CHAPTER XXII.
AN INSIGHT INTO MR. VERNE'S AFFAIRS.
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."