University of Virginia Library

7. VII.
TESTIMONY.

A FEW more days vanished like the others,
when one morning Miriam said,

“Do you know, Sir Rohan, this is our anniversary?
We have been here just a week, we have
known each other just a week. At least it would
be, if seven days made a year.”

“I presume you would think me very uncourteous
to say that it seems to me a year.”

“Indeed I should.”

“I have just begun to live; and to the little
child days, you remember, are ages. I am perplexed
to know why it should seem so long a
time,” he returned. “Possibly, because so full of
happiness that it will take me a year to recall it.”

“I don't know, sir. I should think you might
always have your life as pleasant.”

“You have found this time pleasant, then?”

“O yes indeed. All time is, to me. No one
could help being happy where papa is.”

“Do you suppose happiness independent of
him would be possible?”

“O, I hope not. I wonder, almost, how you
lived before he came.”

“It is not all papa, Miss Miriam,” he said,
quickly; but a glance at those innocent brown
eyes silenced anything like compliment, and presently
St. Denys entered.

“It is odd that we see nothing of Arundel,”
said he, after the morning salutations.

“I should n't be surprised,” Miriam answered,
“if he came to-day, it is so fine. We were talking
yesterday of visiting one more celebrity, while
here, Sir Rohan. Can't we go at once? Which
shall it be, — Trevethy stone or Tyntagel?”

“You can have both, Miss Miriam. Why not?”

“It will take so long —”

“And when I go to Kent you shall show me
every hop-field in the county. I shall be in no
hurry.”

“But when we are there, will you ever come
to Kent?”

“It is my turn to ask now, — `Do you really
want me?'”

“And mine to put on the air of a Monseigneur,
and answer, `Most assuredly.'”

“Then it will depend upon whether you stay
here a suitable period without grumbling.”

“O Mr. Fox! nobody knows better how to ask
a crow for a song! But we can't go to both in
one day. I 'll toss up and see,” she exclaimed,
laughing. “But I 've no pennies!”

“Never mind,” said St. Denys; “two roses
will do as well.”

Miriam seized one, and a broad grape-leaf.
“If the rose fall first, it shall be Tyntagel,” said
she, “and if the leaf, — why, Trevethy!” And
throwing them into the air, the rose dropped
instantly, and the leaf fluttered downward in
doubt to fall or not. “Tyntagel it is!” she cried.

“Scarcely so fair as the flinger, though,” said
Sir Rohan.

“Now, now! The rose is a little the heaviest,
and I had a little rather go to Tyntagel,” she
returned, pushing back the drooping hair. “Besides,
Trevethy means a place of the dead, — old
British dead too, you said. But one can see a
grave everywhere, and it is doing the business too
cheaply to have one stone for a whole congregation.”

“But what present congregation, at the end of
a thousand years, will be known by so much as
the fragment of a stone?” asked St. Denys.

“And what is Tyntagel,” pursued Sir Rohan,
“but the monument of a whole race?”

“Well, gentlemen, I am going to Tyntagel, and
therefore to breakfast. If you prefer stones to
bread, you can stay and discuss the question,”
she merrily concluded.

Thus it came to pass that the afternoon found
them at the inner base of the great cliffs of Tyntagel,
and singly winding up the narrow footpath.
As Sir Rohan followed the others, and the peril of
the precipitous way became more obvious to him,
his heart beat with a loud fear lest some false step
of the adventurous girl's might hurl her down the
dizzy height; and he could have found such a
wish, that his strong hand might save her. But
nothing of the kind occurred, and they stepped
safely across the breach of the old fortress, into the
open area of the outer portion.

Behind them now lay the great gap in which
some earthquake had rent the rock, and far down
whose griesly chasm sea-birds built their nests
and black tides washed in and out, once spanned

by a drawbridge connecting the twin cliffs and
forming a part of the most impregnable strong-hold
Britain boasted. The low ruins of the walls reared
a parapet around the edge, and leaning on this
lightly, at first, that it should not crumble at their
weight, they looked down and out upon the Atlantic
which dashed at a vast and perpendicular
depth of hundreds of feet. Above them, the heaven
hung burning with yellow light and clearness,
like a giant chrysolite; and the sea below, full of
stormy vigor and tumultous activity, leaped joyously
to catch the breath of the soft cool wind that
came singing in from western continents, and
tossed a thousand white caps in air with sonorous
glee. Under them, hidden caves rumbled to the
pent up element and the sucking flow of water;
and now and then a mightier wave showered its
powdery foam half up the unyielding barrier, and
thrilled it to its centre.

It was too grand a thing to behold and speak, —
this broad and boundless phase of the whole
ocean's immensity; these warm swells rolling in
from reefs of the Corrientes and Florida, from
Africa and the Western Islands; this wind that, it
was pleasant to believe, had touched no land since

it bent the unexplored forests on the mountains of
the Americas; and they received it in silence.
At last, as if the white gulls had thrown the melody
of their motions into a sound, Miriam's voice
rose on the monotone of the symphony, in the
words of the song.

As the last word died from her lips, Miriam
turned, with a broad smile, and flinging off all sentiment,
said,

“That 's what the song says, Sir Rohan, and
what do you say? Do you believe in the Round
Table, in Galahad, and Lancelot, and Guinever?”

“Devoutly.”

“Let us shake hands upon it! So do I. Papa
laughs at me; but why not believe in them? They
were much better people than ordinary then, and
surely it 's refreshing.”

“My dear, I deny your major.”

“Then, papa, you 'll have nothing at all to say

to the kernels of truth dropped in debate, and we
had best carry the argument to more general
grounds.”

“There used to be another song about your
hero,” said St. Denys, “though not in so grandiose
a style, concerning some foray or marauding affair,
— it would be called petty theft now, if there were
any law for these epic monsters. It related his
address in stealing three pecks of barley-meal, and
the Queen's skill in putting into it lumps of suet
as big as my two thumbs.”

“Fie, papa!”

“Those were the fabulous exploits,” responded
Sir Rohan. “Miss Miriam and I believe only the
canon, and reject the apocrypha.”

“Chronicle or Romance, Sir Rohan?”

“Chronicle, Romance, and Tradition; a pretty
braid enough, — let the Romance be the golden
strand, though,” he replied.

“We must discard you for an infidel, papa,
while we settle the points for ourselves. Here,
Sir Rohan! Look at your feet. Who drew that
old circle in the stones?”

“Merlin, undoubtedly,” he said.

“A part of some horoscope. Very well, let us

stand in it, and summon the shadows of our antiquity.
They are very far off; imagine that we
have burned incense and these shapes grow from
the curling smoke. How dim they come! You
begin to see them? Stately Sir Caradoc and his
faithful Dame, the bold butler, Gawain, Tristram;
now a throng glides up, now separate and singly.
Who is this, King of men, this mightier one, his
brow lofty in the shadow of a plume waving from
his starlike helm, clad in the shine of armor, and
bearing a spear of light? And who this bright,
willowy shape, all wrapped in gleaming lawns, an
April face of smiles and tears, glancing askance at
Lancelot already here?”

“Or perhaps Guinever is in a sadder mood, —
chilled in the atmosphere of the King, — pale,
white, sorrowful,” interposed Sir Rohan.

“Hush! It would n't be Guinever. Don't
you see her personality? Tristram's lady may
know sorrow; Marc's, repentance; but Lancelot's,
only love. The others might question of right or
wrong; but it was a part of Guinever's self to love
Lancelot and not the King, and conscience never
stings her. Very wicked, indeed, Sir Rohan!
But then what a pretty picture Guinever always

is! A lawless, soulless, wanton, witching, lovely
thing, without a moral perception, changing and
beautiful as a shower with broken bits of rainbow
in the clouds. And her queendom and all its
gorgeous accessories shrine her fitly, and heighten
her charms. Who blames Lancelot? She must
be queen, not because Arthur is king and mates
among his peers, but because she is Guinever.
Everything she touches gains in splendor. Lancelot
might be a clown — who knows? — if Guinever
did not love him. Does not a fresher green
burgeon on the forest shawes as they ride beneath?
Are n't her falcons, snarling at their bells and
jesses, transformed Genii? Does she toss a flower
to her knight in tourney, — it is a rain of unknown
petals. I wonder how he conquered, for
the sun must always have been in his face! And
it is the same Guinever who tries on the magic
belt. See, it was a narrow golden band when
one by one the faithless ladies tried to clasp it.
Guinever takes it; the King is angry-eyed, perhaps,
— there is a flush on Lancelot's cheek, —
none on hers. Laughing, bright-eyed, dimpled,
she reaches it, brings it round the slender waist,
essays with taper fingers to shut the buckle. Of
course, it is in vain; of course the gap yawns
finger-wide; but where is the narrow golden band?
Beneath her touch what miracles of chasing,
wrought-work, fluting, have blossomed! It hangs
unclasped and heavy with jewelry, dripping with
chain, filigrane, and aiglet. What loops and
fringes of sparkling costliness, strings threaded
with precious ransom-holding beads, festoons and
tassels of gems, brilliant with every tint, a sun
inside them all, and defying the wondrous work
of the King's hilt! Nine years it took for that, —
for this, an instant. And when she looks up with
that radiant laugh, I suspect the King had rather
see it than the shut buckle. As a piece of art,
she is faultless; her beauty is her virtue, — a perfect,
splendid creature, in her way. Let her go.”

“Ah, before they pass, ask her of these intervening
centuries, — in what region they dwell;
these immortal lovers, — what life they lead. Will
they speak?”

“I wonder, Sir Rohan,” replied Miriam, abruptly,
“if people who never used or cultured
their souls did n't lose them, like beasts of the
field, as we assume; — living in a world of sense,
if, sense dying, they died too. If they dwell at all,

these immortal lovers, it is in some happy region,
they are so blithe and fair to-day. No, Guinever
will not speak. She does not know our language,
and is of a different race; and Lancelot does not
see us. They are shadows of dreams, I think.”

“What then keeps them? Whose power holds
them now at your call?”

“Did n't you ever notice how the old masters
claim property in their pictures, sir? Down in
the hem of some garment, on the under side of a
spire of grass, just half beneath a stone, a tiny
scrawl, the `Ghirlandaio,' or `Beatus hoc fecit'?
So invoke what scene you may, whose background
is the stones of Tyntagel or Carlisle, there is
always the signature of that son of the royal nun
and the Genius; Merlin, Sir Rohan, hoc tenet.”

“You are learned in the lore. Tell me, Enchantress,
will Arthur come again?”

“A many times,” Miriam answered lightly.

“And his Queen?”

“No. He comes because he went. Guinever
and Lancelot, it may be, never died.”

“What said they, meeting at the tomb, that autumn
day?” Sir Rohan asked again.

“Peccavimus. O bah! it must have lost all

piquancy when the great hero was gone. I don't
like the book after Guinever grows good; I don't
believe it. It 's getting tiresome now. There
they go! Passing on and up in what a glorious
cloud, with flashing faces breaking from it in radiant
smiles. Let them pass!”

Sir Rohan smiled, and St. Denys said: “What
new freak now, little one?”

“Freak? — Why, papa, such a wind fans one's
life into notice.”

“And how much youth goes to the fuel of this
precious flame?”

“He throws my years in my teeth!” she returned,
pouting and laughing. “But I 'm not a
sexagenarian yet.”

“Don't exhaust your spirits before you are, nor
forget the true San Graal in your admiration of
the Emerald,” he said, strolling away.

“He would n't scold if he enjoyed La Morte
d'Arthur.”

“You enjoy it, Miss Miriam?”

“Certainly. It 's a toysome book, — better than
playing at dolls always.”

“But your lore is far more Rabbinical than orthodox.
La Morte d'Arthur is not responsible for

it all, I hope. And you don't like books, you say;
what attracted you there?”

“Who knows? Papa says I live in feeling, not
thought; in the sensational, emotional, nothing
of the intellectual. But what odds, so one is
happy?”

For a little while Miriam, leaning over the parapet,
crumbled the bits of stone and moss into the
sea, and Sir Rohan still remained within the circle,
looking inland.

“Do you see Sir Kaye come riding up the path,
that you are so earnest?” she asked, glancing
back at him. “Or is the nation marching to
Camelford by moonlight, and Mordred looming
beyond the town? Remember, sir, that the Queen
beseeches Arthur not to risk the kingdom, but
wait till Lancelot and the flower of the chivalry
return from France.”

Sir Rohan felt as if he were possessed, her
words and tone carried such a life with them.

“Is n't it grand to think, Sir Rohan,” she continued,
walking to and fro with very long steps,
her arms folded, and her eyes on the ground,
“that Arthur walked here, as I am walking now,
his spurs clanging on the pavement, and Excalibur

rattling in his sheath for longing of the strife?”
And she looked up, her eyes sparkling, and cheeks
burning. “Or here, long before,” she resumed,
approaching and standing beside him, with her
hand upon the stone, her eyes dewy, her smile
vanishing, “was the bower of his mother, that sad
Yguerne of the song, who sat waiting in vain for
her lord when the banners of Uther Pendragon
were spread. There, perhaps,” she added, changing
her expression to one of exultant sagacity,
“the old magician learned his incantations of the
stars, when all the castle but sentinel and watch-dog
slept; or rose and passed them unseen to
meet Fay Vivien in the woods, or bury himself in
the Welsh hills. To think that actually here, in
this very spot, they lived, loved, moved!”

“You are intensely dramatic, Miss Miriam!
Such talent of fusing your individuality is not to
be wasted,” Sir Rohan exclaimed, as he watched
the vivacious changes of her countenance.

“I am brought from my world with your gallantry!”
she replied, shrugging her shoulders.
“I should think the ghosts of these heroes would
come and haunt you, since you believe in them,
for such levity. Do you remember the sword the

Lady of the Wood gave the infant St. George,
teaching him to fight with shadows? One I cannot
give, but for the other, — you too may fight
such shadows.”

With the words, his old chains fell back on
Sir Rohan; he recalled what nothing but her
presence had made him forget, and the angry
gleam shot again from his eyes, but unnoticed
by Miriam, for St. Denys was drawing near with
a flat piece of stone in his hand.

“Is it not singular, Rohan?” said he, displaying
its surface, where lay the impression of
a small and delicate hand with a ring on the
third finger. The inside of the left hand, but
not a wedding-ring, if one might judge from
the fact that being twisted round it had stamped
its jewelled sigil there. A hot color suffused
Sir Rohan's face; he struck one hand into the
other with a vehemence that caused his companions
to start, and see his eager glance fixedly
bent upon the stone.

“It is a piece of steatite, such as is abundant
in the vicinity, and forms a large portion of the
Lizard,” said another voice, proceeding from
none of them. They all looked up, and Sir

Rohan surveyed a gentleman, not short, but
rather stout, florid, and with a most singular
cast of features, the prominence of nose and
chin sinking the mouth into an abyss where it
was obliged to have recourse to an unvarying
smile to avoid total collapse, while the eyes,
large and light, shone shrewdly beneath shaggy
brows. This person was not well dressed, since
somewhat too showily, but had a pleasing, persuasive
voice, and a graceful manner.

“The steatite, you are aware,” he continued,
“when first broken into is soft, and will receive
any impression; and this being probably done
at such a time, brought here and forgotten by
other sight-seers, is after all not so curious.
How do you do, St. Denys? A handsome hand,
though. Place your own upon it,” added this easy
personage to Miriam. “It will fit it to a T.”

Miriam scornfully turned her back upon him,
while St. Denys gravely inquired concerning his
health, and half hesitatingly touched his proffered
hand. “You need n't be afraid, St.
Denys,” muttered he. “I won't eat her.”

But almost immediately Miriam returned, and
presented him to Sir Rohan as Marc Arundel.

“Happy to make your acquaintance, sir,”
said the latter. “A little odd, though, that one
must come from Kent to introduce neighbors.”

“This stone is like the ring the miner gave
me,” said Miriam.

“What! you were those down there, then?”

“Yes. The earth opened and swallowed us
up, the other day, Mr. Arundel,” she replied.

“I was passing the shaft, to-day, when I saw
a maniac-looking fellow lying on the grass in
the midst of a group. He had ascended from
the mine, they said, not long before; but the
world spun the other way for him; he was dying,
— raving feebly about a ring, and people,
who, I see now, must have been you. You remember
him, Sir Rohan, — Dick Roy?”

Sir Rohan replied with such graciousness as
he could command, and as St. Denys relinquished
the curiosity, took it for closer examination,
and then dashed it into the sea where
it was swallowed by a hungry wave. It seemed
to burn his hand. He found himself more miserable
than when alone; for then he had often
been strung to the required tension of stoical
endurance; but here, every hour gave him desire

and hope of freedom, only to be blasted in
the next by encounters with the Ghost of his
youth.

“I never learned till now,” said Arundel,
bluntly, as he watched him, “that you and my
cousin were friends.”

“We have been friends a long while,” replied
the other, absently.

“They can hardly show you a kickshaw like
this, at home. Were you ever in Kent, Sir
Rohan?”

“Some years ago. A short time.”

“Good soil that. Healthy farmers, worth a
lease; but they put all their liveliness into
their hops. Do you think they could dance a
reel, now, St. Denys?”

“A reel or a saraband, if they chose,” was the
curt reply. Sir Rohan's frigidity was contagious,
and Arundel crossed to Miriam.

“You have not wished me good evening,”
said he.

“Good evening,” she returned, abruptly.

“It sounds much more like good by.”

“You can take it as you please.”

“You are cruel,” he said in a lower tone.

“From your kindness in the church, I was led
to expect a different demeanor.”

“Dear me, Mr. Arundel! One must have a
little meter to mark the finer grades of feeling,
and accommodate one's manners to your moods!”

“Rem acu tetigisti. Precisely, Miriam. And
that meter, you cannot fail to know, is —”

Miriam yawned with her hand at her lips.

“Is n't it time to go, papa?” she said to St.
Denys. “It will be dark before we reach
home.”

“Home.” Sir Rohan liked the word from
her mouth; he smiled unconsciously while his
glance met Arundel's. On the instant, they
comprehended each other.

“See Redruth sitting down there,” she added,
bending over the path, “as still as —”

“Is he asleep beside those remains of lunch?”
asked Arundel.

“The cliff. One might drop a tortoise on his
head and crack it,” she continued.

“Crack which?” Arundel interpolated.

“But where would Redruth be then, I wonder?”

“Still squeezing his wine-bottle!” said the

quick-eyed interrupter. “He takes less scruples
to a dram than an apothecary does.” But
having finished her sentence regardless of the
rejoinders, Miriam seized her bonnet and almost
bounded along the path, followed by Sir Rohan
who, together with the others, expected momently
to see her dashed down the declivity.

They descended more leisurely, and as his unwelcome
company was not to be avoided, Arundel
soon seated himself beside them in the coach.
Sir Rohan, however, was now alive, and quietly
ordering Redruth to take a different route from
that by which they came, had the satisfaction of
dropping Mr. Arundel at his own residence, and
rolling homeward at liberty once more.

“Well done, Sir Rohan!” cried Miriam. “Now
you 've seen the man, tell me, do you affect
him?”

“We are not likely to be friends,” said he,
dryly.

“And need not therefore be enemies,” said
St. Denys. “The sight of him warns me, Rohan.
I must hasten.”