University of Virginia Library

13. XIII.
HALCYON DAYS.

SIR ROHAN lay prostrate under a fierce fever;
only a constitution of iron strength, wiry and
elastic, could have arisen from it. For many days
the unrelenting heats stung him along narrow
ways. Goaded, parched, and panting, at last sleep
overtook him; the delirium consumed itself; and
waking, purposeless and dejected, life fluttering at
his pulse for release, as he hung in the balance of
Fate, he found the Ghost gone. It were an idle
speculation to question if she found sorrow in the
work imposed upon her or self-assumed, — she was
flown with her battalia to assist his other enemy.

As his languid eyes opened, and he slowly received
perception of what he saw, Miriam, sitting
at a low table with her needle, seemed as much an
apparition as all things else; and again he suffered
the weary lids to fall. But she had seen the

glance, and rising with her sweet smile, came
toward him, moistened his lips with the cordial,
rearranged the pillows while the physician raised
him, welcomed him back to life with low happy
tones; and as he raised his eyes again, met them
with so kind a gaze, so pitying, so tender, that his
faint heart trembled in his throat.

Some change he felt in her nevertheless; what,
he could not trouble himself to find, but a happy
one; and at all events, she was here, she was real,
the Ghost would never display her in this guise.
It was St. Denys, too, entering now, frank, warmhearted,
rejoicing, reassuring him, and bringing
smiles to his pale lips. He was right, he said to
himself; he knew Miriam would free him. Too
weak to be glad, he only felt the vacancy left
around him, as one dwelling on the coast misses,
when travelling inland, the measured beat upon
the rocks, the distant whisper of the surf along
the sand. But with these brief hints of the Ghost,
his heart beat so hotly that, life now again invaluable,
he was forced to cease all thought and abandon
himself to the luxury of repose, of receiving
care, of seeing Miriam.

Day by day now brought returning strength,

health flowed back in its old channels, he sat up
several hours. During this halcyon period, Miriam
read to him what was to be found, — a task that
perhaps she would not have chosen to please herself
alone, reading just light enough to beguile his
mind, while the musical accent soothed his ear; or
recited, in the twilight, pastorals slipping along a
stream of smooth vowels, that she had picked up
somewhere in her wanderings, or ballads whose
breath was a lengthened sigh, — recited them, till
from their dim and tearful atmosphere she seemed
only to have taken shape for the nonce. She surrounded
him with sweet-smelling flowers, served
his dainty diet with a fastidious grace peculiar to
herself, ransacked her brain for devices against
monotony. Always she had a treasury of sparkling
gossip on which to draw, till judging he had
heard enough. She imparted health as a heated
iron imparts caloric.

Before long she ceased to be with him so much,
and very soon Sir Rohan found means to descend
to the drawing-room for a part of every day. Then
with St. Denys they drove out in the open evergreen
glades of the park, imbibing health, though
scarcely equal strength, from the sweet resinous

perfume that loaded the air, where the sun had
lain all day on the pines, more richly than that of
orange-groves. Or in the clear mornings Miriam
drove him into the neighboring town, where the
gay colors and voices, the bustle and merriment,
consequent on the autumn fairs, pleased him like
a child, and full of jokes and glee he assisted in
the shopping, and manifested the airy sportfulness
of a boy, relapsing into completest fatigue after
the first draught of exhilaration. It was soon
decided that, when able to travel, he should return
with his guests to Kent, spending the winter
there; and meanwhile, for a man thus palpitating
from recent misery, this was bliss enough.

Autumn now was at its height. The woods of
beech and elm had burned themselves away like
the funeral pyre of Summer, the oaks were yet
brown, and the sky a perfect blue full of softer
shades round the horizon. With Miriam by his
side, Sir Rohan, believing himself almost restored,
enjoyed the air, the quiet, when one
afternoon Arundel was announced. Before he
greeted the others, by more than a familiar nod,
he walked toward Sir Rohan.

“It was a great liberty I took, sir,” he said, in

a low tone. “I most truly beg your pardon. I
hope you will believe that if I had been myself
such conduct would n't have transpired. And if
you still desire it, am ready to afford you the satisfaction
demanded, although I can't but trust you
think better of it, and will number me among your
friends.”

“Point device!” said Miriam.

Sir Rohan shook his extended hand warmly, forgetting
everything in his present moods.

“I have satisfaction enough,” he replied, “in
returning health, and my friends are not so many
that such an addition is unacceptable.”

But hardly were the words spoken, when the
scene in the woods rushed upon his recollection.
He colored and bit his lip. After all, — who knew?
— Arundel might not have fired; Sir Rohan would
give him the benefit of the doubt. Meantime, the
wily lawyer was proceeding with volubility.

“I have been waiting more impatiently than
you will believe, for this opportunity of offering
apologies,” he returned, “ever since my trip to
the North; and I am pleased to find you so much
better than I expected;” saying which, he turned
to salute his relative and Miriam.

“Since I could n't go, you came, St. Denys,” he
said, “the very person I was wishing to see. You
must allow me to congratulate you on your excellent
management of invalids. You should take
out letters overt for the art.”

“That palm, Marc, must be laid at Miss Miriam's
feet.”

“O, she is a perfect Hygieia, begging her pardon
for the heathenism,” he rejoined. — “But strength
is needed, Sir Rohan,” he added, returning to the
charge. “You remind me of the prayer of an old
Methodist friend of mine, for his dissolute son:
`O Lord, take my son John and shake him over —'
a place I 'd mention if your polite ears were not
here, Miss Miriam, — `but, O Lord, hold on thy
grip!' And I should say the Lord had taken the
wrong person.”

“An old story, Mr. Arundel,” said Miriam,
laughing. “I was boasting once to Sir Rohan
of your historical powers, but this seems rather
of the lyric order.”

“So! Are we never to sing truce?”

“O that 's no matter! But when will you tell
us something to make our hair stand on end, as
Nell and Nan say? Something really tingling

with terror? You 've been up at the North?
Then certainly you have picked up a new story.”

“And you want to hear one, Miss Miriam?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as a price of peace, when the evenings
are longer, and I have untied the last knot in my
last case, I will tell you the story of that. It will
be well worth your while.”

“I am very glad to be at peace, Mr. Arundel,”
Miriam said, smiling.

“And how do your farms do without you, St.
Denys?” said he, approaching him.

“Very well, I fancy; they are used to the experiment.
It will not be long, though; we hope
to take Sir Rohan with us for a season.”

Arundel was slightly surprised. “Indeed!” he
exclaimed. “Is Kent more salubrious than —”

“O no. But it is a change; and then it is time
Miriam went more into society, — her kingdom has
waited long enough for its Queen. And while she
is dancing round I 've no notion of sitting alone.
Perhaps you will come too, Marc,” he added, with
an effort.

“You credit me with fine remembrance. No,
it 's impossible. I can't leave home again till
spring.”

Miriam had said to herself, when he was speaking
with Sir Rohan, “So Judas kissed his Master;”
but now, on the contrary, she was actually pleased
with him. “He was quite bearable,” she declared
afterward; “apologized for an affront, promised a
story, and refused to go to Kent!” And perhaps
if she had thought on the subject a moment longer,
she would have joined, from mere good-nature, in
St. Denys's invitation.

“You are indefatigable, Mr. Arundel,” said Sir
Rohan.

“Success requires it. But while you are here,
St. Denys, I am at your service.”

This was more than St. Denys had asked, but
he thought there were certain reasons for feeling
more kindly than usual toward Arundel, and
therefore would have replied urbanely, had not
Sir Rohan himself thanked him for his offer, —
judging that the attempt upon St. Denys would
not be repeated, even if that whole morning were
not a madness. It is a peculiarity of those who
deal with unreal things, that they soon are incapable
of distinguishing the true. Moreover, Sir
Rohan indistinctly felt St. Denys to be safer in
the open society of Arundel, where there could

be fewer opportunities of ambush; and now that
Miriam's fortune was probably secured, there
could be less motive.

“With only a convalescent as companion, and
in so gloomy a house,” said he, “my friends
will have to call too largely on their inner sunshine.”

“That is one of the inexhaustible things,”
replied Miriam. “The more you use it, the
more there is of it.”

“Nevertheless, Miss Miriam,” said Arundel,
“you do not illustrate your assertion. Where is
all your gayety gone, — `Quips and cranks and
wanton wiles'? Your spirits are as still now as
they were exuberant a year ago.”

“Not spirits, but manners; one is not so
happy when boisterous,” she returned.

But at Arundel's remark, Sir Rohan threw
his searching glance at Miriam, to question if it
were a fact. True, he had himself observed,
that her ways were more quiet than before, that
only now and then the blithe roysterer broke
from a cloud of mild proprieties, that the once
sudden angles of her motions had rounded themselves
into curves of a slow grace; she scarcely

spoke so much, nor was her laugh so loud, nor
was it always to be known which way she went,
as formerly, by her scattered properties. But
her brow was clear, her smile sweet; no, it was
not change, but development. Do we not always
accumulate — so slowly, so gradually, that
the process seems imperceptible — emotions and
experiences for a new phase of life, and wait for
some sudden event to give them crystallization
or destiny? So it had been with Miriam, he
thought; and so, while away from him, she had
passed in a beautiful efflorescence from child to
woman. She seemed to him too rich in some
real happiness, to bubble up with an effervescence
of joyousness. She had reached the first
period of self-consciousness, a period as full of
bliss as of pain. The heir apparent to so regal
bounty, as this perfect creature must be, need
not hasten to assume her crown and display
the dazzle of its gems, he thought.

“Moreover,” resumed Miriam, a little aside,
to Marc, while he thus meditated, “I may be
triflingly stunned by your agreeability.”

“Ah? I did not think of claiming any share
in so delightful a transformation.”

“Now you are going to be rude, Mr. Arundel!”
she said, half pouting.

Arundel looked at her a moment with a peculiar
expression, then, without replying, startled
Sir Rohan by exclaiming, “Half-past four! Do
you ever dine here, or do you live on the ambrosia
of —. I must bid you good morning, Sir
Rohan. I shall see you soon again, St. Denys.”

“Once in a while we dine,” said Sir Rohan.
“Will you stay and try potluck? It would give
us much pleasure.”

“Why, no, sir; but let me hope that at some
other time I may, Arab fashion, eat your salt.”
And he turned to go, first exchanging a few low
words with St. Denys.