Thou art ever fair to me—Fairer than the Autumn moon,Or a fountain, in its glee,Singing through the woods of June—Fairer than a streamlet brightFlowing on in shimmered light,Darkling under grassy sedgeFringing all the river’s edge,Rippling by the breezes fann’d,Sliding over silver sand,Through the meadow gayly rangingWith an aspect ever changing,Yet with quiet depths below,And an even, constant flow,Pensive, musical and slow—Ever such thou art to me,Laughing, blue-eyedCallore!Oh! the stars have sybil tones!Singing by their golden thrones,Singing as they watching standIn their weird and silent land!But thy voice is sweeter farThan the music of the star!Melting on the air at even,With a mystic soundFlowing, flowing all around,’Till the soul is raised to heavenOh! at moments such as theseI could kneel on bended knees,Ever kneel and hear thee sing,Silent, rapt and worshipping.As a bark upon the tideMoving on to symphony,With its dipping oars besideKeeping time melodiously,So thou movest on thy way,Ever graceful, ever gay.Or, perchance, in sportive band,With thy sisters hand in hand,Swinging all in mystic round—Thou wilt dance with gentle sound,A sound as that of fairy feet,Soft, harmonious and sweet,As woodland waterfalls at nightTinkling in the still starlight.How thine eyes with tears o’erflowAt the troubled tale of wo—In those eyes I love to look,They to me are as a book.There I read without disguise,And a joy beyond control,All that in thine inner soulAs upon an altar lies—Gazing thus, I feel as whenBuried from the haunts of men,In some quiet shady nook,Looking downwards in the brook—I have heard the forest breezeWake mysterious melodies,Bringing sounds of childish playFrom the solitudes away,Singing as a gleesome boy,Ravishing the soul with joy,Lifting it on pinions free—Silver-tonguédCallore!Ever, ever thou art meek,With a mirthful soberness;None have ever heard thee speakOf thy passing loveliness—Thou dost joy to be awayFrom the garish light of day;Brooding o’er each holy feelingSoft across thy bosom stealing;With thine eyelids downward bent,Musing in a meek content,Like a saint upon a shrineWrapt in dreams of bliss divine!Surely, thou art not of earth—With the angels is thy birth—Thou hast come awhile, to beMy guide to heaven,Callore!
Thou art ever fair to me—Fairer than the Autumn moon,Or a fountain, in its glee,Singing through the woods of June—Fairer than a streamlet brightFlowing on in shimmered light,Darkling under grassy sedgeFringing all the river’s edge,Rippling by the breezes fann’d,Sliding over silver sand,Through the meadow gayly rangingWith an aspect ever changing,Yet with quiet depths below,And an even, constant flow,Pensive, musical and slow—Ever such thou art to me,Laughing, blue-eyedCallore!Oh! the stars have sybil tones!Singing by their golden thrones,Singing as they watching standIn their weird and silent land!But thy voice is sweeter farThan the music of the star!Melting on the air at even,With a mystic soundFlowing, flowing all around,’Till the soul is raised to heavenOh! at moments such as theseI could kneel on bended knees,Ever kneel and hear thee sing,Silent, rapt and worshipping.As a bark upon the tideMoving on to symphony,With its dipping oars besideKeeping time melodiously,So thou movest on thy way,Ever graceful, ever gay.Or, perchance, in sportive band,With thy sisters hand in hand,Swinging all in mystic round—Thou wilt dance with gentle sound,A sound as that of fairy feet,Soft, harmonious and sweet,As woodland waterfalls at nightTinkling in the still starlight.How thine eyes with tears o’erflowAt the troubled tale of wo—In those eyes I love to look,They to me are as a book.There I read without disguise,And a joy beyond control,All that in thine inner soulAs upon an altar lies—Gazing thus, I feel as whenBuried from the haunts of men,In some quiet shady nook,Looking downwards in the brook—I have heard the forest breezeWake mysterious melodies,Bringing sounds of childish playFrom the solitudes away,Singing as a gleesome boy,Ravishing the soul with joy,Lifting it on pinions free—Silver-tonguédCallore!Ever, ever thou art meek,With a mirthful soberness;None have ever heard thee speakOf thy passing loveliness—Thou dost joy to be awayFrom the garish light of day;Brooding o’er each holy feelingSoft across thy bosom stealing;With thine eyelids downward bent,Musing in a meek content,Like a saint upon a shrineWrapt in dreams of bliss divine!Surely, thou art not of earth—With the angels is thy birth—Thou hast come awhile, to beMy guide to heaven,Callore!
Thou art ever fair to me—Fairer than the Autumn moon,Or a fountain, in its glee,Singing through the woods of June—Fairer than a streamlet brightFlowing on in shimmered light,Darkling under grassy sedgeFringing all the river’s edge,Rippling by the breezes fann’d,Sliding over silver sand,Through the meadow gayly rangingWith an aspect ever changing,Yet with quiet depths below,And an even, constant flow,Pensive, musical and slow—Ever such thou art to me,Laughing, blue-eyedCallore!
Thou art ever fair to me—
Fairer than the Autumn moon,
Or a fountain, in its glee,
Singing through the woods of June—
Fairer than a streamlet bright
Flowing on in shimmered light,
Darkling under grassy sedge
Fringing all the river’s edge,
Rippling by the breezes fann’d,
Sliding over silver sand,
Through the meadow gayly ranging
With an aspect ever changing,
Yet with quiet depths below,
And an even, constant flow,
Pensive, musical and slow—
Ever such thou art to me,
Laughing, blue-eyedCallore!
Oh! the stars have sybil tones!Singing by their golden thrones,Singing as they watching standIn their weird and silent land!But thy voice is sweeter farThan the music of the star!Melting on the air at even,With a mystic soundFlowing, flowing all around,’Till the soul is raised to heavenOh! at moments such as theseI could kneel on bended knees,Ever kneel and hear thee sing,Silent, rapt and worshipping.
Oh! the stars have sybil tones!
Singing by their golden thrones,
Singing as they watching stand
In their weird and silent land!
But thy voice is sweeter far
Than the music of the star!
Melting on the air at even,
With a mystic sound
Flowing, flowing all around,
’Till the soul is raised to heaven
Oh! at moments such as these
I could kneel on bended knees,
Ever kneel and hear thee sing,
Silent, rapt and worshipping.
As a bark upon the tideMoving on to symphony,With its dipping oars besideKeeping time melodiously,So thou movest on thy way,Ever graceful, ever gay.Or, perchance, in sportive band,With thy sisters hand in hand,Swinging all in mystic round—Thou wilt dance with gentle sound,A sound as that of fairy feet,Soft, harmonious and sweet,As woodland waterfalls at nightTinkling in the still starlight.
As a bark upon the tide
Moving on to symphony,
With its dipping oars beside
Keeping time melodiously,
So thou movest on thy way,
Ever graceful, ever gay.
Or, perchance, in sportive band,
With thy sisters hand in hand,
Swinging all in mystic round—
Thou wilt dance with gentle sound,
A sound as that of fairy feet,
Soft, harmonious and sweet,
As woodland waterfalls at night
Tinkling in the still starlight.
How thine eyes with tears o’erflowAt the troubled tale of wo—In those eyes I love to look,They to me are as a book.There I read without disguise,And a joy beyond control,All that in thine inner soulAs upon an altar lies—Gazing thus, I feel as whenBuried from the haunts of men,In some quiet shady nook,Looking downwards in the brook—I have heard the forest breezeWake mysterious melodies,Bringing sounds of childish playFrom the solitudes away,Singing as a gleesome boy,Ravishing the soul with joy,Lifting it on pinions free—Silver-tonguédCallore!
How thine eyes with tears o’erflow
At the troubled tale of wo—
In those eyes I love to look,
They to me are as a book.
There I read without disguise,
And a joy beyond control,
All that in thine inner soul
As upon an altar lies—
Gazing thus, I feel as when
Buried from the haunts of men,
In some quiet shady nook,
Looking downwards in the brook—
I have heard the forest breeze
Wake mysterious melodies,
Bringing sounds of childish play
From the solitudes away,
Singing as a gleesome boy,
Ravishing the soul with joy,
Lifting it on pinions free—
Silver-tonguédCallore!
Ever, ever thou art meek,With a mirthful soberness;None have ever heard thee speakOf thy passing loveliness—Thou dost joy to be awayFrom the garish light of day;Brooding o’er each holy feelingSoft across thy bosom stealing;With thine eyelids downward bent,Musing in a meek content,Like a saint upon a shrineWrapt in dreams of bliss divine!Surely, thou art not of earth—With the angels is thy birth—Thou hast come awhile, to beMy guide to heaven,Callore!
Ever, ever thou art meek,
With a mirthful soberness;
None have ever heard thee speak
Of thy passing loveliness—
Thou dost joy to be away
From the garish light of day;
Brooding o’er each holy feeling
Soft across thy bosom stealing;
With thine eyelids downward bent,
Musing in a meek content,
Like a saint upon a shrine
Wrapt in dreams of bliss divine!
Surely, thou art not of earth—
With the angels is thy birth—
Thou hast come awhile, to be
My guide to heaven,Callore!
THE SISTERS.
A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
———
BY H. W. HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” ETC. ETC.
———
In one of those sweet glens, half pastoral half sylvan, which may be found in hundreds channelling the steep sides of the moorland hills, and sending down the tribute of their pure limestone springs to the broad rapid rivers which fertilize no less than they adorn the lovely vales of Western Yorkshire, there may be seen to this day the ruins of an old dwelling-house, situate on a spot so picturesque, so wild, and yet so soft in its romantic features, that they would well repay the traveller for a brief halt, who, but too often, hurries onward in search of more remote yet certainly not greater beauties. The gorge, within the mouth of which the venerable pile is seated, opens into the broader valley from the north-eastern side, enjoying the full light and warmth of the southern sunshine; and, although very narrow at its origin, where its small crystal rivulet springs up from the lonely well-head, fringed by a few low shrubs of birch and alder, expands here, at its mouth, into a pretty amphitheatre or basin of a few acres circuit. A wild and feathery coppice of oak, and birch, and hazel, with here and there a mountain ash, showing its bright red berries through the rich foliage, clothes all the lower part of the surrounding slopes; while, far above, the seamed and shattered faces of the gray, slaty limestone rise up like artificial walls, their summits crowned with the fair purple heather, and every nook and cranny in their sides crowded with odorous wild flowers. Within the circuit of these natural limits, sheltering it from every wind of heaven, except the gentle south, the turf lies smooth and even as if it were a cultured lawn; while a few rare exotic shrubs, now all run out of shape, and bare, and straggling, indicate even yet the time when it was a fair shrubbery, tended by gentle hands, and visited by young and lovely beings, now cold in their untimely sepulchres. The streamlet, which comes gushing down the glen with its clear, copious flow, boiling and murmuring about the large gray boulders which everywhere obstruct its channels, making a thousand mimic cataracts, and wakening ever a wild, mirthful music, sweeps here quite close to the foot of the eastern cliff, the feathery branches of the oakwood dipping their foliage in its eddies, and then, just as it issues forth into the open champaine, wheels round in a half circle, completely fanning the little amphitheatre above, except at one point hard beneath the opposite hill face, where a small winding horse track, engrossing the whole space between the streamlet and the limestone rock, gives access to the lone demesne. A small green hillock, sloping down gently to the southward, fills the embracing arms of the bright brook, around the northern base of which is scattered a little grove of the most magnificent and noblest sycamores that I have ever seen; but on the other side, which yet retains its pristine character of a smooth open lawn, there are no obstacles to the view over the wide valley, except three old gnarled thorn bushes, uncommon from their size and the dense luxuriance of their matted greenery. It was upon the summit of this little knoll that the old homestead stood, whose massive ruins of red freestone, all overgrown with briers, and tall rank grass and dock leaves, deface the spot which they adorned of old; and, when it was erect in all its fair proportions, the scene which it overlooked, and its own natural attractions, rendered it one of the loveliest residences in all the north of England—the wide, rich, gentle valley, all meadow land or pasture, without one brown ploughed field to mar its velvet green; the tall, thick hawthorn hedges, with their long lines of hedgerow timber, oak, ash and elm, waving above the smooth enclosures; the broad, clear, tranquil river flashing out like a silver mirror through the green foliage; the scattered farm-houses, each nestled as it were among its sheltering orchards; the village spire shooting up from the clump of giant elms which over-shadow the old grave-yard; the steep, long slope on the other side of the vale, or strath, as it would be called in Scotland, all mapped out to the eye, with its green fences and wide hanging woods; and, far beyond, the rounded summits of the huge moorland hills, ridge above ridge, purple, and grand, and massive, but less and less distinct as they recede from the eye, and melt away at last into the far blue distance—such was the picture which its windows overlooked of old, and which still laughs as gaily in the sunshine around its mouldering walls and lonely hearth-stone.
But if it is fair now, and lovely, what was it as it showed in the good old days of King Charles, before the iron hand of civil war had pressed so heavily on England? The grove of sycamores stood there, as they stand now, in the prime and luxuriance of their sylvan manhood; for they are waxing now aged and somewhat gray and stag-horned; and the thorn bushes sheltered, as they do now, whole choirs of thrushes and blackbirds, but all the turf beneath the scattered trees and on the sunny slope was shorn, and rolled, and watered, that it was smooth and even, and far softer than the most costly carpet that ever wooed the step of Persian beauty. The Hall was a square building, not very large, of the old Elizabethan style, with two irregular additions, wings, as they might be called, of the same architecture, though of a later period, and its deep-embayed oriel windows, with their fantastic mullions of carved freestone, its tall quaint chimneys, and its low porch, with overhanging canopy and clustered columns, rendered it an object singularly picturesque and striking. The little green within the gorge of the upper glen, which is so wildly beautiful in its present situation, left as it is to the unaided hand of nature, was then a perfect paradise; for an exquisite taste had superintended its conversion into a sort of untrained garden; an eye well used to note effects had marked its natural capabilities, and, adding artificial beauties, had never trenched upon the character of the spot by anything incongruous or startling. Rare plants, rich-flowering shrubs, and scented herbs were indeed scattered with a lavish hand about its precincts, but were so scattered that they seemed the genuine productions of the soil; the Spanish cistus had been taught to carpet the wild crags in conjunction with the native thyme and heather; the arbutus and laurestinus had been brought from afar to vie with the mountain ash and holly; the clematis and the sweet scented vine blended their tendrils with the rich English honeysuckle and the luxuriant ivy; rare lotuses might be seen floating with their azure colored cups and broad green leaves upon the glassy basins, into which the mountain streamlet had been taught to expand, among the white wild water lilies and the bright yellow clusters of the marsh marigold; roses of every hue and scent, from the dark crimson of Damascus to the pale blush of soft Provence, grew side by side with the wild wood-brier and the eglantine, and many a rustic seat, of mossy stone or roots and unbarked branches, invited the loitering visiter in every shadowy angle.
There was no spot in all the north of England whereon the winter frowned so lightly as on those sheltered precincts—there was no spot whereon spring smiled so early, and with so bright an aspect—wherein the summer so long lingered, pouring her gorgeous flowers, rich with her spicy breath, into the very lap of autumn. It was, indeed, a sweet spot, and as happy as it was sweet and beautiful, before the curse of civil war was poured upon the groaning land, with its dread train of foul and fiendish ministers; and yet it was not war, nor any of its direct consequences, that turned that happy home into a ruin and a desolation. It was not war—except the struggles of the human heart—the conflict of the fierce and turbulent passions—the strife of principles, of motives, of desires, within the secret soul, maybe called war, as, indeed, they might, and that with no figurative tongue, for they are surely the hottest, the most devastating, the most fatal of all that bear that ominous and cruel appellation.
Such was the aspect then of Ingleborough Hall, at the period when it was perhaps the most beautiful; and when, as is but too often the case, its beauties were on the very point of being brought to a close forever. The family which owned the manor, for the possessions attached to the old homestead were large, and the authority attached to them extended over a large part of Upper Wharfdale, was one of those old English races which, though not noble in the literal sense of the word, are yet so ancient, and so indissolubly connected with the soil, that they may justly be comprised among the aristocracy of the land. The name was Saxon, and it was generally believed—and probably with truth—that the date of the name, and of its connection with that estate, was at the least coeval with the conquest. To what circumstances it was owing that the Hawkwoods, for such was the time-honored appellation of the race, had retained possession of their fair demesne when all the land was allotted out to feudal barons and fat priests, can never now be ascertained; nor does it indeed signify; yet that it was to some honorable cause, some service rendered, or some high exploit, may be fairly presumed from the fact that the mitred potentate of Bolton Abbey, who levied his tythes far and near throughout those fertile valleys, had no claims on the fruits of Ingleborough. During the ages that had passed since the advent of the Norman William, the Hawkwoods had never lacked male representatives to sustain the dignity of their race; and gallantly had they sustained it; for in full many a lay and legend, aye! and in grave, cold history itself, the name of Hawkwood might be found side by side with the more sonorous appellations of the Norman feudatories, the Ardens, and Maulevers, and Vavasours, which fill the chronicles of border warfare. At the period of which we write, however, the family had no male scion—the last male heir, Ralph Hawkwood, had died some years before, full of years and of domestic honors—a zealous sportsman, a loyal subject, a kind landlord, a good friend—his lot had fallen in quiet times and pleasant places, and he lived happily, and died in the arms of his family, at peace with all men. His wife, a calm and placid dame, who had, in her young days, been the beauty of the shire, survived him, and spent her whole time, as she devoted her whole mind and spirit, in educating the two daughters, joint heiresses of the old manor-houses, who were left by their father’s death, two bright-eyed fair-haired prattlers, dependent for protection on the strong love but frail support of their widowed mother.
Years passed away, and with their flight the two fair children were matured into two sweet and lovely women; yet the same fleeting suns which brought to them complete and perfect youth were fraught to others with decay, and all the carking cares, and querulous ailments of old age. The mother, who had watched with keen solicitude over their budding infancy, over the promise of their lovely childhood, lived indeed, but lived not to see or understand the full accomplishment of that bright promise. Even before the elder girl had reached the dawn of womanhood, palsy had shaken the enfeebled limbs, and its accustomed follower—mental debility—had, in no small degree, impaired the intellect of her surviving parent; but long before her sister had reached her own maturity, the limbs were helplessly immovable, the mind was wholly clouded and estranged. It was not now the wandering and uncertain darkness that flits across the veiled horizon of the mind alternately with vivid gleams, flashes of memory and intellect, brighter perhaps than ever visited the spirit until its partial aberrations had jarred its vital principle—it was that deep and utter torpor, blanker than sleep and duller, for no dreams seem to mingle with its day-long lethargy—that absolute paralysis of all the faculties of soul and body, which is so beautifully painted by the great Roman satirist, as the
“omniiMembrorum damno major dementia, quæ necHomina servorum, nec vultum agnoscit amiciCum quo præterita cænavit nocti, nec illosQuos genuit, quos eduxit”—
“omniiMembrorum damno major dementia, quæ necHomina servorum, nec vultum agnoscit amiciCum quo præterita cænavit nocti, nec illosQuos genuit, quos eduxit”—
“omniiMembrorum damno major dementia, quæ necHomina servorum, nec vultum agnoscit amiciCum quo præterita cænavit nocti, nec illosQuos genuit, quos eduxit”—
“omniiMembrorum damno major dementia, quæ necHomina servorum, nec vultum agnoscit amiciCum quo præterita cænavit nocti, nec illosQuos genuit, quos eduxit”—
“omnii
Membrorum damno major dementia, quæ nec
Homina servorum, nec vultum agnoscit amici
Cum quo præterita cænavit nocti, nec illos
Quos genuit, quos eduxit”—
that still, sad, patient, silent suffering, which sits from day to day in the one usual chair, unconscious of itself and almost so of all around it; easily pleased by trifles, which it forgets as soon, deriving its sole real and tangible enjoyment from the doze in the summer sunshine, or by the sparkling hearth of winter. Such was the mother now; so utterly, so hopelessly dependent on the cares and gratitude of those bright beings whose infancy she had nursed so devotedly—and well was that devotedness now compensated; for day and night, winter and summer, did those sweet girls by turn watch over the frail, querulous sexagenarian—never both leaving her at once, one sleeping while the other watched, attentive ever to her importunate and ceaseless cravings, patient and mild to meet her angry and uncalled for lamentations.
You would have thought that a seclusion so entire, from all society of their equals, must have prevented their acquiring those usual accomplishments, those necessary arts, which every English gentlewoman is presumed to possess as things of course—that they must have grown up mere ignorant, unpolished country lasses, without a taste or aspiration beyond the small routine of their dull daily duties—that long confinement must have broken the higher and more spiritual parts of their fine natural minds—that they must have become mere moping household drudges—and so to think would be so very natural, that it is by no means easy to conceive how it was brought to pass, that the very opposite of this should have been the result. The very opposite it was, however—for as there were not in the whole West Riding two girls more beautiful than Annabel and Marian Hawkwood, so were there surely none so highly educated, so happy in themselves, so eminently calculated to render others happy. Accomplished as musicians both, though Annabel especially excelled in instrumental music, while her young sister was unrivalled in voice and execution as a songstress; both skilled in painting; and if not poetesses in so much as to be stringers of words and rhymes, certainly such, and that too of no mean order, in the wider and far higher acceptation of the word; for their whole souls were attuned to the very highest key of spiritual sensibility—romantic, not in the weak and ordinary meaning of the term, but as admirers of all things high, and pure, and noble—worshippers of the beautiful, whether it were embodied in the wild scenery of their native glens, in the rock, the stream, the forest, the sunshine that clothed all of them in a rich garb of glory, or the dread storm that veiled them all in gloom and terror—or in the master-pieces of the schools of painting and of sculpture—or in the pages of the great, the glorious of all ages—or in the deeds of men, perils encountered hardily, sufferings constantly endured, sorrows assuaged by charitable generosity. Such were they in the strain and tenor of their minds; gentle, moreover, as the gentlest of created things; humble to their inferiors, but with a proud, and self-respecting, and considerate humility; open, and free, and frank toward their equals; but proud, although not wanting in loyalty and proper reverence for the great, and almost haughty of demeanor to their superiors, when they encountered any such, which was, indeed, of rare and singular occurrence. It was a strange thing, indeed, that these lone girls should have possessed such characters, so strongly marked, so powerful and striking; should have acquired accomplishments, so many and so various in their nature. It will appear, perhaps, even stranger to merely superficial thinkers, that the formation of those powerful characters had been, for the most part, brought about by the very circumstances which would at first have appeared most unpropitious—their solitary habits namely, and their seclusion, almost absolute seclusion, from the gay world of fashion and of folly. The large and opulent county, in which their patrimony lay, was indeed then, as now, studded with the estates, the manors, and the parks of the richest and the noblest of England’s aristocracy, yet the deep glens and lofty moorlands among which Ingleborough Hall was situate, are even to this day a lonely and sequestered region; no great post-road winds through their devious passes; and, although in the close vicinity of large and populous towns, they are, even in the nineteenth century, but little visited, and are occupied by a population singularly primitive and pastoral in all its thoughts and feelings. Much more then in those days, when carriages were seen but rarely beyond the streets of the metropolis, when roads were wild and rugged, and intercourse between the nearest places, unless of more than ordinary magnitude, difficult and uncertain, was that wild district to be deemed secluded. So much so, indeed, was this the case, at the time of which I write, that there were not within a circle of some twenty miles two families of equal rank, or filling the same station in society, with the Hawkwoods. This, had the family been in such circumstances of domestic health and happiness as would have permitted the girls to mingle in the gaieties of the neighborhood, would have been a serious and severe misfortune; as they must, from continual intercourse with their inferiors, have contracted, in a greater or less degree, a grossness both of mind and manners; and would, most probably, have fallen into that most destructive habit—destructive to the mind, I mean, and to all chance of progress or advancement—the love of queening it in low society. It was, therefore, under their circumstances, including the loss of one parent and the entire bereavement of the other, fortunate in no small degree that they were compelled to seek their pleasures and their occupations, no less than their duties, within the sphere of the domestic circle.
The mother, who was now so feeble and so helpless, though never a person of much intellectual energy, or indeed of much force of any kind, was yet in the highest sense of the word a lady; she had seen in her youth something of the great world, apart from the rural glens which witnessed her decline; had mingled with the gay and noble even at the court of England, and, being possessed of more than ordinary beauty, had been a favorite and in some degree a belle. From her, then, had her daughters naturally and unconsciously imbibed that easy, graceful finish which, more than all beside, is the true stamp of gentle birth and bearing. Long before children can be brought to comprehend general principles or rules of convention, they can and do acquire habits, by that strange tact of imitation and observance which certainly commences at a stage so early of their young, frail existences, that we cannot, by any effort, mark its first dawning—habits which, thus acquired, can hardly be effaced at all—which will endure unaltered and invariable when tastes, and practices, and modes of thought and action, contracted long, long afterward, have faded quite away and been forgotten. Thus was it, then, with these young creatures; while they were yet mere girls, with all the pure, right impulses of childhood bursting out fresh and fair, they had been trained up in the midst of high, and honorable, and correct associations—naught low, or mean, or little; naught selfish, or dishonest, or corrupt had ever come near to them—in the sight of virtue and in the practice of politeness they had shot up into maturity; and their maturity, of consequence, was virtuous and polished. In after years, devoted as they were to that sick mother, they had no chance of unlearning anything; and thus, from day to day, they went on gaining fresh graces, as it were, by deduction from their foregone teachings, and from the purity of their young natures—for purity and nature, when united, must of necessity be graceful—until the proudest courts of Europe could have shown nothing, even in their most difficult circles, that could surpass, even it could vie with, the easy, artless frankness, the soft and finished courtesy, the unabashed yet modest grace of those two mountain maidens.
At the period when my sad tale commences—for it is no less sad than true—the sisters had just reached the young yet perfect bloom of mature womanhood, the elder, Annabel, having attained her twentieth summer, her sister Marian being exactly one year younger; and certainly two sweeter or more lovely girls could not be pictured or imagined—not in the brightest moments of the painter’s or the poet’s inspiration. They were both tall and beautifully formed—both had sweet low-toned voices—that excellent thing in woman!—but here all personal resemblance ended; for Annabel, the elder, had a complexion pure and transparent as the snow of the untrodden glacier before the sun has kissed it into roseate blushes, and quite as colorless; her features were of the finest classic outline; the smooth, fair brow, the perfect Grecian nose, the short curve of the upper lip, the exquisite arch of the small mouth, the chiselled lines of the soft rounded chin, might have served for a model to a sculptor, whereby to mould a mountain nymph or Naiad; her rich luxuriant hair was of a light and sunny brown, her eyes of a clear, lustrous blue, with a soft, languid, and half melancholy tenderness for their more usual expression, which united well with the calm, placid air which was almost habitual to her beautiful features. To this no contrast more complete could have been offered than by the widely different style of Marian’s loveliness. Though younger than her sister, her figure was more full and rounded—so much so, that it reached the very point where symmetry is combined with voluptuousness—yet was there nothing in the least degree voluptuous in the expression of her bright artless face. Her forehead, higher than Annabel’s, and broader, was as smooth and as white as polished marble; her brows were well-defined and black as ebony, as were the long, long lashes that fringed her laughing eyes—eyes of the brightest, lightest azure that ever glanced with merriment, or melted into love—her nose was small and delicate, but turned a little upwards, so as to add, however, rather than detract from thetout ensembleof her arch, roguish beauty—her mouth was not very small, but exquisitely formed, with lips redder than anything in nature, to which lips can be well compared, and filled with teeth, regular, white and beautifully even—fair as her sister’s, and, like hers, showing every where the tiny veins of azure meandering below the milky skin, Marian’s complexion was yet as bright as morning—faint rosy tints and red, warm blushes succeeding one another, or vanishing away and leaving the cheek pearly white, as one emotion followed and effaced another in her pure, innocent mind. Her hair, profuse in its luxuriant flow, was of a deep dark brown, that might have been almost called black, but for a thousand glancing golden lights and warm rich shadows that varied its smooth surface with the varying sunshine, and was worn in a thick, massive plait low down in the neck behind, while on either side the brow it was trained off and taught to cluster in front of either tiny ear in an abundant maze of interwoven curls, close and mysteriously enlaced as are the tendrils of the wild vine, which, fluttering on each warm and blushing cheek, fell down the swan-like neck in heavy natural ringlets. But to describe her features is to give no idea, in the least, of Marian’s real beauty—there was a radiant, dazzling lustre that leaped out of her every feature, lightning from her quick, speaking eyes, and playing in the dimples of her bewitching smile, that so intoxicated the beholder that he would dwell upon her face entranced, and know that it was lovely, and feel that it was far more lovely, far more enthralling than any he had ever looked upon before; yet, when without the sphere of that enchantment, he should be all unable to say wherein consisted its unmatched attraction.
Between the natural disposition and temperaments of the two sisters there was perhaps even a wider difference than between the characteristics of their personal beauty; for Annabel was calm, and mild, and singularly placid, not in her manners only, but in the whole tenor of her thoughts, and words, and actions; there was a sort of gentle melancholy, that was not altogether melancholy either, pervading her every tone of voice, her every change of feature. She was not exactly grave, nor pensive, nor subdued, for she could smile very joyously at times, could act upon emergencies with readiness, and quickness, and decision, and was at all times prompt in the expression of her confirmed sentiments; but there was a very remarkable tranquillity in her mode of doing every thing she did, betokening fully the presence of a decided principle directing her at every step, so that she was but rarely agitated, even by accidents of the most sudden and alarming character, and never actuated by any rapid impulse. The very opposite of this was Marian Hawkwood; for, although quite as upright and pure minded as her sister, and, what is more, of a temper quite as amiable and sweet, yet was her mood as changeful as an April day; although it was more used to mirth and joyous laughter than to frowns or tears either, yet had she tears as ready at any tale of sorrow as are the fountains of the spring shower in the cloud, and eloquent frowns and eyes that lightened their quick indignation at any outrage, or oppression, or high-handed violence; her cheek would crimson with the tell-tale blood, her flesh would seem to thrill upon her bones, her voice would choke, and her eyes swim with sympathetic drops whenever she read, or spoke, or heard of any noble deed, whether of gallant daring, or of heroic self-denial. Her tongue was prompt always, as the sword of the knight errant, to shelter the defenceless, to shield the innocent, to right the wronged, and sometimes to avenge the absent. Artless herself, and innocent in every thought and feeling, she set no guard on either; but as she felt and thought so she spoke out and acted, fearless even as she was unconscious of any wrong, defying misconstruction, and half inclined to doubt the possibility of evil in the minds of others, so foreign did it seem, and so impossible to her own natural and, as it were, instinctive sense of right.
Yet although such in all respects as I have striven to depict them, the one all quick and flashing impulse, the other all reflective and considerate principle, it was most wonderful how seldom there was any clashing of opinion and diversity of judgment as to what was to be done, what left undone, between the lovely sisters. Marian would, it is true, often jump at once to conclusions, and act as rapidly upon them, at which the more reflective Annabel would arrive only after some consideration—but it did not occur more often that the one had reason to repent of her precipitation than the other of her over caution—neither, indeed, had much cause for remorse of this kind at all, for all the impulses of the one, all the thoughts and principles of the other, were alike pure and kindly. With words, however, it was not quite so; for it must be admitted that Marian oftentimes said things, how unfrequently soever she did aught, which she would willingly have recalled afterwards; not, indeed, that she ever said anything unkind or wrong in itself, and rarely anything that could give pain to another, unless that pain were richly merited indeed—but that she gradually came to learn, long before she learned to restrain her impulses, that it may be very often unwise to speak what in itself is wise—and very often, if not wrong, yet certainly imprudent and of evil consequences to give loud utterance even to right opinions.
Such were the persons, such the dispositions of the fair heiresses of Ingleborough, at the time when they had attained the ages I have specified, and certainly, although their sphere of usefulness would have appeared at first sight circumscribed, and the range of their enjoyments very narrow, there rarely have been seen two happier or more useful beings than Annabel and Marian Hawkwood, in this wide world of sin and sorrow.
The care of their bereaved and hapless parent occupied, it is true, the greater portion of their time, yet they found many leisure hours to devote to visiting the poor, aiding the wants of the needy, consoling the sorrows of those who mourned, and sympathizing with the pleasures of the happy among their humble neighbors. To them this might be truly termed a work of love and pleasure, for it is questionable whether from any other source the lovely girls derived a higher or more satisfactory enjoyment, than from their tours of charity among their village pensioners. Next in the scale of happiness stood, doubtless, the society of the old vicar of that pastoral parish, a man who had been their father’s friend and counsellor in those young days of college friendship, when the fresh heart is uppermost in all, and selfishness a dormant passion; a man old enough almost to have been their grandsire, but with a heart as young and cheery as a boy’s—an intellect accomplished in the deepest lore of the schools, both classical and scientific, and skilled thoroughly in all the niceties and graces of French, and Spanish, and Italian literature. A man who had known courts, and camps too, for a short space in his youth; who had seen much, and suffered much, and yet enjoyed not a little, in his acquaintance with the world; and who, from sights, and sufferings, and enjoyments, had learned that if there is much evil, there is yet more of good even inthisworld—had learned, while rigid to his own, to be most lenient to his neighbor’s failings—had learned that charity should be the fruit of wisdom!—and had learned all this only to practise it in all his daily walks, to inculcate it in all his weekly lessons. This aged man, and his scarce less aged wife, living scarcely a stone’s throw from the Hall, had grown almost to think themselves a portion of the family; and surely no blood kindred could have created stronger ties of kindness than had the familiarity of long acquaintance, the confidence of old hereditary love. Lower yet in the round of their enjoyments, but still a constant source of blameless satisfaction, were their books, their music, their drawings, the management of their household, the cultivation of their lovely garden, the ministering to the wants of their loved birds and flowers. Thus, all sequestered and secluded from the world, placed in the midst of onerous duties and solicitudes almost innumerable, though they had never danced at a ball, nor blushed at the praises of their own beauty flowing from eloquent lips, nor listened to a lover’s suit, queens might have envied the felicity, the calm, pure, peaceful happiness of Annabel and Marian.
They were, indeed,toohappy! I do not mean too happy to be virtuous, too happy to be mindful of, and grateful to, the Giver of all joy—but, as the common phrase runs, too happy for their happiness to be enduring. That is a strange belief—a wondrous superstition!—and yet it has been common to all ages. The Greeks, those wild poetic dreamers, imagined that their vain gods, made up of mortal attributes,enviedthe bliss of men, fearing that wretched earthlings should vie in happiness with the possessors of Olympus. They sang in their dark mystic choruses,
“That perfect bliss of men not childless dies,But, ended, leaves a progeny behindOf woes, that spring from fairest fortune blind—”
“That perfect bliss of men not childless dies,But, ended, leaves a progeny behindOf woes, that spring from fairest fortune blind—”
“That perfect bliss of men not childless dies,But, ended, leaves a progeny behindOf woes, that spring from fairest fortune blind—”
“That perfect bliss of men not childless dies,
But, ended, leaves a progeny behind
Of woes, that spring from fairest fortune blind—”
and, though their other doctrines of that insuperable destiny, that absolute necessity, to resist which is needless labor; and of ancestral guilt, still reproducing guilt through countless generations, would seem to militate against it, there was no more established faith, and no more prevalent opinion, than that unwonted fortunes were necessarily followed by most unusual wo—hence, perhaps, the stern self-mortification of the middle ages—hence, certainly, the vulgar terror, prevalent more or less among all classes, and in every time and country, that children are too beautiful, too prematurely wise, too good, to be long-lived—that happiness is too great to be lasting—that mornings are too fine to augur stormless days! And we—aye! we ourselves—we of a better and purer dispensation—we half believe all this, and more than half tremble at it, although in truth there is no cause for fear in the belief—since, if there be aught of truth in the mysterious creed, which facts do in a certain sense seem to bear out, we can but think, we cannot but perceive, that this is but a varied form of care and mercy vouchsafed by the Great All-perfect, towards his frail creatures—that this is but a merciful provision to hinder us from laying up for ourselves “treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal”—a provision to restrain us from forgetting, in the small temporary bliss of the present, the boundless and incomparable beatitude of the future—to warn us against bartering, like Esau, our birthright for a mess of pottage.
But I am not now called to follow out this train of thought, suggested by the change in the fortunes of those to whom I am performing the part of historian—by the change I say in their fortunes—a change arising, too, from the very circumstances, as is so frequently the case, which seemed to promise the most fairly for their improvement and their permanence—oh, how blind guides are we—even the most far-sighted of us all—how weak and senseless judges, even the most sagacious—how false and erring prophets, even the wisest and the best!—
But I must not anticipate, nor overrun my scent, meriting, like a babbling hound, the harsh thong of the huntsman critic. It was, as I have said already, somewhere in the summer wherefrom Annabel reckoned her twentieth, and Marian her nineteenth year—very late in the last month of summer, an hour or two before the sunset of as beautiful an evening as ever smiled upon the face of the green earth; the sky was nearly cloudless, though a thin gauze-like haze had floated up from the horizon, and so far veiled the orb of the great sun, that the eye could gaze undazzled on his glories; and the whole air was full of a rich golden light which flooded all the level meadows with its lustre,—except where they were checkered by the long cool blue shadows, projected from the massive clumps of noble forest trees, which singly or in groups diversified the lovely vale—and gilded the tall slender steeple of the old village church, and glanced in living fire from the broad oriel windows of the Hall. Such was the evening, and so beautiful the prospect, with every sound and sight in perfect harmony—the sharp squeak of the rapid swifts wheeling their airy circles around the distant spire, the full and liquid melodies of thrush and blackbird from out the thorn bushes upon the lawn, the lowing of the cows returning from their pasture to pay the evening tribute, the very cawing of the homeward rooks blended by distance into a continuous and soothing murmur, the rippling music of the stream, the low sigh of the west wind in the foliage of the sycamores, the far shout of the children happy at their release from school, the carol of a solitary milkmaid, combining to make up music as sweet as can be heard or dreamed of. That lovely picture was surveyed, and that delicious melody was listened to by eyes and ears well fitted to appreciate their loveliness—for at an open casement of a neat parlor in the Hall, with furniture all covered with those elegant appliances of female industry—well-filled drawings, and books, and instruments of music, and work baskets, and frames for embroidery—which show so pleasantly that the apartment is one, not of show, but of calm home enjoyment, sat Annabel, alone—for the presence of the frail paralytic being, who dozed in her arm-chair at the farther end of the room, cannot be held to constitute society. Marian, for the first time in her life, was absent from her home on a visit, which had already endured nearly six weeks, to the only near relative of the family who was yet living—a younger sister of her mother—who had married many years ago a clergyman, whose piety and talents had raised him to a stall in the cathedral church of York, where he resided with his wife—a childless couple. This worthy pair had passed a portion of the summer at the Hall, and, when returning to the metropolis of the county, had prevailed on their younger niece, not altogether without difficulty, to go with them for a few weeks, and see a little of society on a scale something more extended than that which her native vales could offer. It was the first time in their lives that the sisters ever had been parted for more than a few days, and now the hours were beginning to appear very long to Annabel, as weeks were running into months, and the gorgeous suns of summer were fast preparing to give place to the cold dews and frosty winds of autumn. The evening meal was over, and a solitary thing was that meal now, which used to be the most delightful of the day, and hastily did the lonely sister hurry it over, thinking all the while what might be Marian’s occupation at the moment, and whether she too was engaged in thoughts concerning her far friends and the fair home of her childhood. It was then in a mood half melancholy, and half listless, that Annabel was gazing from her window down the broad valley to the eastward, marvelling at the beauty of the scenery, though she had noted every changing hue that flitted over the far purple hills a thousand times before; and listening to every sweet familiar sound, and yet at the same time pondering, as if she were quite unconscious of all that met her senses, about things which, she fancied, might be happening at York, when on a sudden her attention was aroused by a dense cloud of dust rising beyond the river, upon the line of the highroad, and sweeping up the valley with a progress so unusually rapid as indicated that the objects, which it veiled from view, must be in more than commonly quick motion. For a few moments she watched this little marvel narrowly, but without any apprehension or even any solicitude, until, as it drew nearer, she could perceive at times bright flashes as if of polished metal gleaming out through the murky wreaths, and feathers waving in the air. The year was that in which the hapless Charles, all hopes of reconciliation with the parliament being decidedly frustrated, displayed the banner of civil war, and drew the sword against his subjects. The rumors of the coming strife had circulated, like the dread sub-terraneous rumblings which harbinger the earth-quake, through all the country far and near, sad omens of approaching evil; and more distinctly were they bruited throughout Yorkshire, in consequence of the attempt which had been made by the royal party to secure Hull with all its magazines and shipping—frustrated by the energy and spirit of the Hothams—so that, as soon as she perceived that the dust was, beyond all doubt, stirred up by a small party of well appointed horse, Annabel entertained no doubts as to the meaning, but many serious apprehensions as to the cause, of the present visitation. The road by which the cavaliers were proceeding, though well made and passable at all times, was no considerable thoroughfare; no large or important towns lay on its route, nay, no large villages were situated on its margins; it was a devious, winding way, leading to many a homely farm-house, many a small sequestered hamlet, and affording to the good rustics a means of carrying their wheat, and eggs, and butter, or driving their fat cattle and black-faced moorland sheep to market, but it was not the direct line between any two points or places worthy of even a passing notice. It is true, that some twelve or fifteen miles down the valley, there was a house or two tenanted by gentry—one that might, by a liberal courtesy, have been designated as a castle—but above Ingleborough Hall, to the northwestward, there was no manor-house or dwelling of the aristocracy at all, until the road left theghylls, as those wild glens are designated, and joined the line of the great northern turnpike. It was extremely singular then, to say the least, that a gay troop of riders should appear suddenly in that wild spot, so far from anything that would be likely to attract them; and Annabel sat some time longer by the window, wondering, and at the same time fearing, although, in truth, she scarce knew what, until, at about a mile’s distance, she saw them halt, and, after a few moments’ conversation with a farming man on the wayside, as if to inquire their route, turn suddenly down a narrow by-road leading to the high narrow bridge of many arches which crossed the noble river, and gave the only access to the secluded site of Ingleborough. When she saw this, however, her perturbation became very great; for she well knew that there lay nothing in that direction, except one little market-town, far distant, and a few scattered farm-houses on the verge of the moors, so that there could be little doubt that Ingleborough was indeed their destination. The very moment that she arrived at this conclusion, Annabel called a serving-man and bade him run quick to the vicarage, and pray good Doctor Summers to come up to her instantly, as she was in great strait, and fain would speak with him; and, at the same time, with an energy of character that hardly could have been expected from one so young and delicate, ordered the men of the household, including in those days the fowler and the falconer, and half a dozen sturdy grooms, and many a supernumerary more, whom we in these degenerate times have long discarded as incumbrances, to have their arms in readiness—for every manor-house then had its regular armory—and to prepare the great bell of the Hall to summon all the tenants, on the instant such proceeding might be needful.
In a few moments the good gray-haired vicar came, almost breathless from the haste with which he had crossed the little space between the vicarage and the manor; and a little while after his wife followed him, anxious to learn, as soon as possible, what could have so disturbed the quiet tenor of a mind so regulated by high principles, and garrisoned by holy thoughts, as Annabel’s. Their humble dwelling, though scarce a stone’s throw from the Hall, was screened by a projecting knoll, feathered with dense and shadowy coppice, which hid from it entirely the road by which the horsemen were advancing; so that the worthy couple had not perceived or suspected anything to justify the fears of Annabel, until they were both standing in her presence—then, while the worthy doctor was proffering his poor assistance, and his good wife inquiring eagerly what was amiss, the sight of that gay company of cavaliers, with feathers waving and scarfs fluttering in the wind, and gold embroideries glancing to the sun, as, having left the dusty road, they wheeled through the green meadows, flashed suddenly upon them.
“Who can they be? What possibly can bring them hither?” exclaimed Annabel, pointing with evident trepidation towards the rapidly approaching horsemen; “I fear, oh, I greatly fear some heavy ill is coming—but I have ordered all the men to take their arms, and the great bell will bring us twenty of the tenants in half as many minutes. What can it be, good doctor?”
“In truth I know not, Annabel,” replied the good man, smiling cheerfully as he spoke; “in truth I know not, nor can at all conjecture; but be quite sure of this, dear girl, that they will do, to us at least, no evil—they are King Charles’ men beyond doubt, churchmen and cavaliers, all of them—any one can see that; and though I know not that we have much to fear from either party, from them at least we have no earthly cause for apprehension. I will go forth, however, to meet them, and to learn their errand—meantime, fear nothing.”
“Oh! you mistake me,” she answered at once; “oh! you mistake me very much, for I did not, even for a moment, fear personally anything; it was for my poor mother I was first alarmed, and all our good, kind neighbors, and, indeed, all the country around, that shows so beautiful and happy this fair evening—oh! but this civil war is a dread thing, and dread, I fear, will be the reckoning of those who wake it—”
“Who wake itwithout cause, my daughter! A dreadful thing it is at all times, but it may be a necessary, aye! and a holy thing—when freedom or religion are at stake—but we will speak of this again; for see, they have already reached the farther gate, and I must speak with them before they enter here, let them be who they may;” and with the words, pressing her hand with fatherly affection, “Farewell,” he said, “be of good cheer, I purpose to return forthwith,” then left the room, and hurrying down the steps of the porch, walked far more rapidly than seemed to suit his advanced years and sedentary habits across the park to meet the gallant company.
A gallant company, indeed, it was, and such as was but rarely seen in that wild region, being the train of a young gentleman of some eight or nine and twenty years, splendidly mounted, and dressed in the magnificent fashion of those days, in a half military costume, for his buff coat was lined throughout with rich white satin, and fringed and looped with silver, a falling collar of rich Flanders lace flowing down over his steel gorget, and a broad scarf of blue silk supporting his long silver-hilted rapier—by his side rode another person, not certainly a menial servant, and yet clearly not a gentleman of birth and lineage; and after these a dozen or more of armed attendants, all wearing the blue scarf and black feathers of the royalists, all nobly mounted and accoutred, like regular troopers, with sword and dagger, pistols and musquetoons, although they wore no breastplates, nor any sort of defensive armor. A brace of jet-black greyhounds, without a speck of white upon their sleek and glistening hides, ran bounding merrily beside their master’s stirrup, and a magnificent gosshawk sat hooded on his wrist, with silver bells and richly decorated jesses. So much had the ladies observed, even before the old man reached the party; but when he did so, pausing for a moment to address the leader, that gentleman at once leaped down from his horse, giving the rein to a servant, and accompanied him, engaged apparently in eager conversation, toward the entrance of the Hall. This went far on the instant to restore confidence to Annabel; but when they came so near that their faces could be seen distinctly from the windows, and she could mark a well-pleased smile upon the venerable features of her friend, she was completely reassured. A single glance, moreover, at the face of the stranger showed her that the most timid maiden need hardly feel a moment’s apprehension, even if he were her country’s or her faction’s foe; for it was not merely handsome, striking, and distinguished, but such as indicates, or is supposed to indicate, the presence of a kindly disposition and good heart. Annabel had not much time, indeed, for making observations at that moment, for it was scarce a minute before they had ascended the short flight of steps, which led to the stone porch, and entered the door of the vestibule—a moment longer, and they came into the parlor, the worthy vicar leading the young man by the hand, as if he were a friend of ten years’ standing.
“Annabel,” he exclaimed, in a joyous voice, as he crossed the threshold of the room, “this is the young Lord Vaux, son of your honored father’s warmest and oldest friend; and in years long gone by, but unforgotten, my kindest patron. He has come hither, bearing letters fromhisfather—knowing not until now that you, my child, were so long since bereaved—letters of commendation, praying the hospitality of Ingleborough, and the best influence of the name of Hawkwood, to levy men to serve King Charles in the approaching war. I have already told him—”
“How glad, how welcome, doubtless, would have been his coming,” answered Annabel, advancing easily to meet the youthful nobleman, although a deep blush covered all her pale features as she performed her unaccustomed duty, “had my dear father been alive, or my poor mother”—casting a rapid glance towards the invalid—“been in health to greet him. As it is,” she continued, “the Lord Vaux, I doubt not, in the least, will pardon any imperfections in our hospitality, believing that if in aught we err, it will be error, not of friendliness or of feeling, but of experience only, seeing I am but a young mistress of a household. You, my kind friend, and Mistress Summers, will doubtless tarry with us while my Lord Vaux gives us the favor of his presence.”
“Loath should I be, indeed, dear lady, thus to intrude upon your sorrows, could I at all avoid it,” replied the cavalier; “and charming as it must needs be to enjoy the hospitalities tendered by such an one as you, I do assure you, were I myself concerned alone, I would remount my horse at once, and ride away, rather than force myself upon your courtesy. But, when I tell you that my father’s strong opinion holds it a matter of importance—importance almost vital to the king, and to the cause of Church and State in England—that I should levy some force here of cavaliers, where there be so few heads of noble houses living, to act in union with Sir Philip Musgrave, in the north, and with Sir Marmaduke Langdale, I both trust and believe that you will overlook the trouble and intrusion, in fair consideration of the motives which impel me.”
“Pray—” said she, smiling gaily—“pray, my Lord Vaux, let us leave, now, apology and compliment—most unaffectedly and truly I am glad to receive you, both as the son of my father’s valued friend, and as a faithful servant of our most gracious king—we will do our best, too, to entertain you; and Doctor Summers will aid you with his counsel and experience in furthering your military levies. How left you the good earl, your father? I have heard mine speak of him many times, and ever in the highest terms of praise, when I was but a little girl—and my poor mother much more recently, before this sad calamity affected her so fearfully.”
Her answer, as it was intended, had the effect at once of putting an end to all formality, and setting the young nobleman completely at his ease; the conversation took a general tone, and was maintained on all sides with sufficient spirit, until, when Annabel retired for a little space to conduct her mother to her chamber, De Vaux found himself wondering how a mere country girl, who had lived a life so secluded and domestic, should have acquired graces both of mind and manner, such as he never had discovered in court ladies; while she was struck even in a greater degree by the frank, unaffected bearing, the gay wit, and sparkling anecdote, blended with many a touch of deeper feeling, which characterized the youthful nobleman. After a little while she reappeared, and with her was announced the evening meal, the pleasant sociable old-fashioned supper, and as he sat beside her, while she presided, full of calm modest self-possession, at the head of her hospitable board, with no one to encourage her, or lend her countenance, except the good old vicar and his homely helpmate, he could not but draw fresh comparisons, all in her favor too, betwixt the quiet graceful confidence of the ingenuous girl before him, and theminauderiesand meretricious airs of the court dames, who had been hitherto the objects of his passing admiration. Cheerfully, then, and pleasantly the evening passed away; and when upon her little couch, hard by the invalid’s sick bed, Annabel thought over the events of the past day, she felt concerning young De Vaux, rather as if he had been an old familiar friend, with whom she had renewed an intercourse long interrupted, than as of a mere acquaintance whom that day first had introduced, and whom the next might possibly remove forever. Something there was, when they met next, at breakfast on the following morning, of blushing bashfulness in Annabel which he had not observed, nor she before experienced; but it passed rapidly away, and left her self-possessed and tranquil—while surely in the sparkling eye, the eager haste with which he broke away from his conversation with Dr. Summers, as she entered, in his hand half extended, and then half awkwardly, half timidly, withdrawn, there was much indication of excited feeling, widely at variance with the stiff and even formal mannerism inculcated and practised in the court of the unhappy Charles. It needs not now, however, to dwell on passing conversations, to narrate every trifling incident—the morning meal once finished, De Vaux mounted his horse, and rode forth in accordance with the directions of the loyal clergyman, to visit such among the neighboring farmers as were most likely to be able to assist him in the levying a horse regiment. A few hours passed, and he returned full of high spirits and hot confidence—he had met everywhere assurances of good will to the royal cause, had succeeded in enlisting some ten or more of stout and hardy youths, and had no doubt of finally accomplishing the object, which he had in view, to the full height of his aspirations. After dinner, which in those primitive days was served at noon, he was engaged for a time in making up despatches for his father, which having been sent off by a messenger of his own trusty servants to the castle in Northumberland, he went out and joined his lovely hostess in the sheltered garden, which I have described above; and there they lingered until the sun was sinking in the west behind the huge and purple headed hills, which covered the horizon in that direction—the evening circle and the social meal succeeded, and when they parted for the night, if Annabel and young De Vaux could not be said to be enamored, as indeed they could not yet, they had at least made so much progress to that end, that each esteemed the other the most agreeable and charming person it had been hitherto their fortune to encounter; and, although this was decidedly the farthest point to which the thoughts of Annabel extended, when he had laid down on his bed, with the sweet rays of the harvest moon flooding his room with quiet lustre, and the voice of the murmuring rivulet and the low flutter of the west wind in the giant sycamores blending themselves into a soft and soothing melody, the young lord found himself considering how gracefully that fair pale girl would fill the place, which had been long left vacant by his mother, in the grand Hall of Gilsland Castle. Another, and another day succeeded—a week slipped away—a second and third followed it, and still the ranks of the royal regiment, though they were filling rapidly, had many vacancies, and arms had yet to be provided, and standards, and musicians—passengers went and came continually between the castle and the manor; and all was bustle and confusion in the lone glens of Wharfdale. Meantime a change was wrought in Annabel’s demeanor, that all who saw remarked—there was a brighter glow than ever had been seen before in her transparent cheeks; her eyes sparkled almost as brilliantly as Marian’s; her lips were frequently arrayed in bright and beaming smiles; her step was light and springy as a young fawn’s upon the mountain—Annabel was in love, and had discovered that it was so—Annabel was beloved, and knew it—the young lord’s declaration and the old earl’s consent had come together, and the sweet maiden’s heart was given, and her hand promised, almost before the asking. Joy! joy! was there not joy in Ingleborough? The good old vicar’s tranquil air of satisfaction, the loud and eloquent mirth of his kind-hearted housewife—the merry gay congratulations of wild Marian, who wrote from York, half crazy with excitement and delight—the evident and lovely happiness of the young promised bride—what pen of man may even aspire to describe them. All was decided—all arranged—the marriage was, so far at least, to be held private, that no festivities nor public merriment should bruit it to the world, until the civil strife should be decided, and the king’s power established; which all men fancied at that day it would by a single battle—and which, had Rupert wheeled upon the flank of Essex at Edge-Hill, instead of chasing the discomfited and flying horse of the Roundheads miles from the field of battle, would probably have been the case. The old earl had sent the wedding gifts to his son’s chosen bride, had promised to be present at the nuptials, the day of which was fixed already; but it had been decided, that when De Vaux should be forced to join the royal armies, his young wife should continue to reside at Ingleborough, with her bereaved mother and fond sister, until the wished-for peace should unite England once again in bonds of general amity, and the bridegroom find honorable leisure to lead his wife in state to his paternal mansions. Days sped away! how fast they seemed to fly to those young happy lovers! How was the very hour of their first interview noted, and marked with the white in the deep tablets of their minds—how did they, shyly half, half fondly, recount each to the other the first impressions of their growing fondness—how did they bless the cause that brought them thus together—Proh! cæca mens mortalium!—oh! the short-sighted scope of mortal vision!—alas! for one—for both!—
The wedding day was fixed, and now was fast approaching; and hourly was Marian with the good uncle and his dame expected at the Hall, and wished for, and discoursed of by the lovers—“and oh!—” would Annabel say, half sportively and half in earnest—“well was it for my happiness, De Vaux, thatshewas absent when you first came hither, for had you seen her first, her far superior beauty, her bright wild radiant face, her rare archnaïveté, her flashing wit, and beautiful enthusiasm, would—musthave captivated you all at once—and what had then become of your poor Annabel?”
And then would the young lord vow—and vow in all sincerity and truth as he believed, that had he met her first in the most glorious courts of Europe, with all the gorgeous beauties of the world to rival her, she would alone have been the choice of his soul—his soul first touched by her of women!—And then he would ask in lowered tones, and with a sly simplicity of manner, whether ifhehad loved another, she could have still loved him; to which with all the frank and fearless purity, which was so beautiful a trait in Annabel—“Oh! yes—” she would reply, and gaze with calm reliance, as she did so, into her lover’s eyes—“oh yes, dear Ernest—and then how miserably wretched must I have been, through my whole life thereafter. Oh! yes, I loved you—though then I knew it not, nor indeed thought at all about it until you spoke to me—I loved you dearly—tenderly!—and I believe it would have almost killed me, to look upon you afterward as the wife of another.”
The wedding day was but a fortnight distant, and strange to say, it was the very day two months gone, which had seen their meeting. Wains had arrived from Gilsland, loaded with arms and uniforms, standards and ammunition—two of the brothers of De Vaux, young gallant cavaliers, had come partly to officer the men, partly to do fit honor to their brother’s nuptials. The day, although the season had now advanced far into brown October, was sunny, mild and beautiful; the regiment had that day, for the first time, mustered in arms in Ingleborough park, and a gay show they made with glittering casques and corslets, fresh from the armorer’s anvil, and fluttering scarfs and dancing plumes, and bright emblazoned banners.
The sun was in the act of setting—De Vaux and Annabel were watching his decline from the same window in the Hall, whence she had first discovered his unexpected coming; when, as on that all eventful evening, a little dust was seen arising on the high road beyond the river, and in a moment a small mounted party, among which might be readily descried the fluttering of female garments!
“It is my sister—” exclaimed Annabel, jumping up on the instant, and clasping her hands eagerly—“it is my dear, dear sister—come, Ernest, come; let us go meet dear Marian.” No time was lost; but arm in arm they sallied forth, the lovers; and met the little train just this side the park gates.
Marian sprang from her horse, light as a spirit of the air, and rushed into her sister’s arms and clung there with a long and lingering embrace, and as she raised her head a bright tear glittered on either silky eyelash. De Vaux advanced to greet her, but as he did so, earnestly perusing the lineaments of his fair sister, he was most obviously embarrassed, his manner was confused and even agitated, his words faltered—andshewhose face had been, a second before, beaming with the bright crimson of excitement, whose eye had looked round eagerly and gladly to mark the chosen of her sister—sheturned as pale as ashes—brow, cheeks, and lips—pale, almost livid!—and her eye fell abashed, and did not rise again till he had finished speaking. None noticed it, but Annabel; for all the party were engaged in gay congratulations, and, they recovering themselves immediately, nothing more passed that could create surmise—but she didnoteit, and her heart sank for a moment; and all that evening she was unusually grave and silent; and had not her usual demeanor been so exceedingly calm and subdued, her strange dejection must have been seen and wondered at by her assembled kinsfolk.