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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 can not fail to suggest,
between their balmy mildness, and the chilly 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 purple 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.

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It was summer — late indeed in that lovely season, but still
full summer, with all her garniture of green, her pomp of full-blown
flowers — the glorious mature womanhood of the year!
when Marian left her home. Not a trace of decay 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 —

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It wakes 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, bowed, bent, gray-haired, and
paralytic; 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 blackbird, 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,

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gazing abstractedly on some spot in the withered herbage, on
some pool of the brooklet, 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 had 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 hence at all, dear sister,

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until these fearful wars be 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 can not, 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,” Annabel 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!”

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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 caresses, as if they were insincere or hateful to you. Your
words, too, are so wild and whirling, that for my life I can not
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 can not 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 earliest comrade,
my best friend, my own, my only sister! And now we are
two grown-up maidens, with no one exactly fit to counsel 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

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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 replied — “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,
pardon 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 means 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

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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 aught evil; and I trust that you tell me
truly. Beyond this, I can not — I can not, I confess it — sympathize
with you at all; for in order to sympathize, one most understand,
and that, you know, I do not. What sin you should
have thought of, I can not so much as conceive. 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 doubt 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
yestermorn, 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

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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
rich canary, crowned the full 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 instantly his self-possession,
and began talking with light, careless pleasantry,

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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. And she, after a few minutes, as if she had done injustice
to her lover in her heart, and was desirous of effacing
its remembrance from both 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 unrivaled 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, toward her sister's lover. She
seemed to feel toward 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 dispassionate 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

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vague distrust that had crept into her heart, melted away like
mist wreaths from before the sunbeam. 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!