TIME'S CHANGES--MONTAGUE ARNOLD.
Gloomy scenes are not agreeable to the general reader we will now
pass over the period when death and its inevitable sorrow
overshadowed the once festive halls of "Sunnybank."
A great change had taken place, yet when settlements had been made
the estate was in a better condition than was at first supposed. The
trustees were men of the strictest integrity, who made ample
provision for the afflicted family.
With feelings of relief and gratitude Marguerite learned that
"Sunnybank" was to be sold for the benefit of the creditors and that
a cosey little home had been provided instead.
With Mrs. Verne it was otherwise.
She went from room to room bemoaning her sad lot and wondering if
any other mortal ever had such a cross to bear. Poor woman! It was
hard to teach submission to such a spirit.
Phillip Lawson was a true comforter. He was not officious, nor was
he remiss, but had a happy faculty of being near when he was most
needed.
Marguerite was daily losing part of the disagreeable restraint which
had hitherto placed such an inseparable barrier between them, and if
at times she appeared forced and formal it was from a sense of shame
at her mother's undisguised patronage.
None could now execute Mrs. Verne's slightest wish in a manner like
Mr. Lawson, none could give such friendly advice, in fact none could
do anything but Mr. Lawson.
The pretty suburban cottage into which Mrs. Verne and Marguerite
were now removed was indeed worthy the name of home.
Its surroundings alone were sufficient proof. In summer its neat
garden front, vine-clad porch and graceful elms guarding the
gateway! But it was when one entered the inviting hall and glanced
through the several cosey rooms that the home feeling was realized.
A tasteful parlor looking out upon the garden is the spot where we
now care to linger, for seated in a familiar looking arm-chair is
Marguerite.
She is busy over a piece of Kensington work which has to be ready
for the approaching bazaar.
"It is well that I am of some service," thought the girl as she
stitched away upon the pretty designs, admiring the artistic groups
of lilies and fern leaves.
Clad in deep mourning Marguerite was striking in appearance and the
man must be a stoic indeed who could look upon her without feelings
of tender interest.
Such were Phillip Lawson's sentiments as he was ushered into her
presence.
"Miss Verne," said the latter on being seated, "I have called this
evening to convey a message from Mr. Spriggins."
"Was he in the city to-day--and gone back without calling? Well that
is too bad, for I had a message to send to Melindy; there now, that
reminds me of the Christmas cards."
"He bade me tell you that it was impossible for him to call to-day,
but that he would bring Melindy in on next Tuesday, and I suppose
from that you may expect guests for dinner."
Christmas was drawing nigh, and the "Sprigginses" were not
forgotten. Marguerite had knitted a handsome scarf to gladden the
large heart of Moses, while a pretty tidy had just been completed
for the new easy chair in Melindy's best room.
Mr. Spriggins had become a general favorite with the Vernes, and
also with Mr. Lawson. He had dined with the latter a fortnight
previous, and left brimful of gratitude and good wishes.
Mr. Lawson with all his integrity had been somewhat evasive, but
bear in mind the fact that he is doing so from a sense of duty--a
solemn obligation.
He did not inform his fair companion that Moses Spriggins had been
detained in his office for more than an hour, and that a serious
compact was entered into between the lawyer and his former client.
We will not relate the conversation that passed, but let the reader
imagine the look upon Moses' rubicund face when Mr. Lawson presented
the missing document, and made the necessary explanation as to the
means by which it came into his possession.
"It is a miracle, nuthin' more nor less," exclaimed Moses, his eyes
dancing with delight.
"Things are a-turnin' out jest as I expected. Wal, I do believe I'll
beat that ere Dr. Wiggins yet! Pity he wa'nt a Kings County feller
too!"
"But Queens is a pretentious county. She must not be set aside,
Moses," said the solicitor laughing.
"Wal, there's another subject I have to prophesy on, but I s'pose as
your a modest sort o' chap will hold my tongue. (It was no later'n
last night Melindy was a-tellin' mother I was too long tongued), and
I was only sayin' a word or two about some little family matters.
Wal, I'll keep dark a little bit longer," while Mr. Spriggins gave a
very significant glance towards Mr. Lawson, and enveloping himself
in his home-made ulster went forth to "bide his time."
And now, while Marguerite is striving to be happy and make others
happy, attending to the wants of the needy and awaiting with anxious
solicitude the arrival of the English mail, we turn to a darker and
sadder picture.
* * * * *
"For God's sake don't let them carry me off body and soul! Ah, they
hiss at me with their venomous tongues! Yes! yes, they are crawling
over me! They are sucking the blood in my brain! Evelyn, come to me!
I will not send you away again. Oh, take me out of this fire! I'm
burning! Oh God, I'm burning to death!"
Such were the incoherent ravings of the shabbily clad creature who
had been found lying in a gutter at the end of a street leading to
an alley in which were several notorious gambling dens.
Like the parable of the Levite and Samaritan many "had passed by on
the other side," but there are good Samaritans at the present day
and one came in the form of an elderly gentleman with locks of hoary
hair and a benign yet sad expression of countenance. He is
accompanied by a sweet-faced woman and a delicate looking child with
flaxen curls and eyes of heavenly blue.
"Stay Clarice, we must see who he is, or why he is here," said the
old gentleman putting the child in the care of a friend and
hastening to the scene with the agility of youth.
"That man was thrown out of that farthest tavern there, sir," said a
raw-boned youth, who was standing with his eyes and month open
awaiting further developments of the case then before him.
"The same old story, father. They encouraged him until the last
farthing is gone, and then he is turned out to die. Oh! how
horrible," and the woman laid her hand upon her father's arm as if
wishing to get away from the sad and cruel sight.
"He was once a gentleman, sir," said the youth with the air of one
who knew much of the affairs of the neighborhood, and was anxious to
impress the bystanders.
The old gentleman beckoned to a couple of policemen, and thus armed
made his way to the infamous den.
The grey hairs and reverential mien pleaded more than the most
honeyed words, and within a short time all necessary information was
obtained. Amid shrieks and groans, Montague Arnold was placed in a
cab and conveyed to a public hospital, and the good, old Samaritan
went on his way happy in the thought of having done his duty.
Nor did he rest here.
On the following day, after having made inquires as to the
unfortunate man's condition, he set forth to find the destitute and
unhappy wife. Five or six hours search in a wretched tenement
habitation, and a sad scene presented itself.
After climbing the third flight of rickety stairs the old gentleman
sees a shabbily dressed woman, and as he glances at the surroundings
his soul sickens. All is drear and desolate. The apartment is cold,
and a few coals seem trying to keep a little glow that the poor
creature may not succumb to the pitiless element.
Some coarse shirts are lying upon the rude table--it is the same old
song which Hood made immortal:--
"Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread
A shroud as well as a shirt."
"Do not fear madam, I am no bailiff. I have come to bring you to
your husband," said the old gentleman in trembling accents. "Oh
spare me, dear sir! I never wish to see his face again! His brutal
treatment has left me as you now see--this wretched hole and these
dry morsels! Oh God! did I ever think this would be my sad fate!"
Who could recognize in this wretched-looking creature any semblance
to the peerless proud beauty--Evelyn Verne.
Ah, surely the proud soul must have passed through the waters of
much tribulation--surely she is humbled in the very dust.
"I cannot go, sir. Oh no, I cannot go!" exclaimed the woman in
piteous accents, covering her face as if to shut out the sight of
human sympathy.
"Listen to me, madam," said the old gentleman in his soft touching
way, and then the humiliated woman heard a tale of woe that entered
deeply into her soul.
What a change those words had wrought--such a change as mortal can
scarcely dream of!
"I will go with you, sir," said Evelyn with tears streaming, down
her cheeks.
As she glanced at her threadbare garments a feeling of embarrassment
was visible upon her emaciated face, but it was momentary.
The good old man led the way and Evelyn followed, but at respectful
distance, and as the frowning edifice rose above them what mortal
could have withheld pity for the almost demented creature!
"If Marguerite could see me now! And Phil Lawson whom I once
despised. Ah, now he is a prince indeed. I honor him above men!"
What sentiments for Evelyn Verne! Why such sentiments? One of God's
messengers has at last struck the missing chord and awakened a flood
of divine melody more acceptable to the quiring hosts than the lays
of measured song.
"This way, my child," says a benign matron in a kind and sympathetic
voice, and Mrs. Arnold stands gazing upon the sadly bloated face of
her husband.
"Eve, you have come! I am not deserving of such kindness--but it is
nearly over now, I shall trouble you no longer. Oh, if I could undo
the dreadful past what a different life I would lead!"
"Hush, Montague! we have both been to blame. Not more than an hour
ago I could have cursed you with my whole heart, but now I trust in
God that I am a different being."
The old gentleman had remained in the hall but was now summoned to
the bedside where he learned the sad story of the wreck of two human
lives.
"I was selfish and wayward; heartless and cruel. Many wrongs
have been encouraged because it was all right in the eyes of the
hollow-hearted fashionable world. Oh! society! you have much to
answer for!"
Mrs. Arnold broke down completely, and gave way to heart-rending
sobs.
"Let her weep," thought the old man, "It will do her good."
Montague Arnold now raised himself upon the pillow, but the effort
was too much, and he sank back exhausted, murmuring, "It will not be
long."
"Oh! Montague! my husband," exclaimed the woman, rushing wildly to
his bedside, and putting her arm around his neck, "Oh! my husband,
you must not die. We will began life anew, and each hour atone for
the past."
"Let us thank a merciful Saviour that atonement has been made both
for you and me, Evelyn."
"How came my husband to realize such a change," asked the
grief-smitten wife, gazing sadly into the old man's face.
"The good Chaplain remained with him nearly all night, and on
passing my house this morning came to tell us that the dying man had
indeed become truly penitent."
"Thank God!" was the fervent reply.
Evelyn was now left alone with her husband, and she knew that it was
impossible for him to live many days. She strove to smooth his dying
pillow, and give all the consolation that lay within her power.
It was indeed a sad but tender sight to notice the wistful gaze of
the still lustrous eyes, the hectic flush of the wan cheek, and to
listen to the spasmodic cough which spoke too plainly that hasty
consumption had sought out its victim with unerring aim.
The physician on going his daily round now entered the ward with a
look of sympathy in his kindly face, and as he glanced at the
careworn creature seated in a corner, felt a sudden pang shoot
through his generous heart.
Another day dawned and Montague Arnold was yet on this side of the
grave.
Evelyn went to and from the old lodging, with a firmer step yet with
an aching void at her heart.
Why did I not see my folly ere it was too late? Ah! mothers, why not
educate your daughters to be sensible beings? But why do I speak
now? It is too late! and drawing her shawl close to keep out the
winter's wind the woman pressed on amid the surging tide of
humanity, pressing against hearts, perhaps, heavy, as her own!
"Is it an apparition," thought Mrs. Arnold, as she stood for a
moment to gaze upon a lovely child, standing besides her husband's
cot.
It was surely an angel in disguise sent to cheer his last moments.
A bouquet of choice flowers shed a delightful fragrance. They are
the gift of the child.
"This is too sad a place for such innocence," murmurs the invalid,
taking the bouquet and pressing it to his lips.
"Lalia is accustomed to such scenes, Mr. Arnold, I take her with me
on my daily rounds, that she may see the sorrows of humanity, and I
trust she will never grow so selfish as not to feel for them too."
"May you receive the greatest reward," cried the wretched Evelyn.
"Ah! much promise is in store for your child."
The little one glided toward the speaker, and putting the tiny white
arms around her neck, impressed a warm kiss upon the quivering lips.
"Good-bye, Lalia! When you grow to be a woman wear this for my
sake," and Montague Arnold took from his finger an old-fashioned
ring--the gift of his dying mother.
The child looked at the precious relic, as if it were too sacred
to touch. Then spoke her thanks through the soft dreamy eyes--
beautiful as an Italian sky.
"Good-bye, Lalia," and the child went forth with a sadness prophetic
that from these icy lips those words were the last she would ever
hear.
And the child was right. On the following day as the sun was sinking
in the west, Montague Arnold was sinking into his last slumber.
Respiration became difficult, and his words were almost inaudible.
As his wife knelt beside him, and clasped the cold hands within her
own, she tried hard to appear calm.
"You forgive all, Eve?"
A kiss upon the rigid lips was the silent but expressive answer.
A fervent "God Almighty bless you," a faint sigh and Montague Arnold
had sought another and we trust a better home.
Mrs. Arnold is truly a widow in a strange land, yet He who is the
husband of the widow has not forsaken her. The aged gentleman, his
dutiful daughter and the lovely Lalia have given her the warmest
sympathy, and taken her to their snug and cosey home.
Only a few weeks had passed away since Evelyn had written
Marguerite, but how much had transpired in that time? It was when
she had received a second letter that the thought occurred that she
had been remiss.
"Marguerite, sweet girl! she will never knew what I have suffered,"
and with these words upon her lips Mrs. Arnold sat down and penned
as much of her sad story as she then thought fit to confide.
"That is all," murmured the writer folding up the blurred page and
addressing the letter. Then for the first time since the days of her
happy, sunny childhood Evelyn Arnold took up a neatly bound
Testament. She had an indistinct remembrance of something concerning
the prodigal son and now wished to know for herself.
The sad, pathetic picture soon possessed a charm and the story was
read over many times ere the volume was laid aside.
"Thank God," mused the reader and the words were wafted aloft until
they reached the
----"Kingly palace gate;
With frontispiece of diamond and of gold
Embellished."