Book: Honor Edgeworth

V >> Vera >> Honor Edgeworth




"You must make yourself at home, Honor, for the present, with things as
they are. After a while we can make things more comfortable, may be, but
this is my little home as it was intended for the last days of an old
bachelor, to be spent all by himself," and as he spoke, Henry laughed
out right, and beckoned her to follow Mrs. Potts.

When Honor stood upon the rich red rug at the threshold of her door, she
uttered a low exclamation of wonder.

"This can't be for me, Mrs. Potts" she said, folding her hands and
looking in dismay around her.

"Indeed it is, miss, and not a bit too good is it aither, for yer jewel
ov a face to smile on. Och, shure it'll be doin' me old eyes good from
this out to be lookin' at yer purty face. But come now, miss, you must
be bate out entirely wid the joultin 'o the cars. Let me onfasten them
things for ye."

Mrs. Potts was quite at home with the "dear young lady" all at once. As
she helped to undo the girl's wrappings she grew less shy and reserved,
and prattled on, "Shure it'll be the life o' the master altogether, to
have ye around the big house that was allays so lonesome like for the
wont ov a lady like yerself is, to cheer it up."

"I hope I may do that," said Honor earnestly, "for Mr. Rayne deserves
all the comfort it is in our power to give him."

"Oh, troth! yer right there, missy, an' its only half what he desarves
the whole of us together could give him, but shure, if we give him all
we're able, an' our good intinshions along wid that, he won't be the man
to grumble at that same."

Honor began to understand the character of this old servant immediately.
She recognized all those traits that invariably betray the Irish
nationality. Such whole-souled creatures are of too universal a type
ever to be mistaken.

"Well, then, ye'r ready now, miss, are you?" Mrs. Potts queried when all
was over. "Well, if ye like, ye can go an' wait for the ould lady, for
she's not fixed up yet, an' I'll jist run and throw an eye over the
table, ye know, I'm Jack of all thrades for a while."

"Go, my good woman, by all means," Honor answered, "we will be down
directly; don't wait for us."

Potts, who rather suspected an odor of over-done victuals, bounded down
to the kitchen, leaving Honor in Nanette's care. Nanette's room was next
to Honor's, and had been used as a sort of spare room up to the present
time. It was now intensely comfortable and neat, without anything costly
or expensive which could make poor Nanette feel out of her element.

"Is Mr. Rayne not the very impersonation of goodness itself, Nanny
dear?" said Honor. She was standing with her back to the door, watching
her old nurse undoing their valises, when she uttered this exclamation.

"Come now, Honor, spare a fellow when he's right behind you," said the
good-natured voice of the person thus eulogized. Honor started around,
looking very pretty in her confusion.

"I thought 'listeners never heard well of themselves,'" said she in a
pout, "but this time it seems to be reversed."

"And you won't take it back for all that," said he, "the oldest of us
likes a little praise now and then, you may as well let me keep it."

"Oh yes indeed, Mr. Rayne, you may have that little bit, for you know
how good you are and how kind to me."

"Well, that will do after tea, but just now we will give our attention
to something more substantial; come Honor--come Nanette."

"Don't wait for me sir," the old nurse answered respectfully, "I'll find
Mrs. Potts in the kitchen and we'll sip our tea together there."

Henry Rayne looked quickly at Honor and detected the slightest shadow of
a disappointment flitting across her face, this decided him.

"It is my intention that you and Potts will not be quite such good
friends," he said, "I am sure that Honor would rather you made the tea
at our table."

"Don't appeal to me," Honor answered as she met his enquiring glance,
"it is superfluous, you always anticipate my wishes. I've never drunk
another cup but the tea Nanette made."

"Nor shall you, so long as we are spared a happy trinity," cried Henry
Rayne, "so let's be off, I cry--to tea--to tea--to tea."



CHAPTER III.


The Autumn clouds are flying,
Homeless over me,
The homeless birds are crying,
In the naked tree.
--_George Macdonald_

It was a very pleasant, little _tableau_ that followed, those three
happy souls, gathered around a well-spread table laughing and chatting
merrily. Honor no longer felt any timidity or reserve before Mr. Rayne,
his advanced years commanded a confidence and trust that she would have
otherwise perhaps been slow to give, and the unlimited generosity he
betrayed in even anticipating her every wish, gave her no opportunity to
feel that she was under the patronage of a perfect stranger. He had
shown himself as a kind, indulgent father from the first, and was as
solicitous about her as though she had been his very own, or that he had
been accustomed to administer to the wants and wishes of a young
unripened girl all his life. But this is no mystery to the interpreter
of the human heart. Henry Rayne could hardly act otherwise to any lone
helpless creature without sacrificing the impulses of his own generous,
noble soul, and trampling upon the desire that continually influenced
him towards being the direct cause of happiness and comfort to others.
Taking away any supernatural motive that might lead him to such generous
action, yet leaves the deed a worthy one, and the heart a Christian one,
for, to gratify others was to gratify himself, and this alone is
characteristic of a great soul. As the orphan child of a friend of his
youth, I doubt not that Henry Rayne would protect her at his life's
peril. We all know what a firm knot it is that binds the sympathetic
souls of rollicking college "chums" which, tied once, is tied forever.
It has always been so; it is one of those strictly conservative
principles that grows with mankind in every generation, and is yet never
found extravagant, if not because of the noble character of the
sentiment itself, at least because our forefathers never condemned it,
and the world generally continues to favor such an alliance. Such was
the nature of the staunch friendship that existed between Henry Rayne
and Bob Edgeworth, a friendship that had only strengthened itself by
pledges and vows, as the youths shook hands in a fond farewell over the
threshold of their college home.

From the day on which Honor Edgeworth settled in her new home, life
began to assume its most indulgent phase. Everything around her met her
eye for the first time, no sorrowful associations hung in misty veils
over anything that entered into the charms of her new life. Nanette was
the only breathing, living testimony of the years that had gone, and the
home of her childhood that she had left forever. A few old books of
literature and of music, a few little trifling souvenirs from her dead
mother's jewel box, an inlaid mahogony writing-desk and a miniature
likeness of her proud handsome father, were all the visible reminders
she now held of the fair, sunny home, under the far foreign skies.

Mr Rayne resumed his duties immediately on his return, and lost no time
in propagating among his most intimate and influential friends, the
story of the odd legacy left him by a "distant relation." At first Mr.
Rayne feared greatly that Honor would find the days long and tedious,
while he was absent and unable to ferret out distraction for her, but he
grew resigned very soon when she assured him how much more to her taste
it was to have the quiet hours of the day to herself, and "in fact," she
said, "as the occasion presented itself, she would beg of Mr. Rayne not
to expect her to share in any amusement, at least for some time, for
besides the mourning she wore for her father, her knowledge of the
country and its customs was not yet sufficient to satisfy her with
herself," and putting it to him as a request, she knew it would be
acceded to on the spot.

The light of the summer days had begun to wane. The leaves had begun to
turn. Out door pleasures were being forsaken for the seat by the
fireside The world looked as if 'twere waiting. The autumn months had a
particular effect on Honor Edgeworth, she would stand at the window, and
look sadly through the panes at the red and yellow leaves falling
softly, noiselessly down to the cold wet ground, and a shiver would pass
through her as she realized even in this the mortality that hangs like
an unseen pall over all things below. Just a moment ago, a pretty golden
leaf danced on the bough, but the cold wind, surrounding it, bore it
away on its fated pinions down into the cold stiff gutter, where it was
either trampled heedlessly down by the reckless passer-by, or wafted
farther away out of sight, left to wither and die by the roadside. But,
perhaps not, either, maybe the slender, delicate hand of an admirer of
nature stooped to gather the fallen leaf, to wipe the dust from its
golden front, and lay it tenderly by as a souvenir of the dead year, to
lie among the gathered blossoms of some dear one's grave, with bitter
tears of sad remembrance and grief to bathe it, as its evening dew. And
is not this life! How many golden leaves are hurled into the mire of
sin, and upon how much marvellous beauty the heavy foot of worldly scorn
is stamped forever! How many pretty little amber leaves drift on through
the cold wide world, until their beauty is spent, and until wrecked and
faded they lay themselves down by the withered blades to die. But oh!
there are again those stainless leaves that glide into the fingers of
the Great Gatherer of Beauty, to find in His compassion and His mercy a
refuge from the coldest blasts. The pity is that these last are, like
the leaves of the Autumn trees, the scarcest in number; or, after all is
the happy life of one summer month, price enough for a "forever" of
withered beauty and faded grace?

Poor Honor turned away with a heavy sigh; she could not learn a cheerful
lesson from nature's gigantic book, she had stood by the window for
nearly an hour in silent communion with the dumb eloquent world: there
was a strange empty feeling in her heart, that she longed to stifle,
somehow her reverie had made her feel a little lonesome, for whom she
knew not. She was now tasting a little of Life's bitter sweet, and like
every other girl of eighteen, was madly wishing for the _denouement_ to
come. Poor foolish eighteen! Why will you extract from Destiny the pain
that will be yours soon enough: not contented to be free, unfettered,
and all your own? You want a sad change, you make an unwise bargain. Do
not envy the future its darkness, nor the "to be" its mystery, it is
painful enough that in time your poor weary eyes must weep salt bitter
tears as they view the unravelling of each. The love that you long for
to-day is coming to you, slowly but surely, out of the iron heart of
Destiny, but beware! Were it not for Love there would be no hatred, were
it not for Fidelity there would be no deception, were it not for
Happiness there would be no misery. "'Tis Heaven to love," as love-sick
poets have sung. But 'tis Hell to love as well, as love duped wretches
have wailed......

Turning from the window, Honor Edgeworth sighed as deep a sigh as if a
pain had dwelt within her heart--she was telling herself that she must
wait and hope, hope and realize, and so when it did not come to-day, she
only sighed again as she laid her weary head upon its pillow, and
whispered "To-morrow." When she turned towards the firelight to shut out
the cheerless vision of the dreary world from her tired eyes, she
started to notice how quickly the shadows had crept over the room. She
could see them chasing one another by the quivering light of the grate,
and as the silent voices of the gloaming whispered to her heart, her
eyes lit up with an unusual brightness and her lips broke apart in a
slow dreamy smile. It was nearly six by the marble clock on the mantel,
Mr. Rayne would be home in another little while, and with this thought
she turned languidly to the _etagere_ in the corner, in her search for
distraction, and drew from a shelf a small volume which attracted her
eye. She then poked a large black coal until it sent a bright lurid
flame up the chimney, and filled the room with a cheerful light: slowly,
almost tastelessly, she proceeded to turn the pages over, scanning here
and there a line or two; at length, smiling, she said to herself, "I
used to know these verses long ago. I wonder if I have forgotten them."

She stood up as she spoke, and glancing at the first word, folded her
hands behind her back still holding the volume, with one finger inserted
on this particular part. She leaned one shoulder gently against the
mantel-corner and looked into the fire. Why did she not look towards the
window? A moment before, the garden gate had closed noiselessly behind
the tall, well-built figure of a man, who before entering the house, had
turned to look aimlessly in at the large square window from which was
reflected the warm light of the grate. But how soon his eyes became
riveted to the spot standing in front of the fire was the fairest
creature he had ever looked on before, the fitful flames were casting
their light upon her handsome face, her eyes looked almost wild to-night
in their sadness, and her cheeks had an unusual glow. Standing with her
hands behind her back, she showed to advantage the perfect _contour_ of
her figure, and while he feasted his eyes on her physical loveliness he
caught a little word in a sweet sad voice, that recalled lines he was
fond of repeating himself; he strained every nerve to catch the tones
within. Knowing the verses himself enabled him to understand her readily
as she quoted--

"I have said my life is a beautiful thing,"
"I will crown me with its flowers;
I will sing of its glory all day long,
For my harp is young and sweet and strong,
And the passionate power within my song
Shall thrill all the golden hours;
And over the sand and over the stone
Forever and ever the waves rolled on."

She paused a moment, and puckering her brow slightly as if in an effort
to remember, she continued,

"For under the sky there is not for me,
A kindred soul or sympathy,
Must I stand alone in Life's busy crowd
A living heart in a death-like shroud,
And the voice of my wailing o'er sand and stone,
Must it die on the waves as they e'er roll on."

"That verse is her own," said the still watcher at the window.

The girl's voice faded to a sigh, she drew her hands apart and opened
the book again, the face outside pressed more eagerly still against the
cold pane.

"Why!" she suddenly exclaimed, "the words are all marked in pencil!
underlined, just where I have been accustomed to emphasize them, does
Mr. Rayne?--Oh impossible.--Whose can it be?" She turned impatiently to
the fly-leaf and there in a clear masculine hand she saw, "G. E. from
the only true friend and bitter enemy he has in the world--himself."

The book fell from her fingers. She looked earnestly into the fire, and
a sad expression stole over her face.

"G. E.! Who was G. E.? Who was it that seemed to sympathise with her
already? Who else in the world considered one's self a friend and an
enemy, except herself?" She was beginning to long for him, to feel a
loneliness for this kindred soul, as if he had come into her life and
then had gone suddenly out of it again, leaving her in a melancholy
despair. And as she sat there, lost in a long, tangled reverie, the
eager face vanished from the window, for another figure strode up the
little avenue, and quietly opening the door, passed in. Then the tall
young stranger emerged from his hiding place, and noiselessly went out
through the rustic gateway, trampling beneath his feet, the fallen
leaves, over whose inevitable fate, Honor had spent so many sighs; but
his heart was beating quickly, and his face was aglow with a new-lit
flame. A strange transformation had apparently settled over all his
surroundings. The moon was mounting over the house-tops and shedding a
pale, soft light on his way. The world looked fairer and brighter far,
than it did a little while ago. The tall trees swaying their naked
boughs on the chill night air of mid-autumn, only gave out a responsive
sigh to the new longing within his breast, and the crisp rustling of the
withered leaves only chimed in harmoniously with the echo of the love
lay that was lingering on the chords of his heart; and where the moon in
her silent loveliness cast shadows here and there on his way, he saw a
vision of the loveliest face that ever haunted a mortal; and wherever
quietude reigned profound, he heard the echo of the grave sweet voice
saying:

"Must I stand alone in life's busy crowd,
A living heart in a death-like shroud?"

And then his heart burst out its passionate "No." He had not recognized
those responsive emotions in that lovely girl to forget them so soon
again, he had been searching for them too long not to prize them now. He
had thought he was anchoring at despair, and now that a star broke
through the clouded heavens, beckoning him on, was he mad to scorn the
hope that lay within his grasp? No, indeed, and that very night, under
the immediate impulse of his new-born emotions, Guy Elersley made up his
mind.

We cannot be surprised at this sudden change in Guy, although it was the
most unexpected and unlooked for circumstance that could possibly have
come to him. Falling in and out of love is almost so certain a portion
of our destiny, that we should never be surprised by it. We know of love
as we do of death, that it is to come some day, if not now, by and by.
We wait for it without expecting it, we recognize the symptoms that
foretell its approach, but of its real bearing on our future lives, we
can tell nothing. Time alone, as it unravels the strange mysteries,
shows us in what way our love can prove a blessing or a curse. If we
were so constituted, in general, as to make up our minds coolly and
calculatingly, to fall in love sensibly, but no, with most of us, a
look, a word, a pressure of the hand, a sigh, a flower or some such
trifling thing, has sufficed to plunge us hoplessly into the delirium of
"love." Dreamy eyes that fascinate us, pretty words that gratify us,
little signs of preference, have been the prices of human hearts from
time immemorial. The pity is, that love so often dies of its own excess,
making the dreamy eyes fiery with anger and hatred, turning the pretty
words into violent reproaches, and substituting the deeds of preference
by coldness and neglect. 'Tis better to have hated all our lives, than
to learn the lesson from a blighted love. Life is never bitter, but for
those whose misplaced love has caused their faith in men to wither,
filling their hearts with that hopelessness of regret, by which misery
is recognised in any of its disguises. But these are inconsistent
reflections, when proceeding from such suggestive sources as "first
love," "moonlight quietude," etc. Let us draw a veil across them for the
present. If there must be bitter drops in the deep chalice, let us not
spoil the taste of the sweeter ones, by anticipating the loathsomeness
of the rest. In another sense we may cry "let us live to-day, for
to-morrow we die."



CHAPTER IV.


"We talked with open heart and tongue,
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends though I was young"
--Wordsworth.

The morning following Guy's visit to his uncle's window panes, as Henry
Rayne was sipping his rich brown chocolate, with Honor and Nanette, at
breakfast, Fitts brought in a note and laid it before his master. The
usual broad smile came over Rayne's face, as he recognized his nephew's
handwriting.

"So he's in town," he soliloquized, as he opened the folds of the crisp
paper and read:

"Dear Uncle,
I came to town last evening, and wish to see you when you
will be quite alone.
Guy."

"There's an ansur wanted, sur," Fitts said timidly.

"Oh, say this afternoon at five, Fitts, that will do."

Evidently, it was not Mr. Rayne's intention to mention the existence of
his nephew yet, to his new comers, for he quietly slipped the little
note into his pocket and said no more of it. The day wore on, and at
five o'clock Fitts brought around the "ponies" to take "Miss Honor" for
a drive. They had scarcely gone a block away, before Guy Elersley opened
the gate leading up to his uncle's house, and admitted himself. He went
into the sitting-room, but it was empty, that is, his uncle was not
there, or any other living intruder; but there arose between him and the
gloomy coals, the same sweet face and graceful figure that had kept a
ceaseless vigil over his slumber last night. The same sad voice filled
the room with its wailing echo, and as he listened again to its
appealing pathos, he strode idly towards the little _etagere_ and took
up his little volume from which he had seen her read. A strong impulse
rose within him. He imagined himself under the same spell as the
romantic hero of "Led Astray," and taking out his pencil, he traced at
the bottom of the page, under the words she had recited, this little
verse:

"There is another life I long to meet,
Without which life _my_ life is incomplete.
Oh sweeter self! like me, thou art astray,
Trying with all thy heart to find the way
To mine. Straying, like mine, to find the breast,
On which alone can weary heart find rest."

He had scarcely closed and replaced the book, when the door opened and
his uncle bustled in.

"Hallo, Guy! dear old boy, welcome! welcome!" and Henry Rayne extended
both hands to his nephew as he spoke. "And so here you are in Ottawa,
eh? What's the trouble now?" and before seating himself to chat, Henry
Rayne poked the fire into a roaring blaze.

"No trouble this time, uncle, at least no 'yellow envelopes' trouble,
but I've been promised an appointment in the Civil Service, and I've
come to you for the 'slap on the back' that makes a fellow stiff when
he's in there. Now you know it's all right for a petty clerk in those
solemn Parliament Buildings, when he has an uncle that is precious to
the government, for the thousands he owns and that he can scarce count.
This is why I ask you to come forward, for your assistance is all I
want, to make a neat little job of the whole thing. Just snap _your_
fingers over my head, and none will dare oppose me. It is not the career
I had planned, you know, uncle, but 'half a loaf is better than a whole
loafer,' and that is what I threatened to be, if I remained a student in
Montreal any longer. The boys are too jolly there in proportion to their
means, and I pride myself I escaped in time. I'd just as soon live on
the bounty of the people for a while, and eat my lunch perched on an
office stool, with plenty of good ice water at hand, and a chance of a
cosy 'smoke' now and then, if I don't burn out my pockets hiding the
pipe when the dignified 'Boss' approaches."

"Well, well, well, Guy, you are a reckless boy, you know I could have
secured you a position in the Civil Service long ago, but you aimed
still higher and--missed the mark. I thought you had chosen a profession
exacting too much labor for a lover of self-indulgence such as you are;
however, I suppose you don't want me to say a single word of rebuke now,
and I have grown so accustomed to spoiling you, that I must only give
in. You can make yourself easy as far as I am concerned, I will make
matters all right."

"You're the best old uncle that ever had a sister married to the father
of a fellow like me," Guy said, shaking the hand of his benefactor
warmly, "and by and by, when I'm a clever cabinet minister, I'll show
you what gratitude is."

"I am afraid such a 'by and by' as that is as far in the past as it is
in the future," Henry Rayne said, laughing.

"Oh well, if I am not clever enough to be a solemn minister, they'll
make a Lieutenant-Governor of me, or a Judge, Lieutenant-Governor
Elersley! By Jove the name was intended to be worn with a title!"

"Well, when you're done all these nonsensical licenses, you are giving
your common sense, I will tell you something nice," Mr. Rayne
interrupted, as Guy rattled off his idle chat. In a moment Guy's limbs
that had been lying carelessly around in the vicinity of his chair, were
jerked into a respectable sitting posture, as leaning his face eagerly
towards his uncle he asked:

"Something to tell me? Now that is a surprise; I generally do all the
talking when I come here."

"Well," Henry Rayne began slowly, and with a look of unusual merriment
twinkling in his eyes, "It has taken a long time you see for this
surprise to come, but it was worth the trouble of waiting. May be you
think that at fifty years all the romance has died out of a man's life,
but I am going to show you that such is not the case." (Great Heavens!
Guy thought, has the dear old man fallen in love?) "A new life has begun
of late for me; henceforth, my love, that has been all yours, must be
divided I have assumed a series of new and trying duties--"

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