CHAPTER XX.
SCENES AT THE GREAT METROPOLIS.
Mrs. Montague Arnold sat, or rather reclined, in her handsome breakfast-room. She was awaiting the morning mail, which had been somewhat delayed. A bitter smile played around the daintily curved lips.
"The saucy little minx; I shall teach her better," murmured the beauty in angry tones and gesture.
Montague Arnold paid no attention to the half-spoken words. He looked the veriest picture of dissipation. Late hours, cards, and wine were stamped upon his hitherto handsome face and left an impress at times anything but flattering.
In private, few courtesies were interchanged between the husband and wife. It would, indeed, be wrong to say that Montague Arnold on his marriage morn did not give to his fascinating bride more adulation than he ever bestowed upon any other woman, and had the haughty beauty given more attention to her husband he might have become a different man; had she shown a true heart, a truthful, honest nature, and a mind adorned with what is lofty and elevating, what a different life those two might have led? But Evelyn Verne was without heart, and we might almost say without soul. She lived for society alone; it was her first duty, and worshipped more zealously than the goddess Hestia that occupied the first altar in a Grecian home.
Mrs. Arnold was indeed an object of admiration in her superb morning toilet of fawn-colored Lyons silk, with faultless draperies and priceless lace. It was the beauty's ruling passion that no toilet was ever neglected; hours were spent in putting the finishing touches to some becoming style that brought out the wearer's charms and set the hearts of her admirers in a flutter.
As the soft white hand was raised to suppress a yawn a solitaire diamond caught the ray of sunshine that found its way into the elegant mansion, and reflected a radiance that was enchanting.
Mr. Arnold could not fail to be impressed with the sight. He at last found words to say, "What is your programme today, Eve?"
"I have promised to visit the studio with mamma and Madge. Lord
Melrose is to be there, and I am very anxious to see his portrait."
"Don't flatter yourself that you are his latest charm, my dear," said her husband in sarcastic tones.
"You are altogether de trop, my amiable husband," said Mrs.
Arnold with an angry gleam in the brilliant and wondrous dark eyes.
"I was sorry to hear that the young and beautiful Mrs. Maitland has possessed the fellow body and soul. What an honor to the young 'squire to have his wife thus lionized in the London drawing-room."
Mr. Arnold could be tantalizing without mercy, and when he had fully aroused his wife's anger he was happy.
Mrs. Arnold had received much flattering attention from Lord Melrose, and it wounded her pride when she heard that another had supplanted her. The remarks that had escaped her lips referred to the merciless young matron; and well Montague Arnold was aware of the fact, but he winced not, and only plunged deeper into the whirlpool of dissipation, which sooner or later would be his inevitable destruction.
"I was really tired waiting," exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, when Mrs. Verne and Marguerite entered the reception room an hour later. "I had begun to think that some prince in disguise had eloped with little sobersides."
"I don't think we will be quite so fortunate, Eve," said Mrs. Verne, with a significant look which annoyed Marguerite more than she was willing to acknowledge.
"Really, Madge, you are growing prettier every day since you came on English soil. Mamma, just look at her color; is it not bewitching? I tell you, Madge, you will turn half the heads in Piccadilly."
Marguerite saw with disgust the real object of her mamma's visit, and she was determined to show her dislike in a manner that would save herself from being the object of ridicule.
"Eve, I wish you to understand that I am not interested in love affairs. Please choose your conversation from other sources, and I will be much obliged—indeed I shall be forever grateful."
The girl's manner was serious, and her pleading looks would have given pleasure to a sensible woman, but they were scorned by Mrs. Arnold and her mother.
Mrs. Verne had been expatiating upon the immense fortune which had fallen to Hubert Tracy, and took the greatest of pains to impress Marguerite with a sense of his importance.
"How I wish that I had waited, mamma. You know that Mr. Tracy was devoted to me in every way, but you preferred Mr. Arnold."
"I preferred his riches, my dear, and you know Montague is so handsome and distinguished looking. Why, he really was the handsomest man in the ball-room last evening."
"But Hubert's fortune is tenfold that of Montague's. His income is immense."
"Well, all we can do is to consign him to Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, with an affected air of deep regret. "It is certain that he clings to the family, and his great wealth would be an heirloom for many generations."
"Quite a speech, Eve," said Mrs. Verne, clapping her white palms together by way of applause.
Crimson silk portieres separated the party from Mr. Arnold, but not a word had been lost. "You will have to play your little game quick, else the fortune will soon be a thing of the past," muttered the husband under his breath. "Curse these women, they are nearly all tarred with the same stick. And my charming wife. What a pity I stand in her way. Well, she can go on in her way and I will stick to mine. Heavens! is there one true woman?"
Montague Arnold's face, reflected in the mirror opposite, was not then a pleasing study. A sardonic grin was on his lips and a dangerous light in his eyes.
Just then Marguerite changed her seat, and, unobserved, the dissipated man glanced at the pure spirituelle face which had appeared as answer to his questioning words.
"Yes, Madge, I am a veritable scoundrel; already I see before me one true and pure being."
Was it a tear that glistened on the maiden's cheek as Montague
Arnold once more contemplated the fair brow and madonna-like eyes?
Marguerite, in her courtly surroundings, was indeed indulging in day dreams, woven from scenes of her native land. And when she contrasted the picture with the vague, undefined reality, her emotional nature was stirred within her, and the gushing tears would force themselves in spite of all efforts at control. She was longing for one glimpse of dear old "Gladswood" and the fond embrace of Cousin Jennie.
"What would I not give to be free from this," murmured the girl in an undertone; then glancing around she recognized her brother-in-law, his eyes fixed upon her in close scrutiny.
"Upon my senses, Madge, you look like some one in a dream. I really might imagine you a piece of rare statuary—one of the Niobe group strayed from the Florentine gallery to meet the wistful gaze of the sight-seers of London!"
Marguerite smiled, and the color rose to her cheeks.
"I have dispelled the charm!" cried Montague Arnold, pointing to the vivid, life-like and roseate hue of the oval face.
"A flirtation, I declare!" said a lady who formed one of the party for the morning's entertainment. "Mrs. Arnold, I really would not allow it."
"But you must remember we have liberty of conscience, my dear. Each is free to act as he pleases within the realm of British jurisdiction."
"I am afraid you are giving us a wide license, Mrs. Arnold. Please be more circumspect," cried the lady in playful tone, "else your suggestion may have a very bad effect."
Mr. Arnold looked askance at the fashionable woman beside him, and thought what a world of deceit lurked within—a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Instantly he was at the woman's side, and began paying her those compliments which the most enraptured lover might pay to her whom he adores above all women.
At the studio Marguerite was introduced to many persons of distinction, among those a German Count, a blaze looking Captain of the Life Guards, and a bright, dashing young officer of the Dragoons.
"What a host of admirers you have already in your train, Madge," whispered Mrs. Arnold to her sister as she came opposite the portrait of Lord Melrose and stood admiring the exquisite touch and execution of the artist.
The latter had been engaged in conversation with a group of ladies when his eyes fell upon Marguerite Verne. The earnest gaze made the girl look toward him, and as she did so that look made a deep impression upon the youth.
"I would give almost all I possess to paint that face," thought he, gazing intently at the spirituelle type of beauty that is so seldom seen.
"Allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Verne," said Mrs., Arnold, who felt much flattered at the admiration paid Marguerite.
"I think that we must persuade her to sit for a portrait, Mr. Manning," said Mrs. Arnold, trying to attract her mother's attention from the niche in which she sat carelessly chatting with some acquaintances they had made on their ocean trip.
Soon Mrs. Verne found them, and was in ecstacies over her daughter's proposal.
"It would be such a nice way to show Madge to advantage. I am delighted with the thought," said Mrs. Arnold to her mother, as she toyed with her jewelled fan and gazed carelessly around to see if Lord Melrose were yet in the studio.
"How provoking. It is just always so! It will afford such satisfaction to my sweet-tempered husband."
"My dear Mrs. Arnold; it does one good to meet you after trying to live a few days at Portsmouth," cried a showy looking military man, perhaps forty years of age, perhaps younger, with a heavy reddish moustache and dark auburn hair.
"I cannot really say whether you are complimentary or not, colonel," said Mrs. Arnold, smiling with all the angelic sweetness at her command, "since I have never had the pleasure of visiting that renowned place."
"Well, I should consider it the highest compliment that could be paid," said a brother officer in dark blue uniform with a sprinkling of "silver threads among the gold," "coming as it does from one who can stand the siege when a thousand bright eyes are levelled upon him at a garrison ball in Portsmouth with a heart as impregnable as the fort at Gibraltar!"
"Thank you, Major Greene, for your kind consideration to both parties," said Mrs. Arnold, bowing sweetly to the former. The gallant colonel also bowed acknowledgment, and then espied Marguerite Verne, who still lingered near the artist, considering him far above the shallow set that frequented his studio.
"Who is that beautiful girl talking to Mr. Manning?" queried he, raising his eyeglass with an air of interest.
"I shall present you in due time," said Mrs. Arnold, with a faint smile revealing the most exquisite set of teeth that eye ever beheld.
As if by intuition Marguerite cast her eyes towards the aspirants and the action brought a faint blush.
"Beautiful as Hebe, by Jove," exclaimed the rubicund major, in an undertone that implied he was also deeply interested in the fair young face and graceful supple form.
How the manoeuvering mamma watched each sign of admiration thus directed towards her daughter.
"If I can only accomplish my wishes my life will be one uninterrupted calm. I will then lay me down in peace," thought Mrs. Verne, as she re-arranged the folds of her silken train to her entire satisfaction.
Hubert Tracy had been detained on a fishing excursion up the Cam, whither he had gone with some rollicking companions to recruit his health and restore some of the youthful bloom that dissipation had almost destroyed.
Marguerite could ill conceal her disgust as she met the weak-minded and, to her, contemptible young man, on the week following.
It was at a brilliant assemblage, under the patronage of Mrs.
Montague Arnold.
Never was maiden more becomingly attired, for despite her friends' entreaties, Marguerite's taste was simplicity, indeed. Her modest pearl-colored satin was relieved by knots of delicate pansies—one of Marguerite's many favorite flowers—and the delicate and chaste silver ornaments, made her toilet simply bewitching.
"Mrs. Arnold is imperial, but Miss Verne is truly angelic," was the exclamation of a man of fashion, and the leader of his club, as the two sisters stood side by side receiving the brilliant throng of guests that filled to overflowing the gorgeously lighted parlors, sumptuous drawing-room and bewitching conservatories.
Why was it that Marguerite shrank from the touch of Hubert Tracy's hand as if stung by an adder? Why was it that, when she was obliged to listen to his flattering, oily tongue, that she saw the manly dignified form of Phillip Lawson standing between, with his hand uplifted, as if in gesture of warning, and a stern reproachful look upon his honest face?
These are questions that will be answered some day when the world is older and wiser—when the great road to science will have been trodden further on towards the goal which shall reveal all mysteries in the light of simple truths—when man can look a fellow being in the face and trace each thought written there.
Mrs. Arnold was in the confidence of her husband's friends, and she had partly deceived her mother to carry out her designs.
Mrs. Verne had hitherto set her heart upon Hubert Tracy, but she was now flattered by the admiration paid to Marguerite by several of the nobility, and she thought it would indeed be a rare distinction for her daughter to have a title.
"I see how it is with mamma, and if I am not sharp she will nonplus me," thought the beauty, as she watched the game which her anxious mother was playing so skilfully, and, as the latter thought, so successfully.
"But I will do nothing rash. Nothing succeeds like caution," and musing thus Mrs. Arnold placed her jewelled fingers in those of her partner and was whirled away to revel in the delightful elysium of waltzland.