University of Virginia Library

20. XX.
THE CLANG OF HOOFS.

AT length their stay drew toward its close;
the last day was fading, and Sir Rohan, having
given his final orders, was idly pacing the
hall, and longing for Miriam. He had no impatience
now, for every hour answered to itself, too
full of happiness to be hastened.

Miriam, whose voice woke the morning, carolling
from her open window, and every now and
then filled the dreary walls again with a glad
purling, came singing down the stairs; and then,
hanging on his arm as he continued his walk,
finished the strain.

“I wonder,” she said, after a moment's silence,
“why always, when we are happiest, we
choose the saddest songs.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, “to forestall calamity;
to deceive Fate with a counterfeit.”

“For a charm against Sorrow, you mean?”

“Sorrow! Sorrow! My darling, forget there
is such a word!”

“You will never let me feel it,” she responded.

“The wind shall not blow upon you!” he
said, with fervency, followed by a laugh.

“And you take the windward side, Ungallant?
No, no,” she added, “if they were
charms, all people might be gay, since who
could n't string a necklace of such amulets?
I am more inclined to fancy my happiness a
cuckoo who pushes the sad little songs from
the nest.”

“Vile comparison! Is it so false and fickle?”

“That, sir, will be as you please.”

“Ah, sweet!” he said. “You know there is
no heaven too high for me to sphere you there.
That is, provided one had the ordering of the
planets.”

“Thank you, but earth is very well. Do you

know, Sir Rohan,” she continued, naively, “I
think you love me too much.”

“Miriam!”

“Yes. There! there! Don't look at me so!
Was I very wrong to say it?”

“The Easterns worshipped the sun, source of
fire, scatterer of night. Have n't I good precedent
for my adoration?”

“But I mean that if I should die, I think you
would die too.”

“Why not?”

“My dear! What do I wear this crown of
laurel for?”

“Because you are a Queen, perhaps.”

“Not at all. Because when my Love returns
to his Art, I believe he wreathes himself with
the same immortal boughs; but should he die,
what laurel for him?”

“He would not need it then.”

“One takes such even into death.”

“How sweet a scent your crown has, when
bruised!”

“It is poison, nevertheless,” she rejoined.

“Why wear it, then?”

“Why? — For an emblem. There is poison in
so strong love.”

“Your lecture is charming, your lips perfect.
You may convert a Pariah, but never a Brahmin,
never a High-Priest. Miriam, should you leave
me, my love would grow praying for your return,
and every word you speak makes you dearer!”

“I see,” she exclaimed, as they entered the
drawing-room, and sat together by St. Denys,
“I see, clearly, my authority is to be absolute.
So I enjoin my first behest.”

“Yes, Miriam. Give me a command,” he
said, bending forward with his eyes upon her.

“You are never, never,” she replied, archly,
holding her finger before him, “to paint when I
am away!”

“Bathos, pathos, and immutable as Athos,” he
interposed.

“No! that 's too much,” she continued, heedless
of the remark. “We 'll add a codicil to our will;
not for a long, long while, that is. You shall
dream no more dreams.”

“Jealous?”

“Not I,” she said, with a melodramatic air.
“I scorn it. I 'll be jealous of a real rival.”

“A woman's love, sir, is an absorption,” said
St. Denys, glancing over his paper. “A sponge,

you must learn, that wipes out every one else.
Her love is to have no one loved but herself.”

“O papa, what a libel! It must be one's self,
and not one's lover, one loves when jealous.”

“Right, little dame! I see, Rohan, by the
news, Arundel contests his borough. What
next?”

“Perfect love,” said Miriam, still meditating,
“implies perfect trust. And we have that, dear,”
she whispered.

Sir Rohan did not reply, but always clasping
her, remained in thought. Slowly again his eyes
re-sought hers, the fond exulting smile wreathing
his lips as he felt the quickening throbs of her
heart at his returning gaze.

“It is a singular thing, this joy,” said he. “It
makes me tremble; it seems unnatural. I have
heard of people of great faith as suddenly feeling
their spirituality wonderfully increased, and of
others who experienced unaccountable mirthfulness,
or happiness, or strength. But Death or
some great suffering always supervened,” he added
with a shudder.

“I wonder why,” said Miriam.

“Perhaps the soul,” said St. Denys, “always

goes a little faster than life, a little beyond the
fact; and so, having beat out and reached its
mortal bars, surges back and flows with a double
current over the mood of the hour.”

The light was slowly dying, and they fell into
silence, the delicious silence of passion, more affluent
than endearments. It was only broken by the
distant clang of hoofs.

At first far off, the quick sharp strokes struck
nearer and nearer, like a clock measuring off the
time. Here they clattered over a stony causeway,
and now were muffled intermittently as the
flail of a thresher. On the soft soil of the avenue
the sound ferried the silence, like the fleet dip of
an oar against the thole. They all sat listening,
while it broke their dream; each beat fell distinct
as a knell, and no one stirred till it was close upon
them.

“It is Arundel,” said Miriam then, starting to
her feet. “I don't want to see him! Papa, do
you mind entertaining him? And we will go
out through the dining-room into that garden. I
like that dim old garden, and the night begins to
fall.”

“Don't keep Sir Rohan out too long,” returned

St. Denys, as she was disappearing. “Remember
he still needs strength, Marc says.”

Sir Rohan hesitated a moment. A singular
idea of honor had restrained him from mentioning
Arundel's murderous attempt, and this was leaving
St. Denys at his mercy.

“You are apprehensive of mischief?” asked St.
Denys. “You are Marc's neighbor, know his
tricks, and would put me on my guard? Miriam
told you, I believe, of some game presented us
the morning we left here. That was well enough,
had it not been bagged in the wood, while the shot
pierced my coach, — an impossible way of killing
two birds with one stone. He was as much surprised
as anybody, probably. Don't fear for me,
Rohan: I can take care of Marc; he is poor material
for a villain. Besides he may have some
business with me relative to Miriam; he has
hinted as much.”

Miriam ran back at Sir Rohan's delay.

“Papa, is it too cruel to tire you with staying
here alone?” she said, putting her arms round
his neck, and hiding her blushing cheek. “But
I can't help showing him how happy I am, and I
would hardly like to, you know.”

He parted her dropping hair, and raising the
head, gently kissed her forehead before she danced
away again.

In after life, when Miriam, free from the rapid
vehement tumult of her youth, led St. Denys down
the slopes of a calm old age, in a world of quiet
peace where neither old sorrows nor future joys
obtruded, she was glad that on this night, in the
midst of her delights, at the high tide of her happiness,
she had not forgotten him.