CHAPTER II._Sword and Gown: A Novel

Keene had spent some time with the Molyneuxs during the autumn and

winter, and had conducted himself so far with perfect propriety,

certainly keeping Harry straighter than he would have gone alone; for he

was, unluckily, of a convivial turn of mind wholly incompatible with

delicate health and a frail constitution. Being a favorite with the

world in general, he felt bound, I suppose, to reciprocate, so, albeit

strictly enjoined to keep the earliest hours, he would sit up till dawn

if any one encouraged him, and then come home, perfectly sober perhaps,

but staggering from mere weakness. He did not care for deep drinking in

the least, but the number of magnums he had assisted in flooring, when

on a regimen of "three glasses of sherry," would have made a double row

of nails round the coffin of a larger man. Nature, however, being a

Dame, won't stand being slighted, or having her admonitions disregarded,

and the way she asserted herself on the morrow was retributive in the

extreme. Harry was always so _very_ ill after one of those nights "upon

the war-path." On such occasions, his feelings, without being quite

remorseful, were beautifully and curiously penitent; they manifested

themselves chiefly by an extraordinary ebullition of the domestic

affections. "Bring me my children" (he had two tiny ones), he would cry

on waking, just as another man would call for brandy and soda; and,

strange to say, the presence of those innocents seemed to have a

similarly invigorating and refreshing effect: during all that day he

would make pilgrimages to their cribs, and gaze upon them sleeping with

the reverence of an old _dévote_ kneeling before the shrine of her most

efficacious saint. Then he would go forth, and return with a present for

his wife, bearing an exact proportion in value to the extent and

duration of the past misdemeanor; so that her jewel-case and

writing-table soon became as prettily suggestive as the votive chapel of

Nôtre Dame des Dunes. Very unnecessary were these peace-offerings; for

that dear little woman never dreamt of "hitting him when he was down,"

or taking any other low advantage of his weakness. She would make his

breakfast beamingly, at all untimely hours, and otherwise pet and caress

him, so that he might have been a knight returning wounded from some

Holy War, instead of a discomfited scalp-hunter, bearing still evident

traces of the "war-paint." A stern old lady told her once that such

condonation of offenses was unprincipled and immoral. It may be so, but

I can not think the example is likely to be dangerously contagious.

Whatever happens, there will always remain a sufficiency of matronly

Dicæarchs, over whose judgment-seats the legend is very plainly

inscribed, _Nescia flecti_.

These Ember days formed the only exceptions to the remarkably easy way

in which Molyneux took every thing; there seemed to be no rough places

about his disposition for trouble or care to take hold of. Hunting four

days a week through the winter; six weeks in town during the season,

with incidentals of Epsom, Goodwood, _saumon à la Trafalgar_, bouquets,

and opera-stalls; living all the rest of the year at a mess curious as

to the quality of its dry Champagne--these simple pleasures involve a

certain expenditure hardly "fairly warranted by our regimental rate of

pay." To accomplish all this on about £500 a year, and yet to steer

clear of ruin, is an ingenious process doubtless, but a sum not to be

wrought out (most soldiers will tell you) without some anxiety and

travail of mind. Now, in the very tightest state of the money-market,

Harry was never known to disquiet himself in vain. He would not borrow

from any of his comrades, refusing all such proffers of assistance

gratefully but consistently. No Mussulman ever equaled his contented

reliance on the resources of futurity, and his implicit belief in the

same. He would anchor his hopes on some such improbability as "a long

shot coming off," or "his Aunt Agnes coming down" (a proverbially awful

widow, who had forgiven him seven times already; and, after each fresh

offense, had sworn unrelenting enmity to him and his heirs forever).

Strong in this faith, he met condoling friends with a pleasant,

reassuring smile: with the same demeanor he confronted threatening

creditors. He used no arts, and condescended to no subterfuge in dealing

with these last; but, as one of them observed, retreating from the

barracks moneyless but gratified, "Mr. Molyneux seems to _feel_ for one,

at all events." So he did. He sympathized with his tailor, not in the

least because he owed him money, but because he was a fellow-creature in

difficulties, regretting heartily it was not in his own power to relieve

them; just as a very charitable but improvident person might feel on

reading a case of real distress in the _Times_. Strange to say, hitherto

he had always pulled through. Either the outsider _did_ win, or the

aunt, touched in the soft place of her heart through her ruffled

feathers, was brought down by a "wild shot," when considered quite out

of distance, and "parted" freely.

The last and hardest trial of all--long debility and frequent

illness--had failed to shake this intense serenity. He was never cross

or unreasonable, and tried to give as little trouble as possible; but

was grateful to a degree for every thing that was done for him: he could

even manage to thank people for their advice, whether he took it not. So

far as one could make out, he was nearly as much interested in the state

of his own health, as one would be about that of any pleasant casual

acquaintance.

It must be confessed, that poor Harry and his like are by no means

strong-minded, or large-brained, or persevering men; they seldom or

never rise to eminence, and rarely have greatness thrust upon them. They

do not often volunteer to lead the vanguard of any great movement,

shouting out on the slightest provocation the war-cry of "life is

earnest;" for they are the natural subalterns of the world's mighty

battalia, and could hardly manoeuvre one of its companies, without

hopelessly entangling it, and exposing themselves: indeed, if they are

useful at all in their generation, it is in a singularly modest and

unobtrusive way. Yet there is an attraction about them, a power of

attachment, that the great and wise ones of the earth have appreciated

and envied, ere now. It is curious, too, to see what an apparent

contradiction to themselves the extremes of the class--those who

exaggerate _nonchalance_ into insensibility, and softness into

effeminacy--have shown, when brought face to face with imminent peril or

certain destruction. France held few more terrible _ferrailleurs_ than

the curled painted minions of her third Henry: the sun never looked down

on a more desperate duel than that in which Quélus, Schomberg, and

Maugiron did their _devoir_ manfully to the last. Nay, though he came

delicately to his doom, the King of Amalek met it, I fancy, gallantly

and gracefully enough, when once he read his sentence in the eyes of the

pitiless Seer, who ordained that he "should be hewn in pieces before the

Lord in Gilgal."

R. I. P.

There was silence for some minutes after the few words that opened this

story; and then Royston Keene spoke again.

"Hal, do you remember that miserable impostor in Paris being

enthusiastic about Dorade and its advantages, describing it as a sort of

happy hunting-ground, and so deciding us on choosing it in preference to

Nice?"

"Ah! he _did_ drivel a good deal. I think he had been drinking," the