Her soft, caressing tones thrilled through Royston’s veins till the blood mounted to his forehead; but he made no answer in words, only looking up earnestly into her face with his rare smile.
I have tried throughout to avoid inflicting on you a dialogue that does not bear in some way on the incidents of our tale; on this principle we will not record the conversation that occupied those two till they reached the crown of the pass. It was probably interesting to them, for it was long before either forgot a word that was spoken. But the imagination or the memory of the reader will doubtless fill up a better fancy-sketch than the one omitted here.
There was a general halt on the brow of the hill. Indeed the view was worth a pause. From below their feet the tract of low woodland rolled right down to the edge of the sea, like a broad tossing river, swelling into great billows of gray or dark green, where the taller olives or fir-trees grew, and broken here and there with islets of many-colored stone. With the rest came up the chaplain, who had recovered by this time his breath, and, to a certain extent, his equanimity. While the others stood silent, he saw one of those openings for improving the occasion professionally of which he was ever so ready to avail himself. So, casting his hand abroad theatrically, he declaimed,
How glorious are thy works, Parent of Good!
The words came oozing out in the oiliest of his unctuous tones; and the elocutionist’s expansive glance fell first on the landscape patronizingly, then on the by-standers encouragingly. It was as though he said, “You may fall to, and admire now. I have asked a blessing.” Nothing more occurred worthy of note till they reached their destination in safety.
Of course, “there never was such a place for a picnic;” but, as that has been said of about three hundred different spots in every civilized country of Europe, it is certainly not worth while describing this particular one. The luncheon went on very much as such things always do when the arrangements are perfect, the commissariat unexceptionable, and the guests hungry and happy.
Mr. Fullarton, however, applied himself so assiduously to Champagne-cup that his sober-minded helpmate (the only person who took much notice of his proceedings) was filled with an uncomfortable wonder. At last, during a pause in the general conversation, he addressed Royston abruptly—there was a strange huskiness in his voice, and his lower lip kept trembling—
“I heard from Naples this morning. My friend mentions having met Mrs. Keene there.”
The major looked up at the speaker with the cool, indifferent glance that had often irritated him. “Indeed! I was not aware that my mother had got so far south yet. She wrote last from Rome.” The other tossed off his glass with an unsteady hand, and set it down sharply. “I never heard of your mother, sir,” he said; “I was speaking of—your wife.”
