University of Virginia Library

14. 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 anxious
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 leading 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-bo, 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 aloud — 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 courtyard, 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 instantly, and broadswords girded on, and men were
mounting in hot haste, ere Annabel 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 house, 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 somewhat 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 — can not, 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 beheld 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 buoyancy 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 witnessed their union — and Annabel was more alone than
ever.