Honor Edgeworth; Or, Ottawa's Present Tense Part 10

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 gla.s.s, or getting into a sc.r.a.pe 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 occa.s.sional 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 bl.u.s.tering 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 rehea.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sengers 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 circ.u.mstances.

Circ.u.mstances 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.

The drive from the depot was short, and to Honor's great delight the merry sleigh-bells stopped jingling as they drew up to the neatest and cosiest looking cottage imaginable. The first greeting on entering was the sight of a roaring fire and the next the intensely gratifying welcome of cups steaming at the end of a neat but well-spread table.

Honor's own room reminded her somewhat of the one in Ottawa, except that the idea of exquisite comfort was more p.r.o.nounced in everything here. In this respect Honor found Madame d'Alberg different from that other cla.s.s of society women whose ideas of self-gratification are far subservient to the requisites of _bon-ton_ and fas.h.i.+on, and who endure heroically the discomfort of the latest absurdities in articles of toilet and street wear.

This was the only point in which Jean d'Alberg did not acknowledge the tyrannical yoke of society. Anything that tended to exclude the supreme ease and comfort of her home was discarded by her, and no one ever dared to find any fault therein.

After a hearty luncheon by the grate fire, Honor and Madame d'Alberg drew up their chairs closer to the fender and began to talk familiarly.

The wind still whistled and shrieked around the street corners; little blinding atoms of snow drifted violently in the air, and it made one freeze just to watch the m.u.f.fled pedestrians as they sped along with their heads bowed against the sleet and wind, holding their half-frozen ears, stamping their feet or pinching the ends of their blue noses.

"The day is too stormy for outdoor amus.e.m.e.nts, my dear," said Jean d'Alberg, as she poked the fire, "so I must try to distract you as much as possible in the house."

"That will be an easy matter if you like," said Honor, "do but leave me lost in these s.p.a.cious cus.h.i.+ons, before that cheerful fire, and I can prophesy the treat that is in store for me."

Mde. d'Alberg smiled slowly. She turned and took from a small wicker basket near her a bundle of misty looking thread and lace, and with her needle in one hand and the end of her thread between her teeth, she said,

"Whether you know it or not, my dear, you have given me a big peep into your character by that much of an a.s.sertion."

Honor looked suddenly up. She was beginning to feel a little nervous with this cool, calculating, all-seeing woman. But not to show what she felt, she sank back imperceptibly among the cus.h.i.+ons, and answered, with an effort at in difference,

"I hope I betray my good symptoms first, at least to strangers who are inclined to judge from appearances."

The elder lady looked interested. Her face wore a half-pleasing, half-teasing expression, but like Honor she was seeking to veneer the real truth under a.s.sumed veils at the same time that she was dying to draw out the latent phases of her companion's nature.

"The word 'good,'" she said, st.i.tching rapidly, "is such a mysterious one, and has in these days of general improvement, secured for itself a relative meaning which benefits as many as it injures, and particularly, as regards one's personal virtues or defects, which are many or few according to the disposition of the speaker towards the one spoken of.

Nevertheless I must tell you that your tendency to dreaminess, and your exalted ideas of sentiment, are what mostly const.i.tute the modern young lady. Take those elements out of human life, and one-third of our fiction volumes crumble on the shelf. Society limps into retirement, for her most prominent limbs have been amputated. The curtain must drop for good on the stage, for there is no other part for actors to play in the nineteenth century. Our streets would be almost desolate, except for fussy businessmen and market women, and those dear few privileged ones, who have the priceless reputation of being _sans coeur_."

Honor grew deeply interested. She had not expected to find such a woman as this. Mr. Rayne had spoken of her as one does of any superannuated person or thing that is always on hand if wanted. It was such a long time since she had indulged in any such abstract conversations, that it was with renewed delight she hailed her turn to speak.

"I think it only fair," said she, looking straight into the fire, "that I should take my turn at interpreting you."

"By all means, my dear; what have you found worth finding?"

"Well, I think," said Honor, speaking slowly and emphatically, "that fifteen or twenty years ago you could not have spoken those words, for I recognize, as far as a limited observation and a small experience allow me, the ruin of a heart full of sentiment, under the new structure that you present to the world to-day, and I also think that at that time you must have felt a superfluity of emotion. Your craving was for trust, for confidence and love, and the cynicism of your words now means something like sour grapes. Don't be offended, dear Madame d'Alberg, the thoughts suggest themselves. If you do not despise sentiment and romance, because they did not yield you what you sought from them, then I throw up my perception as faulty, and my judgment as something worse."

She had not moved her eyes from their fixed gaze on the coals, but as no answer came from her companion, she looked across in expectation. The work lay still in her lap, but her face had grown dreamy and sad. The sudden silence woke her, and she turned to meet Honor's steadfast gaze.