Guy Earlscourt's Wife — page 31: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ad Joseph bea -. ne to get our ssead the wait- en, edly; ‘‘there is heart I thank ed sieadily up verhaps? Tell keep it—yes.” ace, the soft, _ a kind, loyal Mr. Mason, I 1m.” ever send for me, no matter 1aduke Mason solutely tried ould only see I thank you went to the shrieking Yn. ass compart- and took his the “resonant 1 night, and id them. ~ It to the Royal nna and his ellow gleam im that his am. CHAPTER V. ROBERT HAWKSLEY. On the first of April, in the year of grace 1847, the steame ship Land of Columbia sailed from New York to Liverpool, | bearing many passengers to the British shores. The run was. an uncommonly swift and pleasant one—not a single *% storm came to disturb them, or bring the demon of seasick- ness into their midst, from the time they steamed out of “You are the only ‘heavy swell’ we have had, my lord,” = the captain said to one of his passengers. “We have made § the best run of the year. We will weigh anchor this evening % in the Mersey.” 3 “Well,” the gentleman addressed made answer, “I am sorry % to hear it. I never feel so much in my element as I do at sea. I believe an All-Wise Providence originally cut me out *% for an old salt, and by some mistake I was born Baron * Montalien instead. It’s the old story, captain; the round pegs go into the square holes, and vice versa. As a-first- class seaman, I might have been of some use in my genera- @ tion—as it is ” His lordship shrugged his shoulders, and sauntered away. Nugent Horatio Earlscourt, Baron Montalien, had been making an American tour incognito as “Mr. Earlscourt” for the past nine months, and had almost enjoyed ‘himself. He had hunted buffaloes, and had a shot or two at hostile bands of Indians, and found life a good deal less of a bore than he had done any time these last twenty years. He was fifty ™) years old now, and there were many silver threads in his dark hair; he was unutterably patrician-looking, with the broad brow, the handsome, classical nose, the determined mouth, hereditary in his race. Lord Montalien had drawn near a solitary figure, leaning against the bulwarks, and gazing with an intensity quite re- markable im the direction whence England lay, gazing so absorbed that he never heard the approaching footsteps. “Flere’s that fellow Hawksley, now,” the peer thought, with a sudden sense of injury; “how thoroughly in earnest he seems, how intensely anxious to get: home! I suppose England is his home.” “Hawksley!” he laid his small, shapely hand—like a woman’s—orm the ghoulder of the man who stor eazine at the sunht-sea ~ —_ sky. Comicbooks.com.