Man's uncertain life.
So like a ram-drop, hanging on the bough.
Amongst ten thousand of its sparkling kindred,
The remnants of some passing thunder shower,
Which have their moments dropping one by one,
And which shall soonest lose its perilous hold,
We cannot guess.
--J Baillie
The tired, spent moments of the old year's midnight, were crawling into
eternity, the fierce December wind was sighing out its wearied farewell
over the frozen streets; the thick white frosts were gathering on the
window panes, in crystal shrubs and icy forests; December was howling,
in a spectral voice, the ominous cry of the "Banshee," in anticipation
of the old year's death. It was well nigh the hour of another day's
dawn, but in the house of Henry Rayne everyone was astir. In the old,
familiar home, where we have intruded so often upon happy inmates in
their joy, we now steal an entrance, to witness the gloom, the
stillness, the oppressive silence of an awful grief. There is a wasted
hand lying over the neat counterpane: it is clammy and feeble, there is
a feverish brow, tossing on a downy pillow, parched lips, dim eyes,
shadowy features, are now what we recognise, instead of the good-
natured, smiling face of Henry Rayne, there is labored breathing,
causing the weak breast to heave and fall in heavy sobs, there is the
sound of stifled weeping and half muttered prayers from those who kneel
around his bed. Honor is kneeling at the head, with blanched face,
clutching her clasped hands nervously, while her pale lips repeat a
supplication for him who is dying before her. Guy, on the opposite side,
stands peering eagerly into the face of the doomed one he loves,
watching and waiting for the last terrible change that will ever come.
Jean d'Alberg, kneeling at the foot, with her face buried in her hands,
is stifling the tears and sobs that burst from her weary eyes and
breast, and at a little distance away, the two faithful servants are
weeping and praying over the last of him, whom they had learned to
cherish and idolize.
Suddenly the dim eyes grow somewhat bright, a sweet smile hovers around
the mouth of the dying man, he makes a feeble effort to take the hand of
his little girl in his. Honor sees it, and quietly lays her cold hand in
his, she is conscious of a weak pressure, which almost breaks the bounds
of her heroic endurance. Then the dying glance is turned on Guy, and the
same effort repeated, he too lays his trembling hand in that of the
dying man, beside Honor's, with its last feeble effort they feel the
hand of the man they had each loved as a parent attempt to link theirs
together, when that is done he tries to move his lips, bending low over
him. Honor can catch the words, "Love--one--another," and then the voice
fails, after that, she hears stray, broken syllables, "happy," "memory,"
and "at last."
Guy, taking Honor's hands in both his, across the death-bed, pledges his
love for life in a tone so clear and loud that the dying man can hear
it, for he smiles, and looks at each, and with the half-stifled words of
his blessing, he closes his weary, languid eyes, and his spirit passes
away.
* * * * *
All the toil and worry of life have perished with that last long sigh,
no more work awaits those weary hands, so Honor crosses them
reverentially on the still breast. His dying smile lingered on his dear
kind face, even in death, and people as they came and went wiped away a
tear and said, "it was easily seen the old man had died with an
unburdened conscience." Every one regretted the demise of such an
estimable man, the daily papers came out next morning and evening with
lengthy obituaries and tributes to the memory of one who was known to be
such a valued citizen. The funeral was one of, if not the longest, that
was ever seen in the streets of Ottawa, and every man who joined the
solemn procession was a genuine mourner for the kind-hearted deceased.
People stared and wondered at seeing Guy returned, but they were also
very glad, for he was a universal favorite with those who had known him
before.
Through all her bitter grief Honor had shed no tear, though every tinge
of color had faded out of her face, and her eyes grew wild and vacant in
their gaze. When the bustle, and excitement had all subsided,
immediately after the death of Mr. Rayne, Honor had stolen into the room
where he lay, in the depths of a handsome coffin, sleeping his eternal
sleep, and throwing herself on her knees beside him, she bowed down her
head until her own fair, warm cheek rested against the icy cold face of
the dead man she loved, here she neither wept nor moaned, but in silent,
tearless anguish mourned over her departed friend. She gently chafed the
stiff, cold hands with hers, and smoothed back the silver hair from his
marble brow, there was a load of crushing weight and pain and care down
deep in her poor heart, but still no tear would come to her burning
eyes. By and bye, when she had spent nearly an hour beside the lifeless
figure she loved so fondly, Guy missed her, and suspecting her
whereabouts, came stealthily to the door of the room where their dead
relative lay, it was closed, but yielded to his gentle pressure, and
opened noiselessly,--sure enough, there she was, still lying beside the
dead smiling face, but now she was speaking, in a low, murmuring tone,
such heart-rending words as brought the tears to Guy's own eyes while he
listened, unnoticed.
"Lonely?" she was saying, in a long sigh, "Oh, yes, poor Honor will
often be very lonely for her dear friend and parent, she will look for
him in all the dear, familiar nooks where once she loved to see him, but
she will always be disappointed, he will never, never see her nor speak
to her again. Oh, I might have known," she rambled on, "that this was
too much happiness for me--but dear, dear Mr Rayne, open your beautiful
eyes and look at me. Just once again, in the old way--we are alone now,
will you not say a little word to poor Honor?--See how I kiss you right
on your dear lips, like of old, but your lips are so cold, I do not
believe you feel or care for my kiss--"
Guy could stand this no longer, he feared the girl's mind would become
demented if allowed to continue in such a strain; he stole over, and
putting his arms gently around her, he drew her away from the figure of
the dead man--
"Honor," he whispered, "you must come away now, this will harm you--you
look so tired and ill already, you must take great care of yourself
darling,--for my sake, do." Very mechanically she obeyed, and turned
away. Guy felt as if in this mutual sorrow, they had been drawn closer
together than any other tie could bring them; he raised the pallid,
serious face, and kissed it tenderly, saying--
"You must bear up, my darling, for you know what a great grief it would
be to him, to know that you suffered so."
"Trust me, Guy," she answered softly, "I will brave it--but then you
know, he was my father, and I loved him."
"Yes, that is all true, my love, but you must remember he is better off,
and he has left his blessing with us, for all our lives."
"And we will merit it, Guy, will we not, he was so good, so kind, so
true?"
"That we will, Honor, I swear it, I will never forget the pledge I spoke
into his dying ears."
"Nor I," she answered, in a whisper.
They left the room together, and Honor stole away to her own quarters;
she saw no more of her dear guardian after that, until the funeral day,
when she pressed the last long kiss of eternal farewell on his cold,
unfeeling lips, that was the scene which racked her poor tried heart
with all the sharpest pangs that grief doth know she fancied, at that
moment her endurance must yield, and her heart break, but she remembered
dimly having been carried away to another room, and when she saw and
felt again, all was over.
* * * * *
Two days after the interment of Henry Rayne, Guy and Honor sat chatting
quietly together in the little sitting-room from whose window, Guy had
caught the first glimpses of Honor, on that autumn evening long ago. In
a close-fitting dress of heavy black, Honor looked more imposing and
dignified than ever: her face was very pale, and there were deep, dark
lines under her sad eyes. Guy too was serious, though handsome and
careful as ever; their grief it is true, had thrown a heavy pall over
the happiness of their new love, but still, each, felt, that it had
served only to draw them still closer together, they were now all in all
to one another.
"You are looking pale, and ill, my darling," Guy said, rising and
throwing himself on the handsome fender-stool at her feet, "I hope you
are going to try and regain your former health and spirits very soon."
"Oh, yes indeed, I intend to, Guy," she answered sweetly, "I can do that
easily, for your sake."
"Don't forget that you are exclusively mine, now," he said looking
straight up into her clear, gray eyes, "and very soon, I want to let
every one know it too." Honor smiled sadly.
"Foolish boy," she said, half in soliloquy, "you will have enough of me
all your life, take your time now," while she spoke thus, she was
burying her gaze in a beautiful little ring, which she twisted
thoughtfully around her finger, without lifting her eyes, she said in
such a serious tone.
"Guy--I hope you have not forgotten, to balance well in your mind, all
the consequences and penalties of the step you are in such a hurry to
take--remember that all is not so smooth and tempting as one sees it
through the illusionary eyes of a first love. After all, we women, are
only human and as likely to err as any one else; let us not then deceive
ourselves, that sometimes in our lives, little thorns will not cross our
path, and little storm-clouds obscure our bright, warm sun--if you have
not prepared yourself for this, it is not now too late--better give in
at the brink of a precipice than risk a fall--"
"Honor--your words are strange--maybe true, but not appropriate here, it
was your voice, your example, that recalled me from the downward path of
recklessness I was pursuing when I met you, I was haunted by your look,
and your words always stood between me and evil, at last I fled, I ran
away from temptation, I sought a new field of action, I worked in it,
ever in the presence of your dear face, looking into your deep eyes,
listening to your sweet voice, success awaited me, I rose, higher and
higher; prosperity lavished her favors on me, I worked hard to redeem
the name I had tarnished, and thanks to you, my noble darling, I have
succeeded!"
"You exaggerate a woman's influence, Guy, I admit that there are women
who are grand enough for this, but they are very rare; woman, it is
true, has much in her power, a great deal in her ambition, but to
accomplish all that you say, one needs a loftier stimulant, a worthier
motive, than a woman's love."
"Ah! 'tis not you who have tasted the experience," he answered, "'tis I,
and now, I answer safely, when asked by a less fortunate man, the secret
of my success, 'Go, seek the society of high-minded, noble women, you
will learn your duty, from their lips, as none others can teach it,' and
believe me, Honor, this I know to have been the rescue of many, and you
are the indirect source of all this good. If then, I have learned so
much as a stranger to you, is it likely I can ever regret the fortunate
step that will bring me under the immediate guidance of your hand and
heart? Ah no! Honor, I will never again know what regret is."
"So be it," she answered seriously, looking into the fire, "but why I
spoke, is, because so many, in fact nearly every one, enters the
marriage vocation now-a-days, as though twere a trifling risk, as though
to a woman it were not fraught with the sublimest responsibilities it is
possible for the noblest woman to assume, as though it were indeed,
nothing more, than the gratification of having secured a husband, the
fuss of an elaborate trousseau or the _éclat_ of a wedding ceremony. Why
are our cities so plentiful of sin and shame, and wrecked youth, if not,
because of women who never considered the serious importance of their
vocation as mothers, who were unworthy their title of wives, who tired
of their self-assumed duties. If any of these destinies awaited me, Guy,
I would rather die to-night, than risk them--the thought makes me
shudder."
"You, Honor?" he said, viewing her with very evident admiration, "such a
destiny as that for _you,_ you are jesting, for since you can save, and
reclaim others, you know, you are above every taint of evil yourself."
"You still persist in your obstinate view, eh?" she said, smiling.
"Well, remember, I warned you in time. I hope there will never be cause
for regret in the future."
It was growing late as they sat there talking quietly. The sun-streaks
vanished from the window sill; the dark, grey shadows of twilight began
to steal around them, but they scarcely heeded the change. They loved
one another now with that pure and ardent love which finds all
satisfaction, and all comfort in it's own existence. They had not shown
their attachment in wild enthusiasm or showy demonstration, but it is
not the largest flames that burn the most intensely. The love that lies
quietly, unspoken in the heart, the love that endures in silence, that
strengthens in solitude, that thrives in hope, is the truest and
holiest, and most exalted love of which the human heart is susceptible.
Such love never dies. As it has lived, so there comes a time, sooner or
later, when the heart's dream may safely float on the surface of the
deep, honest eyes, and the heart's desire flow in fitting terms over the
unsullied lips. Such a love invariably brings its own reward.
The darkness had nearly spread its thickness from ceiling to floor, when
Jean d'Alberg put her head in at the sitting room door, and exclaimed,
"Well, upon my word; such 'two spoons' I never did see in all my life!"
Both young people looked up and smiled.
"If you'll please to substitute two spoons for _tea_-spoons you may come
to the dining-room now, for tea is quite ready," she said, disappearing
out the doorway again. Hand-in-hand Guy and Honor rose, and went out to
patronize Aunt Jean's comfortable table.
Three months after this, on a wild March morning, Guy Elersley and Honor
Edgeworth became man and wife. It was a very quiet little wedding in the
early, early morning, without any guests or spectators save the priest,
who tied the marriage knot, Dr. and Mrs. Belford, of New York, Madame
d'Alberg and Anne Palmer, or "Nanette."
There was a tempting breakfast for the littie party after the ceremony,
to prepare which, good Mrs. Potts had put the very best of her abilities
to the test, and before noon of the same day, Honor and her husband,
with Nanette and Aunt Jean, were rolling along to their new home.
Mrs. Potts and the faithful Fitts followed later in the season with the
furniture and belongings, and all were established in a home full of
pleasant distractions and promising happiness but under the same old
management as ever, and bound by the same old ties of long ago.
Ottawa began to miss Henry Rayne and his household, and many a word of
kind remembrance was uttered as a friendly tribute to their memory.
The wonderful story of Vivian Standish's disgrace never found its way in
detail into the gossipping circles of the capital, although there were a
few who shook their heads and winked their eyes and affected to know all
about it.
Josephine de Maistre had gone back to the peace and comfort of her
seclusion, after the critical interview, and no one of Mr. Raynes
household had betrayed the secret. There were only a few little
unavoidable words afloat, by which the curious public of Ottawa could
surmise why Honor Edgeworth had so coldly rejected her handsome suitor
at the last moment, and why Guy Elersley had come back in the nick of
time, to be reinstated in his uncle's favor.
Honor was the recipient of many dainty notes of well-worded
congratulations, and the sweetest sounding--like Miss Dash's and Miss
Reid's--were those whose writers envied with a great bitterness the luck
of Henry Rayne's _protégée_.
I need not follow the course of events farther than this, although
strongly tempted to tell of certain stylish weddings that followed this
one in busy succession. My pen would be kinder, if it might, than
merciless. Fate to my other heroines, who are threatened to remain
"fancy free" for a deplorable number of years to come, and after
that--forever.
The married life of Honor Edgeworth could not but be consistent with her
single life. In peace, happiness and prosperity, and in the enjoyment of
health, wealth and mutual devotedness, we leave our worthy hero and his
worthy wife.
May our destinies,--as they unroll themselves from the scroll of time,
be as promising, as salutary, and as well deserved as theirs.
THE END.