Eugene Trevor was fated to encounter another interview of importance before he laid down to rest that night, or rather morning, succeeding the meeting with Arthur Seaham.

He had gone forth, very soon after the departure of the latter, to seek diversion for his disturbed and troubled spirit by excitement—that most common resource of man under similar circumstances—offered in the shape of those amusements belonging to the sporting club of which he was a member.

He returned to the hotel more than one hour after midnight, to be informed that a gentleman was waiting to see him on particular business.

"At this time of night?" was the impatient reply. "Who in the world can it be?"

The gentleman had not given his name; he had come more than two hours ago, but had expressed his intention of remaining to await Mr. Trevor's return.

Eugene, with a certain uncomfortable feeling of misgiving at his heart, proceeded to the apartment into which his unseasonable visitor had been shown. Two candles burnt dimly on the table. Dark, pale, haggard, as the imperfect light gleamed upon his features, looked the lover of the gentle Mary, thus returning from those midnight excitements in which he had plunged to dispel too haunting thoughts and vivid memories connected with her pure and holy image; but a something of strange and startled wildness was added to their expression, as his eyes fixed themselves first uncertainly—and then gradually and clearly identified the face and form of him who stood up to receive him—that tall, commanding form, before which his own seemed to shrink into insignificance—that face, as pale as was his own, but from before whose calm, steady gaze his eyes for an instant quailed so fearfully.

"Eustace!"—"Eugene!" were the only words or signs of greeting exchanged between them, and Trevor, as if momentarily overcome by the emotions excited by the rencontre with his mysterious visitor, sank upon a chair by the table, and with perturbed and agitated demeanour, passed his burning hand across his heated brow; whilst the other still stood erect, looking down upon him with that stern and steady eye, almost appalling in its intensity.

"To what am I indebted for this visit?" Eugene murmured at length, in hoarse and sullen accents, slightly lifting up his head. "I thought—"

"You thought," replied the same deep, rich voice we last heard sounding (though then in very different accents,) upon the Welsh hill side in Mary Seaham's ear. "You thought, Eugene, that before this coming dawn, many leagues of sea would be between us. And so it would have been, had you not your own self broken the promise which bound me to that vow."

"Pshaw!" was the reply, in accents of impatient irony "a mere accidental, unavoidable meeting, whose only fruit was the further to overwhelm with despairing wretchedness her, for whose happiness and welfare you profess such disinterested regard."

"Yes!" was the calm, unmoved reply. "I saw her face turned towards me at the time, that face I had used to behold serene, happy, innocent as the angels in Heaven, and in its woeful change I read—"

"Your own most righteous work," interrupted Eugene, with a bitter mocking laugh. "Had you seen her some time past, before the day when you, like a spirit of evil, stepped in between us, you might have beheld a sight which perhaps had pleased you even less; that angel face brightened and beautified by her love for me."

"You are right, it would have pleased me even less, it would have seemed to my eyes, like the dove spreading her silver plumes, all glittering in the treacherous sunshine, to meet the vulture who has marked it for its prey. Yet to-day, I seemed not to read upon that pale and tear-stained countenance, the mere passing misery of the moment—that misery of which I wish not to deny having been myself the inflictor—but that which I might have seen—that which I once saw settled on a mother's face; or still more haunting, terrible, impression, the despairing misery one might image of a fallen angel, dragged down from her high estate, by an unholy, unnatural alliance with a spirit of another sphere. For, Eugene, your own heart, your own conscience must convict you, that light with darkness, righteousness with unrighteousness, Christ with Belial, have as much in common, as yourself, your nature, your life, your principles, have to do with those of Mary Seaham; and that to unite yourself with her, would be, I repeat, either to draw her down to your own level—or, more blessed alternative, to break her heart. But both of these destinies I had hoped to have seen averted. You had assured me, it was easier for you to resign that 'mess of pottage' as you slightingly denominated the inestimable treasure your soul had greedily, but more harmlessly marked as your own, than the birthright of which you were iniquitously possessed. You had assured me, that you would find plausible means—and in that, I doubted not your powers, or your will, if it were but to serve your own interest—to break off, not only your engagement, but all further communication with Mary Seaham; but, Eugene, I doubt you. My back once turned—my espionage abandoned, as I promised it should be, from the time I set my foot on another shore, what will there then be to bound or restrain your grasping, avaricious desires. I shall find myself twice trampled in the dust, and Mary," his voice trembled as he spoke, "she whom I would save from a fate, in my eyes, worse than death, she become your prize, your sacrifice, your victim."

He whom Eustace thus severely addressed, retained a moment's moody defiant silence.

"Your intention then, is to remain in England," he said at length, with an assumption of haughty unconcern, though there might be perceived a quivering of the eyelids, and an expression of anxious perturbation in his downcast glance. "The old man," with trembling irony in his tone, "will doubtless receive you gladly, and there will be nothing to retard the nuptials of Mary and myself."

"No, nothing, if she—if Mary Seaham can consent to wed the man"—he slightly unbared his wrist—"the man who has done this—the man whose name must henceforth ring in her ears as a proverb, a reproach, a by-word through the paths of society—the man whose very children shall rise up and scorn him—whom God and man must alike reprobate and condemn."

Eugene Trevor shrank back as from before some deadly serpent discovered to his view. His eye quailed fearfully—his lips and cheek became of a livid, ashy hue.

"Eustace," he murmured, in a voice of almost abject deprecation—"Eustace, your feelings of revenge and hatred carry you too far. You have repented of the agreement made between us, and have come thus to threaten and intimidate me. I never meant to draw back from my part of the engagement; but if my promise has no weight in your consideration, how am I to give you further pledge of my sincerity? I swear to you," he continued, eagerly, "that, during the meeting to-day with Mary Seaham, into which I was accidentally surprised, I held out no hope—no promise which could give her reason to suppose that the obstacle to our marriage could now or ever be removed. We parted with that understanding; and to-night," he spoke in a low and hurried voice, "she sent her brother here to break off our engagement, which could only be maintained on such uncertain, uncomfortable terms."

"And you consented?"

"What else had I to do?"

"Now may Heaven be praised," was the low, deep, earnest answer—the voice of the speaker swelling as into a strain of rich, clear music; whilst with upraised eyes, and countenance lit up with holy adoration, he thus ejaculated: "Now Heaven be praised, who sends His angels to protect his little ones from the powers and spirits of darkness! Eugene," he proceeded, again turning to his companion, but with a subdued and softened expression, "you, too, thank your God, that from this additional sin you have been mercifully preserved; from that offence which it were better that a millstone were hung about your neck than that you should commit. You, too, have your reward: take it. I leave it in your hands. I will trouble you no more. Home, name, country, and heritage, I willingly resign; but remember, on that one condition. Retain it only inviolate, for from the ends of the world, its broken faith, its most secret violation, would recall me. Farewell, Eugene! Should we never meet again on earth, believe that I forgive you all offences against me. Nor put down either to revenge, or even madness, that which He who seeth the heart will, I humbly trust, justify in the eyes of men and angels, before His judgment throne, on the last great day of account; and there and then, where sin and wrong, and wretchedness, shall be done away, may we both meet sanctified, reconciled, and renewed."

He was gone. No other parting sign was given; and he, who had now added one more sin to the already dark catalogue of his offences, the purchase of his freedom from a dreaded evil by a lie, was left darkling and alone.

As those two had met, so they parted—those two men whom our readers may already have divined were brothers.