Book: Honor Edgeworth

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And this is the origin of one of Ottawa's stateliest mansions of to-day,
of some of society's most dashing heroines, of John Peter's fine livery
and cosy seat behind the best team of gilt-harnessed horses that trot
the streets of the Capital, of the best and most sumptuous
entertainments that are given in our hospitable City, and of the honest
old gentleman himself who from this period must be recognized as John
Atkinson Reid Esq., with a decade of distinguished antecedents that
every one knows without even hearing their names.

Poor Mrs. Reid dreaded the new responsibilities with which her sudden
acquirement of means threatened her, but her daughters fresh from the
most fashionable of Canadian educational establishments, undertook to
supply for maternal deficiencies by checking their untutored mother, the
very many times they deem it necessary, thus making the last epoch of
this ill-fated lady's life, a grand piece of misery and terror.

Just now Miss Sadie Reid is fidgeting nervously with a gold and pearl
card case held within her primrose kids, that are peeping through the
outlets of her brocaded Mother Hubbard dolman. She feels a little ill at
ease beside Miss Edgeworth, who is so self-possessed and unapproachable
to the stylish Miss Reid. The conversation is the same immortal
collection of exclamations and enquiries that one hears everywhere in
fashionable circles in Ottawa.

Miss Reid remarks in an almost flattering tone: "Why you don't look at
all tired, Miss Edgeworth, after the MacArgent's ball."

"I do not tire myself ever when I can help it," Honor says, "and this
occasion came under my rule. I left early and rested well."

"Did you really?" is the reply. "Well, you see, I couldn't have done
that. I was engaged for every single dance and it would have been
'dreadfully atrocious' if I left before the end. We dined at Government
House last night again and to-night there is an 'at Home' at the
Bellemare's, but I suppose I will meet you there. Really it is
'dreadfully distressing' for one to be obliged to go out so much. I am
sure you are to be envied, Miss Edgeworth, to be able to keep so quiet."

"I wonder that you realize how fortunate I am," said Honor calmly, "I
thought our spheres lay so widely apart that you considered my lot as
unfortunate as I do yours."

"Oh! dear no'" said Miss Saidie, "It is 'positively agonizing' to live
as we do in such constant demand; I suppose you will feel it soon
though, now you've come out. You have no idea of what is before you."

"Excuse me, Miss Reid," interrupted Honor, "but I think I have a very
fair one. I have learned already that when a girl creeps into her first
ball-dress she is like a cabinet minister getting into power, she has a
great many troubles worse than trains to drag after her."

Miss Reid found this remark exceedingly funny, and laughed rather
immoderately, Honor thought; but just then Nanette came in with the
dainty cups of tea, and so created a slight diversion in the
conversation.

As Miss Reid has told the reader Honor Edgeworth had really "come out,"
with Madame d'Alberg and Mr. Rayne as _chaperones_, and had made a great
sensation. She was the same calm, beautiful, composed girl as ever,
though a remarkable unseen change had come over her. If anything, it had
only given more dignity and grace to her bearing, more music and pathos
to her voice, and a more sympathetic and attractive expression to her
face. Jean d'Alberg had not failed to notice it, and with her usual keen
instinct had readily divined the cause, but she never spoke of it. She
grew kinder, if possible, to the silent girl, and was satisfied for the
present to hope for better things.

This bright afternoon, Honor felt more cynical than usual, and the
conversation with her frivolous guests did not at all tend to improve
her humor.

The Reids had just left the door, tucked into their comfortable
conveyance, when two gentlemen were announced. Honor recognized them as
some of those whom she had met since her _entree_ into society, but she
neither knew of, nor cared for the admiration that was so freely
bestowed on her by them.

When they were seated, Honor found that Mr. Standish was nearest her,
and therefore she addressed herself to him. He could be the most
nonsensical soul in the world when he felt like it or he could talk the
dryest common sense that ever found its way into the wisest of heads,
and thus he made his society pleasant to feather-brains, and _savants_
alike.

He was well up in almost every accomplishment. According to the girls,
he could dance--oh his dancing was heavenly, his singing was equally
good, and as for flirting, why he could kill a dozen female hearts with
one of those pleading, dreamy, distracted looks, that he sometimes made
use of among his lady friends. He knew all the genus and species of
small-talk, and when it came to compliments and pretty little nothings,
he was without a rival. He could take his turn at tennis and come off
favorably. He could ride splendidly and skate admirably, in fact, he had
made merciless havoc with the girls' hearts, with all his
accomplishments and attractions, and such a fever of envy and jealousy
and eager gossip as he created among his fair friends was something so
"desperately horrid" (as they would put it) that one could almost hate
him for it, and to tell the truth, many of his rivals, who were quite in
the shade beside him, did hate him most cordially.

This manner and bearing of his, he looked upon as a _passe-partout_, and
there was certainly one item in his character that outshadowed all the
rest, namely his conceit, or self-sufficiency which was constantly
asserting itself in his every look and action.

Vivian Standish was a thorough man of the world--I use the word in its
most literal acceptation. He was one of those cool, keen, calculating,
diplomatic men, who never lose their presence of mind, who never
hesitate, and yet are never precipitate, who always say the right thing
in the right time, and to the right people. No one knew anything of his
antecedents, but somehow, he carried an acceptable sort of reputation on
his face.

Guy Elersley had done many foolish things, but foremost among them all
was, his having made a friend of a man who was as obscure and
incomprehensible to him as the most profound ethical mystery.

They got on very well together, however. Guy found Vivian all that one
fellow expects another to be, consequently they soon became fast
"chums." Now this is no light word at least in Ottawa. If you give a
fellow to understand that you are his friend, it means, "thro' fire and
water," if anything ever meant it. Ottawa is one of the most unfortunate
places in the world for some people to live in. It is pregnant with
snares and scrapes for budding manhood, and there is redemption in
nothing, if not in the steady arm or well filled pocket of a friend.
According to these notions, Guy and Vivian had played saviour to one
another on sundry occasions. The last confidence reposed was the note
that Guy had given Standish to deliver in, "Honor Edgeworth's own
hands," before his departure on that eventful night when we left the two
friends chatting over Guy's new troubles and plans for the future.

Vivian Standish had drawn in the comfort of his cigar in rather anxious
breaths, as he walked back alone in the starlight after leaving his
friend. He detested things that puzzled and crossed him, and nothing
under the sun could have puzzled him more than the sudden change that
had come over Guy Elersley. He had been such a happy, careless, daring
sort of fellow all his life; and now, all at once, a gloom of skepticism
seemed to settle down on him, extinguishing the light of hope and energy
which had previously marked his character. This, Standish concluded, was
no meaningless nor ordinary effect, there must be a cause for this
newer, more thoughtful mood. Had he forfeited his claim to the long-
expected legacy of Henry Rayne's wealth? Had Honor Edgworth any thing to
do with it? Perhaps he never answered these questions even to himself on
this silent night. He walked on quietly till he came to a streetlamp,
whose yellow radiance threw fitful gleams around the lonely street. Here
he stopped and deliberately unbuttoning his overcoat, took out the note
that Guy had confided to his care, tore it open and coolly read, word
for word, the passionate declaration held therein. He laughed a low
little chuckle, with his cigar between his teeth, and muttered to
himself, "not so bad by Jove, not a bad game at all." Then without a
trace of shame or compunction on his face, he calmly tore the precious
paper into little pieces which he carefully placed in his vest pocket.
Then he buttoned up his coat, and putting both hands in his pockets he
walked steadily on, still scenting the air with his expensive cigar, and
wearing all the while such a look of lazy amusement as betrayed nothing
whatever of what might be going on inside of those handsome features.

Vivian Standish was a man of impulse and inspiration; but, strange to
say, his impulse or inspiration invariably moved him the right way. I
use right, as meaning personal advantages or victory for himself. His
latest "inspiration" led him to reflect on the possible and very
gratifying advantages he might secure for himself by marrying well. "But
then," thought he, "girls are such diabolical ninnies that everything
which does not come under the shadow of some big church or fat parson is
vicious in their eyes." In spite of this conviction, he had weighed his
chances and possessions against every possible drawback, and, with his
usual conceit, he fancied the road was beautifully clear.

Here we have him then with the self-appointed mission of choosing a
wife. No man had ever held within his soul such volumes of deep
sentiment as he could call into his eyes when the occasion required it,
and no knight of the age of chivalry ever wooed a fair lady with such
winning words and courteous deeds as Vivian Standish could bring to his
aid, when he so wished it.

This is an age replete with valuable opportunities for cunning people,
and they are the losers who cannot take advantage of the world's
susceptibility and weakness, by turning its folly to their own personal
advantage and especial benefit.

Vivian Standish had not a genius for everything alike. He never in the
world could have created himself an apostle of aestheticism, though he
found out later that there was more money than exalted enthusiasm in the
business He never could have bothered about a flying machine, or spent
his time discovering hair renewers or cures for rheumatism, but he could
speculate with the wealth that nature and a little art had given him, in
the gold mines of the comfortable houses that were open to him. With a
little tinge of communism and a great deal of egotism in his nature he
concluded that he had as good a right to the gold and silver of those
gouty fathers and mothers as they had, and he was going to prove it too.

With this insight into his character, which is rather a long parenthesis
than a direct deviation from my story, we can see Vivian Standish in his
true colors, and we can, therefore, easily guess the object of his visit
to Mr. Rayne's house on this particular afternoon. No ordinary observer
could have detected any other than a purely conventional motive in this
call.

He had met Miss Edgeworth, and had solicited the favor from her of
allowing him to call at her residence. Every other young fellow had done
nearly the same thing, and he himself had acted in the same manner
towards many other young ladies. But we, who are permitted to look
behind the screens while this little drama is going on, can say more
about his true motives. His clever way of reasoning had led Vivian
Standish to believe that Guy Elersley had forfeited every right to his
uncle's wealth, and without knowing anything of Honor's own fortune, he
concluded that it was worth a fellow's while to secure her, as the most
indirect, but about the most truly lawful way of getting the "old
fellow's" money.

It was this determination that had caused him to cast the fractions of
Guy's love letter into the fire when he reached his room on that
eventful night. He excused himself very easily on the plea that there
was no earthly use in encouraging this love affair, when there were
neither hard cash nor good prospects to wind it up with. Elersley had
had his chance and missed it. Now, why wouldn't some less fortunate dog
take his rejected luck and put it to better account? There is no verdict
so prompt as the one a man pronounces over a case of "my own good or
another fellow's." And Vivian Standish made up his mind, in plain
English, to I do "square business."

"Square business" to him meant something very delightful to the average
society girl. Courteous manners, marked attentions, openly expressed
admiration, and slavery almost if she proved exacting. But Standish had
an idea, and not a too comfortable one about the character of the girl
he had to deal with. And so this afternoon, he presented himself before
her with all the charm of a studied negligence which attracts in spite
of one's self. He was very careful about all that passed, as yet he was
only groping in the dark. If he once knew whether she loved Guy or not,
his game would be an easy one, and this was the first problem he set
himself to solve. He spoke to her of a great many things before he
ventured on the subject that interested him most. When he did finally
broach it, he merely asked in a simple sort of way:

"Have you heard any news of--a--our mutual friend, Mr. Elersley?"

The die was cast. He had only this instrument with which to apply his
skill, and had he used it well or not? The sound of this name was the
"Open Sesame" to Honor's heartful of secrets, and Standish scanned her
face with a look of penetrating inquiry as he pronounced it. But men are
fools. Honor Edgeworth was a woman and a woman's face is not an index to
woman's soul. Truly her slender fingers clutched each other nervously
until the golden circlets around them nigh entered the tender flesh. But
who felt that besides herself? It is a woman's own fault if she is not
appreciated to-day, for men will never know from her lips of the hundred
moral victories she achieves daily. Even those ordinary common-place
females who make the dresses and trim the hats of the creatures our men
adore, even these do their inner selves more violence in one short day
than a man endures for a life time. Give me a man for courage, if you
will, for power of action, if you will, but give me a woman with a heart
for an unrivalled endurance and fortitude.

Vivian Standish cool, keen, deliberating, could read nothing in his
companion's face, and thus baffled, he began inwardly to wonder what
would be his next course.

Honor looked at him in the most provokingly composed way and said dryly:

"You may give the word 'friend' a rather extensive meaning for aught I
know. Things have grown into such an exaggerated state, now-a-days, that
a commonly sensible person is lost towards understanding them."

Standish winced.

"Which may infer that I am not on intimate terms with my common sense,"
he thought, and aloud:

"I will retract the word if you please, and consider you and Mr.
Elersley as strangers."

Strangers! that was true, deep down in her heart, but with her lips she
said:

"By no means, Guy Elersley and I have ceased to be strangers from the
first moment we met. But this can not interest you. Let us talk of
something else. Do you enjoy the last of the season here?"

"Very much indeed," he replied, but without the slightest warmth, as he
was inwardly wondering at this girl's conduct, so different from the
others. At this stage of his critical distraction, his friend rose and
shook hands with Madame d'Alberg, then advanced to make his adieux to
Honor. This necessitated Vivian's doing so likewise, and if ever Vivian
Standish's hand clasped another's emphatically, it did on this occasion.
He just gathered the soft white fingers of this strange haughty girl
within his own, and held them for an instant in that trusting longing
way that had done him good service many a time before, then he laid them
quietly away, with a look of eloquent pleading in his eyes and a simple
"Good-bye" on his handsome lips.

It was six o'clock at last. The gas was lit, the curtains drawn, and the
familiar and just now welcome sound of dishes was coming from the
dining-room across the hall. Mr. Rayne was expected every minute, and
Mrs. d'Alberg and Honor were loitering the moments of waiting around the
drawing-room.

"Well, aunt Jean," said Honor, lazily placing her hand on the back of
the arm-chair in which the lady addressed was seated, (she had chosen to
call her "aunt" since she was to appear in society as her charge), "what
do you propose doing to-night? Do you care at all to go to the
Bellemare's?"

"Oh, I don't know," Mrs. d'Alberg replied, "one place is as attractive
as another for me. You will see plenty of people and nonsense, and you
may as well be wearied all at once with these things as to foster the
spirit by degrees. You will meet Miss Mountainhead or Miss Dash, or Miss
Reid some of these days, and if you can't talk about this one's
'kettledrum' and that one's 'at home' you will be bored to death by
hearing their version of it, so you might as well do one thing as the
other. You'll see that Mr. Standish too, by-the-way! Do you know, I like
him, Honor, it is a stamp you seldom see."

"Really, aunt Jean," Honor was smiling, "this looks suspicious. You
should be blind to your favorite stamps by now. But about this other
thing, since we've accepted we had better go, as you say, boring one's
self to death, or being bored by other people is much the same thing, so
we may as well resign ourselves and make the best of it."

* * * * *

Vivian Standish was puzzled more than ever when he left Mr. Rayne's
house. He had counted on meeting an ordinary society girl, but had been
greatly, though not at all unpleasantly disappointed.

He did not dislike Honor Edgeworth in any way. He felt rather attracted
towards her than otherwise, but he felt uneasy about the little plans he
had cherished and encouraged for so long.

An hour or so after leaving her, he was in his own room, comfortably
installed in an easy chair drawn up to the window, with his velvet
slippers resting on the sill and the graceful clouds of smoke curling
upwards from his handsome mouth and surrounding his languid form. There
is not very much to look at from the window of a Bank street boarding
house, and yet a passer-by at this moment would have thought this
elegant young man was deeply interested either in the dilapidated
representations of "Hazel Kirke" that adorned a straggling fence
opposite, or in the music (?) which a classic looking organ-grinder was
trying to eke out of his instrument to the time of the "Marseillaise,"
to the great delight of the customary crowd of youngsters who surrounded
him.

But Vivian Standish rarely wasted his faculties on such matter-of-fact
things, while there were other projects of a more personal advantage
awaiting his consideration. He was wishing heartily at that moment that
some girls had not one-quarter of the brains that nature had
improvidently endowed them with, but this being a hopeless hope, he
occupied himself in trying to discover the best way in which to deal
with a person so gifted.

A fellow in a boarding-house is a most unfortunate creature, being never
quite free from the intrusion of a host of friends. Vivian felt this
unpleasant truth in all its intensity. His interesting cogitation was
cut short in a little while by the entrance of a bevy of comrades, and
he had to come down and stand at the front door, to flirt and "carry on"
with the girls that passed, and otherwise contribute towards the
amusement of the crowd.



CHAPTER XIX.


"Come now; what masks, what dances shall we have
To wear away this long age of three hours
Between our after-supper and bed-time."

Perhaps it was owing to Honor's apparent indifference that Henry Rayne
refrained from giving a full account of Guy Elersley's disappearance
from among them. He had insinuated something about the misunderstanding
that had arisen between his nephew and himself, but the subject was a
painful one, and unless pressed for further information, he preferred to
remain silent altogether about it.

Honor had taken counsel with herself and had acted very wisely in
consequence. She assured herself that it was presumption to suppose that
Guy loved her. She had no direct proof of such a sentiment existing.
Their whole period of acquaintance and companionship had been tinged
with romance, but it would have been the same, had she been any one
else. It was almost the certain fate of two young people thrown together
as they had been to "fall in love." Yet he had given her no definable
cause to count on him as an admirer or lover. He had not even gone to
the depot on the morning of her departure, or shown himself in any
marked way, concerned about her; so she resolved to quietly stow away
the items of her past that wound themselves around his name or memory,
and to begin another life strengthened by this new experience. There is
something of a Spartan endurance in a heroic woman. She can carry inside
the fairest face, the battered wreck of the fondest heart, and even if
we must call this deception, surely it is a virtue. She adopts her sad
misfortune as a responsibility akin to duty, and it is a gratification
and a solace to herself to know that she suffers alone and in silence.

Honor did not allow this strange turn of things to influence her life
visibly. She had learned a new chapter of that mysterious volume that
destiny holds open to all men, but it did not seem new to her. She was
one of those people who, from acute observation on those who have
gathered the fruit of a long experience, or from a study of those
authors whom we know as direct interpreters of the human heart, had
acquired that inner knowledge and experience of things which, in its
moral effect on the system, is equivalent to the actual tasting of the
same phases of life. She had prepared herself to meet trials and
disappointments in the very heart of her comforts. What other fruit can
be born of a selfish, scheming world? But she thought she had discovered
a sympathetic bond between her own and this other young soul. Guy did
not seem to her as the rest of his kind. At times, when his better
nature was aroused, he gave expression to the noblest and most exalted
feeling. He had the one failing, however, of being easily led--and there
are so many persons to lead astray in Ottawa city, and so many places to
lead to, that it takes a very strong arm or a very eloquent voice or a
very subtle influence to counteract the effect of evil company on one we
love. Honor could not encourage thoughts of distrust towards Guy. The
memory of their happy friendship always stood between her and her
censure of him, but still she could not cancel the thoughts of all he
might have done and did not do. No word, no sign, no message to assure
her that he had clung to her memory as a bright spot in his misfortune;
and she would lay back in her bed at night, thinking, wondering and
puzzling herself about the strange, mysterious things that could
transpire while this big, revolving machine of ours turned once around.

There was a kind of subdued excitement in the upper front rooms of Henry
Rayne's house to-night. It had been decided to go to the Bellemare's,
and all this extra confusion was only about the toilets. Nanette was
showering ejaculations of the profoundest admiration on Honor, who,
robed in black satin, stood before a tall mirror adjusting her skirt.

It was almost provoking to see the cool, calm way in which she went
through the different stages of "dressing." Her brocaded satin fitted
exquisitely to her slender waist, and ended over her shoulders in a
sqnare cut, whose gatherings of such Spanish lace lay in dazzling
contrast to her snowy neck and arms.

A pair of diamond screws were fastened in her ears, but apart from these
she wore no other jewel. Before leaving her room, however, she plucked
the bursting bud of a white rose that grew in a dainty pot on the window
sill, and with a spray of its leaves fastened it at her breast. She was
ready before aunt Jean or Mr. Rayne, so she stole down to the dimly-
lighted drawing-room to while away the waiting moments in playing
dreamy chords and half-remembered snatches of pensive airs.

Aunt Jean was a most fastidious woman, and dressed according to certain
rules and regulations, any aberration from which was a gross mistake not
to be tolerated. Henry Rayne, for an old man, was also uncommonly
exacting. He spoiled, on an average, a dozen white ties nightly when he
decided on going out, and it was a task to insert his shirt studs in a
way that would satisfy him. When Honor had time to arrange things in the
afternoon, all went smoothly enough; but for him to dress on a short
notice meant a good deal of trouble to his household.

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