Book: Honor Edgeworth

V >> Vera >> Honor Edgeworth




When the door had closed upon her, Henry Rayne, turning to Vivian, said
half sadly.

"She is the sweetest girl under the sun, I think my heart would break
without her."

"Then I think you might sympathise more ardently with me," the young man
answered, half doggedly, "I am nearly tired of waiting for that
opportunity that never comes."

"Don't blame me, boy, before you know," was the serious retort, "I am
trying my skill in your cause all this while. It is solely in your
interest that I have planned this Christmas festivity. I can imagine no
moment more propitious for the pleading of your cause, than one snatched
from the confusion and excitement of such an hour, when the heart is
made suggestive by strains of music and peals of laughter and sounds of
gaiety and gladness everywhere."

"You are right," Vivian said, smiling. "I did not give you credit
though, for so much sentimentality."

"It is not that," the old man answered sadly. "No, my dear boy, but, no
matter how capricious and fickle time is, it cannot alter the heart.
What is love to-day, was love in my day, and for ages before, and will
be to the end of time. It is a very universal passion, and is easily
aroused. A note of music, a breath, a sigh or a little pressure of the
hand may be enough to call it out from its hidden nook within the heart.
You can't tell me what it is to love, my boy, nor can I tell you, though
we've both passed through the experience, the explicable part is a
prominent part, I admit, if we analyse the little creeping sensations of
gladness, that a touch of her hand, no matter how inadvertent, or the
steady gaze of her deep eyes, could cause us to feel. Why, my dear boy,
I am an old man now, but my memory is young yet, and I dwell on this
dear page of my past, with the same feelings of gratification that
animate you on your first experience. I don't know now, any more than I
did then, though I'm an older and a wiser man, what there is in a
woman's clear eye, a woman's voice or a woman's hand, to make us shiver
and creep, and unman us the way they do; but perhaps 'tis the mystery
makes the charm, if so, may it never be unravelled, for a fellow's love
days are about the only things which can compensate him for the misery
of the rest of his life."

This, contrary to appearances, fell as gall on the heart of Vivian
Standish, he who had never loved with a pure, unsullied devotion,
grieved to hear of the joys of one who had. It is bad enough, that
certain luxuries of life have been denied us, either through our own
folly or the still less bitter interference of others. How much worse it
becomes when we are forced to listen to the story of their worth, from
those who have gained what we have so recklessly lost! Such words as
those addressed by Henry Rayne, were perhaps the only ones that could
impress the hardened heart of Vivian Standish with a hatred for the
crimes and follies of his life.



CHAPTER XXXV.


My latest found--
Heaven's last, best gift.
My ever new delight
--_Milton_

Christmas Eve of 188-, with all its soft, fleecy snow, its merry sleigh
bells, its decorations, its plenty and its poverty, its rejoicings and
its wailings, its hopes and its fears--the day of huge, warm fires and
smouldering faggots, of sumptuous dinners and scanty crusts, the night
of all others, that the satisfied thanksgiving of the rich, and the
heart-rending craving of the pauper, meet at the throne of God.

At noon of this bright, merry Christmas Eve, among the many passengers
on board the mid-day train that rushed into the Union Depot, was one who
interests us more than all the business fathers, school girls, or
college students, or other absent members of Ottawa families, returning
to spend Christmas with their friends. He is a young, good-looking man,
in a long sealskin coat and cap. As the bell ceases its clanging on
reaching the platform, he seems to pull his cap down purposely, and
otherwise to gather himself into the plushy depths of his warm furs, he
hires the first cabman that accosts him, shoves in his heavy valise,
which is all the baggage he has, and in a gruff sort of voice, orders to
be driven to the "Albion Hotel." There is nothing surprising in it at
all, the gentleman certainly looks like a "Russell House" patronizer,
but then the "Albion" is quiet and secluded, and perhaps this gentleman
prefers it to the endless noises of greater hotels. The gratified
cabman, happy over his hasty bargain, which delivered him from a half
hour's stamping of feet and clapping of his fur covered hands, never
cares to wonder whether the occupant of his sleigh is a disguised
swindler or an Earl _in-cog_, but jingles his sleigh bells hurriedly in
the direction of Nicholas street.

Christmas Eve, with a pale, clear moon, shining placidly down on the
still, white features of nature; the tall, bare boughs, sprinkled with
the afternoon's flakes, are showing out brightly in the silver light of
the Christmas moon, great soft feathery masses of white clouds chase
fair Luna through the deep ethereal blue of the heaven's vault.

From every respectable direction in the city, sleighs are speeding
merrily along with their dainty bundles of woollen wraps and tucked-up
skirts. Prim young gentlemen, in their shiny swallow-tails, with their
creaseless white cravats and little scarlet buds in their buttonholes,
work their way into top coats and fur jackets, and dropping their
latch-keys into their breast pockets, start off, all going in the same
direction, towards the grand dwelling on Sandy Hill, that everyone knows
to be Henry Rayne's.

Apart from Rideau Hall, which is the grand centre of all festivities and
pleasures, for those who sojourn in Ottawa during the winter months,
there are a few other places whose very names are pleasant to the ear,
on account of the warm hospitality they suggest, but were Ottawa in
general, far more sociable and hospitable a city than it is, we would
scarcely consider that it merited any special eulogy on that account,
for, if it were willing to profit by the great advantages it enjoys over
other cities, of learning how to render itself agreeable, generous and
worthy, in its social relationship with its people, it could not follow
a more admirable example than is set by its much esteemed, much beloved
ruler.

The pity is, that the old enthusiasts, and the early promoters of
Bytown's prosperity, could not have lived to see the day, on which their
little town became an important city, the capital of a grand Dominion,
and the home of Royalty. That His Excellency the Marquis of Lorne, and
his Royal Consort, the Princess Louise, should come amongst us to take
up their abode, is in itself a proud boast, not alone for Ottawa, but
for Canada at large, but that in their amiable condescension, they
should throw open the portals of their home, and receive with such
gracious and unaffected courtesy, their humble inferiors, overflows the
heart of Canadian society with intense gratification.

What a suasory example it is for those, who through some freak of
fortune, being enabled to shake off the dust of honest toil and
industry, are very ready to look downward with contempt upon the rank
they have just left. What must they think of our noble, hospitable
Governor, and Her Royal Highness Princess Louise, who so amiably and
courteously receive social inferiors within their home? How can _they_
feed themselves with a shallow pride, and affect a ridiculous
superiority, when the daughter of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen
Victoria, will condescend to assemble under her own roof, persons of a
social grade so far removed from her own.

But in profiting by this lavish display of hospitality, Canada contracts
a debt, and incurs an obligation, which she will not hesitate to pay
generously and willingly, with profoundest love, admiration and loyalty.
Such names as those of our Governor-General and of his Royal Consort,
become engraven upon the heart of the country, for future generations to
revere, honor and admire.

We will now return to the remote cause of these just reflections, to the
residence of Henry Rayne, who is indeed one of Ottawa's distinguished
entertainers.

Floods of brilliant gas-light stream out through the windows,
illuminating the shaded avenue and blending with the modest light of the
full moon outside. Inside the air is heavy with the perfumes of
decorations and blooming flowers. Exquisitely made adornings greet one
at every turning. In a room opposite to the drawing room, are Jean
d'Alberg and Honor Edgeworth, ready to receive their guests: the former
looks very imposing in a dress of myrtle green plush and pale blue,
brocaded satin, which is most becomingly made, and which, with a pair of
diamond earrings and a matronly little head dress, comprises her whole
_toilette_.

Honor is a marvel of feminine loveliness, her brow as white as marble,
and her hair creeping over it in its chestnut waves, has a beautiful
effect; there is an enhancing flush of excitement on her cheeks, and her
eyes sparkle with unusual brilliancy. Attired in a long flowing dress of
white waterplush and satin, from which hang on all sides, little
trembling fringes of delicate white pearls, Honor is more like a vision
of the supernatural than anything real. Where her costly robe falls in
graceful folds to her dainty shoes and sweeps over the floor for yards
behind, it is literally covered with natural rosebuds and sprigs of
heliotrope that rival with the loveliness of her whom they adorn. Her
bare white neck is encircled by strings of tiny pearls, coils of pearls
are also twisted in her dark brown hair, making her a breathing goddess
of loveliness and wonder, as she stands awaiting her guests' arrivals.

"I will have time to run and say a word to dear Mr. Rayne," Honor says,
gathering up her handsome skirt and skipping out of the room, she races
up the stairs with the recklessness of a child in its morning wrapper
and knocks timidly at the door of the temporary sitting-room above. At
the faint sound of "come in" she pushes open the door and stands in all
her splendid array before Mr. Rayne.

"Do you know, I wish so much you could come down stairs," she said
techily, "I am lonesome every second for you," and kneeling on one knee
beside him, the lovely girl encircled the old man's neck with her bare
white arms, caressing him childishly.

"Oh, ho!--come now, don't begin to play your little frauds on me, how
lonely you are to be sure, looking like a queen in a vision, and ready
to break a hundred hearts, be off, you are a dear little humbug, ha ha
ha."

There was something of the old humor of long ago in the laugh that Mr.
Rayne directed into Honor's pretty pink and white ear.

"What a voice!" Honor exclaimed in mock horror, "truly, you've quite
deafened me with that terrible shout," and she frowned pettishly,
putting her little gloved hands sympathisingly to her ears.

"Well, that will hold for a while," he answered mischievously, "you need
not trouble yourself coming up to hear me again for a while."

"You mean old darling," the girl returned playfully, "I'll go down
stairs and not think of you once more all night," and in another instant
she was re-established below in all her dignity, while the pressure of
her lips yet lingered in a sweet impression on Henry Rayne's cheek.

In an hour from that time the quiet, vacant apartments of Mr. Rayne's
house were crowded with a fashionable and merry throng. Young faces
beamed with gladness as they glided under the "mistletoe" with their
partners, to the strains of dreamy waltzes. The programmes were all
filled by now, and the evening's pleasures fully started. Everyone raved
about Honor, and with reason, it was quite amusing to see how
demonstrative the majority of the young ladies present tried to be with
her, intending that this lavish display should be interpreted by the
rest as a mark of the familarity which existed between them and Henry
Rayne's handsome _protegee_.

Miss Sadie Reid, Miss Dash and Miss Mountainhead, and all last season's
heroines were there, it is the best and worst feature of Ottawa society,
that, like a circus, if you attend one fashionable entertainment, you
have attended them all, the _belles_ of one ball are the _belles_ of
another, and the wall-flowers of one are the wall-flowers of another.

* * * * *

"Honor, whose waltz is this?" said Vivian Standish, pausing before her
and looking admiringly into her eyes.

"Oh dear, I don't know," said Honor in assumed despair, "I've lost my
programme and am thrown quite on the mercy and veracity of my gentlemen
friends. I regret to say--if you say this is yours--I cant refuse it,
for I've neither programme nor memory to prove the contrary."

"I hope you may regain neither to-night, for I think, I must make you
remember, you've promised me, all the other waltzes, to-night."

"Indeed, I doubt, if even this is yours," retorted she, "I've given you
one already."

"It is a wonder you remember," he said, a little sadly. "Surely you do
not regret it--any way this one is mine, and we are losing golden
moments, all this while--come--" encircling her waist, and as the music
made an appropriate _crescendo_, she heard him add in muffled
enthusiasm, "My darling."

After waltzing a delightful, ten minutes or so, Vivian very artfully
stopped, at the exit which led to the suggestive little _boudoir_
outside, and stole away, with Honor on his arm, into a quiet recess,
near the tall French window, from whence the moon-lit, snow-covered
gardens were plainly visible, the gas-light inside was burning ever so
low, a sweet sleepy sort of perfume filled the room, strains of a German
waltz were creeping in twittering echoes into the little corner where
this handsome couple had seated themselves, the critical moment had
come. It was now, or never.



CHAPTER XXXVI.


But happy they, the happiest of their kind
Whom gentle stars unite, and in one fate
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend

--_Thomson _

Guy Elersley, had long ago abandoned the noctivagent tendencies, that
had only saddened and distracted his life, but to-night, as the clock
struck nine, he deliberately closed the book he had been reading, with a
heavv sigh, lit a cigar, and getting himself into his furs, he strolled
noiselessly out, the great doorway of the quiet hotel and commenced an
onward journey at a brisk pace. He heeded neither the flood of subdued
light, that hung like a veil of hallowed glory over the earth, on this
bright Christmas Eve, nor the busy pedestrians, who hurried to and fro,
with well-filled baskets for to-morrow's celebrations. He did heed an
odd beggar-child who stopped, to hold towards him a Christmas number of
the "_Free Press_," for a penny, or who still more appealingly extended
a little bare frozen hand for charity. He had not far to go on this
nights' ramble, but he walked thoughtfully along, like one, on a serious
errand, the old familiar sights of other days distracted him somewhat,
his eyes wandered mechanically over the walls of the little church of
St. Alban, the martyr, whose angular spire, stood prominently out in the
clear moonlight. A corner away from this, and the glittering roof of St
Joseph's Church attracted his gaze, he was passing close by it now, and
a strange instinct directed his steps towards it; he pushed open the
yielding door, and stood in the streaming moonlight, among vacant pews,
and holy stillness. The Christmas decorations were just discernible by
the flickering light of the sanctuary lamp, and from the windows and
altars of the quiet little church, the faces of hallowed saints looked
down in their venerable simplicity, making the moonlight that made
visible their holy smiles, sanctified and imposing. Guy Elersley had
many qualities, both good and evil, but he was as innocent of church-
going, as he was of murder; of that, at least no one had ever yet
accused him, nevertheless there was a dormant religious enthusiasm in
that young breast, which needed but the touch of the right hand on the
yielding chords of a full heart, to call forth the melodious strains of
an impromptu chant of praise from the creature to his Creator. The soul
of our youth of to-day, resembles in many cases a musical instrument,
which stands in its grandeur and magnificence, unopened and untouched,
the cobwebs of neglect grow over the elegant framework, the dust of ages
cloud its wonderful beauty, because there are no hands to touch its
magic strings, and call forth the hidden melody it contains, some day,
the silence is broken by hazard, a note has been touched, which repeats
and echoes its sweet melancholy, with such an eager pathos, that one
regrets the many years of wasted ecstacies, which time has consumed, and
which might have brightened a lonely life, if the secret had but been
known. To-night, for the first time in his life, the chords of
Elersley's heart, almost rusted, from their wearisome rest gave out such
a soul-stirring melody, that he wondered himself at his susceptibility,
he crept into one of the pews near him, and bowing down his head upon
his trembling hands, he burst forth in a series of mental prayer, when
he raised his eyes again, it seemed to him that an angel had come, and
stolen away every burden of his life a calm, peaceful feeling had crept
into his soul, banishing all the fears and anxieties of a moment before,
he felt as if in the darkness, a bright star had broken forth, showing
him the way to a better and a happier life, and as he pondered, he
suddenly remembered that this was Christmas Eve, that in truth to-night
a glorious star had risen, which would shed its hallowed light over all
Christendom, and bring "Peace on earth to men of good-will."

He walked out of the holy edifice, feeling as he had never felt before
in all his life--telling himself how much of life's sweetness he had
thrown away in miserable exchange for its bitterness and gall. But
though no word of determination or promise formed itself upon his lips,
he felt a resolution filling him of future amendment, a desire to seek
after the strange sweetness he had experienced to-night, and in this
mood he pursued his way.

He too was attracted to-night towards the light and the music and the
merry-making of Mr. Rayne's house.

A host of overwhelming recollections swam before his eyes as he neared
the place; there, from the gate, he could see the fated balcony which
had tempted and facilitated his stealthy exit on that wretched night
when he had broken his uncle's stern command.

"It looks festive," he murmurs sadly, opening the gate noiselessly and
striding up the frozen pathway, "but why need it pain me so?" he said,
as if finishing a soliloquy, which would reproach his relations for so
easily renouncing his memory.

Slowly and noiselessly he stole up the crusty walk until he found
himself outside the tall French window in the recess under the moonlit
balcony. He could hear the strains of music and the peals of merry
laughter--bitter mockery at such a moment! He knew that while he
suffered in suspense outside, _she_ was the object of much admiration
within, that the words of false flatterers charmed her ear, and the
smile of pretended devotion gratified her heart. A man can bear much,
but as it is in his love that he shows himself strongest, it is also--
alas!--in his love that he is weakest. A true woman, then, must never
encourage a passion in the heart of a man which she will not share with
him to the very end. There are some things in life we can jest about and
make trifles of, but we must spare the human heart. There is no jest, no
levity appropriate where that is concerned. Not but that hundreds of
heart-less beauties have toyed laughingly with such playthings all their
lives--they have always done it, they do it still, and will likely
continue to do it so long as the world remains what it is; but, all the
same, we can never cease to regret that a woman should ever make such a
vile mistake, she, whose mission in this life is one of heart, should
never stoop to misapply the advantages that a wise Creator has confided
to her, and whereby she finds her way directly to people's
susceptibilities, to conquer them for a good cause for their sakes, her
own sake, and God's.

Guy was sadder than ever to-night, for besides the customary melancholy
of his life, he was under the painful influence, and in the very
presence of pregnant associations, gone-by days were doubly visible and
clear to him under the shadow of this dear old home that he had so
recklessly sacrificed.

The snow was carefully swept away from the low, broad steps, and the
thick covering of matting was comfortably visible in the moonlight. Guy
stood to scan the brilliantly illuminated windows: There were figures
gliding here and there through the rooms and corridors, shadows flitted
to and fro, little strains of far-off music crept into his ears--nothing
definable, certainly, sometimes just one deep note of the bass violin,
or a little shrill twittering of a noisy part, but it made his poor
heart ache, and it filled him with those unshed tears of smothered
emotion that are spilled like gall upon the heart that no one sees. He
had been watching for only a few moments, when a grating noise startled
him. He slid into the shadow of a broad pillar, which supported the
portico, and there stood still and expectant. A little silvery laugh
right inside the window went straight to his heart, then followed a word
or two in a musical masculine voice, then a strong effort, and yielding
to it, the long French window opened with a creak.

Up to this Guy had had some chance of escaping, but now as he narrowed
himself into the limits of the shadow cast by the huge pillar, he saw
two figures advance and lean against the opposite casements of the open
doors. At the same moment the moon sailed out from behind a pile of
snowy clouds, and Guy Elersley saw with his greedy eyes--in all her
loveliness, in all her dignity, in all her feminine grace--Honor
Edgeworth, his heart's long-cherished idol, but she was not alone.
Beside her was the tall, stalwart figure of a man in evening dress,
whose head was inclined towards her, whose eyes were seeking hers with a
tender expression of sentiment in their depths. In a moment Guy had
caught the outlines of that face, and instinctively he clutched his hand
and bit his lip, for he had recognized Vivian Standish flirting with the
girl _he_ loved. Her hand was now in his, and he was drawing her closer
to him. The impulse filled Guy to dart forward and level those guilty
arms that dared to encircle the sacred form of one so good and pure as
she, in their sinful embrace, but he quelled it, determining, at any
cost, to hear the issue of this strange _rencontre_--it would be the
verdict upon which hung the life or death of his dearest hopes.

"Honor," he heard Vivian say, "you will surely take cold here in this
open window."

"Nonsense," Honor said indignantly, "a fine night like this? I am not so
susceptible as you think, nor as fragile a piece as I look."

Still toying distractedly with her little jeweled hand, Vivian
continued:

"You may not be susceptible to cold, but you should be to warmth, such
as my heart offers you, the heat of love's immortal flame--Honor--can
you give me no hope that will make the future worth living for?"

"Surely," she answered seriously, "you have not lived such a worthless
life, all these years, as leaves the future a perfect blank for you."

Guy fancied how Standish must have winced uncomfortably at her words, he
wondered at the provokingly composed way, in which he answered her.

"It is not that exactly," he said, "though I am not at all surprised
that you should think it of me, but, somehow, all the ambitions that
have hitherto stimulated me, seem now to have dwindled into a secondary
importance, of course, it is nothing to you, that my life has become one
long miserable suspense, since destiny has thrown us together, because
our little happinesses are no sacrifice in your great eyes, you cannot
feel the smallest sympathy for a victim such as I, if it were a little
terrier, you had unconsciously wounded, you would take it caressingly in
your arms, and make a gentle atonement for your fault, but there is a
difference between little terrier pups and human hearts, like mine--"

"Is there?" Honor said with a cutting sarcasm, which delighted Guy's
heart, "you really are giving me a piece of information which I should
never have gained from my own personal conclusions. But, have we not had
enough of this romantic nonsense, Mr Standish? I think they have begun
another dance."

"I don't care if they have," the handsome lover cried huskily, clasping
Honor's hands passionately, and looking into her face with a sort of
hopeless defiance, "I have a word to say, that has been long enough
hanging unsaid upon my lips--hear me now--you must--Honor--I love
you--and I want you to become my wife."

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.