Sword and Gown

Sword and Gown, by George A.
Lawrence

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Title: Sword and Gown A Novel
Author: George A. Lawrence
Release Date: August 25, 2006 [EBook #19121]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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SWORD AND GOWN.

A Novel.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "GUY LIVINGSTONE."
NEW YORK: FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1859.
[Transcriber's note: the author was George Alfred Lawrence]
CHAPTER I.
"There is something in this climate, after all. I suppose there are not
many places where one could lie on the shore in December, and enjoy
the air as much as I have done for the last two hours."
Harry Molyneux turned his face seaward again as he spoke, and drank
in the soft breeze eagerly; he could scarcely help thanking it aloud, as it
stole freshly over his frame, and played gently with his hair, and left a
delicate caress on his cheek--the cheek that was now always so pale,
save in the one round scarlet spot where, months ago, Consumption had
hung out her flag of "No surrender."
There is enough in the scene to justify an average amount of
enthusiasm. Those steep broken hills in the background form the
frontier fortress of the maritime Alps, the last outwork of which is the
rocky spur on which Molyneux and his companion are lying. Fir woods
feather the sky-line; and from among these, here and there, the tall
stone pines stand up alone, like sentinels--steady, upright, and
unwearied, though their guard has not been relieved for centuries. All
around, wild myrtle, and heath, and eglantine curl and creep up the
stems of the olives, trying, from the contact of their fresh youth, to
infuse new life and sap into the gray, gnarled old trees, even as a fair
Jewish maiden once strove to cherish her war-worn, decrepit king.
There are other flowers too left, though December has begun, enough
to give a faint fragrance to the air and gay colors to the ground. Just
below their feet is a narrow strip of dark ribbed sand, and then the
tangle of weed, scarcely stirred by the water, that all along this coast

fringes like a beard the languid lip of the Mediterranean Sea.
Molyneux appreciated and admired all this, after his simple fashion,
and said so; his companion did not answer immediately; he only
shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows, as if he could have
disputed the point if it had not been too much trouble. An optimist in
nothing, least of all was Royston Keene grateful or indulgent to the
beauties and bounties of inanimate creation.
"Ah well!" Harry went on, resignedly, "I know it's useless trying to get
a compliment to Nature out of you. I ought to have given you up that
night when we showed you the Alps from the terrace at Berne. You had
never seen the Jungfrau before, and she had got her prettiest pink
evening dress on, poor thing! and all you would say was, 'There's not
much the matter with the view.'"
"It was a concession to your wife's enthusiasm," Keene replied; "a
sudden check might have been dangerous just then, or I should have
spoken more bitterly, after being brought out to look at mountains,
when I was dusty and travel-stained, wanting baths, and dinners, and
other necessaries of life."
The voice was deep-toned and melodious enough that spoke these
words, but too slow and deliberate to be quite a pleasant one, though
there was nothing like a drawl in it. One could easily fancy such a voice
ironical or sarcastic, but hardly raised much in anger; in the imperative
mood it might be very successful, but it seemed as if it could never
have pleaded or prayed. It matched the speaker's exterior singularly
well. Had you seen him for the first time--couchant, as he was
then--you would have had only an impression of great length and
laziness; but as you gazed on, the vast deep chest expanded under your
eye; the knotted muscles, without an ounce of superfluous flesh to dull
their outline, developed themselves one by one; so that gradually you
began to realize the extent of his surpassing bodily powers, and
wondered that you could have been deceived even for a moment. The
face