"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 _étagère_ 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--"
"Pardon me, uncle; but you don't mean--you can't possibly be insinuating
that you have--have--have done such a desperate thing as to--"
"I have indeed, Guy. I suppose you thought I had no soft corner left in
my heart that would be a ready victim to a woman's wiles? but I had, you
see." There was a mischevious twinkle in the old man's eye as he spoke.
This joke on his clever nephew amused him immensely, while poor Guy was
feeling the tight clutch of despair upon his heart Of all the horrors
conceivable, Guy had never dreamt of such a thing as his uncle's
marriage, and now it was quite evident that his words implied this
terrible catastrophe. He saw the long cherished project of his insured
welfare passing away so noiselessly from him, dropping through a wedding
ring into the clutching fingers of a new-born heir. And when it struck
him that the beautiful vision he had feasted his eyes upon last evening
was, undoubtedly, the fair destroyer of his every hope, a conflict of
violent feelings began to gnaw at his poor heart, making a genuine
picture of woeful misery out of the laughing face of a moment before,
but he battled against his moral foes, at least--he must not show his
uncle that any selfishness of his could mar the sincerity of his
felicitations.
"I suppose I am justified in congratulating you?" Guy said in a tone
something like that in which one says "'Tis nothing," when three hundred
pounds of fashionable humanity apologises for having left its foot print
on our toes.
"I know that you do congratulate me warmly," Guy's uncle said,
emphatically, "and indeed it is as much for your sake, nearly, as for my
own that I rejoice, the benefit will be divided between us." Guy didn't
see how--unless his uncle fell into the ordinary routine of wedded life,
and grew regretful by degrees--he could share those sentiments very
plentifully, but his better nature still revolted against such
selfishness, and obeying a generous impulse, he stood up and shook his
uncle warmly by the hand.
"I am glad indeed, uncle," he said sincerely, "that at last your earthly
happiness is complete. It was poor gratification to you, to trust to me
for an ample return for all your unmerited kindness. You deserved some
one more faithful and more demonstrative than I. This new tie you have
formed will, of course, exclude me from a great portion if not from all
of your heart, but, at least, I can still continue to appreciate and
love you as though there had been no change. After all, it is the most
natural thing in the world for a man to marry."
"Who's married?" Henry Rayne exclaimed in astonishment.
"Why, yourself, to be sure," Guy answered, "I was alluding to you."
Henry Rayne threw back his curly head and laughed heartily and loud; Guy
looked on in open-mouthed astonishment, suspecting a temporary
aberration of mind in his uncle.
"Oh! that is a splendid one," Mr. Rayne cried slapping his knees
violently, and blinking away the tears that were gathering in his eyes
from excessive laughter. "You had just better circulate such a piece of
slander about me, and see how it would be received, why, the dogs on the
road would laugh at your simple credulity." Then assuming a becoming air
of mock gravity the old man continued, "This is terrible, Guy, that you
should openly accuse me of such a serious piece of forgetfulness is, I
fear, more than I can readily forgive--I dare say I do a great many
surprising things now and then--but to get married--Oh no, Guy, you
wrong me--wrong me terribly."
Guy had to laugh at this, though still lost in the mystery.
"Perhaps now that you have laughed quite enough at rue, you will kindly
explain all," he said in an anxious tone.
"Well, the truth is, Guy," his uncle began in earnest, "there is a woman
at the bottom of it, of course, and though I have pledged myself at the
altar of friendship to love and protect her, there is no such thing as
'till death do us part' in the transaction. I have been left the odd
legacy of an only daughter by an old school-friend of mine," Guy blushed
inwardly, and felt guilty, "she is a dear, lovely little creature, and
will, I am sure, make my home a different one altogether, from what
solitary bachelordom has brought it to. I hope you will agree, both of
you, I know you will like her just as soon as you see her, you have no
idea how lovely she is." (Oh fie! Elersley! how innocent you look).
"Well, really uncle, you are a little more demonstrative over female
superiority than I would expect," Guy said lazily, as if he had made up
his mind that he would not be so enthusiastic.
"Because she deserves it," Mr. Rayne said, earnestly. "Don't think, my
boy," he continued, "that I am a perfect old ogre with regard to women,
for I am not, I have travelled over and seen more of the world than you,
and I know the difference, vast and mysterious as it is, that lies
between woman and _woman_. The word, has, of all words, two meanings,
the most antithetical and contradictory, one is the limit of the
Beautiful, the other the limit of the Repulsive; one is synonymous with
purity, truth and excellence, and the other with vice and diplomacy. The
world is often imposed upon when the latter counterfeits the former. Men
are dazzled by the glitter and gaudy show of the pretended, and pass by,
unnoticed, the less flashy attractions of the real, but I pride myself
that I have never been deceived in this way. The girl that I have
brought to my home is as genuine a sample of noble, good, pure and
honorable women, as could exist, if you had known her father I would
tell you, she is Bob Edgeworth's child and you could not then doubt the
truth of all I say."
"Edgeworth?" Guy queried, "It seems to me I have heard that name
before."
"It was you who revived all my precious memories of him," Henry Rayne
said thoughtfully. "That letter you wrote me before leaving Montreal,
telling me of an interview you had with a traveller who had seen
Edgeworth defend me so bravely and gallantly abroad, was the first I had
heard of my dear old friend for many many years."
"Oh yes, I remember now!" Guy exclaimed, "but how in the world did he
trace you up after all these years?"
"That was easy enough, I am happy to say. I am pretty well known now,
and Edgeworth took the most direct way to me, by applying to our family
solicitors at home, but I blame him for not having sought me while he
had his health and strength--he is dead now, poor fellow, and all he had
prized in this world he has left to me. When I wrote you, that important
business called me to Europe, I was starting to execute the first part
of my friend's dying request. I did not talk about it much beforehand,
but now that we are safely back, the whole world is free to know that I
am in charge of the sweetest girl under the sun, let who can, deny it,
if you are as anxious to meet her as I was, stay and drink tea with us
this evening--they are out driving now, but they wont be much longer--do
stay."
"Not this evening," Guy said hastily, as he rose, "I am not prepared,
uncle, besides, she is strange yet, and it is as well not to thrust too
many new faces on her at once, you can mention my name to her if you
will, she will feel more at home when we meet." There was a pause of a
moment, and then Guy, as he appropriated a cigar from a china stand that
tempted him close by, resumed, "this certainly is a strange, unlooked-
for incident in your hum-drum life, but it is also a very fortunate one,
since she is such a comfort to you and such an acquisition to your
home--I fancy, from your description she could scarcely be otherwise. I
hope we will all be an agreeable and sociable family yet, and now, if I
don't want to be caught, I had better be off at once," saying which,
Henry Rayne's handsome nephew shook himself out of comfort's wrinkles,
lighted his cheroot, put on his becoming hat, bade his uncle a temporary
"good bye," and departed.
I would undertake too common-place a theme, were I to try and interpret
the feelings that struggled for ascendancy in the breast of Guy
Elersley. How many pens have been stowed away rusty and old from having
told no other tale than that of new-born love? How many gray-haired
bards have tuned their lay to the sighs from the human breast under the
"first loves" influence? How many eyes, even among those that rest upon
this very page, have wept the overflowing of their hearts away, at the
moment that love's first whispers stole into their souls? How many tired
and weary hands are folded on the laps of those who are sitting in the
twilight of their years dreaming all over again in bitter joy their
"Loves young dream?" Ah! they are many indeed! and so it is superfluous
almost to tell the world what it is to love for the first time. That
trembling existence that is balancing on Hope and Despair, is an
experience so well learned that no one thinks of telling it. It is a
strange part of destiny, that even those who have never heard what it is
to love, are not surprised when called to teach it to themselves.
Instinctively, we hide our emotion, we steady our hand, we check our
words. There is the pity; there are grand unspoken thoughts, burning in
the souls of many to-day, that may never reach the threshold of the
lips. Men are gliding through the world disinterestedly, day by day, and
they know not, often care not to know, that there are devoted hearts
existing on their memories alone. There are pretty blue eyes weeping
over the "garden gate" where "some one" is "waiting" and "wishing in
vain." Let them weep. There are miseries in life, that can be learned
only by many repetitions. If they don't break the heart at first they
perseveringly "try again."
If my belief be not a popular one, I hardly like to be the first to
preach it, but it seems to me that few can study society as it is
to-day, without concluding very disagreable things; one of these is the
deplorable fact that, in our day, the purest selfishness seems to have
established itself as the source and promoter of, not only the
indifferent, but the apparently best impulses of the human heart. It is
a pity indeed, that our analysing tendency has been so strengthened by
cultivation, for most often, by prying into the very remotest origin and
causes of things we learn a lesson that for ourselves or the world would
have been infinitely better unlearned. Hence it is trait in our own day
we are not satisfied that certain lavish displays of generosity pass for
Christian charity, simply, and without more ado. We will not look upon
the givers, with an admiring eye, and spend our enthusiasm, on a
religion which teaches the love of our neighbor so effectively, oh no!
we must "open the drum to find where the noise is kept," and how,
unfortunately, often, do we find, that practical virtues, or at least,
what are so called by the world, have nothing more solid at base than
the hollow drum. It sounds deplorable, to say that nineteenth century
charity is a Dead Sea apple, even the guilty ones will not like to hear
that they have subscribed to this fund, or built that asylum, through
policy, or as an advertisement, or for the less harmful but still
unworthy reason that they like to give something, when there is plenty
around them. Nevertheless, is it not true that in all countries, in our
own little city, there are men, who drive the starving beggar from their
doors, and who yet head a public charity list handsomely. There are
people, who, under their parson's eye, wear down-cast look and thump
their breasts, but, who behind his back, would much sooner thump any one
else's breast, or cast down any other person's eyes. There are members
of high society, who feel it their duty to set good example for their
social inferiors, and so they feast and dance and gratify themselves all
through the hours of the night, and then in half spoiled frizzes and
sleepy looks repair to church in the early morning. This may all be
right enough, but if so, there is more than one version of right and
wrong, and that is impossible. This omnipotent selfishness has even
crept into our loves. Men kiss the dainty finger tips of their
lady-loves, to-day, with a passionate fondness that is proportionate to
the bulk of lucre that dainty hand can hold. The words "be mine" so
sweetly answered by fair trusting damsels, are addressed to them,
because estates and dowries cannot speak of themselves, and must
consequently be wooed and won by proxy. The divine institution as
marriage was wont to be considered, is better understood in our day as a
"linking transaction", a "speculation in the matrimonial market," or for
the man alone, he is either "spliced" or "fleeced."
At least our century has succeeded in one thing: it is the grandest
parody on all that is lofty, or elevated or holy, it is an unparalleled
burlesque on any exalted sentiment or practical good. Every ennobling
tendency, every redeeming trait is cunningly caricatured, and so
cleverly ridiculed that is impossible to respect them afterwards. It is
hard to tell what another era may bring forth of good, but it is certain
that ours has killed, to the very possibility of a future regeneration,
every germ and atom of solid morality, that sustained it. Perhaps that
is what was wanted, the end may be achieved now. It has been clearly and
undeniably proved to the world, that there is no longer any God, there
is no eternity, no atonement, no recompense. We are left to wonder whose
business it was to call some of us into this miserable existence, to
take us out of it again before we have culled any real happiness, and
send us back to--Well, we are not allowed to say where, because there is
some inconsistency mixed up with it, but we are sure to go there at all
events.
This may seem a most exaggerated deviation from the smooth course of the
narrative, but in reality it is not so. The little reflections made may
serve to remind the reader, that those great universal movements,
social, political and religious, floating as they are at random in the
atmosphere, cannot fail, when breathed by our youth to develop into
substance with their growth, and to manifest their poisonous influences
later, in the lives of their wretched victims. After pondering over such
reminders for a moment or more, there will be no call for surprise, when
our young men are pictured in their true colors. The mind need not
hesitate to enquire, when it views youth and manhood, beautiful and
_blasé_, attractive and cynical, credulous to simplicity in many things,
and infidels in the one great act of faith that alone merits anything.
From the taint of this evil, and all its sorrowful consequences I am
tempted to exempt Guy Elersley, so handsome, so young, so winning; but I
cannot give the lie to obstinate reality. Of course, Guy Elersley was
not a bad man, he was exactly what most young men of to-day are--what
you, my reader, know them to be, what all the world, but themselves,
know them to be. Guy thought he "wasn't such a bad sort of fellow at
all," and yet in every movement of his, one could detect him--the victim
of the age. He had never professed any direct code of belief. He would
have been very much offended if any one called him an "atheist." He knew
there was some reason why a fellow should go to church now and then, and
not be everlastingly doing mischief. He confided to himself in strict
secret that "to die" was about the very last thing he'd like to do; but,
somehow, such serious considerations as these never lingered long, a
good cigar or "half-a-glass" easily sufficing to turn the current of his
thought into a more pleasant course. He had all the "might-have-beens"
in the collection of qualities that he possessed, to make any one sorry,
but as fast as a new trait developed itself in him, he put it to the
worst possible advantage, and made those who took an interest in him
intensely sorry for his grave mistakes.
He had early fallen in with the tide, and learned to love _himself_
before and above all else.
One hardly likes to say that this new born enthusiasm of his was a
selfish gratification, and yet in its radical sense it was thoroughly
so. He delighted in it because of the benefit it brought himself. He had
long felt a void within his heart, a want or craving for something,
something indefinite, intangible certainly--something that no sensual
indulgence could appease, that no light pleasure could distract, and now
all at once it seemed to him that long-felt vacuum was filling up. A
something, just as ethereal as his craving had been, was creeping into
his heart. It felt like the liquid music of a low, serious voice, or it
may have been a passion, such as he had seen in the depths of two large,
sad, gray eyes, or it might have been the soft soothing influence of a
sweet, dreamy smile. It was just as abstract as any of these, and yet
just as fascinating and just as exquisite. This was Love for him, a
beautiful but a dreadful thing! feeding his hungry soul and quenching
his heart's awful thirst, yet swaying him with a merciless tyranny, for
love caresses with one hand and smites with the other. If it can be the
exponent of certain delicate phases in our spiritual nature, it can
also, alas! almost smother the good it does by the pain it so cruelly
inflicts. It has a double mission, for in the cry of joy that escapes
the lips under its influence there is an echo of pain and despair, and
hence it is that love is so violent a passion. If it were a pleasure
only to love, we could never prize the object of our wild affection as
when it has cost us sighs and tears, and anxiety untold.
It was thus Guy Elersley ruminated as he sauntered through the streets
this sear October day, whistling silently to himself, and knocking the
clotted leaves recklessly from side to side with his slender cane. He
was persuading himself that at last his destiny was beginning to
accomplish itself. She would surely see the lines he had traced for her
eye in the book he had been reading, and if she were what he supposed
her to be, they would be an eloquent appeal in his behalf--but. Here the
misery came in--
"Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt."
What if she never reciprocated?--if there did not linger in her breast a
single responsive sigh? But he dared not ask. What then? Not until hope
had quite faded away and left the bare, truthful reality to confront him
by itself.