“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 it without 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 from his father—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 the minauderies and 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, that she was absent when you first came hither, for had you seen her first, her far superior beauty, her bright wild radiant face, her rare arch naïveté, her flashing wit, and beautiful enthusiasm, would—must have 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 if he had 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.”