Its beauties
only remind him of the past. He walks away,--struggles to forget, to
look above his trials. He goes to the old side-board that has so
long given forth its cheer; that, too, is locked! "Locked to me!" he
says, attempting to open its doors. A sheriff's lock hangs upon
them. Accustomed to every indulgence, each check indicated a doubt
of his honour, wounding his feelings. The smaller the restraint the
deeper did it pierce his heart. While in this desponding mood,
vainly endeavouring to gain resolution to carry him through, a
gentle rap is heard at the door. Who can it be at this hour? he
questions to himself. No servant is near him; servants have all been
led into captivity for the satisfaction of debts. He approaches the
door and opens it himself, looking cautiously into the corridor.
There, crouched in a niche, alternately presenting fear and
joy,--fear lest he be seen by the enemy, and joy to see his
master,--is a dark figure with the familiar face of Daddy Bob,--Bob of
the old plantation. The old, faithful servant puts out his wrinkled
hand nervously, saying, "Oh, good mas'r!" He has looked up to
Marston with the same love that an affectionate child does to a kind
parent; he has enjoyed mas'r's warm welcome, nurtured his
confidence, had his say in directing the affairs of the plantation,
and watched the frailties that threatened it.
"Why, Daddy Bob! Can it be you?" Marston says, modulating his voice,
as a change comes over his feelings.
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