"Praising what is lost
Makes the remembrance dear."
The cold, cloudy night was just at us period of transition when the
misty grey of a foggy morning was slowly extending over the quiet city.
A light fall of snow covered the rough fences and the bare branches, and
a chilly, freezing atmosphere weighed heavily down upon the earth. There
was scarcely a sound to be heard. Now and then the still measured tread
of a solitary policeman, or the pitiful chirp of some homeless sparrow
under the eaves of a neighboring house broke the monotonous silence of
the early dawn. But suddenly another sound burst out upon the great
stillness, it was the clock from the Parliament Tower striking the hour
of three. The last vibrations had scarcely died out when the figures of
two men, arm-in-arm, came round the corner. There is a well-known little
_on dit_ which says "when two men walk arm-in-arm it is more than
probable that one is sober," but it was the exception and not the rule
that applied this morning. Both were seemingly under the same influence
and to the same degree. Though the sight had its revolting side, still
one was also inclined to laugh at the ridiculous appearance they
presented. One was short, but had all the disadvantages of his failing
compensated in his breadth. The other was, as I have often described him
before--tall and slim, our brave Guy Elersley. His features were barely
visible, owing to the manner in which he wore his hat, which would
willingly repose on his shoulders only for an occasional jerk upwards
from the owner. His affectionate friend with the pronounced tendency to
_embonpoint_, tried to persuade himself that his head was really
covered, although Guy's hat, to do its most generous, could never shield
more than the extreme top of his hair. Snatches of their conversation
only reassure the looker-on of the absurdity of the situation. The
good-natured looking companion, whose name was Morrison Jones, said in
the most usual tone in the world--
"I think we're getting home kind of late, Guy," at which Guy laughed
unreasonably long, and then added,
"Ye-s, he'l (l-ate) me up, by Jove!" and then Jones clapped Guy, saying,
"Here now! no more of this," and both went off into a ridiculous duet of
laughter, that sounded harshly on the stilly air of the peaceful night.
Arrived at the gate of Mr. Rayne's house both young men stood, and
Morrison Jones who seemed a little bit the wiser of the two addressed
Guy in fatherly terms.
"Here now, Elersley, this is twice I've seen you home to night and I
won't do it any more. It's time for honest people to be in bed, and I
think I'll go to mine."
"Mine-(d) you do," said Guy slamming the gate after him, forgetting his
usual precautions in the unseemly mirth caused by his vulgar attempt at
wit. Thus unceremoniously he left his friend to wander back alone
through the dismal street.
Guy was just in that delightful state when a fellow is at peace with all
the world, when he feels ready to share his last shilling with his
brother, and thus in perfect good humor, he was making a drunken attempt
to render the "Tar's Farewell." He wandered on blissfully until he
reached the balcony beneath the library window. Here he paused and
looked up, but to his dismay found that the window had been closed since
his departure. The muddled state of his brain prevented him from
suspecting that he had been discovered. He only knew that he felt the
cold chills of the dawn all through his frame and he could not help
longing for the pillows and warm blankets above. He walked around to the
back of the house and there began to deliberate. "First--second--yes
third" was his window, but he must do it noiselessly for there was
danger in the attempt. By degrees he mounted as far as the window sill
in tolerable good humor, singing "Pull away my boys," and then making
another firm clutch on to some other projection he would squeeze out in
a constrained voice, "Pull away." Finally the window was tried and
yielded--happy lot. He resumed his song mixing it up with "Nancy Lee,"
"And every day," here the window went up another little bit, for it was
very stiff, "when I'm away," and he rested it on his shoulder, "she'll,"
here his uncertain balance gave way, and as--"pray for me" escaped his
lips in frightened tones, he stumbled head foremost into the room.
He remained there motionless for a few minutes, wondering what he was
doing all in a heap on the floor, but suddenly the whole appalling
nature of his misfortune burst upon him in its most dreadful aspect
There before him, standing erect with a lamp in his hand, was Mr. Rayne,
viewing him with all the withering contempt of a cold stern man. Dazzled
at first by the light he started up from his recumbent position, and as
he did so, the reflection of his frightful appearance greeted him from
the mirror opposite.
It would not do to spoil by an attempt at description the conflict of
emotions that rent his breast at that moment. It is far better imagined.
He, there on the floor, after failing miserably in an attempt to steal
in, when he had promised his uncle not to go out, his uncle standing
now, petrified, before him, having caught him in the disgraceful act of
stealing an entry. Mr. Rayne looked down upon him with all the bitter
contempt an honorable man can show to dishonesty; he spoke but a few
words in a harsh grating tone--
"I see you have contrived to preserve your bones unbroken in this
attempt, although you have shattered your word and my future trust in
you beyond reparation."
Then he closed the door and went back to his own room, his face still
wearing that painfully serious expression it had scarcely ever worn
before.
Guy began the disagreeable act of gathering himself up as soon as the
unpleasant novelty of his uncle's apparition had died away, and as each
succeeding moment forced on him, with his returning consciousness, the
awful reality of his condition, he began to feel that unenviable
sensation of distraction, which is almost akin to despair. He tried to
shape things so as they might form some excuse, but it was miserably
vain. Matters were decidedly against him. He had told his uncle that he
would not go out, and the next thing, he is found stumbling in a back
window at three o'clock in the morning. As Guy reviewed the situation
over and over in his perplexed thought, he found how mistaken he had
been indeed, thus to fool with the man on whom he depended for his
future welfare. A hearty, though half selfish regret, seized him, and
the broad day broke into the room before he closed his eyes in sleep.
At eight o'clock he woke with a start from very unpleasant dreams, just
to face more terrible and more unpleasant things in reality. Guy showed
more moral courage on this occasion than he had ever before shown in his
life. He rose with a fixed determination as to his plan of action. He
dressed with his usual care, and was downstairs before his uncle.
Sitting by the fire in the dining-room, he took up the morning _Citizen_
and began to read. Suddenly the door opened and the room seemed to fill
with the chilly presence of Mr. Rayne. Guy never moved, yet he felt that
the cold piercing glance of his angry relative was upon him. At last,
unable to bear it any longer, he flung the unread paper from him and
confronted his uncle. The latter looked fully ten years older, so
serious and stern an expression did his face wear on this gloomy
morning. Guy began to feel sorrier than ever, but the old man merely
raised his hand, and pointing to the doer, said--
"Go, sir, it was not worth your while to spurn me thus, at this period
of my years; but you knew that my principle is 'an eye for an eye and a
tooth for a tooth,' and so, sir, I give you your reward. Go from my
house, for I withdraw all relationship between us; and remember, I will
never forgive this insult to my authority, from one on whom I had
lavished all my heart's affections."
A flush rose to the young man's forehead, and he burned to say something
in self-justification, but his uncle's wrath was great and so he merely
answered in a quiet tone,
"As you say, uncle," then before he left the room he turned again,
adding, "you have been young yourself, uncle, and you may regret this
precipitation when the memory of your own follies comes back to you. As
I have been the wrong-doer, I accept your sentence, which all the same
cannot cancel in me the remembrance of your many kindnesses." And thus,
without a word of farewell from either, these two parted, that a little
while before had been all the world to one another.