Marston sate, looking
into the fire, with a countenance of stern gloom, upon which the wayward
lights of the flickering hearth sported fitfully; while at a distant
table Doctor Danvers sate down, and, taking his well-worn Bible from his
pocket, turned over its leaves, and began, in gentle but impressive
tones, to read. Sir Wynston was much too well bred to evince the slightest disposition to
aught but the most proper and profound attention. The faintest imaginable
gleam of ridicule might, perhaps, have been discerned in his features,
as he leaned back in his chair, and, closing his eyes, composed himself
to at least an attitude of attention. No man could submit with more
cheerfulness to an inevitable bore. In these things, then, thou hast no concern; the judgment troubles thee
not; thou hast no fear of death, Sir Wynston Berkley; yet there is a
heart beating near thee, the mysteries of which, could they glide out and
stand before thy face, would perchance appal thee, cold, easy man of the
world. Aye, couldst thou but see with those cunning eyes of thine, but
twelve brief hours into futurity, each syllable that falls from that good
man's lips unheeded would peal through thy heart and brain like maddening
thunder. Hearken, hearken, Sir Wynston Berkley, perchance these are the
farewell words of thy better angel--the last pleadings of despised mercy! The party broke up. Doctor Danvers took his leave, and rode homeward,
down the broad avenue, between the gigantic ranks of elm that closed it
in. The full moon was rising above the distant hills; the mists lay
like sleeping lakes in the laps of the hollows; and the broad demesne
looked tranquil and sad under this chastened and silvery glory. The
good old clergyman thought, as he pursued his way, that here at least,
in a spot so beautiful and sequestered, the stormy passions and fell
contentions of the outer world could scarcely penetrate. Yet, in that
calm secluded spot, and under the cold, pure light which fell so
holily, what a hell was weltering and glaring!--what a spectacle was
that moon to go down upon! As Sir Wynston was leaving the parlor for
his own room, Marston accompanied him to the hall, and said--"I shan't
play tonight, Sir Wynston." "Ah, ha! very particularly engaged?" suggested the baronet, with a
faint, mocking smile. "Well, my dear fellow, we must endeavor to make up
for it tomorrow--eh?" "I don't know that," said Marston, "and--in a word, there is no use, sir,
in our masquerading with one another. Each knows the other; each
understands the other. I wish to have a word or two with you in your room
tonight, when we shan't be interrupted." Marston spoke in a fierce and grating whisper, and his countenance, more
even than his accents, betrayed the intensity of his bridled fury. Sir
Wynston, however, smiled upon his cousin as if his voice had been melody,
and his looks all sunshine. "Very good, Marston, just as you please," he said; "only don't be later
than one, as I shall be getting into bed about that hour." "Perhaps, upon second thoughts, it is as well to defer what I have to
say," said Marston, musingly. "Tomorrow will do as well; so, perhaps, Sir
Wynston, I may not trouble you tonight." "Just as suits you best, my dear Marston," replied the baronet, with a
tranquil smile; "only don't come after the hour I have stipulated." So saying, the baronet mounted the stairs, and made his way to his
chamber. He was in excellent spirits, and in high good-humor with
himself: the object of his visit to Gray Forest had been, as he now
flattered himself, attained. He had conducted an affair requiring the
profoundest mystery in its prosecution, and the nicest tactic in its
management, almost to a triumphant issue. He had perfectly masked his
design, and completely outwitted Marston; and to a person who piqued
himself upon his clever diplomacy, and vaunted that he had never yet
sustained a defeat in any object which he had seriously proposed to
himself, such a combination of successes was for the moment quite
intoxicating. Sir Wynston not only enjoyed his own superiority with all the vanity of a
selfish nature, but he no less enjoyed, with a keen and malicious relish,
the intense mortification which, he was well assured, Marston must
experience; and all the more acutely, because of the utter impossibility,
circumstanced as he was, of his taking any steps to manifest his
vexation, without compromising himself in a most unpleasant way. Animated by these amiable feelings, Sir Wynston Berkley sate down,
and wrote the following short letter, addressed to Mrs. Gray,
Wynston Hall:--

"Mrs. Gray,

"On receipt of this have the sitting rooms and several bedrooms put in
order, and thoroughly aired. Prepare for my use the suite of three rooms
over the library and drawing room; and have the two great wardrobes, and
the cabinet in the state bedroom, removed into the large dressing room
which opens upon the bedroom I have named. Make everything as comfortable
as possible. If anything is wanted in the way of furniture, drapery,
ornament, &c., you need only write to John Skelton, Esq., Spring-garden,
London, stating what is required, and he will order and send them down. You must be expeditious, as I shall probably go down to Wynston, with two
or three friends, at the beginning of next month. "WYNSTON BERKLEY

"P.S.--I have written to direct Arkins and two or three of the other
servants to go down at once. Set them all to work immediately." He then applied himself to another letter of considerably greater length,
and from which, therefore, we shall only offer a few extracts. It was
addressed to John Skelton, Esq., and began as follows.--

"My Dear Skelton,

"You are, doubtless, surprised at my long silence, but I have had nothing
very particular to say. My visit to this dull and uncomfortable place was
(as you rightly surmise) not without its object--a little bit of wicked
romance; the pretty demoiselle of Rouen, whom I mentioned to you more
than once--la belle de Barras--was, in truth, the attraction that drew me
hither; and I think (for, as yet, she affects hesitation), I shall have
no further trouble with her. She is a fine creature, and you will admit,
when you have seen her, well worth taking some trouble about. She is,
however, a very knowing little minx, and evidently suspects me of being a
sad, fickle dog--and, as I surmise, has some plans, moreover, respecting
my morose cousin, Marston, a kind of wicked Penruddock, who has carried
all his London tastes into his savage retreat, a paradise of bogs and
bushes. There is, I am very confident, a liaison in that quarter. The
young lady is evidently a good deal afraid of him, and insists upon such
precautions in our interviews, that they have been very few, and far
between, indeed. Today, there has been a fracas of some kind. I have no
doubt that Marston, poor devil, is jealous.