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.”