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

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

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 springtide
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.