
and innocent in every thought and
feeling, she set no guard on either, but as
she felt and thought, so she spoke out and
acted, fearless, even as she was unconscious
of any wrong; defying misconstruction,
and half inclined to doubt the
possibility of evil in the minds of others;
so foreign did it seem, and so impossible
to her own natural, and, as it were, instinctive
sense of right.

Yet although such, in all respects, as I
have striven to depict them, the one all
quick and flashing impulse, the other all
reflective and considerate principle, it
was most wonderful how seldom there
was any clashing of opinion, or diversity
of judgment, as to what was to be done,
what left undone, between the lovely sisters.
Marian would, it is true, often jump
at once to conclusions, and act as rapidly
upon them too, at which the more reflective
Annabel would arrive only after
some consideration; but it did not occur
more often than the one had reason to repent
of her precipitation, than the other
of her over-caution. Neither, indeed, had
much cause for remorse of this kind at all;
for all the impulses of the one, all the
thoughts and principles of the other, were
alike pure and kindly. With words, however,
it was not quite the same; for it
must be admitted, that Marian oftentimes
said things, how unfrequently soever she
did aught, which she would willingly
have recalled afterwards. Not, indeed,
that she ever said anything unkind, or
wrong in itself, and rarely anything that
could give pain to another, unless that
pain were richly merited, indeed; but that
she gradually came to learn—long before
she learned to restrain her impulses—that
it may be very often unwise to speak,
what in itself is wise—and very often, if
not wrong, yet certainly imprudent, and
of evil consequence, to give loud utterance
even to right opinions.

3. CHAPTER III.

Such were the persons, such the dispositions
of the fair heiresses of Ingleborough
at the time when they had attained the
ages I have specified; and certainly, although
their spheres of usefulness would
have appeared, at first sight, circumscribed,
and the range of their enjoyments very
narrow, there rarely have been seen two
happier or more useful beings than Annabel
and Marian Hawkwood, in this wide
world of sin and sorrow.

The care of their bereaved and hapless
parent occupied, it is true, the greater portion
of their time; yet they found many
leisure hours to devote to visiting the
poor, aiding the wants of the needy, consoling
the sorrows of those who mourned,
and sympathizing with the pleasures of
the happy, among their humble neighbors.
To them this might be truly termed
a work of love and pleasure; for it is
questionable whether from any other
source the lovely girls derived a higher or
more satisfactory enjoyment, than from
their tours of charity among their village
pensioners.

Next in the scale of happiness stood,
doubtless, the society of the old vicar of
that pastoral parish; a man who had been
their father's friend and counsellor in those
young days of college friendship, when
the fresh heart is uppermost in all, and
selfishness a dormant passion; a man old
enough almost to have been their grandsire,
but with a heart as young and as
cheery as a boy's—an intellect accomplished
in the deepest lore of the schools,
both classical and scientific, and skilled
thoroughly in all the niceties and graces
of French, and Spanish, and Italian literature—a
man who had known courts and
camps, too, for a short space in his youth;
who had seen much and suffered much,
and yet enjoyed, not a little, in his acquaintance
with the world; and who,
from sights, and sufferings, and enjoyments,
had learned that if there is much
evil, there is yet more of good, even in this
world—had learned, while rigid to his
own faults, to be most lenient to his neighbor's
failings—had learned that charity
should be the fruit of wisdom!—and had
learned all this only to practise it in all
his daily walks, to inculcate it in all his
weekly lessons.

This aged man, and his scarce less aged
wife, living hardly a stone's throw from
the Hall, had grown almost to think themselves
a portion of the family; and surely
no blood kindred could have created
stronger ties of kindness than had the
familiarity of long acquaintance, the confidence
of old hereditary love. Lower yet
in the round of their enjoyments, but still
a constant source of blameless satisfaction,
were their books, their music, and their
drawings; the management of their household,
the cultivation of their lovely garden,
the ministering to the wants of their loved
birds and flowers. Thus, all sequestered
and seclnded from the world, placed in
the midst of onerous duties, and solicitudes
almost innumerable, though they had
never danced at a ball, nor blushed at the
praise of their own beauty flowing from
eloquent lips, nor listened to a lover's suit,
queens might have envied the felicity, the
calm pure peaceful happiness of Annabel
and Marian.

They were, indeed, too happy! I do
not mean too happy to be virtuous, too
happy to be mindful of and grateful to the
Giver of all joy—but, as the common
phrase runs, too happy for their happiness
to be enduring. This is a strange belief
—a wondrous superstition!—and yet it
has been common to all ages. The Greeks,
those wild poetical dreamers, imagined
that their vain gods, made up of moral attributes,
envied the bliss of men, fearing
that wretched earthlings should vie in
happiness with the possessors of Olympus.
They sang in their dark mystic choruses,

and, though their other doctrines of that
insuperable destiny—that absolute necessity,
to resist which is needless labor—and
of ancestral guilt, through countless generations,
would seem to militate against
it, there was no more established faith,
and no more prevalent opinion, than that
unwonted fortunes were necessarily followed
by most unusual woe. Hence, perhaps,
the stern self-mortification of the
middle ages—hence, certainly, the vulgar
terror prevalent more or less among all
classes, and in every time and country,
that children are too beautiful, too prematurely
clever, too good to be long-lived—
that happiness is too great to be lasting—
that mornings are too fine to augur stormless
days!

And we—aye! we ourselves—we of a better
faith, and purer dispensation—we half
believe all this, and more than half tremble
at it, although, in truth, there is no
cause for fear in the belief—since, if there
be aught of truth in the mysterious creed,
which facts do in a certain sense seem to
bear out, we can but think, we cannot but

perceive, that this is but a varied form of
care and misery, vouchsafed by the Great
All-perfect toward his frail creatures—that
this is but a merciful provision, to hinder
us from laying up for ourselves “treasures
upon earth, where moth and rust do corrupt,
and where thieves break through and
steal”—a provision to restrain us from
forgetting, in the small temporary bliss of
the present, the boundless and incomparable
beatitude of the future—to warn us
against hartering, like Esau, our birthright
for a mess of portage!

But I am now called to follow out this
train of thought, suggested by the change
in the fortunes of those to whom I am
performing the part of historian; by the
change, I say, in their fortunes—a change,
too, arising from the very circumstances,
as is frequently the case, which seemed to
promise the most fairly for their improvement
and their permanence. Oh! how
blind guides are we! even the most farsighted
of us all!—how weak and senseless
judges, even the most sagacious!—
how false and erring prophets, even the
wisest and the best!

It was, as I have said already, somewhere
late in the summer, wherefrom
Annabel reckoned her twentieth and Marian
her nineteenth year—very late in the
last month of summer, an hour or two before
the sunset of as beautiful an evening
as ever smiled upon the face of the green
earth. The sky was nearly cloudless,
though a thin gauze-like haze had floated
up from the horizon, and so far veiled the
orb of the great sun, that the eye could
gaze undazzled on his glories; and the
whole air was full of a rich golden light,
which flooded the level meadows with its
lustre, except where they were checkered
by the long cool blue shadows projected
from the massive clumps of noble
forest trees, which, singly or in groups,
diversified the lonely vale, and gilded the
tall slender steeple of the old village
church, and glanced in living fire from the
broad oriel windows of the Hall.

Such was the evening, and so beautiful
the prospect, with every sound and sight
in perfect harmony—the sharp squeak of
the rapid swifts, wheeling their airy circles
around the distant spire, the full and
liquid melodies of thrush and blackbird
from out the thorn bushes upon the lawn,
the lowing of the cows, returning from
their pasture to pay the evening tribute,
the very cawing of the homeward rooks,
blended by distance into a continuous and
soothing murmur, the rippling music of
the stream, the low sound of the west
wind in the foliage of the sycamores, the
far shout of the children, happy at their
release from school, the carol of a solitary
milk-maid, combining to make up a music
as sweet as can be heard or dreamed of
by the sleeping poet. That lovely picture
was surveyed, and that delicious melody
was listened to, by eyes and ears well
fitted to appreciate their loveliness, for at
an open casement of a great parlor in the
Hall, with furniture all covered with those
elegant appliances of female industry—
well executed drawings, and books, and
instruments of music, and work-baskets,
and frames for embroidery—which show
so pleasantly that the apartment is one
not of show, but of calm home-enjoyment
—at an open casement sat Annabel, alone
—for the presence of the frail paralytic
being, who dozed in her arm-chair, at the
further end of the room, cannot be held to
constitute society. Marian, for the first
time in her life, was absent from her home,
on a visit, which had already endured
nearly six weeks, to the only near relative
of the family who was yet living—a younger
sister of her mother—who had married
many years ago a clergyman, whose piety
and talents had raised him to a stall in the
Cathedral Church of York, where he resided
with his wife—a childless couple.

This worthy pair had passed a portion
of the summer at the Hall, and when returning
to the metropolis of the county
had prevailed on their younger niece, not
altogether without difficulty, to go with
them for a few weeks, and see a little society
on a scale something more extended
than that which her native vales could
offer. It was the first time in their lives
that the sisters had been parted for more
than a few days, and now the hours were
beginning to appear very long to Annabel;
as weeks were running into months, and
the gorgeous suns of summer were fast
preparing to give place to the cold dews
and frosty winds of autumn. The evening
meal was over, and a solitary thing was
that meal now, which used to be the most
delightful of the day; and hastily did the
lonely sister hurry it over, thinking all the
while what might be Marian's occupation
at the moment, and whether she too was
engaged in thoughts concerning her far
friends, and the fair home of her childhood.

It was then, in a mood half melancholy
and half listless, that Annabel was gazing
from her window, down the broad valley
to the eastward, marvelling at the beauty
of the scenery, though she had noted
every changing hue that flitted over the
far purple hills a thousand times before;
and listening to every sweet familiar

sound; and yet, at the same time, pondering,
as if she were quite unconscious
of all that met her senses, about things
which she fancied might be happening at
York, when on a sudden, her attention
was aroused by a dense cloud of dust,
rising beyond the river, upon the line of
the high road, and sweeping up the valley,
with a progress so unusually rapid as to
indicate that the objects, which it veiled
from view, must be in more than commonly
quick motion. For a few moments
she watched this little marvel narrowly,
but without any apprehension or even
any solicitude; until, as it drew nearer,
she could at times see bright flashes, as if
of polished metal, gleaming out through
the murky wreaths, and feathers waving
in the air.

The year was that, in which the hapless
Charles, all hopes of reconciliation with
his parliament being decidedly frustrated,
displayed the banner of civil war, and
drew the sword against his subjects. The
rumors of the coming strife had circulated,
like the dread subterraneous rumblings
which harbinger the earthquake, through
all the country far and near; sad omens
of approaching evil! and more distinctly
were they bruited through Yorkshire, in
consequence of the attempt which had
been made by the royal party to secure
Hull, with all its magazines and shipping
—frustrated by the energy and spirit of the
Hothams—so that, as soon as she perceived
that the dust was beyond all doubt
stirred up by a small party of well-appointed
horse, Annabel entertained no
doubts as to the meaning, but many serious
apprehensions as to the cause of the
present visitation.

4. CHAPTER IV.

The road, by which the cavaliers were
proceeding, through well-made and passable
at all times, was no considerable
thoroughfare; no large or important towns
lay on its route; nay, no large villages
were situated on its margin. It was a devious
winding way, leading to many a
homely farm-house, many a sequestered
hamlet, and affording to the good rustics a
means of carrying their wheat and eggs
and butter, or driving their fat cattle and
black-face moorland sheep to market; but
it was not the direct line between any two
points, or places, worthy even of a passing
notice. It is true, that some twelve or
fifteen miles down the valley there was a
house or two tenanted by gentry—one
that might by a liberal courtesy have been
designated a castle; but above Ingleborough
Hall, to northwestward, there was
no manor-house or dwelling of the aristocracy
at all, until the road left the ghylls—
as those wild glens are designated—and
joined the line of the great northern turnpike.

It was extremely singular then, to say
the least, that a gay troop of riders should
appear suddenly in that wild spot, so far
from anything that would be likely to attract
them; and Annabel sat some time
longer by the window, wondering, and at
the same time fearing, although in truth
she scarce knew what; until at a mile's
distance she saw them halt, and after a
few moments' conversation with a farming-man
on the wayside, as if to inquire
their route, turn suddenly down a narrow
by-road leading to the high narrow bridge
of many arches, which crossed the noble
river and gave the only access to the secluded
site of Ingleborough. When she
saw this, however, her perturbation became
very great; for well she knew that
there lay nothing in that direction except
one little market-town, far distant, and a
few scattered farm-houses on the verge of
the moors, so that there could be but little
doubt that Ingleborough was indeed their
destination.

The very moment that she arrived at
this conclusion, Annabel called a serving-man,
and bade him run quick to the vicarage,
and pray good Doctor Summers to
come up to her instantly, as she was in
great strait, and fain would speak with him;
and at the same time, with an energy of
character that hardly could have been expected
from one so young and delicate,
ordered the men of the household—including
in those days the fowler and falconer,
and half a dozen grooms and many
a supernumerary more, whom we in these
degenerate times have long discarded as
incumbrances, to have their arms in readiness—for
every manor-house then had
its regular armory—and to prepare the
great bell of the Hall, to summon all the
tenants on the instant in case such proceedings
should be needful.

In a few moments the good grey-haired
vicar came, almost breathless from the
haste with which he had crossed the little
space between the vicarage and the manor
and a little while afterwards his wife followed
him, anxious to learn as soon as
possible what could have so disturbed the
quiet tenor of a mind so regulated by
high principles, and garrisoned by holy

thoughts, as Annabel's. Their humble
dwelling, though searce a stone's throw
from the Hall, was screened by a projecting
knoll feathered with dense and shadowy
coppice, hiding from it entirely the
road by which the horsemen were advancing;
so that the worthy couple had
not perceived, or suspected, anything, to
justify the fears of Annabel, until they
were both standing in her presence. Then,
while the worthy doctor was proffering his
assistance, and his good wife inquiring
eagerly what was amiss, they caught sight
of that gay company of cavaliers, with
feathers waving and scarfs fluttering in
the wind, and gold embroideries glancing
to the sun; as, having left the dusty road,
they wheeled through the green meadows
and flashed suddenly upon their eyes—a
spectacle as unexpected as it was gorgeous
and exciting!

“Who can they be? What possibly can
bring them hither?” exclaimed Annabel,
pointing with evident trepidation towards
the rapidly approaching horsemen. “I
fear—oh! I greatly fear some heavy ill is
coming—but I have ordered all the men
to take their arms, and the great bell will
bring us twenty tenants in half as many
minutes! What can it be, good doctor?”

“Indeed I know not, Annabel,” replied
the good man, smiling cheerfully as he
spoke; “in truth I know not, nor can at
all conjecture; but be quite sure of this,
dear girl, that they will do, to us at least,
no evil!—they are King Charles's men,
without doubt, churchmen and cavaliers,
all of them!—any one can see that! and,
though I know not that we have much to
fear from either party, from them at least
we have no earthly cause for apprehension.
I will go forth, however, to meet
them; and to learn their errand—meantime,
fear nothing.”

“Oh! you mistake me,” she answered
at once; “oh! you mistake me very
much; for I did not even for a moment
fear personally anything; it was for my
poor mother I was first alarmed; and all
our good neighbors; and indeed all the
country around, that shows so beautiful
and happy this fair evening!—oh! but
this civil war is a dread thing; and dread
I fear will be the reckoning of those who
make it.”

“Who make it without cause, my daughter!
A dreadful thing it is at all times, but
it may be a necessary, aye! and a holy
thing—when freedom or religion are at
stake! but we will talk of this at another
time; for see, they have already reached
the furthest gate, and I must speak with
them before they enter here, let them be
who they may.”

And, with the words, pressing her hand
with fatherly affection, “Farewell,” he
said, “be of good cheer. I purpose to return
forthwith.” And then he left the
room, and hurrying down the steps of the
porch, walked far more rapidly than
seemed to suit his advanced years and sedentary
habits, across the park to meet
the gallant company.

A gallant company, indeed, it was and
such as was but rarely seen in that wild
region—being the train of a young gentleman,
of some eight or nine and twenty
years, splendidly mounted, and dressed in
the magnificent fashion of those days, in
a half military costume; for his buff coat
was lined throughout with rich white satin,
and fringed and looped with silver, a falling
collar of rich Flanders lace flowing
down over his steel gorget, and a broad
scarf of blue silk supporting his long silver-hilted
rapier. By his side, rode another
person, not certainly a menial servant, and
yet clearly not a gentleman of birth and
lineage; and after these, a dozen or more
armed attendants followed, all wearing
the blue searf and black feathers of the
royalists, all nobly mounted, and accounted,
like regular troopers, with sword and
dagger, pistols and musquetoons, although
they wore no breastplates, nor any sort of
defensive annor.

A brace of jet-black greyhounds, without
a speck of white upon their sleek and
glistening hides, ran bounding merrily beside
their master's stirrup, and a magnificent
goshawk sat hooded on his wrist,
with silver bells and richly decorated
jesses. So much had the ladies observed,
even before the old man reached the party;
but when he did so, and paused for a moment
to address the leader, that gentleman
immediately dismounted from his
horse; and after shaking hands, cordially,
the two advanced together, apparently
engaged in eager conversation, toward
the entrance of the hall.

This went far, on the instant, to restore
confidence to Annabel; but when they
came so near that their faces could be
seen distinctly from the windows, and she
could mark a well-pleased smile upon the
venerable features of her friend, she was
completely reassured. A single glance-moreover,
at the face of the stranger-showed
her that the most timid maiden
need hardly feel a moment's apprehension,
even if he were her country's or her faction's
foe; for it was not merely handsome,
striking, and distinguished, but such

as indicates, or is supposed to indicate,
the presence of a kindly disposition and
good heart. Annabel had not much time,
indeed, for making observations at that
time; for it was scarce a minute before
they had ascended the short flight of steps,
which led to the stone porch, and entered
the door of the vestibule. A moment louger,
and they came into the parlor, the
worthy vicar leading the young man by
the hand, as if he were a friend of ten
years' standing.

“Annabel,” he exclaimed, in a joyous
voice, as he crossed the threshold of the
room, “this is the young Lord de Vaux,
son of your honored father's warmest and
oldest friends, and in years long gone by
but unforgotten, my kindest patron. He
has come hither, bearing letters from his
father—knowing not until now, that you,
my child, were so long since bereaved—
letters of commendation, praying the hospitality
of Ingleborough, and the best influence
of the name of Hawkwood, to
levy men to serve King Charles, in the
approaching war. I have already told
him—”

“How glad, how welcome, doubtless,
would have been his coming”—answered
Annabel, advancing easily to meet the
youthful nobleman, although a deep blush
covered all her pale features, as she performed
her unaccustomed duty—“had my
dear father been alive, or my poor mother”—casting
a rapid glance towards the
invalid—“been in health to greet him.
As it is”—she continued, “the Lord de
Vaux, I doubt not in the least, will pardon
any imperfections in our hospitality,
and believe if in aught we err, it will be
error not of friendliness, or of feeling, but
of experience only; seeing I am but a
young mistress of a household. You, my
kind friend, and Mistress Summers, will
doubtless tarry with us, while my Lord de
Vaux gives us the favor of his presence.”

“Loath should I be, indeed, dear lady,
thus to intrude upon your sorrows, could
I at all avoid it,” replied the cavalier—
“and charming, as it must needs be, to
enjoy the hospitalities tendered by such
an one as you, I do assure you, were I
myself concerned alone, I would remount
my horse at once, and ride away, rather
than force myself upon your courtesy.
But, when I tell you that my father's
strong opinion holds it a matter of importance—importance
almost vital—to the
King, and to the cause of Church and
State in England, that I should levy some
force here of cavaliers—where there be so
few heads of noble houses living—to act
in union with Sir Philip Musgrave, in the
north, and with Sir Marmaduke Langdale,
I both trust and believe, that you will
overlook the trouble and intrusion, in fair
consideration of the motives which impel
me.”

“Pray,” said she, smiling gaily, “pray,
my Lord de Vaux, let us now leave apology
and compliment—most unaffectedly
and truly, I am glad to receive you both
as the son of my father's valued friend, and
as a faithful servant of our most gracious
king—we will do our best to entertain
you; and Doctor Summers will aid you,
with his counsel and experience, in furthering
your military levies. How left
you the good earl, your father? I have
heard mine speak of him many times,
and ever in the highest terms of praise,
when I was but a little girl—and my poor
mother much more recently; before this
sad calamity affected her so fearfully.”

Her answer, as it was intended, had
the effect of putting an end to all formality,
and setting the young nobleman completely
at ease; the conversation took a
general tone, and was maintained on all
sides with sufficient spirit, until—when
Annabel retired for a little space, to conduct
her mother to her chamber—De
Vaux found himself wondering how a
mere country girl, who had lived a life so
secluded and domestic, should have acquired
graces, both of mind and manner,
such as he never had discovered in court
ladies; while she was struck, even in a
greater degree, by the frank, unaffected
bearing, the gay wit, and sparkling anecdote,
blended with many a touch of deeper
feeling, which characterized the youthful
nobleman's conversation.

After a little while she re-appeared;
and, with her, was announced the evening
meal, the pleasant, old-fashioned supper;
and, as he sat beside her, while she
presided, full of calm, modest self-possession,
at the head of her hospitable
board, with no one to encourage her, or
lend her countenance, except the good old
vicar and his homely help-mate, he could
not but draw fresh comparisons, all in her
favor, too, betwixt the quiet, graceful
confidence of the ingenuous girl before
him, and the minauderies and the meretricious
airs of the court dames, who had
been hitherto the objects of his passing admiration.

Cheerfully, then, and pleasantly the
evening passed away; and when upon
her little couch, hard by the invalid's sick
bed, Annabel thought over the events of
the past day, she felt concerning young
De Vaux, rather as if he had been an old
familiar friend, with whom she had renewed

an intercourse long interrupted;
than as of a mere acquaintance, whom
that day had first introduced, and whom
the next might possibly remove for ever.
Something there was, when they met
next, at breakfast, on the following morning,
of blushing bashfulness in Annabel,
which he had not observed, nor she before
experienced; but it passed rapidly
away, and left her self-possessed and tranquil—while
surely in the sparkling eye,
the eager haste, with which he broke
away from his conversation with Dr.
Summers, as she entered—in his hand
half extended, and then half awkwardly,
half timidly withdrawn, there was much
indication of excited feeling, widely at
variance with the polite and even formal
mannerism inculcated and practised in
the court of the unhappy Charles. It
needs not, however, to dwell on passing
conversations, to narrate every trifling incident;
the morning meal once finished,
De Vaux mounted his horse, and rode
forth in accordance with the directions of
the loyal elergyman, to visit such among
the neighboring farmers, as were most
likely to be able to assist him in levying a
horse regiment.

A few hours passed; and he returned
full of high spirits and hot confidence—he
had met every here assurances of good
will to the royal cause; had succeeded in
enlisting some ten or more stout and
hardy youths, and had no doubt of
finally accomplishing the object which he
had in view, to the full height of his aspirations.

After dinner, which, in those primitive
days, was served at noon, he was engaged
for a time in making up despatches
for his father, which having been sent
off by one of his own trusty servants to
the castle in Northumberlnd, he went
out, and joined his lovely hostess in the
sheltered garden, which I have described
above; and there they lingered until the
sun was sinking in the west, behind the
huge and purple-headed hills that screened
the horizon in that direction. The evening
circle and the social meal succeeded;
and when they parted for the night, if
Annabel and young De Vaux could not
be said to be enamored, as indeed they
could not yet, they had at least made so
much progress to that end, that each esteemed
the other the most agreeable and
charming person, it had been hitherto their
fortune to encounter; and—although this
was decidedly the furthest point to which
the thoughts of Annabel extended—when
he had lain down on his bed, with the
sweet rays of the harvest moon flooding
his room with quiet lustre, and the voice
of the murmuring rivulet, and the low
flutter of the west wind in the giant sycamores,
blending themselves into a soft
and soothing melody—the young lord
found himself considering how gracefully
that fair pale girl would fill the place
which had been long left vacant by his
mother in the grand hall of Gilsland Castle.

5. CHAPTER V.

Another and another day succeeded—a
week slipped away—a second and a third
followed it; and still the ranks of the
royal regiment, though they were filled
rapidly, had many vacancies, and arms
had yet to be provided, and standards and
musicians; messengers went and came
continually between the castle and the
manor, and all was haste and confusion
in the lone glens of Wharfdale. Meantime
a change was wrought in Annabel's
demeanor, and all who saw remarked it—
there was a brighter glow than ever had
been seen before, in her transparent
cheeks; her eyes sparkled almost as brilliantly
as Marian's; her lips were frequently
arrayed in bright and beaming
smiles; her step was light and springy as
a young fawn's on the mountain. Annabel
was in love, and had discovered that
she was so—Annabel was beloved and
knew it—the young lord's declaration and
the old earl's conseut had come together;
and the sweet maiden's heart was given,
and her hand promised, almost before the
asking. Joy! joy! was there not joy in
Ingleborough?

The good old vicar's tranquil air of satisfaction;
the loud and eloquent mirth of
his kind hearted housewife—the merry,
gay congratulations of wild Marian, who
wrote from York, half crazy with excitement
and delight—the evident and lovely
happiness of the young promised bride
—what pen of man may even aspire to
write them. All was decided—all arranged—the
marriage was, so far, at least, to
be held private, that no festivities or public
merriment should bruit it to the world,
until the civil strife should be decided, and
the king's power established; which all
men fancied, at that day, it would by a
single battle—and which, had Rupert
wheeled upon the flank of Essex at Edge-Hill,
instead of chasing the discomfited
and flying horse of the Roundheads,

miles from the field of battle, would probably
have been the case.

The old earl had sent the wedding gifts
to his sou's chosen bride, had promised to
be present at the nuptials, the day of
which was fixed already; but it had been
decided that when De Vaux should be
forced to join the royal armies his young
wife should continue to reside at Ingleborough,
with her bereaved mother and fond
sister, until the wished-for peace should
unite England once again in bonds of
general amity; and the bridegroom find
honorable leisure to lead his wife in state
to his paternal mansions.

Days sped a way—how fast they seemed
to fly to those young happy lovers! How
was the very hour of their first interview
noted, and marked with while in the deep
tablets of their minds—how did they shyly,
half, half fondly recount each to the other
the first impressions of their growing
fondness—how did they bless the cause
that brought them thus together. proh
cœca mens mortalium!—oh! the short-sighted
scope of mortal vision! alas! for one
—for both!

The wedding day was fixed, and now
was fast approaching; and hourly was
Marian, with their good uncle and his
dame, expected at the Hall, and wished
for, and discoursed of by the lovers—
“and oh!”—would Annabel say, half
sportively, and half in earnest—“well
was it for my happiness, De Vaux, that
she was absent when you first came hither,
for had you seen her first, her far superior
beauty, her bright wild radiant face, her
rare arch naivete, her flashing wit, and
beautiful enthusiasm would—must have
captivated you all at once—and what had
then become of your poor Annabel?”

And then would the young lord vow—
that had he met her first in the most glorious
courts of Europe, with all the gorgeous
beauties of the world to rival her, she
would alone have been the choice of his
soul—his soul, first touched by her, of
woman! And then he would ask in
lowered tones, and with a sly simplicity
of manner, whether if he had loved another,
she could have still loved him; to
which, with all the frank and fearless
purity that was so beautiful a trait in Annabel—“Oh
yes—” she would reply, and
gaze with calm reliance, as she did so,
into her lover's eyes—“oh yes, dear
Eruest—and then how miserably wretched
must I have been through my whole life
hereafter. Oh! yes, I loved you—though
then I knew it not, nor indeed thought at
all about it, until you spoke to me—I
loved you dearly!—and I believe it would
almost have killed me to look upon you
afterwards as the wife of another.”

The wedding day was but a fortnight
distant; and strange to say it was the
very day, two months gone, which had
seen their meeting. Wains had arrived
from Gilsland, loaded with arms and uniforms,
standards and ammunitions; two
brothers of young De Vaux, young gallant
cavaliers, had come, partly to officer
the men, partly to do fit honor to their
brother's nuptials.

The day, although the season had now
advanced far into brown October, was
sunny, mild, and beautiful; the regiment
had, for the first time, mustered in arms in
Ingleborough park, and a gay show they
made, with their glittering casques and
corslets, fresh from the armorer's anvil,
and their fluttering scarfs, and dancing
plumes, and bright emblazoned banners.

The sun was in the act of setting—De
Vaux and Annabel were watching his decline
from the same window in the Hall
whence she had first discovered his unexpected
coming; when, as on that all
eventful evening, a little dust was seen
arising on the high road beyond the river;
and, in a moment, a small mounted party
became visible, amidst which might be
readily descried the fluttering of female
garments!

“It is my sister”—exclaimed Annabel,
jumping up on the instant, and clasping
her hands eagerly—“it is my dear, dear
sister—come, Ernest, come, let us go and
meet dear Marian.” No time was lost,
but arm-in-arm the lovers sallied forth,
and met the little train just on this side of
the park-gate.

Marian sprang from her horse, light as
a spirit of the air, and rushed into her
sister's arms, and clung there with a long
and lingering embrace, and as she raised
her head, a bright tear glittered on either
silky eyelash. De Vaux advanced to
greet her, but as he did so, earnestly perusing
the lineaments of his fair future
sister, he was most obviously embarrassed,
his manner was confused, and even
agitated, his words faltered—and she,
whose face had been, a second before,
beaming with the bright crimson of excitement—whose
eye had looked round
eagerly and gladly to mark the chosen of
her sister—she turned as pale as ashes—
brow, cheeks, and lips—pale, almost
livid!—and her eye fell abashed, and did
not rise again till he had finished speaking.
None noticed it but Annabel; for all the
party were engaged in gay congratulations,
and—they recovering themselves
immediately—nothing more passed, that

could create surmise—but she did notice
it, and her heart sauk for a moment, and
all that evening she was unnsually grave
and silent; and, had not her usual demeanor
been so exceedingly calm and
subdued, her strange dejection must have
been seen, and wondered at, by her assembled
kinsfolk.

6. CHAPTER VI.

The morning after Marian's arrival at the
Manor, was one of those bright lovely
dawns, sure harbingers of sweet and
sunny days, that often interrupt the melancholy
progress of an English autumn;
fairer and softer, as the season waxed
older, and more enchanting from the contrast,
which they cannot fail to suggest,
between their balmy mildness, and the
chill winds and gloomy fogs of the approaching
winter. The sky was altogether
cloudless, yet it had nothing of the
deep azure hue which it presents in summer,
resembling in its tints and its transparency,
a canopy, if such a thing could
be, of living aqua-marine, and kindled by
a flood of pure, pale yellow lustre.

None of the trees were wholly leafless,
though none, perhaps, unless it were a
few old oaks, but had lost something of
their summer foliage; and their changed
colors varying from the deepest green,
through all the shades of yellow, down to
the darkest amber, although prophetic of
their coming doom, and therefore saddening,
with a sort of chastened spiritual
sorrow, the heart of the observer, added a
solemn beauty to the scenery, that well
accorded with its grand and romantic
character.

The vast round-headed hills, seen
through the filmy haze which floated over
them, filling up their dells and hollows,
showed every intermediate hue from the
red russet of their heathery foreground, to
the rich parple of their furthest peaks.
The grass, which had not yet begun to
lose its verdant freshness, was thickly
meshed with gossamer, all sprinkled by
the pure and plenteous dews, and flashing
like a net of diamonds upon a ground
of emerald velvet, to the early sunbeams.

It was summer—late indeed in that
lovely season, but still full summer, with
all her garuiture of green, her pomp of
full blown flowers—the glorious mature
womanhood of the year! when Marian
left her home. Not a trace of deeay or
change was visible on its bright brow, not
a leaf of its embroideries was altered, not
a bud in its garland was blighted. She
had returned; and everything, though
beautiful and glowing, bore the plain
stamp of approaching dissolution. The
west wind blew as softly as in June
through the tall sycamores, but after every
breath, while all was lulled and peaceful,
the broad sere leaves came whirling down
from the shaken branches, on which their
hold was now so slight, that but the whisper
of a sigh was needed to detach them;
the skies—the waters—were as pure as
ever, as beautifully clear and lucid, but
in their brightness there was a chill and
glassy glitter, as different from their warm
sheen under a July sun, as is the keen unnatural
radiance of a blue eye in the consumptive
girl, from its rich lustrous light
in a mature and healthy woman.

Was it the contemplation of this change
that brought so sad a cloud over the brow
of lovely Marian Hawkwood; so dull a
gloom into her speaking eye; so dread a
paleness upon the ripe damask of her
cheek? Sad indeed always is such contemplation—sorrowful
and grave thoughts
must it awake in the minds of those who
think the least, to revisit a fair well-known
scene which they have quitted in
the festal flush of summer, when all the
loveliness they dwelt on so fondly is
flown or flying. It brings a chill upon the
spirit, like that which touches the last
guest,

It makes a passing anguish, like that
which thrills to the heart's core of him,
who, after years of wandering in a foreign
clime, returns to find the father, whom he
left still in the prime of vigorous and active
manhood, howed, hent, grey-haired,
and paralytie; the mother, whom he saw
at their last parting, glorious in summer
beauty, withered, and wrinkled, and bereft
of every trace of former comeliness
All this it does—at times to all! to the reflective
always!—the solitary contemplation
of the decaying year.

Yet it was not this alone, it was not this
at all, that blanched the cheek and dimmed
the glance of Marian, as at a very
early hour of the morning she was sauntering
alone, with downcast eyes and slow
uncertain gait, beside the margin of the
stream, in the sheltered garden. For she
did not, in truth, seem to contemplate at

all the face of external nature, or so much
as to note the changes which had taken
place during her absence; yet were those
changes very great, and nowhere probably
so strongly marked as in the very spot
where she was wandering, for when she
stood there last to cull a nosegay, ere she
parted, the whole of that fair nook was
glowing with the brightest colors, and redolent
with the most fragrant perfumes,
while hundreds of feathered songsters
were filling every brake and thicket with
bursts of joyous melody—and now only a
few, the hardiest of the late autumnal
flowers, displayed their scattered blossoms,
and those too crisp and faded, among sere
leaves and withered branches; while, for
the mellow warblings of the thrush and
black-bird, nothing was heard except the
feeble piping of a solitary robin, mixed
with the wailing rush of the swollen
streamlet.

For nearly an hour she walked to and
fro buried in deep and melancholy silence,
and thinking, as it seemed from her air and
gestures, most profoundly—occasionally
she paused for a few seconds in her walk
to and fro, and stood still, gazing abstractedly
on some spot in the withered herbage,
on some pool of the bronkler, with
her mind evidently far away, and once or
twice she clasped her hands, and wrung
them passionately, and sighed very deeply.
While she was yielding thus to some
deep inward sorrow—for it could be no
trivial passing grief that had so suddenly
and so completely changed so quick and
gay a spirit—a gentle footstep sounded
upon the gravel walk, behind a cluster of
thick leafy lilacs, and in a moment Annabel
stepped from their screen upon the
mossy greensward. Her pale and pensive
features were even paler and more
thoughtful than was common, and her
eyes showed as if she had been weeping,
yet her step was as light and elastic as a
young fawn's, and a bright smile dimpled
her cheek, as she addressed her sister.

“Dear Marian, why so early? And
why did you not call me to share your
morning walk? What ails you, dearest,
tell me? For I have seen you, from my
window, walking here up and down so
sorrowful and sad—”

“Oh, can you ask me—can you ask me,
Annabel?” exclaimed the lovely girl, in a
wild earnest burst of passion—“can you
not see that my heart is breaking?” and
with the words she flung her arms about
her sister's neck, and burying her face in
her bosom fell into an agony of tears.

Annabel clasped Marian to her heart, and
held her there for many moments, kissing
away the big drops from her cheeks, and
soothing her with many a kind and soft
caress, before she replied to her incoherent
and wild words—but when her violent
sobbing had subsided,

“Dearest,” she said, “I do not understand
at all, nor can I even guess, what
has so grievously afflicted you—but, if
you fancy that we shall be parted, that
our lives will hereafter be divided, and
weep for that fond fancy, it is but a false
apprehension that distresses you. I go
not heuce at all, dear sister, until these
fearful wars he over; and, then, I go not
till the course of time shall place De Vaux
in his good father's station, which—I pray
Heaven—shall not fall out for years. And
when I do go—when I do go away from
this dear happy spot, you cannot, no, you
did not dream, my sister, that you should
not go with me. Oh, if you did dream
that, it would be very hard for me to
pardon you.”

“Oh, no—no! no! dear Annabel,” replied
the other, not lifting up her eyes
from the fond bosom on which she hung
so heavily, and speaking in a thick husky
voice, “it is not that at all—but I am so
unhappy—so miserable—so despairing!
Oh, would to God—oh, would to God!
that I had never gone hence—or that Ernest
De Vaux, at least, had not come
hither!”

“Nay! now, I must know what you
mean,” Annable answered mildly, but at
the same time very firmly—“I must, indeed,
dear Marian—for either such words
have a meaning, in which case it is absolutely
right that I your sister and his affianced
wife should know it—or if they
have not any, are cruel equally, and foolish.
So tell me—tell me, dear one, if
there be aught that I should know; and,
in all cases, let me share your sorrow.”

“Oh! do not—do not ask me, Annabel;
oh! oh! to think that we two, who have
been so happy, should be wretched now.”

“I know not what you would say,
Marian; but your strange words awake
strange thoughts within me! We have
indeed, been happy! fond, happy, innocent,
dear sisters—and I can see no cause
why we should now be otherwise—I, at
least, am still happy, Marian, unless it be
to witness your wild sorrow; and, if I
know myself, no earthly sorrow would
ever make me wretched, much less repining,
or despairing.”

“Yes, you—yes, you indeed may yet
be happy, blessed with a cheerful home, a
noble gallant husband, and it may be, one
day, sweet prattlers at your knee, but, I—
oh! God!” and she again burst into a

fierce agony of tears and sobbing. Her
sister, for a time, strove to console her,
but she soon found not only that her
efforts were in vain, but that, so far as she
could judge, Marian's tears only flowed
the faster, her sobs became more suffocating,
the more she would have soothed
them. When she became aware of this,
then she withdrew gradually her arms
from her waist, and spoke to her in a calm
melancholy voice, full at the same time
of deep sadness, and firm decided resolution.

“Marian,” she said, “I see, and how I
am grieved to see it, no words can possibly
express, that you look not to me for
sympathy or consolation—nay more, that
you shrink back from my earesses, as if
they were insincere or hateful to you.
Your words, too, are so wild and whirling,
that for my life. I cannot guess what is
their meaning, or their cause—I only can
suspect, or, I should rather say, can only
dread, that you have suffered some very
grievous wrong, or done some very grievous
sin; and as I must believe the last impossible,
my fears still centre on the first
dark apprehension. Could you confide
in me, I might advise, might aid, and
could at least, most certainly, console
you! Why you cannot, or will not trust
me, you can know only. Side by side
have we grown up, since we were little
tottering things, guiding our weak steps
hand in hand in mutual dependence, seldom
apart, I might say never—for now,
since you have been away, I have
thought of you half the day, and dreamed
of you all night—my earhest comrade, my
best friend, my own, my only sister!
And now we are two grown up maidens,
with no one exactly fit to couusel or console
us, except ourselves alone—since it
has pleased our Heavenly Father, in his
wisdom, for so long to deprive us of our
dear mother's guidance. We are two lone
girls, Marian, and never yet, so far as I
know or can recollect, have we had aught
to be ashamed of, or any secret one
should not have communicated to the
other. And now there is not one thought
in my mind, one feeling or affection in my
heart, which I would hide from you, my
sister. What then can be this heavy sin,
or sorrow, which you are now ashamed,
or fearful, to relate to one, who surely
loves you, as no one else can do, beneath
the canopy of Heaven' Marian, you
must reply to me in full, or I must leave
you till better thoughts shall be awakened
in your soul, and till you judge more truly
of those who most esteem you.”

“Too true! it is too true!” Marian re
plied—“no one has ever loved me as you
have done, sweet Annabel—and now, no
one will love me any more—no one—no
one, for ever. But you are wrong, quite
wrong, when you suppose that any one
has injured me, or that as yet I have done
any wrong; alas! alas! that I should even
have thought sin! Oh! no—Annabel, dear
Annabel, I will bear all my woes myself
—and God will give me grace to conquer
all temptations. Pardon me, sister dear,
pardou me; for it is not that I am ashamed,
or that I fear to tell you—but that to
save my own life, I would not plant one
thorn in your calm bosom. No! I will
see you happy; and will resist the evil
one, that he shall flee from me; and God
will give me strength, and you will pray
for me, and we shall all be blessed.”

As she spoke thus, the wildness and
the strangeness of her manner passed
away, and a calm smile flickered across
her features, and she looked her sister
steadfastly in the eye, and cast her arms
about her neck, and kissed her tenderly
as she finished speaking.

But it was plain to see that Annabel
was by no meaus satisfied; whether it was
that she was anxious merely, and uneasy
about the discomposure of her sister's
mind; or whether something of suspicion
had disturbed the even tenor of her own,
appeared not; her color came and went,
more quickly than was usual to her, and
the glance of her gentle blue eye dwelt
with a doubting and irresolute expression
on Marian's face, as she made answer:

“Very glad am I that, as you tell me,
Marian, you have not suffered aught, or
done anght evil—and I trust that you tell
me truly. Beyond this, I cannot—I cannot,
I confess it, sympathize with you at
all; for in order to sympathize, one must
understand, and that, you know, I do not.
What sin you should have thought of, I
cannot so much as conceive—but as you
say you have resisted your temptations
hitherto—but, oh, what possible temptations
to aught evil, can have beset you in
this dear peaceful home? I cannot not
that you will be strengthened to resist
them further. You tell me, Marian, that
you would not plant a thorn in my calm
bosom—it is true that my bosom was calm
yester-morn, and very happy—but now I
should speak falsely, were I to say that it
is so. What thorn you would plant in
my heart, I know not, by speaking openly—nor
how you could suppose it—but
this I do know, Marian, that you have set
distrust, and dark suspicion and deep sorrow
in my soul this morning. Distrust of
yourself, dear Marian—for what can these

half confidences breed except distrust?
suspicion, of I know not—wish not to
know—dare not to fancy what—deep sorrow
that, already, even from one short
separation, a great gulf is spread out
between us. I will not press you now to
tell me any more; but this I must impress
upon you, that you have laid a burden
upon me, which, save you only, no earthly
being can remove; which nothing can
alleviate except its prompt removal.
Nay! Marian, nay! answer me nothing
now—nothing in this strong heat of passionate
emotion! think of it at your calmer
leisure, and, if you can, in duty to yourself
and others, give me your ample confidence.
I pray you, Marian, do so. In
the meantime go to your chamber, dearest—and
wipe away these traces of your
tears, and re-arrange your hair. Our guests
will be assembled before this, and I have
promised Ernest that we will all ride out,
and see his falcons fly, this beautiful morning.”

Marian made no reply at all, but following
her sister into the house, hurried
up to her chamber, to re-adjust her garments,
and remove from her face the signs
of her late disorder. Meanwhile, sad and
suspicious, of she knew not what, and
only by a violent effort concealing her
heart-felt anxiety, Annabel joined her
guests in the pleasant summer parlor. All
were assembled when she entered, and
all the preparations for the morning meal
duly arranged upon the hospitable board
—the morning meal, how widely different
from that of modern days, how characteristic
of those strong stirring times,
when every gentleman was from his boyhood
half a soldier, when every lady was
prepared for deeds of heroism. There
were no luxuries, effeminate and childish,
of tea and chocolate, or coffee, although
the latter articles were just beginning
to be known; no dry toast or hot
muffins; nor aught else of those things,
which we now consider the indispensables
of the first meal —but silver flagons
mantling with mighty ale, and flasks of
Bordeaux wine, and of rich canary,
crowned the rich board, which groaned
beneath sirloins of beef, and hams, heads
of the wild boar, and venison pasties, and
many kinds of game and wild fowl.

Ernest De Vaux arose, as Annabel came
in, from the seat which he had occupied
by the good vicar's lady, whom he had
been regaling with a thousand anecdotes
of the court, and as many gay descriptions
of the last modes, till she had quite made
up her mind that he was absolute perfection,
and hastened forward to offer her
his morning salutation, but there was
something of embarrassment in his demeanor,
something of coldness in her manner,
which was perceived for a moment
by all her relatives and friends; but it
passed away, as it were, in a moment;
for, by an effort, he recovered almost instautly
his self-possession, and began talking
with light, careless pleasantry, that
raised a smile upon the lips of all who
heard him, and had the effect immediately
of chasing the cloud from the brow of Annabel,
who, after a few minutes, as if she
had done injustice to her lover in her heart,
and was desirous of effacing its remembrance
both from herself and him, gave
free rein to her feelings, and was the
same sweet, joyous creature that she had
been, since his arrival had awakened new
sensations and new dreams in her young,
guileless heart.

Then, before half an hour had elapsed,
more beautiful, perhaps, than ever, Marian
made her appearance. Her rich profusion
of brown curls clustered on her
cheeks, and flowed down her neck from
beneath a slashed Spanish hat of velvet,
with a long ostrich feather, and her unrivalled
figure was set off to more than
usual advantage, by the long waist and
flowing draperies of her green velvet
riding dress. Her face was, perhaps,
somewhat paler than its ordinary hue,
when she first entered, but as she met the
eye of Ernest, brow, cheeks, and neck,
were crimsoned with a burning flush,
which passed away, however, instantly,
leaving her not the least embarrassed or
confused, but perfectly collected, and as
it seemed, full of a quiet, innocent mirthfulness.

Nothing could be more perfect than was
her manner, during the long protracted
meal, towards her sister's lover. She
seemed to feel towards him, already, as if
he were a tried friend and brother. Her
air was perfectly familiar, as she addressed
him, yet free from the least touch of forwardness,
the slightest levity or coquettishness.
She met his admiring gaze—
for he did, at times, gaze on her with
visible admiration—yet admiration of so
quiet and unpassionate a kind, as a good
brother might bestow upon a sister's beauty—with
calm unconsciousness, or with
a girlish mirth, that defied misconstruction.

And Annabel looked on—alas for Annabel!—and
felt her doubts and suspicions
vanishing away every moment. The
vague distrust that had crept into her
heart, melted away like mist wreaths
from before the sun-beam. She only

wondered now, what the anxiety, what
the distrust could possibly have been,
which, for a moment, had half maddened
her.

Then she began to marvel, what could
the sorrow be which, scarce an hour before,
had weighed so heavily on Marian;
and which had in that brief space so utterly
departed. “It must be,” she
thought, as she gazed on her pure, speaking
features, and the clear sparkle of her
bright blue eye, “that she too loves, loves
possibly in vain; that she has lost her
young heart during her absence from her
home; and has now overmastered her
despair, her soul-consuming anguish, to
sympathize in her sister's happiness;” and
then she fancied how she would win from
her that secret sorrow, and soothe it till
she should forget the faithless one, and
tend her with a mother's fond anxiety.
Alas! alas! for Annabel!

7. CHAPTER VII.

The morning meal was ended; the sun
already high in the clear heavens, and the
thin mist wreaths were dispersing from
the broad valley, and the bright river; and
now a merry cavalcade swept round the
lawn from the stables, a dozen foresters
and grooms, well mounted, with led horses,
two of the latter decked with velvet
side saddles, which were then used by
ladies, and seven or eight serving men, on
foot, with hounds and spauiels in their
leashes, and among them, conspicnous
above the rest, the falconer, with his attendants,
one bearing a large frame whereon
were cast—such was the technical jargon
used in the mystery of trainers—
eight or ten long-winged falcons, goshawks,
and gerfalcons, and peregrines,
with all their gay paraphernalia of hoods,
and bells, and jesses.

A little while afterwards the fair girls
came ont, Annabel now attired like her
sister in the velvet riding robe, and the
slashed, graceful hat, and were assisted to
their saddles by the young lover. Then
he, too, bounded to his noble charger's
back and the others of the company in
their turn mounted, and the whole party
rode off, merrily, to the green meadows
by the fair river's side.

Away! away! the spaniels are uncoupled,
and questing far and wide
among the long green flags, and water
briony, and mallows, that fringe the banks
of many a creek and inlet of the river—
over the russet stubbles—up the thick
alder coppices, that fringe the steep ravines.

Away! away! the smooth soft turf, the
slight and brushy hedges, invite the free
and easy gallop, invite the fearless leap!
Away! with hawk unhooded on the wrist
and ready—with graceful seat, light hand,
and bounding heart! See how the busy
spaniels snuff the hot scent, and ply their
feathery tails among the dry fern on the
bank of that old sunny ditch; there has
the game been lately—hold hard, bold
cavaliers—hold hard, my gentle ladies!
—hurry not now the dogs. Hush! hark! the
black King Charles is whimpering already:
that beautiful-long-eared and silk water
spaniel joins in the subdued chorus—how
they thread in and out the withering fernstalks,
how they rush through the crackling
bramples! Yaff! yaff!—now they
give tongue aloud—yaff! yaff! yaff! yaff!
—and whir-r-r upsprings the well grown
covey—now give your hearts to the loud
whoop!—now fling your hawks aloft!—
now gather well your bridles in your
hands, now spur your gallant horses—on!
on! sweep over the low fence, skim the
green meadow, dash at the rapid brook—
ladies and cavaliers pell-mell—all riding
for themselves and careless of the rest, forgetful
of all fear, all thought, in the fierce,
fast career, as with eyes all turned heaven-ward
to mark the soaring contest of the
birds, trusting their goods steeds only, to
bear them swift and safely, they drive in
giddy routes down the broad valley.

And now the flight is over—each gallant
hawk has struck his cowering quarry
—the lures are shaken in the air, the falconer's
whoop and whistle recalls the
hovering falcon, and on they go at slower
pace to beat for frésh game—and lo! flip-flap,
there rises the first woodcock of the
season.

“Ho! mark him—mark him down, good
forester—we must not miss that fellow—
the very prince of game—the king he
would be, save that grey heronshaw of
right has old claim to the throne of falconrie!”

“Lo! there, my masters, he is down—
down in that gulley's bank, where the
broom and the branchens feather the
sunny slope, and the long, rank grasses,
that seen almost to choke its mossy
runuel.”

“Quick! quick! unhood the lanner—
the young and speckled-breasted lanner!
—cast off the old grey-headed gerfalcon—
soh, Diamond, my brave bird! mark his
quick, glancing eye, and his proud crest,

soh? cast him off, and he will wheel
around our heads, nor leave us till we
flush the woodcock. No! no! hold the
young lanner hard, let him not fly, he is
too mettlesome and proud of wing to trust
to—and couple all the dogs up, except the
staunch red setter.”

“Now we will steal on him up wind,
and give him very chance.”

“Best cross the gully here, fair dames,
for it is something deep and boggy, and
if ye were to brave it, in the fury of the
gallop, you might be mired for your
pains.”

“That bird will show you sport; be
sure of it, for lo! the field beyond is
thickly set with stunted thorns, and tufts
of alder bushes; if your hawks be not
keen of sight, and quick of wing, too, be
sure that he will dodge them; and if he
reach you hill-side only, all covered as it
is with evergreens, dense holly brakes,
and thick oak saplings, he is as safe there
in that covert, as though he were a thousand
leagues away in some deep glen of
the wild Atlas Mountains.”

“Lo! there he goes, the grey hawk after
him—by heaven! in fair speed he outstrips
the gerfalcon, he does not condescend
to dodge or double, but flies wild
and high towards the purple moorland, and
there we cannot follow him.”

“Ride, De Vaux, gallop for your life—
cut in, cut in between the bird and the
near ridge—soh! bravely done black
charger—now cast the lanner loose! so!
that will turn him.”

“See! he has turned; and now he
must work for it—the angle he has made
has brought old Diamond up against me
weather wing—now! he will strike—now!
now!”

But lo! the wary bird has dodged, and
the hawk who had soared, and was in the
act of pouncing, checked his fleet pinion
and turned after him—how swift he flies
dead in the wind's eye—and the wind is
rising; he cannot face it now—tack and
tack, how he twists—how cleverly he
beats to wind ward; but now the odds are
terribly against him, the cunning falcons
have divided, and are now flying sharply
to cut him off, one at each termination of
his tacks—the lanner has outstripped
him.

“Whoop! Robin, whoop!—soh! call
him up to the wind—up to the wind, falconer,
or he will miss his stroke. There!
there he tower—up! up! in airy circles
—he poises his broad wing—he swoops—
alack, poor woodcock! but no! he has—
by Pan, the god of hunters!—he has missed
his cast—no swallow ever winged it
swifter than the wild bird of passage—not
now does he fly high among the clouds,
but skims the very surface of the lawn,
twisting round every tree and baffing the
keen falcons.”

Now he is scarce ten paces from his
covert; the old bird, Diamond, flying like
lightning, struggles in vain to weather
him—in vain—the game dashes behind
the boll of a tall upright oak, darts down
among the hollies and is lost—well flown
brave quarry—well flown noble—ha! the
hawk—the brave old hawk, bent only on
retrieving his lost flight, his eye set too
steadily on the bird which he so fiercely
struggled to outfly, has dashed with the
full impetus of his arrowy flight against
the gnarled stem of the oak; he rebounds
from it like a ball from the iron target—
never so much as once flaps his fleet pinions;
tears not the ground with beak or
claw. Diamond, brave Diamond is dead
—and pitying eyes look down on him;
and gentle tears are shed; and the soft
hands that were wont to fondle his high
crest and smoothe his ruffled wings, compose
his shattered pinions, and sleek his
blood-stained plumage—alas, brave Diamond!—but
fate—it is the fate of war!

Another flight—another glowing gallop
to make the blood dance blithely in our
veins—to drive dull care from our hearts!

But no, the sylvan meal is spread—
down by that leafy nook, under the still
green canopy of that gigantic oak, where
the pure spring wells out so clear and
limpid, from the bright yellow gravel under
its gnarled and tortnous roots—there
is the snow-white linen spread on the
mossy green sward; there the cold pasty
and the larded capon tempt the keen appetite
of the jolly sportsman; there, plunged
in the glassy waters, the tall flasks of
champagne are cooling! Who knows not
the delicious zest with which we banquet
on the green sward; the merry joyous
ease which, all restraint and ceremonial
banished, renders the sylvan meal, in the
cool shadow by the rippling brook, so indescribably
delightful? And all who were
collected there were for the moment
happy!—and many, in sad after days, remembered
that gay feast, and dwelt upon
the young hopes, which were so flattering
then, hopes which so soon decayed—and
lingered on the contemplation of that soon
perished bliss, as if the great Italian had
erred, when he declared so wisely that to
the sons of man

The bright wine sparkled in the gohlet,
but brighter flashed the azure eyes of
Marian, for her whole face was radiant
with wild starry beauty. Was it the thrilling
rapture of the gallop, that sent her
blood boiling with strange excitement
“through every petty artery of her body—”
was it the spirit stirring chase alone, or
did the rich blood of the Gallic grape,
sparingly tasted though it was, lend something
of unnatural power? hark to the
silvery tones of that sweet ringing laugh
—and now how deep a blush mantles her
brow, her neck, her bosom, when in receiving
her glass from the hand of Ernest,
their fingers mingled for a moment

But Ernest is unmoved, and calm, and
seemingly unconscious—and Annabel,
fond Annabel, rejoices to mark her sister's
spirits so happily, so fully, as it seems, recovered
from that over-mastering sorrow.
She saw not the hot blush, she noted not
its cause—and yet, can it be—can it be
that casual pressure was the cause?—can
it be love?—love for a sister's bridegroom,
that kindles so the eye—that flushes so
the cheek—that thrills so the life-blood of
lovely Marian? Away! away with contemplation.

Ernest reflects not, for his brow is
smooth and all unruffled by a thought, his
lips are smiling, his pulse calm and temperate—and
Marian pauses not—and Annabel
suspects not—Hush! they are singing.
Lo! how the sweet and flute-like
tones of the fair girls are blended with the
rich and deep contralto of De Vaux. Lo!
they are singing—singing the wood notes
wild of the great master of the soul—

Alas! for trusting Annabel!—soon shall
she wake from her fond dream, soon wake
to woe, to anguish. Again they mount
their steeds, again they sweep the meadows,
down to the very brink of the broad
deep transparent Wharfe—and now the
heronshaw is sprung—he flaps his dark
grey vans, the hermit bird of the waters,
and slowly soars away, till the falconer's
shrill whoop, and the sharp whistling flutter
of the fleet pinions in his rear arouse
him to his danger—up! up! he soars—up!
up! scaling to the very sky in small but
swift gyrations—while side by side the
well matched falcons wheel circling
around him still, and still out-topping him,
till all the three are lost in the grey fleecy
clouds—the clouds!—no one had seen—
no one has even dreamed, engrossed in the
wild fervor of the sport, that all the sky
was overclouded; and the thick blackness
of the thunderstorm, driving up wind, and
settling down in terrible proximity to the
earth, was upon them unseen and unexpected.

Away! away! what heed they, the dark
storm-clouds—the increasing flash?—these
bold equestrians! Heavens! what a flash
—how keen! how close! how livid! the
whole horizon shone out for a moment's
space one broad blue glare of fearful living
light—and simultaneously the thunder
burst above them—a crash as of ten thousand
pieces of earth's heaviest ordnance,
shot off in one wild clatter. The horses
of the party were all careering at their
speed, their maddest speed, across a broad
green pasture, bordered on the right hand
by the wide channel of the Wharfe, and
on the left by an impracticable fence of
tall old thorns, with a deep ditch on either
side, and a stout timber railing. The two
fair sisters were in front, leading the joyous
cavalcade, with their eyes in the
clouds, their hearts full of the fire of the
chase, when that broad dazzling glare
burst full in their faces.

Terrified by the livid flash and the appalling
crash of the reverberated thunder,
the horses of the sisters bolted diverse—
Annabel's towards the broad rapid Wharfe,
between which and the meadow through
which they had been so joyously careering,
there was no fence or barriers at the
spot where they were then riding—Marian's
towards the dangerous oxfence, which
has been mentioned! The charger of De
Vaux, who rode next behind them, started
indeed, and whirled about, but was
almost immediately controlled by the
strong arm and skilful horsemanship of
his bold rider; but of the grooms who followed,
several were instantly dismounted,
and there were only three or four who,
mastering their terrified and fractious
beasts, galloped off to the aid of their
young mistresses. They were both good
equestrians, and ordinarily fearless, but in
such peril what woman could preserve
her wonted intrepidity unshaken—the sky
as black as night, with ever and anon a
sharp clear stream of the electric fluid dividing
the dark storm clouds, and the continuous
thunder rolling and crashing overhead—their
horses mad with terror, and
endowed by that very madness with tenfold
speed and strength!—Annabel, whose
clear head, and calm, though resolute
temper, gave her no small advantage over
her volatile impetuous sister, sat, it is true,
as firmly in her saddle, as though she had
been practising her menage in the riding

school—and held her fiery jennet with a
firm steady hand; but naturally her
strength was insufficient to control its
fierce and headlong speed; so that she
saw upon the instant, that she must be
carried into the whirling waters of the
swift river—for a moment she thought of
casting herself to the ground, but it
scarcely required one moment of reflection
to show her that such a course could
lead but to destruction. So on she drove,
erect and steady in her seat, guiding her
horse well, and keeping its head straight
to the river bank, and hoping every instant
to hear the tramp of De Vaux's charger
overtaking her, and bringing succor—
alas! for Annabel!—the first sound that
distinctly met her ears was a wild piercing
shriek—“Ernest—great God! my Ernest—help
me!—save me!” It was the
voice of Marian, the voice of her own
cherished sister, calling on her betrothed
—and he? Even in that dread peril, when
life was on a cast, her woman heart prevailed
above her woman fear, she turned,
and saw the steed of Marian rushing with
the bit between his teeth towards the dangerous
fence, which lay, however, far more
distant than the river to which her own
horse was in terrible proximity! and he,
her promised husband, the lord of her
soul, he for whom she would have perished—oh,
how willingly!—perished with
but the one regret of that reparation—he
had overlooked entirely, or heeded not at
least, her peril to whom his faith was
sworn; and even before that wild appealing
cry, had started in pursuit—and was,
as she looked round, in the act of whirling
Marian from her saddle with one hand,
while with the other he controlled his
own strong war horse.

When she first heard that cry, her
spirit sank within her—but when she saw
herself deserted, when the drear consciousness
that she was not beloved, broke
on her, it seemed as if an icebolt had
pierced her heart of hearts! her eyes
grew dim! there was a sound of rushing
waters in her ear! not the sound of the
rushing river, although her horse was
straining now up the last ascent that
banked it! her pulse stood still! Had
Annabel then died, the bitterness of death
was over. Before, however, she had so
much as wavered in her saddle, much less
lost rein or stirrup, a wild plunge, and the
shock which ran through every nerve, as
her horse leaped into the brimful river,
awoke her for the moment to her present
situation—unconsciously she had retained
her seat—her horse was swimming
boldly—a loud plunge sounded from be
hind! another, and another! and the next
instant her steed's head was seized by the
stalwart arm of a young falconer, and
turned towards the shore she had just
quitted; her brain reeled round, and she
again was senseless—thus was she borne
to land, without the aid or intervention of
him, who should have been the first to
venture all, to lose all, for her safety.
Alas! alas! for Annabel!

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.”

9. CHAPTER IX.

Within an hour after that most momentous
conversation, Annabel sat beside the window,
in that pleasant summer parlor, looking
out on the fair prospect of mead and
dale and river, with its back-ground of
purple mountains; the very window from
which she had first looked upon De Vaux!

Perhaps a secret instinct had taught her
to select that spot, now that she was about
to renounce him for ever; but if it were
so, it was one of those indefinable impulsive
instincts of which we are unconscious,
even while they prompt our actions.

De Vaux was summoned to her presence,
and Annabel awaited him—arbiter
of her own and her sister's destinies!

“Ernest,” she said, as he entered, cutting
across his eager and impetuous inquiries,
“Ernest De Vaux, I have learned
to-day a secret”—she spoke with perfect
ease, and without a symptom of irritation,
or anxiety, or sorrow, either in her voice
or manner; nor was she cold, or dignified,
or haughty. Her demeanor was not, indeed,
that of a fond maid towards her accepted
suitor; nor had it the flutter which
marks the consciousness of unacknowledged
love; a sister's to a dear brother's
would have resembled it more nearly
than, perhaps, anything to which it could
be compared, yet was not this altogether
similar. He looked up in her face with a
smile, and asked her at once,

“What secret, dearest Annabel?”

“A secret, Ernest,” she replied, “which
I cannot but fancy you must have learned
before, but which you certainly have learned,
as well as I, to-day. My sister loves
you, Ernest.”

The young man's face was crimson on
the instant, and he would have made some
reply, but his voice failed him, and, after
a moment of confused stuttering, he stood
before her in embarrassed silence; but she
went on at once, not noticing, apparently,
his consternation.

“If you did know this, as I fear must
be the case, long, long ago! most basely
have you acted, and most cruelly to both
of us; for never! never! even if it had
been a rash, unsought, and unjustifiable
passion on her part, would I have wedded,
knowingly, the man who held my sister's
heart-strings!”

“It was,” he answered, instantly, “it
was a rash, unsought, and unjustifiable
passion on her part, believe me, oh! believe
me, Annabel! that is—that is,” he
continued, reddening again at feeling himself
self-convicted, “that is, if she felt any
passion.”

“Then you did know it—then you did
know it,” she interrupted him, without
paying any regard to his attempt at self-correction,
“then you did know it from
the very first—oh! man, man! oh! false
heart of man—oh! false tongue that can
speak thus of the woman whom he loves!
yes, loves!” she added, in a clear, high
voice, as thrilling as the alarm blast of a
silver trumpet, “yes, loves, Ernest De
Vaux, with his whole heart and spirit!
Never think to deny it! did I not see
you, when you rushed to save her from
lesser peril, when you left me, as you
must have thought, to perish—did I not
see love written as clearly as words in a
book, on every feature of your face, even
as I heard love crying out aloud in every
accent of her voice?”

“What! jealous, Annabel? the calm and
self-controlling Annabel! can she be jealous—of
her own sister, too?”

“Not jealous, sir,” she answered, now
most contemptuously, “not jealous, in the
least, I do assure you! For though, most
surely, love can exist without one touch
of jealousy, as surely cannot jealousy exist
where there is neither love, nor admiration,
nor esteem, nor so much as respect
existing.”

“How? do I hear you aright?” he asked
somewhat sharply, “do I understand you
aright? What have become, then, of your
vows and protestations—your protestations
of yester even?”

“You do hear me—you do understand
me,” she replied, “entirely right—entirely!
In my heart—for I have searched it very
deeply—in my heart there is not now one
feeling of love, or admiration, or esteem,
much less of respect for you; alas! that I
should say so! alas! for me and you!
alas! for one, more to be pitied twenty-fold
than the other!”

“Annabel Hawkwood, you have never
loved me.”

“Ernest De Vaux, you never have known
—never will know—because you are incapable
of knowing the depth, the singleness,
the honesty of a true woman's love!
So deeply did I love you, that I have come
down hither, seeing that long before
you knew me, you had won Marian's
heart—seeing that you loved her, as she
loves you most ardently—and hoping that
you had not discovered her affection, nor
suspected your own feelings until to-day,
I came down hither, I say, with that knowledge,
in that hope, and I had found that
you had erred no further than in trivial fickleness,
she loving you all the while beyond
all things on earth, I purposed to resign
your hand to her, thus making both of you
happy, and trusting for my own consolation
to consciousness of right and to the
love of Him, who, all praise be to Him
therefor, has so constituted the spirit of
Annabel Hawkwood, that when she cannot
honor, she cannot afterwards for ever
feel either love or friendship You are
weighed, Ernest De Vaux, weighed in the
balance and found wanting! I leave you
now, sir, to prepare my sister to bear the
blow your baseness has inflicted. Our
marriage is broken off at once, now and
for ever! Lay all the blame on me—on
me! if it so please you; but not one word
against my own or my sister's honor! My

aunt I shall inform instantly, that, for
sufficient reasons, our promised union will
not take place at all; the reasons I shall
lock up in my own bosom. You may
remain here—you must do so—this one
night; to-morrow morning we will bid
you adieu for ever!”

“Be it so,” he replied. “Be it so, lady;
the fickleness I can forgive, but not the
scorn! I will go now, and order that the
regiment march hence forthwith. What
more recruits there he, can follow at their
leisure, and I will overtake the troops before
noon, on the march, to-morrow;”
and with the words he left the room, apparently
as unconcerned as if he had not
left a breaking heart behind him, and as if
all the agonies of hell had not been burning
within his own.

And was it true that Annabel no longer
loved him? True! oh! believe it not!
where woman once has fixed her soul's
affections, there they will dwell for ever;
principle may compel her to suppress
them; prudence may force her to conceal
them; the fiery sense of instantaneous
wrong may seem to quench them for a
moment; the bitterness of jealousy may
turn them into gall; but, like that Turkish
perfume, where love has once existed, it
must exist for ever, so long as one fragment
of the earthly vessel which contained
it survives the wreck of time and ruin.

She believed that she loved him not;
but she knew not herself; what woman
ever did? what man? when the spring-tide
of passion was upon them? And she,
too, left the parlor, and within a few
minutes, Marian had heard her fate, and
after many a tear, and many a passionate
exclamation, she, too, apparently, was
satisfied of Ernest's worthlessness; oh!
misapplied and heartless term! She satisfied?
satisfied by the knowledge that her
heart's idol was an unclean thing, an evil
spirit, a false god! she satisfied? oh!
Heaven!

Around the hospitable board once more
—once more they were assembled; but
oh! how sadly altered; the fiat had been
distinctly, audibly pronounced; and all
assembled there had heard it, though
none, except the sisters and De Vaux,
knew of the cause; none probably, but
they, suspected it. Well was it that there
were no young men—no brothers with
high hearts and strong hands to maintain
or question. Well was it, that the only
relatives of those much-injured maidens,
the only friends, were superannuated men
of peace—the ministers of pardon, not of
vengeance—and weak, old helpless women!
There had been bloodshed else—
and, as it was, among the serving men,
there were dark brows, and writhing lips,
and hands alert to grasp the hilt at a
word spoken, had they but been of rank
one grade higher—had they dared even as
they were, there had been bloodshed!
Cold, cold and cheerless was the conversation;
formal and dignified civilities, in
place of gay, familiar mirth; forced smiles
for hearty laughter; pale looks and dim
eyes, for the glad blushes of the promised
bride—for the bright sparkles of her eye!

The evening passed—the hour of parting
came; and it was colder yet and sadder.
Ernest De Vaux, calm and inscrutable,
and seemingly unmoved, kissed the hands
of his lovely hostesses, and uttered his
adieu and thanks for all their kindness,
and hopes for their prosperity and welfare;
while the old clergymen looked on
with dark and angry brows, and their help-mates
with difficulty could refrain from
loud and passionate invective. His lip
had a curl upon it—a painful curl, half
sneer, as he bowed to the rest, and left
the parlor; but none observed that as he
did so, he spoke three or four words, in a
low whisper, so low that it reached Marian's
ear alone, of all that stood around
him, yet of such import, that her color
came and went ten times within the
minute, and that she shook from head to
foot, and quivered like an aspen.

For two hours longer, the sisters sat together
in Annabel's bedchamber, and wept
in one another's arms, and comforted each
other's sorrows, and little dreamed that
they should meet no more for years, perchance
for ever.

10. CHAPTER X.

Three hours had elapsed since all the inhabitants
of Ingleborough Hall had retired
to their own chambers, and one, at least,
since Marian had retired from her sister's
dressing-room, to bed, but not to sleep.
During that weary hour, she had lain
tossing to and fro, feverish with anxiety
and expectation, irresolute, anxious, and
heartsick.

The last words which Ernest De Vaux
had whispered in her ear, unheard by any
others, contained a fervent entreaty, perhaps—I
should say, rather, a command—
that she should meet him after all the
house had gone to rest, in the garden.
And strange it was, that despite all
that had passed, despite all her own

good resolutions, all the resistance of
her native modesty, all her conviction—
for she was almost convinced that he
was base and bad—she yet lacked firmness
to set the tempter at defiance.

It is a singular fact, but one which we
nevertheless encounter more frequently
than would be supposed, that it is women
of the most bold and free and fearless
characters, who, so long as their fancies
are untouched, appear the wildest and
the most untamable, that are subdued and
engrossed the most completely, when they
once become thoroughly enamored, when
they once meet with an overmastering
spirit.

And so it was with Marian Hawkwood;
high spirited and almost daring, while her
heart was free, no sooner had she fallen
desperately in love, as she did, with De
Vaux, than she became, so far as she was
concerned, the most thoroughly subjugated
and tamed of beings. Her whole nature,
towards him at least, seemed to
have undergone a change. Her very intellect
appeared to have lost much of its
brilliancy, of its rapid and clear perceptions,
as soon as he was to be judged.

To us, such things appear very strange,
although we see them happening before
our eyes almost daily. To us, they are as
inexplicable as the one half of our motives
and our actions must appear incomprehensible
to the other sex. But all these
diversities, all these inexplicable contradictions
as they seem, in the nature and
characteristics of our race, have been created,
and unquestionably for wise ends,
by Him whose every deed is all wise,
whose every purpose perfect. And it
may well be that it is these very differences,
these very extremities of thought
and action, that render the two sexes so
eminently attractive to another.

To the mind of a man it naturally would
appear impossible, that after what had
passed, Marian should still entertain a belief,
a hope even, that De Vaux could explain
honorably his most dishonorable
conduct—dishonorable, if possible, yet
more towards herself than towards Annabel.
It would seem that when he presumed
to whisper in her ear that prayer
for a clandestine interview, she would
have recognised and spurued him for the
villain that he was. But it was not so—
she still hoped—if she did not believe—
and if she made him no answer at the
time, it was that her maiden purity of
soul revolted from the idea of a rendezvous
with any man at that untimely hour,
and in a place so sequestered.

At first, indeed, she resolved that she
would not meet him, and even made up
her mind to confide his request to Annabel,
as a fresh proof of his atrocious baseness.
But gradually worse thoughts and
more fatal wishes began to creep in, and
she suffered the long conversation between
herself and Annabel to come to a
termination, without touching on the circumstance
at all. At length she left her
sister's chamber, and withdrew to her
own, still without any fixed intention of
granting his request, but certainly without
any fixed determination not to do so.

After she had undressed herself, however,
and that she did so was a proof that
up to this time her better principles had
the upper hand, she knelt down by her
bedside, buried her face in her hands, and
seemed, at least, to pray. It was, however,
but too evident that her mind was in
no state for prayer. She burst into a fit
of violent and convulsive weeping, mixed
with sobs almost hysterical, while strong
shudderings ran through her whole fair
frame.

“No!” she said, starting up after a
while, and calming herself by a powerful
effort of the will—“no, no, I cannot pray
—it is mockery—a shameful mockery to
bend my knees and move my lips in
prayer before the throne of God, when no
thought of him remains fixed in my mind
—when by no effort can I concentrate my
wandering senses upon his goodness and
mercy—when by no effort can I banish
from my soul the recollection, the wild
yearning for the creature usurping thus
the place of the Creator! Oh, my God!”
she continued, even more wildly than before—“my
God, what shall I do—what
shall I do! what have I done that I should
be thus terribly afflicted! To bed—to
bed!” she added, extinguishing her taper,
as she spoke—“to bed, but not to sleep!
never to sleep again in peace or dreamless.
Would to God that this bed were
the grave—the cold unconscious grave!”

And with the words, she laid her head
upon the pillow, and closed her eyelids,
saying to herself “no, no, it were unmaidenty,
I will not think of it—no, no!” But
she did think of it—nay, she could think
of nothing else; and ere long she unclosed
her eyes, and looked about her chamber
with a wild, eager glance, as if she were
in search of something which she expected
to see there, but saw not. Again she
closed them, and cast herself back impatiently
upon the bed, and lay quiet for a
little while; but it was only by a great effort
that she forced herself to do so, and
before long, she started up crying, “I shall
go mad—I shall go mad—I hardly know

if I am not mad already. It is all fire
here!” and she elasped her small white
hands over her brow, “all raging and consuming
fire! Air! air! I must have air—
I am choking, stifling! Can it be that the
room is so suffocating hot—or is it in my
own heart?”

The comfortable, roomy chamber in
which she lay, could not have been more
pleasantly attempered to the weather and
the season, had it been regulated by the
thermometer. It was a large and airy
chamber, situated at the corner of the
house, so that its two large latticed casements
looked out in different directions,
one over the little garden amphitheatre so
often noticed, the other down the broad
valley to the southward. The moon,
which now was nearly full, streamed in
at the eastern window, and would have
rendered the room nearly as bright as day,
if it had not been for the leafy head of one
of the huge sycamores that interrupted
the soft beams partially; and swaying
backward and forward in the west wind,
which was fitful and uncertain, now
blowing in long gusts, now lulling altogether,
cast huge and wavering shadows
over the floor and walls—so that they
were at one time all bathed in lustrous
light, and the next moment steeped in
misty shadows.

There was something in this wavering
effect of light and shade, that at first
caught the eye merely and attracted the
physical attention, if it is allowed so to
speak, and afterwards began to produce
an impression on her mind. It seemed to
her as if the vagueness and incertitude of
these fleeting shades were in some sort
assimilated to the wild and whirling
thoughts which were chasing one another
across the horizon of her own mind.
Then she compared them to the changes
and chances of mortal life, and thence,
as we are all so prone to do, when in
trouble and affliction, she began to charge
all her own misfortunes, and many of her
own faults, to the account of fortune.

If it had not been for the irresistible destiny
which had compelled Ernest to
leave her at York, it could not have been,
she thought, that seeking her out so eagerly
as he did on all occasions, and admiring
her personal charms so evidently,
Ernest should not have ended by loving
and wooing her instead of her passionless
and gentle sister.

And from this train of thought she fell
into another yet more perilous. How,
she now asked herself, had it come to
pass that he had wooed Annabel at all—
how, when he loved herself, should he
have sought her sister's love—or how,
loving her sister, should he have given
way, so clearly and openly as he had
done to-day, to a passion for herself.

His conduct did seem in truth incomprehensible—perhaps
to himself, even, it
might have been so—for, I believe that,
far oftener than is generally believed,
men, if they were to subject themselves to
strict self-examination, would be at a loss
to account to themselves for the motives
whence arise very many of their actions.

This very strangeness of Ernest De
Vaux's demeanor—this very impossibility
of accounting for his conduct on any
reasonable hypothesis, had the worst possible
effect for her happiness, on the mind
of Marian. If she was to consider this
whole course of conduct infamous and
base, the baseness seemed too gratuitous,
the infamy too void of motive, to be
credited. And hence she was led to fancy
that there must be some unseen and secret
hand which had given motion to the
whole machinery, and which, could it but
be discovered, would probably afford a
ready clue and complete solution to all
that now appeared dark and enigmatical
in her lover's words and actions.

For whatever we find glaringly inconsistent,
or foolishly miscontrived in the
conduct of men, we are wont in our
blindness and conceitedness of heart to
consider enigmatical and obscure, as if,
forsooth, men were anything but masses
of inconsistencies the most glaring and
self-evident.

Having soon brought herself to the conclusion
that because she could not understand
the conduct of Ernest, there must
necessarily be something in it to be understood,
she now went to work to find
out what this something could be. The
original bane of woman, curiosity, was
busy in her secret soul, and soon there
came together two sister friends to aid her
in the invidious onslaught she was seeking
on the strongholds of principle and
virtue—fit partners in the foul alliance,
vain self-esteem, and jealousy.

First she commenced asking herself
how it could have been that he should
have failed to love her, and yet have
fallen in love instantly with Annabel—
then she half doubted whether he had,
indeed, ever loved Annabel at all—that
he did so no longer was quite evident—
and in the end she convinced herself, that
she had been the object of his love from
the beginning, that by some misapprehension
of her manner he had been led to

believe her indifferent to himself, and that
in pique he had devoted himself to her
sister.

This train once kindled in her mind, the
flame ran rapidly from point to point, and
she was very soon so completely self-deluded,
that she gave herself up to the conviction
that she was herself the only true
love of De Vaux, that his conduct had
been natural, and if very blamable, still
honorable, and deserving some compassion
from the fact that her own charms
had been the cause of all the mischief.
Still she was very far from having made
up her mind to meet him, though she had
already admitted to herself that it was
cruel to condemn him without giving him
an opportunity of defending himself, and
one step leading to another, she soon began
to consider seriously the possibility
of doing that, which but an hour before
she could not have contemplated without
terror and disgust.

Ere long it was fear only that dissuaded
her from going—the fear of discovery, and
that was but a weak opponent to strong
and passionate love—for she did love
Ernest De Vaux strongly and passionately
—particularly when that love was, aided
and abetted by the other kindred spirits
of evil, which I have enumerated, and
which for ever lie hid in the secret recesses
of the human heart waiting the opportunity
to arise and do battle, when the
better principles are weakened by temptations,
and the tone of the mind soured
by vexation and rendered angry by disappointment.

Then she arose at length, half timidly
still, and half reluctantly. Nor did she
as yet admit to herself what was her intention
as she dressed herself hastily, and
stole with a beating heart and noiseless
step to the door of her sister's chamber.
Opening it with a careful hand, she entered,
and stole silently to the bedside.
Pale as a lily, calm and tranquil lay sweet
Annabel, buried in deep, and as she at
first thought, dreamless sleep. One fair
slight hand was pressed upon her bosom,
the other arm was folded under the head
of the lovely sleeper. The broad light of
the moonbeams fell in a flood of pure silvery
radiance over the lovely picture—and
surely never lovelier was devised—of virgin
innocence, and purity of meekness.

For many moments the perturbed and
anxious Marian stood by the side of the
couch gazing upon the face of that once
beloved sister—alas! that I must say once
beloved—for already had jealousy, and
distrust, and envy come over the heart of
the no less lovely watcher—and she felt,
as she stood there, that she no longer
loved that sister, as she used to love, or
as she was still herself beloved. No contrast
can be imagined more striking than
that between the sleeper, so still, so tranquil,
so serene—yet so inanimately pale
and spiritual in her aspect—and the
flushed cheeks, and flashing eyes, and
frame quivering with wild excitement of
the half trembling, half guilty girl who
stood beside her. The deep regular calm
breathing of the sleeper, the short quick
panting inspirations of the excited watcher—the
absolute unconsciousness of the
one and the terrible and overwrought
feelings of the other—the innocence, the
confidence, the trust in God, of Annabel—
the agonies, the wishes, and the doubts
of Marian.

And strange as it may seem, the very
peacefulness, the very absence of all semblance
of earthly feeling or earthly passion
in her slumbering sister, the infantile
repose which brooded over the candid
face, augmented Marian's feelings of nascent
dislike or disaffection. An angry
sense of vexation that Annabel should be
able to sleep sound and quiet even amid
her griefs, while she could neither rest in
mind or body. Then she began to justify
herself in her own eyes by suffering her
mind to dwell on the idea that Annabel
could not be wronged by her, should she
consent to wed Ernest, for that her very
calmness and tranquillity must needs betoken
the absence of true passion.

While she was wondering thus a slight
sound from the garden under the windows
caught her ear, and she started wildly,
her heart bounding as if it would have
burst out of her tortured bosom. A
shadow steals not across the moonlighted
landscape more noiselessly than did Marian
Hawkwood glide over the carpet to
the lattice, and gaze down into the quiet
shrubbery. Alas! for Marian—there on
the gravel walk, half hidden by the shadow
of the giant sycamores, stood the
graceful and courtly figure of the tempter.
His eyes were directed upward to the
casement at which she was standing—
they met hers—and on the instant, deeply
versed in all the hypocrisies of gallantry,
Ernest De Vaux knelt down, and clasped
his hands as if he were in prayer, and she
might see his lips tremble in the moonlight.

She turned—she retrod the chamber
floor in silence—she stood again beside
her sister's bed—but this time it was to
see only whether that sister's eyes were
sealed in oblivious slumber. As she
paused, she had an opportunity of judging

whether the dreams of that pale sleeper
were indeed so blissful—whether the heart
of Annabel was so serene and passionless.
The moonbeams fell full on her face, as I
have said, and Marian saw two heavy
tears glide from her deeply curtained lids,
and slide down her transparent cheeks;
and while she gazed upon her she stirred,
and stretched out both her arms, as if to
clasp some one, and murmured in her
sleep the name—of Marian.

Had that small simple thing occurred
before the girl looked out and saw Ernest,
all might yet have been well—but it was
all too late—passion was burning in her
every vein, and bounding in her every
pulse—it was too late!—she turned and
left the chamber.

Cautiously she stole to the staircase,
groping her way in the glimmering twilight
through the long oaken corridor—as she
reached the stairhead she again paused,
listened, and trembled—did she hesitate?
Upon that landing-place there stood two
complete panoplies of steel, worn by some
loyal Hawkwood of old time in the wars
of the Roses, and as the eyes of the excited
girl fell upon them, it appeared to her
that the spirits of her dead ancestors were
looking out from the bars of their avantailles
reproachfully on their delinquent
daughter. Hastily she darted past them,
and flew down the stairs and reached the
vestibule, and there she met another interruption,
for a small favorite greyhound—
her favorite—she had reared it from a
puppy when its dam perished—which
was sleeping on the mat, rose up and
fawned upon her, and would not be repulsed,
but stood erect on its hinder legs
and laid its long paws on her arm, as she
thought afterward, imploringly, and uttered
a low ominous whine as she cast it off.

She unbolted the hall door, opened it,
glided out like a guilty spectre into the
glimpses of the moon—and as she did so
a fleecy cloud passed over the pale face
of the planet, and a long wailing cry rose
plaintively upon the still night. It was
but the cry of an owl—there were hundreds
of them in the woods around, and
she heard them hoot nightly—yet now she
shuddered at the sound as if it were a
warning—and was it not so? The smallest
things are instruments in the hands of
Him, to whom all earthly things are small.

11. CHAPTER XI.

Despite the warning sounds, which at the
moment smote on her soul so ominously,
Marian went down the steps leading from
the little porch into the garden, although
her steps faltered, and her heart beat violeutly
between fear and expectation, and
the consciousness that she was acting
wrongly. Before she had advanced, however,
ten paces, round the corner of the
hall, into the grove of sycamores, wherein
the shadows fell dark and heavy over the
gravel walk which rhreaded it, she was
joined by Ernest de Vaux.

He appeared, at the moment, to be little
less agitated than she was herself; his
countenance, even to the lips, was ashy
pale, and she could see that he trembled,
and it was owing, perhaps, to this very
visible embarrassment on his part, that
Marian felt less forcibly the extreme impropriety,
if not indelicacy, of her own
conduct.

Had he come to meet her, confident,
proud, and evidently exhilarated by the
success of his machinations, it is possible
that her modesty would have been offended;
that she would have discovered the
danger she was running, and withdrawn,
ere it was yet too late, for happiness or
honor.

But, as it was, when she saw the man
she loved, coming to meet her, wan and
agitated, timid, and with the trace of tears
on his pallid cheeks, a sense of pity rose
in her bosom, and lent its aid to the pleadings
of that deceptive advocate within her
soul, which needed no assistance in his
favor.

Still, as she met him, there was an air
of dignity, and self-restraint, and maidenly
reserve about her, that went some little
way at least to screen her from the consequences
of her exceeding indiscretion;
and when she addressed him—for it was
she who spoke the first—it was in a voice
far cooler, and more resolute, than the
mind which suggested and informed it.

“I trust”—she said—“my Lord de Vaux,
that you have good and sufficient cause
for the strange request which you made
me at our last interview—some cause, I
mean, sir, that may justify you, in requiring
a lady to meet you thus clandestinely,
and alone, and her in consenting to do so.
There has been so much strange and mysterious,
my lord, in your whole conduct
and demeanor, from the first to the last;
and that mystery—if not deceit—has
wrought effects so baleful on my sister's
happiness, that I confess I have hoped
you may have something to communicate

that may, in some degree, palliate your
own motives, which now seem so evil;
and repair the positive evil which you
have done her. It is on this consideration
only, that I have consented to give you a
hearing. It is in this trust only, that I
have taken a step, which I fear me is unmaidenly
and wrong in itself—but it is by
my motives that my conduct must be
judged; and I know those to be honorable
and correct. Now, my lord, may it please
you to speak quickly that you have got to
say—but let me caution you, that I hear
no addresses, nor receive any pleadings,
meant for my own ear—one such word,
and I leave you. Speak, my lord!”

“You are considerate, ever, dear young
lady”—replied Ernest de Vaux, in tones of
deep respect, not drawing very near her,
nor offering to take her hand, nor tendering
any of those customary familiarities,
which, though perfectly natural at any
other time, might, under present circumstances,
have had the effect of alarming
her, and checking her freedom of demeanor.

“You are considerate, ever, dear young
lady! and I am bold to say it, your confidence
is not misplaced, nor shall your
trust be deceived!”

“I do not know”—answered Marian—
“I do not know, my lord! It is for you
to show that—at present, appearances are
much against you; nor do I see what explanation
you can make, that shall exonerate
you. But to the point, my lord, to
the point!”

“None, Miss Hawkwood—none! I have
no explanations that I can make which
shall exonerate—”

“Then why”—she interrupted him,
warmly and energetically—“why have
you brought me hither?—or to what do
you expect that I shall listen?—not, methinks!
to a traitor's love-tale?”

“Which shall exonerate me, I would
have said”—De Vaux resumed, as quickly
as she left off speaking—“had you permitted
me, from the grossest and most
blind folly—hallucination—madness!—
Yes! I believe I have been mad.”

“Madness, my lord,” exclaimed Marian,
“is very apt to be the plea of some people
for doing just whatsoever they think
fit—without regard to principle or honor,
to the feelings of their fellow-creatures,
or to the good opinion of the world. I
trust it is not so with you; but I, for one,
have never seen aught in your conduct
that was incompatible with the most sound
and serious sanity.”

“I hardly know how I may speak to
you without offence, dear mistress Marian.
My object, in requesting you to hear a few
last words from a very wretched, and
very penitent man, arose from a painful
yearning to stand pardoned, if not justified,
in the eyes of one being at least, of
this family, to whom I owe so much, and
by whom I am now so grievously misapprehended.”

“Then I was right!” answered Marian,
joyously, and her eye sparkled for a moment,
and her pale cheek flushed crimson
—“then you have some excuse to offer—
well! my lord, well. It was in hopes of
hearing such, that I came hither—there
can be no offence to me in that—I shall be
very glad to hear that one of whom I have
thought well, is worthy of such estimation.”

“But to prove that,” he answered, in a
soft, low voice, “I must enter upon a history;
I must speak to you of things that
passed long ago—of things that passed at
York!”

“My lord!” and she started back, a
brief spark of indignation gleaming in her
bright eyes—“my lord!”

“Nay,” he replied, humbly and sadly,
“if you forbid me to speak, I am silent;
but by no means can I exculpate myself,
but by naming these things; and I asseverate
to you by the earth, and the heavens,
and all that they contain!—I swear to you,
by Him who made them all! that, if you
deign to hear me, I have a perfect and
complete defence against all but the
charge of folly. And, as you hope for
happiness yourself, here or hereafter, I do
conjure you hear me!”

“Your promises are very strong, my
lord; and your adjuration such, that I
may not refuse to listen to you.”

“I must speak to you of yourself,
lady!”

“Of myself?”

“Aye! of yourself—for you, Marian
Hawkwood, are the cause, the sole cause
of everything that has appeared inconsistent,
base, or guilty on my part!”

“I! my lord—I!—I the cause of your
inconsistency, your guilt, your baseness!”
she cried, indignantly. “Prove it, prove
it—but I defy you”—she added, more
calmly, and with a scornful intonation of
voice—“You know that all this is words
—words—false and empty words! Now,
sir, speak out at once, or I leave you—
better it were, perhaps, had I never come
at all!”

Better, indeed! Alas! poor Marian, that
your own words should be so terribly prophetic,
that your one fault should have so
sealed and stamped your life with the impression
of remorse and sorrow. For

Ernest de Vaux had now gained his end,
he had so stimulated and excited her curiosity,
and through her curiosity, her interest,
that she was now prepared, nay,
eager, to listen to words, which, a little
while before, she would have shrunk from
hearing. And he perceived the advantage
he had gained—for all his seeming agitation
and embarrassment were but consummate
acting, and made himself ready
to profit by it to the utmost.

“You cannot but remember, lady”—he
resumed, artfully, adopting the unconcerned
tone of a mere narrator—“the day
when I first saw you at the High Sheriff's
ball?”

“I do not know, my lord, what very
charming memories I have to fix the time
or place, upon my mind, of an event by
no means striking or delightful; was it at
the High Sheriff's ball?—it might have
been, doubtless; for I was there—and if
you say it was, I do not doubt that you
are quite right.”

But this affected unconcern, this little
stratagem of poor Marian, availed her nothing
with De Vaux; for he saw through
it in a moment. He knew instinctively
and instantly, that it was affected—and
more, the affectation convinced him that
there was something that she would conceal;
and what that something was, his
consummate knowledge of the female
heart informed him readily. But he replied,
as if he was taken in by her artifice.

“It is fortunate for you,” he said, “that
you can forget so easily—would to God
that I had been able to do likewise—but
if you have forgotten the time and the
place, I cannot believe that you have as
speedily forgotten the deep and evident
impression which your charms made upon
me—my eagerness to gain your acquaintance—my
constant and assiduous attentions—in
short, the deep and ardent passion
with which you had filled my very
soul, from the first hour of our meeting.”

“Indeed!” she replied, very scornfully,
and coldly, “you do far too much honor
to my penetration. I never once suspected
anything of the kind; nor do I even now
conjecture what motive can impel you to
feign, what, I believe, never had an existence
in reality.”

“You must have been blind, indeed,
lady, as blind as I was myself. And yet
you cannot deny that my eye dwelt on
you; followed you everywhere—that I
danced with you constantly, with you
alone, and that when I danced not with you,
I waited ever nigh you, to catch one glance
from your eye, one murmur from your
sweet voice. You cannot but have noticed
this!”

“And if I did, my lord?—and if I did,
ladies of birth and station do not imagine
that every young man, who likes to dance
with them, and talk soft nonsense to them,
who perhaps thinks them pretty enough,
or witty enough, to while away a tedious
hour in the country, is in love with them,
any more than they wish gentlemen to
flatter themselves, that they have yielded
up their hearts, because they condescend
to be amused by lively conversation, or
even flattered by attentions, which they
receive as things of course!”

“And did you so receive—did you so
think of my attentions?”

“Upon my word, my lord, I don't remember
that I thought anything at all
about them, that I perceived them even!
But your self-justification is taking a
strange turn. To what is all this tending,
I beseech you?”

“To this, Marian Hawkwood, that
when I saw you daily, nightly, at York, I
loved you with the whole passionate and
violent devotion of a free, honest heart—
that I endeavored by all means in my
power, by the most eager and assiduous
devotion, by all those nameless indescribable
attentions, which we are taught to
believe that women prize above all
things—”

“Women are much obliged to you, my
lord, upon my word!” she interrupted
him.

“To let you perceive,” he continued, as
if he had not heard her, “to make you
understand how I adored you; and I believed
that I had not been unsuccessful—
I believed more, that you both saw, and
appreciated, and returned my love, Marian!”

“Did you, indeed?” she replied, with a
bitter expression of haughtiness and scorn.
“Did you, indeed, believe so? Then you
were, in the first place, very unhappily
mistaken; and, in the second place, egregiously
misled by your vain self-conceit.”

“I believe not. Mistress Marian, ladies
are generally sufficiently clear-sighted in
matters that concern the heart, especially
when men endeavor to make those matters
evident to them. I did so, and you
received my attentions with very evident
gratification. I do not now believe that
you are in the least a coquette—though I
did think so for a time—besides, I know
that you love me now.”

“Love you,” she replied, with a burst
of fiery indignation, “nay! but I hate,
scorn, loathe, detest you!” and she gave

way in a moment, to a paroxysm of violent
and hysterical weeping; staggered
back to a garden chair; and sank into it;
and lay there with her head drooping
upon her breast, the big tears rolling down
her checks, heavy and fast as summer's
rain, and her heart throbbing and bounding
as if it would break from her
bosom.

12. CHAPTER XII.

Ernest de Vaux gazed on her for a moment
or two, with a well satisfied and scrutinizing
eye, and then crept with a noiseless
foot to her side; knelt down on the turf at
her feet, before the paroxysm had, in any
wise, abated, and gained possession of
her hand, after a moment of faint and ill-feigned
resistance.

“Oh! my God!” she exclaimed, “what
does this mean, De Vaux?”

“It means,” he answered, with a voice
admirably modulated to suit his object,
“it means that I adore you, that I have
adored you ever, that, save you, I never
loved a woman.”

“How dare you?” she replied, anger
again, for a moment, gaining the ascendency—“How
dare you mock me thus—
and your addresses to my sister—what did
they mean, my lord?”

“Hear me,” he said; “however it may
please you to deny that you perceived my
attentions, that you remember where we
first met, you cannot, I think, have forgotten
the morning, the accursed morning,
when I came to take leave of you before
setting forth to your father's house. That
morning, Marian, I came with an ingenuous
heart upon my lips, a heart to cast before
your feet, had you been willing to
receive it. But on that morning, I know
not wherefore, you were a different creature;
petulant, wilful, wild, repulsive; for
at this moment, I must speak the truth—
you checked my speech, you jeered and
mocked at me, you spoke strange, whirling
words against the truth, and honesty,
and honor of human kind at large, and of
men in particular—you said strange things
about your beautiful and charming sister;
till you convinced me quite, though, up to
that time, I had believed that you loved
me, that from the beginning you had
merely been coquetting with me—that you
were a vain, heartless girl, eager for admiration
only, and careless of the agonies
which your caprice occasioned.”

“Ernest De Vaux!”

“Marian Hawkwood!”

“You had no right—no cause—no shadow
of a reason so to surmise!”

“Pardon me, lady, your conduct left no
possible interpretation else. Even at this
moment, when I know that it was not
what I deemed it, I still am at a loss utterly
to conceive your motives or your
meaning. You never hinted to me even
that your father was dead long ago,
though I spoke to you of visiting his
house. You called on me to promise that
I would never whisper to your family that
I had seen or known you. What could I
think? what do? I went my way conceiving
myself a man scorned, slighted,
outraged in the tenderest and nicest point;
I went my way with a heart crushed, and
yet embittered—humiliated, and yet maddened.”

“You had no right, I say it again; you
had no right to think so; you had never
spoken to me of love—never so much as
hinted it; ladies do not believe that men
love them, because they are civil at a
morning visit—attentive at an evening
ball. Oh! had you spoken to me; had
you spoken to me on that fatal morning,
Ernest De Vaux, all might—”

“All might what, Marian, all might
what?” he interrupted her, very eagerly.

“All might have been understood between
us,” she replied, coldly, bridling her
impetuosity of speech.

“But, Marian Hawkwood,” he made
answer to her, “if ladies do not believe
they are loved till they are told so in plain
words, neither will gentlemen, unless they
be consummate fools, speak those plain
words until, at least, they have some little
cause for believing that those words, when
spoken, will be acceptable. Now, on the
morning when I sought you, I fancied that
I had such cause—and I did so believe—
and I came to speak those plain words;
but by your own changed tone, and altered
manner—”

“True! true!” she replied, at length, in
sad and faltering tones, quite overcome by
the intensity of her feelings; for, strange
to say, De Vaux had, perhaps, struck on
the only chord which would have at all
responded to his touch; certainly on that
which thrilled the most powerfully in her
soul. Had he, indeed, read her mind, had
he heard the thoughts expressed aloud,
which had been nourished secretly within
her for so long a time, he could not more
skilfully have ministered to her vanity,
have gratified her curiosity, have appeased
her wounded self-respect, have re-awakened
her half dormant passion than he did

now by the course which he adopted.
“True! true!” she murmured, suffering
her head to fall upon her bosom in calm,
sad despondency, “it is all true—too true!
too true!”

Her dream was then realized, she
thought within herself; it was as she had
fancied—hoped! He had loved her from
the beginning, and her only; it was her
own fault, and he! he the idol of her soul,
was guiltless—alas! how prompt are we
to deceive ourselves, when the deception
pampers our desires!

“And why,” he whispered in her ear,
tenderly, “why was it so, Marian?”

“You have no right to ask me, sir; and
after all, your defence is faulty, is vain;
nothing worth! If you loved me, even if
I did misuse you, how does that palliate
your treason to my sister? for shame, my
lord, for shame! How dare you challenge
me, or question my deeds, when
your own crime glares in the eye of Heaven!”

“You wrong me. Marian, and deceive
yourself; I am no traitor, nor have I ever,
wilfully, ever at all, wronged your sister.
There is, at all times, a reaction of the
heart after strong passion, checked and
cast back upon itself. Outraged and
wronged by one, it is natural, it is almost
a necessary consequence, that we fly for
consolation, for love to another. Pride,
too—wounded and lacerated pride—urges
us to win, where we have lost our all, in
the love of woman. And so it was with
me. To my own soul's deepest belief, in
my most holy and most sacred conscience.
I believed that I loved Annabel, as I had
never loved even you. The strange similitude,
blended with as strange dissimilitude,
between your styles of beauty, between
your tones of thought, between
your characters of mind, yet more enthralled
and enchained me. Then I perceived,
as I thought, that Annabel did love
me as truly—as you had sported with me
falsely—and there, too was I mistaken!
and then for the sweetest drop, the most
powerful ingredient in the love philtre,
arose the thought that I should be avenged
on you, whom then I hated, as I had loved
you once, more than all womankind united.
I was happy, quiet, contented, conscious
of honor—yes! Marian, I was happy! till
you returned; and at the first momentary
glance, the scales fell from my eyes, and
I saw that you loved me, the darkness
vanished from my heart, and I found that
I loved you yet—as I had loved you before,
madly—devotedly—for ever!”

“My God! my God!” exclaimed the
wretched girl, wringing her hands in the
excess of mental anguish, “what have I
done, that I should be so wretched?”

“Why, why should you be miserable?”
replied the tempter; “if it be true, as you
say it is, that you did not perceive or suspect
my love—that you have never cared
for me—that you now hate me? Why,
Marian, why should you be miserable?”

“Ernest De Vaux,” answered the hapless
girl, raising her pale face, and fixing
her large azure eyes full on his features—
“Why trouble you me any further? Between
you and me there is a great gulf
fixed. If you did love me, as you say,
and were prevented by any girlish fears
or girlish folly on my part, from speaking
your love honestly—if you did as you aver,
fall innocently into love for Annabel, and
awake from that fancied love again at
sight of me—what does it avail me now
to hear this? Why do you tell it to me?
unless it be to make me utterly and hopelessly
wretched, by contemplating the
happiness which might have been mine
once, but from which I am now debarred
for ever.”

“It may be yours yet, Marian—if you
still deem it happiness to be mine—my
own—my own wife, Marian?”

“How, my lord, how?” she asked with
a sort of cool and concentrated indignation.
“How, without utter infamy? You
mistake the girl you address, my lord.
You little know the heart of Marian Hawkwood,
if you believe that she would break
a sister's heart, or lose her own good fame,
by wedding with her traitorous and rejected
lover.”

“Marian—she never loved me! Her
calm and placid temper, her equable and
quiet spirit, was not made for so violent
affections, so hot passions, as true love.
Even to-day”—

“Hold! my lord—hold;” Marian almost
fiercely interrupted him,—“not a word
more; even to-day, you told that angel,
whom in your wickedness you dare to
slander, even to-day you told Annabel,
that if I felt any passion towards you, it
was a rash, unsought, and unjustifiable
passion! Those were your very words—
your very words to-day, when she would
have resigned herself, and brought us
honorably wedded. Oh! man, to lie so
plansibly, and with so fair a grace, you
are but too forgetful. Begone, my lord,
begone! you stand self-convicted!”

“Marian,” he replied solemnly, and
lifting his right hand up impressively to
Heaven. “This is almost too painful, but
I cannot, no, I cannot permit innocence
such as yours to be thus played upon by
jealousy and envious selfishness; I swear

to you by the honor of my father, by my
mother's virtue, by Him who made, and
who now listens to us both! such words
as those never passed lip of mine—such
thoughts were never conceived in my
brain.”

And it did not thunder:—

“You did not tell her that—you did not!”
cried Marian, wildly, as she sprang to her
feet, “deceive me not, I adjure you, as
you love me, as you hope for salvation!
deceive me not, now, Ernest de Vaux!
You did not tell her that?”

“As I hope for salvation, I did not!” and
his voice did not falter, nor his cheek
blauch nor his lip quiver, as he swore, by
the holiest and the highest thing that shall
be, to that consummate lie! “Nay, I confessed
to her the whole truth; I told her
all, and all as I have told it now to you; I
conjured her to pardon any wrong I might
have most anintentionally wrought her—
for she had told me before that, with a
mien and voice as firm as mine are now.
that from the moment when she knew my
love for you, she had ceased entirely to regard
or love me: and I implored her to
reconcile us two, that together we might
yet be happy?”

“Can these things be?” replied Marian,
gazing into his eyes as she would read his
soul. “Oh! Ernest, Ernest, if you say
these words from the hope of winning me,
I do beseech von, I do adjure you once
more, on my knees, Ernest, dear, dear
Ernest—unsay, unsay it—do not, for God's
sake, sow the seeds of distrust and enmity
and hatred between two orphan sisters.
Oh! spare me, Ernest de Vaux, spare
me!”

“I would to God that I could!” he
answered with the most perfect and unmoved
hypocrisy, “I would to God that
being so adjured, I dared unsay them
But for my sool, I dare not; what did she
tell you, Marian?”

“That you denied me—that you pronounced
my love for you, rash, unsought,
unjustifiable; can it be? God! God;
I shall go mad; can it be, Annabel, that
you so dealt with me”'

“And she came back to me, and told
me with calm air and pensive look, and
her eyes full of hypocritical tears, `that
you were so much set against me, that
you would not so much as hear me—that
you had sent me a fierce, scomful, passionate
message, which she would not do you
the wrong to deliver!”

“Oh! Annabel! Sister, sister Annabel!
Heaven is my judge, I would not so have
done by you to win an eternity of blessings!”

“And me,” whispered De Vaux softly in
her ears, “can you pardon me now, my
sweet Marian?”

“Nay! my Lord, I have naught to pardon;
we have both been deceived, first by
our own misconceptions, and then, alas!
alas! that it should be so! by my own
sister's treason. If there be any pardon to
be asked, it is I that should ask yours, De
Vanx.”

“It would be granted, ere it would be
asked, Marian,” he replied, “but now,
will you not hear me? will you not let me
pray you on”—

“Oh! no no, Ernest, how can it be?
What, my God! what would you ask of
me?”

“To be mine, mine for ever—my wife,
my own wife, Marian!” And he glided
his haud around her waist, and drew her
to his bosom; and she no longer shunned
him, nor resisted, and their lips were mingled
in a first kiss, as she sighed out that
irrevocable yes! Alas! for Marian!

“But how?” she whispered, as she extricated
herself, blushing and trembling
from his arms, “how can it be?”

“You must fly with me, ere dawn, my
love. I have a friend at Ripon, the worthy
Dean, we can frame easily a tale to
win him to our purpose, who will unite us!
We will set forward presently, my horses
are equipped even now—your palfrey shall
be made ready—at the next village, we
can get some country maiden, who will
accompany you; at Ripon we shall overtake
my brothers with the troops, and all
will go happily!”

At first she refused positively, then faintly
and more faintly, as that false, wily man
plied her with prayers and protestations—
nay, tears even, and at last—oh! that we
should be so weak to resist deception,
when our own hearts conspire with the
deceiver—at last, amid tears, and sobs,
and kisses, “while saying I will ne'er
consent, consented.”

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.

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!

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.

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.

15. CHAPTER XVI.

Thus then had the days passed with
Marian during those years of which her
sister knew so little, each day sadder and
bearing less of hope than the last. She
had heard of her mother's death, that mother
whom she had once so cherished,
whose memory was still so dear to her—
yet had those gloomy tidings brought no
increase to the unhappy wife's cold sadness.
No! so completely had the harden
ing touch of despair petrified all her feelings,
that she now felt that nothing could
increase or diminish the burden under
which she labored. If she thought of the
dead at all, it was to envy, not weep—it
was to clasp her hands, and turn her eyes
up to heaven, and to cry—“Blessed are
the dead, who die in the Lord; even so
saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labors!”
And worse every day, and more
vicious—aye! and more loathsome and
more cruel in his vices, did Ernest de
Vaux show himself. Alas!—the career of
vice is as it were on a road up a steep
mountain's side. There is no halting on
the way, no standing still—no power of
remaining where you are. Upward or
downward, you must on, and on for ever!
Upward with conscientious hopes and
earnest struggles and energetical resolves
to virtue, and to honor, and to peace—or
downward, with headlong speed, to crime,
and agony, and ruin, and that perdition
which shall not end when all things else
have reached their termination. Alas! I
say—alas! for this latter was the path in
which the steps of De Vaux were hurrying,
and towards this termination.

From gentlemanly vice, as it is falsely
called, and those extravagances or excesses
rather, of which men, deemed by the
world honorable, may be guilty without
losing caste, Ernest began now to degenerate
into low profligacy, vulgar habitual
debauchery! His noble features and fine
form had already begun to display the
symptoms of habitual intemperance; his
courtly manners and air once so noble
had deteriorated sadly; his temper, so
equable and mild, and at the least in outward
show so kindly, had become harsh,
and quernlous, uneven, and at times violent
and brutal.

Yet Marian still clung to him, faithful in
weal and woe, in wealth as in poverty—
for at times, in the changes and chances
of the civil war, they had in truth undergone
much hardship—she was still the
unchanged, unrepining, fond consoler—
but alas! how cruelly, and how often
were her sweet consolations cast back
upon her, her kind and affectionate advances
met with harsh words, and bitter
menaces—and once! yes, once, when the
mad demon of intoxication was all powerful
within him—yes! once with a blow.

It was the fifth year of the civil war,
and though many fierce and sanguinary
fields had been fought, many towns taken,
many halls and manor-houses stormed
and defended, much generous, noble blood
prodigally wasted, neither side yet had
gained anything of real or permanent advantage.

It was the fifth year of the civil
war, and the Marquis of Newcastle, one
of the most accomplished and gallant noblemen
of the day, was holding York for
the King, though besieged with an over-whelming
force, by the united forces of
the English puritans and independents,
under Lord Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell,
and the Scotch covenanters, under David
Leslie, and many of the Protestant Lords
of the sister kingdom.

The siege had indeed lasted some time,
but although those within the city were
beginning to look eagerly for the relief
which was expected daily from Prince
Rupert, they were not as yet straitened
for provision, or dispirited. And here in
the midst of present apprehension, and
perhaps soon to be in the midst of peril,
here in the very city, wherein she had
passed those few bright days, the brightest
and the happiest of her life, alas! that
they should have led to consequences so
cruelly disastrous—here in a poor mean
lodging in a small narrow street, nigh
Stonegate, dwelt the once bright and
happy Marian.

It was night, and although summer
time, the air was exceeding damp and chilling.
It was night, dead might, and quite
dark, for there was no moon, and the
skies were so cloudy that the faint glimmer
of the stars failed to pierce their
thick folds. There were no sounds abroad
in the beleagnered city but the distant call
from hour to hour of the answered sentinel,
and the occasional tramp and clash
of arms, as the grand rounds passed
through the streets to visit the outposts,
or the relief parties marched toward the
walls.

At this dead hour of the night, in a
small wretched parlor scantily furnished
with a few common wooden chairs, a
coarse oak table on which stood a brazen
lamp diffusing a pale uncertain light
through the low roofed apartment, and
sufficing barely to show the extreme poverty
and extreme cleanliness of that
abode of high born beauty, sat Marian,
Lady de Vaux, plainly attired, and in no
wise becomingly to her high station, pale,
wan, and thin, and careworn, and no
more like to the Marian Hawkwood of old
days than the poor disembodied ghost to
the fair form it once inhabited.

The floor of the wretched room was
neatly sanded, for it was carpetless, and
no curtains veiled the small latticed casements—the
walls were hung with defensive
armor and a few weapons, two or
three cloaks and feathered hats, disposed
with a sad attempt at symmetrical arrange
ment and decoration—four or five books
some paper and materials for writing, and
an old lute lay on the table by which
Marian was sitting, and on another smalle
board at a little distance, neatly arranged
with a clean white cloth, stood a loaf of
bread, the remnants, now very low reduced,
of a sirloin, and a half bottle of red
wine—the supper prepared by the haples
wife, herself fasting and hungered, for the
base recreant husband.

An open Bible lay before Marian on the
board, but though her eyes rested on the
blessed promises, and her hands at times
as if mechanically turned its pages, her
mind was far away, suspended on every
distant sound that rose from the deserted
streets, starting at every passing footstep
with a strange mixture as it seemed of
eager expectation and wild fear.

At length a quick, strong, heavy tread
came up the street, and paused under the
window.

“It is he,” she said, listening intently
with a deep crimson flush rising to her
whole face, but receding rapidly, and
leaving only two round hectic spots high
up on her cheek bones. “Thank God
it is he at last!” and she arose and trimmed
the lamp, and drew the little table
forward with the preparation for his supper—but,
as the door below yielded to the
pass-key which he carried, she started and
turned white as ashes; for the sound of a
second step reached her ears, and the soft
cadence of a female voice. She paused,
with her whole soul intent upon the
sound, and as they came nearer and nearer,
and more and more distinct—

“My God!” she said to herself, in a low
choked whisper clasping her hands together,
as if in mortal anguish, “my God!
it cannot be!”

But it was—it was, as she dreaded, as
she would not believe! Shame on the
dastard villain! it was true!

The door opened suddenly, and Ernest
de Vaux entered, with a tall and exceedingly
handsome woman leaning upon his
arm, whom Marian recognished the very
moment their eyes met, for the Lady Agnes
Trevor, of whose bold and shameless
conduct with her husband she had long
heard, though she strove to close her ears
to them, a thousand cruel rumors. This
last worst outrage, however, was not
without its effect; even the worm, when
trodden under foot, will, it is said, rise up
against its torturer; and even her base
husband was astonished at the superb and
stately majesty with which the wronged
and heart-broken woman drew herself up,
as they entered, at the flash of grand indignation

which lightened from every
speaking feature; if he had calculated
that her spirit was so utterly cowed and
broken, that she would endure everything
in silence, madly had he erred, and tremendously
was he now undeceived.

Even the guilty woman who accompanied
him, started back in dismay; it
would appear even that she had not
known before whither he was conducting
her, for she shrank back aghast, and clung
to his arm yet closer than before, as she
asked in a tremulous and agitated tone,
“Who is this, who is this lady? Ernest!”

“It is his wife, madame!” replied Marian,
taking a forward step; “his wedded
wife, for whom it is rather to ask, who you
are, that intrude thus upon her, at this
untimely hour?”

“It is my wife, Agnes,” answered De
Vaux at the same moment; “my wife,
who will be happy to extend her hospitality
to you, until these most unhappy jars
are ended, and you reconciled to my lord;
Marian, it is the Lady Agnes Trevor, who
asks your welcome; assure her”—

“I do assure her—” replied Marian,
haughtily; “that she is perfectly, fully
welcome to enjoy all the comforts, all the
hospitalities which this roof has to offer—
this roof”—

“Why, that is well,” replied her husband,
with a sneering smile, “I told you,
Agnes, she would be very glad to receive
you, she is a sweet, mild, patient little
creature, this pretty wife of mine!”

“This roof,” continued Marian, “which,
from this hour, shall never cover my head
any more.”

“Heyday! heyday! what is all this?
what does this mean”—

“It means, simply, that hitherto I have
borne much, have borne all—but infamy,
and infamy I will bear never. Fare-you-well,
sir; may you repent, I say—may
you repent, I say, and ere it be too late,
and may you,” she added, turning to the
frail beauty, who trembled in her presence,
“may you never know the agonies
which you have heaped upon my soul?”

And she passed by them, with a movement
so impetuously rapid, that she was
out of the door before Ernest, to whom
Agnes Trevor was clinging still in mortal
terror, could interpose to arrest her flight
But recovering himself, instantly he darted
after and caught her by her dress, and
would have dragged her back into the
room, but she laid hold of the balustrades
of the staircase, and clung to them so
strongly, that he could not move her.

“Do you so little know me, Marian,”
he exclaimed furiously, “as to imagine
that I would suffer my wife to go forth
alone, a mark for evil tongues, at such an
hour as this—back! Madam Marian—
back to your chamber, or you will force
me to do that I shall be sorry for!”

“Sorry for!” answered Marian, with
calm scorn, “you sorry for aught of injury
to me! and do you, sir, so little know
me as to imagine that I would stay one
moment under the same roof with your”—

“With my what—with my what, madam?”
shouted De Vaux, “beware how
you answer!”

“Unhand me, sir, unhand me!” she replied,
“unhand me; for I will go forth!”

“Answer me—with my what? under
the same roof with my what?” he again
exclaimed, shaking her violently by the
arm.

“With your harlots, sir,” she replied,
firmly, and at the same moment two fearful
sounds followed her words; one the
most fearful sound, perhaps, that can be
heard on earth at all; the sound of a heavy
blow dealt by a man to a weak woman;
the other a wild, piercing female yell—a
yell that echoed far and wide through the
midnight city. But it came not, that awful
shriek, from the lips of Marian.

No, no; it was the reckless, the abandoned
outcast wife of the Lord Albert Trevor,
that uttered the heart-rending cry, as
she rushed, with a frantic air, out of the
chamber, and throwing herself at the feet
of her seducer, and clasping his knees
wildly with one hand, caught with the
other his upraised right arm—upraised
again to smite her whom he had sworn to
love and honor.

“Me, me!” she cried, “oh, God—me!
me! not her—strike me—strike me, not
her! for I deserve it—deserve it all—all—
all—me, as she rightly termed me; me,
the outcast—the harlot!”

And with so powerful a grasp, moved
by the ecstasy of remorse and frenzy, did
the frail creature restrain the ruffian's fury,
that he was forced to stoop down and
exert some power to remove her. But
the moment Marian perceived what was
passing, she darted down the stairs, and
through the front door, which she closed
violently behind her, and into the vacant
street, and fled with a speed that soon set
pursuit at defiance. That night she slept
at her old uncle's house in the Minster
yard, the following day York was relieved,
and the siege of the Puritans raised by the
fiery Rupert. On the third morning the royal
troops sallied forth to give battle to the troops
of Fairfax upon the fatal Moor of Long Marston,
and while the roar of cannon was
deafening the ears of all for miles around

her, and her had husband was charging in
the maddest strife, Marian was hurrying
home to die—hurrying home to die in the
calm shades of Wharfdale.

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Thus things went on in the busy world
abroad, and at home in the quiet vale of
Ingleborough, until some few days after
the deadly fight and desperate defeat at
Long Marston.

Autumn had come again—brown autum—and
Annabel, now in her garden
tending her flowers, and listening to her
birds, and thinking of the past, not with
the keen and piercing anguish of a present
sorrow, but with the mellow recollection
of an old regret. She stood beside
the stream—the stream that all unchanged
itself had witnessed such sad changes in
all that was around it—close to the spot
where she had talked so long with Marian
on that eventful morning, when a quick,
soft step came behind her; she turned,
and Marian clasped her!

No words can describe the feelings of
the sisters as they met; and it was not
till after many a fond embrace, and many
a burst of tears, that Marian told her that
how, after years of sufferance, compelled
at last to fly from the outrageous cruelty
of him, for whom she had thrown up all
but honor, she now came home—home,
like the hunted hare to her form, like the
wounded bird to her nest—she now came
home to die. “What could it boot,” she
said, “to repeat the old and oft-told tale,”
how eager passion made way for uncertain
and oft-interrupted gleams of fondness—how
a love founded on no esteem
or real principles, melted like wax before
the fire—how inattention paved the way
for neglect, and infidelity came close behind,
and open profligacy, and bold insult,
and cool, maddened outrage followed.
How the ardent lover became the careless
husband, the cold master, the unfeeling
tyrant, and at last the brutal despot.”

Marian came home to die—the seeds of
that invincible disease were sown deep in
her bosom; her exquisitely rounded shape
was angular and thin, emaciated by disease,
and suffering, and sorrow. A burning
hectic spot on either cheek were now
the only remnants of that once all-radiant
complexion; her step so slow and falter
ing, her breath drawn sob by sob with actual
agony, her quick, short cough, all told
too certainly the truth! Her faults were
punished bitterly on earth, and happily
that punishment had worked its fitting end
—these faults were all repented, were all
amended now. Perhaps at no time of her
youthful bloom had Marian been so sweet,
so truly lovely, as now when her young
days were numbered.

All the asperity and harshness, the angles
as it were of her character, mellowed
down into a calm and unrepining cheerfulness.
And oh! with what delicious tenderness
did Annabel console, and pray
with, and caress her—oh! they were, indeed,
happy! indeed happy for those last
months, those lovely sisters. For Annabel's
delight at seeing the dear Marian
of happier and better days once more beside
her, in their old chamber, beside her
in the quiet garden, beside her in the pew
of the old village church, had, for the time,
completely overpowered her fears for her
sister's health, and as is almost invariably
the case in that most fatal, most insidious
of disorders, she constantly was flattered
with vain hopes that Marian was amending,
that the next spring would see her
again well and happy. Vain hopes! indeed
vain hopes; but which of mortal
hopes is other?

The cold mists of November were on
the hills and in the glens of Wharfdale;
the trees were stripped of their last leaves,
the grass was sere and withered, the
earth cheerless, the skies comfortless,
when, at the same predestined window,
the sisters sat watching the last gleam of
the wintry sun fade on the distant hill-top.
What was that flash far up the road?
That round and ringing report? Another!
and another! the evident reports of musketry.
And lo! a horseman flying—a wild
fierce troop pursuing—the foremost rides
bareheaded, but the blue scarf that flutters
in the air, shows him a loyal cavalier; the
steel caps and jack-boots of the pursuers,
point them out, evidently, Puritans; there
are but twenty of them, and lo! the fugitive
gains on them—Heaven! he turns
from the highroad! crosses the steep
bridge at a gallop! he takes the park gate
at a leap! he cuts across the turf! and lo!
the dalesmen and the tenants have mustered
to resist—a short, fierce struggle!
the roundheads are beaten back! the fugitive,
now at the very hall doors, is preserved.
The door flew open; he staggered
into the well-known vestibule, opened
the parlor-door with an accustomed

hand, and reeled into the presence of the
sisters exhausted with fatigue, pale from
the loss of blood, faint with his mortal
wounds—yet he spoke out, in a clearvoice,

“In time, in time, thank God! in time
to make some reparation, to ask for pardon,
ere I die!”

And with these words, De Vaux, for he
it was, staggered up to his injured wife,
and, dropping on his knees, cast his arms
round her waist, and burying his head in
her lap, exclaimed, in faltering tones,

“Pardon me, Marian, pardon me, before
I die; pardon me, as you loved me once!”

“Oh! as I love you now, dear Ernest;
fully, completely, gladly do I pardon you,
and take you to my heart, never again to
part, my own dear husband.”

“Groaning, she clasped him close, and in that
act
And agony her happy spirit fled.”

Annabel saw her head fall on his neck,
and fancying that she had fainted, ran to
uplift her; but, ere she had time to do so,
both were beyond the reach of any mortal
sorrow; nor did she, the survivor, long
survive them; she faded like a fair flower,
and lies beside them in the still bosom of
one common tomb. The hall was tenanted
no more, and soon fell into ruin; but
the wild hills of Wharfdale must themselves
pass away, before the children of
the dalesman shall forget the sad tale of
the Sisters.