Book: Honor Edgeworth

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"I have received an important letter from a friend of mine, who has died
since the writing thereof; he has entrusted me with the care of his only
child, and to comply with his dying request I must make immediate
preparations to leave home, for I have a long way to travel before I can
accomplish his desire; I therefore want you to understand that I may be
a very long or a very short while away from home, but I wish you both to
serve me as faithfully on this occasion as you have on all others. Don't
talk about my absence more than you can help; I can give all the
necessary explanation on my return." "Potts," he said, addressing the
solemn looking old woman separately, "you must renovate the house a
little, I think; those spare bedrooms must be well aired and touched up
somewhat, for we will need them henceforth. My little charge happens to
be a girl, and unless you can contribute towards making things to her
liking, I am lost. Spare no expense to make the house comfortable in
every respect, for the _protegee_ of mine is a lady, I know. And you,
Fitts," he continued, turning to the dignified male servant, "will, I am
sure, lend a hand towards the general improvement. See that the phaeton
and sleighs be in good order, and, in fact, I think you will each do
your duties well, without my enumerating them. You know I have full
confidence in both of you, and I think you will not abuse of it." The
two devoted attendants answered sincerely, each with a suspicion of
moisture in their eyes that answered Mr. Rayne more than anything else.

On the following afternoon Mr. Rayne left Ottawa, on his extended trip,
much to the surprise of his friends, and according to promise, his
servants displayed the greatest discretion possible. Within the week,
Mr. Fitts was delighted to receive news from his master, informing him
that in a few days he would sail for Liverpool.

The voyage across the majestic ocean, was a fair and enjoyable one, and
Mr. Rayne spent the days out on the deck of the splendid "Parisian,"
smoking and thinking, and wondering at the unusual turn things had taken
for him, since last he crossed that same Atlantic. He was anxious to
know how it would all end, and whether he would be able for this new
responsibility brought to him so suddenly. Heaven had not willed him the
experience of a wedded life, and so he resolved to devote himself to
this little charge as though she were his own flesh and blood; he would
teach her to give him a father's love, and if he could help it, she
would never know the want of a father's care.

The first duty of Henry Rayne, on landing at Liverpool, was to consult
the letter of his deceased friend, and write to the address given
therein, to inform the parties alluded to, of his arrival. Special
mention was made of one, "Anne Palmer," who was spoken of highly, as a
faithful and trustworthy woman, who had nursed the child from her
infancy. This gratified Henry Rayne immensely, for he resolved, at any
cost, to secure her, knowing how necessary her long and untiring
attendance must have made her to the girl's existence.

A reply to his kind letter reached Henry Rayne some days before he had
expected it, informing him that Honor Edgeworth and her maid had left on
the day following the receipt of his letter, and would shortly join him
at Liverpool. Such indeed was the case, for even as Henry Rayne read the
words over to himself, as fast as steam and water could carry her, Honor
Edgeworth was travelling away from her native home. She saw not, heeded
not, the passengers, the scenery, the bustle, and confusion that
surrounded her; she only leant her head on the shoulder of her old
nurse, and wept silent, bitter tears all the while. Poor Nanette strove
hard to console her in her woe, but the swelling never left the pretty
eyes, and the sighs never ceased escaping from the dainty lips during
the whole voyage.

"It is such a queer destiny, Nanette," she said repeatedly, "this man
may hate me. He was only a boy when papa knew him; perhaps he has grown
up a wicked man that will detest me, you know Nanette, people change a
great deal sometimes."

"Don't fret, my beauty," was all the disconsolate woman could say. "You
may be sure your father did not act in the dark, where his little girl
was concerned. He had great trouble in finding the gentleman's address
at all, so you may be sure he looked for other information at the same
time."

"Yes, I suppose he did," Honor sighed, half resignedly. "What the end
will be, time will tell."

From London they telegraphed to Mr. Rayne, telling him of their safe
arrival thus far, and seized with an insuperable impatience to become
known to his little _protegee_, he answered them immediately, that he
would meet them in Manchester. The night was wet and dark and cheerless,
as Nanette and her pretty charge rolled into this large manufacturing
city of England. All the other passengers had hurried out, they alone
remained, careless whether they went or stayed, sadly and listlessly,
they proceeded to gather up their little belongings, dashing away as
they did so, scalding tears that welled into their eyes.

"Are you ready, love?" Nanette asked plaintively, turning towards Honor.

"Yes I am," the girl answered with a sigh, "ready for the battle of
life--come along, Nanette."

Just as she uttered the words, and before she had stepped from the
railway carriage, the guard, accompanied by a gentleman, thrust his head
in, and hurriedly announcing "Mr. Rayne, ladies," darted off again,
leaving them together. The long looked for moment had arrived: the first
meeting, upon which so many thoughts were spent by all three, was
already over. Honor Edgeworth raised her eyes to the gentleman
announced, and a smile of infinite relief broke over her face; Mr Rayne
raised his hat to the younger lady, and a mysterious smile of infinite
admiration stole over his face. He broke the silence by addressing
Nanette.

"I presume, madam," he began, "you are the person in charge of Miss
Edgeworth, the young lady recommended to my future care?" and before she
had time to answer, he had extended both hands to Honor.

"Yes, sir," said Nanette, a little nervously, "I give into your hands
all that I hold dearest in life;" and then, lowering her voice, she
continued, almost to herself, "I can go back again to my poor old home,
but the sunshine is gone out of it forever."

Henry Rayne looked quickly up at her: he was assisting Honor out, as she
spoke.

"Is it possible that you are not coming to Canada with us?"' he asked in
a confounded tone.

"Ah, sir!" answered the poor creature, "I will go in heart, indeed, but
there was no provision made to send me all the way with the child."

"Oh this can never be," Henry Rayne interrupted, hurriedly, "I have
intended from the first, that you should not be left. Come, come, we
will manage everything smoothly by and by. Do not leave one another now,
unnecessarily, when you have been together all your lives." There was a
shout of delight from both, and clasped in each other's arms, never to
part again, they thanked God sincerely for His goodness to them, so far.

"The dear child, sir, I'd have died without her." Nanette sobbed through
the tears of joy.

"Of course you would," Henry Rayne answered, handing them into the
carriage that awaited them. He cast an admiring glance on "the child" in
question, as he sat himself opposite to her on the leather buttoned seat
of the hack. If "child" she must be, she would undoubtedly prove an
interesting one, for she was now, to all appearances, in her seventeenth
year, and showed promises of future development into a splendid woman.
For the first few moments Nanette never ceased her protestations of
gratitude, and when at last she finished them in a great sob behind her
handkerchief, Honor looked sweetly up in Mr. Rayne's face and said.

"Your first act, dear guardian, was one of unsolicited kindness. What
will after years bring, when we have learned to respect and love you,
and do you good turns as well? The future seems so bright, now that
Nanette is coming, for," she explained "you must know, Mr. Rayne, she is
the only mother I have ever known, and when dear papa lived he treated
Nanette just as he would a member of his own family."

"And I will never be the one to make the first difference," answered Mr.
Rayne. "My house is large; I am a crusty old bachelor, with no other tie
binding me to the world, except this new link that has just filled me
with a desire to live anew from this out. All I have is at your
disposal: you must make yourself perfectly at home with me. I don't know
much about winning the confidence and hearts of young girls now, but I
shall expect you to come to me with yours, because henceforth you are
going to be all my own."

"I do not wish to dispute it, Mr. Rayne," Honor answered sweetly, "but I
have a presentiment that you are going to spoil me."

"Oh I won't be _very_ cross with you, unless you steal my spectacles or
court my footman, or do anything like that," Henry Rayne answered
playfully.

Thus, in the pleasantest manner possible, were the first hours of their
_rencontre_ spent. When their drive ended, they alighted before a
handsome hotel, ablaze with light, where a tempting supper awaited them.
Henry Rayne, fancying that it was the right thing to do to young girls
who had been travelling a great deal, told Honor she must retire
immediately. "We have our lives long to chat," he said, "so rest
yourselves well to night"

When they had reached their rooms, Honor turned with a bright smile on
her face, and said to Nanette,

"Don't you think he will be just lovely and kind, dear Nanette? He is a
perfect gentleman."

"God bless him," answered Nanette, "he is a good man and has a good
heart, and we must never have him regret what he has done for us."

"Well, it is a great weight off my mind anyhow," said Honor, with a sigh
of relief, "I am full of hopes now for the future, and I know we cannot
help loving dear kind Mr. Rayne;" and over such enthusiastic words Honor
and Nanette fell into their deep calm sleep.

All this time Henry Rayne was smoking quietly in the parlor below, and
thinking of the lovely face that was going to shed its radiance
henceforth on his silent home. Already he longed for the morning to
come, that he might look on it again. In the course of his meditation, a
thought came to him, which had not suggested itself before, and it was
this:

"If the world should choose to attach its own interpretation to this new
relationship, if a word was cast afloat which could scatter the germs of
a suspicion, what then? If those venomous tongues that keep the world
buzzing with scandal chose to attack _her_, how was he to prevent it?" A
cloud overshadowed his face, there was a momentary pang in his heart,
but he consoled himself that he had thought of it in time--he would defy
the world, his manner towards her would dare gossiping tongues, he was
nearly three times her age now, and had his life not been such as could
defy the babbling of the whole world?

But it was only the old tale, a woman's name is a tempting bit to
society, in one of its particular phases, though, of course, even
society in this, its calumniated epoch yet retains its discrimination,
its rules are not so arbitrary as its enemies declare them, and its
heart is _at times_ susceptible to the pleadings of misfortune for
mercy. Woman, alas! has her fallen sister on every rung of the social
ladder, though from general appearances one would be led to judge, that
wealth and position and fame, claim virtue as all their own, it seems,
that vice and error thrive only where poverty and ignorance and
destitution abide, is this so? Ye who know the secrets of a fashionable
world, ye, who have seen laid bare, the hearts full of secrets of
pampered ladies, and pretentious dames, say, are they so guileless, so
spotless, so blameless as society would have them? Is it only the poor
seamstress, or the working-girl that is human enough to err? Is it only
the breast which heaves under tatters and rags, that bears the impress
of the trembling hand that has struck the _"mea culpa"_ in its woe? O, I
doubt it, I for one deny it. True it is, painfully, shamefully true it
is, that the "nobodies" of the world who meet misfortune are mercilessly
forced to stand in the corridors of time, that those, who domineer in
virtue, may ostentatiously compassionate them, but will such a paltry
show of charity as this, blind the world, as it tries to do? Let us hope
not. Let the pampered daughter of wealth and social fame, who goes
astray, share the pitiless fate of the beggar who does likewise, or,
better still, let the beggar be shown such mercy, and justification and
pardon as is granted her sister in high life. In the sight of God crime
is the one color, why not so with men? If anything, vice repels far more
forcibly, when attired in its velvets and silks, than when it looks out
from scanty rags, which after all, may be turned more easily to sack
cloth. Who can doubt that there are hundreds of outcasts, living in
persistent wrong doing, on account of this lack of humanity, this total
abstinence of Christian charity, whose exercise could redeem just as
many as its scarcity ruins. Poor foolish souls! Why need they thirst for
mercy or sympathy that is human, know they not, that they are as
justified in spurning the world's great ones, as those great ones are in
spurning them. What can human mercy avail them, after all, is there not
a Good Shepherd, so eager, so ready, so anxious to grant forgiveness for
the asking? Why do ye not seek Him, ye whom a rigorous society has cast
out of its pale? be not content to live on as drudges and slaves to such
a heartless world when there is a harvest for you to gather so near, and
you have only to learn the words of Him who spoke truth and wisdom
themselves to encourage you onward, that "there is more joy in heaven
over the conversion of one sinner than at the perseverance of
_ninety-nine just_."



CHAPTER II.


"Ah poor child, with heart of woman
Solitary, quiet, grave;
Strong of will and firm of purpose
Self absorbed in silence brave"

A page or two, of the record of time, turned over unnoticed, will not be
missed out of the careers of our characters, it will include the days
that have elapsed since that night that Honor Edgeworth lay wide awake
on her pillow, playing with the shadowy visions of a possible future, as
they danced around her bed, since that night in Manchester, when Nanette
slept so contentedly and Henry Rayne smoked in moody silence by the
fire-place in the hotel parlor. When we become interested again, it is a
clear, bright day, blue and white threads of filmy loveliness flit along
the sky, a soft, gentle breeze is blowing, and over the restless waves
of the broad Atlantic the "Parisian" is skipping gracefully. She is
nearing the port, and many are the anxious, weary faces that turn
landward with a sigh upon their lips.

Among the others that are gathered here and there on her broad decks, on
this lovely glorious afternoon, we are compelled to notice the graceful,
slender form, of a young girl, who sits a little away from the others,
with her head leaning on her folded hands, and her sad eyes resting on
the troubled waters in a fixed, but vacant stare, she is thinking, it is
evident, and thinking deeply, there is not a muscle moving in her
handsome face, her lips are set, her chin is slightly raised, the loose
locks are blowing with the wind now and then from off her brow, but her
eyes ever seek the deepest depth of the green blue sea. She might be a
perfect statue, only for the gentle heaving of her breast, that rises
and falls in little sighs.

Every one has noticed her, but none would intrude upon her in this
reverie, that seems to be her normal state, her face has assumed that
expression of intense emotion that could fascinate the most unwilling
victim, and indeed they are very few who are not willing to pay a
tribute at that shrine, while she in her unconsciousness, is living the
long sunny hours, down in the bottomless sea, trying to penetrate it
with the eyes of her soul, trying to fathom the fathomless, to
understand the mysterious, and to shape into existence the uncreated,
these are the strange things that rivet the gaze of Honor Edgeworth on
the spray of the billows below. At last she starts up, as if in broken
slumber, and turns suddenly 'round.

Two heavy hands have been laid on her slender shoulders, two eyes full
of glowing admiration are turned upon her, and Henry Rayne, in a low,
loving voice says in her ear:

"Come back to the deck of the 'Parisian' Honor for a little while, you
have been down with the 'whales and little fishes' long enough now."

Her eyes filled with tenderness as she looked up to the good face
bending over her.

"Oh Mr. Rayne, is it you?" she said "I was wondering where you were, is
Nanette sleeping yet?"

"Yes, my dear," he answered, drawing a seat near hers, "and I've been
amused by the little window there for fifteen minutes, wondering what
there was existing capable of making any one strike such a thoughtful
attitude as yours."

"Why, Mr. Rayne, all I could condense into my poor little brain at once,
is not worth attracting your grand attention. But, I love to think: I
have so many little ethereal friends that flock around me when I sit
down to think, they are all my ideals, you know." She continued,
clasping her hands enthusiastically, "In that little world of thought,
where I drift so often in the day, there is none of that coldness nor
selfishness that characterizes your material world. We are all equal,
and we love one another so much! I don't know when it fascinated me
first, but it seems so natural to me now to steal away there from the
din of active life. But how is it _you_ always catch me just when I've
forgotten that there is any reality at all?"

"Because, I suppose," laughed Mr. Rayne "you are always in that state of
blissful forgetfulness, and if you don't mind yourself you'll fall into
a chronic state of dreaming, and then be no more to us than a veritable
somnambulist, now, you wouldn't like that, would you?"

"Oh, there is no fear of that, I am not spiritual enough yet to abandon
stern reality altogether, but I fancy you will often tire of me before
you grow quite accustomed to my strange caprices?"

"Why my dear little Honor, is that the color you would have me paint
your future? surely not. If Destiny has raised my hand to blend the
colors in the fair scenery of your life, I will stain the canvas a
'_couleur de rose_,' and make it a lovely thing to contemplate, if I
possibly can, so do not ever sigh to-day for to-morrow, know beforehand
that it will be just as you will have it."

"Ah, ha! Mr. Rayne, who is waxing romantic now," the girl cried
playfully, "I'm so glad to have caught you once. But do you know, I
sometimes wonder, if all these days have not really been spent in my
fairy land, for things have happened as harmoniously as though life were
not a series of discords at its best, Nanette was not forced to leave
me, and you did not get bored at my eccentricities, and I liked you so
much right away, and our safe journey, and everything together."

"Well, I hope it will convince you my child," said Rayne earnestly,
"that life in its common-place acceptation is not so dreadful as you
have pronounced it--wait a while--a little practical experience will
serve to persuade you, that there are a few redeeming traits in the big,
nasty world after all, and will force you to give up these wild theories
of idealism that are strangely out of place in a young girl of our
period."

"So many tell me that," said Honor distractedly, "but I can't know of
course, just yet, what difference all the complicated circumstances that
wind themselves around other girl's lives, will make in mine, if they
change me at all, they must make an entirely different person of me, and
if they are baffled, I will only be stronger and more obstinate than
ever in my own views. Either of these must be my destiny, as yet I know
no partiality towards either one, but I think it is because I feel so
safe in myself that I defy other influences to do their worst."

"Well, dear," said Mr. Rayne, rising, "You won't blame me for the
consequences, when you really want my opinion I'll give it to you, I'll
try to show you fairly and honestly both sides of the picture of life, I
would like to see you stand by its colossal works of art, you may
perhaps care to imitate the artists. All that is great and good within
my reach, you will see, and yet, I think it wise that you should turn
from the luxury of wealth and self-indulgence now and then, to look
unshrinkingly upon the squalid misery and wantonness that haunt the
greater half of the world. But, come, we will go inside, the air is
somewhat chilly, and if Nanette intends to wake at all, she must be
looking for us now."

Leaning on the arm of her guardian, Honor slowly walked towards the door
of the entrance, followed by many an admiring glance from the other
passengers. They found Nanette rubbing her tell-tale eyes, and avowing
that she had not "slept a wink" all day.

* * * * *

Under the roof of Henry Rayne's comfortable house everything has
undergone a change, there is a primness and a fitness about the rooms
that used not to be there, a cosy look peeps out from every turn and
corner of the well-furnished apartments. The pantry shelves are whole
rows of temptations. Very tame lions looking meekly out with their
"jelly" eyes, and rare birds perched in trembling dignity on some
pudding that has come "beautifully" out of the mould. In fact it seems
that good Mrs. Potts has converted her whole "receipt book" into shelves
of substantial and dainty representatives, but such fruitful
contemplations as these will surely rouse one to action, and appropriate
"action" in a well-filled pantry forebodes merciless slaughter for these
culinary imitations of animal life.

Upstairs appeals less dangerously to the material element. It is neat
and enticing everywhere. There is the sitting room where Mr. Rayne spent
his long, thoughtful night under the gaslight with Robert Edgeworth's
letter lying between his numbed fingers. The fire burns there cheerfully
now--there is no other light than that cast by the fitful flames which
leap and dwindle in shadows through the twilight that lingers still,
huge fanciful phantoms skipping over the walls and the ceiling and
floor, a little flickering subdued light that trembles on the great arm
chairs. "Flo" is curled up, with both ends saluting one another, on the
velvet rug before the fender, and at a civil distance away is a purring
bundle of gray and white pussy, with her paws doubled in and her eyes
blinking at the half-burned coals. There is a bird cage in each window,
and an odd little lullaby chirp or the grating of the little iron swings
is the only sound besides the loosening and falling of the embers every
now and then.

Opposite to this is the large drawing room with its deep bay window, its
rich carpet and massive furnishings. Not the stiff formal looking parlor
of a lone bachelor, but the comfortable, tastily arranged room of a man
who had confided such things to the better judgment and defter hands of
a woman. There are fine statues and splendid paintings, and
_bric-a-brac_ enough to deceive anyone into believing it to be the home
of a bevy of girls. There is a grand piano in the end of the room, and a
violin in its case in the corner--this latter had been the faithful
companion of Henry Rayne through many years of his life, and held as
conspicuous a place in his drawing room as it did in his esteem.
Upstairs again, we find the strangest little room of all. A girl's
bedroom, richly, handsomely furnished, a heavy carpet of dark colored
pattern covers the floor, a massive walnut set is also there, a cosy
lounge is crossways in the corner, near the bay window, which is a
perfect little conservatory of blooming flowers. A handsome pair of
brackets adorn the tinted walls, holding on one side a fine statue of
the "Blessed Virgin and Child," and on the other that of a "Guardian
Angel." Hanging opposite the bed is an oil painting of "Mater Dolorosa,"
besides sundry little chromos and photographs that destroy the monotony
of bare walls. There is nothing left to wish for--beauty, utility,
grandeur have been harmoniously blended here, and this is the nook that
Henry Rayne offers Honor Edgeworth, one worthy of a princess, indeed.
Mrs. Potts had promised herself that nothing should be left undone on
the arrival of the travellers, and very well she kept her word too. When
the violent ring of the bell that announced their coming echoed through
the house, Mrs. Potts had only to roll down the sleeves of her best
wincey and button them at her wrists. The clattering slippers had been
superannuated, and a neat pair of prunella gaiters showed their patent
toes from under the hem of her cleanest gown. A broad grin of
unmistakeable joy lights up the old creature's face as she hastens to
welcome her master, and this changes to a solemn look of profound
admiration as Henry Rayne presents her to Honor Edgeworth, and asks her
to show the young lady to her room.

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