Marguerite Verne; Or, Scenes from Canadian Life Part 1

Marguerite Verne.

by Agatha Armour.

CHAPTER I.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

"Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New Year blithe and bold, my friend Comes up to take his own."--_Tennyson_.

New Year's Eve in the fair city of St. John, that queenly little city which sits upon her rocky throne overlooking the broad expanse of bay at her feet.

Reader, we do not wish to weary you with the known, but love for our own dear New Brunswick is surely sufficient apology.

It is one of the feelings of human nature to be possessed with a desire to worship the great and t.i.tled, to become enamoured with those appendages, which are the symbols of social distinction. Let us consider how we, as a people, are privileged. Is there any grander t.i.tle this side of Heaven than found in these words, "I am a British subject," and next "I am a New Brunswicker"? You who have travelled have often felt your hearts rebound when listening to the eulogiums pa.s.sed upon our country and its gifted sons through the medium of the pulpit, the platform and the press. "He is a New Brunswick boy." Ah, those words are sufficient to inspire us with thoughts enn.o.bling, grand and elevating. There are to be found growlers in every clime, and it is only such that will desert their fatherland and seek refuge under foreign skies. We have liberty, right, education, refinement and culture in our midst; we have a good government, n.o.ble reforms, and all advantages to make us good and happy. Then let us cherish every right and inst.i.tution which makes our beloved New Brunswick the pride of its loyal people. It is such feeling which prompts this work, and if the different scenes throughout the province which we will endeavor to portray, the usages of society, custom, &c., and the few characters introduced from real life, meet your approbation, our highest expectation will be realized.

Now back to our fair city.

On this New Year's Eve the moon was holding high carnival. Wrapped in a costume of silvery radiance, she was displaying her charms to the busy throng beneath with all the coquetry she could summon, to her aid, darting quick glances at youths and maidens, and by covert smiles bringing even the middle-aged man of business to her feet. The air is also influenced by her wooing, and is inclined to be less severe than some hours earlier. Floods of light are radiating King Square, giving even to its leafless trees a charm of softness and effect. Pedestrians are going to and fro, while several halt in the vicinity of the fountain to smoke their pipes and discuss the news of the day. Presently a quick step is heard approaching, and a trim little figure greets us, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, which, despite its ungainliness, cannot conceal the grace of the wearer. As the maiden casts a pa.s.sing glance we are impressed by the sweet purity of her face--a face that will stamp its image upon more than one heart, and leave memories that cannot be forgotten.

Such was Marguerite Verne as we now attempt to introduce her in the fond hope that others will see her as we do.

"Marguerite," exclaimed the child who had overtaken her as she reached the pavement in front of the Royal Hotel, "Marguerite I am tired running, I thought I never would get up to you. Golly, how you do streak along!"

"Charlie Verne, you naughty boy," returned the girl as she confronted her pet brother, his childish face aglow with the late exercise, "I thought you were going to keep house with Winnie?'

"So I was," said the boy, eyeing his sister closely to watch the effect of his speech, "but the Listers have arrived and I had to run and tell you."

At this announcement Marguerite Verne could scarce repress a hearty laugh and her large, deep violet eyes sparkled, and from their changing expressions exhibited such variety of shade that one would scarce venture to say which was the original one.

A deeper tinge now rested upon the purely oval cheek as the girl returned the recognition of a thoughtful-looking young man who had the air and manner of one possessed with more common sense than generally falls to the lot of the young men courted by the _creme de la creme_.

"Miss Verne, I see that you too are bent upon enjoying this glorious evening; the old year is going out in all its serenity."

"Yes indeed, Mr. Lawson; the old year is dying with all the true greatness that characterizes its life; it has left nothing undone, and if we have failed to garner up its hours sacredly, to us--not it--we lay the blame."

"True indeed; but how little do we think of those lessons until they are beyond reach. We make grand resolutions on each New Year, but how often do they go to the winds ere the first week has pa.s.sed around."

Phillip Lawson's words took an earnest tone and his manner was earnest also. His rich, deep voice found its way far down in the maiden's heart; but she would not allow herself to think so. She would not acknowledge to herself that the restless emotions within her heart were other than a pa.s.sing thought to a very dear friend!

She must not see that Phillip Lawson, in his gifted, manly character, was her hero of all that was good and true, and that his was the nature by which she tested others.

As the foregoing remarks turned into a lengthy conversation Marguerite scarcely heeded that Trinity chimed out the hour of nine when the trio turned their steps homeward, Master Charlie forming an advance guard, and making the air resound with all the hilarity at his command when he came in friendly contact with some of his "fellers" as he expressed himself.

When Marguerite bade good night to her companion and stood for a moment in the hallway watching the retreating figure, we will not disclose her thoughts, but will follow her to the drawing-room, where "the Listers" are marshalled _en ma.s.se_ awaiting her return.

"Marguerite, you darling!" exclaimed the eldest Miss Lister rushing forward and embracing the former in a manner that was more demonstrative than conventional, but was accepted with the best of grace, notwithstanding there was to be a repet.i.tion four times in succession.

Mrs. Lister was a distant cousin of Mr. Verne, and having six marriageable daughters on hand, had recourse to much diplomacy in the way of matrimonial speculations. For several years she had been in the habit of spending the New Year with the Verne family, each year adding one more eligible, until she has now the happy six.

It had ever been the boast of Mrs. Lister that she had attended boarding school, and carried off several prizes for her cla.s.sic ability; and in order to establish the fact, had named her six daughters after six of the Muses. Clio, the eldest, inherited the largest part of her mother's ability.

The former often regretted that three unruly boys came to interrupt the succession of the cla.s.sic nine.

But all this addition of inspiration at this festive season did not _inspire_ the Verne family with any such high-toned sentiments as might have been expected.

"Marguerite Verne," explained the haughty Evelyn, the imperious first-born of the family, "you are enough to drive anyone distracted! How can you submit so tamely to being bored to death by such pests? Indeed, Aunt Hester with all her wisdom is preferable to that empty headed woman and her muses."

Marguerite had retired to her own room. She was sitting at a small ebony writing desk, jotting down a few thoughts in her diary When her sister entered, but now arose and drew forth a luxurious arm-chair for the imperious beauty to recline in.

"If worrying myself to death would do me any good, I might try it too, Evelyn; but as it does not, I try to make the best of it."

"There you are again, with your philosophical ideas. I must expect nothing else from one who cares so little for the opinions of others, and lives only in sight of all the old half-crazed poets and fanatics of the Dark Ages."

Marguerite durst not look toward the speaker, lest her quizzical expression might heap further a.s.sault upon her; so she sat quietly regarding a favorite print that hung over the mantelshelf. After a few moments silence, Evelyn drew herself up haughtily and arose to go, when Marguerite felt a rising sensation in her throat, and instantly rushed into her sister's arms. "Eve, dearest, I know you are disappointed in not going out this evening, and I am sorry; can you not believe me?"

Evelyn Verne was a beauty--beautiful as an houri, imperial as Cleopatra, but merciless as a De Medicis. She was a true woman of the world; self was the only shrine at which she worshipped; and if indeed she could feel a momentary sympathetic chord, surely Marguerite was the cause. The piercing black eyes send forth a flash that is electrifying, then fix themselves upon her companion. She is perhaps struggling between pride and duty, and it costs her a heavy sacrifice. As she gazes upon that sweet, soulful face she is almost tempted to become a n.o.bler and better being; but the world has too heavy a hold upon her, and slightly pressing a kiss upon Marguerite's cheek, she takes leave without saying another word. As the latter listens to the rustle of the silken train through the s.p.a.cious hall and stairway, she heaves a deep sigh, and once more seats herself beside her desk. On the pages of the little book she pens thoughts worthy of such a soul, and worthy of the memorable eve--worthy of the dying moments of the year which had been her friend, her comforter and her hope. She could look back without many regrets. The hours had not been misspent, and she could say: "Old Year, I used you well. Now that you are nearly gone I will not regret, but try, with G.o.d's help, to welcome in your child."

Marguerite sat thus while the clock struck twelve, when she buried her face in her hands and remained in thoughtful silence--a feeling too reverential for words, as something too sacred for intruding upon.

And now the New Year had been welcomed in. The moon, in all her majesty, witnessed the solemn pageant; and unseen choristers wafted the tidings from pole to pole.

"Another year," murmured Marguerite, as she gently raised the cas.e.m.e.nt and looked out upon the beauty of the scene. Queen Square, studded with tributes to the Loyalists, was peaceful as the grave.

Beyond was the calm, blue water of the harbor; while here and there a white sail upon its bosom added to the effect. Peace reigns over the city, and the lights have at last disappeared from the Verne mansion. Let us take the liberty to mention a few facts that may be necessary ere we proceed further.

The Vernes belonged to a genteel and respectable family. They did not lay claim to an aristocratic ancestry, but for generations could reckon on a spirit of proud independence and honest worth. Mr. Verne was a man of honor and sound principles in every sense of the word; and he always tried to inculcate those principles in the minds of his children. If he daily saw in his first-born traits of character which he openly condemned and censured, there stood in bold relief upon his heart the pure, high and n.o.ble character of his delicate Marguerite. Nor was he to be disappointed in the younger scions of the family. Fred. Verne was a n.o.ble, manly boy of fifteen, and gave promise of being a good and upright citizen; while the precocious Charlie, despite the daily amount of spoiling received in the domestic circle, was a clever little fellow, as ready with an answer as he was ready for his daily supply of chocolate caramels.

Mr. Verne had married when very young, and was still in the prime of manhood. He was not handsome; but an intelligent, open countenance was the most pleasing attraction in his face. One could look upon him the second time without a feeling of dislike or even indifference.

But there is another important personage of whom we must make mention--the mistress of the Verne mansion. She is, to say it in as few words as possible, an out-and-out woman of the world--one who never says or does anything without considering what will be the world's opinion of her, and one who never says or does anything unless there be some selfish motive at the bottom of it; one who lives only for the gratification of her own selfish ends, so far as her friends and family are concerned, and whose chief delight is show, display and social greatness.

It may be said that when Mr. Verne married his child-wife, who had been petted and spoiled by her elders, he made much allowance for her daily short-comings, and fondly hoped that he might bend the impulsive nature to his will; but when he saw the great mistake he had made, he calmly bowed his head in submission to the decrees of fate, and labored more diligently to set a good example before his children. When vainly remonstrating with his wife, upon the increasing gaiety into which she plunged so wildly, he always found encouragement from the sympathetic Marguerite; and when retired from the noise and din of the drawing-room, his favorite amus.e.m.e.nt was a game of chess, with the latter for partner. It was then that Marguerite's deep violet eyes would sparkle and her face glow with enthusiasm, as she followed her father through the mazes of the game, and her clear silvery laughter had more charm than the ravishing strains of the most brilliant fantasia.

Surrounded by the _elite_ of the city of St. John, Evelyn Verne was courted by the rich, the gay and the distinguished. It was the sole end of Mrs. Verne's existence that her daughters should make grand matches. For this purpose she entered upon a career which we intend to pursue through all its straight and crooked paths, hoping in the sequel to impart the sad but profitable lesson!

CHAPTER II.

SUNNYBANK.

Sunnybank, the stately residence of the Vernes, is indeed an imposing structure. Its towering form and ma.s.sive appearance mark it as one of the n.o.blest piles in St. John. Its costly windows, reflecting all the colors of the rainbow; its solid brick walls, stone pillars and grand entrance, bespeak it the home of wealth and affluence. Even the solid brick pavement leading from the main gateway to the terrace marks the substantial tone of the edifice, and impresses one with the stability of its owner. And the statuary, seen from the highway, denotes the taste displayed in the vestibule, with its floor of tesselated pavement, echoing to the tread of footsteps as the corridors of some grand old cathedral.

It is now our privilege to be introduced to the interior, and we make good use of our opportunity while mingling with its guests.

On this clear wintry evening as we are ushered into the Verne drawing-room with its beautifully-frescoed wall and rare painting a pretty sight is presented to our view. Seated at the piano is Marguerite, who is singing a quaint little ballad for the benefit of a company of children gathered at her feet. She is evidently their queen, as the sly glances at the happy-faced maiden are ever increasing to be repaid by the sweetest of smiles. Evelyn Verne appeared in a heavy garnet silk with bodice and draperies of the same shade in velvet. Her elbow sleeves reveal arms that would rival in miniature those of the master-piece of Phidias--the Pallas Athena--which graced the Parthenon in by-gone ages.