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 can
not 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 only happy results
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

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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, though 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 insure her happiness, she yet felt, as it were intuitively,
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.

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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 battle; 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

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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, ingenuous, 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

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former loves, and begun to fancy, that, when his passion should
have settled down into esteem, he might be able to tolerate in
Marian Hawkwood, the character he most dreaded 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 Marian
Hawkwood.

It can not 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 toward 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

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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 with either his past character or after conduct —
that fickle 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

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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

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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 irreparably 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, can not be doubted.

Nothing first could be happier than Marian Hawkwood —
for she mistook, naturally enough, the fierce and violent passion

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of her young husband for genuine and veritable love; and, indeed,
after satiety 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
everywhere, 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 gayeties, 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

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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
gayety, 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.