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Marguerite Verne

A >> Agatha Armour >> Marguerite Verne




As the hours crept stealthily on, Hubert Tracy was determined to
offer his heart and hand to the woman of his choice.

Marguerite felt that her freedom was now gone forever, and resolved
to appear at her best, and on the following morning, when her mother
entered the breakfast-room, wreathed in smiles, and informed her
that Mr. Tracy had gained her permission to urge his suit, she
dreamily nodded assent, and tried hard to wear a bright and
reassuring smile.

"Strength is given us from heaven," cried the girl when once the
privacy of her own room was gained, "and if ever I needed such it is
now. Merciful God, teach, me thy ways. Oh, give me the light of thy
countenance to brighten my darkened path." A handsomely-bound
volume lay on the dressing-case. It was the Book of Common Prayer.

Marguerite lifted it in reverential tenderness. It was a keepsake
from her beloved parent, and she cherished it as something too
sacred for other hands to touch.

As she opened it her eyes fell upon the collect for the eighth
Sunday after Trinity, commencing thus:----"O, God, whose
never-failing providence ordereth all things both in heaven and
earth."

"Precious truth," cried Marguerite as she read the words over
several times, then murmured, "How simple of me to repine when it is
my Heavenly Father who ordereth all things," and from that moment
Marguerite Verne found strength given from above, as she bowed her
head in meek submission, and resolved to lead a higher and better
life.

"Madge, my child, you are looking radiant," cried the worldly
mother, as she glanced at her daughter, for no other reason than to
admire the style of the dress she had chosen for the reception of
Mr. Tracy.

"And that corsage is so becoming, my darling. It alone would be
enough to charm the most prosaic suitor, and that bracelet shows off
so prettily on your white arm. I am so glad you put it on."

"Mamma, please be less lavish of your compliments, I cannot stand
flattery. I would rather you would see some of my failings, and
teach me how to do what is right."

Marguerite meant not to convey a reproof, but if Mrs. Verne had been
at all sensitive, she would have felt somewhat uneasy. She would
have felt that she had not given a thought to anything that
concerned the proper guidance of her children, and she would have
felt that the beauty of Marguerite's character was alone due to the
inherent goodness that possessed her and made her in all respects a
true, noble and beautiful woman.

Marguerite has now made up her mind and she will not swerve from the
duty that lies nearest her. She meets Hubert Tracy with a calm
composure and a steady light in her soft expressive eyes and when
she had listened to his ardent declaration of love calmly
replied:--"Hubert Tracy I will be your wife but only on these
conditions--you will save my father from bankruptcy and ruin. Yes,
save and protect his gray hairs and I will bless you until my dying
hour."

"I will do that and more Marguerite, if you will only promise to
love me--give me your whole and undivided thoughts," and falling
down upon his knees before her Hubert Tracy for once meant what he
said.

True indeed the redeeming trait in his character was his love for
Marguerite Verne and any goodness that remained was now visible upon
his brow. Some trace of true manhood still lingered there and
arrested the gaze of the pure-minded maiden as she looked upon him
and prayed that the Omnipotent One would obliterate the earthy
incrustations so firmly impressed there and instead cause His image
to shine with undimmed lustre.

The young man divined the maiden's thoughts and he bent forward
exclaiming:--"Madge, I am undeserving of you, God knows, but I will
try and be worthy of you. Will you trust me?"

"Put your trust in God, Hubert. He alone can give you the support
you need," cried the girl in earnest tones.

"God 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--

"God 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 XXXIII.

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 passiveness 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 "God 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 God! 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, God! 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, God helping me. I now see the error in keeping
the fact from him so long, but it may be all for the best God 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.

"God 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 passive 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 hoary 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 circumstances
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 assist 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 God; what anxious enquiries.

Day after day found Phillip Lawson wending his way to "Sunnybank."
What a mockery the name seemed to convey. The golden sunshine 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 succumb."

"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."

"There is just such a mixture of poetry and romance as is
appreciable," said Mr. Lawson, a slight color betraying his
interest.

"Though I am a practical, matter-of-fact woman, I really admire the
vein of superstitious fervour that gives coloring to her many daily
acts."

"I remember one day," added Mrs. Montgomery, "of asking her why she
wore such an ugly looking bracelet when she had so many pretty ones.
I can see the graceful figure, and the sweet smiling face, as the
girl turned upon me the full force of her powerfully magnetic eyes,
and with great earnestness replied: 'Dear Auntie, there is a story
attached to that bracelet, and you shall hear it," and taking a seat
beside me she began----

"Mamma always told us that you were an apt student in history, and
of course you know the story of James the Fourth of Scotland and his
iron belt, and how each year he added an ounce to its weight, that
it might inflict the greater penance."

"I then said that when I was twelve years of age I had read the Lady
of the Lake for the sixth time, and that I had made Fitz James my
greatest hero, and notwithstanding his many short-comings, I yet
looked upon the benefactor of the noble Douglas, and the lovely
Ellen, with fond admiration."

"What a glow kindled in Marguerite's cheek," added Mrs. Montgomery,
as she listened, and then with exclamation of delight she cried,
"Aunt Hester, I really adore Scott, and I think that I outdo you,
for I have committed to memory nearly all of the Lady of the Lake."

"But about the bracelet," I said, remindingly.

"Well, you know, Aunt Hester, I was not at all times a very good
girl," said Marguerite, with a sympathetic glance, "and, indeed,
found opportunity to make myself very disagreeable. It is indeed
true, Auntie. Well, one day papa brought in a very handsome bracelet
as a birthday present for Evelyn. It was a cluster of garnets in
gold setting, and at night time, when the light fell upon it, shone
brilliantly. I envied Eve her pretty bauble, and as I saw my sister,
many admirers glanced upon it. I felt uncharitable. Why could papa
not have given me one as well, I thought; and bitter feelings were
cherished against my dear papa, and indeed, Aunt Hester," exclaimed
the girl in all humility, "they might have rankled there, and made
me worse than I would care to acknowledge, when a little
circumstance, or trivial accident, came to my aid and taught me to
rise above it. Like you, Aunt Hester, I am fond of history, and
being out of reading matter, came across a volume entitled Tales
from Scottish History."

"The very thing I have been seeking for months," I exclaimed, taking
down the work from the bookshelf, and admiring the substantial
binding of heavy dark blue morocco. Then I thought of the donor. I
turned to the title page and saw my name neatly inscribed in papa's
own handwriting.

"My darling papa, I exclaimed he sees every want. Not a wish of mine
but is gratified; he has overheard me saying I should like just such
a work, and has lost no time in getting it.

"I secured my favorite nook in the library and sitting down, the
first thing that caught my eye was an adventure of James the
Fourth--Scotland's Coeur-de-Lion in very deed. I read the story, and
it filled me with remorse. The prince, was guilty of rebellious acts
against his father, and I am guilty of rebellious _thoughts_.
He wore an iron belt as a reminder of the sad fact. Well, my dearest
and best of fathers, I shall have something likewise to remind me of
my ingratitude."

"And you bought that homely bracelet, my child?" I said smiling at
her earnestness.

"I did Aunt Hester, and when I feel that I am not doing what is
right I just run to my dressing case and slip that on my arm,"
pointing at the same moment to the curious construction of bronze
and steel that encircled her alabaster-like arm.

"And why are you wearing it to-day, my dear?" I asked.

"I felt inclined to be moody, Aunt Hester."

"I never remember of seeing such a bracelet worn by Miss Verne,"
ventured Mr. Lawson who had hitherto remained a silent listener.

"The occasion to which I refer, happened more than three years ago.
I remember sometime afterward of asking Marguerite if she had her
moody fits yet, and she smilingly said that the bracelet had been
consigned to a resting place among her store of relics."

"Miss Verne now looks to a higher source. She needs no such
talisman," said Mr. Lawson with an air of deep reverence.

"Yes, I believe Marguerite Verne is a Christian, though she makes no
loud demonstration of the fact. No one possessing the sweet
simplicity of character, the truly charitable spirit, and that
universal good will to her fellow creatures can be otherwise than a
Christian."

Mrs. Montgomery had given emphasis to her speech, as she never was
weary in extolling the virtues of her favorite niece.

A slight movement on the part of the prostrate man called Phillip to
the bedside.

Mr. Verne had awoke to consciousness, and no doubt had listened to
the words so lately uttered.

A smile was upon his face as he extended his left hand to Mr.
Lawson, and tried hard to regain his speech.

"Do not exert yourself, sir," said the latter putting his arm around
the invalid with the tenderness of a woman. "All you must do is try
to get a little stronger before Miss Verne arrives, after that you
will be all right. It is enough to make any one sick to be alone in
this big house."

Mrs. Montgomery watched the effect of the speech and felt sore at
heart. "Poor man," thought she, "he will never live to see it," and
as she looked a second time saw that Mr. Verne had suddenly relapsed
into that comatose state sadly akin to death.

"Thy will be done," murmured the watcher, and tenderly replacing the
coverlid committed the prostrate form to the mercy of an Almighty
Father.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

DARK HOURS INDEED.


It is nearly midnight. Mrs. Verne had been prevailed upon (to use
her own words) to attend a musical soiree given by a fashionable
young matron in honor of her fifth wedding anniversary.

Hubert Tracy now danced attendance upon his mother-in-law, elect and
on the present occasion was her beau chevalier.

He had taken leave of Marguerite with much reluctance. Her wearied
and sadly pale face upbraided him but he kept stifling his
conscience with the thought that she would be happier when the first
impressions wore off.

"I am beginning to believe all women are alike," exclaimed he
petulantly as he was awaiting Mrs. Verne's appearance, "made up of
April showers and ready to transfer themselves into a vale of tears
whenever they think of their boy lovers but when they've made a good
haul in the matrimonial net once and forever they forget all their
swains and live for one grand purpose--to impress their friends with
the greatness of their position. And I'm not going to be fooled
either I tell you, Miss Marguerite. You've got to toe the mark too.
None of your groaning over that chuckle-headed fool of a Lawson who
has no more sense than he needs."

"I beg pardon Hubert, for the detention," exclaimed Mrs. Verne who
now made her appearance rustling in gros grain silk and sparkling
with superb brilliants, while the cleverly artistic touches
administered to deface the inroad of merciless Time would lead one
at first glimpse to suppose that the radiant matron was none other
than a pretty woman of twenty.

"There is not the slightest need for apology," said the young man
bowing to the lady with the grace of a Crichton.

"I grieve to leave Madge this evening, but you know, my dear Hubert,
that society is a merciless tyrant. Its mandates are cruel in the
extreme," and affecting the air of an injured woman Mrs. Verne
ensconsed herself amid the luxuriant cushions.

"Marguerite is not looking well," said the affianced glancing; at
his companion to see that all was settled for her comforts.

"The poor child has such severe headaches, but in confidence, my
dear, Hubert, I sometimes think she brings them on herself, for you
know that she is too much given to reading, not that kind of reading
that is needed or recreation, but works beyond what a woman should
attempt."

Hubert Tracy was not altogether in a talking mood, and was glad that
his companion had claimed the floor.

"I for one do not believe in women making such a display in the
literary line. There is no sense in it, Hubert."

"You never yet saw a man in love with a literary star of the first
magnitude. Literature is not for women, and when I see one setting
up with an air of importance, and discussing science, history,
biography, aye, and even religion, I just think, well, my lady, if
you could see yourself as other see you, you would not get off your
stuff in that style. To tell the truth I despise literary women, and
if I had my way I would consign them to some seventh-class place of
refuge, where they could howl and shout until they become what they
generally end in--nothing."

"I fear you would not make a bad attempt in that sort of business
yourself," said the young man much amused at the adroit manner which
Mrs. Verne sought to gain a compliment.

"Heaven forbid it my dear, Hubert. From a child I always had a holy
horror of blue stockings, and when I looked upon their coarse
masculine faces I always experienced a feeling of disgust that I
must confess increased with the years."

"And you have met many I presume."

"I merely refer to the works of the photographer or the artist,
such, as you see on the vignette of their works. I am sure that they
are ugly enough to frighten any sensitive child."

"But Marguerite is not one of that class," said the young man,
lazily readjusting a cushion that had slipped out beneath his head.

"She is an exception so far as appearance is concerned, but that
does not excuse her," said Mrs. Verne, with a haughty toss of the
head, then suddenly changing her voice to a very tender and
confidential tone, exclaimed, "My dear Hubert, I am going to give
you a little bit of advice, and I know you will receive it kindly,
as you value my child's happiness. I wish you to have a warm
interest in everything that tends to her comfort; but above all
things, do not encourage in her that desire to be in seclusion, and
to mope and groan over imaginary grievances. It is, I am sorry to
say, a failing which she has inherited from her father; and though I
do not wish to speak disparagingly of my dear husband, I must say
that he is in many respects a very peculiar man. It is, indeed, very
discouraging for a woman to find that she has married a man who
takes not the least interest in society and prefers to remain, night
after night shut up in his own rooms, with no companion but a musty
old ledger and a filthy pipe. Ugh! the very thought make me sick."

As Mrs. Verne's speech was accompanied by expressions of contempt
and disgust, the impression made upon Hubert Tracy was not of the
most flattering kind. He merely smiled, but gave no expression to
his thoughts. They were not what would please his mother-in-law
elect, and he had enough policy to conceal them.

And now for a second scene. The carriage had rolled away and Mrs.
Verne had ascended the lofty stairway. As she stood in the corridor
to throw aside the heavy wrap that enfolded her, she heard a
confused din of voices. It startled her and caused her heart to beat
violently.

"What a fool I am to get in such a state for nothing," but just as
the last word was uttered, a servant opened the door leading from
the inner hall. It was Marguerite's waiting maid.

The girl's face spoke sad news.

"In heaven's name what is the matter, Maria?" cried Mrs. Verne,
thinking that a murder had taken place in their midst.

"It is Miss Verne, ma'am; but she is some better now. Oh! I thought,
ma'am, that you would never come--and she was asking for you."

The poor girl was deeply attached to her young mistress and was
nearly bereft of her senses when she found the latter lying upon the
sofa in an apparently lifeless condition.

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