Book: Honor Edgeworth

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When quiet was restored, and the din of accusing voices had ceased,
Henry Rayne looked proudly up at the manly young fellow who stood before
him, and said,

"Guy, I can never thank God sufficiently for having sent you so
fortunately, in time to interrupt the course of the terrible destiny
that I was forcing on to my poor little girl. A little longer would have
made all the difference of a lifetime--a young life shattered and
crushed in its bloom, and some day _she_ would be justified in cursing
my memory and my name, after I had tried, in blind love, to secure her
unalloyed happiness. I cannot live to return you, in deeds of active
merit, compensation for the good you have done me--that I know and
regret, but in some way I must find a means of acknowledging all I owe
you, my dear boy." Here he hesitated a little, and looking from one to
the other of the young people standing before him, resumed.

"I suppose I am more unworthy than ever, to express a wish or a hope
now, but let me tell you, before I die, of the wild wish that animated
my heart to the very end, the gratification of which, would be the
summit of my earthly expectations."

"What is it?" and "speak it!" broke, simultaneously, from the young
people's lips.

"'Tis this," he said, stretching out his feeble hands, and taking one of
each in their nervous clasp, "'tis to join together both those little
hands, by these, my old, trembling ones, that would so unconsciously
have wronged them to knit them together in one holy link, that I might
fasten, with the last remnant of my lifes strength--that is the old
man's ambition now, the ambition of long ago, re-awakened and revived,
the plan conceived before the clouds of dissension gathered over our
happy home the plan re-conceived when the dark clouds have melted away
into obscurity, and threaten us no more."

The hands thus joined, this time lay willingly clasped together. Honor
did not seek to snatch hers from the light, warm grasp that held it a
prisoner, while Guy gathered in the little trembling fingers into his
strong palm, as the miser does the yellow gold he has long coveted. The
lovers looked meaningly at one another and then Guy, whose eyes were
brimful of unspoken emotion answered his uncle saying,

"You had said you could not live to compensate me for what I have just
done. Now, let me tell you that twere worth a whole life-time of wrongs
and misfortunes to me, if compensation meant _this_" and with these
words he brought his other hand over the willing little captive he
already held in one. "It has been the dream of my life too, uncle," he
continued, "it has been the only hope that encouraged me through weary
scenes of strife and disappointment, and if I can receive it from your
own hand, and with your blessing, my cup of bliss vill indeed be filled
to overflowing."

"And you, little one?" Henry Rayne faltered, looking up at Honor through
his tearful eyes.

"I?" the girl answered with blushing, averted face, "It is the most I
had over hoped for. Therein my happiness also dwells."

The old man bowed his head for an instant, and then raised his eyes and
scanned the face of his _protegee_ curiously.

"Do you mean to tell me," he asked in profound astonishment, "that you
have loved Guy Elersley through all these years?"

"That I have," she answered firmly.

"But--" began he.

"I know what you would say," she interrupted quietly. "That a moment ago
I was ready to sacrifice my love, to belie my heart, to crush my fondest
hope--and that is true, indeed. I was a friendless, helpless, orphan
child when you took me under your care, and watched me, and guided me,
and gave me every comfort your happy home afforded, in everything you
have proved yourself the most devoted friend in the world and knowing
this, feeling, realizing this, as I did, could I on the mere account of
natural prejudice, deny you the favor you asked of me so humbly? What
was my love, my ambition, my hope, to my duty towards you, the
representative of my dead father? Nothing at all. I did it miserably,
badly, I know. I clung to my heart's inclination with the very last
breath of freedom I drew, and then when I had trampled it, though so
cowardly, I felt that I had done my very best to repay you your
devotedness and kindness. If destiny has pleased to show us that she was
only trying us, we at least have given proof to one another of our
confidence and love--but I earnestly hope that never again will destiny
play the same game with our hearts."

A low sob broke from the old man's lips. As she finished, he drew her
gently towards him, and in a voice that shook with pain and emotion, he
began:

"Oh, Honor! my dear little one. How could you have tortured your poor
noble little heart like this? What terrible things I must have made you
do unthinkingly? and I dreaming all the while it was my boundless love
alone that influenced me. But believe me, child these feeble, wrinkled
hands would burn heroically over the slowest fire before they could be
raised in voluntary tyranny over you. I would rather far that these dim
eyes became stone blind to the light of heaven than that they should
cast one glance of undue reproach upon you. Aye, and my very heart would
break within me rather than it should foster one sentiment that was not
love for you, and yet, feeling thus, I was driving you to ruin and
wreck. Instinct taught you the terrible truth, and you would blight your
life rather than not suit the whims of a thoughtless old man. How can I
ever look you in the face again? Oh! my dearest child, this indeed is
too much--too much--too much" and sobbing violently, the bowed head,
with its snow-white locks, fell on the shoulder of the tearful girl
kneeling beside the old man's chair. In her gentlest, most childish and
winning way, Honor, brightening up her countenance, said to her
disconsolate guardian,

"Well, if you are really sorry, as you pretend, it is not a very good
proof that you love me as much as you say."

At this the bowed head was raised, and a glance of hopeful enquiry cast
on the girl's face.

"Well, it is this way," Honor continued, answering it: "you see, if
Vivian Standish had never been encouraged by you, he would never have
come here at all, and Guy would never have been alarmed about us, and
would not have come back at all, and then, of course, we would never
have all been reunited. I would be a gloomy, grumbling old maid, that
could never be happy, and life would have been painfully glum for the
future, whereas,"--and here the old, care-worn face smiled, as it
watched the good, kind features of the girl--"you brought everything to
a beautiful crisis, by pretending to force another man on me, for I
really don't believe now, you meant me to marry him at all," she said,
laughing outright, and kissing away the remnants of the old man's grief
from his sorrowful face.

"You are an angel of consolation, besides everything else," was all that
Mr. Rayne could answer to her pretty speech, but he clasped again the
hands of the two young people he loved, and in an earnest, pious tone,
he said:

"I give you, one to another: may you live to gladden and comfort one
another's hearts, through a long, prosperous and holy life; and
remember, that each time you dwell upon the memory of the old man, who
was foolish, only in his wild love for you both, that he has begged of
God on this day, to sanction this humble blessing by one from on high,
and that the desire for your future welfares, was the very last desire
he had satisfied in this life and now, my children, I will leave you, I
am tired and worn out, and would like to rest. Will you each lend me an
arm, as though no estrangement had ever come between us? Come! forgive
the old man. Come, Honor! come, Guy! 'tis the last time I will ask you
to assist me up these stairs."

"Do not say such ugly, ominous words, dear Mr Rayne," Honor pleaded,
sliding her arm in a fond way into his, and with Guy on the other side
of him, the old man, smiling happily, was assisted back to his pillows,
whence, it may as well be said, he never rose again.

The excitement of Vivian Standish's capture and arrest, with the
unexpected circumstances of Guy's return, and Honor's great sacrifice,
had only served to hasten the slow progress of a fatal illness. For days
after, he weakened gradually, but hopelessly, yet filled with such a
holy resignation and peaceful endurance, as could not help softening the
terrible grief that would have been resistless, had he suffered without
fortitude or hope.



CHAPTER XL.


Man's uncertain life.
So like a ram-drop, hanging on the bough.
Amongst ten thousand of its sparkling kindred,
The remnants of some passing thunder shower,
Which have their moments dropping one by one,
And which shall soonest lose its perilous hold,
We cannot guess.
--J Baillie

The tired, spent moments of the old year's midnight, were crawling into
eternity, the fierce December wind was sighing out its wearied farewell
over the frozen streets; the thick white frosts were gathering on the
window panes, in crystal shrubs and icy forests; December was howling,
in a spectral voice, the ominous cry of the "Banshee," in anticipation
of the old year's death. It was well nigh the hour of another day's
dawn, but in the house of Henry Rayne everyone was astir. In the old,
familiar home, where we have intruded so often upon happy inmates in
their joy, we now steal an entrance, to witness the gloom, the
stillness, the oppressive silence of an awful grief. There is a wasted
hand lying over the neat counterpane: it is clammy and feeble, there is
a feverish brow, tossing on a downy pillow, parched lips, dim eyes,
shadowy features, are now what we recognise, instead of the good-
natured, smiling face of Henry Rayne, there is labored breathing,
causing the weak breast to heave and fall in heavy sobs, there is the
sound of stifled weeping and half muttered prayers from those who kneel
around his bed. Honor is kneeling at the head, with blanched face,
clutching her clasped hands nervously, while her pale lips repeat a
supplication for him who is dying before her. Guy, on the opposite side,
stands peering eagerly into the face of the doomed one he loves,
watching and waiting for the last terrible change that will ever come.
Jean d'Alberg, kneeling at the foot, with her face buried in her hands,
is stifling the tears and sobs that burst from her weary eyes and
breast, and at a little distance away, the two faithful servants are
weeping and praying over the last of him, whom they had learned to
cherish and idolize.

Suddenly the dim eyes grow somewhat bright, a sweet smile hovers around
the mouth of the dying man, he makes a feeble effort to take the hand of
his little girl in his. Honor sees it, and quietly lays her cold hand in
his, she is conscious of a weak pressure, which almost breaks the bounds
of her heroic endurance. Then the dying glance is turned on Guy, and the
same effort repeated, he too lays his trembling hand in that of the
dying man, beside Honor's, with its last feeble effort they feel the
hand of the man they had each loved as a parent attempt to link theirs
together, when that is done he tries to move his lips, bending low over
him. Honor can catch the words, "Love--one--another," and then the voice
fails, after that, she hears stray, broken syllables, "happy," "memory,"
and "at last."

Guy, taking Honor's hands in both his, across the death-bed, pledges his
love for life in a tone so clear and loud that the dying man can hear
it, for he smiles, and looks at each, and with the half-stifled words of
his blessing, he closes his weary, languid eyes, and his spirit passes
away.

* * * * *

All the toil and worry of life have perished with that last long sigh,
no more work awaits those weary hands, so Honor crosses them
reverentially on the still breast. His dying smile lingered on his dear
kind face, even in death, and people as they came and went wiped away a
tear and said, "it was easily seen the old man had died with an
unburdened conscience." Every one regretted the demise of such an
estimable man, the daily papers came out next morning and evening with
lengthy obituaries and tributes to the memory of one who was known to be
such a valued citizen. The funeral was one of, if not the longest, that
was ever seen in the streets of Ottawa, and every man who joined the
solemn procession was a genuine mourner for the kind-hearted deceased.

People stared and wondered at seeing Guy returned, but they were also
very glad, for he was a universal favorite with those who had known him
before.

Through all her bitter grief Honor had shed no tear, though every tinge
of color had faded out of her face, and her eyes grew wild and vacant in
their gaze. When the bustle, and excitement had all subsided,
immediately after the death of Mr. Rayne, Honor had stolen into the room
where he lay, in the depths of a handsome coffin, sleeping his eternal
sleep, and throwing herself on her knees beside him, she bowed down her
head until her own fair, warm cheek rested against the icy cold face of
the dead man she loved, here she neither wept nor moaned, but in silent,
tearless anguish mourned over her departed friend. She gently chafed the
stiff, cold hands with hers, and smoothed back the silver hair from his
marble brow, there was a load of crushing weight and pain and care down
deep in her poor heart, but still no tear would come to her burning
eyes. By and bye, when she had spent nearly an hour beside the lifeless
figure she loved so fondly, Guy missed her, and suspecting her
whereabouts, came stealthily to the door of the room where their dead
relative lay, it was closed, but yielded to his gentle pressure, and
opened noiselessly,--sure enough, there she was, still lying beside the
dead smiling face, but now she was speaking, in a low, murmuring tone,
such heart-rending words as brought the tears to Guy's own eyes while he
listened, unnoticed.

"Lonely?" she was saying, in a long sigh, "Oh, yes, poor Honor will
often be very lonely for her dear friend and parent, she will look for
him in all the dear, familiar nooks where once she loved to see him, but
she will always be disappointed, he will never, never see her nor speak
to her again. Oh, I might have known," she rambled on, "that this was
too much happiness for me--but dear, dear Mr Rayne, open your beautiful
eyes and look at me. Just once again, in the old way--we are alone now,
will you not say a little word to poor Honor?--See how I kiss you right
on your dear lips, like of old, but your lips are so cold, I do not
believe you feel or care for my kiss--"

Guy could stand this no longer, he feared the girl's mind would become
demented if allowed to continue in such a strain; he stole over, and
putting his arms gently around her, he drew her away from the figure of
the dead man--

"Honor," he whispered, "you must come away now, this will harm you--you
look so tired and ill already, you must take great care of yourself
darling,--for my sake, do." Very mechanically she obeyed, and turned
away. Guy felt as if in this mutual sorrow, they had been drawn closer
together than any other tie could bring them; he raised the pallid,
serious face, and kissed it tenderly, saying--

"You must bear up, my darling, for you know what a great grief it would
be to him, to know that you suffered so."

"Trust me, Guy," she answered softly, "I will brave it--but then you
know, he was my father, and I loved him."

"Yes, that is all true, my love, but you must remember he is better off,
and he has left his blessing with us, for all our lives."

"And we will merit it, Guy, will we not, he was so good, so kind, so
true?"

"That we will, Honor, I swear it, I will never forget the pledge I spoke
into his dying ears."

"Nor I," she answered, in a whisper.

They left the room together, and Honor stole away to her own quarters;
she saw no more of her dear guardian after that, until the funeral day,
when she pressed the last long kiss of eternal farewell on his cold,
unfeeling lips, that was the scene which racked her poor tried heart
with all the sharpest pangs that grief doth know she fancied, at that
moment her endurance must yield, and her heart break, but she remembered
dimly having been carried away to another room, and when she saw and
felt again, all was over.

* * * * *

Two days after the interment of Henry Rayne, Guy and Honor sat chatting
quietly together in the little sitting-room from whose window, Guy had
caught the first glimpses of Honor, on that autumn evening long ago. In
a close-fitting dress of heavy black, Honor looked more imposing and
dignified than ever: her face was very pale, and there were deep, dark
lines under her sad eyes. Guy too was serious, though handsome and
careful as ever; their grief it is true, had thrown a heavy pall over
the happiness of their new love, but still, each, felt, that it had
served only to draw them still closer together, they were now all in all
to one another.

"You are looking pale, and ill, my darling," Guy said, rising and
throwing himself on the handsome fender-stool at her feet, "I hope you
are going to try and regain your former health and spirits very soon."

"Oh, yes indeed, I intend to, Guy," she answered sweetly, "I can do that
easily, for your sake."

"Don't forget that you are exclusively mine, now," he said looking
straight up into her clear, gray eyes, "and very soon, I want to let
every one know it too." Honor smiled sadly.

"Foolish boy," she said, half in soliloquy, "you will have enough of me
all your life, take your time now," while she spoke thus, she was
burying her gaze in a beautiful little ring, which she twisted
thoughtfully around her finger, without lifting her eyes, she said in
such a serious tone.

"Guy--I hope you have not forgotten, to balance well in your mind, all
the consequences and penalties of the step you are in such a hurry to
take--remember that all is not so smooth and tempting as one sees it
through the illusionary eyes of a first love. After all, we women, are
only human and as likely to err as any one else; let us not then deceive
ourselves, that sometimes in our lives, little thorns will not cross our
path, and little storm-clouds obscure our bright, warm sun--if you have
not prepared yourself for this, it is not now too late--better give in
at the brink of a precipice than risk a fall--"

"Honor--your words are strange--maybe true, but not appropriate here, it
was your voice, your example, that recalled me from the downward path of
recklessness I was pursuing when I met you, I was haunted by your look,
and your words always stood between me and evil, at last I fled, I ran
away from temptation, I sought a new field of action, I worked in it,
ever in the presence of your dear face, looking into your deep eyes,
listening to your sweet voice, success awaited me, I rose, higher and
higher; prosperity lavished her favors on me, I worked hard to redeem
the name I had tarnished, and thanks to you, my noble darling, I have
succeeded!"

"You exaggerate a woman's influence, Guy, I admit that there are women
who are grand enough for this, but they are very rare; woman, it is
true, has much in her power, a great deal in her ambition, but to
accomplish all that you say, one needs a loftier stimulant, a worthier
motive, than a woman's love."

"Ah! 'tis not you who have tasted the experience," he answered, "'tis I,
and now, I answer safely, when asked by a less fortunate man, the secret
of my success, 'Go, seek the society of high-minded, noble women, you
will learn your duty, from their lips, as none others can teach it,' and
believe me, Honor, this I know to have been the rescue of many, and you
are the indirect source of all this good. If then, I have learned so
much as a stranger to you, is it likely I can ever regret the fortunate
step that will bring me under the immediate guidance of your hand and
heart? Ah no! Honor, I will never again know what regret is."

"So be it," she answered seriously, looking into the fire, "but why I
spoke, is, because so many, in fact nearly every one, enters the
marriage vocation now-a-days, as though twere a trifling risk, as though
to a woman it were not fraught with the sublimest responsibilities it is
possible for the noblest woman to assume, as though it were indeed,
nothing more, than the gratification of having secured a husband, the
fuss of an elaborate trousseau or the _eclat_ of a wedding ceremony. Why
are our cities so plentiful of sin and shame, and wrecked youth, if not,
because of women who never considered the serious importance of their
vocation as mothers, who were unworthy their title of wives, who tired
of their self-assumed duties. If any of these destinies awaited me, Guy,
I would rather die to-night, than risk them--the thought makes me
shudder."

"You, Honor?" he said, viewing her with very evident admiration, "such a
destiny as that for _you,_ you are jesting, for since you can save, and
reclaim others, you know, you are above every taint of evil yourself."

"You still persist in your obstinate view, eh?" she said, smiling.
"Well, remember, I warned you in time. I hope there will never be cause
for regret in the future."

It was growing late as they sat there talking quietly. The sun-streaks
vanished from the window sill; the dark, grey shadows of twilight began
to steal around them, but they scarcely heeded the change. They loved
one another now with that pure and ardent love which finds all
satisfaction, and all comfort in it's own existence. They had not shown
their attachment in wild enthusiasm or showy demonstration, but it is
not the largest flames that burn the most intensely. The love that lies
quietly, unspoken in the heart, the love that endures in silence, that
strengthens in solitude, that thrives in hope, is the truest and
holiest, and most exalted love of which the human heart is susceptible.
Such love never dies. As it has lived, so there comes a time, sooner or
later, when the heart's dream may safely float on the surface of the
deep, honest eyes, and the heart's desire flow in fitting terms over the
unsullied lips. Such a love invariably brings its own reward.

The darkness had nearly spread its thickness from ceiling to floor, when
Jean d'Alberg put her head in at the sitting room door, and exclaimed,

"Well, upon my word; such 'two spoons' I never did see in all my life!"

Both young people looked up and smiled.

"If you'll please to substitute two spoons for _tea_-spoons you may come
to the dining-room now, for tea is quite ready," she said, disappearing
out the doorway again. Hand-in-hand Guy and Honor rose, and went out to
patronize Aunt Jean's comfortable table.

Three months after this, on a wild March morning, Guy Elersley and Honor
Edgeworth became man and wife. It was a very quiet little wedding in the
early, early morning, without any guests or spectators save the priest,
who tied the marriage knot, Dr. and Mrs. Belford, of New York, Madame
d'Alberg and Anne Palmer, or "Nanette."

There was a tempting breakfast for the littie party after the ceremony,
to prepare which, good Mrs. Potts had put the very best of her abilities
to the test, and before noon of the same day, Honor and her husband,
with Nanette and Aunt Jean, were rolling along to their new home.

Mrs. Potts and the faithful Fitts followed later in the season with the
furniture and belongings, and all were established in a home full of
pleasant distractions and promising happiness but under the same old
management as ever, and bound by the same old ties of long ago.

Ottawa began to miss Henry Rayne and his household, and many a word of
kind remembrance was uttered as a friendly tribute to their memory.

The wonderful story of Vivian Standish's disgrace never found its way in
detail into the gossipping circles of the capital, although there were a
few who shook their heads and winked their eyes and affected to know all
about it.

Josephine de Maistre had gone back to the peace and comfort of her
seclusion, after the critical interview, and no one of Mr. Raynes
household had betrayed the secret. There were only a few little
unavoidable words afloat, by which the curious public of Ottawa could
surmise why Honor Edgeworth had so coldly rejected her handsome suitor
at the last moment, and why Guy Elersley had come back in the nick of
time, to be reinstated in his uncle's favor.

Honor was the recipient of many dainty notes of well-worded
congratulations, and the sweetest sounding--like Miss Dash's and Miss
Reid's--were those whose writers envied with a great bitterness the luck
of Henry Rayne's _protegee_.

I need not follow the course of events farther than this, although
strongly tempted to tell of certain stylish weddings that followed this
one in busy succession. My pen would be kinder, if it might, than
merciless. Fate to my other heroines, who are threatened to remain
"fancy free" for a deplorable number of years to come, and after
that--forever.

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