Edward Barnett; a Neglected Child of South Carolina, Who Rose to Be a Peer of Great Britain, and th | Page 3

be spared yourself; for let not your proud heart deceive you, not all your array of domestics, not all your barred doors, can save you from a violent death, or the guilt of murder, if you do not stop this unrighteous prosecution--for your own sake I entreat you stop, ere it be too late. Spurn this grey head if you will into the dust, but listen and spare.'
The Earl was unmoved as marble.
The old man left with bent head and slow step. 'Lambert, you will issue a notice, offering ��500 to any one who captures Horace Hunter, dead or alive--also on pain of expulsion from the property, forbid any one harboring him; send for two London officers. These country bumpkins will never find him. Enquire for a dissolute fellow, known by the name of Curly Tom--pay him well: he perhaps may track him, in short, find this man and punishment to death shall follow.'
'It shall on you!' said a loud voice, apparently near them.
The Earl sprang to the window, and jumped out, the agent trembling remained, not a living being was in sight--the window opened upon a smooth lawn, there was not a chance of a person escaping notice, but no one was there; he summoned the domestics; they searched--no one was found, they had seen no one. Frantic with rage, yet with an ill-defined sensation of fear, the nobleman, re-entered the mansion, and dismissing every one, locked himself in an inner chamber.
The agent waited until his master was gone; then seated himself in the chair of state, and mused. 'Let me see! ��500, too much to slip from my hands. I will find this Curly Tom myself--I think I know him--and if I can but keep him sober--and promise him a good carouse when Hunter's caught, he will entrap him--for these scoundrels all know how to find one another--��500, too much for any of these bumpkins constables, no, no, I must have it--there is danger though--I must think over it--that voice was queer, where could it come from--could any one be in the presses?' After screwing up his courage to the task, he opened them fearfully one by one; there was nothing there but the old papers before mentioned. He stooped and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, over which was the Earl's picture--then puzzled, but determined on his course of action, he left the room and took his way to the village. He was not far from the house, when a servant called to him. 'You have a paper on your back, Mr. Lambert,' said he. He took his coat off; on the back, fastened with a pin, was a paper, with the single word, doomed, written upon it. The man of business was puzzled; he was not altogether a coward, but this was not a business proceeding; he said nothing, however, but methodically folded it up, placed it in his pocket book, and proceeded.

CHAPTER II.
THE VILLAGE ALE-HOUSE.
Railroads were unknown in the times in which our story occurred, and the village ale-house was still the rendezvous of the villagers of an evening; the parson still occasionally looked in and smoked his pipe with the lawyer, the exciseman, the sexton, and the parish-clerk; while the sturdy farmers, the smith, the butcher, and baker formed another circle; while the laborers and ploughmen, the butcher-boy and the tailor's apprentice lounged in to drink with greedy ears the news; to listen to the wise saws of the village politicians, and become in due time convinced that by some strange freak of fortune the only persons incompetent to rule the country were those in power at the time. Mrs. Alice Goodfellow, the landlady and proprietress of this village elysium, fair, fat, and forty, was a buxom widow, shrewd, good-humored and fond of pleasure, but careful withal and fond of admiration. She never, however, allowed any one of her admirers, to suppose himself more favored than the rest; neither did she suffer any of them to languish in despair. If she allowed the smith to hand her to her pew in church on Sunday, she, nevertheless, smiled sweetly on the baker; and if she took a drive in Farmer Dobson's pony-chaise for her health, yet, Farmer Thomas would sit for hours inside her bar; the truth was, the good widow was perfectly well aware that her snug little free-hold and thriving little trade were quite as great objects of attraction as her delectable self, and acting on the same principle as that old humbug 'Elizabeth,' insanely called 'the good Queen Bess,' viz: the balancing opposite interests, she drew custom to her house and grist to her mill, without troubling herself as to selection from her numerous admirers, which, besides displeasing the others, would place another in authority over that bar, which, for the last ten