Stripped of those comforts he
had enjoyed, his offspring carried off as trophies of
avarice,--perhaps for sale to some ruffian who would set a price upon
their beauty,--he sits down, sick at heart, and weeps a child's
tears. The mansion, so long the scene of pleasure and hospitality,
is like a deserted barrack;-still, gloomy, cold, in the absence of
familiar faces. No servant comes to call him master,--Dandy and Enoch
are gone; and those familiar words, so significant of affection
between master and slave, "Glad to see ye home, mas'r," no longer
sounded in his ears. Even his overseer has become alarmed, and like
the rest levied for arrears of wages.
There is nothing for Marston but to give up all,--to leave the home
of his childhood, his manhood, his happier days. He is suddenly
reminded that there is virtue in fortitude; and, as he gazes round
the room, the relics of happier days redouble his conviction of the
evil he has brought upon himself by straying from the paths of
rectitude. Indeed, so sudden was his fall from distinction, that the
scene around him seemed like a dream, from which he had just awoke
to question its precipitancy. "A sheriff is here now, and I am a
mere being of sufferance," he says, casting a moody glance around
the room, as if contemplating the dark prospect before him. A few
moments' pause, and he rises, walks to the window, looks out upon
the serene scene spread out before the mansion. There is the river,
on which he has spent so many pleasant hours, calmly winding its way
through deep green foliage mellowed by the moonlight.
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