We will now direct attention to our much esteemed friend, Phillip Lawson, who has much to be grateful for. He hourly thanks his Maker for the great mercies received at His hands.
"Let them fall into other hands than mine. It would do no good. Poor wretches, I envy them not their ill-gotten gains. There is a day of reckoning, and may God cleanse their guilty souls." Such were the lawyer's remarks as he sat alone in his office with a heavy load off his mind.
He had just returned from witnessing Marguerite Verne's departure, and he felt calm and content.
Mr. Verne had accompanied the young man to his door and left with many kind invitations for "Sunnybank."
How comforting was his kind, cheery voice and his parting: "Now don't fail to drop in often, for I shall be very lonely, indeed."
Mr. Verne is a thorough gentleman and true friend, thought Phillip, as he turned over the last half-hour's conversation. "How thoughtful to explain Marguerite's failure to see me last evening." Then a slight frown settled upon the broad brow, showing that some disagreeable subject had in turn claimed the young lawyer's thoughts.
"Perhaps she may be better than I give her credit for. Are there any of us perfect?" Then musing for a few minutes he arose, the poet's words recurring to his mind—
"The best of what we do, and are,Just God, forgive."
On opening the daily mail the color rose upon Phillip Lawson's cheek, and his fingers became tremulous as he seized a letter showing the unsteady chirography of Hubert Tracy.
"I will never open it," he thought, and instantly the missive lay a mass of shreds in the waste basket. "'Out of evil good may come.' Hubert Tracy has taught me to be more grateful to the God who has done so much for me."
"Keep your temper, old boy," murmured the young man afresh as his eyes ran over the next letter—one dated from Winnipeg.
"To the flames I consign thee", said he, lighting a match and holding the provoking article over it until it was consumed.
"Halloo! I smell brimstone here. Suppose you're practising so it won't be so hard on you when the time comes?" cried a genial, hearty voice from the open door.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Montgomery," said the occupant, offering a seat to his visitor.
"How are all my friends at 'Gladswood'?"
"Have hardly time to tell you, for I'm in a hurry. I promised to meet several of the sports at Breeze's Corner. We are going out to Moosepath: but this will explain everything, and more too," cried Mr. Montgomery, producing a neat-looking note, and passing it to the young lawyer, making a hasty exit to meet said horsemen friends from Sussex and the city.
"I shall go to-morrow and stay over Sunday, at any rate," said Mr.Lawson to himself when he had gleaned the contents Of JennieMontgomery's note.
It was just what was necessary to the lawyer's existence. A day or two at "Gladswood" was panacea for almost any ill that flesh was heir to.
The self-reliant matron, with her healthful, stimulating advice, and the bright, merry-hearted girl with her vigorous and true resolve, were indeed incentives of good, and none could fully realize the fact more than the young lawyer. He always went away from "Gladswood" with a high and lofty purpose and firm resolve to tread the path of duty.
And this occasion proved no exception.
Jennie Montgomery's happy face would put to shame the most inveterate grumbler. Her buoyant spirits were infectious. Her ringing, merry laugh was cheering to the highest degree.
The sprightly maiden in her neat muslin frock and broad hat trimmed with freshly-plucked marguerites was a fit model of the fair daughters of Kings County, and it was no wonder that many of the villagers predicted that "the young gentleman from the city must surely be payin' attention to Miss Montgomery."
Three days at "Gladswood"! What a world of thought it conveys— three days to revel among the beautiful glades and linger among the bewitching groves of graceful elm and tasselled pine! to hear the lowing of herds and the music of the winged songsters blended in one exquisite harmony.
Yes, devotees of the world, who build upon the style of your neighbor's dress or equipage and trifle away God's precious moments in silly show and vain trumpery, go to the retreats at "Gladswood," follow Phillip Lawson in his daily rounds, and if you will not, like him, feel your heart expand and seek aspirations of a higher mould— a something which gives comfort each breath you draw, each word you utter and each thought you frame!—then, we will make bold to say, your heart is irrevocably sealed beyond recall.
Cousin Jennie was shrewd and witty. She knew how to act that she might afford the least embarrassment to her guest.
For hours her guest was allowed to roam at his own desire, and felt not the pressure of conventional restriction.
Mr. Lawson was gallant in the true sense of the word, but he was no empty-headed fop, paying that amount of overdue attention to the fair, which, at times, becomes a bore and a pest.
It had been arranged that a small pic-nic party should relieve the quiet of the third day, and a jolly pic-nic it was. There was mirth enough to last for a month. Jennie's companions had mustereden masse. Groups of merry, rollicking youths and bright-eyed maidens lent a charm to the scene, and reminded one of the revels held in classic groves, when each sylvan deity, at a blast of her silver horn, made the wood resound with the voices of her myriads of subjects.
As the sayings and doings of all pic-nics are much in common it would be wasting time to describe the one at "Gladswood."
"All went merry as a marriage bell."
The sun was sinking in the west in all its glory—a blaze of living gold. The purple tops of the distant hills were enchanting and stood as huge sentinels of the scene below.
"Come here, Mr. Lawson," cried Jennie Montgomery, in breathless suspense. "Is not that grand? This is a sight I have been wishing for. Just look."
Mr. Lawson was truly a lover of nature, and his profound admiration excited her.
"I never stand here without thinking of Marguerite," exclaimed the girl, vehemently; "she would sit upon that bowlder and gaze around until I would think that she had lost her senses. I believe if any being has a soul for the beautiful it is cousin Marguerite."
The young man looked down from his proud eminence and encountered the fixed gaze of his companion. That look gave anxiety. A painful silence was the only reply, and both gazed upon the panorama before them for fully five minutes before the girl spoke.
"I can never forgive my cousin Evelyn for forcing Madge away. We all knew it was against her wishes that she went."
How comforting those words to Phillip Lawson's ear.
"Mr. Lawson," said Jennie, coming close to his side, "I am not going to hide my feelings any longer. You are a very dear friend and must have my confidence."
The young man's looks were proof of the girl's words. His face reflected thought sublime as Aeschylus, beautiful as Sophocles, and pathetic as Euripides!
"Thank you, Jennie," was the reply, and the eyes had a far-off look that went to the girl's heart.
"You are going to-morrow, Mr. Lawson, and I may not have another such opportunity."
It was then that the beauty of the maiden's nature shone resplendently, showering scintillations of pure native goodness that forever sparkled as sunshine and cheered the rugged path of Phillip Lawson's life!
A crimson flush momentarily suffused Jennie Montgomery's face, then she became pale and agitated.
"Mr. Lawson!" she exclaimed, "I love my cousin dearly, and I grieve for her more than I can tell you."
The young man's face blanched under the effect of the girl's tones, but he made no reply.
"Forgive me if I weary you, but I seem to feel in you a friend—one in whom I find sympathy."
"Trust me fully, Jennie, I will try to be all that you think me."
Phillip Lawson's earnest tones went straight to the girl's heart, and tremulously she continued:
"Mr. Lawson, you have not been a frequent visitor at my Uncle Verne's without seeing much to condemn in my worldly aunt. I know it is wrong to judge, but I cannot help it. I cannot help judging the motive of Aunt Verne—indeed I cannot."
The listener had fixed his eyes upon the huge trunk of a venerable oak tree covered with a luxuriant growth of velvety moss.
"I really cannot feel kindly towards cousin Evelyn, for she has ruled with an iron rod, and she is so wily that Auntie thinks her every action something perfect. Now, Mr. Lawson," said Jennie, with greater earnestness, "Mrs. Arnold is determined that Marguerite shall marry that unprincipled Mr. Tracy, and the thought makes me sick. I loathe him—he is almost as contemptible as Mr. Montague Arnold."
Mr. Lawson knew not what to say. A struggle was going on within. Would he reveal the plot to the truthful girl and ask her assistance—or would he let the secret die with himself and perhaps see the lovely Marguerite become a victim to the merciless trio?
The girl knew not what was passing in her companion's, mind, and the latter felt sadly puzzled. He durst not meet the gaze of the thoughtful brown eyes, but found words to reply:
"You put me in a strange place, Jennie; but I know it is from a sense of right that you speak."
"Mr. Lawson, I appeal to your manhood to help me. I want to saveMarguerite, andyoualone can do it."
The girl's manner was vehement. Tears glistened in her eyes, and the pathetic nature of the appeal visibly affected Phillip Lawson.
He stood for a moment as if in a study. Had the girl in any way found out the plot? Could it be possible? What did she mean that he alone could save her?
"Mr. Lawson, I can be a friend when charity demands one; trust me; perhaps I am too bold—but it is my regard for both that forces me. Mr. Lawson, you love Marguerite Verne. It is in your power to make her happy, and oh!" cried the girl, seizing the hard, strong hand, "Mr. Lawson, promise me that you will do it."
The young lawyer held the girl's hand tenderly, yea, as that of a dear sister, then raised it to his lips—
"God bless you, Jennie," cried he, fervently, "I only wish it was in my power to do so; but Marguerite Verne is as far above me as the heavens above the earth."
"Believe me, Mr. Lawson, you are the only one towards whom my cousin gives a thought."
"She treats me always as a friend, and at times more as a brother," said the young man abstractedly.
"Phillip Lawson, keep this secret as you value your soul," cried Jennie, clutching the lawyer by the wrist in an excited manner, and lowering her voice to a whisper—
"Marguerite loves you as she will never love another. It is sacrilege to watch every movement and steal the secret from every breath she drew, but love prompted me and I did it, and I feel that I am not doing wrong in revealing it."
"God grant it, my true-hearted girl—yet I dare not trust myself to think of it. I love Marguerite Verne as no other man living can, yet she may never know it. She may one day be wedded to another, and live a life as far from mine as it is possible for circumstances to make it. Yet her image will always be sacred to my memory, and no other woman will ever hold a place in my heart. The sprig of cedar which one day fell unobserved from her corsage, I shall treasure up as a priceless relic. Yes, truly, I live for thee, my peerless Marguerite."
"If Cousin Marguerite could only hear those words," thought Jennie. "Why have the winged winds no mercy? why do they not hurl down the great sounding board which separates these two beings and transmit those valued sounds to the ear, where they shall fall as music from the spheres!"
"Jennie, as a friend, I ask you to solemnly promise that what has passed between us shall never be unearthed again—let it be buried deep in the grave of lost hopes."
"I shall make no such promise, Phillip Lawson; but I promise that I will never place you in an unworthy position. I will never utter one sentence that will compromise your dignity as a gentleman. Will you trust me?"
"I will trust you in anything, my noble girl," said Phillip in tones of deep reverence.
"You know that my Uncle Verne's interest in you is real—he is your friend," said Jennie, trying hard to brighten the path of her friend's existence.
"Thank God for it," said the lawyer. "Indeed I have much to be grateful for. Jennie, some day I may tell you more: at present my lips are sealed."
"Your sense of honor is too high for the nineteenth century, Mr.Lawson; yet I would not have you otherwise."
The girl was mechanically picking to pieces the white petals of bright-eyed marguerites and strewing the ground beside her.
"You ruthless vandal! look at your work, Miss Montgomery," exclaimed a bright romping miss of fifteen, bursting upon them without regard to ceremony and pointing to the ground where lay the scattered petals.
"But it is romantic, you know; one always reads of some beautiful maiden picking roses to pieces to hide the state of her feelings."
"Thank you, Miss Laura, for your well-timed allusion, for Miss Montgomery and I have been romancing indeed," said Mr. Lawson, bowing to the young miss with an air of deferential homage.
"It will all come right yet," said Jennie, pressing her friend's hand with the tenderness of a sister.
The young man smiled sadly, murmuring: "'It will all come out right.' How those words seem to mock me—'it will all come out right.'"
Mrs. Montague Arnold sat, or rather reclined, in her handsome breakfast-room. She was awaiting the morning mail, which had been somewhat delayed. A bitter smile played around the daintily curved lips.
"The saucy little minx; I shall teach her better," murmured the beauty in angry tones and gesture.
Montague Arnold paid no attention to the half-spoken words. He looked the veriest picture of dissipation. Late hours, cards, and wine were stamped upon his hitherto handsome face and left an impress at times anything but flattering.
In private, few courtesies were interchanged between the husband and wife. It would, indeed, be wrong to say that Montague Arnold on his marriage morn did not give to his fascinating bride more adulation than he ever bestowed upon any other woman, and had the haughty beauty given more attention to her husband he might have become a different man; had she shown a true heart, a truthful, honest nature, and a mind adorned with what is lofty and elevating, what a different life those two might have led? But Evelyn Verne was without heart, and we might almost say without soul. She lived for society alone; it was her first duty, and worshipped more zealously than the goddess Hestia that occupied the first altar in a Grecian home.
Mrs. Arnold was indeed an object of admiration in her superb morning toilet of fawn-colored Lyons silk, with faultless draperies and priceless lace. It was the beauty's ruling passion that no toilet was ever neglected; hours were spent in putting the finishing touches to some becoming style that brought out the wearer's charms and set the hearts of her admirers in a flutter.
As the soft white hand was raised to suppress a yawn a solitaire diamond caught the ray of sunshine that found its way into the elegant mansion, and reflected a radiance that was enchanting.
Mr. Arnold could not fail to be impressed with the sight. He at last found words to say, "What is your programme today, Eve?"
"I have promised to visit the studio with mamma and Madge. LordMelrose is to be there, and I am very anxious to see his portrait."
"Don't flatter yourself that you are his latest charm, my dear," said her husband in sarcastic tones.
"You are altogetherde trop, my amiable husband," said Mrs.Arnold with an angry gleam in the brilliant and wondrous dark eyes.
"I was sorry to hear that the young and beautiful Mrs. Maitland has possessed the fellow body and soul. What an honor to the young 'squire to have his wife thus lionized in the London drawing-room."
Mr. Arnold could be tantalizing without mercy, and when he had fully aroused his wife's anger he was happy.
Mrs. Arnold had received much flattering attention from Lord Melrose, and it wounded her pride when she heard that another had supplanted her. The remarks that had escaped her lips referred to the merciless young matron; and well Montague Arnold was aware of the fact, but he winced not, and only plunged deeper into the whirlpool of dissipation, which sooner or later would be his inevitable destruction.
"I was really tired waiting," exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, when Mrs. Verne and Marguerite entered the reception room an hour later. "I had begun to think that some prince in disguise had eloped with little sobersides."
"I don't think we will be quite so fortunate, Eve," said Mrs. Verne, with a significant look which annoyed Marguerite more than she was willing to acknowledge.
"Really, Madge, you are growing prettier every day since you came on English soil. Mamma, just look at her color; is it not bewitching? I tell you, Madge, you will turn half the heads in Piccadilly."
Marguerite saw with disgust the real object of her mamma's visit, and she was determined to show her dislike in a manner that would save herself from being the object of ridicule.
"Eve, I wish you to understand that I am not interested in love affairs. Please choose your conversation from other sources, and I will be much obliged—indeed I shall be forever grateful."
The girl's manner was serious, and her pleading looks would have given pleasure to a sensible woman, but they were scorned by Mrs. Arnold and her mother.
Mrs. Verne had been expatiating upon the immense fortune which had fallen to Hubert Tracy, and took the greatest of pains to impress Marguerite with a sense of his importance.
"How I wish that I had waited, mamma. You know that Mr. Tracy was devoted to me in every way, but you preferred Mr. Arnold."
"I preferred his riches, my dear, and you know Montague is so handsome and distinguished looking. Why, he really was the handsomest man in the ball-room last evening."
"But Hubert's fortune is tenfold that of Montague's. His income is immense."
"Well, all we can do is to consign him to Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, with an affected air of deep regret. "It is certain that he clings to the family, and his great wealth would be an heirloom for many generations."
"Quite a speech, Eve," said Mrs. Verne, clapping her white palms together by way of applause.
Crimson silkportieresseparated the party from Mr. Arnold, but not a word had been lost. "You will have to play your little game quick, else the fortune will soon be a thing of the past," muttered the husband under his breath. "Curse these women, they are nearly all tarred with the same stick. And my charming wife. What a pity I stand in her way. Well, she can go on inherway and I will stick to mine. Heavens! is there one true woman?"
Montague Arnold's face, reflected in the mirror opposite, was not then a pleasing study. A sardonic grin was on his lips and a dangerous light in his eyes.
Just then Marguerite changed her seat, and, unobserved, the dissipated man glanced at the purespirituelleface which had appeared as answer to his questioning words.
"Yes, Madge, I am a veritable scoundrel; already I see before me one true and pure being."
Was it a tear that glistened on the maiden's cheek as MontagueArnold once more contemplated the fair brow and madonna-like eyes?
Marguerite, in her courtly surroundings, was indeed indulging in day dreams, woven from scenes of her native land. And when she contrasted the picture with the vague, undefined reality, her emotional nature was stirred within her, and the gushing tears would force themselves in spite of all efforts at control. She was longing for one glimpse of dear old "Gladswood" and the fond embrace of Cousin Jennie.
"What would I not give to be free from this," murmured the girl in an undertone; then glancing around she recognized her brother-in-law, his eyes fixed upon her in close scrutiny.
"Upon my senses, Madge, you look like some one in a dream. I really might imagine you a piece of rare statuary—one of the Niobe group strayed from the Florentine gallery to meet the wistful gaze of the sight-seers of London!"
Marguerite smiled, and the color rose to her cheeks.
"I have dispelled the charm!" cried Montague Arnold, pointing to the vivid, life-like and roseate hue of the oval face.
"A flirtation, I declare!" said a lady who formed one of the party for the morning's entertainment. "Mrs. Arnold, I really would not allow it."
"But you must remember we have liberty of conscience, my dear. Each is free to act as he pleases within the realm of British jurisdiction."
"I am afraid you are giving us a wide license, Mrs. Arnold. Please be more circumspect," cried the lady in playful tone, "else your suggestion may have a very bad effect."
Mr. Arnold looked askance at the fashionable woman beside him, and thought what a world of deceit lurked within—a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Instantly he was at the woman's side, and began paying her those compliments which the most enraptured lover might pay to her whom he adores above all women.
At the studio Marguerite was introduced to many persons of distinction, among those a German Count, a blaze looking Captain of the Life Guards, and a bright, dashing young officer of the Dragoons.
"What a host of admirers you have already in your train, Madge," whispered Mrs. Arnold to her sister as she came opposite the portrait of Lord Melrose and stood admiring the exquisite touch and execution of the artist.
The latter had been engaged in conversation with a group of ladies when his eyes fell upon Marguerite Verne. The earnest gaze made the girl look toward him, and as she did so that look made a deep impression upon the youth.
"I would give almost all I possess to paint that face," thought he, gazing intently at thespirituelletype of beauty that is so seldom seen.
"Allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Verne," said Mrs., Arnold, who felt much flattered at the admiration paid Marguerite.
"I think that we must persuade her to sit for a portrait, Mr. Manning," said Mrs. Arnold, trying to attract her mother's attention from the niche in which she sat carelessly chatting with some acquaintances they had made on their ocean trip.
Soon Mrs. Verne found them, and was in ecstacies over her daughter's proposal.
"It would be such a nice way to show Madge to advantage. I am delighted with the thought," said Mrs. Arnold to her mother, as she toyed with her jewelled fan and gazed carelessly around to see if Lord Melrose were yet in the studio.
"How provoking. It is just always so! It will afford such satisfaction to my sweet-tempered husband."
"My dear Mrs. Arnold; it does one good to meet you after trying to live a few days at Portsmouth," cried a showy looking military man, perhaps forty years of age, perhaps younger, with a heavy reddish moustache and dark auburn hair.
"I cannot really say whether you are complimentary or not, colonel," said Mrs. Arnold, smiling with all the angelic sweetness at her command, "since I have never had the pleasure of visiting that renowned place."
"Well, I should consider it the highest compliment that could be paid," said a brother officer in dark blue uniform with a sprinkling of "silver threads among the gold," "coming as it does from one who can stand the siege when a thousand bright eyes are levelled upon him at a garrison ball in Portsmouth with a heart as impregnable as the fort at Gibraltar!"
"Thank you, Major Greene, for your kind consideration to both parties," said Mrs. Arnold, bowing sweetly to the former. The gallant colonel also bowed acknowledgment, and then espied Marguerite Verne, who still lingered near the artist, considering him far above the shallow set that frequented his studio.
"Who is that beautiful girl talking to Mr. Manning?" queried he, raising his eyeglass with an air of interest.
"I shall present you in due time," said Mrs. Arnold, with a faint smile revealing the most exquisite set of teeth that eye ever beheld.
As if by intuition Marguerite cast her eyes towards the aspirants and the action brought a faint blush.
"Beautiful as Hebe, by Jove," exclaimed the rubicund major, in an undertone that implied he was also deeply interested in the fair young face and graceful supple form.
How the manoeuvering mamma watched each sign of admiration thus directed towards her daughter.
"If I can only accomplish my wishes my life will be one uninterrupted calm. I will then lay me down in peace," thought Mrs. Verne, as she re-arranged the folds of her silken train to her entire satisfaction.
Hubert Tracy had been detained on a fishing excursion up the Cam, whither he had gone with some rollicking companions to recruit his health and restore some of the youthful bloom that dissipation had almost destroyed.
Marguerite could ill conceal her disgust as she met the weak-minded and, to her, contemptible young man, on the week following.
It was at a brilliant assemblage, under the patronage of Mrs.Montague Arnold.
Never was maiden more becomingly attired, for despite her friends' entreaties, Marguerite's taste was simplicity, indeed. Her modest pearl-colored satin was relieved by knots of delicate pansies—one of Marguerite's many favorite flowers—and the delicate and chaste silver ornaments, made her toilet simply bewitching.
"Mrs. Arnold is imperial, but Miss Verne is truly angelic," was the exclamation of a man of fashion, and the leader of his club, as the two sisters stood side by side receiving the brilliant throng of guests that filled to overflowing the gorgeously lighted parlors, sumptuous drawing-room and bewitching conservatories.
Why was it that Marguerite shrank from the touch of Hubert Tracy's hand as if stung by an adder? Why was it that, when she was obliged to listen to his flattering, oily tongue, that she saw the manly dignified form of Phillip Lawson standing between, with his hand uplifted, as if in gesture of warning, and a stern reproachful look upon his honest face?
These are questions that will be answered some day when the world is older and wiser—when the great road to science will have been trodden further on towards the goal which shall reveal all mysteries in the light of simple truths—when man can look a fellow being in the face and trace each thought written there.
Mrs. Arnold was in the confidence of her husband's friends, and she had partly deceived her mother to carry out her designs.
Mrs. Verne had hitherto set her heart upon Hubert Tracy, but she was now flattered by the admiration paid to Marguerite by several of the nobility, and she thought it would indeed be a rare distinction for her daughter to have a title.
"I see how it is with mamma, and if I am not sharp she will nonplus me," thought the beauty, as she watched the game which her anxious mother was playing so skilfully, and, as the latter thought, so successfully.
"But I will do nothing rash. Nothing succeeds like caution," and musing thus Mrs. Arnold placed her jewelled fingers in those of her partner and was whirled away to revel in the delightful elysium of waltzland.
Mrs. Arnold's beauty was commented upon by the fashionable throng with whom she daily mingled. She was sought after and courted by her many admirers; yet among them all there was none who thought her the most charming of her set.
The wily beauty had adopted a line of policy that was not the most discreet. She showed a spiteful spirit towards any of her sex who laid claim to personal charms, and often said many bitter things in a way that was neither dignified nor ladylike.
It was in such a spirit that Mrs. Arnold returned from a grand ball where she had seen Lord Melrose pay marked attention to the pretty Mrs. Maitland. With anger in her bosom she strode the elegant boudoir with measured beat and vowed vengeance upon her more fortunate rival.
"Why does any one envy me the charms I possess?
"Ah, me!" she cried, looking at herself in the mirror with her hands poised in the attitude of a Caryatid. "It is all I have. Happiness I shall never know; but one thing I do know—that I will laugh, dance and sing and have a merry life while I am young, and then when my charms have fled to a younger form I will bury myself in some remote convent and try to make atonement for my gay and worldly life."
It were strange, indeed, that Mrs. Arnold had this sense of wrong. She did, indeed, realize that her actions were not what any sensible woman would justify, yet she took refuge in the thought that when she grew old there was time enough for discretion.
Another trait of her disposition: It grieved her to see others happy. Like the arch fiend who turned aside with envy when he beheld the happy pair in the Garden of Eden and from that hour plotted their ruin, so Mrs. Arnold from, sheer envy was determined that the innocent and pure-minded Marguerite should be associated with the coarse side of humanity—in short, that she should become familiar with the fashionable miseries of a fashionable woman.
But Mrs. Arnold reckoned without her host. She met with more opposition than she expected, and the lesson she yet had to learn cost her a bitter experience!
Mrs. Verne's vascillating nature was a source of much annoyance to her first-born.
"It is so provoking," murmured Mrs. Arnold, as she noted the infatuation her mother possessed for a certain baronet of a distinguished Yorkshire family.
"I've set my mind upon Hubert, and mamma must yield. As for Madge, she is out of the matter entirely."
As if in answer to her thoughts the young man was soon at her side looking quite interesting.
"You naughty boy; I am inclined to be angry with you—not one dance have you sought."
"From the very fact that I cannot have one. Ah, Mrs. Arnold, you well know how to amuse yourself at the expense of us poor unfortunates," said Mr. Tracy, glancing at the tablet already filled for every dance.
"I have a mind to cancel this," said he, pointing to that of theYorkshire baronet.
"No, indeed, Mr. Tracy; that would be pleasure at too great a sacrifice. I have a motive for entertaining the baronet."
Mrs. Arnold smiled one of her peculiarly attractive smiles, significant of the part she was to enact.
She whispered a few well-directed, words into the young man's ear, and taking his arm led him to the conservatory.
"I can only stay a couple of minutes at the least, so I wish you to be all attention."
Hubert Tracy seated himself beside Mrs. Arnold and listened to her dear confiding tones.
"Mr. Tracy, I despise that Yorkshire bore, with his coarse English and stupid manners. And his effrontery in presuming to play the suitor to Madge. It is all your own fault. You follow at a distance and have not the courage to claim your rights—"
"Rights!"
"Yes; I say rights, Mr. Tracy. I say that you have a right to claim Madge, because we always looked upon you as her future husband. The girl knows not her own mind, but she will never go against mamma's wishes, and I know that she cares for you, though she will not own it."
"If I thought so I would be happy, for if any woman will ever reclaim me it will be Marguerite Verne."
"Such talk, Mr. Tracy; I'm sure you are no worse than the general run of men. Pray don't talk of reclaiming; that sounds as if you had committed something dreadful."
Just then there arose before Hubert Tracy's vision the sad picture of a brave young man, struggling so hard to prove his innocence when circumstances are all against him. He sees the reproachful gaze of the sorrowful eyes, and he stops his ears to keep back the sound of the reproachful tones that force themselves upon him.
But Mrs. Arnold knows it not.
"We will dispense with the word if it displeases you, Mrs. Arnold. I will do anything that you wish, even if it be impossible for you to be in a dearer relation than at present."
"Hubert Tracy, if you succeed not, remember it is through no fault of mine. Just listen to me."
The young man listened, and in a few short words Mrs. Arnold made known her plans.
"We will succeed or I am not what I think myself," said Mrs. Arnold, readjusting the spray of heliotrope that was displaced in her corsage.
"Adieu for the present, dear Hubert," said the latter, on seeingLord Melrose advancing to claim her for the next waltz.
"Ah, my fear truant, you have given me a world of anxiety. Why do you persist in such delightful methods of torture."
"Torture!Lord Melrose!" exclaimed the lady with an air of arch coquetry.
Meanwhile Marguerite Verne sat in the quiet of her own apartment. She had retired from the heated ball-room at an earlier hour than many of the guests. A wearied look rested upon the girl's face. She was heartily worn out with the excessive fatigue attending fashionable life.
"Well, it seems that I am fated for a martyr, and I must calmly submit," said she, loosening the luxuriant mass of silken hair that had been arranged to suit the most fastidious taste of Mrs. Arnold.
Donning a loose wrapper, and exchanging the pretty white satin slippers for a pair of soft morocco ones. Marguerite threw herself into a large and inviting arm-chair.
"I will not allow myself to think. My thoughts are rebellious," and immediately a pretty little pocket Testament found its way into the girl's hand.
A few words escaped Marguerite's lips as if an invocation was asked; then she read aloud the thirteenth chapter of Corinthians: "Though I speak with the tongue of men and angels," etc.
The sweet voice of the reader was not heard in vain. Marguerite closed the book and remained motionless for some moments, when she fancied that there was a noise as if some one were listening at the door.
"I am so foolish. My nerves are unstrung from keeping late hours," murmured she. Then hastily glancing towards the spot whence the sound proceeded Marguerite knelt down and prayed that an All-Merciful Providence would keep her from the temptations of fashionable society.
"God help me, I'm lost. I dare not approach that angel in disguise, else I would ask her what is meant by that Charity."
These words were muttered by Montague Arnold, who having been unable to attend his wife to the ball, had now returned in a state of intoxication.
Had Marguerite listened she might have heard the words repeated; but she had dropped off into a quiet slumber and lay unconscious of the semi-brutal state of her dissipated brother-in-law.
The next morning brought invitations for private theatricals at the house of a distinguished foreign embassy.
The spacious mansion in St. James' Court received the grandees of every land. It was a high honor to enter "Rosemere Place."
Mrs. Verne was almost beside herself (to use a vulgarism). She walked on air, as it were, and could talk of nothing else but the elegance and grandeur in prospect.
"I have accepted Mr. Tracy as escort, mamma," said Mrs. Arnold, entering her drawing room with an elegant dress that had just arrived from themodiste.
"Now, Evelyn, have you not been a little premature? Would it not have been better to wait, for I think that Sir Arthur would in all probability have called to offer his service to Madge."
"Sir Arthur is a horrid bore, mamma—he is intolerable. I cannot see why you encourage him. I'm sure his estates are heavily mortgaged. I don't believe he can afford to pay for the kid gloves that he nourishes on his big brawny hands!"
"Some malicious person has been endeavoring to misrepresent Sir Arthur. I wish you would not listen to such stuff. I am certain that he is immensely wealthy, and then think of his family!"
Mrs. Verne did not wish to quarrel with her daughter; yet it seemed that a quarrel was brewing.
"You think it so important to secure a title for Madge that you would have her struggle amid shabby genteel surroundings in order to introduce her as Lady Forrester!"
"Shame, Evelyn! you forget that I am your mother," said Mrs. Verne, raising her hand with haughty gesture and looking the embodiment of injured innocence.
"Forgive me, mamma, I did not mean to anger you," said Mrs. Arnold with an air of deep contrition.
This act was the latter's only safeguard. She knew well the key to her mother's character, and was determined to take advantage of every point.
"You know, mamma that we must look to dear papa's interest as well. His business is in a precarious state. I heard Montague say that it is tottering, and Hubert's great riches will be at Madge's disposal."
Mrs. Verne could not but admire the thoughtful argument of her daughter.
"True enough, child; but if Mr. Tracy hears of the circumstance he will soon throw us over, my dear," said Mrs. Verne with something like agitation in her voice.
"Nothing of the kind, dear mamma," said Mrs. Arnold, placing her hand caressingly upon her mother's shoulder "it is thus that I have proved the true worth of Mr. Tracy's character—he not only spoke of the matter but intimated in a delicate manner that now he could sue more boldly for Madge's hand—be in a position to place dear papa on a surer footing than, he ever was."
"It is indeed a great blessing to know that we have such true friends," said Mrs. Verne in a tone that showed her heart was not with the subject.
Poor Mrs. Verne!
She had, since her arrival in England, changed her views as regards a son-in-law.
Her heart was set on the baronet and she wished that the merciless Evelyn would have expatiated on his riches instead of those of former friends.
"I can never have what I want," sighed the anxious mother as she sought her boudoir to write a letter in answer to the one which lay upon the Indian cabinet opposite.
"What on earth brings about these insolvencies is more than I can account for. One thing certain I can washmyhands of it. It is notourextravagance that will cause it."
Mrs. Verne glanced at the surroundings hoping to see much simplicity, but the elegance of the magnificent suite of apartments were sadly at variance with her speech.
"And to think of Evelyn's opposition. She is settled and should mind her own affairs, and judging from what I can see, she will have enough to do to keep her head up. Montague Arnold is no better than he ought to be. Well, well! I suppose his money will hold out and that is all that is required—oh dear, if Sir Arthur had Hubert Tracy's money."
The letter being finished a servant was despatched with the budget of mail, and Mrs. Verne took up a pretty design, of Kensington work that she was fashioning for a table scarf.
"I don't feel like anything to-day," murmured the woman, throwing the work aside and yawning several times.
"Madge, I'm glad you have come. Where is that novel I saw you reading yesterday?"
"Rossmoyne, do you mean, mamma?"
"Yes, I glanced over it and think it is fascinating, and I stand sorely in need of just such a work to-day."
Marguerite knew from her mother's fretted looks that she had been somewhat annoyed, and judging that Evelyn had something to do in the matter, said nothing, but quietly withdrew to her own apartments.
Although Mrs. Verne and her daughter spent much of their time in Mrs. Arnold's elegant suite of rooms, they occupied an exclusive suite of apartments in an aristocratic square not far distant.
Marguerite had been amusing herself in reading over some extracts from her pocket diary when a pretty young page entered with an exquisite bouquet of rare exotics.
"How lovely," was the simple remark, as the girl took them in her hand and held them out to view, while the fragrance exhaled was almost overwhelming.
A tiny note, peeped out between a cluster of heliotrope and blush roses.
"It is provoking," thought the maiden, as she drew forth the perfumed billet-doux and read what might be considered a declaration of love.
Sir Arthur Forrester was not a dissipated man, nor was he a disagreeable man, yet he was not what a girl of Marguerite Verne's nature would desire for a husband.
"This is just what mamma has been angling for," thought Marguerite as she tore up the note into tiny shreds and showed more spirit than her sister Eve would have given her credit for.
"I thought as much dear Madge," said Mrs. Verne, who on entering beheld the bouquet, "and to think that Evelyn should accept Mr. Tracy as escort when we could have Sir Arthur. It is, indeed, provoking beyond endurance. Madge you are to be congratulated upon such good luck; scores of girls would envy you the proud position as Lady Forrester, and for once I hope my child will consider well before she lets such an offer meet with refusal."
Marguerite sat as if in a state of utter abstraction. She was too much confused to reply. "Honor thy father and mother" had been an important part of her religion. Must she now say words of dire rebellion—the thought cost a bitter pang. The tears rose to her eyes and her lips were pallid and tremulous.
"Mamma I cannot think you would ask me to encourage Sir Arthur feeling as I do at present. I respect him but nothing more, please do not mention the subject again. I do not wish to leave you and I know papa wishes me to remain always with him and make his home what it ought to be."
The last remark was too much for Mrs. Verne's temper.
"Marguerite, lately I had begun to think that you had more sound sense than your fortunate sister but I am doomed to bitter disappointment. One need expect nothing but ingratitude from children—especially mine. Hear me, Madge: if you refuse Sir Arthur you will live to repent of it—remember my words!" and gathering up her trailing robes Mrs. Verne turned angrily away leaving Marguerite to her own sad thoughts.
Summer had passed into autumn—all nature was arrayed in robes of gorgeous dye. The foliage of Sunnybank was brilliant and the leafy shrubberies had not yet begun to show signs of decay.
Mr. Verne sat in the library and beside him sat a welcome guest.
Mrs. Montgomery made several excuses for her untimely interruption and Mr. Verne received them with the best of grace—he well knew what had prompted the visit—the good kind and generous heart.
As the matronly appearance of the new comer awakened a spirit of interest in the affairs of Sunnybank so it aroused the quiet unobtrusive master. Mr. Verne thanked God from the bottom of his heart that he could sit in his office and hear the voice of a true friend in kindly counsel with the domestics.
"Ah! if Matilda were only like her, how different our lives might have been," murmured the wearied man of business, then heaving a deep sigh glanced over the latest exchange sheets, trying to find relief from the depressing thoughts that were crowding hastily through his overworked brain.
"Sooner or later it must come and God knows it is through no discrepancies on my part. Poor little Madge; she is a good child. If she were only settled I would feel more relief; but she is to be bartered for pelf, poor child. I will stand by her to the last."
Voices in the parlor now claimed Mr. Verne's attention.
"Strange too, at the very moment," murmured the latter as he closed the folios and then ran his fingers through his hair as if to prepare for some pleasing reception.
A cheery voice exclaimed "business kept me away sir, but I could stand it no longer," and shaking his host's hand with more than hearty grasp Phillip Lawson soon found himself at home in Sunnybank's elegant parlor.
The young lawyer could not fail to note the careworn look upon Mr. Verne's passive countenance, nor did he fail to note the cause, while a strange yearning feeling went straight to the warm heart.
"If it were only in my power to help him," murmured Phillip in inarticulate tones as he took up a newspaper that lay on the small table near. It was a late English paper and bore the address of Mr. Verne in a neat graceful hand.
"We have just heard from Marguerite," said Mr. Verne, attempting to be very cheerful.
"I hope all are well, sir?" ventured Mr. Lawson timidly.
"Yes, they are in good health, but I fear that Marguerite is wearied of life in gay cities. Mr. Lawson, you cannot imagine how much I miss her. It seems as if part of my life is gone from me."
Mr. Verne's voice was husky and unsteady and his eyes had a far off wistful look that struck a vibrative chord in Phillip Lawson's breast.
"I might as well make a clean breast of it at once," thought the latter, "no good comes of carrying a pent up sorrow to one's grave without trying to seek sympathy from a fellow being—and to none would I go more willingly than her father."
A slight pause ensued and Mr. Lawson spoke.
"It is pleasant for Miss Verne to see the mother country and form comparisons for herself and no doubt she will be the better for having had a change of climate."
"Yes, that was why I did not oppose her going away. I knew that her constitution was delicate, but again, that fact made it the harder for me to associate Marguerite with late hours and all the inconveniences of fashionable life. I tell you what it is Mr. Lawson I am no advocate of fast living and I thank God that my daughter is only playing a part in which her heart has no interest."
"Miss Verne has a mind far above such things," said Mr. Lawson with some warmth.
Mrs. Montgomery had adroitly slipped out unobserved and was busying herself over some mending which was needed.
She could hear the hum of the voices and could almost distinguish the words being said.
"If Stephen Verne is not a downright fool he will straighten matters up yet," thought the woman as she put away the work-basket and began to plan work for the following day.
Conversation still went on briskly and Mr. Verne seemed himself once more. His burden felt light in the presence of the young lawyer and from the depths of his soul he longed for a closer intimacy—that bond of true sympathy which cements hearts forever.
Phillip Lawson partly realized the fact: the barriers of conventionalism were fearlessly torn down as he took courage to speak out.
"Mr. Verne you do not surely think that a man of sense can be blind to the inestimable and rare qualities which he sees in Miss Verne's character. If we had more woman like her what a different world it would be!"
"God bless you, my boy," said Mr. Verne fervently.
"Amen," responded a voice from another apartment but unheard in the parlor.
What invisible, subtle power prevented the young man from falling on his knees and confessing his love for the pure Marguerite?
What invisible presence laid a pressure upon Phillip Lawson's lips and sealed them fast?
What invisible force turned the conversation into another and entirely different source, yet did not weaken the bond already established.
Mr. Verne communicated many proofs of his entire confidence and the thought gave to his young friend more courage.
"It is indeed a trying season sir, but I trust you will keep abreast of the times. Many of our establishments are said to be in a shaky condition."
"If they give me time I am all right, if not I am gone."
Phillip Lawson was a poor man. What right had he to offer consolation? He said nothing, but inwardly prayed that the storm might pass over and all would be brighter than the May morn.
"I challenge you to a game of dominoes, gentlemen," cried Mrs.Montgomery who now felt that her presence was necessary.
"We are only too happy Mrs. Montgomery," said Phillip rising from his seat and placing a chair for her.
Mr. Verne also being seated the time honored game of muggins was soon in active operation and, as is often the cape, the lady being the best player was sadly worsted but submitted with a grace that was amusing.
"Come in often, Mr. Lawson; I am going to remain for three or four weeks and we need all the companionship we can muster," said the lively and unceremonious matron as she bade good-night to the former with an air of interest in every look and gesture—a something which seemed to say "depend on me."
Nor was the warm pressure of Mr. Verne's hand lost upon the susceptible nature of Phillip Lawson.
"If I had Hubert Tracy's riches what an amount of good I could accomplish; but what's the use." And for once the Christian spirit of the young man underwent sore temptation. He was wondering why it was that prodigals and spendthrifts, with no special ability but that of wasting other people's earnings, should have means inexhaustible while other poor fellows with fair ability should have to toil all their days for the means of subsistence and never have the wherewith to relieve their suffering fellow mortals or follow the yearnings of their impassionate hearts!
Mrs. Montgomery stood on the terrace and watched the receding figure of Phillip Lawson until he had crossed Queen Square and turned Charlotte street. She then returned to the parlor, and finding Mr. Verne sitting as if in deep study, was about to retire when he quietly motioned her to a seat.
"Sit down here. Our young friend has gone, and it seems as if he took all the sunshine with him, for I feel more prosy than ever."
"You need not try to hide your feelings from me, Stephen; it is of no use. I am here to help you all I can, and much as it will cost you I must hear your trouble. Heaven knows I would gladly do all that lies within my power."
Mrs. Montgomery's bustling and blustering nature had now become calm and gentle as a child as she sat beside her brother-in-law and poured into his ear such words of sympathy and encouragement as she could honestly give.
"We will not blame her altogether," said Mr. Verne. "She was young and fond of gaiety, and I thought that in course of time our natures should blend together, but sad to say, with coming years the breach widened. She went into society and I took refuge in seclusion."
"Stephen, you need not try to smooth matters!" exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery, allowing her temper to get aroused. "She is all to blame. Matilda is a fool, and I would tell her so if she stood face to face with me to-night!"
Mr. Verne did not raise his eyes, for he did not wish his companion to see the look of desperation settled there.
"And to think of the manner in which poor Marguerite is dragged over the continent for the sake of hunting up a grand match is something beyond endurance."
"It is all too true, Hester," moaned the grief-stricken husband. "It is all too true."
"And I would oppose it to the bitter end, Stephen. Yes, I would face poverty a thousand times rather than see a child of mine subjected to such indignity. I have watched Matilda's high-handed work with keen interest, I have noted everything, and if she thinks she has hoodwinked me I pity her delusion."
"The truth is I have been too much immersed in business to attend to much else, Hester, but at times I have not liked the manner in which things were going on. I never gave consent to Evelyn's marriage, I could not sanction it, but the girl seemed bent upon it, and I made no opposition in the matter."
"Montague Arnold is a dissipated man and immoral in every sense of the word, but that matters not in good society."
Mrs. Montgomery's face was indeed severe as she took from her pocket a piece of knitting and began making stitches rapidly.
"It is one of the many enigmas of fashionable society which I can never account for: why the most worthless, debauched and dissipated young men are fawned upon, lionized and courted by the most respectable mothers and matrons, and allowed the full liberty of their ball-rooms, drawing-rooms, salons, &c., claiming the most virtuous maidens for their amusement and pastime! And further, an honest-minded young man, who leads a strictly moral life, and labors hard to gain a reputation for himself, is cast aside or scorned as a mere nobody!"
"It is too true, Hester, I can fully endorse what you say. I have indeed turned away in disgust from fashionable resorts when I have seen young men of the most vicious habits contaminating the very air with their dissoluteness, flirting and dancing with the pure-minded girls who would have shrunk away in loathing could they hare seen the same young men at a later hour in dens of iniquity."
Mr. Verne was excited; he thought of his lovely Marguerite, and a pang shot through his heart, causing his face and lips to become ashy white.
"It is a disagreeable subject to broach, but I cannot help it, Stephen—I mean Hubert Tracy," said Mrs. Montgomery, in suppressed and measured tones. "You are not blind, Stephen, to the fact that Matilda and Evelyn are conspiring to find a son-in-law for you, and that one is Mr. Tracy?"
"God forbid!" said Mr. Verne, springing to his feet as if stung by an adder.
"As true as my name is what it is, Stephen, you will see it—that is—if you do not try to prevent it."
"My Marguerite will never sacrifice herself in that way," said Mr.Verne, vehemently—"never!"
"She will be talked into it. Marguerite will do anything rather than incur her mother's ill-will; for depend upon it, Matilda will lead her a sorry life if she shows opposition to her will."
"I have been too careless, Hester. It is yet time enough, thank God! When Marguerite is once more safe in my sheltering arms she will neer be subjected to the importunities of disagreeable suitors."
"Evelyn has too much diplomacy in her character. Marguerite cannot cope with her ingenious allurements, depend upon it, but I hope everything may turn out for the best yet," said Mrs. Montgomery, with a wistful look upon her countenance.
"Hester, I have much to think of. Sometimes my thoughts are almost insupportable, I almost sink—I believe I would if it were not for Marguerite. She is my ministering angel—and I miss her so much."
It was only on this evening that Mr. Verne had become communicative. He was always looked upon as a cold, reticent man, who had no sympathy with humanity in general; but there were those who could say "God bless you, Mr. Verne," from the bottom of their hearts. Who will presume to say that those grateful invocations were lost upon the winds—that they were not wafted to the Throne of Mercy, and received the plaudits of the King of Kings?
"I have long been thinking of having a talk with you, Stephen, and I feel now is the time," said Mrs. Montgomery, in confidential tone, yet betraying some hesitation. "We all know Stephen, that your family is living beyond your means, and that you are robbing yourself of health, strength and peace of mind to keep up an extravagant appearance. I ask you if that is right?"
"Hester, it is this that is killing me by inches, yet I cannot prevent it. What can I do? I cannot breast the current that is carrying along everything with it in maddening fury. One day I must make the plunge!"
Mr. Verne buried his face in his hands and wept like a child, while Mrs. Montgomery sat motionless, her eyes fixed upon the quaintly carved case of the eight day clock, whose solemn tick made the stillness more oppressive.
Mrs. Montgomery was the first to speak. "Stephen, it is not too late to straighten up matters. Take my advice, and if you are not more prosperous a year hence I will give you the deed of 'Gladswood.'—a present on your next birthday."
Mr. Verne forced a smile, and grasping the woman's hand, exclaimed, "Hester, you are, indeed, a friend in the hour of need. I feel stronger already."
"It is growing late, Stephen, and you need rest; we will talk over the matter to-morrow," and bidding good-night, Mrs. Montgomery arose and retired to her own apartments, while Mr. Verne sat buried in thought until the clock struck the hour of midnight; then slowly he arose, and, with languid step, turned a sad face towards the door, musing, "It is all sent for some good. Teach me, oh God, to see things as I ought."