"It is almost a pity that he should be aroused from this happy, trance-like state," said Mrs. Montgomery as she quietly raised the sick man to administer the medicine that had been consigned to her care.
Marguerite once more pressed the thin lips and stood at a distance, as if trying to think whether it were reality or dreamland.
Other eyes looked upon the maiden and other hands clasped in prayer were indeed very near.
What subtle power caused Marguerite to look around? What subtle power caused her to hold her breath as if oppressed with some invisible presence?
"Miss Verne, I'm glad you are here."
"Thank you Mr. Lawson," was the quiet reply, but in the look there was a world of sympathy that smote deeply into Phillip Lawson's heart.
Phillip Lawson was not surprised at the great change which had been wrought in Marguerite Verne. She was kind and thoughtful, but there was a restraint that made him feel ill at ease.
"Poor girl," thought he, "she feels her father's failure very keenly, not I believe from a selfish view but from her relation to others."
The young man had not divined aright.
He was not aware that Marguerite was the affianced wife of Hubert Tracy. He did not know the nature of the blow that had made such dire havoc upon the constitution of Mr. Verne. He did not know that all the anxious moments of the latter were spent in vainly trying to make known the bitter truth. He did not know that within Mr. Verne's desk was concealed a document which might remain there until too late!
Mrs. Verne had arrived in a state bordering on distraction.
She did not wish to meet any of her former friends lest she would hear something that would grate harshly on her nerves. She suffered much from headache and consequently remained most of the time in her own apartments.
"If your papa were at all times conscious of our presence, my dear, there would be some sense in my remaining with him, but really Madge I think the more quiet he is kept the better."
"But mamma dear, one of us should be near so that with returning consciousness he would recognize us."
"But that is not very often, Madge."
"Aunt Hester says that he asked for me very soon after I returned last night. I am so sorry that she did not awaken me." The girl looked sad indeed and to a more sensitive woman it would have been a keen reproach, but Mrs. Verne was wrapt up in self and wished no other feeling to find a shelter within her breast.
Some days passed and no great change had taken place in Mr. Verne yet the physician did not pronounce his case as hopeless.
"We are all doing our best and I trust that there will soon be a favorable change."
Marguerite Verne heard those words with a deep sigh, yet she was calm, and composed and even smiled at the eulogism passed upon her skill in the many duties of the sick chamber.
It was only when in her own room and none were near to witness her grief that she showed the weak side of her nature.
Many weary hours she lay and prayed that God would give her strength to go through the sad and painful duty that ever and anon rose up before her with a vividness that was cruel as death.
"I cannot meet Mr. Lawson without a shudder!" she murmured between sobs of deep and poignant anguish, "and I love him as I shall never love another—but he shall never know it—ah no. I shall become the wife of Hubert Tracy and try to be happy—yes, happy. And I shall receive the warmest congratulations and I will smile as they think me so happy and look upon me with eyes of envy."
Marguerite now drew her hand across her eyes as if to shut out the reality of the scene, while a chill made her shiver as if seized with ague.
"How foolish to be so weak," she murmurs, "darling papa, I would make a sacrifice ten times as great for his dear sake," and instantly the tears were dried and the girl was calm.
"Poor, dear papa, I shall receive such glowing accounts of his perfect restoration to health, and I can visit him often. Oh! if I could live with him always!"
Marguerite instantly smothered the half-formed sigh and sought a momentary respite in carefully combing out the waves of soft, silken and luxuriant hair.
Such was the manner in which she passed the first fortnight after her arrival.
She became accustomed to the young lawyer's daily visits, and though she knew it was not right, she could not resist a desire to await his coming with all the eagerness of her nature. But further she dare not go. The civilities exchanged were of a nature that fell like lead upon the young man's honest heart, but he was attentive to every word and wish, and always appeared with a kind voice and quiet but cheery smile.
But Phillip Lawson had a more bitter draught to swallow ere many hours had passed over his head.
Mr. Verne began to show signs of recovery, which the good old physician smilingly attributed to the "ministering angel," as he gaily dubbed Marguerite.
The latter was quietly arranging some delicacies upon a silver tray that stood on the pretty five o'clock.
Phillip Lawson remained for a moment to contemplate the picture. The girl looked so guileless and so childlike. The pale-grey cashmere, draped in graceful folds, gave her an air peculiar to some self-sacrificing Sister of Mercy, whose presence brought life and light into the home of the afflicted ones.
As she stooped to pick up a stray rose that had fallen from the fragrant bouquet, Phillip saw the delicate hands become tremulous, while the lips parted and the beautiful eyes were raised to heaven.
"Oh, heaven!" murmured the young man "I cannot endure this," and instantly he dashed forward with an impetuosity altogether foreign to his gentle and, at times, grave demeanor.
Marguerite was quick to detect the abruptness, but not a gesture betrayed curiosity.
"Papa has been sleeping for more than two hours—really Mr. Lawson, I have such good news. The doctor has just gone out and he says that every symptom is favorable and that he has every reason to believe that he may rally very soon."
"God grant it Miss Verne," said Philip, going on tiptoe towards the couch, and gazing wistfully upon the emaciated features of his old friend.
"This is my night to remain with papa, but the doctor bade me ask you to take my place. He seemed very anxious that I should do so and I am willing to do anything that may be deemed necessary."
"Strange that I came here purposely to make the same request," said the young man, looking gravely into the girl's face.
"How good of you, Mr. Lawson."
But Phillip Lawson needs no praise, and Marguerite goes on with her work, occasionally glancing at the time-piece to see how long her father had been sleeping.
And we come now to the hour of midnight. Trinity had sent forth its hallowed chime, and the echoes had died away in the calm stillness of the night.
Silence reigned in "Sunnybank," not a sound save the heavy tick of the old clock that stood at the top of the grand stairway. Phillip Lawson with book in hand was trying to while away the hours and to divert his mind from the unpleasant thoughts that now and then would arise with peculiar vividness.
A slight rustling causes him to start.
"My dear boy."
The young man leans gently forward and supports the upraised hand.
"Phillip, I have got my prayer. Is Marguerite near?"
Mr. Verne looked agitated, and Phillip Lawson feared the result.
"But you must be very quiet now, Mr. Verne. You know that much depends upon yourself."
"Ah, Phillip, I know it too well, but I have something to tell you, which is killing me by inches. Phillip you are the only one who must know it now. The rest will come in good time—in good time my boy!"
Phillip Lawson administered the soothing draught that had been tri-hourly prescribed, then lovingly placed his arm around the wasted form and laid him softly on the downy pillow.
Mr. Verne's voice was much stronger, and it cost him less effort to speak.
"It will do more harm than good to deny the request," thought the young man, and he leaned forward that the voice might reach his ear with the least possible effort of the speaker.
Mr. Verne drew a heavy sigh, and then began:—"Phillip Lawson, you are one of the truest friends I ever had, and heaven will yet bless you for all you have done for me."
The young man was about to appeal when he saw that Mr. Verne would suffer no interruption, so he calmly listened and uttered not a word.
"Phillip, it is a sad story that I have to tell, but I know you will help me to bear up. I have only you to confide in—only you."
Mr. Verne rested for a moment, and then continued, "It was the day before I was prostrated that I called upon you but learned that you were out of town until the following day. I wished to tell you something that grieved me more than living being ever can know. I had then in my breast pocket the death warrant of all my future hope and joy—that fatal letter announcing the betrothal of my darling Marguerite to that dissolute and unprincipled young man—Hubert Tracy."
Mr. Verne paused, then glanced at Phillip Lawson.
"Ah my son, God knows I would it were otherwise, I know that you love my child. I have cherished that secret as something sacred, and lived in the hope that all would come right some day. Phillip, my boy, I can bearmygrief, but it is hard to see the hopes of a bright and useful life buried deep—so deep."
The young man sat like one in a mocking cruel dream. The news stunned him. It was so unexpected, and yet so true.
"You have spoken truly Mr. Verne," said Phillip sadly, "I love Marguerite as I shall never love another woman. She is lost to me forever, but I shall cherish her memory while I live. Her image shall be enshrined within my heart; my life's devotion, my guiding star; they cannot rob me of that sacred duty. It is sanctioned by heaven itself."
Phillip Lawson now turned his face toward the couch.
"I never will believe that my child loves such a man as Hubert Tracy," said Mr. Verne, closing his eyelids with sheer exhaustion. "She has been forced into it. Promise me Phillip you will help me examine the matter closely. I am regaining some of my lost strength and will be better able for the task."
"I would like to assist you Mr. Verne, but I am in a delicate position. I cannot see how Miss Verne would be entrapped into a marriage against her own wishes. You know that Mr. Tracy was always on terms of intimacy with your family, and besides he is rather prepossessing, and would in all probability win the favor of any young lady."
"Phillip, you are generous to a fault. You could not say that man is a villain and a scoundrel when you really would have proof of his villany in your possession."
"Heaven forgive me for it," mused Phillip, "it was for her sake that I spoke thus. If she loves Hubert Tracy as I love her, then would I sacrifice every feeling to do it. Would to God I could think as her father does."
The young man sat for a moment buried in deep thought. He was now finding some ground for Marguerite's restraint when in his presence, and he conjured up many imaginary doubts and fears to prove that she loved Hubert Tracy. Even the letters which spoke in glowing terms of such kind attention—did not every circumstance serve as further conviction.
Mr. Verne divined Phillip Lawson's thoughts.
"Phillip, my boy, hear me. I may never rise from off this bed, but I solemnly swear that Hubert Tracy will never place a marriage ring upon Marguerite Verne's finger—never—"
Mr. Verne now grasped Phillip Lawson's hand and held it there, while the latter became suddenly inspired with bright hope.
"This has been too much for you, Mr. Verne," said the young man, soothingly. "But I have more to tell you, Phillip—something that will stagger you."
"Wait until to-morrow, sir, you will feel stronger."
"Very well, my boy, let it be to-morrow," and Mr. Verne dropped off in a peaceful slumber—aye, gentle and peaceful as that of a child.
Phillip Lawson's thoughts were confusion manifold as he sat with his hands folded listlessly across his breast. He was questioning the genuineness of his motives in keeping from Mr. Verne a secret which deeply affected the interests and welfare of his child.
"If Marguerite loved Hubert Tracy why should I thwart her fond hopes. Hubert Tracy has wronged me, though his act failed. Have I any right to rake up the intended wrong and hunt him down as an avenging deity.
"And for what," asked Phillip, as he gazed wildly around, fearing some one should intrude upon his privacy. "It was the green-eyed monster that goaded the weak-minded Hubert to be tempted. And must I, in possession, of all my senses, retaliate from the same cause! Ah, no, Hubert. You will go free, but Heaven will not suffer you to pollute a pure and innocent being. Ah, no." And more than ever inspired with faith, in the decrees of an All-Wise Providence, Phillip Lawson fully resolved to hold his peace.
"I feel that I am doing what is right in the sight of Heaven, and that thought gives me double resolution."
Mr. Lawson's soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of a domestic who came to take his place.
Mrs. Montgomery, being anxious, had also come in to make numerous inquiries, and to see that the young man should seek some rest.
"Blessings on her kindly soul," murmured the latter, as he went into the tasteful dressing-room and threw himself upon the lounge, where soft pillows and ample covering showed that loving hands had not forgotten his comfort.
But Phillip Lawson did not sleep. He turned listlessly from side to side. He tried to divert his thoughts to business and to many and varied subjects but through all and above all arose the words "very well, my boy, let it be to-morrow."
What a world of thought was running through the young man's brain as he lay thus, turning over in his well-stored mind many of the intricate problems of life and trying vainly to solve those which more deeply concerned himself.
In his short career midst life's struggles there was much to be grateful for. There was indeed, as he journeyed through the wilderness, a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night and as Phillip Lawson raised his eyes heavenward they caught the reflection of that fire; his countenance glowed with a radiance that was truly heaven-born and as Mrs. Montgomery passed through the room an hour afterward there was still trace of the sacred invisible presence.
Beading low the woman exclaimed "truly a noble soul," and with a prayer upon her lips invoking Heaven's blessing towards the sleeper she crept noiselessly away.
When Mr. Lawson called at "Sunnybank" on the following day he was pained to hear that Mr. Verne had taken a bad turn. The physician had given strict orders that none should approach him except an old nurse who had seen much service in the family.
"It has been too much for him," murmured Phillip as he closed the doer behind him, and again the word "to-morrow" sounded prophetically in his ear.
But the solicitor was not allowed to indulge further in gloomy thought. He had scarcely seated himself at his office desk when the bright countenance of Mr. Moses Spriggins beamed upon all around.
"Good morning, Mr. Spriggins," exclaimed Mr. Lawson heartily glad to see the face of his honest friend.
"Don't be too sure that you're glad to see me, Mr. Lawson," (Mr. Spriggins having dropped the appellation of 'Squire) "for I've come on a kinder disagreeable errant."
"I am sorry to hearthat, Mr. Spriggins. But perhaps it is not so bad as you imagine," said the solicitor very cheerily.
"It's the roughest on you, sir. I tell yer what it is, it ain't a very disagreeable piece of bus'ness for me to git married to Melindy Jane Thrasher when we've been a-courtin' mor'n two years—jest two years last hayin' time, for Melindy came to our house to help the wimmin folks and the first time I sot eyes on her I'd made up my mind."
Mr. Spriggins was becoming very eloquent on the subject and might have said much more (not to the point) when interrupted.
"And you have come to inform us that we must give up Melindy?"
"Yes, sir, that is the hull thing in a few words," cried Mr. Spriggins very much elated, "Isn't it a wonderful gift you fellars have of speakin' right to the pint. By hokey, I'd give a good deal if I was a lawyer—an honest, fair-square one like yerself, sir."
"Thank you Mr. Spriggins," said the young man trying hard to look serious.
"I was at yer place last evenin', sir, and as Melindy and me talked the thing over, she said that she felt backward of tellin' you, and says I, Melindy, I'll see Mr. Lawson meself and tell him to look out for another girl, so as you'd not be left without help."
"And you have given us sufficient time, I hope," said Mr. Lawson, smiling.
"We're to be spliced a fortnight from next Tuesday, sir, and if it's not askin' too much, I'd like terrible well if yerself and Miss Lottie could come up to Mill Crossin' to be present at the cer'mony."
"If nothing prevents we will go," said the young man quietly.
Mr. Spriggins sat for some moments and then informing the solicitor that he had some business at the insurance office rose to take leave.
"I suppose you have heard of Mr. Verne's illness?" ventured Mr.Lawson.
"Yes, sir, Melindy and meself was a-talkin' the hull thing over last night. He is a fine gentleman, sir,—and the young lady—I'm so glad she's back again. Ah! she's a fine girl, sir. I bet the old gentleman will be all right now, for the sight of her face is bettern' all the medicine in all the poth'cary consarns in St John."
What a temptation presented itself to the young man. He could easily ask the honest-hearted fellow about his interview with Mr. Verne, and of the effect upon him; also the nature of the conversation.
That Moses Spriggins formed a connecting link in some future disclosure he was doubly convinced, but it must come about by an established order of things; and the young lawyer thanked God that he was given sufficient strength to withstand the power of the tempter.
When Mr. Lawson went home that evening he received the full benefit of the information imparted to Miss Lottie.
It had been arranged that the latter should assist in the selection of the indispensable trousseau, and this was indeed a source of delight.
Mr. Spriggins came to town many times ere he could suit himself in a brand-new suit of clothes, also some new furniture to make things look "kinder nobby."
Nell Spriggins had been married some weeks previous, and as she had borne away her "fit out," there were many vacant corners in the Spriggins homestead, which of course fell to the lot of Moses to restore in due order.
But Mr. Spriggins was equal to the occasion.
"It ain't every day a feller gits spliced, I can tell yer, and one orter put the best foot for'ard. Tell you what it is, mother, Melindy and me is a-goin' to make the folks' eyes stick out when we 'pear out in the Mill Crossin' meetin' house."
The good old lady wiped her glasses and advised her son to be moderate in his ideas, "for," said she, "I always think that a quiet beginnin' makes the best endin'"
"Endin', did you say, mother' Wal, that's very encouragin', to be a-talkin' about endin' when a fellar feels like livin' till he has to be killed off," and Moses' big blue eyes glistened like two big china marbles.
"Now, Moses, if youarea-goin' to be married, you needn't be a-losin' of every speck of sense. It's enough for a bit of a boy to be a-makin' of sich light speeches."
Mrs. Spriggins' remarks were brought to a close by Moses making an exit via the back door, and when the privacy of the sheep-house had been gained he sat down on a big log and began counting how much money he had still on hand after his trip to town on the day previous.
"Let's see—there's thirty-six dollars and one cent. Yes, every cent's a cent, and twenty-one dollars Sam Wiggles owes me, and the two loads o' hay Jim Briggs is a-takin' to town this week—that's sure cash—well, thirty-six and twenty-one is fifty-seven, and the hay—wal, it's all as good as seventy-five dollars."
A couple of huge hogs acting upon the aggressive in appropriating a large share of hen feed, now interrupted the soliloquy, and after combating the unscrupulous animals, Moses Spriggins once more seated himself upon the log.
"Wal, seventy-five dollars won't make a bad spread, neither. I'm terrible sorry that there's trouble in the Verneses. I'd like deuced well to have that Miss Margit—now that's too highfalutin a name for me—if Melindy were here she'd git it off in good style."
Silence reigned for a moment; then Moses took up the thread of discourse. "When a fellar's gettin' spliced hisself he wants every one else to follow. Wal, it's no use a-sayin' it, but if Mr. Lawson and Miss Verne could have both a-come to the weddin' there's no tellin' what might have happened. They'd git interested in the cer'mony, and I'd bet ten to one they'd be a-proposin' before it was over. Wal, sir, if Mr. Verne gits the leastest bit better, I'm a-goin' after Miss Verne, sure pop."
Moses having made such resolution now carefully folded the notes in his business-like pocket-book and set off to do the work which awaited him.
It was, indeed, somewhat of a coincidence to know that at the same moment when Moses Spriggins was speculating upon the prospects of his legal friend that the latter should be also troubled about the veritable Moses.
Lottie Lawson had gone to "Sunnybank," brimming over with the affairs of the elated Melindy Jane.
Marguerite listened to the child's amusing description of the many articles that were hourly displayed by the expectant bride, and when consulted as to the choice of a wedding present, thoughtfully proposed sending one herself.
"Oh. Miss Verne, that will be delightful," cried Lottie, clapping her hands in childish glee. "Why, Melindy will have lots of nice things; I know what brother Phillip is going to give—a pretty China tea-set—and mine, a pair of napkin rings."
Marguerite smiled at the little maid's enthusiasm, and warned her against being too communicative to Melindy Jane.
"Indeed, she will not know what they are until brother Phillip and I go out to Mill Crossing."
Lottie took her departure and Marguerite once more sought her father's room to take her place beside his bed.
* * * * *
"Spriggins, did you say, papa?"
"Yes, child—I want the paper."
"Which paper, papa—can I get it for you?"
In the effort to make known his wishes his memory had failed him, and Marguerite stood utterly helpless to execute that wish.
"Something is on papa's mind—some paper. It is, indeed, of much importance, for poor papa has been deeply agitated."
The girl had noticed that her father's eyes always rested upon her in a mute, half-despairing appeal, yet she had not courage to question him upon the matter.
"If I could only speak to Mr. Lawson, but there is a restraint between us that I suppose under the circumstances is only natural. I am the affianced wife of Hubert Tracy and Phillip Lawson is not the man to take advantage of his influence."
A heavy sigh escaped Marguerite and instantly she raised both hands as if to compress the aching brow and wearied brain.
In the quiet of her own chamber Marguerite Verne felt that she was safe from human eyes. She longed to give vent to her pent up sorrow, and sitting down upon a pretty ottoman (the work of her own industrious hands) uttered a low and mournful wail—such only as would express a broken heart.
"Oh Phillip Lawson, it is hard to meet you every day of my life and to know that we are strangers indeed—yes, worse than strangers. Oh, my sad heart. None but heaven will ever know what I have suffered and am suffering now. Oh, Phillip! Phillip! why is your image ever before me! Why do you approach me with your grave but kind face and hold out your hand in tenderest sympathy! Oh, my heart, it is maddening! Why was I born to such feeling! Why was I cursed with the susceptibilities of a warm and loving heart! Why were not these sympathetic chords torn rudely asunder ere they could vibrate with such anguish! Why did not my heart turn into stone ere it took root in such deadly bitter soil! Ah well, love is common and grief is common—'Never morning wore to evening but some heart did break.' And I am only a drop in the great ocean—the great sea of struggles—heart-aches and bitter groans!"
A rustle of garments in the outer hall caused Marguerite to raise her head and as she caught a glimpse of her sorrowful face in the mirror opposite she felt a sudden pang and seemed to meet the mild despairing gaze of her idolized parent.
"Dear papa, what would he think of his rebellious child?" Immediately the girl was trying to look brave and struggling hard to set aside all the painful thoughts.
Marguerite fortunately was endowed with much will power. She could master her thoughts to such a degree that a quiet, calm content would succeed, and in this condition she went to her mother's room.
Mrs. Verne was now in a semi-invalid state. She was moody and morose, and oftentimes much depressed. It would be charitable for us to think that this woman reflected upon her past foolishness; and be it as it may we will give her the benefit of the doubt.
Mr. Verne saw little of his wife, but there were moments when his thoughts went back to the child-wife of his youth, and a tear glistened in his eye as he recalled the bright scenes of the sadly dimmed life.
But Marguerite Verne compensated for her mother's defects. She was truly all in all to her fond parent. Her smile was his beacon light. Her voice was more musical than harp or psaltery, and her loving ministration were life indeed; and as each morning and evening the girl clasped her hands and knelt beside her father's couch reading aloud the several beautiful prayers for the visitation of the sick, what soul could fail to be deeply affected.
"What a picture for a Guido, a Rembrandt, or a Correggio," thought Phillip Lawson as he stood on the threshold not daring to breathe lest he break the solemn spell; and as he noiselessly turns away the vision haunts him with increasing vividness. "Turn which way I will it is always the same," he murmured, and entering Warwick's elegant china store felt like anything but selecting a bridal present.
But the world has its claims upon us, and Phillip Lawson was shown the many beautiful patterns of delicate china cups, plates, etc., and very soon selected a pretty tea-set that would make glad the heart of the expectant bride.
The young man had crossed over to the northern side of King street, but had not gone many steps when he heard familiar voices, looking around he espied the piquant Lottie and her domestic making their way into the handsome and tasteful establishment of Manchester, Robertson & Allison. The young solicitor was amused as he thought of the conversation which he had accidently overheard on the previous morning.
But for the shopping excursion.
Lottie with an air of importance had given much advice to the jubiliant Melindy but when that great emporium, so dear to many a woman's heart, had been, reached the latter almost lost her senses.
"If Mose could just peek in wouldn't he stare?" said she, casting her eyes on a pile of silks that had been displayed upon the counter.
Lottie smiled, and having directed Melindy's attention to a choice lot of dress material stepped to the other end of the ware-room to speak to one of her acquaintances.
The shades were too dull to suit Melindy's taste. She wanted it for a "pertikler occasion" and if she had thought in time would have brought a "certain person" in to choose it.
The merry twinkle in the clerk's eye brought Miss Lottie to the rescue, and after much deliberation on the part of Melindy a heavy piece of all-wool goods of bright maroon was at length decided upon for the best dress, while another of fancy plaid was chosen for reception purposes.
It is needless to enter into detail of all the knick-knacks that took Melindy's eye, but we cannot pass the millinery department, into which the latter was ushered by the amused but undemonstrative Lottie.
A bonnet was, of course, the desired article.
"It does look kinder nice," said Melindy surveying the pretty, tasteful cream-colored lace with a bunch of neat French flowers in relief, "but it looks to me as if it wasn't hardly dressy enough."
"We can easily arrange it to suit your taste," said the young lady in attendance as she went towards the show-case and began assorting some bright-colored roses as more acceptable.
"Wal, there's sumthin' more becomin'!" said Melindy into a high key, "and I'm certain that 'person' would like it better."
Melindy Jane cast a significant glance at Miss Lottie who in turn gave it to the young lady and the result was significant smiles all around.
"Well, its nothing to be ashamed of. I s'pose we might as well tell you that I want it for peerin' out with, and as there's alwus so many remarks passed I'd like it to be sumthin' dressy."
"Certainly," said the young lady, and within a very short time the cream-colored bonnet was in reality a bed of roses, highly suggestive to Miss Lottie of the lines—
"Oh my love is like a red, red roseThat newly springs in June."
"There now," cried the delighted Melindy, looking in the mirror to note the effect, "that's just the style that'll take Moses' eye. Don't I wish he was here to see it."
The indispensable white gloves and white net veil and bright ribbons, flowers, etc., were now laid aside, and with a strict injunction "to be sure send 'em right away," Melindy Jane Thrasher was truly the happiest customer that ever emerged from the time-honored establishment of Manchester, Robertson & Allison.
It must not be supposed that Phillip Lawson was remiss in his regular duties—that he neglected the professional demands duly devolving upon him.
Our much-respected friend had seen adversity on every hand and in many phases. He had struggled hard to overcome difficulties, and he had smothered the pleading of his hungry unsatisfied soul; and as from day to day he jostles his fellow man in the crowded thoroughfares, or encounters him in the office, shop or study, the same remark was common to every honest-minded citizen:—"Lawson is a clever, industrious and good fellow, and well deserves the position which he will one day occupy."
And now, when it became an established fact that Phillip Lawson had fallen heir to forty thousand dollars, it was, indeed, worthy of mention that no one was heard to make uncharitable remarks. Congratulations fell thick and fast, and last, but not least, came those of Moses Spriggins.
"Well, sir, I used ter say I'd be no small potatoes one o' these days, but I never dreamed I'd have a millionar at my weddin'. Wal, thar's no accountin' for miracles these times," and the iron hand left its impress upon the soft palm of the "millionar" in a manner that showed heartiness minus conventionalism.
But there was another who tendered congratulations while a deeper shadow settled down and shut out any approach of joy or gladness.
Marguerite Verne could not fail to see the difference in her mother's reception of Phillip Lawson as he now is, and this thought gave her pain.
The possessor of forty thousand, and a poor penniless lawyer, were indeed two different beings in Mrs. Verne's partial eyes. They were unlike in appearance, character, action—aye, as opposite as two extremes could well be.
Mr. Lawson, in his altered condition, was handsome, was more distinguished looking, could converse more fluently, was more polished and more gallant.
But Marguerite Verne listened to her mother's eulogism with a calm despair, and, save the pallor of her lips, no one could tell the suffering within. What matters it now, thought the girl, as she bent over a sheet of paper and tried to collect her thoughts.
Hubert Tracy eagerly awaited the delicate missive that came as regularly as the mail, and he now was looking forward to the time when he would claim Marguerite Verne forever and forever.
It was so hard to frame each sentence without the conviction that every word conveyed the falsity of the girl's heart. How dare she pen one word such as an affianced lover would expect! Oh, the agony of soul that Marguerite endured as she combated with her honest nature.
Phillip Lawson never lost sight of the doings at "Sunnybank." He was daily around the afflicted household and tried hard to bring cheer along with him.
That Mr. Verne was sinking fast the young man knew well, and he was sorely troubled that the secret grief would never be communicated— perhaps in a way that might give relief.
Would it be wise to force the subject, to venture an allusion to Moses Spriggins, and thus arouse the seemingly comatose condition of the dying man.
"If I could mention the matter to Marguerite," thought Phillip, as he sat in his office for a few moment's respite after a day of toilsome labor over some perplexing law points in a case which gained much notoriety, and which had also gained for the leading counsel a reputation for earnestness and strict integrity that must inevitably be crowned with success.
"If I could only ask her advice in the matter," thought he, "what a relief it would afford."
But the words froze upon his lips, and Marguerite remained as before in utter ignorance of the failure.
"Why do such questions arise," murmured the young man sadly, and his thoughts reminded him of the renowned son of Jupiter dying of thirst with the tempting element raised to his chin, but could not partake of a single drop. "Ah! there's many a modern Tantalus," said Phillip wearily, "many a Tantalus."
Marguerite had received several letters from Mrs. Arnold, but they were vague, unsatisfactory and suppressed. There was an attempt at concealment that gave the girl much concern, yet she did not communicate the fact to Mrs. Verne.
"Poor mamma has enough to think of," thought she, "and as they say, it is no use to be borrowing trouble, so I'll hope for the best."
Could one have glanced into Mrs. Montague Arnold's private life what a picture would be presented to us—one anything but pleasing to look upon—where alike was depicted disappointment, disgust, anger, sullen resentment and hate.
Add to this dissipation, an utter disregard for the home duties of woman, and one can form some idea of the unenviable position of this fashionable creature.
Of the husband what can we say?
Montague Arnold is indeed far on the downward road to ruin. Dissipation has made fearful ravages upon his hitherto handsome face, and in the bloated features, inflamed eyes, and idiotic expression, there is little left to convey an impression that the gay and fashionable world once coveted such a prize.
The lowest gambling dens were now sought, and hour after hour the man sat side by side with the scum of humanity. His days and nights were scenes of carousal, his wife was left to her own resources, and his home utterly desolate.
Evelyn Arnold had written her sister many glowing eulogies of Hubert Tracy's generosity, yet she did not acknowledge that to him she was entirely dependent.
Let us not utterly despise this young man.
There was yet a spark of generosity in his nature and a desire to lend a helping hand to the needy.
As hitherto expressed, with different associations Hubert Tracy would have been a different man. He began well but had not sufficient will power to resist the tempter and like many a promising youth who went out into the world with a mother's prayers ringing in his ears, stumbled ere he reached the first milestone on life's chequered road.
Hubert Tracy was to a certain degree trying to make amends for the wrong he had done towards himself and towards his fellow man.
When the face and form of Phillip Lawson rose before him with such vividness that he many times closed his eyes to shut out the sight remorse would seize upon him and hold him in galling chains, shewing us that the Divine impress was not entirely obliterated from his nature and that some day one might expect a complete change.
But of this young man's kindness to Mrs. Arnold.
The latter had been accustomed to a lavish expenditure of money and now that her husband's means had been squandered what was she to do? Appearances must be kept up at any sacrifice and without any apparent struggle. Mrs. Montague Arnold received from her sister's betrothed a sufficient amount of money to meet her daily wants.
Every beauty has her reign and so with the beautiful Evelyn.
Another queen succeeded and with many a bitter feeling the former is a thing of the past. Men have ceased to rave over the dark-eyed syren and now behold her as a being of a secondary order.
Mrs. Arnold attributed such slights to her husband's altered position and loud angry words were of daily occurrence until at last matters grew worse and they were completely alienated.
It was now that Hubert Tracy proved himself a benefactor. He remitted money and strove to give the unhappy woman all the sympathy she desired.
At times Mrs. Arnold's temper became ungovernable and as each annoyance crowded upon her with redoubled force it was anything but agreeable to listen to the frequent outbursts of uncontrollable anger or to look upon a face made hideous by those degrading exhibitions of a coarse and corrupt nature.
Let us now take a look at this fashionable woman as she is vainly trying to while away what appears to be a tedious morning.
Mrs. Arnold has removed to another suite of apartments and the change bears heavily upon her.
With an air of disgust she surveys the plainly furnished parlor and taking up a third class novel of the highly sensational type throws herself upon the chintz-covered lounge and gives way to a series of hysterical sobs more expressive of anger than grief.
The once large lustrous orbs have lost much of their brightness and the oval cheeks have lost their beauty of outline, while the rich crimson hue has given place to a sickly yellow. Even the toilette of the proud beauty bears traces of neglect. The rich and elegant dressing gown of cashmere and velvet had been converted into money and a dowdy-looking stuff wrapper supplied its place.
Mrs. Arnold yawned and sighed wearily, then arose to look for some curl papers but finding the effort too much once more sought the lounge and novel.
The sorrows of the heroine pleased her. "Misery likes company," as the adage goes and Mrs. Arnold formed no exception.
"Yes," mused she, "her lord, like mine, proved a failure, but here the likeness ends—she got rid of him but there is no such luck for me. I must put up with his brutal insults, his coarse language, his murderous assaults—yes, I must bear it for better for worse until death doth us part—"
"Which I hope will be very soon, my dear, delightful spouse," cried a hic-coughy voice from an outer room and instantly the bloated face of Montague Arnold confronted his wife in tantalizing and brutal aspect.
We will pass over the scene which followed, suffice to say that the inebriated husband finally betook himself to his room and—more beast than man—lay until he was sufficiently recovered to set out for the scene of dissipation to be enacted on the coming night.
When quiet was fully restored and Evelyn had once more found respite in her heroine's increasing woes a familiar step sounded in the passage.
"Come at last Hubert, I wish you had been here sooner."
Mrs. Arnold then gave an exaggerated account of her husband's proceedings, and began sobbing wildly and hysterically.
Hubert Tracy did not like scenes, but he had to await Mrs. Arnold's pleasure.
He had of late been trying to lead a better life and had given the slip to several of his debauched companions, but on the previous evening he had been unable to withstand their urgent entreaties and as he wended his way to Mrs. Arnold's residence his aching brows and dizzy head gave evidence of the sad fact.
"I have had news from home, Evelyn."
"Yes," said the latter faintly.
"Your father seems no better. Madge has little hopes of him, and your mother's health has undergone a great shock."
"No, doubt," was the sarcastic reply.
"Evelyn," said the young man in earnest tones, "I shall eagerly await the coming mail, for I have signified to Madge my intention to cross the Atlantic!"
"So soon," cried Mrs. Arnold with awaking interest.
"Yes, Evelyn, I cannot endure this suspense much longer. Madge is the only woman who can reclaim me, and I must now insist that she will be my wife at an early date—at any rate I wish to be in St. John at the settlement of the affair. It has been a great mistake that I did not accompany your mother and Madge."
"Oh, Hubert, the thought makes me feel worse, if possible."
"You will come with me, Evelyn, and if Mont sees fit he can shake off his fellows and come too."
"I go home Hubert! No indeed, I would rather die than face the people of St. John, Ah no! You must say that I am looking so well, and so brilliant, and am so happy that I prefer English society to dull provincial life!
"True, Hubert, I have done much for you, and you surely will carry out my wishes."
"I certainly shall, Evelyn, and more than that I shall never forget that to you I owe all the happiness of my life."
"You may well say so Hubert. But for my scheming Madge would have yielded to mamma's entreaties and became the wife of her pet—Sir Arthur."
"Well, it's all over, now," said the young man impatiently. "You never will have cause to regret the steps you have taken, and I trust we will be a happy family one of these days."
Alas! it is an easy task for us to propose, but the Great Disposer of our destinies finds it necessary to circumvent our plans and show us how utterly helpless we are. But we will not forestall events. We will calmly await the end, in a direct order comforted by the cheering thought that patience is a virtue and worthy its reward.
"Hubert, have you ever thought of Phil Lawson lately. I must tell you some news."
Mrs. Arnold then, with greater gusto, referred to the fortune, and in sarcastic tones amused her friend with the great change it would make in the heir's position, and the brilliant match he would also secure from the same source.
"So much the better," said Hubert, "he'll not be poking his nose where he's not wanted."
Hubert Tracy tried to appear as indifferent as possible, but in his own mind he was ill at ease. Any allusion to Phillip Lawson opened afresh a very tender spot in his memory.
"Would to God the fellow were dead," thought he, "though he never did me any harm. Perhaps, after all, he never would have had courage to propose to Madge—but then its best to be safe."
It would seem as if Mrs. Arnold had divined her friend's thoughts. "Hubert," said she, rather excitedly, "I firmly believe, and will always believe, that if we had not taken matters in time that Phil Lawson, with his long-winded speeches, would have wrought a spell upon papa and so completely influenced him that he would have had Madge body and soul, for I am certain that she was fool enough to encourage him."
"I believe so, too," said Hubert, dryly, and not at all pleased with the woman's reference to a rival.
"It was only his poverty that kept him back. I tell you some upstarts of lawyers have impudence enough to face anything; indeed, when they stick out their shingle they think they are fitting match for a princess."
Mrs. Arnold was sarcastic in the highest degree, and her expression was scornful as well.
"And I suppose the forty thousand will assist materially in giving a little more cheek," said Hubert, laughing.
"You may bless your stars that it did not arrive a twelve-month ago," said Mrs. Arnold, in a teazing manner that was not at all acceptable to her companion.
"Ah, well, Eve, let us think none the less of him. Perhaps he carries a heavier heart than we would wish," and, glancing hurriedly around, Hubert Tracy bowed to his companion and passed out as if bent upon some particular errand.
Little did the thoughtless young man realize that this was his last conversation with Mrs. Arnold, nor did the latter, as she called to mind the fact that Hubert Tracy had, for the first time, addressed her familiarly as "Eve,"—the name she bore in her father's home— that it would also be the last. Oh, well, this is one of the many lessons sent to teach us what we are, and what we should be:—,
"Let manhood think that death may comeWhen least it seemeth nigh;And, though content with this bright home,Yet be prepared to die."
November's chilly blast moaned hoarsely around the heavy solid walls of "Sunnybank," and the weird sound of the rustling leaves impressed one with thoughts alike weird and melancholy.
Marguerite Verne sat in the library poring over some accounts. Several letters lay beside her ready for mailing and as she glanced occasionally at the outer door she is evidently awaiting some person.
The suspense is of short duration. A bright cheerful face is soon at her side.
"You dear old coz, have I kept you long waiting?"
"Only two minutes," said Marguerite glancing at her watch, then hanging the pretty bauble within reach added, "Cousin Jennie I believe you are equal to a time piece."
An affectionate embrace was the outcome of the compliment and very soon the apartment looked brighter and more welcome.
The fire in the grate sent up a more cheerful glow as if it were trying to shew its appreciation of the newly arrived guest. In fact all things animate and inanimate tried to do homage to the sweet and cheery Jennie Montgomery.
The willing domestic who had answered Marguerite's summons, had no sooner finished her task than a message was conveyed from Mrs. Verne's chamber requesting Marguerite's immediate presence.
Jennie followed and her presence of mind soon quieted her aunt's violent fit of hysteria, and bathing the aching brows with Florida water coaxed the restless woman into a soft and gentle sleep.
"What would I do without you, darling!" said Marguerite, her eyes filling with tears and then hastily shading her delicate face sought the nurse to make inquiries about her father.
On being advised that it was better not to disturb his restless slumbers she instantly returned to the library.
"It is cosey in here to-day, Madge. Just see how angry the sky appears. How fast the clouds are moving! Look! they seem furious!"
Marguerite having finished her accounts, now looked about for something farther to do.
Her eyes were attracted towards a handsome volume that lay upon the sofa. Its rich cream and gold binding giving a pretty contrast to the elegant upholstering of the said article.
The first words that claimed the girls attention ran:
"Wake maid of Love! the moments flyWhich yet, that maiden-name allow;Wake, maiden, wake! the hour is nighWhen Love shall claim a plighted vow."
Hitherto Scott had been one of Marguerite's favorite authors, but now she threw down the book as if stung by an adder. Her blood was chilled in her veins, and she seemed as if petrified.
It were well that Jennie Montgomery was busily engaged looking over the broad rows of bookshelves in quest of some thing suitable to her fancy.
It was also well that she found the desired volume and had comfortably seated herself for a good long read.
Cousin Jennie might well be termed a book-worm, for, notwithstanding the fact that she was a clever housekeeper, an industrious handmaid and a skilful needlewoman, no girl had, considering her advantages, been a more extensive reader. She was conversant with many of the standard authors, could discuss freely upon the most abstruse subjects and also kept herself well posted in all the leading events of the day, a fact which goes to prove that there is no woman no matter in what circumstances, but can, if inclined, give some attention to the improvement of the mind, and make herself a fairly intellectual being.
Marguerite's thoughts were painful, indeed. "The hour is nigh," she murmured. Hubert Tracy's letter had arrived, and the well-known lines had doubly recalled the fact.
"Would to heaven that it might never arrive," then suddenly checking the wicked wish the girl exclaimed, "it is so hard to bear. Oh, Heavenly Father, forgive my wicked, sinful heart."
"Madge, whom do you think I met as I was going along Princess street?"
Jennie had now turned towards her cousin. Her honest face was fair to look upon. Its genuineness was stamped in bold characters upon the open brow and reflected in the clear expressive eyes.
"Why, none other than Helen Rushton. She has just arrived from Fredericton where she has been for six weeks. She introduced me to her friend Miss Boynton who is such a nice-looking girl, not a beauty but interesting and very graceful."
"She called a few days after I came home," said Marguerite, "but I was unable to leave papa. Helen is a good girl, Jennie."
"I always liked her," said the latter, putting a little marker in her book, "and I would give anything to have her visit us. Mother seems much interested in her."
"I think that I met Miss Boynton at Mrs. Greene's last winter. Is she not tall and slight with auburn hair and straight regular features, with just enough hauteur to give her an air of quiet dignity?"
"The very same, Madge. You are quite an adept at description," said cousin Jennie with mock gravity. "But I have something worth telling," cried she excitedly, "Louise Rutherford is engaged to Mr. Noyes. It is really true, for Helen told me that she congratulated her, and she did not deny it."
"I expected to hear it before this," said Marguerite somewhat sadly."They are to be married early next spring and most likely will go toEurope."
Whichsoever way Marguerite directed her thoughts there was always some reminder of her own gloomy prospects.
Louise Rutherford's betrothed was an intimate friend of Phillip Lawson's. Their interests were much in common and in their outward appearance there was a striking resemblance.
"Phillip will be the next!" thought the girl "Ah, yes. Heaven never intended that such a man would not realize his highest and fondest hopes. He will receive the congratulations of friends and I will smile and join the pressing throng, while my heart will ache and throb so wildly. But no human heart ever was so freighted with sorrow that it had not sufficient resisting power. Ah, no." And the soft white palms are folded together as if the speaker had invoked a prayer.
Jennie Montgomery had also been indulging in some speculative thoughts, for she stole softly to her cousin's side, and, putting an arm around the girl's neck, exclaimed, "Madge, darling, I have longed for a good opportunity to say what I wish, and forgive me if I make you feel badly."
Marguerite looked at her companion, and her lips grew deadly pale, but her manner was calm, and not a shade was visible upon the madonna-like face.
"Madge," said Jennie, with excited and wistful gaze, "tell me why you promised to marry Hubert Tracy. I am certain you couldn't love him! Oh, Madge! what has prompted you to do anything so dreadful?"
Marguerite Verne sat like one in some horrible dream, not daring to move lest she might become the victim of some dread Gorgon or Fury.
"Speak, Madge, or you will frighten me to death," exclaimed Jennie, imprinting a warm kiss upon the cold rigid lips.
The effect was electrifying.
"Oh! cousin Jennie, you know all! I will not hide it from you. I am going to marry Hubert Tracy to save my father from the depths of poverty. Poor mamma shall never know what I am suffering for her sake; and if I could make a ten-fold sacrifice, I would do it to bring my darling father back to life and health—but he shall never know—oh no!"
"Marguerite Verne!" exclaimed the excited girl, raising her right hand aloft in wild, appealing gestures, "you willnevermarry Hubert Tracy! Heaven could not, or would not, allow it. Oh, no, Madge! Heaven could never sanction, such an act. Madge," exclaimed the girl, with all the intensity of her nature, "you are tempting the Almighty."
"Jennie, Jennie! spare me! oh, spare me! have some mercy!" cried Marguerite, sinking at her cousin's feet, and clinging to her with the force of desperation.
"Ask me not Madge. I can have no mercy in your case. Think me cruel as you will, I will always be of the same mind, and mother is indeed, if anything, a great deal harder upon you."
"She surely cannot be if she knew all Jennie," said Marguerite in wild, agonizing tones.
"She blames you for not having sufficient combativeness to oppose the influence brought to bear upon you."
"Surely Aunt Hester cannot think that I would be doing right to go contrary to the wish of my mother—yes, and all."
"She does, indeed. She says that you are to obey your parents only when their motives are honest and right, not otherwise, and you know well, Madge, that your father, were he in possession of all his senses, would never sanction such a course; and furthermore, Madge, I firmly believe that the very thought of it is consuming the few drops of blood that vainly try to give warmth to the broken heart."
"Jennie Montgomery, if you have one spark of pity, forbear. It is cruel to upbraid me with being my father's murderess, when I would willingly give my life to save him. Oh! Jennie, you cannot mean what you say. Oh! my poor father."
Marguerite was now an object of pity. Her hands were clasped above her head, and in that half-prostrate position she seemed a living representation of some Grecian maid who, more than two thousand years in the past, with like struggles, had climbed the marble steps leading to the Acropolis and with lips pallid as the ivory temple near, wailed out her woes to the myriads of deities that met her despairing gaze.
But for the nonce Jennie Montgomery had steeled her heart and looked as indifferent as a Zeno.
"It will do her good. There is more work on hand yet"—these and other remarks of a like nature escaped the daring girl as she rose to her feet and glanced at the angry clouds trooping along the grey November sky like hordes of insatiable warriors bent upon further deeds of prowess.
"Cousin Jennie!"
"Yes, Madge," said the latter going toward her cousin with as much composure as if their conversation had been of the most common place.
"Cousin Jennie," said Marguerite raising herself with an air of determination, "I thank you for your harsh but wholesome words. They have given rise to a train of thoughts which I shall soon put to the test and you, my dear, must await the result."
"What now, coz? If it be anything that will relieve you from such disgraceful bonds, I will enter into it body and soul."
* * * * *
"Better to-day, dearest papa? I am so glad," and Marguerite rained kisses upon the emaciated cheeks.
"And cousin Jennie is here to congratulate you upon looking so well," Marguerite now motioned her cousin to the bedside.
"Uncle Stephen," said the girl taking the trembling hands between her own, "you must hurry and get well for I'm not going to leave here until you do."
Marguerite having supplanted the nurse for the entire afternoon and having taken the precaution to learn from the good old doctor that her cheerful presence would do good turned the occasion to the best possible account.
Side by side sat the two maidens in striking but happy contrast. Cousin Jennie's neatly fitting frock of wine-colored serge was relieved by point lace collar and cuffs, the work of her own deft fingers, while a cluster of white geranium served to complete the toilet and give a subdued tone to the highly brilliant complexion.
Marguerite's plain black cashmere with bodice of rich velvet harmonized most exquisitely with her softspirituellebeauty and set off the purity of the purely transparent complexion.
How many have gazed with tearful eye upon that most bewitching of portraits, that of Mary Queen of Scots in costume of black velvet, time-honored ruff, and as reminder of her belief, the massive jet crucifix was suspended from the most perfect neck that was ever fashioned by the hand of the Divine Craftsman.
It is while gazing upon Marguerite Verne that our thoughts carry us back to the ill-fated queen and as we note the striking personal resemblance, thank a kind Providence that the maiden's lot has been cast in happier days and in a land not blighted by the harrowing associations of those stormy times.
But to our subject. The dutiful daughter goes softly toward the bed and raising the shrivelled hand from the snowy coverlid looks into the languid eyes as if she would read the thoughts which she now longed to hear.
"Papa I want to say something. Will you promise me that you will not get excited. You know I am under orders."
"Nothing will excite me now my child. Excitement is only fit for the people of the earth, and I am now already on the verge of another and I trust a better world."
Marguerite would fain have urged her father to forbear, but she knew full well that it was the truth.
"Well, papa, we are all in the hands of God. He will do what he thinks is best for us."
The quivering lips and tremulous tones gave expression to the overflowing heart, but the girl bore up bravely.
"Papa, here is my accuser," said she, grasping Cousin Jennie by the hand and drawing her forcibly to his side. "Now, dearest, tell papa what you told me in the library."
Cousin Jennie trembled somewhat. She was alarmed lest her words might add to the grief of the dying man. But she must not waver now, and in measured tones she repeated almost word for word the same conversation which had so deeply affected the sensitive Marguerite.
Mr. Verne listened, and as the girl proceeded his eye kindled and his lips moved as if in deep gratitude.
Cousin Jennie's eyes now flashed upon Marguerite, and as if by intuition Mr. Verne's also sought his daughter.
"My child, this may be the last question I shall ever ask you! Answer me truly! Do you love Hubert Tracy with a deep and tender love—such a love as a true woman gives to her husband?"
There was silence deep as death, then a sweet voice, murmured:"Papa, I know it is sinful, but I cannot! Oh! I cannot love him!"
"God be praised for these comforting words. Come close my child."
Marguerite had her face down upon the pillow, calmly awaiting the loved voice—the voice that ere long would be silent forever!
Mr. Verne had been tenderly raised to a sitting position, and supported by pillows, he was comfortable and easy. A smile lighted up his countenance and he looked calm and happy.
"Marguerite, my child, in presence of God and his holy angels, I ask you now to make me a solemn promise—I can ask you now, thank God, with a feeling of delight—promise me that you will from this hour renounce that bad and unprincipled man—Hubert Tracy."
Marguerite was bewildered. What knowledge had of late been imparted to her father? But it matters not. She is not to question, and with firm voice, exclaimed: "As Heaven is my witness I hereby break the bonds that bind me to Hubert Tracy," and as if some invisible aid had been wafted from that upper world the costly solitaire, diamond dropped upon the floor and rolled into a darkened recess, where for the time it was safe from human eyes!