THE SISTERS.

A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

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BY H. W. HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” ETC. ETC.

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(Concluded from page 78.)

When next she opened her eyes, she lay on her own bed, in her own well known chamber, and her old nurse, with the good vicar’s wife, was watching over her—as her lids rose and she looked about her, all her intelligence returned upon the moment, and she was perfectly aware of all that had already passed, of all that she had still to undergo. “Well—” she replied to the eager and repeated inquiries after her state of body and sensations which were poured out from the lips of her assiduous watchers—“Oh! I feel quite well, I do assure you—I was not hurt at all—not in the least—only I was so foolish as to faint from terror—but Marian, how is Marian?”

“Not injured in the least, but very anxious about you, sweet Annabel,” replied good mistress Summers—“so much so that I was obliged to force her from the chamber, so terrible was her grief, so violent her terror and excitement—Lord De Vaux snatched her from the horse and saved her, before he even saw your danger—he too is in a fearful state of mind, he has been at the door twenty times, I believe, within the hour—hark, that is his foot now—will you see him, dearest?”

A quick and chilly shudder ran through the whole frame of the lovely girl, and a faint hue glowed once again in her pale cheek, but mastering her feelings, she made answer in her own notes of sweet calm music—“Not yet, dear mistress Summers—not yet—but tell him, I beseech you, that I am better—well indeed! and will receive his visit by and by—and in the mean time, my good friend, I must see Marian—must see her directly and alone—No! no!” she added, seeing that the old lady was about to remonstrate—“No! no! you must not hinder me of my desire—you know—” she went on, with a faint, very melancholy smile—“you know, of old, I am a wilful stubborn girl when I make up my mind—and it is quite made up now, my good friend—so, pray you, let me see her—I am quite strong enough I do assure you—so do you, I beseech you, go and console my lord; and let nurse bring me Marian!—” So firmly did she speak, and so resolved was the expression of her soft gentle features, that they no longer hesitated to comply with her request, and both retired with soft steps from the chamber. Then Annabel half uprose from the pillows which had propped her, and clasped her hands in attitude of prayer, and turned her beautiful eyes upward—her lips moved visibly, not in irregular impulsive starts, but with a smooth and ordered motion, as she prayed fervently indeed but tranquilly, for strength to do, and patience to endure, and grace to do and to endure alike with Christian love and Christian fortitude. While she was thus engaged, a quick uncertain footstep, now light and almost tripping, now heavy and half faltering, approached the threshold—a gentle hand raised the latch once, and again let it fall, as if the comer was fluctuating between the wish to enter and some vague apprehension which for the moment conquered the desire. “Is it you, Marian?—” asked the lovely sufferer—“oh! come in, come in, sister!—” and she did come in, that bright lovely creature, her naturally high complexion almost unnaturally brilliant now from the intensity of her hot blushes, her eyes were downcast, and she could not so much as look up into the sad sweet face of Annabel; her whole frame trembled visibly as she approached the bed, and her foot faltered very much, yet she drew near, and sitting down beside the pillow, took Annabel’s hand tenderly between her own, and raised it to her warm lips and kissed it eagerly and often. Never for a moment’s space did the eyes of Annabel swerve from her sister’s features, from the moment she entered the door until she sat down by her side, but rested on them steadily as if through them they would peruse the secret soul with a soft gentle scrutiny, that savored not at all of sternness or reproach—at last, as if she was now fully satisfied, she dropped her eyelids and for a little space kept them close shut, while again her lips moved silently—and then pressing her sister’s hand fondly, she said in a quiet soothing voice, as if she were alluding to an admitted fact rather than asking a question, “So you have met him before, Marian?—” a violent convulsion shook every limb of her whom she addressed, and the blood rushed in torrents to her brow—she bowed her head upon her sister’s hand, and burst into a paroxysm of hysterical tears and sobbing, but answered not a word. “Nay! nay! dear sister,” exclaimed Annabel, bending down over her and kissing her neck which like her brow and cheeks was absolutely crimson—“Nay! nay! sweet Marian, weep not thus, I beseech you, there is no wrong done—none at all—there was no wrong in your seeing him, when you did so—it was at York, I must believe—nor in your loving him either, when you did so—for I had not then seen him, and of course could not love him. But it was not right, sweetest Marian, to let me be in ignorance—only think, dearest; only think, what would have been my agony, when I had come to know after I was a wife, that in myself becoming happy I had brought misery on my second self—my own sweet sister!—nay!—do not answer me yet, Marian, for I can understand it all—almost all, that is—and I quite appreciate your motives—I am sure that you did not know that he loved you—for he does love you, Marian—but fancied that he loved me only, and so resolved to control yourself, and crush your young affections, and sacrifice yourself for me—thank God! oh! thank God, dearest, that your strength was not equal to the task—for had it been so we had been most wretched—oh! most wretched. But you must tell me all about it, for there is much I cannot comprehend—when did you see him first, and where?—why did he never so much as hint to me that he had known you?—why, when I wrote you word that he was here, and after that I liked—loved—was about to marry him—why did you never write back that you knew him?—and why, above all, when you came and found him here—here in your mother’s house—why did you meet him as a stranger?—I know it will be painful to you, dear one; but you must bear the pain, for it is necessary now that there shall be no more mistakes—be sure of one thing, dearest Marian, that I will never wed him—oh! not for worlds!—I could not sleep one night!—no not one hour in the thought that my bliss was your bane—but if he love you, as he ought, and as you love him, sister, for I can read your soul, he shall be yours at once, and I shall be more happy so—more happy tenfold—than pillowing my head upon a heart which beats for any other—but he must explain—he must explain all this—for I much fear me he has dealt very basely by us both—I fear me much, he is a bold false man⁠—”

“No! no!” cried Marian eagerly, raising her clear eyes to her sister’s, full of ingenuous truth and zealous fire—“No! no! he is all good, and true, and noble!—I—it is I only who have, for once, been false and wicked—not altogether wicked, Annabel—perhaps more foolish than to blame, at least in my intentions—but you shall hear all—you shall hear all, Annabel, and then judge for yourself—” and then still looking her sister quite steadily and truthfully in the face, she told her how, at a ball in York, she had met the young nobleman, who had seemed pleased with her, danced with her many times, and visited her, but never once named love, nor led her in the least to fancy he esteemed her beyond a chance acquaintance—“But I loved him—oh! how I loved him, Annabel—almost from the first time I saw him—and I feared ever—ever and only—that by my bold frank rashness, he might discover his power, and believe me forward and unmaidenly—weeks passed, and our intimacy ripened, and I became each hour more fondly, more devotedly, more madly,—for it was madness all!—enamored of him. He met me ever as a friend; no more! The time came when he was to leave York, and as he took leave of me he told me that he had just received despatches from his father directing him to visit mine; and I, shocked by the coolness of his parting tone, and seeing that indeed he had no love for me, scarcely noting what he said, told him not that I had no father—but I did tell him that I had one sweet sister, and suddenly extorted from him, unawares, a promise that he would never tell you he had known me—my manner, I am sure, was strange and wild, and I have no doubt that my words were so likewise—for his demeanor altered on the instant—his air, which had been that of quiet friendship, became cool, chilling, and almost disdainful, and within a few minutes he took his leave, and we never met again till yester even. You will, I doubt not, ask me wherefore I did all this—I cannot tell you—I was mad, mad with love and disappointment, and the very instant he said that he was coming hither, I knew as certainly that he would love you, and you him, Annabel, as though it had been palpably revealed to me. I could not write of him to you—I could not!—and when your letters came and we learned that he was here, I confessed all this to our aunt, and though she blamed me much for wild and thoughtless folly, she thought it best to keep the matter secret. This is the whole truth, Annabel—the whole truth! I fancied that the absence, the knowledge that I should see him next my sister’s husband, the stern resolve with which I bound my soul, had made me strong to bear his presence—I tried it, and I found myself, how weak—this is all, Annabel; can you forgive me, sister?”

“Sweet, innocent Marian,” exclaimed the elder sister through her tears, for she had wept constantly through the whole sad narration, “there is not any thing for me to forgive—you have wronged yourself only, my poor sister!—But yet—but yet!—I cannot understand it—he must have seen—no man could fail to see that one so frank and artless, as you are, Marian, was in love with him—he must, if not before, have known it certainly when you extorted from him, as you call it, that strange promise—besides he loves you, Marian; he loves you—then wherefore—wherefore, in God’s name, did he woo me—for woo he did, and fervently and long before he won me to confession?—oh! he is base!—base, base, and bad at heart, my sister!—answer me nothing, dear one, for I will prove him very shortly—send Margaret hither to array me, I will go speak with him forthwith—if he be honest, Marian, he is yours—and think not that I sacrifice myself, when I say this; for all the love I ever felt for him has vanished utterly away—if he is honest, he is yours—but be not over confident, dear child, for I believe he is not—and if not—why then, sweet Marian, can we not comfort one another, and live together as we used, dear, innocent, united happy sisters? Do not reply now, Marian—your heart is too full—haste and do as I tell you; before supper time to-night all shall be ended, whether for good or evil, HE only knows to whom the secrets of the heart are visible, e’en as the features of the face. Farewell—be of good cheer, and yet not over cheerful!”

Within an hour after that most momentous conversation Annabel sat beside the window in that fair summer parlor, looking out on the fair prospect of mead and dale and river, with its back ground of purple mountains—the very window from which she had first looked upon De Vaux. Perhaps a secret instinct had taught her to select that spot now that she was about to renounce him forever—but if it were so, it was one of those indefinable impulsive instincts of which we are unconscious, even while they prompt our actions. De Vaux was summoned to her presence, and Annabel awaited him—arbiter of her own, her sister’s destinies! “Ernest—” she said, as he entered, cutting across his eager and impetuous inquiries, “Ernest De Vaux, I have learned to-day a secret—” she spoke with perfect ease, and without a symptom of irritation, or anxiety, or sorrow, either in her voice, or in her manner—nor was she cold or dignified, or haughty. Her demeanor was not indeed that of a fond maid to her accepted suitor; nor had it the flutter which marks the consciousness of unacknowledged love—a sister’s to a dear brother’s would have resembled it more nearly than perhaps anything to which it could be compared, yet was not this altogether similar. He looked up in her face with a smile, and asked at once,

“What secret, dearest Annabel?”

“A secret, Ernest,” she replied, “which I cannot but fancy you must have learned before, but which you certainly have learned, as well as I, to-day. My sister loves you, Ernest!” The young man’s face was crimson on the instant, and he would have made some reply, but his voice failed him, and after a moment of confused stuttering, he stood before her in embarrassed silence, but she went on at once, not noticing apparently his consternation. “If you did know this, as I fear must be the case, long long ago! most basely have you acted, and most cruelly, to both of us—for never! never! even if it had been a rash and unsought, and unjustifiable passion on her part, would I have wedded, knowingly, the man who held my sister’s heart strings!”

“It was,” he answered instantly, “it was a rash and unsought, and unjustifiable passion on her part—believe me, oh! believe me, Annabel! that is—that is—” he continued, reddening again, at feeling himself self-convicted—“that is—if she felt any passion!”

“Then you did know it—then you did know it—” she interrupted him, without paying any regard to his attempt at self-correction, “then you did know it from the very first—oh! man! man! oh! false heart of man—oh! falser tongue that can speak thus of a woman whom he loves! yes! loves!” she added in a clear high voice, thrilling as the alarm blast of a silver trumpet—“yes! loves—Ernest De Vaux—with his whole heart and spirit—never think to deny it—did I not see you, when you rushed to save her from a lesser peril, when you left me, as you must have thought, to perish—did I not see love, written as clearly as words in a book, on every feature of your face—even as I heard love crying out aloud in every accent of her voice?”

“What! jealous, Annabel? the calm and self-controlling Annabel! can she be jealous—of her own sister, too?”

“Not jealous! sir—” she answered, now most contemptuously, “not jealous in the least, I do assure you—for though most surely love can exist without one touch of jealousy, as surely cannot jealousy exist where there is neither love, nor admiration, nor esteem, nor so much as respect existing.”

“How—do I hear you—” he asked somewhat sharply—“do I understand you aright? what have become, then, of your vows and protestations—your promises of yester even?”

“You do hear me—you do understand me—” she replied, “entirely aright—entirely! In my heart, for I have searched it very deeply—in my heart there is not now one feeling of love, or admiration, or esteem—much less respect for you, alas! that I should say so—alas! for me and you—alas! for one, more to be pitied twenty-fold than either!”

“Annabel Hawkwood, you have never loved me!”

“Ernest De Vaux, you never have known—never will know—because you are incapable of knowing the depth, the singleness, the honesty of a true woman’s love. So deeply did I love you, that I have come down hither, seeing that long before you knew me, you had won Marian’s heart—seeing that you loved her, as she loves you, most ardently—and hoping that you had not discovered her affections, nor suspected your own feelings until to-day—I came down hither with that knowledge, in that hope—and had I found that you had erred no further than in trivial fickleness, loving you all the while beyond all things on earth, I purposed to resign your hand to her, thus making both of you happy, and trusting for my own contentment to consciousness of rights and to the love of THEM, who, all praise be to Him therefore, has constituted so the spirit of Annabel Hawkwood, that when she cannot honor, she cannot, afterward forever, feel either love or friendship—you are weighed, Ernest De Vaux, weighed in the balance and found wanting—I leave you now, sir, to prepare my sister to bear the blow your baseness has inflicted—our marriage is broken off at once, now and forever—lay all the blame on me!—on me!—if it so please you—but not one word against my own or Marian’s honor—my aunt I shall inform instantly, that for sufficient reasons our promised union will not take place at all—the reasons I shall lock in my own bosom. You will remain here—you must do so—this one night, to-morrow morning we will bid you adieu forever!”

“Be it so”—he replied—“Be it so, lady—the fickleness I can forgive—but not the scorn! I will go now and order that the regiment march hence forthwith, what more recruits there be can follow at their leisure—and I will overtake the troops before noon, on the march, to-morrow,” and with the words he left the room apparently as unconcerned as if he had gone thence but for a walk of pleasure, as if he had not left a breaking heart behind him.

And was it true, that Annabel no longer loved him? True!—oh believe it not—where woman once has fixed her soul’s affections there they will dwell forever—principle may compel her to suppress it—prudence may force her to conceal it—the fiery sense of instantaneous wrongs may seem to quench it for a moment—the bitterness of jealousy may turn it into gall, but like that Turkish perfume, where love has once existed it must exist forever, so long as one fragment of the earthly vessel which contained it survives the wreck of time and ruin. She believed that she loved him not—but she knew not herself—what woman ever did?—what man?—when the spring-tide of passion was upon them. And she too left the parlor, and within a few minutes Marian had heard her fate, and after many a tear, and many a passionate exclamation, she too apparently was satisfied of Ernest’s worthlessness—oh! misapplied and heartless term! She satisfied?—satisfied by the knowledge that her heart’s idol was an unclean thing—an evil spirit—a false God!—she satisfied?—oh Heaven!

Around the hospitable board once more—once more they were assembled—but oh! how sadly altered—the fiat had been distinctly, audibly pronounced—and all assembled there had heard—though none except the sisters and De Vaux knew it—none probably, but they suspected—well was it that there were no young men—no brothers with high hearts and strong hands to maintain, or question—well was it that the only relatives of those much injured maidens, the only friends, were superannuated men of peace; the ministers of pardon, not of vengeance—and weak old helpless women—there had been bloodshed else—and as it was, among the serving men there were dark brows and writhing lips, and hands alert to grasp the hilt at a word spoken—had they been of rank one grade higher—had they dared even as they were——there had been bloodshed! Cold, cold and cheerless was the conversation, forward and dignified civilities in place of gay familiar mirth, forced smiles for hearty laughter, pale looks and dim eyes for the glad blushes of the promised bride—for the bright sparkles of her eye! The evening passed—the hour of parting came, and it was colder yet and sadder—Ernest De Vaux, calm and inscrutable, and seemingly unmoved, kissed the hands of his lovely hostesses, and uttered his adieu, and thanks for all their kindness, and hopes for their prosperity and welfare, while the old clergyman looked on with dark and angry brows, and the help-mate with difficulty could refrain from loud and passionate invective. His lip had a curl upon it, a painful curl, half smile, half sneer, as he bowed to the rest and left the parlor, but none observed that as he did so he spoke three or four words in a low whisper, so low that it reached Marian’s ear alone of all that stood around him, yet of such import that her color came and went ten times within the minute, and that she shook from head to foot, and quivered like an aspen. For two hours longer the sisters sat together in Annabel’s bedchamber, and wept in one another’s arms, and comforted each other’s sorrows, and little dreamed that they should meet no more for years—perchance forever! The morning broke like that which had preceded it, serene and bright, and lovely—the great sun rushed up the blue vault in triumphant splendor, all nature laughed out his glory—but at a later hour, far later than usual, no smoke was seen curling from the chimneys of the hall, no sign of man or beast was visible about its precincts. The passionate scenes—the wild excitement of the preceding day, had brought about, as usual, a dull reaction; and sleep sat heavy on the eyelids, on the souls of the inmates. The first who woke up was Annabel—Annabel, the bereaved, the almost widowed bride. Dressing herself in haste, she sought, as usual, her mother’s chamber, found her—oh happy! how happy in her benighted state, since she knew not, nor understood at all, the sorrows of those whom she once had loved so tenderly—found her in deep calm slumber—kissed her brow silently, and breathed a fond prayer over her, then hurried thence to Marian’s chamber—the door stood open; it was vacant! Down the stairs to the garden—the door that led to that sweet spot was barred and bolted—the front door stood upon the latch, and by that Annabel passed out into the fresh young morning—how fair, how peaceable, how calm was all around her—how utterly unlike the strife, the toils, the cares, the sorrows, the hot hatreds of the animated world—how utterly unlike the anxious pains which were then gnawing at that fair creature’s heartstrings! She stood awhile, and gazed around and listened; but no sound met her ears, except the oft-heard music of the wind and water—except the well-known points of that familiar scene—she walked—she ran—a fresh fear struck her, a fear of she knew not what—she flew to the garden—“Marian! Marian!”—but no Marian came! no voice made answer to her shrill outcries—back! back! she hurried to the house, but in her way she crossed the road conducting to the stables—there were fresh horse tracks—several fresh horse tracks—one which looked like the print of Marian’s palfrey—without a moment’s hesitation she rushed into the stable court, no groom was there, nor stable boy, nor helper—and yet the door stood open, and a loud tremulous neighing, Annabel knew it instantly to be the call of her own jennet, was wakening unanswered echoes. She stood a moment like a statue before she could command herself to cross the threshold—she crossed, and the stall where Marian’s palfrey should have stood next her own, was vacant. The chargers of De Vaux were gone; the horses of his followers—she shrieked aloud—she shrieked till every pinnacle and turret of the old hall, till every dell and headland of the hills, sent back a yelling echo. It scarcely seemed a moment before the court yard, which, a moment since so silent and deserted, was full of hurrying men and frightened women—the news was instantly abroad that mistress Marian had been spirited away by the false lord. Horses were saddled instantly, and broadswords girded on, and men were mounting in hot haste ere Annabel had in so much recovered from the shock, as to know what to order, or advise—evil and hasty counsels had been taken, but the good vicar and the prebendary came down in time to hinder them. A hurried consultation was held in the house, and it was speedily determined that the two clergymen should set forth on the instant, with a sufficient escort, to pursue, and, if it should be possible, bring back the fugitive—and although Annabel at the first was in despair, fancying that there could be no hope of her being overtaken, yet was she somewhat reassured on learning that De Vaux could not quit his regiment, and that the slow route of a regiment on a long march could easily be caught up with, even by aged travellers. The sun was scarce three hours high, when the pursuers started—all that day long it lagged across the sky—it set, and was succeeded by night, longer still, and still more dreary—another day! and yet another! Oh the slow agony of waiting! the torture of enumerating minutes—each minute seemingly an age—the dull, heart-sickening suspense of awaiting tidings—tidings which the heart tells us—the heart, too faithful prophet of the future—cannot by possibility be good; while reason interposes her vain veto to the heart’s decision, and hope uplifts her false and siren song. The third night came, and Annabel was sitting at the same window—how often it occurs that one spot witnesses the dozen scenes most interesting, most eventful to the same individual. Is it that consciousness of what has passed leads man to the spot marked by one event when he expects another? or can it be indeed a destiny? The third night came, and Annabel was sitting at that same window, when, on the distant highway, she beheld her friends returning, but they rode heavily and sadly onwards, nor was there any flutter of female garbs among them—Marian was not among them! They came—the story was soon told—they had succeeded in overtaking the regiment, they had seen Ernest, and Marian was his wife! The register of her marriage, duly attested, had been shown to her uncle in the church at Rippon, and though she had refused to see them, she had sent word that she was well and happy, with many messages of love and cordiality to Annabel, and promises that she would write at short and frequent intervals. No more was to be done—nothing was said at all. Men marvelled at De Vaux, and envied him! Women blamed Marian Hawkwood, and they too envied! But Annabel said nothing, but went about her daily duties, tending her helpless mother and answering her endless queries concerning Marian’s absence, and visiting her pensioners among the village poor, seemingly cheerful and contented. But her cheek constantly grew paler, and her form thinner and less round. The sword was hourly wearing out the scabbard! The spirit was too mighty for the vessel that contained it.

Five years had passed—five wearisome, long years—years of domestic strife and civil war, of bloodshed, conflagration and despair throughout all England. The party of the king, superior at the first, was waxing daily weaker, and all was almost lost. For the first years Marian did write, and that, too, frequently and fondly to her sister; never alluding to the past, and seldom to De Vaux, except to say that he was all she wished him, and she herself more happy than she hoped or deserved to be. But gradually did the letters become less frequent and more formal; communications were obstructed, and posts were intercepted, and scarce, at last, did Annabel hear twice in twelve months of her sister’s welfare. And when she did hear, the correspondence had become cold and lifeless; the tone of Marian, too, was altered, the buoyancy was gone—the mirth—the soul—and though she complained not, nor hinted that she was unhappy, yet Annabel saw plainly that it was so. Saw it, and sorrowed, and said nothing! Thus time passed on, with all its tides and chances, and the old paralytic invalid was gathered to her fathers, and slept beside her husband in the yard of the same humble church which had beheld their union, and Annabel was more alone than ever. Thus things went on until some months after the deadly fight and desperate defeat at Marston. Autumn had come again—brown autumn—and Annabel was in her garden tending her flowers, and listening to her birds, and thinking of the past, not with the anguish of a present sorrow, but with the mellowed recollection of regret. She stood beside the stream—the stream that, all unchanged itself, had witnessed such sad changes in all that was around it—close to the spot where she had talked so long to Marian on that eventful morning, when a quick, soft step came behind her—she turned and Marian clasped her! Forced, after years of sufferance, to fly from the outrageous cruelty of him for whom she had thrown up all but honor, she had come home—home, like the hunted hare to her form, like the wounded bird to her own nest—she had come home to die. What boots it to repeat the old and oft-told tale, how eager passion made way for uncertain and oft interrupted gleams of fondness—how a love, based on no esteem or real principle, melted like wax before the fire—how inattention paved the way for neglect—and infidelity came close behind—and open profligacy and insult, and cool, maddening outrage followed. How the ardent lover became the careless husband, the cold master, the unfeeling tyrant, and, at last, the brutal despot. Marian came home to die—the seeds of that invincible disease were sown deep in her bosom—her exquisitely rounded shape was angular and thin, emaciated by disease, and suffering, and sorrow. A burning hectic spot on either cheek were now the only remnants of that once all-radiant complexion; her step so slow and faltering, her breath drawn sob by sob with actual agony, her quick, short cough, all told too certainly the truth! Her faults were punished bitterly on earth, and happily that punishment had worked its fitting end—these faults were all repented, were all amended now. Perhaps at no time of her youthful bloom had Marian been so sweet, so truly lovely, as now when her young days were numbered. All the asperity and harshnesses, the angles as it were of her character, mellowed down into a calm and unrepining cheerfulness. And oh! with what delicious tenderness did Annabel console, and pray with, and caress—oh! they were indeed happy! indeed happy for those last months, those lovely sisters. For Annabel’s delight at seeing the dear Marian of happier and better days once more beside her in their old chamber, beside her in the quiet garden, beside her in the pew of the old village church, had, for the time, completely overpowered her fears for her sister’s health, and, as is almost invariably the case in that most fatal, most insidious of disorders, she constantly was flattered with vain hopes that her Marian was amending, that the next spring would see her again well and happy. Vain hopes! indeed vain hopes—but which of mortal hopes is other?

The cold mists of November were on the hills and in the glens of Wharfdale, the trees were stripped of their last leaves, the grass was sere and withered, the earth cheerless, the skies comfortless, when, at the same predestined window, the sisters sat watching the last gleam of the wintry sun fade on the distant hill tops. What was that flash far up the road? That sound and ringing report? Another! and another! the evident reports of musketry. And lo! a horseman flying—a wild, fierce troop pursuing—the foremost rides bareheaded, but the blue scarf that flutters in the air shows him a loyal cavalier; the steel caps and jack boots of the pursuers point them out evidently puritans; there are but twenty of them; and lo! the fugitive gains on them—heaven! he turns from the highroad, crosses the steep bridge at a gallop, he takes the park-gate at a leap, he cuts across the turf, and lo! the dalesmen and the tenants have mustered to resist; a short, fierce struggle—the roundheads are beat back—the fugitive, now at the very hall doors, is preserved. The door flew open, he staggered into the well-known vestibule, opened the parlor door with an accustomed hand, and reeled into the presence of the sisters, exhausted with fatigue, pale from the loss of blood, faint with his mortal wounds; yet he spoke out in a clear voice—“In time, in time, thank God, in time to make some reparation, to ask for pardon ere I die!” and with these words De Vaux, for he it was, staggered up to his injured wife, and, dropping on his knees, cast his arms round her waist, and burying his head in her lap, exclaimed in faltering tones—“Pardon me, Marian, pardon before I die—pardon me as you loved me once!”

“Oh! as I love you now, dear Ernest, fully, completely, gladly, do I pardon you, and take you to my heart, never again to part, my own dear husband.”

Groaning she clasped him close, and in that act,

And agony, her happy spirit fled.

Annabel saw her head fall on his neck, and, fancying that she had fainted, ran to relieve her, but ere she did so both were far away beyond the reach of any mortal sorrow—nor did the survivor long survive them—she faded like a fair flower, and lies beside them in the still bosom of one common tomb. The Hall was tenanted no more, and soon fell into ruin, but the wild hills of Wharfdale must themselves pass away before the children of the dalesmen shall forget the sad tale of The Sisters.