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Marguerite Verne

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MARGUERITE VERNE;

OR:

SCENES FROM CANADIAN LIFE.

BY

RE. AGATHA ARMOUR.




CHAPTER I.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.


"Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New Year blithe and bold, my friend
Comes up to take his own."--_Tennyson_.

New Year's Eve in the fair city of St. John, that queenly little
city which sits upon her rocky throne overlooking the broad expanse
of bay at her feet.

Reader, we do not wish to weary you with the known, but love for our
own dear New Brunswick is surely sufficient apology.

It is one of the feelings of human nature to be possessed with a
desire to worship the great and titled, to become enamoured with
those appendages, which are the symbols of social distinction. Let
us consider how we, as a people, are privileged. Is there any
grander title this side of Heaven than found in these words, "I am a
British subject," and next "I am a New Brunswicker"? You who have
travelled have often felt your hearts rebound when listening to the
eulogiums passed upon our country and its gifted sons through the
medium of the pulpit, the platform and the press. "He is a New
Brunswick boy." Ah, those words are sufficient to inspire us with
thoughts ennobling, grand and elevating. There are to be found
growlers in every clime, and it is only such that will desert their
fatherland and seek refuge under foreign skies. We have liberty,
right, education, refinement and culture in our midst; we have a
good government, noble reforms, and all advantages to make us good
and happy. Then let us cherish every right and institution which
makes our beloved New Brunswick the pride of its loyal people. It is
such feeling which prompts this work, and if the different scenes
throughout the province which we will endeavor to portray, the
usages of society, custom, &c., and the few characters introduced
from real life, meet your approbation, our highest expectation will
be realized.

Now back to our fair city.

On this New Year's Eve the moon was holding high carnival. Wrapped
in a costume of silvery radiance, she was displaying her charms to
the busy throng beneath with all the coquetry she could summon, to
her aid, darting quick glances at youths and maidens, and by
covert smiles bringing even the middle-aged man of business to her
feet. The air is also influenced by her wooing, and is inclined to
be less severe than some hours earlier. Floods of light are
radiating King Square, giving even to its leafless trees a charm
of softness and effect. Pedestrians are going to and fro, while
several halt in the vicinity of the fountain to smoke their pipes
and discuss the news of the day. Presently a quick step is heard
approaching, and a trim little figure greets us, wrapped in a
fur-lined cloak, which, despite its ungainliness, cannot conceal
the grace of the wearer. As the maiden casts a passing glance we
are impressed by the sweet purity of her face--a face that will
stamp its image upon more than one heart, and leave memories that
cannot be forgotten.

Such was Marguerite Verne as we now attempt to introduce her in the
fond hope that others will see her as we do.

"Marguerite," exclaimed the child who had overtaken her as she
reached the pavement in front of the Royal Hotel, "Marguerite I am
tired running, I thought I never would get up to you. Golly, how you
do streak along!"

"Charlie Verne, you naughty boy," returned the girl as she
confronted her pet brother, his childish face aglow with the late
exercise, "I thought you were going to keep house with Winnie?'

"So I was," said the boy, eyeing his sister closely to watch the
effect of his speech, "but the Listers have arrived and I had to run
and tell you."

At this announcement Marguerite Verne could scarce repress a hearty
laugh and her large, deep violet eyes sparkled, and from their
changing expressions exhibited such variety of shade that one would
scarce venture to say which was the original one.

A deeper tinge now rested upon the purely oval cheek as the girl
returned the recognition of a thoughtful-looking young man who had
the air and manner of one possessed with more common sense than
generally falls to the lot of the young men courted by the _creme
de la creme_.

"Miss Verne, I see that you too are bent upon enjoying this glorious
evening; the old year is going out in all its serenity."

"Yes indeed, Mr. Lawson; the old year is dying with all the true
greatness that characterizes its life; it has left nothing undone,
and if we have failed to garner up its hours sacredly, to us--not
it--we lay the blame."

"True indeed; but how little do we think of those lessons until they
are beyond reach. We make grand resolutions on each New Year, but
how often do they go to the winds ere the first week has passed
around."

Phillip Lawson's words took an earnest tone and his manner was
earnest also. His rich, deep voice found its way far down in the
maiden's heart; but she would not allow herself to think so. She
would not acknowledge to herself that the restless emotions within
her heart were other than a passing thought to a very dear friend!
She must not see that Phillip Lawson, in his gifted, manly
character, was her hero of all that was good and true, and that his
was the nature by which she tested others.

As the foregoing remarks turned into a lengthy conversation
Marguerite scarcely heeded that Trinity chimed out the hour of nine
when the trio turned their steps homeward, Master Charlie forming an
advance guard, and making the air resound with all the hilarity at
his command when he came in friendly contact with some of his
"fellers" as he expressed himself.

When Marguerite bade good night to her companion and stood for a
moment in the hallway watching the retreating figure, we will not
disclose her thoughts, but will follow her to the drawing-room,
where "the Listers" are marshalled _en masse_ awaiting her
return.

"Marguerite, you darling!" exclaimed the eldest Miss Lister rushing
forward and embracing the former in a manner that was more
demonstrative than conventional, but was accepted with the best of
grace, notwithstanding there was to be a repetition four times in
succession.

Mrs. Lister was a distant cousin of Mr. Verne, and having six
marriageable daughters on hand, had recourse to much diplomacy in
the way of matrimonial speculations. For several years she had been
in the habit of spending the New Year with the Verne family, each
year adding one more eligible, until she has now the happy six.

It had ever been the boast of Mrs. Lister that she had attended
boarding school, and carried off several prizes for her classic
ability; and in order to establish the fact, had named her six
daughters after six of the Muses. Clio, the eldest, inherited the
largest part of her mother's ability.

The former often regretted that three unruly boys came to interrupt
the succession of the classic nine.

But all this addition of inspiration at this festive season did not
_inspire_ the Verne family with any such high-toned sentiments
as might have been expected.

"Marguerite Verne," explained the haughty Evelyn, the imperious
first-born of the family, "you are enough to drive anyone
distracted! How can you submit so tamely to being bored to death by
such pests? Indeed, Aunt Hester with all her wisdom is preferable to
that empty headed woman and her muses."

Marguerite had retired to her own room. She was sitting at a small
ebony writing desk, jotting down a few thoughts in her diary When
her sister entered, but now arose and drew forth a luxurious
arm-chair for the imperious beauty to recline in.

"If worrying myself to death would do me any good, I might try it
too, Evelyn; but as it does not, I try to make the best of it."

"There you are again, with your philosophical ideas. I must expect
nothing else from one who cares so little for the opinions of
others, and lives only in sight of all the old half-crazed poets and
fanatics of the Dark Ages."

Marguerite durst not look toward the speaker, lest her quizzical
expression might heap further assault upon her; so she sat quietly
regarding a favorite print that hung over the mantelshelf. After a
few moments silence, Evelyn drew herself up haughtily and arose to
go, when Marguerite felt a rising sensation in her throat, and
instantly rushed into her sister's arms. "Eve, dearest, I know you
are disappointed in not going out this evening, and I am sorry; can
you not believe me?"

Evelyn Verne was a beauty--beautiful as an houri, imperial as
Cleopatra, but merciless as a De Medicis. She was a true woman of
the world; self was the only shrine at which she worshipped; and if
indeed she could feel a momentary sympathetic chord, surely
Marguerite was the cause. The piercing black eyes send forth a flash
that is electrifying, then fix themselves upon her companion. She is
perhaps struggling between pride and duty, and it costs her a heavy
sacrifice. As she gazes upon that sweet, soulful face she is almost
tempted to become a nobler and better being; but the world has too
heavy a hold upon her, and slightly pressing a kiss upon
Marguerite's cheek, she takes leave without saying another word. As
the latter listens to the rustle of the silken train through the
spacious hall and stairway, she heaves a deep sigh, and once more
seats herself beside her desk. On the pages of the little book she
pens thoughts worthy of such a soul, and worthy of the memorable
eve--worthy of the dying moments of the year which had been her
friend, her comforter and her hope. She could look back without many
regrets. The hours had not been misspent, and she could say: "Old
Year, I used you well. Now that you are nearly gone I will not
regret, but try, with God's help, to welcome in your child."

Marguerite sat thus while the clock struck twelve, when she buried
her face in her hands and remained in thoughtful silence--a feeling
too reverential for words, as something too sacred for intruding
upon.

And now the New Year had been welcomed in. The moon, in all her
majesty, witnessed the solemn pageant; and unseen choristers wafted
the tidings from pole to pole.

"Another year," murmured Marguerite, as she gently raised the
casement and looked out upon the beauty of the scene. Queen Square,
studded with tributes to the Loyalists, was peaceful as the grave.
Beyond was the calm, blue water of the harbor; while here and there
a white sail upon its bosom added to the effect. Peace reigns over
the city, and the lights have at last disappeared from the Verne
mansion. Let us take the liberty to mention a few facts that may be
necessary ere we proceed further.

The Vernes belonged to a genteel and respectable family. They did
not lay claim to an aristocratic ancestry, but for generations could
reckon on a spirit of proud independence and honest worth. Mr. Verne
was a man of honor and sound principles in every sense of the word;
and he always tried to inculcate those principles in the minds of
his children. If he daily saw in his first-born traits of character
which he openly condemned and censured, there stood in bold relief
upon his heart the pure, high and noble character of his delicate
Marguerite. Nor was he to be disappointed in the younger scions of
the family. Fred. Verne was a noble, manly boy of fifteen, and gave
promise of being a good and upright citizen; while the precocious
Charlie, despite the daily amount of spoiling received in the
domestic circle, was a clever little fellow, as ready with an answer
as he was ready for his daily supply of chocolate caramels.

Mr. Verne had married when very young, and was still in the prime of
manhood. He was not handsome; but an intelligent, open countenance
was the most pleasing attraction in his face. One could look upon
him the second time without a feeling of dislike or even
indifference.

But there is another important personage of whom we must make
mention--the mistress of the Verne mansion. She is, to say it in as
few words as possible, an out-and-out woman of the world--one who
never says or does anything without considering what will be the
world's opinion of her, and one who never says or does anything
unless there be some selfish motive at the bottom of it; one who
lives only for the gratification of her own selfish ends, so far as
her friends and family are concerned, and whose chief delight is
show, display and social greatness.

It may be said that when Mr. Verne married his child-wife, who had
been petted and spoiled by her elders, he made much allowance for
her daily short-comings, and fondly hoped that he might bend the
impulsive nature to his will; but when he saw the great mistake he
had made, he calmly bowed his head in submission to the decrees of
fate, and labored more diligently to set a good example before his
children. When vainly remonstrating with his wife, upon the
increasing gaiety into which she plunged so wildly, he always found
encouragement from the sympathetic Marguerite; and when retired from
the noise and din of the drawing-room, his favorite amusement was a
game of chess, with the latter for partner. It was then that
Marguerite's deep violet eyes would sparkle and her face glow with
enthusiasm, as she followed her father through the mazes of the
game, and her clear silvery laughter had more charm than the
ravishing strains of the most brilliant fantasia.

Surrounded by the _elite_ of the city of St. John, Evelyn Verne
was courted by the rich, the gay and the distinguished. It was the
sole end of Mrs. Verne's existence that her daughters should make
grand matches. For this purpose she entered upon a career which we
intend to pursue through all its straight and crooked paths, hoping
in the sequel to impart the sad but profitable lesson!




CHAPTER II.

SUNNYBANK.


Sunnybank, the stately residence of the Vernes, is indeed an
imposing structure. Its towering form and massive appearance mark it
as one of the noblest piles in St. John. Its costly windows,
reflecting all the colors of the rainbow; its solid brick walls,
stone pillars and grand entrance, bespeak it the home of wealth and
affluence. Even the solid brick pavement leading from the main
gateway to the terrace marks the substantial tone of the edifice,
and impresses one with the stability of its owner. And the statuary,
seen from the highway, denotes the taste displayed in the vestibule,
with its floor of tesselated pavement, echoing to the tread of
footsteps as the corridors of some grand old cathedral.

It is now our privilege to be introduced to the interior, and we
make good use of our opportunity while mingling with its guests.

On this clear wintry evening as we are ushered into the Verne
drawing-room with its beautifully-frescoed wall and rare painting a
pretty sight is presented to our view. Seated at the piano is
Marguerite, who is singing a quaint little ballad for the benefit of
a company of children gathered at her feet. She is evidently their
queen, as the sly glances at the happy-faced maiden are ever
increasing to be repaid by the sweetest of smiles. Evelyn Verne
appeared in a heavy garnet silk with bodice and draperies of the
same shade in velvet. Her elbow sleeves reveal arms that would
rival in miniature those of the master-piece of Phidias--the
Pallas Athena--which graced the Parthenon in by-gone ages.
Her hair, of purplish blackness, gives effect to the creamy tints
of her complexion, and heightens the damask tinge of the
beautifully-rounded cheeks. One glance at this magnificent looking
form and you are victimized by her charms; you cast a side glance
towards the childish-looking girl at the piano, and you will only
pronounce her passing fair. Beauty is beauty, and will charm while
the world goes on, and while we are endowed with that sense which,
in general, has outweighed all others; but in most cases we are,
in the end, taught that the beauty of the soul will wear until time
is no more, and the beauty that fades is a thing of the past!

"Evelyn, dearest, if Paris had now to decide between the goddesses,
he certainly would have awarded you the golden apple," exclaimed the
first muse, who never let an opportunity slip to display her
knowledge of mythology.

"What nonsense you talk, Clio!" returned Evelyn, whose heightened
color betrayed the insincerity of her speech.

Urania Lister, "the Fifth Muse," as Fred. Verne had dubbed her, now
entered from the conservatory, and throwing aside a scarlet wrap,
also joined in the conversation. She was a slight creature, with
some pretension to good looks; but there was a sort of languor in
her manner that disappointed one ere she had uttered half a dozen
sentences. In order to sustain the character her name suggested, she
was continually soaring into immensity of space and deducing
celestial problems for the uninitiated _habitant_ of this lower
sphere. It was when Urania had taken one of her upper flights into
empyrean air that the fond mother would exclaim: "If Galileo were
alive to-day I believe he could get ideas from my dear Urania."

But to return to the drawing-room.

The children have been dismissed to their homes, and Charlie
consigned to the limits of his own apartments. A slight bustle is
heard in the hall, and presently two visitors are duly announced by
a servant in waiting. A smile of satisfaction beamed on the
countenance of the anxious Mrs. Lister as she eyed the two young
gentlemen on their being introduced to her three daughters, and in
less time than it would be possible to conceive, she was
consummating two brilliant matches for the ancient-looking Clio and
the celestial Urania.

Be it said for this lady's benefit, and by way of explanation, she
had consigned three of the muses to "dear papa," and kept the three
most eligible under the shadow of her wing.

While the devoted parent is weaving all manner of bright visions,
she resolves that practice be not sacrificed to theory, and
commences by a skilful contrivance to expatiate upon the ability and
goodness of her offspring.

Montague Arnold is indeed an expert in all that concerns society
through its labyrinthine phases. Not a look or tone but he has
thoroughly studied, and ere he is many moments in an individual's
society can accommodate his pliable nature to every demand. His
physique is striking, his face handsome, his manner engaging, and he
is reputed to be wealthy. His family connections are desirable, and
he has education, accomplishment, and the benefit of a lengthened
tour on the continent.

What then is to debar such an one from entry into the best social
circle the city affords?

Will we overstep the bounds of charity and describe a scene in which
Montague Arnold and his companion, Hubert Tracy, played a
conspicuous part a few hours previous? Ah, no! "Tell it not in
Gath!" Let them be happy while they may.

Of Hubert Tracy we might have a more favorable opinion. There is
still upon his broad, fair forehead a trace of manliness and honor,
but there is about the lower part of his youthful looking face a
lack of determination that threatens to mark him as a victim for the
wary and dissipated man of the world.

Conversation had now become general, while music and games filled up
the intervals.

Evelyn Verne was indeed the object upon whom Mr. Arnold lavished his
attentions--a fact not overlooked by Mrs. Lister. Hubert Tracy was
devoting himself to the Muses, and occasionally venturing a glance
at Marguerite, who took much interest in the younger members of the
circle, and seemed happy in her devotedness to brother Fred, and his
chum, silently engaged over a game of chess. Mrs. Verne smiled,
chatted and listened to each as opportunity served, and looked with
fond delight upon the imperious Evelyn, who, by a series of
coquettish manoeuvres, held her admirer in chains apparently ready
to be put to any test for her sake.

"This new beau of Eve's is in earnest, and there is no chance for my
dear Urania. Well, well! men do not appreciate a girl of such
heavenly ideas as my celestial-minded daughter, and they throw
themselves away upon a pretty face without an ounce of brains." Poor
Mrs. Lister had murmured these sentences after the events of the
evening had transpired and she was enjoying the privacy of her own
room. She always expressed her thoughts to herself, as she judged
best never to let her dear girls know that she felt anxious for
their settlement in life.

A few mornings later while the family lingered over the late
breakfast in the handsomely-furnished morning-room, with its
delicate tints of mauve and gold, the conversation turned upon the
gossip of the preceding days. Miss Verne had not sufficiently
recruited from the dissipation attendant upon a large assemblage,
given by a lady friend in honor of some relative who had arrived
from Ottawa. She was inclined to be resentful and petulant, and
found fault with everything, from the delicious hot coffee and
tempting rolls to the generous sunbeam that danced in at the
opposite window, and it increased her anger so that she could
scarcely restrain herself in the presence of her guests.

"You are somewhat uncharitable this morning, my dear," was the only
reproof of Mrs. Verne, while she sought to cover her annoyance in a
marked attention towards the others at the table.

"Indeed, Miss Marguerite; it will be a long time before I shall tell
as many lies for you again. I was really ashamed, for they all knew
that they were broad falsehoods," exclaimed Miss Verne, casting an
angry glance at her sister, who sat between her mother and Mrs.
Lister, looking the very picture of contentment and good nature.

"I am sorry, Eve, that you committed any grievous sins on my
account, for it was a very unnecessary thing to do."

"Unnecessary! Be careful, my dear little Madge, or I will out with
the whole truth; and if I do not bring the blushes to your cheek my
name is not Evelyn Verne."

"Come, come, girls--never mind more talk now," said Mrs. Verne,
rising from her seat, and motioning them to withdraw, at the same
time trying to conceal a look of displeasure that had contracted
into a dark frown.

Mrs. Verne was a woman not to be trifled with. She had a look of one
born to command, and well each member of her family was aware of the
fact. She was a handsome woman, of proud and dignified presence,
high-tempered, and in many instances unreasonable, her opinions
being strengthened by the force of circumstances, and very seldom on
the side of right. On this morning in question she was inclined to
feel somewhat ruffled at Marguerite, rather than the aggressor.
Miss Verne had thrown out a hint that was more effective than a
well-timed speech of polished oratory, and well she knew it.

"Such a ridiculous thing to think of," repeated the haughty mistress
with emphasis, as she swept from room to room giving orders to each
domestic, and arranging and rearranging matters to meet her own
taste and convenience. The pretty crimson cashmere morning robe,
with relief of creamy lace, hung in graceful folds and set off Mrs.
Verne's form to advantage; and as you looked upon her then and
thought how she must have looked more than twenty years in the past,
you could not blame Mr. Verne for seeking her to grace his luxurious
and beautiful home.

Evelyn Verne has picked up a very sensational novel and is
languishing on a divan of crimson velvet and old gold plush, with a
drapery of beautiful design which she had thrown aside. One arm is
gracefully curved around her head, while the other clasps the book,
and in contrast with the rich hue of oriental costume resembles that
of polished ivory.

The passage being read is certainly pleasing--yes, rapturous--for a
current of an electrifying nature suffuses the slightly-pale cheeks
and delicate lips, and again Evelyn Verne wears a beauty that is
fatal in its effects. While the latter is engaged in this selfish
manner we hasten to a somewhat odd-looking apartment, which, from
its confused array of books, playthings, fishing-tackle, hammocks,
old guns, powder-horns, costumes that had assisted in personating
pages and courtiers, and also many other articles of less
pretensions, might be taken for a veritable curiosity-shop. A
central figure gives interest to the surroundings and prompts our
curiosity to watch the proceedings.

The mischievous smile upon Marguerite Verne's face is of sufficient
proof that she is engaged in a pleasant occupation. She has pressed
two of the Misses Lister into willing service, and they are a happy
group.

"What will this make, Madge?" yelled Charlie, with as much as his
lungs had capacity, holding up an old green velvet tunic with
enormous supply of tinsel.

"I'll go as Coeur de Lion, and wear it," exclaimed little Ned
Bertram, snatching the precious article from the other.

"Nonsense, children!" cried Marguerite, who, with her companions,
laughed long and heartily at the ludicrous representation of the
"knight of the black plume."

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