Marguerite had only one week's notice to prepare for the projected trip. She did not receive the summons with joy and eagerness, nor did she evince any pleasure in the preparations.

"I shall have some beautiful costumes ordered for you when we arrive in London, my dear," said the fashionable mother on inspecting her daughter's wardrobe and commenting upon the array of materials before her.

"Really, mamma, if I am to be bored by _modistes_ from morn till eve I should prefer to remain at home. I know it is wrong to say so, but I almost wish that Eve was well enough to get along without us."

"I believe you, my dear," said Mrs. Verne, stroking her daughter's head, "but then you know it would be cruel to have the poor girl break her heart, moping away her time and begging to see a dear face from home."

A wicked thought entered Marguerite's head. She wondered if it were possible that her haughty sister ever possessed a true, honest heart? and was there in her marriage with Montague Arnold the least approach to sympathy? Did the proud heart ever beat with one responsive throb for him whom she had chosen?

As the maiden reasoned thus there was a slight pang which told her she had a heart, but that it must be silent--it must not be allowed to a.s.sert itself, but masked in conventionalities she must act the part of the worldly wise.

Mr. Verne was piqued to the highest degree when his wife spoke of her intended tour.

"Why not put it off until next year and I may be able to accompany you. Arnold can take care of Eve without out a.s.sistance."

The sound sense arguments were of no avail.

"We must certainly go, and I should think it would be much pleasanter for us to think that we left home without any disagreeable feelings."

"I suppose it is the best way to look at it," said Mr. Verne, quitting the room and going to his office, where in a few moments he was found by his beloved Marguerite.

"So my sunbeam is going to leave me," said the father, taking the girl in his arms and kissing the soft oval cheeks until a faint flush overspread them and the lips grew tremulous.

"I do not want to go papa, but mamma says that she cannot think of going alone," said Marguerite, as she nestled closer in her father's embrace and wound her arms lovingly around his neck.

"Perhaps the invigorating sea breeze may coax a few brighter roses,"

said the fond father, emphasizing his words by patting Marguerite's cheek with childlike playfulness.

"Never mind, you dear old papa, they cannot force me to stay very long away from you. Remember, if you hear of my doing desperate deeds it will be through madness to be once more beside you in this dear old spot."

"Ah, you silly little Madge, you will soon find other attractions than your prosy dull old father, but you must reserve one little spot for him."

Mr. Verne glanced at his pure and lovely child, and inwardly invoked G.o.d's blessing, and prayed that she might pa.s.s through the many temptations and dazzling allurements of fashionable follies unharmed.

"Darling papa, believe me, I care so little for society, so called, that I would rather spend a few hours each day among my dear home friends than be lionized in the highest courts in Europe."

"I believe you, my child," said Mr. Verne, placing his hand reverentially upon Marguerite's head, "but it appears that it is a duty to go."

"Yes, papa, but I am inclined to be rebellious, and ask you to pray for me. Sometimes I feel that I am not doing my duty in any way. It seems so hard to know the way before us."

Marguerite's face had a perplexed look and a shade of gloomy foreboding succeeded.

"Put your trust in G.o.d, my child--never forget Him. He will be your best Friend, when earthly friends will fail you."

Mr. Verne was what is generally known as a "good-living man." He made no parade of his profession, but he tried to live at peace with his G.o.d and do right to each and every man. His religion was not put on with his Sunday coat. He wore it into the counting-room as well, and carried it to Chubb's Corner, aye to every business resort and doled it out on every opportunity by acts of charity and Christian benevolence.

But of the departure.

Mrs. Verne was in ecstacies of delight. Everything pleased her. She superintended the manifold duties as if her whole soul was in the work, and beaming with smiles, flitted from one room to another with the playfulness of a child just setting out on its holiday season.

"I hope we shall have no scenes from Madge," said she to one of the friends who graced the drawing-room the day previous to their departure, "for anything I hate is a crowd gathered around with faces all gotten up for a funeral."

Here Mrs. Verne shrugged her shoulders and a.s.sumed a look of abhorrence.

Marguerite was leaving the conservatory as she overheard the remark, and she pressed more firmly the sprays of heliotrope and azalea which she held in her hand.

"Heaven help me," murmured the girl; "am I always expected to go through life with my feelings put away far out of sight-far away--

"Deeply buried from human eyes?"

Looking upwards she remained motionless as the marble statue of Psyche that adorned the recess in which she stood. Then the lips moved and the words "Put your trust in G.o.d," came forth soft and bewitching as the strain of an aeolian harp, and leaving, as it were, a holy hushed spell, subduing the soul of her who uttered it.

It was well for Marguerite that she had those precious moments of communion, and at no other time in her life did she need them more.

They were the only beacon lights to guide her through the treacherous shoals into which she must inevitably steer her course.

It was with such feelings that the girl stood at the station and shook each friend by the hand without the least tremor in her voice or tear in her eye.

It did, indeed, cost a struggle to keep the pallid lips firm as Marguerite returned her father's parting embrace; but strength had been given her.

And the manly form beside him, Phillip Lawson, stood unmoved and erect, his face quiet in expression and not the least betrayal of the pa.s.sion within his breast.

Mrs. Verne, with the tactics of a shrewd diplomatist, had arranged matters to enable her to perform her part without opposition.

Marguerite had to devote much time to the pressing duties devolving upon her, and when Mr. Lawson called at "Sunnybank" it always happened that she was out making her farewell calls.

It was the last evening that Marguerite should gladden her home, perhaps, for many months to come. The bronze clock on the mantel shelf struck the hour of eight. The drawing-room was unoccupied, and Marguerite stealthily glided towards the piano and sat down.

Her beautifully-moulded hands rivalled the ivory keys before her, and would have tempted the genius of a Phidias or a Lysippus.

Soon a low, soft symphony sounded through the room a music that had power to move the soul and hold it entranced.

"Marguerite, darling, do not play like that. I cannot hear such music without feeling sad, and sadness must not intrude to-night."

"Perhaps this will suit you, papa," and instantly Marguerite commenced to sing the old-time ballad, "The Campbells are Coming,"

in the liveliest manner possible, looking indeed the picture of happiness.

"How is it that my little girl cannot attend to the social demands that press so lightly upon her?" said Mr. Verne, as the last notes of the song were ended.

"I do not understand you, papa dear."

"Mr. Lawson called and I heard one of the maids tell him that you were not at home."

"It is strange that mamma did not send up to my room. I have not been out since ten o'clock this morning, when I went up to Manchester's to buy the pretty little work-basket that I wish to carry to Eve."

"A work-basket for Eve!" cried Mr. Verne, gaily. "What extravagant taste my little Madge has!"

Marguerite smiled and then looked thoughtful. She tried hard not to see her worldly mother's feelings. Yet she could not be blinded to the fact.