In contact with Gray Forest upon the northern side, and divided by a
common boundary, lay a demesne, in many respects presenting a very
striking contrast to its grander neighbor. It was a comparatively modern
place. It could not boast the towering timber which enriched and
overshadowed the vast and varied expanse of its aristocratic rival; but,
if it was inferior in the advantages of antiquity, and, perhaps, also in
some of those of nature, its superiority in other respects was
striking, and important. Gray Forest was not more remarkable for its
wild and neglected condition, than was Newton Park for the care and
elegance with which it was kept. No one could observe the contrast,
without, at the same time, divining its cause. The proprietor of the one
was a man of wealth, fully commensurate with the extent and pretensions
of the residence he had chosen; the owner of the other was a man of
broken fortunes. Under a green shade, which nearly met above, a very young man, scarcely
one-and-twenty, of a frank and sensible, rather than a strictly
handsome countenance, was walking, followed by half a dozen dogs of as
many breeds and sizes. This young man was George Mervyn, the only son
of the present proprietor of the place. As he approached the great
gate, the clank of a horse's hoofs in quick motion upon the sequestered
road which ran outside it, reached him; and hardly had he heard these
sounds, when a young gentleman rode briskly by, directing his look into
the demesne as he passed. He had no sooner seen him, than wheeling his
horse about, he rode up to the iron gate, and dismounting, threw it
open, and let his horse in. "Ha! Charles Marston, I protest!" said the young man, quickening his pace
to meet his friend. "Marston, my dear fellow," he called aloud, "how glad
I am to see you." There was another entrance into Newton Park, opening from the same road,
about half a mile further on; and Charles Marston made his way lie
through this. Thus the young people walked on, talking of a hundred
things as they proceeded, in the mirth of their hearts. Between the fathers of the two young men, who thus walked so
affectionately together, there subsisted unhappily no friendly feelings. There had been several slight disagreements between them, touching their
proprietary rights, and one of these had ripened into a formal and
somewhat expensive litigation, respecting a certain right of fishing
claimed by each. This legal encounter had terminated in the defeat of
Marston. Mervyn, however, promptly wrote to his opponent, offering him
the free use of the waters for which they had thus sharply contested, and
received a curt and scarcely civil reply, declining the proposed
courtesy. This exhibition of resentment on Marston's part had been
followed by some rather angry collisions, where chance or duty happened
to throw them together. It is but justice to say that, upon all such
occasions, Marston was the aggressor. But Mervyn was a somewhat testy old
gentleman, and had a certain pride of his own, which was not to be
trifled with. Thus, though near neighbors, the parents of the young
friends were more than strangers to each other. On Mervyn's side,
however, this estrangement was unalloyed with bitterness, and simply of
that kind which the great moralist would have referred to "defensive
pride." It did not include any member of Marston's family, and Charles,
as often as he desired it, which was, in truth, as often as his visits
could escape the special notice of his father, was a welcome guest at
Newton Park. These details respecting the mutual relation in which the two families
stood, it was necessary to state, for the purpose of making what follows
perfectly clear. The young people had now reached the further gate, at
which they were to part. Charles Marston, with a heart beating happily in
the anticipation of many a pleasant meeting, bid him farewell for the
present, and in a few minutes more was riding up the broad, straight
avenue, towards the gloomy mansion which closed in the hazy and somber
perspective. As he moved onward, he passed a laborer, with whose face,
from his childhood, he had been familiar. "How do you do, Tom?" he cried. "At your service, sir," replied the man, uncovering, "and welcome
home, sir." There was something dark and anxious in the man's looks, which
ill-accorded with the welcome he spoke, and which suggested some
undefined alarm. "The master, and mistress, and Miss Rhoda--are all well?" he asked
eagerly. "All well, sir, thank God," replied the man. Young Marston spurred on, filled with vague apprehensions, and observing
the man still leaning upon his spade, and watching his progress with the
same gloomy and curious eye. At the hall-door he met with one of the servants, booted and spurred. "Well, Daly," he said, as he dismounted, "how are all at home?" This man, like the former, met his smile with a troubled countenance, and
stammered--

"All, sir--that is, the master, and mistress, and Miss Rhoda--quite well,
sir; but--"

"Well, well," said Charles, eagerly, "speak on--what is it?" "Bad work, sir," replied the man, lowering his voice. "I am going off
this minute for--"

"For what?" urged the young gentleman. "Why, sir, for the coroner," replied he. "The coroner--the coroner! Why, good God, what has happened?" cried
Charles, aghast with horror. "Sir Wynston," commenced the man, and hesitated. "Well?" pursued Charles, pale and breathless. "Sir Wynston--he--it is he," said the man. "He? Sir Wynston? Is he dead, or who is?--Who is dead?" demanded the
young man, almost fiercely. "Sir Wynston, sir; it is he that is dead. There is bad work, sir--very
bad, I'm afraid," replied the man. Charles did not wait to inquire further, but, with a feeling of mingled
horror and curiosity, entered the house. He hurried up the stairs, and entered his mother's sitting room. She was
there, perfectly alone, and so deadly pale, that she scarcely looked like
a living being. In an instant they were locked in one another's arms. "Mother--my dear mother, you are ill," said the young man, anxiously. "Oh, no, no, dear Charles, but frightened, horrified;" and as she said
this, the poor lady burst into tears. "What is this horrible affair? Something about Sir Wynston. He is dead, I
know, but is it--is it suicide?" he asked. "Oh, no, not suicide," said Mrs. Marston, greatly agitated. "Good God! Then he is murdered," whispered the young man, growing
very pale. "Yes, Charles--horrible--dreadful! I can scarcely believe it," replied
she, shuddering while she wept. "Where is my father?" inquired the young man, after a pause. "Why, why, Charles, darling--why do you ask for him?" she said, wildly,
grasping him by the arm, as she looked into his face with a terrified
expression. "Why--why, he could tell me the particulars of this horrible
tragedy," answered he, meeting her agonized look with one of alarm
and surprise, "as far as they have been as yet collected. How is he,
mother--is he well?"