Book: Honor Edgeworth

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With aching head and parched lips, Guy Elersley opened his eyes on the
tell-tale surroundings of his room the morning after "the night before."
With the first break of sleep in the quivering of his lashes memory was
at work. So long as she remains a faithful servant at all, her mission
is waylaying us early and late. From the confused state of things around
him, Guy gathered that he must have reached his resting place under
difficulties, his feet reposed luxuriantly on the downy pillows, while
his poor head was resting on the spare end of Mrs Best's second worst
mattress. That his vest lay in an unpretending heap on the floor, from
which his watch had rolled resignedly into an old slipper, did not
disconcert him so much as his having left his new gaiters where the
household puppy conveniently got at them destroying any possibility of a
future reunion of their parts.

If a man ever wishes to repent of his yesterdays, let him contemplate
them all over during his waking hours in the morning. Then, indeed, is
his time. He becomes ashamed before the monotonous rose-bushes that
speck the wall, and as his wandering orbs scan the picture-nails and the
cobwebs in search of distraction, he will realize the necessity of
amendment more fully than the eloquence of a multitude could paint it.
It was the weariness of this new realization that caused Guy to stretch
out his hand for his uncle's neglected note of last night, seeking as he
thought, something therein that need not remind a fellow of what he knew
"deuced" well already. As his glance fell on the page, his brow
contracted into a slow puzzled look, and as he finished the last word he
started up. It was now after nine o'clock and Honor was far on her
journey. The note was dated 5 p.m. He would have received it time enough
if he had not squandered away his hours from his room, but now she was
gone and there was no excuse he could offer to satisfy himself.

It is necessary that we should part from some friends to know how much
we love them, and this necessity visited Guy in its most cruel phase.
Poor fellow!--After all, he was so much the victim of circumstances. The
consciousness of his own weakness only made him weaker, and his
knowledge of the infidelity and inconsistency in his character only
caused him to resist, as useless, impulses towards stability and
firmness. Now he regretted with his whole soul that he had not come home
like any christian, at a proper bed-time, then he would have learned the
news soon enough to have bade her good-bye. Even if he had read it when
he saw it for the first time, the news it bore would have dispelled the
mist that other influences had gathered around his senses. What could he
do now? He must make the best of a very bad case and go immediately to
his uncle's house where he expected to hear some tidings of the girl he
loved.

If any man ever looked thoroughly disgusted with himself in his life,
Guy Elersley surely did, on this eventful morning, as he sauntered along
from his boarding-house to Mr. Rayne's. His sentiments were most likely
those that form an item of the very smallest experience, when its victim
is forced to realize that he has made a very unwilling sacrifice
voluntarily; that he himself is the remote, proximate, direct and
indirect cause of his own misfortune. Still, this was the only room for
hope left in Guy. So long as a man condemns himself before his own
tribunal, making of his inner self the truthful witness and impartial
judge, those interested in his spiritual welfare may know that there is
yet a lingering susceptibility, to a better influence than that which
caused him to do wrong. That such a susceptibility does yet flicker in
the hearts of Ottawa's young sons, I have reason to hope; for there is
an impulse in some of us that leads us into the minds and souls of one
another, there to deposit a judgment or a sympathy, or whatever our
nature suggests at sight of our neighbor's failings. In obeying such an
impulse one can easily peer through the conventional veil which screens
such phases of human character under the meaningless appellations of
"Blues," or "Indisposition." They are truly the visible effect of a
secret hidden cause, which is sometimes brought to the surface by the
magnetic power of one who has studied human faces and characters. So,
_en passant_, it may be as well to kindly suggest to such "blue" friends
that it were often better to lay bare the veritable cause of such a
gloomy feeling, for those before whom they wear the veil are surely
persons whose opinion they esteem or whose judgment they fear, and if so
they are not so easily blinded as one would think, their deception only
serves to render them still more odious. Yet there is no blame to Guy
for having gone on his way this morning in such a mood. When he met Miss
Dash at the first crossing it was the most natural thing in the world
for him to say, "this 'dyspeptic' feeling causes it all," when she
stared in open-eyed wonder at his worn out face and variegated eyes. It
was breakfast-time when he closed his uncle's door after him, and he was
sure to obtain _tete-a-tete_ alone with the old man, now that Honor was
gone, but he did not think the picture would have changed, into such a
sad one as presented itself to his eyes when he opened the door of the
breakfast-room. Mr. Rayne was sitting moodily in his chair, staring
vacantly at his untasted meal, with his hands folded listlessly before
him. At the sound of a voice he smiled and started, but on seeing the
intruder the brightness died out again, and he only said, "Good-morning,
my boy," in a very quiet tone.

"So you are all alone once more, uncle," said Guy, trying to make the
best attempt he could under the circumstances, "Honor's flight was
rather sudden, wasn't it?"

"Too sudden to secure your services when they were needed, I think."

"Well, yes, uncle, I was not in when your note came, and only saw it
this morning for the first time, when it was too late to do anything,
but I am really sorry. Will she not be back in a day or two?"

"I hope so. I hope so," Mr. Rayne answered, more to himself than to Guy.
"I had grown quite accustomed to the darling."

"Yes, so had I," said Guy, under his moustache, "but" (aloud) "the
little trip will make quite a change for her, and the time won't be long
until her return."

A few more very laconic remarks followed, and then Guy began to think it
was rather stupid, and in consequence made a move towards the door. This
made matters a little brighter, for Mr. Rayne became more animated, and
turning his chair towards the receding figure of his nephew, said,

"Hold on a minute, Guy, I want you before you go," and to lessen the
moments of waiting, he raised his cup and drank it at one long draught,
then he rose and led Guy into the cosy library opposite.

Whenever Mr. Rayne was about to impose any new duty on his nephew, he
assumed a stern air that showed a tendency towards the imperative,
rather than the interrogative. He had never said, "Guy, will you do this
or that," it was always, "Guy, I wish you to do this--you must do such a
thing for me," and accustomed to the like from his early youth, Guy
never sought to hesitate, or dispute his uncle's will in anything.
Whenever Mr. Rayne pushed his glasses up on his forehead and began by
saying, "I am getting old and work is no longer light," Guy recognised
the _avant-coureur_ of some new duty devolving upon him, and this was a
phase of this morning's experience.

"I wish copies made of all these documents, Guy," said his uncle in a
business tone, while one hand rested on a prosy looking heap of legal
forms, "and as it is serious work I cannot leave it out of my
possession, so you must come in during your spare hours, now that Honor
is away, and help me to write them over; it will keep us both busy
during her absence, and leave us free on her return. I will expect you
this evening before tea, and to make matters more convenient for all
hands, I wish you to remain here until Honor's return. You may occupy
the spare room, and time will not be quite so dull as otherwise."

"Very well, uncle," said Guy; but oh! what a hornble misery crept into
his heart at the mention of such a thing. Visions of all the most
outrageous difficulties possible, in the career of a fast young man,
rose before his mind, and the consciousness of his lack of courage
caused a shudder to pass through his frame. It must have been apparent,
that Mr. Rayne entertained suspicions of this "boy," and resolved to
stand between him and immediate danger if he could. This might have been
Guy's salvation, if his eyes had not been blinded by the delusive
flattery of the world to which he belonged. He only bowed under it as
the most weighty of his crosses, and trusted to that fate that often
shields the wrong-doer from observation, to turn the tables in his
favor.

It was painfully evident to Guy this morning, that his uncle was in very
stern humor, and that nothing but square dealing on his own part could
sustain even the trembling balance that existed between them. One word,
one little wrong deed now, and Guy fancied the fertile looking future
realizing itself to him in that awful destitution which haunts the
average civil servant, who has no pillar of pedigree to sustain him. It
was the hardest policy of his life, to gather all his visible deeds
under the approval of his good uncle, and yet he tried to bear these
things patiently as one might a kick from the King. He saw a fair vision
among the "to be's," if he behaved himself, and is not such an aim as
that, the only one in the sunset of the nineteenth century?

Feeling "all over," as he thought, he left his uncle's house that
morning filled with a firmer conviction than ever, that he was one of
the world's unfortunates. Try as hard as we will, it is tough work
living up to other people's principles, for now and then the most clever
of us fail to interpret them aright and accordingly commit a fault.

It seemed rather cruel to poor Guy, as he sauntered along towards his
office, that the plans he had so easily made for the next fortnight's
distraction, should be frustrated thus in a moment. It is so "deuced"
hard for a conceited sensitive fellow to bear the taunts of his more
free and independent companions, when he is forced to decline their
invitation to "come along." It is not natural that a man, able to stand
his ground against evil counsellors, showing himself morally superior to
them, should then fear their insolent remarks, or their unchristian
judgment. We know it, each one for himself, that when we jibe or
ridicule a good impulse in another, it is evidence of our weakness and
incapacity to experience the same feeling ourselves, and it is the
momentary hatred of envy that suggests a taunt or a mocking word on the
firm resolution of our companion. But unless the conscience of youth be
not obliterated now while it is so weak, the world fears there can be no
other such chance again, and what else can hush its "wee small voice,"
like the ring of sarcasm or the jeering of brave cowards?

Guy's was one of those pliable souls that bent under every influence
alike. How then, could he endure the scorn of "the boys" when he must
tell them that his spare moments were already occupied? He began to miss
Honor already, because one word from her would have spurred him on to
duty; but, like his fate, she must be away when he needed her most. What
must she have thought of his absence at the hour of her departure? She
would, no doubt, accept it as an indisputable proof of his indifference
to her, and this scalded his sensitive nature more than anything.

Accompanied by these refreshing cogitations, Guy reached his comfortable
office, but oh "how painfully plain an index to his troubled soul was
his worried face." All day he stumbled over office stools, spilt ink,
made countless mistakes in his calculations, and, as a consequence,
smashed pens and used unsparingly all those little monosyllables that
seem to grow spontaneously on the tongue's end of an enraged man. His
difficulties were beginning in earnest; he had consented to join a party
of merry-makers to drive to Aylmer that night, and he could see no
possible outlet through which he might escape. He had thought of seeing
some of the "fellows" at four o'clock, and of telling them in some
off-hand way of his change of determination; but even this little
gratification was denied him, for emerging from his office door, the
first one he came across was Mr. Rayne. There was that hopeless
resignation, which dire necessity forces, in the very tone of Guy's
voice as he addressed his uncle, but now, whether he would or not he
must yield. Every circumstance showed him plainly how fettered he really
was, although his spirit yearned to belong in gain as well as m name, to
that band of "Acephah" that walked the streets of Ottawa, free men under
their unpaid-for ulsters and seal caps. No wonder the conversation
between Guy and his uncle consisted of a series of laconic
monosyllables. The one was drinking the bitter dregs of life's awful
difficulties; the other absent-minded and sad, thinking of the dear
absent one who held within her hands the happiness of his life.

Who would have interpreted these things on this bright sunny afternoon
as Mr. Rayne and his nephew walked side by side along Sparks Street,
through the gay, bustling crowd of pedestrians and sleighs? The young
ladies went home and told one another that they had met Guy Elersley,
and that he looked "just splendid," whilst all the time his brain was on
fire from trying to solve his dilemma.

They were reaching Mr. Rayne's house, and Guy, accumulating all the
moral courage of his soul, resolved to do the worst. He would go
willingly to work and try to find a pleasure in honest labor for Honor's
sake. He was realizing, in spite of himself, the truth that had dawned
on "Adam Bede," that "all passion becomes strength when it has an outlet
from the narrow limits of our personal lot, in the labor of our right
arm, the cunning of our right hand, or the still creative activity of
our thought." Had he only but had the whisper of encouragement from any
one he esteemed while in this vacillating mood, that would indeed have
been a turning point in his career, but it seemed that a good impulse
for Guy Elersley vaticinated infallibly an evil action. The fact that he
had tried to vanquish himself by going willingly and deliberately to
work, only waylaid him with numberless enticing temptations, alluring
him on to the forbidden pleasures upon which he had turned his back.
What is there so resistless and so fatally fascinating in those pastimes
which are indulged in after nightfall by our young men? Is it the
staunch proof that it seems to be, of the entire annihilation of
conscience? Is it so certainly the spiritual death that it seems to
be?--and if so, what sad, sad wreck! Is there no one whose influence can
lead those stray sheep back to the fold? No mother, no sister, no lady
love to plead as a woman's eloquence alone can plead, in behalf of that
fair young soul exposed to every danger? Is there no volume among that
superb collection of books open to all Ottawaites, that would not
satisfy you, young foolish souls, by your midnight coals, burning your
midnight oils, if you must needs burn both? What advantage is there in
facing every peril of the material and spiritual darkness, that you must
make a daily habit thereof? Is not this the case, that you never entered
upon such a course of life alone? Some one was there who beckoned you on
his way. Some one pooh-poohed your scruples, and smoothed down with
false words the obstacles that your conscience raised. You never left
your father's house alone to squander the hours of midnight's sacred
silence in wrong doing Then I hope you will never forget the debt of
gratitude you must owe to such a counsellor and friend.

Then comes

"The tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive."

At first you were a little unfortunate, may be. If you could not reach
home without elbowing some one's pane of glass, or getting into a scrape
of a more or less serious nature, you were helped out of all trouble by
those steadfast allies who contributed gladly towards making your
deception a masterpiece of its kind.

After such reflections one is inclined to pity rather than condemn the
weakness to which Guy Elersley resigned himself such a voluntary victim.

When he entered the library in his uncle's house, he began to be
comforted by his luxurious surroundings, the same bright fire burned
that Honor loved to see and the easy chairs and soft rich carpet
suggested satisfaction to the most discontented. A few minutes of fussy
preparations and the gloomy twain were immersed in dry business. Apart
from the monotonous scratching of their hurried pens there was but an
occassional short remark uttered until the welcome sound of the tea-bell
broke the spell of sullenness that had fallen on both.

After a short but comparatively lively intermission they returned to
their papers and re-attacked them diligently. Poor Guy's heart was
beginning to thump. It would soon be eight o'clock, and it seemed to him
in spite of all good arguments to the contrary that "a promise was a
promise," and that by staying in to-night he was breaking one almost
unnecessarily. The minute hand on the electro-plated clock was fast
wending its way towards the half hour after seven, and as his eyes
followed its quick movement he felt a hurried palpitation accompany
every second on its flight to eternity.

Suddenly Mr. Rayne laid down his pen and rested his bald head in his
hands. Guy looked up surprised, and as he did so, his uncle rose from
his seat saying. "I have another attack of neuralgia to-night, Guy, and
cannot continue this work as I expected. Try, however, to finish these
single copies for me to-night. I must retire; I am really unable to
endure these pains any longer without rest."

"Indeed uncle, I am very sorry for that," Guy said, but I fear that
though it was "_malgre lui_," still there lurked the faintest sense of
intense gratification in his heart on hearing these words. "You
certainly will be better in bed uncle, will I help you upstairs."

"Thank you, I'm not so weak as that. Remain here and finish those for
me, they will be needed to-morrow and must be ready."

With these words he turned to leave the room, but just as though through
inspiration, he stood with the half-open door behind him and said in a
stern imperative tone,--

"Guy, mind you do not go out this evening; when you are tired writing
you will find plenty of distraction indoors, do you hear?"

"I do, sir," Guy answered coldly, and then the old man closed the door
and went up-stairs leaving his distracted nephew in the wildest of
moods.



CHAPTER XII.


For a sweet voice had whispered hope to me.
Had through my darkness shed a kindly ray:
It said "The past is fixed immutably,
Yet there is comfort in the coming day."
--_Household Words_

It was a cold stormy blustering day. The fierce north wind was moaning
and wailing in piteous shrieks around the corners, and through the bare
swaying branches of the tall elms. It was a dreary scene to look upon
from a car window, and yet it was rather a cheerful face that peered
through the tiny panes into the stormy surroundings outside. Honor was
thinking deeply, a medley of sad and pleasant things, and she smiled and
grew pensive alternately. She had thought of Guy, and of how pleasant it
would be after all to have him there beside her, but she did not trust
herself far into the subject. The doubtful halo that encircled all Guy's
latest actions towards her was not the sweetest of memories, and yet
this lovely girl would not whisper even to her own most secret soul, the
words, "I love him." It was so girl-like for her to cherish that secret,
and yet not acknowledge it to herself as a secret. She loved to rehearse
to herself in silence every look and word and action of Guy's. She
pondered wearily over the _ennui_ of the hours, when he was not by her,
and she longed so much to question herself about the sudden blushes and
heart-beatings, when she recognized his step in the hall, or heard his
deep voice greet her at the door. She knew that his little book with the
scribbled verse from "Led Astray" was very often in her hands when he
was not there, and yet when the "little voice" asked "Is it love?" She
hid her face in her hands and said, "Oh no."

All these things she reviewed at leisure on this cold wintry morning, as
she was being borne swiftly on to her destination. She could scarcely
get accustomed to the idea that she was the same Honor Edgeworth, that
had come a short time ago, alone and friendless to Mr. Rayne's house.
And as she sped on leaving each dancing drifting snow-flake far behind,
she became tangled up again in the web of fanciful reflections that had
so often led her far far away into those transcendental regions of
thought where Venus, and Cupid, and Calliope, and other sister muses
bask in filmy clouds of golden maze. Here she realized among her ideal
heroes and heroines, life as she wished it to be. Perhaps this was why
her inclinations were just a little skeptical when she viewed life in
its matter-of-fact phases.

Honor was started from her reverie by a loud long shriek from the
engine, and seeing the other passengers gather up their fragments of
baggage she followed suit. A few moments more and they were ushered into
the depot at Guelph. All the usual bustle, talk and confusion
characteristic of railway stations were noticeable here. Omnibus drivers
shouted in _crescendo_ the names of their respective hotels. Poor Honor
scarcely knew what to do. Cries of "Royal Hotel," "Windsor House,"
"Sleigh Miss," deafened her ears on all sides, but great was her relief
when a prim middle-aged lady accompanied by a half bashful youth stepped
up to her smilingly and said:

"My dear I think you are my guest. Miss Edgeworth?"

"That is my name," Honor said, and then the prim lady handed Honor a
card inscribed "Mde. Jean d'Alberg."

They became friends immediately and no wonder under the circumstances.
Circumstances have so much to do with the turn and tide of our busy
lives. We can make a friend of the most hideous creature in an hour of
dire necessity.

Honor was just thinking she might have fared so much worse than come
across a lady such as Madame d'Alberg proved to be. To look at her one
could read the evidences of worldliness in her face. This woman had
graced many a drawing-room as Senator d'Alberg's wife, and when the
session time called her to the capital many a fair-haired damsel of
eighteen summers had envied the fine face and faultless figure, that had
captivated even the fastidious nature of the dignified Senator.

To-day, although somewhat older, the ordinary critic and observer could
still detect no flaw of age or tendency to fade in the sparkling black
eyes and fair delicate complexion. As Honor saw almost at a first
glance, this woman's theory of life began and ended in "self." Not so
much as to exclude any impulse towards sympathy or generosity. By no
means--if there remained anything, after one had satisfied one's own
wants, then let that surplus go to the less fortunate, according to the
owners impulse whether limited or great.

In matters less material Madame d'Alberg took as director the great
authority of Shakspeare, and none can tell how many countless times she
justified herself by repeating in the most suasory tone this little
extract from Hamlet:

"This above all to thine own self be true
And it must follow as the night the day
Thou cans't not then be false to any man."

This was an end worth attaining surely, and so easily won as by being
fair with one's self.

Honor and her new friend chatted gaily all the way. The awkward youth
had received instructions about the baggage. Thus freed from all
inconvenience and responsibility, these two became as conversant and as
communicative as if they had known each other for years.

Let it not shock the scrupulous reader to know that, in point of fact,
Madame d'Alberg did not really care a straw for either Henry Rayne or
his beautiful _protegee_, only insomuch as their existence was conducive
to her own personal welfare. It was no effort whatever for her, to love
in that subdued sort of way in which we are expected by the Church to
"love our neighbor as ourselves." To be amiable and agreeable to all was
by far more convenient to her than to play the _role_ of a grumbler, and
so long as she could count on her smiles being worth their
representatives in substance to her, her countenance was fairly suffused
therewith and her purse or her mouth open for the proceeds. Such women
generally live easily--die easily enough too, and scarcely ever leave a
memory of any sort behind them.

The first points of criticism that suggested themselves to this
world-bred woman on seeing Honor were such as never entered the head of
any other acquaintance the girl made before or after Madame d'Alberg's.
This lady, physiognomist from tact and experience, sought to learn from
the expression and features of Honor's countenance, whether their hidden
depths held any of that diplomacy and finesse that are the inevitable
characteristics of society's most brilliant graduates. Not that it would
have mattered one iota to this indifferent creature, for she never
interested herself particularly in anyone, but if certain latent
tendencies in this girl could actually be brought to the surface so as
to sympathize with her own, would it not be as well for them to join
hands and share the spoils? As yet, however, she thought there was no
telling, she must wait and see.

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