"But, Eugene," he gasped in a low, breathless whisper, "he's not near--he's not likely to come and threaten me. You must keep the doors fastened--you must keep him locked out." "Oh, my dear father!" his son responded, "there's no such immediate danger as all that; he's far enough off, and not likely to trouble you: only I mean, if--if anything were to happen--then--then, of course, he would be here to look after his own interests; for he's on the watch for your death, I have been told on good authority, and therefore of course you know it would not do for _me_ to run any risk--to marry for instance--unless I can see my way a little more plainly before me." The old man became livid with rage; all his ancient hatred against his son seemed to revive at the suggestion thus insinuated against him. "To watch for my death! and what then will that do for him--the bedlamite? Eugene! Eugene!" grasping his arm, "never fear him--go and get married--bring your wife here to look after the house, and I'll live another half century to spite him, and then see who'll have it all. We've got a will, Eugene, haven't we?" chuckling and rubbing his hands exultingly. "There was one made certainly, and a deed giving me the guardianship over the entailed estates in case of your death, under plea of Eustace's incompetency. But if you remember, you would not have a duplicate made of it. I hope you have it safe." "I'll look it out, Eugene," Mr. Trevor continued as if effectually aroused by the new friction his old heart had received. "I have it safe enough. I'll get up immediately--no, not to-day, but to-morrow. I'll make a day of it, and put all things right." "Very well, my dear Sir; keep yourself quiet for to-day. My man is here, you can trust in him should you want anything. I'm going to ride for an hour or two." "Eh--to ride--where? I can't be left," the old man whispered. "Oh, my dear Sir, William will take as good care of you as myself. I'm really expiring for want of fresh air, and exercise. I'm going to ride over to Silverton on a little business--to make inquiries you know about my wife," he added, looking back with a laugh as he left the room. CHAPTER XVI. Oh! it is darkness to lose love, however We little prized the fond heart--fond no more! The bird, dark-winged on earth, looks white in air! Unrecognised are angels till they soar! And few so rich they may not well beware Of lightly losing the heart's golden ore! WILLIS. Eugene Trevor accordingly mounted his beautiful horse, all fierce and fiery for the want of exercise, and rode fast to Silverton without scarcely once slackening his steed's pace. Just as he approached the mansion, he raised his eyes to a chamber window above. Strange to say, he never drew near the house without being moved with a pang smiting at his heart, fraught with more or less of regretful recollections; for he could not but remember whose gentle eyes had so often watched for him there.