CHAPTER XXXV.
A MINISTERING ANGEL—A SUDDEN REVELATION.
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 bear my grief, 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.