University of Virginia Library

17 M

10. X.
MR. ARUNDEL.

THUS the week of storm passed, stranding them
again on sunny weather. And with the first
clear day came Marc Arundel, a brace of birds,
shot on the way, hanging across his saddle-bow.

“You are a summer friend, Mr. Arundel,” said
Miriam, in greeting. “Rain don't agree with you,
— melts you. Are you sugar, or salt?”

“Both, as one bites. To the friend sugar, and
you have not yet tasted the salt.”

“Vastly polite. Now go and threaten papa with
it, and let us begin sparring comfortably all round.”

“You began it yourself, Miriam.”

“And you follow your flugelman admirably.”

“I 've heard of thunder's souring cream. Crisp
as a curd, this morning. Though how could one
keep good-humored in such gloomy quarters, and
with a man so possessed as Belvidere?”

“These are not gloomy quarters, and Sir Rohan
is not possessed,” said Miriam, judicially.

“Ah! Is it so? What a sweet air! You
don't inquire for my health, — but I never felt so
well as on this fine day. I 've been longing to see
a relative, these twenty-four hours, to learn if the
pulse of the whole race is as even as mine. Where
is my cousin? Speaking of a meter, the other
day, this of blood is about the best.”

“Your cousin in the third remove is there,”
replied Miriam, slightly vexed, “coming with our
friend.”

“My friend in the thirtieth remove, counting
each day since I knew him as a further distance,”
Arundel said, with a sneer.

“Sir Rohan has n't much patience, I suspect;
and you had best conduct yourself reasonably,”
she added.

“Or he 'll pitch me, neck and heels, out
doors?”

A look of contempt curled Miriam's lip. “Your
phraseology is choice,” she said.

“That 's as I please.”

“How can you hope even peace should remain
between us, when you treat me with such disrespect!”

“I would treat you like a princess, if you
allowed. A man should have the patience of Job,
to see such a prize carried off under his nose. Let
me tell you, my dear —”

“You are too familiar,” she interposed, moving
off with a flashing eye.

“Fiddle-de-dee! By the sun, moon, and seven
stars, Miriam, if he show his airs to me —”

“Don Braggadocio!” she ejaculated over her
shoulder.

“But honestly, Miriam —”

“I, certainly, am no relative of yours,” she uttered,
turning upon him; “and let me say, in
language most intelligible to you, Mr. Arundel,
that I always use a handle with your name.”

“Ten thousand pardons! Miss — Miss
What?” he asked derisively.

Miriam had half the mind to strike him; but she
had drawn it upon herself, and walked away without
another word.

“Silenced you!” said Arundel, as he gazed
after her. “And a woman 's easily conciliated.
It 's your turn and your heyday, — mine will
come!” with which he advanced to pay his compliments
to St. Denys and his host.

“Now we have you in Cornwall, St. Denys,”
said he, “hope you 'll not leave us till I can take
you to our assizes and other lions.”

“I thank you, Marc,” St. Denys said, “but Sir
Rohan and Mr. Redruth have already shown us
everything of interest.”

“I regret not knowing your arrival sooner.
Have n't thought to ask how you came.”

“By a packet from Brittany, in at Falmouth.”

“Bringing your coach, I suppose.”

“Of course.”

“Yes, you travel at your ease. I 've not been
long in the country myself, though. Positively, I
feel hurt that you should have come without advising
me.”

“We thought you behind us, on the continent.”

“And took that opportunity to see Cornwall?
Kind of you!”

“No. We designed taking ship for Torquay,
but this offered first. We did not come as sight-seers.
What do you find to amuse you here?”

“O, I don't live on my expectations, St.
Denys,” he said lightly. “There 's my place to
be looked after, and being bred to the law, — why,
I now and then find a case.”

“You like the bar?” Sir Rohan asked.

“Why, no, not particularly. Though there 's
something like a zest to ferreting facts, especially
when I have one such as yourself in the witness-box.”

Sir Rohan was silent, but St. Denys said, “Ah?
how 's that? I scarcely understand —”

“I mean a reticent fellow, who has plenty to
say, but don't mean to speak, and behind whom
there lies a most excellent case.”

“And what case has Belvidere?”

“Sir Rohan? O, I referred to his reticence,
not to anything else, I assure you. There are
few of so blameless a past as his, to endure such a
test,” he replied, bowing to the one of whom he
spoke; and Sir Rohan bowed in return, though
well knowing that Marc Arundel never would
have said it had he thought it true, — impudent
in either event.

“I have heard, through my steward,” he answered,
“that Mr. Arundel meets with great success.”

“Yes,” said Marc, tapping his boot with his
riding-whip, “I flatter myself there are few men
in the circuit with a longer docket. I can refer

to the antecedents of every family in the
county.”

“You are industrious, Mr. Arundel,” said Sir
Rohan, half scornfully.

“And fortunate. I never met with a failure in
my life.”

“Never?”

“Not completely; none irrecoverable. I fancy
a thorough-bred lawyer enjoys himself like a good
setter, — once on the scent, and heaven and earth
can't stop him. How long do you stay, St.
Denys?”

“We go to-day.”

“Then I am in time to see you off. Another
good fortune, Sir Rohan. You will find a great
vacuum in your house, sir, after the presence of so
lively a child as my pretty cousin.”

“I expect to,” was the brief response.

“But, probably, to a person of your habits, one
easily filled,” he said, watching him as he spoke.

“Then you would find it so in my place?”

“How can I tell?” replied Arundel. “Miss
Miriam never conferred so much honor on me!”
And with this thrust his manner told the wish to
ascertain how much honor she had conferred upon

the other; but he obtained no satisfaction from
the face over which Sir Rohan was, for once,
master.

In a short time Miriam returned, equipped for
her departure, and Sir Rohan left the two for her
side.

“You do not ask me to the Castle, St. Denys,”
said Arundel, as they stood alone.

“No, Marc. It is plainly impossible.”

“Well, well, I 'll overlook it, since I know
you 're too fond of me to be so rude intentionally.”

“When you cease your persecutions —”

“I could n't go now, indeed, should you press
it; I have some work that must be done before I
see Miss Miriam again. Till then, I do cease
these persecutions. A fine suit, St. Denys, — it
might interest you. A large amount of property
may change hands by its means, and I 'm not certain
but it promises more.”

“I hope you will meet with success, Marc, in
all points where success is right.”

“That implies a doubt of me,” he returned,
looking toward Miriam, who stood by Sir Rohan
with the painting which he had given her, and
which he was now wrapping.

“Is it possible that any year comes to you so
sadly as that?” she was asking him. “When
you visit Kent we will show you happier seasons.”

“All seasons will be prodigal of happiness,” he
said, in a lower key, “where you are, child!”
Yet by a singular self-contradiction, as she met
his glance with one so unconsciously pleased and
happy, though it gave him a quick joy, he turned
away with a sigh.

“The carriage waits, Sir Rohan,” said Redruth,
at the door.

Sir Rohan did not stir till he had finished wrapping
the bundle, when he gave it to Miriam, and
gave her also a glance into which he concentrated
all that other men could say; then, taking her
hand, led her down and placed her in the coach,
without trusting himself to speak farewell. The
luggage was already on, the servants, who had at
first been left at the inn but were subsequently
domesticated here, disposed of, and St. Denys only
pausing on the step, to repeat urgently his desire
of seeing him very soon again; while they both
gave Redruth a hearty invitation to visit Kent
with his master. Arundel wished him good
morning, and mounted. Again the handsome face

flashed on him from the chariot, but this time
with how sweet a smile, — and they were gone.

He went back into the house alone, and taking
a book, attempted to lose himself; the words
swam on the page, conveying nothing; he threw
it down, and ranged from room to room, seeking
what was not to be found. In the heat of advancing
day, all household bustle had ceased. Silence
reigned throughout. No more light steps, or
jocund laughter, — no friend for speaking, no
child for loving. Child? He knew he did not
regard her in that light; he knew that, fresh and
buoyant as she was, no presence more womanly
had ever crossed his path, that the thing she
had touched could not be graced by others, the
sunlight that fell round her was sacred. But for
loving? Yes, he answered himself; with his whole
heart and soul. — And how much was that?

When they had entered his house — not slightly
unwelcome — it had been St. Denys for whom he
cared, to whom he turned; but long before they
left, Miriam had held his thoughts day and night.
What solace had they brought him, — what peace,
brief and blissful, — how much had been crowded
into these five weeks! He remembered Miriam at

one time, dancing and singing in his path, the impersonation
of a spicy summer; and at another,
half aware of some under-current of feeling,
adorned by that same gentle dignity in whose
guise he had first seen her. Who would sing to
him now, — who, when the dreadful night fell,
would charm its terrors away, — who, in any stress
of stormy weather, would fill the room with light?
Who was there to teach him that he lived? Who
for him to make happy? Alas! they were gone,
and had torn delight with them.

The house was more lonely than a desert;
though swarming with memories, only a desolation
It was unendurable, — he would leave it, he
would go to Kent as they wished. Why did all
wretchedness choose him for its victim? The
question answered itself, stinging him to elder
remembrances. Had he not deserved it? and so
was it not inevitable? This was only the old stain
of his existence spreading over new spaces.
Should he cover Miriam with it? She was young
and cheerful now, he thought; how long would
she remain so with him? Could he carve her
wrinkles and inspire her sighs? Youth had many
salves for sorrow; even if she loved him now,

absence would attenuate and break the connecting
thread; the pain would pass into forgetfulness.
Truer love was in keeping away from her.
No matter what he suffered in his loneliness, he
would not go to Kent.

A good resolution, but will he keep it? We
shall see. Until this time, I think, Sir Rohan has
never performed a thoroughly noble action.

All nature had sprung up from the tempest into
warmer life. Home was insupportable; Sir Rohan
took his hat to go out and see what fresh
store of coloring, what new gleanings of beauty,
might be in the woods. Had he gone with that
avowed design, I doubt would he have brought
home anything; for the gold, unhesitatingly put
at a comrade's disposal, who displays to the professed
pickpocket? Nor are these secrets to be
had for the asking. It is the bosom friend who
wanders with us into our retirement, abounding
in quiet sympathy and love, — whose vicinity disturbs
no vibration, whose slightest touch is harmonious,
— that gathers them. But since Sir Rohan
always returned richer than he went, the intention
of his walk was like a draft at sight.

Driven rapidly at first by his mental vehemence,

he had heedlessly traversed a league of the footpath,
when he found himself all at once within a
rod of the highway, which, according to the perverse
tendencies of its class, preferred winding
round the base of the hill some eight or ten miles,
to taking the direct cut by which Sir Rohan got
there before it. It immediately occurred to him,
that proceeding slowly over the bad-conditioned
road, and pausing to take leave of Arundel where
his more lonely way diverged, St. Denys had not
yet passed this spot, and he concluded to await
him. So still was Sir Rohan, so gentle all his
motions when in the woods, that the wild things
regarded him as one of themselves, and his approach
was inaudible to a man who stood half concealed
by the crusted trunk of a tree. This man
wore a spur, — which accounted for the horse Sir
Rohan had passed beyond, — some game lay at his
feet, and he was reloading; an occupation left, as
the sound of distant wheels caught his ear.

He turned sharply and peered through the interspaces,
as if satisfying himself of the identity of
some object. A horrid suggestion answered by a
horrid resolve, like lightning made in the south
and reflected again at the uttermost parts of the

heavens, writhed across his lips and brow. For a
moment a visible agitation chained him with a
shiver; then glancing round as if a fiend had whispered,
he deliberately finished charging the gun,
which, as the sound grew more distinct, he cocked
and raised to his shoulder, displaying, with every
vein knotted, the flushed face of Marc Arundel.

Intuitively, knowledge of the other's intentions
seized Sir Rohan, but interference was as impossible
as if he were changed to marble. The coach
drew nearer, the rolling wheels spun through the
open trees, and puffs of dust blew across the
hedge. They had passed him, they were passing
Arundel. Not so. There was at this point in
the road a gully worn by the brook that babbled
by them, and over which a rustic bridge was
built; a plank of this had been displaced, and
the coach stopped while some one alighted to
readjust it.

The gun trembled at Arundel's shoulder; the
aim was not satisfactory; he lowered it, and bending
on one knee, again settled it, again unaccountably
suffered the muzzle to fall. Some strange
hesitation seemed to restrain him at the very moment
he had awaited, or there may yet have been

too much tremor to trust death upon. Was it
Miriam or St. Denys whose fate lay in that ball,
that hesitation? Not Miriam, certainly.

Slowly the arm rose again, slowly fell. They
might escape in his vacillation. How much he
must desire what such effort was unable to accomplish!
Lusting after murder, too dastardly
to snatch it. Faugh! It was in cold blood.
What impetuosity, what passion, of one kind or
another, was there in this? Arundel was evidently
a man whose whole moral sense and life
were hardly higher than the level of this moment,
if, indeed, this were not higher than they. Of the
two, ghost-ridden and soiled as he was, Sir Rohan
felt himself the better stature.

The plank was replaced, the coachman had again
climbed to his seat, and St. Denys was entering
while the footman held the door. What suspense
bound the moment! Once more Arundel drew
the bead in sight. The gun was steady now, the
hand sure, but the face white with fear and horror
of the deed; perhaps his heart would yet fail him.
He wavered an instant longer, then — whether for
retreat or advance, who can tell? — planted his foot
more firmly among the running vines. Torn by

the spur, one snapped and sent the foot slipping
over a round pebble. Something, he never knew
what, struck up the barrel, he lost his balance and
fell forward; there was a flash, a report, and without
his agency it had gone off. In the cloud of
smoke, Sir Rohan withdrew again to his former
position, content with having broken his spell, baffled
the design, and seeing the ball pass over St.
Denys's head, — for all this had taken place in an
instant.

Arundel's decision was made as quickly. He
wiped away the flowing perspiration, seized his
birds, ran down, leaping lightly over the hedge,
and accosted the startled travellers.

“There 's nothing like being a good marks-man,”
he cried, tossing the game into the boot.
“Dress them at the first inn. You 'll have little
else, I can tell you! Good morning again,” and
he sprung back. While Sir Rohan, as if he himself
had been the guilty person, retired noiselessly,
and crept away without a word. In offering
Arundel a week's shooting on his preserves, he
had never dreamed of placing such quarry at his
disposal. He saw the coach rolling on, they were
safe, and he dismissed the matter.

Absorbed at last in the pleasure of the noonday
woods, he advanced, searching the eyes of a tiny
fluttering partridge caught and loosed again,
watching the tawny gilding of some newt who
walked the water with the dignity of a doge, or
ruffling wild swans in their sedgy nests by his invading
steps. The half-ripe bunches of the roan-trees
hung like oranges amid their shivering
leaves; the wild grapes were beginning to redden;
the indolent birds sat silent on the boughs,
hardly distinguishable; the trumpet bignonias
leaped from tree to tree, scarlet in exuberant
beauty. Sir Rohan with determination banished
everything but the present enjoyment, sensuous
though it might be, from his mind; and examining
the inflorescent galls of the blueberry, downy
as if sprinkled with fresh-fallen snow, and brilliant
with stains of carmine and cream, scraping the
lichen from stones, the moss from trees, following
the sparhawks wheeling above in open spots, or
the little serpents twisting like tendrils or green
sunbeams among the eggs of a deserted nest, he
still extended his walk, meeting no one but some
solitary peat-digger splashing through regions of
shaking heath; nor did he return till the sun had

passed the meridian, and he had gathered marvellous
hints for his painting.

The servants had not known of his absence,
and as he entered the shrubbery a familiar horse,
tied there, met his eye again; and passing the
great cellar-doors, he observed that they were
open. Somewhat surprised, he paused a moment
to glance in, without impeding the broad
stream of sunshine that flooded it with mellow
warmth.

A cask had been drawn into this light, on its
head were two or three flasks, of choice seals;
and by it, at opposite sides, sat Redruth and the
ubiquitous Marc Arundel. The former, with
flushed face and fiery features, holding up his
long glass to catch a sparkle in its crimson depth,
and speaking with animation. The latter, looking
like the man's familiar, with a cool perseverance
about him, and his glass untouched. It was evident
that the garrulous Redruth had drank too
freely, and that Arundel was profiting by his
frailty.

“The blood of summer, Mr. Arundel,” he said,
but half intelligibly. “Are rubies so red?”

“Ah! Rare wine indeed, rarely kept. But as

you were saying, sir, your young master —” Sir
Rohan heard replied.

“Had been gone not a day from the — I mean
not a year from the day he and the young lady
came,” resumed Redruth, “when one dripping
wet night, looking as he had been dragged through
a city, he came back without any warning.”

“And alone, as you said. But did n't stay
long?”

“Did n't stay long, you asked?” he replied feebly.
“No, he left just as suddenly, in a week's
time or less, and seemed wild and stunned, and
then restless and uneasy, as if expecting something;
and all in a hurry flew to the wars, and
did n't come home again for ten years or so.”

Sir Rohan's first purpose had been to pass without
interruption, the next to confound such insolence
by his entrance; but he could not endure to
meet what he felt must be the man's consternation,
and would have proceeded on his way had
not their words attracted him as he lingered in
doubt. How much Redruth, under the influence
of his potations, had told, how much of his past
life Redruth was able to tell, he did not know.
It could be no great amount, he thought.

“And after he went, you received this singular
message. Repeat it, Mr. Redruth.”

“Singular message? — why, sir, you 've no memory
at all!”

“True. But you 've a most extraordinary one.
Enough for two. A wonderful memory.”

“Ha! ha! Thankee, sir. Fill your glass, Mr.
Arundel? Clear juice!”

“And this message?”

“O! A tramper brought it to me from an
old woman in one of the east counties, he said;
to tell my master that she would n't disgrace the
memory of her grandchild by hanging him, but
there were them as lived by Ronald's Tower that
could.”

“Ronald's Tower? That 's his place in the
north, I think. And why did n't you give him
this message?”

“Why did n't I give him this message, — why
did n't I give him this message?” reiterated Redruth
thickly, endeavoring to gather the import of
the words through a vague sense of danger. “Try
another bottle, sir — message — O! I may
have thought it was only some spiteful person's
impudence,” he said, speaking as though his mouth

were full, and makin much effort to articulate;
“or maybe I was afraid. I don't clearly remember,
sir, just now. It 's a dreadful warm day!”

“And before that?” queried Arundel.

“Before that? Who told you anything about
before that?” exclaimed his vis-à-vis, with the
sudden pugnacity of another glass. “I should like
to know what for are you round prying into your
neighbor's affairs. My master 's a good master,
sir, and minds his own business, which is more
than all masters do! And as for his Miss, —
what 's that to you? you —”

But here the impetus failed him; he looked
round fearfully, then vacantly, and dropping his
head upon the cask, burst into maudlin tears.

Arundel rose to go, and as he turned saw Sir
Rohan standing gravely in the doorway.

“I am concerned, Mr. Arundel,” said the latter,
stepping down, “that in my absence you should
be obliged to seek refreshment in my cellars, and
waste your conversation on servants. Let me beg
you to finish your repast in the dining-room.”

“Thank you, sir. No occasion for concern.
Not this morning,” said the other, buttoning his
coat coolly, as he recovered from a temporary
abashment.

“You did n't proceed so far as you intended,”
Sir Rohan remarked, viewing him quietly.

“O, quite! And remembering that Mr. Redruth
was witness in one of my suits, returned, and
found him here.”

“You lie, sir!” exclaimed Sir Rohan, pale
with rage, and kindling at the spark.

“Where did I find him, then?”

“You lie, you coward! Must I repeat it?
That 's not what you came for! But there 's
powder and ball above, and you don't go home
without them!”

“Not I, sir,” answered Arundel, who had too
precious a booty to be shot down for it. “I 've
no dispute with you, sir. We 're quits, certainly,
if your eaves-dropping —”

Sir Rohan seized an empty flask to break upon
him; his own lips were blue, his cheeks bloodless,
nostrils quivering, eye flashing, — he had undergone
a complete metamorphosis. But the other, cowering
beneath and avoiding the blow, sprung past
him from the cellar, when, quickly reaching his
horse, he vaulted into the saddle and dashed
away.

Sir Rohan walked toward Redruth. Some bold

vengeance swept through his mind; but he was
not so young as once, and now, after a delay, he
clinched the old man's shoulder, and caused him
to raise his head and turn his stupefied gaze on
him.

“Redruth!” he said, between his set teeth,
“if you wish to live an hour from that time, never
let my name be in your thoughts or on your lips
again when speaking to a third person!” And
dropping the nerveless shoulder, he left the place
as he had entered, sought the hall-door, and
mounted to his painting-room.