It was then the grandeur of his character shone in its purity and n.o.bility, and as his sister came in with a tiny note she fancied that she heard him repeat in earnest tones the words "never-- never--never!"

"This is for you, Brother Phillip; Fred. Verne left it this afternoon."

A smile followed the reading of the note. It was from Cousin Jennie.

The young lady had arrived in the city and was ready to convey him to "Gladswood," free of charge.

"Lottie, can you get Edith to stay with you this evening? I shall be out."

The girl, with all the impetuosity of her nature, set off on the gleeful message, while Phillip Lawson mapped out a letter that was energetic and full of decision.

"There will be no more solicitation from that quarter. Heavens! it was a great temptation. Well, if I had exposed them, what good could come of it."

A few hours later Mr. Lawson was announced at Sunnybank. Cousin Jennie was in her gayest mood.

"I am ready for you. Mr. Lawson; what is your verdict?" cried she, giving him a hearty shake of the hand.

"That the law must take its course," said Mr. Verne, who at that moment entered and gave the young man a warm greeting.

"You have been sadly delinquent of late, Mr. Lawson. I ask the women folks, and the answer invariably is in the negative. Now, if it were not that this little country girl is here I would carry you off to my den."

"Yes, Uncle Verne, it is just such an ungallant thing as you would do," cried Jennie, giving her head a saucy toss.

"Madge, you are just in time to support our claims."

"Pray enlighten me, dearest," said Marguerite, who, hat in hand, stood on the threshold.

A second look caused a slight blush to mantle upon her cheek, and she came forward with a sweet smile and gave her hand to the welcome guest.

"Mamma has a severe headache and wishes me to convey her regrets to you, Mr. Lawson," said Marguerite, on her return to the drawing-room a few minutes later.

After the young girl made the above speech her eyes met those of her father, and she knew that he felt annoyed. Did he think she had done wrong? She could not refuse to deliver her mother's message. And that headache! It was a purely conventional one--arranged for effect. Mr. Verne had occasion to say some hasty words to his wife.

He could not sanction the steps she had taken in direct opposition to his advice, and he must speak his mind. He was a man of few words, but those words were to the point.

Thus while the rest of the family enjoyed themselves in the drawing-room Mrs. Verne gracefully reclined upon die gorgeous crimson lounge in her own room, and was as deeply interested in the heroine of the novel which she was reading as a maiden of eighteen.

"Half-past nine. How the time flies over a good book. It is better that I don't go down. I would be almost tempted to break the news.

Enjoy yourself while you may, my verdant friend. Money will triumph over brains, especially when you have none of the former to back them up."

Mrs. Verne picked up the ivory-backed hand gla.s.s within her reach, and looking into its depths, exclaimed, "Mrs. Verne, of St. John, New Brunswick--not exactly beautiful, but a pretty and fascinating woman."

As Mrs. Verne laid aside the gla.s.s and once more took up the novel--but not to read--her thoughts were bent upon conquest of an important nature. Accomplish her end she must at the risk of all that was near to her, and all that ought to be dear to her.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE VERNES GO TO EUROPE.

"I declare nothing need astonish one nowadays," exclaimed Mrs.

Montgomery, throwing aside the _Daily Telegraph_ announcing that Mrs. and Miss Verne had sailed for Europe the day before.

"There's something that will explain matters," said Mr. Montgomery coming in with a letter with Marguerite's initials on the corner of the envelope.

Jennie tore open the missive and hastily scanned the contents.

"They went quite unexpectedly, mother," said the girl, with a slight quiver on the healthful lips, "else Madge would have come to bid good-bye."

Jennie Montgomery loved her sweet-faced cousin as she loved no other companion.

Madge was to her all that was good and lovely, and the thought of separation sent a strange thrill of emotion through her frame--a sense of loneliness that she had never known before.

Mrs. Montgomery felt for her child, and adroitly referred to the fine opportunity of having a correspondent from the mother country, and the pleasure it would give Marguerite to see the sights and curiosities and grandeur which she would hourly meet in her intercourse with the world.

But this shrewd, penetrative woman took another view of the matter when alone in the presence of her husband some hours afterwards.

"Matilda needn't try to stuff such nonsense down our throats. She cannot make me believe but that she concocted the whole thing herself."

Mrs. Montgomery was evidently aroused. Her sallow face a.s.sumed a deeper color, and her eyes spoke out the honest convictions of her thoughts.

"_Poor Evelyn_, indeed! She is just as much sick as I am at present. How they can trump up such things and make people believe them is more than I can see."

Mrs. Montgomery plied her knitting needles with almost lightning rapidity, and the exercise seemed to give relief to the angry feeling that accompanied it.

"You need not say a word in Matilda's defence, William. I pity Stephen Verne from the bottom of my heart. It is always such men that become martyrs to the whims and tyrannical grievances of their wives."

Mrs. Montgomery stooped to pickup the ball of yarn that had rolled under her chair, and her husband went towards the door as if to depart.

"I tell you what it is, William, Matilda Verne is my own sister, but it grieves me to think so. Talk of pride or dignity. She has none.

Pride--yes, a nice kind of pride that lives on lies and falsities of every description! But she cannot deceive me, thank Heaven; I can read her through and through."

"In some instances, my dear, your boasted accomplishment is not always of the most agreeable kind," said Mr. Montgomery, in his bland, easy manner.

"Never mind that part of it. I can bear it, since it gives the preciousness of seeing people as they are, their shallowness and their shams. Is there anything genuine in this every-day world?

Really, each day I see something to disgust me."

The speaker's face gave proof to her speech as she fixed upon her husband a long, earnest look.

"Poor Marguerite it should be instead of Poor Evelyn. It is the pure minded girl that is to be pitied. Marguerite is the victim of this freak. Matilda will drag that child to the four corners of the earth to accomplish her ends."

"My dear, you are severe. Have some moderation," said Mr.

Montgomery, in a conciliating tone.

"Moderation!" retorted the self-reliant wife--"moderation towards a weak-minded, unscrupulous fortune-hunter and match-maker--a despiser of those genuine graces which adorn the female mind and make woman what she should be. Don't talk thus to me, William, else I shall feel that you would abet Matilda in what she has undertaken, and what she may evidently accomplish."

"G.o.d forbid," said Mr. Montgomery, with more vehemence than was peculiar to him.