CHAPTER XLI.
THE LIVING PRESENT.
The bitter, cold days of winter are nearly at an end. The forces of nature are now exhausted and the elements have settled down into quiet rest.
"How time flies!" exclaimed the solicitor glancing at the calendar opposite his desk. "Three months to-day since I made that promise."
Phillip Lawson looked happy. His office had a cheerful aspect, and his surroundings seemed to indicate that the young man was contented and happy.
"Four o'clock and the fellow is not here! Well, I can afford to be disappointed to-day. It matters not." And putting on his great coat Phillip Lawson made his way down town and as he strode along at a rapid gate we were not surprised to hear one of the "oldest inhabitants" remark "Gracious! what a fine strapping fellow that young Lawson has got to be. I bet he'd turn the scales at one hundred and eighty."
The evening of the same day another scene is before us.
A graceful figure is seated beside the grate of the neat, cosey parlor which we have hitherto admired.
A deep blush rises upon the maiden's cheek as she turns over the leaves of the handsome volume lying in her lap. What causes that blush? What latent property lies hid in a withered moss rose? What beauty to arrest a maiden's eye?
These are questions to be decided by the fair ones who perhaps in like manner have treasured away, far from human eyes, a few, petals of a withered rose or perhaps "only a pansy blossom."
Ah, the tell tale crimson that will betray Marguerite in spite of all her grand theories of will power!
"It is Phillip!" and the rapid beat of that uncontrollable organ sends the crimson flood surging over the marble brow with redoubled force.
"Pardon my coming to-night, Miss Verne. It is on a sacred mission—a solemn obligation to the dead."
Phillip Lawson's voice was husky, and his muscular frame vibrated with the depth of emotion.
Marguerite grew pale, but the young man's reassuring words brought relief.
"It is nothing to grieve for. It is somewhat unpleasant for us all, but we must not consider our feelings."
A familiar face greets the young man with a pleasing smile.
Mrs. Arnold is indeed a changed woman. She is now a true friend an honorable and honest friend.
The once peerless beauty is no longer a silly, heartless nobody, but a being with feelings, and aspirations of a higher kind; and as she stands before us much altered in appearance, with much of the former beauty gone, we can indeed rejoice that in its place is a happy, soft subdued expression that makes even the plainest face comely and fair to look upon.
"I am glad that you have come Mr. Lawson, I have been thinking of you the whole evening. I have so much to ask you about papa. It seems that I never can get him out of my mind. I can see him now looking so interested, just as he did when you happened to come to 'Sunnybank.' Oh! Mr. Lawson, will I ever cease to feel the deep remorse that is almost killing me."
"That is just the way she goes on from morning till night," exclaimed Mrs. Verne, who now entered, and extended her hand to her guest in a quiet and kindly way.
The young man was at a loss for words, and thinking it best to say nothing just then, suddenly held up the missing document.
"This is the promise I made Mr. Verne," said he, addressing himself to Mrs. Verne, then placing the letter in Marguerite's hand.
The latter glanced at the contents, and trembled violently.
Mrs. Arnold was the first to speak.
"Is it the confession of a murder, Mr. Lawson. It must be something terrible."
"Bead it for yourself," said Marguerite, awaking from her stupor.
"Truly God has watched over us from the first. Oh! mamma, think what
I have escaped."
"Hush! Marguerite. Let us never refer to the past again," said Mrs. Arnold, with a calm resignation so characteristic of the noble spirit which now actuated her.
"Phillip Lawson, you have proved the truest friend that my father ever had. You have been true to us all, and we little deserved such sacrifice. Many a time I have held you up to ridicule when I knew in my heart that you were honest and good."
Marguerite had noiselessly stolen from their midst. She was deeply overcome and nature must have its way.
"You will pardon me, Mrs. Arnold, if I give you the same advice which you thought fit for your sister—let us forget the past and live only for the present."
Phillip Lawson was somewhat agitated. A clear, steady light shone in the intellectual gray eyes, and a noble resolve was written in relief upon the generous face.
"Mrs. Verne, I have something further to say." And the young man repeated the conversation which took place when the document was brought from its resting place when Mr. Verne had invoked his last blessing upon those whose happiness was so dear to him.
"Mr. Lawson, I will also add my blessing, and may Heaven shower upon you all the happiness that such as you deserve," then taking the young man's hand and pressing it to her lips Mrs. Verne withdrew to her own room.
"Bless you, Phillip. You are all to me that a brother can be," and leaning her head against the stalwart frame Mrs. Arnold gave vent to the pent-up grief and wept like a little child.
Phillip Lawson sat for some moments after they had left the room.
His eyes were bent upon the floor and his face was grave indeed.
"Evelyn has told you all, Marguerite?" said the young man rising from his seat and approaching the spot where the girl stood smiling through her tears—like golden sunshine through an April shower.
"And I have come, Phillip."
Who can picture the joy those words gave?
"Marguerite, my own! mine forever!" exclaimed the enraptured lover pressing the maiden to his breast and impressing upon her lips such kisses as only a pure, noble-minded man can give.
Oh, the bliss of that happy betrothal hour, when two souls are forever made one—when two hearts outwardly estranged at last find the realization of their earthly bliss!
Phillip Lawson goes forth from the cosey home as the affianced husband of Marguerite Verne and with him go our heart's best wishes for a life to be crowned with all the happiness that this world can give.
Poor Mrs. Verne. She may at times have felt somewhat disappointed when she thought how surely she could have had a baronet for a son-in-law, but in charity for the woman's weakness we will forbear.
It is really wonderful how quickly news travels. Not a week had passed ere Mr. Spriggins came in with a double share of congratulation from himself and Melindy.
"I tell ye what it is Mr. Lawson, I'm ahead of Wiggins, for I've never failed in one of my prophesies. They're every one a-comin' true jest as I said," and Mr. Spriggins slapped his friend on the shoulder with a force worthy his muscular frame.
"You know I hinted about it at my weddin' and you looked sorter shy and put me off, and you had it in yer head all the time. Wal, I'm beginnin' to think men's as deceivin' as wimin."
Mr. Lawson made a few appropriate remarks and Mr. Spriggins began to think "it was nigh about time for startin'" when suddenly he jumped to his feet exclaiming, "I do believe I'd a-gone off without tellin' you the most thrillin' story that you'd ever heard. That ere thing just put me in mind of it," added he, pointing to a circular of the Dominion Safety Fund.
"I remember Miss Verne a-tellin' me that it was the best consarn in the Dominion and I do believe now she's turned out a prophet too. Now to my story (as they say in love affairs)," and giving his waistcoat a vigorous pull Mr. Spriggins resumed—
"You know them ere Wiggleses that Melindy used to be jealous of? Wal, they had a cousin, Jerushy Cursye, and she married a fellar that used to work up at Deacon Jones's. Wal, to make a long and a short of it, they were spliced and came to live on a new farm out in the backlands. Wal, sir, they had a purty tough time gettin' along for the first year or so, but Jerushy was study as a rock and made things go as far as the next one I kin tell you, and so when they were five years in the log house they began to think of gettin' up a frame house and puttin' on considerable airs; and one day I tackled Bill and says I, look here, Bill, if you want to make a good investment (a purty good word for me, Mr. Lawson)," said Moses with a wink, "I'll put you on the track."
"Good gracious! yes, Moses, says he, it seems I must have had sich a feelin' meself, for I was a-wonderin' yesterday what I could do to make Jerushy and the family sure of a good livin'."
"Safety is the word, says I, and as soon as you could say Jack Robinson, I explained the bisness, and next day Bill made an excuse to go to town and came home $1000 richer."
"That was the man you had in here about a year ago," said Mr.
Lawson, with an air of interest.
"The very one. Poor Bill! he had no notion of cheatin' the consarn, for he was hearty as a bear, but he took a cold in the woods, and gettin' bad treatment it turned to consumption, and he died in less than no time.
"Poor Jerushy took it dreadful hard, and the nabers was a wonderin' all the time how she could get along—for you know Mr. Lawson, that a farm ain't much good without a man or hired help. Wal, sir, what do you think—it was no more nor three or four days after the funeral that a letter came to inform the widder that she was to receive $1000 for her late husband's policy.
"Well, sir," exclaimed Moses, with a twinkle of the big blue eyes, "It was equal to a circus to see how the folks flocked from all parts to hear if the story was true, and I believe there was a good many of the wimin folks jealous of Jerushy's streak of luck."
The lawyer burst into a genuine and hearty laugh, then exclaimed, "Moses I am afraid that you are rather uncharitable towards the fair sex."
"Wal, now sir, because you've happened to fall heir to a terrible nice gal, you needn't think they're all angels, for they ain't by a long chalk."
Mr. Spriggins now made a stride towards the door.
"Bless me if it ain't later'n I thought. The goin' is terrible bad and Melindy will be kinder anxious, so good-bye," and the loquacious Moses made his exit in a style that might not, strictly speaking, be considered "good form."
But the postscript most be attended to in the form of a second appearance.
"I say, Mr. Lawson, when are you a-comin' out? Can't you come some Sunday, and bring Miss Verne and Miss Lottie and be sure and send us word, so as Melindy can have a fire in the best room, and a dinner fit for city folks."
"You may see us all out there some day when you least expect us," said the young man, smiling in his peculiar way.
"All right, sir! Off this time, sure. Don't forget to tell the insurance man about the nine-days' wonder up at the Crossin'," and with this parting injunction, Moses disappeared in good earnest.
An hour later, as the latter is jogging along the king's highway happy as mortal can be, Phillip Lawson is indulging in a quiet reverie beside his bright, cheerful fireside.
Though possessed of much means there is no attempt at display in the pretty tasteful cottage.
The young solicitor had too much good taste, culture, and breeding, to follow in the wake of shoddyism. He was a true gentleman, and as such he cannot take a false movement either to the right or the left.
What glorious day dreams can now be woven from the golden threads of happy thought?
Phillip Lawson is happy, indeed. He thinks of the fair maiden who hourly awaits his coming with the flush of fond expectation mantling the delicate cheek, and as he gazes upon the faithful portrait of his betrothed, murmurs, "Is there aught on earth so pure and true as thee my own—my Marguerite."
"Confiding, frank, without control,
Poured mutually from soul to soul,
As free from any fear or doubt,
As is that light from chill or stain
The sun into the stars sheds out,
To be by them shed back again."