Marguerite Verne | Page 4

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 amusement 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 massive appearance mark it as one of
the noblest 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. Her hair, of purplish blackness, gives effect
to the creamy tints of her complexion, and heightens the damask tinge
of the beautifully-rounded cheeks. One glance at this magnificent
looking form and you are victimized by her charms; you cast a side
glance towards the childish-looking girl at the piano, and you will only
pronounce her passing fair. Beauty is beauty, and will charm while the
world goes on, and while we are endowed with that sense which, in
general, has outweighed all others; but in most cases we are, in the end,
taught that the beauty of the soul will wear until time is no more, and
the beauty that fades is a thing of the past!
"Evelyn, dearest, if Paris had now to decide between the goddesses, he
certainly would have awarded you the golden apple," exclaimed the
first muse, who never let an opportunity slip to display her knowledge
of mythology.
"What nonsense you talk, Clio!" returned Evelyn, whose heightened
color betrayed the insincerity of her speech.
Urania Lister, "the Fifth Muse," as Fred. Verne had dubbed her, now
entered from the conservatory, and throwing aside a scarlet wrap, also
joined in the conversation. She was a slight creature, with some
pretension to good looks; but there was a sort of languor in her manner
that disappointed one ere she had uttered half a dozen sentences. In
order to sustain the character her name suggested, she was continually
soaring into immensity of space and deducing celestial problems for the
uninitiated habitant of this lower sphere. It was when Urania had taken
one of her upper flights into empyrean air that the fond mother would
exclaim: "If Galileo were alive to-day I believe he could get ideas from

my dear Urania."
But to