"But all was false and hollow, though his tongue
Dropt manna; and could make the worse appear
The better reason."
--_Milton._
"I will surely be recognized by some one, if I stay here this evening,"
Guy said, as he brushed his hair and readjusted his cravat, before a
neat mirror in one of the prim bed-rooms of a Sparks street boarding-
house. "I had better seek some way of keeping myself ahide for awhile,
until I find out, how love-matters are progressing in a certain
quarter," and as he soliloquized, he turned to the open window that
faced the busy street, just in time to catch a glimpse of the "street
car," as it hurried by. There was a placard in conspicuous letters on
either side announcing to the public that a "moonlight excursion would
take place, that night _per_ steamer '_Peerless_.'"
This suggested itself to Guy as one way of spending his dull evening in
tolerable comfort. He looked at his watch, and found it wanted yet a
quarter to half-past seven. He looked out at the dull gray sky, "I don't
think fair Luna under whose patronage they give their excursion, will
favor them with her presence to-night," he muttered in a satisfied
voice, "and for that I thank her profusely."
He opened his large valise, that lay beside the bed and took from its
respectable inside, a handful of good cigars, these he deposited in his
coat-pocket, he then thrust his head into a large rimmed felt hat, that
partially covered his features, and otherwise gave him an appearance of
disguise, and having carefully closed both window and door of his tidy
room, went quietly out.
Down through the familiar streets, where he had so often strolled a few
little years ago, he strolled again to-night, but how different a man!
The usual processions of the working-class were thickening as the "after
tea," leisure hours advanced: the "loafers" of the old type with soft
slouched hats bent over their eyes, and with mouths full of very strong
tobacco and language were posed artistically here and there in classic-
looking groups, at the corners of Sparks and its intersecting streets.
Cabmen lounged around the vicinity of Dufferin Bridge, as it were in the
very postures he had seen them take, when last he strolled along that
path, a dissipated, reckless, love-sick youth. But it gratified him
to-night beyond anything, as he looked in critical survey from corner to
corner of the "Russell," to recognize among that never failing gathering
which haunts the thresholds of this flourishing hotel, the "friends of
his youth" without _him_. He had not realized the step he had taken,
until these scenes brought back the past so forcibly, to lay it beside
the prosperous present. How many times had he stood idly before those
doors, reckoning it worthy sport indeed, to pass unscrupulous remarks on
passers-by behind his half-smoked cheroot: he cast a sympathetic look,
as he thought, at a couple of unsuspecting girls, who just then were
making their way along that thoroughfare, and his face said very
plainly, "Well, you hardly know poor creatures, what noble jests your
tiny feet, and tiny waists, and faces and figures, your gait and your
dress, are causing for that high-minded audience across the way."
Sussex street had its same quaint, deserted, look, except that the
different stocks in the melancholy business establishments looked a
little more fly-stained, and time-worn, the sausages and meat-pies in
the restaurant windows were a trifle staler looking, and more suggestive
of sea-sickness; the thriving hotels, and boarding-houses were a degree
dingier, time having laid his dusty finger unmolested, on their
muslin-screened windows, telling a woeful tale of laziness and neglect.
At last the bright broad "Ottawa," came in view, sparkling and rippling
in the red sunset, like a mass of liquid gems.
The majestic "Peerless," was at her old post near the wharf looking as
comfortable and as inviting as ever: the same Notice stood out in all
its faulty spelling, where pleasure-boats were for hire, and all the
bright yellow sawdust which of late years has so deeply wounded the
delicate enthusiasm of the aesthete, traced in golden letters its story
of industry and honest labor, on one of nature's unwritten pages. The
decks of the favorite "Peerless" were already well-filled with
excursionists, who looked over the firm balustrades at the numbers of
eager pleasure-seekers who still poured down the steps leading to the
boat. Pulling his broad brimmed hat more definitely over his face, Guy
fell in behind a group of descending people, and reached the boat barely
in time, for as he stepped on board, the captain followed, the men
hauled in the gang-way, the last shrill whistle deafened the ears of the
passengers, those on the shore who watched the pleasant proceedings, now
waved their handkerchiefs and hats, there was a great paddling and
splashing until the steamer turned out into the broad river, then
quietly, gracefully and lightly, she skipped along the clear calm water,
just as the evening shadows were veiling the turrets and spires of
surrounding edifices in their heavy mist.
Soon the wharf and its anxious spectators faded from view, then by
degrees the towers and gables of the Parliament Buildings dropped into
the shadowy distance, the tall pine trees along the shore receded within
clouds of dark, smoky, blue, little twinkling lights sprung from the
gathering darkness along the water's edge; the twilight was growing into
black night, and the tame pleasures on board were developing into wild
merriment.
There was no moon, but this is not necessarily a great disappointment,
provided her absence does not foretell rain. A very dark night on deck,
with strains of dreamy music echoing from the lighted apartment within,
does not seem to the young couples seated by the railing outside,
looking into the blue-black waves, as the most tiresome and unsuggestive
circumstance in life.
Fully protected by this impenetrable darkness, Guy made his way to a
secluded corner of the deck, where, besides being isolated and free from
observation, he could both hear and see the merriment that was now at
its height within. A soft, sleepy sort of breeze was blowing from the
water, and now and then heated participators of the dance drew near the
little windows to catch the cool breath of heaven as it stole in.
Guy sat silently and pensively smoking his expensive cigars, planning
and plotting all sorts of things to the accompaniment of bewitching
strains of twittering waltz music and peals of merry laughter from
within. He became distracted now and then in spite of himself, wandering
away from his important mental problems to yield to the influence of
association and remembrance which stole over him in a sad sort of
pleasant way. Here was just the kind of evening he had _once_ enjoyed
immensely, and might possibly enjoy again; there were all the same faces
he had seen countless times upon countless occasions before laughing and
chatting merrily. One or two couples out of the crowd who had been in
the first grade of love-sickness when he last saw them, now seemed to
belong more emphatically to one-another than before, and the sadder but
wiser looking fellows who followed some of these developed ladies about
gallantly, were loaded with satchels and shawls and other feminine
tackle which strangely became them in Guy's eyes; they danced less,
flirted less than they used in Guy's days, but then matrimony has its
martyrs and its sacrifices, like every other institution, and the thorns
and roses grow on the one branch. Some are unfortunate enough indeed in
culling the matrimonial nosegay, for very soon the over-mature rose
falls in withered beauty to the ground, leaf by leaf, and the
disconsolate admirer stands open-mouthed and sorry, with a bare stalk of
healthy thorns between his finger and thumb, but it is mostly his own
doing, for even if his fair enchantress has spared him the disagreeable
necessity of "popping the question," she had left him the power to
decline.
Guy learned more of practical life from his nook in the dark on this
festive night, than a year's ordinary observation could ever have taught
him. He shook his head in amused pity once or twice as he recognized
some of his "old friends" among the gay crowd; how well he knew of old
that some of those civil servants had likely made the tour of whole
departments that afternoon to borrow the half-dollar admission fee that
granted them all this pleasure to-night, fellows who had been rollicking
all their lives, who had not hesitated over anything, who would as soon
fall in love with a troupe of bouncing actresses, and follow them around
from city to city, as they would eat their dinner, and yet he could see
the gratification of unsuspecting girls as these destitute enthusiasts
sought and enjoyed their company. It amused Guy to see some of them
actually looking serious, as they led some fair creature on their arm
through the moving circle of the dance; or bent suspiciously over the
chair of some golden-haired beauty on the deck. Guy tried to improvise a
consistent sequel to these little love-signs, but it grew ridiculous
naturally enough, he gathered all these interesting little circumstances
within the limits of "a plain gold ring," but these are "deuced" narrow
limits for two healthy people and one small income to thrive in.
He tried to imagine the placid pretty faces of the patient pampered
blondes and brunettes, if these same devoted ones, now so interesting as
lovers, were to come home some luckless evening as prosy husbands and
say "Eva," or "Bee," or "Ada, it's all up with us now, the bailiff will
be here in the morning, I knew this sort of high life couldn't last--"
and then to fling himself down in democratic contempt on the parlor
sofa, with its dainty tidies and cushions of "appliqué" or pale-blue
satin, and use its rosewood or mahogany framework as the commonest
bootjack. Of course a fellow is always sure that these ornamental little
wives have no other consolation for themselves or any one else, but in
the copious tears that swell up into their pretty eyes, they must sit
down and sob to break their dear little hearts with every now and then a
hysterical sentence from behind the dainty lawn handkerchief, saying
"what will everyone think? What will Lady Featherly say? We wont be
asked to any more 'at homes' now, and the ball at 'Rideau' is next week,
oh dear--boo--hoo--hoo!" Of course the merciless husband gets mad
because his poor little helpless wife sees fit to weep over a fate that
must disgrace her in the eyes of the social world. She wouldn't mind
being refused everywhere for "credit" as long as they had enough to eat
and "kept up appearances," and she knows very well that no one will
believe her when she says she and "Percy" gave up house-keeping as a
"nuisance." Then there are those who will be delighted over her reverse,
the ones she never would invite to her five o'clock teas or evening
parties, will chuckle now over her misfortune, she tells herself
bitterly. How can she do without servants, she who has never brushed her
own hair all her single life. She can only cry and be sorry she ever
married. She is so unequal to such awful responsibilities. Asking
herself what she _could_ do to assist "Percy" in this catastrophe, only
gives her another fresh grief to realize. She sees that lawn-tennis is a
useless accomplishment before the bailiffs threat, dancing or singing,
or good looks are equally worthless in such a dilemma, high-toned
friends are of no avail, they drop the acquaintance generally, under
such circumstances.
The helpless little beauties must then break their hearts in grief, they
cannot do what less accomplished or less fashionable girls would be able
to do in such a moment, how could anyone expect them to say, "Let us
dismiss the servant, I know my household duties as well as she,
henceforth _I_ will make your shirts and knit your stockings, leave off
these expensive places of amusement, I have not been accustomed to them
and can live without them." How can they do this who have lived a single
life so inconsistent with the acquirement of such rude accomplishments
as characterize the daughters of respectable but far less fashionable
citizens than their fathers. A sudden stop in the dreamy waltz hurled
Guy back from the mysteries of the future he had undertaken to unravel,
he laughed inwardly as he re-settled himself comfortably on his chair,
at the vagaries his fancy had indulged in at the sad expense of these
unconscious couples, who were as happy in their present state of mutual
appreciation as though no cloud however dark and heavy in the coming
future could dim the brightness of this hour.
'T'were hard to tell what other extravagant freaks Guy may not have
indulged in after this, for the orchestra had ceased grating its
instruments into accord, and was inviting the dancers to join in a gay
"Rush Polka," but the sound of voices near him caught his ear suddenly
and he started up in a listening attitude. There was no mistaking--he
leaned farther away from the little window from whence streamed a flood
of lamplight, and holding his breath, he listened eagerly for the next
words.
"I was inclined to call for Honor," said one, "but I felt so certain of
meeting her here that I deemed it unnecessary."
The words came plainly, not loudly, but distinctly to Guy's hearing as
they crossed Vivian Standish's lips; he recognized the bland deceptive
voice and set his teeth in contempt; he had come to Ottawa, for the sole
purpose of hunting up this gallant hero and a kind fortune had placed
him within his very hands. Another voice broke the ensuing silence, one
that had a great effect on Guy, for he could only remember the familiar
strains of his uncle's voice by its ruins, it was weak and tremulous and
uncertain, its saddened tones touched Guy considerably.
"You see," the old man was saying "you never can rely much on girls,
Honor was taken with such a bad headache to-night that she preferred we
would leave her behind, Madame d'Alberg insisted on my coming, since I
was well enough for the first time in a long while."
"Certainly, you should not have missed the trip," Vivian answered, "but
I am sorry that Honor should be indisposed, I wanted her particularly
to-night."
So--thought Guy, it has come to this--"Honor"--how pat it came from his
vicious lips. He made up his mind at this juncture to listen to every
word, feeling sure to find some valuable clue before this night was
over. The voice of assumed anxiety broke from Vivian's lips and
interrupted Guy's thought.
"I hope you are on the way to complete recovery at last Mr. Rayne," he
said, "really I begin to feel anxious about you."
Guy fancied the old man shaking his head in the usual contemplative way
as the words came--
"Oh no, my dear boy, my system has completely broken up now, my decline
is a matter of months only, now."
Vivian was about to protest, when Mr. Rayne continued:
"And I don't mind much, time was when I felt life full of
responsibilities that cheered me on, but now--my old age is almost a
blank--"
Guy understood this illusion and winced, the unsteady voice still
continued:
"Since Honor's welfare in the dim future, when I shall be dead and gone,
promises to be safe, I have had no reluctance to die. I lived for her."
At these words Guy strained every nerve in his body and listened
devouringly. Vivian spoke next,
"What surprises me," he said "is that Honor has not been snatched away
long before this."
"She's a strange girl," Mr. Rayne answered pensively, "she does not take
fancies easily, she has treated open admirers with such provoking
coldness since she has 'come out' that I wonder at her having a friend
left."
"That is what weakens my hope," said Vivian Standish, in a splendid
mockery of despair. "I fear that she might meet my proposal with the
same indifference, and thus make my life a miserable blank."
The color rushed to Guy's face, and then faded as suddenly away.
"Infernal villain!" he muttered, and it was only by an extraordinary
effort he conquered the impulse to spring upon the person of this vile
adventurer, and strangle him then and there. What providential influence
had brought him back to Ottawa at such a crisis, he asked himself.
"Well," he heard his uncle say distractedly, "I have not broached the
subject to her yet. She is a strange disposition and cannot be treated
like others of her age and sex. I think the better plan would be, for
you to deserve her love first, and from what we have all seen of you, I
reckon that will not be the hardest of tasks. This is September--if you
wish, after three months longer, I will speak to her, and tell her my
opinion of you."
"How can I ever thank you or repay you sufficiently, dear Mr. Rayne,"
was the answer Guy heard to this painful speech of his uncle's. "I have
no fear," continued the hypocrite, anxiously, "except," and he
hesitated--"that she may have loved already--that is the only obstacle I
dread."
"I don't think it," said Henry Rayne. "I'm sure she has not--who could
she have loved?"
"You ought to know," continued Standish "whether at any time of her life
she has met with some-one she preferred to any other. Do you think for
instance," and his voice lowered so that Guy could scarcely catch its
accents "that there was anything between her and--your nephew, Guy
Elersley?"
Guy's face wore the strangest expression of contempt and pain, as he
leaned nearer still to the side from whence the voices came. He could
see them now--dark shadows only on the misty outline of the night. They
were leaning with their backs against the small green railing, each
smoking a cigar. Guy crouched nearer the protecting wall, and waited
patiently for the issue of this strange _rencontre_. His uncle was
silent for a second, and the uncertain voice with which he answered
Vivian's last remark, pained him severely.
"Why do you think that?" he asked, almost huskily, "That never struck my
mind, and if it had, I assure you, Standish, much as I esteem you, I
would have kept that boy by me. If I suspected that Honor would ever
love him, my life's happiness would have been complete."
Guy's eyes were growing moist.
"It is only natural," said the smooth, bland voice of Vivian Standish
"that you should like to encourage the welfare of your own, but I must
say, that Guy Elersley did not make a proper use of the advantages
fortune threw in his way." Guy agreed sadly here "I think he was a
little ungrateful besides, in return for your kindness, for I had always
understood from him, that in his eyes, you were worth only the wealth
you would leave him at your death. I don't want to run down the absent
ones, but all the same, I must say, that Elersley had his faults."
Guy ground his teeth in smothered hatred.
"Spare me this, Standish," said the old man pleadingly, "for in spite of
all that has happened, I cannot teach myself to forget how I loved this
boy all his life, fondly and foolishly, and if he were within my arm's
grasp at this moment, I doubt whether I would not take him back to me
again as warmly as ever, for I never cease to reproach myself for having
treated him so severely for so small an offence."
"It is your excessive mercy and goodness that cause you this regret,"
Vivian said, "for you surely were lenient to him in your justice after
all."
"Let us drop his name," interrupted the old man, "it has not crossed my
lips for years, but now that your suggestion brings back the past to me,
I am puzzled and surprised a little. I remember now, how Honor carefully
collected every little trifling belonging of Guy's that had been left at
our house, and carried them to her own room, where they have laid since.
I thought at the time, it was to spare me the pain of coming across
them, as she had heard something of our dispute; but now, I recognize
the possibility of there having been a more pitiful motive. She never
utters his name either. I wonder have I done them both the awful wrong
of thrusting myself between their young hearts, and spoiling the happy
ambition of their lives--may God help me to repair it if I have!"
Guy's head fell wearily on his folded arms that rested on the back of a
vacant chair in front of him. This was such a painful scene to witness
in silence that he felt himself almost overcome. He never cherished
Honor so wildly or devotedly as he did at this moment. The details that
fell from the lips of his uncle were items of a sad, sweet tale for
him--he no longer doubted of her faithful love for him now.
Lest Mr. Rayne should become too remorseful for the injustice he had
done these young people, Vivian hastened to speak in a reassuring voice.
"But it is plain, Mr. Rayne, if your nephew thought anything of this
girl, he would have sent her some word or token of regard at parting, in
spite of you or anyone else, that might encourage or sustain her love
during their separation. This he did not think it worth his while to do,
which is almost proof positive that he cared very little for her."
"Heaven help me to bear this!" was Guy's inarticulate prayer as those
last words reached his ears. "Of all the infamous blackguards and
disreputable scoundrels I ever met"--here he stopped, and listened
again. They had resumed the topic of Vivian's proposal.
"I tell you," said Mr. Rayne wearily, "to visit and court her for three
months longer, anyway. At the end of that time you can propose if you
will, and I will give my consent readily. I am glad to hear you say you
have means enough to hold you independent of my little girl's fortune. I
would not like to see her wedded for her dowry."
"The wealth of character and beauty is her real dowry, Mr. Rayne," the
hypocrite replied, "Any other is worthless before that."
"Aye, aye! you are right there, my boy," added Mr. Rayne, shaking his
head pensively. Then changing his tone suddenly said, "I feel a little
chilly here, Vivian, my boy; let us go inside."
"Take my arm, Mr. Rayne, and let me feel that in even so little a thing
I can make myself useful to you."
They passed in silently where the lamp light and music and merry sounds
flooded the gay rooms. Guy bent forward as they closed the little glass
door behind them, and caught a glimpse of the changed, wasted,
melancholy old man he loved so well, leaning on the traitorous arm of a
tall, straight, handsome one, who was associated with the bitterest
feelings of hatred and revenge within his breast.
How he longed to be away from this merry-making crowd, where he could
lay his wearied head to rest, and where the mockery of life might cease
to taunt him for a little while. Only one thought saved him and
encouraged him through all--the thought that _she_ had not forgotten
him, in spite of the base treachery practised by the man he had trusted.
Through all his painful realizations, this angelic face of his beloved,
soothed and comforted and cheered him until he felt a new strength in
his arm and a new fire in his heart, urging him on to retributive
action.
Out of all that crowd of merry-makers that landed back on the Queen's
Wharf, close on to midnight of that night, not one had noticed the
solitary figure under the broad felt hat, though his very friends
jostled and elbowed past him in the throng.
Stepping ashore, he hired a carriage and drove rapidly away. He had
spent an evening with all the old faces after an absence of years, and
not one of his many friends and acquaintances suspected Guy Elersley any
nearer than the possible distance of the unknown.