LAST WORDS.
Nothing could have delighted Mr. Clifford so much as a marriage between
Jean Merle and Phebe Marlowe. The thought of it had more than once
crossed his mind, but he had not dared to cherish it as a hope. When
Jean Merle told him that night how Phebe had consented to become his
wife, the old man's gladness knew no bounds.
"She is as dear to me as my own daughter," he said, in tremulous
accents; "and now at last I shall have her under the same roof with me.
I shall never be awake in the night again, fearing lest I should miss
her on my death-bed. I should like Phebe to hold my hand in hers as long
as I am conscious of anything in this world. All the remaining years of
my life I shall have you and her with me as my children. God is very
good to me."
But to Felix and Hilda it was a vexation and a surprise to hear that
their Phebe Marlowe, so exclusively their own, was no longer to belong
only to them. They could not tell, as none of us can tell with regard to
our friends' marriages, what she could see in that man to make her
willing to give herself to him. They never cordially forgave Jean
Merle, though in the course of the following years he lavished upon
them magnificent gifts. For once more he became a wealthy man, and stood
high in the estimation of his fellow-townsmen. Upon his marriage with
Phebe, at Mr. Clifford's request, he exchanged his foreign surname for
the old English name of Marlowe, and was made the manager of the Old
Bank. Some years later, when Mr. Clifford died, all his property,
including his interest in the banking business, was left to John
Marlowe.
No parents could have been more watchful over the interests of absent
children than he and Phebe were in the welfare of Felix and Hilda. But
they could never quite reconcile themselves to this marriage. They had
quitted England with no intention of dwelling here again, but they felt
that Phebe's shortcoming in her attachment to them made their old
country less attractive to them. She had severed the last link that
bound them to it. Possibly, in the course of years, they might visit
their old home; but it would never seem the same to them. Canon Pascal
alone rejoiced cordially in the marriage, though feeling that there was
some secret and mystery in it, which was to be kept from him as from all
the world.
Jean Merle, after his long and bitter exile, was at home again; after
crossing a thirsty and burning wilderness, he had found a spring of
living water. Yet whilst he thanked God and felt his love for Phebe
growing and strengthening daily, there were times when in brief
intervals of utter loneliness of spirit the long-buried past arose again
and cried to him with sorrowful voice amid the tranquil happiness of the
present. The children who called Phebe mother looked up into his face
with eyes like those of the little son and daughter whom he had once
forsaken, and their voices at play in the garden sounded like the echo
of those beloved voices that had first stirred his heart to its depths.
The quiet room where Felicita had been wont to shut herself in with her
books and her writings remained empty and desolate amid the joyous
occupancy of the old house, where little feet pattered everywhere except
across that sacred threshold. It was never crossed but by Phebe and
himself. Sometimes they entered it together, but oftener he went there
alone, when his heart was heavy and his trust in God darkened. For there
were times when Jean Merle had to pass through deep waters; when the
sense of forgiveness forsook him and the light of God's countenance was
withdrawn. He had sinned greatly and suffered greatly. He loved as he
might never otherwise have loved the Lord, whose disciple he professed
to be; yet still there were seasons of bitter remembrance for him, and
of vain regrets over the irrevocable past.
It was no part of Phebe's nature to inquire jealously if her husband
loved her as much as she loved him. She knew that in this as in all
other things "it is more blessed to give than to receive." She felt for
him a perfectly unselfish and faithful tenderness, satisfied that she
made him happier than he could have been in any other way. No one else
in the world knew him as she knew him; Felicita herself could never have
been to him what she was. When she saw his grave face sadder than usual
she had but to sit beside him with her hand in his, bringing to him the
solace of her silent and tranquil sympathy; and by and by the sadness
fled. This true heart of hers, that knew all and loved him in spite of
all, was to him a sure token of the love of God.
THE END.