Marguerite Verne; Or, Scenes from Canadian Life Part 49

"G.o.d bless you, my precious darling. It is hard for you now, but remember ere long you will bless the hour that you promised to be my wife."

Marguerite Verne now felt the pressure of her lover's embrace and listened to his renewed protestations of love with a sad aching void at her heart which she had hitherto never felt and she dared not question herself as to the cause.

None knew it better than her affianced husband, but in the great selfishness of his nature he could look on with proud indifference and stifle his badly seared conscience with the thought that one day Marguerite would be the happier for her present choice.

Truly it may be said--

"G.o.d moves in a mysterious way."

Ah, Marguerite never once dreamt that a destiny was before her other than that she had pictured out in frightfully vivid character. She little thought that in a certain sense Hubert Tracy's predictions should come true, and that she could one day exclaim--

"How natural is joy, my heart, How easy after sorrow!

For once, the best has come that hope Promised them to-morrow."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

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 pa.s.siveness 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 "G.o.d 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 G.o.d! 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, G.o.d! 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.

"It must never be--no never," and glancing at his watch he arose and staggered to the other side of the room.

"I shall see Phillip, G.o.d helping me. I now see the error in keeping the fact from him so long, but it may be all for the best G.o.d keep us faithful."

It was well that Mr. Verne made that prayer, for his faith was growing weak, and the words gave him strength, and as he wends his way to Phillip Lawson's office, smiling upon each acquaintance that he meets, none would suspect the desperate state into which he was so suddenly plunged.

"Phillip will help me," murmured he with a hopeful gleam in his eye.

"Yes, Phillip will help me--he is my good angel, he will not forsake me now!"

Great was Mr. Verne's disappointment on hearing that the young lawyer had gone out of town on business, and would not return until the following day.

"G.o.d keep me faithful," again murmured the man, as he stole softly up to his chamber, and quietly shut himself in, giving strict orders that none be allowed to gain admission.

But how often do we deceive ourselves; how often do we find that all our plans come to naught, and we prove ourselves miserable failures--altogether unfitted to accomplish the great task we have so vainly aspired to.

Mr. Verne had a worthy project in view, but he was not equal to the effort.

A domestic of "Sunnybank" being engaged at work in the upper hall heard a faint noise in the direction of Mr. Verne's dressing room.

With feelings of alarm she ran to the spot and summoning all her courage entered and found her much respected master in a swoon his eyes wide open and his face rigid as death.

Within a few moments the entire household were trying to administer such restoratives as they deemed proper while awaiting the family physician who had been telephoned for with all haste.

When Mr. Verne gained consciousness he did not gain speech and when his physician arrived it was found that he had been prostrated by paralysis.

"It is indeed a sad case," said the venerable looking physician as he stood beside the afflicted man and read in the pa.s.sive face and benumbed limbs the story of an injured and cruelly outraged man.

It was not the first time that the sharp but kind bluish eyes looked down on such a wreck, and as they shed a silent tear we noiselessly steal away.

With the next day came the well tried friend Phillip Lawson. Sadly he stood and watched the half-conscious man. A gentle pressure of the hand was the only recognition, yet the young lawyer cherished hopes that were solely attributive to himself. "He will yet come around all right, sir?" said Phillip questioningly, but a grave shake of the h.o.a.ry head was the physician's only reply.

Mrs. Montgomery (dear good soul) had now arrived and her presence seemed to bring cheer into the house of gloom.

At intervals the patient would watch her as she flitted noiselessly in and out unceasing in her labors of love, and a faint smile would light up his pallid face as if in recognition of such devotion.

It was the hour preceding midnight and Mrs. Montgomery had been persuaded to take a few hours rest while Phillip Lawson took her place beside the bedside.

Something in the wan face arrested the watcher's attention and stooping closely down he saw that the man was trying to communicate something that was on his mind.

"Is it anything that I know of," cried Phillip in almost desperate tones; "anything that I can do for you?"

Mr. Verne gazed wildly upon him, then tried to raise his hand, but he was unable for the task, and relapsed into his former state of unconsciousness.

"I will make another trial," thought Phillip, "when he becomes himself again. Poor man! whatever it may be I'm afraid the secret will die with him," and the silent watcher was indeed sad at the thought.

The young man's reverie was indeed a painful one. It had lasted for more than an hour when he was aroused by a servant who now approached him, bearing a tray upon which was a cup of delicious coffee and some tempting cakes, which Mrs. Montgomery had thoughtfully ordered ere she sought repose.

"Such women are never half appreciated," thought Phillip as he sat over the contents of the tray wondering why it was that two sister could be of such opposite nature; then he thought of the still great difference between mother and child--Mrs. Verne and the peerless Marguerite. It were well known that he knew not of the circ.u.mstances which had been the cause of the sudden prostration.

Providence had been kind to Philip Lawson through the sacrifice of a friend, yet the former knew it not, and when he had puzzled his brains in every conceivable manner to a.s.sist Mr. Verne in communicating to him the important message, he little knew it was the hand of mercy that kept it back.

What fervent prayers went up at that bedside; what supplications to the throne of G.o.d; what anxious enquiries.

Day after day found Phillip Lawson wending his way to "Sunnybank."

What a mockery the name seemed to convey. The golden suns.h.i.+ne was afraid to enter, save by stealthy glimpses through the barred windows and closed doors.

"If Marguerite can only get here soon," said Mrs. Montgomery in impatient tones. "You know Mr. Lawson it is the only remedy. Poor man, it will either kill or cure. Poor Stephen, we must hope for the best, but I'm afraid he has seen the best of his days," and the corner of the linen handkerchief stayed the falling tears.

"Poor girl," replied the young man, "she will take it very hard, but Miss Verne is not one who will easily succ.u.mb."

"Far from it, Mr. Lawson. She has the spirit of a martyr. I am not afraid to say that Marguerite Verne would put us all to shame. Many a time I have studied her character, and each time I found some new beauties to admire."