festival, Gervayse Hastings showed his face, gradually changing from
the smooth beauty of his youth to the thoughtful comeliness of
manhood, and thence to the bald, impressive dignity of age. He was
the only individual invariably present. Yet on every occasion there
were murmurs, both from those who knew his character and position,
and from them whose hearts shrank back as denying his companionship
in their mystic fraternity.

"Who is this impassive man?" had been asked a hundred times. "Has he
suffered? Has he sinned? There are no traces of either. Then
wherefore is he here?"

"You must inquire of the stewards or of himself," was the constant
reply. "We seem to know him well here in our city, and know
nothing of him but what is creditable and fortunate. Yet hither he
comes, year after year, to this gloomy banquet, and sits among the
guests like a marble statue. Ask yonder skeleton, perhaps that may
solve the riddle!"

It was in truth a wonder. The life of Gervayse Hastings was not
merely a prosperous, but a brilliant one. Everything had gone well
with him. He was wealthy, far beyond the expenditure that was
required by habits of magnificence, a taste of rare purity and
cultivation, a love of travel, a scholar's instinct to collect a
splendid library, and, moreover, what seemed a magnificent
liberality to the distressed. He had sought happiness, and not
vainly, if a lovely and tender wife, and children of fair promise,
could insure it. He had, besides, ascended above the limit which
separates the obscure from the distinguished, and had won a
stainless reputation in affairs of the widest public importance.