It is a dreary thing when much of life seems still before us, and a dark, unfathomable future lies between us and the grave; it is a bitter thing to sit alone and ponder on the days to come, and discover no bright spot in the darkness—discern no kind hand to beckon us forward—hear no friendly voice to council and encourage us in the battle of life; it is an uphill task to struggle through existence without an object on this side the tomb—a hard and cruel lot to hope for nothing until death shall have changed hope into fruition! To live in order to fit oneself to die is the duty of every Christian, but to live for that alone requires a far higher degree of spirituality than to lay down one’s life for the faith: the stake and the axe of persecution are tender mercies compared with the chronic martyrdom of such a life-long sacrifice.

Some such gloomy thoughts as these passed through the overwrought brain of Arthur Hazlehurst as, late in the night after Kate’s visit to Mrs. Leonard, he folded up the last document of which he had made himself master relative to the disputed peerage case in which he was retained. The evidence of which he had that day become possessed would, he felt certain, ensure his client’s success, in which event his own career would in all probability be a prosperous one, and fame and fortune become his; but how worthless did these appear, now they could no longer be shared with her he loved! Until the incident of that morning had so powerfully affected him, he hoped that he had in great measure eradicated this affection, which his good sense enabled him to perceive could only be a source of grief to him: but the pain he had then experienced effectually dispelled the illusion, and he was fain to acknowledge that, strongly as he condemned her conduct in sacrificing his deep and true regard to (as he deemed it) a desire for wealth and the pomps and vanities of fashionable life, he yet, despite his reason, loved her as he felt he never could love any other woman; and the thought that through her husband’s neglect and incompetency she was exposed to the insidious advances of such a character as Horace D’Almayne weighed upon him, and grieved and irritated him until he could endure it no longer. “Come what may of it, I will see her and warn her; she shall not be led on by that scoundrel without knowing his true character!” he exclaimed, rising and hastily pacing the room. “For what purpose could she have accompanied him to such a neighbourhood as that?” he continued, musing; “he may possibly have got up some plausible lie to induce her to do so, merely to compromise her in the eyes of her husband—such a scheme is not unlikely to have occurred to his subtle brain. Yes, come what may, I will see her to-morrow; and, unless she is indeed lost to all better feeling, I will rouse her to a sense of duty, and thwart that scoundrel’s designs. If her husband should learn my interference, I care not; because, in his incapacity, he neglects the sacred trust he has undertaken, that is no reason why I should stand tamely by and see her sacrificed; no—I will save her in spite of herself! this shall be my revenge for the happiness which she has blighted. God grant my interference may not prove too late!”

His mind occupied with such thoughts as these, Arthur Hazlehurst passed a sleepless night, and the first moment he could tear himself away from business on the following day, he betook himself to Park Lane. Kate was from home when he arrived; but having notified to the servant his intention of awaiting her return, he was shown into the drawing-room, where he found a tall, fashionably-dressed young man standing in a disconsolate attitude by the fire-place, to whom he made a slight inclination of the head, heartily wishing him at Jericho, or any other locality equally remote from Park Lane; then, taking up a book, he left him to his own devices. Things remained in this thoroughly English and unsociable state for about ten minutes, towards the end of which period the fashionable young man, having stared hard at Hazlehurst, grew first interested, then excited, and finally the spirit moved him, and he spake:—

“I beg pardon—a—really I don’t think I can be mistaken—a—very absurd, I’m sure, if I am—but I was at school with one Arthur Hazlehurst—and—”

“And I am he,” was the reply; “but you have the advantage of me; for I was at school with some four hundred boys, and, to tell you the honest truth, it does not at this moment occur to me which of them you may have been.”

“Yet Alfred Courtland has to thank you for such slight skill as he may possess in the noble arts of boot-cleaning, brushing clothes, and frying sausages; besides early lessons in the demolition of oysters and porter—enforced by example rather than precept,” was the rejoinder; and, the unsocial ice of Old England being thus broken, the ci-devant school-fellows talked on until they grew quite intimate. At length, Lord Alfred looked at his watch, was silent and distrait for a minute or two, then began in a timid, hesitating voice, “I was waiting here to see Mrs. Crane; but, I don’t know—that is, I feel as if I could tell you all about it quite as well; you can do what I wish better than she could; and I don’t think you’ll be angry with me when I’ve made you understand the affair.”

“Suppose you come to the point, and try to do so at once,” replied Arthur, anxious to get him away, if possible, before Kate’s return.

“Well, you see, my dear Hazlehurst, I wish you hadn’t been abroad, and then you would have understood it all so much better; but since you went away—though, by Jove, now I come to think of it, I saw you here one day when Coverdale and your sister first came to town—deuced odd I didn’t make you out then; but if I recollect, you went away just as I came in—” and thus rambling on, he gave a true, though by no means a full and particular account of his intimacy with the Coverdales, continuing: “Your sister was very kind to me, and took so much trouble about our duets. She pianos, and I do a little in a mild way on the flute, you know, and we were great friends, and got on very serenely until the other night, when I was fool enough to do, or rather to say, something which made her angry—a good right she had to be so; but the fact is, I’d had some men dining with me, and we drank a lot of wine, and then sat down to cards, and I lost my money and my temper, and in this frame of mind I met Mrs. Coverdale at Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s ‘let off,’ and she snubbed me—I dare say I deserved it, but I didn’t like it; and, as my evil genius would have it, a man I know related to me a tale in regard to her husband’s flirtations with a pretty governess in Italy, and to tease her I, like a fool, must needs go and repeat it to her; and she took it more seriously to heart than I had expected, and was angry with me, and—but I see you are getting impatient—”

“Not at all, not at all,” returned Arthur, who, preoccupied with his own cares and anxieties, and nervous in regard to the approaching interview with his cousin, scarcely heard or understood half Lord Alfred was saying, and was only desirous to get rid of him before Kate should arrive; “no; it’s merely a legal habit I’ve fallen into of trying to bring people to the point with as little delay as possible. Yes; I quite understand—Alice told her husband of your flirting with a pretty governess, and he said something which offended you.”

“No; it was I who told the story,” interrupted Lord Alfred, aghast at the state of confusion his auditor appeared to have fallen into, and from which he immediately endeavoured to extricate him by commencing a long explanation.

Obliged in self-defence to attend, Arthur soon found out that Lord Alfred’s object in his ill-timed confidence was to ask him to convey his apologies to his sister, whenever he might be writing to her; whereupon, considering the whole affair a mere silly, boyish punctilio, he replied—

“If you’ll take my advice, my Lord, I should say, get a sheet of rose-scented paper and a diamond-pointed pen”—(a sheet of foolscap and a goose-quill would be more appropriate, was his mental commentary),—“and sit down and write your penitence to the fair lady yourself. Alice must be greatly altered for the worse if she does not grant you a ready pardon.”

“But do you really think—” began Lord Alfred, in remonstrance.

Arthur cut him short—“I don’t think about it, my dear Courtland; I feel as certain of the result as if I had already seen her answer. Do you suppose I don’t know my own sister, man? But, to come to the point, here’s her address;” he drew a card from his pocket, hastily scribbled a few words, then handing it to Lord Alfred, continued, “and the sooner you go to your club and write the letter, the sooner will your mind be at ease.”

Puzzled, confused, half-alarmed and half-pleased with the new idea thus forced upon him, one thing alone seemed clear to the bewildered young nobleman, viz., that for some reason unexplained his old new acquaintance was desirous of getting rid of him; and, not having yet sufficiently acquired the habits and feelings of a man-about-town to be utterly regardless of the wishes of others, he shook Arthur’s hand, promised to act upon his advice, and departed.

He had scarcely been gone five minutes when a thundering knock at the house-door announced that its mistress had returned, and ere Arthur had time to do more than spring to his feet, Kate, attired in the richest and most becoming out-of-doors costume, entered. As she perceived who was her guest, she started, and her colour went and came rapidly; but recovering herself by a powerful effort, she advanced towards him, and, extending her hand, observed—

“You are such an unaccustomed visitor, that I could scarcely believe my eyes. When did you return from the continent? I am afraid you expected to find Alice here, but she and Mr. Coverdale left me some days since.”

“I returned the day before yesterday,” was the reply, “and found a note from Coverdale, informing me they had left town; my visit here to-day is to yourself.”

As he uttered the last words, his voice unconsciously assumed a sterner tone, and a shade came across his care-worn features. An idea suddenly flashed into Kate’s mind, and in a voice which sufficiently attested her alarm, she exclaimed—

“Something is the matter! I was sure of it the moment I saw you. You would not come here”—(she unconsciously emphasized the words in italics)—“unless such were the case. What is it? I am strong, I can bear it—is my father worse?—dying?”

As she spoke she sank into a chair, and, fixing her eyes upon his face, awaited his reply.

“You alarm yourself unnecessarily,” he said calmly, almost coldly; “I am the bearer of no ill tidings: that I have an object in visiting you I do not deny; whether you will consider it a justifiable one I know not; I regard it in the light of a duty, and therefore, even at the risk of paining and offending you, it must be performed.” He paused for a reply, but as Kate remained silent, he continued: “Your brothers are mere boys, your father a confirmed invalid; circumstances lead me to doubt whether your—whether Mr. Crane is aware of the character of a person who is, I am grieved to find, a constant visitor at this house; and I therefore conceive I have a duty to discharge to one whom I have known from childhood—one in whose welfare an irrevocable past, which cannot be forgotten while memory remains, forces me to interest myself. Kate, I am here to warn you against the insidious advances of that heartless profligate, Horace D’Almayne!”

As he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon her with a searching glance. Kate coloured, drew herself up haughtily, and appeared about to make an angry reply; checking the impulse almost as it arose, she answered—

“I am bound, and indeed most willing to believe, you mean kindly by me; I will therefore explain to you that which I would not have condescended to explain to any other man living—that I merely admit Mr. D’Almayne’s intimacy to oblige my husband, who has become so accustomed to his society and services, as to consider them indispensable. Mr. D’Almayne may or may not deserve the harsh epithets you apply to him; but if you are aware of any circumstances seriously affecting his character, it is to Mr. Crane you should mention them, not to me.”

For a moment Arthur remained silent, then pressing his hand to his forehead, he murmured inaudibly, “She can actually stoop to deceit!—is such a change possible!”

Surprised and hurt at his silence, Kate resumed: “Why do you not speak? You look at me as if you doubted my assertion!” Unheeding her question, Arthur still continued to regard her with an expression in which grief, surprise, and disapproval, contended for the mastery. At length he said, in a low deep voice, which caused a shudder to pass through the frame of his auditor—

“I have suffered much on your account, but such pain as this I never thought to experience!—Kate, you once said you had never attempted to deceive me—can you say so now?”

“I am at a loss to understand you,” was the reply; and as she grew angry at what she deemed unmerited insult, her self-possession returned, and she spoke in her usual cold, hard tone of voice. “I can only repeat what I before stated, that I allow Mr. D’Almayne’s intimacy merely to oblige my husband. From your manner you still appear to doubt the fact—may I ask why?” Arthur paused for a moment, then, with an eager and excited voice, he exclaimed—

“Kate, hear me! I have not taken this step lightly, or without due consideration. I seek not to refer to the past, though that past is never absent from my memory; but you may imagine it cost me some resolution to come here to-day, when I tell you that I had rather have seen you lying dead before my eyes, feeling towards you as I felt one short year ago, than behold you surrounded by the luxuries of wealth—knowing as I do that you have obtained them by the sacrifice of all that is lovable in woman, by sinning against all your best and noblest impulses, by forfeiting all that renders life aught but one weary, endless round of cares and duties! To look on you as you are now—to read, as I can read, in every feature of your countenance, which, though a sealed book to others, I have studied too long not to decipher at a glance, traces of that desolation of heart which you have prepared for yourself—to see you thus, and to know that I am powerless to help you, and that you must sustain the burden of such an existence unaided, is to me bitter pain, and I have avoided this house as though it were plague-stricken. But as I sat through the long hours last night, striving to weigh dispassionately the past and the present, I arrived at the conclusion that even yet I owed you a duty, and I came here to-day actuated only by a desire to warn you, and to save you from a fate, to contemplate the mere possibility of which inspires me with horror. I came, regardless of my own feelings, forgetful of my wrongs, to do you a benefit; and now you close your soul against me, and receive me with hard words and cold looks! Kate, I have not deserved this at your hands!”

“But, indeed—believe me you are mistaken,” replied Kate, eagerly; “I appreciate and thank you for the interest you still take in one who, as you truly say, has forfeited every claim on your regard; but your fears and suspicions are groundless—the intimate footing Mr. D’Almayne has attained in this house is merely a natural consequence of the trust Mr. Crane reposes in him. Why will you not believe the truth of what I tell you?”

“Because it is impossible for me to do so without doubting the evidence of my own senses,” was the stern reply. “If you require any further reason for my scepticism it is this: I was in ———— Street, Pentonville, at two o’clock yesterday!”

“And if you were,” rejoined Kate, with flashing eyes, “you saw nothing to justify you in entertaining such a cruel and unjust suspicion of one whom you should have been the last to believe likely to sacrifice anything for love; and whom you might have known better than to deem an easy prey for the first self-confident libertine who should condescend to display his butterfly attractions in her presence. I consider that you have insulted me deeply—so deeply as to relieve me from part of the weight of self-reproach with which I have hitherto deplored the injury that by my choice of a career I have inflicted on you. You say it pains you to enter this house; I now therefore beg you to leave it, and will esteem it a favour—the only one I desire of you—not to enter it again until—yes! until I send for you!”

As she spoke she rose hastily, and rang the bell. Astonished at the effect of his speech, and for the moment overpowered by her vehemence, Arthur stood speechlessly regarding her. Then rousing himself by an effort, he said in a low, deep voice, that, trembled with suppressed emotion—

“Remember the words you have spoken! I shall need no second bidding; I will not enter this house, nor will I see your face again, until you send for me! And since you thus drive your best friend from you, and encourage your bitterest enemy, may God protect you! and when you see and repent of your error, may He bless you also!”

As he uttered the last words, he seized his hat, hurried from the room, and ere Kate could sufficiently recover herself to attempt to stop him, she heard the house-door close behind him: and then the proud woman’s haughty spirit failed her, and murmuring—“I shall never see him again—never, never!” she buried her face in her hands, and wept bitterly.