Marguerite Verne; Or, Scenes from Canadian Life Part 17

Jennie was playfully turned around as an automaton in a shop window, and at length breaking forth into a merry laugh, exclaimed, "You saucy minx, please turn your wit upon some other object."

And thus amid fun, frolic and gaiety, Marguerite's visit came to an end, and on the last eve to be spent at Gladswood, the girls are seated in the old summer house enjoying an uninterrupted chat--that blissful recreation peculiar to each and every maiden.

"Madge, I am almost sorry that you came," said Jennie, taking the pretty white hand within her own. "Promise me that you will come while Mr. Lawson is here," cried the girl in a vehement and almost determined manner, while the large, brown eyes had a far-off look that she tried hard to conceal.

"It is impossible, Jennie; besides, you must not mention the matter again."

Marguerite's voice was clear and bird-like, but Jennie Montgomery fancied she felt a slight tremor in the last words uttered, and with that intuitive caution characteristic of her mother pressed the subject no further, and the warm-hearted maiden felt keenly her utter helplessness to render her companion any sympathy.

"Let us go in, Cousin Jennie," said Marguerite, in tender tones that seemed as reproach to the high-minded girl, but she heeded not, and playfully putting her arm around her companion's waist, led her into the parlor, where the rest of the family were seated around awaiting their appearance.

"Marguerite is too proud," murmured Jennie, as she sought her own room on returning from seeing her fair cousin aboard the down accommodation train which was to carry her homewards.

"Oh, my loving Marguerite, I know more than you think. I could indeed tell you much that you little dream of, but why is it thus?" and humming an old-fas.h.i.+oned air Jennie mechanically went back to her household duties, as if all the world were suns.h.i.+ne and brightness, and not a troubled thought had ever found a resting-place within her mind.

CHAPTER XIV.

AT THE NORTHWEST.

The scene is changed; and we find ourselves transported beyond a doubt to the far-famed city of Winnipeg--that emporium of wealth, enterprise and industry which arose from its prairie surroundings as by the magic of the enchanter's wand.

It is a bright, cheerful day in leafy June, and as one jogs leisurely adown Main street, there are to be seen many happy smiling faces.

But we are bent upon important business, and yield not to the more leisurely inclined side of our nature. A large four-story building is our destination. Its door posts, windows and available s.p.a.ce are decorated with the inevitable s.h.i.+ngle that sooner or later ushers the professional into the notice of his victims. And this building was not alone in such style of decoration.

"Dear me, I believe every other man in this place is a lawyer! Sakes alive--it's worse than being among a nest of hornets." Such was the exclamation of an elderly lady who had recently arrived, and was out taking a survey of the town.

And the old lady was not far astray, as Winnipeg has proportionately more of the legal fraternity than any other city of the Dominion.

But to our subject. Having arrived at the end of a s.p.a.cious corridor we stop directly opposite a door bearing a placard--the letters are of gilt upon a black ground:

N. H. SHARPLEY, Attorney-at-Law, Notary Public, etc.

A medium-sized man is seated at the desk busily engaged over a lengthy looking doc.u.ment which he has just received from the young copyist at the further end of the office.

"All right, Ned, you are at liberty for the next hour. Wait: You can in the meantime run up for the ink," said Mr. Sharpley, Attorney-at-Law, in an impatient tone, as though he wished to enjoy the delightful communion of his own thoughts.

And while the scion of the law was wending his steps towards the Hudson Bay Company store--that mammoth collection of goods from every clime--the father, yea rather grandfather, of variety stores-- the disciple of c.o.ke and Blackstone takes out of his breast pocket a letter, which, judging from its crumpled state, must have claimed the reader's attention more than once.

"Five thousand dollars--not bad, by Jove," muttered Mr. Sharpley, in firm set tones, then began whistling the air accompanying the words:

"Never kick a man when he's going down the hill."

Before going further let us take a survey at Nicholas Sharpley, Esq., Attorney-at-Law, as he sits with his right arm resting on the desk and his left supporting his very important head. He is about thirty-five years of age, or perhaps less. His face is long and his chin sharp, so that his name is no misnomer. A pair of glittering, steel-like eyes, play a prominent part in the expression of his face. A sinister smile plays hide-and-seek around the thin, pale lips, while the movement betray a flexibility of mind that is not nattering to the possessor.

There is about the man a striking combination of Uriah Heap and Mr. Pecksniff; which, to an honest-minded man, rendered him intolerable.

But Nicholas Sharpley had his followers, and thrived and shone bright among the legal luminaries, and was always ready to do the most unprincipled jobs to be met with.

A cunning leer pa.s.sed over the greyish countenance as the dazzling vision protruded itself before Mr. Sharpley. He drew his fingers convulsively through the ma.s.s of bristling hair (which might be designated by that color known as iron grey), and then suppressing a yawn, muttered: "It's worth the trying. The fellow's good for another five--that's a bonanza these devilish hard times."

The attorney then glanced over the contents of the prized letter once more and evidently experienced a fresh sensation of delight.

"Tracy beats the devil--all for the sake of a girl too; bet my life she's no better than the rest of them. Well, Mr. Tracy, my humble client, you will pay a good price for the enchanting dearie, who has caught you body and soul--fools--fools--men are fools."

Poor Nicholas made the last a.s.sertion with much force of manner, betraying his own feelings more than he would have dared to acknowledge.

Dame Rumor had not been sparing in circulating the love affairs of our attorney-at-law, and when she fearlessly came forward and declared that a certain maiden with more pin money than beauty, rejected his suit, there went forth from the four walls of the bachelor's apartments an edict ruthlessly vowing vengeance upon the whole s.e.x, and comforting himself with the thought that he loved a good horse better than anything in this fluctuating world.

"Ten thousand out of it; not a bad speck--and that in the eight per cent--a thousand times better than the other side of the bargain. Eh, Moll?" The latter part of the sentence was addressed to the pretty animal that was reined up before the court-yard just as the speaker rose to his feet.

It was four o'clock and Mr. Sharpley, taking the ribbons from the boy with all the importance of his position, rode down Main street towards the old fort, and afterwards through the different streets lined with the most imposing and stately residence so characteristic of the southern portion of the city.

Have patience, reader, while we give another thought to the crumpled letter. Its pages make mention of one very dear to us.

Phillip Lawson is on the eve of being the dupe of two unprincipled schemers.

Hubert Tracy knew well where to look for an accomplice. He possessed money or the means of getting it, and he knew that for the precious dust the high handed and unscrupulous soul of Nicholas Sharpley was his only help.

"Ten thousand--not bad--and more to follow," were the words that rose to Mr. Sharpley's lips and which he muttered incoherently as he sat over a rubber of whist in a private apartment of the hotel on the self-same evening, and as the many-sided character of the attorney-at-law presented itself, we can see in bold relief a placard bearing the mark "$10,000--not bad--and more to follow."

And there is another on the eve of happiness--a rival is to be set aside--that other is Hubert Tracy, and the rival is Phillip Lawson.

Within a few hours from the time that Mr. Sharpley had made up his mind, there lay on the office desk a letter addressed:

W. CLARKE CONNOR, ESQ., Barrister, Portage, La Prarie.

Barrister at Portage La Prarie. Yes, my friend; barristers at the northermost corner of the earth.

Mr. Connor was a man of fifty years or upwards. He had formerly practised in Winnipeg and in his office Nicholas Sharpley first entered as a law student. Doubtless the quick-sighted lawyer saw in the former much in common with his own sordid nature and liked communion with kindred spirits, for Nicholas Sharpley rose high in Mr. Connor's esteem, and when the latter started out for "greener fields and pastures new," he was in full confidence of the affairs of the younger lawyer.

Mr. Connor was a man whom few liked but very many dreaded. He had the power of ingratiating himself in favor when he was least sought, and his bland oily manner could scarcely be disconcerted.

"That old nuisance of a Connor is always poking his nose where he is not wanted," was often heard from any outspoken Miss who had the audacity to express her honest thoughts.

Mr. Connor always appeared to take a very great interest in church affairs and from his indefatigable labor generally strove to be at the head of all measures advanced in the interest of his own church.

Whether or no the congregation of the pretty Presbyterian Church on the outskirts of the town appreciated such labor we will not say but let the reader judge for himself.

But to the subject in question. Mr. Sharpley had no hesitation in disclosing his mind on the present burning question.

A great inducement was to be held out to Mr. Lawson to enter into partners.h.i.+p with the said Mr. Connor, Barrister. Nothing was to be left undone in order to accomplish this scheme. The wide field, large practice, wealth of the country; its future greatness was pictured in a wonderfully clever manner.

Mr. Sharpley had been made acquainted with the affairs of the St.

John barrister in every particular.