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,


“Who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all save he departed.”

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

[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]

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

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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!