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.