CHAPTER XXXIII.
DARK DAYS AT "SUNNYBANK."
As Marguerite received the congratulations of her friends, who can paint the suffering which the heroic maiden was trying to live through. With pallid lips and thoughtful brow she received her affianced, and permitted his endearments with a passiveness that piqued him sorely; yet he comforted himself with the thought that, like all other girls, she would soon get over it, and he would be the subject of her entire devotion.
Hubert Tracy knew full well that Marguerite had a secret recess within her heart, where was hid away a very dear picture, but he knew she was too conscientious to allow herself to look into that chamber when the step she had now taken forbade all communication.
He fully trusted her, and well he might. Marguerite had written her father informing him of her betrothal and asking for his blessing.
The letter was hopeful, and referred to the generosity of her future husband in such a manner that one not in the possession of such proof of Hubert Tracy's villainy would have gladly welcomed him with a "God bless you, my son. Take my child and keep her happy until death do you part."
Mr. Verne clutched the missive within his trembling hands and sat crouching over it an object of pity.
"My God! is it possible that my child loves the demon? Oh, heavens! am I spared to wreck her happiness as well as my own? Why did I not die ere this fatal news had reached me? It may be all for the best, but it is hard for me to bear. I must, and will, revenge the dreadful wrong done to Phillip Lawson, and I must save my child from what is worse than death! Death, did I say?" exclaimed Mr. Verne, in hysterical tones. "I could see her decked in the robes of the grave without a murmur, and strew flowers over her form without a sigh—but to give her up to that monster of deception. Oh, God! it is dreadful!" And the heart-broken man uttered a groan that would have aroused the pity of the most callous wretch that ever-breathed.
Dead silence reigned, and the affectionate spaniel looked into his master's face with a sympathetic look in his eyes, and then began to lick the weary trembling hands that were crossed upon the troubled breast.
"Poor brute, you feel for me," said Mr. Verne caressing the animal, and being aroused to a sense of feeling.