SWORD AND GOWN.
A Novel.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“GUY LIVINGSTONE.”
NEW YORK:
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1859.
3CHAPTER I.
“There is something in this climate, afterall. I suppose there are not many places whereone could lie on the shore in December, and enjoythe air as much as I have done for the lasttwo hours.”
Harry Molyneux turned his face seawardagain as he spoke, and drank in the soft breezeeagerly; he could scarcely help thanking italoud, as it stole freshly over his frame, andplayed gently with his hair, and left a delicatecaress on his cheek—the cheek that was now alwaysso pale, save in the one round scarlet spotwhere, months ago, Consumption had hung outher flag of “No surrender.”
There is enough in the scene to justify an averageamount of enthusiasm. Those steep brokenhills in the background form the frontier fortressof the maritime Alps, the last outwork of whichis the rocky spur on which Molyneux and hiscompanion are lying. Fir woods feather thesky-line; and from among these, here and there,the tall stone pines stand up alone, like sentinels—steady,upright, and unwearied, though theirguard has not been relieved for centuries. Allaround, wild myrtle, and heath, and eglantinecurl and creep up the stems of the olives, trying,from the contact of their fresh youth, to infusenew life and sap into the gray, gnarled old trees,even as a fair Jewish maiden once strove tocherish her war-worn, decrepit king. There areother flowers too left, though December has begun,enough to give a faint fragrance to the airand gay colors to the ground. Just below theirfeet is a narrow strip of dark ribbed sand, andthen the tangle of weed, scarcely stirred by thewater, that all along this coast fringes like abeard the languid lip of the Mediterranean Sea.
Molyneux appreciated and admired all this,after his simple fashion, and said so; his companiondid not answer immediately; he onlyshrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows,as if he could have disputed the point if it hadnot been too much trouble. An optimist innothing, least of all was Royston Keene gratefulor indulgent to the beauties and bounties ofinanimate creation.
“Ah well!” Harry went on, resignedly, “Iknow it’s useless trying to get a compliment toNature out of you. I ought to have given youup that night when we showed you the Alpsfrom the terrace at Berne. You had never seenthe Jungfrau before, and she had got her prettiestpink evening dress on, poor thing! and allyou would say was, ‘There’s not much the matterwith the view.’”
“It was a concession to your wife’s enthusiasm,”Keene replied; “a sudden check mighthave been dangerous just then, or I should havespoken more bitterly, after being brought out tolook at mountains, when I was dusty and travel-stained,wanting baths, and dinners, and othernecessaries of life.”
The voice was deep-toned and melodiousenough that spoke these words, but too slow anddeliberate to be quite a pleasant one, thoughthere was nothing like a drawl in it. One couldeasily fancy such a voice ironical or sarcastic,but hardly raised much in anger; in the imperativemood it might be very successful, but itseemed as if it could never have pleaded or prayed.It matched the speaker’s exterior singularlywell. Had you seen him for the first time—couchant,as he was then—you would have hadonly an impression of great length a