University of Virginia Library

16. XVI.
IN THE LANES.

ONE morning shortly after this event, the gentlemen
were walking to and fro in the shrubbery.
There had been no frost yet, but the dew
lay in tiny globes on the broad leaves as if shivering
and clustering for company. To them came
Miriam, in a daintiness of morning costume but
recently indulged.

“Papa,” said she, “I wish I could talk slang.”

“My dear, I don't find you deficient there.”

“I expected that! But I mean jockey slang, so
that I could challenge Sir Rohan to a race over
the downs, in real sporting phrase. It 's so clear
and breezy, and would do him such worlds of
good!”

“I take up the glove without the accomplishment,”
said Sir Rohan, “and back Pharo against
the Benshee at any odds.”

“Will you make a book, papa?”

“Not I!” St. Denys returned. “It would be
difficult to decide where the most money were to
be lost.”

“O, I don't know. The Benshee has n't been
out this season. You rode Pharo to the hunt last
week, I did n't hear that you checked the hounds
though. It will be rather stupid for so old a
hunter as Sir Rohan to ride without anything
ahead, to kill, that is; but then my hat is killing,
and he will always have that before him.”

“Like certain Easterns then, I ride for a bride.
Don't flatter yourself with hopes of escape!” said
Sir Rohan.

“So at the best of it,” she laughed, “when you
catch me, you catch a Tartar.”

“Well, little one,” said St. Denys, “you seem
to have attained your object without too much
slang, though I have my doubts if your opponent
can do more than swing in his saddle just now.
What put that particular branch of education into
your head?”

“Oh! Don't you know? There are some gypsies
somewhere across the moor, real north country
people, and they talk slang, of course. And

one of them, papa,” she added, lowering her voice,
“the housekeeper says, was hung in London, a
little while ago, for something he did on the way
here; and they are very angry about it. How
they wander round! Do you suppose they came
down to see the land's end?”

“An old woman, belonging to them, was here
last night,” said Sir Rohan. “Did n't she speak
with you?”

“Yes. She was talking with the maids, and I
went out and crossed her palm. But she was
very odd. She only muttered some gibberish —
slang, maybe — and threw my hand up to my
face, looked at me a minute, and whispered, `So
you think you 'll marry him, the pale villain yon.
Toss it away, you won't. You are one of us.'”

“Miriam, — she did n't say that?” asked Sir
Rohan.

“Truly! Who cares? I should like to see
her forbid the banns!” said she.

“Saucy Miriam! where are your blushes?”
exclaimed St. Denys. Whereupon, the breakfast-bell
ringing, she ran away.

In an hour or two, at Sir Rohan's direction,
Pharo and the Benshee appeared in the avenue,

and very shortly, side by side, with their riders,
they were finding their way up the long field.
Before them a fence reared itself, with a lofty
gate which Sir Rohan rode forward to open.

“Not that way, Sir Rohan!” cried Miriam,
and making a short turn, the Benshee took it like
a bird, and flew along the other side with the
speed of a racer. In a moment Pharo followed,
thundering close behind. Miriam turned in her
saddle to see, then shook loose her reins and flew
on. The Benshee was thorough-bred, and exhilarated
with her new freedom and kindled by the
pursuer, covered the ground well; and though
Miriam was a light weight and a light hand, and
though she spanned an ugly gap kicking the dirt
into Pharo's eyes, she could not rid herself of him,
or put more than that distance between them. A
naughty glee was in Miriam's heart, she wondered
how one could be happier than swinging
through the air with such a lordly swiftness, drank
in great draughts of the fresh air, and inwardly
staked every hope she had in life on keeping
foremost.

A lane with rough fences here intersected the
course; if they turned down the fields, Pharo

would certainly lead; Miriam determined to take
the fence, badly as it looked, — and ignorant of what
might be beyond, giving the Benshee head, she
rode straight upon it. Sir Rohan called to her in
vain; she pointed forward with her whip, and
dashed on. The top of many Cornish fences is
flat and broad, so that one usually walks upon
them, — and suddenly a peasant, with a bundle
of fagots on his head, started into view as he
slowly rose to pursue his way. The Benshee saw
this apparition, swerved aside, reared and plunged,
and then, before Miriam knew what had happened,
bounded across with such a leap that she thought
she would never light, and shot like a whirlwind
through the miry lane, round a sharp curve into
a by-way, over a gate and field that opposed her,
till she found herself in another lane, where,
putting down her head, heedless of curb and
snaffle, first showing a wicked eye, she flung out
her flanks with a quiver, and used a pace that
only fright and her previous excitement could
have aroused.

Daunted in the first heat, and then resolved on
conquering, Miriam kept her seat, knowing the
speed could not last; but at length having taken a

stony ascent at a gallop and raced down like an arrow,
the Benshee closed as unexpectedly as she had
opened her career, and stood trembling, flecked in
foam, with hanging head and starting eye. Miriam
alighted, loosened the girth, caressed and stroked
the animal, using all her limited means to aid it,
and dreadfully afraid, even in her pity, that she
would lie down and leave her solitary among the
moors. Sir Rohan had followed, to be sure, but
then he had not been able to put Pharo to a speed
anything like that of the Benshee's, and in the
bewildering turns and ways followed since, he had
lost all track of her, while if she did not succeed
in finding the homeward path, she had the prospect
of spending the night in the lanes.

Finally she dared to remount and advance very
slowly, hesitating long as to which of the two
ways that now diverged before her she should
choose. She trusted the Benshee, who took the
sinister one. It led into deeper and deeper dells,
and deceitful sloughs. Hoping it would open on
some fairer way she continued to proceed, while
the day drew near close, darkness falling round
her; and to add to her discomfiture, a drizzling
rain set in that brought the night with it. Still

she jogged on, till at last completely at a loss, in a
thick gloom, with a wet wind blowing in her face,
the Benshee stopped.

Miriam was not easily discouraged; but now,
after a moment, she bent down to shut out her
thoughts, her heart sinking within her. All at
once, the wind seemed to be rolled away, and
some of the darkness. The Benshee shook and
started in terror; something led her, and they
went lightly forward. Miriam could see nothing,
she was more alarmed than ever, drooping
masses of hair like threaded air seemed to
sweep her forehead, she fancied an icy breath
licked her cheek, and only cowered closer to
the living creature beneath. They emerged into
a broader, smoother way, where the wind puffed
back, the airy hair, the breath, were gone, and
the Benshee sped along as in the day. Far
ahead, Miriam now saw a light that burned
steadily, while lesser ones danced round it.
Anon she lost it, or saw it fainter, and when
the Benshee slackened her pace again, she was
not many feet distant. Pausing now under the
lee of an untrimmed hedge, she found herself in
a small hollow quite thickly wooded. One or

two carts were tilted around in odd positions,
and a rude tent occupied the foreground. There
might be others among the trees, but in the
faint light cast from the red embers whose
flames had been extinguished by the rain, she
was not able to discern them. From the tent,
voices harsh and low proceeded, but the words
were some incomprehensible jargon. Now and
then, Miriam thought she heard a more familiar
tone, and was at no loss to conclude that she
had blundered upon the gypsy encampment.
Home, then, lay across the moor, but at which
point of the compass? And how could she
reach it, with not even a stone to go by? The
voices rose within the tent.

“Not a penny,” said the familiar one. “Mind
you! I don't pay a farthing. He 'll hand over
the hush-money, — enough to buy you a farm
apiece in Mesopotamia.”

Angry unknown words were here interposed,
followed by a lusty English oath from the former
speaker. “To be sure he will!” said he.
“You 've nothing to do but threaten disclosure
of what you saw, and what the old woman told
you. What good will that do you? Stupid

oufes! What did I bring you down from beyond
the Lord-knows-where for, but that? And
now you 're here you 'll be quiet; come to the
sea-side for your health, and go back when the
season 's over! And you won't make him pay
yellower gold, because, on your way, Tiny
was —”

Here a chorus of wild articulations interrupted
him, for he seemed to have referred to the man
who was hung.

“Good!” he said, when the angry tumult
had a little subsided. “I thought the people of
the North Countree had more fire than that, and
so I find it.”

“You may find it to your cost, brother,” said
one, in his own tongue. “Now, to waste no
more palaver, what must be done?”

“Waiting. Is that laconic enough? There 's
one witness yet. I must have the old chap
swear to what I learned from him; for if it
should have been just drunken raving, I 'm all
up a tree; poor fellow, it was n't much —”

Here the gypsies, from the clatter, appeared to
be impatient. “Then I shall come for you,” he
added, as if waking from a little reverie, “and
you can go in and win.”

Other words followed, from which the speaker
seemed to gather an unfavorable import.

“You 'll forestall me?” he said. “Try it!
that 's all. And you 'll lose the whole. Perhaps
he will pay you for silence after you 've
told! Do you think I profit by this? Not a
haporth. I get the girl, and hers, as I told
you, and what 's more, chew a sweet morsel,
you know yourselves, a revenge. But it 's late.
I 'll go — when your word passes that you 'll
bide my time.”

Here succeeded a long consultation in that
other tongue, interspersed with now and then
a bit of English, all which must have been the
identical slang wherein Miriam had longed to
be a proficient. At last, the stormy voices silenced
themselves, and one took up the tale.

“We do as you bid, brother. But hark ye!
You fail us, — we donnot fail you. And should
we get no share of yon gold, we look to you. And
we mun have it though we rob your heart's blood
for it! Good night, brother.”

The tent curtain lifted, and two or three stooped
out into the night; one, an old woman whose
voice proclaimed her the recent speaker, with a

torch that hissed and spluttered in the rain and
flared with the wind. As she held it up, the light
fell on the departing guest, and Miriam found him
to be, as she had at first surmised, Arundel. The
old woman lighted him as he climbed the hollow,
till he was lost on the land above, and then returned,
sparkling the torch on an evil-looking tatterdemalion
who stood with her; on a gypsy girl
who held a baby to her breast and peered from the
tent with bright black eyes that had the same wild
glint, a speck of white fire, that Miriam's owned;
and on her own wrinkled yellow face, picturesque
rags, and long, torn gray hair. Just as she was
disappearing within, the unaccountable Benshee
gave a low whinny. The hag cried to her companion,
in their own tongue, and turned quickly
toward the hedge.

“What'n have we here?” she said, hanging
over it, and swinging the torch round the head of
the dazzled girl. “Aha! the young Leddy o'
Castle Sin Denys! Service to you. A fine night
for a gallop, the dew just falling. Ye come such
sweet weather for a better fortune? We 're none
of the elle-folk who dance in the hills and weave
fates, ye mun go to them for that. Maybe ye 'd

know what makes you one of us? Ye 've the
wild-fire in your eye, child! Ye 'll know soon
enough!” Here the hag bent lower, and assuming
a leer, extended her palm. “Ye cannot
thread the lanes with yellow boys about you. A
little charity, dear Leddy,” she whined. But at
the same instant snatched it away, and hit the
Benshee a crack that made her rear upright.
“Ye listen at a man's door? Go along with
you!” she said, and the beast flew like a ball of
fire. Miriam caught the pommel in her shock,
and fled fast, hardly knowing which she dreaded
most, the fierce gallop in the dark, or the gypsy
man breaking over the hedge.

In a mile or two the Benshee relaxed her speed,
and soon fell into a trot that she gently ended
by standing stubbornly still. It seemed in vain
to urge her; Miriam dismounted again, and as
well as she could see, led her along in hopes to
find some place where she could hitch the bridle,
and lie down herself. At last a narrow path
opened on the right; she ventured to follow it,
and soon found by the slow ascent that she was on
the moor. But here she was as good as lost, and
after an hour's forlorn wandering, as much from
exhaustion as despair she put her arms round the

Benshee's neck and burst into tears. Suddenly
the Benshee raised her head, with her pawing
feet warned the girl to retire, and by her tremor
seemed to recognize some one's approach. Miriam
spoke soothingly through her sobbing, but in the
next moment caught herself the tramp of hoofs
crushing the heath, and clung to the companionable
thing for safety. Far, far away, quite at the
other end of the moor it seemed to her, she heard
a voice call — Miriam! Faint and thin it sounded
in her swooning ears; she doubted could she make
her reply audible. “Here I am!” she thought she
cried like a trumpet; but it was only a murmur,
and her head sunk again upon the bent neck of
the Benshee. Home, with its fires and lights and
comforts, the smiles, the dear voices — one of which
she dreamed to have heard just now — was further
away than ever, — was lost; she herself might die;
all that love, that joy, was lost too. She was sinking
on the ground, when an arm caught her waist,
strong and tender; passionate lips called her life
back to answer them; and lifted a moment in the
air, she lay then in Sir Rohan's arms, while
mounted on Pharo weary from his day-long search,
and leading the Benshee, they trotted slowly and
joyfully homeward down the moor.