My latest found--
Heaven's last, best gift.
My ever new delight
--_Milton_
Christmas Eve of 188-, with all its soft, fleecy snow, its merry sleigh
bells, its decorations, its plenty and its poverty, its rejoicings and
its wailings, its hopes and its fears--the day of huge, warm fires and
smouldering faggots, of sumptuous dinners and scanty crusts, the night
of all others, that the satisfied thanksgiving of the rich, and the
heart-rending craving of the pauper, meet at the throne of God.
At noon of this bright, merry Christmas Eve, among the many passengers
on board the mid-day train that rushed into the Union Depot, was one who
interests us more than all the business fathers, school girls, or
college students, or other absent members of Ottawa families, returning
to spend Christmas with their friends. He is a young, good-looking man,
in a long sealskin coat and cap. As the bell ceases its clanging on
reaching the platform, he seems to pull his cap down purposely, and
otherwise to gather himself into the plushy depths of his warm furs, he
hires the first cabman that accosts him, shoves in his heavy valise,
which is all the baggage he has, and in a gruff sort of voice, orders to
be driven to the "Albion Hotel." There is nothing surprising in it at
all, the gentleman certainly looks like a "Russell House" patronizer,
but then the "Albion" is quiet and secluded, and perhaps this gentleman
prefers it to the endless noises of greater hotels. The gratified
cabman, happy over his hasty bargain, which delivered him from a half
hour's stamping of feet and clapping of his fur covered hands, never
cares to wonder whether the occupant of his sleigh is a disguised
swindler or an Earl _in-cog_, but jingles his sleigh bells hurriedly in
the direction of Nicholas street.
Christmas Eve, with a pale, clear moon, shining placidly down on the
still, white features of nature; the tall, bare boughs, sprinkled with
the afternoon's flakes, are showing out brightly in the silver light of
the Christmas moon, great soft feathery masses of white clouds chase
fair Luna through the deep ethereal blue of the heaven's vault.
From every respectable direction in the city, sleighs are speeding
merrily along with their dainty bundles of woollen wraps and tucked-up
skirts. Prim young gentlemen, in their shiny swallow-tails, with their
creaseless white cravats and little scarlet buds in their buttonholes,
work their way into top coats and fur jackets, and dropping their
latch-keys into their breast pockets, start off, all going in the same
direction, towards the grand dwelling on Sandy Hill, that everyone knows
to be Henry Rayne's.
Apart from Rideau Hall, which is the grand centre of all festivities and
pleasures, for those who sojourn in Ottawa during the winter months,
there are a few other places whose very names are pleasant to the ear,
on account of the warm hospitality they suggest, but were Ottawa in
general, far more sociable and hospitable a city than it is, we would
scarcely consider that it merited any special eulogy on that account,
for, if it were willing to profit by the great advantages it enjoys over
other cities, of learning how to render itself agreeable, generous and
worthy, in its social relationship with its people, it could not follow
a more admirable example than is set by its much esteemed, much beloved
ruler.
The pity is, that the old enthusiasts, and the early promoters of
Bytown's prosperity, could not have lived to see the day, on which their
little town became an important city, the capital of a grand Dominion,
and the home of Royalty. That His Excellency the Marquis of Lorne, and
his Royal Consort, the Princess Louise, should come amongst us to take
up their abode, is in itself a proud boast, not alone for Ottawa, but
for Canada at large, but that in their amiable condescension, they
should throw open the portals of their home, and receive with such
gracious and unaffected courtesy, their humble inferiors, overflows the
heart of Canadian society with intense gratification.
What a suasory example it is for those, who through some freak of
fortune, being enabled to shake off the dust of honest toil and
industry, are very ready to look downward with contempt upon the rank
they have just left. What must they think of our noble, hospitable
Governor, and Her Royal Highness Princess Louise, who so amiably and
courteously receive social inferiors within their home? How can _they_
feed themselves with a shallow pride, and affect a ridiculous
superiority, when the daughter of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen
Victoria, will condescend to assemble under her own roof, persons of a
social grade so far removed from her own.
But in profiting by this lavish display of hospitality, Canada contracts
a debt, and incurs an obligation, which she will not hesitate to pay
generously and willingly, with profoundest love, admiration and loyalty.
Such names as those of our Governor-General and of his Royal Consort,
become engraven upon the heart of the country, for future generations to
revere, honor and admire.
We will now return to the remote cause of these just reflections, to the
residence of Henry Rayne, who is indeed one of Ottawa's distinguished
entertainers.
Floods of brilliant gas-light stream out through the windows,
illuminating the shaded avenue and blending with the modest light of the
full moon outside. Inside the air is heavy with the perfumes of
decorations and blooming flowers. Exquisitely made adornings greet one
at every turning. In a room opposite to the drawing room, are Jean
d'Alberg and Honor Edgeworth, ready to receive their guests: the former
looks very imposing in a dress of myrtle green plush and pale blue,
brocaded satin, which is most becomingly made, and which, with a pair of
diamond earrings and a matronly little head dress, comprises her whole
_toilette_.
Honor is a marvel of feminine loveliness, her brow as white as marble,
and her hair creeping over it in its chestnut waves, has a beautiful
effect; there is an enhancing flush of excitement on her cheeks, and her
eyes sparkle with unusual brilliancy. Attired in a long flowing dress of
white waterplush and satin, from which hang on all sides, little
trembling fringes of delicate white pearls, Honor is more like a vision
of the supernatural than anything real. Where her costly robe falls in
graceful folds to her dainty shoes and sweeps over the floor for yards
behind, it is literally covered with natural rosebuds and sprigs of
heliotrope that rival with the loveliness of her whom they adorn. Her
bare white neck is encircled by strings of tiny pearls, coils of pearls
are also twisted in her dark brown hair, making her a breathing goddess
of loveliness and wonder, as she stands awaiting her guests' arrivals.
"I will have time to run and say a word to dear Mr. Rayne," Honor says,
gathering up her handsome skirt and skipping out of the room, she races
up the stairs with the recklessness of a child in its morning wrapper
and knocks timidly at the door of the temporary sitting-room above. At
the faint sound of "come in" she pushes open the door and stands in all
her splendid array before Mr. Rayne.
"Do you know, I wish so much you could come down stairs," she said
techily, "I am lonesome every second for you," and kneeling on one knee
beside him, the lovely girl encircled the old man's neck with her bare
white arms, caressing him childishly.
"Oh, ho!--come now, don't begin to play your little frauds on me, how
lonely you are to be sure, looking like a queen in a vision, and ready
to break a hundred hearts, be off, you are a dear little humbug, ha ha
ha."
There was something of the old humor of long ago in the laugh that Mr.
Rayne directed into Honor's pretty pink and white ear.
"What a voice!" Honor exclaimed in mock horror, "truly, you've quite
deafened me with that terrible shout," and she frowned pettishly,
putting her little gloved hands sympathisingly to her ears.
"Well, that will hold for a while," he answered mischievously, "you need
not trouble yourself coming up to hear me again for a while."
"You mean old darling," the girl returned playfully, "I'll go down
stairs and not think of you once more all night," and in another instant
she was re-established below in all her dignity, while the pressure of
her lips yet lingered in a sweet impression on Henry Rayne's cheek.
In an hour from that time the quiet, vacant apartments of Mr. Rayne's
house were crowded with a fashionable and merry throng. Young faces
beamed with gladness as they glided under the "mistletoe" with their
partners, to the strains of dreamy waltzes. The programmes were all
filled by now, and the evening's pleasures fully started. Everyone raved
about Honor, and with reason, it was quite amusing to see how
demonstrative the majority of the young ladies present tried to be with
her, intending that this lavish display should be interpreted by the
rest as a mark of the familarity which existed between them and Henry
Rayne's handsome _protégée_.
Miss Sadie Reid, Miss Dash and Miss Mountainhead, and all last season's
heroines were there, it is the best and worst feature of Ottawa society,
that, like a circus, if you attend one fashionable entertainment, you
have attended them all, the _belles_ of one ball are the _belles_ of
another, and the wall-flowers of one are the wall-flowers of another.
* * * * *
"Honor, whose waltz is this?" said Vivian Standish, pausing before her
and looking admiringly into her eyes.
"Oh dear, I don't know," said Honor in assumed despair, "I've lost my
programme and am thrown quite on the mercy and veracity of my gentlemen
friends. I regret to say--if you say this is yours--I cant refuse it,
for I've neither programme nor memory to prove the contrary."
"I hope you may regain neither to-night, for I think, I must make you
remember, you've promised me, all the other waltzes, to-night."
"Indeed, I doubt, if even this is yours," retorted she, "I've given you
one already."
"It is a wonder you remember," he said, a little sadly. "Surely you do
not regret it--any way this one is mine, and we are losing golden
moments, all this while--come--" encircling her waist, and as the music
made an appropriate _crescendo_, she heard him add in muffled
enthusiasm, "My darling."
After waltzing a delightful, ten minutes or so, Vivian very artfully
stopped, at the exit which led to the suggestive little _boudoir_
outside, and stole away, with Honor on his arm, into a quiet recess,
near the tall French window, from whence the moon-lit, snow-covered
gardens were plainly visible, the gas-light inside was burning ever so
low, a sweet sleepy sort of perfume filled the room, strains of a German
waltz were creeping in twittering echoes into the little corner where
this handsome couple had seated themselves, the critical moment had
come. It was now, or never.