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 _protégée_, 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 pronounced in everything here. In
this respect Honor found Madame d'Alberg different from that other class
of society women whose ideas of self-gratification are far subservient
to the requisites of _bon-ton_ and fashion, 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 muffled 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 amusements, 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 spacious cushions, 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 assertion."
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 cushions, 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 assumed 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, stitching 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 constitute 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.
The thin compressed lips parted slightly in a nervous motion, and Honor
thought she could see a struggle for ascendancy in the workings of the
usually calm face. Suddenly, a tear dropped from each downcast lid, and
then the die was cast. Jean d'Alberg drew her chair closer to the young
girl, and clasped her hands over her pile of work; then, looking
straight at the fire, she began--
"Whatever power has inspired you, you have touched a spring over which
the cobwebs of wilful neglect have lain during twenty years. It must be
because you are so good and pure, that the truth, such as I am striving
to hide, is so plain to you. You have uttered the secret of my life in
the simple words you spoke. Twenty years ago, I was a young and
beautiful girl, with a heart as full of susceptibilities and a mind as
full of ambition as any one of you to-day. My face was beautiful, and I
knew it; my figure was faultless, I knew that too. But vanity never
entered into my heart for a moment. I had a dream that kept such
trifling thoughts away. I wanted to endear myself to some one. I wanted
to make some one so utterly dependent on me, that a separation should be
almost death to him. Where I got this crazy longing I could not tell
exactly, but it seized me like a mania. I felt that such must be my
fate, or a lifelong of misery instead. While I was in the heat of this
emotion my father told me to prepare myself, that I was to appear with
him at the grand military ball of the season. This was the great event
of the year in our town, for a detachment of British troops always
stayed over for the occasion. The girls of the old country, at that
time, were different from what they are now on this continent. Most of
us had, as a rule, those conservative fathers, whose ideas of maidenly
propriety had been handed down to them from unknown ages, and from
constant preaching on the subject, I, like most others, grew into their
way of thinking, but I did not, all the same, ever censure an impulsive
girl who, by gratifying her own caprice, violated these stern views of
her father's."
It was getting dark in the little sitting room. At this point of her
story Jean d'Alberg rose, and going over towards the window that faced
the west she rolled up the blind to let in the last wintry rays of the
setting sun. Then, coming back, she rang for the maid to bring more
coals, for the fire was dying out.