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."