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.