When the morning arrived, some one came knocking for admittance at the door of the chamber of death. The knock was several times repeated before it gained any answer or attention; but finally a slow and heavy tread was heard traversing the apartment; the bolt was feebly drawn, the door opened, and Eustace Trevor stood face to face with Mabel Marryott.

Prepared as she was for this meeting, and in some degree for its being one of no pleasing nature, the woman could not but recoil before the wan and haggard countenance which presented itself to her view.

Her stony eye shrunk—her bloodless heart quailed at first sight of those signs of mighty grief which one night's agony had imprinted there. But perhaps it was not so much his appearance as the glance, Eustace, still holding the door in his hand, fixed upon her, which thus affected her; and he, favoured by this movement on her part, was about, without the utterance of a word, again to close the door in her face, when quickly recovering from her momentary weakness she prevented the action, by stepping quickly forward, and attempted to pass him by. But no; firmly he remained within the doorway, effectually frustrating any such endeavour. Mabel Marryott looked at him with an air of affected surprise, her cool, unabashed demeanour perfectly restored.

"Mr. Eustace," she said, and there was an insolent tinge of patronising pity in her tone; "will you allow me, Sir?"

"No; I will not," was the reply which burst forth in accents, which, if there were aught of human in her mould, must have shook her very soul to its centre; "you are not wanted here; you have done enough—you have helped to kill her; what can you desire more? Begone!—tempt me not to call down the curse of Heaven upon ..."

"Eustace—Eustace—this is folly; this is madness!" said a voice behind him; and the fearful words were stayed on Eustace's lips, when he looked up, and beheld his brother. Eugene Trevor, looking very pale and ill himself, came forward, and with a glance at Marryott took his brother's arm, and led him back through the chamber of death into the boudoir beyond, closing the door behind them.

"Good heavens! Eustace, how ill you look! You must not give way in that manner—it is weak, it is unmanly. This has been a blow to us all; but you know it was not altogether unexpected. Her health has long been failing."

But his brother did not heed him. He had lain his head down upon a table near the seat on which he sunk. Those cold, inadequate words did not touch his deep fathomless grief. But still, the sight and presence of one whom, she at least had loved, seemed to have some effect in soothing the passionate excitement of misery into which the sight of her she had every reason to abhor, had worked him. He forgot even at the time to think how ill that love had been requited, and scalding tears,

were trickling from his burning eye-balls, when again he raised his face, and turned it towards his brother.

"Eugene, who was with her?" he asked, while at the same time he murmured: "Not that woman?"

"No—I think not; it was so sudden at the last, that I believe, not even her maid knew of it till she came into her room in the morning. The doctor says it was paralysis of the heart."

"Yes—yes, I see; deserted, neglected, even in the hour of death!"

"I saw her the night before, before going to bed," rejoined the other, without noticing this interruption. "She seemed pretty well then, but did not notice me much—she only asked for you;" and there was something of sullen bitterness in the tone of voice in which these words were uttered.

His listener groaned.

"And why was I not sent for—why?" he repeated with agonized emphasis. "Oh, need I ask that question?"

"I told you, that to the last she was not considered in danger," continued the other with some impatience; "of course, there could have been no motive."

"No motive; no not more than there ever has been, for all that has been done to wither her heart and shorten her days—not more than there has ever been for the course of cruel, wanton persecution, which would fain, I believe, have crushed the very life blood out of my heart also. But that—that is nothing now; it is the thought of her alone which tortures my soul to madness. To think of all she was made to endure, for my sake and her own—that placid martyred saint; and then no effort made to bring me to her side, to soothe her dying pangs, as I alone could do; her last glance seeking for her son in vain; her eyes closed perhaps by her murderess.... Eugene, has he dared to look upon her?"

"Who! my father?"

"Yes; your father."

"I really do not know whether he has been here, or not, since...."

"He could not—he dare not; only a wretch like her could venture to enter there—to look upon that angel face, and not see utter despair and condemnation breathed forth from each cold feature upon her destroyer."

"Eustace this is strong language; grief has weakened and excited your brain; you want rest and refreshment."

"Rest and refreshment? All the rest I can take is watching by her side, guarding her from any desecrating approach; all refreshment, that which her cold, calm presence can afford. Strong language did you call it, Eugene? Can your mother's son think any language too strong to express his hatred—abhorrence—against her mighty wrongs? You cannot be in league with those who have destroyed her?"

"I never interfered in those matters," Eugene murmured coldly, but with downcast looks. "It does no good, and is no business of ours, and if you had taken my advice, Eustace, you would have done the same. It would have been the better for you. It is this sort of thing which exasperates my father against you."

Oh the look of mingled scorn, surprise, and sorrowful reproach, which Eugene Trevor, on lifting up his eyes, saw turned upon him. They shrunk again abashed before its power, and ere he dared again to lift them, he heard the slow heavy footsteps of his brother returning to the chamber of death.

Eugene did not follow there, but rising, went down stairs the other way straight to his father's library. Marryott was there, having doubtless been reporting to her master the unfavourable reception she had received from his eldest son.

Mr. Trevor sat in his dressing-gown cowering over the embers of a scanty fire. He looked feeble and haggard, and altogether might have been taken for many years beyond his real age. It could not be, we know, that grief had thus affected him; but certainly from this period the old enchanter's wand seemed more and more to have been wrested from his hold, some blight to have fallen upon that cruel and covetous man; something which bowed his spirit into the impotence, almost dotage of premature old age; converting the tyrant into the slave—the man of strong passions into the tool of the passions of others—in all respects, indeed, save that which touched in any degree upon the mainspring of his being—the darling lust—which coiled like a serpent round his heart-strings; nothing but the hand of death could tear away his covetousness. How was this? Could it be that the words spoken in the bitterness of his son's agonized spirit, had thus been brought to bear upon him, that he had dared to look upon his dead wife's angel's face, and that the sight had cursed him.

He turned round on his son's entrance with a look of nervous dread.

"Oh, it is you, Eugene! Marryott has been telling me what is going on up stairs."

"Pshaw!" the young man exclaimed, as he threw himself down on a chair, "one must not mind him just now, poor fellow, he is quite distracted."

"I should say so, indeed," sneered the woman significantly.

"But he will not come here, I hope," continued Mr. Trevor, anxiously. "I desire that he is not allowed to come near me. I cannot, I will not see him!"

"No fear of that, Sir," answered the son coldly; "he is not very likely to trouble you with his presence."

"Well, well, that's all right; let him rave as much as he likes out of my sight. And now give me a drop of brandy, Marryott, and stir up the fire gently, only just gently. It's very cold."

And the victim of conscience cowered and shivered over the scanty flame thus excited.

"Eugene, stay!" he continued, "don't you go; I don't like to be left, and there's so much business to be talked over, such trouble and expense." And the miser set about to calculate grudgingly the cost of his wife's funeral.