MARION BERKLEY
A STORY FOR GIRLS
BY ELIZABETH B. COMINS
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY T. COATES & CO
Copyright, 1870, by A. K. Loring.
TO
MY TWIN SISTERS
THIS BOOK
IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY
_DEDICATED_.
[Illustration: THE TWO BOUQUETS.]
MARION BERKLEY.
CHAPTER I.
EN ROUTE FOR SCHOOL.
"Come on, Mab! the carriage is round; only fifteen minutes to get to the
depot."
"Yes, I am coming. O mamma! do fasten this carpet-bag for me. Dear me!
there goes the button off my gloves. Was there ever any one in such a
flutter?"
"Never mind, dear; it is too late to sew it on now. Here is your bag;
come, we must not stop another moment; there is Fred calling again."
"I say, Mab," shouted the first speaker from the bottom of the stairs,
"if you're coming, why don't you come? I shan't leave until you bid me
good-by, and I know I shall lose the ball-match. You do keep a fellow
waiting so eternally long!"
His sister was downstairs, and had her arms around his neck before he
had finished speaking, and said to him, in a tone of mock gravity, "Now,
Frederic, don't get excited; always follow my good example, and keep
cool. There now!" she exclaimed, as she gave him a hearty kiss; "be
off. I forgot all about your ball-match, and all the amends I can make
is to hope the Isthmians will beat the Olympics all to pieces."
"Come, come," called Mrs. Berkley from the inside of the carriage, "we
have not a moment to lose."
"Good-by, Hannah. One more kiss for Mab, Charlie. Good-by, all;" then to
the coachman, as she whisked into the carriage, "Drive on, John, just as
fast as you can."
The carriage-door was shut with a snap; off went the horses, and Mrs.
Berkley and her daughter were soon at the Western depot, where the
latter was to take the cars for B----, a little New England town, where
she attended boarding-school. They were very late at the depot, and Mrs.
Berkley had only time for a fond kiss and a "Write often, darling," when
the bell rung, and she was forced to leave the car, feeling a little
uneasy that her daughter was obliged to take her journey alone. Just as
the cars were starting, Marion put her head out of a window, and called
to her mother, "O mamma! Flo is here; isn't that jolly? No fear now
of--" The last part of the sentence was unintelligible, and all Mrs.
Berkley got was a bright smile, and a wave of the hand, as the train
moved out of the depot.
"Now, Flo, I call this providential," exclaimed Marion; "for, I can tell
you, I did not relish the prospect of my solitary ride. Just hand me
your bag, and I'll put it in the rack with my budgets. This seat is
empty; suppose we turn it over, and then we shall be perfectly
comfortable. Now I say this is decidedly scrumptious;" and she settled
herself back, with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Why, Mab, what made you so late? I had been here fifteen minutes before
you came, all on the _qui vive_, hoping to see some one I knew; but I
never dreamed you would be here. I thought you were going up yesterday
with the Thayers."
"I did intend to; but Fred had a sort of spread last night for the
Isthmians, so I stayed over. I expect Miss Stiefbach will give me one of
her annihilators, but I guess I can stand it. I've been withered so many
times, that the glances of those 'eagle eyes' have rather lost their
effect."
"Well, I only wish I had a little more of your spirit of resistance.
What a lovely hat you have! Just suits your style. Where did you get
it?"
"Why, it's only my old sun-down dyed and pressed over, and bound with
the velvet off my old brown rep. I trimmed it myself, and feel mighty
proud of it."
"Trimmed it yourself!--really? Well, I never saw such a girl; you can do
anything! I couldn't have done it to save my life. I only wish to
gracious I could; it would be very convenient sometimes."
And so the two girls rattled on for some time, in true school-girl
fashion; but at last they each took a book, and settled back into their
respective corners. Before very long, however, Marion tossed her book on
to the opposite seat; for they were coming to Lake Cochituate, and
nothing could be lovelier than the view which was stretching itself
before them. I do not think that half the people of Massachusetts
realize how beautiful this piece of water is; but I believe, if they had
seen it then, they surely must have appreciated its charms.
It was about the middle of September, and the leaves were just beginning
to turn; indeed, some of them were already quite brilliant. The day was
soft and hazy,--just such a one as we often have in early autumn, and
the slight mist of the atmosphere served to soften and harmonize the
various colors of the landscape. The lake itself was as clear and smooth
as polished glass, and every tree on the borders was distinctly
reflected on its clear bosom; while the delicate blue sky, with the few
feathery clouds floating across it seemed to be far beneath the surface
of the water.
Marion was at heart a true artist, and had all a true artist's intense
love of nature; she now sat at the window, completely absorbed in the
scene before her, her eye and mind taking in all the beauties of form,
color, and reflection; and as the cars bore her too swiftly by she
uttered a sigh of real regret.
Perhaps there will be no better time than the present for giving my
young readers a description of my heroine. My tale will contain no
thrilling incidents, no hairbreadth escapes, or any of those startling
events with which ideas of heroism are generally associated. It will be
a simple story of a school-girl's life; its fun and frolic; its
temptations, trials, and victories.
Marion Berkley was a remarkably beautiful girl; but she owed her beauty
chiefly to the singular contrast of her hair and eyes. The former was a
beautiful golden color, while her eyes, eyebrows, and lashes were very
dark. Her nose and mouth, though well formed, could not be considered in
any way remarkable. When in conversation her face became animated, the
expression changed with each inward emotion, and her eyes sparkled
brilliantly; but when in repose they assumed a softer, dreamier look,
which seemed to hint of a deeper nature beneath this gay and often
frivolous exterior.
Mr. Berkley was very fond of his daughter. He had a large circle of
acquaintances, many of whom were in the habit of dining, or passing the
evening, at his house, and it pleased him very much to have them notice
her. Marion was by no means a vain girl; yet these attentions from those
so much older than herself were rather inclined to turn her head.
Fortunately, her mother was a very lovely and sensible woman, whose good
example and sound advice served to counteract those influences which
might otherwise have proved very injurious.
And now that I have introduced my friends to Marion, it is no more than
fair that I should present them to her companion. Florence Stevenson was
a bright, pretty brunette, of sixteen. She and Marion had been friends
ever since they made "mud pies" together in the Berkleys' back yard.
They shared the same room at school, got into the same scrapes, kept
each other's secrets, and were, in short, almost inseparable. Florence
had lost her mother when she was very young, and her father's house was
ruled over by a well-meaning, but disagreeable maiden-aunt, who, by her
constant and oftentimes unnecessary fault-finding, made Florence so
unhappy, that she had hailed with delight her father's proposition of
going away to school. For three years Florence and Marion had been
almost daily together, being only separated during vacations, when, as
Florence lived five miles from Boston, it was impossible that they
should see as much of each other as they would have liked.
About four in the afternoon, the girls reached their destination; rather
tired out by their long ride, but, nevertheless, in excellent spirits.
Miss Stiefbach, after a few remarks as to the propriety of being a day
before, rather than an hour behind time, dismissed them to their rooms
to prepare for supper, where for the present we will leave them.