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.
A physician had been summoned, who pronounced the girl in no imminent danger, but said that there was some anxiety to be feared as regards nervous prostration.
Marguerite had been quickly restored to consciousness, but she was white as the coverlid that overspread the luxurious bed upon which she lay so calm and still.
"My child, what has done this," exclaimed Mrs. Verne looking wildly around her as if for answer from some other than those that stood about.
"Don't be alarmed, mamma, I am better," said the girl, attempting to raise herself upon the pillow, but she fell back exhausted, and closed her eyelids, looking sad and wretched.
Mrs. Verne was ill at ease as she watched at Marguerite's bedside. Remorse for once seized upon her as she pictured herself moving about the gay throng, and her child, perhaps, on the verge of death.
"I might have known that she did not look herself, for those great circles around her mouth and eyes ought to have told me of her illness; but I trust she will soon be all right."
Mrs. Verne took a second glance at the pale face to gain more assurance and hope, and as she stood there tried hard to impute her daughter's present indisposition to every source, but the real one.
"The poor girl is fretting herself to death over her father's failure, for she knows that it will affect his reputation in society. She will not acknowledge it, but I am certain that she would feel the snubs of our most intimate friends more titan I would. Indeed, they would kill the poor sensitive Madge; and to think that Stephen Verne brought all this upon his family by his own slackness. Talk about honesty! It makes fools of people. A man who is so honest that he must trust every other man he meets is a fool, and worse than a fool, he's not only a fool towards himself, but a fool towards his family."
Such was an outline of the woman's soliloquy. She considered herself the most unfortunate woman in the whole world, and wondered why it was that some people are born to trouble while others never have a care to ruffle their placid brow.
The kind-hearted physician watched with deep interest the welfare of his patient.
He admired the sweet, pure face and the spirituelle eyes awaiting his coming with eager anticipation.
"You must have brooded over some mental trouble my child, and you know that is not what brings the roses to a maiden's cheek," and the disciple of Aesculapius once more patted the pale cheek to force back the roseate blush of youth and beauty.
"Doctor, you surely cannot say that I am to remain here many days longer when I am so anxious to see my father. I know that he will get better if I can only be near him to become his nurse."
"I see where part of the trouble is, but there is a greater one beneath that," thought the doctor as he sat writing out a prescription.
But like that great student of human nature he could not help exclaiming, though in undertone, "'who can minister to a mind diseased.' This is indeed one of the stubborn cases that I often have to deal with—administer drugs and pills ad infinitum when the gentle pressure of a sympathetic hand or the soft tender glances of a bright eye would act more effectually than all the compounds which the London dispensaries can boast of."
A bouquet of exquisite beauty had arrived and with it a nicely folded note.
Marguerite took the flowers within her trembling fingers and inhaled the rich fragrance with a sort of reverence. Nature claimed a large share of the girl's sympathies. She worshipped it as only the student of nature should. She
"Looked from Nature up to Nature's God."
But when she had unfolded the delicate looking missive and looked at the neatly formed letters not a ray of feeling was emitted from the expressive face.
"I see how it is," mused the man of experience; "poor child your's has not been the only aching heart. You think one way and your aspirations run another, or worse than that they accord and leave you to the tender mercies of worldly and narrow-minded parents whose sole motive is the accomplishment of their own sordid ends."
Mrs. Verne's entrance solved the problem, to the entire satisfaction of the physician. She had been detained in the drawing-room, and now came to offer apology for delaying in the sick chamber.
"Don't worry, mamma. I really am not so ill as you imagine," said the girl, hopefully.
"The invigorating New Brunswick breeze is the best tonic I can prescribe," exclaimed the doctor, eyeing Mrs. Verne with close study, "but this one must be taken first."
A merry twinkle of the keen blue eye was directed upon Marguerite, who now took the proffered slip of paper, and, to the very great amusement of the practitioner, noted the Latin abbreviation.
"Don't be too modest over it," said the latter, laughing. "I begin to think my patient has been drawn into the mysteries of our lore."
Marguerite reached out her hand to receive the kind goodbye, and how pale and wan that little hand?
Poor child, murmured the genial-hearted man as he shut the door so softly and went forth in his daily rounds whenever and anon the sweet face would rise up before him and shut out all the visible surroundings.
"The old, old story—poor thing—many such have I prescribed for in vain, but it has been so from the beginning, and I suppose, will be so to the end."
But Dr. Refern's soliloquy was lost upon a desert air, and as he pronounced Miss Verne convalescent he felt a tender pity in his large, warm heart, and fervently prayed that the girl's future might be made brighter and happier, and that she yet might return thanks for his interest in her recovery.
* * * * *
"My Father!"
What a scene.
Marguerite is once more with her idolized parent, but the poor girl is almost overcome with grief as she looked upon the altered looks of the prostrate form.
"My darling father," she murmurs, and vainly attempts to gain a look of fond recognition.
"Oh! father! try to speak to me," she cried, sobbing like a child, "speak to your own Marguerite."
It was a scene too sacred for other eyes, and Mrs. Montgomery turned away.
"Father in heaven," prayed the girl with arms uplifted and her eyes raised in devout supplication, "forsake me not now; oh, give me back my father—the father to whom I owe so much; Oh, grant that his senses be restored, and I can hear his voice once more." Marguerite threw herself prostrate beside the bed, and remained for some moments in fervent meditation.
The silence was indeed impressive, when suddenly Marguerite cast a glance at the loved form, and a half-smothered cry burst from her lips.
Another glance and a murmured "Thank God," Marguerite Verne's prayer was answered.
"Marguerite."
"My father."
What comfort in these words? What tongue could tell of the happiness that now filled the maiden's heart. She could not utter another word, but put her arms around her father's neck and pressed upon his wasted lips one long lingering kiss—so tender, so pure and so sacred that it might well have accorded with the salutation of the angels in heaven!
And Marguerite Verne clad in robes of dazzling whiteness was indeed a fit representation of an angelic being, whose sole mission on earth was the doing of good and making others happy, but at a great sacrifice, the greatest sacrifice that a maiden can endure—the sacrifice of all her earthly hope.
Yes, Marguerite could and would make such a sacrifice. She had strength given her from the highest source, and she had faith in her heavenly father. He would carry her through all she had now undertaken.
Mr. Verne had rallied sufficiently to recognize his child. He gazed into the face he loved so well, and a faint smile overspread his countenance. He lay with his hands clasped in those of his child and seemed supremely happy.
"It is almost a pity that he should be aroused from this happy, trance-like state," said Mrs. Montgomery as she quietly raised the sick man to administer the medicine that had been consigned to her care.
Marguerite once more pressed the thin lips and stood at a distance, as if trying to think whether it were reality or dreamland.
Other eyes looked upon the maiden and other hands clasped in prayer were indeed very near.
What subtle power caused Marguerite to look around? What subtle power caused her to hold her breath as if oppressed with some invisible presence?
"Miss Verne, I'm glad you are here."
"Thank you Mr. Lawson," was the quiet reply, but in the look there was a world of sympathy that smote deeply into Phillip Lawson's heart.