Mrs. Arnold then pulled the bell-rope and a servant, or rather page, answered the summons.
"Bring me that package of letters lying on the small cabinet in my boudoir," said she, with as much nonchalance as if nothing of any importance occupied her thoughts.
The boy returned and presented the desired package on a small and unique silver salver, lined with gold and enamel.
"Here it is, Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, passing a somewhat lengthy telegram into the girl's hand.
The latter run her eye hastily over the contents and turned deathly pale. "Poor, dear, papa!" were all the words she could say, when an icy chill ran through the delicate frame, and the tender-hearted daughter fell into a deadly swoon.
Mrs. Arnold did feel something akin to pity when she saw the graceful form prostrate at her feet, and as she stooped down and took the cold hand in hers, murmured "poor little Madge—you were not fashioned for this decidedly calculating world. Your heart is too tender—far too tender."
"You must be brave, Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, on seeing Marguerite restored to something of her former self. "I'm afraid you would be more of a drawback to papa at present than a help."
But Marguerite was of a different opinion. "Oh! if I were only near him, to comfort him," thought she, "I could indeed do something. My sadness to-day was but a presentiment of this. Oh, dear! will I ever see papa alive again!"
"Papa will be all right, Madge. It is to yourself you must now look, for more depends upon you now than you at present realize."
"You speak in enigmas, Eve. Tell me what you mean," criedMarguerite, in a bewildered sort of way.
"I will wait until you are a little stronger, Madge. Go home now and tell mamma what has happened; I know she will act like a sensible woman. You know, Madge, she is always composed. I verily believe," added Mrs. Arnold, "that mamma would feel at ease if all the friends she had committed suicide, or died from some fearful epidemic."
"Don't talk about mamma in that way, Eve; I cannot bear to listen."
Mrs. Arnold thought just then that the girl would listen to something, perhaps to her, far more disagreeable, but she held her peace.
Poor Marguerite. All prospect of happiness had now fled from her vision. She saw instead sorrow, disappointment, and, perhaps, death. "If papa survives the shock I will face the world, and, amid poverty, and the slights of my former companions, I will toil—yes, I will work at anything that I can do in honesty." And with this high resolve Marguerite set forth to break the sad news to her worldly-minded mother.
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 thather 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 (theOlympian) 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,youare 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 intheirbehalf."
"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 cannow, 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."
"Iwillsay 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 toMrs. 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 thateau de nilsatin 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.
"What! here already, chum? You've kept your word for once." Montague Arnold was somewhat inebriated but still in full possession of his senses.
Hubert Tracy glanced moodily at his companion and muttered something in the fashion of an oath, then exclaimed, "and a deuced hard time I had to get here."
He was dressed in the most elaborate style and notwithstanding his irregular habits was a prepossessing young man. His chestnut curls gave a romantic look to his well-shaped head and would have elicited the admiration of many a fair maiden. "Let us have what you want to say, Mont."
"I'm afraid that you're not in the listening humor, boy," said the other with an ill-at-ease look and manner.
"I ought to be pretty well used to it by this time," was the reply.
"Well, the truth of it is I'm on the rocks again and you must get me off somehow. Cursed fool that I was to risk my last ten thousand!"
"Yes, and a kind of a fool that never sees his folly until too late," exclaimed Hubert Tracy, in anything but sympathetic tones.
"Heap on the agony, my boy! I can stand more than that!" said the other taking a cigar from the elaborate case and puffing the fantastic wreath of smoke into all visible space.
"It's no use for you to be fighting against fate any longer. You can't keep up this thing forever. Mont, your last venture was a failure. What do you expect from this?"
"As true as the heavens are above us you will be more than repaid. I have spoken to Eve and she says that you can count on her sure. Yes, sir, you're one of the family already."
"Remember, Mont Arnold, if you fail now, when I need you most, there will be the devil to pay."
The young man gave his companion a look that almost startled him, then added, "If I am fooled, Mont, there will be a just retribution."
"Good-heavens! don't look like that, boy; you would freeze a fellow to the very joints and marrow; besides, there is no need of it now, when you have everything your own way. Why, man, the old dame has thrown over Sir Arthur."
"Egad, I thought as much, from the way the old clown, glared at me last night at the Plough and Harrow."
"Plough and Harrow! what the deuce took youthere?"
"To see the country lasses have a glass of hot punch, and hear the orations of the country squires."
"And my would-be brother was representing his fair estate."
"Representing the gout, more like, for as he got tipsy I could see him wince, and when an old yeoman, with a big red head, made light by the whiskey, fell over our friend, he roared louder than a calf."
"It's all up with him and my precious mother, at any rate," said Montague Arnold, twisting his waxed moustache into the most artistic style, and laughing vociferously.
Wine was now passed around, and both gentlemen became extremely amiable. Family matters were discussed and confidences were exchanged, and Montague Arnold received a cheque forfivethousand dollars "to straighten him out once more," as he expressed it, until he could make some settlement of his own financial resources.
Montague Arnold was not in want. He was possessed of a large income, but owing to his extravagant living and dissipated habits, his demands were daily becoming more pressing; and when he had staked ten thousand dollars at the gambling table and lost, nothing but the helping hand of Hubert Tracy could save him.
The dissipated husband became very happy and at the same time very garrulous. He discussed several of Mrs. Verne's qualities both as negative and positive quantities, but more particularly the former, and then referred to Marguerite.
It may be said in justice to Montague Arnold that he considered her the living embodiment of womanly perfection, and though leading a fast life and seeing much of the grosser side of human nature, he still considered pure, noble-minded women the most exquisite production of God's handiwork.
"Mont," exclaimed Tracy interrupting his companion, "if I can only secure Marguerite Verne as my wife I will give up all my vices and follies. I will lead a different life. Oh! if I had reformed years ago I might have had no rival; but then, there is Lawson and he has all along had the inside track."
"And as poor as a church mouse; bah! No fear of Madame Verne allowing her daughter to wed a penniless lawyer. Man, the chances now are all in your favor."
"The old lady was charmingly condescending last evening, I could almost feel her smiles," said Hubert, becoming more buoyant in spirits as the wine took effect.
Other members of the club began to drop in and Montague Arnold being a general favorite soon forgot his former straitened circumstances. His spirits rose to an almost uncontrollable degree, while his companion complaining of headache sought the outer air.
As the club-room was situated in the fashionable West End of the city, the young man turned his steps in the direction of Regent Park, and sought the delightful shade of its sheltering foliage.
Like Rotten Row, Hyde Park had also its favorite resort and in this delightful spot Hubert Tracy sat him down to rest. He had not long remained thus when he heard voices; and presently the rustling of leaves showed that the speakers had taken seats on the other side of the shrubbery.
"She is one of the sweetest creatures I ever beheld," exclaimed a lady rapturously.
The voice and style of expression indicated the speaker as a woman of rank, and from the outline of her form Hubert Tracy could discern she was also a woman of taste and fashion, also that she was young and exceedingly graceful.
"Lady Gertrude is greatly in love with her, and she says that she is the most interesting girl she ever met."
"I am of the opinion of her ladyship," said the other, who also appeared to be of rank and culture, "but I cannot say that I would rave over Mrs. Arnold, as the most of our gallants do. In my eyes Miss Verne is far above her sister."
Hubert Tracy now felt a nervous sensation which made him uneasy, and yet he was compelled to remain. His curiosity was aroused, and he leaned eagerly forward where he could almost feel the speaker's breath upon his cheeks.
"It was reported that Mrs. Verne was very anxious to secure SirArthur Forrister for Miss Marguerite, but it was hinted at Mrs.Arnold's drawing-room, not many evenings since, that Mr. Tracy isthe lucky man."
"What—not that young fellow who is so much in the company ofArnold?"
"Yes, the very one, Ernest. It is to be hoped that he will give up his bad habits, for if all reports be true he is not a proper husband for Miss Verne."
"Who the deuce can they be?" thought Hubert, as he tried to get a better view of the pair. Lovers they certainly were not. As he listened he further learned that they were brother and sister, who had met after some weeks of absence—the former being a cadet in a military school in a neighboring borough.
"Egad, my young fellow, if it were you who made the speech there would be some fan before you shouldered your knapsack again," muttered Hubert Tracy, as he sat eyeing the pair with no very great affection; then adding, spitefully, "curse the women; they are first and last in everything," stealthily crept out and was soon in the open walk, jostled in turn by every pedestrian that crossed his path.
Not more than an hour had intervened when Hubert Tracy found himself chatting at his ease and listening to the pretty society talk of Mrs. Montague Arnold. She was attired in robes befitting a princess, and diamonds flashed from the superb necklace of antique design.
"You recreant!" exclaimed the beauty, throwing down the novel which had occupied the moments intervening the completion of the extravagant toilet and the arrival of an admirer. "I feel very much inclined to impose severe punishment upon you. Is it becoming a suitor to play truant when he wishes to hear favorably from his 'ladye fayre'?"
Hubert Tracy's eye brightened with expectation, and possessing himself of an elegant lounge, reclined in real oriental style.
"I was at mamma's not an hour ago, and she is delighted at the change I have made in Marguerite. She says that I am to have the whole credit of her conversion. Really, Hubert, I am more than delighted, and Madge is such a deaf good girl."
"She is too good for me," thought the young man, but he deemed it best to maintain a spirit of independence.
Presently Mrs. Verne arrived, and also Marguerite, the latter smiling and apparently cheerful, but very pale. She was dressed in the utmost simplicity, and looked more childish and confiding than ever. As her eyes met those of Hubert Tracy, a deathlike chill seized her, but was unnoticed by the company.
"Madge has been indulged in idleness quite long enough, now we are to have some music," and sweeping across the room to the music-stand Mrs. Arnold began selecting her favorite pieces.
"Anything except conversation," thought Marguerite, and she played some exquisite, old Scotch selections, which under any other circumstances would act as a healing balm to a sore heart.
She thought of the hours when she had no audience save the quiet, silent man whom she loved so tenderly—that dear parent who had sacrificed so much for his family, and the thought was almost more than she could endure.
"Why can I live on and pass through this dreadful ordeal, when so many with bright, happy lives are suddenly cut off? But it is all for his sake, and he has suffered more for me. Yes, papa, I will make you happy, and you shall never know that I made any sacrifice for your dear sake."
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 hopePromised them to-morrow."
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, butMiss 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 rebelliousthoughts. 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.
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 thespirituelleeyes awaiting his coming with eager anticipation.
"You must have brooded over some mental trouble my child, and you knowthatis 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 pillsad infinitumwhen 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.