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. Your words, too, are so wild and whirling
that for my life I cannot guess what is their meaning or their cause. I
only can suspect, or, I should rather say, can only _dread_ that you
have either suffered some very grievous wrong, or done some very
grievous sin, and as I must believe the last impossible, my fears must
centre on the first dark apprehension. Could you confide in me, I might
advise, might aid, and could, at least, most certainly console you. Why
you cannot, or will not trust me, _you_ can know only. Side by side have
we grown up since we were little tottering things, guiding our weak
steps hand in hand in mutual dependence, seldom apart, I might say
_never_—for, now since you have been away, I have thought of you half
the day, and dreamed of you all night, my earliest comrade, my best
friend, my own, my only sister. And now we are two grown up maidens,
with none 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 blessed 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 that one should not have
communicated to the other. And now there is not one thought in my mind,
one feeling or affection in my heart, which I would hide from you, my
sister. What, then, can be this heavy sin or sorrow which you are now
ashamed or fearful to relate to one who surely loves you as no one else
can do beneath the canopy of heaven? Marian, you must reply to me in
full, or I must leave you till better thoughts shall be awakened in your
soul, and till you judge more truly of those who most esteem you!”
“Too true!—it is too true!” Marian 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 forever. 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—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 plant no 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, but her color came and went more quickly than was
usual to her, and the glance of her gentle blue eye dwelt with a
doubting and irresolute expression on Marian’s face as she made answer—
“Very glad am I that, as you tell me, Marian, you have not suffered
aught or done aught evil—and I trust that you tell me truly. Beyond
this I cannot, I confess it, sympathize with you at all; for in order to
sympathize one must understand, and that you know I do not. What sin you
should have thought of I cannot so much as conceive—but as you say you
have resisted your temptations hitherto—but, oh! what possible
temptations to aught evil can have beset you in this dear, peaceful
home?—I doubt not that you will be strengthened to resist them farther.
You tell me, Marian, that you would not plant a thorn in my calm
bosom—it is true that my bosom was calm yester morn, and very
happy—but now I should speak falsely were I to say it is so. What
_thorn_ you could plant in my heart I know not—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 burthen
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
mean time, go to your chamber, dearest, and wipe away these traces of
your tears, and rearrange your hair. Our guests will be assembled before
this, to break their fasts in the south oriel chamber, 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 readjust her garments, and remove from her
bright face the signs of her late disorder. Meanwhile, sad and
suspicious of she knew not what, and only by a violent effort concealing
her heartfelt anxiety, Annabel joined her guests in the fair 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, nor 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 stoups of rich Canary, crowned the huge board, which
groaned beneath sirloins of beef, and hams, and 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 that raised a smile upon the lips of all who
heard him, and had the effect immediately of chasing the cloud from the
brow of Annabel, who, after a few minutes, as if she had done some
injustice to her lover in her heart and was desirous of effacing its
remembrance, both from herself and him, gave free rein to her feelings,
and was the same sweet joyous creature that she had been since his
arrival had wakened 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,
clustering on her cheeks and flowing down her neck from beneath a
slashed Spanish hat of velvet, with a long ostrich feather, and her
unrivalled figure set off to more than usual advantage by the long waist
and flowing draperies of her green velvet riding dress. Her face was
perhaps somewhat paler than its ordinary hue when she first entered, but
as she met the eye of Ernest, brow, cheeks, and neck were crimsoned with
a burning flush, which passed away, however, instantly, leaving her not
the least embarrassed or confused, but perfectly collected, and, as it
seemed, full of a quiet innocent mirthfulness. Nothing could be more
perfect than was her manner, during the long protracted meal, towards
her sister’s lover. She seemed to feel towards him already as if he were
a tried friend and a brother; her air was perfectly familiar as she
addressed him, yet free from the least touch of forwardness, the
slightest levity or coquettishness; she met his admiring gaze—for he
did at times gaze on her with visible admiration—yet admiration of so
quiet and unpassionate a kind as a fond 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 her suspicions vanishing away at every moment; the
vague distrust that had crept into her heart melted away like mist
wreaths from 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 so 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 now has
overmastered her despair, her soul-consuming anguish, to sympathize in
her sister’s happiness—and then she fancied how she would win from her
her secret sorrow, and soothe it till she should forget the faithless
one, and tend her with a mother’s love, a mother’s fond anxiety. Alas!
alas! for Annabel!
The morning meal was ended, the sun was already high in the clear
heavens, and the thin mist wreaths were dispersing from the broad valley
and the bright river, and now a merry cavalcade swept round the lawn
from the stables, a dozen foresters and grooms well mounted, with led
horses, two of the latter decked with the velvet side-saddles which were
then used by ladies, and seven or eight serving-men on foot, with hounds
and spaniels in their leashes, and among them, conspicuous above the
rest, the falconer with his attendants, one bearing a large frame
whereon were _cast_, such was the technical jargon used in the mystery
of rivers, eight or ten long-winged falcons, gosshawks, and jerfalcons,
and peregrines, with all their gay paraphernalia of hoods, and bells,
and jesses. A little longer and the fair girls came out; Annabel, now
attired like her sister in velvet side robe and the slashed graceful
hat, and were assisted to their saddles by the young lover; then he too
bounded to his noble charger’s back, and others of the company in their
turn mounted, and the whole party rode off merrily to the green meadows
by the fair river’s side. Away! away! the spaniels are uncoupled and
questing far and wide, among the long green flags, and water bryony, and
mallows that fringe the banks of many a creek and inlet, over the russet
stubbles, up the thick alder coppices that fringe the steep ravines.
Away! away! the smooth, soft turf, the slight and brushy hedges invite
the free and easy gallop, invite the fearless leap! Away! with hawk
unhooded on the wrist and ready with graceful seat, light hand, and
bounding heart. See how the busy spaniels snuff the hot scent and ply
their feathery tails among the dry fern on the bank of that old sunny
ditch—there has the game been lately—hold hard, bold cavaliers—hold
hard, my gentle ladies—hurry not now the dogs. Hush! hark! the black
King Charles is whimpering already; that beautiful long-eared and silky
Blenheim joins in the subdued chorus—how they thread in and out the
withered fern stalks, how they rush through the crackling brambles!
Yaff! yaff!—now they give tongue aloud, yaff! yaff! yaff! yaff!—and
whir-r-r upsprings the well grown covey—now give your hearts to the
loud whoop!—now fling your hawks aloft!—now gather well your bridles
in your hand, now spur your gallant horses—on! on! sweep over the low
fence, skirt the green meadow, dash at the rapid brook—ladies and
cavaliers pell-mell—all riding for themselves, and careless of the
rest, forgetful of all fear, all thought, in the fierce, fast career, as
with eyes all turned heavenward to mark the soaring contest of the
birds, trusting their good steeds only to bear them swift and safely,
they drive in giddy rout down the broad valley. And now the flight is
over—each gallant hawk has struck his cowering quarry—the lures are
shaken in the air, the falconer’s whoop and whistle recall the hovering
falcon, and on they go at slower pace to beat for fresh game—and lo!
flip-flap, there rises the first woodcock of the season. Ho! mark
him—mark him down, good forester—we must not miss that fellow—the
very prince of game—the king he would be, save that gray heronshaw of
right has old claim to the throne of falconrie. Lo! there, my masters,
he is down—down in that gulley’s bank where the broom and the brachens
feather the sunny slope, and the small streamlet hardly murmurs among
the long rank grasses that seem almost to choke its mossy runnel. Quick!
quick! unhood the lanner—the young and speckle-breasted lanner!—cast
off the old gray-headed jerfalcon—soh, Diamond, my brave bird! mark his
quick glancing eye and his proud crest, soh! cast him off and he will
wheel around our heads nor leave us till we flush the woodcock. No! no!
hold the young lanner hard, let him not fly, he is too mettlesome and
proud of wing to trust to—and couple all the dogs up, except the stanch
red setter. Now we will steal on him up wind and give him every
chance—best cross the gully here, fair dames, for it is something deep
and boggy, and if ye were to brave it in the fury of the gallop you
might be mired for your pains. That bird will show you sport, be sure of
it, for lo! the field beyond is thickly set with stunted thorns and
tufts of alder bushes, if your hawks be not keen of sight, and quick of
wing too, be sure that he will dodge them, and if he reach yon hill-side
only, all covered as it is with evergreen, dense holly brakes, and thick
oak saplings, he is as safe there in that covert as though he were a
thousand leagues away, in some deep glen of the wild Atlas mountains.
Lo! there he goes, the gray hawk after him—by heaven! in fair speed he
outstrips the jerfalcon, he does not condescend even to dodge or double,
but flies wild and high toward the purple moorland, and there _we_
cannot follow him. Ride, De Vaux; gallop for your life—cut in, cut in
between the bird and that near ridge—soh! bravely done, black
charger—now cast the lanner loose! so! that will turn him. See! he has
turned and now he must work for it—the angle he has made has brought
old Diamond up against his weather wing—now! he will strike—now! now!
but lo! the wary bird has dodged, and the hawk, who had soared and was
in act of pouncing, checked his fleet pinion and turned after him—how
swift he flies dead in the wind’s eye—and the wind is rising, he cannot
face it now—tack and tack, how he twists—how cleverly he beats to
windward, but now the odds are terribly against him, the cunning falcons
have divided, and are now flying sharply to cut him off, one at each
termination of his tacks—the lanner has outstripped him. Whoop! Robin,
whoop!—Soh! call him up the wind—up the wind, falconer, or he will
miss his stroke. There! there he towers up! up! in airy circles—he
poises his broad wing—he swoops—alack, poor woodcock! but no! he
has—by Pan the god of hunters—he has missed his cast—no swallow ever
winged it swifter than the wild bird of passage—not now does he fly
high among the clouds, but skims the very surface of the lawn, twisting
round every tree, and baffling the keen falcons. Now he is scarce ten
paces from his covert, the old bird, Diamond, flying like lightning,
struggles in vain to weather him—in vain—the game dashes behind the
bole of a tall upright oak, darts down among the hollies and is
lost—well flown, brave quarry—well flown, noble—ha! the hawk—the
brave old hawk, set only on retrieving his lost flight, his eye set too
steadily upon the bird which he so fiercely struggled to outfly, has
dashed with the full impetus of his arrowy flight against the gnarled
stem of the oak, he rebounds from it like a ball from the iron
target—never so much as once flaps his fleet pinions, tears not the
ground with beak or single—Diamond, brave Diamond, is dead—and pitying
eyes look down on him, and gentle tears are shed, and the soft hands
that were wont to fondle his high crest and smooth his ruffled wings,
compose his shattered pinions and sleek his blood-stained plumage—alas,
brave Diamond!—but fate—it is the fate of war. Another flight—another
glowing gallop, to make the blood dance blythely in our veins—to drive
dull care from our hearts. But no, the sylvan meal is spread—down by
that leafy nook, under the still green canopy of that gigantic oak,
where the pure spring wells out so clear and crystal from the bright
yellow gravel under its gnarled and tortuous roots—there is the
snow-white linen spread on the mossy greensward, there the cold pasty
and the larded capon tempt the keen appetite of the jolly sportsman,
there, plunged in the glassy waters, the tall flasks of champagne are
cooling. Who knows not the delicious zest with which we banquet on the
greensward, the merry, joyous ease which, all restraint and ceremonial
banished, renders the sylvan meal, in the cool shadow by the rippling
brook, so indescribably delightful? And all that were collected there
were for the moment happy—oh, how happy!—and many, in sad after days,
remembered that gay feast, and dwelt upon the young hopes which were so
flattering then, hopes which so soon decayed, and lingered on the
contemplation of that soon perished bliss, as if the great Italian had
erred, when he declared so wisely that to the aims of men
“nessum maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tiempo felice
Nella miseria.”
The bright wine sparkled in the goblet, but brighter flashed the azure
eyes of Marian, for her whole face was radiant with her wild starry
beauty. Was it the thrilling rapture of the gallop that sent her blood
boiling with strange excitement “through every petty artery of her
body,” was it the spirit stirring chase alone, or did the rich blood of
the Gallic grape, sparingly tasted though it was, lend something of
unnatural fervor? hark to the silvery tones of that sweet, ringing
laugh—and now how deep a blush mantles her brow, her neck, her bosom,
when, in receiving her glass from the hand of Ernest, their fingers
mingled for a moment. But Ernest is unmoved and calm, and seemingly
unconscious—and Annabel, fond Annabel, rejoices to mark her sister’s
spirits so happily, so fully, as it seems, recovered from that
overmastering sorrow. She saw not the hot blush, she noted not its
cause—and yet, can it be—can it be that casual pressure was the
cause—can it be love—love for a sister’s bridegroom, that kindles so
the eye—that flushes so the cheek—that thrills so the life blood of
lovely Marian? Away! away with contemplation. Ernest reflects not, for
his brow is smooth and all unruffled by a thought, his lips are smiling,
his pulse calm and temperate—and Marian pauses not—and Annabel
suspects—Hush! they are singing. Lo! how the sweet and flute-like tones
of the fair girls are blended with the rich and deep contralto of De
Vaux. Lo! they are singing—singing the wood notes wild of the great
master of the soul—
“Heigho! sing heigho! under the green holly!
Most friendship is feigning
Most loving mere folly!”