But Beverly will never fold in his arms again, the form of a tempted and yielding maiden; never place his lips again to the lips of a faithless wife, whom he has made false to her marriage vow,—never press a father's kiss upon the brow of his motherless child. Beverly also has gone to his account.
"Harry Royalton!" exclaimed Martin Fulmer, and again directed his eyes toward the door.
Is that his step, the man of the racecourse, the hero of the cock-pit and faro-bank? No. It was but a breath of air among the window-curtains. But where, in this hour, of all others, is Harry Royalton of Hill Royal? It cannot be told. He does not appear.
Martin Fulmer, with something of surprise upon his face, spoke the fourth name,—
"Herman Barnhurst!"
Herman, the voluptuous, and the fair-cheeked, and eagle-eyed,—the victim of beautiful Marion Merlin,—the husband of outraged Fanny Lansdale,—the seducer of poor Alice Burney,—Herman does not answer the summons.
A wild hope began to gleam in the deep eyes of Martin Fulmer,—"Four of the seven absent,—why not all?" And he called the fifth name; the name of one, whom, most of all others, he desired to be present:—
"Arthur Dermoyne!"
Loud and deep it swelled, but there was no reply. Enthusiast and mechanic, who, at your work-bench, have laid out plans of social regeneration,—who, amid the clatter of hammers, and hum of toil, have heard the words of the four gospels, and thought of wealth only as the means of putting those words into deeds,—where do you linger at this hour? Alas, Dermoyne is silent; he does not appear.
The light in Martin's eyes grew brighter, "Five of the Seven, why not all!"