Edward Barnett; a Neglected Child of South Carolina, Who Rose to Be a Peer of Great Britain, and th | Page 6

rolled over his head. His face had been handsome, scarred with storm and conflict, it still bore the impress of manly beauty, and there was a look of settled determination, upon it, that told was indeed,
'In close fight a warrior grim,'
and traces of fierce passion also showed him to be one whom no one would like for an enemy. His dress was finer than an ordinary seaman's, and though perfectly nautical, was free from any stain of tar or pitch, generally considered absolutely necessary in a sailor's attire. The boy gazed intently on him as he took his meal, closing his eyes however whenever the sailor looked at him, and preserving the appearance of slumber.
Mrs. Ally waited with becoming patience while her guest ate his fill and then approaching him with a brimming tumbler of punch said, 'Drink to the memory of old times, Walter.'
'You know me then!' said he, 'strange that but one eye alone of those who knew me in my boyhood should recognize me, but sea and storm do much to alter a man, human passion does more.' (He spoke now without any of the sea jargon that had made his account of the encounter with Curly Tom almost unintelligible to the farmers); 'but,' he added, 'you had better send this lad to bed.'
'You need not,' said the boy, rising as he spoke, 'I remembered you instantly. I will not betray you if you wish to remain unknown.'
'You may safely trust him,' said his aunt, 'he never breaks his word.'
'A good sign that,' said the seaman, 'and a bold boy I warrant, he is well grown too for his years, and like--'
'Like who?' asked aunt and nephew in one breath.
'Like one I never wish to speak of,' was the answer, 'let be, let be, I have much to ask you; first of my father, does he live?'
'He does, bowed down by age and now by sorrow, Walter. When you and I were younger--years ago--when my sister, who is now an angel in heaven, I hope, married you, I never thought the day would come when my lips should be the ones to tell you of the desolation of your child.'
Walter recoiled, and rising from his seat grasped the back of the chair he had been seated on with such a nervous gripe that the strong oak rail broke in two with the pressure, and his heaving chest and quivering lip told the fierce emotions that were struggling for utterance.--The landlady understood his look.
'Do not fear, Walter--your child is as pure as an angel. It is the desolation of her heart I speak of--not the pollution. It is the blight that has fallen upon her young love--upon a woman's first and holiest impressions--a virtuous love for a deserving object. Are you calm enough to hear the tale?'
'I am--proceed.'
'My tale will not be a long one, but sad--sad for more than one victim has and will fall yet to the fell passions of him, who rules this neighborhood with a rod of iron. You remember Geoffry Hunter, of the Toll gate farm?'
'Well; he and I were schoolmates.'
'He died some few years after you went on that voyage from which no one ever expected to see you return--I for one. Though remembering your daring courage and hardihood, I did not credit the tale that was brought here that you had perished in the woods attempting to escape. I felt confident you would one day return--as you did ten years ago, and brought this boy with you. Geoffry Hunter left two children. You knew them--Horace and Ellen. Poor Ellen! victim of a titled villain!' and the good woman paused, and tears filled her eyes. It was some moments ere she could proceed. 'Horace grew up a fine young-man. As a boy he was a playmate of our proud master; and when Ellen returned from Canterbury, where she had been educated by an aunt, she was the pride of the village, the joy of her widowed mother's heart, and the apple of her brother's eye. It was a beautiful thing to see, Walter, the strong love of those two--the exultant pride of the brother in his sister's loveliness--in her accomplishments, for she knew many things our country folks were unacquainted with. The deep affection of the sister--oh, it was a happy and a handsome picture, that mother, sister and brother. She took more pleasure in the society of your daughter than in any other of the village girls, and they were much together. Ellen taught her what she had learned, and thus it came about that her brother first noticed and finally loved her. And she loved him in return. A handsomer or more fitting pair never trod the sod together. You would have approved the match. Your father gave his consent--he