Book: Honor Edgeworth

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While she thought, she remembered the little note Guy had written her
that morning, telling her to let him know when her next meeting with
Vivian Standish should take place. Instinctively she rose up, as if to
leave the room. What could it matter now to either her or Guy whether
they had ever loved each other or not? Was it not the only misery of her
life that her love had come between her and the will of her kind
guardian? Duty is such a sober piece of heroism when one's affections,
one's very heart-core are not its sacrifice. The conscientious can go
bravely forth to the stern call of duty, the obedient follow out
unhesitatingly its command, the virtuous seek it out to accomplish it,
but when apart from these moral qualities the heart stands out, a weak
victim of passion, that passion that clings to the things it loves, that
lives because they live, when a heart thus circumstanced is assailed on
both sides, when love and duty put forth their respective claims, who
sneers because the noblest, grandest heart gives itself up vith a groan
of wretched resignation to the fascination of its love? Men may talk,
pens may write, bards may sing of magnanimous deeds in the abstract. In
theory we are most of us saints, if we had been our neighbors, we would
never have had a fault, but being each one our own miserable,
unfortunate self, we must fling ourselves into the open arms of
temptation, at the same moment that contrition fills our heart for the
rash deed.

Of Honor Edgeworth the reader might expect wonderful moral courage. May
be, he too has faith in the fallacious doctrine of worldlings--that he
believes good souls have not their struggles. The world generally shrugs
its shoulders in the face of the virtuous, and declares that in the
hearts of the good there is no moral struggle equal to that which quakes
the breast of the evil-doer, but to assure itself of its terrible error,
it must play the part of the publican and learn to subdue its passions
under a mask.

Honor had determined upon doing the right thing, but she was not perfect
enough to stifle the burning sensations that were caused by such a
determination. She turned from where she stood and walked mechanically
towards the window. The ceaseless drip, drip of the rain on the frozen
ground had nothing in it to comfort her, it was pitch dark, and with a
shrug and a shiver, she turned wearily away with a long, sobbing sigh
and left the room. She crossed the hall into the library, which was
quite deserted, though the gas burned, and a bright fire cast shadows on
the ceiling and walls around. Throwing herself into an arm-chair before
Henry Rayne's handsome _ecritoire,_ she drew from a tiny drawer a
delicate sheet of note paper, upon which her trembling hand, traced
nervously--

"My DEAR GUY--"

Then without waiting or thinking a moment, she hastily wrote on--

"I have just received the intelligence that I am to be interviewed
to-morrow morning by Mr Rayne and Vivian Standish. It may be
rather late to tell you now, but I did not hear of it until a
few moments ago. Mr Rayne never leaves his room before eleven,
when he sometimes comes down for lunch--that will probably be
the hour of the interview.

"I see no earthly use in sending you this information, except
that you have asked me to do so, and _you_ know best.
Ever your devoted
HONOR."

She folded it, and sealed it in a dainty little envelope, then thrusting
it into her pocket she went quietly into the kitchen and closed the
door.

Mrs Potts, sitting artistically on the edge of a yellow-scoured kitchen
table, opened her small eyes in blank astonishment at the unexpected
visitor. She was surrounded by clippings and sheets of paper, which she
scolloped quite tastily to fit the broad shelves of her tidy dresser. As
soon, however, as Honor crossed the threshold of her _sanctum_, she
skipped down with an agility that would have done credit to a woman
twenty years her junior, and wiping the palms of her accommodating hands
emphatically in her blue-check apron, she advanced to receive Honor's
orders.

"Go upstairs like a good soul, Potts," said Honor, in a hushed voice,
"and walk very quietly, and tell Fitts I want him in the library."

"I will, Miss," the old woman said respectfully, and as she stole up the
back stairway on her errand, Honor returned as softly to the library,
where she stood by the window awaiting Fitts.

In another moment, the door opened, and with his most respectful bow,
the man-servant entered the room. Honor's face was serious, and her gaze
searching as she asked:

"Fitts, will you do a little favor for me, without telling any one of
it?"

"I'm sorry, ye'd think it needful to ask me, Miss Honor, I'd rather,
ye'd kno right well, that I'm only too proud when you ordher me, let
alone, axm' me, as if I as your equals," and the poor fellow, looking
half sorry as he spoke, touched the girl's heart.

"Well, Fitts, I must first tell you a great secret, which I am sure you
will be glad to hear," Honor said a little gaily Fitts scratched his ear
and looked embarassed, "Mr. Elersley is back again in Ottawa."

"Och don't I hope, 'tis yerself is in airnist, Miss Honor," the old man
answered between smiles and tears, "is this really the truth?"

"Without a doubt, Fitts, and to prove it for yourself, I am going to
send you to him with this little note, he is staying at the 'Albion,' it
is not far, see him yourself, it will please you both; I do not like to
ask you to go out on such a dreadful night, but the message is
important."

"It will be the powerful queer night, Miss Honor, when I'll not like to
go out on your little errands, and more particular when it's to see Mr.
Guy that I have loved since he was a lad."

"You are a good, devoted servant, Fitts," she answered, "go now, and
don't be long, for you may be wanted."

The man looked proudly at himself as he thrust her dainty note carefully
into his inside pocket, and without further ado left the room.



CHAPTER XXXIX.


"But bitter hours come to all,
When even truths like these will pall,
Sick hearts for humbler comfort call,
The cry wrung from thy spirits' pain,
May echo on some far off plain,
And guide a wanderer home again."
--Proctor.

Next morning, it was a bright and cheerful sun that streamed mat Honor's
window, the rain had all passed away, and the air was mild and
refreshing. Hastily dressing herself, Honor hurried to Mr. Rayne's door
to ascertain how he had passed the night, but as she reached it, she met
Aunt Jean coming out, with her forefinger on her lip, and whispering
"Sh--sh--" in such premature warning, that Honor looked bewildered as
she enquired the cause.

"He is sleeping nicely now, run off, we must not disturb him, it is such
a natural little sleep," Madame d'Alberg said in a low voice.

"Oh, is that it?" Honor exclaimed in great relief, as she turned
willingly away and followed Aunt Jean down the broad stairway.

They took their silent little breakfast together, and then as Jean rose,
to busy herself about the morning occupations, Honor bundled up a mass
of pale blue wool, which she was resolving into a cloud, and went off to
the library.

How long she sat there she could hardly say--every now and then she
discovered herself, with her hands resting idly on her work, and her
eyes gazing vacantly into the space before her; faces, figures, scenes,
were passing backward and forward, as she watched, sensations of every
kind racked her whole being--but it is not surprising at all, when one
considers her in her true light.

People, like her, who have a tendency to intensity in all things have it
most of all, in their loves, and hatreds, and no one can understand the
nature of her emotions, but those who are themselves intense lovers or
intense haters. He who has all his life, loved in a calm, cool,
collected sort of way, has never known the acme of moral endurance.

Maybe, the love that I allude to, is not felt more than once in a score
of years, by any individual of a community, now-a-days love has been
transformed as much as it was in other days, a transformer, men have
invaded that dark solemn forest of the soul, where certain passions
roamed in hungry fury, wild, and unfettered, these have been secured, in
our day, and have been tamed and domesticated; our children play with,
and fondle, these monsters, that were so dreaded in earlier centuries by
gray-haired mortals; let them beware, there is a hypocrisy in this,
since hypocrisy is coexistent with life in any of its phases, and some
day, the petted tiger or lion will not feel like play, his old nature
will seek to assert itself, and then woe to the victim of this terrible
caprice.

A sudden stamping in the hall outside, brought Honor quickly back to
stern reality the footsteps vanished up the stairway, and she winced
uncomfortably as she told herself it was Vivian Standish. Resolving to
remain where she was until sent for, she re-applied herself vigorously
to her work and avoided further distraction, but what was her amazement
when, a few moments later, the door behind her opened, and Henry Rayne,
leaning on the arm of Vivian Standish, entered the room. A cry of
genuine surprise burst from her lips, as, scattering her mass of
wool-work on the floor, she rushed to her guardian's side with joyful
greetings.

"Oh, I am so glad," she cried, "to see you downstairs this morning, how
much better you must feel?"

The feeble old man tried to smile cheerfully back as he said:

"I have made this effort for your sake, my dear, whether I go back up
those stairs again with a light or a heavy heart, depends on you."

A shadow flitted over her face, then looking in supreme disgust on the
man beside them, she answered,

"On _me_? Then you know very well that your heart will be as light as a
feather, going back."

"Get me a chair, Vivian, boy," said the feeble voice of the invalid,
turning toward Standish. He moved a step to do so, and had his hand on a
low cushioned _fauteuil_, when Honor rushed before him and laid her hand
on the other arm of the chair.

"How can you ask a stranger to serve you, when I am by," she asked, half
choked with sobs, of Henry Rayne, "What have I done to merit this?"

As she clutched the opposite side of the chair, her eyes and Vivian's
met, there was a flash of contempt and a look of defiant love, and then,
with all her woman's strength, she wrestled the chair from his strong
hold, and placed it behind her guardian. She refused to sit herself, the
folding-doors leading to the drawing-room were partially closed and she
stood against them, toying nervously with the massive handle near her.
When quiet was restored, Henry Rayne began to speak. He seemed to pass,
unnoticed, the confusion of a moment before, and said in the gentlest
accents, addressing the girl.

"Honor, we have come here this morning for the purpose of deciding a
question which, of late, has received very serious consideration from
your friend here, and myself. I am now growing old and feeble, and have
all the indications of an early decay in my constitution. Since the
first moment that you were given me as a responsibility and a grave
charge, my mind has been in a constant worry, lest, in the smallest
degree, I would not render you your due as your own father would have
done. In all matters, I have tried, as well as I knew how, to place
myself in that very relationship to you, and if I have not succeeded I
could never know from you, for you have always been a kind, grateful,
considerate daughter. What I am about to discuss now, is the very last
thing, relative to you, that will abide by my decision. I have, since my
recent illness, considered everything that could assist me in securing
your welfare, before I go, and as well as my eager, though maybe, not
overwise judgment can direct me, I think I have adopted the best plan of
all, it needs only your sanction to complete it and set my mind at rest.
I will not remind you of your promise to me, because, on second thought,
I have learned that to ask you to sacrifice your own heart for my sake,
would be enough to taunt me in the other world, so I will merely appeal,
showing you that with what discretion some sixty odd years of tough
experience have given me, I presume I can direct you now."

The girl, standing motionless by the doorway, looked her guardian fully
in the face; she struggled for a moment, a secret, hidden struggle, and
then answered calmly: "My dear Mr Rayne, do you not know, that such an
appeal as this, is unnecessary? If you have something to command of me,
state it plainly, clearly, I will understand it better. You have, it is
true, guided me with faultless judgment and discretion, you have been
kind, and solicitous and careful from the first moment we lived
together. What is it you now ask in return? What do I owe you for such
devotion?"

There was a faint ring of reproach in the words, as she uttered
them--something which sounded as if she had said "yes, 'tis true you
have done all this for me, but was your motive no worthier than to trust
to these influences, for a power over me in the future?"

A trifle sadder in his accent, Henry Rayne answered, "Do not put it like
that Honor you pain me. It is not a debt--no, no! you have generously
paid me, and overpaid the attention I lavished on you, but now, what I
want to complete my earthly happiness is this." He beckoned to Vivian,
and taking a hand of each, was about to join them, when Honor drew hers
suddenly away, and turned pale with agitation.

"I understand," she said huskily, "you wish me to marry _that_" pointing
in Vivian's face. "Well, as there is nothing which I could refuse you, I
must not refuse you this. It is well you have not asked me to love him,
or to respect him, for that is beyond me, but if he wishes to secure me,
after what he has learned from my own lips, he deserves that I should
wed him, and the consequences of such a harmonious union."

Vivian never moved a muscle; he sat silently, quietly listening to it
all. Henry Rayne interrupted gently.

"You are excited, Honor, and hence it is you speak thus, you will think
better of it later. Do you promise me, then, to accept Vivian Standish
as your husband, showing your faith in my discretion, and proving
yourself dutiful to the end?"

There was a pause of a second, the word was on the girl's lips; one
other moment and her destiny was sealed: but suddenly a cry of
"Villain!" broke through the doorway, and simultaneously, Guy Elersley
appeared on the scene.

"Villain!" he cried, collaring Vivian Standish, "how can you stand there
and hear this girl give up her name and her honor, into such vile
keeping. You are a coward and a blackguard, and I will prove it."

Vivian Standish grasping the back of a chair, stared in furious
amazement. Honor, with delighted surprise on her face, now stood
defiantly up and looked proudly on, and Henry Rayne rubbed his misty
eyes wonderingly, and peered into the face of the new-comer. An
exclamation of great joy burst from Honor's lips.

"Guy!" she cried, "you are just in time."

"Guy!" repeated the old man, "did someone say Guy? Quick, tell me where
is Guy? Guy! Guy!" and with the words the feeble head drooped upon his
throbbing bosom, the eyelids closed wearily, he raised his wasted hands
to his aching temples, and with a long, heavy sigh, fell backwards.

Everything else was forgotten, for the ten minutes it took to revive Mr.
Rayne. Honor, trembling with fright, supported his head on her bosom,
and spoke appealingly to him. After a little his eyelids quivered and
opened, he breathed again and sat up.

"Are you better?" Honor asked, bending over him in great eagerness.

"Yes, my dear," he answered kindly, "I am all right now, but where is
Guy?"

"Here I am," Guy said, advancing a step, "I hope you will pardon the
manner in which I have entered your house, after years of absence, but I
have come, and only just in time to vindicate the wrongs of poor, duped
victims, and to rescue innocence from the foul grasp of corruption."

"What do you mean, Guy?" his uncle asked in curious consternation.

"I mean to tell my pain and my regret at knowing that while you have
forbidden the shelter and comforts of your home to those of your own
blood, who have committed deeds of harmless rashness, you have been
welcoming and fostering with lavish generosity under your roof a vile
man--a wolf in sheep's clothing!"

"May I, as seeming somewhat concerned, ask who this is?" Vivian
interrupted in the blandest tones, laying his arm on Guy's shoulder.

"'Tis yourself" Guy cried, shaking him violently off, "you coward!
villain! rogue!"

"Guy, you mystify me," Henry Rayne said in strange wonder, "pray
explain. Whatever can you mean by such queer conduct?"

"'Tis a painful task, uncle, but I must do it. This man, in whom you
have placed your trust, has foully wronged you. He thrust himself upon
you with his deceiving manners, and you were content to take him thus.
You never questioned him about the past, nor did he care to inform you
of his swindling career."

Honor trembled and turned pale. Vivian's eyes flashed fire, and he
ground his teeth, while Henry Rayne only gazed in a stupid sort of
wonder, while Guy enumerated these dreadful things.

"He was not content," Guy continued, "to shake off that past, reeking
with loathsome and dishonorable crimes, but he brought his knavery
within these respectable walls--he dared to pay his attentions to your
ward, and speak words of forbidden love into her ears, while the crime
of having enticed as young and respectable a girl from her comfortable
home, to swindle her out of thousands of dollars, which she owned, yet
lay unexpiated on the black chapter of his heart."

Guy scarcely pronounced the words when Vivian Standish sprang in mad
fury towards him, crying--

"Liar! slanderer!--your words are false!"

"Pardon me, sir," Guy said, in mock courtesy, "for contradicting you,
but" (going towards the door) "if you will allow me, I will prove my
_false_ statements."

All eyes followed him, and to their blank amazement, there stepped into
the library from the room outside, a beautiful and sad looking young
girl, plainly but neatly clad, and who was followed by two professional
looking men, who stood on either side of her.

Vivian Standish gave one quick, searching glance at the features of the
young girl, and Honor saw in a moment how every tinge of color died out
of his face, a grey, unearthly shadow crept over it, and his features
assumed a set expression of misery which almost excited her to pity.

"Do you recognize this _gentleman_, mademoiselle?" Guy said, addressing
the girl, and pointing in mock civility to Vivian.

"Oh! yes, sir--I do indeed," she answered in a sweet, melancholy voice,
"it is Bijou--see! he recognizes me!"

All eyes were turned on Vivian Standish. He trembled violently. He
looked up once, while they all stared him so suspiciously, and that look
was directed towards Honor; he saw her clear grey eyes buried in his
tell-tale face. He leaned against the tall back of a chair unsteadily,
hesitated a moment, and then addressing Henry Rayne, said, in a husky
and trembling voice,

"It would not avail me much to try my defence under these crushing
circumstances, Mr Rayne, but at least I can have my say as well as the
others. I admit that in years gone by, I was guilty of many things of
which you did not suspect me, but a man is not supposed to disgrace
himself for his whole life because he has at one time committed
extravagant follies. I thought I had buried my past forever, or I should
never have taken advantage of your hospitality as I have. Guilty as I
was, I could not help being influenced by the fascination that bound me
to your home--the resistless attractions of that girl," pointing to
Honor. "I leave it now, disgraced, condemned, but at least, you, who are
all so blameless, can consent not to crush me entirely. In administering
justice, be a little kind, my misery is bitter enough--God knows!"

Then Fifine de Maistre stepped forward and laid her hand on the shoulder
of the wretched man.

"Vivian Standish," she said, "you have wronged me, inasmuch as a man can
wrong a woman; you have driven my good father to any early grave, and
blighted every hope I had for the future, and though my heart lies
shrivelled and dead where _you_ have left it, _I_ forgive you!"

At these words, the look of hard contempt in every eye, melted into one
of glowing admiration; tears stood in Honor's eyes, though she had worn
such a merciless expression before, and Vivian Standish as he raised his
face from his trembling hands, looked calmer and more resigned, he
turned his eyes on the slight figure standing beside him, and said in a
nervous voice of emotion,

"May God bless you, Fifine, you can never regret these words."

Henry Rayne's feeble voice was the next to be heard.

"This strange, painful news," he said, "is a greater shock to me than
anything else in the world that I could hear of. I have received you
Standish, and treated you as an intimate friend of my family, and had
you in return, confined your deceptions to myself, I might yet have
forgiven you; but knowingly, to extend your treachery to that innocent
and unsuspecting girl, aware, as you were that she was all in all to me,
is a base ingratitude that living or dying, _I_ will never forgive. What
would she have become? blighted in hopes, ruined in prospects for life,
and by my urgent request too, that, she would have been very soon, but
for--you," he said, turning towards Guy, "you, my boy, have saved my
heart from breaking, though I did not deserve it from you. I suppose it
is too late to seek your forgiveness now after I have judged you so
hastily, and punished you so severely, but God knows, I have repented of
it many a time since."

His voice broke down, into a weak sob, and he bowed his head.

"You think too harshly of me, uncle dear," Guy said, advancing, "for I
have long ago forgotten the past; the day I left your house I took my
first step to good fortune, and I have never regretted your severity
since, though it pained me much at the time. It has all blown happily
over now, however, and I have tried in a measure to atone for the folly
of my past, let us learn a lesson for the future from the
misunderstanding, but in every other respect let us forget that it has
ever occurred."

"Bless you, my noble boy," were the words his uncle answered, "you are a
treasure, and I am proud to own you."

Meantime, the other two gentlemen, stood watching the strange
proceeding, until Guy, remembering them, said--addressing all present--

"These gentlemen will explain their own presence."

Whereupon, one of them, the most respectable of the two, stated in
brief, business like terms, that "he had been the family lawyer of the
Bencroft's for many years, and that previous to his recent demise,
Nicholas Bencroft had laid information with him, against one Vivian
Standish, for swindling him out of a considerable sum of money, and that
he had come there to see the man identified by the one who knew him
best--it being unnecessary now, to tell him, he concluded, that the
punishment of his crime awaited him," he then drew back to make clear
the way for his companion, who, as he advanced said,

"And I sir, am the person engaged by the father of this young lady,
previous to his death, to hunt up the mystery of his daughters'
disappearance. The whole catalogue of her wrongs and misfortunes being
attributed to you, you are my prisoner, until your trial has taken
place."

"May God help me!" came in heart-rending tones from the bowed face of
the accused man. "It has all come down upon me together," he moaned,
raising his trembling hands to his throbbing temples, then with one
pitiful, appealing, contrite look he scanned the faces of all those
present, and gave himself voluntarily up, a guilty man, a culprit. He
was escorted out of the house where he had shone as a star in the days
of his freedom, out of the spot which held all that his poor miserable
heart could care for now. Vivian Standish, the bright comet of Ottawa's
gay season, seated in a corner of that covered sleigh, on that bright
morning, was a hopeless, ruined man, outcast, dejected, wretched.

Fifine de Maistre, in her sad voice, spoke a touching farewell to Honor
and Guy and Henry Rayne. The holy resignation of her words, and the
Christian spirit in which she forgave her wrongs, had strangely edified
her hearers. Mr. Rayne and Honor pressed her very hard to remain and
share their hospitality longer, but this she gently declined to do, and
with affectionate, grateful thanks to all, and to Guy in particular, she
left the house in company with the serious looking elderly lady, who
awaited her, the last but one of the interesting personages who had
appeared in the closing scene of the strange drama of "a culprits life."

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