Marguerite Verne; Or, Scenes from Canadian Life

by Rebecca Agatha Armour

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE STORM THICKENS.

It would be much easier to imagine than describe the violent paroxysms of grief (if we may use the expression) which seized upon Mrs. Verne when Marguerite calmly broke the unwelcome news. Grief did we say—yes—"not the grief that saps the mind," but grief for the deprivation of those luxuries which the woman had considered as part and parcel of herself.

"It is just what one might have expected from the loose way in which your father has been transacting his business," cried Mrs. Verne, wringing her hands, and lamenting wildly; and then turning upon her daughter the full benefit of her penetrating eyes, added, "and it is not himself that will suffer the most, but think of us Madge. How nice you will look going out to earn your living, perhaps, behind some counter, or worse still, apprenticed to a dressmaker and blinding yourself over such rags as we would not condescend to put on, nor, more than that, recognize the people to whom they belonged."

After this harangue, Mrs. Verne threw herself into the elegant fauteuil of carved ebony and oriental tapestry, and poured forth another volume of tears more prolific than the first.

"Mamma, dear, what is the use of all this. The affair is bad enough, but it might be a great deal worse. Papa is still alive and we can live just as happily on a small income as indulging in such luxury. Really, my dear mamma, I feel that we are going to be much happier. I need not, as you remarked, have to submit to any great drudgery, I can teach music and painting, thanks to those kind instructors who took such pains in my education, and if I fail to make that kind of work remunerative, why I can easily fit myself for a school-teacher."

"Marguerite Verne!" cried the horrified mother, raising her hands in gestures of dismay, "You will drive me mad! A daughter of mine a school-teacher! Oh! dear, did I ever think I would raise a child to inherit such plebeian ideas. Bad as Evelyn is with all her faults she would not hurt my feelings in such a manner."

Marguerite looked at her mother with a feeling of compassion, yet there were rebellious thoughts in her mind.

"Is it possible that mamma forgets poor dear papa, who is most to be pitied?" murmured she, as she strove to hide the tears that would flow in spite of all her efforts.

"And only to think of your papa's slackness. I shouldn't wonder one bit if he gave up every cent's worth of property, and all the furniture into the bargain. It is just such a trick as he would do, for the sake of being called an honest man. Yes, it is very nice to hear people talking of 'honesty being the best of policy' where no one is concerned in the matter; but when it comes home, I say a man's first honesty is to his family."

"Pray, mamma dear, do not worry over our worldly loss; it will all come right," whispered Marguerite, in tones of endearment, and stroking the luxuriant mass of silken hair that crowned the pretty, classic-shaped head.

"Well, I hope so, Madge; but I am sorry that I cannot entertain your very convenient sort of opinion," returned Mrs. Verne, in a half angry and petulant mood; then rising from her seat, took up a piece of crewel embroidery, saying, "I suppose if I have to turn out and earn my living I had better begin at once," and suiting the action to the word, was soon busily engaged in making some pretty stitches upon the handsome panel of rich garnet-colored velvet.

While Marguerite sat buried in deep thought, turning over and over in her mind what she must do, an attendant arrived with a letter.

"It is from Aunt Hester," cried she, as she broke the seal and eagerly devoured its contents.

"It's just like her," said Mrs. Verne, as Marguerite passed the letter for her to read. "Yes, she is one of Job's comforters, and will make your papa feel a great deal worse than there is any need. Of course, she will be preaching day and night of our extravagance, and make him believe that we alone are the cause of all his misfortune—I should say, mismanagement."

"I think it was very kind of Aunt Hester to come to papa when he was so lonely," replied Marguerite, with a choking sensation in her throat.

"Yes, and it is a great wonder she did not say that her friend, Mr. Lawson, was one of the company, for it seems that not one of the whole Montgomery family can exist without him."

Mrs. Verne had emphasized the word friend in a very uncharitable manner, and her tone was spiteful in the extreme.

"Of course that letter means come home at once, but I think it would make us appear very ridiculous to go until some settlement was made and the gossips had their nine days' wonder over," said she in a very cool and decided manner.

"Mamma, dear, let us not delay one hour more than is necessary,"
cried Marguerite clinging to her mother's arm as if to gain assent.
"We surely can be ready for the next steamer of the Anchor Line (the
Olympian) which sails on Saturday."

"What nonsense, Marguerite! and only think of Sir Arthur's disappointment! Poor man! It is such a pity, and we have received such kindness." Mrs. Verne drew a long sigh and then added in an altered tone: "If your papa insists upon our return we shall go, but I cannot see why your Aunt Hester should take upon herself to dictate to us."

"We will, no doubt, hear from papa as well. You know, mamma, he owes me a letter now," said Marguerite, hopefully.

A caller was now announced and Lady Gertrude Fortescue, in her beauty and amiability, was ushered in with all the deference due her rank and position.

Mrs. Verne was intoxicated with delight as she thought of the great honor thus conferred upon her, and she soon forgot all her recent trouble in the sunshine of her ladyship's smiles.

"Miss Verne is certainly deserving of our most bitter hate!" cried the latter in affected severity. "You know we English women cannot tolerate a rival and this clever little Canadian (pointing to Marguerite) has outshone us all."

Marguerite was indulging in thoughts of a different nature, but she managed to reply to her ladyship, and occasionally ventured a remark upon some trivial matters.

"You will be at the reception to-night, my dear?" exclaimed the blonde beauty as she rose to go.

Mrs. Verne glanced at her daughter for answer and was pained to see the utter serenity of the pale but interesting face.

"Miss Verne has been slightly indisposed to-day and I fear that she will plead that as excuse to remain with Muggins."

"You naughty little thing," said her ladyship, poking the said Muggins with the top of her parasol and exciting lively responses from his poodleship, then turning to Mrs. Verne exclaimed, "Mrs. Arnold is looking well. It really seems to me that you Canadians have found the long-sought elixir of youth and beauty."

"You are inclined to flattery Lady Gertrude, but if you should ever visit New Brunswick you will find many pretty women."

"Now, my dear Mrs. Verne, you are inclined to teaze," cried her ladyship. You know full well that it is the gentlemen in whom I am solely interested. What have you to say in their behalf."

"New Brunswick can boast of many handsome, brave and clever men," was the reply, and this time Mrs. Verne spoke the truth.

"Oh well, I shall, perhaps, go and see for myself. Good-bye Mrs.
Verne, and you my little rival, adieu until we meet again."

Her ladyship pressed the tips of her dainty fingers and playfully threw a kiss to Marguerite as she leaned against the balustrade and watched her visitor depart.

"What a sweet but sad face," thought the latter, as she was being assisted into the grand old family coach with its richly-caparisoned steeds and gay trappings.

"To Hyde Park, James," then leaning back amid the luxurious cushions the almond-eyed beauty murmured "that girl has a tender spot in her heart which all the pleasures and gaiety of a thousand worlds like this can never heal. Ah, well we women must endure," and with the last remark there arose a sad and weary look that would seem strangely at variance the gay, sporting butterfly who talked and chatted of airy nothings in Mrs. Verne's drawing-room.

And now to Marguerite. She has donned her tasteful gray walking costume and accompanied by Muggins is on the way to Mrs. Arnold's residence, not far distant.

"I am so glad you have come, Madge, I was just going to send for you. My head has ached all morning. I can think of nothing but dear papa. Just imagine him without a cent in the world, and at his age. Oh, it is too horrible for anything."

Mrs. Arnold now drew her elegant lace handkerchief across her eyes to arrest the falling tears.

Marguerite was accustomed to her sister's demonstrations, and was not at all affected as she should be.

"Madge, you are aware, I suppose, of the trouble between mamma and me, and now I have no one but you to offer any sympathy."

Marguerite looked at her sister in surprise.

"You need not look that way, Madge, I mean it, and when you have—" Mrs. Arnold checked herself. She was on the eve of a declaration which she must at all hazards supress. "I say it is most cruel of mamma to treat me in the way that she does. Really, Madge, it makes me feel terribly; and oh! poor, dear, papa! I don't know why it should affect me so strangely, but really, Madge, I cannot get it out of my head but that papa is going to die."

"Oh, Eve!" cried Marguerite, clinging to her chair for support, "pray do not say such a dreadful thing."

"Well, you know, Madge, that grief will sap all the vitality of stronger constitutions than papa's."

Mrs. Arnold sat watching the effect of her words upon her sister, and tried to be engaged assorting some letters that had been misplaced in her desk.

"If it were only in my power to save papa such trouble I would make any sacrifice," cried the latter, suddenly glancing at Marguerite.

"And would I not, too? Oh! Eve," said the girl, with an eager, hungry look upon her face.

"You can now, if you wish, Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, in the coolest possible manner.

"Eve, this is too serious a matter for jesting. You know not what you say," cried Marguerite, wildly.

"I know that you can pay every cent of papa's debts if you will only marry Hubert Tracy!"

"Eve! Spare me!" exclaimed Marguerite, turning deadly pale.

"Yes, my dear—I knew full well that you could not make such a sacrifice. Why did I mention it. Forgive me, dear Madge, I shall never mention the subject again. I told Hubert that I knew it was useless for him to urge the suit."

"And he has spoken of it lately?" cried Marguerite.

"Not later than this morning, my dear. He called a few moments after you went away, and seemed to be in great distress at papa's misfortune. Poor fellow, he was deeply moved, and said that if you would only consent to be his wife that his immense fortune would be at your entire control. What a pity, dear Madge, that you cannot treat him as he deserves—he is such a generous-hearted fellow."

Marguerite Verne was, indeed, an object of pity as she sat with her eyes fixed upon the wall opposite, while a look of anguish now settled down upon her features, and made them rigid as death.

"Don't worry, darling. I cannot bear to see you thus. If Hubert Tracy is not willing to settle papa's affairs without sacrificing your happiness, why let it go. Papa may get over it, and if he has to face the world and earn his living by drudgery, it may do him good in the end; if not, we cannot help it, my dear: So don't worry any longer." And Mrs. Arnold swept across the room with the air of an empress, while with her lace handkerchief she wiped the tears from Marguerite's eyes.

"Has Hubert Tracy the full control of his estates, Eve?"

"Yes, Madge. He has had ever since his uncle died, which was more than three months ago."

"Poor dear papa," murmured the girl in very bitterness of soul.

"She will come to it yet," thought Mrs. Arnold, "nothing succeeds like moderation," and with the most consummate adroitness commenced asking questions concerning her mother.

"You know, Madge, that mamma is so much wrapped up in Sir Arthur, the ugly old bore, that she can listen to no one else, and for no other reason than to have you addressed as 'my lady.'"

"Oh Eve, do not say that."

"I will say it Madge, and more than that I will say that mamma has no more respect for her children's feeling than for those of her meanest servant. She would think it splendid to marry you to a gouty old baronet old enough to be your father, yes your grandfather, while I would not insist upon your favoring a handsome young man with wealth and a large heart into the bargain."

"Eve, you do mamma a great injustice," cried Marguerite, who be it said to her credit, always defended the absent one, "she already knows my feelings towards Sir Arthur and has used no coercion since and now that we are soon going home there is no need of referring to the affair."

Marguerite was annoyed and her sister saw that she had said enough, so with diplomatic tact, she became doubly tractable and tried to appear in sympathy with every word that the girl uttered.

"Are you going to accompany us to the opera this evening, Madge? My amiable husband, anxious to make reparation for past neglect, has formed a set and I must certainly go."

Marguerite was pained at her sister's composure and thought of the protestations of grief she had hitherto exhibited.

"Is it possible," thought she, "that Eve can dissemble so much?" Then turning to her sister she exclaimed: "Eve, I cannot go; I am miserable enough already and—"

"I see how it is, Madge, you are inclined to be selfish, and cannot bear to see the happiness of others."

"Happiness!" murmured the girl, "as if there is much happiness under all this false glittering surface." But Mrs. Arnold heeded not the remark and added:

"Poor mamma, I know she feels badly, I will ask Montague to call and invite her to join us. I know I did wrong to say so much, but at times you know, dear Madge, I have an ungovernable temper."

"I am going now," said Marguerite rising and holding out her hand to
Mrs. Arnold.

"I know Madge well enough to perceive that she will have no peace of mind this night. How she will brood over what I nave said!" and turning to the spacious mirror Mrs. Arnold exclaimed, "Ah! madame, you can dupe more clever minds than that of your confiding little sister."

In the quiet of her own room Marguerite Verne gave full vent to her pent-up feelings in an outburst of tears. Hers was not a nature that could endure with fortitude the ills that oftentimes befall humanity; but like the fragile reed that bends with the storm, and when the force of nature has spent itself raises its head heavenward.

And now the girl was prostrated, and bowed her head in keenest agony. She wished not the interruption of mother or friends, but remained silent and preoccupied.

On the third day in question a reaction set in, and Marguerite had made up her mind to act.

"I am reconciled to my fate," murmured the girl, as she carefully arranged her pretty morning toilet, and then went to her mother's apartments to receive the extremely conventional style of endearment.

"You should have been with us, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Verne, as she glanced at the interesting maiden, and thought that grief, if anything, made her more bewitching.

"You should have been there, dear," cried she in ecstasies of unfeigned delight. "It was such a charming little coterie, and the dear girl has such a happy knack of making her friends appear at ease, while Montague is so attentive that with all his faults one can forgive him, and admire his highly-polished manners. And you should have seen Lady Gertrude, my dear. She looked radiant in that eau de nil satin and honiton-lace flounces, but really I think that her ladyship is very forward, as she certainly was making love to Mr. Tracy and using all her blandishments with a master stroke."

"And what matters that to me," thought Marguerite, though she expressed it not She was puzzled to know what had wrought such a change in her mother, as the latter talked of dear Eve and Mr. Tracy in one breath and seemed enthusiastic over each particular.

In order to explain the cause of Mrs. Verne's altered manner we would have to repeat a conversation which a few hours earlier took place in Mrs. Montague Arnold's boudoir with mother and daughter as occupants. Suffice it to say that a reconciliation was effected, and that Mrs. Verne agreed to everything advanced by her daughter, also that they were now united in a common cause, and that Sir Arthur Fonister was ruthlessly cast aside for a more profitable consideration, and one which would gratify the wants and wishes of both.

"But enough of this for the present, my dear," said Mrs. Verne, then instantly changing look, tone and manner, exclaimed, "It is strange that we have not heard from home. Madge, I trust, things are not growing worse. Indeed, I feel uneasy, but we must be prepared; nothing seems improbable nowadays."

It was Marguerite's turn now to speak. Looking steadily into her mother's face she asked, "Mamma, did Eve tell you what had passed between her and Mr. Tracy?"

"Yes, dearest, and I begged that she would think no more of the matter. When she declared that she would make double such sacrifice for her dear papa, I told her that I believed she would, but that she was of a different disposition from you, and would suit herself to circumstances, and besides she is of a strong mind and possessed of much will, and is capable of smoothing all difficulties, while you, my dear Madge, are a tender, sensitive creature, whom it would be more than cruel to submit to anything contrary to your wishes."

"Mamma, I am capable of more than you think. I have never looked upon Hubert Tracy otherwise than a friend. Indeed I have friends whom I like very much better, but I will receive him as my future husband, and try to do the best I can to repay him for unreciprocated love."

With these words died all the hopes that Marguerite hitherto vainly cherished, and as she received her mother's warm embrace, her heart seemed to have suddenly turned to ice, and her breath more chilling than the piercing blasts of the frigid zone.