"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.