Weekly expositor. (Brockway Centre, Mich.) 1882-1894, 1886-06-03
UNLUCKY NED.
by THE AUTHOR OF adde's HUSBAND"
"MADAME's DAUGHTER" DOCTOR
PALMER's PATIENT" &c. &C.


PALMER's PATIENT" &c. &C.
One dull November day. some twelve or
fifteen years ago, the adelaide, homeward-
bound from Melbourne, sighted the misty
shores OF Hampshire. Her deck was crowd
ed with passengers, gathered In eager groups,
peering with anxious glowing eyes at the be-
loved land bathed in the chilly fog, where so
many dear and long-lost friends awaited
their return, 10 welcome them with loving
arms TO cheerful firesides, after their long
journey across the mighty waste of water.
Apart from any OF the excited groups stood
two men in whose bosoms the first appear
ance of the brine-washed walls of England
evidently awoke no such feelings of longing
enthusiasm. One was young fellow about
twenty-five years of age, q stalwart, ruddy,
hatchet-faced son of the 'bush," muffled up
TO the eyes in a ski rug, and decidedly not
very agreeably impressed by the atmosphere
of the coast in early winter. He was the son
OF an extensive sheep-faimcr, of colonial
birth and education, visiting the home of his
forefathers for the first time, without any
prospect of warm reception from tho dis
tant cousins and remote kinsfolk who were
probably scarcely aware of his existence.
His companion one Edward Ross, was a tall
weather-stained man in the prime of life, a
man with a brown, carewon face, heavily
bearded, and with weary listless eyes. These
two, without any previous acquaintance, had
been thrown much together during the long
voyage, had smoked and paced the decks by
the hour daily, discussing the prospects and
politics of the land they were leaving behind
yet scarcely ever touching on personal topics
though Jack Irving, the younger man, often
alluded casually to the paternal home up
country" and quoted the various experiences
of the governor" and mater in their agri-
cultural career. The other however had new
er once spoken of or seemed 10 claim any ties
of kindred or of friendship in either hemi-
sphere. All Irving knew of him was that he
was of English birth, had gone out 10 the
Colonies fortune-hunting, and was now re-
turning, his pockets very comfortably lined
indeed, after some dozen years of hard work.
"Well, 1 can't congratulate you, old fellow,
on the cheerful aspect of your native land"
exclaimed Irving, breaking a long silence.
at isn't exactly what should call an enlv-
ening prospect; and yet, TO judge by the eX-
preston of our fellow-passengers' phizes one
would think we were standing at the portals
of Paradise. Ughl 1 don't think l shall
ever feel warm agan How does it affect
you, Ross? You certainly don't seem intoxi-
Gated with patriotic rapturev'
Ross turned round slowly, and said dreami
ly-
Irving, did you ever read the story of
Enoch Arden?'
Mr.. Irving shook his head; fiction either
in prose or poetry, had not been much in his
line hitherto.
ut is think, the saddest story ever writ
ten," resumed the other, half speaking to
himself-"the story of a man who years ago
left his wife and family, TO whom he was
devotedly attached, in order to make some
money for them-fOr life was hard struggle
in the old world, which was their home He
was absent many years endured many hard
ships, including shipwreck, and at last man
aged to struggle back, only TO find his wife,
who had long since believed him dead, mar
ried to another man. At night he stole 10
the window of her home, and saw her seated
by her fireside, n baby in her arms, and other
children, including his own, gathered round
her, making a rosy picture of peace, comfort,
and serene happiness"
WELL what did he do? Burst up the pict-
ure of serene happiness pretty quick, /
guess y
"No; he crept away and kept the secret Of
his existence until he died, which was short
time afterwards"
''Oh, he did, did he? Well, don't think
much of your Enoch What s-his-name.
dare say Mrs. +. had the best of the bargain
in No. 9"
Irving" said Ross, after few seconds
pause, taking no notice of this trenchant criti-
ciSm, would you care to listen to the story
of my life? II feel somehow in q mood To
unbosom myself tonight. l suppose it's the
breath of home that thus moves me to speak
TO you, a comparative stranger, Of people and
events which have lain buried in my brood
ing brain for so many silent years-so many
years that | sometimes fear my judgment
may have become warped by the constant
contemplation of dead grievances and past
Sorrows You are young and fresh, your
mind is free from the blight of disappoint-
ment, from the distempered fancies OF a
soured life-that is why / now seek your
sympathy, your advice, by thus thrusting my
dismal story on YOU"
my dear fellow" exclaimed Irving heart.
ly, "pray don't make so many excuses!
should like-very much like-to hear your
story indeed, If its narration would be any
relief TO you. We have chummed together
very pleasantly, you and l and, though
do not think / am OF particularly pryine
nature, or take any superfiuous interest in my
neighbors' affairs, still do confess to little
curiosity about your antecedents; and / have
often wondered what made you so different
from the garrulously complacent menagcrit
we've been cooped up with for the last three
months My sympathy promise you freely
and, as to advice-well, you ought to have
considerable stock Of that valuable commodi
ty on handp'
"Then light your pipe, my boy; IL will helI
you TO digest my doleful yarn more kindly,
said Ross; then, leaning against the side o.
the vessel, his sad eyes fixed on the murk,
water, he began his story In dull monoto
nous voice which never varied until the end
Irving interrupting only by an approving o.
sympathetic grunt now and then, which hs
did not seem TO hear.
Edward Heyland is my name: but Ned
'unlucly Ned'-is the earliest one remem.
Der, conferred on me, by a baptism priol
even TO the ecclesiastical one, three days aft
er my entrance into the world, when wa
rescued half drowned from my BATH into
which i had somehow slipped from the
nurses arms, face downwards You see
Irving, am letting you off nothing. You
are having my biography from the year one
my father was country doctor in tn,
West Of England; and the day /, his fourtl
son, saw the light deprived him of a lovinl
and beloved wife, the mainstay of his hum
BILE and crowded home With my first breau
brought misfortune with me, misfortune
from which my poor father never rallied; h,
became Respondent his health began to fail
his practice diminished yearly, and he die
when was about five. My brothers, man,
years older than l, were already fghtinI
their way in the world, and maiden aunt
my godmother, who had comfortable prop