GRATITUDE.
We will now direct attention to our much esteemed friend, Phillip
Lawson, who has much to be grateful for. He hourly thanks his Maker
for the great mercies received at His hands.
"Let them fall into other hands than mine. It would do no good. Poor
wretches, I envy them not their ill-gotten gains. There is a day of
reckoning, and may God cleanse their guilty souls." Such were the
lawyer's remarks as he sat alone in his office with a heavy load off
his mind.
He had just returned from witnessing Marguerite Verne's departure,
and he felt calm and content.
Mr. Verne had accompanied the young man to his door and left with
many kind invitations for "Sunnybank."
How comforting was his kind, cheery voice and his parting: "Now
don't fail to drop in often, for I shall be very lonely, indeed."
Mr. Verne is a thorough gentleman and true friend, thought Phillip,
as he turned over the last half-hour's conversation. "How thoughtful
to explain Marguerite's failure to see me last evening." Then a
slight frown settled upon the broad brow, showing that some
disagreeable subject had in turn claimed the young lawyer's
thoughts.
"Perhaps she may be better than I give her credit for. Are there any
of us perfect?" Then musing for a few minutes he arose, the poet's
words recurring to his mind--
"The best of what we do, and are,
Just God, forgive."
On opening the daily mail the color rose upon Phillip Lawson's
cheek, and his fingers became tremulous as he seized a letter
showing the unsteady chirography of Hubert Tracy.
"I will never open it," he thought, and instantly the missive lay a
mass of shreds in the waste basket. "'Out of evil good may come.'
Hubert Tracy has taught me to be more grateful to the God who has
done so much for me."
"Keep your temper, old boy," murmured the young man afresh as his
eyes ran over the next letter--one dated from Winnipeg.
"To the flames I consign thee", said he, lighting a match and
holding the provoking article over it until it was consumed.
"Halloo! I smell brimstone here. Suppose you're practising so it
won't be so hard on you when the time comes?" cried a genial, hearty
voice from the open door.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Montgomery," said the occupant, offering a
seat to his visitor.
"How are all my friends at 'Gladswood'?"
"Have hardly time to tell you, for I'm in a hurry. I promised to
meet several of the sports at Breeze's Corner. We are going out to
Moosepath: but this will explain everything, and more too," cried
Mr. Montgomery, producing a neat-looking note, and passing it to the
young lawyer, making a hasty exit to meet said horsemen friends from
Sussex and the city.
"I shall go to-morrow and stay over Sunday, at any rate," said Mr.
Lawson to himself when he had gleaned the contents Of Jennie
Montgomery's note.
It was just what was necessary to the lawyer's existence. A day or
two at "Gladswood" was panacea for almost any ill that flesh was
heir to.
The self-reliant matron, with her healthful, stimulating advice, and
the bright, merry-hearted girl with her vigorous and true resolve,
were indeed incentives of good, and none could fully realize the
fact more than the young lawyer. He always went away from
"Gladswood" with a high and lofty purpose and firm resolve to tread
the path of duty.
And this occasion proved no exception.
Jennie Montgomery's happy face would put to shame the most
inveterate grumbler. Her buoyant spirits were infectious. Her
ringing, merry laugh was cheering to the highest degree.
The sprightly maiden in her neat muslin frock and broad hat trimmed
with freshly-plucked marguerites was a fit model of the fair
daughters of Kings County, and it was no wonder that many of the
villagers predicted that "the young gentleman from the city must
surely be payin' attention to Miss Montgomery."
Three days at "Gladswood"! What a world of thought it conveys--
three days to revel among the beautiful glades and linger among the
bewitching groves of graceful elm and tasselled pine! to hear the
lowing of herds and the music of the winged songsters blended in one
exquisite harmony.
Yes, devotees of the world, who build upon the style of your
neighbor's dress or equipage and trifle away God's precious moments
in silly show and vain trumpery, go to the retreats at "Gladswood,"
follow Phillip Lawson in his daily rounds, and if you will not, like
him, feel your heart expand and seek aspirations of a higher mould--
a something which gives comfort each breath you draw, each word you
utter and each thought you frame!--then, we will make bold to say,
your heart is irrevocably sealed beyond recall.
Cousin Jennie was shrewd and witty. She knew how to act that she
might afford the least embarrassment to her guest.
For hours her guest was allowed to roam at his own desire, and felt
not the pressure of conventional restriction.
Mr. Lawson was gallant in the true sense of the word, but he was no
empty-headed fop, paying that amount of overdue attention to the
fair, which, at times, becomes a bore and a pest.
It had been arranged that a small pic-nic party should relieve the
quiet of the third day, and a jolly pic-nic it was. There was mirth
enough to last for a month. Jennie's companions had mustered _en
masse_. Groups of merry, rollicking youths and bright-eyed
maidens lent a charm to the scene, and reminded one of the revels
held in classic groves, when each sylvan deity, at a blast of her
silver horn, made the wood resound with the voices of her myriads of
subjects.
As the sayings and doings of all pic-nics are much in common it
would be wasting time to describe the one at "Gladswood."
"All went merry as a marriage bell."
The sun was sinking in the west in all its glory--a blaze of living
gold. The purple tops of the distant hills were enchanting and stood
as huge sentinels of the scene below.
"Come here, Mr. Lawson," cried Jennie Montgomery, in breathless
suspense. "Is not that grand? This is a sight I have been wishing
for. Just look."
Mr. Lawson was truly a lover of nature, and his profound admiration
excited her.
"I never stand here without thinking of Marguerite," exclaimed the
girl, vehemently; "she would sit upon that bowlder and gaze around
until I would think that she had lost her senses. I believe if any
being has a soul for the beautiful it is cousin Marguerite."
The young man looked down from his proud eminence and encountered
the fixed gaze of his companion. That look gave anxiety. A painful
silence was the only reply, and both gazed upon the panorama before
them for fully five minutes before the girl spoke.
"I can never forgive my cousin Evelyn for forcing Madge away. We all
knew it was against her wishes that she went."
How comforting those words to Phillip Lawson's ear.
"Mr. Lawson," said Jennie, coming close to his side, "I am not going
to hide my feelings any longer. You are a very dear friend and must
have my confidence."
The young man's looks were proof of the girl's words. His face
reflected thought sublime as Aeschylus, beautiful as Sophocles, and
pathetic as Euripides!
"Thank you, Jennie," was the reply, and the eyes had a far-off look
that went to the girl's heart.
"You are going to-morrow, Mr. Lawson, and I may not have another
such opportunity."
It was then that the beauty of the maiden's nature shone
resplendently, showering scintillations of pure native goodness that
forever sparkled as sunshine and cheered the rugged path of Phillip
Lawson's life!
A crimson flush momentarily suffused Jennie Montgomery's face, then
she became pale and agitated.
"Mr. Lawson!" she exclaimed, "I love my cousin dearly, and I grieve
for her more than I can tell you."
The young man's face blanched under the effect of the girl's tones,
but he made no reply.
"Forgive me if I weary you, but I seem to feel in you a friend--one
in whom I find sympathy."
"Trust me fully, Jennie, I will try to be all that you think me."
Phillip Lawson's earnest tones went straight to the girl's heart,
and tremulously she continued:
"Mr. Lawson, you have not been a frequent visitor at my Uncle
Verne's without seeing much to condemn in my worldly aunt. I know it
is wrong to judge, but I cannot help it. I cannot help judging the
motive of Aunt Verne--indeed I cannot."
The listener had fixed his eyes upon the huge trunk of a venerable
oak tree covered with a luxuriant growth of velvety moss.
"I really cannot feel kindly towards cousin Evelyn, for she has
ruled with an iron rod, and she is so wily that Auntie thinks her
every action something perfect. Now, Mr. Lawson," said Jennie, with
greater earnestness, "Mrs. Arnold is determined that Marguerite
shall marry that unprincipled Mr. Tracy, and the thought makes me
sick. I loathe him--he is almost as contemptible as Mr. Montague
Arnold."
Mr. Lawson knew not what to say. A struggle was going on within.
Would he reveal the plot to the truthful girl and ask her
assistance--or would he let the secret die with himself and perhaps
see the lovely Marguerite become a victim to the merciless trio?
The girl knew not what was passing in her companion's, mind, and the
latter felt sadly puzzled. He durst not meet the gaze of the
thoughtful brown eyes, but found words to reply:
"You put me in a strange place, Jennie; but I know it is from a
sense of right that you speak."
"Mr. Lawson, I appeal to your manhood to help me. I want to save
Marguerite, and _you_ alone can do it."
The girl's manner was vehement. Tears glistened in her eyes, and the
pathetic nature of the appeal visibly affected Phillip Lawson.
He stood for a moment as if in a study. Had the girl in any way
found out the plot? Could it be possible? What did she mean that he
alone could save her?
"Mr. Lawson, I can be a friend when charity demands one; trust me;
perhaps I am too bold--but it is my regard for both that forces me.
Mr. Lawson, you love Marguerite Verne. It is in your power to make
her happy, and oh!" cried the girl, seizing the hard, strong hand,
"Mr. Lawson, promise me that you will do it."
The young lawyer held the girl's hand tenderly, yea, as that of a
dear sister, then raised it to his lips--
"God bless you, Jennie," cried he, fervently, "I only wish it was in
my power to do so; but Marguerite Verne is as far above me as the
heavens above the earth."
"Believe me, Mr. Lawson, you are the only one towards whom my cousin
gives a thought."
"She treats me always as a friend, and at times more as a brother,"
said the young man abstractedly.
"Phillip Lawson, keep this secret as you value your soul," cried
Jennie, clutching the lawyer by the wrist in an excited manner, and
lowering her voice to a whisper--
"Marguerite loves you as she will never love another. It is
sacrilege to watch every movement and steal the secret from every
breath she drew, but love prompted me and I did it, and I feel that
I am not doing wrong in revealing it."
"God grant it, my true-hearted girl--yet I dare not trust myself to
think of it. I love Marguerite Verne as no other man living can, yet
she may never know it. She may one day be wedded to another, and
live a life as far from mine as it is possible for circumstances to
make it. Yet her image will always be sacred to my memory, and no
other woman will ever hold a place in my heart. The sprig of cedar
which one day fell unobserved from her corsage, I shall treasure up
as a priceless relic. Yes, truly, I live for thee, my peerless
Marguerite."
"If Cousin Marguerite could only hear those words," thought Jennie.
"Why have the winged winds no mercy? why do they not hurl down the
great sounding board which separates these two beings and transmit
those valued sounds to the ear, where they shall fall as music from
the spheres!"
"Jennie, as a friend, I ask you to solemnly promise that what has
passed between us shall never be unearthed again--let it be buried
deep in the grave of lost hopes."
"I shall make no such promise, Phillip Lawson; but I promise that I
will never place you in an unworthy position. I will never utter one
sentence that will compromise your dignity as a gentleman. Will you
trust me?"
"I will trust you in anything, my noble girl," said Phillip in tones
of deep reverence.
"You know that my Uncle Verne's interest in you is real--he is your
friend," said Jennie, trying hard to brighten the path of her
friend's existence.
"Thank God for it," said the lawyer. "Indeed I have much to be
grateful for. Jennie, some day I may tell you more: at present my
lips are sealed."
"Your sense of honor is too high for the nineteenth century, Mr.
Lawson; yet I would not have you otherwise."
The girl was mechanically picking to pieces the white petals of
bright-eyed marguerites and strewing the ground beside her.
"You ruthless vandal! look at your work, Miss Montgomery," exclaimed
a bright romping miss of fifteen, bursting upon them without regard
to ceremony and pointing to the ground where lay the scattered
petals.
"But it is romantic, you know; one always reads of some beautiful
maiden picking roses to pieces to hide the state of her feelings."
"Thank you, Miss Laura, for your well-timed allusion, for Miss
Montgomery and I have been romancing indeed," said Mr. Lawson,
bowing to the young miss with an air of deferential homage.
"It will all come right yet," said Jennie, pressing her friend's
hand with the tenderness of a sister.
The young man smiled sadly, murmuring: "'It will all come out
right.' How those words seem to mock me--'it will all come out
right.'"