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HONOR EDGEWORTH;
or
OTTAWA'S PRESENT TENSE,
BY
"VERA."
"An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told."
SHAKESPEARE
OTTAWA:
A. S. WOODBURN.
Entered according to Act of Parhament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and eighty-two, by A S WOODBURN, in the Office of
the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics at Ottawa.
PREFACE.
In these days of plenty, when books of every subject and nature have
become as commonly familiar to men as the blades of grass by the
roadside, it seems superfluous to say any word of introduction or
explanation on ushering a volume into the world of letters; but, lest
the question arise as regards the direct intention or motive of an
author, it is always safer that he make a plain statement of his object,
in the preface page of his work, thus making sure that he will be
rightly interpreted by his readers.
In the unpretending volume entitled "Honor Edgeworth," or "Ottawa's
Present Tense," the writer has not proposed to make any display of the
learning she has acquired by a few years' study, and she would therefore
seek to remove, in anticipation, any impression the reader may be
inclined to harbor, of her motives having been either selfish or
uncharitable.
The world of art and science is already aglow with the dazzling beauty
of the genius of her many patrons,--the world of letters has in our day
a population as thick as the stars in the heavens, or the grains of sand
on the beach--and hence it is that rivalry is almost a _passé_ stimulant
in this sphere; the heroes and heroines of the pen aim at individual,
independent and not comparative, merit. In nine cases out of ten, the
author of a work, apart from the gratification it gives himself to
indulge his faculties, and whatever influence for better or worse his
opinions may have, in the political social or religious world, knows no
other aim.
In "Honor Edgeworth" the sole and sincere motive of the authoress has
been to hold up to the mass the little picture of society, in one of its
most marked phases, that she has sketched, as she watched its freaks and
caprices from behind the scenes.
Ottawa, in this work, is taken merely as a representative of all other
fashionable cities, for the simple reason that it is better known to the
writer than any other city of social repute. Her object in publishing
the volume at all, if not clearly defined throughout the work, may be
discovered here: it is primarily, to attract the attention of those who,
if they wished, could exercise a beneficial influence over the sphere in
which they live, to the moral depravities that at present are allowed so
passively to float on the surface of the social tide. It would with the
same word appeal to the minds and hearts of those women who are
satisfied to remain slaves to the exactions of an unscrupulous society,
at the sacrifice of their most womanly impulses, and their noblest
energies; and would also remind some reckless sons of Ottawa, of how
miserably they are contributing towards the future prosperity of their
country, by adopting, as the only aim of their lives, the paltry
ambition of an unworthy self-indulgence.
The predominant feeling throughout the entire composition has been one
of pure philanthropy, as the authoress desires to benefit her
fellow-creatures, in as far as it lies in her very limited power. The
book has not been composed with any other ambition than the one
mentioned; it aspires to no position on the scroll as a literary work of
merit; it is going forth clad in its humble garment of deficiencies and
faults, to perform, if possible, the little mission appointed it. When
it falls into the hands of an impartial reader, it asks only the
reception and appreciation it merits, in proportion to that given by one
another to society's patrons,--in other words, it would ask to be dealt
with as generously as the world's sycophants deal with the faults and
foibles of their fashionable friends.
Any imaginative person, choosing to use his pen, knows full well that
the sensational department of letters, in our day, affords a freer and
fuller scope than has ever been tolerated before; it is therefore left
to the author's own choice to secure his favorites, numerously and
easily, if he but pay attention to give his work the exact tinge of the
"_couleur locale_" which predominates in the spot where his plot is
laid; but because the eye of the critic has become familiar with such
unworthy productions as these, it must scan with more eager justice any
pages which are a happy exception to this miserable reality; it must not
hesitate to discern whether the motive has been merely to arouse
emotional tendencies, by clothing life's dangerous forms in unreal
fascinations, or (where the author's hand, guided by his unsullied
heart, has taken up the quill as a mighty weapon) to preserve or defend
the morals of his country.
Let not the over-sinister reader censure the writer of "Honor Edgeworth"
because she has appeared to him to subject to a merciless criticism,
society in several of her moods; her object has not been to dwell upon
the good points of her subject, for she knows too well that they will
never be neglected; it is the drawbacks and the failings of the pampered
goddess, Society, that need to be borne in mind and carefully dealt
with, and unfortunately, in our day, her enamored victims voluntarily
blindfold themselves to her evil influence, and extravagantly magnify
the extent of her good.
Without another word of justification, therefore, does the authoress of
this little work, send out her simple, humble donation towards the
social refornation that is so sorely needed in our day.
Whether the seed be sown on fertile or on barren ground, time alone, the
unraveler of all hidden truths, will tell; coming years will break the
secret to the authoress as she would want to know it, in the meantime
she makes her most respectful curtsey to the world of readers, wishing
her humble effort a _bon voyage._
CHAPTER I
"His life was gentle, and the elements
So mixed in him, that nature might stand up
And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN"
--Shakespeare.
It is night! Not the cold, wet, chilly night, that is settling down on
the forlorn-looking city outside; not the cheerless night, that makes
the news-boy gather his rags more closely about him, and stand under the
projecting doorway of some dilapidated, tenantless building, as he cries
"_Free Press_, only two cents:" not the awful night on which the gaunt
haggard children, who thrive on starvation, crouch shiveringly around
the last hissing fagot on the fire-place, with big, hungry eyes
wandering over the low ceiling and the mouldy walls, or resting
perchance on the wet, dirty panes, with their stuffings of tattered
clothing, or gazing in a wilder longing still, on the bare shelves and
the empty bread-box: Oh no! There are no such nights as these in
reality; such a scene never existed out of the imaginations of men;
there are no cries rending the very heavens this night for bread while
handfuls are being flung to pet poodles or terriers. There are no
benumbed limbs aching in the dingy corners of half-tumbled down houses,
no wrinkled, aged jaws chattering, no infants moaning at their mother's
breasts with cold, while many a pampered lady grows peevish and
irritated, if Dobbs forgets the jars of warm water for the end of her
cosy bed. Merciful God! and _this_ is to live! But no! _this_ is to
dream!
I said it was night, so it was, but the heavy curtains were drawn, the
gas was lighted, the grate-fire roared up the chimney, the lounge was
supplied with its cushions, the _fauteuil_ was drawn up to the
fender-stool, the decanter and glass stood on the silver salver and in
his velvet slippers and embroidered cap, Henry Rayne smoked the "pipe of
peace" before his cheerful fire. As we intrude upon him in his
sanctuary, he lays down his meerschaum, stretches his toasted limbs, and
extending his hand touches the little silver bell on the table beside
him; simultaneously, good old Mrs. Potts' slippers clap up the basement
stairs, and her head popping in at the door, betrays her face full of
broad smiles as she utters her well learned words of announcement.
"Is't annything ye'd be wantin sur?"
"Yes Potts," Rayne answers, still lying back among his crimson cushions,
"Go and ask Fitts if he called for the mail at my office to-day. He
knows what his duty is when I am not well enough to be stirring"
"Och, doan't fret Misther Rayne sur, shure he did bring the little
bundles, ivery wan o' them, an' it's meself jest knows whare to lay the
palm o' me hand on 'em this very minit 'idout troubln Mr. Fitts at all,
at all," and away she darted again on a clatter down the inlaid passage
to the letter box, and gathering up the contents, brought them back to
her master's sitting-room. She was eyeing them closely as she laid them
down beside him, exclaiming half audibly as she did so "Well now thin:
that I may niver die iv it isn't jest the quarest thing in life!"
"What is that, Potts?" Henry Rayne asked good naturedly. "Well, yer
honor," began his confiding old servant shyly, "I larned to do many's
the nate job in me day, but if gettin' th' inside o' these in, 'ithout
tearin' th' outsides don't bang all iver I larnt, my name's not Johanna
Potts," and as she spoke she looked curiously at the bundle of letters
before her. Potts' good sayings were never lost on her generous master,
and this was no exception; he leaned back on his chair and fairly shook
with laughter. "Why Potts:" he said at last, "You don't mean to say you
never saw envelopes before they were sealed, do you?"
"Faith it's not the only thing I've lived to this 'ithout seein" Potts
answered resignedly.
"Well, I must show you Potts," her master said kindly, and there and
then he took the trouble to explain to good ignorant Mrs. Potts how "th'
insides were got in 'ithout tearin' th' outsides," and greatly satisfied
with her new information, she clattered off down stairs, shaking her
head all the while, and repeating absently to herself "Well now, there's
nothin' can bate 'em, nothin' at all, at all."
As soon as Henry Rayne was alone again, he poked the now smouldering
fire into a bright blaze, drew his chair close to the table and began in
a business-like way to break the seals of his letters and packages and
as he sits in his cosy room, with the gas light falling on his pleasing
face, we will take the liberty to sketch his form and features in their
most natural state. They are those of a stout, well built, good humored
sort of man, of about fifty, with just enough of the "silver threads"
among his curly black locks to show that he had met with a little of the
tear and wear of life--just a few lines of sadness on his clean shaved
face, but for all that, looking the jolly, good sort of fellow that
everyone acknowledged him to be, with a tender heart and a ready hand
for the unfortunate, always honest and upright, yet thoroughly practical
and business-like in all his undertakings. Henry Rayne was descended
from a good old English family, whose name he bore proudly and
honorably, and many an interesting anecdote he was wont to tell at his
dinner table of the "Stephens," "Edwards," and "Henrys," of the bygone
generations of "Raynes."
With his private life was connected a sad little secret. He had been a
young man in his day, and the charms of the weaker sex had not fallen
vainly on his susceptible soul, oh dear no! Henry Rayne had loved once,
earnestly and well, and had offered his proud name and comfortable
fortune to the object of his devotion, but though he, to day, was the
same hale hearty Henry Rayne of the past, the young bud he had cherished
so fondly, lay withered in the churchyard far away in old England. Death
had come between them, and in the grief that followed, Rayne outlived
his susceptibilities, preferring to dwell fondly on the memory of the
old tie, than to reopen his heart to any new appeal. But a day came when
Henry Rayne had to incline his ear again to the winning voice of a
woman, when his forced indifference had to give place to the old warmth
and the old enthusiasm, when the withering heart revived and bloomed
afresh under the tender influence of a woman's smile, a woman's care and
a woman's sympathy. Of the causes of this happy revival we will have to
deal in the course of our narrative. Let us return to the scene by the
fireside where Henry Rayne sits opening his letters.
Three or four dry-as-dust laconic productions, of no earthly interest to
anyone but the unromantic writers, one formal note soliciting a generous
subscription to an hospital fund, two postal cards, one begging his
patronage towards the tailoring department of an up-town dry goods
store, and the other notifying him of a meeting of prominent citizens to
be held in the City Hall, a couple of newspapers and legal documents,
and there remained still two letters, less formidable looking, less
business-like than the rest.
As he tore open one of these he chuckled a low laugh to himself,
saying--
"It's Guy, the rascal, I suppose he has just been dunned for some little
account that requires immediate payment, it must be some mercenary cloud
that hangs over him." He was right, it was only another of these little
periodicals that Guy Elersley was accustomed to "drop" his uncle, mainly
to ask after his health and welfare, generally sliding in a P. S. which
explained the last difficulty in his balance account with the tailor or
boarding-house keeper; but Mr. Rayne made no objection, he never tired
of indulging this handsome nephew of his, for besides being of an
upright and affectionate disposition, his uncle loved him as the only
child of a favorite deceased sister, since whose death, which happened
when Guy was a mere child, Henry Rayne had been at once a kind,
indulgent uncle and a just solicitous father to the boy.
But this particular letter which Mr. Rayne now glanced over, had another
object besides the post-script and the uncle's health.
"I write so soon after my last," he says, "to tell you that I met a
gentleman in the Windsor House the other night who interested me for a
full hour in an account of an old friend of yours, this fellow's name is
Orbury, it appears he was in Europe some years ago and was one of a
company of card players one evening in a hotel at Dublin, when, out of a
conversation of miscellaneous details, came a very jeering remark, made
by some one present, relative to some rascally act under discussion. 'It
is worthy' said the speaker 'of a man named Rayne, whom I blush to own
was once a school-fellow of mine.'--But the words were scarcely uttered
when some one beside the speaker brought the back of a sinewy hand a
little forcibly across his face, telling him at the same time to measure
the words he dealt out on an honorable man's name. Of course a scene
ensued, everybody present was of respectable standing and the thing
assumed a serious look. Not to interrupt the game, the two antagonists
left the room to settle their difference elsewhere, and everyone
wondered who the ardent defender of the man 'Rayne' could be.
"After a while the interesting unknown returned holding his handkerchief
to a wound in his temple which bled profusely, and having apologized to
those present for the interruption he had caused, he proceeded to inform
them that Henry Rayne stood in such a relation with him, as justified
him in silencing any man who took his name in jest; the little wound he
had just received, he thought was well earned, when he knew he had the
satisfaction of horse-whipping the meanest man in creation, 'for any
other offence, gentlemen' said the stranger 'I could not lay hands on
him, for "he that toucheth pitch shall be defiled" but to pronounce my
friend's name in a slanderous lie, I could not endure. Perhaps,' he
continued, 'it is like kicking a man when he's down, to tell you now,
gentlemen, that the fellow who had just maligned an honest man was once
thrashed within an inch of his life by this same Henry Rayne at college,
for a cowardly, disrespectful deed of his towards some lady friends of
ours. The hatred born of the moment that he lay in the dust of the
college yard, with the finger of scorn raised at him from every hand,
has never flickered in its steadiness. As you see, he thought to gratify
himself somewhat by abusing this gentleman when he saw no friend of the
absent one near, but he will likely look the next time before he speaks,
and now,' said he, taking his hat, 'once more I apologize and express my
regret at having been forced to disturb you, but I feel that you will
easily forgive me under the circumstances,' and dear uncle, what do you
think, but every man there shook him by the hand and stroked him on the
shoulder, speaking his praises loudly and all they knew of the
chivalrous stranger was that he was a transient guest at the house, who
was passing through Dublin on his way farther south, and that his name
was 'Edgeworth.' So is this not an exciting piece of news, dear uncle;
think while you are living placidly in America, your wrongs are being
enthusiastically righted in the old world."
Henry Rayne laid down the letter and looked steadily into the fire. What
a torrent memory had let loose upon him! he lived the old years all over
again, he saw the dear familiar scenes buried in the half-burned coals,
the smiling associations of the past. "Poor Bob" he said, "and I have
never seen him once in all these years, to think he should have stood by
me now as he did that day at college when I punished that rascal
Tremaine. How I wish I could find him out! good honest friend that he
is, can I ever repay him, I wonder, for this noble action done me?" Here
Rayne lost himself in a long reverie, he went over the days of his
boyhood again, and as he thought, a smile half sad stole over his face,
and in the end a tear was actually glistening in each eye. It was the
old old story over again, memory weeping over dead joys, experience
sighing for the happy long ago. The same influence was upon him now as
guided the pen of Blair when it wrote "How painful the remembrance of
joys departed never to return," and as inspired Byron when he sighed
"Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?"
We may wonder how long Henry Rayne would have sat motionless in his
chair by the fireside, with his inclined head resting on his hand, while
he brooded over the years of his life and clasped anew in their old
warmth, hands that had long grown cold, either in the gloominess of
death, or for need of the responsive touch, from those that were
extended to them in far-off climes; but as the clock struck eleven Fitts
appeared in the doorway, breaking the spell by asking his master if he
"need replenish the grate before retiring?" "Yes--No," replied Mr.
Rayne, "you may go Fitts, I want nothing else to-night."
Drawing a long sigh, he gathered up the scattered letters and was about
to consign them to the flames but in turning to do so, he knocked his
arm violently against the back of his chair, dropping them all again at
his feet. Stooping to gather them, he noticed for the first time the
heavy letter with the foreign post-marks and large legible hand-writing
which, had it not been for this timely accident, would have been thrust
unconsciously into the fire, thus forcing our narrative to close here,
but instead he raised it hurriedly, throwing the rest back on the floor,
and scrutinized it with a searching, confused look, but the more he saw
it the more it puzzled him, he was evidently in the dark: finally he
tore it open and readjusting his gold spectacles, straightened out its
creases and began to read.
It was a very long time afterwards, when the paper dropped from the
cold, trembling hands of Henry Rayne; a sort of stupor had been creeping
slowly over him while he read; now he had finished the last word but he
did not move, the coals had fallen to ashes, the wind had risen and
howled around the house, the room had grown chilly and damp, the rain
lashed in huge drops against the panes, but Henry Rayne saw not, felt
not, heeded not, he was far far away by the side of an esteemed friend,
he was swearing a vow of eternal friendship, and was accepting gladly,
gratefully from his hands a precious charge, a weighty responsibility--
how could he hesitate? he was pouring out all the consolation and
sympathy of his ardent soul to the man he had loved as a boy, and he
never felt the chill that was stiffening all his joints, he never heeded
the ceaseless patter of the dreary rain. The clock had stopped and the
fire had gone out, and still he sat crouched in his chair, with the
strange letter lying listlessly between his fingers.
What a queer phase of life was dawning upon him! what a strange mission
was coming to him from over the seas! what freak had destiny taken to
send him his nephew's letter with its interesting detail, and this other
one, on the same night! Guy's letter brought back an old friend in the
freshness and vigor of his youth, with hand uplifted to defend _him_,
this other one revealed the same dear friend, but worn and wasted from
premature age, with the daring hand laid quietly on his breast, sleeping
the last long sleep--yes; this puzzling letter had been traced by the
feeble hand of Robert Edgeworth and had been forwarded to Henry Rayne at
his death. It contained an anxious, serious request. It asked of Henry
Rayne to open his heart and home, to the only child of an old friend, to
father an orphan girl for the sake of "old times," and the happy "long
ago." It would not have meant much for some others, but it seemed the
greatest of all responsibilities to Henry Rayne, who had become an utter
stranger to the female sex, and who had settled down in an old
bachelor's home for the rest of his life. He tried to think it all out,
but the fragile form of a young, beautiful girl, glided between him and
his thought, and he saw upon her face the sweet, sad smile, of a
parentless child pleading for protection. He was lost--he was dreaming;
he never stirred for hours, until the dawn streaked in between the drawn
curtains, giving the room an unnatural look, with its glare of gas-light
and the straggling rays of the misty morning's sun crossing one another,
until "Potts" stole down with her slippers under her arm, and in her
bewilderment at the sight of the gas-light, put her head in at the door.
When she saw her master's firm, set face and vacant eyes, and the
letters laying around the floor, her heart gave a bound, and she
screamed outright.
Henry Rayne raised his head, rubbed his eyes, and tried to stretch his
limbs, now numb with the damp dullness of the night. Potts had run to
him and was asking the "matter," with dilated eyes and anxious voice.
"Don't be afraid, Potts," he said at last, "I have been reading a very
very strange letter, and I forgot the hours, I will go and lie down now;
don't make any fuss about it, and I'll tell you the important news after
breakfast."
Poor Potts went off to the kitchen shaking her head as usual, and
murmuring to herself all the while, such exclamations as "Well, well
now." "That's quare now." "Well to be sure." It was with her brain quite
in a whirl that she went about her morning duties, wondering very much
what could have come over her master, to make him forget to go to bed.
When Fitts came in at the back door, with an armful of wood, Mrs. Potts
could not conceal her gratification at having been the first to discover
the secret, and she rattled on (to herself, as it were) with her back
turned to Fitts, "Well shure 'tis the quarest thing in life--all through
the night, too; dear, oh dear! Such a life's enough to turn one gray in
no time."
"What have you there all to yourself now, dear Mrs. Potts," came from
Fitts as he flung the wood into the box, "come now, I heard you, what's
throublin', what's inside your purty border this time, your mind I
mane?"
"Be off with you now mister Fitts; 'tis other people's minds that's
bothered, an' I'm only sorry for it: but y'ell know soon enough; the
master 'ill tell ye when he sees fit, and ye can be preparin' for it
till then."
"Well now, that's funny," says he. "How did _you_ come to know anything
since last night?" and there was a suspicion of jealousy in his voice,
"I left the master meself the last thing, last night, an' he's not up
this mornin' yet, so what are ye dhrivin' at?"
"I know what I know," said the irritating Potts, "and I'm sorry I can't
tell ye but its a saycret yet awhile; be patient."
"Who wants to know it anyway?" said Fitts, who was quite vexed now, "I'm
sure _I_ don't," and he went out with a slight intimation that he had
securely closed the door behind him.
At nine o'clock Henry Rayne came downstairs, looking tired and pale, and
instead of his usual hearty breakfast, he merely drank a cup of warm
coffee. He had just finished this, and was balancing his spoon on the
edge of his cup, as he cogitated upon the strange mission that had been
thrust upon him, when Potts came in to serve his "second cup," but
instead of this, he bade her summons Fitts, that he had something to
tell them both. When a few moments later Henry Rayne turned to confront
his servants, who stood expectant before him, his troubled face and
serious air made them start perceptibly; in an earnest tone he said,
"I have received an important letter from a friend of mine, who has died
since the writing thereof; he has entrusted me with the care of his only
child, and to comply with his dying request I must make immediate
preparations to leave home, for I have a long way to travel before I can
accomplish his desire; I therefore want you to understand that I may be
a very long or a very short while away from home, but I wish you both to
serve me as faithfully on this occasion as you have on all others. Don't
talk about my absence more than you can help; I can give all the
necessary explanation on my return." "Potts," he said, addressing the
solemn looking old woman separately, "you must renovate the house a
little, I think; those spare bedrooms must be well aired and touched up
somewhat, for we will need them henceforth. My little charge happens to
be a girl, and unless you can contribute towards making things to her
liking, I am lost. Spare no expense to make the house comfortable in
every respect, for the _protégée_ of mine is a lady, I know. And you,
Fitts," he continued, turning to the dignified male servant, "will, I am
sure, lend a hand towards the general improvement. See that the phaeton
and sleighs be in good order, and, in fact, I think you will each do
your duties well, without my enumerating them. You know I have full
confidence in both of you, and I think you will not abuse of it." The
two devoted attendants answered sincerely, each with a suspicion of
moisture in their eyes that answered Mr. Rayne more than anything else.
On the following afternoon Mr. Rayne left Ottawa, on his extended trip,
much to the surprise of his friends, and according to promise, his
servants displayed the greatest discretion possible. Within the week,
Mr. Fitts was delighted to receive news from his master, informing him
that in a few days he would sail for Liverpool.
The voyage across the majestic ocean, was a fair and enjoyable one, and
Mr. Rayne spent the days out on the deck of the splendid "Parisian,"
smoking and thinking, and wondering at the unusual turn things had taken
for him, since last he crossed that same Atlantic. He was anxious to
know how it would all end, and whether he would be able for this new
responsibility brought to him so suddenly. Heaven had not willed him the
experience of a wedded life, and so he resolved to devote himself to
this little charge as though she were his own flesh and blood; he would
teach her to give him a father's love, and if he could help it, she
would never know the want of a father's care.
The first duty of Henry Rayne, on landing at Liverpool, was to consult
the letter of his deceased friend, and write to the address given
therein, to inform the parties alluded to, of his arrival. Special
mention was made of one, "Anne Palmer," who was spoken of highly, as a
faithful and trustworthy woman, who had nursed the child from her
infancy. This gratified Henry Rayne immensely, for he resolved, at any
cost, to secure her, knowing how necessary her long and untiring
attendance must have made her to the girl's existence.
A reply to his kind letter reached Henry Rayne some days before he had
expected it, informing him that Honor Edgeworth and her maid had left on
the day following the receipt of his letter, and would shortly join him
at Liverpool. Such indeed was the case, for even as Henry Rayne read the
words over to himself, as fast as steam and water could carry her, Honor
Edgeworth was travelling away from her native home. She saw not, heeded
not, the passengers, the scenery, the bustle, and confusion that
surrounded her; she only leant her head on the shoulder of her old
nurse, and wept silent, bitter tears all the while. Poor Nanette strove
hard to console her in her woe, but the swelling never left the pretty
eyes, and the sighs never ceased escaping from the dainty lips during
the whole voyage.
"It is such a queer destiny, Nanette," she said repeatedly, "this man
may hate me. He was only a boy when papa knew him; perhaps he has grown
up a wicked man that will detest me, you know Nanette, people change a
great deal sometimes."
"Don't fret, my beauty," was all the disconsolate woman could say. "You
may be sure your father did not act in the dark, where his little girl
was concerned. He had great trouble in finding the gentleman's address
at all, so you may be sure he looked for other information at the same
time."
"Yes, I suppose he did," Honor sighed, half resignedly. "What the end
will be, time will tell."
From London they telegraphed to Mr. Rayne, telling him of their safe
arrival thus far, and seized with an insuperable impatience to become
known to his little _protégée_, he answered them immediately, that he
would meet them in Manchester. The night was wet and dark and cheerless,
as Nanette and her pretty charge rolled into this large manufacturing
city of England. All the other passengers had hurried out, they alone
remained, careless whether they went or stayed, sadly and listlessly,
they proceeded to gather up their little belongings, dashing away as
they did so, scalding tears that welled into their eyes.
"Are you ready, love?" Nanette asked plaintively, turning towards Honor.
"Yes I am," the girl answered with a sigh, "ready for the battle of
life--come along, Nanette."
Just as she uttered the words, and before she had stepped from the
railway carriage, the guard, accompanied by a gentleman, thrust his head
in, and hurriedly announcing "Mr. Rayne, ladies," darted off again,
leaving them together. The long looked for moment had arrived: the first
meeting, upon which so many thoughts were spent by all three, was
already over. Honor Edgeworth raised her eyes to the gentleman
announced, and a smile of infinite relief broke over her face; Mr Rayne
raised his hat to the younger lady, and a mysterious smile of infinite
admiration stole over his face. He broke the silence by addressing
Nanette.
"I presume, madam," he began, "you are the person in charge of Miss
Edgeworth, the young lady recommended to my future care?" and before she
had time to answer, he had extended both hands to Honor.
"Yes, sir," said Nanette, a little nervously, "I give into your hands
all that I hold dearest in life;" and then, lowering her voice, she
continued, almost to herself, "I can go back again to my poor old home,
but the sunshine is gone out of it forever."
Henry Rayne looked quickly up at her: he was assisting Honor out, as she
spoke.
"Is it possible that you are not coming to Canada with us?"' he asked in
a confounded tone.
"Ah, sir!" answered the poor creature, "I will go in heart, indeed, but
there was no provision made to send me all the way with the child."
"Oh this can never be," Henry Rayne interrupted, hurriedly, "I have
intended from the first, that you should not be left. Come, come, we
will manage everything smoothly by and by. Do not leave one another now,
unnecessarily, when you have been together all your lives." There was a
shout of delight from both, and clasped in each other's arms, never to
part again, they thanked God sincerely for His goodness to them, so far.
"The dear child, sir, I'd have died without her." Nanette sobbed through
the tears of joy.
"Of course you would," Henry Rayne answered, handing them into the
carriage that awaited them. He cast an admiring glance on "the child" in
question, as he sat himself opposite to her on the leather buttoned seat
of the hack. If "child" she must be, she would undoubtedly prove an
interesting one, for she was now, to all appearances, in her seventeenth
year, and showed promises of future development into a splendid woman.
For the first few moments Nanette never ceased her protestations of
gratitude, and when at last she finished them in a great sob behind her
handkerchief, Honor looked sweetly up in Mr. Rayne's face and said.
"Your first act, dear guardian, was one of unsolicited kindness. What
will after years bring, when we have learned to respect and love you,
and do you good turns as well? The future seems so bright, now that
Nanette is coming, for," she explained "you must know, Mr. Rayne, she is
the only mother I have ever known, and when dear papa lived he treated
Nanette just as he would a member of his own family."
"And I will never be the one to make the first difference," answered Mr.
Rayne. "My house is large; I am a crusty old bachelor, with no other tie
binding me to the world, except this new link that has just filled me
with a desire to live anew from this out. All I have is at your
disposal: you must make yourself perfectly at home with me. I don't know
much about winning the confidence and hearts of young girls now, but I
shall expect you to come to me with yours, because henceforth you are
going to be all my own."
"I do not wish to dispute it, Mr. Rayne," Honor answered sweetly, "but I
have a presentiment that you are going to spoil me."
"Oh I won't be _very_ cross with you, unless you steal my spectacles or
court my footman, or do anything like that," Henry Rayne answered
playfully.
Thus, in the pleasantest manner possible, were the first hours of their
_rencontre_ spent. When their drive ended, they alighted before a
handsome hotel, ablaze with light, where a tempting supper awaited them.
Henry Rayne, fancying that it was the right thing to do to young girls
who had been travelling a great deal, told Honor she must retire
immediately. "We have our lives long to chat," he said, "so rest
yourselves well to night"
When they had reached their rooms, Honor turned with a bright smile on
her face, and said to Nanette,
"Don't you think he will be just lovely and kind, dear Nanette? He is a
perfect gentleman."
"God bless him," answered Nanette, "he is a good man and has a good
heart, and we must never have him regret what he has done for us."
"Well, it is a great weight off my mind anyhow," said Honor, with a sigh
of relief, "I am full of hopes now for the future, and I know we cannot
help loving dear kind Mr. Rayne;" and over such enthusiastic words Honor
and Nanette fell into their deep calm sleep.
All this time Henry Rayne was smoking quietly in the parlor below, and
thinking of the lovely face that was going to shed its radiance
henceforth on his silent home. Already he longed for the morning to
come, that he might look on it again. In the course of his meditation, a
thought came to him, which had not suggested itself before, and it was
this:
"If the world should choose to attach its own interpretation to this new
relationship, if a word was cast afloat which could scatter the germs of
a suspicion, what then? If those venomous tongues that keep the world
buzzing with scandal chose to attack _her_, how was he to prevent it?" A
cloud overshadowed his face, there was a momentary pang in his heart,
but he consoled himself that he had thought of it in time--he would defy
the world, his manner towards her would dare gossiping tongues, he was
nearly three times her age now, and had his life not been such as could
defy the babbling of the whole world?
But it was only the old tale, a woman's name is a tempting bit to
society, in one of its particular phases, though, of course, even
society in this, its calumniated epoch yet retains its discrimination,
its rules are not so arbitrary as its enemies declare them, and its
heart is _at times_ susceptible to the pleadings of misfortune for
mercy. Woman, alas! has her fallen sister on every rung of the social
ladder, though from general appearances one would be led to judge, that
wealth and position and fame, claim virtue as all their own, it seems,
that vice and error thrive only where poverty and ignorance and
destitution abide, is this so? Ye who know the secrets of a fashionable
world, ye, who have seen laid bare, the hearts full of secrets of
pampered ladies, and pretentious dames, say, are they so guileless, so
spotless, so blameless as society would have them? Is it only the poor
seamstress, or the working-girl that is human enough to err? Is it only
the breast which heaves under tatters and rags, that bears the impress
of the trembling hand that has struck the _"mea culpa"_ in its woe? O, I
doubt it, I for one deny it. True it is, painfully, shamefully true it
is, that the "nobodies" of the world who meet misfortune are mercilessly
forced to stand in the corridors of time, that those, who domineer in
virtue, may ostentatiously compassionate them, but will such a paltry
show of charity as this, blind the world, as it tries to do? Let us hope
not. Let the pampered daughter of wealth and social fame, who goes
astray, share the pitiless fate of the beggar who does likewise, or,
better still, let the beggar be shown such mercy, and justification and
pardon as is granted her sister in high life. In the sight of God crime
is the one color, why not so with men? If anything, vice repels far more
forcibly, when attired in its velvets and silks, than when it looks out
from scanty rags, which after all, may be turned more easily to sack
cloth. Who can doubt that there are hundreds of outcasts, living in
persistent wrong doing, on account of this lack of humanity, this total
abstinence of Christian charity, whose exercise could redeem just as
many as its scarcity ruins. Poor foolish souls! Why need they thirst for
mercy or sympathy that is human, know they not, that they are as
justified in spurning the world's great ones, as those great ones are in
spurning them. What can human mercy avail them, after all, is there not
a Good Shepherd, so eager, so ready, so anxious to grant forgiveness for
the asking? Why do ye not seek Him, ye whom a rigorous society has cast
out of its pale? be not content to live on as drudges and slaves to such
a heartless world when there is a harvest for you to gather so near, and
you have only to learn the words of Him who spoke truth and wisdom
themselves to encourage you onward, that "there is more joy in heaven
over the conversion of one sinner than at the perseverance of
_ninety-nine just_."